“No, you’re definitely not a talentless hack,” he agreed. “In fact I think hiring you was probably the best decision I ever made in a long career. Now shoo. I’ll finish up here.”
She grinned at the aged editor. “See you, Dan.”
“See you, honey. Say hi to your folks for me.”
“Will do.”
As she climbed into her pickup, she took in the empty passenger seat, and wondered if Max and Dooley would have remembered the other story she’d been working on today: the secret affair of the NYPD commissioner and the mayor’s wife. And as she started up the car, she hoped they’d find proof of Chase’s innocence. But even if they didn’t, she knew they’d called it: the guy was innocent. She now realized she’d known all along, but had allowed her instincts to be clouded by her annoyance with the guy.
Chase might be a pain in the behind, but he was not a molester of women.
She now wondered if maybe deep down she already knew who Frey’s killer was. She thought for a moment. Somewhere at the back of her mind, the kernel of an idea was tugging, but she couldn’t quite catch it. Something she’d missed. But what? And where? And, more importantly, who?
Chapter 18
I think I’d been a little too optimistic when I told Odelia I’d solve this mystery in a heartbeat. Dooley and I had been traipsing all over town, talking to any cat we could find, and so far had nothing to show for our efforts. None of them had an inkling of who Chase Kingsley was, or the commissioner of the NYPD, or even the mayor’s wife for that matter, nor did they care.
Instead, they all shook their heads, convinced we’d both gone off our rockers. I should have known, of course. Cats, as you may or may not know, like to stick close to home. They like to wander around, preferably at night, when the world is asleep, in search of mice or other little snacks, but never stray far, for they like to be home before dawn, curl up at the foot of a warm, soft bed, and wait until their human wakes up to fill up their bowl of kibble.
We used to be proud hunters once upon a time, but centuries of being fed and nurtured by humans have made us lazy and complacent. New York is another continent, as far as we are concerned, and rarely do we even venture outside of Hampton Cove these days. Why should we, when all we need is right here at home?
Even my theory that we might run into a cat who’d met a cat who’d talked to a cat who’d witnessed the commissioner and the mayor’s wife in the act was pretty far-fetched, I now saw. Cats rarely travel. Dogs love to ride in cars, their heads stuck out the window, tongues lolling in the breeze, but then we all know dogs are a bunch of dummies. Cats are dignified creatures. We wouldn’t be seen dead with our tongues hanging out and our faces flapping.
And then there was the fact that both Dooley and I were bone-tired. Daytime is sleeping time, and we’d skipped nap time to go out hiking in the woods, and to play detective across town. It also explained why there weren’t all that many cats around, and those that were, didn’t want to be disturbed. The best time to do this was at night, Dooley reminded me as we dragged our weary bodies along the strip mall, on the edge of town.
“You’re right,” I admitted. “Let’s call it quits and do this again tonight, when there are more cats around. Maybe we’ll have better luck then.”
“I kinda doubt it, Max,” said Dooley. “Considering all the cats we talked to laughed in our faces, I think our chances of finding the one cat that saw the mayor of New York having relations with the commissioner are slim.”
“Mayor’s wife,” I corrected him tiredly. “The mayor’s wife is having relations with the commissioner, not the mayor.”
“Who cares?” Dooley cried. It was obvious he was getting cranky.
And we were just about to call it a day and return to our cozy home, when I happened to glance at a set of dumpsters located behind the mall and recognized a familiar figure snooping around in there.
“Don’t look now, but I think I just saw Clarice,” I whispered, even though she probably couldn’t hear me from this distance.
“Clarice? Where?” Dooley asked, immediately starting to look around like a tourist on a tour bus.
“I said, don’t look now,” I hissed. “She’s over there by those dumpsters.”
I watched as the scrawny feline dove into one of the dumpsters, obviously fishing around for something edible.
“Poor creature,” Dooley said ruefully. “No home, no hearth, and no food.”
“I don’t know,” I said. “Maybe she’s luckier than us. At least she gets to choose her food. I’ll bet there’s some choice stuff in those dumpsters.”
“I see what you mean,” he said. “Do you think there’s raw meat in there?”
“Raw meat, pizza, lasagna, a nice beef burger. You name it, they got it.”
“Maybe we’ll have a peek?” he suggested. “I need me some raw meat.”
“What’s with this sudden raw meat obsession?”
He shrugged. “I can’t help it that Brutus gets fed raw meat and I don’t, can I? And that because of that he’s better looking and more attractive.”
“Well, I’m not so sure about that,” I intimated.
“What do you mean?”
“What if he’s lying? He wouldn’t be the first cat to turn out a liar.”
“You mean he’s lying about the meat?”
“Why not? There’s no way for us to check.”
“He’s just messing with us!” cried Dooley. “And deceiving poor Harriet.”
“Don’t feel sorry for Harriet. If she chooses that brute it’s her funeral.”
“Funeral!” he cried, his voice skipping an octave. “Do you really believe that horrible creep would hurt her?”
“It’s just an expression, Dooley,” I said irritably. The longer I was up, the more cranky I was becoming as well. I needed a nap and some food and I needed it an hour ago. First things first, though. “Let’s have a chat, shall we?” I suggested, and started tripping over to the dumpsters.
“A chat?” he asked, falling into step beside me. “With who?”
“With whom,” I corrected him. We might be cats, but that was no excuse for a lapse in grammar. “Who do you think?”
“Is this a trick question?” he whined. “Don’t do this to me, Max. Not when I’m tired. Just tell me already. Whommmm are we going to chat with?”
“Clarice, of course.”
He gulped. “Clarice? Are you nuts? She’ll just tell us she saw nuthin.”
“Well, maybe she will, or maybe she won’t. But it’s definitely worth a try.”
Of all the cats I knew in Hampton Cove, Clarice was the one who’d traveled the most and traveled the farthest. She had to, to find food and shelter, as she didn’t have a human to take care of her. Once upon a time, the rumor went, she’d had a human, but he’d abandoned her. Some tourist who came to Hampton Cove for the holidays, and then tied her to a tree out in the woods and took off. The same rumor held that she’d gnawed off her own paw to escape, like James Franco, though from what I’d seen her limbs were still present and accounted for, so that story might just have been a fabrication.
“Clarice,” I called out as we approached the dumpster she was currently holed up in. “Clarice, we’d like to talk to you.” The small collection of dumpsters was where the stores the mall was comprised of dumped their garbage, and was always a place where all manner of critters gathered.
When Clarice’s head popped up out of the dumpster, looking shifty-eyed and ready to flee, Dooley chimed in, “Hey, Clarice. So we meet again, huh? What are the odds?” He looked a little afraid, and with good reason. Clarice had been known to lash out when she was approached without invitation.
“We were just wondering—” I began.
“I know nuthin,” she muttered, repeating her usual mantra.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” I said, a little gruffly. I wasn’t in the mood for games. I was tired and hungry and my paws hurt. “Look, all we need to know is whether you know a cat who knows a cat who might have seen a cat who…”