Ninth Life Read online

  “Right.”

  I drummed my fingers on the table again. It sounded doable. Get in, get the evidence, get out. Heck, if I played my cards right, I might not even have to get in. Electronic breaking and entering often produced amazing results. “Okay. I’ll do it.”

  She relaxed. “Thank you,” she said. “But I want you to do something else, too. Something extra. Something for me alone. And I’ll pay you for it myself.” I had a feeling I knew what it was. “Ninth Life wants you to find out how to put Living World out of business. I want you to find out what happened to Mary.” She closed her eyes for a moment, and when she opened them she looked grimly determined. “The police already have their minds made up about her—they think she was drinking and just ran off the road. I realize they’re not likely to open an investigation unless we can give them some evidence. I’d like to change their minds. I believe someone is responsible for Mary’s death. I’d like that someone to pay.”

  The waiter brought us another round of drinks just then, and I used the little ceremony of paying and tipping to give myself time to think. This was a new wrinkle. It made the whole project much less feasible. That kind of evidence would be tough to find. It would mean sticking my nose into places where it might get pinched. I don’t like that. My ribs still ached from my last encounter with the Forces of Evil. I sighed. I was tempted in that moment to hand over the cat and the photos, refund as much of the money as I deemed fit, and walk away. Bail out. But visions of my pitiful bank balance stayed my hand. And what better prospects did I have, anyhow? No souls in distress had hammered on my door for quite a while. It was a daunting prospect. Were the downtrodden of the world learning self-reliance? Were there no more jams from which they couldn’t extricate themselves, puzzles they couldn’t solve? Had all the dragons been slain?

  Alison sat quietly, her hands wrapped around her sherry glass, waiting for my answer. Was this my fate, I wondered—to become a champion of the furry and four-legged?

  “All right,” I said, trying to ignore the voice of caution that urged me to chuck this whole thing and wait for a juicy insurance scam. Or take a job on a salmon boat. “I’ll take the case. Or the cases, rather. In for a penny, in for a pound.”

  I couldn’t believe I actually said that, but Alison didn’t seem to mind the triteness. She put one hand briefly over mine. “Thank you, Caitlin.”

  From that point on, I would have walked through fire for her, because, truly, that was why I took the Ninth Life case. Because of her. So for the wrong reason, I did the right thing.

  “The meeting is at seven tonight,” she said as we stood at the door of Victoria Jane’s, peering out at the lowering sky. “At Judith’s. Our address is on the check I just gave you. We don’t have an office. We try to keep a low profile. Our faces are better known than we’d like them to be. Judith and I and the others rent a house in James Bay. The basement and part of the first floor accommodates our printing press, library, darkroom, and so on. We live in the rest of the space.” She belted her raincoat around her waist and we eyed the drizzle together. “I’m glad you said yes,” she said earnestly, turning to face me. “After I talk to Judith and get her cooled down, I’ll introduce you. But, Caitlin . . .”

  She was clearly having trouble with this. “What?”

  “You can tell the others whatever you like about your investigation into Living World—after all, you’ll be working for all of us. But I don’t want you to tell anyone that you’re working for me on Mary’s death. I just . . . don’t.” She tilted her chin a little as if she expected an argument from me.

  “That’s your prerogative,” I told her. “You’re my employer. Part of what your money buys is my loyalty and my discretion.” Good, Caitlin, I told myself. You’ve just made yourself sound like the master’s faithful hound. Will you never say anything right to this woman?

  “I’ll tell the others a little about you before you come. Then you can introduce yourself and, well—”

  “Improvise? Ad lib? Wing it?”

  She smiled. “Yes.”

  “No problem,” I assured her confidently.

  She looked appraisingly at the street. “The light’s green, and the rain seems to be letting up. I think I’ll make a dash for it. Until tonight?”

  “Until tonight.”

  Chapter 4

  I pulled into my driveway at the same time Malcolm and Yvonne were pedaling up on their bicycles. They waved, and wheeled the bikes up onto the back porch. Looking like overgrown children in their yellow rain slickers, they poked their heads around the corner of the house.

  “Coming up for tea?” Yvonne inquired.

  “Well,” I equivocated, slamming the door of my car and standing indecisively in the drizzle. I did want to talk to them, but tea with Malcolm and Yvonne was such an insufferably healthful event. “Thanks, yes,” I called. “I’ll be up in a few minutes. Have to feed the cat first.”

  Inside, I shed my damp windbreaker, toweled my hair dry, and toted my gun into the bedroom closet.

  “Repo?” I called as I put my gun away in its shoebox.

  As I expected, there was no reply.

  “What is this—a battle of wills?” I called to the Stygian depths. “If it is, then I give up. You win, kiddo. Just tell me what it is you want—different food, a new scratching post, fresh catnip. Just tell me! A feline mind reader I’m not.”

  Immediately, I felt guilty. Who but a low, scurvy swine would badger a sick cat? I thought of my plans to take Repo to the vet and ground my teeth. The day was good as done. The trip would have to be postponed until tomorrow. But what if Repo really was sick? This was the old familiar refrain—too much to do and too little time to do it in.

  I changed the water in Repo’s bedroom dish and went on into the kitchen to fortify myself with a snack before enduring Yvonne’s tea. In the fridge I found the tail-end of some rye bread and a few pieces of lean roast beef. I spread the bread liberally with horseradish and mustard, then munched thoughtfully, staring out the kitchen window.

  Autumn. Soon to be winter. Another year gone. What had I accomplished, I asked myself. Had I done anything to be proud of? Anything that mattered? For the life of me, I couldn’t think of a single thing.

  I remembered that when I was a little girl, I used to rush in from school, bursting to tell my grandmother what I had learned that day. We’d pour over maps of Europe, drawings of flowers, the rise and fall of kings. She always made me feel that I had done something worthwhile. I realized bleakly that these days I had no one to whom I could rush home and recount my exploits, even if I’d wanted to. And besides, what exploits could I legitimately brag about?

  Then, in that moment, I had the panicky feeling one gets in dreams, of being drawn inexorably toward the brink of some chasm. So real was the feeling that I clutched the table behind me for support. But in another moment the feeling was gone and I was myself again, safe in my own kitchen, in control of my life. What’s going on, I wondered in alarm. Was I coming unglued? I snorted, rejecting the possibility. Probably just low blood sugar. Or PMS.

  Brushing the rye bread crumbs off my turtleneck, I went upstairs for tea.

  “Ninth Life?” Malcolm said, his periwinkle-blue eyes gazing off into the middle distance. “I think I’ve heard something about it, but I can’t remember what.” Rolling up the sleeves of his red flannel shirt, blond brows knit in thought, he returned to slicing a dark, fruity-looking cake.

  “I think I remember,” Yvonne said, teakettle in hand. She poured boiling water into the teapot, then pulled off her apron. Like Malcolm, she was sturdy, blonde, and blue-eyed. Her hair was earlobe-length and silky-looking, bangs cut straight across her forehead in an old-fashioned pageboy. Her eyes, as impossibly blue as Malcolm’s, regarded me thoughtfully. “They’re a rather, well, secret animal rights organization. Each member only knows a few others. Sort of like a communist cell.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “Tut. Such melodrama.”

  Malcolm shook his h
ead, bringing a plate of fruitcake slices to the table where I sat. “Not really. Those animal rights activists are always in hot water with the law. And some of them are wanted on so many charges that they daren’t show their faces in public.”

  I thought of Judith’s reluctance to meet in a public place. Maybe she wasn’t so crazy after all. “What kinds of charges?”

  “Oh, theft of government property, for one,” Malcolm said.

  “That means they broke into a government-funded lab somewhere and rescued the animals who were being tortured,” Yvonne said heatedly. “Like the cats who were being used in those awful head injury experiments for example. They’re still missing, and the so-called thieves are now considered national security risks.” She put her hands on her hips, her eyes blazing blue fire.

  “Trespass, breaking and entering, grand theft,” Malcolm continued. “Those are the usual charges. Most of the activists are wanted on dozens of warrants. The police would love to get their hands on them.” He served me a slice of cake and regarded the plate thoughtfully. “And the saddest part of all this is that the more successful the animal activists get—rescuing animals from some perfectly awful experiments—the less effective they can be. It’s a real Catch-22 situation.”

  “Why? I don’t understand.”

  His smile was even sadder. “Because none of the guerrillas—the front-line activists—dare testify in court. Don’t you see? They’re the ones who have firsthand knowledge of what’s going on in the labs because they saw it. But they can’t go into court with their evidence because they’d be admitting to crimes much more serious than those they’re accusing the researchers of.” He shook his head.

  Yvonne put the teapot on the table and sat down. “The animal rights people say our society values almost anything else more highly than it does the lives of animals,” she said. “They accuse us of being speciesists, of acting as though only human life counts upon this spinning mud ball. Sometimes I think they’re right. After all, if a few dozen cats or rabbits die in an experiment designed to perfect a new football helmet, well heavens, hasn’t it all been worthwhile?”

  Malcolm poured tea, and I sipped slowly, for once uncritical of the healthful concoction. I was disturbed by what my two friends were telling me.

  “To get back to your question about Ninth Life,” Malcolm said, “I seem to recall that their big thing was to remain ‘clean.’ They want their group to be above reproach so they can take the evidence into court without worrying about the bailiff’s heavy hand descending on their shoulders.”

  “I see,” I replied, a little uneasy about my new assignment.

  “What’s your interest in all this?” Yvonne asked.

  “I, um, met someone recently who’s involved in this line of work,” I said vaguely. “I just wanted some background.”

  “We have lots at the store,” Malcolm said. “Brochures, pamphlets, paperback books, and so on. We have a clipping file, too, and some addresses of organizations you can write to for more information.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “I might come around and look through your stuff.” I finished my cake. “Say, what was this?” I asked. “It was delicious.”

  “Persimmon bread,” Yvonne said, her eyes twinkling. “Some friends brought us a whole basketful of fruit. And the bread doesn’t have a speck of sugar in it.”

  Persimmons? I thought fast, finally concluding that I had never even seen a picture of a persimmon let alone beheld one in the flesh, so to speak. “What the heck,” I said magnanimously. “it was good, anyhow.”

  “Want the recipe?” Yvonne teased.

  “No thanks,” I said, playing the game. “I’ve done my baking for the week.” Ye gods, if the bread had persimmons in it, there was no telling what desiccated exotica the tea might have contained. I decided not to ask. “Gotta run,” I said, taking my plate and mug to the sink.

  Yvonne walked me to the door. “Try to get more sleep,” she said, hugging me. “You’re looking a little under the weather.”

  “It’s my Celtic blood,” I said. “We always look pale and wan. We’re delicate creatures—poets, bards, soothsayers. You great blond louts, on the other hand, always look healthy. It’s your barbaric Norse ancestry. All that swinging of broadswords and battle axes and swilling of mead. It’s in your genes now.”

  “Out!” she said, laughing, “or I’ll send some persimmon bread home with you.” Her expression became serious. “Are you sure—”

  “Aargh,” I said in mock horror. “Enough health food, woman. Say goodnight to your Viking mate for me. I’ll think of you as I’m trying to resist some cholesterol-filled snack.”

  “You’re hopeless,” she told me as I hurried off down the stairs.

  “True,” I muttered to myself. “But therein lies my charm.”

  The Ninth Lifers’ house was easy to find, just as Alison had promised. A large brown two-story structure, it sat foursquare on its lot, curtained front windows peering blankly at the sea. There were already three cars in the driveway, so I found a parking place on the street and shut off my headlights. It was just before seven, and already fully dark.

  My knock was answered at once, and I was irrationally pleased to see Alison at the door. She wore the same fisherman sweater and navy pants, and her cheeks had a healthy pink glow. I smiled at her a little more fatuously than I meant to.

  “C’mon in,” she said. “There’s a fire in the living room. Go on in and get warm. The others are out back getting wood or some such thing. Oh, would you like some coffee?”

  “Yes, thanks. Black.”

  I wandered into the living room. Two rust-colored tweed sofas and a pair of beige easy chairs formed three sides of a square—the fireplace formed the fourth. In the center of the room sat an immense coffee table whose base seemed to be a trio of tree trunks and whose top was an etched brass plate at least six feet in diameter. It was loaded with magazines, newspapers, yellow lined legal pads, pens and pencils. Bookcases lined the walls, and they were stuffed with stacks and stacks of manila and accordion folders. Piles of photos covered a table against the wall. This was clearly a room in which work was done. Ninth Life was, if nothing else, industrious.

  “Coffee,” Alison said, coming up behind me. I turned and took the mug she held out. “You’ll see once we get started that this is a council of war tonight. A few of us are a little impatient with the speed we’re moving at against Living World. The dissenters have some ideas of their own, they say.” She frowned. “I wonder what’s keeping them outside?”

  As if on cue, the back door slammed, and two people entered, one carrying wood. A tall, rangy, red-haired woman glared briefly at me, then crossed her arms and leaned against the wall. Disagreeable Voice, aka Judith Hadley, I was willing to bet. The wood bearer was a young man of about thirty, with pale skin, intelligent brown eyes, and a shock of dark hair that fell over his forehead.

  “Judith Hadley, Ian Burns, this is Caitlin Reece.”

  “Pleased to meet you,” Ian said politely, depositing his wood on the hearth, dusting his hands off on his corduroy pants and brushing the hair out of his eyes. He tucked the tail of a blue wool shirt into his pants. “Liz is just doing something at her car. She’ll be here in a minute.”

  Hands in pockets, Judith leaned against the wall, staring daggers at me and saying nothing.

  “Oh, come off it, Judith,” Ian said, flinging himself down into one of the chairs. “What happened to Mary certainly wasn’t Caitlin’s fault. We all knew that she was in trouble at Living World. That she was going to ask Caitlin for help.”

  “We should never have agreed to that,” Judith said, acid in her voice. “It was a dumb plan. She should have been able to come to us if she was in trouble.”

  “She told us why she preferred to involve Caitlin,” Ian said reasonably. “She didn’t want to lead them to us. You heard her phone message.”

  “The phone message be damned,” Judith said, venom in her eyes. “All I know is that this dete
ctive is the last person she contacted. And now she’s dead.”

  We traded stares and I rose to my feet. If we were going to insult each other, I wanted to do so at eye level.

  Misinterpreting my action, Alison stepped between us. “No, please,” she said to me, laying a restraining hand on my arm. “Judith’s just upset.” Clasping her hands together, she looked over at Judith. “Judith,” she pleaded, “you said there’d be none of this. Caitlin’s agreed to help us.”

  Personally, I felt like smacking the truculent Judith in the chops. But presumably Alison knew better than I how to deal with her.

  “Oh?” Judith asked. “Like she helped Mary? Then where are the photos? And where’s the cat?”

  I tossed the envelope containing the photos down on the coffee table. “The photos are here, for what they’re worth,” I said. “As for the cat, he’s lucky to be alive.” I told them what I had learned from Gray just before I left my house. “He has a raging infection in both eyes and temperature of a hundred and eight. He’s receiving proper care, but he may not live through the night. And if he does, he’ll almost certainly be blind.”

  “Damn it!” Judith said, blue eyes blazing. “He was our best piece of evidence so far.”

  Ian, Alison, and I all looked at each other. “A little more compassion wouldn’t hurt, Judith,” Ian told her. “Think of what the animal’s been through.”

  Judith made a dismissing motion with one hand. “I’ve always thought you were too tender-hearted for this, Ian,” she told him. “If we waited for people like you to get us results, we’d wait forever.” Breathing heavily, she turned her Gorgon-like gaze on me. “And you, what about you, Caitlin Reece? Do you have any guts?”

  Out of the corner of my eye I saw Ian shake his head. Presumably they played these little parlor games often.