“I don’t know, Max. Brutus has changed. And so has Harriet. They’re not as competitive as they used to be. I’m sure they all want us to work together now.”

  Just then, Harriet and Brutus passed us by. They were both looking extremely pleased with themselves. “So how is it going?” asked Harriet. “Not too well, I imagine?”

  “We just discovered a Very Important Clue,” said Brutus with a smirk. “A VIC, as they call it in our business. The Mother Of All Clues, or MOAC as we professionals like to say.”

  “It’s going to break this case wide open,” said Harriet.

  “So what’s the clue?” asked Dooley.

  But Brutus mimicked locking his lips with a key and throwing it away.

  Dooley stared at the gesture. “Why are you making those weird movements, Brutus?”

  “It means his lips are locked,” Harriet explained. “And so are mine.”

  “But… we’re a team, right? We’re all in this together.”

  “We’re a team,” said Harriet, gesturing between herself and Brutus. “And you’re a team. And may the best team win.”

  “Let’s talk to the peacock, Dooley,” I said, turning away from the duo.

  “He won’t tell you a thing!” Harriet called out after me.

  I turned back. “And why is that?”

  “We made him sign a Nondisclosure Agreement,” said Brutus. “An NDA as I call it.”

  “Everybody calls it an NDA, Brutus,” I said. “And how can you make a peacock sign an NDA? You don’t even have pen and paper.”

  “It’s a figure of speech,” said Harriet. “We told him not to tell you what he told us.”

  “But why?” asked Dooley, still looking puzzled by all this subterfuge.

  “Why do you think? May the best cat win, Dooley.”

  “And get all the tasty kibble and gourmet food,” Brutus added, licking his lips.

  And then they were off, presumably in search of Odelia to deliver her the good news about the MOAC and the VIC, though perhaps not about the NDA.

  After a moment, Dooley said, “Maybe you were right, Max. Maybe Brutus and Harriet haven’t lost their competitive streak after all.”

  So we redoubled our efforts to find Peacock Number Two (or PNT). And I’d almost given up hope when we finally found it. PNT was strutting its stuff near a nice pond where I could see several fishes of exotic gillage flitting agilely through the water.

  Any other cat would have stared at those fishes, eager to dip a paw in to try and catch one, but not me, and not Dooley. We’re made of sterner stuff, and so we forewent the fishes and focused on the peacock instead.

  “Hi, Mr. or Mrs. Peacock,” I said as an introductory remark. “A word, please?”

  The peacock rolled its beady little eyes. “Not again,” it said. “I just told those other cats everything I know and I’m not going to say it a second time.”

  I was disappointed that this was not PNT but PNO. Still, I decided not to show it.

  It’s like that age-old advice when facing a predator: never show fear, because the predator will smell your fear and attack. When faced with a possible witness in a murder investigation the same principle applies: never show disappointment. Act as if you’re one of those know-it-all detectives. Let nothing the potential witness says faze you.

  “So where were you on the night of the fifteenth?” asked Dooley, who apparently had been watching too many cop shows recently, on top of his Discovery Channel binges.

  “What my friend means to say is, where were you when Miss Hay was murdered?” I asked, hoping to break Harriet and Brutus’s imposed NDA.

  “Like I told your friends, I was right here, minding my own business, not getting involved in human affairs. Never get involved in human affairs,” PNO admonished us.

  “I’m sorry, but are you a he or a she?” asked Dooley, incapable of curbing his curiosity.

  “First let me see some ID,” said the peacock. “Who are you cats?”

  “I’m Max, and this is Dooley,” I said. “And I’m afraid we left our ID cards at home.”

  “I’m a he, and so is he,” Dooley added, just to make matters crystal clear.

  “In lieu of an ID we do have microchips implanted in our necks,” I said. “So if you have a device capable of reading chips, you will be able to glean all there is to know about us, including but not limited to the name and address of our human and other valuable personal information.”

  “Okay, fine,” said the big bird a little grumpily, “So what do you want to know? Oh, right, my gender. Well, if you must know, I find your question insulting. Why do I have to choose a gender? Why can’t I simply be gender-fluid? Maybe today I feel like a girl, and tomorrow I feel like a boy. Why does society try to pin me down on one or the other?”

  This momentarily rendered Dooley and me speechless, but my friend quickly recovered. That’s what all that Discovery Channel watching does. It makes one resilient, and ready to take the vicissitudes of life and the animal kingdom in particular in stride.

  “So what’s your name, sir or lady?” he asked now.

  The peacock shrugged. “Arnold,” they said. “Or maybe Rose. Or Jasper. Or Francine. I consider myself name-fluid, which means that based on how I feel at any given moment I choose the name I like to use. And there’s nothing you or society can do about it.”

  “Isn’t that… a little confusing?” I asked, but the thundercloud that suddenly contorted the bird’s face into an expression of displeasure told me I’d made another faux-pas.

  “Maybe it’s confusing to you, but that’s probably because you’re a fluidphobic bigot. And if you don’t know what that means, I’ll tell you. You, sir, are a hater of fluids.”

  “I think Max likes fluids,” said Dooley. “Mainly water, though. Milk, not so much.”

  The bird raised itself to its full height, which was considerable, and already its ruffled feathers were starting to rise up. “Are you making fun of me? Is that what this is?”

  I decided to try and defuse the situation. “So… it’s Francine then, is it?” I asked.

  “I feel like a Franklin right now, so call me Franklin,” they said with a toss of the head.

  “Great. So, Franklin, can you tell us anything pertaining to the murder of Chickie Hay who was, I presume, your human?”

  “Never presume anything,” said Franklin. “Just because she took me under her wing, and fed me and took care of me doesn’t make her ‘my’ human.”

  “It doesn’t?” asked Dooley.

  “Of course not! That’s such a paternalistic thing to say. She was my fellow living creature, and I loved and respected her, but that doesn’t mean she was superior to me, or assumed a position of control over me. She was ‘a’ human but not ‘my’ human.”

  “Fine,” I said, starting to find this conversation a little trying. “So what can you tell us about ‘a’ human named Chickie Hay and her recent demise?”

  “She was nice,” said the bird, momentarily looking off with a dreamy expression in their eyes. “She respected me as an individual, and never tried to impose the rigid strictures and structures of society on me. And only yesterday she had a big, great, giant row with her former best friend Jamie.”

  “Jamie Borowiak? The singer?” I asked.

  “That’s the one.”

  “What were they arguing about?”

  “Boys, of course,” said the peacock with a very expressive roll of the eyes. “What else? Jamie claimed that Chickie had tried to steal her boyfriend and Chickie claimed she’d known Charlie for so long the argument could be made that it was in fact Jamie who stole her boyfriend from her instead. It all ended with a big brawl and then Jamie stalked off and said she never wanted to clap eyes on Chickie ever again, and Chickie said that Jamie was dead to her and she hated her and hoped she choked and died.” Franklin cocked an eyebrow at me. “But then Jamie returned this morning for a do-over of yesterday’s fight, and this time she killed Chickie.”

  I was a little taken aback by this. “What, you actually witnessed the murder?”

  “Not witness it, exactly. But I saw Jamie, and I heard her exchange heated words with Chickie in Chickie’s dance studio. So my conclusion is that Jamie is Chickie’s killer.”

  “Thank you, Franklin,” I said, excited by this information. “That’s very—”

  “Um, the name is Immaculata,” said the peacock. “The name just came to me.”

  “Well, thanks, Immaculata. The information is really—”

  “Or better yet, call me Sookie.”

  “Thanks, Sookie.”

  “Or… how about Doogie?”

  That was the moment we decided to part ways, before the name-challenged Arnold-Rose-Jasper-Francine-Franklin-Immaculata-Sookie-Doogie drove us completely bananas.

  7

  While Uncle Alec guarded the body and waited for the coroner to show up, Odelia and Chase had decided to tackle the interviews together. The first person they talked to was the housekeeper, as she’d been the one to find the singer. The room they’d been allocated was right next to the rehearsal space, and was a conference room, where Chickie probably conducted meetings with her team. On the wall several gold and platinum disks had been placed, along with plenty of posters of her successful tours.

  Hortense was still visibly shaken by what had happened.

  “Have you worked for Miss Hay long?” asked Chase, launching into the interview with a softball question.

  “Oh, yes,” the woman replied in the affirmative. “I’ve worked for her for seven, or maybe even eight years. Ever since she bought this house, in fact.”

  “Is this Miss Hay’s primary residence?”

  “Yes, it is. She’s originally from California but she came on vacation here once and liked it so much she immediately bought the house and moved here with her family. She always said she found life more peaceful in Hampton Cove. She also had a lot of meetings in town. Her record label is located in New York, and the recording studio, as well.”

  “What kind of person would you say Miss Hay was?” asked Odelia.

  Hortense stifled a sob at the use of the past tense. “Very sweet, very kind, very loving. She was the kindest person I ever worked for. Always a hug and a kiss. She was more like family to me than an employer. I’m going to miss her terribly.” She broke down in tears again and Chase fetched a box of Kleenex and placed it before her on the table. “What’s going to happen to me now?” she asked between sobs. “What’s going to become of me?”

  “Didn’t Miss Hay live with her mother?” asked Odelia. “Surely she’ll keep you on.”

  “I don’t think so, Miss Poole. Yuki never liked it here as much as Chickie did. Yuki—”

  “Yuki is Chickie’s mother?”

  “Yes. Yuki Hay. She prefers LA. Always did. I’m sure she’ll sell the house and return there soon after the funeral.”

  “Do you know if Chickie had any enemies?” asked Chase. “Anyone who meant her harm?”

  Hortense shook her head. “No one,” she said decidedly. “Chickie was so loving, so sweet—nobody could be enemies with her. She only had friends. Everybody loved her.”

  “But wasn’t she recently locked in a conflict with her former record company owner?” asked Odelia. She was an avid reader of the gossip press and had read all the stories about Chickie having a very public falling-out with the man who’d discovered her.

  “No, she didn’t have a falling-out, simply a business disagreement. If anyone fell out, it’s Mr. Weskit. Chickie had a big heart, and Mr. Weskit decided to take advantage of her, but Miss Hay didn’t allow that to happen, and then Mr. Weskit came here last week and shouted a lot of abuse so he was kicked out. Chickie hated conflict—she hated getting into fights with people. But sometimes in this business you have to be strong, or else people walk all over you. So she was strong and Mr. Weskit didn’t like it.”

  “What was the fight about?”

  Hortense waved a hand. “Something to do with royalties. I don’t know the details.”

  “Do you think Mr. Weskit can be violent if provoked?”

  “I don’t think so. His wife is another matter entirely, though.”

  “His wife?”

  “Yes, Mrs. Weskit is a horrible person. I think she was very jealous of Miss Hay, and didn’t like it when her husband and Miss Hay had such a good relationship, such a heartfelt connection, and so she tried to come between them, tried to break them apart, and she succeeded.” The housekeeper nodded sternly as she pressed a Kleenex against her nose. “If there’s anyone who is capable of murder it is certainly Shannon Weskit.”

  “Did she happen to drop by recently?” asked Chase, as Odelia jotted down the name.

  “Yes, she was here,” said Hortense, much to Odelia’s surprise. “She was here the day after her husband was here, and she and Chickie argued. They argued very loudly.”

  “What were they arguing about?” asked Odelia.

  “Laron, and how strongly Shannon felt Chickie should stay away from him.”

  “You could hear the argument?”

  “Oh, yes. Like I said, they were very loud. Shannon said that if Chickie went near her husband ever again, she’d file charges for harassment, and Chickie said she was confusing a business relationship with a sexual relationship, and assured Shannon that she’d never felt about Laron Weskit that way. But Shannon said she didn’t believe her for one second.” Hortense pursed her lips disapprovingly. “And then she slapped her.”

  “Who slapped who?” asked Chase.

  “I’m not sure, but I think Shannon slapped Chickie. At least when Shannon left I didn’t notice any red marks on her cheeks, and Chickie looked furious, and she did have red cheeks. So I think it’s obvious Shannon slapped Chickie, and the moment she left, Chickie turned to me and said, ‘Make sure that woman never sets foot inside my house ever again.’ So I assured her I’d tell Tyson, and then Chickie returned to her room upstairs, where she always writes her new songs, and for the rest of the afternoon she didn’t come down again. She just sat there playing her guitar. I felt very bad for her.”

  “When was this?” asked Chase.

  “Yesterday afternoon,” said Hortense with a nod of certainty. “She only came out again when Jamie Borowiak dropped by in the evening and they sat in the garden.”

  “Jamie Borowiak?”

  “She’s Chickie’s best friend. Or at least she was, until Jamie got involved with Charlie Dieber, who went and ruined everything for them. But that’s a different story.” She gave them an eager look. “Do you want me to tell you that story, too?”

  They both nodded. “Yes,” said Chase. “We want you to tell us everything you know.”

  The woman smiled. “Oh, I know a lot. There’s no secrets in this house for me.”

  And Odelia had the impression she was proud of the fact, too.

  8

  We were making our way back to the house, in search of Odelia so we could tell her the information we’d gleaned from the gender-and-name-fluid peacock, when we found ourselves waylaid by the tiny French Bulldog who came streaking out of the house.

  “She’s dead!” he cried, clearly distraught. “You were right, cats. My human is dead!”

  “I’m so sorry,” I said.

  “I went up there to see how she was, but there was a large cop walking around and when he slipped out the door for a moment I slipped in and there she was. Not moving!”

  “I’m afraid she was murdered,” I said. “Which is why we’re here—to find out who did this to her.”

  “But… they have to call an ambulance! Maybe she can still be saved!”

  “She’s been dead for quite a while now,” I said. “I’m afraid it’s too late to save her.”

  “There must be something they can do! With all the advances in science—can’t they try something experimental? Something new and untried?”

  “What experimental thing?” asked Dooley, interested.

  “I don’t know!” said the doggie, flapping his ears. “There has to be something they can do, right? Like when I had this terrible pain in my tail, and the vet fixed it.”

  “I’m afraid that once you’re dead, that’s it,” I said, hating to be the bearer of bad news, and probably risking a nip in the butt, or possibly even two. “Nobody can fix dead.”

  The doggie sank onto his haunches and then burst into a bout of honest tears. “Oh, no,” he said. “My human. Dead. This isn’t happening!”

  “It is happening, actually,” said Dooley.

  “Dooley,” I said, and shook my head to indicate he should probably exact restraint in a moment fraught with sadness like this.

  “She wouldn’t leave me,” said the doggie. “She said she’d always be there for me.”

  “She didn’t leave you,” said Dooley. “She was murdered. You can’t help being murdered.”

  “Dooley,” I repeated, and shook my head again. We needed to tread very carefully.

  “Murdered!” said the doggie. “But who would do such a thing?”

  “That’s what we’re here to find out,” I said. “And we were hoping you could help us in our investigation.”

  He sniffed some more, looking distinctly miserable. “I have no idea. Who would harm such a loving, warm, sweet, wonderful person like Chickie? She was a goddess. She was perfection. She was God’s angel. Everybody loved her. Everybody and especially meeee!”

  “Well, she must have had enemies. Otherwise she wouldn’t have been killed so tragically.”

  “I’m telling you, she had no enemies. Angels don’t have enemies. She brought only sweetness and light into this world and we all loved her. Adored her—worshipped her!”

  “So… what about this Jamie Borowiak person who dropped by yesterday and again this morning and got into a flaming row with Chickie both times?”

  “Jamie was Chickie’s best friend in all the world. She would never get into a flaming row with her. Never. They organized slumber parties. They sang together. They recorded songs for each other’s albums and they performed shows together. They would never get into a fight. And Jamie would most definitely never murder her best friend.”