Ник Сайнт - Purrfect Alibi

“It’s just an old jalopy. No one in their right mind would steal it. What are you doing here? I thought Uncle Alec told you to go home and get some sleep?”

“And I told that old fool that I was coming with you.” She pursed her lips. “You’ve got yourself a pardner, pardner. So put this car in gear and let’s catch ourselves a killer.”

Odelia shook her head as she jammed the key into the ignition. “From what I can gather the killer has been caught already. And he’s being processed as we speak.”

Gran didn’t look convinced. “If I know Alec he probably caught the wrong ‘un. So it’s up to us to catch the right ‘un. So step on it. Time’s a-wastin’ and the real killer is escapin’.”

Odelia clenched her jaw and started the car with a roar.

Oh, boy. This was going to be a barrel of laughs.

Odelia and Gran stared through the one-way mirror while Uncle Alec and Chase interviewed the suspect who had just been arrested. Judging from his tattered clothes, his full red beard, and disheveled appearance, he was either a homeless man or a hipster.

“He doesn’t look like a killer,” Gran commented.

“What does a killer look like?” asked Odelia.

“It’s all in the eyes,” said Gran, gesturing at her own eyes. “A real killer has that dead, cold killer look. Looking into the eyes of a killer is like looking into the abyss. A cold abyss.”

Was there any other kind of abyss? “So have you looked into a killer’s eyes?”

“Oh, plenty of times. Leo was a killer, and I locked eyes with that man many times.”

“Leo Wetland? Your ex-boyfriend?”

“He was never my boyfriend,” snapped Gran. “We were lovers.”

Odelia decided not to ask what the difference was. “I didn’t know Leo was a killer.”

“Oh, sure. Leo was big on killin’. He once took out a wasp nest in his attic. Didn’t bat an eye. Cold-hearted killer.” She gestured at her eyes again. “Like looking into the—”

“Abyss. I get it.”

“Look, I didn’t do it, all right?!” the homeless guy—or hipster—exclaimed.

“That’s what they all say,” growled Gran.

“So what was Chris Ackerman’s wallet doing in your pocket?” asked Uncle Alec.

“Yeah, okay, so I stole it. Sometimes I steal stuff. It’s a disease. I’m seeing a doctor about it but so far the therapy isn’t working. We’re still fine-tuning. You can ask Dr. Freggar. He’ll tell you all about it.”

“Wait. Let me get this straight. You’re telling us you stole Mr. Ackerman’s wallet but you didn’t kill him,” said Uncle Alec.

“That’s exactly what I’m telling you—and please note for the record that my disease compels me to steal stuff. It’s not like I’m a thief or anything. It’s a sickness. Like, um—like cancer. Or boils.”

“Boils,” grunted Uncle Alec.

“Yeah,” grinned the man.

“We found Mr. Ackerman’s wallet on you,” said Chase, “as well as his diamond watch, a monogrammed money clip containing no less than five hundred dollars, a monogrammed money pouch with fifty bucks in loose change, and a monogrammed gilded iPhone also belonging to Mr. Ackerman and you’re telling me you had nothing to do with his murder.”

“He was dead when I found him!” cried the man, spreading his arms.

Uncle Alec pounded the table with his fist. “You’re lying, Mr. Drood.”

“Sasha,” said the man. When Alec stared at him, he added with a genial smile, “My friends call me Sasha.”

“You decided to rob Mr. Ackerman but he caught you. You struggled and you killed him,” said Chase. “That’s the truth, isn’t it, Mr. Drood?”

“In an alternate reality maybe it is,” said Sasha, settling back in his chair. “But in this reality I read somewhere that Chris Ackerman, the world’s bestselling writer, was coming to Hampton Cove. Oh, I said to myself, the world’s bestselling writer, I said. That probably means he’s rich, I said. And if he’s rich, he won’t mind donating some of his money to a deserving sick person like myself. So I head on down to the library to have a conversation with Mr. Ackerman about his donation—only when I get there he’s sitting all by his lonesome on stage. Dead as a dodo! So my disease tells me that since he’s dead already he’s not going to miss his pocket junk so I took it.” He shrugged. “There’s no law against that, is there?”

“Oh, this guy is good,” Gran muttered. “Maybe I should get in there and slap him around some. Practice a little police brutality.”

“You’re not going in there, Gran,” said Odelia. “Uncle Alec and Chase have got this.”

“Why didn’t you take his briefcase while you were at it?” asked Uncle Alec.

“Briefcase? He had a briefcase?”

“Yes, he did. So why didn’t you take it?”

Sasha Drood tsk-tsked for a moment. “Dang it. I must have missed that.” He held up a finger. “I mean, my disease must have missed that.”

“The fountain pen you stabbed Mr. Ackerman with,” said Chase, “is worth three thousand bucks. Why didn’t you take that?”

“I told you guys already, I didn’t stab—hold on, three thousand bucks?”

“At least.”

“You’re joshing me, right?” He darted amused glances at the two cops. “Now you’re just yanking my chain. No pen is worth three thousand bucks.”

“This one is. A genuine Graf von Faber-Castell fountain pen. Eighteen-carat gold nib.”

Sasha was laughing out loud now. “You guys!” he cried. “And they say cops don’t have a sense of humor!”

Chase and Alec were staring at the crook, not a flicker of a smile on their faces.

“Let me get in there,” Gran said. “I’ll teach this punk a lesson.”

But Uncle Alec proved he was up to the task by slamming the table once again. “Just tell us the truth, Drood!” he snarled. “You killed Ackerman and you robbed a dead man!”

Sasha’s laughter died away, as if turned off at the tap. He eyed Alec seriously. “Do you really think I’d leave a three-thousand-dollar fountain pen behind? You’re crazy, Chief. No, I didn’t kill that man. I only robbed him—correction, my disease robbed him. And if you don’t believe me, Dr. Freggar will confirm everything I’ve just said. I have his number in my phone, in case you’re interested.”

Alec stared at the man. “Boils, huh?” he said.

Sasha Drood smiled widely. “Boils,” he confirmed.

“You know? He doesn’t look like a killer,” said Odelia.

“Oh, but he does,” said Gran. “Just look at his eyes. Dark pools of evil. I stared into eyes like that once, and I’ve never forgotten it.”

“Leo?”

“Your dad when I told him I was moving back in.” She smiled at the memory.

“We must really love our human,” said Dooley, slightly huffing and puffing.

We’d been walking for a while now, as there’s only one McDonald’s in town, and it’s located in a strip mall on the main road into town, a little ways away from the library, which is in the heart of town.

“Why is that?” I asked, also puffing.

“Look at us walking a marathon! Just to please Odelia.”

“You don’t walk a marathon, Dooley. You run a marathon.” But I got what he was saying. Clarice would have made fun of us if she’d seen us. Then again, we hadn’t lied. Odelia was good to us, and so were Marge and Gran. Even the men in the family weren’t too bad. Uncle Alec and Tex and Chase had installed a cat flap not so long ago. It had taken them several attempts before I managed to pass through without getting stuck but they’d done it. So it was understandable we should return the favor by being the best sleuths we could be.