We directed our attention yonder, as instructed, but I couldn’t hear anyone belting out any song, new or old. In fact I didn’t hear a thing, except for Harriet yapping a mile a minute to the peacock, who was looking slightly dazed from all this verbal diarrhea.

  “Um? I don’t hear anything,” Dooley finally announced.

  “Me neither,” I said. “Are you sure she’s up there?”

  “Of course I’m sure,” said the doggie, even though he now looked slightly worried.

  The French Bulldog stared at us, clearly distraught, then, suddenly and without another word about nips in the butt, tripped off in the direction of the house.

  “Not much of a witness,” said Dooley. “He doesn’t even know his human is dead.”

  “He could still prove a valuable witness,” I said.

  “He could?”

  “He might not know what he knows and when we talk to him again, he might remember what it is that he didn’t know he knew. If you know what I mean.”

  Dooley stared at me. “I’m not sure I got all that, Max.”

  I wasn’t sure I got it myself. That’s the trouble with being a detective: you just muck about for a while, hunting down clues, speaking to pets and people, and finally you may or may not happen upon a clue that may or may not be vital to the investigation. And if you’re lucky you end up figuring out what happened. And if you’re unlucky, well, then Harriet beats you to it by extracting the telling clue from a silly-looking big bird with spectacular plumage.

  4

  Laron Weskit sat enjoying his morning coffee whilst ensconced in front of the window of his hotel room. The room overlooked Hampton Cove’s Main Street and as such was perhaps not the best room in the house for a man who valued his privacy, but still preferable to a view of the back streets of the small Hamptons town.

  A buff young man with a fashionable buzz cut and a trim hipster beard, he was one of the youngest and most successful record executives, with several popular artists on his roster. He’d already scanned the business section of the Wall Street Journal on his phone and was just checking his emails when his smartphone sang out Charlie Dieber’s latest smash hit. A good record executive plugs his clients any way he can, and adopting his protégé’s hit song as his ringtone was but one way to accomplish this, subtly inflicting Charlie’s latest earworm on whoever happened to be in the room with him.

  “Tyson, my man!” he said. “Whaddya got for me, buddy?”

  “Bad news, I’m afraid, Mr. Weskit,” said Tyson.

  “What is it this time? Another lawsuit? Or some fresh dig on Instagram?”

  “I’m afraid Chickie’s dead, Mr. Weskit.”

  For a moment Laron’s brain ceased to function, as if incapable of grasping this plain truth. “Dead? What do you mean, dead?”

  “She was murdered—strangled. Our housekeeper found her. Police are here now.”

  “So… do they know who did it?”

  “I don’t think so. The detectives just arrived, along with the chief of police. They talked to Hortense and I guess it’ll be my turn next.”

  Laron thought hard. Chickie Hay dead. How was that even possible?

  “So… about our arrangement, Mr. Weskit, sir?” said Chickie’s bodyguard.

  “What arrangement?” he grunted distractedly as he thought about the consequences of Chickie’s unexpected and frankly shocking demise.

  “Well… you said that if I kept you informed of Miss Hay’s whereabouts and movements at all times I would be handsomely rewarded, Mr. Weskit, sir.”

  “You were supposed to be her bodyguard, Tyson,” he said, suddenly experiencing a burst of irritation. “So why didn’t you do your job and protect the woman?”

  “I-I was downstairs in the kitchen, Mr. Weskit. Having breakfast.”

  “Some bodyguard you are. Having breakfast while your client is being strangled.”

  “She was rehearsing,” said the man. “Said she didn’t want to be disturbed. And there were plenty of people guarding the perimeter, so I’m pretty sure no one came in or out.”

  “So what are you saying? That it was an inside job?”

  “I think so, sir.”

  “Yeah, well, I don’t have any use for a bodyguard who allows his clients to die on his watch, Tyson. You understand what that’s going to look like on your resume, don’t you?”

  “But, Mr. Weskit!”

  “None of my clients will want to work with you. You know what pop stars are like, Tyson. Highly superstitious bunch. You’re damaged goods now. Impossible to place.”

  “But, sir!”

  “Maybe try the financial sector. Bankers are a lot less superstitious, or so I’ve heard.”

  And with these words he promptly disconnected. Best to sever all ties with the guy. Lest he wanted to look bad himself by being associated with a failed security man.

  “Who was that, darling?” asked his wife Shannon as she strode into the room. Blond and impossibly skinny with an outrageously inflated bust, she’d managed to squeeze her perfect form into a sexy little red dress. Laron Weskit was not exactly a picture of male beauty, but what he lacked in physical attraction he made up for in business success, and since nothing turned Shannon on more than having a husband with several million in the bank, he’d been lucky enough to entice her to be his bride three years ago. Theirs was a happy partnership, based on one guiding principle: he made the money, and Shannon spent it. It made them both happy, and that’s what a good marriage is all about.

  “Chickie Hay is dead,” said Laron, never one to beat about the bush.

  Shannon’s hand, which had been busy bringing a piece of avocado toast to her mouth, halted in midair, and she looked up, looking as shocked as he had been when Tyson had told him the terrible news. But she quickly recovered. “What happened?”

  “Murdered. Police are on the scene. They don’t know who did it yet.” He directed an inquisitive look at his wife. “You didn’t happen to go out this morning, did you, darling?”

  She laughed. “No, I didn’t. You don’t think I would kill the wretched girl, do you?”

  “You never know. Chickie had a lot of enemies.”

  “And none more prominent than you,” she pointed out.

  “Yeah, I’m sure it won’t be long before the police come knocking on our door.”

  “Why don’t you call your friend the Mayor? I’m sure he’ll be able to arrange something. Keep the baying hounds off our backs.”

  He smiled. That was Shannon for you. Always the practical one. “You’re right. Why subject ourselves to scrutiny when we can avoid it? I’ll make the call straight away.”

  “Too bad, though,” said Shannon as she took a tentative nibble of her toast.

  “Yeah, what a waste of talent.”

  “Not that. What a pity we don’t have the rights to her new album. I’m sure it’ll go triple platinum now.”

  “The value of her entire catalog will go through the roof. As it always does when an artist dies—especially a tragic death like this. Chickie’s oeuvre will be a hot property.”

  Shannon held up her glass of freshly squeezed orange juice. “Here’s to Chickie Hay. May she rest in peace—and make us a fortune.”

  “To a fortune,” he said, loving how cynical Shannon was. And of course she was right. This murder business would make them even richer than they already were. That, unfortunately, was the nature of the business they were in. Or, as in their case, fortunately.

  He got up, moved over to the connecting door and held up his hand, poised to knock.

  “I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” said Shannon without turning.

  “Oh? And why is that?”

  “Young love, Laron. You remember what young love is like.”

  He retracted his hand. Shannon was right. “Still, they need to be told,” he said.

  “Later. Just let them rest. They’ll find out soon enough.”

  “They should find out from me.”

  “And why is that? The news is what it is.”

  “Yeah, but I need to advise them on a media strategy before they touch their Insta.”

  “Call the Mayor. That’s a better use of your time than bothering Charlie and Jamie.”

  5

  Parked on one of Main Street’s side streets, a good view of the Hampton Cove Star through the windshield of their rental, Jerry Vale and Johnny Carew sat watching the fourth-floor balcony of Hampton Cove’s most prestigious and posh boutique hotel.

  “Are you sure this is a good idea, Jer?” asked Johnny for the umpteenth time.

  “Yeah, I’m sure, so stop whining, will you? My ears hurt from all your yapping.”

  “We just got out of jail, Jer,” Johnny reminded his partner in crime. “And I don’t want to go back there so soon.”

  “You won’t go back, Johnny,” Jerry growled. “This is a foolproof plan we’re working on here. You know what foolproof is? It means even a fool like you can’t mess it up.”

  Johnny thought about this for a moment. “Are you saying I messed up the last plan?”

  “You know you did. Who fired off that gun when he’d been told to be inconspicuous?”

  “But you were under attack, Jer! I had to do something!”

  “I was under attack from mice, Johnny. Mice! I was dealing with it, but the moment you fired that big cannon of yours, you ruined everything.”

  They’d spent time in prison, until a nice judge had decided to let them out on bail, and now there they were, once again having decided to grant other, more prosperous members of society, the pleasure of carrying the burden of their livelihoods. This time Jerry had selected Laron Weskit and his client Charlie Dieber and Charlie’s girlfriend.

  “Do you realize Laron Weskit is the youngest, most successful record executive in the country? And that Charlie Dieber is one of the hottest pop singers in the world? These people are loaded! And we’re simply going to take some of that load off their backs.”

  “I know, but Jer,” said Johnny in the same whiny voice he’d employed ever since Jerry had told him about his plan to hit Laron and The Dieber. “They probably got security up the wazoo. So what if we get caught again? I don’t want to get caught again, Jer.”

  “Listen carefully, cause I’m only going to repeat this once. Tonight the Mayor is organizing a party for Laron and The Dieber—Dieb is getting the keys to the city. So they’ll all be downstairs, partying and having a ball, while we’re upstairs, helping ourselves to their cash, jewelry, gold watches, and other precious little trinkets.”

  Johnny rubbed his chin at the prospect. It was a sizable chin, too, in proportion with the rest of his anatomy. Jerry, who looked more like something a cat dragged out of a dumpster, was, after all, the brains of their little outfit, while Johnny was the brawn.

  “And what about Weskit and The Dieber’s security people?”

  “They’ll all be in the ballroom protecting their charges, which means they won’t bother us.”

  “I don’t know, Jer,” said Johnny, shaking his head and showcasing an appalling lack of trust in his longtime companion.

  “You don’t have to know, Johnny,” said Jerry. “I know, and that’s enough.”

  Johnny nodded sheepishly. He knew he wasn’t blessed with a big brain, and usually relied on his partner to supply that much-needed brainpower to carve out their criminal career. But Johnny didn’t enjoy spending time in prison, and he was obviously loath to go back inside so soon after their last sojourn in the slammer.

  “Just think about the diamonds, Johnny,” said Jer, taking out his phone and calling up an image of The Dieber’s girlfriend Jamie Borowiak, a nice big diamond necklace around her neck. He scrolled through the girl’s Instagram some more and tapped the diamond ring Jamie had gotten from her boyfriend. In the next picture, a stunning pair of earrings. Switching to Charlie Dieber’s Insta, there was a gorgeous gold watch on display and, finally, an entire collection of expensive-looking cufflinks on Weskit’s Instagram. Jerry tapped the picture. “See these? Worth a fortune. And he takes them everywhere he goes.”

  “So nice of these stars to advertise their prized possessions on Instagram,” Johnny said. “That way we know what to look for, going in.” He might not like the prospect of venturing out into the line of fire again, but he did covet other people’s wealth as much as the next crook. Finally he said, “Let’s do this, Jer. When is this party?”

  “Starts at nine, and goes on until after midnight, with speeches by the Mayor and the chairman of the local chamber of commerce and performances by Dieber and the girlfriend. Rumor has it there might even be some local talent infesting the stage. We hit the hotel at eleven, out by eleven thirty, tops. Plenty of time to become filthy rich.”

  “Filthy rich,” Johnny repeated, his eyes sparkling. “I like filthy rich, Jer.”

  “Get used to the prospect. Cause tonight’s the night. Nothing’s gonna stop us now!”

  “Tonight’s the night,” Tex spoke into his phone as he sat back in his chair. But then the buzzer buzzed and he jerked up. He checked the small screen that showed an image of the waiting room. When he saw Mrs. Baumgartner stalk in, he couldn’t suppress a groan.

  “Did you say something?” asked Denby Jennsen, his colleague over in Happy Bays.

  “My receptionist took the day off again,” he explained. “So now I’m supposed to handle all the phones and organize the flow of traffic in my waiting room all by myself.”

  “You really should start thinking about bringing in a professional receptionist, Tex,” said Denby, not for the first time. “They do wonders for your peace of mind. And your productivity. I’ve had Vicky for ten years and I wouldn’t know what to do without her.”

  “I know, but how can I fire Vesta? She’s my wife’s mother. Marge will never forgive me.”

  “I’m sure Marge will understand. And isn’t your mother-in-law like, a hundred years old by now?”

  “Seventy-five, and she still thinks she’s hot stuff. She’s launching a solo career.”

  Denby laughed. “A solo career! Doing what?”

  “Well, singing, obviously. She wants to be the next Beyoncé.”

  “Tell her to go ahead. Maybe she’ll be a hit and then you can finally hire a decent receptionist. You need one, Tex. You can’t go on like this.”

  “I can, if only she’d come in for work every day.”

  He disconnected after admonishing Denby to be there tonight or be square, but before he let in his next patient, he took a moment. Denby had a point. A professional receptionist-slash-secretary would be great. Then again, he didn’t pay Vesta all that much, what with her having room and board at the house and being family. She was more a glorified volunteer than an actual receptionist, and Tex had only given her the job because Marge wanted her mother to keep busy. To be around people. If he took that away from her, he’d deprive her of a big chunk of her social life. Plus, she probably wouldn’t take it well, which might lead to more tensions at home, something to avoid.

  Denby meant well, but he didn’t fully grasp the situation. Best to leave things as they were. And so he walked over to the door and opened it, then plastered his best smile onto his face. “Mrs. Baumgartner? Come on in.”

  “Vesta not here today?” asked Mrs. Baumgartner, who was one of Tex’s best patients—though Vesta claimed she simply carried a torch for him and that’s why she was in all the time. He had to admit the woman had hypochondriacal tendencies. “So is she sick? Did something happen to her? I thought she looked under the weather when I saw her yesterday. Pale—and has she lost weight? She walked with a limp, too. Hip issues, probably. But then you would know best, wouldn’t you? You are her doctor, aren’t you?”

  Great. Soon the whole town would think Vesta was knocking on death’s door.

  6

  It was nice to be out in the garden. There were big exotic flowers everywhere, very colorful and very fragrant. And if I hadn’t been given a very particular assignment, I probably would have wanted to spend the rest of the day there—or at least until my stomach told me it was time to look for greener, food-providing pastures. But as it was, we needed to find out who had murdered this nice singing person, so onward we went.

  “Pity the little doggie didn’t have a clue, right, Max?” said Dooley.

  “Yeah, real pity,” I agreed.

  “Maybe Chickie has other, more observant pets?”

  “I don’t doubt it. She probably has a whole army of pets.”

  I was still eying Harriet and Brutus with a measure of pique. They seemed to have hit the jackpot when they stumbled upon that peacock. Sleuthing is a collaborative effort—a team sport, if you will—but Harriet and Brutus don’t see it that way. They have this competitive streak that makes them view it as a competition sport instead. If they can manage to lay their paws on the telling clue, they won’t hesitate to rub my face in it. So I decided to go and look for a second peacock, hoping peacocks travel in pairs.

  “We need to find peacock number two, Dooley,” I said.

  “Peacock number two? Who is peacock number two?”

  “Where there’s one peacock, there’s bound to be a second one.”

  “You mean peacocks mate for life?”

  “You tell me.” Dooley had been watching a lot of the Discovery Channel lately, so if anyone had the inside scoop on these birds with the riotous plumage, it was him.

  He thought for a moment. “I’m not sure, Max. Though I saw a documentary about hippopotamuses last week, and they don’t mate for life, if that helps.”

  It didn’t, but I decided to let it go. “Do peacocks sit in trees?” I muttered as I directed my eyes upwards to the foliage.

  “Why are you so eager to find a second peacock, Max? We could ask Harriet what she learned from the first peacock.”

  “It doesn’t work that way, Dooley,” I said. “You know what Harriet and Brutus are like. They think this is all one big competition. They’ll never let us near peacock number one, and they’ll refuse to divulge the information the peacock has offered them.”