Hiss H for Homicide

by Toni LoTempio

  He nodded. “Yes. It actually belonged to my grandmother, Elena Enerelli. I’d given it to Marlene early in our courtship, when I’d hoped she might consent to make my family name her own. It was but one of many presents of jewelry.”

  “It was clutched in Anabel’s hand when I discovered her body.”

  “She must have stolen it from Marlene. They had many arguments lately over money.” His brows suddenly drew together. “You’re stalling, aren’t you? Why? Help is not on the way, Ms. Charles.”

  True. My help was sitting on top of the bookcase, waiting for . . . for what, exactly? Nico waved the razor in the air. “I do not wish to harm you, but I will if I have to. We’ve wasted enough time. Where is the flash drive?”

  My eyes strayed to the spot underneath the desk where I’d dropped it. Nico caught my action, followed my gaze.

  “Ah,” he murmured, and bent over to pick it up.

  Nick chose that moment to raise his forepaws and push the bust of Edgar Allan Poe off the shelf. Enerelli heard the slight noise, because he raised his head—and bam! Edgar Allan hit him square on the forehead. He went down with a low groan.

  I leapt up and darted over to the desk. I jerked open the left bottom drawer, rummaged around until I found what I’d jammed in there one day: a pair of handcuffs, a souvenir from the Chicago PD when I’d quit my job. “Here’s something to remember us by,” Lieutenant Peterson had said. “You never know, Nora. They could come in handy.”

  I’d have to send Lieutenant Peterson a thank-you note.

  I snapped a cuff on Enerelli’s wrist, then snapped the other one around the desk leg. Then I whipped a roll of masking tape out of the other drawer and slapped it right across the crime boss’s mouth.

  I jumped as I heard a heavy pounding on my front door. Now what?

  “Nora.” It was Daniel’s voice. Almost dizzy with relief, I took the stairs two at a time and practically fell into his arms.

  “Chantal called. She had a feeling you were in danger.”

  God bless my psychic friend. “Enerelli. Upstairs. He tried . . . he had a razor. He was going to kill me.”

  “Good Lord.”

  He took the stairs two at a time, one hand on his gun, the other on his phone. I followed at a slower pace. When I reached the den Enerelli was still unconscious, but Daniel had his wrists and ankles cuffed and he was propped up against my recliner, his head lolling to one side.

  “He got a pretty good conk on the head.” Daniel bent down, picked up Edgar Allan. “How did you manage that?”

  “I didn’t,” I said, and pointed to the top shelf, where Nick sat. The nails of one claw were extended and he was giving it a through washing, probably to remove all traces of dust.

  Daniel shook his head. “I swear, one of these days I’m deputizing him.”

  “At least you appreciate him. Samms thinks he’s a nuisance.”

  He grinned, then his expression sobered as he asked, “What was he doing here?”

  I leaned down to retrieve the flash drive, which I dropped into Daniel’s hand. “Marlene’s book.”

  He stared at me. “Do I want to know how you got this?”

  “Probably not.”

  I heard the squeal of tires outside and glanced out the window. Two black sedans came to a screeching halt at my side entrance. Samms got out of the first sedan and hurried toward the door. A second later I heard heavy footsteps pounding up the stairs. I felt faint, suddenly, and sank into the love seat. Daniel was beside me in an instant. He took my face between his hands.

  “You okay?”

  “I will be,” I sighed. “This isn’t over. Enerelli told me he didn’t order those hits. He said he didn’t kill Marlene, and he didn’t kill Anabel.”

  “Of course he’s going to say that.” Daniel looked at me. “You don’t believe him, do you?”

  “Honestly, I’m not sure. But if he is telling the truth, you know what that means. Their killer is still out there.”

  Twenty-four

  After Daniel and Samms had taken Enerelli away, I called Ollie to fill him in on the evening’s events. “I had a feeling I should have stuck around,” he said when I’d finished. “Are you okay?”

  “Yes, at least physically. I’m just not entirely satisfied the right murderer has been apprehended.” Nick jumped up on my lap. I rubbed the fur on the back of his neck and sighed. “I still feel as if something’s missing. Something important.”

  “Well, get some rest. You’ll think of it. Things always look better the morning after.”

  We talked for another few minutes and then I hung up. I sat back in the recliner, my eyes closed, fingers drumming against the chair arms. I felt a movement on my chest and opened my eyes. Nick had shifted his position so that he was sitting straight up, staring at me. His tongue came out, swiped across his lips.

  “Merow.”

  “Hungry? Well, I guess you deserve a snack for your heroic actions. That was good work, Nick. If not for you, I’m not sure what Enerelli might have done. He said he wasn’t going to harm me, but . . .”

  He leapt off my lap, and I got up, went to the kitchen, and got a can of sardines down from the cupboard. I spooned half the contents into a bowl and set it down on the floor. “Enjoy. You earned it.”

  He gave me what one might term an appreciative glance, and then hunched over the bowl and started slurping. I washed my hands in the sink and then went back into the den. I picked up the puzzle box from the shelf where I’d laid it and sat down, turning it over in my hands.

  I’d told Ollie I felt something was missing, and now I knew what it was that bothered me: Marlene’s omission of the name of Nico and Lila’s son.

  I’d never met Marlene, but from what I’d read of her book I could tell the woman was a stickler for details. No way would she do all that research, write all that down, and not finish the job. She’d left the son’s name out—why? Was it a bargaining chip between her and Enerelli? Or . . .

  Between her and the son?

  I did a quick calculation. The affair had taken place thirty-six years ago; that would mean the son was born sometime in the early nineteen eighties. Lila had gone away to have the baby, but she most likely wouldn’t have gone too far. An enterprising woman like her would have wanted to keep tabs on her business.

  So . . . a boy born in the early eighties within a fifty-mile radius of Boston. A boy that would have been placed immediately into foster care.

  I sighed. Like searching for a needle in a haystack. And yet, I’d bet every last cent I owned Marlene had managed to find out his identity.

  A slight scuffling sound made me look down. Nick had finished his snack and was under the desk, batting around more Scrabble tiles. I pushed my chair back and leaned down.

  “Hey, Nick. What have you got?”

  He batted one tile across the polished floor toward me. I picked it up. An R. Next an E and an O came flying at me, followed by a C and a V.

  Nick stretched himself full-length and folded his paws, X-shape, in front of him. A real “my work here is done” kind of pose.

  I laid the tiles on the desk and started to move them around. Vocer. Hardly. Crove. Nope. Cover.

  Well, that one made sense.

  I bent underneath the desk and looked at the cat. “Cover? What kind of cover, Nick? A book cover?”

  Nick’s eyes flicked toward the cardboard box I’d placed in the corner of the den, and the proverbial lightbulb flashed on over my head.

  “The typewriter cover!”

  Nick purred loudly.

  I moved over to the box and pulled back the flaps. I reached down, lifted up the side clips, and stepped back, turning the hard-side cover over in my hand. The top portion of the case had a large clip that could be used to hold papers; it was empty. I ran my nail along the inside and felt a slightly raised edge. I brought the cover over to the desk, grabbed a letter opener, and slid the point underneath the raised lip, then pressed down. There was a soft pop and then the surface
raised, just about a half inch, revealing a small cavity inside.

  There were papers jammed in there.

  I knew the letter opener wouldn’t do the trick, so I quickly went downstairs into Hot Bread’s kitchen, returning a few minutes later with a sharp, serrated double-edged knife, which I jammed into the opening. The knife cut through the plastic as if it were butter, and a few seconds later I held in my hand a small cache of papers, bound with a thick rubber band. I pulled the band off and carefully laid the papers on the desk. The top sheet only had a few words written there, in a bold scrawl:

  Notes on Nico’s Son

  I debated for a moment calling Ollie, or Daniel, or even Samms, but then my curiosity got the better of me. I squinted at the cramped, spidery writing. Marlene certainly was no ace when it came to penmanship. I was able to make out a name: North Andover Foundling Home. I booted up my computer and typed it into the search engine. The North Andover Foundling Home was a charitable institution, founded in the early 1900s, that was primarily a children’s home established for the education and maintenance of deserted and homeless young children. It operated mainly on grants from many philanthropic individuals, and there followed a long list of names. I skimmed them, finding none of note, and then a sentence near the bottom caught my eye: Foundling Hospital provided through a grant made possible via the estate of Lila St. Claire.

  I turned again to the handwritten notes. There was a date underlined, January 5, 1985, and then some words I simply couldn’t make out, with another notation: LSC real name: Miranda J. Paulson.

  I picked up my phone and dialed Hank’s number. When he answered I asked, “How fast do you think your source could get me the name of a baby boy, born at the North Andover Foundling Hospital in Massachusetts on January 5, 1985?”

  “Is that all?” He didn’t even bother to disguise the sarcasm.

  “The mother’s name would either be Lila St. Claire or Miranda Paulson. I’m not sure which one she’d use.”

  “Lila St. Claire? The Lila St. Claire, the famous madam?”

  “None other.”

  He let out a low whistle. “How’d you find out she had a kid?”

  “I didn’t. Marlene did. I’m thinking she might have tracked him down, maybe even blackmailed him to keep his name out of her book. I finally found the manuscript. It was on a flash drive hidden in a puzzle box. Chapter 18 reveals Lila and Nico Enerelli had a child out of wedlock—a boy—but doesn’t give a name.”

  “You’re thinking maybe this son murdered Marlene?”

  “Maybe. I had a visitor tonight. Nico Enerelli himself.”

  “Oh, no,” Hank groaned. “What happened?”

  “He wanted the flash drive, but Nick managed to knock that bust of Poe on his head before he could harm me.”

  Hank let out a low chuckle. “Are you sure that cat’s not part human?”

  “To be honest, no, I’m not,” I admitted. “Anyway, before he got knocked out cold, Nico did say he didn’t order a hit on either Marlene or Anabel.”

  Hank snorted. “Yes, and crime bosses always tell the truth.”

  “Oddly, I think he was. Like I said, how fast do you think you can get me that info?”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  Hank hung up and I pored over the notes again. Down at the very bottom of the page was a phone number: 555-978-0651.

  I frowned. That number seemed familiar. Either I’d dialed it recently, or I’d gotten a call from there. I picked up my cell phone, thinking how fortuitous it was I didn’t erase calls out of memory until it got full. I scrolled down the list, and then I saw it:

  555-978-0651

  Cruz Sun

  The only person who I’d called from the Sun, and who’d also called me . . . was Jenks.

  I set down the papers. What did I know about Jenks? He was new to Cruz, only here a few weeks . . . as a matter of fact, he’d come to town right around the same time Anabel had rented the house. He was a reporter, and Marker had given him the assignment of a story on Marlene . . . He’d never heard of the woman before that morning in Hot Bread, when Alvina had filled him in.

  Or so he said.

  I dialed the Cruz Sun and got the switchboard. I asked to speak to Mr. Marker. A few minutes later, I was connected with Connie, his assistant.

  “Hey, Nora. What’s up?”

  “Hey, I just thought I’d check in with Mr. Marker,” I said, thinking fast. “He’d wanted to do an article on Hot Bread, and I’ve been putting it off, but now . . . now I might be ready.”

  “Gee, that’s great. Want me to connect you with Aldo Greenstein? He’s the local food reviewer. He had really nice things to say about your dishes at the library fundraiser, so I’m sure he’ll be thrilled to know you’re interested in a full-page spread.”

  “Um, yeah, that’d be great. But I’d still like to speak with Mr. Marker first, if that’s possible.”

  “Not really. Mr. Marker won’t be back until next week. Would you want to wait that long?”

  “Back? He’s been away?”

  She laughed. “Yes, the last three weeks, and it’s been heaven. His wife made him take her on a monthlong cruise to the Greek Islands.”

  I gripped the receiver more tightly. “So Marker hasn’t been in the office for the last three weeks?”

  “Nope. Not that I mind working for him, you understand, but . . . he can be a bear at times.”

  “Demanding, yes. I know the type.” I swallowed. “But he’s been in touch with the office, right? Doling out assignments?”

  “Hah, are you kidding? His wife would have his head. Jenny McNamara and I have been handling that end, and not too shabbily, I might add.”

  So Jenks had lied about Marker’s wanting to do an article on Marlene. “Did you by any chance give Paul Jenkins an assignment to write an article on Marlene McCambridge?”

  “Heck, no!” There was no mistaking the surprise evident in her tone. “Why would I give the Phantom something like that to do?”

  “The Phantom?”

  She giggled. “Yeah, that’s what we call him, ’cause since he’s been hired, he’s out more than in.” Her tone took on a hard edge. “Has he been telling people he’s a reporter?”

  “He’s not?”

  “Heck, no! He works in the morgue, night shift. As a matter of fact . . .” I heard the sound of papers shuffling and then she said, “Yep—he called in again tonight. I thought I heard Greta grumbling about having to pull a double in the break room. Sure, she could use the overtime, but sometimes a night off is worth just as much, ya know? Conroy ought to fire his ass, except we’ve been so short-staffed. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t speak out of turn. What did you need Jenks for? Did you need something looked up?”

  “No, no. I’ll call back next week, thanks.”

  I clicked off and rested my chin in my hands. So Paul Jenkins wasn’t even a reporter. He had a press pass, but I knew from experience they were easy to duplicate. He’d come to Cruz three weeks ago, around the same time as Marlene. And Marlene had the number for the Cruz Sun written on these notes.

  Something else niggled at me, some memory at the back of my brain. Something that had seemed a bit off, but I couldn’t quite put my finger on it.

  My phone rang. I answered without looking at the caller ID. “Well, that was fast.”

  “Glad you think so.” It was Ollie, not Hank. “I forgot to tell you I heard back from Arlene’s Beauty Supply. They were able to trace that number. It was for a rental, of an ash-blond pageboy wig. It was paid for in cash, so there’s no credit card record. The clerk was able to give only a vague description of the renter. It was a man with long reddish hair, who wore glasses. That’s it, sorry.”

  I felt my stomach lurch. I thanked Ollie and hung up and then sat for a few minutes, staring at the papers spread out before me, and at the phone. And just like that, it came to me, the elusive something that had been gnawing at me, teasing my memory. My lips thinned to a straight line.

  I cou
ld call Daniel and Samms, and tell them my suspicions, but unfortunately I had no concrete proof to back them up. Juries liked solid evidence. It made convictions much easier.

  So, I had two choices. I could alert the FBI and let them take care of it and run the risk of a killer skipping out, or I could try to get that proof myself.

  I looked at the phone, and then I looked at the pile of papers in front of me. Then I let out a slow breath and reached for the phone.

  Twenty-five

  Jenks showed up in front of the Porter house right on time, at precisely ten o’clock. I met him in front, and then we walked up the front steps and into the foyer. Jenks looked mildly surprised when I locked the door.

  “For privacy,” I explained. “Even though this isn’t considered a crime scene anymore, you never know when someone might come wandering by, you know, a fan of Marlene’s looking for some sort of souvenir they could sell on eBay.”

  “I’m glad I checked my messages,” Jenks said. “I don’t always. So have I got this straight? You’re telling me that Anabel isn’t the murderer?”

  “That’s right.”

  “But they found a suicide note.”

  “Forged,” I said crisply. “By the real murderer, to tie things up neat and tidy with a big pink ribbon, so that he could get away unscathed and unpunished.”

  “I see.” He shifted restlessly from one foot to the other. “Don’t keep me in suspense. You know who the murderer is?”

  “Nico Enerelli came to see me tonight, razor blade and all. He wanted the flash drive I found in Marlene’s puzzle box.”

  Jenks shook his head, and some of that silky red hair spilled out of the hasty ponytail he’d caught it up in and hung limply to his shoulders. “Wait, you’re losing me. What’s a puzzle box?”

  “It’s a box that can only be opened by a series of movements. Marlene had one, and she was satisfied enough that her manuscript would be safe there. She didn’t type it out, like Desiree thought. Marlene must have either borrowed or rented a computer. It’s all on a flash drive.”