Crime and Catnip
Page 1
More praise for the Nick and Nora Mysteries
“Claws for Alarm is clever, imaginative, and entertaining as a kitten stalking a make-believe mouse. The plot features all my favorite elements: an enterprising amateur sleuth, a quirky supporting cast, including a kitty with purrsonality, plus yummy recipes, a rambling old house, and twists galore. As a die-hard fan of cats and cozies, I’m putting T. C. LoTempio’s Nick & Nora Mysteries at the top of my Must-Read list!”
—Wendy Corsi Staub, New York Times bestselling author
“A page-turner with an endearing heroine, Claws for Alarm gives cause for pleasure.”
—Richmond Times-Dispatch
“Excellently plotted and executed . . . Absolutely five paws and a tail up for this tale!”
—Open Book Society
“A clever debut featuring a wild and furry sleuthing duo . . . A big ‘paws-up’ for Meow If It’s Murder!’”
—Ali Brandon, New York Times bestselling author
“An absolute delight, and Nick and Nora make a purr-fect mystery-solving team! I couldn’t put it down!”
—Michelle Rowen, national bestselling author of From Fear to Eternity
“[A] lighthearted and engagingly entertaining whodunit . . . This was a great read and I can’t wait to read the next book in this wonderfully terrific series.”
—The Cozy Chicks
Berkley Prime Crime titles by T. C. LoTempio
Nick & Nora Mysteries
MEOW IF IT’S MURDER
CLAWS FOR ALARM
CRIME AND CATNIP
BERKLEY PRIME CRIME
Published by Berkley
An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014
Copyright © 2016 by T. C. LoTempio
Penguin Random House supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin Random House to continue to publish books for every reader.
BERKLEY is a registered trademark and BERKLEY PRIME CRIME and the B colophon are trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.
Ebook ISBN: 9781101638521
First Edition: December 2016
Cover art by Mary Ann Lasher
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
The recipes contained in this book have been created for the ingredients and techniques indicated. The Publisher is not responsible for your specific health or allergy needs that may require supervision. Nor is the Publisher responsible for any adverse reactions you may have to the recipes contained in the book, whether you follow them as written or modify them to suit your personal dietary needs or tastes.
Version_1
For “Meg and Jenny Ferguson”
Wherever you are!
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Once again I would like to thank my fabulous agent, Josh Getzler, and his assistant, Danielle Burby, for their encouragement, hand-holding, and prompt answering of all my questions and concerns even when they’re trivial! I would also like to thank my editor, Kristine Swartz, and the entire editorial staff at Berkley Prime Crime for the fabulous job they do. A special thanks to the fabulous copyediting team, who managed to keep this manuscript on track, and a big shout out to Mary Ann Lasher for another fabulous cover. Best one yet!
A special shout out to my buddy Carole Nelson Douglas, who’s always there with a word of encouragement. (And Midnight Louie, too!) To all of the authors who’ve appeared on ROCCO’s blog—I love all of you so much! A huge thank-you to Emily Hall, Denise LeSeur-Waechter, Robin Coxon, Barb Bristol Weisemann, Laura Roth, and all the BETAS who graciously pre-read CATNIP for me! Your comments were much appreciated.
I would also like to thank my dentist Edward Levey, my pal Frank Saul and his wife Pat and my work buddy Hilary Anderson for allowing me to make them characters in my series. You guys are the best!
Finally, an author owes a lot to their readers, and I would like to thank each and every person who buys and reads the Nick and Nora mysteries. Your support means the world to me, and I look forward to sharing many more of their adventures with you in the future.
CONTENTS
More Praise for the Nick and Nora Mysteries
Berkley Prime Crime Titles by T. C. LoTempio
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
From Nora’s Recipe Book
About the Author
PROLOGUE
The moon hung, a pale silver orb silhouetted against an expanse of black satin sky sprinkled with a generous glitter of stars. Its rays sluiced through the blinds of a darkened room, basking on one particular object: a glass case in the middle of the floor, and the book that lay on the pedestal within.
The curtains at the far end of the room rustled, and a slim, dark shape emerged. Clad entirely in black, the only clues to its feminine gender were its gently rounded curves, highlighted by skintight jeans and a turtleneck sweater. She moved purposefully toward the far corner, checked the nickel-plated cylinder set above the door molding, then removed a tiny key from the jeans pocket, fit it into the hole, and twisted.
Alarm silenced. Check.
Next she moved to the glass case, sliding her hand into the inner pocket of her vest as she did so. Whipping out a tiny torch, she cut a hole into the side of the case, then reached in a gloved hand to grasp her prize. She held it up, smiling in satisfaction as the moon’s rays shone off the stones set into the cover, reflecting tiny beams of light. She plucked the largest stone, a brilliant red, from the cover and slipped it into her pocket. As she reached for the next she paused—the hairs on the back of her neck started to tingle.
I’m not alone here.
One thrust and the book was back inside the case. She pivoted at the exact moment another figure, also garbed in black, emerged from the darkness. At precisely the same instant, the sound of running footsteps in the adjacent corridor reached her ears. The other figure heard it, too, for he paused. She tore her gaze away for a split second to glance at the door and when she looked again, she was alone.
How did he do that? Where did he go?
The sound of a
door slamming back made her jump. Turning her head a fraction of an inch, she caught the silhouette of a man out of the corner of her eye. He stood in the doorway for a moment before dropping into a crouch. “Halt or I’ll shoot,” he barked.
She hesitated, uncertain, then suddenly spun around and charged to the left.
A shot rang out and a bullet whizzed past her cheek, too close for comfort. Heart pounding, she forced her legs to go faster. There was another door at the far end of the exhibit room that led to the back stairwell. If I can make it there, I’ll make it anywhere, her dizzied brain sang out. She was steps from her destination when another figure rose out of the shadows, blocking the door. Without breaking stride, she spun around and headed back in the other direction. Out of the corner of her eye she saw the guard approach, arm cocked, ready to take another shot.
Her gaze settled on the window, and she ran straight toward it just as another shot rang out. This time she felt a searing pain in her left side. She reached down, and her fingers came away covered in a sticky, dark red substance.
Blood.
It took a few seconds for her brain to process the fact that she’d been shot.
Her breaths came in short, labored gasps now. Two more steps and she was at the window. Even though her vision was slightly blurred, she could make out a VW bug, lights out, parked off to the side. Gritting her teeth, she swung her legs over the sill and just hung there for a moment, suspended in time and space. Beneath her, nothing moved. Everything was as still as a tomb.
Do I really want to do this?
Another shot rang out, shattering the pane of glass right above her hand. She heard a loud grunt not far behind her and then the pounding began inside her own head and the ache in her side reached a crescendo.
Her fingers lost their tenuous grip, and her whole body went limp. In the next instant she was sailing through the air, plummeting toward the unyielding concrete walk below . . .
ONE
“I declare, Nora, with food like this, the museum’s annual gala can’t help but be a success.”
I smiled politely at the speaker as I rose to refill my mother’s good bone-china bowl with tortilla chips. Nandalea Webb, the Cruz Museum’s curator, was a no-nonsense type of gal and as feisty as the Australian meaning of her given name, fire, implied. She waved a red-lacquered hand in the air, leaned forward in her chair, and reached for one of the deviled eggs on the tray in the middle of the table. She took a bite and batted lashes heavy with several coats of mascara.
“Heaven,” she murmured, dabbing at her salmon-pink-tinted lips with the edge of a napkin. “I can’t tell you how much the committee appreciates your stepping in to cater this year’s fund-raiser on such short notice.”
“My pleasure,” I assured her, reaching for a chip myself. “Not only would my mother have encouraged me, I consider it an honor. Anyway, I’ve catered events on less notice. Take Mac Davies’s retirement from the Cruz detective squad, for example. I had about twelve hours’ notice for that.”
“True, dear, but that wasn’t of the magnitude this is.” Nan’s teeth flashed in her version of a smile. “This will be a real challenge for you.”
“Well, we Charles women always love a challenge. Plus, I can definitely use the extra income.” I set the newly refilled bowl of chips in front of her. She took one, plunked it in my spinach dip (actually I can’t claim credit; the recipe is my Aunt Prudence’s), and popped it into her mouth. “My mother was always a staunch supporter of the museum. I know she would be proud.”
“Indeed she would be.”
I turned my attention to the other speaker. Violet Crenshaw was a lifelong resident of our little town of Cruz, California, with all the old money that usually implied. A senior member of the museum’s board of directors—probably the most senior, at age seventy-one—she was extremely well preserved. Slight of frame, her clothes fit her like a runway model. Today she had on a dress of lightweight, fire-engine red wool that screamed “expensive designer.” It was definitely a dress I’d have killed for, if the color didn’t clash with my hair. Violet’s own lavender-tinted hair was done in a becoming upsweep that set off her high cheekbones and delicate bone structure to great advantage. I could see why the women made such an effective team. Where Nan was outgoing and effusive, Violet was the more laid-back of the two, but just like the old saying went, still waters ran deep. Violet might tread softly but she carried a big stick, just like her idol, Teddy Roosevelt.
On this late autumn afternoon we were seated in the back area of the spacious kitchen that doubled as my office for Hot Bread, the sandwich shop I’d inherited from my mother a few months ago, to discuss me catering their annual fund-raiser. The Cruz Museum fund-raisers were always a big deal; expertly planned to raise a great deal of money, they paid very well. The catering firm they usually used had shut their doors abruptly a week ago. One of the owners had been diagnosed with a heart murmur, prompting the momentous decision to retire in Palm Springs and reap the fruits of their years of successful labor. I’d been approached for the job, not only because no other caterer in a twelve mile radius wanted the responsibility or pressure of catering a gala for two hundred people on such short notice, but also because my late mother, in addition to being a museum patron, had also been a friend to both Nandalea and Violet.
Violet helped herself to one of the finger sandwiches I’d prepared and eyed me with a steely gaze over the rims of her Ben Franklin–style glasses. “Your mother was an excellent cook, Nora. She put her all into Hot Bread. I always felt bad we had that long-standing contract with Phineas Rodgers. She would have enjoyed catering our affairs.”
Nan’s dark brown pageboy bobbed up and down in agreement. “Yes, she always supported our cause with generous donations. She loved Cruz and its history, and she loved the museum.”
“It’s very gratifying to see you taking over where she left off, following the family tradition.” Violet coughed lightly then added, “Family is so important. Sometimes one doesn’t realize how much.”
I caught the wistful note in the older woman’s voice and smiled. “I couldn’t agree more.”
“Er-owl!”
The two women jumped. The large (although portly might be a better word) black and white tuxedo cat sprawled across Hot Bread’s kitchen floor pushed himself upright to regard us with wide golden eyes. His ears flattened against his skull as his mouth opened, revealing a row of sharp, pointed teeth. He waved one forepaw in the air in an imperious manner.
“Ah.” Nan laughed. “I see your cat agrees family is important. What’s his name again?”
“Nick.”
“Nick Charles?” The two women burst out laughing. “That figures,” Nan said at last, her gaze sweeping the cat up and down. “He looks well cared for. What shelter did you get him from?”
“No shelter, although I do think that’s a marvelous way to adopt a pet. He just appeared on my doorstep one night, waltzed inside, and that was that. Honestly, I blame Chantal. She talked me into keeping him. Although I’ve never regretted it,” I added quickly. “It’s hard to tell sometimes who owns who.”
“Oh, I so agree. I’ve had a few kitties in my lifetime. One never owns a cat, dear. They own you,” Nan said with a wise nod.
Nick sat up on his haunches and pawed at Nan’s skirt, then flopped over on his back and wiggled all four paws in the air.
Violet peered at the cat over the rims of her glasses. “He’s quite the little ham, isn’t he?”
I suppressed a chuckle. “You don’t know the half of it. Ask Chantal. Nick is her unofficial model for her line of pet collars, and I swear, he just loves the camera and vice versa.”
Nick sat up, wrapped his tail around his forelegs, and cocked his head to one side as if studying the women. Then he got up, trotted over to the fleece bed in the corner, swiped his paw underneath the cushion, and reappeared a moment later with a catn
ip mouse. He trotted back to the group and paused, head cocked as if studying them; then he walked over and dropped the mouse at the foot of Nan’s chair and looked up expectantly.
“Well, will you look at that,” Violet said with a chuckle, as Nan picked up the mouse and flung it into a far corner. Nick scampered off after it immediately, his rotund rear wiggling. “He certainly knew which one to pick, didn’t he?”
Nick returned, the mouse clamped firmly between his jaws. As he started toward Nan again, I put out my hand and lightly touched his back. “That’s enough, Nick. We’re having a business discussion right now.”
He glanced up at me and blinked, then hunkered down beside my chair and proceeded to attack the mouse with his teeth and claws.
“Goodness,” Nan gasped. “It’s almost as if he understood you.”
Nick’s head lifted. “Merow.” He flopped over on his side with the mouse clenched firmly between his paws, and wiggled his hind legs.
Violet leaned forward in her chair for a closer look. “Intelligent little fellow,” she murmured. “I’ve always been a dog person, myself, but you know what? I think your cat could change my mind.”
Nick swung his head around, lips peeled back in what I termed his “shit-eating kitty grin.”
“Yes, he is very smart,” I said. “Maybe a little too smart, sometimes. His former human taught him well. I don’t know what I’d do if Nick Atkins showed up and wanted him back.”
Violet’s head jerked up and she fixed me with a stare. “Nick Atkins? The PI? This was his cat?”
I nodded, a bit taken aback. The last person I’d have expected to know the hard-boiled PI was the stately Violet. “Yes. I didn’t realize you knew him.”
Violet opened her mouth to speak, and then paused as her gaze darted from the cat to me and back to the cat again. It seemed as if she were unsure how to answer the question. The next minute the unlikely strains of “California Gurls” chirped from the depths of her purse. Violet a Katy Perry fan? Man, this day was full of surprises.