Kittens Can Kill: A Pru Marlowe Pet Noir

by Clea Simon

  “You knit for your father.” I remembered the way he lay there, clutching his chest. Clutching at his vest. His hand-knit vest. “The vest he was wearing.”

  “Yes.” Her eyes darted forward, meeting mine. “They—I didn’t get it back.”

  “No, you wouldn’t.” The EMTs or someone in the emergency room. Someone would have cut it off. The man was dead, but they’d had to try. I pictured it now: argyle, the blue wool diamonds a little lopsided. At the time, I’d thought it odd that such a tightly wound man had worn a loud vest. That the slight distortion in the pattern had been caused by those last frantic struggles. “That vest didn’t have buttons, did it?”

  She shook her head, confusion wrinkling her brow.

  “The button. The one on the floor. The one—” I saw it again in my mind—“the one the kitten was playing with. It came from your sweater. From this one.”

  “Oh.” She dropped the hem as if it were hot, both hands rising in a flutter. “Maybe. They come off all the time.”

  “I don’t think so.” I was remembering the brown spot on the sweater. The tea spilled on the floor—and on the kitten. The blush, the averted eyes. The way her face now scrunched up as if to fold in on itself. They all made sense. “You said you hadn’t met the kitten. Hadn’t seen him—even though you called me to come take care of him. But you had. You clearly had. You oversold your lie, Jackie.” I paused as it all became clear. “Your lie that you weren’t there.”

  She was sniffling. The tears beginning to slide down her cheeks. “I think you were there. That your father grabbed for you as he choked. That he tore the button off your sweater as he fell. I think you watched him die.”

  “No!” She was crying now, big gulping sobs. Her face behind her hands. This was my cue to comfort her. To reach out to her like the big sister I’d never had. But I’m not that type of person. Instead, I watched and waited until the storm began to subside. The sobs became hiccups. And, finally, the hands came down.

  “You did.” My voice was calm. There was no point in revealing the anger burning inside me. By all accounts, David Canaday had been a terror. By all accounts…“Did you kill him?”

  “What? No!” The speed with which she answered, as well as the sudden change in tone, made me look at her anew. “No way.”

  “No?” I thought of the painkillers in the medicine cabinet. The inhaler. “You didn’t help him along?”

  “I—” She stopped, shook her head. “No. I’ll confess, I wasn’t always the most patient. My dad could be—He was…” She bit her lip. “He was a bastard, okay? And at some point, I quit arguing with him. I even told him—” Here she stopped to laugh, a cold exhalation that could have been part cough. “That it was his funeral. But no.”

  While she was talking, the door behind her opened. Jill stepped in. Now the youngest Canaday girl stood behind her sister, stunned.

  “That morning, I had a million things to do. I had his party to get ready for. I wanted to clean. And he—well, he was being himself. Insisting that I double check the guest list. Make sure his beloved ex-partner was going to be there. He had an announcement to make. Something with his will, I had no doubt. Though we’ve already heard what the big surprise there was.

  “I just wanted to get him his breakfast. Get out and do my errands. Have some time for myself. He’d already rejected the eggs I made. His stomach was always bothering him. I just wanted to go out, so I made him some herbal tea. And he was on me about how it tasted. Did I put the honey in it? Did I squish the leaves up in the little tea ball correctly? And then he…he started coughing, and he vomited a little, and he—”

  “He grabbed for you.” I filled in the blank. “He grabbed for you as he fell.”

  She nodded, her face crumpling up on itself again. “I only wanted to go out.” She took a big breath. “And so I did.”

  I looked at her, then up at her sister. Jill stood frozen in place, mouth open slightly. It was a lot to take in. A lot to confess. I wondered if there would be more. If Jill would be the one to get it from her. Or Creighton.

  The younger woman stepped forward. This was her house, too. Her family. I waited, curious as to how she would approach her sister. What she would say and how.

  “Jackie?” Her voice was calm. Shock, I figured. It would be a lot to take in. “What are you talking about?” Her sister turned to look at her, and I saw the resemblance again, beyond the sagging jawline, the tear-swollen eyes. “Dad hated herbal tea.”

  Chapter Fifty-five

  In the history of non sequiturs, it wasn’t much. It did call me to attention, as quickly as a high-pitched whistle would to a dog. Even Jackie sat up straighter, as the implications sank in.

  “Wait.” I raised my hand for silence. “The day your father died, he was drinking something unusual for him? Something new?”

  “No. No, he wasn’t.” Jackie shook the idea off. “You don’t know, Jill. You haven’t been around much. Dad was changing. He was getting out more.”

  Jill raised her eyebrows. I’d never seen her directly rebut her oldest sister, but those brows were saying something.

  “Okay, so maybe he hadn’t changed that much.” Jackie got it. “But he was trying new things. Laurence Wilkins was getting him to.”

  “He was?” Jill sounded so surprised that I almost forgot she was on friendly terms with her father’s former partner.

  Jackie was nodding. “They had lunch every week, over at Mr. Wilkins’. I guess he got Dad to try this new tea.”

  “I didn’t think things were that great between them…” Jill sounded thoughtful, though I couldn’t tell if she was questioning the friendship or her sister’s veracity.

  “Oh?” I looked at the younger woman.

  “I know they were partners, but they weren’t…Dad could be—” She shrugged. “You know, he was getting crankier with age.”

  Something was brewing here. Something besides tea. It was time for me to step in.

  “Did Wilkins give your father this tea?” The two sisters stared at each other. Then both started to speak.

  “You can’t think—”

  “He’s had it every day.”

  “Wait a minute.” I put my hands up, calling for quiet. “First things first, I doubt this had anything to do with your father’s death. Nothing showed in the toxicology reports. Nothing that they didn’t expect anyway. But just to be on the safe side, why don’t we find that tea and we can bring it to Detective Creighton for testing.”

  “Sure.” Jackie might still be sniffling, but the confession—such as it was—had been good for her. She seemed positively sprightly as she led us back into the kitchen and over to the cabinet. “It’s not here.” She looked around at us. “I must have used it up, when we had people over. Someone always wants to avoid caffeine. But that just proves that there wasn’t anything wrong with it.”

  “Of course not.” Now it was Jill’s turn to be defensive. “Isn’t it clear that Jackie will say anything?” This was directed to me. “Larry wouldn’t—”

  “Larry?” Jackie was as shocked as I’d been. “So now he’s ‘Larry’? Is that where you’ve been every night?”

  “Pru, you can’t believe—” Jill tried to ignore her sister. Jackie didn’t give her a chance.

  “Jill, he’s twice your age. More. He’s Dad’s age.”

  “Hey, look.” I broke in. This was none of my business. It was also beside the point. “What you two do is your own business. But Jackie? You’ve got to tell Detective Creighton what happened. There are other cases that he could be working on.”

  “I can’t believe you let Dad die.” Jill wasn’t letting go. “You just stood there and watched …”

  “I can’t believe you’re involved with his partner.” Jackie was ratcheting up the volume.

  “Ex-partner.” Jill was standing up for herself. “Larry was always constra
ined by Dad anyway. Dad was so old-fashioned.”

  “Jill, there’s a lot you don’t know.” Jackie wasn’t giving up. “About Mr. Wilkins, when Judith worked for him…”

  “No.” Jill shook her sister off. “I know what she was accused of. It isn’t true. Mrs. Wilkins was always sick, from when I was a little girl.”

  “Jill—” Jackie wasn’t about to let this go. “I’m not saying she hurt anybody. I know what everyone said, but—”

  “Look, Larry has told me all about it, okay?” Jill’s face had gone white. “He’s told me everything. It’s ancient history.”

  “From what I hear, she was never charged with any wrongdoing.” I turned from one woman to the other. “Never formally charged—but basically run out of town. If there’s any more to the story, one of you has got to tell me.”

  The silence was so thick, I could have cut it with my knife. And in that moment, I pitied Judith. No wonder she had lashed out—first at Jill and then at Jackie. Neither bothered to defend her.

  “Call Detective Creighton,” I said, finally. These Canaday girls were making me sick. “Tell him everything. If you won’t, I will. And believe me, it will sound better coming from you.”

  Chapter Fifty-six

  If the Canadays were examples of how sisters turned out, I was glad to be an only. The dynamics at least kept me occupied as I drove back over to Wilkins’ place—to what I trusted would be a much simpler kind of interaction.

  “Hey, Pru.” Dave was leaning into his truck when I pulled up. He straightened up with a toolbox in his hands. “I was finishing up for the day.”

  “Pru.” I turned. Mack was standing there, a takeout hot cup in his hand.

  “Mack.” I swung back to Dave for an explanation.

  “This kind of work,” he said, “I need someone to hold the other end of the board.”

  I nodded. Carpentry can call for an extra hand. I didn’t like that my referral had hired my ex, but I shouldn’t have been surprised. They were friends, and Beauville was a small town. Hey, maybe this would be good for Mack. Get him back into working mode. I didn’t like the look of that cup, though. Mack didn’t used to like coffee that much.

  “I’ll go get the tarp,” said Mack. Still holding the cup, he turned and walked back around the house.

  “I gather there’s some bad blood between you two.” Dave was leaning back into the truck bed, securing the toolbox, I figured.

  It wasn’t a question, but I answered anyway. “I’m not crazy about having him work on a job like this.” I nodded toward the house. “Wilkins is a lawyer. He’s a real stickler for details, too.”

  “Don’t worry, Pru.” He surfaced again. “I can run a job. And nobody—not even your lawyer-client—is entirely one thing or another. Mack is trying. He really is.” He looked back toward where my ex had disappeared and rubbed his chin. “He deserves a second chance.”

  I opened my mouth, and then shut it. Dave had a point. He also had taken a job on virtually no notice.

  He was watching me now. “Wanna see what I’ve done?”

  “Yeah.” I followed him around to where Mack was folding a canvas tarp. Up near the roofline, I could see new wood, neatly attached. Part of it—over by the window—was already painted.

  “You think you’ll finish tomorrow?” I pointed to the raw wood.

  “Weather permitting,” said Dave.

  “Hey,” I interrupted. Mack was pouring out the contents of his cup.

  “What? I’m watering the plants.” He shook the rest of the takeout cup into the flower bed. “They need something after what our ladders did.”

  “I’m not sure they need what you drink.”

  “It’s Dunkin, Pru. A regular—cream and three.” He shook his head sadly. “Want to smell my breath?”

  I shook my head, but as he carried off the folded tarp—and the empty cup—I stepped over to the spiky leaves and got a whiff. More cream than coffee, sweet as candy. It brought me back to when I used to keep half-and-half in the fridge for Mack. When that was how he started his day.

  “Dave was going to leave the tarp down.” Mack had come back for his tools. “I was the one who pointed out that it was killing the plants.”

  I looked at my ex. It was odd hearing him trying to score points. But Dave seemed to accept it.

  “I don’t have an eye for these things,” he was saying. “But Mack here says that they’re already budding.”

  I looked over at the bedraggled greenery. Neither the tarp nor the ladder had done those pointy leaves any favors. Plants in New England, though, they’ve got to learn to deal or they don’t survive.

  “One good rain, they’ll spring back, I bet.” I kicked at a bruised leaf. My mother had flowers like these. I remembered spikes of flowers, pink and purple. “So you think one more day?”

  He nodded. “As long as Mack is available to help me.”

  I smiled. He was making a point, too. So, yeah, I’d let him. As long as the job got done to the client’s satisfaction. Who was I to begrudge my ex some honest labor?

  “May I help you?” Laurence Wilkins appeared at the corner of the house, the sheltie close by his side. “Is there some problem out here?”

  “Not at all, sir.” Dave hesitated a moment before that final syllable. It did the trick, however. The lawyer smiled, almost imperceptibly. “Just cleaning up and Ms. Marlowe here came by to check on how we were doing.”

  “Good, good.” The sheltie took us in. Three people represent an irresistible herding opportunity to a sheltie, and as I watched, she began to circle around us.

  “What’s he doing?” Mack looked back as her low spotted back passed close behind him, the black leather nose sniffing at the ladder that was still leaning against the wall.

  “She,” I corrected. “She’s herding us.”

  Wilkins nodded. “It’s her training.” I didn’t bother to set him right.

  “No, girl!” he called as the dog waded deeper into the foliage by the house. “Come here.”

  “This is my job.” I heard her reply. “I need them closer.”

  “She’s fine.” I interceded. “She’s doing her job.”

  “Her job?” Dave looked amused. “Don’t tell me she’s going to take over my gig now.”

  “Come here!” Wilkins’ voice was getting louder.

  “She could do all our jobs.” I joked, to lighten the mood. “Honestly, Mr. Wilkins, she’s not bothering anything.”

  “Biscuit!” The dog looked up, and I felt rather than saw the confusion on the slender doggy face.

  “This is what I do,” her brown eyes were sad. “You do what you need to do.”

  “May I take her for a walk?” I don’t usually offer my services for free. I wasn’t going to let him bully the dog.

  “What? Oh, no.” He snapped his fingers, and with a doggy sigh, Sheila made her way over to heel beside him. “That’s what we were about to do.”

  “You might try tossing some tennis balls.” I can’t help it. I don’t like to see an animal suffer from lack of stimulation. “Let her round them up.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” he said, as they walked away.

  “What’s his problem?” Mack sidled up to me as I watched Wilkins and the dog.

  I shook my head. “He doesn’t understand her.” Mack was pretty much out of my life before my transformation. He knew what I did for a living though. “A dog like that, she gets bored, she’s going to get into trouble.”

  “Sounds like someone I know.” His voice was low.

  I shot him a look. He was working for me, more or less. I did not need Dave or his other pals thinking I was fair game. But he backed up, hands up in the air.

  “I meant that Canaday girl!”

  Judith, of course. They all knew her from Randy. Besides, it was easier to accept his excuse th
an argue, especially since Dave was coming over again.

  “Well, I’ll leave you guys to it.” I addressed the carpenter. “Call me if you need me.”

  Chapter Fifty-seven

  It wasn’t that I didn’t trust Jackie Canaday. I didn’t, but that wasn’t the point. It’s human nature to avoid unpleasant tasks, and admitting to an officer of the law that you lied about the death of a family member is what most of us would call unpleasant.

  I did, however, want this all resolved. Thanks to that kitten, I’d gotten involved in their affairs. The sooner these were all ironed out, the faster I could be on my way. With, ideally, a check for my time and troubles.

  “Hey, Jim.” I got his voice mail as I drove. “Wanted to see if Jackie Canaday checked in with you. Turns out she’s got quite a story to tell.”

  I left it at that. If the woman had any brains, she’d have called him. Hell, if she’d had any brains she would admitted that she’d been there and saved herself—her family—the ordeal of the extended autopsy. If not, my message would be enough to get Creighton to reach out. It wasn’t, I reminded myself again, my problem.

  I was almost home when my phone rang. Jill Canaday, I saw with a glance. Doubtless wanting to complain about her sister. Doubtless trying to draw me back in again. I let it go to voice mail, feeling more free than I had in weeks. It was nearly five. Cocktail hour. In the next day or two, Judith would fly back to L.A., and Laurence Wilkins’ house would be made whole again. Tonight, I’d write up a final invoice that I would deliver personally. And in two weeks, all things being equal, I’d deliver up the kitten, healthy and hale, to Jill. Or to Jackie. Whoever had won that particular catfight.

  “Hey, Wallis.” I called out as I walked into my house. “Ernesto. I’m home!”

  I threw my jacket over a chair and saw a flash of fur. “Sorry, were you sleeping there?”

  “I was…waiting.” Her eyes were flashing, her tail lashing back and forth. “You’ve got to do something about that kitten.”