Ник Сайнт - Purrfect Murder

“I’m sure no writer wants to take up residence at a lodge where only recently one of his kind has been gruesomely murdered. At least not as long as the killer is still lurking out in those woods, looking for another victim.”

“Stephen King might like it,” Dooley said. “It might give him inspiration for another one of his horror stories.”

“Yes,” I amended, “Stephen King might like it.”

“Or George R. R. Martin,” Harriet said. “He’d probably love the idea of a writer being whacked in his favorite writing environment. I’m sure he’d get a kick out of it, and it might even induce him to speed up his writing.”

“Yes, George might get a kick out of it, too,” I agreed.

“And what about J.K. Rowling?” asked Dooley. “She loves a good horror story. Ooh! Maybe Voldemort killed Paulo Frey! Back from the dead!”

“Right. As if a fictional character can really kill a writer,” I said. “All right. I’ll concede that there are certain writers that wouldn’t mind staying at a lodge where a writer was killed, but apart from those few, I’m sure most writers will think twice before selecting the Writer’s Lodge as their next destination. Which means Hetta Fried stands to lose her livelihood, and Hampton Cove a time-honored tradition of hosting famous celebrity writers.”

“And the liquor store a great deal of business,” Dooley added.

He was right. A lot of these writers liked to raid the liquor store before starting a new book. Copious amounts of alcohol were apparently a surefire way of beating writer’s block, or at least they liked to think so.

“I feel it is our sacred duty as residents of Hampton Cove to find out who killed Paulo Frey and bring them to justice,” I said, pumping up my chest.

“I agree. Let’s find ourselves a killer,” Harriet said, momentarily halting her grooming efforts—it takes a lot of work to keep that snowy white fur looking as perfectly fluffy and clean as hers does. She held up her paw.

I placed my own blorange paw against hers, and Dooley raised his.

“We solemnly swear to catch a killer and bring him or her to justice,” we all intoned, and then let go, satisfied we’d made a momentous pledge.

“So when do we start?” asked Dooley.

“Tonight,” I said, yawning. I needed my beauty sleep. It had been too long since I got some shuteye and I was starting to feel a serious nap coming on.

“Yes,” Harriet agreed. “Let’s take a long nap and meet up tonight.”

And showing she wasn’t joking, she immediately trotted off in the direction of her own yard, stared after by Dooley and me.

“Um, can I sleep in your crib, buddy?” asked Dooley.

“Why? Don’t you have enough space over at your place?”

Dooley gave me a hesitant look. “It’s not that. It’s just that…”

“Spit it out, man. What is it? Did Harriet take all the best spots again?”

He nodded sheepishly. That was the trouble when you lived in the same house as a Persian. They liked to think they were lord of the manor. Queen of the castle. Ruler of the realm. Reducing all others to playing second fiddle.

“Sure,” I said. “You can sleep on my couch today. Now let’s get our eighteen hours in before we go and catch ourselves a killer.”

Chapter 6

The moment Odelia returned to the newspaper, she drew up a list of people to interview. She wanted not just to solve this murder, but to write a series of articles that would have Hampton Covians sticking to their newspapers like glue, reading with rapt attention as their intrepid reporter led them, clue by clue, to the revelation of the identity of the killer who’d snuffed out one of their own. Well, technically Paulo Frey hadn’t been one of their own, of course. He was a New Yorker who spent a couple of weeks a year out here, but still, since Hampton Cove was a tourist town, tourists were as much a part of the community as the locals who lived here year-round.

Besides, even in the heart of winter tourists stayed in town, as the tourist board had added a couple of winter events to the schedule, in hopes of making the town more attractive when the weather turned inclement.

They organized a Winterfest now, and a Christmas market with an ice rink. It worked, for even in winter tourists made their way out here, though of course not as many as when the sun was out, and the beaches were full of people cavorting in the surf and enjoying all-night parties on the beach.

The only one who didn’t care for the new winter activities was Chief Alec, who now had to round up drunk revelers all year, and not just during the summer.

“So? Got yourself a genuine murder case, huh?” Dan asked, leaning against the doorjamb. He was sipping from his umpteenth cup of coffee and looked genuinely excited, as excited as she was feeling herself. He was a shortish man in his late sixties, with an impressive white beard and plenty of laugh wrinkles around his eyes, which always seemed to twinkle with delight.

“Yup. This is the big one, Dan. Famous bestselling writer gets whacked and dumped in the can. This is going to get national headlines, I’m sure.”

“Do they have a suspect?” asked the veteran editor.

“Not yet. Uncle Alec is putting Chase Kingsley in charge.”

This caused the editor’s bushy brows to wiggle with surprise. “Chase Kingsley? The new guy?”

“Yeah, he’s supposed to be this hotshot detective from New York. Apparently he used to work for the NYPD, so he’s well qualified.”

“Used to work being the operative word,” said the editor.

She stared at him. “What do you mean?”

All she knew about the guy was that he had an annoying cat, and that he seemed to hate reporters. Or it could be that he just hated her, of course.

Dan looked over his shoulder, as if fully expecting Detective Kingsley to have walked into the office to eavesdrop on their private conversation.

“What I’ve heard is that Chase Kingsley didn’t quit the NYPD but was forced out.” He lowered his brows and grumbled in a low voice, “Fired for gross misconduct is what I heard. Molestation of a suspect’s wife.”

“Molestation!” she cried, her jaw dropping. “No way!”

He shook his head sadly. “All I know is what was printed in the Post .”

“The Post ?” she asked, reaching for her laptop. This she had to see.

“Stacy Brown got it from Lora Escort, who read it in the paper a couple of months ago and remembered the name. I doubt that Alec even knows about this, otherwise he probably would never have hired him in the first place.” His voice took on a grave tone. “If the rumors are true he actually molested the wife of a suspect while the guy was in custody, and she pressed charges against him, apparently not too keen on being manhandled by a cop.”

She stared at the editor, fully aghast. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Dan shrugged. “Do I look like I’m kidding?”

“But why would Uncle Alec hire a guy like that?”

“Like I said, he probably doesn’t even know about it.”

“That’s impossible. Nobody hires a cop without checking his credentials.”

“Maybe he lied on his resume.”

“I find it hard to believe Uncle Alec wouldn’t check his references. The NYPD is only a phone call away. No, I’m sure he knows about Chase Kingsley’s past and simply chose to ignore it.” She frowned. “But why?”

“Beats me. I just know that that uncle of yours has got a really big heart, Odelia. Maybe he felt sorry for the guy? Hell, I’m not saying he’s not a good cop. Everyone seems to agree he was one hell of a detective. But with a thing like that hanging over his head, his chances of ever working as a cop again were slim to nonexistent.”