Ник Сайнт - Purrfect Revenge

Brainard Stowe was a stout man with a comb-over, who stood nervously hopping from one leg to the other while an officer took the couple’s statement. His wife Isabella was the motherly type, and reminded Odelia of her own mother. She was round with a kind face and overly large glasses, and was dressed in a floral print dress that seemed ill-fitted to keep her ample curves in check. She and her husband looked like they’d been rudely awakened, had put on the first thing they found, and had rushed over.

She waited patiently until the couple had given their statement, and approached them with a friendly smile. “Hi. My name is Odelia Poole. I’m a reporter for the Hampton Cove Gazette and a civilian consultant with the Hampton Cove Police Department. Can you tell me what happened?”

The woman’s eyes were red-rimmed, and it was obvious she’d been crying. Her husband, on the other hand, appeared incensed for some reason.

“I know who you are,” Isabella said. “I love your articles, Miss Poole.”

“I can’t believe this,” Brainard said. “When are they going to let us in?”

“Not until the crime scene has been thoroughly examined and the coroner has taken away the body,” I said.

His eyes shifted to me. “You’re Chief Alec’s niece, aren’t you? Can’t you ask him when I can reopen my restaurant?”

“You can ask him yourself, honey,” said his wife. “I’m sure he’ll want to talk to us once he’s through in there.”

“I hope they’re not going to close us down for a week,” he grumbled. “Something like this can wreck a business. And I know a thing or two about wrecking a business.”

Isabella smiled nervously. “I’m sure Miss Poole doesn’t want to know about all of that, honey,” she said, placing a warning hand on his arm.

“Mh? Oh. Right,” he said, realizing he wasn’t talking to himself.

“Is it true that Niklaus Skad was filming his show Kitchen Disasters in your restaurant?” I asked.

“Yes,” said Isabella. “We made the arrangements last fall, and filming had just started a couple of days ago.”

“And how would you describe the experience?”

Brainard frowned. “Rotten. I wish we’d never agreed to do his damn show.” Isabella put her hand on his arm again but he shook it off. “And I don’t care who knows it. You can print this on your front page for all I care. Niklaus Skad was a horrible human being who got off on hurting others. A failed and bitter restaurateur who took out his rancor on other, more successful business owners. He bullied our chef, he bullied our staff, he bullied us, heck, he even bullied our cat! The man was a well-dressed thug!”

“I hope you’re not going to write that in your article, Miss Poole,” Isabella said. “Brainard is overwrought. He doesn’t mean what he says.”

“I mean every word! I think whoever killed the man deserves a medal!”

“Keep your voice down,” Isabella hissed. “The police are here.”

“They know we didn’t do it,” said Brainard. “How could we? We were…” His pale blue eyes shifted to me again, and he promptly clamped his mouth shut.

“Yes?” I prompted. “You were…”

“We were home last night,” said Isabella. “All night.”

“Can anyone vouch for you?” I asked. “I mean, I’m sure my uncle will want to know.”

Husband and wife shared a quick glance, then Isabella produced a nervous giggle. “I—we—well, the thing is…”

“You don’t have to tell her,” Brainard said. “There’s such a thing as privacy in this country. There are laws and stuff.”

“Privacy is the first thing that goes out the window when a dead body is found stuffed in the oven of your kitchen,” Isabella said stiffly. She nodded. “The police are going to find out anyway. They’re going to go through our personal affairs with a fine-tooth comb and if we don’t get an expensive lawyer we might even be charged with murder.”

“Nonsense. We didn’t do it and we can prove it.”

She gave him a gentle shove. “Go on, then. Tell her. It’s not like it’s anything to be ashamed of.”

He stared at me, his lips a thin line. Finally, he burst out, “Very well, then. We were playing with our Echo.”

This wasn’t what she’d expected, so she raised an eyebrow. “Echo?”

“The Amazon gadget? You can ask it anything,” Isabella said.

“Yeah, it’s way cool. You can ask Alexa what the weather will be like, or to play a certain song, or to turn on the heating. Anything. It’s fun.”

“Who’s Alexa?” she asked, still not following.

“She’s the voice of the Echo,” said Isabella.

“Like Apple has Siri?” Brainard added. He frowned. “I wonder why they’re both women’s voices.”

“Women just have nicer voices,” said Isabella.

“I’m sure that’s not the reason.”

“And I’m sure that it is.”

“Um… How is this Echo thing providing you with an alibi?” Odelia asked.

“See, Brainard? Miss Poole is smart as a whip.” She nudged him. “You tell her.”

“No, you tell her. It was your idea, after all.”

Isabella hooked her arm through her husband’s and bit her lip. “The thing is… we were asking Alexa for… advice.”

“Sexy positions,” Brainard said gruffly, practicing his thousand-yard stare.

“And ordering sexy things online,” his wife added.

“Spice up our love life. You should give it a try sometime, missy.”

“Oh, I’m sure Miss Poole doesn’t need her love life spiced up,” Isabella said. She gave Odelia a smile. “When you’re married for as long as we’ve been, you need all the spicing up you can get. You understand.”

“Oh, sure,” she said, a little flustered. “Yeah, I get it. Of course.”

“And the good thing is that the police can check with Amazon. Everything you do on the Echo is recorded. So they can hear what we were up to.”

“They can?” asked Brainard, his eyebrows rising precipitously.

“Oh, yes,” she said, reddening slightly.

“Oh, my.”

“Yes,” she said with a sigh.

“Everything?”

“Every sound we made, honey.”

“Oh, my God.”

She bit her lip again. “So there you have it, Miss Poole. That’s our alibi.”

“Alexa.”

She nodded. “I hope you’ll be discreet about it. I’d hate for our friends and neighbors to find out about this. Or my sister.”

“They’ll know soon enough,” said her husband. “Everybody talks, honey. Even the cops.”

“Oh, well,” she said, adjusting her dress. “It’s not like it’s a crime to have a good time. We are married, after all.”

“And even if we weren’t, there’s no law against ordering edible lingerie.”

“Brainard!” she whispered, tittering nervously.

“The Echo,” Odelia said.

Isabella heaved a little sigh. “The Echo,” she echoed.

Yep. Definitely one of the more interesting alibis.

Chapter Three

We all stared at the newcomer, who sat casually licking his front paw.

“He’s orange, just like you,” Dooley whispered.

“I’m not orange, I’m blorange,” I whispered back.

“What’s the difference?” Brutus hissed.

“Blorange is a reddish orange with rose hues,” I said.

They both stared at me, then at Diego, then back at me. “I don’t see the difference,” Brutus said.

“Well, there is a difference,” I said haughtily. “Maybe you should have your eyes checked.”

“My eyes are fine. You’re orange, he’s orange. It’s the same color.”

“It’s not the same color!”

“No, you’re right about that,” Brutus admitted. “You’re fat, he’s thin.”

“I’m not fat!”