Crime and Catnip

by T. C. LoTempio

  “I don’t even want to know when you got here, or how you managed to hide this so our intruder didn’t find it—but I’m glad you did. Now maybe we can start making some sense out of all of this. They’ve got to mean something for someone to try and run me off the road, but what? The sooner we find out, the sooner we can turn everything over to Daniel and Samms and let them worry about it.”

  The tea forgotten, I carried the pouch over to the desk and tipped it over. The gem and slip of paper spilled out onto my blotter. I pulled my laptop over and booted it up, then keyed in “synthetic gemstones.” About two dozen sites came up. I clicked on one and then clicked on the tab marked “Physical Properties.” I scanned the options, paying particular attention to the one titled “Allochromatic.” It stated Allochromatic gems were susceptible to color enhancement or change, which might account for the odd black etchings I saw. I found another site that had color photos; however, none of them seemed to have those tiny black flecks in them. Perhaps the gem was defective? I picked up the slip of paper and studied the numbers—318 4181516. Maybe an item number? From where? I picked up my cell, dialed Hank. He answered on the first ring. I could tell from his brusque tone he was in the middle of something, so I asked him if he knew a good gemologist who could check something out. After he assured me he did, I took a photo of the gem and paper with my phone, emailed them to Hank, then replaced the actual items in the pouch. I slipped the pouch into the middle drawer of my desk, locked it, and then picked up a pad and pen. I eased myself gingerly into my recliner. Nick lofted himself up and arranged himself on the chair’s arm.

  “Ordinarily this would warrant dragging out the murder board, but since I’m not in top fighting shape”—I touched my rib cage lightly—“a pad and pen will have to do.”

  I balanced the pad on my lap. Across the top of the page I wrote:

  Murder Victim: Daisy Martinelli

  Possible Suspects:

  Henri Reynaud

  Magda

  “Red Death” (Doris Gleason?)

  Then beneath that I wrote:

  Motives:

  Reynaud got Daisy into Meecham, but she admitted the two of them butted heads. I heard them arguing twice. I saw Reynaud outside the locker room upstairs, with two stones that looked like the ones on the grimoire’s cover. Question: Could Reynaud have been involved in the first theft attempt somehow, and did Daisy know about it? Was she blackmailing him? Did he make another attempt tonight, and did Daisy catch him? Was she murdered to shut her up? Were the stones Reynaud had the ones from the grimoire?

  I frowned at my last entry. It was possible, I supposed, that Reynaud might have attempted another theft and been caught—it would account for the two stones I’d seen him with. But if Daisy had caught him in the room, why was she strangled in the basement? Of course, he could have moved the body . . . but why? After a minute I added:

  Significance of stone I found in Daisy’s motel room? Same color as stone in grimoire that Reynaud did not have—is there a reason? And what do those numbers found with the stone mean? Purple stone I found outside kitchen vanished from my pocket—how and why? Was that attack meant for someone else—or was it to retrieve that stone? (Which would mean my attack was premeditated)

  I gave a little shudder and continued writing:

  Magda and Daisy seemed to argue a lot. Magda is Reynaud’s sister—could she be trying to protect him from Daisy? Possible she knows if Reynaud is the thief, or they could be in it together.

  I chewed the top of my pen almost off before I wrote down my observations on my last suspect:

  “The Red Death” aka “Woman in Red” aka Doris Gleason?

  DG was a reporter for a London paper, and also worked briefly at the Meecham Foundation. Lived briefly across the hall from Alexa Martin before moving out and having her flat taken over by Daisy Martinelli. Coincidence? Alexa and Doris both dropped out of sight at around the same time? Another coincidence? Daisy said she never met Alexa, yet some neighbors claimed they’d seen them speaking. I found that photograph of them at a Walk for Cancer benefit. Why would Daisy lie? Did she have some sort of evidence that tied Doris and Alexa to the grimoire theft?

  Daisy hinted Violet would be best off not knowing the truth about her niece. Could Alexa and Doris have been involved in the grimoire theft together? Could Alexa have been injured . . . or killed?

  Is the “Red Death” Doris Gleason? What were she and Daisy conspiring on?

  I turned to see Nick watching me, his paws folded, head cocked. I set the pad and pen over to the side and tapped my knee.

  “Let’s try this on for size. What if Daisy were working with Doris Gleason on a story? What if there were more to that grimoire theft than meets the eye. What if . . .” My eyes strayed to the desk drawer. “What if Alexa did make off with something—not the grimoire, but—a red jewel? Maybe someone really did try to kill her!”

  I frowned. Something about that stone was important, all right. Maybe even important enough to kill over. I thought again about the warning hissed in my ear the night of the gala—if the assailant was talking about the red stone, then they might have thought I was . . .

  “Alexa Martin?” My eyes snapped wide. “Holy Hell, that would mean she’s alive! And Daisy and Doris might be working with her to catch the real thief and protect her. If they know each other, they’re all connected from somewhere, but where?”

  Out of the corner of my eye I saw Nick hunker down next to an old chair. He stretched out on his side and, the next instant, began to bat cubelike shapes out from underneath the chair. I sighed. One never knew just where Nick hid his favorite plaything—Scrabble tiles—but you could always be certain they’d appear at the oddest times. I got up and moved closer; Nick saw me coming and rolled over so I could plainly see the three tiles he’d lined up:

  Z, T, A.

  I picked them up, laid them across my palm. “Wow, Nick. You’ve really hit the jackpot with these. They don’t even spell out a decent word.”

  He shot me what I imagined was the cat version of an indolent stare. “Merow.”

  “It might make sense to you, Bud, but it’s Greek to me.”

  Nick got to his feet, laid a paw on my leg.

  “Don’t tell me you understand Greek,” I said, and suddenly it was as if the proverbial light bulb went on over my head. “Nick! You really are trying to tell me something, aren’t you? This isn’t meant to be a word, is it?”

  “Merow,” he purred, then pointed his paw straight at my laptop. I hurried over, booted it up. Once it came on, I called up Google and did a quick search. A few minutes later, I leaned back in my chair.

  Zeta Tau Alpha

  Zeta Tau Alpha is a nationally recognized sorority. Their motto is Love, the greatest of all things.

  Zeta is very involved in charitable organizations, and often inducts honorary members into its ranks, usually women active in breast cancer research and awareness, philanthropy . . .

  I went over to my tote, pulled out the photo and the small pink ribbon pin I’d snatched from Daisy’s purse, and turned them over in my hand.

  I fished my cell out of my purse and punched in Hank’s number again; this time I got his voice mail. I left a message for him to do some digging to find out if Daisy Martinelli, Alexa Martin, and Doris Gleason might all have been made honorary members of Zeta Tau Alpha. Not leaving anything to chance, I texted him the same message.

  Nick crawled onto my lap, and I stroked his glossy black fur. “You and those tiles came through again,” I said. “After all, as Hank himself had pointed out, fraternity—and sorority—members stuck together like glue, through thick and thin, no matter what. Even through theft . . . and murder.”

  “Merow.” Nick said.

  SEVENTEEN

  “Mer-oow!”

  I yawned and winked one eye open. Nick was sprawled on my chest, his golden
eyes wide. “Merow,” he said again.

  “Yeah, and good morning to you, too,” I grumbled. After texting Hank, I’d immediately gone to bed and crashed, fully intending to get about two hours of shut-eye before going downstairs to open up Hot Bread. I turned my head slightly and glanced at the clock on my bedside table and nearly had a stroke. It was eleven-thirty!

  “Gosh Nick,” I cried. “Why’d you let me sleep so late?” Usually my feline wants his breakfast first thing, regardless of how late I may have stayed up the night before, and he makes his feelings known by knocking off every article on my dresser. “Why didn’t you get me up?”

  “Probably because I fed him very early.”

  I glanced toward my doorway. Chantal stood there, dangling the house key I’d given her in the air. “Both Samms and Daniel called me and told me to watch out for you today. I also straightened up a lot of the mess.”

  “How nice of them, but I’m fine . . . ow!” I gave Nick a gentle push off my tummy and threw off the comforter. My whole body felt as if I’d been run over by a steamroller. “Ooh, dammit. The doctor said the soreness should have worn off by now.”

  Chantal eyed me. “You didn’t get much sleep, did you?”

  I rubbed at my back. “I got more than I intended.” I cast my friend a sideways glance. “Say, if you’re up here—who’s minding the store? Mollie had the day off.”

  Chantal came over and perched herself on the edge of the bed. “Do not get mad, chérie. I made an executive decision. I closed Hot Bread for the day.”

  I struggled to sit up. “You what?”

  “You heard me.” Both of Chantal’s hands flew up in the air. “Ach, chérie, sometimes you can be so stubborn! How do you expect to get back into shape if you do not get proper rest?”

  My lips twisted in a rueful grin. “As we both know, I stink at resting. I’m better off when I’m active.”

  “This is true, but you’ve been through a lot. Your customers will understand.”

  “Yeah, the Java Nut will be happy,” I grumbled. “They’ll get all the fallout business.”

  “And after going there, your customers will appreciate your good cooking all the more.” Chantal gave me a little push into a chair. “Sit back, relax, and I will make you a nice breakfast. Or a lunch. Whichever you prefer.”

  Both my eyebrows wafted skyward. “You who hate to cook will make me breakfast? Did I hear right?”

  “For you I would make the ultimate sacrifice.” She put a finger to her chin, tapped it lightly. “How about some scrambled eggs?”

  I stared at her. “When did you learn to make scrambled eggs?”

  “I haven’t,” she responded cheerfully. “But I have seen you and Remy make them. How hard can it be?”

  I couldn’t help but be touched by her offer. For Chantal, standing over a hot stove was tantamount to having one’s nails ripped out. “I appreciate the gesture, but I can do it.” I held up my hand as my friend started to protest. “After all, I’d planned on opening up today anyway. It doesn’t take much to whip up omelets, and I promise I’ll just sit and relax with you after I make breakfast.”

  “Deal.” She tossed me a wink over her shoulder as she started for the door. “Besides, you owe me details of all that happened last night. I am anxious to hear about your near brush with death.”

  “It wasn’t a near brush; it was just a little accident.”

  “Oh, I’d hardly call it that,” came a voice from the hallway.

  I looked sharply at my friend. “Oh no. Is that who I think it is?”

  “Samms. Yes. Daniel is here, too,” Chantal said with a sheepish grin. “I told them to wait in the living room and I would see if you were up to visitors.”

  I sighed. Knowing Samms and Daniel, I was positive that both of them would camp out in my apartment until I was able to talk to them. I sucked in my breath and swung my feet to the floor.

  “Fine. Show ’em into the kitchen. Guess it’s Spanish omelets for four.”

  Twenty minutes later Samms and Daniel were settled at my kitchen table, both pairs of eyes trained on me as I cracked eggs into a large mixing bowl and added a splash of milk. I whisked them thoroughly, then walked over to the stove where I’d put the skillet on low. “To what do I owe the pleasure of this early morning visit, might I ask?”

  Daniel’s sharp gaze raked me head to toe. “You still look bushed. Did you get any rest at all, or were those brain cells firing up all night long?” he asked.

  “I got some sleep,” I admitted. “You two really didn’t have to come over here to check up on me.”

  “That’s not the only reason for our visit,” said Daniel. “We have things to discuss.”

  I had put peppers, onions, scallions, and ham into the skillet while we were talking and now added the beaten eggs. “Okay. Like what?”

  “Like if you’ve got any idea who might have been behind that attempt on your life last night,” Samms said.

  My head jerked up. “We don’t know for sure that it was an attempt on my life.”

  “True,” Daniel said slowly, “but it appears logical, considering you were attacked twice in one night.”

  “The first time was a mistake,” I said. “I’m positive my attacker thought I was someone else. For that matter, how do we know that wasn’t the case with the car as well?”

  Samms arched a brow. “We don’t. But we would like to know just what you were doing at that motel.”

  I’ve always found the best defense against a direct question one does not want to answer is to regale one’s questioners with direct questions they might not want to answer. “Didn’t the police do their own sweep of Daisy’s room?” I asked.

  “Of course, Broncelli sent a team out there. Unfortunately, too late to catch you doing your little B and E act.”

  “I don’t believe you can call it a B and E when you have the key.”

  “You can when the key isn’t obtained by legal means.”

  I stared at Samms, my nostrils flaring; he stared back at me with equal fervor. This little contest might have continued had it not been for the spitting and crackling of my omelet. I whisked the pan off the stove and started dividing the fluffy mixture on four plates. Chantal had toasted English muffins and put on a pot of coffee while I was cooking, and we all sat down, breakfast in front of us. Only thing was, I had no appetite, and looking at the others’ faces, I doubted they did, either. Nick lofted his portly body up onto the counter, where he stretched out and lay, head lolling over the side, his gaze fixed on my two callers. The silence in the room was so thick you could cut it with a knife, and then Daniel cleared his throat.

  “Okay, Nora. Enough’s enough. We want to know why you decided to investigate Daisy’s motel room instead of going home as you promised you would.”

  I traced the outline of the floral design on my tablecloth with the edge of my nail, wondering how long I could stall. Judging from the granite-hard expressions on the faces of my callers, not long indeed. “I don’t suppose pleading the Fifth will satisfy you two?”

  Stony silence. Guess not.

  “Okay, well.” I tapped the rim of my mug with my spoon. “I was just following my gut. I had a feeling Daisy wasn’t being completely honest when I questioned her and she said she didn’t know anything about . . . another matter.”

  “You’re talking about your looking into Violet’s niece’s disappearance,” Samms said.

  I turned to glare at Daniel. “You told him?”

  “Yes, he told me. We’re partners, working together. That’s what partners do.” Samms leaned forward. “You seem to forget, you are not a licensed investigator. You’re not even an investigative reporter anymore. You’re a sandwich shop owner, Nora. Don’t you think you should start acting like one?”

  I leaned forward. “Violet asked for my help. I didn’t just arbitrarily ge
t involved. I don’t feel comfortable talking about it, not just because I promised Violet I’d keep a low profile but also because I really have no proof of anything. Just theories.”

  Samms muttered something very ungentlemanly and sat back in his chair.

  I turned to Daniel. “I didn’t say anything to you because there was no ID in the purse where I found the key, and I wasn’t even certain it was Daisy’s. And that’s the truth.” I waited a few seconds and when neither of them spoke, I continued. “The room was a mess when I got there. Clothes were strewn everywhere, drawers were pulled out, the mattress was upended . . .”

  “We saw the photos,” Samms interrupted. “So there was nothing of interest?”

  I hesitated only a brief moment before shaking my head. “No.”

  Samms leaned forward. “As a former crime reporter, I’m certain you’re aware of the term spoliation of evidence?”

  I certainly was. Spoliation of evidence referred to the intentional, reckless, or negligent withholding, hiding, altering, or destruction of evidence relevant to a legal proceeding. I looked Samms straight in the eye. “I am. I’m also aware that the theory of the spoliation inference is that when a party destroys or withholds evidence, it’s a reasonable assumption said party has a ‘consciousness of guilt’ or other motivation to tamper with said evidence.”

  He steepled his fingers beneath his chin. “So you’re basically claiming ignorance?”

  “I’m saying that if I found anything, and I’m not saying that I did, but if that were the case, in order to be guilty of spoliation of evidence, I’d have to be positive that it was evidence of a crime.”

  Samms leaned back. “Well said. When did you get a law degree?”

  I opened my mouth, ready to let him have it but good, but Daniel laid a hand on my arm. “Okay you two. Lee’s right, Nora. You aren’t a trained investigator. You put yourself in danger with that fool stunt, and our investigation at risk.”

  “And I am sorry. I was just trying to find some confirmation that she knew Alexa Martin a lot better than she claimed—that’s it. Believe me, if I thought that I knew anything that definitely pertained to Daisy’s murder, I wouldn’t hesitate to share it with you.” As a swift glance passed between them, I frowned. “Can I say the same for you? Are you keeping something from me?”