Hortense was still visibly shaken by what had happened.
“Have you worked for Miss Hay long?” asked Chase, launching into the interview with a softball question.
“Oh, yes,” the woman replied in the affirmative. “I’ve worked for her for seven, or maybe even eight years. Ever since she bought this house, in fact.”
“Is this Miss Hay’s primary residence?”
“Yes, it is. She’s originally from California but she came on vacation here once and liked it so much she immediately bought the house and moved here with her family. She always said she found life more peaceful in Hampton Cove. She also had a lot of meetings in town. Her record label is located in New York, and the recording studio, as well.”
“What kind of person would you say Miss Hay was?” asked Odelia.
Hortense stifled a sob at the use of the past tense. “Very sweet, very kind, very loving. She was the kindest person I ever worked for. Always a hug and a kiss. She was more like family to me than an employer. I’m going to miss her terribly.” She broke down in tears again and Chase fetched a box of Kleenex and placed it before her on the table. “What’s going to happen to me now?” she asked between sobs. “What’s going to become of me?”
“Didn’t Miss Hay live with her mother?” asked Odelia. “Surely she’ll keep you on.”
“I don’t think so, Miss Poole. Yuki never liked it here as much as Chickie did. Yuki—”
“Yuki is Chickie’s mother?”
“Yes. Yuki Hay. She prefers LA. Always did. I’m sure she’ll sell the house and return there soon after the funeral.”
“Do you know if Chickie had any enemies?” asked Chase. “Anyone who meant her harm?”
Hortense shook her head. “No one,” she said decidedly. “Chickie was so loving, so sweet—nobody could be enemies with her. She only had friends. Everybody loved her.”
“But wasn’t she recently locked in a conflict with her former record company owner?” asked Odelia. She was an avid reader of the gossip press and had read all the stories about Chickie having a very public falling-out with the man who’d discovered her.
“No, she didn’t have a falling-out, simply a business disagreement. If anyone fell out, it’s Mr. Weskit. Chickie had a big heart, and Mr. Weskit decided to take advantage of her, but Miss Hay didn’t allow that to happen, and then Mr. Weskit came here last week and shouted a lot of abuse so he was kicked out. Chickie hated conflict—she hated getting into fights with people. But sometimes in this business you have to be strong, or else people walk all over you. So she was strong and Mr. Weskit didn’t like it.”
“What was the fight about?”
Hortense waved a hand. “Something to do with royalties. I don’t know the details.”
“Do you think Mr. Weskit can be violent if provoked?”
“I don’t think so. His wife is another matter entirely, though.”
“His wife?”
“Yes, Mrs. Weskit is a horrible person. I think she was very jealous of Miss Hay, and didn’t like it when her husband and Miss Hay had such a good relationship, such a heartfelt connection, and so she tried to come between them, tried to break them apart, and she succeeded.” The housekeeper nodded sternly as she pressed a Kleenex against her nose. “If there’s anyone who is capable of murder it is certainly Shannon Weskit.”
“Did she happen to drop by recently?” asked Chase, as Odelia jotted down the name.
“Yes, she was here,” said Hortense, much to Odelia’s surprise. “She was here the day after her husband was here, and she and Chickie argued. They argued very loudly.”
“What were they arguing about?” asked Odelia.
“Laron, and how strongly Shannon felt Chickie should stay away from him.”
“You could hear the argument?”
“Oh, yes. Like I said, they were very loud. Shannon said that if Chickie went near her husband ever again, she’d file charges for harassment, and Chickie said she was confusing a business relationship with a sexual relationship, and assured Shannon that she’d never felt about Laron Weskit that way. But Shannon said she didn’t believe her for one second.” Hortense pursed her lips disapprovingly. “And then she slapped her.”
“Who slapped who?” asked Chase.
“I’m not sure, but I think Shannon slapped Chickie. At least when Shannon left I didn’t notice any red marks on her cheeks, and Chickie looked furious, and she did have red cheeks. So I think it’s obvious Shannon slapped Chickie, and the moment she left, Chickie turned to me and said, ‘Make sure that woman never sets foot inside my house ever again.’ So I assured her I’d tell Tyson, and then Chickie returned to her room upstairs, where she always writes her new songs, and for the rest of the afternoon she didn’t come down again. She just sat there playing her guitar. I felt very bad for her.”
“When was this?” asked Chase.
“Yesterday afternoon,” said Hortense with a nod of certainty. “She only came out again when Jamie Borowiak dropped by in the evening and they sat in the garden.”
“Jamie Borowiak?”
“She’s Chickie’s best friend. Or at least she was, until Jamie got involved with Charlie Dieber, who went and ruined everything for them. But that’s a different story.” She gave them an eager look. “Do you want me to tell you that story, too?”
They both nodded. “Yes,” said Chase. “We want you to tell us everything you know.”
The woman smiled. “Oh, I know a lot. There’s no secrets in this house for me.”
And Odelia had the impression she was proud of the fact, too.
Chapter 8
We were making our way back to the house, in search of Odelia so we could tell her the information we’d gleaned from the gender-and-name-fluid peacock, when we found ourselves waylaid by the tiny French Bulldog who came streaking out of the house.
“She’s dead!” he cried, clearly distraught. “You were right, cats. My human is dead!”
“I’m so sorry,” I said.
“I went up there to see how she was, but there was a large cop walking around and when he slipped out the door for a moment I slipped in and there she was. Not moving!”
“I’m afraid she was murdered,” I said. “Which is why we’re here—to find out who did this to her.”
“But… they have to call an ambulance! Maybe she can still be saved!”
“She’s been dead for quite a while now,” I said. “I’m afraid it’s too late to save her.”
“There must be something they can do! With all the advances in science—can’t they try something experimental? Something new and untried?”
“What experimental thing?” asked Dooley, interested.
“I don’t know!” said the doggie, flapping his ears. “There has to be something they can do, right? Like when I had this terrible pain in my tail, and the vet fixed it.”
“I’m afraid that once you’re dead, that’s it,” I said, hating to be the bearer of bad news, and probably risking a nip in the butt, or possibly even two. “Nobody can fix dead.”
The doggie sank onto his haunches and then burst into a bout of honest tears. “Oh, no,” he said. “My human. Dead. This isn’t happening!”
“It is happening, actually,” said Dooley.
“Dooley,” I said, and shook my head to indicate he should probably exact restraint in a moment fraught with sadness like this.
“She wouldn’t leave me,” said the doggie. “She said she’d always be there for me.”
“She didn’t leave you,” said Dooley. “She was murdered. You can’t help being murdered.”
“Dooley,” I repeated, and shook my head again. We needed to tread very carefully.
“Murdered!” said the doggie. “But who would do such a thing?”