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“The latest craze!” he repeated. “Out in Hollywood they take baths in their own poo-poo now. It’s supposed to rejuvenate the skin. And that’s not the only thing. They even drink their own pee-pee,” he added knowingly. “First thing in the morning. It’s like a tonic or something. Juice of life stuff.”

“That’s crazy talk,” I said. “Nobody takes a bath in their own poo-poo, except maybe for pigs, but that’s just because they don’t know any better.”

“Duh. Pigs are dumb,” said Harriet. “Everybody knows that.”

Yes, I know. We’re not averse to pig shaming. Sue us.

“No, I’m telling you, Max. It’s a real thing,” said Dooley. “Celebs smear their own poop on their faces all the time. It’s been on that website POOP.”

“GOOP,” Harriet corrected. “Not POOP, Dooley. GOOP.”

Gwyneth Paltrow’s website was a hit with Hampton Covians as she was a local girl done good. I’d never met her, as she spent most of her time in Amagansett, but I was a fan, and so were all the other cats. Her site often featured articles on what cats are thinking. Rubbish, of course, but very droll.

“I’m pretty sure Gwyneth would never propagate something silly like smearing poop on your face,” I said, though maybe she would. The things that celebrities did to stay young was frankly amazing.

“It’s a thing,” Dooley insisted, giving his butthole another lick.

“Anyway,” I said, trying to get the conversation back on track. “Paulo Frey didn’t take a bath in his own poop. He was killed and then his body was dumped in there so nobody would find out. At least that’s what the police think. Since they also found his laptop in there, and all his belongings.” I cocked an eye at Dooley. “If he wanted to take a poop bath, would he have jumped in with his laptop?”

Dooley shrugged.“Maybe he wanted to take notes while he was doing it? Writers are crazy, buddy. Maybe he was researching the perfect murder, decided to try out this poo thing for himself and got in way over his head.”

Harriet laughed.“That’s actually funny, Dooley. Way over his head.”

Dooley gave her a blank stare. He obviously didn’t get his own pun.

Dooley was right, though. Writers were a little crazy. Year after year they came to the Writer’s Lodge to hatch up their harebrained plots, roaming the woods muttering to themselves, or soaking in the Jacuzzi Hetta had installed for their benefit, staring up at the sky and begging the gods of creativity to help them out when they got stuck again. So yeah, they were a crazy bunch, but not so crazy to jump into the toilet with all of their belongings, almost as if they were jumping into a Hot Tub Time Machine, hoping to be transported to another time and place. No, this case had the stench of foul play all over it.

“He was killed,” I said adamantly. “The Chief is sure of it. Now all he needs is cause and time of death, which the medical examiner will hopefully figure out from what’s left of the body, and he can start his investigation.”

“Who’s running the investigation?” asked Harriet. “Is it true that Chief Alec is handing it to the dreamboat?”

“How do you even know about that?” I asked. I was starting to wonder if all my snooping around the police office was even necessary. If Harriet could find out as much as I had simply by talking to other cats, what was the point?

“Well, it’s only common sense,” she said. “Chase used to be NYPD, after all, so what better person to run a murder investigation than him, right?”

“Yeah, what about that?” asked Dooley, nodding. “A genuine NYPD cop. How cool is that, huh?”

“Way cool,” Harriet agreed with a grin.

“If he’s so cool, what is he doing here?” I asked. “Why didn’t he simply stay in New York with the big boys?” It was a question that begged asking. If this hotshot detective was so cool, why choose to bury himself in a small town like Hampton Cove, where the homicide rate was probably close to zero?

Harriet stared at me.“Don’t you know?”

“Know what?”

“Well, he was fired.”

“Fired! But why?” Now this was news. If I’d known this before, I could have told Odelia. Make sure she didn’t do something stupid like fall for him.

Harriet slowly and methodically started licking her paw and then rubbing it across her face.“Gross misconduct. At least that’s what Shanille said, who heard it from Trudy, Lora Escort’s cat, who’d read it in theNew York Post.”

“That’s impossible,” I scoffed. “If Chase Kingsley was fired for gross misconduct, he would never be able to work as a cop again, not even in Hampton Cove. No,” I mused, “it must be something else.”

“Shanille was pretty adamant. And you know tabloids never lie.”

“Right. They wouldn’t dare,” I said. Could it be? Could Chase have been a bad boy? Why else would he accept a job here? Not for the excitement. Unless riding around on a dune buggy was Chase’s idea of excitement.

“What’s gross misconduct?” asked Dooley. “I mean, is it really gross?”