Purrfectly Deadly (The Mysteries of Max Book 2) Read online

  “Oh, look,” said Dooley. “He’s got a pool.”

  And indeed he did. We walked over to the pool to take a closer look, and that’s when we saw it: a lifeless figure was floating facedown in the center of the pool, completely in the nude, and judging from the large tattoo of two mating unicorns on his left buttock and a rainbow on the right, this was none other than John Paul George himself. I remembered seeing that tattoo when Odelia was researching the singer last night, and even though it looked slightly saggy now, having been tatted during the pop sensation’s glory days, it was still recognizable.

  John Paul George, eighties boy wonder, was either breathing underwater, or he was dead.

  Chapter 2

  After we told Odelia what was going on, we pussyfooted back to the pool area, this time with Odelia right behind us. But even as we led the way, she told us, “This is a very bad idea, you guys. I shouldn’t be back here.”

  It seemed like a weird thing to say for a top reporter, and I told her so.

  “I don’t know,” she said. “Strictly speaking this is trespassing. And what’s even worse, if what you’re saying is true and John Paul George is dead and floating in his pool, I might get into a lot of trouble here.”

  It was the arrival in town of that new cop, I knew. The old Odelia wouldn’t have thought twice about trespassing, and the fact that a famous celebrity was dead in their pool would only have made her run faster. But Kingsley’s arrival had apparently robbed her of her journalistic instincts.

  “Look, the guy invited you,” I said. “So you’re not trespassing.”

  “Well, that’s true, I suppose.”

  “Besides, officially you don’t know that he’s dead. You didn’t hear it from us. You just wondered why he didn’t answer the door, you got worried, and you thought you’d better check, in case something had happened to him.”

  “I like your thinking,” she said, nodding. We’d walked around to the back of the house, and she gasped when she caught sight of the floating body. The last doubts as to whether the guy was snorkeling were removed: for one thing he wasn’t equipped with a snorkel, and for another, no one can hold their breath for that long, and certainly not a fifty-year-old drug-addled pop star.

  “Oh, God,” said Odelia as she approached the pool. Then she proved that she was still the ace reporter I knew her to be: instead of a pool hook, she grabbed her smartphone and snapped a few shots of the deceased.

  “Do you think he’s dead?” asked Dooley.

  “I think that’s a pretty safe assumption,” I said.

  “Is it John Paul George?” was his next question.

  I pointed at the tattoos on his behind. “See those tats?”

  Dooley nodded. “Uh-huh.”

  “Only a pop star who’s consumed massive amounts of dope and booze would ever even think of having those particular tattoos inked on his butt.”

  “Dope?” asked Dooley. “What is dope?”

  “It’s, um, like pâté for humans, only not as good for you.”

  “We have to call the police,” said Odelia.

  We all stared down at the floating body. The former teenage heartthrob was now twice the size he’d been in his eighties heyday. No wonder he was rarely seen these days, and never granted any interviews. One stipulation he’d given Odelia for her exclusive was no pictures, and I could see why. He probably wanted to preserve the image of his youthful self to his fanbase, not allowing them to see the extended version of himself he’d turned into.

  Odelia pressed her phone to her ear, and when the call connected, said, “Dolores? Can you tell my uncle there’s been an accident at John Paul George’s place? And tell him to send an ambulance. Yeah, he’s dead.”

  While she gave the dispatcher some instructions, my eye wandered to the pile of glass vials on a table, the dozen or so empty champagne bottles on the pool chairs and the ashtrays full of reefers. That must have been some party.

  “Oh, and can you also tell him JPG’s boyfriend is dozing in a car in front of the estate. Maybe he’s got something to do with this tragedy. Thanks, hon.”

  She disconnected and crouched down at the edge of the pool. It was obvious that the demise of one of pop music’s greats had strongly affected her, to the extent she’d stopped snapping pictures, probably out of respect.

  Just at that moment, a cat came walking out of the house. She was a beautiful Siamese, and said, “What’s all this noise? And who are you people?” Then she caught sight of the man floating in the pool and faltered. “Is that…”

  “Afraid it is,” I told her, and watched her approach the pool wearily.

  “Is he… dead?”

  “Afraid so,” I repeated, studying her closely.

  She jerked back when the truth hit her. “Oh, no. Johnny’s dead?”

  “Looks like it,” I said. “How long had you known him?”

  The segue wasn’t very smooth, I admit, but that’s what you get from living with a reporter: you start acting like one yourself.

  She shook her head distractedly. “Long enough to know that this isn’t right.” She plunked down on her haunches, and stared at her dead human.

  “Is it true that he fed you guys pâté every day?” asked Dooley.

  She looked up sharply. “What kind of a question is that? Who are you?”

  “The name is Dooley,” he said, scooting forward, probably to rub his butt against hers. But the look she gave him quickly dissuaded him.

  “You’re trespassing, Dooley,” she said simply. “Please leave.”

  I shot Dooley a censorious glance and he lifted his shoulders. “What?”

  “You can’t ask the cat of a recently deceased human about pâté,” I hissed.

  “Why not? Isn’t that what we came here for?”

  “Well, you just can’t,” I whispered. Even though I was pretty curious about that pâté, too, of course. But there’s a time for pâté and now wasn’t it.

  Just then, two more cats came sauntering out of the house, and then two more, and before we could say hi to the first bunch, we’d been joined by a dozen cats, and they all sat staring at the dead man. Then, as one cat, they all started mewling plaintively, letting their torment be heard across the pool.

  Dooley gave me a curious look, but instead of explaining to him that this was what cats did when their owner suddenly passed away, and especially an owner as generous with the pâté as John Paul George apparently was, I decided to join in the ritual. After a moment’s hesitation, so did Dooley, and before long, we were both howling along, our cat choir practice finally coming to good use. Even though JPG hadn’t been our human, we could certainly understand the distress that comes with having to say goodbye to a beloved human, and as we mewled up a storm, Odelia simply sat there.

  Soon, our howls mingled with the sounds of a police siren, and before long we were joined by Chief Alec, Chase Kingsley, and other members of the Hampton Cove Police Department. They all walked up to Odelia and for a moment simply stood staring at us cats, as we continued our caterwauling. Then, just as abruptly as we’d started, we broke off, and one by one the cats all drifted back inside. They’d said their goodbyes and the show was over.

  Dooley and I decided to follow the others inside and glean what information we could from them. That, and we desperately wanted to take a look at the house, of course, and how the other cats lived.

  The house itself was a genuine mansion, with nice hardwood floors and huge portraits of the singer adorning every room. The man had apparently possessed a healthy dose of self-love, for he was staring down at us from every wall in every room we passed through. I quickly trotted after the group of cats as they made their way to what looked like a family room. At least it was where a collection of cream-colored sofas were gathered around an outsized coffee table that held a collection of outsized coffee-table books, all sporting pictures of nude males on the covers and all visibly well-thumbed.

  The cats hopped up onto the couches and the coffee table
and made themselves comfortable. In one corner of the room stood a white grand piano, and here, too, several cats stretched out and chilled.

  I decided to follow the Siamese, who seemed the only one willing to talk, and saw she’d sauntered into what looked like a recording studio off the family room. A lot of studio equipment indicated this was some kind of home studio, with an actual sound studio, recording booth and plenty of instruments placed against the far wall. I also saw enough gold and platinum albums to fill a hall of fame. This was JPG’s personal hall of fame, that was obvious. The Siamese sat next to an acoustic guitar that was placed on the floor, next to a couple of bean bags, a stack of music paper nearby.

  “Was this where he composed his music?” I asked.

  She nodded, and appeared on the verge of tears.

  “He was a great artist,” I told her. “An icon of his generation.”

  She looked up sharply. “What do you mean, his generation? He was the musical icon of this century, and the last. The greatest living artist, bar none.”

  “Well, there are others,” Dooley argued. “I mean, what about The Beatles? The Stones? Dylan?” He shut up when she gave him a dirty look.

  “None of them were as influential and as talented as Johnny,” she said, and it was clear we were dealing with an actual groupie here. A super fan.

  “So what happened last night?” I asked, deciding it was perhaps better to grab the bull by the horns, or the Siamese by the ears, as was the case.

  She shook her head. “He was partying hard, as usual. He’d just had another fight with Jasper, and he was overcompensating.”

  “Jasper?” mouthed Dooley.

  “The boyfriend,” I mouthed back. “We saw that. He’s parked out front.”

  “That often happen?” asked Dooley.

  She nodded. “They’d been fighting a lot lately. Jasper didn’t like that Johnny consumed so much… candy. He said that wasn’t what he’d signed up for. But Johnny said it gave him the boost he needed to create his music.”

  “Candy?” asked Dooley.

  “Dope,” I told him. “So Johnny still recorded?”

  “Oh, yes, he did,” said the Siamese with a smile. “Johnny must have recorded hundreds of songs since I came to live with him. All masterpieces.”

  “I’ll bet,” Dooley muttered, earning himself another scowl.

  “When was this?” I asked.

  She flickered her eyelashes at me. “Is that a roundabout way of asking me how old I am?”

  “Um…”

  “Johnny took in any stray that wandered into his home,” she continued with a wistful smile. “But he got me from a proper breeder five years ago and I have the pedigree to show for it. Not that it matters.” She sighed. “Johnny was the most generous human a cat could ever hope to come across. He loved all of his children, as he called us, and cared for us deeply.” Once again, it looked as if she was on the verge of tears, and Dooley and I stared at her sheepishly.

  I would have gone over and said, ‘There, there,’ but somehow I doubted whether this would go over well with this feisty and proud Siamese.

  “Do you think there might have been foul play involved?” I asked instead.

  She stared at me with her beautiful blue eyes. “I doubt it. Who would want to harm such a sweet and charming man? Everybody loved Johnny, and not just us cats. He had lots of friends, and partied every single night.”

  “What about his boyfriend?” I asked. “You said yourself he was jealous.”

  “Impossible. They might have had their differences, but Johnny and Jasper loved each other, in their own way. They had an understanding.”

  “Which was?” asked Dooley.

  She eyed him angrily. For some reason she didn’t seem to like Dooley. “I don’t expect you to understand, but they gave each other freedom and respect. Jasper knew Johnny was an artist and needed his space, so he happily gave him what he needed. He knew Johnny would never hurt him intentionally, but that he had certain… needs, and so he turned a blind eye.”

  “Right,” I muttered, remembering the pile of glass vials and the reefers and the bottles of champagne. I now wondered what had been in those vials.

  “How many people were here for the party?” I asked.

  She shrugged. “Maybe a dozen. Only one stayed the night, though.”

  “And it wasn’t Jasper,” said Dooley.

  “Like I said,” she snapped. “They had an understanding.”

  “Though last night they also had a fight,” I reminded her.

  “Yes, Jasper told Johnny he was fearing for his health. He was using too much and too frequently.”

  “Using what?” I asked.

  “Some… substance. It came in clear glass vials. It made Johnny happy.”

  And now it had made him dead, I thought. “So who was the lucky young man who got to stay behind last night?”

  “No idea. I was roaming the beach, and so were most of the others.”

  “So who—”

  “George told me. George never goes anywhere.”

  “And who is this George?”

  “He’s Johnny’s first cat. He brought him over from England years ago.”

  “George must be pretty old by now.”

  She laughed. “Don’t tell him that to his face. George is very vain.”

  “Where can we find him?”

  “You won’t get anything useful out of him,” she said as she started strumming the guitar with her nails. “George is extremely loyal.”

  “We’ll see about that,” I muttered. “Thanks, Miss…”

  “Johnny always called me Princess,” she said, and sighed. “I’ll miss him.”

  I could very well imagine. If my human died one day, I’d miss her, too. Us cats might have the reputation we’re selfish and we don’t care about humans, but that’s a filthy lie. We do care about our humans. We just don’t care to show it as much as dogs do, with their exaggerated slobbering and posturing.

  Dooley and I left the distraught Princess and made our way back to the family room, where the other cats were still looking glum. I wondered what was going to happen to them. I imagined JPG must have made provisions in his will for his beloved felines, and they would all be taken good care of.

  “This makes me sad,” said Dooley, gesturing at the sad-looking cats.

  “Yeah, it’s not a barrel of laughs,” I agreed.

  We both stared up at a life-sized portrait of the pop singer. It depicted him in his prime, with naked torso, looking like a young god. At his feet a large red cat sat perched, staring haughtily at the viewer.

  I pointed at the cat. “I’ll bet that’s George.”

  “You want to have a chat with George? Or check out that pâté first?”

  It was a tough choice. We’d come here for the pâté, obviously, but we also had an obligation to Odelia to find out as much as we could from the feline population about what had happened here last night. Finally, I said, “That pâté isn’t going away, so we better talk to George first.”

  “Didn’t you hear Princess? George has been here for years. He’s the one who’s not going away. That pâté might be gone by the time we find it.” He shook his head. “A distressed cat eats, Max. It’s called stress-eating.”

  He was right, of course. Still… “Look, this talk with George won’t take long, and I’ll bet there’s plenty of pâté. JPG didn’t stint on anything.”

  “Why don’t we split up? I’ll look for the pâté and you look for George.”

  “Yeah, right,” I scoffed. “So you can eat all the pâté? I don’t think so.”

  “I wouldn’t do that, Max. I’m not a glutton. I’d simply sample the stuff. Just to see if it’s as good as advertised. And if it is, I’ll leave some for you.”

  “That’s very generous. You know what? I’ll look for that pâté. You find George.”

  “You’re a much better interrogator, Max. Cats open up to you.”

  “Why don’t we find that pâ
té together,” I finally suggested, “before it’s all gone.”

  “Now you’re talking. Hey, look,” he said, gesturing at a lone ginger cat that shuffled out of the family room. It was the fattest cat I’d ever seen.

  “That must be George,” I said.

  “Let’s ask him where the pâté is,” Dooley said happily.

  “Good call,” I grunted, a low rumble in my tummy deciding me.

  Hey, we’re cats. We’re willing to do whatever it takes to help out our humans. As long as you keep us properly fed and hydrated.

  Chapter 3

  Odelia got up to meet her uncle and Chase. She’d been seated on one of the pool chairs, thinking deep thoughts about the fleetingness of life.

  She gestured at the man floating in the pool. “This is how I found him.”

  “And what were you doing here, exactly?” asked Chase, none too friendly as usual. Ever since the burly cop had moved to Hampton Cove, he and Odelia had locked horns over his idea that the citizenry had no place in police investigations, whereas she felt she was simply doing her duty to the Hampton Cove population by reporting on any crime that was committed here.

  “I had an interview with him, and when he didn’t answer the door…”

  “You decided to break in,” Chase supplied.

  “I was worried when he didn’t answer the door,” she said with some heat. Why did this guy insist on rubbing her the wrong way? “So, yes, I decided to walk round the back and see what was going on. What’s wrong with that?”

  “I don’t believe you have to ask,” he grumbled, shaking his head.

  Uncle Alec knelt next to the pool. “That’s Johnny, all right,” he said.

  “How do you know?” asked Chase, joining him.

  The Chief pointed. “See those tattoos? Johnny was famous for those. They were on one of his best-selling albums. Unicorns and Rainbows.”

  “I remember,” said Chase, nodding, and started singing softly. “Unicorns and rainbows. That’s the way the wind blows. Loved you in those funky cornrows…”

  Now it was Odelia’s turn to give him a curious look.