The sense of revelry that had dominated the evening had long dissipated. Now costumed revelers sat huddled in groups, waiting their turn to be questioned by the CSI team before being ushered off the premises. Cruz Homicide boasted a team of six detectives, counting Sergeant Broncelli, and I had no doubt they were all here tonight. Daniel stopped to give instructions to two uniformed policemen, and I couldn’t help thinking that he appeared to be the one in charge, even though it was supposed to be Broncelli’s show. Speaking of which, where was the erstwhile sergeant? I hadn’t seen him around, save for those few moments outside the grimoire room. It crossed my mind I hadn’t seen him all night. Chantal’s tarot reading came back to me: Proceed with extreme caution. Follow your gut.
Too bad those two didn’t necessarily go hand in hand.
I was so lost in my thoughts I didn’t hear Daniel come up next to me. I jumped as he touched my arm.
“This is the reason I wanted you to go home,” he said in an accusing tone. “You’re dead on your feet. No pun intended.”
I stretched my arms wide. “I still have to find Nick. He’s around here somewhere.”
“Did you check your car? For all you know he might have gone right back there.” He held out his hand. “Give me your keys. I’ll check it out and be back in a few. Stay here till I get back.”
I handed over the keys and Daniel hurried off toward the kitchen. I ambled over in the direction of the bar. A quick glance showed it was closed. A uniformed policeman was over there, talking to Lance. I noted that he’d finally tracked down Jose, who stood right beside him, looking decidedly uncomfortable. I could sympathize. Crime scene interviews aren’t exactly a barrel of fun.
I knew that all crime scene investigations begin with the interview. The interview process is an exacting one. It’s used to determine the type of crime (in this case, murder), what happened during the criminal act, and how it was committed. Back in Chicago, the CSI team would interview the first officer who arrived on the scene, and then branch out to any actual victims or witnesses of the crime. In a case like this, with no eyewitnesses, the team would question people to determine who, if anyone, might have seen or noticed anything of value. With a crowd like this, that would be a gigantic undertaking. Most of the information collected during these types of interviews was not always factual; much depended on first impressions, witness testimonials, and memories. In a case where multiple witnesses and interviews are involved, the information will not correlate with the evidence collected at the scene nine times out of ten.
Nonetheless, it was this information that would become the foundation of the investigation. The officer in charge, most likely Broncelli in this instance, would have the unenviable job of disseminating and dissecting the information collected, determining what was useful and what was not.
And ultimately using said information to track down a killer.
I was feeling more than one pang of guilt. I was, in police vernacular, “withholding pertinent information.” Well maybe not so much withholding it as just not sharing it. But I couldn’t help it.
I had a gut feeling, or what Chantal would call a vibe, that Daisy’s death might somehow be linked to the prior attempt to steal the grimoire, and also to Violet’s niece, Alexa Martin. Just what that connection might be, however, I hadn’t the faintest idea. Somehow that woman in red was part of it, but I hesitated to say anything without some proof. I’d done that once, early on in my career, and a criminal had nearly gone free because what I’d said had pointed the police in the wrong direction. I was loath to do that again, especially if Violet’s niece was involved. No, I needed something more tangible to go on before I said anything to either Daniel or Samms.
And I had an idea, albeit a risky one, of how I might go about getting just that.
FOURTEEN
“You look like you could use a drink.”
I looked up and into the somber face of Lance. His lips crooked up at the corners and he placed his hand gently on my elbow, guiding me back toward the bar. He helped me up on one of the stools then slid around to the back and started rummaging beneath the counter.
“Heard you were the one who discovered the body,” he said, his voice muffled. I could hear the clink of glass as he shuffled bottles around.
“All in a night’s work,” I said, leaning both elbows on the wood counter and cupping my chin in my hands. “Actually, it was Nick and another little furred friend of his who led me downstairs.”
“Yeah? Well ain’t that somethin’. Bet it wasn’t a pretty sight. That gal had something on her mind all right. She came over here, ordered a Horny Toad—don’t give me that look, it’s a nice sweet drink.” He threw his hands up as I raised both eyebrows. “The ladies love it. Anyhow, she didn’t drink much of it. First that guy who looks like Mandrake came over and tried to talk to her and she cut him right off. Then some lady dressed as a gypsy hag started to approach her, and she took off thataway.” Lance pointed to a set of French doors. “And then some chick all in red followed her out. Yep, she was one busy lady. Think one of them did her in?”
Since he’d named all three of my prime suspects, I couldn’t help but nod. He dipped his head below the counter and a minute later he straightened, a bottle of Ketel One clutched in both hands. “I think this calls for a Thin Man special, and I’m not talking tuna melt.”
“A Thin Man special, eh? And what would that be?”
“Think about it. What was Nick Charles’s drink of choice in those movies?”
I chuckled. “A very dry martini. But I don’t like martinis.”
He closed one eye in a broad wink. “You’ll like this one.”
He poured a generous amount of vodka into a nearby blender, added some pink liquid and sugar, blended it for about twenty seconds, then poured it into a tall glass and pushed it in front of me. I eyed it, took a tentative sip.
“Oh, that is good.”
“You can use any juice but I like pink grapefruit. Add in a generous helping of sugar and vodka and—voilà! It’ll calm your nerves.”
I’d been watching the preparation, and judging from the amount of vodka he’d put in, I hoped that was all it would calm. “My nerves are fine.”
He leaned across the bar. “You think they’re fine, but finding a corpse isn’t exactly something one does every day.”
“Yeah, well, Nick and I have found more than our share lately, or at least Samms seems to think so.”
Lance’s gaze traveled to the other side of the room, where Samms stood in conversation with another policeman. “You know, when I first heard he was in town I thought maybe he’d come to pay you a visit.”
I picked up the glass, took a sip, and made a face as the liquid burned a trail of fire down my throat. I set the glass back on the bar, swallowed, and said hoarsely, “Why on earth would you think that?”
Lance poured himself a generous helping of the juicer-tini and downed it in one swallow. He wiped his lips with the back of his hand and looked me straight in the eye. “Chantal mentioned the two of you have a past.”
Oy, how many people had my friend told about Samms? “College. Long time ago. Over it.”
Lance waggled his eyebrow. “Yeah? You never really forget your first love, you know.”
“Who said Samms was my first love?” I said quickly. I tossed him a devilish grin. “And here I thought you were.”
“Aw, thanks, but we both know that’s not true.” He poured some more juicer-tini into his glass. “I, for one, will not forget the shabby way he treated Lacey, even if deep down he did believe in her.”
“Lacey’s forgiven him. Apparently they’ve struck up a sort of friendship. He even got her a part-time job as a sketch artist. She was pretty upset when he left St. Leo.”
Lance tossed back more of the drink and then set the glass down on the bar. “Well, there’s one bright spot anyway. If he’s doing
guard duty for that exhibit, he’ll only be here for another week or so. That’s a relief, right?”
“Why do you say that? Oh, wait!” I held up my hand. “Please don’t start that again. Samms means nothing to me, and I’m sure I mean even less to him.”
He topped off my glass with the remainder of the juicer-tini and pushed it toward me. “Maybe you don’t think so, but I’m a man, sweetums. I can tell when a guy’s got a thing for a girl, and it’s very evident Samms has . . . well, let’s put it this way. He feels something for you.”
Almost as if he knew we were talking about him, Samms turned his head and looked straight across the room at us, or rather, at me specifically. He scowled darkly, then turned back to the other patrolman.
“Yeah,” I said, picking up the glass. “He feels something all right. Can you say disgust?”
“That’s not disgust, sweetums. That’s lust.”
“Riiight.”
He took both my hands in his. “Listen, you’re not the first person to be torn between two suitors. History is full of love triangles. For example, there’s Superman, Lois Lane, and Lana Lang. Rick, Ilsa, and Victor. Scarlett, Rhett, and Ashley . . .”
“You do realize those are all fictional characters.”
“Hey, life imitates art.”
“Enough.” I jerked my hands free. “I hate to burst your bubble, but there’s nothing for me to feel guilty over. No love triangle here.”
“Uh-huh, if you say so. Just remember, there’s a fine line between love and hate.”
I was spared more soul-searching advice from Lance by the appearance of Bill Kelly, a detective who often came into Hot Bread. He walked over to us and nodded at Lance. “Mr. Reynolds, we have just a few more questions, if you don’t mind,” he said, throwing me an apologetic look. I said good-bye to Lance and wandered over to the bay window. I pulled over a nearby chair and proceeded to mull over the evening’s events. I replayed Daisy’s altercations with Reynaud, Magda, and the woman in red over in my mind. Out of all of them, the one with the woman in red had been the most dramatic.
“It sounded as if they were working together on some matter that put the two of them in danger. Yet, at the end, Daisy seemed unsure about something. What?” I muttered to myself.
I wished Nick were here. Even though the cat couldn’t answer me, I always felt better going over my theories aloud with him. And he somehow found a way to either agree or disagree, to point me in the right direction, something I sorely needed right now. I brushed my bangs out of my eyes and thought about the information Hank had supplied.
Doris Gleason had worked at the Meecham Foundation, ostensibly putting herself through journalism school. She’d obviously worked part-time on a London paper, because she’d written one of the two articles I’d found about the attempted theft of the grimoire. Then Doris vanishes. Enter Daisy Martinelli, who takes over not only Doris Gleason’s flat but her job at the foundation. But what if Doris hadn’t disappeared? What if she’d merely dropped out of sight, maybe to work on a story undercover? If the story concerned the grimoire and the Meecham Foundation, she might have needed another pair of eyes and ears to remain there, to keep her informed on current events.
Those eyes and ears could have belonged to Daisy.
I tugged at a stray curl. There were a lot of holes in my theory. For one, I had no proof that Doris Gleason and Daisy Martinelli had ever known each other. For another, what sort of story would Doris have dropped out of sight to follow? And did it have anything to do with Alexa Martin, or was that just wishful thinking on my part?
The scenario that made more sense was that Alexa and Doris knew each other, had plotted the grimoire theft together, and had barely escaped. Or had they? A thief supposedly had been shot, and neither girl had been heard from since. That could have been the basis for Nick Atkins cautioning Violet her niece might be dead. As far as Daisy’s murder went . . . who had a motive? If Doris were the woman in disguise as the Red Death, and she and Daisy had indeed been working together toward a common goal, it was doubtful Doris would have murdered her; she would have had no reason to. But possibly Magda or Reynaud did. It would certainly help to know just what beef each of them had with Daisy, and if it were strong enough to kill over. Furthermore, if Daisy and Doris were that close, it was also a good possibility that Doris might have a good idea who the murderer was, and that would have put her in danger.
Watch your step, Red. You shouldn’t take what doesn’t belong to you.
Thinking about my attack made me shiver. My thoughts went to the missing purple stone, and the fact that it had mysteriously disappeared out of my pocket right afterward. Had that been what my attacker had referred to, or could it be something else? And if retrieving the stone had been the reason for my attack, what significance could it possibly have?
Nothing made sense.
I set my lips. Back in the day, I used to assemble clues on cases I was working and keep them locked in my desk. Perhaps Daisy might have done the same. Better yet, I knew the museum personnel had lockers near the offices. Lockers were always a good place to secret stuff you wanted to keep hidden. Hey, it had worked in high school.
I started to make my way over to the main staircase when a heavy hand clamped down on my shoulder.
“And just where do you think you’re going?”
I met Samms’s stony stare with one of my own. “What are you, writing a book? Leave that chapter out.”
“Very funny.” The grip on my shoulder tightened. “I thought you promised Daniel you’d stay out of the crime scene.”
I bit down hard on my lower lip to keep from screaming my answer. “The crime scene is downstairs, in the basement. I was just about to go up the stairs.”
“So you were.” He quirked an inky brow. “And what’s the attraction up there, may I ask?”
I thought fast. “I wanted to get my purse and things, you know, so I’d be ready to go home when Daniel got back.”
“Bzzt! Wrong answer.” His eyes flashed sparks. “I happen to know that you and Chantal locked your purses in your van.”
I bit down hard on my bottom lip, trying to cover up my consternation. “And just how do you know that?”
“I’m an ace detective, after all.” He smirked. “Plus, Chantal told Rick that before they left. She called her brother so he’d leave the door open for her. Oh, and I almost forgot. She asked me to tell you she’d pick up her things in the morning.”
Rats! “Oh, all right, if you must know . . . I wanted to see if Nick was up there. With all the commotion down here, he might have opted for a quieter place.” As Samms remained stonily silent, I added, “You know, the faster I find my cat, the faster I can get out of here . . . and your hair.”
His gaze raked over me, and then he sighed. “Fine. But I’m coming with you.”
I felt my stomach lurch. “That’s really not necessary. I’m sure you have a lot to do here.”
He held up his hand. “No buts. After all, in case you should stumble across yet another dead body, as you are wont to do, at least this time you’ll have a police officer right on the scene.”
I had no answer to that, at least none I could say out loud. We climbed the rest of the stairs in silence.
* * *
The second floor of the museum was where its administrative offices were located. We stood for a minute at the edge of the long hall, getting our bearings.
“The offices are off to the right, if I remember correctly,” I said. “There are a few empty rooms they keep for file storage down the left end, so how about if we split up? You take the right, I’ll take the left. It’ll go faster that way.”
“We’d much rather be thorough than fast, right? Two pairs of eyes are better than one, particularly when you’re looking for cats. They’re devils when it comes to picking out hiding places, am I right?”
I set my
lips. Shaking Samms wasn’t going to be easy, but I had to think of something if I was going to hunt for Daisy’s locker. I squeezed my eyes shut and said a quick prayer.
“I see a door ajar. Let’s start at this end,” Samms suggested. We’d only taken two steps when his beeper went off. He swore softly and looked at it, then turned to me. “I’ve got to get back downstairs.”
I noted the granite expression on his face. “Is something wrong? What’s happened?”
“Nothing you need concern yourself with.” He slipped the beeper back in his pocket and let his arm sweep wide. “Go ahead, start looking for those cats. I’ll be back as soon as I can. Try not to find any more dead bodies, too, okay?”
I made a face at his retreating back, said another silent prayer of thanks, and turned toward the door that stood partially open.
As good a place to start as any.
I knew the minute I entered the room I’d hit pay dirt. Coats were tossed carelessly over desks and chairs, and I could see the edges of purses peeping out from some of them. There were a few lockers positioned against one wall. I moved toward the lockers first, and started to pull them open. The ones without locks were all empty, but there were a few in the bottom row that had bright, shiny combination locks dangling from their handles.
I sighed. I hadn’t even thought about a lock. It would be just my luck if Daisy’s locker were one of those.
Fortunately, luck was with me. The last locker on the bottom row yielded a snappy brown twill jacket that was very stylish and modern and something I could easily envision Daisy wearing. The bag on the floor was an envelope-style purse, made of buttery soft mocha leather. It had a chain strap and an outside pocket. I was just about to slip my hand into the pocket when I heard the soft creak of a floorboard. I dropped the purse and whirled around.
Crime and Catnip Page 11
