“She wants to be the next Beyoncé,” said Marge.

  “Beyoncé?” said Odelia with a laugh. “But… Gran can’t even sing.”

  “Not to mention she’s old enough to be Beyoncé’s grandmother.”

  “Who’s Beyoncé?” asked Dooley.

  “A famous singer,” I said. “And a very popular one, too.”

  “She’s been nagging me to get her a singing coach,” said Marge, “and just now she told me she wants me to find her a manager—one of those power managers that can launch her career straight into the stratosphere, on account of the fact that she doesn’t have time to build it up slowly.”

  “And what did you tell her?”

  Marge threw up her arms. “That I don’t know the first thing about showbiz or power managers or singing coaches! And that if she wants to be the next Beyoncé maybe she should start by joining a singing competition. They’ll be sure to tell her if she’s any good.”

  “Good advice,” said Chase, who was sipping from a cup of coffee and looking a little bleary-eyed. “The best way to knock some sense into your grandmother is to subject her to a nice round of criticism—just as long as it’s not us who provide the criticism I’m sure she’ll take it on the chin and move on to her next foolish whim.”

  “I sincerely hope that’s all this is,” said Marge. “With a husband in showbiz, and now an elderly parent, life is starting to get a little too showbizzy to my liking. Not only is Tex expecting me to go to every single one of his performances and cheer him on, soon Mom will expect me to go to all of her performances, too. And here I thought things slowed down once the kids were out of the house. Looks like things are just getting started!”

  “Well, trust me, Mom,” said Odelia as she patted her mother’s arm. “I don’t have any plans to go into show business, so there’s that. And I’m sure Gran’s ambitions will be as short-lived as most of her endeavors. I give it a month—tops.”

  “Speak of the devil,” Chase muttered through half-closed lips.

  Gran had just walked in, looking as sprightly and vivacious as ever. “Odelia!” she cried as she made a beeline for her granddaughter. “You’re up. Good. Look, I need you to be honest with me. Do you think I’ve got what it takes to be the next Beyoncé?”

  “Um… I don’t know, Gran,” said Odelia, treading carefully.

  ‘Maybe you can sing something for us?” Chase suggested. “How about Single Ladies?”

  Gran eyed Chase strangely. “Single ladies? You don’t have to rub it in, young man. It’s true I’m a single lady right now but it’s not very nice of you to point that out. Very rude.”

  “No, that’s the name of the song,” said Chase. “Single Ladies.”

  “Never heard of it,” said Gran, still giving Chase a nasty look.

  “Okay. So how about Crazy in Love?”

  “I’m not, but thanks for the suggestion. I’ll sing Beyoncé’s biggest hit, shall I?” She took a deep breath, then placed her hands on her chest and closed her eyes. “Some boys kiss me, some boys hug me, I think they’re oka-ay,” she bleated in a croaky voice.

  “Gran?” said Odelia, interrupting the songbird. “That’s Madonna, not Beyoncé.”

  “Shut up and let me sing. Cause we’re li-ving in a mate-rial world…”

  It sounded a little awful, I thought, and judging from the frozen looks on the faces of all those present I wasn’t alone in my assessment. Finally, Gran finished the song and opened her arms in anticipation of the roaring applause she clearly felt she deserved. When the applause didn’t come, she eyed us with annoyance.

  “Well? What do you think?” she snapped.

  “Um… not bad,” said Odelia. “Not bad at all. But you know that’s not Beyoncé, right?”

  “’Of course it’s Beyoncé. One of the woman’s greatest hits. So how about you, Marge? What do you reckon? Knocked it out of the park, huh? Hit a home run?”

  “Um….” said Marge, darting anxious glances at her daughter.

  “Blown away,” said Gran with a nod of satisfaction. “That’s what I was going for. Chase?”

  “Loved it,” Chase lied smoothly. “Best Beyoncé imitation I’ve ever heard.”

  “Perhaps you should put a little more pep in your show, though,” said Marge.

  “Oh, you’ll get all the pep you need. I’ve asked Beyoncé’s choreographer to work with me and he graciously accepted. In fact we’re starting rehearsals today.”

  “Beyoncé’s choreographer is going to work with you?” asked Odelia.

  “Sure. You all know him. My ex-boyfriend Dick Bernstein. He’s worked with Beyoncé for years. Choreographed all of her big shows, here and overseas. I asked him and he immediately said yes. It’s gonna be a smash, you guys. And now if you’ll excuse me—I gotta get ready before Dick arrives. Oh, and Marge? Can you tell Tex I’m not coming in today? My career takes precedence over that silly receptionist business. Toodle-oo!”

  And with these words she was off, leaving us all stunned.

  Except for Dooley, who was still wondering, “So who’s Beyoncé?”

  2

  Odelia was just about to walk into her office, after dutifully informing her father that Gran wouldn’t be coming in today because she needed to launch her career, when a loud honking sound waylaid her. She looked up and saw that her uncle was trying to catch her attention.

  Walking over to his squad car, she greeted him with a smile and a chipper, “Hey, Uncle Alec. I was just about to call you about the council’s new fuel emission rules.”

  But Alec looked grim. He tapped the side of the door. “Get in, Odelia.”

  “Why? What happened?”

  “You better sit down for this.”

  With a puzzled frown, she got in and slammed the door closed. “What’s going on?”

  “Do you know this lady?” he asked, gesturing to the radio, where a song of Chickie Hay was playing.

  “Sure. Who doesn’t? She’s only one of the most famous pop stars of the last decade.”

  “Well, now she’s one of the most famous dead pop stars of the last decade,” he said with a set look.

  Odelia did a double take. “Chickie Hay died?”

  “This morning. Her housekeeper found her. Strangled.”

  “Strangled!”

  Uncle Alec nodded, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel. “I called Chase and he’s going to meet us there. I want you on this one, Odelia, cause I have a feeling it’s not going to be one of our easiest cases. And since she is what you just said she is, there’s going to be a lot of scrutiny and a lot of pressure, you understand?”

  Odelia nodded, still stunned by the terrible news. “Strangled,” she repeated softly.

  “Yeah, what a shame, right? I actually liked her music.”

  He stomped on the accelerator and the car peeled away from the curb. Soon they were zooming along the road. Odelia picked out her phone and decided to call her editor first. She had a feeling he wouldn’t mind if she didn’t show up for work, as long as she landed him the big scoop on who the murderer of Chickie Hay could possibly be.

  “Maybe pick up your cats?” Uncle Alec suggested. “It’s all paws on deck for this one.”

  She nodded as she waited for her call to connect.

  Moments later she was back at the house, and she hopped out. “Yeah, hey, Dan. There’s been a murder. Yeah, Chickie Hay. I’m heading over there now with my uncle.” She opened the front door and yelled, “Max, Dooley, Harriet, Brutus! Got a job for you!”

  As expected, Dan was over the moon, not exactly the kind of response a feeling fan or loving relative would like to see, but understandable from one who sells papers for a living.

  Four cats came tripping into the hallway, all looking up at her expectantly. She crouched down. “There’s been a murder,” she said, without preamble, “and I need your help. Are you up for it?” They all nodded staunchly, and she smiled, doling out pets for her four pets. “Come on, then,” she said. “Uncle Alec is taking us over there now.”

  Four cats hopped into the back of the pickup, and then they were mobile again, en route to Chickie Hay’s no doubt humble abode.

  The house was located in Hampton Cove itself, and not near the beach as most of these celebrity homes usually were. It wasn’t a manor either, but a house that sat hidden behind a fence atop a modest hill. The only thing indicating this was no ordinary home was the gate you had to pass through. Uncle Alec pressed the intercom with a pudgy finger and held up his badge. The gate swung open and Odelia saw that the drive angled steeply up. Moments later they were surrounded by a perfectly manicured garden, and soon the car crested the hill and the house appeared. It was a large structure, painted a pastel pink and looking modern and cozy at the same time. Chase stood waiting for them, leaning against his pickup, and pushed himself off the hood when he saw them.

  “Bad business,” he said, giving Alec a clap on the shoulder and Odelia a quick kiss.

  The four cats exited the car, then disappeared from view to do what they did best: interviewing pet witnesses and scoping out the place from their own, unique angle.

  “Where is she?” asked Uncle Alec.

  “Upstairs,” said Chase, gesturing with his head to a large plate-glass window right over their heads. “She was rehearsing for her upcoming tour when it happened.”

  “No one saw anything?”

  “I only got here five minutes ago so I figured I’d wait for you guys.”

  The woman who greeted them at the door was red-faced and very emotional. Judging from the way she was dressed she was perhaps the housekeeper who’d found Chickie, Odelia thought, and when she asked her the question, the woman nodded affirmatively.

  “Yes, I found Miss Hay,” she said. She was short and round, with a kind face and a lot of curly brown hair piled on top of her head. Her name was Hortense Harvey.

  “Please show us,” said Uncle Alec, adopting a fatherly tone.

  “Did anyone come near the body?” asked Chase. When the woman uttered a quiet sob, he quickly apologized and corrected himself. “Did anyone come near Miss Hay?”

  “No, detective. You told me over the phone not to allow anyone in so I locked the door—well, me and Tyson Wanicki, Miss Hay’s bodyguard.”

  “Where was Mr. Wanicki when this happened?” asked Odelia.

  “You will have to ask him yourself, I’m afraid,” said Hortense. “I haven’t been able to talk to anyone about what happened. I’ve been upstairs in my room crying.”

  Odelia decided to postpone the questions for later, when they had a chance to properly sit down with the woman. For now they needed to see what had happened.

  Hortense led them up a staircase and into the upstairs hallway, then to the last door on the left, where a large man stood sentry. When they arrived, he nodded. With his bald pate, horn-rimmed glasses and white walrus mustache he looked more like a kindly uncle than a hardened security man. He definitely did not look like Kevin Costner.

  The bodyguard answered in the affirmative when Uncle Alec asked if he was Tyson, and stepped aside so the trio could enter the room. It was a large room, one wall consisting of a giant mirror, not unlike the workout rooms in fitness clubs. Speakers were still blaring and on a giant screen a woman was going through some dance moves.

  “You told me not to touch a thing so I didn’t touch a thing,” said Tyson. He darted a sad look at the lifeless body in front of the mirror, and a lone tear stole from his eye.

  Uncle Alec placed an arm around his broad shoulders. “You better get out of here, Mr. Wanicki. But don’t go too far. We want to have a word with you.”

  “Yes, Chief,” said the man deferentially as he swiped at his teary face.

  At the door, Hortense still stood, reluctant to enter. “You, too, Miss Harvey,” said Alec.

  “Yes, Chief Lip,” said the woman, and the Chief closed the door behind them.

  Once they were alone, he crouched down next to the body of the singer, shaking his head in dismay. “What a waste,” he muttered.

  Odelia’s sneakered feet made a squeaking sound as she crossed the floor. The first thing that struck her was how small Chickie Hay looked. She also noticed the bruising on the famous singer’s neck and the bulging eyes, a clear indication of how she’d died.

  “You a fan?” asked Chase.

  “Not a big fan, but I like her music, yeah,” said Odelia.

  “Me, too,” said Chase, a little surprisingly. He was strictly a country and western guy, but then again, Chickie Hay had country roots, and her first albums had been all country.

  Odelia glanced up at the video screen where the choreographer still stood showcasing complicated and exhausting-looking moves, and Odelia remembered she’d been going through a similar routine herself only an hour before.

  “Abe will be here soon,” said Uncle Alec, “but if you want you can start the interviews now. No sense in all of us waiting around for the big guy to show up, right?”

  After one last look at Chickie, Odelia and Chase filed out of the room and saw that the bodyguard and the housekeeper had decided to wait outside. And as Hortense led them to a room where they could set up the interviews, Odelia wondered if Chickie had pets for her cats to interview. She hoped so, and she hoped they’d seen what had happened to their mistress.

  3

  I actually felt like the leader of the pack for once, as I moved along the greenery in the direction of the back of the house, three cats following my lead. It didn’t last long, though, for soon Harriet fell into step beside me, scanning the grounds with her sharp eyes. “Our objective is to locate and interrogate any pets on the premises, Max,” she said, then darted a stern-faced look over her shoulder at the others. “And that goes for you two, too. Keep your eyes peeled, boys—remember, Odelia is counting on us.”

  I heaved a deep sigh as she overtook me and then moved ahead of me, Brutus hurrying to keep up with her. Dooley and I fell behind and then lost sight of them.

  “What is it, Max?” asked Dooley. “Why are you looking so sad all of a sudden?”

  “For once I wish I were the one in charge—me being Odelia’s cat and all.”

  “But you are the one in charge, Max.”

  “Tell that to Harriet. I’m sure she doesn’t see it that way.”

  He gave me a reassuring smile. “To me you’ll always be the one in charge, Max.”

  I have to tell you I was touched. It was one of the nicest things anyone has ever said to me. “Thanks, Dooley,” I said. “That’s very sweet of you to say.”

  “So what do we hope to find here, Max?”

  “No idea. But you know what these ultra-rich celebrities are like. They like to keep some special pets no one else has. So we might expect a pet boa constrictor, a pet llama, a pet chimpanzee—anything goes.”

  “Got it,” he said, looking appropriately serious for this most important mission.

  “What do you think about Gran becoming the next Beyoncé?” I asked as we roamed around Chickie Hay’s gorgeous garden, exotic plants covering every available surface.

  “I’m not sure,” he said. “You still haven’t told me who this Beyoncé person is.”

  “Oh, right. Well, Beyoncé is—”

  But unfortunately I was interrupted by the call of a bird. One glance told me it was a big bird—in fact a large peacock. And Harriet was already engaging it in conversation.

  I resumed my instructive moment with Dooley. “So Beyoncé is—”

  “What are you doing here?” asked a gruff voice in our immediate vicinity.

  I glanced over and found myself locking eyes with a tiny French Bulldog.

  “Oh, hi,” I said. “My name is Max and this is Dooley, and we’re here to—”

  “Trespass, that’s what you’re doing,” he barked. “Get lost, cats. This is private property.”

  “But—”

  “No buts. Get lost now or I’m calling security.”

  “Oh,” said Dooley. “I thought you were security, tiny dog.”

  The dog’s expression darkened. “What did you just call me?”

  “Um? Security?”

  “No, the other thing. Starts with a T and ends with Y. Horrible slur.”

  “Tiny dog?”

  “That’s the one. I’m going to have to punish you for that. Lie down and willingly submit to your punishment, cat. Come on, now. I’m going to give you one nip in the butt. And if you repeat the slur I’ll have to give you two nips, so don’t go there.”

  “But, tiny dog,” said Dooley, “we’re simply here because—”

  “And you just had to go there, didn’t you? Lie down and accept two nips in the butt.” And he approached Dooley to administer the appropriate punishment.

  But Dooley wasn’t taking it lying down. He wasn’t even taking it standing up. Instead, he said, “But, tiny dog, all we want is to—”

  “And there you go again. Three nips is the proper punishment and you will take it like a cat, cat. Now face the other way. This will only take a second, and it will remind you not to repeat these horrible slurs to my freckled face.”

  “Look, tiny dog…” Dooley began.

  “Four is the score! You’re not the smartest cat in the litter, are you, cat? Four nips in the butt.”

  “Look, we’re here to investigate the murder of Chickie Hay,” I said. “So if you could tell us what you know we would be very much obli—”

  “Murder?” asked the dog, expression darkening. “What are you talking about, cat?”

  “Our human is a detective,” I explained, “and she was called here to investigate the murder of Miss Hay. And as her pet sleuths we were hoping you could shed some light on the matter.”

  “This is crazy,” said the doggie. “Chickie Hay is my human, and she’s not dead. She’s alive and kicking. Well, maybe not kicking, exactly, but singing and dancing. In fact she’s right up there practicing for her new tour. And if you don’t believe me just direct your attention yonder and you’ll hear her angelic voice belting out her latest hit song.”