“Pity the Kenspeckles don’t have cats. Otherwise this would be a snap.”
We both stared at Kane, who was staring back at us from a safe distance. He’d lost his fighting spirit after his scrap with Clarice. Or maybe he was trying to come up with a new strategy to take us down.
We walked to the house, and the French Bulldog disappeared from sight. Whatever his strategy was, he wasn’t taking any chances. I saw that the director of the Kenspeckle show was instructing his cameraman about what to shoot next. The two sisters, Shayonne and Shalonda, having shot their scenes, were being fussed over by a makeup person. A stylist pecked at the hem of Shalonda’s skirt, which had silver sequins snaking down the sides.
“Must be nice to have someone fussing over you like that,” said Dooley.
“I doubt it. I for one wouldn’t want anyone telling me what to wear.”
“That’s easy for you to say. You’re a cat. You don’t wear anything.”
“You’re a cat too,” I reminded him. “You don’t wear anything either.”
“Oh. Right.” He looked surprised. “Pity.”
“Pity you don’t get to wear clothes? Why? I’ll bet it’s a big fuss.”
“Not if you’re a Kenspeckle. They have people fussing over the fuss.”
And we were right back where we started. “Why would you even want to wear clothes? Or have someone fussing over you?”
“Why wouldn’t I? Just imagine having your own personal groomer. Someone to take care of your fur twenty-four seven. Or a personal dietician.”
He had a point. It sure would be nice to be pampered and spoiled and treated like a Kenspeckle. Not that Odelia doesn’t take good care of me, but she’s pretty pressed for time most of the time, with that job of hers and all.
Dooley sighed wistfully. “Wouldn’t it be nice to be human for a change?”
That was taking it too far. “No way! I would never want to be human.”
“Why not?”
“Uh-uh. Too much stress. Imagine having to work for a living, so you can pay for a roof over your head and food on your table. What a nightmare. And then there’s the IRS to deal with and the electric company and the insurance people. I think us cats have the best deal. All we do is sleep a lot, rub our human’s legs from time to time, look cute doing it and they pay the rent, the electric bill, the medical bill… All so we can focus on the important stuff.”
“Like sleeping and eating.”
“No. All of that frees up time to think.”
He stared at me. “Think? Think about what?”
“Well, this case for instance. Who killed Shana Kenspeckle.”
“Riiight.” It was obvious I lost him. Dooley is not exactly a big thinker. In fact, apart from eating and sleeping, I don’t think he’s got a lot on his mind. Except Harriet, of course. The cat’s obsessed with Harriet for some reason. No idea why. I would never get that obsessed over a female. It’s degrading.
We watched as the body of Shana was carted off on a stretcher. The coroner had done his bit and stood conferring with Chase. Odelia was keeping an eye on Shayonne and Shalonda who were still being prepped.
“They don’t show a lot of emotion between takes,” Dooley said.
“They probably reserve all of it for when the cameras are rolling.”
“Weird.”
“Totally.”
I caught a glimpse of Brutus and Harriet, sneaking into the house, and I nudged Dooley. “We better get a move on. Or else Brutus will beat us to it.”
He started. “Brutus is going to beat us?”
“Oh, Dooley.”
Chapter 8
“I’m starting to think they’re all guilty.”
“How do you figure?”
“Shayonne told me the murder is the best thing that could have happened to them.”
Chase’s eyebrows rose. “She said that?”
“Yep. The show’s been dropping in the ratings, and the murder will turn that around. Put them right back on top.”
“That’s just cold.”
“Which is why I think they might have set this up together.”
“You mean the whole family is in on this?”
“That’s exactly what I think. They needed to salvage their show so they decided to sacrifice one of them.” Now that she spoke the words out loud, it sounded a bit far-fetched. Still, it was a plausible theory. Fairly plausible.
“That’s just crazy, Poole.”
Or not.
“The Kenspeckles might be a little dysfunctional, but they’re not killers.”
She watched as the cameras started rolling again. On cue, Shayonne and Shalonda broke down in tears, clutching at each other for support.
“A little dysfunctional?” she asked.
“Well, maybe a lot dysfunctional. But that doesn’t make them killers.”
“So what’s next?” She had no idea how to conduct a police investigation. This was the first time she was on the inside, not on the outside looking in.
“I got a message from your uncle just before,” Chase said. “He’s cutting his vacation short and will be back tomorrow.”
“What? He was looking forward to that fishing trip.”
“The mayor is considering calling in the FBI so he needs to be here to convince him otherwise.”
She made a mental eye roll. “The FBI? This is a local investigation.”
“Apparently the Kenspeckles are considered a national treasure.”
She watched as Shayonne and Shalonda stood hamming it up in front of the camera and shook her head. “Some national treasure.”
He grinned. “There’s that sarcasm again.”
“Nope. Like I said, I don’t do sarcasm. Not me.”
“Let’s see if your uncle can persuade the mayor to keep the FBI out of this. First things first: we need to set up interviews with everyone involved.”
“What about the note?”
“What about it?”
“What does it say?”
He slipped his iPhone from his back pocket and showed her a snapshot of the note. “We fed it into Google Translate and it spat out this message.”
She took his phone and read out loud, "You deserve to die, Shana Kenspeckle. You are dog excrement. In fact you're less than dog excrement. You're the fly on dog excrement. In fact you're the excrement from the fly on dog excrement. Or the ameba on the fly's excrement." It went on like this for a while. The final sentence read, "Hellfire will rain down on you and your filthy brood. This is just the beginning." She handed him back his phone. "I guess the killer is not a big Kenspeckle fan."
“The fact that these phrases came out in perfect English means the original message was written in English and then translated with Google Translate. Otherwise only gobbledygook would have come out. Which means—”
“This was a pretty feeble attempt to make it look like a terrorist attack.”
He smiled. “Which tells us the killer isn’t a professional.”
She wondered whether to tell him they were looking for a blood-splattered black robe and mask. But since she couldn’t tell him about the robe without revealing her secret, she decided to keep mum. It didn’t matter anyway, as Clarice hadn’t gotten a look at the killer’s face.
Chase headed for the bedroom and she followed him. She stared down at the bed. The coroner’s people had stripped the sheets for evidence but had left the stained mattress. “The killer was smart,” Chase said. “Abe found traces of chloroform in all the bedrooms. All the Kenspeckles were drugged.”
“What about the film crew?”
“Nope. Not a trace. But since they’re staying at the guest house and aren’t allowed in the main house when shooting wraps that wasn’t necessary.”
“They’re not allowed inside the house?”
“The Kenspeckles have strict rules about it. They cherish their privacy.”
“Except when they don’t. Like when they share every private moment with a worldwide audience.”
He smiled. “Ah, but they only show you what they want you to see.”
She nodded. “So did you check the rooms for prints?” Dumb question. The guy was a bonafide detective. And the killer had probably worn gloves.