An hour, a lot of paperwork, and a delicious sandwich later, we met briefly with FireWind and Racer, who had taken off her business jacket. Without the extra padding, she looked as if she had lost weight. She was razor-thin, a long, lean, muscular woman. I knew I didn’t need to join a gym to work out, but seeing her made me want to plow the garden or cut some wood. It was a quick meeting and we headed out to Hugo’s landlady’s house.
I strapped into my vehicle and reached for the start button. Occam, his long legs in tight black denim, got in beside me and placed the potted cabbage on his lap. “You okay, Nell, sugar?”
I tapped the car on and fiddled with the mirrors, thinking. “I know we’ve talked about this, but how did you adapt to becoming and being a wereleopard? Emotionally.”
Occam shrugged. “Children are adaptable. I was a rowdy boy one day and then I was a cat in a cage in a traveling carnival. I didn’t shift back, so I didn’t have a human brain or human grief patterns for twenty years or so. I know you’re still worried about Margot, but she smells fine. She’s adjusting to the effects the moon has on were-creature minds and bodies and spirits. And she isn’t alone.” He didn’t add, “Like I was.” He wouldn’t appreciate my pity, any more than Margot would.
“Have you three adapted to being a . . . a mini leap of leopards?”
Occam chuffed, much like his cat might. “We drew a little less blood last full moon. Our cats will work it out.” He glanced at me and said, “Don’t you worry your purdy li’l head about all that.”
“Worry my—humph. Put on your seat belt, cat-man,” I said, my voice a little too gruff. “I know you could survive a car crash by shifting into your leopard form, but there would still be blood all over my new upholstery.”
Giving me a scar-twisted grin, Occam strapped in. I started the car and pulled in behind T. Laine, following her to a house near Hugo’s place, a cute stone cottage that, from the outside, looked like four rooms, a front porch with stone arches, and a screened porch on one side.
A woman came out on the front porch and watched as we parked and walked to her. She was smoking, a cigarette in the corner of her mouth. “I reckon you folks are here about the roadblock. What’s ol’ Hugo done now? Pissed off the sheriff? Run his mouth to the judge about paying alimony? Shouldn’ta been banging that li’l college girl, her and them dang horses.”
College girl? Horses?
The old woman laughed, her little belly bouncing. She looked to be in her mideighties, with skinny legs and ankles, a neck that was all tendons pulling up her chest and shoulders as she breathed. She was wearing a cotton dress in a tiny green plaid and a red wig that looked as if rats had nested in it. White curls stuck out at the back of the wig as if trying to escape. Her skin had a yellowed look, as did the whites of her eyes, and she had a belly shape that I thought might come from drinking. The reek of cigarettes and strong liquor wafted to us on the air. “Man can’t keep it in his pants, he deserves to pay alimony for a couple years. Right?”
We didn’t answer, just slowed our steps as we reached the porch.
“Honest to God,” she went on, “that man can be sweet as pie, but when he gets something in his teeth it’s either dangerous or stupid. And boinking that girl was stupid.”
T. Laine said, “I’m Special Agent T. Laine Kent, PsyLED. These are Special Agents Ingram and Occam. Are you Ethel Myer, landlady to Hugo Ames?”
“No foreplay? Yeah. I’m Ethel. And before you ask, no, you can’t come in unless you got a paper. So talk.”
“Fine,” T. Laine said. “What can you tell us about Hugo?”
“Only what the whole county knows. Everything he says is a lie. His wife kicked his ass out four months ago for diddling around. He rents month by month. He likes sports twenty-four/seven and Bud Lite by the case. Whole city knows he’ll screw anything that walks on two legs, but I wouldn’t limit it to that criteria. He owns that business that makes bowling trophies. He was born and raised in the county.” She