Dogs Don't Lie (6 page)

“Pru Marlowe, I can’t believe you said that to her.” My escort was talking, as well as she could through gritted teeth. “What were you thinking? That animal is a menace, and bringing it up to Charles’ mom—”

“Wait a minute.” Those eyes had me fooled, but something about that voice was familiar. “How do you know my name?”

We’d reached the front door by then, and she’d let go of my arm. An older man with a beard like underbrush was coming in. I grabbed the door before she could close it. It was the eyes: they must be contacts.

“It’s true what they say. You leave town, and suddenly you forget where you’re from.” She was slouching now, leaning against the door frame in a way that made me think of gym class, of lockers. “And all you care about is that horrible, stupid dog. The dog that killed my fiancé.”

“Delia. Delia Cochrane.” Everything clicked into place. “Look at you. All grown up.”

I stepped back as the door slammed shut.

***

I’m not, as I’ve said, good with people. But I am not usually a total hardass. If I’d seen any sign of grief, I probably would have come up with a better closing line. At least I like to think so. As I walked back to my car, a couple of thoughts kept rattling around my mind. Charles had never mentioned Delia. More important, he’d never brought her in for any of our training sessions. To a behaviorist, that meant he didn’t consider her part of the family. She wasn’t someone who had to learn how to handle Lily, someone Lily should get to know. So that talk about a “fiancé” sounded fishy. And now that I’d seen her again, I did remember her other beau, Chris Moore, the one Albert had mentioned. People move on, and people change, sure. But I recalled the skinny cheerleader and the lanky basketball center as an item since puberty. Had she traded in true love for a better lifestyle? Had someone made a point of getting in her way?

That’s what was churning around my brain as I turned onto the state highway. That, and the fact that I’d probably never see my casserole dish again.

Chapter Six

Lucky for me, I’m lousy at proportions. I’d bought too much meat and was frying up the rest of it when Wallis sauntered into the kitchen. The angle of her tail was smug, but I knew she wanted to know. I dashed on the Tabasco and waited.

She sniffed the air, winced at the spice, and sat.

Ignoring her stare, I stirred the ground beef, enjoying the greasy-hot aroma. It had been a while since I’d had an all-meat meal. While I’m carnivorous by nature, a burger and beer gal, I’d found myself going off red meat in recent months. Something about hearing animals makes them less appealing on the plate. Not that that had ever stopped Wallis.

“You know you want to tell me,” she said finally, as I scooped up a spoonful of my makeshift meal. “You like the girl for it?”

If I’d been greedier, I’d have choked. As it was, I only gagged a little. By the time I’d chased the hot meat with some water from the faucet, Wallis was looking quite pleased with herself, sitting sphinx-like on the counter. “So do you?”

“I wish you wouldn’t do that.” No point in taking a harder tone with a cat.

“Why not? It’s what you do.”

“Excuse me? I’m slow today.” Sarcasm is mainly lost on animals, but Wallis had spooked me. Nobody over the age of eight wants her mind read.

“That’s it. You read our minds, as you call it.” Wallis shuffled a bit, rearranging her furry bulk on the counter. “You eavesdrop.”

I mulled that over, uncomfortably aware that even as I did Wallis was listening in. It was true, that’s more or less what I do: eavesdrop on animals’ most private thoughts. The fact that I never wanted to probably didn’t count for much. As I scraped up the last of the browned beef, I weighed the implications.

“I don’t choose to hear what I do.” I kept coming back to this. “And I don’t think they know I do.”

She shrugged. Cats can. “And that matters, why?”

My cat was beginning to sound like me, and another thought struck home. How long had Wallis been privy to my thoughts? I looked over, but she had turned her back toward me. Just like a cat.

“I don’t mean to sound insulting, you know.” Her answer rang loud in my head. “But you do learn to block it out. Most kittens can by the time they’re weaned.”

“Great, I’m as helpless as a newborn kitten.” She turned at that, and the appraisal in her eyes made me laugh out loud.

“So, do you think the blonde did it?”

Back to that again. I scrubbed at the skillet and thought it over. “She says they were engaged. If they went through with it, she would have had a lot more—and had some security, too.” If, that is, she were telling the truth.

“And if she really wanted to.” Wallis finished my thought. “Maybe they were breaking up. Maybe he had another woman.”

I spun, angry now, and shook a wet sponge at her. “Would you cut that out? It’s unnerving.” I searched for a word that would hit home with her. “Rude. But you’re right, I’ve got to see if I can find out what the deal was with them.”

“Or not.” The flecks of soapy foam had landed too near Wallis for her to remain settled. She jumped to the floor. “Maybe it’s time to just let sleeping dogs lie.”

Lily. How could I have forgotten? Without Nora Harris’ intervention, she’d be euthanized for a rabies test. “The dog is running out of time.”

“And you can stop that?”

The tabby had a point. I didn’t want to get more involved in this. Not anymore than I already was. I’d tried to talk to the vet, to Charles’ mother. Tomorrow, I was due in the cop shop, and as it was I’d be peddling fast to explain my initial certainty that Lily hadn’t done it. After that, maybe it was time to let nature—or the law—take its course. I sensed a purr starting up in Wallis’ throat.

But I’d also heard the panic in Lily’s voice. The combination of terror and overwhelming loss. And I had run when she had tried to show me what she’d seen, when I’d glimpsed the horror she was living with. No. I put the skillet back on the flame to dry. I couldn’t walk away.

“
Cherchez la femme?”
Wallis was still staring at me. I turned to watch droplets of water sizzle and die.

“Or something.” Wallis may consider herself cosmopolitan. I didn’t feel any more worldly than any other small-town girl. And as I felt her purr grow stronger, a strange idea struck me. If I was going against my cat’s advice, why was she purring? Had she been manipulating me all along?

“Wallis, about this mind reading thing…” I turned from the oven, but she was gone.

Cherchez la femme.

The theory was good, but before I started following anyone else’s tail, I needed to save Lily’s. I had a feeling my morning appointment with Officer Creighton was not going to be easy or brief. If I wanted anything like an edge, I needed more information. Plus, if I was going to save Lily’s skin, I needed her papers. Hard proof that she’d been vaccinated would be the best way for her to avoid a summary execution. Which is why that evening, after making my other rounds and waiting for the late summer sun to finally douse itself in the hills, I was back at Charles’. Crouched under an old lilac, listening to the birds and contemplating a break in.

The lilac wasn’t cover exactly, its old trunk too gnarly and bare. However, its deep shadow did shield me partially from the road. If anyone saw me, well, I was resting. I hadn’t been back long enough for Joe Neighbor to know I was no nature lover. Breaking in was the obvious choice. No way could I just waltz into the house while Creighton or any of his colleagues were around. They’d like me for the crime, if they couldn’t frame Lily. The birds, well, they were my lookouts.

Like I’ve said, I don’t talk to the animals. With the exception of Wallis, they don’t seem to talk to me in any personal way and that’s fine. Birds especially. There’s a reason we humans have the expression “bird brain.” But even a non-psychic could pick up the contented good-night cooings of the mourning doves, the last-chance call-outs of that macho mockingbird, everybody getting ready to nest down for the night. I just hear it differently. Hear the intent, if that makes sense. So if anything, even the neighborhood tom, had come around, you’d hear squawks. I’d be getting panicked little shrieks.
Flee! Flee! Flee! What? What? What?
I wasn’t, but I wanted to make sure. I shifted on the hard roots of the lilac. Ten minutes more, and if everything remained quiet, I’d go in.

I didn’t mind being alone. Gotten used to it certainly, but something in Wallis’ comments had hit home. There’d been men back in the city. More than a few. Men liked me, and I liked them, at least for a while. But I’m a loner by nature. Sitting here, uncomfortable as it was, gave me a chance to think. Wallis’ jab combined with the night noises set my thoughts on Stevie, the most recent of the bunch. A jazz pianist, Stevie had hands like caged doves, all fluttery to watch but more powerful than you’d think. That had been a while ago. For an artist, Stevie had been surprisingly concrete, and I hadn’t been able to explain my “gift” once it had come. Nor to anyone else, for that matter. Plus, he had the most annoying schnauzer that kept yelling obscenities at me. So that had been it. I’d become one of those women who lives alone and talks to her cat. I figured I had a good six months before I started eying the gas station attendant with impure thoughts. And I had my nights free to sit in the bushes outside the house of a former clients. It could be worse.

***

The last of the chittering died away, and all I got were vague images of warmth and down. It was time. Quietly as I could, and stiff from the roots, I rose and approached the house. Funny, it looked bigger at night, the windows like eyes, staring down.

Somewhere back in the bushes, I heard a rustle. I froze, and thought of the switchblade in my pocket. A flash of something fat, white, and juicy made me relax. An opossum was hoping for grubs, and I was being ridiculous. Shaking my head to clear it, I walked around to the big front porch. As tempted as I was to break in, to see if my knife would slide me in the back verandah, I had no need to actually test Charles’ locks. He’d given me a key when he’d hired me. The fact that he’d always been home when I showed up didn’t change that.

I paused. He’d always been home. He worked there, with a wired-up office that housed more equipment than the rest of the Berkshires put together. Was there an alarm system I didn’t know about? Something that would start wailing or—worse—click in silently as soon I opened the door? The local cops didn’t worry me. They hadn’t even sealed the front door, and the yellow crime scene tape was easy enough to duck under. But Charles was big city. He might be wired into the state. My hand hesitated, holding the key. I was already halfway to the porch. Could I expect sirens?

Charles had expected me yesterday morning, too. Whatever alarm system he’d installed hadn’t been activated then. After all, someone else had gotten inside his house, as well.

I unlocked the door and waited. No electronic wail. No sound on the street, either, though what the response rate would be in our sleepy burg was anyone’s guess. With a shrug, I made my way in. To the left was Charles’ open-space living and work room. I remembered the pooling of blood, and turned away. In front of me, a flight of stairs led to the second floor. To the right was a kitchen-dining area done in the height of ’50s fashion, a stark contrast to the ultra-modern work area. Not a cook then. I wondered briefly how he’d found our meager take-out facilities, took a deep breath, headed up the stairs.

To the right, over the kitchen, I found two bedrooms. One held dusty furniture and a load of boxes, probably not touched since moving day. In the other, a tousled blue comforter and two misshapen pillows reminded me of the gentle man who had once slept here. Charles wasn’t my type, never had been. But nobody deserves to be left to die, bloody. Not in his own house. I let myself pause for a moment, remembering Charles, and then moved on. Past the master bath, I hit gold. Two more rooms combined into one made a home office fit for a rising entrepreneur. Unlike the spare downstairs, this one had file cabinets. A table top of white and silver, screens big enough for a movie theater with a speaker system to match, faced another picture window, a smaller version of the one downstairs. The moonlight was way too weak to see the view, though I could guess which mountain lay outside. Inside, the vista was stunning.

Not being a complete yokel, I knew enough not to handle the keyboard. A small brush and—yes—the screen came alive. Using a pencil I hit “return,” eager to move beyond the screensaver. I was rewarded with a corporate logo—a glowing green brain—and a request for a password. So he didn’t have an automatic logon, not even in his home office. I’d have been more curious, but just then something clicked in. A low whirr from deep down in the house—air conditioner? dehumidifier?—spooked me to step back from the desk, and then I heard it.

A voice, the hint of a voice. Soft as that machine whirring, but coming from somewhere much closer. A whisper. And that was it.

I lowered my flashlight to floor level and began to crawl, peeking under the table. Under the baseboard heating. The place was ridiculously clean, especially for a bachelor. With this much equipment, maybe that was necessary. Or maybe someone had gotten here before me.

That thought woke me up to why I was really here. Motive—or some threatening letters—would have been great. But Lily’s papers, they were key. Using that same pencil, I hooked the desk drawers open. I was betting on the right hand side, where we keep our personal stuff. If I was wrong, I’d hit the file cabinets. The man was neat, too neat for my taste, but I relaxed a bit. Anyone who would alphabetize his warranties might actually have done the kind of complete clean up I was witnessing. It wasn’t just warranties, either. After a folder on his refrigerator—a Kenmore—I found it:
Tetris/Papers.

But just then the whirring stopped. In its place, a deep silence that spooked me more. And so I stood up and brushed some nonexistent dust from my knees, just to make myself feel better. I tucked the folder inside my jacket and was making my way out of the office when I heard it again. That voice, that hint of a voice. So soft it had to be nearby.

My footsteps sounded loud on the hardwood floor, and I fought the urge to run. I was upstairs already. Clearly trespassing. Better to act cool and keep my head. If there was someone here, so be it.

There—what was that? A little voice, young and vulnerable, and I was struck by a new thought. I was sensitive to animals. Could I also be hearing ghosts? A year ago, this would have all seemed impossible, and I’m no sucker for supernatural mumbo jumbo. Knowing what I now knew, it was all I could do to step out into the hall.

The voice was getting louder. I was closer. I could feel the sweat on my back and hear every squeak my sneakers made. I was almost at the stairwell.

“
Mama?”

What? I envisioned an infantile ghost, the spirit of some child locked in a closet here a hundred years ago.

“
Mama?”
A baby, hidden in the wall, centuries past. I already had what I’d come for. I quickened my pace and was almost down the stairs, when it hit me.

“
Mama?”
Not only was I being a wimp, I was missing out on a great source of information. What was out there that could really hurt me, I mean, anymore? And besides, there was something sweet about that voice.
“Mama! Help…”

I took a deep breath and went back up the stairs, reminding myself with each step that I was the badass in the room. That voice sounded—

A scratch, a scramble. Back in that top hallway stood a tall, vented linen cabinet. I saw no lock, and at my touch, the latch popped open with a click. Just then the humming started up again, and as much as I’d like to think that was coincidence, I found myself breathing faster. I opened the door and looked inside. Instead of towels, something glowed, small and green. Components. The whole damned place was probably wired. Was that what I had heard? But there was something else in that closet. Something alive.

“
Mama.”
Down on the bottom, pressed into the back, a tiny orange kitten was huddled, eyes shut tight. I’m not a softy, far from it. But this would’ve made steel melt.
“Mama.”