Her jaw tightened just a bit. “It’s to be expected when one possesses an object many people find desirable.”
“The grimoire is desirable?”
Both her eyebrows rose. “Don’t sound so surprised, Ms. Charles. Of course it is, to historians and to those who believe in the occult. There are many who would like to possess it, to see if it does indeed have the power it is purported to have.”
“And you? Do you believe it has power?”
She shrugged. “It’s not my place to believe or disbelieve. What I can tell you is that if this exhibition goes well, Sir Meecham is open to leasing the exhibit to other museums here.”
“And by going well I assume you mean no attempts at robbery?”
Her lips twisted into a wry grin. “Something like that.”
“Do you have any regrets? About leaving your job with Meecham, and not being able to travel the world with the exhibit?”
She shot me a startled glance. “How did you know—oh, yes.” She let out a short laugh. “Investigative reporter, I almost forgot. You’re pretty good, Ms. Charles. I see why Violet asked you to help find her niece. I overheard Violet telling Nan about it.” She paused and then added, “I hope she isn’t making a mistake.”
I frowned. “Why would you say that?”
“Oh, I don’t know. I’ve learned people don’t always turn out exactly the way you hope. Sometimes it’s best to leave the past where it belongs—in the past.” She glanced quickly at her watch. “Goodness, I didn’t realize it was so late. I have to go. I’ll see you at the gala, Ms. Charles.”
She turned on her heel and walked away swiftly. I stared after her. My gut was telling me there was more to Daisy’s comment than she let on, but just what it might be, I had no clue.
* * *
I arrived back at Hot Bread and let myself in the side entrance. Nick came over and brushed against my ankles, meowing softly. I looked down at him. “Does this mean I’m forgiven?” I asked.
He rubbed his head against my shin. “Merow.”
I hefted him into my arms and buried my face in his ruff. “Okay, you’re right. I did promise you food, didn’t I? Okay, one late dinner is coming right up.”
I’d just finished filling his bowl with his favorite Fancy Feast when a tap-tap-tap at the shop’s rear door caught my attention. I peeped through the curtain and then flung the door wide to admit Ollie. His cheeks were flushed and his eyes bright, and I knew immediately something was up.
“I know it’s late,” he said. “But I had a busy day and only started going through the mail an hour ago.” He whipped an object out of his breast pocket and laid it on the counter in front of me. It was another postcard, a scenic view of New Orleans—a shot of the outside of a jazz club on Frenchman Street—and I turned it over to read the message written in the cramped handwriting I’d come to associate with Nick Atkins:
Here on Frenchman Street. At St. John’s Bar. Damn, the music is great! Too good to pass up. Ollie, you would love it here. Good beignets. Ollie, keep the faith.
“N”
I set the card back down. “It’s a bit wordier than the first message, and makes about as much sense. Which is none,” I said.
Nick hopped up on the table. He bent over, sniffed at the card, licked the edge, and then smacked his tail down on it, once, twice . . . all in all a total of seven times before he stood up, stretched, and leapt back onto the floor.
“Well, what was that all about?” I picked up the card, which looked none the worse for wear from its beating.
“Maybe Little Nick can’t decide if it’s from Big Nick or not, either. Myself, I’m starting to think these are forgeries,” Ollie said. At my look he continued. “The message is out of character. Nick would never say the music was great at St. John’s Bar, trust me.”
I pored over the card again. “It does look similar to the handwriting in his journals. If it’s a forgery, it’s a damn good one. At least this card isn’t smudged. The lab should be able to tell whether Atkins wrote it or not.”
“Maybe,” Ollie agreed. “I’m taking it there first thing in the morning.” He swiped at his broad forehead with the back of his hand. “I’m not sure anymore what to believe.”
As he started out the door, I called him back. “Why would you say he would never think the music was great at St. John’s bar?” I asked.
He tossed me a rueful grin. “Simple. Nick’s always hated jazz. He wouldn’t be caught dead at a jazz bar. No pun intended.”
NINE
By three forty-five Saturday afternoon I’d finished preparing the dish I’d named after Morgan le Fay. The Pepper Steak Stir-fry from my mother’s recipe cards was not only quick, it served a large number of people, two big pluses in my book. Chantal and Mollie had volunteered to run Hot Bread’s Saturday breakfast and lunch crowd so I could finish the preparations. Nick watched me from his perch atop the rear counter, occasionally dropping to the floor to scarf up a stray piece of meat. Chantal stuck her head in just as I was putting Saran Wrap over the last tray.
“Lunch crowd all gone and the place is pretty well cleaned up,” she reported. “Mollie had a big homework assignment so I let her go around two.” She eyed the trays, stacked neatly on my counter, and sniffed the air. “Um . . . that smells wonderful.”
“Morgan le Fay’s Pepper Steak Surprise.” I grinned. “I saved the best for last, I hope.”
Chantal eased herself onto a nearby stool. “Something is bothering you, chérie, I can tell. Want to talk about it?”
I told Chantal about what had happened with Daniel and Daisy, and my belief that both of them had lied to me. Then I told her about the second postcard from Nick. When I finished she closed her eyes and was quiet for several minutes, then she said, “I get a sense that they are from Nick, chérie. As for what he’s written . . .” Her shoulders lifted. “Ollie is right. I believe there is a message from Nick hidden somewhere in them.”
I crooked an eyebrow. “I don’t suppose your sixth sense can enlighten me as to how I can decipher it, or better yet what this message is?”
She opened her eyes and shook her head. “I can only sense so much. The rest is up to you. You’re the detective, after all. But I have every confidence you will figure it out.”
“Thanks. That makes one of us.”
A sharp “Meow” warbled out from underneath the table, and a sleek black paw swiped at the edge of the tablecloth.
“Sorry. Two of us,” I amended.
Nick hopped up on the counter. He lifted his paw, tapped it once against the counter, paused, tapped once more, and then thumped his tail down hard for a final time before turning around and then sitting—plop!—right on the furry appendage. He looked at me with his steady, unblinking gaze.
“I think he is trying to tell you something, chérie.” She laughed. “See how serious he looks.”
I had to admit he did indeed, or at least as serious as a cat could. He flipped his paw in the air, waved it. “Merow,” he croaked.
I groaned. “Oh, Nick. I’m not fluent in cat speak. It would all be so simple if you could speak English.”
Chantal laughed. “Oh, and by the way, Remy wanted me to thank you for referring him to Violet and Nan for his photography skills.”
“Not a problem. Is he going to do it?”
Chantal shook her head. “He has two other floral jobs that same night so regretfully, no.” She tapped the face of her watch. “I’ve got to get back. I have some ladies coming over. They ordered custom jewelry to wear with their medieval costumes. This gala might improve my business, too. I’ll check in with you later.” As she shrugged into her coat and departed, Nick’s paw darted out and touched my wrist. He inclined his head toward his food bowl.
I shook my finger at him. “How can you possibly be hungry after all the samples I slipped you, you little scavenger? You’ve eat
en better today than I have all week.”
“Merow,” Nick said. He jumped down from the counter, landed right at my feet, and waddled over to his bowl. He placed his paw on it and blinked twice. “Merow.”
“An endless stomach, that’s what you have, Nick,” I muttered. I reached beneath the counter and pulled out a can of Fancy Feast Yellowfin Tuna. I emptied the contents of the can into Nick’s bowl. He looked at me, tapped his paw twice on the floor, and then hunkered down in front of the bowl. A few moments later the sound of contented slurping reached my ears. My stomach rumbled, apparently not satisfied with the half English muffin I’d had for breakfast or the small portion of samples I’d scarfed down for lunch. I pulled two slices of honey whole wheat bread out of the breadbox and was headed toward my display case when I heard my cell phone chime. Seeing Hank Prince’s number on the display, I wiped my hands on the first available rag and eagerly scooped up the phone.
“Hey. I didn’t expect to hear back from you so fast.”
He chuckled. “I got lucky. Got a minute?”
I pulled out a stool and eased myself onto it. “Sure. Shoot.”
“Well, this Angelique Martone seems to be quite a woman of mystery. I managed to dig up her last address in Cruz and called her landlady. Unfortunately, the woman had zero information on her. Apparently Angelique kept pretty much to herself. She did, however, describe Angelique’s gentleman caller. Tall, lantern jawed, dark hair with a white streak behind one ear.”
“Nick Atkins,” I murmured.
“He fits the description,” Hank agreed. “Seems they had a humdinger of an argument the night before she moved out. And, a few days before that, the landlady saw Angelique having an altercation with another girl. The girl stood in the shadows, so she couldn’t see her face; the only description she could give was she was about the same height and weight as Angelique.”
“How about New Orleans? Anything turn up on that end?”
“Not so far. Petey’s out of town on another case, and my other guy isn’t having much luck. It’s like this Angelique doesn’t exist.”
“I’m sure she does,” I said, and then slapped my forehead with my palm. “Wait, I’ve got a photo of her. Ollie gave it to me. I can scan it and send it to you.”
“That would be a big help,” he agreed. “Now, you also asked about Henri Reynaud. The guy graduated summa cum laude from Oxford with a degree in Art History, and has been working for the Meecham Foundation for a number of years. Apparently he’s regarded as a valued and trusted employee. Local authorities did investigate him when the near-theft of the grimoire occurred, but apparently he had a good enough alibi that they dropped him from the suspect list.”
“What about his sister—Magda? I understand she worked at the gallery at that time as well.”
“Didn’t hear anything about a sister, but I’ll check.” Hank paused. “Now here’s the part you’ll really be interested in.
“Alexa Martin—daughter of Durwood Martin. Graduated from Edna Karr High School, attended Our Lady of the Lake College in Baton Rouge. Dropped out in her second year—that was when her dad took ill.”
I frowned. “Isn’t that a nursing college?”
“Primarily, but they do have other programs. Alexa was enrolled in the Arts program, and her major was Art History. I managed to pick up her trail right after her dad’s funeral. She withdrew all the money in her account, a little over two thousand dollars, and boarded a plane for London, England. Guess where she got a job about a week later.”
“Not the Meecham Foundation?”
“Bingo! Even though she didn’t finish college, her grades were excellent. Plus she got a good recommendation from one Mr. Henri Reynaud.”
“Reynaud!” My jaw dropped. “You have got to be kidding! How on earth did she manage that?”
“Well, here’s the thing. She might not have. I read through Paul Mitchell’s notes. He investigated that angle before he retired to Florida. When he interviewed Reynaud, the guy denied ever writing the letter, and he said he didn’t know anyone named Alexa Martin.”
“So the letter’s a forgery?”
“It could be. There’s no confirmation either way. Apparently the Foundation is a big place. Alexa’s job permitted her to work from her home a good deal of the time.”
“Work from home.” I sighed. “That’s a sweet setup.”
“Sure is. As a matter of fact, her neighbor across the hall had a similar one. Seems she worked for the same place, too.”
“Oh, don’t tell me. Her neighbor was Daisy Martinelli?”
“No. This girl’s name was Doris Gleason. She took a job at the Foundation so she could put herself through journalism school. She continued it after she got her degree and a job; no one’s quite sure why. Maybe she planned on furthering her education at some point and wanted to sock some extra money away.”
I let out a low whistle. “Now that’s interesting. So Doris and Alexa knew each other?”
“You’d think so, wouldn’t you, but I can’t find anything that would substantiate a relationship between the two. Although here’s something you’ll find interesting. A week after the attempted theft, Doris Gleason abruptly quit both jobs, moved out of her flat, and, as far as anyone knows, the country. Daisy Martinelli moved into the flat and got hired in her place immediately afterward. Now here’s something real odd: The day after the theft, Alexa Martin phones in, quits, and seemingly vanished into thin air.”
“Both of them?”
“Yep. No one’s heard from either Doris or Alexa since. I checked hospitals, morgues, newspapers—no record of an obituary for either girl. No Jane Does unidentified in the morgues, so maybe Atkins’s info on Alexa being dead didn’t pan out.” He paused. “There’s something else you should know about Alexa Martin. Apparently when she was sixteen, she got into a pretty big scrape, bad enough to be hauled down to jail. From what I understand, charges were dropped, but since she was a minor, the records were sealed.”
I tapped my chin with the edge of my nail. It was possible Alexa had started to take after her father early on. “What about the injured thief? Anything turn up on that angle?”
“Zip. Listen, I’ve got to dash, but send me that photo.”
I hung up and then just sat for a minute, cupping my chin in one hand, staring off into space, mulling over everything Hank had told me. More and more it seemed as if Alexa Martin might have followed in dear old dad’s footsteps with her career choice. But what had happened to her? I was almost afraid to find out.
I decided to concentrate for the moment on my second woman of mystery—Angelique. Maybe her photo would produce a breakthrough with the Nick Atkins angle. I’d been certain I’d slipped it into the front compartment of my tote, but a quick look revealed it wasn’t there. I turned the whole bag inside out and when nothing turned up, I rummaged through all the drawers in the kitchen and storeroom before heading upstairs to do the same to my kitchen, den, and bedroom.
No photo.
I stood in my bedroom, scratching my head, and saw something out of the corner of my eye, peeping out of the corner of Nick’s fleece cat bed. I walked over and lifted its edge.
The photo of Angelique lay there, on top of a square bit of paper. I lifted both up and saw that the latter was Daisy’s business card. The corners of both had been chewed clean through, tiny teeth marks discernible in the edgings of both.
“Nick, for goodness’ sakes.”
As if on cue, he appeared in the doorway. He saw what I had in my hand, threw his head back, and let out a loud yowl. Then he stamped his paw twice on the carpet, turned around, and wiggled his rotund bottom underneath my bed.
I leaned down and peered underneath. He was curled up in a ball in the far corner, tail wrapped around his body. Two golden eyes stared balefully at me, and no amount of coaxing could make him come out. At last I gave up and strai
ghtened. I looked at the two objects I held in my hand.
It would appear that Nick wasn’t particularly fond of either Angelique or Daisy, and I had to share his sentiments, at least where Daisy was concerned. The jury was still out on Angelique, but from past experience even I had to admit Nick’s intuition was rarely wrong.
Like his former owner, my cat had a sixth sense about crime.
TEN
“Nora, you look so charming! Are you supposed to be Gretel? Or Little Miss Muffet?”
It was a little after four on Sunday afternoon. I glanced down at my short red-and-white gingham-checked dress and frowned. “Isn’t it obvious?” I pointed to a scarlet hooded cape draped over the back counter and the little wicker basket that sat next to it. “I’m Little Red Riding Hood.” I looked appraisingly at Chantal’s costume. The gold gown with its miles of creamy lace edging went well with her fair complexion, and its low neckline showed off her slim shoulders. A wig of flowing blond locks covered her own cap of dark curls, a twinkling tiara nestled in its middle. “You look like the fairy tale princess you’re supposed to be,” I assured her. “So am I to assume Rick Barnes is Prince Charming?”
“And a handsome one he will be, if he got to the rental shop on time, that is.” Her eyes widened and her lips formed a perfect O. “Please do not tell me that Daniel is going as Grandma!”
The thought of Daniel Corleone decked out in a granny nightgown and gray wig made me chuckle. “Hardly. Daniel’s going as the Big Bad Wolf, complete with full head mask! Thank goodness it was still there when I called yesterday.”
“I bet he is thrilled.” Chantal chuckled. “What did he say when you told him?”
“He didn’t complain, but I did hear him gulp a lot.” I laughed. “Honest, I’ll be shocked if he shows up in it. I’m fully expecting him to come up with some excuse to don a suit and tie and say he’s either James Bond or Bruce Wayne.” I picked up my red cape and slung it around my shoulders, then went over to the basket, where I paused.
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