by Nic Saint
Helena frowned and tapped her lips. “Well, there’s our neighbor, of course. Fitz Priestley.” She exchanged a look with her daughter. “He hates Jeb right now, doesn’t he?”
“Oh, yes. Fitz hates Jeb so hard right now.”
“Fitz Priestley the director? I thought Jeb was his muse?”
“He was, but that was before Jeb’s name became synonymous with spousal abuse,” said Helena. “Now he’s box office poison and no producer or studio will come near Fitz.”
“Which means,” continued Fae, “that the movies Fitz made with Jeb are not being rented, not being downloaded or watched on Netflix. He’s losing a lot of money. Plus, his name is now tainted by association, which is never a good thing for an ambitious director.”
“But would he murder Camilla to get back at Jeb?” asked Odelia. “That seems unlikely.”
“Oh, but he hated Camilla, too,” said Helena. “He cast her as his leading lady in his most recent project, for a star turn along with Jeb, but with the divorce the project fell through. He’d put a lot of his own money in it, and he lost it all.”
It was perhaps a reason to hate a person, but murder? Then again, stranger things had happened, Odelia thought. She made a mental note to check out this Fitz Priestley guy. Especially the fact that he lived right next door and probably knew the ins and outs of Jeb’s life made this a potentially promising lead.
“Don’t forget about Jeb’s drug dealer,” croaked Gran, earning her twin scowls from Helena and Fae. “What?” she said, raising her arms, palms up. “The man is a druggie. And we all know every drug addict needs a drug dealer. And if Jeb is as broke as he claims he is, maybe he owed his dealer a ton of money. Drug dealers don’t like it when customers don’t pay up. They tend to get nasty. And some of them even get murderous.”
“Yes, but he would simply have roughed Jeb up if that was the case,” said Helena. “Besides, I don’t think Jeb has a dealer in town. He always carries his own stuff with him.” When her daughter shot her a look, she blushed. “Mrs. Muffin is right, honey. Daddy does love his nose candy. And that stuff doesn’t come cheap nor can you buy it at your local deli. I remember Jeb had a guy in LA, so he probably got a nice stash and brought it out here.”
“And past airport security? Doubtful,” said Gran.
“Daddy uses his private jet,” said Fae, practically sticking out her tongue at Gran. “And private jets can smuggle as many drugs around the country as they want.”
“I don’t think so,” said Odelia. “They have to go through customs just like passengers on commercial airlines. Though the checks might be more cursory for a star like Jeb.”
“I should never have invited Jeb here,” said Helena.
“Mom!”
“But he was feeling so down after things ended with Camilla that I thought he needed a change of scene. Plus, I hoped that somehow, maybe, I could ‘heal’ him, you know.” She laughed a curt laugh. “As if anyone has ever been able to change Jeb.”
“Why change him? He’s perfect the way he is,” said Fae.
Helena directed a sad look at her daughter and touched her hair, with Fae brushing her hand away. Helena clearly wasn’t happy that her drug-abusing ex-partner had decided to continue his self-destructive lifestyle at the lodge, setting a terrible example for Fae.
“So how long had Jeb been down here?” asked Odelia.
“Um, two months or so? He had to get out of LA, and wanted to be close to Fae. I wouldn’t let him stay at the house, though, because of the drugging and the boozing.”
“And the women,” Fae said softly.
Her mother nodded.
“If he was here two months he must have had a local dealer,” said Gran. “He wasn’t slipping a bag of coke through security and he wasn’t going to go without for two whole months, so we need to find his dealer, honey,” she added, tapping Odelia’s chest.
“You know what I think?” said Fae suddenly. “I think Camilla killed herself and then made it look like Dad did it.”
“That’s ridiculous, honey,” said her mother. “For one thing, Camilla would never kill herself. She wasn’t the type.”
“She would,” said Fae, nodding empathically. “To get back at Dad she would have done anything.” She turned to Odelia. “Are you sure that body in the morgue is Camilla’s? She could have used a lookalike, or found a dead body in the graveyard and dug it up.”
“It really is Camilla,” Odelia said. Though she liked Fae’s out-of-the-box thinking.
Fae deflated a little, but insisted stubbornly, “You should definitely look into this. She could have cut herself, then dribbled her blood all over Dad, placed the knife next to him, then taken some sleeping pills and accidentally taken too many.”
“Oh, honey,” said Helena, shaking her head.
“No, but listen! Maybe she didn’t mean to die, only to look so banged up Daddy would have gone to prison for a long time. Only she miscalculated and died—which was just what she deserved.”
“Fae,” said Helena sharply. “I never liked Camilla, but she didn’t deserve to die.”
Fae shrugged and crossed her arms. “Just a theory. You are going to check it out, though, aren’t you, Odelia?”
Odelia assured her she would. Though if there had been sleeping pills in Camilla’s stomach the coroner would have definitely found them.
“Chief Alec told me cause of death was stab wounds, sweetie,” said Helena. “Not sleeping pills. And a woman as self-absorbed as Camilla would never stab herself, not even to frame an ex-husband she hated.”
“I guess not,” said Fae, moping a little. It’s never fun to have your brilliant ideas shot down, especially when you’re trying to save your beloved father from life in prison.
“Trust me,” said Gran now, patting the young woman on the arm. “We’re going to catch this killer and we’re going to make sure he fries in the chair.”
“There is no death penalty in the state of New York,” said Fae with a little grin. “But I like your attitude, old lady. So points for effort.”
“Old lady my foot,” grumbled Gran as they walked away. “How old does she think I am? A hundred?”
“She’s young, Gran,” said Odelia. “Young people think that anyone over forty is ancient. Heck, I am probably an old lady to her, and so is her mom.”
“Impertinence,” Gran said. “If she were my daughter I’d have knocked some sense into her a long time ago.”
“She’s a teenager who’s scared her daddy will go to jail for the rest of his life.”
“She’s a spoiled brat is what she is.” Then she relented. “She does love her daddy though, which kinda got to me when I saw the two of them together in there.”
It had gotten to Odelia, too. “Are you sure we can pull this off?”
“Sure I’m sure. All we need to do is follow the clues and we’ll find the bastard that did this.”
“Unless you’re right and Jeb really did kill his ex-wife in a drug-induced frenzy.”
Gran shrugged her bony shoulders. “I may have changed my mind on that.”
“Oh, you have, have you? And why is that?”
“Like I said, the kid got to me. Besides, you have to trust your gut. And my gut is telling me he didn’t do it. It’s also telling me I’m starving, so are you going to drive me home now or what?”
“Okay, fine, we’re going,” she said, aiming her key fob at her pickup and listening for the telltale beep beep. “Talk about a spoiled brat,” she muttered under her breath.
“I heard that!”
“Good. I wanted you to,” she said as she got in.
“You better show some respect for your elders, young lady, or else.”
“Or else what? You’re going to denounce me on your vlog?”
“Oh, darn it!”
“What?”
Gran held up her phone. “Forgot to film the interview!”
And a good thing, too, Odelia thought as she put the car in gear. She needed her grandmo
ther vlogging her way through this investigation like she needed a hole in the head.
“Maybe you should give up this vlog,” she suggested, waving to Helena and Fae as they pulled out in front of her and merged into traffic.
“I’ll never give up flogging,” Gran said stubbornly. “I live to flog.”
And wasn’t that the truth.
Chapter 14
That night, Odelia was chopping tomatoes while watching something on her iPad, the frown cutting her brows indicating absolute focus. When she’s working on a case she’s often like that: utter concentration. I admire that about her. I sometimes have to contend with a lack of focus. Then again, I am continually faced with a lot of distractions, and I was looking at three of those distractions at that exact moment, namely Bim, Bam and Bom.
Odelia had finally named the kittens, which I thought was a dangerous sign. It meant she was probably going to keep them. I wasn’t particularly fond of the names either. Who wants to be called Bom for the rest of his life, unless they plan to be a suicide bomber?
Bam was dangling from the curtains, Bim was trying to remove all the water from my bowl with her paws, and Bom, living up to his name, was climbing the couch and dive-bombing into the deep, landing on the plush carpet every time he did. He was having a ball.
They still weren’t talking, which I guess was a good thing. I’d never realized kittens only babble in nonsensical vowels and consonants until they’re a little older. Then again, human babies don’t conduct entire conversations when they’re in the cradle either, right? And they’re supposed to be the top species on the planet.
“Listen to this, you guys,” said Odelia now, reading from her iPad. “Jeb’s last movie completely bombed at the box office, even though it had cost a quarter of a billion dollars to make, causing the studio that had green-lit the movie to file for bankruptcy, and the woman whose series of books the movie was based on to lose a big chunk of her fortune. Like Fitz Priestley, she put her own money into the production, and lost it all. She’s allegedly furious with Jeb for allowing himself to be dragged into this whole divorce thing and blames him for ending her Hollywood ambitions and putting a huge dent into her bank account.”
“Ouch,” I commented.
Odelia looked up triumphantly. “And guess what? She has a second home in Hampton Cove! So she could easily be behind this whole thing.”
“Who is this writer?” I asked.
“Prunella Lemon. She wrote those Chronicles of Zeus novels. About a young girl, Ellie Zeus, who accidentally discovers her father is actually the Greek god Zeus and she has all these godlike powers. Jeb played her mentor, the quirky genius inventor Florida Stopper.”
“Right,” I said. I’d heard about those. They were a big success back when they were published, almost as popular as Harry Potter. I hoped they hadn’t put a nasty cat in them, though, like Mrs. Norris in the Potter books. Creatures like that give us cats a bad name.
Brutus and Harriet came trudging through the cat flap. But when Harriet saw the cavorting kittens, she hesitated, then cut a curious glance to Odelia. “Um, Odelia?” she said.
“Mh?” said Odelia, still reading on her tablet, while her tomatoes had been reduced to pulp by her unfocused hand.
“About those kittens?”
“Uh-huh?”
“Are we, um, going to have them with us for a long time? I mean, can you give us a time frame? Just so we know how long we’ll be able to enjoy their pleasant company?”
Odelia was still frowning. “Listen to this. ‘Jeb Pott was the wrong choice to cast as Florida Stopper. If I’d known then what I know now, I’d never have asked him. He’s the reason this project turned into an absolute nightmare.’” She looked up. “Prunella Lemon.”
“Yes, that’s all very interesting,” said Harriet, “but what about the kittens? We do love those little babies so much, and we’re hoping they can be with us for... a day? A week?”
“I can’t believe this,” said Odelia, shaking her head. “I mean, Jeb has so many enemies you wouldn’t believe. And anyone could have sent those text messages to Camilla, right? Or greeted her at the door while Jeb was passed out in bed.”
“Whoever this person is would have had to have intimate knowledge of Jeb’s habits,” I said. “His whereabouts, the fact that he was drugged out most of the time. And Camilla’s private number so they could text her, pretending to be Jeb, and lure her into a trap.”
“You’re right absolutely right, Max,” said Odelia, nodding. “Which still makes me wonder if Jeb isn’t the one behind this after all. I mean, the simplest solution is often the right one, right? Camilla ruined him. She destroyed his life and his career. So maybe he thought he’d lost everything anyway so why not kill her and get it over with?”
“He loves his daughter, though,” said Dooley. “So maybe for her sake he wouldn’t have gone through with something like that.”
“Also a good point,” said Odelia, who was on fire now. And so was whatever she was cooking in the oven. Black smoke was wafting from the door and escaping into the room.
“Fire!” cried Brutus. “The oven is on fire!”
“Oh, no!” said Odelia, grabbing a towel. She yanked open the oven door, took out her dish and plunked it down on the ceramic cooktop then stared at it. It did not look edible.
At that exact moment, Chase walked in. “Hey, babe. Oh, hell,” he said, and hurried over to assist Odelia in handling this minor kitchen disaster.
“Hey!” suddenly shouted Harriet, and we all looked up, even Chase. “Will you listen to me?! How long?! Are these cats?! Going to stay here?! A week?! A month?! Or forever?!”
Chapter 15
That night, cat choir was a sad affair. Harriet, after flipping her lid, hadn’t wanted to come, and neither had Brutus, since he needed to stay home to appease his girlfriend. So it was just me and Dooley, and frankly we weren’t in the mood for a whole lot of singing and gossiping either. Not while there were three little ones at home wrecking the house and eating all of our food. Plus, we needed to figure out who would want to hurt Jeb Pott, and I didn’t think I was going to glean a lot of new information about Jeb or his ex-wife by shooting the breeze with Hampton Cove’s cat population.
Of course I was wrong.
The first clue I got that maybe we were onto something was when Clarice showed up for cat choir. Clarice is a feral cat who roams the streets of Hampton Cove for food and often stays out in the forest that edges our small town. She may be feral but she’s also our friend, which sometimes surprises me, as she’s one of those cats who eat rats whole without even bothering to chew. She simply gobbles them down, if you know what I mean. One moment they are there, and when you blink they’re gone. Down the hatch. It’s the weirdest thing.
“Boys,” she growled when she caught sight of us. “Have I got news for you.”
Clarice never had news for us. Not unless she got something in return. Like food.
“Hey, Clarice,” Dooley said. “We have kittens at home now. Three of them.”
Clarice shot Dooley a look that could kill, then continued, “Word on the street is that your grandmother has been popping pills like there’s no tomorrow.”
I laughed. “That’s ridiculous. Gran would never pop pills.”
Clarice wasn’t laughing, though. She didn’t even crack a smile. “Listen, you idiot. I’m only telling you this because your family has been good to me. Your human gave me a home, and even though I don’t care about a home, or the trappings of domestication, I still think the gesture was pretty cool. So shut up and listen.”
I shut up and listened, and so did Dooley.
“There’s this guy. He’s selling all kinds of nasty stuff to your granny. And if she takes that stuff she’s going to fire up like a rocket and then she’s going to crash and burn, if you know what I mean.” She cocked a meaningful whisker at me and I nodded quickly.
“Oh, sure,” I said. “Go up and go down and crash and then burn. I get it. Total
ly.”
“Who’s going up, Max?” asked Dooley.
“Gran is going up because of something she bought off some guy.”
“Listen, you idiots,” Clarice snarled. “Your Granny has to be stopped. That stuff isn’t candy. And if she keeps taking it she’s going to die, understand?”
I laughed a light laugh. “Oh, Clarice. You don’t know Gran like we do. That woman is indestructible.”
“Yes,” laughed Dooley, as lightly as I did. “She can’t be destroyed, even if you tried.”
“Listen!” Clarice growled. “You morons aren’t getting what I’m saying. Granny is in danger. And now I’ve said too much already.”
“Too much?” I had the feeling she hadn’t said a thing. “That’s all right,” I said. “We won’t tell a soul.” Mainly because I had no idea what she’d just said.
“Except Granny, of course,” said Dooley. “We’ll tell her about the rocket, won’t we, Max?”
“Oh, yes. We’ll tell her all about the rocket. And the up and the down and—”
“Don’t tell your granny!” Clarice hissed. “Tell Odelia. She’ll know what I’m talking about. Ecstasy!” she added emphatically, pointing towards the sky, then the ground.
We followed her movements keenly, staring first up and then down. I still had no idea what she was trying to say, but I was smiling and nodding as if I got the message.
“Copy that, Clarice,” I said, tapping my nose and giving her a meaningful wink.
“Oh, why do I even bother?” Clarice grumbled, then stalked off again, leaving behind two very bewildered cats.
“Did you understand a word she was saying?” asked Dooley.
“Nope. Something about going up and going down and crashing and burning.”
“I hate it when she speaks in riddles, don’t you?”
“Hate it,” I agreed.
And then we joined the others: Shanille, our director, Kingman, Milo, the cat that belongs to the neighbor across the street, Big Mac, a cat who likes... Big Macs, and of course Tom and Tigger and Misty and Shadow and Buster and Darlene and all the others. We’re a tight-knit community, us Hampton Cove cats, and soon choir practice began and we all sang our little hearts out, Shanille on top of the jungle gym, and the rest of us spread out across the playground the Hampton Cove council was so kind to install in the park.