by Nic Saint
“Who are you?” finally asked the female. She had one of those sultry voices.
“Like I said, my name is Max and—”
“I got that. What are you doing here?”
“Oh, I’m a feline sleuth,” I said. “My friends and I are trying to figure out who killed—”
But she was quick to stop me by placing a paw on my face and effectively interrupting my flow of words. “Let’s not waste time by flapping our gums,” she said in a sexily hoarse voice. “Our eyes met in the crowd. You followed me. I think we both feel it.”
“Feel… what, exactly?”
“Oh, Max,” she cooed. “You know.”
“Know what?”
“Oh, Max,” she repeated, then proceeded to give me a head bump.
“Um…”
To my surprise, she suddenly turned and started smelling my butt!
What happened next is one of those things you tell your grandkids about on those long winter evenings when there’s nothing on TV. It all went so fast it was over before I knew it. She pressed her nose against my butt, and in a reflex action I folded down my tail to protect this most sensitive area and effectively shielded it off from her inquisitive sniffing. Call me a prude but I don’t usually allow strange females to sniff around down there.
She didn’t take it well. A dark look came over her face, she produced a loud hissing sound, and before I knew it she’d given me a kick that send me skipping across the roof.
And then I was going over the edge, plunging headfirst into the abyss…
Chapter 35
Odelia was impressed by the high ceilings, the intricate molding, the crystal chandeliers and the parquet floor. She was even more impressed when finally the man they’d come here to meet graced them with his presence. Malcolm Buckerfield was a large man, both in length and girth. He was also a man who had no qualms about showing off his facial hair. Apart from a russet mustache he also sported a perfectly landscaped white beard, a white buzzcut covering a bullet-shaped head and thick black eyebrows. Taken together, practically the full acreage of his head was covered with some type of fur, leaving only his cheekbones, eyes and brow without the benefit of coverage.
“Detective Kingsley,” boomed the man in a deep voice. “Miss Poole. Thanks for coming all the way out here to Avalon.”
“Avalon?” asked Chase. “Like King Arthur?”
“Myes,” said the publisher. “I like to grace every residence I stay at with the moniker Avalon. Like Air Force One, which is only called Air Force One when the President is aboard.”
“Oh,” said Chase.
“So what can I do for you?”
They’d taken a seat in the salon, Odelia nervous about her shoes soiling the Persian rug and her bottom creasing the green velvet sofa cover. It was like being granted an audience with the Queen of England at Buckingham Palace. Or King Arthur at Avalon.
“You were Chris Ackerman’s publisher for thirty years,” said Chase.
“I was, yes,” Buckerfield acknowledged. “I was very sorry to hear about his death. He was a great writer and a good friend.”
“He recently indicated he was changing publishers,” Chase continued.
“He was.”
“You weren’t happy about that.”
“I wasn’t. He was my most popular author.”
“Is that why you visited him two nights ago at the Hampton Cove library where he was holding a reading of his latest novel?”
Buckerfield’s eyes flickered beneath those black brows. “How did you—” He gestured with a beringed hand. “No matter. Yes, I did show up at the library. I wanted to give him one final chance to change his mind.”
“You made him a very generous offer,” said Odelia. “A ten-book contract.”
The publisher nodded. “He said he’d think about it.”
“He didn’t summarily refuse your offer?”
The publisher shuffled uncomfortably in his seat. “No, he did not. Chris and I have known each other a very long time. I published his first novel. I effectively discovered him and gave him his first chance when no one else would. He was simply playing hardball. Up the ante and get a higher advance for his next series of books. That was all this was.”
“Are you sure about that?” asked Chase. “Isn’t it true that Chris was having an affair with Stacey Kulcheski, who now works as an editor for Franklin Cooper? And isn’t that the main reason he was changing publishers? On the instigation of his new girlfriend?”
Buckerfield bridled. “Nonsense. Chris would never allow his personal life to interfere with his business affairs. Like I said, this was simply a negotiation technique.”
“And it worked,” said Odelia.
“Ostensibly it did,” the publisher agreed. “I never believed for one minute he was leaving us. We have an entire team devoted to Chris. He had no reason to look elsewhere.”
“So you didn’t get into a fight with him and kill him?” asked Chase, cocking an eyebrow.
“Certainly not! How ridiculous. Chris and I were old friends. I would never hurt him.”
His statement didn’t strike Odelia as duplicitous. In fact he seemed shocked at the accusation he killed his friend. She decided to try a different tack. “Angelique and Trey Ackerman claim they saw you at the library. They were leaving as you arrived. Is this true?”
Buckerfield nodded. “Yes, it is. I was surprised to see them, to be honest. Chris had made no secret that he’d started divorce proceedings.”
“So he was serious about his affair with Miss Kulcheski,” said Chase.
“He was. Deadly serious. Pardon me,” he quickly added, realizing the insensitivity of his choice of words. “Chris and Angelique’s marriage was in trouble long before Chris met Stacey. So it didn’t come as a great surprise when he told me what was going on. Angelique didn’t take it well, and neither did Trey, who’d chosen to side with his mother and resented his father a great deal. It pained Chris but there was nothing he could do about it. The heart wants what it wants.” He gave them a sad smile. “And to think I introduced Chris and Stacey at BookExpo America last year. BookExpo America is the largest book fair in the States. I could see Chris and Stacey hit it off immediately. Never in my wildest dreams could I have foreseen it would lead to this.” He touched the silk scarf around his neck and tugged it thoughtfully. “You’ll probably think it’s very insensitive of me to organize this party.”
“The thought had occurred to us,” Chase said with a nod of the head.
“I planned this months ago. Impossible to call it off. Only now I’ll dedicate the gathering to Chris. I’ve prepared a commemorative speech. A eulogy if you will.” He unearthed a folded up piece of paper from his vest pocket and fumbled with it for a moment before returning it. “I’m going to miss Chris. He really was a good friend.”
“One more question,” said Chase. “Do you remember seeing Rockwell Burke? He says he left as you arrived.”
Buckerfield grimaced. “I do. I told him not to leave. He’d promised to moderate the event and I thought it cowardly of him not to go through with it. He seemed to have made up his mind, though. Said he didn’t want to be accused of selling out by making nice with Chris Ackerman, who he seemed to consider his mortal enemy.”
“And when you arrived Chris Ackerman was still alive,” said Odelia musingly.
“And so he was when I left,” Buckerfield insisted. He glanced at his watch. “And now if you’ll excuse me. I really have to attend to my guests. If you want to stay, please do.” He waited for a moment, and when Chase nodded his assent, he gratefully rose to his feet and walked out with surprising alacrity and grace for a man of his substantial bulk.
“So what do you think?” asked Chase.
“I think he’s telling the truth,” said Odelia.
“I think so, too. Which means…”
“Angelique and Trey Ackerman are off the hook, and so is Rockwell Burke.”
“Now if only we could determine who of the oth
er three is the man we’re looking for…”
And they were both lost in thought for a moment when suddenly loud screams came to Odelia’s ear. They seemed to come from outside, and when she got up to look through the salon window, she saw that Buckerfield’s guests all stood staring up at something.
“What’s going on?” Chase asked as he joined her.
“No idea.”
Chase opened the window and leaned out, looking up. “Oh, hell,” he said.
A jolt of premonition sliced through Odelia. “What is it?”
He retracted his head. “It’s Max. He’s dangling from the gutter.”
Chapter 36
I know, I know. Cats don’t usually dangle from gutters. And I wasn’t! I was dangling from a protuberance. Some thingamajig jutting out of the wall. Possibly an ancient piece of flagpole or lightning rod or what was left of a bust dedicated to the manor’s original owners. At any rate, the iron rod—whatever it was—had effectively saved my life. The striped cat’s kick had taken me by surprise to the extent that I’d gone over the edge without having the presence of mind to stick out a paw when I whizzed past the gutter and into the precipice.
By the time my survival instincts finally kicked in, I was one floor down, with the ground rising up fast. In desperation I’d grabbed at the wall, and that’s when this rod turned up out of the blue and I managed to save myself. The bad news was that I was now dangling between the second and third floor, with no way to go but down. Cats may be capable of gravity-defying feats of acrobatics but we’re not exactly Spider-Man. We can’t scale walls!
So there I was, wondering how I was going to save myself from my predicament when suddenly a window below me opened and Chase’s head appeared.
“Hey, buddy,” he said.
“Hey, Chase,” I said, even though I knew he couldn’t understand feline.
“Now how in the hell did you get up there?”
I could have told him but instead I produced the kind of plaintive mewling sound people have come to expect from cats in great trouble. Firemen used to saving cats from trees know the kind of mewling I’m talking about, and clearly Chase got the message.
“Listen, just jump, okay?” he said. “I’ll catch you.”
I gave him a doubtful look. Yeah, right, that look indicated. What if at the last moment he retracted his arms and said, ‘Just kidding!’
Not that I didn’t trust Chase but he’s human, after all, and humans are notoriously unreliable. One minute they stuff their faces with cake and chocolate and the next they’re on the treadmill, swearing never to touch sugar ever again in their lives, before starting the whole cycle once more two days into their diet.
“Um…” I said.
“Jump,” Chase said encouragingly, holding out his arms. “I got you.”
“I don’t know about this.”
“Trust me.”
“Trust him, Max!” Dooley bellowed from below.
I looked past Chase and saw Dooley staring up at me. And so were Harriet and Brutus and a big crowd of people, practically all of whom were pointing their smartphones at me, filming the whole thing. Oh, great. This was going to go viral, wasn’t it? There went my reputation. I’d be the talk of the town for months to come, and not in a good way.
“Jump!” Dooley repeated. “He’s Jesus!”
And that did it. For one thing, how long was I going to be able to hold on? Not very long. And then what? The fire department would show up with their ladders and I’d have to be saved by a fireman. I’d been through the process before and even though I loved firemen word would spread and even before the fire truck arrived all of Hampton Cove would come running, with their smartphones and then I’d be the laughingstock of the nation.
“He’s Jesus!” Dooley repeated, and that did it.
I closed my eyes and I jumped.
Moments later I landed safely in Chase’s arms.
He looked down at me, his features backlit by the sun. Like a halo of light.
“Jesus,” I muttered. “It’s really you.”
“See?” Chase asked with a smile. “I told you I’d catch you.”
“Max!” Odelia cried. She was inside, right next to Chase, and took me over.
“He’s Jesus,” I said, still under the influence of the vision I’d just had. Chase stood in the window, that halo of light now illuminating his long hair and his perfectly shaped face.
“I’m so glad you’re all right,” said Odelia, burying my face in her hair.
But I only had eyes for Chase. “Why did you shave your beard, Jesus?” I asked. “No wonder I didn’t recognize you. You shaved your beard to walk among us undetected.”
Chase patted my head. “You’re all right, little buddy,” he said. “You’re all right.”
“I am now,” I agreed. “I am now.”
And then Chase took me over from Odelia, walked over to the window and held me up for the crowd below to see. They all broke into loud cheers and applause.
I gotta tell you, it was a real Lion King moment, only better. I mean, come on. Jesus!
Once we were downstairs again, we were greeted like rock stars, people flocking around. Man, oh, man. It was a real eye-opener for me. So this was what it felt like to enjoy your five minutes of fame. I kinda liked it. A real ego-boost, let me tell you.
Finally, things settled down, a band began to play, and the party kicked into higher gear, with Odelia, Gran, Marge, Chase and Uncle Alec standing together, discussing clues and suspects and whatnot. Harriet, Brutus and Dooley also gathered around.
“So what happened, Max?” asked Brutus.
“I was kicked off the roof by a femme fatale and saved by Jesus,” I explained, giving them the CliffsNotes version of events.
“That’s great,” said Brutus, a little doubtfully. “So what did you find out?”
“That Odelia is one lucky lady,” I said. “What did you find out?”
“Nothing much,” said Harriet. “Apart from the fact that I don’t like caviar.”
“They have caviar?” asked Dooley.
“Sure. They’ve got everything.”
“They sure do,” said Odelia quietly, her face suddenly heaving into view. She then proceeded to distribute sizable morsels of the most delicious fish dish I’d ever tasted. “There’s more where that came from,” she promised. She then tapped my nose. “How are you feeling, flyboy?”
“Great,” I said. “Thanks to Chase.”
“He’s something else, isn’t he?” she said, smiling.
“He’s the best,” I said, also smiling.
“Does he have a sheep?” asked Dooley.
But Odelia had already moved out of earshot, on a mission to procure us more food. People were dancing, the band was rocking, and I was starting to experience that mellow feeling that comes upon you when adrenaline levels start settling down. I could suddenly feel a nap coming on, and so when our humans started drifting towards the cars, I didn’t complain. The entire drive back I slept like a log, and so did Dooley, Harriet and Brutus. I’d always wondered what divine intervention looked like, and now I knew it firsthand. Though I’d call it Chase Intervention instead—after my hero and savior.
Odelia was one lucky woman. And I was one very lucky cat. And I was still basking in that warm and fuzzy glow when the car suddenly jounced to a halt and Odelia announced in chipper tones, “Wake up, you guys. We’re here!”
When I glanced out the window I recognized where we were and promptly broke out in a cold sweat.
Oh, no.
Vena’s!
Chapter 37
“So what have we here?!” boomed Vena.
I cringed, and so did the rest of the cat contingent. Vena has that effect on cats. She has a big voice, an even bigger personality, and resembles The Rock in more ways than one. She stood before us, hands planted on her hips, a mass of muscle and hearty good cheer.
“They’ve got a cold,” Odelia intimated.
“Yeah, they’ve bee
n sneezing and coughing all day,” Gran chimed in.
“The poor dears,” Marge added.
“Let’s have a look,” said Vena. Without effort, she picked me up and plunked me down on the operating table. I fully expected her to start probing me with all manner of metal implements before plunging some type of syringe into my neck but instead her surprisingly gentle touch and warm hands performed a quick but thorough examination.
“Mh,” she said. “He’s got a cold, all right, but only a minor one. Nothing to worry about.” She gave me a tickle behind the ears. “You’ll be right as rain in no time, Max.”
“Oh, that’s great news,” said Odelia.
“Thanks… Vena,” I said, surprised to get off so easy.
“You’re welcome, buddy,” she said, almost as if she could understand what I said.
“See?” said Gran. “I told you not to worry.”
“I didn’t worry,” I said indignantly.
“No, but I did,” said Dooley.
“Dooley is the worrier of this little gang of cats,” said Odelia with a smile.
In short order, my friends underwent the same treatment, until finally Brutus was on the table.
“He’s got spots,” said Odelia. “So you may want to look at those.”
“Spots?” asked Vena. “What spots?”
“Red spots. On my chest,” said Brutus. “Do you think it’s cancer? Am I going to die? I was baptized last night. Shanille said Jesus would save me but I’m not sure she wasn’t full of crap. She’s the reason we got this cold, you know. She dunked us into this gigantic vat of ice water and now I feel worse than ever, so—”
“Stop babbling, Brutus,” said Harriet.
Brutus abruptly stopped babbling.
“He has spots on his chest,” said Odelia, translating Brutus’s gibberings. “Red spots.”
“Probably been drinking,” said Gran. “What?” she added when Marge rolled her eyes. “Pets can have a drinking problem, too. You should have seen my husband’s dog Rex. The two of them always went on their benders together. Came home drunk as skunks.”