The Mysteries of Max Box Sets 3

by Nic Saint

  She gave Dooley a hesitant look, as if fully expecting him to be upset, but Dooley was merely looking slightly dazed. Like me, he’d never met a talkative pig before either.

  “We, um, we’re actually working with our human,” I said, after I’d remembered there was a question hidden amid the word diarrhea. “She’s a police consultant and a reporter and she’s trying to figure out who killed Chris Ack—He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named.”

  Kevin Bacon and Miss Piggy shared a quick look of concern. “Oh, dear. This is going to bring Angelique to tears,” said Miss Piggy. “She still has feelings for her ex-husband.”

  “I’m sure she doesn’t,” grunted Kevin Bacon.

  “And I’m sure she does. She’s been crying herself to sleep for weeks, Kevin Bacon, or haven’t you heard?”

  Her porcine helpmeet muttered something incomprehensible, then waddled off to the edge of the bed and jumped off onto the fluffy carpet below.

  “He’s very sensitive about our human’s predicament,” Miss Piggy whispered. “Ever since He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named walked out on Angelique, Kevin Bacon has been suffering from heart palpitations. Sympathy symptoms, the vet says.” She shook her head. “It’s been a terrible, trying time. Hopefully the man’s death will bring a measure of closure.” She then plastered a cheerful expression onto her face. “So. Cats, huh? Tell me about those nine lives. What’s your secret? Can you teach me? I mean, who doesn’t want nine lives, right? Seriously, though. Tell me. I need to know.”

  “Um…” I said.

  “Max, Dooley!” Odelia yelled from the other room.

  “Sorry, Miss Piggy,” I said, hopping down from the bed. “Time to go!”

  “Hey!” she said. “You haven’t told me your secret!”

  “It’s very simple,” said Dooley. “A balanced diet, plenty of sleep, and try to stay out of trouble.”

  “That’s your big secret? There’s something you’re not telling me, cat! Come back here!”

  But we were already on our way out. We hadn’t learned a thing in there, apart from the fact that pigs could be real chatty and that Angelique Ackerman had loved her husband.

  I sure hoped that the next interview would land us a few more revelations. Then again, the true detective takes the bad with the good and knows that not every clue will lead to the killer. There will always be a few red herrings buried in there. Or pink piglets.

  Chapter 23

  It was a nice concatenation of circumstances that Rockwell Burke was staying at the same hotel as Chris Ackerman’s widow. It meant that Odelia and her entourage—consisting of her aged grandmother and two cats—didn’t have to travel all the way out to Hampton Cove’s billionaire lane, where all the rich people lived. Instead, they went one floor up to arrive at the boutique hotel’s penthouse suite and knocked on the door.

  Rockwell Burke himself opened the door, barefoot and dressed in tattered jeans and an equally tattered T-shirt that proclaimed he loved The Walking Dead. Not surprising as he was, after all, a famed horror novelist.

  For a moment, Odelia was speechless. She was in the presence of greatness, not to mention one of her childhood heroes, as she’d practically grown up with the man’s books. Lucky for her Gran had never suffered from being tongue-tied or diffident.

  “Rockwell Burke?” she announced. “We’re here to interrogate you about the murder of Chris Ackerman, the man you once called a hack writer and a fraud and who was found dead with a fountain pen up his jugular at a reading you were scheduled to officiate.”

  Rockwell rocked back on his heels, visibly shaken. “Who are you people? The cops?”

  “Close enough,” said Gran, and pushed her way into the room, past the horrormeister. Odelia, mortified, stood grinning up at the famous author, still speechless.

  “So who are these Walking Dead, Max?” asked Dooley when Odelia and Rockwell had finally moved inside and the writer had closed the hotel door, after watching me and Dooley stalk past him. The writer had the stunned look on his face of one who’s come into contact with Gran. She would definitely make a great ‘bad cop’ if she ever chose to sign up.

  “They’re zombies,” I said, checking around and observing that this room, even though it was called a penthouse suite, wasn’t all that different from Angelique Ackerman’s. The only difference was that it was bigger, and had a wraparound balcony that offered a nice view of Hampton Cove’s main street down below.

  “Zombies? You mean dead people who aren’t really dead and like to snack on human brains?”

  “Yup.”

  “But why would any human love zombies? Aren’t they extremely dangerous?”

  “I guess horror writers prefer undead humans over live ones. Undead humans don’t leave bad reviews, after all.”

  “But they kill live humans!”

  “Creating more undead humans, which is just a win-win for all. Do you see any pets in here?”

  “I hope not,” said Dooley with a shiver. “If they’re all like that Miss Piggy I hope we don’t run into any more pets on this particular tour of duty.”

  “Pity.” Miss Piggy and Kevin Bacon were a washout, as far as sleuthing went. I was hoping to score some points with the next batch but it looked like Burke was not a pet lover.

  So instead of wandering around in search of our next target, we settled down near the window, where the rays of the sun played on our fur and where it was nice and warm, and listened to Odelia and Gran conduct their second interview of the day.

  “Isn’t it true, Mr. Burke,” said Gran in sharp tones, directing her phone at the horror writer, “that you hated Mr. Ackerman? And isn’t it also true that you resented the fact that he made a lot more money at this writing thing than you did? And isn’t it also true that—”

  “Wait a minute,” said Rockwell, holding up his hands in a gesture of defense. “I mean, it’s true that I once said Ackerman wasn’t much of a writer.”

  “You called him a hack.”

  “I meant it as a compliment! Ackerman was a writer in the pulp fiction tradition. He could produce a clean draft in next to no time, and his readers loved it. Where it took me a year to write a halfway decent book he wrote a dozen, and they sold like hot cakes.”

  “So you hated his guts,” said Gran, narrowing her eyes.

  “I admired him!”

  “You were jealous!”

  “No! Well, yeah, maybe a little. I mean, who wouldn’t be? He sold more books than the next ten writers on the bestseller list. He raised the bar for all of us. Did I envy him? Sure! Did I want to kill him over his killer output? Of course not! I wanted to be him, not kill him.”

  “Hmph,” Gran said, indicating she didn’t believe a word the novelist said.

  “Look, I went in there last night fully intending to set the record straight. I know I’ve said some things about Chris in the past that he was sore about, even though at the time I meant it in jest—like I said, more in tribute than criticism. My words got twisted and we ended up with this feud or whatever. So when my publisher suggested I moderate the reading I jumped at the chance. But when I got there I suddenly had a change of heart.” He shook his head. “I—I worried that people would see this as a publicity stunt. My last couple of novels weren’t well received, and my sales have been down. The only thing I’ve got going for me is that I’ve never sold out. My fans know I don’t compromise. That I’ll never go on TV to hawk a product or a book I don’t believe in. And going into that reading suddenly felt like a bad idea. This business is about perception and I don’t want to be accused of selling out.”

  “I’m sure your readers wouldn’t have seen it that way,” said Odelia gently. “They would have seen it for what it was: a writer not afraid to confess he made a mistake.”

  Rockwell smiled. “You’re too kind, Miss Poole. But I doubt that in this social media age people would have taken my side. Pretty sure the pitchforks would have been out and a very public tarring and feathering would have ensued. My fans can be pretty darn vocal.�
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  “So let me get this straight,” said Gran. “You never went inside the library?”

  “Oh, I went inside, all right. But the moment I did my gut told me it was all wrong. So I turned around and walked right out again.”

  “Without talking to Ackerman?”

  “Without talking to Ackerman.”

  “He wasn’t going to be happy about that.”

  “No, I’m sure he wasn’t. But that couldn’t be helped. My integrity means more to me than selling a few more books. And as it happens it was probably a good thing that I walked. I would have gotten embroiled in this whole murder business if I hadn’t.”

  “Oh, you’re embroiled whether you want to be or not, chickadee,” grunted Gran.

  “Did you see anyone else when you were at the library?” asked Odelia.

  “Well, I saw Malcolm Buckerfield,” said Rockwell. “Ackerman’s publisher? I told him I couldn’t go through with the reading and he said he understood. Then again, he wasn’t Ackerman’s publisher anymore. Chris dumped him and negotiated a new deal with Franklin Cooper. Very lucrative, too, or so I heard.”

  “What was Buckerfield doing there?” asked Odelia.

  “Probably trying to convince Chris to stay with him. Malcolm was desperate. Ackerman was his biggest author. Losing him would mean losing a big chunk of change.”

  “Would it be accurate to assume that losing Ackerman meant losing the business?”

  Rockwell thought about that for a moment. “I doubt it. For one thing, Chris’s entire backlist stays with Buckerfield Publishing, and those books will continue to sell. So to answer your question, losing Chris was a big blow, but it wouldn’t have jeopardized the business.”

  “But don’t you agree that Chris Ackerman’s death benefits Mr. Buckerfield greatly? That backlist will be worth even more now.”

  “That’s true,” Rockwell acknowledged. “Every time a writer dies the value of his backlist suddenly goes up. But that’s only a short-term effect. Eventually people forget. New authors arrive on the scene and the old guard is forgotten. Who remembers Harold Robbins or Sidney Sheldon or Arthur Hailey? Those guys were million-sellers. So unless the publisher hires a ghostwriter, like in Robert Ludlum’s case, and continues to churn out the more lucrative blockbuster series into perpetuity, those sales are going to dwindle and die.”

  “Chris Ackerman never signed that deal with Franklin Cooper,” said Odelia. “Which means he’s still a Buckerfield author, and new books will be published by his old publisher.”

  It was obvious from the expression on her face that she was thinking hard. This was obviously a new line of inquiry. And a most interesting one at that.

  “If you put it that way,” Rockwell admitted, “Malcolm had a lot to gain from Chris’s death. Though any deal he wants to make will have to be made with Chris’s heirs.”

  “Angelique and Trey Ackerman,” said Odelia slowly.

  Yup. The plot was definitely thickening. Like molasses.

  The conversation continued for a while, and I actually started to nod off. In my defense, it had been a long night and half a day, and as everyone knows cats need their eighteen hours of sleep if they’re going to function at maximum capacity. I’d just started dreaming of some nice Cat Snax when all of a sudden a sharp yapping sound woke me up.

  When I searched around for the source of the noise, my eyes finally settled on a tiny dog. In fact it was the tiniest dog I’d ever seen, no bigger than a teacup. Which made Rockwell Burke’s next comment very apt indeed.

  “Don’t mind her. That’s Paris, my teacup Yorkie. She’s adorable, isn’t she?”

  Adorable was not the word that sprang to mind at the sight of the lilliputian long-haired mutt. The thing kept barking furiously, so finally I decided to take matters in hand by shouting, “Hey! What’s the matter with you?”

  This seemed to startle the dog to the extent that it gave two more halfhearted yaps then shut up and sat staring at us, its little pink tongue lolling.

  “We better have a chat with her,” said Dooley. “That’s what we’re here for, right?”

  Dooley was right. And even though having a chat with a miniature dog was the last thing I wanted to do, I dragged my weary body from the floor and strode towards the window, which had been opened a crack.

  “You,” I told the dog, not in the mood to mince my words, “come here.”

  And lo and behold. Paris, the teacup Yorkie, came there.

  Chapter 24

  “Who are you guys?” she asked the moment we’d set paw out on the balcony.

  “My name is Dooley,” said Dooley, enunciating slowly, as if talking to a toddler. Or a dog. “And this is Max. We’re here to ask you some questions about your human. First question. Are you a living dog or an undead one? Think hard before you respond, dog.”

  “My name is Paris, and of course I’m not an undead dog. Why would you even ask such a stupid question?”

  Dooley appeared taken aback by all this backtalk. “All right, all right,” he muttered. “Don’t bite my head off. I was just asking you a perfectly intelligent question.”

  “An undead dog! There’s no such thing.”

  “Second question,” said Dooley. “Have you always been such a tiny fuzzball?”

  For a moment I was afraid Paris would blow her top. Instead, she snarled at Dooley for a moment, bearing surprisingly sharp teeth. Dooley immediately jerked back to a safe position well out of toothshot or even scratchshot. I didn’t blame him. Then again, it’s not very gentlemenlike to call a lady a tiny fuzzball. I wouldn’t like it either. I’ll bet not even Lassie, notoriously a very kind and sweet dog, would let such a slur slide without payback.

  “Forgive my friend,” I said, deciding to strike the conciliatory note. “He’s an idiot.”

  “He sure is,” said Paris, still glaring at Dooley.

  “The thing is, someone killed a writer last night, and seeing as your human is also a writer, we figured we’d better get to the bottom of this thing fast, before it spreads.”

  I let that sink in for a moment. Finally, she got it. “You mean there’s a serial killer on the loose who targets writers? That’s horrible! That’s dreadful! How many has he killed?”

  “One, but you never know how fast a thing like that spreads.”

  Paris looked appropriately concerned. “I mean, Rockwell was supposed to meet this Ackerman fellow last night.”

  “You were there?”

  “Of course I was. Rockwell doesn’t go anywhere without me. I was tucked away in his man purse as usual, my head sticking out, and we hadn’t even entered the library before he seemed to change his mind and walked out again.”

  “Just like that.”

  “Just like that. He muttered something to himself about not being a sellout and that was that. He got back into his rental and drove back to the hotel. He spent the rest of the evening in the hotel bar getting seriously plastered before coming up here and passing out.”

  “So he never met Ackerman?”

  “He met a fat man—a publisher. Which suited me just fine. I heard Ackerman liked Rottweilers. I don’t like Rottweilers. Rottweilers eat dogs like me for breakfast.”

  “I don’t like Rottweilers either,” said Dooley from behind a wicker patio chair.

  Paris ignored him. “So are you any closer to catching this killer? I like my human. I don’t want him to die.”

  “None of us want our humans to die,” I said reassuringly. “And Odelia’s uncle does have a man in custody who may or may not have killed Chris Ackerman. It’s just that it’s very hard to be sure.”

  “Why? Just use thumbscrews on the guy. I can guarantee a confession.”

  Obviously Paris belonged to the Vesta Muffin school of thought. I grimaced. “That would be a violation of his human rights,” I said.

  “What about my rights? If I lose my human I’ll be homeless.”

  “Don’t worry, Paris,” said Dooley. “We’ll catch this guy.”


  Paris tilted her chin and held up her paw. “Talk to the paw, cat.”

  It was obvious there was nothing more to learn here. Which was just as well, as Odelia had appeared on the balcony, announcing that her interview was over, too.

  “See ya, Paris,” I said.

  The Yorkie gave me a smoldering look I found hard to interpret. Once I was inside, though, she yelled, “Thumbscrews, cat! Use thumbscrews! Think about my animal rights!”

  “A dog after my own heart,” muttered Gran, and then we were on our merry way.

  And not a moment too soon. I needed some food, a long nap, and a total absence of teacup piglets or miniature Yorkies. At least we could rule out Rockwell Burke as a suspect. If Paris said he didn’t do it, he didn’t do it. The tiny dog might be a handful—at least if that hand belonged to a person with very small hands—but she was definitely not a liar.

  As we arrived in the lobby, we came upon a strange scene. This time no teacups were involved. What was involved was a disheveled-looking young man, dressed in ragged pants and a long-sleeved hooded sweatshirt, shouting obscenities at the receptionist, who was clearly not happy about being accosted like this.

  “Sir, I have called the police and they will have you removed from the premises,” the receptionist said. He stood a little stiffly, like a knight of old prepared to defend his lordship’s castle against an invading marauder.

  “And I’m telling you I have to see Ackerman!” the young man screamed, banging his fists on the counter.

  “I’m afraid Mr. Ackerman is no longer with us,” said the receptionist.

  “I know he’s here! You can’t hide him from me—where is he? Ackerman! ACKERMAN!”

  “Poor fella,” said Gran. “He’s obviously delusional.” Before Odelia could stop her, she walked up to the young man. “Mr. Ackerman is dead, son,” she said, loud enough to attract the raving lunatic’s attention.