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

by T. C. LoTempio

  The cat’s head lifted, bobbed up and down. “Meowwwwww.”

  I started, then shook my head. “Come on Chantal, I haven’t got time for this. Admit it—this is one of your practical jokes, right?”

  Her chin lifted. “Do not insult me, chérie. I would have selected a purebred. A Siamese or a Persian.”

  “Grrr.”

  We both turned. The cat was up on his haunches, upper lip peeled back displaying a good amount of fang, wide golden eyes trained straight on Chantal.

  I slid my friend a glance. “Now you’ve insulted him.” I slapped my forehead with my palm. “Good God, what am I saying?”

  Chantal moved over to the cat, bent down, and scratched him under the chin. “Ah, handsome, do not take any of this personally. I did not mean to insult you. You are obviously a stray of great quality. Play your cards right, and I shall make you a beautiful jeweled collar for your neck.” She snapped her fingers. “Say, you know, that’s not a half-bad idea. Collars for cats and dogs. People love to pamper their pets, right, handsome?”

  The cat’s growling turned into a satisfied purr as Chantal continued to stroke his chin. I shook my head.

  “Chalk up another male who’s succumbed to your charms.” Guys had always found her appealing, and apparently the cat was no exception.

  “What can I say? Men of all types adore me.” She rubbed her fingers across the cat’s head. “Oh, come on, Nora. Look at him. He’s so adorable—how can you possibly turn him out?”

  The cat flopped on his side and lay looking up at me, his golden eyes wide. I sighed and threw both hands in the air. If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s not to fight city hall. Or a cute kitty.

  “Fine. I’ll keep him until I can locate his owner. I’ll make some inquiries tomorrow.”

  “Good.” Her eyes twinkled. “You could name him Nick, you know, after those movies you love so much?” She cocked her head to one side. “He even looks like a Nick, don’t you think?”

  The cat purred louder, as if in agreement. I felt definitely tempted, but shook my head.

  “Hmm. I’m not sure about naming him. That’s too much of a commitment.”

  “So you say—now,” Chantal chuckled. “But I have a feeling this could be the beginning of a beautiful friendship.”

  I cut her an eye roll. “I do so hate it when you quote Casablanca—or any classic movie, for that matter.”

  Chantal blew me a kiss, and then she was gone, leaving us alone. The cat jumped from the front counter to the rear one, and it only took me a minute to figure out why—he’d smelled the leftover tuna from today’s special. I could hear slurping sounds as he pushed his face hungrily into the bowl.

  In spite of myself, I had to admit he was cute—but cute enough for me to abandon my resolve of “no pets”? Well, maybe, especially if he earned his keep. Even though I greatly doubted there were mice in the storeroom now, it was a well-known fact that the scent of a cat often kept the rodents at bay. “You’d be cheaper than the exterminator,” I murmured, and I moved closer to him, reached out my hand, and stroked his black fur. It felt soft and . . . nice. The cat raised his head, leaned back, and bumped it against my hand. I scratched him behind his ears and he purred, his whiskers streaked with flecks of tuna.

  “I’d like to help you out and give you a home, Ni—cat,” I corrected, my hand absently stroking up and down his back, “but to be perfectly honest, I’m terrible with pets. Aside from the whole chameleon incident, I just don’t have the patience. I’m not even good around other people sometimes.” I paused, and then added, “But you can finish the tuna. You must be hungry.”

  He stopped purring and stared at me, gold eyes unblinking. At length he turned back and buried his head in the tuna bowl again. I sighed, locked the door, and switched the sign from OPEN to CLOSED and returned to the kitchen, where I pulled my laptop out from under one of the cabinets. I carried it over to the table near the kitchen entrance, settled myself comfortably, and called up the file I’d started on Lola Grainger. I opened the document labeled ORIGINAL ACCOUNT and followed the link to the Cruz Sun story:

  SOCIETY MATRON FOUND DROWNED

  Cruz, Calif—The body of socialite Lola Grainger was found floating Monday morning in a shallow lagoon off the Cruz coastline. County lifeguards and sheriff’s deputies said Mrs. Grainger, 47, drowned accidentally. The Graingers were on a weekend cruise with friends and members of Mr. Grainger’s staff, celebrating their fifteenth wedding anniversary. According to witnesses, Mrs. Grainger had been drinking rather heavily and was thought to have gone to bed. It is suspected that she got up in the middle of the night, slipped, and fell in. Her body, clad in sweats and a down vest, was found floating in the cove waters around 5 a.m. Her husband identified her body and is unavailable for comment.

  I jumped as something soft wound itself around my legs. I looked down. The cat was stretched comfortably out at my feet. I bent over and lifted him onto my lap. God, he was heavy!

  “You must weigh twenty pounds at least. Probably more. I guess a lot of people take pity on you and feed you, eh? If you did live here, I’d have to put you on a diet. If you’re too fat, you won’t be able to catch any mice.”

  The cat opened his mouth in a wide, unlovely yawn. I caught a whiff of his breath and set him back on the floor. He pinned me with another golden gaze and jumped back on my lap in one fluid motion. Rearing up, he raised one white paw, placed it on my shoulder, and swatted at a stray curl. I tucked the strand behind my ear and ran my hand along his soft fur.

  “Okay, okay,” I murmured, letting my fingers tangle in the cat’s ruff. “You win. We’ll do as Chantal suggested, a trial thing—test each other out, see how we get along. And if things work out . . . but I’m not making any promises, okay, Ni—ah, cat?”

  His mouth opened, almost as if he were going to answer me. And at that moment the phone rang. I reached over, shut off my laptop, and then got up, unceremoniously dumping him from my lap, and went over to the phone.

  “Hot Bread.”

  “Hey,” the voice of Louis, the owner of Noir and my online editor, boomed out. “I just thought I’d let you know I got the story you sent in. It’s great, Nora. I’m going to feature it on the cover.”

  “You’re kidding,” I cried. “Louis, that’s . . . that’s wonderful.”

  “You’ve done a remarkable job in the short while you’ve been with Noir,” he continued. “So much so that I wondered if perhaps you’d like to move on from the fiction end, maybe try your hand at something more realistic.”

  “You must be reading my mind,” I said. “As it happens, I had an idea for a series of articles on cold cases.”

  A loud laugh. “That sounds terrific, Nora.”

  “I’m glad you think so. I’ve been doing a bit of research, and I thought I might start out with Lola Grainger.”

  I heard a sharp intake of breath, then a moment of silence during which you could hear a pin drop all the way back in Chicago. Finally he cleared his throat. “Lola Grainger? That’s not an unsolved crime—that was ruled an accident.”

  I twined a stray auburn curl around my finger. “I know it was, but—I’ve been going over every newspaper account I can find—which isn’t much—and something just doesn’t hit me right. I thought maybe—”

  “I can sense your frustration,” Louis cut me off mid-sentence. “As a former true crime reporter, I can see where this type of story might appeal to you, but to be frank, I think it’d be better if you concentrated on less sketchy topics.”

  I bit down hard on my lip. “What if I could prove there was some substance to it—that it wasn’t just a ‘sketchy topic’? What would you say then?”

  His sigh was audible. “I’d probably say run with it, but you’re not going to find anything, so it’s a moot point.”

  Hah. He had no idea whom he was talking to. If there was an
ything I loved in this world, it was a challenge. “Don’t bet on it.”

  “I try not to take bets that aren’t sure things, and with you, anything’s possible.” He paused, then said, “How about your own column, you know, like you had in Chicago? People love ’em. It’s kinda natural, too, for an online magazine. Maybe you could do a sort of advice column—you know, for wannabe detectives? We’ve got lots of readers who fancy themselves in that category. They devour every crime show on television and think solving crimes is easy.”

  A pang of disappointment arrowed through me. “It’s an interesting concept, but I’m not a detective, Louis.”

  “You were a true crime reporter, right? That’s kind of the same thing. Besides, a little birdie told me you once had a secret yen to be a detective for real—did you ever get a PI license?”

  I sucked in my breath. I’d confessed that long-ago dream during my first meeting with Louis—but only because I thought he was more than half-drunk and really wasn’t paying attention. “That’s all true, about my wanting to be a PI,” I stammered. “But all it’s ever been is a dream. There’s no way I could do that now, not with running Hot Bread.”

  He interrupted, “Just because life’s thrown you a few curves doesn’t mean you should give up, especially if it’s something you really want. Why, if I’d done that, Noir would still be a couple of scratched pages in the back of my notebook.” He cleared his throat. “Anyway, I haven’t worked out all the details yet.” He paused. “You know, the bigger the readership we develop, the more money we take in, which would mean a nice raise for you. You can always use more money, right?”

  Leave it to Louis. He knew just how to appeal to someone—right in the old wallet. “Of course. I’m just not certain I could devote enough time to it. And as I’ve said, I really don’t have PI experience.”

  “I’d be willing to work around your schedule,” Louis assured me. “As for the PI stuff, we could call your column Notes from an Aspiring PI, or something like that. How about we get together for lunch, say, one day next week and brainstorm? That idea’s not cast in stone, you know. I’m open to other suggestions you might have.”

  I had the feeling he was just paying lip service to my qualms—but I was still intrigued by the idea. “Sure. I’m agreeable to a meeting, but I can’t do lunch. That’s my busy time, Louis.”

  “Oh, right. How about a drink at the Poker Face, then?” I could hear him flipping pages over the receiver. “How would next Monday work for you? Around six thirty?”

  “That should be okay. It’s a date. And Louis—thanks.”

  “No problemo, Nora. Thank you. Don’t worry—I’m confident we can work something out.”

  I was hopeful as I hung up the phone. Okay, maybe Louis had all but shot down my unsolved crimes idea, but the alternative he’d proposed signified a huge step forward not only for his magazine, but for me as well. Maybe, just maybe, my luck was changing.

  “Sure, why not,” I murmured. “Nora Charles, former investigative reporter turned sandwich shop entrepreneur slash private eye. I could do it.”

  I turned back to the table and stopped at the sight of the cat, squatted in front of my laptop, his eyes glued to an article displayed on its screen. I frowned. I’d been certain I’d shut the computer off when I’d gone to answer the phone. I moved closer and peered over the cat’s shoulder. An article from a sister paper, the California Sun, rehashing the details of Lola’s unfortunate “accident.” I made a move to shut off the laptop when Nick’s paw lashed out, the tip of his nail grazing the bottom of the screen. I tried to press the power button again—and once more his paw tapped insistently at the monitor.

  “What do you want me to see?” I squinted at the screen. At the very bottom of the article, no bigger than a footnote, was one line: “The deceased’s sister was unavailable for comment, other than to say her sister’s death was a travesty that bears further investigation.”

  I frowned. I hadn’t realized Lola Grainger had any relatives. That in itself was interesting, and compounded with the fact it appeared her sister also thought there was something off about Lola’s untimely demise . . .

  I leaned over, switched off the laptop, and closed the cover, still wondering just how that article had popped up on a computer I’d have bet my last nickel had been shut off. I shook my head, determined not to obsess. Chantal would have called it Fate, and maybe it was.

  Sometimes you just had to believe things just . . . happened. For a reason.

  “Hm,” I said. “Two and two make four, right? Lola’s sister—whoever she is—thinks there’s something off about that ‘accident,’ too. I bet my hunch is right. I smell foul play—meow if you agree.”

  The cat meowed without hesitation. He sat up on his haunches and cocked his head at me.

  “Okay, it’s settled then. Lola’s death might not have been accidental. It could have been . . . murder.”

  The cat looked up at me, ears and whiskers back, and I could swear the corners of his mouth tipped up, just a tad, in a sort of half smile.

  I took that as a yes.

  THREE

  “So, Nora, I see you have a new friend?”

  Rita Robilliard smoothed her tight, gray chignon and smiled at me over the rim of her tortoise-framed glasses. She’d managed the local Century 21 office in Cruz for years and had always been one of my mother’s best customers—and now, by extension, one of mine. She tugged at the lapel of her mustard yellow jacket as she leaned across the counter, her gaze fixed firmly on the cat who lay by the back door, head on paws, quiet as a mouse.

  I looked up from the hot turkey sandwich I was preparing—hot turkey had always been my mother’s Tuesday special, and I saw no reason to change a best-seller—and gave a quick glance over my shoulder. I hollowed out the thick kaiser roll and spooned a generous amount of turkey gravy into the opening. “Oh, yeah. He wandered in last night, and I just didn’t have the heart to turn him out.”

  Rita chuckled. “He’s certainly watching you. Probably hoping you’ll drop some of that turkey on the floor, where it’s fair game. He can smell quality stuff.”

  That was for sure. Like my mother, who would have balked at the idea of using processed meat, my hot turkey was real and sliced fresh from the bird; maybe I didn’t bake my own bread, as she did, but the kaiser rolls were from Lassiter’s Bakery, the best in the county, and my mashed potatoes were farm grown—no instant mix for me!

  “Well, when one gets up at four a.m. to start preparations, one expects a quality product,” I chuckled. “I imagine the cat is no exception. He ate all the tuna I had in stock.”

  “Yes, he looks well cared for. Probably someone’s pet.”

  “That’s what I thought.” I sliced the sandwich in half, spooned a generous amount of potato onto the plate, added a pickle, and set it on Rita’s tray. “I’m going to put up flyers later. I took a picture of him with my phone last night—I’ve just got to get it printed out. I was hoping Max down at Staples would help me.”

  “I’m sure he would.” Rita reached into her oversized purse for her wallet. “A male, right? He probably just wandered off, you know, looking for love.” She winked.

  I took the twenty she offered me and rang up her purchase. “You could be right. I’ve got a feeling he might belong to someone who either lives right here in Cruz, or not very far away. I’m sure whoever owns him must be missing him.”

  Rita nodded. “He is a nice-looking animal. If he were mine, I’d be frantic.”

  The bell above the shop door tinkled and Chantal breezed in, a large grocery bag clutched in her arms. She nodded at Rita, then slipped behind the counter and set the bag down. “Good afternoon, chérie. I got some pet supplies down at the RediMart for you and Nick—well, mostly for him unless you’ve taken a shine to catnip and Fancy Feast.”

  Rita took the change I offered her and glanced over at Chanta
l. “Nick?”

  I started to answer, but Chantal cut me off. “That’s what we named him. Nick, after those movies Nora loves so much, you know, the ones about the alcoholic detective and his society wife.”

  “Oh, yes, Nick and Nora Charles. The Thin Man.” Rita’s thin lips quirked upward slightly. “I loved them, too. They were such a charming pair.” She sighed. “They don’t make movies like that anymore. Well, good luck finding his owner.” She picked up her tray and moved to a table for one in the back.

  Chantal strolled over to the cat. She chucked him under his chin. “Hello, Nick. Is Nora treating you well?”

  A contented purr escaped his lips, and he wiggled his rotund, furry body closer to Chantal.

  I brushed a stray curl out of my eyes and ignored the quick stab of jealousy that pinged at me. “See, he likes you better. You should have taken him.”

  “Oh, pish.” Chantal waved one hand. “You’re doing fine.” She moved closer to me and squeezed my arm. “I bet he even slept in the bed with you last night, no?”

  “No,” I said firmly. “But it wasn’t for lack of trying, I assure you. He’s got really strong forepaws. He kept nudging the door open, so I finally had to shove my Queen Anne chair up against it. He slept out on the rug in front of the fireplace.”

  Chantal shook her head and turned her attention back to the cat. “Don’t worry, Nicky, she’ll come around. She wasn’t always this mean. It comes from working the crime beat in Chicago, reporting on all those murders, mob bosses, and crime—it hardens the heart.” She pounded her fist lightly against her breast. The cat’s head jerked up at mention of the words murder and crime and his eyes narrowed into golden slits.

  “Ew-erow!” he growled, lips peeled back revealing his sharp teeth.

  I wiped my hands on a dish towel. “I swear he can understand you. It’s spooky.” I gave a mock shudder. “And I haven’t named him, by the way. I told you, naming him made it too much of a commitment—and I intend to find his owner before this week is out.”