Must be nice, I thought, to have such charm. And charisma. And sex appeal. And . . .
“Nora!”
I jerked to attention, realized that I held a cup of ketchup in my hand instead of the side of coleslaw Minnie Hopper had asked for. I apologized, made the switch, and rang up her Reuben. As I waited on my next customer, I saw Daniel sit down at a table at the rear of the store. Our gazes met and held for a minute—then he raised one hand in greeting. I nodded, wiggled two fingers in response. The blue shirt he wore under his tan jacket set off his coloring and accentuated the color of his eyes. His hair was slightly mussed, a curl falling down over one eyebrow, and he looked almost as if he’d just gotten out of bed. That thought sent a nice, warm feeling arrowing through me down to my very toes as I thought of the good detective, his muscular body tangled between satin sheets, wearing only a pair of boxer briefs and a smile . . .
“And I’d like it on rye instead of pumpernickel, if you don’t mind.”
“Huh—what?”
Ramona Hickey pinned me with her steely gaze. “Didn’t you hear me? I said, I’ll have the Joe Piscopo, but on pumpernickel instead of rye. You might go a bit easy on the mustard, too.”
“Oh, yeah, right. Coming right up.”
I quickly prepared her sandwich, and then two more before the good detective faced me across the counter. “Well, hello again, Ms. Charles—sorry. Nora,” he said.
“Detective.” I could feel heat rise to my cheekbones and self-consciously wished I’d done something nicer with my hair. “How nice of you to visit my shop.”
“I pass it all the time and I’ve been meaning to stop by.” He paused and then added, “And I definitely didn’t mean to brush you aside yesterday. I hope you understand.”
“No problem.” Since Daniel Corleone was the last customer in line, I allowed myself to relax a bit and eased one hip against the counter. “I know what it’s like to have your boss on your back. It’s part of the reason I became my own boss.”
He smiled, showing off those picture-perfect teeth. “I didn’t want you to think I was dismissing you. It’s just your request was unexpected.”
“I realize that. No offense taken.”
“Good.” His eyes searched my face, then met my gaze and held it. “I thought you’d like to know, I went over to the house Adrienne Sloane’s been renting. It’s locked up, and some of the neighbors saw her leaving with suitcases.”
I frowned. “When was this?”
“About seven weeks ago.”
Right around the time Nick Atkins had gone missing. “Do you have any idea where she might have gone?”
He pulled his notebook out of his pocket. “As near as we can tell, she purchased a one-way ticket to Bermuda.”
“Bermuda!”
“I hear it’s lovely this time of year.” He slipped the notebook back in his pocket. “It looks like she abandoned her investigation.”
“Looks can be deceiving,” I mumbled. It made no sense. Why would Adrienne hire a PI, then text him with a cryptic message and disappear?
Daniel’s voice broke into my train of thought. “Listen, I really would like to discuss the case with you in greater detail. You made a lot of good points.”
I raised one eyebrow. “Will that help get the case reopened?”
“I can’t make you any promises. As I said, I’m just here filling in. But if there turns out to be enough evidence that the investigating officers dropped the ball, and there’s new evidence to consider—then yes, there’s a good shot the case would be reopened.” He smiled, and the dimples at either end of his lips deepened. “I don’t mind admitting I’m curious as to your source. Whoever it is, they’re remarkably well informed. Is this person a reporter as well?”
I clucked my tongue, biting back a pang of disappointment. Apparently my source’s identity was the focus of his interest in me, and not my all-American good looks or sparkling wit—or even my culinary expertise. “Now, Detective, surely I don’t have to tell you a good reporter never reveals their sources.”
“Confidentiality is important. It’s nice to see you respect that. Many don’t.” Something in his tone made me glance at him sharply, but his expression was bland. “Well. I don’t have to be on duty tonight till six, so perhaps I could hang around and we could talk after you close?”
I groaned inwardly. He would pick today. The bell above my shop door tinkled, and I cast a quick glance over the detective’s shoulder. Chantal stood there, eyes wide, giving me that look. I turned my attention back to Daniel.
“Ah—I’m sorry, but today’s really not good for me. Perhaps we could make it for tomorrow? Or some other day when you have free time?”
His expression darkened for an instant: Disappointment? Suspicion? I might have imagined it, because the next second his oh-so-handsome face was wreathed in a smile. “No problem,” he said at last. “My bad. I should have called first, and not just assumed you’d drop everything to have that discussion. After all, you were so gung ho yesterday—but that’s neither here nor there, is it?”
Wow, talk about making someone feel guilty. “I am sorry,” I assured him. “Trust me, if there was any way I could reschedule my appointment, I would, but unfortunately—”
“Hey, it’s okay, really.” He pulled out his iPad, consulted it for a few moments. “Barring an emergency, I have Thursday afternoon free, if that works for you.”
I gave him my most winning smile. “I’ll make it work. Do you want to meet here, or at the station, or—”
“How about I call you Thursday morning and we can work out something that suits us both. And I promise I will call you,” he said.
“Fine.”
“Great.” His gaze strayed to the giant placard listing of sandwiches right above the counter. “Did you think up all these yourself?”
“Most were my mother’s,” I admitted. “But some of the newer ones—like the Lady Gaga and the Michael Buble Burger—were my idea.”
He chuckled. “So you aren’t responsible for the Thin Man Tuna Melt?”
My smile widened as I answered, “I love those movies, but they were a little before my time—sorry. My parents were huge Bill Powell and Myrna Loy fans, though. And I’ve got the entire set on DVD—Blu-ray.”
“Spoken like a true fan.” His eyes roved over me for a long moment before shifting back to the menu. “I’m almost afraid to ask—what’s in the Ricky Gervais?”
“Tongue on rye with extra-hot mustard,” I said, and that elicited a big grin.
He whipped out his wallet. “I’ll take a Thin Man. Extra cheese.”
I pulled out two slices of rye and the container of tuna salad from the refrigerated case. Daniel leaned against the counter and turned to gaze around the shop. “You do a brisk business,” he noted. “Almost every table’s full.”
“I do okay,” I answered as I spread tuna liberally on the bread. “Most of the clientele are my mother’s loyal customers. They like my cooking enough to stick with me.”
“You do everything yourself?”
“I have a high school girl who helps out in the morning before her first class, and occasional afternoons. But if business keeps picking up, I’m going to have to think about hiring more help.”
“Well, in this economy, that’s a good thing. Maybe soon you won’t need that second job. Sandwich making is a lot safer than crime reporting.”
“Maybe not. You should see my knife drawer.”
He laughed, and then suddenly reached inside his jacket pocket. “Excuse me.” He whipped out his phone, said, “Daniel Corleone,” and listened for a few minutes, his eyes slitted. He shook his head a few times, then said, “On my way,” and slipped the phone back into his pocket. He looked at me apologetically and pulled out his wallet. “I’m sorry, I gotta run. Can I get that to go?”
I wrapped the sandwic
h and placed it in a bag as he slid a ten-dollar bill across the counter. “I’ll call you Thursday.”
He snatched up the sandwich, turned on his heel . . . and was gone.
I frowned. My stomach rumbled, reminding me I hadn’t had anything except a cup of yogurt at 6 a.m. I pulled out some more rye bread, tuna, and cheese, and had just slipped the sandwich into the toaster oven when a hand dropped on my shoulder. I jumped.
“Will you stop doing that,” I cried, turning and gazing into Chantal’s twinkling eyes.
“You have no excuse for not hearing me, other than the look of love.” She laughed, pointing to her impossibly high heels. “So—who is he?”
I thrust my hands into the pockets of my apron. “Who’s who?”
She gave a snort of disgust. “Don’t play coy with me, chérie. The tall, blond, and handsome man who just left—oh, wait!” She slapped her forehead with the palm of her hand. “Of course, I should have known. So that is your Detective Corleone?”
“That’s him.” I gritted my teeth. “But he’s not my detective. He’s the community’s.”
Chantal let out a low whistle. “Well, he’s even yummier in person. I would not mind being investigated by him. He does not look as if he belongs on the Cruz force. Most of them resemble Dennis Franz—this guy has Pierce Brosnan written all over him.”
“Maybe because he’s really not a member of the Cruz force. He’s here on loan, remember?”
She wiggled her fingers. “Whatever. It looked as if you two were having quite a nice conversation.”
“Yeah, well, looks can be deceiving,” I mumbled.
The toaster gave a soft ding! I pulled my tuna melt out of the toaster oven and carried it to a table in the back, Chantal right behind me. She watched me as I sat down and spread my napkin on my lap, a silly grin plastered across her pretty face. I took a bite of the sandwich, and frowned at her.
“I can’t eat with you watching me with that cat-ate-the-canary grin, so out with it. What is it you’re just dying to tell me?”
“Isn’t it obvious? I said it the other night. You’ve got a crush on him, but it’s more than that. Yet another prediction of mine has come true. You have met your King of Swords.”
I wagged my finger. “Oh, no. You said tall, dark, and handsome. Detective Corleone is a blond.”
“First off, I do not recall ‘tall’ being part of the equation. Second, description is nothing but a mere detail.” She cocked her brow. “Mark my words. He is your King of Swords—your champion.”
I took another bite of my tuna melt, which was delicious, even if I had to say so myself. “So he’s the one who’s gonna sweep me off my feet, eh?”
“More than that.” Chantal leaned forward, all seriousness. “He is the one who is going to lead you out of danger. As I said—your champion.”
Ah, yes. I’d forgotten about the addition to her original prediction. “Very romantic,” I chuckled. “Right now, the most danger I’m going to be in will be from the electric company shutting me down if I don’t pay the bill this month.”
Chantal shook her head. She reached into her bag and pulled out her trusty deck of tarot cards. “He is going to help you out of a dangerous situation. I saw it in the cards, chérie.” She tapped the deck with one long nail. “And the cards . . . they never lie.”
Had I any idea at that moment just how dangerous a situation we were talking about, things might have been very, very different. But you know what they say.
Ignorance is bliss.
ELEVEN
Five o’clock on the dot found me down at the Cruz Marina. A sleepy-looking teenage girl directed me to the Lott Cruises office, located at the end of the pier in a ramshackle building that looked as if a good strong wind might blow it away at a moment’s notice. I tapped on the door and, getting no response, tried the knob. The door swung inward at my touch, and I found myself in a rather large room with many nautical embellishments—a ship’s wheel hung low on the wall behind a cherrywood desk, and framed pictures of ships and sea scenes dotted the walls. A glass case off to one side of the office next to a scarred file cabinet held a collection of scrimshaw, carved objects made originally by North American whalers from the teeth and bones of whales, in various shapes and sizes. This collection looked pretty extensive—there were pieces in the shapes of animals—turtles, foxes, a large grizzly bear. There was a money clip with a clipper ship square in the center, and a pocketknife with a deer. Off to one side lay a man’s large signet ring. The ring had a scrimshaw inlay as well, an odd-looking design. It was obvious Lott took a great interest in his hobby. I’d just bent over the case to get a closer look when the distinct creak of a floorboard alerted me to the fact I was no longer alone.
“Interested in scrimshaw, are ya?”
My head snapped up. “Captain Lott?” At his nod, I smiled and continued, “I’ve always admired the workmanship. You’ve got some unusual pieces there—the clip, the knife. And such an unusual ring.”
“Ayuh.” He took my elbow, steered me away from the case. “It’s a hobby that can get expensive, especially when you invest in the quality pieces.” He looked me up and down. “I’m guessing you’re Nora Charles?”
At first glance Lott struck me as nondescript. He was shorter than me—around five-five or five-six—and thin, almost scrawny. He had a thick shock of gray, curly hair that was swept back from his high forehead, and what I could see of his complexion screamed “outdoorsman.” A good portion of the lower part of his face was covered with a thick beard, well trimmed, the same iron gray shade as his hair. His lips were thick, as were his eyebrows, and his squinted eyes were gray-blue, like the sea on a storm-tossed day. His hand shot out and gripped mine, and his handshake was firm. After a moment he released my fingers (which I immediately flexed) and motioned to me to take a seat in one of the high-backed chairs that flanked his desk. He moved with some difficulty, shuffled rather than walked. He leaned heavily on a thick, ebony walking stick as he moved around the desk. Once he’d eased his thin frame into the leather chair, he leaned back and reached inside his shirt pocket for a pack of Kents, which he held out to me.
“Smoke?”
I shook my head, and he proceeded to light up. He exhaled the smoke in one long breath, watched it curl upward toward the high-beamed ceiling before turning his attention back to me again.
“So? What is it exactly you think I can do for you, Ms. Charles?”
I leaned forward a bit, not too close as the air in the small office was a bit cloying and overloaded with cigarette smoke. “It’s more like what I can do for you, Mr. Lott,” I said.
One shaggy eyebrow lifted. “I don’t understand.”
“I thought you might look upon this interview as a chance to free your conscience of any burden it might be under in the Lola Grainger matter.”
His eyes narrowed, and he barked out a short laugh. “Now, where did you get an idea like that? I’m not under any burden, Ms. Charles.”
“Are you sure?”
The ruddy cheeks got a bit ruddier. “Look, I don’t know where this is coming from, but you’re definitely barking up the wrong tree. I told the police everything just as it happened that night—I’m not hiding anything.”
I decided on a bold move. “Adrienne Sloane would disagree.”
Something flickered in the depths of those gray eyes, and then his face turned into a stone mask. His hand curled into a fist and he slammed it down hard on the desktop, enough to make the phone and pencil cup shake. “Like I told ya on the phone—I don’t know any Adrienne Sloane. If you’re here on account of something she said, well, you’re wasting your time—and mine.”
I sensed a shift in his attention, so I decided to switch gears. “I’m merely here to check the facts for my story. Make sure I have them down correctly.” I pulled my notepad and pen out of my tote and set them on the edge of the de
sk. “Surely you’ve no objection to that.”
He laughed mirthlessly. “Would you care if I did? Okay—” He slapped his palm against his thigh. “Let’s get on with it. What do you want to know?”
“I’d like you to reiterate the facts for me, Captain Lott, just as they happened that night.”
He took another drag on the cigarette. “You know, you can read the account in any old newspaper.”
I shifted my notepad on my knee. “I’d rather hear it firsthand. From you.”
“From me. Okay.” He ground out the cigarette then leaned back in the chair, lacing his fingers behind his neck. “Mr. and Mrs. Grainger were celebrating their fifteenth wedding anniversary. Mr. Grainger wanted to cruise out a bit, out to Pelos Island. There’s good restaurants and some shops there. He’d invited some of the people who worked for him. There were two men and his admin.”
“Had you ever met any of them before?”
“Neither of the men, but I’d seen his admin before. She’s been working for him about six months now—four at the time of the accident. She’d come aboard once or twice with papers for him to sign.” He snorted as I raised my eyebrow. “I know what you’re thinkin’, and no, they weren’t havin’ an affair. Not that she didn’t want it—but Mr. Grainger only had eyes for his wife.”
“What made you think Patti Cummings’s interest in Mr. Grainger was anything other than professional?”
He snorted. “A woman comes aboard, dressed to kill, smelling all soft and pretty like she did—they’re hopin’ for more than just contracts signed. Plus, there was the way she looked at Mr. Grainger—her eyes lit up, and she got that sappy smile on her face—heck, she had it bad. Has it bad,” he amended. “Even now, she don’t leave him alone. She’s always around now. Funny thing, too. Before the accident, he never gave her the time of day, never really looked at her. Now he’s all over her, too. It’s like a switch got thrown, or something.”
Meow If It's Murder (Nick and Nora Mysteries) Page 10
