by Nic Saint
“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.”
Dooley followed my gaze, then nodded determinedly. “On it, Max.”
As one, we moved in the direction of the feline. Judging from the way she locked eyes with me, she’d spotted us. Only when we reached her, she seemed coy, eluding us by quickly shifting back to the house, where once again she awaited further developments.
We changed course and made a beeline for the striped cat, only to watch her tiptoe off, this time jumping up onto a windowsill then gracefully draping her tail around her butt.
“She’s toying with us, Dooley,” I said.
“You’d think she doesn’t want to talk to us,” Dooley observed.
“You take the left, I’ll take the right,” I said, deciding that a little military strategizing appeared to be required here. We did as planned, but once again the wily creature escaped capture by jumping up onto a nearby drainpipe and quickly scooting upwards.
Dooley and I met at the foot of the drainpipe and stared up at the elusive cat. By then she’d reached the roof and sat staring down at us.
“She’s making fools of us, Max,” Dooley said.
And she was. As I explained, cats don’t smile, but this cat was clearly having fun at our expense. “There’s only one thing to do,” I said.
“I know,” said Dooley. “Let’s give up.”
“What? No! Let’s climb this drainpipe,” I countered.
Dooley checked the drainpipe, then glanced up, then down
again at me. “No way, Max. We’re sick cats. We can’t be expected to perform a series of complicated acrobatics.”
“It’s not complicated. We simply climb this drainpipe and we’ll have her cornered.”
“I don’t think this is a good idea, Max.”
I decided to play my trump card. “What would Jesus do, Dooley?”
This made him think a bit. “I’m not sure. Maybe we should ask Chase.”
“Jesus would climb this pipe. I just know he would.”
Dooley didn’t look convinced.
“Fine,” I said. “Then I’ll climb this pipe.”
And I did, fully expecting Dooley to follow my lead. Only when I’d reached the second floor and looked down, I saw that Dooley was still on the ground, staring up at me.
“I’m sorry, Max!” he cried. “I thought about it and I figure Jesus would stay put and look after his sheep.”
“Dooley!”
“Everybody knows sheep can’t climb, Max!”
Oh, for God’s sakes… I quickly scooted up that pipe, wanting to get this over with. And I’d finally reached the roof when I saw that the cat was patiently waiting near the chimney, this time giving no indication she was about to escape capture again.
“Hey, there,” I said suavely. “My name is Max.”
She threw me a sly look over her shoulder, then looked away again.
“Um… nice view, huh?” I said, glancing at the landscape surrounding us. It was pretty stunning. I could see more cars zooming up the driveway, rolling hills of green all around, and not a cloud in the sky. If I wasn’t mistaken I would have said the mansion was located right next to a golf course, which would make sense. For some reason rich people like to kick a little white ball and then chase it. Just like dogs. They also love chasing balls. Silly business.