by Nic Saint
Ugh. “No, thank you.”
“Not that! You do have a dirty mind, young lady. No, I was thinking more along the lines of this scenario: you pretend to laugh uproariously when I whisper something in your ear, and I can promise you the handsome detective will suddenly find the company of the delectable Miss Grey a lot less appealing.”
He’d taken her hand again, and she jerked it free. Having to kiss this man was bad enough, but she drew the line at having to undergo his repulsive flirtations.
“Let’s make one thing clear, Don,” she said. “I am not now, have never been, nor will I ever be, interested in you, so bury those romantic notions or you’ll be very disappointed.”
“And already the lady starts to adopt the language of the bard,” he said, and faux-applauded. “Bravo, Odelia Poole. Bravo, indeed.”
“Oh, can it, buddy,” she said.
“Not very Shakespearian, but I get your point,” he said with a smirk. He glanced around. “What did you think of our great leader’s speech? Not giving in to murderous bastards and all that?”
“I think he’s right. We shouldn’t stop this production just because of one madman.”
“You do realize that there are ulterior motives at play here, right?”
Odelia studied her co-star. “What do you mean?”
“Wolf isn’t doing this for poor little Dany’s sake. He’s sunk every last dime he owns into his production company. If these shows get canceled he’ll be broke, and so will his producing partner.”
“But I thought they were the most successful producers on Broadway?”
“Bullshit,” spat Don. “Dear old Wolf has a serious gambling problem. When he’s not studying the works of the bard, he can usually be found in Las Vegas squandering other people’s money.”
This was food for thought. “You don’t think he had something to do with Dany’s death, do you?”
Don gave her another one of his trademark smirks. “Very perceptive of you, my dear. Your reputation as Hampton Cove’s premier sleuth precedes you. Yes, I do think he had something to do with Dany’s murder and that’s what I told that police detective of yours. Unfortunately he didn’t seem to like the aspersions I cast upon divine Wolf’s character.”
“But why would he jeopardize his own production? Dany’s death might have caused this whole thing to collapse, and then, as you said, he would have destroyed his own company.”
“Oh, Odelia, Odelia,” he said, shaking his head as if addressing a wayward child. “Don’t you see? Dear Dany was blackmailing Wolf. The two of them were engaged in a torrid affair, behind Wolf’s long-suffering wife’s back, of course. If Wolf ended the affair, Dany threatened to spill the goods—talk to the enemy of every creative person in the world: the tabloids. And New York’s tabloids can be notoriously vicious when they smell blood in the water. Already they were circling, and Dany’s stories, whatever they were, could have seriously tarnished his reputation.”
And with these ominous words, he left her to wonder about that message. ‘Hurry up, Wolfy. I’m naked and ready.’ It didn’t sound like the message from a girl threatening blackmail.
Chapter 17
Conway Kemp was refilling his glass at the drinks table. Judging from the misty look in his eyes, it wasn’t his first. Or his fifth. Odelia had seen him imbibe drink before, though, and therefore knew he could hold his liquor well.
“Hey, Con,” she said, remembering their first meeting with fondness. In spite of Wolf’s statement that he always hired the core crew himself, leaving only the bit players and the technical staff to Con’s eagle-eyed judgment, he’d actually been the one to tap her for this role. She’d never had acting ambitions before, being content to be a small-town reporter and occasional sleuthhound, so when Con walked up to her three weeks ago in the local deli and asked her if she had any acting experience, she’d been highly surprised to say the least. Her answer had been a big laugh, which told him everything he needed to know.
“I’ve read your articles,” he’d said, “and I’ve watched your YouTube channel. And I know this may come as a surprise to you, but have you ever considered acting?”
“Never,” had been her instant reply, followed by more laughter. Simply the idea of being an actress sounded ridiculous to her, and that’s what she’d told Con.
A classically handsome man in his early forties, Conway Kemp had clearly been around the block a few times. Later she’d discovered, over a cup of coffee at Cup o’ Mika, that he was an ex-marine, and that he’d only stumbled into the theater business by accident. His captain in the marines was Wolf Langdon’s father, and he’d asked Con to keep an eye on Wolf when he first decided to enter the theater business as a young man. Con had quickly become responsible for Wolf’s security, not a luxury as Wolf had initially made a name for himself setting up street theater productions in some of New York’s roughest neighborhoods. Con had been his security detail, creative sounding board and assistant all rolled into one. Once Wolf had accepted an offer to direct his first Broadway play, Con figured his role was finished. Broadway might be tough to launch a career, but it was hardly the kind of place where you could get a knife planted in your back if you upset the wrong people.
But Wolf had made Con an offer he couldn’t refuse: set up a production company together, financed by the woman Wolf would go on to marry, and after some hesitation Con had agreed. They’d quickly settled into their respective roles: Con took care of the business side, with Wolf handling the creative stuff. But part of Con’s duties was also scouting new young talent to put in minor roles. This entailed trolling YouTube for fresh faces. Like Odelia.
“Hey, Odelia,” he said now, slurring his words only a tiny bit.
“I can’t imagine how tough this must be on you,” she said. Con had been the one to recruit Dany, after all.
He nodded. “Yeah, it’s the first time since I entered civilian life that I’ve lost a member of my team. Like you said, it’s tough.” He shook his head. “She was so young and full of life. A rising star. I’d already offered her a part in Wolf’s next Broadway gig. She was going places, that kid.”
“Do you have any clue who might have done this to her?”
“Not a one. I’ve been wracking my brain. Why kill the loveliest, most innocent and sweetest soul on the planet? I mean, if you’re going to kill someone, why not kill that guy?”
Odelia followed his gesture, and saw he was directing a scathing look at Don Stryker. To be honest, she harbored some harsh thoughts about the man herself, but murder?
“I don’t think we should say such things,” she said therefore.
“No, of course,” he said. “I’m sorry. It’s just that... Of all people—why Dany?”
The fervor with which he spoke these words suddenly made Odelia suspect there was more than professional interest at play here. “You liked her, didn’t you?” she said.
He nodded, staring down into his drink. “She was a lot of fun to be around.”
“There’s a rumor going around that... Wolf and Dany were an item.”
Con didn’t look up, nor did he respond.
“And that she was blackmailing him?” she prodded.
He looked up, and she was surprised at the anger that flashed in his eyes. “She was too good for a guy like Wolf. Too sweet and too innocent. If only I’d known...” He abruptly stopped himself when he realized who he was talking to, then plastered a tight smile on his face. “I’m sorry. I’ve had too much to drink, and I’m boring you with my sad sack stories.”
“No, that’s all right. Do you think Wolf could have something to do with Dany’s death?”
He stared at her for a moment, then abruptly turned away and left her standing there.
“Well, it’s as good an answer as any, I guess,” she muttered to herself. It told her that she should probably look deeper into this affair between Wolf and Dany. She suddenly caught sight of Wolf’s assistant Kerry, who stood cuddling Wolf’s beloved Chihuahua. A thought sud
denly occurred to her, and a slow smile crept up her face.
Yes. This was exactly the kind of assignment Max and Dooley would love.
Chapter 18
A tense hush had descended upon the house. Dooley and I were keeping Brutus company, even though I really didn’t want to choose sides on this one. Still, I could hardly leave the poor guy alone in this, his darkest hour. What I really wanted to do was attend cat choir and maybe sniff around the crime scene a bit more. You never know who else might have caught a glimpse of the killer. I mean, potentially a murder taking place in a park is seen by dozens of witnesses: the birds sitting in the tree overlooking the spot where the killer has chosen to plunge a knife into his hapless victim’s chest, a dog sniffing that same tree and contemplating making a small deposit, even the earthworms popping up for a bit of fresh air, or the moles taking a break from digging their holes—though the latter have notoriously bad eyesight and might not be the most reliable witnesses imaginable.
And then there were the aforementioned ducks quietly quacking away in the pond. Brutus had persuaded one duck to come forward and volunteer a formal witness statement, but perhaps there were other ducks—the quiet ones who rarely quacked—who’d seen more and could provide the telling clue. The mole on the killer’s nose. The harelip he carefully tried to hide beneath a bushy mustache. Or even the cleft chin that made him oh, so attractive to the opposite sex—a fact which will always puzzle me. Why are cleft chins so attractive to the human female? It’s a chin. With a cleft. Nothing special.
So there really was a lot of work to be done, and all I could do was sit there and babysit Brutus and nurse his wounded soul. Such a shame.
“Did you see the look on her face?” he said. “It spoke volumes.”
It did speak volumes. Volumes of verbal abuse. “It’s all those soap operas,” I repeated my favorite theory as to Harriet’s terrible temper. “If only she would watch more of the always pleasant Hallmark Channel, she might not be this unreasonable all the time.”
Brutus snapped his head up. “Harriet is not unreasonable. She’s the most reasonable feline in existence. In fact she’s put up with my horrible habits all this time, not a whisper of annoyance crossing her lips.”
I’d heard plenty of whispers of annoyance pass Harriet’s lips—in fact they weren’t whispers but more fully formed sentences, very eloquently and colorfully expressed. I wasn’t going to play devil’s advocate right now, though, so I wisely shut up. If Brutus wanted to believe Harriet was an angel sent by the heavens to walk this sacred earth, so be it.
“She used to call me all these wonderful names. Tootsie roll. Snuggle bunny. Twinkle toes. Baby boo. And now all she can say is what a cad I’ve been—and she’s right!” he wailed.
He was sitting slumped on the couch, his paws sticking out, his otherwise shiny black fur unkempt and looking dull in spots. In fact he looked like the epitome of the jilted male. Which he was. Only he’d jilted her first, if we were going to split hairs.
“Did you know that the spiny dogfish shark’s pregnancy lasts two years?” asked Dooley, who was watching the Discovery Channel, which was playing quietly in the background.
“No, I didn’t know that,” I said.
Silence reigned for a moment.
“Did you know unborn sharks sometimes eat their siblings?”
I groaned softly.
“And that sharks can have up to 35,000 teeth in their lifetime? Imagine being a shark dentist! Ha ha.”
“Ha ha,” I said without enthusiasm.
Once again, silence hung heavy in Odelia’s small salon. Except for the shark show which apparently was on.
“Did you know—”
“Dooley! Enough with the sharks already!”
Silence returned, with Dooley looking offended.
“Max?” asked Brutus at length.
“Mh?”
“Could you give Harriet a message? I know she won’t listen to me, but maybe she’ll listen to you.”
I was about to graciously say no to this idea when I figured that the sooner Harriet and Brutus reconciled, the sooner the four of us could be out there hunting for clues again.
“Fine,” I said therefore. “What do you want me to tell her?”
“Tell her...” He frowned, then directed a curious glance at me. “What do you think I should tell her?”
“Oh, for Pete’s sake,” I exclaimed. “How should I know? She’s your girlfriend!”
“Yes, but you’ve known her all her life. You know what might swing the deal.”
I rolled my eyes. I’m not your poetic type, so I had no idea what to tell a jilted woman who’s decided to jilt her boyfriend in return.
“Tell her you’re slowly pining away in remorseful sorrow,” suddenly Dooley said.
We both stared at him. It made for a nice change from the shark trivia.
“And tell her that soon there will be nothing left but a greasy spot on the couch.”
Brutus pursed his lips. “I’m not sure I like it, but it is very powerful. Especially that part about the greasy spot. Max,” he said, making a swift decision, “go for it, buddy.”
“Oh, all right,” I said, dragging myself up from my comfortable position on the couch.
I slouched to the kitchen door, shuffled through the pet flap, slumped through the backyard, wormed myself through the hole in the hedge, shambled through Marge and Tex’s backyard, shoved myself through the second cat flap and crawled into the house and into the family room. No sign of sharks there. Instead, a rerun of Scandal was on, and the president was getting a tongue-lashing from his chief of staff. Uh-oh. This didn’t bode well.
“Harriet,” I said, arriving at the foot of the couch that held Gran, Marge, Tex and Harriet, all lined up like so many statues, eagerly following the exploits of Scandal’s not-so-monogamous president.
“What do you want?” Harriet grunted.
“Message from Brutus,” I said, hoping this would attract her attention.
“Whatever it is, I’m not interested,” she said, making her meaning perfectly clear by flashing a shiny claw.
I gulped. I may have a layer of fat to protect me from claws like that, but I’m not immune to pain. In fact I hate it.
“Oh, just hear the cat out,” said Gran.
“What is he saying?” asked Tex.
“He says he has a message from Brutus,” said Marge.
“Let’s hear it,” said Gran. “And be quick about it. Something’s about to happen with Twisty Fitzy and I don’t want to miss it.”
“We saw this episode already, Mom,” said Marge.
“I know. But I’ve forgotten. And don’t you remind me!”
“Brutus says he’s in…” Dang. Now I couldn’t remember what it was Brutus wanted me to say. So I decided to do what all good actors do: wing it!
“Well?” said Harriet, impatiently tapping that nail on the edge of the couch.
“Brutus says you’re the love of his life and every second he can’t spend with you is a second lost forever. He’s in decline, losing weight so fast soon there’ll be nothing left but a smudge on the couch.” There. It wasn’t verbatim, but I figured I’d gotten the gist of the thing nicely across.
Harriet appeared unmoved, however. “Tell him I don’t care if he dies and rots in hell,” she growled.
“Harriet,” Marge said warningly. “Language.”
“Oh, all right. Tell him I’ll be happy to dance on his smudge.”
“Harriet!” said Marge. “Brutus is still a member of this family and you’ll treat him with respect.”
“He doesn’t respect me, so why should I respect him?” she challenged.
“Prima donna,” Gran muttered.
“I heard that,” Harriet snapped. “And I resent the slur.”
“What is she talking about?” asked Tex.
“Nothing worth listening to,” said Marge.
“Oh,” said Tex, disappointed.
“Lovers’ tiff,” Gran clar
ified.
“This is not a lovers’ tiff!” Harriet said. “He cheated on me and if I never set eyes on that black cat again, it’ll be too soon! And you tell him I said that,” she added for my sake.
So off I went again, this time in the opposite direction. Slouching, slumping, shuffling, worming and finally wending my way home. I arrived at the house, where I was met by two eager eyes boring into mine. Brutus was actually panting. “And? And? What did she say?”
I decided to keep this whole thing PC. “I think you’re going to have to try harder, Brutus,” I said. “She wasn’t receptive to the whole concept of the, um, smudge-on-the-couch thing.”
“What do you mean, she wasn’t receptive?” asked Dooley. “That was some of my best work. Though it’s a greasy spot, not a smudge.”
“Hold your horses, Shakespeare,” I said. “I think it’s going to take more than a few well-wrought sentences to convince Harriet to clasp Brutus to her bosom once again.”
“Oh, to be pressed to my love’s bosom,” said Brutus, suddenly becoming lyrical.
“You probably didn’t do my words justice,” said Dooley. “Next time I’ll come with you.” He shook his head. “If you want something done, you have to do it yourself.”
“Next time?” I said. “There’s not going to be a next time. You asked me to be your go-between and I was. Now I’m going to take a nap and try to forget this whole business.”
“Wait!” Brutus said. “Please, Max. You have to help me. You’re the only friend I’ve got.”
“And what am I? Chopped liver?” asked Dooley. “I’m your friend, too, Brutus.”
“Of course,” said Brutus. “And I can’t thank you enough. Now, please, tell Harriet... Oh, dammit! Why can’t I think of the right words to say?”
Dooley touched his paw to his chest. “Allow moi, my friend. I’ll give you all the words.” He assumed the position of Rodin’s The Thinker for a moment, then said, “Harriet, love of my life. Treasure of my heart. Please accept my deepest, most heartfelt apologies. I’m a swine, a creep, a louse. I’m less than the dirt under your nails, worse than the most disgusting rat that slinks through the sewers of this town, filthier than the creepy crawlies that slither from underneath an overturned rock. I’m filth, I’m slime, I’m nothing, I’m—”