Max, Harriet and Dooley followed her. They were uncharacteristically quiet. Max was still recovering from his tree adventure. Harriet was in mourning over the end of her affair with Brutus. And Dooley looked like he was trying to come up with a way to win over Harriet. Now that Brutus was out of the picture he thought he had a shot. Poor, misguided creature.
“I have to run, you guys,” she said after munching down on a piece of toast smothered with butter and jam. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do, all right? Like climb trees and get stuck. I’m looking at you, Max.”
“Can we tag along?” Harriet asked. “I need something to distract me.”
“Sure. You can help me write a killer article about Dion. And about Max’s adventure.” She gave him a wink. “You can give me the inside view.”
“Please don’t,” Max groaned. “I feel like such a sucker for getting stuck.”
“Cheer up. Cats don’t read newspapers so they won’t make fun of you.”
“They don’t read the paper but they look at the pictures. When they see me, clutching Brutus and that fireman, they’ll never let me live it down.”
“Well, it’s news. So I have to write about it. If I don’t, Dan will.”
“Oh, all right,” he grumbled. “I’ll give you my exclusive story.”
She poured the contents of her coffee pot into the stainless steel travel mug her mom had bought her for her birthday and headed out. She opened the door to her old Ford pickup and her feline brood hopped up onto the backseat and made themselves comfortable. She’d put their favorite blanket back there and always had a plastic bowl and a few pouches of cat food lying around in case they got hungry. She flung her purse on the passenger seat, placed her coffee mug on the dash, and peeled away from the curb.
First stop: the police station. Charging Dion was a formality, so it should be over pretty quick. Next stop: the Gazette. Make Dan a happy editor by finally writing the definitive article on the Shana Kenspeckle murder.
She parked in the designated spot in front of the police station and hopped out, the three cats right behind her. While they went in search of the latest tidbit from the gossip mill in town, she waltzed into the station house.
As usual, Dolores was at her desk in the vestibule, ready to welcome the latest complaints from the citizenry, ranging from parking tickets, lost wallets and kids playing ding dong dash. She gave Dolores a finger wave and sailed right on past the display case showcasing Uncle Alec’s fishing trophies. She entered his office at the end of the hall without knocking, and saw that Chase was already seated in front of her uncle. Both men looked pretty despondent.
“Good morning,” she said cheerily, and placed her coffee mug on the Chief’s desk. “Someone die?” she asked when she didn’t get a response.
Her uncle flung a report in her direction and she snatched it up. It was the coroner’s report. She quickly flipped through it, until she reached the section about the murder weapon. There was a lot of text and medical jargon and her eyes glazed over. “Just give me the short version.”
“Dion Dread didn’t do it,” her uncle said.
Her jaw dropped. She looked at Chase but he nodded somberly.
“No way,” she finally managed.
“Way,” her uncle rasped. “Abe studied the wound and said he’d never seen anything like it, except maybe at the butcher shop. He said that whoever killed Shana chopped off her head in a single stroke. Which leads him to believe that the killer most likely works in the meat industry.”
“Or the Mafia,” Chase muttered.
“So? Maybe Dion Dread used to temp at a butcher shop?”
“I checked. He didn’t. What’s worse, Abe is convinced the killer is right-handed.” He eyed her intently. “Dion is a southpaw.”
“Maybe he switched hands? To throw us off the scent?”
Her uncle shook his head. “According to Abe that’s an impossibility. The blow was administered with such precision and skill that there’s no question. The killer was right-handed, and he or she knew what they were doing. Which rules out Mr. Dread. I cut him loose half an hour ago.” He placed his hands on the desk, palms down. “I’m afraid you’re up to bat again, team. Shana Kenspeckle’s killer is still out there. Maybe planning his next kill.”
Chase gave a shake of the head. “Always the optimist, aren’t you, Chief?”
The chief shrugged. “Just facing the facts, buddy.”
Chase cut his eyes to Odelia. “Ready for another day at the Kenspeckles, Poole?”
She nodded automatically. “Well, heck. I really thought we had our guy.”
“Well, we didn’t, so he’s off the hook.”
“Can’t you arrest him for something else?”
Uncle Alec grinned. “Cheating on your wife is not a punishable offense, Odelia. At least not in this country. And neither is being a conceited ass.”
Chase got up. “We’ll interview the film crew. They might know something. Besides.” He gestured to the window. “It’s a beautiful day. Who doesn’t want to spend it with America’s first family?”
She groaned, and Uncle Alec gave her a commiserating look. “Better get moving, honey. Camille Kenspeckle is on her way over here. She’s convinced it’s terrorists that killed her daughter, and she wants the FBI involved.”
She nodded and got to her feet. “We’ll solve this case,” she said, trying to project more confidence than she was feeling right then.
“By the way, how is Max?” Uncle Alec asked. “Not too traumatized after that tree incident this morning?” He had a twinkle in his eye. Her uncle was one of the few people who knew all Poole women could talk to their cats.
“Max is fine,” she said. “A little shaken but fine.”
“Brutus is fine, too, Chief,” said Chase. “Thanks for asking.”
The Chief leaned back in his chair. “Oh, but I know Brutus is fine. That cat is built like a tank. It’s Max I’m worried about. He’s such a snowflake.”
“Ha ha ha,” she said, and followed Chase out of the office.
“You know, Brutus has been purring up a storm all morning,” Chase said as they walked down the hall. “I’ve been doing what you told me to and I’ve never seen him so happy. Who knew cats could be so clingy?”
“Yeah, well, cats are like humans, Chase. They need a lot of affection.”
They reached the front door and he opened it for her, placing his hand on the small of her back. She cocked an eyebrow. “What do you think you’re doing?”
He gave her an innocent look. “What you taught me. Giving affection?”
“I’m not a feline, Chase.”
“You still need affection.”
“Not from you, I don’t.”
He grinned. “Look who’s being catty.”
Chapter 18
The three of us were strolling along Main Street and I have to confess I was feeling out of sorts. This whole tree experience had rattled me. Until this morning Brutus and I had been sworn enemies, but up there, locked away from the world, we’d developed some kind of bond. The same thing happens to people shipwrecked on some desert island. I think it’s called Stockholm syndrome. Though as far as I know Stockholm isn’t an island. Oh, well.
We arrived at Wilbur Vickery’s store, and took a seat on the pavement right outside, where Wilbur keeps his fruit and veg display. The General Store attracts a lot of cats, and Wilbur’s cat Kingman is a real chatty tabby. So it’s a great place to find out what’s going on in town. I have to admit my heart wasn’t in it today, and neither were Dooley’s or Harriet’s for that matter.
We’d just found ourselves a great spot in the shade, when Brutus ambled up. I looked at him. He looked at me. We looked away. This was awkward.
“So, what are you guys doing here?” he asked.
“Just hanging out,” I said. “Collecting some gossip for Odelia’s articles.”
He shook his head. “You know? The weirdest thing happened this morning.”