Ник Сайнт - Purrfect Advice. Purrfect Passion. A Purrfect Gnomeful

It was obvious the kid wasn’t going to cooperate, so Odelia took Chase’s arm, and led him into the lobby, where they took a seat on the same burgundy settees they’d sat on the day before. It seemed like they were spending an awful lot of time in this hotel.

“We’ll just sit here and wait until this blond woman and her friend come walking in or out,” she said. “I mean, sooner or later she has to pass by the lobby, right?”

“Could be that she already checked out,” said Chase. “In which case this whole thing is simply an exercise in futility. No, why don’t I call your uncle and maybe he can make this kid stop jerking us around?”

“You mean lean on him until he breaks?”

“Sounds like a plan, right?”

Just then, Vesta and Scarlett waltzed into the lobby, followed by four cats.

“What’s this I hear about a break in the case?” asked Vesta.

“There would be a break in the case, if the kid behind the reception desk would play ball,” said Chase. “But since he’s not, so far we’ve got zip. What have you got?”

“Nothing much. One girl remembers seeing Kirk, but he was by himself. Buying a bra,” said Scarlett, raising her eyebrows meaningfully.

“Probably a present for one of his lady friends,” Chase ventured, at which point all three women present rolled their eyes at him, the gesture clearly telegraphing ‘Duh!’

“Why don’t I have a crack at the kid?” Vesta suggested.

“And me,” said Scarlett, and before Odelia could stop them, both women were stalking up to the reception desk, the kid eyeing them with a distinct sense of disdain. He clearly wasn’t too fond of his job.

Odelia and Chase watched on as Vesta and Scarlett talked to the teenager, and saw his face change color. First from his natural pink to a bright beet red, then to a sickly white.

And as they made their way back, Vesta announced triumphantly, “We have a name and a room number, you guys and gals. The name is Norma Connors and the room 425.”

“Miss Connors is very blond and also has very big boobies—at least according to our pimply expert over there.”

“How did you do that?” asked Chase, a touch of awe in his voice.

“Well, first I told him that I’d tell his manager about the sex sites he’s been visiting on the front desk computer,” said Vesta.

“And then I told him I’d start screaming at the top of my lungs that he’d just touched my boob if he didn’t give me the room number of the pretty blonde with the girlfriend with the fish tattoo,” said Scarlett.

“How did you know he’d been surfing to naughty sites?” asked Odelia.

“Oh, will you look at the kid?” said Vesta. “He’s a teenager, hormones raging through his teenage body, and probably not a girlfriend in sight. Now let’s go, shall we? I believe we have a date with a suspicious blonde on the fourth floor.”

Chapter 34

It was a full elevator car that rode up to the fourth floor of the Star, packed with both human and feline detectives, all on the hunt for this mysterious blonde who may or may not have been involved with Kirk Weaver and who might or might not be able to shed some light on the man’s death.

“I feel like I should be the one to run point on this one,” said Gran after a moment’s silence. “After all it was my cats that provided the telling clue.”

“Technically it was Mom’s cat,” said Odelia. “Since Harriet is the one who discovered the existence of this mystery woman.”

“And since Marge is my daughter, I should be the one to lead the investigation,” Gran smoothly interjected.

“Brutus is actually Chase’s cat, and since he was also present when this clue was discovered, he should probably be the one to deal with this new witness and potential suspect,” said Odelia, rubbing her boyfriend’s arm.

Chase, who didn’t seem eager to get in the middle of an argument between his fiancée and his soon-to-be grandmother-in-law, wisely kept his tongue.

“I think I should be the one to ask the first question,” said Scarlett, “as it’s clear to me from the description that Norma Connors and I have a lot in common, and I feel we’ll immediately share a unique bond that will make her open up to me.”

“Oh, puh-lease,” said Gran. “Just because you both got the big boobies doesn’t mean she’ll confess to murder the moment she lays eyes on you, Scarlett.”

Scarlett sniffed, then said, “In the spirit of our newfound camaraderie I won’t dignify that dig at my boobies with a response, Vesta. I could have said that at least I have boobies, contrary to a certain flat-chested person I know, and that at least I look like a woman and not a man, but I won’t.”

Gran, who’d been silently grinding her teeth, looked as if she was ready to launch a verbal bazooka, but just then, and probably lucky for Scarlett, the elevator jerked to a stop, and the door zoomed open.

“We’re here,” said Odelia brightly, and hurried out.

“I think I should probably pose the opening question,” said Harriet as we all walked out. “After all, I was the one who talked to Samantha and found out about this woman.”

She had a point, I thought, but for one teensy tiny problem: I very much doubted whether our mystery blonde was one of those rare people who could talk to cats.

We all gathered in front of the door to room 425, and for a moment indecision reigned. Then, finally, Scarlett muttered, “Oh, for crying out loud,” and applied a firm fist to the door’s panel.

Moments later, there was a loud voice that shouted, “Coming. Just a minute!”

And then the door swung wide and a very perky-looking blond woman appeared. She was younger than I’d expected, with a halo of blond hair framing a lovely face, lit up by a welcoming and engaging smile. In fact she looked so pleasant I immediately discounted her as Kirk’s killer before I caught myself and remembered that sometimes the most horrific killers look just like you and me. Well, not me, perhaps, but probably you.

“Yes?” she said in a surprisingly soft and gentle voice. “Is this about the message of Jesus? Cause I already listened to your colleagues for two hours yesterday and even got a subscription to your magazine, just as they advised.”

“No, we’re not here to talk about Jesus,” said Gran, a little acerbically. “We’re all detectives, and we’re investigating the murder of Kirk Weaver, the cat whisperer. And we were hoping to have a word with you about the guy.”

“Oh, of course,” said the woman, and opened the door wide. “Come on in. And don’t look at the mess,” she added with a giggle.

We all stepped inside, and I wondered how a person as obviously gullible as this woman could have survived in life for so long. She hadn’t even asked for an ID or anything, nor asked the question why two old ladies, one of whom looked like an aged Fanny Hill, the other like Estelle Getty, and a burly stud-type male, along with a fair-haired reporter type, accompanied by no less than four cats, could ever be viewed as representing the long arm of the law.

“My name is Chase Kingsley,” said Chase. “And I’m a detective with the Hampton Cove Police Department.” He produced his badge, which the woman awarded scant attention, and made the necessary introductions. “These are my civilian consultants Odelia Poole, Vesta Muffin and Scarlett Canyon, all helping me investigate the murder of Mr. Weaver.”

“Oh, and you brought your cats along,” said the woman, crouching down to pet me. Immediately, and quite involuntarily, I might add, I started purring. She really was the sweetest soul I’d encountered in a murder investigation in a while.

“Yeah, they’re mine,” said Gran, still adopting the same gruff tone she liked to use when interviewing a suspect.