Hiss H for Homicide

by Toni LoTempio

  “Isn’t that a breach of lawyer-client confidentiality or something?”

  “I guess it doesn’t count if the client doesn’t know, or knows and doesn’t care. Anyway, about a month ago Carruthers went to the FBI, promising to spill the goods on Enerelli—if they’d get that manuscript back. Seems Morley’s got his own little chapter in there as well. That’s when your guy Daniel and Samms started setting up shop. In the meantime, of course, Carruthers is also working for Enerelli, promising to get the book for him.”

  “Is that part of the sting?”

  “No one’s quite sure. I can tell you this, though. The FBI doesn’t exactly trust Carruthers. There’s talk that perhaps Enerelli isn’t even involved, that Carruthers might have hired Bartholomew independently. There’s also talk that Carruthers is tired of working behind the scenes, that he might be planning a little takeover on his own.”

  I whistled. “So Enerelli might be the next victim, eh?”

  “Right now, that’s only supposition. In the meantime, the manuscript is MIA. It hasn’t turned up at the editor’s office as Marlene promised, and in light of her death, they’re getting antsy now. Offered Carruthers a big finder’s fee if he can produce it. Seems they have a huge publicity campaign planned, which will be a total waste with no product.”

  “So her death doesn’t change anything as far as releasing it?”

  “Are you kidding? They’re more anxious than ever to acquire it. They’ve already sunk high six figures into it, money they’ll never be able to recoup without sales.”

  “The advance.” I sighed. “Fat chance they have of getting any of it back.”

  “Just be careful, little girl. You know, if you do manage to locate that manuscript, you’d better get it and yourself under armed guard immediately. These are desperate and dangerous people you’re dealing with. I’ll keep my ear to the ground, and if I hear any more, I’ll give you a holler.”

  I hung up and dropped into my recliner. This information definitely cleared up a few things. Daniel’s informant was Morley, and Morley was still working for Enerelli. Morley’d tipped Enerelli off as to what Marlene’d written about him, so Morley had to have seen the manuscript, or at least the part about Nico . . .

  “Darn it all, Nick, what have you done with that puzzle box?” I yelled.

  Nick’s head peeped out from underneath the small love seat in the den. “Merow,” he yowled.

  I dropped to my knees in front of him. “Look, buddy, I won’t get mad, I promise. Did you take that box?”

  Nick’s head disappeared and a minute later the box slid out from under the love seat, followed by Nick. I picked the box up and took it back over to my desk, where I just stood for a few minutes, staring at it.

  “I’ve tried everything I can think of. Ollie and I even looked up moves on the Internet. This box is certainly true to its name. It’s the biggest puzzle I’ve ever seen.”

  Nick leapt onto the desk and sat, looking down at the puzzle box. He reached out, gently tapped at the parrot’s head.

  “You think I should give it one more try, huh? Well, okay.”

  I picked up the box and turned it over in my hand. The parrot beak seemed to lay a little differently than the rest of the piece and I wondered why I hadn’t noticed it before. I hooked the edge of my nail underneath the beak and pushed from side to side. Nothing. I started to set it back down but Nick’s paw lashed out.

  “Okay, okay, I’ll keep trying.”

  I studied the box a minute, trying to remember all the different ways I’d heard of to uncover the secret cavity. Finally I pressed down on the beak and moved it counterclockwise in a circle once, twice . . . I almost dropped the box as a small drawer shot out from underneath the parrot’s claw.

  Nick turned around twice. “Meower.”

  “I guess you were right, Nick. I just had to keep at it. Thanks.”

  I peered inside the drawer, saw something long, black and silver. I reached inside and pulled it out, and my breath caught in my throat.

  Nestled in my palm was a flash drive. I pulled my laptop over, booted it up, and slid the flash drive in. After a minute, one file came up: a file labeled Memoirs.

  Nick sidled up to me, gave me a headbutt on the chin.

  “Well, it looks as if Desiree was wrong,” I said, giving his head a pat. “Marlene did write her book on a computer after all.”

  I pulled out my chair and sat down, my heart beating madly in my chest.

  I was about to find out just what all the fuss was about, and what had gotten two people killed.

  Twenty-three

  Marlene’s writing style was what some would call dry, and yet she had a definite flair for getting her point across. I skimmed through the first ten chapters, which mainly recounted her early life, her childhood, her abuse at the hands of a drunken uncle.

  Then came her meeting with Desiree, Dora at the time. Even though I confess I was curious as to the nature of Desiree’s secret, I deliberately skipped the next couple of chapters. If Desiree had wanted me to know her secret, she would have told me. My mother had pledged to keep it. I saw no reason to violate that confidence.

  The rest of the book wasn’t written in chronological order. It appeared to be more or less ramblings, observations that Marlene had written down when the mood suited her. I decided that it read more like a diary than a novel. Whoever had been selected as its editor would have a massive task ahead of them.

  I found the chapter about Scarlett and skimmed through it. Every detail was there, just as she’d told them to me; except the way Marlene wrote it, Scarlett came off as cold and calculating rather than put-upon. She’d been right. If it were allowed to be published this way it might do serious damage to her career.

  Sable St. John’s chapter was riddled with innuendo, but no names were named. Marlene hinted at Sable’s (Dooley’s at the time) being employed by a “major crime figure” and detailed some interaction with drugs, illegal firearms, even the smuggling of not only gems but illegal aliens, yet only hinted at the fact Sable might have offed a thug or two at the “mcf’s” behest. I decided that not only was his chapter a bust, but it was even doubtful that Enerelli was the crime lord for whom Sable’d worked. The feeling remained though, that Sable knew more about Enerelli and his dealings than even he liked.

  Then—at long last—the chapter about Enerelli. I started to read this with great interest. You could almost feel the electricity generated between Nico and Marlene, it was so palpable. The sparks fairly flew off the page. There were many scenes with sex so explicit, I could feel my cheeks (and other areas of my body) growing hot, and I am not a prude by any means.

  It seemed to me as if there were a genuine love between them, at least in the beginning. Then it was evident Marlene grew tired of Nico, and what she called his “dependence on her.” She grew irritated with his “neediness” and “constant seeking of approval”—particularly in the bedroom. She even intimated that he sought her counsel on family matters—and even though she didn’t come right out and say it, I could tell just what was implied.

  And yet, that wasn’t the worst of it . . . for Marlene.

  Despite her waning interest, she still considered Nico her man. And, apparently, “her man’s” eye had begun to rove . . . big-time.

  Maybe because he sensed she was tiring of him, or maybe because it was just in his blood, the reasons were never fully explained, but Nico cheated on Marlene, and not with just anyone.

  With Lila St. Claire.

  I had heard the name before. Twenty-odd years ago, Lila St. Claire was one of the most beautiful women in the world, as well as one of the most powerful. She was a madam, and not just to anyone. Her clientele included mayors, senators, mob bosses and even the occasional small-time hood or hit man. Lila was successful because to her, sex was just a business. Love never entered into her transactions.

  Until she met Nico Enerelli.

  Although I found I couldn’t quite agree when Marlene likene
d their romance to that of Rhett and Scarlett or Megan and Father Ralph (four of my favorite literary characters, no less), the metaphor was clear: doomed and forbidden. Lila and Nico had a mad, passionate fling, and then . . . just like that . . . it was over. Lila apparently came to her senses, sent Nico packing, and he went, tail between his legs, back to Marlene.

  Seven months later, Lila St. Claire mysteriously disappeared. People thought she’d gone to a fat farm, because after breaking up with Nico she’d apparently started to pack on the pounds. When she returned to her Boston apartment four months later, she was her old spunky self, and reed-thin.

  Her explanation of hiding out at a fat farm to battle her depression and get back in shape apparently satisfied everyone but Marlene, who spared no expense to track down what she termed to be “the truth,” and which she finally found in the form of a birth certificate from a small hospital in San Mateo, California.

  A baby, eight pounds, seven ounces. Mother: Lila St. Claire. And under the section labeled Father: Nico Enerelli. The sex of the baby wasn’t mentioned.

  It had taken Marlene many years and practically all of her monies to finally get hold of that birth certificate, which had been very well concealed. Even after she and Enerelli had finally called it quits, even after they pledged undying friendship to each other, and that each would keep the other’s secret, even though they’d done everything except take an oath in blood. Marlene had plotted, and planned, and waited for the day when she would have her revenge on the man who had the audacity to sleep with another woman when he claimed it was her he loved, and her alone.

  And now millions of people would get to read about it, as well.

  I skimmed through the remaining pages of the book, but the identity of the child was not revealed. I had an idea Marlene was probably waiting until the very last second to fill that in.

  I got to the end of the book, and closed the file. I pulled out the flash drive and sat for a long time, holding it.

  Well, Jendine had been right. This would make one helluva book, and it would make every bestseller list that had ever been created.

  It had been written in such a way as to ridicule Enerelli, to paint him as a man with no control—which was very dangerous in his line of work. But the person it would ruin most was the poor progeny of Lila and Nico.

  I found I had many unanswered questions. Had Nico known about his child? Lila St. Claire had died shortly afterward. Had she ever told him? I wasn’t too familiar with the Enerelli crime family, but I did know that Nico had never married, and had no children. He had a nephew, Donato, who was being groomed to eventually take over.

  That opened up another can of worms. If Donato knew he had competition somewhere out there, might not he have wanted to silence Marlene before the truth could be told? Maybe it was Donato who had hired Freddie Bartholomew.

  I rose, still clutching the flash drive. It was time to turn it over to the pros. Daniel and Samms would turn cartwheels to get this, I was sure. Maybe after I gave it to them and they had a chance to look it over, they’d be so grateful they’d be happy to overlook just how I’d come to have it in the first place.

  I thought of Carruthers. How much of all this did the lawyer know? I was betting a lot, maybe even the identity of the love child. He was pretty anxious to get his hands on all this, too, but for very different reasons. It made me wonder, as well, how much Anabel knew of all this. As Marlene’s onetime agent, had she somehow managed to sneak a peek at the work in progress without her client’s knowledge?

  Either way, it was moot. Anabel was dead, whether it was because of what she knew about the manuscript or because she knew who’d killed Marlene. Hank was right. It would be prudent of me to get this out of my hands and into those of law enforcement before I became the next target.

  I rose from my chair and reached for the landline phone at the exact same instant Nick’s back stiffened. He cowered on the desktop, back arched, every hair standing on end. His ears flicked back, flattened against his skull, his gold eyes almost protruded out of their sockets, and his lips peeled back, revealing his sharp fangs and pink tongue.

  He looked every inch the picture of your typical, scary Halloween cat, and in the next instant he was gone, a black-and-white blur racing out of my den and vanishing down the hallway, his nails clicking on my hardwood floor.

  “Nick,” I wanted to call after him, but his name came out sounding more like a strangled sob. The flash drive fell from my suddenly nerveless fingers, rolled partway underneath the desk. I wasn’t one to be scared, yet right now I felt the sensation of fear so acute it was like an ache in the pit of my stomach. There was a pricking sensation at the back of my neck—the sensation of eyes, cold and unfriendly, boring into the base of my skull—and then a hand clamped down across my mouth and I felt myself being jerked backward, feet leaving the floor.

  “Don’t move a muscle,” a silky voice hissed in my ear. “Or you’re a dead woman.”

  I inclined my head to show I understood. He spun me around and dropped me—plop! Right on my recliner. I had to swallow around the giant lump in my throat before I could speak.

  I’d expected to be looking at Simon Gladstone, but this man was his total opposite. He was much taller, and impeccably dressed in a three-piece gray suit made of some silky material. A light pink handkerchief protruded from his jacket pocket, and I could see expensive cufflinks of thick gold on the cuffs of the crisp white shirt protruding from the sleeves. He had a swarthy olive complexion, jet-black hair, and hooded eyes that reminded me of a cobra’s ready to strike. He raised his arm to fix his sleeve, and as he did so I could see the cufflinks more clearly. They were big yellow initials. An N, and an E.

  “Nico Enerelli!” I gasped.

  He made a little bow. “In the flesh, Ms. Charles. You should be flattered. I rarely call on clients personally.”

  “Clients?”

  “Just a little term I use.” I could detect a slight Italian accent as he spoke. Nico tipped his head. “I think you know why I’m here, don’t you, bella?”

  Anger replaced the fear. “I know you’re trespassing on private property. How did you get into my house?”

  His hand dipped into his pocket and removed what at first glance appeared to be a pocketknife, but he flicked his wrist and I could see it was something much more deadly—a long, stemmed, sharp razor. He held the weapon aloft in his left hand, and wiggled the fingers of his right. “Like I said, you know why I’m here. Give it to me.”

  “I—I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Of course you do,” he snapped. “You and I both know that all that drivel about not liking to type on a computer was just lip service. I know Marlene put the book on a flash drive.”

  “And how do you know that?”

  He looked at me as if I were someone with a mental deficiency. “She told me, of course. She could not wait to dig it into me.” His gaze locked with mine. “You’ve read it, right? Then you know how much trouble it will cause within my family if that truth ever gets out.”

  “The truth about your illegitimate child.”

  “My son.” Nico nodded. “Marlene told me that much, although she never told me any more details. Morley knows, and I will deal with him next. But right now, I need to destroy the evidence.” He wiggled his fingers again. “The flash drive, please.”

  I shook my head. “I—I don’t have it.”

  He laughed lightly, his thick lips parting to display pearl-white teeth. “Of course you do. You got the box. Marlene hid it in the box. I know that. I gave her that box. It’s the only place left it could be. You had to have found it and I’m sure you would have wasted no time in looking at it.” He swished the blade before my eyes. “I do not want to hurt you, but trust me, you do not want to anger me. Now give it to me.”

  I cleared my throat. I couldn’t hand over the flash drive, because if I did, what reason would he have to keep me alive. Dead men tell no tales. “I guess I should be flattered
that you paid me a personal call, instead of sending your goon.”

  “I had no choice. My goon, as you call him, got himself arrested. He went back to that house to give it another once-over, just in case. The FBI was on him like a cat on a mouse.” He dragged a hand across his chin. “They will most likely charge him with Marlene’s murder, and Anabel’s.”

  “And did he? Kill them?”

  Nico shrugged. “Who’s to say? Freddie can get very excitable.”

  “But he was acting on your orders, correct?”

  He stared at me, and his expression was one of genuine puzzlement. “My orders? Is that what you think?” He made a tsking sound. “Why would I order Marlene’s death? In spite of our differences, I loved her. Why else would I put up with her crap? And why would I want Anabel killed? I only met the woman once.”

  “There’s a possibility she might have seen Freddie enter the house the night Marlene was killed.”

  “So what if she did? I told you, I did not tell him to kill Marlene. My hands are clean. And if it should turn out Morley is behind all this, well, I promise you he will pay. Now . . .” He wiggled his fingers. “Enough small talk. Hand it over.”

  “Even if I were to give you the flash drive, how do you know there isn’t another copy somewhere?”

  “Silly girl . . . Marlene told me she only made one copy. And I know she did not like clutter. She would never print out an entire copy of the book unless she had no choice.” He held out his palm. “Give it to me.”

  Out of the corner of my eye I saw Nick pad quietly into the den. He hopped up on the desk, and then in one graceful leap he was on top of my bookcase. He padded over to my brass bust of Edgar Allan Poe and stood beside it, his tail fanning out behind Poe’s head almost like a black raven’s wing.

  I looked at Enerelli. “You gave Marlene an initial necklace.”