Ник Сайнт - Purrfect Secret

“Oh, now, Odelia, you shouldn’t believe everything you read in that paper of yours,” he chided.

The waiter came over with their drinks and Damon quaffed deeply from his, then held onto it while he bowed his head. “Do your worst, Detectives. I’m ready for you now.”

“Is it true that you and Dick Dickerson didn’t see eye to eye?” asked Chase.

Damon nodded. “That is indeed true. Dickerson was filth, Detective. He was filth and he printed filth. And it didn’t occur to him that the people whose lives he tried to destroy were human beings with feelings and friends and loved ones that could be hurt in his barrage of lies and horribly distorted ‘articles.’ I hated him and never made a secret of that.”

“What did he say about you, exactly?” asked Odelia, who had some idea.

Damon gazed out across the spreading and rolling links. “Oh, this and that. You do know that he was a close friend of President Wilcox? And that he did all he could to secure him his election? In fact he went all out on that—slandering Wilcox’s opponents and burying every single piece of gossip about Wilcox himself. And since I’ve been one of Wilcox’s most vocal opponents from day one, Dickerson directed some of his vitriol at me, too.”

“Do you think he kept some of those stories in his safe?”

“Right. Dickerson’s famous safe. Where he kept Tinseltown’s darkest secrets. Why?”

“His safe was emptied out by whoever killed him,” said Chase.

“I guess that makes sense. Though I can assure you that whatever he had on me, he printed without delay.”

“So he didn’t try to blackmail you? To try and stop you from imitating the President?”

“He tried at first. But when I refused he responded with a barrage of garbage.”

“That must have stung.”

Damon smiled, and took another sip. “I wore Dick Dickerson’s scorn like a badge of honor, Detective. In fact if he would have printed something nice about me it would have worried me more. Though there was one story that caused me to contact a defamation lawyer.” When they both stared at him, he spoke a single word. “Hogs.”

“Hogs?” asked Odelia, struck by the coincidence.

“Dickerson claimed I engaged in coitus with hogs.” He grimaced. “And I have a fairly good idea who put him up to it, too.”

So had Odelia. President Wilcox really did like to get down and dirty.

“Does a picture of a rose mean anything to you?” asked Chase.

“No, it doesn’t. Why?”

“We found it in Dickerson’s safe. We think the killer left it there on purpose.”

“I see. To send a message.” He mused for a moment. “No, I’m afraid I can’t help you with that.”

“Where were you last night between two and four, Mr. Galpin?”

“Home. Asleep.”

“Alone?”

He grinned widely. “Come on, Detective. Do I look like a man who would kiss and tell?” Chase cocked an eyebrow at the actor and he relented. “Oh, all right. If you must know, I was in bed with Lauralee Gray. I’m sure she’ll corroborate my ‘alibi.’”

“The actress?” asked Odelia, impressed.

Damon nodded once. “I may be old but I haven’t lost my touch, Odelia.” He was wiggling his eyebrows at this, probably thinking it made him look more appealing. In reality it made him look like a lecherous uncle.

“One other thing,” said Chase, who, if his frown was an indication, didn’t seem to like the way Damon was looking at Odelia. “There’s a rumor that President Wilcox and Dickerson fell out over something. Any idea what could have caused that rift?”

Damon’s smile vanished. “I have a pretty good idea, yes. The thing is, Dickerson didn’t own the National Star , Detective. He was merely its editor. The Star is owned by the Gantry family. And reportedly they didn’t appreciate this love affair between their tabloid and Wilcox. There’s a storm brewing for the President, and that fact hasn’t escaped the Gantrys. They wanted to distance themselves from Wilcox before they got dragged down along with him. So they pretty much ordered Dickerson to stand down, and possibly even dip into the treasure trove of dirt he’d collected on Wilcox over the years.”

“Dickerson kept dirt on Wilcox?” asked Odelia.

“Dickerson kept dirt on everyone. He was like the J. Edgar Hoover of the tabloid world. Only he published some of the stuff he collected, used some of it to put pressure on people, and buried the rest to incur favors from his friends. He was a very dangerous man.”

“Do you think his murder is related to his habit of blackmailing people?” asked Chase.

“I’m sure it is.” He gave a slight smile. “Now all you need to ask yourselves is this: who amongst the people he blackmailed finally decided they had enough and struck back?”

Chapter 20

Tex Poole was generally a happy man. He’d married the woman of his dreams, had the most amazing daughter any doting father could ever have wished for, who’d recently become involved with a great guy and a fine cop, and he worked in a noble profession that fulfilled his every expectation and more. He even still had all of his hair and his own teeth.

The only thing that occasionally marred this blessed life he led was a little old lady who was a far cry from the sweet and loving mother-in-law he’d envisioned when he first met Marge Lip. He’d known from the moment Marge introduced him to her mother that this might not be the kind of easygoing relationship one often sees in Hallmark movies. Vesta Muffin adhered more to the cliché of the monster-in-law than the loving mom-in-law.

The first time he saw Vesta—when picking up Marge to go to the prom—she’d hit him over the head with a broomstick. Asked to explain herself by a horrified Marge, she said Tex had a face like a serial killer and she thought he was there to slaughter her daughter.

Things had gone downhill from that point. And Marge’s dad, who at that point had already left his family to fend for itself, hadn’t helped. He had an aversion to doctors that stemmed from a badly digested experience in the armed forces, when the barracks physician had given him a pill that had given him an itchy rash that had lasted weeks.

He’d never forgiven the medical profession—or any of its practitioners, whom he steadfastly referred to as voodoo priests.

Daddy Poole had died soon after Tex had started dating his daughter, though, which only left Marge’s testy mother. And since Tex had taken an oath to save lives, he couldn’t very well act on the impulse he sometimes felt to simply smother the woman in her sleep.

And it was with great reluctance that he had accepted his wife’s suggestion to allow Vesta to move in with them—seeing as how she was increasingly having trouble taking care of herself. Forgetting to turn off the stove. Putting fresh laundry into the oven. Stuff like that.

So now, as a token of her gratitude, Vesta had set out to turn her son-in-law’s life into a living hell every chance she had. Or at least that’s the way it sometimes felt to Tex.

He’d just seen his last patient of the day when he walked out of his office and into the waiting room and was surprised to find it chock-full of people, all expectantly looking up at him.

He blinked and turned to Scarlett. “Scarlett?” he asked.

She smiled sweetly, then jiggled her boobage, as was her habit. “Dr. Tex?”

He approached the desk. “What are these people doing here?” he whispered.

Scarlet leaned in, in the process offering Tex a scintillating view of her cleavage. He fought against the sudden spell of vertigo. “I don’t know what happened, Dr. Tex,” she whispered back. “They started coming in twenty minutes ago. When I asked if they had an appointment they said yes. But I can’t find them in your appointment book.”