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Howard White, the celebrated designer, occupied two floors of an impressive brownstone in the heart of Greenwich Village. The big man was expecting us, and his assistant Sebastian was already supplying our humans with coffee in small porcelain cups the moment we walked in.

“Oh, this is just gorgeous,” Odelia exclaimed when she took in the expansive loft space, which was uninhibited by inner walls or even columns, and afforded a stunning view of the local park. Plenty of light streamed in, and everywhere we looked we could see framed designs by the master’s handadorning the walls.

“We like it here,” Sebastian announced modestly, indicating that perhaps he wasn’t merely Mr. White’s assistant but something more. “Of course we got it when prices were still affordable in this part of town. If we were to sell, we’d probably fetch an inordinate sum, considering how much prices have gone up. But we’ve lived here for so long now we’d never leave. Isn’t that so, chouchou?”

Chouchou turned out to be the artist himself, who now emerged from upstairs, where presumably his living quarters were located. Howard White was a tall man, with distinguished white hair and a long, impassive, tan face. I would have guessed he was in his early sixties, and I don’t think I would have been far off.

“Greetings, Mrs. Kingsley—Mr. Kingsley,” he said in clipped tones as he shook hands with our humans, then held out those same hands for Sebastian to squirt some clear liquid from a bottle, then efficiently wipe them with disinfectant wipes. The whole process passed so quickly that it was obvious this was a common thing in the White household. “How may I be of assistance?” he asked.

Sebastian gestured to a brown leather sofa, which looked more like a work of art than an actual comfy couch, and our humans carefully took a seat, with Mr. White and Sebastian taking up position on the opposing sofa.

The artist then seemed to notice myself and Dooley for the first time, for he made a face and expressed his abhorrence by saying,“Cats! Nobody told me there would be cats!”

And here I thought all humans loved cats.

“They’re perfectly groomed specimens,” Sebastian assured the big man. “I’ve checked them myself and they’re clean—no sign of lice or parasites of any kind.” He handed Mr. White a document, which I recognized as the form Odelia had had to fill out before she could be allowed to meet with the famous designer.

The designer waved it away.“Fine, fine,” he said impatiently. He rested his perfectly manicured hands in his lap and sat back with a serene expression on his face. “Please begin,” he said, and awaited further proceedings.

“We’re investigating the death of Michael Madison,” said Chase. “A man you’re probably familiar with.”

“Of course,” said the designer, inclining his head. “Michael and I go way back.”

“Which is why it came as something of a shock to us,” said Odelia, “that Michael wrote critically about your latest collection. An article that probably didn’t go down well with you, sir?”

“That’s correct,” said the designer. “When I read the article, I was shocked.Glimmer has been a mainstay in my career going back forty years, and I’ve always had an excellent working relationship with its subsequent editors.”

“Before Michael Madison became CEO of the entire Advantage group, he worked as editor-in-chief forGlimmer,” Sebastian explained.

“And in that capacity he never had a bad word to say about my work,” said Howard with a frown.

“And then all of a sudden he was promoted CEO of the group, andGlimmer’s attitude toward our work took a violent turn,” said Sebastian. “Isn’t that true, chouchou?”

“Almost as if Michael felt he had something to prove now that he was in charge. It’s very unusual, you see, that a CEO would get involved in the day-to-day business of producing copy for his flagship magazine.”

“He didn’t even have the guts to write the piece under his own name,” Sebastian scoffed. “He used a pseudonym. At first we thought another editor had written it.”

“Gary Rapp.”

“Yes. But it was Michael, all right. Writing this dreadful hatchet piece.”

“So I called him,” said Howard. “I wanted to know what he thought he was doing. First he denied having written the piece. Claimed he hadn’t even read it, and was going to ‘investigate,’ before getting back to me.”

“He never got back to us,” said Sebastian.

“And so I paid him a visit in his lair.”

“He wasn’t happy.”

“I wasn’t happy. And I gave it to him with both barrels.”

“Do you know what his excuse was?” asked Sebastian, quirking a finely penciled eyebrow. “He saidGlimmer had to move with the times. That they couldn’t cater to dinosaurs forever, and had to focus on new, moreexciting designers. And since no one dared to write the truth, he figured he’d do it himself.”

“I’m not a dinosaur,” said Howard White, lifting his chin.

“Of course not, chouchou,” Sebastian assured him. “If anyone is a dinosaur in this story, it’s Michael Madison.”

“Was,” said Chase.

“Yes, was,” said Sebastian, demurely casting down his eyes.