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He bit his lip.“All right. That’s good. That’s great.” He picked up a packet of cigarettes and offered them one. They both declined. He lit one up and took an eager drag. “I, um, yeah. Yeah, I wasn’t happy with this job. I am not happy with this job. In fact it’s probably the worst job in the world.Well, maybe not. Sewer inspector or professional dog and cat food taster or armpit sniffer are up there with being a writer for the Kenspeckles. I, um…” He took another long drag from his cigarette. “Yeah, writing those horrible treatments, outlining those stupid scenes, having to endure thathammy acting…” He shook his head. “It’s all very draining. Excruciatingly draining.”

Odelia had the impression the writer was mistaking them for his shrink, as the flow of words was almost unstoppable.

“So you didn’t like the show?” Chase asked, stating the obvious.

“No, I don’t like the show. It’s the worst show on television and I’m in it up to my eyeballs. Can you imagine how soul-sucking it is to write the kind of terrible drama that is required of me? For one thing, I have to keep abreast of all the gossip. I spend hours and hours reading gossip magazines. It’s brutal.”

Hey, this job didn’t sound so bad. Who didn’t love gossip magazines? And this guy was getting paid to do it? Cool. “So why don’t you quit?” she asked.

His hand trembled.“I—I can’t. There’s an exclusivity clause in my contract. I signed back when I was an absolute nobody and now I’m stuck.”

“So you decided that the only way to get the show canceled was to kill off one of the principals,” Chase said, nodding.

“Yeah—wait, what? No! No, I—I would never do that. I… I’m not a killer, Detective. I—I can’t stand the sight of blood. And gore. I don’t even watchThe Walking Dead. Zombies freak me out. And blood. It’s the senseless violence. It gets to me.” He took another, long drag. “You sure you don’t…”

“No, thanks, I’m good,” Chase said. “Where were you when Shana was killed, Mr. Dot?”

He gestured to a window that looked out onto the terrace. “Right here. In my room. I’m in the smallest room in the house. More like a broom cupboard. Harry Potter size.” He grimaced. “It’s the curse of the writer. But that doesn’t mean I killed Shana. For one thing, I owe my career to this show. Once it’s canceled, I can get any job I want. And it’s made me a lot of money. A fixed income. Do you know how many writers would kill their mother to get on a show like this? Thousands. Not literally kill their mother. It’s just a figure of speech. Most of my colleagues are out of work. I may hate my job, and it’s one of the soul-suckiest jobs on the planet, but it’s a job. I get paid.”

“Do you have any idea who might be behind the murder?” asked Odelia.

The guy put out his cigarette with nervous jabs and nodded feverishly.“One of the girls here got a really bum deal. She was attacked by Shana.”

Chase frowned.“Shana got physical with a crew member?”

He expelled a jittery laugh.“Not physical, Detective, but she did make her life a living hell. Don’t tell her I told you, but I think you better have a word with Laurelle. Laurelle Merritt? She’s the stylist. She…” He coughed. “She had the bright idea to make a sex tape. She showed the tape to Shana, hoping she would make her famous. All Shana did was show the tape to her sisters. They found the whole thing hilarious and started sending it around to their friends as a joke. Laurelle was shattered.” He blinked. “Shana Kenspeckle was the original mean girl, Detectives. The Shana you see on the screen? Thatwas my creation. The real Shana was not a very nice person.”

Chapter 20

Dooley and I had settled down at our new favorite spot: on top of that nice leather couch in the Kenspeckle living room. From here we had a great view of all the goings-on at the house, and could report back to Odelia with any new developments.

“We have to tell Odelia to get a nice couch like this,” Dooley said as he dug his claws into the leather. “I like it. It’s got everything a cat needs.”

“I like it too,” I said. “Though I don’t know what the Kenspeckles are going to say when they find out you’re ruining the couch, Dooley.”

“I’m not ruining it. I’m merely adding my personal touch.”

Rich people usually don’t have cats. They have dogs, and train them not to ruin the expensive furniture. You can’t train cats not to sink their claws into the upholstery. Not that we’re dumb or something. We just don’t care.

“So have you solved the murder yet?” Dooley asked.

“Nope. But I bet it’s a guy. Butchers are usually guys. And according to Abe we’re dealing with a real butcher. As in a professional meat carver.”

“So Dion or Damien? But Dion is innocent.”

“What about Damien? Rappers are butchers. Butchers of taste.”

All right. So I don’t like rap music. Sue me.