Lance nodded. “Louis knows a good thing when he sees one. Not only are you a local girl, but your prior experience will lend an air of credibility to the magazine. I imagine his circulation will jump.”
I thought of Louis—early forties, just a tad older than me, overweight, and balding—and had to agree. He could definitely be overbearing and demanding, but I had a feeling his pompous attitude was an attempt to cover up his basic insecurity. “He just wants to make a success of Noir,” I heard myself defending him. “And in this economy, who can blame him?”
“Not me. As a matter of fact, I’m going to make sure I have the next issue sent to my Kindle.” He tapped two fingers on my counter. “Well, it’s been swell catching up, but I’d better get back to work. Stop by Poker Face one night. The drinks are on me.”
“Thanks.”
He left and I turned my attention to Hot Bread’s new menu—my attempt to attract a younger, hipper crowd while still retaining the old, faithful customers. I ran my finger down the listing of over twenty different kinds of specialty sandwiches, named after cities, places, and people: The Parisian Fling. The Siena Sub Sublime. The Lady Gaga Special. The Michael Buble Burger. There were even some homages to literary characters: The Sherlock Holmes Humdinger, Miss Marple’s Magnificent Chef Salad, The Richard Castle Club—and my own personal favorite: The Thin Man Tuna Melt.
Hey, with a name like Nora Charles, it was inevitable, right? Plus, lots of people over the years had told me I bore an uncanny resemblance to Myrna Loy. How could I go wrong?
I was immersed in reviewing the listing when a hand dropped on my shoulder. I jumped, the menu falling to the floor. “Good God!”
“Oh, I am sorry, chérie. Did I startle you? I didn’t mean to—you always say you can hear me coming a mile away.”
I frowned at my intruder. Chantal Gillard has been my best friend for the past twenty-eight years, ever since we were ten and she’d rescued me from Leonard Goldie, the class bully, attempting to tie my shoelaces to the cafeteria chair in the fourth grade. Such an event can really bond two people, and Chantal and I had been thick as thieves ever since—so thick, in fact, that people usually took us for real sisters, even though we were nothing alike. My friend was somewhat of a dreamer, which she claimed enhanced her latent psychic abilities (which to date, I’ve really seen no concrete evidence of, other than that she is very good with tarot cards). I, on the other hand, prided myself on being levelheaded and practical to the point of being anal. What can I say? At thirty-eight, I’m pretty set in my ways and not likely to change anytime soon.
My gaze dropped to Chantal’s feet and the flat-heeled ankle boots on them. “I can—then again, you’re usually wearing five-inch Manolos.”
Chantal slid onto one of the high-backed stools behind the counter and raised one foot up. “My feet are still recovering from the Psychic Fair. So much walking. Who knew?”
Chantal’s California born and bred, but both her parents hail from Paris, France. Since she grew up thinking English, not French, was her second language, she likes to emphasize her heritage through her mannerisms and speech—although her affected accent can get a little dicey at times. She has a definite flair for fashion, although many would say it borders on the quirky—today her slender figure was enveloped in a voluminous blue caftan that matched her eyes, a scarf of the same color wound through her cap of tight, black curls. The Psychic Fair, an event held in Parsons, a town about five miles south of Cruz right on the coast, was heralded as a “major event”—supposedly renowned psychics from the world over attended. “Ah yes, the big excursion. So how’d it go?”
She shrugged. “Not bad. I got to meet a lot of interesting people there.” Her hand dipped into the pocket of her caftan and she whipped out a small card, which she extended toward me. “I almost forgot—Remy had these made up for me. I gave some out yesterday.”
I looked at the purple-tinted card and read the bold script:
LADY C CREATIONS ONE OF A KIND JEWELRY
CHANTAL GILLARD 504-555-5578
Below the embossed lettering were drawings of a necklace, bracelet, and two rings. I pushed the card back and applauded. “Going public? About time, I must say.”
“It was more Remy’s idea than mine.” She took the card and shoved it back in her pocket. “The flower business is slow, and there aren’t that many people in Cruz interested in a good psychic reading. He thought I might as well turn my little hobby into something profitable.”
Chantal and her brother, Remy, ran Poppies, a flower shop located on Main about three blocks from my store. Chantal had a little cubbyhole set up in the back where she served tea and gave psychic readings, but thanks to the recent economic downturn, both businesses were suffering. Chantal had a degree in art from UCLA, and lately she’d taken to designing and creating necklaces, earrings, and bracelets—more for relaxation than profit. Now it appeared her brother wanted to turn it into something more.
“He’s making up a catalog, can you imagine? And yesterday I heard him on the phone with his buddy Raj. They were talking about signs, website design . . .” Chantal rolled her eyes. “He’s putting more energy into this than the flower arrangements in the window.”
“Remy knows a good thing when he sees it. Your jewelry is beautiful,” I said. “I’ve always said you should sell it.”
She wrinkled her pug nose. “I don’t know—it’s kinda like putting your children out for sale. But Madame Michelau read my cards yesterday, and said my new venture would be profitable, so . . .” She shrugged expressively. “Why not, right?”
Chantal removed a purple velvet pouch emblazoned with silver stars out of the tote and shook it. Her tarot cards slid out and across the black-and-white-checkered tablecloth. She gathered them up, began to shuffle them. “Odd thing—yesterday Madame Michelau said a friend of mine was about to undertake a dangerous mission. I thought of you immediately.”
I shot her a look of mock innocence. “Me? Why?”
“Don’t play dumb with me, Nora Charles. You know exactly what I mean.” When I remained silent, she raised both eyebrows. “I saw what you were looking at on your laptop yesterday. Lola Grainger? You are researching her for some sort of article for Louis, right?”
Lola Grainger had been the wife of one of Cruz’s premier businessmen, and a faithful customer of my mother’s, having her cater events at her palatial mansion at least once a month. About a week after my mother’s death, Lola had gone on a weekend cruise with her husband and a few of the members of his staff. Long story short, there had been some sort of accident and poor Lola had drowned. The story piqued my interest for more than one reason. For one, details on the incident were sketchy at best, and the people on the yacht all seemed very reluctant to talk about it. One could excuse that, perhaps, but the manner of death truly disturbed me, since I distinctly remembered my mother telling me on more than one occasion of Lola’s deathly fear of water. Twice monthly yachting excursions aside, Lola never ventured alone into any sort of water—she’d even confided to my mother the only water she felt comfortable in was bathwater. The case had been ruled a “horrible accident” and closed rather quickly—a little too quickly, I’d thought, but chalked it up to the husband’s standing in the community, as half the population of Cruz were employed by his company, KMG Incorporated. “The thought did cross my mind,” I admitted.
Chantal made a little sound deep in her throat. “For goodness’ sakes, why? The case was so open and shut—what possible story could there be?”
“Open and shut—maybe so, maybe not. Personally, I’d have liked to see our police department put a bit more effort into the case,” I said. “Although I can guess why they didn’t. Mrs. Grainger was one of Mom’s best customers, both on a business and a personal basis. They really liked each other. Mom always said Mrs. Grainger seemed to be a lonely soul.” I shut the refrigerator door and leaned against it. “Call me c
razy, but I’d kinda like to give Lola’s soul the peace it deserves.”
Chantal’s hand fluttered in the air. “You know I do not think you are crazy. Oversensitive, perhaps . . .”
“Gee thanks.”
“Anyway, one of the psychics yesterday told me a friend of theirs read Lola Grainger’s fortune at her last fund-raiser. She told Lola she saw a fatal disaster in her future. Can you imagine?”
I stood up, mainly to ward off the chill that was inexplicably making its way along my spine at Chantal’s words. “Honestly—no. How did Lola react, did she say?”
“Not well. She got all pale and left without waiting to hear any more.” Chantal shuddered. “Frankly, if someone had told me that, it would have taken a small miracle to get me to go out of the house, let alone on a boat in the middle of the ocean.”
I nodded in agreement. “It gives me the creeps, and it’s not even my fortune. Who wants to hear they’re walking headlong into disaster?”
“Not I, that’s for sure. I’d much rather let the universe surprise me.”
“Speaking of surprises . . . what else did your psychic friend say about me?”
Chantal looked at me from under lowered lashes. “Ah, so now you are curious. I thought you did not believe in psychic impressions.”
“I don’t—but I do believe in intuition. I guess it’s pretty much the same thing, when you get right down to it.”
My friend cut me an eye roll, a sure indication she thought I was full of, as the French would say, merde. “The only other thing she saw was that this mission had to do with something that was switched.”
I wrinkled my nose. “Something switched? Like what? That’s not much of a clue.”
Chantal shrugged. “What can I say? Sometimes the images come over a bit . . . clouded, shall we say? We have to interpret them the best we can.” She hunkered over the pile of cards before her and flipped over the one closest to her. “Well, well,” she murmured. “On a much better note, it looks like there is love in your future, chérie.”
I let out a squeal and gave her arm a playful punch. “So now you’re reading my cards? Please don’t. I do so hate when you do that.”
“That is because you do not open yourself up to the universe.”
“I wouldn’t say that. I’m very open. Just not to portents and omens.”
She shook her curls. “You are practical to a fault. Just once I’d like to see you let yourself go—believe in the unbelievable. The world is a wondrous place, if you only open yourself up to all the possibilities.”
“Tempting, but I can’t afford the luxury. I’m a businesswoman now. I’ve got to keep my feet planted firmly on the ground and a level head.”
“You know, if I didn’t know you, I’d think you had no adventure in your soul at all. Now, are you certain you don’t want to hear it?” She tapped the cards. “Trust me—it’s good.”
I hesitated, and then shrugged. “Oh, what the hell. Hit me.”
She plucked a second card from the pile. “The King of Swords crosses your card,” she said. “That means a dark, handsome stranger will shortly enter your life and sweep you off your feet.”
I rolled my eyes. “You can tell that from one card?”
“Not just from the card—the vibe. And this is a strong vibe, very strong indeed.”
Uh-huh. I’d heard all this before from my friend, in many ways, shapes, and forms, and a handsome stranger, dark or otherwise, had yet to make an appearance in my life. “Well, when he shows up, you’ll be the first to know. I’m not holding my breath.”
Chantal glanced at the clock on the wall and jumped up. “Oh, zut—I am late for my shift at the flower shop. Remy will kill me.” She swept her tarot cards into their velvet pouch, tucked them inside her tote, and ambled toward the front door. Her French accent slipped a bit as she said, “Try not to work too hard, willya? You’ve been looking a little peaked lately.” She opened the front door and stopped still. “Well, well,” she murmured, accent back in full force as she shot a swift glance over one shoulder. “Come quickly, chérie. This will teach you to have more faith in my predictions. There is a dark, handsome stranger out here who wants to see you.”
“You’re kidding.” I moved forward and looked over Chantal’s shoulder. The street outside was deserted. I cocked a brow at my friend. “There’s no one here.”
Her tongue clucked against the roof of her mouth. “You are not looking in the right place.”
Chantal pointed down. I followed her finger and beheld her dark, handsome stranger.
A stocky, black-and-white cat.
TWO
The cat squatted square in front of my door. He lifted his head, and large, unblinking golden eyes bored into mine. The stare was so intense that for a moment all I could do was gape. The portly fellow chose that moment to rise and walk inside, his black plume of a tail swishing regally behind him.
“Hey, wait a minute, you can’t—” I stopped, bit my lip, and whirled to Chantal. “He can’t come in here.”
“Too late. He is already in.” Chantal snickered. “After all, what’s stopping him? You do not have a sign that says NO PETS on the door, chérie. He might not be a paying customer, but there are other ways he can earn his keep. Take that storeroom of yours, for instance. I am positive I saw mouse droppings in the far corner the other day.”
“Mouse droppings—there better not be,” I grumbled. “I just paid two hundred for an exterminator—you’re kidding, right?”
She didn’t answer, merely inclined her head toward my kitchen. The cat had leapt up onto one of the counters and was calmly washing himself. I sighed and whirled back to Chantal. “Come clean. Are you behind this? Did you go to the animal shelter and—”
She placed one fist on a slender hip, made an exaggerated sign of the cross over her heart with the other. “Cross my heart and hope to die—I’ve never seen this cat before today.”
I eyed the animal, who’d finished his bath and now lay sprawled across the counter next to the sink. “Well . . . I like his coloring.”
“I do, too.” Chantal gestured toward the cat’s plump belly. “I think they call that type of black-and-white cat a tuxedo. With their white bib and paws, they look as if they are ready for an evening on the town. And he does look ready to step out to a black-tie event, doesn’t he?”
I had to admit the cat did cut an elegant picture. And then he flopped over on one side and started licking his privates.
Chantal’s voice rumbled with suppressed laughter. “Nothing shy about him, is there? I think you’ve finally met your match.”
I shrugged. “He must have wandered off. He looks too well cared for to be a mere stray. He’s got to belong to someone.”
“True,” Chantal agreed. “Or perhaps his owner died, and he is now all alone in the world. He could use a friend.” She gave me a sidelong glance. “Admit it—you’ve always had a soft spot for cats.”
Well, I couldn’t deny it. Out of all types of animals, cats did appeal to me the most—probably because I identified with their independent spirits. Caring-wise, though, my track record stank.
The cat stretched out full length, paws dangling over the side of the counter. His wide, golden eyes were fixed directly on me. He looked almost pleading—appealing even.
Dammit.
I shook my head. “Oh no, you don’t. I like cats, but you know I’m not good with pets. Just ask my sister about the goldfish I let starve to death, and the chameleon I got when I was in fourth grade. Poor thing lasted a week.”
“What happened to him?”
“I—ah—accidentally flushed him down the toilet.” I saw my friend’s lips start to twitch, and I added defensively, “Well, he was really small . . . what do you want from a ten-year-old?”
“You cannot compare a reptile to a cat. I doubt you could flush him down a t
oilet.”
I studied the cat’s girth. “That’s for sure. He’d probably break the plumbing on the way down.”
Chantal pressed her finger to her lips. “Ssh—you will insult him. Why not keep him? If nothing else, you can use him as a mouser.”
I gave the cat another once-over. “I don’t know how good of a mouser he’d be. He doesn’t seem to be the athletic type. The mice would probably outrun him.”
Chantal clapped her hand over my mouth. “Ssh, chérie. Animals are very smart. And look at him. He’s listening to us.”
I glanced over at the cat. Damned if his head wasn’t cocked to one side. He did look as if he was very interested in our conversation, which, of course, was impossible.
Chantal squeezed my arm. “Take a chance on him, Nora, who knows? Give him a week. And then, if the two of you aren’t sympathique . . . well, then ask me again. He seems far too fine an animal to end up in a shelter, trapped in a cage.”
A loud purr emanated from the cat’s throat. Dammit, could he understand us? I found that thought particularly unsettling, to say the least. Still, there was something about him that touched me. I couldn’t explain it and I wasn’t sure I would if I could. “Why don’t you take him now?” I suggested. “I know how you love animals, and you really seem to like him.”
Her finger wagged under my nose. “Nice try, but you know Remy would have a fit. My brother thinks he’s allergic to every animal on the planet, and cats top his list.”
“We both know it’s all in his head. You could convince him to adopt the cat, Chantal. I know you could.”
Chantal tapped her chin with one long nail. “Probably,” she conceded at last. “But I think you should at least make an attempt with him, Nora. He would be good company for you and who knows? Perhaps you can discuss the Lola Grainger case with him. Who knows, he might have some good ideas.”
Meow If It's Murder (Nick and Nora Mysteries) Page 2
