Meow If It's Murder (Nick and Nora Mysteries) (15 page)

So they’d all lied—every one of them, including no doubt, Captain Lott. From the sound of things, it was a group effort to protect Kevin Grainger. But from what? Murder—or something else? Chances were excellent I was the reporter they’d referred to—and if so, there was only one way they could have known that. So much for Lott keeping our chat confidential. Well, if nothing else, now I could be certain where his loyalties lie—and to be honest, who could blame the guy, after all Grainger had done for him?

My knees wobbled. Rather than take a chance on collapsing, I moved swiftly over to the cherrywood desk and eased myself into the soft leather chair behind it. I leaned forward and rested my elbows on the desk, taking several deep, calming breaths.

I’d obviously been away from crime reporting way too long. I’d taken bigger risks than this in the past without even breaking a sweat. I leaned back in the chair, let my eyes rove over the office. The top of the desk had a thin layer of dust on it, as did the computer monitor. Obviously Alicia Samuels, whoever she might be, had not used this office for some time. I flexed my legs, and was just about to stand up when my attention was drawn to a small pad to the left of the computer monitor, and the number scrawled across it.

368-555-9879

There was a date scrawled beneath the number: 8/14. I frowned.

August fourteenth was the date Lola died.

I opened my purse and pulled out my cell. I punched in the number and waited. After a few seconds I was rewarded with a woman’s mechanical voice:

“Hello, this is Lola Grainger. I’m not available to take your call right now. Please leave a message and I’ll get back to you.”

I
took the elevator down to the main floor, handed in my guest badge at the reception desk, and hurried out to the visitor parking lot, my thoughts in a whirl. It seemed every time I thought a little progress was made—WHAM! Something happened to throw me ten steps backward.

In this case, it was Alicia Samuels. Who was she and why would she have Lola Grainger’s number in her office? What was their connection, if any? I’d never heard of her before, or seen her name bandied about in any of the news accounts. I wondered if Nick Atkins had known about her, and my thoughts drifted again to those missing pages. I suddenly felt the need to talk to Ollie. He was a professional investigator, after all. Maybe he could give me a fresh perspective. I shoved my SUV into reverse, put my foot to the gas, and heard the unmistakable crunch of metal.

Shit. It wasn’t a hard collision—Lord knows I hadn’t been going
that
fast. But fast enough, apparently. The sound had been loud enough to get my adrenaline going and the blood pounding in my ears. I slammed the SUV into park and got out, prepared to assess the damage. I walked around to the back bumper and saw the other car—a dark Acura, with a dent in the passenger side the size of a basketball. Swell. I forced myself to glance quickly at the driver’s side, and I frowned. It was empty.

“Well, well. I wanted to run into you again, but this is going a bit far.”

I whirled, and met the stormy gaze of none other than Detective Daniel Corleone.

Double shit.

“D-Detective Corleone,” I stammered. “Fancy meeting you here.”

One corner of his lip quirked. “Indeed. So where’s the fire?”

I looked dumbly from Corleone to the dented Acura back to Corleone. I pointed to the vehicle. “Your car?”

He nodded. “Yes. My personal vehicle. I only bought it last month. It’s got less than three thousand miles on it—and now it’s got its very first dent.”

Triple shit.

Words spilled out of my mouth in a babbling torrent. “Detective, I am
so
sorry! It was my fault! Totally!”

“No argument there,” he agreed, and held out his hand. As I looked at it questioningly, he wiggled his fingers. “Insurance card? You do have insurance, I hope?”

“Oh. Yes, of course.”

I turned and walked over to the passenger side of my vehicle, opened the door, and started rummaging in the glove compartment. As my fingers closed over the laminated packet that held my insurance and registration information, I could feel heat start to color my cheeks.

Of all the detectives in all the Acuras in Cruz, why in hell did I have to run into his?

I walked back to the car. Corleone was leaning casually against the rear bumper, arms folded. I handed him my insurance card. “Here. Just write down the information. The whole thing is my fault. If they won’t pay, then I will.” I mentally assessed what I had in my savings account. The damage couldn’t be more than nine hundred dollars . . . could it?

“Of course they’ll pay. And of course it was your fault.”

He copied down my insurance information into a little black book he removed from his jacket pocket, then handed the card back to me. “So?” he said. “Care to explain?”

I looked at him. “Explain? There’s really nothing to explain. I wasn’t paying attention, I’m afraid. I was thinking about . . . something else.”

He slipped his notebook back into his pocket and folded his arms across his impossibly broad chest. “Just what are you doing here?”

I didn’t answer at first—I admit it, I was momentarily distracted by the way his ash-blond hair fell in slight waves over his tanned forehead, and by those sleepy, sexy eyes with their dark—and impossibly long for a guy—lashes. He leaned a bit closer, filling my nostrils with his musky, clean scent. My vision suddenly seemed a bit fuzzy around the edges, and I took a deep, calming breath—and then I felt his fingers dig into my forearm.

“Are you all right, Nora? I asked what are you doing here, at the KMG offices? Playing detective?”

Startled, I jerked my arm out of his grasp. I sucked in another breath and my vision cleared. His face loomed before me, his lips drawn into a thin line, his eyes no longer sleepy and sexy, but with a visible glint of annoyance.

“I—no. Playing detective? No. I—why would you think that?” I stammered. In spite of his hostile stare, he was still damn sexy and he smelled delicious, and dammit, it was hard for me to think cohesively around him.

Quadruple shit.

“It could be because I’ve always found there to be a fine line between investigative reporters and detectives, or perhaps I’m still thinking of our conversation of the other day,” he said. “You remember? The one where you came to my office under the pretext of doing a story and tried to see if I was amenable to reopening the Lola Grainger case.”

His words snapped me out of the funk I’d fallen into, and my eyes blazed as I stared back at him. “Now hold on a minute. You agreed with me! Are you changing your mind?” I paused, and then added, “And there was no pretext. I
am
thinking of doing a story on the Lola Grainger case.”

“Funny. I spoke to your editor at
Noir
. Louis, right? He seemed to be very much in the dark about your story. Apparently he hasn’t given his approval.”

I nibbled at my lower lip. “Well, of course he hasn’t. I haven’t gotten all my facts and written it yet. But he knew I was considering doing it.” I tossed my head. “Besides, that’s not why I’m here.”

The eyebrow inched up another notch. “No?”

“No. I’m here, actually, on store business. Lola Grainger and my mother used to have ‘gentlemen’s agreements’ that Hot Bread would cater all of KMG’s social events. Now that both of them are deceased, I felt the need to make more concrete arrangements.”

“I see,” he said slowly. “So the reason for your visit today had nothing to do with Lola’s death?”

“No—it had to do with the fact I needed to firm up whether or not KMG still wants Hot Bread
to do their catering.”

He was silent for a few moments, then shrugged. “Okay. Sorry. How’d it go?”

“They’re taking it under advisement. Right now I still have a lock on their Memorial Day event, but I lost the Fourth of July picnic. After that—it’s up to the new catering manager, whoever that may be.”

“Ah, so your inattention can be attributed to worry over future catering income from KMG?”

“For the most part.”

The frown deepened. “What does that mean?”

“It means I was wondering how I could possibly make up the money I’m losing over that Fourth of July contract.”

“Sounds to me as if there’s something else going on in that pretty head of yours. Mind sharing?”

Pretty head? Had he just called me pretty? I gave myself a mental slap upside the head and crossed my own arms over my chest. This was no time to dwell on whether or not he was flirting with me. My editor in Chicago had always told me, “When confronted with an immovable obstacle, the best defense is a frontal attack.” I stared straight into Detective Corleone’s baby blues and said, “Let me ask
you
a question, Detective. What exactly are you doing here? Your visit couldn’t possibly have anything to do with the Lola Grainger case, now could it?”

I saw a muscle work in his lower jaw. “As a matter of fact, it does. I thought I’d do some follow-up work. As I’ve already mentioned to you, you made some interesting points that I feel deserve more clarification. I phoned Mr. Grainger earlier.”

“Great. So—did he clarify?”

“He did not. He hung up on me, so I felt a personal visit was in order.”

I chuckled. “Well, you should have made an appointment. He’s not here. He left about two hours ago.”

His eyes popped. “He left?”

“Yep—as a matter of fact, he almost ran me over on his way out.”

“No kidding. Well, well—you have had a busy day, haven’t you?” He reached out, brushed a stray lock of hair off my cheek. “I don’t suppose you have any idea where he might have gone.”

Shelly Lott came to mind, but I hesitated sharing that. If Lott had squealed to Grainger, he might also do the same to the detective, and then I’d really be in deep doo-doo. I wanted to keep my investigating a secret from the good detective—for the moment, at least. Once I had something really concrete, then it would be a very different story. “Not offhand. But the others who were on board the yacht that night are all in their offices. You might want to question them.”

“I intend to.” His eyes searched my face for a minute before he added, “I know I said I’d call you tomorrow but since we’ve met up now . . .” He cleared his throat. “I still want to discuss this case with you.”

I offered him a thin smile. “Discuss? Or try and pry information out of me.”

He grinned. “Both, actually. I thought perhaps we might do it—over dinner.”

“Dinner?” I croaked. Was he really asking me out on a date?

“I know cooking is your occupation, but you still have to eat, right?” He gave me a dazzlingly wide smile. “Do you like Chinese? I thought we might get a booth at Wung Foo’s. It always seems pretty quiet there.”

“That’s because ninety percent of his business is takeout,” I said, and we laughed. “Sure, that sounds good. What time?”

“Does seven work for you?” He paused, and then added, “Tonight?”

That caught me off guard. I’d anticipated tomorrow. “Tonight?” I repeated.

“I realize it’s short notice, but as it happens, I have tonight off. So I thought—”

I held up my hand. “You don’t need to explain. Tonight’s fine. Seven’s fine. I—I’ll meet you there.”

“Excellent. I’m sure it will be a very useful evening.” He walked around to the driver’s side of his car and opened the door. “I’ll take your space, if you don’t mind. The lot seems quite full today.” His eyes twinkled and he smiled. I noticed the dimples that accentuated either side of his well-shaped lips. “Just be careful backing up. I’m rather fond of my front fender.”

Gee, he was hilarious. But I supposed when someone looked like he did, a sense of humor probably wasn’t all that important.

N
ick was sitting in the window when I got back to Hot Bread, looking none the worse for wear. I wiggled my fingers in greeting as I opened the front door, and got an indifferent stare for my trouble. Chantal was behind the counter, cleaning up after the last of the lunch crowd. She glanced up as I entered and raised a hand to her forehead in dramatic fashion.

“Ah,
chérie
, you are back. Thank goodness.”

I set my purse down and walked over to the counter. I lifted the lid on the glass case, removed a brownie, and bit into it. “What’s wrong? Bad day? Don’t tell me Ramona Hickey was complaining again.”

“Ach, not the customers. Our boy over there.” She pointed an accusing finger in Nick’s direction. “He seems to have overdosed on naughty pills today.”

I glanced over at Nick, who still sat serenely in the window, tail curled under him. “He looks calm to me.”

“Now he is. You should have seen him earlier.
Mon Dieu!
He shook off every collar I attempted to put on him, the rascal.”

I smothered a chuckle. “Maybe having Nick as your pet jewelry model isn’t such a good idea. Maybe you should look for a more docile animal—a pit bull perhaps?”

“Very funny.” Chantal stuck out her tongue, then creased her brow. “I am very tempted, but—Nick is just so handsome! And he photographed so well in the poses Remy took. I swear, I don’t know what got into him today. It was almost as if he were possessed.” She lowered her voice to a whisper at the last word.

I glanced at Nick over my shoulder. “What do you say to that, Nick?” I asked. “Are you possessed by an evil spirit?”

He hopped down from the window and sashayed over to where I sat. He reared back on his haunches and wiggled one paw in the air, while the other grazed his neck.

“
Ma-ROW!
”

I chuckled. “I think he just doesn’t like to have anything confining on him. I told you, he’s a free spirit. Anyway, he seems fine to me.”

“Yeah, he is now. Earlier though he was acting like a little devil. He knocked over that pouch of Scrabble tiles you had on the back counter and was pushing them all over the floor.”

I shot Nick a sharp glance. He stared innocently back at me.

“The Scrabble tiles again, huh? Maybe he just wanted to play,” I offered. “Ollie said that Nick Atkins was teaching him the game.”

“The cat plays Scrabble.” Chantal put both hands on her slender hips. “Now
that
I would pay to see.”

“Ollie said he was just as smart as a dog, and I don’t doubt it for a second.”

Nick blinked twice. “
Er-ow
,” he squeaked, then turned and dove underneath the back table. He emerged a moment later, black nose to the floor, edging out three small wooden tiles.

“Oh, ho, what’s this!” I bent over and picked up the squares. They were the same ones I’d found him playing with before: a B, an I, and an F. I set the tiles on the table and tapped my finger against the tablecloth. “That is odd.”

Chantal walked over, glanced at the tiles. “FIB,” she said. “Nick can spell?”

“No, I arranged them like that, but—it’s the second time I’ve caught him playing with these particular letters, and it strikes me as particularly odd, today especially since my visit to KMG has convinced me more than one of my little group of suspects is lying through their teeth.”

Chantal let out a chuckle. “Well, perhaps we have underestimated Nicky. In addition to being a game player, perhaps he is also psychic.”

Nick hopped up on the table, reared his paw back, and scattered the tiles back to the floor.

“Nick!” I cried, bending over to retrieve them. “Bad kitty.”

“I told you,” Chantal said, tapping her foot. “Whether you choose to believe me or not, he’s possessed by something—or someone.”

I picked up the tiles, walked over to the back counter, and slipped them inside the worn case, which I tucked promptly in the drawer. I looked down. Nick hovered at my ankles, regarding me with a watchful stare.

“You can play with them again when you learn how to behave,” I remonstrated, wagging my finger at him.

“
Grr-up
,” he chirped. Then he flopped down on one side and gave his manhood a good lick.

So much for discipline.

*   *   *

A
fter Chantal departed, I dug out Ollie’s number and placed a call. He answered on the second ring. “Well, well. Seems as if you’re making a habit of this, Nora. Not that I’m complaining.” He laughed.

“I hope you don’t mind, but sometimes talking things out with someone else gives me a fresh perspective.”
Talking it out with someone who can answer me certainly doesn’t hurt either
, I added silently, giving Nick a side glance.

“Not at all. I’m used to it. Nick used to do the same thing, so talk away.”

I hit the highlights of my trip to KMG, my conversation with Patti, my almost run-in with Kevin, the conversation I’d overheard between Buck and Tabor, and finally, my findings in Alicia Samuels’s office. The only thing I left out was my run-in with Detective Daniel. I’d omitted filling in Chantal as well. I didn’t need to hear her romantic predictions right now—especially when there was nothing romantic at all about our upcoming dinner.

“Nick never mentioned an Alicia Samuels, and I never heard of her,” Ollie said when I’d finished. “It is puzzling, but you also have to take into consideration her door was unlocked, right? That means lots of other people could have just walked in and used her office, the same as you today.”

“True,” I agreed. “Getting back to Patti Simmons—she seemed more than a little shaken when I told her I used to report on crime back in Chicago. I know I wasn’t mistaken about her reaction. I’m just not certain which part elicited it.”

“Maybe she just couldn’t picture you hanging around people who wear five-thousand-dollar suits and carry guns. Your specialty was the mob, right?”

“Yep. Or maybe she’s got something to hide. At least I did learn one good thing—Lola’s phone is somewhere and still active, or else I wouldn’t have gotten that message when I dialed the number.” I glanced at the clock on the wall. “Well, thanks for letting me brainstorm with you, Ollie. I’ve got to start getting ready now. I’m meeting Detective Corleone. I need to find out just what he knows about all this, and I have to do it without tipping my hand on just how involved I am. Any suggestions?”

“Order club soda. Alcohol loosens lips, and you might find yourself revealing a bit too much.” I could hear the twinge of irony in his tone. “I speak from experience.”

I exchanged a few more pleasantries with Ollie and then hung up. I made sure the downstairs door to the sandwich shop was locked and the
CLOSED
sign in place, and then headed upstairs to get ready to meet Daniel. Nick followed, arranging himself on my comforter while I sat down on the edge of the bed to pull on fresh stockings.

My mind kept flicking back to that last sentence in Nick Atkins’s journal. What could Lola have known about her husband big enough to possibly kill over? That he was cheating on her with Patti? Maybe, if he’d been the aggressor, but from all accounts, Patti was. So then what else could it be?

I sighed. My head hurt from trying to figure all this out.

A squishing sound demanded my attention. I glanced over and saw Nick back on the floor, pushing something around on the hardwood floor with his paw. I cried aloud when I saw what it was.

More Scrabble tiles.

“How on earth did these get up here?” I demanded, giving the cat a stern look. He must have gotten into the pouch and hoarded a small supply to play with. “You have nice catnip toys, Nick. Mice, and some balls. If you lose these tiles, we won’t be able to play the game.”

He gave me a classic cat look—eyes narrowed, nose up in the air. “
Yargle
.”

I looked at the tiles I held in my hand. A G, an O, a T, and a V. “Gotv,” I said. I laid the tiles on the bed, moved them around. Togv wasn’t a word. I rearranged them again.

GOVT. An abbreviation for government.

“Hm,” I said, eyes narrowing. “Maybe this secret of Kevin’s has something to do with those big government contracts his company has? That might make sense—maybe Lola found out he was cheating Uncle Sam. But would he kill her over that?” I looked at Nick. “I wonder what Daniel would make of all this.”

I stepped into my skirt, pulled my T-shirt over my head, and did a slow turn in front of my full-length mirror. Now that I thought about it, it certainly was a coincidence, my running into Daniel at KMG. Our meeting seemed convenient—perhaps a bit too much so.

Something furry brushed my leg. Nick sat there, his head bobbing up and down.

“Convenient,” I murmured. “Like—like he’d been following me. But why would he do that?”

I could think of only one reason—he wanted to know how much I knew about Lola Grainger. But if he wasn’t considering reopening the case, why was he so interested?

“Of course,” I said to Nick, “he could be interested in me, you know. And he really doesn’t have the authority to reopen the case on his own. He’s just a fill-in.”

Which begged another question—just exactly where was he from? He’d never mentioned that. What did I know about Detective Daniel Corleone, other than he was blessed with devastatingly good looks?

Hey, if I played my cards right, maybe tonight I’d find out lots of answers. But would they be the ones I wanted to hear?

My iPhone chose that moment to vibrate wildly around on my dresser. I snatched it up, thinking perhaps the good detective had to cancel at the last minute, but the number was one I didn’t recognize as local. Frowning, I answered, “Hello.”

“Nora Charles?” A man’s voice, raspy, a shadow above a whisper floated over the wire. “I’ve got to talk to you, Ms. Charles. Now.”

The voice was oddly familiar but I couldn’t quite place it. “I’m sorry. Who is this?”

An impatient sigh, and then, “Lott—Captain Lott. We spoke yesterday. I’ve got to see you, and right now.”

“Is something wrong, Captain?”

He gave a mirthless chuckle. “There’s lots wrong, but I think the time has come to make it right.” He hesitated and then said, “I lied to you, Ms. Charles. That last night on the boat—things didn’t go down quite like I described it.”

I gripped the phone more tightly. “What do you mean?”

“What do you think I mean? I lied.”

“Oh? How so, Captain?”

“Well, there was a lot of drinkin’ goin’ on, but Mrs. Grainger, she retired a lot earlier than the others.” He paused. “’Round about midnight, I thought I heard her out on deck. And there were scuffling sounds. Like a fight.”

“A fight? Did you see who Mrs. Grainger was fighting with?”

“No. It was pretty dark. I only saw a shadow. I went back to the galley, but not long after that, Mrs. Grainger went missing. And . . .”

“Yes?” I prompted as he fell silent.

“When I came on board today, I found some drawers open that I know I’d shut and some cabin doors open. Someone was on board here.”

I thought of Daniel and said, “Maybe it was the police.”

“I don’t think so. I think someone was on board lookin’ for something. That night, I heard Mrs. Grainger tell someone she’d found it. Maybe they’re after whatever ‘it’ is. Mrs. Grainger had a lot of hidey-holes for stuff—sometimes she could be a real pack rat.”

“Where are you now, Captain Lott?”

“On the
Lady L
. Pier nine, slip seven.”

“Okay. I have an appointment with Detective Corleone at seven thirty, but I’m sure if I call him—”

“No, no police.” Panic and something else tinged his voice—fear? “Listen, there’s no time, trust me. You’ve got to come here now—right now.”

The line went dead. I swore with frustration and clicked off the phone. I didn’t want to cancel my date—excuse me—appointment—with Daniel, but I felt the urgency of hearing what Lott had to say. Plus I was curious as to what Lola might have hidden. “I guess I have no choice,” I muttered. “This could break the case wide open.”

I reached for the phone, and as my fingers grazed the case, it rang again. This time the Cruz PD number showed up, and I answered. “Hello.”

“I’m really sorry,” Daniel said, sounding apologetic, “but I’m going to have to cancel tonight, Nora. The detective who was supposed to be on duty tonight had to take off—his wife’s having a baby. So I’m afraid we’ll have to put off our conversation yet again.”

I pushed my hand through my hair and inwardly breathed a sigh of relief. “Don’t worry about it. It’s fine, really.”

“I promise I’ll make it up to you. I
will
call you tomorrow.”

I hung up and eyed Nick. “Problem solved. He has to work.”

Nick ambled over to my purse, and now had my car keys between his teeth. He padded over to me and dropped them into my lap. I gave his head a quick pat, tucked the keys into the pocket of my jacket, and went down the stairs. As I exited the side door, I felt something furry brush my leg. I glanced down.

Nick squatted beside me, his golden eyes wide.

“Oh, no.” I unlocked the door and pushed it open. “Sorry, pal, you’re staying here. The marina’s no place for you.”