The Mysteries of Max Box Sets 3 Page 3

  Only now did she notice that up and down the corridor doors had been opened and other hotel guests had appeared, discussing the recent events and anxiously awaiting further developments, like people do. And to her surprise she recognized several of the men who stood staring back at her. There was Curt Pigott, Most Compelling Man in the World and the man who’d put Tres Siglas beer on the map. Bobbie Hawe, Most Attractive Man in the World and face of the Quattro Siglas brew. Jasper Hanson, Most Intriguing Man in the World, representing Cinco Siglas. Nestor Greco, Most Iconic Man in the World and iconic Seis Siglas figurehead. And even Dale Parson, who’d recently been voted Sexiest Man Alive.

  What was this? A convention of the Most Interesting Men in the World?

  Chief Alec’s people spread out and started taking down information and asking these men what they’d seen or heard. They would do the same with the other hotel guests and staff, and hopefully learn what had happened in those crucial final moments of Burt’s life.

  Chapter 4

  As Odelia walked out of the hotel, Chase walked in. She bumped into him and for a moment thought she’d slammed into a wall. But then the wall became animated and spoke.

  “We have a problem, babe,” the wall said.

  And when she looked up at his usually inscrutable face, she saw genuine concern there. “What happened?” she asked.

  “Check your ankles.”

  “My ankles?”

  “Uh-huh. I checked mine so now it’s your turn.”

  The man was not making any sense. She did as she was told, though, and lifted her pants leg to display a shapely calf and equally shapely ankle. Chase produced a sound of appreciation and his expression darkened.

  “Nice,” he grunted.

  “Look, if this is your idea of foreplay, I’ve got better things to do right now. We’ve got a dead body upstairs.” And part of it downstairs, too.

  But Chase wasn’t listening. Instead he’d crouched down and was inspecting her ankle, the procedure sending a pleasant tickle up her spine. The man had the touch.

  “Thought as much,” he said. “They got you, too, babe.”

  “Who got me?”

  He rose to his feet again. “The fleas.”

  This was the absolute last thing she’d expected. “The fleas?”

  “Yup. Your cats got fleas. And they’ve been biting us in the ankles. The fleas, not the cats. Max or Dooley must have jumped into bed at some point during the night and left some of the little critters to feast on us, too. Fleas love to go for the ankles for some reason.”

  With a yelp of horror, she checked her ankles. Chase was right. The skin was dotted with red spots. Yelp! “Fleas!” she cried. “I’ve got fleas!”

  “Not you. Your cats. I checked them before I left. They’re full of the nasty little bugs.”

  She buried her face in her hands. “My babies got fleas! I’m officially the world’s worst cat person!”

  “No, you’re not. No pets are safe from these pests. Probably picked them up out in the yard or got them from some neighbor cat.”

  She peeked between her fingers. “They all got them?”

  “Yep. After I found them on Max and Dooley I went next door and Marge checked Brutus and Harriet and they got them, too.” He smiled. “I feel a trip to the vet coming up.”

  She shook her head. “They hate going to Vena. Last time I took them they didn’t stop whining for weeks.”

  “Yeah, well, better Vena than this flea infestation.” He glanced at a couple of cops who stood interviewing hotel guests, notebooks out, pencils poised. “So what happened here? Your uncle said something about an explosion?”

  The topic of the fleas dispensed with, she nodded. “Burt Goldsmith was blown up.”

  “The Dos Siglas guy?”

  “I was just on my way to interview him when his room exploded and his head came tumbling down at my feet.”

  In spite of the circumstances, Chase grinned. “His head, huh?” He shook his own head. “This could only happen to you.”

  She whacked him on the arm. “It’s not funny.”

  He sobered. “No, I guess it’s not. So what do they think happened?”

  “No idea. The room is blown to bits. Looks like a bomb went off or something.”

  “So no gas explosion?”

  “Definitely not.”

  “Maybe he accidentally blew himself up?”

  “Or maybe he blew himself up on purpose.”

  They watched as a team of Suffolk County fire marshals double-parked their big rig in front of the hotel and walked in. If anyone could find out what happened in there it was these guys. Just then, Chief Alec came walking out, wiping his brow.

  “What a mess,” he grumbled as he joined them on the sidewalk.

  “Any leads?” asked Chase.

  “Yeah, one. Kid who works room service says he brought a bottle of beer up to Goldsmith’s room about fifteen minutes before the explosion. Third bottle in two days.”

  “Beer? You think Burt Goldsmith was killed by an exploding bottle of beer?”

  Uncle Alec turned up his hands. “Who knows? Apparently there was some kind of private war going on between Burt and some of these other interesting guys. They all work for different beer companies and can’t stand the sight of each other. So they like to send each other beer bottles as a taunt. These particular bottles were sent by…” He took a notebook from his pocket then groped around his head for a moment. “Where are my damn glasses?” he grumbled.

  Odelia helpfully pointed to the glasses that were sticking out of his shirt front pocket.

  He took them and placed them on his nose. “Thanks,” he muttered, then read aloud, “A Curt Pigott. Calls himself the Most Compelling Man in the World.” He removed the glasses and gave them a dubious look. “And of course Pigott claims he never sent any bottles. And definitely no exploding ones.”

  “He would say that, wouldn’t he?” said Odelia.

  “Then again, why would he use room service to kill his competitor?” Chase said. “That would be dumb.”

  “Good point,” Alec grunted. “And if he did put some type of explosive in that bottle there would be traces on his person and in his room. Which is what we’re trying to determine right now.”

  As they spoke, some of the interesting men came ambling out of the hotel and walked over to where Burt’s remains had dropped down to the sidewalk. Burt’s grandson, meanwhile, joined Odelia, Chase and her uncle. He was pale as a sheet. “This is horrible,” he said. “A nightmare. What do you think happened, Chief? Is it true what they’re all saying?”

  “What are they saying, son?” asked Alec.

  “That he did this to himself? That he committed suicide in the most spectacular way possible?” He stifled a sob. “That he went out with a bang?”

  “It’s too soon to tell,” said Chief Alec.

  “What do you think?” asked Chase.

  The kid stood shaking his head, as if trying to clear it. “Grandpa would never kill himself. He loved life. He loved himself. He loved being the Most Fascinating Man in the World. I—I just can’t believe it. Then again, he did love a good show.” He closed his eyes, looking pained and on the verge of another collapse. “I just don’t know,” he said. “I just know I loved the old man to pieces and now…” He stifled another sob. “Now he is in pieces.”

  Uncle Alec grasped his shoulder and gave it a good squeeze. “Try not to think about it too much, son. Whatever happened here—I can promise you this: we’re going to get to the bottom of it. We’re going to find out what exactly happened to your grandfather and you’ll be the first to know when we do.”

  “Thanks, Chief,” said the kid hoarsely. “You’re very kind.”

  Just then, an altercation alerted them that something was amiss. A woman came walking up to the hotel, loudly demanding to be told what was going on. She was making quite a scene, making heads turn up and down the street.

  “Uh-oh,” said Chief Alec.

  T
he woman was his mother—Odelia’s Grandma Muffin.

  Chapter 5

  Frankly I was having a hard time coming to terms with the tragedy that had befallen me. Fleas? Feasting on my body? The thought was too outrageous to contemplate. And yet it was true. I’d seen the little buggers, jumping up and down with joy after drinking from my blood—sticking tiny little holes in my skin with their tiny little mouths—invading the sanctity of this feline body of mine. Dooley was even more devastated by the news than me.

  “Why, Max?” he was wailing after Chase had left. “Whyyyyyy?”

  I could have consoled him but frankly I didn’t feel up to it. And when Brutus and Harriet joined us in Odelia’s backyard, also looking glum and forlorn, the pity party was complete. Four cats, struck down by the weight of woe—or a small army of fleas.

  “I can’t believe it,” said Harriet, the prettiest white Persian for miles around. She was licking her snowy white fur distractedly, her heart clearly not in it. “Fleas. Me. It must be some mistake.”

  “It’s not a mistake,” said her partner Brutus, a black and muscular creature who at one time had been my mortal enemy. We’d learned to coexist, though, and had struck up an awkward friendship. Well, maybe not a friendship, per se. More like a modicum of mutual respect. “Marge inspected my fur and there they were. An entire colony of bugs, snacking on this beautiful body of mine. This temple. This epitome of health and beauty. This—”

  “Yes, yes, yes,” I said irritably. I was not in the mood to listen to Brutus’s narcissistic ramblings. Though truth be told he recited his ode to himself in a toneless voice. It was obvious he was down in the dumps with the rest of us. “Look, we can whine all we want. It’s not going to do us any good! All we need to do is trust that Odelia will do the right thing.”

  “They lay eggs, you know,” Brutus said in that same listless voice. Almost as if he hadn’t heard what I said, which wouldn’t be the first time. “Big giant collections of eggs. Thousands of them. Millions, maybe. And when they hatch, that’ll be the end of us.”

  Dooley stared at him in abject horror. “Eggs!” He gulped once or twice and dropped to his paws, plunking down on the cool grass. We were seated in the shade of the tulip tree that borders Odelia’s backyard. It’s one of our favorite spots. Now? I wasn’t so sure. Maybe these fleas had jumped from this tree onto our fur? Maybe they lived in the grass?

  “Look,” I said, holding up my paws. “Let’s all stay calm, all right? Let’s not panic.”

  “A colony of eggs!” Dooley cried. “On my body! Millions and millions of them!”

  “I just can’t with this,” said Harriet, hanging her head. “This is all too much.”

  “I talked to Kingman,” said Brutus. “And he told me fleas can grow to be as big as mice—rats even! Can you imagine? Millions of those horrible creatures?”

  “We’re dead,” said Dooley. “We’re all dead.”

  “We’re not dead, you guys!” I said, trying to stifle my own rising sense of panic. “Fleas don’t grow to be as big as mice. Are you kidding me? If they did don’t you think we would have seen them by now? Don’t you think Odelia would have called an exterminator?”

  “It’s just like that movie,” Dooley said. “First they killed Gwyneth, then they went after Rose from Titanic.” He sniffed and turned over on his back, paws bonelessly flopping in the air. “Max,” he bleated. “If I go first, tell Odelia about that time I broke her phone. Tell her I’m sorry. Ask her to forgive me.” He snuffled. “I’ll never break another one of her phones in my life. Cause I’ll be dead! And dead cats don’t break phones!”

  “Tell her yourself,” I said. “You’re not going to die, Dooley. None of us are.”

  “I wouldn’t be so sure,” said Brutus. “Kingman said—”

  “Oh, don’t listen to that cat,” I interrupted him. “He talks through his butt.”

  This seemed to interest Dooley. “Kingman talks through his butt? I never noticed.”

  “It’s an expression,” said Harriet. She’d stopped grooming herself and was now studying her belly—no doubt searching for that million-strong flea colony. “I don’t see them,” she announced. “Oh, wait. What are these little black spots? There were no black spots before.” Her voice was rising sharply. “Are these eggs? Eww! EWW! Get them off! Brutus—get them OFF me!” She was patting her belly anxiously. “Brutus! BRUTUUUUUUUS!”

  Brutus, always the gallant suitor, did what he could, rubbing her tummy feverishly. All the while Harriet was screaming up a storm. For a fastidious cat like herself, always looking spic and span and priding herself in her perfect grooming skills, this was nothing short of a tragedy. Imagine Kim Kardashian suddenly breaking out in hives. Only these weren’t hives but some horrible bugs burrowing into our skin! Laying eggs and feasting on our blood!

  “There—you missed one. Get them off! GET THEM OFF!”

  Dooley watched the scene with hollow eyes. It was obvious he felt that since death was imminent, and the flea invasion inevitable, all this hullabaloo was utterly pointless. His next words confirmed this newly acquired world view. “Just let them eat you alive.”

  Harriet, even though in the throes of the biggest personal crisis of her life, still found the time and energy to give him a laser-eyed look that could kill. “No damn CRITTER is going to eat ME alive. I’ve worked too damn HARD on this gorgeous body of mine to allow ANYTHING to feast on me, least of all some LOWLY PARASITE!”

  Now that was the spirit. I, for one, was a hundred percent sure Odelia would solve this mess posthaste. That’s what she did. That’s why I’d chosen her as my human. Oh, you may think humans choose us. Well, that’s where you’re wrong. Cats choose their humans, not the other way around. And I’d always prided myself in choosing the right one. She wouldn’t disappoint me now. I was ninety percent sure. Maybe eighty. Definitely seventy.

  Just then, Brutus drew me aside, leaving Harriet to a further inspection of every square inch of her fur and Dooley to stare up at the sky, waiting for the end to come.

  “Max,” he said, lowering his voice.

  “Look,” I said. “Kingman may be a lot of things, but he’s not a critter expert, all right? So don’t you believe a word that cat says. Kingman is what you might call an alarmist.”

  He waved an impatient paw. “Screw Kingman,” he said to my surprise. He looked agitated, and for the first time I wondered if his agitation stemmed from something other than the flea infestation. “I need to ask you a question and I need you to listen carefully.”

  “Sure. Shoot,” I said.

  “Max,” he repeated, and stopped, chewing his lip.

  “Uh-huh?”

  He cleared his throat. “It’s like this, Max…” He stared at me.

  “Yes?” I said encouragingly.

  He closed his eyes and rubbed his face with his paw. “Christ, this is hard.”

  Now he was starting to worry me. “Just tell me already, will you?”

  He fixed me with a stare from between his claws. “Right. Look, you gotta promise me not to tell a soul, okay?”

  “I promise.”

  He held up his little claw. “Pinkie promise?”

  I held up my little claw and hooked it behind his. “Pinkie promise.”

  The suspense was killing me. What could be so important? Soon he’d scratch my paw and have me press it against his in a blood oath or something similarly ridiculous.

  “I’m having issues, Max,” he finally said.

  “Issues?”

  “Down there,” he said, pointing at his tail.

  “You’ve got tail issues?”

  “Not tail issues. Pee-pee issues.”

  “You can’t pee? You should see a urologist.”

  “I can pee just fine!” he growled. “It’s the other thing that doesn’t work.”

  I stared at him. “What other thing?”

  He gave me an intense look.

  And then I got it. The other thing.

  “Oh. Oh!”


  “Uh-huh.”

  “You mean…”

  He nodded seriously. “It just doesn’t work like it used to, Max. And now I don’t know what to do.”

  “And I’m supposed to know?”

  He gave me a hopeful look. “You’re a smart cat, Max. Everybody knows that. You’ve been around the block once or twice or maybe even three times. Help me out, will you?”

  He said it with such a pleading expression on his face that my heart melted. “Fine,” I said finally. “All right. I will help you.” Though for the life of me I had no idea how.

  “Harriet is very unhappy,” he continued. “You know she likes it rough, right?”

  I pressed my paws to my ears. This I did not need to hear. “Too much information, Brutus,” I said. “Just tell me what’s wrong and maybe we can try and fix it.”

  “Well,” he said, frowning, “it used to work just fine, and now it doesn’t.”

  “What do you mean it doesn’t?”

  He shrugged. “The little bugger refuses to show his face.”

  “Maybe it’s Harriet. Maybe you don’t like her the way you used to.”

  “Oh, I like Harriet fine. She’s the one for me, Max. No doubt about it.”

  I thought about this for a moment. “It could be a physical thing. Do you get your morning, you know, um, your morning stiffness in that general, um, area?”

  He smiled proudly. “Hard as a rock, Doc.”

  I grimaced. “Please don’t call me ‘Doc.’ I am not a licensed physician.”

  I suddenly noticed he’d dropped down on his butt and was sticking out a certain part of his anatomy and glancing at me invitingly.

  “What are you doing?” I asked.

  “Aren’t you going to inspect me?”

  In Harriet’s words: eww! “No, I am not going to inspect you.”

  “But how else are you going to know what’s wrong down there?”

  “You know what, Brutus? I think we better leave this to Vena.”

  “No!” he cried, then lowered his voice when Harriet and Dooley glanced over. “No can do, Doc. Vena will tell Odelia and Odelia will tell everyone else and Harriet will find out and…” He closed his eyes. “When Harriet finds out my life is officially over, all right?”