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

by Clea Simon

  Wallis. In the cupboard. She hadn’t liked all those people in the house. Strangers, and loud strangers, after the relative quiet of the preceding months. “Did you even meet him?”

  Nobody likes being reminded of her weaknesses. Wallis’ ears flipped back. “Like I had to.” The voice in my head had a snarl in it. “You think I can’t learn all I need to from your puny mind? Your memories? Your smell?”

  “Sorry.” Tabbies could be so sensitive. “But, wait—” Something Wallis had just said had sparked a memory for me. Something about smell. “Wallis?”

  Too late. She had jumped down and was pointedly ignoring me as she marched off to another window. I’d made my choice, that silent walk said. I was beneath contempt.

  I was also the one who put food on the table, and I had already angered one client this morning. Grabbing my car keys, I set out to see what I could salvage of the rest of my day. Maybe whatever I’d been thinking would come back, with the help of the various pets of Beauville. Even if it didn’t, I wanted to get through my paying duties in time to go see that Persian. I didn’t think she had been tuning me out willfully. Not like Wallis did, and I didn’t want to ignore that one, small plea. Help, the cat had said. I’m sorry.

  Maybe I was distracted: the rest of the day went over like a dead weight. Dr. Simpson’s shih tzu was still using the bath mat for a litter box and wouldn’t tell me why. The Fowler dog hadn’t forgiven Mr. Fowler for anything. I felt more like an animal handler than a trained professional. Six years of school and I was walking dogs—barely. The Fowler dog, more hound than anything, hadn’t even been willing to leave the block.

  Maybe Wallis was right. Dinner with Tom had thrown me. The big guy and I didn’t belong together, not anymore. Reflected in his eyes, I’d seen how small this town really was. How much I’d retreated. I mean, I didn’t want Tom, a beat-up ex-cop, but—Llewellyn? Really?

  In all fairness, it had been a few weeks since my latest playmate had called. That call had resulted in a weekend in Saratoga. Some kind of business trip for him, a few stops to justify a weekend’s indulgence. Since then, nothing. Well, easy come, easy go. Our kind of fling had a built-in shelf life, I told myself as I switched on the radio. If Western Massachusetts has one thing, it’s good college stations, and I let the mellow sounds of vintage Sonny Rollins smooth my bruised ego as I headed down the road.

  I needed what cool I could summon, once I got to County. On a good day, the combination shelter-animal hospital was a little crazed. Animals are there because they’re lost or they’re hurt. And the people, who either come to give up a pet or in the hope of finding one, aren’t much better. Doc Sharpe does what he can. Maybe that Yankee reserve made it all palatable somehow. Me? I just gritted my teeth.

  “Hey, Pru.” Pammy was chewing gum and twirling a loose strand of her strawberry blonde hair. I hadn’t realized she had that much coordination. “Doc Sharpe wants to see you.”

  Good thing I’d come by then, I wanted to say and didn’t. Because the person who was probably supposed to call and tell me was still sitting in front of me. “He in the back?” The less contact I had with her, the better.

  “Hang on.” With a deep sigh, she pulled herself to her feet. Following her bouncing ponytail, I remembered myself at her age. That gave me a little sympathy. At least she was gainfully employed. Meanwhile, she was wrestling a ring of keys off her belt loop. “Here you go.”

  “Thanks.” I was wondering why the new security, but it would be easier to ask Doc Sharpe. He was in the dog room with a somnolent bitch. She’d just been spayed, I could tell from the stitches. All she was thinking about was a grassy knoll and one particular elm. The anesthesia had been good.

  “Oh, Pru. There you are.” The vet turned from the cage. “Just finishing up in here.”

  “Couldn’t Pammy have handled that?” I know a conscientious vet wants to check on his patients after surgery, no matter how routine. But transferring a healthy dog to her cage?

  “It’s no bother. And we really should have someone out front.” He was turned toward the hand sanitizer, mounted on the wall, so I couldn’t see his face. Sometimes the limitations of my gift are very frustrating. “Now, about that cat.”

  Was he psychic? “Yeah, I was wondering.” I followed him into the cat room. “That’s why I came by.”

  “So Pammy didn’t tell you?” I hadn’t wanted to rat her out specifically. I shrugged. “Well, we’ve been busy. The owner called.”

  So that was it. I had a feeling if the wealthy widow had made her presence known, Doc Sharpe would want the shelter looking like a real business. And that meant someone sitting at the front desk—even if it left him short-handed. It probably also meant the end of my access to the Persian. “Let me guess. She wants to transfer the cat to some fancy place in Amherst or Boston.”

  “Not at all.” Doc Sharpe looked at me over his glasses. “Not once I’d told her that you were the best.”

  “And she believed you?” I caught the look—and revised my words. “She wants me?”

  He nodded, once. “She wants you to work with the animal. She puts the highest priority on it.”

  I shook my head. “Doing what? Is it the deafness that concerned her? As long as she keeps her a house cat—”

  “That’s the point.” Doc Sharpe was standing in front of a cage. At first, it seemed empty. Then, squashed in the back, behind some torn-up newspaper, I saw white fur. For a big cat, she’d made herself as invisible as possible. “She says the cat was fine before the, uh—incident.” He recovered quickly. “Says the cat has been in perfect health. But she doesn’t want to keep it. She wants to sell it.”

  I shook my head. The woman hadn’t seemed deranged, not in that way, and I’d hoped she’d have let go of that particular delusion.

  Doc Sharpe was avoiding my eyes, but he’d seen that. “That’s what she says. Says the cat has papers—in her name, so the, uh, title is clear. Says she’s valuable.” He was doing his best to be noncommittal. “There’s a problem, though.”

  “You mean, besides the deafness?”

  “I’m wondering if we missed something. She’s stopped grooming—at least her midsection.” He opened the cage and nodded for me to come forward. As soon as I did, the low growl started up. I heard that loud and clear—and nothing else. Maybe that was her message: this was one kitty who didn’t want to be touched. Still, I leaned in, focusing on the white back, the pink-tinged ears that I could now make out flat against the head.

  “You might want the gloves.” Doc Sharpe was the master of understatement.

  What I wanted was him gone. “It could be stress. This animal’s been through a lot. Can’t she take her home? Give her some time to settle down?”

  I shifted to look at the vet. He might be a cold fish, but this bothered him too, I could see that. “I gather not.” His mouth was tight. “At any rate, the animal has to be socialized—or resocialized—before she can show it.”

  “All right.” I dragged out the words. I had wanted to spend some time with the cat. Now I had my excuse. Still, the situation was odd. I was going to have my work cut out for me. “She agreed to my rates?” Officially, I was freelance, working on a referral basis.

  “She didn’t ask.” Doc Sharpe had closed the cage door and was fumbling in his pocket. That Yankee reticence again. What the hell, I probably charged less than her manicurist. I looked through the barred door as the white cat settled in. With the door closed, she was calmer, even though she clearly still smelled and heard us. As I said, strange.

  “She gave me a contact number.” He fished out a pink message sheet. “Not hers. She’s busy with, well, with everything. You’re to call as soon as you can. Here.”

  He handed me the sheet. No name, just a number, scrawled in his nearly indecipherable doctor’s handwriting. I had to squint to make out the numbers. Once I did, I read them again. “This is her contact?”

  “Friend or relative or something. Someone handling the business sid
e of things for her.” He looked over my shoulder. “I should have written down the name. Sorry.”

  It didn’t matter. As soon as I’d seen the number, I’d known who it was. I’d seen it often enough on my own cell. Llewellyn McMudge. My missing beau. The widow’s helper. And now a part-time dealer in cats.

  Chapter Thirteen

  I was grateful, then, for Doc Sharpe’s reserve. If he saw anything on my face, he kept quiet. He probably thought it was about the cat.

  Actually, he wouldn’t have been that far off. The whole thing was hitting me as pretty strange. Your husband dies, you act odd. I get it. And, yeah, if your pet is somehow involved, maybe you lose whatever warm and fluffy feelings you had for that warm and fluffy animal. Much as I prefer the four-footed to the two, I could understand that too. But to make plans to sell an animal, just two days after your spouse has kicked? That was a first, even for me. And to use Llewellyn as a go-between? When Doc Sharpe had started talking, I’d thought of the widow’s companion, the pretty boy who had escorted her to the town shelter. He was supposedly her assistant. Not my sometime playmate, no matter how much he liked to be of service to the ladies. Add in Tom’s interest in Lew? I don’t believe in coincidence, not when someone has just ended up dead.

  If I couldn’t question the cat, my next thought was that I needed to grill Tom. My burly ex might no longer be on the job, but he was on a case. He knew something. My musings as to what that might be were interrupted by the good Doc.

  “If you have a moment,” he’d said, clearing his throat. “There are some clients I’d like you to meet.”

  I’d been standing there so long, he probably thought I was Pammy. At least my mouth hadn’t been hanging open. And so I shelved my desire to dissect the former cop, and went out to the waiting area, where the good vet introduced me to a young family whose puppy had bitten their son. It was the perfect distraction. They were already looking bereft, sure that Spotty was going to have to go to that big farm in the sky. Spotty was a beagle mix, not a bad choice for a family. With those ears, he even looked like the boy, whose floppy brown bangs hid eyes that were probably big with tears. The parents, basically kids themselves, looked tired. I knew the type. Clueless. They’d undoubtedly left the boy and puppy alone, and the two young animals had ended up roughhousing. A little supervision, a little training on both sides, and things would work out. Would that all tragedies were so easily diverted.

  I talked with the four of them and planned a home visit. That was mainly for the parents, of course. They were the ones with the training problem; the kids had just been kids. I did try to home in on the puppy, however. He was the one who would come out the worst if this didn’t work. I don’t believe in aversion training, not even using suggestion. Why terrify the poor pup? I did focus on gentle play, though. Softly, softly, I thought the words as I stroked his velvet head. Bigger than you, but very young. Very tender. Protect him. The Pru Marlowe advantage. It worked better with adult animals, the ones I could reason with. This puppy? Well, I wasn’t getting much by way of an acknowledgment. Puppies, like kids, have pretty short attention spans. I repeated myself, focusing on what would fit with the puppy’s instincts: protect him! It was worth a shot.

  I left them with Pammy. She had a bunch of giveaways, chew toys and the like. The fun part. But the visit made me think. Home visits are always more successful, animals being almost as territorial as humans. If I were really going to rehabilitate the Persian, I needed to take her to her home. To the Franklin house. The scene of the crime. Maybe Lew could pull some strings, or even sneak me in. After all, I didn’t know if Louise Franklin was staying there. I’m not a girly girl, and even I had a twinge at the idea—sleeping upstairs from where one’s spouse was shot. It would be risky: going back to a house that must still reek of death would be difficult for a sensitive animal. I couldn’t see an alternative.

  That didn’t mean there wasn’t one. I needed to spend more time with the cat. Alone. At least figure out what her role was in all of this, and get a handle on her apparent deafness. I’d do that before I called anyone. Certainly before I called Lew McMudge.

  “Pru?” A familiar male voice broke into my reverie, and my heart leaped a few inches. Mack Danton, my favorite broken-down gambler—and the date who had inadvertently introduced me to both Donal Franklin and Lew McMudge when he’d left me at that country club bar.

  “Mack.” Lew. Tom. A warning bell rang clear and strong in the back of my mind. Too many old beaus were showing up. I’m not that hot.

  “Hey, darling.” He’d seen my initial smile, damn him. His instincts were good that way. “Fancy meeting you here.”

  “I work here.” Honesty caught up with me. “More or less. And you?”

  He smiled, that slow easy smile that I’d found so damned attractive when I’d first met him. We’d had chemistry from the start, not the least because I recognized his type right away. Mack Danton wasn’t the kind of man you could rely on. If anything, he was like my ex-cop Tom in that respect, only leaner and maybe even more disreputable than the big New Yorker. But that smile projected the kind of raw appetite that makes a girl feel she’s wanted, at least for the moment. It hadn’t lost much of its appeal, and my body responded before my head could kick in. I’m no fool, though. Like the smarter animals, I’m trainable, and I’d learned that sexy grin could mean something else, too. When he leaned back like that, hips forward, eyes half closed, something was going on. Mack smiled when he didn’t want to talk.

  “Mack? Over here.” A woman’s voice, high and insistent, and the smile faded. “Mack?”

  “Sounds like your mistress is calling.” I didn’t even turn to look. I didn’t mind, not really. Still, it was fun to yank his chain. “Have you slipped your leash?”

  “Very funny, Marlowe.” His voice had gone into its low growl mode. Whoever was calling him, she hadn’t brought him to heel. “I’m doing a favor. For a friend.”

  “Mack?” The friend in question appeared, perfectly done with a deep red lipstick that played up the chestnut in her shoulder-length brown hair. She looked young—younger than me, anyway—and in a few years that slight pudginess would settle into fat, those big brown eyes sink into her face like raisins. For now, though, she was quite the little package, completed by a good leather bag that she held like it was her first ever and a voice that suggested she had a strap on my ex as well. “Did you find her?”

  “Here she is.” The growl was still there, downplayed a little. And the smile was back. “Robin, I don’t believe you’ve met our local animal trainer.”

  He knew better, so I didn’t respond. Instead, I held out my hand. “Pru, Pru Marlowe. I work with Doc Sharpe and the shelter here on a referral basis. Freelance.” She carefully tucked her purse under her elbow and reached out to take my hand in hers. I couldn’t help noticing the rock on it. Green, surrounded by little diamonds with enough sparkle to make me think they were real, it matched the bag in quality, if not style. She saw me looking and smiled. Someone had come into good fortune. When she didn’t say anything, I figured I had to take the lead. “Are you having trouble with an animal?” It took all my strength not to look at Mack when I said that. He wasn’t buying jewelry for anyone.

  “You know my aunt, don’t you?” Her rounded face opened up in a smile. “You walk her dog.”

  It all clicked. “You’re Eve Gensler’s niece.” This was a small town.

  She nodded eagerly, making her hair bounce. “Aunt Eve told me about you, and so when Don started asking for some help, I told him about you.”

  Don? The cast of characters was getting out of control, but just then she reached into that bag for a handkerchief and started dabbing at her eyes. “Donal Franklin?”

  She started to smile and ended up blinking as she bit at her perfect lipstick. “His cat.” She blinked again.

  I assumed I was supposed to feel sympathy. I also assumed I was supposed to fill in the rest. “The white Persian? He wanted me to do something with
her?” Maybe the behavioral problems predated Donal’s death. Maybe he’d had a premonition that the cat would kill him.

  Her hair bounced again. This was getting dull. Robin was better accessorized than old Mrs. Gensler, but I wasn’t seeing anything more going on mentally.

  “What did Donal Franklin want me to do with his cat?” His? Hadn’t the widow referred to the Persian as a gift? “And how may I help you today?” I pasted on some kind of a smile to grease the wheels. Mack knew me well enough to stifle his own growing grin. Robin, however, only grew more flustered.

  “Well, she’d given him the cat, you know. But it hated her. I don’t know why. Neither of us did. Don loved that cat so much. And I—”

  She sniffed and brought the handkerchief to her mouth. I relented. “I’m sorry. It’s pretty horrible.” Those dark eyes looked up at me, the tears making them even larger and more vulnerable. And here I was, about to make them overflow when it hit me.

  “She gave him the cat?” Another sniff. “Well, that explains the papers, but I don’t know what I can do for you.” That sounded awful. I tried again. “Louise Franklin has already made arrangements for the cat. She gave me the number of a friend she wants me to call when the cat is ready to be released.”

  “But Don always says—” Rapid blinks drove the tears back. “Don said that his wife hated the cat. That’s why he and I—that was why he was going to call you.”

  The tenses were tripping her up, and so I didn’t pursue it. I’d heard enough: the antipathy wasn’t recent. Still, this could have a silver lining. “I don’t know the history, Robin.” I felt we were on a first-name basis by this point. “But she might be willing to give up the Persian, if you want to adopt her.”