Ник Сайнт - Purrfect Sidekick. Purrfect Deseit. Purrfect Ruse [calibre 5.14.0]

“That’s right,” said Vesta as she licked her lips at so much gooey goodness standing at attention at arm’s length. “Why do you want to know?”

“The thing is, ma’am,” said the kid, gulping a little, and in the process giving his Adam’s apple a thorough workout, “that currently we have a VIP guest staying with us. At the hotel,” he added to make his meaning perfectly clear, “not the dining room.”

“Is that so?” said Vesta, taking an extra-large sip from her extra-large drink and savoring the extra-delicious taste as it flooded her taste buds. Whatever Tex said, something that tasted so absolutely divine couldn’t possibly be all bad, now could it?

“The thing is, this VIP guest has expressed a desire to invite a guest to his suite—and he did. Last night. I know it’s not really allowed, but sometimes when guests ask, we provide, you know. Even though we might, um, like, frown upon the practice?”

Vesta rolled her eyes. “Just spit it out, buddy. What are you trying to tell us?”

“I think what our hot cocoa-pushing friend here wants to say,” said Scarlett, “is that this VIP guest invited a lady of the night to accompany him in his room, and even though the hotel officially doesn’t allow that kind of thing, they supplied him with just such a lady. Isn’t that right, son?”

“Yes, ma’am,” said the kid, visibly relieved at Scarlett’s assistance.

“So?” said Vesta, who still didn’t see what Dr. Pimple Popper’s next victim was driving at.

“Well, the young lady never seems to have left the gentleman’s room,” said the kid as he rubbed his nose nervously, polishing it to a shine. “The night clerk never saw her leave, and neither did the day guy, and the cleaner who went in just now to do the room saw no sign of her either. The thing is—we don’t want to call the manager otherwise he’ll call the cops, and my colleagues will probably get fired for breaking hotel policy.”

“So you don’t want to call the cops and you don’t want to tell management,” Vesta summed up the affair succinctly. “But the girl is missing and you worry that your VIP guest did—what, exactly?”

“I think he may have d-d-done something to h-h-her?” the kid stammered.

“You mean like, killed her?” asked Scarlett.

“Yeah?”

“Who is this VIP guest, exactly?” asked Vesta.

“Oh, don’t you know, Vesta?” said Scarlett. “There’s only one VIP guest staying here at the moment and that’s some English lord or something. Lord… Hillbilly?”

“Lord Hilbourne,” said the kid, once again much relieved by Scarlett’s perspicacity. “The thing is… I know this girl, ma’am. She’s not usually into this kind of thing, but I guess she needed the money, and so…”

“What’s the name of this girl?” asked Vesta.

“Cody. Cody Sorbet. So I thought maybe you could make some discreet inquiries? I know you run the neighborhood watch? And you’re probably used to this kind of thing?”

“Sure, I’ll ask around,” said Vesta, gratified that her reputation was slowly spreading.

“And you won’t tell your son? At least not in an—in an… “ His Adam’s apple did some more somersaults. “In an official capacity?”

Vesta smiled. “I get it. You want me to tell Alec, but you don’t want him to get involved—not officially at least.”

“Exactly, ma’am. Thank you, ma’am.” And with these words, he suddenly turned on his heel and was gone, hurrying back inside as if his rear end was on fire.

“See?” said Scarlett. “The neighborhood watch is becoming a force to be reckoned with.”

“You know what? I don’t think I’ll tell Alec. I think we’ll handle this ourselves.”

“But if this Lord Whatshisface really hurt this girl Cody…”

“Then we’ll tell the cops. But first we need to find out what happened. For all we know the night clerk fell asleep at the job and Cody is safe and sound at home.”

“So now we have two cases to work on,” said Scarlett, as she held up her coffee cup.

Vesta raised her own cup and they clinked. “To the neighborhood watch. May the sleuthing forces be with us.”

Chapter 12

“I’m sorry, you guys,” said Odelia as we walked out of the police precinct, “but before I can go and interview Evelina Pytel I have an interview with Lord Hilbourne scheduled.”

“That’s all right,” I said cheerfully. “We’ll join you. I’ve never met an English lord before.”

“Me neither!” said Dooley. “I wonder what he looks like. Probably very distinguished. Like those people in Downton Abbey.”

Recently the Pooles had been on a Downton Abbey kick. Well, more Odelia and her mother and grandmother, actually, with Chase, Tex and Uncle Alec reluctant bystanders.

“Do you think he has a butler and maids and all that?” asked Dooley.

“I’m sure he doesn’t,” said Odelia. “And I’m going to have to disappoint you again, I’m afraid, as I can’t take you along on my interview. Lord Hilbourne’s rider specifically states he doesn’t want any pets present at the interview. He must have heard about you.”

“A rider? You mean he brought along his horse all the way from England?” asked Dooley.

“No, a rider is a list of stipulations for interviews,” Odelia explained, “and the rider I got from Lord Hilbourne’s people clearly stated I should leave my pets at home.”

“Too bad,” I said. “I would have loved to meet the guy.”

“I don’t,” said Dooley. “If he doesn’t like cats, I don’t want to meet him.”

Odelia smiled and crouched down to pat us both on the head. “While I go and talk to Lord Hilbourne, why don’t you ask around to see if anyone has heard something about what happened to Bob Rector? And while you’re at it, maybe you can ask about Evelina Pytel, too. A woman who loses seventy-five thousand dollars in a botched handover and doesn’t call the police just may have something to hide.”

So Odelia went one way, while Dooley and I went the other. “Do you think Evelina had something to do with the death of her boyfriend, Max?” asked Dooley.

“I’m sure I don’t know, Dooley. Though it’s entirely possible, of course. At this point we don’t know very much, do we?”

“No, we don’t,” he said. “All we really know is that Lord Hilbourne doesn’t like cats.”

“Pets,” I corrected him. “He doesn’t like pets.”

“So weird. I thought all those English lords loved pets. Like that guy in Downton Abbey. You practically never see him without his dog. As if they’re attached at the hip.”

“He probably left his dog at home,” I said, “and now he doesn’t want to see any other dog because he misses his own dog so much and other dogs remind him of his own sweet mutt.”

Dooley sighed an exaggerated sigh. “Max, you always think the best of people, don’t you?”

Soon we’d arrived at our destination, which was the General Store, where our friend Kingman resides. He belongs to the General Store’s owner and proprietor Wilbur Vickery. The impressive piebald was sitting in his usual place: out in front of the store, greeting passing pets and people, and generally being true to his reputation as Hampton Cove’s unofficial feline mayor.

“Max! Dooley!” he cried when he caught sight of us. “I was just thinking about you guys!”

“You were?” I said, greatly surprised. Kingman isn’t all that fond of male cats. He’s more into the female of the species. In fact whenever he sees a female feline he gets all giddy and starts putting the moves on her—rarely though his seduction techniques bear fruit. In that sense he’s very much his owner’s pet. Wilbur is crazy about the ladies, too, but only very rarely—or ever—succeeds in dragging one back to his cave for some much-desired nookie.