by Nic Saint
“I think when he said birds he probably meant girls,” I said.
This was news to Shadow. “Oh? Why? There’s not even a remote resemblance.”
“Humans,” I said, and she nodded knowingly. So did every other animal in the room.
“Humans,” they all echoed, and gave themselves up to silent reflection on the utter strangeness of the creatures that had adopted them as their pets.
“There’s one thing I don’t understand, though,” said Shadow.
“Oh?”
“I saw that bottle of beer. I was there when it was brought in. And it smelled like beer. Being around Burt all those years I know what beer smells like, you see.”
“I thought Burt didn’t like beer? At least that’s what my human said.”
“He didn’t. But you can’t be the most famous beer salesman in the world and not sample your fair share of the brew over the course of all those years. And the beer that was brought in that day was beer. I remember peeping my head out from under the bed and taking a sniff, then retreating again. Moments later the door opened again and a powerful whiff of something else pervaded the room. It smelled like…” She wrinkled up her nose in distaste. “Burned sugar.”
“Burned sugar?”
“I remember thinking, why would Burt burn sugar?”
“That must have been the nitroglycerin. You said someone else came in?”
“Yes. Unfortunately I didn’t take a peek that time. And then Burt came walking in from the bathroom, mumbled something and that’s when my whole world collapsed.”
“And to think we thought we had it bad,” said Dooley commiseratingly.
“Why don’t you go back to Philippe?” I suggested. “He seems like a nice person, and I’m sure he’s been looking for you everywhere. I know Odelia would if we went missing.”
“Oh, Philippe is nice enough,” Shadow admitted. “But he’s not Burt. I liked Burt. Burt was fun. He always made me laugh by tickling my tummy and making funny faces.” She smiled at the memory. “Philippe is different. He’s a little grumpy. He doesn’t make me laugh. I think it’s because of all those headaches.”
“Headaches?”
“He suffers from terrible migraines. Says it comes from his job as a teacher.”
“He’s a teacher?”
“A chemistry teacher. He loves his job but all those fumes he’s inhaled over the years must have affected him adversely.”
Shadow’s words gave me pause. They seemed to stir a memory, but I couldn’t quite catch it. Someone in the recent past had told me something about headaches. But who? And what? I shrugged it off. If it was important, it would come to me. For now I was content shooting the breeze with Shadow, who was possibly the most fascinating cat I’d ever met.
Chapter 32
The movie had gone down big with both Alec and his date. The Rock was a cop invited by accident to join the maiden flight of a billionaire’s space ship because his ex-wife—The Rock’s, not the billionaire’s—now worked for him—the billionaire, not The Rock. But then a group of terrorists had interrupted the fun and killed the billionaire and taken his guests and the ex-wife hostage so The Rock had to fight his way through at least a dozen terrorists with a funny accent—the terrorists, not The Rock—before a sleazy reporter had exposed his wife—The Rock’s, not the reporter’s—to the terrorists and things had sort of deteriorated from there. Explosions, fist fights, gunfire, a lot of dead terrorists and of course the happy reunion. Alec was feeling on top of the world, and Tracy Sting evidently was, too, judging from the way she’d returned his heated kisses while the credits finally rolled.
“Wanna go back to my room for a nightcap?” she croakily asked when they walked out of the cineplex, fingers entangled.
“I sure do,” he said just as croakily, though his croak was from emotion, not genes.
And they’d just stepped into her room and he’d pressed her up against the door, clothes magically dropping to the floor as if repelled by their heaving and grinding bodies when a knock on the door elicited annoyed groans from the both of them.
“Room service,” a youthful voice announced.
Tracy yanked open the door. “What?!” she growled.
The pimply youth stared at her, and stammered, “N-n-nuts.”
“Nuts?”
He thrust out a small glass dish of nuts. “N-n-nuts.”
Tracy took it. “I didn’t order no nuts.”
“To go with the b-b-beer,” the youth managed, before quickly retreating into the safety of the corridor.
Tracy slammed the door shut and stared at the nuts. “Weird. Did you order these?”
“Nope. Probably the same person who ordered those bottles of beer did,” said Alec, gesturing at the amber bottles placed on a side table. They’d been there a little while, as they’d created a puddle on the table, condensation still producing droplets on the glass.
They both stepped up to the bottles and Tracy picked up the note that lay next to them. “Enjoy some real beer for a change,” she read. “Taste the world’s best brand. Signed Curt Pigott.” Her brow furrowed. “Horrible little man,” she grunted. “Can’t stop taunting me.” She picked up the bottles by the neck and prepared to dump them into a nearby trashcan.
“Hold on a minute,” said Alec. “Let me take a whiff of those.”
She handed him the bottles and he sniffed. “Doesn’t smell like beer,” he said finally.
Tracy, too, took a sniff. “More like… burned sugar,” she said.
Their eyes met and Tracy carefully replaced the bottles on the table, then they were both backing away slowly towards the door.
Curt Pigott had just sent them two bottles of nitroglycerin!
Chase pounded Pigott’s door. “Police! Open up!”
Moments later, the World’s Most Compelling Man appeared, his hair sticking up, his sleep mask askance on his brow, and one ear plug still sticking out of his ear, the other in his hand. He was looking slightly disheveled, trying to hold his robe gathered around his frame. “What’s going on? Has there been another attack? I must have slept through it.”
“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 teac
her? 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.
