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“He looks funny,” said Uncle Alec, his belly shaking with mirth. “He’s so pink!”

Max threw her uncle a look that could kill, but when Odelia asked him what had happened, he merely grunted,“Please don’t ask.”

“Dooley? What’s going on?” she asked.

“It’s a long story that Max doesn’t want me to tell,” said Dooley earnestly.

“Dooley!” said Max. “I said not a single peep!”

“See? He told me not to peep, and even when I’m not peeping, he’s still upset.” The gray Ragamuffin smiled. “I’ll tell you if you promise not to tell anyone.”

“Dooley? I’m warning you!”

“He got stuck in the kitchen door.”

“Dooley, not another word!”

“But then Mr. Gardner saved him by putting his boot against Max’s tushy and giving him a shove.”

“Dooley, I swear to God!”

“Only the window was so narrow it shaved off part of Max’s fur.”

“Dooley—come on!”

“And now he looks like a pink piglet,” Dooley said, snickering.

“Oh, dear,” said Odelia, and picked Max up. “Poor baby,” she said, stroking what was left of his fur. “Did the bad man hurt you?”

“He did,” said Max, moping a little and darting nasty glances at Dooley.

She quickly inspected the big blorange cat for puncture marks but saw that the few scrapes he had were all superficial.“You’ll be fine,” she said, giving him a hug.

“We found a stuffed marmot,” Dooley announced. “So Max had a very lucky escape.”

“I’m sure he didn’t stuff that marmot himself,” said Odelia. “He probably bought it.”

“Bought it!” said Dooley. “Why would anyone want to buy a stuffed marmot?”

She shrugged, tickling Max’s belly until he started to purr with contentment. “Not sure. Some people think it’s nice to own stuffed animals. Like decoration pieces.”

Dooley shivered visibly.“How awful,” he said.

“So did you find out anything else?” she asked, setting Max down again, as her arms were getting tired.

“Nothing,” said Max, a little shamefacedly.

“Except that Mr. Gardner has terrible taste,” said Dooley.

“And he has a housekeeper who likes cats,” said Max, “a maid who smokes too much, and a cook who forgets to put out the trash and who hates cats.”

“And?” asked Chase. “What’s the verdict?”

“Nothing much,” said Odelia as they headed for the cars. “Except that Quintin Gardner doesn’t like cats.” She frowned. “And as a rule I tend to be suspicious of people that don’t like cats.”

And as she glanced back to the house, she thought she saw a shadow move behind the curtains. Then it was gone.

Strange things were going on, she felt, and she was determined to find out what.

[Êàðòèíêà: img_3]

Quintin Gardner didn’t like the look of that reporter woman—that Cordelia Powell. Though in all honesty he didn’t like that cop either, that Sergeant Binsley. Or Chief Allen. They were up to something, he could tell. Standing there, blatantly staring at the house like that. And what was up with those cats? Clearly they belonged to the Powell woman. Had she sent them into the house deliberately, to taunt him? What was she playing at?

For all he knew this dead woman didn’t even exist. With Photoshop these days you could do anything. You could turn a dead woman into a living one and vice versa.

He ducked behind the curtains as the Powell woman looked straight at him.

Oh, how he wished they’d just leave and never come back. It all reminded him of when Vicky disappeared. The police had been all over him. Friendly and solicitous at first, then more inquisitive, and finally downright accusing.

Accusing him of doing away with his wife. Murdering her and burying her body.

As if he’d ever harm a hair on Vicky’s head.

He glanced out again. Finally they were leaving. And not a moment too soon.

He’d have to watch it for a couple of days, until this hubbub died down again, just like it had all those years ago.

People always forgot. Life went on and they forgot.

At least that was how it was then. He hoped it would be the same now.

[Êàðòèíêà: img_3]

The four members of the neighborhood watch were meeting in town square, seated on one of the benches the town had been so kind to put in the shade of one of the mimosa trees. A cool breeze wafted in from the ocean, and Vesta closed her eyes to enjoy the coolness it extended to her face.

“Let’s make it quick, shall we?” said Wilbur. “I only have half an hour so I wanna make it count.”

“What happened to your beard, Wilbur?” asked Father Reilly.

“Shaved it off,” said Wilbur proudly. “I’m on this dating app and someone told me women don’t like men with beards. So I figured: off with the darn thing!”

“Women do like men with beards,” said Scarlett. “They don’t like you, that’s the problem.”

“Oh, ha ha,” said Wilbur sourly. “Who asked you?”

“No one. It’s a freebie. Yours to do with as you please.”

“Let’s not bicker,” said Vesta. “We’re here to figure out what happened to Vicky Gardner, whose ring was found inside the figurine of a goatherd in my daughter’s kitchen cupboard. So who knows something? Francis?”

“Well, I remember Vicky, of course,” said Father Reilly. “Vicky Freeman as she was called before she married Quintin Gardner. But then I think we all remember Vicky.”