Terrier Transgressions

Chapter Two

About five minutes after leaving the office, Charles and I pulled up to the Cliffside apartment complex. I was surprised to find that he lived in the budget apartments rather than the nicer condos on the other side of town. Normally, Cliffside was for newly graduated students or those who were otherwise just passing through.

As an attorney, Charles could easily afford somewhere nicer—and safer, too. Crime rarely occurred in Glendale, but when it did, nine times out of ten it happened here. As a criminal defense attorney, perhaps he wanted to be closer to his client base. Still, most of the crimes our firm dealt with fell under the category of white-collar crime. With its stained carpeting and peeling paint, Cliffside was anything but white collar.

Did Charles living here mean he wasn’t planning on making Blueberry Bay his long-term home? Was he just passing through like so many of the others who lived in this run-down cluster of buildings?

Even though he was kind of blackmailing me, I hoped he’d stick around a bit more permanently. Despite everything, I still liked him and preferred his company to the others at the firm. Lately, Bethany and I had formed a tentative friendship, but we often found it hard to relate to one another. We just came from two very different worlds.

Despite his fancy name, perhaps Charles and I weren’t so different, after all. No, I hadn’t grown up poor, but Nan had raised me to be humble even as others were showering me with praise. Her mantra had always been that the stage was for stars, and real life was for real people.

Maybe Charles had grown up under similar guidance, although Cliffside was a little more “real life” than even I preferred.

He’d remained tight-lipped on the drive over and stayed quiet still as he led me up the stairs to the third floor.

“This is me,” he said, turning his key in the door.

I shrugged and followed him in.

Immediately we were greeted by a hyper, barking dog, who was so excited to see us he piddled right on the floor at our feet.

“Sorry about that!” Charles cried, grabbing a roll of paper towels from the nearby counter. “He just gets a little excited sometimes.”

“I’ll say.” I politely patted the little dog on the head but resisted the urge to pick him up, seeing I was in no mood to be peed on today.

Something struck me as odd, though. Charles had already been in town for at least a month, but a quick glance around his apartment showed more unopened boxes than actual furniture or home decor. So, how did he already have a dog? And what did it do all day while he put in the long hours Thompson required of all his associates?

Charles finished cleaning up the mess, washed his hands, and motioned for me to make myself comfortable on the lone futon that sat against the living room wall.

“Where’s all your stuff?” I asked conversationally, feeling more than a little unnerved when he sat down beside me on the much too short futon.

The terrier also hopped up when he patted the seat beside him.

He just shrugged, not seeming the least bit embarrassed by my question. “I sold everything before moving east and haven’t had the time to pick up much since arriving.”

That made sense. He’d come to Maine by way of California, and as far as I knew, he didn’t have any family nearby. Why anyone would want to leave guaranteed sunny weather to hole up in small-town Maine, I’d never understand, but still, I was happy to have him here in Blueberry Bay.

The little dog spun in happy circles, racing from Charles’s lap to mine and back again and again. The poor thing was obviously deprived of the regular attention he needed.

“If you’re so busy, then why do you have a dog? That isn’t really fair to him.” I didn’t mean to sound accusing, but I knew very well from Octo-Cat that animals hated being left alone all day while their owners pursued lives outside the home. No wonder the little guy peed on the floor the moment he came through the door.

“No, I’ve only had him for a little while,” he said with a frown. “And before you can say anything more, I know I don’t have time for a dog but… well, it’s kind of a long story, and it’s why I asked you here.”

My curiosity was definitely piqued now, but first, I had to clarify one thing. “You didn’t ask me here,” I said with a knowing look. “You forced me.”

His handsome face pulled down in a frown. “I’m sorry. Really, I am. It’s just.. I didn’t know how else to get you to come, and I’m kind of desperate here.” At least he had the decency to appear apologetic now.

I nodded even though I didn’t really understand what he was talking about yet. Obviously, he didn’t understand that I would have been more than willing to follow him anywhere if only he’d asked nicely.

Charles stroked the tan and gray, silky-coated dog and launched into his story. “This is Yo-Yo. He’s not mine. I found him, actually.”

I immediately went into fix-it mode. “How long ago? Did you call the shelter? I’m sure someone’s really missing him and hoping he’ll come home.”

Charles shook his head and cleared his throat, glancing from me to Yo-Yo before he said, “No. His owners are dead.”

I scooted a little farther from him on the futon. “What? How could you possibly know that if he’s just some dog you found?”

“The address listed here.” He thumbed the tag on the Yorkie’s collar. “And I know his owners are dead because I’m defending the person accused of their murder.”

Well, I’d heard more than enough now. Jumping to my feet, I cried, “Whoa, whoa, whoa. I may not be the one who’s taken an oath of ethics, but this seems really, really wrong. What are you hoping to accomplish by keeping this poor dog hostage?”

Charles stood, too, holding Yo-Yo against his chest with one arm and reaching the other toward me. I yanked myself away before he could make contact, though. The last thing I needed was my batty hormones intervening here.

“My client didn’t kill Yo-Yo’s owners,” he said, his eyes begging me to understand. “He’s innocent.”

“Yeah, everyone says they’re not guilty, but you know what? Usually, they are.” I briefly considered grabbing Yo-Yo and making a run for it. That poor, little dog. First his owners had been murdered, then he’d somehow inexplicably wound up with the man defending their killer.

“No, it’s not like that,” Charles insisted. “I know he didn’t do it, but the evidence against him, it’s bad. Like I said, I’m desperate here. So when I saw you talking to your cat, I thought maybe, just maybe, you could be the answer to my prayers. You could save an innocent man from jail and help get justice for Yo-Yo’s owners, too.”

I considered denying my ability, insisting that there was no way I could do what he was asking for, but Charles just looked so needy—and Yo-Yo also chose that exact moment to whimper and stare at me with sparkling, little doggie eyes…

“Ugh, fine!” I shouted, sinking back down onto the futon. “I’ll see what I can do.”

Relief washed over Charles’s face as he lowered himself beside me. “Thank you. You’re a lifesaver!”

“Yeah, well, I haven’t actually done anything yet,” I grumbled. There was absolutely nothing about this situation I liked.

“The fact that you’re willing to try means everything,” Charles said, and for the briefest of moments something passed between us.

Love?

Longing?

That special bond between a blackmailer and his blackmailee?

Really, I had no idea.

He stood again, then set Yo-Yo on the futon beside me. The dog jumped on my lap where he immediately began licking my face, his tail wagging wildly with each lap.

“Hey, Yo-Yo,” I said, completely unsure of myself. The only animal I’d ever actually carried on a conversation with was Octo-Cat, and he’d talked to me first. This thing right now with Yo-Yo felt crazy, unnatural, and uncomfortable by comparison. Still, I had to try for the sake of Charles and his client. And for Yo-Yo, too.

“I understand you lost your owners,” I said slowly with an even voice. “Can you tell me what happened?”

The Yorkie continued licking my face without any signs of slowing down, so I picked him up and put him on the floor to see if it could help him focus.

“What happened to your owners?” I asked again. “Did someone murder them?”

Yo-Yo yipped merrily and hopped back up on the futon beside me. Now he decided it was a good time to douse my hand in a slobber bath.

“What did he say?” Charles asked eagerly. His eagerness made this whole thing that much more frustrating. I’d always hated letting people down. Yes, even when they were blackmailing me, I guess.

“He barked,” I said simply.

“Yes, but what did it mean?”

“I don’t know,” I admitted honestly.

His face fell. “But I thought you could talk to animals?”

“I talk to my cat, but that’s it.”

“So why can’t you talk to Yo-Yo?” This was the hundred-thousand-dollar question. I’d stopped questioning my sanity when it came to my ability to talk to Octo-Cat but still had no idea why I could speak to him or what the extent of my powers might be.

I raised my palms and shrugged. “I don’t know, but I’m trying.”

“Well, try harder,” he urged. “It’s really, really important.”

“I am trying,” I muttered to Charles through gritted teeth, then turned back to Yo-Yo with my most pleasant expression. “Hey, there, little guy. If you could talk to me, it would be a huge help. Maybe start by telling me what you really think of this guy you’re living with now?”

I hooked a thumb toward Charles and made a goofy face, which resulted in Yo-Yo grabbing hold of my sweater and giving it a firm tug.

“Hey, stop!” I cried, but this only made him tug harder. When I finally managed to wrestle my shirt away from him, it had been stretched beyond repair. I leaped to my feet so he couldn’t destroy any other parts of me before we were through here.

“What did he say?” Charles asked, hope reflecting in his dark eyes.

“He said you’ve got the wrong girl,” I answered. “And that he liked my sweater but still thought it deserved to die a horrible, untimely death.”

Charles deadpanned. “Just like his owners, huh?”

Okay, now I felt bad, but it didn’t change anything about my inability to speak with Yo-Yo. I’d tried. It hadn’t worked. It was time to move on.

“I don’t know what he said or even if he said anything,” I explained, hoping Charles would finally take me at my word. “I guess I can’t talk to dogs.”

“But you can talk to cats?”

I shrugged noncommittally, but he seemed to interpret this as my agreement.

“Great,” he said, shuffling through the items in a junk drawer before extracting a long, black leash. “C’mon, Yo-Yo. We’re going for a walk,” he cried in a slightly higher pitched voice that made me forget my irritation for a moment—but only a moment. “Want to go for a walk?”

“And I’m going back to work,” I said, traipsing toward the door. “Drop me off on your way to wherever it is the two of you are going.”

“Sorry, can’t,” Charles answered while the Yorkie ran furious, barking circles around the apartment to convey his enthusiasm. “We need you to come with us.”

I crossed my arms and eyed them both suspiciously. “Why?”

“Because we’re going to your house to talk to your cat,” Charles explained, grabbing Yo-Yo into his arms and clipping on the leash.

To my house?

Crud. Octo-Cat was definitely not going to like this.