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

“Four is the score! You’re not the smartest cat in the litter, are you, cat? Four nips in the butt.”

“Look, we’re here to investigate the murder of Chickie Hay,” I said. “So if you could tell us what you know we would be very much obli—”

“Murder?” asked the dog, expression darkening. “What are you talking about, cat?”

“Our human is a detective,” I explained, “and she was called here to investigate the murder of Miss Hay. And as her pet sleuths we were hoping you could shed some light on the matter.”

“This is crazy,” said the doggie. “Chickie Hay is my human, and she’s not dead. She’s alive and kicking. Well, maybe not kicking, exactly, but singing and dancing. In fact she’s right up there practicing for her new tour. And if you don’t believe me just direct your attention yonder and you’ll hear her angelic voice belting out her latest hit song.”

We directed our attention yonder, as instructed, but I couldn’t hear anyone belting out any song, new or old. In fact I didn’t hear a thing, except for Harriet yapping a mile a minute to the peacock, who was looking slightly dazed from all this verbal diarrhea.

“Um? I don’t hear anything,” Dooley finally announced.

“Me neither,” I said. “Are you sure she’s up there?”

“Of course I’m sure,” said the doggie, even though he now looked slightly worried.

The French Bulldog stared at us, clearly distraught, then, suddenly and without another word about nips in the butt, tripped off in the direction of the house.

“Not much of a witness,” said Dooley. “He doesn’t even know his human is dead.”

“He could still prove a valuable witness,” I said.

“He could?”

“He might not know what he knows and when we talk to him again, he might remember what it is that he didn’t know he knew. If you know what I mean.”

Dooley stared at me. “I’m not sure I got all that, Max.”

I wasn’t sure I got it myself. That’s the trouble with being a detective: you just muck about for a while, hunting down clues, speaking to pets and people, and finally you may or may not happen upon a clue that may or may not be vital to the investigation. And if you’re lucky you end up figuring out what happened. And if you’re unlucky, well, then Harriet beats you to it by extracting the telling clue from a silly-looking big bird with spectacular plumage.

Chapter 4

Laron Weskit sat enjoying his morning coffee whilst ensconced in front of the window of his hotel room. The room overlooked Hampton Cove’s Main Street and as such was perhaps not the best room in the house for a man who valued his privacy, but still preferable to a view of the back streets of the small Hamptons town.

A buff young man with a fashionable buzz cut and a trim hipster beard, he was one of the youngest and most successful record executives, with several popular artists on his roster. He’d already scanned the business section of the Wall Street Journal on his phone and was just checking his emails when his smartphone sang out Charlie Dieber’s latest smash hit. A good record executive plugs his clients any way he can, and adopting his protégé’s hit song as his ringtone was but one way to accomplish this, subtly inflicting Charlie’s latest earworm on whoever happened to be in the room with him.

“Tyson, my man!” he said. “Whaddya got for me, buddy?”

“Bad news, I’m afraid, Mr. Weskit,” said Tyson.

“What is it this time? Another lawsuit? Or some fresh dig on Instagram?”

“I’m afraid Chickie’s dead, Mr. Weskit.”

For a moment Laron’s brain ceased to function, as if incapable of grasping this plain truth. “Dead? What do you mean, dead?”

“She was murdered—strangled. Our housekeeper found her. Police are here now.”

“So… do they know who did it?”

“I don’t think so. The detectives just arrived, along with the chief of police. They talked to Hortense and I guess it’ll be my turn next.”

Laron thought hard. Chickie Hay dead. How was that even possible?

“So… about our arrangement, Mr. Weskit, sir?” said Chickie’s bodyguard.

“What arrangement?” he grunted distractedly as he thought about the consequences of Chickie’s unexpected and frankly shocking demise.

“Well… you said that if I kept you informed of Miss Hay’s whereabouts and movements at all times I would be handsomely rewarded, Mr. Weskit, sir.”

“You were supposed to be her bodyguard, Tyson,” he said, suddenly experiencing a burst of irritation. “So why didn’t you do your job and protect the woman?”

“I-I was downstairs in the kitchen, Mr. Weskit. Having breakfast.”

“Some bodyguard you are. Having breakfast while your client is being strangled.”

“She was rehearsing,” said the man. “Said she didn’t want to be disturbed. And there were plenty of people guarding the perimeter, so I’m pretty sure no one came in or out.”

“So what are you saying? That it was an inside job?”

“I think so, sir.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t have any use for a bodyguard who allows his clients to die on his watch, Tyson. You understand what that’s going to look like on your resume, don’t you?”

“But, Mr. Weskit!”

“None of my clients will want to work with you. You know what pop stars are like, Tyson. Highly superstitious bunch. You’re damaged goods now. Impossible to place.”

“But, sir!”

“Maybe try the financial sector. Bankers are a lot less superstitious, or so I’ve heard.”

And with these words he promptly disconnected. Best to sever all ties with the guy. Lest he wanted to look bad himself by being associated with a failed security man.

“Who was that, darling?” asked his wife Shannon as she strode into the room. Blond and impossibly skinny with an outrageously inflated bust, she’d managed to squeeze her perfect form into a sexy little red dress. Laron Weskit was not exactly a picture of male beauty, but what he lacked in physical attraction he made up for in business success, and since nothing turned Shannon on more than having a husband with several million in the bank, he’d been lucky enough to entice her to be his bride three years ago. Theirs was a happy partnership, based on one guiding principle: he made the money, and Shannon spent it. It made them both happy, and that’s what a good marriage is all about.

“Chickie Hay is dead,” said Laron, never one to beat about the bush.

Shannon’s hand, which had been busy bringing a piece of avocado toast to her mouth, halted in midair, and she looked up, looking as shocked as he had been when Tyson had told him the terrible news. But she quickly recovered. “What happened?”

“Murdered. Police are on the scene. They don’t know who did it yet.” He directed an inquisitive look at his wife. “You didn’t happen to go out this morning, did you, darling?”

She laughed. “No, I didn’t. You don’t think I would kill the wretched girl, do you?”

“You never know. Chickie had a lot of enemies.”

“And none more prominent than you,” she pointed out.

“Yeah, I’m sure it won’t be long before the police come knocking on our door.”

“Why don’t you call your friend the Mayor? I’m sure he’ll be able to arrange something. Keep the baying hounds off our backs.”

He smiled. That was Shannon for you. Always the practical one. “You’re right. Why subject ourselves to scrutiny when we can avoid it? I’ll make the call straight away.”

“Too bad, though,” said Shannon as she took a tentative nibble of her toast.

“Yeah, what a waste of talent.”

“Not that. What a pity we don’t have the rights to her new album. I’m sure it’ll go triple platinum now.”