by Nic Saint
The man’s eyes went wide in consternation. “Murder? Police? Omigod!”
“May we step inside, sir? Easier to talk in the room than out here in the corridor.”
“Oh, yes, of course,” said the stricken actor. “Please come in, police people.” He led the way into the nicely decorated room, if you disregarded the items of clothing strewn about everywhere and covering every available surface. Judging from the quality of the garments the man was a fastidious dresser. Perhaps even a most compelling one.
“Don’t mind the mess,” he said, waving a distracted hand and tugging his dressing gown closer around his trim physique. “I was just trying to decide what to wear for our get-together.” When they stared at him, uncomprehending, he grimaced. “As you probably know, we’re holding a thing in town. The Seabreeze Music Center graciously accepted to host us for a three-day conference on all things interesting, fascinating, compelling, intriguing and I’m probably forgetting a few adjectives. But with this darned Burt-getting-blown-up thing we’re seriously considering calling the whole thing off. It really would be in awfully bad taste.”
Chase, still holding on to the cats, who were squirming in his grip, said, “I understand you sent a bottle of Dos Siglas up to Burt Goldsmith’s room just before he died?”
The man’s dark eyebrows wiggled. “No, sir, I did not. I never sent anything to Burt’s room. Oh, I know he kept accusing me of doing so—taunting him, as he called it. But I assured both him and your colleagues who were in here badgering me before that whoever sent those bottles, it wasn’t me. I disliked Burt intensely and the feeling was mutual. If I could avoid having anything to do with the man I did. The fact that we were in Hampton Cove together—at the same hotel, no less—was cause for serious discomfort on my part.”
“You didn’t choose this time and place to coincide with Burt’s shoot?” asked Odelia.
“No, I did not. None of us did. It was the other way around. We put on this conference and then Burt decided to drop by unannounced, no doubt trying to steal our thunder. The conference has attracted a lot of attention and Burt, who was a real attention whore if you pardon my French, couldn’t resist the temptation to bask in our limelight.”
A black cat had entered the room from the balcony and stood perfectly still, eyeing Max and Dooley with menace. Uh-oh.
“So you never sent up that bottle?” asked Chase, struggling to contain Odelia’s cats.
“No, detective, I didn’t,” said the Most Compelling Man in the World haughtily. “This hotel doesn’t even carry Tres Siglas, which goes to show how low standards have dropped. Furthermore, I don’t understand the significance of this bottle. Who cares what beer Burt drank? It certainly wasn’t Tres Siglas. It wasn’t even Dos Siglas, the brand he represented. Burt hated beer. Said it tasted like dishwater. He preferred his liquor strong and undiluted.”
Chase finally gave up the battle and dropped Max and Dooley to the floor. They stood poised, watching Curt’s cat intently, every muscle in their small bodies flexed.
“It would appear that the final bottle you sent up—or someone else sent up—contained the powerful explosive that ended Burt Goldsmith’s life,” said Chase. “Which is why it’s imperative we find out who sent that bottle.”
The man’s jaw dropped. “An exploding bottle of beer? Oh, my. Oh, dear me.” Suddenly his face twisted into an expression of peevishness. He stomped his foot. “That foul old bird! Can’t you see what’s going on here, detective? Can’t you read between the lines? He sent it to himself! Burt sent that bottle to himself! He wanted to go out with a bang and he did! Now every newspaper in the country will headline the story—people will be talking about this for days. He wanted to best us one final time. Oh, the horrible, nasty old bird!”
“You think he killed himself?” asked Odelia, surprised.
Curt Pigott swung his arms. “Of course he did! The man was pushing eighty. He didn’t have a lot of time left. And it wouldn’t surprise me if he wasn’t sick from some wasting disease, judging from the way he’d lost the pounds in recent years. He wanted to kick the bucket on his own terms and put in one last performance. A most fascinating death.”
It was a most interesting theory—one Chase seemed to consider credible, judging from the way he was rubbing his chin. “Room service staff said the order to bring up those bottles came from your room,” he said.
“I swear to you, detective—I had nothing to do with it! And how easy would it be to tell room service that I gave the commission. There are no papers to sign when you call down an order—simply a phone call and the mention of your room number. Anyone could have given my name and number—anyone at all.” He wagged a finger in their faces, his own face clouding. “Especially Burt Goldsmith, who was a cunning old coot right up until the very end. He knew he could get me into hot water with this stunt. One final blow. One final insult.”
“I take it the dislike between you two was mutual?” asked Odelia.
“Oh, it most assuredly was.” He tapped his hairy chest. “I was supposed to be the Most Fascinating Man in the World. Me! Dos Siglas asked me first. But Burt, who was a down-on-his-luck two-bit actor at the time, decided to improve his chances by sleeping with the casting lady. The rest is history. Fifteen years later he’s the star and I’m the also-ran. And ever since he’s been rubbing it in my face,” he added between gritted teeth.
The guy definitely had motive, Odelia decided. He seemed to hate Burt’s guts with a vengeance. But did he do it? Hard to prove. Unless they found trace evidence of the nitroglycerin on his person or this hotel room, they didn’t have a lot to go on.
Just then, war broke out in the room. The black cat, who’d been staring down Max and Dooley, suddenly jumped their bones, and for the next few minutes the world was a maelstrom of claws, piercing yowls and screams, and fur flying all over the place.
The fight began in the center of the room, then moved across its full acreage.
“Max! Dooley!” Odelia cried, desperately trying to separate the warring parties.
It’s hard to stop a cat fight, though. Cats tend to get caught up in the melee, and lash out indifferent of whether the other party is friend or foe. In other words, you step in at your own peril.
And as the fight moved towards the bed, suddenly Chase stepped to the fore, picked up two cats in his right hand, another in his left hand, and pulled. There was a rending sound, and when finally the smoke and fur cleared, he had effectively broken up the fight.
Odelia stared at the man, and so did Curt Pigott.
“You, sir, are marvelous!” Curt exclaimed, and Odelia couldn’t have put it better.
Chapter 15
I was feeling slightly dazed. Being in a huge fight with a princess will do that to a cat. Princess might be slightly clueless about whether he or she was a she or a he but they definitely fought like a tomcat and I had the scratches and the bite marks to prove it. I was tucked away in the crook of Chase’s right arm while Dooley was tucked away in the crook of the burly cop’s left arm. All in all it was a decent proposition and I was slowly starting to feel safe again. To serve and protect was one of those mottos I’d never given much thought, but now that I saw that it extended to me, myself and mine, I was all on board. I was a fan.
“That was a wonderful thing you did back there, Chase,” said Odelia as we descended down to the lobby in the hotel elevator.
“Just doing my job,” Chase grunted, though I could sense Odelia’s words pleased him.
“No, I mean, you could have gotten yourself hurt. That cat meant business.”
“Eh. Just a little pussycat. What harm can it do?”
“Did you see those claws?” Dooley cried. “That cat was going for the kill.”
Muzak softly played on the elevator sound system. ‘Raindrops are falling on my head,’ someone crooned. A cat had just fallen on my head, and Chase had saved us. Suddenly I was feeling all warm and fuzzy, and gave the cop’s square chin a nudge with the top of my head.
“Aww,” Odelia said.
“Hrmph,” Chase said, stiffening.
I could be mistaken, but I had the distinct impression Chase was not a cat person, and he was merely doing this to get in good with Odelia. I would have said he did it to get in bed with Odelia, but he’d already accomplished that particular feat. So what was he after?
“Babies!” Dooley cried suddenly.
I turned to him. “What are you talking about, Dooley?”
“He wants babies! That’s why he’s being so nice to us all of a sudden!”
I hate to admit it but once in a while Dooley gets it right. Now was such an occasion. There’s only one reason why a dog person would suddenly turn into a cat person—or at least pretend to do so: the old baby maker is stirring its ugly head. “You know what, Dooley?” I said. “I think you just might be right.” Then again, maybe a couple of babies wasn’t so bad?
‘Because I’m free. Nothing’s worrying me.’
The elevator dinged and the doors opened, allowing us a nice view of the lobby. I had no idea why Chase insisted on carrying us. We might have been dinged a little, and lost some of our fur and a lot of our dignity, but my paws still worked. And yet I didn’t stir from my comfortable perch, and neither did Dooley. As far as I was concerned, Chase could make as many babies with Odelia as he liked. I’d suddenly grown quite fond of the sturdy cop. First he’d turned out to be Hampton Cove’s fiercest fleaslayer, and now he’d saved our lives.
We walked through the lobby and past the hotel restaurant when a curious sight met our eyes. As one man—or one woman—or one cat—our small company halted in its tracks.
Chase frowned. “Isn’t that—”
“Grandma!” Odelia cried. “She’s at it again.”
I don’t know what she was referring to. Grandma Muffin was having lunch with a bespectacled young man who reminded me of John-Boy of The Waltons fame. He was pale and self-conscious and kept laughing at Grandma’s dubious jokes. The old lady, meanwhile—Dooley’s human, coincidentally—was dressed up like—there’s no other word for it—a tart. She was sporting the kind of cleavage usually reserved for women with more assets than the bony old woman possessed, and the whole thing fell kind of flat. Her face was painted with various types of makeup, and she had on the sort of hat that other, more extravagant and loud women could get away with. Not her. Nor could she get away with the lime-colored fluorescent dress she was wearing. Queen of England Grandma Muffin is not.
Before I had hitched up my lower mandible, Odelia was already stalking in the direction of her grandmother. Chase reluctantly followed in her wake.
“Gran, what are you doing here?” Odelia demanded with not a little heat.
Grandma looked up with a supercilious glint in her eye. She might not be the Queen of England but she could do a fine impression of condescending snootiness. “And who might you be, young lady?” she asked.
“Gran! What on earth has gotten into you?”
Grandma turned to her lunch date. “I’m sorry about this. She must be mistaking me for someone else.” Then she leaned into Odelia and hissed, “Beat it, missy. Can’t you see I’m buttering up my grandson?”
The grandson in question didn’t hide his discomfort. He went so far as to dart apologetic glances at Chase, who stood watching the scene with the kind of inscrutability and thousand-yard stare cops learn during their first week at police academy.
“You’re coming home with me right now,” Odelia snapped. “Get up. Now!”
“Get lost! Now!” Grandma retorted smartly. “You’re cramping my style!”
“Oh, for God’s sakes,” Odelia said.
I could have pointed out that it wasn’t God who’d put Grandma up to this, but I had a feeling keeping mum was the safer option at this juncture. Safe behind the bulwark of Chase Kingsley’s brawny arms, Dooley and I had front-row seats to the show that was about to begin, and I for one was ready to enjoy it to its full potential. I’d never seen Odelia and her grandmother square off before, and it promised to be a corker.
Just then, a third party joined the fray. I recognized her as Scarlett Canyon, and she had the dizzyingly deep neckline to live up to her last name.
“Ooh, Philippe, darling. I thought I’d find you here,” she purred as she swooped down on the pale youth, and smothered him with both kisses and some prime real estate.
“Get off him, you tramp!” Gran snapped, indignant. “That’s my grandson you’re slobbering over!”
Scarlett straightened, allowing Philippe to come up for air and adjust his glasses. “Did you say something, you bony old witch?”
“I said that’s my grandson! Get away from him!”
Scarlett wrapped her arms possessively around the young man, draping herself all over him in the process. Once again his glasses—steamed up by now—went askew. “He’s mine, Vesta. All mine. I mothered his father and I won’t let you take him away from me again.”
“I mothered his father!”
“Says you.”
“I think I would remember giving birth to a fine specimen like… Burt Goldsmith’s son.”
Scarlett threw her head back in a raucous laugh. “You don’t even know his name, do you?”
“I do,” said Gran, a dark frown marring her features. “His name is…” She darted a hopeful look at Philippe, trying to cast him in the role of her personal prompter. But Philippe Goldsmith was struggling with the weight of Scarlett’s full-bodied presence on his shoulders and was momentarily lost to the world.
“His name was Hunter Goldsmith. I say ‘was’ because he died—from a broken heart because he missed his dear precious mother so. And why do I know these things? Because I christened him Hunter before Burt and I were so brutally separated by his unfeeling and cold-hearted parents.” Scarlett sniffed theatrically. “Which is why his death comes as such a shocking blow. Our final chance at the happy reunion. Ripped away by cruel, cruel fate!”
“Oh, you’re full of crap,” Grandma said, and made a menacing step in her rival’s direction. “I’ll show you what cruel, cruel fate can do to a painted hussy like you!”
Scarlett reared back, but before Gran could act out her threat, Chase stepped between the two women. I don’t know how he did it, for he had his arms full of feline, but he still managed to act the perfect traffic cop, holding up his hands at the two old ladies.
“You’re coming with us now,” he growled at Grandma, who nodded reluctantly. And to Scarlett, he grunted, “And you better behave, Mrs. Canyon, or I’ll have to write you up for disorderly conduct, you understand?”
The woman knew better than to protest, and nodded furiously. But when Gran’s back was turned, she still managed to stick out her tongue at her longtime nemesis.
“I’m starting to like this Chase guy, Max,” said Dooley. “First he breaks up a vicious cat fight and now a nasty old lady fight. I don’t know how he does it but he does it very well.”
“The man is a god amongst men,” I agreed.
And then we were finally on our way home. Not a moment too soon. I enjoy helping out my human, but the awful truth of the matter is: sometimes it’s hard to be a cat.
Chapter 16
The Pooles were all gathered in Tex and Marge’s kitchen: Odelia, Marge and Alec standing in a small circle around Gran, who was seated at the kitchen table, like a suspect at the police station, or an accused standing trial. Chase had left, wisely deciding this was a matter best handled by the family and not wanting to interfere. Tex, meanwhile, was busying himself washing the dishes, though judging from the clatter of cups and plates smashing against each other he was more engaged in blowing off some much-needed steam.
“I’m telling you nicely, Ma,” said Uncle Alec. “Drop this nonsense right this minute.”
“I’m not dropping this nonsense,” said Gran stubbornly. “Philippe Goldsmith is a nice young man and he is my grandson. Can I help it if he’s taken such a shine to me? He says he’ll put me up in the Goldsmith m
ansion someplace in Colorado and pamper me for the rest of my natural life.” She held up her wrinkly hands. “It’s an offer I can’t possibly refuse!”
“It’s an offer you will refuse,” said Marge. “Because you’re not Philippe’s grandmother. There’s no way you had a child and then promptly forgot about it.”
“Yes, you may be daft but you’re not that daft,” grumbled Alec.
“Watch your tongue,” Gran warned. “I am still your mother.”
“Yes, you are. My mother—not this Hunter Goldsmith, whoever he was.”
“Nice name, Hunter,” mused Grandma. “I can’t remember giving it to him but I must have. Just the kind of name I would have given a healthy baby boy.” She darted a quick look at Alec. “Your dad named you, of course. I wanted to call you Filip and Marge Sandra.”
Alec and Marge glanced at one another. “F. Lip and S. Lip. Flip and Slip. Nice one, Ma,” Alec said. “Good thing you left the naming to Dad.”
Grandma shrugged. “They’re nice-sounding names. Not like Alec and Marge. I’ve always hated those names.”
“And you’re telling us now,” said Marge.
“I’m sorry, dear,” said Grandma. “You had to find out sometime. Why not now, when I’m moving on to my first family?” She patted Mom’s cheek. “I like this family, I really do, but I was born to be a woman of substance, and my ship has finally come in.”
Dad made a disgusted sound and chipped some more China. Odelia decided this was ridiculous. “You can’t really expect the Goldsmiths to take your word for this, Gran,” she said. “They’re bound to do a DNA test—see if you’re really related or some kind of con artist.”
“Oh, they already did,” said Gran in a careless tone. “Philippe is a very meticulous young man—he had his personal physician take a swab of my saliva and said the lab will fast-track the processing. Until then I’m a guest at his home. His casa is my casa. Those were his exact words.” She smiled beatifically. “Such a nice young man. Intelligent, rich, well-spoken. I’m glad my absence from his life hasn’t held him back. Of course now that we found each other I’ll be a major influence on him. He’ll finally flourish and reach his full potential.”