by Nic Saint
“Amazing,” said Harriet quietly, as Odelia and Chase discussed the logistics of running an investigation consisting of one police detective, one local reporter, and one little old lady with no clear designation or authority.
“What is?” I asked.
“Haven’t you been listening? First Odelia leaves us behind, and then she purposely decides to ditch Gran. Don’t you see what’s going on here?”
I had a feeling I was going to find out soon, whether I replied in the affirmative or not.
“She’s engaged to be married now, and slowly but surely she’s edging us all out! Her cats, her grandmother—all of us!”
“No, she’s not,” I said automatically, for I rarely believe anything negative about my human.
“Yes, she is! Once she’s married she’s going to get rid of us, and then she’s going to get rid of Gran, too!”
“But why would she do that? She loves us,” said Dooley. “And she loves her grandmother, too. Doesn’t she?”
“No, she doesn’t,” said Harriet. She groaned. “I can’t believe I’ve been so stupid! Don’t you see? She’s been wanting to get rid of us all along, and now she’s found the perfect excuse.”
“The wedding?” asked Brutus.
“Yes! The wedding! She’ll get married, and that will be the end of this.” She was gesturing vaguely between us and Odelia.
We all stared dumbly at her paw motions.
“What’s… this?” I asked, mimicking the gesture.
“The bond we share! This rare and unique fellowship of cats and humans. Clearly she’s sick and tired of having to lug us all over the place like so much ballast, and her grandmother, too. Didn’t you catch the dirty looks she gave poor Gran? She can’t wait to be rid of her, and us. Free at last!”
We stared at her, the harbinger of such terrible and upsetting news.
“I think Harriet is right,” said Brutus. “Odelia is getting ready to dump us.”
“But what is she going to do with us?” asked Dooley, sounding panicky.
I should probably point out that it doesn’t take much for Dooley to panic. And being abandoned by our dear, sweet human definitely fit the bill.
“She’ll probably try to dump us on Marge and Tex,” said Harriet. “And then she and Chase are finally free to live their lives unencumbered by the presence of four cats and an annoying old grandmother.”
Her words had a chilling effect on us, and the rest of the drive we were all conspicuously silent. And as I turned Harriet’s words over in my mind, I had to admit they made sense. Odelia had been spending less and less time with us, giving us less and less attention, and this morning she’d even ‘forgotten’ to bring us along, just as she’d ‘forgotten’ about Gran, who loved to go on these little outings with her granddaughter.
Could it be that she and Chase had a secret plan? That they were getting ready to move away from Hampton Cove, maybe even overseas? They’d clearly had a ball in England, and since Odelia was a reporter she could very easily get a job anywhere, and Chase being a cop he could have already landed himself a snazzy position in Europol or Interpol or some other pol. My heart sank as I contemplated this terrible prospect. We’d still be taken care of, of course, and Marge and Tex and Gran were wonderful people. Only problem was: they weren’t my people, per se. I only had one people and that was Odelia, and the prospect of never seeing her again suddenly filled me with dread.
And so it was with a sinking heart that I watched Odelia expertly navigate the car in the direction of a tall iron gate, which swung open the moment we arrived, then swung closed again behind Gran’s little red car.
Suddenly I didn’t feel like cracking this case.
Because it could very well be our last one.
Chapter 6
The sun shone brightly, reflecting off the abundance of glass the late Leonidas Flake had opted for when he’d commissioned an architect to build his chateau. It wasn’t so much a chateau, though, but more of a bunker the designer had built. The entire structure appeared to have been constructed out of slabs of black concrete, interspersed with plate-glass windows. All in all it reminded Odelia of a gigantic Lego house, if those Legos had been used by a child who preferred his or her Legos black and slightly ominous-looking.
“It looks… a little scary,” she now confessed to her partner in crime.
“It looks like a black cube,” Chase said. The cop rarely minced words.
“Yeah. I don’t know. I guess I expected something more along the lines of the castle of Versailles,” she said as she opened the rear door of the car and allowed four cats to pour out gracefully to the gravel drive.
She crouched down, to provide them with her customary pep talk and instructions for the assignment ahead. Her loyal troupe, however, instead of eagerly listening to their master’s voice, as they usually did, simply ignored her and tripped off in the direction of the house.
“Huh,” she said, straightening and ignoring the tiny crick in her knees. “What’s gotten into them?”
But she didn’t have time to contemplate the state of mind her cats were in, for Gran had parked her car right next to Odelia’s and now came clambering out with some effort.
“So what’s the lowdown?” the old lady asked, directing her question at Chase and ignoring her one and only grandchild.
“Victim is Leonidas Flake,” said Chase. “Fashion designer of French origin. Seventy-eight years old.”
“So sad when they’re struck down in their prime,” said Gran, clucking her tongue.
Chase frowned, then continued to give her ‘the lowdown.’ “Plenty of staff on the premises. Housekeeper, cleaners, chauffeur, gardener, chef… and one boyfriend, Gabriel Crier, who was discovered standing over the body, a bloodied knife in his hands.”
“Who saw him?”
“One of the maids. She usually came to open the curtains in the morning, always around the same time, only this morning she found that the master was beyond waking.”
“Clever,” said Gran, giving Chase an encouraging pat on the back. “Keep this up and you’ll go far, Detective Kingsley. Now take me to the body. I need to get a sense of the crime scene.”
And without waiting for a reply, she hoofed it in the direction of the black block of concrete that was the famous designer’s Hamptons home.
Chase stared after her, then scratched his scalp. “Is she now in charge of this investigation or what?”
“It would appear so,” Odelia confirmed.
“And to think that there was once a time I felt very strongly about civilians poking their noses into my investigations,” he said as they set foot for the house in Gran’s wake.
“I remember,” said Odelia with a smile. “When you first arrived in town you used to give me hell, remember?”
“Oh, I do remember,” he said. “It took me a while to get used to the way things are done around here.”
“You never thought you’d be running your investigations alongside a little old lady, a nosy reporter and four cats, did you?” she teased.
He chuckled lightly. “Not in a million years. Back when I was still with the NYPD I was known to be a stickler for protocol.”
“Protocol will only get you so far.”
“I had to learn that the hard way.”
They’d reached the house and watched as Gran pressed her finger on the bell then kept on pressing it, almost drilling the thing into the wall. Inside, a distinct and very annoying buzzing sound could be heard, and the longer Gran kept pressure on the button, the louder and more annoying it became.
Finally, the door was yanked open by a breathless young woman dressed in a maid’s uniform.
“Yes?” she asked, looking flustered.
“Chase Kingsley, ma’am,” said Chase, producing his police badge and holding it up for her inspection. “Hampton Cove PD. And this is Odelia Poole, civilian consultant, and…” He directed a quizzical look at Gran.
“I’m Vesta Muffin,” croaked Gran. “N
ow take me to the body!”
The woman nodded nervously, then stepped aside to admit the small band of three into the house.
“Chief Alec told me you were coming,” she said. “He also told me the coroner would be here shortly, but we haven’t had the pleasure of his company yet.”
“So who’s been guarding the body?” asked Chase, putting his detective’s cap on.
“Two of your people,” said the girl. “They’ve been standing watch in the room where…” She gulped. “Where he was found,” she finished with a sob. She took a tissue out of her pocket and pressed it to her nose. “This is all so horrible. One moment he was alive and well and the next… I mean, who would have thought he was capable?”
“Mr. Crier, you mean?” asked Chase.
The girl nodded. “Such a nice man.”
“The world is a dangerous place, miss,” said Gran. “You just truck along, happy as pie, and then suddenly, BOOM! Out of the blue disaster strikes. Now take me to the body, will you? I need to get a feel for the scene, and the stiff.”
“Of course,” said the girl, nodding. She then led the way into the house, which was as starkly modern on the inside as on the outside. There was only one color scheme, really: black and white, with shades of gray. No decorations. Black concrete walls. Gray concrete floors and ceilings. And tiny little pinpricks of halogen casting a hard light across the starkly empty rooms.
“Nice place you got here,” said Gran, by way of small talk, but the maid was obviously too distraught to engage in social niceties.
“Were you the one who found Mr. Flake?” asked Odelia.
She nodded. “Yes, I was. Mr. Flake hated alarm clocks, or any indicators of time, really. He didn’t wear a watch, or condone clocks in the house. We even had to get rid of the digital clock on the microwave. So he instructed me to wake him up in the morning by entering his room, and switching on the light therapy lamps. They mimic natural sunlight, you see.”
“Couldn’t you simply open the curtains?” asked Gran.
“Mr. Flake hated the sun. He rarely left the house.”
“Like a vampire,” Gran muttered.
They’d arrived at a floor-to-ceiling set of double rusty decorative sheet metal doors, and the girl halted. “I-I went in to wake him, as I usually did, at seven o’clock, only the moment I set foot inside the room, I-I saw him.”
“Gabriel?” asked Odelia gently.
The girl nodded, then pressed the tissue to her nose again and closed her eyes as she relived that horrible moment.
“He was just standing there, frozen like a statue. At first I didn’t know what was going on. It was dark, of course. So I cheerfully asked, ‘Oh, I didn’t know you were up already, sir.’ He didn’t respond, though, and just stood there. So I switched on the lights, and as they slowly lit up the room, that’s when I saw it: he was holding a knife in his right hand, blood dripping to the floor. And he had the weirdest expression on his face.”
“What expression?” asked Gran.
She shook her head, a frown on her face. “Confusion? Yes, that’s probably what it was. He looked confused, and scared, and then he spoke those horrible words. ‘Is he dead?’ And that’s when I saw Mr. Flake. His silk pajamas were streaked with blood, and his eyes were wide open, staring up into space.” She shivered. “That’s when I knew Mr. Crier was right. Mr. Flake was dead, and he’d killed him.”
She opened the door, almost as an afterthought, and the first sight that met Odelia’s eyes was the red-haired female cop standing just inside the door. She recognized her as Sarah Flunk, Chase’s colleague. Sarah tipped an imaginary peaked cap to the newcomers. “Detective,” she said. “Odelia.” She hesitated as she fastened her eyes on Gran, then nodded in greeting. “Mrs. Muffin.”
Tough to deny the mother of your boss admission to a crime scene.
Near the window, a burly cop had been stationed. His name was Randal Skip, and judging from his dark scowl he was not a man to be trifled with. When he saw Odelia, though, his crusty features crumbled into a smile. He’d always been a big fan of the boss’s niece. He held up a hand in greeting.
On the bed, as the maid had found him, lay one of the most famous fashion designers of his generation. His trademark white mane was unruffled, his square face with the thin lips chalk-white as usual, and the only thing that gave away that he was dead was the fact that he wasn’t breathing.
After uttering a distraught little yelp of distress, the maid fled from the room, and Sarah Flunk closed the heavy steel doors behind her.
“No one’s been in or out?” asked Gran, as she took out a pair of plastic gloves from her pocket and directed an earnest look at the dead man.
“No one, ma’am,” said Officer Randal Skip. “Your son told us he’d send in a team, so…” He directed a quizzical look at Chase, but the latter merely shook his head, and Randal rearranged his features into a stoic expression.
“So where’s the culprit?” asked Gran now.
“You mean the boyfriend?” asked Sarah. “At the station, ma’am. Chief Alec took him into custody.”
“So did he confess?”
“Not to my knowledge. But then he doesn’t have to confess, does he? He was caught red-handed, so to speak.”
“He was covered with his victim’s blood,” said Randal. “As clear-cut a case as there ever was, ma’am.”
“Mh,” said Gran, not convinced. “Too clear-cut, wouldn’t you say?”
“Ma’am?”
“A case as clear-cut as this is a rarity. In all my years I don’t think I’ve ever handled a case where the killer, instead of fleeing the scene of the crime, simply chose to wait for a witness to show up, if you see what I mean.”
Randal cut another glance to Chase, who, once again, shook his head. ‘Humor the lady,’ his demeanor appeared to indicate.
“So you don’t think he did it?” asked Sarah, not hiding her skepticism.
“I’m not saying he did, and I’m not saying he didn’t,” Gran said as she checked the body. “He looks pretty dead to me,” she concluded after a long moment, then bent over to put her ear against the man’s lips. Straightening, she added, “Yep, I think he’s dead. What did Abe Cornwall say?”
“Hasn’t shown up yet, ma’am.”
“Mh,” she said, then studied the wound more closely. “Stab wound would you say, Randal?”
“That would be my conclusion, ma’am,” said the burly cop. “Of course I’m not an expert, but seeing as the killer was still holding the knife, that would be my best guess.”
“Straight to the heart,” Sarah murmured as she looked on reverently.
“A-ha,” said Gran. “Of course. Crime passionnel.”
“I wouldn’t know, ma’am. I’m not a detective.”
Gran turned to Chase. “What do you say, Detective Kingsley?”
Chase had taken up position on the other side of the bed. “Any cameras?” he asked, glancing around.
“As a matter of fact there are,” said Randal. He pointed to the only painting in the room. It depicted the dead man, seated on what looked like a throne, his trademark dark glasses obscuring the upper strata of his face, a white cat perched on his knee. It reminded Odelia of Dr. No, the James Bond villain.
“There’s a camera embedded in the painting,” Sarah explained. “It’s the cat’s eyes. They’re actually two lenses. But we haven’t been able to locate the footage.”
“Did you check with Flake’s security team?” asked Odelia.
“We did. The guy in charge of security reckons that either the camera is a dud—just for show—or else it fed into a parallel security system only accessible to Flake himself. At any rate he doesn’t seem to have a clue.”
“It must feed into something,” said Gran, as she climbed on top of the bed to take a closer look at the camera. “Clever,” she said. “Very clever indeed.”
“There’s a rumor going around that Flake and Crier used it to create their own private home movies, sir,�
�� said Sarah, addressing Chase. She lowered her voice. “Home sex movies, sir. Only we haven’t been able to find them yet.”
“When I talk to Crier I’ll ask him about it,” said Chase as he cast a worried glance at Gran, who was still trudging around on the bed, potentially disturbing the crime scene. Finally she was satisfied and climbed down.
“Kinky,” she commented, then swung round with the air of one who has come to a conclusion. “Sex game gone wrong is my conclusion. Flake had probably found himself a new, younger, boyfriend, and had been adding to his collection of sex tapes with this virile young man. And when Crier found out, he flew into a rage and killed his lover in a moment of insanity. Classic.”
“Right,” said Chase. “Sarah and Randal. I want you to talk to the rest of the staff. And ask them about the camera. I’ll talk to the head of security.” He turned to Odelia. “Are you all right in here, babe?”
Odelia nodded. And when Chase gestured with his head to Gran, she understood his meaning. Not only was she to keep an eye on Leonidas Flake and the crime scene, but also on her grandmother, who was now checking under the bed, as if fully expecting another killer to be holed up there.
Chase and the other police officers walked out and closed the door behind them and then it was just her and Gran and… the dead man.
Chapter 7
Instead of joining Odelia and Chase inside the house, as was our habit, we’d instead opted to inspect the outer rim of the Leonidas dwelling. Not that this was part of a new strategy on our part. We were upset with Odelia, and wanted to showcase that annoyance by doing things our way instead of hers. Not that it would do us a lot of good. Humans are notoriously obtuse, and it would take more than the silent treatment for Odelia to become aware of our grievances.
“So what’s the plan?” asked Brutus now, and I had to confess that I didn’t have any. And since Harriet, usually filled to the brim with plans, was coming up empty in that department, too, and Dooley was, as usual, a spent force when it came to racking the old noggin, we simply wandered around aimlessly, deciding that instead of coming up with a plan to aid and abet our human in solving yet another crime, we were going to go on strike for once.