Meow If It's Murder (Nick and Nora Mysteries) (11 page)

She gave a snort of disgust. “Don’t play coy with me,
chérie
. The tall, blond, and handsome man who just left—oh, wait!” She slapped her forehead with the palm of her hand. “Of course, I should have known. So that is your Detective Corleone?”

“That’s him.” I gritted my teeth. “But he’s not my detective. He’s the community’s.”

Chantal let out a low whistle. “Well, he’s even yummier in person. I would not mind being investigated by him. He does not look as if he belongs on the Cruz force. Most of them resemble Dennis Franz—this guy has Pierce Brosnan written all over him.”

“Maybe because he’s really not a member of the Cruz force. He’s here on loan, remember?”

She wiggled her fingers. “Whatever. It looked as if you two were having quite a nice conversation.”

“Yeah, well, looks can be deceiving,” I mumbled.

The toaster gave a soft
ding
! I pulled my tuna melt out of the toaster oven and carried it to a table in the back, Chantal right behind me. She watched me as I sat down and spread my napkin on my lap, a silly grin plastered across her pretty face. I took a bite of the sandwich, and frowned at her.

“I can’t eat with you watching me with that cat-ate-the-canary grin, so out with it. What is it you’re just dying to tell me?”

“Isn’t it obvious? I said it the other night. You’ve got a crush on him, but it’s more than that. Yet another prediction of mine has come true. You have met your King of Swords.”

I wagged my finger. “Oh, no. You said tall, dark, and handsome. Detective Corleone is a blond.”

“First off, I do not recall ‘tall’ being part of the equation. Second, description is nothing but a mere detail.” She cocked her brow. “Mark my words. He is your King of Swords—your champion.”

I took another bite of my tuna melt, which was delicious, even if I had to say so myself. “So he’s the one who’s gonna sweep me off my feet, eh?”

“More than that.” Chantal leaned forward, all seriousness. “He is the one who is going to lead you out of danger. As I said—your champion.”

Ah, yes. I’d forgotten about the addition to her original prediction. “Very romantic,” I chuckled. “Right now, the most danger I’m going to be in will be from the electric company shutting me down if I don’t pay the bill this month.”

Chantal shook her head. She reached into her bag and pulled out her trusty deck of tarot cards. “He is going to help you out of a dangerous situation. I saw it in the cards,
chérie
.” She tapped the deck with one long nail. “And the cards . . . they never lie.”

Had I any idea at that moment just
how
dangerous a situation we were talking about, things might have been very, very different. But you know what they say.

Ignorance is bliss.

F
ive o’clock on the dot found me down at the Cruz Marina. A sleepy-looking teenage girl directed me to the Lott Cruises office, located at the end of the pier in a ramshackle building that looked as if a good strong wind might blow it away at a moment’s notice. I tapped on the door and, getting no response, tried the knob. The door swung inward at my touch, and I found myself in a rather large room with many nautical embellishments—a ship’s wheel hung low on the wall behind a cherrywood desk, and framed pictures of ships and sea scenes dotted the walls. A glass case off to one side of the office next to a scarred file cabinet held a collection of scrimshaw, carved objects made originally by North American whalers from the teeth and bones of whales, in various shapes and sizes. This collection looked pretty extensive—there were pieces in the shapes of animals—turtles, foxes, a large grizzly bear. There was a money clip with a clipper ship square in the center, and a pocketknife with a deer. Off to one side lay a man’s large signet ring. The ring had a scrimshaw inlay as well, an odd-looking design. It was obvious Lott took a great interest in his hobby. I’d just bent over the case to get a closer look when the distinct creak of a floorboard alerted me to the fact I was no longer alone.

“Interested in scrimshaw, are ya?”

My head snapped up. “Captain Lott?” At his nod, I smiled and continued, “I’ve always admired the workmanship. You’ve got some unusual pieces there—the clip, the knife. And such an unusual ring.”

“Ayuh.” He took my elbow, steered me away from the case. “It’s a hobby that can get expensive, especially when you invest in the quality pieces.” He looked me up and down. “I’m guessing you’re Nora Charles?”

At first glance Lott struck me as nondescript. He was shorter than me—around five-five or five-six—and thin, almost scrawny. He had a thick shock of gray, curly hair that was swept back from his high forehead, and what I could see of his complexion screamed “outdoorsman.” A good portion of the lower part of his face was covered with a thick beard, well trimmed, the same iron gray shade as his hair. His lips were thick, as were his eyebrows, and his squinted eyes were gray-blue, like the sea on a storm-tossed day. His hand shot out and gripped mine, and his handshake was firm. After a moment he released my fingers (which I immediately flexed) and motioned to me to take a seat in one of the high-backed chairs that flanked his desk. He moved with some difficulty, shuffled rather than walked. He leaned heavily on a thick, ebony walking stick as he moved around the desk. Once he’d eased his thin frame into the leather chair, he leaned back and reached inside his shirt pocket for a pack of Kents, which he held out to me.

“Smoke?”

I shook my head, and he proceeded to light up. He exhaled the smoke in one long breath, watched it curl upward toward the high-beamed ceiling before turning his attention back to me again.

“So? What is it exactly you think I can do for you, Ms. Charles?”

I leaned forward a bit, not too close as the air in the small office was a bit cloying and overloaded with cigarette smoke. “It’s more like what I can do for you, Mr. Lott,” I said.

One shaggy eyebrow lifted. “I don’t understand.”

“I thought you might look upon this interview as a chance to free your conscience of any burden it might be under in the Lola Grainger matter.”

His eyes narrowed, and he barked out a short laugh. “Now, where did you get an idea like that? I’m not under any burden, Ms. Charles.”

“Are you sure?”

The ruddy cheeks got a bit ruddier. “Look, I don’t know where this is coming from, but you’re definitely barking up the wrong tree. I told the police everything just as it happened that night—I’m not hiding anything.”

I decided on a bold move. “Adrienne Sloane would disagree.”

Something flickered in the depths of those gray eyes, and then his face turned into a stone mask. His hand curled into a fist and he slammed it down hard on the desktop, enough to make the phone and pencil cup shake. “Like I told ya on the phone—I don’t know any Adrienne Sloane. If you’re here on account of something she said, well, you’re wasting your time—and mine.”

I sensed a shift in his attention, so I decided to switch gears. “I’m merely here to check the facts for my story. Make sure I have them down correctly.” I pulled my notepad and pen out of my tote and set them on the edge of the desk. “Surely you’ve no objection to that.”

He laughed mirthlessly. “Would you care if I did? Okay—” He slapped his palm against his thigh. “Let’s get on with it. What do you want to know?”

“I’d like you to reiterate the facts for me, Captain Lott, just as they happened that night.”

He took another drag on the cigarette. “You know, you can read the account in any old newspaper.”

I shifted my notepad on my knee. “I’d rather hear it firsthand. From you.”

“From me. Okay.” He ground out the cigarette then leaned back in the chair, lacing his fingers behind his neck. “Mr. and Mrs. Grainger were celebrating their fifteenth wedding anniversary. Mr. Grainger wanted to cruise out a bit, out to Pelos Island. There’s good restaurants and some shops there. He’d invited some of the people who worked for him. There were two men and his admin.”

“Had you ever met any of them before?”

“Neither of the men, but I’d seen his admin before. She’s been working for him about six months now—four at the time of the accident. She’d come aboard once or twice with papers for him to sign.” He snorted as I raised my eyebrow. “I know what you’re thinkin’, and no, they weren’t havin’ an affair. Not that she didn’t want it—but Mr. Grainger only had eyes for his wife.”

“What made you think Patti Cummings’s interest in Mr. Grainger was anything other than professional?”

He snorted. “A woman comes aboard, dressed to kill, smelling all soft and pretty like she did—they’re hopin’ for more than just contracts signed. Plus, there was the way she looked at Mr. Grainger—her eyes lit up, and she got that sappy smile on her face—heck, she had it bad. Has it bad,” he amended. “Even now, she don’t leave him alone. She’s always around now. Funny thing, too. Before the accident, he never gave her the time of day, never really looked at her. Now he’s all over her, too. It’s like a switch got thrown, or something.”

Or his wife got launched overboard
. “So they’re an item now?”

He pursed his lips. “I don’t know as I’d go that far,” he said at last. “But he’s sure showing a heckuva lot more interest in her than he ever did before.”

I nodded. “Okay, let’s continue on with what happened that day.”

“Right. Anyway, I’d done a lot of shoppin’ for the trip—laid in some filet mignons, lobster tails, champagne, the works. We were goin’ to have a real feast Sunday night—the night of their anniversary.” He paused, a catch in his throat. “We never got to that, though,” he said softly.

“Well, we spent Saturday anchored just off Pelos Island. Everyone went out in the dinghy on a shopping trip, all except Mrs. Grainger. She said she didn’t feel well—thought she might have a migraine coming on. She stayed on board the ship.”

My ears perked up with interest. “How long were the others gone?”

He stared off into space. “Lessee—they all went out in the dinghy to grab a bite of lunch and walk around—so they were gone from twelve o’clock till around three thirty.”

“You weren’t with them?”

He shook his head. “I was fixing things for dinner, plus I had some cleaning to do.”

“And Mrs. Grainger stayed in her stateroom the entire time?”

He shrugged. “I suppose. I had chores to do. I wasn’t about keepin’ tabs on her. She had a headache. When she got one of those headaches, she usually laid down and took a nap in her stateroom.” His lips puckered. “Now, she coulda been wanderin’ around the yacht, I dunno. Like I said, I had some things to do down in the hold and the galley. I had music on, so I didn’t hear anything.”

“Okay. Then the others came back at three thirty. Then what?”

“Then they headed straight for the bar. They were all feelin’ pretty good already, if you ask me. They all wanted to continue the party. Mr. Grainger asked me to mix some drinks—I make a mean margarita and Bloody Mary—and there was wine and beer all over the place.”

“Did Mrs. Grainger recover enough to join in these festivities?”

He nodded. “She came out around four thirty. She was dressed to kill, too—man, it looked as if she’d put on every piece of jewelry Mr. Grainger had ever given her. I made her a Bloody Mary and then she sat in the main cabin with the rest of ’em. They were all discussing some new work contract, but Mrs. Grainger looked pretty bored to me.”

“Kind of an odd way to spend one’s anniversary, don’t you think?”

He shrugged. “Not really. They didn’t have many friends. Mr. Grainger didn’t have any, and Mrs. Grainger might have one or two, but no one real close. They didn’t have kids, or relatives.”

“Except Mrs. Grainger’s sister,” I prompted. “And since they’d apparently been estranged for years, what did they do on holidays?”

“Spent ’em together, or else they went abroad. Sometimes Mr. Grainger would schedule business trips and they’d both go. They went to Rome last Christmas—stayed through New Year’s.”

How sad
, I thought. I could see where Lola might have wanted to reconnect to her sister. “Go on,” I said to Lott.

“Well, they all kept drinkin’ and talking shop. Around seven I called ’em all into the main dining area. We had grouper for dinner. Afterwards they all went back to the main cabin to continue drinking.”

“And this was around what time?”

“Eight o’clock.” He shifted in his chair. “They all had after-dinner drinks—that was when things started to get a little dicey.”

My ears perked up. “Dicey? In what way?”

He shifted his gaze away from mine. “Maybe dicey ain’t the right word. Uncomfortable? Awkward?”

“In what way?”

He half rose from his chair. “Look, are all these questions necessary? They won’t bring her back, ya know. Nothing will. Besides, I told all this to the police already.”

“Yes, but I’d much rather hear it firsthand from someone who was actually there, rather than have my article just be a rehash of old news.” I parted my lips, gave him my most disarming smile. “Humor me.”

“Fine.” His fingers drummed a swift tattoo against the smooth surface of the desk. “The alcohol was starting to get to ’em—all of ’em—and tempers were a mite short, shall we say? Miss Patti spilled a drink, and I thought Mrs. Grainger was gonna have a stroke—started goin’ on and on about the silk cushions. Then the topic changed to politics, and she and the shorter guy—Buck somethin’—got to arguing over the election. The others joined in, and it was pretty loud for a bit, and then I served port and dessert, and it quieted down. Ms. Patti and Buck, they excused themselves around ten thirty and went to their rooms, so’s it was just the four of us—me, Mr. and Mrs. Grainger, and the Connor guy—and Mrs. Grainger and Mr. Connor, they was having a conversation on one side of the room. Around eleven o’clock he interrupted ’em—pretty loud, too—and he told his wife that she didn’t have to overdo it—pretty much his exact words. And she says, ‘No, I don’t, but at least one of us should be honest around here. One of us shouldn’t try to be somethin’ we’re not.’ And then he says to her, ‘Just what does that mean?’ and she says, ‘You know damn well what it means,’ and then she got up and just left. Then Mr. Grainger, he and Mr. Connor talked for a few minutes, real civil-like, and then Mr. Connor went to his room—that was around eleven fifteen.”

“And Mr. Grainger? Did he retire as well?”

“No, ma’am, he had another drink. I sat with him. He raised his glass and said to me, ‘To women, Shelly. Can’t live with ’em, can’t live without ’em.’ And I agreed, naturally. And then . . .”

“And then?” I prompted as Lott fell silent.

He nibbled at his lower lip. “And then, he says, ‘Ya know, Shell, sometimes they make it damn hard to live with ’em.’” He cleared his throat. “Then he said good night and went down to his cabin. I started clearing up the glasses and plates. Next thing I know, he—Mr. Grainger—is grabbin’ my arm, and he’s all wild-eyed and nervous like. ‘Shel,’ he says to me, ‘help me. Lola’s gone.”

I stopped writing in my notebook and looked at Lott. “What time was this?”

He scrunched up his lips. “Around eleven thirty, maybe a few minutes later.”

“So at that point you and Mr. Grainger started looking for Lola?”

His eyes darted around the room, settled at a point beyond my left shoulder. “Yeah. Yeah, that’s what we did. We went all through the boat, and then Mr. Grainger noticed the dinghy was gone. Then he seemed to relax a bit. ‘That fool woman,’ he says. ‘She just took the dinghy out, probably wants to piss me off. She thinks I’ll go lookin’ for her. Well, we’ll show her,’ he says. So we waited about a half hour and she didn’t come back. So then he started to get real nervous like. He thought she was just havin’ a hissy fit, ya know? But then it was like, he realized somethin’ was wrong, very wrong. So we called the Coast Guard.”

I held up my hand. “You said this was around midnight? The news account said the Coast Guard wasn’t called until three a.m.”