I looked down at my own attire, faded blue denim jeans and Cal sweatshirt. “If I thought it’d help me get some cooperation out of one taciturn detective, I might even break out a leather miniskirt myself.” I let out a huge sigh. “That is, if I owned one. Maybe it’s time to rethink my wardrobe choices, eh?”
He hopped back up on the chair and his paw darted out and speared a piece of lettuce that hung over the side of my bowl. I bit out a laugh and pushed my chair back. “Right. Why bother. After all, it’s not as if the good detective expressed any interest in me personally, right? And that’s his loss.”
Nick blinked. “Ew-owr.”
The corners of my lips tipped up a smidge. “Glad you agree.”
I picked up the dishes and carried them over to the counter. “Lott told his story as if it’s one he’s rehearsed many times before,” I murmured. “But if I go on the assumption he’s telling the unvarnished truth, Lola had little or no interaction with anyone else on the yacht, save for a possible flirtation with Connor. I wonder—do you think it’s possible they were having an affair?”
As soon as I’d said the words, I rejected the idea. From the little I knew of Lola Grainger, she didn’t seem like the type who’d cheat on her husband. I recalled my mother describing her as class personified, an assessment I agreed with. Although if there was one thing I’d learned over the years: In affairs of the heart, all bets were off. What was that old saying? The heart wants what it wants.
What had Lola’s heart wanted?
I sighed. “I guess, just to cover all my bases, I should investigate a possible love connection between Lola and Marshall Connor. If there was one, then maybe Grainger found out about their affair, confronted Lola, maybe killed her in a drunken rage, and tossed her body off the boat in a panic.”
It sounded more like the plot of a B-grade thriller than a plausible explanation.
I stared off into space, the wheels in my head turning even faster. My thoughts kept reverting to the mysterious last line in Nick Atkins’s journal: Tonight I received a text from Adrienne. She wants me to meet her at the docks—she believes the wrong Grainger might have been killed. Assuming Adrienne was on to something, who would want Kevin dead—and why?
Lott had blown me off when I asked if he knew of any reason why Kevin might be a possible target. Recalling his smart-ass remark, I got up, rummaged in my purse for my cell. A few minutes later I had Hank Prince on the line.
“Wow, Nora,” he greeted me. “Twice in one week—I didn’t realize you missed me that much—or is it just Chicago and all our crime you’re craving?”
“Don’t miss those Chicago winters, Cruz has its own share of crime, but I do miss you.” I laughed. “I was wondering if you could check into something for me.”
“My plate’s pretty full right now, doll, but you know I’ll squeeze your request in ASAP.”
“Thanks. See if you can pick up any ties between Kevin Grainger and any mob families in the L.A. area. I’ll text you the particulars.”
“Sure. You know, for someone who wanted to get out of the crime reporting field and go into business for herself, you seem to still be pretty interested in your old stomping grounds.”
“What can I say? Old habits die hard.”
Hank laughed. “True that. So, how’s the new career coming?”
“Very well. Next time you’re in California, look me up. If you’re good, I might even name a sandwich after you.”
We exchanged a few more pleasantries, and then I hung up. I finished washing the few dishes, set out some dry food for Nick, and then switched on my laptop. I typed in Lott’s name and the word accident, and a few seconds later several news articles appeared. I clicked on the first one and read it eagerly. He’d said it had been a bad accident—that seemed an understatement somehow. The car brakes had failed, and he couldn’t get himself free and out of the vehicle in time. The car crashed through a guardrail and went down a steep ravine. Lott finally managed to free himself, but his leg was badly injured, impeding his escape. As a result, he’d gotten pretty badly burned when the car exploded.
The second article offered much of the same information. At the very end, however, was an interesting note: The car Lott had been driving was registered to his employer, Kevin Grainger.
“Hm. Well, that could explain why Grainger paid all Lott’s medical bills. More out of guilt, perhaps, than kindness?” I said to Nick, who’d finished his dry food and had hopped up on the table next to the laptop. “Maybe Grainger was the intended target, and not Lott. I wonder if the police ever investigated that angle?” My gaze wandered across the room, over to the table where Nick Atkins’s journals lay. “Or if your former master ever did?”
I thought again of the pages ripped from the journal and turned back to the computer. I looked up the office number for Sampson and Atkins Investigations and then reached for my cell. A few seconds later a voice, sounding as if I’d just awoken him from a deep sleep, rumbled across the line.
“Sampson and Atkins Investigations. Oliver Sampson here.”
“Hey, Mr. Sampson. It’s Nora Charles. Do you remember me?”
He laughed. “It’s Ollie, Nora, and of course I remember you. How could I forget Sherlock’s new owner? I must say, I didn’t expect to hear from you so soon. Is everything all right with the little fellow?”
“Oh, he’s just fine. I just remembered there were a few things in that box Mr. Atkins’s landlady gave me that she thought you should have.”
“Really?” Ollie sounded dubious. “I can’t imagine what.”
“Journals. Three thick ones. One of which contains his notes on the Grainger case.”
There was dead silence and then, “I see. And the other two?”
“Look to be notes on various cases he worked on through the years. Mainly disgruntled spouses, as near as I can tell.”
Ollie barked out a laugh. “Yes, disgruntled spouses were his specialty. But seeing as all those cases are closed, I doubt I’d need them. Feel free to keep them or throw them out, whichever you want.”
I cleared my throat. “As long as I have you on the phone, Ollie—did Nick ever share any of the details of the Grainger case with you?”
“Not too many—of course, to be fair, I never displayed too much interest in it. Dynamite, remember?” He clucked his tongue. “Why—is there something in particular you need to know?”
“I’ve been doing a bit of research, and I’m curious about the accident Captain Lott had right after the incident. One of the accounts I read said the car he was driving belonged to Kevin Grainger, so—”
“You wondered if Grainger were the intended victim and not Lott,” Ollie finished. “I remember wondering about that myself,” he admitted. “Apparently there wasn’t enough left of the car after the explosion to draw a conclusion. The police seemed satisfied Lott was the intended victim, however, due to the fact he owed a certain loan shark a ton of money. The possibility someone might have been after Grainger never entered the picture.”
“I see. Well, thanks, Ollie.”
“Nora.” His tone was sharp. “I don’t know why you want to get involved in this, but I feel compelled to offer you the same advice I did Nick. You’d do well to steer clear and let sleeping dogs lie. I know you worked that crime beat in Chicago, but—”
“Thanks for your help, Ollie, and for your concern. But I can take care of myself—and little Nick, too. Don’t worry.”
“A little late for that,” he grumbled, and hung up.
I put the phone down and leaned back, laced my hands behind my head. The key to all this, I felt certain, was finding someone willing to come clean about what really happened on the yacht that night. From my experience, there was no way all those people were telling the truth. One—or maybe more—was lying.
What I needed to do was figure out who and, more important, why.
“My next move should be to question the other three, see what they have to say about that night. That’s going to require some thought. After all, it’s not like we hang out in the same circles, or that they even frequent Hot Bread for lunch. I can’t just run into them, you know.”
Nick jumped up on the counter. His plume of a tail swished, knocking over the plastic case containing my catering menus. They scattered to the floor like autumn leaves. I sighed, bent to retrieve them, then suddenly straightened. I hurried over to the old rolltop desk in the corner, jerked open the bottom drawer, where my mother’s impeccable catering records were kept. I thumbed through the folders, and a little cry of triumph escaped my lips as I pulled out one marked KMG. Sure enough, inside were two neatly drawn contracts, bearing both my mother’s signature and that of Lola Grainger, for Hot Bread to cater two of their upcoming company events. I glanced over at Nick, sitting calmly on the counter, licking one paw.
“I get it,” I murmured. “Good point. Now that Lola’s dead, what happens with these contracts?”
I shoved the file folder under one arm and patted Nick on the head. I figured now was as good a time as any to find out.
THIRTEEN
I got a one o’clock appointment for the following afternoon, and Chantal was only too glad to mind the store—and Nick. I patted his head in farewell and received a plaintive “meow” for my trouble. He trotted right along beside me as I walked up to the door, and looked a bit offended when I shooed him away. I chuckled. No doubt he’d have found a ride in the car preferable to trying on more of Chantal’s collars. Oh, well.
KMG’s plush corporate offices occupied three separate buildings located right off Route 19 on the outskirts of Cruz. I drove up the winding road and saw a guard shack off to one side, with a large sign reading: ALL VISITORS MUST CHECK IN FIRST. Off to the left, there were two lanes outfitted with card readers and automatic gates. I pulled over to the guard shack and parked. As I exited my SUV, I saw a Lincoln Continental drive up to the gates, the driver’s side window roll down, and an arm reach out, swiping a badge against the reading device. The gate rose, allowing the car to enter the grounds, and immediately lowered once the car passed through. I could see the reason for the security, though. KMG had recently acquired several lucrative government contracts; it was only natural they’d want to keep a close eye on things.
I entered the guard shack. A sleepy-eyed, olive-skinned blond woman wearing a starched navy uniform looked up at me from behind a plate glass enclosure and motioned to me to come forward.
“Can I help you?” she asked. Her voice was thick with an accent I couldn’t quite place. Spanish maybe? I felt for a minute like I was at the Cineplex in the mall, buying tickets for the afternoon show. I leaned forward so I could speak directly into the microphone. “Nora Charles. I have an appointment.”
The guard’s expression didn’t change one iota, but I was certain I saw one eyebrow twitch ever so slightly. She ran her finger down a typed sheet. “Ah, yes,” she said at last. “Ms. Charles. You’re here to see Ms. Cummings, Mr. Grainger’s admin.”
“Yes, that’s correct.” I nodded. “Patti Cummings.”
She picked up the phone and dialed a number. I strolled over to the plate glass window that took up the entire west wall and peered out. A lone guy on a bicycle had just entered the grounds. I thought for a moment he would come directly to the guard shack as I’d done, but instead he turned toward the gates and pedaled right on through, completely bypassing the automatic card readers.
I turned back to the guard. “Did you see that? That guy just rode his bicycle right past your security gates.”
The guard looked up, frowned, and then swiveled her chair around to a computer monitor. She hunched over it for several seconds before turning back to me. “Oh, that was Barry Gray. He always rides his bike in.”
“He’s an employee?” At her nod I frowned. “Shouldn’t he have swiped his badge, though? I mean, so you know he’s not a terrorist, or anything?”
Her lips compressed into a thin line. “It’s not necessary. We know who he is. He’s the head software engineer on Mr. Grainger’s newest project. He doesn’t drive.” She pushed a square of plastic with the word VISITOR in block letters through the slot in the window at me. “There’s your temporary admission badge. Show that to Darla at Reception. Drive straight back, park in Visitors against the wall, and enter through the main gray door.”
I pinned the badge to my jacket and hurried outside. As I moved toward the SUV, a dark, expensive-looking sedan suddenly came roaring out of a side lot. I caught a glimpse of a high forehead, wide eyes, and a cruelly slanted mouth as I jumped backward. The driver barely cut his wheel in time to avoid making me roadkill.
“Geez,” I said. “Someone’s in an awful hurry.”
“Sure is.” I glanced up to see the female guard almost at my elbow. She shook her head. “Guess he couldn’t wait for his driver.”
I stared after the vehicle, which had turned out of the driveway and was now little more than a speck in the distance. “Driver?”
The guard nodded. “He’s had one ever since his wife’s accident. That was Kevin Grainger.”
* * *
I parked in the section marked VISITORS and hurried up the cement steps and through the plate glass doors into what I can only describe as an opulent reception area. Thick, slate gray shag carpeting the same color as the building covered the floor, and I felt my three-inch heels sink in deep. I moved soundlessly across the lobby to the massive cherrywood desk that stood on a raised dais in the center of the room—a globe with twin rings around it, KMG’s logo, was emblazoned in 3-D on its center. The perky-looking brunette seated behind the desk wore a low-cut blouse and a brass name tag that proclaimed her DARLA. I showed her my badge and gave my name; she, in turn, consulted a typed list taped up to the side of her twenty-four-inch Dell computer monitor. She marked something off on a sheet, then picked up the phone, dialed a number. After speaking for about ten seconds in a very low tone, she hung up the phone, let the corners of her expertly made-up lips curve in the slightest of smiles, and pointed at the far wall with a blue-tipped fingernail.
“Take the main elevator to the sixth floor. Make a right and walk straight ahead. Patti will meet you there.”
I thanked her and did as I was instructed. No one else rode in the elevator with me, and I leaned my head against the wall, mentally replaying earlier events. Where had Kevin Grainger been off to in such a hurry? The fool had nearly killed me—whoever he was meeting must be damned important. What could be so earth-shattering he didn’t care if he ran an innocent person over? Several possibilities came to mind: winning the Powerball, a huge company merger—not that Grainger needed any more money—or something to do with his wife’s untimely death.
The elevator dinged and the door rolled back, and my heels sank again deep into more plush carpeting, this a deep latte color. I glanced at the crown molding on the walls as I turned right and moved forward down the long, deserted hallway.
“Miss Charles?”
The woman appeared in front of me suddenly, like a wisp of smoke, and I almost jumped out of my skin. I assessed her in one quick glance. Five-five or five-six, about a hundred twenty pounds poured into a form-fitting pencil skirt and a low-cut animal print blouse. Blond hair that appeared too golden to be out of a bottle was cut in a becoming style that framed an oval-shaped face with full lips and ice blue eyes. She had no identifying marks, tattoos, or scars—none that was visible to the naked eye anyway. I glanced at her red leather Manolos and reassessed my original take on her height, thinking how Chantal would swoon over those babies. She held out a perfectly manicured, French-tipped hand. I took it and winced a bit as her fingers closed over mine. For one who appeared so petite, she had a grip l
ike a sumo wrestler.
“I’m Patti Cummings, Mr. Grainger’s admin. Shall we?”
Her voice had a breathy quality, very Marilyn Monroe. I couldn’t decide if it was real or put-on. She released my hand, and I flexed my fingers as I followed her down the long hall into a large room that boasted a mammoth oak table with at least a dozen ergonomically correct leather chairs grouped around it. She seated herself at the head of the table and motioned me to take a seat. I slid into the chair on her left.
“So you’re Laura Charles’s daughter.” Her full lips twitched in the semblance of a smile as she opened the thick file in front of her. “On behalf of the management of KMG Incorporated, please allow me to express our condolences on your mother’s death. While many of us didn’t know her personally, she did a stellar job catering our events, and I know Mrs. Grainger in particular was fond of her sandwiches. Her creativity was surpassed only by her culinary skill.”
“Thank you,” I said. “I’m trying very hard to follow in her footsteps. As I’m sure you know, I’ve got some pretty big shoes to fill.” I waited a beat and then added, “I’d also like to express my belated condolences on Mrs. Grainger’s untimely demise. Which is, after all, the reason I’m here.”
“Yes, and I can understand your concern.” Patti Cummings gestured toward the stack of papers before her. “I—or I should say the committee—has been reviewing the file. Hot Bread has catered every single event KMG has thrown for the past five years. That’s a significant amount of business.”
“Yes it is.” I nodded. “It’s steady income that I’d certainly hate to lose, although I could understand the company’s reluctance to offer up a firm contract.”
Patti thumbed through what appeared to be a pile of receipts. “As near as we can tell, Hot Bread had no written contract with our firm. It appeared to be a matter of Mrs. Grainger’s personal choice.”
I nodded. “She and my mother were very friendly.”
Patti cleared her throat. “Mr. Grainger was most happy to leave catering details to his wife—she excelled at that sort of thing, you know. Planning charity functions, catering, the annual picnics and Christmas parties, any sort of event—Lola took charge of it all—commandeered it, actually—and did it beautifully.”
Meow If It's Murder (Nick and Nora Mysteries) Page 12
