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

by Clea Simon

  As I eased onto the road, I mulled the question further. There were other incentives to stay in Beauville. For starters, there was my car: a 1976 Pontiac GTO. I’d not thought about driving all those years in New York. Out here again, I realized how much I loved it. The freedom, the power. Things get bad, and you go. And so when my old Toyota had died in a midwinter storm, I’d indulged myself. The vintage muscle car was a work in progress, its baby blue paint job and 455 cubic inch engine the smoothest things about it. That was fine by me. I needed a hobby, and the price was right. Besides, I loved how it ate up the road, that big motor purring like a cat.

  There were other benefits as well. As the crisp, fresh air reminded me, I’d come for the quiet. Midday, and all I heard were some bird calls—the usual “I’m here, I’m here, I’m here” as returning species searched for mates and nests. Even these weren’t too obtrusive anymore, more background noise than anything.

  City life was louder. That was its nature, and at first, I’d accepted that. After I’d discovered my new sensitivity, however, the constant noise had rubbed my nerves like sandpaper. Too many voices, on all the time. Not just the people and their neurotic city pets, but all the urban wildlife—rats, raccoons, squirrels—had crowded into my consciousness till I thought I would go mad. One nest of pigeons, in particular, had nearly driven me over the edge with their familial inanities, day in and day out.

  Plus, after more than a decade in the city, I’d soon gotten used to having more space. And with our newfound communication, Wallis and I got along much better if we could each retreat during the day. Though recently, with my various clients, I wasn’t around as much, and she seemed to be growing a little more sociable. I didn’t know if she missed me, if she’d begun to forgive me for uprooting her, or if age was making the tabby a little needier. Still sleek and plump as she neared fifteen, Wallis no longer went out much at night. She said that was to keep me from worrying, and I didn’t question that—not out loud, anyway. Whatever she read in my thoughts, she kept to herself. We were learning how to get along.

  As I pulled my blue baby into the parking lot of China Pearl, I mentally organized the week. I’d rushed my morning walk with Growler, a bichon frise and one of my regulars. A summons from the cops will do that, but I also knew that my notoriety—and a first crack at the local news—would keep me in the good graces of most of my clients. My stops this afternoon were all routine. Cleaning the filter of the big tank at the Chinese restaurant was pretty much brain dead work. I’d offered to teach the owner’s son, but Mrs. Chen was having none of it. It wasn’t so much that she wanted her boy to study, though that would have fit the stereotype. It was more that she knew the value of the huge tank and didn’t want to risk it. More than the oversweet moo shi, the angels, tetras, and their ilk drew families from across the county. And her son, well, she knew he didn’t need any distractions. She didn’t know that he’d found a major one in his gym teacher, and that the two were carrying on hot and heavy when Joe Jr. was supposed to be cramming for his MCAS. I knew because a little bird had told me. Literally. Unlike the chickadee, I kept my beak shut.

  Forty minutes later and I had done my wet work for the day. Metaphorically, too, as I’d disposed of an ailing suckerfish who had outlasted his prime. I felt for the skinny beast. He’d done his best for the tank, and I’d have let him live. But Mrs. Chen knows her business, and the sight of the little sucker as he floated to the top and then struggled to regain his equilibrium had been putting some diners off their eight delights.

  “Sorry, little fellow.” I could hear his confusion, his growing panic, and I apologized under my breath, as I netted him from the tank. Wallis would have had a field day with that. Then again, she also would have wanted to play a bit before I dispatched him with a quick blow and then flushed his corpse down the toilet. Maybe it’s just as well we have a little space.

  I was thinking about Wallis as I drove to my next gig, a bridge partner of Mrs. Pinkerton’s. For all our disagreements, it has been Wallis who has helped me most with this strange skill of mine. She’s the one who explained to me how it works, as best she could, anyway.

  “You might call it mind reading.” She spoke as she would to a kitten; that was the level she was dealing with. “What goes on, I hear. And you hear me, more or less. Always have.”

  I’d started to protest at that, but she’d stopped me before I could form the words. She was right. I’ve always sort of understood what my cat was thinking. We all do.

  “Only difference is, you used to ignore it. Like most of them.” Wallis had a life before I found her at the shelter. She doesn’t like to refer to it. “Now you’re back at square one. With kittens it takes a while to learn what to tune out. You’ll learn.”

  I never did, not really. It had been a year, and the best I could manage was to not be overwhelmed each time I walked into the shelter. Maybe part of my longing for the city was really a fear of what was coming. May, June…this place was going to become a madhouse.

  “Wow! Wow! Out! Out!” Going to be? As I cruised into the Genslers’ drive, I could hear my next client, voicing her discontent. “Out!”

  “Lucy! Quiet!” Poor Eve Gensler. She didn’t have a clue. Everything about her, from her tentative tone of voice to her physical response, was designed to egg her dog on. “Lucy!”

  The woman who let me in was wearing a faded housedress and flapping her arms ineffectually. The miniature poodle she addressed was leaping in the air, her nails clicking on the linoleum flooring as she danced in circles around her person.

  “Now, Lucy.” I kept my voice low, my arms by my side. Body language is key to animal communication, especially when you’re stuck using some poor creature’s human-given name. “You know that’s not how we behave in the house.”

  The dog calmed enough to sit, although her tail wagged frantically.

  “Nancy’s right. You have a gift.” Faded and gray, Eve Gensler looked as worn out as her dress. I kicked myself for bumping my visit till midday. Poodles are smarter than most people give them credit for. That also means they get bored quicker, and my three times weekly visit was probably all the excitement she got.

  “It’s nothing special,” I lied. “You remember what we talked about?” I smiled as wide as I could. By all reports, Eve Gensler had raised a son. The polar opposite of her gregarious bridge partner, this pale remnant of a woman seemed incapable of disciplining anything. She needed my training skills more than her dog. “Tone, body language. Control?”

  “I know, I know.” She shuffled off to get the leash. “I try, I do. But she’s just so full of life.”

  “May we go out now?” More jumping, the poodle up on her hind legs like a circus dog. “I can’t keep this up much longer.”

  “I know,” I answered them both. “She’s young. She needs her exercise.” Some fresh air might do her person good, too. “I’m sorry I couldn’t get here this morning. Would you like to come out with us?”

  “No, no, I can’t.” Her eyes widened, as if afraid of the prospect. “My niece is coming by.”

  I snapped the tawny toy’s lead on with a sigh of relief. I’d asked in a moment of weakness. I don’t get paid enough to walk them both.

  “Besides, I heard what you were doing.” Eve was still talking. “Nancy called me and gave me the details. Robin—that’s my niece—was friendly with the Franklins.” She shook her head. “Makes me glad I never had a daughter.”

  “Sorry?” I hadn’t really been listening. After Mrs. Gensler’s poodle, I had two more appointments—and I wanted to get back to the shelter, see that Persian again.

  “Don’t be.” The way Eve was already heading back down the hallway. “According to Robin, the marriage was as good as over. Still, it makes one wonder.”

  I stood there, staring at her. So small, her voice so quiet. And yet…the level of gossip in our small town continued to surprise me.

  “Cats,” the faded old lady was talking to herself now. “Horrible creatur
es. Nasty. A dog would never do that.”

  Chapter Six

  The poodle relaxed as soon as we were out the door, which made my job easier. Her person had given me food for thought, and I was chewing it over as I took the little dog on her rounds. What I wanted to know, basically, was whether the gossip was true. Was the Franklin marriage on the rocks? If so, did Jim Creighton know? It would be all too easy to stage an accident, and I had no idea why my friendly neighborhood detective seemed to be so sure the Persian was to blame.

  “Out! Out!” While I was musing over the possibilities—and whether I should alert the hunky cop—the small dog was greeting the world. “Wow, wow.” Some things were the same in any language, but as we turned a corner I began to wonder about the poodle’s intellect. Poodles may be one of the brainier breeds in general, but there are always exceptions.

  “Wow?” Some of it, I knew, was suggestion. Eve Gensler encouraged the worst kind of behavior—the jumping, the dancing, claws on the floor—even as it overwhelmed her. I’d been hired to train the tawny toy, as well as exercise her a few times a week, although most of our time together was spent simply walking. Lucy should have known better; any dog past puppyhood would. To some extent, she was simply bored and full of pent-up energy. Then again, any animal who willingly accepts a name from a human is probably not the sharpest tool in the woodshed. Lucy, of all the animals I’d come in contact with in Beauville, was the only one who had blinked at me when I’d asked her, in a moment of privacy, her real name.

  “Lucy, non?”

  “You’re not French. And—are you sure?” I didn’t know what I’d expected. Grimaldia. Fluffanella. Even Quiche Lorraine. Something that fit the little dog’s exuberant personality. But Lucy?

  “Why not? Oh, oh. Wow!”

  We didn’t have the most scintillating conversations, and I had come to accept the truisms about toys. Small dogs, small interests. Now I watched her snuffle and explore, her eager nose reliving the visits of other canine visitors as we made our way down the block. She’d found one particularly interesting place to sniff and soon after relieved herself. City training dies hard, and I reached to retrieve her waste.

  “Merci.”

  That was unexpected, and I looked up to find the shiny black eyes considering me carefully, the fluffy blonde head tilted slightly.

  “What?” It came out as a typical short, sharp bark. For a moment, I wasn’t sure how to respond. “Toy?”

  The acid in her tone called me back to myself. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to…” I shook my head. Sometimes there was no winning. “Look, I’ve got a lot on my mind.”

  The little dog kicked at the ground, a gesture I knew well. Wallis used it as a catchall. Waste, bad food. Whatever she wanted to dismiss. “And I’m not your person, okay? She’s not a bad sort.”

  “Rrrough.”

  “Yeah, she looks the worse for wear.” I didn’t know Eve Gensler’s past, but I found myself wondering about her parting comment. It, too, had had a bit of an edge. “Does she always gossip like that, or is this something she picked up from that niece she’s talking about?”

  “What is this ‘niece’?” The answer came so fast and clear, I stopped in my tracks. Lucy came up short on her leash and turned on me with a look. “Walk?”

  “Sorry.” I was lucky she wasn’t a cat, and we moved on while I tried to formulate my next question. “The niece…” It would have helped to have a face. Instead, I visualized Eve Gensler, trying to add some color to the cheeks and hair. “Robin?”

  “Oh!” The little dog half barked, half snorted, and I looked over to make sure she wasn’t choking. She wasn’t, but the way she batted her eyes up at me made me wonder what else was going on. “Nice coat.”

  “Excuse me?” The poodle was proving more talkative than I’d expected. Just not in any way I could use.

  “Nice coat.” Lucy looked up at me again, waiting. “But!” Poodles, I don’t know.

  “But what? She wasn’t trained? She wasn’t well bred?” I was reaching. Trying to put myself in the vain little dog’s mind.

  “We are pretty girls. Pretty. But we are more than a nice coat.” That could’ve been a statement about Robin or me. More likely, the poodle was referring to herself. “Non?”

  “Oui,” I caught myself. “But can we cut out the bad French?”

  With a canine shrug that shook her torso, Lucy trotted forward. Whatever point she’d wanted to make, she had made, and I was left to interpret. Still, she’d tried, and as we headed back toward Eve Gensler’s dimly lit house, my heart went out to her.

  “Lucy, want to walk another block?”

  “No!” Lucy’s bark was shrill. Decisive. She’d crouched down, ever so slightly. The posture was classic submissive. It also allowed her to look up at me through her lashes. Ears perked, the look was pure flirtation, leading me on. “Maybe the river, perhaps?”

  “You’ve been down to the river?” Somehow, I couldn’t see old Eve making it that far.

  “Non.” Those eyes, so large and liquid, would have filled with tears, if they could have. “She always promised…”

  It was fast, so fast I almost missed it. A flash of something—irritation. Intelligence. At any rate, something neither flirty nor faux French.

  “Robin.” It was a statement, not a question.

  “She said.” The little head hung down now, the bright eyes hidden. “Said.”

  And didn’t follow through. Even I could see that. “Could have been, she was nervous.” We weren’t exactly in the wild here. There had been talk about wolves, though—about Eastern gray wolves coming back into the area. I doubted it, but, then, I’m not the type to be scared of a rumor.

  “No! No! No!” Each bark grew more assertive. “No!”

  “I don’t think so either,” I said. So I led her back toward Eve Gensler’s house and, checking to make sure we weren’t being watched, opened my car door. Despite the weak sun, it was chilly out. More like late winter than spring. But it was dry and the cold air would clear my head. I needed to think, and Lucy deserved a treat. Wolves or no, we were going to the river.

  Poodles are water dogs, and Lucy was quivering with excitement as she smelled the damp, rich smell. With snowmelt and the various spring thaws, the little river had thrown up enough silt to dampen the banks damp and leave them frankly fishy. The water itself looked muddy and fierce, a far cry from the clear stream that would draw the kayakers in July. Still, Lucy strained toward it.

  “We can’t.” I took a preemptive step back. I didn’t know if this little toy would want to dive in, see what she could retrieve. The water level had retreated to something like normal, but if I couldn’t see the bottom, I didn’t trust it. Besides, I’d never hear the end of it if I brought back a wet dog. “I’m sorry.”

  Lucy whimpered, her tail momentarily stilled. Then she was off again, sniffing everything. Watching her in this setting, I could forget that she was a toy. Lucy was pure dog here, with none of the affectations of the bored house pet. I’d never seen her so happy.

  “Growler?”

  I thought I’d misheard her.

  “How is he?”

  “Fine.” I was taken aback. It was easy to forget the complex world of smells that connected the canine world. The tawny toy must have picked up some scent of the white puffball I’d walked that morning. I doubted the two little dogs had met.

  “Fine dog. Fine.” Her snappy bark accented the thoughts. I nodded.

  “You’ve been neutered, right?” The thought sprang to mind before I could stop it. Wallis would have words with me for that.

  “Huh!” The little dog barked back. Wallis would have words about that, too.

  ***

  By the time we got back, Eve Gensler was beside herself with worry.

  “Lucy! Where were you? I was—I was—” Two red spots appeared on her cheeks, and while the color should have been a welcome addition, I felt a twinge of guilt. She was such a timid creature.

  �
�It’s such a beautiful day.” I took the offensive. “The first day that really feels like spring, doesn’t it? So we went for an extra-long walk.” She was still sputtering, so I threw in my pièce de résistance. “No extra charge.”

  “Well, all right.” She bent to pick up the little dog, whose tail was wagging hard enough to make her body shake. “No charge?”

  “Nothing extra.” I smiled. In a previous life, this woman must have been a doormat. She smiled back. I had my opening.

  “So, your niece? Robin, is it? She’s a friend of the Franklins?” I trusted the poodle’s take more than her person’s. Still, it would be good to know.

  “Mrs. Franklin took to her. She didn’t spend that much time at their club or anything. Something about her health, and Robin’s always been a bit of a loner anyway. Poor girl.” I wasn’t sure to which woman my client was referring.

  “Ha!” said the dog. I didn’t need any translation for that.

  At this point, I wished I were free. I’d have loved to have bounced this new information off Wallis. Maybe even called Creighton. In an unofficial capacity, of course. We’d had one or two pleasant run-ins over the winter. A few nights that made us both wonder, and that made us both back off when we realized just how small this town is. Opposites attract. Always have. And it didn’t exactly hurt to have the law on my side.

  As far as that went, anyway. Jim Creighton might look schoolboy fresh, but he was smarter than he was pretty, and I had to be careful not to give up too much when I thought I was doing the questioning. I was curious as to what he had, though. More curious because of that brief flash from the cat—“I’m sorry.” How could he tell if the Persian had pulled the trigger? Was it even possible?

  Thoughts of killing, accidental or otherwise, seemed particularly apropos as I pulled up at Mrs. Pinkerton’s little bungalow. Even before I climbed the stoop, the strangled howls reached me, paused, and then started up again.