Claws for Alarm (25 page)

“So I gather.” Chantal gave me an odd look then bent close to me and whispered, “The card that turned up in my reading—the Lovers. That person from the past is him, isn't it? This Samms?”

I squirmed a bit and leaned back against the pillows. “Well, sorta. I mean, there is a bit of history there, but it's irrelevant, really. I mean, he's here in St. Leo, we're in Cruz. We'll probably never see Samms again.”

Chantal put a finger to her lips. “I would not bet on that. I have a feeling this isn't the last you're going to see of him.” She leaned in closer and whispered, “One day soon,
chérie
, you are going to have to share the details with me. And I mean
all
of them.”

Oh, swell. What's that old saying? Your past comes back to haunt you?

“Speaking of your men, there is one more. Wait.” Chantal hurried out the door and came back a few minutes later with Nick clasped in her arms. She set him down on the bed next to me. “We can't stay long. The nurse will have a fit, but Daniel charmed her.”

I riffled Nick's fur. “Saved me again, didn't you?” I whispered into his ruff.

Nick blinked and meowed softly.

Chantal leaned over and plucked Nick up. “We'd better go. We'll be waiting for you at your aunt's. Daniel is going to try and get you released a little early.”

“Great.”

Lacey leaned over and gave me a swift kiss on the forehead. “Yeah, sis, hurry up and get out of here. I can't wait to tell you all my plans and grill you about your past with Samms. Hoo-wee!”

Chantal's grin stretched ear to ear. “Yes, hoo-wee, indeed!”

I sighed. No way I could fight both of them. I'd have to pray for divine intervention. They were halfway out the door when Chantal suddenly turned and made a beeline back to my bed. “I almost forget,
chérie
,” she said. She hefted Nick off to one side and whipped a white envelope out of her purse.
Nora Charles
was scrawled in almost illegible script across it. “Daniel wanted me to give you this. He said to tell you it was from Foxworthy.”

I took the envelope. “Foxworthy? Really? Thanks.” Once they'd left, I slit it open and a single sheet of lined paper and a twenty-dollar bill fell out. I unfolded it and read:

Dear Ms. Charles:

Please accept my congratulations on solving a very complex case. I must say, I am impressed beyond words by your detective prowess. Why, you might even be a better detective than our friend Nick, although, trust me, that blowhard would never admit to that.

And speaking of Nick, I was sincere when I told you I know nothing about what might have happened to him. The only thing I can tell you is that like the proverbial cat, Atkins has nine lives, and I fully believe he hasn't expended a one of them. He's like a bad penny. Atkins will turn up again, mark my words, when you least expect it. He was always big on drama, that Nick. But, if you are determined to find out more about him, there is one person I can think of who might be able to lend a hand.

Ask Nick's former partner about Angelique. That's all I can say. But if there is anyone who can tell you what might have happened to Atkins—if he is just missing or truly dead—then Angelique's your girl.

And when Nick does turn up, dead or alive, tell him I always liked him, deep down, even if I still hold him responsible for all that's happened to me. Oh, and buy that lifesaving cat of his a bit of extra kibble, or whatever he's eating these days. From the looks of him, I'd say he enjoys a good steak—or maybe two?

Deepest Regards,

Bronson A. Pichard

I tapped the sheet of paper thoughtfully against the tip of my chin before setting it down on top of the twenty. I closed my eyes. The phone at my bedside rang. I reached over and picked up the receiver. “Hello?”

“Hey, Nora.” Ollie's anxious voice floated over the wire. “I heard you're on the mend.”

“Yep. Pichard's arrested, and I should be out of here by
tomorrow.” I hesitated, unsure of whether or not to broach the topic of Angelique, but Ollie's next words drove all cohesive thought from my mind.

“Good. Rest up, because something's happened that leads me to think . . .”

“Think what, Ollie? What's wrong?” I asked as the silence grew so thick you could cut it with a knife.

“I don't really know what to say,” he admitted. “I can hardly believe it myself, but something's happened that makes me believe . . . that there could be a chance . . . aw, heck, I'll just come out and say it. I guess you might have been right all along.

“Nick Atkins might be alive!”

Peter Dobbs Panini

Sub roll or Italian bread

2 tablespoons olive oil

2 teaspoons anchovy paste

2 slices fresh mozzarella cheese

2 slices fresh tomato

Salt and pepper to taste

Brush the inside of a split sub roll or sliced Italian bread with olive oil. Spread on anchovy paste. Fill with 2 slices each of fresh mozzarella and tomato; season with salt and pepper. Put into panini press and cook until golden.

George Foreman Griller

1½ pounds ground chuck (80 percent lean) or ground turkey (90 percent lean)

Salt and freshly ground black pepper

4 slices cheese

Sliced onion

4 whole wheat or spinach wraps

Ketchup

Toasted burger buns

Divide the meat into 4 equal portions (about 6 ounces each). Form each portion loosely into a ¾-inch-thick burger. Season both sides of each burger with salt and pepper. Cover with cheese and onion. Place on grill until done, then fold into wrap, smother with ketchup, and enjoy!

Brad Pitt All-American Hero

Long hero roll

2 tablespoons mayo

6 slices Virginia ham

6 slices bologna

6 slices cheddar cheese

Hot peppers

4 slices of tomato

Shredded lettuce

Oil and vinegar

Slice long roll; spread liberally with mayo. Cover with a layer of Virginia ham, then a layer of bologna, then cheddar cheese. Garnish with hot peppers, tomato, and shredded lettuce. Sprinkle with oil and vinegar.

Andy Garcia Cuban Special

Panini bread (or long roll, if desired)

2 tablespoons mayo

3 tablespoons each of oil and vinegar

Spicy mustard

6 slices of turkey

6 slices of Italian speck

6 slices of Colby-Jack cheese

Sliced dill pickles

Olive oil

Mix the mayo and oil and vinegar and spread liberally on panini bread (or roll if preferred). Place layers of turkey, speck, and Colby-Jack cheese, spreading spicy mustard in between each layer. Place sliced dill pickles on top; spread top of bread or roll liberally with spicy mustard. Close sandwich, brush top of bread lightly with olive oil. Place under press or grill until cheese is melted. Slice and serve
hot.

A Preview of the Next Nick and Nora Mystery

OF CRIME AND
CATNIP

“I
declare, Nora, with food like this the museum's annual gala can't help but be a success.”

I smiled politely at the speaker as I rose to refill my mother's good bone china bowl with tortilla chips. Nandalea Webb, the Cruz Museum's curator, was a no-nonsense type of gal and as feisty as the Australian meaning of her given name implied. She waved a red-lacquered hand in the air, leaned back in her chair, and reached for one of the deviled eggs on the tray in the middle of the table. She took a bite and batted lashes heavy with several coats of Lash Plus mascara.

“Heaven,” she murmured, dabbing at her salmon-tinted lips with the edge of a napkin. “I can't tell you how much the committee appreciates your stepping in to cater this year's fund-raiser on such short notice.”

“My pleasure,” I assured her, reaching for a chip myself. “Not only would my mother have encouraged me, I consider
it an honor. Anyway, I've catered events on less notice. Mac Davies's retirement from Cruz Detective Squad, for example. I had about twelve hours' notice for that.”

“True, dear, but that wasn't of the magnitude this is.” Nan's teeth flashed in her version of a smile. “This will be a real challenge for you.”

“Well, we Charles women always love a challenge. Plus, I can definitely use the extra income.” I set the newly refilled bowl of chips in front of her. She took one, plunked it in my spinach dip (actually, I can't claim credit for that; the recipe is my Aunt Prudence's), and popped it into her mouth. “My mother was always a staunch supporter of the museum. I know she would be proud.”

“Indeed she would be.”

I turned my attention to the other speaker. Violet Crenshaw was a lifelong resident of our little town of Cruz, California, with all the “old money” that usually accompanied such an honor. A senior member of the museum's board of directors, probably the most senior, at age seventy-one, she was extremely well preserved. Slight of frame, her clothes fit her like a runway model. Today she had on a dress of lightweight fire-engine red wool that screamed “expensive designer.” It was definitely a dress I'd have killed for, if the color didn't clash with my hair. Violet's own lavender-tinted hair was done in a becoming upsweep that set off her high cheekbones and delicate bone structure to advantage. I could see why the women made such an effective team. Where Nan was outgoing and effusive, Violet was the more laid-back of the two, but just like the old saying, still waters ran deep. Violet might tread softly, but she carried a big stick, just like her idol, Teddy Roosevelt.

On this late autumn afternoon we were seated in the back room of Hot Bread, the sandwich shop I'd inherited from my mother a few months ago, to discuss my catering their annual fund-raiser. The Cruz Museum fund-raisers were always a big deal; expertly planned to raise a great deal of money, they were always successful, plus they paid very well. The firm they usually used to cater their events had shut their doors abruptly a week ago. One of the owners had been diagnosed with a heart murmur, prompting the momentous decision to retire in Palm Springs and reap the fruits of their years of successful labor, and so I'd been approached for the job, not only because no other caterer in a twelve-mile radius wanted the responsibility or pressure of catering a gala for two hundred people on two days' notice, but also because my late mother, in addition to being a museum patron, had also been a friend to both Nandalea and Violet.

Violet helped herself to one of the finger sandwiches I'd prepared and eyed me with a steely gaze over the rims of her Ben Franklin–style glasses. “Your mother was an excellent cook, Nora. She put her all into Hot Bread. I always felt bad we had that long-standing contract with Mike Rodgers. She would have enjoyed catering our affairs.”

Nan's dark brown pageboy bobbed up and down in agreement. “Yes, she always supported our cause with generous donations. She loved Cruz and its history, and she loved the museum.”

“It's very gratifying to see you taking over where she left off, following the family tradition.” Violet coughed lightly then added, “Family is so important. Sometimes one doesn't realize how much.”

I caught the wistful note in the older woman's voice and smiled. “I couldn't agree more.”

“
Er-owl!
”

We all jumped. The large (although portly might be a better word) black-and-white tuxedo cat sprawled across Hot Bread's kitchen floor pushed himself upright to regard us with wide golden eyes. His ears flattened against his skull as his mouth opened, revealing a row of sharp, pointed teeth. He waved one forepaw in the air in an imperious manner.

“Ah,” Nan laughed. “I see your cat agrees family is important. What's his name again?”

“Nick.”

The two women burst out laughing. “What else? Of course you'd name him after
The Thin Man.
” Nan chuckled. “Your mother loved those old movies. For that matter, so did I. Who didn't love William Powell? This younger generation has no idea what they've missed.” Her gaze swept the cat up and down. “He looks well cared for. What shelter did you get him from?”

“No shelter, although I do think that's a marvelous way to adopt a pet. He just appeared on my doorstep one night, waltzed inside, and that was that. Honestly, I blame Chantal. She talked me into keeping him, although I've never regretted it.” I laughed. “It's hard to tell sometimes who owns who.”

“One never owns a cat, dear. They own you,” Nan said with a wise nod.

Nick sat up on his haunches and pawed at the air, his head bobbing up and down.

Nan leaned over. “So you agree, do you, big fella?”

Nick rolled over on his back and wiggled all four paws in the air.

Violet peered at the cat over the rims of her glasses. “He's quite the little ham, isn't he?”

I suppressed a chuckle. “You don't know the half of it.”

Nick sat up, wrapped his tail around his forelegs, cocked his head to one side as if studying the women. Then he got up, trotted over to the fleece bed in the corner, swiped his paw underneath the cushion, and reappeared a moment later with a catnip mouse. He dropped it at the foot of Nan's chair and looked up expectantly; then he squatted down and proceeded to attack the mouse with his teeth and claws.

“Oh, how cute,” Nan gushed. “He seems quite intelligent, and he certainly likes his catnip.” She grinned as Nick flopped over again, mouse clenched firmly between his paws, and wiggled his hind legs. Quite a sight.

“Believe it or not, he likes the Scrabble tile set more.”

“What, he can spell?”

Both women started to laugh at Nan's outburst, but I wasn't kidding. Nick's penchant for spelling words had helped me solve two mysteries; however, I didn't feel like sharing those details. Instead I just shrugged. “It's not as far-fetched as it sounds. Dogs can be trained, right? So why not cats? For my money, they're the most intelligent animal around.”

“Spoken with no prejudice whatsoever,” laughed Nan. “I've always been a dog person, myself, but you know what? I think your cat could change my mind.”

“Mine, too,” agreed Violet. “I mean, look at him. He actually looks as if he wants to speak.”

Nick sat erect, his teeth visible in what I termed his “shit-eating kitty grin.” I was convinced that if cats could talk, he would undoubtedly have lots to say.

“It wouldn't surprise me. He's very smart. My biggest
fear is Nick will show up one day out of the blue and want his cat back.”

Violet turned her questioning gaze on me. “I'm sorry. I'm a bit confused. I thought Nick was the cat's name?”

“It is, and coincidentally, it's also the name of his former owner. Nick Atkins.”

“Nick Atkins?” Violet's gaze swept upward to my face, her lips forming a perfect O of surprise. “You're kidding! He owned a cat?
This
cat?”

“Yes. Did you know him?” I asked, wondering how on earth the stately Violet would ever have connected with a character like the hard-boiled PI. Talk about an odd couple!

Violet's gaze darted from the cat to me back to the cat again. It seemed as if she were unsure how to answer the question. The next minute, however, her hesitation became moot as the unlikely strains of “California Gurls” chirped from the depths of her purse.

“Excuse me.” She fished the phone out, glanced at the number, then snapped it open with a brisk, “Yes, Daisy. What's the matter?” She listened intently for a few minutes then sighed audibly. “Tell him we'll be back shortly and to wait until we get there. Surely twenty minutes won't make a monumental difference in their schedule.” She snapped the phone shut, slid it back into her bag, and turned to me with an apologetic smile. “So sorry for the interruption. Where were we?”

Nan smiled over the rim of her coffee cup. “I believe we were about to discuss the pros and cons of a sit-down dinner versus a buffet.”

“I don't think much discussion is necessary,” Violet cut in. “After all, it's a costume ball. Formal dinners are lovely,
but who wants to bother with all that at a masquerade?” She gave her head an emphatic shake. “We want our patrons loose and happy so they'll whip out their checkbooks and give generously. After all, the happier the patron, the bigger the contribution, am I right?”

“Oh, listen to her. She's so wise,” Nan whispered.

“Hmpf. Wise has nothing to do with it. It's common sense,” Violet snorted. “Just like a big part of keeping 'em happy is getting 'em plastered.”

“Violet!” Nan's jaw dropped and she looked at me. “She's blunt as a knife sometimes.”

“Well, it's true.” The older woman chuckled. “The more they drink, the happier and looser they get, and then out come the checkbooks, and better yet, the zeros on the checks!” Her smile was wide as she turned to me and closed one eye in a broad wink. “We spring for complimentary wine and soda, but the real proceeds flow from the cash bar. Which reminds me: Our old caterer also provided the bartender. Nora, do you know where we can find a good bartender? The position pays quite well.” She named a figure that made my eyes pop, and I thought immediately of Lance Reynolds. He ran the only tavern in Cruz, the Poker Face. I'd known him for years, dated him in high school. I was positive he'd agree; not only could he use the money the museum would pay, but it would be great publicity for his own bar. I mentioned his name, and Violet nodded solemnly.

“I'm ashamed I didn't think of him right off,” she said, reaching in her purse. She pulled out a notebook and made a swift notation. “I'll have Daisy get right on this.”

I arched a brow at the second mention of the unfamiliar name. “Daisy? Is she a new employee?”

“She's my new assistant,” Violet said crisply. “Maude Frickert up and retired on us, can you believe it? Went to live in the Carolinas with her daughter. Didn't give us a lot of notice, either.”

“Now, now, don't be like that, Violet. She did give us a week,” interjected Nan. “We were very fortunate Daisy happened along just when she did. It was really a case of being in the right place at the right time. She happened to be in the museum and overheard us talking about finding a replacement. It's a great opportunity for her. She just moved back to the States after studying abroad in London and was going to start looking for a job. What do you call it again, when events intersect just so?”

“Fate,” I answered, sliding a glance Violet's way. “I guess I always assumed that when Maude finally retired, Nellie would take her place.” Nellie Blanchard was a part-time docent who'd worked at the museum forever. It was no secret the woman aspired to an office position.

“So did Nellie,” Violet sighed. “Don't get me wrong, she's done a fine job as a docent, but office work is different. She wouldn't have the freedom she does now. I'm not all that sure she'd be able to adapt to a nine-to-five regimen.”

I nodded. That much was true, and Nellie'd never made any bones about the fact she enjoyed being able to set her own hours. Still, she'd always hinted that when Maude went, she should be the next in line, and no one could really dispute her claim. She had the background and the experience, if not the formal education.

As if she'd read my thoughts, Violet said quickly, “Nellie's got the background and experience, and she's very familiar with the museum and our patrons. It wasn't an easy
decision, but I think it was the right one. Daisy's rather young, but her references were excellent. You'll like her, I'm sure. So then”—Violet clasped her hands together—“are we in agreement on the menu? Buffet style?”

I nodded. “I have quite a few ideas on what can be done. I'll outline a menu and get it to you tonight.”

“You are such a dear to do this for us on such short notice. Now, don't forget we'll need to have some of your dishes named in line with our theme.”