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Oscar was putting in an Oscar-worthy performance of grief, rocking back and forth, tears trickling down whiskered cheeks. He was a short, chunky sort of man, with a jowly face, though it was hard to make out its exact contours on account of all the ginger fuzz covering those jowls. The top of his head was as bald as a billiard ball, and made for a fascinating landscape of ridges and moles and lots of weird spots. One could spend hours looking at it—like the surface of the moon.

“What’s all that stuff on his head, Max?” asked Dooley. “He looks like a ripe cheese.”

“Liver spots,” I said, though I’m not a dermatologist, of course.

“Liver spots? So why are they on his head and not on his liver?”

“They’re spots that signal liver issues,” I explained. “Generally when the liver is healthy it reflects in an equally healthy radiant skin. When the liver is damaged it will show in spots popping up in odd places.” Like on top of this man’s head.

“He should get a wig,” was Dooley’s opinion. “A liver wig.”

It was one solution, of course, though I had the distinct impression now was not the time to talk about wigs and livers. Oscar Kinetic was clearly shaken by the death of his lover.

“Mr. Kinetic, may I introduce Odelia Kingsley,” said Barney, not wasting time furthering the investigation he’d instigated and boosting his appointee’s chances of success in collaring the killer. “She is in charge of the investigation into the murder of Mrs. Jacobs.”

But Oscar barely paid him any attention. His eyes were riveted to Astra’s dead form, and remained firmly lodged in place.

“Oscar, you’re making a spectacle of yourself,” Amalia now said.

“Yeah, just get up, will you?” said Natalie. “People are going to think you had something to do with this.” She eyed Odelia with a distinct lack of warmth.

And as Penney helped Oscar to his feet, yet another intrusion occurred as a youngish sort of person entered, looking distinctly breathless as he looked around. Then his eyes fell on Amalia and he drew himself up to his full height, which wasn’t considerate, cleared his throat, and said, “Madame, I have in my possession a traffic ticket that I will now proceed to place in your possession.”

“Oh, buzz off,” said Amalia unceremoniously, and walked out, leaving the young man blinking in abject confusion.

“But, but, but…” he stuttered.

“Try again tomorrow,” was Natalie’s advice as she clapped the man on the back.

“She’s had a great shock,” said Penney as she gave him a kindly look and followed Amalia and Natalie out of the room.

It was only then that he spotted the dead person. He uttered a strangled sound, his eyes turned up in his head and he fainted right there and then.

Oh, what a night.

CHAPTER 12

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That night—or at least what was left of it—while Odelia and Chase slept, Dooley and I discussed the case. What there was of a case, of course, since Odelia’s investigation had yet to commence.

“I wonder what color eyes Marion has,” said Dooley dreamily. “I personally think they’re a sort of dark chocolaty brown. You?”

“I thought we were going to talk about Astra Jacobs’s murder,” I said, amused by Dooley’s sudden interest in Barney’s cat.

“Oh, right, of course,” said Dooley, pulling himself from his musings. “Well, obviously the cat burglar did it and Agatha is innocent. Only I think it’s going to be very hard to prove it.”

“And why is that?” I asked, though I had been leaning in that direction myself.

“Well, we’re not in Hampton Cove anymore, Max. We’re in Paris, where we don’t know anyone, so it’s going to be more difficult to figure out what happened.”

“Because we can’t talk to Kingman, or Shanille, or Clarice, and we don’t have Harriet and Brutus here with us,” I said, referring to all our friends back home.

He stared at me.“Well, that, too, of course. But I was thinking more about Uncle Alec. He’s always careful to do the right thing, and to arrest the right person. But here in Paris this Inspector Giblet doesn’t seem to care that he just arrested the wrong suspect. As long as he arrests someone, he’s happy.”

“Yeah, he doesn’t come across as the discerning type,” I agreed. “And if we can’t prove that Agatha is innocent by producing the real killer, Agatha will probably spend the rest of her life in a French prison, expensive lawyers or not.”

“I think we should ask Marion to help us,” said Dooley, placing his head on his paws and adopting that dreamy look again. “She saw the cat burglar, and so she can help us catch him.”

“She didn’t look very happy with us, though,” I said. “It might be hard to convince her to help us with this investigation.”

“She’ll come around,” Dooley assured me. “All we have to do is prove to her that we actually can talk to Odelia and she’ll believe us and she’ll want to help us.”

“And why is that?”

“Because you’re very charming, Max!”

“Me!”

“Of course. Everybody knows that women are attracted to intelligence and wit, and you have a lot of both.”

“Huh,” I said, momentarily speechless.