Meow If It's Murder (Nick and Nora Mysteries) (12 page)

“Oh, yeah. That’s right.” His hand swiped at the back of his neck. “I might be a bit off on the time. He mighta waited over an hour for her to come back in the dinghy. And then he took the small cruiser out, lookin’ for her, but couldn’t find nothin’.”

“He went out on his own to look for her? That wasn’t in the news account.”

“Hey, what can I say? The reporters slipped up. If you get the police account, it’ll be in there.” Shelly pulled a handkerchief from his jacket pocket, wiped it across his forehead. “Anyhow, the Coast Guard finally found her around five a.m. She’d drifted into a small cove. Guess that’s why Mr. Grainger didn’t see her when he went out in his boat.”

“And where were all the others during this time frame?”

“All in their rooms, sleepin’.” His fingers tapped the side of his desk. “We knocked on their doors,” he said at last. “We wondered if Lola might have gone inside one of their rooms, but their doors were locked. No one answered.”

I frowned. “Did you knock really loudly, bang really hard? Or didn’t you have a master key? Even if they were sleeping, you could have opened their doors, just in case—”

“Mrs. Grainger wasn’t in any other room,” he barked. “And no one else was up,” he added, almost as an afterthought. “Now, that’s what happened. Satisfied?”

Hardly. “You’ve been captain of their yacht for how long, Captain Lott? Years, right?”

“Ten years. Well, actually nine. I was in a bad car accident—I was laid up almost an entire year. Mr. Grainger—I don’t know what I’d have done without him. He paid for all my surgeries, all my medical bills, even kept paying me my salary—and then once I got a clean bill of health, he took me right back, bless his heart.”

So that explained the limp and walking stick—and the unswerving loyalty. Grainger certainly was a generous employer. “So you mean to say that in all that time, you never knew Mrs. Grainger had a fear of deep water? That she was afraid she’d die by drowning?”

The tongue came out again, swiped over his lower lip. “We never really had personal conversations, miss. We just talked about stuff relatin’ to whatever cruise they were takin’.”

“Regardless, do you really think it’s a plausible explanation for a woman with a deep-seated fear of water to suddenly take off in a dinghy in the middle of the night?”

He lowered his gaze. “She had a lot to drink,” he mumbled.

“Not that much. You only made her one Bloody Mary.”

“It mighta been two,” he said defensively. “Now I think of it, I’m pretty sure she did have two.” He paused. “And some wine.”

I tapped my pen against the edge of the desk. “By your own admission, Mrs. Grainger wasn’t one to get carried away with drinking. Not only that, but don’t you think a woman who was just getting over a severe headache would have enough presence of mind to limit her alcohol intake, let alone mix drinks?”

He thrust his lower lip out. “She might not have wanted to appear ungracious in front of company. All I know is, that’s what happened.”

“Can you answer me this? If Mr. Grainger thought she took the boat out for a spin, then why did he tell the police she must have slipped while trying to retie the dinghy?”

“We didn’t know what happened for certain. It could have been either scenario. Either she took the boat out, got disoriented, and fell in, or she went to retie the dinghy, slipped, and fell in.”

“Slipped and fell in. Is that how Mr. Grainger accounted for the bruises on his wife’s body?”

His tongue snaked out, rubbed over his lower lip. “Bruises?”

“There were bruises on the body—her legs, across her left side, her chin, the base of her skull.”

He studied the floor. “I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about. I didn’t see no bruises.”

My eyebrows rose. “So you did see the body, then? After it was pulled out of the water?”

His eyes darted around the room. “I—ah—went with Mr. Grainger to view it. He was in no shape to look at it alone.”

“Really. Because I thought you and Marshall Connor were the ones who ID’d the body. Grainger was in no condition to look at her.”

A thin sheen of sweat broke out on his wide forehead. “Well, now, let me think . . . yes, that’s right. He wanted to, but he just couldn’t bring himself to do it. So me and Mr. Connor, we ID’d her.” His face took on a dreamy look. “She looked beautiful—just like she was sleepin’, not dead. I kept hopin’ she’d open her eyes.”

“I see. And who noticed the bruises?”

His head snapped back. “Will you stop harpin’ on bruises? I didn’t see any, I tell ya.”

“An eyewitness insists there were.”

I saw a blush start to creep up his neck. He reached out, grabbed the walking stick, and clutched it, knuckles bled white. “That—that’s—” He shook his head. “An eyewitness, you say? Who?”

“I rather hoped you’d tell me.”

His finger shot out, jabbed at the air under my nose. “What is this? An inquisition? You’re tryin’ to trip me up, aren’t you?”

My heart beat double time as I scooted to the edge of my chair and met his gaze head-on. “If you’re telling me the truth, Captain Lott, then there’s nothing to worry about.”

Lott abruptly scraped back his chair and rose, splayed both his palms across the desktop. “I think this interview’s over. I’ve said all I’ve got to say. You need more information, you read the news accounts. Or you ask Mr. Grainger himself. You newspeople are all alike. Try and sully the memory of a good person just to sell a few papers.”

“That’s not what this is about. I think you know that.” I paused. “Were you aware Lola called her sister from the boat?”

His head jerked up, eyes narrowed. “She did? No, ma’am, I did not know that.”

“Well, she did. Furthermore, she told her that she’d found out something Kevin might kill her over, if he were aware she knew.”

His lips compressed into a thin line. “Fool talk, that’s what that is. How do I know you’re telling the truth?”

“You don’t,” I admitted. “But I assure you I am.” I leaned forward. “If you know something, Captain Lott, anything at all that would shed some light on this—”

He drew back abruptly and hunched his shoulders. “Sorry. I’m not sayin’ another word, hear me? Not another word. I said too damn much already.” He fumbled in his pocket, pulled out the pack of Kents, and scissored one between nicotine-stained fingers. “Lola Grainger was a good woman who wouldn’t harm a fly. I can’t think of a person on earth who’d want to see her dead.”

I nibbled at my lower lip, then blurted out, “What about Kevin Grainger? Could you think of anyone who might want to kill him?”

Lott paused, the cigarette midway to his lips, and tapped it thoughtfully against the desk. “Kill Kevin Grainger? Where’d that come from?”

I shrugged. “Just a theory I’m toying with. Could you think of any reason why he might be a target?”

His eyebrows formed a perfect V. “No. I don’t know where you dreamt up this crazy theory of yours, but that’s what it is—damn crazy.” Lott jammed the cigarette between his lips, floundered in his pocket for a match, scraped it into flame. He exhaled a thin stream of smoke right into my face. “Crazy,” he muttered again. “Next you’ll be telling me some mobster put a hit out on him. And I’m not saying a damn thing. Not another word.”

I waved my hand, trying not to choke on the cloying smell of nicotine and roses, stuffing my pad and pen back into my tote. “I just have one last thing to say. You seem a decent human being to me. You know as well as I do there’s more to what happened that night than Grainger’s let on to the press, or the police, or anyone else. Adrienne Sloane knew it, too.

“You’re probably the only one who can give Lola Grainger’s spirit the peace she deserves, Captain. Think about it. And when you’re ready to talk, here’s my number. Thank you for your time. Oh, and I think it might be best for both of us if what was said here today remained just between us.”

He grunted in assent.

I pressed one of my business cards into his hand and turned on my heel. When I got to the door, I turned my head slightly. Lott was slumped in his chair, my card clutched in one hand, glowing cigarette in the other, staring off into space.

I’d touched a nerve, I felt sure of it, as sure as I knew there was some sort of cover-up going down. I’d gotten the distinct sense he was lying when he said no one else on the yacht was up at the time Lola had presumably disappeared. All I could do was hope I’d gotten through to him in some way, because I had the definite feeling the others would be much, much harder to crack.

I
finished slicing the onion for my salad and carried the bowl over to the table in my little dining nook. Nick was busy eating leftover burger from this afternoon’s lunch crush out of the blue-and-white ceramic bowl Chantal had picked up at the Pet Palace.
HEAD CAT
was emblazoned in large letters along the side of the bowl. I thought it oddly appropriate. I seated myself and picked up the oil and vinegar, poured it over the salad, then tossed it and heaped a large pile on my plate. Nick, done with his burger, hopped up on the chair opposite mine and rested his forepaws on the table. He eyed my dinner warily.

“Sorry, pal. No steak tonight, I’m afraid.”

“
Ewwr
,” Nick rumbled. He turned around twice and arranged himself comfortably on the chair.

I popped a slice of tomato into my mouth. “I know Lott’s hiding something,” I said as I chewed. “Right now it seems a bit pointless to try and drag it out of him. He’s just going to have to open up to me at his own pace, I guess.”

Nick watched me spear another slice of tomato. I held the fork out. He took a sniff and then sat back on the chair. I popped the slice into my mouth, chewed. “He’s my best guess on being Adrienne’s informant,” I said after I’d swallowed. “He’s also got my vote for the weak link in the chain. He certainly acted uneasy enough, as if there were something to hide. I don’t think he likes being part of a deception. I wonder how Adrienne got him to tell her the little he did.”

Nick hopped off the chair and walked away, wiggling his rotund bottom like a gal wearing a too small miniskirt. I watched him sashay over to the corner, give his behind a final shake, and then ease himself down, watching me over one shoulder all the while in sort of a feline pinup pose.

“Ah. You think maybe Adrienne used her feminine wiles to influence him?” I tapped my fork against my chin. “Maybe you’ve got something there. It wouldn’t be the first time sex was used to gain information.”

I looked down at my own attire, faded blue denim jeans and Cal sweatshirt. “If I thought it’d help me get some cooperation out of one taciturn detective, I might even break out a leather miniskirt myself.” I let out a huge sigh. “That is, if I owned one. Maybe it’s time to rethink my wardrobe choices, eh?”

He hopped back up on the chair and his paw darted out and speared a piece of lettuce that hung over the side of my bowl. I bit out a laugh and pushed my chair back. “Right. Why bother. After all, it’s not as if the good detective expressed any interest in me personally, right? And that’s his loss.”

Nick blinked. “
Ew-owr.
”

The corners of my lips tipped up a smidge. “Glad you agree.”

I picked up the dishes and carried them over to the counter. “Lott told his story as if it’s one he’s rehearsed many times before,” I murmured. “But if I go on the assumption he’s telling the unvarnished truth, Lola had little or no interaction with anyone else on the yacht, save for a possible flirtation with Connor. I wonder—do you think it’s possible they were having an affair?”

As soon as I’d said the words, I rejected the idea. From the little I knew of Lola Grainger, she didn’t seem like the type who’d cheat on her husband. I recalled my mother describing her as class personified, an assessment I agreed with. Although if there was one thing I’d learned over the years: In affairs of the heart, all bets were off. What was that old saying?
The heart wants what it wants.

What had Lola’s heart wanted?

I sighed. “I guess, just to cover all my bases, I should investigate a possible love connection between Lola and Marshall Connor. If there was one, then maybe Grainger found out about their affair, confronted Lola, maybe killed her in a drunken rage, and tossed her body off the boat in a panic.”

It sounded more like the plot of a B-grade thriller than a plausible explanation.

I stared off into space, the wheels in my head turning even faster. My thoughts kept reverting to the mysterious last line in Nick Atkins’s journal:
Tonight I received a text from Adrienne. She wants me to meet her at the docks—she believes the wrong Grainger might have been killed.
Assuming Adrienne was on to something, who would want Kevin dead—and why?

Lott had blown me off when I asked if he knew of any reason why Kevin might be a possible target. Recalling his smart-ass remark, I got up, rummaged in my purse for my cell. A few minutes later I had Hank Prince on the line.

“Wow, Nora,” he greeted me. “Twice in one week—I didn’t realize you missed me that much—or is it just Chicago and all our crime you’re craving?”

“Don’t miss those Chicago winters, Cruz has its own share of crime, but I do miss you.” I laughed. “I was wondering if you could check into something for me.”

“My plate’s pretty full right now, doll, but you know I’ll squeeze your request in ASAP.”

“Thanks. See if you can pick up any ties between Kevin Grainger and any mob families in the L.A. area. I’ll text you the particulars.”

“Sure. You know, for someone who wanted to get out of the crime reporting field and go into business for herself, you seem to still be pretty interested in your old stomping grounds.”

“What can I say? Old habits die hard.”

Hank laughed. “True that. So, how’s the new career coming?”

“Very well. Next time you’re in California, look me up. If you’re good, I might even name a sandwich after you.”

We exchanged a few more pleasantries, and then I hung up. I finished washing the few dishes, set out some dry food for Nick, and then switched on my laptop. I typed in Lott’s name and the word
accident
, and a few seconds later several news articles appeared. I clicked on the first one and read it eagerly. He’d said it had been a bad accident—that seemed an understatement somehow. The car brakes had failed, and he couldn’t get himself free and out of the vehicle in time. The car crashed through a guardrail and went down a steep ravine. Lott finally managed to free himself, but his leg was badly injured, impeding his escape. As a result, he’d gotten pretty badly burned when the car exploded.

The second article offered much of the same information. At the very end, however, was an interesting note: The car Lott had been driving was registered to his employer, Kevin Grainger.

“Hm. Well, that could explain why Grainger paid all Lott’s medical bills. More out of guilt, perhaps, than kindness?” I said to Nick, who’d finished his dry food and had hopped up on the table next to the laptop. “Maybe Grainger was the intended target, and not Lott. I wonder if the police ever investigated that angle?” My gaze wandered across the room, over to the table where Nick Atkins’s journals lay. “Or if your former master ever did?”

I thought again of the pages ripped from the journal and turned back to the computer. I looked up the office number for Sampson and Atkins Investigations and then reached for my cell. A few seconds later a voice, sounding as if I’d just awoken him from a deep sleep, rumbled across the line.

“Sampson and Atkins Investigations. Oliver Sampson here.”

“Hey, Mr. Sampson. It’s Nora Charles. Do you remember me?”

He laughed. “It’s Ollie, Nora, and of course I remember you. How could I forget Sherlock’s new owner? I must say, I didn’t expect to hear from you so soon. Is everything all right with the little fellow?”

“Oh, he’s just fine. I just remembered there were a few things in that box Mr. Atkins’s landlady gave me that she thought you should have.”

“Really?” Ollie sounded dubious. “I can’t imagine what.”

“Journals. Three thick ones. One of which contains his notes on the Grainger case.”

There was dead silence and then, “I see. And the other two?”

“Look to be notes on various cases he worked on through the years. Mainly disgruntled spouses, as near as I can tell.”

Ollie barked out a laugh. “Yes, disgruntled spouses were his specialty. But seeing as all those cases are closed, I doubt I’d need them. Feel free to keep them or throw them out, whichever you want.”

I cleared my throat. “As long as I have you on the phone, Ollie—did Nick ever share any of the details of the Grainger case with you?”

“Not too many—of course, to be fair, I never displayed too much interest in it. Dynamite, remember?” He clucked his tongue. “Why—is there something in particular you need to know?”

“I’ve been doing a bit of research, and I’m curious about the accident Captain Lott had right after the incident. One of the accounts I read said the car he was driving belonged to Kevin Grainger, so—”

“You wondered if Grainger were the intended victim and not Lott,” Ollie finished. “I remember wondering about that myself,” he admitted. “Apparently there wasn’t enough left of the car after the explosion to draw a conclusion. The police seemed satisfied Lott was the intended victim, however, due to the fact he owed a certain loan shark a ton of money. The possibility someone might have been after Grainger never entered the picture.”

“I see. Well, thanks, Ollie.”

“Nora.” His tone was sharp. “I don’t know why you want to get involved in this, but I feel compelled to offer you the same advice I did Nick. You’d do well to steer clear and let sleeping dogs lie. I know you worked that crime beat in Chicago, but—”

“Thanks for your help, Ollie, and for your concern. But I can take care of myself—and little Nick, too. Don’t worry.”

“A little late for that,” he grumbled, and hung up.

I put the phone down and leaned back, laced my hands behind my head. The key to all this, I felt certain, was finding someone willing to come clean about what really happened on the yacht that night. From my experience, there was no way all those people were telling the truth. One—or maybe more—was lying.

What I needed to do was figure out who and, more important, why.

I stood up, stretched, and put down the top on the computer. Nick watched me with his unblinking golden eyes.

“My next move should be to question the other three, see what they have to say about that night. That’s going to require some thought. After all, it’s not like we hang out in the same circles, or that they even frequent Hot Bread for lunch. I can’t just run into them, you know.”

Nick jumped up on the counter. His plume of a tail swished, knocking over the plastic case containing my catering menus. They scattered to the floor like autumn leaves. I sighed, bent to retrieve them, then suddenly straightened. I hurried over to the old rolltop desk in the corner, jerked open the bottom drawer, where my mother’s impeccable catering records were kept. I thumbed through the folders, and a little cry of triumph escaped my lips as I pulled out one marked
KMG
. Sure enough, inside were two neatly drawn contracts, bearing both my mother’s signature and that of Lola Grainger, for Hot Bread to cater two of their upcoming company events. I glanced over at Nick, sitting calmly on the counter, licking one paw.

“I get it,” I murmured. “Good point. Now that Lola’s dead, what happens with these contracts?”

I shoved the file folder under one arm and patted Nick on the head. I figured now was as good a time as any to find out.