The Mysteries of Max: Books 25-27

Chapter 20

“Did you see that? Did you take a picture?”

“Yes, I saw that and yes, I took her picture,” said Scarlett as she studied said picture on her phone. She frowned. “Look at that dress, and that hair!” She zoomed in. “Oh, and those pores. They look like craters! She definitely needs a facial scrub and maybe a seaweed mask. And her hairdresser should be arrested and shot—look at those roots!”

“Oh, who cares what she looks like,” said Vesta as she craned her neck to follow the BMW as it raced off. “Did you get a shot of her license plate? I’ll have Alec run a check.”

“Can he do that? Is that allowed?”

Both women were seated in Marge’s little red Peugeot, conveniently parked across the street from the Gardner residence, where they had an excellent view of the front door.

“Of course he can do that. I’m his mother. He’ll do whatever the hell I tell him to do.”

“She reminds me of someone,” said Scarlett slowly, and then it hit her. “I got it! Marcia Gardner—Quintin’s younger sister!”

Vesta drew up her eyebrows in surprise. “Are you sure? I thought she moved to Switzerland. Or France—or some other European place.”

“No, it’s definitely her. I’d recognize those bushy brows anywhere.”

Vesta grinned. “Only you would recognize a person by their eyebrows.”

“Eyebrows are my specialty,” said Scarlett proudly. “They’re the windows into a person’s soul.”

“Pretty sure that’s the eyes,” grunted Vesta as she took out her own phone and dialed her son’s number.

“No, it’s the eyebrows,” said Scarlett with a nod. “Everybody knows that.”

“Alec? I want you to run a check on a license plate number. GAR130. What? Not allowed? Oh, don’t give me that crap. Just run the number already, will you? Why else have I got a cop son for?” She glanced over to her friend and nodded. “Marcia Gardner. Thanks. Oh, and when you see Charlene, tell her not to overdo it on the plastic surgery, will you? Would be a shame to ruin that lovely face on a whim.” And without saying goodbye, she disconnected, as was her habit. “You were right,” she said. “It was Quintin’s sister.” She tapped her dentures with her phone. “Can’t be a coincidence, for her to show up here so soon after the discovery of that dead body.”

“Do they know who it is yet?”

“Nah. Alec gave me some lame excuse about the coroner having to do an autopsy. Cops are even worse than politicians. All that bureaucratic claptrap. Who’s that?”

Scarlett had called up a picture on her phone of a young man with aquiline features and a widow’s peak, his jet-black hair in a ponytail.

“Bobby Garibaldi. Marcia’s son. He runs the family business these days.”

“Huh.” Vesta’s eyes twinkled, which in Scarlett’s experience was never a good sign.

“What?” she asked.

“I’m suddenly in the mood for candy.”

“I’m sure the factory’s closed by now.”

“Exactly,” said Vesta, and started up the engine.

“One thing I gotta give you,” said Scarlett.

“What?”

“There’s never a dull moment with you around.”

I’d actually been looking forward to a nice evening at home. You know: put your paws up, do some channel-surfing or Netflixing, and generally take a load off. But unfortunately that wasn’t to be. For exactly at ten o’clock, usually the time I’m starting to get ready for cat choir, the mailwoman dropped something through the mail slot. I could tell from the telltale clattering sound.

“Odelia, you’ve got mail,” I announced, for sometimes humans don’t hear the kinds of sounds that us cats do.

Odelia and Chase, who were happily snacking on a big bag of potato chips (the pickles variety, if you’re interested) and watching The Bachelorette, didn’t even stir.

“You’ve got mail!” I repeated, a little louder.

“What is Max meowing about?” asked Chase lazily.

“He says we’ve got mail,” she said as she deposited another chip into her mouth.

“Advertising, probably,” said Chase, and continued watching the mind-numbingly boring tribulations of one woman having the pick of two dozen exceedingly handsome and charming men and suffering choice overload as a consequence.

And since I needed a bathroom break anyway, I decided to get up and do the honors for my humans. I jumped down from the couch, waddled over into the hallway, and glanced down at the piece of mail that had just been delivered. It wasn’t advertising as Chase had surmised but a pristine white envelope with two words written on it in very nice handwriting, I might add: ‘Odelia Poole.’

So I took the letter between my teeth, and carried it into the family room, then deposited it onto Odelia’s lap and went off for my bathroom break.

By the time I’d done my business, the scene in the family room had completely changed: The Bachelorette was still talking, unsure of who to pick as her mate for life, but the sound was muted. And Odelia and Chase, instead of lounging lazily on the couch, were both sitting bolt upright, and fervently studying a document.

“What’s going on?” I asked.

“Something just arrived in the mail,” said Dooley.

“I know,” I said.

“It came in a white envelope with the words ‘Odelia Poole’ on it,” Dooley continued.

“I know!”

“And inside was a piece of paper,” Dooley further announced.

I heaved the sigh of a cat seriously put upon, then said, “And what was on this document, pray tell?”

“I don’t know,” said Dooley. “But they seem to think it’s more interesting than The Bachelorette so it must be very important.”

“Many things are more interesting than the Bachelorette,” I said. “In fact I think practically everything is.”

“Max, I want you to think hard,” said Odelia suddenly, fixing me with an intent look.

“Okay,” I said, and thought hard. Then I realized something was missing, and I said, “Think hard about what, exactly?”

She waved the envelope in my face. “Who delivered this?”

“Um… Bambi?” I ventured a guess. Bambi Wiggins is our mailwoman, you see.

But Odelia was having none of this guesswork. “This is not the time for jokes, Max. You must have some idea who dropped this through the mail slot just now.”

Both Odelia and Chase were staring hard at me, making me distinctly nervous. “Um… I’m sure I don’t know,” I said. “I was watching The Bachelorette, remember? So I didn’t really pay attention.”

“But you heard the mail slot?”

“Yeah, well, it’s hard to miss. It makes a lot of noise when it clatters.” Which is probably the point of those mail slots, I guess. That people know when the mail has arrived and can send their dog—or, as in this case, their cat—to fetch it.

Odelia looked disappointed, an expression I’m unfamiliar with. And since I could see this was important, I threw my mind back and did as she said: I thought hard. “I did hear a car stop,” I said finally, “right before the letter was dumped through the slot.”

“What kind of car?” she immediately asked.

“Um… the kind of car that drives?” I suggested, and saw that this was the wrong answer.

“Oh, Max,” she sighed.

“No dice?” asked Chase.

“He remembers a car stopping right before the letter arrived, but nothing more.”

“So what’s in the letter?” I finally asked, my curiosity seriously piqued now.

Odelia showed it to me. Its contents only consisted of a single line of text: ‘A good sleuth has a sweet tooth.’

I would have laughed, if Odelia hadn’t looked deathly serious.

“A good sleuth has a sweet tooth?” I said. “What does that even mean?”

“Someone is playing a game, Max,” said Odelia. “And I’m pretty sure it’s got something to do with Vicky Gardner’s disappearance and the death of that young woman.”

And then I remembered something. “Isn’t Quintin Gardner called the Candy King?”

“He is. He owns Garibo, one of the biggest candy makers in the country.” She shared a look with her boyfriend. “I think we better take a closer look at Garibo tomorrow.”

Just then, Chase’s phone chimed and he picked it up from the coffee table. “It’s your uncle,” he said after checking the display. “Chief? What’s up?” He listened for a moment, then closed his eyes. “I’m on my way.” He disconnected with a grimace. “Your grandmother and Scarlett were caught trespassing.”

Odelia looked stunned. “Trespassing? Where?”

Chase cocked an eyebrow. “At Garibo’s.”