Meow If It's Murder (Nick and Nora Mysteries) (23 page)

“Mr. Grainger, sorry to interrupt. Mr. Tate needs you in Conference Room A. I saw you come in here, and—”

He whirled on the girl. “Can’t you see we were having a discussion?” he blurted out.

“No matter, I was just leaving,” I said quickly, moving toward the door before Grainger could utter another word. I smiled brightly at Kristi. “Well, I need to find Mr. Marshall’s office. It’s been a real pleasure meeting you, Mr. Grainger.”

I moved past them and out into the hall before either of them could speak, thinking that now might be an excellent time to make my exit. I decided not to take a chance waiting for the elevator—just in case—and hurried over to the stairwell. I wondered briefly just why Kevin Grainger had gone into Alicia’s office in the first place, and instinctively tightened my grip on my cross-body bag and the photos I’d shoved inside. A thought had occurred to me when he’d mentioned Chicago, and I had an idea just why he seemed familiar to me, but I wasn’t one hundred percent certain.

I needed to check some things out, and the best place for what I had in mind was the Cruz Public Library. I stole a quick glance at my watch. Of course, tonight was the library’s early night.

Five thirty on the dot was like a grand exodus on Thursdays, but with any luck, I’d be able to get down there before closing time.

But I’d have to pedal like hell.

I
made it down to the Cruz Public Library with twenty minutes to spare. I propped the bicycle against the side of the massive gray granite building and quickly climbed the short flight of stone steps to the iron-bound door. The comforting smell of hundreds of thousands of musty pages greeted me as I stepped through the glass door—maybe it’s the writer in me, but I’ve always found that smell to be inspiring—and at times, oddly comforting.

Jemina Slater, who’d held the post of head librarian for as far back as I could remember, glanced up from her issue of
Woman’s Day
and frowned at me as I shoved through the door. She pushed her wire-rimmed glasses down on her beak-shaped nose and pointed at the wall clock, which read five ten.

“Sorry,” I mouthed. “But it’s important.”

She held up ten fingers, paused, then ten fingers again. I chuckled. Jemina was a creature of habit who didn’t enjoy having any routine of hers interrupted. She’d practically had a stroke when I discontinued the
Jay Leno
—baloney and mayo on rye—from Hot Bread’s menu. Tonight was her usual food shopping night, followed by a light supper of tuna casserole for her and her Yorkie, Thurston, capped by an evening of
Gray’s Anatomy
and
Scandal
. If I set her schedule off by as much as a second, I’d never hear the end of it.

“I’ll be out of here in nineteen,” I said as I passed her desk.

“
Hmpf
,” she grunted, giving her iron gray beehive hairdo a quick pat. Her stern blue gaze was icy and sharp. “See that you are.”

I tossed her a breezy smile, knowing that would infuriate her more. “Microfilm still in the same place?”

“Hasn’t changed since you were in high school.” She glanced pointedly at the clock again. “You remember how to work the machine?”

“Sure do.” With an impish grin I added, “If I forget, I’ll give you a shout.”

The stare got icier. Her hand shot out, indicating the clock. “Stop wasting time. You’re down to seventeen minutes,” she hissed.

*   *   *

I
descended the marble steps to the even mustier-smelling basement, which housed the newspaper morgue, the computer lab, and the microfilm machines. I went over to the bins that housed the microfilm itself, found the one for the
Cruz Sun
, and picked over half the contents before I found the reel with the date I wanted. I carried it over to one of the machines and turned the reader button on. I lifted the glass plate, inserted the reel of microfilm onto the left spindle, and proceeded to thread the film under the small rollers then under the plate and onto the right-sided rollers and onto the empty film spool. As I worked, I couldn’t resist a chuckle. What memories this brought back!

I closed the glass plate and used the manual knob on the front of the machine to advance the film. Another button in the middle aided me in getting the picture into sharp focus. I went through about half of the reel before the story I wanted appeared on the screen:

Man Survives Car Crash

The story went on to detail how Lott had gone over the guardrail, barely made it to safety, and been rescued. Two photos accompanied the short article. One showed the smashed guardrail and a downward shot of the steep ravine. The outline of the wreckage was barely visible. Two men in white coats wheeled a still figure toward a waiting ambulance. I wondered how anyone could survive a crash like that and yet he had. It seemed nothing short of a miracle.

The other photo was of Lott himself. The caption indicated it had been taken about a week before the accident. It was a fairly close shot, and showed him beside the scrimshaw case proudly pointing to the middle shelf, to the figures I’d noticed on my initial visit—the grouping of animals, the money clip with the clipper ship. The shock of thick gray hair looked the same as the Shelly Lott I’d met, but the man in this photograph was clean-shaven, no thick growth of beard concealing the lower portion of his face. I attributed his bushy addition as an attempt to conceal skin that had been badly burned. Too bad, because Lott had an attractive dimple right in the center of his chin, à la Kirk Douglas. The caption below the photo read:
Lott with his pride and joy: Scrimshaw
.

I pored over the photo. Nope. What I was looking for wasn’t there.

I checked the side of the machine and was relieved to see it did have a printer function. I quickly ran off a copy of the article, then rewound the reel and carefully took it off the spindle. I crossed back over, replaced it in its box, and then moved over to the bank of computers. I typed in the address for a site I’d often used as a research tool—PapersPast.com, and went immediately to the
Chicago Herald
, then typed in “Mickey Gianelli—photos.”

Almost immediately the screen filled with images—and according to the legend at the bottom, there were thirty-seven pages more.

A sharp rap made me look up. Jemina was standing about ten feet away. She waved her wrist back and forth in the air like a flag, and pointed to her watch. “You’ve got six minutes,” she said flatly.

I groaned. No way could I get what I wanted in six minutes. “I need a little more time,” I said. “But I hate to make you late. You could leave the key—I’ll make sure I lock up after me, I promise.”

She folded her arms across her chest and regarded me over the rims of her glasses. “Like you did that time before the SATs?”

I flushed. “I’m a lot older and wiser now, Jemina.”

“Older maybe. Wiser—jury’s still out.” She shook her head and turned to go back up the stairs. “I can give you an extra ten minutes—that’s it. Then I lock up, and if you’re not done, well—you can spend the night.”

“Ten minutes. Great.” I was already pulling up page three of images. “I’ll only need eight—I hope.”

On the twentieth page I found what I was looking for. It was a duplicate of the photo I had in my bag, only this time there was a caption accompanying it:
Mickey Gianelli with one of his right-hand men, Carlo Wyatt.

Ah, good. Now I could put a name to the face. I printed out a copy of this photo, too, then turned back to the machine. I had one more item to check, and I crossed my fingers. With any luck, I’d find it within the next seven minutes.

I switched off the computer, stuffed the other articles back in my bag, and hurried up the stairway. As I reached the top, I glanced at my digital watch: five thirty-nine.

I held my wrist up as I sailed past Jemina’s desk. “See—I’m early.”

“
Hmpf
,” she grunted. “That’s a matter of opinion.”

As I mounted my bicycle, I debated my options: (A) I could go home and discuss my findings with my silent partner, Nick, and maybe Chantal; (B) I could go to the police station and try to discuss my findings with Daniel, if he were so inclined to listen; or (C) I could go to the Poker Face, have a drink, review my own findings, and try and figure out my next move all on my own.

Lance made a great appletini; I opted for Plan C.

*   *   *

T
he Poker Face
resided about five blocks away from Hot Bread, hunkered near City Hall and the high school. It had been an old fire station that the original owner had converted into a bar. When Lance and Phil had taken over, they’d made some additions: a jukebox, a stage for a band that was used mostly for karaoke on Monday nights (and bad karaoke, at that), and restrooms of questionable variety. A large, cherrywood bar took up most of the room, but there were a few tables scattered about, in case anyone wanted to sit and partake of the few selections on the sparse menu—hamburger, cheeseburger, plain garden salad, bland turkey club, and a varied selection of fries. Lance was smart enough to know that while he might be a king in the liquor and drink area, when it came to food, he had the sense to defer to those who knew what they were doing—namely
moi
.

I entered and cast a casual glance around. Lance stood behind the bar, wiping off a glass. He saw me, smiled, and waved. A man in a suit sat hunched over a tall glass at a small table in the rear near the jukebox, his back to me. Two other guys in sweatpants and ragged T-shirts sat at the bar, large frosted mugs of beer in front of them, their eyes glued to the forty-two-inch flat-screen TV above the bar. Some sort of sports event was on; I wasn’t quite sure just what, since I am not a sports aficionado. It looked like some sort of game men played in their shorts—soccer came to mind.

I slid onto one of the stools and almost immediately Lance came over. He slung his towel over one shoulder and placed first a tiny square of a napkin and then a large martini glass with a decorative apple-slice garnish in front of me.

My fingers closed around the glass’s stem. “How did you know?”

His laugh was easy. “That an appletini’s your favorite drink? Heck, you’ve loved ’em ever since high school. Plus the way you slurped ’em down the first time you were in here since you came back was a great clue.”

I lifted the glass to my lips, took a sip. One thing, Lance surely wasn’t stingy with his vodka. “I only had two the last time.”

He tossed me a wink. “Sweetheart, it’s not the quantity, it’s the quality.”

“Well, if you make all of your drinks as powerful as this, I don’t see how you can possibly turn a profit.”

He leaned in a bit closer to me. “Yours are special,” he whispered.

I took another sip. “You make a mean appletini.”

“If you think that’s good, you should try my lemon drop.” He made little kissing noises with his lips. “I’m known far and wide for my lemon drop.”

“I may take you up on that.”

He rested both his elbows on the counter. “What’s up, Nora? You don’t usually come in alone and sit at the bar. Got troubles at the shop? Got man troubles?” Lance put his finger up to his ear and wiggled it back and forth. “I’m a great listener. That’s why I’m such a good bartender.”

I toyed with the stem of my glass and slid him a smile. “It’s a few things, all rolled into one. I just needed some downtime. Time to think, sort things out.”

He nodded. “I hear ya. You picked a good night, too. Slow as molasses. Although”—he pointed to the table in the rear—“those two have been here since three o’clock. One’s on his fifth glass of club soda, the other on his fourth Coke. Good thing they both ordered the club sandwich, or I might have to call them a cab.”

I leaned across the bar, swatted him on his arm. “Very funny.”

He tapped his forefinger on the bar. “I’d do the same for you. If you’re planning on tying one on, you can just hand over your car keys now.”

“As a matter of fact, I didn’t drive.”

He frowned. “You walked?”

“Bicycled.”

He wiggled his eyebrow. “Well—this is a new side of you. Are you striving to keep gas prices down by alternating your modes of transportation, or just channeling Jessica Fletcher?”

“Actually, it’s complicated.”

His hand shot up. “No, don’t tell me. Something tells me I’m better off not knowing all the sordid details.”

I raised my glass. “You’re probably right.”

One of the men at the other end of the bar waved his hand and held up his empty mug. Lance tossed me an apologetic look and moved away. I picked up my glass and turned so that I had a good look at the bar’s interior as I sipped my drink. The man seated at the rear table turned his head, affording me a clear view of his profile, and I started as I recognized Marshall Connor. He pulled a cell phone from his pocket and started talking into it. I quickly slid off my stool and wandered over toward the jukebox. I stood, pretending to study the listing of songs, as I strained to hear what he was saying.

“Well, Kevin will be away indefinitely, so I’ll be in charge of that now, not Buck. No, no, that contract can go forth as planned. What? What catering contract? Oh, yes, the one Patti drew up—what’s that? She came in, but never picked it up? Well, that is odd . . . go on ahead and mail it out.”

Ah, yes. I’d been in such a hurry to get to the library, I’d forgotten all about my original mission. As Marshall Connor laid his phone back on the table, I turned around and stepped right over to his table. I tapped him on the shoulder, and his head jerked up immediately, his sharp eyes raking me over head to toe.

“Yes? Is there something I can do for you?”

“I’m sorry to bother you, Mr. Connor.” I held out my hand. “I’m Nora Charles—the owner of Hot Bread. I was at KMG earlier today.”

He stared at me blankly, and then his expression cleared. “Oh, yes. My admin just mentioned you. You were supposed to pick up a contract.”

“Yes, sir. May I?” I indicated the empty seat with a wave of my hand. He hesitated, so I slid into the seat before he could protest. “I won’t be long. I just wanted to explain about the contract.”

He hesitated, then nodded. “Go ahead.”

“I did intend to pick it up, and I actually did speak to Mr. Grainger about making an appointment with you to talk about the possibility of our catering future events.”

Connor’s brows knit together. “Kevin saw you?” His tone clearly implied he found that to be incredulous—I wasn’t quite sure if I should feel insulted or not.