by Nic Saint
I could sense that smarter heads needed to prevail here, so I addressed Kitten Number One, the whizz kid.
“Hey, you,” I said, inserting a note of steel into my voice.
The kitten didn’t even look up from sniffing at its own wee.
“Don’t pretend you can’t hear me. I know you can.”
The kitten finally looked up, opening its mouth and mewling questioningly.
“There are rules in this house,” I said. “And you’d better follow them or else.”
It was mewling softly now, opening and closing its little mouth.
“Or else what, you ask? Or else I’ll tan your tiny little hide, that’s what.”
“Max!” Odelia cried behind me. “That’s no way to speak to our new guests.”
“But—”
“Apologize.”
I must admit my jaw had dropped at these harsh words from one I’d always known to be in my corner. The kitten fever had clearly taken a hold of my human, and had altered her personality to such an extent she was now a different human altogether.
“I’m sorry,” I told the kitten begrudgingly.
“And now say it like you mean it,” said Odelia.
“Okay, I’m sorry, all right!” I cried, then stalked off. Or at least I started stalking off, but then my tail got snagged in some immovable object and my progress was halted. When I abruptly swung my head around to see what had snagged me, I saw that it was the kitten, which had planted itself firmly astride my tail and was now playing with the tail’s tail end, which invariably tends to sway as if possessing a mind of its own.
“Stop that,” I snapped, but the kitten seemed to enjoy the swishing movement so much it kept grabbing at my fluffy appendage.
“Max,” said Odelia warningly.
“Stop that, please?” I asked.
But then the kitten suddenly dug its teeth into my tail and I screamed, “Yikes!”
“Max!” Odelia said. “Don’t be rude!”
“But she just bit me in the tail!”
“She’s just playing,” she said, then picked up my little nemesis, and checked her. “So you think she’s a she?”
“Of course she’s a she. Don’t you think a cat can tell whether another cat is a he or a she?”
“Don’t be a smart-ass. Here,” she said, planting the other two kittens in front of me. “Tell me what they are.”
I scowled at the foul creatures, then pointed at the black one. “He,” I said. Then pointed at the white one. “He.”
“Thanks, Max,” said Odelia, and picked up all three kittens. “Now for the most important part. What shall we name them? Any suggestions?”
She was rocking them in her arms now, even though they tried to squirm away.
My suggestion was Menace Number One, Menace Number Two and Menace Number Three, but something told me Odelia might not agree with my naming convention. So instead I said, “Why don’t you ask Gran? She named the rest of us.”
Odelia nodded. “Great idea. I’ll ask her.”
I didn’t know if this was such a good idea, for Gran has a habit of picking names from the soaps she watches. I was named after Max Halloran, a doctor on General Hospital who was accused of fathering triplets with his mother’s twin sister’s mobster fiancé’s younger sister’s best friend. And Dooley could trace the origin of his name to a casting director on The Bold and the Beautiful. Harriet, on the other hand, was named after Harriet the Spy, apparently a book Odelia’s mom had always liked.
Brutus, of course, had been named by Chase’s mom, his original owner. I have no idea what inspired her, but Brutus has always been a butch cat, so the name seemed apt.
The kittens, meanwhile, had managed to tumble back onto the kitchen counter, and were now digging their teeth into the carton box, ripping it into tiny pieces and spreading it across the floor like confetti.
I had to bite my tongue not to make a scathing remark about littering, but managed to restrain myself with a powerful effort. This was, after all, Odelia’s house, and if she felt like raising a trio of hell-raisers, that was her prerogative.
I vowed, however, that the moment she turned her back I was going to do some serious schooling of my own. I like to run a tight ship when she’s not around, and I intended to keep it that way.
Chapter 3
Odelia could have stayed with the little cuties all morning, but unfortunately she had to go to work. By then, Chase was up, his alarm clock having launched into a cheerful rendition of Pharrell Williams’s Happy, and the hunky cop had woken up with a groan.
When she arrived at the top of the stairs, she was greeted by the pleasant scene of Chase sitting up in bed and stretching. The man was built like a tank, and even though she’d already seen him sans T-shirt many times since their first meeting, it was still a sight for sore eyes. Her eyes weren’t sore now, though. Instead, they were sparkling.
“What’s with the racket?” asked Chase now as she stepped into the bedroom and sat down on the edge of the bed to feast her eyes on the man’s perfect physique from up close.
“Oh, just three kittens left in a box on my doorstep,” she explained.
He did a double take. “Wait, what now?”
She nodded. “Yup. Someone left three kittens outside, with a note asking me to take care of them. Oh, Chase, you should see them. They’re just the cutest little babies!”
“Kittens,” he said, as if she’d just announced the world was ending. “Three of them.”
“I would have brought them up but I didn’t know if you were awake yet.”
He was awake now, that much was obvious. Awake and not entirely happy about this turn of events. He squeezed his eyes shut then opened them again, as if hoping this had all been a bad dream. “So you’re telling me you’ve decided to adopt three more cats?”
“I haven’t adopted them,” she specified. “Someone left them on my doorstep.”
He laughed an incredulous laugh. “You’re not seriously thinking about keeping them, are you?”
She experienced a slight diminution of the love and affection she felt for him from the moment he’d walked into her life. “I haven’t decided yet. Why? Don’t you like kittens?”
Chase hesitated. He could probably sense he’d just stepped on a potential landmine that was about to go off at the slightest provocation. Ever so carefully, he said, “You already have four cats. Three more makes seven. That’s seven cats. Four plus three. Seven.”
“Your grasp on basic math is astounding, Chase,” she said. “Yes, seven cats, divided over two homes, makes three-and-a-half cats per home. I know people that have a dozen cats.” She didn’t add that she personally felt that a dozen cats was a little ambitious for any homeowner, even if they adored the furry creatures. She wanted to gauge Chase’s response.
He blinked and gulped. “A dozen.”
She nodded cheerfully. “A dozen cats. And a happy home it is, too.”
“A dozen cats,” he muttered, and started to shake his head. Then he paused mid-shake, and gave her an odd look. “Today isn’t April Fool’s, is it?”
Her lips tightened. “No, today isn’t April Fool’s. And I don’t understand what the big deal is. Seven cats is nothing. Besides, like I said, I haven’t decided if I’m going to keep them or not.” Though she was starting to lean towards adopting them if Chase kept this up.
“Think about it,” he said, holding up an admonishing hand. “Think hard. I mean, there might be other families that want to adopt a cat. In fact there may be three families out there, extremely keen to adopt a cute little kitty and you hogging all three of them would put those families in a state of deep, profound sadness. Don’t be a hogger, babe.”
He had a point, of course. She couldn’t very well hog all the cats in Hampton Cove. That simply wouldn’t be fair.
And she would have discussed the ins and outs of cat adoption in more detail if Chase’s phone hadn’t developed suicidal tendencies and leaped from the nightstand when it sta
rted buzzing frantically. He picked it up and grunted, “It’s your uncle,” then answered by growling, “Yeah, Alec.” He listened for a moment, then raised his eyes to Odelia, and nodded. “I’ll be there in five.” When he disconnected, he gave her a quizzical look. “Mh.”
“What is it?” She knew that look. Something had happened. Something bad.
“It’s Jeb Pott,” he said, scratching his ear.
“The actor? What about him?”
“He’s just been arrested.”
“Arrested? What did he do this time? Joyriding? Drunk and disorderly?” The famous actor was, in spite of his age, still a bad boy personified, and had been wreaking havoc across town for the past couple of weeks now. If he wasn’t speeding through downtown Hampton Cove, spooking senior citizens, he could be found passed out in the local park, having succumbed to an abundance of vodka or some other intoxicant, liquid or powdered.
But Chase was slowly shaking his head. “This time he’s really done it.”
“Don’t keep me in suspense, Chase. What did he do?”
Jeb Pott was one of her favorite actors—possibly the favorite actor of every woman her age—and to watch him self-destruct had hurt and annoyed Odelia a great deal.
“He’s murdered his ex-wife. Your uncle just found her body in his lodge, the knife in his bed, her blood on his hands.”
Chapter 4
I’d joined Odelia as she drove out to the house where Jeb Pott lived, and so had Dooley, my best friend and part-time housemate. Chase had taken his own pickup and was leading the way, with Odelia following close behind.
“So who is this Jeb Pott?” asked Dooley now.
“He’s a world-famous actor,” said Odelia.
She looked unhappy at this turn of events, and I didn’t wonder. She loves Jeb Pott and has seen every picture the man has ever made, from his humble arthouse movie beginnings to his blockbuster turn as swashbuckler in the remake of Captain Blood. The man isn’t merely a star. He’s a mega-star. Or at least was, until his recent disastrous divorce.
“We’ve seen him, remember, Dooley?” I said. “He played Captain Blood in Captain Blood. They call him the new Errol Flynn.”
“Oh, right,” said Dooley, though it was obvious he had no idea what I was talking about. The sight of three kittens cavorting about our living room had startled Dooley as much as it had me, and this had shortened his attention span which now made him tune out to some extent. Dooley’s mind is such that it can only hold two ideas at the same time, and right now it was overrun with images of kittens dangling from the curtains, swinging from the ceiling lights, cavorting on the kitchen counter, and peeing in Odelia’s flowerpots.
“I like him,” said Odelia. “I like him a lot. I think he’s one of the most talented actors of his generation, or any generation, for that matter. He’s always been one of my favorites, until…” She dug her teeth into her lower lip.
“Until the divorce,” I said in a low voice.
She nodded and gripped her steering wheel a little tighter. “Until the divorce,” she said quietly.
Jeb Pott’s career could be divided into two distinct periods: the slow rise to the absolute pinnacle of fame and glory, and his post-divorce period, when his star power had begun to wane and he’d gone from hero to zero in the space of a few short weeks.
His ex-wife Camilla Kirby had filed for divorce on the grounds of domestic violence, cruelty and substance abuse and had shown the proof by parading in front of the world media with a big purple bruise on her cheek, the result of an encounter with Jeb’s fist.
Jeb had claimed foul play and said she’d made up both bruise and abuse, but by then it was too late, the actor’s reputation irreparably damaged, and turned into a pariah by the same Tinseltown that had hailed him as its most popular star only a few short weeks before.
“Oh, how fickle fame is,” I said softly.
“So what happened to this Jeb Pott?” asked Dooley.
“He allegedly beat his wife, and now he allegedly murdered her,” I said.
“Nothing alleged about it,” said Odelia. “Camille Kirby is dead and Jeb was practically covered in her blood, the murder weapon lying next to him on the bed, his prints all over it.” She was shaking her head. “I find this very hard to believe. How could he…” Her voice caught and she haltingly said, in a strange, wobbly tone, “I took his side, you know. In the divorce circus? I thought she was lying. And now this.”
I shook my head sadly. Human drama. It never fails to grip. It’s just so much more poignant than feline drama, don’t you think? Just look at all the soap operas. Or have you ever seen a soap about cats pulling each other’s hair? Then again, cats don’t often buy soap, so daytime TV doesn’t have that much of an incentive to target them as their audience.
Chase’s pickup pulled off the road and stopped in front of a wooden gate. A cop was parked in front of it, and when he saw Chase he held up his hand in greeting and used a button on a keypad next to the gate. He spoke into the intercom and the gate swung open.
Outside the gate, a dozen news vans were parked, with two dozen reporters, camera crew and photographers trying to catch a glimpse of what was happening beyond that gate.
When we arrived and were waved through, they started snapping pictures of Odelia and Chase and even me and Dooley. I grinned. “There are going to be a lot of editors in a lot of newsrooms across the country wondering what two cats are doing visiting the crime scene of one of the world’s most famous actors.”
“They’re probably also wondering why I’m the only reporter allowed to enter the place,” said Odelia, who didn’t seem to enjoy being photographed by her colleagues as much as I’d expected. Then again, Odelia is not used to being at the center of attention. Usually she’s the one out there, snapping pictures of the stars driving by in their limos.
“At least you didn’t bring the kittens along,” said Dooley, harping on the same theme that had occupied his mind from the moment we’d left the house.
“They’re too young to travel,” said Odelia absentmindedly as she slipped her car into a parking spot, then unfastened her seatbelt and turned to us. “So you know what to do, right?”
“Relax,” I said. “We’re old paws at this by now.”
“Old paws,” said Dooley, chuckling. “Funny.”
Odelia smiled. “Great. Go get them, boys.”
Our task, if we chose to accept it, which we did, was to gather background information, and talk to any creature that might have seen something, heard something, sniffed something, or generally had information and a unique perspective to impart. It provided Odelia with those telling details that made her stories so vivid and unique.
So we set off in the direction of the lodge that was the hub of activity, crime scene people and cops buzzing about like so many flies, and vowed to make Odelia proud.
Chapter 5
It was with a heavy heart that Odelia took out her notebook. Normally she loved reporting on crime and spinning an entertaining yarn for her readers, but this particular case had struck close to home. She’d been a fan of Jeb’s for as long as she could remember, and this murder suddenly painted her hero in a very unfavorable light indeed. Could it be that Jeb wasn’t the quirky, talented actor she’d come to adore but a murdering psychopath instead?
Uncle Alec came walking out of the small lodge. He looked stricken, and held up a meaty paw when he saw her. “Better don’t go in there, honey. It’s not a pretty sight.”
She nodded. “Where is Jeb?”
“We took him away already. He’s cooling his heels in the lockup.”
“Are you sure he did it?” she asked. It was the question that had been at the forefront of her mind ever since Chase had delivered the shocking news.
“No doubt about it,” her uncle grumbled with a sad look on his hangdog face. At fifty-four, Alec Lip’s face displayed the mileage he’d racked up as the town’s chief of police and then some. His wispy gray hair was plastered to his skul
l as usual, and he hadn’t shaved yet, probably having been called out of bed and having driven straight there.
“And is it... Camilla Kirby?”
He nodded dourly. “No doubt about that, either. She has so many stab wounds it looks like Jeb must have been in a murderous frenzy.” He shook his head again. “Terrible business. Just terrible,” he muttered.
“Maybe someone else did it and is trying to put the blame on Jeb?”
Her uncle gave her a skeptical look. “The knife was right next to him on the bed, his prints all over it. Her blood on his hands and clothes. Almost as if he’d been bathing in it. We even found her blood in his ears. I’m sorry, honey, but Jeb Pott is guilty as hell.”
“But what was Camilla doing out here? I thought they were divorced.”
“They were. All we know for certain right now is that she took a flight out here from LA late last night, then took a taxi here. She arrived at exactly…” He took out his notebook. “Three forty-five.”
“Middle of the night.”
“Uh-huh. The taxi driver told me he warned her about getting out of his cab in the middle of the night in the middle of nowhere but she was unconcerned. Giddy, even, according to his statement. As if she couldn’t wait to meet…”
“Jeb,” said Odelia quietly. “So who else lives here?”
“Place belongs to Jeb’s other ex-wife. Helena Grace. She’s lived here with their daughter Fae for the past fifteen years.”
“It’s the house Jeb bought when he and Helena moved here from Rome.”
“Is that right?” said Uncle Alec, looking amused at being upstaged.
“Jeb and Helena met twenty-five years ago in Italy. He was filming a movie out there and she had a small part. She played his nurse, tasked with nursing him back to health after his fighter jet was shot down by the Germans. It was a World War II drama.”
“Right,” he said. “Anyway, the front gate can only be opened either from the main house, where Helena and her daughter live, or from the lodge, where Jeb was staying.”