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

by Clea Simon

  “Yeah, you said,” I retreated, “I would have to do some work with her.”

  “That’s fine.” That testiness had traveled to her voice now, matching a new tightness around her lips.

  “There’s a question of how to proceed.” An alarm bell began ringing somewhere behind the low throb. “I’d like to bring the cat back here, at least temporarily.”

  “Out of the question.” She cut me off, slashing the air with her hands. I couldn’t really say I blamed her. “I will not have that animal in my house. It or—or—that gun.”

  I nodded. I figured the pistol would still be in police custody, but at some point…“Had your husband been a collector?” I wanted to know. I also wanted to give her a chance to cool off.

  It didn’t work. “No, never.” Her mouth was set now, showing her age. “He was interested, sure. He liked pretty things. Pretty rare things. But I wouldn’t—not in my house.”

  No question about the pronoun now. No question of exploring new interests, either, for that matter. I was getting a sense of this woman. She wasn’t ill, no matter what Mrs. Gensler had been told. Not unless being spoiled and rich was a communicable disease. But no matter what she’d encouraged her husband to try when he was alive, now she was scared—scared and trying to cover it up—and her frightened outburst had given me an opening.

  “So, did Mr. McMudge find it for him?” I was doing my damnedest to avoid the word “procure.”

  That was what the widow heard though. “He may have,” she said, her voice as tight as if she had bitten into a lemon. “It was one of his…contacts. All I know is it was a gift. I was spending the week. I always get ready for spring at Canyon Ridge. When I came back, it was here. He said it was a gift.”

  She might as well have called it a curse. Considering what happened, I could see why. “From Mr. McMudge?”

  She shook her head once, but didn’t speak. Robin, I thought. A princely present in exchange for the ring? Or had the young woman come into money of her own somehow and wanted to be generous? I remembered what Mrs. Gensler had told me about Louise taking the young woman in and wondered how far her generosity had extended.

  I’d need more leverage before I could pursue that avenue. “I should let you be, Mrs. Franklin. And I should get back to your—to Fluffy.” I looked around. The room was elegantly appointed, but spare. “It would help if I could have something that would be familiar to her. A toy, maybe. Or a blanket she slept on.”

  She looked away. In profile, I expected to see her tears. Instead, I saw the muscles work in her jaw. “There’s nothing. I threw it all away. That animal.” She said it like it was a bad thing. “I want it groomed to sell. That’s why I asked Mr. McMudge to deal with it.”

  “I’m sure he would have.” I was trying to be sympathetic, really I was. But that tone…“He was very good at being useful. Especially to women.”

  “Are you implying—?” The tears were gone now. “How dare you? Mr. McMudge was not a friend. He was a valued associate of my husband’s, and in polite society—”

  I didn’t need the rest of it. Maybe I’d been projecting. Maybe I’d read the whole Robin situation wrong. What I did know was that I had to backtrack now, and fast. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Franklin. I simply meant that he might have gone the extra yard to help out Fluffy. Maybe he had something that belonged to the cat? A cushion or a blanket?” I tried to picture what had been in that study. All I could see was an ornate gun, the silverwork scrolling up the barrel. “Maybe something of your husband’s?”

  “For the cat?” The anger was cooling to something nastier, and the way she put her cup down made me worry about the delicate china. “Can’t you just give it some drugs or something?”

  “It’s not the same, Mrs. Franklin.”

  “You’re the expert.” She was gathering herself together, her voice once again composed. “I’m sure you’ll find a way.”

  It was futile. Any shot I’d had, I’d blown with that comment about Llewellyn, and I was being dismissed. She stood, and I followed her as she walked, much more briskly this time, down the hall. I managed to murmur something that was intended as condolences. I doubt she heard me. When she closed the door, she didn’t quite slam it. She was too well bred for that. However, she had given me an idea. A Persian needed to be groomed, and an expensive pet usually had at least a few toys. If she had really thrown everything away, I bet I could find something in the trash. Something that would remind the cat of its home—and maybe unlock some memories.

  I was in luck. The early morning sun cast enough shadows for me to feel inconspicuous as I made my way around the side of the house. This far out of town, residents either hauled their own trash or hired a private contractor. While I didn’t imagine either of the Franklins at the county dump, I was pretty sure they’d have a regular pickup, and the way things had been going for me, I half expected to be skunked. If I’d been more lucky, the oversized Rubbermaids I found behind an old carriage house wouldn’t have contained the remains of last night’s dinner: two nice-sized T-bones, potato skins, and something that smelled like rum cake. Of course, that could have been the two bottles of Burgundy scenting the remains. Didn’t this woman know anything about recycling?

  The amount of food, more than the wine, gave me pause. Louise Franklin didn’t look like a meat and potatoes type, and that kind of spread was awfully fancy for drop-in guests. Still, unless I took bite prints off those bones I didn’t see what I could do with the information. Maybe she’d ordered up her husband’s favorite to make herself feel better. Maybe Thursday night was steak night. The rich are different from you and me.

  I thought of two dogs I knew who would have made quick work of the cold meat, congealed fat and all. It was the waste, as well as the slick feel of that cold fat that turned my stomach. And this was a woman who didn’t want to give a cat away to a good home. I abandoned that bag with disgust, wiping my hands on the damp ground.

  As soon as I opened the next one, I realized my mistake. My headache must have distracted me from the obvious. Nothing from the study would have been put with the kitchen trash. Not in a house that big. Papers. An ashtray—crystal, by the look of it—the corner broken off. I wiped my hands on my jeans and pulled the bag out of the barrel. That chipped crystal looked dangerous, and I decided to empty the bag onto the ground. I’d clean up after myself. Maybe.

  And maybe I was fated to be disappointed. The papers were blank, except for some smudges, like someone had been blotting a pen. The ashtray could have been knocked to the floor. I was still squatting, surveying the mess I’d made when I heard the footsteps.

  “Well, well, well.” I whirled around, trying to think of some reason for the mess around me. I didn’t have to: it was Mack.

  “Well yourself.” I stood and faced him as he stepped out of the morning shadows. “What brings you to this neck of the woods?”

  “An errand for a lady.” He held out his hand. In it, he held a wide wire brush, the kind used on longhair cats.

  I reached for it, but he drew his hand back. “Not so fast.” His lean face split open in a grin. “But thanks for confirming its value.”

  “What do you mean? It’s a grooming brush.” A little late for nonchalance, and we both knew it. He looked at the ground, where trash was spread around me. He didn’t have to say anything. “So, I wanted it. I’m working with the cat, remember? And if Mrs. Franklin won’t let me bring the animal back into the house…”

  “You wanted to bring it something that smelled like home?”

  “Something like that.” He nodded, the smile growing wider, and I thought of Robin. Her hand on his arm, and the way he’d jumped to get the door for her. “You were sent to get the cat’s toys, too, right?” Another nod. He could afford to be generous, he had the brush. “So she thinks she’s going to get the cat after all?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t try to figure them out. I just do what I’m told or I don’t get paid.”

  I considered him coolly. As
hard up as he might be, I didn’t make Mack for a gigolo. In truth, he was a little long in the tooth and definitely an acquired taste.

  “Wait, you don’t think—” He started laughing. “I’m doing errands for her, Pru. Errands.”

  “Ah ha.” The thought of Mack as a hired hand made me a little sad. Not enough to quench my curiosity, though. “And she has you dumpster diving?”

  “My current employer has had a bit of a falling out with the recently bereaved. If I can facilitate things—”

  I didn’t want to hear it. I could see how this domestic drama had played out, and I was in no mood to replay this little triangle. “Mack, I need that brush. I’ll give it back.”

  He looked doubtful.

  “I could pay for it, too.” I looked around. This was not a place to linger.

  “I don’t want your money, Pru. Not that you have much anyway. Of course, if you want to barter…”

  “Mack.” I liked his dirty mind. I did. Right now, however, my head was throbbing and I needed to be on my way. “Come on. If she really wants the cat, this will help us both. She’s not going to get even a chance at her until Doc Sharpe releases her. And he’s not going to release her while she’s freaked and aggressive. Besides,” I was playing my last card, “if I can get the cat calmed down, I’ll recommend Robin as her caretaker. At least to foster her, get her socialized again. Then, maybe when the widow Franklin comes to her senses, she’ll be in the best position to adopt.”

  He mulled this over. If Robin had been Donal Franklin’s lover, especially if Robin had given him the gun that killed him, I didn’t see Louise Franklin ever giving her the time of day. Still, the widow seemed determined to be polite to the younger woman. Was that all an act? I didn’t know—and Mack didn’t either, and so I watched him, looking for something that didn’t fit. Something that would tell me he was lying.

  I didn’t see it. “Fair enough, Pru.” He handed the brush over. “But you owe me. And I’m going to collect.”

  “You like steak dinners?” It was a stab in the dark, but he turned with a start. “With mashed potatoes and a good Burgundy?”

  “Is that an invite?” The smile was back, wolfish and hungry, but I laughed. He’d been taken by surprise by my words. I spared a glance back at the kitchen trash, but he was watching me too closely. I had to get out of there. Instead, I knelt to shovel the loose papers back into their bag. He reached for the broken ashtray, hefting it in his hand before placing it in the opened sack. I’d felt the weight of it and from the look on his face I knew he’d had the same thought. If Donal Franklin had died of anything other than a freak gunshot, we’d both have been tampering with evidence.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  I needed to maintain my cool, and the headache didn’t help as I walked up to Tracy Horlick’s door about twenty minutes later. I’d wanted to go straight to the shelter, to see how the Persian reacted to her old brush. But I was late for Growler’s appointment, and the old shrew was exactly the type to take notice of such things.

  “Someone got up on the wrong side of the bed.” She was waiting at the door, and exhaled a cloud of smoke, stale in the morning air. “Someone must have been out late last night.”

  “I’m sure someone was, Mrs. Horlick.” I forced the sides of my mouth up in what I hoped looked like a grin. “Not me. I’m sorry for the delay.” I don’t like to apologize—gives people an edge—but I’d seen the look in her eye and decided to give her a small victory. “I had an emergency situation.” It was close enough to the truth.

  “That cat?” She wasn’t prescient. She couldn’t be. “Let me guess. Someone left another loaded gun around.”

  My face was getting stiff. “Not quite. Is Grow—I mean, Bitsy ready for his walk?”

  Her eyes narrowed, more from suspicion than smoke, I guessed. I had to watch it. But the hostility of the other day was gone. Sacrificed, I assumed, to old Horlick’s overwhelming hunger for gossip. “Pru Marlowe, you’re up to something,” she said. I was right. “Is it that widow—?”

  Her speculations were interrupted, first by a short yelp and then a howl that sounded too large for such a little creature. I didn’t get any intent from it, not directly. I didn’t need to. Growler—Bitsy—was sick of waiting, and as his person turned—that howl was disconcerting—I saw my opportunity and grabbed the little dog’s leash from its hook.

  “Someone’s got to go!” Trying to keep my smile in place, I leaned past the ashy harridan. “Come on, Bitsy. Bitsy?”

  A low whine and the scraping of claws against wood let me know why the bichon hadn’t already come bounding. With an audible sigh, Tracy Horlick turned and reached for a door. Growler came barreling out like a fluffy white cannonball, and I was grateful enough to follow him down the path.

  “Hey, Growler, wait up.” I caught up to the powderpuff as he stopped to sniff a curbside oak. He didn’t respond as I snapped the lead onto his collar. Knowing what kind of person he lived with, I didn’t blame him.

  We walked a bit, and I let him set the pace. I confess, I was feeling a bit iffy about trying anything. My recent failures had left me more disheartened than I’d wanted to admit, even after my talk with Wallis. But once we’d gone two blocks and Growler had finished marking the usual spots, I realized I might as well make use of the little fellow’s sensitive nose.

  “Growler, would you do something for me?”

  He was sniffing the trunk of a maple. Usually, I’d be getting images of what he smelled—particular dogs, even some memories of other animals in action. Now, my mind was blank. I told myself it was because the tree was a dead end, but the little dog’s interest put the lie to that.

  “Growler?” He looked up and just for a second, I got a flash of fur. Golden, black. A German shepherd.

  “Rolf.” It didn’t sound like the bichon’s bark, so I assumed he was naming the object of his interest.

  “Rolf.” I squatted and waited, unwilling to break the fragile connection. The little nose worked furiously and I remembered the steak bone. I held out my hand, hoping it still held some tang of grease. When he came up to sniff, I reached back and into my bag.

  “Growler, I need help.” I had no idea what my words sounded like, or if the idea of a plea translated. Still it only seemed sensible to be polite. “If you could, please, would you sniff this and tell me what you get from it?”

  I pulled out the brush, and the little dog started back. Damn, Tracy Horlick. I should have moved more slowly, perhaps even introduced the brush by trying to picture it in my mind. That move, though—she’d hit this dog and more than once.

  “I’m sorry, Growler. Truly.” He held still, not retreating but not coming forward either. “Please?”

  I laid the brush on the ground and he advanced two tentative steps, sidling up to it with a wary eye. For a moment I doubted the wisdom of my actions. I’d thought the little dog had been drained dry, but if he lifted his leg on it, no other animal would be able to get any other sent. Wallis certainly wouldn’t try.

  It was caution, rather than distaste that governed the little dog’s approach. Once he’d seen that it was still—and that no human hand was reaching for it, he sniffed quickly. “Cat!”

  If a thought could express distaste, this one did. I got a flash of something large and mean, stupid but all too fast. The word “cat” had come into my mind, but Growler’s image of the feline ideal and mine were worlds apart.

  He looked up at me as if I’d pulled a dirty trick on him.

  “Yes, I know.” I paused, unsure how to proceed. “I’m sorry. But—humans? People? Anything else?”

  The bichon wrinkled the white fur above his button nose. For just a moment, he resembled his owner, albeit a much more attractive version. But then he leaned in again and that black button nose wiggled as it did its work.

  “Nasty female.” I could have laughed, but didn’t want to break the little dog’s train of thought. Besides, I had startled him.

  “Nasty bites.�
� He’d picked up on my thought and was correcting me. Maybe he had caught the scent of the poodle from my hand. I paused and let my last encounter with Lucy play through my head: from her little dance to her final words for her canine colleague. I tried to keep my thoughts out of it—I’m no good at kissing up to bullies. Then again, nobody’s tried to put a collar on me.

  Growler seemed to take it in, stopping to sit and scratch one ear in what seemed an unusually contemplative manner. “Think it might work?” I said, finally.

  “Huh,” he chuffed. The bichon might look like a toy, but he was a proud little animal, and I silently apologized. Better to move on to the matter at hand, I decided, and mentally pictured the cat. Nasty…bites…I could well believe that Growler would view the cat’s fear-induced aggression as hostility. I had the wounds to prove it.

  “No!” The retort sounded as loud and sharp as the bichon’s bark. “No!”

  I looked up. Those button eyes were staring into mine, but whatever they were trying to say, I couldn’t get it.

  “The cat isn’t bad? The cat doesn’t bite? What, Growler?” I was lobbing too many questions at the dog. I knew that. This kind of communication is simpler—it’s all about the image. A question, a confirmation. Growler wasn’t Wallis, and in my frustration, I was asking too much. I tried to calm down. “Sorry, Growler. What do you mean?”

  Nothing.

  “What is ‘no’?” I pictured the cat again, asleep in her cage. Nothing. I tried to remember when she had slashed at me: angry cat could be an entirely different concept than sleeping cat to the little dog. Still nothing. So I let my mind wander, trying to visualize the white Persian in the arms of Donal Franklin. His hands, as I recalled, were large and calloused for a rich man. Working hands, he’d called them apologetically, when he’d taken mine to lead me to the dance floor. The thought made me choke up, just a little, and I sat back on the ground, remembering our one dance. He’d been a kind man. No wonder his women were fighting over him. Over the one creature he must have loved without reserve, without complications. Over his cat.