Purrfectly Deadly The Mysteries of Max 2

Nic Saint

Puss in Print Publications

Contents

Purrfectly Deadly

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Excerpt from Between a Ghost and a Spooky Place

Also by Nic Saint

About Nic

Purrfectly Deadly

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When famous eighties pop star John Paul George is found floating facedown in his pool, Hampton Cove’s premier sleuthing tabby Max and his feline friends are on the case. Soon they’re chasing leads and following clues, helping their human Odelia Poole, reporter for the Hampton Cove Gazette, solve the murder.

Meanwhile, new cop in town Chase Kingsley has his own problems to deal with. An old scandal threatens to get him kicked off the force. And even though Odelia and Chase don’t always see eye to eye, she decides to help him clear his name, even if it means keeping Chase’s cat Brutus, Max’s self-declared nemesis, in town.

Soon Max is up to his whiskers in drug dealers, boy toys, disgruntled ex-wives and even more drug dealers, all while competing with Brutus for the title of Hampton Cove’s one and only ‘true detective.’ Will the feline sleuths save the day? And will they finally get a taste of John Paul George’s famous cat pâté? Find out in Purrfectly Deadly, the second book in the humorous cat mystery series The Mysteries of Max.

Chapter 1

Morning had arrived bright and early, and as usual I was having a hard time rousing my human. Odelia was still snoozing, even more reluctant than usual to throw off the blanket of sleep. She’d been stirring for the past hour, ever since her alarm clock had gone off and she’d unceremoniously silenced it with one well-aimed punch. In spite of all my nudging, meowing, and even scratching the closet door, she still showed no signs of getting out of bed.

She’d sat up half the night preparing for her interview today, but if she didn’t get up now she’d miss it entirely. And it wasn’t just any old interview either. For the first time in years, famous eighties pop singer John Paul George, aka JPG, had granted the Hampton Cove Gazette an exclusive.

John, whose star had shone so brightly back in the day, now lived as a recluse in his Hamptons mansion, only rarely venturing out. He was one of those pop deities and eighties icons whose name would go down in history along with Madonna, Michael Jackson, Prince and George Michael.

Originally he hailed from England, where they produce pop stars in a factory just outside London, but had settled in the Hamptons in the nineties, where he could enjoy sun and surf and an endless parade of boy toys.

“Odelia,” I tried again, nudging her armpit with my head. “Oh, Odelia. Rise and shine, my pretty. John Paul George and legend are awaiting.”

But instead of opening her eyes, she merely mumbled something and turned the other cheek, her blond hair fanning across the pillow and her green eyes remaining firmly closed. I stared down at her sleeping form. I could always give her a gentle nibble, of course. Maybe that would do the trick. Somehow I doubted it, though. When Odelia is asleep, only a shot from a cannon can wake her, or perhaps a piper beneath her window, like the Queen of England. I should know. I’ve been Odelia’s constant companion for going on eight years now. My name is Max, by the way, and I’m a cat.

Finally, I’d had enough. I wasn’t going to miss this interview, as JPG was as much a hero of mine as he was of Odelia’s. The man had taken in more stray cats than the Hampton Cove animal shelter, and all of them had been given such a good life they’d spread the word far and wide: JPG loved cats and they, in return, adored him. Heck, if I wasn’t so fond of Odelia I might have presented myself on the JPG doorstep, looking slightly bedraggled.

I’d talked to more than a few of the cats he’d taken in, and they said he actually served them pâté on a daily basis. The food supposedly melted on the tongue, and was so delicious and plentiful it sounded like feline paradise.

The thought of pâté decided me. I wasn’t going to miss the opportunity to sample the best gourmet food in all of Hampton Cove just because Odelia liked to sleep in. So I jumped on top of her, prepared to give her a good back rub, claws extended. If that didn’t do the trick, nothing would.

Just then, Dooley wandered into the room.

Dooley is Odelia’s mom’s cat, a beigeish ragamuffin and not the smartest cat around. He’s also my best friend.

“Hey, Max,” he said now as he leisurely strode in. “What’s up?”

“What’s not up is the more apt question,” I grumbled, gesturing at Odelia, who turned and clasped her pillow with a beatific expression on her face.

“Aw, she looks so sweet,” said Dooley, looking on from the bedside carpet.

“We’ve got an important interview scheduled in an hour, and if she doesn’t get a move on she’s going to miss it.”

“One hour? She can make that. Easy.”

“Well, unless she gets up right now she won’t,” I insisted.

And then I got it. Maybe we could serenade her. Dooley and I had recently joined the cat choir. We got together once a week to rehearse, and even had our own conductor. We sang all the old classics, like Cat’s in the Cradle, Year of the Cat, What’s New Pussycat and things like that. The good stuff. Since we usually practiced at night, though, we were having a hard time finding a regular spot to get together, as the neighbors didn’t seem to appreciate our nascent talent as much as we did.

“What was that song we did last night?” I asked Dooley.

He looked up at me. “Mh? What song?”

“For the cat choir. What was that last song we did? The one that made the mayor throw that old shoe at you?”

Dooley frowned at this, and rubbed the spot on his back where the shoe had connected. “That wasn’t funny, Max. That really hurt, you know.”

“Yeah, but what was the song?” I insisted.

“Wake me up before you go go,” he said. “The old Wham! classic.”

“Of course,” I said with a grin. “Let’s do it now. I’m sure it’ll be a nice way to wake Odelia up, and put her in the right mood for her interview.”

I jumped down from the bed, and took up position next to Dooley. We both cleared our throats, just like our conductor Shanille, Father Reilly’s tabby had taught us, and burst into song.

“Wake me up before you go go,” I howled.

“Don’t keep me hanging on like a yo-yo,” wailed Dooley.

And even though we hadn’t practiced the song a lot—the mayor’s shoe had kinda ruined the moment—I thought we were doing a pretty good job. It probably wouldn’t have carried George Michael’s approval, as cats don’t exactly sing like humans. When we sing, it sounds more like… a bunch of cats being strangled. Nevertheless, the effect was almost magical. We hadn’t even gotten to the chorus yet, when Odelia buried her head in her pillow, then dragged the pillow over her head, and finally threw the pillow at us.

“Stop it already, you guys. You sound horrible!” she muttered.

“It’s Wham!,” I told her. “So it can’t be horrible. And if you don’t get up right this minute, you’re going to be late for your important interview.”

At this, she darted a quick look at her alarm clock, and uttered a startled yelp. The next moment she scrambled from the bed, practically tripped over Dooley and me, and raced for the bathroom.

“Shit shit shit shit shit!” she cried. “Why didn’t you wake me?!”

“Well, I tried!” I called after her. “And failed.”

“You think she doesn’t like our singing?” asked Dooley, who’s very sensitive about his singing skills. Coming after the shoe incident, Odelia’s critique had clearly rattled him.

“I’m sure she loved it,” I told him, padding over to the window.

Unlike humans, us cats don’t need to spend time in the bathroom, or apply makeup, or put on clothes. We do spend half of our lives licking our butts, but apart from that, being a cat is a lot easier than being a human.

“I sensed criticism,” Dooley said now, staring at the door through which Odelia had disappeared. “She said it sounded horrible, Max. Horrible!”

“She’s not awake yet,” I said. “She doesn’t know what she’s saying.”

I hopped up onto the windowsill and watched the sun rising in the East. Outside, in the cherry tree that divided Odelia’s garden from her parents’, cute little birdies were chirping, singing their own songs, and fluttering gaily. I licked my lips. Coming upon the thoughts of pâté, the sight was enough to make my stomach rumble.

Dooley joined me, and we both stared at the birdies, twittering up a storm. There’s nothing greater than waking up in the morning and seeing a flock of little birdies fluttering around a tree. It lifts my mood to such heights I can’t wait to get out there and meet the world head-on. And the birdies. I saw Dooley felt the same way, for his jaw had dropped and he was drooling.

“So how’s things over at your place?” I asked.

His happy gaze clouded over. “Rotten. That Brutus is spending more and more time at Marge’s place than he does at his own.”

Brutus was the black cat that belonged to Chase Kingsley, who was a new cop who’d recently moved to Hampton Cove. He was staying at Chief Alec’s, Odelia’s uncle, until he got a place of his own, but Brutus seemed to feel more at ease at the Pooles than at Uncle Alec’s. And then there was the fact that he was dating Harriet, of course, Odelia’s Gran’s white Persian, who lived in the same house. One big, happy family. Except that it wasn’t.

It had been a tough couple of weeks, Brutus being some kind of dictator, who liked to think he had to lay down the law to us plebeians. And since Dooley had always been sweet on Harriet himself, he was pretty much in hell right now.

“Brutus still being such a pain in the butt?” I asked.

Dooley nodded forlornly. “Last night he told me that from now on I should sleep on the floor. That all elevated surfaces were strictly reserved for him. Something about him having to have the best vantage point in case the house was being burglarized. I swear that cat is driving me up the wall.”

“That’s just plain silly,” I said, shaking my head. Both Dooley and I had been wracking our brains trying to come up with a way to take Brutus down a peg or two. But as long as Harriet was his girlfriend, that was kinda hard, especially since Harriet is pretty much the most beautiful cat in Hampton Cove, and whatever she says goes with humans.

“You can always sleep on my couch, Dooley,” I said magnanimously.

In spite of Brutus’s efforts to take over my house as well, so far he hadn’t succeeded. Fortunately Odelia still listened to me, and kicked him out when he became too much for me to handle. Oh, that’s right. Didn’t I tell you? Odelia is one of those rare humans who understands and speaks feline, on account of the fact that one of her forebears was a witch or something. Her mother and grandmother share the same gift, which comes in handy from time to time. Like when I have some scoop to share. You see, Odelia works for the Hampton Cove Gazette, and with the exclusive scoops we provide her she can practically fill the entire paper, earning her a reputation as the best reporter in town. She’s also the only reporter in town, apart from Dan Goory, the Gazette’s geriatric editor and Odelia’s boss.

Finally, Odelia came shooting out of the bathroom, smelling deliciously of fresh soap, and looking fresh as a daisy. For the occasion she was wearing a T-shirt that read ‘John Paul George for President,’ beige slacks and her usual Chuck Taylors. She was also wearing a look of panic over how late it was.

“If you’re coming, you better get a move on!” she yelled as she hurried down the stairs, then came pounding up again to snatch her smartphone from the nightstand and raced out again.

“Looks like she’s going to have to skip breakfast,” I told Dooley.

“And coffee,” he said. “I wonder how she’s going to survive without her daily dose of caffeine.”

“I’m sure she’ll manage,” I said, reluctantly dragging my eyes away from the feathery feast outside my window, where the birds were still tweeting up a storm. Odelia had once made us swear never to kill a bird, and even though it killed us, we’d kept up our bargain so far. It was hard, though. Very hard. But in exchange for curbing our innate savagery she got us some of those delicious cat treats from time to time. What can I say? Life’s a trade-off.

Dooley and I gracefully dropped down to the floor, and languidly made our way to the landing, then descended the stairs. While Odelia rummaged around, grabbing her notes she’d prepared for the interview, her recorder and a couple John Paul George CDs she wanted signed, and dumped it all into her purse, I gobbled up a few tasty morsels of kibble, took a few licks of water, and then waited patiently by the door until Odelia was ready.

I knew it would take her at least three runs to fetch all of her stuff. She was one of those humans who are extremely disorganized. So when she finally yelled, “Ready or not, I’m going!” Dooley and I had been waiting ten minutes. We were eager, actually. Hot to trot, in fact. It’s not every day you meet your idol, and I knew Odelia was as excited as I was to meet JPG in the flesh. She because she’d grown up with his music, and I because I was finally going to find out if the rumors about that pâté were true. No matter who I had to bribe, I was going to sample me some of those delicious goodies.

Dooley and I hopped into Odelia’s old pickup, and made ourselves comfortable on the backseat while she put the car in gear with a dreadful crunching sound that indicated she’d just destroyed what was left of the transmission. Miraculously, the car still lurched away from the curb, and five minutes later, we were cruising down the main drag of our small town.

Hampton Cove was just waking up, and Main Street was still pretty much deserted as we came hurtling through at breakneck speed. As a driver, Odelia is something of a legend in town. She’s probably had more fender benders than all the other residents combined, and the only reason she hasn’t been forced to declare bankruptcy to avoid paying traffic tickets is because her uncle is chief of police and tends to turn a blind eye to his niece’s peccadillos. He has repeatedly told her to be more careful, but she insists the problem doesn’t lie with her. She happens to be a great driver. It’s other road users insisting on getting in her way that create all that trouble for her.

Meanwhile, we’d zoomed through Hampton Cove and were now racing along a stretch of road that took us along the coastline and the fancy mansions that the rich and famous had built for themselves. Dooley and I glanced out at them with relish. We had friends who lived here, and sometimes described the kind of lifestyle they’d grown accustomed to. It was enough to boggle the mind. Not that we’re jealous cats, mind you. Odelia Poole is probably among the nicest and most decent and loving humans a cat can ever hope to adopt, but a monthly spa retreat just for cats? Cat birthday parties where all the other cat owners bring special treats? A walk-in closet just to fit all the costumes and fancy outfits? Like I said, it boggled the mind.

We finally arrived at the villa that was the home of John Paul George, eighties icon, and we were surprised to find that the entrance gate was wide open, a car haphazardly parked right next to it. As we rode past, we saw that inside the car a male figure was sleeping, his head slumped on the steering wheel, and recognized him as Jasper Pruce, JPG’s long-suffering boy toy.

“Someone was naughty last night,” Odelia said, lowering her sunglasses to get a good look at the guy. “JPG made him sleep outside, apparently.”

“Don’t humans usually have to sleep on the couch when they’re bad?” asked Dooley, who looked confused. Human behavior often confuses him.

“Looks like the couch was occupied,” I said, shaking my head.

We rode up to the house, and Odelia parked in the circular drive, right next to a fountain with a statue of JPG as a nude angel, spewing water out of its tush. We all hopped out and sauntered up to the front door. Odelia rang the bell, and we could hear it resonate inside the house. But even after she’d repeated the procedure, nobody showed up to answer, and she frowned.

She tried to peek through the glass brick wall next to the door, but it was impossible to get a good look because of its opaqueness.

She rang the bell again, biting her lower lip. “I hope he didn’t forget about our appointment. It has taken me months to nail down this exclusive.”

“Want us to have a look round the back?” I asked.

“Would you? I don’t dare to go there myself. What if he’s sunbathing in the nude and accuses me of trespassing? I’ll never hear the end of it.”

Dooley and I moved off on a trot and rounded the house. We arrived at the back, where a large verandah offered a glimpse of the inside, but saw no evidence of anyone sunbathing, in the nude or otherwise.

“Oh, look,” said Dooley. “He’s got a pool.”

And indeed he did. We walked over to the pool to take a closer look, and that’s when we saw it: a lifeless figure was floating facedown in the center of the pool, completely in the nude, and judging from the large tattoo of two mating unicorns on his left buttock and a rainbow on the right, this was none other than John Paul George himself. I remembered seeing that tattoo when Odelia was researching the singer last night, and even though it looked slightly saggy now, having been tatted during the pop sensation’s glory days, it was still recognizable.

John Paul George, eighties boy wonder, was either breathing underwater, or he was dead.

Chapter 2

After we told Odelia what was going on, we pussyfooted back to the pool area, this time with Odelia right behind us. But even as we led the way, she told us, “This is a very bad idea, you guys. I shouldn’t be back here.”

It seemed like a weird thing to say for a top reporter, and I told her so.

“I don’t know,” she said. “Strictly speaking this is trespassing. And what’s even worse, if what you’re saying is true and John Paul George is dead and floating in his pool, I might get into a lot of trouble here.”

It was the arrival in town of that new cop, I knew. The old Odelia wouldn’t have thought twice about trespassing, and the fact that a famous celebrity was dead in their pool would only have made her run faster. But Kingsley’s arrival had apparently robbed her of her journalistic instincts.

“Look, the guy invited you,” I said. “So you’re not trespassing.”

“Well, that’s true, I suppose.”

“Besides, officially you don’t know that he’s dead. You didn’t hear it from us. You just wondered why he didn’t answer the door, you got worried, and you thought you’d better check, in case something had happened to him.”

“I like your thinking,” she said, nodding. We’d walked around to the back of the house, and she gasped when she caught sight of the floating body. The last doubts as to whether the guy was snorkeling were removed: for one thing he wasn’t equipped with a snorkel, and for another, no one can hold their breath for that long, and certainly not a fifty-year-old drug-addled pop star.

“Oh, God,” said Odelia as she approached the pool. Then she proved that she was still the ace reporter I knew her to be: instead of a pool hook, she grabbed her smartphone and snapped a few shots of the deceased.

“Do you think he’s dead?” asked Dooley.

“I think that’s a pretty safe assumption,” I said.

“Is it John Paul George?” was his next question.

I pointed at the tattoos on his behind. “See those tats?”

Dooley nodded. “Uh-huh.”

“Only a pop star who’s consumed massive amounts of dope and booze would ever even think of having those particular tattoos inked on his butt.”

“Dope?” asked Dooley. “What is dope?”

“It’s, um, like pâté for humans, only not as good for you.”

“We have to call the police,” said Odelia.

We all stared down at the floating body. The former teenage heartthrob was now twice the size he’d been in his eighties heyday. No wonder he was rarely seen these days, and never granted any interviews. One stipulation he’d given Odelia for her exclusive was no pictures, and I could see why. He probably wanted to preserve the image of his youthful self to his fanbase, not allowing them to see the extended version of himself he’d turned into.

Odelia pressed her phone to her ear, and when the call connected, said, “Dolores? Can you tell my uncle there’s been an accident at John Paul George’s place? And tell him to send an ambulance. Yeah, he’s dead.”

While she gave the dispatcher some instructions, my eye wandered to the pile of glass vials on a table, the dozen or so empty champagne bottles on the pool chairs and the ashtrays full of reefers. That must have been some party.

“Oh, and can you also tell him JPG’s boyfriend is dozing in a car in front of the estate. Maybe he’s got something to do with this tragedy. Thanks, hon.”

She disconnected and crouched down at the edge of the pool. It was obvious that the demise of one of pop music’s greats had strongly affected her, to the extent she’d stopped snapping pictures, probably out of respect.

Just at that moment, a cat came walking out of the house. She was a beautiful Siamese, and said, “What’s all this noise? And who are you people?” Then she caught sight of the man floating in the pool and faltered. “Is that…”

“Afraid it is,” I told her, and watched her approach the pool wearily.

“Is he… dead?”

“Afraid so,” I repeated, studying her closely.

She jerked back when the truth hit her. “Oh, no. Johnny’s dead?”

“Looks like it,” I said. “How long had you known him?”

The segue wasn’t very smooth, I admit, but that’s what you get from living with a reporter: you start acting like one yourself.

She shook her head distractedly. “Long enough to know that this isn’t right.” She plunked down on her haunches, and stared at her dead human.

“Is it true that he fed you guys pâté every day?” asked Dooley.

She looked up sharply. “What kind of a question is that? Who are you?”

“The name is Dooley,” he said, scooting forward, probably to rub his butt against hers. But the look she gave him quickly dissuaded him.

“You’re trespassing, Dooley,” she said simply. “Please leave.”

I shot Dooley a censorious glance and he lifted his shoulders. “What?”

“You can’t ask the cat of a recently deceased human about pâté,” I hissed.

“Why not? Isn’t that what we came here for?”

“Well, you just can’t,” I whispered. Even though I was pretty curious about that pâté, too, of course. But there’s a time for pâté and now wasn’t it.

Just then, two more cats came sauntering out of the house, and then two more, and before we could say hi to the first bunch, we’d been joined by a dozen cats, and they all sat staring at the dead man. Then, as one cat, they all started mewling plaintively, letting their torment be heard across the pool.

Dooley gave me a curious look, but instead of explaining to him that this was what cats did when their owner suddenly passed away, and especially an owner as generous with the pâté as John Paul George apparently was, I decided to join in the ritual. After a moment’s hesitation, so did Dooley, and before long, we were both howling along, our cat choir practice finally coming to good use. Even though JPG hadn’t been our human, we could certainly understand the distress that comes with having to say goodbye to a beloved human, and as we mewled up a storm, Odelia simply sat there.

Soon, our howls mingled with the sounds of a police siren, and before long we were joined by Chief Alec, Chase Kingsley, and other members of the Hampton Cove Police Department. They all walked up to Odelia and for a moment simply stood staring at us cats, as we continued our caterwauling. Then, just as abruptly as we’d started, we broke off, and one by one the cats all drifted back inside. They’d said their goodbyes and the show was over.

Dooley and I decided to follow the others inside and glean what information we could from them. That, and we desperately wanted to take a look at the house, of course, and how the other cats lived.

The house itself was a genuine mansion, with nice hardwood floors and huge portraits of the singer adorning every room. The man had apparently possessed a healthy dose of self-love, for he was staring down at us from every wall in every room we passed through. I quickly trotted after the group of cats as they made their way to what looked like a family room. At least it was where a collection of cream-colored sofas were gathered around an outsized coffee table that held a collection of outsized coffee-table books, all sporting pictures of nude males on the covers and all visibly well-thumbed.

The cats hopped up onto the couches and the coffee table and made themselves comfortable. In one corner of the room stood a white grand piano, and here, too, several cats stretched out and chilled.

I decided to follow the Siamese, who seemed the only one willing to talk, and saw she’d sauntered into what looked like a recording studio off the family room. A lot of studio equipment indicated this was some kind of home studio, with an actual sound studio, recording booth and plenty of instruments placed against the far wall. I also saw enough gold and platinum albums to fill a hall of fame. This was JPG’s personal hall of fame, that was obvious. The Siamese sat next to an acoustic guitar that was placed on the floor, next to a couple of bean bags, a stack of music paper nearby.

“Was this where he composed his music?” I asked.

She nodded, and appeared on the verge of tears.

“He was a great artist,” I told her. “An icon of his generation.”

She looked up sharply. “What do you mean, his generation? He was the musical icon of this century, and the last. The greatest living artist, bar none.”

“Well, there are others,” Dooley argued. “I mean, what about The Beatles? The Stones? Dylan?” He shut up when she gave him a dirty look.

“None of them were as influential and as talented as Johnny,” she said, and it was clear we were dealing with an actual groupie here. A super fan.

“So what happened last night?” I asked, deciding it was perhaps better to grab the bull by the horns, or the Siamese by the ears, as was the case.

She shook her head. “He was partying hard, as usual. He’d just had another fight with Jasper, and he was overcompensating.”

“Jasper?” mouthed Dooley.

“The boyfriend,” I mouthed back. “We saw that. He’s parked out front.”

“That often happen?” asked Dooley.

She nodded. “They’d been fighting a lot lately. Jasper didn’t like that Johnny consumed so much… candy. He said that wasn’t what he’d signed up for. But Johnny said it gave him the boost he needed to create his music.”

“Candy?” asked Dooley.

“Dope,” I told him. “So Johnny still recorded?”

“Oh, yes, he did,” said the Siamese with a smile. “Johnny must have recorded hundreds of songs since I came to live with him. All masterpieces.”

“I’ll bet,” Dooley muttered, earning himself another scowl.

“When was this?” I asked.

She flickered her eyelashes at me. “Is that a roundabout way of asking me how old I am?”

“Um…”

“Johnny took in any stray that wandered into his home,” she continued with a wistful smile. “But he got me from a proper breeder five years ago and I have the pedigree to show for it. Not that it matters.” She sighed. “Johnny was the most generous human a cat could ever hope to come across. He loved all of his children, as he called us, and cared for us deeply.” Once again, it looked as if she was on the verge of tears, and Dooley and I stared at her sheepishly.

I would have gone over and said, ‘There, there,’ but somehow I doubted whether this would go over well with this feisty and proud Siamese.

“Do you think there might have been foul play involved?” I asked instead.

She stared at me with her beautiful blue eyes. “I doubt it. Who would want to harm such a sweet and charming man? Everybody loved Johnny, and not just us cats. He had lots of friends, and partied every single night.”

“What about his boyfriend?” I asked. “You said yourself he was jealous.”

“Impossible. They might have had their differences, but Johnny and Jasper loved each other, in their own way. They had an understanding.”

“Which was?” asked Dooley.

She eyed him angrily. For some reason she didn’t seem to like Dooley. “I don’t expect you to understand, but they gave each other freedom and respect. Jasper knew Johnny was an artist and needed his space, so he happily gave him what he needed. He knew Johnny would never hurt him intentionally, but that he had certain… needs, and so he turned a blind eye.”

“Right,” I muttered, remembering the pile of glass vials and the reefers and the bottles of champagne. I now wondered what had been in those vials.

“How many people were here for the party?” I asked.

She shrugged. “Maybe a dozen. Only one stayed the night, though.”

“And it wasn’t Jasper,” said Dooley.

“Like I said,” she snapped. “They had an understanding.”

“Though last night they also had a fight,” I reminded her.

“Yes, Jasper told Johnny he was fearing for his health. He was using too much and too frequently.”

“Using what?” I asked.

“Some… substance. It came in clear glass vials. It made Johnny happy.”

And now it had made him dead, I thought. “So who was the lucky young man who got to stay behind last night?”

“No idea. I was roaming the beach, and so were most of the others.”

“So who—”

“George told me. George never goes anywhere.”

“And who is this George?”

“He’s Johnny’s first cat. He brought him over from England years ago.”

“George must be pretty old by now.”

She laughed. “Don’t tell him that to his face. George is very vain.”

“Where can we find him?”

“You won’t get anything useful out of him,” she said as she started strumming the guitar with her nails. “George is extremely loyal.”

“We’ll see about that,” I muttered. “Thanks, Miss…”

“Johnny always called me Princess,” she said, and sighed. “I’ll miss him.”

I could very well imagine. If my human died one day, I’d miss her, too. Us cats might have the reputation we’re selfish and we don’t care about humans, but that’s a filthy lie. We do care about our humans. We just don’t care to show it as much as dogs do, with their exaggerated slobbering and posturing.

Dooley and I left the distraught Princess and made our way back to the family room, where the other cats were still looking glum. I wondered what was going to happen to them. I imagined JPG must have made provisions in his will for his beloved felines, and they would all be taken good care of.

“This makes me sad,” said Dooley, gesturing at the sad-looking cats.

“Yeah, it’s not a barrel of laughs,” I agreed.

We both stared up at a life-sized portrait of the pop singer. It depicted him in his prime, with naked torso, looking like a young god. At his feet a large red cat sat perched, staring haughtily at the viewer.

I pointed at the cat. “I’ll bet that’s George.”

“You want to have a chat with George? Or check out that pâté first?”

It was a tough choice. We’d come here for the pâté, obviously, but we also had an obligation to Odelia to find out as much as we could from the feline population about what had happened here last night. Finally, I said, “That pâté isn’t going away, so we better talk to George first.”

“Didn’t you hear Princess? George has been here for years. He’s the one who’s not going away. That pâté might be gone by the time we find it.” He shook his head. “A distressed cat eats, Max. It’s called stress-eating.”

He was right, of course. Still… “Look, this talk with George won’t take long, and I’ll bet there’s plenty of pâté. JPG didn’t stint on anything.”

“Why don’t we split up? I’ll look for the pâté and you look for George.”

“Yeah, right,” I scoffed. “So you can eat all the pâté? I don’t think so.”

“I wouldn’t do that, Max. I’m not a glutton. I’d simply sample the stuff. Just to see if it’s as good as advertised. And if it is, I’ll leave some for you.”

“That’s very generous. You know what? I’ll look for that pâté. You find George.”

“You’re a much better interrogator, Max. Cats open up to you.”

“Why don’t we find that pâté together,” I finally suggested, “before it’s all gone.”

“Now you’re talking. Hey, look,” he said, gesturing at a lone ginger cat that shuffled out of the family room. It was the fattest cat I’d ever seen.

“That must be George,” I said.

“Let’s ask him where the pâté is,” Dooley said happily.

“Good call,” I grunted, a low rumble in my tummy deciding me.

Hey, we’re cats. We’re willing to do whatever it takes to help out our humans. As long as you keep us properly fed and hydrated.

Chapter 3

Odelia got up to meet her uncle and Chase. She’d been seated on one of the pool chairs, thinking deep thoughts about the fleetingness of life.

She gestured at the man floating in the pool. “This is how I found him.”

“And what were you doing here, exactly?” asked Chase, none too friendly as usual. Ever since the burly cop had moved to Hampton Cove, he and Odelia had locked horns over his idea that the citizenry had no place in police investigations, whereas she felt she was simply doing her duty to the Hampton Cove population by reporting on any crime that was committed here. ...