“Could this be related to the article Donna wrote about your wiener?” asked Chase.
“It’s got everything to do with that article,” Dexter confessed. “If she hadn’t written that article my life wouldn’t have turned into a vaudeville act. Now everyone is making fun of my wiener. I haven’t even had a girlfriend in months, all because of that damn article.”
“So you did hate Donna Bruce, and you did want to kill her,” said Chase.
The man threw up his arms. “How would you feel when someone shared the size of your wiener with the world, dude?”
“I’d feel comfortable enough in my own skin not to let it bother me,” said Chase.
“Bullshit. No man likes to have his wiener become the butt of a joke. I suffered, all right? And that’s just what she wanted. My wiener isn’t tiny. At least not as tiny as she made it out to be. My wiener is just fine. In fact my wiener is nothing short of majestic and I can prove it.” He got up and started removing his pants, which was a little hard to do with the handcuffs restricting his movements. Chase pushed him down in his seat again.
“Sit down, buddy,” the burly cop said. “I’m not interested in the size of your junk. All I want is for you to tell me where you got those bees and how you got them into Donna’s house.”
The man’s eyes widened. “Bees? What are you talking about?”
“You stole those bees and then you transported them to Donna’s house. How did you know how to handle them?”
“But I don’t know anything about bees.” Then understanding seemed to dawn on him. “Oh, you think I killed Donna? With bees? Are you nuts?”
“No, but I think you are if you’re going to claim you’re innocent. You practically confessed to murdering your ex-girlfriend. Now all we need to establish is how you did it.”
“But I didn’t kill her!”
“You just told us you did!”
“No, I didn’t! I just said I’m happy she’s dead. I would never hurt anyone—least of all Donna. She might have written all that stuff about my wiener but I genuinely liked her. We had a great time together.” He squinched his eyes closed. “Look, dude. I say a lot of dumb shit, but that doesn’t mean I mean any of it.”
“Then tell me where you were at seven this morning, when Donna was murdered.”
“At Pier’s Pont, of course, where you guys picked me up.”
“You expect me to believe you hang around at bars at such an early hour?”
“No, I expect you to believe I hang around at bars at such a late hour. I’d been there all night. Just ask Johnny, the bartender. He knows my face. I’m a regular.”
“Johnny Dusky,” Chase muttered, checking his notes. “That would be the guy who called in the altercation.”
“Yeah, I think he got annoyed when I started rearranging the furniture,” Dexter said with a grin.
Dooley gave me a nudge. “Looks like the guy didn’t do it, Max.”
“Looks like you’re right,” I agreed. “Another dead end, huh?”
“We seem to be running into a lot of dead ends lately, Max. Do you think we’re losing our touch?”
“It’s this diet. It’s making me feel weak. I can’t think straight when I’m hungry, and I’m hungry all the time.”
“You just had a giant meatball!”
“Just the one, though. I could eat ten giant meatballs and still feel hungry.”
Just then, two more cats joined us. They were Harriet and Brutus.
“You guys!” Harriet yelled, gracefully jumping up on the desk. “I know who killed Donna!”
“You do?” I asked.
“She does,” said Brutus proudly, also joining us. “We figured it out together, didn’t we, sugar pie?”
“We sure did, scrunchy munch.”
“So?” asked Dooley. “Who did it?”
“Maureen Cranberry!”
Dooley and I exchanged a puzzled glance. “Who’s Maureen Cranberry?” I asked.
“She’s a woman who filed charges against Donna Bruce for burning her… you know.”
Curiouser and curiouser. “No, I don’t. Burning her what?”
She leaned in, and faux-whispered, “Her business!”
“What business?” asked Dooley.
Harriet heaved an exaggerated sigh. “She bought one of those vajayjay steamers and accidentally burned her vajayjay.”
“What’s a vajayjay?” asked Dooley.
“A woman’s business!”
Dooley turned to me. “I don’t get it, Max.”
I had to admit I didn’t get it either. Harriet was now definitely speaking in riddles. Just then, Odelia and Chase walked out of the interview room, while Dexter was led out by a uniformed officer, probably to cool off in one of the cells. “Hey, Harriet—Brutus,” said Odelia. “What’s up?”
“We found the killer!” Harriet cried.
“Yeah, it’s a woman who burned her business on a vajayjay steamer,” I said. “Whatever that is.”
“Maureen Cranberry,” Harriet clarified. “I found her name after a long and very thorough Internet search. She ordered one of Donna’s vajayjay steamers and ended up burning her business so she sued Donna for damages and extreme emotional suffering and trauma. She lost, though, but I’m sure she’s still very sore.”
Odelia smiled. “I’ll bet she is.”
Chase frowned. “Who are you talking to?”
“She’s talking to herself again,” Uncle Alec said. “I told you. It’s a weird habit she just doesn’t seem to be able to shake. Isn’t that right, honey?”
“We need to talk to Maureen Cranberry,” Odelia said in response. “She might be our killer.”
Chase’s frown deepened. “Where did that come from, all of a sudden?”
Odelia gave him her best smile. “Just a hunch. Women’s intuition. Are you coming?”
“Hey, what about me?” asked Harriet. “I found Maureen!”
“Well, come on, then,” Odelia said. “What are you waiting for?”
Four cats tripped after Odelia, drawing puzzled glances from Chase. Then Dooley asked, “What’s a vajayjay?”
Chapter 19
“So what’s with this habit of talking to yourself?” Chase asked. “A habit, I can’t help but notice, which seems to grow worse when your cats are around. A lot worse, actually.”
Chase was driving his police pickup, Odelia riding shotgun, her assortment of cats in the bed of the truck. Odelia had wanted to put the cats in the backseat, a place usually reserved for arrestees, but Chase had vocally demurred. Claimed he’d just cleaned up the vomit from the last drunk and disorderly he’d arrested and didn’t want to have to scrape a bunch of hairballs from the backseat now that he got it all nice and puke-free again.
Odelia shrugged. “It’s just a bad habit, Chase. Get over it.”
“No, but why does it grow worse when your cats are around? It’s almost as if you’re talking to them, and they’re talking back to you.”
She let rip a careless laugh. “Talking to my cats—you should hear yourself, Detective Kingsley. How crazy that sounds.”
He smiled. “I know it sounds crazy, but please bear with me. Isn’t it possible that those amazing powers of intuition you always claim to possess—”
“I don’t claim to possess amazing powers of intuition. I have amazing powers of intuition.”
“Okay, I’ll grant you that. But isn’t it possible that those amazing powers of intuition are somehow connected to that ragtag collection of felines you surround yourself with?” He held up his hand. “I know this sounds crazy, but I’ve given it a lot of thought.”
“Have you now? That must have been quite the effort.”
He gave her a comical look. “It’s been scientifically proven that humans and their pets share a sacred bond of some kind. That they somehow influence each other. All I’m saying is that it’s possible that having those cats around has a positive influence on your ability to sniff out clues and find out stuff.”
“It’s possible,” she agreed. Little did he know how possible it really was!