“No, what?”
“That we might be able to best Max at his own game for once.”
Brutus’s face lit up with a smile of such wattage it probably could be seen from outer space. “Oh, my,” he said softly.
It had been far too long since they’d cracked a case, Max usually being the one who found the killer or solved the mystery, in spite of Harriet and Brutus’s best efforts. But not this time!
And so when finally the trio split up, with the insurance guy and the diamond expert going one way and the author lady going another, Harriet and Brutus decided to follow the money—or at least the diamond—and were soon tailing the author through the park, tails high, and making sure they stayed out of sight, just like real detectives would.
Their mission was suddenly complicated—or simplified—by the fact that they spotted another familiar figure reposing on a bench: Marge Poole!
25
Marge, who’d been relaxing with her new favorite book, suddenly started when a loud “Pshhhht!” sounded in her ear, immediately followed by, “Don’t turn around!”
“It’s us,” a second voice chimed in. “Harriet and Brutus!”
“Oh, hey, you guys,” she said as she placed down the book. “What’s with all the cloak and dagger stuff?”
“Don’t look now, Marge, but to your immediate right there’s that woman—the writer of that book you’re reading.”
So she glanced over ever so discreetly, and saw that Harriet was right: there was Loretta Gray, walking past with a certain briskness in her step, not looking left or right.
“Don’t scream, Marge, but she just took possession of the Pink Lady!” Harriet loud-whispered.
Marge had no intention of screaming—in fact it would have taken a lot more than this message for her to start hollering her head off, but still she couldn’t suppress a quick intake of breath. “The Pink Lady? But I thought Odelia and Chase were supposed to give it to the insurance people?”
“They did, and the insurance people just gave it to this lady.”
“So now we’re following her and trying to find out what’s going on,” Brutus added.
This time Marge did glance back, and saw that both cats were hiding in the bushes behind the bench.“I don’t get it. Why would the insurance people hand the diamond to Loretta Gray?”
“I have absolutely no idea,” said Harriet, “but my spider sense is tingling, which tells me that something is off.”
She smiled.“You have a spider sense?”
“Not really,” said Harriet with a shrug. “But I have feline intuition, which is probably even better.”
“Yeah, I have feline intuition, too,” said Brutus, “and plenty of alarm bells are going off in my head right now.”
“Okay, so maybe I’ll follow along with you guys. Cause I have to tell you that I don’t trust this woman either. When I talked to her yesterday she was acting very strange, and I’ve been reading her book, and she knows a lot of stuff that she couldn’t possibly know.”
“Like what?” asked Harriet as she and Brutus emerged from the bushes and the trio got going, following Loretta from a safe distance.
“Like the fact that Laura Burns, the Sheikh’s ninety-ninth wife, wasn’t well-liked by the Sheikh’s courtiers or by his ninety-eight other wives.”
“But why?” asked Harriet.
“Because she was deemed too western. Also, according to the book Laura was the only one of the Sheikh’s wives he actually was in love with.”
“He wasn’t in love with his other wives?” asked Brutus.
“No, he wasn’t. In Khemed the tradition is that families offer up one of their daughters to the Sheikh, and when he accepts, it brings great honor to the family.”
“So he collected wives like other people collect stamps?”
“More or less. Love doesn’t feature into the thing. It’s purely a business transaction.”
“Odd practice.”
“Odd?” said Harriet, peeved. “Medieval, you mean. In some countries people offer their best sheep or cow to the ruler, and in Khemed they offer women. It’s barbaric, that’s what it is.”
“Well, apparently this is all part of the tradition,” Marge continued. “At least it was until the Sheikh met Laura. According to the book he fell in love at first sight, and the feeling was mutual.”
“So a wedding out of love, huh? That’s better already,” said Harriet. “Though I don’t understand why she would marry a guy who already has ninety-eight other wives.”
“So what happened then?” asked Brutus.
“Well, the wedding was an amazing affair, it lasted ten days, and people came from all over the world to celebrate with the Sheikh and his wife.”
“Wives, plural,” said Harriet.
“And then things turned sour, right?” said Brutus. “The Sheikh locked her up and started treating her bad?”
“No, on the contrary. As the days passed, they grew ever closer together, and there was even talk that the Sheikh would send all of his other wives away, out of respect for Laura, which would have been revolutionary. She became pregnant very quickly, and gave birth to a lovely baby girl with curly golden hair, and it completed the happiness of the newlywed couple.”
“And then what happened?” asked Harriet eagerly.
“Then you came sneaking up on me from behind and told me to spy on the writer of the book,” said Marge with a smile.
“But you have to tell us how it ends!” said Harriet.
“Why don’t you ask that lady we’re following?” Brutus suggested. “I’m sure she’ll be able to tell you all about it—including why she took that diamond and what she’s planning to do with it.”
Loretta Gray had left the park, and was now walking along the sidewalk, Marge and her two cats still in tow, and gave no indication of being aware that she was being followed, which was just as well, as Marge was no professional detective, and she had the feeling that if Loretta just turned around, she would spot her immediately.
But lucky for her, the authoress just kept on walking, and soon was crossing the street. Marge decided to stay on her side of the street, and suddenly said,“I think I know where she’s going.”
“Where?” asked Harriet.
“The Star hotel.”
And lo and behold: the Star came into view, and as Marge had expected, Loretta entered the hotel.
“Do you think we should follow her in?” asked Brutus.
“If you want to, we can take it from here,” Harriet suggested.
“No, two cats will stand out like sore thumbs, no offense.”
“None taken,” said Harriet, though her expression told a different story. No one calls a Persian a sore thumb.
“What I mean is, everybody who sees you walk in can’t help but notice you, Harriet.”
“Oh, of course,” said Harriet, her tail, which had gone half-mast, now rising swiftly again.
“Maybe I better call my brother and tell him what we discovered.” But as Marge reached for her phone, suddenly she had a better idea.
26
Kenneth Cesseki may have lived in Boston once upon a time, but these days he had opted to move a little farther afield and now resided in lovely Thailand.
Odelia probably wouldn’t have minded going all the way to Thailand—she had, after all, fond memories of the time she’d participated as an undercover candidate on Passion Island, the well-known reality show—but thankfully modern technology made that unnecessary, and so we all sat in front of Odelia’s screen in her new home office, and found ourselves looking at Mr. Cesseki in person, dressed in a colorful T-shirt and ball cap, seated outside on what looked like a nice beach. There were even palm fronds waving at us from time to time, as if extending a formal invitation to visit soon.
Mr. Cesseki was a man of indefinite age. He could have been fifty, but he could also have been in his early seventies. He had one of those ruddy faces you get from spending half your life in hot climes with not a lot more in the form of protection against the sun’s rays than a hat and sunglasses. His skin had that leathery look that some crocodiles like to show off with.