The Mysteries of Max BoxSet

by Nic Saint

  “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.

  They drew up a couple of iron chairs, the claw feet scraping against the hardwood, and launched into the interview. Odelia was starting to get the hang of this thing. Being a cop was all about asking the right questions, and trying to get the suspect to reveal stuff they didn’t necessarily want to reveal.

  “Is it true you were dying to get out of this gig?” asked Chase.

  The writer, a bespectacled skinny type with thinning hair and a lot of pimples, blinked nervously. “I—who told you that? I mean, not that it’s true.”

  “Just answer the question.”

  “I, well…” He looked around anxiously. “Are you going to tell the network about this? Cause I may not be completely satisfied with this gig, but that doesn’t mean I want to antagonize the network. Never antagonize the network, Detective. They’re the ones with the power to blackball you.”

  “We’re not going to tell the network,” Odelia assured him.

  He bit his lip. “All right. That’s good. That’s great.” He picked up a packet of cigarettes and offered them one. They both declined. He lit one up and took an eager drag. “I, um, yeah. Yeah, I wasn’t happy with this job. I am not happy with this job. In fact it’s probably the worst job in the world. Well, maybe not. Sewer inspector or professional dog and cat food taster or armpit sniffer are up there with being a writer for the Kenspeckles. I, um…” He took another long drag from his cigarette. “Yeah, writing those horrible treatments, outlining those stupid scenes, having to endure that hammy acting…” He shook his head. “It’s all very draining. Excruciatingly draining.”

  Odelia had the impression the writer was mistaking them for his shrink, as the flow of words was almost unstoppable.

  “So you didn’t like the show?” Chase asked, stating the obvious.

  “No, I don’t like the show. It’s the worst show on television and I’m in it up to my eyeballs. Can you imagine how soul-sucking it is to write the kind of terrible drama that is required of me? For one thing, I have to keep abreast of all the gossip. I spend hours and hours reading gossip magazines. It’s brutal.”

  Hey, this job didn’t sound so bad. Who didn’t love gossip magazines? And this guy was getting paid to do it? Cool. “So why don’t you quit?” she asked.

  His hand trembled. “I—I can’t. There’s an exclusivity clause in my contract. I signed back when I was an absolute nobody and now I’m stuck.”

  "So you decided that the only way to get the show canceled was to kill off one of the principals," Chase said, nodding.

  “Yeah—wait, what? No! No, I—I would never do that. I… I’m not a killer, Detective. I—I can’t stand the sight of blood. And gore. I don’t even watch The Walking Dead. Zombies freak me out. And blood. It’s the senseless violence. It gets to me.” He took another, long drag. “You sure you don’t…”

  “No, thanks, I’m good,” Chase said. “Where were you when Shana was killed, Mr. Dot?”

  He gestured to a window that looked out onto the terrace. "Right here. In my room. I'm in the smallest room in the house. More like a broom cupboard. Harry Potter size." He grimaced. "It's the curse of the writer. But that doesn't mean I killed Shana. For one thing, I owe my career to this show. Once it's canceled, I can get any job I want. And it's made me a lot of money. A fixed income. Do you know how many writers would kill their mother to get on a show like this? Thousands. Not literally kill their mother. It's just a figure of speech. Most of my colleagues are out of work. I may hate my job, and it's one of the soul-suckiest jobs on the planet, but it's a job. I get paid."

  “Do you have any idea who might be behind the murder?” asked Odelia.

  The guy put out his cigarette with nervous jabs and nodded feverishly. “One of the girls here got a really bum deal. She was attacked by Shana.”

  Chase frowned. “Shana got physical with a crew member?”

  He expelled a jittery laugh. “Not physical, Detective, but she did make her life a living hell. Don’t tell her I told you, but I think you better have a word with Laurelle. Laurelle Merritt? She’s the stylist. She…” He coughed. “She had the bright idea to make a sex tape. She showed the tape to Shana, hoping she would make her famous. All Shana did was show the tape to her sisters. They found the whole thing hilarious and started sending it around to their friends as a joke. Laurelle was shattered.” He blinked. “Shana Kenspeckle was the original mean girl, Detectives. The Shana you see on the screen? That was my creation. The real Shana was not a very nice person.”

  Chapter 20

  Dooley and I had settled down at our new favorite spot: on top of that nice leather couch in the Kenspeckle living room. From here we had a great view of all the goings-on at the house, and could report back to Odelia with any new developments.

  “We have to tell Odelia to get a nice couch like this,” Dooley said as he dug his claws into the leather. “I like it. It’s got everything a cat needs.”

  “I like it too,” I said. “Though I don’t know what the Kenspeckles are going to say when they find out you’re ruining the couch, Dooley.”

  “I’m not ruining it. I’m merely adding my personal touch.”

  Rich people usually don’t have cats. They have dogs, and train them not to ruin the expensive furniture. You can’t train cats not to sink their claws into the upholstery. Not that we’re dumb or something. We just don’t care.

  “So have you solved the murder yet?” Dooley asked.

  “Nope. But I bet it’s a guy. Butchers are usually guys. And according to Abe we’re dealing with a real butcher. As in a professional meat carver.”

  “So Dion or Damien? But Dion is innocent.”

  “What about Damien? Rappers are butchers. Butchers of taste.”

  All right. So I don’t like rap music. Sue me.

  We both watched as Damien paced the living room, deeply engrossed in thought. From time to time he muttered a few snatches of song, punching the air like a kickboxer, then shook his head and paced some more. He was obviously in the throes of the creative process.

  Dooley turned to me. “I don’t think it’s Damien.”

  “I think you’re right. A doofus like that can’t be the killer.”

  Which left… Boa the bodyguard, Burr the cameraman, Alejandro the director, or the writer. Or any of the other bodyguards. Oh, boy. Sleuthing had never been so hard. “I’ll bet it’s Boa,” I said. “He looks like a butcher.”

  “Oh, look,” said Dooley. “Speak of the devil.”

  The big bodyguard came lumbering up, the ground practically quaking where he stepped. He was all sweaty and oily, his big muscles flexing and moving beneath his tan skin. Man, the guy was ripped.

  “I wonder why they haven’t fired him,” I said. “I mean, Shana was killed on his watch. You’d think they’d get rid of him as soon as possible.”

  We watched as Shalonda waved the bodyguard over. He bent over her, placing his hands on either side of her head, and then… kissed her. And I mean really kissed her. Not a brotherly kiss or anything but a no-holds-barred French kiss from what I could tell. He rose up, a giggling Shalonda dangling from his neck, he staggered to the pool, and they both toppled in.

  “I think I know why he wasn’t fired,” Dooley said.

  The moment they resurfaced, there was more kissing, and before we knew what happened, Boa dispensed with Shalonda’s bathing suit and our world suddenly turned into an X-rated movie. The kind Odelia doesn’t allow us to watch. We both stared at the scene, transfixed, our jaws dropping.

  “Um. I think I see what you mean, Dooley,” I said.

  I wanted to avert my eyes but I couldn’t. It was like watching a train wreck. You just can’t look away no matter how wrong you know it is.

  “Max?”

  “Uh-huh?”

&nb
sp; “What are they doing?”

  “It’s called sex, Dooley. It’s what humans do when they make a baby.”

  “Oh. So they’re making a baby?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “I thought they were trying to eat each other.”

  “No. I’m pretty sure they’re making a baby.”

  “Oh, all right.”

  Five minutes later, they were through, and since they were both still alive, it was obvious I was right and Dooley wasn’t. They’d made a Kenspeckle. Shayonne seemed less impressed with her sister’s shenanigans than we were. She was sleeping, her mouth open, snoring softly. Not a pretty sight.

  Shalonda emerged from the pool and plunked down on her chaise. She looked exhausted. Apparently making new Kenspeckles was hard work.

  I searched around for the cameraman, wondering if he caught all that baby making with his camera, but I didn’t see him anywhere. Apparently making new Kenspeckles wasn’t part of the setup. This wasn’t Big Brother.

  Just then, it was as if a bomb went off. Only it wasn’t a bomb but a leggy female with short raven hair and sunglasses covering half the acreage of her face. She strode up like a model on a catwalk, took one look at Shayonne, Shalonda and Boa, and bellowed, “Is this the way to greet your mother?”

  Mother? And then I recognized her. Camille Kenspeckle had arrived. The original queen bee. She had a fur coat casually wrapped around her shoulders, and struck a pose, looking like the female version of Xander Cage.

  Shayonne awoke with a start. When she caught sight of her mother, she squealed with delight, producing a sound so high only Dooley and I could hear it. And her sister, apparently, for Shalonda tumbled from the lounger, looked around dazedly, and scrambled up the moment she saw Camille. Both girls dashed around the pool and threw themselves into their mother’s arms. Boa, who’d been underwater when all this happened, emerged to the happy prattle of the reunion, and looked less thrilled. He probably feared for his employment. He stepped from the pool and approached the threesome.

  “Hi, Camille,” he said.

  “Boa. Where are they?”

  Boa gestured to the guest house, and I got the impression they were talking about Odelia and Chase.

  “Find them,” Camille ordered, “and bring them to me.”

  She sounded like a warlord, ordering slaves to be fetched for execution.

  Boa nodded curtly and stalked over to the guesthouse. Meanwhile, Dion and Damien had also joined the happy reunion, and even Kane had come running. The bulldog was yapping up a storm, barking at Camille as if he’d never seen her before, jumping up against Dion and Damien’s legs, barking at Shayonne and Shalonda and generally creating a big fuss.

  “That dog is such an idiot,” Dooley said.

  “He is,” I agreed. Staring at the dog, a thought occurred to me, but when I tried to catch it, it vanished. There was something about Kane. But what?

  Oh, well. It probably wasn’t important.

  Chapter 21

  Laurelle Merritt’s room wasn’t much bigger than Eamonn’s. The door was open so Odelia and Chase announced their presence by giving the doorpost a quick rap. Laurelle was sitting cross-legged on the bed, pictures and fashion magazines spread out all around her. She had a narrow, pale face, framed by a black bob, and was dressed in khaki shorts and a sleeveless maroon shirt.

  “Hampton Cove police,” Chase said. “Mind if we ask you a few questions, Miss Merritt?”

  “Oh, of course,” she said. “Um, come in. I’m sorry about the mess.”

  Odelia glanced around. The room was barely big enough to contain the bed, a vanity and a desk, and every available surface was crammed with stuff. Clothes, samples, magazines, makeup, wigs, clothes… Everything stuffed into the small space. “If you like we could do the interview outside,” she said.

  “Oh, no, that’s fine. It probably won’t take long, right?”

  "No, just a few routine questions," Chase said. He was a lot kinder to Laurelle than he'd been to Boa or the others. Her story had touched a chord. "First off, where were you the night Shana Kenspeckle was killed?" he asked as he cleared away a few magazines and took a seat at the foot of the bed.

  “I was right here. Asleep.”

  Odelia leaned against the desk. “Can anyone vouch for that?”

  Laurelle shook her head. “I sleep alone, if that’s what you mean. I don’t have a boyfriend at the moment, so…” Her voice trailed off, and Odelia felt genuinely sorry for the young woman. She looked like a scared little mouse.

  “We have to ask,” she said softly.

  “Of course. No, I get it. Just ask me anything you want.”

  This was probably a waste of time. It was obvious Laurelle wasn’t the killer. She could probably hardly lift that cleaver, let alone wield it with such deadly force and precision. Still, they had to interview everyone on their list.

  “There is one other thing we need to discuss, Miss Merritt,” Chase said.

  “Yes?” she asked, eyes large.

  “We’ve been told about the tape.”

  “Yes?”

  “The sex tape?” Odelia asked.

  Shock appeared in the girl’s eyes. “Who-who told you?”

  “That’s not important. Is it true?” asked Chase.

  Laurelle buried her face in her hands. “Oh, no.”

  “I’m sorry to have to bring this up,” said Chase. “But we need to know.”

  She nodded, then said, in a choked voice, “I made that tape back when I was still seeing this guy. He worked as a caterer and I thought he was the one.” She shook her head. “So stupid. He convinced me that to make it in this business I should make a sex tape. It would put my name on the map. Give me exposure. I-I wasn’t totally convinced but-but he was adamant.”

  Chase’s jaw was working. If this caterer were here right now he’d probably give him a piece of his mind. And his fist.

  Laurelle looked up. “So we made the tape and I sent it to Shana, figuring she’d know what to do with it. She’s got all these contacts, so… And she did show it around. To her sisters and all of their friends. To make fun of me. And to give me points for technique. Apparently I was so bad I was funny.”

  There was a note of bitterness in her voice, and Odelia didn’t blame her. If something like this happened to her she’d probably die of mortification.

  “Did they spread the tape beyond their circle?” Chase asked.

  “No, thank God they didn’t. Shana said the best thing would be to destroy the tape, as it could only ruin my reputation. So I did.”

  “Why didn’t you quit your job?” Odelia asked. “After what Shana did to you it must have been hard to keep working for the Kenspeckles.”

  “It was at first, but this is basically my dream job. A lot of stylists would kill for this job. So I decided to suck it up.” She produced a feeble smile. “It wasn’t so bad. Shana apologized. Said she was totally out of line.”

  Chase asked some more questions, and so did Odelia, but it was pretty clear that this was not their killer, nor could she shed any light on the murder.

  “All right, Miss Merritt,” said Chase. “Thank you for your time. If there’s anything else you can think of, give me a call.” He handed her his card.

  They left the room and walked back to the main house.

  “We’re nowhere,” Chase said. “Absolutely nowhere.”

  “Did you check Shana’s ex-boyfriend? Robin Masters?”

  “Yeah, he’s got an alibi. He’s in Alaska. Writing his autobiography.”

  “Isn’t he a little young to write his autobiography?”

  But Chase didn’t respond. Boa had joined them. He jerked his thumb in the direction of a woman in a fur coat who stood with her back to them.

  “Lady wants a word with you, Detectives,” Boa grunted.

  “I think our luck just ran out, Poole,” Chase said.

  The woman turned, and Odelia recognized her. Camille Kenspeckle, the matriarch of the Kenspeckle clan.
The woman she'd seen so many times on TV and the cover of countless magazines. And she did not look happy.

  The moment Camille caught sight of them, she took off her sunglasses. There was a glint of steel in those eyes. “Detective Kingsley, I presume?”

  “You presume right, Mrs. Kenspeckle.”

  “I’m calling off your investigation, Detective.”

  “You can’t call off a police investigation, ma’am. It’s not a photo shoot.”

  “I’m bringing in the FBI. This should have been treated as a terrorist attack from the beginning. You failed my little girl, Detective. You failed my family. But no more. I’m taking over, as I should have done from day one.”

  “This was not a terrorist attack,” Chase insisted. “This was a homicide, and if you pull us off the investigation now we may never find the one responsible.”

  “You’re through, Detective, and so are you, whoever you are,” she said as she gave Odelia a supercilious glance. “This investigation is terminated.”

  Camille had a lot more things to say, and so did Chase, but Odelia decided she’d heard enough. It was clear they’d overstayed their welcome. While Chase argued with Camille, she went in search of her cats. She found them on top of the leather couch in the living room, chatting and chillaxing.

  “What’s going on?” Max asked.

  “They’re kicking us out,” she said.

  “See? I told you,” said Max. “I told you this was the end.”

  “But they can’t do that,” Dooley said. “We’re the cops.”

  “Camille has her own ideas about her daughter’s murder,” Odelia said. She picked up both cats and carried them off. “She’s convinced it was a terrorist attack and that the FBI should take over.”

  “She’s calling in the FBI?” Max asked.

  “Yep. She said we’ve wasted enough time. She’s taking her family back to LA, where she can protect them from the terrorists. She’s going to trust the FBI to handle the investigation from now on and not us local yokels.”