by Nic Saint
“So what’s happening with Tracy?” asked Marge as the entire family convened around the table. “When is she going to join us?”
“Soon,” Uncle Alec promised with a smile. And when Marge tried to heap a pile of fries onto his plate he quickly declined. “I’m trying to lose weight,” he announced, patting his ominously large stomach fondly.
Odelia cocked an eyebrow. “Is this Tracy’s doing? If so, I like her even more.”
“That woman is such an avid hiker that if I hope to stand a chance keeping up I need to lose at least thirty pounds. At one point she said she thought there was something wrong with her ears as she kept hearing this strange thumping sound. I didn’t have the nerve to tell her that was my heart beating so fast I thought it would pop out through my throat.”
“I think it’s great that you’ve decided to take better care of yourself,” said Marge.
“And I think this Tracy is one overbearing female,” said Grandma. “I mean, look at you, Alec. You’re perfect just the way you are.”
“Thanks, Mom,” Alec muttered, munching down on a piece of lettuce.
“A real man got heft,” Gran continued. “Nobody likes a skeleton.”
Chase joined the others, placing a plate of perfectly grilled patties on the table. Tex, holding onto a bottle of beer, held it up in a salute. “I want to congratulate the law enforcement members of this family on a job well done. You, too, Odelia.”
“Thanks,” said Odelia. “I think it’s all very sad, though.”
“It is,” her mother agreed.
Tex had brought out the small television he’d recently purchased and they watched for a moment as President Wilcox laid a wreath on a grave, then held his hand to his chest while the National Anthem sounded.
“Why did you write that the President is the Sexiest President Alive, Odelia?” asked Marge. “I don’t think he’s that sexy.”
“I have a great new source,” said Odelia. “He keeps calling me with all kinds of exclusive scoops.” Just then, her phone sang out a song and she picked it out. “Oh, look, it’s him. My source.” She picked up. “Yes, hi, Mr. Paunch. Thank you. Yes, I thought it was a lovely article, too. Especially that bit about the President being voted Best Dressed Politician by the White House Correspondents’ Association. Yes, I think he’s a very natty dresser, too.”
She’d switched her phone to speaker, so we could all listen in to her exclusive source. His voice sounded awfully familiar, though. As if I’d heard this Mr. Paunch before somewhere.
“And Odelia,” Mr. Paunch was saying, “this is a real scoop for you right here. President Wilcox has just been informed that he’s a shoo-in for an actual Nobel Prize!”
“Wow, that’s amazing,” said Odelia, her eyes gleaming. “A real Nobel Peace Prize.”
“Not just the Peace Prize. He’s getting the Nobel Prize for Literature, too.”
“Literature? I didn’t know the President was a writer?”
“Oh, sure. He’s only one of the best writers in the world. Bestselling writer.”
“What… books did he write?” asked Odelia, clearly confused.
“Oh, you name it, he wrote it. Amazing, huh? I thought you’d be impressed.”
Odelia looked up when her mother was pointing at the screen, where the President of the United States was talking on the phone now. And as he talked, it quickly became clear that his lips were forming the exact words that were coming out of Odelia’s phone.
Otto Paunch… was President Wilcox!
“Oh, and another little scoop. My good friend Van Wilcox is also in line to join the ranks of EGOT winners. That’s an Emmy, Grammy, Oscar and a Tony! He’s the first President in history to pull off such a hat trick. Amazing, huh? Yeah, he is a great man. In fact he’s the greatest man in a long line of great men. The greatest great, you might say. So how abou—”
Odelia switched off her phone, gazing dazedly at the screen, where President Wilcox could be seen shouting into his phone, then looking annoyedly at the little gadget, before tucking it away again and shaking his head at so much insolence.
“I think… I’ve just been played,” said Odelia uncertainly.
“Don’t worry, honey,” said Grandma, patting her on the arm. “We’ve all been there.”
“And here I thought you were the nymphomaniac,” Dooley told Milo.
“Mythomaniac, Dooley,” Harriet was quick to correct him.
Even Milo could see the humor in that, for he laughed loudly.
“How about another burger?” said Tex, breaking the embarrassed silence that had descended upon the company. “I’ll do the honors, shall I?”
“No!” Marge shouted before Tex reached the grill.
Chase, who’d turned off the TV, took over from the doctor, and soon the party was in full swing again.
Milo drifted off in the direction of Grandma, who was now feeding him pieces of burger and even bits of coleslaw. Harriet and Brutus had snuck off into the garden next door, where they planned to make good use of those hills and valleys Gran had created, and then it was just me and Dooley.
“Milo seems fine, doesn’t he?” said Dooley. “He hasn’t told a lie all day.”
“Except for the part about pulling your tail,” I reminded my friend.
“The jury is still out on that one,” said Dooley. “No one has pulled my tail so he could be right.”
I pulled Dooley’s tail, hard, and he yelped in surprise. “See?” I said. “No gold.”
He eyed me sheepishly and rubbed his tail. “I really hoped he was right.”
“Maybe I didn’t pull hard enough,” I said, and made to pull again.
“No! I believe you,” he said quickly.
“At least spitting out nuggets of gold beats scooting your poop across the carpet.”
“I think we all learned a valuable lesson, Max.”
“Which is?”
“If something sounds too good to be true, it probably is.”
I looked at Dooley, surprised. “Those are regular words of wisdom, buddy.”
“I read that on Odelia’s calendar.”
Of course he did.
“You know? If Milo went into politics, he could be one of the greats,” said Dooley.
And so he could. But fortunately for humans Milo is a cat, and cats aren’t eligible to go into politics and lead countries. Then again, maybe if they were, the world would be a better place. No politician licking his own butt in the middle of a speech would ever be able to be taken seriously when declaring war on another nation or making budget cuts and lowering pensions. And no stump speech would go over well if the one giving the speech suddenly yawned in the middle of a sentence, stretched and promptly fell asleep.
But wouldn’t it be fun to watch the video on YouTube?
Purrfect Alibi
The Mysteries of Max - Book 3
Prologue
Marge Poole surveyed the scene. She wondered if they’d set out enough chairs. The event she was staging was without a doubt the biggest and most ambitious one she’d ever taken on. Even though the Hampton Cove library had been remodeled five years ago with exactly this kind of literary event in mind, and a small conference room had been added for writers to hold readings, Marge had never expected ever to land the bestselling thriller writer in the world for one of her Author of the Month evenings.
But there he was. Chris Ackerman. Author of such bestsellers as The Connor Conundrum and The Dixon Dilemma. America’s favorite writer and the most-borrowed author of all time. The scribe was seated on the small stage, peering through his reading glasses and going over his notes, an expensive-looking golden fountain pen poised in his hand. When he noticed Marge nervously bustling about, he fixed his pale blue eyes on her.
“Wasn’t Burke supposed to be here by now?” he asked.
There was an edge to his voice, and Marge didn’t wonder. A long-standing feud between Chris Ackerman and Rockwell Burke, the well-known horror novelist, had existed ever since Bu
rke had announced that he felt Ackerman’s books were the work of a hack and a dilettante and had discounted his prose as bad writing. In fact it had surprised Marge a great deal when Burke had accepted to host the evening, and interview Ackerman on stage.
Perhaps the horrormeister had had a change of heart. More likely, though, it was because his own once flourishing career had hit a snag, his last three books not selling as well as he’d hoped, at which point his publisher must have insisted he try to turn things around by associating himself with the reigning king of the New York Times bestseller list.
“He’ll be here,” Marge assured Ackerman, who was glancing at his watch.
“He’d better,” grumbled the famous writer. In his early seventies now, Chris Ackerman was a ruddy-faced heavyset man with a quiet air of self-confidence. “If he doesn’t show up I’ll have to tell the audience what I really think of him.” He chuckled. “That his best years are behind him, and that I hated every book he’s put out for the past decade.”
“You don’t really mean that,” said Marge, shocked at the harsh words.
“Oh, but I do,” said Ackerman, adjusting his glasses to owlishly stare at Marge. “My publisher told me not to engage, but if Burke stands me up all bets are off.” He wagged a finger. “I’ll bet he’s doing it on purpose. Promising to make nice then making a fool of me.”
“I’m sure he’s simply delayed,” said Marge, checking the door to the left of the stage. “His publicist would have told me if Mr. Burke had decided to cancel at the last minute.”
“Not unless he wants to make a fool of me,” Ackerman repeated.
Marge checked her own watch. One hour until showtime. There was still plenty of time for Rockwell Burke to show up. Then again, the man’s publicist had promised Marge he’d be there on time, so he could go over some of the questions with Ackerman.
Marge, a fine-boned fifty-something woman with long blond hair, chewed her lip and walked the short distance between the conference room and the library proper. She wondered if she’d unlocked the front doors. It worried her that no one had shown up yet. Usually when she organized her Author of the Month evenings at least a few people arrived early, wanting to secure a good seat—or an autograph from the featured author. And with Chris Ackerman as the featured speaker she’d expected the town to turn out en masse.
The Hampton Cove library wasn’t a big operation. In fact it was downright modest. But it had a nice selection of books, DVDs and CDs, a computer room where users could surf the Internet, a cozy kids’ corner with a pirate ship where the kids could sit and read, a colorful fish tank, a collection of stuffed animals, and cheerful artwork by a local artist.
Breezing past the checkout desk and the newspaper stand, she quickly moved to the door, where her husband and her mother stood peering out at the courtyard in front of the library. The size of a postage stamp, the courtyard nevertheless featured a fountain and a few stone benches. At this very moment, though, it was as deserted as the library itself.
“Where is everyone?” asked Marge.
Vesta Muffin, a septuagenarian the spitting image of Estelle Getty, lifted her bony shoulders. “Probably at home watching The Bachelor. Which is what I would be doing right now if you hadn’t roped me into this meet and greet with your childhood crush.”
“He was never my crush,” said Marge, checking the doors to see if they weren’t locked. They weren’t. “I just like his books, that’s all. He’s an amazing writer.”
“I like him,” Tex said. A buff man with a shock of white hair, Tex always kept a Chris Ackerman on his bedside table so he could read a couple of chapters before going to sleep.
“Too bloodthirsty for my taste,” said Gran, adjusting her large, horn-rimmed glasses. “All those serial killers and crazy maniacs. How many serial killers do people really think are out there? Give me EL James any day over your creepy Chuck Peckerwood.”
“Chris Ackerman.”
“Huh?”
“Chris Ackerman, not Chuck Peckerwood.”
“Whatever. I’m just saying. If there really were as many serial killers as Ackerwood wants us to believe, the streets would be crawling with them and we’d all be dead right now, murdered in the most gruesome way possible.”
“It’s fiction, Mom. It’s not supposed to be real.”
“EL James is real. Christian Grey is out there. In fact the world is full of Christian Greys. Only problem is the world is also full of Anastasia Steeles who hog all the Christian Greys and leave nothing for the rest of us shlubs.”
Tex chuckled. “I doubt billionaires are anything like Christian Grey,” he said. “Real billionaires don’t look like runway models. They look like Bill Gates or Warren Buffett.”
“How would you know?” said Vesta. “You’re not a billionaire.”
Tex agreed that he wasn’t. Still, he said, he believed Christian Grey to be just as fictitious as Chris Ackerman’s trademark serial killers.
Marge didn’t think Christian Grey, real or not, would fancy a crusty old lady with tiny white curls and a big attitude problem. But since she didn’t want to get drawn into the argument, she decided to keep her comments to herself. “I don’t get it. Last month we had Jacqueline Rose Garner and people showed up an hour before the start of the event.”
“Which just goes to show you people are fed up with murder and mayhem. They want love and passion. Speaking of which, did you know Chase asked Odelia out on a date?”
“Yes, she told me. Chase took her to Villa Frank. Too bad it’s tonight. She really wanted to be here so she could meet Chris and Rockwell Burke.”
“You can’t beat love,” said Vesta in uncharacteristically sentimental fashion.
“He took her to Villa Frank, huh?” said Tex, rocking back on his heels. “I took Marge there for our wedding anniversary. Remember, honey? You loved their steak pizzaiola.”
“Oh, I did. And how about that almond joy sundae? That was to die for.”
For the next forty-five minutes, conversation flowed back and forth, mainly focusing on Tex and Marge’s daughter Odelia and Odelia’s boyfriend Chase Kingsley. People finally started showing up, though they were in no great hurry to take their seats, instead opting to chat with friends and acquaintances. For most people these Author of the Month evenings were more an excuse to socialize than to come and listen to an author read from their work.
Just then, there was a soft yelp coming from the conference room. Marge immediately whipped her head around. She listened for a moment, but when no other sounds came, she relaxed again. “I better go and see if Burke has arrived yet,” she said.
“I’ll come with you,” said Tex.
“No, you better stay here and welcome the guests,” said Marge.
She retraced her steps to the conference room. Chris Ackerman was still where she’d left him, seated in his chair on stage. Only he seemed to have fallen asleep, his notes having dropped from his hands and scattered all around him on the floor. Oh, my.
“Mr. Ackerman?” she said, threading a path through the chairs. “Are you all right?”
Even from ten feet away she could see the star of the evening wasn’t all right at all. The first sign that something was amiss were the drops of a dark crimson substance splattered on the sheets of paper on the floor. Even before it dawned on her what those drops represented, her eyes fixed on a strange object protruding from the writer’s neck.
It was the golden fountain pen, its nib now deeply embedded into the man’s neck.
The world’s bestselling writer… was dead.
Chapter 1
Odelia Poole, star reporter for the Hampton Cove Gazette, wasn’t used to being wined and dined in quite this fashion. Chase Kingsley, her boyfriend and local cop with the Hampton Cove Police Department, hadn’t just taken her to any old place. Ever since he’d asked her out, he’d been highly secretive about the itinerary for their date, and only when he’d picked her up in his squad car and entered the Villa Frank parking lot had she
caught on that this wasn’t going to be a quick burger at the local diner but an actual fancy date.
Good thing she’d dressed up for the occasion, her off-the-shoulder red pencil dress pretty much the fanciest thing she had hanging in her closet. She’d bought it on the instigation of her mother, who insisted she have at least one nice thing to wear for galas, movie premieres, chamber of commerce banquets or the occasional fancy reception. Her usual costume consisting of jeans, T-shirt and a sweater the dress made her feel slightly self-conscious, especially since there was some bust involved. Watching Chase’s jaw drop when he’d come to pick her up had been more than enough to dispel those qualms, though.
“You look lovely,” he said, not for the first time.
“You don’t look so bad yourself,” she purred.
That was an understatement. Chase, usually a jeans-and-check shirt man himself, had gone all out as well, dressing up in an actual tux for the occasion. His long dark brown hair was combed back from his brow, his square jaw was entirely free of stubble, and his muscular frame filled out that tux to the extent that Odelia had no trouble picturing what he looked like underneath. Then again, the man was no stranger to her bed. Or at least he hadn’t been until her grandmother had decided to move in and cramp his style.
But now that Gran had moved out again, the coast was clear, and it was obvious that Chase intended to move in on a more permanent basis—possibly the whole reason for splashing on a night at Villa Frank, one of the more posh places in Hampton Cove.
She took a sip from her wine and felt her head spin. It was more the way Chase was looking at her right now than the alcohol, though, his green-specked blue eyes holding a promise that she hoped he intended to keep.
“So what movie have you picked?” she asked.
“I thought I’d go with a golden oldie. Bringing Up Baby.”