Hiss H for Homicide

by Toni LoTempio

  Jenks swallowed and continued to stare at Nick. “You’re kidding, right, about him being your partner?”

  I shook my head. “Not at all. Nick and I are a team, just like the original Nick and Nora Charles, except this Nick prefers milk to martinis.”

  Nick blinked again and the corners of his lips tipped up. Then he stretched out his forepaws, laid his head down on them, and closed both eyes.

  Jenks continued to eye Nick warily. “So, what does he do exactly? Carry a magnifying glass in his paw at crime scenes? Hiss when he suspects homicide, scratch a murderer’s eyes out?”

  One eye winked open. Nick’s tail bristled, and a loud grr rumbled in his throat.

  “Believe it or not, Nick’s more effective than you’d think when it comes to apprehending the bad guys. He has his own way of communicating clues, pretty successful ways, I might add. His former owner was a PI.”

  “Former owner? What happened to him?”

  Ah, a very good question. I certainly wasn’t about to share with Jenks what I’d recently learned: that Nick Atkins might be involved in espionage. I shrugged. “He’s . . . been away. On business.”

  Nick sat up and batted his paw beneath my refrigerator, and a few seconds later three small square tiles came into view.

  Jenks looked amused. “So the cat’s a Scrabble player, huh? Is he any good?”

  “You could say that,” I said as Chantal dropped the tiles into my palm. An s, a p and a y. Spy. “He has an uncanny sixth sense about things. Cats are supposed to have psychic abilities, you know.”

  Jenks backed away from the cat, who’d lofted onto the counter again and was now chewing on the edge of another tile. He turned back to me. “So you and this PI were close, I take it?”

  “Ah . . . not really.” I hesitated and then added, “I never met the man.”

  Jenks’s jaw dropped. “Never met him? I thought you said he left you his cat to take care of.”

  “That’s not how it happened. Nick just showed up on my doorstep one night.”

  “Just like that, eh?” Jenks rubbed the stubble on his chin with one long finger. “And I suppose the cat learned how to be a sleuth from that PI.”

  I wasn’t quite sure how to answer that. I couldn’t deny the fact feline Nick possessed a decided flair for detective work, ferreting out clues and communicating via the use of Scrabble tiles, another long story. Without his help, though, I’d never have solved three mysteries. Plus, I’d most likely be pushing up daisies. The little fellow had saved me from an untimely demise on more than one occasion. In return, he got a roof over his head, a warm bed (although he preferred to sleep on mine), three square meals a day, plus he got to sample all my specials before the customers. Really, what more could a cat ask?

  I lifted my shoulders in a shrug. “I don’t think he learned it from anyone. I think it just comes naturally to him.”

  Nick had apparently decided I’d suffered enough for my oversight on his role in our partnership and now turned his full attention to licking his thick coat into an ebony sheen.

  Alvina touched Jenks’s arm. “It’s all so exciting, isn’t it? I think Nora and Nick would make a great human interest story for the Sunday edition. People love cats. They’re the most popular house pet, right above hamsters and dogs.” She leaned toward me and whispered, “I read it on Google.”

  Jenks scratched at his head, making the jagged ends of hair above his ears stand out. “As much as I dislike cats, I have to admit an article on you two would probably be a lot more interesting than the interview old Marker’s got his heart set on.”

  A smile touched my lips at that assessment. Henry Marker, editor of the Cruz Sun, was a crusty curmudgeon who brought to mind images of Perry White clenching his cigar and screaming “Great Caesar’s Ghost” at Clark Kent and Lois Lane. When he had his mind set on a particular article, it practically took a sign from the Man Upstairs himself to make him change his mind.

  Alvina tossed Jenks a curious look. “What interview is that?”

  “Oh, some romance novelist holed up in the old Porter house off Highway 11.” He felt around in his jacket pocket and whipped out a worn notebook, flipped to a back page. “Marlene McCambridge. Ever hear of her?”

  “Marlene McCambridge! You’re kidding!” Alvina squealed. “She’s really here in Cruz?”

  Jenks put a finger to his lips. “Shush, not so loud! It’s supposed to be a secret,” he hissed. “Marker only found out because his cousin Joannie took care of the rental.”

  “Sorry,” Alvina murmured. She gave a quick glance around to make sure no one was listening and then said in a low tone, “Everyone loves the Tiffany Blake books. Their new one comes out Tuesday, Love’s Deepest Desire. I ordered five copies! I just can’t keep them in stock. I’m convinced Maude Applebee confiscated most of ’em for her own personal library.”

  Jenks swatted at his ear with his hand. “I’m sorry, I think my hearing is going. Did you say their new one? Plural?”

  “Oh, yes. Two women write those books. As a matter of fact”—Alvina smiled at me—“Nora’s mother was friends with the other woman, Desiree Sanders.”

  Jenks turned to me. “Is that right?”

  I nodded. “Desiree was Dora Slater back then. She had some modest success after she changed her name, but she really hit it big when she teamed up with Marlene and invented the persona of Tiffany Blake. I think practically every book in that series has been on the New York Times or USA Today Bestseller list, or both.”

  “Yes, it would be quite a coup to get Marlene to make an appearance. Maybe you can put in a good word for me, Jenks, when you do your interview,” Alvina said hopefully.

  “If I do it,” Jenks said with a sigh, reaching for his tray. “She’s not exactly the most cooperative person in the world, from what I can gather. I’ve left several messages but so far no dice.” He turned to me and his lips twisted into a half smile. “Think about that article, Nora. I might be back.”

  As they moved away, Chantal touched my arm. “I forgot to tell you I promised Remy I’d take the afternoon shift at the flower shop. Will you be okay here with Mollie gone?” Mollie Travis was the high school senior who helped out mornings and afternoons, but school was closed this week and she and her parents had gone to Big Sur to visit relatives.

  I stared down the line of heads tilted upward, their eyes now glued to a popular talk show. “I don’t see why not,” I sighed.

  “Great. I’ll give you a call tonight to find out how long it took for them all to come out of their comas.”

  “Better make it tomorrow morning. I’ve got a date with Daniel tonight.”

  One well-shaped eyebrow rose. “You two haven’t been out together since the costume ball. Why is that?”

  I pulled a face at her. She knew darn well why.

  I’d met FBI Special Agent Daniel Corleone during my investigation of Lola Grainger’s death. At six-two, broad-shouldered with burnished blond hair cut a bit on the shaggy side, tanned skin, and clear blue eyes, he was the epitome of the word hunk. Sparks had flown between us from the first, but our budding romance was slow to take off, due partly to the demands of Daniel’s job and partly to my reluctance to rush into a relationship. As it happens, my reluctance has a name.

  When I’d first met Leroy Samms, we were seniors at the University of California, and he’d just been appointed editor of the college paper. From our first encounter there had been a spark of . . . something. I couldn’t tell you just what. When we weren’t trading insults, we were butting heads over everything from bylines to the use of commas. The night before graduation, though, we’d decided to celebrate the completion of a difficult story with champagne and ended up in each other’s arms. The details on just what transpired that night have always remained a bit fuzzy, but suffice it to say we made it through graduation without ever speaking another word to each other. Then, fifteen years later, I ran into him again, under much different circumstances. He was my sister’s arresting of
ficer. Was there still a spark between us? Had I wondered through the years what might have happened had Samms and I gotten together? My answer would have to be a definite . . . maybe.

  Chantal winked at me and started to hum “Torn Between Two Lovers.” I mimed throwing a plate at her as she blew me a kiss and disappeared out the back door. I started to turn back toward the counter and almost tripped over Nick. He squatted at my feet, and I gasped at the object I saw clenched beneath one paw.

  My brand-new iPhone. I’d barely had it a week and was still getting used to all the bells and whistles. “No claws,” I cried. The last thing I wanted were scratches on its nice, shiny exterior. I bent down and ticked his paw. Nick backed away, shooting me a look of catly disdain. He held up one forepaw, innocent of claw tips, and sneezed.

  “Sorry, Nick. Do I even want to know how you manage to get your paws on these things?” Cell phones, journals, Scrabble tiles . . . nothing was sacred to this cat.

  “Merow-owww,” he warbled, reaching up to bat at the phone with his paw. A second later it rang.

  I raised both eyebrows. “I just hate it when you do that. It’s so . . . spooky.” I glanced at the number, but it was one I didn’t recognize. I started to click it into voice mail, but Nick let out a loud meow and raised his paw, pointing at the phone, black tail swishing to and fro like a metronome.

  “All right, all right, I’ll answer it.” I clicked the Accept button and made a face at Nick. “Hello.”

  “Is this Nora Charles?”

  The voice was feminine, but it wasn’t familiar. “Yes,” I said cautiously.

  “The same Nora Charles who used to write for the Chicago Tribune? Laura Charles’s daughter?”

  Now my radar tingled so much I shivered. “Yes. Who am I speaking with, please?”

  Ignoring my question she went on, “I simply cannot believe this is how that—that hack repays my loyalty! All those years of dedication—plotting, character creation, the actual writing, not to mention flying all over the globe on those damned personal appearance tours—down the drain! I thought we had something good, something solid, and now it’s up in smoke. She’s an ingrate, I tell you. A total ingrate, and she must be stopped. I’m sick, I tell you, just sick.”

  She paused for a breath and I saw my chance. “I’m sorry but I haven’t the faintest idea who you are or what you’re talking about.”

  “What?” The voice at the other end sounded incredulous. “This is Desiree Sanders, and isn’t it obvious? I’m talking about my partner, that no-talent, good-for-nothing ungrateful hack of a human being.” She paused for a breath.

  “She’s trying to murder me.”

  Two

  For a second I was so stunned I couldn’t speak. Finally I managed to croak out, “You said your name is Desiree Sanders?”

  “Yes.” Her tone softened a bit. “I knew your mother. Laura was one of my dearest friends.”

  “Yes, she spoke of you often.” I blew out a breath. “I assume the partner you mention is Marlene McCambridge?”

  “Who else?” Desiree’s voice had risen to an ear-splitting shriek. Nick’s sensitive ears picked up on the increase in decibels. He stretched out on the floor and put his paws over his ears. I moved farther back into the corner, afraid the sound would carry out to my customers.

  “What has she done that’s led you to think she wants to kill you?” I asked. “If that’s so, then you really should contact the police.”

  I heard a sharp intake of breath and then Desiree said in a calmer tone, “I’m sorry, I should have clarified my statement. She doesn’t want to murder me, she wants to kill my career. Although if she goes through with what she has planned she might as well just take a knife and stab me through the heart. I’ll be as good as dead. I’ll be ruined!”

  I remembered my mother describing Desiree as dramatic, and I thought that assessment accurate. “What exactly is it she’s planning to do?”

  “Miss Priss wants to dissolve our partnership. Yes, that’s right! As of two p.m. tomorrow, the writing team of McCambridge and Sanders, better known as Tiffany Blake, will be no more.”

  Ah, light was beginning to dawn on the reason Marlene had come to Cruz alone. I dragged my hand through my hair. “Are you certain she’s serious? If the two of you had an argument, maybe this is just her idea of payback.”

  “Arguments are a way of life with us,” Desiree spat. “We disagree every other day. And no, this wasn’t a spur-of-the-moment, heat-of-the-moment threat. She’s hinted at dissolution before, but this time it’s different. She’s got paperwork all drawn up and she actually expects me to sign it. I’m here in Cruz because I need to try and talk some sense into her, the witch.” Desiree grunted softly, and I detected a hint of something besides anger in her tone. Desperation? “This dissolution is just the tip of the iceberg. Your mother always said how cool and levelheaded you were, and those qualities are exactly what I need right now. Look, I know you don’t know me from Adam. I wouldn’t even ask you, except I was such good friends with your mama and—honestly, I don’t know who else I can turn to. Please, just meet with me and let me explain. I promise I’ll abide by whatever decision you make after that.”

  I hesitated. Part of me was yelling: This is trouble. Cut and run! But another part of me shot back: This is your mother’s friend. She sounds like she’s really in trouble. Maybe she just needs a shoulder to cry on. You know it’s what your mother would want you to do.

  I sighed. “I close at three. Where would you like to meet?”

  Desiree let out a little squeal. “You’ll come then? Wonderful. I’m at the Cruz Inn. Room 523. Just come right on up. I’ll be waiting for you.”

  I disconnected with the distinct feeling I’d just been played, and very well at that. I glanced over at Nick and pointed an accusing finger. “Okay, bud, this is all your fault, you know. You wanted me to answer that call. What have you gotten me into now?”

  He stretched out and put his head between his paws.

  I rolled my eyes. “Yeah, that’s just what I was afraid of. Well, guess what. You’re coming with me.”

  I heard his grr of protest as I turned back to the counter. Old Harold Robinson was leaning against it, tapping his cane impatiently on the floor. “About time,” he grumbled as I hurried over. “I’ll have a Bogart salad, hold the bacon bits. And when are you gonna get a damn smoothie machine?”

  • • •

  Promptly at three I ushered my last customer out the door. Bennie Hemming went out kicking and screaming because I shut the TV off during the Lightning Round of Family Feud. I patiently reminded him that Hot Bread was an eating establishment, not his living room. He not so patiently reminded me that if it weren’t for people like him, I’d have an Out of Business sign on my door. We finally agreed to disagree, and with a promise of free coffee tomorrow, he left. I leaned against the door and looked over at Nick, sprawled comfortably across the counter, his front paws just grazing the register. He swiveled his head toward my back door and a second later I heard a loud knock.

  “Uh-oh,” I said, whipping off my apron. “We’ll have to ditch whoever that is quick so we can keep our appointment.” I hurried over to the door and opened it, prepared to shoo my visitor away . . . and then stopped dead as I saw who stood there. None other than Daniel Corleone, looking decidedly sexy in a black leather jacket, tight-fitting denims, and black alligator boots, a far cry from his usual working attire of staid navy blue suit and white shirt. He looked darn hot and dangerously yummy, maybe because of the serious five o’clock shadow he had going on. “Well. This is a surprise. You look . . . different.” I managed.

  He cocked a brow. “Different? I was hoping for dashing, maybe sexy.”

  “Oh, that’s a given.” I laughed and motioned to his stubble. “What’s up? When did you decide to grow a beard?”

  He swiped the back of his hand against his cheek. “I’ve been undercover on a case that went longer than expected. I only just wrapped it up about an ho
ur ago.”

  I studied his face and said, “Let me guess. You’re beat and want a rain check on our dinner tonight, right?”

  He did look miserable as he nodded. “I hate to disappoint you again. Heck, I was looking forward to a nice relaxing evening with you myself, but . . . would you mind terribly if we postponed it?” His lips twisted into a lopsided grin. “I’d be a lousy date, worse than usual.”

  “Oh, stop it. You’re a great date. And of course I understand. We can have dinner another time. Actually, I’ve been quite busy myself today.”

  “Ah, that’s right. Today was new sandwich day, right?”

  “That and . . .” I pointed upward. Daniel saw the television and let out a low whistle.

  “Whoa. Is that what Violet Crenshaw rewarded you with?”

  I laughed. “No, that’s still a mystery. The TV was my sister’s idea. It’s an experiment to see if it would generate more business.”

  “And,” he prodded as I hesitated.

  “Jury’s still out. Today it seemed to be more of a distraction than an attraction. The general consensus, however, is I should have sunk my money into a smoothie machine instead.”

  “Well, they are popular. I like a good strawberry banana smoothie myself.” He reached out and touched the tip of my nose with his finger. “I’m sorry about tonight. I wouldn’t blame you if you wanted to dump me and find some guy who’ll appreciate you.”

  I tamped down my guilty conscience at the mental image of Samms that arose and gave him a sunny smile. “Don’t be silly. I wouldn’t dump you just because you broke a date or two . . . or three.”

  “More like ten.” He placed his hands on my shoulders and looked deeply into my eyes. “You’re the best, Nora. I really hate that we haven’t been able to spend quality time together—but don’t worry. Things are going to change. I’ll make this up to you, and in a big way.”