“But I did tell you,” said Dan. “I wrote you an email.”
“You did?” asked Odelia, taking out her phone. She did some deft finger work and moments later produced a soft gasp. “God, Dan, you’re right. And I missed it.”
“That’s all right. You’ve been pretty busy, haven’t you? Up to your ears in this murder business. How is the investigation going? Any news?”
“We’re being led from one dead end to another,” said Odelia.
“I know the feeling,” said the editor sympathetically.
“Just to be sure: what time did you meet with Bereng?ria?” asked Chase.
“Two nights ago at one o’clock. Here in my office. The meeting lasted one hour.” He arched a bushy white eyebrow when Odelia and Chase both groaned in dismay. “Another dead end?” When they nodded dejectedly, he smiled. “My apologies.”
[Êàðòèíêà: img_4]
While Odelia and Chase strengthened their tissues by having a bite to eat, Dooley and I wandered over to the General Store to have a chat with Kingman and strengthen our own tissues. Wilbur Vickery is one of those lucky people who have salespeople of every possible description representing all the known and even unknown brands knocking on his door and offering him their wares, and among those salespeople are plenty who have dog and cat food to share.
And since Wilbur is essentially a warmhearted and generous person, he doesn’t mind sharing his wealth with Kingman and Kingman’s friends. Also, who’s the best judge of cat food? Not Wilbur, since humans aren’t the primary target audience for Purina or Sheba, or even that Hill’s Science stuff. So Kingman ends up the designated guinea pig, sampling every new brandon the market.
Lucky for us we only need one sniff to know if something is up to snuff. And the stuff Wilbur had on offer today passed the sniffing test with flying colors. After the morning we’d had—with several disappointments in the sleuthing department—we were famished, and ate our fill while Kingman watched on.
“I don’t like it so much,” he said. “But then I’m not big on fish.”
“Don’t pull my leg, Kingman,” I said. “All cats like fish.”
“Not me. I’m not a big fan of fish. Tastes fishy to me.”
I couldn’t tell if he was joking or not, so I refrained from comment. Besides, I was too busy scarfing down my fill of fish nuggets.
“So where is Brutus?” asked the big cat, glancing around nervously.
“Home,” I said curtly.
“Not investigating with the rest of you?”
“Brutus is depressed,” said Dooley.
“Why? What does he have to be depressed about?”
“The fact that you’re having an affair with Harriet,” I said.
“But I’m not!” Kingman cried. “How many times do I have to tell you! I’m not having an affair with Harriet. Not that I don’t want to, obviously. But there’s only one tom for Harriet and that’s Brutus. No idea why, but there you have it. Harriet loves Brutus, and nothing I say or do will convince her otherwise.”
“So you have tried?” I asked, giving him a censorious glance.
“Oh, absolutely. No harm in that, is there? But no such luck, fellas. The lady is devoted.” He sighed as he placed his large head on his front paws. “So why Brutus should be depressed is beyond me, to be honest. He’s managed to ensnare Hampton Cove’s prettiest and most lovely queen, the lucky bastard.”
He seemed sincere enough, so I decided to press him a little further.“So why have you and Harriet been meeting in secret?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Max.”
Now I knew he was lying. Something was going on, and if he wasn’t having an affair with the fair lady, then what? But no matter how I pressed him on the matter, he wouldn’t budge. Sworn to secrecy by Harriet, no doubt.
“We’re your oldest friends, Kingman. You have to tell us.”
“I don’t have to tell you anything, Max,” he said snippily. “And besides, what’s it to you?”
“I’m concerned about Brutus’s wellbeing,” I said.
“Or you could admit that you’re a nosy busybody.”
“These nuggets are delicious, Kingman,” said Dooley.
“I’m glad you like them. If you hadn’t eaten them, Wilbur would have chucked them in the bin.”
Upon hearing that, Dooley and I redoubled our efforts to square away the rest of the provisions. I’m a cat who believes in not looking a gift horse in the mouth, you see, even if that mouth belongs to a fish nugget and not a horse.
“So about Brutus,” I reiterated. “Did you—”
“Brad Pitt was in here yesterday,” Kingman interrupted me, clearly having had enough of this Brutus and Harriet business.
“Brad Pitt!” Dooley cried. “What was he doing here?”
“Shopping for groceries, I presume. Even Brad Pitt has to eat, Dooley.”
“I know, but I just figured he’d have people doing his shopping for him.”