by Nic Saint
One by one, the cats stepped to the fore, tapping their chests and introducing themselves. “My name is Princess,” said Princess. “The Most Compelling Cat in the World.”
“My name is Beca, and I’m the Most Attractive Cat in the World,” a fit red cat said.
“I’m Chloe,” said a pretty striped cat. “And I’m the Most Intriguing Cat in the World.”
“I’m Aubrey and I’m the Most Iconic Cat in the World,” said a strapping white cat.
“And I’m Fat Amy, and I’m the Sexiest Cat Alive,” a well-rounded cat said.
“And together we’re the Most Interesting Cats in the World!” Princess yelled.
And suddenly, before our very eyes, the cats started performing the kind of routine one habitually sees on the stage of some Broadway musical. Or in those funny Pitch Perfect movies. They launched into a song-and-dance routine that had us all staring in abject awe.
They started off with a bit of Taylor Swift’s Shake it Off, shaking their tails provocatively, flawlessly segued into Beyoncé’s Crazy in Love, synchronized dancing to the beat, then it was on to Gwen Stefani’s Hollaback Girl before finishing off with a rousing rendition of Pink’s Get The Party Started, really blowing up the scene, dancing up a storm.
When the show was over, we all blew out a collective gasp of appreciation, then the entire cat choir burst into a loud and raucous applause.
The interesting cat collective stood panting for a moment, basking in the admiration, then took a slight bow, with Princess declaring, “Now it’s time for you guys to blow us away!”
I gulped, and so did some of the other members of cat choir. Truth be told, our repertoire is a little limited. Cat choir isn’t so much about putting on a compelling show but more about giving local cats a chance to shoot the breeze and sniff each other’s butts. And that’s what some of the members now did, approaching the Most Interesting Cats in the World and sniffing their butts. I could have told them this was not a good idea, but some cats can’t be told and need to be shown. A few harsh words and well-aimed lashes of razor-sharp claws later, five cats were racing away into the tree line with their tails between their legs.
“Let’s do what we do best, fellas,” said Kingman. “Let’s sing our anthem!”
We all gave him a bewildered look. Anthem? Did we have an anthem?
But Shanille seemed to have picked up on his cue, for she cried over the hubbub that followed Kingman’s words, “From the top—one and two and three and four!” And proceeded to belt out, “Midnight. Not a sound from the pavement. Has the moon lost her—”
“Has she lost her mind?” asked Harriet next to me. “I can’t sing that.”
Shanille was doing little movements with her paws, dancing in a circle, head and tail held high, just the way they did it in the musical Cats. I’d only seen it once. On YouTube. And it had failed to impress. Though I had to admit I enjoyed Barbra’s version of the hit song.
Other cats soon fell in, caterwauling with absolute abandon, the yowls and ear-splitting screeches lighting up windows all along the streets that lined the park. Soon voices could be heard from neighbors, and next thing we knew the shoes were raining down.
As Dooley dodged one particularly well-aimed shoe, he said, “Don’t these people ever run out of footwear?”
Apparently not. Meanwhile, Shanille was undeterred, and kept giving her moving rendition of Memory, swaying to the music like a cat under the influence of a powerful narcotic, possibly marijuana or some other hallucinatory substance. Other cats mimicked her movements, turning the performance into something akin to a first-grade school play.
The Most Interesting Cats in the World where mostly unimpressed. Shaking their heads, they decided not to stick around and left the scene before the grand finale, chuckling at the sad show. Looked like the visitors had won this particular competition.
Shanille hadn’t even noticed her audience had dispersed, for she kept belting out those hard-to-reach high notes. The moment her final shriek died away, she took a bow and a size-fifteen combat boot in the small of her back and was out for the count.
Things kind of petered out after that. The neighbor who’d thrown the boot must have known that if you want to defeat an army you take out its leader. With Shanille down, there was no sense sticking around, and we decided to set a course for the good old homestead.
“Shanille did well,” Dooley said. “She has a really good voice.”
“I thought she sucked,” Harriet commented, harsh theater critic that she was.
“But what about those Most Interesting Cats, huh?” said Brutus hoarsely. It was obvious those five cats had left an indelible impression on his impressionable soul.
Harriet snapped her head up. “If you like them so much, why don’t you join them!”
And with this crack, she stalked off, tail in the air.
“Harriet!” he cried after her. “I didn’t mean it like that!”
“Oh, yes, you did!”
“No, I didn’t! Harriet—come back!”
We watched as Brutus trotted after his mate. And then it was just me and Dooley.
“You know, we still haven’t found Burt’s cat Shadow,” he said.
“Yeah, we should probably have asked those other interesting cats.” Dooley had reminded me that we were seriously remiss in our duty towards our human: we had a crime to solve, and all this gallivanting around had put a serious crimp in our sleuthing efforts.
“Max?”
“Mh?”
“If Grandma moves out, do you think she’ll take me along with her to Colorado?”
I stared at my friend in shock. “You think so?”
He shrugged as we paused underneath a streetlamp. The hubbub of cat choir and its army of shoe-throwing fans were reduced to mere echoes, the soft sounds of the night now all around us. There was a nip in the air, and an owl was stoically hooting somewhere nearby.
“I don’t want to move to Colorado, Max. I like my life in Hampton Cove. I have my friends here.” He gestured at me. “And I have Odelia and Marge and Tex. I like Grandma, of course. She is my human. And if she moves away I guess I’ll move away, too. But I don’t mind telling you I don’t like it.” He shook his head sadly. “No, sir, I don’t like it one bit.”
“I don’t like it either,” I admitted. “I don’t want you to move away, Dooley.”
He heaved a deep sigh. “Well, let’s hope she stays. Then I can stay, too.”
We walked on. There was a soft rustling sound in the underbrush, and moments later a small rodent came peeping its twitchy nose out. It was a mouse. A nice, white, juicy mouse. The kind of mouse any able-bodied cat like me or Dooley would have enjoyed to chase.
It was a testament to our mood that we didn’t even give it a second glance.
Chapter 20
Odelia awoke in the middle of the night from a sense that something was amiss. It took her a few moments to realize what it was: no cats. Usually Max slept at the foot of the bed—at least when he wasn’t out and about, exploring Hampton Cove with his friends. After the ordeal he’d had, that was probably what he was doing right now.
Since she was up, she decided to head down to the kitchen for a glass of milk.
Next to her, the figure of Chase stirred. The cop was sound asleep, his arm draped across his pillow, his tousled hair visible in the diffuse light of a moon curiously peeping through the curtains.
She smiled. Now wasn’t that a sight for sore eyes? It was a long time since a man had slept in her bed, and this particular man was something else indeed. As she slipped her feet into her slippers, she thought about his words. Move in together? Was she ready for that?
She padded across the hardwood floor to the door, careful not to make a sound, and then snuck downstairs. In the kitchen she poured some milk into her Fozzie Bear cup and placed it in the microwave, then leaned against the kitchen counter and crossed her arms. Through the kitchen window she could see the backyard, still plunged into darkness, t
he moon generously sprinkling its milky white light upon the world below.
The cat door hung motionless, and Max’s bowls were untouched, a testament to his roaming ways. He was probably in the park, where he and others of his kind enjoyed spending part of their nights. Cats are nocturnal animals, and like to be out and about while the rest of the world sleeps. She just hoped he was all right, and so were the others.
And as the microwave softly dinged and she took the cup between her hands and attempted a first sip of the warm brew, she closed her eyes. When she opened them again, Chase was walking into the kitchen, yawning, and she smiled.
“Up already?” he asked, joining her.
“Couldn’t sleep,” she admitted, and held up her cup. “Want some?”
“Sure. I’ll take mine with a little honey.”
“The man has a sweet tooth.”
“He sure has,” he said with a wolfish grin, and pulled her close, planting a kiss on her lips. It wasn’t the heat from the milk that spread through her but a completely different kind of heat. One she could definitely get used to. She didn’t know if it would help her sleep but suddenly she didn’t care so much about sleep anymore.
There was more kissing, and the cup of milk was soon transferred to the counter and so was her perky behind.
She wasn’t sure if she wanted Chase to move in with her, but she sure as heck wanted him to keep kissing her like this and bending her backwards over the countertop.
When they both came up for air, he took a sip from her cup and looked at her over the rim with those dark eyes of his. Something stirred and she said, “Let’s go back to bed.”
He smiled. “Thought you’d never ask.”
By the time Max and Dooley strolled in, Odelia and Chase were fast asleep, enjoying a well-deserved rest after some very strenuous midnight activities.
Chapter 21
The next morning, Odelia joined Chase as they drove off to work. He’d scheduled four more interviews with four more very interesting men, and wanted her there. He claimed she had a knack for getting people to confess stuff. That and he liked her company. How could she say no to an offer like that? Plus, she got to collect some great quotes for the series of articles she was writing on the explosive murder case.
As they rode along the streets of Hampton Cove, which were slowly coming alive again after a short night, she sat slumped down in the passenger seat while he expertly maneuvered his pickup through traffic. “So did you get that report from the fire marshals?”
“We did, actually,” he said, looking as cool and collected as ever. Not much ruffled this man, which was probably what made him so good at his job. And in her bed.
“And was nitroglycerin involved?” she prompted.
“Yes, it was. A whole lot of the stuff. And it did come in a beer bottle, as they suspected. But when they checked Curt Pigott’s room they found nothing. Not a trace. Not on his person, not on his clothes, not on any of his possessions. Which makes this a very puzzling case.”
“And, like he said, why would he use room service to deliver a bomb to his rival? That would make him the dumbest killer in history,” she mused as she gazed out the window at the streets outside, where people were walking their children to school and others were hurrying to get to work on time. “So what about the others?”
Chase shook his head. “Nothing. All the interesting men were cleared.”
“Someone must have had a bottle of nitroglycerin in their room.”
“Someone sure did. Only we haven’t been able to find it. Yet. The thing is, this particular nitro was homemade, not factory-made, which tells us a few things.”
He used his indicator to turn left onto Main Street. As usual, there wasn’t a single parking spot left in front of the hotel, so he turned the car down the ramp and into the parking garage reserved for hotel guests.
“Whoever mixed the nitro must have done so where they wouldn’t be disturbed. Because nitro is a notoriously unstable substance, and tends to explode when you don’t know what you’re doing. Plus, nitro has some serious side effects.”
“Like?”
“It affects the arteries, widening them, which is why it’s so useful against heart conditions and chest pains. The side effect is that it opens the blood vessels in the brain, too, which can cause some serious headaches. They call it NG head, or bang head, and it’s more like a migraine than a mild headache. Other side effects are dizziness, nausea, flushing…”
“So we’re looking for a killer with a serious case of migraine.”
“Or those migraines could have passed by the time he or she came to Hampton Cove. It’s the fumes and working with the stuff that’s tricky. Once it’s transferred into a canister and kept on ice it’s much safer to handle.”
“On ice?”
“Oh, yes. Nitro is notoriously unstable. One wrong move and boom! So it’s handled at low temperatures and stored that way, too.”
She sighed. “So we’re looking for a killer who may or may not have had headaches in the past and who used a cold bottle of beer to kill the Most Fascinating Man in the World.”
Chase gave her a grin. “Isn’t this the most fascinating case you’ve ever worked on?”
They got out of the car and rode the elevator up to the lobby. The four men they were here to interview were waiting in the conference room. For the sake of expedience Chase had decided to interview them together instead of one by one. And so it was that when they walked into the conference room, the Most Intriguing, Most Iconic, Most Attractive and Sexiest Men in the World were seated around the table, drumming their fingers and looking glum and annoyed.
Most interesting men don’t like to be kept waiting. And they don’t appreciate jumping through hoops to satisfy the members of law enforcement.
What was more, Odelia had the distinct impression there was tension in the air. She could be mistaken, but she thought these men didn’t like each other very much.
Chase came straight down to business. “All of you guys had both motive and opportunity to stage an attack on Burt Goldsmith. What I would like to know is who you think is responsible for what happened to him.”
He pulled back a chair and took a seat, and Odelia followed suit.
The men all shared suspicious glances, but Bobbie Hawe was the first to speak. The Most Attractive Man in the World was a handsome fortysomething male of powerful build who obviously spent a great deal of time in the gym. He was dressed in a three-piece suit that was filled out by a muscular physique, and sported the kind of well-groomed facial hair that Robert Downey Jr. was so fond of. He also wore that actor’s favored tinted glasses.
“I know what you’re doing and it won’t work, detective,” he said in a low drawl.
“Oh? And what is it you think I’m doing?” asked Chase.
“You’re trying to pit us against each other. Make us roll over and give you the name of the culprit.” He spread his arms. “And I would give you the name of the culprit. If I knew.”
There were murmurs of agreement from his fellow interesting men.
“It’s not a big secret that none of us are great friends,” Bobbie continued, “but that doesn’t mean we aim to kill each other or blow each other up. And we definitely would never have tried to kill Burt Goldsmith, who was the elder statesman of our select group.”
“We have it on good authority that Burt came down to Hampton Cove to steal attention away from your conference,” said Odelia.
Bobbie laughed. “Let me guess. Curt told you that, right?”
She nodded.
“He wasn’t lying. Burt did come down here out of spite. But that doesn’t mean there was no mutual respect. We’re all businessmen, detective—Miss Poole. We compete for the same share of the market. But above all we respected Burt. For what he’d accomplished. And for his stamina. I mean, the man was as old as my grandfather—and still going strong.”
“Burt was a legend,” chimed in Jasper Hanson, Most Intriguing Man in the World. He w
as small and physically negligible, but there was something about him that was most… intriguing. Maybe it was his face, which didn’t seem put together well. His eyes too far apart, his lips too thin. His nose too flat. Whatever the case, when he spoke, everyone listened. “I actually liked the man,” he continued, ignoring howls of protest from his colleagues. “No, I really did. We had a connection. We would meet each other on the road—us interesting men do a lot of trade shows and conventions, as you might imagine—or in some hotel bar, and we would invariably drift into each other’s ken, sharing a few beers—bourbon for him. Burt didn’t like the taste of beer, not even his own brand—and swap war stories.” His expression sobered. “He will be sorely missed by this community. And definitely by yours truly.”
“I never liked him,” said Nestor Greco, the Most Iconic Man in the World. He was squat, heavyset, with receding hairline, and dressed head to foot in black. He looked like a guy who could have had a part in Goodfellas, shooting the breeze with the local mobsters. “I thought he was a fake. Just a big phony.”
“Burt was the real deal,” said Jasper. “The most interesting man of all.”
“Nah, he wasn’t. He was an actor playing a part. The real Burt was a bore and a drunk. A drunk!” he insisted over the protestations of his colleague. “The only time he was interesting was when he was drunk as a skunk—but then we’re all interesting when we’re plastered. Even the biggest dullard in the world becomes interesting when he’s loaded to the gills.”
“I think you’re all wrong,” said Dale Parson, the Sexiest Man Alive. He looked like a swimwear model, with his sharp features, wavy blond hair and piercing blue eyes. “The only one who ever knew Burt the man was me. I never told anyone this but he’s the one who got me launched in this business. I was a walk-on on one of his commercials when he spotted me and gave me my first big break. Hooked me up with his ad campaign manager and that’s how I got started modeling swimwear for Vic’s Secret and underwear for Kevin Klein.” He tapped the table smartly. “That’s the kind of guy Burt was. Generous and loyal to his friends.”