by Nic Saint
“You set up the meeting and you killed her.”
Abbey nodded. “It wasn’t hard. I hated her guts with a vengeance. Not only did she use Seger, but she also came on to him, and when he refused, started pestering him even more. She was a jerk.”
“Where did you get the cyanide?”
“On a movie set in Lithuania a couple of months ago. The sound guy was former Russian intelligence. He had a couple of cyanide pills from his days in the service and gave them to me as a present. In case I ever got fed up with my director. He only said it half in jest. The director on that shoot really was a terrible pest. So I put some of that cyanide in a Coke can and gave it to Kimberlee. She loved Coke Emerald, and especially since this was from Emerald’s personal stash, which has just that extra kick the others lack.”
“How did you get your hands on that can?”
“Emerald gave it to me—in fact she gave each of us a can of Special Coke Emerald: Kimberlee, me, Verna, Alina... So when I was in there, I offered Kimberlee mine and then when she was dead, I took hers so people would simply figure she’d killed herself.”
“How did you get her to drink it?”
“She was a Coke addict. Easily downed a gallon a day. I went in there to talk about a new project Seger was setting up for her—she was eager to direct her own movie and he’d found a producer who was willing to take a chance on her—and to discuss the stuff that had just gone down with Alina. I said I hated Alina as much as she did, and she just gobbled it up. Started thinking up ways and means of murdering Alina in the most gruesome way possible. Ironically enough she was drinking a lethal dose of cyanide as she sat there fantasizing about killing Alina.”
“How did you know about the secret passageways?”
“Emerald showed them to us last year. Said we could use them to sneak into each other’s rooms for slumber parties and if we got tired of our husbands.”
“What about Shauna?”
She frowned. “Who?”
“The maid you pushed down the stairs.”
“Oh, that.” She shrugged. “I think she saw me. She was in my room when I stepped out of the wall, right after Kimberlee was killed. It probably didn’t take her long to put two and two together. So when I saw her shove that note under your door I just figured it was time to end her. So I did.”
It was hard to believe that a woman who appeared so utterly sweet and kind could turn out to be such a ruthless killer, Odelia thought.
“And to think I liked you,” she said finally.
“Oh, but I like you, too, honey,” said Abbey, putting a hand on Odelia’s arm. “But it’s every woman for herself in this business. And it was pretty obvious to me you knew something, so you had to be silenced.”
“It was you and Seger I heard talking last night, wasn’t it? You were saying how careful you’d been and he was expressing his concern.”
“Yeah, Seger knew, of course. Hard to keep something like that a secret from your husband. I caught him staring at pictures of Kimberlee yesterday. Can you believe that? His tormentor and blackmailer. Apparently he’d developed a crush on her after all. Stockholm syndrome, maybe. Anyway, he was worried somebody would find out. Seger has always been a worrier,” she said with a wistful smile. “He’s not going to be happy I got caught.” She frowned. “And by a bunch of stupid cats.”
Chapter 39
We were finally home again, and seated on our favorite porch in Marge and Tex’s leafy backyard. The sun was setting, but the day was still nice and warm, and our favorite humans had all gathered for a Poole family tradition. A nice grill was sizzling, Tex had strapped on his apron and was officiating the grill, and Marge and Gran had just brought out the coleslaw and potato salad and if I knew Marge, a chocolate cake was in the fridge. Us cats were also in for a treat, as we got to snack on morsels of real meat for a change, as opposed to our kibble and wet food pouches that were our usual menu.
“I still don’t get it,” said Dooley. “Why would Abbey go to all this trouble—risk her career and her life—to get rid of Kimberlee?”
“Because Kimberlee had a secret she held over her husband’s head like the sword of Damocles,” I said. When Dooley gave me a blank look, I explained, “Kimberlee was blackmailing Seger with a secret from his past.”
“I know all about that—but what secret could be so big to make him do what she told him to?”
“Uncle Alec figured that out,” I said as I chewed on a tasty veal patty. “Apparently Seger was involved in a hit-and-run accident when he was a teenager. His dad was a prosecutor at the time and managed to bury the police report. Kimberlee had gotten wind of it and threatened to reveal the truth. It would have killed Seger’s career and tarnished that of his dad. So he preferred to take Kimberlee on as a client rather than have her destroy his career.”
“She was not a nice person,” said Dooley judiciously.
“No, she was not.”
“I solved the case,” said Harriet, who was lying next to me. “I actually cracked this case. I’m the one who found the telling clue.”
“Well, it wasn’t exactly the telling clue,” I said, then, when she gave me a censorious look, I quickly changed my tune. “It was a very important clue.”
It was true. In a roundabout way it had led to the killer.
“I’m just glad it wasn’t Emerald that did it,” said Harriet. “I love Emerald. She’s one of the biggest stars in the world. I hope she’ll never stop acting.”
“I bet she won’t,” I said. “A woman like Emerald can keep on acting until she’s standing with one foot in the grave, and even then she’ll make it fascinating to watch.”
Out in the backyard, Chase was darting occasional looks in our direction, then shaking his head, a bemused grin on his face.
“I still can’t believe you can actually talk to your cats,” he told Odelia.
“You bet we can,” said Marge, as she ladled more potato salad on her plate and dug in. “It’s a blessing. How many cases have you solved this way, Odelia? A dozen? More?”
“Probably,” Odelia said as she kept a close eye on her dad, who was spacing out again, at risk of allowing his burgers to burn to crisps.
“It’s a blessing, and a curse,” said Gran. “A blessing because it’s a lot of fun to listen to those sweethearts and their conversation—they’re like a bunch of toddlers—they just crack me up each time they open their little mouths.”
“You know we can hear you, right?” I said.
She held up her hand. “And a curse because they just won’t stop yacking. Day and night, they just go on and on and on. Yackety yackety yak. No end.”
“That’s it,” Harriet snapped. “I’m not saying another word.”
“Do we talk too much?” asked Brutus.
“Some of you talk more than others,” Gran said, then pointed a finger at Harriet. “I’m not pointing fingers.”
“She is pointing fingers, though,” said Dooley.
“It’s a human thing,” I said. “They say one thing and mean something entirely different.”
“It’s very confusing.”
“It is confusing,” I agreed.
“I wish they wouldn’t do that.”
“Just let it go, Dooley.”
“But I don’t get it.”
“See?” said Gran. “What did I tell you? Yackety-yak.”
“It’s fun, though,” said Marge. “They’re so much fun.”
“I know, right!” said Gran. “That’s my problem. I can’t deny those furballs a thing. Anything they want, I give them. They’re my Achilles heel.”
Chase had wandered over and took a seat on the swing next to us. “So tell me, what do they say about me? Do they like me? Hate me? What?”
Marge and Odelia shared a look. “You don’t want to know,” said Marge.
“They think you’re a great guy,” said Uncle Alec.
“And how would you know?” said Gran. “You don’t understand a word they say.”
“I can tell from the expression on their faces,” said Uncle Alec, taking a swig from his beer.
We all looked up at Chase, and I said reverently, “We think Chase is amazing.”
“We think he’s Jesus,” said Dooley. “But without the sheep.”
“He saved my life once,” I said. “No, twice. Or is it three times?”
“He’s the hunkiest male I’ve ever met,” said Brutus. “Definitely not a pussy or a girly man like most. A man’s man.”
“Whatever that means,” said Harriet with an eyeroll.
“It means he’s my hero,” said Brutus.
“I thought your hero was Caitlyn Jenner?” said Harriet. “You were going to change yourself into a woman, remember?”
“Oh, that was just a whim,” said Brutus with a gesture of his paw.
“I wonder if Chase is neutered, just like we are,” said Dooley now.
“He doesn’t look neutered,” said Brutus.
“How can you tell?” asked Harriet.
“I’ve seen him without his clothes,” Brutus revealed. “He doesn’t look neutered to me. He still has all his… assets. And they’re quite formidable.”
Harriet’s eyes lit up with a renewed fervor. “He’s not Jesus,” she said now, reverently. “The man is a God. A superhero.”
“Hey, and what am I? Chopped liver?”
“You’re a demi-god, okay?” she snapped.
“I should have listened to Kingman,” Brutus grumbled. “He told me there’s a shop where they sell Neuticles.”
“They sell what now?” I asked.
“Neuticles. Prosthetic testicular implants. They’re made of silicone and look just like the real thing. They make them for neutered male pets, so they wouldn’t feel so bad about having their appendages removed.”
“Oh, just grow a pair,” said Harriet, shaking her head.
“That’s just it—I can’t. But I can buy a pair.”
“Oh, my god,” she groaned.
“It’s a thing!” said Brutus.
“Brutus, baby, when are you going to get it through that thick skull of yours that I don’t care what you’re packing? It’s you I love, not your equipment.”
“Oh, honey lamb,” he said, mollified.
“Oh, snuggle pooh,” she said.
Kissing ensued, and both Dooley and I rolled our eyes and looked away.
“If this is what birds and bees do, I’m not sure I want to know about it,” Dooley said.
“I hear you, Dooley,” I said. “I hear you.”
“So?” said Chase blithely. “What’s the verdict? Do they like me or do they like me?”
But Marge, Odelia and Gran were too busy rolling on the floor laughing.
That’s one other thing us cats have: apart from the gift of the gab, we make people laugh.
And isn’t that the greatest gift of all?
THE END
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Excerpt from A Game of Dons (The Mysteries of Bell & Whitehouse 10)
Chapter One
Virgil Scattering had been walking for what felt like hours, and frankly he was starting to get a little tired. He might be a cop but that didn’t mean he was a superhero. Then again, if he really was a superhero, he could have flown to his destination. Or he could have turned himself into a giant version of himself and taken one step to get where he was going, like Ant-Man. Unfortunately he wasn’t Ant-Man but merely a humble human flatfoot, and therefore had to be content with using the power vested in his lower limbs.
He wiped his brow, which at this point was liberally covered with sweat, took a deep breath, and planted his fists in the small of his back as he took a little breather.
He wasn’t built for strenuous physical activity. And especially not when the sun was burning down on him and temperatures were soaring. Once, in his younger years, as a beat cop just starting out, walking every corner of his town meant nothing to him. He walked them for fun and pleasure. Now, having just turned thirty, and after several years of dividing his time between filling out paperwork and driving to crime scenes, he was out of shape.
I should never have taken that call, thought Virgil now. A string bean of a man, with a battering ram of a chin, he wasn’t exactly a model of physical beauty, but what he lacked in outward appeal he made up for in diligence. So when the call had come in that morning, he’d put down his donut—freshly baked at Bell’s Bakery—and had listened intently to the voice of distress alerting him of something untoward going down on the other side of town.
“I need you to come down here, Virgil, and I need you to come now,” the woman’s voice had said with an urgency that had the hairs at the back of his neck pay attention.
“I’m sorry, who is this?” he’d asked, picking up a pencil and getting ready to jot down a few vital thoughts on what sounded like it might very well be a crime in progress.
“Robinson Street sixty-nine. Come alone and make sure you’re not followed.”
“I’m not—”
“Horse’s head, Virgil. Horse’s head, remember?”
He’d gulped and almost dropped the phone. “Horse’s… head?” he’d repeated, a little hoarsely. “Is this… Miss Ko—”
“No names! You never know who’s listening. Come alone—and whatever you do, don’t mention this conversation to anyone. No one can know. Oh, and ditch the car.”
“Ditch the—”
“Do I really have to say everything twice, Virgil? My God, you haven’t changed, have you? Yes, ditch the car. Cars can be tracked—you should know. You’re a cop. Come on foot and limber up your muscles. I’ve got a job for you and it involves physical exertion.”
“Physical—”
“Just get here!” And she’d hung up, leaving him to stare at his phone in abject confusion.
“What’s going on?” his colleague asked. Officer Louise Rhythm had recently been promoted to detective, and now occupied the desk directly across from his.
Virgil looked up. “I, um… I need to…” He’d abruptly gotten up.
“Virgil?” asked Louise, giving him one of her trademark ‘has he just lost his frickin’ mind?’ looks. Her cornrows were perfectly coiffed, with some pink braided in today.
“I have to go,” said Virgil, staring at Louise as if she’d just sprouted a second nose.
“Go where?” she asked emphatically, as if talking to a toddler.
“Um… out. On a case.”
“I’m your partner, Virgil. Don’t you think you should enlighten me about this case of yours? That way we can go together? As a team? Since that’s what we are? A team?”
“Yes,” he said, thinking hard, which was always a strain. “It’s private,” he said finally in a moment of snap illumination. “Um, like, a private case.”
“A private case.” She shook her head. “You’re going down to Bell’s Bakery again, aren’t you? To get yourself some more of those delicious deep-fried goodies.”
He pointed at her, relief flooding through him. “Yes! That’s it! Goodies!”
“Bring me five, will you? Pink glaze and sprinkles. Oh, and some crullers.”
He started to back away slowly. He wasn’t used to lying to Louise. In fact he’d never lied to his partner in his life—or any of his colleagues—so this was all new. And weird.
“Virgil!” Louise called after him.
He froze. “Yes?”
She cocked her head. “Aren’t you forgetting something?”
He gulped, eyes widening. This was it. Just like when Felicity Bell had discovered he’d stolen her Twizzlers in fifth grade. Ice touched his spine and his stomach did backflips.
She sighed audibly, then cocked her index finger at him. “Your gun and badge?”
“Oh, right!” Virgil said. He retraced his steps, reached into his drawer and retrieved the ite
ms under discussion, then quickly hurried off again, before Louise could stop him.
The moment his back was turned, he could hear her say, “One of these days he’s going to forget to take his head.”
He’d walked two miles, his shirt drenched and his feet aching, when he remembered the caller’s words: make sure you’re not being followed. So he looked left, he looked right, and he looked behind him. Apart from a child talking to herself while checking something on her phone, there was no one around. So he continued walking, at this point feeling as if he were training for a 24-hour challenge, and he wasn’t even wearing his comfortable shoes.
Deanna Kohl. How about that? It had been years since he’d seen her last. Too many years to count. Last he heard she’d moved away to one of those fancy places in upstate New York. Places where a simple family home could set you back millions. Or was it billions?
He glanced around at the neighborhood he now found himself in. Grimey Hill had really gone downhill in recent years. Many of these older homes stood empty now, their owners having moved away. Weeds infested front yards, grass peeked through the cracks in the pavement, potholes littered the asphalt, and many of the houses were dilapidated.
He knew the area well. It was one of those eyesores that give a town council headaches. Most of the properties had been snapped up by a conglomerate of developers, with only a few homeowners stubbornly holding out. The neighborhood would be razed to make room for a housing tract. Virgil had even considered buying a home for himself here.
He still lived with his mom and from time to time was overcome with a sudden yearning for independence. His mom wouldn’t be happy. She liked having a live-in son who did the odd chores around the house and kept burglars and salespeople at bay.
He arrived at the house in question. Yep. This was the place all right.
He took a deep breath, straightened his tie, and pushed through the wrought-iron gate, now rusted through. It clattered to the ground with a dull clunk. Virgil gulped. Bad sign.
He approached the front door, stepping over an ornamental stone frog that had stumbled off its perch, and pressed his finger to the bell. It didn’t produce the merry tinkling one likes to hear in the suburbs. Instead it rasped like a bottle fly with smoker’s cough. Inside, he could hear footsteps approach, and he arranged his features into the appropriate expression of professionalism and seriousness one likes to see in a cop making a house call.