by Nic Saint
Like her father, Mom plunked down on the first solid object she found, in her case the library cart, disturbing the neatly placed books and dumping them all to the carpeted floor. “What?” she asked, pressing a hand to her heart.
As Odelia told the story, the thought occurred to her that this was almost like an episode of The Jerry Springer Show. “And since Gran hasn’t shown up at Dad’s office there’s a good chance she’ll be leaving us soon to go and live in Burt Goldsmith’s mansion in the Centennial State, sending us postcards from time to time while she lives it up out there.”
“Oh, dear,” said Mom. “How did your father take it?”
She wanted to say Dad was over the moon but that seemed inappropriate. “He’s concerned about you and Alec. The news of this third sibling must be tough on you guys.”
Mom raised an eyebrow. “Tough? Either your grandmother has finally gone off her rocker or she’s in this for the money. And if she is, the woman is dead to me.”
Odelia was surprised by the resolute tone in her mother’s voice. “I’m sure she’ll come to her senses. She always does.”
“Dead!” Mom exclaimed, getting up. “After all that we’ve done for her? Leaving us high and dry? She can join her newly acquired grandson in Colorado and choke!”
“Um, that seems kind of harsh, Mom.”
Mom swept up an arm. “She needed support after my dad died? We gave it to her. She needed a place to stay after it turned out Dad had gambled away the house? We took her in. She wanted a job so she could stay active and earn some extra money? We gave her two jobs! And now this!”
She was now stocking the shelves with Nora Roberts books at such a rate and with such fury the entire cabinet shook. Mom was usually a soft-spoken and gentle person but now she resembled Lizzie Borden before taking up the ax and chopping down her relatives.
“I, um—do you need help? I mean, now that Gran probably won’t show up?”
Mom planted a hand on her hip. “I’m sorry, honey. But it’s been one of those days.”
Yup. One of those days where you find out your mother secretly had a second son. Or not. “I’ll just put these away, shall I?” she suggested, and pushed the cart away from her mother before she bodily lifted it up and hurled it through the large plate glass window.
And as she was collecting more returned books and stocking the shelves, she said, “Oh, I forgot to tell you but I took the cats to Vena’s.”
“Uh-huh,” said Mom without much enthusiasm from the next aisle.
“She squirted some topical gel on their necks and gave me a flea comb.”
“Mh.”
“She wasn’t sure about a flea collar but the poor creatures are so riddled with fleas I’m going to have them wear them for a while. Only a couple of days. Until they’re free of the pests. And I’ll have to vacuum the carpets, the floors, the bed, the sofa, wash the sheets…”
“That’s great, honey,” her mother said distractedly, probably still fuming. Odelia could hear the tack-tack-tack of books being stacked on the rack. It sounded like gunfire.
“You should probably do the same.”
“Mh.”
Odelia heaved a sigh. Looked like Mom was a goner for now. At least until she got what she perceived as Gran’s betrayal out of her system. Which could take a while. And as she filed a Debbie Macomber Christmas novel under the letter M, she thought about what Max had said. Burt Goldsmith had a cat. A cat that had gone missing. If Max could find out where Burt’s cat was holed up and talk to her, there was a lot he could find out.
She suddenly remembered the conversation about her and Chase having babies and smiled to herself. It wasn’t just Mom who could get worked up. Her cats did, too. As if she and Chase were ever going to have babies. Hah. Just the thought was ridiculous.
Still, the sudden fire lighting up her core at the thought of having Chase’s babies told her otherwise. She tamped down on the sudden heat. The whole thing was ridiculous. Absolutely ridiculous.
But when her phone lit up with a message from Chase she felt ridiculously excited.
Chapter 13
We were stuck on the fire escape. No doubt about it. Staring at a closed door willing it to open and the door wasn’t budging. At least not until some helpful human opened it for us. That’s the disadvantage of being a cat. No opposable thumbs. Imagine the damage we could do if only our creator had outfitted us with opposable thumbs. We could actually open this damn door. Oh, wait. Human to the rescue. A young man dressed like a bellboy shoved open the door, pinned it against the wall so it stayed open, and took out a pack of cigarettes.
Dooley and I slipped inside.
Thank God for smokers.
“You know, Max?” said Dooley as we traversed the nicely carpeted corridors of the Hampton Cove Star hotel. “This collar isn’t so bad. I mean, it smells like diesel fumes and everything but it’s not a smell I can’t get used to, if you know what I mean.”
I rolled my eyes. I hated the collar from the moment Vena put it on me. Like Dooley said, it smelled like diesel, and it itched. Besides, cats aren’t meant to wear collars. Dogs are. Because dogs are an inferior species. Cats are meant to roam wild and free. Collars don’t feature into that story. Odelia had promised us it was only for a few days. Until all the fleas had fled. Between the drops and the collar and the comb she said she’d apply to our furs, it wouldn’t take more than two or three days for this whole terrible episode to be behind us.
“I mean, as long as it’s for a good cause I’m quite willing to wear the collar,” Dooley prattled on. “I’m not saying I like it. But I’m not saying I don’t like it, either.”
I kept a dignified silence. As long as we didn’t meet A) other cats, and B) dogs, I was fine. Kingman might get away with wearing a collar and keeping his dignity, I could not.
We’d arrived at the room formerly occupied by the Most Fascinating Man in the World, now fascinating the Suffolk County medical examiner with how dead he was, and peered inside. The door was missing, but some helpful police officer had put up yellow crime scene tape to keep people out. People, not cats.
We entered the room, padding around a nice hole in the floor, and checked around for signs of Shadow, Burt Goldsmith’s elusive cat.
“Shadow,” I called out. “Where are you?”
“Shadow,” Dooley echoed. “Here, kitty, kitty.”
I gave Dooley a scowl. Cats don’t debase themselves by using those awful words. Here, kitty, kitty indeed. We covered the entire hotel room in half a minute. Not much to see. Terrible smell, though. Like when Odelia burns her toast in the morning. But worse. Much worse. I thought I even smelled charred meat at some point in the proceedings. Yikes.
We got out of there as fast as we could, having exhausted our options and our capacity to take in terrible odors. Out in the corridor, a door opened and a man walked out, a cat slipping out in his wake.
“Don’t be too long, Princess,” said the man softly, and the cat growled something rude that the man probably didn’t understand, for he heaved a contented sigh and giggled.
The door closed and the cat stared at us. We stared back. It was one of those Clint Eastwood moments, from the days when Clint still starred in westerns as the inscrutable hero with the inscrutable squint. Then the cat spoke. “What are you doing here?”
“I’m glad you asked,” said Dooley, approaching the black cat. He wasn’t just black but more as if a black hole had suddenly opened up in the corridor floor, only the whites of his eyes indicating he was animated by the force of life. That and that grating voice. “We’re looking for Shadow? The Most Fascinating Cat in the World? Maybe you’ve seen her?”
The black cat—Princess, according to his owner—merely continued to stare.
“We’re trying to figure out what happened to Shadow’s human,” I explained. “Apparently he was blown up this morning and we’re trying to determine if foul play was involved.”
“You fools,” Princess growled. “Of course fo
ul play was involved. What do you think? That he accidentally blew himself up when he lit a cigar? The guy was murdered!”
“Oh,” said Dooley excitedly. “Do you have any evidence to corroborate this theory, my friend?”
The cat growled something between gritted teeth, looking and sounding just like Clint, Clint squint and all. For a moment I fully expected him to snarl, ‘Make my day, punk.’ Instead, he said, “Corroborate? What are you? Some two-bit Sherlock Holmes wannabes?”
“We work with Odelia Poole,” Dooley explained helpfully. “She’s an investigator and a reporter. She helps out the police from time to time when they’re stuck. She’s very smart.”
“Yeah, right. A bunch of loser cats helping a nosy parker journo solve crime. Where have I heard that before?”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “But did I hear your owner call you Princess?”
“That’s my name, don’t wear it out,” he growled.
“But… isn’t Princess a female name?”
“I am a female,” he snarled. “Can’t you tell?”
Frankly I couldn’t, but I was prepared to be broad-minded. “So, Princess, can you tell us some more about this theory of yours? Burt Goldsmith was murdered, you say?”
He—or she—was reluctant, I could tell, but finally the desire to confide in someone won out. “Someone was after him, all right. Shadow used to say they were all after Burt.”
“All?”
“All the interesting men. His competitors. All except one, of course. The Most Compelling Man in the World. My human.” She stuck out her chest. “Curt wouldn’t hurt a fly. He’s the greatest. And the most compelling, of course.”
“Of course,” I said graciously.
“You look like a male,” Dooley said abruptly. He’d been studying the black cat closely.
“I was born a male,” Princess explained gruffly. “But then I decided I was a female. What’s it to you, you insensitive bozo?”
“Just curious, I guess,” said Dooley, not insulted in the least.
“I always felt like a female trapped inside a male body. Do you have any idea what that does to a cat? No, of course you don’t, you ignoramus. Well, take your judgments and shove them up your keister, will you?”
“What’s a keister?” asked Dooley, interested.
“Never mind,” I said, intent on steering the conversation back to safer ground. “Do you have any idea where we can find Shadow? We’d like to ask her some questions.”
“If they’re as dumb as the ones you’ve been asking me I don’t know if I should tell you,” Princess grumbled irritably, darting furious glances at Dooley.
“We would be most grateful,” I said. “Not to mention that if we find out who did this to Burt, our human—who, as I explained, works with the police—would help clear your human from any suspicion.”
Princess frowned, working this over in her mind. “Okay, yeah, I’ll bite,” she said finally. “Last time I saw Shadow she was running for that door over there. This was moments after the explosion. She came shooting out of Philippe Goldsmith’s room, Burt’s grandson.”
I glanced at the door Princess indicated. It was the same door Dooley and I had entered through. The fire escape. Like the cats at Vena’s had speculated, Princess must have been spooked by the explosion and fled in a panic. She literally could be anywhere right now.
“Thank you so much,” I said. “You’ve been a great help, Princess.”
“Don’t mention it,” she said gruffly.
“You have a pee-pee, though, right?” asked Dooley, still mulling things over.
“Are you insane?!” yelled Princess. “Or just plain stoopid?!”
“I think it’s time we moved on,” I told Dooley, giving him a nudge.
“I’m just curious,” said Dooley. “I never met a male female before. Or a female male.”
“Get out of my face, dumbbell!” Princess bellowed. “I’m done talking to you haters!”
“Thank you, sir,” said Dooley automatically as he turned to walk away.
The stream of vituperative language that followed was not something I’m prepared to repeat. Suffice it to say there were some very colorful statements made, and I picked up quite a few words I’d never heard before. Judging from Dooley’s ears turning red and his face screwing up in surprise, he hadn’t heard them before either. Then again, that’s not saying much.
Just then, the doors to the elevator opened and Chase and Odelia stepped out.
Chapter 14
“So why did you want to meet here?” asked Odelia as Chase greeted her in the lobby of the Hampton Cove Star.
“I know how eager you must be to start interviewing suspects and tracking down leads, Poole, so I thought we might pool our resources.”
“Poole—pool. I see what you did there.”
He grinned. “I thought it was clever.”
“But I thought you hadn’t decided whether this was an accident or not?”
He sobered. “The fire marshals are still working on their report, but their preliminary findings suggest a highly explosive substance was used that could not have been present in the room under normal circumstances.” He paused for effect. “Nitroglycerin features high on their list of suspected explosives.”
She frowned. “Nitroglycerin? Do people still use that stuff?”
“It’s still used in the mining, quarrying, demolition and construction industries. It’s the active explosive in dynamite. Used for drilling highway and railroad tunnels. Things like that. There’s also an important medical application for the stuff, apparently. To treat certain heart conditions like angina pectoris and chronic heart failure.”
“You’ve been reading up on your Wikipedia.”
“Mostly what the fire marshal in charge told me. At any rate, at this point they’re seriously looking into that bottle of beer that was brought in—figuring it probably contained something a lot more flammable and explosive than common household beer.”
“An explosive beer bottle. Now that’s something Burt would have appreciated. A most fascinating way to end his life.”
“And it was sent up by a very compelling man.”
“Curt Pigott. Didn’t your people talk to him already?”
“Just routine questions. Your uncle Alec suggested we grill him a little more thoroughly.” They’d approached the elevator and stood waiting for the cab to travel down. “How are your cats, by the way?”
She was touched by his concern. “They’ll be fine. Thanks for telling me about the fleas.”
He shrugged. “The least I can do. I care about the little darlings myself, you know.”
It was the first time Chase had shown any interest whatsoever in her cats, and she was pleasantly surprised. “I didn’t know you were a cat person.”
“Oh, sure. I’ve loved those funny furballs all my life. In fact I had a cat when I was a kid and I loved the little tyke to pieces. Was devastated when it died. Held it in my arms and wouldn’t let it go until my mom told me Blackie was in heaven now, looking down upon me and following my further exploits with keen interest.” He wiped at his eyes with his sleeve.
“Blackie?”
“He was a black cat.”
“Right.”
“They do tug at your heart, don’t they?”
She watched with fascination as a tear rolled down his cheek. It was a side of him she hadn’t seen before. A tenderness he hadn’t displayed in her presence. It melted her heart.
They rode the elevator up in silence, as she wondered whether to tell him that she could actually communicate with her own little ‘furballs.’ Maybe at some point she would.
The elevator doors opened and to her surprise she saw that Max and Dooley were prancing along the corridor. “Hey, babes,” she said. “What are you guys doing here?”
Chase laughed. “Funny. The way you speak cat.”
Caught, she emitted a careless laugh. “Just, you know, saying hi.”
Chase produced a f
ew cat sounds himself. They were gibberish, of course, but it endeared him to her further. He crouched down next to Max and Dooley and tickled their tummies. “Hey, buddies,” he said. “Fancy meeting you here. Are you lost? Are you poor babies lost? Don’t worry. Your friend Chase is here. He’ll take good care of you. Oh, yes, he will. Oh, yes, he will.” At this, he picked up both cats and tucked them into his massive arms.
Max and Dooley, not used to this treatment, stared at Odelia in alarm. She signaled that it was fine and just to go with it. This new, cat-friendly Chase was a true revelation.
“Let’s take them into the interview with us,” she suggested.
“Won’t they be a nui—I mean won’t they be bored?” he asked.
“I’m sure they’ll be on their best behavior,” she said, giving her cats a wink.
Knocking on the door to the Most Compelling Man’s room, Chase took a firmer grip on the cats, with Max and Dooley still looking stunned by this unexpected development.
“Um, Odelia?” asked Max.
She glanced over.
“Why is your boyfriend pawing us like this?”
She merely smiled. Maybe one day she’d tell Chase about her secret, but today wasn’t that day. She could tell him that some cats hate to be manhandled or picked up, though, but before she could, the door opened and a swarthy man dressed in a dressing gown appeared. His hair was pitch-black and gelled back, his face was the color of a mochaccino, and a smattering of dark chest hair came peeping from the top of his burgundy silk gown. He also looked slightly peeved. “Do you realize I ordered room service over half an hour ago? Standards at this hotel have seriously deteriorated since my last visit.” He glanced at the cats Chase was holding. “Cats? I order bourbon and you bring me cats? Are you nuts?”
“We’re not from the hotel, Mr. Pigott,” Odelia said.
“Detective Chase Kingsley,” said Chase, dislodging Max and thrusting out a hand. “Hampton Cove Police. And this is Odelia Poole. Civilian consultant with the department. We’re here to ask you a couple of questions in regards to the murder of Burt Goldsmith.”