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“You’re absolutely right, Brutus,” I said therefore. “I wouldn’t set paw in a place like that either.”

“Good,” he said, and gave me a lingering look of suspicion, then turned to pursue other, more important matters. Such as there were: to follow his girlfriend to the edge of the playground that serves as a rehearsal spot for cat choir, and listen to her practice tonight’s solo performance. Harriet likes to practice those arias that have made her so popular amongst cat choir aficionados and Brutus is her chosen pre-performance critic.

“So how is your investigation going?” asked Shanille.

I stared at her in wonder.“How did you know we’re investigating something?”

“Aren’t you always?” she said. “What is it this time? No, don’t tell me. A murder? A robbery? A home invasion? A kidnapping?”

“An apparent suicide,” I said.

“A banker killed himself and now his daughter thinks he was murdered,” Dooley supplied. “And she’s asked Odelia to investigate. Oh, and there’s a sausage involved.”

“Oh, dear,” said Shanille. “I heard about that. Dino Wimmer, right? Isn’t he the guy who was instrumental in building the Hampton Cove Star hotel?”

“He is,” I confirmed.

“Kingman seems to think Wilbur Vickery might be involved,” Shanille said, as she cast a quick glance at the voluminous cat, who held court for at least half a dozen females nearby. “Though I very much doubt whether Wilbur is capable of murder.”

“Yeah, I don’t think that’s a lead we’re actively pursuing at this time,” I agreed.

“Do you want to know what I think?” asked Dooley.

Shanille gave him an amused smile.“Of course, Dooley. I always want to know what you think.”

Dooley seemed surprised by this, but proceeded to regale the choir director with his latest brain wave nevertheless.“I think he was murdered by the same person who sent that picture of a sausage to his daughter.”

“Picture of a sausage? What are you talking about?”

“Someone called Dick sent a picture of his sausage to Rose Wimmer, and I have a hunch it’s all part of one big conspiracy,” said Dooley. “I’m sure if Odelia would care to look at Mr. Wimmer’s phone she would find similar pictures of similar sausages. I think those sausages were sent as a warning, and now Rose’s life is in danger—in danger from the same man named Dick. If only we could figure out who that sausage belongs to, I’m sure we’ll be able to crack this case.”

“Dooley, that… sausage and the murder or suicide of Dino Wimmer are not in fact related,” I said, deciding to settle this matter once and for all. “In fact the person who sent that picture to Rose is probably one of her school friends. Just one of those adolescent jokes, you know. A prank, if you will.”

He frowned at this.“I don’t think so, Max. I mean, I respect your judgment, you know I do, but for once I have to disagree with you. That sausage is a major clue in this investigation—just you mark my words.”

Shanille patted my friend’s back. “You keep chasing that sausage, Dooley,” she said as she gave me a wink.

“Oh, but I will,” said Dooley. “That sausage isn’t getting away with this. Not on my watch.”

Chapter 18

The next day Dooley and I were riding in the car again, with Odelia steering it in the direction of Happy Bays, our neighboring town. I know what you’re thinking: isn’t it odd for a pair of cats to spend so much time riding in cars? Isn’t that something more often associated with the canine species? And you would be absolutely right. Dogs have cornered the market on cute pictures taken with their tongues dangling out of car windows, spreading their slobber to the far corners of the globe as the wind makes their flabby features flop to and fro. But that doesn’t mean cats can’t enjoy the occasional car ride too, right?

Though I have to admit I’d much rather have both feet on terra firma than in some metal box hurtling along the road on rubber wheels. It is unnatural, and even though it’s necessary, that doesn’t mean I have to like it.

“So where are we going?” asked Dooley, probably eager to resume his spreading of good deeds as soon as possible.

“We’re going to talk to Daphne Wimmer’s friend,” said Odelia. “Grace Ojala. She’s the woman who provided Daphne with an alibi for the night her husband died.”

“You think Daphne is somehow involved in her husband’s death?” I asked, surprised by this development.

“No, but I have to make sure she was where she said she was,” intimated Odelia. “That way I can eliminate her from the investigation and move on to other, more likely suspects.” Her face took on a grim note when she added, “Like Dino Wimmer’s business partner, or his client.”

“You really think that’s where the answer to this mystery lies, do you?” I asked.

“I don’t know, Max, but it certainly looks like the most plausible avenue to pursue at this moment.”

“What about Rose?” I asked. “She and her dad fought a lot, as several witnesses have now confirmed. And she was the only one home that night with her dad. She could have dumped those pills in his drink.”