Crime and Catnip

by T. C. LoTempio

  I knew Hilary; she was a frequent customer at Hot Bread. “I think I just might have to pay Hilary a visit.”

  “Tonight is Flo’s late night. The boutique’s open till nine, and I think Hilary’s working. You should be able to catch her.”

  I started to pull out my wallet, but Chantal waved me away. “I’ve got this one,” she said.

  “Thanks. I’ll call you later.” I gestured toward the bar where Lance and Daniel stood, talking. “Tell them I had to run, that there was an emergency or . . . or something.”

  Chantal sighed. “No matter what I say, chérie, they will not believe it.”

  Well, I couldn’t argue with that.

  I blew my friend an air kiss and exited the Poker Face, and as I did so, I happened to glance across the street. Parked there was a long, black sedan—very similar to the one that had run me off the road. The windows were tinted so I couldn’t see inside. Someone was in the car, though, because a moment later it glided away from the curb and turned the corner, vanishing from view.

  A chill ran along my spine. Then I squared my shoulders, put all thoughts of the black sedan from my mind, and turned in the direction of Flo’s Boutique.

  TWENTY-TWO

  Flo’s Boutique was Florence Hammer’s baby, and it had been a staple of the Cruz economy for as long as I could remember. When I was in grammar school, my mother had brought me to Flo’s to pick out my Easter outfit from her well-stocked children’s wear department in the basement; when I was in high school I’d gotten my spring formal and junior prom dresses from her evening wear section, which took up a good part of the second floor; the main floor was for accessories, jewelry, regular day-to-day clothing for the “modern woman,” as Flo herself put it. Even though she was now on the sunny side of sixty, she still came in daily to oversee things.

  The sign in the window read OPEN, the hands of the clock pointing to nine p.m. as closing time. I stepped inside and looked around. There was a young girl behind the cosmetics counter assisting two women who looked sorely in need of some face cream, and over to the side, behind the scarf counter, stood Hilary Anderson. The curvy blonde was knotting a gay green, purple, and fuchsia print scarf around her neck, and as I approached, she looked up and flashed me a toothy smile.

  “Nora Charles! Hey, how have you been? Sorry I haven’t gotten over to your shop this week, but it’s been crazy here, plus I’ve had two papers to do for night school.” She spread her hands. “Next week, I promise. I miss my Emma Stone Capri Sandwich. It’s so fab.”

  “That’s okay, Hilary. No apology necessary. It’s been a crazy week for me, too.”

  “Oh, yeah, the gala.” Her eyes widened. “I heard your food was to die for—oops!” She clapped her hand across her mouth. “I guess that was a poor choice of words, considering what happened.” She looked quickly around the store, and then leaned toward me. “Did they catch the killer yet?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Ooh,” she moaned. “It’s so horrible, to think someone capable of strangling such a sweet girl like Daisy is out there.”

  “Did you know Daisy?”

  “Not real well. I’m taking art history this semester, so I had to go to the museum a few times. She was very helpful to me.” Hilary combed her fingers through her short crop of hair. “I know she was very excited about that medieval exhibit. I heard her on the phone one day. Man, I don’t know who she was talking to but she sounded really psyched. She said that this exhibit would be the culmination of all their work.”

  “Their work? Not hers?”

  Hilary shrugged. “I assumed she meant that other guy, you know? That tall one who looks like Vincent Price. They worked together, but you’d never know it. The two of them always tossed dagger looks at each other.” She gave me a small smile. “I’m sorry I couldn’t go, though. I understand it was a huge success, in spite of everything. Everyone I’ve talked to that went raves about your food.”

  “Yes, it was very nice. I guess you got a sense of that, you know, from the photos. I understand your boyfriend is the photographer.”

  Hilary blushed. “We’ve only been going out a few weeks, but Wallace is such a gentleman. He’s a real good photographer, too. He was taking the pictures for free to get publicity for his business, but when Violet saw his work she insisted on paying him a nice sum for the photos. She even signed a release so he could sell the ones she didn’t want to a newspaper or magazine. The Cruz Sun already made him an offer.”

  “Wow, that’s great. I bet he got some great shots of the exhibit, too.”

  “Not as many as he wanted. Right around the time they let everyone in is when you found, you know, the body. But he did get a few. Nearly a dozen, I think.”

  “Too bad he didn’t get any shots of the grimoire. That’s the jewel of the collection.”

  “Oh, but he did!” Hilary bobbed her head up and down. “He managed to get one right before the murder, and then he went back with me today and took some more. I’ve got one, see?”

  She ducked underneath the counter, reappearing a moment later with a photograph clutched in her hand. She passed it over to me. “Wally printed this out for me today.”

  I looked at the photo of the grimoire, jewels glistening, on its pedestal. The date stamp on the bottom had the date of the gala, and the time: ten p.m. Right around the time I’d sounded the alarm.

  “It looks great. He took a few photos, you said?”

  “Yep.” She cut me an eyeroll. “Wally’s a perfectionist. He hates to miss any small detail, so he always likes to take two shots of everything.”

  “I’m doing an article on the exhibit for Noir,” I gushed. “I’d love to get copies of both these photos, if you think Wally would sell them to me. As a matter of fact, I plan on working the gala into the article, so a copy of the entire set would be great.”

  “I’ll ask, sure.” Hilary took the photo back and slipped it into her purse. “If you’re willing to pay, I don’t see there’ll be any problem. I can let you know tomorrow, if that’s okay.”

  “That’s perfect.”

  Her nose wrinkled. “Just between you and me, that grimoire sure didn’t look like much, did it? I mean, I know it’s old and all, but for magic gems, I’ve got to tell you, none of ’em had much luster. I’ve got cubic zirconia with more zip than those.”

  An elderly lady approached the counter and tapped her knuckles imperiously on the glass. “Young lady. Might I see some of those scarves in the case?”

  Hilary tossed me an apologetic look as she hurried off to wait on her customer. “I’ll call you tomorrow or better yet, if I can get some photos from him, I’ll stop by Hot Bread. Would that be all right?”

  “Excellent. And there’s a complimentary Emma Stone Capri Sandwich with your name on it.”

  She was beaming as I strode out the door. At least someone was happy today. I myself wasn’t quite sure just exactly what it was I was hoping to find in those photos. Maybe inspiration would hit when I saw them. God knew I needed to catch a break soon.

  * * *

  Ollie was waiting for me when I arrived back home. He uncurled himself from his position on my stoop as I approached.

  “Hey,” I greeted him. “What are you doing here?”

  He reached inside his jacket pocket and pulled out a postcard. “Got this in today’s mail.”

  I glanced at it. The picture was of a fountain in Audubon Park in New Orleans, surrounded by trees. I flipped the card over and saw the familiar, cramped handwriting. I passed the card back to Ollie.

  “Let’s go inside.”

  We went into the shop and Ollie settled himself at one of the back tables. Almost immediately Nick crawled out from under a nearby one and proceeded to wind himself around Ollie’s ankles. While he reached down to scratch the cat behind his ears, I put on a pot of coffee, then took some cookies out of the display ca
se, put them on a plate, and walked over to the table. I sat down and pushed the plate of cookies in front of Ollie; he in turn, pushed the postcard in front of me. I turned it over and read:

  I love it here! Maybe you can come down. One never knows. No accounting for taste, eh? A bit chilly today. Can’t complain. As usual, things are popping. Same old stuff. Every day I miss you.

  “N”

  I pushed the card back. “This makes about as much sense as the others. Maybe he suffered a concussion or something.”

  Ollie shook his head. “Nick knows what he’s doing. Trust me, there’s some message in every single one of these cards. We just have to crack his code.”

  “Well, Bronson A. Pichard agrees with you on that point. What I’d like to know is—why is Nick writing in code at all?”

  “I’ve been thinking about that myself,” Ollie admitted. “I guess he doesn’t want anyone who might see those cards to know what he’s really up to.”

  “Then why the hell doesn’t he just call, or write you a detailed letter,” I said irritably. “Why must there be all this subterfuge and mystery? If he’s sending coded messages there must be a reason, and, also according to Pichard, the only one who might be able to shed some light on that is Angelique slash Alexa Martin.”

  Ollie let out a low whistle. “It’s some sweet mess, isn’t it?”

  “To say the least.”

  Nick hopped up on the table and pranced over to the postcard. He leaned over, sniffed at it.

  “Merow.”

  “Well, look at that,” Ollie exclaimed. “I think he knows Nick sent that.”

  “Either that or he just likes postcards.”

  Nick sniffed at the card again, and then his tail thumped down. Thump! Thump! The tip of his tail brushed the lettering on the postcard each time. After the ninth thump I stood up.

  “Really, Nick, enough’s enough.”

  The cat waved his tail in the air, blinked at me, then turned to Ollie and blinked at him. Then he jumped down and wiggled underneath the table.

  Ollie let out a chuckle. “I do believe you insulted him.”

  “Yes, he is sensitive.” I picked up the card and read it again. Then I looked at Ollie. “Nick thumped his tail nine times.”

  “Did he? I lost count.”

  “He did.” I set the card in front of Ollie and tapped at it. “There are nine sentences on this card.”

  “Hm, so there are. Maybe he’s trying to tell us Nick’s code. Maybe it’s every ninth word.”

  I grabbed a pad and pen and pored over the card, counting and writing, then sat back and looked at the words.

  “One can’t every,” I said. “That definitely isn’t it.”

  Ollie scrunched his lips up. “Every ninth letter?”

  I repeated the procedure. “EOONTSIOUAAVI.” I read the letters out loud. “Makes no sense at all, except maybe he’s got a vowel fetish.”

  “Maybe it’s a code within a code.”

  Nick poked his head out from underneath the table. “Merow,” he warbled, and then jumped back up. He turned around twice, blinked at me, and then thumped his tail—hard—nine more times before leaping off and disappearing back underneath the table.

  Ollie looked at me. “Nine seems to be the operative number, but for the life of me I don’t know what he could be trying to tell us.”

  “Neither do I, but it’s got to be something.” I bent down, raised the edge of the tablecloth, and peered at Nick, huddled in a ball there. “You know what it means, don’t you?”

  Nick blinked twice, then laid his head on top of his front paws.

  I straightened and nodded at Ollie. “Next time you come over, bring the other postcards. I’m going to do some research on code-cracking, and then you and I are going to figure out just what it is he’s trying to tell us.”

  “Maybe he’s not trying to tell us anything?”

  I shook my head. “Bronson A. Pichard told me when it came to figuring out those messages, we should listen to the cat. And no matter how crazy that sounds . . . it’s just what I intend to do.”

  TWENTY-THREE

  The next morning was busier than usual. Word had gotten out, via the various news articles courtesy of the gala, about Hot Bread’s tremendous food, which netted me about two dozen brand-new customers. Chantal, Mollie, and myself were kept hopping straight through breakfast and lunch, with barely a moment for ourselves. Things finally quieted down a bit a little after two, and we all settled ourselves in the kitchen for a light snack—none of us had had time for even a coffee break all day.

  “Wow, if this keeps up you might need to advertise for more help.” Chantal chuckled, pouring herself a mug of steaming coffee. “Those reviews must have been extremely flattering.”

  “I read the one in the Clarion,” offered Mollie, biting into a toasted cheese sandwich. “They said Hot Bread was definitely a place to watch.”

  I flopped down in the chair next to Chantal and took a bite of my own tuna sandwich. I poured some iced tea for Mollie and myself and then said, “Do either of you know anything about codes?”

  They both stopped, sandwiches halfway to their mouths, to stare at me. “What, do you mean like Morse code?” asked Mollie.

  “Probably like a secret code,” Chantal said with a knowing wink.

  “Ooh, like in Nancy Drew? Or James Bond?” Like Chantal and myself, Mollie was a big mystery buff. “Let’s see—do you mean a code or a cipher?”

  “What’s the difference?” I asked.

  “Well, most of the time when people talk about breaking a code, what they’re really talking about is a cipher. A code is usually a system where every word or phrase is replaced by another word, a number, or a series of symbols. A cipher is a system where every letter of your message is replaced by another letter or symbol.”

  I arched a brow. “I don’t even want to know how it is you know all this.”

  Mollie grinned. “It’s just something I got interested in. I took an online course in cryptology. There are two types of ciphers commonly used. Transposition and substitution. Substitution ciphers are easier to break, but transposition ciphers aren’t as easy to use. A substitution cipher entails substituting one letter and replacing it with another letter or symbol. A transposition cipher is where one transposes or rearranges the position of the letters.”

  “Sounds fascinating,” I said as Chantal stifled a yawn. “Could you give me an example?”

  “Of what type? There is the Caesar cipher, the keyboard cipher, the date shift cipher . . .”

  Even though I’d originally asked with Nick’s postcards in mind, the slip of paper with the numbers on it that had been in the pouch in Daisy’s room floated through my mind. “How about a date shift cipher?”

  “Okay,” Mollie said, a bit too eagerly. She got up, grabbed a pen and a pad from behind the counter, and sat back down. “Pick a date.”

  “Nora’s birthday,” Chantal said promptly. “November 3, 1977.”

  “Great.” Mollie wrote down 110377. “This is the code you use to encipher your message,” she said. “Suppose you want to say, ‘I enjoy the movies of Hugh Jackman.’ So under the message, you write the six-digit number until you come to the end, like this: 1 10377 110 377110 37 7110 3771103.”

  “Oh my God, that’s the code?” Chantal looked at it askance.

  Mollie shook her head. “No, silly, we’re not done yet. Next thing you do is write out the whole alphabet, from left to right. Then you shift each letter of the plain text forward in the alphabet indicated by the number below it. For example, the letter I corresponds to the number 1, so move forward one position in the alphabet, making it J; E shifts two positions, making it G—and so on.”

  Chantal leaned back in her chair and ran her hand through her curly bob. “That sounds waaay complicated.”

  “It’s
not, really. I mean, once you’ve written out your message, if you want to decipher it, you simply reverse the process: write out the numerical code, and then go back that many spaces in the alphabet. One big advantage to using this cipher is that it’s fairly random. You could also combine ciphers, creating what’s known as a stacked cipher—and then there’s concealment. That’s got hidden messages. It usually works much better with a string of words that makes sense with one another, a legitimate sentence.”

  Chantal eyed her. “I’m impressed, Mollie. You sound like a graduate of spy school. I think Nora should recommend you to Daniel as a consultant.”

  Mollie blushed. “It’s just something I enjoy. I’ve thought about studying it, maybe angling for an FBI career after I graduate college.”

  “Really? That’s wonderful, Mollie,” I said. “If you like, I can ask Daniel which schools are the best for that.”

  Mollie’s face lit up. “Would you? I’d appreciate that.”

  The bell above Hot Bread’s door tinkled just then, signaling the arrival of another customer.

  “Oh, man! And I haven’t even tried out this Hugh Jackman Sub yet,” Chantal moaned, casting a longing eye at the sandwich on the plate in front of her.

  I rose and smoothed down my apron. “I’m very impressed, Mollie, and I definitely want to pick your brain about codes some more. Right now, though, you gals just sit there and enjoy your very belated lunch. I’ve got this. After all, after waiting on half a dozen customers at once, one person will be a breeze.”

  “Great,” Mollie said. “But I’ll take my sandwich to go. I’ve got finals coming up this week.”

  While Mollie wrapped her sandwich, I headed toward the counter. Hilary Anderson stood there, her blond hair windblown, studying the list of specials. As soon as she caught sight of me, her face split into a wide smile. She reached into the tote bag slung across her shoulder and pulled out a packet, which she waved in the air.

  “I’ve got your pictures, Ms. Charles.” She set the packet down on the counter. “The whole set, like you wanted.”