Hiss H for Homicide

by Toni LoTempio

  Ollie set down his mug. “What is your gut telling you? Do you think she did it?”

  I considered that a moment, then shook my head. “No. Honestly, I don’t.”

  Chantal suddenly whirled around and started fiddling in my middle drawer. “I almost forgot. A courier came with a delivery this morning, right when you were busy making those fried egg sandwiches for you and Ollie.” She whipped out a Special Delivery envelope, which she waved wildly in the air. “It’s from Violet Crenshaw.” She closed her eyes and ran her finger over the envelope before handing it to me. “It is not a check,” she said with finality. “I cannot get a clear picture of what it is, but I get the sense it is something you will get much use out of.” As I eyed the envelope Chantal touched my arm. “Just open it and take a peek. You know you want to.”

  I hesitated, then shook my head. “No. I can’t get distracted with this just now. First I’ve got to clear Desiree. I should wait until Violet returns next week anyway. She wanted me to.” I took the envelope and slid it back in the drawer just as the bell above the shop door tinkled. My lips split in a wide smile as Daniel entered.

  “Hey, good-lookin’,” he greeted me.

  “Hey, yourself. A paying customer at last,” I said, with a pointed glance at the first table, where two construction workers who were regulars, Otto Klemens and his partner, Harvey Swaggert, sat looking very relaxed, laughing at something Robert Downey Jr. was saying on-screen. If they heard my little dig, they ignored me.

  “Got a bagel with cream cheese and some coffee with my name on it?”

  “Coming up in a jiff,” I said, reaching into the case for the cinnamon-raisin bagel I knew he liked. “What brings you by so early?”

  “Breakfast conference,” he answered. “You don’t mind if we have it here, at one of your back tables, do you?”

  “We?” The bell tinkled again and my smile faded as Samms strode in. I pointed the tip of my bagel knife at him and said to Daniel, “Is he who you’re conferring with? Just who is he working for? The Cruz PD or the FBI?”

  “Lee’s officially on loan to the Cruz PD for an indefinite period,” Daniel responded. “So I guess you could say he’s working for both.”

  Samms leaned across my counter, an infuriating grin on his handsome face. “Yeah, I’m so talented, both departments can’t do without me. Oh, and I’ll have an American cheese and egg on an everything bagel. Coffee too, please.”

  I gritted my teeth and pointed to the lower shelf in my case. “Fresh out of everythings.”

  “Onion or garlic then, I’m not fussy. You pick.” He bounced his eyebrows as he looked at me. “I have no plans to kiss anyone. At least not at the moment, anyway.”

  I turned my head before either could notice the two bright spots on my cheeks. “Why don’t you two sit down, and Chantal will serve you shortly?”

  “Great. Put it all on my tab,” Daniel said, and the two men headed for the back of the store.

  I slapped two slices of yellow American cheese and an egg on my griddle, and out of the corner of my eye saw Daniel and Samms pull out chairs at the table in the far corner, near the rear exit and across from the billboard I’d set up displaying various community flyers. I pulled a plain bagel out for Daniel and then grabbed the stinkiest garlic bagel I could find out of the bin, jabbed the knife in, and sliced it right down the middle.

  Chantal came up behind me and glanced significantly toward the rear of the store. “I see both your boyfriends are here.”

  “I said you’d serve them breakfast,” I muttered, ignoring her boyfriend remark. I slathered Daniel’s bagel with cream cheese. “See if you can overhear anything they’re saying. They’re consulting on a case, and I’m betting it’s Marlene’s murder.”

  Chantal’s smooth brow puckered. “Why would Daniel get involved in that? He is FBI. They don’t bother with local homicide cases, do they?”

  “He might be doing Samms a favor, seeing as Samms is head of Cruz Homicide and the two of them have gotten pretty chummy.” I filled two mugs with coffee and set them on the counter. “It would be too obvious for me to eavesdrop. They’d be sure to clam up.”

  “And it won’t be obvious if I do it?” Chantal’s eyebrows shot skyward. “They know we are friends, chérie.”

  “Look, if Mollie were here I’d make her do it, but she isn’t and you are. I have faith in your ability.” I thrust the tray with the coffee and Daniel’s bagel at her. “You’ll think of something. Tell Samms his Howard Stern Breakfast Special will be right out.”

  “Fine.” She took the tray and shot me a hurt look. “Just don’t expect miracles.”

  I flipped over the egg and cheese, and out of the corner of my eye saw Chantal approach the table. The phone rang just then. I saw Babs Bakery on my caller ID, and since I needed to place an order, took the call. I had just hung up when Chantal bustled back. “You will not believe what they are talking about,” she said.

  I glanced over my shoulder. The two men were engaged in earnest conversation, not paying attention to anyone else. I slid the cheese and egg onto the bagel. “Well, don’t keep me in suspense. What?”

  Chantal hopped up on one of my stools. “Well, they were talking very low when I approached, and Samms looked up and saw me. He mumbled something about being served last on purpose, but he’d forgive you because you make great coffee. And Daniel chimed in and said, ‘She makes a mean tuna melt too,’ and then the two of them laughed.”

  “That’s it?” I could barely contain my disappointment. “That’s all you overheard?”

  “No, of course not.” My friend looked offended. “They were talking very low, but I caught a snitch of what they were saying before Samms saw me. Samms said something about prints and then Daniel said if he’s in the book maybe he has something to do with it.”

  I put the plate with Samms’s breakfast special on a tray and made shooing motions. “See if you can hear any more.”

  She made a face, but picked up the tray and moved toward their table. I decided it might be best to keep out of sight, so I ducked back into the kitchen, where I caught a glimpse of a black tail waving in the air next to Ollie’s chair. As I approached I saw Nick happily lapping up crumbs from the floor, and I knew just who had put them there. Ollie’s attempt at an innocent expression failed miserably, and I shook my head. “He’s going to weigh a thousand pounds soon.”

  “Nah.” Ollie looked down fondly at Nick. “It’s just baby fat. It’ll wear off.”

  “Not if he doesn’t get some exercise other than walking up and down the stairs.”

  Nick stopped eating and looked straight at me. Then he rolled over on his back and wiggled his hind legs in the air. I tried to keep my expression stern, but I knew I was failing miserably. “Honestly, Nick. You need more exercise than that.”

  The cat flopped back onto his belly and blinked twice at me.

  Ollie laughed. “He gets plenty helping you track down criminals. So, how’d Chantal make out?”

  I flopped into the chair next to Ollie and repeated what Chantal overheard. “I think the he Daniel referred to might be Dooley Franks, aka Sable St. John. He’d certainly have a lot to lose, depending on what secret of his Marlene was hell-bent on revealing.” I huffed a strand of hair out of my eyes. “I just hope they haven’t found Desiree’s gun.”

  “Even if they find it, that doesn’t mean it’s the murder weapon.”

  “But on the chance it is, it gives Desiree means, motive and opportunity. Don’t think they’ll look any further when she fits all the necessary criteria.”

  “Well, if Desiree loaned the gun to Marlene, and it does turn out to be the murder weapon, it begs the question of how the gun got in the killer’s possession.”

  “Darned if I know.”

  “Of course, it’s possible the murderer was someone acquainted with both women, and who knew Marlene had borrowed Desiree’s gun. Killer wears gloves, Desiree doesn’t, Desiree leaves her prints all over, argues with Marlene a
bout the partnership dissolution, and bingo! You’ve got the perfect frame.” Ollie laced his hands in front of him. “I think the first order of business is to determine that there actually is a book.”

  “Desiree seems to think Marlene would have considered it a gigantic waste of time to whip up a few chapters just to make people sweat.”

  Ollie raised his coffee cup. “Of course I didn’t know the woman, but from what I’ve read about her it sounds like just the sort of thing she would have enjoyed.”

  Chantal came hurrying over to where we sat, her eyes bright, her cheeks flushed. “I brought the sandwich over just as Samms hung up his phone. He said he had to get back to the station, that a very important ‘person of interest’ had just arrived, and he needed to be there.”

  I jumped up and peered into the main part of the store. Sure enough, the table where they had been sitting was now empty.

  Chantal touched my arm. “Daniel said to tell you he would call you later.”

  “And Samms?”

  Chantal’s expression was perfectly serious as she answered, “He did not say anything about calling you.”

  I made a face at her. “Very funny.”

  She laughed. “Chérie, Samms didn’t say a word. He just picked up his sandwich and took off.” She paused. “He seemed pretty jubilant, though, when he mentioned that person of interest.”

  “I’ll bet,” I murmured. Ignoring the sinking feeling in my stomach, I bolted for the door that led upstairs to my apartment and took the steps two at a time. I burst into the den and stopped.

  The roll-out bed had been made, the room straightened. Desiree was nowhere to be seen. I saw a piece of paper fluttering from beneath one of the throw pillows and reached for it. The hastily scrawled note read:

  Nora: Thanks for your support, it means the world to me. I’ve been enough of a bother to you. Thanks for the shoulder to lean on. Your mother would be proud.

  Desiree.

  “Desiree, Desiree,” I sighed. “You picked a honey of a time to get noble.” I whipped my phone out of my apron pocket and punched in Peter Dobbs’s number. Once again it went straight to voice mail.

  “Hey, Peter, this is Nora Charles. A friend of mine is in trouble. No, that’s an understatement. She’s up to her neck and sinking fast, just like the Titanic. How quickly can you get here?”

  Ten

  After a few more pleading sentences stressing the gravity of the situation using words like desperate and last hope, I disconnected and went back downstairs. Chantal was waiting on a customer; Ollie was sipping his coffee and throwing more bagel crumbs to Nick, who purred at his feet.

  “I left an urgent message,” I said. “The only problem is, I have no idea where Peter is or how fast he can get here, and who knows what Desiree will say before he arrives. She just might blurt out everything.”

  “Of course, it will depend on what Samms hits her with, and you know darn well Samms wouldn’t let you be present while he interrogates her, so in the meantime perhaps you can pursue another angle of the investigation.”

  “Good idea. Any suggestions?”

  “I think it’s prudent to confirm the existence of this tell-all book. Do you know the name of their agent? You could say it’s part of your article, and you just want to confirm.”

  “Not a bad idea, except Marlene is agent-less at the moment. Desiree told me that she severed ties with the one they shared, and she hadn’t signed with a new one yet.”

  “Well, then, you could always contact the publisher directly. You can use the same excuse. The news of her death hasn’t been made public yet, has it?”

  “Not yet, which strikes me as odd. You’d think some reporter would have gotten wind—” I stopped speaking and snapped my fingers. “That reporter from the Sun, Paul Jenkins. He was supposed to try and get an interview with Marlene for the Sunday edition. He might have stopped by yesterday too.”

  “I doubt that,” Ollie said. “It would be in the paper already if he had.”

  “Maybe not if Samms used his charm on him like he did me.” I used my fingers to draw air quotes around the word charm.

  I whipped out my phone, looked up the number of the Cruz Sun, and when I was connected asked to speak with Paul Jenkins. A few seconds later a bored-sounding voice muttered a terse “Hello.”

  “Jenks? Hey, it’s Nora Charles, from Hot Bread.”

  “Oh, hi.” A pause and then, “Does this call mean you’ve changed your mind about that Sunday article?”

  “No, sorry. I was just wondering if you ever got to interview Marlene McCambridge.”

  There was a slight hesitation and then, “No, I didn’t. And I won’t get a chance, now. That feature’s dead in the water. Literally.”

  “I know,” I said. “I’m the one who found her body.”

  “You?” He gave a low chuckle. “I guess I should have figured as much. And let me guess. Your body-sniffing cat was with you, right?”

  I ignored his comment and said, “Samms swore me to secrecy, and since nothing’s appeared in the media, I’m guessing he did the same with you?”

  “Yep. He made me swear to hold off on reporting her demise for at least forty-eight hours. I argued with him—I mean, it’s not like she was a big movie star, or anything like that, but he wouldn’t budge. Said he didn’t need to deal with the press hounding him for details and messing up his crime scene. So I gave in. I figure who knows, if I scratch his back, maybe one day he’ll do the same for me, ya know.”

  “Sounds like you have something in mind.”

  “Oh, yeah.” He clucked his tongue. “An exclusive on the arrest of the murderer.”

  I sucked in my breath. “They have a suspect?”

  “Not officially, but I hear her writing partner was in town and checked out of the Cruz Inn with lightning speed. It makes her look guilty as sin, you know.” He paused and then added, “I must say, I’m shocked. I mean, Marlene was half of the goose that laid the golden egg, the more public half, the money generator. You don’t shoot it in cold blood without a very good reason. So, any idea what the motive might be?”

  “Why would I know? I’m not investigating the crime,” I protested.

  “Yeah, but the prime suspect was your mother’s close friend. Makes it kind of personal for you, doesn’t it? Oh, wait, I’m getting another call. I’ve got to take this, but we’ll talk again.”

  Jenks disconnected and I turned a troubled gaze to Ollie. “Samms made him agree to wait forty-eight hours. So by this time tomorrow Marlene’s death will be public knowledge. We’ve got no time to waste. With all the cyber gossip sites out there, there has to be some sort of clue somewhere, I hope.”

  Ollie pushed his chair back. “If there’s anything out there, we’ll find it, trust me, or my name isn’t Oliver J. Sampson.” He went over to my laptop on the rear counter and booted it up, then clicked on Internet Explorer. He pulled up Bing and then typed in “Marlene McCambridge—recent gossip.”

  Twelve pages of sites came up.

  Ollie typed in: “Marlene McCambridge—unsubstantiated rumors.”

  Three pages of sites came up.

  I pointed to the first hit. “Look at this. Literary Gossip dot com has an article on her from last month.”

  He clicked on it and the site came up, right on the article. The title screamed at us in large blue letters: Marlene McCambridge—A Force to be Reckoned With.

  “Ah.” He rubbed his hands together in an anticipatory fashion. “This looks like a good place to start.”

  I leaned over Ollie’s shoulder and scanned the article. Basically it was a rehash of Marlene’s (and Desiree’s by omission) literary career, how tough it was to maintain the persona of Tiffany Blake, and some awards received.

  The last part of the interview, however, was interesting:

  Reporter: Marlene, what’s in store for Tiffany Blake? What’s your and Desiree’s next venture?

  Marlene: Well, I can’t speak for either Tiffany or Desiree, but I c
an tell you that something interesting is in the offing for moi.

  Reporter: Can’t you give us a little hint?

  Marlene: (winks) Now that wouldn’t be fair, would it? You’ll just have to wait and see, like the rest of America—but I promise you, it will be well worth waiting for.

  Reporter: Rumor has it that you were seen down at Peachtree Press a few weeks ago. They’re a nonfiction house. Can you confirm you met with an editor there?

  Marlene: I confirm or deny nothing. As I said—you’ll have to wait and see.

  There was a little more, but I’d seen enough. “Peachtree Press, eh? Sounds like a start.”

  “Of course, that might have been a red herring supplied by Marlene, but it’s worth a shot,” said Ollie. “Peachtree Press is primarily a nonfiction house, after all. They’re known for their large advances.”

  Ollie got up and I sat down. I plugged Peachtree Press into the search engine and the site came up. I clicked on the About Us tab and found a list of editors. Twenty, to be exact. I combed through the list and narrowed it down to eight who specialized in celebrity nonfiction. I picked up my cell phone and dialed the first New York City number, putting it on speaker so Ollie could hear. The first two editors were at a conference; the third was out on medical leave. I had to wade through about three layers of assistants before finally connecting with the fourth.

  “Jendine Blair,” she answered with a brisk New York accent.

  I introduced myself and went through a quick spiel: I was in the midst of writing an article on selling nonfiction and I’d been referred to her by several experts in the field. Jendine seemed pretty flattered and agreed to give me a few minutes of her precious time.

  “Can one get a contract on a book that’s not written?” I asked.