“I won’t,” Odelia promised. “This has no bearing on the case whatsoever, and I’m sure Chase will agree, and Uncle Alec.”
“God, you’ll have to tell Chase, I guess, and my brother. And before you know it, word will spread and I’ll have to leave town and go and live on the other side of the country. Or Scotland.”
“Why Scotland?”
Marge shrugged.“I’ve always wanted to go, just never had the chance.”
“You won’t have to move to the other side of the country or Scotland, Mom,” Odelia assured her mother. She seemed inordinately pleased with this secret. Which was understandable. She had probably thought the worst, and being responsible for the penning of a few erotic novels didn’t exactly constitute a crime. A crime against literature, maybe, if the novels were that bad, but not punishable by law. “So Kitty Velvet, huh?” she said, grinning widely. “I like the name, Mom. Very saucy.”
“Huh. You’re funny,” Marge said, clearly not happy with this denouement.
“So what kind of novels are they?”
“Remember thoseFifty Shades of Grey books? Well, something like that. Only in my novels he wasn’t called Mr. Grey but Mr. Black.”
“Very original.”
“I never said the novels were good. In fact they’re probably pretty bad.”
“I’ll read them and I’ll give you my personal review,” said Odelia.
Marge puckered up her brow in despair.“Oh, please don’t!”
“But I have to. My mom is a writer, so I have to read them.”
“God, what have I done?” said Marge, shaking her head.
“I’m sure they’re not as bad as all that. I bet they’re great.”
“No, they’re not.”
Odelia was smiling before herself for a moment, then launched into her second inquiry which might be deemed embarrassing.“So what’s Dad’s secret?”
“That’s easy. You know how your dad always claims he was trained by Pete Sampras?”
“He wasn’t?”
Marge shook her head.“He never met Mr. Sampras in his life. He also didn’t go to that posh tennis school he’s always talking about. Instead he took a couple of lessons at the YMCA. Which probably explains why he’s such a terrible player.”
Tex had struck out again, and Glenn was pumping his fist in a victory sign.“Yesss!” the bookstore owner shouted, much to Tex’s dismay. But he showed himself a graceful loser, for he shook Glenn’s hand before stepping off the court.
“I told Odelia about Pete Sampras,” said Marge.
“Oh?” said Tex.
“I had to. They arrested Bereng?ria, who was going to blackmail us.”
“She was, was she?” said Tex as he drew a towel across his face and neck.
“Your name wasn’t on her list, though,” said Odelia. “So looks like you were in the clear.”
“I wasn’t on the blackmailer’s list?” asked Tex, looking disappointed. “But why?”
“I guess your secret wasn’t big enough, honey,” said Marge.
Tex’s lips formed a perfect O, and we all laughed, even Marge. Or should I say Kitty Velvet?
“I want to read Marge’s stories about Mr. Black, too, Max,” said Dooley. “I think she is a much better writer than she’s letting on. I’m very proud of her. And maybe we can even start a reading club. I’m sure Harriet will be excited about reading Marge’s books, too, and maybe Shanille and all the others.”
Alarmed, I looked up at Odelia, who had also heard my friend’s words. I shared a look of understanding with my human, and somehow I had the feeling those Kitty Velvet books would soon be a thing of the past. I don’t know how, but I was quite sure they’d disappear into the mists of time, never to be seen again.
CHAPTER 37
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We were in Uncle Alec’s office, where the Chief had summoned his detective and his niece to give him an update on the case. The Drobas were a prominent family with a lot of clout, and the death of Isobel had reverberated throughout the community and was receiving plenty of attention in the media. And since nobody likes bad publicity, the town council was putting pressure on the mayor to put pressure on the chief of police to find Isobel’s killer and put the case to bed—fast!
And so now Uncle Alec was putting pressure on Chase and Odelia.
“I still think Jason is our guy,” Chase insisted. “Him and Alison both.”
“But he can’t be,” said Odelia. “Mark Devine swears Alison never left the car.”
“He’s lying. No detective engaged in a stakeout keeps his eye on his target all the time. He closes his eyes for a nap, or he reads something on his phone, or orders a pizza and has to pay the delivery guy, or he steps out of the car for a pee.”
“Don’t private detectives pee in bottles?” asked Uncle Alec.
“Look, I don’t care. I’m sure he lost sight of Alison at some point, and that’s when she and the boyfriend crawled up to Isobel’s room and killed her. There’s no other explanation.”
“So what about this blackmailer?” asked the Chief. “This Morat? woman?”
“Possible,” Chase allowed. “But she’s not talking. And we searched her apartment and found no trace of Isobel’s things, or the murder weapon.”
“You didn’t find anything on Rocamora either,” the Chief pointed out.
“Yeah, I know,” Chase sighed, finger-combing his shaggy mane.