The Mysteries of Max Box Sets 3

by Nic Saint

  “I think it’s a brilliant idea,” said Harriet. “I’ve always been a very visual cat. I need to see things before I decide what’s what and you’re exactly the same, Odelia.”

  “I am,” Odelia agreed.

  And she was. It was all fine and dandy mulling things over in your head but there were only so many elements you could juggle before losing the thread. And since there were so many suspects in this case she needed to make things visual to make sense of them all.

  She started by writing the name of the victim in bold at the top of the whiteboard. Then, underneath, she neatly wrote the names of all the people involved—starting with the seven suspects who’d been identified as having been present around the time Ackerman died. She decided not to include Gran or Mom or Dad, even though they’d been at the library. There was no way they were involved. Even Uncle Alec agreed on that.

  There was movement behind her and when she looked up she saw that Gran had walked in through the sliding glass doors.

  “Can’t sleep either?” she asked.

  Gran shook her head. She was looking even more crusty than usual. “I hate it when I can’t sleep. I can just feel my face getting wrinklier and my skin drying out like a mummy’s. What are you doing?”

  “It’s called a vision board,” said Brutus. “It’s what real detectives like Odelia use.”

  “Oh, right. Like what cops use. They call it an evidence board, though.”

  “Achoum!” said Brutus in agreement.

  “Oh, dear. Do you have a cold?” asked Gran.

  “Achaa!” Dooley sneezed, as if in response.

  “We better take them to Vena’s,” said Gran.

  Four cats groaned. Going to Vena’s was agony to them.

  A rustle at the window announced that one more person had decided to join them.

  “Hey, Mom,” said Odelia. “Can’t sleep either?”

  “It’s this Ackerman business,” said Mom. “I haven’t slept a wink since I saw his… body.” She gave a quick quiver to demonstrate how she felt about finding bodies of dead writers in her library—or anywhere else for that matter. “I can’t help feeling people all think that I did it.”

  “Nonsense,” said Gran firmly. “Nobody thinks that, Marge.”

  “I walked down to the General Store yesterday and I swear people were actually whispering behind my back. And when I tried to talk to Ida Baumgartner she ignored me.”

  “That’s because Ida Baumgartner has a crush on Tex,” said Gran. “Everybody knows that.”

  It was obvious that Mom didn’t, judging by the way she sucked in her breath. She then seemed to notice for the first time that Odelia was scrawling strange scribblings on a whiteboard. She moved closer. “Why are those names written in red?”

  Odelia tapped the whiteboard. “Darius Kassman, Aldo Wrenn and Sasha Drood. These are our most likely suspects. Wouldn’t you agree, Gran?”

  Gran had plunked her bony frame down on a chair and was inspecting Dooley, much to the latter’s exasperation, as Gran dug her fingers into his tummy and underneath his chin. “Mh?” she said, looking up. “Oh, yeah, right. Most likely suspects. Sure thing, hon.”

  “Darius Kassman stalked Chris Ackerman and approached him in spite of the restraining order. He struck me as mentally unstable and could have killed Ackerman in a fit of rage. Then there’s Aldo Wrenn, or Aldo Ackerman as he now calls himself. Claims he’s Chris’s son and if he’s right he just might share in the writer’s substantial inheritance. And finally Sasha Drood, the man who robbed Chris and might have killed him in a struggle.”

  “Tough,” said Gran. “So many suspects. How to determine who did it?”

  “And what about Chris Ackerman’s wife and son?” asked Marge.

  “Chris was still alive after they left,” Odelia explained. “They claim Malcolm Buckerfield saw them leave.”

  “Rockwell Burke said the same thing,” Gran pointed out. “Which seems doubtful.”

  “Not necessarily,” said Odelia. “If Malcolm Buckerfield arrived just as Rockwell Burke changed his mind about going in, he could have met him and then met Angelique and Trey as he walked into the library.” She wrote, ‘TALK TO BUCKERFIELD’ and added five exclamation marks, then five more for good measure.

  “Has anyone talked to this publisher?” asked Mom.

  “Not yet. He drove home after delivering his final plea to Ackerman.”

  “And home is…”

  “Boston. He’s agreed to fly in today, though, and talk to Uncle Alec. So then we’ll know more about what he was doing there and why he didn’t stick around for the reading.”

  “I would have liked to meet him. He’s almost as famous as the writers he publishes.”

  “So basically we have three likely suspects and four iffy ones,” said Gran.

  “And don’t forget about the pizza guy,” said Max.

  Odelia pointed at him. “Thanks, Max. I’m going to track him down today.”

  “Imagine the pizza guy did it,” chuckled Gran. “Because Ackerman wouldn’t tip him.”

  Odelia scribbled ‘pizza guy’ in the margin. She was nothing if not thorough. She stepped back to admire her handiwork. “So what does this teach us?” she asked her audience.

  “That we’re screwed,” grunted Gran. “All these people could have done it for various reasons and we have no way of figuring out who did do it.” She threw up her hands. “Jessica Fletcher makes it look so easy on TV! Only takes her fifty minutes to find the killer—ninety minutes in the movies.”

  “Aurora Teagarden, too,” muttered Max.

  “Follow the pizza boxes,” Dooley added, quite incomprehensibly.

  They all stared at the whiteboard for a moment. Finally Harriet said it best when she announced, “We still have a long way to go, people. Achee!”

  Chapter 33

  The visit to Vena’s would have to wait. The call came at eight o’clock, just when they were all sitting down for breakfast. Tex, who’d finally noticed the house was empty, had drifted over, and was sucking down his first cup of coffee of the day, slowly waking up. Odelia had baked pancakes, Mom was demonstrating her omelet skills, and Gran showed the others what a superb waffle batter should look like, when Uncle Alec called.

  Turned out Chris Ackerman’s publisher had flown in the night before and had rented a large beachfront mansion and had invited Uncle Alec to interview him there. Alec had told Chase and Chase had suggested they bring Odelia along, seeing as she was also working the case, albeit in an unofficial capacity. And since Gran wouldn’t hear of sitting this one out, she decided to come, too, as well as the fearsome feline foursome, who weren’t going to let a little cold stand in their way. Finally, as the library was still closed, Mom was also game.

  The only one who wasn’t coming was Tex, since he had patients to attend to. And neither did he mind. Unlike the women in his family, he wasn’t bitten by the sleuthing bug.

  And so it was that Odelia’s pickup was pretty packed as it tootled along the road, Odelia in the driver’s seat, Gran riding shotgun, with Marge and the cats in the backseat.

  “Nice,” said Gran. “Like a family trip to the beach.”

  “This is still a murder investigation, Gran,” said Odelia.

  “So I can’t enjoy this? You’ve got to lighten up, dear.”

  Odelia directed a quick look through the rearview mirror. The thing was that she worried about her mother. People were talking, and they would keep on talking as long as the person who killed Ackerman hadn’t been identified, arrested, and tried for murder. Some people would probably keep on talking even afterwards, but that was just because they liked talking and didn’t have anything better to do. Luckily they were a minority. The sooner this investigation was over, though, the sooner Mom would be off the hook.

  Max, Dooley, Harriet and Brutus were sniffling quietly.

  “I scheduled an appointment, you guys,” said Odelia. “We’re going over there as soon as this interview is over, okay?�
��

  “Okay,” said Max thickly.

  “Oh, poor babies,” said Mom, and yanked a few paper napkins from the dispenser and busied herself with wiping their noses and the liquid flowing from their eyes.

  “I feel terrible,” Dooley intimated. “And here I thought Jesus would save us.”

  Odelia frowned. “I forgot to ask. What’s with this Jesus business?”

  “Shanille baptized us,” Max explained. “She figured it would heal Brutus’s red spots.”

  “They’re bigger than ever,” Brutus grumbled. “Wanna see?” Without waiting for confirmation he jutted out his chest and Mom took a closer look.

  “Oh, my,” said Mom. “Those are some nasty spots, Brutus.”

  “Yeah, very nasty,” muttered Brutus with gruff satisfaction.

  “So… Shanille baptized you?” asked Odelia.

  “Yup. In St. John’s Church’s baptismal font,” said Max.

  “She dunked us,” said Harriet. “Can you believe that? I’m still wet.”

  Odelia shook her head. She probably should keep a closer eye on her cats. She usually trusted their judgment but this baptism business definitely was not a good idea.

  “Maybe we should remove those cat flaps,” Gran suggested, who was clearly thinking the same thing.

  “Noooo!” cried the four cats in unison, and Odelia laughed.

  “Relax. We’re not going to remove the cat flaps. But you have to promise us to take better care of yourselves. Use your heads.”

  “It seemed like a good idea at the time,” Max muttered, then sneezed again.

  They’d finally arrived at the house where the publisher of Chris Ackerman’s books was holed up. It was one of those typical Hamptons mansions, with a high wrought-iron gate, guarded by two beefy security people, a long and winding drive through immaculately manicured grounds and ending in a circular courtyard where the house stood. A three-story structure in pink brick with plenty of gables and windows, the place had a fairytale look.

  “Is this where Walt Disney used to live?” asked Dooley admiringly from the backseat.

  “The Disney princesses, more like,” said Harriet, equally impressed.

  Several caterer’s vans were parked in the driveway, and white-aproned personnel was hauling stuff into the house.

  “Looks like someone is having a party,” said Mom.

  “Maybe that’s for us,” said Gran. “I shouldn’t have eaten that last pancake. I should have known these rich folks would treat their guests like royalty.”

  “Pretty sure this isn’t for us, Gran,” said Odelia as she got out.

  Behind them, another pickup rolled to a stop. Chase was behind the wheel, Uncle Alec next to him.

  “Looks like the gang is all here,” said Chase as he ambled up. He bent over and planted a quick kiss on Odelia’s lips, which she happily returned. Since their interrupted dinner date the other night they hadn’t had two minutes together. She hoped that by the time the investigation was wrapped up, the film festival would still be in full swing and she and Chase could finally check out that Cary Grant movie.

  “So how are we doing this?” asked Uncle Alec, who seemed to have second thoughts about driving up here en masse. “We can’t all go in there and crowd the poor shmuck.”

  “Whatever he is, he’s definitely not poor,” Gran commented as an ice sculpture was carried out of a moving van by four bulky dudes.

  “I suggest Chase and Odelia interview the guy,” said Uncle Alec. “While I look around and talk to some of the staff. In my experience staff often know more about what’s going on than the principals themselves.” He cut off Gran, who’d opened her mouth to protest, with, “You talk to the kitchen staff while I talk to the household staff. Marge, you… mingle.”

  Mom arched her eyebrows. “Mingle?”

  Uncle Alec gestured at a procession of cars that was roaring up the drive. They were all in the high-class category. In other words, the category Odelia couldn’t afford. “Looks like the party is about to get started. Talk to the guests and see what you can find out about the relationship between Ackerman and his publisher.”

  “Aye aye, sir,” said Mom with a two-fingered salute.

  Uncle Alec displayed a lopsided grin. “We’ll meet back here in an hour.”

  “Shouldn’t we synchronize our watches?” asked Gran.

  “Only if you’re James Bond and you’re about to save the world,” Alec deadpanned.

  Chapter 34

  “Mingle,” said Harriet, then sneezed violently. “How can we mingle when we’re standing with one foot in the grave?” She sneezed again, then once more for good measure.

  “We’ll be fine,” I said. “It’s just a cold. We’ll be right as rain in no time.”

  “Please, Max,” said Brutus with a pained expression. “No mention of water.”

  At my mention of the word ‘rain’ Dooley had subjected the skies to a critical look. When no dark clouds heralded in the coming apocalypse, he seemed to relax.

  “I can’t believe we tried to prevent Brutus from having to visit Vena and now we end up all going to Vena’s,” said Harriet, checking her precious white fur for spots.

  “I’m sorry, you guys,” said Brutus. “This is all my fault.”

  “Personally I blame Shanille,” said Harriet. “And next time I see her I’ll give her a piece of my mind she won’t forget. Jesus, forsooth.”

  I laughed, tickled pink that Harriet would use such a quaint expression. But when she fixed me with a haughty glare, I quickly stopped. “I think we better split up,” I said.

  “Yes, I think we better,” Harriet agreed icily.

  I had the distinct sensation she blamed me in equal measure as Shanille. She probably figured I should have stopped Brutus instead of encouraging him. Then again, how was I to know that Jesus would smite us with a viral infectious disease that affects the upper respiratory system—if smite is the word I want? Maybe this was a test. But a test of what?

  Harriet and Brutus moved off in one direction while Dooley and I moved in the other.

  “Do you think Jesus will save us from the apocalypse now that we’re baptized, Max?” asked Dooley.

  “No idea, Dooley,” I said. Unlike Shanille I’m not an expert on matters of theology. “Though I can’t imagine he’d let us die in a fiery furnace, considering we went to the trouble of being dunked headfirst in that icy cold water.”

  “It was pretty cold, wasn’t it? Father Reilly should use warm water. Much nicer.”

  “I’ll tell him when I see him,” I said.

  “You will? Super,” he said, greatly gratified. Like I said, Dooley doesn’t do irony.

  We watched as Odelia and Chase disappeared into the house, while Uncle Alec, Gran and Marge took the small stone path that led around the house—the same direction some of the caterers had taken.

  “Have you noticed how much like Jesus Chase looks?” asked Dooley now.

  I hadn’t, but now that he mentioned it, he had a point. If Chase decided to grow a beard, he’d be the spitting image of Jesus.

  This gave Dooley an idea. “Do you think Chase is Jesus?”

  “I doubt it, Dooley. I think Chase is just a dude.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “I…” Actually, I wasn’t. How do you know if a dude is just a dude or not?

  “What if he is Jesus, Max?” he said excitedly.

  “Well, that would be pretty cool,” I agreed.

  A resolute look stole over Dooley’s features. “We’re going to have to find out.”

  “And how are we going to do that?”

  He nodded knowingly. “Sheep,” he said.

  “Sheep?”

  “Jesus loves sheep. Haven’t you noticed that in all the pictures Jesus is holding a sheep? So if Chase is Jesus I’ll bet he’s got a sheep stashed away somewhere. So all we need to do is find Chase’s sheep and then we’ll know.”

  “I don’t know,” I said dubiously. Even though Dooley’s
story seemed to make sense, I had the distinct impression there was a hidden snag. I just couldn’t put my finger on it.

  “I’m going to find that sheep,” said Dooley decidedly.

  We moved in the direction Grandma, Marge and Uncle Alec had disappeared. Right now sheep were the last of our worries. We needed to find a pet belonging to Malcolm Buckerfield and we needed to find it pronto. I just hoped it was a cat and not a teacup piglet or Yorkie. Nice enough though they were, it’s always easier to converse in one’s own lingo.

  We’d arrived at the back of the house, and I was duly impressed by the scene that greeted us: long tables had been set up, where administrating caterers dressed in white were placing dishes, cups and plates and the other paraphernalia of a garden party. I saw bowls of punch, trays of amuse-bouches and an outside bar where a snazzy-dressed bartender was practicing his cocktail-making skills. A DJ was spinning tunes at a low volume to the far end of the garden, where a dance floor had been set up. This clearly had all the makings of a great shindig, and the guests who were streaming in seemed to agree.

  “Nice,” I said.

  “A little inappropriate,” Dooley said with a disapproving frown.

  “Why is that?”

  “Malcolm Buckerfield was Chris Ackerman’s soon-to-be-ex-publisher, right?”

  “Right.”

  “Chris Ackerman died two days ago and here his publisher is holding a party. Seems indelicate to me, not to say downright unkind.”

  Dooley had a point. It was indelicate. In fact it was suspicious. The man obviously was so happy that his most famous author had died that he was throwing a party to celebrate the fact. “You know, I hadn’t looked at it that way,” I said, “but you’re absolutely right.”

  Dooley looked pleasantly surprised. “I am?”

  “Yes.”

  He nodded thoughtfully. “I think it’s the baptism. It’s made me more intelligent.”

  I would have responded with a choice remark but at that precise moment I finally saw what we were looking for: a black-and-white striped cat slinking along the garden’s perimeter. “Target located, Dooley. Let’s move in.”