“Wow.” Hank whistled. “What sort of circumstances?”
“Your guess is as good as mine. It could be her disappearance and possible death plays a part in his vanishing act as well. Violet wants to find out if the girl’s still alive, and if so, where she is.”
“You think Atkins tracked her to New Orleans?”
“It’s possible.” I hesitated and then said, “Could you do me one more favor? Check out a girl named Daisy Martinelli.”
“You think she figures into these other two disappearances?”
“No. It’s more to satisfy my curiosity. She’s the new admin here at the Cruz Museum. And also a guy named Henri Reynaud. He’s the director for an Arthurian exhibit here.” I twirled a red curl around one finger. “Let’s call this Unofficial Mystery Number Three. They both worked at the Meecham Foundation at the time an attempt was made to steal a valuable artifact. I’m just wondering how much of a coincidence it is that they’re both here together again, at its first US showing.”
“Well, you know how I feel about coincidences.”
I sure did. Hank felt the same way I did, that there was no such thing. We chatted for a few more minutes and then I hung up and dug out my trusty laptop. I keyed in “Meecham Foundation—Morgan le Fay Grimoire—theft” and hit enter. To my surprise, I only got two hits. Both were from London newspapers, and both were very small, sketchy articles. All they said was that an attempt had been made to steal Sir Rodney Meecham’s latest acquisition, but the theft had been thwarted. The second article, by a Doris Gleason, carried the additional information that a guard had been wounded and was in critical condition. Neither article carried any mention of the thief being hurt or wounded, as Chantal had implied.
I printed out the articles, shut off the laptop, and went back downstairs into my shop, Nick trailing at my heels. First I checked out the trays I’d gotten up early this morning to prepare: eight each of lasagna, chicken, and beef stroganoff. Then I sat down at the counter and pulled out the cream place cards I reserved for special catering occasions. I carefully lettered four of each—Lancelot’s Lasagna, Merlin’s Magical Chicken, Mordred’s Beef Stroganoff. I leaned back to survey my handiwork. My fancy script was a bit rusty, but they still looked nice. I had the appetizers all in place, but I still needed to prepare something really special after Morgan le Fay. I was poring through my mother’s old recipe cards when I heard a tap-tap at my back door. I peered through the curtain and opened the door with a squeal to admit the six feet, two inches of dirty blond, masculine, total hunk that is Daniel Corleone.
“Daniel! When did you get back?”
“I just got in. My bag’s still in the car. I have to check in at the office but I wanted to see you first.”
He stood very close to me, and I sucked in a deep breath. He smelled faintly of sage and sweat, definitely manly. His hands slid up my arms to rest on my shoulders and we just stood there for a moment or two, gazing deeply into each other’s eyes. It was what my sister Lacey would have called a “heart-stopping moment,” the point in the romance novel or the movie right before the hero and heroine lock lips in a passionate kiss to end all kisses, one that usually ends up in the bedroom.
We didn’t do that, probably because at the moment when Daniel’s lips started to veer in my direction, I got a mental image of his caller ID popping up on Samms’s cell phone, which produced a sudden fit of coughing on my part.
Daniel’s hands came off my shoulders. We both took two steps back.
“What’s all this? Looks like you’ve got a big catering job.” His sharp gaze took in the disheveled appearance of my kitchen, from the empty pans scattered across the floor to the recipe cards strewn all over my counter.
“I do.” I plucked the gala flyer from its place on the wall and pushed it under his nose. “I was a last-minute substitute, but it’s a big job. It pays really well, too.”
He plucked the flyer from my hand and studied it. “You’re catering this?”
“Yep, but mainly because I was the only caterer willing to accept the job on such short notice. But if it’s a success, there’s no telling how much new business it’ll generate. Why, Nick might be able to have steak three times a week, instead of when I have a special once a month.”
At the word steak, Nick lifted his head and warbled out a loud “Merow.”
Daniel laughed. “Seems the way to your cat’s heart is through his stomach. And it would appear a big catering contract is the way to yours.”
I chuckled. “So, does the FBI have any galas coming up that need catering? Better book me now.”
“None on the immediate horizon.” He set the flyer back on the counter and eased his long frame onto one of the stools.
“How did your trip go? Or can’t you talk about it?” Daniel never could talk about open FBI cases. He shrugged.
“Not as well as expected. It’s just a temporary setback, I hope.” He inclined his head toward the flyer. “On a more pleasant note, I have Saturday afternoon and Sunday off.” He reached out and touched the tip of my nose with his finger. “How would you like an escort to that gala?”
I raised my eyebrow. “Really? You’d want to go to this? It’s a work event for me, remember.”
“But not for the whole evening,” he said with a boyish grin. “I’m sure if we put our heads together we could manage to have some quality time for the two of us.”
I leaned both elbows on the counter and stared him straight in the eye. “This offer, along with this unscheduled time off, wouldn’t have anything to do with your earlier call to Leroy Samms, or the fact he’s pulled guard duty on that grimoire, would it?”
He didn’t even bat an eyelash. “I guess you ran into Lee at the museum, huh?”
“Sure did. He informed me he’d been drafted for guard duty right around the time your name popped up on his caller ID.”
Daniel shrugged. “I’d originally been going to turn down his request to help out, but now that I know you’re catering the affair, I’m glad I said yes.”
I looked him straight in the eye. “Are they expecting another attempt to steal the grimoire? After all, a masked ball’s a pretty good venue for a thief. I can think of half a dozen movies where it worked out perfectly.”
“I believe it’s just a precautionary measure. The owner, Sir Rodney Meecham, is a fanatic about his collection.”
“So I’ve heard. That grimoire must be pretty valuable, to rate an FBI guard.”
“An off-duty FBI guard,” Daniel amended. He pulled a stick of mint gum from his pocket and held it out to me. I shook my head, and he unwrapped a piece, popped it in his mouth, and then leaned over the counter. “So, what do you say?”
I threw up both hands. “Okay, you’ve convinced me. It’s a date.”
He flashed me a full wattage smile, dimples and all. “Okay, then, I guess the next step is to decide on a costume. I thought about . . .”
“No, no, no!” I held up my hand, traffic-cop style. “Please don’t tell me you want to go as an FBI agent!”
“I was thinking of a profiler.” He chuckled. “Or a spy, like James Bond. Tell you what, though. I’ll let you pick my costume.”
I looked at him. “Really? You mean it?” At his nod, I waved the flyer under his nose. “Sucker.”
“Meow.”
We looked down. Nick squatted his entire furry length across Daniel’s feet. I laughed. “See, even Nick agrees.” I peered closer, and could see the edge of something white peeping out from underneath his rotund belly. “Looks like he’s brought you a present.”
Daniel gave him a poke and Nick rolled to one side. I gasped as I saw what Nick’s body had covered. The photograph of Nick Atkins and Angelique. I could have sworn I’d put it in the zipper compartment of my tote but, as I full well knew, mere zippers never seemed to stop Nick from acquiring things he perceived as his property.
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Daniel stared at the photo. He turned it over in his hands. “Where did you get this?”
I reached for it but Daniel held it out of my grasp. “Ollie gave it to me. That’s Nick Atkins and his last girlfriend, Angelique Martone.”
Daniel’s brows drew together as he stared at the photo. “Angelique Martone?”
I nodded. “Yep. Apparently she and Nick Atkins had quite a serious relationship, but they had a big fight and she took off.” Daniel didn’t reply, just kept staring at the photo. For a brief second I thought I caught a flicker of annoyance in his blue eyes, and then his expression cleared. He set the photograph back on the counter and abruptly stood up. “Sorry to cut this visit short, but I’ve got to get going. I’ve got a few reports to file at the office. I’ll give you a call about the details.”
“Still trust me to pick out your costume?”
He hesitated only slightly. “Absolutely.” He bent over, gave me a quick peck on the cheek. “Later, alligator,” he whispered, his breath hot on my cheek.
He walked out the door with a wave. I leaned against my counter, tapping the photo of Angelique against my palm. At my feet, Nick bleated out a plaintive meow. I set the photo on the table, reached down, and hefted him into my arms, cradling him against my chest. I buried my face in his soft fur.
“Daniel’s not telling the truth, Nick,” I whispered. “He knows Angelique somehow.”
Nick burrowed deeper into my arms. “Merow.”
“Right. What if she’s involved in some way in this new case of his? What if the FBI’s after her for some reason? What if . . .” I stopped speaking and gave a little shudder. There were starting to be entirely too many “what ifs” for my taste. As much as I hated to admit it, maybe Ollie was right.
Finding Angelique might only lead to more trouble, indeed.
EIGHT
I locked the door after Daniel, finished arranging my trays, and then, because my curiosity would not be stifled, trotted back upstairs, Nick at my heels, to fire up the laptop once again. Forty minutes later I leaned back in my chair, frustrated. I’d tried everything I could think of but had found nada on Angelique Martone, other than one brief mention on the Whitepages website. I said a silent prayer that Hank’s sources would have better luck, then went back to load the trays of food into my SUV. Nick cantered at my side, and when I’d finished he hopped into the passenger seat and looked expectantly at me.
“Merow.”
I grasped him firmly around the middle and took him back inside. “Sorry, bud. There’s no detecting to do at the museum, just the boring unloading of food trays. Maybe next time.”
He cocked his head, blinked twice, then held out a paw. “Merow?”
I shook my head. “No, I mean it. You can’t come with me.”
He abruptly turned his back on me, tail high in the air, and marched directly to the far table. He wiggled underneath without a backward glance. I sighed.
“Cattitude I don’t need, Nick. Tell you what, you be a good boy and I’ll give you an extra-big bowl of cat food when I get back.”
Silence greeted me. Well, what did I expect from a cat who was used to getting his way ninety-nine percent of the time? I made certain, though, to check the SUV thoroughly before I started off. It wouldn’t have been the first time Nick tagged along for the ride, and I was positive it wouldn’t be the last, either.
* * *
It was quarter past eight when I pulled into the parking lot. I noted all the other cars and trucks were gone save for one lone black sedan parked a few spaces away under a spreading elm tree. It no doubt belonged to one of the security detail personnel. Apparently guard duty was a 24/7 job. I wondered idly if it were Samms who’d drawn the late shift. Resolutely I squared my shoulders, putting all thoughts of Samms, Daniel, grimoires, missing nieces, and missing PIs from my mind and just concentrated on unloading my food.
I’d just slipped the last tray into the freezer when I thought I heard a slight sound in the corridor outside. I tiptoed over to the door and opened it just a sliver, enough to peek out.
The corridor was deserted.
I paused. What I should have done right then was haul ass out of there and go home. So, naturally, instead I slipped out into the main corridor and took a quick look around. Far down I caught a glimmer of light, so I proceeded to follow it. A few minutes later I found myself in the main exhibition hall again, with the familiar white-sheeted cases. I glanced in the direction of the room where the grimoire was kept and noticed that the door was closed. Impulsively, I walked over and twisted the knob.
Locked.
I moved into the rear corridor, which was also dark, but I could see a circle of light all the way at the end. Hopeful of finally running into someone who might be able to help, I inched my way along the corridor. As I approached the source of the light, I heard voices raised in anger. I paused and flattened myself against the wall, inching along until I came to the opening. I peeped cautiously around the corner and saw Daisy, her face flushed, facing another woman wearing a long black skirt and blouse, whose back was to me.
“I refuse to continue this discussion with you, Magda.” Daisy’s voice rose slightly, enough so that I could hear every word. “As usual, your babbling makes no sense.”
The other woman thrust out her arm and grabbed Daisy’s wrist. “You seem to forget, I was there in London, too. I know you would like to discredit me with Henri.” Her long finger jabbed into the younger girl’s chest. “I am warning you, mind your own business.”
“You’re nuts. If anyone should mind their own business it should be you.” Daisy shook her arm free and took a step backward. The other woman turned and I caught a glimpse of a beaked nose, sagging skin, and glittering eyes. This woman could have easily played any one of the three witches in the opening scene of Macbeth without benefit of makeup.
“Hah!” She shook her mane of greasy hair. “You think I don’t know about you and your agenda?”
“What agenda? I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Daisy jabbed her finger in the air right under the older woman’s nose. “Stop being dramatic. You and I both know . . .”
Her voice dropped to a whisper, and I couldn’t make out another word. I inched a bit farther along the wall, so intent on doing that, I didn’t see the loose floorboard until it was too late. My foot caught and down I went. A few seconds later both women were framed in the doorway, staring at me.
“Ms. Charles,” Daisy stammered. “What are you doing here?”
“What do you think she’s doing?” Magda snorted, folding her arms across her chest. “She is spying.”
“I most certainly am not,” I lied, struggling to my feet. I noticed neither woman offered to help me. “I was just finishing unloading the entrees.”
Magda’s eyebrows rose. “And what? You thought you’d take a walk and snoop through the museum.” She glared at Daisy. “How do we know she’s not a thief? That she’s not after the grimoire?”
I brushed off my pants. “I’m most certainly not a thief, but I confess I was a bit curious to see the exhibit. Is that a crime?”
Magda shot a black look in my direction, one that clearly said she wasn’t buying my innocent act. She turned to Daisy. “I’ll be in the prop room. We’re not finished with our . . . discussion.” With another dark look in my direction the old woman stalked off.
Daisy brushed her hand across her forehead. “I’m so sorry, Ms. Charles. Magda is one of Reynaud’s exhibit assistants. She’s worked for Meecham, golly, it seems like forever. She can be a bit . . . testy, and a mite overprotective of her brother.”
My eyebrow lifted. “Brother?”
“Yes. Henri.”
Wow, there was a shocker. That was like saying Rosie O’Donnell and Brad Pitt had been separated at birth. Aloud I said, “No need to apologize. I get the sibling thing, and she was right. I shouldn
’t have been snooping around after hours, but I confess I am curious about this exhibit. Until I drew this job, what I know about King Arthur and his Round Table would fit on the head of a pin.”
Daisy’s eyes twinkled. “If you’re that interested, I can give you a preview.”
I nodded. “I’d like that.”
She started to move away. “Give me five minutes, and then come on in.”
I did as she requested. The first thing I noticed was all the tarps and covers had been removed. The glass cases gleamed in the pale overhead lights with their bounty. I stood in the doorway for a moment, taking it all in.
“Overwhelming, isn’t it?” she said. “We tried to make it look just as it does at the Meecham Foundation in London.” She gestured toward a large case filled with swords. “This case contains swords used by the Knights of the Round Table.”
I peered at the assembled collection, each with a beautifully scrolled placard in front of it. “I don’t see Excalibur. Isn’t that the fabled sword in the stone?”
“Because it is not here. However, Excalibur is by no means the only weapon associated with Arthur, nor the only sword. For example,” she pointed to a dagger with a jeweled hilt, “this is Carnwennan, the dagger Arthur used to slice the Very Black Witch in half. And this,” she pointed to a long spear, “is Rhongomyniad, a spear also used by him. And this,” she pointed to another long sword with a handle of green and red stones, “is Seure, which belonged to Arthur but was used by Lancelot. The placards in front of each tell a bit about their history.”
“Fascinating.” I glanced around the crowded room. “You’ve certainly assembled a very impressive exhibit, not only of Arthurian artifacts, but all things medieval.”
“Sir Meecham has,” Daisy said. “It’s an honor to work with him.”
“It seems as if you enjoy your work,” I said. “Although I imagine you didn’t enjoy that theft attempt.”
Crime and Catnip Page 6
