Meow If It's Murder (Nick and Nora Mysteries)

by T. C. LoTempio

  I reached over and gave him a quick pat on the head. “Sorry, Nick. It just occurred to me. Ducks.”

  Nick lay down, rested his head on his forepaws. “Ewwr?”

  “Okay, I’ll tell you. My sister tried to wash her duck down comforter a few months ago,” I murmured. “She called me, all worked up. Seems down is very buoyant and floats high on top of the water—it doesn’t like to get wet. It took her two and a half hours to finally soak the damn thing. When you think about it, it makes sense. Ducks float, right, so Lola’s down vest wouldn’t have pulled her under. It would have kept her afloat, and if that was the case, she could have called for help—she should have called for help. She should have driven herself hoarse calling. It was a clear night—there were boats docked nearby. Why didn’t she call out? I can only think of two possibilities.

  “Either she was unconscious when she went into the water—or she was already dead.”

  SEVEN

  I made dinner for myself and Nick, and then stayed up till after midnight researching various articles on Lola Grainger. It was obvious that as little time as possible had been allotted to the investigation—the dearth of information was astounding, and it only served to pique my interest more. There was some sort of cover-up going on, I could just feel it. Why? What had been covered up? And did it have anything to do with Lola’s statement to her sister: Kevin will probably kill me. What was she supposed to have known? It had to be something really, really big—explosive. The coroner’s report stated conclusively the cause of death was drowning—but if some sort of cover-up was going on, did it extend to the coroner? Could he have been persuaded to falsify the cause of death? Or continuing to think along those lines, Lola could also have been unconscious when she went in—then the coroner’s report would be correct. To a point.

  If the drowning occurred as a result of some sort of inflicted physical injury, it would still be . . . dare I say it? Murder. Taking the scenario one step further, perhaps Kevin had been the intended target, and Lola found out. From everything I’d heard about the woman, she’d be just the type to confront the murderer. Had she been disposed of before she could tip her husband off to what was in store for him? In which case, he’d still be in danger. If Kevin were the intended target, why hadn’t the killer struck again? There were a lot of loose ends that needed to be connected, and it seemed the only way to get answers was from those either deceased or MIA.

  So many questions, so little time. I wondered if the pages torn out from Atkins’s journal were missing because they could shed some light on the puzzle.

  * * *

  After writing down a good ten pages of notes, I shut off the lights and saw Nick curled up in a ball next to my nonworking fireplace, snoring away. I undressed, brushed my teeth, and tumbled, exhausted, into bed, where my dreams were scattered between visualizing Lola Grainger fall into the water, her husband standing on deck watching her, his hands tied in front of him, and Nick running around the boat deck chasing his tail. Talk about strange. Well, it’s my own fault for mixing cilantro and hot pepper—the combination gives me nightmares every time. I’d finally drifted back into a dreamless sleep when the ring of my alarm shrieked in my ear. Four thirty, good grief! I reached out, shut it off, and rolled over on my side, intending to just catnap (excuse the pun) for ten more minutes. I kept shifting my position, unable to get comfortable for some reason until I realized why I couldn’t feel my left foot. I tried to wiggle my toes: nothing. Alarmed, I sat bolt upright, and instantly saw the cause of my foot problem. Nick’s hefty body was spread over the bottom half of my bed, his large head planted squarely on my left foot. I poked at him with my other foot, and he just rolled over on his back, paws in the air. With a sigh I threw my covers back, leaned over, and jabbed him in the ribs. He twisted his body over, stretched out his front paws.

  “Yower!” he rumbled and squeezed both eyes.

  I perched on the bed’s edge, my arms thrust into my bathrobe. “My bad. I forgot to prop the chair in front of my door last night. Oh, well.” I slid him a smile. “Until we find out for sure what happened to your owner, you’re here to stay, so . . . I imagine, like most cats, that includes giving you the run of the house.”

  Nick looked at me, gave a loud purr, and raised one paw to my knee.

  I finished buttoning my bathrobe and gave him the eye. “I see you must have picked up some pointers on charming women from your former owner. Although—that was a pretty nice fleece blanket in that box. I could make you a nice little bed of your own in front of the fireplace. You wouldn’t have to share.”

  In answer, Nick burrowed his furry body deeper into my bedspread. Apparently he preferred my down comforter.

  I leaned over and chucked him under his chin. “Okay, okay. We’ll be bedmates—for now. But try not to hog all the space, will ya?”

  I got an indifferent stare in return. Of course.

  * * *

  I usually opened for the breakfast crowd at seven a.m. sharp. Mollie Travis, a high school junior who lived up the block, came in three days a week to help out. I didn’t serve anything real fancy, just the usual: bagels, muffins, ham and eggs for an occasional special, but I usually got a pretty good crowd. This morning Mollie left a message on the store phone: She was sick with a twenty-four-hour bug, so she wouldn’t be able to come in either today or tomorrow. Great. And, of course, it seemed as if every working person in Cruz felt the need to stop in for something this morning, so by the time nine o’clock rolled around, I was pretty much about done in. Once the last customer had departed, Nick emerged from underneath the counter and planted himself square in the middle of the floor.

  I chuckled. “I know what you’re looking for.”

  I retrieved a plate of leftover bracciole and set it in front of him. As he pushed his face into the bowl, making little slurping sounds, I checked the messages on my cell phone. A former contact of mine from Chicago (I hate the word snitch), Henry “Hank” Prince, had come through with some useful information, thanks to the wide range of contacts he’d amassed over the years that spanned our fifty states and beyond. Besides confirming what I already knew, he was also able to verify that Marshall Connor identified Lola’s body and did most of the talking to the police. Patti Cummings, Grainger’s majordomo, never left his side. As for the bruises, he couldn’t confirm any on the body, but there was one near the base of Lola’s skull. Lott, in particular had seemed very nervous. According to Hank, a reporter from one of the L.A. tabloids tried to approach him a few days later and got the cold shoulder for her trouble. He’d also learned that the coroner who performed Lola’s autopsy had left his position for a cushy teaching job at Quantico—three guesses who was responsible for that, and the first two don’t count.

  Snapping my phone shut, I decided that if I were going to try and get some answers, the captain might be a good starting point. Hopefully the passage of time had loosened his tongue somewhat. Before I did that, however, I thought I’d give the police the courtesy of a visit—give them an opportunity to exchange useful information. The policeman who answered the phone was brusque to say the least, and not very willing to help after I explained the purpose of my call. I imagined if I ran the local donut shop, things would have gone much more smoothly. I was summarily informed that the detective who had been in charge of the Grainger case was, unfortunately, out on medical leave. The good news, though, was his replacement agreed to give me a few moments of his oh-so-valuable time.

  I had a one o’clock appointment with Detective Daniel Corleone.

  Chantal was more than willing to watch the store—and Nick—so I could keep the appointment. “Do not worry about a thing, chérie,” she assured me. “This will give Nicky and me a chance to get better acquainted, non?”

  Nick purred loudly and rubbed his furry body against her legs.

  “It will give me a chance to tell him about my new jewelry line—and the pet collars I am des
igning,” Chantal went on. “Ooh, it is going to be magnifique! How would you like to be my catalog model, Nicky?”

  Nick abruptly stopped winding himself around Chantal’s ankles. All purring halted—his neck jutted forward, his head snapped up, and he bared his teeth, affording us both with an excellent view of his sharp fangs. “Ffft,” he hissed, and then promptly dove underneath the back table.

  “Well, for goodness’ sake! What did I do?”

  Chantal leaned over and tried to coax him out. All she got for her trouble was more ffts and some spitting.

  “I don’t think he likes the idea of wearing a collar,” I chuckled as I reached for my car keys. “Either that or he really doesn’t like to be called Nicky. Did I tell you Ollie Sampson said his real name is Sherlock?”

  “Sherlock? Ewww.” Chantal wrinkled her nose. “I’m glad you decided to keep calling him Nick. Being named after The Thin Man seems to suit him much, much better.”

  “I agree,” I chuckled, “even though the ‘Thin Man’ doesn’t refer to the detective Nick Charles at all.”

  Chantal frowned. “It doesn’t?”

  I shook my head. “It’s a common mistake. The ‘Thin Man’ is the man that Nick is initially hired to find, Clyde Wynant. During the investigation they find a skeletonized body they assume to be that of a much heavier man because of the clothing, but it’s just a diversion. They manage from a war wound to identify the body as being that of a ‘thin man’—Wynant. The whole thing was a setup—the murderer had stolen a great deal of money from Wynant and was trying to frame him for murder.”

  “Wow—guess I’ll have to catch up on my Turner Classics.” Chantal went over to the back counter, shook some cat treats into her hand, and then knelt by the table. She carefully picked up the edge of the tablecloth. Nick lay, crouched far in the back, his ears flattened against his skull, his back raised, attack fashion.

  “Ffft,” he spat again. Chantal offered him a treat. He blinked, and the tail bristled. “Ffft.”

  I chuckled at the woebegone expression on my friend’s face. “Give him time. He’ll get over it. Nick has very definite ideas on what he likes and doesn’t like—I swear, at times he seems almost human.”

  “Yowwwl,” came from underneath the table.

  Chantal waved her hand. “Ah, he will come around. Just wait and see. I bet you I’ll have him modeling collars before you get this article on Lola Grainger finished for Noir.”

  The damask tablecloth wiggled slightly, and then we heard a loud growl.

  I chuckled as I reached for my purse. “I’m not a gambling woman, but I do believe I’ll take that bet.”

  Chantal grabbed my arm as I walked past her. “Is it so very wrong of me to hope this Nick Atkins never shows up, chérie? That we can keep our Nicky with us forever and ever?”

  I looked down. Nick stuck his head out from underneath the tablecloth and I could swear the corners of his lips tipped up, a feline grin.

  “Meow.” One paw rose and lightly grazed his forehead, as if in a kitty salute.

  I couldn’t stop the grin that spread across my face in return. “Nope,” I answered. “I find nothing wrong with that train of thought at all.”

  EIGHT

  Police Headquarters were tucked into a skinny, two-story brown building located on the south end of Cruz. I pulled into the parking lot behind the building, locked the car, walked up the flight of stone steps, and pushed through the plate glass door and into the wide reception area. It looked as if the station was hopping this afternoon—apparently Tuesday was prime time for crime. A policeman stood in one corner, taking down a report from a girl in jeans and a tight sweater. Off to my left I recognized another cop, Henry Whittle, from high school. He was talking to an elderly woman in a flowered dress who kept twisting her hands as if greatly agitated. As I passed them, I heard Henry say, “So, he’s got white fur with two brown spots, one over his left eye?”

  The woman nodded, and I thought I saw tears glistening in her pale blue eyes. “Yes, my Frederick looks just like that terrier from those old Bill Powell movies—you know the ones I mean, right?”

  I did indeed, I thought as I passed them. When I was younger, I’d always wanted a dog like Asta.

  I made my way over to the wide, walnut wood reception desk, where a bored-looking woman wearing a starched denim blue shirt, long dark hair pulled back into a braid that hung over one shoulder, sat. She eyed me warily as I approached.

  “Nora Charles,” I said. “I’m here to see Detective Daniel Corleone.”

  She shot me a sharp look. “I’m not certain he’s around,” she snapped, “and if he is, he’s very busy. Do you have an appointment?”

  “I made an appointment,” I began, and then a shadow fell across the desk.

  “No need to screen her, Margaret. I’ve got it.” A hand shot out. “I’m Detective Daniel Corleone. You must be Ms. Charles.”

  I had to bite back a gasp as I turned to the man behind me. I’m five-ten in my two-inch heels—he was easily six-foot-two. Burnished blond hair, cut a bit shaggy, stood out against tan skin and clear blue eyes. The slight stubble of a five o’clock shadow covered an otherwise strong jaw. I let my gaze trail a bit lower, taking in the broad shoulders and narrow waist that nipped down to what appeared to be firmly muscled thighs encased in a pair of straight-leg dark denim jeans.

  I didn’t recall any detective in Chicago looking half this sexy. Seeing this guy who could easily be a GQ model was more than a bit disconcerting.

  Well, Danny Corleone was most definitely not Don Vito. Not Kojak or Columbo, either.

  But he was most definitely HOT. H-O-T in flashing neon red letters.

  I dragged my gaze upward with supreme effort. “Detective Corleone. So nice to meet you in person.” I took the proffered hand, felt strong fingers close over mine in a steely grip. “Thank you for seeing me on such short notice.”

  His full lips twisted into a wry grin. “Well, I have to admit you certainly piqued my interest.” He stood aside and motioned to a door across the hall with his hand. “Won’t you please come into my office? We’ll have privacy in there.” He turned to the woman behind the desk. “Margaret, hold my calls. Don’t buzz me unless it’s Captain Rogers.”

  “Sure, Detective Corleone.” He brushed past her, and I could swear I saw a bit of red creep up her neck and color her café au lait skin. Her gaze on him bordered on worshipful—as it shifted to me, I could almost swear a hint of green tinged her chocolate brown eyes.

  Apparently I was not the only one affected by Detective Corleone’s looks.

  I followed him into a small room that held a single desk, a scarred file cabinet tucked into a corner, and two worn-looking leather chairs. The pale beige walls were dotted with framed citations. It seemed a serviceable office, and yet in spite of the few homey touches, something seemed off.

  “Is something wrong, Ms. Charles?”

  I glanced up to see him looking at me. I shrugged. “No. I was just taking a quick peek around.” And then, before I quite realized it, I blurted out, “This office is so not you.”

  One eyebrow quirked. “Pardon?”

  I felt color dot my cheekbones. “I’m sorry. It’s just”—I waved my arms to encompass the space—“everything seems disjointed, like it’s been thrown together. You don’t impress me as being either careless or disorganized.”

  “Do tell?” He smirked.

  I let my gaze rove over his polished appearance and said, “Someone well organized, who thrives on order, both personally and in business.”

  He regarded me in silence for a moment, and then finally smiled. “Well, you’re right. This office isn’t my regular one. I’m here for a few weeks on loan, so these are just temporary quarters. And I am a stickler for order.”

  I’d have bet anything he was the type who laid out his clothes for the week on a Sund
ay night, making sure everything was coordinated, from the shirt to the socks to the boxer briefs. I bit back the urge to smile and say, “I knew it,” so all I got out was a lame-sounding, “Okay. So, um . . . you’re not from around here?”

  His features settled into an amused expression. “No.”

  Ah, a man of few words. I gave him a bright smile. “I bet you must get a lot of remarks, right? Hear a lot of jokes?”

  The amused look segued into a quizzical glance. “Pardon?”

  “Your last name, you know—Corleone, The Godfather, you being in law enforcement and having a last name that’s usually connected with—well, those who are not.”

  The puzzled expression cleared, and he shook his head. “Not really. And now that’s settled, please have a seat.”

  Okay, no sense of humor. I put one check in the minus column for Detective Hunk.

  He walked around to sit in the leather chair behind the desk and motioned me to take the other chair. I was dying to ask him just where he was from, but figured I’d best quit before I made an even worse impression. I settled myself in the chair and folded my hands in my lap.

  “Before we begin, can I get you anything?”

  I shook my head. “I’m fine, thanks.”

  “So.” He leaned back in his chair, bright blue eyes trained on me, obviously studying me. “Furnishings of my office aside, you wanted to discuss the Lola Grainger case, Ms. Charles?”

  “Nora,” I piped up.

  He paused. “Pardon?”

  “I’m sorry.” I shifted in the chair, crossed my legs at the ankles, and pulled my skirt hem down a bit lower. “It’s just that calling me Ms. Charles makes me sound like my late mother. I’d much prefer Nora.”

  “Okay, Nora.” He waited a beat, and then said, “You said on the phone you wanted to discuss the Lola Grainger case for a possible article?”