Claws for Alarm

by T. C. LoTempio

  I gave him a rueful smile. “You might remind your pal Samms of that.”

  He gave me a searching look. “As it turns out, Samms is more your pal than mine.”

  “Not really. I told you, it was one semester a long, long time ago. And we weren’t exactly what I’d call . . . friends.” More like two ships that passed in the night. “I don’t think I even remembered what his first name was until lately,” I added. “He’s always just been . . . Samms.”

  Daniel reached up, pinched the bridge of his nose. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to imply I doubted your word. This investigation is wearing on our nerves. We’re so close. If only Julia had lived to tell what she found out, but now we’re back to square one.”

  “I’m sorry. I haven’t exactly been a model of cooperation myself. What’s eating at me is I don’t seem to be able to do a damn thing to help Lacey. I hate the thought of her having to go through the trauma of an actual trial. She tries not to act it, but my sister is really very sensitive. I shudder to think what might happen if she were to be found guilty.”

  I turned the key in the ignition and the motor hummed to life. “Well, you’ve got a murderer to find—maybe two—and I’ve got some catching up to do with Aunt Prudence. I don’t want to keep you.”

  He stepped back from the car and gave me a long, searching look. “You’re going to be a good girl, aren’t you, Nora? You’re going to mind what I said, and leave the investigation to Lee and myself?”

  I batted my eyelashes. “Of course. I promised. See?” I wiggled both hands in front of his face. “Nothing’s crossed.”

  He reached into his pocket, pulled out his phone, looked at the screen. “They’ve got Taft over at the bar. I really need to get there. Do I have your word you’ll go straight to Prudence’s?”

  “Scout’s honor.” I beamed at him, crossing my ankles as I did so. He nodded and hurried across the street to his car. I waved in a brief salute and made a sharp left onto Main. Then I pushed my foot all the way down on the accelerator and gunned it. The freeway entrance was up ahead about a quarter of a mile, and I was just about to congratulate myself on my swift getaway when I saw flashing lights in my side mirror.

  “What the—”

  Swearing softly, I pulled over to the side of the road. The police cruiser pulled up beside me. The cop behind the wheel looked like a junior Barney Fife—receding hairline, thick lips, scrawny neck. He exited his vehicle and walked with a slow and steady gait over to me. I sighed and lowered the window.

  “What’s the problem, Officer?” I gave Barney Junior my brightest smile. “I might have been going a little fast, but well within the city speed limit, I’m sure.”

  “Oh, you weren’t speeding, ma’am. At least you weren’t speeding enough to warrant a ticket. You are Nora Charles, correct?”

  Uh-oh. “Yes?”

  “Good. I’ve got orders from Detective Leroy Samms to follow you to your place of residence and make sure you don’t leave. If you’d be so kind as to just wait for me to get back into my vehicle, I’ll be escorting you home.”

  Heck, did I have a choice? Apparently Samms was even more of a butinsky than I remembered. I smiled sweetly. “Why of course, Officer.”

  “Good.” He walked back around to his car, got in, and then motioned for me to pull away. I did so, seething, and pounded my fist lightly against the wheel. Men! But if they thought a little thing like a police escort would deter me, they had better think again.

  * * *

  When I made the turn onto Prudence’s street the first thing I noticed was the sleek black sedan parked diagonally across from her house. Slouched across the wheel was a man, apparently engrossed in reading a newspaper. The cruiser pulled up next to the car, and the officer got out, walked over, and leaned inside the driver’s window. The officer pointed to my car, said a few more words, and then got back in the police car and pulled away. The other man glanced up as I exited the car. He gave me a quick once-over and then returned to his reading, apparently unconcerned.

  Well, well. Either one of Samms’s men or one of Daniel’s. Take your pick. I guessed Daniel’s, since Samms’s men all seemed to resemble sixties’ sitcom personas.

  I hurried up the steps of the house without a backward glance. Irene had the door open before my hand could touch the knob. She reached out, grabbed my arm, and pulled me inside, then bustled over to the window and stood behind the curtain, peering out from around the side.

  “He’s been out there for over an hour,” she hissed.

  I felt my jaw drop slightly. “An hour? Irene, are you sure?”

  She bobbed her head up and down. “I think he might be—what is it robbers do? Oh yes. ‘Casing the joint.’ Should I call the police?”

  Out in the kitchen I heard a faint squawk, and then, “Police! Police!” Apparently Jumanji had super hearing.

  “No, Irene. I’m pretty sure he is the police.” I said this through gritted teeth because, if Irene was correct about the timeline, which she most likely was, then Daniel and/or Samms must have arranged it earlier. “How do you like that?” I muttered under my breath. “They didn’t trust that I’d just come home and stay out of it. They made sure somoene was here to watch me.”

  Irene was still peering out from around the edge of the curtain. “Do you think they’re here on account of Lacey?”

  “No, it’s a long story, Irene. But you can feel safe. He’s definitely not a robber.”

  She still looked dubious. “You’re sure?”

  I pulled a grimace. “Unfortunately, yes.”

  “All right then.” She let the curtain fall back into place and stood for a minute, hands on hips. “Your aunt isn’t here. She went to the market. We’re having a roast for dinner. Think you can stick around?”

  “At this point, it’s a very real possibility.”

  I trudged up the stairs and entered my room. I tossed my purse on the chair and flopped onto the bed, where I rubbed at my forehead with the tips of my fingers. “Something isn’t right,” I mumbled. I felt the bed shake, and then soft fur swatted my nose—Nick’s tail.

  I pulled him onto my lap, all twenty pounds, and rubbed his ruff. “Ever get that feeling that something’s floating around in your brain, but you just can’t put your finger on it? That’s how I feel. Something’s bothered me ever since I saw that photo earlier.”

  Nick blinked at me and I laughed. “Oh, of course. You don’t know what photo I mean.” I grabbed my purse and whipped out the photo of the sculpture that had been in the manila envelope. “I managed to sneak this into my purse when Daniel and Samms weren’t giving me the evil eye.” I laid it on the bed and then went over to my dresser to retrieve the bit of plaster from the burlap sack in the warehouse. “Sculptures can be made of plaster,” I murmured. “You know, it wouldn’t be a big deal for an expert to substitute a plaster cast for a more expensive one. Those grooves in that bit of plaster looked big enough to hide gems inside. And if they stuffed it with enough stones, well, it’d be pretty heavy, right?”

  Nick arranged himself, sphinxlike, on the bed and cocked his head.

  “Jenna Whitt said her specialty was sculpture,” I continued. “And she was pretty upset over losing that pouch. She told Lacey it was because it contained some friend’s tranquilizers—but what if she were lying. What if it contained something else? Something infinitely more valuable?

  “What if it contained diamonds?”

  I got up and started to pace to and fro under Nick’s watchful gaze. “I bet that pouch was full of diamonds. Maybe it was her payoff, or maybe she was supposed to put them into a sculpture to be shipped out and she misplaced the pouch. Maybe Julia did find it after all. Dammit, if only Ollie and I had more time to search we might have found it.”

  The more I thought about it, the more sense it made. Pitt’s death might not be connected to a forged painting or a jealous
mistress at all. What if he’d gotten the wrong sculpture by accident, one of the casts containing jewels? He’d surely have noticed, being the consummate expert. That could have been the flaw his wife heard him mention on the phone. He’d told Julia he’d discussed the situation with the person in charge, which had to have been Wilson. Maybe some remark of his had led Wilson to think he’d discovered the hiding place for the diamonds.

  I stopped pacing and jabbed my finger at Nick. “A nice theory, right? But I need proof. Damn, I wish I could get inside Pitt’s office again. I’d like another look at that sculpture. I’ll bet anything if I turned it around, there’d be a slight crack in it. And who knows, maybe diamonds inside.”

  My laptop chirped suddenly, and I walked over, noticed that I had a new mail message from Louis with an attachment. I opened the missive and read:

  Hey—I managed to download a few pix from the police server. Thought maybe they’d be a help. Don’t lose this copy, because I’m deleting the original and all traces of my being in their system. You can reward me with an exclusive article on Pitt’s murder for the next issue of Noir.

  I had to admit I was impressed with Louis’s hacking skills, and maybe just a tad frightened, too. I opened the attachment, and a second later photo images floated across my laptop screen.

  I examined each of the photos closely. None of them stirred anything in my brain, until the last row. I clicked on the last picture and enlarged the image. I leaned forward to study it and then let out a squeal of excitement, startling Nick, who’d jumped up and arranged his portly body next to the laptop.

  “See.” I pointed at the screen and then snatched up the photo I’d purloined from Julia’s apartment. I held the photo next to the one on-screen. “They’re different. The sculptures. The one in the crime scene photo has the mask in the hand on the right, like this photo. That’s what bothered me. When I was in Pitt’s office that day the sculpture I saw had the mask in the left hand. Someone switched the sculptures.”

  I stopped, frowning. Said switch would have had to be done after the murder, which meant there had to be another way into that office. Whoever switched sculptures could also have gotten rid of the drugged wine at that point, as well.

  I heard a light clicking sound and looked down. Nick was using his claws to push some of his favorite Scrabble tiles along the polished hardwood floor. I rolled my eyes. I wasn’t even going to attempt to guess how he’d gotten his paws on them.

  “Whatcha got there, buddy?” I leaned down and scooped up the tiles. A P, an L, an E, an A, and an N. Put them all together and they spelled . . .

  “PANEL!” I breathed. I’d read enough Nancy Drew and Hardy Boys mysteries growing up to remember they used to be chock-full of old houses with secret panels, usually behind walls, and that they made a clicking sound when they slid into place. I shuddered. It would explain the sound, and also how the murderer could have gotten away so quickly without anyone seeing him—or her.

  Nick’s upper lip curled back, exposing his sharp fangs. He shuffled over to the wall. He rubbed his furry body against it.

  I leaned over to give Nick’s head a pat. “Good theory, boy. But how can I prove it?”

  I walked over to the window and nudged the curtain aside. The unmarked car still sat there, parked at a vantage point where it could see both the front and side entrances. “The easiest way would be to check out Pitt’s office again, but that won’t happen while Big Brother is watching.”

  I frowned. From the way the car was parked, he’d surely see me even if I snuck out the back way. Dammit. Where was a teleportation device when you needed it? I stepped back from the window and glanced down at Nick. His tail was a black furry bush, his ears flat against his skull.

  “Nick? What’s wrong?”

  I paused as a sound, very faint, came to my ears—a slight whir. I stared in amazement as the left wall of my room started to move slowly inward. A moment later Irene stepped through the opening, a bunch of freshly laundered towels in her arms. “Sorry.” She tapped her ear. “I left my hearing aid downstairs. I didn’t realize you were still in your room.” She patted her bundle. “I was just going to drop off a load of fresh towels.”

  I looked over her shoulder at the half-open wall and the inky blackness beyond. “Is that—is that a secret passageway?”

  “Eh, what was that? Did you ask about Joel McCrea? I didn’t think a gal your age would remember him. Great actor. He’s been dead for . . . oh gosh, I don’t know. Longer than I care to remember.”

  “No, no. I didn’t say Joel McCrea.” I raised my voice a few decibels and pointed at the open wall. “Is that a secret passageway?”

  She chuckled. “Sure is. Your aunt doesn’t use it much, but I like to when I stay here. The stairs aren’t as steep. This one leads straight from here down into the basement and the laundry room. This house was built back during the Mexican-American War, you know. Lots of homes around here were. They had passageways like this to hide stuff like gold and firearms.”

  “Do tell. Lots of homes in this area, you say? Would the Pitt Institute happen to be one of them?”

  “Oh, honey.” She waved her hand. “Of course it was. I’ll tell you something else, too. I happened to find it out from the former owner—met him one day at a tea at the library: The Pitt school is a larger version of this house.” She stuck her chest out proudly. “They were built by the same architect. Why, there are probably dozens more of these secret passageways networked throughout that old building. Probably in all the same places, too. Isn’t that interesting?” She chuckled. “Your aunt never uses this. She thinks it’s spooky. Me, I think it’s a time-saver.”

  “Extremely.” I closed my eyes and did some quick calculating. If I remembered correctly, Pitt’s office was in the west corner of the top floor—same as my room. If the buildings were similar in construction, that would put the secret passage behind the far wall next to the bar. The same one with the bookshelves bearing the sculptures.

  “There’s a whole network of secret passageways running through this house,” Irene continued. “Secret panels, too. Good for hiding stuff. See!”

  She walked over to the wall next to the entryway and tapped along the bottom molding. A few seconds later, a bit of it shot out, revealing a small three-by-four crevice. Irene reached inside and pulled out a small necklace.

  “Your aunt does use these. She hides stuff all over the place.” She chuckled. “Beats paying the fee on a bank vault.”

  I was studying the aperture. “Are there more secret panels like this in the house?”

  “Every room has at least three, as far as I know. Some are in the walls, some are under the floorboards.” She crossed to the bed, moved the braided rug, tapped again, and a small opening appeared in the floor. This one looked large enough to fit Nick inside—or maybe a decanter of wine?

  I turned to Irene and, keeping my tone loud, said, “I got some good news and some bad news today, Irene. The good news is, I’m very close to proving Lacey didn’t kill Pitt.”

  Irene laid the towels on the bed and cocked her brow at me. “Really? Well that’s great. Your aunt will be thrilled when she hears.” Her eyes narrowed. “You said you had bad news, too?”

  “Yes. I may not have enough time to prove her innocence. They’ve moved Lacey’s trial up to tomorrow.”

  “Really? Your aunt will be devastated if your sister is found guilty, and frankly, with the evidence as it is now . . .”

  “I agree.” I took a step closer to Irene. “There’s something I can do, though, that can break this case wide open, that can prove Lacey had nothing to do with it, but in order to get it done, I need help. And I think you, Irene, could provide it.”

  Her stance relaxed a bit. “I could? Well, your aunt would want me to help in any way I can, so . . . tell me just what it is you think I can do. How can I help you prove Lacey’s innocent?”


  I pressed my lips close to her ear, so she’d be certain to understand me. “Just how loud can you scream?”

  TWENTY-ONE

  Twenty minutes later I slid my SUV into a space about a block away from the Pitt Institute. I got out of the car, locked it, and then hurried toward the school. I was going to have to take back everything negative I’d thought about Irene. The woman should be on the stage.

  I felt something warm and furry brush my leg, and I looked down. “How did I know you’d be here?” I said to Nick, who blinked twice and then fell into step beside me. “Just stay close.”

  We reached the rear entrance of the school, and I immediately zeroed in on a flight of stone steps leading down. If Irene’s theory was correct, and this was built like Aunt Prudence’s house, then these steps would lead to the laundry room. Or, in this case, the basement, aka school archives. Fortunately, the door at the bottom of the stairs was unlocked. The basement was one endemic to old edifices, complete with the traditional cobweb-laden low ceiling and beams with nails poking out every which way, waiting to stick a tall person forgetting to duck. I stood a minute to let my eyes adjust to the inky blackness, when suddenly, the room was flooded with dim light. I whirled and saw that Nick had jumped up on a stack of boxes, right next to an old-fashioned light switch. I mouthed thanks at him and took a swift look around. The entire left side of the basement was filled with old, battered filing cabinets that had definitely seen better days. Off to the right stood an antique washer and dryer, and a creaking boiler occupied space in the very back of the room. I noticed one file cabinet in the far corner had a drawer partially open. I walked over and peered at the label. The word PLANS was printed in large capital letters. I pulled the drawer all the way out and sucked in a breath. From the looks of things, I wasn’t the only person to rummage in here. Sets of blueprints were jammed in the drawer, some in manila folders, some not. I thumbed through them quickly. There appeared to be one for every floor of the old building except, surprise, surprise, for the third floor. I shut the drawer and turned toward a small archway that looked as if it led further into the edifice’s subterranean bowels. The room beyond was inky black, and I felt along the wall, frowning as I realized there was no light switch for what lay beyond.