The Mysteries of Max Box Sets 3

by Nic Saint

This surprised Harriet. “I never said that. I merely tried to point out that—”

  “Let’s go home,” said Brutus. He suddenly looked deflated. And as he stalked off, Harriet couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something wrong with her mate.

  “Brutus!” she yelled as she tripped after him. “We could ask some more cats if you want—maybe even dogs and vermin. Seeing as we came all the way out here and all.”

  But Brutus seemed to have lost his taste for sleuthing. “I just wanna go home,” he muttered, and then he sauntered off, his head low, all the fight having left him.

  Chapter 10

  It had finally happened. For perhaps the first time in our lives our very own humans had escorted us from a building. Odelia, Marge and Grandma, in a concerted effort, had picked us up and kicked us out of the library.

  “I can’t believe they would do such a thing!” I cried.

  “They were very nice about it,” Dooley commented.

  He didn’t seem to mind one bit. But I did.

  “Nice or not, I hate it when they treat us like animals.”

  “We are animals,” Dooley reminded me.

  “Yes, but they treated us like pets!”

  “We are pets.”

  “Yes, I give you that, but to kick us out like that!”

  “They did it in the nicest possible way, though.”

  He was right. They had. Odelia had whispered into my ear that she was very sorry but that this Abe Cornwall guy was a very important person at the county coroner’s office and if she allowed us to stick around he might kick up a fuss which would land Uncle Alec in hot water with the powers that be. What those powers were, she didn’t say. Powers that be? Be what? Marge had added her two cents by pecking kisses on my head and Dooley’s and even Gran had been very sweet and given us tickles and cuddles before chucking us out.

  “I don’t like this, Max,” said Dooley suddenly. “I don’t like this one bit.”

  “I’m glad you finally agree.” But then I saw he was darting anxious glances at the sky again. “Oh, not again with the apocalypse, Dooley. I’m telling you, the world isn’t ending.”

  “Yes, it is. All scientists agree. And scientists know their stuff. That’s why they’re scientists.”

  It was one of those spurious arguments that are hard to contradict so I decided not to bother. At some point Dooley would realize that the world wasn’t ending and forget all about it. At least I hoped that he would. I really didn’t need this apocalypse nonsense.

  We were pacing up and down the street that backed the library. Before she’d poured me from her arms, Odelia had said, “The killer most likely came in through the service entrance, so if you could find a witness, it could help me crack this case.”

  Cracking cases is what I did for a living, so we’d been hanging around that back entrance hoping to catch sight of one of those illustrious witnesses ever since.

  “What’s a witness, Max?” Dooley finally asked. “And how do we find one?”

  “A witness is someone who’s seen something that’s important,” I said.

  “Like what?”

  “Like the killer going in through that back entrance, murder weapon in hand. A good witness is someone who remembers what the killer looked like, what he was wearing, what color his hair was and all that good stuff. The stuff a detective can use to identify a culprit.”

  “How do you know so much about this, Max?” said Dooley, and I won’t conceal his words were the ego-boost I needed after being removed from the scene of the crime.

  “I’ll tell you exactly how I know so much about it, Dooley. It’s because I—”

  “What are you two morons doing here?” suddenly a voice rudely interrupted me.

  We both looked up and saw that none other than Clarice was addressing us from the top of the nearest dumpster.

  “Clarice!” cried Dooley. “It’s so great to see you!”

  It was hard to determine whether the feeling was mutual. If I had to hazard a guess, I’d say it wasn’t. Her next words confirmed this.

  “If you’re here to steal my food I can tell you right now I will beat you and I will kick you and when I’m done beating and kicking you I will scratch you and then I will bite you.”

  Yep. That’s Clarice in a nutshell: a no-nonsense feral cat who’d just as soon cut you to ribbons than give you a hug. Life on these Hampton Cove mean streets will teach you that. Or at least that’s what she keeps telling us.

  “We’re not here to steal your food,” I assured her.

  “You’re looking great, Clarice,” said Dooley with a grin.

  She had a fresh scratch across her nose, and her mottled red hide featured more bald spots than the last time I’d seen her, but she did look slightly fuller. Then again, I knew for a fact that Odelia left food out for her from time to time, so she didn’t really have to dumpster-dive for a living if she didn’t want to. I guess she wanted to. Or maybe it had become a force of habit.

  “You look terrible,” growled Clarice. “And so do you, Max. You’re fat. How much do you weigh these days? A hundred pounds?”

  “I’ll have you know that twenty pounds is the new ten pounds,” I said haughtily.

  “Max isn’t fat,” said Dooley. “He’s a cat of substance. Isn’t that right, Max?”

  “Exactly right.”

  “You didn’t answer my question,” said Clarice. “What are you morons doing here?”

  “We’re looking for clues,” said Dooley.

  “Witnesses,” I corrected him. “We looked for clues before.”

  “And we found one,” said Dooley. “He was dead and had a pen sticking out of him.”

  “That wasn’t a clue—that was the victim,” I said. “Terminology is everything, Dooley.”

  “So are you a witness, Clarice?” asked Dooley.

  “A witness to what?” she growled, casually licking her paw.

  “A man was murdered inside the library tonight,” I explained. “A famous thriller writer called Chris Ackerman. The killer most likely snuck in through the back entrance. So now we’re trying to locate anyone who might have seen this killer—an eyewitness.”

  “What do you care that humans get killed?” asked Clarice with a frown.

  Clarice had a grudge against humans. Ever since her own human dumped her in the forest on the outskirts of town, she hasn’t forgiven him—or the entire species he belonged to. Though to be honest, what human would dump a beloved pet? A human like that probably doesn’t even deserve to be called human. Unhuman, maybe? Or inhuman?

  “Odelia asked us to investigate,” I explained. “And when Odelia asks us to do something, it’s a privilege and a pleasure for us to comply.”

  “We love our human,” said Dooley fervently. “We’d do anything for her.”

  Clarice was shaking her head. “So dumb,” she muttered, and hopped down from the dumpster. And as she started stalking off, she turned and said, “Ask Big Mac. I saw him skulking around here earlier this evening. Chances are he saw something.”

  “Big Mac?” I asked. “Who’s Big Mac?”

  “Big fat cat like you,” she said. “You’ll like him. It’s like looking into a mirror.”

  “Where do we find this Big Mac?” I asked, deciding not to be triggered by this slur.

  “McDonald’s. Where else?” And then she was gone, swallowed up by the darkness.

  We sat staring after her for a moment. I could feel chills running down my spine.

  “She just disappeared, Max,” said Dooley reverently. “How does she do that? Do you think she’s a ghost?”

  “She’s something, all right.”

  “I’m just glad she’s on our side.”

  I wasn’t absolutely sure she was on our side. With Clarice you just never know.

  “At least she gave us a very important clue,” said Dooley.

  “A witness,” I corrected him.

  “A clue to a witness,” he said, and he wasn’t wrong this time.
r />   Chapter 11

  Uncle Alec put down his phone. He was looking grim.

  “Chase. Better come along,” he snapped. “They found him.”

  “Found who?” asked Odelia.

  “The killer.” He turned to Odelia’s mom. “With any luck this’ll all be over tonight, honey.”

  “That would be great,” said Mom.

  “Can I tag along?” asked Odelia as her uncle and Chase made for the door.

  “Sure. Why not?” said the Chief. “You better go home,” he added for Mom, Tex and Gran’s sake. “No sense in sticking around here.”

  “But I have to close the library,” said Mom. “I can’t just leave it open all night.”

  “My people will close up shop, Marge,” said Uncle Alec with a smile. “You go on home and try to get some sleep. You, too, Ma. Can you make sure they get home safe, Tex?”

  “Will do,” Odelia’s dad confirmed.

  “I’m gonna tag along with you, Alec,” said Gran.

  All eyes turned to the old lady.

  “What? Odelia can come and I can’t? This is ageism pure and simple.”

  Uncle Alec grimaced. “This is police business, Ma. Nothing to do with you.”

  “Everything’s to do with me,” she countered. “I’m a detective in my own right, and I want to see this man’s killer brought to justice.” She vaguely gestured in the direction of the stage, where Chris Ackerman’s body had already been removed by Abe Cornwall’s crew.

  “Mom, you’re not a detective,” said Marge quietly.

  “But I want to be.” She directed a cheerful look in Odelia’s direction. “Teach me?”

  Odelia opened her mouth, then closed it again. Whatever she’d been expecting, it wasn’t this. “But-but-but…” she sputtered.

  “That’s settled then,” said her grandmother, and hooked arms with her. “Let’s crack this case wide open, darlin’. And show those bad ‘uns what Poole women are made of.”

  Dad made a strangled noise at the back of his throat, Mom looked stunned, Uncle Alec was rubbing his sideburns as if hoping to produce a genie that would spirit Grandma away for good, and Chase was trying not to laugh. All in all, Gran had probably produced the effect she’d been aiming for. Odelia thought her grandmother would have made a great actress. One of those divas of old, like Elizabeth Taylor or Bette Davis. She certainly knew how to hold an audience spellbound with her antics and her harebrained schemes.

  They made for the exit, and as they walked out, Odelia nodded a kindly greeting at the officer guarding the door. “Hey, Jackson. Still hanging around, I see?”

  Jackson went a little goggle-eyed. “How did you get in?”

  “Magic,” said Odelia, doing the jazz hands thing.

  “Don’t just stand there, Jackson,” Uncle Alec grumbled. “Make yourself useful.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Officer Jackson, practically jumping to attention. He considered his superior officer’s words. “What do you want me to do, sir?”

  Uncle Alec fixed him with a stern look. “Write up your report. I want it on my desk first thing in the morning. And make sure to leave nothing out.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Jackson happily. Typing up reports appeared to be his strong suit.

  As they proceeded down the few steps that led to the library’s courtyard, Uncle Alec grunted, “Told you you couldn’t go in, eh?”

  “Yeah, he said you told him not to let anyone in so that’s what he did. You can’t blame him, really. He’s one of those people who refuse to think for themselves.”

  “He’s an idiot,” Alec grumbled. “So how did you get in?”

  “Back entrance. The same way the killer got in.”

  Uncle Alec darted a quick look around, but Chase had already crossed the street, where he’d parked his car, and Mom and Dad and Gran stood arguing nearby. “What did your cats find out?” Alec asked, arching an inquisitive eyebrow and lowering his voice.

  “So far nothing. Except for the letter from Ackerman’s publisher.”

  “Mh. Abe would have found that eventually, but you’re right. Nice work.”

  Odelia didn’t mention that Max and Dooley finding that letter had been a side-effect from falling on Chris Ackerman’s head. Sometimes accidents do happen, and in this case they’d produced a new lead.

  She headed for her car, and as she got in, found herself facing her grandmother, who was sitting in the passenger seat, hands folded on top of her purse. “You should lock your car,” Gran said. “It’s a small miracle no one stole it.”

  “It’s just an old jalopy. No one in their right mind would steal it. What are you doing here? I thought Uncle Alec told you to go home and get some sleep?”

  “And I told that old fool that I was coming with you.” She pursed her lips. “You’ve got yourself a pardner, pardner. So put this car in gear and let’s catch ourselves a killer.”

  Odelia shook her head as she jammed the key into the ignition. “From what I can gather the killer has been caught already. And he’s being processed as we speak.”

  Gran didn’t look convinced. “If I know Alec he probably caught the wrong ‘un. So it’s up to us to catch the right ‘un. So step on it. Time’s a-wastin’ and the real killer is escapin’.”

  Odelia clenched her jaw and started the car with a roar.

  Oh, boy. This was going to be a barrel of laughs.

  Chapter 12

  Odelia and Gran stared through the one-way mirror while Uncle Alec and Chase interviewed the suspect who had just been arrested. Judging from his tattered clothes, his full red beard, and disheveled appearance, he was either a homeless man or a hipster.

  “He doesn’t look like a killer,” Gran commented.

  “What does a killer look like?” asked Odelia.

  “It’s all in the eyes,” said Gran, gesturing at her own eyes. “A real killer has that dead, cold killer look. Looking into the eyes of a killer is like looking into the abyss. A cold abyss.”

  Was there any other kind of abyss? “So have you looked into a killer’s eyes?”

  “Oh, plenty of times. Leo was a killer, and I locked eyes with that man many times.”

  “Leo Wetland? Your ex-boyfriend?”

  “He was never my boyfriend,” snapped Gran. “We were lovers.”

  Odelia decided not to ask what the difference was. “I didn’t know Leo was a killer.”

  “Oh, sure. Leo was big on killin’. He once took out a wasp nest in his attic. Didn’t bat an eye. Cold-hearted killer.” She gestured at her eyes again. “Like looking into the—”

  “Abyss. I get it.”

  “Look, I didn’t do it, all right?!” the homeless guy—or hipster—exclaimed.

  “That’s what they all say,” growled Gran.

  “So what was Chris Ackerman’s wallet doing in your pocket?” asked Uncle Alec.

  “Yeah, okay, so I stole it. Sometimes I steal stuff. It’s a disease. I’m seeing a doctor about it but so far the therapy isn’t working. We’re still fine-tuning. You can ask Dr. Freggar. He’ll tell you all about it.”

  “Wait. Let me get this straight. You’re telling us you stole Mr. Ackerman’s wallet but you didn’t kill him,” said Uncle Alec.

  “That’s exactly what I’m telling you—and please note for the record that my disease compels me to steal stuff. It’s not like I’m a thief or anything. It’s a sickness. Like, um—like cancer. Or boils.”

  “Boils,” grunted Uncle Alec.

  “Yeah,” grinned the man.

  “We found Mr. Ackerman’s wallet on you,” said Chase, “as well as his diamond watch, a monogrammed money clip containing no less than five hundred dollars, a monogrammed money pouch with fifty bucks in loose change, and a monogrammed gilded iPhone also belonging to Mr. Ackerman and you’re telling me you had nothing to do with his murder.”

  “He was dead when I found him!” cried the man, spreading his arms.

  Uncle Alec pounded the table with his fist. “You’re lying, Mr. Droo
d.”

  “Sasha,” said the man. When Alec stared at him, he added with a genial smile, “My friends call me Sasha.”

  “You decided to rob Mr. Ackerman but he caught you. You struggled and you killed him,” said Chase. “That’s the truth, isn’t it, Mr. Drood?”

  “In an alternate reality maybe it is,” said Sasha, settling back in his chair. “But in this reality I read somewhere that Chris Ackerman, the world’s bestselling writer, was coming to Hampton Cove. Oh, I said to myself, the world’s bestselling writer, I said. That probably means he’s rich, I said. And if he’s rich, he won’t mind donating some of his money to a deserving sick person like myself. So I head on down to the library to have a conversation with Mr. Ackerman about his donation—only when I get there he’s sitting all by his lonesome on stage. Dead as a dodo! So my disease tells me that since he’s dead already he’s not going to miss his pocket junk so I took it.” He shrugged. “There’s no law against that, is there?”

  “Oh, this guy is good,” Gran muttered. “Maybe I should get in there and slap him around some. Practice a little police brutality.”

  “You’re not going in there, Gran,” said Odelia. “Uncle Alec and Chase have got this.”

  “Why didn’t you take his briefcase while you were at it?” asked Uncle Alec.

  “Briefcase? He had a briefcase?”

  “Yes, he did. So why didn’t you take it?”

  Sasha Drood tsk-tsked for a moment. “Dang it. I must have missed that.” He held up a finger. “I mean, my disease must have missed that.”

  “The fountain pen you stabbed Mr. Ackerman with,” said Chase, “is worth three thousand bucks. Why didn’t you take that?”

  “I told you guys already, I didn’t stab—hold on, three thousand bucks?”

  “At least.”

  “You’re joshing me, right?” He darted amused glances at the two cops. “Now you’re just yanking my chain. No pen is worth three thousand bucks.”

  “This one is. A genuine Graf von Faber-Castell fountain pen. Eighteen-carat gold nib.”

  Sasha was laughing out loud now. “You guys!” he cried. “And they say cops don’t have a sense of humor!”