Chantal winked at the cat. “She’s such a meanie. But don’t worry—it’s all an act. I bet she does not try as hard as she says she will. She’ll be calling you Nick before the week is out.”
“And you would be wrong,” I sang out.
“We’ll see, won’t we?” She dipped one hand into her tote, pulled out several pieces of paper, and waved them under my nose. “I was inspired last night. What do you think?”
I took the papers and riffled through them. They were rough sketches of collars, different designs, colors, and styles, and not half-bad. I passed the drawings back. “Designer collars. You said you were thinking about it.”
“Well, I thought I might try to make a few this weekend, and I’m hoping Nicky will still be around to model for me. I want to take some pictures to put on the site Remy designed for me.”
We heard a soft grrr and turned our heads. The cat’s head shook emphatically from left to right.
I laughed. “I don’t think Nick is thrilled by the possibility of being your cat model, Chantal. Either that or he doesn’t like being called Nicky.”
“Ah—see, I win!” Her finger shot up in the air. “You called him Nick.”
I sighed. “So I did. Okay, fine. His name is Nick—for now. I only hope when we find his real owner, he doesn’t have an identity crisis.”
“Nora, dear. I can’t decide what to order. What’s on that Lady Gaga again?”
I turned my attention from Chantal and Nick to the petite, gray-haired woman standing before the plate glass case. Ramona Hickey was an indecisive soul, but she’d been one of my late mother’s best customers for years. “The Lady Gaga is Genoa salami and pepperoni on marble with German mustard—very hot, very spicy. Not something you’d like, Ramona.” The woman was always complaining of one stomach ailment or another—most of them imagined, symptoms courtesy of WebMD.
She patted her flat stomach with one carefully manicured hand. “I do like spicy foods,” she admitted, “but with all the stomach troubles I’ve been having lately . . . I’d best stick with something bland. Just give me the Father Knows Best.”
“An excellent choice.” The corners of my lips twitched. Ham and Swiss on rye, lightly toasted, a dash of mustard with a pickle on the side. Traditional, bordering on boring and—need I say it—unquestionably the perfect sandwich for Ramona Hickey.
I removed two slices of rye from the bread box and saw Ramona’s gaze swivel over to where Chantal stood cooing over Nick. She raised one brow questioningly and gave a mock shiver as her eyes darted around. “A cat, Nora? You don’t have mice in the shop, do you?”
“None that I’m aware of, Mrs. Hickey.”
“Thank goodness.” She gave me an anxious look. “Is it wise, though, to have him back there—you know, so close to where you prepare the food?”
I opened the glass case, withdrew ham and Swiss, sliced it thinly, and then piled it on the fresh rye bread, smearing one side gently with mustard. I sliced the sandwich in half, transferred it to a paper plate and placed a kosher dill beside it, and then added a small side of coleslaw. I wiped my hands on a towel and handed her the plate. “Nick doesn’t get anywhere near the food, Mrs. Hickey. If he did, I wouldn’t allow him in here.”
She took the plate, passed me a ten-dollar bill. “Well, that’s good to know, dear. I just thought I’d bring it to your attention.”
Her tone irked me and I snapped, “Nick is very clean, Mrs. Hickey. As a matter of fact, I think he’s even cleaner than some of my customers. You can rest assured his being here isn’t against any health violation—if anything, his presence would be a help in keeping rodents at bay. He doesn’t get into anything he’s not supposed to, and his manners so far have been impeccable—for a cat.”
Mrs. Hickey’s eyes widened at my outburst. She shoved her change into her jacket pocket and mumbled, “I didn’t mean to insult you, Nora. I know you treat this shop with as much care and respect as your dear mother did. I was merely making an observation.”
“Thank you for your concern,” I said, teeth clenched, “but it really isn’t necessary. I have things under control.”
“Yes dear,” Ramona said, her lips drawn into a rictus of what was probably supposed to be a pleasant smile. “That’s apparent.”
As she moved away, Chantal squeezed my arm. “Good for you! I’m so glad you defended Nicky. It just proves what I thought originally—the two of you are getting to be fast friends, no?”
I shrugged. “I just didn’t like her attitude, although I should know that’s just the way she is. She’s such a gossip, though. I don’t need her questioning the cleanliness of the store.”
Chantal’s lips curved upward. “That’s what you say. I think you didn’t like her insinuating Nicky wasn’t clean.”
I shoved my hands into my apron pockets. “Does it matter if I was defending my store or Nick? He’s not mine to keep, remember? His owner is out there, somewhere, missing him.”
“Maybe,” Chantal grumbled. “Maybe not. Whether you want to admit it or not, Nora Charles, this cat is growing on you. You can’t fool me. Deep down, you’re hoping his owner can’t be found.”
I had no chance to respond because the shop bell tinkled once again and Lance ambled into the shop. “Hello, Nora. Hey, Chantal.” He leaned against the counter and grinned at me. “Got anything for a hungry man? Pedro’s gonna be late, and I’m starved.”
Chantal shot him a wicked grin. “Tell the truth, Lance. You don’t want that finger food you serve up at the Poker Face. You’ve got a hungering for a real meal.”
He wiggled his eyebrows and wagged his finger. “Can’t fool a psychic, can I?” He shot me a wide grin. “So? Since your friend’s predicted I’m after a real meal, how about rustling me up one of those Buble Burgers I’ve heard so much about?”
I grinned back and headed for my freezer. “One extra-thick burger with Black Forest ham coming right up.”
Lance’s gaze settled on Nick and his eyes widened. He looked from the cat to me and back to the cat. “Whoa—who’s this? Since when did you get a cat? I thought you swore off pets after that chameleon episode.”
I made a face at him as I removed a thick slab of ham from the case. “Apparently I’ve been given a second chance. He wandered into the shop last night, and Chantal talked me into keeping him until I can locate his owner.” I set one of the burgers I’d taken out earlier on the grill and listened to it sizzle.
“Yes”—Chantal grinned mischievously—“and don’t believe her when she says she wants to locate the owner. Why, she’s already named him Nick after the detective in The Thin Man.”
I was about to correct her on just who’d done the naming when I caught sight of the expression on Lance’s face. “What’s the matter?” I asked, waving my spatula. “Is something wrong?”
Lance scratched at his ear. “No, it’s just funny, but I thought he looked familiar, and when Chantal said his name is Nick—I think I might know who owns him.”
I almost dropped the spatula, and tried my best to ignore the sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach. I hesitated, surprised at my own reaction, and then asked, “You do? Who?”
He barked out a short laugh. “That’s what made me laugh. I think his owner’s name is Nick, too. Nick Atkins. He used to come into the Poker Face a lot, but I haven’t seen him in weeks. Now, I could be wrong but I could swear I saw a photo of that cat in his wallet once.”
I cocked a brow. “He had a photo of the cat in his wallet? That’s odd.”
Lance shook his head. “Anybody can tell you’re not a pet person, Nora. Lots of people carry around pictures of their pets. Why, I have one of Brutus on my digital key ring.” Brutus was Lance’s half pit bull/half Lab. He treated the dog as if he were a human—last Christmas he’d bought the dog his own featherbed.
Chantal let out a low whistle. “I think it’s odder t
hat the owner’s name is also Nick. Now that would be quite a coincidence indeed—if it is true.”
I pressed the spatula down on the sizzling burger and then moved back to the counter. “It’s certainly worth looking into. Atkins, you say?”
“Yep.” Lance cleared his throat. “And while we’re on the subject of coincidences, you said you named the cat after a detective? Well, Atkins is a PI, too. The best in all of California, according to him.”
I chuckled. “That’s quite a statement. This Nick Atkins sounds like a bit of a braggart.”
Lance shrugged. “If you knew him, you’d know he wasn’t bragging. This guy really believes he’s the best PI in all of California, and to tell you the truth—he might be.” At my look he went on, “Okay, maybe not the entire state. But definitely in Cruz, and maybe even up as far as the San Francisco area. Listen, don’t take my word for it—Google him.” He pointed at Nick. “But I’ll bet a month’s receipts that’s his cat.”
I turned away to finish preparing his burger. No way was I taking that bet, because my gut told me that Lance just might be right.
* * *
Once the lunch crowd had dissipated and Lance and Chantal had departed, I put the CLOSED sign in the door and pulled out my laptop. I typed “Nick Atkins” into the search engine. To my surprise, a plethora of sites came up. I clicked on a few. Some were murder investigations, others involved missing persons, and they’d all been successfully solved by one Nick Atkins. One of the sites had a photo of Nick, standing beside a young girl he’d found. I studied the tall, handsome man with eyes the color of a fine aged whiskey, lantern jaw, and Pepé Le Pew streak in his jet-black hair.
“Well, Nick Atkins, I’ll say this—you are one good-looking PI. The ones I worked with in Chicago sure didn’t look like you.”
I jumped as something furry rubbed against my arm. Nick purred like a motorcar as he rubbed against me, his head butting my chest. I looked into eyes the color of moonlight and absently stroked the thick black fur. Suddenly I stopped and frowned.
“That’s funny,” I said. “Nick Atkins has a small white streak in his hair right behind his ear and so”—I ran my fingers across the white fur shaped almost like an angel’s wing—“do you. Odd I didn’t notice this before. Now there’s another coincidence, huh? You seem to be full of ’em.”
Nick’s lips peeled back in what I imagined was a cat version of a grin. I gave him another quick pat on the head and set him down on the floor.
“Okay, Nick. I must admit, you’ve been pretty good company—you know, for a cat. But—you can’t stay here if you truly belong to someone else. I’ve got some store business to deal with today, but tomorrow, right after closing, you and I are going to go to this address I found”—I waved the paper in my hand—“and return you to your rightful owner. Okay?”
Nick looked at me for a full minute, then turned around and stalked off, tail and head both held high. “Yeah, okay, it’s true,” I said as his rotund bottom slunk underneath the damask tablecloth. “Chantal might have been the one who initially wanted you to stay but . . . if it does turn out Nick Atkins is your owner . . . I’ll be the disappointed one.”
He turned around, trotted back to me, rubbed against my leg. I leaned down to chuck him under the chin and he raised his head and closed his eyes. I heard a purr rumble deep in his chest as he accepted my ministrations. As I pulled my hand away, he turned toward me and yawned.
“Phew.” I waved my hand to and fro. “One thing for sure—if you end up staying here, Nick, we’ve gotta get you some breath mints.”
FOUR
The next day right after the lunch crush ended, I closed the shop and hopped into my SUV. Since I’d had no luck finding a working phone number, I took out the paper where I’d printed the address I’d found online for Nick Atkins and propped it on the dashboard in front of me, then programmed it into my GPS unit. I’d barely turned the key in the ignition when I heard a slight rustling behind me, and a second later Nick hopped from the rear of the car into the passenger seat in front, his plumelike tail swishing to and fro double time.
“How did you—never mind.” I waved my hand. I’d been fairly certain I’d put him upstairs, but apparently—as with the laptop incident—I’d been mistaken. “It doesn’t matter. Maybe it’s best if you come along. If you do belong to this Nick Atkins, it’d be best for us to make a clean break, y’know.” I cleared my throat. “It’s been great having you—bad breath and all—but as you know, I’m not a pet person, and I’m sure you’ll be much happier back where you belong. I mean, he carried your picture around with him, for goodness’ sake. He has to be missing you.”
Nick looked down his nose at me, then turned his back and devoted his time to staring out the passenger window at some birds in the tree overhead. I swallowed the lump that had arisen suddenly in my throat and backed out into the road. About fifteen minutes later I pulled up in front of a small brownstone apartment building in the neighboring town of Cragmere.
I peered out the window at the number emblazoned on the front door. “Okay—427 Peach Street.” I tapped the paper with my nail. “This is where your master lives—or at least, it’s the most recent address Google has for him.” I opened my door and swung my legs out. “Come on, Nick. It’s time for you to go home.”
Nick sat perfectly still, his back ramrod straight, his tail curled under his forepaws, and blinked twice.
I fisted my hands on my hips. “What? You don’t want to come in? You’re not anxious to get back to your home, your toys, the nice little fleece bed I’m sure you have?”
He blinked again and turned his head in the other direction.
I sighed as I exited the SUV and shut my door. “Okay, fine. Wait here. Play hard to get.” I walked around to the passenger side and tapped my fingertips against the window. “What happened? Did you and your owner have some sort of falling-out?”
Still no response. I straightened. “Well, no worries. Whatever may have happened, I’m sure once Mr. Atkins knows you’re out here, he’ll rush right out. I’m positive he’s missed you, and I’m sure you’ve missed him.”
Nick’s black nose twitched, and one ear flicked forward. Other than that, he gave no response, showed no enthusiasm whatsoever at the prospect of going home. I had to admit, I wasn’t exactly thrilled at the idea, either, and no one was more surprised by my reaction than me.
I walked up to the front door and pushed it open. I found myself in a small, fairly dark vestibule. I glanced upward, noted the overhead light, which had, apparently, burned out, and turned my attention to the bells that lined the wall next to the door. I ran my finger down the list of names—Atkins was nowhere to be found. I found the bell marked SUPER, and pushed it once, twice, three times before the intercom just off to the side of the row of bells blared to life.
“If you’re a salesman, you can just get your behind back outside. No one here wants any.”
I leaned forward. “I’m not a salesman. My name is Nora Charles. I’ve come inquiring about one of your tenants.”
A moment’s hesitation and then, “Which one?”
“Nick Atkins.”
There was complete and utter silence for at least a minute—possibly longer—and then the voice said, “Okay. Come on in. I’m downstairs.”
The buzzer sounded and I found myself in a dark, dingy anteroom with one dimly lit bulb overhead. The stairs were only a few feet away, and I hurried down them into an even darker, cubelike area lit by an even dimmer bulb. A door at the far end of the room opened, and a stout woman wearing a dark blue terrycloth bathrobe, hair in curlers, approached me. I fought back a sudden urge to giggle. All she would have needed was a green mineral mask on her face and a pointy hat, and she could have passed for the Wicked Witch in The Wizard of Oz.
Her snappy black eyes looked me up and down. “I’m Mrs. Rojas. Please tell me you are here to pay the dea
dbeat’s rent.”
Deadbeat? That didn’t sound good. “No, actually, I came here because I believe I have something of Mr. Atkins’s I’m sure he’d like back.”
Beefy arms crossed over her ample chest. “Yeah? And what might that be? Something salable, I hope.”
“Hardly. I believe I have his cat.”
“His—aw heck!” She made an impatient gesture with her hand. “I wondered where he’d gone off to. Frankly, I was going to call the shelter or Animal Control, but as long as you’ve got him—” She shrugged. “I won’t bother.”
Shelter? Animal Control? It was my turn to make an impatient gesture. “I’m sorry, I don’t understand. Doesn’t Nick Atkins live here? The Nick Atkins who is supposed to be a private investigator?”
“He did live here. But I ain’t seen him for going on six weeks now. He’s three months behind in his rent, and I got responsibilities. My no-good husband ran up gambling debts larger than Texas before he ran off to Costa Rica with my hairdresser, and I’ve got to support myself and three teenagers, so . . . I ain’t making money on an empty three-room apartment. I rented it, packed up all his stuff, and what I couldn’t sell I’m waiting for Goodwill to show up and take away. You might tell him that, if you run into him.”
I shook my head, trying to process what Mrs. Rojas had just said. “He’s been missing for six weeks? Didn’t you report it to the police?”
She snorted. “Why? I could probably tell you what happened.” She held up one large hand and started to tick off on her fingers. “A, he probably shacked up with some broad. I’ve seen some of the women he hung out with, and let me tell you, they had ‘loser’ written all over ’em. B, he’s probably off following up some lead on some case. He told me, right before he disappeared, he had a real doozy he was workin’ on—thought it would bring him, now what’s the word he used? Oh, yeah. Notoriety. He thought it might make him famous.” She let out another snort. “Yeah, right. If I had a nickel for every time he said that—well, he’d be flush with me.”
Meow If It's Murder (Nick and Nora Mysteries) Page 4
