The Mysteries of Max Box Sets 3

by Nic Saint

  “Of course you do. And you deserve to. But is Odelia going to give you the kind of life you deserve? No, she’s not. For some strange reason she’s determined to keep Max on as her favorite pet, while she treats the rest of you like mere serfs. Underlings. Max’s minions.”

  “I don’t want to be Max’s minion any more, Milo.”

  “I commend the sentiment, Brutus. You have nothing to lose but your chains.”

  Brutus growled something to himself, then a thought occurred to him. “But what about Harriet? And what about Dooley?”

  “They’ll have to choose, too. If you convince them to join you, all the better.”

  “I might be able to convince Harriet. She loves me. Dooley? He’s loyal to Max.”

  “His loss,” said Milo. “Some of us are born to be slaves, Brutus. And some are born to be emperors—masters of our own fate.” He placed a hand on Brutus’s chest. “I think you know, deep inside, what you want to be, don’t you?”

  “An emperor,” he growled, the fire of desire burning bright now.

  “So convince Harriet that she can be an empress or stay on as Max’s slave. The choice shouldn’t be too hard.”

  He turned to Milo, suddenly overcome with emotion. It was very rare that he felt this strongly about another cat. “Milo,” he said with a quiver in his voice.

  “I know, Brutus,” said Milo magnanimously. “I know.”

  “You are my savior. My hero. My messiah.”

  Milo sighed. “It’s a tough job, but someone has to do it, Brutus.”

  “Is that why you left that pound—that paradise—to save the rest of us?”

  “Yes, indeed. I could have stayed there forever—basking in the kind of life only the richest cats on earth ever get to experience. Instead I chose to take up the noble quest to free my fellow cat. To be a beacon of light and hope for the downtrodden and the oppressed. Cats like you, Brutus, and Harriet. Even Dooley,” he added after a pause.

  “Thank you,” said Brutus, from the bottom of his heart. A tear stole across his furry cheek. He was deeply moved.

  “Don’t cry for me, Brutus,” said Milo, touched.

  “They are tears of joy, Milo. Tears of gratitude. Tears for you.”

  “Thank you, Brutus,” said Milo with a gentle wave of the hand. “Now go forth and spread the word, my child.”

  Chapter 34

  Once again, Odelia’s cats were awfully quiet on the ride back into town. She didn’t mind. She had a lot to think about after the interview with the former secretary. Obviously Dick Dickerson hadn’t exactly been a choir boy. He’d made a lot of people very angry over the course of his career as a tabloid publisher. Chase was thinking, too, judging from the thought wrinkle creasing his brow, and so were the cats. A whole lot of thinking going on.

  Max hadn’t discovered anything of significance, so that was a disappointment.

  As they rode into town, Max piped up, “Can you drop us off here, Odelia?”

  She directed Chase to stop the car, and Max and Dooley hopped out. Harriet and Brutus and Milo preferred to ride along with her and Chase for some reason. So they dropped the three cats off at the house and Chase took her to the office before he cruised off in the direction of the police station to write up a report on the Brenda Berish interview.

  And as she stepped into the Gazette office, ready to write up some of her notes, she saw that a visitor was in Dan’s office. It was a man she’d never seen before, but then that wasn’t so unusual. Dan knew pretty much everyone who was anyone and a lot of someones who were no ones, so he was bound to know people Odelia didn’t.

  She popped her head into his office. The aged editor was puffing from a nice cigar and sipping from what looked like a glass of port, his white beard waggling happily and his short frame relaxing on the wingback chair he’d installed in his office for when he needed a think.

  His guest was a stocky man with a shiny round face and an equally shiny bald dome. He looked like a cartoon of a Wall Street banker, complete with stubby cigar and beady little eyes.

  “Hey, there, Odelia,” said Dan jovially. His cheeks were red and this was obviously not his first glass of port. “I want you to meet an old friend of mine. This is Olaf Brettin. Olaf runs the Daily Inquirer. Just about the nastiest tabloid on the East Coast.”

  “Not the nastiest,” said the tabloid editor good-naturedly.

  “No, the National Star got you licked in that department.”

  “The National Star got us licked in every department,” said Brettin. “Not just nastiness but political clout, too. Not to mention circulation, of course.” He didn’t seem bothered by this fact too much, though, judging from his indulgent smile.

  “That will probably all change now that Dickerson is dead,” said Dan.

  “I don’t think so,” said Brettin. “Except maybe for the political thing. The Star’s owners never liked the direction Dickerson took the paper. They’ll probably hire an editor who’ll return to its core business: digging up dirt on celebrities and exposing scandals.”

  “Did you know Dickerson well, Mr. Brettin?” asked Odelia.

  “We met occasionally. Dinner parties, galas, conferences, industry events, that sort of thing. We didn’t socialize, though. We weren’t exactly chummy.” His face sagged. “Dick Dickerson had a ruthless streak, Miss Poole. I know you’ll probably say that we were like peas in a pod—publishing the same sort of tabloid muck—but I never set out to damage anyone’s reputation or even use blackmail to further my own ends.”

  “And he did.”

  “And he did,” Brettin confirmed.

  “It probably got him killed, too,” said Dan. “People will only take so much abuse.”

  “Did he ever try to damage your reputation?” asked Odelia.

  Brettin pursed his lips. “Oh, he tried. There was a time our publications were neck and neck, and he used his full barrage of dirty trickery on me. But then he pulled ahead of the Daily Inquirer and he stopped bothering. Didn’t think I was worth the trouble.”

  Dan’s eyes were gleaming. “Odelia works with the police, Olaf. So you probably should be careful what you tell her.”

  “You work with the police?” asked Brettin, surprised.

  “Occasionally,” she said. “My uncle is Chief of Police.”

  “And her boyfriend is a detective,” Dan added, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “So if you confess now, you wouldn’t merely give me the biggest scoop in my career, Odelia would probably bring out the handcuffs and arrest you on the spot—isn’t that right, Odelia?”

  “I’m not a cop, Dan,” she said. “I’m not allowed to arrest anyone, I’m afraid.”

  “I didn’t kill Dickerson, if that’s what you think, Miss Poole,” said Brettin. “There was no love lost between us but what we had was a professional enmity, not a personal one. Besides, it’s not as if losing an editor is going to cost the National Star its readership. A new editor will come in and take over. The Gantrys won’t kill the goose that lays the golden eggs.”

  “Have they asked you to be the new editor by any chance?” asked Odelia.

  “Oh, she’s smart,” Dan said cheekily. “Watch what you say now, Brettin.”

  “You trained her well,” said Brettin indulgently. “No, Miss Poole. They haven’t asked me. And even if they did, I would turn them down. I like my position at the Daily Inquirer. That tabloid is my life and I wouldn’t trade running it for anything in the world.”

  Odelia started to leave. She had her own articles to write. And she was sure Chase or one of her uncle’s officers would interview Brettin soon enough anyway, asking him about his alibi and stuff like that. But then she thought of something. “Does the picture of a rose mean anything to you, Mr. Brettin?”

  “A rose?”

  “There was a picture of a rose left in Dickerson’s safe. Left there as a message, I presume.”

  He shook his head slowly. “I’m sorry. That doesn’t ring a bell, Miss Poole.”

 
She gave him a smile. “Thanks. Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Brettin.”

  “The pleasure is all mine,” the tabloid editor said graciously.

  Chapter 35

  “Brutus was awfully quiet, Max,” said Dooley.

  I’d noticed the same thing, and it worried me. “Milo must have been filling his head with nonsense again,” I said.

  “What kind of nonsense?”

  “Nonsense about me, probably. And maybe Harriet.”

  “What about me? What nonsense would Milo say about me?”

  I had a feeling Milo’s arrows weren’t exactly aimed at Dooley, but I decided not to mention this. “I don’t know, buddy. But it won’t be good.”

  We were walking along Main Street, hoping to meet someone who knew something about this Dickerson business. We arrived at the barber shop, but no cats were in sight. The door was slightly ajar, though, so we snuck in anyway. You’d be amazed how much you can learn at the barber’s. People waiting for their turn tend to gossip about the people having their hair cut, and the people having their hair cut tend to gossip about the people waiting for their turn. It’s one big gossip machine, and from time to time some of that gossip is interesting enough to make it into print—in Odelia’s numerous articles for the Gazette.

  Today was a slow day, though. Only three people were waiting, with two seated in chairs and being worked on by the barber—a handsome man in his fifties named Fido Siniawski—and his assistant. In spite of his age, Fido still sported a full head of shiny black hair, and a wrinkle-free face. People said he’d had work done both on his face and his hair—implants, if the rumors were to be believed—but he looked pretty natural to me.

  All cats like Fido. The barber is the proud owner of a Maine Coon named Buster, and any human who loves cats is a human after our own heart.

  “Did you hear about Dick Dickerson?” asked one of the two women in the chair. Fido was dabbing at her hair with a brush, presumably applying some sort of dye or gel.

  “Oh, such a horrible way to go,” said Fido, his voice dripping with relish. “Duck poop. Really. Can you imagine?”

  “Horrible,” the woman agreed.

  I recognized her as Aissa Spring, who runs No Spring Chicks, the vegan restaurant.

  “Have they caught the killer yet?” asked Fido.

  “No idea. That Odelia Poole has been trucking around with that cop Chase Kingsley again. They seem to be onto something. Marisa saw them drive by the store this morning in Detective Kingsley’s pickup.”

  “That Detective Kingsley,” said Fido unctuously. “Now that’s one drop-dead gorgeous man.”

  “I wouldn’t know,” said Aissa, who is a lesbian. “I don’t play for that team, Fido.”

  “But I do, Aissa!” said Fido, much to Aissa’s hilarity. “And he’s simply scrumptious!”

  “What is scrumptious, Max?” asked Dooley.

  “Um…”

  “It means he’s one handsome devil,” said Buster, who’d snuck up on us and was studying us intently. “What are you two doing in here? Soaking up more of that gossip, are you? Whispering it into your Odelia’s ear so she can fill her newspaper with a lot of nonsense.” He shook his head. “You’re all the same, you tabloid cats.”

  “Um, we’re not tabloid cats, Buster,” I said. “Whatever gave you that idea?”

  “I’ll bet you’re here to collect gossip on me, too, aren’t you? Write about me in that lousy little paper of yours? Well, let me tell you something, Maxi Pad. Maybe you should stop gossiping about others and start putting your own house in order first.”

  I had absolutely no idea what had gotten into Buster. “I don’t understand,” I said therefore.

  “Sure you do. He told me all about you,” said Buster.

  “Who did?”

  “Some white cat came in here yesterday. Telling me all the stuff you told him about me.” He was balling his paws into fists now, and I had a feeling whatever Milo had told Buster wasn’t good.

  “What did I supposedly tell him about you?” I asked resignedly.

  Buster frowned. “That I should be in the Guinness Book of Records as the Ugliest Cat Alive. That I’m so ugly mirrors crack when I look in them. That I’m so ugly I make onions cry. That I’m so ugly I give Freddy Krueger nightmares. I don’t get that last one, though. I’m pretty sure I don’t know any cat named Freddy Krueger. So why is he having nightmares about me?”

  “Oh, Buster,” I said. “Don’t listen to Milo.”

  “It’s not him that said all those nasty things about me—it’s you!”

  “No, it’s not,” I said. “Milo is a liar—he likes to spread these nasty rumors and pit cats against other cats. It’s what he does. He seems to draw some kind of perverse pleasure from creating trouble for others.”

  “He told me I have worms,” said Dooley mournfully.

  “You mean you don’t think I’m stupid?” asked Buster, surprised.

  “Of course not! I would never think that, Buster.” And even if I did, I wouldn’t be stupid enough to tell anyone, I thought. “It’s all lies.”

  “I can’t believe he would say something like that.”

  “He told me I should scoot my tush across the floor—squish the worms.”

  Buster blinked. “I’m sorry, Max. I didn’t know.”

  “He barged into cat choir last night, too,” I said, remembering the veto Milo had exercised against me and Dooley. “Made a lot of trouble for us there as well.”

  “Did you know that worms don’t like Cat Snax?” Dooley asked. “It’s true. They hate it. So if you ever have worms, Buster,” he said earnestly, “eat a lot of Cat Snax. And scoot.” I gave him a critical look and he had the decency to look embarrassed. “I’m sorry. I forgot. Scooting is not really a thing. And neither is eating Cat Snax to get rid of worms.” He kicked at a small pile of hair that Fido had swept into the corner. “Damn that cat is convincing!”

  “He is,” said Buster. “I believed every word he said. He’d make a great politician.”

  “Or a great lawyer,” I added.

  “Or a Cat Snax salesperson,” Dooley said.

  A harrowing thought suddenly occurred to me. “Do you think Milo’s been talking to other cats, too?” I asked Buster.

  “Sure. Up and down the block. He’s real chatty.” Then his expression darkened. “Did you know that Kingman tells everyone who wants to listen that my mother was a bald cat? My mother wasn’t bald. She had beautiful fur, just like me. Big, beautiful fur. Orange, too. Lovely color. Now who would say such a horrible thing?” I gave Buster a keen look. He stared at me for a moment, then understanding dawned. “Kingman never said anything about my mother, did he?”

  “No, he did not.”

  “Milo invented that story to make me upset with Kingman.”

  “Yes, he did.”

  “Fooled again! Oh, man!”

  I patted him on the back. “Don’t be too hard on yourself, Buster. He fooled us, too.”

  And as we walked out of the barber shop, I had the sinking feeling that Hampton Cove’s entire cat population would soon be on the verge of war. And all because of one cat.

  Ugh.

  Chapter 36

  Down at the precinct, Chase had just walked in when Dolores, who ruled over the station reception with an iron fist, yelled out, “Kingsley!”

  He joined her at the front desk. “Dolores?”

  Dolores was a big-boned woman with blond, curly hair, a no-nonsense expression tattooed on her face, and a fondness for mascara that made her look slightly scary. “You got a visitor, Kingsley.”

  “Who is it? Santa?”

  She grinned. “Santa only visits boys who’ve been good.”

  “I’ve been good.”

  “That’s not what I hear. Word on the street is that you’ve allowed yourself to be muscled out of the Chief’s niece’s house by his own damn mother!”

  “Hey, what do you want me to do, Dolores? Kick out Odelia’s granny so I can move in?”
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  “You could make an honest woman out of Odelia by putting a ring on her finger.”

  “And all this from the word on the street, huh?”

  “The street is wise, Kingsley.”

  “The street’s a wise-ass,” he said as he walked away. “Who’s my visitor?”

  “Yasir Bellinowski. Said you’d told him to come in.”

  And so he had. Only he’d never expected Mr. Bellinowski to actually comply.

  He walked through the station office, where several of his colleagues were hard at work answering phone calls, typing out reports on their computers, and generally doing their darndest to keep the peace in the rustic little town of Hampton Cove.

  Yasir Bellinowski was waiting in one of the interview rooms. He was dressed in a Brooks Brothers suit that probably cost more than Chase’s paycheck for that month, and was glancing annoyedly at a gold watch that might have cost more than Chase’s paycheck for the whole year. The man’s hair was slicked back, and Chase wondered if no one had bothered to tell him that people didn’t wear their hair like that anymore.

  He waltzed in and took a seat across from the guy. “Mr. Bellinowski. I wasn’t expecting you.”

  The other man smirked. “Don’t tell me. You’re pleasantly surprised.”

  “I wouldn’t go as far as that.” He opened a file folder on the table in front of him. “You probably know why I asked you to come in.”

  “Sure. Dickerson, right? Scumbag that got whacked the other day. So ask away, Detective. Do your worst.” He checked his watch again, auspiciously this time. “Though I should probably warn you I’m a busy man and I’ve got a busy schedule today.”

  Bellinowski was rumored to be in charge of a network of illegal gambling outfits throughout the area, and was probably the biggest loan-shark in Hampton Cove. Chief Alec had been trying to put him out of business for years, but so far he’d dodged that bullet.

  “So rumor has it that Dick Dickerson kept some files on you in his safe,” said Chase, deciding to cut to the chase. “And that you weren’t too happy about that.”