Purrfect Murder (The Mysteries of Max Book 1)

by Nic Saint

  “I feel it is our sacred duty as residents of Hampton Cove to find out who killed Paulo Frey and bring them to justice,” I said, pumping up my chest.

  “I agree. Let’s find ourselves a killer,” Harriet said, momentarily halting her grooming efforts—it takes a lot of work to keep that snowy white fur looking as perfectly fluffy and clean as hers does. She held up her paw.

  I placed my own blorange paw against hers, and Dooley raised his.

  “We solemnly swear to catch a killer and bring him or her to justice,” we all intoned, and then let go, satisfied we’d made a momentous pledge.

  “So when do we start?” asked Dooley.

  “Tonight,” I said, yawning. I needed my beauty sleep. It had been too long since I got some shuteye and I was starting to feel a serious nap coming on.

  “Yes,” Harriet agreed. “Let’s take a long nap and meet up tonight.”

  And showing she wasn’t joking, she immediately trotted off in the direction of her own yard, stared after by Dooley and me.

  “Um, can I sleep in your crib, buddy?” asked Dooley.

  “Why? Don’t you have enough space over at your place?”

  Dooley gave me a hesitant look. “It’s not that. It’s just that…”

  “Spit it out, man. What is it? Did Harriet take all the best spots again?”

  He nodded sheepishly. That was the trouble when you lived in the same house as a Persian. They liked to think they were lord of the manor. Queen of the castle. Ruler of the realm. Reducing all others to playing second fiddle.

  “Sure,” I said. “You can sleep on my couch today. Now let’s get our eighteen hours in before we go and catch ourselves a killer.”

  Chapter 6

  The moment Odelia returned to the newspaper, she drew up a list of people to interview. She wanted not just to solve this murder, but to write a series of articles that would have Hampton Covians sticking to their newspapers like glue, reading with rapt attention as their intrepid reporter led them, clue by clue, to the revelation of the identity of the killer who’d snuffed out one of their own. Well, technically Paulo Frey hadn’t been one of their own, of course. He was a New Yorker who spent a couple of weeks a year out here, but still, since Hampton Cove was a tourist town, tourists were as much a part of the community as the locals who lived here year-round.

  Besides, even in the heart of winter tourists stayed in town, as the tourist board had added a couple of winter events to the schedule, in hopes of making the town more attractive when the weather turned inclement.

  They organized a Winterfest now, and a Christmas market with an ice rink. It worked, for even in winter tourists made their way out here, though of course not as many as when the sun was out, and the beaches were full of people cavorting in the surf and enjoying all-night parties on the beach.

  The only one who didn’t care for the new winter activities was Chief Alec, who now had to round up drunk revelers all year, and not just during the summer.

  “So? Got yourself a genuine murder case, huh?” Dan asked, leaning against the doorjamb. He was sipping from his umpteenth cup of coffee and looked genuinely excited, as excited as she was feeling herself. He was a shortish man in his late sixties, with an impressive white beard and plenty of laugh wrinkles around his eyes, which always seemed to twinkle with delight.

  “Yup. This is the big one, Dan. Famous bestselling writer gets whacked and dumped in the can. This is going to get national headlines, I’m sure.”

  “Do they have a suspect?” asked the veteran editor.

  “Not yet. Uncle Alec is putting Chase Kingsley in charge.”

  This caused the editor’s bushy brows to wiggle with surprise. “Chase Kingsley? The new guy?”

  “Yeah, he’s supposed to be this hotshot detective from New York. Apparently he used to work for the NYPD, so he’s well qualified.”

  “Used to work being the operative word,” said the editor.

  She stared at him. “What do you mean?”

  All she knew about the guy was that he had an annoying cat, and that he seemed to hate reporters. Or it could be that he just hated her, of course.

  Dan looked over his shoulder, as if fully expecting Detective Kingsley to have walked into the office to eavesdrop on their private conversation.

  “What I’ve heard is that Chase Kingsley didn’t quit the NYPD but was forced out.” He lowered his brows and grumbled in a low voice, “Fired for gross misconduct is what I heard. Molestation of a suspect’s wife.”

  “Molestation!” she cried, her jaw dropping. “No way!”

  He shook his head sadly. “All I know is what was printed in the Post.”

  “The Post?” she asked, reaching for her laptop. This she had to see.

  “Stacy Brown got it from Lora Escort, who read it in the paper a couple of months ago and remembered the name. I doubt that Alec even knows about this, otherwise he probably would never have hired him in the first place.” His voice took on a grave tone. “If the rumors are true he actually molested the wife of a suspect while the guy was in custody, and she pressed charges against him, apparently not too keen on being manhandled by a cop.”

  She stared at the editor, fully aghast. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

  Dan shrugged. “Do I look like I’m kidding?”

  “But why would Uncle Alec hire a guy like that?”

  “Like I said, he probably doesn’t even know about it.”

  “That’s impossible. Nobody hires a cop without checking his credentials.”

  “Maybe he lied on his resume.”

  “I find it hard to believe Uncle Alec wouldn’t check his references. The NYPD is only a phone call away. No, I’m sure he knows about Chase Kingsley’s past and simply chose to ignore it.” She frowned. “But why?”

  “Beats me. I just know that that uncle of yours has got a really big heart, Odelia. Maybe he felt sorry for the guy? Hell, I’m not saying he’s not a good cop. Everyone seems to agree he was one hell of a detective. But with a thing like that hanging over his head, his chances of ever working as a cop again were slim to nonexistent.”

  “Except in Hampton Cove.” If she hadn’t been furious with him before, she was furious now. Molestation charges were not to be taken lightly.

  “Except in Hampton Cove, apparently,” Dan agreed with a nod.

  “I have to talk to Uncle Alec about this. We can’t have a man like that working for the HCPD. Especially with the entire town knowing about his sordid past. How can he expect to assume a position of authority?”

  “Well, we don’t know if the allegations are true, Odelia. For all we know the charges were unfounded and he was forced out anyway.”

  “I don’t think the NYPD would let him go if the charges were unfounded,” she argued. “No, this is serious stuff, Dan. If this is true, we can’t have a man like that working as a police officer in our town.”

  “You better have that talk with your Uncle Alec. Thresh this thing out once and for all.” He grinned at her. “So now you’ve got yourself two stories to dig into, huh? A murder and a bad cop. This is your lucky day, honey.”

  Chapter 7

  Ten minutes later, she waltzed into her dad’s medical practice again, and walked straight up to the desk. Gran, who’d been playing Scrabble online, eyed her disapprovingly. She didn’t like being interrupted when she was on a winning streak. “I told you. I’m fine. It was just a stomach bug. I’m all right.”

  “Good to know,” she said, panting slightly. “Is Rohanna still here?”

  Gran raised her eyebrows, then gestured with her head to one of the examination rooms. “In there. What do you want with her?”

  Odelia dropped her voice to a whisper. “There’s been a murder, and I’m writing the story. Remember that writer who disappeared last year?”

  “That nutcase?” asked Gran, making no effort to lower her voice.

  “Yeah, that nutcase,” she whispered. “Well, he didn’t disappear. He was murdered. They ju
st dredged up his body from the Writer’s Lodge outhouse.”

  “You don’t say,” said Gran, licking her lips with obvious glee. “And you think Rohanna did it?”

  “No, I don’t. But I remember she also works for Hetta, keeping the Writer’s Lodge clean. So I just figured she might be a good place to start my investigation. Maybe she saw something or remembers something.”

  “I highly doubt it,” said Gran, pursing her lips. “The woman is batty.”

  “Why do you think she’s batty?” she asked after a pause. Gran sometimes had a habit of judging people too harshly, and being very vocal about it.

  “Because she keeps singing to herself, that’s why. I caught her at it a couple of times.” She leaned closer, but still spoke loud enough so that everyone in the waiting room could hear her. “She sings to herself and wiggles that enormous butt of hers while she works. Can you believe it?”

  Odelia smiled. “Plenty of people sing while they work, Gran.”

  “Well, I don’t.”

  “It’s because you have to answer the phone, and talk to people. Rohanna listens to music and sings along just to make the work go faster.”

  “I’m telling you, the woman is batty. Either you work, or you shake your ass. You can’t do both, unless you’re an exotic dancer, and trust me, no one is going to pay good money to watch Rohanna Coral strip and hug a pole.”

  “Gran!”

  “What? It’s true.”

  Shaking her head, Odelia went in search of Rohanna. She checked examination room number two, which served as a backup in case Dad’s workload became too much, and he called in the assistance of a colleague from one of the neighboring towns. She found Rohanna, earbuds in her ears, softly humming along with the music, shaking her tush, just like Gran said.

  She was a large woman, and had a considerable tush to shake around, that was true enough, though Odelia didn’t see anything wrong with a woman enjoying her work. She tried to catch Rohanna’s attention, and finally walked up to her and gave her a tap on the shoulder. Rohanna removed the earbuds and eyed her askance, as if to say, ‘Whaddya want?’

  “Hey, Rohanna,” she said. “Sorry to trouble you, but could I ask you a couple of questions about Paulo Frey and the Writer’s Lodge?”

  If the name was familiar to the cleaning lady, she didn’t give any indication. Instead, she frowned and asked, “Who?”

  “Paulo Frey? He was one of the writers who used to stay at the Writer’s Lodge. One of the regulars. He disappeared last year.”

  Her frown deepened. It was obvious she didn’t like to be interrupted while working. Or perhaps her favorite song had been on, and she hated to miss the opportunity to sing along. “I remember him,” she finally said. “Isn’t he the skinny one who writes those gruesome thrillers?”

  “He was a thriller writer,” she confirmed. Whether he was skinny was up for debate. Judging from the pictures she’d googled he looked pretty average.

  “What about him? Did he finally decide to show up again?”

  “Well, he did show up,” she said, wondering how to break the news gently. “Um, Rohanna, you might want to sit down for this.” She gestured at one of the chairs and Rohanna, shaking her head and clearly not happy about this, did as she was told.

  “Are you gonna tell me what’s going on?” she asked.

  In a few carefully chosen words she explained that the police had fished the body of Paulo Frey out of the cesspit, and Rohanna was understandably shaken. She placed a hand on her voluminous chest, which was heaving dangerously. “Dead?” she cried, her voice rising. “He’s dead? But how?”

  “He was murdered, Rohanna,” she said gently. “Someone murdered him and tried to hide the body.”

  “Oh, my God,” she said, her face a mask of distress. “He was such a nice man. A great tipper. Used to leave me a sizable tip at the end of his stay. Said I was the best, on account of the fact that I always left a bottle of bourbon on his pillow when he arrived. Hetta wants me to leave chocolates, and I usually do, but Paulo told me the first year he hated chocolate. So I always left him one of those small bottles of bourbon.”

  “I see,” she said. “So he was fond of drink, huh?”

  But Rohanna wasn’t listening. She shook her head. “He was always full of stories and jokes. A real live wire. Whenever I was down at the lodge he used to tell me stories of his writing career. The most hilarious stuff. He once told me he had dinner with the President and the First Lady at the White House, and he and the President got drunk and decided to play golf on the White House lawn. In the middle of the night!” She looked up at Odelia. “Whodunit, Miss Poole? You tell me whodunit and I’ll kill the bastard.”

  “They don’t know yet. The police only found the body yesterday.”

  “How?”

  Odelia explained about the laptop, and Rohanna nodded. “He was crazy about that laptop. It contained all of his manuscripts. All of his precious books. His entire life’s work. He never went anywhere without that laptop. It would have been impossible for that laptop to be down there and not…” She swallowed with difficulty, tears suddenly flooding her eyes, and broke off.

  “It’s all right, Rohanna,” Odelia said, dragging a few paper tissues from the dispenser on her father’s desk and handing them to the woman. As soon as she’d wiped her eyes, she gently asked, “I want you to think hard. Do you know if Paulo had any enemies? Anyone who would want to hurt him?”

  Rohanna shook her head in dismay, then finally choked out, “All I remember is that one day he told me about his feud with Aissa Spring.”

  “Aissa Spring of the No Spring Chicks vegan restaurant?”

  “That’s the one. He used to go there for dinner sometimes. Until he discovered that Aissa…” She raised her eyes to meet Odelia’s. “That she’s a lesbian.”

  She frowned. Aissa Spring lived together with her girlfriend Marissa. Together they ran a vegetarian restaurant right on the main drag. The two women had been together for ages, and very happily so.

  “What are you saying? That Frey had a thing against lesbians?”

  “You better ask Aissa about it,” she said, loudly blowing her nose. “But from what he told me, he didn’t like gays. At all. Which was a little weird for a writer of his stature.”

  Yes, that was a little weird. She now realized she didn’t know all that much about Paulo Frey. Apart from the fact that he was a million-selling writer of thrillers, the guy was a mystery to her.

  “Thanks, Rohanna. I’ll go and have a word with Aissa.”

  “You do that, and nail the bastard that did this.”

  Before she left the room, she turned and said, “Oh, the police will probably want to have a word with you as well.”

  Rohanna nodded. “I’ll tell Chief Alec the same thing I told you.”

  “It won’t be my uncle. Chase Kingsley is in charge of the investigation.”

  Rohanna’s eyes lit up. “Chase Kingsley? That hottie?”

  Odelia grimaced. “Yes, the hottie.”

  “Oh, he can interrogate me anytime,” said Rohanna, her distress over Paulo Frey’s murder quickly making way for a different emotion altogether.

  She managed to give Rohanna a grimace at this, thinking hard thoughts about ‘the hottie.’ She needed to get to the bottom of that story, too, and as soon as she revealed that Chase Kingsley was a notorious molester of women, she was pretty sure people like Rohanna would think differently of him.

  But first things first. She needed to talk to Aissa Spring. She was the first person who might have a motive for murder. And she was just passing through the corridor on her way to the waiting room, when she bumped into her father, emerging from the examination room with a patient in tow.

  “Oh, hey, honey,” he said, giving her a quick peck on the cheek. “If you came to check up on your grandmother, she’s fine. I tried to give her a checkup this morning and she brushed me off, insisting she was in greater shape than me!”

  “Yeah, I know,”
she said with a smile. “She’s probably in better shape than all of us.”

  Her father was a big and bluff man, and well-liked by all of his patients. He had a knack for putting anyone at ease in a matter of seconds, and often only needed a glance to know what was ailing his patients. They were two qualities that partly explained his popularity as Hampton Cove’s premier doctor. The fact that he was also the town’s only doctor was another reason.

  “See you tonight?” he asked now.

  “Yes, Dad,” she said, briefly wondering whether to tell him about the murder but quickly deciding against it. They could discuss it over dinner.

  “Your mother invited a guest,” he said as he waved the next patient in.

  “A guest?” she asked. “You mean Uncle Alec?”

  “Yeah, Alec is coming, and he’s bringing one of his colleagues,” her father said as he walked into his office. Before he closed the door, he frowned. “What was his name again…” Then his face cleared. “Oh, that’s right. Chase Kingsley. A new cop. See you later, honey.” And then he closed the door and she was left staring at it, a look of abject horror written all over her features.

  Chapter 8

  I was still feeling a little groggy and unsteady on my paws. Usually I like to take my eighteen hours of sleep in one long stretch, interspersed with the occasional run to the litter box and the feeding trough. Today, though, I was a cat on a mission, so I’d decided to cut my nap time short and head downtown to see what I could find out about the case of the murdered writer.

  I never followed a strict plan on these trips of mine but simply went where my paws took me. I had my regular haunts, of course. Places where I knew I could find the best information. Like the barber shop, or the doctor’s office, or the police station. For some strange reason I always happened to be in the right place at the right time. Call it cat’s intuition. It’s a very powerful thing, let me tell you. And I’d just wandered out into the street, when Dooley fell into step beside me, looking even more haggard than I was feeling.