Parrots Prove Deadly (6 page)

Chapter Ten

Routine has its benefits, and not only in training. I’d been a little shaken by the time I got home. Blame it on some mishaps I’d had recently. While my car had been fixed up, my nerves were maybe not quite as resilient as they’d been a year earlier.

I’d been hoping for some companionship. Wallis hadn’t been around when I got home again, though, and so I poured myself a bourbon and built a fire. I could have called Jim, I knew, but that would make two nights in a row—and I had too much on my mind. Besides, I wasn’t sure if he was a habit I wanted to encourage, for either of us. Things were good now, as they were. I’d take my comforts as I could find them, and try to let everything else slide.

I sipped my whiskey and tried not to listen for sounds in the house. It didn’t pay to worry. I didn’t like to think of Wallis going out—in addition to her thirteen-plus years, she was far from the biggest predator in the woods. Considering our relationship, however, I didn’t feel like I could restrain her. Besides, I suspected that more often than not, she was simply enjoying a nap in some quiet corner of our big, old house. Making me worry was good for her mystique.

I tried to focus on that, not on fat guys with poison. And before I knew it, the whiskey was gone and I’d pulled the afghan off the back of the sofa. Some nights take care of themselves.

When Wallis didn’t show for breakfast, however, I did find myself wondering, the unfamiliar anxiety giving an unpleasant edge to my caffeine.

“Wallis?” I’d made her egg. Usually the smell was enough to lure her. “You there?”

The creaks and groans were only from the wind, and so after a few minutes of poking around I grabbed my keys and headed for the car.

Routine, as I’ve said, can be useful, and I found my nerves settling as I drove to my first client. A year before, I’d have laughed at the idea that I’d feel this good, going to walk this particular dog. But Growler—I just couldn’t think of him by his human-given name “Bitsy”—had become an ally, if not exactly a friend. A tough, often resentful bichon frise, Growler had a pronounced antipathy to females of any species. I’d met his human, the walking horror known as Tracy Horlick, so I knew why. I did what I could to alleviate a borderline abusive situation, and in return he trusted me—as much as he could trust anyone. In return, I found myself putting my faith in the little white puffball—more than in most humans. More than most animals, to be honest. His keen nose and acute observations had gotten me out of jams before. Much as I love Wallis, she’s got her predispositions. At times its good to look at things from a radically different—a canine—perspective, and a walk with Growler could often clear my head.

My brief search for Wallis had made me a little late. As I pulled up to the curb by the Horlick house, I saw his mistress in the doorway, waiting for me. Dressed in her usual housecoat, still in last night’s makeup at nine a.m., she resembled nothing so much as the gossips of my childhood. Women like Tracy Horlick had made my mother’s life miserable, after my father left. All hate and wrinkles, she wouldn’t have been one of the females who’d lured him from hearth and home, but she could have been one of many who blamed my mother for losing him. As if husbands could be misplaced through carelessness or some other moral failing.

“Good morning, Mrs. Horlick.” I knew better than to ask my client how she was. Instead, I hoped to make a quick exit, with the dog. “Lovely weather today.”

“If you like fall.” She flicked an ash from her cigarette. I watched it fade on the concrete walk and kept coming. “And things dying.”

“Nonsense.” I’d learned to affect a certain deafness in regard to Growler’s human. “Lovely out.” I stepped up as if to enter the house, but she blocked the way. “Is Bitsy ready?” I even managed a smile.

“I hear you’re mixed up with the dead again.” One thing Tracy Horlick did have going for her was the finest tuned ear for gossip in all of Beauville. Somehow, between her bridge club, the beauty salon that lacquered her hair every week, and the convenience store where she bought her cigarettes by the case, she managed to know everybody’s business. Even, to my dismay, a good deal of mine. “Over at that new place?”

I nodded, hoping to make this quick. “LiveWell,” I acknowledged.

She snorted, smoke coming out of her nostrils. “What a ripoff. You know what they want for a place there?”

I didn’t, though it was mildly interesting that she’d looked into it.

“Four grand. A month!” She waggled her cigarette for emphasis. “For a studio!”

“Well, that probably includes nursing care, meals, and such.” Good thing she’d never moved to the city. This house was in one of the older developments. Not as spacious as my mother’s place—or as expensive to heat, I’d bet—but old enough so that her late husband, or, hell, maybe her parents, had probably paid off the mortgage years before.

“Someone’s making money off that place.” She paused to pick a piece of tobacco from her tongue. Behind her, a muffled bark rang out.

“Sounds like Bitsy is ready for his walkies!” I put my best effort into it, and got a sour look in return. “Look, I don’t know anything about the economics of LiveWell,” I reverted to my normal voice. “I’m just helping retrain a parrot.”

“Huh.” Tracy Horlick wasn’t mollified, but she must have figured that she wouldn’t get anything else out of me because she turned and went inside. I reached in the door for the lead and a moment later Growler came bounding out of the basement. Snapping the lead onto his collar, I nodded toward the house and we hit the road.

“She lock you in there all night?” During the summer, I knew Growler had been left in the tiny backyard. I wasn’t sure this was an improvement.

“It’s dry.
”
With a grunt, the bichon let me know he wasn’t in the mood for pity. “
And there’s prey.
” He added. I looked down and as those button eyes stared up, I got a sense of mice burrowing in. Looking for a safe place to spend the winter…

“Huh!
” He turned and pulled me toward a small elm. I got a whiff of Lars, an overweight beagle, and something else—something golden and brown.
“Roberto.
” Growler filled in the name.
“And you’re getting off the topic, walker lady.
”

He was right. The image of the mice, their whiskered faces staring up at me, had sparked something. The raccoon—of course! I would have to deal with Jerry, though I wasn’t sure yet how. In the meantime, I thought about poison. Tracy Horlick wasn’t ever going to win prizes for her humane treatment of animals, and I needed to warn Growler of the consequences of eating anything he caught.

“Got it.
” The ease with which the small dog read my mind jolted me. I’d thought I had to direct my thoughts to be understood.
“No, not really.
”
His gruff voice answered my unspoken question.
“Thanks, though.
”

It was unnerving, and as I tried to shake it off I let the little dog wander.
“Hmm…Gus, that kidney problem is getting bad…
” The idea that the bichon was letting me eavesdrop as a way to apologize for listening in on my thoughts was making me a little crazy. I needed to get ahead of it.

“Look, Growler?” I didn’t stop walking. That would have been rude. I did, however, speak out loud. “Can we try to keep our communication conversational? You know, like we ask each other things? Not just listen in?”

“Huh!
”
I tried to take the dog’s brisk chuff and not the fact that he stopped to urinate on a tree as my answer. A moment later, he gave me more. “
So, are you going to ask me?
”

He’d caught me off guard. I’d been looking forward to consulting with the wise little dog about a number of things: the parrot, mostly. But I’d thought Growler might also have some insight into the raccoon situation, particularly after that revelation about the basement. Maybe, even, he could give me a clue about communicating with that sphinx of a guide dog.

“Stupid bitch…
” I knew he meant in a technical way. Growler is not fond of any females. He’d picked up that “Buster” was female, but that didn’t surprise me. Wallis had already taught me that animals get clues from us that we aren’t aware of. They have to; for them, more often than not, knowing who and what you’re dealing with can mean survival.

“Speaking of that raccoon…” Might as well start with the problem uppermost in my mind.

“Mating season?
”
Growler’s ears stood up.

“What? No.” That would be in the winter. Then I heard what he’d responded to: a car, much newer than my own, pulling around the corner.

“Hey, Pru.” Creighton rolled down the window of his cruiser. “Got a minute?”

I looked down at Growler. He looked up at me, silently. “Thanks for the warning,” I muttered as I walked us both over to the curb.

“How’d you find me?” I leaned in. This felt wrong somehow. I like to keep the day and night parts of my life as separate as possible.

My nighttime buddy only smiled. “Good morning to you, too.”

Okay, so I was being about as pleasant as Tracy Horlick. I nodded, waiting.

“Look, I know Mrs. Horlick is one of your regulars, and when I drove by, I saw your car there.” He looked back at the corner. It was true; Growler was a little dog and our walks didn’t usually take us too far. “I wanted to ask you something.”

“I’m here.” I was also getting intense waves of interest from the dog by my side. Interest in our discussion—or in Jim Creighton. I didn’t know which. Creighton is a sexy man.

“You went out to that new condo complex late yesterday. Evergreen Hills, the one right by the town line.” It wasn’t a question, so I didn’t respond. “I was wondering what brought you there.”

“And you care, why?” Creighton had startled me, showing up in the wrong context like this. I heard the snarl in my voice, though, and decided I should give him something. “It’s an animal issue, Jim. I’m helping Albert.”

“Albert, huh.” He nodded, and I wondered what I had just confirmed. “You know Joey Gaffney?”

“Sort of. I mean, I remember him from high school.” He’d been a troublemaker then. From what his cousin, Jerry, had said, he wasn’t doing much better now. Though it sounded like he was at least trying his hand at honest employment. “I gather he’s doing some work up there?”

“You talk to him?” Creighton was asking the questions, not answering them. No matter what Growler might think, I do have my own internal sensors, and they were on alert.

“I talked to his cousin, Jerry.” I waited. Nothing. “On an animal matter.” I repeated. “For Albert.”

“Uh huh, good.” He nodded again, in confirmation of I knew not what. “Good to hear it, Pru.” He put the car in gear.

“Wait.” I kept my hands on the door. “What is this about?”

“Timing, Pru. That’s all.” He looked up, those baby blues cool and innocent. “And for once, maybe it really is better off that you don’t know anymore.”

Jim Creighton knew me. He drove off before I could work up a comeback, leaving me openmouthed. A slight pressure on the side of my leg, and I looked down at Growler.

“What?” I didn’t mean it to come out that way. “Seriously, you have any thoughts?”

He tilted his fluffy little head. If I’d been anyone else, I would have been overwhelmed by his cuteness. Instead, I waited.

“Didn’t get much,
”
he said finally.
“
Car was too cold for good scenting. There was something though. Something besides mating.
”

He was having trouble, I could see it in the way his whole body trembled. Tension, not fear, was what I was picking up from the little dog, but I wasn’t sharp enough to get at the root of it.

“Fear, that’s it,
”
Growler said finally. I started to correct him, to explain that he was picking up on my perception. He barked once, short and sharp, to cut me off.
“It’s the poison, isn’t it?
”
The little head tilted up toward me, the button eyes holding me in their stare.
“There’s some danger around the poison, and car man is thinking you’re involved.
”

Chapter Eleven

Creighton—and Growler—were right. I was involved. And although I wasn’t afraid of Jerry Gaffney, I wasn’t enough of a fool to take him on alone. For once, the law was on my side, and if I had to get a court order to stop Jerry and his numbskull cousin from slaughtering wildlife, so be it.

I’d kept Growler out longer than usual by then, so I walked him back to the Horlick house, my other questions still ringing in my head. Knowing now that the bichon’s perception was sharper than I’d thought, I tossed some of these at him as we walked.

“That parrot—is he telling me something, or just repeating words and sounds he’s heard?” That was the big one, and I thought the little dog had paused as he considered it. That he’d paused by a particularly well-used hydrant brought me back to reality. This was Growler’s one outing of the day. He had his own needs, his own social agenda to fill.

“Huh.
”
The chuff again, as he sniffed open-mouthed at the hydrant.
“That’s a fight waiting to happen. Someone’s going to the vet again.
”
I didn’t want to interrupt as he catalogued the various scents. I did hope, however, that the object of Growler’s interest wasn’t another of my clients.
“No trusting that one. Not him.
”

“You are talking about another dog, aren’t you, Growler?” Something about the vehemence worried me. That on top of Creighton’s cop-like reticence made me curious. “Or are you talking about ‘car man’?”

He lifted his leg and then with a sigh that carried a wave of resignation, he plowed ahead toward his inhospitable home.
“Women
.” That I got, loud and clear.
“Don’t see what’s right in front of them.
”

“What, Growler?” I stopped, and since I held the other end of the leash, he had to, as well. He turned and eyed me, his button eyes cold.

“The guide dog—the one you call ‘Buster’?
”
h
e broke his silence.
“She’s more concerned with her person than with anyone else—and with good reason. People die there. She smells it, and I can smell it on her.
”

I nodded, grateful for that damp black nose. He was gleaning things from my memories that went beneath my radar. We continued walking, and I mulled over that last statement. Yes, people died at LiveWell. It was an old folks’ home, no matter what anyone called it. Death’s waiting room. Did he—or did Buster—mean there were suspicious deaths? Deaths that shouldn’t have happened—what the coroner would call misadventure? Or even murder?

“Watch what happens to that bird,
”
Growler said, barking once as we came up to his door. “
Nobody likes a blabbermouth.
”