Hiss H for Homicide
Never one to turn away from a challenge—even when it goes against her better judgment—Nora Charles can hardly say no when an old friend of her mother’s comes to town seeking her help. The author of steamy romances has learned that her writing partner is severing their relationship and threatening to reveal dark and dirty secrets in a tell-all, and she pleads with Nora to intervene. Reluctantly agreeing to help, Nora pays a visit to the writing partner, ready to make her case—right up until the moment she discovers the woman’s lifeless body.
With the police convinced that Nora’s friend is the culprit, she and Nick begin delving into the dead woman’s past and her provocative tell-all. It soon becomes apparent that the woman had a knack for digging up dirt and wasn’t shy about exposing skeletons in closets, and before long Nora has a seemingly endless list of suspects who were at risk of having their darkest secrets revealed. With a police force intent on throwing the book at Nora’s friend and time running out, she and Nick must outwit a dangerous killer before they take their own secrets to the grave . . .
Title Page
Copyright
Hiss H for Homicide
T. C. LoTempio
Copyright © 2021 by T. C. LoTempio
Cover design and illustration by Dar Albert, Wicked Smart Designs
Published by Beyond the Page at Smashwords
Beyond the Page Books
are published by
Beyond the Page Publishing
www.beyondthepagepub.com
ISBN: 978-1-950461-93-6
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this book. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented without the express written permission of both the copyright holder and the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.
Dedication
To Mary Krol Foster and her children,
Nicole “Niki” Staples and Douglas Martel.
Miss you guys too!
Acknowledgments
As always, thanks go to my incredible agent, Josh Getzler, and his assistant, Jonathan Cobb, without whom the Nick and Nora series would not be continuing! Thanks also to beta readers Emily Hall, Laura Roth, Shelley Guisti, Barb Weismann and Denise Waechter! Your input helped make NN4 so much better! And kudos to the entire Beyond the Page editorial team, and especially to Bill Harris. Your eyes caught what mine did not!
A big thank-you to all my friends who support me in this venture, you know who you are! To all the amazing authors who have appeared on Rocco’s blog and who I am proud to call my friends, especially the amazing Carole Nelson Douglas, without whose encouragement there might never have been a Nick and Nora. And, of course, Rocco, the real-life Nick! Any mistakes in this book are totally my own! Read and enjoy.
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Recipes
Excerpt from Murder Faux Paws
Books by T. C. LoTempio
About the Author
Prologue
“After Tuesday there will be a lot of unhappy people around. I’m sure they never expected me to actually go through with it. Maybe I should invest in a bulletproof vest, ha ha.”
Marlene McCambridge leaned back in the overstuffed leather chair and propped one elegantly clad foot against the polished wood desk. One perfectly manicured hand reached up to brush a lacquered, expertly dyed blonde curl off her high forehead, while the other gripped a half-empty glass of Scotch. Raising the glass to her lips, she took another sip, swallowed deeply.
Her soon-to-be ex-partner wasn’t a happy camper, no, not at all. Desiree had never been able to harm anything, not even a spider. Although in this case, she might make an exception.
Marlene downed the rest of her drink in one long gulp. She’d miss Desiree, in a way. After all, they’d had a good long run, but like all good things, it was time for it to end. She couldn’t speak for Desiree, of course, but if she had to write another line like “my clasped hands made my cleavage seem almost buoyant, straining against the thin fabric of my dress,” or “his chocolate hair and eyes reminded me of hot fudge, and I leaned against his hairy chest, feeling his muscles ripple beneath me,” then holy moly, she’d have to slit both her wrists. After all, how many different ways could one describe a hairy chest? Desiree would probably disagree, but she was positive they’d exhausted them all, and then some.
Well, at two p.m. Tuesday, the world would know two things: the writing team of McCambridge and Sanders was no more, and Marlene McCambridge was no person to screw around with. Or tell your innermost secrets to.
Everyone loved a good scandal, right? And she was going to pull the plug on some real juicy ones. Sometimes it paid to be the person people confided in. In her case it paid very well indeed: two million big ones, to be exact. And that was only the beginning . . .
She pushed herself up and out of the chair and lurched toward the well-stocked bar at the other end of the den. The person she’d rented the house from had encouraged her to not be shy about drinking the large quantities of liquor on hand and she had every intention of depleting his supply before her ninety-day lease was up. Cruz was a quiet little town, the perfect place for her to hide out from the media storm that was sure to follow her announcement, to put the finishing touches on the project that would assure her financial independence.
It wouldn’t be long now. Once everything was set, she’d take off, maybe head to Rio, or maybe somewhere else in South America. She’d always had a weakness for men with Spanish accents. Too bad they always ended up ripping her off and vanishing.
She splashed more Johnnie Walker Black into the glass, added ice and a splash of tonic water, and had barely taken a sip when every nerve in her body began to tingle.
The unmistakable creak of a floorboard reached her ears. Now, how could that be? She was alone here, or at least she was supposed to be.
Shake it off. This is an old house. Old houses always have noises. It’s nothing.
The floorboard creaked again.
“Hey,” she called out. “Anybody there?”
Silence.
Marlene flung open the den door and moved cautiously into the narrow hallwa
y. She inched her way forward, peering this way and that, until she finally approached the large sitting room. Her sharp eyes took in the area, narrowing as they settled on the bay window over to the far left. One window was cracked open. Her frown deepened. She was fairly certain she’d shut them all earlier, to ward off the evening chill. Casting another quick glance over her shoulder, she hurried over to the window, pulled it shut, and snapped the safety bolt into place. She leaned against the window seat and took a few calming breaths, listening intently.
Nothing.
“I must have imagined it.” She blew out a breath. “I need a drink.”
She pushed away from the window and started across the room, but before she’d made it halfway all the lights went out, and a terrified gasp escaped her lips. She’d never been fond of the dark, and this wasn’t just dark: it was pitch. She bit down hard on her lower lip as the realization swept over her that she had no idea where the fuse box might be, not that she’d know what to do with it if she did.
A floorboard creaked again. This time she was certain it came from upstairs.
She felt her way along the corridor back to the den and fumbled in the bottom drawer of the desk for the flashlight she’d seen once before. Her fingers closed over it and she switched it on. It emitted only a very faint glow, but it would be enough to get her safely upstairs and into bed. In the morning she’d find someone to help change the fuses.
And just in case she got unexpected company, she had the .45 in the drawer by her bed . . . Maybe now was a good time to go up and get it.
Marlene made her way slowly up the stairs. A slight rustling as she reached the top landing made her pause. Her head swiveled toward the sound, and she let out a startled gasp as she noticed the door to her office was partially open. Gripping the flashlight, she moved toward the door, paused, listened.
Silence.
Taking a deep breath, Marlene reached out a tentative hand, pushed the door all the way open. She moved slowly into the room, moved the flashlight slowly around in a circle.
The soft glow partially illuminated the features of a tall figure, shrouded in shadow, standing not two feet to her left. The figure moved forward, the face now fully illuminated in the dim light.
She sucked in her breath. “You?” she gasped, staring in surprise at the face before her. “What in hell are you doing sneaking around up here? You’re not expected till—” She stopped, peered a bit more closely at the intruder. Her brows drew together. “Wait a second. You aren’t—” Her nerveless fingers lost their grip on the flashlight and it dropped and clicked off, plunging the room into darkness and Marlene into self-doubt.
Maybe I should have bought that bulletproof vest. Maybe I should have carried that gun around with me. Maybe I . . .
Bang.
Marlene slid into the darkness forever.
One
“Chérie, I don’t know what is getting more attention—the lunch items or that television.”
I brushed an auburn curl out of my eyes and cut the speaker, my BFF Chantal Gillard, an eye roll. Although born right here in the little California seaside town of Cruz, my friend loved to affect a French accent (she thought it made her sound more “international”), so the sentence come out sounding more like, “Vat ees getting more atten-shown, ze lunch ah-teems or zat te-lay-viz-see-ahn.” I glanced at the throng of customers, all pressed up against my glass display case, eyes glued to Rachel Rae whipping up some sort of yummy pasta dish on my brand-new forty-two-inch flat-screen television that hung suspended from the ceiling.
“Right now,” I sighed, “eet looks like ‘zee TV’ ees winning.” I ignored the eye roll she shot at my attempt at a French accent and rapped my knuckles sharply on the counter. “Next,” I called out. “Who’s next in line?”
No response. They might all have been zombies, staring mindlessly at the figures on the wide screen. “Hey, there, is anybody hungry? Who wants lunch?” I called again.
“Oh, sorry. I love Rachel Rae. What a great idea, Nora. Whatever made you decide to do it?” Alvina Wilkins, the assistant librarian, tore her gaze reluctantly from the TV and stepped up to the counter. A woman in her mid-forties, she was reed-thin, with a sunny disposition and a quirky sense of humor. Both excellent qualities, in my opinion, that made her able to get along with head librarian Jemina Slater, who’d always been something of a tyrant (scratch that—make it bully), and even though she was well into her seventies, showed no sign of wanting to vacate the post she’d held ever since I could remember.
“Blame my sister,” I said. “When I went to visit her and Aunt Prudence a few weeks ago she dragged me to this little café. Their line was practically out the door, but the customers weren’t complaining. They were all gushing about how entertaining it was to watch TV while they waited for their food. The owner happened to be there and he said his business had almost tripled since he’d installed it, so Lacey dared me to give it a try.”
“You never could resist a challenge, could you? Especially from your sister.” Alvina wiggled her fingers in a careless gesture and glanced at the sign above the counter. “Did I hear you say you added something new to the menu?”
“You did.” I beamed and pointed to the sign to the left of the counter, excited as always when I added a new sandwich to my already teeming menu. “The Megan Fox is grilled chicken and cheese dipped into egg batter and sautéed in butter. Your choice of cheese, of course, although I recommend the cheddar. The Brian Austin Green is made identically, except I substitute ham for the chicken.”
Alvina flashed her pearly whites at me. “They both sound yummy. I’ll try the Megan Fox. I do love my chicken. And a decaf coffee too, please.”
“Might as well make that two,” said a deep voice. I glanced over at the speaker, a broad-shouldered guy with silky hair, redder than my own, that reached to just above his shoulders. Steel-gray eyes peered at me from under two bushy eyebrows, even as his well-shaped lips split in a grin, revealing teeth so white I was positive he bleached them. Or they were caps. Or both. The ID badge swinging from the black lanyard around his neck had “Paul Jenkins” printed in big black letters. He’d only joined the Cruz Sun a few weeks ago but “Jenks,” as he liked to be called, had already become a steady customer—and, apparently, one of the few not mesmerized by my new television. “Know what would really go good with that sandwich, though? A strawberry banana smoothie.”
“You’re not the first customer to tell me that,” I admitted, reaching into the glass case for my chicken cutlets and cheese. “I did look into it. I priced a really high-end gourmet ice machine, one that can be used for slushies, smoothies, even frozen cappuccinos. Let’s just say unless a winning lottery ticket’s in my future, my budget doesn’t stretch that far right now.”
“It will once you get a few more catering jobs,” Alvina said with a toss of her head. “You did such a splendid job with the Cruz Museum gala, it’s only a matter of time.”
Chantal cocked her head and whispered too low for the others to hear, “Or you could ask Violet Crenshaw. She did promise you a reward, after all.”
“Yes, she did,” I hissed back, “but I have a feeling the reward has already been decided. Violet said she’d be in touch about it when she and Alexa returned from England.”
“Oh, pooh. Well”—Chantal’s black cap of curls bobbed as she rubbed her hands together—“it’s probably something really unimaginative, too, you know. Money or a gift card to Nordstrom.”
“True,” I said teasingly. “Not everyone has someone in their life who can give them the perfect birthday gift, like a new set of crystals and tarot card deck.”
Chantal blushed right down to the roots of her black hair. She knew I was referring to her sometime beau, Rick Barnes, a DOJ official who worked in nearby Carmel. For Chantal’s birthday a few weeks ago, he’d gifted her with just that, and she hadn’t stopped talking about his ‘thoughtful gift’ for days.
Alvina glanced over at Jenks, who appeared to be lis
tening intently to the conversation. “Violet Crenshaw is our museum director. Nora recently reunited her with her missing niece.”
“I know. I read some of the stories in the newspaper archives about the exploits of Nora Charles, sandwich shop owner by day, sleuth by night. That one and the Lola Grainger affair.” Jenks turned and gave me an appraising glance. “You’re quite the amateur sleuth. I’ve always had a yen to be a Hardy Boy. Someday you’ve got to let me in on how you do it.”
A large black-and-white paw snaked over the edge of the countertop, then disappeared. Jenks drew back, obviously startled. “What the heck,” he cried. The paw appeared again, clicked its nails on the Formica, and then vanished.
“Come on up Nicky,” Chantal sang out. “Don’t be shy.”
Jenks frowned. “Nicky?”
“Yes.” Chantal’s eyes danced with mischief. “Nicky Charles, Nora’s partner in crime solving.”
A second later a large tuxedo cat lofted onto the rear counter. He held up one paw and flexed it, displaying razor-sharp shivs.
Jenks took a step backward, his eyes wide. “Uck, a cat. I hate cats, especially black ones. Don’t you know they’re bad luck?”
Nick wrapped his tail around his body and sat erect, his glossy black and white-tipped paws tucked under him, and let his unblinking stare rest first on Jenks, then Alvina and Chantal, before finally settling on me. “Merow,” he said, and sniffed.
“Technically, he’s not a black cat, he’s a tuxedo who gets upset when he’s not included,” I said. I gave him a light tap on his derrière and he leapt down to the floor, then shuffled over to his favorite spot in front of my double-door refrigerator, where he arranged himself, Sphinx-like, all the while bestowing me with a look of catly disdain. “As for the bad luck part, I can think of a few criminals who’d agree with that observation.”
Hiss H for Homicide Page 1
