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55. PURRFECT GAME

CHAPTER 1

Sometimes Marge wondered what it would be like to play with a different partner than her husband Tex. Not that Tex was a bad tennis player, per se, but it could hardly be said that he was a good one either. Even though Tex never failed to mention that he was trained by the great Pete Sampras himself, and had acquired a degree from the highly respected Ross School Tennis Academy, this enviable pedigree didn’t show in his game, which was fair to middling at best.

The couple were enjoying the annual tennis extravaganza organized by Michele Droba, prominent socialite and fellow member of the Riviera Country Club. As Michele saw it, this was simply a fun week spent amongst friends and tennis fans, and the Pooles had been welcome guests for going on fifteen years now. At the moment they were playing a doubles game against Vena and Glenn Aleman, the veterinarian and her bookseller husband. And it had to be said that in spite of Tex’s self-proclaimed tennis prowess, Vena and Glenn were winning.

As usual, Michele had rented an Airbnb on the outskirts of Hampton Cove, the town where they all lived, and this year had brought in a new person in the form of Ona Konpacka, the retired supermodel, who was accompanied by new beau Max Stinger, the well-known plastic surgeon. Rumor had it that Ona’s face had been disfigured to such an extent in a botched procedure that it had ended her illustrious modeling career, and that it was only through the genius talent of the brilliant Max Stinger that her famous features had been restored to some extent.

And it was true that Ona once more looked more or less like her old self. Even though her modeling days were behind her once and for all, at least she was able to leave her apartment again, instead of locking herself in like a recluse. This tennis week was in fact one of the first social occasions for the former model—and so far things were looking well. Ona had written a book about her harrowing experience—From Heaven to Hell and Back Again—and it had quickly captured the imagination of the nation and was now a certified number-one bestseller.

Vena fired off another zinger and Tex, trying to return it, stumbled and fell, soiling his perfectly nice tennis shorts and cursing under his breath. An amiable man under normal circumstances, the doctor displayed a fierce competitive streak when he hit the tennis court. Not John McEnroe level stuff, but still.

“Relax, Tex,” said Marge when her husband shot a distinctly nasty glance across the court in the direction of their opponents, who were exchanging a high five. “It’s just a friendly game.”

“She did that on purpose,” Tex grumbled. “Always aiming for the body.”

“Vena wasn’t aiming for the body,” said Marge as she watched the veterinarian getting ready to serve.

“Not Vena—Glenn! He’s always playing dirty.”

“I don’t think so,” said Marge as she followed Vena’s movements like a hawk.

“Oh, yes, he does.”

“Shush, honey,” said Marge, “and focus.”

It was true, of course, that Glenn Aleman suffered from the same competitive proclivity as Tex, which had caused some fireworks on the court in the past few days. But playing dirty? Nah. They were all friends here, and nobody wanted to risk that friendship just so they could score the winning point.

A loud thwack sounded and the ball came zooming in Marge’s direction at considerable speed. Vena might only be a couple of years younger than Marge, but she had power. Which was par for the course if you extracted foals from horses and calves from cows. With some effort, Marge managed to return Vena’s serve. The vet quickly approached the net, though, and performed a stunning volley, sending the ball hurtling in Tex’s direction at speed. The doctor, taken by surprise, was unable to respond in kind. Instead he hit the ball with the shaft of his tennis racket. The ball ricocheted and shot into the air, then landed on top of Tex’s head.

“Game, set and match to the Alemans!” Michele shouted. Their hostess was acting as the game’s umpire, and took this responsibility seriously. “Well done, Vena and Glenn! Great game, you two. And well played, Marge and Tex!”

“Great game, my foot,” Tex said as he hit the air with his racket a couple of times in an attempt to vent his righteous anger.

“They won fair and square, honey,” said Marge. “Now shake hands.”

“I won’t shake hands with a cheater,” Tex muttered angrily.

“Shake hands, Tex,” Marge insisted. “Don’t be a sore loser.”

“Oh, all right,” said Tex as he joined his wife at the net. They shook hands with their opponents, Tex in a halfhearted sort of way, and that was that.

“Well played, buddy,” said Glenn Aleman, as he clapped the doctor on the back. “Better luck next time, huh.”

“I guess,” said Tex.

“You did good,” said Vena, addressing Marge. “Your game has really improved.”

“You think so?” said Marge. “I have been working hard on my backhand.”

“I can tell. Keep this up and you’ll become a most formidable opponent.” The vet lowered her voice. “Is everything all right with your husband? He looks upset.”

“Tex doesn’t like to lose,” said Marge as she grabbed a towel and draped it across her neck. “Even though by now he should be used to it.” It was true that they hadn’t won a single game since they’d arrived at the house.

“Maybe we have to let him win a couple of times?” Vena suggested.

“Oh, no. He has to win fair and square.”

“Just to improve his mood?”

“Out of the question.”

“Though admittedly Glenn would rather die than throw a game. He’s such a mild-mannered man, always sweet-tempered, but put a tennis racket in his hands and he turns into some kind of psycho maniac. Has to win at all cost.”

“Same thing with Tex. Once he’s on the court he thinks he’s Novak Djokovic.”

And as the two ladies discussed their husbands’ strange quirks, Glenn invited Tex for a drink. And even though the two men had just been ready to drink each other’s blood, now that the game had been decided, they mysteriously morphed back into their customary amiable selves, and soon were chatting pleasantly.

CHAPTER 2

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Relieved from her task as umpire, Michele Droba returned to the conversation she’d been engaged in with her boyfriend Christopher Bonarowski. She still felt odd about calling him her boyfriend, even though of course he was. At some point they might have to make things official, but she wasn’t sure how her kids would respond. It was seven years now since she lost her husband Dean, but Michael and Drew still missed their dad. They liked Chris, but didn’t exactly adore him. Then again, she wasn’t absolutely sureshe adored him. She was fond of him, of course, as he was such a wonderful man—erudite and knowledgeable and oh, so very affectionate, never stinting on compliments and little attentions. It was nice to be adored by such an important man—respected as a publisher and very, very successful. But love? She wasn’t even sure what the word meant. She had once loved her husband, or at least she thought she had. But that was a long time ago.

“So have you seen the manuscript?” she asked, picking up their conversation where they left off. “Has Isobel even shown it to you yet?”

“Not yet,” said Chris as he quickly checked something on his phone. “She says it’s not ready yet, and she wants the thing to be ready before she shows it to anyone—even me, her publisher.”

“Can’t you talk her out of it? I mean, there must be something you can do.”

Chris put his phone down and gave her a quizzical look.“We discussed this, Michele. You know your sister-in-law. Once she has her mind set on something, there’s no talking her out of it. In that sense she’s just like you.”

She bridled to some extent.“I hope I’m not as unreasonable as Isobel. In fact I know I’m not. And I would never humiliate my friends the way she’s doing.”

“I’m sure that’s not her intention. And whatever she writes will have to be vetted by me before it’s even published. So there’s nothing to worry about.”

“Easy for you to say. You won’t be in the book.”

“How do you know? Maybe she’s devoting an entire chapter to me.”

“I very much doubt it,” said Michele as she smoothed her pristinely white tennis shirt, then tucked her long blond tresses behind her ears. In her mid-forties, she had retained the figure of her teenage years, and even her face was still relatively wrinkle-free, much to the envy of her female friends, who often wondered how she did it. “Otherwise she would have told you. Like she told me, and the rest of our circle of friends.”

“Look, I can assure you that by the time Isobel’s autobiography goes out, there won’t be anything controversial left in the text. You have my word on that.” He patted her knee affectionately. “There’s nothing to worry about, sweetheart. Nothing at all.” He gave her a reassuring smile.He might be a full decade older than she was, but he still looked youthful enough to pass as her contemporary. But then he spent much of his leisure time playing tennis, and not on long drawn-out lunches or games of golf as a lot of his colleagues did.

“Mh.”

In spite of Chris’s reassurances, Michele was still worried. She knew Isobel, and what she had told her had given her great cause for concern. When Isobel’s husband Gavin had disappeared seven years ago, it had led to a complete meltdown and had precipitated the most dreadful episode in Isobel’s life. It had taken years and countless sessions of counseling before Michele’s sister-in-law had managed to extricate herself from the claws of the alcohol demon and take control of her life again. She still attended regular AA meetings, which is where she’d picked up the idea to write a book about her life,detailing her own descent into madness, and revealing the truth about what happened to her.

Not content with sharing her own secrets, though, she was now so enamored with the notion of cleansing her life by shining a light on all that was dark and shameful that she had decided to extend this treatment to all her loved ones. When she had announced to Michele what it was that she intended to do, Michele was shocked. But arguing with Isobel had proven useless: the woman was so convinced she was doing the right thing that it was impossible to talk her out of it.

At least she’d accepted Michele’s suggestion to bring her project to Chris, who might be able to subject the autobiography to an editor’s eagle-eyed scrutiny and weed out the most egregious problems before being unleashed upon the world.

“Look, it’s all part of Isobel’s process,” said Chris, repeating a mantra he’d been using ever since they’d signed the contract for the book. “And you have to admit that she’s doing much better since she started writing her autobiography.”

“Of course it’s her process,” Michele agreed, “but why does she have to drag us into it? She can write about herself all she wants, but not about me or the kids.”

“I’m sure she’ll keep Michael and Drew out of it,” said Chris.

“I should hope so. Though she should keep us all out of it.”

“I’m afraid that ship has sailed,” said Chris, and returned to checking his messages.

Michele gave him a sideways glance. Chris came at this from a different angle than she did, of course. For him this autobiography meant a great deal of money. Dean and Gavin Droba were the sons of Bill Droba, of Droba Group fame. The Droba tires were renowned around the world, and had made the Droba family very rich indeed. Even the tragedy that had befallen them seven years ago hadn’t managed to put a dent into this success story, and so when a member of the family had announced a tell-all autobiography, speculation was rife, and already the press had been peppering them with questions. According to Chris sales figures for Isobel’s autobiography might even exceed those ofpolitical luminaries like Bill Clinton or Barack Obama, who had sold millions of their life stories.

Millions upon millions of people—reading saucy stories about their personal lives. For a private person like Michele this was nothing short of a nightmare.

CHAPTER 3

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Ona Konpacka took great precautions to protect her precious skin from the sun. Not only had she selected the biggest umbrella for herself, but she was also wearing a long-sleeved shirt, cotton pants, outsized sunglasses, and lathered the parts of her skin that were exposed in a thick layer of sunscreen at regular intervals.

Once the best-paid model on the planet, an incompetent plastic surgeon had ended her career when he’d injected her face and parts of her body with fillers that had triggered the most horrendous allergic reaction, causing her famous face and figure to become disfigured. Only through the diligent and patient ministrations of genius cosmetic surgeon Max Stinger had the damage been undone. She would never be a model again, but at least she looked human again, and was able to leave her apartment, after locking herself up like a recluse for the best part of the past two years. Max had earned her eternal gratitude, and model and surgeon had grown so close during this period that they’d becomea couple.

“Are you sure I should be out here?” she asked for the gazillionth time. “Everyone knows that scar tissue shouldn’t be exposed to the sun, right?”

Max, who was reading the latest Patterson, didn’t look up. “You’re not in the sun, sugar plum. You’re in the shade. Nothing to worry about.”

Now that she had her looks back—or at least partly—she wasn’t taking any chances. Which was why she wasn’t playing any matches. No singles and no doubles. She’d made this clear to Michele, who hadn’t hesitated to invite her anyway.

She was grateful to Michele, one of the few people who had kept in touch after the incident, and had been a great support in the year she’d been terrified that she would never look like herself again.

Her miniature Brussels Griffon Joey jumped on her lap, and she tickled the doggie behind the ears. Then a second Brussels Griffon followed the first when Zoey joined Joey. Michele had told her a couple of weeks ago that it wasn’t a good idea for a little doggie like Zoey to be alone, and didn’t she want to get her precious darling a friend? And that’s how Zoey had come into their lives. Now both her constant companions, she loved the two doggies with all her heart. In fact if it hadn’t been for them, she didn’tknow how she would have survived.

She hugged both sweethearts to her chest, and giggled when they licked her face—they soon stopped though. Probably didn’t like the taste of sunscreen!

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Marge was heading upstairs to take a shower after her doubles match when she heard noises of a fight in progress. She was passing by the room where Isobel Droba was staying, and if she wasn’t mistaken the voice raised in anger was that of Isobel’s daughter Alison. For a moment Marge dawdled on the doorstep, pressing her ear to the door. She wasn’t normally one for peeking through keyholes or listening at doors, but this business between Isobel and her daughter had been going onfor a while now, and it frankly worried her a great deal.

“You can’t do this!” Alison was saying.

“Watch me,” Isobel returned coldly.

“You’re such a—”

“Hey! Watch your language, young lady!”

Marge shook her head. Even though Alison wasn’t a teenager anymore, her volcanic temper still persisted to this day. For as long as Marge could remember mother and daughter had been having arguments. Sometimes about things as mundane as a skirt Alison had bought that her mom thought too short, or a new car Alison felt she was entitled to. But recently the arguments had turned even more acrimonious. Ever since Alison had met a young man named Jason Rocamora, in fact. Alison had had boyfriends before, of course, and some of them hadn’t met her mother’s approval. But Jason was an ex-con, and when that little fact had been brought to Isobel’s attention, she’d blown a gasket, and had forbidden her daughter to keep seeing this highly unsuitable suitor.

But Alison wasn’t a kid anymore. She was twenty-one, and had told her mom in no uncertain terms what she could do with her opinions about Jason.

“Look, Mom,” said Alison in measured tones. “I’m going to marry Jason whether you like it or not. And if you want to cut me off financially, so be it.”

“Honey, can’t you see that Jason is all wrong for you? He’s a criminal!”

“Ex-criminal, Mom. And besides, he was wrongfully convicted.”

“That’s what they all say.”

“In his case it’s true.”

“Of course it is.”

“God, Mom!” Alison exploded. “You’re simply impossible!”

Marge heard the stomping of footsteps coming in her direction, and quickly removed her ear from the door and herself further along the corridor. Moments later the door was yanked open and Alison came storming out. She didn’t even see Marge, too busy as she was fuming over her mother’s refusal to back her betrothal.

“Alison, come back here!” Isobel shouted as she, too, appeared in the corridor.

But her daughter was already stomping down the stairs. Isobel blinked when she saw Marge.

“Hi,” said Marge, feeling a little embarrassed.

“Hi,” said Isobel, rearranging her features into a weak smile. “Teenagers,” she said, rolling her eyes. “Always something.”

“Tell me about it,” said Marge.

The two women stood there for a moment, in awkward silence, then Isobel turned on her heel and strode back into her room, gently closing the door.

Tex came up the stairs, mounting them two at a time. He must have caught the tail end of the incident, for he asked,“I heard shouting. What was that all about?”

“Alison wants to get married,” said Marge, “but her mom doesn’t approve.”

“She wants tomarry the guy now?” said Tex, who was fullyau courant of the whole Jason Rocamora drama, as was the rest of the guests at the house.

“Looks like. Isobel said she’ll cut her off if she goes through with the wedding.”

“Tough,” said Tex. He glanced at the closed door. “Maybe we should intervene?”

“I don’t think so,” said Marge. “Best to stay out of this.”

“Yeah, I guess,” said Tex, looking quietly relieved.

Much to their detriment they had learned that sometimes the best way to lose a friend was to get involved in their personal business. Isobel might think they were taking sides. And besides, if she wanted their advice, she would have asked for it. As it was, she might simply take offense if they tried to intervene.

It was in moments like these that she thanked her lucky stars that they’d always maintained such a good relationship with their own daughter. And that when Odelia had arrived home one day to deliver a fianc? on the mat, it had been a cop and not a criminal. Reformed as Jason Rocamora might be, he still sounded like bad news. And it was with this thought that they entered their own room for a much-needed shower.

CHAPTER 4

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Perlita Gruner was in the bedroom she shared with her husband, putting sunscreen on her face and getting ready for their doubles match. A handsome woman in her early fifties with an abundance of flaming red hair, she was nevertheless concerned about a suspicious-looking spot that had appeared on her face in recent weeks. And as she studied herself in the vanity mirror, she wondered whether to make an appointment with a dermatologist to have it checked out. According to Nathan it was just a mole, but moles could be tricky.

She lifted her chin and saw to her satisfaction that the skin wasn’t as saggy as it could have been. Especially now, she wanted to look her absolute best. She had even wondered if she should accept Michele’s invitation this year or not. With so much going on in her life she didn’t want to be stuck in a house for a week. But then she’d remembered that these people were her friends, and that she always felt so uplifted at the end of the sojourn, and had decided to come after all.

Her phone chimed and she glanced in the direction of the bathroom door, where Nathan had been ensconced for the past twenty minutes, and quickly grabbed her phone. When she read the message she smiled, then replied. And she’d just finished deleting the message when her husband walked out of the bathroom, a towel wrapped around his midsection, hair wet from his shower.

“Most people take a shower after the match,” she said as she finished rubbing the creamy substance on her face and neck, taking care not to skip her ears.

“Yeah, well, I like to take a shower before and after,” said Nathan as he cut a glance to his phone, which was lying on the bed. “Makes me feel refreshed.” A tall man a few years her senior, he looked fit and healthy, which was a boon in his line of work. As a successful art dealer, he was mingling with the movers and shakers of the art world on a daily basis, people who put a premium on beauty and good looks. “Have you heard from Izzy?”

Perlita shook her head.“I’m going to have Dr. Blumberg take a look at this mole,” she said.

“Oh, for God’s sakes, Perlita. It’s just a mole.”

“I don’t like it. I want it gone.” It was her face, after all. This mole had no business popping up uninvited. “I’m sure Dr. Blumberg will know what to do.”

“Fine,” Nathan murmured as he picked up his phone and stared at it for a moment, looking puzzled. “So no word from Izzy?”

“I’m sure everything is fine, Nate.”

“I guess so.”

Izzy Price was the promising young artist the couple had taken under their wing. Nathan was representing her business interests, while Perlita, who owned the Gruner Gallery in downtown Hampton Cove, was organizing the young artist’s first-ever exhibition in two months. Perlita had commissioned three dozen paintings from Izzy, but so far she had only finished the first dozen, which gave Nathan cause for concern. In spite of his long association with artists—or maybe because of it—he habitually fretted about their capacity to deliver on command. And since Izzy had never completed such a big order before, he wondered if they hadn’t jumped the gun and offered her this opportunity before she was ready. That they might burn her out and end her career before it even got started.

“You know what Izzy is like,” she said. “She performs well under pressure.”

“Let’s hope she does. Two dozen paintings in two months is a lot.”

Perlita got up, grabbed her towel and water bottle and headed for the door.“Ready?” she asked.

“Just give me a minute,” said Nathan as he picked up his phone. That frown was still cutting his brow.

She sighed and walked out.“Don’t be late, Nate.”

“Mh.”

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The moment his wife had left, Nathan tiptoed to the door and listened intently. Satisfied that she was gone, he dialed the number. When a female voice purred in his ear, his frown disappeared and immediately a warm smile crept up his face.

“Are you sure Perlita doesn’t know?” she asked.

“Absolutely. She doesn’t have a clue.”

“When will I see you, Nate?”

“Soon—I promise.”

“Why did you have to go to this tennis thing? And with your wife, no less.”

“It’s only a week, sweetheart. One more week, and then we’ll be together.”

“Pinky swear?”

“Scout’s honor.”

She giggled, a lovely sound.“I can’t wait.”

Neither could he. The thought of that luscious young body and those flexible limbs made him giddy with desire.“Same here,” he said hoarsely.

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Isobel sat motionless for a moment. The fight with her daughter had affected her more deeply than she would have thought. She hated these fights, but what was the alternative? To give Alison what she wanted? Impossible. Jason Rocamora was bad news. If Alison married him, he would drag her down into the abyss, and destroy her life and her future. She couldn’t have that. That marriage must never take place.

Her phone chimed and she picked up immediately.“Yes, any news?”

“She got into Jason’s car and they took off,” said the voice on the other end. It was the PI she had hired to keep tabs on Jason and her daughter. Mark Devine was an ace at what he did. He was the one who had discovered that Rocamora had a criminal record. That he’d done time for aggravatedrobbery, and was bad news.

“Focus on Jason,” she instructed. “I want you to catch him in something illegal.”

“Of course,” said Mark, and she could hear that he was driving.

“Are you following them now?”

“Yeah, I’m right behind them. Looks like they’re driving to his place.”

She nodded thoughtfully, willing herself to stay strong and not to let her imagination run wild. Ever since leaving her mother’s home three months ago, after one of their fights, Alison had moved in with Jason, causing Isobel sleepless nights as she lay awake imagining what that horrible man was doing to her little girl. If only Mark could catch Jason in some illegal activity, and inform the police, they might be able to put him in jail again, and end this ill-fated romance. And even if he wasn’t up to his usual criminal behavior, Mark or one of his operatives had to be there to protect Alison from this extremely dangerous individual.

She’d already talked to the police, but they said there was nothing they could do, as there was no law against associating with, or getting married to, an ex-con. When she had first discovered Jason’s past, she’d been shocked, but also satisfied that Alison would see the light, and break things off with the guy. But instead Alison had told her she knew all about her boyfriend’s past, and that he was innocent. Wrongfully accused and wrongfully imprisoned! Clearly he’d gotten under her skin, and was probably laughing his ass off now, getting married to this little rich girl. So she’d decided to cut Alison off if she went through with the wedding. News that Alison hadn’t taken too well, but that couldn’t be helped.

She just had to make her daughter understand she was doing this for her own good. She was doing this because she loved her, and wanted to protect her.

A curt knock sounded at the door and when it opened Michele walked in.

“Please don’t let him out of your sight, Mark,” she said, and ended the call.

On the desk, her laptop was open, and immediately Michele’s gaze was drawn to it. “Is that it?” she asked. “Is that the manuscript?”

Isobel closed the laptop before her sister-in-law could take a look.“What do you want?” she asked, none too friendly. She didn’t have the bandwidth at the moment to deal with Michele’s nonsense on top of everything else going on.

“Please, Isobel,” said Michele, getting that pleading look in her eyes again. “Won’t you reconsider? If you go through with this crazy plan of yours we won’t have any friends left. You’ll alienate everyone.”

“The book is done, Michele,” she said. “So there’s nothing more to discuss.”

“Have you sent it to Chris yet?”

Isobel produced a curt laugh.“He’s your boyfriend, why don’t you ask him?”

“I have asked him, and he says you haven’t delivered the manuscript yet.”

“Well, there you go.” In spite of herself she felt sorry for her sister-in-law. “Look, this is all for the best, Michele. Secrets and lies are like poison. They fester and kill. Once everything is out in the open, only then can we truly heal ourselves.”

“Okay, I understand that to be true for you, but why expose other people’s secrets? Can’t you see you’re causing a great deal of pain and suffering?”

“That’s because they haven’t lived through what I have. Once they realize how freeing it is to live with the truth, they’ll thank me.” She spread her arms. “Embrace the truth, Michele. It will set you free.”

But Michele didn’t look as if she was ready to embrace anything. On the contrary. She was closer to tears than laughter. “Why are you doing this to us?” she wanted to know. “What did we ever do to you?”

“Nothing,” said Isobel truthfully. “But I have to do this. It’s important to me.”

It was all part of the healing process. Once she had exorcised these demons from her past, she could finally breathe. She could finally live. Oh, how she longed for the day her truth was finally revealed. She knew it would set her free.

“Please think about it,” said Michele.

“For the past years I’ve done nothingbut think about it,” she said quietly. “But this is how it must be, Michele. My mind is made up. Please understand that.”

The moment her sister-in-law had left, she slumped in her chair, then buried her face in her hands. Oh, how she wished Gavin was here. He would know what to do about Alison. In fact if Gavin was still here their daughter might never have hooked up with the likes of Jason Rocamora. She was only fourteen when her dad was taken from them. How their lives would have been different if he wasn’t.

CHAPTER 5

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Odelia and Chase had left for work, and Marge and Tex were enjoying a week-long tennis thing with their friends from the tennis club, and so the house was empty. Apart from myself and Dooley, that is. And I have to say, that’s exactly the way I like it. Now, before you go hurling all kinds of silly accusations my way about cats being solitary animals, or even selfish, and that the feline of the species don’t care about anyone other than themselves, I would like to state for the record that this cat, in particular,is very fond of his humans. So fond, in fact, that I’ve managed to stick around for as long as I have. But even cats as keen on his human caretakers as myself need their alone time from time to time. And so I didn’t mind that the house was empty, for it allowed me to luxuriate in the abundance of space the absence of two large humans had left on the bed.

“It’s so nice to finally have the bed all to ourselves, isn’t it, Max?” said Dooley, who wholeheartedly agrees with me on a cat’s occasional need for privacy.

“Absolute bliss,” I said as I explored the innate softness of Odelia’s pillow while Dooley submitted Chase’s pillow to the same treatment, happily kneading it.

“I don’t like these ergonomic pillows, though,” said Dooley, touching on one minor point of criticism. “They’re too hard—and they’ve got bumps in all the wrong places.”

“Chase might argue that the bumps are in all the right places,” I murmured. After all, these ergonomic pillows are designed to support the human neck, apparently a very delicate part of the human anatomy, as Chase often complains about something or even someone being a pain in the neck. More often than not this someone might be a criminal he’s been pursuing, or a member of the public making his life difficult with outrageous requests, or even a police colleague.

In other words: it’s tough to be a human sometimes, having to endure the vicissitudes of life on a daily basis. And especially tough on the human neck.

“Why doesn’t Odelia have an ergonomic pillow?” Dooley wanted to know. He’d abandoned his explorations of Chase’s pillow and retreated to the comfy duvet Odelia had been so kind to smoothen out for us before she left for work.

Tonight Chase might cavil at the presence of a few hairs on his duvet, but that couldn’t be helped. He might even sneeze and rub his face, blaming us for the tickling sensation he experienced, and telling tall tales about cat hair being the bane of his existence, and wouldn’t it be a good idea to get a dog instead. But Odelia would soon put him straight. She’d say that if you lie down with dogs, you get up with fleas, and would he prefer big fat fleas to a few teeny tiny hairs?

“I guess Odelia doesn’t experience the same kind of pain in the neck her husband does,” I said, though I must confess I hadn’t given the topic a lot of thought before this moment. “Maybe being a reporter is less taxing on the neck than being a cop?”

“That must be it,” Dooley agreed as he finished circling a favored spot and finally deigned it with his presence. “Odd thatwe never get a pain in the neck, isn’t it, Max? I mean, we never use ergonomic pillows and we’re always fine.”

“That’s because the human anatomy is vastly inferior to the feline anatomy,” I said. “When God created man he made a few mistakes, which he decided to rectify when he created the feline, which is why cats ended up being a superior species.”

“What mistakes?” asked Dooley, curious now.

“Well, the human head weighs about eleven pounds, and all of that weight has to be supported by seven vertebrae and around twenty muscles. That’s a lot of weight being brought to bear on the poor neck. Add to that the fact that most people now go through life glancing at their mobile phones on a practically continuous basis, and the pressure increases manyfold.” I was warming to my subject now, and felt like a professor standing in front of an auditorium of eager pupils soaking up his wisdom. “When a human holds their head at a forty-five-degree angle the weight on the neck increases to almost fifty pounds.”

“That’s a lot of weight,” Dooley marveled.

“Yeah, it’s a miracle humans can still function.”

“It’s all because of gravity, though, isn’t it, Max?”

“Possibly,” I said, yawning cavernously.

“If gravity wasn’t pulling on them so much they wouldn’t need ergonomic pillows or walking sticks or even walkers.”

When we were out and about in Hampton Cove the day before, we’d come across an old lady with a walker, which had caused Dooley to marvel at this curious invention.

“True,” I admitted.

“I mean, I’ve never seen a cat with a walker before—have you?”

“No, I can’t say that I have,” I agreed.

“Must be because we’re so much smaller than humans, and we don’t walk upright. And so the forces of gravity affect us a lot less than they do humans.”

“Mh,” I said, my eyes drooping closed as sleep got ready to envelop me.

“So the obvious solution would be to dial down this gravity thing, Max.”

“And how do you suppose we do that?”

“I don’t know. But there must be a way. Scientists are clever.”

“Not that clever.”

“Well, anyway,” Dooley insisted stubbornly. “They need to fix this thing, Max. And then Chase wouldn’t need this silly pillow of his, with all these funny bumps.”

“You can have Odelia’s pillow tomorrow,” I murmured, correctly surmising that this might be the real issue at stake here, not gravity or the essential frailty of the human neck. I opened one eye to regard my friend. He was smiling at me.

“Thanks, Max,” he said with a touch of emotion.

“You’re very welcome, buddy.”

“We could create a schedule. I could take Odelia’s pillow on the even days of the month, and then you could take it on the odd days. What do you say?”

“I say it’s a deal,” I said sleepily.

This matter laid to rest to our mutual satisfaction, we settled in for the duration. And I’d just descended into the land of dreams, where life is grand and the scent of fried chicken is theparfum du jour, when the sound of stomping feet on the stairs told me the house wasn’t as fully devoid of life as we’d surmised.

Moments later Gran burst into the room, glanced around with a feverish sort of look on her face, and said,“Have you seen Grace? Where is Grace? Tell me!”

“I have absolutely no idea,” I said truthfully. After all, I’m not my human’s daughter’s keeper. Gran is Grace’s designated babysitter on those days when the daycare center is closed—which fortunately for Gran—and Grace—rarely happens. “Isn’t she at the daycare center?”

A sort of pensive look stole over Gran’s face, then finally a smile spread across those same craggy dales and valleys and she pointed a stubby finger in my direction. “Max, you’re absolutely right. Thank God! I thought I lost her!”

And with these words, she stomped out again.

Dooley and I exchanged a puzzled glance.

“Gravity seems to affect Gran’s head as much as it affects Chase’s neck,” Dooley commented.

“You might well be correct, Dooley,” I said.

Though it might not be gravity causing Gran to become confused about Grace’s whereabouts. At any rate, it was something we clearly needed to bring to Odelia’s attention. It’s one thing to forget where you put your keys, but quite another when you can’t remember where you’ve put your great-granddaughter.

CHAPTER 6

[Êàðòèíêà: img_2]

My peaceful date with Odelia’s pillow was once again interrupted when Brutus came sidling into the room. Our butch black friend was acting furtive, and kept looking over his shoulder. Lowering his voice, he said, “Max! I need a word!”

“Grace is at the daycare center,” Dooley said. “So you didn’t lose her, Brutus.”

Brutus gave Dooley an odd look, then hopped onto the bed and whispered,“It’s Harriet. She’s been acting strange lately!”

I would have told him that he was no stranger in the acting strange department, but decided to hold my tongue. Instead, I said,“What do you mean?”

“Yes, strange how, Brutus?” Dooley asked, intrigued by this news.

“Furtive, if you know what I mean,” said Brutus. “Sneaking out of the house at all hours of the day and night, and not telling me where she’s going. Giving me weird glances when she thinks I’m not looking.”

“What kind of weird glances?” asked Dooley, resting his head on his front paws. “Can you give us an example?”

Brutus looked uncomfortable. It’s one thing to describe a glance, but quite another to attempt to recreate it. He now rearranged his features into a sort of constipated look, as if he was having a bowel movement but it hadn’t decided yet whether it was coming or going.

“Please don’t do doo-doo on the duvet,” Dooley said, who’d interpreted the look the same way I had. “Chase might kick us out and get a dog instead.”

“I’m not going to doo-doo on the duvet!” said Brutus, dropping the whispery voice he’d been employing. “This is how Harriet has been looking at me.”

“Mh,” I said, finding it hard to imagine that Harriet, who’s a real Persian in every sense of the word, would ever lower herself to looking like this.

“I’m telling you she’s harboring some kind of secret,” said Brutus. “And I want you guys to find out what it is. Cause she’s not telling me, and it’s driving me nuts!”

“I think Harriet’s secret is probably that she needs to do doo-doo but is unable to,” Dooley surmised. “In which case she needs to go and see Vena.”

“Can’t,” I said. “Vena is at that same tennis do with Marge and Tex.”

“Tennis doo-doo?” asked Dooley.

“Tennis do, not doo-doo,” I clarified.

Dooley laughed.“I thought so! I can’t even imagine what a tennis doo-doo would look like! Probably a doo-doo with a yellow streak and fuzz on top!”

I let him enjoy his little joke, then got down to brass tacks.“To be honest I haven’t noticed anything strange in Harriet’s behavior, Brutus,” I said. “But if you want I’ll have a word with her. Try and find out what’s going on?”

“Oh, would you, Max?” said Brutus, gratitude making his voice wobbly. “I’m going absolutely crazy with this thing. I keep thinking she’s having an affair.”

“Now why would Harriet be having an affair?” I said, giving our friend a reassuring pat on the back. “We all know she’s crazy about you, buddy.”

“I don’t know about that. Lately she’s been acting very cold. You know, unaffectionate.”

“You mean…” I produced a delicate cough. It’s one thing to pour your heart out to a friend, but quite another to discuss the intimate details of one’s relationship.

“It’s been two weeks, three days and six hours, Max,” said Brutus sadly.

I coughed again as I directed a discreet glance at Dooley, who was following the conversation with the sort of gleam in his eyes he gets when he finds something exceedingly fascinating. It’s the same look he gets when there’s a nature documentary on the Discovery Channel he finds of particular interest. Like the one about the dating life of the carpenter ant the other night.

“What’s been two weeks, three days and six hours, Brutus?” he asked now.

“Well, um…” said Brutus, darting a nervous look at me. “Um, well…”

“It’s been two weeks, three days and six hours since Harriet last ate a piece of chicken,” I said. There were probably a million things I could have said, but this was the first thing that came to mind, unfortunately. I blame it on a lack of sleep!

“Harriet is a vegetarian now?” asked Dooley excitedly. “But that’s great news! I’m also a vegetarian!”

“No, you’re not,” I said.

“But of course I am. I never eat meat.”

“You have to eat meat, Dooley. You’re a carnivore. If you don’t eat meat, you die.”

“I don’t think so. All I eat is kibble and those delicious wet food pouches they give us. And I’ve asked Odelia and Marge and they’ve assured me those are one hundred percent vegetarian.”

“As if,” Brutus murmured with a slight smile, but then was serious again. “I think it’s Kingman,” he said. “I think Harriet is having an affair with Kingman.”

This had me stunned.“Kingman? Are you sure?”

Brutus nodded sadly.“I followed her last night. After we left cat choir? Instead of going straight home, she said she was going for a stroll. So I tailed her.”

“And what happened?” I asked.

“She went back to the park, for a midnight meeting with Kingman!”

“Did they… you know?” I asked delicately.

“Nothing untoward happened,” he said stiffly. “But that doesn’t mean anything. They could be working up to something. And they were standing far too close to each other to my liking, I can tell you that. In fact I came this close to breaking cover and pouncing on the double-crossing swine.”

“I didn’t know Kingman was a swine,” said Dooley, much surprised. “I thought he was a cat. Like us.”

“Just a figure of speech, Dooley,” I said absentmindedly. If Harriet was holding secret midnight meetings with Kingman in the park, Brutus did indeed have cause for concern. Not unlike his human Wilbur Vickery, Kingman is a well-known Lothario, and can’t allow a female feline to pass the General Store, his habitual perch, without giving them the once-over, and more often than not the twice or even third-over. He had always refrained from putting the moves on Harriet, having far too much respect for Brutus—or qualms about the latter’s physical prowess and inclination for pugnaciousness—to try. Though it must also be said that Harriet has never fancied Kingman. Brutus has always been the one for her—or at least he was from the moment the large cat had arrived on the scene.

And now this.

“I’m sorry, Brutus,” I said, and I meant it. Theirs had been a fairytale romance, and if it was true what he said, things were going to change around here. Not in the least because Harriet and Brutus lived together. What would happen if Harriet were to move out and move in with Kingman? Greatchanges.

“I don’t like this,” said Dooley, who’d finally caught on. “Kingman and Harriet?”

Brutus nodded somberly.“And I’ll bet it’s Kingman she’s been seeing all this time—sneaking out whenever she thinks I’m not looking. It’s a terrible thing.”

“I don’t understand,” said Dooley. “Why would Kingman do this to you?”

“Because he can?” Brutus said, hanging his head. I would have told him that inclining the head at a forty-five-degree angle was bad for the neck, but now didn’t seem like a good time for a PSA. “Because he’s got something I don’t have?”

“He’s very popular,” Dooley allowed.

Brutus snapped his head up.“What’s that supposed to mean? I’m popular!”

“Not as popular as Kingman, Brutus,” said Dooley, who must not have realized how dangerously close to peril he was coming by stating these simple truths. “Kingman is like the king of Hampton Cove. He’s a very popular cat.” Brutus made a sort of growling sound at the back of his throat, and his eyes narrowed into slits, tail distending and back arching. I think Dooley must have finally realized his faux-pas, for he quickly added, “But not as popular as you, obviously.”

“Yeah, you’re very well-liked,” I hastened to say.

The size of our friend’s tail returned to normal, and he lost some of his pep when he said, “No, you’re right, Dooley. Kingman is a lot more popular than me. He’s Mr. Popular. Everybody loves him. And now, apparently, so does Harriet.” He heaved a deep sigh that seemed to come from the very depths of his soul.“It’s over. That’s just how it is. Harriet doesn’t love me anymore.” And then his spine seemed to turn to jelly and he sort of melted onto the duvet, leaving only the broken husk of what was formerly the most formidable cat I’ve ever known. Some might even call Brutus a bully, and I know I’ve used the term myself on occasion, but deep down, underneath that hardened crust, he has a heart of solid gold.

“Cheer up, buddy,” I said, putting a paw on his shoulder. “I’ll talk to Harriet. Find out her secret. And who knows? Maybe you’ve got this all wrong.”

“I don’t think so,” he said with a croaky voice. “She’s leaving me, Max.” He squeezed his eyes firmly shut. “And now please leave me. I would be alone.”

And so I offered him Odelia’s pillow, and he gladly took it. And as he curled up into a ball, liberally littering the pillow with black fur, Dooley and I took our leave.

We had been tasked with an important mission: to discover whether Harriet’s secret meetings with Kingman meant she was having an affair with the latter.

Frankly it was with a heart bowed down with the weight of woe that I set out on this mission. For I had the distinct impression that when we returned from our investigations into the mind of Harriet, we’d be bearing bad tidings for our friend.

CHAPTER 7

[Êàðòèíêà: img_2]

We went in search of Harriet and found her in the backyard belonging to the Trappers—Marge and Tex’s neighbors. She was chatting with the Trappers’ sheepdog Rufus. The two were deep in conversation, but the moment we arrived on the scene, they looked up, and I had the impression we’d caught them discussing something that wasn’t intended for our ears.

“What’s going on?” I asked therefore.

“Oh, just chatting about this and that,” said Harriet breezily.

“Yeah, this and that and that and this,” said Rufus, just as airily.

I could have told them they were both lousy liars, for it was obvious that whatever they’d been discussing was important. Harriet’s affair with Kingman?

I had intended to tackle the matter with some delicacy—to ease into the discussion gradually, but Dooley had other ideas. “Is it true that you’re having an affair with Kingman?” he demanded to know.

Harriet looked shocked.“What?!” she said after a moment.

“You’ve been sneaking around behind Brutus’s back,” Dooley explained. “And now he thinks you’re having an affair with Kingman, because he saw the two of you together in the park last night.”

Harriet made a display of looking completely flabbergasted.“I don’t believe what I’m hearing,” she said finally. “Of course I’m not having an affair!”

“So what have you been doing sneaking out at all hours of the day or night?”

“Excuse me?”

Dooley took a breath and repeated,“What have you been doing sneaking—”

“I heard you the first time, Dooley,” she said with a touch of hauteur. “And for your information, I haven’t been sneaking out. And I’m not having an affair.”

Dooley frowned. This all sounded highly suspicious.“So what’s going on?”

“Nothing is going on! Except that it’s obvious to me that my dear Brutus has a highly active imagination.”

Harriet had never referred to Brutus in these clinical terms before. Usually it’s smoochie poo this and snuggle bunny that, but never ‘my dear Brutus.’ Something was definitely going on here, Brutus was right about that. But what?

“Okay, so Brutus is worried,” I said, deciding to play the sympathy card.

“Look, a girl can have her secrets, can’t she?” said Harriet, becoming defensive. “Or don’t you two have secrets to hide?”

“I don’t have any secrets,” I said.

“Me neither,” Dooley chimed in.

Harriet threw her head back and produced a tinkling laugh.“As if!” she cried, when she’d finished her hyena act. “We all have secrets. Isn’t that so, Rufus?”

Rufus seemed uncomfortable.“Well…” he prevaricated.

“Of course you have,” said Harriet. “Like that time you pretended to be someone you were not so you could chat with me. Remember? That was a big secret.”

It hadn’t been Rufus’s finest hour. He’d pretended to be a war veteran, and had connected with Harriet through Pettr, a dating app for pets. “It wasn’t exactly a secret,” Rufus muttered nervously. “Just… a way to make friends, I guess.”

“Or how about you, Max?” said Harriet, turning to me. “Or don’t you think I know that you always eat the first scoops of fresh kibble from the bag?”

I stared at her.“You know about that?” I asked, aghast.

“Of course! The moment Marge opens a new bag, or Odelia, you’re always quick to gobble up those precious first nuggets.”

“They’re the freshest,” I mumbled, my face flushed with embarrassment. Lucky for me nobody could see just how flushed my face was, what with all the blorange fur covering my shamefaced cheeks.

“I know they’re the freshest. Straight out of the bag kibble tastes the best.”

It’s common knowledge amongst cats that the moment kibble has been lying there for a couple of hours it loses some of that precious flavor and that crunch. And the same goes for bags that have been open for a couple of days or weeks.

“Oh, and how about when they open a fresh bag, and you empty all four bowls in quick succession before the rest of us can even get close?”

“First dibs,” I murmured, glancing down to the ground now.

“For a twenty-pound kitty you move pretty fast, Max.”

“I don’t weigh twenty pounds,” I said, glancing up.

“What about my secrets, Harriet?” asked Dooley.

Harriet smiled.“I know for a fact that when Brutus and I first started dating, that you turned our love nest into a lavatory, Dooley,” she said. From Dooley’s quick intake of breath, it was clear she wasn’t lying. “Doo-doo and wee-wee both!”

“I-I’m sorry,” Dooley stammered. “I didn’t think you knew?”

“How could I not know, Dooley? Don’t you think I recognize your scent?”

“I was going through a difficult time,” said Dooley, wide-eyed.

“I know,” said Harriet, softening. “And it’s all right, Dooley.”

Like pretty much the entire Hampton Cove male cat contingent, Dooley had once been fervently in love with Harriet. So when she’d given her heart to an outsider in the form of Brutus, he and the rest of Harriet’s admirers hadn’t been too well pleased. Though I have to admit this business about Dooley doing his business in the rose bushes, where Harriet and Brutus habitually got together, was news to me.

“I’ll never do it again,” said Dooley quietly.

“I know you’ll never do it again,” said Harriet. “In fact you haven’t done it since. The only reason I brought it up is to show you we all have secrets. And that’s fine.”

“I guess so,” I said finally. “And I guess Brutus has his secrets, too.”

Harriet frowned at this.“Brutus doesn’t have any secrets from me.” Her frown deepened. “Does he?”

“I wouldn’t know,” I said. “If I did, it wouldn’t be a secret, now would it?”

She narrowed her eyes at me.“You know something, don’t you, Max?”

“I swear that I don’t,” I said, holding up my paws in a display of innocence.

“What is Brutus’s secret!” she demanded heatedly. “Tell me!”

“But I thought you just said we’re all entitled to our secrets?” asked Dooley.

Harriet’s face worked. “Fine. Be that way. But don’t think this is the end.”

And with these words, she stalked off, tail high in the air, and disappeared through the opening in the fence between the two backyards.

I noticed how Rufus was eyeing me with a flicker of mirth in his mellow brown eyes.“You did that on purpose, didn’t you, Max?” he said finally.

“Did what on purpose?” I asked innocently.

“Suggesting that Brutus has a secret he hasn’t shared with Harriet.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I said, and gave him a wink.

CHAPTER 8

[Êàðòèíêà: img_2]

With all this drama going on, I didn’t even have time to have another lie-down on my favorite new spot—Odelia’s pillow—until that evening when Brutus finally vacated the premises. But by then Odelia and Chase had returned home, after picking Grace up from daycare, and dinner time rolled around, which involves our humans feeding us first, before feeding themselves—the natural order.

“Is it true that you always eat all four bowls of kibble when Odelia opens a new bag, Max?” asked Dooley as we both tucked into our food.

I nodded, still feeling the sting of shame.“I do that,” I admitted. “It’s just that the first kibble tastes so delicious, fresh out of the bag. There’s simply no substitute.” And besides, the moment Odelia finds our bowls empty, or Marge, they fill them up again. “It’s one of those small pleasures I like to indulge in,” I said.

Though now that my secret was out, I probably wouldn’t do it again. Nor would I get the chance, for my housemates would probably come running when they heard the sound of a fresh bag being opened, and I simply wouldn’t get the chance! I might not weigh twenty pounds, like Harriet seems to think, but it’s true that I’m the big-boned type of feline, and not all that quick off the mark. The only way I’ve been able to get first dibs is because I keep a close eye on those bags, so I know when a bag is almost empty, and the time has come to open a new one.

“You can eat from my bowl any time, Max,” said Dooley magnanimously. “I don’t mind.”

“Thanks, Dooley,” I said, giving my friend a grateful look. “I didn’t know that Harriet knew, though.”

“I didn’t know she knew about me doing my business in those rose bushes,” said Dooley. “If I’d known I probably wouldn’t have done it.”

“Water under the bridge now,” I said, my mouth full of delicious wet food.

“Wee-wee under the rose bushes,” Dooley murmured thoughtfully. “Do you think it’s true, though, what Harriet said? That all cats have secrets?”

“I guess so,” I said.

“I wonder what Harriet’s secret is.”

“Probably that she’s having an affair with Kingman.”

We were both silent as we ruminated on the consequences of this affair. Brutus was our dear friend, but so was Kingman. But if Harriet shifted her affections from the former to the latter, we might have to choose between the two. Not unlike a couple getting a divorce. They divide their worldly belongings, like the house they shared, or the furniture. But they also end up dividing their friends, since it’s hard to stay friends with both, especially if the divorce is acrimonious. I just hoped we wouldn’t have to choose between Brutus and Kingman. Though if we had to, we’d probably choose Brutus, since he’s the most muscular one of the two of them, and would beat us up if we chose Kingman.

Having fed her cats, Odelia now proceeded to feed Grace, while Chase made inroads in dinner prep for himself and his wife. Gran was also joining us, since she usually ate dinner with her daughter and son-in-law, who were away from home.

I wondered if this was the right moment to broach a delicate subject: the fact that Gran seemed to have forgotten it wasn’t her day to take care of Grace. But Odelia and Chase were discussing other matters, so I decided the topic would keep.

“Have you heard from your mom and dad?” asked Chase as he used a wooden spoon to stir some unknown substance on the stove.

“I’ll talk to them tonight,” said Odelia as she made a valiant attempt to enter food into her daughter’s mouth. Grace was seated in her high chair at the table, and seemed to be having a good time, for she was babbling her secret language, presumably addressing people who weren’t there—perhaps her friends from the daycare center. “Last time we spoke they seemed to be doing fine.”

“Maybe next year we could join them,” Chase suggested as he tasted the food he was preparing. Judging from his frown it wasn’t up to snuff yet.

“I don’t know, Chase,” said Odelia. “I’m not much of a tennis player.”

“Me neither, but they seem like nice people.”

“Yeah, I guess,” said Odelia, but she didn’t sound convinced.

Chase must have picked up on her inflection, for he said,“You know something I don’t?”

“Oh, it’s just that one of them is writing a book, apparently, detailing all the secrets she’s learned about her friends over the years.”

“She’s doing what?”

“She’s a recovering alcoholic herself—Michele Droba’s sister-in-law Isobel. And she deeply feels that secrets are poisonous. They poison our minds and our relationships with others. Which is why she’s been writing her autobiography.”

“It’s not her place to reveal other people’s secrets, though, is it?”

“She seems to believe that it is. That she’s doing her friends a favor.”

“She’s going to reveal Marge and Tex’s secrets, too?”

“I guess so. Which is why Mom and Dad are worried.”

“I didn’t even know your mom and dad had secrets,” said Chase as he took an onion from the larder and started chopping it into little pieces.

“Look at the way Chase is attacking that poor, defenseless onion,” said Dooley.

“It’s a vegetable, Dooley. It’s not a living, breathing creature.”

“Still. He’s feeling the guilt. Just look at him crying.”

“It’ll be fine,” said Chase. “How bad can those secrets be?” He gave his wife a curious look. “Do you know what your parents’ secrets are?”

Odelia smiled as she directed another spoon into Grace’s mouth. This time the food ended up in the right place, and not all over the little girl’s bib. “I’m sure I don’t, babe. And even if I did, what kind of daughter would I be if I told you?”

“I’m your husband, babe. You can tell me anything. I’m very discreet.”

Odelia laughed.“I know. But they’re not my secrets to tell, okay?”

“Okay,” Chase agreed reluctantly, and attacked that poor lonely onion with renewed fervor, throwing a couple of carrots into the mix just because he could.

Dooley looked on with a look of disapproval on his face.“Poor carrots,” he murmured. “What have they ever done to you?”

CHAPTER 9

[Êàðòèíêà: img_2]

Marge was in bed, listening to her husband’s slow, even breathing. It always amazed her how Tex could sleep so soundly, no matter the circumstances. She was one of those people who had a hard time going to sleep at night. She could lie awake for hours if something was going on in her life that worried her. Like now, with this whole business with Isobel’s book. She’d already discussed things with Michele, who said there was nothing that she could do about it.

Their hostess seemed as annoyed about the prospect of their personal lives being laid bare as the rest of them, but Isobel was determined to go through with her‘process’ as she called it. She didn’t seem to care that she was dragging all of them along in her process, unwilling victims in one person’s path to redemption.

She wondered what her husband’s secret might be. Even though Tex said he had no secrets, there must be something, for a worried look had stolen over his face when Michele had told them about the book her sister-in-law was writing. If he didn’t have secrets, why the worried look? She still wanted to believe him, though. After twenty-five years of marriage you’d think she knew this man. Knew everything about him. And yet. How well did you really know a person? Even couples who had been married for years still surprised each other. Things from their past suddenly came to light. Like secret second families or criminal offenses.

She didn’t think Tex was a criminal, though. The thought was laughable. And she didn’t think he had a second family in a different state either. A second wife, kids… Maybe this family had a dog instead of a pair of cats. And he wasn’t a doctor, surely, but maybe an itinerant trader? She glanced down at her hubby, then dismissed the thought once more. How could he have a second family if he had to see his patients every day. He simply didn’t have the opportunity.

But that her husband had a secret, of that she was certain. When she’d broached the subject he’d been dismissive first, then irritated, which was as much an admission of guilt as coming right out and saying what the big secret was.

She took her phone from the nightstand and checked the time. Ten to two. Christ. Wasn’t she ever going to be able to sleep? She’d once read that if you couldn’t sleep you shouldn’t stay in bed but get up and read something—preferably something tedious. That way your brain got distracted from whatever was bothering you and soon got tired, allowing you to switch off. Maybe she should do that now. She’d brought along a couple of the latest bestsellers. Though she knew that if she started reading she’d still be going strong by the time daybreak came. And then she’d be so tired all day she wouldn’t be able to enjoy their time together.

She turned once more, fluffed up her pillow and plunked her head down, willing sleep finally to come.

And that’s when she heard it.

A scream—somewhere nearby.

Immediately she poked her husband in the ribs.“Tex! Wake up!”

“Mhwhatsthatwhat?” muttered the doctor, smacking his lips.

“Did you hear that?” she said, and kept perfectly still.

“Hear what?”

“Shh!”

She listened intently, but all was quiet once more. Almost as if the night had swallowed up the scream and smothered it under a thick blanket. Or maybe she hadn’t heard a scream at all. Maybe it was all in her head. She had been thinking about a particularly successful horror novel she’d brought along to read.

“I don’t hear anything,” said Tex finally.

“I thought I heard a scream,” she said.

“Must be those dogs the Ona woman brought. Even though it said clearly on the invitation ‘No pets allowed.’” He turned over to his side. “There’s always one who can’t follow the rules, isn’t there?” And he promptly went back to sleep.

For a few more minutes Marge lay listening, but no more screams were forthcoming. And finally her eyes drooped closed, and before long, she fell into a deep sleep, dreaming of strange screams in the night, and rabid dogs tearing the flesh from human bones.

[Êàðòèíêà: img_4]

If his wife thought Tex was enjoying a peaceful and unencumbered slumber, she was very much mistaken. While she was lying awake, so was he, only he didn’t feel the need to tell her. It was true he had been asleep, even though it had taken a while, but when she had prodded him in the ribs, he’d been rudely brought out of that hard-won slumber, and once he had, he found it hard to go back to sleep.

And so he lay awake, his arms supporting his head, while he watched his wife sleep. He should never have told Isobel. Then she wouldn’t have been able to put the things he told her in that stupid book of hers. But the woman was so easy to talk to. Maybe it was because of the things she’d gone through, but she had this way of putting you at ease, and extracting confidences from a person. He had always enjoyed talking to her. She was an attractive woman, of course. And in some ways a tragic person. After her husband had killed his brother, in circumstances that still weren’t completely clear to him, he’d fled the country, leaving his wife and daughter to fend for themselves in a hostile world.

Isobel had briefly been arrested, but released as soon as the authorities had been satisfied that she had nothing whatsoever to do with the dreadful business. Alison Droba was fourteen when her father disappeared from their lives, and Isobel had been forced to stay strong for her daughter’s sake, raising her as a single mother. Secretly she’d been driven to drink, hiding the habit from her daughter. A functioning alcoholic, in other words. Until Alison had gone off to college, and had turned her mom into an empty nester. This was when she’d thrown off the last inhibitions andhad descended into a hell of her own making.

The story was well-known amongst her friends and family. One weekend things had come to a head, when Alison had come home from college, finding her mom incoherent and rambling at the foot of the stairs, and called an ambulance. The indignation pushed Isobel to find help, first with a hospital chaplain, who steered her in the direction of her local AA chapter, and somehow she found the strength to kick the habit, for her daughter’s sake, but also for the sake of her own sanity.

And now she was writing that book. Part of her process. Part of the twelve-step program, she claimed, even though it said nowhere in any twelve-step program Tex had ever heard about that you had to rat out your friends to find salvation. It was probably that stupid chaplain’s idea. He must have planted this idea into Isobel’s head. If he could just get his hands on the guy…

He wondered now what Marge’s secret could be. That she had a secret, that much was obvious from her reaction to the news Isobel was writing that infernal book. But no matter how much he pressed her to reveal her secret to him, she wouldn’t. What could it be? A secret affair? A love child with another man? He’d read enough Harlan Coben novels for his imagination to run wild. Maybe her name wasn’t even Marge Lip. And maybe Vesta wasn’t her mother, nor Alec her brother. Maybe she was the secret love child of a politician? Or some mobster?

Or maybe in a previous life she’d killed someone, and now she had to live with the guilt. Maybe she was one of those killer kids, who’d murdered a man when she was eleven, and had been given a new identity, so that she could start a new life. And once her secret was out, a revenge mob would come after her. Which meant they’d come after him, too. Which meant their lives were over.

God. How he wished they’d never crossed paths with Isobel Droba.

CHAPTER 10

[Êàðòèíêà: img_2]

When Marge opened her eyes, light was already seeping into the room. Tex was still fast asleep, but when she stirred, he stirred, too. He glanced up at her with a smile.“Hey, beautiful. Sleep well?”

“Terrible,” she said with a sigh.

“Same here. Must be the lack of cats.”

She had to smile at that.“I never thought I’d hear you say that.”

“I never thought I’d feel that way about those furballs. But I’m starting to think that their presence helps us sleep, don’t you?”

“It’s possible,” she said. It was true that cats have a relaxing influence, though Tex had always complained about them hogging space at the foot of the bed, and causing him to have to tuck in his legs. Marge, because she was shorter than him, didn’t have that particular problem.

“I always thought I’d be able to sleep so much better without the cats, but now I can see I was wrong,” said Tex, and stretched and yawned. “Did I dream this, or did you wake me up last night because you heard a scream?”

“I did hear a scream,” Marge confirmed. “At least I thought I did.”

“Could be your overactive imagination.”

“Could be,” she agreed. It was a conclusion she’d reached herself already.

“Who are we playing today?” asked Tex as he reluctantly threw back the covers.

“I’m playing Michele and you’re playing Max Stinger.”

“Ooh, the plastic surgeon. Nice.”

“Don’t bore him too much with shoptalk, honey. You’re here to play tennis, not stage a medical conference.”

“I won’t, I promise,” said Tex. “Unless he begins first, of course.” He gave her a kiss on the cheek, which led to a cuddle, which led to more kisses in other places.

Marge smiled up at her hubby.“You don’t happen to have a secret family tucked away somewhere in Idaho, do you?”

Tex barked a surprised laugh.“What?”

“Never mind. Do you want to hit the shower first, or shall I?”

But before they could decide on the bathroom business, suddenly a loud scream echoed through the hallway. And this time it was not her imagination, for Tex had heard it, too.

It was a loud, drawn-out scream, then morphed into a series of short staccato bursts. Whoever it was, it sounded like something terrible had happened.

They both hurried out of the bed and into the corridor. They weren’t the only ones, either, for doors were opening everywhere, and guests were streaming into the hallway, drawn to the agonized sounds of a woman desperately sobbing.

“It’s coming from Isobel’s room!” Tex said.

And as they all descended on the room, Perlita Gruner came stumbling out. The woman’s face was white as a sheet, and obviously it was she who’d been screaming, for she uttered one now as she bumped into her husband.

“She’s dead!” Perlita cried as her husband wrapped her in his arms. “Oh, my God, Nate, I think she’s dead!”

Tex was the first to move past the couple and into the room, the determined look of a professional on his face. Marge was a close second, for she now wondered if that scream she’d heard last night could be connected to what Perlita had seen in that room?

And as she walked in, immediately she halted. For a moment, she didn’t understand what she was seeing. For there, spread out across the carpet, Isobel Droba was lying in a pool of blood. Her chest was covered in blood, too, and so was her head. Her eyes were open and vacantly staring into space.

Tex knelt down next to the woman and felt for a pulse. But it was obvious that she was dead. His curt shake of the head confirmed this.

“Best if we don’t touch anything,” said Marge. She glanced around, her eyes immediately drawn to the window for some reason. Glass was on the floor, the window broken and open, a cold draft lowering the temperature in the room.

“We better call your brother,” said Tex as they retreated to the door.

Marge closed the door, careful to use the sleeve of her pajamas as she did. To the crowd that had gathered outside, she said,“I’m afraid something happened to Isobel and it’s important we don’t enter the room or disturb the scene.”

“Scene? You mean crime scene?” asked Max Stinger. The plastic surgeon was amongst the only ones dressed already, the others all donning dressing gowns.

“I’m afraid so,” said Marge.

Michele was staring at her, wide-eyed.“You mean Isobel is…”

“Dead,” Tex confirmed.

“Oh, my God!” Ona cried, hugging herself. “This isn’t happening!”

“Let’s all try to stay calm,” Marge suggested. “And until the police arrive, no one leaves the house. They’ll want to talk to all of us.”

“How did she die?” asked Max Stinger, a look of concern on his face. He was directing his question to Tex, one medical professional to another.

“I’m not sure, actually,” said Tex, bringing a hand to his white mane.

“There’s a lot of blood,” said Perlita in a quaky voice. Her hands were shaking, Marge saw, and her eyes were red-rimmed and teary. “There’s blood everywhere!”

A murmur of surprise raced through the small group.“You mean she was—she was killed?!” Ona cried, her voice rising a full octave.

Perlita nodded.“So much blood,” she repeated tremulously.

“That means the killer could still be in the house!” said Ona.

“There’s a broken window,” Marge said. “Maybe… a burglar?”

“I’m not staying in a house with a killer!” Ona said, starting to remove herself from the group. “I’m leaving! And I would advise all of you to do the same!”

“You’re not going anywhere!” a clear voice rang out. They all looked up. It was the voice of Vena Aleman, and it brooked no contest. “We’re all staying right here until the police decide otherwise. And that means you, too, Ona.”

“But…”

“No buts. A murder has been committed, and the police are going to want to question each and every one of us. So we’re all staying put. Is that understood?”

Nods of acquiescence all around. When the veterinarian spoke, everyone listened, whether they be pets or pet parents or in fact anyone. Vena had that presence and that authority. In another life she could have been a cop, Marge thought, as she gave Vena a grateful nod, which the vet returned in kind. A stampede for the exit was the last thing they wanted.

And so she picked up her phone, and called her brother.

CHAPTER 11

[Êàðòèíêà: img_2]

I was asleep at the foot of the bed when the sound of insistent ringing brought me out of my peaceful slumber.“The doorbell, Max,” said Dooley sleepily.

I wasn’t sure what he meant by that. It’s hardly a big secret that cats are not in the capacity to open doors. We rely on our humans for such menial tasks. In this instance, however, both humans were conked out on the bed, after they’d gone to bed at a late hour, owing to some TV show they’d insisted on binge-watching. I could have told them this was a bad idea, but apparently the show was so good they didn’t care whether such a late-night session would leave them tired and grumpy the next morning. Instant gratification, I think this is often called.

The fact that Grace had become a more regular sleeper lately, and didn’t wake us all up at all hours of the night, might have had something to do with this. The little girl now went to bed at an early hour, and mostly slept through the night. And so her folks had started taking advantage of the fact by staying up late.

“Nothing that a good cup of coffee won’t fix,” Odelia had told me when I’d made careful murmurings about persisting with this reckless folly.

I don’t mind watching television, of course, but this habit of watching hours and hours of the same show frankly strikes me as a complete waste of valuable time. There are so many other things one can do. Such as there are: birdwatching—one of my favorite pastimes and something I like to devote great chunks of my own time to—or listening to the sounds of a minor critter trying to dig a hole through the outer wall of our home. Or even watching a spider crawl up the living room wall—sometimes they need several attempts to get all the way up there.

“Is that your phone?” Chase finally murmured.

“No, I think it’s yours,” Odelia returned halfheartedly.

For a moment all was quiet, then the ringing started up again.

From her own little bed, Grace made quiet murmurings, but slept on.

“Max, the doorbell,” Dooley repeated, as if I was a Downton Abbey butler.

“I know it’s the doorbell,” I said. “But what do you want me to do about it?”

My friend opened his eyes and seemed to see me for the first time.“What?”

“The doorbell? You know as well as I do that cats don’t open doors, Dooley.”

“What are you talking about?”

It became clear to me now he’d been talking in his sleep, a habit he gets sometimes. “It’s fine, Dooley. Don’t worry about it,” I said.

“Your phone, Chase,” Odelia said plaintively.

“Your phone, babe,” Chase returned, just as plaintively.

“Oh, for crying out loud!” I suddenly burst out. “It’s the door!”

“What are you talking about?” said Odelia with a tired groan.

“There’s someone at the door!”

“Oh, all right, hold your horses,” she said, making a valiant attempt to open her eyes. She slipped one leg from underneath the covers, and before I knew what was happening, there was a sort of thud and Odelia was on the floor. “Oops,” she said, then scrambled into a more or less upright position and headed for the door.

“I think she’s sleepwalking, Max,” said Dooley. “Look at her. She’s still asleep.”

He was right. Odelia was walking, but her eyes were firmly shut.

“Open your eyes, woman!” I cried, afraid she’d tumble down the stairs and break that delicate human neck of hers.

“Yes, sir,” Odelia mumbled.

“It’s not my phone,” Chase said as he made an attempt to grab the device from the nightstand. “So it must be yours.” The phone slipped from his nerveless grasp and hit the floor. “Darn it,” the cop muttered, as his arm just dangled there.

“Are they on drugs, you think, Max?” asked Dooley, as he watched the sad spectacle. “They must be on drugs, acting so weird.”

“Yes, they are,” I said with a frown. “The drug of binge-watching.”

Downstairs things seemed to be happening, for I could hear the door being opened and moments later the nervous tones of Uncle Alec’s voice reached my ears.

“There’s been a murder,” the police chief was saying. “At your mom and dad’s tennis retreat.”

These words finally shook Odelia into full wakefulness, for I could hear her say,“What?!”

“Your folks are fine. It’s one of the hosts that’s been murdered. Some woman named Isobel Droba?”

“Oh, my God.”

“Yeah. Where’s Chase? Can you guys get over there pronto?”

“Chase!” Odelia bellowed. “Babe, get down here!”

“All right, all right,” the cop said. “Where’s the fire?”

“There’s been a murder!” Uncle Alec shouted at the foot of the stairs.

This statement had the desired effect on the stalwart police detective. He jerked into an upright position, and moments later was thundering down the stairs. If his superior officer took offense by the casual wear his underling had donned—naked torso and floral-patterned boxers—he didn’t show it. Instead he proceeded to fill the detective in on some of the details of the case, then entrusted it into his capable hands.

“Looks like it’s time to get up,” said Dooley with a muscular yawn.

“Yeah, looks that way,” I agreed, and since yawns are infectious, I went through one myself.

And so it was that while our humans halved their usual bathroom time and kitchen time, Dooley and myself patiently waited until they were ready to move out. They still didn’t look entirely chipper and ready for duty, but then humans rarely do when they’re being dragged out of bed at some ungodly hour.

After placing Grace in the capable care of Gran, instructing her to drop the toddler off at the daycare center at her earliest convenience, we were off.

We arrived at the house Michele Droba had rented—an Airbnb, apparently—posthaste, and judging from the police vehicles parked haphazardly in the drive, and the coroner’s van, the investigation was already underway, even though the actual detective being assigned to the case hadn’t yet arrived. But then I guess that’s often the way: thestar of the show is frequently the last one to arrive.

The villa was a large one, as villas go, and located on the outskirts of Hampton Cove, that fair and friendly town in the Hamptons. It was a large place, with a nice paved forecourt and plenty of well-manicured greenery all around.

“It doesn’t look like an Airbnb, Max,” said Dooley as we got out of Chase’s squad car. “It looks more like one of those posh mansions celebrities occupy.”

It did look like a posh celebrity dwelling. And that’s probably because there were several celebrities staying at the place. Or at least such were the rumors. And so as we entered, I wondered if we’d run into Beyonc?, or Tom Cruise, or even that skinny guy from those Spider-man movies. Unfortunately for us no celebrities were actually present, as soon became clear when we were led up the stairs by one of the officers on the scene, who gave us a list of the guests.

Michele Droba was the person organizing the tennis extravaganza, and the woman who’d been found dead was her sister-in-law Isobel Droba. Michele’s boyfriend Christopher Bonarowski was a publisher of some renown but not famous enough to register on my personal radar. Then there were Marge and Tex, of course. And also Vena Aleman—a person with whom Dooley and I were intimately familiar, to our eternal regret, since she’s a veterinarian. In spite of adhering to some of the strictures of the Nazi Party, Vena had managed to ensnare a husband, a man named Glenn for some reason.

Also present in the house at this time were a Perlita and Nathan Gruner, who were something important in the art world according to the police officer. And Ona Konpacka and boyfriend.

“Ona Konpacka!” Dooley cried excitedly. “But we know Ona, don’t we, Max!”

“We most certainly do,” I said, well pleased by this surprise.

We’d met Ona on a previous case, where she was a suspect. She was a former supermodel, whose exceedingly good looks had been marred to some extent by a hack plastic surgeon, and I wondered how she’d fared since our last meeting.

We had arrived upstairs and were led into the room where the unfortunate victim had been found that morning. Isobel Droba was lying on the floor, partially obscured by the large bulk of the county medical examiner Abe Cornwall. The frizzy-haired medical professional was frowning as he studied the body, his electric hair standing on end as if he’d just stuck his fingers in a wall socket.

“So what’s the verdict, Abe?” asked Chase as he donned plastic gloves and booties.

“She’s dead,” said Abe curtly.

“I thought as much. What made her so?”

“Blow to the back of the head, most likely.”

“Most likely?” asked Chase, directing a glance to the window, which was broken.

“She’s also been stabbed, so it’s a toss-up. Could be the blunt-force trauma that killed her, or the stab wounds. I’ll know more once I get her on my slab.”

“Stabbed with a knife, was she?”

“I’m not sure,” said the coroner, looking distinctly unhappy. It was hard to say whether this was because of the early hour, or because the killer was making things difficult for him. “Some sharp object, at any rate.” He got up with a groan. “And before you ask, she was killed sometime during the night. I’d say between seven and five hours ago.”

Chase checked his phone.“That would put time of death between one and three.”

Abe didn’t deign him with a reply. “Did you know your mom and dad are here?” He was directing his question at Odelia, his face screwed up in curiosity.

“Yeah, I know,” said Odelia as she studied the body. “Tennis retreat,” she explained. “They have one of these every year. Same circle of friends.”

“Nice work if you can get it,” said Abe vaguely.

“Could be a breakin,” said Chase, pointing to the broken window.

“We better check if anything was stolen,” said Odelia. “Who found the body?”

The officer who’d been the first to arrive on the scene consulted his notebook. “A Mrs. Perlita Gruner. She and her husband Nathan are in the next room.”

Odelia nodded her appreciation.“Anything missing?”

“I’m not sure,” said the officer. “There’s no phone, no laptop, no wallet as far as I can tell. But whether they’ve gone missing…”

The inference was obvious: Odelia would have to find out herself if she wanted to know the answer to this question.

“Oh, and your mom wants to talk to you,” said the officer. “She was in the next room—the one over there,” he explained, looking a little sheepish. It isn’t often that relatives of the detecting duo were in the house where a murder took place.

“Looks like Marge and Tex are suspects,” I told Dooley as I glanced around the room.

“Suspects!” Dooley cried. “But why?! They’re not murderers!”

“You never know, Dooley,” I said. “Anyone can be a murderer.”

“But not Marge or Tex!”

I traipsed around the room, feeling the eyes of Abe’s team of crime scene technicians poking holes in my back. Nobody likes people trampling all over their crime scene, and pets even less—shedding hair where no hair should be. But I wanted to get a good overview of the scene. The poor woman had been killed in what looked like a pretty frenzied attack, and already I could tell that this murder business spelled trouble with a capital T for Odelia’s parents.

“There’s a drainpipe,” said the officer helpfully, pointing to the window. “So the killer could easily have climbed it and gained entrance that way.”

Odelia and Chase checked the veracity of this statement, and finally Chase nodded his agreement.“Must be the way they came in,” he agreed, then turned on his heel. “I’ll go and check for footprints.”

“And don’t forget about cigarette butts!” Dooley cried at the detective’s retreating back. He turned to me. “Footprints and cigarette butts. Very important clues.”

“Even more important is the murder weapon,” I said. “Or murder weapons, plural.”

“They haven’t been found?”

“No, Dooley, they have not.”

CHAPTER 12

[Êàðòèíêà: img_2]

We met Marge in the hallway, or at least Odelia met her, and we tagged along. For the benefit of privacy we used the bedroom Marge and Tex were staying in for the duration of the retreat.

“So you’re saying you heard a scream?” asked Odelia.

Marge nodded. She looked stricken, which wasn’t surprising since she’d just stumbled across the dead body of a friend. “Around two o’clock. I thought it must have been a dream, but now I’m not so sure.”

“I didn’t hear anything,” said Tex decidedly.

“You were sleeping,” said Marge, as if accusing her husband of a grave offense. “While I was lying awake all night.”

Tex opened his mouth to speak, but then seemed to think better of it and closed it again.

“You couldn’t sleep because of the scream?” asked Odelia.

“Oh, no. You could say that was the cherry on the cake, so to speak.” She hesitated, then said, “Isobel was writing a book. A book she says she was filling with secrets of all the people she knew. So naturally we’ve all been on tenterhooks wondering what she’s going to write about us.”

“You don’t have any secrets, though, right?”

“Oh, no, of course not. And neither does Tex. But still.” She chewed her bottom lip nervously. “Isobel was a recovering alcoholic, and coming clean was part of her process.” She shrugged. “I guess we were all unsure what she was going to write. Whether true or false, it might be damaging to the reputation of the people present.”

“Very damaging,” Tex muttered darkly. As a doctor, he was a public figure, and had his reputation to think about, same as anyone in his position. So I could imagine he wasn’t happy about this tell-all book Isobel Droba had been in the process of penning.

“Do you think this murder could be connected to the book?” asked Odelia the obvious question.

“I thought it was a breakin?” asked Tex, looking up sharply.

“We’re not sure exactly what happened,” Odelia explained. “Though it certainly looks as if her room was broken into last night.”

“There’s something else you must know,” said Marge tentatively.

“Yes?” Odelia encouraged her.

“Yesterday, when we got back from our doubles game, I heard a fight in Isobel’s room. Isobel and her daughter Alison. Something about Alison wanting to marry this man she’s been seeing. Jason Rocamora. Jason is an ex-con, apparently, and Isobel wanted her daughter to break it off with him. Instead, Alison said she wanted to marry him, and Isobel wasn’t happy about that. She threatened to cut Alison off financially.”

Odelia was scribbling all this down on her tablet, nodding all the while.“She was rich, was she, Isobel?”

“I guess so,” said Marge. She emitted a curt laugh. “It’s not a topic that’s come up in conversation, but I’ve always assumed she and Michele are well-off.”

“That would be Michele Droba, her… sister-in-law?”

“Yes. Michele married Dean Droba and Isobel married Dean’s brother Gavin.”

Odelia looked up.“I thought Michele was staying here with a man named Chris…” She consulted her notes. “Christopher Bonarowski. A publisher?”

Marge nodded, crossing her arms in front of her chest.“Dean died. It’s a terrible story. He and his brother got into some kind of argument one night and Gavin gave his brother a shove. Dean fell and hit his head against something sharp—I think the edge of a desk or a chair if I remember correctly—and he died. Consequently Gavin fled the country and hasn’t been seen since.”

“So Michele is a widow and Isobel’s husband went missing?”

“It’s not a story a lot of people are familiar with. But since Tex and I have been friends with Michele for so long…”

“Michele doesn’t talk about her husband,” said Tex. “And neither did Isobel.”

“I can understand why,” said Odelia. “When was this?”

“Oh, must be almost ten years ago now.”

“Seven,” Marge corrected her husband.

“Seven,” Tex echoed, cutting his wife a curious look.

“Okay, and you were both in this room when Isobel was killed?” asked Odelia. When her parents looked at her, clearly aghast, she shrugged. “I have to ask.”

“Of course,” said Marge. “As I said I was having trouble sleeping, so I was awake the first part of the night. But I never left the room, and neither did your dad.”

“I also had trouble sleeping, actually,” Tex muttered. “Must be the bed.”

“Yeah, that must be it,” said Marge, though she didn’t look convinced.

I was wondering what else was going on here. For some reason the couple was acting a little evasive. As if they were hiding something. Hard to drag them over the coals and extract a full confession, though, being that they were Odelia’s mom and dad and all.

“Okay, so is there anything else you can think of? Anything out of the ordinary?”

“Like what?” asked Tex, who was tiring of the barrage of questions.

“Like… how did Isobel strike you? Same as usual? Different?”

“She seemed tense,” said Marge. “At first I figured it had something to do with this book she was writing. But then yesterday I thought it must be connected with Alison and her affair with her ex-criminal.”

“That must have weighed on her mind,” Odelia agreed. “Anything else? Dad?”

But Tex shook his head.“Nothing I can think of. We were having a nice time here, all of us, so this murder business came out of the blue. Must be a burglary gone wrong,” he added his opinion.

“Was anything stolen from your room?”

Tex glanced around, as if the question hadn’t occurred to him, and frowned. “I don’t think so,” he said. “My phone is still here, my wallet… Your purse, honey?”

“Purse is here,” Marge confirmed. “And so is my phone. Nothing stolen, I think.”

“Good,” said Odelia as she tapped her tablet. “And how are you holding up?” Her voice was tinged with a note of concern. She had put her detective cap off and was donning the worried daughter cap now.

“It was a big shock,” Marge confessed.

“You knew Isobel well, of course.”

“We did,” said Tex. “Have known her for years.”

When nothing more seemed forthcoming, the parents still continuing to be strangely reticent, we took our leave, after Odelia had issued her usual warning not to leave the premises, and if anything came to mind, to tell her immediately.

“I had the feeling they were hiding something,” I told Odelia the moment we left the room.

“I had the same impression,” our human confirmed. “But what?”

“You don’t think they murdered Isobel, do you?” Dooley asked, shocked.

“No, I don’t think they killed Isobel. But they’re lying about something.”

CHAPTER 13

[Êàðòèíêà: img_2]

When Chase had returned from his excursions, he regrettably informed us that he hadn’t found any suspicious footprints below Isobel Droba’s window, owing to the fact that the drainpipe didn’t end in a nice flower bed, as it often does in an Agatha Christie novel, but on the paved forecourt, which isn’t as susceptible to footprints as loose sand.

“And what about cigarette butts?” asked Dooley, who seemed to have developed a keen interest in this staple of many a Sherlock Holmes story.

“No cigarette butts either,” Odelia informed us with a twinkle in her eye.

“That’s too bad,” said Dooley. “I definitely thought there would be butts.”

“No butts,” I said, and then it was time to enter into our investigation proper by talking to Michele Droba, the victim’s sister-in-law.

Michele met us in one of the downstairs rooms, this one a modestly appointed living room where cream-colored leather couches awaited us, as well as a smattering of modern art paintings adorning the walls.

“Perlita Gruner’s work,” Michele explained when she saw Chase checking out a painting of a green apple on a red background. “She owns an art gallery in town.”

“Just to be sure: this isn’t your home, is it?” asked Chase.

“Oh, no. It belongs to a friend of mine. Cyril Baskerville. He rents it out as an Airbnb. It’s perfect for us, since it has two tennis courts out back as well as a swimming pool. In fact we’ve been using it for just about forever—long before Airbnb even existed. Back then Cyril rented out the place through a real estate agency owned by his brother. When his brother retired he switched to Airbnb.”

“But you’re still here,” said Odelia with a smile, which Michele returned.

We all took a seat, and Chase launched into the interview.“First off, my sincerest condolences, Mrs. Droba. Isobel’s death must come as a great shock to you.”

“It does,” Michele confirmed. “Isobel and I were very close, and losing her is like losing a sister.”

“You weren’t actually sisters, though, were you?”

“No. Isobel was married to my husband’s brother.”

“Did you have a chance to see if anything was taken from her room?” asked Odelia.

“I did, yes, and as far as I can tell her laptop is gone, and so is her phone and her wallet. Looks like the person who broke in and killed her took everything.”

“The odd thing is that this burglar, this thief, didn’t target anyone else.”

“He probably wasn’t expecting to be caught,” said Michele. “And so when Isobel wasn’t in bed as he’d surmised, and caught him red-handed going through her things, he must have killed her and escaped the same way he came in.”

Chase nodded thoughtfully.“Have you had problems with breakins before?”

“No, never.”

“And there’s no alarm system? No CCTV cameras on the property?”

“There is an alarm system, but we don’t arm it unless we leave the house. And now during this week it’s never armed, since there’s always someone here.”

“And what about cameras?”

“No cameras, I’m afraid. Cyril believes they might scare off potential guests.” She smiled. “Not everyone likes to be filmed, Detective. Or their every movement clocked by some unknown security person miles away who can do who knows what with the footage. Put it on YouTube, perhaps, or turnit into a TikTok video.”

“I see,” said Chase. “So we have no way of knowing who this mystery burglar-slash-killer was.”

“Oh, I have a pretty good idea,” said Michele, surprising us all. “My niece Alison is involved with a man named Jason Rocamora. Mr. Rocamora is a violent criminal and has spent time in prison for various crimes. In fact Isobel had engaged a private detective agency to keep tabs on the man, and make sure he didn’t harm Alison. And also, Isobel told me just yesterday that Alison planned to marry this criminal, and that she told her daughter that if she was going through with the wedding, she would cut her off financially. I guess Mr. Rocamora didn’t like that.”

“You think he’s the one who broke in last night?”

Michele nodded soberly.“You have to know that Isobel was working on a book. Her autobiography. She was under contract with a publisher, who’d offered her a sizable advance on royalties. As far as I know the manuscript was on her laptop. So whoever took that laptop now has the only copy of Isobel’s book.” She raised a meaningful eyebrow. “My boyfriend is Isobel’s publisher, so I know how much she was paid for the book. And now that Jason has the laptop, I’m sure he’ll be in touch soon, demanding money in exchange for the manuscript.”

“How did this Jason Rocamora know about the book?” asked Odelia.

“Alison will have told him. She knew what her mother was writing.”

“How much did your boyfriend pay for the book?” asked Chase.

“One million dollars,” said Michele, watching Chase closely.

The cop didn’t disappoint. He whistled through his teeth.

“Why so much?” asked Odelia. “Isobel wasn’t famous, was she?”

“No, she wasn’t. But she knew a lot of famous people, and she was promising to write a tell-all book, no holds barred. She didn’t believe in secrets, you see, and said she wanted to expose them in her book.” When Chase and Odelia eyed her curiously, she added, “I probably should have prefaced that by saying that my husband and Isobel’s husband ran the Droba Group for a while, which is one of the biggest tire companies in the world. The company was founded over a hundred years ago by one of Dean and Gavin’s forebears. It was run by my father-in-law Bill, who relinquished the reins to his sons. But when Dean died and Gavin disappeared, Bill took over again, and is still running the company today.”

“So it’s safe to say that Isobel knew a lot of very important people,” said Chase, summing things up nicely.

“And a lot of those very important people are going to be in her book—all of their so-called secrets exposed. Which is why she was paid the one million.”

“For a gossip book?”

“Everybody likes gossip, Detective Kingsley. Especially about the rich and famous.”

“Do you know the name of the detective agency Isobel contacted?” asked Odelia.

“Of course. And I’m sure they’ll be able to tell you what Jason Rocamora is planning to do with Isobel’s laptop. They promised to keep a close eye on him.”

CHAPTER 14

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While Chase did a quick check to see if this Rocamora character had a criminal record, Odelia talked to her dad again.

“Secrets? What secrets? I don’t know anything about secrets,” Tex blustered.

“Well, Isobel was writing a tell-all book about the people that have passed through her life,” Odelia said. “So you guys must have discussed this during the past week, seeing as you’ve known each other for so long, right?”

“I don’t know anything about any secrets,” Tex insisted. “And anyway, why is this important? I thought Isobel was the victim of some burglar? Some thief?”

“This burglar might have been after the book,” said Odelia. “Isobel’s laptop was stolen, and Michele just told us that Isobel’s manuscript is worth a great deal of money.”

“I guess,” said Tex, his eyes fixed on some point in the middle distance. This was obviously a man who wanted to be anywhere but here, and talking about anything but Isobel and her book.

“So to your recollection, nobody here mentioned that manuscript, Dad?”

Tex turned decidedly shifty-eyed.“No, nobody. Whatever was going on with that book, this is the first thing I’m hearing about it.”

“Okay, fine,” said Odelia, visibly disappointed in her dad. “How about Mom?”

“What about your mom?”

“She never mentioned the book?”

“No, she did not,” said Tex.

Chase had returned, thoughtfully clutching his phone.“Michele was right. Jason Rocamora does have a criminal record. Aggravated robbery. Assault and battery. Sounds like a seriously wrong dude.”

“Well, there you have it,” said Tex with satisfaction. “Case closed. Now can we go about our business?”

“Mh? Oh, no, buddy,” said Chase. “I’m afraid you can’t leave the premises. At least not until Alec says you can.”

“But you’ve got your guy!”

“Maybe.”

“God,” said the doctor, and stomped off, looking none too happy.

We all stared after him.“What’s going on with your dad?” asked Chase.

“I’m not sure. He’s acting really strange,” said Odelia. “Him and Mom both.”

“I’ve been trying to get a hold of the detective assigned to Jason Rocamora,” said Chase, “and they’ve promised he’ll phone me back as soon as he can.”

“Let’s hope we can wrap up this case as soon as possible. Keeping these people cooped up in here is going to prove a challenge. Are you sure we can’t allow them to go home?”

“It’s fine for Tex and Marge, but what about the others? Not all of them live in Hampton Cove. And if we allow one set of couples to go home and not the others, it’s going to create trouble. No, as long as we haven’t ruled out that someone on the premises killed Isobel Droba, we need to keep a close eye on these people.”

When we entered the living room to talk to the next couple, imagine my surprise when a familiar cute little dog greeted us on the threshold. It looked like an Ewok, but in actual fact it was a miniature Brussels Griffon named Joey, and last time I looked belonged to Ona Konpacka, the former supermodel.

“Max! Dooley!” the little doggie exclaimed, clearly happy to see us.

“Joey!” said Dooley. “What are you doing here?”

“Ona doesn’t go anywhere without me,” said Joey.

“But I thought she was a recluse?” said Dooley.

“Oh, not anymore, she’s not.”

We glanced over to the window, where Ona was waiting for her police interview. And I have to say she looked a lot better than the last time we saw her. Back then her face was all lumpy. Now it was as smooth as a Swiss lake in wintertime. She was heavily made up, but still: the structure of her face had been restored to its former glory as far as I could tell.

“Who’s that man next to her?” I asked.

“That’s Max Stinger,” said Joey. “He’s the man who saved her life.”

“Don’t tell me Ona tried to take her own life!” Dooley cried.

Joey laughed.“Oh, no, nothing like that. But he performed the operation that made her look human again, repairing the damage that butcher caused.”

With that butcher Joey was referring to the cosmetic surgeon who had ended Ona’s great career. “So he’s her boyfriend now?” I asked.

“He is. I guess between the moment he put her under narcosis and the moment the bandages were removed and she was greeted by her old face again in the mirror, Ona fell in love. They’ve been together ever since.”

A second little doggie came tripping up to us.“Who are these cats, Joey?” it asked. Like Joey, it was small and fluffy, and was clearly a Brussels Griffon, just like her.

“These are Max and Dooley,” said Joey. “Remember I told you about them?”

“Oh, that’s right. They’re the ones who got me my new forever home.”

“When you promised me you’d ask your human to tell Ona to get me a little brother or sister,” said Joey, “I wasn’t sure you’d keep your promise. So when Zoey suddenly showed up one day, I was pleasantly surprised.” She looked a little bashful all of a sudden. “Thank you so much. Youdon’t know what it meant to me.”

“I think I do,” I said. “Life at home wouldn’t be the same for me without Dooley.” Or Harriet and Brutus, of course. When we first met Joey, Ona had been living like a recluse in her apartment, with only Joey as her companion. The little doggie had been lonely, and had asked us to arrangefor a friend to keep her company. And so we’d talked to Odelia, who’d told Marge, who knew that Michele had some vague connection to Ona, and thus things had been arranged.

“I’m happy to meet again,” I said. “Even though the circumstances aren’t great.”

“No, a woman has been murdered, right?” said Joey. “Isobel Droba?”

“You didn’t know Isobel well?”

“Not really. This is the first year we’ve been invited to this retreat. Last year Ona was still holed up in her apartment.”

“It’s nice here,” said Zoey, with a touch of bashfulness. “People are all so very nice to us—and to Ona and Max.”

“Max?” asked Dooley, then got the reference and laughed. “Oh, that’s funny, Max. Ona’s boyfriend is also called Max. Just like you!”

“I know,” I said, even though I didn’t get the joke. “You didn’t hear anything last night?” I asked. “Or notice anything suspicious?”

“Nothing,” said Joey. “It’s all very new to us, of course. We don’t know most of these people. The only person Ona knows is Michele, who once organized a photo shoot for some campaign about car tires.” She smiled. “I remember Ona complaining that it’s hard work to make a car tire look sexy. But she managed.”

“Is she going to be a model again?” asked Dooley.

“No, she’s retired. Her face is still not fully recovered. Maybe it never will. And besides, that part of her life is behind her now. She’s happy that she can be out and about again. And it’s all thanks to Max.”

When Dooley stared at me, I said,“Not me, Dooley. The other Max.”

“Oh, right,” said my friend, then laughed again. “It’s very confusing, Max. Maybe we should call you Max 1 and Ona’s boyfriend Max 2. Or the other way around.”

“I think we’ll manage to differentiate between the two,” I said dryly.

CHAPTER 15

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Chase introduced Odelia as the civilian police consultant assisting him on the case, and at the mention of the name, Ona’s hitherto regal and frosty demeanor melted to some extent. “You’re Marge Poole’s daughter, aren’t you?” she said.

“Yep, that’s me,” Odelia confirmed.

“I can’t thank you and your mom enough for telling Michele to get a friend for Joey,” said the former model. “She’s been so happy since I got Zoey.”

“I know from experience how lonely our furry friends can be when they’re the only pets we’ve got,” said Odelia. She gestured to Dooley and me. “These two are never apart. They play together, sleep together, share their meals together.” Sleuth together, I thought.

“Same here,” said Ona. “I’m so lucky that Joey and Zoey get along so well. They’re like twins now. They even look as if they could be from the same litter.”

“They’re adorable,” said Odelia as she admired Ona’s twin pride and joy.

Chase cleared his throat. Clearly he felt there were other, more pressing matters to discuss than Odelia and Ona’s respective pet pairs. “So Isobel Droba,” he said. “How well did you know her?”

“Not that well,” said Ona. “I knew Michele from a shoot I once did for her, but I’d never met her sister before she invited me to this tennis retreat.”

“Sister-in-law,” Chase corrected her.

“Oh, they weren’t sisters? I thought they were.”

“Did you hear anything last night, Ona?” asked Odelia. “Or you, sir?”

The plastic surgeon shook his head.“Not a thing, I’m afraid. Slept like a log.”

“I didn’t hear anything either,” said Ona. “But then I take a sleeping pill before I go to bed.” She gingerly touched her face. “I suffered through multiple operations in a short space of time, and the nerve endings in my face are still very sensitive.”

“It won’t be like that forever,” the surgeon assured her.

Ona gave him a grateful look.“It’s improved a lot already.”

“And it will keep improving—just you wait and see.”

“So Isobel was writing her autobiography,” said Chase. “And she was planning to name names and reveal secrets about the people she knew.”

“Yes?” said Ona.

“It’s possible that this book is connected to what happened to her.”

“I thought she was killed by a burglar?” asked Max Stinger.

“One of the theories we’re investigating right now is that she was murdered because of the manuscript,” Chase explained. “Whoever did this stole her laptop, and that manuscript was on that laptop.”

“Coincidence, surely,” said the face doctor. “They probably grabbed whatever valuable things they could find.”

“I never heard about this autobiography until now,” said Ona. “So you think that’s why she was killed? Because someone wanted to get their hands on it?”

“It’s a possibility,” said Chase.

“A very remote one, surely,” said the doctor.

“So you weren’t concerned that you were going to be in Isobel’s autobiography?”

“Oh, no,” said Ona with a smile. “I hardly knew the woman, and she hardly knew me. Besides, I have no secrets to hide, Detective. My life is an open book.”

But as she said it, she lowered her lashes. A bad liar, I determined. Whatever Ona was hiding clearly had something to do with that fateful manuscript.

“How about you, sir?” asked Chase.

“What about me?” the surgeon said, frowning at the cop. “Secrets? I don’t have any secrets. Nothing to hide. Just ask the IRS. Everything in order and above board!” And to emphasize how ridiculous Chase’s suggestion was, he barked a hearty laugh.

I directed an inquisitive look at Joey and Zoey, who’d been following the interview with rapt attention. They had probably never been present at a police interview before, and were fascinated to watch it play out in real time, in front of their noses. “So what do you think, Joey?” I asked. “Could Ona or Max be involved in this murder business, you think?”

Joey’s eyes went wide in shock. “Max, what are you saying! Of course not! Ona could never murder a person. Absolutely not. She’s the sweetest person I know!”

“And how about her boyfriend?”

“Yeah, he’s a surgeon,” said Dooley. “And we all know that surgeons like to cut things open—people or pets. So is it possible he was suffering through acute withdrawal and found a perfect specimen in Isobel to practice his skills on?”

I wouldn’t exactly have put it that way, but it did seem to me that a surgeon would know how to go about killing a person. Though what his exact motive would be was beyond me at that point.

“Max is a decent man,” said Joey. “He would never harm anyone.”

“He’s a saint,” Zoey chimed in. “A saint who saved Ona’s life.”

“He did save Ona’s life. Because that’s what he does.”

“Doctors save lives, Max. They don’t take it.”

“Fine,” I said, holding up my paw. “I get it. Ona wouldn’t hurt a soul and Stinger is a saint. Still, saints can sin when pushed to the limit, and so can nice people like Ona. Especially when someone is threatening to expose their biggest secrets.”

“Absolutely not,” said Joey. “Ona doesn’t have secrets, and neither has Max.”

“This Max or that Max?” asked Dooley, just to make sure.

“I don’t know about this Max,” said Joey. “Maybe this Max does have secrets.”

“No, he doesn’t,” I assured the little doggie with the funny face.

“Well, that Max doesn’t have secrets either,” said Joey with conviction.

“He’s a saint,” Zoey repeated. “And saints don’t have secrets, Max.”

It was obvious we had reached a dead end. And maybe they were right. Maybe Ona and Max Stinger had nothing to hide, and had nothing to do with what happened to Isobel. But I still had the impression that Ona hadn’t answered truthfully when Chase put it to her that she might feature in Isobel’s book.

CHAPTER 16

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Chase had gone off to take another call, and in the meantime Odelia had decided to talk to her mom and dad some more. It so rarely happened that she had family members who’d been present in a house where a murder had taken place. And Marge had actually heard the woman scream. So maybe there was some detail, however small, the parent pair hadn’t yet divulged to their detective daughter.

Dooley and I had other qualms: it was now going on eleven o’clock, and since no meals seemed forthcoming, and Odelia had neglected to pack us a lunch, we were left to our own devices when it came to rustling up something to tide us over until dinnertime rolled around.

“In a house this big, and filled with dogs, there has to be something to eat,” Dooley said as we wended our way to the kitchen.

“It’s only two dogs, though,” I said. “And maybe Ona feeds them from her own little stock of dog food.”

“Dog food, cat food, I don’t care what we find. I’m not picky, Max.”

I would have reminded him that he was a vegetarian now, but that seemed unduly harsh. So instead I said,“We’re bound to find something to eat.”

But the kitchen was eerily devoid of foodstuffs. No chef whipping something up and prepared to throw two hungry kitties a tasty morsel of something yummy. And no house guests enjoying an early lunch or late breakfast either. In fact the place looked deserted, with all the tasty stuff locked up inside gleaming cupboards and sizable fridges.

“Maybe they’ve hidden the stuff somewhere else?” Dooley suggested.

But before we could retreat, we heard footsteps coming hither, and hope once more surged in our bosoms—and our empty stomachs.

The footsteps belonged to Michele Droba, always a likely candidate to dispense with some of the good stuff, quickly followed by Ona Konpacka.

“Here should be fine,” said Michele. “It’s just us and those two kitties.”

Ona eyed us with a touch of suspicion, but we returned her gaze with a look of absolute innocence—and expectation.

“So what was it you wanted to ask?” said Michele as she took a seat at the kitchen counter.

“It’s the police. They’ve been asking me about Isobel’s book. Wanting to know if I’m in it.”

“Yeah, they seem to have taken a keen interest in Isobel’s scribblings,” Michele confirmed. “And for good reason, too.”

“So that book is connected to her murder?”

“Of course it is. The man who took it probably wants to sell it to the highest bidder.”

“Oh, God,” Ona said as she touched her face, patting it gently as if she couldn’t believe it was back in working order. “Tell me she didn’t mention me in her book?”

“I wouldn’t know, my dear. I haven’t had the pleasure of reading it.”

“But Chris. He’s Isobel’s publisher. So he must know.”

“He doesn’t. Isobel hadn’t delivered him the manuscript yet.”

“So Chris hasn’t read it? Nobody has read it?”

“Nobody has read it,” Michele assured the woman. “May I ask why you’re so concerned about Isobel’s book?”

Ona hesitated, but then the urge to confide in someone was stronger than her desire to keep it a secret.“She was easy to talk to, Isobel was.”

“I know she was.”

“I should never have told her.”

Michele waited patiently while Ona was still struggling with her conflicting impulses. Finally, she said,“It happened a long time ago. At the beginning of my career. Or before, actually, back when I didn’t have a career yet. I did have a sister, Katey. One year older than me. Beautiful, smart, and ambitious. She dreamed of being a model, and so did I. But my sister was pretty, and I was gangly as a teenager. Not pretty at all. And I wore glasses. So I knew I’d never be a model. And then one day a scout for one of the big modeling agencies spotted my sister at our local mall—we were living in Wisconsin back then. He asked her name and phone number, and said he’d be in touch.” She tooka deep breath. “Only when he did get in touch, I intercepted the message and went to the meeting instead. I deleted the message and never mentioned it to my sister. I got my hair done, ditched the glasses, went for a complete makeover. And I bagged a contract. The model scout was surprised to seeme, but I explained that my sister had no interest in being a model but I did. So he took a chance on me.”

Michele studied the former model.“And this is what you told Isobel? What you think might be in her book?”

Ona, who had taken a tissue and was dabbing at her eyes, nodded.“My sister doesn’t know. Nobody does. And why I ever decided to tell Isobel, God only knows.”

Michele grimaced.“She had a knack. People told her their deepest, darkest secrets and they didn’t even know why. She was just that kind of person. Warm and kind, you know. She could look at you and you just knew you could trust her.”

“Until she decided to write that stupid book,” Ona said with vehemence.

“It’s fine,” said Michele, rubbing the woman’s back. “I’m sure your story didn’t even make Isobel’s book. I’m sure she’ll focus on her own life and her own secrets mostly. All this business about revealing other people’s secrets was just her way of saying that we shouldn’t live with this stuff. It just serves to drag us down.”

“You think?”

“Absolutely.”

“It’s just that… I don’t want anyone to know, especially my sister. But also Max. So if Chris gets his hands on that manuscript, could you… could he…” Her voice had taken on a beseeching quality.

“You want him to remove any passages referring to you and your sister?”

Ona nodded fervently.“Please. It’s my story. I should be the one telling it—not some stranger I only met once, and in a moment of weakness confided in.”

“I’ll bet alcohol was involved?”

Ona smiled weakly.“Yes.”

“I’ve often wondered why it’s so much easier to confide in a stranger than it is in our nearest and dearest,” Michele mused.

“Maybe it’s exactly because they’re strangers? No strings? You see them now, and you know you’ll never see them again? If you tell your family, whatever you tell them will be like this thing that stands between you and ruins family dinners.”

“I guess,” said Michele. “I once told a stranger I met on a train things about myself I’ve never even told my husband or my parents. Like you said, I just figured I’d never see him again—and I never did.”

“Well, aren’t I the stupid one. I knew I’d see Isobel again and still I told her.”

“Don’t beat yourself up about it, Ona. Like I said, Isobel had that effect on people. It was her secret weapon. It’s what we all liked about her.” Then, more quietly, she added, “And perhaps it was also what got her killed.”

CHAPTER 17

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Okay, so now we knew all about Ona’s secret, but we were still nowhere close to satisfying our appetite for something different than secrets and lies: real food!

Lucky for us, at that moment Joey and Zoey entered the kitchen, in search of their human. Joey took one look at us and said,“Are you guys hungry?”

We both nodded determinedly and the little doggie smiled.

“Come with us,” she said. “We’ve got more food than we can handle.”

That sounded like music to our ears, and so we quickly followed the Brussels Griffon pair out of the kitchen, up the stairs, and into the room Ona had claimed for her own. Joey led us straight to the window, where a veritable smorgasbord of food stood on display!

“Oh, my God!” said Dooley. “You guys!”

“Dig in,” said Joey with a grin. “And don’t worry about overdoing things. There’s plenty more where this came from.”

“It’s dog food, though,” said Zoey, issuing a health warning. “It might not contain the necessary proteins, vitamins and minerals you guys need.”

“I don’t care,” I said with my mouth full of delicious nuggets. “It’s food!”

“Max likes to get the first kibble out of the bag,” Dooley said apropos of nothing. “It’s his big secret. He waits until he hears the sound of a new bag being ripped open, and he makes sure he’s the first one on the scene, eating his fill.”

“Dooley, that information was private,” I said between two bites.

“Now that we’re sharing secrets, I also have one,” said Joey. She turned to Zoey. “I once took one of your bones and hid it. I don’t know why I did it. It was a spur-of-the-moment kind of thing. You’d just arrived to live with us and Ona had bought a nice big bone for me and a nice big bone for you, and I took both.”

“I thought you said a bird got in and took it?” said Zoey, surprised.

Joey looked a little shamefaced.“No bird got in. I did it. It was me.”

“That’s all right,” said Zoey. “I guess you thought I might take your place.”

“You think?”

Zoey shrugged.“It’s common knowledge that when pet parents adopt a new pet the older pets get nervous about being replaced or sidelined.” She gave her friend a pat on the shoulder and added emphatically, “I forgive you, Joey.”

“I wouldn’t do that kind of thing now, of course. We’re friends now.”

“I know. And I’ve got my own secret.”

“What secret?”

“I once put a piece of poop in your bowl. And you ate it.”

Joey blinked a couple of times.“Uh-huh,” she said finally.

“You weren’t all that nice to me in the beginning, and so one day I got a little upset about something you said so I pooped in your bowl. I figured you’d notice and get the message. But instead you ate it.”

Joey made a slight retching sound.“I did, did I?”

“Yes, you did. You even said the food tasted better than usual.”

“So maybe you should always eat poop from now on,” Dooley suggested.

Joey made some more sounds as if she had a fishbone in her throat that wouldn’t come out, but finally saw the humor in the situation. “It’s fine,” she said. “I know I wasn’t very nice to you in the beginning, so I got what I deserved.”

“You did hide my bone,” Zoey reminded her.

“I did hide your bone. And you pooped in my bowl. Which means we’re even.”

They shared a glance, and burst out laughing.“What a pair we are!” said Zoey.

“You can say that again!” returned Joey.

While this heart-to-heart was going on, Dooley and I had polished off the bowls that had been on display, and I was feeling in excellent mood.“Why don’t you tell us about your secret, Dooley?” I suggested.

But Dooley gave us a sheepish look.“I would, if I had a secret to share.”

“Oh, come on, Dooley,” said Joey. “Everyone has a secret.”

“Except that I used to poop in the rose bushes, I don’t really have any big secrets. I’ve never done anything really wicked or anything bad to anyone.”

“It’s true,” I confirmed. “Dooley is just about the nicest cat in the world.”

“I wish I had a secret,” said Dooley fervently. “But I don’t have one. One of our housemates has a secret, though. Harriet? But she doesn’t want to tell us. We think she’s having an affair with Kingman, who lives in town. Which is a big secret, since it might mean that either Harriet will move out, or Kingman will move in and Brutus will move out. Unless they want to have am?nage ? trois.”

I stared at my friend.“I didn’t know you knew what am?nage ? troiswas?”

“Kingman explained it to me last night. He said it’s Wilbur’s most fervent wish one day to have am?nage ? trois with two supermodels. And when I asked him what am?nage ? trois is, he said it’s like when people share an apartment? Like inFriends? Chandler and Joey living together, or Monica and Rachel?”

“Roommates,” Joey confirmed. “Just like me and Zoey.”

“Wouldn’t that be nice, Max?” said Dooley. “That Kingman would come and live with us in am?nage ? trois? Then we would be five instead of four.”

“Trois is three in French,” said Zoey. “So if there’s five of you, it would be more like am?nage ? cinq. Cinq is five in French,” she explained.

“I just hope Harriet and Brutus can fix their problems,” I said with a sigh.

I like Kingman, really I do, but he does have a habit of throwing his weight about to some extent. I simply couldn’t imagine him and Brutus living under the same roof in peace and harmony. Pretty soon the same kind of behavior Joey and Zoey had described would be taking place in our home: with Kingman pooping in Brutus’s bowl, and Brutus paying him in kind by returning the defecatory favor.

It wouldn’t be pretty!

CHAPTER 18

[Êàðòèíêà: img_2]

We met up with Odelia and Chase in the corridor, where the latter stood conferring with the former. Apparently Chase had managed to get in touch with the detective tasked with following Jason Rocamora around, and had received a full report for his troubles.

“He was here all right,” Chase was saying. “Parked right in front of the house. And guess who else was in the car?”

“Alison Droba?”

“Bingo. Dropped him off outside and then waited for him in the car. Rocamora then snuck up to the house, only to return ten minutes later, in a terrible hurry.”

“What time was this?”

Chase wiggled his eyebrows triumphantly.“A little after two o’clock! Looks like we’ve got our man, babe!”

“Was he carrying something in his hands when he came out?” asked Odelia.

“Like what? Oh, you mean the laptop. I’ll have to ask the guy. He snapped plenty of pictures, so if he was carrying Isobel’s valuables, he’ll have photographic evidence.” They headed for the stairs. “Oh, and guess what?”

“There’s more?”

“You bet. So Isobel hired this agency to keep an eye on Rocamora, right? But Alison also hired the same agency to track down her father.”

“Isn’t that a conflict of interest or something?”

“I don’t think it works like that for private investigators. And anyway, Isobel hired them to spy on Alison’s boyfriend, not Alison herself.”

“So did they find him? Alison’s dad?”

“Not yet. They think he must be holed up in Mexico someplace. But it’s a different detective handling that case from the one tailing Rocamora, obviously.”

“Obviously.”

We headed down the stairs, and I could tell that Chase was jubilant. Solving a murder case in just a couple of hours. It just might be a personal record for him.

“I already talked to your uncle. He’s having Rocamora picked up as we speak.”

“Good. I’m curious what he has to say for himself.”

We left the house and walked back to Chase’s car. Once we were on our way to town, I told Odelia about the various secrets we’d discovered. The one about Joey and Zoey didn’t interest her as much as Ona’s did, though. Which was understandable. Humans are mainly interested in other humans. Whereas pets are more interested in other pets. It’s a common bias in all species.

She related the information to her husband, who nodded thoughtfully.“So Ona is nervous about her big secret coming out. I wonder how many others are in the same situation.”

“They might all be in the same situation,” said Odelia. “Even my mom and dad were acting really weird, so they might have some secret to hide as well.”

“It all adds to Rocamora’s motive. The more secrets are on that laptop, the more valuable it becomes, and the stronger the guy’s motive for killing Isobel.”

It was a sound piece of reasoning, and because my belly was full, I wasn’t all that keen on disputing Chase’s train of thought. If he thought Rocamora was our guy, he was our guy.

[Êàðòèíêà: img_4]

Alison Droba was having a bad day. Probably the worst day of her life. And she knew something about bad days. Seven years ago her dad had murdered her uncle—or at least was involved in Uncle Dean’s death—and had subsequently fled the country, afraid to be caught and sentenced to prison for manslaughter. It was something she’d had to live with for the past decade, and since the Drobas were such a prominent family, she hadn’t even been able toprocess what had happened and try to put it behind her. The internet was filled with theories about what exactly had happened that night, and sightings of Gavin Droba. It seemed like he’d been seen everywhere by now, from Tahiti to Belgium to the North Pole.

Which is why she’d decided to hire that detective and put the stories to rest once and for all. If her dad was out there, they’d find him, she was sure about it.

And now this. First two police officers had showed up, informing her that her mother had been killed. And about an hour later, they’d returned to arrest Jason, accusing him of murdering her mother! This was a nightmare!

“You can’t do this!” she screamed at the policewoman who was putting handcuffs on Jason’s wrists.

“It’s all right,” said Jason.

“You have no right!”

“I’ll be fine. Just get me a good lawyer, will you?”

“They can’t do this to us,” she said. “They just can’t!”

“Yes, they can. They’re the police, and I’m a suspect.”

“But you didn’t do nothing.”

“Exactly. The truth will out, sweetie. And they’ll have to let me go.”

“Oh, God. Why does this keep happening to us!”

They led Jason to a police vehicle and put him in the back. He waved at her, his hands handcuffed, and giving her a reassuring smile.

She waved back at him, tears streaming down her face. And to think that the last time she and her mom spoke she’d said such terrible things to her. Telling her she was the worst mom in the world. And how she was going to get back at her for doing what she did. And all because Mom didn’t approve of Jason. Of course she didn’t. Jason had done time, and Mom found out about it, and had thrown a hissy fit.She would have settled down eventually. All she had to do was meet Jason and she’d see how silly she was being. How great Jason was, and so much not a criminal at all. They were going to sit down like grown-ups and talk this through. But instead she’d yelled at her mom, calling her names, and walked out.

And now she was gone. She’d never be able to apologize. To make up. To tell her she understood. That she was simply looking out for her little girl. Not wanting her to get involved with someone she saw as this dangerous delinquent.

“I get it, Mom,” she said softly. “I get it now.”

But it was too late. Mom was gone. Forever.

CHAPTER 19

[Êàðòèíêà: img_2]

Jason Rocamora was a handsome man. I would have put his age at late twenties, early thirties, which meant he was a few years Alison Droba’s senior, as she was only twenty-one. He had a thick head of dark hair, a strong chin, and eyes that were almost black and stared back at Chase with undeniable defiance.

The two men were sitting opposite each other in the small interview room at the police precinct, with Odelia, myself and Dooley, and Uncle Alec watching on.

“I feel confident we’ve got our man in there,” the Chief growled. “Good work.”

Odelia didn’t seem so sure herself, judging from the frown marring her otherwise smooth alabaster brow. But we’d soon find out from the interview.

“I had nothing to do with this and you know it,” the reformed criminal opened proceedings. “I wasn’t anywhere near the place last night!”

“So where were you, Jason?” asked Chase.

“In bed, with my fianc?e. Ask her. She’ll tell you.”

“Oh, but we will,” Chase assured the man. “Tell me about this engagement with Alison Droba, will you?”

“What’s there to tell? We love each other, Alison and me, and we’re getting married as soon as the paperwork is done and the church is booked.”

“Marrying in church, are you?”

“It’s what Alison wants. Me, I don’t care where we get married. But I love her, and I want to do right by her. So if Alison wants a big church wedding, she’ll have it.”

“And what about Alison’s mom? She wasn’t too keen on this wedding, was she?”

Jason made a face.“That was just a misunderstanding. Alison was trying to get her to meet me so we could talk things through.”

“Isn’t it true that Isobel strongly objected to you dating her daughter because of your criminal past?”

Jason shrugged.“Like I said, that’s a big misunderstanding. I made some mistakes, but that’s all behind me now. I’ve paid for those mistakes, and left that life behind me. Alison knows this, and I’m sure that if her mother had agreed to meet, I could have convinced her of my intentions and she would have accepted me.”

“So the fact that you were in prison for aggravated robbery wouldn’t have stopped her from accepting you as her daughter’s future husband?”

“Like I said, that’s all in the past. And besides, that was a misunderstanding.”

“There seem to be a lot of misunderstandings in your life, Jason.”

He grimaced.“I’d call it a miscarriage of justice, but I know you people don’t like that kind of talk.”

“So now you’re denying the charges that were leveled against you at the time?”

“Absolutely. And if you’d looked into my case you’d know all this.” He directed an angry look at his interrogator. “But then you don’t care about the truth, do you? If you did, I wouldn’t be sitting here, being accused of something I didn’t do.”

“Okay, so let’s go back to last night. You claim you were at home with Alison when her mother was being killed.”

“I don’t claim this, I was there. We never left the apartment.”

“So if a witness says they saw you getting out of Alison’s car at two o’clock last night, and walk up to the house where Isobel was staying, they’d be lying, is that it?”

Jason became weary.“Who’s the witness?”

“Let’s just say the statement is credible.”

“Then I’ll say he’s lying. Flat out lying.”

At this moment Chase placed a number of photographs in front of Jason, and I could see his composure crumbling. He was shuffling nervously on his chair, and had turned a little white around the nostrils.

“For the tape, I’m showing Mr. Rocamora a series of photographs taken last night at two o’clock, clearly picturing him leaving a car driven by Alison Droba, and walking up to the house where Isobel Droba was staying. You can see Alison behind the steering wheel, and you in her presence.”

“I-I can explain this,” said Jason, and swallowed nervously.

“Please do,” said Chase. “Cause I’d say you’ve been lying to me.”

“I was there,” said Jason. “That’s to say, we were there.”

“And what were you doing there?”

“Look, Isobel and Alison had a big fight that afternoon, all right? And so we figured that I’d talk to her and try to make her see reason.”

“And you thought you’d do this in the middle of the night?”

“Sure. Isobel was always working late on that book of hers. And when I walked up to the house I saw the light was still on in her room. Also, I didn’t want to bump into Michele—that’s Alison’s aunt.”

“And why is that?”

“Because she hates me even more than Isobel did,” said Jason with a touch of bitterness. “Absolutely detests me, Detective, for no good reason except she’s filled with some kind of prejudice, even though we’ve never even met. But anyway, so Alison thought it might be a good idea if I met Isobel face to face, without anyone else present, and so she dropped me off after midnight last night.”

“Two o’clock, as the time stamp on these photographs clearly indicate.”

“Okay, fine, two o’clock. So I go up to the house, and I see that the light in her room is still on.”

“How did you know where Isobel’s room was?”

“Alison had told me. She drew me a diagram. I had it in my hand as I was approaching, as you can see here.” He was pointing to one of the pictures, and Chase checked and nodded. “Okay, so I see that her light is still on, and I shimmy up the drainpipe, which Alison said would get me straight to her mother’s room.”

“You didn’t think she’d be scared when she suddenly saw your face appear at her window? Especially as she knew you were a convicted criminal she’d warned her daughter about?”

“That couldn’t be helped. Alison had suggested a meeting many times, but her mom kept refusing. Said she wanted nothing to do with me—I blame Alison’s aunt for that. She’s the one who kept badmouthing me to her sister. But anyway, so I finally reach her window and I look in. And that’s when I saw it.”

“You saw what?”

“Isobel. She was lying there, and it was obvious that she was dead.”

“How did you know? Did you climb in and check her pulse?”

Jason gave Chase a look that said‘Are you kidding me?’ “She was dead, man. No doubt about it. There was blood everywhere, and her head was bashed in.”

“So what did you do? Did you call an ambulance? Did you notify the police?”

“I ran. I got out of there as fast as I could.”

“Now why is that, you think?”

“Because I knew that if I stuck around you’d blame this thing on me! And it wouldn’t be the first time either! Once a criminal, always a criminal, right?”

“So you ran back to the car and told Alison what happened to her mom?”

“I did, yes. And then I told her to get out of there as fast as possible.”

Chase rearranged his bulk on the chair and leaned forward.“I’m putting it to you, Jason, that you’re lying to me again, just like you did at the beginning of this interview.”

“I’m not, man—I’m telling you the truth, I swear!”

“I put it to you that you scaled that windowsill, climbed in through the window, and surprised Isobel. She started screaming and you panicked. So you hit her with the first object that you found, and then stabbed her until you were sure she was dead. And then you ran and told Alison some cock andbull story about finding her mother already dead and being afraid of being falsely implicated.” He slammed the table with a meaty fist. “Isn’t that the truth, Jason! Confess, son!”

“No! I didn’t do it, sir. I swear. I’m being set up—just like I was that time.”

Chase leaned back and studied the ex-con through slitted eyes.“I don’t believe you. I’m sorry but I don’t. And I don’t think a judge or jury will believe you either.”

“Oh, God, no. Not again!” said Jason whiningly. “This isn’t happening!”

“But it is happening, Jason. So you better tell me the truth. Don’t you want to spare your fianc?e the pain and suffering of not knowing what happened to her mom? Don’t you want her to know what happened, exactly?”

Jason became explosive, and now pounded his own fist on the table.“Of course I want her to know. But I didn’t do it, all right?!”

“All right, all right,” said Chase appeasingly. “Settle down.”

“I looked in through the window, but I never set foot inside that room, I swear. I didn’t touch anything. I was never in that room. And if you know your business you’ll find that I’m telling you the truth. You won’t find any fingerprints or DNA anywhere, and that’s because I was never there. I didn’t touch the woman!”

“Okay, so let’s assume just for a moment that you’re telling the truth. What else did you see? Cause you must have arrived right on the heels of the murder.”

“I didn’t see anyone. Apart from Isobel lying there, I didn’t see anyone else.”

Chase’s face, otherwise so impassive, was now working. It was obvious that he didn’t believe a word this young man was saying. But how was he going to get him to confess? It seemed impossible, as he was sticking to his story, no matter what.

“Okay, let’s take a break,” he said finally.

“Can I go home now?” asked Jason.

“I’m afraid not, son.”

The young man’s expression hardened. “Then I want a lawyer.”

“Of course you do,” said Chase, and left the interview room.

CHAPTER 20

[Êàðòèíêà: img_2]

We were in Uncle Alec’s office, the adults in the room discussing the interview with Jason Rocamora, while Dooley and myself were relegated to the role of passive bystanders. But then isn’t that often the case? People don’t appreciate the value the feline point of view can bring to any conversation, now do they? Odelia sometimes appreciates my input, or Dooley’s, but both Chase and Uncle Alec have in the past often been dismissive of our unique contribution to their cases.

“I think we’ve got our man,” Chase reiterated. He was balling his fists, as if prepared to go mano a mano with anyone who dared to contradict his position. “He did it. I can feel it in my bones. Now all we have to do is make him confess.”

“It does feel like a shoo-in,” Uncle Alec confirmed. “He’s got the motive, he had the opportunity, and he’s got that violent past. But where is the murder weapon?”

“Oh, we’ll find it,” Chase assured the Chief. “I’ve got officers combing through every inch of the guy’s apartment, and Alison Droba’s car. We’re bound to find the evidence we need to get a conviction.” He was balling his fists again. “Just give me another couple of days with the guy, Chief. I know I can break him. I just know it.”

“Let’s just take it easy, shall we?” said the police chief. “I want a confession as badly as you do, but if we can get him on the evidence, that’s just as good.”

“What about Alison?” asked Odelia. She’d been pensive throughout.

“What about her?” asked her partner.

“If Jason killed her mother, why is she defending him? Insisting he’s innocent?”

“Because she’s in love with the guy, that’s why!” said Chase. “She’d say anything to get him off the hook.”

“But Isobel was her mother, Chase. Even if she loves Jason, what he did is indefensible—if he’s guilty.”

“You’re absolutely right,” said Chase, pounding his hand with his fist. “I should have arrested her alongside her boyfriend. If he’s guilty, so is she. She knew he did it, and helped him conceal the evidence—at the very least. Chances are she was in on it. Encouraged him to get rid of her mother so they could get married and stop her mom from cutting her off financially.”

“What do you mean?” asked the Chief.

“Well, now that Isobel is out of the way, Alison will inherit, won’t she?”

“You think the two of them planned this together? Cold-blooded murder?”

“Of course! Bonnie and Clyde got nothing on this couple. Oh, they’re cold, all right. Cold and cunning.” He sprang up from his chair like a coiled spring. “I better nail her before she tries to get away.”

And before they could stop him, he was out the door.

“I don’t know about this,” said Odelia. “Rocamora sounded very convincing.”

“Psychopaths always do,” said Uncle Alec. “Now get lost, will you? And get me the evidence I need to wrap this case up nice and neat!” he added as Odelia left the office, Dooley and me in tow.

“What do you think, Max?” asked Dooley once we were out on the street again, and on our way to Odelia’s car. “Did he do it? Along with his girlfriend?”

“I don’t know, Dooley,” I said. “He does seem like the perfect candidate, doesn’t he? He must have hated Isobel for her refusal to grant her blessing for the wedding. And now with her out of the way he’ll get his wedding and the benefit of a very large family fortune. That’s an excellent motive for murder. And let’s not forget he has confessed to being on the scene when the murder was committed. We even have photographic evidence and a witness who saw him there.”

“It does look very bad for him, doesn’t it? And for his girlfriend.”

“It does,” I agreed. Which meant that this case could be wrapped up today.

“Not so nice for Alison, though,” said Dooley. “If she was involved, she’ll go to prison, and if she wasn’t involved, her boyfriend just killed her mother.”

“Yeah, that wedding is definitely off, I’d say.”

We hopped into the back of Odelia’s aged pickup, and settled in for the duration. Since the backseat of the car is mostly used by the four of us, its smell is very familiar, and very pleasing to a cat’s sensitive nose. And so I dug my nails into the nylon cover while Odelia pulled the car into traffic and we were on our way.

“Where are we going?” asked Dooley.

“The coroner’s office,” Odelia informed us. “Abe asked us to drop by. And now that Chase is busy arresting Alison Droba, I guess it’s up to us to do the honors.”

I swallowed away a lump of uneasiness. I don’t like the coroner’s office. It’s very creepy, with dead people stuffed away in fridges, and Abe Cornwall cutting open dead bodies like some benevolent butcher. Not exactly my kind of place!

“We don’t have to watch as he cuts open a person, do we?” I asked.

Odelia smiled at us in the rearview mirror.“You can stay in the car if you want.”

“Good.” But then I thought better of it. What kind of a feline sleuth would I be if I allowed my humans to do all the hard work, while I lounged around in cars? “Or maybe we’ll tag along,” I said finally. “But we might wait in the corridor.”

“Suit yourself,” said Odelia, then lapsed into thought as the car ate up the miles.

“I don’t want to see more dead bodies, Max,” said Dooley quietly. “I’ve seen one, and that’s about all I can stomach for a day. My ration reached, you know.”

“Same here, buddy,” I said. “So let’s agree now that when we spot a dead body, we’ll take cover, all right?”

“Deal,” said Dooley, well pleased with my sensible approach to the matter. “We’ll hide under Abe’s desk the moment he starts trotting out dead bodies.”

CHAPTER 21

[Êàðòèíêà: img_2]

Fortunately for us Abe received us in his tiny office. Of dead bodies there was no trace, but documents piled high on his desk were plenty. Also present was a skeleton, located in a corner of the office, grinning at us with malevolent delight.

“I’ll keep an eye on that skeleton, Max,” Dooley assured me. “And if it makes a move, I’ll scream, all right?”

“Good thinking, Dooley,” I said. Even though I didn’t think that skeleton had a lot of life left in its bony limbs, a careful cat is prepared for any contingency.

“I can see what you’re thinking,” said Abe once he’d lowered his voluminous corpus in the chair behind his desk. He adjusted his glasses and gave Odelia a quizzical look. “And you’re absolutely correct. But I have my reasons.”

“What am I thinking?” asked Odelia, amused.

“You’re thinking: why did I have to come all this way out here, if you could have sent me your report through the swift powers of the internet?”

“You’re right. That’s what I was thinking,” Odelia confirmed.

“The thing is that my report is in need of some explanation.”

“Well, let’s have it then,” said Odelia, settling in.

“It hasn’t moved yet, Max,” Dooley told me. He was keeping a close eye on that skeleton. “So far so good.”

“Okay, so as I thought, the cause of death was blunt force trauma to the back of the head—more in particular the occipital bone. The weapon you’re looking for would most likely be some blunt object. Could be a baseball bat, candlestick—something smooth and heavy. So that is what killed her.But what I wanted to talk to you about are these.” He had turned his computer screen, and a series of gruesome pictures now appeared.

I had to look away, but Odelia seemed transfixed.

“What are they?”

“At first glance I thought they were a series of knife wounds. But on closer inspection these couldn’t have been produced by a knife. A sharp object, yes, but not sharp enough to create a clean entry wound. The wounds are frayed, as you can see here and here and here.”

“I see,” said Odelia, even though I didn’t. “So what did the killer use?”

Abe leaned back, folding his hands across his rotund belly. His hair was practically fizzing with satisfaction.“Stiletto heel,” he said finally, rolling the words around his tongue like a wine connoisseur would a nice Beaujolais.

“Stiletto heel?”

“Stiletto heel,” the coroner confirmed. “As you can see there are footprints present, made when the perpetrator dug the heel of a stiletto deep into the chest.”

“God.”

“God had nothing to do with this, Odelia. Man did. Or a woman, of course.”

“Men don’t wear stilettos.”

Abe arched a meaningful furry eyebrow.“Don’t they? Anyway, that’s for you to decide. I’m simply presenting you with the evidence. You use it to nab the maniac who first clubbed this woman to death, then mistook her chest for a pincushion.”

“Is it possible that the killer grabbed a stiletto and used it on the victim?”

“You mean without actually wearing it?” He shook his head. “Out of the question. The depth of these wounds, and the marks on the chest suggest a great deal of force used. Which suggests that they were made by pressing down on the chest with a foot, not a hand. Unless the person was remarkablystrong, of course. But even so. The evidence points to a frenzied attack by someone pressing their foot down several times. I’ve counted no less than a dozen separate wounds.”

“So… would a woman be capable of using this kind of force?”

“Of course. The leg muscles are capable of producing a lot of force, whether male or female.”

“This seems to suggest a great deal of rage, wouldn’t you say?”

“It does have all the hallmarks of a particularly frenzied attack.”

“We have a suspect in custody right now,” Odelia explained. “An ex-con. I was thinking he could have knocked down Isobel, then his fianc?e could have finished the job by hitting her with her foot. Is that possible, you think? Two perpetrators working in tandem?”

“Of course. But you’ll appreciate such conjecture is beyond my area of expertise. One suspect or two—that’s something for you and your husband to work out.”

As Odelia got up, and extended her hand, Abe shook it warmly.“I have to say I had my doubts about you and Chase working as a team. You being a reporter and all, and having enjoyed no formal training. But by all accounts you’re doing fine.”

“My uncle seems to think I have something of value to add,” Odelia said modestly. “He says I bring a human touch to the investigation. Cause people to open up. Not sure if that’s true or not.”

“And we bring the feline touch, don’t we, Max?” said Dooley.

“That, we do,” I said as we took our leave.

“So how is little Grace?” asked Abe as he led us through the warren of corridors that constitute the county coroner’s lair.

“She’s doing great, actually,” said Odelia. “My grandmother dropped her off at the daycare center this morning—or at least I hope she did.”

“Not getting dotty in her old age, is she? Though one might argue Vesta has always been dotty.” He laughed at his little joke, while Odelia merely smiled.

We’d told her how Gran seemed to have forgotten that Grace was at the daycare center the day before, and it had caused Odelia some measure of concern.

Once we were back in the car, and on our way to Hampton Cove, she said,“Has Gran been acting strange again? Or was it just the one time, you think?”

“I think she’s fine,” I said, not having noticed anything out of the ordinary, apart from the one slip.

“Maybe she just woke up from a nap,” Dooley suggested. “We all get confused when we wake up from a nap. I know I do. Sometimes I don’t know where I am.”

“Mh,” said Odelia, not entirely convinced.

And I understood where she was coming from. She often entrusted Grace to Gran for babysitting duties, and if the old lady was going batty, perhaps that wasn’t such a good idea.

But soon Gran was forgotten when Odelia’s phone chimed. She put it on speaker and said, “Yes, babe? Did you make the arrest?”

“I thought I’d wait until we got confirmation from the crime scene people. They’ve been going through Alison’s car, and the apartment she shares with Jason.”

“And?”

“Nothing. Zip. Nada. Not a single drop of blood or hair of the victim or sign of the murder weapon. And the car hasn’t been cleaned recently either.”

“I see.”

“If Jason had killed Isobel, you’d expect him to have blood on him, wouldn’t you? And if he got back into the car, that blood would be on the car seat, since that detective says he saw the guy get into the car with Alison and take off.”

“Did you talk to that detective again? Double-check if Alison stayed put?”

“I did, and he’s adamant. Alison never got out of that car, and Jason was only gone ten minutes, and when he got back there wasn’t a trace of blood on him.”

“Something else is going on,” said Odelia. “I talked to Abe Cornwall, and according to him we’re looking for two murder weapons: a club and a stiletto.”

“Stiletto like in a stiletto knife?”

“No, a shoe.”

Odelia explained in a few words what the coroner had told her, and Chase sounded as surprised as she had been in Abe’s office. It seemed incongruous, of course: a perpetrator who used both a heavy club and a stiletto heel to murder.

“Must be two different people,” Chase said finally. “A man and a woman.”

“Jason Rocamora and Alison Droba,” said Odelia.

“Exactly.”

They were both silent for a moment, then Chase expressed his anger in a colorful way by referring to the private detective in not-so-friendly terms. I would have covered Dooley’s ears but unfortunately it was too late. In real life, just like in live broadcasting, sometimes you just wish they’d institute a five-second delay!

CHAPTER 22

[Êàðòèíêà: img_2]

Ona was pacing her room, feeling restless and unhappy. At first so pleased that Michele had invited her to this tennis retreat, now she knew she should never have said yes. She hardly knew these people, and with this whole murder business she had the impression they were looking at her, the outsider, as a possible suspect for the death of this woman.

Max didn’t seem to mind. He even enjoyed all the excitement the presence of the police had brought. He liked to watch crime shows of an evening, and now that he found himself in the middle of one himself, he was thrilled, chatting to the cops at every possible opportunity so he could collect stories and relate them later to his friends. He’d confided in her he might even turn it into a book.

He loved reading detective fiction, and had long held the belief he could churn something out himself if he only set his mind to it. And now life had landed a big juicy murder case in his lap. Surely it was a sign from the universe that he was the next Michael Connelly or Jeffery Deaver?

But for Ona this wasn’t a game. It wasn’t fun or exciting. Instead she found the whole situation of staying on at this place simply terrible and nauseating. Already she’d been sick that morning, and her stomach still wasn’t how it should be. She’d caught a glimpse of the dead woman, and every time she remembered, the nausea returned. She might have to go and see her therapist. She could have suffered major emotional trauma.

She stared out the window for a moment, which offered a view of the tennis courts, and saw that others weren’t as adversely affected as she was: Perlita and Nathan Gruner were actually engaged in a game of tennis. How could they! At a time like this? When the blood of that poor Isobel was still staining the carpet in her room? Some people were so insensitive.

And as she turned back from the window with disgust, her eyes were suddenly drawn to the door, where an envelope was lying.

Joey and Zoey had also discovered this, for they sat next to the pristinely white envelope, and yapped with pleasant anticipation.

“What’s this?” she said as she knelt down and picked it up.

There was no name on the envelope, but she assumed it was addressed to her. Why else would someone have slipped it under the door of her room?

She opened the envelope and found a small piece of paper tucked inside.

The moment she read the words, she gasped in shock. Her violently shaking hands were no match for the unadulterated evil contained in that short message, and piece of paper and envelope fluttered from her fingers to the floor, where they were greeted with pretty excitement by her two canine companions.

[Êàðòèíêà: img_4]

After much debate, Chase had decided to allow his most promising suspect to walk free. He might still be the most likely person to have killed Isobel Droba, along with his accomplice Alison, but the evidence simply wasn’t there. The fact of the matter was that he couldn’t have done it, unless the private detective who’d been watching the couple was also an accomplice, which seemed unlikely, and that somehow they’d magically been able to remove every single trace of the crime from their person and from thecar. Also: no murder weapon was found at Jason’s apartment, and no sign that Alison might be involved in the crime. And no bloodied clothes or shoes, though they could have dumped them, of course.

So it was back to square one for the investigation, and we were back at the house, for more interviews with potential suspects—which now included every person at the house. Officers were going through the rooms, and searching the grounds and tennis courts, looking for one heavy blunt instrument and one stiletto shoe, as used in the perpetration of last night’s heinous crime.

“This is just outrageous,” Chase fumed. “Two perfectly good suspects, and we can’t connect them to the crime. How stupid is that?”

We were waiting in the living room for Michele Droba to join us. Chase’s new line of inquiry was the book Isobel was writing, implicating one of her friends in some compromising situation that they were desperate to avoid being revealed.

Michele entered the room looking slightly annoyed.“I thought you had your suspect in custody for Isobel’s murder? Rocamora? He must have killed her.”

“Unfortunately the evidence doesn’t seem to bear that out,” Chase grudgingly admitted. “Which is why we wanted to talk to you again, Mrs. Droba. As we see it, the reason your sister-in-law was killed must be the book she was writing.”

“Oh, so now we’re back to this book, are we?” said Michele, as she took a seat on the cream-colored leather sofa, gracefully crossing her legs and leaning back.

“Isobel must have talked to you about it,” said Odelia. “She must have revealed some of its contents. Is there anything you remember that could be connected to her death?”

“Nothing,” said Michele. “Isobel knew I didn’t approve of her writing that book of hers, and the only times we discussed it was when I told her to stop writing it, and she flatly refused.”

“So she never told you what was in the book?”

“Never.”

“She didn’t tell her publisher? Your boyfriend?”

“You can ask him, but as far as I know they never talked about the content. Chris had given Isobelcarte blanche to write whatever she wanted.”

“Wasn’t that unusual for a publisher to give a writer that much freedom?”

“Unusual, maybe. But it was the only way Isobel agreed to work. If Chris had told her he wanted the editorial prerogative to cut parts of the book, she wouldn’t have signed the contract. She was going to write the book the way she wanted to, whether we liked it or not—and that included her publisher.”

“But there would have been a scandal,” said Chase.

Michele laughed.“Well, that was the whole idea! Publishers thrive on scandal, detective. Scandal sells, and that was what he was hoping for. If anything, he was nervous about the book being too tame. A lot of hullabaloo had been caused when the book was announced, and he hoped the final product would live up to it.”

“That must have been very upsetting for you,” said Odelia.

“Yeah, didn’t that make you angry with Christopher?” asked Chase. “That he would prefer to make a lot of money from Isobel’s book over your desire for discretion and protecting your friends’ privacy?”

A fine smile played about the woman’s lips. “Of course I was upset with Chris, but I also understood where he’s coming from. A publisher is in the business of making money, detective. Otherwise he’s not a very good publisher, is he? And I do admire his ambition to be successful at what he does. And as far as protecting my friends’ privacy, well…” She made an ineffectual gesture. “That ship had sailed, I’m afraid. There was simply no turning back the clock on Isobel’s book.”

“What was the big secret Isobel was revealing about you?” asked Odelia.

“Like I said, I never got to read the book, and neither did Chris. But the only secret I ever revealed to Isobel was that I can’t cook. So I’m sure that would have made its way into her book.”

“You can’t cook?”

“No, I can’t,” said Michele, smoothing her red gingham pants. “I would have liked to give people the impression that I’m some kind of Martha Stewart, but the truth is that I hate cooking. Whenever I throw a party, or organize something like this week, I always bring my housekeeper, who’s an excellent cook. I know it’s a silly thing, but I was hoping Isobel would leave it out of that book of hers. But knowing her, it would probably have been in the opening chapter.”

“As secrets go, that’s not exactly a shocker,” said Odelia kindly.

“I know it doesn’t seem like such a big deal, but when you present yourself as the perfect hostess, and you even run a lifestyle blog, it is embarrassing to admit that you cannot cook. But the fact of the matter is that it wasn’t my own secret I was nervous about being revealed, but those of my friends and family.”

“Can you tell us something about that?” asked Odelia.

Michele offered a fine smile.“I’m afraid I can’t.”

“Even if those secrets are what got Isobel killed?”

“Even if I knew some of these so-called secrets, I couldn’t possibly betray a confidence. I’m sorry, but I simply can’t. And besides, it’s not my place to tell.”

“Okay, fine,” said Chase, though he didn’t seem fine with it. “So tell me about your husband.”

Michele frowned.“What do you mean?”

“Your husband Dean and his brother Gavin.”

“I already told you. Dean died and his brother disappeared. But that has nothing to do with Isobel’s murder.”

“We’ll be the judge of that,” said Chase, a little nastily, I thought. Clearly he was in a foul mood: his perfect suspect slipping through his fingers, and Michele refusing to play ball were not conducive to softening his demeanor.

Michele sighed.“Okay, so one night seven years ago—”

“Where was this, exactly?”

“At the house—the house where Dean and I lived, and where I still live.”

“So describe the scene for me, please.”

“Dean had just returned home from work and was in his study making some phone calls when Gavin and Isobel dropped by. This must have been around eight or nine o’clock. Gavin was clearly agitated.”

“You saw him? You were there?”

“I opened the door for them and told Gavin where he could find my husband, yes.”

“Go on.”

“Gavin had been drinking. I could smell the alcohol on his breath.”

“Was that a common thing with him?”

“No, it wasn’t. It was unusual.” She played with the hem of her shirt. “I was in the kitchen with Isobel, chatting about this and that, when we suddenly heard a terrible noise. Crashing and the breaking of furniture. So we quickly made our way over to the study, and there he was, lying on the floor next to his desk: Dean had taken a bad fall, and hit his head against the corner of the desk. Gavin was in a real state, screaming that he’d killed his brother. So I called an ambulance, but by the time they arrived, Gavin was gone.”

“Gone where?”

“The police later determined that he’d returned home, collected money and his passport, and had driven himself to East Hampton Airport, where he boarded the company’s private jet to New York JFK, where he took a flight to Mexico. They lost track of him after that.”

“And he’s never been in touch with his wife or your family since?”

She shook her head.“Gone without a trace.”

“Why was Gavin so upset with your husband that night?” asked Odelia.

“He never said, and obviously Dean couldn’t tell us what happened, since he was declared dead by the first responders. But it must have had something to do with the company. You see, when Bill, my father-in-law, retired, he decided to put Dean in charge of the Droba Group, with Gavin as his second-in-command. His official title was CFO, Chief Financial Officer, while Dean was appointed CEO. And that never sat well with Gavin. He felt slighted and passed over by his dad, even though Dean was older and more experienced and had been with the company longer, since Gavin had enjoyed a gap yearafter college, and had traveled around the world while Dean had stayed home and worked for his dad all that time.”

“Sibling rivalry,” said Chase, nodding.

“Sad business, and not my family’s finest hour, but there you have it. Though I still don’t see what this could have to do with what happened to Isobel.”

“Alison told us she hired a detective agency to track down her dad,” said Odelia. “Is it possible that Gavin came back, and somehow killed his wife?”

“No way,” said Michele. “Gavin and Isobel were a devoted couple. Gavin would never do anything to harm his wife. Did…” She hesitated. “Did this detective Alison hired find out what happened to Gavin?”

“Unfortunately no. But they’re still looking.”

“I see. Isobel never told me about this.”

“She didn’t know. This was Alison’s idea. She wants to find her dad.”

“Of course. She misses her dad. She was so young when it happened.”

“Did Bill ever try to find his son?” asked Chase.

“Maybe he did. You’d have to ask him. He never mentioned anything to me. I guess he understood why Gavin would run away, after what happened to Dean.”

“I checked, and he’s still wanted for questioning in connection to the events that transpired that night. Which might be the reason he hasn’t been in touch.”

“It was an accident, detective. Gavin had no intention of causing Dean’s death.”

We all looked up when the sounds of a quarrel reached our ears. It sounded like a man and a woman fighting, and screaming at each other at the top of their lungs. Those present shared a look, then got up as one man, and hurried out.

CHAPTER 23

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After finishing their doubles game against the Alemans, Vena and Glenn, Perlita had immediately returned to the room to take a shower while Nate decided to head down to the kitchen for a snack. And she’d just entered the room when Nate’s phone buzzed and almost fell off the little piecrust table near the window. She nudged it back toward the middle of the table, and as she did, the message caught her eye. Stunned, she grabbed the phone to take a closer look.

And it was at that moment that her husband entered the room, a Snickers bar in hand, of which he’d already taken a big bite, and was chewing happily.

“What the hell!” she screamed, and threw the phone at his face.

He ducked just in time, causing the phone to hit the door with a thwack.“Hey!” he said. “Watch it!”

“Izzy Price?! You’re cheating on me with Izzy?!”

Nathan’s jaw dropped. “I’m—what are you talking about?”

“I saw the message, Nate. ‘I’m naked and thinking of you?’ What the hell, Nate!”

“I-I can explain,” he said, holding up his hands in a gesture of defense, just in case she decided to throw something else at him. Like a table or a chair.

“How long has this been going on?” she demanded. “How long?!”

“Six months,” he said sheepishly.

“Six months!”

He nodded, and carefully picked up his phone and checked to see if it still worked.

“I want a divorce,” she said, causing him to blanch.

“But, honey!”

“Don’t you honey me,” she said, pointing a menacing finger at her husband. “You’re having an affair with my main artist and your main client. How dare you!”

“You’re one to talk,” he scoffed. “Don’t think I don’t know what you’ve been up to.”

She was momentarily taken aback by this comeback.“What are you talking about?”

“Izzy told me that you and her…” He gestured between them. “That you’ve… Well, that you’ve been… doing things together!”

She should have laughed at the prudish way he expressed himself. Nate hated talking about the more intimate side of their relationship, preferring to keep things under the covers—literally. It usually cracked her up. But she was too shocked now to even crack a smile. “What do you mean?” she asked feebly.

“You and Izzy, you’re also having an affair, aren’t you? So when were you going to tell me about that, huh?”

“I’m…” She gulped uncomfortably at this sudden reversal of the roles of accuser and accused. “It just… happened once. Once only. And it was a mistake.” A mistake she had thoroughly enjoyed, though, and had been eager to repeat. Which is why she was so disappointed that Izzy was also carrying on with Nate. Somehow it made her feel doubly betrayed—by her husband and her lover.

For a moment they just stared at each other, then the door swung open and those detectives walked in, followed by Michele.

Perlita snapped,“I want to go home.”

“I’m afraid you can’t,” said Detective Kingsley, as he checked to see if any damage had been done—either to the furniture or the people present.

“But I have to go home—I can’t stay here one minute longer.” And she couldn’t. Not in the presence of this man, who’d betrayed her to such an extent. He knew she and Izzy had experienced a special moment, as she liked to call it, and still he chose to start an affair with her? It was sickening. Simply sickening.

“You can’t go home yet, Perlita,” said the Kingsley woman, who was a lot kinder than her cop husband it had to be said. “The investigation isn’t over yet, and until it is, we need you all to stay put. Just for a little while longer.”

She set her face in an expression of determination.“Then I want a different room. And I want a divorce,” she added for Nathan’s sake. “And I want you to drop Izzy as a client.” As Nate shook his head, she added, “I’m dropping her exhibition.”

“You can’t drop the exhibit, honey,” said Nathan. “It would end her career.”

She tilted her chin in a defiant gesture.“She should have thought of that before she started her affair with you.” And with these words, she swept from the room. Too late she remembered that all of her things were in that room. But she’d be damned if she went back as long as Nate was there. She’d sneak in when he was gone to grab her stuff.

She entered the first room she found and locked the door. Then she sat down on the floor and broke down in tears. Tears for her marriage, but also for Izzy.

[Êàðòèíêà: img_4]

Chase and Odelia were taking a turn about the garden. To gather their thoughts and decide on the course of their investigation. Dooley and I trailed behind them, still discombobulated about recent events. After his wife had left the room, Nathan Gruner had told us what their fight had been about. It also stood to reason that this was the secret that might have made its way into Isobel’s book.

“So Perlita Gruner was having an affair with Izzy Price,” said Dooley. “While her husband was having an affair with Izzy Price. What a coincidence, don’t you think, Max? That both husband and wife would be having an affair with a woman with the same name.”

“I think you’ll find that it’s actually the same woman, Dooley.” Which was also the reason the domestic contretemps had been so vociferous and so spiteful.

“The same woman? But how can that be?” asked Dooley.

“Obviously it’s possible,” I said, “for one person to be having an affair with two different people, in this case husband and wife.”

“You mean like am?nage ? trois? Like Harriet and Brutus and Kingman?”

“Something like that,” I agreed. “Though we don’t know if Harriet is having an affair with Kingman, and as long as we’re not sure, we shouldn’t assume Brutus’s suspicions are correct.”

“This Izzy Price person sure gets around,” said Dooley with a touch of admiration in his voice.

Odelia and Chase had their own ideas about the whole situation. Though their focus seemed to be on Gavin Droba, and not so much on the Gruners.

“Is it possible that one of the men in this place is actually Gavin Droba?” asked Chase now, suggesting a new and intriguing possibility. “That he returned from Mexico a long time ago, and inserted himself into his wife’s circle of friends?”

“But wouldn’t Isobel recognize her husband?”

“Not if he had some work done on his face.”

“Plastic surgery, you mean?”

Chase gave a meaningful nod of the head.“What if Gavin Droba decided to return home, but not before thoroughly changing his appearance? Somehow or other he manages to finagle his way into Michele and Isobel’s circle of tennis friends, and when the time is right, he strikes and kills her.”

“But why? Michele said they were a devoted couple.”

“Everyone thought the Gruners were a devoted couple, and look what happened. No, I don’t buy this business about Gavin and Isobel being the perfect couple. I think Isobel was having an affair with Dean, and that’s what that fight was all about. He shoved the man his wife was cheating on him with—his own brother—and Dean didn’t survive the argument. Gavin fled, avoiding a painful trial and perhaps even jail time. He changed his appearance and returned to confront his wife. And in a fit of rage, he kills her.”

“If Abe is correct the murderer was wearing stiletto heels.”

“Could be that Gavin is a woman now.”

“Oh, Chase.”

“I’m serious! What better way to hide his real identity than to turn himself into a woman? Nobody would ever suspect him, and he’d get off his second murder in a decade scot-free. The perfect crime.”

It was certainly food for thought. But then Odelia voiced the perfect question:“If Gavin is here, then who is he? If what you’re saying is true, he could be anybody.”

“All we have to do to know for sure is to check the shoe sizes for all the ladies present. It can’t be hard to narrow things down. And when we do, we’ve got him!”

“Or her.”

CHAPTER 24

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The search for a pair of stiletto heels was on, with Chase fervently hoping they would lead us to Isobel’s killer. It was a long shot, to assume that Gavin Droba had returned as a woman intent on revenge, but then that’s what being a detective is all about: sometimes you had to follow the evidence, and sometimes you had to let your imagination run wild, and hope it didn’t lead you astray!

In the meantime the detecting duo doggedly pursued this line of inquiry by interviewing every person in that house. Next on the hot seat was Ona Konpacka, since we were focusing on the female members of the extended household now.

Ona was at the edge of her seat, literally, and seemed fidgety.

“No, I’m not Gavin Droba, detective,” she assured us. “I’ve had operations done to my face, yes, but not because I used to be a different person. I’ve always been Ona, and the only reason I had extensive work done is because some butcher ruined my face when he injected me with some bad fillers.” She glanced down at her hands, and added, softly, “And also my arms and thighs and chest.” Suddenly big droplets of tears rolled from her eyes. “As far as your other question goes: yes, I did cheat my sister out of a career as a model. How did you find out?” But when Chase openedhis mouth to speak, she quickly went on, “Don’t tell me. You talked to Michele. I should stop confiding in people I hardly know. They don’t seem to care about me.” She took a big gulp of breath, then went on, “So yes, I’m a bad person. I stole my sister’s career. I took her dream. In my defense, though, I made the best of things, and once I was launched in this business I discovered how much I liked it. And besides, who’s to say my sister would have been successful? She might have stumbled at the first hurdle. This is not an easy life, detective. Not an easy career. I’ve hadmy highs as well as my lows. But what I haven’t done is murder anyone. So no, I didn’t kill Isobel Droba because she was about to reveal my big secret.” She looked up. “I didn’t do it. You have to believe me.”

A police officer stuck his head in, and shook it in a vigorous no. No suspicious stilettos were found in Ona Konpacka’s room. Unless she had discarded them, of course, which she would if she was the killer and if she was smart, which she was.

“Michele didn’t tell us about your sister and the talent scout, Ona,” said Odelia. She’d taken a seat next to the model on the sofa, and was rubbing her back consolingly. “I can’t tell you who told us, but it wasn’t Michele, all right?”

“Fine,” said Ona between two sniffs. She’d gratefully accepted the tissue paper Odelia had handed her, and was dabbing at her eyes and nose now. “I’ll ruin my skin,” she lamented. “Max told me not to cry.”

“Your boyfriend told you not to cry?”

Ona shrugged.“Everyone knows tears are bad for your skin. Too much salt.”

“Well, I think one good cry won’t hurt you.”

“Easy for you to say,” said Ona, giving Odelia a sideways glance. “You’ve got great skin.”

“Why, thanks,” said Odelia. “I guess if this detective thing doesn’t work out, I could always go for a career as a model.”

Ona laughed through her tears.“Better not. It’s a pretty tough gig. I bet you wouldn’t like it. I’m sure my sister wouldn’t have liked it. So maybe I did her a favor.”

“Maybe you did. What does she do, your sister?”

“She’s a doctor. Brain surgeon. She’s good. Very good.”

“So maybe it’s a good thing that she didn’t become a model, right?”

“Yeah, maybe. But I don’t like that she didn’t have the option. I took that away from her, see? I didn’t give her a choice. She’s a great doctor, sure, but she might have had an amazing career as a model.”

“Why don’t you tell your sister? I’m sure she’ll understand.”

Ona gave her a deer-in-the-headlights look.“Are you going to tell her?”

“No, that’s entirely up to you. We’re not going to tell her anything.”

She thought for a moment.“Mh. Yeah, I guess you’re right. I’ve been carrying this with me for so long now, maybe it’s time to finally tell her the truth.”

Joey and Zoey had also entered the room, and jumped on Ona’s lap now. She hugged the two doggies, and allowed them to lick her face.

“Why do they do that, Max?” asked Dooley.

“Do what?”

“Lick people’s faces?”

“I think it’s a sign of affection.”

“Or maybe they like the taste of a human face?” He shivered. “Can you imagine having to lick Odelia’s face all day? I don’t care how affectionate it makes me seem, I don’t want to ruin my appetite.”

We both glanced up at Odelia, and I imagined licking her face. Not a pleasant prospect! I like Odelia, of course I do. But why would I want to lick her face?

“It’s a sign of respect and affection,” said Joey, who’d followed our conversation. “And besides, humans taste good, didn’t you know?”

We both shivered some more, and regarded Joey in a different light. Taste good? Humans? What was this dog talking about? Was she related to Hannibal Lecter?

Which just goes to show how fundamentally different cats and dogs are. Whereas dogs like to slobber all over their humans, cats are respectful and fastidious. And let’s not even mention the boundary issue. No one in their right mind likes to be attacked by some big drooling canine, people. Unless you’re a so-called dog person, in which case you deserve everything that’s coming to you.

CHAPTER 25

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Back at the apartment Alison shared with Jason, the search had reached its conclusion. The upshot was that nothing of interest had been found. Alison’s car had also yielded all of its secrets, which indicated that the couple had a fondness for takeout and the occasional bout of backseat nookie, but not for murder.

Chase and Odelia were on hand to escort Jason home. It was the least they could do now that he’d been found not to be guilty of murder, and when we arrived, Alison was waiting for us—or more likely her fianc?—with open arms.

Tears of happiness and joy were shed, but then Alison turned on us with a vengeance. Like her mother, she was dark-haired with an olive complexion, and green eyes that had a bewitching quality, especially now, when they were blazing with righteous fury.

“I told you he was innocent, and still you arrested him!”

“We had no other choice, Alison,” said Odelia, whose bedside manner is a bit more gentle than her husband’s, and whose task it is to calm suspects down. “Jason was right there when it happened, and he had a strong motive.”

“And then there’s his criminal record,” said Chase morosely. He still hadn’t ruled Jason out as a suspect, even though the evidence simply wasn’t there.

“That criminal record is bogus,” Alison insisted, balling her fists and practically stomping her feet.

We were standing in front of the building where they had their apartment. It was only three stories high, and all three apartments appeared similar in design. Jason and Alison occupied the top floor, where the last of the uniformed officers now descended the stairs, having finished their thorough search.

“What do you mean, bogus?” asked Odelia.

“Don’t tell them,” said Jason. “It’s no use.”

“It wasn’t Jason who beat up that man. It was his brother Tim.”

“Alison!”

“No, this needs to be said,” the girl insisted. “Tim is old enough to fend for himself. You’ve looked out for him long enough. It’s time you got some justice.” Jason looked uncomfortable, but Alison wasn’t to be deterred. “Tim was sixteen when he held up that liquor store. Him and his buddies. They hit that poor man over the head so bad he was in the hospital for months. He still walks with a limp. But since Timmy’s mother would have been devastated if he was sent to juvenile detention, Jason said it was him that did it. That he robbed that liquor store. And so he was arrested and sentenced to prison for a crime he didn’t even commit.”

Chase and Odelia shared a look.“Why didn’t you tell us this before?”

“Because I wanted to protect my brother,” said Jason tersely. He refused to meet the detective’s eyes. “You’re not going to arrest him now, are you?”

Chase didn’t reply. Instead he said, “So this is your secret? The secret Isobel was going to write about in her book?”

But Alison shook her head.“Mom didn’t know. I never told her. I wanted to keep Jason’s secret. But now that he’s being charged with murder, we have to speak up.” She thumped her fianc?’s shoulder. “You have to speak up!”

“Only if it doesn’t mean Timmy will be in trouble.” He directed an anxious look at Chase. “Please don’t arrest my brother. He was just a stupid kid, mixing with other stupid kids. He’s turned his life around since this happened. Especially when I was sent to prison. He knows it should have been him. And it’s made him think. And make a change. He stopped hanging out with those idiots. He cleaned up his act. And he’s made something of himself. I’m proud of my brother.”

“What does he do?” asked Odelia, clearly touched by Jason’s story.

“He runs a construction company. Very successful, too. He’s my boss now, since I work for him. I’m an electrician,” he explained. “I learned in prison. My brother was the only one who wanted to hire me, which is ironic, as the reason I was in prison was to protect him. So now he’s returning the favor by employing me.”

It was a touching story, to be sure, but I could tell that Chase, for one, wasn’t buying it. Alison must have noticed, too, for she thumped the cop’s shoulder.

“Hey, what did you do that for!” the burly copper said.

“For arresting the wrong man. Twice!”

“I didn’t arrest him the first time.”

“No, he didn’t,” Jason confirmed.

“But you arrested him this time.”

That was undeniable, but Chase was unapologetic.“He’s still the most likely suspect,” he insisted, which caused Alison to give him another shoulder thunk. “Stop that!” he warned. “Otherwise I’ll have to arrest you for assaulting an officer.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“Don’t tempt him,” said Jason as he glanced up at the cop.

“Okay, so there’s one other thing I’ve been meaning to ask,” said Odelia in an attempt to ease the tension. “This story about you hiring a private investigator to look for your dad, how did that work out? Did they find him?”

“Nothing so far, but I’m not giving up. I will find my dad.”

“Have you ever considered that maybe your dad doesn’t want to be found?” said Chase, rubbing his shoulder. “That maybe he had good reason to disappear?”

“What’s that supposed to mean? He’s still my dad. He wants me to find him.”

“What Chase means is that your dad left the country for a reason. Because he was afraid he was going to be arrested for killing his brother,” Odelia explained.

“I know all about that. But he didn’t do it on purpose, did he? He gave my uncle Dean a shove, and he hit his head. It was an accident, and a good lawyer would get him off. So I don’t understand why he doesn’t come back to us.”

“Maybe he has come back,” said Chase, giving Alison a meaningful look.

The girl was quiet for a moment, then said,“I’ve been wondering about that. But when I mentioned this to my mom she said it was out of the question.”

“So your mom knew about your search for your dad?” asked Odelia.

“Oh, sure. I told her all about it.”

“And what did she say?”

“Surprisingly little. She seemed completely indifferent. Whether we found my dad or not didn’t seem to matter to her one way or another. Which was odd.”

“Odd, how?”

“As far as I can tell my mom and dad loved each other. But when I told Mom that I wanted to find him, and that I’d hired a detective, she simply didn’t care.”

“Another secret,” Chase murmured. “So many secrets.”

Alison looked up as if stung.“I’ll have you know that every family has secrets,” she said, stabbing his chest with a pointy index finger. “Better check your own closet for skeletons before you start digging into other people’s.”

“Hey, hey,” said Odelia. “That’s not what he meant.”

“So what did he mean?” asked Alison angrily.

“That all the people involved in this case seem to be harboring secrets, and that your mother was collecting them, and was going to reveal them in her book. But she also had her own secrets, and that maybe one of them got her killed.”

It gave the young woman food for thought. Finally she nodded.“Okay, I’m sorry. You’re just doing your job, I know. But it’s frustrating for me that you’re accusing the people I love of things they didn’t do.”

“Well, that’s too bad,” said Chase, his jaw working.

“Oh, why do I even bother?” said Alison, and turned on her heel.

We watched her enter the apartment building, and Jason said,“She’s feisty, isn’t she? Which is probably why I love her so much.” Then he seemed to realize he was talking to the people who had arrested him, and followed his fianc?e in.

“Do you still think they did it?” asked Odelia after a few moments.

“Oh, yeah,” said Chase. “I don’t know how they did it, but they did it.”

“One possibility is that they paid off that private investigator.”

“I’m way ahead of you, babe. I’ve already ordered a background check on the guy. It’s only a matter of time before we dig up the dirt on this crooked gumshoe. And then we’ve got them. All three of them. On conspiracy to commit murder.”

CHAPTER 26

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After a long day talking to witnesses and suspects, we were finally home again. But instead of resting on our laurels, as might be expected from a powerhouse detecting duo like myself and Dooley, we found ourselves in the midst of another mystery that needed our collective mental capacities. Or two mysteries, actually.

The moment we entered the house, Gran came hurrying up to us. She had a sort of wild look in her eyes, and asked, in a breathless way,“Grace! Have you seen Grace! Where is she!”

“She was at the daycare center all day,” I informed Gran, as I watched her with a touch of concern. “Though now she’s home again, since Odelia and Chase picked her up.”

“But… where is she?” asked Gran. “Where is my great-granddaughter!”

Just then, Odelia walked in through the front door, Grace in her arms.

Gran seemed to relax at the sight of the little girl, but when I told Odelia later about what happened, she shared our concern.

“Maybe it’s because she’s all alone in the house,” I suggested. “With Marge and Tex gone.”

“Maybe,” Odelia agreed. “We could invite her to stay with us, of course,” she added with a tentative look at her husband, but Chase immediately shook his head. He might be fond of his grandmother-in-law, but not fond enough to have her under the same roof.

“She’s got Harriet and Brutus,” he said. “She’s fine. And besides, she already spends all of her time here, and she’s got a perfectly good bedroom next door. No need for us to fix up a room for her here.”

He had a point, of course. Ever since Marge and Tex had left to hang out with their tennis buddies, Gran had spent her evenings with us, eating dinner with us, watching television with us, and staying up late until it was time to go to bed, which she did in her own room next door, where she had the company of Harriet and Brutus.