“I was only trying to do you a favor!”

  “Well, don’t! I don’t need any favors. Least of all from you!”

  “What’s that supposed to mean!”

  “Have you looked at yourself in the mirror lately? You look like a painted hussy!”

  “At least this painted hussy gets plenty of action thank you very much!”

  Both women were silent for a moment.

  “I’m sorry I called you a painted hussy,” said Vesta, offering an apologetic smile.

  “And I’m sorry I called you a dried-up old prune,” said Scarlett.

  Vesta’s smile vanished. “A dried-up old prune?”

  “Did I just say that out loud? I’m sorry.” When her friend didn’t respond, but merely gave her a sour look, she sighed. “I’m sorry, okay? I know you’re worried about your cat, and about your daughter falling head over heels in love with that fitness clown.”

  “Would you call Randy Hancock a clown?”

  “Yeah, I would. I never liked the guy. He doesn’t even look like a fitness instructor.”

  “Not all fitness instructors look like Chris Hemsworth, Scarlett.”

  “Well, they should, all right? Just like all bakers should be round and jolly, and all butchers should look like they’re ready to chop you up into little pieces. It’s part of the deal. If you’re going around promising to make people fit and muscular, you should look like a hunk and not like a vertically challenged clown.”

  “Okay, fine. Point taken. So how do we go about this? How do we get my cat back? And how do we make sure Marge doesn’t dump my son-in-law for the fitness dude?”

  “I think what Tex needs is that virility women fall for in a man. I’m sorry to tell you this but Tex looks like a wuss. And women don’t like a wuss. They like a caveman.”

  “So you suggest we turn Tex into a caveman, is that it?”

  “Of course! No woman can resist a caveman, Vesta. It’s built into our DNA ever since we lived together in caves.” She gave her friend a curious look. “Are you sure you want to keep Tex around, though? You’re always on the guy’s case.”

  “I’m always on the guy’s case because I like him.”

  Scarlett chuckled. “You’re a strange one, Vesta.”

  “And still you like me.”

  “Oh, sure. Life is never boring when you’re around. So let’s start with your cat. Where could he have gone off to?”

  “No idea. But seeing as we gotta start somewhere, I suggest we ask his friends.” And she darted a look across the street, where Wilbur Vickery’s General Store was located. In front of that store sat Kingman, Wilbur’s piebald, best-informed cat in Hampton Cove. Behind the counter, though, sat the guy she dumped last night. But since finding Brutus was more important than her own wounded pride—or Wilbur’s, she drained her hot cocoa and got up. “Let’s go,” she said. “We’ve got a bruised male ego to massage.”

  27

  The house where Randy Hancock lived was pretty impressive I had to admit. Just like in the video we’d seen, there was the white wrought-iron access gate, the white columns supporting the portico like a Greek temple, and the house itself, done in pink stucco.

  Once inside, the same sweeping marble staircase as in the video led upstairs, presumably to the same bedroom, where an unknowing Randy had been injected with a mysterious and deadly toxin.

  Randy’s housekeeper Floralba was a lady in her sixties, with dark curly hair and a round face. She looked at us sternly, her dark brows stuck in a frown.

  “I not understand,” she said when Odelia asked her what she knew of the death threats made against her boss.

  “Well, Randy asked me to conduct an investigation into these death threats,” Odelia repeated, “and so now I’m talking to all the people who know him, trying to find out who could have sent that video. It wasn’t you by any chance, was it?” she asked, eyeing the woman closely.

  It’s a technique detectives often use: they drop a bomb like that and then look closely for a reaction. Most people aren’t trained actors, and their emotions are reflected on their faces for everyone to see.

  Floralba, though, merely looked amused. “Me! Try to kill Mr. Randy! You must be mad woman, Miss Poole. I love Mr. Randy. I work for Mr. Randy thirty years! Mr. Randy and I are like this!” And she squeezed her index finger and thumb together, presumably to show how much she liked her boss.

  “So you have no idea who could have sent him that video?” asked Odelia.

  “No idea,” said Floralba.

  We were still in the entrance, an atrium that was as impressive as the front of the house: it was two stories high, and contained a very large portrait of Randy Hancock, dressed in his token sequined outfit and looking very fit indeed. There was also a large lion to our right—luckily not a real one but a marble representation of the lord of the jungle, and another large statue of a puma to our left.

  “Mr. Randy is beloved, Miss Poole—beloved by all. Everybody love him. His clients. His family. His people. Even the pool boy love Mr. Randy. And Mr. Randy love pool boy, too. Very much. And gardener, and masseur, and—”

  “Did Mr. Hancock ever talk to you about this video?”

  “No, he did not. He does not like me to worry. Mr. Randy like me too much and hate me to worry about him. Like with his hips. He in a lot of pain. Lot of pain. And I see it in his face. I say Mr. Randy you so much pain, you poor thing. Let me take you to my daughter—my daughter she doctor but use traditional Colombian medicine to heal people. Mr. Randy go to my daughter one time, and she treat him with smoky leaves. Mr. Randy like smoky leaves little too much. Sing songs for two days and no more pain! But Mr. Randy doctor says no good for Mr. Randy. He in the AA and can’t smoke. Too bad.”

  “He’s AA?” asked Odelia, curious.

  “Oh, yes. Ten years and counting. Mr. Randy very strong. He never touch drop of alcohol in all this time in AA. Very, very strong man. Will of steel!”

  “But… he did use other things, right?”

  The housekeeper sighed deeply. “Mr. Randy very, very weak man. Mr. Randy like white powder. Take white powder all the time through nose. Better than bottle but not good. I throw away white powder but Mr. Randy not happy with me. Hide his white powder where I can’t find it.”

  “Is it also true that he hasn’t made much money these last couple of years?”

  “Yes, unfortunately hip problem make Mr. Randy can’t work out. No more sessions. No more videos. No more classes for Mr. Randy. Mr. Randy very, very sad. I sad, too.”

  “So… where does the money come from to pay you?” asked Odelia. “And to pay for the pool boy?” she added with a smile.

  “I not know!” said Floralba, throwing up her arms. “Mr. Randy say he get lots of money. Lots and lots of money. He like to pay me and gardeners and chef and pool boy and cleaners no problem.” She cast a worried look at Odelia. “Where is Mr. Randy, Miss Poole? When Mr. Randy come home?”

  “I’m not sure, Floralba,” said Odelia. “But he assured me he’s doing fine, and he’ll be home soon.”

  “Poor Floralba,” said Dooley. “She really worries about her boss.”

  “And about her job,” Harriet added. She cast a nervous glance at Odelia. “When is she going to stop asking all these questions? It’s clear these people have no idea where the threats are coming from, and meanwhile Brutus is still out there, waiting for us to save him.”

  I didn’t want to tell her this, but maybe, just maybe, Brutus had simply decided to take a break from his girlfriend for a little while. Harriet could be a smidgen overbearing sometimes, and Brutus could have gone for a walk in the country, along with his new friend Pinkie. That, and he probably wanted to escape the carrot diet Harriet was on.

  In fact I had high hopes that by the time we got back, Brutus would have returned from his wanderings and would greet us from under his favorite rose bush.

  Odelia thanked the housekeeper for her time, and went off in search of more people to interview, leaving us to roam the garden, which was very nicely kept indeed.

  “If Randy is broke,” I said, “he certainly has been hiding it well. This place must cost a fortune in upkeep.”

  “Maybe he’s making his money some other way,” said Harriet. “Or maybe he has a secret benefactor who’s been helping him out financially these past couple of years while he recovers from his pelvis operation and his addiction to illegal substances.”

  “So what is this candy Randy likes to put in his nose, Max?” Dooley asked now. “And is that the reason he’s always so happy and so gay?”

  “Um, yeah, I guess so, Dooley,” I said.

  “I never heard of this habit of putting candy up your nose,” said my friend. “Do you think it’s jellybeans?

  “Yeah. Yeah, I think so,” I said after a pause.

  “But doesn’t it hurt, Max? Putting jellybeans up your nose? And doesn’t it make it hard to breathe? Unless he only puts one jellybean up his nose at a time, of course.”

  “Oh, Dooley,” said Harriet with a sigh.

  28

  Brutus had been trying to come up with a plan of escape but so far had failed miserably. As far as he could see, the window through which he’d entered the basement was the only way out, except for the staircase, and that’s where Johnny Carew and Jerry Vale were waiting for him—ready to catch him as he tried to make his escape.

  So the staircase was out, and the window was now shut tight, and so it looked like he was stuck for the moment, with no way to get out of there.

  “I think we’re stuck, Brutus,” said Pinkie, having come to the same conclusion.

  “Yeah, I figured that,” said the black cat. “Though maybe they’ll open that window again at some point, wanting to let some air in.”

  Speaking of air, he directed a look at the ventilation system. It was the usual kind: aluminum tubes suspended from the ceiling on metal rods and outfitted with vents every few feet. No way to get up there, though, and even if he could reach those vents, he had no way of removing the screws keeping them in place.

  “I’m so sorry for putting you in this position, Brutus,” said Pinkie. “I should have left well enough alone and swum away in the ocean when I had the chance.”

  “It’s all right,” he said. “We’ll think of a way to get out of here.” He glanced at the large bags filled with fish food. They smelled horrible, but since beggars can’t be choosers… “At least we have plenty of food, so we’re not going to starve to death.”

  “Do you like fish food?” asked Pinkie.

  “Um… it’s not that bad,” he said. If it was good enough for turtles…

  “Your friends will be so worried about you,” said Pinkie, shaking her head sadly.

  “Yeah, I guess they will,” he said. He’d been giving a lot of thought to Harriet, and Max and Dooley, and all of his other friends out there, and his humans, too, of course, secretly hoping they were looking for him, and maybe would be able to find him, too. “Look, we’re getting out of here one way or another,” he said, as much to convince himself as to reassure his little friend, “so there’s really no sense in panicking.”

  “And my friends?” she said. “Do you think we’ll be able to take them with us?”

  “Oh, sure,” he said. “As soon as we escape, we’ll tell people what’s going on here, and they’ll come and save your friends.”

  Though he wondered what exactly was going on there. Apparently Johnny and Jerry, two career criminals, had set up a new way of getting rich quick. This time by breeding turtles. How they hoped to make money was a mystery to him, though. The only way he thought you could monetize turtles was to turn them into… turtle soup.

  But he didn’t have the heart to tell Pinkie about that. The little turtle would probably be horrified. And rightly so. If someone told him they were breeding cats to turn them into cat soup, he’d be horrified, too.

  So he put his head down on his front paws and closed his eyes, hoping to catch some sleep, and try not to worry.

  Odelia had talked to Randy’s manager, his housekeeper, his pool boy, his cleaner, his gardener, his chef, his accountant, and his sister, and the picture was getting a little clearer: Randy Hancock was broke. He was also an addict. And had become an addict shortly after his double hip operation, first being addicted to the pain killers the doctors had prescribed, and then other, more recreational drugs. Also: Randy, in spite of being known all over the world as a fitness icon and sports legend, hadn’t given a single class in years, nor had he shot a video. All of the stuff online dated back at least fifteen years, and so now she wondered how the man had managed to stay afloat financially.

  She drove back to the office, planning to think things through, before confronting Randy with the conclusions of her interviews, and also to drop off her cats in town, so they could start looking for Brutus.

  They’d become increasingly anxious as the day wore on, and she could no longer justify them tagging along with her on what was starting to feel like a wild-goose chase.

  The people she’d talked to had been highly surprised by the death threat story, and couldn’t imagine who’d want to hurt Randy.

  She walked into the Gazette, and knocked on the doorjamb of her editor’s office.

  Dan looked up from reading his newspaper, his beard waggling as he laughed at a joke he himself had written. His eyes were lively and sparkling with the light of intelligence as usual, and she hoped he’d be able to point her in the right direction. Often when she was stuck with a story, a conversation with Dan got her right back on track.

  “Odelia! I was just wondering who wrote this outstanding piece and then discovered it was me! I keep surprising myself with how funny I am.” When he saw the frown on her face, he put down the paper, let his reading glasses dangle from his neck and folded his hands on his desk. “Tell me what’s wrong. I can see you’re struggling with something.”

  “I told you I’m looking into this mysterious poisoning case, remember?”

  “Randy Hancock. The fitness tycoon.”

  “Only turns out he’s more of a fitness pauper,” she said. And as she took a seat in front of the editor’s desk she proceeded to give him a brief account of that morning’s interviews.

  “So the picture that emerges is of a man who had it all, then squandered it on flings with pool boys and recreational drugs,” said Dan, sniffing loudly as if to draw extra oxygen into his brain. “So whoever is extorting him for ten million either doesn’t know him very well, or knows him better than his nearest and dearest and seems to believe that Randy, contrary to what his manager or accountant think, isn’t broke but loaded.”

  “So either it’s someone who knows him even better than his manager, or someone who only knows the popular picture of Randy as the multi-millionaire fitness star.”

  “Has Chase heard back from his NYPD source yet?”

  “No, he hasn’t. I hope they’ll be able to trace the source of that video.”

  “And the nature of that toxin.”

  “That, too.” Her dad had sent her a cryptic text saying he’d learned a great deal from Randy, but nothing that would interest her. “So how do you think I should proceed?” she asked now. Usually when she was absolutely stuck Dan had some last-minute idea up his sleeve, and she sincerely hoped he did so now.

  “I think the answer lies with the man himself,” said Dan slowly. “I think he probably knows more than he thinks he knows.”

  “I talked to Randy. He says he has no idea who could be doing this to him.”

  “Oh, I’m sure that’s what he thinks. But very often in a case of blackmail or extortion, the target knows more than they realize.” He tapped his desk. “Schedule another interview with your fallen fitness star. Only this time make it a casual affair. Maybe take him out for dinner and a chat. Loosen him up a little. Get him to talk to you. Open up.”

  “I can’t. He doesn’t want to be seen. Even when he went into Dad’s office this morning he put on a wig and some of my mom’s clothes and kept his head down.”

  “So maybe organize a nice barbecue and invite him as your star guest. Just make the atmosphere nice and mellow. Family vibe. And pour him a couple of glasses of wine—”

  “He’s AA.”

  Dan sighed. “Fine, so don’t liquor him up. Fill him with delicious food instead. People always talk more on a full stomach. And maybe, just maybe, he’ll tell you something that will lead you to the perpetrators of this most heinous of crimes.” He winked. “And then of course I expect you to write a nice fat juicy front-page article when this is all over.”

  29

  “Come on, Max,” said Harriet. “Hurry up!”

  I hurried as much as I could, but for a big-boned cat like me physical exertion is not always a good idea. I need to take it easy. Take plenty of naps. Make sure I take enough nourishment. And these sprints across town were frankly biting into my nap time big time.

  “I should be home right now,” I panted. “I should be sleeping on my couch.”

  “What you should have done,” said Harriet censoriously, “is remembered our appointment with Shanille. How could you forget, Max!”

  “You forgot too,” I reminded her.

  “I’m not the one this wedding will affect. It’s Dooley, and the consequences to him.”

  I should probably turn back the clock a little here. If you remember, Dooley was worried that Gran and Wilbur Vickery were about to tie the knot, which would mean that Dooley would have to go and live with Wilbur, and share the man’s home with Kingman, his new brother from another mother.

  But then we heard from the horse’s mouth—in this case Gran herself—that her date had been a bad one—just like that date in Indiana Jones’s first movie. And so the danger seemed to have been averted. Phew!

  But then Odelia dropped us in town so we could start our search for Brutus, and who did we see? Gran and Scarlett, stalking across the street in the direction of Wilbur Vickery’s General Store. And moments later Gran and Wilbur were engaged in a very lively discussion, which ended in Gran and Wilbur… hugging it out!