Cats Can't Shoot: A Pru Marlowe Pet Noir #2 (Pru Marlowe Pet Mysteries)
Page 26
I had come by for our last walk. The woman who handed me her lead could not have looked more different.
“Here you go,” said Eve Gensler—an Eve Gensler who had pink in her cheeks and something akin to a bounce in her stride. “Give you a chance to say your farewells. But don’t worry, Pru. I’m sure I’ll be calling you again when the weather gets bad.”
I smiled, but I wasn’t going to count on it. Even as we headed out, I saw the old lady lacing up new pink walking shoes. Something had turned her around.
“Something?” The little toy at my side looked up through her long lashes. “Or some dog?”
“Don’t tell me your tricks made all this happen.” I’d seen her dancing around her person as Eve Gensler had opened the door. I’d seen the look of pleasure on the old lady’s face, too.
The poodle shook herself in a kind of canine disclaimer. “A little sweetness, it never hurts.” The tawny dog stopped for a moment to hold me in her large, dark eyes. “Sometimes, we get more with a little sugar, non?”
“Oui.” I couldn’t begrudge her this small victory. She was a small dog.
“Out!” She barked, and I followed. For one more walk, anyway.
***
Louise Franklin’s sedan had been found near an Albany bus station. The DA was working on the theory that Robin Gensler had left the car there, Creighton told me. Disappeared into the hinterlands. I knew she’d disappeared all right. I didn’t think she’d show up in Iowa with a new hair color any time soon.
Creighton and I had begun seeing each other again—occasionally. Warily. As cautious as two animals in the woods. As a measure of how things had shifted, I’d told him what I suspected about Benazi and Robin: an appointment to settle a debt, a more commensurate payment exacted. He wasn’t surprised. However, without evidence, he didn’t have anything to go on, and the DA wanted to keep it simple. When the county decided to prosecute the widow, Creighton had to go along. Maybe he thought she deserved some of the blame, too.
It wasn’t a bad case, and it dragged on through the summer, as cases will. Especially when there’s money. What physical evidence the county had was attacked. All that time in the shelter, and both Doc Sharpe and Pammy were called to the stand. Experts in antiquities discussed the gun. Even Louise Franklin’s pretty escort had been found, working as a house boy in the Adirondacks. He had been an assistant of sorts, it seems, in that he’d been paid to step out with her, and that was all. No wonder Donal Franklin hadn’t cared. When things got tense, he’d split. I figured that explained Louise Franklin’s moodiness. She’d lost her latest toy.
At my request—and with Creighton running interference—I was barely a part of it. The way I saw it, I’d played my part. Not only had I rescued Felicity, but my presence had distracted Robin. I was pretty sure she’d meant to dump the brush, too. Only I’d been there. In the way. Maybe that was worth a broken wrist.
The DA seemed to believe that he could make a case without my testimony, at least for conspiracy. Llewellyn’s paperwork had included the Franklin’s pre-nup. It was ironclad against any kind of frivolous divorce. No matter that he’d started giving money away. No matter that he’d wanted her to cut back—have a little less “fun”—Louise had to have “cause” to get out, at least if she wanted to get out with anything. That’s what I’d misheard that day at the cemetery. Now it was clear: she had taken the younger woman in, paid for her hair and the new wardrobe. Put her in the house with her husband, alone. But she hadn’t told her about the will.
For a while there, things started to look bad for the widow. Nobody believed that Louise wouldn’t challenge the will, once the husband was disposed of. Money is a big motivator, and my original theory—that Louise had used Robin—kept coming up. Louise didn’t do herself any favors. She started off playing innocent. It had all been the younger woman’s idea. Every bit of it. And since Robin Gensler wasn’t there to defend herself, it might have worked. If Mack knew anything, he wasn’t talking. And Lew? Well, I had a feeling Lew would have stuck up for the younger woman, if he’d been there. Maybe he already had.
Not that I had much time for theorizing. Not when the county DA told me that, yes, I would have to take the stand, and so I did, describing what I had seen—and what Robin Gensler had put me through on that lonely mountain road. I don’t know, maybe it did me good to go through all that again. I didn’t like it. I was so afraid that I’d let something slip, something about the Persian or how we had gotten through the night, that I knew I sounded jittery. Girlish. Lost. The DA loved it, though. Said I sounded vulnerable. I bit my tongue to keep from responding.
Hearing how all the parts played out must have been the final straw for Louise Franklin. Soon after that, the widow cracked. She confessed that she’d brought Robin into their lives. That she’d groomed Robin to appeal to Donal in the hope of catching him in a compromising position, of forcing him to make a better settlement. Only as she took credit, I began to see more of Robin’s manipulation at work—how she eased her way into the household, all the while dreaming up a bigger crime and a lifelong source of blackmail.
Sure enough, the phone setup had been Robin’s idea—Louise was supposed to catch them alone together, to raise a fuss with the shopkeeper as a witness. Then Robin would break down and play her part, the aggrieved mistress—and be paid off. Only Robin had other plans—played on the trust she had seduced from both Franklins and their cat. The rest was history.
The fact that she’d wanted a divorce, not a murder didn’t make Louise Franklin much more sympathetic. She was convicted of being an accessory to the murder, ultimately, but her lawyers got a light sentence in return for her revised, and much more complete, testimony. Five to seven in minimum security, minus time served. She’d be out in two.
The funny part, Louise confessed, was that Donal hadn’t fallen for her mean-spirited ruse. Despite his wife’s apparent infidelities—her moodiness, even her dislike of his adored pet—he had remained true. A man of honor.
***
The fate of the dueling pistol was a little more subdued. Between one thing and another, the bulk of the estate was liquidated, the proceeds to be distributed to various charities. The pistol went immediately to one of the more discreet New York auction houses. The listing was innocuous: Wogden & Barton, c. 1808, scent-bottle, chased silver. V. good. Still, it brought less than expected, perhaps because it had been fired. Rumors did circulate that interested parties had been warned off bidding, but the auction house could turn up no evidence of malfeasance. Consistent with the house policy, the buyer, who worked through intermediaries, was not disclosed.
***
Robin was listed as a fugitive, her name and face sent out on the wires. And the only loose end was Felicity. She had disappeared with Benazi, and he may as well never have existed. I worried about the white Persian, and at the risk of offending, brought it up to Wallis one night.
“He’s a gangster, Wallis.” I said, my mind traveling back to that lonely open road. “A killer.”
“Oh, please.” She closed her eyes in disdain, stretching in the warmth of the fire. It was September by then. Still early for frost, but I’d piled the logs high.
“What?” I shifted. My wrist ached, especially on these chilly nights. “I know she likes him. But she’s a show cat. A pedigree. She might not always have had it easy, but what does she know of danger? Of revenge?”
I thought of Robin. Of wolves.
“Why do you think she chose him, anyway?” Wallis twisted to face me. Slits of green peering out. “Don’t you know, we’re predators, too?”
Acknowledgments
Antique gun buffs are a generous lot, and I owe many thanks to the various forums and dealers who steered me toward my murder weapon. Al Grindley of vintageweaponry.com and Richard Reich at James H. Cohen Antiques, New Orleans, were most helpful. Clyde W. Howard of Texas, in particular, found my dueling pistol for me and repeatedly explained its workings, always with great patience. All errors
are mine and none his. Deep thanks to my readers—Chris Mesarch, Jon S. Garelick, Tee Jay Henner, Karen Schlosberg, Naomi Yang, Brett Milano, and the indefatigable Lisa Susser. Without you guys, I’d be sunk. Of course, the eagle eyes of my wonderful agent Colleen Mohyde of the Doe Coover Agency and editor Annette Rogers contributed greatly, as did my dear friends including Vicki Croke and Caroline Leavitt, who provided encouragement and inspiration, and Sophie Garelick, Lisa Jones, and Frank Garelick, my most loyal fans. Most of all, thanks to Jon for putting up with deadline insanity and revision temper. You’re the best, sweetie. I owe it all to you.
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