“Not his own feces,” said Harriet. “Duck poop.”
“Another species’ feces. How extraordinary.” The lizard frowned, or at least I thought he did. Tough to read facial expressions on a lizard. “I thought he died in his own excrement.”
“Why would he kill himself?” I asked.
Dooley had approached the glass terrarium, probably looking to get in on the pinky mice action. The lizard eyed him with suspicion.“Brenda said Dickerson was under investigation. Apparently he’d aided the President in his election by engaging in some form of illegal activities and prosecutors were going through his business with a fine-tooth comb. He was looking at dismissal from his own company and possibly prison, hence the suicide theory. Though as you say, the duck poop thing seems to preclude such a possibility.”
“Unless he staged the whole thing to make it look like murder,” said Harriet, who was thinking hard. “All so he could cast the blame on one of his opponents.”
“But who?” I asked. I turned to Humphrey. “Does the picture of a rose mean anything to you? It was left at the scene of the crime.”
Humphrey regarded me sternly.“I don’t like roses. They give me stomach cramps. I will eat fruits and vegetables, provided they’re nicely chopped up, but no flowers thank you very much.” He’d climbed a tree branch that had been placed inside the tank.
I had a feeling we’d gleaned as much information from Humphrey as we could, so I held up my paw in greeting and he did the same, though I had the impression he was merely trying to protect his stash of frozen baby mice from Dooley.
“Dooley, let’s go,” I said. “Thanks, Humphrey. You’ve been most helpful.”
“Glad I could help, cat,” he said.
“Max,” I said, realizing my social faux-pas. “And this is Dooley and that’s Harriet.”
“Lovely,” said Humphrey graciously. “Fare-thee-well—cats.”
And we’d just stepped out of the room when we bumped into an angry-looking female. Judging from the cap she was wearing, and her blue apron, she was part of the cleaning crew. “Cats!” she screamed the moment she saw us. “We’ve got cats!”
And then she was coming at us with a very large broom!
Chapter 32
Brenda Berish—Secretary Berish to her friends—was a motherly woman in her late sixties. She had a round face and a bouffant blond-gray hairdo. As in all the pictures I’d seen of her she dressed in a brightly colored pantsuit, this one a dazzling heliotrope.
The drawing room where she met us was light and airy, a floral motif extending from the upholstery to the wallpaper and even the carpet. Light slanted into the room, lending it a pleasant atmosphere, and the window had been cracked to allow some air in.
“Detective Kingsley—Miss Poole, how can I be of assistance?” asked Brenda, a kind smile playing about her lips.
“As I told your assistant over the phone, we’re looking into the death of Dick Dickerson,” Chase said, flipping open his notebook and taking a firmer grip on his pencil. “Mr. Dickerson was known to be a fan of your political opponent—not so much of you.”
“Which led you to think I might have done him harm,” said Brenda, nodding. “First of all, the night Mr. Dickerson was killed, I was in my study, working until late at night.”
“Can anyone verify that, Secretary Berish?” asked Chase.
“Oh, please, Detective. You don’t really think I drove a tractor up to Dick’s house and poured nine thousand gallons of duck poop into his safe, do you? So what you’re really asking is if I hired a crew of professionals to do that for me. I can assure you I didn’t. There was no love lost between Dickerson and my family but I’m not the kind of person who settles her scores by going around murdering people.” She’d placed her hands in her lap and sat poised and calm. “And to answer your question, my husband can verify that I was right here at the house. And if not him, my pet lizard can. Although I can’t imagine he’ll be willing to testify on my behalf.” She threw her head back and laughed a tinkling laugh.
“What about your husband? Did he have reason to harm Mr. Dickerson?”
“Of course he did. Do you have any idea what that man did to us?” She took out her phone and held it out to them. A few choice covers of theNational Star appeared.‘Brenda’s Cancer Scare.’ ‘Brenda Admitted—Her Fatal Collapse.’ ‘Brenda’s Abortion—Her Secret Love Child.’ ‘Brenda Going To Jail!’ ‘Brenda Confesses: I’m a Crack Addict!’ ‘Brenda Is A Lesbian!’
“That’s quite the collection,” said Odelia. She’d always known journalistic standards at theNational Star were low, but she’d never fully realized how low they really were.
“Dickerson was the President’s hatchet man,” said Brenda, placing the phone on a gateleg table that held a portrait of her, her husband John and their daughter. “So he tried to destroy us. Naturally John wanted to hurt him. But he didn’t. He would never stoop that low.”
“Does the picture of a red rose mean anything to you?” asked Odelia.
Brenda shook her head.“No. Why?”
“It was found inside the safe—in fact it was the only thing found in that safe.”
“Dickerson’s files?”
“Gone. Every last one of them.”
She mused on that.“Dickerson had many enemies. And he kept extensive files in his safe. Everybody knew that. He propagated the idea he was the new Hoover. That he could break anyone with the dirt he collected on them. But this rose business doesn’t ring a bell.”
“Do you know of anyone else who could have done this?” asked Chase.
Brenda laughed.“Do you have a couple of hours? Like I said, he made a lot of enemies over the years.” When they both stared at her, she relented. “You want names? Well, I’ll give you names. There was the President himself, of course. The DA was coming after Dickerson for election fraud and he was preparedto make a deal in exchange for giving up Wilcox. Then there was that Russian mobster he was rumored to be blackmailing.”
“Yasir Bellinowski.”
“That’s the one. And there was the feud with his own daughter, who was suing him after he’d written her out of his will.”
That was a new one, and Chase was furiously scribbling this all down.
“Um. Who else? Oh, Olaf Brettin, owner of theDaily Inquirer and Dickerson’s biggest competitor.”
“Why was he upset with Dickerson?” asked Odelia.
“You’d have to ask him. All I know is that they hated each other’s guts. Probably because they were competing over the same shelf space and audience. Dickerson was winning, obviously. TheDaily Inquirer only has half the circulation of theNational Star.”
Just then, a tall man with white hair walked in. It was Brenda’s husband John Berish. He looked fit and healthy for a man who’d had a heart scare not that long ago.
Chase and Odelia got up to greet him but he gestured not to bother.
“What’s wrong?” asked Brenda when she saw the look on her husband’s face.
“Oh, nothing to worry about, darling,” he said. “Just some trouble with cats.”
“Cats?” asked Brenda.
“Vivicia caught them sneaking into your office. They were probably going for Humphrey.” He held up a hand. “He’s fine. Vivicia got there just in time.”
“How in heaven’s name did they get in?”
“The cook must have left the door open again when he went for a smoke.”
Odelia’s heart sank. She knew exactly who those cats were, and why they’d snuck into the house. “Um, those cats are probably with me,” she said now.
The cool gaze of Brenda raked over her.“What do you mean?”
“They’re my cats. They… like to go exploring from time to time.”
“Yeah, they must have escaped from the car,” Chase said, coming to her aid.
“Oh,” said Brenda, and she didn’t seem very amused. “Well, then. I guess you better come with me and gather them up before Vivicia turns them into meat for my pet lizard.”