“Excuse me.” She fished the phone out, glanced at the number, and then snapped it open with a brisk, “Yes, Daisy. What’s the matter?” She listened intently for a few minutes then sighed audibly. “Tell him we’ll be back shortly, and to wait until we get there. Surely twenty minutes won’t make a monumental difference in their schedule.” She snapped the phone shut, slid it back into her bag, and turned to me with an apologetic smile. “So sorry for the interruption. Where were we?”
Nan smiled over the rim of her coffee cup. “Well, before Nick distracted us, I believe we were about to discuss the pros and cons of a sit-down dinner versus a buffet.”
“Right. Well, I don’t think much discussion is necessary,” Violet said. “After all, it’s a costume ball. Formal dinners are lovely, but who wants to bother with all that at a masquerade?”
“True,” said Nan slowly. “But are we absolutely certain we should make it a costume affair? Most people do prefer a sit-down dinner.”
Violet peered at Nan over the rims of her glasses. “Nonsense. It’s the week before Halloween, so what could be more appropriate than a masquerade?” Her head swiveled in my direction. “What do you think, Nora?”
Uh-oh. The last thing I wanted or needed was to play referee. Fortunately I was spared getting in the middle as Nan held up both hands in a gesture of surrender. “You’re right, Violet. The fact it’s before Halloween totally slipped my mind. So, a costume ball with a buffet it is.”
Violet’s lips curved in a satisfied smirk. “Of course I’m right. Pleasant atmosphere, good food and drink, that’s the key. We want our patrons feeling good so they’ll whip out their checkbooks and give generously. After all, the happier the patron, the bigger the contribution, am I right?”
“Oh, listen to her. She’s so wise,” Nan whispered.
“Hmpf. Wise has nothing to do with it. It’s common sense,” Violet said with a snort. “Just like a big part of keeping ’em happy is getting ’em plastered.”
“Violet!” Nan’s jaw dropped and she shot me a quick look out of the corner of her eye. “You can be blunt as a knife sometimes.”
“Well, it’s true.” The older woman chuckled. “The more they drink the happier and looser they get, and then out come the checkbooks and better yet, the zeros on the checks!” She rubbed her hands together and closed one eye in a broad wink. “We spring for complimentary wine and soda, but the real proceeds flow from the cash bar. Which reminds me—Nora, do you know where we can find a good bartender? The position pays quite well.” She named a figure that made my eyes pop, and I immediately thought of Lance Reynolds. He ran the only tavern in Cruz, the Poker Face. I’d known him for years, dated him in high school. I was positive he’d agree. Not only could he use the money, but it would be great publicity for his own bar. I mentioned his name and Violet nodded solemnly.
“I’m ashamed I didn’t think of him right off,” she said, reaching into her purse. She pulled out a notebook and made a swift notation. “You wouldn’t happen to know a good photographer, too?”
“Actually, Remy Gillard is an amateur photographer, and he’s quite good.”
“The florist? We’ve already hired him for the centerpieces, so he might not be able to do both, but . . .” She made another notation in her little book. “It never hurts to ask. I’ll have Daisy get right on this.”
I arched a brow at the second mention of the unfamiliar name. “Daisy? I thought Maude always handled these details?”
“She did—before she decided to retire,” Violet said crisply. “She went to live in North Carolina with her daughter, without giving us any notice! Imagine!”
“Now, now, don’t be like that Violet. She did give us a week,” interjected Nan.
Violet gave her head a brisk shake. “You call that notice? Hmpf.”
Nan turned back to me with an apologetic smile. “We were very fortunate Daisy happened along just when she did. It was really a case of being in the right place at the right time. She happened to be in the museum and overheard us talking about finding a replacement. It’s a great opportunity for her. She just moved back to the States from London, and she was about to start job-hunting anyway. What do you call it again, when events intersect just so?”
“Fate,” I answered, sliding a glance Violet’s way. “I guess I always assumed that when Maude finally retired, Nellie would take her place.” Nellie Blanchard was a part-time docent who’d worked at the museum forever. It was no secret the woman aspired to an office position.
“So did Nellie.” Violet sighed. “Don’t get me wrong, she’s done a fine job as a docent, but office work is different. She wouldn’t have the freedom she does now. Plus, I’m not all that sure she’d be able to adapt to a nine-to-five routine. Believe it or not, she’s got a bit of a temper, and when things don’t go her way . . .” Violet fluttered her hand in the air. “Sometimes she can get quite . . . unpleasant, shall we say?”
I nodded. I couldn’t dispute any of what Violet had said. Nellie had never made any bones about the fact she enjoyed being able to set her own hours, and I’d once seen her hurl a paperweight at a deliveryman who’d refused to place a box where she wanted it. Still, she’d always hinted that when Maude went, she should be the next in line, and no one could really dispute her claim. She had the background and the experience, if not the formal education.
As if she’d read my thoughts, Violet said quickly, “It wasn’t an easy decision but I think it was the right one. Daisy’s rather young but her references were excellent. You’ll like her, I’m sure. So then”—Violet clasped her hands together—“are we in agreement on the menu? Buffet style?”
I nodded. “I have quite a few ideas on what can be done. I’ll outline a menu and get it to you.”
Violet’s eyes lit up. “You are such a dear to do this for us on such short notice. Now, don’t forget we’ll need to have some of your dishes named in line with our theme.”
I looked at the two of them blankly. “Theme?”
“Yes. We want the flavor of the ball to reflect the exhibit that debuts the following week.” She flicked an irritated glance toward Nan. “You did mention that when you brought over the contract, didn’t you?”
Nan hung her head. “I’m afraid I didn’t. I take full responsibility. It simply slipped my mind, what with all we had going on.”
Violet’s jaw shot forward, and before the older woman could make a disparaging remark I said, “It shouldn’t be a problem. What’s the theme?”
They both answered at the same time, talking over each other. “It’s a medieval exhibit.” “It concentrates on the Arthurian legends.”
“Arthurian legends? You mean King Arthur? As in Knights of the Round Table King Arthur? He’s a fictional character, right?”
“Well, that’s debatable.” Nan pushed back a bit in her chair. “The historical basis for the King Arthur legend has long been a point of controversy among scholars. One school of thought sees him as a genuine historical figure, a leader who fought against the invading Anglo-Saxons sometime in the late fifth to early sixth century. Then others . . .”
“Argue Arthur was originally a fictional hero of folklore, perhaps even a half-forgotten Celtic deity, whom they credited with real deeds in the distant past,” finished Violet. “There is no concrete evidence proving or disproving either theory, but Sir Rodney Meecham feels otherwise.”
I frowned. “Sir Rodney Meecham? The same Sir Rodney who founded the Meecham Foundation?” I’d heard of the man when a reporter friend had done a piece on him several years ago. Not only was he an avid collector of all things medieval, he was richer than King Midas and Bill Gates put together.
“The very same,” Violet said, her head bobbing up and down. “It’s his collection that will be on display.” She leaned in a bit closer to me, her voice now a hushed whisper. “Recently he was able to acquire a very, very rare artifact.
It will be shown for the very first time in the United States at our exhibit the night of the gala. That’s why it’s imperative everything be just perfect.”
“I see,” I said slowly. “And just what is this artifact, might I ask?”
Once again they answered in unison. “The grimoire of Morgan le Fay!”
As the two of them beamed at me, I frantically tried to remember everything I’d ever read or seen in the movies and on television about King Arthur and his legendary Knights of the Round Table, but the old gray cells were drawing a blank. “Sorry,” I said. “I do remember Lancelot and Guinevere. I can’t quite place Morgan le Fay, though.”
“She’s a powerful sorceress in the Arthurian legend. Even though early works describe her character as more of a magician, she became much more prominent in later prose works as an antagonist to Arthur and Guinevere. She is said to be the daughter of Arthur’s mother, the Lady Igraine, and her first husband, the Duke of Cornwall. Arthur is her half brother. Oh, she was quite the troublemaker.” Nan rolled her eyes skyward.
“And the grimoire?” I asked. “I’m not familiar with that term.”
“A grimoire is an ancient book of spells—a witch’s textbook, if you will,” Violet answered. “Morgan le Fay’s is supposed to contain the blackest spells in the entire world. The jewels that encrust its cover are supposed to act as conduits to her power. Legend or truth? It’s one of those mysteries that make the study of the Arthurian era so interesting. Was Morgan le Fay real or not, and if so, was she truly a sorceress of that magnitude?”
“She’s an important piece of the legend of Arthur, to be sure, and the grimoire, whether real or not, is of interest to many historians,” Nan added. “We’re counting on it to attract fresh blood to the museum.”
I couldn’t help but express my own concerns. “A piece so valuable—I just hope it doesn’t attract the wrong type of person, if you get my meaning.”
Violet leaned forward and brushed her hand against mine. “I do, dear. There have been a few incidents in the past . . .”
“She means attempts at theft,” Nan cut in.
Violet threw Nan a black look, cleared her throat, and then continued. “A few incidents, so I made it a point to contact the Cruz police force about stepping up the security detail for the length of the exhibit, and for the gala, of course.”
“Yes, so you needn’t worry about anything, Nora, other than preparing your excellent food,” Nan remarked, and then added with a twinkle in her eye, “Unless you think the grimoire and its history might make a good story for that magazine you write for.”
“Noir. It might. I’ll ask Louis.” Louis Blondell, the owner and editor of the online true crime magazine I wrote for part time, was always eager for any article that smacked of mystery—plus I owed him two pieces already. I tucked the tip about previous theft attempts away, determined to do a bit of research on my own regardless of whether or not he’d be interested—although knowing Louis, I was sure he would be. “I can name some of the sandwiches and main dishes after the more popular characters in Arthurian mythology. I’ll just need to do some research on them—and I know just the person to help me.”
“Splendid!” Nan gushed. “And several food critics will be there—they’re patrons of the museum—so it will be a wonderful opportunity for your shop, Nora. Why, you might generate more business than you can handle.”
“An increase in business is not a bad thing.” Violet glanced at her watch and rose. “We’d best get going. The exhibit manager is waiting for us back at the museum. Apparently there are many cases to unload. At this rate we may have to move the exhibit to the Red Room.”
Nan shrugged into her fleece jacket. “We’ll give you a key to the kitchen, so you can just stop in anytime to look it over or whatever. You can pick it up tomorrow, and do let me know if there’s anything you’ll need.”
Nan bustled out the door, Violet trailing at a slower pace. She paused to lay her hand on my shoulder. “I hear you’ve become quite the sleuth. I heard what you did for your sister, and I read the account of the Grainger case. Very impressive. Like that sort of work, do you?”
“I do. Then again, I enjoyed tracking down leads when I was a true crime reporter so I guess it’s really not that much of a stretch.”
She nodded. “Well, then, when you’ve got a bit of time to spare, stop by my office. There’s a matter I’d like to discuss that the sleuth in you should find quite a challenge.” She looked at me, and I caught a glimmer of a twinkle in her eye. “It involves a disappearance, and there’s even the possibility it might also involve . . . a murder.”
TWO
I finally found enough of my voice to squeak out, “A murder? Really?” But Violet had already sashayed out the door and into Nan’s waiting car, and I didn’t think it appropriate to chase after her. Warm fur caressed my ankles and I glanced downward. “Did you hear that?” I whispered to Nick.
He rubbed his head against my knee. “Merow.”
She’d spoken so low there was a possibility I might have misunderstood, and Violet did have a dry sense of humor, but somehow I didn’t think so. I resolved to quiz her at the first opportunity, certain that a story involving a murder would appeal to Louis more than an ancient grimoire. I stole a quick peek at my watch and looked at Nick. “How would you like to take a ride?”
He detached himself from my body and went immediately to the back door, tail flicking impatiently. I opened the door and Nick padded out and right over to my SUV, and started rubbing against the passenger door. I took that for a yes.
Twenty minutes later Nick and I were driving toward the middle of town and Poppies, the flower shop run by my BFF, Chantal Gillard, and her brother, Remy. Chantal had been away at a psychic convention in Los Angeles until last night, and I needed to fill her in on recent events; besides, I’d missed her company.
Nick chirped his approval when I indicated our destination. He’d always been fond of Chantal, and why not? She was good looking, she was psychic (my friend did possess a certain amount of ESP, which was a good bonding point with Nick, since cats are supposed to possess similar psychic abilities, doncha know?), and she had a delightful French accent (even if it was affected), plus she always made a dreadful fuss over Nick, even to the point of having him model cat collars for her line of homemade jewelry, Lady C Creations. (Okay, maybe that part Nick could do without.)
There was an empty parking spot right in front of the shop, so I pulled the SUV right in. Poppies is divided into three stores. The left side is the flower shop, which is usually brimming with customers and the fragrant smell of whatever buds Remy’s decided to have adorn the window for the display he changes on a weekly basis; the right side of the shop is Chantal’s, and divided two more ways: One side of the shop is set up like a tearoom slash New Age store. Chantal has a display of crystals, tarot cards, and the like, which she sells, and she also gives psychic readings via whichever method of divination the customer prefers. Another corner of the shop is devoted to her line of homemade jewelry and its newest addition: homemade pet collars. To that end, a large fifteen by thirty photograph of Nick himself wearing Chantal’s latest creation, a pale blue stretch collar with the pet name embroidered in colored beads, practically slapped us in the face when we entered the store. Nick let out a yowl of approval upon seeing his handsome puss so prominently displayed on the shop’s far wall.
The beaded curtain at the rear of the shop parted and my friend emerged. Today she was dressed in what I called her “gypsy motif.” She wore a multicolored maxi skirt with ankle boots and a white off-the-shoulder peasant blouse. A cheerful print scarf was wound through her short, curly black bob. Her wide blue eyes started to sparkle as soon as she spotted us.
“Chérie! And Nicky! Mon Dieu! Come here and give me some sugar. I have missed the two of you.”
I ran forward and let myself be enveloped in a bear hug to end a
ll bear hugs. Chantal might be tiny—five two and ninety-eight pounds soaking wet—but thanks to her gym membership she’s pretty much all muscle. She released me and we both looked down at the source of the plaintive “meow.”
“Ach, I could not forget about my favorite cat or model! Have you been behaving yourself?” Chantal hefted all twenty-plus pounds of Nick into her arms and snuggled her nose into his soft black fur.
“I think he enjoyed seeing his image on the wall. When did that go up?” I asked.
“Remy put it up while I was away. Do you like it?” Chantal leaned over to coo in the cat’s ear. “Nicky is my good luck charm. We sold a dozen collars in the last week!”
I wondered how many sales could be attributed to Nick’s poster versus Chantal’s sheer determination and salesmanship, but Nick’s lips peeled back and he rubbed his head against Chantal’s arm. She scratched him in his favorite spot, the white streak behind his ear, before turning to me. “So, how are you, chérie? You look—excuse the expression—like the proverbial cat who ate the canary.”
“That’s because I just landed a fabulous catering job, and, drum roll please, I may have another mystery to solve.”
Chantal grinned broadly. “Well, I can guess which of those two is responsible for your Cheshire Cat expression. As far as the catering goes, you know I will help you in any way I can, chérie, just as long as I do not have to do any actual cooking.”
I laughed at that. My friend is probably one of the only people on the planet who can’t boil water.
“No cooking. I just need a crash course in the Arthurian legends. I’m catering the Cruz Museum Gala. They’re—”
“Hosting that medieval exhibit,” Chantal finished. “I know. There was much discussion of this upcoming exhibit and the grimoire at the fair. Everyone was surprised Sir Meecham agreed to show the grimoire over here after what happened in London.”
Crime and Catnip Page 2
