Scarlett sniffed, then said, “In the spirit of our newfound camaraderie I won’t dignify that dig at my boobies with a response, Vesta. I could have said that at least I have boobies, contrary to a certain flat-chested person I know, and that at least I look like a woman and not a man, but I won’t.”
Gran, who’d been silently grinding her teeth, looked as if she was ready to launch a verbal bazooka, but just then, and probably lucky for Scarlett, the elevator jerked to a stop, and the door zoomed open.
“We’re here,” said Odelia brightly, and hurried out.
“I think I should probably pose the opening question,” said Harriet as we all walked out. “After all, I was the one who talked to Samantha and found out about this woman.”
She had a point, I thought, but for one teensy tiny problem: I very much doubted whether our mystery blonde was one of those rare people who could talk to cats.
We all gathered in front of the door to room 425, and for a moment indecision reigned. Then, finally, Scarlett muttered, “Oh, for crying out loud,” and applied a firm fist to the door’s panel.
Moments later, there was a loud voice that shouted, “Coming. Just a minute!”
And then the door swung wide and a very perky-looking blond woman appeared. She was younger than I’d expected, with a halo of blond hair framing a lovely face, lit up by a welcoming and engaging smile. In fact she looked so pleasant I immediately discounted her as Kirk’s killer before I caught myself and remembered that sometimes the most horrific killers look just like you and me. Well, not me, perhaps, but probably you.
“Yes?” she said in a surprisingly soft and gentle voice. “Is this about the message of Jesus? Cause I already listened to your colleagues for two hours yesterday and even got a subscription to your magazine, just as they advised.”
“No, we’re not here to talk about Jesus,” said Gran, a little acerbically. “We’re all detectives, and we’re investigating the murder of Kirk Weaver, the cat whisperer. And we were hoping to have a word with you about the guy.”
“Oh, of course,” said the woman, and opened the door wide. “Come on in. And don’t look at the mess,” she added with a giggle.
We all stepped inside, and I wondered how a person as obviously gullible as this woman could have survived in life for so long. She hadn’t even asked for an ID or anything, nor asked the question why two old ladies, one of whom looked like an aged Fanny Hill, the other like Estelle Getty, and a burly stud-type male, along with a fair-haired reporter type, accompanied by no less than four cats, could ever be viewed as representing the long arm of the law.
“My name is Chase Kingsley,” said Chase. “And I’m a detective with the Hampton Cove Police Department.” He produced his badge, which the woman awarded scant attention, and made the necessary introductions. “These are my civilian consultants Odelia Poole, Vesta Muffin and Scarlett Canyon, all helping me investigate the murder of Mr. Weaver.”
“Oh, and you brought your cats along,” said the woman, crouching down to pet me. Immediately, and quite involuntarily, I might add, I started purring. She really was the sweetest soul I’d encountered in a murder investigation in a while.
“Yeah, they’re mine,” said Gran, still adopting the same gruff tone she liked to use when interviewing a suspect.
“And mine,” said Odelia, not wanting to be outdone by her grandmother.
“You are Norma Connors?” asked Chase, clearly taking charge, and rightly so, I thought, as he was the only representative of The Law in this room.
“That’s right,” she said. “Please take a seat.” She giggled again. “Though you’ll have to sit on the bed, I’m afraid.”
The humans all distributed themselves amongst the limited seating options available: Odelia grabbed a chair, and so did Gran, while Scarlett preferred to remove a few items of clothing from the bed and position herself there. Chase opted to remain standing, and was already taking out his notebook, the consummate professional.
“So tell us, Norma, how well did you know Kirk Weaver?”
“Oh, not very well at all,” said Norma as she sat down on the bed next to Scarlett, on whom she seemed to look as a kindred spirit, just as Scarlett had predicted. The women did share a certain resemblance.
“But you did know him.”
“Yes, I did. Well, I knew him from the television, of course, as we all do, and I always admired him. A man who can handle cats as well as he could is a man to be admired, don’t you think, Detective?”
“Yes. Yes, I guess he is,” said Chase, looking a little flustered as Norma directed a dazzling smile at him.
She was dressed in short shorts and a tank top that did little to conceal her curvy features. She also had those cornflower blue eyes that men go all gaga over, with long lashes she kept fluttering each time Chase opened his mouth to speak.
“So can you tell us a little more about your relationship with Mr. Weaver?”
“I wouldn’t exactly call it a relationship,” said Norma. “We went out a couple of times, and one of those times we ended up in here, in this very bed.” She giggled as she patted the nice white linens. “But that was only the one time.”
“And when was this?” asked Chase, his pencil poised over his little notebook.
Norma’s blue eyes searched the ceiling, and her button for a nose wrinkled prettily. “Um, I would say last Thursday?” Then her face cleared. “Wait a second.” And then to my surprise, she suddenly hollered, “Kim! Kim-my! Come out here a second, will ya!”
The door to the bathroom opened and a cloud of steam came out, followed by a dark-haired woman with short brown hair and… a small tattoo of a dolphin on the side of her neck. She was dressed in only a sports bra and a slip and gave us all a dark look. “What’s this? More Jehovah’s Witnesses? How many times do I have to tell you, Norma? You shouldn’t give these people all of your money.”
“But these aren’t Jehovah’s Witnesses, Kimmy.”
“Mormons?” asked Kimmy, studying Gran, who made a face.
“Do I look like a Mormon to you?” said Gran, getting worked up.
“Yeah, actually you do.”
“Well, I’m not.”
“They’re detectives, Kimmy. They’re investigating the murder of that cat whisperer guy we met last week.”
“Kirk? Oh, yeah. I remember him. Creepy-looking creep.”
“Would you call Kirk a creep?”
“Yeah, I would.”
“That’s only because you were jealous, Kimmy,” said Norma brightly. “Now can you tell this nice gentleman over there when Kirk came up to our room? Was it Thursday or Friday? I can’t remember.”
“Thursday,” said Kimmy decidedly. “And who are you?” she asked, directing a frank and critical look at Chase.
“Chase Kingsley. Detective,” said Chase. “And you are…”
“Kimmy Smith. I’m Norma’s wife.”
I could hear the collective gulp echo through the room as all those present put this information into their respective pipes and smoked it.
“You’re Norma’s… wife?” asked Chase.
“Yeah,” said Kimmy, tilting her chin. “Got a problem with that, stud?”
“No, of course not,” said Chase. “It’s just that…”
“Norma just told us that she had… relations with Kirk last week,” Odelia explained. “So how did you feel about that?”
“I didn’t like it, that’s for sure. But when we got married we agreed to have an open relationship, so if Norma wants to bring home some stray from time to time, there’s nothing I can do about it.”
“Oh, Kimmy,” said Norma sweetly, demurely folding her hands in her lap.
“I don’t like it, but I’m not going to stop her either.”
Eyes met all across the room, as detectives Chase, Vesta, Odelia and Scarlett all came to the same conclusion: they’d finally found themselves a most promising suspect.
“So let me get this straight,” said Gran. “You found your wife in bed with another man, and you didn’t object?”