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“Look at this picture, Dooley,” I said, zooming in on a picture of what looked like a company Christmas party.

“Oh, look, that’s Rosa Bond,” said Dooley, pointing to a woman who stood with raised champagne flute in the foreground. Next to her was a man who was, according to the caption, the banker-slash-robber himself: Clive Atcheson. They were both smiling at the camera, snazzily dressed and clearly having a great time.

“They look so happy,” said Dooley.

“When was this picture taken?” I asked, studying the rest of the article in which the photo had been featured. “Ten years ago. This must have been the Christmas just before it happened.”

“Their last Christmas,” said Dooley. “Isn’t that a song?”

“I think it is,” I said, though I wasn’t all that interested in cultural references. I wanted to find out if the secretary was also in the picture, which would have been an interesting find. I studied the caption, where a few names were mentioned. The picture had appeared in the society section of the Wilmington Times. And then I found her. Janice Schiller. A russet-haired voluptuous woman, standing right behind her boss, and looking in his direction with a gleam of what could only be interpreted as smoldering passion in her eyes.

“Oh, she loved him, Max,” said Dooley. “Just look at the way she’s looking at him.”

“Indeed she did, Dooley,” I agreed. “She loved him with a passion.”

“Bonnie and Clyde, they were.”

“Well, not exactly,” I said. “Bonnie and Clyde left a trail of death and destruction in their wake. These two simply disappeared the moment they crossed the border.”

I studied the picture some more, and noticed a man looking in Janice’s direction with a sort of wistful look on his face. He was a man with receding hairline and a weak chin, no doubt one of many of Janice’s male admirers. Clearly the woman had been some kind of local femme fatale, twisting men around her little finger without any problem.

“Poor Rosa,” said Dooley. “Having to leave her old life behind, just because her husband decided to become a fugitive from justice.”

“Yeah, and think about those poor kids. Todd and Aisha not only lost their dad, but all of their friends—their entire life, in fact.”

“I’m glad that Odelia decided to help them,” said Dooley. “And I hope she catches this blackmailer in the act and makes him stop.”

“Yeah, let’s hope she does,” I agreed. “For Rosa’s sake, and her family.” Hampton Cove is a bucolic little town, but gossip can be fierce and vicious, even in a wonderful community like ours, and Rosa wouldn’t be the first person driven away by the wagging tongues of a few gossipmongers.

“I think this family deserves a break,” said Dooley.

And never truer words were spoken.

Chapter 4

We decided to get a little air ourselves, while Odelia made the necessary arrangements for tonight. Cats don’t like to be cooped up inside for too long. We don’t need to be walked like dogs, since we can very well walk ourselves, thank you very much, but we still like to get out and about at regular intervals. And so as we passed out onto the street, we soon came upon Gran and Scarlett, who were seated in their usual spot, in the Star Hotel’s outside dining area, sipping from their beverages, and conversing with Harriet and Brutus, who’d jumped up on a chair and were taking in a bit of sunshine.

Dooley and I decided to occupy the remaining chair, and enjoy some company while also engaging in one of our favorite activities that we share with the two older ladies: people watching. Main Street spread out before us, and since the heart of town is where all the activity is concentrated, we never stint for something interesting to see there.

“I think it’s a great idea, Harriet,” Gran was saying, “but I’ve been doing some thinking, and I think I’ve come up with a very important improvement on your original setup.”

“What improvement?” asked Harriet suspiciously. It was obvious she didn’t feel her brilliant ideas could be improved upon.

“What are you talking about, Gran?” asked Dooley.

“You remember how Harriet suggested we launch a neighborhood cat watch?”

“Oh, of course,” said Dooley. “That’s going to be a lot of fun, isn’t it?”

“I’m sure it will be. Only problem is: how to organize all that information—or like those Silicon Valley whizz kids like to call it: how to handle all that data!”

“What data?” asked Scarlett, who had a hard time following the flow of words between Gran and her cats. Like Chase, she doesn’t have that special gift that enables her to converse with us.

“Okay, so let’s assume that there are always a dozen cats on every street, and every cat sends back information about what they see to the neighborhood watch. With me so far?”

“Uh-huh,” said Scarlett, taking a sip from her cappuccino.

“Now multiply that by the number of streets in this town. Which is…” She frowned, then, since she couldn’t be bothered, concluded, “a lot. A whole lot of data!”

“Too much, if you ask me.”