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

by Clea Simon

  But the drama in front of me was unfolding too fast.

  “You have—” Robin had turned to shout back her rebuttal. Whether that was it, or just the beginning, however, I wouldn’t get to find out. She had seen me. Now she stood, white faced against the black of the trees. For a moment, we both froze, staring at each other. Then Louise turned toward me, too, and for a moment I had the strange impression that I was seeing double. This far back, Louise’s striking eyes didn’t register. Only that stare, and Robin didn’t look any friendlier than the widow who had kicked me out of her house only the day before. Caught, I did the obvious thing.

  “Hey!” I waved, plastering a big smile across my face. “So glad to see you. I think I got a little lost up here.”

  Robin spun on her heel and took off, as I stumbled down the hill. Louise stood her ground, watching me. As I approached, she blinked, her long, dark lashes turning those gray eyes as cold and closed as a metal security gate. If I’d thought I’d catch the grieving widow in a moment of vulnerability, I’d been crazy.

  “Miss Marlowe.” Was it my imagination, or had she emphasized the “Miss”?

  “Pru, please.” I slid and scrambled down to her. “Again, I’m so sorry for your loss.”

  She didn’t respond. “And what brings you here?”

  I toyed with the truth, or at least part of it. If I mentioned Llewellyn, maybe I’d get something from her. But Bill’s comments had rankled, and I could easily see this woman, as sleek as a pampered cat, taking the same view. Lew must have had a reputation among his set.

  “My mother is buried here,” I said instead. It was worth it just to see her wince.

  “I’m sorry.” For a moment, I thought she’d stutter. Maybe I would have my entrée, but she turned away and, as I reached out for her, took a step and then another toward the lot. “Today has been,” she paused. I waited to hear how she would explain the scene I’d just witnessed. “Wearing,” she settled on finally. “Goodbye.”

  I watched her retreat, unable to come up with a good reason to make her stay. And I realized that by accident, I had stumbled upon one interesting fact: she hadn’t been at Lew’s graveside, hadn’t even been close. If she had, she would have realized that I was there, though I’d missed her during my discussions with Tom and Bill. So what had kept her here, after her husband’s burial, after the long, slow procession of exiting cars? And how had the face-off with Robin come about? At the base of the hill, she paused and pulled something small from her bag: a cell, a Blackberry. Grief may have slowed her down, but I had the strongest feeling that Louise Franklin wouldn’t miss a social beat. I didn’t know what I expected from a grieving widow. Sadness. Silence. A desire to avoid the world. Whatever it was, Louise Franklin wasn’t it.

  Not for the first time, I kicked myself for letting things go on as they had. If only I’d gotten a little more involved in Llewellyn’s life, then maybe I’d have some clue about the relationships between these people. If only he’d taken me out among them, instead of to our hideaway weekends, our secret escapes. I shook my head. That bastard Bill had made me feel cheap, something I thought I’d long grown out of. Lew and I had had the relationship we’d wanted, and it was too late to do anything about it now.

  I couldn’t chase after Louise. She clearly wasn’t going to talk. If she needed to, she could sic Creighton on me. Going after Robin Gensler seemed like the obvious next step. Maybe if I got her alone, I could find out why she’d shown up at the cemetery. Maybe I could use the fight I’d witnessed, rustle some feathers. The mood I was in, that would be fine, too.

  I took out my own phone only to find that I was in a dead zone. I had to walk back to the lot before a signal registered. Even then, I could hear the call breaking up as I listened to Robin’s voice mail for what seemed the hundredth time. The rich truly are different than you or I. They get better service.

  “Robin? This is Pru. I’m sorry if I startled you just now. As you know, I’ve been trying to reach you. It’s about the Persian. I’m going to the shelter to see her now. Call me, okay?” If that didn’t get her, nothing would. For once, I smiled as I slipped the phone back into my pocket, I was even telling the truth.

  Chapter Thirty-three

  The weather echoed my mood as I drove to the shelter: dark and stormy. I’d broken a heel on the way to the car, and with snow threatening I suspected my one good pair of pumps were going to face more damage before the day was out. It had also occurred to me that since the hostilities had become open, I had less chance than ever of getting Louise Franklin to relinquish the Persian to Robin. That Persian would probably stand a better chance in the oncoming snow.

  As if on cue, the first flakes started down. The spots on my windshield looked innocent enough, but I’d grown up in the area. I cursed myself for not throwing some boots in the back seat, and, while I was at it, for coming back to Beauville at all. Wallis had a point. We had a life in the city, where an ancient Italian would have tut-tutted over the condition of my soles and then worked his magic, reattaching the heel and smoothing the suede till my old pumps looked as good as new. Snow in the city was never as pretty as out here, but with the subway a block from my apartment, I didn’t care. I didn’t really have to deal.

  I switched on the wipers and let their rhythm calm me down, turning off the highway to make my way on back roads. I was facing a problem. I needed to think, not deal with other drivers, and I welcomed the quiet as my tires left black trails on the newly frosted pavement.

  The Persian had until Monday. Doc Sharpe might seem like a softie. That’s what the families who came to find a puppy thought, and he cultivated the image for the good of the shelter. Underneath, he was pure Yankee granite. If he felt the cat could not be socialized, he was going to reclaim her enclosure for the next animal that came in off the street.

  Of course, knowing the options, it might be possible to get Louise Franklin to relinquish the cat. She’d have to let go of her ridiculous notion of selling it, though. I briefly toyed with the idea of getting Doc Sharpe to make that call. She seemed like the type who would listen to a man. The problem would be to get him to side with releasing that cat to anyone. I could kind of understand his argument: plenty of pet-ready felines get destroyed each year, and the ones who longed for human contact deserved their shot at it. Only I knew some of what that cat had been through. And I knew that I had helped make her behavior worse.

  My route didn’t take much longer than the highway, and I had my argument ready as I turned into the shelter lot. Despite the weather, I had some trouble finding a spot and ended up waiting while a blue pickup loaded in three children and a cardboard carrier. Of course, it was Saturday. The busiest day of the week here at the shelter. At least some small animal had found a new home.

  The scene inside confirmed my impressions. Snow or no snow, every family within forty miles had come out. I felt a fleeting moment of anxiety. March—that would be when those Christmas puppies and kittens were beginning to become less adorable, their messes bigger. But, hey, that could mean more work for me. Besides, the general tone of the din was joyous. Lots of barking and excited squeals, and few of the tearful wails that usually signal a goodbye.

  Even the animals, from what I could hear, were happy, too. The voices were too jumbled for me to make out much. Maybe I’d finally mastered the art of tuning out. Wallis had said even the youngest kittens get the hang of it before long. But if so, it wasn’t entirely voluntary, and after that brief spell of silence—my animal deafness, if you will—I was far from comfortable with any kind of dimming. And so even though it could mean bringing down an avalanche, I made myself open up. For so long, I had hated this gift. Now I wanted to hear everything—and I did.

  Some of it was simple release: life in a cage isn’t fun for any animal. Some of it was hopeful. That Lab knew the word “walkies” and was barely restraining himself. Even the more peaceful strains betrayed happiness. Over in the corner, an aging marmalade cat was gently kneading the lap o
f the woman who held her. She remembered being held, but that was oh so long ago.

  The only discordant note was coming from the corner. Soft and so low, it was almost drowned out in the general cacophony—a higher pitch, strained almost to panic. A small animal was nearby, and he was in distress.

  “Hello?” Half blind from the noise, I made my way toward the sound. It wasn’t a cry. More like a low mumble, fretful and anxious. “Can I help you?” I tried to project my offer as I pushed by a kneeling pre-teen. I didn’t need any special sensitivity to pick up on the look her mother shot at me. I didn’t care. The kid had someone to look after her.

  “Pru! It’s you.” I looked up, momentarily disoriented. The dark hair registered as fur. The dark eyes—then it hit me.

  “Robin. I need to talk to you.” I looked around. The small voice was still there, almost buried in the din. Not a ferret, I’d have known. A kitten? No. I followed it a step further, toward the cage rooms. “Would you mind?”

  “I know. I got your message. I couldn’t talk—back there.” She reached for my arm just as I got the image of a twitching nose, dark eyes, and long, soft ears. A rabbit! A bunny who wasn’t so much scared as anxious. Something wasn’t as it should be, but Robin’s hand pressed on my arm and I lost it. The small voice was gone. With less than charitable thoughts, I turned toward the plump brunette.

  “I’ve been trying to reach you.” I wanted to know what had happened—and why she hadn’t called me back. But the small voice—a bunny had needed me.

  For a moment, I recognized its face in hers. “I’m sorry.” She stepped back, releasing her hold on me and bringing one, bare hand up to her mouth. “It’s been awkward. Mrs. Franklin…” She colored, the pink in her cheeks making her look even younger.

  “No, it’s my fault.” I shook my head to clear it. One problem at a time. “I’ve been looking for you to talk about Donal Franklin’s Persian.”

  “I gathered.” Her delicate brows raised in concern. At least she’d toned down the jewelry. “Is Fluffy all right?”

  “Fluffy is essentially fine,” I went into professional calming mode. “For now. But her behavioral problems are not getting better and, well, Doc Sharpe is beginning to look into other alternatives.”

  “Oh!” Maybe she was the bunny. “Well, that’s good, right? Maybe I can take her?”

  “No,” I shook my head. I wasn’t being clear. “Doc Sharpe is thinking that the cat can’t be resocialized. And if Louise Franklin doesn’t want her—”

  “She’ll be put up for adoption?” A tentative smile.

  “She’ll be euthanized.” With the unerring timing of bad news, my bombshell fell in a moment of relative calm. Shocked faces looked up at me. A small child started to cry. “I mean, that’s one possibility.” I replied in my jauntiest tone. Children, like animals, respond as much to tone as to your actual words. “Let’s talk.”

  Robin seemed as stunned by my words as that small child, and so I grabbed her by the arm and led her forcefully out of the waiting room, back into the building entry, the only semi-quiet place around.

  “How—how can that be?” She was stuttering. “That’s a perfectly fine cat.”

  “She’s a lovely animal.” I wasn’t going to show her my scratched arm. I certainly wasn’t going to explain my role in aggravating the poor beast. “But Louise Franklin has this idea that she can sell the cat to a breeder. Only no breeder is going to want an animal that is less than docile. And legally, Louise is the only one who can give her away. She can give her up, however, to the shelter. That makes it Doc Sharpe’s call.”

  “Oh. Mrs. Franklin…” A woman of few words, she looked down. Blinked. I found myself worrying that she would start crying and then kicked myself. Since when was Robin Gensler my concern? Still, she must have picked up something. “And here I was, hoping I could still…” She looked up at me then. “I was thinking, maybe I could learn from you. That is, if you were willing to take me on as a kind of student or apprentice or something?”

  Those big brown eyes. I could see why Donal Franklin could have fallen for her. It was with sadness that I shook my head. “I don’t do apprentices. But, Robin, I did have some questions—questions that might help that Persian,” I added in a rush.

  She nodded.

  “I know you care for the cat. That you had some previous experience with her.” I paused, unsure how to present my questions. “Robin, is there something going on with you and a PI named Tom? Or his buddy, Bill?”

  She shook her head. “No. I don’t know who you’re talking about.”

  She looked so blank I believed her. “Okay, then. What about with Donal Franklin?”

  “It was…” She looked at the wall for answers. I did, too. The heartworm poster didn’t help. “There was a moment. He said I reminded him of his wife when they first met.”

  I felt a cold surge of disappointment. Good ol’ Don hadn’t been so gallant after all.

  She must have seen something on my face. “It wasn’t like that at all.” Of course not. “I was helping him with his collection. That was all.”

  “And that’s why Louise Franklin is so friendly toward you?”

  She swallowed. “She wasn’t always like this. She helped me, at first. My hair…the clothes…But now, well, I’m kind of in a bad place. So, I thought—”

  I shook my head. “I’ve had years of training, Robin. And, to be honest, there’s barely enough work for me in this town.”

  She digested that in silence, and I found myself thawing a bit. I didn’t believe in her innocence, but she had my sympathy. Whoever had brought her into the house, she’d been used and discarded: the servant girl kicked out without a reference.

  “Come on.” I motioned back to the shelter lobby. “Let’s go see that Persian. Maybe she’ll take to you.” Maybe we’d get world peace, too.

  It might have been my imagination, but the lobby seemed to quiet as we stepped back in. It could have been the weather. More people seemed to be donning their coats with an eye toward getting home. Pammy was busy at the front desk, families crowding around to fill out forms. I looked for Doc Sharpe, but he was nowhere in sight. In one of the examining rooms, I figured. Or bouncing between all three, trying to handle all the walk-ins before their patience gave out. I already knew his take on the Persian anyway, and reached behind Pammy for the button that unlocked the door.

  “It’s open.” She didn’t even look up. She must have felt my eyes on her, though, because her tone had turned peevish as she added. “I’m just too swamped to handle everything.”

  “Fine.” I led Robin Gensler over to the shelter door, and as I reached for it, I heard that voice again. Small, quiet. Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear…“Robin, can you hang on for a moment?”

  I stepped back into the lobby. To my left, Pammy’s ponytail bounced up and down, visible through the throng. To my right, the plastic chairs now held an assortment of coats, as parents suited up their offspring for the storm. “Hello?” I kept my voice soft, turning my head slowly to pick up that faint strain.

  “Oh dear.”

  I looked around. There was no animal in sight, while behind me, I heard a voice.

  “Pru? Is this okay? Maybe I should leave you alone?”

  Robin. “No, it’s fine. I thought I heard something.” That much was true, and it was with a sigh of resignation that I pulled open the door to the cage area and motioned her in. The fact that I then almost walked into her I blamed on my own preoccupation. The cage room hits people like that. Floor to ceiling cages, stacked wall to wall: this first room was filled with dogs and other like animals. The cats were in the next room, and while the shelter was too small for other segregated cage rooms, Doc Sharpe had arranged for a room divider to keep the occasional lizard or smaller animal out of sight of its natural enemies.

  “I think of this as Co-Op City,” I said, before realizing that the urban joke would mean nothing to her. “It’s really not bad. They’re social, and they have their own s
paces.”

  “Uh huh.” She looked dazed, and I took her hand. I wanted to get that brush, but the sooner she saw the Persian the better.

  “In here, we keep this screen up, just to make sure the cats don’t see anything that could freak them out.” I was doing what I could to distract her. “Or vice versa.”

  One of the small mammal cages was heaped high with fresh wood shavings. I led Robin past it and up to the divider. “Privacy, see?”

  She stepped up next to me, and together we found ourselves staring at a row of cages that held a sleek tabby and three nursing kittens. A tuxedo cat still sleeping off the anesthesia of her recent spaying, and the toys that the old marmalade had happily left behind. The examining table, clean and empty. What we didn’t see was the white Persian. Fluffy, the cat nobody else wanted, was gone.

  Chapter Thirty-four

  The rabbit knew something. With the clarity of hindsight, I rushed to the cage opposite and there, cowering in the wood shavings, was the rabbit, trembling from its pink nose to the bit of fluff that its kind called a tail. “Oh dear,” indeed. The screen may have shielded it from sight, but I’d wager those velvet ears had picked up quite a lot.

  Unfortunately, I had Robin to deal with. At the sight of the empty cage, she’d nearly lost it, turning white and then red in rapid succession. “No! It can’t—” She turned on me with a glare of pure anger. “You!”

  “Now, now,” I tried to steer her to one of the molded plastic chairs. “It’s not what you’re thinking. I’m sure Doc Sharpe wouldn’t have done anything so precipitously.” I wasn’t, not entirely. But euthanasia takes time—two shots, with a wait between—if done properly. Doc Sharpe wasn’t the kind to skimp. He was hard, but not cruel, and if what I’d seen was any indication, the good vet had had his hands full all day. It did occur to me, however, that there may have been some kind of medical emergency. Something that maybe Robin didn’t need to see.