by Nic Saint
“That’s because you’re stuck in a rut, Dooley,” Harriet said sternly. “You and Max both. And if you ask me, it’s time you got unstuck.”
“But…”
“No buts. At the very least Gran should ask this Jason to take a look at your house, too. I’m sure he’ll tell you the same thing: tear the place down and start from scratch. Out with the old and in with the new!”
“But I like the old!” I said.
She gave me a wink. “That’s because you are old, Max.”
I was saved the trouble of having to think up a comeback to that, when Uncle Alec’s phone caroled out a Garth Brooks tune, and he picked up with a grunt. “Dolores?”
Immediately his expression morphed from a brother admiring his sister’s new house to that of a police chief getting down to business. “I’ll be there in five,” he said. He glanced over to Chase, his second-in-command, and growled, “There’s been a murder.”
2
We were on our way to the scene of the crime, as the vernacular goes, when we happened to come across a traffic accident. Two cars had collided, one a nice shiny Jaguar, the other a not-so-shiny old Toyota. Both drivers had apparently decided that a head-on collision was a good way to start the day, and since steam was still rising from the wrangled wreckage of the Jaguar, the accident hadn’t taken place all that long ago.
“Shouldn’t we…” Odelia began.
But Chase immediately demurred. “The others will deal with this, babe,” he said, gesturing to a bored-looking officer listening to the drivers now going head-to-head.
There is a sort of division of labor at play in police stations, you see. You have cops who handle traffic accidents, and then there are cops who handle murder investigations. And Chase Kingsley, my human’s husband, just happens to belong to that last category, aided and abetted by Odelia, local reporter for the Hampton Cove Gazette but also officiating as police consultant.
So what is my role, you ask? Well, I guess I’m the consultant’s consultant. So Chase consults with Odelia, who consults with me. I know it’s not your typical law enforcement setup, but then Hampton Cove is a small town, and small towns oftentimes have their own way of doing things, and so do we.
“So if you’re the consultant’s consultant,” said Dooley, to whom I’d been explaining all this, “what does that make me?”
“You’re the consultant’s consultant’s consultant,” said Harriet.
This had Dooley stumped for a moment, and frankly it took me a while to untangle this particular knot, too. Look, I may be a consultant’s consultant, but that doesn’t mean I’m some kind of brainiac. I’m just an ordinary cat. So what if I happen to notice stuff that my humans don’t always pay attention to? That’s just par for the course with being a feline and having a feline’s superior ears, sense of smell and twenty-twenty vision.
“So if I’m a consultant’s consultant’s consultant,” said Dooley finally, “what does that make you and Brutus, Harriet?”
Harriet smiled a fine smile. “It makes me a consultant’s consultant’s consultant’s consultant, and Brutus a consultant’s consultant’s consultant’s consultant’s consultant.”
“Oh, God,” said Brutus, shaking his head. “I think this consultant is going to be sick.”
We’d arrived at the house under investigation, and Chase parked his squad car out in front, where several more cars had already found a parking space, from the looks of things all belonging to members of Uncle Alec’s police force.
That’s also part of being a detective: other officers usually arrive there first, and pave the way for the detective to waltz in and take over the scene. So Chase now did waltz in, followed by his small troupe of consultants, and consultant’s consultants and whatnot, and immediately we noticed that Uncle Alec hadn’t lied: a murder had indeed been committed, and the evidence, in the form of a dead body, was lying near the fireplace.
“What are those cats doing here?” a large man with an abundance of frizzy hair growled. This was Abe Cornwall, the county coroner. “They’re going to contaminate my scene.”
In normal human language this means that Abe was accusing us of dragging in foreign particles and trace evidence from the street, and causing confusion for the people in the white coveralls whose job it is to process the crime scene and the person who’s been murdered, and ascertain whether the killer has left any fingerprints, footprints or traces of his or her DNA when prematurely, and not to mention illegally, snuffing out their unfortunate victim’s life.
“Don’t worry about my cats, Abe,” said Odelia. “They’re very disciplined. They know not to come near the victim.”
“Who is the victim?” asked Chase.
“Neda Hoeppner,” said one of the officers, presumably the one who’d first arrived, and notified Dolores, the station dispatcher, who’d notified Uncle Alec and the rest of us.
Uncle Alec, who now joined us, shook his head sadly. “Terrible business. Just terrible.”
“Did you know her?” asked Chase.
“Oh, sure. Neda was on every committee, a member of every society, active in every foundation. She had her fingers in a lot of pies.”
“That’s not very hygienic,” said Dooley. “At least I hope she washed her hands before she stuck her fingers in all of those pies.”
“What did she do for a living?” asked Chase.
“I’m not sure,” said the Chief, rubbing his chin.
“So in spite of the fact that she was on every committee, in every society and every foundation, you have no idea what it was that she actually did?”
“Uh-huh. I think she was simply rich, so she didn’t need to hold down a job.”
We all glanced around, and took in the understated opulence of the room we now found ourselves in. It was obvious that Neda Hoeppner had indeed been a wealthy woman, but also that she had excellent taste. The colorful sofas, the exquisite artwork adorning the walls, the coffee-table books placed on the coffee table and the perfectly maintained backyard we could see through the floor-to-ceiling windows attested to that.
As did the very large bookcase that covered part of one wall. Against the opposite wall a fireplace had been put in, though I had the impression it had been put there more for decorative reasons than functional ones. I could tell from the warmth my paws were experiencing that the room was heated by floor heating, which was very nice indeed.
Against that fireplace now lay a woman, face down, and judging from the blood on both the marble corner of the fireplace and the head of said woman, it wasn’t a stretch to conclude that she had fallen and knocked her head.
“How did she die?” asked Uncle Alec. His question was directed at Abe Cornwall, the one with the exploded hairdo. The coroner got up from his examination of the body, his knees making creaking sounds as he did. “As far as I can tell she hit her head against the corner of this fireplace and the impact killed her. Though to be absolutely sure I’ll need to take her in for a postmortem.”
“Time of death?”
Abe scratched his head. “No lividity, no rigor mortis. Judging by body temperature I’d say she died between eleven-thirty and twelve.”
Uncle Alec nodded as he thoughtfully rubbed his chin. “So if she fell and hit her head, why was this reported as a murder?” he asked, this time addressing his officer.
“There seems to have been a break-in, sir,” said the young man. He gestured to the safe, located behind a painting, which hung askance. The safe was open, clearly empty.
“Who called it in?”
“Mrs. Hoeppner’s secretary,” said the officer, and pointed to a distraught-looking woman who was being consoled by a second female officer, both seated on the couch.
“Chase, Odelia, I’ll let you handle the investigation,” said Uncle Alec, bowing out.
“Of course, sir,” said Chase, adopting a formal tone since we were in an official setting.
Chase and Odelia now joined the secretary, and while Harriet and Brutus wandered
in the direction of the kitchen, presumably in search of something to eat, Dooley and I joined our humans. The investigation had begun.
3
Cher Shorn was clearly deeply impressed by what she’d encountered when she arrived in her employer’s home. She was clutching a Kleenex and dabbing it at her eyes. She was a horse-faced woman with long brown hair that fell like a curtain across her face, until she was joined by Odelia and Chase, at which point she made the effort to sit up a little straighter and tuck her long tresses behind her ears. She pushed her overly large glasses higher up her nose and took a deep breath.
“Yes, I found her like that, and no, I didn’t touch anything,” she said in answer to Chase’s unspoken question. She looked up and her eyes filled with tears again, causing her to remove her glasses and drag another Kleenex from a large box.
“You were Mrs. Hoeppner’s secretary?” asked Odelia, taking things from the top, and employing her most kind and soft-spoken tone.
Cher nodded. “I just celebrated fifteen years in her employ. We went out to dinner and had such a good time. Neda was demanding, but after fifteen years I considered her a friend.”
“Do you think this could have been an accident?” asked Odelia.
“Absolutely not,” said Cher with a vigorous shake of her head.
“What makes you say that?”
“Because when I arrived the safe was open,” said Cher. “And empty.” Indignation made her voice rise both in volume and pitch. “They must have forced her to open it and then they cleaned it out and killed her.”
“Isn’t it possible that she opened the safe herself and simply made a bad fall?” Chase suggested.
“Absolutely not,” said Cher. “That safe was full of Neda’s valuables, and now it’s empty. Whoever did this robbed and killed her, and I know exactly who did it.”
This statement was greeted with a look of surprise from both Odelia and Chase. “You know who killed your employer?” asked Chase.
“Absolutely. His name is Raban Pacoccha and he’s Neda’s gardener. And I have a strong suspicion he’s also a drug addict, and that he robbed Neda to fund his addiction.”
“Did you find him on the premises when you arrived?” asked Odelia.
“No, he was gone by the time I got here.” She shook her head. “Imagine if I hadn’t arrived when I did. Neda could very well have spent the night lying there—dead.” She broke into tears again.
“Why did you arrive when you did?” asked Chase, deciding to clear up another mystery that had clearly puzzled him.
“Today is Monday,” said Cher, as if that explained everything. When she found herself gazing into two questioning faces, she continued, “On Monday we always get together here to go over the week’s program. Neda was a wealthy woman. Her father, Ralph Hoeppner, made his fortune selling linoleum—they called him the linoleum king. After he died Neda decided to devote her life supporting the many cultural organizations and charities she favored. It kept us busy, handling an extensive social calendar and a lot of organizations Neda had decided to grace with her patronage. We also keep an office in town, where I work and where she has a desk, but she rarely went there. She preferred if I came here to go over the week’s schedule. Our meeting was scheduled at one o’clock.”
“We heard from Chief Lip that she was on a lot of committees,” said Chase.
Cher gave a curt nod of the head and then started rattling off the list. “The Hampton Cove Arts Center, the Hampton Cove Cultural Center, the Seabreeze Music Center, the Charlie Dieber Art Museum and Study Center, the Waterhill Center. And of course she is—or was—also the first female conductor of the St. Theresa Choir, which had its weekly rehearsal just this morning. Which is why we never met before lunch.”
“She was a very busy woman, this Neda Hoeppner,” said Dooley.
“Yeah, extremely busy,” I said as we wandered in the direction of the dearly departed once more, the men in white coveralls dusting the area for prints and collecting samples of whatever they could find in the vicinity of Neda’s body. They certainly made every effort not to miss a thing, and when Dooley and I came a little too close in their opinion, they gave us nasty glances and so we quickly removed ourselves from the scene. Cats have a tendency to shed, you see, and if there’s anything these CSI types hate more than a dust bunny they can’t identify, it’s cat hair landing where no cat hair is supposed to be.
“She has a very nice house,” said Dooley as we inspected the rest of the living space. “Maybe Gran should ask who her interior decorator was.”
“You really would like to live in a house like this?” I asked as I inspected a violin that Neda had placed on a stand.
“Oh, absolutely. I think Neda Hoeppner had great taste.”
“She certainly had,” I agreed.
“So it was murder, was it?” asked Dooley, abruptly changing the topic.
“Looks like it,” I confirmed.
He heaved a deep sigh. “Stealing is bad enough, but why murder, Max?”
“I’m not sure, Dooley. But in this case Neda Hoeppner didn’t strike me as the kind of woman who would happily hand over her treasured possessions, so the robber must have been compelled to use lethal force to accomplish what they set out to do.”
We’d wandered back to where the interview with Mrs. Hoeppner’s secretary was taking place. The secretary was showing a diary to Chase, and had flipped to where some of the pages had been torn out. “Today’s date,” she said meaningfully. “Neda wrote down all her appointments in this book. Raban must have torn these pages out before he left.”
“Do you know what was taken from the safe, Miss Shorn?” asked Chase as he held his pencil poised over his little notebook.
“Neda kept her jewels in that safe,” said Cher, “as well as some cash and of course her collection of gold coins.”
“Gold coins?”
Cher nodded. “Neda was a gold bug. She loved her coins.”
“How much would you say her collection was worth—approximately?”
Cher frowned. “I’d have to check, but at last count she had over a hundred thousand dollars in gold in that safe. And if you count the jewelry and the cash she kept… I think Raban must have gotten away with at least two hundred thousand worth.” She arched an eyebrow when both Odelia and Chase sucked in their breath in astonishment. “You can buy a lot of dope with that kind of money, wouldn’t you say?”
4
We found ourselves in our second nice home of the day, or actually our third, if Marge and Tex’s newly finished house was added to the tally. Though to say we were at the house was actually a misnomer, as we were outside, with no means of entering the house, since its owner wasn’t home. But then we weren’t there to talk to Janette Bittiner but to her gardener Raban Pacoccha, who also happened to be Neda’s gardener.
So we’d simply walked around back and soon came upon Raban, raking a few stray leaves and looking distraught.
“He looks like a killer, Max,” Dooley commented when we caught the gardener in our sights and so did Chase and Odelia.
Brutus and Harriet had decided to sit this one out and instead had headed into town, where Harriet said she had some important business to take care of. What this important business could possibly be, I had no idea, but I knew better than to ask.
“Killers don’t have a specific look,” I told my friend. “Anyone can be a killer, and they won’t have anything in common with other killers as far as outer appearance goes.”
Raban Pacoccha was a tall and athletic man, with a nice crop of thick curly dark hair, and a handsome face. He was in his early thirties, and to me he didn’t look like a killer at all. In fact he looked more like a male model than a vicious killer and drug addict.
“Raban Pacoccha?” asked Chase, and held up his police badge as a way of introduction.
The man looked startled as his eyes zoomed in on that shiny badge, and immediately he dropped the rake and came walking over. “I am Raban,” he said. �
�What is this about?”
“My name is Chase Kingsley, Hampton Cove police, and this is Odelia Poole, civilian police consultant. We would like to ask you a couple of questions, Mr. Pacoccha.”
“Yes?” said Raban cautiously as he approached us. He glanced down at Dooley and me, then up to Chase again, dismissing us as unimportant in the grand scheme of things.
“You work for Neda Hoeppner?”
“Yes, I do. Neda is one of my oldest clients.”
“When was the last time you saw her?”
“Um, let me think,” said Raban, as he his eyes flitted up and to the left. “That must have been… last Monday. Mondays I always work at Neda’s.”
“Today is Monday,” Chase pointed out.
Raban smiled an indulgent smile. “Janette had an urgent job for me, so I couldn’t make it to Neda’s. I suggested tomorrow, but she refused and told me to skip a week.”
“So under normal circumstances you would have gone in today?” asked Odelia.
“Yes, today. But as I said, Janette had work for me.”
“What was so urgent?”
“Beats me,” said the gardener with a shrug. “All I’ve done is rake some leaves.”
“So you weren’t at Neda’s house this morning?”
“Oh, no, I’ve been here since nine o’clock.” He gestured to the leaves he’d raked. “As it turns out there wasn’t much for me to do here. But then that’s Janette for you.”
“How do you mean?”
“She and Neda don’t get along,” the handsome gardener explained as he raked a hand through his curly hair. “Especially since Neda was selected as the new choir director.”
“There was some kind of rivalry?”
“You can say that again. They’re at each other’s throats all the time.” Then suddenly he seemed to regret his words, for he lowered his voice, and shot a nervous glance in the direction of the house. “Please don’t tell them I said that. They’re both clients of mine, and I want to keep it that way.” He seemed to realize that this entire conversation had been a little one-sided so far, and he asked, “So why all the questions?”
