Purrfect Betrayal

Prunella leaned back in the white wrought-iron chair and flicked her hair over her shoulder. It gleamed in the early-morning sunlight. From the terrace where they were sitting, they had a good view of the golf course, where people were teeing off and enjoying the game. To their left, the tennis courts were visible in the distance, and shouts of tennis teachers trying to instruct their pupils to correct their backhand ripped through the air.

Prunella steepled her long slender fingers thoughtfully. “The thing is, I don’t really see how I can be of much assistance in this dreadful matter, Miss Poole—Mrs. Poole.”

“Muffin. Poole is Odelia’s dad’s name. My name is Vesta Muffin,” said Gran, who, even after all these years, wasn’t all that keen on the name her daughter had assumed.

“Mrs. Muffin,” the writer acknowledged. “I know Jeb well, of course. I personally selected him to play Florida Stopper.” She grimaced, as if in pain. “As you may have heard, it didn’t go well. I lost a great deal of money and the world lost a wonderful movie franchise.”

“There won’t be a sequel to Chronicles of Zeus?” Odelia asked.

The writer closed her eyes. “No, there won’t be a sequel. I wrote outlines for five movies, but after the fiasco of the first one there won’t be a second, or a third or a fourth or a fifth. And I have Jeb Pott to thank for that.” She opened her eyes again. “In the middle of our big launch campaign for the first movie, when the studio was gearing up to give it a mighty push, he chose to engage in a mud-slinging contest with his ex-wife, and the media, always happy to focus on a negative instead of a positive story, associated my movie with the Jeb and Camilla circus. The negative buzz was so overpowering that it scared off my target audience: kids and young families. As you can imagine, absolutely nobody wanted to watch a movie starring a notorious wife beater. And phut went my career as a screenwriter. I don’t think I’ll ever be in the movie business again.”

“I’m so sorry,” said Odelia, and she meant it. She’d enjoyed the first Chronicles of Zeus movie, and had hoped there would be many sequels in the series.

“Where were you two nights ago between three and five, Mrs. Lemon?” asked Gran.

“Prunella, please,” said the writer, and laughed. “Oh, aren’t you the hard-hitting detective, Mrs. Muffin?”

“I like to be direct,” said Gran. “I get better results that way.”

“Yes, maybe you’re right. Well, I was fast asleep in bed, actually.”

“Anyone witness you being fast asleep in bed? A husband, a lover?”

Prunella laughed again. “My, my, you are direct. Yes, my husband was with me. And in spite of the fact that we’ve been married twenty-five years, I don’t think he would cover for me if I happened to decide to murder the star of my flop movie.” A tiny wrinkle appeared between her brows. “But I don’t understand. I thought Jeb was the murderer. The newspapers all mention how he was found covered in his ex-wife’s blood and how he was still clutching the knife?”

“It certainly looks that way,” said Odelia. “And the police are satisfied Jeb is Camilla’s killer. It’s just that his daughter and his ex-wife Helena don’t believe the official story and want to conduct a parallel investigation. They think someone is trying to set Jeb up.”

“Oh, my,” said Prunella, taken aback. “This is a very fascinating story. And who could this person be? Do you have any clues that support this theory?”

“None whatsoever,” said Odelia, who didn’t want to give Prunella any insight into their line of inquiry. She was, after all, a potential suspect.

“There are a few things that don’t add up. Little things,” said Gran, “like—ouch!”

Odelia had given her a kick under the table and Gran eyed her furiously.

“Can you think of anyone who would want to do this to Jeb?” asked Odelia.

Prunella, who’d been following the interaction between granddaughter and grandmother with amusement, pursed her lips. “Um, now let me think. Jeb did have his fair share of enemies, of course, especially after letting down a whole lot of people. In fact you might say that the studio hates his guts right now, as they were left scrambling and then went down in a ball of flame. And then there’s the actors who played in Chronicles of Zeus, whose careers are now in limbo as a consequence of having featured in the biggest turkey of the decade.” She displayed a fine smile. “All in all there must be hundreds of people out there who won’t shed a tear for Jeb right now. Worse, they’re probably very happy that he’s in jail for murder, and might feel he got exactly what he deserved.”

“You believe he’s guilty, don’t you?” asked Odelia.

Prunella wavered. “No, actually I don’t. Jeb never struck me as a man with a violent temper. He is volatile, of course. A man-child who never grew up. I mean, people talk about the Peter Pan complex as if it’s a good thing, but I can assure you it’s very hard to have to deal with a movie star who refuses to grow up and acts like a petulant child at every turn.”

“Diva behavior,” Gran said, nodding.

“Exactly,” said Prunella. “And we all tolerated his behavior, hoping he’d put our movie at the top of the box office. But when he failed, that’s when the gloves came off.”

Odelia nodded. “Do you think someone hates him enough to frame him for murder?”

“Hated him so bad they’d murder Camilla? I guess so.” Prunella lobbed another petit four into her mouth. “I don’t envy you, though, Miss Poole. To figure out who amongst all of those haters could be behind this? It seems to me you have your work cut out for you.”

That, she had, Odelia conceded. She got up and shook the writer’s hand. “Thank you so much for your time, Mrs. Lemon—Prunella. And I hope you’ll get to make the rest of your movies. I enjoyed the first one tremendously.”

Prunella gave her a sad smile. “There won’t be any more movies, but thanks for the compliment.”

As Odelia and Gran turned away, suddenly Gran gasped, “Oh, no, you don’t!” then stalked off. And when Odelia looked up, she saw she was making a beeline for Scarlett Canyon, who sat holding court on the other side of the terrace.

Oh, no. Exactly what they needed right now. Not!

Chapter 23

As usual, Scarlett was surrounded by a huddle of male admirers. Odelia had to hand it to her: even though she was Gran’s age, she still looked stunning. Even though she owed a lot to her plastic surgeon: her lips were ridiculously plump and her chest outrageously pumped up. As usual, she’d squeezed herself into a skimpy dress a few sizes too small.

“What do you think you’re doing?” asked Gran as she approached.

“I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Scarlett, tilting her chin.

Gran took out her phone. “This is what I’m talking about. You’ve started a flog.”

“So? People start vlogs all the time. Why not me?”

“Only you called your flog the Sly Sleuth!”

“Pretty clever, don’t you think? I’m very proud of it.”

“You copied my name! My flog is called the Sly Sleuth!”

“Oh, I’m sure that’s just a coincidence, Vesta, dear.”

“And you’re covering the exact same topics I am!”

Scarlett studied her talon-like pink nails. “Well, some things are simply eternal bestsellers. Or did you really think you had the monopoly on crime vlogging?”

“You’re a liar and a cheat and a fraud,” Gran snapped. “And you’re going to take down that flog right this second!”

Scarlett threw her head back, a mass of copper-colored curls dangling as she let rip a hearty laugh. Her small group of male admirers all laughed along pleasantly. They probably had no idea what was going on but they seemed to enjoy themselves tremendously.

“Gran, you’re making a scene,” Odelia told her grandmother. All eyes on the terrace had swiveled in their direction, and even Prunella Lemon sat drinking in the tawdry scene with relish. She was probably taking notes to use in one of her bestselling novels later on.

“Oh, Vesta dear, you’re so funny when you’re angry,” said Scarlett, fixing her cat-like eyes on Gran. “There is no copyright in the vlogging sphere. None whatsoever. If I want to name my vlog exactly like yours, there’s not a thing you can do about it. Not one thing.”

“We’ll see about that,” grunted Gran. “I’ll write to Mr. Google right now, and ask him to—”

“Mr. Google!” Scarlett laughed. “That’s so precious!”

“We’ll see who’s laughing after Mr. Google removes your flog and upholds mine as the one and only true original Sly Sleuth.”

“Well, you do what you have to, my darling,” said Scarlett. “And when you write to your Mr. Google, don’t forget to tell him you’re his number one flogger.” She giggled at that.

“Let’s go, Gran,” said Odelia, taking her grandmother’s arm. “She’s not worth your time.”

“No, she’s not,” Gran agreed.

“Still writing your silly little articles, Odelia, dear?” asked Scarlett.

“Still sponging off rich bachelors, Scarlett, dear?” Odelia returned.

This didn’t sit well with the woman, for her smile vanished. “Better show some respect to your Auntie Scarlett,” she snapped, her eyes flashing dangerously. “I’ve known your family for a long time. I know where all the bodies are buried. And if I wanted to, I could spill all your dirty little secrets on my vlog.”

“Oh, just go away, Scarlett,” said Odelia, and walked off, joining her grandmother who’d taken a stool at the bar.

“The nerve of that woman,” Gran grumbled.

“You know she’s just doing this to get a rise out of you, don’t you?” said Odelia, as she held up her hand to attract the bartender’s attention. She ordered a cup of chamomile tea for her grandmother, hoping it would calm her down, and a Diet Coke for herself.

“I know that,” said Gran. “Of course I know that. But the woman is pure evil. I just can’t let her get away with it.”

“And you do know that the person who runs Google isn’t called Mr. Google, right?”

This seemed to surprise Gran. “Google isn’t named after its owner?”

“No, it’s not, just like Instagram isn’t named after its owner, or Facebook.”

“Well, I knew Amazon wasn’t named after Jeff Bezos,” Gran conceded. “I just figured Mr. Google had started his search engine from his garage, just like Bill Microsoft and that nice young Steve Apple.”

“It’s Bill Gates and Steve Jobs, and there is no Mr. Google.”

“Too bad,” said Gran, slumping in her chair.

It was those ecstasy pills, Odelia knew. First they lifted you up to the highest heights, then slammed you down into the lowest lows. And now Gran was experiencing those lows very keenly, especially after discovering that Scarlett had plagiarized her precious vlog.

From the corner of her eye, Odelia saw Max and Dooley sneaking across the terrace, in search of pets to talk to. She smiled. At least they might yield some results. So far she had nothing to show for her work. Just then, Prunella joined them at the bar, accompanied by a handsome man in his fifties, sporting a full head of white hair.

“Miss Poole, Mrs. Muffin,” said Prunella, “this is my husband Charlie. Charlie, these are the detectives Fae Pott hired to clear her father’s name.” She turned to Odelia. “I remembered something just now. The person who really has it in for Jeb is Fitz Priestley. And you’ll find that he lives next to where Jeb is staying.” She gestured with her head to a man seated three tables away, holding court to a captive audience of young men and women. “If you want to ask him a few questions, he’s right there.” She nudged her husband.

“Right,” he muttered, then plastered an appealing smile on his bronzed face. He clearly had been spending a lot of time in the Hamptons, even though his accent revealed he was an Englishman through and through. “While Jeb Pott was busy butchering his ex-wife, Prunella was next to me, fast asleep in bed. So even though she might have wanted to frame Jeb for murder by taking a big old whack at his ex, she didn’t, is what I’m trying to say.”

“Oh, Charlie, please don’t be so crass.”

“What did I say?”

“These people believe Jeb is innocent.”

He raised his eyebrows in surprise. “They do? How quaint.”

“Yes, it is,” said Prunella, “but there you have it.”

“Jeb is a raving lunatic and a deeply unpleasant human being,” said Charlie, turning serious. “This murder business? It was only a matter of time before the man snapped and turned homicidal. I’m glad he’s in prison right now, exactly where the little turd belongs.”

“You really think Jeb is capable of murder?”

“Of course. With the mountains of coke the freak snorted, and who knows what stuff he injected into his veins, it doesn’t surprise me he turned completely whacko at some point. There’s only so much the human body can take before it goes completely haywire.”

“Charlie is a doctor,” said Prunella with an affectionate smile. “He’s the one who warned me not to hire Jeb for my project, but of course I wouldn’t listen.”

“I knew the movie was sunk the moment we had our first meeting with Jeb and the director,” said Charlie, who’d hooked his thumbs into his waistcoat.

“I’d asked Charlie to be present at the meeting,” Prunella explained. “For moral support. It was my first big Hollywood project and I was incredibly nervous, you see.”

“One look at Jeb and I knew he was a ticking time bomb just waiting to go off,” Charlie said. “The shifty eyes, the affectated speech, those weird mannerisms. I could tell the man was an addict. And drug addicts don’t make for the most stable people to work with.”

“Such a pity,” Prunella murmured. “He was so handsome and so talented as a young man. And look at him now…”

She moved away, followed by her husband, and Odelia saw that Gran had slumped even more on her barstool and was practically falling down from the thing.

“Here, drink your tea,” she said, pushing the cup in front of her.

“I don’t wanna,” Gran muttered, resting her head on her arms on top of the bar.

“Drink your tea while I go talk to Fitz Priestley,” she ordered.

“Wait. I’ll join you,” said Gran, but she looked so worn out there was no way she was going to be of much help now. “I need another vitamin,” she muttered, her eyes drooping closed. “Just another vitamin. A, B, C, D, E, F, G… Any vitamin will do.”

“No more vitamins for you, Gran. At least not the kind you’ve been popping.”

She moved over to where Fitz Priestley was sitting and introduced herself. He gave her a quick glance, then dismissed her with a wave of the hand. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m afraid I don’t have time for amateur sleuths. Now get lost, Miss Poole, before I call security.”

Blushing scarlet at being dismissed so rudely, Odelia gritted her teeth. “Listen to me, buster. Jeb Pott’s daughter hired me to prove her dad’s innocence, and you’re going to talk to me or else I’ll write in tomorrow’s Hampton Cove Gazette that you’re the rudest, nastiest, most obnoxious director ever to set foot in this town. You got that?”

A slow grin spread across his narrow face. “My god, woman,” he exclaimed. “Have you considered working in Hollywood? You’d be a perfect fit!” He then gestured to a chair. “Here, take a seat. And tell me all about Jeb Pott and his remarkable wealth of problems.”

Chapter 24

As Dooley and I searched around for a sign of canine activity, we found ourselves faced with a unique problem: there was a distinct dearth of dogs in this exclusive club. We’d already been there ten minutes, and Odelia and Gran had probably finished their interview, and we still hadn’t been able to find a single dog.

“This is so weird,” I told Dooley. “It’s almost as if dogs aren’t allowed on the premises.”

“Maybe they aren’t,” Dooley said. “I’ve heard of places where pets are not allowed. There are even landlords that forbid them. Can you believe that?”

I told him I most certainly could. “Not all humans are like Odelia, Dooley,” I said. “Not all of them love pets the way she does.”

“Hard to imagine,” said Dooley as he sniffed the air. Dogs have a very particular and distinctive odor, and it’s not hard to pick up the trace. Only at this very moment neither of us could detect a single canine anywhere in the vicinity. Not a one.

And we’d finished our sweep of the terrace and were about to take in the tennis courts, hoping to have more luck there, when suddenly we ourselves were swept up, and not in a good way either.

“Hey!” I cried when a strong hand grabbed me by the neck and hoisted me into the air. “What’s the big idea?!”

“No cats allowed, I’m afraid,” a grating voice announced.

I turned my head to take in the miscreant who was cathandling us and saw that it was a large man with a round head and a weird little goatee beard.

“Rules are rules,” he then said, and took a firmer grip on the both of us and carried us away.

“Hey! Odelia! Odelia!” I cried, but she was too far and my cries were in vain.

“Max, we’re being catnapped,” said Dooley, sounding scared and confused.

One would feel scared and confused for less.

“He’s just throwing us out,” I said. “No need to worry. He’ll carry us to the front gate and kick us out of his club. No big deal.”

“Yeah, but what if he doesn’t? What if he hands us over to the chef and he puts us in today’s stew?!”

The prospect of ending up in the meat grinder made me gulp a bit. On top of that I was experiencing a certain amount of discomfort. It’s not much fun being carried by the scruff of the neck when you are a kitten, but even less when you’re a full-bodied cat that weighs closer to twenty pounds than ten. I experienced a certain pulling sensation at the nape of the neck that was distinctly painful and extremely unpleasant.

“Just let us down, will you, fellow?” I asked. “We got the message. We’ll just walk out the door and you’ll never see us again.”

“Rules are rules,” the big guy repeated, as if he were a broken record.

“Yeah, I know rules are rules, and I’m sorry we broke them, but this is not the way to treat a valued member of the community. And trust me, we are both very valued members of this community, feline or otherwise.”

“Yeah, we’ve solved a lot of mysteries together, and our owner is none other than the famous Odelia Poole,” said Dooley.