by Nic Saint
“On strike?” asked Dooley. “What’s a strike, Max?”
“It means we’re not going to do what we usually do and instead do nothing at all,” I explained.
“Oh, you mean taking a break?”
“No, going on strike,” said Harriet. “Like factory workers when negotiations between management and trade unions have broken down and failed to reach the pay raise anticipated.”
Dooley stared at me.
“Oh, for crying out loud,” Harriet burst out. “We’re not going to help Odelia solve her murder for her this time, all right? Instead we do nothing.”
Dooley continued mystified, though. “But… why?”
“For one thing, the murder has already been solved,” I said. “Clearly the boyfriend did it. And for another, if Odelia doesn’t care about us, why should we care about her? Or the murder cases she decides to get involved in?”
This was clearly a tough one, and Dooley stared at me for a moment before responding. “Because that’s what we always do?”
“Well, I for one think it’s time we switched up our routine,” said Harriet. “How long have we been assisting Odelia with this murder business?”
“Um… a long time?” Dooley hazarded a guess.
“Exactly! Too long. We’re cats. We’re not even supposed to be involved in this crime stuff. What we should do is lie around, have a bit to eat from time to time, or go for a stroll, and generally have a great old time. What we shouldn’t be doing, because it is unnatural, and not in our job description, is hunt around for killers. It’s dangerous, and it’s not a lot of fun.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” said Brutus. “I kinda like hunting around for horrible killers.”
“Speak for yourself. I’ve had enough of this nonsense, and I think going on strike, as Max suggests, is a great idea. In fact I think we should go on an indefinite strike.”
“Meaning?” asked Brutus.
“Meaning we hand in our resignation! We tell Odelia that we won’t be her flunkeys any longer and that from now on she can find her own killers.”
“I don’t know if that’s such a good idea,” said Dooley, always the most conscientious of the lot. “Odelia relies on us to bring her those vital clues she likes so much.”
“Well, from now on she’ll just have to root around for those vital clues herself, won’t she? In fact,” she added, getting up from her prostrate position, “I’ve seen all I need to see of this horrible place. Brutus, let’s go home.”
And since a suggestion from Harriet always has the ring of finality to it, Brutus had no other choice than to follow her home. Before she turned away, though, she had one last thing to say. “If you two decide to stick around and help Odelia in any way, you’re the worst suckers in the history of suckerhood.”
“We’re not sticking around, are we, Dooley?” I said.
“I don’t mind sticking around,” said Dooley.
“Of course you don’t,” said Harriet, a little nastily I thought. “What about you, Max? You’re the one who suggested we go on strike.”
“I know,” I said. “But we just got here, and I don’t feel like walking all the way back to the house.”
“Well, I do,” she said, and beckoned for her mate to follow her.
“Sorry, guys,” said Brutus. “Looks like you’ll have to go on strike all by yourselves.”
I had a feeling Brutus was still a little fuzzy about the whole strike concept, but I didn’t feel like explaining it to him, so I merely held up a paw in goodbye, and then Harriet and Brutus were off for a leisurely walk through the outer boroughs of Hampton Cove.
“I’m not sure I want to strike, Max,” said Dooley. “Is it difficult?”
“It’s very easy,” I said. “You simply don’t do what you normally do.”
He thought hard about this, judging from the thought wrinkles on his brow. “So… we’re supposed to be looking around for witnesses of this murder business, right?”
“Right.”
“So… going on strike means we don’t look for witnesses of the murder?”
“Exactly!”
His face fell. “But then what are we supposed to do? I mean, this striking business seems to be more a lack of activity and not an activity in itself.”
“We can simply lounge around out here and wait for Odelia to return and take us back into town. In the meantime we take a nap or something.”
“But if she asks what we’ve discovered, what are we going to tell her?”
“We tell her the truth. That we’re on strike and we haven’t discovered a single thing.”
He gave me a dubious look. “I don’t think she’ll be happy about that.”
“That’s the point, Dooley. We show her that we’re not happy by not doing what she tells us to do, at which point she’ll realize how badly she’s been treating us and she’ll repent and promise to do better next time.”
“And do you think that’s going to work?”
“I don’t know, Dooley. But we have to try. It’s obvious she and Chase are getting ready to leave Hampton Cove and start a new life across the pond, leaving us in the hands of Tex and Marge and Gran. And even though I believe in every individual’s right to map their own course in life, I still feel we should express our disappointment and try to persuade her to include us in her plans.” Though, truth be told, if Odelia really was planning on leaving us behind, I didn’t know if I wanted to be included in her future endeavors. A human capable of betrayal on such a massive scale wasn’t the kind of human I wanted to spend the rest of my life with, if you know what I mean.
Dooley seemed to feel the same way, for he now plunked down on the fashion designer’s smooth lawn, and heaved a deep sigh as he placed his head on his front paws. “Life is complicated, Max, don’t you agree?”
“Yes, I do,” I said simply, and lay down on the manicured turf next to Dooley, placing my chin on my paws just like him.
After a moment, he asked, “So are we on strike now?”
“We’re on strike,” I confirmed.
“Nice,” he said. “I kinda like it.”
“Me, too, actually. Peaceful.”
“Very peaceful.”
And in spite of our predicament, we decided to make the best of things by enjoying this rare lull in our busy schedule. And we’d been dozing for the better part of half an hour, the sun warming our weary bones, when a green van came driving up to the house, its tires crunching the gravel. We watched on as it pulled to a full stop and a man came stepping out. He was dressed in a long black overcoat, and had flowing blond hair and a nice blond mustache and beard. On top of his head was a fashionable homburg hat and he was carrying a suitcase. Next, a cat came hopping out of the van. One of those Siamese specimens. Very skinny, but also very loud. So loud we could hear him complaining all the way to where we were lying on Flake’s lawn.
“Look at this dump,” the cat was saying. “This is beneath us, Chris. Way, way beneath us.”
“I know,” said the guy. “But a job is a job, buddy, so buck up, will you?”
“How much are they paying us? Cause if it’s less than our usual quote I say we get out of here and dump this dump.”
“Ten K now, and another ten if we catch her son’s killer.”
“Twenty K, huh. Not too shabby.”
“Yeah, that’s what I thought. So are we doing this?”
“Hell, yeah,” said the cat.
And cat and man moved towards the front door as one man, then out of sight.
“Weird,” said Dooley.
“What’s weird?” I asked, closing my eyes again now that the show was over.
“That guy could talk to his cat.”
It took me a few moments before realizing the truth in Dooley’s worlds. Then my eyes shot open again. “Great Scott, Dooley!” I cried.
“What?”
“That guy can talk to his cat!”
“That’s what I said.”
“But I always thought Odeli
a was the only one—and her mom and grandma, of course.”
“Well, looks like they’re not the only ones,” said Dooley sensibly.
I stared at the green van, the engine still ticking as it cooled down. On the side of the car a decal had been stuck. It read ‘Christopher Cross—Pet Detective.’
“Competition,” I murmured.
“Mh?” asked Dooley, who’d closed his eyes, his favorite strike pose.
“Odelia is getting some serious competition, Dooley.”
“So? We’re on strike, Max. Officially we’ve stopped caring about Odelia.”
He was right. Officially we didn’t care about what happened to Odelia. “Still, I don’t think she’s going to like it,” I said as I rested my head on my paws again.
“Maybe it will stop her from taking us for granted,” said Dooley.
I smiled. Some people call Dooley dumb. Dooley isn’t dumb. A little slow perhaps, but smarter than he often gets credit for. “You’re absolutely right, Dooley,” I said. “Maybe this is what she needs to stop taking us for granted.”
Chapter 8
Odelia was staring out of the window. She felt a little creeped out by being in the same room as the victim of a crime. Not that she was particularly squeamish about being in the presence of a dead person. She’d been involved in more murder cases than any reporter had a right to be, especially in a small town like Hampton Cove. But still… It didn’t feel right. Disrespectful, even. Leonidas Flake should be in the presence of his loved ones. Being laid up in a funeral home so he could be mourned properly. Not on display for all the world to see—or at least two amateur sleuths like herself and Gran.
“Look at this, Odelia,” said her grandmother, and she turned in the direction the old lady was indicating. She was on hands and knees, poking at something under the bed.
“What is it?” she asked, also getting down on all fours.
“I don’t know. Looks like a wrapper.”
“A wrapper? Like a candy wrapper?”
“I don’t think so. More like the kind of wrapper you use for a syringe.”
“Probably something Flake’s nurse dropped.”
“Yeah, probably. I mean, the guy was old, right? So he probably was prodded and jabbed with a bunch of syringes, like, all the time.”
Odelia agreed. Still, just to be on the safe side she took a picture of the item, then shuffled back from under the bed. She was just in time to watch the door swing open and Chase stroll in, followed by the coroner, looking harried.
“Finally,” said Gran. “We thought you’d never get here, Abe.”
Abe Cornwall was a scruffy-looking man in his mid-fifties with a marked paunch and hair that stuck out in every direction, as if he’d stuck his fingers in a socket. “Another homicide over in Happy Bays,” he said as he placed his medical bag on the floor. “Got here as fast as I could. So what have we here?”
“Leonidas Flake,” said Gran helpfully. “Designer to the stars. And now up amongst the stars in heaven himself. Unless he’s gone straight down to hell, of course. I guess with the kind of life the dude probably led all bets are off.”
The coroner stared at Gran for a moment, then proceeded to check the dead man’s pulse. “Dead,” he said with an air of finality.
“No shit,” said Gran. “We didn’t need a doctor to tell us that.”
Abe gave her a censorious look. “Don’t you have someplace to be, Vesta?”
“You ain’t getting rid of me that easy, Abe,” she said caustically. “Now tell us, did he get whacked, yes or no.”
The doctor grumbled something under his breath, then proceeded to pull on a pair of plastic gloves, and give the patient on display his full attention. Moments later, he rose with a serious expression on his face. “Francine will be devastated. She loved his designs.”
“Who cares what your wife thinks?” said Gran. “Give us the verdict, medicine man.”
“She picked up a nice pair of pants from Costco last month. Two blouses, too. Discounted, of course. Still, she was happy as a clam. Guy knew his stuff.”
“Oh, my God! Are you going to keep flapping your gums or are you going to get to the point already?”
“Well, as far as I can tell—and this is very preliminary, mind you—he’s been dead for three or four hours. Cause of death is almost certainly a stab wound to the heart. I’ll know more once I get him on my slab.”
“Thanks, Abe,” said Chase, nodding.
“You’re welcome. Now if there’s nothing else…”
“We found a wrapper for a syringe under the bed,” said Gran.
“Probably something his nurse dropped,” said the doctor. He moved over to the nightstand and picked through the small collection of medication collected there. “Heart medicine, and diabetes, of course. Hypertension, anxiety… the usual. I’ll make you a list if you want.”
And as they were about to leave the room, allowing the coroner’s people to move the body down to a waiting ambulance and then to the morgue, there was suddenly a commotion at the door and a strange-looking man dressed in a long black overcoat came waltzing in.
“Not so fast,” he said, fixing all those present with a steely look.
“And who are you?” asked Chase.
The man drew himself up to his full height. “My name is Christopher Cross. And I was hired by that man’s mother,” he said, pointing to Leonidas.
All eyes swiveled to the old man on the bed. “Leonidas Flake had a mother?” asked Odelia, voicing the question that had occurred to everyone.
“Yes, he had. She’s ninety-eight years old but still in full possession of all her faculties. And upon learning the fate that has befallen her one and only son, she’s decided to engage my services.”
“And those are…” Gran prompted.
“I’m a private detective, with a long list of accolades and clients, and I’m here to take over this investigation.”
“I’m Hampton Cove PD, buddy,” said Chase, “so you’re not taking over anything.”
“Pardon me, sir. Of course I meant taking over from the amateur detectives present.” He directed a pointed look to Odelia and Gran. “Odelia Poole, if I’m not mistaken? I thought I’d find you here. And you must be Vesta Muffin. Charmed, I’m sure.” And he actually grabbed Gran’s hand and tried to press a kiss on it. He would have succeeded if Gran hadn’t pulled back her hand and in the process managed to smack the guy across the face with it.
“Ouch,” he said, then gave her a nasty look. “If that’s the way it’s going to be…”
“Look, I don’t know what your game is,” said Chase, “but this is a police investigation, and this is a crime scene, and you’re not invited. So buzz off.”
The guy cut a quick glance at the body, then took out his phone and started snapping pictures of the dead body.
“Hey!” said Chase. “What part of buzz off don’t you understand?”
“I have an official mandate from the victim’s mother,” said the detective. “And I will not be bullied!”
Officers Flunk and Skip had returned, and now attached themselves to the man’s arms and proceeded to escort him from the room.
“This is an outrage!” the detective was saying. “You’ll regret this, Detective Kingsley! Mark my words!”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” said Chase. “So are we finished here?”
“Yes, we are,” said Odelia.
“You can take him away, Doc,” Chase told the coroner.
“So what’s the verdict?” asked Gran as they left the room. “What did your people find out?”
“Nothing much,” said Chase as they descended the stairs. “The maid is the only one who witnessed the aftermath of the crime. We talked to the rest of the staff, and all of them tell the same story: Flake was a very private man, who kept himself to himself. When he was in town he lived here with his boyfriend, and they rarely ventured out. Even though Crier is twenty-five years Flake’s junior, the match was a happy one, by all accoun
ts, and they’re all shocked Crier could have done what he did. No one expected this.”
“Let’s hope you find out more when you talk to him,” said Gran.
“We will,” said Chase. He directed an apologetic look at Odelia. “I’m sorry for dragging you all the way out here.”
“That’s okay,” said Odelia. “I’m glad you won’t need my help.”
They walked out of the house. “So…” said Chase. “I’m sticking around, to make sure we wrap this up nice and tidy, and to make sure that idiot private detective doesn’t give us any more trouble. You two head on back to town.”
That idiot detective was at that moment talking to a member of Flake’s staff.
“You might tell the guy the case is closed,” suggested Gran. “Otherwise he’ll only waste Flake’s mother a lot of money and his staff a lot of time.”
“Oh, he’ll drag this out as long as he can,” said Chase, giving the man a scornful look. “That’s the kind of detective he is.”
“You know him?” asked Odelia, surprised.
“I know of him. He’s a pet detective. Hired to find missing pets. Looks like he’s stepping up in the world, and tackling the more challenging cases.”
They watched the man for a moment, then Odelia decided to look around for her cats. She didn’t see any sign of them, though. Odd. And she’d just started calling out their names when a Siamese cat came waddling up to them.
“Look at that furball,” said Gran with a grin. “Must be Flake’s cat.”
“No, it’s not,” said Chase. “Flake’s cat is a Birman and much smaller.”
“She’s very pretty,” said Odelia. “She even has her own Instagram.”
The Siamese cat approached them and spoke in a gruff tone. “Hey. You that detective babe?”
Odelia frowned. “Um, I’m a reporter, and sometime detective, yes.”
“Tell your cats this case is mine now, you hear?”
“Wait, what?” said Odelia as the cat turned on its paw and snuck into the house.
“You heard,” said the cat over his shoulder. “Tell those losers of yours to stay away while I crack this case. And now piss off, will you?”