Purrfect Revenge (The Mysteries of Max Book 3)

by Nic Saint

  “We’re not here about the cat, honey,” Chief Alec said with a grimace.

  Uh-oh. She knew that look. “Something happened, right? Something bad?”

  “Afraid so,” said Chase. “Have you ever watched Niklaus Skad’s Kitchen Disasters?”

  “Where he humiliates and destroys restaurant owners for entertainment purposes? I’ve seen it once or twice. Not my cup of tea.”

  “Well, looks like someone didn’t like him.”

  “Niklaus Skad was murdered? In Hampton Cove?”

  “He was here to tape a segment of his show at Fry Me for an Oyster,” said Chase. “He was found this morning, stuck in the restaurant oven.”

  “Completely cooked,” Uncle Alec added, shaking his head.

  “Yikes. That’s a horrible way to go.” But also very apt, of course.

  “We’re going out there right now,” said Chase. “So we figured you might want to tag along.”

  She stared at him. Was he serious? Not all that long ago the mere thought that a reporter would tag along with him would have gotten him madder than a wet hen. And now he was actually inviting her to join him? He’d definitely had a change of heart. Then again, she’d helped him crack a few cases since they first met. And had even done him a personal favor by getting him absolved of a phony molestation charge hanging over his head.

  Uncle Alec was grinning at her from behind Chase’s back, and gave her a wink. “Sure,” she said finally. “I’d love to come. Um… I need to change into something more appropriate first, though.”

  Chase smiled. “Why? I love me some Betty Boop.”

  “Me, too,” she said. “But it doesn’t really inspire confidence. People might think I’m a flake.”

  “A cute flake,” Chase said, rocking back on his heels.

  She gave him a curious glance. He was awfully cheerful this morning. Probably happy something was finally happening in Hampton Cove. For the former NYPD detective life in the small town was probably boring.

  “If you’re gonna change you better do it now,” her uncle said, tapping his watch.

  “Be back in a jiffy,” she said, and bounded up the stairs.

  For the next fifteen minutes she showered, dressed and even took the time to apply some makeup. She might be about to meet lying suspects, heinous criminals and a very dead murder victim, but that didn’t mean she had to look like crap. And then there was Chase, of course. He might like her in her Betty Boop outfit, but she just knew she could do a whole lot better. Not that she wanted to impress him. Not her. Nah-uh.

  “So why let me tag along?” she asked, scooting up the backseat of her uncle’s squad car while he put the car in gear and pulled away.

  Chase turned to face her, putting his elbow on the headrest. “It’s like I told your uncle. You’ve got a knack for it, Odelia. I’ve never known anyone who’s got a knack for solving murders like you have. You’re a natural.”

  “Apart from Jessica Fletcher,” her uncle said, keeping his eye on the road.

  “Yes, well, your niece is a lot easier on the eyes than Jessica.”

  Was he flirting with her? Not that she was complaining. “Thanks for the compliment,” she said. “Though I’m sure you’re just exaggerating.”

  “About what?” asked her uncle with a twinkle in his eye. “The sleuthing thing or the easier on the eyes thing?”

  “Both,” she said. “I mean, I just get lucky from time to time, I guess.”

  “We both know luck’s got nothing to do with it,” said Chase. “You have a knack, Odelia, and I would be an idiot not to make good use of it.”

  He gave her a penetrating look that sent her heart rate rocketing up.

  “I’m glad you’re finally seeing things my way, Chase,” said Chief Alec. “It sure took you long enough.”

  “Yes, well, where I come from civilians don’t butt into police investigations,” he said stubbornly, repeating his old line. “They just don’t,” he repeated when the chief shook his head and uttered a groan.

  “Where you come from they don’t have girls like my niece,” Alec said.

  “That’s true enough,” Chase agreed with another sly look at her.

  “So what about this murder?” she asked, deciding to get this conversation out of the gutter. “What have you found out so far?”

  Chase took a notebook from his shirt pocket. “Murder was reported by Erin Coka. She’s a waitress and was opening up the restaurant this morning. Said she thought the chef had forgotten to turn off the oven.”

  “Who’s the chef?”

  “Hendrik Serarols. So far hasn’t shown up for work.”

  “Which is suspicious,” her uncle said with a nod.

  “Who owns Fry Me for an Oyster?” She’d never been there, but had heard good things about it.

  Chase read from his notebook again. “Brainard and Isabella Stowe. It’s their third restaurant. The previous two went belly-up. This one was a success.”

  “A big success,” Uncle Alec confirmed. “Which is why it got the attention of Niklaus Skad. The man likes to attach his name to success stories.”

  “And then tear them down,” Odelia said, remembering some snippets from Kitchen Disasters. The man was unrelenting and brutal. She wondered what had induced the Stowes to feature on his show. Then again, any publicity was good publicity, probably. She wasn’t a marketing expert, but being on TV was probably the best way of getting your name out there.

  They’d arrived at the restaurant, which was on Norfolk Street, and her uncle parked across the street. Uniformed officers were blocking anyone from entering the restaurant, and were keeping onlookers at bay.

  “Did you let your cats out, Odelia?” asked her uncle, locking eyes with her through the rearview mirror.

  “I’ve got a pet door,” she said. “They come and go as they please.”

  “Good,” he said with a nod.

  “I didn’t know you were so concerned about cats, Chief?” asked Chase, surprised.

  The Chief shrugged. “What can I say? I’m a softie at heart.”

  But Odelia knew why he’d asked. Unlike Chase, her uncle knew the secret of her sleuthing success. She had two assistants working for her, scouring the streets for clues: Max and Dooley. Cats are everywhere, and since people rarely hold back in front of them, they harbor a lot of secrets, and don’t mind sharing those secrets with other cats… like Max and Dooley.

  They crossed the street. Chase and her uncle went in to check the crime scene and talk to the coroner. She stayed behind. She’d spotted what she assumed were the owners of the restaurant, and decided to have a chat.

  Brainard Stowe was a stout man with a comb-over, who stood nervously hopping from one leg to the other while an officer took the couple’s statement. His wife Isabella was the motherly type, and reminded Odelia of her own mother. She was round with a kind face and overly large glasses, and was dressed in a floral print dress that seemed ill-fitted to keep her ample curves in check. She and her husband looked like they’d been rudely awakened, had put on the first thing they found, and had rushed over.

  She waited patiently until the couple had given their statement, and approached them with a friendly smile. “Hi. My name is Odelia Poole. I’m a reporter for the Hampton Cove Gazette and a civilian consultant with the Hampton Cove Police Department. Can you tell me what happened?”

  The woman’s eyes were red-rimmed, and it was obvious she’d been crying. Her husband, on the other hand, appeared incensed for some reason.

  “I know who you are,” Isabella said. “I love your articles, Miss Poole.”

  “I can’t believe this,” Brainard said. “When are they going to let us in?”

  “Not until the crime scene has been thoroughly examined and the coroner has taken away the body,” I said.

  His eyes shifted to me. “You’re Chief Alec’s niece, aren’t you? Can’t you ask him when I can reopen my restaurant?”

  “You can ask him yourself, honey,” said his wife. “I�
��m sure he’ll want to talk to us once he’s through in there.”

  “I hope they’re not going to close us down for a week,” he grumbled. “Something like this can wreck a business. And I know a thing or two about wrecking a business.”

  Isabella smiled nervously. “I’m sure Miss Poole doesn’t want to know about all of that, honey,” she said, placing a warning hand on his arm.

  “Mh? Oh. Right,” he said, realizing he wasn’t talking to himself.

  “Is it true that Niklaus Skad was filming his show Kitchen Disasters in your restaurant?” I asked.

  “Yes,” said Isabella. “We made the arrangements last fall, and filming had just started a couple of days ago.”

  “And how would you describe the experience?”

  Brainard frowned. “Rotten. I wish we’d never agreed to do his damn show.” Isabella put her hand on his arm again but he shook it off. “And I don’t care who knows it. You can print this on your front page for all I care. Niklaus Skad was a horrible human being who got off on hurting others. A failed and bitter restaurateur who took out his rancor on other, more successful business owners. He bullied our chef, he bullied our staff, he bullied us, heck, he even bullied our cat! The man was a well-dressed thug!”

  “I hope you’re not going to write that in your article, Miss Poole,” Isabella said. “Brainard is overwrought. He doesn’t mean what he says.”

  “I mean every word! I think whoever killed the man deserves a medal!”

  “Keep your voice down,” Isabella hissed. “The police are here.”

  “They know we didn’t do it,” said Brainard. “How could we? We were…” His pale blue eyes shifted to me again, and he promptly clamped his mouth shut.

  “Yes?” I prompted. “You were…”

  “We were home last night,” said Isabella. “All night.”

  “Can anyone vouch for you?” I asked. “I mean, I’m sure my uncle will want to know.”

  Husband and wife shared a quick glance, then Isabella produced a nervous giggle. “I—we—well, the thing is…”

  “You don’t have to tell her,” Brainard said. “There’s such a thing as privacy in this country. There are laws and stuff.”

  “Privacy is the first thing that goes out the window when a dead body is found stuffed in the oven of your kitchen,” Isabella said stiffly. She nodded. “The police are going to find out anyway. They’re going to go through our personal affairs with a fine-tooth comb and if we don’t get an expensive lawyer we might even be charged with murder.”

  “Nonsense. We didn’t do it and we can prove it.”

  She gave him a gentle shove. “Go on, then. Tell her. It’s not like it’s anything to be ashamed of.”

  He stared at me, his lips a thin line. Finally, he burst out, “Very well, then. We were playing with our Echo.”

  This wasn’t what she’d expected, so she raised an eyebrow. “Echo?”

  “The Amazon gadget? You can ask it anything,” Isabella said.

  “Yeah, it’s way cool. You can ask Alexa what the weather will be like, or to play a certain song, or to turn on the heating. Anything. It’s fun.”

  “Who’s Alexa?” she asked, still not following.

  “She’s the voice of the Echo,” said Isabella.

  “Like Apple has Siri?” Brainard added. He frowned. “I wonder why they’re both women’s voices.”

  “Women just have nicer voices,” said Isabella.

  “I’m sure that’s not the reason.”

  “And I’m sure that it is.”

  “Um… How is this Echo thing providing you with an alibi?” Odelia asked.

  “See, Brainard? Miss Poole is smart as a whip.” She nudged him. “You tell her.”

  “No, you tell her. It was your idea, after all.”

  Isabella hooked her arm through her husband’s and bit her lip. “The thing is… we were asking Alexa for… advice.”

  “Sexy positions,” Brainard said gruffly, practicing his thousand-yard stare.

  “And ordering sexy things online,” his wife added.

  “Spice up our love life. You should give it a try sometime, missy.”

  “Oh, I’m sure Miss Poole doesn’t need her love life spiced up,” Isabella said. She gave Odelia a smile. “When you’re married for as long as we’ve been, you need all the spicing up you can get. You understand.”

  “Oh, sure,” she said, a little flustered. “Yeah, I get it. Of course.”

  “And the good thing is that the police can check with Amazon. Everything you do on the Echo is recorded. So they can hear what we were up to.”

  “They can?” asked Brainard, his eyebrows rising precipitously.

  “Oh, yes,” she said, reddening slightly.

  “Oh, my.”

  “Yes,” she said with a sigh.

  “Everything?”

  “Every sound we made, honey.”

  “Oh, my God.”

  She bit her lip again. “So there you have it, Miss Poole. That’s our alibi.”

  “Alexa.”

  She nodded. “I hope you’ll be discreet about it. I’d hate for our friends and neighbors to find out about this. Or my sister.”

  “They’ll know soon enough,” said her husband. “Everybody talks, honey. Even the cops.”

  “Oh, well,” she said, adjusting her dress. “It’s not like it’s a crime to have a good time. We are married, after all.”

  “And even if we weren’t, there’s no law against ordering edible lingerie.”

  “Brainard!” she whispered, tittering nervously.

  “The Echo,” Odelia said.

  Isabella heaved a little sigh. “The Echo,” she echoed.

  Yep. Definitely one of the more interesting alibis.

  Chapter Three

  We all stared at the newcomer, who sat casually licking his front paw.

  “He’s orange, just like you,” Dooley whispered.

  “I’m not orange, I’m blorange,” I whispered back.

  “What’s the difference?” Brutus hissed.

  “Blorange is a reddish orange with rose hues,” I said.

  They both stared at me, then at Diego, then back at me. “I don’t see the difference,” Brutus said.

  “Well, there is a difference,” I said haughtily. “Maybe you should have your eyes checked.”

  “My eyes are fine. You’re orange, he’s orange. It’s the same color.”

  “It’s not the same color!”

  “No, you’re right about that,” Brutus admitted. “You’re fat, he’s thin.”

  “I’m not fat!”

  Diego jumped up on the couch and casually stretched himself.

  “Hey, that’s my spot,” I told Dooley.

  “Tell him,” Dooley said.

  “Yeah, Max. You have to stand up for yourself,” Brutus agreed. “Tell him that’s your spot.”

  I hesitantly looked at Diego, then decided that he didn’t look dangerous. Maybe he was even nice? I walked over, and said, “Hi, my name is Max, and I think you’re in my spot.”

  He gave me a supercilious look, then placed his head on his paws and closed his eyes.

  “Um… There are plenty of perfectly nice spots in this house, and you’re welcome to them all,” I said. “But this spot? Where you’re lying now? That’s, um… well, not to put too fine a point on it, but that spot is actually my spot, see?”

  He opened his eyes again, and yawned. “What did you say your name was, brother?”

  “Um, Max?”

  He held up his paw. “Put it there.”

  I stared at his paw. “Put what there?”

  “Give me some skin.”

  “Skin? What skin?”

  “Press the flesh, dude.”

  “Press… the flesh? I… is that some kind of secret code?”

  He sighed, then lowered his paw again. “Oh.”

  I stared at him. “Oh? What do you mean, Oh?”

  “You’re one of those.”

  �
��One of what?”

  “A lame duck.”

  I gave a guffaw of incredulity. “For one thing, I’m not lame. And for another, I’m a cat, not a duck!”

  “Whatever, dude,” he said, going back to sleep.

  This was too much. I tapped his shoulder and he opened his eyes again. “I’m sorry,” I said. “Maybe I didn’t make myself clear the first time, but this is my spot. You can’t just waltz in here and take my spot. That’s just… rude!”

  “Hey, the blond babe said this was my house, so the way I see it? This spot is my spot. But, like you said, there’s plenty of other spots in this place, bubba. Take your pick. And now if you could stop talking. Baby needz his ZZZs.”

  And he went right back to sleep!

  I turned to face the others. I saw that Dooley was looking at me sadly, while Brutus was grinning like a fox. He seemed to be enjoying himself tremendously.

  “Why don’t you try singing it to him, ‘bubba,’” Brutus suggested. “Or maybe you could send him a telegram and sign it, Max, heart heart heart.”

  “So what do you suggest?” I asked.

  “I’d simply kick him off that couch. And if he doesn’t like it, tough luck.”

  “Max doesn’t kick cats off couches,” Dooley said.

  “Oh? And why is that?”

  “Because Max doesn’t believe in violence.”

  Brutus laughed. “This is just hilarious!”

  “Hey, fatso,” Diego said from the couch. “Zip it, will you? I’m trying to get some shut-eye here. Thanks, bubba.”

  Brutus made a strangled sound at the back of his throat. “Fatso?!” he finally managed. “Did you just call me fatso?”

  “Yeah, do you see another fat cat in here?” Then he caught sight of me and grinned. “Oh, I see what you mean. Okay, what about this: Hey, black fatso. Shut it.” He nodded at me. “I’ll call you orange fatso from now on. That all right with you, bubba?”

  “No, it’s not all right with me!” I cried. “I’m not orange—I’m blorange!”

  Diego rolled his eyes. “Tomato, tomahtoh. Blorange fatso, then, okay?”