Purrfect Heat (The Mysteries of Max Book 4)

by Nic Saint

  “I’m sorry,” I said, indignant. “I’m not a stray. Can’t you tell?”

  She studied me for a moment. “You look very well fed for a stray. You, on the other hand,” she added, turning to Dooley, “I had pegged as a stray from the moment I saw you. You look… skinny, if you know what I mean. As if you’re gonna die from starvation any second. Actually, if you want, you can eat from the public bowl. Erin put it there for strays like you.”

  Dooley gaped at her. “I look like I’m about to die?”

  “Yeah, you do, actually,” she confirmed. “So better tuck in, little buddy. Eat your fill before it’s too late. I think Erin even left some fish in there. Go on, then. Don’t be shy.”

  “Yeah, Dooley,” I said. “Tuck in. Don’t be shy.”

  But Dooley looked crushed. “I suddenly lost my appetite.”

  “Actually we both belong to a human,” I told Montserrat. “My human is Odelia Poole? The reporter? And Dooley’s human is Odelia’s grandmother.”

  “Oh, so you do have a human,” said Montserrat. “Sorry about that, little buddy. You have to tell her to feed you better. You’re just skin and bones.”

  As we left the alley, Dooley was completely discombobulated.

  “Do I really look that bad, Max?” he asked.

  “You look fine to me, Dooley.”

  “But Montserrat said I look like I’m about to die.”

  “I’m sure she was exaggerating.”

  “Maybe I’ve got some kind of wasting disease. Maybe I’m sick and I don’t even know it!”

  “You’re not sick. You’re just skinny. Some cats are skinny, others are big-boned, like me. It’s body type, that’s all. Nothing to worry about.”

  “But I do worry, Max.” He shook his head. “I should see a doctor.”

  “I’m sure you’re fine,” I repeated. “So what about that Tesla, huh? Great clue. I can’t wait to tell Odelia.”

  “Maybe I should go see Tex. He’s a doctor, right?”

  “Tex is a doctor for humans. You need an animal doctor.”

  He gave me a look of panic. “I do?”

  “No, I mean, if you WERE sick, which you’re NOT, you would have to see a vet. But since you’re NOT sick, you DON’T, if you see what I mean.” I tried to make my meaning perfectly clear, but Dooley wasn’t having any of it.

  “You just said I needed to see an animal doctor, Max. Don’t try to deny it.”

  “I’m not denying anything!”

  “Yes, you are.” He gave me a penetrating look. “How long have you known, Max? Who else knows? Does Odelia know?”

  “Know what?”

  “That I’m dying!”

  “You’re not dying!”

  “You’re all keeping the truth from me. This is a conspiracy!”

  Oh, crap. Thank you, Montserrat, I thought. This was just like that time Dooley thought he was a pedigree cat that a famous person had abandoned. For weeks he hounded us with his stories of how Mariah Carey or Katy Perry would come looking for him and how there would be a touching reunion. No matter what I said, he didn’t believe me. This was going to be the exact same thing, I just knew it.

  “You’re not dying.”

  “So you say.”

  “Yes, because I know.”

  “How? You’re not a doctor.”

  “I know because you look just fine.”

  “I’m skin and bone!”

  “You’ve always been skin and bone!”

  “So maybe I’ve always been sick!”

  Yep. This was going to be a long couple of weeks.

  Chapter 8

  Odelia walked into her dad’s doctor’s office. Tex Poole was Hampton Cove’s resident general practitioner. He was a gregarious man, and good at what he did, so his waiting room was always full. He was one of the last of his kind, as all around Hampton Cove clinics had sprung up, with several doctors combining their skills to offer a full-service medical package. And then there were the concierge doctors, catering to the wealthy, of which the Hamptons boasted more than a few. Tex was an old-fashioned doctor, though, who treated old and young, rich and poor, men or women, of any ailments that might have befallen them.

  Odelia found her grandmother presiding over the waiting room as usual, talking on the phone and jotting down a name in the big appointment book. What wasn’t usual was that there was a man seated next to her, a vacuous look on his face, his hand on Gran’s shoulder, and his shirt unbuttoned.

  He was an older man that she didn’t recognize, with wrinkled features, bushy brows, a full head of white hair, and quite a lot of hair on his chest as well.

  She stared at the man, pulling up short the moment she stepped inside.

  “Please don’t be tardy, Mrs. Mueller,” Gran was saying. “Doctor Poole doesn’t appreciate tardiness. If you’re tardy you will have to reschedule.” She hung up and her face creased into a thousand wrinkles the moment her gaze landed on her granddaughter. “Odelia, honey. Am I glad to see you.”

  “Um, Gran,” she said, hesitantly approaching the desk. “There’s a man next to you.”

  “Oh, this is Leo. I told you about Leo, didn’t I? He’s the one that gave me the cashmere sweater. Leo, say hi to my granddaughter Odelia.”

  “Hi,” said Leo, and lapsed into silence once more.

  “Leo’s not a talker,” said Gran. “But he makes up for it with his other skills,” she added with a cheeky wink.

  “Thanks, Gran. Um, do you mind me asking why Leo is naked?”

  Gran eyed her boyfriend for a moment. “Naked? What are you talking about? I don’t see where he’s naked. He’s all dressed up as far as I can see.”

  “His shirt is unbuttoned. I don’t think Dad would approve.”

  “Leo gets hot,” said Gran. “He’s one of those men that get hot. So he likes to unbutton his shirt, so what?”

  “What are the patients going to think?” she asked.

  “They can think whatever they want. When you get to my age you stop caring what people think. It’s one of the few blessings of being old.”

  Odelia squinched her eyes closed. “Leo?”

  The old guy looked up. “Mh?”

  “Could you please button up your shirt? And could you please remove your arm from my grandmother’s shoulder? This is a doctor’s office, not a bar. Thank you,” she added when Leo complied. Of course, to button up his shirt, he had to remove his arm from Gran’s shoulder. The minute he’d accomplished this task, the arm was right back, and Gran didn’t seem to mind one bit. It was… awkward.

  “What?” Gran asked. “Leo’s a very physical man. I like it.”

  “Well, maybe you should get physical on your own time,” she said. “Not when you’re working.”

  “Hey, who died and made you boss? Show a little respect for your grandmother. I had men’s arms around me when you weren’t even born.”

  “Gran, it just… isn’t proper,” she said, uttering words she’d never thought she’d speak to her grandmother, or to anyone else for that matter.

  “Oh, all right,” said Gran, removing Leo’s arm. “But I’m only doing it as a favor to you,” she said. When Leo made a protesting sound, she patted his hand. “I’m off at three, honey. Come and see me then, all right?”

  Leo left the office, giving Odelia a very unfriendly glance.

  “I don’t think Leo likes me,” Odelia said once he’d left.

  “Do you think?”

  “I’m sorry, Gran. But I think you can do better than… that.”

  “Honey, when you’re as old as I am you can’t take any chances. When you’re lucky enough to get hold of a live one you better hang on. You never know when he’s gonna die on you. Speaking of dying, did you hear about that celebrity chef that got cooked in his own oven?”

  “Yes, I’m on the case.”

  “And so is Chase, right?” she asked, giving her a saucy wink.

  “Yes,” she admitted, staunchly ignoring the wink.

  “I like that
man. Too bad he’s into you or else I’d have gone after him myself.”

  “Yes. You’ve made that abundantly clear, Gran,” she said. “So what’s this about a note in your sweater?”

  Gran dumped the sweater on the counter. “This is the sweater,” she said, then plunked down a little piece of paper. “And here is the note. I told Leo and he was so surprised he spoke a complete sentence. First time I’ve heard more coming out of that man’s mouth than grunts and moans. Heh heh heh.”

  She held up a hand. “Please, Gran. I don’t need to hear the details.”

  “Why not? You might learn a thing or two. Have you and that cop done it already?”

  She cast a quick glance at the two women and one man who sat patiently waiting for her dad to call them in. The women were studiously poring over copies of Woman’s Day and Family Circle while the man pretended to read Field and Stream. She knew they were hanging on her and Gran’s every word, though.

  She lowered her voice. “That’s none of your business, Gran!”

  Gran arched a finely penciled eyebrow. “Oh? You come in here bitching and moaning about Leo’s buttons and I can’t even ask you a simple question?”

  “That’s different. I don’t…” She dropped her voice even more. “I don’t do it where the whole town can see us.”

  Gran’s lips curled into a knowing smile. “So you didn’t do it, huh? Thought as much. Better get a move on, girlfriend. A man like Chase won’t wait around forever. And you know what they say about women that don’t put out.”

  “No, I don’t,” she said between clenched teeth. “And I don’t care.”

  “They’re prudes. And you don’t want to be a prude. That’s the curse of death right there. You’ll never date in this town again. Only guys who’ll still want you are idiots, and you don’t want them mucking up the Poole bloodline.”

  “Gran! That’s so wrong on so many levels I don’t even… Ugh.”

  “Right or wrong, you better take a page out of my book, honey, or else Chase will chase after some other chick. Now, where were we? Oh, right. The note.”

  Odelia, shaking her head, picked up the note. Her grandmother was right. It said, ‘WE PRISONERS! PLEASE HELP PLEASE!’ It was a small piece of paper, and the writing was shaky, as if whoever had written it was under great duress.

  She turned it over. There was nothing on the other side, and nothing whatsoever to indicate where it had come from. No identification, no clue as to where this person was being held prisoner or when the note was written.

  “I think it’s from Russia,” said Gran. “Stalin’s got all those prison camps over there? In Siberia? One of ‘em prisoners must have smuggled out this sweater.”

  “So how did the sweater get here? Besides, they don’t have prison camps in Russia anymore, Gran. They went out of fashion when Stalin died, remember? In the nineteen-fifties?”

  “So who wrote it then, Little Miss Know-It-All?”

  “Lemme see that sweater.” She studied the label. Ziv Riding. “Wow. Pretty expensive.”

  Grandma beamed. “I told you. Leo’s into me.”

  “Leo must be into you a lot. This is Ziv Riding.”

  “Is he famous or something?”

  “Only one of the hottest designers working right now. He shot to the top out of nowhere, and he’s been the star of New York Fashion Week three years in a row. Are you sure Leo didn’t steal this from someplace?”

  Gran planted her hand on her hip. “Hey. Don’t insult my Leo. I’ll have you know the guy is loaded.”

  She gave Gran a crooked smile. “I saw that.”

  “Moneywise, smartass. Though you’re right. The guy is packing, if you know what I mean.”

  She raised her eyes heavenward. “I don’t think I want to know.”

  She studied the sweater some more. Gran had snipped off the wash care label, which had contained the note. So whoever had made this sweater had wanted to cry out for help, and make sure the message went out. But then why hadn’t they also added instructions for whoever found the message? Weird. She decided it wasn’t really worth looking into. She knew that top designers like Ziv Riding had all of their clothes made in countries like Bangladesh or India or the Philippines. So whoever had left this desperate message was way out of reach.

  “This is just so horrible,” she said, as she pictured a woman or man or even a child chained down in some sweatshop on the other side of the world, having to make these clothes so they could be bought by rich Westerners, making the designers who exploited these workers even richer.

  “Yeah, Ziv Riding is a douche.”

  “Well, maybe he doesn’t even know his clothes are made in these sweatshops. A lot of times they just hand over production to a company.”

  “Then they should make sure those companies don’t use sweatshops.”

  She was right, of course. Then again, there wasn’t much she could do about that from where she stood. So she handed the note back to her grandmother, along with the sweater. “Where did Leo buy this?”

  “In one of the boutiques on Main Street. So are you going to expose this Ziv Riding? Are you going to write a tell-all exposé about the guy?”

  She shook her head. “I can’t, Gran. I can’t accuse him of anything without more information.”

  “So gather more information. You’re a reporter. That’s your job.”

  “I’m just a small-town reporter. I don’t write stories like this. I write about a new shop opening on Main Street. Or that traffic lights were out again at the intersection. Or about the council meeting. I don’t expose international scandals.”

  “Well, I think you should.” Gran held up the note. “This is an outrage. Those poor people wrote this note hoping someone would find it. Someone with the guts to stand up to people like Riding. Someone who’d save them.”

  She held up her hands. “Well, that person isn’t me.”

  “Wimp,” Gran muttered, dumping the sweater behind the counter.

  “Gee, thanks, Gran. I don’t see you climbing the barricades or picketing outside Ziv Riding’s office.”

  “Well, maybe I will,” said Gran. “Maybe me and Leo will do just that.”

  Sure. That would make Ziv Riding quake in his designer boots. Gran and Leo picketing his office. When they weren’t too busy smooching.

  Chapter 9

  Dooley and I passed into the offices of the Hampton Cove Gazette. It wasn’t a difficult feat as the editor kept the door unlocked, in case a member of the public decided to step in and regale him with some fresh story or offer comment on an article he’d written. Dan is a fixture in Hampton Cove, and you can’t miss him. He’s a smallish man with a big, white beard and lots of laugh wrinkles around his eyes. These days he mainly takes care of the business side of running a paper and lets Odelia write the articles.

  We passed by Dan’s office, where the editor spent most of his days, and on to Odelia’s, smaller office, right next to his. She was at her desk, pounding away at an article, presumably about the murder. In spite of what you might think, murders rarely happen in Hampton Cove, so when one does happen, it’s a big deal.

  “Hey, guys,” she said as we rubbed against her leg. She picked me up and put me on her desk. I proceeded to lie down on her keyboard, easily the best spot in the house as it gets most of Odelia’s attention.

  She gently gave me a push, and I reluctantly scooted over, idly playing with her mouse until she took it away from me and placed it out of reach. Humans. Never any fun.

  “So we discovered a clue,” I said.

  “And I discovered that I’m about to die,” Dooley said morosely.

  She stared from me to Dooley, clearly not sure where to begin, so I decided to help her out. “Montserrat, the cat that belongs to Erin Coka, told us her friend Fred saw a black Tesla parked in the alley behind the restaurant last night. And she’s sure it doesn’t belong to the owners of the place or anyone who works there.”

  “I’m wasting away,” Dooley annou
nced.

  “So whoever killed Niklaus Skad drives an obsidian black Tesla,” I said. “Don’t thank us, thank Montserrat. And Fred.”

  “It must be cancer,” Dooley continued. “What else could it be?”

  “Um…” Odelia said. “First of all, thanks for the Tesla thing? Secondly, why do you think you’re dying, Dooley?”

  “It’s Montserrat’s fault,” I told her. “She may be great at ferreting out crucial information like the killer’s ride, but she sucks at social niceties. Like, she told me I was fat? And then she went and said Dooley must be sick he’s so thin. I mean, who does that, right?”

  “Montserrat is right. I am freakishly thin,” Dooley said.

  “She didn’t say you were freakishly thin,” I said. “She said you looked like a stray and that your human probably doesn’t feed you enough. There’s a difference.”

  “How is that different? She thought I was dying.”

  “She didn’t think he was dying,” I told Odelia. “just that he’s thin.”

  Odelia looked worried now. “Doesn’t Gran feed you enough?”

  “Actually Gran doesn’t feed me anything,” Dooley said.

  “Omigod, she doesn’t?”

  “No, your mom feeds me. Gran forgets, so Marge took over years ago. She feeds Harriet and me, though Harriet gets special treatment, on account of her fur. She gets something that’s guaranteed to put the shine in a Persian’s fur.”

  “So why is it this…”

  “Montserrat,” I said helpfully.

  “This Montserrat thinks you’re too thin?”

  “Because she’s flaky,” I said.

  “Because she sees a lot of strays, and she said I look like one.”

  “You don’t look like a stray, Dooley,” Odelia said softly, picking up Dooley and depositing him right next to me. “You look like a very healthy, very happy cat.”

  “You think so?” he asked hesitantly.

  “Sure. I don’t think there’s anything wrong with you. You’re just thin, but that’s body type for you. Just like Max here is full-figured.”