by Nic Saint
“I know who killed Dickerson,” she said, moving past him and into the house. She paced the living room as he sat down and finished his dinner. “Remember how I told you about Olaf Brettin visiting Dan at the office?”
“Uh-huh. So?”
“I couldn’t stop thinking there was something I missed. So when I got home I surfed the web. Did you know that Brettin had a daughter?”
“Yeah. I think I read something about that. Didn’t she die?”
“Suicide. Three years ago. So I just happened to watch the video of the eulogy her father gave at her funeral.”
“As one does,” said Chase laconically.
“He called her ‘his rose!’” she said excitedly.
“His rose.”
“His rose! Give me your phone. I’ll show you.”
“Why don’t you show me yours?” he asked with a grin.
“I forgot mine at home,” she said, not in the mood for banter.
He handed her his phone and she quickly found the YouTube video, then scrolled to the moment Olaf Brettin had spoken the fateful words. The man was clearly undone as he stood at the church lectern. ‘This tragedy would never have happened if I’d paid more attention,’ the tabloid editor said, a crack in his voice, his speech interspersed with sobs. ‘You should have come to me, my sweet Lavinia. But like an absent father, I was so busy, so immersed in my own world, that I never even noticed the cries for help you posted. Until it was too late. My sweet, darling Lavinia,’ he said, turning to the lily-covered coffin, ‘my rose.’
“See?!” Odelia exclaimed. “Rose! I’ll bet that’s what he used to call his daughter.”
Chase wasn’t impressed. “A lot of fathers call their daughters their rose, their flower, their whatever. This doesn’t mean he killed Dickerson. Unless Dickerson killed this… Lavinia.”
“He might as well have,” said Odelia, taking a seat at her uncle’s dinner table. She noticed the room looked a lot nicer than before. Her uncle’s house used to be a pigsty. Ever since Chase moved in it had improved significantly. “Lavinia Brettin killed herself, right?”
“Okay.”
“Rumor has it that there was a sex tape involved.”
“Christ.”
“Yeah. So what if Dickerson got a hold of this tape and threatened to publish excerpts in the National Star?”
“What would be the purpose of that? It’s not as if Lavinia Brettin was a celebrity.”
“No, but what if he used it to blackmail her father?”
Chase narrowed his eyes. “Why would one tabloid editor blackmail another tabloid editor? What did Dickerson have to gain?”
“Only one way to find out,” she said, getting up.
“You want to go there now?”
“Of course. Don’t you?”
He shook his head. “Look, we’ve got our killers, and we’ve got the guy who paid them, and we know why he did it. So we’ve got motive, opportunity, means—the works.”
“It doesn’t hurt to follow up a secondary lead, does it?”
It seemed to hurt Chase, though, for he threw a quick glance at the television. She rolled her eyes. “Don’t tell me. There’s some silly game on tonight?”
He looked insulted. “The Red Sox are playing the Yankees. Biggest game of the season.”
“Don’t you usually watch these things with Uncle Alec?”
A smile spread across Chase’s features. “He’s coming home tonight. Just in time for the game.”
“Look, if you’re not interested in catching this killer, I’ll just do it myself,” she said, and made for the door.
“Wait up,” he said, grabbing his coat. “I’ll come with.”
“You just might make it home in time for the game,” she said.
“Promises, promises.”
With Odelia gone, and Gran glued to the television, and Harriet and Brutus and Milo nowhere to be found, I had time to revise the plan I’d made to get rid of the lying intruder. My original plan had been to take a mental note of all of his lies and contradictions and to present them in a nice orderly fashion to Odelia, as proof of our guest’s duplicity.
Problem was that Milo had told so many lies that it had proven impossible to keep up. Frankly I couldn’t even remember all the lies he’d told and probably neither could he.
But then I caught sight of Odelia’s phone, which she’d apparently decided to leave behind, and a new plan formed in my mind. A plan that wouldn’t involve expending valuable mental energy keeping up with Milo’s lies. I would simply record them on Odelia’s phone!
And before you tell me that cats don’t use phones, let me cure you of that misconception. Ever since Steve Jobs introduced the world to the power of the touchscreen, life has become so much easier for us cats. All we need to do is swipe left or right or whatever, and apply paw to screen and voila! Instant access to the magical world of the Internet.
Around nine o’clock Odelia still hadn’t returned, and Gran was starting to yawn. Bedtime for the old lady, I knew. Or at least the start of bedtime prep.
“Why are you looking like the cat that swallowed the canary?” asked Dooley. Then his jaw dropped. “You swallowed a canary, didn’t you?!”
“No, I did not swallow a canary, Dooley. Where would I get a canary?”
“I don’t know. Maybe you found one out in the backyard.”
“For your information canaries don’t inhabit our backyard, so no, I didn’t swallow one. The reason I look so pleased is because I think I finally landed on a great scheme to get rid of Milo once and for all.”
Dooley nodded knowingly. “You’re going to kill him, aren’t you?”
“No, I’m not going to kill him, and I resent the implication. I’m not a killer, Dooley.”
“Too bad. If there’s one cat that needs a good killing it’s Milo.”
“I’m going to record him saying bad things about Odelia, and then I’m going to play them back to her and then she’s finally going to know what kind of cat he really is!”
If Dooley was excited about my crackerjack idea he didn’t show it. “I don’t get it,” he said. “How are you going to record him? Did you call James Bond and ask him to loan you one of those recording devices?”
“Who needs James Bond when you have that?” I said, pointing to Odelia’s phone.
He eyed it curiously. “You’re going to call James Bond on the phone?”
“No! Every modern phone has a recording device built in.”
Now he was impressed. “Hey, that’s cool. You mean we’re going to spy on Milo?”
“Exactly! We are going James Bond on his ass.”
Just then, the cat I’d been hoping to see came waltzing in, cool as a cucumber.
“Hey, you guys,” he said. “How’s it hanging?”
“How is what hanging?” asked Dooley.
“It.”
“What’s it?”
Milo grinned. “If you have to ask, I won’t tell you.”
Dooley blinked. He wasn’t good at this kind of wordplay and it showed. I sidled up to Odelia’s phone while Milo wasn’t looking, and with a few swipes and taps of my paw pads fired up the recording function. “Oh, Milo,” I said sweetly.
“Mh?” said the cat, who was languidly stretched out on the couch, watching America’s Got Talent. Two kids were trying to induce three cats to play the Star-Spangled Banner on the xylophone. They weren’t doing a good job.
“You never told us how you really feel about Odelia,” I said, taking a seat next to him.
“I love her,” said Milo without missing a beat. “You should be proud to have landed a human like Odelia, Max. You, too, Dooley. Best human ever. My human will always be number one, of course, but Odelia is a close second.”
I was disappointed. “Isn’t there anything you don’t like about her?”
“Nothing,” he said decidedly. “She’s simply perfect. Best human any cat could wish for.”
“Don’t you think it’s disappointing that
she plays favorites?” I asked.
“She doesn’t. She loves all of you guys equally. Just like a good parent should.” He smiled. “Not that she’s your mother, Max. I know she’s your human. But she’s as near to a mother as you can get. Don’t you agree, Dooley?”
“Um…” said Dooley, looking from me to Milo and back. “She’s not perfect,” he said finally. “She does have her faults. For one thing…” He opened his mouth, then closed it again.
“You can’t come up with a single flaw, can you?” said Milo, chuckling. “Of course you can’t. I’m telling you, Odelia is perfect and I love her to bits. And so do you, right?”
“Oh, yeah,” I said, desperately trying to salvage something from this wreck. “Though I don’t like it when she snores. And sometimes when she thinks we’re not looking she picks her nose.”
“Oh, that’s right!” Dooley cried. “She totally does!”
“Every human picks their nose, you guys,” said Milo. “Now you’re just nitpicking.”
“Sometimes she smells funny,” I said.
“That’s okay. All humans smell funny.”
“She sometimes uses the same shirt two days in a row.”
“Who doesn’t?”
“She eats with her mouth open.”
“We all do, right? I mean, I know I do.”
“She burps! She totally burps,” said Dooley, now getting into the swing of things. “Especially when she drinks Coke.”
“Oh, heck, I wish I could burp,” said Milo. “That’s one of those human habits I’d love to try sometime.”
“She-she breaks wind!” I said, desperate now.
Milo yawned. “Look, I don’t know about you guys, but it’s been a long day. I think I’ll take a nap before I head out again. I’ve got cat choir tonight and I told Shanille I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
And without waiting for a reply, he made himself comfortable on the couch and promptly dozed off.
I stole over to the phone, switched off the recording app, and stole back to the couch, to stare at Milo as he slept. Oh, he was clever. Too clever. But sooner or later he’d slip up. And then I had him.
Dooley was staring at me staring at Milo, shook his head, and walked out.
I had a feeling I was very quickly losing my wingman’s trust and admiration.
Chapter 44
Odelia parked her old Ford pickup in front of a nice little rancher.
“Far cry from Dickerson’s mansion,” said Chase.
“I guess the National Star really does sell a lot more copies than the Daily Inquirer.”
“Or maybe Mr. Brettin likes to live in modesty.”
They got out and walked up to the front door. Chase, in his capacity as police officer, took it upon himself to ring the bell. Moments later, shuffling sounds on the other side of the door announced that they were in luck, and then Olaf Brettin appeared. He was casually dressed in jeans and a denim shirt. “Oh, hey, Miss Poole. So we meet again.”
“We do. This is Detective Kingsley, who is with the Hampton Cove Police Department. Can we step in for a moment?”
If the presence of a cop on his doorstep caused the tabloid editor concern he hid it well. “Oh, sure. Come on in. Is this about the Dickerson investigation?”
“It is,” Odelia confirmed, as they followed Brettin through a cozily appointed hallway—with a nice painting of a man on a horse—and into the living room, where more paintings of horses adorned the walls. There was also a white Stetson hanging from a peg, a clear sign Olaf Brettin was into the Old West.
“That yours?” asked Chase, admiring the hat.
“Yup. I like to wear it when I go riding,” said Brettin. “I got the boots, the vest and the belt buckle, too, if you’d like to see. I even got the neckerchief.”
“You got the gun, too?” asked Chase, cocking an eyebrow.
Brettin laughed. “Now that I don’t got, Chief.”
“We have a question for you, Mr. Brettin,” said Odelia.
“Please call me Olaf,” said Brettin.
“The thing is, remember I asked you about the picture of a rose that was found near Dickerson’s body?”
“Uh-huh. And I told you that doesn’t ring a bell.”
“Your daughter… died a couple of years ago, didn’t she?”
She was studying a painting on the wall that depicted a beautiful young woman.
“She did,” said Brettin, his joviality slightly diminished now.
“I watched a video of the eulogy you gave at her funeral. You called her your rose.”
Brettin’s smile had completely dimmed. “Lavinia was my rose. The light of my life. When she died I thought I’d die, too. I didn’t, even though a part of me did die that day.”
“What happened?” asked Chase, a softness to his voice Odelia appreciated.
“She… took her own life, Detective. A, um, video was made—silly thing.” He was staring off now. “She was young, and in love, I guess. And you know how young people are. They’re into making these… selfies and things.” He swallowed. “So she made one of those sex tapes. Nothing unusual about that. She and this boy she was seeing, they were really into each other. There was even talk of an engagement. She’d introduced him to us—me and Abbey. That’s my wife Abbey over there,” he said, indicating another portrait, this one depicting a strikingly handsome woman with clear blue eyes.
“So she made the tape,” prompted Chase when Brettin stopped talking.
“Yes, she did. And somehow that tape got out. Someone hacked Lavinia’s phone, found the tape, and a bunch of pictures, and threatened to post everything online.”
“That’s horrible,” said Odelia.
“Yes, it was,” said Brettin. “Lavinia, of course, was shattered.”
“Was this a blackmail thing?” asked Chase.
“Yes. But not aimed at Lavinia. Aimed at me. You see, I was making inroads in markets that had previously mainly been Dickerson’s province. The Midwest, for one. And he didn’t like it. And Dickerson being who he was, he decided to play dirty. So he had someone hack my phone but probably didn’t find the kind of dirt he was looking for so he extended the hacker’s scope to my family, my wife and daughter. He must have been over the moon when he discovered that private video and pictures. Pay dirt,” he scoffed bitterly.
“Are you sure this was Dickerson?” asked Odelia.
“Oh, yes. He called me. This was the day after Lavinia had gotten the message about the video being posted online. Dickerson said a little birdie had dropped that same video into his mailbox, and how he wanted to express his concern from one family man to another.”
“He actually threatened you?”
“No, of course not. Dickerson was too smart for that. He just wanted me to know that he had the video, and that if I didn’t back off, he was going to have it posted online.”
“That’s… criminal,” said Chase, shaking his head.
“You should have reported him to the police,” said Odelia.
Brettin looked sad. “What was there to report? That Dickerson had received an anonymous message from the creep who’d hacked my daughter’s phone? I get anonymous tips every day. Pictures, videos—heck, it’s part of the tabloid business model. ‘We pay cash for videos.’ Dickerson would have made damn sure nothing connected him to the hacker.”
“But you knew he was behind the hack.”
“Oh, yes. And he knew I knew. That was his whole spiel.” His expression softened. “One week later Lavinia took her own life. She couldn’t live with the knowledge that that video was out there. I told her I’d take care of it. That no one would ever see it. She must not have believed me. And seeing the line of work I’m in, maybe she was right not to trust me.”
“I’m so sorry,” said Odelia. She felt for the man. This was a horrible story. And showed what a ruthless crook Dickerson had been.
“I blame myself, you know,” said Brettin. “I was Dickerson’s target, and my beautiful flower got ca
ught in the crossfire. And so did my wife. Abbey never recovered. She died six months later. Her heart simply gave up. They say you can’t die from a broken heart but I can assure you that you can. The only reason my own heart is still beating is probably because I’m too stubborn to die. But a big part of me died the day I buried my daughter—my rose.”
“So… did you have Dickerson killed, Mr. Brettin?” asked Odelia softly.
He glanced up, then shook his head. “I’m not a killer, Odelia. Even though I’m glad someone took the law into their own hands, it wasn’t me.”
“But… the rose.”
“I’m not the first person Dickerson destroyed. There are countless others. And I’ll bet lots of people use the image of the rose to refer to a loved one. No, you’re barking up the wrong tree, Odelia—Detective. I may have wished Dickerson harm, but I didn’t act on it.”
Just then, the editor’s phone jangled and he picked it up from the table with a frown. “Yes, Mr. Paunch,” he said, much to Odelia’s surprise. She hadn’t heard from President Wilcox’s friend in quite a while, and had hoped he’d lost her number. “Is that a fact? No, I didn’t know the President was the youngest billionaire in history. That is news to me.” He rolled his eyes at Odelia. “So it’s official? President Wilcox is Sexiest President Alive? That’s quite an achievement. I didn’t even know such a category existed. Yes, I will mention it in the next issue of the Daily Inquirer, Mr. Paunch. And give my regards to the President.”
“Was that Otto Paunch?” asked Odelia.
“Oh, you know Mr. Paunch?”
“He’s been calling me non-stop with little tidbits about the President.”
“Did you know President Wilcox has been voted Sexiest President Alive three years in a row?”
“He also has the softest hair,” said Odelia. “Soft like a baby’s bottom, I’ve been told.”
“It wouldn’t surprise me,” said Brettin with a smile.
“I thought the President only worked with the National Star?”