“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?”