by Nic Saint
“I thought that’s what you wanted?” I asked. “More TLC?”
“I did, but now I’m wondering if it isn’t too much of a good thing. I mean, I’m not used to this, let me tell you. It kinda freaks me out, to be honest.”
“You can’t have too much cuddling,” Dooley said, giving Brutus a frown.
“At least Chase is acknowledging you,” Harriet said frostily.
Brutus gave her a sheepish look. "Yeah, Harriet, I, um, I'm sorry about last night, all right? I acted like a complete and total jerk. I don't know what came over me but I guess I was under the spell of that female or something."
Harriet stuck her nose in the air and snapped, “You were a jerk.”
“I know,” he said contritely. “And I’m sorry.” He gave Dooley a glare when the latter started humming the Justin Bieber song. “Look, you know you’re the only one for me, sugar plum. There’s no one I love more.”
Harriet’s nose rose a little higher still. “You really hurt me, Brutus.”
“I know, I know. And I’ll make it up to you. What about I take you out to dinner tonight? I know this great little place where they serve the best veal in town. And there will be music, too. They’ve got a fantastic live band.”
Her curiosity was piqued. “The best veal in town? And a live band?”
“Sure. The owner’s cat owes me. I removed a splinter from his butt once, but that’s not important. It’s called The Hungry Pipe, near the marina. We can enjoy a nice private dinner on the roof, and listen to that band swinging up a storm in the garden below. Best seats in the house. You’ll love it, babe.”
It was obvious Harriet was melting. She still had her nose in the air, but her tail was vibrating, which in her case usually meant she was excited.
“What do you say, sweet pea? You and me? Back in the saddle?”
Harriet smiled and streaked over to Brutus, rubbing her tail against him. “Oh, Brutus, you always had a way with words. You’ve got four yesses from the jury. So what do we do in the meantime? Still a long time before tonight.”
“We’ve got the whole day to ourselves, honey pie. A whole day to get to know each other all over again, and forget all about that nasty Princess.”
"Go on," she purred. "I'm liking what I hear so far."
“We can canoodle under a park bench, chase some ducks…”
She giggled. “You had me at canoodle, boyfriend. Let’s go.”
“Hey, what about the investigation?” Dooley asked.
“What investigation?” Harriet said. “They caught the killer.”
“See you,” said Brutus, and the couple strode off, giggling and cooing.
Dooley and I stared after them, Dooley looking pretty dumbfounded.
“What just happened?” he asked.
“Brutus and Harriet made up.”
“But why? I was just about to make my move.”
“Can I let you in on a little secret, Dooley?”
He blinked and I thought he was going to cry. “I suppose so.”
“Harriet doesn’t feel that way about you, buddy. She never will.”
“But she can learn to love me, can’t she? Given enough time, she might…” His voice trailed off, and now he was snuffling.
“Cats like Harriet are tough babies, Dooley. And tough babies don’t fall for sweet cats like you. They need a tough guy like Brutus.”
“I’m a tough guy.”
“No, you’re not. You’re a sweetheart, and some cats don’t dig sweethearts. One day you’ll find the right cat, but that cat won’t be Harriet, I’m afraid.”
“I’m afraid you might be right,” he said in a choked voice.
I patted him on the back. “You’ll get over it. Lots of cats in the world.”
He sniffled some more. "So what did you and Brutus talk about up there?"
“Oh, you know. This and that.”
He gave me a sad look. “So you two are friends now, huh? Besties?”
I laughed. “I don’t know what we are, but I’m pretty sure we’ll never be besties.” I gave him a light shove. “You’re my bestie, Dooley. You know that.”
He nodded and licked his nose. “At least there’s that.”
“Oh, and by the way, thanks for saving me from that tree. If not for you I would probably still be up there.”
“Serious question, Max. And I want you to be honest with me.”
I frowned, prepared for Dooley’s deepest thoughts. “Shoot.”
“Were you ever tempted to take a bite out of Brutus?”
I stared at him. “What? Of course not. Why would I want to bite Brutus?”
“Let me rephrase that. Did he try to take a bite out of you?”
“Of course not! Brutus may be a lot of things but he’s not a cannibal.”
He nodded seriously. “Oh, I see. So you ate bark, then?”
“No, I didn’t eat bark. I was too nervous to eat. I was stuck in a tree.”
“How can you be too worried to eat? I’m never too worried to eat.”
That was true. Dooley loves to eat. Even now, when he was down over Harriet and Brutus getting back together, he was sniffing at an apple someone had dropped. And I’m pretty sure Dooley doesn’t even like apples.
Just then, a car skidded to a stop at the curb. The door opened and Odelia stepped out. “Hop in, you two. We’re going back to the Kenspeckles.”
Dooley and I did as we were told. I saw that Chase was behind the wheel.
“Is this really necessary?” the burly cop asked.
“Cats love to ride around in cars,” Odelia said, slamming the door shut.
“They do?” Chase put the car in gear. “I thought that was dogs.”
“Nope. Cats love cars. They like to stick their heads out the window and flap their tongues in the breeze.”
“Pretty sure that’s dogs.”
She cocked her head. “Look, who are you going to believe, Chase? Crazy cat lady or some stupid internet site?”
He shrugged. “If you say so. Buckle up, you guys. It’s Kenspeckle time.”
“Again?” I asked. “I thought we were through with that place.”
“Dion Dread didn’t do it,” Odelia said, and she did not look happy.
“So who did?” I asked.
She shrugged. “That’s for us to find out.”
Chase glanced over. “Are you talking to your cats now? Is that what you’re doing?”
“Uh-huh. I told you, Chase. They’re intelligent creatures.”
He shook his head. “You are a crazy cat lady, lady.”
He didn’t know the half of it.
Chapter 19
Odelia and Chase were back for round two, but it was obvious from the moment they arrived at the gate they weren’t exactly welcome. And why would they be? Yesterday they’d arrested Dion Dread, kept him to cool his expensively shod heels for one night and then cut him loose. The word about Dion’s treatment at the hands of the Hampton Cove police must have spread, and the Kenspeckles were closing ranks and protecting their own.
Security had been beefed up, and they had a hard time making it past the gate. Two burly guards held vicious-looking Doberman Pinschers on short leashes, anxious to sic them on anyone who gave them the side-eye.
Finally, Chase’s beat-up pickup rumbled through the gate and up the driveway. He parked in front of the house. Another day in paradise.
“I have a feeling we’re not as welcome as we were yesterday,” Odelia said as she let Max and Dooley out of the car. At least nobody could prevent the two cats from snooping around. She just hoped there weren’t any Dobermans around. Even if there were, Max and Dooley could take care of themselves. Plenty of trees on the property.
“Yeah, I think they want this investigation over with,” Chase said as they circled the house and headed to the back.
They found Shayonne and Shalonda by the pool, Shayonne engrossed in Star Magazine and Shalonda in Us Weekly. They both had cotton balls between their toes. They we
re reading with sunglasses perched on their rhinoplastic noses, their surgically enhanced boobs practically popping from tiny bikini tops. They didn’t even look up when they passed.
Chase had set up interviews with the crew, and they headed for the guest house, which sat fifty yards from the main house. It was a backyard bungalow. Slate gray weatherboard with a nice porch. Big enough for a small family. Or a television crew.
On a concrete slab next to the house, a makeshift outdoor gym was constructed, and Stanbury Boa was on his back on a power bench, lifting a massive barbell. The veins in his neck stood out like cords as he bench-pressed the iron, his arms pumping up and down like pistons. He had a smoothly shaved head and wore a red bandana, a pair of American flag swim trunks and a lot of attitude.
“Hi there,” Odelia said pleasantly. “Can we ask you a few questions? Is now a convenient time for you, Mr. Boa?”
He merely growled something and continued pushing out his reps.
Chase stepped up. “Hampton Cove police, buddy. Where were you the night Shana Kenspeckle was murdered?”
Boa racked the barbell and sat up, dusting chalk from his hands. “I was right here, guarding the property,” he growled, hitting them with his best glare, the one he probably hoped would land him a role next to Vin Diesel in the next Fast & Furious movie.
“If you were so busy guarding the property how come you didn’t catch the killer?” asked Chase.
The bodyguard's eyes darkened. He seemed foreign born, judging from his accent. "I was guarding the property against outside intruders. How was I to know that one of them—" He gestured to the main house, where Dion had just walked out and stood stretching. "—would kill one of their own?"
“So you think one of the Kenspeckles killed Shana?” asked Odelia.
“No one came onto the property. At night security around this place is tight. I see to that.”
“Have you heard any rumors who might have done it?” asked Chase.
“I’ve heard no such rumors. But you may want to interview the sisters. They hated Shana’s guts.”
“And why was that?”
He shifted his massive shoulder in a shrug. “Sibling rivalry. They couldn’t stand that Shana was more successful than they were. More popular.”
“What about the crew?” asked Chase.
“You should talk to Alejandro,” said the giant. “He would do anything to get his show to the top of the ratings again. Last week I heard him tell Burr that he was praying for a murder.”
“He said that?” asked Odelia.
"Yes, he did. He said only a juicy murder would get people to watch the show again. They were on the verge of being canceled." He nodded curtly. "I think that's enough motive for murder, don't you, Detective?"
With these words, he lay back down and picked up the huge barbell again. With an animal-like grunt, he launched into another grueling set.
“Wow, I wouldn’t like to get into a fight with that guy,” Odelia said as she tripped after Chase. She had to take two strides for every one of his.
“Pfft. He’s all show. I’ll bet those muscles aren’t even real.”
“They looked pretty real to me.”
“Trust me. It’s all steroids, growth hormone and synthol injections.”
Sounded like someone was a little envious. Then again, Chase didn’t have to be jealous of Boa the man mountain. The cop was built like a Hulk himself.
The guest house was tastefully decorated. Like the main house, white was the dominant color, the floors a warm mahogany in contrast. They’d stepped into the foyer and the man they’d come to see was comfortably seated on a white leather couch, reading a copy of Men’s Fitness. Alejandro was wearing a yellow polo shirt and beige slacks and looked like a million bucks. When he got up to greet them, he did so with outstretched hands and a killer smile. He kissed them on the cheeks. Twice. Surprised, Chase touched the spot. Bet that hadn’t happened to him when he interviewed gangbangers in the Bronx.
“Please, sit down,” Alejandro said. “Make yourself at home.”
They took a seat on the white leather couch, and Odelia saw that Alejandro seemed very eager to talk to them. He sat ramrod straight and eyed them brightly, a smile on his face. Before they could ask him a question, he announced, “I think you should look into the terrorism angle again.”
“We already established that the note was a fake,” said Chase.
“Yes, but have you considered that perhaps this terrorist simply wasn’t well-versed in the Arabic language?” Alejandro asked, his brows arching. “Not all terrorists have a college degree, Detectives. One might even make an argument that most terrorists never had any schooling at all. It’s well established that a lot of them are ordinary criminals who turned to terrorism because it pays better and lends them prestige and self-esteem. Most of them are not even ideologically motivated. They’re simply in it for the money.”
He continued with wide gestures of his hands. “You have a terrorist who’s not schooled, who decides the Kenspeckles would make an excellent target. He does his business and leaves that crudely written note, merely showing he doesn’t have a thorough grasp of grammar, and voila. Case closed.”
Chase shook his head. “I really don’t think the terrorist angle is a viable one, Mr. Salanova. For one thing, security around the house was tight that night, and we’ve already established that the murder was an inside job.”
“So? That simply means this house has been infiltrated by a terrorist.”
“Do you really think a terrorist would target Shana and leave the others unharmed?” asked Odelia. “Wouldn’t a real terrorist murder the entire family when he had the chance?”
This gave the flamboyant director pause. Then he brightened. “Perhaps he’s planning to do the others at a later date? Like a staggered terror spree?”
Chase, obviously bored with the terrorist angle, asked, “Where were you between four and five the night Shana Kenspeckle was killed, Mr. Salanova?”
His eyes went wide. “Me? You suspect me?”
“Everyone’s a suspect until we find the killer, sir. So where were you?”
“Right here, sleeping in my bed,” said the director. “Mentally preparing myself for another day of making the best reality show on the planet.”
“Isn’t it true that the best reality show on the planet was losing steam?” Odelia asked.
The director brushed a stray lock of hair from his brow. “Pardon?”
“We were told you were so anxious to boost the dropping ratings of your show that you figured a nice, juicy murder might just do the trick.”
He waved an airy hand. “I may have made such a comment, but it was only in jest. I merely wanted to convey the message that it would take a miracle to get our numbers back up to an acceptable level.”
“So you admit that your show is in peril?” Odelia asked.
He smiled that bright smile of his. She wondered if it was veneers or implants. Either way, his choppers looked amazing. “Of course I do. And I hate it. This show is a passion project. It has put my name on the map.”
“So you would do anything to salvage your show—even commit murder,” Odelia stated, taking a leaf from Chase’s book.
Alejandro draped his arms over the back of the couch and leaned back. “You do have a way with words, Detective.”
“Oh, but I’m not a detective,” she said. “I’m a consultant. And a reporter.”
“I knew it. Your facility with the language is remarkable. Yes, I would do anything to extend the life of this show. But I would never kill a person to do so. Besides, without Shana Kenspeckle this show is doomed. She was my star, the biggest and brightest celebrity to step onto the stage. With her gone, the show won’t last another season.”
“What about the rest of the Kenspeckles?” asked Chase.
“Shana was the reason people watched this show. There isn’t enough star power in the rest of the Kenspeckles to carry the weight of such a show. Oh, I’m sure it wil
l go on for a while. People will be curious to see the episodes we’re shooting right now. But soon they’ll get bored with the shenanigans of Shayonne and Shalonda and the others and that will be the end of it.”
So much for the murder giving the show a new lease on life. "Can you think of anyone who'd want the show to get canceled?" Odelia asked.
The director quickly checked around, then lowered his voice. “Eamonn was very vocal about wanting to leave the show. Unfortunately the poor boy signed an ironclad contract that basically ties him to this show in perpetuity.”
Chase checked his notebook. “Eamonn Dot is one of the writers?”
“He is. And he hates this show with a vengeance. Unfortunately he signed the contract back when he was an absolute nobody, and the network likes his work so much they’re keeping him around, even though he’s expressed a wish to be removed from the production. He’s already had to say no to several other projects he’d expressed an interest in, because he’s tied to this show.”
“What about you? Aren’t you anxious to do something else?” Chase asked.
“Oh, but I can,” said the director. “I never signed such a silly contract. I can walk away whenever I want.” He placed his hand on his heart. “But I so love my Kenspeckles. They’re a part of me now, and I don’t want to let go.”
Probably the fact that he got paid a nice packet didn’t hurt either. They thanked the director, who seemed disappointed they didn’t want to extend the interview, and went looking for Eamonn Dot, the troubled screenwriter.
They found him out on the terrace behind the guest house, where he was typing up a storm on his MacBook. He looked a little rattled when they approached him, but then writers usually are a high-strung bunch.
“Eamonn Dot? Police,” Chase said, producing his badge. “We’d like to ask you a few questions about the Shana Kenspeckle murder.”
“Of course, of course,” he said, quickly closing his MacBook.