“Chase,” said Uncle Alec warningly.
“I can’t believe you’d let your niece carry an illegal gun!”
“It’s not her fault she lost her license!” Gran cried. “So back off, tightass.”
“Lost her license? Why? Did she shoot somebody?” he asked. When she refused to look him in the eye, he cried, “You actually shot someone?!”
“He was a nobody,” Gran supplied. “One of those no-good boyfriends of hers. And good riddance, too. The guy was too old for her anyhoo.”
Chase’s eyebrows rose. “You killed him?!”
“Nah, she missed,” said Gran.
“I didn’t miss,” she snapped. “If I wanted to kill him he’d be dead right now.”
“Would have been better if you had,” said Gran. “Piece of no-good scum.”
“He was one of her boyfriends,” Mom said when Odelia clamped her lips together. How had this conversation gotten away from her so fast?
“One of her no-good boyfriends,” Gran said, rubbing it in.
“Odelia always had horrible taste in men,” Mom said, quite unnecessarily.
“This one was even worse than the others, though,” said Gran. “Talk about a loser.”
Chase, shaking his head, asked, “Who was he? The bank robber? Or the crook wanted in six states?”
“Twelve states,” Uncle Alec muttered. “But who’s counting?”
Odelia looked up at Chase, and saw that a twinkle had appeared in his eyes. “If you have to know, he was a rookie cop,” she finally said. “I was eighteen and he said that if I showed him mine he’d show me his. So I did, and accidentally shot his… package. Hey! He said he wanted to do it with the safety off!”
“Talk about unsafe sex,” said Dad with an eyeroll.
Chapter 15
That night, Dooley and I decided to go out to the house of John Paul George for a recital of the cat choir in honor of our now orphaned brethren and sisters. It was the right thing to do, we felt, as a treat to the cats who were now going to be pâté-less for the rest of their lives, and who, if Jasper was convicted of his boyfriend’s murder, might never see each other again.
“It makes you think about your own mortality, doesn’t it?” I asked as we trotted along in a slow procession to Johnny’s expansive mansion.
“It sure does,” said Dooley with a sigh.
Perhaps a dozen cats had decided to make the trek, which just went to show how popular JPG had been with Hampton Bay’s cat population, and how legendary his pâté. Not that we would get any of that tonight. Or at least I didn’t think so. Father Reilly’s tabby Shanille was there, Stacy Brown’s cat, and Kingman, of course, Wilbur Vickery’s cat. Conspicuously absent were Brutus and Harriet, but then they hadn’t been invited.
We’d started the choir purely for our own amusement, and to give vent to the artistic talents of its members, but now, with this tragedy, we’d found a new purpose: to honor the cats of recently departed humans. In most cases they were taken in by relatives, though in rare cases they ended up at the animal shelter. Not that they were to be pitied. The Hampton Cove animal shelter was a well-funded operation, its animals well taken care of.
“I wonder what would happen to us if anything ever happened to Odelia or her mom,” said Dooley now, striking the morbid note.
“I’m sure nothing will happen to Odelia,” I told him. “She’s perfectly healthy and perfectly capable of taking care of herself. And us.”
“Yeah, but it’s still a possibility, isn’t it?”
“I suppose so,” I admitted. I didn’t want to dwell on such a ghoulish and depressing topic, even though we were about to organize what was essentially a wake. “I think Odelia will have a long and prosperous life.”
Dooley heaved a deep sigh. “I sure hope so.”
We finally arrived at Johnny’s mansion and gathered in a circle outside the wrought-iron gate where fans and townsfolk had placed dozens, perhaps even hundreds of floral tributes. They were piled up high against the fence, accompanied by candles and cards and all manner of commemorative gifts people had left behind. The outpouring of grief and love was impressive, and reminded us how beloved the singer had really been, and not just by cats.
We stepped through the gate’s bars, and proceeded to the house, walked around back until we reached the pool area, and took a moment to gaze at the place where the great man had breathed his final breath. George, Princess and the other cats were all seated on pool chairs, and joined us in this silent tribute. Father Reilly’s Shanille then spoke a few words in honor of the singer while we all stood there, heads bowed, listening to the brief sermon, which centered on the topics of ephemerality and the importance of enjoying every moment life so graciously gave, for you never knew what the future held.
And then we all broke into song, choosing for this opportunity a song of John Paul George himself, the rather apt ‘Queen in a King-Size Bed,’ one of his biggest hits. We massacred the popular hymn with glee, Kingman leading the choir and the rest of us meowing, yowling and caterwauling up a storm. Johnny’s twelve cats, after listening with rapt attention for a while, soon joined in, and for the next twenty minutes or so, nothing could be heard but the sweet sound of two dozen cats screeching at the top of their lungs.
I don’t know if the neighbors could hear our very special midnight concert and frankly I didn’t care. But if they had, I’m sure they would have appreciated it as much as I did. At one point a window was thrown open upstairs and a curler-covered woman’s head appeared, shouting something and throwing a shoe. It made a nice splash as it landed in the pool, and the head disappeared again, grumbling some choice curse words under its breath.
All in all, the tribute went well, and I was truly moved, and even had to wipe away a tear, as did most of the other cats. A few of them were even wailing and crying their eyes out, and even George, probably the oldest cat in our small feline gathering, was sniffling softly into his whiskers.
When the concert was over, Johnny’s cats thanked us, and then led us all inside to sample some of Johnny’s special pâté. It was a testament to the special moment that they all shared their bowls with us, and I was happy to see they were filled to the brim, which told me that even in Johnny’s and Jasper’s absence, their feline friends were well looked after. Possibly by the woman in curlers who’d just thrown her shoe at us.
After everyone had eaten their fill, we walked out again, and we all sat around carefully licking our paws and cleaning our faces. Dooley and I took this opportunity to chat with Princess. The Siamese was more subdued than before, which wasn’t hard to understand.
“That was very sweet of you,” she said with a little sniffle.
“Just showing our appreciation for what Johnny meant to the world,” I said.
“I’m sure he would have loved it. Too bad he isn’t here to enjoy it.” She glanced up at the sky. “Or maybe he is.”
Dooley and I also looked up at the twinkling stars. “Yeah,” I said with a smile. “I’m sure he’s up there looking down at us right now.”
Just at that moment, a star sparkled, and Princess gasped, clutching at her heart. “I’m sure that was Johnny, letting us know how much he cares.”
We stared up for a while longer, but I decided to strike the business note again. We weren’t just here for the tribute and the pâté, after all, but also to solve a murder. “Our human is having a chat with Johnny’s wife tomorrow.”
“Oh, that’s nice,” she said vaguely, not showing the least bit of interest.
“Did you know he was still married?” I tried again.
She nodded. “Mh-mh. Though the last couple of years she rarely came out here. She wasn’t very fond of Jasper, as you can imagine.”
“She wasn’t, huh?” I asked, with a meaningful glance at Dooley, who was staring at Princess now, who was still staring up at the stars.