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

“Did she happen to drop by recently?” asked Chase, as Odelia jotted down the name.

“Yes, she was here,” said Hortense, much to Odelia’s surprise. “She was here the day after her husband was here, and she and Chickie argued. They argued very loudly.”

“What were they arguing about?” asked Odelia.

“Laron, and how strongly Shannon felt Chickie should stay away from him.”

“You could hear the argument?”

“Oh, yes. Like I said, they were very loud. Shannon said that if Chickie went near her husband ever again, she’d file charges for harassment, and Chickie said she was confusing a business relationship with a sexual relationship, and assured Shannon that she’d never felt about Laron Weskit that way. But Shannon said she didn’t believe her for one second.” Hortense pursed her lips disapprovingly. “And then she slapped her.”

“Who slapped who?” asked Chase.

“I’m not sure, but I think Shannon slapped Chickie. At least when Shannon left I didn’t notice any red marks on her cheeks, and Chickie looked furious, and she did have red cheeks. So I think it’s obvious Shannon slapped Chickie, and the moment she left, Chickie turned to me and said, ‘Make sure that woman never sets foot inside my house ever again.’ So I assured her I’d tell Tyson, and then Chickie returned to her room upstairs, where she always writes her new songs, and for the rest of the afternoon she didn’t come down again. She just sat there playing her guitar. I felt very bad for her.”

“When was this?” asked Chase.

“Yesterday afternoon,” said Hortense with a nod of certainty. “She only came out again when Jamie Borowiak dropped by in the evening and they sat in the garden.”

“Jamie Borowiak?”

“She’s Chickie’s best friend. Or at least she was, until Jamie got involved with Charlie Dieber, who went and ruined everything for them. But that’s a different story.” She gave them an eager look. “Do you want me to tell you that story, too?”

They both nodded. “Yes,” said Chase. “We want you to tell us everything you know.”

The woman smiled. “Oh, I know a lot. There’s no secrets in this house for me.”

And Odelia had the impression she was proud of the fact, too.

Chapter 8

We were making our way back to the house, in search of Odelia so we could tell her the information we’d gleaned from the gender-and-name-fluid peacock, when we found ourselves waylaid by the tiny French Bulldog who came streaking out of the house.

“She’s dead!” he cried, clearly distraught. “You were right, cats. My human is dead!”

“I’m so sorry,” I said.

“I went up there to see how she was, but there was a large cop walking around and when he slipped out the door for a moment I slipped in and there she was. Not moving!”

“I’m afraid she was murdered,” I said. “Which is why we’re here—to find out who did this to her.”

“But… they have to call an ambulance! Maybe she can still be saved!”

“She’s been dead for quite a while now,” I said. “I’m afraid it’s too late to save her.”

“There must be something they can do! With all the advances in science—can’t they try something experimental? Something new and untried?”

“What experimental thing?” asked Dooley, interested.

“I don’t know!” said the doggie, flapping his ears. “There has to be something they can do, right? Like when I had this terrible pain in my tail, and the vet fixed it.”

“I’m afraid that once you’re dead, that’s it,” I said, hating to be the bearer of bad news, and probably risking a nip in the butt, or possibly even two. “Nobody can fix dead.”

The doggie sank onto his haunches and then burst into a bout of honest tears. “Oh, no,” he said. “My human. Dead. This isn’t happening!”

“It is happening, actually,” said Dooley.

“Dooley,” I said, and shook my head to indicate he should probably exact restraint in a moment fraught with sadness like this.

“She wouldn’t leave me,” said the doggie. “She said she’d always be there for me.”

“She didn’t leave you,” said Dooley. “She was murdered. You can’t help being murdered.”

“Dooley,” I repeated, and shook my head again. We needed to tread very carefully.

“Murdered!” said the doggie. “But who would do such a thing?”

“That’s what we’re here to find out,” I said. “And we were hoping you could help us in our investigation.”

He sniffed some more, looking distinctly miserable. “I have no idea. Who would harm such a loving, warm, sweet, wonderful person like Chickie? She was a goddess. She was perfection. She was God’s angel. Everybody loved her. Everybody and especially meeee!”

“Well, she must have had enemies. Otherwise she wouldn’t have been killed so tragically.”

“I’m telling you, she had no enemies. Angels don’t have enemies. She brought only sweetness and light into this world and we all loved her. Adored her—worshipped her!”

“So… what about this Jamie Borowiak person who dropped by yesterday and again this morning and got into a flaming row with Chickie both times?”

“Jamie was Chickie’s best friend in all the world. She would never get into a flaming row with her. Never. They organized slumber parties. They sang together. They recorded songs for each other’s albums and they performed shows together. They would never get into a fight. And Jamie would most definitely never murder her best friend.”

“We talked to Doogie just now,” I said.

“Who?” asked the dog, a confused frown on his face.

“The peacock,” said Dooley. “They said their name might be Immaculata, though, or even Sookie. It’s a little confusing.”

“Oh, you mean Mark. Yeah, don’t listen to Mark. He used to belong to a rapper, and I think all that rap music must have affected his brain. It got scrambled a little. Or a lot.”

“What’s your name, by the way?” asked Dooley.

“Boyce Catt,” said the French Bulldog. “Don’t laugh. Chickie wanted a dog and Yuki—that’s her mother—wanted a cat. So Chickie called me Boyce and Yuki called me Catt.”

“Well, Boyce Catt,” I said, “Mark told us that Jamie was here yesterday and she and Chickie sat out in the garden and got into a big fight. Jamie accused Chickie of trying to steal her boyfriend Charlie Dieber, and then she stalked off on a huff.”

“But she came back this morning to do some more fighting,” Dooley added.

“That’s true,” said the doggie. “I saw her. They made up, though.”

“They did?”

“I was there when Jamie dropped by this morning. She walked in when Chickie was rehearsing in the dance studio. There was a moment of name-calling but then they decided they loved each other too much to fight over a silly thing like a boy and they hugged and made up.”

“They hugged?” I asked.

“Yes, they did. And I ask you, is that the behavior of a would-be killer?”

“Jamie could have been pretending.”

“She would never do that,” said Boyce Catt. “Jamie and Chickie have been besties for years. Also, Chickie was the sweetest person alive. No one could hold a grudge against her. Absolutely no one, and most definitely not her best friend.” He sniffled a bit more, then frowned and said, “You want to know what I think happened? I think this is a case of mistaken identity. Has to be. Someone killed Chickie thinking she was someone else. Or maybe a burglary gone wrong. Someone broke into the house to steal Chickie’s valuables and she happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“It’s possible,” I allowed.

Frankly anything was possible. We had no clue what had happened, exactly, and the burglary gone wrong thing had happened before, especially when the victim was as rich as Chickie.