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

by Clea Simon

  “But—” The sputtering was back, albeit softer. Dark lashes fluttered over those striking eyes. A bit theatrical, if you asked me.

  “And now, I’m sure your cat is in safe hands?” This last came with a look at me.

  “Of course.” I couldn’t read this scene. “I was afraid the cat had been hurt. She was agitated. It made sense to take her to a vet.” I wouldn’t have brought any animal to our town pound. At least now I understood what was going on. “This is the Beauville shelter, and Albert’s a trained animal control officer, but the county shelter is a fully functional animal hospital. Doc Sharpe runs it.” I thought about the deafness, but decided to leave it. This woman had had enough to deal with today. “Your cat is fine.”

  “You authorized that?” She’d turned on Creighton now. “You could have told me. I was frantic.”

  “Now, now, Mrs. Franklin. Louise. I did tell you—”

  “I didn’t know. How could I?” She wasn’t listening, instead rattling around in her bag. Creighton reached for a box of tissues, but she beat him to it, pulling out a lace-edged handkerchief to dab at her eyes. “You didn’t say.”

  “We were talking about what I would have to take with me—only as a loan, of course—to submit as evidence. And I’d gotten up to your husband’s collection.” He was good at keeping calm, but I could hear the frustration in his voice.

  “You were interrogating me, and all I could think was, ‘Where’s the cat?’”

  “I’m sure I—”

  “And there was a window open. Someone had left a window open. The cat was alone. Unsupervised and it has never been outdoors. There are woods out here. Wolves—”

  “Your cat is safe, Mrs. Franklin.” Even Creighton has his limits, and Louise Franklin was acting more like a fishwife than a new widow. “I’m sorry that I suggested coming down here. I wasn’t thinking. But Ms. Marlowe is an animal expert, and she exercised sound judgment bringing the animal to Doctor Sharpe.”

  He looked up at me. This was my cue.

  “We wanted to make sure the cat hadn’t been hurt.” Even as I said it, I winced. I’d been stupid. It wasn’t fear of losing the cat that had this woman so panicked, but her actual bereavement. I may not be the most sensitive observer, but even I could have figured out that she was flailing. “Your pet is fine—will be fine.”

  “It’s not that.” The sniffles were fading. The widow was getting a little control back. “It’s that the cat—Fluffy—was all alone. And it was a gift from my husband.” Wrong thing to think about. Her eyes were welling up again. “A very expensive gift. It shouldn’t have been left all alone.”

  “I’m sure you can go visit her at County.” I thought of Fluffy, all fluffed up with fear, and wondered what the Persian really called herself, in cat terms. That’s usually one of the first things I get. Well, maybe she’d be more willing to communicate once she’d seen the widow. Louise Franklin wasn’t the kind of classy silver fox I’d imagined—and her escort was a little obvious—but maybe her cat loved her. “And she’ll be released as soon as Doc Sharpe can do a thorough exam on her.” No need to tell the grieving widow that the cat seemed to prefer to be alone. Hell, that animal wouldn’t let anyone near her.

  “I don’t want that cat released. I want to get rid of it. It’s a horrible animal!” More tears. Understandable, probably. But something was hitting me as wrong here. A moment ago, she had been panicked, afraid the cat had gotten lost or been stolen.

  This wasn’t the time to discuss it. “Why don’t we give it a few days, Mrs. Franklin. Fluffy is in good hands, and you don’t have to make any decisions right now.”

  “I want that cat gone.” She was on a tear. Face buried in the lace, her shrill voice barely muffled. “Awful creature.”

  I swallowed my distaste. She’d been through hell. “If that’s how you feel, Mrs. Franklin, I know of several reputable rescue groups.” Someone would want a pedigreed Persian. Assuming the animal would settle down. “They can arrange an adoption.”

  “Rescue?” She looked up mid-dab. “Adoption? Are you crazy or just stupid?”

  I wasn’t going to answer that one. I wasn’t the one who had named a cat “Fluffy.”

  “That cat is a valuable animal. Didn’t you hear me? It was very expensive. A breeder will pay good money for that animal.”

  This woman wasn’t being rational. Then again, her husband had just been killed. I’m not the most patient, still I tried to keep my voice calm. “The rescue groups are very reputable.” Until we resolved the deafness issue, no breeder would touch her, even assuming the cat’s papers were in order—and as good as the grieving widow seemed to believe. I had my doubts. “I’m sure that within a week or two, they can place her—”

  “Are you deaf?” Her choice of words caught me up short. “Or just dumb?” The insult didn’t. Before I could let loose, though, Creighton stepped in.

  “Mrs. Franklin, I know this has been a horrible time for you.” He actually had his hands out, ready to restrain whoever needed it. “Please, why don’t we have your friend take you home? Let’s let the animal professionals worry about this, okay?”

  “Rescue.” She sniffed once more. I don’t think it was the tears. “Please.”

  People. There was a reason I was lived alone.

  Chapter Eleven

  As annoying as they are, people are a necessary part of my business. And so as the widow was being helped into a rather nice leather coat, I gave her the rundown on Doc Sharp and County.

  “Doc Sharp will have given your cat a thorough examination by now. From what we could see, she may have gotten banged up a bit.” What we could see. I’d let the good vet explain the rest.

  The widow gave the kind of ladylike snort I’d expect from Princess Achara. Well, she had been recently—and violently—bereaved. Though come to think of it, she had seemed more upset by the fact that her cat had been taken without her express permission than that her husband had just been killed.

  Creighton’s no mind reader, but I could tell from the look he shot me—brows ever so slightly raised—that he knew what I was thinking. The look worked, and I kept my mouth closed. Grief. It did funny things to people.

  She took off, finally, once everyone seemed to have fussed enough, her hunky escort in tow. I’d have liked to query him, at least find out what he was being paid, but I doubted I could afford his time. Instead, I hung around, hoping Frank would pop out of some hole in the desk. In the meantime, I queried Creighton.

  “So?” The reappearance of Tom, my burly New Yorker, had me back on my game. Tom had been a cop, too, back in the day. He had taught me the silence trick. Next best thing, he always said: leave the question open. They’ll fill in the blanks.

  “So, what?” Creighton probably went through the same training.

  I pulled up a chair to stall for time, leaning back to rest my feet on Albert’s desk. “That’s the widow? Excuse me, didn’t her husband get killed yesterday? Shouldn’t she be planning a funeral or something?”

  “The funeral director is taking care of that, Pru. Her assistant is helping, too.” He choked on that, but got it out. “She’s all over the map emotionally. You should have seen her earlier. I did. That sometimes happens.”

  Creighton does a good deadpan. Good enough so I couldn’t tell if he was using it now. His lack of response brought me back to something else that had come up. Eve Gensler had said something about the widow’s health. She could have been talking mental health.

  “All over the map, huh? Was that usual for her?” I tried to study his face, but he’d closed the cover. I thought of Mrs. Pinkerton’s snippy aside. “And that boy toy?”

  “Pru.” It was a warning. Assistant indeed.

  “So what was going on back there? I mean, before she started freaking out.”

  Another shrug. I should have known.

  “Come on, Creighton. You were asking her about the gun, right? And she starts freaking out about her cat?” About a cat she didn’t eve
n want. Maybe the lady was sick, maybe not. The whole thing seemed odd to me.

  “The window was open.” He gave me that. “At first, we thought there had been an intruder, but there’s no evidence of one. Nothing missing, as far as we could tell. We’re waiting for an inventory from the insurance agency, but the victim had his wallet and his watch with him. Hell, some of those antiques were worth as much as—”

  He looked around. The town splurged on this new building. It’s still not much.

  “And you checked outside?” The room had been on the ground floor.

  “You going to tell me how to do my job now?” His mouth got tight. “Or maybe you think that out here in the boondocks, we don’t understand big-city forensics.”

  A noise behind me stopped me from having to respond.

  “Um, hello?” Albert was standing behind me. His blue parka, patched with duct tape on the sleeve, implied that he’d been outside, but I’d been keeping half an eye on the door and suspected that he’d been hiding in the back. “Everything okay?”

  “Hey, Al.” I avoided answering his question, but I did take my feet off his desk. He unzipped his jacket and took a seat. “Cleaning cages?”

  “Checking supplies.” I was right. He’d been hiding. “You want to help, Pru?”

  “I came to visit Frank, actually.” I smiled as I said it. This had become a running joke between the two of us, and Albert was good-natured enough to take it, even when I added my usual line. “I always seek out the company of the most intelligent male in the room.”

  Creighton made a sound that could have been a cough. Albert didn’t say anything, but he reached into his jacket and brought out his slinky pet. The shiny black eyes blinked at the light, and I didn’t try to hide my glee.

  “Frank.”

  “She likes my ferret,” Albert said, not so sotto voce. Creighton watched us both.

  That was the problem. Unlike most of the folks in this one-track town, Creighton had a brain. We hadn’t spent that much time together, but he’d picked up something. He knew there was something going on beyond what everyone else said about me being a single woman with a cat—or me just “getting along” well with animals. He had watched me with Doc Sharp, and with Pammie, the vet tech. They worked with animals, too. And he saw the difference.

  On the prowl?

  The voice sounded so clear in my head that I almost responded out loud. I caught myself in time and tried to reach out to the ferret with my thoughts. Yes, I was on the prowl. For answers, for truth. Trouble was, I wasn’t sure what exactly was bothering me.

  “We’re done here. Right?” Creighton was talking to Albert, which confirmed my suspicion that the fat man had called for help after the widow had descended.

  “Ah, yup.” Albert had the grace to look embarrassed, and turned away to root through a desk drawer. “Thanks, Jim.”

  Juicy? Salty? Fresh? Frank, at least, had been distracted by the movement. His sharp eyes now focused on Albert’s hands. When he came up with a peanut, the ferret leaped on it.

  “Isn’t he darling?” That was addressed to Creighton. It was meant to throw him off track.

  “You feeling okay, Pru?” He’d been heading toward the door. Mentally, I kicked myself.

  “It’s been a rough twenty-four hours, Jim. That’s all.”

  Another question seemed to form in his mind. “Look, I’ll take care of the widow. She’s—she’s had a shock. You can get that cat back into shape, right?”

  I could have sworn that wasn’t what he had been meaning to ask. I didn’t want to answer any more questions, though. “I’ll work on it, Jim.” What would happen to the Persian, that was a question for a different day. “I’m kind of wiped. Okay?” That did it. Creighton waved to us both and took off. Albert, meanwhile, had found a few more nuts in his drawer cache, some of which he shared with his pet. I needed to go see the Persian, but the chance to confer with Frank—Albert’s better half—was too good to pass up.

  “Something going on with you two?” For a moment, I was confused. Albert was talking about Creighton, though. Not his pet. Albert may not be bright, but even he couldn’t miss all of the signals we were giving off. “I mean, beside crime-scene stuff?” He popped a peanut into his mouth, his eyes as eager as the ferret’s.

  “He’s just jealous of all the time we spend together, Albert.” I leaned forward onto his desk, both to shut the big man up and to make physical contact with Frank. It worked. I doubt Albert had been this close to a woman in years.

  Frank, however, was more interested in the remaining peanuts. Had I discouraged him from communicating by ignoring him? How could I explain my all-too-human dilemma?

  “Hey, little fellow.” I reached out to the small animal, palm up and low. Still, he started back and I braced myself. Ferrets have sharp teeth.

  Stop it, stop it, stop it. No, no, no. I won’t! All of this hit me as the lithe creature gave a sharp squeal. How could you? He spun around, and dived into the open drawer, leaving me and Albert both staring.

  “Guess your boyfriend doesn’t like you anymore, Pru.”

  “Guess not.” I was thinking as fast as I could. It wasn’t me, it couldn’t be. The little animal knew me too well and by training and instinct both, I’d approached him in a manner that should have signaled submission, if not friendship. Something had scared that poor creature out of its not inconsiderable wits.

  Chapter Twelve

  If I had been willing to explain the interruption in my day, the rest of it would have gone easier. Beauville gossip being what it was, I declined to blame my tardiness on either Creighton or the widow. Instead, I rushed through my next few appointments with a few muttered words about “an emergency.” Lucy the poodle looked up at that, even if her person didn’t.

  “I am sorry, Mrs. Gensler.” The woman looked like nobody ever apologized to her, and I didn’t like being one more to take advantage.

  “It’s fine,” she waved one hand in dismissal, exposing bitten nails. “My niece said she’d come by after her hair appointment.”

  “Oh?” Robin was certainly someone who could tell me more about the Franklins. “Should I wait for her?” Beside me, Lucy whimpered, and I silently apologized.

  “No, no.” Another wave of that battered hand. “She’s so busy these days.”

  She said. I remembered what the toy dog had told me as I snapped on her leash and led her prancing out the door. I’d been warned, but I still wanted to talk with her. At the very least, she had to be more forthcoming than Louise Franklin.

  “So, what do you say?” The poodle was trembling with excitement by the time we got to our first tree. I was getting images of every other dog in the neighborhood, and remembered that she had asked about Growler. Was the little dog going into heat?

  “Oh, please!” A sharp bark stopped that thought. “Just because I’m pretty…” I got an image of dark hair, glossy as fur, and I wondered if the little dog had ever met the widow. But then we came across two squirrels, so caught up in their mating dance that the little dog almost had a chance. I gave her enough lead and watched as she stiffened with attention—almost at point—and began to stalk. The gray rodents raced up a tree in the nick of time, taking Lucy’s focus with them. Once again, I couldn’t help but notice the change in her behavior—from pampered toy to pure dog. Just as well. I had no desire to repeat Growler’s response.

  “Mais oui.” Once again, Lucy must have picked an image, if not the thought. “If he wanted…” Some thoughts are better left unfinished.

  By the time we got done, it was past two. I needed to get over to the shelter, but I’d given Wallis my breakfast and the rumbling of my stomach was drowning out my conscience. Besides, if I swung by my house, I could consult with my tiger-striped housemate.

  Twenty minutes later, she was sniffing at the sliced turkey I’d put on a plate for her. I’d cut it up, knowing from experience she’d drag it behind the sofa to eat it if I left it whole. She licked it delicately, her whiske
rs flexing as she took in its rich poultry aroma. When I recounted my interaction with Frank, however, she didn’t even try to hide her glee. “What do you expect? Little rat-like thing like that.”

  “Wallis…” As far as I knew, the two had never met. If they had, she might have found they had a lot in common. “He isn’t a rat, you know that.”

  “No, he’s a weasel. That’s worse. They think they’re so smart.”

  That was it. My tabby was jealous. I’d come home to find her sitting in the window, letting the sun warm her mottled fur. I’d reached for her—old habits died hard—and she’d allowed me to stroke her thick, smooth coat. For a few seconds there, I had thought we were on good terms. Now I realized she was just using the contact to amplify her access to my thoughts.

  “Well, he does, Pru.” She sat up on the sill, which put us at eye level. I didn’t respond, beyond a stare and within seconds she had turned away. I’d won that battle. I’m also smart enough to know when to make peace.

  “He’s been useful, Wallis.” I came closer, but kept my face turned toward the window. Hints of green had begun to appear amid the greys and browns. A light, hopeful green. “I mean, he gets to see a lot of what goes on at the pound, and he’s more reliable than Albert.”

  She chuffed, a feline laugh. “The squirrels in the attic are more reliable than that loser.”

  I was about to agree—it felt good to be back on a collegial footing—when it hit me. “Wallis, how do you know what Albert is like?”

  “Fat guy? Flannel?” She was staring intently at something in the yard. I saw wind in the trees, nothing more. “He came by a few times, last year.”

  “Once.” He had, early on. Everyone in town knew my mom, and when she’d passed most of them had stopped by. Some of it was idle curiosity, I knew. I’d not been very visible during my few months back. Either way, the casseroles had maintained us both for several weeks. I had an image of Wallis glaring at me from inside an empty cupboard. I’d not been taking very good care of myself. I’d only started to come back to life when the dragging routine of hospice had pulled me back under.