Kittens Can Kill: A Pru Marlowe Pet Noir

by Clea Simon

  “Oh, hell.” Something was wrong. I could tell. “Where is he?”

  “Where else?” I followed her as she led me to my bedroom where Ernesto was curled, fast asleep on my pillow.

  “Wallis?” I turned to her. I’d picked up discomfort. That something was wrong.

  “Look.” Her whiskers, as well as her Egyptian nose, pointed, and I saw it. An old catnip mouse I’d gotten Wallis, back in the day. Now it lay, half-eviscerated, on the comforter.

  I laughed with relief. “I’m sorry, Wallis. I’ll get you a new one.”

  “No, you silly. Look!” I wasn’t sure what I was supposed to be seeing. Ernesto was sleeping normally. He looked peaceful. Healthy. I sat on the bed and placed my hand on his fur. His heartbeat felt steady and calm.

  “Christ.” Wallis’ use of profanity was unnerving. “Don’t you have a phone to answer?” She grabbed the dismembered toy and jumped to the floor just as my cell rang.

  “Hello?” I didn’t recognize the number.

  “Pru, thank God!” The voice, however, was familiar. Jill—even more breathless than usual. “I’ve been trying to reach you.”

  “I just got home.” I waited, as Wallis batted at the toy. If Jill was expecting me to invite her over, she could think again.

  “Can you come over? I’m at Larry’s.” I closed my eyes. Willed myself not to lose my temper. “It’s Biscuit.”

  “Jill…” I took a breath. If Jill told me about the dog acting out, I would explain how to handle it. That poor animal was probably bored out of her mind. If she’d begun barking incessantly or wouldn’t stop herding Jill, it wasn’t my fault.

  “She collapsed. Panting.” A pause, during which I could hear Jill’s own breath. “I think she’s really sick.”

  “Wait, what happened?” I looked up at the clock. “I was there less than forty minutes ago.”

  “I know.” Jill had the grace to sound a little ashamed. “I was in the house. My sister was coming over and I didn’t want her to—I didn’t want to see her. I heard you when Larry took Biscuit out for her walk.”

  I thought back. The little dog had been herself. Curious, eager. Ready to play.

  “Jackie got here just as Larry came back.” Jill was still talking. “I waited until they’d gone into his office and I—I wanted to let Biscuit out some more. He didn’t really take her for a long walk. I filled her bowl and went to call her, and that’s when I found her.”

  “Found her?” Wallis, alerted by my tone, was staring at me.

  “She’s collapsed. Just lying there, all hunched up. And her breathing—Pru, it doesn’t sound good.”

  “Jill, listen to me.” I tried to recall everything I knew about the sheltie. Thought about her love for treats—for sweets. “Is there any chance she could have eaten chocolate?”

  “What? No, there’s no chocolate in the house. I wouldn’t.…Oh, Pru.”

  She started to wail again. I had to think fast. If I were there, I would have grabbed her face. Made her look at me. Made her focus. All I could do now was use my command voice—pitched low, a little louder, trying to get through. “She may have eaten something else—something she shouldn’t. Has she vomited?”

  “I don’t know, Pru. I don’t know!” This wasn’t working.

  “Do you think you can make her vomit?” I thought of my own animal emergency kit. “Do you have any ipecac or any other emetic?”

  “I don’t know!” She was wailing. “I’m at Larry’s and he’s gone out and, Pru—she’s shaking!”

  “Jill!” I yelled to get her attention—this girlishness was no longer cute—as I made some quick calculations. “Look, you’ve got to take her to County and quickly. I’ll call Doc Sharpe and tell him you’re on your way. And, Jill? Hurry.”

  While Wallis watched, lashing her tail, I called Doc Sharpe. When Pammy picked up and offered to take a message, I may have been less than polite.

  “Pru, you don’t have to bark at me.” She giggled at her own weak joke.

  “Pammy, this is an emergency.”

  “For emergencies, we recommend taking the ill or injured animal over to Amherst…”

  “Pammy!” I yelled loudly enough so that Wallis gave me a perturbed look. “I know the script, but I can’t. This is serious.”

  “Well, I don’t know what to tell you Pru.” A pause, during which I heard her pop her gum. Xylitol—the sweetener in sugar-free gum—was another sweet canine poison. The possibilities were endless. “Doc Sharpe’s left already. I’m only here because he told me I had to clean the cages.”

  “He left?” Doc Sharpe practically lived at County. “Never mind.” I didn’t have time to get into it. The man was allowed to have a life. I also didn’t have much choice. Jill would already be on the road, and County was better stocked than I was. Cursing my poverty—I was always telling myself to put together an animal emergency kit, or at least get some activated charcoal—I gave Pammy some quick directions. She started to sputter and protest, but I was in alpha mode.

  “Just do it, Pammy.” I didn’t have time for another Jill Canaday.

  “Jeez,” she whined a bit, but at least she heard me. “You don’t have to yell.”

  Before I could take off, however, I had to figure out what was going on with Ernesto. “Wallis, what is it? What am I missing?”

  “Just go, Pru.” Wallis was looking at me, her green eyes holding my gaze. “He’s sleeping.” She didn’t add that he would be okay. Cats are pragmatic and, like all animals, realists. She was giving me permission, and with a nod I took it.

  Jill was racing up the walk to County when I pulled up, burning rubber as I screeched to the curb. “It’s closed!” She was sobbing, the dog in her arms limp. “It’s closed.”

  “Come with me.” Leading her around to the side entrance, I pounded on the door. Not even six, and the place was locked tight. Pammy, still motivated by my outburst, opened it relatively quickly and stood back as I barged inside. “This way.”

  Switching on lights as we went, I led Jill—and a curious Pammy—into the first examining room, where I motioned for Jill to lay the sheltie on the table. “Hold her, please.” I needn’t have bothered—the dog lay still. Her tongue lolled out of her half-open mouth, her eyes dull. Affecting a calm I didn’t feel, I placed one hand on the sheltie’s silky fur. I could feel her heart racing. It felt irregular, but my own pulse was going so fast, I couldn’t be sure.

  “Sheila?” I focused on her soft warmth, hoping to get through. As I did, I pictured the house, the garden. The torn leaf clusters under the ladder.

  “There were squirrels there.” Her voice was weak. “I heard them.”

  “Good girl.” I wasn’t sure who I was talking to, but both Jill and Pammy stood to attention. On the table, Sheila wagged her tail once and then let it lay limp. It was both heartening and heartbreaking. I had to act fast.

  “Pammy, you have the hydrogen peroxide?” For once, the ditzy assistant seemed to have followed my instructions, and it was the work of a minute to fill a syringe. “The basin?”

  She held it out. This was the scary part. Hydrogen peroxide will usually make an animal urp up whatever has made her sick, but not always. I had helped Doc Sharpe insert a stomach tube to give activated charcoal, but that was iffy—especially without a qualified assistant—and if the sickness or poison was of a different sort, then making the poor dog vomit might actually be counterproductive. I wasn’t prepared to intubate if Sheila stopped breathing. I wasn’t entirely sure what had poisoned her—or if, indeed, it was poison.

  “Jill, I’m kind of flying by the seat of my pants here.” I held up the syringe. “This may not work.”

  “We have to try it.” She sounded confident, and for a moment I believed her.

  “Your boyfriend may not agree.” I wasn’t going to not act. I was, however, suddenly aware of the potentia
l penalty for killing a lawyer’s pet. “I mean, if I’m wrong, and Sheila’s gotten into some kind of caustic chemical or she chokes…”

  “Pru, please. Just do it!” Another limp wag of the tail. And so I did. With Jill holding the dog upright, and Pammy holding the basin, I injected a large syringe of the fizzing, bubbling solution down the sheltie’s throat.

  I withdrew the syringe. We waited. At least the dog was still breathing. I hadn’t choked her.

  “Is she gonna…” Before Pammy could finish, the dog on the table lurched. I held my breath. If Sheila went into convulsions, there was precious little I could do. But then, with a second lurch and a kind of choking bark, the sheltie heaved, spewing foam and what looked like green vegetable matter past the basin and onto Pammy herself.

  “Can I put this down now?” Pammy held out the empty basin.

  “Yes, thanks.” For all her prissiness, the ditzy blonde aide had been a brick. I turned to pull a handful of paper towels from the dispenser for her. As she wiped herself down, I knelt to clean up the mess on the floor.

  “Look!”

  I jumped up, terrified. Jill was still holding the little sheltie. But now, instead of laying, limp, in her arms, the little dog was struggling to her feet, her claws scrabbling against the metal of the table.

  “You saved her!” Pammy hugged me.

  “We saved her.” I hugged the assistant back, ignoring her damp jacket. “Good work, folks.”

  “Thank you, Pru.” Jill’s face glowed as she beamed at me.

  That’s when I realized that something was wrong. Now I’m not a big one for hero worship, but it wasn’t just the younger woman’s wide dark eyes that were making me uncomfortable.

  “Tell me again what happened,” I finished mopping up the floor, more to make my questions sound like they weren’t important than because I wanted to do Pammy’s job for her. “Starting with after I left.”

  “After you left?” I reached for the basin and wiped it down. Rinsed the syringe and put it aside to be sterilized.

  “I told you.” Jill sounded exhausted. She had reason to be, but I had my reasons. “Larry took Biscuit for a walk, and I guess he ran into Jackie. Maybe that was why the walk was so short.” She paused, and I followed up, peering at her over my shoulder.

  “Did you see them? Do you know if Jackie had any interaction with the dog?”

  “What? No.” Jill was shaking her head. “If you’re thinking that my sister…”

  “I’m not saying anything.” I wasn’t. There are a lot of things that could sicken a dog. “I mean, it sounds like your boyfriend wasn’t the most careful of caregivers.”

  It was a low blow. It was also the truth, and I was sick of pretending. Jill flushed. Pammy, meanwhile, had gone moon-eyed. She might not know the details, but she knew a soap opera when she heard one.

  “No way, uh uh.” Jill wasn’t getting mad at me. Not yet. “He’s just busy. He doesn’t know animals. Doesn’t connect with them like you or I do…” She paused, and I waited. Something had occurred to her.

  “Larry Wilkins is your boyfriend?” Pammy couldn’t resist. I cursed her silently.

  “He’s a friend, okay?” Jill was on the defensive now, but something in Pammy’s little moue of disapproval made me take note. “And he’s not a—a dog poisoner.”

  “Okay.” I ceded the point for the moment. “Then what do you think happened?”

  She bit her lip, which made her look even younger than her years. “Maybe she got into the garbage?”

  It was possible. But even as Jill spoke, another possibility was dawning on me. That Jill had sickened the dog. Maybe to cast blame on her sister or her lover. Or maybe—and this thought made my skin crawl—to get closer to me. Munchausen’s by proxy, with a pet. I stepped over to the table to check on the poor dog.

  “How are you doing, girl?” I stroked her head as I asked, by all appearances simply another affectionate human. Silently, focusing in on those soulful eyes, I asked another question. “What happened to you?”

  “Sweet…” She was still weak, exhausted by her ordeal. Even as her thoughts reached me, I could feel how tired she was. How much she wanted to sleep. “I’m a good girl…”

  “Yes, you are, Sheila.” I cupped her head in my hands. “You’re a very good girl.”

  “I had to…” The doggie consciousness was slipping away.

  “You did it again.” Jill interrupted us. I could have slapped her. Instead, I fixed a smile on my face and turned to her.

  “What are you talking about?” I asked.

  “The way you talk to her.” A chill started up my spine as I realized my mistake. “Pru,” Jill was asking, “why do you call our dog Sheila?”

  Chapter Fifty-eight

  “Just seems like the right name for her,” I said. I could feel a flush rising up my cheeks. Anger, more than embarrassment. So I went on offense. “I mean, Biscuit? Really?”

  “I guess.” She kept eyeing me. But by then, the examining room was back together. And Pammy, at any rate, was eager to get going.

  “You think I can still charge Doc for the OT?” She had her keys in hand.

  “I’ll ask him,” I promised her as I rummaged around in the cabinet. “I know the financial situation—” I paused, remembering. “Hey, Jill, where does Larry stand on the Friends of County?”

  She looked at me blankly as I handed her a cardboard carrying case. It was the kind we give out when people adopt cats or rabbits, but Sheila was small enough to fit—at least for the ride home.

  “Your father,” I explained as I lifted the snoozing sheltie into the box. “He was on the board, and he was pretty consistently against raising expenses. Even for behavioral training. But maybe you have some influence?”

  “Oh, I don’t know about that.” She was blushing now, too. Pammy, who was pointedly holding the door to the exam room open, raised her eyebrows to me over the other girl’s back. Clearly, the blonde assistant had some thoughts about the May-December romance. And about the need to leave. “Larry’s been a big supporter of my work. I mean, the work I want to do,” Jill was saying to the floor. “He’s been after me to get more involved.”

  “He could put his money where his mouth is.” I pointed out, as I ushered her into the hall. “Take your father’s place on the board.”

  “He’s actually been encouraging me to take his place,” she said. “But he already knows all about it, and there’s a lot of paperwork.”

  “Doesn’t seem that complicated.” I followed her to her car as Pammy locked up. “I’m sure you could do it.”

  “Thanks. Maybe I’ll take a look.” That blush again as she looked up at me. I helped her slide Sheila’s carrier into the back seat.

  “I want you to keep an eye on her.” I adjusted a seatbelt around the box. “Any more trouble breathing, any seizures, anything like that, you call me.” She nodded vigorously, as I reached out one more time, trying to make contact with the exhausted dog. “And call Doc Sharpe first thing tomorrow. You should have him give Biscuit a thorough going-over.”

  “Will do, boss.” I turned, breaking contact with Sheila, but Jill seemed to be all smiles. “But I think I’m going to start calling her Sheila. It just seems right.”

  Chapter Fifty-nine

  I was too tired for anything serious after that. But too wired to call it a night, I started driving and found myself downtown—if you can call anywhere in Beauville that. I’d pulled up behind Happy’s before I’d realized where I was.

  “Beer.” I corrected the barman as he reached for the bourbon. One thing I didn’t need tonight was to get a load on.

  “On the wagon, huh?” Mack. I should have known. He emerged from the depths of the bar, bottle in hand. “Me, too.”

  “I don’t think beer counts.” I reached for my own bottle and raised it in greeting. Mack did the same, a
nd rested his on the bar without taking a drink. That might have cost him, I couldn’t tell for sure, but he’d made his point.

  “Not when I’m working.” He read my look. “Now that I’m working again.”

  “Good for you.” I looked past him. Happy’s is dark at the best of times. Call it design, call it evolution. People don’t come here to be seen. “You here with Dave?”

  “You looking for him?” He eyed me, curious. I didn’t deign to answer. “No, just some of the guys,” he said finally. “Join us if you want.” With a shrug, he was gone, leaving me feeling oddly alone.

  Happy’s. This was my place as much as Mack’s, only now I felt like a stranger. It wasn’t gender. I’d always been one of the few women who hung out here. I’d always been able to hold my own. More likely it was Creighton. Everyone knew I was with a cop, and that made everyone wary. Even, I figured, my ex.

  Only I wasn’t. Not tonight. In fact, not for the last couple of nights. My choice, I figured. I could have called him. Gone home and waited. Not that either option would free me of the basic underlying problem. I cared for Creighton. We had something—something he’d called “love.” But if he ever found out the truth, if he ever really got to know me, that would all disappear.

  I took a pull from my bottle then, closing my eyes as the cold beer ran down my throat. Craving the faint buzz that would take the edge off the day, off the loneliness that could never really end. Drinking for the feel of it. It wasn’t that I didn’t understand where Mack was coming from. I did. Too much, maybe. That was why I’d asked for a beer. That was why I’d waited till now to drink it.

  “Want another?” I swallowed with a start. Randy, from the smoke shop, was standing before me, a little too close. Something about his smile told me that he could see my thirst.

  “No, thanks.” I put the bottle down on the bar. It was, I realized, empty. Happy brought over another. “I can get my own.”

  “I like a woman who can drink.” I hadn’t asked. He didn’t make it seem like a compliment. “My girl, now, she’d be a lot happier if she could put it down like you just did. A lot less uptight.”