Dooley turned to me. “Max! Did you poop on the floor?”
“Of course I didn’t poop on the floor! He’s talking about Diego.”
“Diego pooped on the floor?!”
“Oh, Dooley,” I said. “Try to pay attention.”
“Diego could poop on the floor,” Brutus explained, “and then tell Odelia Max did it.”
The pure deviousness of the scheme seemed to shock Dooley, for he audibly gasped.
“And when she’s finally had enough, she’ll get rid of Max,” Brutus continued.
“Get rid of me!”
Brutus nodded somberly. “The animal shelter, Max. Where all cats go to die.”
“Noooo!”
“Oh, yes. Mark my words. Before you know it, you’ll be locked up in a cage the size of a shoebox, waiting to be gassed or whatever it is that they do at these establishments.”
I sank back on my haunches, the terrible fate that awaited me suddenly looming large and ominous. “I don’t want to go to the shelter, you guys. I don’t want to be gassed!”
“You might get an injection,” Brutus said. “I’ve heard some even offer electrocution.”
His words provided no comfort. I’d suffered injections from Vena Aleman, Odelia’s go-to veterinarian. And I’d seen The Green Mile. No electrocution for me, thank you very much.
“We have to stop him,” I said, a tremor in my voice. “We have to do something.”
“Before Diego poops on the floor,” Dooley added, his mind stuck on that image.
“Then let’s get rid of this pest,” said Brutus, pointing a resolute claw at Diego.
“But how? We tried to get rid of him before, remember? He’s hard to dislodge.”
“There’s only one cat in this town who’s ever managed to get rid of Diego,” said Brutus, “and that’s Clarice. We have to find her and convince her to repeat the procedure.”
“I remember,” I said, cheering up a little. Clarice is a feral cat, Hampton Cove’s very own dumpster-diving feline superhero, swatting away lesser cats with a flick of her paw and putting the fear of God into everyone she meets. Even though I’m scared stiff of her—and so are Dooley and Brutus—she’s helped us out on more than one occasion, and even received a standing invitation from Odelia to raid her supply of cat food any time she wants. Not that she ever shows her whiskers around here. She prefers to traipse through the woods that surround our small hamlet, roaming around unfettered like the maverick cat that she is.
“Brutus is right, Max,” said Dooley. “Clarice is our only hope.”
“I don’t know,” I said. “Last time she drove him away he quickly returned. What’s to make him stay away now? And who’s to say Clarice will want to do our dirty work for us?”
“Max is right, Brutus,” said Dooley. “Clarice takes orders from no one.”
“We’re not going to order her around,” said Brutus. “We’ll ask her nicely. In exchange for a lifetime supply of Cat Snax I’m sure even she can be persuaded to do the right thing.”
“Brutus is right, Max,” said Dooley. “No one says no to a lifetime supply of Cat Snax.”
“Clarice is going to need more than Cat Snax. You guys, we’re talking about a cat who feeds on mice and rats and who knows what else. This is a raw foodie—not a pampered pet.”
“Max is right—”
“Oh, shut up, Dooley,” Brutus growled. “So we’ll offer her raw meat—I don’t care. If I have to I’ll catch her some nasty, hairy rats myself. Anything to get rid of that horrible pest.” He turned a vicious eye on Diego, who was now exchanging tender smooches with Harriet, and lowered his voice to a menacing snarl. “That cat’s got to go, before I commit felinicide.”
Chapter 4
Odelia parked her dinged-up pickup around the corner from the radio station and got out. Hiking her purse higher up her shoulder and smoothing her purple blouse and jeans skirt, she set foot for the place where the terrible events had unfolded. Chase Kingsley’s pickup stood parked haphazardly across the curb, and so did her uncle Alec’s cruiser. And as she drew closer to the W-AWOL5 radio station, she saw that a small mass of onlookers stood rubbernecking while Hampton Cove’s finest were going about their business of finding clues.
There wasn’t all that much to see, actually, as the Dieber himself and his crew were long gone—no doubt ducking into a limo and racing from the scene with screaming tires the moment the shots rang out—but young girls with Dieber T-shirts and Dieber banners still stood lining the sidewalk, just the way they’d done when their idol was exiting the station.
W-AWOL5 was housed on the first floor of a nondescript building, a temp agency occupying the ground floor. And as Odelia approached she saw that police officers working for Uncle Alec were busy talking to the hordes of Dieber fans and other witnesses, no doubt extracting statements from each and every one of them.
And that’s when she caught sight of her uncle himself, standing out because of his sizable bulk—her uncle was easily thrice as big as she was—and his snazzy Chief of Police uniform. He stood scratching his ruddy face and russet sideburns, looking decidedly puzzled.
“Hey, Uncle Alec,” she said as she joined him on the curb.
“Odelia, honey,” he said by way of greeting, then slapped a hand to his brow. “I should have called you. Totally forgot.” He shook his head. “It’s been a real shit storm.”
“I can only imagine. Is this where it happened?” She was pointing at a spot on the pavement, which was marked with a chalk outline of a body.
“Yeah. That’s where he dropped dead. Name of Ray Cooper. Only been a bodyguard for a year or so. Played pro ball before—Green Bay Packers. After he retired from the game he decided to go into the personal protection racket, and ended up on Dieber’s security detail. Can you imagine taking a bullet for that annoying little twerp? Talk about bad luck.”
Odelia grinned. “Not a big fan, are you, Uncle Alec?”
“Nope. Can’t stand the kid. I mean, if you’re going to take a bullet, do it for the President, or a talented dude like Bruce Springsteen or Garth Brooks. Not some obnoxious tattoo junkie who can’t sing for crap and has the mentality of a spoiled brat.”
“Talking about the Dieber, I presume?” asked Chase, walking up.
Odelia smiled up at the tall cop—who also happened to be her boyfriend. “Hey, Chase. So are you a Bedieber?”
“I’m with Alec on this one,” the lanky detective intimated, his blue eyes flashing with good humor and his lips curling into a slight grin. “If you’re going to take a bullet for someone, better have that someone be more of a mensch and less of a pain in the neck.”
“Well, I’m a fan,” she said. “I think he’s got a great voice, and I love all of his songs.”
Both men groaned. “I guess there’s no accounting for taste,” said Alec.
It was obvious they were going to have to agree to disagree on this one.
“So what happened, exactly?” she asked, deciding to change the subject.
“Well, Dieber and his entourage left the radio station,” said Uncle Alec, gesturing at the entrance that was located right next to the temp agency. “Hundreds of fans waiting when he walked out—his team had anticipated the warm reception so they had bodyguards in a diamond formation escorting the star to a waiting limo while others assisted some of our guys with crowd control, keeping the fans behind the barriers the town council had us erect. And that’s when someone decided to take a shot at Dieber but hit Ray Cooper instead.”
“Did they miss? Or did Cooper throw himself in front of the shot?”
“That’s what we’re trying to determine,” said Chase, his smile vanishing. “So far Dieber’s people haven’t exactly been obliging. In fact I’m going over there later. Try to get them to cooperate. Wanna join me?”