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And in spite of our predicament, we decided to make the best of things by enjoying this rare lull in our busy schedule. And we’d been dozing for the better part of half an hour, the sun warming our weary bones, when a green van came driving up to the house, its tires crunching the gravel. We watched on as it pulled to a full stop and a man came stepping out. He was dressed in a long black overcoat, and had flowing blond hair and a nice blond mustache and beard. On top of his head was a fashionable homburg hat and he was carrying a suitcase. Next, a cat came hopping out of the van. One of those Siamese specimens. Very skinny, but also very loud. So loud we could hear him complaining all the way to where we were lying on Flake’s lawn.

“Look at this dump,” the cat was saying. “This is beneath us, Chris. Way, way beneath us.”

“I know,” said the guy. “But a job is a job, buddy, so buck up, will you?”

“How much are they paying us? Cause if it’s less than our usual quote I say we get out of here and dump this dump.”

“Ten K now, and another ten if we catch her son’s killer.”

“Twenty K, huh. Not too shabby.”

“Yeah, that’s what I thought. So are we doing this?”

“Hell, yeah,” said the cat.

And cat and man moved towards the front door as one man, then out of sight.

“Weird,” said Dooley.

“What’s weird?” I asked, closing my eyes again now that the show was over.

“That guy could talk to his cat.”

It took me a few moments before realizing the truth in Dooley’s worlds. Then my eyes shot open again. “Great Scott, Dooley!” I cried.

“What?”

“That guy can talk to his cat!”

“That’s what I said.”

“But I always thought Odelia was the only one—and her mom and grandma, of course.”

“Well, looks like they’re not the only ones,” said Dooley sensibly.

I stared at the green van, the engine still ticking as it cooled down. On the side of the car a decal had been stuck. It read‘Christopher Cross—Pet Detective.’

“Competition,” I murmured.

“Mh?” asked Dooley, who’d closed his eyes, his favorite strike pose.

“Odelia is getting some serious competition, Dooley.”

“So? We’re on strike, Max. Officially we’ve stopped caring about Odelia.”

He was right. Officially we didn’t care about what happened to Odelia. “Still, I don’t think she’s going to like it,” I said as I rested my head on my paws again.

“Maybe it will stop her from taking us for granted,” said Dooley.

I smiled. Some people call Dooley dumb. Dooley isn’t dumb. A little slow perhaps, but smarter than he often gets credit for. “You’re absolutely right, Dooley,” I said. “Maybe this is what she needs to stop taking us for granted.”

Chapter 8

Odelia was staring out of the window. She felt a little creeped out by being in the same room as the victim of a crime. Not that she was particularly squeamish about being in the presence of a dead person. She’d been involved in more murder cases than any reporter had a right to be, especially in a small town like Hampton Cove. But still… It didn’t feel right. Disrespectful, even. Leonidas Flake should be in the presence of his loved ones. Being laid up in a funeral home so he could be mourned properly. Not on display for all the world to see—or at least two amateur sleuths like herself and Gran.

“Look at this, Odelia,” said her grandmother, and she turned in the direction the old lady was indicating. She was on hands and knees, poking at something under the bed.

“What is it?” she asked, also getting down on all fours.

“I don’t know. Looks like a wrapper.”

“A wrapper? Like a candy wrapper?”

“I don’t think so. More like the kind of wrapper you use for a syringe.”

“Probably something Flake’s nurse dropped.”

“Yeah, probably. I mean, the guy was old, right? So he probably was prodded and jabbed with a bunch of syringes, like, all the time.”

Odelia agreed. Still, just to be on the safe side she took a picture of the item, then shuffled back from under the bed. She was just in time to watch the door swing open and Chase stroll in, followed by the coroner, looking harried.

“Finally,” said Gran. “We thought you’d never get here, Abe.”

Abe Cornwall was a scruffy-looking man in his mid-fifties with a marked paunch and hair that stuck out in every direction, as if he’d stuck his fingers in a socket. “Another homicide over in Happy Bays,” he said as he placed his medical bag on the floor. “Got here as fast as I could. So what have we here?”

“Leonidas Flake,” said Gran helpfully. “Designer to the stars. And now up amongst the stars in heaven himself. Unless he’s gone straight down to hell, of course. I guess with the kind of life the dude probably led all bets are off.”

The coroner stared at Gran for a moment, then proceeded to check the dead man’s pulse. “Dead,” he said with an air of finality.

“No shit,” said Gran. “We didn’t need a doctor to tell us that.”

Abe gave her a censorious look.“Don’t you have someplace to be, Vesta?”

“You ain’t getting rid of me that easy, Abe,” she said caustically. “Now tell us, did he get whacked, yes or no.”