I refrained from saying that could well be the case, and nodded. Kristi seemed to be a talkative gal in a very talkative mood, so I decided it was worth posing another question. “How about Mr. Tabor? I heard there was a lot of resentment when he was appointed to his position.”
“Um, yeah. There were others much more qualified, but Buck went to college with Mr. Grainger, and he’s pretty good at selling himself.” She closed one eye in a wink. “You know what I mean.”
I nodded. The college angle was a good one. Had Buck learned something about Kevin there that he held over his head? “Well—this has been very interesting, Kristi.”
She shifted a bit uncomfortably. “Look, please don’t repeat anything I said. I’m probably way out of line, and I’d really hate to give you the wrong idea, especially if you’re going to be doing business with our firm.” Her tongue darted out, licked at her bottom lip. “And if Patti knew I was going on like this . . . Well, it’d be the unemployment line for me for sure.”
“No worries.” I made a motion of zipping up my lips. “Mum’s the word. Besides, I rarely listen to gossip. I like to form my own opinions.”
Kristi gave a relieved sigh and I fell into step beside her, then let out a little cry and snapped my fingers in the air. “Damn—I must have left my purse in the conference room.” As she started to turn with me, I waved my arm. “Oh, no. You go on. I can find my way to the elevators.”
Kristi hesitated, then shifted the folder in her arms. “If you’re sure.” She moved off, and I retraced my steps. I found my purse just where I’d shoved it—under my chair. I tucked it under my arm and paused for a moment, taking stock of the situation. It was pretty apparent Patti Cummings was a master at keeping her cool, but I knew I’d managed to rattle her cage a bit in more ways than one. Good.
Now that I was on a roll, I wanted to find someone else’s to rattle.
I moved into the hallway and looked around, wondering where Marshall Connor and Buck Tabor’s offices might be. I paused in front of a closed door with no name on it, and jumped slightly as it started to open and I could hear the soft murmur of voices. I glanced frantically about and saw another closed door, the name ALICIA SAMUELS emblazoned across the dark wood in gold letters. I crossed to it, said a silent prayer, and grasped the knob. It turned easily, and one quick glance assured me the office was empty. I let my shoulders relax a bit, then opened the door a crack and peered out.
Two men stood in the hall. One was short, squat, and had a shock of gray hair too thick and perfectly coiffed to be natural. The other appeared a bit younger, tall and muscular, with jet-black hair swept back from a high forehead and snapping black eyes. Both wore expensive-looking suits. The shorter of the two spoke so softly I had to strain to catch his words.
“He said some reporter was asking questions. Can you believe it? After all this time? He really got pissed, Marsh.”
“Yeah, Buck, I could tell by the way he peeled out of the executive lot. Almost ran some girl over, the fool,” the other snorted.
Marsh? Buck? My heart beat faster at the realization that here might be the other two members of that fated weekend cruise. I forced myself to focus as the shorter of the two, whom I assumed was Buck Tabor, pressed a finger to his lips. “Who knows what set all this off? I thought the questions were long over with.” He pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and swiped it across his forehead. “Well, it’s probably some hotshot out to make a name for himself. He figures he’ll solve a cold case. Our luck he’d pick this one.”
“It’s not cold, it’s closed,” the man whom I took to be Marshall Connor retorted. “What does Kevin think he’s going to accomplish?”
“You know Kevin.” Tabor sighed. “He goes crazy whenever Lola’s involved.”
“Well, no one can prove a damn thing as long as we all stick to the story. We were all asleep. That way they can’t prove squat.” He closed one eye in an exaggerated wink.
“Well, I don’t know about you, but I was really asleep,” Tabor chuckled. “Can’t prove anything by me.”
“Or me,” Connor agreed. “And we all know they’ll never prove anything by Patti. She’d die before she’d rat on the big man.”
“Yeah—I can’t understand that. Patti could have any man she wanted, but she wants someone who I doubt will ever see her as more than an efficient right arm.”
“You’re just pissed because she hasn’t given you the time of day since Lola’s death.” Connor’s laugh was deep and rumbling. “Sour grapes, eh, Buck?”
Their voices faded as they turned and walked down the corridor. I closed the door and leaned against it, rubbing my palms along the side of my skirt. They were slick with sweat.
So they’d all lied—every one of them, including no doubt, Captain Lott. From the sound of things, it was a group effort to protect Kevin Grainger. But from what? Murder—or something else? Chances were excellent I was the reporter they’d referred to—and if so, there was only one way they could have known that. So much for Lott keeping our chat confidential. Well, if nothing else, now I could be certain where his loyalties lie—and to be honest, who could blame the guy, after all Grainger had done for him?
My knees wobbled. Rather than take a chance on collapsing, I moved swiftly over to the cherrywood desk and eased myself into the soft leather chair behind it. I leaned forward and rested my elbows on the desk, taking several deep, calming breaths.
I’d obviously been away from crime reporting way too long. I’d taken bigger risks than this in the past without even breaking a sweat. I leaned back in the chair, let my eyes rove over the office. The top of the desk had a thin layer of dust on it, as did the computer monitor. Obviously Alicia Samuels, whoever she might be, had not used this office for some time. I flexed my legs, and was just about to stand up when my attention was drawn to a small pad to the left of the computer monitor, and the number scrawled across it.
368-555-9879
There was a date scrawled beneath the number: 8/14. I frowned.
August fourteenth was the date Lola died.
I opened my purse and pulled out my cell. I punched in the number and waited. After a few seconds I was rewarded with a woman’s mechanical voice:
“Hello, this is Lola Grainger. I’m not available to take your call right now. Please leave a message and I’ll get back to you.”
FIFTEEN
I took the elevator down to the main floor, handed in my guest badge at the reception desk, and hurried out to the visitor parking lot, my thoughts in a whirl. It seemed every time I thought a little progress was made—WHAM! Something happened to throw me ten steps backward.
In this case, it was Alicia Samuels. Who was she and why would she have Lola Grainger’s number in her office? What was their connection, if any? I’d never heard of her before, or seen her name bandied about in any of the news accounts. I wondered if Nick Atkins had known about her, and my thoughts drifted again to those missing pages. I suddenly felt the need to talk to Ollie. He was a professional investigator, after all. Maybe he could give me a fresh perspective. I shoved my SUV into reverse, put my foot to the gas, and heard the unmistakable crunch of metal.
Shit. It wasn’t a hard collision—Lord knows I hadn’t been going that fast. But fast enough, apparently. The sound had been loud enough to get my adrenaline going and the blood pounding in my ears. I slammed the SUV into park and got out, prepared to assess the damage. I walked around to the back bumper and saw the other car—a dark Acura, with a dent in the passenger side the size of a basketball. Swell. I forced myself to glance quickly at the driver’s side, and I frowned. It was empty.
“Well, well. I wanted to run into you again, but this is going a bit far.”
I whirled, and met the stormy gaze of none other than Detective Daniel Corleone.
Double shit.
“D-Detective Corleone,” I stammered. “Fancy meet
ing you here.”
One corner of his lip quirked. “Indeed. So where’s the fire?”
I looked dumbly from Corleone to the dented Acura back to Corleone. I pointed to the vehicle. “Your car?”
He nodded. “Yes. My personal vehicle. I only bought it last month. It’s got less than three thousand miles on it—and now it’s got its very first dent.”
Triple shit.
Words spilled out of my mouth in a babbling torrent. “Detective, I am so sorry! It was my fault! Totally!”
“No argument there,” he agreed, and held out his hand. As I looked at it questioningly, he wiggled his fingers. “Insurance card? You do have insurance, I hope?”
“Oh. Yes, of course.”
I turned and walked over to the passenger side of my vehicle, opened the door, and started rummaging in the glove compartment. As my fingers closed over the laminated packet that held my insurance and registration information, I could feel heat start to color my cheeks.
Of all the detectives in all the Acuras in Cruz, why in hell did I have to run into his?
I walked back to the car. Corleone was leaning casually against the rear bumper, arms folded. I handed him my insurance card. “Here. Just write down the information. The whole thing is my fault. If they won’t pay, then I will.” I mentally assessed what I had in my savings account. The damage couldn’t be more than nine hundred dollars . . . could it?
“Of course they’ll pay. And of course it was your fault.”
He copied down my insurance information into a little black book he removed from his jacket pocket, then handed the card back to me. “So?” he said. “Care to explain?”
I looked at him. “Explain? There’s really nothing to explain. I wasn’t paying attention, I’m afraid. I was thinking about . . . something else.”
He slipped his notebook back into his pocket and folded his arms across his impossibly broad chest. “Just what are you doing here?”
I didn’t answer at first—I admit it, I was momentarily distracted by the way his ash-blond hair fell in slight waves over his tanned forehead, and by those sleepy, sexy eyes with their dark—and impossibly long for a guy—lashes. He leaned a bit closer, filling my nostrils with his musky, clean scent. My vision suddenly seemed a bit fuzzy around the edges, and I took a deep, calming breath—and then I felt his fingers dig into my forearm.
“Are you all right, Nora? I asked what are you doing here, at the KMG offices? Playing detective?”
Startled, I jerked my arm out of his grasp. I sucked in another breath and my vision cleared. His face loomed before me, his lips drawn into a thin line, his eyes no longer sleepy and sexy, but with a visible glint of annoyance.
“I—no. Playing detective? No. I—why would you think that?” I stammered. In spite of his hostile stare, he was still damn sexy and he smelled delicious, and dammit, it was hard for me to think cohesively around him.
Quadruple shit.
“It could be because I’ve always found there to be a fine line between investigative reporters and detectives, or perhaps I’m still thinking of our conversation of the other day,” he said. “You remember? The one where you came to my office under the pretext of doing a story and tried to see if I was amenable to reopening the Lola Grainger case.”
His words snapped me out of the funk I’d fallen into, and my eyes blazed as I stared back at him. “Now hold on a minute. You agreed with me! Are you changing your mind?” I paused, and then added, “And there was no pretext. I am thinking of doing a story on the Lola Grainger case.”
“Funny. I spoke to your editor at Noir. Louis, right? He seemed to be very much in the dark about your story. Apparently he hasn’t given his approval.”
I nibbled at my lower lip. “Well, of course he hasn’t. I haven’t gotten all my facts and written it yet. But he knew I was considering doing it.” I tossed my head. “Besides, that’s not why I’m here.”
The eyebrow inched up another notch. “No?”
“No. I’m here, actually, on store business. Lola Grainger and my mother used to have ‘gentlemen’s agreements’ that Hot Bread would cater all of KMG’s social events. Now that both of them are deceased, I felt the need to make more concrete arrangements.”
“I see,” he said slowly. “So the reason for your visit today had nothing to do with Lola’s death?”
“No—it had to do with the fact I needed to firm up whether or not KMG still wants Hot Bread to do their catering.”
He was silent for a few moments, then shrugged. “Okay. Sorry. How’d it go?”
“They’re taking it under advisement. Right now I still have a lock on their Memorial Day event, but I lost the Fourth of July picnic. After that—it’s up to the new catering manager, whoever that may be.”
“Ah, so your inattention can be attributed to worry over future catering income from KMG?”
“For the most part.”
The frown deepened. “What does that mean?”
“It means I was wondering how I could possibly make up the money I’m losing over that Fourth of July contract.”
“Sounds to me as if there’s something else going on in that pretty head of yours. Mind sharing?”
Pretty head? Had he just called me pretty? I gave myself a mental slap upside the head and crossed my own arms over my chest. This was no time to dwell on whether or not he was flirting with me. My editor in Chicago had always told me, “When confronted with an immovable obstacle, the best defense is a frontal attack.” I stared straight into Detective Corleone’s baby blues and said, “Let me ask you a question, Detective. What exactly are you doing here? Your visit couldn’t possibly have anything to do with the Lola Grainger case, now could it?”
I saw a muscle work in his lower jaw. “As a matter of fact, it does. I thought I’d do some follow-up work. As I’ve already mentioned to you, you made some interesting points that I feel deserve more clarification. I phoned Mr. Grainger earlier.”
“Great. So—did he clarify?”
“He did not. He hung up on me, so I felt a personal visit was in order.”
I chuckled. “Well, you should have made an appointment. He’s not here. He left about two hours ago.”
His eyes popped. “He left?”
“Yep—as a matter of fact, he almost ran me over on his way out.”
“No kidding. Well, well—you have had a busy day, haven’t you?” He reached out, brushed a stray lock of hair off my cheek. “I don’t suppose you have any idea where he might have gone.”
Shelly Lott came to mind, but I hesitated sharing that. If Lott had squealed to Grainger, he might also do the same to the detective, and then I’d really be in deep doo-doo. I wanted to keep my investigating a secret from the good detective—for the moment, at least. Once I had something really concrete, then it would be a very different story. “Not offhand. But the others who were on board the yacht that night are all in their offices. You might want to question them.”
“I intend to.” His eyes searched my face for a minute before he added, “I know I said I’d call you tomorrow but since we’ve met up now . . .” He cleared his throat. “I still want to discuss this case with you.”
I offered him a thin smile. “Discuss? Or try and pry information out of me.”
He grinned. “Both, actually. I thought perhaps we might do it—over dinner.”
“Dinner?” I croaked. Was he really asking me out on a date?
“I know cooking is your occupation, but you still have to eat, right?” He gave me a dazzlingly wide smile. “Do you like Chinese? I thought we might get a booth at Wung Foo’s. It always seems pretty quiet there.”
“That’s because ninety percent of his business is takeout,” I said, and we laughed. “Sure, that sounds good. What time?”
“Does seven work for you?” He paused, and then added, “Tonight?”
That caught me off guard. I’d anticipated tomorrow. “Tonight?” I repeated.
“I realize it’s short notice, but as it happens, I have tonight off. So I thought—”
I held up my hand. “You don’t need to explain. Tonight’s fine. Seven’s fine. I—I’ll meet you there.”
“Excellent. I’m sure it will be a very useful evening.” He walked around to the driver’s side of his car and opened the door. “I’ll take your space, if you don’t mind. The lot seems quite full today.” His eyes twinkled and he smiled. I noticed the dimples that accentuated either side of his well-shaped lips. “Just be careful backing up. I’m rather fond of my front fender.”
Gee, he was hilarious. But I supposed when someone looked like he did, a sense of humor probably wasn’t all that important.
SIXTEEN
Nick was sitting in the window when I got back to Hot Bread, looking none the worse for wear. I wiggled my fingers in greeting as I opened the front door, and got an indifferent stare for my trouble. Chantal was behind the counter, cleaning up after the last of the lunch crowd. She glanced up as I entered and raised a hand to her forehead in dramatic fashion.
“Ah, chérie, you are back. Thank goodness.”
I set my purse down and walked over to the counter. I lifted the lid on the glass case, removed a brownie, and bit into it. “What’s wrong? Bad day? Don’t tell me Ramona Hickey was complaining again.”
“Ach, not the customers. Our boy over there.” She pointed an accusing finger in Nick’s direction. “He seems to have overdosed on naughty pills today.”
I glanced over at Nick, who still sat serenely in the window, tail curled under him. “He looks calm to me.”
“Now he is. You should have seen him earlier. Mon Dieu! He shook off every collar I attempted to put on him, the rascal.”
Meow If It's Murder (Nick and Nora Mysteries) Page 14
