“I’m not a cop, Dan,” she said. “I’m not allowed to arrest anyone, I’m afraid.”
“I didn’t kill Dickerson, if that’s what you think, Miss Poole,” said Brettin. “There was no love lost between us but what we had was a professional enmity, not a personal one. Besides, it’s not as if losing an editor is going to cost the National Star its readership. A new editor will come in and take over. The Gantrys won’t kill the goose that lays the golden eggs.”
“Have they asked you to be the new editor by any chance?” asked Odelia.
“Oh, she’s smart,” Dan said cheekily. “Watch what you say now, Brettin.”
“You trained her well,” said Brettin indulgently. “No, Miss Poole. They haven’t asked me. And even if they did, I would turn them down. I like my position at the Daily Inquirer. That tabloid is my life and I wouldn’t trade running it for anything in the world.”
Odelia started to leave. She had her own articles to write. And she was sure Chase or one of her uncle’s officers would interview Brettin soon enough anyway, asking him about his alibi and stuff like that. But then she thought of something. “Does the picture of a rose mean anything to you, Mr. Brettin?”
“A rose?”
“There was a picture of a rose left in Dickerson’s safe. Left there as a message, I presume.”
He shook his head slowly. “I’m sorry. That doesn’t ring a bell, Miss Poole.”
She gave him a smile. “Thanks. Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Brettin.”
“The pleasure is all mine,” the tabloid editor said graciously.
Chapter 35
“Brutus was awfully quiet, Max,” said Dooley.
I’d noticed the same thing, and it worried me. “Milo must have been filling his head with nonsense again,” I said.
“What kind of nonsense?”
“Nonsense about me, probably. And maybe Harriet.”
“What about me? What nonsense would Milo say about me?”
I had a feeling Milo’s arrows weren’t exactly aimed at Dooley, but I decided not to mention this. “I don’t know, buddy. But it won’t be good.”
We were walking along Main Street, hoping to meet someone who knew something about this Dickerson business. We arrived at the barber shop, but no cats were in sight. The door was slightly ajar, though, so we snuck in anyway. You’d be amazed how much you can learn at the barber’s. People waiting for their turn tend to gossip about the people having their hair cut, and the people having their hair cut tend to gossip about the people waiting for their turn. It’s one big gossip machine, and from time to time some of that gossip is interesting enough to make it into print—in Odelia’s numerous articles for the Gazette.
Today was a slow day, though. Only three people were waiting, with two seated in chairs and being worked on by the barber—a handsome man in his fifties named Fido Siniawski—and his assistant. In spite of his age, Fido still sported a full head of shiny black hair, and a wrinkle-free face. People said he’d had work done both on his face and his hair—implants, if the rumors were to be believed—but he looked pretty natural to me.
All cats like Fido. The barber is the proud owner of a Maine Coon named Buster, and any human who loves cats is a human after our own heart.
“Did you hear about Dick Dickerson?” asked one of the two women in the chair. Fido was dabbing at her hair with a brush, presumably applying some sort of dye or gel.
“Oh, such a horrible way to go,” said Fido, his voice dripping with relish. “Duck poop. Really. Can you imagine?”
“Horrible,” the woman agreed.
I recognized her as Aissa Spring, who runs No Spring Chicks, the vegan restaurant.
“Have they caught the killer yet?” asked Fido.
“No idea. That Odelia Poole has been trucking around with that cop Chase Kingsley again. They seem to be onto something. Marisa saw them drive by the store this morning in Detective Kingsley’s pickup.”
“That Detective Kingsley,” said Fido unctuously. “Now that’s one drop-dead gorgeous man.”
“I wouldn’t know,” said Aissa, who is a lesbian. “I don’t play for that team, Fido.”
“But I do, Aissa!” said Fido, much to Aissa’s hilarity. “And he’s simply scrumptious!”
“What is scrumptious, Max?” asked Dooley.
“Um…”
“It means he’s one handsome devil,” said Buster, who’d snuck up on us and was studying us intently. “What are you two doing in here? Soaking up more of that gossip, are you? Whispering it into your Odelia’s ear so she can fill her newspaper with a lot of nonsense.” He shook his head. “You’re all the same, you tabloid cats.”
“Um, we’re not tabloid cats, Buster,” I said. “Whatever gave you that idea?”
“I’ll bet you’re here to collect gossip on me, too, aren’t you? Write about me in that lousy little paper of yours? Well, let me tell you something, Maxi Pad. Maybe you should stop gossiping about others and start putting your own house in order first.”
I had absolutely no idea what had gotten into Buster. “I don’t understand,” I said therefore.
“Sure you do. He told me all about you,” said Buster.
“Who did?”
“Some white cat came in here yesterday. Telling me all the stuff you told him about me.” He was balling his paws into fists now, and I had a feeling whatever Milo had told Buster wasn’t good.
“What did I supposedly tell him about you?” I asked resignedly.
Buster frowned. “That I should be in the Guinness Book of Records as the Ugliest Cat Alive. That I’m so ugly mirrors crack when I look in them. That I’m so ugly I make onions cry. That I’m so ugly I give Freddy Krueger nightmares. I don’t get that last one, though. I’m pretty sure I don’t know any cat named Freddy Krueger. So why is he having nightmares about me?”
“Oh, Buster,” I said. “Don’t listen to Milo.”
“It’s not him that said all those nasty things about me—it’s you!”
“No, it’s not,” I said. “Milo is a liar—he likes to spread these nasty rumors and pit cats against other cats. It’s what he does. He seems to draw some kind of perverse pleasure from creating trouble for others.”
“He told me I have worms,” said Dooley mournfully.
“You mean you don’t think I’m stupid?” asked Buster, surprised.
“Of course not! I would never think that, Buster.” And even if I did, I wouldn’t be stupid enough to tell anyone, I thought. “It’s all lies.”
“I can’t believe he would say something like that.”
“He told me I should scoot my tush across the floor—squish the worms.”
Buster blinked. “I’m sorry, Max. I didn’t know.”
“He barged into cat choir last night, too,” I said, remembering the veto Milo had exercised against me and Dooley. “Made a lot of trouble for us there as well.”
“Did you know that worms don’t like Cat Snax?” Dooley asked. “It’s true. They hate it. So if you ever have worms, Buster,” he said earnestly, “eat a lot of Cat Snax. And scoot.” I gave him a critical look and he had the decency to look embarrassed. “I’m sorry. I forgot. Scooting is not really a thing. And neither is eating Cat Snax to get rid of worms.” He kicked at a small pile of hair that Fido had swept into the corner. “Damn that cat is convincing!”
“He is,” said Buster. “I believed every word he said. He’d make a great politician.”
“Or a great lawyer,” I added.
“Or a Cat Snax salesperson,” Dooley said.
A harrowing thought suddenly occurred to me. “Do you think Milo’s been talking to other cats, too?” I asked Buster.
“Sure. Up and down the block. He’s real chatty.” Then his expression darkened. “Did you know that Kingman tells everyone who wants to listen that my mother was a bald cat? My mother wasn’t bald. She had beautiful fur, just like me. Big, beautiful fur. Orange, too. Lovely color. Now who would say such a horrible thing?” I gave Buster a keen look. He stared at me for a moment, then understanding dawned. “Kingman never said anything about my mother, did he?”