by Nic Saint
“Oh, Charlie, please don’t be so crass.”
“What did I say?”
“These people believe Jeb is innocent.”
He raised his eyebrows in surprise. “They do? How quaint.”
“Yes, it is,” said Prunella, “but there you have it.”
“Jeb is a raving lunatic and a deeply unpleasant human being,” said Charlie, turning serious. “This murder business? It was only a matter of time before the man snapped and turned homicidal. I’m glad he’s in prison right now, exactly where the little turd belongs.”
“You really think Jeb is capable of murder?”
“Of course. With the mountains of coke the freak snorted, and who knows what stuff he injected into his veins, it doesn’t surprise me he turned completely whacko at some point. There’s only so much the human body can take before it goes completely haywire.”
“Charlie is a doctor,” said Prunella with an affectionate smile. “He’s the one who warned me not to hire Jeb for my project, but of course I wouldn’t listen.”
“I knew the movie was sunk the moment we had our first meeting with Jeb and the director,” said Charlie, who’d hooked his thumbs into his waistcoat.
“I’d asked Charlie to be present at the meeting,” Prunella explained. “For moral support. It was my first big Hollywood project and I was incredibly nervous, you see.”
“One look at Jeb and I knew he was a ticking time bomb just waiting to go off,” Charlie said. “The shifty eyes, the affectated speech, those weird mannerisms. I could tell the man was an addict. And drug addicts don’t make for the most stable people to work with.”
“Such a pity,” Prunella murmured. “He was so handsome and so talented as a young man. And look at him now…”
She moved away, followed by her husband, and Odelia saw that Gran had slumped even more on her barstool and was practically falling down from the thing.
“Here, drink your tea,” she said, pushing the cup in front of her.
“I don’t wanna,” Gran muttered, resting her head on her arms on top of the bar.
“Drink your tea while I go talk to Fitz Priestley,” she ordered.
“Wait. I’ll join you,” said Gran, but she looked so worn out there was no way she was going to be of much help now. “I need another vitamin,” she muttered, her eyes drooping closed. “Just another vitamin. A, B, C, D, E, F, G… Any vitamin will do.”
“No more vitamins for you, Gran. At least not the kind you’ve been popping.”
She moved over to where Fitz Priestley was sitting and introduced herself. He gave her a quick glance, then dismissed her with a wave of the hand. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m afraid I don’t have time for amateur sleuths. Now get lost, Miss Poole, before I call security.”
Blushing scarlet at being dismissed so rudely, Odelia gritted her teeth. “Listen to me, buster. Jeb Pott’s daughter hired me to prove her dad’s innocence, and you’re going to talk to me or else I’ll write in tomorrow’s Hampton Cove Gazette that you’re the rudest, nastiest, most obnoxious director ever to set foot in this town. You got that?”
A slow grin spread across his narrow face. “My god, woman,” he exclaimed. “Have you considered working in Hollywood? You’d be a perfect fit!” He then gestured to a chair. “Here, take a seat. And tell me all about Jeb Pott and his remarkable wealth of problems.”
Chapter 24
As Dooley and I searched around for a sign of canine activity, we found ourselves faced with a unique problem: there was a distinct dearth of dogs in this exclusive club. We’d already been there ten minutes, and Odelia and Gran had probably finished their interview, and we still hadn’t been able to find a single dog.
“This is so weird,” I told Dooley. “It’s almost as if dogs aren’t allowed on the premises.”
“Maybe they aren’t,” Dooley said. “I’ve heard of places where pets are not allowed. There are even landlords that forbid them. Can you believe that?”
I told him I most certainly could. “Not all humans are like Odelia, Dooley,” I said. “Not all of them love pets the way she does.”
“Hard to imagine,” said Dooley as he sniffed the air. Dogs have a very particular and distinctive odor, and it’s not hard to pick up the trace. Only at this very moment neither of us could detect a single canine anywhere in the vicinity. Not a one.
And we’d finished our sweep of the terrace and were about to take in the tennis courts, hoping to have more luck there, when suddenly we ourselves were swept up, and not in a good way either.
“Hey!” I cried when a strong hand grabbed me by the neck and hoisted me into the air. “What’s the big idea?!”
“No cats allowed, I’m afraid,” a grating voice announced.
I turned my head to take in the miscreant who was cathandling us and saw that it was a large man with a round head and a weird little goatee beard.
“Rules are rules,” he then said, and took a firmer grip on the both of us and carried us away.
“Hey! Odelia! Odelia!” I cried, but she was too far and my cries were in vain.
“Max, we’re being catnapped,” said Dooley, sounding scared and confused.
One would feel scared and confused for less.
“He’s just throwing us out,” I said. “No need to worry. He’ll carry us to the front gate and kick us out of his club. No big deal.”
“Yeah, but what if he doesn’t? What if he hands us over to the chef and he puts us in today’s stew?!”
The prospect of ending up in the meat grinder made me gulp a bit. On top of that I was experiencing a certain amount of discomfort. It’s not much fun being carried by the scruff of the neck when you are a kitten, but even less when you’re a full-bodied cat that weighs closer to twenty pounds than ten. I experienced a certain pulling sensation at the nape of the neck that was distinctly painful and extremely unpleasant.
“Just let us down, will you, fellow?” I asked. “We got the message. We’ll just walk out the door and you’ll never see us again.”
“Rules are rules,” the big guy repeated, as if he were a broken record.
“Yeah, I know rules are rules, and I’m sorry we broke them, but this is not the way to treat a valued member of the community. And trust me, we are both very valued members of this community, feline or otherwise.”
“Yeah, we’ve solved a lot of mysteries together, and our owner is none other than the famous Odelia Poole,” said Dooley.
“She’s a reporter,” I added, “and if you don’t put us down right now she’s going to write a pretty nasty piece about you and your club.”
All to no avail, of course. The guy wasn’t going to let us go before he’d hand-delivered us to the front gate—or, as in Dooley’s nightmarish scenario, to the kitchen chef.
“Rules are there for a reason,” the guy muttered. “And when rules are broken, there are consequences.”
I just hoped those consequences didn’t involve being turned into fricassee.
He carried us to a door, then deposited us into a small cage and locked it carefully.
“Max, I don’t like this,” Dooley announced.
“I don’t like it either, Dooley,” I intimated.
He then placed the cage in the back of a golf cart, got behind the wheel, and pushed a button. The thing came to life with a soft purr and then we were off, Dooley and I locked up in the cage, being carted off in a direction unknown, by a man who seemed to love rules.
We rode through a landscape that looked like the golf course part of the country club, and I wondered if he was going to give us golfing lessons next. I didn’t think so. That probably wasn’t in his particular rulebook.
Just then, a booming voice had us both jump up to the top of our cage.
“Sad day,” boomed the voice.
Chapter 25
We turned in the direction of the voice, and found ourselves looking at a second cage, placed next to ours. This one was bigger, and contained a sad-looking Droopy dog.
>
We’d finally found our dog. Though perhaps not in the most pleasant of circumstances.
“Oh, hey, dog,” I said by way of greeting. “My name is Max, and this is Dooley.”
“Melvin,” said the Basset Hound. “So they caught you guys trespassing too, huh?”
“We weren’t trespassing,” I said with a measure of indignation. “Our human didn’t know this place had rules about pets, so she brought us along in her car.”
“I was just looking for a bite to eat,” said the sad dog in a drawling voice. “And each time I come to this club I get to have a nice gourmet meal. Unless I’m caught and kicked out, of course,” he added mournfully.
From his demeanor I guessed he hadn’t had time to enjoy his gourmet meal before being kicked out today, though.
“So what are you cats doing here?” he asked.
“Our human is a detective. She solves murders,” I explained. “And right now she’s trying to solve the murder of Camilla Kirby.”
“So she brought us here hoping to talk to someone who knows Jeb Pott—that’s Camilla’s ex-husband—and shed some light on this murder business,” Dooley continued.
“I know Jeb,” said the dog.
I was surprised by this. “You do?”
“Oh, sure. We used to spend a lot of time together.”
I couldn’t believe our luck. Of all the places in town, we’d found the one place where we got to meet Jeb Pott’s dog.
“So Jeb is your human, huh?”
“Oh, no. I don’t have a human. I belong to no one. Well,” he corrected himself after a pause, “I used to belong to someone, but that was before they tied me to a tree and took off. I haven’t belonged to anyone since.”
“What a horrible thing to do!” Dooley said. “Who does that?”
“Humans,” said the dog. “That’s who.”
“Not all humans are like that,” I told the dog. “Our human would never, ever do such a horrible, unspeakable thing.”
“Yeah, yeah,” he said, clearly not giving much credence to my words. “So Jeb, huh? Long time no see. We used to have such a good time when he was in town. He’d stumble from bar to bar and I’d follow him, then when he was passed out on the street, drunk as a skunk, I’d keep him company. People would pass us by and throw money in his hat, and a bone for me. I ate the bones, and Jeb, when he finally woke up from his drunken stupor, would use the money to buy us a nice meal. A burger for him, and a nice sausage for me.”
“Did this... happen fairly recently?” I asked, surprised that a Hollywood megastar would choose to live the life of a common tramp.
“Oh, sure. Only last month we went on another one of our midnight benders. Well, he went on his bender, while I stuck close to him and made sure he arrived home safe and sound. Jeb has balance issues, and orientation issues, and... Well, a lot of issues, I guess.”
“Jeb supposedly killed his ex-wife two nights ago,” I said. “So now we’re trying to find out if he really did kill her, or if maybe somebody else did and they’re trying to blame him.”
“Jeb would never kill anyone,” said Melvin decidedly. “Jeb is a dog lover, and dog lovers are not killers.”
“Yes, but he really didn’t like his ex-wife, and maybe he finally decided that enough was enough and so he killed her in a rage.”
“Not a rage,” Dooley said. “He invited her by text, so he must have planned it.”
“Premeditated murder,” said Melvin, nodding. He seemed to be a dog of the world. “No, Jeb doesn’t have it in him to do such a thing. Take my word for it, cats. I’ve seen him give his last cent to a street bum.”
From one street bum to another, I thought. It didn’t mean that Jeb wouldn’t kill Camilla, of course. It’s not because someone loves dogs and bums that he doesn’t harbor a festering hatred towards the woman he blames for his downfall.
“If anyone did this, it’s one of the guys Jeb owes money to,” said Melvin.
“Jeb owes money?” I asked, surprised.
“I thought he was rich,” said Dooley. “Aren’t all Hollywood stars filthy rich?”
“Not all of them,” I said. And apparently Jeb lost a lot of money in the divorce. Lawyers are costly, and so are ex-wives with expensive tastes.
“This happened six weeks ago,” said Melvin. “We’d just been kicked out of a bar and Jeb and I were lying next to a dumpster in some back alley, Jeb counting his few remaining greenbacks while I was counting my blessings for having found a piece of pepperoni pizza someone had carelessly discarded, when five men walked into the alley, armed with baseball bats. They were looking for Jeb. The leader of the pack had a scar that ran all the way from his right eye to the corner of his mouth, and a tattoo of a scorpion on the side of his neck. Jeb called him Cicero, and they obviously knew each other well.
“Cicero then said that if Jeb didn’t pay back what he owed, he was going to take the bat to his kneecaps, which would have caused Jeb considerable pain, not to mention trouble in his career as an actor. Not many actors can act with two broken kneecaps, obviously.”
“Obviously,” I agreed.
“So Jeb said he was going to get him the money. He said he was selling one of his houses in LA and once the deal was done he’d pay back every cent he owed. Cicero then struck Jeb across the jaw for good measure, and Jeb laughed, saying it was an honor to be beaten up by the famous Cicero. He said to give his regards to Animal, Cicero’s boss.”
“Animal?” asked Dooley. “Cicero’s boss is an animal?”
“I think he’s a human who calls himself Animal,” Melvin explained.
“Weird,” Dooley said, and I agreed with him. Like an animal calling itself Human.
“And what happened next?” I asked, fascinated by this rare glimpse into Hampton Cove’s criminal underbelly.
“Nothing. Cicero and his crew left, and Jeb started belting out a song about cigarettes and alcohol. He seemed to enjoy himself tremendously, and announced he’d carry the scar Cicero had given him like a badge of honor. I could tell there was a hidden sadness lurking underneath his surface gaiety, though,” he added, suddenly becoming philosophical.
“So you think this Cicero or his boss Animal could have killed Camilla Kirby and put the blame squarely on Jeb?” I asked.
“Possible,” Melvin said. “Or he could have decided to murder Jeb and once he arrived changed his mind and murdered Camilla instead. Humans are fickle like that.”
“They are,” I agreed. The story certainly had the ring of truth to it, though it was hard to imagine a rich megastar like Jeb Pott having to borrow money from a notorious gangster. Then again, from what I’d heard it was obvious Jeb had recently fallen on hard times.
The golf cart suddenly came to an abrupt halt and Dooley, Melvin and I were flung against the front of our respective cages. Then the man dismounted the vehicle and opened first our cage, then Melvin’s. He then escorted us towards the front gate of the club and waited patiently until we’d walked out through the gate.
“Rules are rules,” he told us apologetically. “Nothing personal. But rules are—”
“Rules, yes, we get it,” I said, starting to see that this was a man with one of those one-track minds you always hear so much about.
“Well, I gotta be going,” said Melvin as soon as the man had closed the front gate on us. “Other country clubs to hit, other dumpsters to examine.”
“Listen,” I said as he started to walk away.
He glanced over his shoulder. “What?”
“If you ever want to enjoy a great meal, you can visit us at our place.”
“Yeah,” said Dooley. “You’re always welcome, Melvin. We have a very nice human who’ll treat you right. And I wouldn’t be surprised if she threw in a nice bath, too.”
Melvin frowned. “Are you telling me I stink, cat?”
“Oh, no!” Dooley was quick to say. “Not at all!”
“Just... making you an offer,” I said. “An offer you can refuse if you want to,
of course. But a nice bath and a bowl full of food are waiting for you if you want.”
The dog’s expression softened. “Thanks,” he said. “Maybe one of these days I’ll take you up on that offer. See ya, boys.”
“See ya, Melvin,” we said, and watched him trudge off in the direction of the road.
“So now what?” said Dooley.
“Now we wait for Odelia to come driving through that gate.”
Flanking the gate were two large statues of lions. It seemed apt, so we each climbed one, stretched out on top, and waited. Cats are great waiters. In fact we can wait for hours. It’s that hunting instinct, honed for millions and millions of years. And then we promptly fell asleep. What? You try being a jungle gym to three kittens. You’d be exhausted, too.
Chapter 26
“So Fae hired you, huh?” said Fitz Priestley with a chuckle. He’d sent his admirers away to practice their sycophancy elsewhere, and now it was just him and Odelia. “She always was a very enterprising young woman.”
“You know her?”
“Of course. I know the whole family. Jeb and I go way back. We were neighbors for years. This was obviously before he divorced his lovely wife and left her for that starlet.”
“Camilla Kirby.”
The director nodded.
He took off his fashionable gold-rimmed sunglasses and polished them on the hem of his shirt. He was dressed eclectically, with a sleeveless pink silk shirt, gold-embroidered waistcoat and his hair shaved above his ears and standing up like a rooster’s comb. Not unlike Jeb’s style of dress, even though the director was the actor’s senior by a decade.
“I always considered Jeb a member of my family. Our daughters are the same age, and Fae and Lucy have been best friends for years, as are my wife Suzy and Helena.”
“It is rumored that you and Jeb had a falling-out, though. Is that true?”
He fixed her with a bleary eye. “Privacy is dead, isn’t it? Have a fight with your best friend and the whole world sticks its nose in. Tell me, Miss Poole. If you and your best friend quarrel, would you enjoy reading about it in the New York Post or the National Enquirer? I don’t think so. But I had to read all about my tiff with Jeb. Every last detail. And the only person who could have supplied those details was me or Jeb, as we’d been the only ones present. And since I never breathed a word about it to anyone, the conclusion is obvious.”