“Three.”
“Years?”
“Months.”
“Huh.”
“Yeah. I still have to get my growth spurt. Which I trust will kick in any day now.”
“So are you—”
“A potbellied pig, yeah,” he nodded. “Humans love us for our lovable yet surprisingly mature personalities and our positive outlook on life. How about you guys?”
“I’m four,” said Dooley. “Years, not months.”
“Me, too,” I said.
“Humans love us for the cuddles,” said Dooley. “Though they come back for the conversation.”
The pig gave Dooley a dubious look, then said,“I’m Kevin Bacon, by the way, and this is Miss Piggy.”
We looked up to see a second piglet, even pinker than the first one, waddle across the bed in our direction.
“Hey, you guys,” said Miss Piggy. “Great to see you. I’ve never actually seen a cat up close before. Heard a lot about you, of course, but this is definitely a first for me. You don’t bite, do you? Ha ha. Just kidding. I know you don’t. Make yourselves comfortable and welcome to our humble abode.”
Dooley and I stared at the newcomer. I’d never met a motormouth pig before, and it was fascinating to see how long she could continue talking without coming up for oxygen.
“So… we’re actually here to talk about Chris Ackerman,” I said, deciding to get down to business before Miss Piggy burst into speech again. Odelia and Gran were only going to be in here for so long, so we had a pretty strict deadline to adhere to.
“Who?” asked Kevin Bacon.
“Oh, you know, Kevin Bacon,” said Miss Piggy. “He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named.”
“Oh, him,” said Kevin Bacon, then shook his head. “We’re not supposed to mention him. Or discuss him. Angelique gave us strict instructions, remember?”
“Angelique?” I said.
“Our human,” Miss Piggy explained. “He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named was her husband. Until he ran off with another woman. Now he’s dead to us.”
“He’s actually really dead,” said Kevin Bacon.
“He is,” Miss Piggy confirmed. “Angelique told us this morning.”
“Did Angelique also mention to you who killed Mr. Ackerman?” I asked.
“Karma,” said Kevin Bacon.
“Who’s Karma?” asked Dooley.
“Not who, what,” I said. “Did she really say that?”
“Karma in action,” Miss Piggy confirmed. “Said he got what he deserved. Well, she used slightly stronger language than that, but that’s the gist of it. Angelique wasn’t very fond of her husband. She used to be, but since he started boning a skirt half his age she wasn’t. At least that’s what she told us.” She laughed. “I honestly have no idea what half the stuff she tells us means but there you have it in a nutshell. So why do you want to know about He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named? Are you police cats or something? I’ve heard of police dogs but I’ve never heard of police cats. Though it stands to reason they would exist. Cats are pretty savvy, after all. Not that I would know. Like I said I’ve never met a cat before. Not in the flesh, I mean. But you look pretty savvy to me. At least one of you does.”
She gave Dooley a hesitant look, as if fully expecting him to be upset, but Dooley was merely looking slightly dazed. Like me, he’d never met a talkative pig before either.
“We, um, we’re actually working with our human,” I said, after I’d remembered there was a question hidden amid the word diarrhea. “She’s a police consultant and a reporter and she’s trying to figure out who killed Chris Ack—He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named.”
Kevin Bacon and Miss Piggy shared a quick look of concern.“Oh, dear. This is going to bring Angelique to tears,” said Miss Piggy. “She still has feelings for her ex-husband.”
“I’m sure she doesn’t,” grunted Kevin Bacon.
“And I’m sure she does. She’s been crying herself to sleep for weeks, Kevin Bacon, or haven’t you heard?”
Her porcine helpmeet muttered something incomprehensible, then waddled off to the edge of the bed and jumped off onto the fluffy carpet below.
“He’s very sensitive about our human’s predicament,” Miss Piggy whispered. “Ever since He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named walked out on Angelique, Kevin Bacon has been suffering from heart palpitations. Sympathy symptoms, the vet says.” She shook her head. “It’s been a terrible, trying time. Hopefully the man’s death will bring a measure of closure.” She then plastered a cheerful expression onto her face. “So. Cats, huh? Tell me about those nine lives. What’s your secret? Can you teach me? I mean, who doesn’t want nine lives, right? Seriously, though. Tell me. I need to know.”
“Um…” I said.
“Max, Dooley!” Odelia yelled from the other room.
“Sorry, Miss Piggy,” I said, hopping down from the bed. “Time to go!”
“Hey!” she said. “You haven’t told me your secret!”
“It’s very simple,” said Dooley. “A balanced diet, plenty of sleep, and try to stay out of trouble.”
“That’s your big secret? There’s something you’re not telling me, cat! Come back here!”
But we were already on our way out. We hadn’t learned a thing in there, apart from the fact that pigs could be real chatty and that Angelique Ackerman had loved her husband.
I sure hoped that the next interview would land us a few more revelations. Then again, the true detective takes the bad with the good and knows that not every clue will lead to the killer. There will always be a few red herrings buried in there. Or pink piglets.
Chapter 23
It was a nice concatenation of circumstances that Rockwell Burke was staying at the same hotel as Chris Ackerman’s widow. It meant that Odelia and her entourage—consisting of her aged grandmother and two cats—didn’t have to travel all the way out to Hampton Cove’s billionaire lane, where all the rich people lived. Instead, they went one floor up to arrive at the boutique hotel’s penthouse suite and knocked on the door.
Rockwell Burke himself opened the door, barefoot and dressed in tattered jeans and an equally tattered T-shirt that proclaimed he lovedThe Walking Dead. Not surprising as he was, after all, a famed horror novelist.
For a moment, Odelia was speechless. She was in the presence of greatness, not to mention one of her childhood heroes, as she’d practically grown up with the man’s books. Lucky for her Gran had never suffered from being tongue-tied or diffident.
“Rockwell Burke?” she announced. “We’re here to interrogate you about the murder of Chris Ackerman, the man you once called a hack writer and a fraud and who was found dead with a fountain pen up his jugular at a reading you were scheduled to officiate.”
Rockwell rocked back on his heels, visibly shaken.“Who are you people? The cops?”
“Close enough,” said Gran, and pushed her way into the room, past the horrormeister. Odelia, mortified, stood grinning up at the famous author, still speechless.
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“So who are theseWalking Dead, Max?” asked Dooley when Odelia and Rockwell had finally moved inside and the writer had closed the hotel door, after watching me and Dooley stalk past him. The writer had the stunned look on his face of one who’s come into contact with Gran. She would definitely make a great ‘bad cop’ if she ever chose to sign up.
“They’re zombies,” I said, checking around and observing that this room, even though it was called a penthouse suite, wasn’t all that different from Angelique Ackerman’s. The only difference was that it was bigger, and had a wraparound balcony that offered a nice view of Hampton Cove’s main street down below.
“Zombies? You mean dead people who aren’t really dead and like to snack on human brains?”
“Yup.”
“But why would any human love zombies? Aren’t they extremely dangerous?”
“I guess horror writers prefer undead humans over live ones. Undead humans don’t leave bad reviews, after all.”
“But they kill live humans!”