“So far he’s used up two pots of mayonnaise,” said Brutus. “And I think he’s ready for a third.”
“But… why?” asked Marge, and for a moment that ancient fear crossed her mind: that her husband had gone stark-raving mad!
“Well, you’ll remember I asked you about my hair loss this morning?”
“Uh-huh.”
“And your mom was so kind to offer me some advice?”
“Oh, no.”
“She told me how Dick Bernstein and Rock Horowitz, her good friends from the senior center, both still have full heads of hair, in spite of the fact that they’re both a good deal older than she is. So I went over there this afternoon, to ask them what their secret is.”
“And what did they say?”
“Well, I only talked to Dick, but he assured me that this is the big secret.” He held up the empty jar of mayonnaise. “Mayonnaise contains all the nutrients your healthy scalp needs. And you don’t even have to go to the pharmacy to pick it up—you can find it in any supermarket! Both Dick and Rock have been applying this remarkable miracle cure for years. Oh, and Dick says mayonnaise has plenty of other advantages, too. When ingested, it invigorates. Mayonnaise has it all—the original wonder potion.” He licked his lips. “It even tastes good.” He gave his wife a cheerful smile, somewhat hampered by the fact that his face was covered in the sticky dressing. “You should have seen Dick’s hair, Marge. Thick and shiny and luxuriant. Not a bald spot in sight! I think it’s the eggs,” he now said as he scooped another large helping from the jar and splotched it on his head.
“Okay,” said Marge. She felt compelled to sit—her legs had gone a little wobbly—as if the world had suddenly turned into a carnival ride that shifts and shimmies underfoot and is designed to make you lose your balance.
“Dick literally said to me: have you ever seen a bald chicken? And you know, I’ve thought about this, and I can’t say that I have. Have you ever seen a bald chicken, Marge?”
“No, honey,” she said. “I’ve never seen a bald chicken.”
“Well, then. That proves it.” And he started massaging the mayonnaise into his scalp with vigorous movements.
“Has he finally gone mad, Marge?” asked Harriet.
“I’m not sure,” said Marge.
“He actually makes a valid point,” said Brutus. “I’ve never seen a bald chicken either.”
“No, me neither,” Harriet admitted.
“So maybe he’s onto something here, sugar buns.”
“Oh, and Marge?” said her husband as she made to leave.
“Yes, Tex?” she said.
“Could you ask the cats what their secret is?”
“Their secret?”
“For not losing their hair. I’d be very interested to find out.”
“Yes, dear,” she said, then tottered out of the bathroom, followed by Harriet and Brutus.
“The secret is that we don’t worry,” said Harriet.
“Yeah, we don’t worry,” said Brutus, “and humans do, that’s why they lose their hair and we don’t, see?”
“Tell me honestly, Harriet,” said Marge now, “did you think that was weird?”
Harriet thought for a moment, then shrugged.“Not weirder than other stuff humans do. You have to admit that you’re a very peculiar species, Marge.”
“Yeah, you guys are pretty weird,” Brutus chimed in.
“Oh, dear,” said Marge as she returned to the kitchen. But when she opened the fridge and didn’t find the mayonnaise, she closed her eyes for a moment, then said to herself, “Breathe, Marge. Just breathe.”
“Yeah, and don’t worry too much,” said Brutus, “or you will lose your hair, too.”
21
I have to say that this business with the missing Angel had piqued my curiosity to such an extent that I wanted to know what was going on, so it was with a certain measure of anticipatory excitement that I looked forward to the interview with Father Reilly. Chase, if you didn’t know, is a formidable interviewer, always able to extract the necessary information from his interviewees, and he doesn’t even need thumbscrews or a rack or an iron maiden. I think it’s all those years working for the NYPD that made him the formidable detective that he is today. He probably learned some highly advanced investigative techniques looking over the shoulder of the top cops in that particular police force. And Odelia, of course, has a lot of investigative experience she can bring to bear on a case, having been a reporter for a number of years now.
So when Father Reilly let us into his modest little home—also a called the rectory—nestled in the shadows of St. John’s Church, I knew this was going to be good. My humans were going to ask a lot of tough questions, and Francis Reilly would try to dodge all of them, but finally he’d have to give up. He’d break down and would submit a tearful apology and then do a full confession—not unlike the celebrities who appear on Oprah. Yes, I must admit I did think that the aged priest had something to do with his daughter’s disappearance. A fight, followed by some kind of physical altercation was my best guest. A shove and a bad fall and there you have it: all the elements for involuntary manslaughter.
“I still think it’s aliens,” said Dooley now, striking the discordant note as usual.
“And I think it’s Father Reilly,” I said.
He gave me a thoughtful look.“Father Reilly is an alien? I didn’t know that.”
“No, Father Reilly is not an alien, Dooley. He accidentally killed his daughter, that’s what I think. And I’m sure that Odelia and Chase are going to elicit a confession from the man right now—just you wait and see.”
We’d entered what looked like a cozy study, with an ornate mahogany desk standing in front of the window, a computer placed on that desk, showing us that Father Reilly might be old, but he wasn’t that old. There were plenty of bookcases lining the walls, and all of them were chockablock with books. A nice rug on the carpeted floor provided that warm softness your average feline is so fond of, and there was even a small fireplace, to offer that comfortable heat on those cold winter nights.
I just imagined the priest sitting at his desk, poring over the Gospel according to John, Paul, George, Ringo or what have you, and sweating over a sermon on brotherly love, while the fire crackled in the hearth, his housekeeper cable knitting a Christmas sweater with reindeer motif for her one true love, seated in one of the two armchairs in front of the fire, while Angel played with a Ken doll on the floor. Okay, so this scene probably hadn’t played out for at least a dozen years, since Angel was of an age now where girls no longer play with Ken dolls but with actual real-life Kens—or Barbies if so compelled.
“Just you wait and see, Dooley,” I said. “Father Reilly is going to confess any moment now.”
What I hadn’t expected, though, was the presence of another person in the room. This person was working feverishly on the computer, glasses perched on the tip of his nose.
“Joaquin, could you please give us the room for a moment?” asked Father Reilly.
Joaquin looked up from his work and regarded the newcomers with mild interest. He was a handsome man in his early thirties, with wavy dark hair, eyes like molten chocolate and a muscular physique, as evidenced by the brawny arms and chest filling out a simple white T-shirt.
“Joaquin is my sexton,” Father Reilly explained. “Joaquin, I don’t know if you’ve met Odelia Kingsley? She’s a reporter for the Gazette. And her husband Chase, detective with our local police department.”
“Hi there,” said Joaquin, as he took off his glasses and rose to greet the new arrivals. “Joaquin Fatal,” he said as he stepped from behind the desk, hand outstretched. “I was just working on a speech for the Ladies’ Garden Club on the Garden of Eden.”
“Joaquin is an excellent speechwriter,” said Father Reilly. “I’ve been begging him to write my sermons for me, but he stops short of doing that.”
“I may be old-fashioned,” said Joaquin, “but I still feel that a clergyman has to write his own speeches—though I write all the rest: speeches for the Hampton Cove Historical Society, Camp Delion Retreat Center and Summer Camp, the Hampton Cove Science Center, the Atlantic Marine Conservation Society, the SeniorNet Computer Learning Center, the—”