Cats Can't Shoot: A Pru Marlowe Pet Noir #2 (Pru Marlowe Pet Mysteries)

by Clea Simon

  “Maybe that won’t be necessary.” The cat had gone quiet, and Doc Sharp reached into the green plastic box.

  “Wait—” Too late, one claw had lashed out, quicker than either of us could react, and the vet staggered back a step. “You okay?”

  “Of course, of course.” Doc Sharp walked over to the sink. I could see his hand trembling as he poured the disinfectant on the wound. So much for baby talk. “Anxious little creature, isn’t she?”

  “Well, she’s been through a lot.” I couldn’t tell him what I really thought. That I should be getting something from this cat—something beyond the low whining growl. “And we don’t know if she was injured.” I paused, unsure how to phrase what had happened. “In the accident.”

  “Accident.” Doc Sharp muttered as he wiped his hands on a paper towel. I’d lifted the white cat out of the carrier by then and kept both hands on her as he returned to the metal table. This might be Pammy’s job, but I didn’t want to be blamed if more blood was drawn. “Let’s see what we’ve got here.”

  I knew the routine and held the cat facing me. Through the gloves, I could feel the low rumble of that growl, quieter now, almost like a purr. It didn’t get any louder as Doc Sharp came up behind her, and I took that as a good sign. This cat was making her intentions clear, but she wasn’t looking to escalate the situation.

  “Let’s start with the heart.” The gray-haired vet chuckled a bit at his rhyme as he adjusted the stethoscope earpieces. I made sure my hold was solid, but the white Persian didn’t move as he approached. The kick startled us both, and for a moment I thought I would lose my grip.

  “Whoa, kitty.” I didn’t want to hurt her, but the cat was scrambling to get away. And as she squirmed, I felt it—something pushing at my consciousness. A sense memory. Hands. Hands holding her tight as she struggled to break free. I sighed. I finally get something and it was this. Those hands were mine, no doubt. The image her impression of what was happening now, as she tried to get away. She was hating this. Fighting. But I couldn’t let go. Not now, not here.

  “Never seen that before.” Doc Sharp had stepped back and was doing his best to recover his cool. “I thought she’d settled down.”

  I was holding the cat by her sides and she strained her head around, to the left and then to the right. The growl was loud again, easily audible, and spit was already darkening the long cuff of my glove. I looked down at her and she stared up at me. Her blue eyes were wide, wild. And suddenly I heard it. A noise so loud I nearly jumped. A bang like a boulder hitting concrete. Or, no, an explosion. It must have been the gun firing—wild and terrifying. Deafening.

  “Wait a minute, Doc, I think I’ve got it.” Sometimes, being sensitive means I miss the obvious things.

  “What?” He didn’t come any closer.

  “She started when you touched her, not as you approached. Could she be deaf?”

  “You mean, because she’s a white cat?”

  I could have kicked myself. Of course, the genes for white fur can carry a recessive trait for deafness, particularly in blue-eyed cats. I’d been out of school too long. But that wasn’t what I had meant. “Or because of the blast.” She’d heard something, I was getting that from the terrified feline, even if I couldn’t explain it to Doc Sharp. “You know, maybe a temporary deafness?”

  Even as I said it, I wondered. While I can “hear” what an animal is thinking, it’s not like they’re talking to me. Most often, what happens is I pick up on what they’re noticing. Sights, smells, and, yes, sounds. It was a strange skill, and one I’d only recently acquired. It would be easy for me to read it wrong. Whoever had been responsible for the shooting, the cat had been close by. Maybe she had been too close to the blast—and the volume had knocked out her hearing. Or maybe she was deaf and had experienced the firing of the gun in other ways—a blast of energy or a smack of heat—and I in my simplistic human fashion had misinterpreted. What I needed was time alone with this cat and enough peace so that she could calm down. I wasn’t going to get it here.

  “Let’s see, shall we?” Doc Sharp had regained his cool. “Head, please.” I automatically moved one hand up to the back of the Persian’s skull as Sharp used his otoscope to look inside those velvet ears. “No visible damage.”

  He moved onto the eyes, and another hiss, complete with spraying saliva, gave him the opportunity to examine what looked like fine strong teeth.

  “Young animal. She seems to be in good shape.”

  If that were true, why wouldn’t she let me in? Unbidden, the image of the dead man came to me. She’d been there. She was, at least, a witness. What had she seen?

  I kept my questions to myself and continued to hold the white cat. Doc Sharp ran his hands down each hind leg, then started on the front. At his touch on her front right paw, she started again. “Some sensitivity,” he noted, his brow wrinkling in thought. “Could be from the accident.” His wide mouth set at that, but he kept on with his exam. Doc Sharp was a pro.

  “I’m going to palpate her belly now.” It was as much a warning as a request, and I moved into place automatically. Sliding my hands back down that muscular little body, I stepped out of Doc Sharp’s way.

  “Help me.”

  There are a lot of noises, people and animals in other rooms, at a shelter. This voice came so sudden and so soft that I wasn’t sure I’d heard it. “Excuse me?”

  “I didn’t say anything.” Doc Sharp looked past me. “But there might be something wrong here. I’m feeling some mats in her fur. Can you reach that muzzle?”

  I didn’t like it. The muzzle, a cone of canvas that would strap over the cat’s face, would not help calm her down. Then again, he had already looked at her teeth—and I had no excuse. Shifting my weight to keep the cat secure, I stretched behind me until I felt Velcro.

  “Help. Please.” The voice was quiet, but clear. I turned back and found myself staring right into those blue eyes. Round, rimmed in that perfect white fur, they lacked the expression that human eyes have—a quality actually provided by our dozens of facial muscles. Still, I got a sense of sadness from them. Sorrow and—was it regret? “I’m sorry.”

  “Kitty?” I murmured, unsure of how this rattled creature would want to be addressed or if she could even hear me. This wasn’t, I was sure, her fault, no matter what Creighton said. Communicating—that was a problem. Concentrating, I waited, hoping for something—some clue—that would help me proceed. But then Doc Sharp’s large hands scooped up the muzzle and the khaki canvas came between us, turning the white Persian once again into a struggling beast. The connection had been broken.

  Chapter Four

  “Deaf.” Wallis snorted, a ladylike little sniff. “Dumb is more like it.”

  Wallis is a tabby, a regular shorthaired cat, and so she has a bit more of a nose with which to sniff than the white Persian. Which may have been the point. I’d come home looking to bounce some ideas around with her, but she doesn’t like it when I get too interested in another animal and she has ways of making this clear. “And I am not referring to her vocal chords.”

  I didn’t respond. Not out loud, anyway. I wasn’t sure of what, exactly, Wallis had already picked up from me. All the questions ricocheting around my head must have transmitted something. She sauntered into the kitchen soon after I arrived, and jumped to the windowsill as I reheated the coffee that I’d been called away from hours before. There she sat, back toward me, and I waited, aware that in my non-feline way, I’d given offense.

  For a while, we were quiet together. Her watching the birds; me watching her. Neither of us said anything, as the mood gradually shifted toward something almost friendly. We’ve been living together for years, and even when we’re at odds, I trusted her judgment more than most creatures’. Whatever her take would be, it would be worth putting up with a little snit of jealousy. Cats are independent, sure. That doesn’t mean they want us to be. So I tried to enjoy the quiet before I mentioned the Persian again. Then, once my coffee was hot, I
brought her up as a challenge—just another puzzle in an odd morning.

  “There’s just so much I don’t know, Wallis. And, yes, it’s true, I don’t know how intelligent this creature is.” Wallis flicked her tail. “Persians can get a little inbred.”

  That was a sop to her ego. Being a tabby, Wallis is quite clear on what geneticists call hybrid vigor. It seemed to sate her, because she turned away from the kitchen window to take me in with her cool green eyes. Midday and the sun streamed in through the bare branches, backlighting the guard hairs on her tiger-striped torso. Tabbies are considered common. At that moment, I couldn’t see why anyone would prefer a Persian.

  “Vain, too,” she said, stretching out one snowy white mitt as if to admire her pedicure. She had heard my compliment—or sensed it—and it took me a moment to catch on that she was talking about the Persian. That moment, however, was enough to tick her off. “And you care—why?”

  I hesitated. To start with, this was no ordinary conversation. Although I think of the communication that Wallis and I have as “speaking,” there’s rarely any audible sound involved. In the year since my so-called gift manifested, I’ve learned that she can read my mind, more or less. It’s only out of courtesy that she responds to my most clearly voiced thoughts. The fact that the conversation is all in my head, though, often makes me wonder. Did I in reality just field a question from Wallis, the tabby who has shared my home for the past seven years? Or am I talking to myself?

  “If the question is intelligent, then it’s from me.” Wallis jumped down from the sill. I held my tongue. After years of being ignored, she could be a little sensitive. Instead, I closed the window; despite the bright sun, the air was still chilly, and found myself staring at the sticks and mud in the yard of what I now call home.

  “Huh.” Another small, derisive snort let me know that although the cat had walked off, she still held me in her thoughts. This time, I completely understood. I’d come back to Beauville, my childhood home, out of desperation. Two winters ago, that was. I’d not been taking care of myself, and I’d gotten sick—very sick. And somewhere between the fever and the dehydration, Wallis had started to take care of me. She’d bullied me into drinking water, then into seeking help. And although she hadn’t wanted me to freak out and check myself into the hospital, it was her attentions that kept me from dying, another single statistic in the cold-hearted city. When I’d gotten out, we’d had words, such as they were. The city had become too much for me; the regular clamor and bustle suddenly augmented by the whines and cries of every nonhuman creature around. Leaving seemed a good option, and I’d packed up my old car—and Wallis—and headed back to the one place where I knew they had to take me. Beauville, Massachusetts. A picturesque little town nestled in the Berkshire mountains, home to my aging mother, this big old house, and every variety of evil known to man.

  “So, this is home now? Good to know.” I turned from the bleak scene. Within a month, the view would start to get better. Wallis sat in the doorway, fixing me with those cool eyes.

  “Sorry, Wallis. It just seems, well, right for now.”

  She turned away. Nobody can ignore you like your cat. She wasn’t done, however. “You said we’d reconsider. We’d get through the winter.” It was as close as she had ever come to asking.

  “I know.” I took a breath, tried to gauge my own reaction. The city. Life. Was I still afraid?

  “That’s no reason to stay, you know.” She had begun to wash. She does that a lot when she wants to appear nonchalant. “In fact, it sounds like a coward’s reasoning.”

  “But now I’ve got another reason.” The sound of that small voice—help—came back to me. So quiet, and yet so clear.

  “Oh, lord help me.” Wallis’ voice cut through loud and clear. “Here we go again.”

  ***

  “It’s not that—” I caught myself. Arguing with a cat is difficult. Arguing with a cat who is walking down the hall away from you is near impossible. “I’m not turning into a soft touch, all right?”

  The twitch of her tail let me know she was listening. But as I followed her into the living room, I knew I had only seconds to make my case.

  “Look, Wallis, it isn’t just sentiment, okay? There’s something going on here. Something strange. And nobody else around here is going to figure it out.” The image of Jim Creighton came to mind. He was sharper than I’d originally given him credit for, but he had no reason to investigate.

  “And you do?”

  That got me. “I’m curious. I mean, I want to know what happened. That cat knows more than she’s telling me. The cops think she killed her owner, and I think she believes she did, too.”

  “Really?” Wallis drew it out. “Interesting.”

  Forget what you think about cuddly kitties. Wallis and I are a lot alike, and that meant we could both be a bit barbed. This, however, was too cool, even for me. “Wallis?”

  She eyed me and, without a word, turned away again.

  “Admit it,” I called as she sashayed back down the hall. “You’d miss me.”

  The only response was something very much like a purr.

  ***

  I swallowed whatever urge I had to call her back and poured myself another cup of joe. No use going soft now. Instead, I sipped the bitter black brew and tried to piece together what I’d learned that morning—and why I even cared.

  It’s not that I felt that much for Donal Franklin. He seemed like a nice enough guy. He knew how to dance, and he had been kind to me when I was in a mood. I remembered him complimenting my hair, simply done but glossy as a raven’s wing. It was a nice touch, since my dress didn’t come close to most in the room. I had responded with a joke about the band, and he’d laughed lightly. He’d made me part of things, for a few minutes anyway. But people die. If I hadn’t learned that in the city, I’d have picked it up back here, watching my mother fade away the previous spring. She’d not been a health nut; still, she’d been the kind who did everything right. Didn’t drink, didn’t smoke. Tried her best to keep her only child out of trouble. She’d struggled to keep us together after my father had taken off, and she hadn’t stopped me when I wanted to leave. That says something. Still, she was so fragile by the end that even turning her in bed hurt her. And then she was gone. Hard to be sentimental about something so common.

  Maybe living with Wallis had worn off on me a little, too. She didn’t hunt. Not really, and I know that if I ever neglected to feed her I’d hear about it. But she was a predator, and her view of her fellow creatures was pretty basic. Foxes ate birds’ eggs; coyotes ate foxes. Ate cats, too, if they could get them. And whenever I got touchy about her outdoor exploits, she’d point out that birds were no better. Not just the hawks, but the bluejays. Hell, even cuckoos could be deadly to those poor suckers who let them into their nests. Donal Franklin died because that’s what happens.

  What I didn’t like were the questions around it. Okay, so maybe there had been some kind of freak accident—I’d pump Creighton later for details. And just maybe the Persian was deaf from birth; a majority of blue-eyed white cats were. But the combination was unusual—and the not letting me in? My special communication had never relied on hearing before, more often than not it was silent. Besides, that cat had experienced something that had traumatized her. Something that was rattling around in her smooth white pate and making her feel culpable, and I wasn’t any kind of a behaviorist if I didn’t want to help the animal find some peace.

  And, oh hell, someone had asked me for help. I looked up from a mug of coffee grown cold to the empty spot where Wallis had sat. Maybe she was right. Maybe I was becoming something of a pushover. As I knew from experience, the soft ones died first.

  Chapter Five

  It wasn’t like I had a lot of spare time to worry about other people’s troubles. One year back, and my business—such as it was—had picked up to the point where I was considering raising my rates. I still didn’t have my certification—I didn’t see how I was goi
ng to write a thesis on what some little bird told me—but that didn’t seem to bother the clients.

  The notoriety was only part of it. Sure, some people liked hiring me because I’d helped figure out a murder a few months back. It made me a celebrity in a morbid kind of way. Others liked that I was a local kid who’d thought she’d gotten away, then came back from the big city with her tail between her legs. Fame works both ways. Whatever their reasons, once my clients hired me most of them picked up on the connection I had with their animals.

  “She’s a miracle worker!” Old Nancy Pinkerton raved to her neighbors. In reality, her Siamese’s litterbox problems had been caused by her own inattention to hygiene. I came by once a week, clipped the kitty’s claws and changed the box. In exchange, the velour-clad matron talked me up to her bridge group and book club. And the Siamese, who introduced herself to me as Her Most Serene Highness, the Princess Achara, got both the attention she felt she deserved and a bit of gossip. Not that Nancy knew the half of what was going on when I sat down with the regal beast she called “Pickles.”

  “My cat knows things,” the old lady had bragged. “Like, that she deserves the best.” I’d smiled and taken the chocolate-point royalty onto my lap, bowing my head ever so slightly in the deference Her Highness expected. In some ways, old lady Pinkerton and the Siamese were perfect together.

  It wasn’t the life I’d imagined when I’d set out to become a behaviorist. And as I got ready to head out again, I had to admit Wallis had a point. A constant cycle of such basic pet care wasn’t what you’d call exciting. But the claw clipping and dog walking had kept the heat on through the winter, and spring was still new enough that I couldn’t see changing up just yet.

  “Wallis, I’m heading out.” I put my empty mug in the sink and reached for my jacket. “Back by six.”

  “As if I couldn’t hear everything you do a mile away.” A low mutter from the other room reached me. “Two miles.” I shouldn’t have mentioned a time. Wallis can’t read a clock and that always sets her off.