Meow If It's Murder (Nick and Nora Mysteries) (19 page)

“Y
ou look horrible. Didn’t you get any sleep last night?”

I frowned across the counter at Chantal. It was just past nine o’clock, and the worst of the breakfast rush was over. Chantal had bustled in at eight thirty and helped me with my last few customers—a gesture I greatly appreciated, since I was truly running on empty. I’d spent most of what was left of the night tossing and turning, trying to make sense of everything I’d learned and not having much success at all.

I swiped the back of my hand across my forehead and offered my friend a thin smile. “A little. It was a rough night.”

“That good, eh?” She shot me a wiseass grin. “Might I ask if the good detective had anything to do with it?”

“He did, in a sense. I spent a good part of the night down at headquarters.”

Chantal’s eyebrows rose. “Headquarters. Rather an odd choice for a first date, no?”

“It wasn’t a date. That’s generally where they take you when they find you standing over a dead body.”

“Dead body?” she squeaked. “You’ve got to be kidding.”

“Sadly, no.”

I hit the highlights, detailing my quest for justice on Lola’s behalf, my interviews with Corleone, Lott, and Patti, Lott’s mysterious phone call and finding Patti’s dead body. I omitted, of course, my midnight sojourn with Ollie, and the fact that Nick had been the one to hide the cell phone and envelope with its packet of photographs and ring. I also mentioned the possibility that Alicia Samuels and Adrienne Sloane could be one and the same, despite the fact that Adrienne Sloane was supposed to have died two years earlier. The story sounded even more fantastic as I went through it step-by-step, and when I’d finished, I couldn’t begrudge the look of utter incredulity on Chantal’s face.

“Well—it certainly is a puzzler,” she said at last. Abruptly she thrust out her hand. “Do you have the photos and ring handy?”

I nodded and motioned for her to follow me into the back room. She took a seat at the table, and I brought out the envelope from its hiding place. I handed it to her, and she took it, turned it over in her hand. She opened the envelope and spilled the contents onto the table. Her eyes lit up as she saw the ring. She picked it up, turning it over in her hand.

“Good workmanship,” she said. She ran her nail along the edge of the helmet. “This is beautifully done. Did you know that in the thirteenth century they called the helmet a bascinet?”

“Not to be confused with what you put a baby in, right?”

Chantal laughed. “Right.” She held the ring up to the light. “I’ll bet I could duplicate this—maybe even make a pin out of the cameo. I would love to make a copy. Would you mind if I borrowed it?”

I reached out and plucked it from her outstretched hand. “Sorry. I’d better not loan it out. Technically, it’s evidence. Evidence of just what, I’m not sure yet, but—it was taken from the crime scene. If Detective Corleone knew I had this, he’d probably lock me up and throw away the key.”

“Then I’ll just take a few minutes now to draw it, if you don’t mind.” She was already reaching into her tote bag for the sketchpad and pencils she kept in there. “I can visualize how grand this would look—I could do multicolored plumes, and maybe a matching necklace of aurora borealis . . .”

I couldn’t imagine who might want a pin of a knight’s helmet, but I knew that Chantal often went to Renaissance fairs, where there might indeed be interest in such a piece. “Knock yourself out.”

I busied myself cleaning up and making things ready for the impending lunch crowd as Chantal worked. After about twenty minutes, she had a few sketches she seemed satisfied with.

“What else was in the envelope?” she asked.

I showed her the photographs. She studied them, her face impassive. I could tell from the way she handled them, and the way she ran her finger across each and every one, that she was trying to pick up some sort of psychic impression. Normally I pooh-pooh her efforts because I’ve never really believed in that sort of thing, but at this point I was willing to take any help I could get.

Finally she looked at me. “There is a connection,” she said. “I can sense it.”

“Between Patti and Alicia—or Adrienne, whoever she is?”

Chantal nodded. She picked up the photograph of Karl Goring. “And between them and this boy. The feeling is very strong.” She flipped the photograph over. “When someone wishes something to stay hidden, there are ways. I see a cloudy white aura around all of them. That can indicate denial or a cover-up. Maybe you should start there?”

“Cover-up might actually make sense.” I glanced at the clock. “I placed a call to my Chicago contact early this morning. I’m hoping he might be able to supply some of these answers.”

She reached out, grabbed my hand. “Just be careful,
chérie.
I can see flashes of black around you—a sure indication of involvement in issues relating to hatred or death. There is also something else.” Her fingers slashed a capital D in the air in front of my face. “Danger,
chérie
. It is all around you. Oh, my!” Her hand shot out and her fingers twined around mine and squeezed. Hard. “This is the dangerous mission my friend warned you about. You must use extreme caution.”

I smiled thinly. I’d always taken Chantal’s predictions at face value, but this somehow gave me the willies. “I’ll be on my guard, believe me.”

Her eyes were dark with concern. “Promise?”

“Cross my heart and hope to—you know what I mean.”

She nibbled at her lower lip. “I guess I should not worry. After all, you are in good hands.”

I gave Nick a quick sidelong glance. “You mean paws?” I chuckled.

She gave me a swat on the arm. “Not Nicky, silly. Your King of Swords, the yummy detective you refuse to admit you like. Never fear. He will come to your rescue.”

I bit out a chuckle. I had dismissed her prediction about Daniel. “My King of Swords would probably like to put one through me if he knew just how involved I am in this.” I pushed the heel of my hand through my hair and sat down next to her. “We almost had a date the other night.”

Chantal’s eyes gleamed. “Really! Oh, I knew it the minute I saw him. You are perfect for each other.”

“Yeah, well, don’t get too happy. We never had the date. And now my finding the dead body has put a definite damper on our relationship.”

She gave my hand another squeeze. “Don’t worry—it will all work out. The cards never lie.”

“It’s too bad the cards can’t tell me who killed Lola and Patti.” I sighed. “Or if Adrienne is dead or alive.”

“You will figure it out.” Chantal nodded. “Just like your favorite detective Nick Charles—which reminds me, where is our Nick? I have some new collars for him to try.”

I felt something furry and warm brush against my ankles. I lifted the edge of the tablecloth and bent over. Nick hunkered near the wall, paws tucked under him, eyes blinking. His posture practically screamed,
Hide me! Please!

Chantal leaned down. Nick lumbered up and tried to move away, but Chantal reached underneath the table, grabbed him by his ruff, and pulled him out. The ease with which she hefted him onto her lap amazed me. Nick squatted there, his girth taking up the entire space.

“Nicky,” she crooned. “You bad boy, hiding from me. And here I thought we were doing so well!”

Nick blinked, and said nothing. But the look he slid me spoke volumes.

“Well, I forgive you,” Chantal went on. “After all, you probably have better things to do than model for me, right? Like catch some mice maybe? Or some flies? Find a sweet little calico to spend time with?” She pulled her tote bag over and reached inside. “Still, I have a present for you. I think you will like this one—ah, here it is.”

Chantal held up a dark navy blue collar. Emblazoned across it the name
NICK
stood out in light blue stones. She looked at me anxiously. “I know you said clear stones, but they did not show up well on the navy material. Besides, blue is for boys, no?”

My gaze was fixated on the tiny object positioned just above the
K
in
NICK
. “Is that a gun?” I asked.

Chantal nodded. “I get the strangest impressions when I touch him—I see trench coats and guns, like he is a little detective himself, you know? So I put this on the collar for him. It is like his own personal symbol. Nicky can be your detective partner, Nora.”

She leaned over and slipped the collar around Nick’s neck. I had to admit, it looked pretty sharp. For his part, Nick raised his paw and started to scratch at the offending material.

“Ooh, I guess I made it too small.” Chantal reached over and removed the collar. “I’ll make it a little bigger. I thought I measured correctly—Nicky, have you gained weight?” She gave him a stern look.

Nick jumped off my lap and headed straight for his food bowl.

Enough said.

*   *   *

I
t was one o’clock, and the bulk of the lunch rush was over for the day. I pulled off my apron and headed straight for my computer. Nick was curled up in a ball, snoring loudly by the stove. Oddly, I found the sound comforting. I searched Google Images for Lola Grainger and her sister Adrienne, then hit Enter.

Three images appeared. I clicked on the first one. It was a picture taken many years before, when the girls were barely ten. Pretty young things, but no way to tell from that if Alicia Samuels was indeed Adrienne Sloane.

I moved on to the next one. This was an APA newswire photo, and it showed Lola Grainger walking beside a closed casket. I increased the size so I could read the minuscule printing below the photo.

Socialite Lola Grainger leaves the Metropolitan Correctional Center with the body of her deceased sister.

No name was given. If Nick Atkins had run across this while checking out Adrienne, it wouldn’t have proven anything. After all, there could have been yet another sister.

Well, nothing to be learned from that photo. I clicked on the last one. This one looked to be a candid shot of a much younger Lola; I’d put her age at around twenty or twenty-one. She was walking with another girl, whose face was partially in shadow. The caption below it read,
Lola Grainger and sister before the tragedy
—the tragedy, no doubt, being the sisters’ separation and Adrienne’s incarceration. There was no photography credit given. I frowned as I studied it. The girl had the same long red-brown hair as Alicia Samuels, and her face was the same shape, but it was impossible to make a definite identification from that photo, either. It could be Alicia—or not.

I sighed. I was still no further along in proving whether or not Alicia Samuels and Adrienne Sloane were one and the same person. Maybe I should take a different approach.

I went back to the main page and typed in “Karl Goring.” Three sites came up. The first was a Dr. Karl Goring accepting an award. The guy lived in Minnesota and was sixty-three. Not likely. The second Karl Goring was a twenty-something vet out of Arizona. I clicked on the last site.

It was an obituary for a Karl Goring, seventeen years old, who’d died in a car crash twenty-five years earlier. No photo. He’d lived on the outskirts of Chicago.

The bell over the shop door tinkled, heralding the arrival of a customer. I minimized the screen, then grabbed my apron and hurried out front. “Hello, can I help you? We have clam chowder today and—” The rest of my little speech died right there, on my lips.

Daniel Corleone stood there, and he didn’t look happy. Not at all.

“Hello, Nora,” he said.

“Detective Corleone—what a nice surprise. Did you come for lunch? As I started to say, today we have clam chowder, and—”

He held up his hand. “No, thanks. I’ve already eaten. I came to see you.”

“Really? Well, I’m flattered.”

He moved over to the counter and eased one hip against it. I had to admit, the man looked good. Today he had on a gray jacket, a dress shirt, and a blue-striped tie. The suit and shirt looked to be expensive, and that tie had to be silk. I wondered how he could afford such nice clothes on a detective’s salary. I wasn’t sure how much the Cruz force paid, but I was pretty positive Brooks Brothers suits would be a luxury. He looked me straight in the eye. “A little birdie tells me that you’re still digging into the Lola Grainger case—I thought you were going to cease working on that story.”

My eyes narrowed. “We were supposed to have a discussion, if you’ll recall. And I never said I’d cease working on the story—just that I wouldn’t turn it in to be published until you and I talked. And I haven’t, so . . . where’s the problem?”

His expression darkened. “I don’t think you appreciate the seriousness of this situation, Nora. This is not something that you should be involved in.”

“Why not? Is there something you’re afraid I’ll find out?”

“Are you really just writing an article? Or is there something more to all this?”

I thrust my lower lip out. “Don’t be ridiculous. What more could there be?”

He leaned all the way across the counter so that his nose was almost level with mine. “I don’t think you realize just how much trouble this investigation of yours can land you in.”