“We chat with anyone who’ll talk to us,” I said. “Find out what they know.”
“Fine,” said Harriet, who didn’t seem particularly motivated for this mission.
Nor could I blame her. Now that Brutus had fallen for Milo’s deceit, there was no telling what that cat was up to next. Short of outfitting Brutus with an explosive belt and sending him on a suicide mission to take out all of Milo’s enemies or incite a revolution amongst Hampton Cove’s ant population, I figured we could expect anything from him.
We walked around the drive, which was covered with butter-yellow gravel and looked like the kind of sugar Odelia likes to put on her pancakes, and arrived at the back. No swimming pool here, or even a Jacuzzi. Secretary Berish did have a nice patch of lawn that stretched all the way to the ocean, where two deck chairs were set out and a nice parasol.
A chilly breeze wafted in from the ocean. It was too early in the year to go for a swim. Springtime in the Hamptons might be occasionally sunny, but it’s not exactly warm. Still, it was probably nice to sit and gaze out across the vast expanse of the North Atlantic.
“I don’t see any cats,” said Dooley. “Or dogs. Or ducks. Or even rabbits.”
“Me neither,” I confessed. I did see Brutus and Milo, who’d hopped up on those deck chairs and were now lazing about, probably talking deep philosophy.
“I hate them,” said Harriet, who’d noticed the same. “I hate them both.”
And she stalked off in the direction of the house. Dooley and I followed suit. There wasn’t a lot for us to do out here. At least the patio door was open, a man smoking a cigarette and standing in the doorway holding it open for us. If he was surprised to see three cats slip into the house, he didn’t show it. He had a cook’s hat placed on top of his head, and wore one of those white smocks, so I figured he was probably part of the kitchen staff.
Once inside, we traipsed through the house, in search of pets, but found no sign of them. No cat bowls, or dog bowls, or any bowls for that matter. Could this place be petless?
“Looks like Odelia managed to find the one person who doesn’t keep pets,” I said.
“Bummer,” Dooley agreed, as it also meant there was no food for us to steal.
We’d arrived in a large office, and saw that Harriet was staring intently at a stuffed animal mounted on the wall. It was a stuffed fox, and the sight of the thing gave me the willies. People who stuff animals should probably get stuffed themselves, as I can’t think of a more cruel hobby.
“Yikes,” I said. The three of us were staring up at the fox now, wondering what the poor creature had done to deserve such a terrible fate.
Just then, a voice rang out through the room.“What are you three doing here?”
We turned around as one cat, and saw that the voice belonged to an odd-looking reptilian creature in a glass terrarium, which had been placed on a table near the window.
“What are you?!” Dooley exclaimed, forgetting his sense of propriety. We were guests here, after all. Well, not guests so much as intruders.
“I, sir, am a bearded dragon,” said the creature superciliously.
“You’re very small for a dragon,” said Dooley.
“I’m not a dragon. I’m abearded dragon,” said the lizard.
“And I’m a tiger,” said Dooley, happily prancing up for a closer look.
As he did, the dragon’s beard suddenly extended and the creature hissed.
Dooley shot about two feet into the air, then scooted off with the speed of light and disappeared underneath the desk.
“It’s all right, Dooley,” I said. “He’s inside a cage. He can’t hurt you.”
But Dooley wasn’t taking any chances. He was under that desk and he was staying put.
“We’re here to conduct an official police investigation,” I told the dragon, who by now had stopped hissing and whose beard had morphed back to its normal size. At least now I understood why he called himself a bearded dragon. He actually had an actual beard! “A man was murdered. His name was Dick Dickerson and he was the editor of a tabloid named theNational Star. Apparently he printed a lot of bad things about your human—at least I assume Brenda Berish is your human—and what we’re trying to discover is if she had something to do with Dickerson’s death or if she knows of someone who did.”
It was a long speech and I patiently waited for the bearded dragon to take it all in. I had no idea if this creature was intelligent or not but judging from the way he’d reacted to Dooley I assumed he was.
“This is a waste of time, Max,” said Harriet finally. “Let’s get out of here and see what kinds of lies Milo is filling Brutus’s head with this time.”
And she made for the door.“Dickerson did print some bad stuff about Brenda,” said the lizard suddenly. “And she did hate him with quite a fervor. But she didn’t kill that man.”
“Oh, thanks, lizard,” I said. “How can you be so sure?”
“Please don’t call me ‘lizard,’ cat. I have a name and it is Humphrey.”
“Sure, Humphrey. Whatever you say. So how do you know Brenda didn’t do it?”
“She was in here talking about the murder last night. Her and her husband. They weren’t broken-hearted over it, as you can imagine. But they didn’t celebrate either. Brenda is a very kind woman, and she would never gloat over the death of another human being.”
“What do you eat?” asked Dooley suddenly from his position under the desk.
“Pardon me?” said Humphrey.
“What kind of food do they give you?” asked Dooley. “Usually when Odelia sends us into these places there’s food waiting there for us. But I don’t see anything around here.”
“Dooley—it’s not polite to demand food from your host,” said Harriet.
“Technically Brenda is not our host,” I said. “We snuck in, remember?”
“If you must know, I’m quite partial to worms,” said Humphrey.
“Worms?” asked Dooley, wriggling from under the desk. “What kind of worms?”
“Oh, waxworms, silkworms, butterworms, red worms, earthworms, mealworms, superworms…”
“I didn’t even know there were so many different worms!” Dooley cried, looking horrified. He was clutching his tummy and I just knew he was thinking of Milo’s words again.
“I like crickets, too,” said Humphrey conversationally. “And the occasional leafy greens, of course. I’m not choosy. Oh, and pinky mice. I am a sucker for a juicy pinky mice.”
Now he had Harriet’s attention. “What’s a pinky mouse?” she asked.
“Frozen baby mice. A real delicacy.”
We were waiting for him to offer us some, but that was apparently asking too much. If we wanted mice—pink or otherwise—we’d have to catch them ourselves.
“So… about Dick Dickerson,” I said, returning to the topic under discussion.
“Oh, right. How am I so certain Brenda didn’t do it. Well, she was here, for one thing, working at her desk in this very room, under my watchful eye.”
“You watch your human work?” asked Harriet.
“Why, yes. She seems to enjoy my company. Often she has remarked that I have a soothing effect on her, and why not? I am, after all, very easy on the eyes and pleasant to be around.” For some reason he’d lifted his paw in greeting, so I lifted mine in response.
“So… who do you think might have done Dickerson in?” I asked.
He was lifting his other paw now, so I followed suit. Weird.
“Mr. Dickerson seemed to have a lot of enemies,” said the reptile. “Brenda often fumed about some of the stuff he wrote about her. He did the same to others, as well. One of his frequent targets was a man who liked to portray the President to humorous effect on television. Brenda also expressed the opinion that the man might have killed himself.”
“Suicide?” said Harriet. “That doesn’t seem likely, considering the way he died.”
“Yes, he drowned in his own feces, did he not?”