Ник Сайнт - Purrfectly Hidden. Purrfect Kill. Purrfect Boy Toy

“I only got here five minutes ago so I figured I’d wait for you guys.”

The woman who greeted them at the door was red-faced and very emotional. Judging from the way she was dressed she was perhaps the housekeeper who’d found Chickie, Odelia thought, and when she asked her the question, the woman nodded affirmatively.

“Yes, I found Miss Hay,” she said. She was short and round, with a kind face and a lot of curly brown hair piled on top of her head. Her name was Hortense Harvey.

“Please show us,” said Uncle Alec, adopting a fatherly tone.

“Did anyone come near the body?” asked Chase. When the woman uttered a quiet sob, he quickly apologized and corrected himself. “Did anyone come near Miss Hay?”

“No, detective. You told me over the phone not to allow anyone in so I locked the door—well, me and Tyson Wanicki, Miss Hay’s bodyguard.”

“Where was Mr. Wanicki when this happened?” asked Odelia.

“You will have to ask him yourself, I’m afraid,” said Hortense. “I haven’t been able to talk to anyone about what happened. I’ve been upstairs in my room crying.”

Odelia decided to postpone the questions for later, when they had a chance to properly sit down with the woman. For now they needed to see what had happened.

Hortense led them up a staircase and into the upstairs hallway, then to the last door on the left, where a large man stood sentry. When they arrived, he nodded. With his bald pate, horn-rimmed glasses and white walrus mustache he looked more like a kindly uncle than a hardened security man. He definitely did not look like Kevin Costner.

The bodyguard answered in the affirmative when Uncle Alec asked if he was Tyson, and stepped aside so the trio could enter the room. It was a large room, one wall consisting of a giant mirror, not unlike the workout rooms in fitness clubs. Speakers were still blaring and on a giant screen a woman was going through some dance moves.

“You told me not to touch a thing so I didn’t touch a thing,” said Tyson. He darted a sad look at the lifeless body in front of the mirror, and a lone tear stole from his eye.

Uncle Alec placed an arm around his broad shoulders. “You better get out of here, Mr. Wanicki. But don’t go too far. We want to have a word with you.”

“Yes, Chief,” said the man deferentially as he swiped at his teary face.

At the door, Hortense still stood, reluctant to enter. “You, too, Miss Harvey,” said Alec.

“Yes, Chief Lip,” said the woman, and the Chief closed the door behind them.

Once they were alone, he crouched down next to the body of the singer, shaking his head in dismay. “What a waste,” he muttered.

Odelia’s sneakered feet made a squeaking sound as she crossed the floor. The first thing that struck her was how small Chickie Hay looked. She also noticed the bruising on the famous singer’s neck and the bulging eyes, a clear indication of how she’d died.

“You a fan?” asked Chase.

“Not a big fan, but I like her music, yeah,” said Odelia.

“Me, too,” said Chase, a little surprisingly. He was strictly a country and western guy, but then again, Chickie Hay had country roots, and her first albums had been all country.

Odelia glanced up at the video screen where the choreographer still stood showcasing complicated and exhausting-looking moves, and Odelia remembered she’d been going through a similar routine herself only an hour before.

“Abe will be here soon,” said Uncle Alec, “but if you want you can start the interviews now. No sense in all of us waiting around for the big guy to show up, right?”

After one last look at Chickie, Odelia and Chase filed out of the room and saw that the bodyguard and the housekeeper had decided to wait outside. And as Hortense led them to a room where they could set up the interviews, Odelia wondered if Chickie had pets for her cats to interview. She hoped so, and she hoped they’d seen what had happened to their mistress.

Chapter 3

I actually felt like the leader of the pack for once, as I moved along the greenery in the direction of the back of the house, three cats following my lead. It didn’t last long, though, for soon Harriet fell into step beside me, scanning the grounds with her sharp eyes. “Our objective is to locate and interrogate any pets on the premises, Max,” she said, then darted a stern-faced look over her shoulder at the others. “And that goes for you two, too. Keep your eyes peeled, boys—remember, Odelia is counting on us.”

I heaved a deep sigh as she overtook me and then moved ahead of me, Brutus hurrying to keep up with her. Dooley and I fell behind and then lost sight of them.

“What is it, Max?” asked Dooley. “Why are you looking so sad all of a sudden?”

“For once I wish I were the one in charge—me being Odelia’s cat and all.”

“But you are the one in charge, Max.”

“Tell that to Harriet. I’m sure she doesn’t see it that way.”

He gave me a reassuring smile. “To me you’ll always be the one in charge, Max.”

I have to tell you I was touched. It was one of the nicest things anyone has ever said to me. “Thanks, Dooley,” I said. “That’s very sweet of you to say.”

“So what do we hope to find here, Max?”

“No idea. But you know what these ultra-rich celebrities are like. They like to keep some special pets no one else has. So we might expect a pet boa constrictor, a pet llama, a pet chimpanzee—anything goes.”

“Got it,” he said, looking appropriately serious for this most important mission.

“What do you think about Gran becoming the next Beyoncé?” I asked as we roamed around Chickie Hay’s gorgeous garden, exotic plants covering every available surface.

“I’m not sure,” he said. “You still haven’t told me who this Beyoncé person is.”

“Oh, right. Well, Beyoncé is—”

But unfortunately I was interrupted by the call of a bird. One glance told me it was a big bird—in fact a large peacock. And Harriet was already engaging it in conversation.

I resumed my instructive moment with Dooley. “So Beyoncé is—”

“What are you doing here?” asked a gruff voice in our immediate vicinity.

I glanced over and found myself locking eyes with a tiny French Bulldog.

“Oh, hi,” I said. “My name is Max and this is Dooley, and we’re here to—”

“Trespass, that’s what you’re doing,” he barked. “Get lost, cats. This is private property.”

“But—”

“No buts. Get lost now or I’m calling security.”

“Oh,” said Dooley. “I thought you were security, tiny dog.”

The dog’s expression darkened. “What did you just call me?”

“Um? Security?”

“No, the other thing. Starts with a T and ends with Y. Horrible slur.”

“Tiny dog?”

“That’s the one. I’m going to have to punish you for that. Lie down and willingly submit to your punishment, cat. Come on, now. I’m going to give you one nip in the butt. And if you repeat the slur I’ll have to give you two nips, so don’t go there.”

“But, tiny dog,” said Dooley, “we’re simply here because—”

“And you just had to go there, didn’t you? Lie down and accept two nips in the butt.” And he approached Dooley to administer the appropriate punishment.

But Dooley wasn’t taking it lying down. He wasn’t even taking it standing up. Instead, he said, “But, tiny dog, all we want is to—”

“And there you go again. Three nips is the proper punishment and you will take it like a cat, cat. Now face the other way. This will only take a second, and it will remind you not to repeat these horrible slurs to my freckled face.”

“Look, tiny dog…” Dooley began.