Purrfect Peril

by Nic Saint

  “There’s been a breakthrough in the case,” Chase announced.

  “Oh, that’s great! Have you caught the guy?”

  “We have now,” Chase said gruffly, and placed a hand on the man’s shoulder. “Curt Pigott, you’re under arrest for the murder of Burt Goldsmith.” And as Chase read the startled actor his rights, Odelia looked sideways and then looked again, surprised when she saw her uncle, in a state of undress, accompanied by Tracy, also half-dressed, stalking towards her.

  “Now, Uncle,” she admonished him, “you can’t keep doing this. The mayor won’t like it when his principle crime fighter keeps showing up all over the place without his clothes.”

  “This man tried to murder us,” Alec announced, pointing an accusing finger at Curt Pigott. “You sent two bottles of exploding beer to Miss Sting’s room just now. Don’t try to deny it, you little shit!”

  “They weren’t bottles of beer,” said Tracy, covering her modesty with her arms. “They were bottles of nitroglycerin.”

  Curt looked absolutely befuddled. “I didn’t—I never—I wouldn’t!”

  “And yet you did!” Alec bellowed. “You’re under arrest for the attempted murder of a police chief and his—his—his…” He glanced at Tracy, who crooked an amused brow. “His girlfriend!” he finished finally, and Tracy cast down her eyes, a smile playing about her lips.

  “I never sent you any bottles!” Curt protested. “I’m innocent—innocent, I tell you!”

  “Tell it to the judge,” said Chase, who proceeded to cuff the compelling man.

  “Good riddance,” a voice spoke behind them. When Odelia turned she saw that they’d attracted quite the audience: Bobbie Hawe, Jasper Hanson, Nestor Greco and Dale Parson all stood watching as their colleague and competitor was led away by Chase and Alec. “I’ve always known there was something fishy about him,” said Nestor.

  “Not me,” said Dale. “I thought he was a kind man. Kind to animals and children.”

  “But not to interesting men,” said Bobbie. “He likes to blow us up for some reason.”

  “Jealousy,” opined Jasper. “Plain and simple jealousy. Couldn’t stomach our success.”

  “Anyone up for a drink at the bar?” asked Nestor. “I’m buying.”

  And as Odelia watched the world’s most interesting men head to the staircase, a discussion broke out amongst them over who was buying whom what type of beer. She shook her head and followed Tracy Sting to her room, to check on those beer bottles.

  “Good thing your uncle has such a great sense of smell,” Tracy was saying. “Otherwise we’d be dead right now. Blown to bits just like Burt.”

  “We better not touch anything,” she said as she followed Tracy inside. She saw her uncle’s shirt and pants on the floor and smiled to herself. The bottles looked exactly as Curt had intended them to look: like actual bottles of Tres Siglas. She crouched down to take a closer look, careful not to come near the dangerous objects.

  “What I don’t understand is why Curt would target me,” said Tracy, pulling on a blouse and buttoning it up. “What could he possibly gain by murdering me and Alec?”

  Odelia shrugged. “Looks like he was working his way through the competition one by one. His next targets were probably those other most interesting men.”

  “But why me? I’m not the competition.”

  “Yeah, I don’t get that, either. Then again, who knows what’s in the mind of a killer.” She rose to her feet, and stepped away from the side table. “I’m sure Chase and Alec will make him talk. By this time tomorrow this whole ordeal will finally be over.”

  Police people were now entering the room, anxious to ‘seal the scene’ as they called it. Tracy nodded, then glanced at Odelia. “Any chance I can stay with you tonight? The hotel is booked solid, and Alec will probably be up all night questioning Curt Pigott.”

  “Sure. If you don’t mind sleeping on the couch. I have a guest bedroom but my grandmother is staying with me at the moment.” She grimaced. “Don’t ask me why.”

  “I won’t,” said Tracy with a smile. “Alec told me some of it.”

  “He did, huh?”

  “Yeah, for some odd reason he and I hit it off.”

  They walked out of the room as more police walked in. “He’s a great guy,” said Odelia.

  “He is, isn’t he? He’s funny and sweet and… very, very passionate.”

  Odelia laughed. “He’ll be happy to hear it. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him this interested in a woman since Aunt Ginny died.”

  And then they were walking out of the hotel, and Odelia thought that this Tracy Sting wasn’t as bad as all that. She definitely wasn’t the murderous psychopath she’d initially taken her for. And then she found herself talking about her uncle, Tracy laughing at some of the stories, and before she knew it they were home and she was letting this perfect stranger into her house. And guess what? She didn’t feel like a stranger to her. Not anymore.

  Chapter 33

  I shot up and cried, “Eureka!”

  I know. It normally never happens to me, either.

  But once I was up, I was wide awake, and so were Dooley and Shadow and all the other animals in Vena’s nursery.

  “I’ve got it!” I added for good measure. “It’s you,” I said, pointing at Shadow.

  “Me? What did I do?”

  “I don’t mean you—I mean your human.”

  “My human? Burt?”

  “Burt is dead, Max,” said Dooley, as gently as possible. “You were having a nightmare.”

  “Not a nightmare,” I said enthusiastically. “A brainwave!”

  “Sounds dangerous,” Shadow intimated. “Does it hurt?”

  “I know who killed Burt!”

  “It’s the strain, Max,” said Dooley. “You must have overtaxed yourself.”

  “No, I mean it. It’s something you said.”

  “Me?” asked Dooley.

  “Not you—Shadow.”

  “My shadow?”

  “My name is Shadow,” said Shadow.

  “I know,” said Dooley. “You told me—oh,” he added. “You meant Shadow not shadow.”

  “Guys, will you quit yapping,” said the pink-eyed mouse. “I need my beauty sleep.”

  “Yeah, all this crap is disturbing my biorhythm,” chimed in the parrot hoarsely.

  “It’s cats,” opined the hamster. “Always cats. They can’t stop prattling. Prattle, prattle, prattle. That’s why people hate cats but they all love a hamster. Hamsters are easy. We run on our little hamster wheel, snack from our little hamster nuggets and keep our traps shut.”

  “Will you shut up already,” I told the Dr. Doolittle crowd. “I just solved a murder.”

  “Typical,” mumbled the puppy. “Always bragging. That’s cats for you.”

  “No, I really did. It was the boy that did it.”

  “What boy?” asked the rabbit, paw pressed to his painful cheek. “I’m not following.”

  “You don’t have to follow. It’s the kid that did it.”

  “The kid? Who’s the kid?” asked the parrot.

  “I don’t care. I just want to sleep,” said the mouse.

  “Let’s blow this joint, fellas,” I said, suddenly feeling super-energized. I imagine that’s why Sherlock Holmes often came across as suffering from ADHD. Solving a murder gives you this big jolt of energy to the brain. I jumped from my nice fleece-lined perch with some reluctance. Then again, I owed it to my human to give her the good news at once.

  “Do we have to, Max?” asked Dooley plaintively. “It’s so nice and warm in here.”

  “Yeah, I kinda like it here, too,” said Shadow. “It’s way better than life on the street.”

  “Don’t you want to see the guy who killed your human arrested?” I asked.

  Shadow thought about that for a moment. “Is this a trick question?” When I gave her a stern look, she finally relented. “Oh, fine. I’ll play your little game. Where are we going?”

  �
�Home,” I told her.

  “To the hotel?”

  “No, a real home.”

  Dooley heaved himself up from his warm and comfy bed with a groan, then followed my lead. “You better be right about this, Max,” he said. “I could get used to a place like this.”

  “What’s happening?” asked the mouse, apparently waking up from a micro-nap.

  “The cats are leaving,” the parrot announced.

  “Good riddance,” said the mouse, and promptly dozed off again.

  Half an hour later we arrived at the house. Lucky for us Vena lives just around the corner. Cats aren’t made to travel for miles and miles. Especially on an empty stomach.

  “Good thing Vena left her window open,” said Shadow, panting. “Or else we’d be screwed.”

  “Or lucky,” Dooley muttered. He still wasn’t on board with this whole plan of mine. Even though Odelia had promised him that, babies or no babies, she wasn’t kicking us out, he wasn’t completely convinced. And Vena seemed like a good back-up plan just in case.

  We waltzed in through the pet door and I traipsed straight up the stairs. Odelia was sound asleep, as I’d expected. And she was alone, which I hadn’t expected. No Chase. Where’s the police when you need them? I pawed her intently, and when she didn’t stir, used some claw to attract her attention. She pushed me away. “Not now, Max. I’m sleeping.”

  “But I know who killed Burt Goldsmith,” I said, unable to contain my excitement.

  “I do, too,” she said, turning over to the other side. “It was Curt. Curt killed Burt.”

  That sounded more like a nursery rhyme to me, but then she was still half asleep.

  “It wasn’t Curt—whoever he is—it was Philippe! Remember how you told me Chase said nitroglycerin gives you terrible headaches? Well, guess who has terrible, debilitating headaches? Philippe! And guess who’s a chemistry teacher? Also Philippe! And guess whose room was next to Burt’s, with a connecting door. You guessed right! Philippe again! Shadow—oh, you haven’t met Shadow, have you. She’s Burt’s cat. She was at Vena’s. You’ll like Shadow, Odelia. She’s very nice. So Shadow told us she heard someone enter the room after room service dropped off that bottle of beer. I’m guessing it was Philippe, replacing the original bottle with one filled with nitroglycerin. He must have snatched that first bottle from the sap he’d chosen as his fall guy, leaving it in the room with the explosive bottle so this dude’s fingerprints would be found at the scene. So you better arrest him now, Odelia!”

  My long harangue was met with a soft snore. She’d fallen asleep in the middle of my exposé! Dang. I’ll bet a thing like that never happened to Hercule Poirot when he delivered his closing statement, neatly wrapping up another case. Or Sherlock Holmes, for that matter.

  I jumped down from the bed, and then trotted down the stairs.

  I found Dooley and Shadow staring at a lumpy form on the couch.

  “You guys, Odelia is out like a light. We’ll have to wait until tomorrow.”

  “Max? There’s a strange woman on our couch,” said Dooley.

  I checked the lumpy form and discovered that Dooley was right. There was a strange woman on our couch.

  “It’s Tracy,” said Shadow. “Tracy Sting. She was my human’s handler.”

  “Handler? You mean like a dog handler?” asked Dooley.

  “Something like that. When Tracy said jump Burt asked ‘how high?’ Or at least that’s the joke he liked to make. He was very fond of her. She’s good people, Tracy is.”

  “But what is she doing in our house?” I asked.

  “I guess we’ll find out tomorrow,” said Dooley with a yawn. “Let’s sleep. I’m tired.”

  Just then, Brutus and Harriet walked in through the pet door. “Who’s that?” Brutus asked, gesturing in the general direction of the couch.

  “Burt Goldsmith’s handler,” I said.

  “No, I mean the cat, not the dame.”

  “My name is Shadow,” said Shadow courteously. “I was Burt’s cat. Which means now I’m nobody’s cat.”

  “Oh,” said Harriet. “That’s so sad.” She turned to us. “Where have you guys been?”

  “Long story. Dooley ate some of Brutus’s pills and passed out.”

  “Brutus’s pills?” asked Harriet. “What pills?”

  “Nothing, nothing,” Brutus hastened to say. “Listen, they finally caught this Burt guy’s killer. Turns out some compelling dude killed him. And listen, listen,” he said when I made to interrupt him, “someone tried to kill Uncle Alec by sending him an exploding bottle. Him and some babe he’s seeing.” He snapped his claws, or at least tried to. “Um, name escapes me.”

  “Tracy Sting,” said Harriet. “That’s her over there, sleeping on that couch.”

  “Right,” said Brutus.

  I thought about this. “Now why would Philippe try to kill Uncle Alec?”

  “Philippe? Who’s Philippe?” asked Brutus.

  I was starting to feel a little tired. It’s exhausting to be the most intelligent cat in the room. “Philippe is Burt’s grandson. He killed his grandfather and now he’s trying to kill Uncle Alec and…” My eyes narrowed. “You said Tracy Sting and Uncle Alec are an item?”

  “An item?”

  “A thing. A couple. Like Rose and Jack from Titanic,” I said impatiently.

  “I like Rose from Titanic,” Dooley murmured wistfully.

  “I don’t know about that,” said Brutus. “All I know is they were caught with their pants down steaming up the windows of Uncle Alec’s car—we saw them, remember?”

  I gave Tracy Sting’s inert form a closer inspection. Brutus was right. This was the redheaded woman Uncle Alec was making out with in his squad car. And then I got it. “Philippe is taking out the competition.”

  They all stared at me. “Huh?” said Brutus.

  “Don’t you see? First Burt, now Alec, all the while making sure everyone thinks the Most Compelling Man in the World is responsible?”

  “Curt Pigott,” said Shadow helpfully. “He’s the Most Compelling Man in the World.”

  So it wasn’t a nursery rhyme. The police had actually arrested Curt Pigott for a crime he didn’t commit.

  “Why Alec?” asked Harriet. “That makes no sense to me whatsoever.”

  “It doesn’t. It only makes sense to a mind as warped as Philippe’s. He must have seen Uncle Alec and Tracy Sting and figured she was grooming him as the next Fascinating Man.”

  They all burst out laughing. All except Shadow. “Uncle Alec! Most Fascinating Man!” said Harriet. “You’re joking!”

  “It may sound like a joke to us, but it’s not a joke to Philippe. Alec represents his competition, and he won’t stop until he’s dead. You guys,” I said urgently. “We have to stop him!”

  “Stop who from doing what?” asked Dooley, still experiencing the effects of Vena’s treatment.

  “Stop whom,” Shadow corrected helpfully.

  “Huh?”

  “Not huh. Whom.”

  “Philippe,” I said, my head starting to swim a little. “Stop Philippe.”

  “You all heard Max,” said Shadow cheerfully. “Let’s stop Philippe.”

  “Stop what?” asked Dooley.

  “And why?” added Harriet.

  “And who?” said Brutus.

  “Whom,” said Shadow. “Whommmmmm.”

  Ugh. I’ll bet Hercule Poirot or Sherlock Holmes never had to deal with this crap.

  Chapter 34

  Odelia was dreaming of her grandmother joining her and Chase in the middle of the night and getting in bed between them, effectively erecting a physical barrier between the couple, peevishly telling them they needed to behave and stop all this annoying cuddling.

  She awoke with a start and for a moment felt disoriented, the world a strange place.

  She patted the space next to her. No Chase. She checked the foot of the bed. No cats.

  Odd. Where was everyone? Then the events of the past few hours came back
to her. Dooley in hospital. The attempt on her uncle’s life. The arrest of the Most Compelling Man. Max telling her something—whispering in her ear.

  Had that been a dream? She could have sworn it was. Max was at Vena’s. With Dooley. Spending the night.

  So how come she vividly remembered him telling her that they’d arrested the wrong man? That it was in fact Philippe Goldsmith who was the real culprit? The one who killed his grandfather and tried to kill Alec and put the blame on Curt Pigott?

  The more she thought about it, the more sense it made. She wasn’t convinced, though. She needed more proof than the whispered words of a cat in the middle of the night. She was certain now she’d imagined Max. Dreamed him. Which meant that this was her subconscious at work—whispering in her sleep—warning her—wanting her to act now.

  If Pigott was innocent, then whoever had tried to bomb Alec and Tracy was still out there—and could strike again at any moment. Which told her time was of the essence.

  She rubbed her eyes, and checked her phone. Three o’clock. Probably too late to call her uncle and ask him about Pigott’s interrogation. But not too late to call Chase. So she did.

  His sleepy voice told her he wasn’t at the police station interviewing Pigott.

  “Is Granny bothering you again?” he asked. “Do you need saving?”

  “Granny is probably sound asleep. I do need saving, though. From a hunch.”

  “A hunch.”

  “How did things go with Pigott?”

  “Denies everything. Lawyered up.”

  “Struck out, huh?”

  “We’ll get him to confess. Lean on him a little harder tomorrow.”

  She bit her lip. “I’m starting to think you can lean on him all you want, he’ll never break. Because he’s not the guy we want.”

  “I know, babe. I’m the guy you want,” he said, a smile in his voice.

  “And I’m thinking we need to look a little closer at Philippe.”

  “Your granny’s grandson? The Most Perfect Boy in the World? What makes you think so?”