Purrfect Secret

Chapter 19

“That was quite possibly the weirdest interview I’ve ever been involved in,” Odelia said once they’d put some distance between themselves and Lago-a-Oceano.

“He does have a point, though,” said Chase.

“About what?”

“The hogs? I’ll bet hog wrestling is as good a preparation to go into politics as any.”

Odelia smiled. “He seems to love those hogs, too. And they genuinely like him.”

“What’s not to like? He’s a lovable guy.”

“Well, at least those rumors about eating journos for breakfast aren’t true.”

They were headed to their third interview of the day, the famous actor Damon Galpin, hoping to inch their way closer to solving this dreadful murder case.

“Who else do you have lined up?” asked Odelia.

“I’ve been trying to get a hold of this Yasir Bellinowksy guy.”

“The mobster?”

“Alleged mobster. So far his lawyer has been stalling. But I’ll get him eventually. And then there’s the break-in at Potbelly’s.”

“Anything new?”

“Uniforms are canvassing the area. Maybe a neighbor saw something.”

She settled back. It was at times like these that she missed her cats. If only she’d taken Max, Dooley, Harriet and Brutus along, they could have gleaned something from the pets of the people they interviewed. Max would have loved to have a chat with President Wilcox’s pigs. Or maybe they could have dropped them off at the duck farm and one of the ducks could have given them a description of the thieves. She sat up a little straighter.

Now that was a great idea! Why hadn’t she thought of it sooner?

Chase looked over. “Everything all right?”

“Peachy,” she said, commending herself on a brilliant idea. As soon as she got home she’d get right on it: drive Max and the gang over to the Potbelly farm and set them loose. They’d have a field day chatting up those ducks. One of them was bound to have seen something. Or one of the dogs. Max was great with dogs. In spite of cats’ reputation as being afraid of canines he had no qualms about chewing the fat with any dog, big or small.

Just then, her phone sang out Dua Lipa’s tune again, and she picked it out. When she saw that it was Otto Paunch, she groaned. “Yes,” she said into the phone, not all that friendly this time.

“Oh, hi, Miss Poole. Just following up on that rich list business.”

“I told you, I’m on a case right now. I don’t have time to deal with—”

“About that. I think you should probably mention in your article that President Wilcox was Dick Dickerson’s best friend. They were chums. Mates. Bosom buddies. Dick was Van’s homeboy. His homie. His dawg. His—”

“Yes, yes. They were friends. I get it. So what about this rumor they had a fight?”

“Fake news!” suddenly yelled Mr. Paunch. “I swear if you print that garbage I’ll—”

That voice. It sounded so familiar. But why? “Don’t worry. I won’t print any of it. I just want to find out who killed Dickerson. As a great friend of the President, who was a great friend of Dickerson, surely you must have some idea.”

“I have. Two words. Brenda Berish.”

“The former foreign secretary? Are you sure?”

“Absolutely. Dickerson had a lot of dirt on her. You know about the safe?”

“I do. It was emptied out.”

“Whoever took it didn’t want their secrets to come out. And that person is Secretary Berish. Just ask her. You’ll see. She’s the one who killed Dickerson. Oh, and don’t tell her I was your source. She’ll deny everything.”

And with these words, Paunch disconnected. Odelia tucked her phone away.

“What did he say?” asked Chase.

“He says we should take a closer look at Brenda Berish.”

“Secretary Berish?”

“Dickerson collected a lot of dirt on her. Paunch says she killed him over it.”

They’d arrived at a residential neighborhood just outside Hampton Cove. A lot of the houses here were pretty sizable, with a few smaller ones to even things out. They passed the entrance to the Marina Golf Course and Chase slowed down. “He should be out here somewhere—ah, there he is.”

A handsome man with perfectly sculpted blond hair, the even features of a Hollywood actor, dressed in white slacks and a green polo shirt and white golf shoes, stood waving at them from next to the golf course entrance.

“He looks younger than on television,” said Odelia.

“They put a ton of makeup on him for when he plays the President.”

Chase wedged his pickup between a Jaguar and a Porsche and they got out.

“Detective Chase!” Damon Galpin hollered, walking up, hand extended.

Chase shook it and then the actor turned to Odelia, took her hand and pressed a kiss on it, all the while fixing her with a pair of remarkable blue eyes.

“Miss Poole. Even lovelier in person than in your byline picture.”

“You saw my byline picture?” she asked, oddly pleased.

“I read every single one of your articles. The Hampton Cove Gazette is a local treasure.”

“I thought you actors only read Variety and The Hollywood Reporter.”

He tipped his head back and roared with laughter. “That’s a common misconception. Not all of us are dummies, Miss Poole—can I call you Odelia?”

“Please.”

He pressed a hand to his chest. “Damon. And it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance. Now will you join me for a round of golf?”

“I’m sorry, Damon,” said Chase. “We’re just here to ask you a couple of quick questions.”

“At the very least join me at the Legends Lounge. It’s where I hang out most of the time anyway,” he confessed. “Best part about golf is the socializing. Now come.”

It was more of an order than an invitation, but so charmingly delivered it was impossible to spurn. So they followed the actor through the entrance and into a one-story building that was exquisitely appointed, all lacquered floors and polished wood paneling.

He led the way to the lounge he’d mentioned, and through the floor-to-ceiling windows they had an excellent view of the links, where folks were playing the noble sport.

“I have a terrible handicap, I don’t mind admitting,” said Damon as they took a seat in leather armchairs around a round glass-topped table. The actor held up his hand and a young pimpled waiter came scurrying over, a towel draped on his arm. “Vodka martini,” said Damon, then turned a questioning gaze at Odelia and Chase.

“Just soda,” said Odelia.

“Same here,” said Chase.

“Still that same old gag about not drinking while on duty, eh?” said Damon with a twinkle in his eye. “I believe in starting early and keeping going unstintingly until the preprandial juices start flowing and digestion arrives at its peak.”

“I would have thought vodka martinis were your meals of choice,” said Odelia, who’d read the stories about the actor’s famous binges.

“Oh, now, Odelia, you shouldn’t believe everything you read in that paper of yours,” he chided.

The waiter came over with their drinks and Damon quaffed deeply from his, then held onto it while he bowed his head. “Do your worst, Detectives. I’m ready for you now.”

“Is it true that you and Dick Dickerson didn’t see eye to eye?” asked Chase.

Damon nodded. “That is indeed true. Dickerson was filth, Detective. He was filth and he printed filth. And it didn’t occur to him that the people whose lives he tried to destroy were human beings with feelings and friends and loved ones that could be hurt in his barrage of lies and horribly distorted ‘articles.’ I hated him and never made a secret of that.”

“What did he say about you, exactly?” asked Odelia, who had some idea.

Damon gazed out across the spreading and rolling links. “Oh, this and that. You do know that he was a close friend of President Wilcox? And that he did all he could to secure him his election? In fact he went all out on that—slandering Wilcox’s opponents and burying every single piece of gossip about Wilcox himself. And since I’ve been one of Wilcox’s most vocal opponents from day one, Dickerson directed some of his vitriol at me, too.”

“Do you think he kept some of those stories in his safe?”

“Right. Dickerson’s famous safe. Where he kept Tinseltown’s darkest secrets. Why?”

“His safe was emptied out by whoever killed him,” said Chase.

“I guess that makes sense. Though I can assure you that whatever he had on me, he printed without delay.”

“So he didn’t try to blackmail you? To try and stop you from imitating the President?”

“He tried at first. But when I refused he responded with a barrage of garbage.”

“That must have stung.”

Damon smiled, and took another sip. “I wore Dick Dickerson’s scorn like a badge of honor, Detective. In fact if he would have printed something nice about me it would have worried me more. Though there was one story that caused me to contact a defamation lawyer.” When they both stared at him, he spoke a single word. “Hogs.”

“Hogs?” asked Odelia, struck by the coincidence.

“Dickerson claimed I engaged in coitus with hogs.” He grimaced. “And I have a fairly good idea who put him up to it, too.”

So had Odelia. President Wilcox really did like to get down and dirty.

“Does a picture of a rose mean anything to you?” asked Chase.

“No, it doesn’t. Why?”

“We found it in Dickerson’s safe. We think the killer left it there on purpose.”

“I see. To send a message.” He mused for a moment. “No, I’m afraid I can’t help you with that.”

“Where were you last night between two and four, Mr. Galpin?”

“Home. Asleep.”

“Alone?”

He grinned widely. “Come on, Detective. Do I look like a man who would kiss and tell?” Chase cocked an eyebrow at the actor and he relented. “Oh, all right. If you must know, I was in bed with Lauralee Gray. I’m sure she’ll corroborate my ‘alibi.’”

“The actress?” asked Odelia, impressed.

Damon nodded once. “I may be old but I haven’t lost my touch, Odelia.” He was wiggling his eyebrows at this, probably thinking it made him look more appealing. In reality it made him look like a lecherous uncle.

“One other thing,” said Chase, who, if his frown was an indication, didn’t seem to like the way Damon was looking at Odelia. “There’s a rumor that President Wilcox and Dickerson fell out over something. Any idea what could have caused that rift?”

Damon’s smile vanished. “I have a pretty good idea, yes. The thing is, Dickerson didn’t own the National Star, Detective. He was merely its editor. The Star is owned by the Gantry family. And reportedly they didn’t appreciate this love affair between their tabloid and Wilcox. There’s a storm brewing for the President, and that fact hasn’t escaped the Gantrys. They wanted to distance themselves from Wilcox before they got dragged down along with him. So they pretty much ordered Dickerson to stand down, and possibly even dip into the treasure trove of dirt he’d collected on Wilcox over the years.”

“Dickerson kept dirt on Wilcox?” asked Odelia.

“Dickerson kept dirt on everyone. He was like the J. Edgar Hoover of the tabloid world. Only he published some of the stuff he collected, used some of it to put pressure on people, and buried the rest to incur favors from his friends. He was a very dangerous man.”

“Do you think his murder is related to his habit of blackmailing people?” asked Chase.

“I’m sure it is.” He gave a slight smile. “Now all you need to ask yourselves is this: who amongst the people he blackmailed finally decided they had enough and struck back?”