by Nic Saint
Odelia nodded hello to the familiar faces, then glanced at the empty counter. No Gran. Odd. She’d wanted to have another word with her relative about this whole Burt Goldsmith business. Talk some sense into her. And now she hadn’t even shown up for work. Not that she needed the job. She’d practically begged Dad to give it to her. Said she’d go crazy sitting at home doing nothing. Said she’d be the best receptionist he’d ever wished for.
Dad had relented and she’d been the worst receptionist he’d ever wished for.
And Odelia was just about to turn away when the door to the inner office opened and her dad appeared, along with Mrs. Baumgartner, one of his regulars. The bluff middle-aged woman thanked him and went on her way. Dad’s eyes scanned the waiting room, then the empty desk, and he sighed. When he caught sight of his daughter, he visibly perked up. “Odelia, honey. Come on in.” He turned to the other patients. “We’ll just be a moment.”
“Take your time, Doctor Tex,” said an elderly man with beetling brows and a stoop. “We’re not going anywhere.”
“Speak for yourself, you old fool,” said his neighbor, a squat ruddy-faced woman.
“One minute,” Tex promised, and ushered Odelia into his exam room.
“You don’t look so hot, Dad,” she said, noticing his pale and sweaty brow and his unkempt mop of white hair. Even his doctor’s coat had been buttoned askance. She set about to remedy this and her father took the opportunity to wipe his forehead with a napkin.
“It’s been hell all morning,” he confessed. “Between the patients and the phone calls I don’t know what to do first. Where the hell is your grandmother? I’ve tried calling but she keeps blocking me. I didn’t even know she could do that on that crappy phone I gave her.”
Grandma used to have a snazzy iPhone, but kept buying expensive apps in the App Store. And then she broke her phone by dropping it in the toilet. So now Dad had bought her a cheaper model. Some unknown Chinese brand. And Gran hadn’t answered his calls since.
“She thinks she gave birth to the son of the Most Fascinating Man in the World,” Odelia said, patting her dad on the chest, his doctor’s coat nice and neat once more.
“Come again?” he said.
In a few brief words she explained what had happened at the Hampton Cove Star that morning. Tex plunked himself down on the edge of his desk, looking stunned. “She thinks she gave birth to a third child but she’s not entirely sure? That’s crazy!”
“That’s not all. Scarlett Canyon claims she is the mother of Burt’s child. Though her memory is equally fuzzy.”
“Crazy town,” muttered Tex, wiping his brow once more. “Is that why she didn’t show up for work this morning?”
“Yeah, she had a hot date with Burt.”
“She could have told me.”
“You haven’t exactly been on speaking terms, Dad.”
“That’s true,” he admitted.
Ever since Tex took her credit cards away—or his credit cards, actually—Gran had been ghosting him. Tough to do when you work together, but Gran had managed. Slipping him little pieces of paper and talking to the wall whenever she needed to address him.
“You think she’s going to quit working here?”
“If she can get Philippe Goldsmith to believe her claim she might,” Odelia said. “Burt’s ‘widow’ stands to come into a nice chunk of change, if Philippe is to be believed.”
“Maybe it’s for the best,” said Dad, staring at the ceiling. “Maybe this Philippe is taking your grandmother off our hands and she’ll live with the guy in Vegas from now on.”
“Colorado.”
“Colorado is fine. I can live with Colorado. Mexico would have been better. Or Africa.”
“I’m not sure Mom will like her mother moving away.”
Dad humorously slapped the desk. “There’s always a catch, isn’t there?”
“She’ll be back, Dad.”
“Not what I wanted to hear,” he said with a grin, then pressed a kiss to her brow. “And now you better scoot, young lady. Before my patients chase you out of here, feathered and tarred.”
“Maybe you should call the temp agency. At least until Gran comes to her senses.”
“Maybe I should,” he conceded, and walked her out.
Next stop was the library, where Odelia’s mother was stacking books in neat rows onto a library cart. “Oh, hey, honey,” Mom said. “Have you seen your grandmother? She was supposed to arrive early today. Help me prepare for the lecture tonight.” Mom, who was the spitting image of her daughter, pressed her hands into her lower back and arched backwards, grimacing. “Ooph. My back is killing me today.”
“Lecture? What lecture?”
“The Most Interesting Men in the World are in town. They’re doing some type of conference thing at the Seabreeze Music Center. I managed to snag them for an Evening with the Most Interesting Men in the World. Only it looks as if it might get canceled.”
“Of course. The explosion.”
“Explosion? What explosion?”
For the second time she told the story of the explosion that had taken the life of the Most Fascinating Man in the World.
“Bummer,” said Mom. “He was supposed to be the star of the evening. Not to mention the emcee.” She bit her lip. “Maybe the others will still show up?”
“They’re all being questioned as we speak, and it looks like the Most Compelling Man might be a suspect in the whole thing.”
Mom nodded knowingly. “Jealousy. Figures. They don’t seem to be able to agree on anything. Not the topics of conversation, not the seating arrangements or the order of introductions—not even the name of the evening. I wanted to call it ‘An Evening with Some Very Interesting Men,’ but they said that would favor the Most Interesting Man in the World, who, coincidentally, couldn’t make it. Apparently there’s a pecking order of Most Interesting Men with the Most Interesting Man numero uno and Burt Goldsmith a close second. Maybe I should call the whole thing off now. Quite frankly it’s not worth the aggravation.”
“You haven’t heard the worst part yet,” Odelia told her. “You have a second brother.”
Like her father, Mom plunked down on the first solid object she found, in her case the library cart, disturbing the neatly placed books and dumping them all to the carpeted floor. “What?” she asked, pressing a hand to her heart.
As Odelia told the story, the thought occurred to her that this was almost like an episode of The Jerry Springer Show. “And since Gran hasn’t shown up at Dad’s office there’s a good chance she’ll be leaving us soon to go and live in Burt Goldsmith’s mansion in the Centennial State, sending us postcards from time to time while she lives it up out there.”
“Oh, dear,” said Mom. “How did your father take it?”
She wanted to say Dad was over the moon but that seemed inappropriate. “He’s concerned about you and Alec. The news of this third sibling must be tough on you guys.”
Mom raised an eyebrow. “Tough? Either your grandmother has finally gone off her rocker or she’s in this for the money. And if she is, the woman is dead to me.”
Odelia was surprised by the resolute tone in her mother’s voice. “I’m sure she’ll come to her senses. She always does.”
“Dead!” Mom exclaimed, getting up. “After all that we’ve done for her? Leaving us high and dry? She can join her newly acquired grandson in Colorado and choke!”
“Um, that seems kind of harsh, Mom.”
Mom swept up an arm. “She needed support after my dad died? We gave it to her. She needed a place to stay after it turned out Dad had gambled away the house? We took her in. She wanted a job so she could stay active and earn some extra money? We gave her two jobs! And now this!”
She was now stocking the shelves with Nora Roberts books at such a rate and with such fury the entire cabinet shook. Mom was usually a soft-spoken and gentle person but now she resembled Lizzie Borden before taking up the ax and chopping down her relatives.
“I, um—do you need help? I mean, now that Gran probably won’t show up?”
Mom planted a hand on her hip. “I’m sorry, honey. But it’s been one of those days.”
Yup. One of those days where you find out your mother secretly had a second son. Or not. “I’ll just put these away, shall I?” she suggested, and pushed the cart away from her mother before she bodily lifted it up and hurled it through the large plate glass window.
And as she was collecting more returned books and stocking the shelves, she said, “Oh, I forgot to tell you but I took the cats to Vena’s.”
“Uh-huh,” said Mom without much enthusiasm from the next aisle.
“She squirted some topical gel on their necks and gave me a flea comb.”
“Mh.”
“She wasn’t sure about a flea collar but the poor creatures are so riddled with fleas I’m going to have them wear them for a while. Only a couple of days. Until they’re free of the pests. And I’ll have to vacuum the carpets, the floors, the bed, the sofa, wash the sheets…”
“That’s great, honey,” her mother said distractedly, probably still fuming. Odelia could hear the tack-tack-tack of books being stacked on the rack. It sounded like gunfire.
“You should probably do the same.”
“Mh.”
Odelia heaved a sigh. Looked like Mom was a goner for now. At least until she got what she perceived as Gran’s betrayal out of her system. Which could take a while. And as she filed a Debbie Macomber Christmas novel under the letter M, she thought about what Max had said. Burt Goldsmith had a cat. A cat that had gone missing. If Max could find out where Burt’s cat was holed up and talk to her, there was a lot he could find out.
She suddenly remembered the conversation about her and Chase having babies and smiled to herself. It wasn’t just Mom who could get worked up. Her cats did, too. As if she and Chase were ever going to have babies. Hah. Just the thought was ridiculous.
Still, the sudden fire lighting up her core at the thought of having Chase’s babies told her otherwise. She tamped down on the sudden heat. The whole thing was ridiculous. Absolutely ridiculous.
But when her phone lit up with a message from Chase she felt ridiculously excited.
Chapter 13
We were stuck on the fire escape. No doubt about it. Staring at a closed door willing it to open and the door wasn’t budging. At least not until some helpful human opened it for us. That’s the disadvantage of being a cat. No opposable thumbs. Imagine the damage we could do if only our creator had outfitted us with opposable thumbs. We could actually open this damn door. Oh, wait. Human to the rescue. A young man dressed like a bellboy shoved open the door, pinned it against the wall so it stayed open, and took out a pack of cigarettes.
Dooley and I slipped inside.
Thank God for smokers.
“You know, Max?” said Dooley as we traversed the nicely carpeted corridors of the Hampton Cove Star hotel. “This collar isn’t so bad. I mean, it smells like diesel fumes and everything but it’s not a smell I can’t get used to, if you know what I mean.”
I rolled my eyes. I hated the collar from the moment Vena put it on me. Like Dooley said, it smelled like diesel, and it itched. Besides, cats aren’t meant to wear collars. Dogs are. Because dogs are an inferior species. Cats are meant to roam wild and free. Collars don’t feature into that story. Odelia had promised us it was only for a few days. Until all the fleas had fled. Between the drops and the collar and the comb she said she’d apply to our furs, it wouldn’t take more than two or three days for this whole terrible episode to be behind us.
“I mean, as long as it’s for a good cause I’m quite willing to wear the collar,” Dooley prattled on. “I’m not saying I like it. But I’m not saying I don’t like it, either.”
I kept a dignified silence. As long as we didn’t meet A) other cats, and B) dogs, I was fine. Kingman might get away with wearing a collar and keeping his dignity, I could not.
We’d arrived at the room formerly occupied by the Most Fascinating Man in the World, now fascinating the Suffolk County medical examiner with how dead he was, and peered inside. The door was missing, but some helpful police officer had put up yellow crime scene tape to keep people out. People, not cats.
We entered the room, padding around a nice hole in the floor, and checked around for signs of Shadow, Burt Goldsmith’s elusive cat.
“Shadow,” I called out. “Where are you?”
“Shadow,” Dooley echoed. “Here, kitty, kitty.”
I gave Dooley a scowl. Cats don’t debase themselves by using those awful words. Here, kitty, kitty indeed. We covered the entire hotel room in half a minute. Not much to see. Terrible smell, though. Like when Odelia burns her toast in the morning. But worse. Much worse. I thought I even smelled charred meat at some point in the proceedings. Yikes.
We got out of there as fast as we could, having exhausted our options and our capacity to take in terrible odors. Out in the corridor, a door opened and a man walked out, a cat slipping out in his wake.
“Don’t be too long, Princess,” said the man softly, and the cat growled something rude that the man probably didn’t understand, for he heaved a contented sigh and giggled.
The door closed and the cat stared at us. We stared back. It was one of those Clint Eastwood moments, from the days when Clint still starred in westerns as the inscrutable hero with the inscrutable squint. Then the cat spoke. “What are you doing here?”
“I’m glad you asked,” said Dooley, approaching the black cat. He wasn’t just black but more as if a black hole had suddenly opened up in the corridor floor, only the whites of his eyes indicating he was animated by the force of life. That and that grating voice. “We’re looking for Shadow? The Most Fascinating Cat in the World? Maybe you’ve seen her?”
The black cat—Princess, according to his owner—merely continued to stare.
“We’re trying to figure out what happened to Shadow’s human,” I explained. “Apparently he was blown up this morning and we’re trying to determine if foul play was involved.”
“You fools,” Princess growled. “Of course foul play was involved. What do you think? That he accidentally blew himself up when he lit a cigar? The guy was murdered!”
“Oh,” said Dooley excitedly. “Do you have any evidence to corroborate this theory, my friend?”
The cat growled something between gritted teeth, looking and sounding just like Clint, Clint squint and all. For a moment I fully expected him to snarl, ‘Make my day, punk.’ Instead, he said, “Corroborate? What are you? Some two-bit Sherlock Holmes wannabes?”
“We work with Odelia Poole,” Dooley explained helpfully. “She’s an investigator and a reporter. She helps out the police from time to time when they’re stuck. She’s very smart.”
“Yeah, right. A bunch of loser cats helping a nosy parker journo solve crime. Where have I heard that before?”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “But did I hear your owner call you Princess?”
“That’s my name, don’t wear it out,” he growled.
“But… isn’t Princess a female name?”
“I am a female,” he snarled. “Can’t you tell?”
Frankly I couldn’t, but I was prepared to be broad-minded. “So, Princess, can you tell us some more about this theory of yours? Burt Goldsmith was murdered, you say?”
He—or she—was reluctant, I could tell, but finally the desire to confide in someone won out. “Someone was after him, all right. Shadow used to say they were all after Burt.”
“All?”
“All the interesting men. His competitors. All except one, of course. The Most Compelling Man in the World. My human.” She stuck out her chest. “Curt wouldn’t hurt a fly. He’s the greatest. And the most compelling, of course.”
“Of course,” I said graciously.
“You look like a male,” Dooley said abruptly. He’d been studying the black cat closely.
“I was born a male,” Princess exp
lained gruffly. “But then I decided I was a female. What’s it to you, you insensitive bozo?”
“Just curious, I guess,” said Dooley, not insulted in the least.
“I always felt like a female trapped inside a male body. Do you have any idea what that does to a cat? No, of course you don’t, you ignoramus. Well, take your judgments and shove them up your keister, will you?”
“What’s a keister?” asked Dooley, interested.
“Never mind,” I said, intent on steering the conversation back to safer ground. “Do you have any idea where we can find Shadow? We’d like to ask her some questions.”
“If they’re as dumb as the ones you’ve been asking me I don’t know if I should tell you,” Princess grumbled irritably, darting furious glances at Dooley.
“We would be most grateful,” I said. “Not to mention that if we find out who did this to Burt, our human—who, as I explained, works with the police—would help clear your human from any suspicion.”
Princess frowned, working this over in her mind. “Okay, yeah, I’ll bite,” she said finally. “Last time I saw Shadow she was running for that door over there. This was moments after the explosion. She came shooting out of Philippe Goldsmith’s room, Burt’s grandson.”
I glanced at the door Princess indicated. It was the same door Dooley and I had entered through. The fire escape. Like the cats at Vena’s had speculated, Princess must have been spooked by the explosion and fled in a panic. She literally could be anywhere right now.
“Thank you so much,” I said. “You’ve been a great help, Princess.”
“Don’t mention it,” she said gruffly.
“You have a pee-pee, though, right?” asked Dooley, still mulling things over.
“Are you insane?!” yelled Princess. “Or just plain stoopid?!”
“I think it’s time we moved on,” I told Dooley, giving him a nudge.