Ник Сайнт - Purrfect Revenge

He bit his lip. “All right. That’s good. That’s great.” He picked up a packet of cigarettes and offered them one. They both declined. He lit one up and took an eager drag. “I, um, yeah. Yeah, I wasn’t happy with this job. I am not happy with this job. In fact it’s probably the worst job in the world. Well, maybe not. Sewer inspector or professional dog and cat food taster or armpit sniffer are up there with being a writer for the Kenspeckles. I, um…” He took another long drag from his cigarette. “Yeah, writing those horrible treatments, outlining those stupid scenes, having to endure that hammy acting…” He shook his head. “It’s all very draining. Excruciatingly draining.”

Odelia had the impression the writer was mistaking them for his shrink, as the flow of words was almost unstoppable.

“So you didn’t like the show?” Chase asked, stating the obvious.

“No, I don’t like the show. It’s the worst show on television and I’m in it up to my eyeballs. Can you imagine how soul-sucking it is to write the kind of terrible drama that is required of me? For one thing, I have to keep abreast of all the gossip. I spend hours and hours reading gossip magazines. It’s brutal.”

Hey, this job didn’t sound so bad. Who didn’t love gossip magazines? And this guy was getting paid to do it? Cool. “So why don’t you quit?” she asked.

His hand trembled. “I—I can’t. There’s an exclusivity clause in my contract. I signed back when I was an absolute nobody and now I’m stuck.”

"So you decided that the only way to get the show canceled was to kill off one of the principals," Chase said, nodding.

“Yeah—wait, what? No! No, I—I would never do that. I… I’m not a killer, Detective. I—I can’t stand the sight of blood. And gore. I don’t even watch The Walking Dead . Zombies freak me out. And blood. It’s the senseless violence. It gets to me.” He took another, long drag. “You sure you don’t…”

“No, thanks, I’m good,” Chase said. “Where were you when Shana was killed, Mr. Dot?”

He gestured to a window that looked out onto the terrace. "Right here. In my room. I'm in the smallest room in the house. More like a broom cupboard. Harry Potter size." He grimaced. "It's the curse of the writer. But that doesn't mean I killed Shana. For one thing, I owe my career to this show. Once it's canceled, I can get any job I want. And it's made me a lot of money. A fixed income. Do you know how many writers would kill their mother to get on a show like this? Thousands. Not literally kill their mother. It's just a figure of speech. Most of my colleagues are out of work. I may hate my job, and it's one of the soul-suckiest jobs on the planet, but it's a job. I get paid."

“Do you have any idea who might be behind the murder?” asked Odelia.

The guy put out his cigarette with nervous jabs and nodded feverishly. “One of the girls here got a really bum deal. She was attacked by Shana.”

Chase frowned. “Shana got physical with a crew member?”

He expelled a jittery laugh. “Not physical, Detective, but she did make her life a living hell. Don’t tell her I told you, but I think you better have a word with Laurelle. Laurelle Merritt? She’s the stylist. She…” He coughed. “She had the bright idea to make a sex tape. She showed the tape to Shana, hoping she would make her famous. All Shana did was show the tape to her sisters. They found the whole thing hilarious and started sending it around to their friends as a joke. Laurelle was shattered.” He blinked. “Shana Kenspeckle was the original mean girl, Detectives. The Shana you see on the screen? That was my creation. The real Shana was not a very nice person.”

Chapter 20

Dooley and I had settled down at our new favorite spot: on top of that nice leather couch in the Kenspeckle living room. From here we had a great view of all the goings-on at the house, and could report back to Odelia with any new developments.

“We have to tell Odelia to get a nice couch like this,” Dooley said as he dug his claws into the leather. “I like it. It’s got everything a cat needs.”

“I like it too,” I said. “Though I don’t know what the Kenspeckles are going to say when they find out you’re ruining the couch, Dooley.”

“I’m not ruining it. I’m merely adding my personal touch.”

Rich people usually don’t have cats. They have dogs, and train them not to ruin the expensive furniture. You can’t train cats not to sink their claws into the upholstery. Not that we’re dumb or something. We just don’t care.

“So have you solved the murder yet?” Dooley asked.

“Nope. But I bet it’s a guy. Butchers are usually guys. And according to Abe we’re dealing with a real butcher. As in a professional meat carver.”

“So Dion or Damien? But Dion is innocent.”

“What about Damien? Rappers are butchers. Butchers of taste.”

All right. So I don’t like rap music. Sue me.

We both watched as Damien paced the living room, deeply engrossed in thought. From time to time he muttered a few snatches of song, punching the air like a kickboxer, then shook his head and paced some more. He was obviously in the throes of the creative process.

Dooley turned to me. “I don’t think it’s Damien.”

“I think you’re right. A doofus like that can’t be the killer.”

Which left… Boa the bodyguard, Burr the cameraman, Alejandro the director, or the writer. Or any of the other bodyguards. Oh, boy. Sleuthing had never been so hard. “I’ll bet it’s Boa,” I said. “He looks like a butcher.”

“Oh, look,” said Dooley. “Speak of the devil.”

The big bodyguard came lumbering up, the ground practically quaking where he stepped. He was all sweaty and oily, his big muscles flexing and moving beneath his tan skin. Man, the guy was ripped.

“I wonder why they haven’t fired him,” I said. “I mean, Shana was killed on his watch. You’d think they’d get rid of him as soon as possible.”

We watched as Shalonda waved the bodyguard over. He bent over her, placing his hands on either side of her head, and then… kissed her. And I mean really kissed her. Not a brotherly kiss or anything but a no-holds-barred French kiss from what I could tell. He rose up, a giggling Shalonda dangling from his neck, he staggered to the pool, and they both toppled in.

“I think I know why he wasn’t fired,” Dooley said.

The moment they resurfaced, there was more kissing, and before we knew what happened, Boa dispensed with Shalonda’s bathing suit and our world suddenly turned into an X-rated movie. The kind Odelia doesn’t allow us to watch. We both stared at the scene, transfixed, our jaws dropping.

“Um. I think I see what you mean, Dooley,” I said.

I wanted to avert my eyes but I couldn’t. It was like watching a train wreck. You just can’t look away no matter how wrong you know it is.

“Max?”

“Uh-huh?”

“What are they doing?”

“It’s called sex, Dooley. It’s what humans do when they make a baby.”

“Oh. So they’re making a baby?”

“Uh-huh.”

“I thought they were trying to eat each other.”

“No. I’m pretty sure they’re making a baby.”

“Oh, all right.”

Five minutes later, they were through, and since they were both still alive, it was obvious I was right and Dooley wasn’t. They’d made a Kenspeckle. Shayonne seemed less impressed with her sister’s shenanigans than we were. She was sleeping, her mouth open, snoring softly. Not a pretty sight.

Shalonda emerged from the pool and plunked down on her chaise. She looked exhausted. Apparently making new Kenspeckles was hard work.

I searched around for the cameraman, wondering if he caught all that baby making with his camera, but I didn’t see him anywhere. Apparently making new Kenspeckles wasn’t part of the setup. This wasn’t Big Brother.