Purrfect Cover (The Mysteries of Max Book 25)

by Nic Saint

  “My son is chief of police,” Vesta explained. “And he’s asked us to look into the matter. With half the police force on vacation, and the other half otherwise engaged, he asked us to take a stab at the case.”

  “Okay,” said Mr. Hodge, clearly not fully convinced. Then again, if you are a tax-paying citizen, you probably expect a real police person to show up when you need them, and not two old ladies and their cats.

  When he caught sight of Harriet, though, Mr. Hodge’s eyes lit up with sheer delight. “Oh, what a gorgeous fur baby you are,” he said, and crouched down with a creaking of the knees, and tickled Harriet under the chin. He glanced up. “Are they yours?”

  “Yeah, both of them,” said Vesta. “I like to take them along wherever I go.” She shrugged. “You never know what they’ll pick up. Cats are smart. A lot smarter than dogs, if you ask me.”

  “Oh, I know,” said Mr. Hodge, getting up again with some effort. He gestured to a large painting in the hallway depicting a big orange cat with lively eyes and a wide grin. “I don’t know if you read my stuff, but I’m a cat person all the way.”

  “Oh, you’re that Mort Hodge!” said Scarlett. “The creator of Mort’s Molly!”

  “You’re Mort’s Molly’s Mort?” asked Vesta, surprised.

  “Yeah, that’s me,” said Mr. Hodge with a light chuckle. “So you see, you can bring all the cats you like. The more, the merrier!”

  And on that cheerful note, they stepped into the house and Mr. Hodge closed the door.

  14

  The house was nice, Brutus thought. High ceilings, large rooms, and so much space!

  He sniffed the air, trying to detect whether there were any other cats or pets nearby, but to his surprise couldn’t pick up any sign of them. Mort’s Molly did not live there.

  “You own a cat yourself?” asked Scarlett.

  “No, unfortunately I don’t,” said Mr. Hodge. “My wife is allergic to cats and dogs. Very ironic, I know, for the creator of Mort’s Molly not to own a molly himself. But there you have it. I like to think I’m the owner of a fictional cat, and that’s good enough for me.”

  Mrs. Hodge had joined them. She was a lively woman with a kind demeanor. A full head shorter than her husband, and dressed in a floral-pattern dress that showed off a well-rounded physique. Mrs. Hodge might be allergic to pets, Brutus thought, but she clearly wasn’t allergic to the good life. All in all she and her husband looked like a very lovely couple, and as Mort placed an arm around his wife’s shoulder and gave her a quick peck on the temple, it was obvious they were a devoted one, too.

  “So what happened, exactly?” asked Vesta. “My son said something about a safe being burgled?”

  “Not the safe—it’s actually worse than that,” said Mort. “You better tell the story, honey.”

  “I opened the door this morning when I heard the doorbell and was surprised when I found two individuals announcing they worked for the gas company. They immediately overpowerd me and shoved a rag or something into my mouth and tied my hands behind my back and walked me up the stairs into our bedroom and pushed me down onto the bed.” She had tears in her eyes. “I feared the worst—the absolute worst.”

  “These men, did you recognize them?” asked Vesta, taking the lead as usual.

  Mrs. Hodge shook her head. “I did not. Both of them were dressed in black from head to toe. Black leather jackets, black pants, black shoes, and a black mask to hide their faces. One was big and the other one small, though, so that might be important.”

  “One big, one small,” murmured Scarlett while she tapped all this information into her smartphone, her tongue between her lips as she navigated the little keyboard with her inch-long gel nails.

  “And then what happened?” asked Vesta.

  “Well, they just left me there and walked straight into the next room, Mort’s old office, which we’ve turned into a storage space for some of his stuff.” She glanced at her husband. “They seemed to know their way around the house, which makes me think they must have been here before.”

  “They didn’t bother with the safe,” said Mort with a frown of concern. “Instead they emptied out my big metal bookcase, which I keep padlocked.”

  “What was in that bookcase?”

  “All my originals,” said Mort. “Everything, down to my very first preliminary sketches, before I even launched the first Mort’s Molly cartoon.”

  “Worth millions,” said Megan Hodge quietly.

  “Our retirement fund,” said Mort. “Gone.”

  “Wait, so they didn’t touch the safe?”

  “Nope. There is a small cache of gold and valuables in there, but it’s not even worth a fraction of what was in that bookcase.”

  “Millions?” asked Scarlett, pausing from her note-taking to gawp at the couple.

  “Yeah, those originals easily fetch thousands upon thousands of dollars when auctioned off.”

  “People actually pay that much money for a cartoon?” asked Vesta, earning herself a slight look of reproach from Mrs. Hodge.

  “Mort has sold a couple of his originals over the years, and they never sell for less than ten thousand each. And the bulk of his collection he kept all these years.”

  “I was going to sell more, but kept postponing. It’s hard to say goodbye to your original work, even though the money is good.”

  “We don’t need the money, Mort,” said Megan. “We’re fine the way we are.”

  “I know,” said Mort ruefully. “Megan has been telling me for years to put my originals in a vault at the bank or some specialized security company, but I like the idea of having my work close by. I like to take it out from time to time. Go over some stuff from the past. See how far I’ve come. And be inspired by things I did that I’ve completely forgotten.”

  “Poor guy,” said Harriet. “He seems to be more sorry that he lost his drawings than about the money.”

  “Yeah, well, it was his creation,” said Brutus. “Mort’s Molly is his baby.”

  “Is there anything else you can tell us about your attackers, Mrs. Hodge?” asked Vesta.

  Megan frowned as she thought back to the horrible events of that morning. “Um, at some point one of them said something that sounded a lot like, ‘Do you want to take everything, Jer?’ And then the other one said, ‘Shut up, Johnny!’ and then the first one did shut up.”

  Vesta and Scarlett shared a look of excitement, and so did Brutus and Harriet.

  “Johnny and Jerry!” said Brutus.

  “Oh, this is too easy,” said Harriet, shaking her head. “Those two? At it again?”

  “I think we can safely say that we’ve solved the case already, Mr. Hodge, Mrs. Hodge,” said Vesta. “We’re familiar with these Johnny and Jerry characters. They’re career criminals. I’ll tell my son and they’ll be behind bars before you know it.”

  Both Mr. And Mrs. Hodge looked much relieved. “Oh, that’s wonderful news,” said Megan Hodge. “Did you hear that, Mort? They think they know who did it already.”

  Mort smiled. “I hope you’re right, Mrs. Muffin. I was thinking about offering a reward for the safe return of my originals.”

  “Better wait,” Vesta advised. “If it is who I think it is, it won’t be long before you have your drawings back safe and sound.”

  “And this time we’re putting them in a vault,” said Megan. “Not keeping them at home.”

  “Do you still write and draw everything yourself, Mr. Hodge?” asked Scarlett, putting away her phone now that the case was solved.

  “Why, yes, mostly,” said Mort. “I think up the jokes, and I create the original drawing in pencil, then send it to one of my collaborators who puts it in ink—not actual ink, mind you, nowadays everything is digital. And then a third person puts it in color and back it comes to me for a final check. It’s how I’ve been working for the past, oh, twelve years?”

  “I think it’s great what you do,” said Scarlett with a smile.

  “I think so, too,” sa
id Vesta. “Wonderful cartoons. Always make me laugh.”

  “And so true to life,” said Scarlett. “You really know your stuff.”

  “Like I said, I may not be the lucky owner of a real cat, but Molly is as much a pet to me as these guys.” He gestured to Brutus and Harriet, who purred their appreciation.

  “Oh, they’re hungry, the poor darlings,” said Megan. “Come. I think I have just what you need in the kitchen.”

  Brutus and Harriet eagerly followed the artist’s wife into the kitchen, and before long they were both snacking on a nice piece of liverwurst.

  “Case cracked and some great food to boot,” said Harriet between two nibbles. She was beaming. “Let’s see Max and Dooley beat that!”

  15

  Since Tex was between patients, he was surfing on his phone and checking the news. The Gazette was leading with breaking news about Alec Lip and Charlene Butterwick canoodling into their allotted lunch break, causing hundreds of comments wondering if the mayor and chief of police of Hampton Cove didn’t have anything better to do than enjoy each other’s company. Like catching the burglars terrorizing the town.

  Tex shook his head, and skipped to the next article. This one detailed some salient tidbits about the most recent victims of the gang: famous artist Mort Hodge and his wife.

  And as the good doctor put down his phone, a sudden fear struck him. He’d recently come into the possession of some very valuable gnome art. The painting, spray-painted with a steady hand by famous gnome artist Jerome Metzgall, had cost him a pretty penny. First Mrs. Baumgartner’s Picasso had been stolen, and now Mort Hodge’s original drawings taken from his home. And in recent weeks other people had been robbed, too. Like the Wigginses, Bambi and husband, where a sculpture had been taken, and the Sudses, Rory and husband, where a plastic mushroom had been yanked from its base.

  What would stop the burglars from stealing his gnome painting? Nothing!

  And it was with a sense of urgency that he called his wife. The moment the call connected, he blurted out, “Marge—you have to get home now! My gnome painting—you have to take it off the wall and hide it!”

  “Tex, honey, what are you talking about?”

  “The art thieves—they took Ida Baumgartner’s Picasso last night, and Mort Hodge’s entire collection of original Mort’s Molly art. I’m afraid they’ll go for my painting next!”

  “I don’t think your painting is that popular, Tex,” said Marge, a little acerbically he thought. She’d never approved of his love for garden gnomes, and even less of his love for gnome art, even though he’d tried to explain to her it was an investment, not a whim.

  “Look, you can take down that painting yourself tonight.”

  “But…”

  “I’m busy, Tex. Your gnome will have to wait.” And with these words, she disconnected, leaving him to consider hanging up a ‘Closed’ sign on his office door and legging it home himself to safeguard his precious painting from theft. But just then a patient walked in and he sank down in his chair again.

  Marge was right. His gnome would have to wait. He just hoped it wouldn’t be too late!

  Charlene Butterwick was smiling widely before herself, seated at her desk at Town Hall, and thinking roseate thoughts about the new man in her life. And as luck would have it, just then this new man chose that moment to call her.

  “I was just thinking about you, hunk,” she spoke into the phone, having picked up on the first ring.

  “And I was thinking of you, sexy.”

  She walked over to the window and glanced out in the direction of the police station. She watched how Alec Lip, chief of police of the town she was responsible for, waved at her from his office. She smiled and waved right back.

  “Did you see the news?” asked Alec.

  “What news?”

  “Well… us, I guess,” said her boyfriend, though he was more man than boy.

  “Us? Someone’s written about us?”

  “Yeah, and not very favorably either. Check the Gazette home page. Some member of the public was snapping pictures of us while we were out having lunch yesterday.”

  She walked over to her computer and pulled up the home page for the Hampton Cove Gazette. “Oh, dear,” she said as she saw the pictures of herself and Alec lunching and kissing and clearly having a whale of a time.

  “Check the comments. If you have the stomach for it.”

  She checked the comments, and her stomach turned a little. That’s what you got when you lunched past your regular lunchtime, and were high on love and good food. “Oops,” she said. “Looks like people aren’t too happy with us right now.”

  “No, you can say that again.”

  “What do you think we should do?”

  “Not get caught canoodling during office hours?”

  In spite of the seriousness of the situation, she giggled. “Canoodling. I like that.”

  “Not my word,” grunted the Chief. “Something commenter #113 seems to be fond of. Unlike commenter #225, who uses much stronger language—the kind of language Dan probably shouldn’t have allowed to pass moderation.”

  “I’ll talk to Dan. Tell him to take down the article. And the comments.”

  “You mean you want to use your position to curtail the free press?” chuckled Alec.

  “Of course not. I’ll simply tell him we won’t do it again, and could he please not feed the trolls and unleash the online lynch mob.”

  Alec paused for a moment, then said, “I’m looking forward to lunch, poppet.”

  “Me, too, muppet.”

  They both giggled like a couple of teenagers in love, then disconnected.

  And with a sigh, Charlene called Dan Goory. She was all for freedom of the press, but she failed to see the significance of an article dealing with a mayor and chief of police’s love life. They might both be public figures, but even they had a right to a certain measure of privacy, and that was exactly what she intended to tell Dan. But even before the call connected suddenly two intruders, both dressed in nice suits but with their faces covered with black masks, waltzed into her office and pointed a gun at her head.

  “One word and you’re history,” barked the biggest of the twosome. “Now sit down.”

  16

  Johnny Carew and Jerry Vale were walking along the sidewalk, en route to their next potential convert. Jerry was dragging his feet, while Johnny was actually feeling pretty good about himself. He’d long known that a life of crime doesn’t make you happy, and had learned his lesson when kicking his heels in a Mexican prison cell. Contrary to the prison cells back home the one they’d been confined to in Tulum hadn’t offered the kinds of creature comforts he’d become accustomed to. No television privileges, and no friendly conversations with his fellow inmates, making friends and influencing people.

  The only thing he’d liked was the food, which was Mexican, probably obvious as they’d been in Mexico. He’d gained a couple of pounds, on top of a frame that was top heavy to begin with. The only one who hadn’t gained an inch around the waist, or anywhere else for that matter, was Jerry, but then Jerry had always been a nervous eater, with stomach problems on top of bowel problems on top of whatever else ailed him.

  “I think I’m starting to get the hang of this Jehovah’s Witnesses stuff, Jer,” said Johnny now, clutching his Bible and a copy of The Watchtower and feeling like a new man ever since he’d been baptized by that nice elder back at Kingdom Hall. “I think we finally found what we were looking for.”

  “Oh? And what were you looking for, exactly?” asked Jerry, a nasty sneering quality to his tone that Johnny decided to ignore.

  “Well, a sense of belonging for one thing,” said Johnny. “It’s nice to be part of a great group of people.”

  “And what was wrong with our old group?” asked Jerry.

  “Nothing,” said Johnny, deciding that his friend Jerry was in one of his moods again, and when Jerry was in one of his moods there simply was no talking to the guy. “Have y
ou managed to get a hold of Marlene?” he asked instead.

  “Nah. She keeps blocking my calls. I tried friending her on Facebook but she blocked me there, too. Maybe you should call her. She probably doesn’t recognize your number and then you can hand me the phone.”

  Marlene was Jerry’s ex-wife, but the ex-crook still carried a torch for her, and had never given up hope winning her back. Marlene had moved on, though, and rumor had it she was seeing an investment banker. Tough for an ex-con to compete with an investment banker.

  “You know what, Jer? I think once Marlene hears you’re a Jehovah’s Witness now she’ll probably want to talk to you.”

  “You think so?” asked Jerry, a glimmer of hope lighting up his weaselly features.

  “Oh, sure. Women love a religious man. Just look at how many women always flock around our local church priest.”

  “Old crones, mostly,” Jerry muttered.

  “Not just old crones. Young crones, too.” He got out his phone. “In fact why don’t I call her right now? She’ll be happy to talk to you once I tell her you found religion.”

  Jerry licked his lips. “But what do I tell her? How do I win her back, Johnny?”

  “Just tell her what’s in your heart, Jer. Women can tell when you’re being honest.”

  Jerry nodded earnestly. “Okay, fine. Yeah, call her. Call her and tell her Jerry wants to talk to her. No, scratch that. Don’t tell her anything. Um, or better yet, tell her an old friend wants to talk to her. Yeah, that’s better. Though she’ll probably hang up the moment she recognizes my voice. Um…”

  Johnny placed one of his ham-sized hands on his friend’s back. “You think too much, Jer. That’s your problem right there.” He dialed Marlene’s number and waited for her to pick up, giving his friend a reassuring smile. Jerry was nervous, which was a good sign. It meant he wouldn’t say anything dumb. He’d think before blathering like a silly fool.