Purrfect Revenge

Chapter 19

Odelia and Chase were back for round two, but it was obvious from the moment they arrived at the gate they weren’t exactly welcome. And why would they be? Yesterday they’d arrested Dion Dread, kept him to cool his expensively shod heels for one night and then cut him loose. The word about Dion’s treatment at the hands of the Hampton Cove police must have spread, and the Kenspeckles were closing ranks and protecting their own.

Security had been beefed up, and they had a hard time making it past the gate. Two burly guards held vicious-looking Doberman Pinschers on short leashes, anxious to sic them on anyone who gave them the side-eye.

Finally, Chase’s beat-up pickup rumbled through the gate and up the driveway. He parked in front of the house. Another day in paradise.

“I have a feeling we’re not as welcome as we were yesterday,” Odelia said as she let Max and Dooley out of the car. At least nobody could prevent the two cats from snooping around. She just hoped there weren’t any Dobermans around. Even if there were, Max and Dooley could take care of themselves. Plenty of trees on the property.

“Yeah, I think they want this investigation over with,” Chase said as they circled the house and headed to the back.

They found Shayonne and Shalonda by the pool, Shayonne engrossed in Star Magazine and Shalonda in Us Weekly. They both had cotton balls between their toes. They were reading with sunglasses perched on their rhinoplastic noses, their surgically enhanced boobs practically popping from tiny bikini tops. They didn’t even look up when they passed.

Chase had set up interviews with the crew, and they headed for the guest house, which sat fifty yards from the main house. It was a backyard bungalow. Slate gray weatherboard with a nice porch. Big enough for a small family. Or a television crew.

On a concrete slab next to the house, a makeshift outdoor gym was constructed, and Stanbury Boa was on his back on a power bench, lifting a massive barbell. The veins in his neck stood out like cords as he bench-pressed the iron, his arms pumping up and down like pistons. He had a smoothly shaved head and wore a red bandana, a pair of American flag swim trunks and a lot of attitude.

“Hi there,” Odelia said pleasantly. “Can we ask you a few questions? Is now a convenient time for you, Mr. Boa?”

He merely growled something and continued pushing out his reps.

Chase stepped up. “Hampton Cove police, buddy. Where were you the night Shana Kenspeckle was murdered?”

Boa racked the barbell and sat up, dusting chalk from his hands. “I was right here, guarding the property,” he growled, hitting them with his best glare, the one he probably hoped would land him a role next to Vin Diesel in the next Fast & Furious movie.

“If you were so busy guarding the property how come you didn’t catch the killer?” asked Chase.

The bodyguard's eyes darkened. He seemed foreign born, judging from his accent. "I was guarding the property against outside intruders. How was I to know that one of them—" He gestured to the main house, where Dion had just walked out and stood stretching. "—would kill one of their own?"

“So you think one of the Kenspeckles killed Shana?” asked Odelia.

“No one came onto the property. At night security around this place is tight. I see to that.”

“Have you heard any rumors who might have done it?” asked Chase.

“I’ve heard no such rumors. But you may want to interview the sisters. They hated Shana’s guts.”

“And why was that?”

He shifted his massive shoulder in a shrug. “Sibling rivalry. They couldn’t stand that Shana was more successful than they were. More popular.”

“What about the crew?” asked Chase.

“You should talk to Alejandro,” said the giant. “He would do anything to get his show to the top of the ratings again. Last week I heard him tell Burr that he was praying for a murder.”

“He said that?” asked Odelia.

"Yes, he did. He said only a juicy murder would get people to watch the show again. They were on the verge of being canceled." He nodded curtly. "I think that's enough motive for murder, don't you, Detective?"

With these words, he lay back down and picked up the huge barbell again. With an animal-like grunt, he launched into another grueling set.

“Wow, I wouldn’t like to get into a fight with that guy,” Odelia said as she tripped after Chase. She had to take two strides for every one of his.

“Pfft. He’s all show. I’ll bet those muscles aren’t even real.”

“They looked pretty real to me.”

“Trust me. It’s all steroids, growth hormone and synthol injections.”

Sounded like someone was a little envious. Then again, Chase didn’t have to be jealous of Boa the man mountain. The cop was built like a Hulk himself.

The guest house was tastefully decorated. Like the main house, white was the dominant color, the floors a warm mahogany in contrast. They’d stepped into the foyer and the man they’d come to see was comfortably seated on a white leather couch, reading a copy of Men’s Fitness. Alejandro was wearing a yellow polo shirt and beige slacks and looked like a million bucks. When he got up to greet them, he did so with outstretched hands and a killer smile. He kissed them on the cheeks. Twice. Surprised, Chase touched the spot. Bet that hadn’t happened to him when he interviewed gangbangers in the Bronx.

“Please, sit down,” Alejandro said. “Make yourself at home.”

They took a seat on the white leather couch, and Odelia saw that Alejandro seemed very eager to talk to them. He sat ramrod straight and eyed them brightly, a smile on his face. Before they could ask him a question, he announced, “I think you should look into the terrorism angle again.”

“We already established that the note was a fake,” said Chase.

“Yes, but have you considered that perhaps this terrorist simply wasn’t well-versed in the Arabic language?” Alejandro asked, his brows arching. “Not all terrorists have a college degree, Detectives. One might even make an argument that most terrorists never had any schooling at all. It’s well established that a lot of them are ordinary criminals who turned to terrorism because it pays better and lends them prestige and self-esteem. Most of them are not even ideologically motivated. They’re simply in it for the money.”

He continued with wide gestures of his hands. “You have a terrorist who’s not schooled, who decides the Kenspeckles would make an excellent target. He does his business and leaves that crudely written note, merely showing he doesn’t have a thorough grasp of grammar, and voila. Case closed.”

Chase shook his head. “I really don’t think the terrorist angle is a viable one, Mr. Salanova. For one thing, security around the house was tight that night, and we’ve already established that the murder was an inside job.”

“So? That simply means this house has been infiltrated by a terrorist.”

“Do you really think a terrorist would target Shana and leave the others unharmed?” asked Odelia. “Wouldn’t a real terrorist murder the entire family when he had the chance?”

This gave the flamboyant director pause. Then he brightened. “Perhaps he’s planning to do the others at a later date? Like a staggered terror spree?”

Chase, obviously bored with the terrorist angle, asked, “Where were you between four and five the night Shana Kenspeckle was killed, Mr. Salanova?”

His eyes went wide. “Me? You suspect me?”

“Everyone’s a suspect until we find the killer, sir. So where were you?”

“Right here, sleeping in my bed,” said the director. “Mentally preparing myself for another day of making the best reality show on the planet.”

“Isn’t it true that the best reality show on the planet was losing steam?” Odelia asked.

The director brushed a stray lock of hair from his brow. “Pardon?”

“We were told you were so anxious to boost the dropping ratings of your show that you figured a nice, juicy murder might just do the trick.”

He waved an airy hand. “I may have made such a comment, but it was only in jest. I merely wanted to convey the message that it would take a miracle to get our numbers back up to an acceptable level.”

“So you admit that your show is in peril?” Odelia asked.

He smiled that bright smile of his. She wondered if it was veneers or implants. Either way, his choppers looked amazing. “Of course I do. And I hate it. This show is a passion project. It has put my name on the map.”

“So you would do anything to salvage your show—even commit murder,” Odelia stated, taking a leaf from Chase’s book.

Alejandro draped his arms over the back of the couch and leaned back. “You do have a way with words, Detective.”

“Oh, but I’m not a detective,” she said. “I’m a consultant. And a reporter.”

“I knew it. Your facility with the language is remarkable. Yes, I would do anything to extend the life of this show. But I would never kill a person to do so. Besides, without Shana Kenspeckle this show is doomed. She was my star, the biggest and brightest celebrity to step onto the stage. With her gone, the show won’t last another season.”

“What about the rest of the Kenspeckles?” asked Chase.

“Shana was the reason people watched this show. There isn’t enough star power in the rest of the Kenspeckles to carry the weight of such a show. Oh, I’m sure it will go on for a while. People will be curious to see the episodes we’re shooting right now. But soon they’ll get bored with the shenanigans of Shayonne and Shalonda and the others and that will be the end of it.”

So much for the murder giving the show a new lease on life. "Can you think of anyone who'd want the show to get canceled?" Odelia asked.

The director quickly checked around, then lowered his voice. “Eamonn was very vocal about wanting to leave the show. Unfortunately the poor boy signed an ironclad contract that basically ties him to this show in perpetuity.”

Chase checked his notebook. “Eamonn Dot is one of the writers?”

“He is. And he hates this show with a vengeance. Unfortunately he signed the contract back when he was an absolute nobody, and the network likes his work so much they’re keeping him around, even though he’s expressed a wish to be removed from the production. He’s already had to say no to several other projects he’d expressed an interest in, because he’s tied to this show.”

“What about you? Aren’t you anxious to do something else?” Chase asked.

“Oh, but I can,” said the director. “I never signed such a silly contract. I can walk away whenever I want.” He placed his hand on his heart. “But I so love my Kenspeckles. They’re a part of me now, and I don’t want to let go.”

Probably the fact that he got paid a nice packet didn’t hurt either. They thanked the director, who seemed disappointed they didn’t want to extend the interview, and went looking for Eamonn Dot, the troubled screenwriter.

They found him out on the terrace behind the guest house, where he was typing up a storm on his MacBook. He looked a little rattled when they approached him, but then writers usually are a high-strung bunch.

“Eamonn Dot? Police,” Chase said, producing his badge. “We’d like to ask you a few questions about the Shana Kenspeckle murder.”

“Of course, of course,” he said, quickly closing his MacBook.

They drew up a couple of iron chairs, the claw feet scraping against the hardwood, and launched into the interview. Odelia was starting to get the hang of this thing. Being a cop was all about asking the right questions, and trying to get the suspect to reveal stuff they didn’t necessarily want to reveal.

“Is it true you were dying to get out of this gig?” asked Chase.

The writer, a bespectacled skinny type with thinning hair and a lot of pimples, blinked nervously. “I—who told you that? I mean, not that it’s true.”

“Just answer the question.”

“I, well…” He looked around anxiously. “Are you going to tell the network about this? Cause I may not be completely satisfied with this gig, but that doesn’t mean I want to antagonize the network. Never antagonize the network, Detective. They’re the ones with the power to blackball you.”

“We’re not going to tell the network,” Odelia assured him.

He bit his lip. “All right. That’s good. That’s great.” He picked up a packet of cigarettes and offered them one. They both declined. He lit one up and took an eager drag. “I, um, yeah. Yeah, I wasn’t happy with this job. I am not happy with this job. In fact it’s probably the worst job in the world. Well, maybe not. Sewer inspector or professional dog and cat food taster or armpit sniffer are up there with being a writer for the Kenspeckles. I, um…” He took another long drag from his cigarette. “Yeah, writing those horrible treatments, outlining those stupid scenes, having to endure that hammy acting…” He shook his head. “It’s all very draining. Excruciatingly draining.”

Odelia had the impression the writer was mistaking them for his shrink, as the flow of words was almost unstoppable.

“So you didn’t like the show?” Chase asked, stating the obvious.

“No, I don’t like the show. It’s the worst show on television and I’m in it up to my eyeballs. Can you imagine how soul-sucking it is to write the kind of terrible drama that is required of me? For one thing, I have to keep abreast of all the gossip. I spend hours and hours reading gossip magazines. It’s brutal.”

Hey, this job didn’t sound so bad. Who didn’t love gossip magazines? And this guy was getting paid to do it? Cool. “So why don’t you quit?” she asked.

His hand trembled. “I—I can’t. There’s an exclusivity clause in my contract. I signed back when I was an absolute nobody and now I’m stuck.”

"So you decided that the only way to get the show canceled was to kill off one of the principals," Chase said, nodding.

“Yeah—wait, what? No! No, I—I would never do that. I… I’m not a killer, Detective. I—I can’t stand the sight of blood. And gore. I don’t even watch The Walking Dead. Zombies freak me out. And blood. It’s the senseless violence. It gets to me.” He took another, long drag. “You sure you don’t…”

“No, thanks, I’m good,” Chase said. “Where were you when Shana was killed, Mr. Dot?”

He gestured to a window that looked out onto the terrace. "Right here. In my room. I'm in the smallest room in the house. More like a broom cupboard. Harry Potter size." He grimaced. "It's the curse of the writer. But that doesn't mean I killed Shana. For one thing, I owe my career to this show. Once it's canceled, I can get any job I want. And it's made me a lot of money. A fixed income. Do you know how many writers would kill their mother to get on a show like this? Thousands. Not literally kill their mother. It's just a figure of speech. Most of my colleagues are out of work. I may hate my job, and it's one of the soul-suckiest jobs on the planet, but it's a job. I get paid."

“Do you have any idea who might be behind the murder?” asked Odelia.

The guy put out his cigarette with nervous jabs and nodded feverishly. “One of the girls here got a really bum deal. She was attacked by Shana.”

Chase frowned. “Shana got physical with a crew member?”

He expelled a jittery laugh. “Not physical, Detective, but she did make her life a living hell. Don’t tell her I told you, but I think you better have a word with Laurelle. Laurelle Merritt? She’s the stylist. She…” He coughed. “She had the bright idea to make a sex tape. She showed the tape to Shana, hoping she would make her famous. All Shana did was show the tape to her sisters. They found the whole thing hilarious and started sending it around to their friends as a joke. Laurelle was shattered.” He blinked. “Shana Kenspeckle was the original mean girl, Detectives. The Shana you see on the screen? That was my creation. The real Shana was not a very nice person.”