Dogs Don't Lie (22 page)
To say that something about Eleanor Shrift was still bothering me would be wrong. Everything about that woman was getting to me. Much as I loathed it, I sort of understood her attitude toward Floyd. The black Persian reminded her of the man who had left. Worse, she’d lost him to the cat before he had disappeared entirely. But what did she have against me? And what was the deal with that earring?
I drove home on autopilot, thinking of jewelry and keychain drives. Where did Mack play into any of this, or Creighton or Eleanor, for that matter? I was mulling over the possibilities as I let myself in. I’d have posed some of them to Wallis, only when I went upstairs, I found her and Floyd curled up together, sleeping, on my bed. Rather than disrupt such rare domestic bliss, I retreated as quietly as I could.
But no matter how much I told myself I should at least get Floyd’s traveling case ready, I just couldn’t do it. Instead, I booted up my laptop. If I couldn’t solve one mystery, I’d focus on another. Whoever had broken into my house had stolen nothing but the little drive. And someone—presumably someone else—had gotten Creighton to search for it at the pound. There was something of value in those files, even if I hadn’t seen it yet.
As the spreadsheets appeared before me, I cursed my liberal arts education. The only math I’d taken had been to get me through biology, and even then my grades hadn’t given me any hope of veterinary school. As I went down the lists of numbers again, I felt rather than heard a soft thud. Wallis had jumped to the desktop and was looking over my shoulder. Remembering our fight, I didn’t say anything until she settled in and began to purr softly.
“Floyd still asleep?”
She flicked her ear; the feline equivalent of a nod. “Poor sucker. He’s totally wrung out.”
I hadn’t expected sympathy from Wallis, but I wasn’t going to question it. Instead I nodded and kept reading.
“You still trying to make sense out of those scribbles?” Wallis’ voice sounded thoughtful, without its usual edge.
“Uh huh.” I highlighted one rather large number and tapped on my desk.
“Mouse tracks.”
I typed away, not wanting to get into it again. Within a few minutes, I felt whiskers on my forearm. Wallis was leaning over the screen.
“So, explain to me again what those mean?” It was a peace offering. Problem was, I had trouble understanding economics myself.
“Well, each line is an amount of money. Something we barter, like what I bring to the store and they give me chicken.” Not that I’d ever had forty thousand in hand, but Wallis was still listening. “And what I’m thinking is that maybe this money didn’t belong to Charles, that maybe it belonged to someone else.” That didn’t fit with what Mack had told me about Charles and investors. But I couldn’t think of any other reason someone would care. “Maybe he owed it, and maybe he was killed to get it back.”
Wallis stared at the screen for long enough that I began to wonder just how bad her myopia was. I had to give her props. She was trying.
“Where does it all come from?”
“The money isn’t really there. This is just a list, a plan, sort of.” God, I didn’t want to sound patronizing. How much abstract thinking did cats get? “A symbol?”
“No, no.” Wallis sat back up, wrapping her tail around her front toes in a schoolmarmish pose. “I mean, where did Charles get all of his money?”
I sat for a moment and wondered. I’d been so focused on the other side of the equation, on whom Charles might owe, that I hadn’t considered his sources. Once upon a time, software startups got venture capital. If they didn’t, they invested their own money. Presumably, Charles had some kind of job, maybe something high-paying, before he decided to go out on his own. That would’ve been how he hoped to keep it private. Keep it his. But did he have this kind of scratch? Or was there something funky about his funding—something someone might not want revealed? I looked at my cat and admitted the truth.
“I don’t know, Wallis. And that’s a damned good question.”
To do her justice, she kept her purr subdued.
***
With this question in mind, I went back to some of the earlier files, kicking myself all the while. Any of these questions could be inverted. I’d thought, perhaps, that one of Delia’s other lovers might have killed Charles in a jealous squabble. And I’d given up that idea on hearing about his sexual orientation. Maybe that was wrong. Just because my late client was gay—and presumably copacetic with the idea of a child fathered by someone else—didn’t mean that the sperm donor was happy with the arrangement. And I’d been searching for debts owed. Money due to be paid. But what kind of potential investors would Mack have dug up for Charles—and how much did he want to maintain control?
An unsheathed claw on my forearm made me realize I’d been muttering.
“So, are we fasting for some reason, or what?”
I looked up at the clock. It was close to nine. Eleanor had never shown.
***
I had evil dreams that night and was grateful, when I woke, for Wallis’ warm bulk beside me in the pre-dawn gray. As my head cleared, I became aware, as well, of a slight snuffling sound—half snore, half sigh—and realized Floyd was curled next to me as well. So deep asleep, his dreams were only vague impressions of grass and sunlight, he was a peaceful addition to our menagerie. I thought again of Eleanor. She didn’t deserve him.
The comfort of these two cats couldn’t exactly lull me back to sleep, but I may have dozed a bit as I lay there, waiting for full light to start my day. Too much had happened recently, and I had too little say in the craziness swirling around me. It threatened to sweep me up. Listening to Floyd, I tried to steady my own breathing. I’d be damned if I made myself sick again. Sanity—and my freedom—were too important. To give myself some sense of control, I started listing what I knew and, more frightening, what I didn’t.
Charles was dead. That was a fact. And Lily hadn’t done it. I’d gotten involved to save the poor dog. Now that she was out of harm’s way, did I give a damn anymore?
I sat with that one for a bit, listening to the soft vocalizations of the cat beside me. Yeah, I did. For starters, the investigation was still going on—and I didn’t want to be anyone’s scapegoat. Plus, to be honest, I had to admit I cared. Much as I prefer animals to people, I counted Charles as one of the good ones. He’d taken Lily in. He supported his aging mother. He was a good guy.
I was less certain about Mack. Mack was sexy, and I respect my own animal nature. But he was a little sure of himself, sure of his sway over the opposite sex. And his connection with Charles had too many question marks attached. What exactly did he do in their partnership? Had his charm and easy smile worked on the kind nerd? For that matter, had he been the stud who had sired Delia’s child? And, if so, what did either man think of that?
Beyond the personal, there was the professional. People were getting very interested in the financial data on Charles’ fledgling company. I’d taken the precaution of carrying my laptop upstairs with me, tucking it under the bed before I retired. I was very aware of it now, aware that if anyone else happened to break in, hiding the damned thing in my bedroom might not have been the smartest move.
But I was sick of being afraid. I’d come back here to simplify my life. To regain some sense of order. Some control. The killer was a cipher. An unknown. And really, who was I going to come in contact with? I could deal with the Alberts of the world. Hell, the poor slob had my sympathy after yesterday. At least his ferret did. And Jim Creighton was a type I knew well. Attractive, not the least because he represented the law—and what’s more fun than perverting a lawman?
That last thought made me think of Delia with a grudging respect. She hadn’t had the easy life I’d assumed at first, and she had a real-world pragmatism I recognized. She was playing the chips life had handed her. I didn’t know where she had placed all those chips—and I wouldn’t bet on her to make a sympathetic move for anyone—but she seemed to be a straight shooter, and I had to admire that. Chris Moore, well, if he served a purpose in her life, I wasn’t going to worry about him. He seemed to be getting what he wanted now. Had he gotten it before, when she was officially with Charles? Water under the bridge, unless he’d been unhappy being the backdoor man. But he was only one possibility, I realized as the curtain began to glow with dawn’s light. And the money might be easier to track. I needed to talk to Mack.
“About the money?” I turned and found myself staring into Wallis’ wide green eyes. For a moment, I paused, remembering last night’s rapport. Was she still interested in finance? As soon as the question formed in my own mind, I heard the answer. “Please!” She got up and walked to the edge of the bed. “I just don’t see any reason for you to keep fooling yourself.”
She jumped to the floor and, with a sigh, I pushed myself upright to follow her.
***
Twenty minutes later, I was at Tracy Horlick’s. I was about to pound on the door, the hour be damned, when it opened. A lipstick-less Tracy Horlick nearly dropped her cigarette as she saw me.
“Hi, Mrs. Horlick.” I mustered a smile. “Lovely morning, isn’t it?”
“You’re here early.” She reached down to collect the paper and motioned me inside. The house smelled like she’d been smoking all night, but she had a pot of coffee on, so I accepted a cup while I looked around for the bichon.
“Where’s Growl— Bitsy?”
If she heard my flub, she didn’t react. Too busy lighting her next cigarette from the butt of the last one. “Out back.”
I heard yapping from the enclosed back yard and realized that was probably the nightly routine. September, we’d already had frost. I’d have to find a way to make sure she didn’t keep him out there once winter came around. Then again, maybe he preferred the solitude, as long as he had some kind of shelter. I wondered briefly if Tracy Horlick was aware of her dog’s sexual preference. I doubted it, just as I doubted she ever cleaned up her own dog’s waste from the tiny yard.
“I thought I’d take him for a good long walk, since I’m here so early.” It must be the lack of sleep. I was becoming a softie.
But for once the old witch didn’t grab the advantage. “Did you hear?” she asked breathlessly. She had the second cigarette lit and drew on it like the hot smoke was oxygen. “Delia Cochrane and Chris Moore are getting married.”
“Huh.” I tried to sound noncommittal. But as she took another long drag, gearing up for what looked like a long spew, I put my mug on the counter. It was too early for her brand of spiteful gossip. I took the lead from its hook in the hallway. “Nope, hadn’t heard that. Why don’t I get Bitsy now?”
I started to walk by her, eying the door to the yard. She stopped me with a clawlike hand on my arm.
“The dog can wait,” she rasped. “We need to catch up.”
“No we don’t, Mrs. Horlick.” I pushed by her. No wonder her dog disliked women.
“But don’t you want to know why?” Her voice followed me as I let the small animal in and snapped on his leash. I bit back the temptation to tell her that, yes, I knew why.
“Delia’s pregnant.” She filled in the blank as the bichon and I headed toward the door. At least I could deny her the satisfaction of responding. “But I don’t think he’s the father. I don’t know if he knows that. You might want to talk to your boyfriend, though. You might want to talk to Mack.”
***
The fact that her thoughts had followed the same path as mine was no consolation. Still, I waited till I was several blocks away before I got out my cell and dialed Mack’s number. No answer. It wasn’t eight yet, and I didn’t make him for an early riser. But I left a message, as pleasant as I could muster, before marching Growler around the block. His thoughts ran solely to his canine counterparts as we walked, and I couldn’t say I blamed him. When I slipped him into his house, my face was enough to silence Tracy Horlick. After that, I went off in search of answers.
Albert wasn’t in yet, and the pound was locked tight. So I poked my head in next door and wasn’t surprised to see Jim Creighton at his desk, looking rather snazzy in a freshly pressed uniform.
“Sexy boy scout. I like it.” I enjoyed seeing him flustered and helped myself to a cup of coffee. “Oh, nasty.” That was about the coffee.
“Been sitting there since six.” I’d given him the upper hand back with that exchange, and he smiled. “So, to what do I owe the pleasure?”
“Well, Jim.” I settled into one of the guest chairs but drew the line at putting my feet up on his desk. I needed him on my side right now. “We never did finish our chat.”
He nodded. He could tell I’d come to talk.
“About that earring.” I figured I’d start with the easy stuff. “You know that Eleanor Shrift has recently broken up with someone?” For a brief moment, I wondered if I’d overstepped. If Jim Creighton had been her secret squeeze, he might not appreciate this information going public.
“And I care because?” He smiled, but I could tell he was hiding curiosity. Good, it wasn’t him. That thought pleased me more than it should have.
“Well, if I lost some valuable jewelry, I’d look to see who had access.” I was beginning to sound like Tracy Horlick, and I didn’t like it. “I just mean, there may have been other people in her house recently.”
“Eleanor says
you’ve
been in her house.” His grin had grown broader now. I’d seen that same expression on Wallis’ face.
“Not unsupervised,” I backpedaled.
“And you took her cat.”
“Oh, come on, Jim.” This was ridiculous, and he should know it. “That animal didn’t belong in a shelter. I’ve been trying to return him to her for days now, trying to set up some kind of training sessions with the two of them. By the way, she never came by to pick him up last night.”
“Maybe she doesn’t know where you live.” He was fishing now, and I relaxed.
“And Doc Sharp wouldn’t tell her?”
He ceded the point. “I didn’t really think you’d stolen that earring, Pru. Or the cat, and you know it. So what does bring you here?”
This was the difficult part. I don’t mind lying to cops. I do mind having to confess to such deception.
