9ddba8405c712dc705f6095a3ea49417

“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 mostdefinitely never murder her best friend.”

“We talked to Doogie just now,” I said.

“Who?” asked the dog, a confused frown on his face.

“The peacock,” said Dooley. “They said their name might be Immaculata, though, or even Sookie. It’s a little confusing.”

“Oh, you mean Mark. Yeah, don’t listen to Mark. He used to belong to a rapper, and I think all that rap music must have affected his brain. It got scrambled a little. Or a lot.”

“What’s your name, by the way?” asked Dooley.

“Boyce Catt,” said the French Bulldog. “Don’t laugh. Chickie wanted a dog and Yuki—that’s her mother—wanted a cat. So Chickie called me Boyce and Yuki called me Catt.”

“Well, Boyce Catt,” I said, “Mark told us that Jamie was here yesterday and she and Chickie sat out in the garden and got into a big fight. Jamie accused Chickie of trying to steal her boyfriend Charlie Dieber, and then she stalked off on a huff.”

“But she came back this morning to do some more fighting,” Dooley added.

“That’s true,” said the doggie. “I saw her. They made up, though.”

“They did?”

“I was there when Jamie dropped by this morning. She walked in when Chickie was rehearsing in the dance studio. There was a moment of name-calling but then they decided they loved each other too much to fight over a silly thing like a boy and they hugged and made up.”

“They hugged?” I asked.

“Yes, they did. And I ask you, is that the behavior of a would-be killer?”

“Jamie could have been pretending.”

“She would never do that,” said Boyce Catt. “Jamie and Chickie have been besties for years. Also, Chickie was the sweetest person alive. No one could hold a grudge against her. Absolutely no one, and most definitely not her best friend.” He sniffled a bit more, then frowned and said, “Youwant to know what I think happened? I think this is a case of mistaken identity. Has to be. Someone killed Chickie thinking she was someone else. Or maybe a burglary gone wrong. Someone broke into the house to steal Chickie’s valuables and she happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“It’s possible,” I allowed.

Frankly anything was possible. We had no clue what had happened, exactly, and the burglary gone wrong thing had happened before, especially when the victim was as rich as Chickie.

“Let’s find Odelia,” I told Dooley. “We have a lot to tell her.”

“Thank you so much, little doggie,” said Dooley, and it was an indication of Boyce Catt’s mournful mood that he didn’t even suggest nipping Dooley in the butt again. Having your human suddenly snatched away from you by the grim reaper has that effect.

And we’d just set foot for the house when a big and burly male came walking out. He was talking into his phone, saying, “Please, Mr. Weskit, sir. You have to help me. You promised, Mr. Weskit, sir,” and then he passed out into the garden as we passed into the house like ships in the night. Or, moreprecisely, two cats and one human in the daytime.

Chapter 9