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Dooley appeared taken aback by all this backtalk.“All right, all right,” he muttered. “Don’t bite my head off. I was just asking you a perfectly intelligent question.”

“An undead dog! There’s no such thing.”

“Second question,” said Dooley. “Have you always been such a tiny fuzzball?”

For a moment I was afraid Paris would blow her top. Instead, she snarled at Dooley for a moment, bearing surprisingly sharp teeth. Dooley immediately jerked back to a safe position well out of toothshot or even scratchshot. I didn’t blame him. Then again, it’s not very gentlemenlike to call a lady a tiny fuzzball. I wouldn’t like it either. I’ll bet not even Lassie, notoriously a very kind and sweet dog, would let such a slur slide without payback.

“Forgive my friend,” I said, deciding to strike the conciliatory note. “He’s an idiot.”

“He sure is,” said Paris, still glaring at Dooley.

“The thing is, someone killed a writer last night, and seeing as your human is also a writer, we figured we’d better get to the bottom of this thing fast, before it spreads.”

I let that sink in for a moment. Finally, she got it.“You mean there’s a serial killer on the loose who targets writers? That’s horrible! That’s dreadful! How many has he killed?”

“One, but you never know how fast a thing like that spreads.”

Paris looked appropriately concerned.“I mean, Rockwell was supposed to meet this Ackerman fellow last night.”

“You were there?”

“Of course I was. Rockwell doesn’t go anywhere without me. I was tucked away in his man purse as usual, my head sticking out, and we hadn’t even entered the library before he seemed to change his mind and walked out again.”

“Just like that.”

“Just like that. He muttered something to himself about not being a sellout and that was that. He got back into his rental and drove back to the hotel. He spent the rest of the evening in the hotel bar getting seriously plastered before coming up here and passing out.”

“So he never met Ackerman?”

“He met a fat man—a publisher. Which suited me just fine. I heard Ackerman liked Rottweilers. I don’t like Rottweilers. Rottweilers eat dogs like me for breakfast.”

“I don’t like Rottweilers either,” said Dooley from behind a wicker patio chair.

Paris ignored him.“So are you any closer to catching this killer? I like my human. I don’t want him to die.”

“None of us want our humans to die,” I said reassuringly. “And Odelia’s uncle does have a man in custody who may or may not have killed Chris Ackerman. It’s just that it’s very hard to be sure.”

“Why? Just use thumbscrews on the guy. I can guarantee a confession.”

Obviously Paris belonged to the Vesta Muffin school of thought. I grimaced.“That would be a violation of his human rights,” I said.

“What about my rights? If I lose my human I’ll be homeless.”

“Don’t worry, Paris,” said Dooley. “We’ll catch this guy.”

Paris tilted her chin and held up her paw.“Talk to the paw, cat.”

It was obvious there was nothing more to learn here. Which was just as well, as Odelia had appeared on the balcony, announcing that her interview was over, too.

“See ya, Paris,” I said.

The Yorkie gave me a smoldering look I found hard to interpret. Once I was inside, though, she yelled,“Thumbscrews, cat! Use thumbscrews! Think about my animal rights!”

“A dog after my own heart,” muttered Gran, and then we were on our merry way.

And not a moment too soon. I needed some food, a long nap, and a total absence of teacup piglets or miniature Yorkies. At least we could rule out Rockwell Burke as a suspect. If Paris said he didn’t do it, he didn’t do it. The tiny dog might be a handful—at least if that hand belonged to a person with very small hands—but she was definitely not a liar.

As we arrived in the lobby, we came upon a strange scene. This time no teacups were involved. What was involved was a disheveled-looking young man, dressed in ragged pants and a long-sleeved hooded sweatshirt, shouting obscenities at the receptionist, who was clearly not happy about being accosted like this.

“Sir, I have called the police and they will have you removed from the premises,” the receptionist said. He stood a little stiffly, like a knight of old prepared to defend his lordship’s castle against an invading marauder.

“And I’m telling you I have to see Ackerman!” the young man screamed, banging his fists on the counter.

“I’m afraid Mr. Ackerman is no longer with us,” said the receptionist.

“I know he’s here! You can’t hide him from me—where is he? Ackerman! ACKERMAN!”

“Poor fella,” said Gran. “He’s obviously delusional.” Before Odelia could stop her, she walked up to the young man. “Mr. Ackerman is dead, son,” she said, loud enough to attract the raving lunatic’s attention.

For a moment, he fixed his eyes on her, and I could tell from the way his pupils were dilated that he’d imbibed some type of illegal substance. “You’re lying!” he told Gran. “He’s not dead! Ackerman can’t die! He’s immortal!”

“Yeah, keep telling yourself that, buddy,” said Gran.