Ник Сайнт - Purrfect Revenge

Chase headed for the bedroom and she followed him. She stared down at the bed. The coroner’s people had stripped the sheets for evidence but had left the stained mattress. “The killer was smart,” Chase said. “Abe found traces of chloroform in all the bedrooms. All the Kenspeckles were drugged.”

“What about the film crew?”

“Nope. Not a trace. But since they’re staying at the guest house and aren’t allowed in the main house when shooting wraps that wasn’t necessary.”

“They’re not allowed inside the house?”

“The Kenspeckles have strict rules about it. They cherish their privacy.”

“Except when they don’t. Like when they share every private moment with a worldwide audience.”

He smiled. “Ah, but they only show you what they want you to see.”

She nodded. “So did you check the rooms for prints?” Dumb question. The guy was a bonafide detective. And the killer had probably worn gloves.

"Well, we tried, but the Kenspeckles gave us a lot of lip. Any normal family would have canceled their trip, moved to a hotel until they could catch a flight home, and given us free reign to search the place top to bottom. But the sisters are adamant to stay here and finish the shoot."

“They’re giving you a hard time.”

“They sure are. And I don’t even know why. It’s almost as if they don’t want us to find the killer.” When she opened her mouth to speak, he said, “And don’t give me that ‘The whole family is in on this’ nonsense, Poole.”

She quickly closed her mouth again. No, that was just a crazy theory.

She glanced at the window, where Clarice must have been watching the killer. Chills ran down her spine. What a horrible scene to watch. A thought occurred to her. “The killer must have known his way around the place.”

Chase nodded, a sparkle in his eye. “Uh-huh.”

“He also knew the film crew would never set foot inside the house after filming was finished for the day. And he also had access to the house.”

“Go on.”

She smiled. “This was an inside job. The killer was either a family member or security personnel. They were the only ones with access.”

“Your uncle Alec was right,” he said with a grin. “You’re pretty astute.”

“Watch me. I’ll catch this killer before you can say ‘fly excrement.’”

“Fly excrement.”

“Smart-ass.”

Chapter 9

Dooley and I searched around for the best vantage point. It had to be clean and comfy, and it had to be high enough so we could have a great view. I caught sight of a fabulous beige crocodile couch. I felt bad for the crocodiles that had lost life and hide, but the couch was easily the best spot in the room, affording 360 vision and a soft, flat surface. It was exactly what we needed. I gave Dooley a nudge and we both hopped up onto the couch, clambered over about a million embroidered throw pillows and settled on the head rest.

All the main principals were gathered on the deck for an impromptu meeting, and Dooley and I settled in to watch. Don’t look so shocked. We’re cats. Lying around and spying on humans is what we do. It had also crossed my mind that there was probably some yummy food to be found in this place, and from here we could look straight into the kitchen. I was pretty sure Kane got the best food money could buy, and I wanted me some of that.

Us cats might not like dogs, but we like to steal their food just fine.

“Look, Max,” said Dooley, pointing to the kitchen. Brutus was chasing Kane, and the dog was doing his utmost to stay out of his clutches.

“Looks like Brutus is trying to talk to Kane,” I said lazily. After all this traipsing around I was starting to feel the strain, and I was ready for a nap. I know I’d told Dooley we’d nap once we caught the killer, but the couch was so comfy, and the sun on our furs so nice and warm, I was feeling drowsy.

“I wonder what that’s all about,” said Dooley with a cavernous yawn.

“Probably something to do with his so-called theory.”

Brutus always has theories, usually pretty far-fetched. We had another murder not so long ago, when a famous eighties pop singer was killed. Brutus thought things through and came up with the theory that the guy had been killed by a conspiracy of boy toys. He probably thought a confederacy of French Bulldogs had killed Shana Kenspeckle and Kane was the ring leader.

“I don’t think we need to worry about Brutus cracking this case,” I said.

I returned my attention to the Kenspeckles, who were concluding their meeting. Shayonne was there, and Shalonda, and of course Shayonne’s husband Dion, and Shana’s husband Damien LeWood. They were discussing things with Alejandro Salanova, the director, and some of the other crew members. I also saw a bodyguard hovering nearby, pressing a finger to his ear from time to time and looking decidedly shifty-eyed. A barber had had fun with his facial hair, which ran in three parallel lines from his lips to his ears, where it morphed into a butter-colored buzzcut, and he was rocking golden hoops. He reminded me of the Genie in Disney’s Aladdin, without the blue body paint. And the grin. This guy had never cracked a smile in his life.

“I think they’re going to start filming again,” said Dooley.

“Well, they have to strike while the iron is hot, I suppose,” I said. Everybody would want to know what happened, and who better to inform them than the Kenspeckles themselves? Regular families would probably mourn in silence. The Kenspeckles filmed another episode of their show.

“It’s that old saying,” said Dooley. “The show must move on.”

“Go on.”

“But I just got here.”

“No, I mean the show.”

“What about it?”

“The show must go on.”

“That’s what I said.”

“No, you said… Forget about it.”

“Forget about the show?”

“It doesn’t matter, Dooley.”

Once again, Brutus came shooting past us, chasing Kane, who was now running for his life. He probably thought Brutus was going to cut him, like Clarice had. Brutus took a breather, glaring up at us. “Do I have to do all the work around here? Why don’t you two lazy bums give me a paw already?”

“You said you wanted to split up, remember? Split up into teams.”

He made a throwaway gesture with his paw. “Gah. Fuggedaboutit.”

We watched him stalk off again, muttering something under his breath. It didn’t sound very friendly. I didn’t care. It was fun to watch Brutus run around like a headless chicken. I’d never seen a cat chase a dog before, and the sight was both disturbing and highly entertaining.

Odelia and Chase came walking into the living room and Odelia gave us a wink. I tried to wink back, but cat’s eyes aren’t made for winking, so it probably came off weird. She got the message, though: we were on the case.

Just then, a person pointing a camera came crashing through the privacy hedge lining the deck and pool area. He looked a little crazed and hyped up.

“Paparazzi alert,” I told Dooley.

“Oh, is that a paparazzi?” he asked, interested.

“Paparazzo. They only call them paparazzi when they travel in packs.”

The moment the photog caught sight of the Kenspeckle sisters, he started clicking his camera, firing off questions like a machine gun toting kook.

“Shayonne! Shayonne! Where were you when your sister was killed?!”

Highly inappropriate, I felt. Genie the Bodyguard felt the same way, for he tried to swat the pap like a bug. The photographer dove under Genie’s massive arm and just kept shooting like the nasty little shutterbug he was.

“Is it true that Shana was sleeping with your husband, Shayonne?!”

The paparazzo narrowly avoided a flying tackle and darted away in the direction of the pool, the bodyguard close on his heel and moving in.