Ник Сайнт - Purrfect Secret

Milo was watching me intently, then nodded.

“I think you know, Max, don’t you?”

I didn’t know you could get pregnant from a kiss but there it was.

“So Brutus is my son?”

“Brutus is your son. Isn’t this a blessed moment? You get to press your long-lost child to your bosom, Max!”

I didn’t know about that. Seemed to me that Brutus was a little resentful towards dear old dad. Besides, he was a lot bigger and meaner than me, so maybe this teary reunion shouldn’t proceed unsupervised. Oh, where was Oprah when I needed her? Or Jerry Springer?

Milo started to walk away, then turned back. “Oh, and before I forget. Harriet?”

“What about her?”

He shrugged. “Just thought you’d want to know. She’s your sister.”

Chapter 19

“That was quite possibly the weirdest interview I’ve ever been involved in,” Odelia said once they’d put some distance between themselves and Lago-a-Oceano.

“He does have a point, though,” said Chase.

“About what?”

“The hogs? I’ll bet hog wrestling is as good a preparation to go into politics as any.”

Odelia smiled. “He seems to love those hogs, too. And they genuinely like him.”

“What’s not to like? He’s a lovable guy.”

“Well, at least those rumors about eating journos for breakfast aren’t true.”

They were headed to their third interview of the day, the famous actor Damon Galpin, hoping to inch their way closer to solving this dreadful murder case.

“Who else do you have lined up?” asked Odelia.

“I’ve been trying to get a hold of this Yasir Bellinowksy guy.”

“The mobster?”

“Alleged mobster. So far his lawyer has been stalling. But I’ll get him eventually. And then there’s the break-in at Potbelly’s.”

“Anything new?”

“Uniforms are canvassing the area. Maybe a neighbor saw something.”

She settled back. It was at times like these that she missed her cats. If only she’d taken Max, Dooley, Harriet and Brutus along, they could have gleaned something from the pets of the people they interviewed. Max would have loved to have a chat with President Wilcox’s pigs. Or maybe they could have dropped them off at the duck farm and one of the ducks could have given them a description of the thieves. She sat up a little straighter.

Now that was a great idea! Why hadn’t she thought of it sooner?

Chase looked over. “Everything all right?”

“Peachy,” she said, commending herself on a brilliant idea. As soon as she got home she’d get right on it: drive Max and the gang over to the Potbelly farm and set them loose. They’d have a field day chatting up those ducks. One of them was bound to have seen something. Or one of the dogs. Max was great with dogs. In spite of cats’ reputation as being afraid of canines he had no qualms about chewing the fat with any dog, big or small.

Just then, her phone sang out Dua Lipa’s tune again, and she picked it out. When she saw that it was Otto Paunch, she groaned. “Yes,” she said into the phone, not all that friendly this time.

“Oh, hi, Miss Poole. Just following up on that rich list business.”

“I told you, I’m on a case right now. I don’t have time to deal with—”

“About that. I think you should probably mention in your article that President Wilcox was Dick Dickerson’s best friend. They were chums. Mates. Bosom buddies. Dick was Van’s homeboy. His homie. His dawg. His—”

“Yes, yes. They were friends. I get it. So what about this rumor they had a fight?”

“Fake news!” suddenly yelled Mr. Paunch. “I swear if you print that garbage I’ll—”

That voice. It sounded so familiar. But why? “Don’t worry. I won’t print any of it. I just want to find out who killed Dickerson. As a great friend of the President, who was a great friend of Dickerson, surely you must have some idea.”

“I have. Two words. Brenda Berish.”

“The former foreign secretary? Are you sure?”

“Absolutely. Dickerson had a lot of dirt on her. You know about the safe?”

“I do. It was emptied out.”

“Whoever took it didn’t want their secrets to come out. And that person is Secretary Berish. Just ask her. You’ll see. She’s the one who killed Dickerson. Oh, and don’t tell her I was your source. She’ll deny everything.”

And with these words, Paunch disconnected. Odelia tucked her phone away.

“What did he say?” asked Chase.

“He says we should take a closer look at Brenda Berish.”

“Secretary Berish?”

“Dickerson collected a lot of dirt on her. Paunch says she killed him over it.”

They’d arrived at a residential neighborhood just outside Hampton Cove. A lot of the houses here were pretty sizable, with a few smaller ones to even things out. They passed the entrance to the Marina Golf Course and Chase slowed down. “He should be out here somewhere—ah, there he is.”

A handsome man with perfectly sculpted blond hair, the even features of a Hollywood actor, dressed in white slacks and a green polo shirt and white golf shoes, stood waving at them from next to the golf course entrance.

“He looks younger than on television,” said Odelia.

“They put a ton of makeup on him for when he plays the President.”

Chase wedged his pickup between a Jaguar and a Porsche and they got out.

“Detective Chase!” Damon Galpin hollered, walking up, hand extended.

Chase shook it and then the actor turned to Odelia, took her hand and pressed a kiss on it, all the while fixing her with a pair of remarkable blue eyes.

“Miss Poole. Even lovelier in person than in your byline picture.”

“You saw my byline picture?” she asked, oddly pleased.

“I read every single one of your articles. The Hampton Cove Gazette is a local treasure.”

“I thought you actors only read Variety and The Hollywood Reporter .”

He tipped his head back and roared with laughter. “That’s a common misconception. Not all of us are dummies, Miss Poole—can I call you Odelia?”

“Please.”

He pressed a hand to his chest. “Damon. And it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance. Now will you join me for a round of golf?”

“I’m sorry, Damon,” said Chase. “We’re just here to ask you a couple of quick questions.”

“At the very least join me at the Legends Lounge. It’s where I hang out most of the time anyway,” he confessed. “Best part about golf is the socializing. Now come.”

It was more of an order than an invitation, but so charmingly delivered it was impossible to spurn. So they followed the actor through the entrance and into a one-story building that was exquisitely appointed, all lacquered floors and polished wood paneling.

He led the way to the lounge he’d mentioned, and through the floor-to-ceiling windows they had an excellent view of the links, where folks were playing the noble sport.

“I have a terrible handicap, I don’t mind admitting,” said Damon as they took a seat in leather armchairs around a round glass-topped table. The actor held up his hand and a young pimpled waiter came scurrying over, a towel draped on his arm. “Vodka martini,” said Damon, then turned a questioning gaze at Odelia and Chase.

“Just soda,” said Odelia.

“Same here,” said Chase.

“Still that same old gag about not drinking while on duty, eh?” said Damon with a twinkle in his eye. “I believe in starting early and keeping going unstintingly until the preprandial juices start flowing and digestion arrives at its peak.”

“I would have thought vodka martinis were your meals of choice,” said Odelia, who’d read the stories about the actor’s famous binges.