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

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Cats Can't Shoot: A Pru Marlowe Pet Noir #2 (Pru Marlowe Pet Mysteries) Page 9

by Clea Simon


  Of course, Wallis could have been talking about something else entirely. Hunting, hunters…The appearance of Tom and even Mack had gotten me thinking about some extracurricular fun of my own, the kind my warm-blooded companion would certainly pick up on. Even Lew seemed to be in play, somehow, though perhaps more on the widow’s team, this time out.

  It was all a little too much too fast, and I tried to ignore a niggle of unease as I drank my coffee and pondered the day. Growler to start with. I had told Jim Creighton I’d come by first thing, but I had a job to do. Besides, I’d not had a chance to really talk to the irascible bichon yesterday, and his nose had helped me out of a jam before. I also had some questions for Eve Gensler. Her poodle, Lucy, was too flirty to be trusted. But maybe her pale owner could fill me in. Now that I’d met the niece, what she’d said about the Franklin marriage had more credence. Robin was more than a gossip. She was a possible correspondent in what could have been a divorce case. Or at least a contender for the cat’s affections. Whatever role Mack played I didn’t know. Didn’t want to know. But I’d be damned if I was heard asking any man about the girl who seemed to be his latest playmate.

  If I was hoping for a tête à tête with Growler, however, I was to be disappointed. The clear early morning had clouded up by the time I got to the Horlick residence, and fat raindrops were marking the dirt on my windshield as I pulled up. I didn’t care; I’d grabbed a slicker and an umbrella both on my way out. But when Tracy Horlick opened the door, she looked up at the sky as if it might be poisonous.

  “Looks bad.” The cigarettes had made her sound like something out of an old Western. “Real bad.”

  I stifled the urge to laugh. “Almost time for April showers, Mrs. Horlick.” I peered past her, looking for the dog. Experience had taught me that the bichon was usually dying to get out of the smoke-filled house. “Is Growler—I mean, Bitsy—ready to go?”

  Tracy Horlick trained one gimlet eye on me. I could have kicked myself.

  “Oh, come on.” I plastered a stupid grin on my face to make a joke out of my lapse. While I prefer to use an animal’s chosen name out of respect, I couldn’t forget who paid the bills. “Don’t tell me you’ve never thought that such a tough little feller needs a tougher name?”

  “Bitsy is a bichon frise.” The way she said it, stressing the French pronunciation, made her lipstick crack. “Not some mutt.”

  “Gotcha.” I nodded and reached for the lead. I didn’t need her making comparisons to other animals in my care. Or to me, for that matter. “So where is Bitsy?”

  “This weather.” She gestured with her cigarette, oblivious to the ash that threatened to fall. “I don’t like it. I’m not going to have him walked today.”

  A muffled yelp made its way to me. Indignant, to the point of being incoherent. I heard it as a cry for help. She’d locked him in the basement again.

  “A little rain won’t hurt him.” I was on my best behavior now. “And he should have his exercise.”

  Too late. I’d pissed her off, and she was going to take it out on the dog. “And then I get to have a wet dog in the house? Do you know what that smells like?”

  Yes, I did, though with her habit, I was surprised she could still smell anything. Still, I owed it to the dog to keep trying.

  “Why don’t we go for a short walk? I’ll only charge you half for the day.”

  Wrong note. “He can use the yard. I don’t have to pay for that at all. And you, with your fancy friends—you don’t exactly need the money.” With that, she closed the door fast enough so that I had to step backward to avoid getting hit. I didn’t know what I had done to piss her off that much. Fancy friends? Did she mean Lew—or Louise Franklin?

  Of course. Old lady Horlick was friends with Eve Gensler. If the widow was clamping down, exacting some kind of revenge on Robin, then the weird bridge-playing sisters of Beauville might well join forces against her. I thought of what Wallis had said. Tracy Horlick lived for gossip, the nastier the better. For her to shut me out meant she must no longer want my info. Or, I mused as I walked back to my car, she’d found a more compliant asset.

  Replaying my history with her, I drove slowly to the Genslers. It was early for the poodle pit stop, but I wanted more time to think. Besides, if Eve Gensler could tell me anything about her niece, I might end up with something to bring to Creighton. When you want information, barter works best. And the dog wouldn’t complain. Come to think of it, I wasn’t sure if that little poodle would even notice the difference.

  “Oh.” Eve Gensler’s round face looked at me blankly. She was wearing her housecoat. Then again, she always was. “You’re early.”

  “I know.” Again with the big fake smile. “Another client cancelled, and I thought Lucy might appreciate getting out a little earlier. I can even take her for a longer walk.”

  “Oh.” That sounded noncommittal, but she shuffled off down the hall in worn slippers. The door was open, so I followed her. Rain is all very fine, but I don’t mind coming indoors every now and then.

  “I finally met your niece,” I called, staying on the mat. I was fishing, but I also couldn’t afford to lose all my clients. “She’s quite lovely.”

  “Oh, thank you…” Eve’s voice was soft under ordinary circumstances. From the other room, it was basically inaudible. She kept talking, however, and I waited, reminding myself that paying customers were allowed their ways.

  “But she hasn’t gotten snippy with it.” She reappeared with the poodle already on her leash.

  “Excuse me?” I squatted down to greet Lucy. She sniffed my hand silently, gathering up the details of my day. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Gensler, I didn’t hear you.”

  “Hmm.” She sniffed, and I wondered how much time she’d been spending with Tracy Horlick. “I was just saying, now that she’s gotten herself all done up with her fancy friends and all.”

  She clearly wasn’t talking about Mack, and I waited for her to continue.

  “How nice for her, Mrs. Gensler.” It was a prompt, but she didn’t respond. “I’m glad she’s meeting interesting people.” Nothing.

  I opened the door, ready to try my luck with the poodle. The sky had lightened a bit, but the air had gotten colder. I thought I could smell snow. “Come on, Lucy. Fancy a run?”

  “Don’t overdo it.” Eve Gensler piped up again. “She’s a delicate little thing.”

  “I understand.” I didn’t. This pale shadow of a woman had never tried to second-guess me on dog care before. Something was going on, but I’d sort it out later. Lucy barked once—a short, sharp yelp—and wagged her stiff tail. Jumping up on her hind feet, she bounced around in a circle, almost like a circus performer. It struck me as a little obvious, but Eve Gensler melted.

  “Isn’t she adorable?” She reached down to pet Lucy’s fluffy head, and the little dog wagged her tail so hard her body shook. Then she looked up at me and barked once more. That was my cue, and we were gone.

  “Where to, boss?” I was joking, but only slightly. I’d never managed to really break through with the little toy. Recently, I’d begun to wonder if it was me—if my preconceptions about the breed had encourage her standoffishness. Of course, she could just be stupid. Still, it was worth the try.

  “Stupid? And who picks up the waste here?”

  Her response took me off guard, and I stopped in my tracks. She responded by pulling on the leash. It’s a bad habit, one that I’d learned to train dogs away from. In this case, however, I understood, and with a silent apology gave her some more of the lead and picked up the pace. This wasn’t the first time that my stated job and my real motivation were at odds, but with time the dichotomy was becoming more obvious—at least to me. With a twinge of conscience, I thought of Growler. Tracy Horlick had said something last week about “nipping” and I’d said I’d look into it. Nipping—biting by any other name—was a really bad habit. If for no other reason, it could lead to an animal being surrendered, or even summarily euthanized if the bite went too de
ep. I’d tried to explain it away, telling the old bag about play aggression, about how her little neutered male needed to enact the gender roles dictated by his genes. She hadn’t bought it, I could tell. Maybe because I was lying. I mean, what I was saying was true ninety-nine percent of the time. But in Growler’s case, something else was going on. That little dog hated the person fate had stuck him with. I couldn’t say I blamed him.

  Lucy, though, seemed to be a happier dog. Eve Gensler might not be much of a person, but at least she wasn’t actively aggressive—and she really seemed to care for the poodle. Whether Lucy reciprocated or just had the old woman’s number, I couldn’t tell. I’d picked up that she’d knew how to play her person, but the fact that she’d also accepted the name the little gray woman had given her was unusual. I used it now to try to break through.

  “So, Lucy, what’s up with the Gensler family?” I said the words out loud, much like I’d talk to Wallis. In my head, though, I tried to picture Eve Gensler and found myself focusing on the housedress, which must have once been pink. I’d meant to wait before asking about Robin, the niece, but as soon as I’d thought of her, her pretty, plump face sprang into my mind.

  “Huh!” Lucy barked. I stopped and looked at her. She was standing tall, her stiff little tail wagging fiercely.

  “What is it, Lucy?” She relaxed and kept walking “Are you trying to tell me that she’s—what?” A dog’s tail wag can mean a lot of things: friendly or excited or even dominant…

  “Belly up.” The words came to me, along with an image of a sniffling muzzle reaching up to lick another. Combined with what I suspected about Robin, I saw it as suggestive. At the very least, flirtatious.

  “Huh!” Another chuff from the poodle.

  I raised an eyebrow. She tilted her head. “Isn’t this what you recommend?”

  “Not for me.”

  Well, Lucy was spayed. I filed the hint for later. At times like this, I really missed Wallis. Not only could my cat and I actually converse, she occasionally offered to intervene—“boosting” my sensitivity to help me get the gist of what other animals were saying. Other cats, anyway. I couldn’t imagine her translating for a dog.

  “Lucy?”

  Another bark interrupted me. Louder this time. This time, the message in it was clear as she pulled again on the leash. “You, however, could learn a little something from that one,” she had said. “And tell Growler, if he wants—”

  Not that again.

  “If he wants, he can get along a lot easier.”

  “You want me to tell him how to train his person?” The idea made me smile, despite everything. With another huff of a bark, Lucy pulled me along the walk.

  Chapter Seventeen

  “Hey, Jim. Good to see you.” I wasn’t nervous, not really. The rest of the walk had been uneventful. Frustrating, really, and my inability to get any other reaction out of the small beast had been annoying. That last bit had sounded positively condescending, though it was possible she was repeating something she’d heard. Something meant to put someone off. Robin, Eve. Maybe even me. Still, by the time I got to the police station, I tried to banish any questions from my mind. Calm, that was key. Creighton might be more than a cop, but he was never less. By taking the lead, at least conversationally, I established the rules of the exchange up front. We were friends at least. I wanted our meeting to be cordial.

  “Pru.” He didn’t. Great. “My office, please?”

  I followed him down a short corridor that had quickly come to look older than the rest of the building. The bitter tang of stale coffee permeated the air. Maybe it was just a generic cop shop smell, but it brought me back to my teens, when I’d been hauled into the old headquarters once too often.

  I wasn’t a kid now, though, and I stood tall as I walked by Creighton through the door he held open for me. One desk, a little too neat for me to understand. A plastic chair, designed to be uncomfortable. I was suddenly aware of the morning’s activity. I had washed my hands, but I’d been out in the rain. Well, too late to do anything about it now. Trying not to think about how I looked, I sat. And waited. One small window opened onto the alley behind the building. One tree, still bare, stood there alone. I made myself turn back toward the man who’d brought me here. At the very least, he could offer me some of that overcooked brew.

  “Coffee?” He knew that much.

  “Thanks.” He turned away from me as he left. Only then did I realize that I’d been hoping to catch his eye. I turned back to the tree. Fewer expectations. By the time Creighton returned, mug in hand, I had my cool back. I waited while he placed the thick ceramic mug in front of me and took his seat. When he did look at me, his eyes were strangely flat.

  “What’s your relationship with Llewellyn McMudge?” The wind in that alley couldn’t have been much colder.

  “Is that what’s going on?” It didn’t feel right, but I forced a laugh. I’d never made Jim Creighton for the jealous type. Then again, he was a good boy. Traditional at heart. “What do you think my ‘relationship’”—I made air quotes with my fingers—“with him is?”

  “Just answer the question, please.” The last word was tacked on. It didn’t help my mood.

  “Casual.” Anything else he was going to have to work for.

  As it was, he nodded. I’d confirmed something, and I didn’t like how that made me feel. “What, Jim. Jealous?” He wasn’t going to make me feel cheap.

  “When did you see him last?” He saw how I was sitting, lips tight, and continued. “This is official, Pru. I need to know.”

  “You need to know?” I put all the sarcasm I could into my voice. I’ve learned a few things from Wallis. “And dare I ask why?”

  “Answer the question, Pru.” I swear these new buildings had no insulation. I could feel the frost from the window. “When was your last contact?”

  He was getting snooty. He was also a cop, so I thought back. “A few weeks ago.” That had been our weekend in Saratoga. It had been fun, and I’d been a little surprised when he hadn’t called. Then again, I hadn’t called him. Either way, Creighton didn’t need to know the details.

  “A few weeks.” He weighed it in his head. “So you last saw him in February, early March?”

  “Yeah, first week of March. First weekend.” This was getting weird. “Why?”

  “Have you talked to him since then? Texted, emailed, whatever?” He paused, as if to consider me. “Please don’t get legalistic with me, Pru. I need to know if you have had any contact with McMudge.”

  “No.” Then it hit me. “And I only called last night because of the cat.”

  I was baiting him, just a little. He didn’t respond. “And just because of the cat?”

  “Yeah, and you picked up.” The awkwardness of that call came back to me. I was not happy in the role of supplicant. “I was thinking of trying him again.”

  “Pru, is that the truth?” He leaned forward on his desk. I couldn’t avoid his eyes now. Those lovely baby blues were latched onto mine, searching for something I couldn’t name. “Please, I need to know.”

  That phrase again. He was a good cop. I’d spent enough time with Tom to know the difference. I looked at him, the questions forming in my mind. He could pull my phone records, if he had to. Trace my movements. He didn’t need me to answer, not really. He wanted me to, I realized, with a shudder that I tried to quell before it showed. Caught in those spotlights, I didn’t mind so much as I would have, a few months back. Instead, I swallowed and put on a smile before answering.

  “Cross my heart and hope to die, Jim.” My voice held, steady and low. “I haven’t spoken to Llewellyn—or seen him—since the beginning of the month.”

  He smiled at that. Tried not to, but I caught the twitch at the corner of his mouth. I liked that. He had misinterpreted my comment. I’d have taken a call from Llewellyn, sure. What the hell. A girl likes to know that she’s appreciated.

  “Really glad to hear it, Pru.”

  I could have purre
d. He wasn’t done, though.

  “Because, you see, we’re investigating everyone who has been in contact with Llewellyn McMudge. Everyone who he had on speed dial. Everyone he’d been close to.”

  “There were so many?” We had never made any pretense of monogamy. Still. With a slight sting, I realized that maybe Wallis had been right. I should be getting out more. I looked out at the gray day, ready to go.

  Creighton didn’t answer. But the onetime beau sitting across from me wasn’t done yet.

  “You see, Llewellyn never came home last night. That’s what I was dealing with when we spoke, Pru.”

  So Lew hadn’t come home. The cops had had been at his house. This was getting interesting. “Have you talked to the widow?” I had an image of a king-size bed in that grand old house—or maybe in one of the nicer resorts. “She’s the one who used him as a man Friday, or whatever you call it.”

  “I’m talking to you, Pru.”

  I ignored him. “You know, I wondered about that whole scene the other day. Her fussing about the cat. What was it you said—that you’d been asking her about the guns?”

  “About the collection. The dueling pistol was a new acquisition, and a pricey piece from all we’ve heard. Not just because of the silver engraving on it, either. That bulb on the outside, the ‘scent bottle’ that held the fulminate for the charge? That was only in use for a few years, until percussion caps came in, so that helps date it to 1800 or so. Also makes it more or a rarity. Funny thing is, we’re not sure where it came from. There’s no rider for it on the Franklin’s insurance. No record of a purchase—cash or charge—in their accounts. And, well, let’s just say, we’re looking into its provenance. But she’s been tied up with funeral arrangements, which is another reason we were trying to contact McMudge. We know he could make himself useful in a variety of ways. Facilitate things. Maybe you knew that, too.”

 

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