Crime and Catnip

by T. C. LoTempio

  “Now how could the FBI keep something from Cruz’s own Nancy Drew?” sneered Samms.

  I curled the fingers of my left hand around my right wrist, stifling the urge to slap him. Before they could steer the conversation back to what I did or didn’t find in Daisy’s room, I asked, “What happened with the grimoire last night, and don’t tell me nothing did. I saw the two of you and Broncelli and some other policemen huddled in front of that room right before I found Daisy’s body.”

  They exchanged a quick look and then Daniel said, “We’re not sure what happened. The alarm went off, but when we went to the room, it didn’t seem as if anything was disturbed.”

  “Everything was intact? Were the jewels in the cover?”

  “Yes.” Samms picked up his knife, tapped it on the tablecloth. “Why are you so interested in the jewels?”

  I shrugged. “Those stones are supposed to have this mystical power, right? They might be what a thief would want, and not the grimoire itself.”

  “One would need the grimoire, though, for its spells,” Chantal piped up, and shut her mouth abruptly as I shot her a look over my shoulder.

  “Spells would only be good if the thief were a witch, or a warlock,” I said. “And there are none of those around Cruz, or at least none we know of.”

  “It’s a moot point,” Daniel said, a little too quickly, I thought. “The guard on duty left his post very briefly. He claimed he got a text from Broncelli telling him to meet him down the north corridor. He was gone less than five minutes. And, of course, Broncelli didn’t send the text.”

  “Hm. Interesting.” I pushed my chair back, carried my mug to the sink. “And that was right around the time I found Daisy’s body, right?”

  “More around the time you texted for help. We’re not entirely certain the two incidents are related,” Daniel said. He leaned forward and touched my arm. “Listen, Nora . . . Several people did say they saw you having some heated discussions with Daisy last night. So Broncelli . . .” He paused, looked at me, then at Samms. Samms gave an almost imperceptible nod, and Daniel finished. “Broncelli has you on a short list.”

  For a second I just stared at them, and then I burst out laughing. “You’re kidding, right? Getting me back for not keeping my promise to stay home last night? Broncelli can’t possibly be serious?”

  Daniel looked decidedly uncomfortable. “Yes and no.”

  My legs were a bit wobbly and threatened to go out from under me, so I flopped back into my chair. “And just what does that mean?”

  Daniel leaned forward and took both my hands in his. “It means that Broncelli doesn’t know you like we do. He’s just going by what he hears, and he’s got to go through the normal process. We’ve got to find people who might have had a motive for eliminating Daisy, and several witnesses said they saw you two arguing.”

  “Daisy argued with other people, too,” I cried. “She argued with Reynaud, and Magda.”

  “That is true.” Chantal nodded. “Even Nellie Blanchard was giving her dagger looks all night.” At Samms’s questioning look she added, “She’s a museum docent. She’s been there forever. She wanted that job as Violet’s admin, but Violet gave it to Daisy.”

  Samms snorted, a clear indication he didn’t think very much of it. “Anyone else you can think of?”

  I hesitated. “She did argue with someone else. That woman in the red costume, the one I called the Red Death. They had a pretty violent one in the kitchen, right before I was attacked.”

  Daniel fixed me with his FBI stare. “And you have no idea at all who this ‘Red Death’ woman might be?”

  I pursed my lips. “At the moment, no, I don’t.”

  Daniel studied me a long minute, then looked at Samms. “We can go through the guest list with Nan Webb. She’s got a pretty good eye and knows most of the people who were there, so maybe she’ll be able to shed some light

  I relaxed a bit. This would stall them for a while, or at least until they figured out the Red Death wasn’t on the guest list, which I was pretty positive she wasn’t. No doubt Daisy had snuck her in.

  Samms’s voice broke into my thoughts. “So, Nora, care to tell us just what you and the victim were arguing about?”

  Rats. “We weren’t arguing,” I said. “It was more like a spirited discussion. I wanted to find out what she knew about Alexa Martin, and she kept saying she didn’t know anything.”

  “But you kept at her,” Samms persisted. “Why? Did you have some reason to think otherwise?”

  I rubbed at the base of my neck, debating how best to answer, when a sudden thought occurred to me. “Did anyone ever find that other cat? The orange and white one that was in the basement with Nick?”

  Daniel shook his head. “No. To be honest, we didn’t expect to. It was probably just a stray that wandered in, same as your cat, and it probably took off just as soon as it got a chance.”

  “I think it might be Daisy’s cat—I found cat food in her motel room. Or rather, Nick found it.”

  “Your cat went with you? I should have known,” Samms said with a grunt. “It’s a wonder the two of you didn’t find another corpse.”

  “Ha, ha. Very funny.”

  Daniel rose. “Okay, we’re going to let you get some rest. But please, Nora, no more investigating on your own. If you should come into any information that’s germane to the case, I want you to come to either me or Lee, understood? If you try to pull any more stunts on your own, I can’t promise you that Lee or I will be able to protect you.”

  I nodded. “I understand.”

  I walked them both to the door, and was just about to shut it behind them when Samms paused.

  “Oh, and Red? This goes without saying but . . . don’t leave town. You’re on the suspect list, remember.”

  I couldn’t help it. I stuck my tongue out and let the door slam . . . hard.

  EIGHTEEN

  I spent the rest of Monday in bed, and woke up Tuesday morning feeling a whole lot less sore and more invigorated. Chantal had posted a sign that Hot Bread would open up at eleven, but it was more like quarter of when I opened the door to a long line of people, all of whom expressed concern over Sunday’s events.

  “Are you doing all right?” asked Ginger Bibavich, a short girl with a Dolly Parton–style hairdo and the chest to match, who ran the nail salon. “We heard about your accident.”

  I gritted my teeth. “Don’t believe everything you hear, Ginger. I’m fine. Don’t I look fine?”

  She peered at me through about six coats of mascara. “Well, sort of. You do look pale and tired. But I guess that’s to be expected after all. I mean, finding a dead body alone . . . Girl, I wouldn’t blame you if you closed for a week.”

  “Oh, heck,” mumbled Stan Bivan, who owned Cruz Hardware. His craggy features were twisted in a scowl; no doubt he was still annoyed he’d had to get his customary plain bagel and coffee from Java Nut, where they charged him fifty cents more and gave him smaller portions. “Nora ought to be used to finding dead bodies by now, right?”

  More teeth gritting. If this kept up I was going to have to pay Ed Levey the painless dentist a visit. “I’m fine, really. But thank you all for your concern.”

  Ginger beamed at me. “Man, you must be made out of iron, girl! You are one tough cookie, that’s for sure.”

  Stan snorted. “Yeah, real tough. Now can I get an Oliver Twist on rye?”

  What can I say? It’s nice to be loved.

  By one thirty the lunch crowd had dispersed and there were only a few stragglers remaining, regulars who liked to linger over coffee before trudging back to their jobs. I poured coffee into two large mugs for both Chantal and myself and we settled down at the wide counter in the kitchen area. I chose a stool that faced the counter and door, so I could see if any more customers came in. Chantal perched on a stool nearer the refrigerator and tossed a b
it of ham down to Nick, who’d been scoffing up samples all afternoon. He took his prize over to his appointed place in front of the refrigerator and settled down for a nosh.

  “Do you think they will find this woman, this one you’ve labeled the Red Death?” Chantal asked.

  I took a sip of my coffee. “That’s a good question. She’s certainly managed to be elusive so far.”

  “Do you think she is the one who murdered Daisy?”

  I shook my head. “No, I don’t. If anything I think the real murderer is trying to make it look that way.”

  She leaned forward and whispered, “What did you find, chérie? It had to be something incriminating to make someone try to run you off the road.”

  I nibbled at my lower lip. “I’d rather not say just yet. I need to get a few things confirmed first. Right now I have no proof that it’s connected to Daisy’s death, and to be honest, I don’t want to put anyone else in danger.”

  Both Chantal’s brows shot up. “You think the killer wants whatever it is you took, don’t you?”

  I nodded. “Yes, I do. I’m just not quite sure why yet, though.” I scrunched up my lips in thought. “It’s all connected somehow. Alexa Martin, Daisy, Doris Gleason, and the two attempts to steal the grimoire. There’s a common thread that links them all. I just can’t see it yet.”

  Nick hopped up on the counter, swished his tail in my face. “Er-ewl,” he mewled.

  Chantal chucked the cat under his chin. “If Nicky could talk, I bet he’d have some good ideas.”

  “He has plenty of good ideas without talking,” I admitted. “He communicates very well, for a cat.”

  Nick lifted his head and blinked twice. He inclined his head toward my cell phone. Almost at once it chirped. I had a text message.

  “Damn cat’s a bit psychic, too. Spooky,” I said. I picked up the phone and looked at the text. I was hoping it might be from Hank, but it was from Ollie.

  Lab results back. Bingo! Positive. Card was written by N.

  I stared at the message for a few moments. “Well, what do you know?” I held the phone out to Chantal. “The lab says that second card is in Nick Atkins’s handwriting.”

  “Oh my.” Chantal glanced at Nick, then back at me. “So that means he’s alive?”

  “Maybe. Or maybe he’d prearranged to have those cards sent. But somehow I don’t think so. I do think he’s alive. He’s just . . . missing, for some reason.”

  “A case?”

  I rubbed at my mouth. “Not sure. There’s something else I’ve got to do. Bronson Pichard told me that Atkins’s ex-girlfriend, Angelique Martone, might have a handle on what happened to him. I’ve got to track her down, too. I just got sidetracked with Violet and Alexa Martin. But now that I know at least one postcard was definitely written by Nick, finding Angelique gets bumped up the food chain.”

  Chantal threw up her hands. “I do not envy you, chérie. You are trying to solve Daisy’s murder and find Violet’s niece, and now Nick Atkins’s ex-lover, all at the same time. That’s a very ambitious schedule.”

  “Yeah, but we can handle it. Right, Nick?”

  The cat opened his mouth, affording me an excellent view of his red tongue and sharp, white fangs. Then he flicked his tail and proceeded to give it a good washing.

  So much for teamwork.

  * * *

  When three o’clock rolled around I closed and locked the door, and Chantal hurried off to her shift at Poppies. I cleaned up and then went upstairs. No sooner had I stepped into my den than my cell chirped. I pulled it out of my pocket and flipped it open.

  “Thank God you answered,” Hank said. “What I’ve got for you is definitely for your ears only. It’s too much for a text, and I didn’t want to have to leave a voice message.”

  Wow, that sounded promising. I kicked off my shoes and flopped in the recliner. “Great. I hope this news is good.”

  “I hope so, too.” He chuckled. “I still can’t believe they’d put you on a short suspect list.”

  I was tempted to ask Hank how he’d heard, but then thought better of it. Hank had many sources, and not even the threat of Chinese water torture would make him reveal them. In my reporting days, Hank had been one of my CIs and had come through for me more than once. Honestly, I didn’t much care how he found out his information, just that it was accurate. He hadn’t failed me yet.

  “Okay. Cheer me up. What have you got?”

  “You may have stirred up something with that gem.”

  I gripped the phone a bit more tightly. “Yeah? How so?”

  “Well, it definitely is a synthetic gem, according to my source, but what’s really interesting to him are those odd markings. He said he can’t be sure without actually seeing the stone but he said it looked like some sort of encryption.”

  I hadn’t been expecting that. “You mean a code?”

  “He couldn’t say. Once again, he’d have to actually see the stone, but he did sound a bit concerned. It was all I could do to talk him into staying quiet about it. Nora, what have you gotten yourself into?”

  Now there was a million-dollar question. “What about the numbers?”

  “Well, he checked and said it definitely wasn’t a number for the gem. Most registrations start with a letter, and they have less numbers. He thought it might be some sort of numeric code.” He was quiet a minute, then said, “Okay, on to to the rest of it. Apparently Ms. Gleason had a talent for undercover work. She broke one honey of a story months before, involving someone you’re familiar with. I refer to Bronson A. Pichard’s involvement in art smuggling. That story was one of the main reasons he decided to come back to the US of A. In addition, my source got it on a very confidential basis that Ms. Gleason was now working on another undercover story, one dealing with state secrets and international espionage. She was working with the full cooperation of Sir Rodney Meecham, who, it turns out, has ties to Scotland Yard.”

  I let out a low whistle. “That would certainly lend itself to a disappearing act, all right.”

  “There’s more, though. The timeline on our friend Daisy Martinelli indicates that she showed up to move into Doris’s apartment exactly one week after Doris went missing. Now, I checked into your sorority angle. You were right. Doris Gleason and Alexa Martin are registered honorary members of Zeta Tau Alpha.”

  Disappointment arrowed through me. “Just Doris and Alexa? Not Daisy?”

  “I didn’t say that.” He cleared his throat. “Some of the girls called Doris Dee or Deedee, because she used her full name when she registered. Doris Daisy Gleason.”

  I let out a low whistle. “I never thought of that angle,” I confessed. “That Doris and Daisy might be the same person, but it does explain some things.”

  “If you liked that, you’re gonna love this.” Hank’s voice held that little note of glee he got when he stumbled upon something really, really unique. “I sent the photo of Angelique you sent me to my guy in New Orleans. He called in a few favors, and finally managed to locate someone who could positively identify her.”

  “Great,” I cried. Finally, a break with something! “So where is she now? Did that person know?”

  Hank clucked his tongue. “Let me finish, little grasshopper. I said she was identified all right but not as Angelique Martone.

  “She was ID’d as . . . Alexa Martin.”

  NINETEEN

  “So, Angelique, the woman of mystery my partner Nick was head over heels over, and Alexa Martin, the mousy niece of your museum director Violet Crenshaw, are the same person? I always knew that girl was hiding something!”

  Ollie sat in my den, a cup of Newman’s Own Nell’s Breakfast Blend in one hand, and drummed the fingers of the other on the arm of my recliner. He’d popped in right after I’d hung up from Hank, and I, still being a bit shell-shocked by the news, had commandeered him at once. I’d put on a pot of c
offee and filled him in on all the latest events, from finding Daisy’s body right up to my and Nick’s motel-breaking, saving the revelation about Angelique/Alexa—the best, if you will—for last. When I’d delivered the news he’d clutched at his chest, and for a minute I feared he might have a heart attack. Fortunately, it turned out to be gas. Ollie’s had one too many Italian hot dogs for lunch.

  Ollie glanced over at the photographs of Angelique and Alexa, which I’d laid out on my desk. “That’s quite a transformation,” he observed. “Alexa is far from ugly, of course, but she’s very plain. Angelique, on the other hand, is glamour personified. This is indeed a transformation worthy of Professor Henry Higgins.”

  I eased myself into the loveseat opposite Ollie, both hands wrapped around my own steaming mug of coffee. “It might not be as amazing as we think. Hank told me Alexa was a Theatre Arts minor and worked in the makeup department of her college’s regional theatre group. They won first place in a regional competition for makeup for a performance of The Wiz, and Alexa chaired that committee.”

  I leaned across the table to peer at the photos. I could see the similarities now. The shape of the face, the eyes, the way they tilted their head. The same girl, and yet not the same, thanks to the wonder of Mally and Laura Geller cosmetics, a box of Clairol, and a skilled hand. A very skilled hand. She would also have been very adept at making subtle changes in Doris’s/Daisy’s appearance, too, if necessary for their charade.

  Ollie took a sip of his coffee. “When did she change her name? Do we know?”

  “I’m betting it was right after that first grimoire incident. Alexa Martin dropped out of sight after that and we know she went by Angelique Martone when she was here in Cruz.” I snapped my fingers. “No wonder Daniel had such a reaction when I showed him that photo. He probably knows her as Alexa Martin, too.”