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

by Clea Simon

  I bent now and brushed the dirt off her simple grave marker. She’d probably be shocked to see me here, though she wouldn’t be surprised that I hadn’t splurged for a proper headstone yet. Well, I had time, didn’t I? Memory is funny that way: just about one year, and already I was feeling more filial than I had for the last decade of her life. She’d known something was up, when I’d come back home. She couldn’t put it together anymore—the words and the thoughts just didn’t hold still long enough. I could tell, though, by the way she looked at me. I didn’t belong in Beauville. She didn’t trust my motives.

  Maybe she had a point. My thighs were beginning to ache, so I stood up and looked around. A pair of mourning doves were going through their inane rituals. Enough, I wanted to tell them. Get it on already. Build a nest. I couldn’t afford to get distracted, though, and did my best to tune them out until a startled squawk alerted me to movement. Sure enough, a hearse had begun its slow ascent up the winding hill road, followed by a few town cars and the kind of sedans that spoke of leather seats and high-end stereo.

  Just as well I’d left my ride in the lot. On foot, I looked respectable, as well as I could. I’d even found a little hat in the attic: my mother’s, maybe, or something from one of her aunts. Either way, I silently thanked the squirrel whose foraging had been so rudely disturbed and made my way up toward that open grave.

  I was lucky. By the time I got there, the service was just starting. About a dozen people were standing, although up front, I could see that a line of chairs had been unfolded. I circled the crowd, staying far enough back so as not to be noticed. Halfway around, I could have been a mourner, or simply curious. Either way, I had a good view of the minister, silver-haired with a low rumbling voice that carried the indistinct murmur of plush comfort. In front of the grave sat Louise Franklin, the handsome younger man behind her in attendance. To her right, a white-haired little thing sat ramrod straight: a matriarch of the old New England type. I remembered the rumors about Donal. That he wasn’t from around here, that he wasn’t old money. The old lady could be Louise’s mother, I thought. Or the rumors could be just that. I was about to dismiss them when a movement caught my eye. A man, toward the back. I couldn’t make out a face, just a good suit. Something about the way he moved though—the way he avoided my line of sight—made me wonder.

  The rest of the crowd stood then, and I lost him. From the similarity in age and the quality of the outerwear, I made most of them for friends or colleagues. Maybe even business associates. Not that I would know: I tried to imagine Llewellyn here, among the cashmere coats and the resort tans. It didn’t work. Lew might have been Donal’s attorney, but he’d played the role of his bad-boy buddy. If he were here, he’d be dressed a little brighter than these somber folks. His jacket would have a slightly slimmer cut. Not flashy, not exactly. But with an edge to it—an attitude that liked to one-up his straightforward peers. I remembered his words, how he’d cut Donal down ever so slightly: “He wants to put it all in good works,” he’d said, with a sneer in his voice. Playing gangster? Yeah, maybe, only maybe he’d gone too far. Was that what had gotten him killed? Had he dragged Donal into something? Back into something?

  I didn’t know. I hadn’t even paid attention, except to my own pleasure. Llewellyn had been my type. Not that different from Tom, now that I thought about it. Maybe that was what I’d been drawn to, all those months before.

  The matriarch would have made mincemeat of either of them, from what I could see. Most of the women here could. Righteous, although that wasn’t what Lew had been inferring with his snide jibe. He meant that Donal didn’t have the sense to enjoy himself—to spend his money on fun. Women, horses, whatever. Though that analysis sure didn’t fit with the rock I’d seen on Robin’s hand. An emerald, or a damned good copy. Whatever else he might have scrimped on, I didn’t see Donal Franklin buying anything less than the best.

  ***

  Robin. No, she couldn’t be here, could she? Though if the girl had had any spunk, she might have found a way to say farewell to the man who most likely had been her lover. Hell, she could have stolen my play and hid out behind a tree. The statuary in this section of the cemetery could have shielded a marching band from inquiring eyes. But maybe she didn’t want to remember him like this. Maybe she was afraid of the widow.

  Maybe she had reason to be. I couldn’t eavesdrop, not as much as I wanted, but I caught a few words. “Sorry,” came up often, but one of the suits was talking more. I caught something about “the estate,” and saw the look she shot at him. He made nice after that, and I sunk back, afraid of being obvious. I needed to find out about the will—about what would go where. A disappointed lover had just as much reason to kill as a betrayed wife. I’d thought it a little odd that Donal had chosen a woman who looked so much like his lawful wedded spouse. Maybe he had tired of the newer model as well. It happened. And left Robin with a pricey bauble and an attachment to the Persian? The token who reminded her of better days? Could there be a bequest that went with the cat—a Leona Helmsley deal for Fluffy’s continued care and comfort?

  I shook my head. If there were money attached to the Persian, Louise wouldn’t be so eager to get rid of it. Robin was that cat’s one hope, and I had an obligation to help the poor animal—whatever her involvement. But I found myself wondering about Robin’s role in Donal Franklin’s death as I watched the funeral cortege pull out of the cemetery. Where had she been, I wondered, while the widow was out shopping—and the Persian was watching her person take his last breaths? As soon as this day’s grim duties were over, I would have to find out for myself.

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Llewellyn McMudge may have been in the same class as Donal Franklin in life, but his funeral was lacking. Maybe it was true what people say about lawyers. Maybe there was a reason he’d kept his profession from me.

  As it was, only about a dozen mourners were gathered in the nondenominational chapel. Two women, who looked like sisters, sat up front. A third, dressed in expensive tweed, came in later and greeted them with a nod. Ex-wife, I placed a mental bet: the way she greeted the sisters made me think of shared suffering and hatchets long buried. Other than that, a few black wool overcoats spoke of the city. When I moved forward, I heard talk about clients—and about the unresolved cases Llewellyn had left behind—and my ears pricked up. But the gathering was too small for me to get in too close. There were no thronging crowds. No sharkskin suits. No tears, either.

  I hadn’t heard about a viewing. The McMudges were probably too refined for a wake. On a whim, I checked the visitor’s book anyway. A half a dozen signatures—several of them with McMudge in the name. And there, from earlier in the day, was one I hadn’t expected: Robin Gensler, in a girlish script that almost had me expecting a little smiley face above the “i.” Well, this was a small town—and if Lew and Donal were buddies as well as business associates, there was no reason Robin should not have known Lew, too. But well enough to pay her respects? When she didn’t—perhaps didn’t dare—show up at the funeral of the man she seemed to actually have a relationship with? I shrugged as I added my own name to the list. Maybe she had liked Lew, too. Maybe Lew had been helping her out legally. Maybe she and Lew—no, I didn’t want to go there.

  Robin was cute, in a pre-packaged way. That picture-perfect hair and makeup weren’t what I imagined Lew going for, but, hey, his moneyed friends would probably have been taken aback by my jeans and leather, if they’d ever met me. Clearly, he was a man of catholic tastes. It wasn’t that I was jealous. Far from it. But my ego was getting a post-mortem bashing from Mr. McMudge, one that I had no recourse to set right.

  It rankled, and I knew I’d hear about it from Wallis. It also came suspiciously close to what Creighton had said, which didn’t endear Jim to me so much as make me wonder just how much he saw. That man was dangerous, and I’d do well to remember it.

  I didn’t have time to chew over my romantic life right now, however. There was movement in the room, and
I looked up in time to see a latecomer arrive. It was the man in the back, the man from Donal’s gravesite. Here, he stood out like a hawk in an aviary. It wasn’t his clothes. Now that I was closer, I could see his coat: black wool, soft and fine, it probably cost as much as my car. The face above it was a different story. A chin like a jackhammer, and eyes that said he’d use it. As if aware of my gaze, they turned toward me, grey and cold, and I suppressed a shudder. No animal could make me feel this way. Then again, I’d never tried to talk to a shark. With an effort, I pulled away, and that’s when I saw him. The guest next to the shark, also in a city coat though not one so fine. Tom.

  I sidled over, not caring too much who noticed me. I hadn’t expected to see Tom again, and I wanted to put him on the spot.

  “Who’s your friend?” I resisted the urge to elbow him in the ribs. I didn’t pull the barbs from my voice. In response, he turned to the evil-faced man, and I realized Tom was unsure of himself. It didn’t make me any happier, but it was interesting.

  “This is Pru,” Tom said to the stranger. He nodded as if he’d heard of me.

  “Call me Bill.” He held out a long white hand that seemed much too elegant for his face.

  “Bill.” I nodded. It would do for now. “Friend of Lew’s?”

  Tom winced, but Bill smiled. It wasn’t a nice smile. He didn’t answer.

  “Because I was wondering what brought you here,” I continued. “First at Donal’s burial and now at Lew’s. I haven’t seen you around, and I know for a fact that Tom never got to meet the deceased. So, I was wondering if perhaps you knew him. Maybe you were an old friend of Donal’s?” Nothing. “No, of course not.” I looked him up and down. “You’re the reason Tom was looking for Lew?” I was pretty sure that was the connection here. If I could shake these two up, maybe I’d learn something.

  Bill, or whatever his name was, only smiled more. “And why would I be here if I had hired Tom?”

  I shrugged. That part I hadn’t figured out. “Maybe you want to check up on him. Maybe you want to make sure he’s doing his job.”

  “Now, wait a minute—” Tom had kept silent till now. I knew he didn’t like being talked about.

  “Tom, if you won’t talk to me, maybe Bill here will.”

  Tom wanted to say something, I could tell. But those long fingers reached out and touched his sleeve. Tom was bigger, by far, but he shut up. “What would the lady like to know?”

  “More than you can imagine.” I was stalling, thinking as quickly as I could. “For example, I’m hearing a lot about guns—antique guns—and I’m wondering if you are also a collector. Or maybe a dealer.” The way I emphasized the last word should have made my intent clear.

  “I have various business interests, and I’m always happy to give a lady credit.” He showed big yellow teeth again, as friendly as a shark.

  “No thanks,” I smiled back, taking my cue. “Not my type of toy. But from what I hear, Lew was also involved with these pretty guns. Now he’s dead too.”

  “And you think that maybe I or one or my colleagues were involved?” The hand restrained Tom again, making me think of a leashed dog. I shrugged. “Maybe I wanted the recently deceased gone for some reason?”

  I shrugged again. It was all I could think of, though I couldn’t fit the details together. It was the wrong response. The smile was replaced by a look of disgust.

  “Mr. McMudge was a butterfly. A socialite. A playboy. But—” he raised one hand, palm up, in an eloquent gesture—“we knew each other. And you get to an age when funerals matter.”

  “What about Donal Franklin?”

  “Donal Franklin was a man of honor.” The sudden change in his tone made me want to know more.

  “Wait a minute, the other stiff?” Tom was barking out of turn. Bill gave him a sharp look.

  “You didn’t sell him a gun?” I had Bill’s attention now. “A dueling pistol with a silver-filigree grip? What about his wife, Louise Franklin?” I knew what Creighton had said. I didn’t care. “The widow? Older woman. Good looking? Dark hair?”

  He opened his mouth. He was about to say something, when Tom interrupted. Damn him. “Pru, I don’t know what you think you’re doing.”

  “I’m trying to figure out what’s going on here, Tom.” I could have kicked him. Or shot him, if I’d had that pretty toy. “Bill, you were about to say something.”

  “Duelling pistols are becoming quite popular these days. Even among the ladies.” He had his cool back. “If you were truly curious, you could probably do a search. Might be interesting to see who is collecting.”

  “It just might.” He wasn’t scared, that’s for sure. I didn’t know what he was getting at. “Then again, maybe that’s why you hired Tom.”

  “I didn’t hire our friend Tom here to do anything.” The smile was back, greasy and relaxed. I’d missed something. I’d lost him. “He and I simply met up to pay our respects. Same as Lew’s other friends.”

  He leered, and I knew that I’d been placed. Well, maybe he really did know Lew. And just maybe, I didn’t.

  Chapter Thirty-two

  I’m not good with anger. That was probably the other thing I got from my mother, along with the old house. And Bill with his insinuations and his leer had me seeing red as I made my excuses and turned away, desperately searching for something more to say beside the muttered “asshole” that only made him smile more broadly as I stalked off.

  That nasty yellow grin seemed to hover, Cheshire-like, in front of me as I walked into what was becoming a cold and cloudy afternoon. It was the statue that saved me, a massive stone figure that loomed up like a stone stop sign, ending my mindless ramble. Those wings identified it as an angel. Some kind of guardian spirit. To me it looked monstrous, large and gray, but at least it served to rouse me from my funk. It also pointed out that I’d stalked off in the wrong direction. The small crowd had moved outside too, and I could see Tom and his slick buddy hovering by the fringe, deep in conversation as the rest of the small assembly made off to their cars. I watched, hoping they would leave too, but they were in no rush. I would have to pass by to return to the GTO.

  “Great.” I growled out loud, startling a chipmunk who’d been in the middle of something. Shelter, warmth…I got an image of little ones to come. “Sorry.”

  It wasn’t just the tiny rodent. Now that I was aware of my surroundings again, I felt the chill in the air, the touch of moisture and frost that presages snow. I considered my outfit, particularly my lack of down or a sensible hat, and cursed under my breath. That headache had lingered; I was coming down with something that I didn’t have time for. Maybe if I walked quickly, cutting over the hill, I could get back to the car before the first flakes began to fall.

  Muttering apologies to those concerned, I left the path and walked over a plot. Up the hill, the wind was stronger, piling the clouds up against the rim of the hills. I’d made a mistake in trusting March. It doesn’t care what the calendar says; in New England this is still winter. The dirt, pitted and crumbling from repeated freezes, gave way as I climbed, and I stumbled, grabbing a thin birch as I crested the hill. Then I gasped.

  Maybe it was the memory of that hawk. Maybe, for a moment, I was seeing from his eyes. Maybe it was simply that I’d never been in a cemetery and looked up. Now I did, and the view was incredible. There, off to the right, was Beauville, nestled down by the river that flashed and rippled through the still bare trees. Up ahead were the Berkshires, more hill than mountain, but still impressive with their dirty snow caps and evergreen mantles.

  And there, just downhill through a stand of paper birches and only a little way off the path, was Robin Gensler. I couldn’t hear her, not this far away, but she was glancing back toward the funeral site. To where Tom and his new buddy Bill still stood deep in conversation. They weren’t the only ones. Even as Robin kept turning, looking nervously over her shoulder, I could see that she was talking to someone close by. It wasn’t a casual chat, if the movement of her hands was
any indication. And I didn’t think she was trying to keep warm. At any rate, I wasn’t going to miss an opportunity to talk to the one woman who might be able to help me save the Persian.

  I waved, but the pretty brunette didn’t see me, so I clambered ungracefully toward her, determined to catch her before she left. Only when I stumbled in the loose dirt, did I catch myself. That’s when I realized who she was arguing with. Louise Franklin. Widow and chief mourner of the man who had been buried less than an hour earlier and about five hundred yards away.

  I didn’t know if I wanted to step into this. What had happened was clear as day: the younger brunette might have showed good sense in staying away from Donal’s funeral. But she had gone to Lew’s, at least to the visitation, and the temptation to visit her friend’s—hell, her lover’s grave must have been too great. Of course, I could be wrong. She could be here to meet Tom—or Tom’s creepy friend—and used the services as a convenient excuse. Or she could have been shopping for a plot, though I wouldn’t have put money on it. Whatever the reason, Robin didn’t look happy. Running into Louise couldn’t have helped.

  I edged closer. I didn’t want to step into a cat fight. I did want to help a cat. And if I could find out just who had been scratching what itch…

  “I can’t!” Louise’s voice carried, and I allowed myself to slip forward. “’Cause only,” I thought she said, her diction giving way under pressure.

  Robin was moving, too: down the hill toward the parking lot. Louise had turned toward her, away from me, and the rest of her words were lost in the gathering gloom. It didn’t matter, really. I could too easily imagine what they were shouting about. A love token, the love itself. Maybe it didn’t matter. What did was that Louise was finally talking. Open. Hurt. Maybe I could get her to talk to me.