Ник Сайнт - Purrfect Alibi

“Talk some sense into him,” Trey clarified. He turned to face them. “My father was under a spell. He didn’t know what he was doing. This Kulcheski woman had hypnotized him.”

“She had?” asked Gran.

“Not literally, Gran,” Odelia murmured.

“Oh.”

“She had him eating out of her hand—doing her bidding at every turn. We knew that the only way to break the spell was to lay it all out for him. Expose the woman as the wily little gold digger she was.”

“And? How did he respond?” asked Odelia.

“Not well. He kicked us out. Said he never wanted to see us again.”

“After all I’d done for him,” said Mrs. Ackerman bitterly. “I stood by his side when he was a struggling author. I worked my butt off to keep our family afloat in the early years, when every submission ended in a flutter of rejection letters. If not for me he’d never have become a success. He’d have given up long ago. But I believed in him. I believed in his talent as a storyteller. It took him ten years to sell his first novel. And another ten to become a household name. And this is how he repaid me. By chasing the first skirt that came along.”

“She wasn’t the first skirt, Mom,” said her son. “There were others.”

“I could deal with that. We had an understanding. They were butterflies. I was his wife. The woman he came home to. Until he decided he no longer needed me.”

Gran cleared her throat. “Do you have any idea who might have killed your husband, Mrs. Ackerman?”

Mrs. Ackerman raised her eyes to Gran. “You think I did it, don’t you? And you’re right.”

Both Odelia and Gran held their breath. Was a confession coming?

Instead, Mrs. Ackerman said, “I could have killed him. I know I was hopping mad when I left that library. But I’m not a killer. Instead I was going to take my husband to court and clean him out. I was prepared to make sure that he was left with nothing. That would have been my revenge.”

“Very iffy proposition,” said Gran. “Better to kill him and collect the inheritance.”

Trey Ackerman’s eyes flashed dangerously. “Are you accusing my mother of murder?”

“Just throwing it out there,” said Gran. “If long experience as a homicide detective has taught me one thing it’s that it’s almost always the spouse that did it. So convince me otherwise. Prove your innocence, Mrs. Ackerman.”

A quick smile flitted across the woman’s face. “I don’t have to prove my innocence. There’s a man who can prove it for me. When Trey and I left Chris was still alive. Just ask Malcolm Buckerfield. He walked in as we walked out. And he had every reason to murder Chris. Without Chris, Buckerfield had nothing. Chris Ackerman was Buckerfield Publishing.”

Chapter 22

Odelia had signed us up to interrogate the suspects’ and witnesses’ pets and so that’s what Dooley and I set out to do. Only as far as we could ascertain there were no pets in evidence. I did pick up a strange odor, though. It didn’t belong to a cat or dog or any other animal I’d ever encountered. In fact it smelled oddly… floral.

We stealthily moved from the living room into the bedroom in search of our prey, but it was Dooley who finally discovered the anomaly. I call it an anomaly because it was the one animal I would never have advised any human to keep as a pet.

“Oink oink,” said the anomaly.

We both stared at it. It was small, it was pink, it was cuddly, and it was looking at us through beady little eyes. Perched on the foot of the bed, it even had its own little basket.

“Oink oink,” it repeated.

“What is it, Max?” asked Dooley.

“I think it’s a… pig,” I said.

“Oink oink.”

“A pig? Are you sure?”

I wasn’t. For that I needed to take a closer look. So I jumped on the bed and stared at the thing. It was a pig, all right. Round and pink and small. Not a pig. A piglet.

The piglet snuffled for a moment, seemingly interested in our sudden appearance.

“Hey, there,” I said finally, when I’d gotten over my initial surprise.

“Hullo,” said the pig, in a surprisingly deep voice for such a tiny creature.

“My name is Max,” I said, “and this is Dooley.”

“Is it safe to come up, Max?” asked Dooley from the floor.

I’d heard stories about pigs biting people, but this little dude didn’t look like a biter. “Sure,” I said therefore. “He looks like a nice piglet—are you a nice piglet, piglet?”

“Of course I’m a nice piglet, cat,” growled the piglet. “We’re all civilized here.”

“You look awfully young,” I said. “How old are you?”

“Three.”

“Years?”

“Months.”

“Huh.”

“Yeah. I still have to get my growth spurt. Which I trust will kick in any day now.”

“So are you—”

“A potbellied pig, yeah,” he nodded. “Humans love us for our lovable yet surprisingly mature personalities and our positive outlook on life. How about you guys?”

“I’m four,” said Dooley. “Years, not months.”

“Me, too,” I said.

“Humans love us for the cuddles,” said Dooley. “Though they come back for the conversation.”

The pig gave Dooley a dubious look, then said, “I’m Kevin Bacon, by the way, and this is Miss Piggy.”

We looked up to see a second piglet, even pinker than the first one, waddle across the bed in our direction.

“Hey, you guys,” said Miss Piggy. “Great to see you. I’ve never actually seen a cat up close before. Heard a lot about you, of course, but this is definitely a first for me. You don’t bite, do you? Ha ha. Just kidding. I know you don’t. Make yourselves comfortable and welcome to our humble abode.”

Dooley and I stared at the newcomer. I’d never met a motormouth pig before, and it was fascinating to see how long she could continue talking without coming up for oxygen.

“So… we’re actually here to talk about Chris Ackerman,” I said, deciding to get down to business before Miss Piggy burst into speech again. Odelia and Gran were only going to be in here for so long, so we had a pretty strict deadline to adhere to.

“Who?” asked Kevin Bacon.

“Oh, you know, Kevin Bacon,” said Miss Piggy. “He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named.”

“Oh, him,” said Kevin Bacon, then shook his head. “We’re not supposed to mention him. Or discuss him. Angelique gave us strict instructions, remember?”

“Angelique?” I said.

“Our human,” Miss Piggy explained. “He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named was her husband. Until he ran off with another woman. Now he’s dead to us.”

“He’s actually really dead,” said Kevin Bacon.

“He is,” Miss Piggy confirmed. “Angelique told us this morning.”

“Did Angelique also mention to you who killed Mr. Ackerman?” I asked.

“Karma,” said Kevin Bacon.

“Who’s Karma?” asked Dooley.

“Not who, what,” I said. “Did she really say that?”

“Karma in action,” Miss Piggy confirmed. “Said he got what he deserved. Well, she used slightly stronger language than that, but that’s the gist of it. Angelique wasn’t very fond of her husband. She used to be, but since he started boning a skirt half his age she wasn’t. At least that’s what she told us.” She laughed. “I honestly have no idea what half the stuff she tells us means but there you have it in a nutshell. So why do you want to know about He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named? Are you police cats or something? I’ve heard of police dogs but I’ve never heard of police cats. Though it stands to reason they would exist. Cats are pretty savvy, after all. Not that I would know. Like I said I’ve never met a cat before. Not in the flesh, I mean. But you look pretty savvy to me. At least one of you does.”