The Mysteries of Max BoxSet Read online

  “One big happy family with Brutus? I don’t think so!” I cried. “The cat kicked me out of the police station! Actually forbade me to even go there. How can I do my job if I can’t even eavesdrop on the Chief? It’s an outrage!”

  “He was only doing his duty,” said Harriet a little stiffly. It was obvious that nothing could convince her that Brutus, and by extension Chase Kingsley, were bad news.

  “You can’t still like that cat,” I said, outraged. “He actually threatened me with violence if I ever come near the police station again. Violence!”

  Which, now that I knew what kind of guy Chase was, wasn’t surprising.

  “That’s wasn’t very nice,” Dooley said, with a tentative look at Harriet.

  But Harriet wasn’t convinced. “I’m sure he simply feels he’s doing his duty, Max. If only more cats were like Brutus, the world would be a better, safer place.”

  “The world would be a Nazi prison camp and Brutus would run it,” I said, shaking my head. I simply couldn’t understand how she could still defend that cat. He was a menace to our community. “I think we should all get together and take a vote,” I said now. “Have Brutus expelled. We simply cannot allow him to come here and try to take over. A line has been crossed.”

  “You’re simply jealous,” Harriet challenged.

  “Jealous!” I cried. “Of that clown! As if! All I’m doing is protecting my human from a terrible fate. Is that so wrong?”

  “No, you’re doing the right thing, Max,” said Dooley, who was still casting anxious glances at Harriet, whom he obviously seemed to consider the real authority here, and not me, which offended me to some extent. But then Dooley had always drooled over Harriet ever since the three of us met, many years ago. His attempts at wooing her have always failed, though. Harriet doesn’t like just any cat. It takes a special cat to touch her heart, and apparently in Brutus she’d found just such a cat.

  A horrible thought entered my mind. “You’re not thinking of getting together with Brutus, are you?” I asked, horrified. The thought of a litter of little Brutuses was too much to bear.

  She gave me a dark look. “Please, Max. You know they… fixed me,” she added in hushed tones. The disgrace of being spayed still weighed heavy on her. Before, she’d been able to produce a sizable litter a couple of times a year, but then Odelia’s mom had taken matters into her own hands and had her fixed. The same way Odelia had had me neutered and Gran had had Dooley neutered as well. I loved my human, and so did Dooley and Harriet, but it was almost as if they didn’t want more cats brought into this world. As if they didn’t enjoy the sight of a litter full of little kittens, gamboling about.

  Except for little Brutuses. I drew the line firmly at a litter of Brutuses.

  “I think we should continue this investigation ourselves,” I now said, deciding to change the subject. “If it’s true that Chase was dishonorably discharged from the NYPD, I can’t imagine he’s fit to lead this investigation.”

  “So we do it ourselves?” asked Dooley excitedly.

  “We do it ourselves,” I confirmed. “We catch that killer.”

  “I don’t know, Max,” said Harriet dubiously. “Do you think we’re up for it? I mean, we’ve never done anything like this before. It might be dangerous.”

  “We owe it to Hampton Cove to catch any killer that might be lurking in our community,” I said solemnly. “And we need to make sure that the Writer’s Lodge is once again safe for writers to scribble their horrible drivel.”

  “I hadn’t thought about that,” said Harriet pensively.

  “Do you really think writers are going to avoid the Writer’s Lodge as long as that killer isn’t caught?” asked Dooley.

  “I’m sure no writer wants to take up residence at a lodge where only recently one of his kind has been gruesomely murdered. At least not as long as the killer is still lurking out in those woods, looking for another victim.”

  “Stephen King might like it,” Dooley said. “It might give him inspiration for another one of his horror stories.”

  “Yes,” I amended, “Stephen King might like it.”

  “Or George R. R. Martin,” Harriet said. “He’d probably love the idea of a writer being whacked in his favorite writing environment. I’m sure he’d get a kick out of it, and it might even induce him to speed up his writing.”

  “Yes, George might get a kick out of it, too,” I agreed.

  “And what about J.K. Rowling?” asked Dooley. “She loves a good horror story. Ooh! Maybe Voldemort killed Paulo Frey! Back from the dead!”

  “Right. As if a fictional character can really kill a writer,” I said. “All right. I’ll concede that there are certain writers that wouldn’t mind staying at a lodge where a writer was killed, but apart from those few, I’m sure most writers will think twice before selecting the Writer’s Lodge as their next destination. Which means Hetta Fried stands to lose her livelihood, and Hampton Cove a time-honored tradition of hosting famous celebrity writers.”

  “And the liquor store a great deal of business,” Dooley added.

  He was right. A lot of these writers liked to raid the liquor store before starting a new book. Copious amounts of alcohol were apparently a surefire way of beating writer’s block, or at least they liked to think so.

  “I feel it is our sacred duty as residents of Hampton Cove to find out who killed Paulo Frey and bring them to justice,” I said, pumping up my chest.

  “I agree. Let’s find ourselves a killer,” Harriet said, momentarily halting her grooming efforts—it takes a lot of work to keep that snowy white fur looking as perfectly fluffy and clean as hers does. She held up her paw.

  I placed my own blorange paw against hers, and Dooley raised his.

  “We solemnly swear to catch a killer and bring him or her to justice,” we all intoned, and then let go, satisfied we’d made a momentous pledge.

  “So when do we start?” asked Dooley.

  “Tonight,” I said, yawning. I needed my beauty sleep. It had been too long since I got some shuteye and I was starting to feel a serious nap coming on.

  “Yes,” Harriet agreed. “Let’s take a long nap and meet up tonight.”

  And showing she wasn’t joking, she immediately trotted off in the direction of her own yard, stared after by Dooley and me.

  “Um, can I sleep in your crib, buddy?” asked Dooley.

  “Why? Don’t you have enough space over at your place?”

  Dooley gave me a hesitant look. “It’s not that. It’s just that…”

  “Spit it out, man. What is it? Did Harriet take all the best spots again?”

  He nodded sheepishly. That was the trouble when you lived in the same house as a Persian. They liked to think they were lord of the manor. Queen of the castle. Ruler of the realm. Reducing all others to playing second fiddle.

  “Sure,” I said. “You can sleep on my couch today. Now let’s get our eighteen hours in before we go and catch ourselves a killer.”

  Chapter 6

  The moment Odelia returned to the newspaper, she drew up a list of people to interview. She wanted not just to solve this murder, but to write a series of articles that would have Hampton Covians sticking to their newspapers like glue, reading with rapt attention as their intrepid reporter led them, clue by clue, to the revelation of the identity of the killer who’d snuffed out one of their own. Well, technically Paulo Frey hadn’t been one of their own, of course. He was a New Yorker who spent a couple of weeks a year out here, but still, since Hampton Cove was a tourist town, tourists were as much a part of the community as the locals who lived here year-round.

  Besides, even in the heart of winter tourists stayed in town, as the tourist board had added a couple of winter events to the schedule, in hopes of making the town more attractive when the weather turned inclement.

  They organized a Winterfest now, and a Christmas market with an ice rink. It worked, for even in winter tourists made their way out here, though of course not as many a
s when the sun was out, and the beaches were full of people cavorting in the surf and enjoying all-night parties on the beach.

  The only one who didn’t care for the new winter activities was Chief Alec, who now had to round up drunk revelers all year, and not just during the summer.

  “So? Got yourself a genuine murder case, huh?” Dan asked, leaning against the doorjamb. He was sipping from his umpteenth cup of coffee and looked genuinely excited, as excited as she was feeling herself. He was a shortish man in his late sixties, with an impressive white beard and plenty of laugh wrinkles around his eyes, which always seemed to twinkle with delight.

  “Yup. This is the big one, Dan. Famous bestselling writer gets whacked and dumped in the can. This is going to get national headlines, I’m sure.”

  “Do they have a suspect?” asked the veteran editor.

  “Not yet. Uncle Alec is putting Chase Kingsley in charge.”

  This caused the editor’s bushy brows to wiggle with surprise. “Chase Kingsley? The new guy?”

  “Yeah, he’s supposed to be this hotshot detective from New York. Apparently he used to work for the NYPD, so he’s well qualified.”

  “Used to work being the operative word,” said the editor.

  She stared at him. “What do you mean?”

  All she knew about the guy was that he had an annoying cat, and that he seemed to hate reporters. Or it could be that he just hated her, of course.

  Dan looked over his shoulder, as if fully expecting Detective Kingsley to have walked into the office to eavesdrop on their private conversation.

  “What I’ve heard is that Chase Kingsley didn’t quit the NYPD but was forced out.” He lowered his brows and grumbled in a low voice, “Fired for gross misconduct is what I heard. Molestation of a suspect’s wife.”

  “Molestation!” she cried, her jaw dropping. “No way!”

  He shook his head sadly. “All I know is what was printed in the Post.”

  “The Post?” she asked, reaching for her laptop. This she had to see.

  “Stacy Brown got it from Lora Escort, who read it in the paper a couple of months ago and remembered the name. I doubt that Alec even knows about this, otherwise he probably would never have hired him in the first place.” His voice took on a grave tone. “If the rumors are true he actually molested the wife of a suspect while the guy was in custody, and she pressed charges against him, apparently not too keen on being manhandled by a cop.”

  She stared at the editor, fully aghast. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

  Dan shrugged. “Do I look like I’m kidding?”

  “But why would Uncle Alec hire a guy like that?”

  “Like I said, he probably doesn’t even know about it.”

  “That’s impossible. Nobody hires a cop without checking his credentials.”

  “Maybe he lied on his resume.”

  “I find it hard to believe Uncle Alec wouldn’t check his references. The NYPD is only a phone call away. No, I’m sure he knows about Chase Kingsley’s past and simply chose to ignore it.” She frowned. “But why?”

  “Beats me. I just know that that uncle of yours has got a really big heart, Odelia. Maybe he felt sorry for the guy? Hell, I’m not saying he’s not a good cop. Everyone seems to agree he was one hell of a detective. But with a thing like that hanging over his head, his chances of ever working as a cop again were slim to nonexistent.”

  “Except in Hampton Cove.” If she hadn’t been furious with him before, she was furious now. Molestation charges were not to be taken lightly.

  “Except in Hampton Cove, apparently,” Dan agreed with a nod.

  “I have to talk to Uncle Alec about this. We can’t have a man like that working for the HCPD. Especially with the entire town knowing about his sordid past. How can he expect to assume a position of authority?”

  “Well, we don’t know if the allegations are true, Odelia. For all we know the charges were unfounded and he was forced out anyway.”

  “I don’t think the NYPD would let him go if the charges were unfounded,” she argued. “No, this is serious stuff, Dan. If this is true, we can’t have a man like that working as a police officer in our town.”

  “You better have that talk with your Uncle Alec. Thresh this thing out once and for all.” He grinned at her. “So now you’ve got yourself two stories to dig into, huh? A murder and a bad cop. This is your lucky day, honey.”

  Chapter 7

  Ten minutes later, she waltzed into her dad’s medical practice again, and walked straight up to the desk. Gran, who’d been playing Scrabble online, eyed her disapprovingly. She didn’t like being interrupted when she was on a winning streak. “I told you. I’m fine. It was just a stomach bug. I’m all right.”

  “Good to know,” she said, panting slightly. “Is Rohanna still here?”

  Gran raised her eyebrows, then gestured with her head to one of the examination rooms. “In there. What do you want with her?”

  Odelia dropped her voice to a whisper. “There’s been a murder, and I’m writing the story. Remember that writer who disappeared last year?”

  “That nutcase?” asked Gran, making no effort to lower her voice.

  “Yeah, that nutcase,” she whispered. “Well, he didn’t disappear. He was murdered. They just dredged up his body from the Writer’s Lodge outhouse.”

  “You don’t say,” said Gran, licking her lips with obvious glee. “And you think Rohanna did it?”

  “No, I don’t. But I remember she also works for Hetta, keeping the Writer’s Lodge clean. So I just figured she might be a good place to start my investigation. Maybe she saw something or remembers something.”

  “I highly doubt it,” said Gran, pursing her lips. “The woman is batty.”

  “Why do you think she’s batty?” she asked after a pause. Gran sometimes had a habit of judging people too harshly, and being very vocal about it.

  “Because she keeps singing to herself, that’s why. I caught her at it a couple of times.” She leaned closer, but still spoke loud enough so that everyone in the waiting room could hear her. “She sings to herself and wiggles that enormous butt of hers while she works. Can you believe it?”

  Odelia smiled. “Plenty of people sing while they work, Gran.”

  “Well, I don’t.”

  “It’s because you have to answer the phone, and talk to people. Rohanna listens to music and sings along just to make the work go faster.”

  “I’m telling you, the woman is batty. Either you work, or you shake your ass. You can’t do both, unless you’re an exotic dancer, and trust me, no one is going to pay good money to watch Rohanna Coral strip and hug a pole.”

  “Gran!”

  “What? It’s true.”

  Shaking her head, Odelia went in search of Rohanna. She checked examination room number two, which served as a backup in case Dad’s workload became too much, and he called in the assistance of a colleague from one of the neighboring towns. She found Rohanna, earbuds in her ears, softly humming along with the music, shaking her tush, just like Gran said.

  She was a large woman, and had a considerable tush to shake around, that was true enough, though Odelia didn’t see anything wrong with a woman enjoying her work. She tried to catch Rohanna’s attention, and finally walked up to her and gave her a tap on the shoulder. Rohanna removed the earbuds and eyed her askance, as if to say, ‘Whaddya want?’

  “Hey, Rohanna,” she said. “Sorry to trouble you, but could I ask you a couple of questions about Paulo Frey and the Writer’s Lodge?”

  If the name was familiar to the cleaning lady, she didn’t give any indication. Instead, she frowned and asked, “Who?”

  “Paulo Frey? He was one of the writers who used to stay at the Writer’s Lodge. One of the regulars. He disappeared last year.”

  Her frown deepened. It was obvious she didn’t like to be interrupted while working. Or perhaps her favorite song had been on, and she hated to miss the opportunity to sing along. “I remember
him,” she finally said. “Isn’t he the skinny one who writes those gruesome thrillers?”

  “He was a thriller writer,” she confirmed. Whether he was skinny was up for debate. Judging from the pictures she’d googled he looked pretty average.

  “What about him? Did he finally decide to show up again?”

  “Well, he did show up,” she said, wondering how to break the news gently. “Um, Rohanna, you might want to sit down for this.” She gestured at one of the chairs and Rohanna, shaking her head and clearly not happy about this, did as she was told.

  “Are you gonna tell me what’s going on?” she asked.

  In a few carefully chosen words she explained that the police had fished the body of Paulo Frey out of the cesspit, and Rohanna was understandably shaken. She placed a hand on her voluminous chest, which was heaving dangerously. “Dead?” she cried, her voice rising. “He’s dead? But how?”

  “He was murdered, Rohanna,” she said gently. “Someone murdered him and tried to hide the body.”

  “Oh, my God,” she said, her face a mask of distress. “He was such a nice man. A great tipper. Used to leave me a sizable tip at the end of his stay. Said I was the best, on account of the fact that I always left a bottle of bourbon on his pillow when he arrived. Hetta wants me to leave chocolates, and I usually do, but Paulo told me the first year he hated chocolate. So I always left him one of those small bottles of bourbon.”

  “I see,” she said. “So he was fond of drink, huh?”

  But Rohanna wasn’t listening. She shook her head. “He was always full of stories and jokes. A real live wire. Whenever I was down at the lodge he used to tell me stories of his writing career. The most hilarious stuff. He once told me he had dinner with the President and the First Lady at the White House, and he and the President got drunk and decided to play golf on the White House lawn. In the middle of the night!” She looked up at Odelia. “Whodunit, Miss Poole? You tell me whodunit and I’ll kill the bastard.”