“A keychain drive?”
He shrugged. “Anyway, I reckoned I should ask people. I don’t remember you wearing earrings like that, but the computer thing, I thought.”
“Yeah, thanks.” I barely had to think about this one. “Yeah, I did lose a USB drive right off my keychain. I was wondering what happened to it.” People keep info on those things, and information was just what I was lacking. It wasn’t rocket science, but it might be a clue. “Did you happen to look at what’s on it?”
“Nah, I reckoned it was private.” Of course, I translated, he didn’t understand how to use it.
I did. “Can I come by and pick it up later?” The crowd was milling around the sidewalk, overwhelmingly overdressed for the day.
“You’re not going to the grave?” I shrugged. Even my light dress was sticking to my back now. “Well, I didn’t plan on opening the office up today.” He gazed off into space, and I played my last card.
“What about the animals? I could go over, feed and water them.” Get that drive.
But Albert shook his head. “I had Jeremy come in. I think working today would be, I don’t know, disrespectful.” He was going fishing. Either that, or he’d start drinking early.
“I’ll come by tomorrow then.” I turned toward the street when a last thought struck me. “Hey, Albert.” He turned back, a worried expression on his round face. “What about that earring? Any ideas whose it might be?”
Now it was his turn to shrug. “Who knows? It’s too pretty for someone to wear to the pound.” He paused as a rare thought made his face go blank. “Unless maybe someone is sweet on me.” He looked up. “You think?”
***
I watched him walk off, biting the inside of my cheek to keep my response to myself. I had questions, but none that Albert could answer. Frank—Bandit—would know where he’d gotten the tiny drive. The earring, too, if that were important. Even if either object had been kicked around the floor before he’d found it, the little hunter’s keen sense of smell could probably answer a lot of my questions for me. But how could I ask to interview a ferret? No, I’d just have to hope that Albert brought his covetous pet in again. Or that whatever was on that drive would make things clear.
True, the drive might have nothing to do with anything. I might boot it up to find the Mayor’s tax records or an unfinished novel. Beauville could be a bit of a backwater, but the summer people—and their money—had brought us into the new century and such things were not unheard of, at least by folks with a little more on the ball than Albert.
The earring was another matter, one that might not count for anything but gossip. A long glittering dangler? That was evening wear. Someone had either not gone home before dropping by the animal control office, or had found a lost jewel and was carrying it around, probably planning on returning it. If it were evidence of some late-night tryst, that earring might have potential. But I had a feeling about that drive. Someone had broken into Charles’ house looking for something the same night I had, and whatever he—or she—was seeking, it wasn’t the folder with Lily’s veterinary records. And the log at the pound had shown Delia there. She might be taking care of Charles’ mom, but I didn’t put her down as an animal lover. No, my money was on Delia, hunting for that drive. I looked around for her golden hair.
I needed to talk to her, see if she’d lose any of her cool. Sometimes, when working with certain animals, trainers try to get them off their guard. They’ll pinch the ears of a dog until it retrieves. Shock a competitor till it takes an agility course faster and then faster still. It’s not a technique I’ve ever liked, not even before my change. I’d rather not take advantage of anyone’s vulnerability. But humans could look after themselves, and I had no sympathy for murderers. If Delia had lost a keychain drive—or an earring—she might be getting a little frantic. I’d use it, if I could.
The sun was high in the sky by now, and the crowd thinning out. “I’m sorry for your loss.” I practiced the phrase as I drew up to Charles’ mother, trying to ignore the insistent call of a wood thrush:
“I’m here! I’m here! I’m here!
”
“Pru, glad you made it.” Mack came up behind me, putting his hand on the small of my back as if it were the most natural move in the world.
“I respected Charles.” I stepped back. The man was a looker, but like most handsome men, he knew it. I thought of the earring. He’d be the kind of man who’d notice a trinket like that, left on a nightstand or tangled in a pillow. Women probably left their belongings at his place all the time, marking their territory.
“Are you going to the graveside?” His voice showed that he’d taken the hint, and raised it as a challenge.
“Why not?” It was a Sunday. If Albert wasn’t going to cooperate, what else did I have to do? Besides, even if she was attending Charles’ mother, I might manage to get a word alone with Delia.
“Great, we’re all leaving.” Mack turned away. “You can follow.”
“Sensitive, isn’t he?” I was talking to myself, another bad habit I’d picked up out here. At least with Wallis around, I didn’t feel quite so desperate.
“I think he’s hurting more than he lets on.” I turned in surprise. Delia had come up behind me.
“Delia, I’m so sorry.” I could feel the flush grow in my cheeks. If only I hadn’t let that damned thrush distract me.
She waved my concern away. “It’s just odd, you know? You expect someone to be there and then suddenly, he’s not.” I knew what she meant, but took the opportunity to check out her turquoise eyes anyway. There was some smudging of her makeup, but not much. “It’s worse for Nora.”
I nodded. “I can believe it. How’s she doing?”
“A little more confused than usual, but she’ll be okay. There’s just been so much going on.” Delia smiled, a small, sad smile. “She’s been gardening like mad. I guess that’s her outlet.” As she spoke, she brushed back a stray hair and I noticed her perfect French-tipped nails. Whatever help she gave the old woman, it didn’t involve digging in the dirt.
“Isn’t it a little late in the season?”
Delia’s smile grew until it reached her eyes. “You’d be surprised. I was. There’s all kinds of transplanting and fertilizing, not to mention putting in bulbs. Our soil out here is tough, full of roots and rocks. But she loves it. Charles had been making plans to move her into his place, and she’d been working a lot there. But now, well, she won’t be giving up her own garden. I guess she wants to whip it into shape.”
I pictured the old woman, on her knees. I could see the satisfaction, for a certain type. Me, I preferred other recreational activities. Delia must have read my mind, because she looked behind me. I turned, too. Mack was standing over by the church door. From his posture, I’d bet he’d been up late, and I wondered if he’d had company. As we watched, he rubbed one large hand over his face and through those black curls.
“So, are you a friend of Mack’s?” Her voice was soft, and I couldn’t read it.
“We just met the other night at Happy’s.” Let her make of that what she would. Besides, I had questions for her. “Was he close to Charles?” From her expression, that wasn’t the question she was expecting.
“I guess so.” She shrugged her pretty shoulders, and I noticed that she’d removed the jacket. The September sun had gotten warm. Her skin was tan and smooth. “He looks like a mess, doesn’t he? To be honest, I bet it’s more about the money than out of friendship.”
“That’s pretty harsh.”
She shrugged. Another realist.
“You mean, because of the launch?” I still didn’t know what their product was, but I threw out the words like bait.
“The
launch
.” She threw it right back as if it had a bitter taste. “I don’t know—” But before she could finish her sentence, Chris was by her side.
“Del, everyone’s waiting,” he said, keeping his voice low. He turned toward me. “Do you mind?”
I didn’t budge, and he stepped between us, wrapping one meaty paw around my wrist. I fought the urge to pull away. This might be concern, but it was misguided. I looked up into a face as stolid as a tree and met his gaze with everything I had. He didn’t blink. We could both feel people staring at us, but he held on for another few seconds, making his point, before he released me with a nod and walked away. Delia followed.
I sighed and rubbed my arm. No way could I hitch a ride with that crowd. About twenty feet away, a uniformed driver was opening a door for Nora Harris. Jim Creighton was standing by her side, supporting her. Waiting for her assistant.
“I’m sorry.” Delia turned back toward me, her voice low but clear. “I don’t mean anything bad about Mack. It’s just that he was the money man, you know? He had a lot invested in this.”
I nodded. No, I didn’t know. The birds were at top volume now, declaring themselves and their territory. It was getting hard to focus.
“Coming?” I blinked. Mack was beside me, car keys in hand. How much had he heard?
“I’ll be there.” But as we headed toward the parking lot, a cry spun me back around. Nora Harris had fainted. The chauffeur and Jim Creighton were laying her on the ground. Delia was racing to her side. “Oh my God.” I surged toward them, but Mack grabbed my arm, holding me back.
“Let them be. She’s had these spells before, and that cop can get an ambulance here faster than any of us, if she needs one.”
I pulled away, annoyed at his presumption. But what he’d said made sense, and I only walked as far as the small crowd that had gathered, buzzing like a hive.
“Poor woman. The service, the shock.” Most of the congregation was waiting and watching, it seemed. “And she’s still driving?” “He was so young.” “Such a sadness!”
“That wasn’t grief.” Through the hum of vague sympathy, one voice sounded clear. The speaker was the wiry man who had moved in to make room for me. I looked at him, but he was speaking to his wife. “That was shock. I heard what the cop was saying to her. He just told Mrs. Harris that her son was murdered.”
I was dying to barge right in. Murder? I’d known that from the start, but how did the cops? And why tell her now, at the funeral? Perhaps more to the point, if they were now considering this a homicide, that meant a human was responsible—and Lily should be off the hook.
It wasn’t graceful, but I confess I pushed the wiry man out of my way, determined to get to Creighton and find out more. Before I could go three steps, a strong pair of hands grabbed me from behind, nearly swinging me around.
“Whoa, there, little lady.” It was Mack again, looking amused. “And where do you think you’re going?”
“I just heard.” I tried to pull away, but he was strong. “I’ve got to talk to that cop.”
“You do?” He wasn’t letting go. “Is that wise?”
He’d leaned in to ask that second question, and although his breath was warm on my ear, there was a note in his voice I didn’t like. A hiss, almost, like he knew something I didn’t want him to, and it acted on me like a slap, bringing me right back to earth. We were standing on the edge of the crowd and while most of the black-clad attendees were watching the opened limo, where the grieving mother now sat with her head bowed to her lap, a few stragglers had turned toward us. Animals know when to play dead, and I stood still, waiting for him to release me.
“Good girl.” He noticed, and let me go. “Now, tell old Mack what you’re up to.”
I opened my mouth to speak and drew a blank. I couldn’t exactly tell him about Lily, not and be believed. But I had to say something. “Look, that bombshell the cop just dropped? That’s not news,” I said, finally. “I knew that Charles wasn’t killed by his dog, and I need to find out what that cop knows.”
Mack looked like he was going to grab me again, so I kept on talking. “I’m more than a trainer,” I said. “I’m a behaviorist, or almost. I didn’t quite finish my training.”
I was explaining more than I had to, a sure sign of panic. To stop my own blabbering, I closed my mouth and swallowed hard. “I worked with Charles, and I worked with his dog,” I said, my voice back under control. “He rescued that dog that from a horrible fate, and the dog knew it.”
Mack smiled, but I cut in before he could make a snide comment.
“I’m not anthropomorphizing, Mack. Some animals are loyal; that’s their innate nature, and Lily—that is, Tetris—had that classic dog temperament. I don’t know what happened that morning, but I can tell you one thing. I’ve worked with animals all my professional life, and that dog did not kill Charles.”
“Well, maybe not by choice. And, yeah, I heard what you said the other night. But can’t they be trained to attack?” He looked quizzical now, like he was actually thinking about what I’d said.
“Not their owners.” And before he could take the next step that the young cop had, that maybe their
trainers
could issue the command, I stepped back, out of his reach. “Now, if you’ll excuse me—”
“Not so fast.” He didn’t grab me, quite, but he did put his hand on my arm. I whirled and glared up at him. We call it establishing dominance.
“You are not my keeper.” I kept my voice low, but something in my tone must have carried. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Albert smirk. Great, more grist for the town gossip mill.
“Hey!” Mack threw both hands up in mock surrender, stepping back as he did so. “My bad, sorry.” He was talking louder now; a couple standing a dozen feet away turned to stare. “I just thought we could talk about this, maybe over coffee later.” That grin again, wide and easy. Sexy as hell, and he knew it. “After all,” his voice dropped again, low and confidential, “it doesn’t seem like you really want to go to the gravesite. And there’s nobody left for you to question.”
I whipped around again and kicked the dirt in frustration. Sure enough, the limo had left, taking with it Charles’ mother, Delia, and, I assumed, Creighton. But lingering by the curb, his short cropped hair half a head above the small crowd, stood Chris Moore.
“Excuse me,” I said, my tone having nothing polite about it, and made my way over to the tall former athlete. If I couldn’t question Delia, I’d start on her once and future beau. “Chris! Chris Moore?” I had to push my way past several people to get to him and when I did, I reached out to get his attention, putting my hand on a bicep of granite. Maybe he hadn’t meant to hurt me before. “It is Chris, right? I’m sorry if I was monopolizing Delia before. It’s been ages.” I smiled up at him, determined to win a second chance. Man, he was tall.
“That’s okay.” He was shaking his head, about to say he didn’t know me, when suddenly a neuron fired and that heavy face lit up. For a jock, he had half a brain. In high school, I had a certain notoriety. “Pru Marlowe. It is still Marlowe, isn’t it?”
“Yeah.” My smile widened with relief, and I pulled him further from the crowd. “I just moved back a few months ago. I was working with Charles—Chuck—Harris?”
He smiled back, and I did my best to bat my eyelids. Whatever works. I needed information.
“Delia said something.”
I was sure she had, but at least Chris had given me my in. “I remember you and Delia back in high school.” His grin had faded, but I upped the wattage on mine. “Looks like you two are still friends.”
“Yeah?” A wariness crept into his eyes and he pulled away, just a bit. I reached out to hold his other arm, hoping the contact would convey warmth or security. Damn, this was easier with animals.
“She’s just been through so much.” Falling back on my training, I lowered my voice and kept the tone even. “I would imagine she needs support now.” It worked; he seemed to be calming.
“Yeah, well, not everyone sees it that way.” He looked back to where a dozen stragglers were still milling by the curb, and by reflex, I did, too, in time to see someone turn away. We must have made an odd pairing, especially if they’d seen our face-off only a few minutes before. “People can be mean.”
“Tell me about it.” I heard the edge in my own voice and decided to use it. “I know how gossipy this town can be. Beauville as Peyton Place.”
He smiled in recognition, despite the vintage of my reference. I guessed even jocks know TV. “Everyone here knows we
were
an item
,
and so now…”
He didn’t have to finish the thought. I nodded in sympathy and then caught myself. I wasn’t questioning him out of nostalgia. I was searching for a murderer. Could this tall block of a man be the one? How well did I really know Chris Moore? The old images that came to mind were all stereotypes. Chris Moore had been that rarity, a straight shooter. The high school basketball star who hadn’t drunk or wrecked his dad’s car. Mr. Clean Cut All-American Beauville. He and I never hung out in the same crowd, but we knew about each other.
It didn’t seem likely, but something this brutal seldom was. And I’d seen how he looked at Delia, how he’d moved in when he felt I was threatening her. Clearly, the fires still burned. But were those fires hot enough to turn this man from a high-school hero into a cold-blooded killer? Those wounds had been vicious, claw-like slashes. Three, at least, side by side. For someone to tear open Charles’ throat like that, not to mention stage a scene that would frame an innocent animal, there was more than momentary passion at work.
I sized him up, trying to see him as a stranger would. Like Detective Creighton. With his broad features and that short-cut hair, Chris still looked like a small town poster boy. Creighton seemed young enough to know him from school. Maybe he’d seen him play, cheered him on. But the muscles beneath my hands were iron hard. And Chris had the height and the reach to overpower anyone I knew.
He cleared his throat, and I realized I’d been staring at him. Would he think I was sweet on him? That could be useful, but for now I dropped my hands. “People are going to wonder.” I heard the chill creeping into my voice. I couldn’t help it, not with these new thoughts racing through my mind. “Particularly now, when she doesn’t exactly seem to be broken up over his death.”
“Hey, she’s a
friend
. Do you mind?” He pulled back, and I was struck again by his size, by his strength. “I don’t know what she saw in him. I never understood what was going on with them, but it was her choice, and I respected that, okay?”
“Okay!” I raised my hands in a placating gesture. He had the temper all right, but he also sounded honestly wounded. I started to think of dog tricks. He needed soothing. I could do this. But as I reached out, more slowly this time, he spun on his heels and stalked off. I turned around and saw that the remaining crowd was staring at me. I plastered a fake smile on my face and waved, before making my own retreat.
***
I took my frustration out on my old Toyota, gunning its tiny engine and leaving rubber on the corner. Something was going on here that I didn’t understand, and I hated being played like that. Even by a good-looking man who seemed to enjoy flirting with me.
My mood hadn’t lifted by the time I got home, and I threw my bag with such force onto the kitchen table that Wallis jumped up with alarm from her post on the windowsill.
“Sorry, Wallis.” I mumbled. The anger was beginning to wear off.
“I was awake anyway.” She stretched. Possibly all cats, certainly Wallis, like to pretend they’re on top of every situation, despite the fact that, as obligate carnivores, they sleep three-quarters of the day. “I’ve been waiting for you to come home.”
“Oh?” I pulled off my boots and waited for her to comment. The fact that she didn’t convinced me that she really must have something on her mind.
“It’s that kitten.” Wallis rearranged herself on the windowsill as I looked around. “She’s upstairs, asleep on our bed.”
I slid into a chair and waited. I could use more coffee, but Wallis found the grinder annoying. She also likes to build drama.
“I wonder if there might be something wrong with her. Developmentally.” She licked her paw in a desultory fashion. I waited. “I’m having trouble coming up with a better diagnosis.”
“What’s she saying, Wallis?” I didn’t know how seriously to take my cat’s concerns. After all, she had a vested interest in being not only the smartest one in the room, but also the only cat in the house.
“It’s partly the fixation on the box.” Wallis tucked her paw underneath her chest, her distaste showing in the way she drew her head back. “It’s overdone. And the constant crying for her ‘Mama.’ I mean, really, Pru. She’s been weaned.”
“Maybe she’s homesick, Wallis.” It’s rare when I’m the sentimental one in the conversation, but my heart did go out to the little orange kitten.
“Like that
dog.”
Wallis sniffed and turned away. I’d been dismissed.
With a sigh—I really did want more coffee—I pushed myself out of the chair and headed up the stairs. With Lily out of immediate danger, I might as well try to put my own house in order. Sure enough, the kitten was asleep on my bed. She’d propped herself up, sphinx-like, with her feet tucked under her. But unlike Wallis, she didn’t yet have an adult cat’s sense of balance. While her body held the “meatloaf” pose, all four feet tucked under, her head had fallen forward so that she was sleeping on her face. For a moment, my heart melted. Then a flash of panic kicked in. Could she breathe?
“Kitten!” I raced over to the bed, but before I could grab her, she’d woken. Two blue eyes blinked up at me. “
Mama?”
“Sorry, honey.” How can anyone be cross around a kitten? But even as I settled on the bed beside her, I saw her mood shift as she woke fully.
“
I didn’t do anything wrong.”
The woeful mew was so soft I had to bend forward to hear her.
“I didn’t.”
“Of course not, kitten.” I stroked her back. Compared to Wallis, she was a mere handful of fur. Touching her, I picked up the sadness and confusion behind her protest. This wasn’t a developmentally challenged animal. Something bad had happened—and she felt responsible.
I felt her relax a little under my hand and took a gamble. Scooping the tiny body up, I held her to my chest. Not that long ago, she’d have been nursing, and I counted on the warmth and the beat of my heart to calm her.
“
Mama.”
The cry was silent now, the plaintive wail of her heart, but it still made my throat close up. I continued stroking her as I thought about posing my next question.
“You’re a good girl. Yes, you are.” Murmuring softly into the downy fur of her back, I tried to think in images, to let the emotion behind the words color my memories of her using her litterbox, eating from her dish, and finally of her asleep on my bed. “A very good girl.” I felt her relax, and decided to try my question. “Why do you think you’re bad?”
The tiny body tensed. Damn, this was so much easier with Wallis. “You’re a good kitty. Yes, you are.” I cooed and stroked another few minutes, finally perching on the edge of the bed. This wasn’t going to be quick by any means. “Very good.”
Time to try again. “Who yelled at you? Who said you were bad?”
“
They both did.”
The thought came quick and strong. “
They were loud. Very loud.
I didn’t do anything wrong.”
The small face lifted to me and the tiny red mouth opened in an almost silent mew.
“Mama? Why, Mama? Why?”
***
There really wasn’t any answer I could give to that, and I lay back on the bed, holding the small kitten until she fell asleep again. Sunday afternoon, I had no work pressing. Nowhere to be. At some point, I felt a thud as Wallis joined us. Coffee is a great invention, but sometimes a nap with your cats fits the bill.