Chapter 18
Checking the Skinny Kitty contact list, I was surprised to see that Zeke’s address was the same as Linda’s. At first I thought it was a typo. But when I called Linda to ask her about it, she explained that Zeke lived in a guest cottage at the back of her property.
And so twenty minutes later, I was walking up the flagstone path to Zeke’s guest quarters, a charming cottage with shutters at the windows and a profusion of pansies out front.
Zeke came to the door in jeans and a T-shirt, his sandy hair tousled, holding a can of Red Bull.
“Hey, Jaine!” he cried. “Linda told me you were investigating Dean’s murder. Wow! That is so cool! Who’d a thunk it? You? A PI? Talk about casting against type!”
It looked like somebody had been nipping just a tad too much Red Bull.
“Entray, entray!” he said, waving me inside his tiny home—a single room with a futon, TV, and a large desk; the latter jammed with a laptop, piles of papers, and a giant thesaurus.
Off to the side was a tiny kitchenette.
“Have a seat,” he said, gesturing to his futon.
As I sank down into its marshmallow depths, I noticed something very interesting hanging over Zeke’s desk: a well-worn dartboard with Dean’s picture on it. Several darts were piercing the dearly departed’s nose.
“Nice decorating touch,” I said, gesturing to the wall art.
Zeke had the good grace to blush.
“I suppose I should get rid of it, but I can’t bring myself to do it. Too many happy memories.”
“Doesn’t Linda mind?”
“I make sure she never sees it.”
With that, he pulled out the darts and flipped the board over, revealing a mirror on the other side.
“Very clever.”
“It’s kept me from being evicted, that’s for sure. So, can I get you something to drink? I’m afraid all I’ve got is Red Bull.”
“No, thanks. I’m fine.”
“Me too,” he said, taking a big slug from his can. “More than fine. I’m great!”
Then he flung himself into the swivel chair from his desk and scooted it across the room to face me.
“I’ve been on a writing marathon ever since Dean died, working on my novel. My creative juices have been positively flowing! I realize now that Dean was holding me back, always criticizing me, and taking nasty shots. It’s a wonder I was able to write a single syllable.”
With that, he jumped up and raced to his desk.
“Look!” he said, holding up a stack of manuscript pages. “Just look at all the pages I’ve written!”
He grinned proudly, flush with the excitement of a writer who’s been churning out pages—or perhaps a killer who’s been getting away with murder.
“And it’s not just my life that’s improved,” he said, scooting back to his swivel chair. “Linda’s so much better off with Dean gone. The guy treated her like dirt. Cheating on her with the Pink Panther right under her nose. Why, I remember one night not long ago I saw Camille sneaking in the side door of the main house after midnight.
“Poor Linda,” he tsked. “Upstairs sleeping while God knows what was going on downstairs in her own house. “But that’s all over now,” he said, taking a final slug of Red Bull and crushing the can in his fist. “Linda won’t have to put up with that crap anymore. Dean won’t ever be able to hurt her again.”
Time for the big question.
“Are you the one who made sure he’d never hurt her again?”
“If you’re asking if I killed him, the answer is no. I hated the guy, but I’m not a killer.”
The jury was still out on that one.
“Actually,” I said, “I was just talking to Camille Townsend, who said she saw you outside the studio kitchen at the time the cat food was poisoned.”
“That’s a lie!” he said, his face flushed with anger. “I went to the men’s room. But that’s it. I went nowhere near that kitchen!”
He was so forceful in his denial, I was tempted to believe him.
Then, just when I was considering writing him off as a suspect, his cell phone rang.
“What’s up?” he said, answering it. “Okay, sure. I’ll be right there.”
“That was Linda,” he said, bounding out of his chair, his anger forgotten. “The mail just came. I got a letter from The New Yorker. I bet they’re buying the short story I sent them! Be right back.”
He was out the door like a shot.
And the minute he was gone, I was at his desk, snooping.
I checked out the first few paragraphs of his manuscript (I sure hoped he wasn’t counting on a yes from The New Yorker) and rummaged around the detritus of his desk. Sitting on top of a pile of bills was a mushy greeting card with two kittens cuddling on the front cover. Inside it said, You had me at “meow.”
It was signed, To Linda, XOXO, Zeke.
Not exactly a Shakespearean sonnet, but clearly Zeke was about to make his moves on his beloved.
Then, unable to resist the lure of his open laptop, I clicked on Zeke’s recent search history.
Whaddaya know? There among “literary agents” and “sex toys” were three recent searches—for poisons.
And just like that, Zeke went from would-be author to could-be killer.
* * *
Later that night I was stretched out in the tub, thinking about Zeke, who—in case you’re wondering—didn’t sell his short story to The New Yorker. He’d come back to his cottage, tossing his rejection letter into a wastebasket crammed, I suspected, with many other like-minded missives. But, still fueled by Red Bull, he shrugged off this temporary setback and practically pushed me out the door, eager to resume work on his novel.
Now I wondered if Zeke had used some of his unbounded energy to zap a bit of Raid on Dean’s Skinny Kitty. Surely those online poison searches were a tad incriminating.
And yet, if he really had killed Dean, would he be foolhardy enough to blab about how happy he was to be rid of him? Wouldn’t he try faking some grief?
And what about my other suspects du jour? There was Ian and his Murder Scrapbook. And my unscrupulous agent, Deedee, who trotted around with a convenient can of Raid in her purse.
“Oh, Pro!” I sighed. “So many suspects, so little proof.”
Prozac, who was perched on the toilet tank, merely stared at me, glassy-eyed.
How I longed for the days when I’d pour my heart out to her, only to have her yawn in reply. Now the poor thing didn’t even have the energy to open her mouth.
I was lying there, wondering if she was ever going to be her old self again, when I heard Lance knocking at my front door.
“Open up, Jaine. It’s urgent!”
Of course, Lance’s idea of urgent is a BOGO sale at H&M. Nevertheless, I wrenched myself from the tub.
“Hold on!” I cried. “I’ll be right there.”
Minutes later, I was in my robe, leaving damp footprints on the floor as I hurried to get the door.
“Hey, sweetie,” he said, sailing in, clad in faded jeans and an I ♥ MAMIE T-shirt. “Here’s your New York Times. Hope you don’t mind. I borrowed it this morning.”
So that’s where it went!
He held it out gingerly by the edges. Quickly I grabbed it from him, only to discover it was covered with wet, slimy stuff.
“What’s this wet goo?” I asked.
“Dog spit,” Lance replied. “Mamie’s been rehearsing with it all day. The Brad Pitt gig fell through, but Deedee lined up an audition for a Polish sausage commercial. Mamie is up for the part of the family dog who brings in the morning paper. You should see her carrying that paper in her little mouth. She’s such a pro. I just know she’s going to be a star!” His eyes shone with dreams of glory and six-figure paychecks. “Today Polish sausage. Tomorrow the world!”
But I was only half listening to his babble. All I cared about was my puzzle. It wasn’t too late to fill it in. It would be my special after-dinner treat.
I opened the paper eagerly, hoping that inside, the puzzle would be dry. But when I finally fished it out, I groaned to see the squares obliterated by dog spit.
Grrr.
“And look at all these great new publicity photos!” Lance gushed. By now, he’d settled on the sofa and was holding out a bunch of glossies. “Here’s Mamie as a doctor.” (Mamie with a stethoscope around her neck.) “Here she is as a flamenco dancer.” (Mamie with a rose clenched in her teeth.) “Here she is as a ballet dancer.” (Mamie in a tutu.) “Isn’t Mamie just the cutest doggie you’ve ever seen?”
Prozac, who’d wandered in from the bathroom, looked up at Lance with jaded eyes.
The cuter they are, the harder they fall.
“And here’s one more,” Lance said, whipping out a final photo. “Me, as a doctor. The photographer let me wear Mamie’s stethoscope. He said he’d take more pictures of me, in case I decide to go into show biz. Which, as you know, I’m seriously thinking of doing. Tell me, is it just me, or do I bear an uncanny resemblance to Laurence Olivier?”
“It’s just you.”
But he was oblivious to my barb, too busy staring at himself as a doctor.
“Well, gotta run, hon,” Lance said, finally tearing himself away from his head shot. “You don’t mind if I take your paper again tomorrow, do you?”
“Touch my paper, and you’re a dead man.”
“Okay, okay,” he said, palms out in self-defense. “If that’s how you feel, I won’t take your paper. I’ve learned my lesson.”
Thank goodness for that.
“I’ll take Mr. Hurlbutt’s paper across the street. He doesn’t seem like much of a reader to me.”
“Why can’t Mamie rehearse with this paper?” I asked, holding out the paper he’d stolen that morning.
“Ick, no. It’s got spit all over it. Who’d want this?”
“Well, thanks so very much for returning it.”
“No problem, hon. That’s what friends are for.”
And with that, Lance sailed out the door, a five-letter word for the most irritating man in the world.