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

by Clea Simon

  That was it: the brush. I’d been so preoccupied with the Persian, that I’d left the brush at the shelter. I was losing more than my gift, I was losing my edge too. Silently cursing my stupidity, I took a breath. Tried to regroup. Creighton was watching me. He’d been looking for a reaction. “You ever hear anything about a stolen gun,” he asked now. “An antique dueling pistol?”

  “Tom? No.” I put my mug down. “Wait—a dueling pistol? Like the one…”

  He nodded, watching me.

  “Shit.” I’d known something was hinky about Donal Franklin’s death. I didn’t expect this. “That gun?”

  “Possibly.”

  I wanted to turn away. I didn’t want to hear about this. Not now. I’d known something was off, but I was following my own leads—trying to find out what had happened to the Persian. To do that, I needed to get that brush back. I also needed to get Creighton off this track. If he started poking around, I didn’t know what he’d stir up.

  “Tom’s not a thief. He maybe cuts some corners. But he wouldn’t steal.” Even as I said it, I wondered. I hadn’t seen him in quite a while. He hadn’t looked like the past few years had been kind.

  “He knows people, though. As a cop, he’d have to.” Creighton was saying what we both knew. Still, it didn’t add up. “If he wanted to cross the line. Maybe if he felt he was being forced out. Getting a raw deal…”

  “No.” That wasn’t Tom. I could see him blackmailing a thief, maybe. Putting a little too much pressure on a fence. But taking over?

  “Pru, I believe you.” He didn’t look like he did, but he kept talking. “And I’m not looking for a thief, not really. Your friend, though, he may be mixed up in something that you shouldn’t go near.”

  “Is this you being chivalrous, Jim?” I topped off my mug, all the while keeping my eyes on his face.

  “It’s me being a cop.” He looked down at his own cup. I didn’t think he was considering the merits of my dark roast. “It’s the pistol, Pru. I’ve had some people look at it, and it turns out that the gun has a rather strange provenance.”

  I started to smile at the ten-dollar word. “It’s not a joke, Pru. That pistol is more than a pretty toy. It’s a two-hundred-year-old hot potato. It’s British, but it had been presented to Napoleon at some point. It was part of a set then, but over the years, the other was lost. Some think it went down on the Titanic, but that’s probably crap. Whatever its history, this one ended up in a museum—gift of an anonymous donor. And then it went missing, too. For some reason, nobody was looking too hard, and when the Feds heard where it had turned up, we understood why.”

  He gave me a stony look. I shook my head. This wasn’t making sense.

  “Someone applied some pressure and got the museum to deaccession the gun. It was legal, but barely. Over the winter, the new owner decided to turn it into cash. The museum tried to buy it back, but they were told there was another buyer. A private buyer. And then, beginning of March, the gun disappears.”

  “Lew? But he wouldn’t have…” Suddenly, my coffee didn’t taste so good. I didn’t know what Lew would do. For a client. For a friend. On a dare, even. “But, say he was the private buyer…”

  Creighton’s eyes had never looked so cold.

  “Something went wrong with the deal, didn’t it?” I scanned his face. “Somebody reneged or—” I was out of ideas.

  Creighton wasn’t offering any. “We’re looking into it, Pru.” He pushed the mug back and stared at me. “And I want you out of it.”

  “They wanted the gun back?” I thought of Lew, dead by the roadside.

  “The gun or the money. Though, at this point, it might be more about honor.”

  I nodded. The weekend in Saratoga. We’d made some stops. I realized Creighton was watching me. “Louise Franklin. She was away that week, she said.”

  “At Canyon Ridge.” He finished my thought. “Doing Pilates or power yoga or whatever they do out there. Yeah, we checked. That place keeps track of every minute. The Feds—” He stopped himself. “Look, I’ve already said too much, Pru. Just—will you back off? Tom’s involved in this somehow, and I need to know you’re safe.”

  “You need…” I wanted to throw his words back at him. I’m not the type to be kept.

  “Strange, isn’t it?” I looked down. Wallis was twining around my ankles, looking for all the world like just another pet. “Here’s your new cop boyfriend, in your kitchen, asking questions about your old cop boyfriend and your—” She opened her mouth, baring her teeth as if smelling something foul. “Your Lew.”

  I nodded, remembering just in time not to respond out loud. At least the interruption had given me a moment to rein in my temper—and served to remind me of my own questions. “I don’t know what to tell you, Jim. I’ve got some questions of my own I need to answer.”

  “Oh?”

  I was winging it. What else could I do? Confess that I’d mislaid a stolen cat brush? In light of what we’d been discussing, it seemed laughable. “That Persian, Jim. She’s not getting any better. Not even with my ‘magic touch.’” I could see the relief on his face. He was about to dismiss my concerns; I could sense it. I didn’t want to be interrupted. “There’s something going on with that animal, Jim. Something odd. I think it’s all somehow connected.”

  I paused. This was the hard part. Translate. The word came to me, like a command. “I think the cat witnessed something.”

  “Pru, really—”

  He was done. He’d delivered his message, and he was ready to leave. At any other time, I’d have been grateful. Jim Creighton was a little too smart for my comfort level. Right now, however, I needed him to listen.

  “No, really, Jim. If it had just been an accident—even a loud, horrible accident—the cat should be getting over it. Instead, what I’m seeing is more like the reaction to abuse.” That was it, the key to explaining the behavior. “Like someone had been cruel to the animal.”

  “Are there physical signs?” He was trying to muster some concern. I had to give him that.

  I thought of the injured foreleg. “No, not really. Nothing that isn’t consistent with the accident,” I was forced to admit. “It’s more behavioral. And you’ve seen how odd the widow is about the cat.”

  “She doesn’t have any reason to love that cat.” He seemed to be thinking about it. “She may never have. I told her I still need to examine it, once anyone can, and she got all flustered. But I don’t really see—”

  “That’s just it, Jim. How clear are you on her alibi?”

  “Wait!” He started to laugh, and caught himself. “Are you suggesting that because the widow may have been mean to her husband’s cat, you suspect her of killing her husband?”

  That was exactly what I suspected. And there was no way in hell I could explain it. “You just told me the gun was stolen or, well, taken from someone dangerous. The gun that killed Donal Franklin. And you think Llewellyn was involved. Admit it.”

  He didn’t deny it, which was the same thing.

  “Look, Jim, I know Lew—knew Lew. He was perfectly capable of giving someone an expensive gift. Even”—I thought back on our time together—“an illicit gift. But not for a male friend. Not Lew. If he made a present of something, it was for a woman. And Louise Franklin used him to run her errands.”

  “I admit…” He stopped himself. “Louise Franklin was in Northampton when her husband was killed.”

  “Her phone was.” I wasn’t letting go.

  “She was. And she was adamant that her husband was alone. She’s made a point of that, and there is no evidence of an intruder.” He leaned back on the counter and sighed. I knew that sigh. He was going to give me something. “Look, Pru, I know what you’re getting at, but you’re wrong. Two shopkeepers confirmed that a dark-haired woman with a fur hat came into their stores.”

  “There are a lot of dark-haired women.” Not all of them were seeing her husband.

  “She bought a scarf using her credit card. Some crazy
expensive silk scarf. That’s why she was calling her husband, to tell him about it. The shopkeeper heard it all.” He paused. I waited. “I’ve also heard the 9-1-1 call. It was her, Pru.”

  “The widow inherits?” I wasn’t giving up.

  “You know I can’t tell you that.” He paused. “Look, there are some irregularities, but if you’re looking for a motive, the will isn’t it.”

  “But there was a pre-nup, right? A tight one, I bet.” I didn’t know what Creighton wasn’t telling me. I did know there was something. His silence confirmed it.

  “Is there something going on here, Pru?” He said finally. “Something personal?”

  “No, Jim. Not—like that. It’s all about the cat.”

  His baby blues could have pinned me to the wall. I could tell I was blushing. I could also tell he was reading it wrong. I wanted to tell him, then, about the cat being a gift—about the widow changing her story. About Robin loving the animal. I didn’t get the chance.

  “Look, Pru. I don’t know about your past, and I don’t need to know what you do on your own time.” I opened my mouth, and he raised one hand to silence me. “It’s none of my business. But this is. It’s serious, and there are dangerous people taking an interest. I care about you, and I know you’re not telling me everything. That’s fine, Pru. I can live with that. But I’d hate to see it take you down.”

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Creighton was right about some things. There was no way I could tell him about the brush—or what I’d gotten from it. I was pretty sure he’d find out I’d visited the widow, though, and that meant he’d be back, asking questions. And as much as I’d enjoyed his company in the past, that wasn’t a conversation I was looking forward to. No, I needed to get a move on. My window of opportunity—and the Persian’s, I recalled with a twinge of guilt—was closing fast. I checked the clock. Doc Sharpe would have left soon after me, locking the shelter behind him. I’d have to wait till tomorrow to get that brush. I didn’t like feeling helpless.

  “Robin? This is Pru Marlowe. I really need you to call me. It’s about the cat.” I had to figure she’d respond to the Persian, even if she didn’t have much use for me. I tried Mack, too, just out of curiosity. When I got his voicemail, I hung up. The sun had set; as Wallis would put it, the hour of the hunt had arrived.

  There’s a reason I like bad boys, and it’s not just that they are routinely more fun. Spend time with a man like Tom and when it’s over, it’s over. The break is clean. No hangover, no regrets.

  I was muttering to myself as I got dressed, and I knew it. Wallis, on the bed, watched me without comment. “Okay, sometimes there’s a hangover,” I admitted out loud. Wallis lashed her tail in acknowledgment.

  Creighton? I didn’t know. Like Tom—or the Tom I’d first been drawn to—he was a cop. He had that control, a touch of menace that made getting anywhere a challenge. Creighton was in better shape than Tom—no scars, and none of that heaviness of muscle turning to fat—a trait I’d put down to the difference between Beauville and New York City, if not age and assorted other vices. The rest of it, I wasn’t clearheaded enough to judge. Was it better to be warned—or was he just playing me? And why throw feelings into it?

  A thud alerted me that Wallis had jumped off the bed. “What?” I called after her retreating tail. “It’s not like you’ve specialized in long-term monogamous relationships, Wallis.”

  By the time I’d followed her into the kitchen, I’d changed my blouse three times, finally settling on a slim sweater with the right amount of cling. I wasn’t sure what I wanted from Tom, but I’d be damned if I’d be corralled by Jim Creighton’s higher expectations. Besides, Tom liked to look at me. And if he was looking at me, I had a better chance of getting the information I needed.

  “I’m heading out.” I announced to the empty kitchen. “The hunter of the household is going out to seek some fresh meat.” I meant it as a joke, hoping to get at least the usual sarcastic comment from my tabby. Instead, I got silence. I wasn’t sure if I had pissed her off or if the strange silence was finally descending over our household too. At least between my nap, the coffee, and the most recent fistful of aspirin, the headache had dulled to a muffled thud. “I don’t know if you’re playing with me, Wallis,” I called into the silent living room. “But don’t forget there are two of us in this house. And one of us has opposable thumbs.”

  It wasn’t designed to win her over, but it made me feel better just the same.

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  With one thing and another, I had a good head of steam by the time I hit Happy’s. Tom had said something to Creighton, of that I was certain. Between his insinuations and Creighton’s possessiveness, I was going to be carved up like an Easter ham, if I wasn’t careful. The point of different men is to keep your options open. Once they start acting like they own you, it’s time to cut them loose.

  Trouble was, I couldn’t. Not in either case. Tom was history, or had been until he showed up. But he was involved in something and had dragged me in, too. I would kick him to the curb as soon as I figured out what—and how to clear my name. For now, I had to use whatever hold I had. And Creighton? Well, his recent actions were quickly burying whatever future plans I might have toyed with, back when I hadn’t realized the connection between his Boy Scout good looks and his straight-edge mind. He was the law in this town, though. And, I paused and took a breath, he had called me about the white Persian. With everything else going on, I couldn’t let myself get distracted. That poor cat. So closed off, so scared. The clock ticking.

  Thoughts of the white Persian as I’d last seen her, huddled as far back in her cage as she could, focused me. I could make quick work of Tom. I was sure that however he had implicated me in all of this, Creighton was smart enough to see through it eventually. That cat, however. She needed help. And I was the only one who could do it. It should have been simple: get her to tell me what had happened. Get her to come out of herself, to be a house cat again, while she still had time. Get her okay’d for adoption. Maybe even get her into Robin’s care. If only.

  I reached for the twisted iron that served as Happy’s door knob, only to have it open in front of me, spilling out smoke and two bodies, laughing and hanging onto each other.

  “Hey, Pru!” It was Mack. He looked different at night. Looser. Maybe that was because of his drinking buddy. She was blonde and not dressed for the weather. “Haven’t seen you here in a while.”

  “I’ve been moving in some classier circles.” So much for our steak dinner. So much for Robin.

  “Dumpster diving?” He nuzzled the blonde. She giggled.

  “Dancing at the Beauville Country Club.” That was where Mack had played his last chance with me. Played and lost. If he wasn’t going to play any nicer now, I wouldn’t either.

  He just laughed. “You still sore about that, Pru? Ancient history. We both came out okay.” The blonde blinked at me, but the thoughts were too well doused. Mine, on the other hand, were piqued.

  “Yeah, if you weren’t Donal Franklin.” I’d been a fool. Mack had been at the widow’s place. He’d been working with Robin. The question was only: what was his angle? I took a risk. “Then again, he must have left somebody a tidy sum.”

  “Hey, you should know. You’ve been screwing his lawyer.” Mack was still chuckling. The look on my face sobered him up fast. “What, you didn’t know?”

  “Lew?” I felt like I’d received a shot to the head. Lew—the facilitator. Taking care of the widow’s assets. Creighton had called him the “old family retainer,” but I hadn’t taken him literally. I’d seen Lew as the best friend and drinking buddy, and he’d been that, too. The rich are different than the rest of us. And I’d never bothered to ask. “Llewellyn McMudge?”

  “Yeah, McMudge.” Mack was looking at me strangely. “We were doing some business. Then he stopped taking my calls.”

  It was my turn to deliver the news. “He’s not taking anyone’s calls, Mack.” I eyed him, waitin
g for the reaction. “Didn’t you hear?”

  “What? No.” He stood up straight, almost losing the blonde. “Mackey,” she whined, and tried to pull him down into a kiss. He pushed her away. “He’s—I swear to God, Pru. I don’t know anything. What happened?”

  I told him.

  “Shit.” He seemed to be taking it in. His next question threw me. “Do you know what he was working on?”

  “Besides errands for the widow? No.” I couldn’t resist. “Weren’t you and Robin working on something?”

  “That was nothing, Pru. Nothing with those guys, anyway. She wanted an escort.” He almost choked on the word.

  I smiled. “An escort.” A cold smile.

  “Not that way. Just, you know, company. A driver. She’s not a bad kid, Pru. She grew up here, too, and she didn’t have it easy. I mean, the clothes, the hair—that’s all new. Besides, it’s over. She was going to help me out with something. Kept saying the money was coming, but…” He shrugged. So much for chivalry.

  “Maybe you couldn’t give her what she wanted anymore.” It was a mean thing to say. “The services weren’t as advertised.”

  My jab hit home. Mack’s jaw hung slack, his age showing. Not that the blonde cared. I stepped past them, into the bar, and thought about what I’d just learned. Mack wasn’t with Robin anymore. She’d hired him, whether for a beard or for protection, I didn’t know, but it hadn’t worked out. That was information, and I could use it. I looked around for the next ex on my list.

  ***

  My eyes took a moment to adjust. The smoke, as well as the lighting, gave everyone a slightly sallow look. Tom was a big guy, however, and he’d have been easy to pick out at the bar or at any of the booths that lined the back wall. I didn’t. Thank God for small favors. Tom still had a cop’s instinct for connections, and I really hadn’t wanted him grilling me on Mack. So it was with something like pleasure that I settled onto a stool by the bar. The barman took one look at me and reached for the bourbon, but I shook my head.