by Nic Saint
“A load of crock, of course.”
“I’m not so sure. He does get great results from time to time. He found Lady Delilah’s pet canary last month. Silly bird got itself stuck in a chimney.”
“Lady Delilah? The pop star?”
“The one and only.”
“Lucky for her the cat didn’t eat the canary, instead of returning it to its owner.”
The gate swung open again and a car came pulling out. Lauren recognized its occupants as Odelia Poole and her grandmother.
“There’s a rumor that Odelia Poole can talk to her cat,” she said as she watched Odelia drive past without acknowledging her.
“She’s the big cheese in town, isn’t she? This Odelia Poole?”
“Yeah, she is. Or at least she thinks she is.”
“I read her stuff from time to time,” said Zak. “Not too shabby.”
“Print is a dying medium,” said Lauren. “Everybody knows that. And the Gazette’s editor is old, so there’s no future for an ambitious reporter.”
Lauren had built up quite a career as a roving reporter. Burying herself in a town like Hampton Cove the way Odelia Poole had done was not her thing.
“Local news channels are a dying breed too,” said Zak. “Online is the future.”
“People will always watch local news,” she said. “Who else brings the kind of stories that we do? But that doesn’t mean I need to stay local, too.”
“Ah? Big plans? Do tell.”
She smiled. “Not a chance.” She liked to play her cards close to her chest. And a notorious blabbermouth like Zak Kowalski was the last person she’d confide in. She had her eye on an anchor position, but as long as no contracts were signed, her lips were sealed. She didn’t want to jinx her big break.
“Fine,” he said. “So don’t tell me.” And he went back to playing Tetris on his phone, the only thing he was good at, apart from blabbing.
“Let’s get out of here,” she said. “The person we need to talk to isn’t here anyway.”
“So where are they?”
“In jail. And I know just the way we can land ourselves an exclusive.”
Odelia and Gran had arrived back in town, and Gran parked the car in front of the doctor’s office. “Are you sure you don’t need me anymore?” asked Gran as they got out. There was a touch of wistfulness in her voice.
“Yeah, I’m good,” said Odelia. “I’ll just pop in at the office to write my article and then we can forget all about this nasty murder business.”
“Too bad,” said Gran with a sigh as she directed a reluctant glance at the door to the doctor’s office. “I like a juicy murder mystery from time to time.”
“Well, you shouldn’t,” said Odelia. “Murder mysteries are not meant to be enjoyed, Gran. They’re meant to be mourned.”
“Oh, but I’m mourning Leonidas Flake,” said Gran. “I’m mourning the hell out of that poor man.”
After another pregnant pause, in which Odelia kept her tongue, she finally walked up to the door to the office and disappeared inside. Obviously taking down appointments from people suffering the flu or hemorrhoids was a lot less exciting than hunting down clues and chasing down murderers. Still, Tex needed his receptionist, and Odelia needed her paycheck, so the moment Gran was safely back where she belonged, she walked down the street to the headquarters of the Hampton Cove Gazette.
She hadn’t lied when she told her grandmother she needed to write her article. What she hadn’t mentioned was that she had no intention of dropping the case. Not yet, anyway. Until Leonidas Flake’s boyfriend had confessed to the crime of murdering his partner, there was still a chance that new developments might swing the case in a different direction altogether. Chances of that happening were very slim, of course, but she’d investigated enough crimes by now to know that things are not always what they seem.
Though in this case it looked very bad for Gabriel Crier. Very bad indeed.
She walked into the office and greeted Dan, who was ensconced in his office, furiously typing away on his computer. He looked up when Odelia strode in.
“Oh, hey there,” he greeted her cheerfully. “So how were things at Le Chateau Flake?”
“Pretty straightforward,” she said as she took a seat on the leather couch that Dan kept in his office for visitors. “Flake was killed with a single stab to the heart, and his boyfriend was seen with the knife in his hand, standing over the body of his dead lover.”
“Too bad,” said Dan, shaking his head. “I liked this Flake fellow. Contrary to some of the other celebrities that consider Hampton Cove their second home, he actually had a gift, and made this world a more beautiful place.”
“I’ve never heard you get lyrical over a celebrity before, Dan,” said Odelia, surprised. “Did you know the guy well?”
Dan, a weathered-looking man in his late sixties with a long white beard, nodded. “He used to come into the office from time to time and we’d share a glass. Did you know he loved animals? Always told me that if he hadn’t become a designer he would have been a vet. He sometimes thought he might become one yet, if and when he decided to retire from creating the most gorgeous garments imaginable. Of course he was never going to retire.”
“And now he’ll never be a vet,” said Odelia.
Dan, who loved animals himself, perked up at the chance to hold forth on one of his favorite topics. “He once invited me to check out his petting zoo. He had all sorts of pets, and not the exotic ones either. He would never imprison an animal if he could help it. Only kept the barnyard variety. Eccentric fellow. Very eccentric, with very strong ideas on all sorts of topics. He’ll be missed.”
“He’ll also be missed by all the people who watched his shows, or bought his designs.” She herself had never been into couture, haute or low. Too expensive and too impractical. She was more a jeans-and-T-shirt sort of girl, though she did love a nice pair of exclusive Converse and had a modest collection at the house. And if she were as rich as Leonidas Flake, she might take an interest in fashion, and start spending serious money on her outfit. On a reporter’s salary that simply wasn’t possible, but she was okay with that.
Dan had taken a whiskey bottle from his desk drawer and now poured a finger into a glass, then offered her one.
“No, thanks,” she said, holding up her hand. “I need to finish the Flake piece.”
“Have you talked to Crier?”
“Chase and Uncle Alec will interview him.”
“Good luck with that.”
“You know something I don’t?”
“Only that Gabe Crier is a cryer. The man cries for the least little thing. When he sees a newborn baby—waterworks. When he watches Will & Grace—same thing. Leo used to complain that living with Gabe was like living life on an emotional roller coaster. Every high was followed by an even deeper low.”
“So why did he stay with him?”
Dan raised his glass. “He said Gabe had… other qualities.” He quirked a meaningful eyebrow, and Odelia got the message.
Retreating to her office, she wondered briefly where Max and the others could be. By now they should have had the chance to talk to Pussy, Flake’s famous cat. If only to add another angle to her story. But then she relaxed. Gran was right. They’d probably returned home by now. Or maybe, just maybe, they were still scouting the Flake place. Max liked to be thorough when he was investigating a crime. He was probably still hard at work, extracting information from Pussy. And if Flake really had a petting zoo, they would have found plenty of witnesses to talk to. Good thing she had until tonight to finish her story. She’d find Max when she got home, get a few juicy quotes, sprinkle them into her story, then send it to Dan for his final edit.
She took out her phone and brought up Pussy’s Instagram. She was an exceedingly pretty cat, and her feed showcased her expensive habits: gorgeous haircuts, fancy outfits, exclusive parties, funky playpen, gourmet pâté…
She smiled. No wonder Max and the others had vanished f
rom the face of the earth. They were probably having the time of their life with Princess Pussy.
Chapter 12
When I say that cats, as a rule, don’t like it when things get too hot or too cold, I like to include myself in that description. The sun had gradually risen, and had kept on rising, and had now reached the point where it had hoisted itself over the roof of the monstrosity that Leonidas Flake had built. And showcasing its customary playfulness, it now tickled my nose, and soon I was hotting up to such an extent that, even though the grass was still cool, I was getting increasingly uncomfortable. Dooley must have reached the same conclusion, for he opened his eyes at the same time I did, and said plaintively, “This darned sun keeps following us wherever we go, Max. It’s persecution.”
I could have told him that the sun in actual fact did no such thing. That the earth revolves around the sun and not the other way around, but I was too lazy from my nice nap to bother. So all I said was, “Let’s find another spot.”
But as soon as we got up we both experienced a little hunger, so instead of relocating we decided instead to follow in our ancestors’ paw steps and go in search of a bite to eat instead. Even though Samson the chicken might have enjoyed the food he’d been given, I have to admit it left much to be desired.
So we set paw for the house, the only place we hadn’t examined, since we were still on strike.
“We can sneak into the house and not break our strike, can’t we, Max?” asked Dooley as we approached that ominous block of black concrete.
“Of course,” I said. “The only thing we can’t do is perform acts of detection. So no talking to any suspects or witnesses or whatever.”
“I can do that,” said Dooley cheerfully.
As we moved away from the petting zoo, a deep voice rang out behind us. “Hey, cats!” the voice spoke.
We both turned, and discovered the voice belonged to the donkey.
“Yes, donkey?” I said politely, for Odelia has always taught us to be polite.
“Is it true that you’re some kind of detectives?”
“No, we’re not,” I said. “Well, technically we are,” I admitted when Dooley gave me a curious look, “but right now we’re on strike so we’re not allowed by our union to perform any detective-related activities.”
The donkey was silent while he absorbed this important information, then said, “Is it true that the boss is dead?”
“Yes,” I said, not seeing how confirming the man’s death broke the union decree. “Yes, he is. At least that’s what a usually reliable source told us.”
“How did he die?”
“Stabbed in the chest. By his live-in lover, a man called…”
“Gabriel Crier,” said the donkey somberly. “I know Gabe. We all do.”
More animals had gathered around. I saw a horse, a cow, a goat, two rabbits, two sheep… Quite the collection.
“I liked Leonidas,” said one of the rabbits. “He always gave me fresh grass and hay. Who’s going to give me fresh grass and hay now?”
“I’m sure someone else will come along to take care of you all,” I said. “By all accounts Mr. Flake was a very wealthy man and I’m sure he’ll have made provisions for you in his last will and testament.”
“I’ll bet he didn’t,” bleated the goat, who seemed like a somber sort of fellow. “I’ll bet he forgot all about us.”
“I’m sure he didn’t,” countered the donkey. “I actually asked Gabe about it last week.”
“And what did he say?”
“Well, always considering the fact that Gabe doesn’t actually speak donkey, the impression I got was that he cares for us a great deal and would never leave us to fend for ourselves.”
“What does that even mean?!” cried the cow.
“It means that he will have made sure we’d be taken care of.”
“But he’s in jail, isn’t he? For murder!” said the sheep. “So if he’s gone, and the old man’s gone, who’s going to need me? Who’s going to feed me?”
Somehow this reminded me of a song, though I couldn’t quite place my finger on it.
All the animals now started talking across one another, and things were getting a little heated. So Dooley and I decided to withdraw. We were still on strike, so there was very little we could do for these poor creatures. And as we walked in the direction of the house, Dooley said, “So sad, right, Max?”
“Yes, very sad,” I said.
“Poor animals. They’ll probably end up being sold to the highest bidder.”
“Or end up like Bubbles.”
“Bubbles?” he asked.
“Michael Jackson’s chimpanzee. He was a global celebrity back in the eighties and nineties, until he got too big and unruly, and he was transferred to a sanctuary for chimps and orangutans.”
“Is that’s what’s going to happen to us, Max?”
“I’m sure provisions will have been made…” I began, then realized what I was saying. We shared a glance. “Whatever happens,” I said, “we can always turn to the streets, and go and live with Clarice.”
“Clarice scares me, Max.”
“I know. She scares me, too. But she won’t let us die of hunger or thirst. She’ll take care of us if need be.”
“By feeding us rats! Like she did with Brutus, remember?”
“She meant well,” I said.
Once when Brutus was in the dumps, he’d adopted the street life, and Clarice had come through for him, by leaving him the best and juiciest rat she could find behind the dumpsters she considered her personal feeding bowl.
I shivered, and thought of the delicious kibble Odelia always provided us with, and the wet food from those aluminum pouches she liked to buy.
“Too bad humans are so untrustworthy,” said Dooley.
“I hear you, buddy.”
We’d arrived at the deck that had been constructed at the back of the house, and looked for a way in. We finally found one when we discovered someone had left a window open. A burly guard stood sentry—probably part of a collective of burly guards protecting the place against burglars or sensation seekers. He didn’t take any notice of us so we entered the house.
The place was huge, albeit a little sparsely furnished. The floors were all concrete, as were the walls and the ceilings.
“Very modern,” said Dooley appreciatively.
“I guess,” I said as I studied a very large portrait of Leonidas Flake that adorned one wall. It was a black-and-white painting of the famous designer only dressed in a leopard-print G-string and his trademark large sunglasses.
“Huh,” was Dooley’s only comment as he took in the arresting image.
Like the painting, the rest of what I assumed to be the living room was also dominated by the same color scheme: black and white. Very… soothing.
“We need to find the kitchen,” I said. “Or Pussy.”
So we both stuck our noses in the air and sniffed for a hint of either food or Pussy or both. Soon I’d picked up the scent of the Instafamous cat, and we trotted in the direction my powerful sense of smell told me to go. We passed through another sparsely furnished room, this one looking like a study or a library, with plenty of books (all black and white spines) and another room that only held two pianos: one black and one white. Frankly my eyes were starting to hurt.
We finally entered a room at the end of a long corridor that was filled with the kind of paraphernalia only cats would enjoy: plush animals, scratching posts, climbing trees, balls and tunnels… An overpowering smell of catnip filled the air but, like the other rooms, everything was in black and white.
“Where’s the color, Max?!” asked Dooley, on whom the lack of hue was starting to weigh, too. “Is it my eyes? Is everything black and white, or is it just me?”
“It’s not just you. I don’t see any color, either.”
“We’re color-blind!”
I held up my paw in front of his face. “What color is this?”
“Um… orange?”
> “Blorange,” I corrected him, and was gratified to see a smile light up his face.
“I can still see color! I’m not color-blind.”
“No, you’re not. It’s this house. Someone has removed all the colors.”
Just then, Pussy came shuffling into the room, looking distinctly depressed. She halted in her tracks when she saw us. “Hey, you guys,” she said, perking up. “What are you doing here?”
“Oh, we just thought you’d appreciate some company,” I said.
“Food,” said Dooley, who’s not the diplomat I am. “We’re hungry.”
Pussy nodded mournfully, as if the topic of food disgusted her, but she could still understand where we were coming from. “Follow me,” she said.
“Has this house always been like this?” I asked, gesturing to the endless piles of black-and-white plush animals.
“Like what?” she asked.
“Devoid of color?”
She nodded sadly. “Leo only liked black and white and shades of gray. He hated color.”
“Must be a terrible way to live.”
“It is—or was. Once Gabe gave me an orange Garfield and Leo bust a nut when he saw it. He made Gabe send it back to the store and have it replaced with a gray Garfield. It’s not the same thing.”
“No, it’s not,” I agreed.
“I can’t imagine a gray Garfield,” said Dooley. “Garfield should be orange.”
“Yeah, he should,” said Pussy. She was dragging her heels as if the weight of the world rested on her slender shoulders. Finally we passed the stairwell: concrete stairs set in a concrete wall, and then finally into the kitchen—all concrete floors and walls and plenty of gleaming steel. “In here,” she said.
We now found ourselves in a side kitchen, completely devoted to Pussy and her needs. There were large plastic bins hooked to the far wall, with some kind of receptacles below.
“Just follow my lead,” she said, and pushed her snout against what looked like a lever. A few pieces of kibble came dropping down into the receptacle and she gave us a sad look as if saying: Well, there you go. “All the different types of kibble are here,” she said with as much zip and zest as a funeral home director. “You’ve got your chicken, your turkey, your rabbit… And if you want brands, you’ll find them all there—every label under the sun.”