Purrfect Cure (The Mysteries of Max Book 38)

by Nic Saint

  “Is it true that the crash happened here?” I asked, nodding in the direction of the car wreck.

  “Yeah, they’d been organizing street races for a couple of weeks, and the police were onto them, so that night they decided to take their race to this field—at the time the grass wasn’t as high as this. The farmer who owned it at the time had just harvested his crop of potatoes and the field was pretty rough. Steven’s car must have hit a rut or a hole and was catapulted into the air, turning over several times before crashing down and catching fire. And then before anyone could get the boy out, the fuel tank exploded and it was all over. Blake bought the field, wanting it to stay exactly like it was on the night Steven died. But of course nature takes its course, and now it looks like this—a jungle.”

  “That’s really creepy, Marge,” said Dooley.

  Marge smiled. “Yes, I guess it is a little creepy. But of course Steven’s body was removed after the crash, and in fact the only thing that still remains of what happened that night is this car wreck.”

  “And now the bones,” I said.

  “So were those Steven’s bones?” asked Dooley.

  “I probably should ask you guys—you’re usually better informed than me when it comes to that sort of thing.”

  “Not this time,” I said.

  “No, we were busy looking for Angel—the girl who was abducted by aliens,” Dooley explained.

  Marge’s smile dimmed. “Yes, terrible business, that. I can’t even begin to think what her poor mother must be going through. I should probably give her a call.”

  “And Father Reilly, her poor father,” said Dooley before I could stop him.

  Marge frowned. “Francis is Angel’s father? Are you sure?”

  “Oh, yes. Shanille told us all about it. Father Reilly is Angel’s dad, only he can’t come out and say so because his church won’t allow it, and when they find out they’ll kick him out.”

  Marge had brought a distraught hand to her face. “Oh, dear,” were her only words, but that was plenty to show us how greatly the news had affected her.

  17

  Alec Lip hurried into the hospital. His sister had called him with the news that Blake Carrington had suffered some kind of episode, and as the Chief was cursing under his breath, he hastened past the reception desk, then accosted the first person who looked like they worked at the hospital and demanded, “Blake Carrington. What room is he in?”

  “I’m sorry, sir,” said the woman. “But you’ll have to ask at reception.”

  Alec wildly wheeled around, then finally clapped eyes on the desk and saw that a line of five people had formed. Instead of practicing restraint, he elbowed his way to the front of the line and flashed his badge. “What room is Blake Carrington in?”

  “Sir, you’re being very rude,” said the receptionist.

  “Police emergency,” he practically barked, before realizing that he was behaving much like a bull in a China shop. So he repeated in more dulcet tones, “I really need to see Blake Carrington. Can you please tell me what room he’s in?”

  The receptionist still didn’t seem all that eager to accommodate him, but finally consulted her computer and said, “Seven-thirteen. Walk down this corridor, then take the elevator to the seventh floor and—”

  But he was already hurrying away, muttering an apology to the lady first in line, who was eyeing him as if he had personally assaulted her.

  He was sweating profusely at this juncture, and cursed the fact that he hadn’t interviewed Blake sooner. Now he might die and he’d never be any the wiser!

  He stabbed the elevator button several times until the doors finally closed with agonizing sluggishness, but not before a wizened smallish man with a wide smile on his face pushed them open again and inexorably wormed his way in. “Nice day, isn’t it, sir?” wheezed the man, who must have been at least a hundred if a day.

  “What floor?” asked Alec.

  “What did you say?” asked the man.

  “What floor?” asked Alec, a little louder this time.

  “I didn’t get that,” said the man. “Speak up, son.”

  “What floor!” Alec practically bellowed this time.

  The man’s smile vanished. “No need to shout, sir. I’m not deaf, you know.” And as he regarded Alec balefully, he pressed the button for the first floor, then changed his mind and pressed the button for the second floor, then, since you can never get enough of a good thing, proceeded to press the button for floors three, four, five and six. He gave a grunt of satisfaction for a job well done and declared, rather mystifyingly, “I’ll know it when I see it,” and rocked back on his heels, nearly keeling over as the elevator took off.

  And so it was with a delay of perhaps fifteen minutes that Alec finally arrived at room seven-thirteen, and entered. He didn’t know what he’d expected, but the sight of Blake Carrington, hooked up to all kinds of tubes and wires, managed to give him a minor shock. A nurse was checking something, and looked up when he entered. “Is he conscious?” asked Alec, panting from the exertion of getting from point A to point B.

  “He is,” said the nurse. “Are you family?”

  “No, police,” he said, and flashed his badge for good measure, earning himself a scowl.

  “He’s very weak,” the nurse said censoriously. “So whatever you say, keep it brief and don’t upset him.”

  “Fine,” he said, holding up his hand in a sign of acknowledgment. Then he pulled up a chair, turned it around and plunked himself down, his meaty arms on the backrest.

  Carrington had opened his eyes at this point, and was regarding him curiously. “Alec Lip,” he said in feeble tones. “To what do I owe the pleasure, Chief?”

  “I have to talk to you, Blake,” said Alec.

  “Well, speak up, man. I don’t have all day,” said Blake, then laughed at his joke, only to end up coughing a great deal.

  “I just got word from the county coroner. He investigated the skeleton they found on that piece of land you own—the one behind—”

  “I know the land you’re referring to. So what’s the verdict? Who is the scoundrel who dug up my boy and decided to play this mean-spirited prank on me?”

  “That’s just the thing, Blake. It’s not your boy.”

  Blake gave him a frown. “What do you mean?”

  “The remains we found? It’s not Steven.”

  “Well, then who is it?”

  “We don’t know. So far all they can tell us is that it’s a woman, and that she probably died five or six years ago.”

  “But… what was she doing on my land? I don’t understand.”

  “That makes two of us.”

  “But what about the jersey? Surely that’s the jersey Steven was buried in?”

  “I don’t think so, Blake. Just one of those coincidences.”

  “But it had his name on it. The S and the E…”

  “Coincidence. It’s not his jersey. Besides, Steven was buried in a coffin, and there’s no way his body and his jersey could have decayed…” He paused when Blake winced. “Take it from me, Blake—it’s not your son.” He placed a hand on the man’s arm. “Just thought you’d want to know.” Give the man some peace of mind before he died, he thought.

  “What a terrible business,” said Blake, and closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them again. In spite of his lousy health, his gaze as it raked Alec’s face was as unrelenting as ever. Icy blue eyes bored into Alec’s mellow brown peepers. “I still want you to investigate this business, Chief. I think whoever put that body on my land did it to play a dirty trick on me. Make me believe they’d dug up my boy and try to drive me into an early grave.” He chuckled tiredly. “And it looks as if they’re succeeding.” He tapped the cop’s chest. “It’s Jessie Largess you want. He’s behind this. He always said he was out of town the night Steven died, but I know for a fact that he was in the other car. He’s the one who picked that field—that death trap. If it wasn’t for Jessie, Steven would still be alive
today.”

  “And how do you know this?”

  “I have my sources.”

  Alec knew that even now, ten years after the fact, Blake still kept a private detective on retainer, to find out what he could about the tragic night Steven had met his maker. Blake was determined to find the person he could blame and bring them to justice, as he saw it.

  “Talk to Jessie. He’s the one who’s behind this whole business. He put the body of that girl there, just so he can get me off his back. But I won’t give up—I’ll never give up!”

  “All right, Blake. Take it easy,” said Alec, seeing that Blake was getting worked up.

  Blake had clasped his arm. “If you catch this guy, I’ll reward you handsomely, Alec.”

  “I’m a public servant, Blake. I don’t need you to reward me.”

  “Talk to Jessie. He’ll feed you a bunch of lies, so you lean on him. You twist his arm until he tells you the truth. Here—take my phone. Everything is there. My private detective has been following Jessie. I’m sure he went to the cemetery and dug up that girl.” He tried to grab his phone, which was located next to a big vase full of flowers.

  “Looks like you’ve got an admirer,” said Alec.

  “One of the nurses used to date Steven. She still carries a torch for him, even though she’s married with three kids now. Take my phone, Alec—take the damn phone!”

  “Take it easy, Blake. You’re not exactly in the best shape of your life here.”

  Blake hacked out a weary laugh. “The only thing that’s keeping me alive is my determination to catch the man that killed my boy.” He closed his fingers around Alec’s arm like a vice and spat, “And you’re going to help me, Chief. You do this for me, you hear!”

  “All right. I’ll see what I can do.”

  Blake collapsed, his head digging a hole in the pillow. He smiled up at Alec. “They’re all out to get me, Alec—but I won’t give them the satisfaction. I intend to live forever.”

  “You do that, Blake,” said Alec, but then that same nurse entered the room again, and when she caught sight of Blake’s deathly pale face and sweat-covered brow, she gave Alec a vicious glare and pointed to the door.

  And since Alec knew what was good for him, he quietly skedaddled.

  18

  I’d had my nap, I had my stomach full of kibble, and I’d had some excitement in the form of Blake Carrington being carted off to the hospital, and now it was time to help our human crack this mystery of the missing girl. So Dooley and I decided to head into town to do some poking around, and were soon walking along the sidewalk.

  “Where are Harriet and Brutus?” asked Dooley.

  “Why, do you miss them?” I asked.

  “A little bit.”

  “They’re probably taking a nap.”

  “How does it work exactly, Max?”

  “How does what work?”

  “The alien abduction thing. Do they beam the person up into their spaceship, or do they land first and then carry them in?” But before I could respond he added with a knowing nod, “If they’d landed we would have seen the signs: the indentation of the spaceship—the circle where all the vegetation was burned away. No, they must have beamed her up and then flown off. Too bad they picked such a remote spot, though, right, Max? Otherwise some witness could have seen them, and maybe even taken a picture.”

  “Dooley, I’m sorry to disappoint you, but whatever happened to Angel, aliens were definitely not involved.”

  “Are you sure, Max? Because all the signs are pointing to an alien abduction.”

  “I’m fairly sure, yes,” I said with a smile.

  We’d arrived in town, and made straight for the General Store, where our friend Kingman likes to hold forth. He’s like the elder statesman of Hampton Cove, and has the size to back up that claim. I don’t know if you’ve ever seen Star Wars? There’s a character named Jabba the Hutt. Well, Kingman could have been his little brother. Smaller in size, of course, but definitely cut from the same mold. He was occupying a chair today, basking in the sun.

  “Hey, Kingman,” I said, and found that I had to crane my neck to look up at the voluminous cat, which probably was the whole idea. Kingman likes it when his loyal subjects look up to him—like Jabba, who was king of the underworld.

  “Hey, fellas,” said Kingman lazily, not bothering to look up. “What’s happening?”

  “Well, a lot, as it turns out,” I said. “First off, Angel Church has gone missing. She went out last night to party with her girlfriends, and never arrived home.”

  “I heard about that,” said Kingman, which didn’t surprise me, since Kingman has always heard about everything that goes on in our town—in spite of the fact that he doesn’t seem to move around much.

  “I was just telling Max that I think Angel was abducted by aliens, Kingman,” said Dooley, reiterating his theory to a hopefully more appreciative audience.

  But Kingman quickly quashed that hope when he said, “Nonsense. That girl was abducted, all right, but not by aliens. You mark my words. Pretty girl like that? Probably abducted by human traffickers.”

  “But why?” asked Dooley. “Why would humans traffic other humans?”

  “For all kinds of reasons,” I said.

  “One reason only, Max,” Kingman proceeded to develop his theory. “Money. They can sell them, or they can turn them into prostitutes.”

  “What’s a prostitute, Max?” asked Dooley.

  “Well…” I hesitated, and shared a look of contemplation with Kingman. And since it was the latter who’d put us in the soup by mentioning the P-word, it was an unwritten rule that he was also the one who had to get us out of it.

  “Look here, Dooley,” said Kingman now, actually tilting his head to look in Dooley’s direction. “I don’t know if you know this, but once upon a time older rich ladies used to hire younger women to keep them company. Read to them, talk with them, discuss all manner of fascinating topic. They were called a lady’s companion because—”

  “They kept the lady company.”

  “Exactly! They would travel together to such places as Cannes and Italy, and almost be like part of the family. Now at a certain point men became jealous, and decided that they, too, wanted the benefit of a companion lady, see?”

  “Sure. To read to them, and to talk with them, and all that kind of stuff.”

  “So a prostitute is like a lady’s companion… for men.”

  “Oh, okay. So you think Angel is a lady’s companion now, for a rich person?”

  “That’s exactly what I think.”

  “Well, that’s not so bad, is it?”

  “It wouldn’t be bad if she had chosen to do this. Only it is my belief that the men who took her didn’t bother to ask her opinion. They just grabbed her for some rich guy.”

  “Oh, I understand. They took her but never asked her if she agreed. That’s not very nice.”

  “Exactly, Dooley. That’s not nice at all.”

  “It’s probably even worse than that,” I said.

  “How can it be worse, Max?” asked Kingman.

  “Angel probably is forced to work for free.”

  “I think these men are very bad, Max,” said Dooley decidedly. “And I think we have to stop them, and get Angel out of their clutches.”

  “Yeah, only problem is: we have no idea who these people are. Or where they’re keeping her—if indeed she was taken.” Though the more I thought about it, the more I was inclined to think that Kingman was right. It was the phone that had decided me. No girl Angel’s age would willingly part with her phone. Those phones are glued to her generation’s hands, and taking it away is the worst thing that can happen—well, apart from being abducted and forced into prostitution, maybe.

  “Unless of course we’re dealing with some kind of murdering maniac,” said Kingman, placing his head down again. “In that case we’ll never see Angel again.”

  “Oh, but Kingman, that mustn’t happen!” said Dooley, who clearly had b
ecome invested in a happy ending to be had by Angel and her family.

  “Say, Kingman,” I said. “Do you happen to know who Angel’s dad is?”

  Kingman gave me a thoughtful look. “Somehow I have the impression you already know the answer, Max.”

  “Is it… a certain friend of your human?”

  Kingman grinned. “Indeed it is.”

  “And how do you know?” I asked.

  “Because Father Reilly and Wilbur are exactly that: good friends. And good friends talk, Max.”

  “And you listen.”

  “All the time.”

  “So do you think there is a connection with her disappearance?”

  Kingman thought for a moment, then shrugged. “If there is a connection, I don’t see it.”

  “Thanks, Kingman.” That was all I needed to know. If Kingman didn’t see a connection, chances were that there wasn’t one. He wasn’t called the oracle of Hampton Cove for no reason. Just then, a slightly wide-eyed Tex walked into the store, and moments later walked out again, carrying a box filled with bottles of some kind—I could hear the merry clinking of glass against glass. He placed the box on the backseat of his car, then drove off.

  Dooley let out a tiny yip. “Looks like Tex just bought a box full of goodies for us, Max!”

  Somehow I doubted that very much. Tex is a lot of things, but Santa Claus for cats he is not. He tolerates us, and accepts our presence in his home, but he’s not the one who takes care of us, feeds us or enjoys our company. No, judging from the shifty-eyed look Tex had shot up and down the street just now, whatever he was carrying was for his own personal consumption only—and clearly something prying eyes were not allowed to see!

  19