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

by Clea Simon

  “PBR.” Beer would leave my head clearer. I could always amp up later.

  He opened the can and pushed it over to me. I didn’t rate a glass, but then he didn’t even rate a name. Although the bar had been christened after its original owner, long dead of emphysema, each successive barman ended up with the same handle. The current Happy couldn’t have been less likely, but I hardly remembered the original, who’d held court in my father’s time. Knowing this town, I suspected the name had been sarcastic even then. At least that guy had chosen it, though. Now it came with the place, along with regulars like Mack and, okay, me. Who else, I didn’t know. I’d been thinking of asking the barman about the widow. It seemed like a long shot, but with her taste for younger men, it couldn’t be excluded. Only just then Albert sidled up to me in what I could only assume was supposed to be a subtle approach.

  “Hi, Al.” He looked up as if surprised to see me. I was the only person at this end of the bar. The only woman in the room.

  “Pru! What a surprise.” He wiped his hands on the front of his shirt, making me wonder where they’d been. “You know, you just missed—

  “Yeah, I saw him on his way out.” I stared across the bar. The mirror, grimy as Albert’s plaid flannel, didn’t show any expression, but I wasn’t taking any chances.

  “I was only wondering because—”

  I was saved from Albert’s badly camouflaged curiosity by the opening of the front door. Tom made a quick survey of the room and allowed his face to light up as he found me. I nodded, holding back my own smile. I had to work with Albert, more or less.

  “Hey, stranger.” Tom’s voice oozed sex. Albert looked up, curious. I sighed.

  “Tom, this is Albert. He’s the Beauville animal control officer. Albert, Tom. Tom’s a private investigator from the city.”

  “You’re here about the shooting, aren’t you?” I didn’t think Albert knew anything. He just couldn’t resist. Tom’s muscle might be going to flab, but he was still a big guy. And with that scar? A man’s idea of a man. “Did the widow call you?”

  “Shooting?” Tom’s face was blank. His voice bland. This was a technique I recognized. He knew it all. I’d have put good money on that. He simply wanted to find out what my portly colleague knew.

  “Yeah, didn’t Pru tell you?” Albert’s hands had moved from his shirtfront to his beard. He was nervous. “She was at the scene. There was a cat.”

  The lines around Tom’s mouth tightened as he tried not to laugh. “It’s my job, Tom. The animal was in distress.”

  “Let me guess, the cat shot someone.”

  I never thought I’d have much in common with Albert. For a moment, though, I think we both had the same look on our faces. This time, Tom didn’t hold back.

  “Oh, that’s priceless. Next you’ll tell me that the cat shot someone with an antique gun.”

  “How did you know that?” I wouldn’t have asked, but I didn’t mind that Albert had.

  Tom only smiled, and it hit me. “He used to be a cop, Al. It’s like the priesthood.” Somehow, the idea of Jim Creighton and Tom gossiping over beers didn’t appeal to me. “They all talk to each other.”

  Tom, however, had stopped laughing. “You’re shitting me, right?” His voice had sunk. Low and cold, it was a voice I remembered well. His work voice. “An antique gun?”

  “A dueling pistol.” I gave him that, and I watched him. But his mouth was closed, and he sat back on his stool, staring at some point across the bar. I wanted to see that point. “Spill, Tom. Why are you in town, really?”

  My hand on his forearm drew him back, at least for the moment. His voice, when he started to talk again, was softer. A little less sure. “I needed to talk to some rich old dude. I told you that, Pru. Some guy you know. You knew.”

  “What about, Tom?” Nothing. “Why did you need to talk to Lew?” Albert was getting an eyeful, going back and forth. I couldn’t help that. I needed to know.

  “I’m freelance now, Pru. I thought, maybe, an introduction for old time’s sake…”

  I wasn’t buying it. “Tom.”

  “It’s a financial issue, okay? Someone owes a little something from a private transaction.”

  Two men were dead. Collection agencies don’t kill people. “Who hired you, Tom?”

  He shook his head. “I don’t know.”

  “Tom.” Albert’s mouth was open. I didn’t care.

  “Honest, Pru. It was all through email. My fee came by wire transfer. Some insurance company.”

  “So how’d you know I knew Llewellyn?”

  “I didn’t. I had a name and a description, and I knew you were here.” The smile was back. A flash of the old Tom. I could’ve kicked him. And myself. “You always were easy to read, Pru.”

  I had no answer to that. Still, there was more to learn. “Is it over, now?” Lew wasn’t going to be paying anyone back.

  Tom shook his head. He was beginning to get jowls. “I don’t know. I don’t think so. But I swear, Pru. I didn’t have anything to do with that.”

  I nodded. Tom could rough someone up. I didn’t think he could kill. Not for money. Still, this was a new Tom. Older, maybe more desperate.

  “Besides,” he looked nervous. “They had his name already. They knew about him.”

  “They?”

  His mouth shut tight. The scar white against his cheek.

  “So, tell me about the gun.”

  “I don’t know much, Pru. Just that its pricey. Very pricey. And something went wrong.”

  I nodded. It was odd seeing Tom like this: off balance, a little nervous. I didn’t want to think too hard about it. “And Llewellyn?”

  “He was on the fringes of that group, from what I hear. And he was heard asking about something special. A gift for a friend…”

  “So you’re looking for the friend?”

  He stared over the bar. I wondered what he was seeing in the mirror. “What?” I answered his unspoken question. “It’s not me, Tom. And the cops have the gun now.” I tried to read his face. How deep in this was he?

  He shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. Like I said, something went wrong. Someone’s got to pay.”

  Seemed to me, someone already had. Before I could push for more, another voice chimed in.

  “How did you get involved in all this?” Albert was waking from his stupor.

  “The cop connection, Al.” Looking at Tom, now, it was hard to recall. “His buddies would have access to phone records, the dealer, you name it.”

  “No, not him, Pru.” I turned slightly. Albert was still staring, his mouth still slightly open. But his broad face was drawn. Behind his beard, I’d have sworn he looked concerned. “I mean, you. How did you know these two men, Pru?”

  I sputtered. I really didn’t want to explain my life to Albert.

  “It was purely social, Al. Social and—casual.” Tom raised an eyebrow at that, and for a moment, I saw the old Tom. I could feel the flush rising.

  But for once, Albert wasn’t interested in the salacious side. For once, he was looking at my face, rather than my breasts. His eyes were wide and sad. “Two men, Pru. Both of them dead. And only one of them had a cat.”

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Tom’s motive, I now knew for sure, was more than social. My ex saw me as a means to an end, and it was with some difficulty that I convinced him otherwise. Yes, I might know two men, recently deceased. But my knowledge of their habits was slim.

  “You really didn’t know he was a fixer?” Tom had managed to shoo Albert off by then, and I’d graduated to whiskey at a booth in back, headache be damned. Tom was telling me about Llewellyn’s habits, about his role as a go-between for wealthy clients.

  “He was one of those all-purpose attorneys, from what I hear,” he told me. “Protected by privilege—and by money. Working for Franklin, as he was calling himself, didn’t hurt either. I gather he was one of those guys who likes to pretend he’s wild. Likes playing in the dirt.” He paused, a note something
like concern creeping into his voice. “You didn’t take him too serious, did you, Pru?”

  “We had fun. That was it.” I heard the defensiveness edging into my own.

  “Just as well. He was also the type to suffer from cold feet, from what I hear.” He looked around. “Your little friend, at least he had the balls to face me.” He turned toward the bar, where Albert was trying to converse with Happy. “Or maybe, he just doesn’t have the brains. Is he one of your animal pals? A chipmunk or something?”

  “Chipmunks don’t have beards.” I didn’t know if I was defending Albert exactly, but something about Tom’s manner was getting to me.

  “I don’t know.” He strained to look. “Think of it as fur.”

  Something he’d said. “What did you mean about Donal?”

  “Huh?” He didn’t even look at me.

  “Franklin, ‘as he was calling himself.’ What did you mean?”

  “Oh, Pru, didn’t you know?” He turned toward me now. We’d never been close, not really. “Donal Franklin?”

  I shook my head.

  “He was connected. Way back, real old school. I heard he got out. Got married, went straight. I heard he wanted to make things right, but…” His voice trailed off, as I just stared. Donal. Tom. Maybe they weren’t that different from Lew. Maybe no man was.

  Except Creighton, the thought of the clean-cut cop came to mind. But Donal? He had seemed honorable. Maybe that was “old school.” I didn’t know what to believe. I didn’t know if it mattered now.

  The difference with Tom was in our shared past. We had had something in common, then. Now all I saw was a beefy guy, a scarred face with more lines than his years justified. I saw the toll of his job. Of the city life I’d left behind.

  “You’re getting soft out here.” As if he’d read my mind, he turned my thoughts back onto me. I held his look, but I kept my mouth shut. “Which might be good for you, all things considered.”

  I tilted my head and waited.

  “I know a little of what’s going on, Pru.” He stared down at his glass. “Enough, anyway. The folks who hired me, they don’t just want the gun back. They don’t even want the money. They want to send a message.”

  “You think they killed Lew?” The second the words were out, I regretted them. Despite what Albert had let slip, Tom had no confirmation that Llewellyn had died of anything but natural causes. “I mean, there’s no evidence that it was anything but an accident.”

  “Accidents seem to pile up around here.” Tom raised his glass, eyeing me over the rim. “Around you, Pru. And I think some people are going to have to start asking why.”

  Chapter Thirty

  Maybe I was losing my head for drink. Maybe it was Tom. For the first time in ages, I overslept. Woke up groggy and a little sick, and thought about rolling back into sleep. It was Saturday, which meant I didn’t have to walk Growler. Tracy Horlick might be lazy, but the five bucks more I charged on weekends had set her off in a huff when we first discussed pricing. She’d handle weekends, she’d told me, which probably meant the dog had the run of the yard for a few minutes. I doubted she was any more busy during the week than Saturday or Sunday, but she’d already agreed to weekdays so I let her fiction stand.

  I had mixed feelings about my other regular canine client. Lucy was an odd one, with her little dance steps and her faux French. Despite my initial reservations, I’d begun to think there was more going on in her little poodle brain than I’d originally thought. Not that I necessarily liked her way of manipulating the world. Nor the implication that I could learn from her. Maybe it was just as well I wouldn’t see her till Monday. That meant I could sleep in today, if I wanted.

  Except I couldn’t. Sitting up with a start, I remembered three things. One, the Persian had two more days. Two, I’d left that brush at the shelter. Maybe it didn’t mean anything. Maybe it was evidence. Either way, the Persian had reacted to the brush—or the hair I had retrieved from it—and if I wanted to save that cat from the big sleep, it was my best chance of finding out how.

  The third thought, as I peered out on a cloudy morning, was that today was Donal Franklin’s funeral. I would be about as welcome there as his cat, but I had to check it out. Even if it was just to guilt the widow into giving up her late husband’s pet before the Persian would be euthanized, I needed to be there. I needed to try.

  I’d never gotten around to quizzing the barman about Louise, I realized as I showered and dressed. That was probably moot. She was playing in a different league. But thinking of the Franklins and their potential playmates made me realize I still hadn’t heard from Robin. She was a crucial part of my plan, and while I assumed she’d still be eager to take the poor cat, I didn’t want any surprises—for either of us. I thought about her as I dressed, digging out my black suede pumps for the occasion. My mother wouldn’t have been proud. She’d have been surprised. If nobody knew who I was, I’d fit right in.

  Creighton. I couldn’t tell what he thought about Donal Franklin’s death. If it really was ruled an accident, he’d have no reason to be there. The town wasn’t that small. Only he had instincts like I did, and I suspected that he wasn’t letting things go quite so easily. That could make things tricky for me. I wanted to poke about without raising any more questions. If he did show up, well, he already suspected me of more involvement than I’d admitted to. I’d wing it. I’d have to.

  Lipstick. A glance at the clock. If I was going to be unobtrusive, I had to get moving, which meant delaying my trip to the shelter. I cursed Jim Creighton under my breath, and threw in Mack and Tom for good measure. The men in my life were becoming a liability, and the less interaction I had with any of them the better. The evening with Tom had gone downhill fast. He was drinking too much—the extra weight should have clued me in—and he was scared. At least that had freed me from the temptation of taking him home. But I’d tossed and turned so much that Wallis had abandoned the bed before dawn, grumbling under her breath about uneasy consciences, and how someone should just get herself fixed and be done with it.

  Before I headed out, I did another little bit of Internet sleuthing. Llewellyn McMudge’s interment plans were a bit harder to find, though, and I found myself calling around funeral homes like some kind of kinky death junkie. I found him at the third, where the receptionist’s slight accent was probably supposed to make me think of Masterpiece Theater. Yes, they were receiving the McMudge family today. Yes, mourners outside the immediate family were welcome. I checked the time and took down directions. It was going to be close. At least I wouldn’t have to change my outfit between one event and the next.

  “I do not understand your species’ fascination with the dead.” Wallis had emerged as I was wrestling with my hair. Unrestrained, it curls, long and glossy. Men always want to run their hands through it, and I like having that kind of power. For a funeral, though—two funerals—I was trying for something a little less conspicuous. My mother had been an expert at this, restraining her own hair in such a tight bun that I had trouble picturing her with it loose.

  “It’s not the dead themselves,” I tried to explain as I clipped my side curls back. “It’s how they got that way.”

  “Who benefits, you mean?” She settled on the bed. The sight of me smoothing my hair back seemed to amuse her. “You’ve missed a bit.”

  “Thanks.” I gave up and reached for my usual hair tie. So it wouldn’t be fancy. “And, yes, who benefits. But also who shows up and how they act. I’ll be looking for something wrong. Something off.”

  “You’re trying to flush out prey.” I heard a purr of satisfaction in her voice. Maybe I wasn’t as clueless as she feared.

  “Something like that.” I grabbed my bag, and took off.

  First stop, the Greater Beauville Memorial Park. My mother had bought a plot here, back when I was still in school. She’d always been one to plan ahead, and so I was somewhat familiar with this private cemetery just outside town. A sprawling lot—someone’s idea of a no-fail
business—it stretched from the flat valley bottom up into the beginning of the hills. My mother’s grave was on the flat. Row E9 or some such, as if she were stored in condiments. But just as the spices may be one row over from the baked goods, the memorial park was adjacent to Tyndale Memorial. Officially, a small lane divided the two. Unofficially, the quality—and size—of the gravestones and statuary made the distinction clear. Still, there were within walking distance. If questioned, I had the best excuse in the world.

  By pushing my GTO, I made it to the cemetery in good time. It was a pretty place, actually, if you ignored its purpose. Even this early in the season, some groundskeeper had been at work, potted plants lining the major walkways. Deeper in the grounds, I heard the rumblings of chipmunks and birds. One stodgy groundhog was waking, hungry and ready for spring. This was their season, before the hedge clippers and lawnmowers came out, and their self-involved murmurings made me smile despite myself.

  I didn’t have time to eavesdrop, however. Instead, I headed uphill to scope out the surroundings. Two turns and I found what had to be Donal’s grave. A mound of earth, covered by an unrealistically green rug, stood beside an open hole. This early, not even the staff were about. I could have climbed in and waited if I’d wanted.

  I didn’t, and so for lack of anything better to do, I strolled back down, across the divider to E9. At least down here I had a good view of the road. There’d be a cortege, at least one limo, I figured. As they drove slowly by, I could turn and follow—a fellow mourner, come to pay her respects.

  My mother would appreciate that, at least. A practical woman, she’d never mind her grave being used as a scouting point. Probably wouldn’t mind it being used as a vegetable garden, for that matter. Growing up, I’d thought her humorless. Too strict, with no taste for pleasure. I guess my dad had the fun for both of them, and leaving her with a precocious brat and a drafty old house didn’t improve her frame of reference. She never hit me. Not that she wouldn’t have. Only by the time my sins merited it, I was too big. She clearly wanted the evil out of me, though, and was sure enough that I’d inherited my father’s taste for whiskey, sex, and trouble that she never seemed to relax around me.