Purrfect Revenge (The Mysteries of Max Book 3)

by Nic Saint

  “No napping,” I said decidedly. “First we catch the killer, then we nap.”

  Dooley sighed. “Oh, all right. So where do we start?”

  “We’ll just snoop around. Be the perfect spies.”

  “Pity the Kenspeckles don’t have cats. Otherwise this would be a snap.”

  We both stared at Kane, who was staring back at us from a safe distance. He’d lost his fighting spirit after his scrap with Clarice. Or maybe he was trying to come up with a new strategy to take us down.

  We walked to the house, and the French Bulldog disappeared from sight. Whatever his strategy was, he wasn’t taking any chances. I saw that the director of the Kenspeckle show was instructing his cameraman about what to shoot next. The two sisters, Shayonne and Shalonda, having shot their scenes, were being fussed over by a makeup person. A stylist pecked at the hem of Shalonda’s skirt, which had silver sequins snaking down the sides.

  “Must be nice to have someone fussing over you like that,” said Dooley.

  “I doubt it. I for one wouldn’t want anyone telling me what to wear.”

  “That’s easy for you to say. You’re a cat. You don’t wear anything.”

  “You’re a cat too,” I reminded him. “You don’t wear anything either.”

  “Oh. Right.” He looked surprised. “Pity.”

  “Pity you don’t get to wear clothes? Why? I’ll bet it’s a big fuss.”

  “Not if you’re a Kenspeckle. They have people fussing over the fuss.”

  And we were right back where we started. “Why would you even want to wear clothes? Or have someone fussing over you?”

  “Why wouldn’t I? Just imagine having your own personal groomer. Someone to take care of your fur twenty-four seven. Or a personal dietician.”

  He had a point. It sure would be nice to be pampered and spoiled and treated like a Kenspeckle. Not that Odelia doesn’t take good care of me, but she’s pretty pressed for time most of the time, with that job of hers and all.

  Dooley sighed wistfully. “Wouldn’t it be nice to be human for a change?”

  That was taking it too far. “No way! I would never want to be human.”

  “Why not?”

  “Uh-uh. Too much stress. Imagine having to work for a living, so you can pay for a roof over your head and food on your table. What a nightmare. And then there’s the IRS to deal with and the electric company and the insurance people. I think us cats have the best deal. All we do is sleep a lot, rub our human’s legs from time to time, look cute doing it and they pay the rent, the electric bill, the medical bill… All so we can focus on the important stuff.”

  “Like sleeping and eating.”

  “No. All of that frees up time to think.”

  He stared at me. “Think? Think about what?”

  “Well, this case for instance. Who killed Shana Kenspeckle.”

  “Riiight.” It was obvious I lost him. Dooley is not exactly a big thinker. In fact, apart from eating and sleeping, I don’t think he’s got a lot on his mind. Except Harriet, of course. The cat’s obsessed with Harriet for some reason. No idea why. I would never get that obsessed over a female. It’s degrading.

  We watched as the body of Shana was carted off on a stretcher. The coroner had done his bit and stood conferring with Chase. Odelia was keeping an eye on Shayonne and Shalonda who were still being prepped.

  “They don’t show a lot of emotion between takes,” Dooley said.

  “They probably reserve all of it for when the cameras are rolling.”

  “Weird.”

  “Totally.”

  I caught a glimpse of Brutus and Harriet, sneaking into the house, and I nudged Dooley. “We better get a move on. Or else Brutus will beat us to it.”

  He started. “Brutus is going to beat us?”

  “Oh, Dooley.”

  Chapter 8

  “I’m starting to think they’re all guilty.”

  “How do you figure?”

  “Shayonne told me the murder is the best thing that could have happened to them.”

  Chase’s eyebrows rose. “She said that?”

  “Yep. The show’s been dropping in the ratings, and the murder will turn that around. Put them right back on top.”

  “That’s just cold.”

  “Which is why I think they might have set this up together.”

  “You mean the whole family is in on this?”

  “That’s exactly what I think. They needed to salvage their show so they decided to sacrifice one of them.” Now that she spoke the words out loud, it sounded a bit far-fetched. Still, it was a plausible theory. Fairly plausible.

  “That’s just crazy, Poole.”

  Or not.

  “The Kenspeckles might be a little dysfunctional, but they’re not killers.”

  She watched as the cameras started rolling again. On cue, Shayonne and Shalonda broke down in tears, clutching at each other for support.

  “A little dysfunctional?” she asked.

  “Well, maybe a lot dysfunctional. But that doesn’t make them killers.”

  “So what’s next?” She had no idea how to conduct a police investigation. This was the first time she was on the inside, not on the outside looking in.

  “I got a message from your uncle just before,” Chase said. “He’s cutting his vacation short and will be back tomorrow.”

  “What? He was looking forward to that fishing trip.”

  “The mayor is considering calling in the FBI so he needs to be here to convince him otherwise.”

  She made a mental eye roll. “The FBI? This is a local investigation.”

  “Apparently the Kenspeckles are considered a national treasure.”

  She watched as Shayonne and Shalonda stood hamming it up in front of the camera and shook her head. “Some national treasure.”

  He grinned. “There’s that sarcasm again.”

  “Nope. Like I said, I don’t do sarcasm. Not me.”

  “Let’s see if your uncle can persuade the mayor to keep the FBI out of this. First things first: we need to set up interviews with everyone involved.”

  “What about the note?”

  “What about it?”

  “What does it say?”

  He slipped his iPhone from his back pocket and showed her a snapshot of the note. “We fed it into Google Translate and it spat out this message.”

  She took his phone and read out loud, "You deserve to die, Shana Kenspeckle. You are dog excrement. In fact you're less than dog excrement. You're the fly on dog excrement. In fact you're the excrement from the fly on dog excrement. Or the ameba on the fly's excrement." It went on like this for a while. The final sentence read, "Hellfire will rain down on you and your filthy brood. This is just the beginning." She handed him back his phone. "I guess the killer is not a big Kenspeckle fan."

  “The fact that these phrases came out in perfect English means the original message was written in English and then translated with Google Translate. Otherwise only gobbledygook would have come out. Which means—”

  “This was a pretty feeble attempt to make it look like a terrorist attack.”

  He smiled. “Which tells us the killer isn’t a professional.”

  She wondered whether to tell him they were looking for a blood-splattered black robe and mask. But since she couldn’t tell him about the robe without revealing her secret, she decided to keep mum. It didn’t matter anyway, as Clarice hadn’t gotten a look at the killer’s face.

  Chase headed for the bedroom and she followed him. She stared down at the bed. The coroner’s people had stripped the sheets for evidence but had left the stained mattress. “The killer was smart,” Chase said. “Abe found traces of chloroform in all the bedrooms. All the Kenspeckles were drugged.”

  “What about the film crew?”

  “Nope. Not a trace. But since they’re staying at the guest house and aren’t allowed in the main house when shooting wraps that wasn’t necessary.”

  “They’re not all
owed inside the house?”

  “The Kenspeckles have strict rules about it. They cherish their privacy.”

  “Except when they don’t. Like when they share every private moment with a worldwide audience.”

  He smiled. “Ah, but they only show you what they want you to see.”

  She nodded. “So did you check the rooms for prints?” Dumb question. The guy was a bonafide detective. And the killer had probably worn gloves.

  "Well, we tried, but the Kenspeckles gave us a lot of lip. Any normal family would have canceled their trip, moved to a hotel until they could catch a flight home, and given us free reign to search the place top to bottom. But the sisters are adamant to stay here and finish the shoot."

  “They’re giving you a hard time.”

  “They sure are. And I don’t even know why. It’s almost as if they don’t want us to find the killer.” When she opened her mouth to speak, he said, “And don’t give me that ‘The whole family is in on this’ nonsense, Poole.”

  She quickly closed her mouth again. No, that was just a crazy theory.

  She glanced at the window, where Clarice must have been watching the killer. Chills ran down her spine. What a horrible scene to watch. A thought occurred to her. “The killer must have known his way around the place.”

  Chase nodded, a sparkle in his eye. “Uh-huh.”

  “He also knew the film crew would never set foot inside the house after filming was finished for the day. And he also had access to the house.”

  “Go on.”

  She smiled. “This was an inside job. The killer was either a family member or security personnel. They were the only ones with access.”

  “Your uncle Alec was right,” he said with a grin. “You’re pretty astute.”

  “Watch me. I’ll catch this killer before you can say ‘fly excrement.’”

  “Fly excrement.”

  “Smart-ass.”

  Chapter 9

  Dooley and I searched around for the best vantage point. It had to be clean and comfy, and it had to be high enough so we could have a great view. I caught sight of a fabulous beige crocodile couch. I felt bad for the crocodiles that had lost life and hide, but the couch was easily the best spot in the room, affording 360 vision and a soft, flat surface. It was exactly what we needed. I gave Dooley a nudge and we both hopped up onto the couch, clambered over about a million embroidered throw pillows and settled on the head rest.

  All the main principals were gathered on the deck for an impromptu meeting, and Dooley and I settled in to watch. Don’t look so shocked. We’re cats. Lying around and spying on humans is what we do. It had also crossed my mind that there was probably some yummy food to be found in this place, and from here we could look straight into the kitchen. I was pretty sure Kane got the best food money could buy, and I wanted me some of that.

  Us cats might not like dogs, but we like to steal their food just fine.

  “Look, Max,” said Dooley, pointing to the kitchen. Brutus was chasing Kane, and the dog was doing his utmost to stay out of his clutches.

  “Looks like Brutus is trying to talk to Kane,” I said lazily. After all this traipsing around I was starting to feel the strain, and I was ready for a nap. I know I’d told Dooley we’d nap once we caught the killer, but the couch was so comfy, and the sun on our furs so nice and warm, I was feeling drowsy.

  “I wonder what that’s all about,” said Dooley with a cavernous yawn.

  “Probably something to do with his so-called theory.”

  Brutus always has theories, usually pretty far-fetched. We had another murder not so long ago, when a famous eighties pop singer was killed. Brutus thought things through and came up with the theory that the guy had been killed by a conspiracy of boy toys. He probably thought a confederacy of French Bulldogs had killed Shana Kenspeckle and Kane was the ring leader.

  “I don’t think we need to worry about Brutus cracking this case,” I said.

  I returned my attention to the Kenspeckles, who were concluding their meeting. Shayonne was there, and Shalonda, and of course Shayonne’s husband Dion, and Shana’s husband Damien LeWood. They were discussing things with Alejandro Salanova, the director, and some of the other crew members. I also saw a bodyguard hovering nearby, pressing a finger to his ear from time to time and looking decidedly shifty-eyed. A barber had had fun with his facial hair, which ran in three parallel lines from his lips to his ears, where it morphed into a butter-colored buzzcut, and he was rocking golden hoops. He reminded me of the Genie in Disney’s Aladdin, without the blue body paint. And the grin. This guy had never cracked a smile in his life.

  “I think they’re going to start filming again,” said Dooley.

  “Well, they have to strike while the iron is hot, I suppose,” I said. Everybody would want to know what happened, and who better to inform them than the Kenspeckles themselves? Regular families would probably mourn in silence. The Kenspeckles filmed another episode of their show.

  “It’s that old saying,” said Dooley. “The show must move on.”

  “Go on.”

  “But I just got here.”

  “No, I mean the show.”

  “What about it?”

  “The show must go on.”

  “That’s what I said.”

  “No, you said… Forget about it.”

  “Forget about the show?”

  “It doesn’t matter, Dooley.”

  Once again, Brutus came shooting past us, chasing Kane, who was now running for his life. He probably thought Brutus was going to cut him, like Clarice had. Brutus took a breather, glaring up at us. “Do I have to do all the work around here? Why don’t you two lazy bums give me a paw already?”

  “You said you wanted to split up, remember? Split up into teams.”

  He made a throwaway gesture with his paw. “Gah. Fuggedaboutit.”

  We watched him stalk off again, muttering something under his breath. It didn’t sound very friendly. I didn’t care. It was fun to watch Brutus run around like a headless chicken. I’d never seen a cat chase a dog before, and the sight was both disturbing and highly entertaining.

  Odelia and Chase came walking into the living room and Odelia gave us a wink. I tried to wink back, but cat’s eyes aren’t made for winking, so it probably came off weird. She got the message, though: we were on the case.

  Just then, a person pointing a camera came crashing through the privacy hedge lining the deck and pool area. He looked a little crazed and hyped up.

  “Paparazzi alert,” I told Dooley.

  “Oh, is that a paparazzi?” he asked, interested.

  “Paparazzo. They only call them paparazzi when they travel in packs.”

  The moment the photog caught sight of the Kenspeckle sisters, he started clicking his camera, firing off questions like a machine gun toting kook.

  “Shayonne! Shayonne! Where were you when your sister was killed?!”

  Highly inappropriate, I felt. Genie the Bodyguard felt the same way, for he tried to swat the pap like a bug. The photographer dove under Genie’s massive arm and just kept shooting like the nasty little shutterbug he was.

  “Is it true that Shana was sleeping with your husband, Shayonne?!”

  The paparazzo narrowly avoided a flying tackle and darted away in the direction of the pool, the bodyguard close on his heel and moving in.

  “Is this the end of the Kenspeckles?! The final nail in your coffin?!”

  “Wow. That’s just plain mean,” said Dooley.

  We watched the bodyguard zoom in on the pap. Amazingly, the scrawny pap kept on firing his camera. Courage under fire. Or the smell of money.

  “For a guy built like a freight train that bodyguard sure moves fast,” Dooley said.

  “I think he’s going to catch him. I think he’s going to catch him and sit on his head and squash him like a melon.”

  But then the reporter lost his footing and splashed headfirst into the pool.

  “Aw,” both Dooley and
I said. Talk about a downer ending.

  I was starting to feel like those two old guys on The Muppet Show, Statler and Waldorf, keeping up a running commentary. And I was starting to understand the appeal of the Kenspeckles. They sure knew how to put on a good show. You never knew what was going to happen next.

  The bodyguard plucked the photog from the pool and dragged him ashore. He looked like a drowned chicken, spluttering and yelling his head off. He was still holding on to his camera, though, and was clicking away.

  “You have to hand it to him,” Dooley said. “He’s one dedicated dude.”

  The bodyguard started frogmarching the intruder off the premises. Just then, Kane came racing past, followed by a panting Brutus. They slipped between the bodyguard’s feet, and he toppled into the pool, dragging the paparazzo with him, making a big splash. The spray spattered all the way to Shayonne and Shalonda Kenspeckle, who shouted their annoyance. They used words I’d never heard before. Very original. And very colorful.

  “Man, they’ve got dirty mouths,” said Dooley, looking shocked.

  “They’ll probably cut that from the show. Have to keep it PG.”

  The bodyguard and the paparazzo came splashing from the pool, both soaking wet, the bodyguard’s face a thundercloud. The man was seriously pissed. Just then, more paparazzi came crashing through the boxwood hedge, and suddenly we were at a full-blown red-carpet event, cameras clicking and people shouting and clamoring for attention. More bodyguards came rushing to the scene, trying to catch the out-of-control paps.

  “This is so much fun!” Dooley cried.

  There were paparazzi everywhere, chased by burly rent-a-cops. A few more paps ended up in the pool while others were pinned to the deck. In the middle of all this pandemonium, Brutus was still chasing Kane, though the chase had slowed down to a crawl as both were running out of gas now.

  “I’m starting to like the Kenspeckles,” I said. “Great entertainment value.”

  “Yeah, me too,” said Dooley. “Ouch.” The exclamation was in reference to more paparazzi tripping over Brutus and Kane. They were tackling more paps than the bodyguards were. Maybe the Kenspeckles should appoint Brutus to head up their security team. He was doing some serious damage.