e8cf697896e365441c22e98649d515d0

“I think she’s simply disoriented,” said Chase. “Without Marge and Tex, her life is a little out of whack right now. Once they’re back, everything will be just fine.”

“Let’s hope so,” said Odelia with a sigh. She had enough to worry about already, with her mom and dad involved in this murder inquiry, without having to worry about her grandmother going a little non compos, too.

And we’d just settled in on the couch, preparatory to taking a long pre-dinner nap, when Brutus came bursting in through the pet flap. “Max! Dooley! Where were you!” he cried. “Things have gotten so much worse while you were away!”

“We were at this tennis retreat with Marge and Tex,” I said.

“A murder has been committed, and Marge and Tex are suspects,” Dooley explained. “Though I don’t think they did it. A retired crook did it, though he says he didn’t do it, and his girlfriend swears he didn’t do it, so now we don’t know.”

“Yes, yes, yes,” said Brutus impatiently. “Who cares? It’s Harriet you should be worrying about. She’s having an affair with Kingman. I’m absolutely sure of it now. I’ve got proof!”

“You’ve got evidence of an affair?” I asked, intrigued. I like evidence. Evidence never lies, and it’s a darn sight better than idle speculation, which seems to be rife in my line of work.

“Yes, I have!” said Brutus. I’d never seen him this excitable, and I didn’t wonder.

“Well, what are you waiting for? Show us.”

He led us out through the pet flap, into the backyard, and straight to the rose bushes at the bottom of the garden.“Smell,” he said, once our small group had arrived.

“What?” I asked, not sure I’d heard him right.

“Smell!”

And so smell we did. We smelled here, we smelled there, we smelled everywhere.“Roses,” I finally determined. “A little faint, but that’s to be expected after a long day. I expect they’ll smell much better in the morning.”

“Not the roses, dummy!” Brutus cried. “It’s Kingman! He was here!”

I frowned. Now cats are well-known and generally praised for their capacity to detect the presence of other cats by simply sniffing around a little and picking up their scent, but as far as I could tell those rose bushes didn’t smell like Kingman at all. “Um… Are you sure?” I finally asked.

“Of course I’m sure. Can’t you see? Harriet has been here with Kingman! In our own private little nook! She entertained that horrible poser in our nooky nook.”

I refrained from asking what he meant by this phrase, but instead focused on the more vital matter of whether Kingman had indeed been there. I didn’t think he had, but I wasn’t going to contradict Brutus when he was in this frame of mind.

“I don’t smell anything,” Dooley finally revealed, after applying his nose in all directions. “Not Kingman, not Harriet, only roses and dirt.”

“I think you’ll find it’s earth you smell, Dooley,” I said. “Not dirt.”

Dooley stuck his nose in the air and said,“I smell sausages, too.”

The scent of sausages did indeed fill the air. Chase and Odelia were preparing dinner, which may have had something to do with that. And as I picked up the same smell, my stomach reminded me with a persistent rumble that I was hungry.

“Look, can we settle this Kingman business later?” I asked. “We haven’t practically eaten anything all day, so…”

“We did eat those delicious nuggets offered by Joey and Zoey, didn’t we, Max?”

“Yeah, but that was dog food, so that doesn’t count.” Well, it doesn’t. Every expert will tell you that dog food lacks the necessary nutrients a healthy kitty needs. But then that’s dogs for you. They put on a good show, but when it comes right down to it, they always let you down. “So let’s have dinner first, shall we?”

Brutus, who was looking pretty down in the dumps, hung his head.“Oh, all right,” he said moodily. “But I’m telling you that Kingman was here. In our own little spot. Our own little nooky nook.”

“What’s a nooky nook, Brutus?” asked Dooley as we headed back to the house.

“It’s a spot where cats come to have nooky,” he said before I could stop him.

“Okay, so what’s nooky?” asked Dooley, his inquisitive mind never resting.

“Nooky is when two cats rub their noses together,” I explained quickly.

“Oh, that’s fun,” said Dooley. “I like rubbing my nose against yours, Max.” And to show us that he meant what he said, he demonstrated this sweet and innocent pastime by rubbing his nose against mine while saying, “Nooky nooky nook.”

“Yes, nooky nooky nook,” I murmured, catching Brutus’s eye. The big black cat was shaking his head at this display of affection. Clearly he wasn’t in the mood.

“I want you to talk to Harriet, Max,” he said now. “And I want you to take a firm line this time. This kind of behavior has to stop.”

“Harriet is a free woman, Brutus,” I felt impelled to remind him. “If she wants to carry on with Kingman, she has every right.” And even though I didn’t think there was anything going on between Harriet and Kingman, clearly something was going on, and it was leading to Brutus experiencinga nervous breakdown.

“But there has to be something you can do, Max!” he cried helplessly.

“I’ll talk to her,” I promised him. “Again.” Not that I thought it would do a lot of good. Clearly whatever secret Harriet was harboring was one she wasn’t prepared to share with her friends and housemates. But it was certainly worth another try. Then I got an idea. “Why don’tyou talk to Harriet, Dooley?”

“Me? Talk to Harriet?” He made it sound as if I was asking him to walk the plank. Or to cross into the Amazon Rainforest and brave an ancient hostile tribe.

“Yeah. Harriet likes you. I have a feeling that she might open up to you.”

“Harriet likes me?” He perked up at this.

“As a friend,” Brutus growled warningly. “She strictly likes you like a friend.”

“Oh, I knew that,” said Dooley quickly. “Harriet and I are great friends.”

“So talk to her like a friend,” I suggested. “Try to find out what’s going on.”

“You mean, like a detective? Like Chase did today with that Rocamora person?”

“Something like that. Though try not to be as tough as Chase.” Tough doesn’t cut it with Harriet. She doesn’t respond well to belligerence and bellicosity. The upshot might be that Dooley got his head bitten off, and we didn’t want that.

CHAPTER 27

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Dooley liked Harriet, that much was certainly true. The fact that Harriet liked him was something new, though. In general he’d always seen her as a good friend, even though once upon a time he’d had fond feelings for her that might have been construed as deeper than mere friendship. But then the entire male cat population of Hampton Cove had harbored those types of feelings for the pretty Persian, so that was not exactly remarkable or surprising. And then of course Brutus had arrived on the scene, and that was that.

For a long time Brutus had been regarded as the third dog that runs away with the bone two other dogs had been fighting tooth and claw over. Only in this case the third dog was a strapping big cat, and the two other dogs had been about ninety-nine meeker cats, who had quickly accepted the new law of the land.

So when Dooley had taken on the mission to talk to Harriet and extract certain confidences from her, he wasn’t entirely sanguine about the outcome. But when Max asked him to do something he always did it, because Max was his best friend, and Max was wise and Max knew, so it must be the right thing to do.

The fluffy Ragamuffin screwed up his courage and went in search of the equally fluffy white Persian. He didn’t find her in the house, and he didn’t find her in the backyard, nor did he find her in Marge and Tex’s house, or in their backyard either. After a long search, he did find her one more backyard over, talking animatedly with Rufus and Fifi, the neighboring dogs—respectively belonging to Ted and Marcie Trapper and Kurt Mayfield, the retired music teacher.

The moment Dooley stuck his head through the fence, though, the lively conversation between the three pets abruptly halted, and an uncomfortable silence fell. To lift the tension, he did what any timid cat would do: he started babbling.

“Oh, hi, Fifi—Rufus,” he said as he joined the trio, who regarded him with a touch of animosity. “Nice day, isn’t it? The sun—very nice. The sky—very blue. Little white clouds—very cute. The weather report said we might have some rain tomorrow, though to be absolutely honest I don’t put a lot of stock in the weather report anymore. They’re often wrong, you know, even in this day and age of supercomputers and satellites. Have you eaten? I haven’t eaten. Though I’m going to eat soon. Odelia is baking sausages, and I was hoping to get me some of those. Though sausages aremeat, of course, and I’m a vegetarian. But Max says—”

“What do you want, Dooley?” Harriet interrupted the flow of words.

“Oh, nothing much,” he said. “Just saying hello, you know. Shoot the breeze. Talk to my friends. You are my friends, you know. Fifi is my friend. And Rufus is my friend. And of course Harriet, you’re my very good friend. Max says that friends don’t keep secrets from their other friends, and so I was wondering if we could talk about our secrets. Just four friends talking about their secrets, you know. Like good friends do. I’ll go first.” He took a deep breath.

“I know what your secret is, Dooley,” said Harriet before he could launch into his story. “I told you yesterday, remember?”

“You did?”

“Sure I did. And then Max told me that Brutus also has a secret, but he wouldn’t tell me what it was. So are you finally ready to talk about that now?”

Dooley closed his mouth with a click. He didn’t know Brutus’s secret. What he did know was that the world is a commercial place. A big marketplace where trade is all that matters. You offer something and the other person offers something equally valuable of their own, and then you trade. And so if he wanted Harriet to divulge her secret, he’d have to come up with something equally valuable. Like Brutus’s big secret—which as far as he knew didn’t even exist!

His brain was buzzing with activity, his synapses firing on all cylinders. And then he had it. Bingo!“I know Brutus’s secret,” he revealed. “And even though Brutus has told me not to tell you, I will tell you. Because that’s what friends do.”

“Friends reveal other friends’ secrets, even though they told you not to tell?” asked Fifi, arching a critical whisker in Dooley’s direction.

This had him stumped for a moment, but then Harriet said,“Just tell me, Dooley.” She had put a purr in her voice, and was regarding him from beneath lowered lashes, which she was flashing at him for some reason. The combination was pretty heady, he had to admit, and he was starting to feel a little weak-kneed.

“Well…” He’d totally forgotten what he was going to say—his mind a blank!

“I wouldn’t tell her if I were you, Dooley,” said Rufus after clearing his throat. The big sheepdog seemed serious. “Secrets are meant to be guarded, not revealed.”

“Rufus, shut up,” said Harriet.

“I’m just saying.”

“Well, don’t.”

“Okay,” said Dooley, thinking hard, even though his brain had turned into a clump of molasses.

“Tell me, Dooley!” Harriet insisted. The eyes that had regarded him so seductively less than a minute ago were now shooting twin bolts of lightning and she couldn’t keep the irritation from her voice.

A thought suddenly occurred to Dooley. It seemed like a good thought, so he expressed it.“If you tell me yours, I’ll tell you mine.” It was something he’d heard onGeneral Hospital, one of Gran’s favorite soaps, though on the soap it had sounded different. More along the lines of ‘If you show me yours, I’ll show you mine.’ The context had been a little fuzzy, and before they got down to business, Gran had turned off the TV. So he never did find out what it was exactly that this doctor and this nurse wanted to show to each other in that doctor’s office. What meat they had on their sandwiches maybe. Or the type of sausage the doctor kept in his lunch box. Though it could have been a nice piece of cheese, of course.

Harriet blinked at him, even as Fifi and Rufus burst into raucous laughter.

“He’s got you now, hasn’t he, Harriet!” Rufus cried as tears rolled down his furry cheeks.

“Good thinking, Dooley,” said Fifi, clapping him on the shoulder.

But Harriet wasn’t laughing. She didn’t even crack a smile. Instead she regarded him with barely concealed contempt. “That’s what you get from associating with Max all these years,” she snapped. “A filthy mind!”

And with these words, she strode off on a huff, leaving Dooley feeling bewildered and not a little concerned. Not only would he have to return to Max empty-pawed, but he would also have to inform him that his mind was filthy.

“I don’t understand,” he said finally. “Max is one of the cleanest cats I know. I’m sure his mind is as clean as the rest of him.”

“Don’t you worry about a thing, Dooley,” said Rufus, speaking to him in fatherly tones. “Harriet might be upset now, but you know what she’s like. She’ll have completely forgotten about this in five minutes.”

“A volcanic temper I think they call it,” said Fifi.

“All I wanted to know was Harriet’s secret,” said Dooley. “Max wants to know, and Brutus wants to know, and Harriet isn’t saying, so they sent me.”

“Good thinking,” said Fifi admiringly. “But then Max does have a big brain.”

“Yeah, but it’s dirty,” said Dooley. “And I didn’t even know. I don’t think Max knows.” And then he thought of something else. “How do you even clean a brain? It’s inside your head, isn’t it? Do you open up a person’s head and take it out?”

“I’m sure it’s not as bad as all that,” said Fifi vaguely, exchanging a look with Rufus. “And now if you’ll excuse us, Dooley, Rufus and I have work to do.”

“You guys wouldn’t know what Harriet’s secret is, would you?”

“No, we wouldn’t,” said Fifi flatly. “We have no idea, do we, Rufus?”

“Absolutely not,” said Rufus, but he was smiling, which gave the impression that he was giving a mixed message. Dooley didn’t know what the mixed message was, but he did have the idea that these two might know more than they let on.

“It’s just that Brutus is very worried, you know. He thinks that Harriet is having an affair with Kingman, because he saw the two of them together, and he also says he smelled Kingman in the rose bushes, which is their nooky nook, but now it’s not their nooky nook anymore, since it’s Kingman’s nooky nook now. He’s very upset, Brutus is. It’s not nice when other cats go and do nooky in your nook.”

He looked up when the two dogs started rolling about on the ground. At first he thought they were suffering from some kind of stomach ache, but then he saw they were actually laughing. He decided to leave them be. People were acting funny today. And when he said people he actually meant pets—dogs and cats both. Rolling on the ground. Being nice one minute and angry the next. Talking about dirty minds and nooky nooks and secret secrets. It was all very confusing.

CHAPTER 28

[Êàðòèíêà: img_2]

That night, cat choir was a subdued affair. Harriet wasn’t talking to us, Brutus wasn’t talking to Kingman, and Dooley kept babbling on about my mind needing a wash. Shanille, too, wasn’t her usual self. The choir director usually comes to cat choir well-prepared, with a list of songs that she wants us to sing. But today she didn’t seem to have made any preparations and said she wanted to wing it.

“Wing it?” I said. “What do you mean, wing it?”

“We’ll simply start singing and see where it takes us,” said Shanille in a breezy sort of way that was very unlike her.

“You can start without me,” said Brutus, who was still quietly fuming.

“You’re not singing tonight?” asked Shanille.

“No, I’m not. Not tonight and not any other night as long as Kingman is here.”

“What do you mean?” asked Shanille.

“This town isn’t big enough for the both of us,” said Brutus. “So it’s either Kingman or me.”

But instead of getting upset, as I would have expected, Shanille merely smiled.“That’s fine, Brutus,” she said. “Whatever you say.”

Brutus frowned at her.“Didn’t you hear what I said? I want you to choose, Shanille. Between me and Kingman.”

“Of course,” said Shanille. “Absolutely.”

Brutus muttered something and stalked off, to go and fume some more under a nearby tree, from where he could keep an eye on Harriet and Kingman.

“He’s concerned about Harriet,” I explained. “He thinks she’s having an affair with Kingman, and he’s very unhappy about it.”

“That’s understandable,” said Shanille, still continuing in that breezy way she had adopted. It was frankly infuriating.

“Do you have a secret, Shanille?” asked Dooley. “Because everybody else seems to have them. Max has a secret, and I have a secret, and Harriet has one, even though she refuses to tell us. And Brutus might have a secret, though I’m not sure.”

“Oh, of course I have a secret,” said Shanille.

“So what is it?”

“I can’t tell you.”

“But why?”

“Because the moment I tell you it’s not a secret anymore, is it?”

Dooley thought about that for a moment.“But if you tell me, it will still be a secret to all the others, right? So technically it will still be a secret, only not to me.”

Shanille smiled at Dooley’s attempt at cunning. “Okay, you win, Dooley. I’ll tell you guys my secret. But only if you promise not to tell anyone else, all right?”

“So what is it?” asked Dooley anxiously.

“I have a ninth nipple.”

“A ninth nipple?”

“Yep, that’s right. Wanna see?”

Dooley didn’t seem particularly interested in Shanille’s nipples, and neither was I, but she was already rolling on her back and counting out her nipples. In case you didn’t know, cats have lots of nipples, usually six to eight. Some cats have more, others have less. Apparently Shanille’s maker had gone the extra mile and had added a little bonus nipple. As secrets go, it wasn’t exactly shocking, but Dooley and I went through the motions of expressing surprise, then admiration. Shanille seemed to think her ninth nipple was akin to Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony, which I can tell you it most definitely was not.

“So what’s your secret, Dooley?” asked Shanille when she had finished showing off her anomalous nipple.

Dooley, who hadn’t been aware this was a contest, meekly told the story of his defecatory habit of despoiling Brutus’s and Harriet’s little love nook. It caused the choir conductor to crack a smile and then some. She turned to me. “And how about you, Max? Big cat like you must have a big secret, right?”

Dutifully I filled her in on my own habit of taking the first crack at a new bag of crispy kibble, but then Dooley said I had another secret to share, one Harriet had revealed to him.“Max has a dirty mind. Harriet says so. I don’t know how it happened. Maybe some dirt got in through his nose or his ears. But now we’ve been racking our brains on how to wash his brains. Maybe Vena will know. I think we’ll have to remove his brain from his head and wash it with strong soap.”

Shanille produced a loud squeal of mirth at this surprise revelation, and before we knew what was happening, she’d gathered about a dozen cats around her, and was revealing my big secret! We could actually see how this mouth-to-mouth business worked and watch the news travel through the entire chowder of cat choir members. It was like watching wildfire spread through dry twigs.

“Dooley, my brain isn’t dirty,” I told my friend finally, when my so-called secret had done the rounds, and especially Dooley’s solution of washing my brain with soap.

“But Harriet said so!”

“Harriet was just being mean, because you wouldn’t tell her about Brutus’s secret. So she lashed out, which is what she does when she doesn’t get her way.”

“So your brain isn’t dirty?”

“My brain isn’t dirty. In fact no brain can actually be dirty. Not literally, anyway.” I didn’t want to explain to him that a brain can be figuratively dirty, since that would only lead us astray. But at any rate, he was visibly relieved.

“Oh, Max, I was so worried about you! You have such a big, beautiful brain. It can’t get dirty, cause then it would stop working. Like Odelia’s car.”

Odelia’s pickup is an old jalopy that should have been put out to pasture a long time ago. But she’s attached to the old thing, even though the engine keeps giving her grief. “My brain is fine,” I said.

“What a relief! I’m so happy, Max!”

“Yeah, I’m happy, too,” I said morosely. Not only had I been turned into the laughingstock of cat choir, but we still didn’t know Harriet’s big secret, and Brutus had now taken to whittling a piece of wood by cutting strips from it with his sharp claws, regarding Kingman malevolently all the while. I smelled trouble!

The big cat now came waddling up to us, a look of concern on his wide face.“What’s gotten into Brutus?” he asked, discreetly directing an anxious look in the latter’s direction. “He looks at me as if he wants to kill me!”

“Secrets and lies, Kingman,” I said. “That’s what this is all about, isn’t it?”

“What are you talking about?” asked Hampton Cove’s unofficial feline mayor.

“Brutus thinks you’re having an affair with Harriet.”

“An affair with Harriet! You have got to be kidding me!”

“No, I am not,” I assured our voluminous friend. “So are you?”

“How can you ask me that, Max! Of course I’m not having an affair with Harriet!”

“You were seen canoodling.”

“Canoodling!”

“Late at night.”

“Late at night!”

“In the bushes.”

“In the bushes!”

“Look, if you’re going to repeat everything I say this is going to be a long night. Just tell me what’s going on, Kingman. Because something is going on. I can feel it.”

“In his brain,” said Dooley helpfully. “In his very clean, not dirty at all, brain.”

This caused Kingman to produce a high-pitched titter. But when he caught my stern look, he quickly simmered down.“Okay, I would tell you, but I can’t.”

“Of course you can.”

“No, I can’t. I was sworn to secrecy. And I may be a lot of things but I’m not a tattletale, Max,” he added with a touch of pomposity.

“You’re the exact definition of a tattletale, Kingman. I’ll bet when people look up the word ‘tattletale’ in the dictionary your name is mentioned. So spill!”

But he clamped his lips together and shook his head emphatically.

“Fine,” I said. “Be that way.” Frankly I was getting a little fed up with this whole business. Which wasn’t actually my business at all. Just something I got mixed up in. Well, me and the rest of Hampton Cove’s cat population, apparently.

“Do you have secrets, Kingman?” asked Dooley.

“Oh, sure,” said Kingman. “Plenty.” He thought for a moment. “There’s that time when I ate half the contents of the General Store meat locker, and Wilbur thought the store had been burgled so he called the police.” He grinned at the recollection. “You should have seen his face when they checked the CCTV. I was grounded for a week after that stunt. And then of course I pooped in Wilbur’s bed once. Or more than once, if I remember correctly.”

“You pooped in Wilbur’s bed?”

“He was involved with some devious female at the time. She used to kick me when Wilbur wasn’t looking, and pinch me in the dark. The only way to get back at her was to leave a small deposit in the bed every time she stayed over. I think Wilbur finally got the message, cause he broke up with hersoon after that.”

I could have told him that the girlfriend had probably broken up with Wilbur after repeatedly finding poo in the bed and assuming Wilbur wasn’t potty-trained.

“Okay, I guess that’s all the secrets I’ve got for you today,” said Kingman cheerfully. But then he caught Brutus’s death-ray look amidships and gulped. “Max, can’t you explain to Brutus I’m not having an affair with his girl. He looks ready to kill me!”

“I could tell him, Kingman—of course I could. But first I’d have to know this secret you’re so anxious on keeping from us.”

“I can’t, Max! It’s not my secret to tell! Harriet would kill me!”

I offered him a smile and a paw. He glanced down at the paw.

“Why are you shaking my paw, Max?” he asked.

“It’s been a pleasure knowing you, Kingman. An honor.”

“Gah,” he grunted annoyedly, and waddled off on a huff.

“Is Kingman going to die, Max?” asked Dooley anxiously.

“I wouldn’t be surprised, Dooley,” I said. “I would not be surprised.”

CHAPTER 29

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Michele was in her room, prey to a sudden surge of melancholy. The realization that Isobel was gone had hit her suddenly after dinner, which they’d shared as a group, and she was still experiencing a powerful sense of loss.

She and Isobel hadn’t been the best of friends, far from it, but she was still going to miss her. They’d shared so much over the years, both good and bad, and now all of a sudden that part of her life had ended in the tragic death of a woman who’d suffered as much or even more than Michele herself had.

Not many people lose their significant others in such a brutal fashion, and the loss of Dean and Gavin had hit them both hard. It had created a bond between them, a bond they had never acknowledged as such, but that was still there, as an invisible connection.

Isobel had borne the brunt of the tragedy, as her life had gradually spiraled out of control, ending in a quite humiliating brush with addiction, out of which she’d emerged, much to everyone’s relief, only to plunge her family into turmoil once again with this autobiography nonsense.

Michele picked up her phone and waited for the call to connect. She was gratified to hear her motherin-law’s voice. The two women always had a good connection, and had only grown closer after Dean and Gavin had passed from their lives. “Hello, Marjorie,” she said, much relieved. Her husband might be gone, and now Isobel, but she still had Bill and Marjorie, and her kids. “Yes, I’m fine. Yes, I’m hanging in there. No, we’re not allowed to leave yet.”

She glanced through the window, and imagined she could see the police car parked at the back gate. There was one positioned at the front of the house also. According to the detective in charge of the case both sentinels were there for their protection, just in case whoever killed Isobel might return. She thought the real reason was that the police thought someone in the house had killed Isobel, and until they knew who this person was, they weren’t going to let them leave.

“How is Bill?” she asked. Bill might have passed the legal retirement age a while back but was still going strong, holding the reigns of his empire firmly in both hands. They all knew he was simply waiting for Michele’s son Michael to take over. Michael wasn’t ready yet, they also knew that. Running a large company like the Droba Group was a major challenge, and demanded a lot from a person. And even though Michael was doing well, acting as the group’s vice-president and working directly under his grandfather’s tutelage, it would be some time before he was at the point where he could take over and assume full control.

She talked to Marjorie for a few minutes, assuring her that everything was fine, and that the police had things well in hand and that she wasn’t in any danger. She hung up and left the room, remembering suddenly that she needed to have a word with Bereng?ria.

She found the woman in the kitchen, where she was checking the fridge and making a note about things she needed to buy. Bereng?ria Morat? was only a few years older than Michele, but looked about sixty. Her wizened features and gray hair tied back in a bun made her look much older than her years.

The housekeeper looked up when Michele entered.“We need to discuss dinner,” she said. She’d totally forgotten about Bereng?ria, what with the police sniffing around all day, and Isobel’s murder.

“It not natural,” said the woman, repeating a statement she’d made earlier that day. “You not stay here, in house where person dies. It bad karma.”

“I know, Bereng?ria, but what can we do? The police won’t let us leave.” At least they allowed the housekeeper to come and go. They could hardly suspect her of trying to murder them all in their beds.

“It very bad of them. They clean house.”

“Yes, I know,” said Michele, though she would have thought it was Bereng?ria’s job to clean the house, not the police.

“Clean energy,” the woman clarified. “Remove evil spirit and sister ghost.”

“Sister-in-law,” she said, correcting a common misconception.

“They seal room, they clean,” said Bereng?ria with some vehemence.

“Yes, yes,” she said, losing her patience. She didn’t have time for a lot of superstitious claptrap. Not when she had a house full of worried people, who had to eat and sleep and live here together for who knows how much longer?

“Bad mojo,” Bereng?ria said, as if she hadn’t made this point a hundred times before already. “Bad, bad mojo.”

“Okay, so about lunch and dinner tomorrow. What did you have in mind?”

And as they set about discussing some of the practical arrangements that went into organizing a week like this, they quickly settled into the routine they’d come to rely on: Bereng?ria wanted to know what Michele wanted to have for dinner, Michele made a suggestion, which Bereng?ria immediately rejected out of hand, at which point she made a better suggestion, which Michele gratefully accepted. They went on like this for a while, checking the fridge and the larder until they had settled on tentative menus for lunch and dinner for the next few days, the cleaning schedule, laundry, flower arrangements—Michele insisted on having fresh flowers in all the rooms at all times—and finally the conversation returned to the topic that was on boththeir minds.

“Must be burglar,” said Bereng?ria with conviction. “Must be.”

“The police were asking about that,” said Michele as she leaned against the kitchen counter. God, she would murder for a glass of wine. But she knew that one glass led to a second, and she’d feel like hell in the morning. “Have there been a lot of burglaries in the neighborhood?”

“Oh, many, many,” said the caretaker. “Dozens and dozens.”

Michele thought she was probably exaggerating. If there really had been dozens of burglaries, the neighborhood would be a no-go zone, and the police would be patrolling the streets.“But if it was a burglary, why didn’t they take anything from the other rooms?” she asked, voicing a question that was at the forefront of everyone’s mind. “Why only Isobel’s room? And why murder her?”

“These are bad people,” said Bereng?ria. “They love murder. It is what they do. Stealing and killing and maiming. They vicious killers. Evilmen.” She put the emphasis on the last word, and seemed ready to launch into her favorite subject: how evil men were. All men, no exception.

“Right,” said Michele, pushing herself away from the counter. Conversations with Bereng?ria were often frustrating for this exact reason: it was hard to get a sane word out of the woman, her mind filled with scary images and evil men everywhere she looked. Something in her past must have caused her to become this person, but frankly Michele didn’t think she wanted to know.

CHAPTER 30

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Ona had finished treating her face with the face cream Max had given her. She didn’t know what was in it, but it made her skin glow with radiant health and removed all the impurities and remnants of the scars that had once burned red and angry. He really was a miracle worker. For a long time she thought this would be her life from now on: scarred and hurt and forced to be alone forever. And then Max had come along, and had lifted her out of the darkness and healed her life.

She was so grateful to him. Every day she said a silent prayer to this man, who had saved her from such a terrifying fate.

Joey and Zoey were lying at her feet, looking up at her with the kind of unconditional love and devotion only dogs are capable of. Odelia Poole had been there today with her two cats, and it wasn’t that she didn’t like cats, but there was simply no contest. Cats were wily animals, and you never knew what to expect. Dogs were loyal, and loving, and always happy to see you, whether you looked like the world’s most beautiful woman, or the ugliest. They didn’t care that your face had been damaged beyond repair—their love and devotion were unconditional.

She gave them a smile as she finished her bedtime routine by rubbing yet another cream into her face. And she was just checking a pimple on her temple when she caught movement from the corner of her eye. When she looked over, she saw to her horror that yet another envelope had been slipped under the door.

Immediately she rushed over and picked it up. Cutting a glance at the bathroom door, where Max was taking a shower, she ripped open the envelope and nervously extracted the small piece of paper, similar to the one she’d received that afternoon. The previous message had said, ‘I know your secret!’

Which was bad enough, of course, but this one said:‘$10.000 and I won’t tell!’

She sank down on the bed. Ten thousand dollars or her secret was out. Her heart sank, and hot tears trickled down her cheeks.

At that moment, the bathroom door opened and Max strode out, wearing a dressing gown. She quickly wiped her tears, and hid the note behind her back, but too late.

“What’s wrong?” he asked immediately. He took a seat next to her, and took the note. He read it and his expression hardened. “Who sent this?”

“I don’t know,” she said quietly. “Someone slipped it under the door just now.”

“Must be someone in the house,” he said. “There’s no one else here.” He frowned as he reread the note. “What do they mean? What aren’t they going to tell?”

She looked down at her hands, lying on her lap, and didn’t respond. She couldn’t tell him. If she did, he’d leave her, she just knew he would.

“Ona, please,” he said gently. “Just tell me.”

“I-I can’t,” she said finally, and burst into tears for real this time.

He placed an arm around her and pulled her against his chest, rocking her gently while she cried.

“It’s all right,” he said. “Whatever it is, it’s fine.”

“No, it’s not,” she said miserably. “It’s terrible.”

“Oh, come on. It can’t be as terrible as all that.”

“Oh, Max,” she said, turning a teary face up to him. “I did a horrible thing.”

“Tell me,” he urged kindly. “Let me be the judge of that. Please?”

She nodded, and started telling the story of the talent scout, the whole sordid tale emerging from her in starts and stops. He didn’t respond at first, but finally, when she was done, he cupped her face between two large, warm hands, and said, gazing into her eyes, “That wasn’t as bad as all that, now was it?”

“But it was. If people knew what I did—”

“So you took a meeting that was meant for your sister. It’s not the end of the world. And besides, your sister did great, didn’t she? She’s an amazing doctor, who’s helping lots and lots of people.”

“But—”

“Look, if your sister had a powerful wish to become a model, she would have become a model, no matter what. As I see it, it wasn’t a deep-seated wish, but more an idle young girl’s dream. The way some kids want to become a fireman, or a policeman, or an astronaut. You, on the other hand, really wanted to become a model, and so you did. Your sister, once she grew out of this dream of being a model, fulfilled her real wish—her heart’s desire—and became a doctor.”

“You think?” she asked, hope surging in her bosom. All these years she’d thought of herself as some kind of villain. So maybe she wasn’t so bad?

“Of course. Have you talked to Katey?”

She shook her head.

“Well, I think you should. I’m sure it’ll be fine.” He picked up the piece of paper. “And this person? I think you should tell the police. Cause chances are that whoever wrote this, killed Isobel Droba. I mean, how else did they know your secret unless they got it from Isobel’s laptop, which the killer took, right?”

She hadn’t thought of it that way. “You think I should tell the police?”

“Yes, I do. Is this the first note you got?”

“One arrived this afternoon.” She got up and took the first note out of her purse and handed it to Max.

“Better if I don’t handle it,” he said. “I don’t know for sure, but maybe the police can get a fingerprint off these notes, after taking your fingerprints for elimination purposes, of course.”

She smiled for the first time.“You know an awful lot about this, Max.”

“I watch a lot of crime shows,” he said, returning her smile, then placing a gentle kiss on her lips.

She wrapped her arms around him and squeezed him tight. Her savior.“I’ll tell the police tomorrow,” she said. “And I’ll talk to Katey. Just in case this blackmailer decides to go public with my big secret. I want Katey to hear it from me first.”

“Good thinking,” he said, burying his face in her hair. “God, you’re beautiful.”

She smiled.“Keep talking.”

And so he did. And when one thing led to another, she finally forgot, for perhaps a few moments, the terrible events of that day, and felt happy again.

CHAPTER 31

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Marge and Tex were in bed. Even though the day had been long and filled with the kinds of events that leave a person reeling, Marge wasn’t feeling tired. Instead she felt sort of energized. She’d never been in this situation before, where the police thought she might actually have murdered someone. Well, apart from that time Chris Ackerman was murdered in her library, and for a short while she was the main suspect. This time there were many suspects, though, and as far as she could tell Chase hadn’t yet decided which one of them might have done it.

Not that he had given them the benefit of his thoughts. Chase liked to play his cards close to his chest when working on a case, which was only to be expected. Even Odelia hadn’t told her what was going on, just that they had one suspect under arrest, but she wasn’t convinced he had something to do with the murder.

“How much longer do you think they’ll keep us here?” she now asked.

“Not sure,” said Tex. “But I don’t mind, do you? Plenty of food, company… And maybe tomorrow I’ll finally manage to win a game for once.”

Tex had lost another game that day. A singles game against Max Stinger. A loss that had stung even more than their loss against the Alemans that morning, for Stinger was a doctor, just like Tex, only a specialist, of course, a fact he didn’t mind rubbing in from time to time. Clearly the old rivalry between family practitioners and specialists was still ongoing, with the latter feeling superior to the former.

“It’s not right that we’re still playing tennis,” said Marge, “with Isobel lying dead in the morgue.”

“What else can we do? They won’t let us go home, so the best way to pass the time is to play tennis. It helps to keep people’s mind off these terrible events.”

Tex might have a point, of course, but Marge still found it disrespectful.

“Do you think we’re suspects? Only Chase was acting so funny when I asked him about the case. He almost made me think they’re suspecting us of all people.”

“I’m sure Chase knows better than that. But he has a role to fulfill. He has to put on his cop cap, not his son-in-law cap when he’s here talking to people.”

It was odd seeing this side of Odelia’s husband. He was so formal, so different. Odelia, bless her, was much the same as always. Though she couldn’t tell them a lot either. Of course the investigation was still ongoing so there wasn’t a lot to tell.

“It all seems to revolve around this book Isobel was writing, doesn’t it?”

She looked up at this.“I thought it was a burglary?”

“Well, they took Isobel’s phone and laptop, and left the rest of us undisturbed. So their thinking is that they were after Isobel’s manuscript.”

“How do you know? Did Chase tell you this?”

“No, some of the others did. Judging from Chase’s line of questioning, that’s the conclusion they seem to have reached. That it’s all about that book of hers.”

Marge was quiet for a moment, then said,“Do you have a secret, Tex? Are you in Isobel’s book, you think?”

Tex cleared his throat.“I’m afraid so, honey. Yes, I think Isobel was getting ready to reveal my secret to the world.”

“What secret would this be?” she asked, without looking up.

He swallowed audibly, then said,“I might as well tell you. It’s going to come out sooner or later anyway.” He heaved a deep sigh, while she braced herself. “You know how I’ve been saying I graduated from the Ross School Tennis Academy? And how I was trained by the great Pete Sampras himself? Well, I wasn’t.”

She smiled, much relieved.“That’s your big secret? That Sampras didn’t take you under his wing and teach you how to play tennis?”

“Yes, that’s my big secret. Why, did you know already?”

“Of course I knew, honey! Everybody does!”

He was stunned, and stared at her for a good minute before stammering,“B-b-but why did nobody ever tell me!”

“Because they like you too much to cause you embarrassment.”

“But I’ve been telling that story for years!”

“I know, and nobody has believed you for years.”

“God,” he said, dragging his fingers through his mane.

“So where did you learn how to play tennis, if it wasn’t at that school?”

“The local YMCA,” he said, which caused her to burst out laughing. He grinned. “They were cheap, and the coach was pretty good. Though not as good as Pete Sampras, obviously.”

“Obviously.”

“But he still taught me a couple of my signature moves.” He demonstrated his backswing, almost clocking her on the nose. She would have told him that his ‘signature moves’ had never impressed anyone, but of course she didn’t. After all they were amateurs, not professionals, and they were in it for their enjoyment, not to win the US Open.

They sat in companionable silence for a moment, then Marge said,“Shall I tell you my secret?”

“Please do.”

And so she told him. And much to her satisfaction he hadn’t known a thing about it, and it came as an absolute surprise to him. But he also seemed inordinately pleased, which warmed her heart all over again. He really was her dreamboat, wasn’t he? He couldn’t play tennis worth a damn, but he was grand.

CHAPTER 32

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The day broke bright and glorious, and we found ourselves returning to the house where Isobel Droba had been murdered two nights ago now, for more interviews with potential suspects and a lot more sleuthing endeavors.

Even before we arrived, Ona Konpacka had phoned and asked to see us. She had a matter of some urgency to discuss with us, and for a brief moment Chase and Odelia were almost giddy with the hope that the model was going to confess to murder. Once we were in her room, where Ona sat regally on a highback chair and her boyfriend Max Stinger nervously paced about, it soon became clear that no confession was forthcoming. Instead she apprised Chase and Odelia of an attempt at blackmail that was in progress, handing them no less than three blackmail notes.

“This third one came this morning,” she explained.

“’Once you’re ready to make the transfer contact this number,’” Chase read.

“If I may ask, what’s the secret?” asked Odelia, still hoping against hope that here sat their murderer.

“It’s what I told you yesterday,” said Ona. “About my sister and the talent scout?”

“Oh, right,” said Odelia, and had a hard time keeping the disappointment from her voice. “So they want ten thousand not to tell that story, huh?”

“Yeah, it’s not something I want people to know,” said Ona. She was very quiet and looked uncomfortable about this whole blackmail business. “Though I told Max last night, and I’m going to tell my sister, which would take the wind of this blackmailer’s sails.”

“My advice would be to go through with the handing over of the money,” Chase advised. “Once you’ve received instructions on where the rendezvous will be and when. Of course,” he quickly added when Max Stinger started making protesting noises, “we’ll be there every step of the way, so we can apprehend the culprit.”

“You want to arrest the blackmailer?” asked Ona.

“Yes, of course.”

“I think whoever is doing this killed Isobel,” said Max.

“Oh, Max, don’t say that,” said Ona. “Now I’m thinking he might come after me next.”

“No, but it stands to reason, doesn’t it? First he steals the laptop, and when Isobel catches him he kills her, and now he’s using the information he got from that laptop to blackmail people.”

Chase looked up sharply.“You think there’s more than one victim, sir?”

The doctor shrugged.“I don’t know. But if he’s blackmailing Ona, there’s bound to be others, wouldn’t you say?”

“Max?” said Ona.

“Yes,” I said, even as the other Max turned to his girlfriend.

Dooley laughed.“That’s funny. You’ve got a soulmate, Max.”

“A namesake, more like,” I said.

“What do you think?” asked Ona.

“I think this is a good idea,” I said.

“I’m not sure about this,” said the other Max.

“It’s up to you, of course, Miss Konpacka,” said Chase. “But if we want to catch this person, this is the best way to go about it.”

“You won’t be in any danger,” Odelia assured the model. “We’ll be close by, keeping an eye out for this person, and we’ll nab him the moment he shows his face.”

Max finally nodded his agreement, even though he still seemed reluctant.

Ona took a deep breath.“All right,” she said. “I’ll do it.”

“Great,” said Chase.

A knock sounded at the door, and we all jumped. But when Odelia went to open it, it wasn’t the blackmailer but Vena Aleman.

“I heard you had arrived,” she explained. “Could I have a word with you?”

“Of course,” said Odelia.

And as we left the room, Chase stayed on to explain to Ona how they were going to organize this sting operation. He also asked if he could take a look at her shoes. Judging from the look on Max Stinger’s face, he seemed to think Chase was some kind of shoe fetishist, but Chase quickly dissuaded him from this notion.

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The room where Vena and Glenn Aleman were staying looked just about the same as Ona’s room, with the minor difference that they didn’t have the nice view of the tennis courts the model and her surgeon boyfriend had. Instead they looked out across the neighbor’s backyard, who owned a pool which was filled with screaming and splashing children.

Glenn wasn’t present for the interview, and I wondered what Vena was going to tell us. Dooley had his own ideas, of course.

“I think she did it, Max. I think she murdered Isobel!”

“Why on earth would Vena murder Isobel?”

“Because that’s the kind of person she is! Always prodding us with needles, poking us with sharp instruments, cutting us open to look inside our bellies. She’s a murderous maniac, Max, we all know that. And now she’s finally taken it too far. She’s gone and murdered a human. And we all know humans don’t mind when pets are being murdered, but they scream bloody murder when another human is killed.”

There was some logic to what he was saying, of course. Humans seem mainly concerned about their fellow humans being killed, not so much when members of other species suffer the same fate. Though I couldn’t believe Vena would take the innate murderous instinct that all veterinarians seem to share to this level.

“I know that Isobel was writing that horrible book of hers,” said Vena, who had taken a seat on a chair near the window, with Odelia pulling up a second chair. The vet’s demeanor was a far cry from her customary bluff and hearty way. Instead she looked pale and drawn, and she sat slumped in her seat, head bowed. “And now that she’s dead, and her laptop has been stolen, all the secrets are bound to come out sooner or later. So I’d rather you heard it from me than someone else.” She took a deep, shuddering breath. “I once killed a patient.”

“See!” Dooley cried triumphantly. “I told you!”

“Shush, Dooley,” I said. “Let’s hear what she has to say.”

“It was a long time ago,” said Vena. “I was just starting out, fresh from vet school, and I must have made a mistake in the dosage of the sedative I was administering. The animal—Freddie, it was called—died, and I was forced to own up to my mistake to the owners. Lucky for me they were very understanding, and didn’t file a complaint. Also, Freddie was old and on its last legs at that point, and wouldn’t have lived much longer anyway. So maybe what I did was an act of mercy, even though it was an accident.”

“What type of animal was it?” asked Odelia.

“A gerbil,” said Vena. Her cheeks were flushed, and she looked shamefaced. “I never told anyone, except Glenn, of course. And Isobel. I don’t know why I told her. It came up in conversation once, and she was so easy to talk to, you know. There was something comforting about her, something kind and wonderful, that made you want to confide in her, and tell her all your secrets. She always said she should have been a pastor.” She smiled a wistful smile. “At least if she was a pastor, she would have been bound by the seal of confession. Now she was free to write about it in her book. Which will cause quite a stir once its secrets are revealed.”

“You don’t know if that will happen,” said Odelia. “Did you… Did you by any chance receive a blackmail letter, Vena?”

Vena shook her head.“No, I didn’t. Why, is the killer blackmailing people now?”

“I’m not sure,” said Odelia evasively.

“God. If the truth comes out, I’ll be ruined. Who’s going to trust me now? They’ll think I’m bound to kill their precious pets.”

Odelia squeezed the vet’s arm. “I trust you, Vena, and I’m sure a lot of people know what a great veterinarian you are and won’t abandon you either.”

“She should abandon her,” Dooley grumbled. “If I’d known she was in the habit of murdering her patients, I would never have agreed to be treated by her.”

“Whether you agree or not, Dooley, makes no difference at all,” I said somberly.

“That’s true,” said Dooley. We shared a look of dismay. It’s one thing to suspect that your vet is secretly a murderous butcher, but another to hear it from her own lips. As I saw it we’d had a lucky escape so far. We could have been that gerbil. We all could have been that gerbil!

“Poor Freddie,” said Dooley.

“Poor us,” I said.

“Could I see your shoes for a moment, Vena?” asked Odelia now.

“Sure,” said Vena, getting up. “What’s this about?”

“Oh, just a routine check,” said Odelia cheerfully.

“Better check her luggage for dead gerbils!” Dooley yelled as the two women disappeared into the next room. “Remember Freddie!”

CHAPTER 33

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Perlita felt utterly embarrassed as she watched Detective Kingsley go through her collection of shoes.“I’m sorry about yesterday,” she said. “For making such a spectacle of myself.”

“That’s all right, Mrs. Gruner,” said the detective as he picked up her pair of high heels and closely examined the heels. “What size would you say these are?”

Michele had given Perlita a new room and now she was officially separated from Nathan—at least for the duration of this retreat, which was already turning into a nightmare. She had no idea what she’d do once they were home again.

She felt betrayed, both by Izzy and her husband. But since she was also cheating on him, she could hardly blame him for what he’d done. They were in the same boat, after all. Already she’d called Izzy, to cancel the exhibition, and to tell her they were through, and Izzy had told her that Nathan had done the exact same thing, and said to find another agent.

The young artist had sounded miserable. Clearly this was the worst day of her life: she just lost the exhibition which was going to launch her career and her agent both on the same day. Perlita almost felt sorry for the girl. But then she considered how she’d been using them for their connections, and to further her career, and every trace of compassion vanished. She was a calculating little minx who’d taken a gamble and lost. And now she’d have to suffer the consequences. Just like they all did.

Nate had reached out to her that morning, calling her and sending messages and knocking on her door, but she’d ignored him. She didn’t want to see him or talk to him. And she most definitely did not want to discuss the affair. Or affairs, plural.

“Done,” said Detective Kingsley finally, and got up.

“So have you found the murderer?” she asked. “Only Michele told me you made an arrest? Her niece’s boyfriend?”

“Mr. Rocamora is a person of interest, but at this moment he is not under arrest,” said the cop, sounding very formal. He then regarded her closely. “You haven’t by any chance received a blackmail letter, have you, Mrs. Gruner?”

“No, I haven’t. Why, is there a blackmailer active?”

“I couldn’t say,” said the cop carefully, then thanked her for her cooperation.

“So how long do you think we’ll have to stay in this place? Only after what happened between me and Nate, things are a little strained at the moment.”

The police detective was very kind. He told her that he understood how difficult it was for her to have to stay under the same roof with the man she was now estranged from. And no, he couldn’t say how long this situation would go on.

He left, then, and she walked over to the window. Out on the court, she could see Nate playing a game against Glenn Aleman. Apparently he wasn’t too bowled over by their separation. He was even laughing, the traitorous bastard.

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Chase had checked Ona’s shoes, and also Perlita’s, Michele’s and even his motherin-law’s modest collection of footwear. He hadn’t found a single pair of stiletto heels, and definitely not the murder weapon they were looking for. As far as shoe size was concerned, there wasn’t a lot of difference between the ladies. And if Odelia didn’t forget to check Vena’s shoes, they’d have covered all the women present. He’d also used the opportunity to take a closer look at their faces, but he couldn’t imagine any of them having gone through life as Gavin Droba. Their features simply did not match the picture of Gavin he carried in his pocket.

The man had had a wide face, with a flattened nose, and pockmarked skin. He was also short and chunky, and even though a person can change their face, it’s probably hard to make yourself taller by several inches.

He sighed. This investigation wasn’t going the way he had hoped. So far they had nothing. Now if only he could prove that this detective who’d been tailing Rocamora was in on the whole business, but by all accounts Mark Devine had an impeccable record. Respected by his colleagues and his employers, there wasn’t anything in his file to suggest he might collude with a murderer.

His phone chimed and he took it out of his pocket.“Kingsley,” he said curtly.

“Yes, hi, detective,” spoke a voice he vaguely recognized. “Alison Droba. I was wondering when I can have my car back? Your people took it, and I need it.”

“I’ll check with the forensics team,” he said curtly. “Anything else?”

“Yes, I thought you might be interested to know that the detective I hired to find my father called me just now. He found him, though not in Mexico but in Belize. Turns out he’d been living there all this time, under an assumed name, which is why it took so long to find him. He owned a bar.”

“A bar?”

“Yes. A far cry from managing a multinational corporation, wouldn’t you say?”

“Are you going to reach out to him?”

“I would, only it turns out he died three years ago.”

“He…”

“Yes, died and was buried under his assumed name. Sebastian Dixon.”

“How did he die, if I may ask?”

“He was hit by a car and died.”

Chase could hear that she was upset, and even though she was still a suspect, he softened. He wasn’t a hard-hearted man, quite the contrary. “My sincerest condolences, Miss Droba.”

“Oh, you know,” she said in a shaky voice. “It’s been seven years. I was quite young when he left, so it’s not as if I…” Her voice broke. “I’m sorry, detective.”

“No, that’s all right. It’s understandable that you would feel this way. Even though he left you and your mother, he was still your dad.”

“Yeah, he was,” she said quietly. “And now I don’t have any parents left.”

“Did your mother know, you think? About your dad, and the fact that he died?”

“I’m not sure. She might have known. Maybe that’s why she acted so cold when I told her I’d hired someone to find him. It didn’t occur to me before, but she could have hired a detective herself, and found out what happened. But if she did she never told me about it.”

“If she did, it will be in her book, I imagine,” said Chase.

“Yeah, that stupid book of hers,” said Alison. “The book that got her killed.”

Chase didn’t respond. Odelia might think that Isobel’s murder was connected to the book she was writing, and so might everyone else, but he still thought this whole case revolved around Jason Rocamora and the lovely but very deceptive Miss Droba. “By the way, Alison, what size shoe would you say you have?”

“Just get me back my car,” Alison snapped, and promptly hung up.

CHAPTER 34

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Even though Mark Devine wasn’t the PI Alison had hired to find her dad, he worked for the same detective agency, and since his colleague Steve Martin was still in Belize, where he’d been instrumental in finding the missing man, it was up to Mr. Devine to fill us in on the details of Mr. Martin’s successful investigation.

The detective had agreed to meet in front of the house, and so we found ourselves piling into his modest metallic gray Renault Clio which was probably parked in the same spot where it had been parked on the night of the murder.

Chase had ordered a background check on the detective, but so far he’d come out squeaky clean, much to the cop’s disappointment. Chase’s line of inquiry was that Mark Devine was somehow in collusion with Alison and her criminal fianc?, but so far the evidence didn’t bear out that theory.

Which was perhaps the reason Chase wasn’t as friendly to his colleague as he could have been.

Mark Devine seemed surprised when Chase was accompanied not only by Odelia, introduced as a civilian consultant, but also by Odelia’s two cats. We weren’t introduced as such, though the term feline consultant would have been appropriate. But Uncle Alec, when he appointed his niece, hadn’t extended the courtesy to Dooley and myself, unfortunately. As it was, we were simply part of the decoration, one could say. The wallpaper, perhaps. Or background noise.

“So you found Gavin Droba, did you?” asked Chase tersely.

“Well, not me personally, no,” said Mr. Devine, who was a slovenly dressed individual in his early fifties with a distinct stubble on his chin and haphazardly arranged strands of gray hair covering a wide dome that was fast going bald. “But yeah, we found Droba, who had adopted the name Sebastian Dixon for his purposes. We found him living in Corozal, a small town eighty-four miles north of Belize City. Took us a long time to find him, too. He hadn’t made things easy.”

“He was operating a bar?”

“A chain of restaurants, actually. The man had done well for himself. Also owned several pieces of real estate property. So he must have had some capital when he arrived, so he could set himself up in business over there. Which suggests he didn’t leave the country empty-handed but with a cache of capital so he could start over. As the son of Bill Droba, tire king, he was of course the heir to a considerable fortune, so he must have squirreled away a nest egg he could use for a rainy day. Only that rainy day came a lot sooner than he thought when he accidentally killed his brother and had to flee the country.”

“He died?”

“Yeah, he did,” said the detective, patting his wavy strands of hair. “Three years ago. Car mounted the sidewalk and scooped him up. He died on impact.”

“Was it an accident, you think?”

The detective shrugged.“According to the police report it was. Driver was drunk. Witnesses said he was slaloming across the road. After he ran down Droba he rammed a convenience store and injured several customers. So yeah, looks like it was an accident—nothing to suggest it wasn’t.”

“Sad ending for Mr. Droba,” said Odelia.

“Yeah, you can say that again,” the PI confirmed. “Oh, there’s one other thing I wanted to tell you. When Dean Droba was killed, there was a persistent rumor going around that the Droba Group was in some kind of financial trouble. Financial malfeasance, actually.”

“Which would have been Gavin’s domain,” said Chase. “Since he was CFO.”

“Yeah, that’s right. Bill Droba had handed control of the group to his sons, but apparently the brothers weren’t handling things as well as could be expected, and at the time of Dean’s death, the vultures were circling, and there were rumors of a hostile takeover being in the works by one of their Italian competitors.”

“So what happened?”

“Well, Dean died, and as luck would have it, a sizable sum had been settled on him by way of life insurance. We’re talking millions here. The insurance eventually paid out and the company was saved by the skin of their teeth. The money tied them over a rough patch, and once Bill took over it was smooth sailing again.” He grimaced. “You could say that Dean dying was a blessing in disguise. A couple of months longer and the Droba Group would have been no more.”

“Is Bill still running the group?” asked Chase, jotting down a few notes.

“Yeah, but not for much longer. Bill is pushing seventy, and he’s been grooming his grandson Michael to take over.”

“So they’re skipping a generation.”

“Yeah, out of necessity. With Dean dead and Gavin gone, Bill had no choice but to step in. And Michele and Isobel, the widows, had no interest in the business.”

“But Michael has?”

“Oh, yeah. By all accounts he’s some kind of business wunderkind.”

“Michael is Michele’s son?” asked Odelia.

“Yeah, he is. He has a sister, Drew, but she’s not involved in the business. She’s an anthropologist. She’s in Mexico right now, actually, on some dig down there.” He rubbed his face. “I still haven’t told Bill about what happened to his son.”

“Isn’t that Alison’s job?” asked Chase.

“Yeah, I know, but the least I can do is tell him personally. But I couldn’t get him on the phone. As you know I told Alison, who took the news pretty bad. I’m assuming Bill will want the body brought back here, to have him buried in the family plot.” He glanced over to Chase. “So have you caught Isobel’s killer yet?”

“Not yet,” said Chase. “But we’re close.” He tapped his notebook. “We might make an arrest today.”

“Alison told me you arrested her boyfriend?”

“We released him,” said Chase somberly.

“Poor kid,” said the detective. “First her mom died, and now she finds out her dad died, too. She’s got no one left to walk her down that aisle when she ties the knot.” He held up his hand and shook Chase’s, then reached back and shook Odelia’s. He came close to shaking my paw, but drew the line there. “Well, if there’s anything else you need to know, you’ve got my number.”

“Yeah, I’ve got your number, all right,” said Chase, and we got out. As the detective drove off in a cloud of petrol fumes, he added, “He’s still a suspect.”

Stubborn to the last.

CHAPTER 35

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The trap for the blackmailer had been set, and the location the dastardly fiend had chosen was our local park, coincidentally also the place where cat choir likes to convene at night. Ona Konpacka had sent a message to the blackmailer that she was prepared to pay the demanded sum of ten thousand smackeroos, and the blackmailer had immediately replied with a time and a place for the drop-off.

The phone number itself wasn’t registered. It was a so-called burner phone, with a prepaid SIM card that couldn’t be traced or connected to a single person. It was still the way criminals covered their tracks, even though lately encrypted phones had become quite the rage. But clearly our blackmailer wasn’t as sophisticated as all that.

And so we were relegated, not for the first time, to the bushes, which were located near the trash can conveniently placed next to a park bench. No one was sitting on the park bench at the moment, and apart from Ona, who had deposited the envelope containing the money into the trash can, all was quiet.

“What is taking them so long?” Chase grumbled, checking his watch.

“They’re careful, making sure they’re not walking into a trap,” said Odelia.

She and Chase had placed a plastic bag on the ground, on which they were now seated, and neither of them looked very comfortable. Then Dooley and I had a better deal: cats are used to sitting in bushes watching the world go by. Our tushes are perfectly shaped for this type of situation. And even though it’s usually birds we like to watch, or the odd mouse or critter, this time we were on the lookout for much bigger prey. An actual blackmailer and possible murderer!

Chase was hoping that when we nabbed Ona’s blackmailer, we’d also catch Isobel Droba’s killer. And I guess he had reason for this optimism: how else had the blackmailer gotten hold of Ona’s big secret? They must have grabbed the laptop after ending Isobel’s life in such a brutal fashion.

“Odd that Michele’s daughter would be in Mexico right now,” Chase mused. “Just when they’ve discovered the whereabouts of her uncle Gavin.”

“Nothing odd about that,” said Odelia. “She’s an anthropologist, so she goes where the work is. I wouldn’t read too much into that. Just a coincidence, that’s all.”

“I don’t like coincidences,” said Chase. “What if they’re all in on it? The whole family? They killed Dean, so they could get that insurance money and save the company, and then they killed Gavin, just in case he opened his mouth and revealed the truth.”

“Gavin’s death was an accident, Chase. You heard what that detective said.”

“Mh,” said Chase, telling us exactly what he thought of Mark Devine.

“Look,” said Odelia. “Isn’t that Michele’s housekeeper?”

A slim lady approached the park bench. She had a wizened face and gray hair tied back in a bun in a way that looked painful. She had a furtive way about her, looking left and right. At first she walked straight past the bench, halted after thirty yards, then doubled back. And as she did, she glanced down into the trash can, and quick as a flash grabbed the envelope and hurried off.

“Not so fast!” Chase boomed as he rocketed out of his hiding place.

The woman, who clearly wasn’t as old as she looked, paused for a moment, staring at Chase as if he was the boogeyman, then whirled around and started running in the opposite direction.

Chase, cursing under his breath, took off in pursuit, as did Odelia.

Dooley and I would have followed them, but frankly I didn’t see the point. If Chase, a trained sportsman and cop, couldn’t catch her, or Odelia, who also enjoyed spending time in the gym, no one could. And besides, I believe in conserving one’s energy. You never know when you might need it.

“What’s the name of that woman?” asked Dooley as we watched the trio disappear in the distance.

“Bereng?ria Morat?,” I said. “She works for Michele as a housekeeper.”

“So maybe Michele is the blackmailer, and this Bereng?ria is doing her bidding?”

“We’ll know soon enough,” I said, as I watched the trio running back in our direction. Sooner or later, if you wait long enough, everything comes back. Like leg warmers, you know, or ABBA. And so Bereng?ria Morat? was now running up to us, though she was also running out of steam, I could tell. The moment she drew level with us, I stepped forward, and the housekeeper tripped and fell.

Look, did I feel good about tripping up this woman? No, I did not. But she was a blackmailer, so there are mitigating circumstances for what I did.

Chase was quick to apprehend the suspect, and Odelia, when she finally caught up with us, panting and sweating profusely, lamented that she was out of practice. Of course she had a perfect excuse, having pushed a large infant out of her stomach in the recent past. She rested her hands on her knees to catch her breath, while Chase placed a nice pair of shiny cuffs on the housekeeper’s wrists, and informed her that she was under arrest.

The woman was muttering some words in a language that I couldn’t understand. They didn’t sound very nice, though, and were mainly directed at Chase, whom she seemed to have taken an instant dislike to. A cop’s fate, I guess.

Chase didn’t seem to mind. In fact he looked over the moon. He’d finally nabbed his man, even though she was a woman, and in due course the lady was put in a squad car and carted off to the precinct for processing and questioning.

CHAPTER 36

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Once more we found ourselves on the outside looking in. In this case we were in the viewing room, looking into the interview room, where Chase was interrogating his suspect. Bereng?ria wasn’t playing ball, though. She was refusing to explain what she was doing in the park, and why she was targeting Ona. But they’d found the phone on her that the blackmailer used, and when a search of her apartment was conducted, they’d found several more blackmailing notes she had carefully prepared, as well as a list of the people she was targeting.

It was an interesting list, and featured Michele Droba, Vena Aleman, Nathan Gruner, Perlita Gruner and… Marge Poole!

What the search hadn’t produced was Isobel’s laptop, wallet or phone. And since Miss Morat? wasn’t talking, there was no evidence to suggest that she was Isobel’s killer. But clearly she was in possession of the manuscript, and the secrets it contained—a gold mine for a cunning blackmailer.

Chase soon gave up, especially when Bereng?ria demanded a lawyer be present for the interview, and the lady was arrested on the grounds of the evidence they had discovered: the blackmail.

We returned to the house, where Odelia went in search of her mother, to ask her about the blackmail. Finding Marge’s name on Bereng?ria’s list had obviously greatly concerned her. She found her mom at the tennis court, where she was watching a game between Tex and Glenn Aleman. Tex was losing, I guess, for he didn’t look happy, while the bookstore owner was grinning from ear to ear.

Odelia took a seat on the bench next to her mom. Marge looked up and smiled.“Hey, honey. I wasn’t expecting to see you here. How is the investigation going?”

“Chase just made an arrest,” said Odelia. “Bereng?ria Morat? was arrested on charges of blackmail.”

“Bereng?ria? But she’s Michele’s housekeeper.”

“I know. She’s also a blackmailer.” She eyed her mom closely. “Mom, is there something you want to tell me? Only, your name was on Bereng?ria’s list of targets.”

Marge swallowed uncomfortably.“Honey, I don’t know what to say.”

“Did you receive a blackmail note, Mom? Or did Dad?”

“No, we haven’t received anything.”

“Which means she must have targeted Ona first,” said Odelia thoughtfully, “and was waiting to target the others until she was sure she could pull it off.”

“Marge has a secret, Max,” said Dooley. “I can see it in her eyes. She looks guilty.”

“She does look guilty, doesn’t she?” I said.

“She’s a bad liar, Max. Some people are good liars, but she’s lousy at it.”

Marge must have overheard us, for she turned to me and said,“You shouldn’t be so quick to judge, Dooley. I have a perfectly good reason to keep my private affairs private.”

“Which is?” I asked, curious now.

But Marge closed her lips and turned away, clearly not prepared to talk.

“Mom, you have to tell me what’s going on,” said Odelia. “This has gone beyond you and Dad’s private lives. We’re in the middle of a murder investigation here.”

“This has got nothing to do with your investigation,” said Marge. “Trust me.”

“I would, but if you don’t tell me, Chase will have to bring you in for questioning. You and Dad.”

Marge shook her head.“I guess that’s what you get when your daughter marries a cop. Your private life isn’t your own anymore. Everything becomes everybody’s business.”

“Why, is it so bad?” asked Odelia quietly, as she touched her mom’s arm.

Marge persisted for a moment, then finally relented.“Okay, fine. If you have to know, I once published a series of short novels under anom the plume.” She squeezed her eyes closed. “The name I used was Kitty Velvet, and the stories were of an erotic nature.”

For a moment, no one spoke, as we digested this revelation. Then Dooley burst into laughter, quickly followed by myself, and even Odelia had a hard time keeping a straight face.

Marge glared at her daughter.“It’s not funny. If word spread about this I’d be the laughingstock of the whole town. People would read the stories and quote them back to me. I have a lot of loyal readers at the library, and they’d have a field day if they knew I once attempted to be a writer.”

“But Mom!” said Odelia. “This is wonderful. I didn’t know you were a writer.”

“I’m not,” said Marge, carefully studying her fingernails. “I only sold a handful of copies, and my reviews were pretty damning. Which is why I don’t want anyone to know about this. I have a reputation to uphold, you know.” She looked anxious all of a sudden. “You won’t tell anyone,will you? I don’t want people to know.”

“I won’t,” Odelia promised. “This has no bearing on the case whatsoever, and I’m sure Chase will agree, and Uncle Alec.”

“God, you’ll have to tell Chase, I guess, and my brother. And before you know it, word will spread and I’ll have to leave town and go and live on the other side of the country. Or Scotland.”

“Why Scotland?”

Marge shrugged.“I’ve always wanted to go, just never had the chance.”

“You won’t have to move to the other side of the country or Scotland, Mom,” Odelia assured her mother. She seemed inordinately pleased with this secret. Which was understandable. She had probably thought the worst, and being responsible for the penning of a few erotic novels didn’t exactly constitute a crime. A crime against literature, maybe, if the novels were that bad, but not punishable by law. “So Kitty Velvet, huh?” she said, grinning widely. “I like the name, Mom. Very saucy.”

“Huh. You’re funny,” Marge said, clearly not happy with this denouement.

“So what kind of novels are they?”

“Remember thoseFifty Shades of Grey books? Well, something like that. Only in my novels he wasn’t called Mr. Grey but Mr. Black.”

“Very original.”

“I never said the novels were good. In fact they’re probably pretty bad.”

“I’ll read them and I’ll give you my personal review,” said Odelia.

Marge puckered up her brow in despair.“Oh, please don’t!”

“But I have to. My mom is a writer, so I have to read them.”

“God, what have I done?” said Marge, shaking her head.

“I’m sure they’re not as bad as all that. I bet they’re great.”

“No, they’re not.”

Odelia was smiling before herself for a moment, then launched into her second inquiry which might be deemed embarrassing.“So what’s Dad’s secret?”

“That’s easy. You know how your dad always claims he was trained by Pete Sampras?”

“He wasn’t?”

Marge shook her head.“He never met Mr. Sampras in his life. He also didn’t go to that posh tennis school he’s always talking about. Instead he took a couple of lessons at the YMCA. Which probably explains why he’s such a terrible player.”

Tex had struck out again, and Glenn was pumping his fist in a victory sign.“Yesss!” the bookstore owner shouted, much to Tex’s dismay. But he showed himself a graceful loser, for he shook Glenn’s hand before stepping off the court.

“I told Odelia about Pete Sampras,” said Marge.

“Oh?” said Tex.

“I had to. They arrested Bereng?ria, who was going to blackmail us.”

“She was, was she?” said Tex as he drew a towel across his face and neck.

“Your name wasn’t on her list, though,” said Odelia. “So looks like you were in the clear.”

“I wasn’t on the blackmailer’s list?” asked Tex, looking disappointed. “But why?”

“I guess your secret wasn’t big enough, honey,” said Marge.

Tex’s lips formed a perfect O, and we all laughed, even Marge. Or should I say Kitty Velvet?

“I want to read Marge’s stories about Mr. Black, too, Max,” said Dooley. “I think she is a much better writer than she’s letting on. I’m very proud of her. And maybe we can even start a reading club. I’m sure Harriet will be excited about reading Marge’s books, too, and maybe Shanille and all the others.”

Alarmed, I looked up at Odelia, who had also heard my friend’s words. I shared a look of understanding with my human, and somehow I had the feeling those Kitty Velvet books would soon be a thing of the past. I don’t know how, but I was quite sure they’d disappear into the mists of time, never to be seen again.

CHAPTER 37

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We were in Uncle Alec’s office, where the Chief had summoned his detective and his niece to give him an update on the case. The Drobas were a prominent family with a lot of clout, and the death of Isobel had reverberated throughout the community and was receiving plenty of attention in the media. And since nobody likes bad publicity, the town council was putting pressure on the mayor to put pressure on the chief of police to find Isobel’s killer and put the case to bed—fast!

And so now Uncle Alec was putting pressure on Chase and Odelia.

“I still think Jason is our guy,” Chase insisted. “Him and Alison both.”

“But he can’t be,” said Odelia. “Mark Devine swears Alison never left the car.”

“He’s lying. No detective engaged in a stakeout keeps his eye on his target all the time. He closes his eyes for a nap, or he reads something on his phone, or orders a pizza and has to pay the delivery guy, or he steps out of the car for a pee.”

“Don’t private detectives pee in bottles?” asked Uncle Alec.

“Look, I don’t care. I’m sure he lost sight of Alison at some point, and that’s when she and the boyfriend crawled up to Isobel’s room and killed her. There’s no other explanation.”

“So what about this blackmailer?” asked the Chief. “This Morat? woman?”

“Possible,” Chase allowed. “But she’s not talking. And we searched her apartment and found no trace of Isobel’s things, or the murder weapon.”

“You didn’t find anything on Rocamora either,” the Chief pointed out.

“Yeah, I know,” Chase sighed, finger-combing his shaggy mane.

“So all you’ve got so far is circumstantial evidence. Nothing concrete.”

Both Chase and Odelia gave the chief of police a sheepish look.

“So what about these stiletto heels? You searched all the rooms?”

“We did. But so far we haven’t found them. Or the murder weapon.”

“Okay, so what about your theory that somehow Gavin Droba is involved? That he had a sex change operation and is one of the guests of his sister-in-law?”

“Gavin Droba died three years ago, Chief, so that’s a dead end, I’m afraid.”

The Chief slammed the desk with a meaty fist, causing us all to jump.“I don’t believe this. You’ve arrested two people, looked at a dozen others, and so far you’ve got absolutely nothing to show for it? I want results, people, results! And I want them yesterday! I’ve got the mayor breathing down my neck—”

“That’s not such a hardship, is it, Chief?” said Chase with a grin. But his boss wasn’t having it.

“Look, just get me Isobel’s killer, will you?” He was eyeing his niece when he said this. “Don’t make me regret putting you on this case, Odelia. I get enough flak as it is for adding a civilian to my team. Don’t prove the naysayers right.”

“I won’t, Uncle Alec,” said Odelia. “I promise.”

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep, honey,” he warned.

She put on a brave face.“We’ll get Isobel’s killer.” She glanced down at me.

“And don’t look at your damn cat!” Uncle Alec cried. “Since when is a cat in charge of a murder inquiry in my town? It’s unnatural! Not to mention illegal! If people found out…” He shook his grizzled head. “Just catch me that killer. Before I lose the rest of my hair.”

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“Uncle Alec didn’t seem very happy, did he, Max?” said Dooley.

“No, he most certainly did not,” I agreed.

“Why is it illegal for a cat to run a murder inquiry, Max?”

“Probably because we don’t have the necessary credentials.”

“What credentials?”

“Well, we didn’t go to the police academy, did we? We didn’t get the badge.”

“I didn’t even know cats could go to the police academy.”

“We can’t. Police academy is for humans only.”

“Too bad. I bet we’d make excellent recruits.”

It was unorthodox, of course, for a cat to assist in a murder inquiry, but from my point of view I was simply trying to help. And if Uncle Alec didn’t appreciate my assistance, I could always abandon my post and leave things as they were.

But once we were back in the car it became apparent that my assistance was still very much appreciated, for Odelia turned to me and asked,“Any ideas, Max? Anything we’re missing?”

“It’s Rocamora, isn’t it?” said Chase. “Somehow he’s bamboozling us.”

“Frankly I have no idea,” I said. “At this point it could be anyone, as far as I can tell. It could be Jason Rocamora, it could be Bereng?ria Morat?, or it could be some unknown burglar who just happened to pick Isobel’s room to burgle that night, and Isobel was in the wrong place at the wrong time.” Though the fact that the killer had carried out such a frenzied attack with a stiletto heel seemed to contradict that particular possibility. That attack seemed personal to me. And also, a house-to-house hadn’t revealed anything suggesting an active burglar.

“We need to have another crack at the Morat? woman,” said Chase. “Though now that she’s lawyering up, she’s unlikely to give us anything.”

“She’s obviously read Isobel’s manuscript,” said Odelia.

“Which suggests she’s the one who took the laptop.”

And as we all chewed on the different possibilities, I wondered about the people still locked up in the house. Maybe it was time to let them go now.

CHAPTER 38

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The arrest of Bereng?ria had thrown Michele’s perfectly ordered life out of whack, or at least the parts of her life that the murder of Isobel hadn’t upended. She still had a house full of guests, who needed to be fed, and she had no idea how to go about it. So when Marge and Vena offered to help prepare dinner, she gratefully accepted. The ladies descended on the kitchen, and started looking through cupboards and checking the fridge preparatory to deciding what to cook for dinner.

“I heard the police discovered that Gavin died,” said Marge as she stood chopping onions, while Michele sniffed from a container filled with a viscous red substance. “I’m so sorry for your loss, Michele.”

“Thanks,” said Michele warmly, appreciating her friend’s kind words. “It wasn’t the police who found Gavin, though, but a private investigator my niece Alison hired.” Alison had always been anxious to find her dad, and now that she had finally succeeded, hopefully she would find some peace knowing he died happy. Or at least successful, operating a chain of restaurants in Belize, of all places.

“You know, I was thinking that maybe your sister-in-law was right after all,” said Vena, engaged in washing and picking apart a head of lettuce in the sink. “Maybe secrets are corrosive, and should be brought out into the open. I mean, I told some people about my biggest secret today, and it wasn’t as bad as I thought.”

“What is your big secret, Vena, if I may ask?” said Marge.

“I once accidentally killed a gerbil,” said Vena. She proceeded to explain the circumstances of the death of this gerbil named Freddie, and Michele had to admit the revelation wasn’t as terrible as Vena had clearly feared. “I carried that secret around with me for years. Afraid it would come out.”

“I once wrote a series of short erotic novels,” Marge blurted out. “I told my daughter today, and my husband last night, and I have to say they took the news well.”

“You should be proud,” said Vena, “not ashamed. Not everyone can write.”

“Judging from my book reviews it’s not obvious that I can write, either.”

Michele smiled at this.“And to think that Bereng?ria was trying to blackmail us with our secrets. She had a whole list, you know. The police found it in her place. She was going to blackmail all of us.”

“I heard about Ona. How she wanted her to pay ten thousand,” said Marge.

“What was her secret?” asked Vena.

“I’m not sure,” said Michele. “She hasn’t told me.”

“You were also on Bereng?ria’s list, Michele?” asked Marge.

“I was, yeah. My secret being that I can’t cook. And of course that my brother-in-law killed my husband seven years ago. Though that wasn’t much of a secret. More like a family skeleton we’d much rather leave in the closet, since it hasn’t done anyone any good.” The case had received a lot of press at the time, even though Michele’s father-in-law had tried to pull a few strings to make sure the press coverage was buried. As it was, the scandal hadn’t damaged the reputation of the Droba Group as much as Bill had feared, or scared away investors and customers. And eventually thestory had gone away. Until Isobel had decided to write about it, and Bereng?ria had tried to make money from it.

“It has to be Bereng?ria who killed Isobel,” said Marge. “Hasn’t it?”

“I don’t know,” said Michele with a sigh. “The police aren’t telling me anything. They’re not even telling my father-in-law, even though he’s already complained to the chief of police, to the mayor, and to every council member who will listen.”

“But they arrested her,” said Vena. “Which means they know something.”

“They know she tried to blackmail Ona,” said Michele. “And that’s it.”

Ona now entered the kitchen, looking bright-faced and happy.“Can I help?” she asked.

“Sure,” said Marge, and assigned the former supermodel to tomato chopping duties. “You’re looking happy today, Ona.”

“That’s because I am,” said the model. “I did something I should have done a long time ago. I talked to my sister,” she explained.

“Well, that’s good, isn’t it?” said Marge kindly.

“It was. There were some things I needed to tell her, and I finally did.”

“And she took it well, I take it?”

“She did, yeah. She took it very well. Much better than I expected.”

The woman was positively radiant, Michele decided, and she was happy for her. At least someone in the house was having good things happen to them.

“And I hear they arrested your blackmailer,” said Vena.

“Yeah. I was there,” said Ona. “I hadn’t expected it to be her, to be honest.”

“I hadn’t expected it to be Bereng?ria either,” said Michele. “She’s worked for me for years. And now this.” Which just goes to show you never really know a person.

“She must have seen an opportunity and taken it,” said Vena.

“But how did she get a hold of Isobel’s book?” asked Ona.

“Which is why it must be her who killed Isobel,” Marge reiterated. “How else did she have Isobel’s book containing all of our secrets? No, it must be her.”

“But if it is her, then why are we still here?” asked Vena. “Why haven’t they let us go?”

Michele shrugged.“Beats me. Nobody tells me anything.”

“Is it true Perlita and Nathan are getting a divorce?” asked Ona, mercifully changing the subject. The death of Isobel was horrible, but incessantly talking about it wasn’t going to bring her back, or allow them to process the terrible events.

“They’ve asked for separate rooms,” said Michele as she studied a piece of veal and wondered how to go about turning it into something edible and perhaps even delicious. “Apparently they were both having an affair with the same woman.”

“Oh, my God!” said Vena, clasping a hand to her face. “No way!”

“Yeah, some artist that Nathan was representing and Perlita was organizing a show for.” Izzy Price had tried to further her career in a most creative way, but had only succeeded in destroying it. “They’re talking through their lawyers.”

“How can they talk through their lawyers when they’re both staying under the same roof?” asked Marge.

“A lot of couples getting a divorce stay under the same roof,” said Vena. “Not because they want to, but because they have to. With real estate prices going through the roof, and rent being as high as it is, not everyone has the luxury of moving out while they put the house up for sale.”

“Maybe they’ll reconcile,” said Ona, who clearly had a romantic streak. “Maybe they’ll realize they still love each other and they’ll get back together.”

“Maybe you should have been a marriage counselor,” said Michele.

“I don’t think so,” said the model with a laugh. “I don’t like lost causes!”

They all laughed at that, even though it wasn’t all that funny. Michele thought about her own boyfriend, and how he’d proposed to her several times already. Only last week he brought up the subject again. But she’d married once, to Dean, and it had ended in tragedy. So she didn’t want to do it again. A silly superstition, maybe, but she didn’t want anything to happen to Chris. You just never knew.

“Okay, so what do I do with this?” she asked, holding up the veal.

“You bake it,” said Ona. “Simple.”

“Simple for you, maybe,” said Michele, frowning darkly at the meat. “Maybe I could put it in the microwave?”

“Oh, my God!” said Ona. “Are you trying to poison us? Here, give it to me.”

And as Michele watched the other ladies busily preparing dinner, she happily took a sip from her Chardonnay.“Anything else I can do?” she asked finally.

“You can bring us some of that,” said Marge, indicating the glass.

“I can do that,” she said. She might not be a great cook, but she could pour a mean glass of white wine. And so soon the others had all been supplied with the same nectar of the gods that was in her own glass, and the lively conversation became even livelier. And when Perlita joined them, and started telling them the story of how she found out that her husband was having an affair, Marge asked if she could write her story. It was exactly the kind of thing Kitty Velvet would like.

CHAPTER 39

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Bereng?ria Morat? had finally decided to talk. A perspicacious cop had found a USB stick wrapped in a plastic freezer bag concealed at the bottom of a flower pot. On the USB stick they’d found Isobel Droba’s manuscript. Confronted with this evidence, the housekeeper cracked, and as Chase sat in front of her, the words rolled from her tongue with the same fervor as her erstwhile reticence.

Dooley had taken up position next to Odelia, and awaited further developments with as much eager anticipation as the detective himself.

“How did you know about the manuscript?” Chase wanted to know.

“I hear sisters talk,” said the housekeeper in her trademark clipped tones. “Loud words—big fight. Michele want no book. Isobel say she want book. I’m curious. So I sneak into Isobel room when she out and copy book on stick. I hurry. I read book and see lots of secrets.”

“And so you decided to make some money by blackmailing people.”

“Not blackmail. I protect secrets. They pay me money for protection.”

“One other thing. Did you write these notes yourself?” he asked, placing the three notes on the desk. “Your English in these notes is excellent.”

The housekeeper beamed at what she considered a compliment.“I look up Google Translate. Good English, yes? I copy words from phone. Good English?”

“Good English, yes,” Chase grunted. “Okay, so you took the book and you blackmailed Ona Konpacka. What else?”

“What else what? Nothing else. I tell you all what else, Mister Policeman!”

“Okay, so what happened on the night of Isobel’s murder? Did you go into her room again? Did she catch you this time?”

“I don’t go into room again. Only go into room one time.” She thought for a moment. “I want go to room again. Book not finished. Book not ready. Only part of book on computer. I want rest of book, but Isobel not leave room so no chance.”

“How do you know you only had part of the book?”

“Book say part one, part two, part three, part four. Ten parts. Only four parts on stick.” She thunked her head. “Stupid me. I hurry, and now only four parts of book.”

“So you missed a trick,” said Chase, leaning back.

“I miss six parts of book,” said Bereng?ria, showing us she could count as well as blackmail people. She held up six fingers. “Six parts. Silly me.”

“Okay, so here’s what I think happened,” said Chase. “You discovered that you’d only downloaded a part of the manuscript, so you wanted the rest also. You wanted the entire book, so you could blackmail a lot more people. You knew you had gold in your hands, only you wanted more gold—youwanted all the gold.”

“I want all gold, yes,” Bereng?ria confirmed. “I like gold.”

“So you went back into Isobel’s room.”

“I no go back. Isobel in room.”

“She was, but you were hoping she wasn’t.”

The woman frowned.“She was in room.”

“Yeah, but you didn’t know that. You wanted the rest of that book. Youneeded the rest of that book. And so you took a chance. You took a risk. You went back to download the final parts, only this time Isobel caught you red-handed.”

Bereng?ria held up her hands. “Hands not red. Hands pink.”

“Isobel caught you in the act,” Chase went on doggedly.

“Act? What act?”

“And so you hit her. You hit her on the head and killed her. And as if that wasn’t enough, you stomped on her with your stiletto heels until you were sure she was dead. What size shoes do you wear? Never mind, we’ve got your shoe collection.” He checked his notes, and something didn’t seem to compute for he frowned. “What did you do with the shoes, Bereng?ria? Mh? And the club?”

“Club? What club?”

“The club you used to kill Isobel!” Chase suddenly thundered.

But Bereng?ria wasn’t impressed. She grinned at the cop. “You very angry man, Mr. Policeman. Maybe you kill Isobel. You kill Isobel with big club and big shoe!”

“Where are the shoes, Bereng?ria! What did you do with them!”

“I wear shoe. What else?”

“And the club?”

“Tennis club?”

“No, not tennis club. The club you used to club Isobel to death.”

“No club. No play tennis,” said the woman with a curt shake of the head.

“He’s not getting anywhere, is he, Max?” said Dooley.

“No, not exactly,” I agreed. “And I have the impression that Bereng?ria’s shoe size doesn’t match up with the footprints they found on Isobel’s body either.”

Dooley’s eyes traveled to the housekeeper’s feet. They were big feet, for a woman her size. Much bigger, presumably, than the stilettos the killer wore when he or she used them to kill their victim.

“I don’t think she did it,” said Dooley. “She’s a blackmailer, not a killer.”

“I think you’re right, Dooley,” I agreed. “I don’t think she’s our killer.”

“Me no killer,” Bereng?ria confirmed when Chase tried to press her once again. “Me not angry person. Me like people. Like Isobel. She good person. Nice person.”

Except she’d caused a lot of trouble for a lot of people, Isobel had. By insisting she reveal their secrets, even though they had told them to her in confidence. And in doing so, she had sealed her own fate.

“Okay, let’s try a different tack,” said Chase. “Where were you on the night Isobel was killed, Bereng?ria?”

“Visit friend.”

“Friend? What friend?”

“Friend reporter. Sell book.”

“You were visiting a reporter so you could sell Isobel’s book?”

“Big scoop,” said Bereng?ria. “Big money. Reporter very happy.”

“What’s the name of this reporter?” asked Chase. “And what time was this, exactly?”

“One o’clock,” said Bereng?ria. “I not want Michele see me leave house. I sneak out middle of night to see reporter. Reporter happy to see me. Happy with book.”

“Name of this reporter?”

“Dan Goory. Big reporter.”

Chase jerked his head up, and looked at Odelia, or at least where he thought Odelia would be, behind the one-way mirror. Odelia, too, was surprised by this piece of news. Dan Goory was her boss, after all, and editor of theHampton Cove Gazette.

“You tried to sell Isobel’s book to Dan Goory? Dan Goory of theGazette?” Chase wanted to know.

“Yes, Dan Goory Gazette. Good newspaper. Good for English. I study. Read Gazette and Odelia Poole. Good reporter. Good language. I learn and study.” She nodded with satisfaction and crossed her arms in front of her chest. “You happy now, angry policeman? I tell you all. No more secrets.”

To say that Chase was happy would be an overstatement. He did look surprised, though, or even flabbergasted. And as he left the interview room to confer with Odelia, I had the impression our next port of call was theGazette.

CHAPTER 40

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Dan wasn’t surprised to see us. In fact I had the impression the aged editor had been expecting us. His white beard waggled in a non-existent breeze as he placed his hands flat on his desk, regarding his visitors keenly.

“Yes, Bereng?ria Morat? came to see me. In the middle of the night, no less. But when she said it was the only time we could meet, and she had something very interesting to show me, I decided I would gladly give up my sleep for a chance to publish something truly remarkable: a sneak preview of Isobel Droba’s biography. Only when she arrived, and showed me the manuscript, I realized she wasn’t Isobel’s official emissary, as she had somehow managed to convey, but had actually stolen the book from her employer without Isobel’s permission.”

“So what did you do?” asked Odelia anxiously.

“I told her no deal, of course,” said Dan. “You know me, Odelia. I’m the old-fashioned kind of newspaperman. I don’t go around paying for stolen property. My impression was that Bereng?ria represented Isobel, and when I discovered that wasn’t the case, I told her the deal was off the table, and threatened to tell Isobel. She wanted money, of course. Twenty-five thousand for the first part of the manuscript, and another twenty-five for the second part, which she said she could get any time. But I told her no dice. I deleted the manuscript from my computer, and sent the woman packing.”

“And then you never had the chance to tell Isobel, because she was murdered that same night,” said Chase, nodding.

“Yeah, unfortunately she was. Imagine my surprise when I heard the news in the morning.”

“So why didn’t you tell us?” asked Odelia. “You could have saved us a lot of trouble.”

“But I did tell you,” said Dan. “I wrote you an email.”

“You did?” asked Odelia, taking out her phone. She did some deft finger work and moments later produced a soft gasp. “God, Dan, you’re right. And I missed it.”

“That’s all right. You’ve been pretty busy, haven’t you? Up to your ears in this murder business. How is the investigation going? Any news?”

“We’re being led from one dead end to another,” said Odelia.

“I know the feeling,” said the editor sympathetically.

“Just to be sure: what time did you meet with Bereng?ria?” asked Chase.

“Two nights ago at one o’clock. Here in my office. The meeting lasted one hour.” He arched a bushy white eyebrow when Odelia and Chase both groaned in dismay. “Another dead end?” When they nodded dejectedly, he smiled. “My apologies.”

[Êàðòèíêà: img_4]

While Odelia and Chase strengthened their tissues by having a bite to eat, Dooley and I wandered over to the General Store to have a chat with Kingman and strengthen our own tissues. Wilbur Vickery is one of those lucky people who have salespeople of every possible description representing all the known and even unknown brands knocking on his door and offering him their wares, and among those salespeople are plenty who have dog and cat food to share.

And since Wilbur is essentially a warmhearted and generous person, he doesn’t mind sharing his wealth with Kingman and Kingman’s friends. Also, who’s the best judge of cat food? Not Wilbur, since humans aren’t the primary target audience for Purina or Sheba, or even that Hill’s Science stuff. So Kingman ends up the designated guinea pig, sampling every new brandon the market.

Lucky for us we only need one sniff to know if something is up to snuff. And the stuff Wilbur had on offer today passed the sniffing test with flying colors. After the morning we’d had—with several disappointments in the sleuthing department—we were famished, and ate our fill while Kingman watched on.

“I don’t like it so much,” he said. “But then I’m not big on fish.”

“Don’t pull my leg, Kingman,” I said. “All cats like fish.”

“Not me. I’m not a big fan of fish. Tastes fishy to me.”

I couldn’t tell if he was joking or not, so I refrained from comment. Besides, I was too busy scarfing down my fill of fish nuggets.

“So where is Brutus?” asked the big cat, glancing around nervously.

“Home,” I said curtly.

“Not investigating with the rest of you?”

“Brutus is depressed,” said Dooley.

“Why? What does he have to be depressed about?”

“The fact that you’re having an affair with Harriet,” I said.

“But I’m not!” Kingman cried. “How many times do I have to tell you! I’m not having an affair with Harriet. Not that I don’t want to, obviously. But there’s only one tom for Harriet and that’s Brutus. No idea why, but there you have it. Harriet loves Brutus, and nothing I say or do will convince her otherwise.”

“So you have tried?” I asked, giving him a censorious glance.

“Oh, absolutely. No harm in that, is there? But no such luck, fellas. The lady is devoted.” He sighed as he placed his large head on his front paws. “So why Brutus should be depressed is beyond me, to be honest. He’s managed to ensnare Hampton Cove’s prettiest and most lovely queen, the lucky bastard.”

He seemed sincere enough, so I decided to press him a little further.“So why have you and Harriet been meeting in secret?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Max.”

Now I knew he was lying. Something was going on, and if he wasn’t having an affair with the fair lady, then what? But no matter how I pressed him on the matter, he wouldn’t budge. Sworn to secrecy by Harriet, no doubt.

“We’re your oldest friends, Kingman. You have to tell us.”

“I don’t have to tell you anything, Max,” he said snippily. “And besides, what’s it to you?”

“I’m concerned about Brutus’s wellbeing,” I said.

“Or you could admit that you’re a nosy busybody.”

“These nuggets are delicious, Kingman,” said Dooley.

“I’m glad you like them. If you hadn’t eaten them, Wilbur would have chucked them in the bin.”

Upon hearing that, Dooley and I redoubled our efforts to square away the rest of the provisions. I’m a cat who believes in not looking a gift horse in the mouth, you see, even if that mouth belongs to a fish nugget and not a horse.

“So about Brutus,” I reiterated. “Did you—”

“Brad Pitt was in here yesterday,” Kingman interrupted me, clearly having had enough of this Brutus and Harriet business.

“Brad Pitt!” Dooley cried. “What was he doing here?”

“Shopping for groceries, I presume. Even Brad Pitt has to eat, Dooley.”

“I know, but I just figured he’d have people doing his shopping for him.”

“Anyway,” said Kingman, who didn’t like being interrupted when he was telling one of his tall tales. “So Brad Pitt walks into the store, and he’s wearing one of those long smelly raggedy overcoats. As if he picked it straight out of a dumpster. His hair is a mess, he’s got this unruly beard, and generally he’s looking like a bum. And he starts taking stuff from the racks, and stuffing it into his pockets. So Wilbur figures he actually is a bum, and he grabs him and throws him out!”

“He didn’t recognize him?”

“No, sir, he did not. Wilbur is probably the only shop owner who’s ever kicked a movie star out of his shop after mistaking him for a bum. So ten minutes later a big limo pulls to a stop in front of the store, and Brad Pitt steps out and walks up to Wilbur. He takes a hundred-dollar bill out ofhis wallet and stuffs it into Wilbur’s shirt pocket. Wilbur, too stunned for speech, just goggles at the man. ‘Just a small token of my appreciation,’ says Pitt. Turns out he’s playing the role of a hobo in his next movie, and he was doing research. Wilbur kicking him out gave him exactly the experience he needed to capture the essence of the part. He’s even giving Wilbur a credit in the movie. As a consultant! And even after all of that, Wilbur still didn’t recognize the guy! It was only when several customers came up to him and asked him about it, that the penny finally dropped.And now he’s kicking himself. Says he should have asked for a selfie, which he could have used as free publicity for the shop. The silly ass.”

As Kingman was telling the story, a penny dropped inside my own noggin. And now it was me goggling at Kingman, before thanking him profusely.

“You’re welcome!” Kingman yelled after me as I hurried off. “Can you at least tell me what you’re thanking me for! Max? Come back here, buddy! I’ll tell you Harriet’s big secret!”

CHAPTER 41

[Êàðòèíêà: img_2]

That night, Bereng?ria was pottering about her apartment. The police had finally decided to let her go, since apparently they didn’t have anything on her to keep her locked up. She would have to face charges on the blackmail business she was engaged in, but she was free pending a trial, the police figuring she wasn’t a flight risk. And she wasn’t. Where would she go? Her home was here, in Hampton Cove, even though she was now going to have a difficult time of it.

The apartment was a mess, but then the police had searched it thoroughly, looking high and low for evidence of the murder they had assumed she committed. Drawers had been pulled out, clothes strewn on the floor, her mattress had been cut open, her precious books were all over the place. It was terrible. Just such a big, big mess. It would take her days to clean it all up. Not to mention she would have to buy a new mattress. She wondered if the police would pay for the damage. She didn’t think they would.

The story of her arrest had spread throughout the community like crazy, of course, and now that she was released, that particular piece of news had probably spread just as fast, the entire neighborhood now being aware of a criminal in their midst. She would have to move to a different part of town maybe, her landlord probably not happy that the apartment had been trashed, and that her tenant was a criminal.

She’d cleaned up a little, had prepared herself some dinner, and was now sitting in her living room, her feet tucked underneath her, watching television and sipping from a cup of hot cocoa and nibbling from a chocolate chip cookie. The light in the room was subdued, with only a small lamp next to the TV set providing illumination, and shadows played across the wall behind her, like a pantomime in black and white.

Her eyes slowly drooped closed. It had been a long and eventful day, with the arrest, and the subsequent interrogations, and finally being brought home in a police car, which was enough to telegraph to the neighborhood that she was in legal trouble—if the story of her arrest wasn’t enough for that. The whole thing would be in the papers tomorrow, no doubt, splashed across the front page. And on social media. Maybe she would even have to delete her Facebook page.

And as she slowly nodded off, suddenly she thought she heard a squeaking sound. As if a window was being opened. She glanced in the direction of the kitchen, but saw nothing out of the ordinary. After a while, the hot cocoa did its soothing work, and she was drifting off again.

And that’s when her head was suddenly yanked back violently, and her breath was caught in her throat! She wanted to yell out, but her larynx was being squeezed shut by whoever was behind her, strangling her! She tried to insert her fingers between the piece of string or cord and her neck, but it was no use.

Whoever the killer was, she was no match for the powerful arms and hands. Almost as if her neck was caught in a vise!

But just as she was on the verge of passing out, the room was suddenly ablaze with light, and the sound of loud voices filled the air. The vicious and deadly pull on her throat dropped away, and she fell forward. And as she glanced behind her, gratefully sucking air into her lungs again, she saw that a masked figure was fighting a losing struggle with that big and burly cop who had arrested her.

More cops stormed into the room, clamoring loudly, and dragged the masked killer away from her and down to the ground, securing their hands behind their back. The mask was yanked off, and much to her surprise, she found herself staring into the face of… her employer!

She almost didn’t recognize Michele, the woman’s features contorted in anger as they were, but it was definitely her. But why? Why was she trying to kill her?

She would have asked the question, but her throat was still painful and sore. But then that other woman who’d apprehended her that afternoon joined her on the couch, and was speaking words of comfort, and said that a doctor was coming, and was muttering apologies and saying they should have gotten there sooner.

“But why?” she finally managed to croak hoarsely. “Why me?”

And that, it seemed, was quite a long story.

CHAPTER 42

[Êàðòèíêà: img_2]

We were all gathered in Marge and Tex’s backyard, though the atmosphere was a little strained, I found. Harriet, for one, wasn’t her usual ebullient self, and had hardly said a word all afternoon. And Gran was also acting a little strange, with her frequent outbursts inquiring about the whereabouts of little Grace! It spooked her daughter and granddaughter, who were wondering if the old lady’s faculties were waning.

Brutus, meanwhile, was lying next to Dooley and me on the porch swing, looking like something the cat dragged in. What particular cat had done the dragging, I couldn’t say, but he was even refusing food, which was a first.

And so with a morose Brutus on our left, and a subdued Harriet on our right, I was feeling the strain. And since nobody was asking me about the case, it was up to Odelia to tell the others about the stunning events that had taken place the night before. Charlene was there, of course, seated next to Uncle Alec, and providing a captive audience. And so was Scarlett Canyon, Gran’s friend, who sat listening with gleaming eyes.

Tex and Marge had finally returned from their tennis week, and looked happy to be home again, and to be able to sleep in their own bed. The fact that they’d spent almost a week in the company of a murderer probably added to their relief.

“I don’t get it,” said Charlene. “Why did Michele kill her sister-in-law? Was it because Gavin had killed Michele’s husband seven years ago? Out of revenge?”

“Well, that’s exactly it,” said Odelia. “It wasn’t Dean who was killed by Gavin. It was the other way around. Dean killed Gavin, and then fled the country.”

“I don’t understand,” said Marge. “Michele’s husband killed Isobel’s husband?”

“Exactly. And it was as Michele had said: the two brothers had been quarreling, mainly about the state of the company, which was on the verge of being snapped up in a hostile takeover, and was in bad financial shape. Gavin blamed Dean, and Dean blamed Gavin. But the truth of the matter is that the economy wasn’t doing them any favors, and Bill stepping back had spooked some of the investors, and also some of their major clients, who’d canceled contracts.”

“Always a tricky moment, when a company passes from one generation to the next,” Uncle Alec said as he eyed the salad on his plate and didn’t seem to like what he saw. Charlene had put him on a diet again, and he wasn’t happy about it.

“Yeah, so the two brothers got into an argument that night, and things got violent, with some pushing and shoving. And that’s when Gavin fell and hit the edge of Dean’s desk, and died.”

“Involuntary manslaughter,” the Chief grumbled unhappily as he put a piece of lettuce into his mouth and grimaced.

“The problem was that Gavin’s death would have meant the end of the Droba Group for sure,” Odelia continued her tale. “Dean would have gone to jail, and the group would have collapsed, and become a sitting duck for this corporate raider. So that’s when Dean came up with the idea of the switch. He was the one with the very lavish life insurance contract to his name. So what if he was the one who was killed? That way Michele could collect the money, invest it in the group, and refinance the company so they could ward off that hostile takeover business.”

“And so that’s what they did,” said Chase, munching on a nice chicken wing, unfazed by Uncle Alec’s envious stares. “Dean was declared dead, and ‘Gavin’ fled the country, and since both Michele and Isobel had been present at the scene, they were the only ones, apart from Dean, who knew what had really happened. Michele identified the dead man as her husband Dean, and Isobel testified that her husband Gavin had accidentally killed his brother, and had escaped justice.”

“Did Bill know?” asked Marge.

“Michele claims he didn’t,” said Odelia. “But I find that very unlikely. He must have had some involvement. It was his personal jet that was used to whisk Dean away, and Dean was able to set himself up as some kind of local real estate king in Belize, so he must have received a sizable sum of money—possibly from his dad.”

“But Michele denies everything, and so does Bill,” said Chase. “And we can’t prove it, so…” He shrugged, and munched some more on that chicken wing, juice dripping down his chin, with the Chief looking on, transfixed and licking his lips.

“Okay, so why would Michele wait seven years to kill her sister-in-law? And why kill her at all?” asked Charlene.

Tex, who was manning the grill, waved his tongs.“The book, right? It must have been the book.”

“It was the book,” Odelia confirmed. “You see, Isobel had taken the death of her husband hard, and had started drinking. And it was only after becoming sober again that she realized she would never be able to get over Gavin’s death unless the truth of what had actually happened was revealed. But when she told Michele what she planned to do, she was livid. Michael was gearing up to take over control of the group, and if it transpired that his dad was a murderer, not only would the insurance company kick up a fuss, and demand their money back, but Bill might be implicated, and Michele, and by extension Michael as well. And the last thing Michele wanted was for her son to get caught up in Dean’s terrible mistake.”

“And so to protect her son, Michele decided that Isobel had to die,” said Chase, offering Uncle Alec a piece of chicken, fresh from the bone. The Chief’s hand slowly stole out, but then he caught Charlene’s look of disapproval, and he quickly retracted the hand, and shook his head. Instead he picked up a pickle.

“So it was Michele who used her stiletto on her sister-in-law?” asked Marge.

“Yes, she did. First she knocked Isobel over the head with a baseball bat that used to belong to Dean, and then she expended her rage on the woman by stomping on her several times, making sure she was dead. It was a frenzied attack, and shows just how mad she was with Isobel for wanting to destroy Michael’s future by dragging up the past.”

“Michele never liked Isobel,” said Chase. “She told us as much. Said she was a weak and annoying whiny person, not fit to carry the proud Droba name. She was a disappointment to them all, and she was glad she was dead. Good riddance, were her exact words.”

“Who wants meatballs!” Tex cried as he carried up a plate of the delicious treats.

“Ooh, I love a tasty meatball!” said Dooley.

“I thought you were a vegetarian?” Brutus grunted.

“I am a vegetarian, which is why I eat meatballs,” said Dooley, showcasing his own unique brand of logic.

“So why did Michele attack Bereng?ria?” asked Charlene.

“Because we had told her that we were releasing Bereng?ria,” said Chase. “And we also told her that Bereng?ria was definitely in possession of Isobel’s full manuscript, but we hadn’t been able to find it so far. But we were hoping that Bereng?ria would decide to cooperate, and share the manuscript with us.”

“And of course Michele couldn’t have that,” said Odelia. “So she set out to kill Bereng?ria, and make sure the manuscript was buried forever.”

“You set her up,” said Charlene.

“We did,” Chase confirmed. “We told Michele and the others they were free to go, but we hadn’t expected her to move so fast. Lucky for us—and Bereng?ria—we got there just in time.”

“So… the man who died in Belize was Dean Droba, and not Gavin?” asked Scarlett. She had been darting looks of concern at her friend Vesta, who hadn’t said a word all afternoon, and just sat there with a sort of glazed look in her eyes.

“Yes, he was,” Odelia confirmed.

“Did Michele know that her husband had died?”

“Yes, she did. They had kept in touch. And Michele regularly sent him pictures of the kids, especially Michael of whom Dean was particularly proud. But she said their marriage had run its course long before he left for Belize. He wasn’t exactly known for his faithfulness, and she said he was having affairs all through their married life. So his death wasn’t a great loss for her.”

“It will come as a big shock to Michael and his sister,” said Marge. “All these years they thought their dad was dead. And now all of a sudden it turns out that he was alive until three years ago.”

“Same thing goes for Alison,” said Charlene. “The dad she thought had fled to Belize in fact died seven years ago and was buried under his brother’s headstone.”

They were all quiet for a moment, as they thought about the fateful ruse Dean had orchestrated, with or without his father’s assistance, and the wide-ranging ramifications, which reverberated until this day, and probably far beyond.

“Okay, so what’s going on with you?” asked Odelia finally, addressing her grandmother. “You haven’t said a word all afternoon, except to ask about Grace.”

“Where is Grace!” Gran cried, coming out of her stupor.

“Grace is right there!” said Odelia, pointing to the little girl, who was playing on the porch.

“Oh,” said Gran, and retreated into her shell once more.

“Are you all right, Vesta?” asked Chase with concern. “You don’t look so hot.”

Gran suddenly emerged from her lethargy.“Don’t look so hot? You’ve got some nerve, sonny boy, talking to an old lady like that.”

“No, it’s just that I thought… that I figured… that I wondered…”

“What Chase is trying to say,” said Uncle Alec, “is if you’ve finally lost your last marble.”

Gran’s frowned. “Now what a thing to say to your beloved mother.”

“But it’s true! You haven’t been yourself, Ma. So what’s wrong, huh?”

“Nothing is wrong,” said Gran. “Just that I’ve been on a mission, that’s all.”

“What mission? What are you talking about?”

“A mission to try and make you see the light!”

“What light? Stop talking in riddles, will you!”

“Just look at that poor little girl, being dumped at that stupid daycare. You should be ashamed of yourselves, all of you! Children should be raised by their families, not by some strangers, surrounded by the whiny brats of other people.”

“Those whiny brats are all friends of Grace now, Gran,” said Odelia.

“That’s right,” said Chase. “She loves going to the daycare center.”

“No, she doesn’t. She has no other choice, cause you dump her there like an animal left at the pound. You even forget she exists, which is why I’ve been trying to scare you into remembering that you even have a daughter!”

“That’s not fair, Ma,” said Marge. “Odelia and Chase have been busy.”

“They’re always busy! And forgetting they’ve got a duty to their daughter!”

“A lot of working parents have kids, Ma. And they’re doing just fine.”

“Well, I wanted you both to stop and think for a minute. Odelia could give up that job of hers right now if she wanted to. Newspapers are a thing of the past anyway. People get their news from social media these days, not from a silly paper. And as far as Chase is concerned, Alec can find himselfanother detective. It’s not safe for a dad to hobnob with criminals. Too dangerous! And the same goes for Odelia. So Odelia, quit your job, and Chase: get a desk job and work from home.”

“Chase is not a desk jockey, Ma,” Uncle Alec grunted irritably.

“Well, he should be. Much safer that way, and at least Grace will know who her dad is. Imagine her waking up one day when she’s eighteen and wondering if her dad is the guy running the daycare center.”

“I doubt she’ll be at the daycare center when she’s eighteen,” said Odelia.

“You know what I mean. A child needs her parents. It’s important.”

“I know it’s important, Gran,” said Odelia. “And we’re trying the best we can. But Grace also needs a roof over her head, and food on the table, and if I quit my job, and Chase takes a job he can do from home, how are we going to pay the bills? We’re simply trying to balance work and family. It’s not easy, but we’re committed to doing the best we can. With your help, of course, and Mom and Dad.”

“Money is not an object,” said Gran airily. “It will come from somewhere.”

“Unless Odelia wins the lottery, I doubt that very much,” said Marge.

“Can I say something?” said Scarlett. “I’ve been watching Vesta this past week. She told me what she was planning, and I told her it was probably a bad idea, like a lot of her ideas. But Vesta being Vesta, she went ahead and did it anyway.”

“Of course,” said Gran.

“Look, I think you all love Grace very much. And you all want what’s best for her. Each of you in your own way. And naturally there will be differences of opinion. But at the end of the day, I think it’s important for you to understand, Vesta, that Chase and Odelia are great parents, trying hard to do the right thing.”

“I’m not disputing that,” said Gran with a shrug.

“So maybe work out some kind of schedule. Some days Vesta can take care of Grace, and some days I can. And some days she can go to daycare. It takes a village to raise a child, and I think that if you all sit down and talk about this, you’ll see that it’s not that hard to work something out.”

“Isn’t that what we’re doing right now?” said Charlene.

“Yeah, I guess it is,” said Gran. “Which is all I ever wanted.”

And as the discussion turned lively, Uncle Alec took advantage of the m?l?e to sneak a piece of chicken onto his plate and then into his mouth.

“Why is it so hard to raise a child, Max?” asked Dooley. “I mean, cats don’t make such a big fuss, do they? They don’t have daycare centers and concerned grandparents and aunts and uncles worrying over their every step.”

“Cats are born pretty much fully formed, Dooley,” I said. “With humans it takes years before they’re ready to go out into the world. And even then it’s touch and go sometimes.” I shrugged. “Let’s face it. Cats are the superior species.” Okay, perhaps I was being a little harsh on our humans. But then I was disappointed that neither Odelia or Chase had credited me with providing the breakthrough that had solved their big murder inquiry. But then wasn’t that often the case?

But before I could grump some more, Odelia approached, and placed some delicious pieces of glistening hot meatball in front of us. She then patted me on the head and said,“You did great, Max. Another case solved, and we couldn’t have done it without you. Thanks, buddy.”

“Yeah, thanks, Max!” Chase said, raising his glass to me.

And before I knew it, they were all raising their glasses to me, and thanking me for my most valuable contribution.

“Oh, you guys,” I said, wiping away a tear.

Okay, so maybe humans are not so bad after all.

[Êàðòèíêà: img_4]

Later that night, to celebrate a job well done, the four of us went down to the park, this time not to catch a blackmailer, but to join cat choir. Brutus was walking behind us, and Harriet was walking in front of us, and the couple hadn’t spoken now for days, it seemed. Frankly I won’t conceal the fact that I was worried.

“How are we going to reconcile these two, Max?” asked Dooley.

“I have no idea,” I said. I might be a good detective, but this case was too hard for me to solve.

We soon arrived at cat choir, and to my surprise, the members of dog choir were also present: Rufus, Fifi, and the others, all gathered in the playground.

Harriet quickly took up her position at the center of cat choir, a big smile on her face, and the moment Brutus finally showed up, dragging his paws, suddenly the entire choir erupted in a loud and cheerful,“Happy birthday, Brutus!”

And before the big cat knew what was happening, Harriet streaked forward, and placed a big smackeroo on his lips and said,“Happy birthday, boo bear!”

“But, but, but…” Brutus stuttered.

And he was still recovering from the surprise, when the two choirs burst into song, singing C?line Dion’sThat’s The Way It Is, with Harriet taking care of the high notes, and the dogs doing those low ones that make all the difference.

When all was said and done, Brutus had been reduced to a blubbering mess of tears and gratitude, and was stammering,“Y-y-you guys!”

“That’s why I was meeting with Kingman and Shanille,” said Harriet as she gave her mate a loving nudge. “I was cooking up a surprise for your birthday!”

“Oh, baby girl!”

“Oh, little muppet!”

“Oh, kit kat!”

“Oh, chickadee!”

“God,” I muttered. And as Harriet and Brutus went and settled down so they could talk some more, I asked Shanille, “Why didn’t you tell us, though? Brutus is our friend.”

“I wanted to tell you,” said Shanille. “But Harriet swore us to secrecy. She said you and Dooley are the best friends any cat could hope to have, but you have one big problem: you can’t keep a secret.”

“I can too keep a secret!” I cried, much offended.

“I also wanted to tell you, Max,” said Kingman.

“And me,” said Fifi.

“And me,” said Rufus.

“Don’t tell me. Harriet didn’t want you to.”

“Strict embargo,” said Rufus.

“She made us promise,” said Fifi.

“She made us swear on the heads of our children!” said Kingman.

“You don’t have any children, Kingman,” I said.

“Maybe I have, maybe I don’t. It’s a secret and I’ll never tell, Max.”

It made me wonder. Did Harriet have a point? Did I have a problem keeping things a secret? I didn’t think so. Or did I?

But the occasion was too festive to fret, and soon I joined in the revels, as Brutus was being f?ted by the entire Hampton Cove cat community, with selected representatives from the canine contingent. Fun was being had by all, and that was good enough for me. Maybe I wouldn’t have been able to keep my mouth shut. Maybe watching Brutus suffer would have been too much for me to bear, and I would have put him out of his misery by revealing the big secret. Who knows?

“I think we can keep a secret, Max,” said Dooley at the end of the night, when we were making our way back to the old homestead. “But sometimes we choose not to, because not keeping it is better than keeping it. We’re smart that way.”

“You think so?”

“Oh, sure. You’re very smart, Max. And sometimes secrets aren’t worth keeping, if a person is suffering because of it. Like with Brutus this week.”

I smiled at my friend. He was right. Sometimes revealing a secret is the right thing to do. And sometimes it isn’t. And knowing the difference is the big trick.

“So maybe you can finally tell usyour secret, Brutus,” I said.

“Yes, cuddle bug,” said Harriet. “What’s your big secret?”

Brutus smiled.“It’s not much of a secret, really, except…”

“Except? Come on, babes, don’t keep us in suspense.”

“Okay, here goes.” He took a deep breath. “When I squint my eyes, my butt itches.”

We all stared at him.“That’s your big secret?”

Brutus shrugged.“I told you it wasn’t much.”

“Can you demonstrate, Brutus?” asked Dooley. “Just to give us an idea?”

And so Brutus gave his best Clint Eastwood impersonation, then scratched his butt to prove his point.

Dooley was laughing his own butt off.“Best. Secret. Ever!” he said.

We’d arrived home, and jumped up on the low wall that borders the front yard. Harriet and Brutus gazing up at the full moon and mooning over each other. And Dooley wondering if the moon was made of cheese, and if it was, how it tasted. And me? I was happy to be in the company of such great friends.Cause if Harriet thought I couldn’t be trusted with a secret, out of fear I’d tell Brutus, what she was really saying was that I loved my friends so much I couldn’t see them suffer.

And when you come right down to it, that’s quite a compliment, isn’t it?

56. PURRFECT BOUQUET

CHAPTER 1

Cat choir is one of those laid-back affairs I very much look forward to each and every day. In fact if it weren’t for cat choir, I don’t know if my life would be half as enjoyable as it is now. Now don’t be fooled by the addition of the word ‘choir’ in cat choir. I know it looks like a choir when a bunch of cats get together to mewl and meow and generally make a huge caterwauling nuisance of themselves, but in actual fact the singing is a mere excuse for us to socialize and shoot the breeze.

And so it was that the sun had finally set on a glorious day, and that our humans were getting ready to go to bed. Teeth were being brushed, the closing credits on movies and TV shows were rolling, curtains were being pulled, and amid all this hubbub and activity, cats were using the opportunity to gobble up those final pieces of kibble, emptying those bowls before leaving the house and making their trek to the local park. Some of them made a detour, to chase some critter or sharpen those claws on some nearby tree, but in due course Hampton Cove’s cat population made its way en masse to the place to be: cat choir.

For as long as I remember, Shanille has led cat choir and has done an excellent job at it, too. Shanille is Father Reilly’s cat, you see, and since St. John’s Church boasts a long choral tradition, she must have gotten the idea from the great man himself. And very creative she is, too. Always has some new songs she wants us to try out, some new ideas she’s come up with. In fact it isn’t too much to say that Shanille lives and breathes cat choir. In other words: she is cat choir personified.

Which is why it came as something of a shock to us when we arrived at the park and discovered that Shanille wasn’t amongst those present at all!

We rehearse in the park’s playground, you see. During the daytime the place is filled with the sounds of frolicking kids having fun, but at night it’s our turn, much to the neighbors’ chagrin, I might add. Oddly enough the same category of people who hate kids also seem to hate cats, but still prefer living in houses overlooking playgrounds and places where kids and cats like to gather. I guess they must be closet masochists, but don’t quote me on that since I’m not a licensed shrink.

As I looked around now, I saw that the jungle gym was there, and so was the seesaw, the swing and the merry-go-round, but of our illustrious and indefatigable conductor there was not a single trace—Shanille was late!

“Where is Shanille, Max?” asked Dooley, who’d also become aware of the marked absence of one usually so undeniably and emphatically present.

“I have no idea,” I admitted.

“Maybe she’s been delayed,” Brutus suggested.

“Or maybe she’s sick,” Harriet said, a touch of hope in her voice.

Harriet and Shanille’s relationship may best be described as fraught with a certain measure of rivalry. They both consider themselves Hampton Cove’s First Feline Females or FFF’s, and as we all know you can’t have two FFF’s, the same way you only have one BFF. Their former enmity has morphed into a tenuous truce, especially since they both have important roles to play that they’ve claimed for their own: Shanille as cat choir’s fearless leader and grande dame and Harriet as its lead soprano, also known as its prima donna.

I guess you could argue that you can’t have two divas in the same ensemble, but so far Shanille and Harriet have managed to make it work. In a sense.

“I bet she’ll show up soon,” I said, trying to take the optimistic view.

“And I’ll bet she’s home being sick as a dog,” said Harriet with relish.

“Why do they always say ‘sick as a dog,’ Max?” asked Dooley. “Why not sick as a cat, or sick as a rabbit? Is it because dogs are more often sick than we are?”

“I’m not sure,” I said. The matter wasn’t my top priority at that moment. Locating Shanille was. For a choir without a conductor isn’t much of a choir at all.

“If she doesn’t show up soon, we won’t have a choir tonight!” said Brutus.

“She’ll show up,” I said. “She has to.” In all the time I’d known her, Shanille had never missed a rehearsal even once.

“Do you think we can be sick as dogs?” asked Dooley, who liked to march to the beat of his own drum. “Cats aren’t dogs. So we can’t be sick like dogs, can we?”

“No, I guess we can’t,” I said.

“We can be ‘sick as a cat,’” he continued. “But not ‘sick as a dog’ or ‘sick as a rabbit,’ or even ‘sick as a mouse.’ It just stands to reason, doesn’t it?”

“It does,” I said, though I was starting to find this conversation a little trying.

“Oh, there she is,” said Brutus, as a feline female hove into view.

“That’s not Shanille,” said Harriet. “That’s Samantha.”

“Oh, right.”

And so the long wait began. I’m not sure if you know this, but not all cats possess the virtue of patience. Harriet, for one, most definitely does not, and neither does Brutus. Dooley, because he often inhabits an alternate universe, is better equipped to deal with these matters. As for myself, I find that it helps if you think of something else entirely. And so I started to imagine what I would find in my food bowl when we got home that night. Odelia likes to change things up, you see. She knows that always eating the same thing gets tedious after a while.

“Look, it’s Kingman,” said Brutus, causing me to emerge from that perennial discussion about whether I like chicken best or turkey.

Kingman now came waddling up to us, looking distinctly distraught.

“The worst thing happened!” he cried even before he reached us.

“What’s wrong?” asked Dooley immediately. “Has the world ended?!”

“No, the world hasn’t ended,” said Kingman, breathing stertorously as he plunked himself down. “But it wouldn’t surprise me if it does. Shanille is gone!”

“Gone? What do you mean, gone?” I asked.

“I dropped by the church earlier, so we could walk here together, as we often do, and she wasn’t there!”

I relaxed. This wasn’t as bad as I thought. “That doesn’t mean she’s gone, Kingman. That means she’s gone out somewhere.”

“But Shanille never goes out! Where would she even go?!”

He was right, of course. Cats rarely go places. We’re your essential homebodies, never happier than adhering to our fixed routines and enjoying the creature comforts of our own wonderful little homes.

“Maybe Father Reilly decided to take a vacation?” I ventured.

The large cat gave me a look of exasperation.“Father Reilly never goes on vacation! His parishioners need him! Just like cat choir needs Shanille!”

“Maybe they’ve been abducted by aliens,” Dooley suggested. “Or maybe Father Reilly has gone to Rome. Don’t priests go to Rome to be with the Pope?”

“They do,” Kingman confirmed, “but at least she could have told me!”

“Could be that Shanille had an accident,” said Harriet with a light shrug.

“I say we organize a search party,” said Brutus. “Save Shanille!”

“I’m sure she’ll be here any moment,” I said, trying to inject some reason into the conversation, which was getting a little out of hand, I felt.

More cats had turned up, and the sound of nervous conversation filled the air. The distinct lack of conductor hadn’t escaped anyone’s attention, and cats being cats, all possible explanations were being entertained. Shanille had joined a cult and moved to India. Or Shanille had been abducted and was being held for ransom by a gang of catnappers. Though the most original theory was that she had been snappedup by Hollywood, and had moved to LA to star in a movie about her life.

“As if,” Harriet scoffed when this possibility was suggested to her. “Shanille’s life isn’t interesting enough to be turned into a movie.” She cleared her throat and raised her voice. “Listen up, you guys! Unfortunately Shanille won’t be joining us tonight. So as her second-in-command I’m going to take over. If you could please all take your positions, we’ll start with some warm-up exercises for the voice!”

These warm-up exercises apparently consisted of using the full range of our vocal cords and projecting as loudly as possible and as far as possible. The upshot was that within five minutes windows on all sides of the park were being opened, angry heads were being thrust out, and voices were raised in anger, with a few of those hanging from their windows even throwing the odd shoe in our direction.

Personally I wouldn’t have minded being pelted in the lower back with a nice sneaker—an Air Jordan, for instance, or an Allen Edmonds. I could even go for a soft Yeezy. But instead I got an old army boot for my trouble. It was big and bulky—not to mention smelly—and not a nice way to start the evening!

Around me, more footwear started raining down, causing cat choir to cut its session short for once. And so Harriet’s vocal warm-up exercises, which had sounded like such a good idea, turned out not to be such a good idea after all. And when a police siren sounded in the distance, drawing closer, we decided to skedaddle.

“I hope Shanille is all right,” said Dooley as we made a run for it.

“I’m sure she is,” I said, as I dodged a pair of Chuck Taylors.

This unexpected hailstorm of shoes didn’t bode well for the future, though.

“This is an outrage,” Harriet gasped as she barely escaped an incoming Mary Jane. “We should file a complaint against these people! For assault and battery!”

“I’m not sure throwing a shoe at a cat is in the penal code,” I said.

“Well, it should be! If they can’t guarantee our safety, at the very least they should give us our own rehearsal space. A nice big conference hall, for instance.”

Somehow I doubted whether the powers that be could be enticed to give the cats of Hampton Cove access to a conference hall. Then again, I wouldn’t want to spend all my nights indoors. Part of why I like cat choir so much is that it takes place in the great outdoors.

“Maybe we should move to the woods,” Brutus suggested as he ducked an Ugg. “Plenty of space out there, and no annoying neighbors to give us any grief.”

“I don’t like the woods,” Dooley intimated with a shiver. “They’re dark and creepy and full of animals!”

“You’re an animal, Dooley,” Brutus reminded him. “We’re all animals.”

“Yeah, but the animals that live in the woods are wild animals!”

He had a point, of course. After millennia of sharing humans’ homes I guess we have become domesticated to some extent. Being released into the wild would come as a big shock to most of the members of cat choir. Having to fend for ourselves, and forage for food and such. “Dooley is right,” I said therefore. “The woods are no place for a couple of nice, civilized cats like us. The woods are dangerous, and full of wild creatures who wouldn’t take kindly to our presence.”

You’ll be gratified to know that we finally made it out of the park alive, though it was a narrow escape. And as we wended our way home, Dooley reminded us of more pressing matters than escaping these shoe-throwing anti-cat zealots.

“We have to find Shanille,” he said. “She could be in big trouble.”

CHAPTER 2

[Êàðòèíêà: img_2]

Marge Poole was surprised to find that she was the first one out of bed that morning. When she arrived in the kitchen and didn’t find her mom sipping from a cup of coffee, she glanced through the window, but instead of the usual sight of Vesta pottering about in the backyard, busy with her trowel and her flowerbeds, the old lady wasn’t anywhere to be seen. Usually an early riser, Marge’s mom wasn’t in the living room either, nor had she taken the car and gone for a drive.

Figuring she’d probably gone for a stroll, Marge went about her business of getting ready for her day. And she’d already prepared breakfast and put a wash on when she wandered into the bedroom and saw that her hubby was still sound asleep, which was not his habit.

“Rise and shine, sleepyhead,” she called out therefore.

Tex mumbled something, then turned and went straight back to sleep.

Walking into her mother’s bedroom to put the laundry away, she discovered to her surprise that her mother was still in bed! Now that was odd—very odd!

“Ma, time to get up,” she said, as she opened the curtains with a vigorous movement and stood staring out through the window for a moment, as one does.

Behind her, nothing stirred, and when she glanced over, she saw that her mother hadn’t moved an inch. She was sleeping on her back, her mouth half open.

A sudden fear gripped Marge, and she crossed the distance to the bed in two seconds, then stared down hard at the gray-haired old lady. But her chest was still rhythmically rising and falling, and soft snores emanated from her lips, so Marge relaxed, stilling her wildly beating heart and telling herself not to be silly. Her mother might not be as young as she liked to think, but she wasn’t that old either!

It was ten minutes later when she was taking an empty bottle into the garage and opening the appropriate receptacle so she could deposit it amongst its discarded colleagues when she saw no less than three wine bottles in the bin.

She blinked. Now where had those come from? She wasn’t a big drinker, and as far as she knew, neither was Tex. Though it was true that lately he’d started drinking more. An aperitif before dinner, some wine with his meal, and sometimes when they were watching TV he’d have another. But that still didn’t explain these empty bottles, so the only person who could have put them there was her mother. Which might go a long way to explaining why she was still in bed instead of getting up at the crack of dawn as she usually did.

Three bottles—but she couldn’t possibly have drunk all three of them last night, could she?

Marge thought hard. When was the last time she had looked into this bin? Must have been a couple of days ago—a week at the most. Still, three bottles in perhaps just as many days? That was one bottle of wine per evening!

Time to have a little talk with her mother about her drinking habits!

[Êàðòèíêà: img_4]

As Dooley and I accompanied our human to work—work for Odelia, that is, nap time for us—my mind was still busy trying to come up with a reason for Shanille’s absence last night. There could be a perfectly simple explanation, of course. In fact this idea of Father Reilly having gone on holiday and deciding to take his cat along was the most probable one. You see, Father Reilly, against the strictures of his church, had consorted with his housekeeper Marigold—if consort is the word I want—and from this illicit union in due course offspring had sprung.

The good priest, now having a little flock of his own to care for, had decided not so long ago to be a man of the cloth no more, and to leave his bigger flock of parishioners to some as yet unknown successor. All this so he could make an honest woman out of Marigold. And what do humans do when they have a wife and kids? They go on holiday. And if they’re halfway decent humans beings, like Father Reilly most certainly is, they take their pets along with them.

So that’s what must have happened. And in spite of Kingman’s protestations that Shanille would have told him if such was the case, perhaps Shanille hadn’t known herself that these plans were being made. Unlike Odelia some pet parents don’t bother consulting their pets when they make their holiday plans, you see. One moment you’re happily dozing in your favorite spot, and the next you’re being shoved into a pet carrier and taken along on some long-haul holiday!

But even as we settled down in our corner of the office, ready to while away the morning by taking a nice long nap, I wondered if we shouldn’t be out there looking for our friend. This holiday thing was all well and good, but cats being cats, someone would have seen them leave on this much-coveted outing. So shouldn’t we at least ask around? Put our minds at ease? But then I decided that Shanille wouldn’t want that. She wouldn’t want her friends getting all worked up and roaming the streets trying to find her.

“I think Shanille must have found herself a different choir,” said Dooley, whose mind had been working along more or less the same lines as mine, but had clearly arrived at a different conclusion. “Remember how she told us two nights ago that we didn’t have what it took? That we were a bunch of amateurs and why was she wasting her great talent on the likes of us?”

I frowned at my friend.“I’d totally forgotten about that,” I admitted.

“She even said that by rights she should have been snapped up by now by some enterprising impresario to conduct an internationally-renowned choir.”

“It’s true,” I said. “She even said she might look for one herself.” Immediately my mood lightened to a not inconsiderable degree. “Yes, that must be it. She must have gone to look for some prestigious choir to conduct. Some famous outfit.”

Something along the lines of the Cornell University Choir. Or the Tabernacle Choir at Temple Square. These were the kinds of choirs Shanille often referred to, claiming they were the absolute tippity top, and something for us to aspire to, before throwing up her paws in despair when we actually started singing.

“Oh, well,” said Dooley. “Harriet will have to fill in for now, won’t she?”

My mood dropped again, and I rubbed the painful spot in my rear where that big boot had connected.“If Harriet becomes the new conductor of cat choir we’re going to have to get Odelia to buy us a suit of armor,” I grumbled. “To protect us from the shoes these darn neighbors will be throwing at us.”

“We could always skip the vocal warm-up,” Dooley suggested.

And I’m sure a lot more could have been said on the topic, but at that moment a couple walked into the office, and asked if they could have a word with our human. So we pricked up our ears, and switched to listening mode.

“Sure,” said Odelia pleasantly, and offered the couple a seat. “What can I do for you?”

They were both fairly young. Early to mid-twenties at the most. And they were a handsome couple, the woman fair-haired and blue-eyed, and the man dark-haired and brown-eyed. They looked athletic and were dressed in casual clothes: jeans and sweaters.

“We have a problem,” the man said. “And we’ve been told that you might be able to help us.”

He spoke with a faint accent which, if I wasn’t mistaken, could have been French.

“Maybe we should introduce ourselves first,” said the woman. “My name is Stephanie Felfan—though everyone calls me Steph. And this is my husband Jeff Felfan.”

“Odelia Kingsley,” said Odelia. “But I’m guessing you already knew that.”

“The thing is,” said Steph, “that I’m in something of a pickle. You see, I’m a fashion designer, or at least that’s what I want to be. It’s what I studied. And recently a job became available at one of the country’s hottest new fashion labels, WelBeQ, which is located in LA. So I sent in my resume and as you can imagine I was over the moon when they offered me the position. Assistant to the head designer at WelBeQ. So a week passes, and we’re already making all the necessary arrangements, when suddenly I get an email that they’ve changed their mind, and that they’re going in a different direction. I ask them what happened, but total radio silence. They won’t respond to my emails, when I try to call them I can’t get anyone on the phone. Complete blackout. So I’m shocked, right? Of course I am.”

“What is a welbeck, Max?” asked Dooley, interrupting Steph’s story.

“A famous fashion brand,” I said.

“I’ve never heard of it.”

“Me neither,” I said.

At the sound of our voices, Steph smiled and glanced in our direction.“Oh, will you look at those two cuties! Are they yours?”

“They are,” said Odelia. “The big one is Max, and the smaller one is Dooley.”

“They’re absolutely adorable,” said Steph. “Aren’t they adorable, Jeff?”

“Very adorable,” said Jeff, and pronounced adorable the way the French do.

“My husband is French,” Steph explained. “We met in Paris, when I studied at the fashion academy there.”

“Oh, so you’re also a fashion designer?” asked Odelia.

“Oh, no,” said Steph with a laugh.

“I’m a banker,” said Jeff. “Not one ounce of designer blood.”

“We like to joke that he’ll bankroll me so I can start my own label.”

“But I’m not a very good banker, I’m afraid,” said Jeff. “I’m a poor banker. I don’t have the money to bankroll Steph’s career. But maybe one day.”

“Jeff works for the Capital First Bank in Manhattan,” Steph explained.

“As a lowly employee,” said Jeff. “Not the bank’s manager, unfortunately.”

As it transpired, the couple had met in Paris, but had soon moved to New York, where Jeff found a well-paying job with the main branch of Capital First Bank. But even though they lived in the fashion capital of the country, Steph’s dream was to move back to France and work for one of the big labels in Paris.

“But you’re not originally from Paris, are you?” asked Odelia.

“Oh, no. My parents live in Hampton Cove,” said Steph. “Ian and Raimunda Stewart? They run the Stewart Winery, one of the biggest on Long Island.”

“Oh, right!” said Odelia. “Of course. I did a piece on your family’s winery once.”

“I know,” said Steph with a smile. “My mom framed it and put it on the wall of her office. She does the winery’s PR, while my dad runs the company, along with my brother Kevin.”

“But you’re not bitten by the wine bug?”

“Absolutely not. I don’t know why, but I always wanted to be a designer. And lucky for me Mom and Dad have supported me from the start to follow my own heart and carve my own path, and not feel obligated to follow in their footsteps.”

“Okay, and so now you want to move to LA and start to work for WelBeQ and for some reason they first hired you, then changed their mind,” said Odelia.

“That’s right. And the worst part was that they wouldn’t tell me why. So I finally decided to drop it, figuring maybe it just wasn’t for me. And then yesterday, out of the blue, I get a call from someone who works in the HR department at WelBeQ. It wasn’t an official call, and she wouldn’t give me her name, but she read my emails, and said she was under strict instructions from the legal department not to respond. But she must have felt sorry for me, which is why she called.” She took a deep breath. “Turns out someone launched a smear campaign against me.”

“Someone did what?” asked Odelia, her astonishment obvious.

“A smear campaign. In the final round, there were only two candidates left for the job: me and a guy called Edmundo Crowley. And so when they selected me, someone sent them a bunch of pictures of me, passed out drunk on the couch, Zoe on the floor next to me.”

“Zoe?”

“Our baby girl,” said Steph. “She’ll be nine months next week.” A brief smile flitted across her face. “For the record, I never, ever passed out drunk—ever. These pictures are obviously doctored. They were sent from an anonymous email account, and the story they were trying to convey was that I’m an unfit mother, an alcoholic, that I was a troublemaker, and probably a drug addict.”

“Did she send you the email?”

“She did. It’s disgusting—and completely fake, of course. But from their point of view I can understand why they decided to go with the other candidate.”

“Who sent the email? Any idea?”

“I have a pretty good idea who sent it,” said Steph, her expression hardening.

“Crowley,” said Jeff. “He is the candidate Steph was competing against.”

“He’s the one who got the job when they ditched me,” Steph clarified. “And I’m pretty sure he’s the one who launched this campaign against me to damage my reputation. I mean, who else can it be?”

“Did the person who called you tell you this?” asked Odelia.

“I asked her, and she said she couldn’t be one hundred percent sure, but she thought it must be Crowley. At least that’s the consensus among her colleagues.”

“There must be something you can do. Did you sign a contract?”

“Verbal agreement only. I was going to sign the contract on my first day.”

“I see,” said Odelia thoughtfully. “So what—”

“I want you to look into this email business. Find out who’s behind it. And if it is Crowley I want to expose him, and file a complaint against him. And then I will go to WelBeQ and tell them what’s going on.”

“You still want to work for them?”

“Of course! This is my dream job. WelBeQ may not be one of the major fashion houses, but they have a great reputation as an innovative brand. They just might be the next Fenty. You know, Rihanna’s brand? And if I can get in from the start, it’s going to do wonders for my career. So yeah, I still want to work for them. And I want to prove that they picked the wrong candidate.”

“It’s not right that this Crowley got in by slandering Steph’s reputation,” said Jeff. “And if WelBeQ thinks she’s an unreliable person, they might spread the word and talk to other companies, and very soon she will become unhirable.”

“Which is why I want you to find out if it’s really Edmundo Crowley who’s behind this,” said Steph. “To prove it somehow, so I can do something about it.”

CHAPTER 3

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“It’s a nasty business, Max,” said Dooley. “Slandering the reputation of a nice girl like Steph. Who would do such a thing? It’s not okay.”

I smiled.“You’re absolutely right, Dooley. It’s not okay.”

“And all this just to get a job. There should be a law against that kind of thing.”

“I’m sure there is. But first we need to figure out who’s behind this campaign.”

A day had passed since Steph and Jeff had paid us a visit in the office, and now we were in the car with Odelia, cruising along the Long Island Expressway and making great progress. Odelia’s old pickup was being overtaken by bigger, faster, newer cars, but she didn’t mind. As long as it got us from point A—Hampton Cove—to point B—the residence of Edmundo Crowley—that was all that mattered.

The moment Steph and Jeff Felfan had left the office, Odelia had consulted with her editor Dan Goory. The white-bearded newspaperman had given his wholehearted approval to do what lay in our power to help the Felfans. They both sniffed a great story, and if it tied in with the Stewart Winery, that was even better. They might be able to launch a series of articles about the incident.

Odelia had phoned Mr. Crowley, and the man had agreed to do an interview. In fact it wasn’t too much to say he was flattered when a reporter called him and complimented him on his achievements as a budding designer. A little flattery never hurts when talking to ambitious people like Steph’s alleged nemesis.

“Are you sure you shouldn’t have asked Chase to come along?” asked Dooley. “Just in case this Mr. Crowley proves to be a dangerous individual, I mean?”

“I doubt that he’s dangerous,” said Odelia. “He’s a fashion designer, not an ax murderer.”

“One doesn’t exclude the other,” Dooley insisted. “But just so you know: Max and I have your back, Odelia. The moment the man turns homicidal, we’ll pounce.”

“Good to know,” said Odelia with a smile.

I have to say I admired her courage. It’s not always easy to go and talk to complete strangers. You never know what you’ll find. Like Dooley said, maybe reporters should travel in pairs, just like police officers, just in case.

Edmundo Crowley lived in Brooklyn, though if Steph was to be believed, not for very much longer. In fact we probably caught him just in time, as he was moving to LA soon, to start work for WelBeQ. A quick perusal of the man’s apartment, once we got there, bore out my theory: suitcases were on his bedroom floor, his cupboards looked as if they’d been ransacked, clothes strewn about indiscriminately, and generally the place looked as if a minor tornado had recently landed there and done some serious damage.

“Moving, Mr. Crowley?” asked Odelia, showing what a keen reporter’s eye she had. She was sitting in front of the young man, tablet in hand, ready to write down the pearls of wisdom that were about to fall from the designer’s lips. Contrary to the state of his lodgings, the designer himself looked more like an accountant than a hot young artiste. Perhaps for this special occasion, he was dressed in an off-white shirt and tie and perfectly pressed and creased black pants, and even his shoes looked polished. He wore designer glasses and his hair was neatly coiffed.

“Yes, I’m sorry about the mess,” he said, taking a seat. “I’m starting a new job soon, so I’ve been packing.”

“A new job. Isn’t that exciting?”

“Yeah, I was accepted at WelBeQ,” said Edmundo with not a little bit of pride. “They’re one of the hottest new brands on the market, but I’m sure you know all about that, being a fashion reporter and all.”

Odelia smiled a sweet smile.“About that, I was contacted recently by Stephanie Felfan. I don’t know if you’ve heard of her?”

The transformation was remarkable. The kind demeanor was instantly replaced by a cagey expression.“Stephanie Felfan?” he asked with a touch of suspicion.

“Yes, she was also in the running for the job at WelBeQ, same as you. She was even accepted and was offered the position. But then suddenly she got a message that there had been a mistake, and that she wasn’t moving to LA after all.”

“I see,” said the young man, as he pushed his glasses up his nose. “I’m afraid I’ve never heard of this person. Stephanie Felfan, did you say?”

“That’s right. So Stephanie did a little digging, and turns out that you took the job that was initially promised to her. And what’s more, the reason WelBeQ decided to go in a different direction is because some very damaging information about Stephanie found its way into their mailbox.”

The man frowned in confusion.“Is that so?”

“It is. And what’s more, she seems to think that one of the other candidates may have launched a smear campaign against her, trying to remove her from the equation. And so obviously this has her wondering who this person might be.”

“Of course,” said Edmundo, nodding. “If something like that happened to me, I’d also want to know who was behind it.” He shrugged. “It’s all news to me, I’m afraid, Mrs. Kingsley. No one at WelBeQ told me anything about the other candidates. I never even met the people at WelBeQ face to face, since everything was done over Zoom. So I’m afraid I can’t help you.” The frown returned. “So… if I understand you correctly, you’re here on behalf of this… Stephanie Felfan?”

“Yes, I am,” said Odelia. “Steph had her hopes set on this job, you see, and when it fell through, she was devastated.”

“Oh, but I understand,” said Edmundo, nodding. “It’s a great opportunity.”

“So… you’re saying you don’t know anything about this smear campaign?”

“That’s correct,” Edmundo confirmed. “I don’t know anything about it. They kept us totally in the dark about the other candidates or even if there were other candidates. I assumed there were, of course, since the opportunity was so great, but as I said, I never met any of them and didn’t even know their names.”

“I understand,” said Odelia thoughtfully.

I had the impression that the designer was a little disappointed that the reporter hadn’t come to ask him about his stellar career as a promising young talent. But if he was, he was exceedingly decent about it. “It must have come as a great shock to your friend that she wasn’t hired by WelBeQ,” he said kindly. “And if I were in her shoes, I’d probably want to know what happened, too.”

“It was her dream job,” said Odelia simply.

“As it is for me,” said Edmundo.

CHAPTER 4

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The moment Edmundo realized no more questions about his person were forthcoming, and no extensive article would be written about his career, the interview quickly came to an end. He more or less ushered us out, claiming he had a lot more packing to do, and that was that.

The moment we were back in the car, Odelia turned to us.“So what do you think? Was he lying, or was he telling the truth?”

“I thought he seemed pretty sincere,” I said.

“He’s a great designer,” said Dooley. “His clothes were very nice.”

“I don’t think he made those clothes himself, Dooley,” I said.

“He didn’t? But I thought he was a fashion designer?”

“Not all fashion designers design their own clothes.”

“Okay, so what do I tell Steph?” asked Odelia, getting the conversation back on track. “She really thought Edmundo was the guy trying to destroy her reputation.”

“It’s possible that he’s a very good liar,” I said. “But if it’s true that WelBeQ didn’t supply information about the other candidates, I don’t see how Edmundo could have known that he was competing against Stephanie. Or that she was the candidate he had to beat if he were to succeed in landing the job.”

“No, that kind of information must have come from WelBeQ,” said Odelia. She turned and started up the car. “Let’s give Steph the bad news,” she said, and soon we were mobile again, this time navigating Brooklyn’s notoriously busy streets.

“There’s a lot more traffic here than in Hampton Cove, isn’t there, Max?” said Dooley.

“That’s because New York is a much bigger place,” I said. “More people means more traffic and busier streets.”

“I don’t think I’d want to live here. Too busy. And they don’t even have a nice park where we can meet our friends.”

“I’m sure New York has plenty of parks,” I said with a smile. “And in fact it’s not really one big city, but a collection of smaller boroughs. Like Brooklyn is one borough, and Manhattan, where Jeff works, is a different one. And in each borough you have neighborhoods, which are also verydifferent.”

“Almost like a lot of small cities in one big city.”

Fortunately for us, Steph and Jeff also lived in Brooklyn, and when we arrived on their doorstep, they were clearly happy to see us. Or at least Steph was. Her husband was at work, so it was just her.

“So how did it go?” she asked the moment we entered the modest apartment. It had a homely feel, and was very airy and bright, but also very, very small, at least by our standards. But then we’re used to living in a house, of course, with plenty of space. The same space in the big city clearlycomes at a premium.

“I’m afraid I didn’t get very far with Mr. Crowley,” said Odelia, opting for the direct approach. “He claims he had no information on the other candidates, so he wouldn’t have been in a position to launch a smear campaign against them. He’d never even heard your name, so he couldn’tpossibly have tried to slander you.”

“He’s lying,” said Steph immediately. “He must have known.”

“If he did, he must have received the information from someone at WelBeQ,” said Odelia. “Which means you have an enemy in the HR department, Steph.”

“I thought as much,” said the young woman. “Clearly they wanted Crowley to get the job, and when it looked as if I was going to come out on top, they started this campaign against me.” Thought wrinkles appeared on her brow. “It must be someone who’s not very high up. Not a person in a position to decide which candidate is chosen. Someone who’s friends with Crowley. Or maybe a relative.”

“Can’t you ask your contact at WelBeQ? Maybe they know something?”

“I’ve tried, but the person who called me said she’s already stuck her neck out by telling me what she knew, and if she starts digging even deeper she might get in trouble herself.” She heaved a sigh. “Looks like it’s a dead end, isn’t it?”

“Not necessarily,” said Odelia. “You could always file an official complaint with the police. They did send these fake pictures of you, slandering your reputation.”

Steph waved the suggestion away.“I had another job offer last night. Junior designer at a reputable fashion house in Paris. Jeff is ecstatic, of course, since it would mean we could move back to Paris and be closer to his family again. And for me it would be a great opportunity as well. Maybe not my dream job, like the one at WelBeQ, but definitely something I think I will love.”

“Hey, but that’s great,” said Odelia.

“It is. And something else has happened. Jeff’s godmother died last night. Thing is that she made a will leaving her entire estate to Jeff. She didn’t have kids of her own and loved Jeff. It includes an apartment and a sizable sum of money.”

“How old was Jeff’s godmother?”

“Ninety-six. She was in a bad way for a while now. We paid her a visit when we were in Paris. She was a very lively and funny lady. Crazy about dogs. Her apartment was crawling with them. I think she had about a dozen. She was a patron at one of the big dog shelters in Paris, and couldn’t resist to adopt one each time she visited.” She smiled at the memory. “I’ll miss her. She was a real pistol.”

“So that means you’ll have a job in Paris and maybe an apartment,” said Odelia, summing things up. “And what about Jeff? Does he have a job lined up?”

“Jeff can’t wait to go back. If my dream was to move to LA, his dream is Paris. And as far as jobs is concerned, he has his pick. His dad is well-connected.”

“What does he do, your father-in-law?”

“He’s a politician. Could very well be the next mayor of Paris. He was a candidate in the last election and lost, but this time he’s expected to win.”

“Looks like WelBeQ is in Steph’s rearview mirror already,” said Dooley.

“Yeah, I don’t think she’s going to shed any tears about what happened,” I said.

And a good thing, too. There didn’t seem to be a lot she could do about the smear campaign. Unless she was willing to file an official complaint. But she seemed reluctant to go down that route, and I could understand why. It can be a hassle.

“I just want to leave the whole mess behind me,” Steph said now, confirming our estimation of the situation. “And if I’m absolutely honest I don’t think I even want to work for WelBeQ anymore, after the way they treated me. At the very least they could have talked to me before believing these filthy stories. But instead they took them at face value and didn’t even offer me a chance to defend myself.”

“Yeah, their HR department has a lot to answer for,” Odelia agreed.

“In normal circumstances a person is innocent until proven guilty, but at WelBeQ that doesn’t seem to be the case.” She shrugged. “We talked about it last night, Jeff and I, after the Paris offer came in, and we decided to accept and move on.”

“So no more WelBeQ?”

“No more WelBeQ.”

CHAPTER 5

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Our mission at an end, we returned to Hampton Cove forthwith, to devote ourselves to that other, perhaps more compelling mystery: the disappearance of Shanille!

Last night we had all gathered in the park again for cat choir, but for the second night in a row, of our noble conductor there was no trace. This time Harriet hadn’t offered to lead the choir, and since no singing had taken place, no barrage of shoes had landed on our collective heads either. The neighbors were clearly happy that Shanille had downed tools, but we most definitely were not!

“Finally!” said Harriet when Dooley and I walked in through the pet flap and into our cozy little home. “I thought you’d never get here.”

“Just a minor mission that took us all the way to New York City,” I said. “But everything has been arranged to Odelia’s client’s satisfaction, and so we’re back.”

“A fashion designer was being slandered by another fashion designer,” Dooley explained, even though Harriet hadn’t asked, “and so we paid a visit to the second fashion designer, who claimed he didn’t even know the first fashion designer, so how could he be slandering her? It made a lot ofsense to me, and now Steph—that’s the first fashion designer—is moving to Paris with her family.”

“Dooley, read my lips,” said Harriet. “I don’t care!”

Dooley, who’d been intently staring at Harriet’s lips, frowned. “I don’t understand. How can I read your lips? There’s nothing written there.”

“It’s just an expression,” I said. “I think what Harriet means to say is that we’ve got more important things to worry about than this fashion designer business.”

“Exactly!” Harriet said. “We need to find Shanille. Otherwise cat choir will go out of business and then where does that leave us? In big doo-doo!”

Dooley frowned even deeper. Between the‘read my lips’ statement and this reference to excrement it was obvious he had a hard time keeping track of the conversation.

“I thought you were going to take over from Shanille?” Brutus asked.

“I wanted to, but you saw what happened. Those annoying neighbors sabotaged my first rehearsal. I don’t know what it is about me that they don’t like, but it’s obvious that they’ve taken a vote and decided to start a boycott against my person.” She shook her head in distinct dismay. “They don’t appreciate talent, that’s what it is. Cultural barbarians, every single one of them.”

“They do wear nice shoes,” said Dooley.

At this reminder of the shoe incident, I automatically rubbed my bum. Tough to be an artist when you’re being pelted in the rear end with solid objects!

And so the meeting ended and we moved along, in search of Shanille. Harriet may initially have been pleased to know that her big competitor was out of the picture, but somehow she’d had a change of heart. And I could understand why, of course. When you’re locked into this kind of intense rivalry, and suddenly the second party abruptly calls it quits, it leaves one reeling. Out of balance, if you see what I mean. And this must be what happened to Harriet. One moment she was happily fighting tooth and claw with the feisty choir conductor, and the next her opponent was gone—and so was a pleasant and entertaining pastime. A pastime that gave meaning to her existence, and had become part of her day-to-day life.

Harriet needed to find Shanille so she could be herself again.

We moved through the pet flap in single file, and soon found ourselves amid the hustle and bustle of our small town.

“It’s a lot more peaceful here than in New York, isn’t it, Max?” said Dooley, and he emitted a little sigh of satisfaction. “And so much nicer, too.”

“It is,” I said. The big city is fine and good, but nothing beats being home.

Our first destination, as chosen by Harriet, was St. John’s Church, heart of Father Reilly’s parish, and also home to the good priest and Shanille. We arrived there in due course, and found to our surprise that the great oak doors of the church were closed, and a notice had been pinned on them.

‘Closed until further notice,’ the note read.

“Closed?” asked Harriet. “How can a church be closed? Aren’t they always supposed to be open?”

She had a point, of course. Historically churches have always been havens where people could find refuge and spiritual succor. And as far as I knew, St. John’s Church ascribed to this great tradition by never closing its doors.

Until now.

“If the church is closed, Shanille can’t be here,” said Brutus, pointing out an obvious truth. “Which means she’s probably somewhere else.”

“Father Reilly and Shanille don’t actually live in the church,” I felt compelled to point out. “A church is not a home, Brutus. At least not in the more mundane sense of the word.”

“So where do they live?” asked the big black cat.

“Next door,” I said, pointing to the rectory which was located next to the church. It was a modest house, but fulfilled Father Reilly’s needs adequately.

“Does Marigold also live there?” asked Dooley, referring to Father Reilly’s housekeeper-slash-girlfriend. “And her daughter Angel?”

“I don’t think so,” I said. At least Marigold didn’t use to live at the rectory. Maybe she had changed her mind and had moved in with her future husband.

“It’s odd that in some religions priests or pastors are allowed to marry and in others not,” said Dooley. “Who makes up these rules anyway?”

“The people who start these religions?” I ventured.

“Can anyone start a religion?”

“I guess so,” I said.

“So maybe we should start a religion?”

This had Harriet and Brutus in stitches.“Start our own religion?” said Brutus when he was finally able to speak again. “And who would be the leader? You?”

“I don’t see why not,” said Dooley with a shrug. “If anyone can start a religion, why not we? And if anyone can lead a religion, why not me?”

“And what would you call your church, Father Dooley?” asked Harriet, wiping a tear from her eyes.

“The Church of Dooley,” said Dooley decidedly. “And I would accept anyone, not just cats. Dogs can be members, too, and even humans. I’m fair-minded.”

“And what are you going to preach?” asked Brutus. “What are your teachings?”

This had Dooley stumped for a moment, but he soon rallied.“Peace and good will,” he said decidedly. “And kibble for all.”

“Now that’s a church I wouldn’t mind joining,” said Brutus with a grin.

“Look, you guys,” said Harriet, as she pointed to the front door of the rectory. “Another note.”

She was right. On the door of the rectory a note had been pinned, just like at the church. This one read,‘No deliveries until further notice.’

“I don’t like this,” said Harriet. “Looks like they’ve left town or something.”

“See?” I said. “I told you they’re on holiday.”

“No way,” said Harriet. “Not without telling us first.”

It was all very odd, of course. And not a little bit worrying.

“That note doesn’t mean they’re not home, though, does it?” said Brutus. “It just means Father Reilly doesn’t want anything delivered. So maybe he’s home, but he’s in bed with the flu or something. And Shanille won’t leave his side.”

“You know, Brutus,” I said. “You may well be right.”

“Of course I’m right,” said the cat. “I’m always right.”

That wasn’t perhaps the case, but it was true that Shanille was exactly the kind of cat who wouldn’t leave her human’s side when he was in bed with some illness. She was like a Good Samaritan in that sense. Always ready to lend a helping paw.

“Let’s see if we can’t get in through the back door,” I suggested.

And so we circled the rectory, in search of some means of entry. But when we arrived at the back, the place was as locked down as the front, with even the blinds having been pulled, and the windows closed shut. There wasn’t even a convenient basement window we could use to get in.

And we were ready to give up when I saw movement from the corner of my eye. And when I glanced over, I saw Gran exiting the church, carrying two bottles of wine in her hands!

CHAPTER 6

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“Gran, do you know where Father Reilly is?” asked Harriet.

“Or Shanille?” I added.

Gran, who seemed taken aback by the sight of the four of us, was curt in her response.“I have no idea,” she snapped. “I’m not my brother’s keeper, you know.”

“Gran!” Dooley cried. “I didn’t know Father Reilly was your brother!”

“He isn’t. Now leave me alone,” said the old lady, and tried to make herself scarce. But it’s not so easy to get rid of four cats who’ve made up their minds to find a person.

“Are they in the church?” Harriet insisted. “Cause if they are, you have to let us in. Shanille hasn’t shown up for choir practice two nights in a row, and if she thinks she can get away with this kind of irresponsible behavior she’s got another thing coming.”

“They’re not in there,” said Gran, as she tried to get past us.

“So what were you doing in the church?” I asked. “And how did you get in?”

“Francis gave me a key. Now can you please leave me alone, you busybodies?”

“Why are you carrying two bottles of wine, Gran?” asked Dooley, who had only now recovered from the shock of discovering that Gran might be Father Reilly’s sister. “And why are you holding them behind your back?”

“She thinks we can’t see them,” Harriet clarified.

“Oh, for crying out loud!” said Gran, clearly annoyed by this third degree. “Did anyone ever tell you that you’re far too nosy for your own good? Now clear off!”

But instead, it was she who cleared off, hurrying away, still clutching those bottles as if they were her lifeline to a better future. A future in which cats weren’t so nosy.

“What is Gran doing with those bottles?” asked Dooley. “And why was she sneaking in and out of the church? And why aren’t we supposed to know what she’s up to? And where are Father Reilly and Shanille!”

“Wherever they are, it’s not here,” said Harriet.

That much was obvious, and Gran’s peculiar behavior had made the priest and his cat’s sudden disappearance only more puzzling.

“I think we should tell Odelia,” said Harriet. “So she can tell her uncle, so he can start a search.” Her eyes went wide. “You guys, Shanille could be lying dead in a ditch somewhere as we speak, and so could Father Reilly!”

Even though only two nights ago the prospect of her frenemy lying in a ditch somewhere had seemed like a pleasing prospect to the white Persian, the passage of time had clearly made her change her mind about that.

“The police aren’t interested in missing pets,” said Brutus.

“But they are interested in missing humans,” said Harriet. “And wherever Father Reilly is, we’re likely to find Shanille, since she wouldn’t leave his side.”

“He could have lost his mind,” said Dooley. “I saw a documentary a couple of weeks ago about a man who lost his marbles and wandered off into the woods. He was accompanied by his dog at the time. A nice Labrador retriever named Sue.”

“So what happened?” asked Harriet. “Did they find them?”

“They did, three years later. There wasn’t much left of him, though, except a gnawed-off skeleton and some remnants of his clothes.”

“And Sue?”

“According to the policeman they interviewed it was Sue who’d done the gnawing, actually,” said Dooley. “When her owner got lost in those woods, and eventually died of exposure, she had no alternative but to do a little snacking, especially since she was still tied to him with a leash.” When we all stared at him, he smiled. “There’s some good news, though. Eventually Sue managed to chew through the leash and was found living with a nearby farmer, who said she was a fine dog.”

“She ate her human!” Brutus cried. “Not what I would call a fine dog!”

“She had no other choice,” Dooley pointed out. “It’s a dog-eat-dog world out there, Brutus. Or in this case, a dog-eat-person world, I guess.”

“Okay,” I said, and shivered slightly at the images his story had conjured up. “Thank you for that, Dooley.”

“So you see? If Father Reilly really has lost his mind, and ends up dying from exposure, Shanille can simply eat him and be fine. For a vegetarian like me this would be a big no-no, of course, but Shanille isn’t a vegetarian, so she’ll be okay.”

“Father Reilly won’t be okay,” said Harriet. “In fact he’ll be dead.”

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves here,” I said. “He’s not dead yet.”

“He could be dead,” said Brutus, striking the gloomy note. “Dead in a ditch.”

“Then we better find him before Shanille eats him,” said Harriet.

“Shanille won’t have to eat him,” I pointed out. “Since Shanille isn’t a dog, she’s not tied to her dead human with a leash.”

Another strong point in favor of getting a cat and not a dog: at least when you die from exposure a cat won’t eat you, and a dog would.

“I say we tell Odelia,” said Harriet. “And let the police find them.”

“And I say we do it ourselves,” said Brutus. “You know what the police are like. They’ll tell us we have to wait forty-eight hours, and even then they’ll say Father Reilly isn’t a missing person since he left of his own accord, as evidenced by the notes he pinned up on the church and rectory doors.” He shook his head sadly. “I’m afraid that if we want to find our friend, we’re on our own here, you guys.”

And he might have had a point. It did look as if Father Reilly hadn’t gone missing, but had simply left. But why? And where? The police would simply figure this was his own personal business—nothing to do with us. And so they wouldn’t touch the case. And all the while cat choir would have to go without its conductor.

“I agree with Brutus,” I said therefore. “If we want to find Shanille, we’ll have to find her ourselves.”

“Where do we start?” asked Harriet simply.

And that, of course, was where things got complicated. Where do you start looking for a missing person? Or cat? Or cat and person? The police have all kinds of resources at their disposal. They can look at a person’s bank account, to see if any cash withdrawals have been made. Or they can check a person’s phone records to see if he made any calls. Or they can organize a house-to-house inquiry, to see if anyone saw anything. They could talk to friends and relatives. Plenty of possibilities that weren’t available to four cats with limited resources.

But what we did have was resolve. A firm determination to find our friend. Preferably before she started snacking on the dead corpse of her human!

CHAPTER 7

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Steph Felfan was nursing her baby when her phone chimed. Expecting it to be her husband, she immediately picked up. But instead of Jeff’s pleasant voice, the tones reaching her ear were of a much harsher variety. They sounded French, and were distinctly clipped and to the point.

“Stephanie Felfan? My name is Julie Clairmont and I’m calling from the HR department at Sofie Fashion. I’m sorry to inform you that the job offer has been rescinded, Mrs. Felfan, so you no longer will be working for us.”

“Wait, what?” she said, stunned at this piece of news. “Is this a joke?”

“No joke,” said the woman. “And can I just say that we’re all shocked that a mother would do such a thing?”

“Thing? What thing?”

“Oh, you know,” said the woman coldly.

“No, I don’t, actually,” said Steph.

“Drunk, passed out on the couch, your baby on the floor playing with a dirty diaper. I’m a mother myself, Mrs. Felfan, and frankly I was shocked. If it were up to me I would report your appalling behavior to social services in your country. Please turn your life around, I implore you. If not for you, at least for your baby.”

“But—”

“Good day, Mrs. Felfan.”

And then she hung up.

Steph sat staring at her phone. It was the WelBeQ scenario all over again, wasn’t it? Somehow the same pictures and the same story had found their way into the Sofie Fashion’s HR department’s mailbox, and had made them change their mind about offering her the job. She wanted to yell at them that it was all lies, but knew they wouldn’t believe her. Somehow pictures spoke louder than words—at least her words—even when those pictures had been doctored.

And she was still feeling dazed when a key clicked in the front door lock and her husband walked in. When he found her looking like death warmed over, he immediately crossed the floor to where she was still clutching her phone.

“Honey, what’s wrong?” he asked as he sat down next to her and took her hand in his. “You’re completely pale. Is it Zoe?”

“No, Zoe is fine,” she assured him. “It’s the Paris job. It’s gone.” And as she explained what just happened, a cloud seemed to pass over his face.

“I have some bad news also,” he said. “You remember I told you about my godmother Evelyne de Tach??”

“Of course. What happened?”

“They read her will, and it turns out she donated her apartment and all of her possessions to the dog shelter she’s been a patron of for all these many years.”

“But I don’t understand. I thought you were the sole beneficiary of her will?”

He shook his head sadly.“Not anymore. She made a new will the day before she died, leaving everything to the shelter.”

“But why?”

“I don’t know. But I bet my parents do. Is it all right if I call them?”

She nodded distractedly. What was happening? It seemed like good opportunities left and right were vanishing into thin air. Was it a hate campaign against them? Or simply coincidence that Jeff’s godmother had a change of heart?

Her husband had taken out his phone and held it up in front of them while it connected. Moments later his parents appeared, both looking pleased to see them. David Felfan, who was in his early fifties, looked like an older version of his son, and Pauline Felfan was a distinguished-looking lady in her mid-forties. Ever since David, who had run a successful law practice in Paris before launching himself in local politics, had expressed his ambition to become the next mayor of Paris, his wife had supported him unstintingly, hosting dinner parties, organizing fundraisers and building the kind of network one needs for such an endeavor.

David had said many times that without Pauline’s support he would never have been able to get this far. With the election less than a year away, he was the frontrunner in the upcoming campaign, with many predicting he might even be the next president. After all Jacques Chirac had been mayor of Paris before he became president of the country.

“Tell us about Evelyne,” said Jeff. “What happened, exactly?”

“Well, I talked to the notary responsible for the new will,” said David. “And he told me that the day before she died, he received an urgent message to come to her apartment. She was very weak, and very ill, but she was adamant that she wanted to have a new will made up. Her doctor was there,and he said she was of sound mind and body, and is prepared to testify to this under oath if necessary. But the notary said he didn’t need her doctor’s reassurances. He could see that even though Evelyne’s health might be failing, her mind was still sharp as a tack.”