“She give you pointers on technique?”

  “As if. No, ever since she decided to stay with you I’ve been forced to become this pining, lonesome, sad figure, watching from afar.”

  “Somehow I’m having a hard time imagining you as a pining, lonesome figure.”

  “Well, it’s true,” he said, getting behind the wheel as she slid in right next to him. “I’m sitting there all by my lonesome, in your uncle’s big, old house, thinking of you.”

  “If it’s any consolation I’m thinking of you, too.” Especially since her grandmother was a poor substitute for having Chase’s warm body next to her in bed at night.

  “Maybe we have to educate your grandmother in the ways of the world.”

  “Gran is beyond education. Nothing I say or do has any effect on that woman.”

  Grandma liked Chase, no doubt about it, but recently she’d developed this old-fashioned idea that the male of the species should propose to the female of the species before they actually moved in together and slept in the same bed. No idea where this idea came from, exactly. Then again, Gran did watch a lot of those daytime soap operas and maybe some former mob boss’s identical twin and reformed serial killer turned art therapist’s illegal adoptive brother who was also a Navy SEAL had at some point conceived a son with an OB/GYN and Gran felt that if only they’d gotten married they could have saved themselves a lot of trouble.

  Yes, Odelia enjoyed her occasional dose of the soap opera machine herself, too.

  “She’s redoing the garden now,” she said, slumping down in her seat and putting her pink-and-yellow polka-dot Chuck Taylors up on the dash. “Says she’s going to turn it into the kind of garden Louis Quatorze would have been proud of, water-spewing cherubs and all.”

  Chase laughed. “She’s doing that just to spite your dad, isn’t she?”

  “Oh, yes, she is.”

  Grandma had always been in charge of Tex and Marge’s garden, until she decided to skedaddle and move next door. But in spite of the fact that she’d hoped Tex would be pining for her and begging her to come back, instead Odelia’s father had flourished and had never been happier. Getting his meddling mother-in-law out of the house had been a lifelong dream ever since the old lady had moved in when her husband Jack had taken his philandering ways to the seventh heaven or maybe in his case the seventh circle of hell.

  Now, by turning Odelia’s garden into the cream of the horticultural crop, Gran probably hoped to inspire a raging jealousy in Tex, as the latter was oddly proud of his own backyard and this had been the one thing he and Grandma had in common: a green thumb.

  “Maybe I should ask Dad to take the first step and reconcile,” said Odelia now.

  “Fat chance. You’d have better luck asking your mother.”

  “Mom says to let things cool off. That Gran will come to her senses soon enough.” She shook her head. “I’m not so sure. Gran seems to like this new arrangement, and so does Dad.”

  “Looks like your dad and grandma have reached a stalemate.”

  Chase was navigating his pickup through morning traffic and had reached the town limit. “So why did you want me to bring a clothespin, exactly?” Odelia asked.

  “You’ll see. It’s not pretty.”

  “Don’t tell me he got blown up. I just had breakfast.”

  “He wasn’t blown up. In fact, as far as we can see, he drowned. Or I should probably say he suffocated.”

  “He drowned in his pool?”

  “He drowned in a pool,” said Chase mysteriously.

  “A pool… of his own blood?”

  “Duck poop.”

  “Duck poop?”

  “Duck poop.”

  “Huh. And you’re telling me this wasn’t an accident?”

  Chase looked grim. “Absolutely not. Dick Dickerson was murdered.”

  It only took them about fifteen minutes to reach their destination. Dick Dickerson lived in one of those huge McMansions right outside of Hampton Cove, built almost on the coast, with access to a private strip of beach, a heliport, a heated pool on the patio, jacuzzi, too many rooms and bathrooms to count, and a fleet of servants at his every beck and call.

  When Chase had directed his pickup down the asphalt driveway and parked in front of the house, Odelia wondered why it was that all the celebrities who came to Hampton Cove had a habit of getting murdered at one point or another. Within the past few months she’d visited the homes of singers, reality stars, actors… This small Hamptons town of theirs was quickly becoming the murder capital of the state if this worrying trend kept up.

  She admired the ivy-covered brick exterior of the tabloid magnate’s house, and the stone steps leading up to heavy oak doors.

  “Security?” she asked as she followed Chase inside.

  There was a hubbub of police activity, and Odelia nodded greetings to several Hampton Cove PD officers she personally knew. Having a police chief for an uncle awarded her a lot of advantages as a reporter for the Hampton Cove Gazette: often she was the first one on the scene, and the first one to glean interesting bits of information. And sometimes, like now, she was even invited to join in on the investigation. The only thing she didn’t have was one of those windbreakers with the word WRITER printed across the front and back.

  “Oh, he had security,” said Chase, “only whoever did this was smart enough to know their way around the system.”

  They walked through an ornate entrance hall, every bit of wall space covered in laminated covers of the National Star. Clearly Dick Dickerson had been proud of his work.

  They took a right turn past a huge statue of Dickerson dressed like Napoleon, complete with prancing black stallion, and walked into what looked like the tabloid king’s private study. And that’s when she saw it: a trail of greenish sludge on the floor, leading to the biggest safe she’d ever seen. It looked like one of those ginormous bank safes.

  And then she caught a whiff of the smell and she winced.

  “It gets worse,” Chase said when he saw her expression.

  And it did. As they approached the safe, she saw that the floor was covered with two inches of the same green-and-white sludge, and the stench was beyond horrible. Inadvertently she brought a hand up to her face to cover her mouth.

  Lying face up in all of that muck, was Dick Dickerson.

  Chapter 6

  Odelia was glad she hadn’t brought her cats. They didn’t need to see—or smell—this. Two people from the Suffolk County coroner’s office were examining the body. They were wearing face masks. Not a bad idea. She probably should have brought that clothespin.

  “Poor guy,” she said as they walked back out of the safe. “Not a pleasant way to go.”

  “No, it sure wasn’t,” said Chase.

  “What was he doing in that safe?”

  “We think he must have been lured there—did you notice he was dressed in his pajamas?”

  Actually she hadn’t. She’d been too busy trying to fight the nausea the smell created. “So how did they do that?”

  “We have no idea. But he didn’t lock himself up in that safe. And there are no signs of a struggle. So he must have walked in there voluntarily, then had the safe door close up on him.”

  “How did the duck poop get into the safe?”

  “They thought about this,” said Chase, as he led her out of the office and back into the hallway. “In fact this must have taken careful preparation. This wasn’t some half-assed job they put together at the last minute.”

  “They? You think there was more than one assailant?”

  “Oh, yes. This was not a one-man job.”

  He walked her around the house, along a wood chip mulch path that snaked along the side. She saw several patches of nice-looking petunias, geraniums, million bells and impatiens. And of course some of the popular deer-resistant annuals like angelonia, snapdragons and helichrysum. Like everywhere on the South Fork, deer liked to roam wild and free in Hampton Cove, devouring whatever they could dig their hungry teeth into.

  They’d reached the back of Dickerson’s huge house, and Odelia frowned when her eyes met a scene she wouldn’t normally associate with the fastidious billionaire: a huge tanker had been backed up to the house, a five-inch hose connecting it to a wall vent. Next to the tanker, a tractor had been parked.

  “This is how they got the duck poop into the safe,” explained Chase, pointing to the hose. “That’s where the vault vent used to be. Dickerson had a safety built into the vent to prevent liquids from being introduced or birds nesting in there but they simply ripped the whole thing out and fed the hose straight into the vault’s HVAC system.”

  Odelia stared at the huge tanker, which looked just like any fuel tanker, only this one had obviously been used to transport something different from oil or gasoline. “Where did they get the tanker? And the duck poop?”

  “Geary Potbelly. He’s the only duck farmer left on Long Island. We already arranged for an interview. He says one of his tractors and one of his tankers was stolen last night, a tanker full of liquid duck poop ready to be taken to the poop processing plant.” Chase gestured to the tanker. “This here tanker and that there duck poop.”

  Odelia pursed her lips. “This was an organized setup, Chase. Not some kid coming in from the street bearing a grudge against Dickerson. Whoever did this planned this out in advance.” She studied the hole in the wall up close. “They must have had blueprints.”

  “Possibly,” Chase admitted. “And you’re right about this being a professional crew.”

  “So you’re looking at organized crime?”

  He nodded. “Like you said, they needed a lot of know-how to pull this off. Then again, there are crews who do this work for hire. Anyone could have contracted them.”

  “Anyone who wanted Dick Dickerson dead. Any candidates?”

  “Oh, plenty,” he said. “In fact we’re working on a list right now. Turns out Mr. Dickerson was not exactly the people’s favorite. Exactly the opposite, in fact.”

  “People he insulted with his articles?”

  “Amongst others. If you want you can join me on some of the interviews. With Alec out of town I could use the extra pair of eyes and ears. Not to mention your keen mind.”

  “Oh, so now it’s my mind you’re suddenly interested in, huh?”

  “Not just your mind,” he admitted with a wide grin as he pulled her close.

  There was some more kissing until a cough interrupted them. When Odelia looked up, she found a man dressed in coveralls staring at them. He was fiddling with his cap.

  “So can I take her back then?” he asked.

  “Yes, you can, Bert,” said Chase.

  “Is that…”

  “Bert is in charge of the duck poop tanker,” said Chase. “He works for Potbelly.”

  “What a way to make a living.”

  Bert mounted the tractor, adjusted his cap, spat on the ground, then proceeded to maneuver the tractor in front of the manure tanker. He jumped back down, and hooked the tanker up to the tractor, then hopped back into the powerful rig, and then he was pulling that mastodon from Dickerson’s lawn, giving Odelia and Chase a nod as he did.

  “Murdered by duck poop,” said Odelia as they watched the tractor drive off.

  “There’s a certain irony to it, though, right?” said Chase.

  “You mean a peddler of poop being killed by poop?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Yeah, I guess you’re right. It is ironic. But it’s still murder, Chase. And we still have to catch whoever did this.”

  “Oh, I couldn’t agree more. But you have to admit there’s a sort of poetic justice to the whole thing, if you consider the lives Dickerson destroyed by printing his brand of filth.”

  Chase was right. Even though she was a reporter herself, the kind of stuff the National Star engaged in could hardly be called journalism. Half of what they wrote was invented, and the other half grossly exaggerated. And all of it intended to provoke, intimidate, ridicule and cater to the lowest common denominator or possibly even lower.

  No, she didn’t think Dick Dickerson would be missed. But he was still a human being, and he’d been murdered, so whoever was responsible needed to be brought to justice.

  And she was just about to follow Chase back to his pickup when her phone rang. When she took it out she saw it was an unknown number. Not unusual for a reporter.

  “Odelia Poole,” she said, picking up.

  “Oh, hi, Miss Poole. Is this the Odelia Poole who works for the Hampton Cove Gazette?”

  The voice was male and sounded oddly familiar. “Yes, this is she. Who is this?”

  “My name is Otto Paunch, and I’m a great friend of President Wilcox. As you may have heard he’s currently residing at his Hampton Cove residence, Lago-a-Oceano. And as his great, great friend and confidante, I can reveal to you exclusively that Van—that’s President Van Wilcox—was surprised not to see his name appear on the list of Hampton Cove’s wealthiest residents.”

  “Well, that’s because President Wilcox doesn’t officially reside in Hampton Cove,” Odelia told the caller. “Officially he lives in Washington. At the White House.”

  “Yes, but his heart has always been in Hampton Cove. He loves it out here, you know—loves it. And if it weren’t for this president thing, I’m sure he would have topped that list.”

  “There are some pretty rich people on our annual rich list, Mr. Paunch. Some of them probably a lot richer than your friend.”

  “Poppycock. Van is the richest man in the Hamptons. The richest man in the state, even. I’m looking at his bank statement right now and I can see he’s got twenty billion dollars to his name. Twenty billion dollars, Miss Poole! Who can beat that? If that doesn’t take him straight to the top of your list you’re not the reporter I took you for.”

  “If you’re sure about this, Mr. Paunch, I could always print a new version of the list.”

  “Do that, Miss Poole. Because I am sure about this. As Van’s best friend, you can trust me on that. In fact you can trust me on anything I have to say about him. Van and I are so close you wouldn’t believe. We’re like brothers. Twins. Now don’t let me keep you. I’m sure you want to get started on that new rich list straightaway, Van’s name at the very top.”

  “Goodbye, Mr. Paunch.”

  “Goodbye, Miss Poole.”

  And as she put her phone away, she was still wondering who Otto Paunch’s voice reminded her of.

  Chapter 7

  Vesta got up and looked at her handiwork with a nod of appreciation. Odelia’s garden was a mess, but with a little bit of work, a dash of love, and a lot of manure, she could turn it into a work of art. She couldn’t wait to see the look on Tex’s face when he glanced over the hedge into his daughter’s garden one fine morning and saw stretched before his stupefied gaze the most beautiful garden in all of Hampton Cove.

  That would teach him to kick his own mother-in-law to the curb!

  Not that he’d actually kicked her to the curb, but those were tiny details she didn’t like to concern herself with. And that’s when she saw the lone figure of Dooley sneaking through the hedge in the direction of Tex and Marge’s backyard.

  “Hello there,” she said with a reproachful glint in her eye. “Now where do you think you’re going, young cat?”

  Dooley looked up, two paws on Tex’s property and two paws on what Vesta now considered her own. “Um… home?” he said, an expression of confusion on his furry face.

  “You come back here right this instance, Dooley,” snapped Vesta. “Your home is with me, and since I live on this side of the hedge now there’s no reason for you to go over there anymore.” She accentuated the word ‘there’ with a wave of the hand and a look of distaste.

  “But… my bowl is over there,” said Dooley. “And my litter box. And my couch.”

  “Not anymore it’s not. I’ll buy you a new litter box. And a new bowl.” Well, she would tell Odelia to buy them, at any rate. On the small pension she received she couldn’t afford to spend money like water on such trivial stuff like litter boxes and cat bowls. Not since Tex had cut up her credit cards and thwarted her plans to become a millionaire heiress.

  Dooley retracted his paws and sat on his haunches for a moment. “But… I don’t want to be here, Gran. Nobody here loves me.” He said it in such a sad tone that even Vesta, whose soul was callused after having watched General Hospital, The Young and the Restless, The Bold and the Beautiful and Days of Our Lives all of her life, not to mention listening to countless sob stories from Tex’s patients as they booked appointments, felt her heart constrict.

  “What do you mean, nobody loves you around here? I love you. Isn’t that enough for you?”

  Dooley’s eyes widened. “You love me, Gran?”

  “Of course I do. I’m your human, aren’t I? And you’re my cat, aren’t you?”

  “I guess I am,” said Dooley. “I just figured… you don’t like me curling up at your feet anymore. And this morning when I tried to snuggle you pushed me away.” He didn’t say it in a reproachful tone. More like a tone that indicated he wasn’t all that surprised that anyone would push him away.

  “Oh, Dooley, Dooley,” said Vesta, picking up the gray fluffy cat and cradling him in her arms. “You have to understand that I’ve been under a great deal of stress lately. What with being kicked out of my own home and my own family turning against me. It’s enough to drive any woman to distraction. And if I haven’t been very nice to you it’s because sometimes humans get so wrapped up in their own problems that they kinda forget about their responsibilities. Like my responsibility to turn this crappy yard into a new Versailles. Or to make sure my granddaughter doesn’t get involved with some impostor or evil twin. Or take good care of the only baby I’ve got left,” she added, giving Dooley a squeeze.

  “Who is that baby?” asked Dooley.

  “You, of course! You’re my baby, Dooley. In fact you’re all I’ve got left.”

  “You’re all I’ve got left, too, Gran,” said Dooley softly.