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Purrfect Secret The Mysteries of Max 8

Nic Saint

Puss in Print Publications

Contents

Purrfect Secret

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Epilogue

Excerpt from Murder Motel (The Kellys Book 1)

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Purrfect Secret

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When Dick Dickerson, notorious editor of the National Star , is found drowned in duck dung, the investigation quickly gets mired down when trying to figure out who’s behind the attack on the tabloid kingpin. Politicians, movie stars and captains of industry consistently found themselves in Dickerson’s crosshairs, but who would stoop so low as murder?

While Odelia Poole and Detective Chase Kingsley conduct their investigation, Odelia’s cat coterie is up in arms when a newcomer turns the peaceful town of Hampton Cove into a soap opera of gossip, scandal and secrets. Soon the ‘Fab Four’ (Max, Dooley, Harriet and Brutus) are duking it out, their friendship in ruins, Max’s reputation in tatters.

It doesn’t help that Grandma Muffin is waging a personal vendetta against her son-in-law’s new receptionist Scarlett Canyon, determined to get rid of her long-time nemesis once and for all. Against the backdrop of all this bickering, backstabbing and strife, is it any wonder Max starts to wonder if Dickerson’s killer will be the one that got away?

Prologue

Dick Dickerson slipped his feet into his red velvet slippers and groped around on the nightstand for his glasses. Fumbling a little to put them onto his face, he glanced before him confusedly. Why was he sitting up in bed in what felt like the middle of the night?

Picking up his phone, he saw it was only a little after three. Too early to get up. And then he realized what had awakened him: loud music blasting from the speakers downstairs.

He drew a hand through his grizzled mane, got up with a groan and put on the white boxing robe that Sylvester Stallone had worn on the set of Rocky IV , Dick’s favorite movie.

He moved out of his ornate bedroom, along his equally ornate hallway, down the no less ornate marble staircase, to arrive in his ostentatiously ornate entrance hall, where he only had to follow the music still blasting away to locate its source: his private study.

He couldn’t remember having left the music on. Then again, lately he’d had so much on his mind he probably could have. As usual he took a Sonata before laying down his head, then some Provigil in the morning, along with a line of coke and his usual Prozac tablet. The Sonata knocked him out pretty good, so he might not have noticed leaving the music on.

Then again, if he heard correctly this was What Goes Around… Comes Around , the Justin Timberlake song. Not exactly Dick’s taste. He liked Michael Bublé. He liked Michael Bublé a lot. In fact Michael Bublé was all he listened to lately.

With a sigh, Dick shuffled into his office, and that’s when he saw it: the door to his giant walk-in safe was wide open. Dammit! Anyone could have just walked in!

“Dick, Dick, Dick,” he muttered to himself. “You’re losing it, pal.”

Even though Doctor Mueller had told him to take it easy on the pills, and the coke, he couldn’t help himself. He needed a little pick-me-up from time to time, and he was a firm believer in the old saying ‘What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.’ And since the coke hadn’t killed him yet, or the pill-popping or even the vodka, it stood to reason it was making him stronger, right?

He shuffled to the safe door and peered inside. Odd. He’d even left the light on.

Shaking his head, he shuffled into the steel contraption. The moment he had, though, he saw that there was something seriously wrong with this picture: the countless stacks of files he kept in there, neatly organized in alphabetical order… they were all gone!

His jaw dropped as he stared at the empty shelves. Only a single file folder remained. He picked it up, his hands trembling, and opened it. Inside, there was a single picture. A picture he immediately recognized, and which sent his blood pressure rocketing skywards.

He gulped as he held onto the wall to steady himself.

This wasn’t happening!

Just then, the giant steel door slammed shut with a thumping clang!

“Noooo!” he cried, pounding the door. But to no avail, of course.

And that’s when things started to get even weirder. And a lot scarier!

A strange odor suddenly permeated the small space. Dick wrinkled his nose as he took a sniff. It smelled like… poop.

Had he just pooped himself? No way. He wasn’t that far gone. He was only sixty-two, for crying out loud. And he didn’t have problems in that area. Yet.

And then he saw it: some species of sludge was pouring into the safe through a vent in the ceiling. He sniffed again. Yup. Definitely poop. Horrible, liquid, greenish poop!

And then panic really set in. The song, the picture, the poop.

Oh, God. This wasn’t happening. This couldn’t be happening to him!

“Hey!” he screamed. “Let me out! I’ll give you the files! Just let me out of here!”

But of course no response came. This wasn’t a scare tactic. They had the files. They’d taken them along with all of the other secrets he’d assiduously collected over the years.

They weren’t here to scare him off or send him a message.

They were here to kill him. Drown him in poop.

If he hadn’t been so scared he might have laughed at the irony.

The poop was up to his knees now, streaming in at a steady clip.

The stench was unbearable and he was retching, wading in the toxic stuff.

And as he screamed in horror at the fate that was awaiting him, a voice came from the other side of the door—muffled, of course.

“Little message for you, Dickerson. What goes around, comes around!”

“I’m sorry!” he bellowed. “Don’t do this to me. Have a heart!”

“Yeah, right. Like you had a heart, huh? Screw you, Dickerson!”

The poop was reaching his waist now, ruining his nice Rocky boxing robe. And then he got an idea. He quickly took it off and waded over to the hole where the sludge was pouring in, then shoved the wadded-up robe into the hole, trying to stem the deadly flow.

In the process he got poop all over him. The yucky stuff got into his eyes—into his nose—into his mouth! But he would prevail. No one got the better of Dick Dickerson!

He shoved the thing home and held it in place in spite of his retching.

There. He’d done it! He was like that little Dutch kid who plugged his finger in the dike and saved his entire frickin’ village!

Unfortunately Rocky’s robe was no match for this particular hole. The pressure was too great, and soon the stuff was seeping in again. Pretty soon the safe was filling up so fast not even an army of little Dutch boys with little Dutch fingers could have stemmed the flow.