Ник Сайнт - Purrfect Rivalry

“You better stay out of this, Skip Brown,” said the stranger in a strangely hissing voice. He almost sounded like a snake—if snakes could talk—which, apart from Disney and Harry Potter movies, they obviously couldn’t.

“Back off, buddy,” Skip said, swinging the pump and baguette combo like he meant it.

“You’re going to have to choose,” hissed the man, who was of slight build he now saw. “Do you want to be part of the problem or the solution? If the latter, you better skedaddle.”

“Well, I’m not skedaddling,” said Skip bravely. “You’re the one who should be skedaddling if you know what’s good for you—you-you hoodlum.”

He now glanced at the fat man, who was lying on his back on top of a pile of garbage, his breathing stertorous and obviously in a great deal of pain.

“Are you all right, sir?” he asked, and then proceeded to experience the shock of a lifetime. The fat man wasn’t just any fat man. It was his uncle Gus!

“Call the cops, Skip!” his uncle said in a wheezy and labored voice. “Make sure they catch this bastard!”

“Too late,” hissed the black-clad figure, and produced what could only be described as a sort of sinister chuckle. Then, as if the laws of the natural world didn’t apply to him, he moved away from Skip at breakneck speed, and was soon swallowed up by the darkness that covered the back part of the alley.

“Hey! Where did he go?” Skip asked.

His uncle looked up at him with a pleading expression in his eyes. “Skip, son, I’m not feeling too good. Better call an ambulance.”

Uncle Gus lifted his hand from his belly for a moment, and to his horror Skip saw there was a great deal of blood covering his uncle’s substantial gut.

“He cut me, Skip,” lamented his uncle. “The bastard just gutted me like a friggin pig.”

Skip quickly took out his phone and for the next few seconds busied himself apprising the nice lady from 911 of the facts pertaining to the case.

A hand stole out and his uncle grabbed him by the pant leg. “If I don’t make it—tell your aunt Adelaide I love her,” he said in a croaky voice.

“You can tell her yourself, Uncle Gus,” Skip said, kneeling down next to his relative. “You’re going to be just fine.”

But then his uncle’s round and ruddy face displayed a pained grimace, and he wheezed, “I’m not too sure about that, Skip. I don’t mind telling you I don’t feel fine. In fact I feel downright lousy.”

And then, before he could respond, the light went out in Uncle Gus’s eyes.

Chapter One

Samuel Barkley squeezed out of his Toyota Yaris with some effort and a lot of grumbling on his part. The car—the latest addition to the NYPD motor pool—was a bit on the small side to accommodate Sam’s sturdy frame. Pierre Farrier, his trusty partner and sidekick, had far less trouble emerging from the passenger side of the vehicle.

Then again, Pierre was built along the lines of a sickly grasshopper, while Sam looked like he’d just swallowed the reigning boxing heavyweight.

Sam, his brown hair neatly in place, his piercing blue eyes surveying the scene, and his anvil jaw working, shook his head. “Damn shame,” he said.

“You can say that again,” said Pierre, fingering first his pepper-and-salt mustache and then the small scar on his brow, just beneath his receding hairline. It was the last remnant of the incident that had put him in a coma not that long ago.

“Stop touching your scar,” said Sam, fighting the urge to slap his partner’s hand away.

“I’m sorry, Sam,” said Pierre. “In times of great stress it starts throbbing.”

“Throbbing?” he asked. “You mean you can still feel the scar?”

“Oh, yes,” said Pierre. “It sends me messages.”

Sam looked up at that. “Messages? What kind of messages?”

Pierre shrugged. “Well, the message that something is seriously wrong. Like now, with this poor schmuck being struck down in this nasty alley.”

“Oh, right,” said Sam. “For a moment there I thought you were going to say you received direct communications from Lord Voldemort or his faithful pet snake Nagini.”

Pierre directed his soulful eyes at him in an expression of hurt. “That’s not funny, Sam. The scar really hurts.”

Sam held up his hands in a gesture of apology. “I’m sorry, buddy. I believe you. And no one is happier than me that you came through this whole ordeal more or less unscathed.” He clapped the other man on the back. “Now why don’t we solve ourselves a murder, huh?”

“Yes, let’s,” Pierre said softly.

It was obvious he was taking this particular crime to heart. As an aficionado of bakery goods in general and Brown’s Bakery in particular, the murder of Gus Brown had hit Pierre very hard. Apparently the man had been something of a latter-day genius with the rolling pin, spatula and piping bag.

“Who found him?” Sam asked.

“Skip Brown, the victim’s nephew.”

Sam jerked his head up. “Not the Skip Brown?”

Pierre nodded. “Yes, the Skip Brown.”

“The Skip Brown that used to work for the Flummox triplets?”

Pierre nodded again, gazing down mournfully at the remains of Gus Brown. “The one and only.”

“Dayum,” Sam muttered, scratching his scalp. “Talk about a small world.”

He now saw that Skip was seated in the back of a nearby ambulance, a cup of something hot and steamy in his hand, a space blanket draped across his bony shoulders, looking sorrowful and clearly in a state of great shock.

“Look at this, Sam,” Pierre’s voice came.

“Mh?” He was still thinking about the odds that Skip, who’d been employed by Edie Flummox and her sisters at one time, would be involved in this heinous crime. When he glanced in the direction Pierre was indicating, he saw that this crime had suddenly turned even more astonishing. On the wall, over the dead man, someone had written in what appeared to be blood: ‘Watch Committee—when will you act? If you don’t take these predators off the streets, I will! I’m watching you, watchers… watching your every move.’

He whistled through this teeth. “Take these predators off the streets. Do you think he means Baker Brown over here?”

“It would appear so,” said Pierre, now kneeling down next to the murdered man. “Murdered with a very sharp object,” he said knowingly.

“Yes, according to Patrolman Daniels he was actually gutted with a knife. Not something you see a lot around these parts.”

“What do you make of this challenge to the watch?” asked Pierre, studying the message daubed on the wall in a crude hand.

“Apparently some concerned citizen doesn’t think the watch is doing enough to keep the streets safe. Always accepting the fact that Gus Brown wasn’t as upstanding a citizen as we all thought he was.”

“He was a fine baker,” said Pierre, a hint of sadness in his voice. “A regular genius with the baking pan. His scones, in particular, were to die for.”

“We better have a chat with the triplets,” said Sam after a pause. “See if they’ve been getting other messages from this murderous freak.”

Pierre nodded, then bit his lower lip. “Are you sure I should come, Sam?”

“Of course you should come. Why wouldn’t you come?”

“Well… it’s been a long time since I’ve seen the sisters.”

“So? All the more reason to tag along. They’ll be thrilled to see you alive and well.”

Pierre shook his head. “I don’t know, Sam. It might be awkward.”

Sam heaved a silent groan. Ugh. He now remembered how Pierre had taken a fancy to Ernestine, and when she had proved unresponsive to his lethal charms, had transferred his affections to Estrella.