Dogs Don't Lie (7 page)

“And how did you get here?” I squatted, the better to consider the kitten, and heard my knees crack. So much for country living. Then I heard it, for sure. The soft “snick” of a door closing. Someone else had come into the house; someone else with a key.

“Come on, kitten.” I scooped the fuzzy bundle up as the downstairs lights switched on. “We’re outta here.”

Chapter Seven

He’d kept me waiting. I’d known he would. Tom had taught me that. A homicide detective, Tom had given me my knife during the six months we’d been together. Got it off some street punk, he said. Switchblades aren’t legal, but he liked me having it. He had told me a lot about police procedure, as well as showing me the gritty underside of the city I’d come to consider home. In retrospect, he’d enjoyed the underbelly too much, which was why Stevie, with the hands, had seemed such a breath of fresh air.

But I loved my knife, and information is always useful, no matter what the source. And if I’d learned a bit more about the cops than an honest woman should, well, I’d paid for my education in kind. Now I had the advantage of some inside knowledge. The unwritten rules of the game. Officer Creighton, the blue-eyed wonder, was keeping me in the fancy new waiting room of Beauville’s fancy new police headquarters in order to up my anxiety level. A neat trick, but not one I wanted to play. I’d considered dropping in on Albert on the way. The folder I’d found did indeed have Lily’s complete veterinary history—at least since Charles had adopted her. The vaccine certificate couldn’t get Lily off, but they could save her from a grisly test, and the two offices shared the same building. But as I’d walked up to the awkwardly geometric pile of bricks—the material chosen to fit with our quaint New England image, even if the architecture didn’t—I realized that its sudden appearance might lead to a longer conversation. I needed to handle the cop first. Besides, Albert wasn’t known as an early riser.

Jim Creighton—the duty roster ID’d him as “James”—was an unknown. I’m pretty good with faces, especially one like that, with a chin from a movie poster and eyes like mountain ice. He was either younger than me or from one of the other small towns that huddle down into the Berkshire foothills like so many scared possums. I was betting on the former. He seemed to take his job seriously. If he were any good and not from our town, he’d have fled to the city by now. That had its plusses and minuses. As far as I knew, he didn’t know me, didn’t know my history, but he’d have sources. People who could tell him more about me than I’d like. And while he seemed to have more enthusiasm than experience, there was something about him that worried me. A dogged edge, something Tom had had, too. Specifically, I didn’t know what he thought about me defending Lily, but I bet he thought it odd. Most humans would, and Creighton seemed like the kind of cop who would trust that instinct and follow up on it. In retrospect, I’d let too much show for my comfort. I’d have to see what I could do to rejigger that first impression.

I paused before the double glass doors that led into the cop shop, remembering to smile just in case anyone was looking out. From here on in, presentation mattered. Creighton had taken against me. Add in that I’d spent the evening before breaking into the murder victim’s house and possibly, just possibly, been seen by another invader, a dark shadow I had slipped by on my way out a back window, and I knew I wanted to appear as cool as a cucumber, no matter how long he left me to simmer. And so I fixed my smile and pushed the door open, entering through a glass foyer that felt like an air lock. The receptionist, an old timer with dead eyes, took my name and nodded me to a seat. I picked up an outdated
People
and caught up on the latest Angelina Jolie news. Some things about waiting areas never changed. I couldn’t find anything about her pets, though.

Sitting in the large, open room, I wondered what she would have made of the scene at my house, last night, when I’d come home, kitten in tow. Wallis had been horrified. As soon as I’d entered the house, I could feel the tension, and when I switched the light on I got a full view of a furious tabby, complete with arched back and puffed-up tail.

“And what is
that?”
The fur was just for show. She was no more threatened by the tiny kitten than she’d be by a moth, and that thought made me keep the kitten in my hand.

“It’s a kitten, Wallis.” Sometimes the direct approach is best. “She’s—” I stopped. I didn’t want to say “witness.” I didn’t know what the tiny catling understood. “A guest.”

The kitten must have gotten something. She blinked up at me, blue eyes big in that orange tabby face. “
Mama?”

“Christ.” Wallis turned tail and walked away before I could tell her about the folder. I knew she was heading for my favorite chair, and not to curl up for a nap. We were in for a rocky night.

***

Wallis had gotten me up before dawn, and I was paying for it. The walk with the bichon had kept me from going back to sleep, and I’d barely managed not to bite off the head of his stupid owner. Still, I’d made an effort before coming downtown, and, as I sat there waiting, I knew I looked good. September still hadn’t made up its mind, flirting with summer before leaving him for fall. I’d opted for a sweater. Seasonal, and just the right amount of cling to distract the most inquisitive sort. In this case, I was innocent. Well, if you didn’t count the break-in last night. But I wasn’t stupid—and I had a tricky role to play. I wanted Creighton and his colleagues thinking, looking beyond Lily for a human perpetrator. At the same time, I had to keep any of them from liking me for the crime. As I sat there, Angelina’s lips puffing up at me, I thought about how easy it would be to just let so-called nature take its course. Maybe Lily was one of life’s victims. There were plenty of them around these days. But something in me just didn’t like that. Maybe it was the thought that somebody had killed my best client, and I still had no idea why.

With the magazine selection limited, I had no choice but to move onto the crime report after
People.
Beauville is still a small town, but between the summer people and the newcomers over by Raynbourne, at least our tax base was growing. As a result, along with this fancy new building, came the trappings of some place bigger. The crime report—a weekly newsletter—is part of that. For that matter, so were most of the crimes. Vandalism was a big one, along with petty theft, and as I read I saw hard evidence of the tension between the townies and the newcomers. A “decorative mailbox,” whatever that meant, had gone missing. A picture window had been smashed, and someone had sprayed graffiti on the high school gym. When times get hard, people get stupid. Drive out the summer people—and who else would have a mailbox shaped like a cow?—and the jobs would go, too, right down the state highway toward Tanglewood and Becket.

It wasn’t until I was on my second read, wondering about the “threatening gesture” someone had made on a bicycle, that I realized the obvious. Charles’ death wasn’t in here. I checked the date. This issue had been printed up this morning, time enough to report a killer dog attack, or whatever they were calling it. Which either meant that his death had already been ruled an accident, or that someone didn’t want everyone talking about it.

Too late for that. I thought of my visit with the bichon. This morning, I’d only gotten a nasty look from that nosy Tracy Horlick when I’d come for the dog. That was fine, as long as she kept paying. But if she wasn’t getting info from me, I knew she’d be digging it up somewhere: the beauty shop or the mini-mart where she bought her off-brand smokes. Small towns have their own grapevines, and sometimes I wondered if people also picked up news telepathically, like I did from their pets. The bichon had only been focused on his own concerns during our walk, specifically the scent left by an intact German shepherd male who’d been out a bit before us. From the images in the bichon’s mind, as well as the alarmist chatter of the squirrels, I knew the shepherd was eight years his junior, in his prime, and twice the bichon’s size to boot. Worried that the little dog was dreaming of a fight, I’d kept him on his leash. I didn’t say anything as we made our rounds, though. His excitement made him move faster, and we all have a right to dream.

Maybe that explained the smile on my face when Creighton finally appeared in the open doorway and motioned for me to follow him down a short hallway. Something about him made me flash on a past experience, a summons to a similar room back when I’d been a kid, and I felt my smile evaporate. That hadn’t been for anything half so serious, just beer and boredom, and the police station had looked like one then: the linoleum and fluorescent lights making even a wild teen appear jaded. The lighting was better now, no doubt. But that casual gesture—a hand hooked, a certain look—brought it all back. If I’d been a jungle animal, I’d have chewed my own leg off to get out of here. As it was, I felt my teeth clench as I tried for a neutral expression.

“You look happy.” I didn’t believe him, but his voice let me know that even my attempt wasn’t a good thing as he led me into a small office more than filled by a desk, a file cabinet, and the smell of burnt coffee. Pushing his unbuttoned cuffs up on thick forearms, he took a seat behind the desk and pointed to a flimsy chair, all plywood and tubing, for me. I had a flash thought that it would be easy to kick out from under someone. The smile got stiffer, but I nodded as if he’d offered me a gracious invitation and sat down.

“Why shouldn’t I be happy? It’s a lovely morning.” The scent drew me to a stained mug on his desk. I forced my eyes away. I’d had my morning dose. If his game was not to offer, I’d be damned if I’d ask.

“You want some coffee?” He’d seen me, but I tried to turn it around.

“Thank you, yes.” I worked at keeping it natural. Leaned back in the flimsy chair and crossed my legs. “Black’s fine.”

Without comment, he left the room. But before I could read any of the papers on his desk he was back, a Beauville Chamber of Commerce mug slopping over with joe that smelled as rancid as the room. I accepted it with a smile, as gracious as a duchess, and waited for him to begin. And waited. That was another of Tom’s tricks. Silence. Hold it long enough and most people start to talk. If that was this guy’s idea, he’d ruined it with the coffee. It might taste like the pot it had been burned in, but simply cradling the hot china made me as mellow as Wallis in the sun. I pretended to take a sip and smiled some more, trying to remember just which flower had that same shade of blue. Finally he broke.

“Charles Harris.” He pulled a folder out of one of the desk drawers and opened it. “You were his dog trainer?”

“In effect, yes. I’m not yet certified, but I’ve trained as an animal behaviorist, and so, yes, I was working with Charles and his dog.” Watch it, I warned myself. Keep it short and factual.

“And you were the first on the scene Wednesday morning.” I nodded. He knew all this. “Why don’t you walk me through the events of that morning.”

I tried to resist the urge to sigh. This was all in the report, already typed up in that folder on his desk. I didn’t know if he thought I’d change my story. Despite the sweater, I didn’t think he’d choose my company. So I kept it sweet and brief: Weekly routine. Doorbell, lock, greeting. My slight confusion at Lily’s barking—I wasn’t going to say her panic—and then the shock of seeing Charles, his throat torn open, in his own living room.

The young cop was silent through all this, and despite myself I found my thoughts going back to that room, to that morning. Something had been very off. The crate being open, that was part of it. The dead body on the floor, for sure. And something else.

“Did you get a sense of anyone else in the house?”

I looked up, startled, unaware that I’d spoken out loud. But any fears I had about Creighton’s clairvoyance faded as he continued with what sounded like routine questions.

“Was Charles in the habit of having guests over during your lessons?”

“No.” My mind jumped back to the night before. Someone else had a set of keys, but there was no way I could tell this cop that. Not without explaining why I’d been there in the first place. Meanwhile, he was watching me. Waiting. “We had our sessions alone.”

He raised his eyebrows, waiting for me to continue. With a small sigh, I complied. “We were working on trust issues.” Before Creighton could say anything, I filled in the blanks. “The dog had been badly abused before Charles rescued her. It’s important to establish a strong bond between the owner and animal before anything else. We were working on that.” Too late, I realized that what I’d said could sound bad for Lily. “She was working on trusting other people, but she loved Charles. She owed him her life.”

Creighton remained silent, but his face said it all. He thought I was anthropomorphizing, crediting Lily with gratitude I thought she should feel. Now I wish I had pushed the socializing, introduced some other people into her training. Gotten another witness to her devotion. Unless…

“Was Charles’ girlfriend saying she was there Tuesday night?” It was conceivable. It was also the kind of question I’d hoped would throw the cop off guard.

“Ms. Marlowe, I’m asking the questions here.” He wasn’t playing. “Did you hear anything when you arrived that morning?”

I kicked at the desk. “No, just the barking. That wasn’t usual.”

He raised his eyebrows.

“The dog wasn’t a barker.” I left it at that. Any more and I’d get us both in trouble. But Creighton kept watching me, waiting for me to spill. I looked around the office. Behind the desk, a poster touted steps to fire safety. I hadn’t known that as I ran panicked from a blazing house, I should close the door behind me. I tried to focus on that. This silence thing was getting out of hand.

“Ms. Marlowe, there’s clearly something on your mind.”

Great, now everyone was a mind reader. “Look, Jim—it is Jim, isn’t it? Why don’t you just call me Pru. I mean, we were probably in school together, right? Beauville High?” I was stalling, and he knew it.

“All right, Pru.” He smiled. A nice smile. “Go Beavers. Now, let’s get back to that morning. You came in like you usually do. You didn’t hear anything out of the ordinary, except for the dog barking. But something was different.”

“You mean, besides the dead body of my client?” He blinked once. I looked up at the poster again. “There was something.”

He waited. He was good at this, and that made it harder for me to organize my own thoughts.