Meow If It's Murder (Nick and Nora Mysteries) (13 page)

I
got a one o’clock appointment for the following afternoon, and Chantal was only too glad to mind the store—and Nick. I patted his head in farewell and received a plaintive “
meow
” for my trouble. He trotted right along beside me as I walked up to the door, and looked a bit offended when I shooed him away. I chuckled. No doubt he’d have found a ride in the car preferable to trying on more of Chantal’s collars. Oh, well.

KMG’s plush corporate offices occupied three separate buildings located right off Route 19 on the outskirts of Cruz. I drove up the winding road and saw a guard shack off to one side, with a large sign reading:
ALL VISITORS MUST CHECK IN FIRST
. Off to the left, there were two lanes outfitted with card readers and automatic gates. I pulled over to the guard shack and parked. As I exited my SUV, I saw a Lincoln Continental drive up to the gates, the driver’s side window roll down, and an arm reach out, swiping a badge against the reading device. The gate rose, allowing the car to enter the grounds, and immediately lowered once the car passed through. I could see the reason for the security, though. KMG had recently acquired several lucrative government contracts; it was only natural they’d want to keep a close eye on things.

I entered the guard shack. A sleepy-eyed, olive-skinned blond woman wearing a starched navy uniform looked up at me from behind a plate glass enclosure and motioned to me to come forward.

“Can I help you?” she asked. Her voice was thick with an accent I couldn’t quite place. Spanish maybe? I felt for a minute like I was at the Cineplex in the mall, buying tickets for the afternoon show. I leaned forward so I could speak directly into the microphone. “Nora Charles. I have an appointment.”

The guard’s expression didn’t change one iota, but I was certain I saw one eyebrow twitch ever so slightly. She ran her finger down a typed sheet. “Ah, yes,” she said at last. “Ms. Charles. You’re here to see Ms. Cummings, Mr. Grainger’s admin.”

“Yes, that’s correct.” I nodded. “Patti Cummings.”

She picked up the phone and dialed a number. I strolled over to the plate glass window that took up the entire west wall and peered out. A lone guy on a bicycle had just entered the grounds. I thought for a moment he would come directly to the guard shack as I’d done, but instead he turned toward the gates and pedaled right on through, completely bypassing the automatic card readers.

I turned back to the guard. “Did you see that? That guy just rode his bicycle right past your security gates.”

The guard looked up, frowned, and then swiveled her chair around to a computer monitor. She hunched over it for several seconds before turning back to me. “Oh, that was Barry Gray. He always rides his bike in.”

“He’s an employee?” At her nod I frowned. “Shouldn’t he have swiped his badge, though? I mean, so you know he’s not a terrorist, or anything?”

Her lips compressed into a thin line. “It’s not necessary. We know who he is. He’s the head software engineer on Mr. Grainger’s newest project. He doesn’t drive.” She pushed a square of plastic with the word
VISITOR
in block letters through the slot in the window at me. “There’s your temporary admission badge. Show that to Darla at Reception. Drive straight back, park in Visitors against the wall, and enter through the main gray door.”

I pinned the badge to my jacket and hurried outside. As I moved toward the SUV, a dark, expensive-looking sedan suddenly came roaring out of a side lot. I caught a glimpse of a high forehead, wide eyes, and a cruelly slanted mouth as I jumped backward. The driver barely cut his wheel in time to avoid making me roadkill.

“Geez,” I said. “Someone’s in an awful hurry.”

“Sure is.” I glanced up to see the female guard almost at my elbow. She shook her head. “Guess he couldn’t wait for his driver.”

I stared after the vehicle, which had turned out of the driveway and was now little more than a speck in the distance. “Driver?”

The guard nodded. “He’s had one ever since his wife’s accident. That was Kevin Grainger.”

*   *   *

I
parked in the section marked
VISITORS
and hurried up the cement steps and through the plate glass doors into what I can only describe as an opulent reception area. Thick, slate gray shag carpeting the same color as the building covered the floor, and I felt my three-inch heels sink in deep. I moved soundlessly across the lobby to the massive cherrywood desk that stood on a raised dais in the center of the room—a globe with twin rings around it, KMG’s logo, was emblazoned in 3-D on its center. The perky-looking brunette seated behind the desk wore a low-cut blouse and a brass name tag that proclaimed her
DARLA
. I showed her my badge and gave my name; she, in turn, consulted a typed list taped up to the side of her twenty-four-inch Dell computer monitor. She marked something off on a sheet, then picked up the phone, dialed a number. After speaking for about ten seconds in a very low tone, she hung up the phone, let the corners of her expertly made-up lips curve in the slightest of smiles, and pointed at the far wall with a blue-tipped fingernail.

“Take the main elevator to the sixth floor. Make a right and walk straight ahead. Patti will meet you there.”

I thanked her and did as I was instructed. No one else rode in the elevator with me, and I leaned my head against the wall, mentally replaying earlier events. Where had Kevin Grainger been off to in such a hurry? The fool had nearly killed me—whoever he was meeting must be damned important. What could be so earth-shattering he didn’t care if he ran an innocent person over? Several possibilities came to mind: winning the Powerball, a huge company merger—not that Grainger needed any more money—or something to do with his wife’s untimely death.

The elevator dinged and the door rolled back, and my heels sank again deep into more plush carpeting, this a deep latte color. I glanced at the crown molding on the walls as I turned right and moved forward down the long, deserted hallway.

“Miss Charles?”

The woman appeared in front of me suddenly, like a wisp of smoke, and I almost jumped out of my skin. I assessed her in one quick glance. Five-five or five-six, about a hundred twenty pounds poured into a form-fitting pencil skirt and a low-cut animal print blouse. Blond hair that appeared too golden to be out of a bottle was cut in a becoming style that framed an oval-shaped face with full lips and ice blue eyes. She had no identifying marks, tattoos, or scars—none that was visible to the naked eye anyway. I glanced at her red leather Manolos and reassessed my original take on her height, thinking how Chantal would swoon over those babies. She held out a perfectly manicured, French-tipped hand. I took it and winced a bit as her fingers closed over mine. For one who appeared so petite, she had a grip like a sumo wrestler.

“I’m Patti Cummings, Mr. Grainger’s admin. Shall we?”

Her voice had a breathy quality, very Marilyn Monroe. I couldn’t decide if it was real or put-on. She released my hand, and I flexed my fingers as I followed her down the long hall into a large room that boasted a mammoth oak table with at least a dozen ergonomically correct leather chairs grouped around it. She seated herself at the head of the table and motioned me to take a seat. I slid into the chair on her left.

“So you’re Laura Charles’s daughter.” Her full lips twitched in the semblance of a smile as she opened the thick file in front of her. “On behalf of the management of KMG Incorporated, please allow me to express our condolences on your mother’s death. While many of us didn’t know her personally, she did a stellar job catering our events, and I know Mrs. Grainger in particular was fond of her sandwiches. Her creativity was surpassed only by her culinary skill.”

“Thank you,” I said. “I’m trying very hard to follow in her footsteps. As I’m sure you know, I’ve got some pretty big shoes to fill.” I waited a beat and then added, “I’d also like to express my belated condolences on Mrs. Grainger’s untimely demise. Which is, after all, the reason I’m here.”

“Yes, and I can understand your concern.” Patti Cummings gestured toward the stack of papers before her. “I—or I should say the committee—has been reviewing the file. Hot Bread has catered every single event KMG has thrown for the past five years. That’s a significant amount of business.”

“Yes it is.” I nodded. “It’s steady income that I’d certainly hate to lose, although I could understand the company’s reluctance to offer up a firm contract.”

Patti thumbed through what appeared to be a pile of receipts. “As near as we can tell, Hot Bread had no written contract with our firm. It appeared to be a matter of Mrs. Grainger’s personal choice.”

I nodded. “She and my mother were very friendly.”

Patti cleared her throat. “Mr. Grainger was most happy to leave catering details to his wife—she excelled at that sort of thing, you know. Planning charity functions, catering, the annual picnics and Christmas parties, any sort of event—Lola took charge of it all—commandeered it, actually—and did it beautifully.”

The words were no doubt meant to be praise, but there was an underlying subtext to the woman’s tone that suggested something else to me: Resentment? Anger? I idly wondered why. Admins in this day and age were no longer considered “gofers”—surely she shouldn’t have minded Lola’s taking over what appeared to me to be a menial task.

After all, it would leave her with lots of free time for other activities.

I leaned forward and put what I hoped was a pleasant smile on my face. “Naturally, I understand your trepidation. After all, Hot Bread under my ownership is a different entity—although not that much different, I hope. I pride myself on keeping the shop pretty much the same as when my mother ran it—with a few improvements along the way, of course. I don’t know if you’re aware, but Cruz doesn’t have many specialty sandwich shops. I pride myself on standing out in a town where fast food and chain stands are a dime a dozen.”

Patti smoothed a stray hair out of her eye and nodded. “Quite true. Hot Bread is no ordinary delicatessen.”

I bristled inwardly as she lingered over the word
delicatessen
. I forced myself to say casually, “You’ve been to the shop?”

Was I imagining it, or had her face suddenly paled beneath her rose blush? “Oh, no—sorry to say, I haven’t. But—” She reached inside the file folder, held up the last incarnation of our catering menu. “I’ve looked this over enough to know how unique your store is.” She laid the menu down on the table, her fingers toying with the paper’s edge. “I know for a fact the meatloaf sandwich—the
Sly Stallone
—is a special favorite of Mr. Grainger’s.”

“That’s nice to hear. It’s praise like his that sets us apart from the competition.”

“I must be honest with you, Ms. Charles. I’m not sure if Mr. Grainger has made a decision yet as to exactly who will be catering our next event.” She glanced at the paper before her. “That would be our Memorial Day barbecue.”

“Maybe I can give you some help with that.” I opened my tote bag and pulled out the pink copies I’d found in my mother’s things. “Apparently my mother and Lola had an informal agreement concerning the Memorial Day barbecue and the company picnic.” I held out the slips to her. “As you can see, Mrs. Grainger gave Hot Bread the catering contract to these two events. Now I can understand the trepidation—you want assurance you’ll be receiving the same quality of food. I can also understand your wanting to price out other caterers, but I’d be willing to bet they won’t hold a candle to us.”

The full lips twitched. “You sound very confident.”

“I am. I’d be more than happy to send up samples of some of our new offerings for Mr. Grainger—and anyone else—to taste test.”

Patti Cummings stared blankly at the receipts. “Yes, well,” she said at last. “The quality of your food was never in question. As with anything else in this economy, it all boils down to the right price.”

“Understandable,” I agreed. “I also have to take into consideration the rising prices of supplies, but I’m sure if you comparison shop, you’ll find my prices to be more than reasonable.” I paused, then added, “Not to mention the fact Mrs. Grainger did commit to us in good faith.”

“Yes, but there are unusual circumstances. When your mother and Mrs. Grainger made those commitments, I’m quite certain neither of them had any idea—” She broke off abruptly and looked away.

“It’s okay,” I assured her. “You can say it. Neither of them had any idea they’d be dead.”

“Yes.” The word came out almost strangled, as if she’d been holding her breath. “Mrs. Grainger never discussed the catering with anyone here, so we had no idea commitments this far ahead had been made. It puts us in rather an awkward position.”

I frowned. “Awkward? How so?”

“While I can definitely say the Memorial Day event is still up in the air, we did sign a contract with Kennedy Park to have their facility cater the picnic event just yesterday.”

Genuine disappointment arrowed through me, and my shoulders slumped ever so slightly as I leaned back against the soft leather cushions. “I see.”

“It was a package deal,” she went on in a rush. “If we used their catering facility, we got a twenty percent discount per head—that adds up, and in these uncertain times where every penny counts—”