by Nic Saint
“That must have been horrible,” Odelia said commiseratingly. The more she heard about Paulo Frey, the more it appeared the man was a monster.
“His followers didn’t just attack me, they attacked the movie, too. They launched so many one-star reviews on the movie’s IMDb page that it had an actual effect on attendance figures, greatly exacerbated by their boycott.”
“But why? Why go to all that trouble just for a stupid movie?” asked Odelia. “I mean, no offense. I saw the movie and I loved it, especially your performance. I think you did a great job and you were perfect for the part.”
“Thanks,” said Gabby with a smile. “I didn’t get it either. Not then, not now. All I can think is that Paulo Frey hated women. Period. He thought that the studio should never have replaced Harrison Ford with a woman and seemed to consider it a personal insult and so did a lot of men his age. Indiana Jones is this iconic male character, and in their mind replacing him with a woman was simply blasphemy. Underneath all that was simple misogyny, though, I’m sure of it, and he singled me out for destruction, as he put it.”
“He did a pretty good job by the looks of it.”
“He did. Not only did he singlehandedly manage to destroy the movie, losing the studio millions, and sink a potential franchise, he also destroyed my career. There were supposed to be two more films, but those will never be made, and I haven’t received a decent script since.” She produced a mirthless laugh. “He got exactly what he wanted: he destroyed my career and my life.”
“But you can’t let one guy do that to you, Gabby,” Odelia said. “You’re a talented, beautiful woman. You can’t let this horrible event define your life. I’m sure that if you go back out there you’ll see that there are plenty of people who adore you and your work. You have brought so much joy to the world.”
“That’s very nice of you to say, Odelia,” said Gabby gratefully, “but I don’t know if you’re right. It wasn’t much fun going through such an experience and frankly I’m afraid that it will happen again and destroy me.”
“Well,” she said, “the ringleader is dead, so there’s that. He can’t hurt you anymore.” Which reminded her. “Um, I have to ask you this, Gabby, but do you have any idea where you were on the night of September the sixteenth?”
Gabby barked out a laugh. “You’re asking me for my alibi, huh? Why? Do you think I killed Paulo Frey? I didn’t even know he was in town. If I had, I’d never have bought a house here.”
“Yeah, he stayed at the Writer’s Lodge every year, to write his books.”
“Good thing we never bumped into each other. I might have killed him.”
She eyed the other woman uncertainly. “But you didn’t, right?”
“Of course not! Do I look like a murderer? The only thing I’ve killed is a production company, and even that wasn’t my fault but Paulo Frey’s.”
“The company went belly up?” She made a quick note of that.
“Yes, it did. Look, I’m not going to lie to you and tell you I’m not happy that the monster is dead, but I can promise you I wasn’t the one that did it. Now where’s my phone?” She searched around until she’d located her smartphone and snatched it from the side table that held, amongst other things, a voluminous tome that appeared to be Lord of the Rings. Odelia saw that the screensaver on her phone was the movie poster for the Indiana Jones movie. The actress slipped a pair of half-moon glasses onto her nose and checked the phone, her long-nailed fingers clicking on the glass. She called up the calendar app and squinted at the screen. “I was in LA that weekend,” she finally said. “Ironically enough to be told the news that the sequel to Raiders of the Lost Ark had been canceled after the picture sank like a stone at the box office. So there,” she said, placing down the phone. “I didn’t kill Frey but I heartily commend whoever did. They rid the world of a great evil.”
“Thanks, Gabby,” she said, getting up. “And think about what I said.” She placed her hand on her heart. “Your fans miss you. I miss you. Your place is out there, amongst your true fans, of which you have many, I promise you.”
Gabby gave her a grateful smile and they shared a quick hug. “Thanks, honey,” she said. “Maybe now that the monster is dead, I can show my face again. And maybe even make movies again.”
They both laughed as Gabby escorted her through the house and into a marble atrium. She opened the front door and was surprised to find a tall man standing before her, his finger poised over the bell button.
“Detective Kingsley,” she said sweetly. “I was just going.” She gestured to Gabby. “She’s all yours, but I can tell you already that she didn’t do it, and that her alibi is rock solid.” And with these words, she slipped past the cop, who looked absolutely dumbfounded, and gave Gabby a pinky wave before sashaying down the front steps and making her way to her truck, parked in the circular driveway. In the battle between the Hampton Cove Gazette and the Hampton Cove Police Department, it was obvious she was way ahead.
Chapter 13
“You know, one good thing about Harriet hooking up with Brutus is that he’ll be so busy showing off to her he won’t bother us,” I told Dooley as we sat on the back porch of the Gazette, grooming and basking in the sun.
Dooley and I might not be the most handsome cats around, but that didn’t mean we didn’t take our grooming seriously. Every cat worth his or her salt likes to preen, and we were no exceptions.
We weren’t alone, as the Gazette’s owner, Dan Goory, was rocking in his rocking chair, going over the proofs of one of his articles. The old man liked to sit here and take a load off his feet, and occasionally smoke a cigarette. We always made sure we sat upwind from him, as we weren’t too keen on the smell. Sometimes Dan and Odelia would sit here together and discuss the next day’s edition of the Gazette. It was better than being cooped up inside.
“I don’t know,” said Dooley morosely between two licks. “I’m sure he’ll manage to fit bullying us into his busy schedule.”
“I don’t think so. In fact I’m pretty sure that as long as those two are an item, he’ll leave us in peace,” I said, trying to lift Dooley’s mood. He’d been feeling downcast after making the discovery that the cat he’d been sweet on for years had fallen for the new cat on the block.
“Let’s hope you’re right,” said Dooley, giving his tail a tentative lick and then, deciding it was clean enough, leaving it for another time. “Let’s hope that as long as that Nazi furball is prancing around with Harriet we’re safe.”
“Which means we can do whatever we want. Go wherever we like and generally be masters of our own fate again without that brute interfering.”
“So what do you want to do?”
I thought for a moment. What did I want to do? I wanted to solve this murder, that’s what I wanted to do. And make sure Odelia got the scoop. I liked this small town, and I didn’t like it when people started killing each other. It wasn’t nice. And since violence led to more violence someone had to put a stop to it before things got out of hand. At least that’s how I saw it.
“We could hang out at the barbershop,” Dooley suggested.
It was one of our favorite haunts. You’d be surprised what kind of secrets people tell their barber. Almost as many as they divulge to their doctor.
“Why don’t we head out to the lodge and see if we can’t pick up the scent of the killer?” I suggested instead. The barbershop could wait. We were born hunters, after all, and perhaps we could pick up the scent of the murderer.
Dooley brightened, and I saw this would be good for him. It would keep his mind off Brutus and Harriet strutting their stuff along Main Street.
“I think that’s a great idea, Max,” he said enthusiastically. “Maybe we can sniff out the killer and then all Odelia has to do is make them confess.”
“Let’s do this,” I said, and we bumped fists.
It’s called teamwork, people, and it’s not just humans that do it. Dooley and I have been living together for so many years we make a pre
tty great team. What’s more, we’ve grown attached to our humans, and like to help them out. When it suits us, of course. We’re not a couple of dumb dogs.
So we left Dan on the back porch marking up his articles with a deep frown on his face, and trotted off, setting paw for the Writer’s Lodge. One disadvantage of being a cat is that we don’t get to drive a car. Or a bike. Which means we have to go everywhere on paw. But, like I said, we’re natural born hunters, and what are a couple of miles for your friendly neighborhood predator? Chicken feed. Still, after we’d been on the move for a while, I was starting to wonder if this was such a good idea after all.
“Are we there yet?” asked Dooley, panting slightly.
“No idea, buddy, but I hope so. My paws are killing me.”
“And mine. What’s more, I’m getting tired, Max.”
“I’m sure it won’t be much further.”
We walked on in silence for a couple of minutes. We’d left the heart of town behind, and were now traipsing through the woods. This piece of the trail was all uphill, and I wondered who would voluntarily go and live in the middle of nowhere just so they could write a book. Nuts.
“You know? When this is all over and we’ve caught the killer, maybe we’ll get a nice treat,” said Dooley. “Like that raw meat Brutus gets from Chase?”
“I doubt it,” I said. “All we ever get are leftovers, and they’re cooked.”
“Maybe when Brutus comes to live with us he’ll share his meals?”
“Dream on, buddy. Brutus doesn’t strike me as the sharing type.”
“You’re probably right. And if he shares, it’ll be with Harriet, not us.”
We scaled a small hill, and passed beneath some brambles, to come out on the other side looking like pincushions. We shed the prickles and trudged on.
“You know?” Dooley asked suddenly. “What does Brutus have that we don’t?”
I sighed. “Is this about Harriet again?”
“No, it’s about Brutus being treated like royalty.”
“Well, Brutus is a pedigree cat, Dooley. They’re like the royalty of cats. While we’re just your average alley cats that got picked out of the litter by an indiscriminate hand. I’m sure that when Chase got Brutus, he paid good money for that cat, while we’re lucky we didn’t get flushed down the toilet.”
“So he’s a prize-winning cat and we’re just a bunch of ugly mongrels,” Dooley said bitterly. Maybe this hike wasn’t such a good idea, after all. Instead of taking his mind off Brutus and Harriet, it had the opposite effect.
“Pretty much,” I agreed. “Though I wouldn’t call you a mongrel, Dooley.”
“But it’s true, isn’t it? That cat has probably won a ton of cat shows.”
I shuddered at the thought of having to compete in a cat show. “It’s only natural that after paying top dollar for Brutus, Chase would want to show him off,” I speculated. “Which is probably why he feeds him a diet of raw meat.”
“Hey, maybe we should enter a cat show,” said Dooley. “Show Odelia that we’re special, too. Maybe then she’ll start feeding us raw meat.”
“I doubt whether we’ll stand a chance,” I said, shaking my head at so much naiveté. As if we could ever compete with the likes of Brutus.
“Why not?” he asked stubbornly. “It worked for Babe, didn’t it?”
I frowned. “Babe? Who’s Babe?”
“Don’t you remember that movie we saw the other night? About a piglet that grows up on a farm, and the farmer trains him to be a sheepdog? And since he was so nice and polite all the sheep loved him and did exactly what he told them to do at the animal show? He didn’t even have to bark at them or bite them or any of that horrible stuff. So if Babe can do it, so can we.”
“Do what, exactly? Become sheepdogs?”
“Not sheepdogs,” he said with a laugh. “Perform at a cat show!”
Become a cat model? Never! “I really don’t think so, Dooley.”
“But we’re special, Max, just like Babe. I just know we are.”
“Look, that was a Hollywood movie. In Hollywood movies animals are always special. Penguins have happy feet and pigs can corral sheep and cats eat lasagna and sound like Bill Murray. In real life? Not so much.”
“But we can talk. We can talk to Odelia. And to Marge. And Gran.” He gave me a grin. “I’m sure that Brutus can’t talk to Chase Kingsley.”
Well, that was true enough. Brutus might get prime chops, but I doubted whether he could chat with his human. Dooley and I might not be pedigree cats, or have the appeal of a sheepherding pig or silly dancing penguins, but we could help Odelia solve this murder, and that definitely made us special.
We’d arrived at the Writer’s Lodge, and saw that the place was completely cordoned off with crime scene tape, the yellow kind.
“Come on,” I said as I followed the scent of human excrement. “Over there.”
We hurried to the place where the crime had been committed and stopped at the demolished structure that had formerly been the outhouse. The entire thing had been taken apart, the boards piled up high next to a sizable hole dug into the earth. A small crane stood parked next to it, which had probably been used to get the body of Paulo Frey out of the hole. When we took a tentative peek into the abyss, I saw it was pretty deep. And smelled horrible.
“Crap,” I said. “This stench is hard to bear.”
Unlike humans, us cats can’t pinch our noses, which are a lot more sensitive to begin with, so the foul stench emanating from the former latrine was an assault on my senses that was worse than I’d imagined. Generations of writers had taken a dump right here in this pit, and so had generations of Hampton Covians, as the Writer’s Lodge outhouse was as popular with the locals as it was with writers. When nature suddenly called, hikers had the choice between relieving themselves in the bushes or this outhouse. But why wipe your tush with a piece of bark or a clump of grass when you can use Hetta Fried’s velvet comfort triple-layered tissue instead? After all, what’s good enough for bestselling writers is good enough for the local yokels.
Luckily for the lodge’s paying guests, they got preferential treatment. So when a desperate hiker came running, ready to burst, and he found the outhouse occupied by a writer, he simply had to hold and wait until the scribbler had done his business before adding his own contribution.
“So this is where they found the guy, huh?” asked Dooley, his face twisted in a grimace as he tried to endure the horrible stench.
“Yeah. Looks like,” I croaked.
The pit had been completely emptied out, and I couldn’t even see the bottom now, nor did I feel inclined to jump in and investigate.
“Do you smell the killer?” asked Dooley, gagging slightly.
“I smell shit,” I wheezed, and quickly removed myself from the scene.
And that’s when I bumped into another cat who was lurking around. I recognized her as one of the wild felines that roamed these woods, and lived as nature had intended it: free and untethered, roaming the earth alone.
“Hey, Clarice,” I said by way of greeting. “So what are you doing here?”
Clarice, who was rail thin, with gray hair matted and twisted in knots, had a wild look in her eyes. She was feral, and we usually tried to avoid her. But this was not a regular social call. We needed answers and we needed them fast and maybe Clarice had seen something out here.
“Do you have any idea who killed this guy?” asked Dooley, who’d joined me. The stench of human dung had become too much for him as well. At least where we lived humans used a flush toilet, and the smell never got as bad as out here, where they still adhered to a more primitive waste disposal method.
“I saw nuthin,” said Clarice now in a vicious snarl.
“You mean you weren’t around when the murder happened?” I asked.
She shook her head. “I saw nuthin.”
“Maybe you saw this Paulo Frey character when he was still alive. He was a regular at the Writer’s Lodge, right?” I
asked, probing a little further.
She stared at me, looking more feral than ever. It gave me the creeps. The longer Clarice lived out here, the weirder she seemed to get.
“I saw nuthin,” she repeated a third time, sticking to her story no matter what. And then, before we could continue our line of questioning, she simply darted away, and shot off into the woods, as if fired from a gun, afraid we might push her to reach deep and way beyond her limited vocabulary.
“That was weird,” said Dooley.
“Yeah, not very helpful,” I admitted.
We both stuck our noses in the air, to see if we couldn’t pick up any scents, and discovered that we could pick up plenty of them. Too many, in fact, as it appeared that half of Hampton Cove had been out here, which didn’t surprise me. Everyone wanted to take a peek at the crime scene, probably, and find out for themselves what was going on out here.
“I think this was a waste of time,” Dooley finally said.
Just then, I pricked up my ears, for I’d heard the engine of a car whine in the distance, working hard to haul a car up these hills and join us. “Did you hear that?” I asked.
“Someone’s coming,” Dooley said. Then his eyes widened. “Oh! Do you think it’s the killer? They always say killers return to the scene of the crime!”
“The crime’s been committed over a year ago, Dooley. Why would he wait until now to show up?”
“Because it’s taken until now for the body to be discovered!”
I had to concede he had a point, and we waited with bated breath for the killer to show his or her ugly face. But the car that finally made it up the steep incline was a very familiar one, and we both shared a happy grin.
“Great,” said Dooley. “We can hitch a ride back with Odelia.”
For it was indeed our human’s very own old Ford pickup that now crested the final stretch of road before the lodge, and hove into view.