Claws for Alarm (8 page)

“Excuse me.” I smiled and held out my hand, clutching all the pamphlets the secretary in the office had given me earlier. “I'm thinking of enrolling here, and I'm a bit lost. I was wondering if you could just tell me where all the offices are? I'm looking for—I'm looking for Professor Grant's office,” I said, offering the first name that came to mind. “I—ah—want to discuss the possibility of studying sculpting under her. Someone said upstairs, but—I'm kinda lost. I know I saw an elevator somewhere, but—”

“Yeah? Old Grant's taking on new students? Wow, you
must either be really dedicated or a glutton for punishment. As for the elevator, heck, it's broken more than it works.” She pointed a bloodred fingernail toward a door marked
STAIRS
. “That's the fastest way. Top floor. Her office is all the way at the end of the hall. I'd escort you up, but I'm late myself.”

“Oh, no problem. I'm sure I can find it.”

“Great. Well, then, good luck,” she said, and breezed off.

“Good luck, thanks. I'll need all the luck I can get,” I murmured, and made my way to the door.

*   *   *

T
wo steep flights later I found myself in a darkened, empty corridor. Apparently none of the professors were occupying their offices at the moment, which suited me just fine. I made my way down past the sea of closed doors. I passed the one marked
PROFESSOR ADELINE GRANT
, and the moment I turned the corner felt like shouting, “Bingo.”

I hurried down the corridor and paused before the entrance. The door was tightly closed, covered top to bottom with yellow and black tape in a crisscross design. I sighed. How many times back in Chicago had I seen this? Ah, memories. The fact the tape was still up indicated to me that the police felt there was still something to be learned, possibly something they'd overlooked. That thought sent a surge of hope pulsing through me. I was relatively certain it was a misdemeanor, at the very least, to break CSI tape, but if it would help Lacey . . .

I hesitated, hand poised over the tape, and suddenly, my whole body stiffened, assailed by the sudden feeling I wasn't alone. The next minute a heavy hand clapped down on my shoulder.

“Before you do something stupid you'll probably regret, miss, would you like to tell me just what you think you're doing?”

I froze. I knew that voice. And it wasn't good. I turned and came face-to-face with my past.

G
reat
didn't even begin to describe how Leroy Samms looked, but the adjectives
yummy
and
mouthwatering
came instantly to mind. Even though it had been fifteen years at least since I'd last seen him, he hadn't changed a bit. If anything, he'd gotten better looking, and he'd been pretty perfect to start off with. He wore khaki pants and a cream knit sweater that hugged his chest and hinted at the muscular, rangy body beneath. His hair was still the odd shade I remembered, an inky blue-black that exactly matched the deep-set eyes; eyes that were trained right on me. When he said nothing, I thought with a modicum of relief that he hadn't recognized me, but then a glimmer of recognition lit up his eyes, and the corners of his full lips twitched slightly upward.

“Nora Charles,” he murmured, touching two fingers to his forehead in a brief salute. “Oh my God, it is you, isn't it?”

“Last time I looked,” I said, assuming a casual tone as if
I ran into ex-flames every day of the week. “How've you been, Samms?”

Those broad shoulders lifted in a careless shrug. “I can't complain.” He took a step toward me. “I can't believe I ran into you, here of all places, after all these years.”

“Yeah,” I said. “Life's funny, huh?”

Those navy eyes raked me up and down. “You haven't changed a bit.”

I forced a laugh. “You're being kind.”

He shook his head. “No, truthful. So you still with that Chicago paper?”

I shook my head. “That's yesterday's news,” I said lightly. “Now I'm Nora Charles, small business entrepreneur. I inherited my mother's sandwich shop.”

The eyebrow lifted even higher. “You gave up reporting? That's hard to believe. Last time I saw you—” He stopped, ran a hand through his hair.

“Was our last night on the college paper,” I said softly. “That was . . . quite a night.”
And one I'd rather not rehash, thanks very much.

His gaze was unfathomable. “Yes,” he said softly. “It was.”

We both stood there awkwardly for a minute, the silence so thick you could cut it with a knife. And then we both said, at exactly the same time: “What are you doing here?”

I answered first. “I—ah—I'm here trying to help my sister.”

He frowned. “Your sister? Who's . . .” He slapped his palm against his forehead. “Oh, wait . . . Lacey Charles, the murder suspect?
She's
your sister?”

My chin jutted out. “She didn't do it, Samms. My sister's not a killer.”

His left eyebrow twitched slightly. “Still calling me by my last name, I see.”

I shrugged. “Old habits die hard. So I answered first; now it's your turn. What are you doing here?”

“Well, for starters, I heard an Abigail St. Clair was at the school, asking a lot of questions about the curriculum, the students, the teachers.”

“Oh,” I gave a careless wave, “can you keep a secret?” I leaned in a bit closer to him, so close I got a faint whiff of his aftershave—Brut? “That's me. This is my sister, after all. I'm just trying to help the police out.”

“I see. What if the police don't need any help?”

I cocked my brow. “Trust me, the police always need help.”

His lips thinned. “Thanks, but no, thanks. I'm—or should I say the police are—doing just fine.”

I frowned. “What?”

He pulled back the side of his jacket, and I saw a shiny badge clipped to his belt. “Let me formally introduce myself. “I'm Detective Leroy Samms of the St. Leo Homicide Division. I'm in charge of this case.”

OMG, if there was a hole nearby, I would have crawled inside and pulled it in after me. I felt my cheeks grow warm with embarrassment, and for at least a minute, I couldn't think of a thing to say. Finally, I managed to get out, “You're a homicide detective? More specifically, you're the good-looking detective who arrested Lacey? My aunt's friend's words,” I added hastily. “Not mine.”

He rubbed absently at his temple. “I should have made the connection when she mentioned an older sister in Cruz. Although I can't recall you ever mentioning anything at all
about your family, or much else personal, during the time we—ah—worked together.”

“I've always been a private person.” I jammed my hands deep into the pockets of my jacket, determined to keep the conversation far, far away from college and auld lang syne. “You said you came here because you heard Abigail St. Clair was asking questions?”

His eyes sparkled, but his expression remained impassive. “I'm buddies with the head of the real Abigail St. Clair's home security. He asked me to check it out, since he knows the real Abigail St. Clair is out of the country.”

Rats, just my luck. “I can explain,” I said.

He held up his hand. “You already did. You came here to see if you could help your sister, maybe find a clue we might have missed in our initial sweep.”

“Exactly.” I pulled back my shoulders, a motion that made my breasts snap to attention, and my chin jutted forward. I noticed Samms's gaze linger on my chest for a brief moment before he raised his gaze to meet mine.

He looked at me and then let out a laugh, a deep, rich sound that sent a little tremor racing up and down my spine. It wasn't exactly an unpleasant feeling. I could equate it to having champagne bubbles stuck in your nose on New Year's Eve.

Huh? I gave myself a mental slap. Oh no. I wasn't going down
that
road again, no sir.

Samms's laughter subsided and he pursed his lips. “I read the accounts of what went down a few weeks ago with the Graingers. So, what, Red, you get lucky once and now you think you're Nancy Drew?”

My temper started to rise, more because of his use of his old nickname for me than being compared to America's
favorite girl detective. “No, I do not think I'm Nancy Drew,” I snapped. “I'm just trying to help out my sister. You and I both know once the DA settles on a suspect, further investigation goes out the window. And, believe it or not, I know my way around a crime scene. Just ask anyone at my former paper.” I paused. “And don't call me Red, Samms.”

“Still sensitive, I see. Do I get upset because you refuse to use my first name?” His brows drew together, making a deep V crease the center of his forehead. He brushed an inky bang out of his eyes and leaned in a bit closer. “How about if I call you Brenda?”

“Brenda?”

“After Brenda Starr.” His voice grew soft. “I called you Brenda, that last night we worked together on the paper . . . or don't you remember?”

I was starting to remember things it had taken me years to forget. Fortunately, I was spared answering as two students rounded the corner, their arms overflowing with portfolios. Another figure walked, shoulders hunched, behind them, and I thought for a second I recognized the bare chest and ponytail of Professor Foxworthy, but I blinked, and when I looked again, Foxworthy (if indeed it had been him) was nowhere to be seen. I shook my head, wondering if I might be starting to hallucinate, as the students passed us, casting curious looks our way.

Samms eyed me. “I think this discussion is best had in quieter quarters.” As soon as they'd gone, he reached out and grasped my elbow. I felt a surge of . . . something . . . shoot through me at his touch, and I abruptly pulled my arm away.

“I'm capable of walking on my own,” I ground out. “I am an adult, after all.”

He raised both hands in a gesture of surrender. “Fine. Please act like one.” Without waiting for me to answer, his arm snaked out and in one motion ripped the yellow tape from the doorway. “Now we're gonna go inside, and you are not going to touch or disturb anything. Got it?”

I raised my chin another inch. “Like I told you,
Detective
, I'm familiar with the protocol.”

His stern expression softened, but not by much. “Okay, okay. Just checking.”

I followed him inside and stood for a moment to get my bearings. A cherrywood desk stood catty-corner, with two expensive file cabinets made of the same wood off to the right. The left wall was one massive bookcase, filled to overflowing with books, save for the center shelf on which rested what appeared to be several expensive pieces of modern sculpture. One I actually liked. It depicted a hand holding a face, or a mask, supported on its left side by another hand. They were arranged so the mask seemed to be suspended in midair, making the piece just odd enough to be appealing, unlike some of the others in the case. The back wall held several expensive-looking oil paintings in equally expensive-looking frames. I noted a large faded rectangle on the far right, as if something had hung there but been removed. Light filtered in from a wide bay window just in back of the desk, highlighting the large, ugly red stain that marred the thick beige shag carpeting. Aside from the slight fading on the wall and the stained rug, the office was impeccably furnished and oozed wealth, position, comfort.

It was a shame Pitt had to die there.

I raised my eyes again to the other paintings. Two depicted
ballet scenes, one racehorses in a field. I moved a bit closer to study them.

“Nice, aren't they?” Samms said, almost at my elbow. He squinted at them. “Degas, I think. He liked to paint ballet and horses.”

I ignored his comment and tapped the faded spot on the wall. “Looks as if he might have removed one of these. I wonder why?”

“Maybe he wanted to switch off. Pitt was a big collector,” Samms went on. “These are only a few of his prized possessions. He's got some on display in one of the rooms downstairs, and the rest are in his private museum at his home.” His gaze flicked to the bookcase. “Liked sculpture, too. Mostly modern stuff. Personally, I can't get into it, but to each his own.” He took a step back and folded his arms across his chest. “So, you wanted to see the scene of the crime. Satisfied?”

My eyes traversed the length of rug and settled on the red blotch by the desk. A shudder ripped through me, and I dragged my gaze upward to meet his. “Hardly. I won't be satisfied until my sister's name is cleared.” Against my will, my eyes strayed back to the blotch.

Samms walked over to the stain and nudged the edge of it with his toe. “There's about ten to twelve average pints of blood in a male human body, slightly less in a female. That stain looks bad, but actually it only accounts for one, maybe two pints.”

“Thanks for that information.” I swallowed. “Did the coroner pinpoint the time of death?”

“Sometime between nine thirty and ten. Probably closer to ten.”

I suppressed a shudder. Lacey couldn't have missed the killer by much. “I imagine you've gotten the report back on the murder weapon by now?”

His stern expression sobered, and he sounded almost kindly. “As I informed Mr. Dobbs earlier, the only prints we found on that knife were his client's—your sister's.”

I sucked in my breath. Damn!

He tapped his finger against his dimpled chin. “Seriously, though, even you have to admit she's a natural suspect. She had words earlier in the day with Pitt, threatened to end his life, no less, was quoted by several witnesses as saying ‘I'd like to kill that bastard' and ‘I'd like to put the professor on ice,' and then she's found standing over the body clutching a weapon that only her prints are on.” He tossed me a pained look. “Tell the truth, now. If you were in charge of this investigation, you'd have arrested her, too.”

“Maybe. But I'd try to keep an open mind and do a lot more digging into other possible suspects, too, of which there are plenty, by the way.”

“Oh really?” His eyes sparked with defiance. “And what makes you think I haven't been doing just that?” The smile he tossed me bordered on indulgent. “I'd be remiss in my job if I didn't investigate other possibilities now, wouldn't I? It's the DA's office that's satisfied. They tend to get a mite overzealous when they get means, motive, and opportunity handed to them on a silver platter.”

I recalled Irene's earlier comment and remarked, “I understand the DA's got a pretty good record with regard to murder convictions.”

“Yep, she does, and getting better all the time.” His eyes darkened as he added, “I just want you to know, Nora, I
haven't stopped investigating this, not by a long shot. I consider myself a pretty good judge of character, too. Your sister doesn't seem like the murdering type. She's a bit of a prima donna, and spoiled, but a murderer?”

A tiny ray of hope blossomed anew. “So, you say you're still investigating. I realize most of what you find out has to be confidential, but is there anything else you feel comfortable sharing with me? I wouldn't ask, except . . . ”

“Except it's your sister.” He hesitated and then added, “I checked out the wife—the second one—first thing, because, as I'm sure you know, ninety percent of all murders are committed by the spouse. Giselle signed a pre-nup, so with a divorce she'd get zippo, but with a murder? Well, let's just say she stands to inherit a TON.”