Dogs Don't Lie by Clea Simon Page A

continued. “Lily doesn’t think like you or I do.” I was laying it on thick. “I mean, I don’t seem to be able to ask her questions. She doesn’t seem to understand that I want to see who was there. Who killed Charles.” I swallowed, hard. Maybe I didn’t want to see that either.
    “You don’t. You’ve got
some
sense.” Wallis was still kneading, but at least she was looking at me.
    “You’re right. But I need to find out. I mean, pit bulls have a lot of hound in them, right? So what she’s smelling must mean something.”
    “Blood smells the same to all of us.” Wallis had turned back to her pillow. I was losing her.
    “But there was something else. Something sweet.” I tried to conjure up the memory as I’d experienced it, second hand. Lily’s strongest recollections were scent: the strong metallic and, yes, vaguely cloying smell of blood. Something else, too. Rich and fruity, almost flowery. Sweet.
    “What is this ‘sweet’ you’re talking about?” The pillow properly prepared, Wallis lay down.
    I could’ve kicked myself. Cats don’t taste sweet. I fumbled for a translation. “Tasty, good. Not savory, though. More like fresh fruit or candy. Like Petromalt?”
    I got a quick hit of revulsion.
    “But you like Petromalt.”
    “No, I find it…interesting.” I heard her voice fading. “The texture….”
    “Wallis, do you have any idea what Lily could have meant?”
    “She’s a dog, for Christ’s sake. She could have been smelling her own waste.” She must have felt my exasperation, because she roused herself for one more thought. “What you said: flowers, food. Maybe something dead.” Then she was out.
    It’s no use trying to force a cat to communicate. Even when you can talk to them, you can’t compel them to pay attention. And so I went in search of the tiny orange kitten I’d brought home the night before. Wallis had a point. I’d set the kitten up with her own food and water dishes, knowing how fastidious Wallis can be, and shown her the litterbox. But then I’d collapsed into my own bed. No wonder my elderly tabby was miffed.
    “Where is—” Nope, no point in asking. Even if Wallis were awake, she had made her point. I needed to leave her alone for a bit, so I went in search of the kitten.
    “Kitty? Kitty cat?” It had been so long since I called out to a feline as if it were just an animal, but I wasn’t sure how else to connect. I’d gotten her weak cry last night, but I didn’t know if she could hear me. “Kitty?”
    As I climbed the stairs, I felt a vague stirring. Something was up there. “Kitty?”
    Nothing on the bed, but thinking of last night, I opened the closet. Something was in there, something afraid. “Kitty?”
    I sensed rather than felt the response. A shuffling, a crouching down as if the small creature could make herself smaller. My old house doesn’t have a light in the closet, but that hint of movement was enough. I pulled out the basket where I throw my dirty laundry. Underneath a worn T-shirt, I saw two blue eyes.
    “
I didn’t! I didn’t!”
She backed away from me, too small or too scared to even hiss. “
I didn’t do anything wrong!”
    “Nobody’s saying you did, kitty.” I said the words out loud, trying to keep my voice and thought soft, my curiosity in check. “You’re safe here, kitty.” I held out a finger for her to sniff, then gently scooped the frightened cat out of the basket. At least she hadn’t used it for a litterbox.
    “
I didn’t do anything wrong!”
    I had to smile. “No, kitty, you were very good. Now how about some food. And then we’ll check out that litterbox again, see if you might want to use it.” I trusted Wallis not to bully the poor animal, but I couldn’t count on how scary my big tabby might seem to this little one. Nor, come to think of it, how young this kitten might be. I’d seen her dig into a can of wet food last night, so I knew she was weaned. She’d have been box trained by her