Meow If It's Murder (Nick and Nora Mysteries) (16 page)

Nick turned and, tail held high, marched straight to my SUV. He squatted down beside the passenger door and stared at me as if to say, “Get a move on, human. We’ve got things to do.”

I sighed. “Okay,” I said. I unlocked the car, then walked around to the passenger side and swung the door open. “You can go with me. But you’re staying in the car—no arguments.”

Nick drew back his lips to show his sharp teeth and hissed.

“I said no arguing, dammit.”

Another hiss, louder. He jumped onto the passenger seat in one fluid motion, paw scraping against the soft leather.

I got in, slipped the SUV into reverse, and started to back out of the driveway, conscious of his golden gaze boring into me. I stole a sidelong glance. His eyes were slits, his lip curled on one side. If ever a cat could look pissed, Nick was the epitome of it right now.

“Determined, aren’t you? Okay, okay, you win. I’ll think about it,” I mumbled. “If you’re good, then maybe I’ll let you accompany me onto the boat.”

No hiss, but a slight
grr
emanated from between his lips. I could almost envision two horns sprouting up in place of his ears, and that black plume of a tail morphing into a pitchfork. Chantal was right—today Nick had definitely become one devil cat.

“Fine. You can come with me. But you stick close, y’hear?”

“
Er-up.
” That little stinker blinked twice, turned around in a circle, then lay down on the seat and promptly closed his eyes, the corners of his lips tipped up in an almost human expression of triumph.

Oh, sure. He knew I’d give in. How could I not? If I were to be entirely truthful with myself, I was glad to have someone else along on this quest—even if my companion was of the four-footed variety.

D
usk was settling in as I parked my SUV near the marina. Nick, curled up in a ball on the backseat, jerked to attention as I shut the motor off. I got out and walked around to the passenger side and opened the door. He stretched his forepaws, then hopped out, landing in a furry ball at my feet. I cast a rueful glance at my dinged rear fender as I locked the car and then started toward the pier, Nick trotting right along beside me. Midway down I halted and pulled a slip of paper from my sweater pocket.

“Pier nine, pier nine.” I gave a quick glance around. “How do I find pier nine? There are no numbers on these things. Must one be psychic, like Chantal?”

Nick regarded me for a moment, his head cocked to one side. Then he ambled over to one of the slips and squatted over to one side.

“What, tired already? Come on—help me find pier nine.”

When he made no move to get up, I moved closer. As I approached him, he sprang up, and I saw what his body had covered—the numbers were posted off to the side of the slips, not in the middle. I’d been looking in the wrong spot—how helpful of Nick to show me the error of my ways.

“Well, thanks,” I said to him.

“
Er-ul
,” he trilled, whiskers tipping up just a tad.

“Yes, I can tell you’re pleased with yourself. Maybe Chantal’s not that far off the mark. Maybe you are psychic,” I said. “Or psycho.”

His whiskers twitched, and he fell into step beside me as I continued on down the line. We passed pier thirteen—twelve to the right, and then suddenly nine loomed in front of me. My eyes widened at the sight of the sleek boat that was the size of a small airplane. Sure enough, the name
Lady L
was emblazoned in scarlet script along its side. A slight breeze sprang up, and I wrapped my thin cardigan more tightly around my shoulders. Even though it was early April, the temperature was barely sixty degrees—colder than usual for this time of year in Southern California. We approached the boat, and I saw the gangplank was down—an invitation to board. I shivered involuntarily. It was quiet—almost too quiet.

Nick must have sensed it, too, because he pawed at my legs.

We stepped onto the deck and Nick turned around in a circle, head lifted. I felt a chill steal through my entire body, and I squared my shoulders. “Well, if this were a
Thin Man
movie,” I said to Nick, “the first thing we’d find here would be Lott’s body, staring sightlessly into space.” I took a quick glance around. “We’re okay so far. No body.”

Yet, I added silently.

The boat was pitch-dark; apparently Lott had been afraid to put on a light. Good thing I’d come prepared. I dug into my other pocket for my mini-flashlight, courtesy of the good people at QVC, and switched it on. A bright circle of light cut into the blackness. “Captain Lott,” I called, my voice just above a stage whisper. “Captain Lott, it’s Nora Charles. I’m here and I’m alone, as you requested. Where are you?”

The yacht was silent—deadly silent.

At my feet, Nick let out a little bleat. “Yeah, Nick. I know. I don’t have a good feeling about this, either,” I muttered. I moved forward, my eyes darting to and fro, looking for some movement, a shadow, anything—some assurance that another living person was aboard the vessel.

“Captain Lott,” I called again, a bit more loudly this time. “Are you here? It’s Nora Charles. I’m here, and alone, as you requested.”

Suddenly I stopped still. Had I imagined it, or had I just heard the faintest sound—a creak, like an unoiled door closing ever so softly? I turned in that direction, then jumped at the sensation of needles digging into my calf and looked down to see Nick, his claw clamped firmly around my leg, as if imploring me to go no farther.

I hesitated, then raised my voice again. “Captain Lott? Are you here?”

My gut told me I’d get no answer, and it was correct. Nothing greeted us but utter and complete silence, so thick you could cut it with a knife.

I shook my leg free of Nick’s clawing grasp and moved slowly forward. I felt along the wall and my fingers found a light switch. I flicked it on and immediately the cabin was lit in a soft glow. Off to my right was what appeared to be the main cabin. It was decorated in soft blue, the furniture fine leather, the rug a thick, plush pile. It looked comfortable—homey, as if a woman’s fine hand had decorated. The breeze off the water wafted through the cabin, eerily quiet except for Nick’s ragged breathing and the sound of the waves lapping against the yacht’s side.

I shut off my flashlight, stuffed it back in my pocket, and proceeded slowly down the long corridor. There were doors on each side of the walkway—I assumed these led to the individual staterooms. I walked to the first one, turned the knob. The door swung inward at my touch.

The bedroom was elegantly appointed, a king-size bed commandeered a good portion of the room, its navy quilted comforter drawn back to reveal satin sheets in a soft teal blue. The furniture seemed to be of good quality—oak, if I wasn’t mistaken. There was one end table and a long dresser with an ornate mirror positioned against the far wall. The other boasted a large armoire on which rested a flat-screen television and a Bose sound system.

I wondered if all the rooms were so lush. Most likely they would be. Apparently nothing was too good for Grainger’s guests.

Nick’s claws dug into my ankle again, and I let out a little yelp of pain. “Will you stop that?” I pushed at his rotund fanny with the toe of my shoe. “Come on—we’ve lots more to explore. He’s got to be around somewhere.”

No one was more surprised at my sudden bravado than me. Any fear I felt was overshadowed by my niggling sense of curiosity. Where in hell was Lott? He’d sounded desperate enough on the phone. Had something happened? Had someone else come to the yacht, maybe scared him away?

Lord, I hoped that was the reason he wasn’t answering and not . . . something else.

I opened the door to the next room, and my breath caught in my throat. She was lying faceup, spread-eagled across the slick satin sheets, arms flung out in a gesture of helplessness, one perfect bullet hole in the middle of her forehead, and another gone through her chest, judging from the big red stain in the center of her blouse. My feet took me forward, like a somnambulist caught in a dream, overcome by the shock of my discovery. My aforementioned luck had run out.

In death, Patti Simmons’s eyes didn’t appear as blue as the deep blue sea. Instead they were mere slits, glassy like hardened marbles. Her lips were twisted in a grimace: Shock? Surprise? My gaze went to her forehead and that perfect, round bloodied hole. Long-buried memories forced their way into the forefront of my brain. I’d seen killings like this before, way back when I’d first started writing crime stories in Chicago. They hadn’t been pretty then, either.

“Execution,” I murmured. “It looks like a murder, execution style.” I continued to stare, my eyes riveted in fascination to the bullet hole. “What in hell is she doing here anyway?” I paused as a sudden thought came to me.

Had Patti been the person who’d gotten under Lott’s skin—whom he seemed to be afraid of? Had Lott shot her? Was that the reason he’d vanished?

Or was yet another person responsible?

Nick’s ears suddenly perked straight up. He cocked his head to one side, as if listening to something, and then began to frantically paw the air in front of him. His claws dipped down, clamped firmly in the hem of my skirt, and he gave a little tug.

His meaning was obvious—he wanted me to leave, which was, no doubt, the prudent thing to do.

But I wasn’t quite ready to do that. Call it leftover investigative reporter syndrome, but there was more to be learned from studying the scene here; I’d bet every sandwich in my shop on it. I shook myself free of him, no easy feat—this cat was strong with a capital S. I finally managed to disengage his claw and I looked down at him. His eyes were wide, and if I didn’t know better, I could swear they held a hint of panic. I felt compelled to bend down and give his head a reassuring pat. He meowed plaintively and I could feel a tremor rock his furry body as he pressed himself against my ankles.

“Okay, Nick. We’ll go. Just give me a minute, buddy, okay?”

I moved closer to the bed and stared down at Patti. Nick hopped up on the dresser next to the bed, tail bristling, swishing impatiently to and fro. I pointed. “Look at her hand. Doesn’t it seem like she’s pointing to something?”

“
Er-ow!
” Nick answered. He twisted his head toward the doorway.

“Yes, yes, we’ll go. I just need a minute more.”

I followed the line of her finger. There was a small chest in one corner of the room. I moved over to inspect it. It was medium-size, made of elegant carved wood. There were brass handles on either side. I grasped the handles and pulled. The chest was lighter than I’d expected. As I turned, something caught my eye. I set the chest back down and moved to the spot where it had previously stood.

“Look at this floorboard,” I said to Nick. “The edge is slightly raised.”

I bent over, gave it a tug. The floorboard jerked upward, and I caught a flash of yellow inside a small hole in the floor. I bent down and pulled out an eight-by-ten manila envelope.

“Well, well. Maybe we finally got lucky.” I turned the envelope over in my hand. Could this be what Lott said Lola had hidden? What he thought an intruder had been searching for?

I sucked in my breath and resisted the impulse to tear it open right then and there. Best to get off the boat and back home first. I’d see what was inside, and then decide whether or not to call Daniel. Maybe not the wisest course of action, considering, but—it was the one I’d decided to take.

Suddenly Nick let out a “
meow
” and dived right at me. His teeth bared, he clamped them right into the envelope. Startled, I loosened my grip and he jerked it out of my hand in one movement. He vanished underneath the bed, claws clicking against the polished hardwood floor.

“Nick,” I muttered. “What the hell—”

“
Meow
,” came from the depths underneath the bed. “
Ffft.
”

“Nick, dammit. What’s wrong? What do you sense?”

I leaned over and raised the sheet. Nick cowered in the corner, the envelope clamped securely underneath his paws.

“Nick,” I said sternly. “Get out here right now. Give me that envelope.”

He drew back his lips and hissed.

“Hey! What did I tell you about attitude, mister?”

My hand snaked underneath the bed toward the envelope. Nick pushed it farther underneath himself, hissed again, and took a swipe at me with one paw. I pulled my hand back just in time to avoid getting a nasty scratch.

“What is wrong with you?” I cried. Good God, maybe he really was possessed. I could think of no other reason why this formerly docile cat would suddenly turn into a mini-tiger. I stared at him, half-expecting to see horns sprout up on his forehead at any second.

“I’m going to get that envelope, Nick. Scratch me and you’ll pay for it, I warn you. No steak, no chicken, none of Hot Bread’s lunch leftovers for a week. Just canned Purina, how do you like that, you spoiled little brat?” I lifted the edge of the sheet and had just started to inch my arm toward Nick again when the door to the stateroom was kicked open. I snapped my arm back and turned around, my jaw dropping at what I saw.

Two police officers stood framed in the doorway, guns drawn—and pointed right at me.

“Hands up, lady,” one of them said.

Startled, I raised both arms slowly. “Officers, you’re making a mistake. This isn’t what it looks like . . . I can explain.”

The taller of the two shot me a look that clearly indicated he wasn’t buying what I was trying to sell. “You can tell your story at headquarters,” he barked. “Right now you’re under arrest. You have the right to remain silent . . .”