by Nic Saint
“So who killed him?” asked Chase. “If all of you thought he was so great—”
“I never said he was great,” said Nestor. “I said he was a loser.”
“You said he was a bore,” Jasper corrected him.
“A bore and a loser. And a drunk. A nasty drunk. He once got into a fight with a nun. A nun! Who gets into a fight with a holy woman? Only a drunk loser like Burt Goldsmith!”
“Don’t call him a loser,” said Dale, looking pained. “Burt was like a father to me.”
“Well, maybe he was your father,” said Nestor.
“What are you saying? That Burt screwed my mother?” asked Dale, rising.
“That’s exactly what I’m saying! Burt screwed everyone’s mother and their mother!”
“Please, gentlemen,” said Bobbie. “Let’s not do this. A man died. Show some respect.”
“He never had any respect for me!” said Nestor. “Why should I show respect for a man who wiped his ass on my profession! Wiped his ass on me!”
“Please,” Bobbie repeated. “Is this helpful? Is this productive? Please.”
“The man was an asswipe,” Nestor continued, “and he screwed your mother,” he told Dale, pointing his finger at the man. “Which makes you an asswipe’s asswipe!”
The veins in the swimwear model’s temples were throbbing, and his fists were clenched. It wouldn’t take much for him to take a swing at the squat Nestor Greco.
“Please,” Bobbie said again. “This is not the way we do things around here.”
“This is exactly the way we do things around here,” said Jasper softly, squinting at the ceiling, a nickel playing through his fingers. “Which is why we’ll all get arrested and charged with first-degree murder if we don’t get our acts together and figure out who’s behind this.”
“Well, we all know who’s behind this, don’t we?” said Nestor.
“If you’re going to say my mother is behind this, I’ll slug you,” said Dale. “I swear to god I’ll slug you and I’ll slug you good and proper.”
“Asswipes don’t slug people,” Nestor pointed out. “They—”
“Don’t say it,” Dale warned. “Don’t you dare!”
“I suggest you take a long hard look at Tracy Sting, detective,” said Jasper. “We might not agree on anything, but we all agree on this. Tracy is the one who did this to Burt.”
“Tracy Sting?” asked Odelia. “Who is she?”
“Burt’s handler,” said Chase. “We’ve been wanting to have a word with her.”
“Tracy represents Dos Siglas,” said Bobbie. “Like you said, she’s the one who handled Burt. Organized the shoots with the ad company. Scheduled his appearances.”
“So why would she kill the goose that laid the golden eggs?” asked Chase.
All four men were silent for a moment, sharing glances. Even Nestor turned quiet, and Dale had taken a seat again. None of them spoke, as if in sudden agreement.
“Gentlemen?” Chase prompted.
“Look, Burt was old, all right?” said Bobbie. “The man was past his prime. But he didn’t think about hanging up his saddle. Said he still had at least a dozen good years left in him. Which would have put him past ninety. Now I’m all against ageism, detective, but ninety? Seriously? So Dos Siglas wanted to put him out to pasture. Replace him with a younger model. Maybe even change up the campaign a little. A fresh take, you know.”
“Burt wouldn’t accept their offer,” Jasper chimed in. “He refused to stand down. Said that if they forced him to retire he’d take them to court. Sue them for all they were worth.”
“In their eagerness to sign him up, back in the day, they’d forgotten to stipulate a termination clause,” Bobbie explained. “So Burt figured he would go on in perpetuity.”
“And they couldn’t fire him for fear of bad press,” said Nestor.
“So they killed him?” asked Odelia. “Just like that?”
“Why not?” said Jasper. “It was their only out. And a lot of free publicity, too.” He leaned in. “Imagine the headlines: Most Fascinating Man in the World dies in a Most Fascinating Way. By exploding beer bottle. The articles write themselves. Not to mention that they planted a Tres Siglas bottle at the scene, smearing the competition in the process.” He leaned back. “From an adman’s point of view the death of Burt Goldsmith was a golden opportunity. A master stroke. And Tracy Sting is the person who set the whole thing up.”
Chapter 22
Alec Lip sat nursing his beer while gazing out the window at one of the most interesting sights in the world: the people who inhabited Hampton Cove. They were his fellow citizens, the people he was being paid to protect and serve, but also his friends, co-workers, family members and former fellow schoolmates. Above all, though, they were people, and people watching was one of Alec’s favorite pastimes. Better than a movie at the local cineplex. Better than a show on Netflix or one of the networks. And definitely better than sitting at home and wondering if Chase would stay over at Odelia’s tonight or not.
Last night he’d hoped to catch a game with the guy, but as usual he’d been a no-show. Not that he minded all that much. Most nights they both ate dinner at the Pooles anyway, and often hung out at Marge and Tex’s while Chase snuck over next door to canoodle with Alec’s niece. Was it still canoodling when you were past the legal drinking age? He wasn’t sure. At any rate, there would be many more ball games, and if Chase was serious about Odelia—and it looked that way to Alec—the guy would become family, which was all for the good, cause he liked Chase. Liked him like a brother. Or the son he never had.
And he was just putting the beer bottle to his lips again when a tall and striking redhead loomed up in his field of vision and jutted out a shapely hip. Shapely was the word that described the rest of her as well. From her well-pronounced chest to a pair of legs that seemed to stretch on for miles, a face that could have launched a thousand ships, and luxuriant curly hair the color of burnished copper. The woman was all woman, top to toe, and dressed the way he liked, too: checkered shirt, tight jeans, cowboys boots. Howdy, sister!
“Is this seat taken, sheriff?” she asked in a sexily hoarse voice.
“No, ma’am, it sure ain’t,” he heard himself reply.
She drew out a chair and sat down across from him, fixing him with the greenest pair of eyes he’d ever seen. A tickle ran up his spine, and the world seemed to hold its breath.
“Sheriff Alec Lip, right?”
He was nodding before he realized that he wasn’t a sheriff at all. “Chief Lip,” he managed, and noticed he was holding onto that bottle of beer as if it were a lifeline. She was that kind of woman.
“Chief Lip,” she amended.
“Though folks around here just call me Chief Alec.”
She smiled, and the sun suddenly seemed to shine just that little bit brighter. “My name is Tracy Sting, Chief. I heard you were looking for me?”
He controlled himself with a powerful effort. “As a matter of fact I was, Miss Sting.”
She threw out her hands and settled in. “Well, here I am. Ask away, Chief Alec.”
Her voice had that Demi Moore grit, as if she’d been smoking a pack a day since the cradle. Hard to imagine a woman like this ever having been in the cradle, though. More likely she’d been born fully formed. He cleared his foggy mind and his throat. “You were Burt Goldsmith’s go-to-person for everything Dos Siglas, is that correct?”
“That is correct. I work for the company, and was assigned to Burt as his personal assistant and executive contact. Whatever Burt needed, I got him.”
He arched an eyebrow. “Everything?”
She glanced at him from beneath lowered lashes. “Everything.”
He decided to ignore the innuendo. “And is it also correct that Dos Siglas were aiming to get rid of Burt but his contract wouldn’t allow them?”
She smiled a tight smile. “Who told you that?”
“I’m a cop, Miss Sting. It’s my job to know these thi
ngs.” That and the message Chase had just sent him. Apparently his and Odelia’s interview had pointed to Tracy as the killer.
She shrugged. “I guess it’s not a big secret. It’s true that Burt signed an ironclad contract that allowed him to stay on long after what most people would consider the age of retirement. And it’s also true that Dos Siglas had naturally assumed that Burt would call it quits once he reached the mid-seventies. He didn’t, however, and felt that as long as his health allowed, he would keep going. The man was having too much fun, Chief. He wasn’t going to quit the best job in the world just because some company figurehead said so.”
He played with his bottle for a moment. “Did you try to persuade him to quit?”
There was some fire in those eyes now. “No, I did not. I thought he was doing a damn good job. The man might have been older than my father but he was fitter than most men his age and in better shape than a lot of men a lot younger than him. Plus, the public loved him.” She leaned in and tapped the table between them. “Burt Goldsmith sold more beer than anyone that’s ever lived, just by being himself: a funny, charming, sweet old guy.” She leaned back. “If he wanted to go on until he dropped dead, who was I to stop him?”
“Someone stopped him. Permanently,” he pointed out.
“Well, it wasn’t me, and it wasn’t anyone at Dos Siglas. The bosses wanted out of the contract, sure, but that doesn’t mean they were going to blow up their best investment. Can you imagine the shitstorm that would come down on us if it turns out we blew up our most popular pitchman? Burt was Dos Siglas. He was the face of the company.” She shook her head, her red mane provocatively dangling around those slender shoulders. “No, Chief. Someone fed you some wrong information. Someone else killed Burt and I, for one, want to see this person punished to the full extent of the law. Maybe even more than you do.”
“I very much doubt that,” he said, and was rewarded with an icy look. Ouch.
“You think I did this? Blow up my charge and risk my reputation and freedom?”
“I’m sure your company will reward you handsomely for your work—and provide you with future opportunities even more lucrative than babysitting Burt Goldsmith.”
She smoldered for a moment, then laughed, a throaty sound that was very pleasant. “I like you, Chief Alec Lip. You’re direct. You say it like it is. And I can see that you’ve already made up your mind about me.” She rose from her chair in one fluid motion. “You think I’m a killer. A stone-cold murderess.”
“I wouldn’t go so far as that,” he protested. “I merely wanted to point out that—”
“No, you’re absolutely right,” she said. “I am the perfect suspect. Which means I’ll have to convince you that you’re wrong about me. What about dinner and a movie?”
Alec’s brows shot up. Now this was a first. First time a woman asked him out on a date. And first time since his Ginny died that he was actually considering saying yes. Before he could think things through, Tracy Sting gave him a knowing nod. “Pick me up at eight. Room 433. And don’t be late, Chief. If there’s anything that turns me off it’s tardiness.” And then she was off, swinging those hips and turning the head of every guy in the establishment.
Alec shook his own head, feeling dizzy and dazed. What had just happened? And then he was getting up from his chair and moving after her. “Wait up, Miss Sting—Tracy!”
Chapter 23
Once again Dooley and I were on the move. Even though the weight of woe pressed down upon us in the form of Dooley’s potential move to Colorado, we’d decided not to let it worry us too much. Cats are a notoriously resilient species. Not only because of the fact that we have nine lives instead of the measly single one humans have been allotted, but also because we always tend to land on our paws. What was more, Dooley had been blessed with a great idea. If this Most Fascinating Cat in the World had run off and taken to the streets, who better to track him down than Clarice, our feral friend, who owned these very streets?
And so it was that the new day saw us traipsing along the back alleys of Hampton Cove, dumpster diving and searching high and low for the wild cat that was Clarice.
“I hope we find her,” remarked Dooley after we’d scoured our third dumpster that morning. “I don’t feel up to the long hike out into the woods, Max.”
“Me neither,” I admitted.
When Clarice isn’t looking for scrumptious and tasty bits in Hampton Cove’s many dumpsters, she’s scrounging off whatever bestselling scribe is occupying Hetta Fried’s writer’s lodge, which is inconveniently located a goodish bit away from the heart of town.
What with the flea thing and last night’s #pillgate and Dooley’s sad prospects, I wasn’t feeling up to going on a country ramble in the hopes of locating this Shadow feline. I’m prepared to do a lot for my human, but one has to draw the line somewhere, right?
And we were just checking out one of the more dingy back alleys—yes, even a Hamptons haven like Hampton Cove has them—and thumping our paws against the line of dumpsters, caroling, “Clarice, oh, Clari-iece!” like some latter-day Hannibal Lecter wannabes, when suddenly a loud growl sounded and one of the dumpsters spoke back.
“Oh, will you cut it out already?” the dumpster snarled, and I recognized the unmistakable dulcet tones of our favorite wild cat. “You’ll wear out my name. Not to mention scare away the tastiest rats!”
“Rats!” cried Dooley. “I don’t like rats, Max!”
“Relax. She’s just kidding. Aren’t you, Clarice?” I said, louder.
The head of a mangy cat appeared at the top of the dumpster and she jumped down, her fur matted and dotted with bald spots, part of one ear gnawed off and more than a few whiskers missing. Clarice jumped down and started washing her face, giving us nasty glances between licks. “You two look like crap. What have you done to yourselves? Gotten stuck in a wood chipper?” She laughed at her own joke, a series of low and throaty chuckles.
“We need your help, Clarice,” Dooley announced.
“Of course you do.” She then narrowed her eyes at me. “Is that… a collar?”
I cringed. I’d hoped the topic wouldn’t crop up. But of course Clarice’s eagle eyes had immediately spotted the anomaly. “We’ve been suffering from a slight flea issue,” I said.
She laughed a hacking laugh. “Flea issue! That’s why you look so ragged!”
“It’s no laughing matter,” Dooley said. “It’s a terrible ordeal, Clarice. Painful.”
“Painful! You don’t know what pain is, city cat,” she growled, getting in Dooley’s face. “Pain is when you take a punch to the gut from a twenty-pound cat with razors for claws. Pain is when a human steps on your tail and grinds it into the ground. Pain is when your own human throws you off a cliff and leaves you to die!” She was panting from the outburst.
We both stared at her, aghast. “Is that what happened to you?” I asked.
She produced a growling sound at the back of her throat, and for a moment I thought she would lunge at me. Instead, she said, “Never get attached to your human. They will turn their backs on you. And they will leave you to rot and die, alone in the middle of nowhere.”
Cheerful. Life around Clarice is always a feast of careless laughs and cheerfulness.
“Is it true that your human left you tied to a tree trunk and that you had to gnaw off your own paw to free yourself?” asked Dooley in a reverent voice.
Involuntarily we glanced at Clarice’s paws. She seemed to possess all four of them.
“Oh, who cares,” snarled Clarice. “That’s all ancient history anyway.”
Just then, a flea jumped from Dooley in the direction of the feral cat. Clarice snatched it up in midair, then flicked it into her mouth and chomped down. “Not a lot of meat,” she grumbled. “Got any more?”
I gulped. “You’re not afraid they’ll suck your blood?”
She laughed. “A flea suck my blood! I suck their blood! That’s why they never come near me.”
I had
noticed she wasn’t wearing a collar. Then again, if her human was the kind of person to throw her off a cliff to leave her to die and rot, he probably wouldn’t take her to Vena’s for flea treatment. “You don’t have fleas?” I asked.
“Do you see a flea on me?” she asked, and I had to admit I didn’t. Fleas were probably more afraid of Clarice than she was of the little parasites. “Now are you gonna tell me what you want or are you gonna stand there yapping about your sad little lives?”
“We’re looking for Shadow,” said Dooley.
“Look behind you. But be quick,” she quipped.
Dooley did look behind him, then back at Clarice. “I don’t get it,” he said.
“Not our shadow,” I clarified. “Shadow. She’s the Most Fascinating Cat in the World, and she’s gone missing. She belonged to the Most Fascinating Man in the World but he got blown up, and if we can find her we want to ask her if she saw who killed her human.”
“Good riddance,” Clarice grunted. “I would blow up my human if I had the chance.”
“Who was your human, Clarice?” asked Dooley, interested.
In response, she merely gave him a dirty look. “I’ve seen Shadow,” she said. “Seen her rooting around my dumpsters, looking for scraps. Sad little creature. Namby-pamby cat. Scurrying away into the shadows like the kind of thing you find when you turn over a rock.”
“Where have you seen her?” I asked, my heart lifting with hope and excitement.
Clarice gestured vaguely. “Around. You’ll have to hurry, though. Cat looked absolutely mangy. Mangy and derelict. Wouldn’t surprise me if she’s dead by now.” She nodded knowingly. “It takes a special kind of cat to survive on these mean streets, boys. Trust me when I tell you these streets are unforgiving and they are relentless. No place for sissy cats like you. Or Shadow.” She gave us a stern look. “Just giving it to you straight. No fairy tales. That way you won’t be disappointed when you come upon her emaciated, rat-infested, maggot-crawling carcass in a gutter on the edge of town, nothing but a piece of road kill.”