Purrfect Design. Purrfect Life

41. PURRFECT DESIGN

Prologue

Jayme Ziccardi was having a hard time focusing on her assignment. Making a still life drawing of a stuffed bird had sounded a lot easier than it actually was. It had also sounded a lot less boring. It wasn’t lack of talent that caused Jayme to dawdle, though, since pretty much everyone agreed that Jayme was extraordinarily talented. The problem was that there were other things she wanted to draw. Like her own comic, for instance.

And as she stared out the window, which offered a stunning view of the garden of the Gardner Institute of Art where she was currently enrolled, she couldn’t help but wonder if this really was the way to proceed. Ivan, a boy her age, who was sitting next to her and had almost finished with his assignment, glanced over in her direction, trying to catch her eye. If she didn’t know any better she would have thought he liked her, but since he had a girlfriend, that probably wasn’t the case.

“Pssst,” Ivan said. “Having trouble?”

She glanced to the front of the class, where Mr. Cabanes was reading a book on human anatomy, and nodded.

“The trick is to start with the head,” said Ivan. “Start with the head, then work your way down.” He gave her an encouraging wink. “You can’t miss.”

She took a look at his drawing, and saw that the head of his bird was the same size as the rest of its body, so even though in theory what he said might hold a kernel of truth, clearly something had gone wrong in the execution.

But instead of offering him constructive criticism, she gave him a thumbs up.

“Thanks for the tip, Ivan.”

He swelled with pride.“That’s all right. Us newbies have to stick up for each other.”

Ivan was a recent addition to the class, and had admitted to her the week before that the only reason he’d signed up was because his mom, who was an artist, had insisted.

Once again she started on the arduous work of producing a lifelike rendition of that bird, but then movement caught her eye and she saw that an actual bird had settled on the windowsill and was looking up at her, its head cocked and a curious glint in its eyes.

She blinked and smiled, then held up a hand in wave.

“Jayme, Jayme, Jayme,” suddenly a voice sounded behind her. She jerked up, and immediately her feathered little friend fluttered off and was gone.

“Hi, Mr. Cabanes,” she said. She hadn’t heard him come up behind her, but then the man had a habit of sneaking around. He wore tennis shoes, and was light on his feet.

He studied her work for a moment, then leaned in and whispered,“Look, I know this isn’t the sexiest assignment, but it’s part of the curriculum so I have to teach it. Besides, if you don’t master the basics, how are you going to do your other work?”

She glanced up into the man’s face, and caught that trademark twinkle in his eye.

“What other work?” she asked innocently.

Without a word, he lifted the drawing she’d been slaving over and took out the cartoon she’d been working on. She tried to grab it but the teacher was too quick for her.

And as he studied it, she sat there, slightly breathless with anticipation.

Finally a light chuckle sounded, indicating that Mr. Cabanes liked what he saw.

“This is pretty good, Jayme,” he said. “Is this an original or a copy?”

She gave him a look of indignation.“I would never copy someone else’s stuff.”

“Oh, but it’s fine if you do. We all have to start somewhere, and most artists start by copying the work of the artists they admire, then gradually discover their own style.” He handed her back the three-panel comic strip of a giraffe and his best friend the lion cub. She’d dubbed it Mike and Spike, and this was already the fourth in a new series.

“Well, I do feel inspired by one artist,” she admitted.

“I know,” he said. “I can tell from your work.” He cocked an eyebrow. “Dave James?”

She nodded.“I try not to copy him, though. I want to create my own comic strip.”

“Well, your work definitely shows promise.”

She flashed him a smile of gratitude.“Thank you, sir.”

“Look, I know these still lifes aren’t what you signed up for, but I can assure you they’ll be a big help later on.”

“But, sir, I want to be a comic artist. So how is drawing dead birds going to help me?”

“Patience, my dear,” he said as he glanced toward the door, where some kind of ruckus was taking place. “Just do the work now, and you’ll reap the rewards later—trust me.”

Before she could reply, he was walking to the front of the class, moving as noiselessly as ever.

She heaved a little sigh, tucked away her latest Mike and Spike effort and set about to try and finish drawing that darn bird. And she’d just put pencil to paper when suddenly the door swung open and a woman stormed in, followed by Mr. Cabanes, who seemed to have been trying to stop her.

“Jayme Ricardo!” the woman said as she raked Jayme’s fellow students with an icy look in her eyes. “Who is Jayme Ricardo?”

“Please, ma’am,” said Mr. Cabanes. “You can’t just come barging in here and—”

“I’m Jayme,” said Jayme, holding aloft her hand. “But it’s Ziccardi, not Ricardo,” she corrected the very irate-looking lady. Apart from her furious expression, she was really pretty. Long blond hair that had clearly benefited from the attention of a very expensive hairstylist, a nice camel coat, and a Louis Vuitton bag that must have cost a fortune.

“I want a word with you, young lady,” said the woman, and Mr. Cabanes, though clearly not happy with this intrusion, gestured for Jayme to join them outside.

Reluctantly, Jayme did as she was told, and trudged in the direction indicated. The woman and the teacher both left the class, and as she joined them in the hallway, Mr. Cabanes carefully closed the classroom door so they had a certain measure of privacy.

The woman gave her a once-over, her eyes traveling the length of her body, from the top of her head to her shoes and back again. Judging from her foul expression and the fire shooting from her expressive eyes she didn’t like what she saw.

“How old are you?” she asked.

“Seventeen,” said Jayme.

“Seventeen!” the woman cried.

“This is Mrs. James,” Mr. Cabanes said, making the introductions. “Veronica James.”

Jayme frowned.“Veronica James, as in…”

“The wife of Dave James, yes,” said the woman as she continued to look at Jayme as if she was a piece of dirt that had accidentally attached itself to her shoe.

“I’m a big admirer of your husband’s work, Mrs. James,” Jayme said.

“Oh, I know,” said the cartoonist’s wife. “I know you’re a big fan.” She rolled her eyes. “I can’t believe I have to say this, but I want you to stop seeing my husband, Miss Ricardo.”

“Ziccardi,” she corrected the woman once more.

“What?”

“My name is Jayme Ziccardi, not Ricardo.”

“Oh, don’t get cute with me, young lady. How long has this been going on?”

Jayme stared at the woman in confusion.“Going on?”

“The affair! How long have been sleeping with my husband!”

Jayme blinked.“Sleeping… I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I know Dave has been paying for your classes. And I know he’s got big plans for you. So let me ask you again: how long have you been sleeping with my husband?”

“But I haven’t,” she said. “I’ve never even met your husband.”

“Jayme is only seventeen, Mrs. James,” said Mr. Cabanes.

“I know! Why do you think I’ve come down here in person to find out what’s going on!” Dave James’s wife straightened, and gave Jayme the kind of look a gardener reserves for the offensive slugs assaulting his best and most promising roses. “I’m only going to say this once: stay away from my husband, Miss Ricardo.” She accentuated these words by poking her finger in Jayme’s chest, causing Mr. Cabanes to make soft protesting noises.

And before Jayme had recovered from the shock the woman’s words had caused, Veronica James turned on her expensively shod heels and stalked off, her feet click-clacking on the checkered stone floor until she had turned a corner and was gone.

Jayme’s mouth, which was still open, now closed as she slowly turned to her teacher. “What just happened, sir?”

Her teacher regarded her with a mixture of compassion and contrition, then finally said,“I think you and I need to have a little talk, Jayme.”

Chapter 1

I don’t know if you’ve ever heard of the concept of the Lazy Saturday. In fact when Chase told Odelia how he enjoyed their lazy Saturdays it was my introduction to this fascinating phenomenon. Then again I think I may be excused for my lack of awareness of this particular human habit, since for catsevery day is a lazy day. Though we don’t like to use the L-word. We simply call it common sense.

“What are you reading?” asked Odelia, who occupied one part of the couch while her husband occupied the other half. Both were reading the same newspaper, only divided into different sections, with Odelia having taken charge of the section dedicated to international news while Chase had decided to immerse himself in sports and comics.

“Tollie the Turtle,” said Chase with a grin, indicating that he liked what he saw.

“Oh, I love that cartoon,” said Odelia.

“Comic strip,” I corrected her.

She glanced down at me.“What’s that, Max?”

“Tollie the Turtle is not a cartoon,” I said, “but what is commonly termed a comic strip. A cartoon is a single drawing, whereas a comic strip is a sequential series of drawings.”

“What is he saying?” asked Chase as he turned the page.

“He’s just showing off,” said Odelia as she devoted herself to an article about some trouble in the Middle East.

“I’m not showing off,” I said. “I’m merely making sure you use the correct term. Comic strips are a national treasure, especially Tollie the Turtle.”

“What’s Tollie the Turtle, Max?” asked Dooley, who was lying next to me on the carpet, most of his body concealed underneath the coffee table, while only his nose was visible. Like all cats, he likes to provide himself with some measure of cover, just in case some big bird might swoop in and try to abscond with him.

“Tollie the Turtle is a cartoon,” said Brutus, who was lying on top of the coffee table. He likes to have an overview, and the coffee table is as good a place as any to provide him with same.

“Not a cartoon,” I said. “A comic strip.”

“Whatever,” said Brutus with a lazy flick of the paw at a pencil that was lying nearby. The gesture made the pencil make the final jump over the edge and sent it rocketing into the abyss, where it landed right between myself and Dooley.

“Tollie the Turtle is a fictional character,” I said, deciding to enlighten my friend, who was still looking at me with that wide-eyed attention only Dooley masters so well. “It was created fifty years ago by Dave James, and has been a big hit all across the globe. It is syndicated, meaning published by a comic strip syndicate, and currently published in more than two thousand five hundred newspapers worldwide, making it one of the most successful comic strips in existence. There have also been TV shows, movies, and thousands upon thousands of merchandising products bearing the likenessof Tollie and his friends. In other words: Tollie has made Dave James a very rich man indeed.”

I noticed how Harriet, the fourth member of our feline household, had pricked up her ears at the mention of Dave James’s wealth. She was lying right next to Brutus and had, or so I thought, been happily napping until now.

“Rich, is he, this Dave James?” she asked.

“Oh, very,” I confirmed.

“Millionaire, billionaire?”

“A millionaire many times over.”

“Gee,” she said, as she cut a quick look to the section of the newspaper Chase had discarded and placed next to him on the floor. Visible to us was now the comic strip section, where the most popular comic strips of the moment were on display. One of them, prominently displayed, was indeed Tollie the Turtle, which, in spite of the fact that it has been in existence for five decades now, is still going strong, as is its proud creator.

“I never thought a dumb turtle could make a person rich,” said Harriet.

“Turtles aren’t dumb,” Brutus corrected her. “In fact they’re very smart.”

Brutus had recently become friends with a turtle, and clearly they’d bonded for life.

“I didn’t mean it like that, snuggle bear,” said Harriet. “What I meant was that it’s hard to see how a drawing can make a person rich.”

The white Persian now jumped down from her perch, graceful as ever, sashayed over to the newspaper and sat down to study the comic strip, neatly draping her tail around her buttocks. Finally she shook her head.“I don’t think it’s funny,” she determined.

“Ouch,” said Brutus. “Take that, Dave James.”

“I can see howhumans would think it’s funny, but I certainly don’t.”

Dooley, his curiosity aroused, joined her to stare down at the comic section. He took a good look at Tollie the Turtle’s latest adventure, then suddenly burst into loud laughter.

“Dooley seems to think it’s funny,” said Brutus.

“Dooley thinks everything is funny,” said Harriet.

“What’s the joke?” I asked, vaguely interested in the topic of discussion.

“Well…” Harriet began, but Dooley quickly interrupted her.

“Listen to this, Max,” he said, still laughing. “A young turtle is sitting next to an old turtle, and asks, ‘So how old are you, Tollie?’ And Tollie says, ‘How old do you think I am, my young friend?’ And the young turtle says, ‘I don’t know—as old as time?’ You should see theold turtle’s face, Max—it’s priceless! Just priceless!”

I gave him an indulgent smile.“Sounds like one of those jokes where you had to have been there,” I remarked, earning myself a grin from Harriet.

Suddenly her face lit up with an expression of sheer excitement.“Say, listen, you guys, I just had the most amazing idea!”

Uh-oh.

“Why don’t we start one of these cartoons?”

“Comic strips,” I corrected her.

“And then we can become rich and famous, just like Dave James!”

“Cats can’t draw, Harriet,” I said. “We don’t have the opposable thumbs.”

“We don’t, but Dave James does,” she said.

I frowned at her.“So?”

“So Dave James is a famous artist, and he’s been making this Tollie cartoon—”

“Comic strip.”

“—since the dawn of time. So he’s probably sick and tired of his stupid turtle.”

“Turtles are in fact very intelligent and sensitive creatures,” Brutus interjected.

“Whatever. My point is that he probably had one great idea and got lucky and hit the jackpot. But what if we offer him another great idea? Then he can have two comics in the paper instead of just the one.” She gave us a look of triumph, and seemed ready to take a bow and accept our excited applause. Only I had no idea what she was talking about, and neither did Brutus or Dooley.

“I think Tollie the Turtle is very funny,” said Dooley. “As old as time—ha ha.”

“Us!” Harriet cried. “He can make a cartoon about us!!!”

This time I didn’t even bother to correct her. Instead I merely stared at my friend, hoping she’d elucidate, which of course she immediately did, and vociferously, too.

“Look, nobody wants to read about a stupid turtle. They’re dumb creatures that crawl around and eat lettuce and bugs. But what if he made a cartoon about us? People love cats, so if Dave James managed to become a multimillionaire by drawing turtles, can you imagine what he could do with cats? I’m talking billions, you guys! And since he’d be drawing us, we’d share the profits and start a new life. I’m thinking a ninety-ten split in our favor, since we’d be doing all the work, though of course I’m open to negotiations.”

“I like my old life,” I said.

“Me, too,” said Dooley.

But Brutus, even though I was pretty sure he liked his old life, too, said,“We’re listening.” In the strictest sense of the word that was true, of course.

“Okay,” Harriet said, her eyes bright and shiny now. “So the four of us have had our fair share of exciting adventures, right?”

“Right,” I said.

“So we simply ask Dave James to turn them into an entertaining cartoon and become even bigger than Tollie the Turtle.”

“He’s so funny,” said Dooley. “As old as time—ha ha ha.”

“I don’t think Dave James will agree to create a second daily comic,” I said. “He probably has his hands full with Tollie. Besides, most comic strip artists both write and draw their strip, and Dave James is no exception.”

“Oh, but he can write and draw Harriet the Cat as much as he likes,” said Harriet. “Only I’ll provide him with the inspiration he needs, see?”

“Harriet the Cat?” I asked.

“Sure. Obviously I should star in the cartoon, since this is my idea in the first place. Besides, you all know I was born to be a star, and this could be my big break.”

Well, that part at least was true. Harriet has always suffered from the diva syndrome.

“Why not Harriet, Brutus, Max and Dooley?” asked Brutus.

“Too much of a mouthful,” said Harriet. “No, it has to be Harriet the Cat. Just like it’s Tollie the Turtle and not Tollie and…” She consulted the comic strip and added, “Finkus.”

“Finkus is the little turtle?” asked Brutus.

Harriet nodded.“He’s Tollie’s dimwitted little friend. Dimwitted but lovable.” She patted Dooley’s back. “Great news, Dooley. You can be my Finkus.”

“And who am I going to be?” I asked.

“And me?” asked Brutus.

“We’ll figure it out,” said Harriet. “Or Dave James will. He needs to do something for his ten percent. Besides, he seems to know what he’s doing, otherwise he wouldn’t have managed to turn a dumb turtle into a global phenomenon.”

“Turtles are actually—” Brutus began.

“I know they are, sugar bear,” said Harriet, giving her mate a sweet smile.

And then she gave herself up to thought, and I could see she was already dreaming of a world where Harriet the Cat was the biggest comic strip franchise in existence, with movies, TV shows, and plenty of merchandising, effectively a brand-new global empire.

Just then Gran walked in, and when she found our humans stretched out on the couch, she frowned and said,“Look at this bunch of lazybones. Don’t you got nothing to do?”

“It’s Lazy Saturday, Gran,” said Odelia, as she yawned and placed the final piece of her newspaper on the floor and rubbed her eyes.

“Lazy Saturday? What is the world coming to?” the old lady cried as she raised her arms heavenward. “There’s cars that need to be washed, floors that need to be vacuumed, bathrooms that need to be scrubbed and laundry that needs to be done.” She clapped her hands. “Chop, chop. Let’s get up off your asses and let’s go-go-go!”

Just then, the doorbell chimed, and Odelia reluctantly picked herself up from the couch and shuffled over to the door to open it. She was in yoga pants and a sweater and looked as if she’d just rolled out of bed. And since I’m even more curious than I’m lazy, I decided to take a peek myself and see who would dare interrupt Lazy Saturday.

It was Bambi Wiggins, our mailwoman. Turns out not everyone gets to spend their Saturdays being lazy.

“Letter for your hubby,” said Bambi. “Sign here.” So Odelia signed there. For a few moments, both women exchanged the latest gossip, and since nothing they said held any particular interest to me, I returned to the living room, where Harriet was trying to drum up support for her latest scheme.

“Multimillionaire, huh?” said Gran as she held the comic strip section in her hand. “I wouldn’t mind becoming a multimillionaire. You, Chase?”

“Mh”, said Chase, who hadn’t followed the discussion since he doesn’t speak our language.

“Harriet got this great idea about starting a cartoon of our own, featuring her, to replace this lame Tollie the Turtle that’s been in the paper for God knows how long.”

“You want to create a new comic strip?” asked Chase as he stretched his brawny arms.

“Thank you, Chase,” I said. Finally someone who cared about themot juste.

“Sure,” said Gran. “And I for one think we don’t even need this Dave James. Why split the profit if we can do it ourselves and keep all the money?”

“I like your thinking,” said Harriet. But then her face sagged. “Only problem is: nobody in this family knows how to draw.”

“News flash,” said Gran. “Dave James doesn’t know how to draw either. Look at this. He doesn’t even do cars or houses or whatever. Just a couple of talking turtles and one tree. Kids could do it. Heck, I could do it.”

“You think you can draw a cartoon, Gran?” asked Harriet.

“Sure! Me or Scarlett.”

“Scarlett!” said Brutus.

“Don’t look so surprised. Me and Scarlett took a drawing class back in the day. We’d heard they had men modeling in the nude so we wanted to get us some of that. They kicked me out, though, when I asked the guy to squat so I could check out his glutes.”

“Okay, so Scarlett can draw my cartoon,” said Harriet, “but who’s going to write it?”

“There’s no writing involved, honey,” said Gran. “Look, it’s only a couple of lines. Easy!”

I cocked a curious whisker at Gran.“You have to come up with the jokes, Gran.”

“What jokes? This stuff ain’t even funny. Two talking turtles. How hard can it be?”

Odelia had returned, and handed her husband a letter.“For you,” she said. She noticed her grandmother’s excitement and asked, “You’re looking awfully happy, Gran. Did you win the lottery?”

“I did a lot better! I’m gonna be a multimillionaire cartoonist! And you,” she added, pointing a bony finger in Chase’s direction, “are gonna build me an art studio!”

Chapter 2

It was Monday morning and we were peacefully taking up space in the corner of Odelia’s office as we usually do, with Harriet and Brutus taking up space in the opposite corner and Odelia working at her desk, when suddenly the outer door swung open and footsteps sounded in the corridor, halting outside Dan’s office. The aged editor directed the visitors to Odelia’s office, located further down the corridor, and so even before they arrived, Odelia was aware she had visitors. Her hands, which had been flying over the keyboard, working on an article for the Hampton Cove Gazette, now halted, and as she looked up, a young woman entered, along with an older woman. They both looked very anxious, and decidedly ill at ease.

“Mrs. Kingsley?” asked the older woman. “Odelia Kingsley? Mr. Goory said to walk right on through so we did. I hope we’re not disturbing you.”

“Oh, no—come in,” said Odelia magnanimously. “Take a seat. What can I do for you?”

Next to me, Dooley stirred.“Who are these people, Max?” he asked. “What do they want?”

“I have no idea, Dooley, but I have a feeling we’ll soon find out.”

With the youngest of the pair too intimidated to speak, the oldest one took the lead.

“I’m afraid we find ourselves in a great deal of trouble, Mrs. Kingsley,” said the woman as she leaned forward, placing her hands on the desk and wringing them freely.

Odelia smiled and said,“Maybe you can start by telling me who you are.”

“Oh, of course,” said the woman. “Well, I’m Hester Liffs, and this is my granddaughter Jayme Ziccardi.” She turned to her grandchild and gave her an encouraging nod. “Maybe it’s best if you tell the story, Jayme. Just tell Mrs. Kingsley what you told me.”

“Just call me Odelia, please,” said Odelia.

Jayme took a deep breath, and seemed to gather her thoughts.“I’m what you might call an aspiring artist, Mrs. Kin—Odelia. In the sense that I’ve been following art classes at the Gardner Institute of Art for a while now, and training under Mr. Fernleigh Cabanes.”

“I don’t know if you’ve heard of Fernleigh Cabanes?” Hester interrupted.

“I interviewed Mr. Cabanes for the paper last year,” said Odelia.

“He’s an amazing artist in his own right, of course, and so when he agreed to accept Jayme as a student, we were thrilled.”

“I got a scholarship from the Baxter Foundation,” Jayme explained.

“We were very lucky,” said Hester. “Tuition was out of our reach.”

“So last Saturday there was an incident,” Jayme said, then directed a glance at her grandma.

“Go on,” Mrs. Liffs encouraged her.

“A woman suddenly appeared in class. She said her name was Veronica James, and that she was Dave James’s wife. And then she accused me of having an affair with her husband, which of course is ridiculous, as I’ve never even met Dave James, and also, I’m way too young to have an affair with the guy. He’s probably eighty or ninety.”

“He’s seventy-two,” Hester said. “Same age as me. And far too old for Jayme, of course. But more important than these ridiculous accusations is what Fernleigh told Jayme next.”

“He said it’s actually Dave James who set up the Baxter Foundation, and who personally selected me for the scholarship. And also, he’s been following my work, and discussing it with Fernleigh.” A blush had settled on her cheeks. “I was pretty shocked, of course. Can you imagine? Dave James? Personally selecting me for a scholarship?”

“Which is why we’re afraid Veronica James will start to make trouble for Jayme. If she thinks her husband and Jayme are involved in some way, she might try to cancel the scholarship, and in doing so cause irreparable damage to my granddaughter’s future.”

“But why?” asked Odelia. “Why would she think there’s something inappropriate going on between her husband and Jayme?”

“I have absolutely no idea,” said Jayme. “Like I said, I never even met the guy. And I didn’t even know it was him that set up that scholarship.”

“I think I might have an idea what’s going on,” said Hester, a grim look on her face. “And it all dates back to events that took place more than fifty years ago.”

Jayme stared at her hands.“Gran told me the most amazing story. Wait till you hear it.”

“Once upon a time, before Dave becamethe Dave James, we used to date,” said Hester.

Odelia’s eyebrows shot up. This was a development she clearly hadn’t anticipated.

“This was way before Tollie the Turtle. Dave was just a struggling young artist back then, and I was a fellow student at the academy where we met.”

Odelia glanced to Jayme.“So Jayme is…”

“Oh, no,” Hester laughed. “We never got that far. You see, what happened is that Dave and his parents went on a trip to the South Pacific that summer—our last summer,” she added with a touch of wistfulness. “Only the boat they were on was caught in a nasty storm. They got adrift and it took a couple of weeks before Dave was finally found.”

“What about his parents?” asked Odelia.

Hester shook her head.“They never made it. Dave was the only one who survived. Oddly enough, when he did come back, turns out he’d lost part of his long-term memory, either from the shock of losing his parents, or because he hit his head in the storm. At any rate, he didn’t remember anything, and had to start his life practically from scratch.”

“So… he didn’t remember you?”

“No recollection whatsoever. I was suddenly a stranger to him. Which came as something of a shock to me, I can tell you, since we’d made plans to get married in the fall, and arrangements had already been made.” She held up her hands. “Look, I didn’t blame him. Of course I didn’t. We tried to get back together, but it just didn’t work. He did his best, but our history together, our past, it was all gone. And even though I’d hoped to make him fall in love with me all over again, that kind of stuff only happens in the movies.”

“So you split?”

Hester nodded, and I could see the story still affected her, for her eyes suddenly turned moist. Jayme placed her hand on her grandmother’s arm, and also appeared quite impressed with this hitherto unknown part of her grandmother’s past.

“So we went our separate ways, vowing to remain friends, and I still run into him from time to time.” She accepted a tissue from Odelia and wiped her eyes. “At least one good thing came out of that whole mess, and that’s Tollie.”

“His cartoon character.”

“Comic strip character,” I corrected her, but she didn’t hear me.

“No, the real Tollie,” said Hester. “The turtle he met on the desert island where he spent those weeks, and who he claims saved his life and his sanity.”

“You mean that Tollie is an actual turtle?”

“Oh, absolutely. The cartoon Tollie is based on the real Tollie—the turtle Dave met on that island.”

“I didn’t know that,” said Odelia with a smile.

“See, Max!” Harriet called to me from the opposite side of the room. “Tollie is a real turtle, just like Harriet will be the real… me!”

“Yeah, yeah,” I said. Frankly I’d heard all I was prepared to hear about this comic strip she and Gran were planning.

“So obviously Veronica knows about our past history,” said Hester, “and must have made the connection to Jayme’s scholarship and Dave’s interest in her work, and come to the conclusion that there’s something going on that’s not entirely on the up and up.”

“Okay, so I apologize if I seem a little slow here,” said Odelia, “but what is it exactly that you want me to do?”

“Well, we’ve heard a lot of good things about you,” said Hester, nodding to her granddaughter.

“There’s a kid in my class named Ivan Stasiewicz,” said Jayme, picking up her cue from her gran. “And he told me that when his uncle got in trouble with the town council last year over some back taxes he owed, you jumped in and bailed him out.”

“Also,” Hester added, “a very dear friend of mine told me you were instrumental in solving a theft at her home. Some of her bracelets were stolen and you found them. And of course I’ve been a loyal reader of the Gazette all my life, and I never miss an article. You’re an ace crime solver,Odelia. So we were thinking…”

“That maybe you could talk to Veronica James…”

“And convince her that there’s nothing going on between Dave and my granddaughter.”

“And make sure she doesn’t cancel my scholarship.”

“Don’t you think it would be easier if you talked to Dave?” asked Odelia.

Hester shook her head.“Absolutely not. The last thing Veronica needs is for an ex-fianc?e of her husband’s to go sticking her nose in. It would only make things worse.”

Odelia glanced to Jayme.“Do you think Dave’s connection to your grandmother is the reason he offered you that scholarship?”

“I don’t know,” said Jayme with a shrug. “I like to think it’s because of my talent.”

“And I’m sure that’s the only reason,” said Hester. “After all, Fernleigh did say that Dave has been keeping tabs on Jayme and telling him what a remarkable talent she is. Now that certainly has got nothing to do with me. That’s all Jayme. She really is a marvel.”

“Thanks, Gran,” said Jayme.

“No, but it’s true, hon,” said Hester, patting her granddaughter’s hand affectionately. “And I also know that you didn’t get it from me.”

“What about your parents, Jayme?” asked Odelia. “What do they have to say about all this?”

“My parents died when I was three,” said Jayme.

“Oh, I’m so sorry.”

“I’ve raised Jayme as my own,” Hester explained. “Which is why this has affected me so much.” She gave Odelia an imploring look. “Would you please help us?”

“Of course,” said Odelia, as she leaned back. “Though talking to Veronica might not be the best approach. If she really is as suspicious as you say she is…” She thought for a moment. “Who manages the Baxter Foundation? Dave himself or a board of trustees?”

“Everything goes through a banker,” said Hester. “A guy named Waldo McLoughlin. Fernleigh gave us his name and phone number, in case we wanted to get in touch. Here you go.” She slid a piece of paper across the desk and Odelia picked it up and studied it.

“I think maybe the best thing would be for us to pay a visit to Mr. McLoughlin,” she said. She gave Jayme a reassuring smile. “I’m sure this will all work out just fine, Jayme. We’ll have a chat with this man, and if you want I’ll have a chat with Dave himself, and explain to him what’s going on.”

“And tell him to keep that wife of his on a tighter leash!” said Hester.

Clearly she wasn’t Veronica’s biggest fan.

Chapter 3

“You want me to do what?!”

Scarlett stared at her friend, then at the crudely drawn sketch Vesta had made and placed before her on the table. The two friends were seated in a new street caf? called Sunny Beach, which was rumored to serve up coffee that was even tastier and trendier than anything Starbucks could come up with. And since Scarlett was a big fan of her daily cappuccinos, she simply had to try it. And she had to admit, it wasn’t bad. Not bad at all.

Dressed to impress as usual, she’d already attracted plenty of attention from passersby, something she lived for, especially when that attention was equally divided between admiring looks from the male contingent, and jealous looks from their wives.

“I want you to create the next bestselling cartoon with me,” Vesta repeated her proposal, and then pointed to the sketch. “Look, this is Harriet, the star of the cartoon, and this is Brutus, her sidekick. And then of course there’s Max and Dooley, but they’re just the extras. You know, like that spider and that dog in Garfield. Why, you don’t like it?”

“I don’t know.” She studied the blob that was supposed to be Harriet. It didn’t look like a cat. In fact it didn’t look much like anything. “What makes you think I can draw?”

“Oh, don’t be so modest, Scarlett. Remember when we took that art class a couple of years ago? And how Mr. Cooper kept telling you how talented you were?”

“That’s because Mr. Cooper liked taking a closer look at my assets, Vesta.”

“You think?”

“Absolutely. I don’t have an ounce of artistic talent. Not a scintilla.”

“But…”

“Look, the only reason I took that art class was because they were rumored to hire the best male models—and they did! I should know, because I dated a fair few of them.”

“Well, of course. It was the only reason I took that class.”

Scarlett grinned.“I know it was.”

“But at least I thought you could draw.”

“No, hon, I’m sorry to disappoint you.”

In fact Vesta looked so disappointed Scarlett tried to think of a way to cheer her up.“Hey, we can always hire an artist. There must be plenty of young artists who’ll get into bed with us—pun intended.”

“Yeah, but I don’t wanna,” said Vesta, getting that mulish look on her face that was so typical of her. “I thought about asking Dave James, and I’m sure he’ll jump at the chance, but then we’d have to split the profits, and before you know it, Dave will claim that he came up with the idea and try to kick us to the curb.” She waved her hands in a distracted manner. “Nah, I just don’t want to have to deal with all of that stuff. Besides, you know what artists are like. Prima donnas, every last one of them. No, it’s gotta be you and me.”

“Well…” said Scarlett, thinking about Vesta’s latest brainwave as she studied the blob that was supposed to be Harriet. “We could always try a photo comic. I mean, you’ve got the perfect models with Harriet and Brutus and the others. All you gotta do is work out the scenarios and have them act it out.”

“What’s a photo comic?” asked Vesta.

“Well, they’re like comics, only with pictures instead of drawings.” She took out her phone and googled ‘photo comic’ and landed on one where a woman was gazing longingly at a handsome man with a cleft chin. Above her head a thought balloon showed what she was thinking: ‘Oh, Matt. If you don’t kiss me right now I’ll just die!’ And above the cleft chin guy’s head another thought balloon said: ‘I’d kiss you right now, Evelyn, if my wife wasn’t looking.’

And indeed, in the next panel the image panned out and now you could see that Matt and Evelyn weren’t alone, but in the company of his wife and what presumably was her husband. More thought balloons had been inserted, with the one above Evelyn’s husband reading: ‘I just wish she’d look at me the way she’s looking at Matt.’ And the one above Matt’s wife: ‘Look at the way Evelyn islooking at Matt. Oh, no! They’re having an affair!’

“Huh,” said Vesta thoughtfully. “Do you think this will sell?”

“It’s cats, Vesta. People love cats.”

“I’m not so sure. People are used to seeing cartoon characters, not real people.”

“Or cats.”

“We could always give it a shot. You’re probably right in that it’s easier to snap a couple of pictures than to find an artist who’ll draw this stuff.”

“And cheaper.”

“And cheaper.”

“Did you draw this?” asked Scarlett as she tapped the strip of paper.

Vesta swelled with pride.“Yep. My very first cartoon.”

“So explain the joke to me.”

In the first panel, the blob that was Harriet had a speech balloon over her head, and it read:‘Oh, Brutus, the moon is full, and so is my heart.’ And then in the second panel they just kinda stared at each other, and finally in the third panel Harriet said, ‘Smoochie poo, my heart belongs to you.’ And he: ‘Boo-boo, my heart belongs to you.’

Scarlet looked up.“I feel like there’s something missing. Like a punchline?”

“Yeah, you’re probably right,” Vesta agreed.

“This stuff is supposed to be funny, Vesta, and this ain’t funny.”

“No, I guess it isn’t. Well, I just whipped this one up last night. And when I showed it to Harriet she thought it was great—the best thing she’d ever seen. I guess she’s biased.”

“Harriet would say anything—as long as she’s the star, she’ll like it.”

Vesta sighed.“You know, Dave James makes it look easy, but this is pretty darn hard.”

“You keep mentioning Dave James. Who is he?”

“The guy who makes those turtle cartoons. Tollie the Turtle?”

“Oh, right. Yeah, I guess it’s tough to top that turtle.”

“I’m starting to see that.”

Both friends sipped from their drinks as they glanced around at the people passing on the street.“You know, maybe we should do like comedians,” Scarlett suggested. “Bounce ideas off one another.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, I come up with an idea, and then you work with that and come up with another idea and so on and so forth. That’s how the professionals do it. I’ll start. Ping-pong ball.”

Vesta frowned.“Ping-pong ball? That’s the best you can come up with? How is that funny?”

“It’s not. It’s just to get the ball rolling. Come on. Your turn. Anything that pops into your head.”

“Is this how Dave James works? Cause I’ve never seen a ping-pong ball featured in his stuff, and I’ve been reading Tollie the Turtle every morning for the past fifty years.”

“Just humor me” said Scarlett. “Ping-pong ball. Go.”

“Um… tennis ball?”

“Football.”

“Basketball.”

“Volleyball.”

Vesta groaned.“This ain’t working.”

“I got a feeling we’re not doing it right. Let’s try something different. Chamomile tea.”

“Black tea.”

“Green tea.”

“Ice tea.”

“Lemon tea.”

Vesta threw up her hands.“I’m sorry, hon, but I’m starting to think you’re as lousy at coming up with jokes as I am at drawing stuff.”

Scarlett frowned.“It’s so weird. This brainstorming stuff is supposed to work.”

“Well, it’s clearly not working now, unless we want to make a cartoon about tea or sports, which are two topics that aren’t remotely funny in my opinion.”

“We could always ask the cats to come up with something. They’re pretty funny.” Just then, Vesta’s granddaughter walked by, followed by four cats. “I wonder where they’re going.”

“Don’t worry,” said Vesta curtly. “I’ll find out.”

And Scarlett had no doubt in her mind that she would.

Chapter 4

Waldo McLoughlin’s office was as nice and polished as the banker himself: contrary to the olden days, when one expected to find wainscoting and portraits of bearded stern-looking men adorning the walls, his office was actually very modern. Glass walls, polished concrete floor, glass desk, and a clear view of an open-plan office where dozens of worker bees were presumably busying themselves with transferring the moneys entrusted to them by their clients and putting them to good use elsewhere.

Waldo himself, one of the Capital First Bank’s junior executives, was dressed in a crisp gray suit, and was as clean-shaven and clean-cut as any banker could be. On his desk no portraits of the bank’s founder, or even its current director, but of Waldo’s wife and kids. All in all, it provided me with the confidence that here sat a man who would be able to take control of the situation and resolve it to the satisfaction of all concerned.

“And what can I do for you?” he said, spiriting an engaging smile on his face, his able banker hands folded on his desk.

“Well, I was hoping you could shed some light on a situation that has arisen,” Odelia opened the negotiations. “My name is Odelia Kingsley.”

“I know who you are, of course, Mrs. Kingsley,” said the banker, nodding affably. “And a very fine reporter you are, too. I read your column in the Gazette every morning.”

“Thanks,” said Odelia, offering the man a smile of her own.

“And this young lady, if I’m not mistaken, is Miss Ziccardi, and so you must be her grandmother, Mrs. Liffs.”

“Oh, you know who we are?” asked Hester, displaying her astonishment.

The banker’s smile went from winsome to outright avuncular. “I know who you are because I’m in charge of the Baxter Foundation, whose sole purpose it is to support the work of talented young artists such as yourself, Miss Ziccardi.”

“Well, it’s with the foundation that the problem lies,” said Odelia.

“Oh?” said the banker, clearly surprised that this should be possible.

“I don’t understand, Max,” said Dooley.

“What don’t you understand, Dooley?” I asked as I studied the man in whose hands Jayme’s future lay.

“I always thought bankers collected money, but this man has been giving money to Jayme.”

“I think he sees his role as chairman of the Baxter Foundation and his role as banker as two separate things,” I said.

“You mean as a banker he collects money, and as a chairman he gives it away?”

“Something like that. Though the money he dispenses through the foundation is not money that comes from his clients. Only one man funds the foundation and that’s Dave James.”

“I think I understand. As a banker he takes from the many and gives to the few, and as a chairman he takes from the few and gives to the many.”

“I couldn’t have put it better, Dooley.”

“So what seems to be the problem?” asked Waldo, a look of concern having stolen over his pleasant features.

“Veronica James stormed into my class Saturday,” said Jayme, “and accused me of having an affair with her husband.”

“Ah.”

“And then my teacher explained to me that my scholarship, provided by the Baxter Foundation, was actually set up by Veronica’s husband Dave, and how he’s been taking an interest in my progress. And that maybe that was the reason for Veronica’s suspicion.”

“Yes, well, Dave has indeed been following your progress closely,” Waldo said, nodding. “He comes in every month and we talk about the foundation and the scholarship recipients. And it’s true that Dave thinks very highly of you, Miss Ziccardi. But I can assure you that at no point in my dealings with Mr. James have I noticed any impropriety.”

“I’ve never even met the guy!” said Jayme. “So how can I have an affair with him? I mean, until last Saturday when Veronica started throwing those accusations around, I didn’t even know that Dave James was the guy behind the Baxter Foundation.”

“Mr. James is very discreet about his role in the foundation, that is correct.”

“Not discreet enough, if his wife thinks he’s having affairs with the foundation’s recipients,” said Hester. “And also, I don’t know if Dave ever discussed this with you, but he and I have a shared history.”

The banker’s frown deepened, and it was obvious this was news to him. “Oh?”

“Ancient history, but still. Do you think that might be the reason Veronica is acting like this?”

“I’m sure I don’t know,” said Waldo, “but I think it’s wise of you to come to me with this.”

“Veronica didn’t talk to you about what happened?” asked Odelia. “Or Dave?”

“No, I can assure you they haven’t discussed this with me, either prior to Veronica’s d?marche or after.” He thought for a moment. “You know what I’ll do? I’ll talk this through with Dave. And I’m sure you’ll find that this can all be resolved very easily.” And to show us he meant what he said, he picked up his phone and moments later was listening to the dial tone. When the person on the other end, presumably Dave, failed to pick up, his reassuring smile faltered to some degree. “He doesn’t seem to be available at this moment. Which is odd, as Dave always picks up the phone when I call him.” He placed his phone back on the desk. “But no worries. I’m sure he’ll call me back without delay, and I can assure you I’ll thresh this thing out with him thoroughly, and get back to you ASAP.”

“Can we count on that, Mr. McLoughlin?” asked Hester.

“Oh, absolutely, Mrs. Liffs. And please call me Waldo.”

“Well, Waldo, I hope you and Dave can work things out,” said Odelia, “because we’d hate for Jayme to lose her scholarship over this business.”

“That scholarship is the only thing that’s put my granddaughter in that class,” said Hester, “and losing it now would be a tragedy. She’s already learned so much.”

“Mr. Cabanes is a great teacher,” Jayme confirmed.

“Fernleigh Cabanes is the best,” Waldo confirmed, “which is exactly why we chose him to run the Gardner Institute of Art and teach this class.”

“Oh, Dave chose him?” asked Jayme, much surprised.

Waldo nodded.“You’ll find that Dave James is very hands-on when it comes to his foundation and the school.”

“So you have no idea why Veronica James would act this way?” asked Odelia.

“None whatsoever, but I’m sure it’s all one big misunderstanding.”

“Well, I certainly hope so,” said Hester. “To threaten a young girl like that really is beyond the pale.”

“And you have my solemn word that I’ll communicate that to Mr. James,” Waldo assured Jayme’s grandmother, who was clearly very protective of her granddaughter.

Waldo rose to his feet, as a clear indication the interview was terminated, and the others all rose, too.“Could you…” Jayme began.

“Yes?” asked Waldo, in that same avuncular tone he’d adopted throughout the conversation.

“Could you please thank Mr. James for me? If it hadn’t been for him, I wouldn’t be where I am today. I owe him a big debt of gratitude.”

“I’m sure he’s well aware of the impact he’s had on you, Miss. Ziccardi, and I feel confident in telling you that your accomplishments are all down to you and the amazing talent that you’ve been blessed with. But I will certainly communicate your gratitude to Dave. I’m sure he’ll be very pleased. And who knows, maybe at some point in the future you and he can actually meet and even collaborate.”

“And when that happens, you better make sure Veronica James stays far away from us!” Hester said, causing a ripple of light laughter to echo through the room.

And on this high note, we all repaired to the waiting room, where a nervous-looking individual stood waiting to be let into Waldo’s inner sanctum. He was a smallish man, dressed in jeans and shirt, with bags under his eyes and prematurely bald. He also looked so agitated that he jumped up when the door opened and we all walked out. The moment Waldo laid eyes on him, the banker’s good humor took a hit, and his smile faltered. The man shot into Waldo’s office like a flash, a wordless communication passing between the banker and this new arrival, and after Waldo had shaken hands with my humans, he retreated and we were free to be on our merry way.

“Now that was a fruitful conversation,” said Hester as we stepped into the sunlight.

“Thank you so much, Odelia,” said Jayme.

“I don’t know how you did it, but I think you managed to diffuse the situation.”

“Well, let’s hope so,” said Odelia. “But I have the impression that Waldo will waste no time to put any misunderstandings to rest immediately.”

“He does come across as a very capable person,” Hester said.

“I still find it hard to believe that Dave would actually have seen my work and liked it,” said Jayme, displaying the kind of hero worship that is typical for the young of the species.

“Now all we can do is wait,” said Odelia, “for Waldo to get in touch with Dave, and settle this matter once and for all.”

“If he manages to keep Veronica off our backs, I’m happy,” said Hester.

“Yeah, that woman gave me the creeps,” her granddaughter chimed in.

“I’m sure she won’t come anywhere near you again,” said Odelia. “Not after her husband convinces her that there’s nothing untoward in the relationship between a scholarship recipient and the person awarding that scholarship through his foundation.”

“I hope they won’t take Jayme’s scholarship away, Max,” said Dooley. “I think she’s really talented, and talent should be nurtured, not squashed.”

We all smiled at this.“You’re absolutely right, Dooley,” said Harriet. “And speaking of talent, I’ve just had a great idea.”

“Oh?” I said, with a touch of trepidation.

“Gran says Scarlett is an amazing artist, and it will be a cinch for her to create my cartoon. But what if we ask Jayme to create it? If Dave James himself figures she’s a talent to be watched, maybe he’ll give her a hand in creating my cartoon, and in Dave’s hands it will be a surefire hit—maybe even a worthy successor to Tollie the Turtle.”

“I really don’t think Dave is ready to retire Tollie, Harriet,” I said.

“Why not? Turtles are boring, Max, and cats are fascinating—especially me. I mean, given the choice between reading about Tollie the Turtle or me, who do you think people are going to choose every single time? Me, of course,” she added before I could respond.

“Let’s just wait and see,” I suggested. “As it stands now, Jayme might not even be able to keep her scholarship, if Veronica James has any say in the matter.”

“Oh, I think she will keep her scholarship, and in fact I think pretty soon Dave will ask her to join his Tollie empire, and that’s when we should strike. That’s the time to suggest that instead of his awfully tedious Tollie cartoons, he should launch Harriet the Cat instead. With Jayme Ziccardi as his lead artist. Out with the old—in with the new!”

And with a smile that brooked no contest, she set off to join Gran and Scarlett, who I’d seen convening nearby, to offer them the benefit of her latest brainwave.

“Brutus!” she yelled when her mate didn’t immediately make to follow. “Come!”

Brutus gave me a sad look of resignation, started to say something, then thought better of it, heaved a hopeless sigh, and trudged off in the wake of his lady love.“Coming, monkey doodle,” he said, and then they were both off.

“Do you think Harriet the Cat will be as big a success as Tollie the Turtle, Max?” asked Dooley.

“I very much doubt it, Dooley,” I said.

“But people like cats more than turtles, don’t they?”

“They may like cats more than turtles, but Tollie the Turtle is an institution, Dooley. An icon and a popular brand that has endured for over half a century. You don’t simply tell its creator to ditch it and replace it with a cat cartoon.” Darn. Now I was saying it myself! “I mean, comic strip,” I quickly corrected myself.

“Harriet the Cat doesn’t have the same ring to it as Tollie the Turtle,” Dooley admitted.

“No, it sure hasn’t,” I agreed.

“Like trying to replace Coca-Cola with a store brand. It probably wouldn’t go over well with Coca-Cola fans.”

“Of which there are probably millions upon millions.”

It looked as if Harriet was in for a big disappointment. Then again, when aspiring to fame and fortune, one must be prepared for any number of setbacks and hurdles. And somehow I had a feeling Harriet was ready, willing and able to overcome those setbacks and climb those hurdles. Only problem was: she expected us to join her in her efforts.

At any rate, our main task right now was to make sure Jayme Ziccardi’s future was safe and secure, and somehow I had a feeling things were looking really good on that front. Odelia had certainly done all she could, and now everything depended on Dave James.

Chapter 5

Tex Poole was in a good mood. Now his mood generally was good, as he was a man who considered the glass half full and not half empty. But he always looked particularly forward to paying a visit to Dave James, one of his favorite patients. A doctor can’t play favorites, of course, just like a parent can’t have a favorite child, but human nature being what it is, he did have patients he enjoyed visiting more than others, and Dave certainly was in his personal top ten, and very near the top, too.

The man had a certain joie de vivre that was infectious, and he poured this zest for life into the comic strip he had created and which Tex faithfully read every single morning, and had for his entire life. It wasn’t too much to say that Tollie the Turtle was one of those fixtures in a life where many things aren’t all that reliable. When politicians lie and cheat, and sports heroes are caught with their hands in the doping jar, Tollie the Turtle was one of those wholesome and fundamentally good things that had stood the test of time and had endured, providing as much joy and entertainment now as it did fifty years ago, when Dave had hit upon the simple yet brilliant idea of featuring a wise old turtle as his hero.

And so it was with a smile on his face and an uplifted mood that the doctor parked his car in Dave’s driveway and got out, doctor’s bag in hand and prepared to talk cholesterol.

Tollie the Turtle might be immortal, but unfortunately this could not be said for his creator, who was suffering from many of the ailments associated with his age. Luckily the man’s spirit was positive and strong, and with the proper treatment Tex had every reason to believe the man could live to be a hundred.

Tex entered Dave’s sizable mansion, built from the success of his artistic endeavors, and yelled, “Dave?”

Contrary to popular belief Dave didn’t believe in surrounding himself with dozens of bodyguards, or erecting a high-tech security perimeter around his house. “The day I need to hire a security guard,” he’d once told Tex, “is the day I stop living.” He still rode into town on a regular basis, bought his groceries at the local supermarket, and could often be seen in the bar drinking with the locals and shooting the breeze. In fact he got a lot of the inspiration for his comics from his interaction with the townsfolk, and the many situations they encountered, sometimes humorous, sometimes not so much, but all the samegrist for that great creative mill.

“Dave!” Tex called out again.

Odd, he thought. Usually Dave greeted him at the door when he dropped by for these weekly checkups, a big smile on his face and immediately ushering him into his private studio to show him some of his latest work, knowing that Tex was a big fan.

Tex decided to walk on through, figuring Dave was probably out back somewhere.

He stepped into the spacious living room, furnished with the latest in design, courtesy of Dave’s wife Veronica who, contrary to Dave, was into all the latest fashions and design fads. But when he failed to find the master of the manor in evidence, he entered the kitchen, calling out yet again, “Dave? Time for your checkup, buddy.”

The kitchen was devoid of Daves, though, and when he glanced out the window to check the deck, he saw no trace of his host there either.

A feeling of concern started to take hold of him, and it was with hastened step that he now decided to search the rest of the premises. He’d interpreted the fact that the front door was ajar as a sign his host was expecting him, but now revised his earlier interpretation into one of alarm. Had an intruder entered the house and caused Dave harm? Or had the man suffered an episode and was lying somewhere unconscious?

He wondered where Veronica was, and assumed she was probably out, as she always was when he dropped by. Veronica hated doctors, reminding her as they did of a less enjoyable side of existence. Also, since Dave was thirty years older than her, Tex also reminded her of the fact that life with her husband came with an expiration date.

He now set foot on the bottom step, hesitated but for a moment, then with light tread moved up the stairs. Arriving on the landing, he glanced around, getting his bearings. He’d been up there plenty of times, and knew that Dave had his studio at the back, where he would disturb no one when he decided to work late. The master bedroom was at the front of the house, with Danny’s room somewhere in the middle. He pushed open the room to Dave’s studio, where the man worked away at his Tollie the Turtle comic. The main studio was in town, and was where his team was located. It was also where Dave would meet potential investors, publishers, or candidates for merchandising. But his home studio was where he worked out the scripts, and came up with the jokes, which he still did himself.

And as Tex pushed open the door, he had to suppress a gasp of shock. A foot was sticking out from behind the desk. And as he stepped further into the small studio, his heart skipped a beat when Dave’s body came fully into view.

He immediately tamped down on the emotional response to seeing the prostrate body of his patient, and his instincts as a doctor, honed through years of practice, kicked in. So he set down his doctor’s bag, kneeled down next to Dave, and felt for the man’s pulse.

But his first instinct upon seeing the body sadly proved correct: Dave James, creator of Tollie the Turtle, was no more.

And as he took out his phone, his attention was drawn to a piece of paper clutched in the artist’s hand. On it, a name had been scrawled in pencil. It wasn’t Dave’s famously stylized scrawl but a name unknown to Tex.

And as he took a closer look, he quickly made out that it read:‘Jayme.’

Chapter 6

We were still lingering on the sidewalk in front of the Capital First Bank, discussing this and that, with Odelia basking in the glow of a job well done and Hester and Jayme’s gratitude, when suddenly no less than three police cars converged on us from different directions, lights flashing and sirens wailing, and cornered us like you see in the movies!

“Max, what’s happening!” Dooley cried.

Officers popped out of their cars like so many jacks-in-the-box and hurried over to us, their expressions betraying their determination to get their man—or woman—and there was a certain measure of yelling at Jayme not to resist arrest and to comply, and then she was being outfitted with a pair of shiny handcuffs and dragged off to the nearest car!

“Hey, what do you think you’re doing!” Odelia cried.

“Just doing our jobs, Odelia,” one of the officers was so kind to offer as an explanation. “If you want to know more, best talk to your uncle.”

“Oh, I will!” she said, looking extremely taken aback by this unexpected intervention.

And as quickly as they’d arrived, the police cars raced off again, carrying with them Jayme, who was glancing through the car window, and looking very scared indeed!

“Let’s go,” said Odelia before Hester could react. The old lady was as shaken as we all were, holding her hands to her face and looking on the verge of tears. She still did as she was told, though, and followed Odelia, who directed her step toward the police station, where she hoped to get a satisfactory explanation for this startling new development.

“I thought they were going to arrest us, Max,” said Dooley, looking relieved.

“And why would they arrest us, Dooley?” I asked. “For one thing, we haven’t done anything wrong, and for another, as far as I know the police don’t bother with taking pets into custody.” After all, their police stations aren’t exactly designed for pet incarceration.

“No, but I almost jaywalked this morning before I caught myself. And I’m sure that Brutus did actually jaywalk when he crossed the street to talk to Buster. And then of course Harriet crossed the road less than a hundred yards from a crosswalk.”

“If Brutus jaywalked, and Harriet crossed the street where it wasn’t allowed, don’t you think they’d arrest them, and not us?”

“They could arrest us as accomplices, Max. Or for aiding and abetting a criminal.”

“I doubt that jaywalking cats warrant the dispatching of no less than three squad cars,” I countered. “Besides, traffic rules don’t apply to us, Dooley.”

“They don’t?”

“Of course they don’t.”

“So we can cross the road when the light is red?”

“We can certainly cross the road when the light is red.”

“And fail to come to a full stop when the light turns orange?”

“Absolutely. Those rules are made by humans, for humans. Cats are exempt.”

“But…” He thought about this, and clearly my revelation had blown his mind, for he was conspicuously silent for the next five minutes, as Odelia did her best to console a sobbing Hester, and we all hurried in the direction of the police precinct to talk to Odelia’s uncle, our small town’sresident chief of police, to find out what was going on.

“Okay, but what about murder, Max?” asked Dooley.

“What about it?”

“The penal code says that murder is frowned upon, right?”

“More than frowned upon. Murder is not allowed, Dooley.”

“So if a cat murders another cat, won’t the police arrest this cat?”

All throughout this conversation, I was trying to keep up with Odelia and Hester, who were walking at a fast clip, and frankly I was having a hard time. Cats are built for short bursts of speed, you see, not these long marathons humans are so keen to engage in.

“Cats don’t murder other cats, Dooley,” I said, panting a little. “It’s not in our nature.”

“So what if a cat murders a dog?”

“It’s far more likely to be the other way around. At least if the dog manages to catch the cat, which he won’t, since cats are far too clever to allow themselves to get caught.”

“Okay, so… what about when a cat murders a mouse? Do you think the police will arrest that cat?”

“No, they won’t. There’s nothing in the penal code about it being illegal for a cat to kill a mouse.”

“But that’s bad, Max. That’s very bad.”

“No, it’s not. Mice have a tendency to make an absolute nuisance of themselves, and at this point they’re fair game as far as your average feline is concerned.” Of course personally I’d never stoop so low as to actually kill a mouse, but that’s just me. I’m a peaceable sort of cat, you see, with not an ounce of bloodthirstiness in my genetic makeup.

“Poor mice,” said Dooley, shaking his head. “No police to protect them, or punish their killers. Did you know that sometimes cats will actually eat the mice they catch, Max?”

“Yes, Dooley, I’ve also heard those horror stories.”

“But that’s cannibalism, Max!”

“No, it’s not. Cannibalism is when you eat the flesh of your own species. Mice are not cats, Dooley, so technically speaking it’s not cannibalism.”

“It’s still murder, Max. And I think the cats who commit murder should be thrown in jail for the rest of their lives. And the police should start to investigate their crimes.”

“Frankly I think humans have enough to deal with policing their own species. You can’t expect them to start policing other species as well. Next thing you’ll want them to start protecting flies from being eaten by spiders. Or worms from being eaten by birds.”

“We live in a terrible world, Max,” said Dooley, shaking his head sadly.

“Look, nature isn’t always fair, Dooley,” I said. “But you have to understand one thing: no bug or animal will ever kill another bug or animal just for the thrill of the kill. They do what they do to survive. In fact I think it’s fair to say that the only species that kills simply for funand sport is the human species.”

He was silent after that, then finally admitted,“You may have a point, Max.”

“Of course I have a point, Dooley.”

“I guess it’s a tough world out there, isn’t it?”

“Only if you forget to look on the bright side,” I reminded him.

“And what is the bright side?”

“That most humans are good and decent people, and that only the smallest minority ever resorts to things that are to be frowned upon.”

“Just like most cats are good and decent pets?”

“Exactly,” I said. Just then, we caught sight of Harriet and Brutus, with the former loudly explaining to Gran why she needed to have her name in large font above her new comic strip, and why she thought that me and Dooley should not feature in the comic at all, since we’d only distract the reading public from the main feature, which was her.

Okay, so even good and decent cats sometimes get lured over to the dark side by such things as an outsized ego and the attraction of fame and glory, but I had a feeling that even here nature would find it prudent to strike a balance, and make sure Harriet’s baser instincts wouldn’t be rewarded but in fact discouraged.

We finally arrived at the police station, and Odelia sailed right in, since the precinct is like a second office for her, ever since Uncle Alec had deemed her worthy to carry the title of civilian police consultant, and had even handed her a badge that goes with the position.

“The Chief is expecting you!” said Dolores Peltz from behind the reception desk. The raspy-voiced dispatcher gestured in the general direction of the double doors that led from the vestibule to the police precinct proper. “Though I’m not so sure he’ll be happy to see those cats of yours,” she added, giving me and Dooley a not-so-friendly look.

“I don’t care what makes him happy or not, Dolores,” said Odelia. “He just arrested a client of mine, without bothering to tell me.”

Dolores’s weathered face displayed a crooked grin. “I know, honey. Just walk on through. And ask him if he’s thought about fixing the darn AC. The thing is on the fritz again and I’m practically melting here!”

But clearly Odelia had other things on her mind than the precinct’s climate control situation, and without another word she marched through the double doors, Hester in tow, and moments later burst into Uncle Alec’s office. The big man looked a little hot under his collar, the few remaining hairs on his head plastered to his large dome, and patches of sweat visible under his armpits. A fan was blasting away in the corner of his office, and provided some measure of coolness, but clearly it wasn’t enough to keep the Chief’s dwelling sufficiently ventilated and its dweller not looking like a drowning victim.

“I talked to the AC guys three times already, but do you think they bother to show up?” he grumbled when Odelia and Hester took a seat in front of him. “Maybe I should have them all arrested and dragged into court for attempted murder by heatwave.”

“Why did you arrest Jayme Ziccardi?” asked Odelia, getting down to brass tacks without delay.

Uncle Alec’s expression turned grim. “Didn’t my officers read her her rights?”

“They did, but they failed to mention the reason for her arrest.”

“Damn rookies,” the Chief grumbled. He seemed to be in a grumbling sort of mood today. Then again, Odelia’s uncle is often this way. Probably comes with the job.

“So why was she arrested?” Odelia demanded. The Chief looked from his niece to Hester, and Odelia answered his wordless question by saying, “This is Hester Liffs, Jayme’s grandmother.”

“Does this have something to do with Veronica James?” asked the old lady, who looked a lot less combative than Odelia, which wasn’t surprising, since she’d just watched her beloved granddaughter being hauled off to prison like a common criminal.

“Why would you think that?” asked Uncle Alec with a frown.

“Because Veronica James barged into Jayme’s class Saturday and accused her of having an affair with her husband,” Odelia said.

“An affair, huh?”

“Oh, for Pete’s sakes, Uncle Alec, will you just tell us why you arrested the poor girl?”

“Murder,” said the Chief curtly.

“Murder!” Hester cried, bringing both hands to her face in a gesture of utter consternation. “Not… Veronica?”

Uncle Alec shook his head.“No, not Veronica. Dave James.”

“Dave!” Hester cried.

“You mean…” Odelia began.

Uncle Alec nodded.“Your dad found him. Head split open like a melon.”

“My dad found him?”

“Tex has been going over to Dave’s house every week for the past couple of months. Some health issues Dave was struggling with and your dad was helping him to overcome.”

“When was this?”

“Oh, about an hour or so ago?”

“Well, you can release Jayme right now,” said Odelia. “Because one hour ago Jayme was with me, so she couldn’t possibly have murdered Dave James.”

“Your dad found him one hour ago. We’re still trying to establish time of death.”

“Any ideas?”

“According to Abe it probably happened sometime between six and eight last night.”

“Oh, no,” said Hester.

Odelia immediately turned to Hester.“Wasn’t Jayme with you last night?”

“She was, but I had a bad headache, so I took an ibuprofen and went to bed early.”

“What time was this?”

“Around dinner time. Six o’clock.”

“And Jayme? What did she do?”

Hester hesitated, then decided the truth was her best friend.“Jayme always takes Woofle for his evening walks. I’ve told her it’s not safe for a young girl to walk the streets alone, but she says no one will attack her with Woofle by her side. He’s very protective.”

“Woofle?”

“Our labradoodle.”

“But why would you think Jayme is involved?” Odelia asked her uncle.

Uncle Alec glanced to Hester, and it was clear he wasn’t ready to divulge information critical to his investigation to a third party—a third party who was related to the suspect.

Odelia understood his wordless message, and took Hester’s hands in hers, then said, “Do you mind waiting outside for a moment? I need to talk to my uncle.”

Hester, who was clearly much disturbed, nodded quickly, and practically tottered out of the office. The moment the door was closed, Uncle Alec said,“Your dad found a piece of paper in Dave’s hand.”

“A piece of paper?”

“Yeah, a crumpled-up piece of paper. Blood all over it—his blood, I assume. And next to Dave there was a pencil, so we have reason to believe he managed to write the name of his killer.” He fixed his niece with an intent look. “Odelia, the name he wrote was Jayme.”

“Oh, no,” said Odelia quietly.

“Which is why I immediately dispatched several units to arrest Jayme Ziccardi.”

“But why? Why would Jayme kill Dave? I mean, she had never even met the guy.”

“She said that?” Odelia nodded, and her uncle leaned back in his chair, which creaked dangerously as he settled his bulk. “Well, I’m sure the investigation will look into all of that. But you understand that I couldn’t just allow Miss Ziccardi to walk around after finding very significantevidence of her guilt.”

“No, of course,” said Odelia, much sobered after being confronted with this evidence.

“Look, I’ll tell you what,” said the Chief. “Why don’t I put Chase on the case, with you as consultant? And if after you’ve thoroughly investigated Dave’s murder, you can prove to me that Jayme is in fact innocent, I’ll immediately sign her release.”

“Deal.”

“But if not…”

His words hung in the air as a credible threat to Jayme’s future.

“I think Jayme is in big trouble, Max,” said Dooley.

“Yes, Dooley, it certainly looks that way.”

Chapter 7

Now that Chase had been assigned to the case, and so had Odelia, we moved from Uncle Alex’s office to that of his deputy, and soon found ourselves convening with Chase. The detective had placed his long legs on his desk and was dragging powerful fingers through his hair and staring up at the ceiling, as if hoping to draw strength and inspiration from the styrofoam tiles that had beenaffixed there.

“So let me get this straight,” said Odelia, who’d taken a seat on the couch Chase had recently dragged into his office, and where presumably he hadn’t spent a lot of time, since he was mostly out there doing his job. “Dave left Jayme all of his possessions, material and immaterial? What does that even mean?”

“It means that he had selected Jayme as his successor, and was grooming her to take over after he retired.”

“But he never told her. She didn’t even know she was a contender.”

“That remains to be seen. And anyway, whether she knew or not isn’t important at this stage. The assumption is that she could have known, so she has a pretty big motive for getting rid of her benefactor.”

“How big a motive?”

“The way it looks now, and after talking to the lawyer who drew up Dave’s most recent will, around eight hundred million dollars’ worth.”

Odelia coughed, clearly not expecting a number in that order of magnitude.

“Is that a lot of money, Max?” asked Dooley.

“Yes, eight hundred million dollars is a lot of money, Dooley,” I said. It was certainly more than I thought the man was worth.

“Can you really make that much money from drawing an old turtle?” asked Odelia.

Chase grinned.“Looks like, babe.”

“So maybe Gran was onto something when she said she wanted to create her own comic.”

“Yeah, but you’ve got to consider that for every Dave James there are probably hundreds or thousands of artists who’ve tried and failed to capture the readers’ imagination. Tollie the Turtle is an icon, and Dave James one of the last true artists: his lawyer told me that he still created every single comic himself, or at least came up with the original idea and then left the execution to his trusted team of collaborators.”

“Okay, so tell me this: why would he name Jayme his successor when he’s got a team of qualified artists who’ve probably been working with him for years?”

Chase shrugged.“I guess that’s for us to find out, babe.”

“So what about his wife?”

“Doesn’t get a penny.”

“Not even the house?”

“Nope.”

“And what about her son?”

Chase consulted his notes.“Danny Tomon, son of Eddie Tomon, Veronica’s first husband.”

“I take it Danny doesn’t get anything either?”

“Nothing.”

“I can’t understand why Dave would do such a thing.”

“Me neither. According to his lawyer he only made this latest will last month, so looks like something must have happened at some point.”

“But what?”

“Who knows? Marriage on the rocks? Trouble with the wife?”

“I think we better go and have a chat with Veronica James.”

“We better have a chat with everyone who knew Dave. Cause there’s a whole lot here that sounds fishy to me. Oh, and also, we haven’t found the murder weapon, so that’s something we need to look for.”

“I think it’s very sad that there won’t be any Tollie the Turtle cartoons anymore, Max,” said Dooley as we walked out of Chase’s office. “I thought they were very funny.”

“Oh, but there will be more Tollie the Turtle cartoons,” I said, and then mentally slapped myself when I realized that now I was calling them cartoons and not comic strips.

“What do you mean? Dave James is dead, Max, so that’s the end of Tollie, right?”

“No, it’s not. I’m sure he made arrangements for his creation to survive him. He has a studio, Dooley, and they’ll probably keep creating the strip, even though Dave is gone.”

“But Chase said that Jayme is supposed to be Dave’s successor, but she’s in jail.”

“I’m sure that Dave left instructions. Artists like him take precautions for this type of situation. Some of them plan out the future of their creation years and years in advance.”

“We’ll just have to prove that Jayme is innocent, won’t we, Max? So she can go and make people happy with their daily dose of Tollie the Turtle.”

Easier said than done. If Uncle Alec and Chase were right, Jayme not only had an excellent motive to murder her benefactor, but that piece of paper with her name on it went a long way to establishing not only her presence at the scene, but her guilt, too.

Ironic, though, that Dave’s appointed successor would also be the one by whose hand he met his maker. And even though I sincerely hoped that Jayme was innocent, since she was obviously a very talented and likable young woman, as things stood right now, it didn’t look too good for her.

Chapter 8

The moment we left the police station, suddenly we were accosted, not by converging police vehicles intent on arresting us for jaywalking, but by Gran and Scarlett, along with Harriet and Brutus. Scarlett was holding up her phone, and Harriet clearly wanted immediate speech with us, for she was yelling,“Max! Dooley! Come with us—now!”

“I’m sorry but we can’t,” I said, feeling slightly ambushed. “We have a murder to solve.”

“What murder?” asked Harriet, clearly annoyed that I’d come up with such a feeble excuse to try and wriggle my way out of an appointment with her.

“Jayme Ziccardi has been arrested for the murder of Dave James,” I explained, “and Chase and Odelia are going to try and prove her innocence.”

“Well, let them,” said Harriet. “This is much more important than some silly murder.” She gestured for Gran to come over. The old lady had been huddling nearby with Scarlett, discussing who knows what, and both studying their phones for some reason.

“Max, you need to come with us right now,” said Gran, reiterating Harriet’s words. And so I decided to repeat my excuse, hoping it would find more fertile ground with her. “I can’t,” I said therefore. “There’s been a murder and we need to help Odelia and Chase.”

“A murder!” said Gran. “What murder?”

“Dave James has been murdered,” said Dooley helpfully, “but he has an entire studio full of artists to continue his work so Tollie the Turtle will still appear in your newspaper every morning, Gran. Though of course his successor is in prison for murder, but if we manage to get her off, she’ll be able to carry on his work. Unless we can’t get her off, and then maybe you won’t find Tollie the Turtle in your newspaper every morning, Gran.”

“Dave James is dead?” asked Gran. “Is that what you’re telling me?”

“Dave James is dead?!” Scarlett cried.

“Yeah, Tex found him this morning,” I said.

“Tex found him,” Gran translated my words for Scarlett, who is one of those rare people who can’t communicate with cats.

“Tex found him?!” Scarlett cried, adamant to keep repeating everything that was being said like some kind of parrot.

“So now we have to find out who did it,” I said, watching anxiously as Chase and Odelia impatiently waited in the car for Dooley and me to join them so we could be on our way.

“Look, I didn’t want to do this, since I don’t think you and Dooley should have a place in my new cartoon,” said Harriet, “but Gran convinced me that for comedic purposes it’s good to have sidekicks. Like in those Garfield cartoons sometimes you have that spider? Well, Max can be the spider. And you, Dooley, you can be like Odie.”

“Odie is a dog,” I pointed out.

“Let’s not split hairs, Max. You should be glad you’re in my cartoon at all.”

“You’re going to kick me?” asked Dooley with slight trepidation.

“Harriet won’t kick you but I might,” said Brutus with a wicked grin.

“Okay, so if Harriet is Garfield, and I’m the spider and Dooley is Odie,” I said, “then who are you, Brutus?”

“Isn’t it obvious? I’m the love interest.”

“Does Garfield have a love interest?”

“Sure. And she’s an integral part of the story.”

“And so who’s going to be Garfield’s Jon?” I asked.

“That would be me,” said Gran proudly. “I’ll be the Jon of Harriet the Cat.”

“But because Scarlett can’t draw,” Harriet explained, “we’ve decided to turn it into a photo comic instead. And I’ve already worked out the first episode, and now all we need to do is snap the pictures. And since you’ll feature in it, we need to take a couple of pictures of you against a neutral background, Max. You, too, Dooley.”

“Oh,” I said, all this information coming a little too fast for my taste.

But before I could change my mind, Gran had instructed me to position myself against the police station outer wall, and Scarlett proceeded to snap a couple of shots of me.

“Don’t you want me to look a certain way?” I asked Gran, who was supervising this impromptu photoshoot.

“No, that’s fine,” said Harriet. “In fact the more bland you look, the better.”

“I look bland?”

“And when Harriet says bland she actually means dumb,” Brutus added.

“Now you, Dooley,” said Harriet. “Pose against that wall and look… well, like you normally look.”

“Is this okay?” asked Dooley, pulling a happy face.

“Yeah,” said Harriet after a pause. “Yeah, that’s actually perfect.”

“Dumb and dumber,” said Brutus, his grin widening.

“Hey, are you guys coming or not?” Odelia yelled, leaning out of the car.

“Coming!” I yelled back.

“Dismissed,” Harriet snapped, and added, “It’s in the can!” Then she drew a paw through her perfectly white mane of fur, and declared, “Now it’s time for my closeup.”

And as Dooley and I hurried over to the car, my friend said,“What just happened, Max?”

“I’m not sure, Dooley, but I think we’ve both been sidelined from Harriet’s comic.”

“You don’t look like a spider, Max.”

“And you don’t look like Odie, Dooley.”

But then Odelia opened the car door and we both piled in, and as Chase hit the accelerator and the car peeled away from the curb, my mind immediately turned back to the case at hand. Insofar I’d almost forgotten about the small contribution I was making to Harriet the Cat by the time we left Hampton Cove and were well underway to Dave James’s place.

Chapter 9

In due order we arrived at the house, and judging from the police activity, it was clear that something very bad had happened there, which of course we already knew. A van from the coroner’s office was parked outside, next to several police cars, indicating that the crime had only recently been discovered, and that Abe Cornwall, who is the county coroner, was still going over the crime scene, or perhaps even the body of the victim.

We walked in, and secretly I hoped that Dave had pets, since it’s always easier for Dooley and myself to talk to any pets on the premises and find out what they know.

You see, killers might take the utmost care not to be seen by their fellow humans when committing a crime, but they never bother about pets as potential witnesses, figuring they won’t be able to tell what they saw. But of course they’ll tell us, and we’ll tell Odelia, and she’ll find a way to make good use of this information. That’s how we’ve worked together very successfully in the past, and that’s the way I hoped we’d be able to solve this case now.

But the moment we walked in I immediately knew that Dave James might have been famous for creating a cartoon about a pet, but he himself had no furry companions.

“What a nice house, Max,” said Dooley as we entered the hallway and glanced around. There was plenty of marble and plenty of artwork on the walls, none of which was by Dave’s hand, and none of which featured his famous creation Tollie the Turtle.

We walked past the milling cops, some of whom just stood shooting the breeze, talking animatedly about last weekend’s football game, and finally we arrived in the living room, where a very distraught-looking woman of indeterminate age sat sobbing into a handkerchief, consoled by a female officer. The officer glanced up when we entered the room, and seemed very happy to see us.

“Detective Kingsley,” she said, getting up. “This is Mara Brae, Dave’s housekeeper.”

“Do you think you’re up to answering a couple of questions, Mrs. Brae?” asked Chase, adopting his warmest, most kindly tone.

Mrs. Brae nodded, tears still rolling down her cheeks. She was a woman of squat build, and had done her hair up in a bun.

“It’s so terrible, detective,” she said. “So, so terrible what happened to Dave.”

“I know,” said Chase, taking a seat on the sofa next to the woman, with Odelia flanking her on the other side, and Dooley and myself taking a seat at our human’s feet, discreetly listening in. I would have gone in search of kibble, but since there were no dogs or cats in the house, it was safe to assume there wouldn’t be any kibble either, so sitting in on this interview was just about all that seemed prudent at the moment.

“You were here when it happened?” asked Chase as he took out pencil and notebook.

The woman shook her head as she touched the handkerchief to her eyes to stem the waterworks.“No, I was out. If I had been here, maybe they’d have killed me too!” She lifted a tearful face to Chase and said, “Is it true that they killed him… with an ax?”

“I’m afraid we don’t know much at this point, Mrs. Brae,” said Chase, not wanting to get into those gruesome details. “All we know is that he was found in his studio by his doctor.”

“His doctor, yes. Tex Poole. Very nice man. He told me what to do about my heel spurs, and I followed his advice and they’re much better now.”

“That’s great,” said Chase. “Now could you please look at a picture and tell me if you’ve ever seen this person?” He held up his phone and showed the housekeeper a picture of Jayme. But Mara shook her head.

“Never seen her before,” she said. “She looks pretty, though. Who is she?”

“Jayme Ziccardi, the recipient of one of Dave’s scholarships.”

“Oh,” said Mara, nodding. The information clearly didn’t mean anything to her.

“Okay, now I know how this might sound, but can you please describe to me how the relationship was between Dave and his wife? Were they on good terms, would you say?”

“Oh, no, detective,” said Mara, shaking her head adamantly. “They didn’t get along at all. They were still living under the same roof, but they were practically separated. They avoided each other as much as possible. And then of course there’s that horrible boy.”

“Horrible boy?”

“Danny. Mrs. James’s son.” She lowered her voice. “Don’t tell her I said this, because she’ll fire me on the spot, but that boy is an absolute terror, detective. A monster!”

“A monster? What do you mean?”

“The way he speaks to me, giving me orders and shouting when he doesn’t like something. He’s got the same personality as his mother but only much, much worse.”

“So Mr. and Mrs. James didn’t get along?” asked Odelia, jotting down a note on her tablet.

“We were all expecting them to get a divorce any moment. First there were the rows, and the last couple of weeks it was cold war.”

“Any chance of a reconciliation?” asked Odelia, as she fastened her eyes on Chase in a look of significance.

“No, not a chance. Mrs. James always spoke ill of her husband, and of course Danny has always hated his stepfather, and has always spoken very badly of him.” She made a quick sign of the cross. “He uses very bad language, detective. Very, very bad language.”

“Can you give me an example?” asked Chase.

“Oh, no, I wouldn’t repeat such foul language. And please don’t make me. But imagine the worst insults possible, and he’s used them all to talk about his stepfather.”

“I see,” said Chase thoughtfully.

“Do you happen to know where Tollie is?” asked the housekeeper now, wringing her hands. “I’m very worried about him.”

“Tollie? What do you mean?” asked Odelia.

“Tollie,” said the housekeeper. “You know, Tollie the Turtle?”

“You mean the real Tollie is still alive?” asked Odelia.

“Of course. Dave met Tollie on the desert island where he was stranded after his boat sunk in a storm, and brought him home with him, since they’d become such good friends. He must be more than one hundred years old by now, but then turtles do get very old, you know. Dave once told me that the oldest turtle alive is almost two hundred years old now. And he said he hoped Tollie would also live that long and so would he.” Her face crumpled again. “Looks like he won’t make it, and now Tollie is gone, too. Oh, this is such a sad day.”

“Where did Dave keep Tollie?”

“He built him a special room. Mrs. James didn’t like it, but Dave liked to keep Tollie close. He was actually one of the reasons Mr. and Mrs. James fought so much. Mrs. James said Dave cared more for that stupid turtle than he did for her.” She shrugged. “Maybe she was right. Dave did love Tollie very much. They had that shared history, you see.” She glanced up at Odelia with a look of concern. “You don’t think the murderer took Tollie, do you? He must be worth a lot of money—he’s a very famous turtle, after all, because of the cartoon.”

“I’m sure I don’t know, Mrs. Brae,” said Chase. “But if you give me a picture of Tollie, I’ll send it to our officers and tell them to be on the lookout.”

“He couldn’t have escaped, you think?” asked Odelia.

“Oh, no. Tollie always sticks around. He’s very territorial, like most turtles, and never wanders off too far.” She brought two distraught hands to her face. “I do hope he’s all right. We all love him so much. He’s just the sweetest turtle. And so very, very wise.”

“So Dave did have a pet,” said Dooley. “Only he’s gone missing.”

“Yeah, looks like,” I said, and we both wandered off in the direction of the den, where our noses told us a large slow-moving reptile may have been kept. And we did indeed find traces of turtle habitation, where Dave had made Tollie a home. There was even a pet flap, through which Tollie had been able to come and go—to take a nice ramble around the garden. Plenty of heads of lettuce told us Tollie had only recently taken leave.

“Dave seems to have cared for his turtle a lot, Max,” said Dooley.

“Yeah, obviously he loved the creature,” I agreed.

“Do you think Mrs. Brae is right, and the killer took Tollie?”

“I don’t know, Dooley, but we better find out.” I wandered over to the door and looked out. “I wonder how big Tollie is.”

“Why, Max?”

“Some turtles can get really big, and if Tollie was like that, the person who took him must have needed a truck and would have had to back it up against the house.”

“Do you think that Tollie might have been the target, and Dave collateral damage?”

“It’s possible,” I agreed. “If Tollie is the turtle the comic is based on, he must be worth a lot of money. So maybe the idea was to grab him for ransom, but they hadn’t reckoned on finding Dave home, and so perhaps a struggle ensued and Dave’s death was an accident.” Which still didn’t explain why Dave would scribble Jayme’s name on a piece of paper.

“Poor Tollie,” said Dooley. “Far from home and with his best buddy now dead. Life will never be the same for the old turtle.” He turned to me. “We have to find him, Max. We have to bring Tollie home.”

“Unless…” I said, thinking the unthinkable.

“Unless what?”

“Unless they killed Tollie, too,” I said, speaking the unspeakable.

Dooley’s eyes went wide. “And turned him into turtle soup? Oh, Max, no!”

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves here, Dooley. For all we know Tollie was turtle-napped, and so our first priority should be to find him and bring him home safe.”

Though where was home for Tollie now? With Dave gone, and Veronica and her son detesting him as much as they did, home just might be in a zoo from now on, or with some other benefactor. Though if Tollie was included in Dave’s will, and most probably he was, perhaps Jayme was Tollie’s new mom from now on. If she was innocent, of course.

“Looks like we’ve got our work cut out for us, Dooley,” I said in conclusion as we turned away from Tollie’s home and joined Odelia and Chase once more.

“Good thing we’re only co-stars in Harriet’s new cartoon,” said Dooley, “or else we’d have to pose for her. Now we can focus on the investigation… spider.”

I smiled.“Yeah, a good thing indeed… Odie.”

Chapter 10

As we were checking around, Odelia and Chase had gone upstairs to take a look at the crime scene—a privilege I decide to forego, as I’m not all that keen on looking at dead people, unlike that kid inThe Sixth Sense. Suddenly there was a sort of commotion or ruckus at the front door, and a strikingly beautiful and statuesque blonde walked in, followed by a sullen-looking teenager. The blonde wouldn’t have looked out of place inSports Illustrated, modeling swimwear, and the kid resembled her to such a great degree that this could only be the now infamous Veronica James and her son Danny.

“Who’s in charge here?” the woman demanded heatedly as she addressed the first person she saw, a hapless lab technician, carrying a laptop around.

“Um… that would be Detective Kingsley, ma’am,” said the lab techie, and pointed in the direction of the staircase.

The blonde, instead of stomping up the stairs and going in search of Chase, instead hollered,“Detective Kingsley!”

“Yup!” immediately Chase’s voice came from one floor up.

“I want a word with you, Detective—now!” she bellowed, and in view of this vocal performance I amended my opinion that Veronica James was a swimwear model and now assumed she must at some point in her life been a very effective drill sergeant.

Chase now came hurrying down the stairs, clearly thinking that another member of the James household must have fallen prey to foul play, but when he saw Veronica, looking very much alive, halted in his tracks, no doubt struck by the woman’s frankly stunning good looks. “Yes?” he said, examining her with a puzzled look on his face.

“I demand to know what all these people are doing in my house!” the woman said. “And why I had to show my ID before I could enter the place where I live!”

“Mrs. James, I presume?” Chase asked, his mind quickly making the necessary leap.

“Of course I’m Mrs. James. Who else would I be?”

“I think Chief Lip talked to you on the phone?”

“He did.”

“And explained that your husband…” Chase looked a little awkward now. It’s never a fun prospect having to explain to the next of kin that their loved one is no longer amongst the living.

“I know my husband is dead, detective. But what I fail to understand is what you’re still doing here. At the very least a recently widowed woman should be able to find solace and comfort in the sanctity of her own home, and not having it crowded with more people than can fit into a Beyonc? concert!”

“We’re still examining the exact circumstances of your husband’s death, Mrs. James. But we’re making good progress, and we hope to be out of your hair in another hour or so.”

“Another hour! The Chief assured me this was an open-and-shut case. That you’ve already identified and arrested my husband’s killer. That Jayme girl.”

“Yes, about that—if it’s not inconvenient to you, Mrs. James, I would like to ask you a few questions.”

“Now?” said the woman, her lips forming a perfectly practiced pout.

“If that’s all right with you.”

“Well…” Mrs. James glanced around, at the cops coming and going, and at the crime scene technicians in white coveralls doing whatever it is that crime scene technicians do. “Okay, fine. How long will this take?” she asked, glancing at a very nice gold wristwatch.

“Not long,” Chase assured the woman. “I’ll get my partner and we can find ourselves a quiet spot where we won’t be interrupted.” And without awaiting her response, he walked back up those stairs, taking them two at a time, and leaving Veronica looking very much like a swimwear supermodel whose photographer has just told her he’s run out of film and he needs to fetch another one in town and can she hang around and keep looking beautiful and be careful not to mess up her hair and makeup in the meantime.

She directed an angry look at her kid, who’d draped a seemingly boneless body across the couch, slung one leg over the back, turned on the TV, and was watching a zombie movie.

“Can you not do that right now, Danny,” she snapped.

“Do what?” Danny asked, without moving an inch.

“Watch that crap. Your father just died. Show some respect.”

“He wasn’t my dad. And I’m showing him the respect he deserves. Him and his stupid turtle.”

Veronica frowned as she glanced in the direction of Tollie’s lair. “Where is that creepy turtle? Mara!” she bellowed. “Mara!”

Mara came hurrying in from the kitchen, drying her hands on a towel.

“Yes, Mrs. James?”

“Where is my husband’s turtle?”

“I don’t know, Mrs. James. The police think the person who killed Mr. James may have taken him.”

Veronica’s frown deepened. “Taken Tollie?”

“Yes, Mrs. James. Kidnapped him. For money,” she added, in case her words weren’t clear.

“Oh,” said Veronica as she gave this some thought. But before she could plumb the depths of this mystery, Chase had joined us again, this time with Odelia in tow, and the three of them repaired to what looked like a small library, which seemed about the only place in the house which wasn’t infested with cops or crime scene technicians.

“Now then,” said Chase as they took a seat in a cozy little salon, where presumably Dave had also done a lot of sitting around and thinking about new Tollie gags.

“Where is my husband’s turtle?” Veronica demanded.

“Well, he seems to have gone missing,” said Chase.

“What do you mean, missing? How can a three-hundred-pound turtle go missing?”

“Tollie weighs three hundred pounds?”

“He does. We spend a fortune feeding the damn beast.”

“According to your housekeeper, Tollie was here yesterday, but this morning when she arrived he was gone, so we assume that whoever is responsible for your husband’s death may have also taken the turtle.”

“You better find me that turtle,” said Veronica warningly. “It’s worth its weight in gold.”

“How so?” asked Odelia.

Veronica gave her a look of incredulity.“And you call yourself a detective? Tollie was my husband’s… muse, if you will. The model for his very successful cartoon.”

“Yes, I know about Tollie the Turtle,” said Odelia. If she felt insulted by Veronica’s harsh words, she didn’t show it, and neither did Chase. Then again, your average homicide detective boasts a thick skin and is not easily intimidated, not even by irate wives of recently deceased comic artists.

“My husband believed that his success was all due to that turtle,” said Veronica, studying her fingernails. “He came up with the idea when he was stranded on some desert island in the South Pacific. When he was finally rescued, he brought Tollie to the States with him, since he’d struck up some sort of weird friendship with the creature.” Her face displayed a look of distaste, which told us exactly how she felt about Tollie.

“She doesn’t seem to be a big fan of Tollie, Max,” said Dooley.

“No, on the contrary,” I said.

“How can you not be a big fan of Tollie? He’s so funny.”

“Maybe Veronica James is one of those people who don’t have a sense of humor,” I suggested. “Or maybe she simply hates animals.”

“How can you not love animals?”

“I don’t know, Dooley. Some people just don’t.”

Dooley gave Veronica a closer look, not unlike a scientist studying a strange bug.

“So as Tollie grew bigger, the success of Dave’s comic began to grow, too, and so my husband had this idea that his success was all down to Tollie, and treated the turtle like a member of the family, lavishing his attentions on the creature and spoiling it rotten. I used to tell him that he probably loved that turtle more than he ever loved me—or my son.”

“Danny,” said Odelia, nodding.

“Yes, Danny.” She glanced from Odelia to Chase. “So what’s going to happen now? As far as I understand, my husband made a will stipulating that everything he owned, from the house to the money to his copyrights, all go to this girl—this Jayme. Only now that she’s in jail, that probably won’t happen, right? I googled it, and in the state of New York a murderer can’t inherit from their victim, so this ridiculous will my husband made is null and void, correct?”

“I’m sorry, but I’m not qualified to answer that,” said Chase. “You should probably talk to a lawyer.”

“This is ridiculous,” Veronica scoffed. “I always knew Dave was funny in the head, with his love for his stupid turtle, and that girl must have seduced him, playing on his Tollie fixation. And the worst part is that she’s only seventeen. Imagine an old codger like Dave falling for a teenager! Isn’t that illegal?” She glanced out the window. “I’ve already had to fend off three reporters for national papers and a couple of TV stations wanting to do interviews. I’m thinking about getting one of those gag orders and trying to stop this scandal from spreading. It won’t do my husband’s reputation any good, nor the value of his legacy.” She looked back to Chase and Odelia. “Tollie the Turtle mostly appeals to kids. Can you imagine what will happen when Dave is revealed as some kind of sick pervert? It’ll be game over for Tollie—and all because Dave couldn’t keephis pecker in his pants.”

“You really believe Dave had an affair with Jayme Ziccardi?” asked Odelia.

“Of course he did. Why else would he sign over his entire fortune to a teenager?”

“Because she was a talented artist and he thought she might be his successor?”

“Oh, please. I saw the girl’s drawings. Dave had plenty of them in his office. All about a giraffe and a lion. Just lazy, lousy work.”

“Dave seemed to think she had potential.”

Veronica directed an icy look at Odelia.“Oh, she had potential, all right, but not as an artist.”

“Have you noticed how Veronica hasn’t smiled even once, Max?” said Dooley.

“I don’t think she’s capable of smiling, Dooley.”

“She’s probably worried about getting wrinkles. When humans smile they get wrinkles around their eyes and mouth, and she probably doesn’t want that.”

Veronica’s face actually looked frozen. She had yelled and shouted and generally made a total nuisance of herself, but apart from the occasional frown her face had remained impassive throughout. It was quite an accomplishment.

“Will that be all?” she asked now, clearly bored with the interview.

“Bear with us for just a moment longer, Mrs. James,” said Chase.

“Can you please tell us where you were last night between six and eight?” asked Odelia.

“Is that when that girl killed my husband?”

“Just answer the question, please,” said Chase.

She hesitated for just a moment, then said,“I was feeling tired, so I went to bed early.”

“At six o’clock?”

She shrugged.“I had a rough weekend, and I wasn’t feeling very well.”

“Can anyone verify that?”

“If you’re asking me if my husband and I shared the same bed: no, we did not. He liked to work late, and frequently got up in the middle of the night when some idea for Tollie popped into his head. So very early in our marriage we decided to take separate bedrooms. So to answer your question, Islept alone, and last night was no exception.”

“You didn’t hear anything? No screams?”

“I use earplugs and a sleep mask. Also, I’m a very heavy sleeper. You can shoot a cannon next to me and I won’t budge.” Her face clouded. “I can’t believe Dave would have had the gall to bring that girl into the house when I was in bed. I mean, the sheer nerve.”

“How about this morning? How come you didn’t notice your husband was dead?”

She shrugged.“I won’t conceal the fact that Dave and I were having trouble lately. I accused him of sleeping around, and even though he denied it, he refused to budge when I demanded he destroy this new will. He said I didn’t care about Tollie, and he needed to safeguard the future of his franchise and this girl was the way to go. I told him I’d get a divorce and I was serious. He didn’t seem to mind, which told me all I needed to know. So no, I didn’t drop by his studio this morning to kiss him goodbye before I dropped Danny off at school, and frankly I tried to avoid him as much as possible.And clearly he felt the same way.”

“So when was the last time you actually saw your husband?” asked Chase.

“Yesterday afternoon. I told him I was going to talk to my lawyer about his new will, and he said I could do whatever I wanted but he wasn’t going to change his mind.”

“How did you find out about Jayme and the new will?” asked Odelia.

“My husband started the Baxter Foundation about a decade ago, offering scholarships to young people he felt possessed artistic talent but not the means to develop that talent. There’s a man in charge of that foundation who is a good friend of mine. He warned me last month that Dave had settled a large sum of money on one particular individual.”

“Jayme Ziccardi.”

Veronica nodded.“So I asked Dave what his plans were. Usually I don’t bother with the work of his foundation, but this struck me as odd, so I insisted to know the reason for this sudden lavishness. He told me that Jayme Ziccardi was very talented, and he had decided to groom her as his successor. Which caused all kinds of alarm bells to go off in my head, especially when I found the girl on Facebook and saw she was exceptionally pretty. So when my husband was out last week, I went through his stuff in his studio upstairs, and found a bunch of drawings the Ziccardi girl had made, all tucked into a file, with a couple of snapshots of her and her grandma, and also a bunch of legal documents. So I took pictures of everything, and took them to Waldo, and he confessed that Dave was in the process of drawing up a new will, leaving his entire estate to Miss Ziccardi. Which is when I knew Dave had fallen head over heels in love with this dreadful girl.”

“And what did you do when you found out?” asked Chase.

“Like I said, I confronted him, but he denied having an affair with her. He said she was just a very talented young artist, and claimed his interest in her was purely professional. Of course I didn’t believe him, so then I went over to that art school Dave has set up in town and confronted the girl herself, warning her to stay away from my husband.”

“This was on Saturday, correct?” asked Odelia.

Veronica nodded curtly.“She must have realized the gig was up, and that I was going to have that will contested and destroyed. So she decided to kill my husband before that could happen. Not knowing that by doing so, she effectively nullified the will.” A grim expression stole over her face. “I hope she rots in jail for the rest of her miserable life.” For a moment, her harsh words hung in the air, then she abruptly got up. “And now I think it’s time for you to leave. My husband is dead, and you’ll excuse me for wanting to mourn his passing in peace.”

“Of course,” said Chase. “Please accept my sincerest condolences, Mrs. James.”

“Thank you, detective,” said Veronica, then directed a stern look at the gardens. “Now if you could please ask the Ziccardi girl what she did with Tollie, I’d be much obliged.”

Chapter 11

We were back with the banker, and this time he didn’t seem as jolly as he was before. In fact he looked a little distracted when Odelia and Chase sat down in front of his desk.

“So how can I help you?” he asked nonetheless.

“You probably heard what happened to your client,” said Chase, opening the interview.

Waldo rearranged his features into an appropriately sad look.“A tragedy,” he intoned. “An absolute tragedy. Dave James was a genius, and a giant of the comic strip community, and he will be sorely missed. The world has lost a fine artist and a great human being.”

“You’ve probably also heard that Jayme Ziccardi was arrested and charged with Dave’s murder?”

“Yes, a very unexpected development, I must say. I can’t believe she would be capable of such a heinous act of gratuitous violence.” He scooted forward on his chair a little and said, with a certain degree of eagerness, “Is it true that Dave was murdered with an ax?”

“I’m afraid we can’t divulge any details about the investigation,” said Chase.

“No, of course not,” the banker murmured with a touch of disappointment.

“So I talked to Dave’s lawyer,” said Chase. “And he told me Dave had drawn up a new will leaving his entire estate to Jayme Ziccardi. What can you tell us about that?”

“Well, it’s true,” the banker confirmed. “He came to me for advice about a month ago or so, and we discussed the matter at length. You see, Dave was at an age when it becomes imperative to select a successor. He wanted Tollie the Turtle, which he considered his life’s work, to go on afterhis death, and so he’d started looking for someone who could take over. In fact the first time he mentioned this to me was two years ago, when he turned seventy. But then he got busy with other stuff. Also, no man likes to think about his death, especially a person as vital and full of life as Dave, and so he kept putting off the decision to a later date. Until a year ago, when Fernleigh Cabanes, who runs the Gardner Institute of Art for us, showed us some drawings a potential student had made. Dave thought they held promise, and personally decided to grant her a scholarship and followed her progress ever since. He had a great eye for talent, and was convinced she’d be able to carry on his work and safeguard his legacy.”

“But didn’t he have a studio of artists working for him?” asked Odelia.

“Oh, yes, he did, but apparently he didn’t find what he needed with those artists—fine craftspeople though they all are, of course.”

“And what about the inheritance?” asked Chase. “Why suddenly settle his entire estate on Jayme? Just because she could draw well? That doesn’t make any sense.”

“It certainly seemed to make sense to Dave. You see, as an artist, Dave was a very intuitive man. He always believed he owed his success to always following his intuition, and clearly his intuition told him that Jayme should inherit the bulk of his estate.”

“So what about Veronica? Or Danny?”

“Well, I don’t think I’m betraying any confidences when I tell you that Dave and Veronica were on the verge of a divorce. They hadn’t been getting along for some time, and Dave told me he wanted Veronica and especially her son out of the house as soon as possible. Only he needed to handle things very carefully, to prevent her from laying claim to a chunk of his fortune, or even part of the Tollie franchise, for herself and the boy.”

“Dave didn’t like that kid very much, did he?” asked Chase.

“No, he most certainly did not,” said the banker. “Then again, who would? The boy is a menace. And Dave is not his father—another man is. A man with whom Veronica has kept a good connection over the years. Maybe too good a connection, if you know what I mean.”

“You’re saying…”

“I’m saying that Dave suspected that Veronica had secretly stayed in touch with her ex all these years, and maybe even more than that. He believed she was having an affair.”

“Okay,” said Chase, making a note of this.

Just then, the banker’s phone chimed, and he quickly picked it up. When he realized who it was, he became cagey. “I’m sorry, but I can’t talk right now,” he spoke into the phone. “No, we’ll discuss it later. Later!” He quickly disconnected, his finger jabbing at the phone with some vehemence.

“I think that just might be the same man who was in here earlier,” I told Odelia.

“Trouble?” asked Odelia when the banker frowned at his phone.

Waldo looked up as if caught, then plastered a smile onto his face.“One of Dave’s artists. Understandably they’re all very upset about what happened, and anxious to find out what will become of them now that he’s gone.”

“Which artist?” asked Odelia casually.

The banker stared at her for a moment, then seemed to realize she was talking in an official capacity, and said,“Heiko Palace. He’s the inker: the person who puts the original drawings as created by the penciller in ink—though nowadays everything is done on the computer, of course. Are you familiar with the way a comic strip is made, Mrs. Kingsley?”

“No, I’m afraid I’m not,” Odelia admitted.

“You write a script,” said Dooley, “and then you get Scarlett to take a bunch of pictures.”

“I think it’s slightly more complicated than that, Dooley,” I said.

“First you need to come up with the storyline, of course,” said Waldo as he swallowed away a lump of uneasiness. Clearly Heiko Palace had gotten under his skin. “In this case a three-panel joke. Which is what Dave still did himself. Once a week he sat down at his desk and came up with seven jokes, covering the entire week. He also sketched them out in very rough form, then handed those sketches off to Flint Kutysiak, his penciller, who turned them into a neatly drawn comic strip in the classic three-panel format. And while Dave still worked with pencil and paper, Flint exclusively workson the computer.”

“The drawing is done on the computer?” asked Chase. As a big fan of Tollie the Turtle he was clearly fascinated by the process and wanted to know how the sausage is made.

“Well, like I said the initial design is done with pencil and paper, which is then scanned and imported into Photoshop. A new layer is created, and from that point on the artist, in this case Flint, uses a pressure-sensitive pen on a large display, called a Wacom Cintiq if you’ll allow me to become technical for a moment, to draw the sketch. This is then sent to Heiko, the inker, who creates a new layer for the final version. A colorist then applies the vibrant colors Tollie the Turtle is so famous for, and the file then goes back to Dave—or at least it used to, so he could make the necessary adjustments. All in all a smooth process.”

“Fascinating,” said Chase. “I didn’t know how much work went into the creation of a comic.”

“Oh, it’s a very elaborate and yet straightforward process. And of course, since a comic has to appear in the paper every single day, there’s a lot of pressure involved—deadlines and such. Which is why Heiko and the other members of the studio are a little anxious to know what will happen now that Dave is gone.” For a moment he sunk into thought, then he looked up again. “I hope I’ve answered all your questions?”

“One more thing,” said Chase. “Why did you tell Veronica what her husband’s plans were?”

The banker looked caught.“Veronica is an old friend of mine. In fact I was the one who introduced them. And when Dave consulted me about Jayme, I felt it unfair that he’d leave Veronica in the dark about his plans. So I told her Dave had settled a large sum of money on one of the school’s pupils. I thought it only fair that she knew what was going on.”

“But Dave was your client. Aren’t you bound to a confidentiality clause?”

He bowed his head.“I know I messed up. But honestly I didn’t think things would become so bad between Dave and Veronica. I always hoped they’d be able to work things out. You wouldn’t believe it now, but once upon a time they were very much in love.”

“One question remains,” said Odelia. “Veronica seemed to think that Jayme was having an affair with her husband. Do you think…”

“Oh, that’s absolute nonsense,” said Waldo, shaking his head vehemently. “And I told her. But of course Veronica being Veronica she simply wouldn’t listen.”

“What do you think will happen now?” asked Chase, as he got up.

The banker spread his arms.“I have absolutely no idea. With Jayme arrested, accused of Dave’s murder, she probably won’t inherit, and so everything will go to Veronica. So unless Dave made other stipulations, the future of Tollie the Turtle now lies with her.”

Chapter 12

“He seemed very nervous, Max,” said Dooley.

“Understandable,” I said. “Now that Dave is dead, who knows what will happen?”

“Veronica hates Tollie, so she’ll probably want to stop the comic.”

“She might hate Tollie, but she doesn’t hate the wealth that turtle has brought her. So I don’t think she’ll stop the comic. Though she might want to sell it to some consortium.”

“I think maybe it’s best if we have a chat with the members of Dave’s studio now,” Chase suggested as we all repaired to the car.

“I wonder what happened to Tollie,” said Odelia. “Did you get a chance to talk to Jayme? Did you ask her about Tollie?”

“I did talk to her, and she denies everything. Says she never came near the house, and has never even met Dave face to face in all the time she’s been a recipient of his foundation’s scholarship. In fact it was only Saturday that she discovered who was behind the foundation, and it came as much as a surprise to her as it did to her grandmother.”

“So how about what Hester said? That Jayme walked the dog last night?”

“She did walk the dog, but then she ushered the dog into the backyard and went for a walk by herself, along the beach. She says she often goes for long walks like that. It’s where she gets her inspiration for her drawings.”

“And nobody saw her?”

Chase shook his head.

“Okay, so if she didn’t do it, then who did? And why did Dave write her name on that piece of paper?”

“Has it occurred to you that the killer could have written that note? Trying to implicate Jayme?”

“You know what you should do? You need to have that note examined by a handwriting expert. Compare it to Dave’s handwriting to see if he actually wrote it.”

Chase nodded.“Great idea, babe.”

“Hey, that’s why my uncle pays me the big bucks.”

Chase grinned.“Yeah, right.”

We all piled into the car: the humans taking up their positions in the front of the vehicle and Dooley and I hopping up onto the backseat, our regular place. Now cats may not like to ride in cars as much as dogs do, but I have to say I’d gotten used to it by now. I still didn’t enjoy the sound of that engine, or the strange sensation of traveling at a considerable rate of speed to our destination, but I had to admit there are certain benefits to riding in cars with humans: you get where you want to be very fast indeed, and you don’t even need to wear out your paw leather in doing so. Also: you can take a refreshing nap while you’re being chauffeured around. What I don’t like is the engine, though, which makes a terrible racket. If they could build a car without an engine, that would be perfect.

“So Heiko Palace,” said Odelia, reading from her notes, “and Flint Kutysiak are the main artists working for Dave. Looks like they do most of the work connected with the comic.”

“Except for the conception of the comic, which Dave still did himself,” said Chase.

“Maybe Harriet can apply for a job,” Dooley suggested. “She’s good at creating jokes.”

“I doubt whether Harriet will be able to come up with jokes as good as the ones Dave made,” said Odelia with a smile.

“What are they saying?” asked Chase.

“Dooley suggested Harriet could fill Dave’s shoes and become Tollie the Turtle’s new writer.”

“Oh, she’d love that,” said the cop with a grin.

“It’s not as easy as it looks, Dooley,” said Odelia, half turning to have this little chat with us. “And let’s not forget Dave had been doing this for half a century. Whoever will replace him as Tollie’s writer has some very big shoes to fill.”

“I’m sure he made arrangements,” said Chase. “Maybe he got a stock of comics built up for just such a contingency, and they’ll be using those now, until they find a new writer.”

“Yeah, but who’s going to run the studio now that Dave is gone?”

“I’m sure we’ll find out,” said Chase. “Though that’s not really our concern, is it, babe? All we need to do is find Dave’s killer.”

“I know,” said Odelia, putting her feet up on the dash, a very dangerous habit indeed, and one I didn’t like to see. “But it just saddens me to know that Dave still had so many plans, and now he won’t be able to carry them through.”

“Like training Jayme as his successor, you mean?”

Odelia nodded.“I wonder why he chose her. After all, he’d never even met her.”

“But he had been following her work very closely. Has to be that he saw something in her that gave him the confidence that she could take over Tollie the Turtle one day.”

“I still find it odd. Why leave his entire fortune to a girl he’s never met before?”

“Could be because of Hester,” Chase suggested.

“Because he felt guilty for leaving her? But that was fifty years ago, Chase.”

“Never underestimate the sentimentality of a man well into his seventh decade, babe. I think Dave was starting to ruminate on his life and thinking about the things he’d done and the things he hadn’t. Stuff he wished he’d done differently. And it seems as if Hester featured in his thoughts a lot. And let’s not forget that he didn’t get along with his wife and her son, and was seriously considering getting a divorce.”

“What do you think about this story that he was having an affair with the girl?”

“Nonsense,” said Chase. “Utter and complete nonsense.”

“Yeah, I’m inclined to think so, too. But we still have to investigate the connection.”

We’d arrived at a low squat building, and Chase parked in one of several parking spots, neatly lined by boxwood hedges. In front of the studio a small bronze statue had been erected of Tollie the Turtle, and next to the entrance a sign announced we were about to enter the realm of Dave James Productions.

The moment we walked in, we found ourselves in a spacious and neatly appointed vestibule which boasted plenty of large glass display cabinets, filled top to bottom with merchandise featuring Tollie the Turtle. There were mugs, pens, pencil cases, stickers, lunch boxes—you name it and it was there, all bearing the likeness of the famous turtle. A bespectacled young woman came hurrying up from the back, pressed her glasses further up her nose and said, a little breathlessly, “Yes? How can I help you?”

In response, Chase showed her his badge, and so did Odelia, and the woman blinked rapidly.

“Oh, it’s been pandemonium here. We’re all terribly shook up about what happened with Dave, and I’ve been fielding calls all morning.” Her glasses had slipped down the bridge of her nose again, and she pushed them into place once more.

“Could we perhaps speak to the person in charge of the studio?” asked Chase.

“That would be Flint,” she said. She picked up the phone and meanwhile we looked around, and I saw several people hard at work.

“Even though Dave is gone, the work goes on,” said Dooley.

“Yes, it certainly seems so,” I said, though now I noticed how several of those people looked suspiciously bleary-eyed, and boxes of tissues had been freely distributed throughout the studio, indicating that not all was well with these hard workers.

The receptionist hung up the phone and now said,“Please take a seat. Flint will be with you soon.”

Odelia, who’d been glancing into the main room, said, “I thought you’d have taken the day off.”

“Flint suggested it, but we all thought Dave would have wanted us to keep going.” The girl’s eyes were also red-rimmed, I now saw, and on her desk a big box of tissues stood. “We can’t let him down. He’d have wanted Tollie the Turtle to go on. It’s his life’s work, you see, and the best way for us to honor his memory and his legacy is to make sure that tomorrow another Tollie the Turtle will be in all the newspapers.” She stifled a sob. “Though tomorrow’s Tollie will be a special one. Flint will make sure of that. A Tollie that will say farewell to his…” She gulped. “To his wonderful…” Her voice now faltered, and she burst into sobs, grabbed her box of tissues, and ran off in the direction of the bathroom.

“Poor thing,” said Odelia. “She looks pretty devastated.”

“Understandably so,” Chase grunted. “It’s a sad day for Tollie fans.” And to show us he considered himself a part of the Tollie tribe, he adopted an appropriately mournful look.

Odelia and Chase had just taken a seat next to that glass cabinet full of Tollie paraphernalia when a tall individual dressed in ripped jeans, a pink shirt and lime-green sneakers came walking up to us. His hair was gelled to perfection and even though he was dressed like a teenager, judging from the wrinkles around his eyes I estimated him to be in his late forties.

“Detectives?” he said. “Hi, I’m Flint Kutysiak, head of the studio. I’m sorry, but is it all right if I fob you off onto one of my artists? I’m up to my neck right now—I have a Tollie comic to finish and I absolutely cannot miss this particular deadline.”

“No, that’s fine,” said Chase as we all got up to follow the artist.

He led us into a conference room.“Heiko will be with you in just a moment,” he said.

“So when can we speak with you?” asked Chase.

“Um… why don’t you drop by the house tonight? I should be home around seven—or better make that eight. I still have a long day ahead of me. Ask Maya. She’ll give you my details.” And then he was gone, a man on a mission: to keep the world of Tollie turning as it had been turning for thepast five decades.

Odelia and Chase took their seats at the big conference table, and we all admired the artwork that adorned the walls: all drawings of Tollie and Finkus and the many other characters that populated the world of the wise old turtle. A world Dave had singlehandedly created out of thin air, and was now beloved the world over.

Moments later, a shortish man came in. He had a sort of hangdog look on his face, and the bags under his eyes were a testament to a life spent hunched over the drawing board. I immediately recognized him as the man I’d seen in Waldo’s office, and so, presumably, did Odelia. The man himself didn’t seem to recognize us, though.

“Hi,” he said. “I’m Heiko. You’re the cops, I presume?”

“Yeah, we’re the cops,” said Chase, as they all exchanged handshakes. Then Heiko glanced down to me and Dooley and seemed to wonder if his eyes were deceiving him. “Um, do you also see two cats?” he asked.

“They’re my cats,” said Odelia. “I don’t like to leave them at home—they’re very attached to me.”

“Oh, okay,” said Heiko, then shrugged. “I guess I thought I was seeing things. I’ve been working nonstop since I walked in this morning, so if I act a little weird, I apologize.”

He took a seat at the table—not at the head of the table, I noticed, a place which presumably had been reserved for Dave himself—and sort of slumped, as if his skeletal musculature wasn’t capable of keeping his structure in an upright position.

“So what can I do for you, detectives?”

“Well, we’re looking into the death of Dave James, and were hoping you could answer a couple of questions.”

“Oh, absolutely,” said Heiko. He shook his head. “It’s a tragedy—a real tragedy. Dave was in here all the time, you know—very much the heart and soul of the studio, and now suddenly he’s gone.”

“It’s going to mean big changes,” said Chase.

“Yeah, I guess so. Though at this point I have no idea what those changes will look like.”

“Did Dave make arrangements in the event of his death?” asked Odelia.

“If he did, he didn’t discuss them with me,” said Heiko, whose droopy eyes gave him a sort of perpetually flummoxed look.

“But Flint is the head of the studio, right? Flint Kurt…”

“Kutysiak. Yeah, Flint is more or less the head of the studio, but his position was never formalized. It just sort of organically happened, you know.”

“Because he’s the lead artist?”

Heiko winced a little.“We don’t use that term around here, detective. The only lead artist was Dave. He always stressed how every member of the team was equally important to bring his vision to life.” He flashed us a quick smile. “Even though Flint might think he’s in charge, in actual fact Dave was very muchthe head of the studio.”

“Does the name Jayme Ziccardi mean anything to you?” asked Chase.

Heiko shook his head.“No, it doesn’t. Should it?”

“She’s the young woman Dave selected as his successor,” said the cop.

This caused Heiko to frown in confusion.“His successor? I don’t understand.”

“Dave set up a foundation a couple of years ago,” said Odelia.

“Yeah, the Baxter Foundation,” said Heiko, nodding.

“The idea was to give deserving young artists a boost,” said Chase, “but now it looks as if he also intended it to function as a kind of talent incubator—a way for him to find a successor. And one person whose work he thought was promising was Jayme Ziccardi. So much so that he made arrangements to transfer all of his assets and copyrights to her in the event of his death.”

“So… this Jayme person inherits the lot?”

“It would appear so,” said Odelia.

“But what about Dave’s wife?”

Chase shrugged. Cops are very adept at asking questions, but when it comes to answering them, mum’s the word, as Heiko was now learning.

“So let me get this straight,” said Heiko, as he made a concerted effort to sit up a little straighter. “Our new boss is a woman we’ve never even heard of?”

“It’s more complicated than that,” said Odelia, “since Jayme has been charged with Dave’s murder.”

“Christ,” said Heiko, slumping once more. “So you caught Dave’s killer already, huh?”

“We’re not fully convinced that she is the person we’re looking for in connection with Dave’s murder,” said Chase.

“So you think it might have been someone else and this Jayme was framed, is that it?”

“He is smarter than he looks, Max,” said Dooley.

“He certainly is,” I agreed with my friend.

“He does seem to have a problem with gravity, though.”

“A lot of humans do.” Gravity is tough on humans. It’s a lot less hard on cats, though, since we’re smaller, which might be why we’re so much more agile in our movements.

“Look, if you really want my opinion,” said the artist, “I think you should look no further than the person who had the most to gain by Dave’s death.”

“And who would that person be?” asked Chase.

Heiko quickly glanced to the door, then lowered his voice.“You didn’t hear this from me, but Dave never talked about what would happen when he was gone, okay? I guess he was superstitious that way. Or maybe he thought he’d live forever, just like his turtle. But I know for a fact that Flint saw himself as the man who would lead Tollie into the future and beyond. Only he had the feeling that Dave was hanging on too tight, and wasn’t willing to let go. Flint has been ready to take over for a long time. First he thought Dave would retire when he turned sixty-five, then when he turned seventy. But the guy didn’t show signs of slowing down—onthe contrary. He worked as hard as ever. And it looked to me as if he was prepared to go on until he dropped dead. And Flint isn’t getting any younger. The guy is ambitious, and he wants to be in charge, and he increasingly felt that Dave was getting in the way of his ambitions.” He leaned back, feeling he’d said enough.

“So what are you saying?” asked Chase, who clearly felt the artist hadn’t said enough.

“I mean, Flint is like that English guy, you know—that prince.”

“What prince?”

“You know. Prince Charles. He’s been wanting to be King for so long and he just keeps getting older and his mom just keeps on going. Soon he’ll be dead, since women always live longer, and she’ll still be on the throne. That pretty much describes Flint’s position.”

“So Flint was getting impatient, is that what you’re saying?”

Heiko shrugged.“He once told me that if Dave didn’t hand him the keys to the kingdom soon, he’d have to go and pursue other options.”

“Other options? What did he mean by that?”

Heiko gave Chase a significant look.“If a man won’t take a step back, the only solution is to make him.”

“So you think Flint killed Dave?”

“I didn’t say that. You told me that this Jayme person killed Dave. And she probably had her reasons. But if she didn’t do it, I think Flint is as good a candidate as any, is all I’m saying.” Then a look of concern came over him. “You’re not recording this, are you?”

“No, we’re not, Mr. Palace,” Odelia assured him.

“Cause if Flint takes over, he’ll be the boss, and I wouldn’t want him to think I called him a killer.”

“We won’t tell him.”

Heiko blew out a sigh of relief.

“So this is a routine question, Mr. Palace,” said Odelia. “But where were you last night between six and eight?”

“Is that when Dave was killed?”

Odelia nodded.

“I was home with my wife and kid. We were having dinner.”

“Now I have one final but very important question for you,” said Chase.

Heiko’s face took on a look of concern. “What is it?”

“Will there be a Tollie the Turtle cartoon in tomorrow’s paper?”

The man’s smile was something to behold. “Oh, yes, detective. And it’s going to be a beaut. I may not like Flint very much, and think he’s way too ambitious, but you gotta admire the man’s artistry. That guy can draw, and he’s really outdone himself this time.”

“Who wrote the comic?” asked Odelia.

“Flint did.”

“He wrote and drew tomorrow’s comic?”

Heiko nodded.“Like I said, it’s always been his dream to step into Dave’s shoes, and today he’s finally achieved his goal. And I have to say that for a man supposedly consumed by grief, he wrote the funniest Tollie ever. The beginning of a new era. The era of Flint.”

Chapter 13

While Odelia took a detour to her office, and so did Chase, Dooley and I decided to drop by our good friend Kingman, and see what he thought of this murder business.

Kingman’s human runs the General Store on Main Street, and is usually a fount of information on anything and everything that goes on in our small town. He was seated in front of the store, looking very vigilant for his doing. Usually he likes to find a nice spot in the shade and sort of vegetate, but now he was watching the street as if he was fresh out of police academy and aspiring to become a traffic cop.

“Hey, Kingman,” I said as we walked up.

“Can’t talk now,” he announced curtly. “Have to keep a look out.”

“A look out for what?” I asked, my interest piqued.

“Ghosts,” he said, surprising me a great deal, I have to say. I’d never pegged Kingman as the spiritual type. In fact as far as I know he doesn’t have a spiritual bone in his body.

“Ghosts?” I asked. “What ghosts? What are you talking about?”

“I swear there’s a ghost that’s been on my case, Max,” he said. “It’s been harassing me—haunting me—keeping me awake at night.”

“Oh, you mean a poltergeist?” asked Dooley.

I stared at my friend.“What do you know about poltergeists, Dooley?”

“Well, they like to haunt places, and if they don’t like you, they cause a lot of trouble: knocking on walls, rattling doors… It’s not much fun to share a house with a poltergeist.”

“But surely poltergeists don’t exist,” I said. “Or any ghosts, for that matter.”

“They do exist, Max,” Dooley assured me.

“Don’t tell me you saw a documentary on the Discovery Channel about ghosts.”

“Well, yes, I did, and it was really scary.”

“Look!” said Kingman suddenly, his eyes wide and fearful. “Listen!” he added, his ears moving about like satellite dishes.

I looked and I listened, but apart from plenty of noise from the street in the form of foot traffic and motorized vehicles and such, I couldn’t see or hear what all the fuss was about. “What am I looking and listening for, Kingman?” I asked finally.

“It’s the ghost—he’s trying to tell me something!”

“What is he trying to tell you?”

“I’m not sure. It’s too faint. Oh, darn that street noise.”

I’d never really paid a lot of attention to the noise from the street before. I mean, it’s just noise, you know—it’s in the background and you more or less ignore it. But now I did pay attention and Kingman was right: all those cars passing by, and the motorcycles and the people talking, it was pretty loud, if you thought about it.

“Maybe we should go inside,” Dooley suggested. “That way we can hear the ghost.”

“Good idea, Dooley,” said Kingman, and abruptly turned on his heel and strode into the shop, where his human Wilbur was eagerly ogling a female and telling her he was single—information that clearly didn’t impress her in the least.

We moved deeper into the store, but since the sound of the customers and the humming of the fridges and freezers clearly impeded Kingman’s open line of communication with his ghost, we moved through the plastic door strips designed to keep out flies, and into the private part of the building, where Kingman and Wilbur live like perfect bachelors.

And much to my surprise it was pretty clean back there—though that probably had more to do with the fact that Wilbur pays for the assistance of a cleaner twice a week.

We moved up the stairs and now found ourselves in Wilbur’s living room, dominated by an exceedingly large flatscreen television, and one of those barcaloungers that are all the rage with the discerning bachelor and sportsfan. Next to it, a second sofa had been placed, and this is where Kingman likes to spend the evening, watching television alongside his human.

He now hopped up onto his favorite spot and said,“Be quiet, fellas. Let’s see if the ghost is ready to communicate. Usually he only comes out at night, but I could have sworn I heard it rattling its chain this morning, too.”

“Rattling its chain?” I asked, not bothering to hide my incredulity.

“Ghosts like to rattle chains, Max,” Dooley assured me.

“But why?”

He shrugged. Clearly the Discovery Channel hadn’t discovered that yet.

And so we were both quiet, even though I would have preferred to discuss the recent case with our friend. But since you have to adhere to the rules of the house when assuming the role of visitor, we did as we were told, and patiently waited on the carpet until the ghost made itself heard or seen.

We probably could have waited forever, for as far as I could tell, no ghost—polter or otherwise—was in evidence.

“I don’t think he’ll show up,” said Kingman after a while, then glanced down at us with a sort of reproachful expression on his face. “And it’s probably all your fault—he doesn’t want to show his face when you guys are here.”

“Look, Kingman, we all know that ghosts don’t exist, so maybe—”

“Shhhh!” he suddenly said, and assumed a sort of ninja position, one paw stretched out in front of him, the other up in the air. “Did you hear that?”

I hadn’t heard a thing, so I shook my head.

“I think I heard it,” said Dooley. “A sort of humming or moaning.”

“Probably the fridge,” I said, earning myself another reproachful look from Kingman.

“I think it must be the ghost of the person who lived here,” said Kingman after a while, when the humming or moaning didn’t persist.

“Who lived here?” I asked. I may not believe in ghosts, but I am always interested in idle gossip about both the living and the dead.

“Some old dame,” he said. “She ran the store until Wilbur took over, and then retired to a nursing home.”

“She sold Wilbur the store?”

“Lock, stock and barrel. Said she was too old and wanted to retire, and since Wilbur was one of those jack of all trades, master of none kind of guys, it was his big break and proved to be the making of him.”

“But if she retired to a nursing home, why would she be haunting the place?” I asked the logical question.

Kingman shrugs.“Who knows? Ghosts are weird.”

“Ghosts are weird,” Dooley confirmed, as if he was the big expert on all things ghostly.

“I think it’s pretty obvious she’s trying to tell me something. Something to do with the store, maybe, or Wilbur. Wait!” he cried, making me jump where I sat.

I waited patiently, or not so patiently, but when nothing happened, I said,“What do you think she wants to tell you, Kingman?”

“Who knows?”

“Oh, I know,” said Dooley. “Maybe she buried a treasure in the basement, and now she wants you to find it and share it with Wilbur.”

Kingman’s eyes showed a keen interest. “Treasure? In the basement?”

“Do you even have a basement?” I asked, still assuming the role of the skeptical one.

“Sure we have a basement. But it’s full of all kinds of junk. Everything Wilbur doesn’t know what to do with, he stores down there. He’s one of those hoarders, you know. Never likes to throw anything away, figuring it might be useful one day.”

“So maybe we should take a look?” Dooley suggested. “Maybe the ghost will show us the way, and we’ll find a big pot of gold.”

“Presumably at the end of a rainbow,” I said with a slight grin. But when my grin wasn’t reciprocated, I decided to let it go. Clearly I was dealing with two real believers, and in my experience true believers usually lack the one ingredient that makes life so much more agreeable: a sense of humor.

And since we didn’t have much else to do right then, apart from waiting for Odelia to pick us up for our next interview, we followed Kingman down the stairs and into the basement, where he proceeded to slowly move down a set of rickety wooden stairs, inch by inch, presumably hoping the ghost would lead the way tothat elusive pot of gold.

We arrived on a stone floor that felt cold and damp to the touch. In fact the entire basement had a cold and damp atmosphere and smelled a little musty, and it wouldn’t have surprised me if instead of gold we’d find plenty of fungi and perhaps even a mouse infestation. Not that I could be certain, for the light was off, and not much illumination was granted apart from the little bit of light trickling down the stairs from the doorway.

It was still enough for us to make out that Kingman had indeed been correct in his statement that Wilbur was an amateur hoarder: the place was stacked full of stuff, though in Wilbur’s defense it was all neatly stacked, not simply piled up indiscriminately. There were plenty of wooden racks, and all of them were loaded to capacity. I could detect car tires, an old bicycle, the remnants of a Christmas tree, boxes filled with bottles, bottles filled with strange and mysterioussubstances, and things I didn’t even want to know what they were. In other words, the remnants of a long life as a small-town storeowner.

“So where is this pot of gold?” I asked finally when I’d been following along in Kingman and Dooley’s wake. “And more importantly: where is your ghost, Kingman?”

“Shhh!” both Kingman and Dooley hissed. They were right, of course. Obviously this gold-dispensing ghost of the former owner of the General Store was a very shy individual.

We’d arrived at the back wall of the basement, which was a lot bigger than I’d imagined, and presumably ran the entire length and width of the store, which was pretty big to begin with, and maybe even partly extended underneath Wilbur’s backyard, too.

And that’s when we saw him: a man was seated on a sort of throne, and as we all gasped in shock, the man moaned, and now seemed to sort of uncurl and finally reach the ceiling. He was dressed in a long black overcoat, and it was impossible to see his face. Besides, even though cat eyes are a lot better at detecting things in the semi-darkness than human eyes, we can’t exactly see in the dark, in spite of the popular myth. We still need light, even though only a little bit of it, and since we were now deep into the basement, far removed from a source of light, it was hard to make out the man’s features.

“It’s the ghost!” Dooley whispered. “It’s the ghost of the old woman!”

“I think you’re right, Dooley,” Kingman whispered back. “Ask her about the gold.”

“Why me?” said Dooley. “She’s your ghost, Kingman. You ask her about the gold.”

“Can’t you guys see that it’s a man, not a woman?” I said, but they ignored me.

Kingman cleared his throat.“Um, lady? Can you tell us where the gold is, please?”

No response came apart from a Bob Dylanesque mumble, then the person descended from his throne and strode over in our direction—gliding along the floor like an actual ghost.

“She’s going to show us the gold!” Kingman hissed. “It’s happening, you guys!”

But then suddenly the light in the basement flashed on, and a loud voice called out,“Rudolph? Are you down there?”

It was Wilbur, and as our eyes adjusted to the light, the ghost of the old lady suddenly morphed into that of an unkempt man in a long overcoat, clutching a bottle, and sort of swaying on his feet, clearly not very stable in his footing. And as we watched, he took a swig from the bottle, then bellowed,“How many times do I have to tell you not to disturb me when I’m composing, little brother!”

“Have you been drinking again?”

“No, I haven’t.” He now settled an unfocused gaze on us, and frowned. “Say, Wilbur, how many cats you got?”

“Just the one,” Wilbur called back.

“There’s three down here.”

“That’s because you’re drunk. Stop drinking my stock, you boozer!”

“One… two… three,” said Rudolph as he carefully counted us. “I see a fat one, an even fatter one, and a small one.” He then awarded the bottle in his hand a look of disappointment, placed it on the shelf with meticulous care, and proceeded in the direction of the exit with ginger step, supporting himself on the myriad shelves.

“So where’s your pot of gold?” I asked.

But Kingman was too annoyed to be baited. Instead, he grumbled,“I should have known he was the ghost.”

“He’s the ghost?” asked Dooley, staring at the man in awe.

“Looks like he’s been coming down here,” Kingman said, inspecting the ‘throne’ the man had been sitting on, which was just an old overstuff chair. “He told Wilbur something about working on new material, so this must be where he’s been hiding all this time.”

“Rudolph is staying with you?” I asked.

“Yeah, his wife kicked him out again, and so he’s been crashing on the couch. I hope he doesn’t stick around too long. My delicate senses won’t be able to stand it much longer.”

“He does have a very particular body odor,” I admitted.

Unlike Wilbur himself, Rudolph is one of those people who have trouble holding down a job, or making much headway in life. Instead, he likes to sponge off his brother, and hope Wilbur will pay his way through life. He is harmless, though, and when he’s sober even pretty funny, apt at cracking jokes and generally the life and soul of the party.

“So if I understand you correctly,” I said. “Your ghost is actually Rudolph Vickery?”

Kingman merely glared at me, then headed for those stairs.

“So no ghost?” asked Dooley unhappily.

“No ghost,” I said. “Just a boozer.”

“And no gold?”

“No gold,” I said decidedly, happy that this ghost nonsense was settled. I hurried after Kingman. “Say, Kingman, did you hear about what happened to Dave James?”

“Yeah, I heard,” said Kingman, not too well pleased as we mounted the stairs.

“So have you heard any gossip? Anything that might tell us who killed the guy?”

“Nothing special,” he admitted, which is a rarity for the cat, and which showed me that he wasn’t entirely himself today. Having your human’s relative stay with you and haunt your house at night will do that to a cat, of course. We like our lives orderly and predictable, and don’t appreciate it when strangers suddenly come to call and end up sticking around and upsetting the status quo.

Instead of assuming his usual position at the front of the store, though, Kingman led us into the kitchen, where he proceeded to gobble up half a bowl of kibble, his way of coping with the circumstances that had made his life a little challenging of late. And to show us he had his heart in the right place, he then invited us to partake in this gourmet feast, a gesture for which we both thanked him profusely.

“I heard that Dave James was killed sometime late last night,” he said.

“Yeah, according to Abe Cornwall time of death was between six and eight.”

“One of your uncle Alec’s officers was in here earlier, and said they’ve already arrested his killer. A fine piece of police work, he called it. A young woman named Jayme Ricardo.”

“Jayme Ziccardi,” I corrected him. “Though she claims she didn’t do it.”

“What else is new, Max? Have you ever known a killer to admit he did it?”

“No, but I think she might actually be innocent.”

He shrugged, clearly not in the mood to delve too deep into the Dave James murder case.“According to this officer she stood to inherit a great deal of money.”

“Killers don’t inherit from their victims, Kingman.”

“So? No killer thinks they’ll get caught. No, the way I see it: she thought she could strike now, and get her hands on the guy’s millions, instead of waiting for him to die, which could take years and years. It’s the same old thing, Max: good old-fashioned greed.”

I wasn’t convinced, though. I’d met Jayme, and she didn’t strike me as the murderous type. Though of course Kingman was right: she did have an excellent motive for murder.

“Case closed, Max. And now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got things to do.”

“Big plans, Kingman?” asked Dooley.

Kingman gave us a sad look.“How about packing my bags and looking for a new home?”

We both regarded him with concern.“So bad, is it?” I said.

He nodded wordlessly, and as we stood there commiserating with our friend, suddenly an earthquake rocked the building. It took a while before I realized it was actually heavy metal music, and when I saw that the ceiling was undulating, dust falling down on us, and I heard a man stomping about upstairs, I felt safe in concluding it wasn’t an earthquake but Rudolph Vickery.

“He thinks he’s an artist now,” said Kingman sadly. “A heavy metal artist.”

“Oh, so those are the songs he’s been composing in the basement.”

“If you can call them songs. He basically just screams a lot and plays air guitar.”

A loud voice could now be heard, even as the stomping continued unabated.

“He wants to audition forThe Voice,” Kingman explained, “and he’s been practicing.”

The screeching became louder, and so did the howling guitars. My ears were hurting, and the dust was covering me all over. Not the ideal place to be in, in other words.

“He’s been practicing all week, and trying to destroy our ceiling in the process,” Kingman said, pointing out several cracks that had appeared in the kitchen ceiling.

“He’s going to come crashing through that ceiling if he keeps this up,” I said.

“I hope so,” said Kingman. “And I hope he breaks his neck in the process.” Then he shook his head. “Forget I said that. He’s a good man—a gentle giant. But I am starting to understand why his wife kicked him out. I just wish Wilbur would kick him out, too.”

Just then, Wilbur came storming into the kitchen, and then he was shouting up the stairs:“Will you cut that out already, you idiot! You’re scaring away my customers!”

“Sorry, Will!” Rudolph’s voice came from upstairs, and immediately the music stopped.

Shaking his head, Wilbur turned to us, and said,“Family. You can’t live with them, and you can’t kill them. So what are you gonna do!” And then he was gone again.

And as we proceeded to the front of the store, I found myself hoping we wouldn’t be called to a murder scene one of these days. If we were, it was obvious to me who the victim would be, and who the killer.

Chapter 14

The home that Flint Kutysiak had built was a nice one, no doubt about it. He lived there with his husband, a young man a few years Flint’s junior named Julio Prokop. The couple welcomed us into their home, and it was obvious they were proud of the place. It wasn’t as big as Dave James’s manor, but it was big enough for two people. It was a modern home, sort of square and with lots of windows that allowed plenty of light to stream into the pleasant living room. No hoarding was going on here, I saw, for the place was fairly soberly decorated. Soft classical music wafted from hidden speakers, and when Odelia and Chase took a seat on the sofa, they found themselves looking at a large coffee-table book that contained all of the comics that Dave James had ever made.

Chase reverently opened it, and after a moment was already chuckling amusedly at the adventures of Tollie the Turtle and his friends.

“We had all the artwork scanned and cleaned up for that one,” Flint explained as he looked on with distinct pride. “And everything colorized from scratch. A humongous job.”

“But Dave was so happy, remember, sweetie?” said Julio.

Both men wore matching outfits: fashionably ripped jeans and crisp pink shirts. They could have been twins, with their wavy blond hair, their handsome faces and trim figures.

“Yeah, we mainly created it as a present for his seventieth birthday,” Flint said. “It was supposed to be a surprise, so we could only work on it when he wasn’t at the studio.”

“He often came into the studio to work?” said Chase as he closed the big book.

“He came in every Monday, to show us the work he’d laid out for the coming week, and then again on Friday, to go over the work we’d done. We always work two weeks ahead, so that gives us some breathing space to meet our deadlines.”

“Now that he’s gone, will the work go on?” asked Chase, the fan.

“Oh, absolutely,” said Flint. “Tollie the Turtle will never die, even though Dave is not with us anymore.”

“He wanted Tollie to survive him,” said Julio. “He was so proud of his creation, and wanted Tollie to live forever.”

“I didn’t know that Tollie was actually a real turtle,” said Chase.

“Oh, yes, he was.”

“Did you know that Tollie disappeared?” asked Odelia.

Both Flint and Julio looked shocked at this.

“Disappeared? Tollie?” asked Flint.

“We’re assuming that the same person who killed Dave must have taken Tollie.”

“But who would do such a thing?” asked Flint. “Who would steal a turtle?”

“Tollie isn’t just any turtle, though, is he?” said Chase. “He’s the original Tollie. So maybe the people who took him hope to sell him?”

“But who would buy Tollie? That’s just… horrible!” said Julio, sincerely shocked at this development.

“Do you think the person who killed Dave really wanted to take Tollie?” asked Flint.

“It’s possible,” Chase admitted.

“A turtle like Tollie is probably worth a lot of money,” Julio said musingly. He looked to his husband. “How old is Tollie now?”

“Um… over a hundred, I think?”

“Gee. That’s really old, isn’t it?”

“Okay, so there are a couple of routine questions we need to ask,” said Chase. “The first one is pretty obvious: where were you last night between six and eight?”

“Well, I was home,” said Flint.

“Can anyone confirm that?” asked Chase, looking to Julio, who seemed to have been ruminating on the turtle’s age, and now woke up from his ruminations when his husband gave him a gentle prod.

“Mh? Oh, me,” he said. “I can confirm Flint’s alibi.”

Flint smiled.“This isn’t a Netflix cop show, sweetie.”

“Oh, I know. This is the real deal. But it’s true, Detective Kingsley. Flint was right here last night. Safe and sound with me. And we can prove it, can’t we, sweetie?”

“We can?” asked Flint.

“Don’t you remember? The letter?”

“What letter—oh, you mean the summons?”

Julio now produced a document and slid it across the coffee table to Chase.

“What am I looking at?” asked Chase as he studied the document.

“I was actually served a summons last night,” said Flint.

“A summons?”

“Yeah, I was involved in a hit and run last month—trust me, it’s not as bad as it sounds. I backed out of a parking spot at the mall, and accidentally hit the car parked next to me. I hadn’t even noticed, so I didn’t stick around. But the person whose car it was did, of course, and asked security to check CCTV. And that’s how they found me. And sent me the bill for the paint job.”

“And then of course Flint being Flint,” said Julio, “he forgot to pay the bill, and so now he has to go to court, the silly ass.”

“It’s been a pretty hectic couple of weeks at the studio, sweetie,” said Flint.

“I know, sweetie, I know.”

“So they served you with this summons last night at…” Chase studied the document.

“Six-thirty,” said Flint. “Which is also what it says right there on the document, and if you talk to the process server, he’ll confirm that he served me with the summons.”

“All right,” said Chase, as he held up his phone. “Do you mind if I take a picture of this?”

“Oh, by all means, detective.”

Chase took a picture of the summons, then slid it back across the table.“That seems to establish a clear alibi for you, Mr. Kutysiak.”

“Flint, please,” said Flint warmly.

“There’s one other thing we need to discuss with you,” said Odelia.

“Yes, of course. Anything to help you find Dave’s killer.”

“And Tollie’s kidnapper,” Julio added. “What a dreadful, dreadful business. You think this could be thieves? You know there’s a huge market for exotic animals. They’re probably worth a lot of money. So maybe they came for Tollie and bumped into Dave?”

“We’re certainly looking into that, sir,” said Chase.

“So it would appear that Dave recently settled on a successor to take over for him,” Odelia began.

“He did?” said Flint. “That’s news to me.”

“He didn’t mention that,” said Julio.

“No, he never mentioned anything about that.”

“Well, he made all the legal arrangements. Drew up a new will.”

“Who’s the successor?” asked Flint, looking as surprised as Heiko Palace—or indeed as Veronica must have when she found out.

“Jayme Ziccardi. She’s a student at the Gardner Institute of Arts, the art school Dave founded.”

“And sponsored. Yeah, I know all about the school. It was part of his legacy, and one he was particularly proud of.”

“He never mentioned any Jayme to us, did he, sweetie?” said Julio.

“No, he certainly didn’t. Are you sure about this?” asked Flint.

“Yes,” said Chase. “Of course Dave didn’t think he would die so soon after drawing up a new will. I’m sure he hoped to live for quite a while longer, and he was planning to start training Jayme so she could take over from him when the time was right. He had settled a lump sum on Jayme that she’d receive when she turned eighteen, and according to the lawyer who worked with him in drawing up this will, he was going to introduce her to the studio at some point when he felt she was ready, and then gradually allow her to get acquainted with his work and have her work her way up.”

“The idea was,” said Odelia, “for Jayme to master all the different aspects of the work. So that she’d become an all-rounder, and could take over Tollie when Dave retired.”

Julio and Flint shared a look of bewilderment.

“But how come he never discussed this with us?” asked Flint.

“I was hoping you could tell us,” said Chase.

Flint shook his head.“I won’t lie to you, detective. I always thought I was going to be Dave’s successor. I’m the lead artist at the studio. I’ve been working there my whole life, fresh out of art school fifteen years ago.”

“Flintis Tollie the Turtle, detective,” said Julio. “He does it all. He’s been writing the scripts, creating the drawings, he even does part of the inking from time to time, and he’s spent plenty of time coloring, too. He’s mastered the entire process from start to finish, and we always thought—well,you always thought Dave was grooming you to take over.”

“I think we probably should also mention that Jayme Ziccardi has been arrested,” said Chase, “on suspicion of Dave’s murder.”

“She killed Dave?” asked Flint.

“Well, she’s our main suspect right now.”

“But you don’t think she did it?”

“We’re trying to cover all the bases.”

“This is news to us, isn’t it, sweetheart?” said Julio, grasping his husband’s hand and pressing it tightly.

“So in light of what we just told you, we wanted to ask you if you could think of anyone who would want to cause Dave harm,” said Odelia.

Flint frowned as he chewed on this question.“There’s Veronica’s son, of course,” he said. “Dave and Danny never got along.”

“Oh, Danny is an absolute terror,” said Julio.

“He is a handful. Though I don’t know if he’s capable of murder.”

“I’ll say he is. Danny is the kind of kid who likes to squash ants, detective. And torture cats.” He glanced in our direction when he said this, and both Dooley and I gulped.

“He tortures cats?” asked Odelia, the frown on her face showing she didn’t approve of this particular pastime.

“Well, nothing has ever been proven,” said Flint.

“The number of cats that have gone missing in that kid’s neighborhood is staggering,” said Julio. “Staggering!” he added when Flint opened his mouth to protest.

“Like I said,” said Flint, obviously not wanting to be served with another summons, this time for defamation of character, “nothing has ever been proven.”

“It’s a well-known fact that all serial killers start out by squashing ants and killing pets, detective,” said Julio. “And so if the rumors are true, Danny boy is the prime suspect in my book.”

“I’m not sure if…” Flint began.

“Well, and I am. I’ve never trusted that kid. Not since he called me a very nasty slur when you had your office Christmas party last year.”

“What slur?” asked Chase, who was jotting all this down.

“Never mind what slur,” said Julio, who was getting a little emotional and pressing a hand to his face. “Just take it from me that that boy is evil. Evil!”

“All right,” said Chase. “We’ll certainly look into that. Thank you, Mr. Prokop.”

“Julio, please, detective—may I call you Chase?”

“Um…”

“Lovely name, by the way, Chase. Very butch.”

“Thanks… Julio.”

“Do you work out? You look like you work out.”

“Julio, not now,” said Flint.

“What did I say?”

“Anything else you’d like to tell us?” asked Odelia.

Julio thought for a moment, while Flint frowned before himself, then both men shook their heads.“Nothing else…Chase,” said Julio softly, as he studied Chase from under lowered lashes.

“So what’s going to happen now?” asked Flint. “I mean, if this Jayme inherited the studio, but she’s in jail for murder, where does that leave us? Legally, I mean?”

“I’m afraid you’ll have to discuss that with an attorney,” said Chase as he rose to his feet.

“Julio seems to like Chase a lot, Max,” said Dooley.

“Yeah, looks like,” I said.

“Do you think he’s in love with Chase?”

“No, I don’t think he’s in love with Chase, Dooley. He’s just admiring him. And you have to admit there’s a lot to admire about Chase.”

“Oh, absolutely. Chase is my personal hero, Max.”

“Mine, too.”

And for a moment Dooley and I gazed reverently at Chase, much the same way Julio was now gazing at the burly cop. I should probably mention that Chase has saved our lives on numerous occasion, and personally I think he’s the best thing that ever happened to this family. If Danny Tomon squashed ants and tortured cats, I think it’s safe to say that Chase probably healed ants and saved cats when he was a little boy. The man is a hero.

But then it was time to leave, and Julio and Flint bade us farewell for now, after impressing it upon Chase and Odelia to keep them informed.

And as we filed into the car and took off, the couple waved us goodbye from the door.

“Two very nice men,” said Dooley. “I like them both.”

“Yeah, me, too,” I said.

“Though Flint didn’t seem too happy that Jayme is the one who’ll take over the studio.”

“I think it’s hard to take over a studio when you’re in jail, Dooley.”

“Yeah, I guess that’s true. All the more reason to prove she’s innocent, so she can go do what Dave thought she should do.”

“I think you’ll find that it’s hard to decide for another person what their life’s work should be. And I think Dave made a big mistake when he selected Jayme as his successor.”

“And why is that?”

“He should have discussed this with her before he made things official.”

“Maybe that’s why she killed him? Because he told her she should take over Tollie the Turtle and she said she didn’t want to, and they fought and she killed him with an ax?”

Somehow I didn’t see the soft-spoken and kind-hearted young woman we’d met take an ax to her benefactor’s head. Then again, people will always surprise you—both in favorable and less favorable ways.

Chapter 15

It had been a long day and I was more than happy finally to be home again. The first thing I did was enjoy a nice dinner, then take a detour and pay a visit to my litter box, and as I started to relax and wonder where I’d take my first nap of the evening: on the three-seater sofa, the two-seater sofa or the armchair, suddenly Gran came in, followed by Scarlett and Harriet and Brutus, and said, “Max, Dooley—follow me.”

“But I don’t want to follow you, Gran,” I said as my first and natural reaction.

But Gran gave me one of those looks that made it clear that I had no choice in the matter, and so follow her I did—but with extreme reluctance. I just wanted to nap!

Odelia and Chase, who stood preparing dinner, glanced up at this sudden intrusion into the peace and quiet of their home life, but didn’t seem to have any qualms that their cats were practically kidnapped from under their very noses. In fact they laughed and Odelia quipped, “Working up another one of your photo comics, Gran?”

“Yeah, we’ve already shot a lot so far, but for this next one we need Max and Dooley. You don’t mind, do you?”

“Be my guest,” she said—the traitor!

“Oh, by the way,” Gran said, “could you have a word with Dan?”

“What about?” asked Odelia as she wiped away a tear. Don’t think she was heartbroken to see her cats’ nap plans interrupted by Gran’s megalomaniacal comic strip plans: she was simply peeling an onion, and it always has that effect on her tear ducts.

“Well, I thought about giving him the opportunity to publish our photo comic first. And he doesn’t even have to pay us a lot. Let’s say… five hundred bucks a piece? It’s a bargain, really, when you consider how much publicity it will give him to know that he gets the world premiere—not to mention bragging rights that he discovered us.”

“Sure, I’ll talk to him. I don’t know if he’ll go for it, though. Dan isn’t a big fan of comics in his paper.”

“And why not, may I ask? It’s an established and beloved tradition.”

Odelia shrugged.“Not sure. I guess he feels it’s not worth the money.”

“Not worth the money! For a measly five hundred bucks a piece he gets first dibs on Harriet the Cat. The opportunity of a lifetime! His name will appear on our Wikipedia page as the first paper to publish us. That should be worth something, I should think.”

“Like I said, he’s not into comics. But it doesn’t hurt to ask.”

“Fine,” Gran grumbled, and stalked off, the rest of us in tow.

“So what do you want us to do?” I asked, hoping to get this over with as soon as possible, so I could return to that very important choice I had to make: which couch would I grace with my napping presence first? The big one, the smaller one or the cozy armchair. I like all three of them for different reasons, which I won’t go into here, as it would lead us too far astray.

“Um… which one are we doing now, script girl?” asked Gran.

Scarlett came tripping up on her high heels, consulting her phone.“We start with Max picking a fight with Brutus, competing over Harriet’s affections. Then in panel two Harriet is wavering between Brutus and Max, and finally in panel three she kicks Max out of the frame, and says, ‘I wish all choices were this easy.’”

I had been listening to this interaction with mounting concern.“Harriet does what to me?” I asked in a strangled voice.

“Well, at first we thought of having Brutus kick you,” Gran explained, “but we think it’s funnier when it’s Harriet who does the honors.”

Harriet, who’d been grooming herself, now declared, “I’m ready for my closeup, Gran.”

“Great,” said Gran. “Now, I was thinking of doing this particular scene on this garden table right here, with the backyard and those rose bushes as a backdrop.” She shook her head. “We really should invest in a proper studio. I’ve already told Chase to build us one but he’s not budging. Too busy with his ‘detective’ work,” she added, using air quotes.

“Ooh, I’d love a proper studio,” said Harriet. “We could name it Harriet Productions Unlimited.” She now came tripping up. “Okay, so where do you want me?”

“You just sit right there on that table and look pretty,” said Gran. “And you, Brutus, you sit right next to her, giving Max a nasty look.”

“On a scale of one to ten, how nasty?” asked the budding actor.

“Ten. You feel threatened by Max. He’s vying for Harriet’s affections and you don’t like it.”

“Threatened by Max?” said Brutus with a grin. “That’s impossible.”

“It’s called acting, sweet puss,” said Harriet. “You simply express the emotion.”

“How many of these have you shot already?” I asked, as I hopped up onto a chair Scarlett had conveniently placed next to the table for my benefit, then onto the table.

“Well this is number thirty-four, so we’ve done thirty-three so far.”

“Thirty-three!” said Dooley. “Wow, that’s a lot of photo comics!”

“You need to build up a portfolio,” said Harriet. “Is this where you want me, Gran?”

“Yeah, right there is fine,” said Gran, who was studying the scene intently.

“So where do you want me, Gran?” asked Dooley now.

Gran frowned at Dooley.“You’re not in this scene, Dooley, so I don’t want you anywhere.”

“Oh,” said Dooley, looking slightly disappointed. Then he added, “I thought it was Odie who always gets kicked? And it’s the spider who always gets squashed.”

Brutus’s eyes lit up at this. “Maybe we could make a slight change to the script, Gran. Instead of kicking Max off the table, he gets squashed.”

“Mh…” said Gran, thinking hard. “Dooley has a point. We shouldn’t go against type on this thing. It’s very important to respect reader expectations. So maybe we bring Dooley up here and have you kick him off the table, Harriet.”

“I don’t mind who I kick,” said Harriet, “as long as it feels true to character. You see, as I see it Harriet is kind and loyal, but also fierce and independent. She’s generous but also assertive. She’s sweet but also tough.” She shrugged. “That’s just the way I see her. Oh, and if I can add one minor thing, Gran, I think we should hire a second script girl, to make sure we stay consistent. Obviously Scarlett is dropping the ball. Like now with Dooley’s remark about the spider always being squashed and Odie being kicked. It’s important for the continuity that we don’t make those mistakes.” She directed a cold look at Scarlett, and it was clear she wasn’t entirely satisfied with the work of her script girl at this point.

“Okay, Max, you’re out,” said Gran. “Dooley, you’re in.”

“Oh, great,” I murmured as I stepped down from the stage and Dooley took my place.

“So what do I do?” asked Dooley.

“Nothing,” said Harriet. “You just stand there while I take care of the acting. You have to understand that you’re simply the backdrop, Dooley, like that rose bush over there.”

“Oh, all right,” said Dooley, who seemed to enjoy this photoshoot very much. To him it was just a game, even though to Harriet it was her big break into superstardom.

“Okay, roll camera!” said Gran, and held up her phone. “Okay, Harriet, you look on with interest, while Brutus gives Dooley a nasty look.”

“I can do nasty,” said Brutus, and gave Dooley just about the nastiest look I’ve ever seen him give anyone.

“And what about me?” asked Dooley, hoping for some instructions.

“You just look like you always look, Dooley,” said Gran.

“She means dumb,” Brutus said, his nasty look now amplified by a nasty grin.

“Oh, all right,” said Dooley, and just stood there, looking his usual goofy self.

“Okay, second panel!” Gran cried.

“Gran?” Harriet asked now. “I should probably project doubt, don’t you think?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Well, on the one hand, I love Brutus very much, of course, but on the other hand, here’s a suitor, who’s vying for my affections, and it’s only natural that I would show an interest. After all, it’s simple biology for any female to show an interest when she’s being wooed by a suitor, even if he’s absolutely undesirable, like Dooley obviously is.”

“Let’s not make this too complicated,” Gran suggested. “Just look over to where Brutus and Dooley are sitting, and maybe give us a pout.”

“A pout?” asked Harriet.

“Yeah, give us a pout.”

Harriet thought about this for a moment.“I’m not sure I see Harriet pouting,” she said.

“You’re Harriet, Harriet,” said Gran, getting a little worked up. “So whatever Harriet does, you do.”

“No, but Harriet the Cat isn’t me, you see. I’m just an actress playing a part, and as an actress, I’m telling you that I’m not feeling that pout.”

“Okay, so don’t pout.”

“Well, maybe a little duck face,” said Harriet, and puckered up her lips.

“Sure, fine,” said Gran, who clearly was a director who held a dim view of diva actors. “Ready? Action!”

Dooley continued to look his natural self, Brutus’s scowl had deepened and he now looked nastier than ever, and Harriet was pouting like she’d never pouted before, really hamming it up for the camera. All in all it looked pretty ridiculous if you ask me. But of course nobody asked me, so I didn’t say anything. I was just glad I wasn’t up there, looking like an idiot and being scowled at or pouted at.

“Okay, now for panel three,” said Gran. “Harriet, you kick Dooley as hard as you can.”

“Okay, Gran,” said Harriet.

Brutus now cleared his throat.“Gran, can I make a suggestion?”

“What?!” said Gran, projecting sheer exasperation.

“I really don’t see Harriet’s character kicking Dooley. I think Harriet would leave the kicking to me. I’m the kicker, and she’s the pouter, and after I’ve kicked Dooley, we embrace and… curtain.” He looked at Gran expectantly, but the latter didn’t seem to agree with her actor’s suggestions.

“Just act out the scene the way we decided, Brutus, there’s a good boy,” she said, in a slightly paternalizing way that didn’t seem to go over very well with Brutus.

“Okay, so how about Harriet gives Dooley a light kick. Just a hint of a kick, and then I take over and show her how it’s done?” Brutus suggested.

“What’s going on?” asked Scarlett. “Why did you stop?”

“Brutus has some suggestions,” said Gran, wearily dragging a hand through her little white curls. “He feels that kicking Dooley is out of character for Harriet.”

“He’s got a point.”

“He does?”

“Sure, but that’s the whole point: because it’s out of character for Harriet to kick Dooley, it’s going to come as a big surprise and that’s the joke. That’s where the humor is.”

“I don’t know, Gran,” said Harriet. “I really don’t see Harriet kicking anyone, you know. Harriet….” She glanced up at the sky and sighed a wistful sigh. “Harriet is a peace-loving cat. Peace-loving but combative. She’s fun-loving but serious-minded. She’s loving, but tough. That’s how I see her, you see.”

“Okay, why don’t you just do as you’re told,” Gran suggested. “In fact why don’t you all do as you’re told! Now… action!”

And so Harriet produced her pronounced pout again—gentle yet tough, loving yet hostile, caring yet unyielding—and Brutus gave Dooley a kick that sent him toppling off the table, landing on all fours on the ground.

“Hey!” said Gran. “What did you do?!”

“I kicked Dooley,” said Brutus innocently.

“And I liked it,” said Harriet, “and now I’ll reward Brutus by giving him a big smooch.”

“No, no, no, no, no!” Gran cried. “Aren’t you listening?Harriet kicks Dooley, and Brutus projects surprise!”

“I don’t know how to project surprise, Gran,” Brutus admitted. “I mean, I’m an actor, but my range is still fairly limited. Though I’m working on it,” he quickly added. “I’ve been watching videos from Juilliard all day, isn’t that right, love muffin?”

“Me, too,” said Harriet. “Method acting is the way to go, Gran, and we’re getting there.”

“Dooley, back in position!” Gran bellowed. “Harriet, pout and kick! Brutus, look surprised. And whatever you do—do not kick Dooley!”

“Try to curb your kicking reflex, Brutus,” Scarlett added with a touch of concern.

“I’m starting to like this acting gig, Gran,” said Dooley. “I didn’t even get hurt.”

I gave my friend a look of concern.“Are you sure you’re all right, Dooley?”

“Oh, absolutely. He didn’t kick me very hard, Max. In fact I almost didn’t feel a thing.”

“Ready?” said Gran. “Action!”

Harriet was pouting again as if her life depended on it, Brutus was scowling at Dooley, and the latter just stood there looking like… well, like Dooley, I guess.

And then suddenly, out of the blue, suddenly Brutus’s hind leg shot out, hit Dooley in the midsection, and sent the latter flying off that table, and luckily landing on all fours.

“No, no, no, no, no!” Gran screamed.

“I’m sorry, Gran,” said Brutus, looking a little shamefaced. “I guess I don’t know my own strength. Did I kick him too hard?”

“You’re notsupposed to kick him!Harriet is supposed to do the kicking!”

“Oh, right—I forgot,” said Brutus, thunking his brow. “Silly me.”

“God, Brutus, how many times!” Gran said, shaking her fist.

“I’m kicking myself,” said Brutus ruefully. “I really am. Can we do another one?”

“How was my duck face?” asked Harriet. “Too much? Or not enough?”

“Exactly right,” I said, and gave her a thumbs-up, to which she reacted by totally ignoring me—staying in character all the way. I was, after all, the spider she likes to squash, and you can’t squash a spider if you don’t project hostility. It’s basic Juilliard.

“Dooley, back into position. Ready? Go!”

This time Harriet’s pout was even more pronounced, Brutus’s scowl was something to behold, and Dooley? He was doing a great job looking like himself. And then, out of the blue, suddenly Brutus kicked Dooley so hard he was sent flying through the air.

“No, no, no, no, no, no,no!” Gran screamed, jumping up and down in frustration.

“I’m sorry,” said Brutus. “Was that too hard? I used my left leg this time, since my right one is too powerful.”

Gran, who seemed on the verge of apoplexy, threw down her phone—or her camera, if you will—and walked off the scene, stage left, and as she disappeared through the opening in the hedge, suddenly we could hear a scream of frustration so loud, for a moment all nature held its breath, and then the world slowly started turning again.

“Must be tough,” said Dooley, brushing himself off. “Now I think I know why movie directors don’t live very long.”

“I did use my left leg,” Brutus explained.

“Are you all right, Dooley?” I asked.

“I’m fine, Max,” Dooley said, holding up two paws to show that he hadn’t sustained any permanent damage.

“I do like this script,” said Brutus. “Plenty of action.”

“I still don’t think Harriet would pout so much,” said Harriet musingly. “Harriet…” She sighed a delicate little sigh. “… is tender yet ruthless, kind yet merciless, nice yet harsh.”

Scarlett, meanwhile, had gone in search of her director, and since the shoot seemed to have wrapped, I decided to head inside and enjoy that nap. Dooley, who’d now been kicked three times in a row, and had had enough of the cinematic life for a while, joined me, while Brutus and Harriet engaged in a post-shoot roundtable conversation. All part of the creative process, and no doubt something the actors at The Juilliard School, after they’ve kicked each other in the gut a number of times, also routinely engage in.

And so it was that I finally got to enjoy a well-deserved nap.

And I didn’t even get kicked or squashed in the process!

Chapter 16

That night, after Dooley and I had had a good long nap, and were feeling wonderfully refreshed, we passed out of the house through the pet flap and were soon walking along the sidewalk in the direction of the park so we could attend cat choir.

“Where are Harriet and Brutus, Max?” asked Dooley.

“Probably busy filming episode one-hundred-and-twelve of Harriet the Cat,” I said.

Frankly I hadn’t wanted to go look for the twosome, since I’d had enough for a while of Harriet’s diva mentality and Brutus’s posturing. And also, nobody likes to be kicked on a regular basis, even though Odie seems to have enjoyed being kicked for the past forty years or so. Then again, they are merely figments of Jim Davis’s imagination, whereas Dooley and I are actual living and breathing feline beings.

“Do you think Brutus will kick me again, Max?” Dooley asked now.

“Why, you don’t like being kicked?” I asked.

“No, I don’t,” he admitted.

“Well, nor do I like being squashed, Dooley.”

“I don’t think I’m cut out to be a stuntcat, Max.”

I smiled at my friend and gave him a pat on the back.

“So maybe we should tell Gran to find some other actors to play our parts, Max?”

“Yeah, I was thinking the same thing. I think it’s time we quit the comic business.”

“But won’t Harriet be awfully sad when we do?”

“Harriet will be fine. As long as she can play the lead, she doesn’t care who plays the bit parts.”

And so we walked on, and soon my mind returned to another problem that had been vexing me: the fate that had befallen Jayme Ziccardi, who was now spending her first night behind bars, and probably not liking it any more than Dooley liked being kicked.

“I really hope Jayme will be all right,” said Dooley now, indicating that his mind was working in tandem with mine.

“I’m sure she will. It’s not as if they actually torture people in prison, Dooley. They get fed and treated just fine.”

“Still, it’s probably not a lot of fun being in jail.”

“No, I’m sure it isn’t,” I agreed.

“So do you think she’s guilty, Max?”

“I don’t know, Dooley. But I sure hope she didn’t do it. Otherwise she won’t have a future, and that would be a very sad thing.”

“Also for Hester. She won’t like it when her only granddaughter has to spend the rest of her life behind bars.”

“Okay, so let’s go over the case again,” I suggested. “Who are our suspects so far?”

“Well, Jayme, of course, since she stood to inherit a lot of money, and couldn’t risk Dave changing his will before he died. Or maybe she had no patience. He was only seventy-two. He could have lived another twenty years.”

“She certainly has a good motive,” I agreed. “And her alibi isn’t great.”

“She should have taken Woofle to the beach with her, Max. Then we could have interviewed him and he could have confirmed her alibi.”

Dooley was right. Even though a labradoodle’s sworn testimony rarely stands up in court, we still would have had confirmation that the young woman was innocent.

“And then there’s Veronica,” I said. “Who must have been furious when she found out about the will and about Jayme.”

“But wouldn’t she have tried to make Dave change his will instead of murdering him?”

“If she’d been acting like a rational person, maybe. But what if she was so outside herself with anger that she didn’t think straight? Murdering a person with an ax feels like the act of a very angry person, Dooley.”

“Are they sure it was an ax?”

“According to the coroner it was, only they haven’t been able to find the murder weapon. It seems to have disappeared.”

“Along with Tollie the Turtle. Now why would the killer have taken Dave’s turtle?”

“Beats me,” I admitted.

“So Veronica and Jayme are the prime suspects?”

“Yes, and so is Danny, who seems to have a violent streak in him, and didn’t like his stepfather one bit. Also, Veronica says she was home last night, but nobody can verify her story. And Danny says he went for a drive, and no one can confirm his story, either.”

“And what about the people from the studio?” asked Dooley, working his way down the list.

“Well, Flint Kutysiak was home, being served with a summons for damaging that person’s car, and Heiko Palace was home with his wife and son. Though Chase will need to check that alibi, and also Flint’s alibi.”

“Chase has a lot of checking to do, doesn’t he, Max?”

“That’s the work of a detective, Dooley. Checking and double-checking if what people tell you is the truth or a lie.”

“But why would Heiko or Flint want to kill their boss?”

“To be able to follow in Dave’s footsteps?” I suggested. “Especially if they’d discovered that Dave had decided to start training Jayme as his successor, choosing her over one of the more established members of his studio.”

“That would be a very good motive,” Dooley agreed.

We’d arrived at the park, and I saw that our friends had already gathered in the playground, getting ready for another night of harmless musical entertainment. Shanille was there, of course, our choir director, and Kingman, and all of our friends.

Kingman looked a little sad, and when we approached him, he lamented,“Can I come and stay with you guys for a while?”

“Why? What’s happened?” I asked.

“Rudolph has kicked his rehearsals forThe Voice up a notch. He’s been singing all day. And since he can’t sing and his music isn’t actually music, it’s been hell for a sensitive cat like me.”

“Can’t Wilbur get him to pipe down?”

“Oh, Wilbur has been telling him to pipe down plenty, but Rudolph is not one of those people who is susceptible to suggestion.”

“So maybe he should go home and practice where he doesn’t bother anyone?”

“Like I told you this morning, Rudolph’s wife kicked him out, probably for the same reason. And besides, Rudolph is co-owner of the store, so even if Wilbur wanted to get rid of him, he can’t.”

“He’s co-owner of the General Store? I didn’t know that.”

“Few people do. You see, when Wilbur had the opportunity to take over the store, all those many years ago, the bank didn’t want to give him the money, on account of the fact that one of his previous businesses had gone belly up, and his credit was in the toilet. So he had to go knocking on his big brother’s door to come up with the money. At the time Rudolph was a successful businessman.”