“I thought as much.”
It is hard to detect a blush in an animal so royally decorated with fur as a cat, but I had the distinct impression a blush was actually creeping up Dana’s cheeks at this very moment. “My God!” I exclaimed. “You feel the same way about him, don’t you?”
She nodded bashfully, probably the first time I’d ever seen Dana display any form of demureness. She sighed a happy sigh. “I do,” she finally said.
“But—but—but—”
She raised her eyes.“I know. He’s a dog and I’m a cat and interspecies mingling is unnatural and yadda yadda yadda. Spare me the platitudes. I’ve heard them all before. The simple fact of the matter is that I’m in love and I don’t care who knows it.”
“No one knows it,” I interjected.
“I know. And I would very much like to keep it that way. So, not a word to anyone, you hear me, Tom?”
I blinked. Hadn’t she just told me she was in love and didn’t care who knew? “I, erm…”
“Not even to Frank. I don’t want him to hear it from anyone but me that I…” She smiled. “Love the hell out of that big, fluffy Poodle.”
I gave her my solemn word that my lips were sealed, and then reminded her there were more pressing matters to be dealt with right now. Like, bringing the Brookridge Park killer to justice.
For a moment, she seemed reluctant to drop the discussion of her love life, but then she shelved the topic and focused on the matter at hand.“I think the best avenue to pursue is to talk to Frank,” she said.
“Forget about Frank,” I urged. “I’m sure he’ll make you a swell partner but solving Lucy and Jamie’s murders is more important right now.”
She eyed me critically.“Are you quite finished? We need Frank to transfer the murderer’s identity to Bart, so that he can make an arrest.”
“Oh,” I said.
“Oh, indeed. Now all I need right now is to know this guy’s name and—”
“Can’t you just, you know, scan it? Get into his mind?”
“No, I can’t. I don’t know how many times a day you think about your own name…”
Quite often, in fact, I wanted to say, but I kept my mouth shut. One doesn’t like to come across as a narcissist.
“I thought so,” she said, as she read my mind. “But most people don’t. Oh, I’m sure we could find out his name eventually, if we follow him around long enough, but if this guy really is a serial killer, it’s imperative we get him into police custody as soon as possible. So the best thing to do is for you to steal his wallet.”
There was a lot to be said about this modus operandi, but I refrained from saying it, for our killer decided this was the moment to start moving again.
28
The Belle of the Ball
I’d never been involved in the pursuit of a vicious killer before, and certainly not one that demanded I somehow obtain the latter’s wallet. I was wracking my brain how to accomplish this seemingly impossible task, when a bit of luck had Stevie cross our path. Killer and family had just exited the park and had taken a left toward the Brookridge Market Square, when I saw Stevie ambling up. He raised a paw in greeting and I waved him over.
“Howdy,” he said good-naturedly. “How’s my FSA crew today?”
“Don’t mention that word,” hissed Dana.
“Be quiet,” I hissed.
“What’s going on?” whispered Stevie, for he could put two and two together just like the next cat.
“See that guy over there?” I said, pointing at our friendly neighborhood killer.
“Is that…” he said, squinting.
Both Dana and I nodded emphatically.
“He doesn’t look like much of a killer,” said Stevie, sounding disappointed. “More like an accountant.”
“Those are usually the worst,” I said, for lack of anything else to say.
“Hey, I finally induced Sam to dream up the meaning of that word you were looking for. Um…” He paused, pondering.
“Bluebell?” I ventured.
He pointed a nicely buffed claw at me.“Bingo. I sat next to the man all night. You wouldn’t believe what kind of stuff he dreams about.”
“I can,” I said. “I was there, remember?”
“Right. I forgot.” He then turned his attention to Dana. “And how’s my favorite secret agent this fine morning?” he said.
“Stevie!” I said.
“Huh?”
I gave him my most exasperated look.“Bluebell?”
“Oh, of course. Bluebell. Well, turns out Bluebell is in fact—”
“What’s Bluebell?” interrupted Dana.
All this time we’d been trailing Killer& family from afar, and the tension of trying to keep up with him and at the same time inducing Stevie to divulge the information he’d culled from Father Sam’s dreams, was weighing on me. So much so that I’d temporarily forgotten all about my newly acquired mind-reading capabilities.
Now remembering I didn’t have to wait for Stevie to get his facts straight but could simply take a peek inside his noggin, I did so. And came up with nothing. Odd, I felt. Either Stevie’s mind was a complete blank, or else I’d lost my new powers overnight. I tried again and again drew a blank.
I then tried to read Dana’s mind and, once again, came away with zilch. Extremely frustrating. Oh, well, I thought. Probably these new skills take some time to settle. And I decided to try again a little later.
In the meantime, Stevie had brought Dana up to date on the whole Bluebell mystery and she, too, was now burning with anticipation to learn more.
“Bluebell is…” Stevie said, then paused for effect.
“What? What?” I said, barely suppressing an exasperated groan.
“Well, Bluebell isn’t Bluebell at all.”
“Stevie!” I said.
“But it isn’t!” he said. “All this time we thought it was the name of a girl, but in fact it’s the description of a character in the play. Blue belle is the name Sam uses to describe the murder victim in Murder in the Park. In other words, Zoe Huckleberry.”
He gave us the look a magician gives at the end of a particularly startling performance. All that was missing was‘ta-dah!’
“One of the key scenes in the play is a big ball at some castle somewhere,” Stevie continued, “at the end of which Zoe Huckleberry is killed in the castle park by her lover Jack Mackintosh after he finds out she’s been cheating on him with his best friend, who turns out to have set the whole thing up to get rid of Zoe as a way to get back at Zoe’s husband, a well-known and highly respectable gynecologist, whom he holds responsible for the death of his wife, who died in childbirth some twenty-odd years before.”
He paused for breath. Dana and I merely goggled, trying to follow the narrative. I don’t read mystery stories as a rule, so hearing the plotline of one described in a single sentence had my mind reeling for a spell.
“And since Zoe Huckleberry wears a blue dress to the ball and is described by any and all as the belle of the ball, she’s referred to by director and acting troupe as the blue belle.”
So that’s why there was no reference to Bluebell in the script. It wasn’t an official name but merely a nickname thought up by Sam to describe one of the characters.
“So Lucy Knicx was the blue belle until she was murdered,” said Stevie. “Then Jamie Burrow held the title for a while, and now…”
“Don’t tell me they’ve appointed someone else to play the part,” said Dana, aghast.
Stevie nodded solemnly.“You won’t like this, Dana. It’s Barbara.”
“Barbara? Which Barbara?” said Dana, swallowing.
“Your Barbara,” said Stevie. “Since they ran out of understudies, Barbara volunteered for the part. She’s the new blue belle.”
“Oh, no,” groaned Dana.
“Oh, yes,” said Stevie. “And apparently she’s already told all of Brookridge about her starring role, as she likes to call it.”
I think I’ve mentioned before that Barbara Vale, Dana’s human and secretary to the Mayor’s secretary Fisk Grackle, is one of the more prominent gossipmongers in all of Brookridge. It is said that her tongue works faster than a sewing machine, but I’m sure that’s just nasty gossip.