by Nic Saint
And she made for the door. “Dickerson did print some bad stuff about Brenda,” said the lizard suddenly. “And she did hate him with quite a fervor. But she didn’t kill that man.”
“Oh, thanks, lizard,” I said. “How can you be so sure?”
“Please don’t call me ‘lizard,’ cat. I have a name and it is Humphrey.”
“Sure, Humphrey. Whatever you say. So how do you know Brenda didn’t do it?”
“She was in here talking about the murder last night. Her and her husband. They weren’t broken-hearted over it, as you can imagine. But they didn’t celebrate either. Brenda is a very kind woman, and she would never gloat over the death of another human being.”
“What do you eat?” asked Dooley suddenly from his position under the desk.
“Pardon me?” said Humphrey.
“What kind of food do they give you?” asked Dooley. “Usually when Odelia sends us into these places there’s food waiting there for us. But I don’t see anything around here.”
“Dooley—it’s not polite to demand food from your host,” said Harriet.
“Technically Brenda is not our host,” I said. “We snuck in, remember?”
“If you must know, I’m quite partial to worms,” said Humphrey.
“Worms?” asked Dooley, wriggling from under the desk. “What kind of worms?”
“Oh, waxworms, silkworms, butterworms, red worms, earthworms, mealworms, superworms…”
“I didn’t even know there were so many different worms!” Dooley cried, looking horrified. He was clutching his tummy and I just knew he was thinking of Milo’s words again.
“I like crickets, too,” said Humphrey conversationally. “And the occasional leafy greens, of course. I’m not choosy. Oh, and pinky mice. I am a sucker for a juicy pinky mice.”
Now he had Harriet’s attention. “What’s a pinky mouse?” she asked.
“Frozen baby mice. A real delicacy.”
We were waiting for him to offer us some, but that was apparently asking too much. If we wanted mice—pink or otherwise—we’d have to catch them ourselves.
“So… about Dick Dickerson,” I said, returning to the topic under discussion.
“Oh, right. How am I so certain Brenda didn’t do it. Well, she was here, for one thing, working at her desk in this very room, under my watchful eye.”
“You watch your human work?” asked Harriet.
“Why, yes. She seems to enjoy my company. Often she has remarked that I have a soothing effect on her, and why not? I am, after all, very easy on the eyes and pleasant to be around.” For some reason he’d lifted his paw in greeting, so I lifted mine in response.
“So… who do you think might have done Dickerson in?” I asked.
He was lifting his other paw now, so I followed suit. Weird.
“Mr. Dickerson seemed to have a lot of enemies,” said the reptile. “Brenda often fumed about some of the stuff he wrote about her. He did the same to others, as well. One of his frequent targets was a man who liked to portray the President to humorous effect on television. Brenda also expressed the opinion that the man might have killed himself.”
“Suicide?” said Harriet. “That doesn’t seem likely, considering the way he died.”
“Yes, he drowned in his own feces, did he not?”
“Not his own feces,” said Harriet. “Duck poop.”
“Another species’ feces. How extraordinary.” The lizard frowned, or at least I thought he did. Tough to read facial expressions on a lizard. “I thought he died in his own excrement.”
“Why would he kill himself?” I asked.
Dooley had approached the glass terrarium, probably looking to get in on the pinky mice action. The lizard eyed him with suspicion. “Brenda said Dickerson was under investigation. Apparently he’d aided the President in his election by engaging in some form of illegal activities and prosecutors were going through his business with a fine-tooth comb. He was looking at dismissal from his own company and possibly prison, hence the suicide theory. Though as you say, the duck poop thing seems to preclude such a possibility.”
“Unless he staged the whole thing to make it look like murder,” said Harriet, who was thinking hard. “All so he could cast the blame on one of his opponents.”
“But who?” I asked. I turned to Humphrey. “Does the picture of a rose mean anything to you? It was left at the scene of the crime.”
Humphrey regarded me sternly. “I don’t like roses. They give me stomach cramps. I will eat fruits and vegetables, provided they’re nicely chopped up, but no flowers thank you very much.” He’d climbed a tree branch that had been placed inside the tank.
I had a feeling we’d gleaned as much information from Humphrey as we could, so I held up my paw in greeting and he did the same, though I had the impression he was merely trying to protect his stash of frozen baby mice from Dooley.
“Dooley, let’s go,” I said. “Thanks, Humphrey. You’ve been most helpful.”
“Glad I could help, cat,” he said.
“Max,” I said, realizing my social faux-pas. “And this is Dooley and that’s Harriet.”
“Lovely,” said Humphrey graciously. “Fare-thee-well—cats.”
And we’d just stepped out of the room when we bumped into an angry-looking female. Judging from the cap she was wearing, and her blue apron, she was part of the cleaning crew. “Cats!” she screamed the moment she saw us. “We’ve got cats!”
And then she was coming at us with a very large broom!
Chapter 32
Brenda Berish—Secretary Berish to her friends—was a motherly woman in her late sixties. She had a round face and a bouffant blond-gray hairdo. As in all the pictures I’d seen of her she dressed in a brightly colored pantsuit, this one a dazzling heliotrope.
The drawing room where she met us was light and airy, a floral motif extending from the upholstery to the wallpaper and even the carpet. Light slanted into the room, lending it a pleasant atmosphere, and the window had been cracked to allow some air in.
“Detective Kingsley—Miss Poole, how can I be of assistance?” asked Brenda, a kind smile playing about her lips.
“As I told your assistant over the phone, we’re looking into the death of Dick Dickerson,” Chase said, flipping open his notebook and taking a firmer grip on his pencil. “Mr. Dickerson was known to be a fan of your political opponent—not so much of you.”
“Which led you to think I might have done him harm,” said Brenda, nodding. “First of all, the night Mr. Dickerson was killed, I was in my study, working until late at night.”
“Can anyone verify that, Secretary Berish?” asked Chase.
“Oh, please, Detective. You don’t really think I drove a tractor up to Dick’s house and poured nine thousand gallons of duck poop into his safe, do you? So what you’re really asking is if I hired a crew of professionals to do that for me. I can assure you I didn’t. There was no love lost between Dickerson and my family but I’m not the kind of person who settles her scores by going around murdering people.” She’d placed her hands in her lap and sat poised and calm. “And to answer your question, my husband can verify that I was right here at the house. And if not him, my pet lizard can. Although I can’t imagine he’ll be willing to testify on my behalf.” She threw her head back and laughed a tinkling laugh.
“What about your husband? Did he have reason to harm Mr. Dickerson?”
“Of course he did. Do you have any idea what that man did to us?” She took out her phone and held it out to them. A few choice covers of the National Star appeared. ‘Brenda’s Cancer Scare.’ ‘Brenda Admitted—Her Fatal Collapse.’ ‘Brenda’s Abortion—Her Secret Love Child.’ ‘Brenda Going To Jail!’ ‘Brenda Confesses: I’m a Crack Addict!’ ‘Brenda Is A Lesbian!’
“That’s quite the collection,” said Odelia. She’d always known journalistic standards at the National Star were low, but she’d never fully realized how low they really were.
“Dickerso
n was the President’s hatchet man,” said Brenda, placing the phone on a gateleg table that held a portrait of her, her husband John and their daughter. “So he tried to destroy us. Naturally John wanted to hurt him. But he didn’t. He would never stoop that low.”
“Does the picture of a red rose mean anything to you?” asked Odelia.
Brenda shook her head. “No. Why?”
“It was found inside the safe—in fact it was the only thing found in that safe.”
“Dickerson’s files?”
“Gone. Every last one of them.”
She mused on that. “Dickerson had many enemies. And he kept extensive files in his safe. Everybody knew that. He propagated the idea he was the new Hoover. That he could break anyone with the dirt he collected on them. But this rose business doesn’t ring a bell.”
“Do you know of anyone else who could have done this?” asked Chase.
Brenda laughed. “Do you have a couple of hours? Like I said, he made a lot of enemies over the years.” When they both stared at her, she relented. “You want names? Well, I’ll give you names. There was the President himself, of course. The DA was coming after Dickerson for election fraud and he was prepared to make a deal in exchange for giving up Wilcox. Then there was that Russian mobster he was rumored to be blackmailing.”
“Yasir Bellinowski.”
“That’s the one. And there was the feud with his own daughter, who was suing him after he’d written her out of his will.”
That was a new one, and Chase was furiously scribbling this all down.
“Um. Who else? Oh, Olaf Brettin, owner of the Daily Inquirer and Dickerson’s biggest competitor.”
“Why was he upset with Dickerson?” asked Odelia.
“You’d have to ask him. All I know is that they hated each other’s guts. Probably because they were competing over the same shelf space and audience. Dickerson was winning, obviously. The Daily Inquirer only has half the circulation of the National Star.”
Just then, a tall man with white hair walked in. It was Brenda’s husband John Berish. He looked fit and healthy for a man who’d had a heart scare not that long ago.
Chase and Odelia got up to greet him but he gestured not to bother.
“What’s wrong?” asked Brenda when she saw the look on her husband’s face.
“Oh, nothing to worry about, darling,” he said. “Just some trouble with cats.”
“Cats?” asked Brenda.
“Vivicia caught them sneaking into your office. They were probably going for Humphrey.” He held up a hand. “He’s fine. Vivicia got there just in time.”
“How in heaven’s name did they get in?”
“The cook must have left the door open again when he went for a smoke.”
Odelia’s heart sank. She knew exactly who those cats were, and why they’d snuck into the house. “Um, those cats are probably with me,” she said now.
The cool gaze of Brenda raked over her. “What do you mean?”
“They’re my cats. They… like to go exploring from time to time.”
“Yeah, they must have escaped from the car,” Chase said, coming to her aid.
“Oh,” said Brenda, and she didn’t seem very amused. “Well, then. I guess you better come with me and gather them up before Vivicia turns them into meat for my pet lizard.”
Chapter 33
For the first time in my life I’d been caught and locked up by a human. This cleaner was definitely a force of nature. In one fell swoop she’d grabbed us by the scruff of the neck and had thrown us into a dark cupboard, where we now resided.
“Um, I don’t like this, Max,” said Dooley. “It’s dark in here and it smells.”
“Oh, do shut up, Dooley,” Harriet said irritably, as if Dooley was to blame for our predicament. “Instead of complaining, why don’t you help us find a way out of here?”
“There is no way out of here,” said Dooley. “I checked. It’s some kind of cloakroom.”
He was right. It was a cloakroom. A very small one, and all it contained were musty-smelling coats and sweaters and shoes. Not a nice place for a cat to be cooped up in.
“We have to keep our heads, you guys,” I said. “The trick is to be ready when that door opens—and sooner or later it will open—and shoot out as fast as we can—away from that horrible woman with the broom.”
“Maybe you can send a telepathic message to Brutus,” said Dooley, who didn’t seem to give a lot of credence to my escape plan. “Tell him to come and save us.”
“Brutus is only thinking about himself right now,” said Harriet with a bitter undertone to her voice. “And how Milo is his new best friend. It wouldn’t surprise me if those two are plotting to get us all chucked out of the Poole family’s lives and shipped off to the pound.”
“They’ll have to take a number,” said Dooley. “That woman with the broom looked like she was going to send us to the pound first.”
“Or turn us into minced meat,” I muttered.
“Max, you’re scaring me,” said Dooley. “Don’t say things like that.”
“Fine. I won’t,” I said.
“That was one scary-looking lizard, though,” said Harriet. “I wouldn’t be surprised if he told that cleaner to capture us and turn us into tasty morsels to snack on.”
“Harriet!” Dooley cried. “Please!”
“Fine!” she retorted. “Maybe you can telepathically connect to Odelia and tell her to save us.”
Dooley closed his eyes and muttered, “Odelia, please save us. Odelia, please save us. Odelia, please—”
“Oh, shut up already,” said Harriet, who was one of those cats prone to fickleness.
But Dooley was not to be deterred. “Odelia, please—”
Suddenly the door opened and I shot out like a rocket—or even faster!
“Max!” suddenly a voice arrested my progress. Reluctantly, I applied the brakes and when I looked back I saw that it was Odelia and she was holding Dooley in her arms, Harriet having jumped up in Chase’s arms, and accompanying them was the horrible woman who’d imprisoned us and a woman with a big glob of gray hair and a tall guy with white hair.
“It’s all right, Max,” said the woman with the big hair, crouching down until her knees cracked. “Odelia explained everything to me. Come here, little guy. You’re just fine.”
I stepped up to her, wondering why no one had ever told this woman that heliotrope was not a color that suited her skin tone. And as I approached, I sniffed a decidedly delicious aroma. It was Paloma Picasso, the scent Odelia sometimes applies when she goes out on a date with Chase. So I crossed those final few feet, and jumped into the woman’s arms. She rose, her knees cracking some more, and groaned from the exertion.
She smelled nice, and with Odelia and Chase present I didn’t think she’d dare stuff me into the mincer and turn me into lizard food.
“That cat looks good on you, darling,” said the white-haired man jovially.
“No, I’m not taking a cat, John,” said the woman, but from the way she was stroking my fur, and enjoying the sound of my purr, I could tell she was a goner.
Us cats have a secret weapon when dealing with humans: the softness of our fur and the burr of our purr. It soothes the nerves and warms the heart and makes humans fall head over heels in love with us and give us everything we need, until half of their kingdom.
Some people are impervious to our secret charm, though, and the cleaner who’d corralled us into the cloakroom was clearly one of them. She stood eyeing me with one of those skeptical expressions on her round face, her bushy brows wiggling with ill-concealed menace. And the thought occurred to me that she might be Dickerson’s killer.
Serial killers often hate pets. And this woman definitely looked like a serial killer.
“Are you sure about that?” asked Brutus.
“Absolutely,” said Milo.
The two cats were seated side by side on two deck chairs, looking out at the waves gently lapping at the shoreline. T
his was the life, Brutus thought. No bossy Max to contend with. No girlfriend trying to force her opinions on him. The only thing missing was his bowl of food and a television playing Kit Katt & Koh, his new favorite TV show.
“Cats are needlessly afraid of the pound,” Milo repeated. “Trust me, I’ve been there, and the only reason that place gets such a bad rep is because the cats who’ve been there purposely perpetrate that rep. The pound, my friend, is paradise for pets. They treat you like royalty down there. In fact it isn’t too much to say that every cat’s dream is to live in the pound for life.”
“So all those horror stories?”
“Bald-faced lies. I mean, who’s told you that the pound is a wicked place?”
Brutus’s own non-bald face hardened. “Max.”
“And that’s because Max knows. He knows how much better your life would be if you were sent to the pound.”
“But why doesn’t he go and live there?”
“Because Max is one of those cats who’s got it made. He’s his human’s favorite, isn’t he? Odelia gives him everything he needs. The best food, the best home, the best cuddles. And when you’re not looking she gives him all that and more. But he doesn’t tell you that, does he?”
“Max gets special treatment?”
“Of course he does. When you’re not around the liverwurst comes out, and the gold-crusted chicken nuggets, and the hand-caught lobster and the Arenkha caviar and the crab!”
“Oh, my god!”
“Exactly! I’m not jealous, Brutus. I’ve lived at the pound, and I’ve sampled all these delicious foods myself. In fact I’ve eaten so much lobster that I can’t stand the taste anymore. But you? You shouldn’t be denied this nectar of the gods, my friend.”
“Max!” Brutus said between gritted teeth.
“You get the crumbs from his table. And for what? So you can be at his every beck and call. Do as he pleases. Follow his orders and cater to his every whim. Do you really want that for yourself, Brutus? Or do you want to live like a king yourself for a change?”
“I want to live like a king,” said Brutus decidedly.