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“And who would have access to her car, her coffee, and the studio?” Gran added.

Kurtz had gone even paler than usual, if that was possible, and now looked white as the proverbial sheet as he contemplated these questions.

“Um… there have been studio guests who didn’t like the way they were treated.”

“Like Jacqueline Jackson?” asked Odelia.

“Well, Mrs. Jackson was never a guest on the show. She was merely the subject of a small piece we ran last year.”

“Mrs. Jackson said Opal treated her unfairly. That she lied about an incident with a cow and that she ruined her business by supplying her viewers with a false report.”

“I don’t think Mrs. Jackson is completely honest,” said Kurtz. “Did she also tell you that out of the hundred and fifty or so cows she and her husband had on their farm over a dozen had to be put down in the course of the last six months alone? And that the vet who worked for them was the one who approached us when he saw the way they were treating their animals? I was at the farm myself, and I saw firsthand the state those poor cows were in. Dirty stables, cramped spaces—there was a lot of suffering going on.”

“So you were the spy she accused of delivering a biased report?” asked Gran.

“Yeah, I was the spy Opal sent in to take the measure of the Jacksons and their operation. And the footage I smuggled out was just the tip of the iceberg. I think it’s safe to say we did those animals a big favor by shutting down that particular operation. The Jacksons are a disgrace to their profession and shouldn’t be allowed anywhere near animal husbandry ever again.”

“Interesting,” said Gran, nodding. “So do you think Jacqueline Jackson or her husband could be behind these attacks on Opal?”

Kurtz thought about this for a moment, pursing his lips. “Um… well, I would love to say that they are, but I don’t really see how. She couldn’t have possibly unscrewed those bolts this afternoon. Someone would have noticed. I guess she could have done something to the car—depending on what exactly it is that you think she did, and as far as the coffee is concerned…” He shook his head. “I’d say it’s doubtful. Unless the Jacksons have a person on the inside, of course. A person they pay to do all of these things.”

“The same way Opal paid you to spy on them, you mean,” said Gran.

He smiled. “Yes. They’d probably consider that poetic justice. In all fairness, though,” he continued, serious once more, “I don’t see them resorting to murder, just to get even with Opal. They may be cruel to animals but that doesn’t necessarily mean they’re also potential killers.”

“Good point,” said Odelia.

“They’re desperate, though,” said Gran. “And desperate people sometimes resort to desperate measures.”

“True,” Kurtz admitted. He was eyeing them keenly. “So you’re both detectives? Pardon my impertinence but can I just say you don’t look like detectives?”

“And what are detectives supposed to look like?” asked Gran, a little acerbically.

“Well, um… I guess… butch and… a little surly, maybe? Like Philip Marlowe?” He laughed. “I know this is probably very cliché, but it’s just that… I’ve never seen a woman detective before, and definitely not one as pretty as you, Miss Poole.” He seemed taken aback by his own words, for once more he clasped a hand before his mouth. “I’m sorry. This is probably one of those metoo moments I’ll regret for the rest of my life, isn’t it?”

“No, it’s not,” Odelia reassured him. “And thanks for the compliment.”

“Yeah, thanks for the compliment,” Gran muttered darkly.

Kurtz swallowed uncomfortably, though by some medical miracle he managed to do so without making his Adam’s apple bob up and down. “Well, I hope you ladies find whoever is behind this. Opal is our heroine, and we want to keep her with us for a long time to come. She’s not just a talk show host, she saves lives, she heals people, and mends broken hearts. She’s a miracle worker—even more so than Dr. Phil or Oprah Winfrey or any of those other wonderful colleagues of hers.”

Once Kurtz was gone, Gran and Odelia sat discussing the interview.

“Do you really think Jacqueline Jackson and her husband are behind this?” asked Gran.

“I doubt it,” said Odelia, “unless, as Kurtz suggested, they have someone on the inside.”

“I like this Serge guy for this. He had access and he’s got a criminal record, which makes him the perfect candidate in my book. Plus, I have a bad feeling about him.”

“You had a bad feeling about Kurtz,” Odelia reminded her.

“Kurtz is all right,” said Gran with a throwaway gesture of her hand. “He’s a loyal soldier and would never harm a hair on Opal’s head. No, we need to find out more about this Serge what’s-his-face and the only way to do that is by contacting the police.”

“But Opal told us not to involve the police.”

“And we won’t,” said Gran with a sly little smile. “We’ll contact Alec instead, who’ll have a little chat with his friends at the LAPD and ask them to do him a small favor.”

“Very clever of you.”

“Hey! I’m not just some Philip Marlowe. I’m Vesta Muffin. Ace detective.”

“Yes, you are,” said Odelia, but then a knock on the door announced the next interviewee, so she hollered, “Push—the door is open!”

Chapter 17

“Push! Come on, Alec. One more rep!”

Alec pushed and pushed but found himself incapable of completing one more ‘rep,’ whatever a rep was.

“I can’t!” he squeaked, and let the heavy iron bar fall back onto its holder with a loud clanging sound. He was perspiring so hard he thought he might expire soon.

“Well done, buddy,” said Chase, patting him on the shoulder.

Alec couldn’t speak. He couldn’t even move. He was sucking in big gulps of breath.

They were in the hotel’s gym, and as it happened they were the only ones there, all the usual suspects probably in the conference room listening to Rambo teaching them about all of his Rambo methods for beating their fellow citizens into submission.

“Take a sip,” Chase said, handing him a bottle of water. “Staying hydrated is key.”

“Breathing is key,” said Alec between two labored breaths.

“Yeah, I think breathing is overrated,” said Chase with a grin. “And? How are you feeling? Invigorated, right? So much energy!”

“Dead,” said Alec, finally managing to drag his battered corpus from the bench where he’d done eight pushups of a very heavy iron bar with some weights attached at each end.

And as he started searching around for the sign that showed the way to the showers, Chase said, “Hey, you’re not finished yet.”

“Oh, I’m finished.”

“We did chest, Alec. Now we do back, and then half an hour cardio.”

“Cardio! No way!”

“Look, I’m not going to let you do anything too demanding, but at the very least you need to go up on that treadmill and walk for half an hour. Show your Fitbit some action.”

“Walk for half an hour?” he asked. “That’s all I have to do? Just walk?”

“Yup. But first we’re going to do twelve reps on the back pulley machine.”

“But I don’t want to pull my back!”

“Just take a seat there,” Chase instructed, like the hard taskmaster he was, “and grab those handles.”

Alec, in spite of the fact that he thought he could die any moment now, did as he was told and grabbed for the handles Chase indicated. “Now what?” he said.

“Now you’re going to pull those handles. Pull as hard as you can. Pull, Alec. Pull!”

“I am pulling!” Alec cried.

“Oh,” said Chase. “Sorry about that. I forgot to switch the pin.”

He pulled out a pin and shifted it somewhere higher on the stack of weights.

“Now try again. Pull! Pull!”

Alec pulled, and this time there was movement. “This is hard,” he lamented.