Kittens Can Kill: A Pru Marlowe Pet Noir

by Clea Simon

  I was thinking about Jill and her sisters as I drove. I’d originally meant to go back over to Laurence Wilkins’ house. Check on those squirrel gates, and see if I could connect with the man himself. Now I had an additional reason to want to talk to him. I wanted to ask about Judith and about his wife. In particular, I wanted to know what had happened after his wife died.

  First, I had to make use of those vials. The day was fine, and I’d have plenty of time to check in on the lawyer later.

  “I’m home,” I called, as I came through the front door.

  “Clearly.” The word was accompanied by a small thud, as Wallis jumped off the windowsill to greet me. “You’ve been…” She sniffed the air around my legs, “social.”

  “It was work, Wallis.” I reached to stroke her, my hand releasing a flurry of fur that drifted in the breeze. “And you’re shedding.”

  “No manners.” She sat and twisted herself, as if to lick the exact spot where I had pet her. “No manners at all. Just like a kitten.”

  “Speaking of,” I looked around, ignoring her rebuff. “Where’s Ernesto?”

  “He’s…” The taste of fur so strong, I reached up to my own lips. “Somewhere.”

  “Wallis?” This was what I’d feared. She was losing interest. Then again, I’d never had any desire to parent a child either.

  “Please.” Even her voice sounded fuzzy. “He’s old enough to know what he’s doing.”

  I wasn’t sure about that, but I tried to keep my thoughts to myself as I went in search of the kitten.

  “Play?” He found me first, barreling out from behind the sofa to tackle my foot. I lifted him to my lap as I sat, even as he sighed, his sides heaving with disappointment. “Button?”

  “Sorry, kiddo.” With my left hand, I stroked his back. With my right, I slipped the vial and hypo from my pocket. But if I was hoping to inject the kitten without his noticing, I hadn’t counted on a young cat’s curiosity.

  “Toy?” One small paw came up to bat the vial.

  “Not quite.” Releasing him, I opened the vial and filled the needle. In my last practicum, I had gotten this move down. “Medicine.”

  He looked up and then started, as the needle made contact with his flesh. “Oh!”

  “Sorry, kiddo.” I smoothed his fur, hoping to distract the little fellow from the spot where I had punctured his hide. Treats would have been better, but I hadn’t thought that far ahead. I couldn’t think of how to explain what I’d just done. I could at least have provided the feline equivalent of a lollipop. “There, all done.”

  “Sick?” Those blue eyes looked up at me. I blinked back. This little fellow got more from me than I had thought.

  “Not now, Ernesto.” Even as I said it, I realized I was prevaricated. Getting the vaccine was certainly better than getting the disease. That didn’t mean it was entirely safe. “Now you’re going to be fine.” I really hoped I wasn’t lying.

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  In an ideal world, I’d have stayed with Ernesto all day, watching to see if he had a reaction. In an ideal world, my bills would pay themselves, too. And so after making myself a turkey sandwich—and making sure that both resident felines had their share, minus the bread and mayo—I turned my thoughts toward business.

  “Watch him?” Wallis was still lapping at the thigh meat I had left for her, but a single flick of her tail acknowledged my silent plea, and I set out again.

  With my windows open to the spring afternoon, I let my thoughts fly as I drove. Left to their own devices, they hovered around the Canaday girls. What can I say? My mind is more crow than swallow. I am drawn to carrion.

  It wasn’t only the backbiting and jealousy that drew me. It was curiosity. As an only child, I’d fantasized about having a sister. Someone to keep me company when our parents fought. Someone who could explain why my father was never home, and my mother was always angry. Of course, in time, I figured out the answers to that last bit by myself. By the time I took off, I was grateful to have so few ties to cut.

  In her way, I figured, Judith was the most like me. She had fled from the traditional daughter role. Taken off and started some kind of life for herself out on the West Coast. It didn’t seem to be working out as she’d planned, otherwise, she wouldn’t have come back hoping to win her father over, I suspected. She certainly wouldn’t have lied about the kitten’s origins. That didn’t mean it hadn’t been the right move for her. I didn’t know the age difference between Judith and Jackie, but Judith looked at least a decade younger than her sister. That could have been because she’d had her taste of caregiving and decided to take care of herself. Whatever she gave up when she ran off, she certainly seemed better off.

  Then again, I could see Jackie’s side, too. I’d come back to Beauville for my own reasons. I had needed to get out of the city, away from a life that had driven me too hard and too close to the edge. It was an accident of timing that my mother was in her final decline when I returned, though caring for her did make a good cover for what was really a full-on retreat. Still, I had done what I could, taking on responsibility for the old house and my not-so-old but more decrepit parent.

  Of course, I hadn’t been alone. My mother had had the sense to set up hospice care for herself while she could, and much of what I did was follow the instructions of the professionals who came by with increasing regularity. In fact, much of what I had to do—set up a hospital bed, do the laundry, do more laundry, sit and wait—was precisely what I needed, not that I’d known it at the time. My brain was soothed by the simplicity of the routine. Life pared down to its basics. But emotionally? It was exhausting. My mother was strong. She was a fighter. That only made it worse to watch her lose her abilities, day by day, knowing full well how the battle would end.

  From what I gathered, I didn’t think Jackie had ever gotten away. I doubted she had felt like she had much of a choice but to care for her father as he stumbled and declined. Yes, I could see what she’d gone through, too.

  Not that her suffering gave her license to kill a kitten.

  Unless she didn’t mean it. As I drove, this option began to seem more viable. There was an edge of hysteria to Jackie. She seemed to be wound so tight, her voice a little too strained and loud for the circumstance. So maybe the kitten thing was simply part of that. She was angry. She had lashed out. I should have seen her for what she was—a sad and aging woman who had given up much of her life and now felt she’d been cheated. It was a reaction, nothing more. After all, who would really want to hurt a tyke like Ernesto? Unless the kitten was a stand-in for her sister. Jill might be too young to remember their father’s pet name. But Jackie? I bet she remembered everything.

  Which left Jill. Whatever Judith had once been to their dear departed dad, by the end, her younger sister was clearly the loved one. The baby. From what I’d gathered, she’d not escaped, she’d been launched. Sent on her way with her father’s blessing only to return every few months, at least according to what she’d told me. And yet, she was the one who wanted to go into animal care—the field her father had been so critical or, rather, suspicious about. No, I told myself as I pulled up to Laurence Wilkins’ house, I didn’t understand sisters.

  I did know squirrels, however. Squirrels and, I liked to think, dogs. I listened for the dog Wilkins called Biscuit as I walked up to the house. That poor sheltie wasn’t happy, and if I could, I’d help her out. Shelties, like so many breeds we’ve made pets of, are work dogs. Shepherds. From the little I’d seen and, more importantly, heard, the old gal was bored. Granted, at her age, she might have other issues. We don’t often hear of dementia in animals, but it happens. But the way she was still harping on her lost mistress spoke as much of her lack of present-day occupation as of grief. The lawyer’s wife had been dead—what?—ten years? If this dog had been mourning her mistress all that time, it also said something about Laurence Wilkins’ insensitivity,
as much as about the little sheltie’s loyalty.

  She still made a good watch dog, though. No person answered the door, when I rang. But one bark—alert and inquisitive—responded. Wilkins was out. His dog—his wife’s dog—was not.

  “Biscuit?” I asked the air.

  “Who?” The bark was short and sharp. A warning, as much as a question. Age hadn’t muted the faithful dog’s hearing.

  “I’m a friend.” It’s hard to communicate an abstract concept. “A friend of your person.”

  “Who?” The same bark, the same question. Maybe the old girl really did have some dementia.

  “Biscuit—” I caught myself. One of the first things I’d learned, once this sensitivity had manifested itself, was that animals have their own names, their own ways of referring to themselves. The dog Tracy Horlick knew as Bitsy, for example, was really Growler. “Who are you?”

  Silence, though I got the sense of a low whine, heavy with longing. “Sheila,” the answer came back finally. “She called me Sheila.”

  “Pleased to meet you, Sheila,” I responded. The formalities are different for animals, but with her inside the house and me out, she couldn’t exactly sniff me.

  “Are you a friend?” The thought was accompanied by a sweet taste—malt, maybe, mixed with peanut butter—a favorite of dogs.

  “Next time,” I promised myself as much as her. “Next time, I’ll take you out, too.”

  ***

  As I pulled the tarp off of Albert’s ladder, I wondered what the sheltie had made of the squirrels. She’d have been aware of them—and they of her, for sure. Maybe the rodents had picked up on the little dog’s advanced age. Or maybe they’d simply taken the risk. Had Sheila been frustrated by their continued presence, their incursion into a house she must consider her own? If so, would she consider me an ally—or a competitor?

  Not the latter, I hoped, as a third possibility flashed through my mind. Maybe the sheltie had made peace with the invaders. Could a canine find common ground with a creature her person considered a pest? It was possible, I thought. Loyalty—and gratitude—could be funny things.

  I dismissed this train of thought as I positioned the ladder. And once I had climbed up to the roof, I couldn’t help but pride myself on a job well done. As far as I could tell, nothing was stirring under the eaves. The wire mesh had been chewed, and when I touched it, I received a flood of memories. Nest, babies. Safe at home. I jerked back as if burned. Yes, some squirrel had nested here. Raised her babies. But that story was over now. Those reflective thoughts merely memories. It was late May, and the spring had been a warm one. Those babies might still be spending time with their mother, but they were adults for all intents and purposes. And they were out of the good lawyer’s roof. My work was done. I’d send an invoice to Wilkins. Maybe offer to do another inspection in the fall. I had to come back with Albert’s truck for the ladder, anyway.

  “Nest, babies! Nest!” It wasn’t only the squirrels who had family issues to deal with. I started down the ladder with the late afternoon bird chatter ringing in my ears. Spring. It’s a noisy mess, and I looked forward to the day when I could truly block it all out.

  “Mine!” A discordant caw broke into the chatter, rough and loud. That crow again. The one I had heard out here last time. Amid all the anxious peeping, his voice was singular and clear. “Mine!”

  The sounds hit me so hard, I had to close my eyes. Dizzy, I put my hand out, touched the warm slate. Nest. Babies…No, I couldn’t go there. I had a job to do, and I had done it. More mercifully than many others would have. I had to work on stopping this. On not hearing every voice. I descended the ladder and folded it once again. My job here was done.

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  I tried to put those voices out of my mind as I made my way home. The spring weather was mild. I had more important things to worry about. My own nest to protect, so to speak. What did Jill really want, for starters? That was what I needed to figure out. On the surface, she was the solution to my problems. Want to learn how to work with animals? Here, take your father’s kitten. Two birds with one stone.

  Until the situation with her sisters settled down, though, I didn’t feel comfortable entrusting Ernesto to her. Wallis may scoff at my atrophied instincts, but something was hinky with that family, and Jill was a part of it. Even if Jackie had called me in a fit of grief-induced pique, giving the kitten to her youngest sister wasn’t likely to improve that particular relationship—or get my bill paid. Of the three, Judith probably had the best claim on the little cat. I didn’t see her changing her tune anytime soon, though. And considering what had happened to the last creature in her care, well, maybe that was just as well.

  Speaking of instincts, Wallis was waiting when I got home.

  “How is he?” I hadn’t realized till the words were out of my mouth that I’d been worried. “Is Ernesto okay?”

  “Relax.” She stretched on the word, extending one hind leg in a perfect balletic line. “He’s fine.”

  “No reaction to the vaccine?” I wasn’t sure how much Wallis had picked up.

  “I didn’t say…” another stretch, “…that.”

  “Wallis.” I caught my breath. Cats cannot be hurried. “Where is he?” If he were having a reaction, I promised myself, I would rush him back to County General. I would confess to Doc Sharpe. I would…

  “It’s not his body.” Wallis cut into my thoughts, her tone acid. “It’s his mind. What did you tell him, anyway?”

  “I didn’t.” I paused. What had I been thinking when I’d injected the fluffy little creature? Had I given him a preview of distemper—or of County? “Why?”

  “He’s been going on about his mama again. And that damned button. Oh, and he has a new word: medicine.” She used the word gingerly, and I wondered how she understood it. “Oh, I understand enough, Pru. I know that you dosed him with something. And Ernesto knows it too.”

  This was the problem with this so-called gift. Well, one of several. When it worked, great. I’d been able to help some animals—some people, too—by serving as an interpreter between the species. These days, though, it felt more like a burden than any kind of blessing. Either I heard what I didn’t want to hear—what I didn’t need to hear, I reminded myself—in order to do my job. Or what I could get wasn’t useful. If anything, it created more tension. Someone else would probably fawn all over that cute kitten. Me? I wanted to shake him. Or at least demand that he speak more sensibly.

  I was becoming my mother.

  I was also like her, I realized, in that I was waiting on a man. Creighton was becoming a habit. Not a bad one, but not good either. We were getting closer, and I knew what was coming next. Already, he’d started—pushing me to open up, as if that were possible for someone like me.

  It wasn’t just my natural reticence. I know I’m more like Wallis than she would ever admit. But more than my privacy, my sense of personal space was at stake. Even if I wanted to—and, yeah, I got the temptation—it wasn’t like I could tell Creighton what was going on. Sure, he’d shut me out from what he knew about the Canaday investigation. Kept me from info that could have made my life—and Ernesto’s—easier. But he could—and did—claim work. Privilege. Privacy. Even as I pushed, I had to respect that.

  I didn’t have a similar excuse. Yet there was no reasonable way to share what I was dealing with. That my one benefactor was pushing me to take on a protégé of my own, an impossibility that could threaten my freedom. That my cat was giving me grief for not understanding a kitten’s problems. That my nerves were frayed and battered by the constant assault of all those voices. No, for all our growing intimacy, there was too much that I had to keep from him. It was a lousy deal and getting harder. It made me want to drink.

  With a sudden surge of energy, I reached for my jacket and my car keys. Doc was right about one thing. I’d been too much of a hermit. Winter can do
that to you, as can having a semi-regular bedmate. Spring was here, though, and I didn’t like to rely too much on any one man. Besides, I needed information about the Canadays. About lawyer Wilkins, too, if I could get it. I was headed for Happy’s.

  Chapter Thirty

  Happy’s is as close as I come to a family institution. Back in the day, my father used to hang out here, drinking away whatever money he’d managed to earn. Not that I crossed paths with him. When he was around, I was too young for our town’s one dive bar. Too much my mother’s daughter, wondering and wishing why Daddy didn’t come home for dinner. Why Mommy had to work so hard.

  By the time I gave up wondering—gave up trying to make things right with Mom, too—my dad had moved on. Supposedly with another woman, one of many who was more tolerant of his drinking. In reality, he was driftwood, chasing a dream in a bottle. When he died, it didn’t make much difference to us. My mother got some money since neither of them had bothered with a divorce. But he’d been gone so long by then, the mourning was itself a memory.

  Still, Happy’s had some resonance for me. Virtually windowless—the small slit in the front nearly obscured by that neon beer sign—it was a claustrophobic time capsule. The Berkshires the way they used to be, before the yuppies and their money. Happy, the original owner, was an old-style barkeep. He’d be behind the thick oak bar himself most nights, pulling drafts for working folks, pouring out shots without comment. I didn’t know if he ever smiled—the name was typical of the dark barroom humor. What I did know was that he was gone by the time I came back to town. The new barkeep could have been his brother, though I never bothered to ask. A face lined like an old hound’s, mouth aged from keeping mum. When I took a stool at the bar, he poured me a shot of bourbon without my having to ask. It had been a while, but at Happy’s—at all the real bars I’d ever frequented—they remember.