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

by Clea Simon

  Chapter Forty-one

  I could have called Mack back. I knew him well enough to pressure him. Only until I had a better sense of what exactly was going on, I didn’t want him or Tom or even Creighton knowing what I knew, or what I didn’t know. If push came to shove, I didn’t trust anyone but Wallis.

  I pictured her then. How her whiskers would arch up, just a little, at that compliment. Her eyes would narrow and her front paws flex as she kneaded in an involuntary reaction to pleasure. Wallis had admitted it, just last night. She needed me. Well, I realized, staring at that empty rabbit cage: I needed her, too.

  It was time for me to make a last search of the place, and then go home to my cat.

  I wasn’t sanguine about finding the brush. I’d looked pretty carefully only the day before. Still, I went through the cat room, looking into and behind all the empty cages. I had no better luck with the stock room, though I did make a note for Pammy about the shortage of disposable litter pans. Spring kitten season was around the corner. Before I left, I knew I should ask Doc Sharpe, but I hesitated. He already suspected me of taking the cat. Why would I be asking about a brush?

  Wallis, of course. I could say I’d brought in Wallis’ brush and left it behind by accident. It was a lame excuse. After all, why would I have brought Wallis’ brush into the shelter? Could I get away with saying it was new? I tried to remember what it looked like, fresh from the garbage behind Louise Franklin’s house.

  And it hit me. What Tadeus’ neat housekeeping had reminded me of. What Princess Achara had been trying to tell me, as she manipulated her person into bringing her in. The trash had been around the side of the carriage house. A carriage house that hadn’t been converted into a condo or apartment. A carriage house that still served its original purpose, after a fashion. If someone had a car, a damaged car, that she didn’t want seen, what would be more obvious?

  I wanted to go home and confer with Wallis. I had to go look in that garage.

  “Doc? I’m going to head out.” I called down the hallway. “Doc?”

  The door to the small room he used as an office opened and he stepped out. “Before you do, would you come speak with me for a moment?”

  “Sure.” I tried to make my voice lighter than I felt. I really didn’t need the lecture—or his suspicions. And I really wanted to make it to the Franklins’ place before the last of the tenuous daylight disappeared.

  “Have a seat, Pru.” Avoiding my eye, he’d walked back behind his desk and took his own seat. “Please.”

  The “please” boded well, so I did.

  “Pru, I know something about working with animals.”

  I nodded. And waited. He seemed to be having more problems with words than Wallis with a recalcitrant furball.

  “I understand the attachment one feels.”

  “If this is about Donal Franklin’s Persian—” I needed to get ahead of this.

  “It’s not. Or not only.” He looked at his desk blotter for a script. Not finding one, he finally met my eyes. “It’s also about Nancy Pinkerton’s cat and other clients’ pets.”

  “You have a gift, Pru. I’ve seen that. That’s why I’ve been happy to recommend your services, despite your lack of a formal degree.”

  I swallowed. I’d put off the good doctor for months now with the idea that I was completing my degree. He didn’t need to know that I’d compiled all the practicum hours necessary to be certified even before I left the city. “Thanks.” The word came out, despite the dryness of my throat.

  “But I wouldn’t be a good boss, I wouldn’t be a good friend if I didn’t speak out.”

  He saw my look of confusion.

  “Pru, you live alone. You talk to animals. You need, well, you need to get out more.”

  It took all my self control not to laugh in his face. Poor Doc Sharpe. He wanted me to get professional help. Or, at least, get laid. But his Yankee reserve would only let him go so far. “I’m going to see a friend now, Doc. Thanks.”

  I flashed him my biggest smile and stood up. He stood, too, clearly embarrassed by his daring foray into my personal life. This was my chance. “You haven’t seen a grooming brush, have you? I left one in the cat room by mistake.”

  “What? No.” He seemed a little flustered by my abrupt about-face. “This friend you’re going to see, she wouldn’t be a cat, would she?”

  Chapter Forty-two

  I was able to promise Doc Sharpe that I was off to visit a human friend, and I was only partly lying. Louise Franklin was no friend of mine. If what I suspected was true, she was up there with my worst enemies. Still, better to know what you’re dealing with, I figured, as I drove.

  Someone had wanted me hurt or killed. Someone had wanted me gone. I didn’t think I ranked high enough in any man’s scheme of things for jealousy to be an issue, and nobody hates the dogwalker enough for work to be the cause. Mack had known about my accident, and I was going to catch up with him later. But there could have been a few ways that tidbit had come to him. He might have seen my car in the shop. He might have been drinking with Mikey G at Happy’s. Or maybe a little bird told him.

  That’s what I was putting my money on, assuming the bird was a Robin. Their relationship was still a mystery to me. Not that I cared, except that she was in this a lot deeper than I knew. The Donal connection—the cat. Bill. It was all a bit much.

  First things first: the only person I knew who had negative feelings toward me—okay, who I had antagonized—and who had a garage was Louise Franklin. And with that, I took the turnoff for her place, letting the sedan glide quietly onto the shoulder, under a stand of pines. I stepped out of the car and into shadow. The afternoon had quickly faded into dusk, and I stood for a moment, wondering what I should do next. On one hand, the dying light meant more cover for my snooping. On the other, it made it harder for me to see. Add in that my wrist had started aching anew from the drive, and I almost climbed back in. A bourbon and the company of Wallis just seemed so much more inviting.

  Maybe it was Doc Sharpe’s words—that comment about my friend being a cat—that stopped me. I didn’t care who thought I was a recluse. But I was not going quietly into whatever self-imposed darkness awaited me. Someone had tried to kill me, and I wasn’t running away.

  Careful to stay close to the hedges, I snuck around the side of Louise Franklin’s house. It was dark enough that I could see light inside, but not so late that she had drawn her curtains. The light was warm, almost yellow, and I wondered if a fire had been lit against the evening chill. I remembered a floor lamp, its cover of shaded glass. Antique probably, its light golden and soft. Standing by a yew, I thought of how cozy it looked. Then I remembered the man who had been killed there. Nice property wasn’t all it was cracked up to be.

  I was still watching, mesmerized, when a movement caught my eye. Over by the trash. “Quick! Quick!” A young raccoon, male, was foraging. Out on his own for the first time, probably, he should have been looking for a nest of his own. Finding a safe place that he could defend from his peers. But the scent of last night’s dinner had lured him. He was hungry, I got that. He’d learned to be cautious. I got that, too, and as he scurried away, I took the lesson to heart.

  Crouching below the level of that window, I made my own way past the trash cans, the middle one with its lid still ajar. The carriage house was just beyond, at the end of a curved driveway. As I waited, the shadows grew longer, the house threw its shade over the little building, and my way was clear. On my toes, careful not to lean on my right hand for balance, I could see into the window of one of the wide double doors. Sure enough, I made out a car. A large car. Could have been black—could have been dark blue or green. The lack of light made it hard to tell. I strained to see in the dying light, and realized with a burst of disappointment that I was looking at the trunk. The front end was shrouded in shadow.

  A quick circumnavigation of the outbuilding revealed one other door—and it was locked—and so with a quiet caution that that raccoon wo
uld have appreciated, I reached for the main handle. It didn’t turn, and I cursed silently. Of course, the carriage house exterior might be vintage, but the door itself was probably on some kind of automatic opener. It might be locked, but it might also simply not function without the remote. Unless I wanted to break a window, and risk alerting whoever was home, I’d wasted my time.

  That was my cue to leave. Unlike that raccoon, I did have a nest of my own, even if it wasn’t quite as nicely furnished as the Franklin place. In the deepening dark, the light looked brighter now, and I could see the interior of the room clearly. That lamp, as I remembered it, and then Louise Franklin moved in front, gesturing with both hands.

  I couldn’t resist and moved closer, confident that I would not be visible in the gloom. The window was thick enough to muffle the sound, but I could hear her voice, loud and agitated. She was yelling at someone, and once again I found myself wondering who this woman was: the pedigreed spouse of a wealthy man. The unbalanced shrew who had accused me of stealing her pet—and yet insisted that that same cat was responsible for her husband’s death. The heartless woman who only saw the Persian as a pricey gift, or the mourning widow, all soft and courteous. None of us were simple, I knew that as well as anyone. This woman, though, seemed to embody more contradictions than most.

  I was mulling that over when she turned toward the window. I ducked, slightly, and held my breath as she came up to the sill. She was reaching for the window, I was caught. But no, there must have been an end table below it, because she retreated holding a lump of light, and in that moment I remembered the ashtray Mack and I had found in the trash. It must have been part of a set, and this was its unbroken mate. She walked out of my range and I stood up to follow her movements. She stopped again to light a cigarette, holding it in her left hand and gesturing dramatically, as if its glowing end could better punctuate her words. If only I could make them out…

  A row of bricks defined a plant border, giving me just enough height to peek above the sill. Using my left hand, I pulled myself close to the window and turned my head to listen. The window was thick, and despite her gestures, Louise Franklin was now keeping her voice under control. This close I could make out words—popping words—“promises?” “Payment?” It was no use. Sunday night, odds were it was social rather than business. I wondered about that pretty boy she’d first shown up with. Odds were, my fervid imagination was creating a drama out of pissed off woman yelling at the TV. Letting myself back down, I started to walk away.

  That’s when I saw her. At first, I thought it was a reflection. That dark brown hair, smoothed to shoulder length. A cream-colored sweater that spoke of money. But Louise, the Louise holding the cigarette, was wearing navy: a twin set augmented by pearls. And Louise was still there, facing her. Still talking.

  Either the other woman had guts that I could only begin to envy, or something very strange was going on here. Because before my eyes, I could see two women who I thought hated each other. And Louise Franklin might be angry, but there she was, shaking another of those slim, gold cigarettes out of its pack and reaching for her lighter. The lighter was a piece of work: crystal, like the ashtray, with works of a richer gold than the cigarette. The person holding it out to her was her younger rival, Robin Gensler.

  I stepped back—and off the brick, tumbling onto the wet ground. By instinct, I reached behind me with my right hand to catch myself, and before I could stop let out a cry of pain.

  Almost immediately, a figure appeared at the window and I froze, counting on the darkness to hide me. Like an animal, prey in the night, I hardly dared breathe. Up close, dark against the light, I could make out the silhouette of a woman. The soft lamplight highlighted dark hair, picking out red in the brown. But pressed as she was against the window, I couldn’t see her eyes, and I was struck again by how similar Robin and Louise looked. Mirror images, really, as Robin had taken the lighter with her right hand. Poor Donal, what a fool he must have been, going for the same woman twice.

  And then I heard it. Soft, almost inaudible. “Help. Help me. Please.”

  The figure stepped away from the window, and in a flash, I was back, my throbbing arm forgotten. The women were both sitting, facing each other like territorial cats on two sides of a herring. The room was silent and still, the only movement the slow trail of smoke drifting up from Louise’s cigarette.

  “I’m here,” I whispered as loudly as I dared. Neither woman moved and I repeated myself, trying to open my mind to any further calls. “I’m here to help.” Silence.

  That voice, that sound—had it even come from the window? I’d been so focused that perhaps I had assumed too much. I stepped back. The side of the house was dark, the upstairs windows still and black. “Hello?” I dared a wave. Nothing, the night was still.

  I whirled around. Ran back to the garage.

  “Are you there? Hello?” No response. “Do you need help?”

  Despair seeped into me, like the dampness through my jeans. Someone—something—had called out to me, and I could do nothing. I was too late. I turned toward the woods and thought about the young raccoon, hungry and alone. Perhaps the cry had nothing to do with me. Perhaps I had simply heard a plea from the woods. Nature, taking its harsh course.

  With a heavy heart, I slunk back to my car. My jeans were wet through. I was cold, and my wrist throbbed like a jackhammer. None of that would have mattered, though, if I could have found the source of that voice and saved it. Maybe Doc Sharpe was right. I was becoming sentimental in my old age. Wallis would never let me hear the end of it.

  Chapter Forty-three

  Wallis, it turned out, was nowhere to be seen as I limped into my house about forty-five minutes later. I called for her as I came in, and looked around as I headed for the kitchen, swallowing two aspirin dry and then pouring myself a water glass of bourbon to wash the taste down.

  “Wallis?” The bourbon helped, but some company would have been nice. I made my way back to the living room, switching on the radio as I did. Western Mass has as many colleges as it does squirrels, and my favorite had a jazz DJ who kept it hard bop and bluesy most nights. Feet up, I waited for the combo to work its magic. In addition to my sore wrist, that headache had started up again and, with it, the threat of some kind of virus. I didn’t want to think about that. Didn’t want to think about the last time I’d gotten sick, and what had happened then. I’d go to sleep, or at least get a good buzz, and chase that thought away. Another healthy swallow and I closed my eyes, willing the music to whisk me into dreamland.

  “Huh.” A little snort, and a thud on the sofa by my feet let me know I’d been joined by the cat. I smiled, my eyes still closed. Maybe I was coming down with something. At least I could still hear Wallis.

  “Thinking of ourselves a lot, aren’t we?” Wallis began kneading the cushion by my shins.

  “What?” I sat up. She continued to make her seat comfortable. Only after settling into the familiar sphinx pose did she deign to answer. Even then, she was cryptic.

  “And you care?”

  “Yeah, I do, Wallis. I’ve had a hard day.”

  That little snort again. “You’ve had a hard day.” She closed her eyes.

  “Do you want to tell me about it?” I’d never really known Wallis to confide. Still, there’s always a first time. I roused myself into a sitting position, pulling my jeans leg from under her tail.

  “Watch it.” I tucked my feet under me, and she relaxed again. “And I have no interest in confiding in you.”

  “Sorry, I just thought—”

  That snort again. “Why would I want to confide in you anyway, when you’re such a trustworthy champion of the four-footed?”

  She was pissed off, I could tell. If I’d been more awake, I’d have noticed the way her ears tilted ever so slightly backward. The relaxed pose was just that: Wallis was spoiling for a fight.

  “What did I do?” I was too tired for this. “I didn’t even see any animals today.”

  �
��See.” The way she said it, I knew it meant something.

  “Wallis, come on. I’m too tired.” Nothing. “Please, just tell me.”

  “Just tell you, like if I did, you’d listen. You’d hear.”

  “Wallis.” Now I was getting worried. Had I been missing things? Not hearing some animal correctly?

  “There is nothing wrong with your senses.” She looked over, and the look in her green eyes was not friendly. “Your receptors, if you will, are working perfectly.”

  “So, I’m what? Misinterpreting?”

  “That would involve actually listening. Actually paying attention to what anyone is trying to tell you.” With that, she tucked her nose into her tail and fell asleep. Leaving me alone with the music, wide awake and puzzled.

  The bourbon did its job eventually, and I woke on the sofa, sans cat and aching. Stretching helped some of the stiffness, but my unease about the previous night only became stronger the more my brain woke up. The only message I had not been able to respond to yesterday was that soft plea. Had I misinterpreted it? I reached out with my right hand and caught myself. No reason to set that wrist throbbing again. Yes, I had. Probably. Unable to find whoever had called out to me, I had decided that the cry had come from the woods, beyond my help. It had seemed a reasonable supposition at the time, one I thought that Wallis as a hunter would understand.

  Life with a cat could be difficult.

  If that had been my failing, however, I wasn’t sure how to remedy it. I could go back, though returning in broad daylight would expose me to discovery. Or, I could get help—of another sort. My back creaked as I stood and stretched some more. Fatigue and pain were aging me, and I wondered if I was actually considering this. But as I made my way into the kitchen, I realized that I was serious. I was thinking of calling Jim Creighton, or better yet, dropping by, and enlisting the aid of the law.

  “Wallis, you win.” I called up the stairs as I ascended, mug in hand, a few minutes later. “I’m calling in the cavalry.”