One of their neighbors shouted a question at the passing detective, but Kingsley merely held up his hand. No comment, the gesture seemed to suggest.

  “Who died?” she suddenly found herself piping up. But the couple passed by without deigning her with a response. Looked like they’d have to read about it in the paper or see it on their local news. And since Roger Moore had started tugging on his leash, eager to get home and have a bite to eat, she said goodbye to Mark and headed on home. On the way there, she passed Norma Parkman, the butcher’s wife, and wondered what the woman had done to her face this time.

  Norma Parkman wondered why that Mae West woman was staring at her as if she had something stuck to her face. But then she was used to being gawked at on a regular basis. Most people she met seemed to find her fascinating to look at, and so over the years, she had begun to consider it a compliment. Her husband Mikel always said it was because she didn’t look like most people, and so they had to adjust their expectations when they first met her. He said she was exotic and had an interesting face. She knew this to be all too true, for when she looked in the mirror in the morning, she sometimes had to adjust her own expectations too. Then again, it was a tough struggle trying to remain as youthful-looking as she did. Oddly enough, it only seemed to become more difficult as the years passed. At fifty-seven, she sometimes felt she was fighting a losing battle, but then Mikel said that was nonsense and she looked every bit as lovely as she had when they first met, back when they were both fresh-faced eighteen-year-olds.

  She gave Mike’s leash a light yank and wondered why it was always her who had to take the damn pug for a walk and why Mikel was inside watching television while she was out there being bored to tears while Mike took his sweet time to do his business. When she caught sight of the flashing lights and the array of police vehicles parked in front of the Mitchell place, her first thought was that Holly’s dad had had another stroke. After that first one he’d had a couple of years ago, it was only a matter of time before he suffered a second one, more debilitating this time and possibly deadly. It was always the way, wasn’t it?

  She just hoped he hadn’t died. Holly had already had her share of heartache over the years. First Eric had died, and then, as a consequence, Eric’s own dad had suffered cardiac arrest and had turned into a vegetable, only to die six months to the day his son had died. And then Eric’s grief-stricken mother had also died, wilting like a flower, as one of their neighbors had described it. She was a nurse in the hospital where both Eric’s parents had been admitted and said it was as clear a death from grief as she had ever seen.

  So now Holly only had her own mom and dad left, and if the good Lord took those away as well, that would be terrible.

  Oh, life just wasn’t fair sometimes, was it? Just look at her. Her last boob job had been botched by that terrible surgeon, and now her left boob was slightly bigger than her right, and not only that, but it hung lower than its cousin. Mikel said he didn’t mind, but she sure as heck did. She had already made another appointment at the clinic, but if she had to go under the knife again, it would be her fifth boob job in as many years, and frankly, she was starting to wonder when this would end. And then the girl who’d done her Botox this time must have been asleep on the job, for she had ended up with excruciating pain in her left eye and an eyelid that had refused to remain in place. Almost as if the girl had hit a nerve or something. It was a ghastly sight, and for a whole three days, she had been nervous about waiting on people in the butcher shop, afraid they’d start making comments again behind her back as she knew they always did.

  She joined the group of neighbors looking at the scene, and when she saw Chris Goldsworthy, she tiptoed up to him. Chris always knew what was going on in their neighborhood. The man was a veritable fountain of wisdom. Chairman of their local watch committee, he made it his business to be informed. It didn’t hurt that he was also drop-dead-gorgeous handsome. He reminded her of Don Johnson, who she always thought aged very well. “What’s going on, Chris?” she asked. “Who died?”

  “I’m not sure,” said Chris, much to her surprise. “I think it must be serious, though, I just saw that detective come and go. Chase Kingsley? And also, the county coroner was in there. Abe Cornwall. So if they were here, it can’t just be a heart attack or some accident—someone falling from the stairs or cutting themselves with the kitchen knife.” He shook his head decidedly. “I think this just might be...”

  She stared at him with a mixture of anticipation and dread. “What?”

  He turned to her and lowered his voice. “Murder,” he said, and she had the impression he actually took relish in the ghoulish fact.

  She shivered. “Murder? But how can that be?”

  “Murder happens everywhere, Nonnie,” he said, using his favorite name for her, though he always made sure that Mikel didn’t hear it, since he would only get jealous. That was the problem with Chris: all women adored him, and all men hated him, exactly because of that fact. “Even on our street.”

  “Maybe some burglary gone wrong,” she suggested, for she simply couldn’t imagine one member of Holly’s family murdering another member. Holly herself was always so distinguished, so kind and unruffled, in spite of the tragedies that had befallen her. And Holly’s mom was just the same. Nice, well-respected people, Charlie and Bethany Williams.

  “You’re probably right,” Chris agreed. “Maybe they caught a burglar, and there was a struggle, and in the process, someone died.”

  Norma stared intently at the house, hoping to catch sight of either Holly, the kids, or her parents. But nothing. Absolutely nothing.

  “I better run on home,” she announced.

  Chris’s lips morphed into a smirk. “To tell Mikel what’s going on?”

  “Of course not,” she said, even though he had guessed right. Whenever she had big news to impart, she couldn’t wait to get home and tell her husband. He loved all the gossip from the neighborhood, and she loved supplying it to him. And this was certainly the most exciting gossip they’d had in ages. Not since old Mrs. Rutherford had fallen out with her long-time friend Mrs. Davis, and the two old ladies had engaged in a shouting match that had quickly turned physical, did they have the kind of news that earned the qualification ‘shocking.’

  She just wished she could ascertain who had died. Now that would be a scoop! But if even Chris Goldsworthy didn’t know, she certainly wasn’t going to find out any time soon. Unless...

  She took out her phone and opened her WhatsApp app to check the dog walkers’ group.

  “Checking the dog walkers’ scuttlebutt?” asked Chris with amusement.

  She nodded. Though if Chris didn’t know what was going on, chances were the other members of the WhatsApp group wouldn’t know either, since he was one of the group’s most active members.

  “And? Any luck?” he asked.

  “Nothing,” she said sadly. “Even Mark Cooper doesn’t seem to know what’s going on, and he lives right across the street.”

  They both glanced behind them at the Cooper place. The lights were on, but of Mark, there was no trace.

  “Too bad,” said Chris with a sigh. “I probably won’t be able to sleep until I know exactly what’s going on. You?”

  “Yeah, I’m the same way,” she admitted. “Stuff like this keeps me up at night.”

  “But not Mikel, right?”

  “No, not Mikel,” she admitted with a smile. Mikel was an excellent sleeper. Her husband fell asleep the moment his head hit the pillow, while she could be tossing and turning all night. Or she would finally nod off, only to be wide awake at three, not able to go back to sleep. It was very annoying, especially since they both had to get up early to open the store. But then that couldn’t be helped.

  “That’s because he’s a man with a clear conscience,” Chris declared, and it could be her imagination, but he seemed to be looking at her just that little bit more intently as he said it.

  “I better run,” she said. Mikel had sent her a message, she saw, asking her what was taking her so long. He was the best husband in the world, bar none, but he had the annoying habit of being very jealous. Even if a guy looked at her funnily in the store or paid her a compliment, Mikel could get worked up. Good thing he had the good sense never to act on his emotions, especially with the customers, or they could have kissed their business goodbye a long time ago. But even though he rarely said anything, knowing how much it annoyed her, she could feel it when the temperature in their otherwise cozy living room would drop to zero, and he’d sulk and mope all evening before suddenly doing a full about-face and becoming sweet like a pussy cat, showering her with kisses.

  One of those psychological quirks, according to a survey in Cosmo she had once read. When you marry a guy, you take the good with the bad, and after all these years, she knew that every guy came with a flaw of some kind. Even Chris Goldsworthy, the most perfect man she had ever met.

  But oh boy, did he come with a major flaw!

  Chapter Three

  It isn’t often that Dooley and I have to postpone our trip to join cat choir because some tragedy happened elsewhere. Mostly, murderers like to stick to business hours and make sure we don’t have to interrupt our regular schedule to mop up the unfortunate aftermath of their nefarious activities. But today was different. Odelia and Chase had already settled in for the evening and were watching some instructive program on television—Project Runway if I’m not mistaken—and Grace had retired to bed for the night, while Dooley and I were just about to step out and join our friends in the park to practice our singing voices when the call came in.

  Chase was the one to pick up since he’s the designated cop in our pleasant little household. From his demeanor I could tell that something not all that pleasant had taken place. Normally, when in a resting state, Chase is mostly easygoing, warm-hearted, one might even say fun to be around. But when he turns his mind to murder and mayhem, which basically is what his profession revolves around, his brows knit together in a frown, the corners of his lips turn down, and generally, he behaves as if there’s been a shooting somewhere, which more often than not there has been.

  As it turned out a shooting had, in fact, taken place, and our urgent attention was required.

  The body had been found by one Holly Mitchell, who happened to live on Russell Street, which is right around the corner from Harrington Street, where we live.

  As we walked over there to ascertain how truthful Mrs. Mitchell’s 911 call actually was, Chase gave us some more information to go on. “Body of an unknown male discovered by homeowner Holly Mitchell. Mrs. Mitchell lives alone in the house with her two kids and had her mother over for a visit, something that happens very frequently, when she decided to go into the kitchen to let the dog out. That’s when she practically stumbled over the body of this man she had never seen before.”

  “Could be a vagrant who decided to try his luck through the back door,” Odelia suggested.

  “Could be,” Chase agreed in a noncommittal way that is common with him. As long as he hasn’t taken in the scene with his own two eyes and ascertained what could have happened, he’s reluctant to commit himself to this explanation or that, or generally put the cart before the horse, so to speak.

  In due course we arrived at the address indicated and saw that we weren’t exactly the first to arrive. Quite the contrary, in fact, as the coroner was there, an ambulance, but also several police vehicles, with officers cordoning off the area and making sure nobody could pass through and take a look at the unfortunate victim.

  We walked into the house, having to hurry up since Chase has very long legs and Odelia is pretty quick off the mark as well, and traversed a cozy-looking living room where an older lady sat on the couch with two kids, accompanied by a younger woman who did not look happy to see us. This was probably Holly Mitchell, the person who had stumbled across the dead man, her mother and two kids.

  Odelia and Chase introduced themselves to the woman, who was indeed the lady of the manor, and then we proceeded into the kitchen. The victim still lay where Mrs. Mitchell had found him, and for a few moments, Odelia and Chase studied the body from every angle before finally reaching the conclusion that, “The man is dead.” This from Chase, who is a professional at this kind of thing.

  “Yeah, looks like it,” Odelia agreed, also a professional.

  And because all good things come in threes, Abe Cornwall, the county coroner, added his own two cents to the conversation by stating, “He’s dead, all right.”

  “I think the man is dead, Max,” Dooley said.

  “Yes, we’ve established that,” I said.

  We moved closer to the body, and immediately I was struck by the strong body odor the man emitted, and also the terrible state of his clothes, an old pair of stained jeans and an equally stained sweater. Almost as if he had lived on the street for a long time and hadn’t seen a shower in a while.

  Abe pointed to a crimson spot on the man’s chest. “Shot through the heart,” he announced. “Twenty-two-caliber gun, most likely. The body was still warm when I got here, so I’d say he died between one and two hours ago.”

  “How many shots?” asked Chase, who looked all business as he studied the dead man, who was lying on his back.

  “One bullet, as far as I can tell,” said Abe. “Though I’ll send you my report later, once I know more about what happened here.”

  “I think it’s obvious what happened,” said Odelia. “Mrs. Mitchell caught this man breaking into her house, and so she shot him. But then she realized she might be in serious trouble, so she decided not to mention the break-in or the shooting and claim she had nothing to do with the man’s death at all.”

  “There’s no gun registered in Holly Mitchell’s name,” said Chase, checking something on his phone.

  “That doesn’t mean anything,” Odelia pointed out. She had crouched down next to the victim. “Any ID?”

  “Nothing,” said Abe. “So we’ll have to find out who he is some other way.”

  “Mrs. Mitchell claims she’s never seen the man before,” said a police officer, likely the person who had arrived first on the scene. “She says she walked into her kitchen to let the dog out and almost stumbled over the man.”

  Odelia shot us a meaningful look, and I knew just what that look meant: talk to the dog! And so we went in search of the dog to interview the creature.

  We found the dog in the living room, where it sat huddled on the couch, snug and safe behind its human. As far as I could tell, it was a teacup Chihuahua, which is like a regular Chihuahua, only a lot smaller. The dog didn’t seem happy to see us as it burrowed even deeper into the couch when we approached.

  “What are these cats doing here?” asked the dog’s owner, giving us a curious look, as if she had never seen a cat before in her life. Then again, we often get that look, as people don’t usually expect a police officer to be accompanied by two cats. But then Odelia isn’t a police officer but a police consultant, and we’re not regular cats but Odelia’s consultants. So you could say that we’re a consultant’s consultants and have every right to be present at the crime scene, no matter how odd people will look at us.

  “Hi there,” I said to the little doggie. But instead of replying, the dog merely stared at us, its tongue sticking out between its lips, giving it a funny look.

  “My name is Dooley, and this is Max,” said Dooley helpfully. “What is your name?”

  But the dog either wasn’t aware of its own name, or it wasn’t talking. So Dooley and I decided to move into the second play in our playbook. It’s something we’ve picked up from Chase himself.

  “You did this, didn’t you!” I said, adopting a harsh tone of voice. “You killed that man!”

  “Oh, don’t listen to my friend,” said Dooley. “He’s just a little cranky because he hasn’t eaten.”

  “I’m cranky because I hate it when dogs misbehave!” I shouted.

  “It’s all right,” said Dooley. “You can misbehave all you want, Mr. Dog, or is it Mrs. Dog? Or possibly even Miss Dog? I mean, it’s your home, you can do whatever you want in here, even murder a trespasser. Because that’s what happened, right? This man trespassed, and you killed him?”

  “But I didn’t kill anyone!” said the dog, proving once again that the good cat, bad cat routine never fails to bring the required result. “He was lying there on the floor, dead, when I first laid eyes on him.”

  “And who made him that way?” asked Dooley.

  “I have no idea!” said the doggie, whimpering slightly and quivering from stem to stern. “You have to believe me, good sirs. I would never cause harm to anyone. I’ve never even bitten a person in my life.”

  “You’ve never bitten anyone?” I asked with a touch of gruffness. “A likely story! Now talk, dog, ‘cause you’re in a heap of trouble here!”

  “What’s your name?” asked Dooley.

  “Babette,” said the dog, eyeing me as if I was the worst cat in history, which maybe I was at that moment. Though I have to say, it felt strangely exhilarating to unleash my inner monster for once. “And I honestly don’t know what happened, sirs.”

  “You’ve never seen this man before?” asked Dooley in kindly tones.

  “Never!” Babette said. “I swear. He’s certainly not from around here since all the people on the block have dogs, and they walk them every day, so I know all our neighbors, and this guy was never here.”

  “You walk every day?” asked Dooley. “Isn’t that bad for those short legs of yours?”