Meow If It's Murder (Nick and Nora Mysteries) (9 page)

Corleone didn’t even crack a hint of a smile. “Not necessarily. Some women are excellent at keeping secrets.”

I gave him a look. “Some men are, too.”

He kept staring at me, almost as if he expected me to crack and reveal some of my secrets under his steely gaze. I tapped my pen against my notebook. “I just find it hard to believe a woman with an almost obsessive fear of deep water would go for a midnight excursion in the ocean. And then there’s the matter of the bruise at the back of her skull. Did she get that from a fall, or could someone have attacked her?”

He folded his arms across his chest. “And just how do you know about that, Nora? It wasn’t made public.”

“And I bet I know why,” I burst out, deliberately avoiding his question. “It’s a prime example of how the Cruz police slipped up. They should have examined the others for bruises, and—”

“What makes you think they didn’t?” He was silent a few more moments, then said, “You seem inordinately passionate about this case, and I can’t help but wonder why. You’re not related to the deceased, are you?”

“No, I’m not related.”

“I’m sorry, but I’m not quite making the connection here. If you’re not related—”

I hesitated, then added, “Mrs. Grainger was a good customer of my mother’s sandwich shop.”

Those perfectly shaped lips twitched slightly and he clapped his hands. “Ah, so she liked a good bologna on rye. That explains it then.”

“It’s not as unusual as you make it sound,” I spat. “Besides, I’m not the only one who feels this way. Lola’s sister hired a PI to investigate her death.”

His expression didn’t change, but a strange light appeared in the depths of those impossibly blue eyes. “Lola’s sister? Did she now? A PI, you say?”

“Yes. Adrienne Sloane. She was trying to get the case reopened.”

He leaned forward. “Was trying? She stopped?”

I shifted uncomfortably in the chair. “I—I’m not sure what happened to her.”

He tossed me a look that spoke volumes before asking, “What about this PI? Who is he? Have you spoken to him?”

I swallowed. “I tried to get in touch with him but—apparently no one’s seen him for several weeks.”

He leaned back, eyes closed, and tapped the pencil against his knee. “I see.” His tone clearly indicated he didn’t. He sat up and fixed me with another piercing stare. “I’d love to know who your pipeline is,” he said at last. “Who’s feeding you this information?”

I shifted in the chair, crossed my legs at my ankles. “I was an investigative reporter for years,” I replied. “I have my sources.”

“Chicago, right?”

I nodded. “Yes, but how—”

“Google is a wonderful thing, Nora. I looked you up. You wrote a very popular column in Chicago; you won a couple of awards. Makes one wonder why you’d give it up to come back to the old hometown and run a sandwich shop.”

His tone clearly indicated he thought a man had been behind my decision, and I felt a swift flash of resentment. Why did people constantly assume a failed love affair was the obvious reason for a move and/or a job change? Well, maybe it was, nine times out of ten, but not in my case. I resisted the impulse to set him straight on that score, and just inclined my head. “Some people have family loyalty,” I said, looking him straight in the eye. “Besides, it was time for a change in my life.”

He matched my stare with a piercing one of his own. “A rather big change.”

“Maybe.” I shifted a bit in my chair. Something about him made me feel unsettled—and not just the lingering aroma of Old Spice, either. “Now, getting back to our discussion. This is just a suggestion, but—Adrienne Sloane was renting a house on the outskirts of Cruz. She hasn’t been seen in a while. It might not be a bad idea to go out there, ask around, see if you could get a line on her. There must be a reason why she hasn’t come forward.”

“Are you intimating foul play?”

“I’m not intimating anything—I’m just trying to be helpful.”

“I see.” His hunched stance relaxed. “So—anything else you’d care to share with me?”

“It’s my understanding Lola and her sister were estranged for years. Adrienne came back to try and make things right. And Adrienne didn’t trust Kevin Grainger.”

He picked up a pencil, tapped it against the desk. “Perhaps he didn’t trust her, either. Do you know what precipitated their estrangement?”

I shook my head. “No.”

He gave me a look of mock horror. “You mean your source couldn’t enlighten you? I’m shocked.”

It was on the tip of my tongue to mention what I’d read in Nick Atkins’s journal—that Lola had found something out, something her husband would “kill her” over—but I knew it would raise even more questions I didn’t want to answer. I bit my tongue, sank back in my chair.

“I just think the witnesses should have been more rigorously cross-examined,” I said.

“Ah—and just why is that? Do you think their stories would break down? Differ greatly?”

“Possibly,” I shot back. “Since I don’t know exactly what their stories were, it’s not a question I can answer.”

“Their accounts, if you will, were essentially all the same. They all retired long before the incident, and since they’d been drinking a good deal, all fell asleep almost instantly. The only two who remained awake were Mr. Grainger and Shelly Lott, the boat captain. They looked for Mrs. Grainger and placed the call to the Coast Guard. Both their accounts were consistent, down to each detail.”

“I don’t know about you, but I find that rather odd in itself. I mean, when stories are too consistent, the word
rehearsed
immediately pops to my mind.”

“I’m not certain what you mean. There wouldn’t have been enough time between the other occupants waking up and the finding of the body to rehearse too much.”

I crossed my legs at the ankles and slouched back in my chair. “Believe me, if someone wants something rehearsed, they find the time. I saw plenty of that in Chicago.”

“I’m sure you did.” He paused in his pencil tapping. The odd look was back in his eyes again. “So it’s your opinion there was some sort of cover-up regarding Mrs. Grainger’s death?”

I held up my hand. “I wouldn’t presume to make that judgment, not without more facts. All I’m saying is a little more effort could have gone into questioning the sus—the other people on the yacht.”

The intercom buzzed just then. Corleone murmured, “Excuse me,” and then pressed the button. “Yes, Margaret?”

“The captain is on line one for you. Shall I transfer him?”

“Yes. Give me a minute, please.” He disconnected, and glanced at me. “I’m sorry. I have to take this call.”

“Of course.” I picked up my notepad, stuffed it back in my purse, and rose. “Thank you for your time,” I murmured, hoping my jaw wasn’t clenching too badly. I was having a hard time concealing my disappointment.

“Wait.” He held up one finger. “I’d like to continue this discussion with you, if I may.”

That surprised me, since his demeanor had indicated he thought me either incredibly nosy or one step away from a fruitcake. “You would?”

He nodded. “You make some interesting points. I think they may bear some further investigation.”

“You mean you’d be willing to recommend the case be reopened?”

“I don’t know if we can go that far,” he said. “But I agree—certain aspects could have been handled better. I’d like to ask you to postpone publishing anything on this in your magazine until we talk further. Will you agree to that?”

“Why, of course.” That was pretty easy, considering I’d never really intended to do a story—yet anyway. “That seems only fair.”

“Good.” His phone rang. “I’ll call you. And remember—don’t discuss this with anyone. Do I have your word?”

I nodded. “Sure.”

He picked up the phone, and I felt as if I’d been summarily dismissed. His interest seemed vague at best, and I’ve never held much stock in words without action.
I’ll call you
sounded pretty indefinite to me—like something you’d say to appease someone you were afraid might turn into a troublemaking pest.

In the doorway I paused. Something else bothered me about Daniel Corleone—and not just the way his jacket molded to his upper torso like a second skin. Something was off, but I just couldn’t put my finger on it. I gave him one last look from the doorway.

“I won’t hold my breath for that call,” I muttered, and left.

I
drove back to Hot Bread, making one stop along the way. I parked in back of the store and let myself in through the rear entrance. I could hear the murmur of voices coming from the kitchen. Moving quietly, I went over to the door and pushed it ajar, stifling a laugh at the scene before me.

Chantal hunkered over a squirming Nick, a rhinestone-studded bright fuchsia collar halfway around his neck. The cat’s fat belly shook as he fought to elude her grasp. He flopped over the edge of the counter and tried to run in the opposite direction. In one swift motion she grabbed him and pulled him back up onto the counter.

I was impressed. I didn’t realize anyone, let alone Chantal, could move that fast in five-inch heels.

“Goodness, Nicky,” she scolded, her finger slicing the air. “
Mon Dieu!
How do you expect to model for me when you won’t even try anything on!”

Nick’s lips peeled back. “
Ffft!
” he growled.

I pushed the door all the way open and came into the kitchen. “Hey, I’m back. Everything okay here?”

Chantal brushed an errant black curl out of her eyes. “We are doing just fine, thanks. Getting acquainted. I finished cleaning up, so I thought I’d work on my new line of pet collars.” She threw Nicky a baleful glance. “He does not seem to like it much. He keeps trying to pull it off with his claws.”

I looked at Nick, squatting there, the pink collar half on, half off his neck, and couldn’t resist a grin. He bared his fangs and hissed.

As Chantal bent to remove the collar, I stuck my tongue out at him, then gave my friend’s arm a gentle squeeze. “Oh, I think he’d like it fine—maybe in black, though, with some flat, not so shiny stones?”

Chantal considered this. She twined the pink collar between her fingers and held it up. “Too girly, huh?” she said at last.

I turned my head in Nick’s direction and closed one eye. “Well . . . yeah. After all, Nick’s a macho cat.”

She slapped the side of her head with her palm. “Oh, of course. How could I be so stupid? Of course he is a manly cat. He would not want to wear rhinestones around his neck.”

“
Er-ow
,” Nick meowed from his place on the counter. Chantal’s head cocked to one side as she studied the cat. “Black would get lost against his fur,” she said at last. “We need a color that stands out—how about red?”

I hefted him into my arms—geez, he seemed heavier than ever—and smiled at Chantal. “I don’t think he likes bright colors—how about navy blue?” I looked down at Nick as I said this. He hesitated, then purred loudly.

“Hm.” Chantal swept her materials back into their linen bag. “That might work. Navy with clear stones. I’ll give that a try.” She slipped the bag into her tote, and then moved over to stand in front of Nick. She bent over and said in an apologetic tone, “Sorry, handsome. I did not mean to upset you.”

Nick hung his head and meowed.

I laughed. “And I think that’s about as much of an apology as you’re going to get.”

Chantal gave Nick’s head a final pat, then moved toward the door, where she paused, hand on the knob. “How did your appointment go?”

“It could have gone better, but okay.”

Her eyes searched my face. “Is everything all right?”

I set Nick back on the counter and brushed a stray curl out of my eyes. “Well, like I said. It could have gone better. Daniel Corleone—excuse me, Detective Daniel Corleone—didn’t exactly turn a cartwheel at the thought of reopening the Lola Grainger case.”

Chantal suppressed a smile. “Well, you knew going in it wouldn’t be easy.”

“Yeah, I just didn’t realize it would be that hard.” I flopped into a chair and kicked off one shoe. “He was polite enough, but not overenthusiastic. I got the impression he was laughing at me.”

Chantal shook her head. “That is because he does not know you,
chérie
, or how tenacious you can be.”

“Oh, he knows me,” I spat. “He Googled me, can you believe it? Maybe it’s for the best. Working with him would be like climbing Mount Vesuvius when it’s getting ready to explode. No, wait, scratch that. Climbing Vesuvius would be easier.”

Now Chantal laughed outright. “Surely you exaggerate?”

I shook my head. “I wish. Basically he told me that because there were no eyewitnesses, there’s no reason to suspect Lola’s death was anything but a tragic accident. I brought up the fact that if a bit more effort had gone into questioning those aboard the yacht, perhaps their carefully matched stories might have crumbled a bit.”

Chantal nodded in approval. “Good point.”

I rubbed absently at my forehead. “One thing I found odd—he didn’t seem to know about Adrienne Sloane, or care too much after I informed him. He did want to know where I got all my information.” I chuckled. “I told him I had my sources—that seemed to satisfy him.”

“So, what was the outcome? Is he going to help or not?”

“He did agree certain aspects of the case might bear further investigation. We were interrupted, but he did say he’d like to discuss it further.”

“So he’s going to try and get the case reopened?”

I shrugged. “He said he’d call.”

“And you do not think he will,” she prompted as I lapsed into silence.

I gave my head a quick shake. “I’m not sure. I got the impression he considered my presence a nuisance, that I’m just another reporter out after a sensational story, out to exploit Kevin Grainger’s grief.”

“Perhaps you should have told him the truth—that you only do this part-time now.”

“It wouldn’t have mattered. Anyway, I told you—he Googled me. He knew all about me.” I sniffed. “As far as I’m concerned, I don’t think Detective Daniel would be of too much help. He’s the kind of guy who thinks he knows it all, and they can be particularly frustrating, because, well, half the time they do . . . know it all, that is.”

“I see.” Chantal’s lips twitched slightly. “Tell me—what does this Detective Daniel Corleone look like?”

“Tall—six-two I’d guess—blond hair, not golden blond, but kind of an ash-blond, dirty blond, shaggy around the neck, no bangs, high forehead. Eyebrows that match his hair, and blue eyes—sort of a cross between sky blue and cornflower blue, and really bright. Tanned skin, like he spends a lot of time outdoors in the California sun. Probably hits the beach each weekend, chasing down beach bunnies. Broad shouldered, narrow waisted—man, he must spend a lot of time in the gym, too, to get those muscled thighs and his waist—what’s the matter? Why do you have that silly grin on your face?”

Chantal shot me a look of mock innocence. “No reason.”

“Oh yes, there is.” I lunged forward and gripped her wrist. “Out with it, missy.”

She laughed. “It’s just that—well, it’s written all over your face. You’ve got a crush on this guy!”

Nick’s eyes narrowed and his upper lip curled back, exposing his fangs.

Chantal leaned back and crossed her arms. “See—even Nick agrees.”

“The two of you are nuts, then,” I growled. “Why would you think that?”

Chantal rolled her eyes. “
Chérie
, if you have to ask the question . . .”

“Fine,” I grumbled. “While he might be physically attractive, his personality leaves a lot to be desired—or haven’t I mentioned the man seemed very full of himself and condescending?”

Chantal just looked at me and shook her head. Ditto Nick, squatting at my feet.

I let out a nervous giggle. “You guys are too much. I have one meeting with the guy and you’ve got me engaged already.”

“Oh, not engaged,
chérie
. It is too soon for that. Going steady maybe.”

I cut her an eye roll. “Trust me, I have no interest, romantic or otherwise, in Detective Daniel Corleone—other than possibly proving him wrong about the Lola Grainger case, that is. The good detective doesn’t interest me in that way. Not at all. No sir.” I pushed a hand through my curls. “Besides, something just doesn’t jibe.”

“Doesn’t jibe? In what way?”

“That’s the problem, I don’t know. Couldn’t tell you anything specific, but something just seemed—I don’t know—off about him.”

“Besides the Mafia surname? You didn’t sound like you thought anything was off when you were describing him.” Chantal laughed. “As a matter of fact, if you ask me, you sounded pretty darned excited over him.”

“Excited? Hardly,” I snorted. “And I didn’t ask you.”

“Fine. Be in denial.” Chantal turned to leave, then abruptly paused. “Something you should know, though,
chérie
. Before I started working on Nicky’s collar, I pulled out my tarot cards and did a reading for you.”

“And?” I asked as she hesitated. “Don’t tell me—the Death card came up?”

“That would have been better. The Death card refers to transformation and a total change in life cycle, not one’s demise. No, the card that concerned me was Strength.”

“Strength? I would think that would be one of the better ones.”

“You have to take it in context. In the reading I did for you, it indicated you would soon find yourself in a situation over which you have no control. It was sandwiched in between the Tower and King of Swords. That indicated to me the situation could have dangerous overtones, but the King of Swords would help you overcome the obstacle.”

I gave her a look. “You do know one way not to creep yourself out is to refrain from reading cards for people who aren’t right there with you.”

Chantal stuck her tongue out at me, turned on her heel, and with a quick wave was gone. I had to admit, I’d felt an uncanny chill slice right through me at her words. One thing I definitely did not need was to get involved in a dangerous situation.

That King of Swords stuff, though—now that didn’t sound half-bad—even if the King should turn out to be one sarcastic detective.

I felt a tug on my skirt and looked down to see Nick regarding me with a steady, golden stare. I bent down and gently disengaged his claw. He turned around twice, and motioned with his paw toward the back table. I saw Scrabble tiles lying on the floor and let out a little cry.

“How did you get those? I could have sworn I had them in the pouch in the drawer!”

I bent over to scoop them up and noticed they were an F, an I, and a B. I chuckled.

“FIB. Very appropriate. Of course, I wouldn’t come out and call Daniel Corleone a liar, but I just get a strange vibe from him. Like he’s hiding something. Oh, I don’t know.” I made a motion with my hand, swept the tiles up, and deposited them back in the drawer. I looked at Nick.

“Like I was saying, I doubt Detective Corleone is going to be of much help. If I’m going to get to the bottom of all this and find out what happened to Adrienne and your owner, I’m going to have to do some digging on my own. Besides interviewing the captain, I need to know more about the other people who were on the yacht that night. If I can figure out who had the most to gain from Lola’s death, I can narrow down the field.”

I leaned down and gave Nick a quick pat on the head. “I picked up something on the way home that should prove extremely helpful. Come on. We’re going to do something I haven’t done in quite a while—make a murder board.”

*   *   *

I
set the board up in the center of my den. Nick hopped up on the divan and watched as I opened my new package of markers and started to draw boxes on its surface.

“Here we have the victim—Lola Grainger.” I drew a box and wrote Lola’s name inside. “And here we have the people who were on the yacht the night of her death.” I drew five boxes underneath Lola’s name, with lines running from her box to each of the others. “First, her husband, Kevin Grainger.

“Next there was the boat captain—Shelly Lott. And then the other three were Kevin’s employees.”

I consulted the listing I’d made earlier. “Marshall Connor—the controller of KMG, and one of Kevin’s key people.”

I pointed to the next box. “And then there was Buck Tabor—VP of Accounting, I believe. He went to the same college as Kevin—there were some rumblings when he was hired. Lots of other employees thought Mike Shale should have gotten the job, instead of Buck.” I tapped the marker against my chin. “Maybe Buck had something on Kevin. Blackmail’s always a good possibility.” I started to write on the board again. “Last but not least, Patti Cummings, Kevin’s administrative assistant slash majordomo.”

I made a face. “I know she’s pretty, but I just hate to think of Kevin cheating on Lola. Of course, from all accounts, Patti is devoted to Grainger—maybe a little too devoted. Unrequited love is another possible motive. Get rid of the wife and you’ve got the husband all to yourself.”

“
A-rowr!
” Nick made a guttural sound deep in his throat. He turned in a semicircle in front of the board.

I beamed. “Ah—so you agree. Good.”

I stepped back to survey my handiwork. “Back in Chicago, I was involved with lots of cases where the police messed up, overlooked important facts because they were in a hurry, or they thought something wasn’t relevant. Sometimes the most obvious answer isn’t always the correct one.”

I flopped down on my couch and ran my hand through my tumble of curls. When I worked the true crime beat, the biggest thing I’d found police messed up was looking at suspects. Lots of times they tried to make the evidence fit the obvious choice.