The Mysteries of Max BoxSet

by Nic Saint

  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.

  Odelia stepped from the truck’s cabin and tentatively looked around. When she saw us sauntering from the shrubbery, she smiled. “Hey, you guys. What are you doing all the way out here?”

  “We just thought we’d take a closer look at the crime scene,” I said as I curled myself around her leg and butted my head against her calf.

  “Yeah, we thought we’d try to sniff out the killer,” Dooley added.

  “And? Any luck?” she asked as she crouched down and scratched our necks. We both purred with contentment, our tails gently quivering.

  “Lots of scents,” I said. “But hard to determine which one’s the killer’s.”

  “I don’t think you’ll be able to isolate the killer’s scent,” she said. “The crime was committed a long time ago. Lots of people have been here since.”

  “So what are you doing out here?” I asked.

  Odelia tapped her smartphone smartly. “Taking a couple of shots for my article.” She walked over to what was left of the outhouse and started snapping pictures, making sure she got it from all the different angles.

  “Are you any closer to solving the murder?” asked Dooley.

  “Nope,” she said, walking back to us. “I talked to two women who had a run-in with Paulo Frey, and they both told me what a dreadful man he was. Really spiteful and extremely mean. It seems he hated both gays and women, and gay women even more, and liked to harass them and destroy them.”

  “A real sweetheart, huh?” I asked as I watched Odelia approach the lodge to take a couple of snaps there. It was a fairly small structure, completely constructed from dark oak, with a nice verandah, where Hetta had installed the Jacuzzi. Writers enjoyed soaking in the hot tub while experiencing the great outdoors and gazing up at the stars twinkling above. If it didn’t inspire them to write the great American novel, at least it relieved their arthritis.

  “So no leads?” asked Dooley.

  “Well, the two women I talked to both had alibis, so that was a dead end, but it made me think…”

  “Uh-huh?” I asked encouragingly.

  She paused, a frown appearing on her smooth brow. “If Frey was the kind of monster they made him out to be, and I don’t doubt they were telling me the truth, he must have had other enemies. And maybe one of them finally decided enough was enough and put a stop to the harassment. Permanently.”

  I shared a quick look with Dooley. This was our cue. “Talking about harassment,” I began. “Have you considered suggesting to Chase Kingsley that his cat ought to be neutered?”

  But Odelia was already walking around to the other side of the lodge, snapping more pictures. And that’s when I heard another car pulling up.

  “Uh-oh,” I said, alarmed. “Looks like we’ve got company.”


  “The killer!” cried Dooley.

  I checked the car that now appeared over the rim. “Close, but no cigar.”

  Chapter 14

  Odelia was wondering how to get inside the lodge. She wanted to take a few snaps of the place where Frey had spent his final hours, to add color to the story and set the scene. She should have asked Hetta for the key before driving out here, but it had been one of those spur-of-the-moment kind of things. When she couldn’t reach her uncle, she’d figured she might as well drive up and soak up the atmosphere. Get a feel for the place. She rattled the doorknob in frustration. Nope. That one was locked. Then she noticed that a window on the second floor was open, probably to air out the place.

  Tucking away her smartphone, she quickly climbed one of the trellises that reached from the ground floor all the way to the roof, and hopped onto the black slate roof, from where she started making her way to the window. Her tongue sticking out, she was just wondering what she’d say if anyone caught her breaking and entering, when a familiar voice sounded behind her.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing up there, Miss Poole?”

  She looked down, and saw she’d been joined by none other than Detective Kingsley. He was staring up at her, his expression implacable.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked, annoyed. “And how is it that wherever I go, I bump into you? Are you following me, Detective Kingsley?”

  “I asked you first,” he said. “Why do you insist on sticking your nose into my investigation? Interviewing my witnesses? Disturbing my crime scene?”

  “It’s called journalism, Detective,” she said. “It’s what reporters do.”

  “This is a crime scene,” he repeated, that same set look on his features she’d seen every time they’d met. “You can’t go traipsing all over this place.”

  “Well, you’re doing it,” she challenged, “so I don’t see why I can’t.”

  “I’m the cop in charge of this investigation,” he pointed out. “So I’ll ask you again: what are you doing up there, Miss Poole?”

  “I, um…” She’d started making her way down from the roof. She now saw she should have worn jeans that morning, and not this silly little dress. She had the impression that Chase could see her pink undies from where he was standing, and that was the absolute last thing she needed right now. “I just wanted to find an original angle on the place where the body was found.” She gestured at the outhouse. “I figured I’d have a great shot from up here.”

  But as she was descending the roof, her foot slipped on a slick patch, and she suddenly was hurtling down a lot quicker than she’d anticipated. She cried out when she reached the roof’s edge and scrambled for support. Her fingers caught a clump of wet leaves and she lost purchase and tumbled over the edge, on a collision course with the unyielding ground below.

  Just as she braced for impact, however, she was snatched in midair by two strong arms that caught her just in time. And she suddenly found herself in such close proximity with the hardened cop that she felt like a little bird falling from the nest and being caught by some creature of the wild.

  She was at Chase’s mercy now, and could feel her heart beating wildly against her breastbone, Chase’s face so close she could see tiny flecks of green in his icy blue eyes, and the slight stubble that dusted his cheeks. His arms were strong and powerful, as was his chest, and for a moment she had the distinct impression that his full lips would take hers and devour her.

  But as quickly as he’d caught her, he released her again, by returning her to perpendicularity, setting her down so gently she surprised herself by heaving out a soft sigh. He then pointed at the green smudges on her dress.

  “You’ll have to get that dry-cleaned,” he grumbled, giving her a hard look.

  She was still panting slightly, her heart racing, and she knew it wasn’t from the drop but from being in such close proximity with Chase’s hard chest. She hadn’t been this close to a man for a while, her last boyfriend having fled Hampton Cove over a year ago, when he’d been caught embezzling funds from the local bank. Sam had been a teller and had both swindled the bank out of a nice sum of money and her out of her illusions.

  He’d been a nice young man, and she’d even brought him home to meet her parents and grandmother for dinner. He’d been nothing like Chase Kingsley, who, she now realized, was an actual man, while Sam was a boy.

  “I, um, thank you,” she finally managed. His hands were still expertly removing a few leaves from her person, and the memory of his hard body so close to hers sent a steady stream of thrills up her spine and made her knees tremble. She licked her lips, trying to stem the tide of emotions that suddenly flooded her. How was it possible that a man she hardly knew could have such a powerful effect on her? She didn’t know and she didn’t care. All she knew was that Chase was a very dangerous man, and she better put some distance between herself and this overbearing cop, or else she might be the next one to fall victim to his treacherous ways. Her lips tightened and her face hardened when she stepped back. “Thank you for saving my life, Detective Kingsley.”

  “I don’t think I saved your life, Miss Poole,” he said, also straightening, “but you’re welcome. And now I think it’s time for you to head back into town.”

  Anger flared inside her. Who did he think he was ordering her around like this? Maybe it was time she put him in his place. “I’m actually doing a story on you as well, Detective. A story my readers will find fascinating.”

  “Is that right?” he asked, eyeing her a little wearily.

  “Oh, yes. Lots of rumors have been swirling around about you, and I think it’s important to separate fact from fiction. Set the record straight.”

  “As a matter of fact, that’s exactly what I think, too,” he admitted.

  “So… would you like to comment on your dismissal from the NYPD?”

  Instantly, his face hardened. “You know very well that was a hatchet piece that appeared in the New York Post. No truth to the story whatsoever.”

  “All I know is that you were accused of molesting a suspect’s wife, and that she filed charges against you, which caused your immediate dismissal.”

  His eyes were blazing now with fury. “That story was a fabrication and a lie,” he growled. “Nothing about it was even remotely true.”

  “Then you won’t mind setting the record straight? Give the good people of Hampton Cove your side of the story? Your version of the facts?”

  “It’s not my version of the facts, Miss Poole. They are the facts.”

  “And what are those? And why haven’t you told them to anyone before?”

  At this, instead of launching into a long-winded harangue about the mayor’s wife and the commissioner, as she’d expected, he simply closed his mouth with a click, and stood there glaring at her, visibly seething with anger.

  “Oh, come on, Detective Kingsley,” she prompted. “You can do better than that.” She took a step closer. “Isn’t it, in fact, true that you claim you stumbled upon a secret liaison between the commissioner and the mayor’s wife? That you were consequently the victim of a cover-up, and that these false accusations leveled against you were simply a way of discrediting you so no one would believe your crazy story about the commissioner’s illicit affair?”

  His eyes were blazing, his face taking on a darker tinge of scarlet. A vein was dangerously throbbing at his temple, and she took another step closer.

  “Where did you hear that?” he finally demanded in a deep, low growl.

  She shrugged. “I’m a professional, Detective. I have my sources.”

  When he grabbed her by the shoulders and gave her a vigorous shake, she knew she’d gone too far. “Tell me who told you about this,” he spat, his eyes boring into hers with an intensity that held her spellbound.

  “I—I can’t,” she said, suddenly realizing the dangerous position she’d maneuvered herself in. Here she was, all alone in the woods, near the scene where Paulo Frey had been
murdered, with a cop who stood accused of molesting a woman and had lost his job as a consequence. Why did she have to come out here alone? And why did she have to provoke this man? She’d poked the bear, and now he was awake and furious and ready to devour her!

  “I want you to let me go now,” she said, squirming.

  “Not before you tell me who told you about the commissioner.”

  “I—I can’t!” she cried.

  He shook her again. “Was it your father? Did he tell you?”

  “Of course not! I—everyone knows the story. It’s all over town!”

  He stared at her at this, aghast. “All over town?”

  “Yes! It’s not a secret, if that’s what you think.”

  He was still staring at her, his face ashen now. She wriggled out of his arms, and this time he let go, looking absolutely shell-shocked.

  “And let me tell you that I, for one, don’t believe a word of it,” she said. “That whole story about the mayor’s wife? I think you made that up. I think you’re a brute and you went too far that day and you molested that woman.”

  He blinked, finally coming out of his stupor when her words hit him. Surprised, she watched as a look of torment came over his face. “We’re done here, Miss Poole,” he said in a voice so quiet she had to strain her ears to pick up the words. “We’re done here,” he repeated, then started to walk away from her, his back straight, his shoulders stiff and his demeanor unreadable.

  And as she watched him walk away, she realized what she’d done. The only two people in town he’d entrusted with his secret were her father and her uncle. In Chase’s mind one of them must have betrayed his confidence. How else could she have known? And now he would confront either or both of these men, and would probably never trust them again. She’d really done it this time. Maybe he’d even resign and leave Hampton Cove because of her. Chase Kingsley was obviously a proud man, and might simply walk away.