3 Panthers Play for Keeps (10 page)

Chapter Twenty-two

The shoes? God, I was dense. Growler would know that I lacked his sensitive nose. That any scents that he’d tried to convey with that one image would be lost on me. Still, there was something that he thought I would see—that I could have seen, if I’d only had half my wits about me.

I’d driven around the corner and parked. Sitting there, I tried to reconstruct the image the bichon had presented. Yes, I’d seen Tracy Horlick’s shoes—faded aerobics shoes, the kind that allowed plenty of room for her bunions. I’d never seen her in anything other than scuffed-up slippers, but something about those feet was familiar. Maybe I wasn’t as hopeless as I’d thought. She was partnered with someone similar: tan walking shoes, the orthopedic kind. The third belonged to a man, a big man and one who still had it together enough to go outside. Topsiders, a bit worn, but paired with socks, I was glad to see. The fourth pair had been clad in leather. Old leather, to be sure, but surprisingly nice, now that I thought of it. Soft-looking, and evenly worn, as if they’d been crafted particularly for this wearer.

I saw tassels, the kind of detail an Italian shoemaker might…

No, I blinked to clear my mind. Clearly I was conflating memories. Putting my own thoughts on the picture Growler had given me. My imagination was getting away with me, much like that fifth pair that I now saw, walking up behind the old man. Those weren’t old lady shoes. Nor did they belong to a nurse or a servant. Unable to stop myself from watching the movie playing out in my head, I saw the glow of buffed leather. The pointed toe of a boot and, when they turned, a stylish heel. Not too high for Beauville. Outdoorsy, though still sexy. The kind of heel that elongated legs that were already long and lean. The kind that went with a four hundred-dollar pair of boots. Provided, of course, you were one of the better paid professionals in the area. Though what Laurel Kroft had to do with Gregor Benazi or Tracy Horlick, outside of the fevered imaginings of my sleep-deprived mind, was totally beyond me.

Chapter Twenty-three

That was it. I needed to sit down with Laurel Kroft and find out what the hell was going on. She could dally with Creighton. He was fair game. She could even fool around with Benazi, if she wanted. It would be her funeral. Or not. In reality, I found myself thinking as I drove across town, the sly old coot was much too suave to do violence to a woman he had a personal relationship with. Business, well, that was a different matter.

And it hit me, with a force that made me pull over to the side of the road. Maybe she had been in that scene on business. A quartet of oldsters, playing bridge—or poker—around a card table. That scene could have taken place at the retirement community where Laurel consulted. Hey, for all I knew, her high-priced services involved monitoring their card games. That would also explain some of Tracy Horlick’s latest gossip. Maybe Creighton had visited the good shrink while she was making her rounds. Nothing untoward needed to have happened. Horlick had a nose as keen as Spot’s for that kind of thing. And Benazi? I didn’t see him as a resident, not even if he did fit the demographic. Visiting a friend…or a client. Yeah, that was possible, too.

Was that what he’d been trying to talk to me about? Was he warning me about Laurel Kroft?

Pulling back onto the road with an urgency that left rubber, I headed into town. Laurel Kroft was going to answer some questions. And if she wasn’t willing, her dog would. But first, I needed some background. Doc Sharpe had originally referred me to her. At the time, I’d been grateful enough not to ask any questions. Part of my charge was to find a suitable foster for Spot, the first dog in my care. The fact that she was a single woman, with the means to feed and house an animal and without any kids to grow overly attached to the temporary pet made her seem perfect. Talk about gift horses.

That didn’t mean I couldn’t prime the pump. As I drove, I called. The call went straight to voice mail.

“Laurel? Pru Marlowe here.” I paused. I hadn’t totally thought this out. “I wanted to talk with you today before I take Spot out. I’m wondering if he may have some issues interacting with other animals, and if that’s something we need to work on.” It was a reach, but if I wanted to link Laurel with Tracy Horlick—and maybe Gregor Benazi, too—I would use what Growler had showed me. I hadn’t seen Spot in the bichon’s vision, but I could fake that. I could ask what other animals she’d come in contact with. Maybe even facilitate a meeting, see what came of it.

My mind was wandering over the possibilities as I drove. Yesterday, I’d acted hastily. I should’ve taken Spot over to the Haigens’ house. Could I do that today without arousing suspicion? Was there any other way to get more info about the dead girl?

Another call. Another direct to voice mail beep. “Hey, Laurel. Pru again.” It hit me as I spoke. “Do you know if there’s going to be a funeral or any kind of memorial for Mariela? I might want to take Spot to it, if so. Animals can really benefit from closure.” I managed the shrink word without choking. Jargon aside, I was telling the truth, although I doubted that any service devised by a human would do the trick. Besides, I’d just about reached County by then.

Pammy wasn’t who I wanted to see. But like some ponytailed Cerberus, she sat at the front desk of the animal hospital, popping her gum with a ferocity no guard dog could emulate. I didn’t think it was stupidity that made her gaze so blank, though. No, as she looked up at me, slowly blinking, I felt something else going on behind those pink-shadowed lids.

“Pammy.” I nodded. That was as much acknowledgment as I could muster. The waiting area was full, and to my ears the usual animal cacophony had an added dimension, as hurt and frightened animals called out for help or for their people. “Doc Sharpe in?”

Another pop, as she took a sudden interest in a stray lock of hair. I’d been through this with her before. The silent treatment, a la Pammy. Usually, it was because I worked directly with Doc Sharpe if not quite as a behaviorist, then at least as an actual vet assistant, rather than a part-time receptionist. Last time, it had been worse. I’d not only refused to help her with the rudimentary crowd control, I’d spoken roughly to some young hunk. He might have been a football player, but he had no understanding of the terrier mix he’d adopted, and I’d needed to break through his jockish preconceptions.

“If this is about Igor, you’ve got to get over it.” He was big, but I’m considerably tougher. I had him near tears by the time he left. I’d probably saved his dog’s life, though, so all in all, it had seemed a good tradeoff to me. Not to Pammy, obviously. “Think of it this way. I was the bitch, so you got to be nice girl.”

That registered. I could tell because she closed her mouth. When she looked up, there was something like recognition in her wide blue eyes. “His name’s Ivan,” she said. “And he does think you’re a, you know…the B word.”

“Good for Ivan.” If this was her victory, she could have it. “Doc Sharpe?”

“In the back.” With a flourish, she pressed the buzzer releasing the door. The gesture showed off her newly lacquered nails and the kind of ring that probably counted as an all-access pass. I decided to ignore it, but as I walked past, she waved it in the air.

“You catch more flies with sugar, you know.” I smiled, tight-lipped, to keep from responding. If I wanted flies, I’d trade Wallis in for a toad.

“Pru! Good to see you.” Doc Sharpe stepped into the hallway, emerging from one of the examining rooms. “I hear you’ve had a little excitement.”

This time the smile was real. Doc Sharpe might sound like a refugee from another century, but his heart was in the right place. “You could say that,” I said. “Spot came through like a trooper, though.”

“Good.” He nodded, satisfied. “I’ve always known you’ve had an affinity for certain animals, Pru. And, given your predilection for fieldwork, as opposed to, say, an academic discipline, I believe the service-dog program is proving to be the right track for you.”

As I said, he talks like that. He had also nudged me into the training program, and as clearly as a Labrador pup was begging for a reward. “It is. Thanks again, Doc.” I gave it to him. “It was a great idea.”

His smile couldn’t have been more doglike, and I wouldn’t have a better opportunity. “Speaking of which, Doc, I was wondering if we could talk a bit about Laurel Kroft?”

“Oh?” I’d followed him down the hallway. He’d just unlocked the large closet that serves as the hospital’s drug dispensary, and looked back at me, a note of caution on his face.

“Sorry.” I stepped back. He trusted me with the drugs, I knew that. It was training. Well, training and a recent scare we’d had in town with prescription abuse. I leaned back on the door frame, arms crossed, as he opened a refrigerator and counted out some vials. “Busy?”

He made a noncommittal noise, and started counting again. When he was done, he looked up. “Must be the change in seasons. I’m seeing a lot of stressed animals. I don’t like to rely solely on psychopharmaceuticals, even when indicated, but sometimes…”

I nodded, waiting while he closed the fridge and placed the vials on a small tray. Medicating animals is as much an art as a science.

“I’ve been seeing it, too.” This was the line I’d taken with Laurel. “In fact, I’m wondering about some interactions that Laurel may have brought Spot into. That’s why I wanted to talk with you.”

His white eyebrows went up. “You don’t think…the cougar?”

For a moment, I didn’t understand. I had a few years on Creighton. Laurel might have had a few more. But, no, he meant the cat. “I don’t think she exposed the animal to danger.” I wanted to interrogate her, not get her arrested on animal cruelty charges. “I do have some questions, though.”

“Pru, I don’t like to get involved in personal matters. You know that.” Those eyebrows had begun bunching in distress. “And I know you tend to get involved with, well…” His voice trailed off. Maybe he had meant the other type of cougar.

“I don’t care who she’s dating. Jim Creighton is his own man.” There, I’d said it. I almost believed it.

“Jim, who? You mean Detective Creighton?” I’d spilled my guts for no reason. Doc Sharpe looked as puzzled as a Pekingese, and I felt the color flood my face. God, I was getting as bad as Pammy.

“I—never mind. You were saying?” I waved my confusion away like an annoying fly.

Yankees aren’t comfortable around emotions. Or women, most of them. Doc Sharpe was happy to recount his little vials and step back into the hall. “What I, uh, meant, Pru, is that, well, I feel I know you by now.”

Not that well, clearly, I wanted to say, but I waited. He was having enough trouble getting this out.

“I’m happy to discuss options for your charge. For Spot, that is.” He seemed to be having trouble with the keys. “And, of course, any legitimate questions about his care, and the fostering and care of any future service animals you may be chosen to—you may choose to work with.”

He got the door locked to his satisfaction at last. As he looked up at me, I saw a deep sadness in his tired eyes. “You will have to learn to distance yourself, however, Pru. Part of this program, perhaps the hardest part, is training these beautiful creatures and then handing them over to others. That’s what you’re doing. That’s why you’re doing it. If you’re going to get so attached that you feel a false sense of competition with Spot’s foster parent, well, then, perhaps I was wrong, and this field isn’t right for you.”

Chapter Twenty-four

Not much can leave me at a loss for words, but Doc Sharpe had done it.

“I’m not—“ It wasn’t that I didn’t try to explain. “I’m…” It’s that each time I started to stutter out a response, I realized I was about to get myself into more trouble. No, I’m not overly bonded with the dog. It’s just that another dog showed me something? Doc Sharpe already had enough weird ideas about me, I didn’t need to give him another.

I was settling on something noncommittal that neither of us believed. But as I turned to make my escape, I heard another voice—a sheltie, I think—calling out in pain and fear.
“Ow! Ow! Ow!”
It was horrible—an almost-human cry of distress, more like a hoarse wail than a canine howl.
The sound came from one of the examining rooms, but it was loud enough to reverberate through the hall. I could hear the voice as clearly as I’d heard Doc Sharpe. To the white-haired vet, it was probably just so much barking.

Still, he paused, raising a hand to stop what he figured would be my continued protestations. And in that moment, I marveled again at the forbearance of the man. He thought he knew how odd I was. He didn’t know the half of it, but he not only put up with me, he tried to help me, steering work my way. And while he might not understand animals in the way I did, he did what he could. He tried.

“Doc, want some help?” It was the least I could do, and when he nodded, distracted, I followed behind.

Pammy, of course, was there already. Not that this was a good thing. She’d taken what looked like a mother and young son into the examining room, and was trying to calm down the shaking sheltie that she had placed on the cold steel examining table. Now that we were in the room, the source of some of the dog’s distress seemed obvious: his person, the boy, was near tears. And Pammy wasn’t helping. Between rolling her eyes and popping her gum, she’d also managed to insert herself between the boy and his mother—and, more to the point, the agitated dog, all the while holding the dog so that he couldn’t turn away from the flustered mother and toward his primary concern, the boy.

It was a little thing, but it was the worst move possible. Shetlands are sheep dogs. They herd; it’s what they do. To a dog in pain, reasserting some kind of order on the universe was essential, and Doc Sharpe’s blonde catastrophe was making that impossible.

“Why don’t you let me help you?” I kept my voice low and even as I moved in. No point in trying to train this one, no matter what Doc Sharpe might think. Resisting the urge to elbow her out of the way, I slid between her and the table, so she had to step back. Released, the little collie turned and I felt something like a warm pulse as he and his boy saw each other again. Before the dog could jump into his arms, however, I put my hands on his small, warm torso. It’s protocol for a reason: Doc Sharpe didn’t need to have an injured animal sliding off a table.

But this time, I was the one who nearly hit the floor.

“Pru, are you alright?” I blinked. Doc Sharpe was staring at me. The sheltie, luckily, was back in his boy’s arms, the pair being held by a mother in full-on tiger mode.

“I’m sorry.” I shook my head to clear it. I was back against the counter, as if the dog had thrown me off. I had no idea how I’d gotten there. No idea. “It must have been static electricity.”

It was the best I could come up with, that’s what it was. And although Mama Bear didn’t look at all convinced, Doc Sharpe nodded as if what I’d said made sense.

“Why don’t you go lie down?” He had a practice to protect, after all. “In my office.”

I nodded, trying to salvage a smile for the mother and her boy, and staggered out. The dog would be fine, I was sure of that. He had a cut on his paw, and something—a sliver of glass, it seemed—was still stuck deep in the pad. Doc Sharpe would excise it, clean it, and put some antibiotic salve on the wound before wrapping it. He’d apply some balm to the sheltie’s people, too, laying on the gruff charm that was as responsible as his actual expertise for his popularity.

What got me was that he shouldn’t have had to do any of it. This was a minor injury. The equivalent of a canine splinter. Ordinarily, he could have greeted the people, and nominally overseen my diagnosis. Then he could have moved on to more urgent cases, leaving me to irrigate the wound and apply the dressing. Even Pammy could have done it, if it weren’t for her execrable bedside manner and complete disregard for the feelings of those around her.

Feelings. That’s what had gotten me in trouble. And now they had made additional work for Doc Sharpe, not to mention adding to his suspicions of me. I couldn’t help it, and as I made my slow way down that hallway, I tried to piece together what I’d felt. What I’d seen. It didn’t make sense.

“Pru?” The whine in her voice broke through my stupor. Pammy, pouting. “Is Doc Sharpe still in there with those people?”

I nodded. At least her dimness was predictable.

“Because we’re piled up ten-deep out front. And if you’re not going to take some of the work from
him
…”
She had crossed her arms, but the way she was tapping her fingers let me know she was jonesing for a butt. Besides, she had a point. If I couldn’t help out the vet, I should be willing to handle the front desk.

“Sorry, Pammy.” I shook my head. Doc Sharpe was right. I should lie down. His consulting room had a small couch. “I can’t.”

“Are you sick?” Her voice ratcheted up half an octave. “You look awful!”

“Yeah, well…” I couldn’t do it. I knew what she was waiting for. The barbed comeback that would reestablish our equilibrium. The snark that would send her flouncing down the hall. If I wouldn’t cover for her during her break, she at least wanted a good grudge.

I wasn’t up to it, however. I had no fight in me. I had lost the focus. I had made it as far as Doc Sharpe’s door, and was reaching for the doorknob. His sofa and the oblivion of sleep seemed like heaven. If I could sleep, that is. But I was strangely exhausted, and I wanted to try. What I didn’t want was to think about what I’d just seen. What I had just heard.

I had worked through my own fears, early on, about what this supposed gift meant. I had some theories, and I’d had Wallis’ unsentimental attitude to pull me out of what could have been a major funk. The sensitivity had even given out on me once or twice, when I needed it, making me value it all the more when it came back. Unless, of course, it had never been a special sense. Unless it had never been more than my behaviorist training leaching somehow into the slow erosion of my sanity. Because it had been a long winter, and a cold one. I knew that, knew it with every sensible New England fiber in my being. But what I also knew was that—although that poor little sheltie couldn’t identify his nemesis—the animal that had scared him so much, that had caused him to panic so badly that he had run without any hesitation over shattered glass, was not possible.

There was no way that Beauville was being stalked by a snow leopard.