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

by Clea Simon

  “No, what?” Don’t go? Don’t confide? It isn’t Robin?

  “Pru?”

  “Sorry.” I had to focus. “I was thinking of something else. Shall we?” He nodded and turned toward the exit. Glancing back, I couldn’t help but notice that for once Albert and Frank seemed to be on the same page: confused and a little worried. I smiled, for both of them, and followed Creighton out the door.

  “What’s going on, Pru?” He had led me to his private office and started in as soon as he closed the door. “I thought you were going to stay out of trouble for a while.”

  “I’m only doing my job, Jim.” I leaned back and put my feet up on his desk. He scowled, which helped a bit. This was a role I was accustomed to. “Why did you want to talk to me? You know, I didn’t take the animal.”

  “It’s not the cat, Pru. I talked to the vet over there, Doc Sharpe, after that report was filed, but he assured me that the animal had simply been isolated for some tests.”

  I nodded. Good ol’ Doc Sharpe.

  Creighton wasn’t buying it. “However, I still need to examine that cat.”

  “I thought you’d decided that the shooting was an accident?” I should have been gratified. I wasn’t.

  “It probably was, okay? All the evidence points toward an accident, but considering the odd provenance of the gun…” He paused. I knew he regretted telling me what he had. Funny, Lucy’s wiles might have come in handy about now. I just waited. “The case is still open, Pru. I mean, the coroner has ruled it death by misadventure, but I’ve got jurisdiction here.”

  “And why are you telling me this, Jim? I’m not an insurance agent. Or,” I paused to consider, “a gun collector.”

  “No, but you’ve been seen in the company of some folks who are. And if I just ask you to mind your manners, I know what will happen.” He slumped against the wall. It didn’t make him look any less starched, but I had to fight the urge to go to him. Instead, I smiled, and took my feet off his desk.

  “Look, Pru,” he continued. “This is serious. I need you to stay out of it. And that means no Tom and no Benazi.”

  “Benazi?” He had my attention now.

  “Wrinkled little guy? Face like a hatchet?”

  I nodded. “His first name isn’t Bill, is it?”

  “Not lately.” He suppressed a grin. “Try Gregor.”

  The accent, that Old World graciousness that smoothed over the underlying threat. Of course. “Gregor Benazi.” I tried it out. And as I did, the other questions that had been percolating in my mind finally came together. Questions that didn’t seem to be on Creighton’s radar at all. It was a nice piece of luck that cleared my way to investigate. “Okay, Jim, I will.”

  He narrowed his eyes. He knew me too well to think I’d capitulate that easily. “Pru?”

  I was heading toward the door, though. I had other things on my mind beside a suspect gun—or a suspect gun dealer. Benazi—“Bill”—had actually been charming, in his way, but I’d had enough of sleazy older men to last me at least till fall. I had a cat to locate before Creighton ran out of patience. That was trouble enough.

  Chapter Forty-seven

  I walked to the car with more swagger than I felt, sure that Albert, at least, was checking me out. My wrist had started aching again, and I was due at the Chinese restaurant. But I was sick of this car. I wanted my wheels back. And then I wanted the answers to some questions.

  On my way to the garage, I tried to piece together what I’d seen with what Creighton had told me. If I could only reconcile the timeline, I’d have bet that Robin had taken the cat out of sentiment. Snuck it out of the shelter illegally, to give it a good home. What I didn’t see was how she had done it—or when. And the visit to Louise Franklin? Could that have been an attempt to justify her feline thievery? To make peace or bury the hatchet with her lover’s widow?

  As I drove, I tried to recall their faces. Neither had looked happy. Louise’s gestures and her chainsmoking both signaled annoyance, if not anger. Could Robin have been threatening the older woman? With what—animal abuse? From what I’d seen, Louise Franklin wouldn’t care. And it still left the basic problem unsolved: how would Robin have smuggled the cat out—and why would she have reacted so strongly when we found her gone?

  Louise Franklin could have taken the cat. But why sneak out with what was legally hers? And why then report the animal as stolen?

  And then it hit me: Because I would suspect Robin. Everyone would. It would be a perfect, if petty, bit of revenge. It might also, I was beginning to think, be the first step in a larger frame, for a crime much bigger than catnapping.

  There was no point in going to County. I had to warn Robin. Whatever else was going on, if she thought she’d made peace, she was in for trouble. First, I needed my car.

  For a Monday, the garage was busy. The threatening weather had everyone hustling to get errands done, but I saw my blue baby parked right out front. Mikey nodded to me when he saw me, and waved me over to the tiny office to settle up. Through the glass door I could see a woman in a mohair coat occupying the one plastic chair, her face buried in a catalog, and so I opted to poke around instead. Mikey was talking to someone—new money, by the looks of him—and had a Beemer up on the lift. The little sportster looked cute, but I couldn’t see it surviving our potholes. From the way Mikey was gesturing, it hadn’t. They had some more words, before he left. A woman in the larger version—more the size of my sedan—had been waiting in the lot. From what I’d heard of her husband’s temper, I didn’t blame her.

  Miss Mohair would be next, and so I made my way around back. The garage was built up against the rock wall, and I used a stick to trace the water trickling down its side. In a few years, or centuries, that water would wear all this down, and Beauville would slide into the valley. For now, though, it was kind of pretty: the touch of nature shielded by the dirty garage.

  “Hey, Pru! There you are.” Mikey had found me. I looked up, surprised. “You beat the storm.”

  “Thought you had another client.” I could see the mohair coat, getting into a late model import.

  He shook his head. “That’s my cousin, Robin. She just dropped by, but she really liked your car.”

  “Robin?” Of course. “Mikey G—you’re Eve Gensler’s son?”

  “Yeah, you walk her dog, right?” I nodded. “She was talking about you—you and Red, I mean, Robin.”

  “Robin said—wait, you called her Red?”

  “Yeah.” He smiled and shook his head. “Growing up, we called her Carrot Top. Can you believe she wanted to come work with me? She’s doing a lot better now though. Hang on, okay?”

  He turned back toward his tool case, and I ducked out, just in time to see Robin pulling out of the lot. Through the rear window, I saw her sleek brown ‘do, so similar to Louise’s. And it hit me. The clothes, the makeup. Robin—“Red”—hadn’t been born looking like Louise Franklin. She’d remade herself in the older woman’s image. Trying for class, or maybe to keep the interest of her older lover. Maybe Donal had suggested the change, or maybe Louise had somehow masterminded the metamorphosis, bringing the younger woman one step closer to being her double. To being her fall guy.

  ***

  I didn’t know what was going on, but I did know Robin was in deep. I had to warn her. Yelling something at Mickey—he knew where I lived—I raced toward my GTO. The keys were on the mat, and my baby woke with a roar. I took off after Robin, leaving Mikey waving in my rear view mirror. Hell, he had the sedan in his lot as collateral. Mickey must have done something besides bodywork, though, or else two days with the big sedan had made me heavy footed. The GTO jumped beneath me, and I fishtailed as I swung onto the state highway.

  Robin had a good head start—and no reason to know anyone wanted her to stop. I could only hope she was heading someplace local. Glanced up at the sky, I thought of Saturday’s storm. The clouds had thickened again, the light growing gray. I should head back to the garage, but a bird in the hand…Wal
lis, I knew, would understand.

  I could barely keep her in sight. That initial burst of speed seemed to be wavering, my GTO not responding as it should, and I cursed whoever had driven me off the road. Something was still wrong with my car. The accelerator had a mind of its own, one that made me ride it carefully—titrating the pressure with every sputter and start. This wasn’t going to be fun, especially if the sky opened up. I was concentrating so much on my car that I almost missed the turnoff. At the last moment, the sight of Robin’s little sportster registered, and with a squeal of wheels, I followed, powering my car into a turn that made something grind in the front end.

  “Great.” Mickey said he’d replaced my axle. What else could it be? I like to drive. But it’s the speed, not the mechanics, and I was bemoaning my limited knowledge when Robin turned again. Hell, growing up in that family, she probably knew more about my engine than I did. It wasn’t a happy thought—and my mindset didn’t improve as I realized where we were. Coming from the garage, I hadn’t recognized the road. Now I did. We were heading toward Louise Franklin’s house.

  Chapter Forty-eight

  I slowed down as she entered the driveway and let my rumbling ride idle behind the hedge as she parked beside the outbuilding. Through the branches, I could see Robin approach the house. Did she suspect that Louise had the cat? That she might be setting her up for murder? Or did she simply want to clear her name? I waited until Louise Franklin’s head popped out, and the two began talking.

  I’d left the car running—the way it sounded, I didn’t trust it to turn over again. But over the low rumble, I couldn’t hear anything. From what I saw, the heated discussion of the other night was being continued on the front stoop. It all seemed rather public, and my curiosity was getting the better of me, when Robin reached into her bag.

  I realized I was holding my breath. I didn’t know what I expected—money. A bundle of love letters. In the growing dusk, I couldn’t see—only that Louise retreated, backing into the house, and Robin followed. I waited, curious how this strange little drama would play out.

  Less than a minute later, the door opened again. This time, Robin stepped out first, holding a set of car keys, and I saw the garage doors swing open. In her other hand she held, by the thick scruff of her neck, the white Persian.

  That was no way to hold a cat, an adult cat. I started to get out of the car, to complain, when it hit me. I’d been blind. Or, worse, as deaf as I’d thought that cat. For all Robin’s complaints about being denied ownership of the white Persian, she had never once asked if she could visit her. Never asked if she could see the animal she supposedly cared so much about until that last time—when I had forced the issue. Even then, something had been off. I remembered her reaction to Tadeus, recoiling from a cute little bunny. Robin Gensler was no animal lover. I’d read her wrong from the start.

  Wallis, Frank…they’d all tried to tell me. I was insisting on hearing what animals saw, rather than what they sensed. Lucy had been quite clear that Robin was smart, manipulative as well as pretty. And Tadeus, the rabbit, had his own message, letting me know that even the most innocent-seeming creatures could bite.

  I still didn’t understand why Louise Franklin, the legal owner, had felt the need to sneak her cat out of the shelter. But I was beginning to understand that she feared the younger woman. Feared her with reason.

  “Wait.” It was too late, I knew that, but I was out of the car, yelling above the rising wind. “Robin!”

  She turned toward me, but the dusk made it impossible to tell what she saw—or if she had even heard me. The cat, however, did. Although her body hung down, tail limp, the wide white face turned slightly.

  “Help me.” That voice again. It was the Persian. She was on her last legs, and I was her only hope.

  Leaving my car running behind me, I crashed through the underbrush in time to see Robin toss the animal into the trunk of Louise’s black sedan. I stepped onto the driveway, but she was already behind the wheel, and I found myself jumping backward to avoid being hit as she reversed down the drive at breakneck speed.

  “What the hell…” I had landed in more bushes—on both hands. I ignored the shooting pain in my wrist as I ran back to the GTO. She had Louise’s car in drive now, and tore past me, fast and reckless, and I cursed as I grabbed the wheel by instinct with my right hand. This time, the pain blindsided me—sweeping over me with a wave of nausea. I fought it off, gasping back tears, and couldn’t have lost more than five seconds, but it was enough. She was nearly out of sight by the time I got going—and she had gone by too fast for me to see what shape the bumper was in.

  It didn’t matter. All I could feel was a white-hot fury in the shape of a cat. I didn’t know why that animal hadn’t spoken to me before. I didn’t understand what was going on. I did know animal cruelty when I saw it—and this time, tears weren’t going to buy me off.

  The snow started in earnest about five miles down the county highway. By the tenth mile, I was hunched forward, cradling my useless arm against my body and straining to see through the windshield. Robin was driving without any regard to the weather, heading uphill into the blast, the big sedan solid in the storm. Between the howling wind and my misfiring engine, I felt like I was riding a bucking bronco, and each jolt sent fresh stabs of pain up my arm. If I could only catch her, I wouldn’t care.

  Somewhere beyond the turnoff for Bransville, my heater died. Whatever Mickey had done to my car, it wasn’t good. I kept going. The road started turning here, snaking its way up the spine of the mountains. My breath was fogging the windshield, and I used my bad arm to wipe it. The pain was useful now: it kept me focused as we raced through the empty miles. At least the storm had forced Robin to turn her lights on. With every turn, I feared I’d lost her, but then I’d see her taillights: red and glowing and just a little too far ahead.

  I caught a break about fifteen minutes later. We’d turned into a pass, where the overhanging peaks sheltered us from the wind, and I could see the big sedan not that far ahead. It was an odd choice—a hairpin road that climbed up to a scenic overlook. In summer, tourists clogged the road, stripping their gears in both directions, just to look at a bigger version of their world, or down into the abyss. Dark evergreens still lined the road, shielding us from more of the storm, but the road peaked above the treeline. There were no exits that I knew of—not till the top, and I gunned the engine, desperate to catch her. To make her pull over. To make her stop.

  I leaned in, desperate for the chase. My GTO might be old, but it had the power, taking the turns like a pro. One mile. Two. Five. The distance began to close, and then I heard it. A hiccup. A knock, and suddenly the engine went dead. I had a flash of memory—of sliding sideways across the road. Not again, I found myself screaming. But I’d been on the straightaway as the power went out, and my tires held. There was no curb, but I drifted to the side. My car sputtered and was still.

  It was hard finding my phone. My bag had slid under the seat in the rush, and my right arm was worse than useless. By the time I had dug it out, I had almost decided who to call. Mikey G owed me, that was for sure. Though when I thought back to the garage, I remembered who else had been there. Mikey’s cousin, “Red,” who knew cars as well as he did.

  Creighton would come for me. He’d smile and shake his head, tell me I’d gone off half-cocked again. Maybe it was time to tell him everything.

  I flipped the phone on and waited for a signal. This deep in the hills, it could be iffy. I tried to remember how far back the last town had been. That diner, the one up by the last turn—it was closed this time of year, wasn’t it?

  It didn’t matter. Ahead, in the snow, I saw taillights. Someone had stopped for me. No, I saw with something like disbelief. Robin Gensler had stopped for me. Had backed up along the highway and was now walking toward my car.

  “Robin!” I got out and waved with my good hand. “Over here.” Torn between fury and relief, I wasn’t sure what to say.

  “Give
me the phone.” Her voice was grim.

  “Excuse me?” I leaned in, sure that the wind had stolen the sense of her words.

  “Give me the phone.” She moved closer, her face strangely still even as her hair tossed in the wind.

  I looked up at her, trying to understand. The rounded face, the soft lips. They were still the same. Then she gestured with her hand and I looked down. I knew, then, why Louise had handed over her car keys. Had handed over her cat. In her hand, Robin Gensler held a gun.

  “Here.” I fumbled it, the growing numbness in my other wrist making the effort almost natural. Wincing, I held it out to her—and cradled my hurt arm back against my body. The move wasn’t just for effect, although I had almost lost feeling along the outside of the arm. In my pocket I had my knife. It was only a switchblade, but I knew how to use it. I willed my fingers to close around the handle, to fight the shooting pain, the growing numbness. If she came close enough…

  She stepped forward. I made my move. But my hand was too numb, too weak, and we both watched as the knife clattered on the pavement.

  “Cute.” She stopped where she was and cocked the gun. It was not, I noted, an antique. “Toss the phone.” She motioned across the highway, moving the gun as little as necessary. “Now.”

  I looked at her. I looked down at the gun. There was a similarity, the little gun was as dark and glossy as the woman. As cold. Taking the phone in my left hand, I tossed it awkwardly, overhand across the highway. It landed on the pavement, and I suppressed a smile. As soon as she took off, I’d retrieve it.

  “Good. Stay here.” She backed toward her car. I took a step toward her, and she raised the gun. It was small, but I didn’t want to get any closer to it. Not out here. With a beep, she released the trunk and in a moment I saw her plan.