“What is she doing?” asked Dooley after a while.

  “I have no idea,” I said.

  “And why is she dressed in her underwear?”

  “Maybe she forgot to bring her clothes?”

  When we’d seen her backstage in her underwear, I’d figured she would put on her dress at the last minute, but now it turned out this was it—this was her stage costume.

  The men now placed her back on top of the piano, where she began writhing about, trying to look sexy. Then the men picked her up again and deposited her on the floor, where she proceeded to teeter from the left side of the stage to the right on her high heels, all the while moaning her way through the song, the men darting around her.

  “I think it’s supposed to be sexy,” I finally said.

  The men had picked Gran up again and tried to heave her onto the piano. Clearly they were all starting to feel the strain, for they ended up dropping her to the floor. So Gran decided to remain where she was while throatily pushing out those final few notes.

  There wasn’t even a hint of applause this time. A lot of stunned people sat staring, waiters had stopped waiting, and smartphones were out, filming the weird spectacle.

  And they’d seen nothing yet, for as Gran got up and cleared the stage, Harriet and Brutus walked on. Harriet took a slight bow and, much to the consternation of those present, started yowling. I think she was going for Like a Prayer, in line with Gran’s performance, but unfortunately stress must have affected her vocal cords, for all that came out were a series of disjointed notes. Brutus, meanwhile, tried to act like a beatbox, but messed up when he ended up blowing a series of extended raspberries instead.

  “I don’t recognize this song,” said Dooley.

  “I think it’s Madonna’s Like a Prayer,” I said.

  “Oh, right,” said Dooley.

  We both winced as Harriet launched into the chorus, and people started pressing their hands against their ears. Never a good sign for a debut artist’s first live show.

  She must have realized things weren’t going well, for suddenly she broke off prematurely, and hurriedly left the stage, Brutus still blowing raspberries, as if he’d forgotten where his off-switch was located. Finally he realized he was alone on stage, grinned nervously, and skipped into the wings like a foal on its first foray into the field.

  For a moment, all was silent, but then the room plunged into confused talk and chattering. The Mayor looked embarrassed, and the Weskits sat stony-faced. They’d probably anticipated something dignified. With standing. Something along the lines of the American Music Awards or the Grammy’s. They got America’s Got Talent instead.

  21

  Behind us, Odelia had materialized. Whether she was shocked or enchanted by the performance of her grandmother and Harriet was impossible to deduce from her expression. She had a sparkle in her eye, though. The sparkle of a reporter who’s just picked up the scent of a great story. To us she merely whispered, “Go, go, go!”

  And so go we went.

  Odelia had opened a door that led to the hotel’s backstairs and we quickly made our way up until we’d reached the fourth floor. I took a moment to catch my breath, and to our elation we found the door easily yielding to pressure and the hallway empty.

  “This is going well, Dooley,” I commented as I looked up and down the hallway. “I don’t think anyone saw us.”

  “But what about Harriet and Brutus?” he asked. “Weren’t they supposed to join us?”

  “I think they’re probably still recovering from their performance.”

  “They didn’t do very well, did they, Max?”

  “No, I think it’s safe to say that they didn’t.”

  “Probably nerves.”

  “’Yeah, it’s a different thing to sing in front of cats than a room full of humans.”

  We were traipsing along the hallway, looking left and right as we went, and making sure we weren’t caught. The hallway was easily as nice as the ballroom. Gilded sconces along the walls, gorgeous velvety wallpaper, that nice thick red carpet. Everything for the hotel’s VIP guests. Dooley was announcing the room numbers out loud, both proving he could count and making sure we didn’t skip past our destination, and finally we’d reached the Weskits’ room. I glanced up at the door handle, which was way higher than I’d anticipated, and sighed.

  “I don’t know about you, Dooley, but I can’t possibly jump that high.”

  “Do you want me to give it a try?” And without waiting for my response, he performed a nice standing high jump. He reached about halfway to the handle, which was outfitted with one of those panels you hold your badge against for easy access.

  “Close but no cigar,” I told him encouragingly.

  “That’s all right,” he said. “I don’t smoke.” He made a second attempt, but reached even less high than before. Cats are great jumpers, but we’re not rabbits or kangaroos.

  I listened carefully for that telltale clicking sound that indicates the badge has done what it’s supposed to do but no luck so far. No clicking sound and no access for us.

  “Can’t you hover in the air a little longer?” I asked. “I think the little gizmo needs time to figure out a badge is near. And try to hold up the badge. Hold it as high as you can.”

  So Dooley kept on jumping, trying to hold up the badge with his paws. If the selection committee for the Olympic Games had seen him, they’d definitely have given him points for effort. Unfortunately even cats as fit and healthy as Dooley reach the end of their tether, and as Dooley sat on the floor, panting heavily, the door was still as closed as ever.

  And as Dooley got some air into his lungs, I spotted a cart at the end of the hallway. It was one of those carts used by room service people, and I could spot a couple of empty glasses on top of it, as well as a bucket with a champagne bottle peeping out at the top. “Maybe we could roll that cart over here and jump on top of it?” I now suggested.

  “Good… (pant pant) idea… (pant pant) Max. Let’s… (pant pant) give… (pant pant) it… (pant pant) a shot (closing pant).”

  So we gamboled along the corridor—that is to say, I gamboled and Dooley dragged his weary body along as fast as he could—and when we reached the cart I saw that, indeed, it was equipped with nifty little wheels. So we both pushed, and soon the cart was rolling along nicely at a brisk pace. Unfortunately I think we must have put a little too much push into the thing, or maybe the carpet wasn’t as thick and plush as I’d anticipated, for we overshot the room and still the cart kept on zipping along. It proceeded to pick up speed, until it slammed against the wall at the end. For a moment, bucket and glasses waggled precariously, then, like lemmings, collectively made the jump. The first glass was fine, but when the second one fell on top of it, it gave up the fight and broke, and so did the third, and the fourth, and when the bucket tipped over and dropped down on top of all of them, it crushed what remained of the glassware.

  “I’m not going near that,” announced Dooley.

  This may be a good time to remind you that cats do not wear shoes. So we try to steer clear of sharp objects on the floor, be they glass or other items that cut our tender paws.

  To my elation I immediately spotted a second cart. So we decided to repeat the procedure, only this time Dooley pushed and I walked in front of the cart to provide a measure of stoppage. We managed to maneuver the cart where it needed to be. Dooley made one final jump, and landed squarely on top of the cart, held out his badge, and there was that delicious, much-sought-after clicking sound: open Sesame!

  Once inside, we quickly spread out. I headed into the kitchen, hoping the Weskits had pets and had left the pet food out, and Dooley moved into the bedroom for a brief nap.

  I quickly discovered that the Weskits did not have pets, and the only food I could find in the kitchen was leftover pizza. I’m not choosy when I’m hungry, though, so I took a tentative bite. And as I digested this first nibble, I decided the pizza was fit for feline consumption and quickly devoured a large slice, leaving a smaller slice for Dooley. Feeling fortified, I went in search of that all-telling clue that Odelia had mentioned. She had no idea what it might look like, but had assured us that if we found it, we’d recognize it for what it was: The One Clue That Rules All Other Clues (or TOCTRAOC).

  And I’d just wended my way in the general direction of the bedroom to see what Dooley was up to, when I was startled to come across two large eyes glowing in the dark, staring back at me. I immediately recognized them as belonging to the Felis catus species.

  In other words, the Weskits did have a pet, and that pet was a cat.

  22

  Odelia, along with her mom, Uncle Alec and Chase, sat one table removed from the Mayor’s table, so she was able to keep a close eye on the Weskits, Laron and Shannon. So far the couple hadn’t moved from their seats, so Max and Dooley were in the clear.

  “That was terrible,” said her mother as she distractedly picked from a cheese platter.

  “I thought Dad was pretty good. Not exactly his crowd, but still a solid performance.”

  “Your dad was fantastic, but your grandmother!” Marge shook her head. “What was she thinking!”

  Odelia grinned. “It was a little weird. She was probably thinking she was fifty years younger.”

  “I should have stayed for rehearsals. I would never have allowed her on stage dressed like that.”

  “To be fair, Marge,” said Uncle Alec as he swirled the remnants of a nice burgundy in his glass, “even if you’d told her not to perform she’d gone ahead and done it anyway.”

  “I know, Alec—she never listens to anyone, that’s the problem. And that poor Harriet and Brutus. What an awful, humiliating spectacle. Where are they, anyway?”

  Odelia leaned in and whispered into her mom’s ear, “They’re upstairs, checking out Charlie and Jamie’s room, while Max and Dooley are going through the Weskits’ stuff.”

  “Well, I hope they find something.”

  “And I hope they don’t get caught,” said Chase, who looked worried.

  “They won’t get caught, and even if they are, hotel staff will simply throw them out.”

  “What are you hoping they’ll find?” asked Uncle Alec, accepting a refill from a waiter.

  “Anything, something. I don’t know. It’s frustrating not being able to interview them.”

  “Tomorrow,” said the Chief. “Tomorrow we can interview them all we want.”

  “And do you seriously expect them to stick around for us to do that? I’ll bet their flights are booked and they’ll be gone at first light.”

  “Possibly, but that would simply make them more suspect. And wherever they go, there’s police there, too, and a simple request from me will see them interrogated.”

  “Still, I feel more relaxed knowing our cats are going through their things with a fine-tooth comb.”

  “Or a fine-claw paw,” Chase quipped.

  Just then, Gran joined them at their table, accompanied by Tex. A scarlet blush mantled Gran’s cheeks, but at least she’d covered up her Madonna-style lingerie.

  “And?” Gran asked as she took a seat. “What did you think of the show?”

  Chase murmured something noncommittal, while Uncle Alec stared at the ceiling.

  “It was terrible!” Marge cried, unable to restrain herself. “What the hell were you thinking? You turned us into the town’s laughingstock! How am I ever going to face people now? And have you considered Alec’s reputation? Or Tex’s? Or Odelia’s?”

  The corners of Gran’s lips dropped. “Is that a way to encourage the only star in your family? I’ll have you know I got a lot of compliments backstage. Charlie Dieber knocked on my dressing room door and personally told me how rad he thought I was.”

  “He was watching?” asked Odelia.

  “Of course. Charlie, Jamie, they both watched from the wings. And now that I’ve got some buzz going, I just know I’ll be able to take this thing into the stratosphere.”

  “Do you honestly think your performance was good?” asked Marge. “You sang completely out of tune, you looked like a hoary harlot, and those men! They should be ashamed of themselves, the way they behaved—salivating over you like… like… johns!”

  “That’s the difference between a star and a nobody like you, Marge,” Gran snapped. “A star is out there, shining brightly, while ordinary people like you only excel at petty jealousy. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to mingle and stoke up some more buzz.”

  “Mingle!” Marge cried as Gran walked away. “You should apologize to the Mayor!”

  “Oh, just leave her be,” said Alec. “I think it’s nice she has a hobby. Keeps her out of trouble.”

  “God,” said Marge, and plunked her head against the table, upsetting the tableware.

  “Oh, honey,” said Tex, rubbing her between the shoulder blades. “It’s gonna be fine.”

  Marge lifted her head. “Do you really believe what she said about Charlie Dieber complimenting her on being ‘rad?’”

  “Yeah, that actually happened. I was right there when he told her.”

  “The world has gone stark-raving mad,” Marge groaned, and thunked her head again.

  “Let’s go, let’s go, let’s go!” said Jerry as Johnny closed the door of the car. They darted across the road and immediately disappeared into the alley next to the hotel.

  “Do you think this bag is big enough, Jer?” asked Johnny, showing Jerry a ginormous gym bag.

  “I like it when you think big, Johnny,” said Jerry with a grin.

  “I hope they’ve got Rolexes,” said Johnny, sounding like a kid on Christmas morning. “If they got some nice Rolexes I might grab one for me. I’ve always liked Rolexes.”

  “Once we pull this off, you can have all the Rolexes in the world,” said Jerry, who was also in buoyant mood. It was the adrenaline, and the excitement of a job well-planned and about to be well-executed. He never got tired of that zippy sensation.

  “I just hope there’s no security,” said Johnny, returning to his favorite theme.

  “I told you a million times already, Johnny. All the bodyguards will be downstairs with the people they’re supposed to be guarding with their bodies, not upstairs.”

  “And I hope they didn’t use the hotel safe. I hate it when they do that. So unfair. But even if they did, I’m going to crack that safe, Jer. I’m gonna crack it open like a coconut.”

  “That’s the spirit, Johnny,” said Jerry. “That’s that will to win right there.”

  They’d arrived at the fire escape and now climbed the metal stairs to the fourth floor, where the rooms of the Weskits and that twerp pop singer and his girl were located.

  “First the Weskits,” Jerry said.

  “And then the twerp,” Johnny cheerfully sang.

  It took Johnny only a couple of seconds of fiddling with the lock to open the fire exit door and then they were in. They jogged along the corridor in search of the Weskits’ room and once they’d found it, it was only a few moments before that lock too, yielded to the power of Johnny’s toolkit and experience. They quickly burst in and closed the door.

  “Let’s do this!” Jerry whispered.

  “Hallelujah!” Johnny yodeled.

  23

  “Trespassers,” said the eyes that glowed in the dark. Or at least the creature to whom the eyes belonged. As a rule, eyes rarely burst into speech.

  “No, visitors,” I corrected the feline. “Friendly visitors that come in peace.”

  The cat was silent for a brief moment, then finally emerged from the shadows so I could see it whole. It was one of those hairless cats—the ones without any fur—and for a moment I couldn’t help but stare at it. Next to me, Dooley had also materialized, attracted by the voices, and was gripped by the same sudden fascination with this rare creature, for the cat grunted, “Cat got your tongue? Never seen a hairless cat before?”

  “Um, as a matter of fact I haven’t,” I confessed. “This is a first for me.”

  “Oh, you poor cat,” said Dooley, perhaps not striking the right tone. “Did it hurt?”

  “Did what hurt?” the cat growled, its eyes narrowing dangerously.

  “When they shaved you. It must have hurt. What did they use? A razor blade or an electric razor? And who did it? Your humans or a professional? A professional, probably. At one of those pet salons. I don’t see any shaving nicks. When Chase shaves in the morning he always manages to cut himself. Odelia’s told him several times he should use an electric razor but he insists they don’t produce the same smooth finish as his trusty Gillette. To each their own, I guess, though I think Odelia’s right, to be honest—you’re probably wondering who Odelia is. She’s our human, and she would never, ever shave us. Except if we asked her, of course, which we never will. Which isn’t to say I don’t approve of your personal life choice, sir or ma’am. Like I said, to each their own.”

  The cat was producing a low growling sound at the back of its throat, and I quickly nudged Dooley in the ribs. “You’re blabbing, Dooley. Maybe now is a good time to zip it.” I understood where he was coming from, of course. Seeing your first hairless cat in the flesh, so to speak, tends to produce a bit of a shock. That certainly was my experience.

  “First of all, nobody shaves me,” said the cat now. “Secondly, this is what I’ve always looked like. I don’t have the advantage of fur, which is why I would prefer it if you didn’t make any cracks about it. Now back to my question: why are you trespassing?”

  “Like I said, we’re not trespassing,” I said. “Well, technically perhaps we are, but it’s for a good cause. You see, a, um, good friend of our humans died this morning—she was murdered, in fact—and now we’re trying to figure out who could have done that to her.”