by Nic Saint
“Dogs are pets, too, Dooley,” Odelia pointed out.
“I’m not so sure about that,” Dooley said quietly as he gave me a look of worry.
“I think it’s about time you let go of those ugly prejudices against dogs, boys,” said Odelia. “Otherwise you’ll never be truly great detectives.”
We both howled with indignation. “That’s not true!” I cried.
“We don’t have anything against dogs!” Dooley said.
“Oh, yes, you do. You don’t like dogs, you don’t like kittens, you don’t like birds. You boys need to widen your horizons. Become a little more tolerant of other species. Imagine if I only talked to women and refused to talk to men? Or only talk to people my age and refuse to talk to kids or the elderly. I wouldn’t be much of a detective, would I?”
“That’s different and you know it,” I said.
“It’s not, Max. Dogs are very perceptive, and they spend a lot of time with their humans, maybe even more so than cats, so they’re invaluable witnesses. Remember Ringo?”
Ringo was a Chihuahua belonging to a well-known and successful Broadway producer, and had provided us with a telling clue that had solved the murder of Odelia’s understudy in a recent Bard in the Park production.
“That’s different,” I said. “Ringo was a nice dog.”
“Most dogs are nice. Just give them a chance.”
“Most dogs hate cats,” Dooley pointed out.
“Just give them the benefit of the doubt, will you? It’s what I do every day.”
“Me, too,” said Gran. “Tolerance, my boys. Tolerance is key in this business. Love all creatures, great and small, and you will go far.” She glanced down at her phone. “That jerk Scarlett Canyon. She’s at it again. Just look at that bathing suit. Makes her look like a clown.”
Odelia was darting skeptical glances at her grandmother, and I decided to head off another discussion by asking a more important question: “So have you decided what’s going to happen to Bim, Bam and Bom? Are you going to keep them?”
“Why? Don’t you think it would be fun to add three kittens to the troupe?”
I hate it when humans answer a question with a question. It’s not fair.
“Well, I have to admit they’ve have grown on me,” I said.
“Harriet still hates them,” said Gran. “She told me so this morning.”
“She’s the last holdout,” I said. “Even Brutus has fallen in love with them.”
“I like them, too,” said Dooley. “They’re really cute and sweet.”
“See?” said Odelia. “Life is so much brighter with three kittens in it.”
She still hadn’t answered my question, and I had a feeling she never would.
“We’re here,” she said, proving my point.
We’d arrived at one of those big country clubs, where all the rich people seem to flock. Usually there’s a golf club attached, and tennis courts, for some outdoor activities. The men often go off golfing while the women pick up a bronzed and handsome tennis coach and pretend to be interested in tennis. Meanwhile, the older generation sips tea and gossips while scarfing down petit fours and macaroons. I was fully expecting to find the place littered with Chihuahuas, Bichon Frisés and Maltese, and my heart was sinking a little. It’s one thing to be a detective, but another always having to deal with a cat’s natural enemy.
But then I remembered Odelia’s words about giving peace a chance or something along those lines, and I pulled myself together. Your true detective can’t be too choosy about the company he keeps, or else he’ll never succeed in catching those bad guys.
Odelia let us out of the car, which she’d parked herself, without the assistance of a valet, and then Dooley and I were trotting in the direction of the clubhouse, where we hoped to have many fascinating encounters. Or at least that’s what I kept telling myself. Odelia has a book on affirmations, and I had a feeling they would come in handy today.
Every day, in every way, I like dogs better and better and better.
Ugh. Who was I kidding?
Chapter 22
A woman waved them over and Odelia waved back. She then turned to her grandmother. “Better behave, all right? No nasty comments from you.”
Gran looked indignant. “Nasty comments? Who do you take me for?”
Odelia knew exactly who she took her for. Gran had a sharp tongue sometimes, and could rub people the wrong way. She could also be charming, if she wanted to, but that was the problem: very often she simply didn’t want to.
Prunella Lemon looked exactly as in the pictures Odelia had seen: very pretty, with sharp features, long auburn hair and dressed in elegant figure-hugging green and strappy sandals. “Hello,” she said as she shook the famous writer’s hand. “My name is Odelia Poole.”
“Hi there,” said the writer in a surprisingly deep voice. “So nice to meet you, Odelia.” She turned to Gran. “And you must be Odelia’s dear old grandmother.”
“That’s right,” said Gran sweetly. “I’m Odelia’s beloved old granny and you must be that wonderful and extremely talented woman who wrote my all-time favorite book.”
“Oh, I’m so glad you liked it,” said Prunella smoothly.
“Oh, I loved it,” said Gran, even though Odelia knew for a fact she’d never read it.
“So what is this all about?” asked the writer, taking a seat.
A cup of coffee had been placed in front of her, as well as a plate of petit fours that looked absolutely delicious. It was all Odelia could do not to snatch one up and pop it into her mouth, which was exactly what the writer did at that exact moment. But instead of offering her guests one of the delicious treats as well, she stayed mum, munching down on the delicacy, then licking her fingers for good measure.
“It’s about Jeb Pott,” said Odelia. “As I’ve explained to you over the phone, his family has asked me to look into the murder charges and hopefully find a way to refute them.”
Prunella leaned back in the white wrought-iron chair and flicked her hair over her shoulder. It gleamed in the early-morning sunlight. From the terrace where they were sitting, they had a good view of the golf course, where people were teeing off and enjoying the game. To their left, the tennis courts were visible in the distance, and shouts of tennis teachers trying to instruct their pupils to correct their backhand ripped through the air.
Prunella steepled her long slender fingers thoughtfully. “The thing is, I don’t really see how I can be of much assistance in this dreadful matter, Miss Poole—Mrs. Poole.”
“Muffin. Poole is Odelia’s dad’s name. My name is Vesta Muffin,” said Gran, who, even after all these years, wasn’t all that keen on the name her daughter had assumed.
“Mrs. Muffin,” the writer acknowledged. “I know Jeb well, of course. I personally selected him to play Florida Stopper.” She grimaced, as if in pain. “As you may have heard, it didn’t go well. I lost a great deal of money and the world lost a wonderful movie franchise.”
“There won’t be a sequel to Chronicles of Zeus?” Odelia asked.
The writer closed her eyes. “No, there won’t be a sequel. I wrote outlines for five movies, but after the fiasco of the first one there won’t be a second, or a third or a fourth or a fifth. And I have Jeb Pott to thank for that.” She opened her eyes again. “In the middle of our big launch campaign for the first movie, when the studio was gearing up to give it a mighty push, he chose to engage in a mud-slinging contest with his ex-wife, and the media, always happy to focus on a negative instead of a positive story, associated my movie with the Jeb and Camilla circus. The negative buzz was so overpowering that it scared off my target audience: kids and young families. As you can imagine, absolutely nobody wanted to watch a movie starring a notorious wife beater. And phut went my career as a screenwriter. I don’t think I’ll ever be in the movie business again.”
“I’m so sorry,” said Odelia, and she meant it. She’d enjoyed the first Chronicles of Zeus movie, and had hoped there would be
many sequels in the series.
“Where were you two nights ago between three and five, Mrs. Lemon?” asked Gran.
“Prunella, please,” said the writer, and laughed. “Oh, aren’t you the hard-hitting detective, Mrs. Muffin?”
“I like to be direct,” said Gran. “I get better results that way.”
“Yes, maybe you’re right. Well, I was fast asleep in bed, actually.”
“Anyone witness you being fast asleep in bed? A husband, a lover?”
Prunella laughed again. “My, my, you are direct. Yes, my husband was with me. And in spite of the fact that we’ve been married twenty-five years, I don’t think he would cover for me if I happened to decide to murder the star of my flop movie.” A tiny wrinkle appeared between her brows. “But I don’t understand. I thought Jeb was the murderer. The newspapers all mention how he was found covered in his ex-wife’s blood and how he was still clutching the knife?”
“It certainly looks that way,” said Odelia. “And the police are satisfied Jeb is Camilla’s killer. It’s just that his daughter and his ex-wife Helena don’t believe the official story and want to conduct a parallel investigation. They think someone is trying to set Jeb up.”
“Oh, my,” said Prunella, taken aback. “This is a very fascinating story. And who could this person be? Do you have any clues that support this theory?”
“None whatsoever,” said Odelia, who didn’t want to give Prunella any insight into their line of inquiry. She was, after all, a potential suspect.
“There are a few things that don’t add up. Little things,” said Gran, “like—ouch!”
Odelia had given her a kick under the table and Gran eyed her furiously.
“Can you think of anyone who would want to do this to Jeb?” asked Odelia.
Prunella, who’d been following the interaction between granddaughter and grandmother with amusement, pursed her lips. “Um, now let me think. Jeb did have his fair share of enemies, of course, especially after letting down a whole lot of people. In fact you might say that the studio hates his guts right now, as they were left scrambling and then went down in a ball of flame. And then there’s the actors who played in Chronicles of Zeus, whose careers are now in limbo as a consequence of having featured in the biggest turkey of the decade.” She displayed a fine smile. “All in all there must be hundreds of people out there who won’t shed a tear for Jeb right now. Worse, they’re probably very happy that he’s in jail for murder, and might feel he got exactly what he deserved.”
“You believe he’s guilty, don’t you?” asked Odelia.
Prunella wavered. “No, actually I don’t. Jeb never struck me as a man with a violent temper. He is volatile, of course. A man-child who never grew up. I mean, people talk about the Peter Pan complex as if it’s a good thing, but I can assure you it’s very hard to have to deal with a movie star who refuses to grow up and acts like a petulant child at every turn.”
“Diva behavior,” Gran said, nodding.
“Exactly,” said Prunella. “And we all tolerated his behavior, hoping he’d put our movie at the top of the box office. But when he failed, that’s when the gloves came off.”
Odelia nodded. “Do you think someone hates him enough to frame him for murder?”
“Hated him so bad they’d murder Camilla? I guess so.” Prunella lobbed another petit four into her mouth. “I don’t envy you, though, Miss Poole. To figure out who amongst all of those haters could be behind this? It seems to me you have your work cut out for you.”
That, she had, Odelia conceded. She got up and shook the writer’s hand. “Thank you so much for your time, Mrs. Lemon—Prunella. And I hope you’ll get to make the rest of your movies. I enjoyed the first one tremendously.”
Prunella gave her a sad smile. “There won’t be any more movies, but thanks for the compliment.”
As Odelia and Gran turned away, suddenly Gran gasped, “Oh, no, you don’t!” then stalked off. And when Odelia looked up, she saw she was making a beeline for Scarlett Canyon, who sat holding court on the other side of the terrace.
Oh, no. Exactly what they needed right now. Not!
Chapter 23
As usual, Scarlett was surrounded by a huddle of male admirers. Odelia had to hand it to her: even though she was Gran’s age, she still looked stunning. Even though she owed a lot to her plastic surgeon: her lips were ridiculously plump and her chest outrageously pumped up. As usual, she’d squeezed herself into a skimpy dress a few sizes too small.
“What do you think you’re doing?” asked Gran as she approached.
“I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Scarlett, tilting her chin.
Gran took out her phone. “This is what I’m talking about. You’ve started a flog.”
“So? People start vlogs all the time. Why not me?”
“Only you called your flog the Sly Sleuth!”
“Pretty clever, don’t you think? I’m very proud of it.”
“You copied my name! My flog is called the Sly Sleuth!”
“Oh, I’m sure that’s just a coincidence, Vesta, dear.”
“And you’re covering the exact same topics I am!”
Scarlett studied her talon-like pink nails. “Well, some things are simply eternal bestsellers. Or did you really think you had the monopoly on crime vlogging?”
“You’re a liar and a cheat and a fraud,” Gran snapped. “And you’re going to take down that flog right this second!”
Scarlett threw her head back, a mass of copper-colored curls dangling as she let rip a hearty laugh. Her small group of male admirers all laughed along pleasantly. They probably had no idea what was going on but they seemed to enjoy themselves tremendously.
“Gran, you’re making a scene,” Odelia told her grandmother. All eyes on the terrace had swiveled in their direction, and even Prunella Lemon sat drinking in the tawdry scene with relish. She was probably taking notes to use in one of her bestselling novels later on.
“Oh, Vesta dear, you’re so funny when you’re angry,” said Scarlett, fixing her cat-like eyes on Gran. “There is no copyright in the vlogging sphere. None whatsoever. If I want to name my vlog exactly like yours, there’s not a thing you can do about it. Not one thing.”
“We’ll see about that,” grunted Gran. “I’ll write to Mr. Google right now, and ask him to—”
“Mr. Google!” Scarlett laughed. “That’s so precious!”
“We’ll see who’s laughing after Mr. Google removes your flog and upholds mine as the one and only true original Sly Sleuth.”
“Well, you do what you have to, my darling,” said Scarlett. “And when you write to your Mr. Google, don’t forget to tell him you’re his number one flogger.” She giggled at that.
“Let’s go, Gran,” said Odelia, taking her grandmother’s arm. “She’s not worth your time.”
“No, she’s not,” Gran agreed.
“Still writing your silly little articles, Odelia, dear?” asked Scarlett.
“Still sponging off rich bachelors, Scarlett, dear?” Odelia returned.
This didn’t sit well with the woman, for her smile vanished. “Better show some respect to your Auntie Scarlett,” she snapped, her eyes flashing dangerously. “I’ve known your family for a long time. I know where all the bodies are buried. And if I wanted to, I could spill all your dirty little secrets on my vlog.”
“Oh, just go away, Scarlett,” said Odelia, and walked off, joining her grandmother who’d taken a stool at the bar.
“The nerve of that woman,” Gran grumbled.
“You know she’s just doing this to get a rise out of you, don’t you?” said Odelia, as she held up her hand to attract the bartender’s attention. She ordered a cup of chamomile tea for her grandmother, hoping it would calm her down, and a Diet Coke for herself.
“I know that,” said Gran. “Of course I know that. But the woman is pure evil. I just can’t let her get away with it.”
“And you do know that the pe
rson who runs Google isn’t called Mr. Google, right?”
This seemed to surprise Gran. “Google isn’t named after its owner?”
“No, it’s not, just like Instagram isn’t named after its owner, or Facebook.”
“Well, I knew Amazon wasn’t named after Jeff Bezos,” Gran conceded. “I just figured Mr. Google had started his search engine from his garage, just like Bill Microsoft and that nice young Steve Apple.”
“It’s Bill Gates and Steve Jobs, and there is no Mr. Google.”
“Too bad,” said Gran, slumping in her chair.
It was those ecstasy pills, Odelia knew. First they lifted you up to the highest heights, then slammed you down into the lowest lows. And now Gran was experiencing those lows very keenly, especially after discovering that Scarlett had plagiarized her precious vlog.
From the corner of her eye, Odelia saw Max and Dooley sneaking across the terrace, in search of pets to talk to. She smiled. At least they might yield some results. So far she had nothing to show for her work. Just then, Prunella joined them at the bar, accompanied by a handsome man in his fifties, sporting a full head of white hair.
“Miss Poole, Mrs. Muffin,” said Prunella, “this is my husband Charlie. Charlie, these are the detectives Fae Pott hired to clear her father’s name.” She turned to Odelia. “I remembered something just now. The person who really has it in for Jeb is Fitz Priestley. And you’ll find that he lives next to where Jeb is staying.” She gestured with her head to a man seated three tables away, holding court to a captive audience of young men and women. “If you want to ask him a few questions, he’s right there.” She nudged her husband.
“Right,” he muttered, then plastered an appealing smile on his bronzed face. He clearly had been spending a lot of time in the Hamptons, even though his accent revealed he was an Englishman through and through. “While Jeb Pott was busy butchering his ex-wife, Prunella was next to me, fast asleep in bed. So even though she might have wanted to frame Jeb for murder by taking a big old whack at his ex, she didn’t, is what I’m trying to say.”