Meow If It's Murder (Nick and Nora Mysteries) (17 page)

“W
ell, I certainly didn’t expect to see you tonight, Nora—and certainly not in my interrogation room.”

After I’d been taken down to Police Headquarters (over loud protests, I might add), I’d been put into this small room with only a table and two chairs. I asked if I was being formally charged, but my question fell on deaf ears. I was tempted to make a scene, demand I be allowed to make my one phone call—the only problem is, I had no idea who I would call. I didn’t want to bother Chantal or Remy, I hadn’t gotten around to hiring a lawyer yet, Louis was out of town—and I certainly couldn’t call Ollie. For one thing, I hadn’t known him that long. For another, I didn’t want to listen to the “told you this case was dynamite” lecture that I had no doubt I’d be subjected to. Plus, I was worried about Nick.

What had happened to him after I’d been hauled here? The last I’d seen of him, he was hiding beneath the bed—had the police searched the entire room? If they were anything like the Chicago force, they’d have left no stone unturned—and if Daniel Corleone was in charge, no doubt every nook and cranny had been thoroughly examined. I started to replay those last few moments before everything had been turned upside down over in my mind, but I confess all cohesive thought went out the window the minute Detective Corleone entered the room. He carried a thick sheaf of papers in a plain brown file folder and wore no jacket, just a light pink shirt, no tie, and his collar was loosened. I could see a glint of a gold chain around his neck as he eased himself onto the wooden chair across from me.

“Yeah.” I leaned forward, resting both my elbows on the hardwood table. “Fancy meeting you here. I didn’t expect to see you tonight, either, since you canceled our da—our appointment.”

If he’d noticed my slip, he paid it no heed, just opened the folder and started to riffle through the papers within. “Your appearance on the
Lady L
does complicate matters,” he said at last. “Would you mind telling me what you were doing there?”

My eyes searched his face, but his expression remained impassive. “I was following up on a lead.”

“A lead?” His fingers hesitated over the stack of papers. “What sort of lead?”

I shifted, trying to find a comfortable position on the hard wood chair. The furniture wasn’t built for comfort. “I—ah—I don’t really know if I can say. The conversation was confidential between me and one of my sources.”

“Ah, yes. Your sources. So you have been playing detective?”

“I don’t know if I’d call it playing exactly.”

He leaned back in the chair, and a sigh of exasperation escaped his lips. “I don’t think you realize the trouble you are actually in. Two officers caught you standing over the dead body.”

“Oh, for the love of God,” I burst out, “you know damn well I didn’t kill Patti Simmons. What was my motive, for heaven’s sake? Not to mention the fact no weapon was found on or near my person.”

His lips twitched slightly, as if he were choking back a laugh. I personally didn’t see what was so damned funny about my situation. He had nothing to hold me here on, and he damn well knew it.

“That may be true,” he said at last. “But I’d still like to know what you were doing on the
Lady L.
You didn’t mention any plans to go down to the docks when I called earlier.”

I grimaced. “Well, my original plans were canceled, as you well know. Besides, I didn’t have those plans when we spoke.”

“You could have called back.”

“Why? If I had, would you have blown off work and gone with me?”

“I might have.”

I sighed and shifted again in the chair. “I bet you get a lot of confessions in here, just so people can get out of this damned chair,” I muttered.

“Not as many as you might think.” He crossed his arms over his chest, regarded me with a benign expression. “I’m waiting.”

“And if I refuse to talk—wait, don’t tell me. You’ve got ways to pull the information out of me, right?”

He leaned across the table, his nose scant inches from mine. “I have a few.”

Ooh, did that conjure up images. I could hear my heart pound in my chest as some of those ways flitted through my brain. Champagne, soft lights, music, the two of us dancing cheek to cheek . . .

“How does spending the night locked in a jail cell appeal to you?”

My bubble burst and the image of us doing the cha-cha faded, replaced by one of me trying to get comfortable on a metal cot. So much for that. I sucked in a breath. “You wouldn’t! On what charge?”

“Trespassing, for one. Breaking and entering for another.”

“I didn’t break into anything,” My temper flared. “The yacht was wide open, and besides, I was invited aboard.” I paused and bit my lower lip.

I’d have liked to wipe the satisfied smirk off his face as he opened the file folder again and leaned both his elbows on top of it. “Ah, now that’s more like it,” he said. “Who invited you aboard, Nora?”

I clamped my lips together and glared at him.

“Well, I know it wasn’t Kevin Grainger,” he said. “So there’s only one other person it could possibly be. What did Shelly Lott want? Why did he want to see you tonight, and why on board the
Lady L
?”

I resisted the impulse to sneer. “I don’t know what he wanted. He wasn’t on board.”

“That’s where you’re wrong.”

My breath constricted in my throat, and my hand fluttered over my chest. “Oh my God—he was there? You found him?”

“We did.”

I swallowed. “Is he—was he—did you find him dead, too?”

“No. We found him in the galley, unconscious. He’s at Cruz General with a monster headache. They’re keeping him overnight for observation.” He paused. “He admitted calling you, and then he thought he heard noises—scuffling noises, like someone prowling around. Something conked him on the back of the head and that’s the last he remembers.”

“Did you find the weapon?”

“We’re still searching the yacht. Maybe the prowler took it with him.”

He reached across the table and captured one of my hands in his. The feel of his flesh against mine sent my senses skyrocketing, particularly when he started to rub his forefinger against the back of my hand.

“I’m not the enemy, Nora,” he said softly. “Believe it or not, you were brought in for your own protection.”

I arched one brow and jerked my hand away. “In handcuffs?”

“Well, I wanted to be certain you didn’t do something foolish—like try to run off and find the person who killed Patti Simmons.”

“We wouldn’t be that stupid,” I began and then stopped. I regretted my little slip the minute the words came out of my mouth. Daniel’s eyes lit up like a Christmas tree.

“
We?
So you did bring someone with you?”

I swallowed. I certainly wasn’t about to squeal on Nick—I had a feeling telling Daniel I’d brought a cat along with me for company would only make me appear daffier than he already thought me to be, and I did not want him to think of my name as synonymous with the term
crazy cat woman
. “Of course not,” I said. “It was just a slip of the tongue. I guess I said it because I had been thinking of bringing you with me.”

His look of surprise was genuine. “You were? Really?”

“I told Lott I was supposed to meet you, and I’d bring you along, but he was adamant I come alone. He admitted he’d lied to me the other day about what happened on the yacht the night Lola died. He wanted to talk to me.” I paused. “And he told me he thought someone had been poking around on the yacht. He thought they might have been looking for something Lola might have hidden.”

“I see.” Daniel’s eyes were dark. “And did he say what that might be?”

I shook my head. “He just wanted me to come right down, alone. When I arrived, the yacht was dark. I put the lights on, started looking around.”

Daniel’s lips slashed into a thin line of annoyance. “Rather a foolish move, don’t you think? The killer could have still been on board.”

“It’s possible. I’m positive I heard a floorboard or a door creak, a few minutes before I found Patti Simmons’s body.”

His eyes searched my face. “And that’s all you found, correct? Nothing else?”

I shot him a look of mock innocence. “Of course, Detective. Why do you ask? Don’t you believe me?”

“In a word—no.”

“Well, tough.”

He looked at me for a long moment. Suddenly he reached into his pocket and pulled out his cell phone. He glanced at the screen, shook his head, then murmured, “Excuse me,” and picked up the file folder and went back out the door. I took the opportunity to rise out of the chair and do a few stretches. If they kept me in this room much longer on that chair, I was definitely going to have to visit a chiropractor. Thankfully he returned about ten minutes later, with two file folders tucked under his arm this time. He set them down and motioned for me to take my seat.

“My men have finished searching the yacht,” he said. “They didn’t find anyone on board.”

My head snapped up. “No one? No one at all?”

“That’s what I just said. No one, or anything hidden—including the murder weapon or whatever was used to knock Lott out.”

“The killer must have taken it with him.” I couldn’t resist a shudder. We’d had a pretty close call, Nick and I, and I couldn’t help but wonder how the heck he’d gotten out of there unseen, and what he’d done with the envelope he’d snatched from me.

I felt a sudden urge to get home, make sure my feline compadre was all right. “How much longer are you going to hold me here?”

“Why? Is there somewhere you have to be?”

“You and I both know you can’t hold me without evidence, and you have none against me,” I returned. “Or is this the part where you’re going to ask me if I want a lawyer?”

Daniel paused and sighed.

“You’re not under arrest, Nora. You’re not a suspect. But I’d appreciate your cooperation. Is that all right with you?”

I was tempted to ask what might happen if it weren’t, but instead smiled sweetly. “Of course. I’m always happy to cooperate with the police in any way I can.”

“Good. Now, do you recall Lott saying anything about Patti Simmons when you had your first conversation?”

“He didn’t say much about her at all, just that she’d spilled some wine on the chair cushions and it upset Mrs. Grainger. But I can’t vouch for the veracity of that account, because when he called me tonight, he told me he’d lied before.”

“Did he say what he’d lied about?”

I shook my head. “Do you think he called Patti also? Is that why she was on board?”

“I really couldn’t say at this time.”

My eyes narrowed. I was getting that odd vibe from him again, the vibe that told me he knew more than he was letting on—a lot more. “You know something,” I said.

“I’m supposed to know things,” he replied. “I’m the police.”

Nice wiseass answer. “Perhaps this would be a good time to have that discussion we’ve been putting off—about Lola Grainger’s death not being an accident.”

His eyes widened. “I don’t recall saying that. I believe I said I agreed with you that certain aspects of the investigation could have been handled better.”

I half rose out of my chair, palms splayed across the desktop. “Listen, Detective. I may have quit reporting full-time, but my instincts are still with me. And they’re telling me you know a lot more about the Lola Grainger case than you want me to know.”

He looked at me in much the same way one would look at a maiden aunt afflicted with Alzheimer’s, lips twisted in an expression of pity. “Are they, now.”

“Yes, they are. Adrienne Sloane thought her sister was murdered, and quite frankly, I’m inclined to agree with her.” I paused. “Honestly, for someone so interested in seeing justice done, I can’t understand why you’re so unwilling to try and track Adrienne down. After all, she might not have gotten on that plane to Bermuda. Maybe she’s holed up somewhere. She might have some important information to share.”

He picked up the folder, tapped the edge of it against the desk. “I greatly doubt that.”

“Why? You haven’t even tried—”

“It’s kind of hard to get information out of a dead woman.”

My jaw dropped and I stared, stunned at Daniel’s casual confirmation of what Ollie had told me Nick Atkins had thought he’d seen. “Adrienne is dead—that’s terrible,” I stammered. “Are you sure?”

His blond head inclined in a curt nod. “Quite sure, yes.”

“Oh. Well, do you know how she died? Where was her body found?”

He looked me straight in the eye. “I do. Her body was found in the infirmary of the Metropolitan Correctional Center in Chicago.”

My breath caught, threatened to choke me. “P-prison? She died in prison? But—that’s impossible! How could her body have gotten there?”

“It was there because she was a resident.”

I shook my head. “I’m sorry. I’m confused.”

He removed a sheet of paper from the folder and passed it across to me. “Read for yourself. Adrienne Sloane died in prison, the apparent victim of an asthma attack. She choked on her own vomit.” He paused. “And her sister, Lola Sloane Grainger, claimed her body—two years ago.”

I
t was close to eleven o’clock when the police cruiser dropped me off at Hot Bread. Daniel had insisted on a police escort for me, over my protests that I could take a cab. For my own protection, he’d said. Personally, I had the notion he thought that, left to my own devices, I’d head right back to the marina, and he’d have been right. I was dying of curiosity—and worry. I needed to know what happened to Nick.

I let myself in through the store entrance, switched on the lights, and went straight into the kitchen. My rumbling stomach reminded me I hadn’t had anything to eat since lunchtime. I pulled eggs, a slab of bacon, some boiled ham, and a stick of cheddar cheese out of the fridge and set them on the counter. I put some slices of bacon on a plate and slipped it into the microwave, then set a frying pan on the stove on low flame. I sliced some ham and cheddar, then cracked eggs in a small bowl, added a dash of milk, and pulled my whisk out of the drawer. A few minutes later I poured the mixture into the frying pan, added some bits of the bacon slices and chopped-up ham and cheddar. Ten minutes later I was seated at the table nearest the rear entrance, a fluffy omelet and glass of milk in front of me. My fork was halfway to my lips when I paused.

Was I mistaken, or was that a scratching sound at the rear door?

I gave the omelet a longing look, set down the fork, crossed over to the door, and opened it. Nick squatted there, golden eyes wide. His fur was matted and he had some leaves and twigs sticking out of his back. His white ruff was slightly soiled, but otherwise, he looked none the worse for wear. As I stared at him, startled, he pushed past me and walked right inside, straight over to where I’d been sitting. He hopped up on my chair, squatted right in front of my plate, and proceeded to eat my omelet.

I stared at him, and then closed the door and hurried over to where he was busily chowing down on my dinner. I snatched him up and enveloped him in a big hug.

“Nick! You’re all right.” I held him back a bit and frowned. “How did you get all these leaves in your fur? What happened? Where have you been? And what happened to that envelope?”

“
Er-up!
” He blinked at me and then his tongue darted out to graze my cheek.

“Aw, I’m glad to see you, too. But how in hell—”

“
Meower
,” he bleated and squirmed out of my arms, gave me a baleful look, then squatted back in front of the plate. He continued eating.

“Okay, I get it. First things first.”

I was damn curious as to what had transpired—maybe even as curious as a cat. I had no idea, though, how I was ever going to find out what exactly had gone down—probably because the one person who could tell me couldn’t talk. He glanced up from the plate and flicked his tail, and I got a good whiff of him.

“Hoo boy,” I cried, waving my hand in the air. “You smell like you’ve been digging ditches.”

I paused as a sudden thought occurred to me and I gave Nick a stern look. “Is that what you did with the envelope? Did you bury it somewhere?”

He glanced over his shoulder at me and I swear he grinned.

“Like a dog—that’s an understatement.” I shook my head. “Well, fine, be that way. Tomorrow you and I will take a ride back to the ‘scene of the crime,’ so to speak. Maybe we’ll pay Ollie a visit, too. I’ve got a lot I need to talk over with him.”

My stomach growled again. I gave it a swift pat, crossed back to the fridge, pulled out some more eggs and cheddar. I saw Nick’s head jerk up as I closed the refrigerator door.

“Oh, no.” I wagged my finger at him. “You’ve had an entire omelet.
My
entire omelet, to be exact. Now it’s my turn.”

He tossed me a plaintive look. “
Ew-werr
,” he said, and then began to purr softly. I set the eggs and cheese on the counter and went over, gave his ears a quick scratch.

“I really wish you could talk, Nick. Tell me where you’ve been, how you got so dirty—and what you did with that envelope. But not to worry—I’ll figure something out.” I wrinkled my nose. “Would you like me to clean you up a bit? Give you a quick bath?”

His head snapped up and then he hopped off the table and, tail held high, stalked over to the far corner, where he flopped on one side and proceeded to lick himself.

“Okay, fine.” I laughed as I started beating up some more eggs. “Do it yourself.”

“
Meower
,” he answered. Then he coughed up one honey of a hairball.

Yuck.

*   *   *

I
’d just finished my omelet and sat down (again) when I heard a soft knock at the back door. I frowned over at Nick, who’d stretched out in front of the back counter and was now fast asleep. I crossed over to the door, opened it a crack, then gave a little cry when I saw who stood outside and swung the door open.

“Ollie! What on earth!”

“Hello, Nora. I hope you’re not upset by me dropping by. I know it’s very late.”

“Are you kidding?” I grinned. “I’m glad to see you. I was planning to call you tomorrow. Come on in. What are you doing here?”

Ollie took off the light jacket he wore and draped it across one arm. “Like I said, I hope you don’t mind. I have a few friends on the Cruz force, and I happened to be talking to one when you—ah—happened to drop in.”

I felt my cheeks start to flame. “Oh.”

“Of course, he didn’t tell me all the details, but it seems to me you were pretty brave.” His tongue clucked against the roof of his mouth. “You know, you could have called me. I’d have accompanied you.”

“Thanks, but I didn’t want to bother you.”

There was no mistaking the twinkle in his eyes as he answered, “Are you sure? Or could it be you just didn’t want me to reiterate my earlier warning to you—you know the one about TNT.”

I grinned. “A little bit of both, I guess.”

“Fair enough.” His eyes darted around the room, lit up as they rested on Nick, who’d arisen, wakened no doubt by the sounds of voices, and was stretching his front paws out. “Ah, and there’s little Sherlock—sorry, little Nick now. It’ll take me a bit to get used to his new name. He looks splendid, Nora.”

“Yeah, pretty splendid indeed considering he had to walk at least twenty miles tonight. It’s at least that far from here to the marina, wouldn’t you say?”

Ollie’s eyes widened. “You took him with you?”

I shrugged. “I know. I should have left him here, but to tell you the truth, I wanted company. And he was pretty insistent on accompanying me.”

“Yes, he always did hate to be alone.”

I moved over to my coffeepot. “How about I make some coffee and fill you in on what happened? There are some new aspects to this case I sure could use a fresh perspective on.”

He held up his hand. “Say no more. I said I’d help you any way I can, and I meant it.”

Nick sidled up to Ollie, plopped down right in front of him, and began to purr loudly.

“Ah, he remembers me, I think. How are you, cat formerly known as Sherlock?” He laughed. His gaze swept Nick up and down and he shot me a puzzled look. “Is that a leaf in his fur?”

“Yep. Guess I missed this one.” I reached down, plucked it out, and tossed it into the trash. “Say, how would you feel about taking a little ride with us?”

“A ride?” His eyes narrowed. “Now? Where?”

“No, not right now. We’ll have some coffee first.” I folded my arms across my chest. “As to where—honestly, I’m not sure. It depends.”

“Depends on what?”

“On where Nick might have buried the evidence.”

Ollie’s jaw dropped. “Evidence? Of what?”

“Not sure about that, either,” I admitted. I reached for the coffeepot. “Have a seat. It’s a long story.”

*   *   *

A
half pot of coffee later, Ollie was pretty much up to speed.

“It sounds to me as if the killer was specifically after Patti,” he observed.

I paused, mug halfway to my lips. “Why do you say that?”

“Because Lott was only knocked out and not killed. Of course, your arrival could have saved the man. We’ll probably never know.”

I held up my hand. “I’d agree with you, Ollie, if I hadn’t seen her body with my own eyes. Patti was killed with two clean shots—head and heart. Do I have to tell you what that means?”

He frowned. “But why would a professional hit man be after her?”

“Maybe he wasn’t. Maybe he was after the envelope I found, and she was in the wrong place at the wrong time.” I leaned forward and cupped my chin in my hand. “What if Adrienne wasn’t off the mark with her suggestion to Nick? Maybe the evidence has something to do with Kevin, and Patti was trying to get it back for him.” I sighed. “I asked a friend of mine to check into a possible connection between Grainger and West Coast mobs, but—what if he’s not a born-and-bred Californian?”

Ollie considered this, then slowly nodded. “Good point. I can’t ever remember reading much about Kevin Grainger’s early years, now that you mention it. Most articles that touch on his past begin with college.”

“Then there’s a chance he’s a transplant.” I pulled a pad over to me. “I’ll make a note to call Hank, have him check out some East Coast crime families, see if anything turns up.” I scribbled on the paper, and then met Ollie’s gaze again. “The most significant thing I learned tonight, though, is that Nick Atkins was right in what he told you. Adrienne Sloane is dead.”

Ollie’s eyes widened. “Really? Her body was found?” His tongue darted out, licked at his bottom lip. “Did they—did they also find . . .”

I shook my head. “No, your partner is still MIA. As for Adrienne, well, she didn’t die on the docks.”

“She didn’t?”

I stretched my legs out in front of me. “She died in prison. Complications from an asthma attack, as I understand it—two years ago.”

Ollie’s eyes popped wide. “
Two years?
” He rubbed absently at his temple. “But that can’t be. Nick spoke with her the day he disappeared, and then he got that text—and she was most certainly not in prison.”

I reached into my tote and pulled out the sheet of paper Corleone had given me. I placed it in front of Ollie. “See for yourself. It’s dated two years ago, and while it’s pretty brief, all the salient facts are there. Including the fact she was survived by her only living relative, her sister, Lola Sloane Grainger.”

Ollie skimmed the article, then handed it back to me. “This doesn’t make any sense at all. If Adrienne Sloane is dead, then who hired Nick? Her ghost?”

“I don’t know, but it couldn’t have been the real Adrienne Sloane.” I took the paper back and eyed him. “It is odd, though. There was a note in Nick’s journal—it said he checked her out, and she passed.”

Ollie pursed his lips. “Nick may not have done as thorough a job as he should have. Oh, I recall she showed him tons of ID, but as for any background checks—he only did the bare minimum. He was so intrigued by the case, and the potential notoriety . . . Besides, who’d ever expect Lola Sloane to have a jailbird sister?”

“True—let alone one who’s already dead.”

“What prison did she die in? This article doesn’t say.”

“Metropolitan Correctional Center in Chicago. Oh!” I stopped speaking as a sudden thought occurred to me. “You said Nick checked out mob families and crime in Chicago. Do you think it could have had anything to do with Adrienne? That perhaps he suspected something wasn’t quite right?”

“Nick never said what he was looking for,” Ollie said thoughtfully. “If he had suspicions, he never shared them with me.”

I thought of the missing journal pages. “Might he have written them down somewhere?”

“He could have.”

We sat silently for several minutes, sipping our coffee. At length, Ollie turned back to me. “It just doesn’t make sense, Nora. Why would someone masquerade as Lola’s dead sister and hire Nick to prove Lola was murdered?”

I tapped my chin. “Why indeed? Unless we’re looking at this all wrong. Perhaps there is no masquerade. Maybe the Adrienne Sloane who was in prison isn’t dead. Maybe she faked her death. Maybe the woman who came to Nick
is
Adrienne Sloane.”

He cocked his head to one side. “O-kay. Why would she fake her own death?”

I shoved the heel of my hand through my hair. “Damned if I know. Maybe it’s connected to her prison stay. Maybe she made enemies who swore to kill her.”

Ollie scratched at his left ear. “That seems rather melodramatic to me. What could she have done that would be so life-threatening? We need to know more about what she was in prison for. You were in Chicago during this time frame—you never heard of her at all?”

“No, but that doesn’t necessarily mean anything.” I pushed back from the table and stood up. “I’ll look into this more thoroughly but right now, it’s time for our field trip.” I raised my voice. “Nick!”

The cat rose from his position in front of the stove and trotted over to us. Ollie leaned down to rub his ears, and frowned.

“I never noticed that white streak behind his ear before,” he murmured. “Nick had one, too—behind the same ear, I think.”

Nick glanced up at us, and his whiskers twitched. “
Er-ow!
”

Ollie laughed. “I’m telling you, he understands every word we say. He’s a real smart cat—smarter than some humans.”