Purrfect Alibi Read online

  Purrfect Alibi

  The Mysteries of Max 9

  Nic Saint

  Puss in Print Publications

  Contents

  Purrfect Alibi

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Epilogue

  Excerpt from Murder at the Art Class (Emily Stone Book 1)

  About Nic

  Also by Nic Saint

  Purrfect Alibi

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  When Marge Poole managed to get the world’s bestselling writer to come down to Hampton Cove for a reading at the local library, she never expected to become a prime suspect when the man is found murdered instead. Now it’s up to her daughter Odelia to track down the real killer, before the murder turns Marge into an outcast in the small town they call home. But when Odelia’s grandmother insists she join the hunt, things suddenly get a little… complicated.

  Meanwhile, Odelia’s cats have some issues of their own to contend with. Like the fact that Dooley has become convinced that the apocalypse is about to happen any day now, or that Brutus has been acting very strange lately. And then there’s the fact that Max and his friends have been tasked by Odelia to lend aid and support in her murder investigation. Soon they’re ferreting out clues, interviewing witnesses and discovering some surprises of their own.

  Prologue

  Marge Poole surveyed the scene. She wondered if they’d set out enough chairs. The event she was staging was without a doubt the biggest and most ambitious one she’d ever taken on. Even though the Hampton Cove library had been remodeled five years ago with exactly this kind of literary event in mind, and a small conference room had been added for writers to hold readings, Marge had never expected ever to land the bestselling thriller writer in the world for one of her Author of the Month evenings.

  But there he was. Chris Ackerman. Author of such bestsellers as The Connor Conundrum and The Dixon Dilemma. America’s favorite writer and the most-borrowed author of all time. The scribe was seated on the small stage, peering through his reading glasses and going over his notes, an expensive-looking golden fountain pen poised in his hand. When he noticed Marge nervously bustling about, he fixed his pale blue eyes on her.

  “Wasn’t Burke supposed to be here by now?” he asked.

  There was an edge to his voice, and Marge didn’t wonder. A long-standing feud between Chris Ackerman and Rockwell Burke, the well-known horror novelist, had existed ever since Burke had announced that he felt Ackerman’s books were the work of a hack and a dilettante and had discounted his prose as bad writing. In fact it had surprised Marge a great deal when Burke had accepted to host the evening, and interview Ackerman on stage.

  Perhaps the horrormeister had had a change of heart. More likely, though, it was because his own once flourishing career had hit a snag, his last three books not selling as well as he’d hoped, at which point his publisher must have insisted he try to turn things around by associating himself with the reigning king of the New York Times bestseller list.

  “He’ll be here,” Marge assured Ackerman, who was glancing at his watch.

  “He’d better,” grumbled the famous writer. In his early seventies now, Chris Ackerman was a ruddy-faced heavyset man with a quiet air of self-confidence. “If he doesn’t show up I’ll have to tell the audience what I really think of him.” He chuckled. “That his best years are behind him, and that I hated every book he’s put out for the past decade.”

  “You don’t really mean that,” said Marge, shocked at the harsh words.

  “Oh, but I do,” said Ackerman, adjusting his glasses to owlishly stare at Marge. “My publisher told me not to engage, but if Burke stands me up all bets are off.” He wagged a finger. “I’ll bet he’s doing it on purpose. Promising to make nice then making a fool of me.”

  “I’m sure he’s simply delayed,” said Marge, checking the door to the left of the stage. “His publicist would have told me if Mr. Burke had decided to cancel at the last minute.”

  “Not unless he wants to make a fool of me,” Ackerman repeated.

  Marge checked her own watch. One hour until showtime. There was still plenty of time for Rockwell Burke to show up. Then again, the man’s publicist had promised Marge he’d be there on time, so he could go over some of the questions with Ackerman.

  Marge, a fine-boned fifty-something woman with long blond hair, chewed her lip and walked the short distance between the conference room and the library proper. She wondered if she’d unlocked the front doors. It worried her that no one had shown up yet. Usually when she organized her Author of the Month evenings at least a few people arrived early, wanting to secure a good seat—or an autograph from the featured author. And with Chris Ackerman as the featured speaker she’d expected the town to turn out en masse.

  The Hampton Cove library wasn’t a big operation. In fact it was downright modest. But it had a nice selection of books, DVDs and CDs, a computer room where users could surf the Internet, a cozy kids’ corner with a pirate ship where the kids could sit and read, a colorful fish tank, a collection of stuffed animals, and cheerful artwork by a local artist.

  Breezing past the checkout desk and the newspaper stand, she quickly moved to the door, where her husband and her mother stood peering out at the courtyard in front of the library. The size of a postage stamp, the courtyard nevertheless featured a fountain and a few stone benches. At this very moment, though, it was as deserted as the library itself.

  “Where is everyone?” asked Marge.

  Vesta Muffin, a septuagenarian the spitting image of Estelle Getty, lifted her bony shoulders. “Probably at home watching The Bachelor. Which is what I would be doing right now if you hadn’t roped me into this meet and greet with your childhood crush.”

  “He was never my crush,” said Marge, checking the doors to see if they weren’t locked. They weren’t. “I just like his books, that’s all. He’s an amazing writer.”

  “I like him,” Tex said. A buff man with a shock of white hair, Tex always kept a Chris Ackerman on his bedside table so he could read a couple of chapters before going to sleep.

  “Too bloodthirsty for my taste,” said Gran, adjusting her large, horn-rimmed glasses. “All those serial killers and crazy maniacs. How many serial killers do people really think are out there? Give me EL James any day over your creepy Chuck Peckerwood.”

  “Chris Ackerman.”

  “Huh?”

  “Chris Ackerman, not Chuck Peckerwood.”

  “Whatever. I’m just saying. If there really were as many serial killers as Ackerwo
od wants us to believe, the streets would be crawling with them and we’d all be dead right now, murdered in the most gruesome way possible.”

  “It’s fiction, Mom. It’s not supposed to be real.”

  “EL James is real. Christian Grey is out there. In fact the world is full of Christian Greys. Only problem is the world is also full of Anastasia Steeles who hog all the Christian Greys and leave nothing for the rest of us shlubs.”

  Tex chuckled. “I doubt billionaires are anything like Christian Grey,” he said. “Real billionaires don’t look like runway models. They look like Bill Gates or Warren Buffett.”

  “How would you know?” said Vesta. “You’re not a billionaire.”

  Tex agreed that he wasn’t. Still, he said, he believed Christian Grey to be just as fictitious as Chris Ackerman’s trademark serial killers.

  Marge didn’t think Christian Grey, real or not, would fancy a crusty old lady with tiny white curls and a big attitude problem. But since she didn’t want to get drawn into the argument, she decided to keep her comments to herself. “I don’t get it. Last month we had Jacqueline Rose Garner and people showed up an hour before the start of the event.”

  “Which just goes to show you people are fed up with murder and mayhem. They want love and passion. Speaking of which, did you know Chase asked Odelia out on a date?”

  “Yes, she told me. Chase took her to Villa Frank. Too bad it’s tonight. She really wanted to be here so she could meet Chris and Rockwell Burke.”

  “You can’t beat love,” said Vesta in uncharacteristically sentimental fashion.

  “He took her to Villa Frank, huh?” said Tex, rocking back on his heels. “I took Marge there for our wedding anniversary. Remember, honey? You loved their steak pizzaiola.”

  “Oh, I did. And how about that almond joy sundae? That was to die for.”

  For the next forty-five minutes, conversation flowed back and forth, mainly focusing on Tex and Marge’s daughter Odelia and Odelia’s boyfriend Chase Kingsley. People finally started showing up, though they were in no great hurry to take their seats, instead opting to chat with friends and acquaintances. For most people these Author of the Month evenings were more an excuse to socialize than to come and listen to an author read from their work.

  Just then, there was a soft yelp coming from the conference room. Marge immediately whipped her head around. She listened for a moment, but when no other sounds came, she relaxed again. “I better go and see if Burke has arrived yet,” she said.

  “I’ll come with you,” said Tex.

  “No, you better stay here and welcome the guests,” said Marge.

  She retraced her steps to the conference room. Chris Ackerman was still where she’d left him, seated in his chair on stage. Only he seemed to have fallen asleep, his notes having dropped from his hands and scattered all around him on the floor. Oh, my.

  “Mr. Ackerman?” she said, threading a path through the chairs. “Are you all right?”

  Even from ten feet away she could see the star of the evening wasn’t all right at all. The first sign that something was amiss were the drops of a dark crimson substance splattered on the sheets of paper on the floor. Even before it dawned on her what those drops represented, her eyes fixed on a strange object protruding from the writer’s neck.

  It was the golden fountain pen, its nib now deeply embedded into the man’s neck.

  The world’s bestselling writer… was dead.

  Chapter 1

  Odelia Poole, star reporter for the Hampton Cove Gazette, wasn’t used to being wined and dined in quite this fashion. Chase Kingsley, her boyfriend and local cop with the Hampton Cove Police Department, hadn’t just taken her to any old place. Ever since he’d asked her out, he’d been highly secretive about the itinerary for their date, and only when he’d picked her up in his squad car and entered the Villa Frank parking lot had she caught on that this wasn’t going to be a quick burger at the local diner but an actual fancy date.

  Good thing she’d dressed up for the occasion, her off-the-shoulder red pencil dress pretty much the fanciest thing she had hanging in her closet. She’d bought it on the instigation of her mother, who insisted she have at least one nice thing to wear for galas, movie premieres, chamber of commerce banquets or the occasional fancy reception. Her usual costume consisting of jeans, T-shirt and a sweater the dress made her feel slightly self-conscious, especially since there was some bust involved. Watching Chase’s jaw drop when he’d come to pick her up had been more than enough to dispel those qualms, though.

  “You look lovely,” he said, not for the first time.

  “You don’t look so bad yourself,” she purred.

  That was an understatement. Chase, usually a jeans-and-check shirt man himself, had gone all out as well, dressing up in an actual tux for the occasion. His long dark brown hair was combed back from his brow, his square jaw was entirely free of stubble, and his muscular frame filled out that tux to the extent that Odelia had no trouble picturing what he looked like underneath. Then again, the man was no stranger to her bed. Or at least he hadn’t been until her grandmother had decided to move in and cramp his style.

  But now that Gran had moved out again, the coast was clear, and it was obvious that Chase intended to move in on a more permanent basis—possibly the whole reason for splashing on a night at Villa Frank, one of the more posh places in Hampton Cove.

  She took a sip from her wine and felt her head spin. It was more the way Chase was looking at her right now than the alcohol, though, his green-specked blue eyes holding a promise that she hoped he intended to keep.

  “So what movie have you picked?” she asked.

  “I thought I’d go with a golden oldie. Bringing Up Baby.”

  “Ooh! I love Katherine Hepburn.”

  “What about Cary Grant?”

  “He’s fine, I guess,” she said with a coquettish flutter of her lashes. In fact he was more than fine. Cary Grant had always been one of her favorite actors. More than today’s movie heroes, he had charm, style and charisma and that elusive je-ne-sais-quoi.

  “Phew. I hoped you’d like my selection.”

  “I love it.” She didn’t mention that she’d already seen the movie about a dozen times on TCM. On the big screen it would look even better, of course. Their local movie theater was holding a screwball comedy retrospective and she was happy Chase was a fan, too.

  “So what do you think is Cary Grant’s best movie?” she asked now.

  He pressed his napkin to his lips. Their menu had consisted of shrimp scampi and lobster stuffed flounder with a side of pasta and marinara sauce and brickle for dessert: toasted almonds, ice cream and whipped cream. A real feast. And the evening wasn’t over yet. Not by a long shot.

  “I like the Hitchcocks best,” Chase said. “North by Northwest, To Catch a Thief, Charade…”

  “Charade isn’t a Hitchcock,” she told him. “It’s Stanley Donen’s Hitchcock homage.”

  Chase grinned. “Of course you would know that, Miss Movie Buff.”

  “I like Arsenic and Old Lace. Oh, and Mr. Blandings Builds His Dream House, of course.”

  “Huh. I thought you’d have gone for the more romantic ones.”

  “I guess I’m a funny girl at heart,” she quipped.

  “Yes, you are,” he said, and gave her one of those looks that made her melt like the toffee-flavored ice cream on her tongue. “Not only funny but smart, beautiful, compassionate…”

  Her cheeks flushed, and not just from the fireplace they were sitting close to. “Keep this up and I just might let you get frisky through the second act of Bringing Up Baby.”

  “Oh, I’m counting on it.”

  She dug her spoon into the caramel-colored ice cream. “Is it just me or is it hot in here?”

  Chase cleared his throat. “I heard your grandmother moved back in with your parents?”

  And there it was: the reason he’d asked her out on a date in the first place. Or at least that’s what she
hoped. They’d been going out for months now, and it was time to put their budding relationship on a more permanent footing. Since Chase bunked with Odelia’s uncle, having not had much luck renting a place of his own in town, moving in with her was the logical thing to do. And oh boy was she ready. And she’d just opened her mouth to confirm that her grandmother had, indeed, moved back in with her folks when both of their phones started to sing in unison.

  “Huh,” said Chase with a frown. “It’s your uncle.”

  “My mom,” said Odelia with a smile, and tapped the green Accept icon. “Hey, Mom. What’s up?” When the garbled words of her mother flowed into her ear, though, her smile quickly vanished. “Wow, slow down. What are you talking about?”

  “He’s dead!” Mom practically shouted into the phone. “Chris Ackerman is dead and now they think he may have been murdered and that I had something to do with it!”

  As her mother explained what happened, Odelia fixed her gaze on Chase, whose jaw was clenching while he listened to what Uncle Alec, the town’s chief of police, had to say.

  Looked like Cary Grant and Katherine Hepburn would have to take a rain check.