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

by T. C. LoTempio

  I licked at my lips. “But throwing him out on the street—isn’t that a bit drastic?”

  She sighed. “Honey, drastic is deliberately letting a perfectly good apartment sit vacant because you don’t know where the tomcat ran off to when I could be getting over a thousand a month on it. Besides, he’s not exactly homeless. He’s got his office space. Worse case I’m sure he can shack up there until he gets new digs.”

  “Oh”—I breathed a sigh of relief—“he does have an office, then? I wondered, because when I Googled him, the only address that came up was this one.”

  “Yeah, well, that’s probably because the space is rented in his partner’s name.” Her tongue clucked against the roof of her mouth. “Another poor, trusting sap Nick Atkins took advantage of, if you ask me.”

  I looked up sharply, positive the surprise I felt was plainly visible in my expression. “Partner? Atkins had a partner?”

  “Yep. Ollie was a good investigator in his own right, till he got divorced, and then his son tried to kill himself. Poor soul—he tried to drown his troubles in drink, until—and this is about the only good thing I can say about Nick—he took him under his wing. They went in business together, and Ollie’s been dry for two years now. Out of the two, Nick brought in most of the business, so if he’s down for the count, Ollie’s on tough times again. I just hope he can keep it together, ’cause—you see where I’m headed with this, right? Kinda hard to keep up with your bills when you don’t have payin’ renters.”

  “Must be,” I murmured. “If you could just tell me . . .”

  “Anyway, their office is in Castillo, on Clement Street, number 634. Tell Ollie—that’s short for Oliver, by the way—Norma sent you, and if he sees that no-good scum of a partner of his, he better not show his face around here unless he has the three thousand in back rent he owes—or else he can tell it to the judge.”

  I started to retrace my steps back up the hallway. “I’ll give him the message. Thanks.”

  “Wait!”

  Mrs. Rojas disappeared into her apartment and emerged a few minutes later with a large box, which she summarily thrust into my arms. “Here you go.”

  I looked down at the box and the jumble of items jammed inside. “What’s all this?”

  “The few things I didn’t pack for Goodwill. The cat stuff, of course, and I think there were some journals of Nick’s in there—Ollie might want ’em.” She chuckled. “The journals, not the cat. I have a feeling you’re gonna be stuck with him.”

  * * *

  The offices of Sampson and Atkins were located in downtown Castillo, a town about a mile and a half south of Cruz. They were tucked into the basement of a converted firehouse that looked as if it had seen better days, although the neighborhood surrounding it bordered on—for want of a better word—upscale yuppieville. I pulled my Hyundai SUV into the asphalt parking lot behind the building and parked in the spot farthest away. I turned around and looked in the backseat. I’d folded it down and laid out all the toys from the box Mrs. Rojas had given me. Right now Nick looked content nibbling at a catnip mouse tucked between his toes, and I sincerely hoped he would stay that way. I locked the SUV and walked briskly to the building, then down the flight of stone steps to the lone oak door bearing the placard SAMPSON AND ATKINS INVESTIGATIONS. I noted as I rang the bell that someone had attempted to scratch out AND ATKINS. A few minutes later a buzzer sounded, and I pushed through the door into the dimly lit interior hallway. There were three doors, all unmarked, and I stood there uncertainly, doing an eenie meenie miny moe in my head, when the door on the left suddenly swung open and a tall, muscular frame filled the doorway.

  “Oliver Sampson?” I asked.

  Both eyebrows rose. “Uh-oh. You’re not the Pizza Hut delivery person, are you?”

  I shook my head and took a minute to study the brooding hulk of a man who loomed over me. I placed his age as somewhere in the late forties, early fifties. He wasn’t what one would call handsome—certainly not in a conventional way—but his features had a certain amount of Humphrey Bogart charm, from the crooked nose right down to the firm jawline and the slightly buck teeth. His mocha skin had a leathery look to it—no doubt the result of years of alcohol consumption—and his eyes were a pale, pale blue, almost a washed-out gray. He was huge—built like a linebacker—and I got the impression he could be intimidating if the need arose. His eyes flashed and he gave me a quick once-over as he cleared his throat loudly.

  “I’m Oliver Sampson, all right, and you’re not from Pizza Hut. Who are you? If you’re a bill collector, you want my ex-partner. And all I can tell you, lady, is there’s a long line ahead of you of folks looking for that good-for-nothing Atkins.”

  He started to turn away and I found my voice. “I’m not a bill collector, Mr. Sampson, but I was hoping to have a word with you about your, ah, former partner?”

  His gaze raked me head to toe. “What about him? If you’re another disgruntled girlfriend—although I must say, you don’t look like his type—sorry, I can’t help you. If he’s been working on something for you, well, I can’t help you there, either. Nick had lots of cases he worked on alone, and he wasn’t one to share details.”

  “I’m not one of his lady friends, and I’m not here about a case. I’m here about the cat.”

  He stared at me blankly. “The cat?”

  “Yes. The black-and-white tuxedo. Someone told me they thought it might be his.”

  Sampson’s pale eyes lit up, and he stroked at his chin with his long fingers. “Oh, you found Sherlock? That’s great. I wondered what happened to the little fellow.”

  I frowned. “Excuse me—Sherlock?”

  “Yeah. My boob of a partner got a huge kick out of naming the cat after the only detective he considered smarter than himself—fictional, no less.” He scratched at his ear and grinned. “So where did you find him?”

  “Actually, he found me.”

  He stared at me a moment, then pushed the door all the way open and made a motion with his hand. “Why don’t you come in? We can have a chat.”

  I moved past him into a small room that held a single desk, a scarred file cabinet tucked into a corner, and two worn-looking leather chairs. Along the walls were several pictures that looked as if they’d been bought at bargain basement sales—a flower arrangement, a wooded hillside with a church and lots of fluffy clouds, a lake scene—there were also some framed photographs as well, and even though I only took a quick glance, I thought I recognized Nick Atkins in some of them. Oliver Sampson walked around to sit in the leather chair behind the desk, and motioned me to take the other chair. I slid onto the well-worn cushion and heard the chair hinges squeak.

  “Sorry.” He granted me a small smile. “Redecorating is on my long-term agenda, but it’s not a priority right now. Can I get you some coffee, or water?” He inclined his head and I saw a low-slung cabinet, which apparently also doubled as a mini-fridge. A small black Keurig coffeemaker sat on top of it. I took note, too, of the small pile of Pizza Hut boxes stacked off to the left of the cabinet—apparently it was Sampson’s food of choice. A photograph of a good-looking young man wearing a cap and gown was tucked behind the coffeemaker—I wondered vaguely if this was the son whose attempted suicide had prompted Sampson’s spiral to the bottle. I shook my head and leaned back a bit in the chair, and the springs squeaked. I’d be damn lucky if they didn’t poke me in the ass.

  Sampson steepled his hands beneath his chin. “So you found little Sherlock.”

  “As I said, he found me. He happened to wander by my shop.”

  “Your shop?”

  “I own a little sandwich shop—Hot Bread—in Cruz.”

  “He wandered two towns over, eh? Well, well.” Sampson leaned back in his chair. “Honestly, I’m not surprised. That cat could always smell a good meal—or a free one—a mile away—like his owner.”

  “Yes,
Nick is very enterprising.” At his swift look of surprise I added, “I’ve been calling the cat Nick—after Nick Charles, the detective in The Thin Man. I had no idea his owner’s name was Nick as well.”

  Sampson nodded. “Good movie. Nick never cared for Bill Powell, though.” He frowned. “What did you say your name was?”

  “Nora. Nora Charles.”

  His eyes widened a bit, and he chuckled. “Ah—your renaming Sherlock makes a bit more sense now.”

  I cleared my throat. “I stopped by Mr. Atkins’s apartment first—it was the only address I could find for him.”

  “Sure, sure.” He drummed his fingers absently on the desktop. “Meet his landlady? She’s a real piece of work.”

  “That she is. She’s also rented his apartment and had his stuff shipped off to Goodwill.”

  “Really?” He let out a gigantic sigh. “Well, I suppose it was bound to happen, sooner or later. It’s not the first time he’s stiffed her on rent. Not everyone’s as easygoing as me. I know I owe him a lot but—even saints have limits.” He raised his gaze to mine again. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to digress. Now, you are here because . . .”

  “I wanted to return Nick—or Sherlock—to his rightful owner,” I said over the lump that had suddenly risen in my throat. “He looked so well cared for, I knew he had to be someone’s pet. Someone in town thought they’d seen your partner with a picture of him in his wallet, so I Googled him and”—I spread my hands—“here I am.”

  “Sweet. You’re not a bad detective yourself, little lady.”

  “Thanks. They say investigative reporting is the next best thing to being a detective, although I do confess I’ve always had a secret desire to be a female Paul Drake or Sam Spade.”

  “For what it’s worth, I think you’ve got what it takes.” He leaned forward, rested both elbows on the desktop. “Want to know why Nick kept the cat’s photo in his wallet? He thought it was a good way to attract chicks—you know, show his sensitive side, caring for animals, all that.”

  “Really.” I sighed inwardly. I was almost glad Nick Atkins was missing because, in truth, after hearing all these details from Ollie and the landlady, I’d have been loath to give the cat back to him. The guy sounded like a real jerk.

  Oliver leaned forward. “Yep, but to tell the truth, he really didn’t need any gimmicks. My ex-partner had a way with women. It was depressing, really.” He slid me a glance. “He’d have charmed you, too—then again, maybe not. Like I said, you’re far from the type Nick usually went for. I mean, look at you. You’ve got class.” He barked out a short laugh.

  I cleared my throat. “Thanks. So—do you want to keep the cat until your partner returns?”

  He eyed me. “You mean if he returns. And no, I don’t. I like the little fellow but”—he rubbed at his nose with the tip of his finger—“I’m allergic. I took antihistamines when Nick brought the cat around.” He leaned forward. “Why don’t you keep him? You sound like you’ve grown fond of him.”

  I fidgeted a bit in the chair. “I thought about it but I’ve never been very good at taking care of animals.”

  He waved his hand carelessly. “Oh, if that’s your only concern, I wouldn’t worry. That cat can take pretty darn good care of himself. Took good care of Nick, too. Plus, he’s got personality—grows on you after a while. Smart, too. I mean, he found you, didn’t he?”

  I laughed. “That sounds like a compliment, Mr. Sampson.”

  “It was, and you can call me Ollie. Anyway, Nick used to say Sherlock was just like a dog—maybe even smarter. He even taught him a few tricks—why, he was even teaching the damn cat to play Scrabble. Cat wasn’t half bad, either.” He croaked out a chuckle. “Anything to impress the ladies, after all.”

  “Scrabble? Really? Now that I’ve got to see.” A sudden thought occurred to me. “Do you think he might have taught him to turn a computer on and off?”

  He shrugged. “Probably. It’s simple enough. Wouldn’t surprise me, either, if he taught him to surf the Net.”

  “Me, either,” I muttered under my breath. Well, at least now I knew I wasn’t losing my mind. “I suppose I could take care of him until Mr. Atkins returns.”

  Ollie’s hand dropped back to the desk, his fingers beating a swift tattoo against the wood. “I wouldn’t count on that. As much as I’d like to get my hands on Nick—he owes me half rent for two months, too, and people aren’t exactly beating down my door with investigative jobs—I’d be surprised to ever see him again.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  He sat silently for a minute, then abruptly raised his gaze to meet mine. “I’m sorry—you said your name is Nora Charles?”

  “Yes.”

  He half rose out of the chair. “You wouldn’t originally be from Chicago, by any chance?”

  I looked at him, surprised. “I was born in Cruz, but I lived in Chicago for twelve years. I moved back here to take over the family business.”

  He snapped his fingers. “You were a reporter, right? True crime?” At my nod, he slapped his palm facedown on the desk and laughed loudly. “Yeah, I remember you now. You came up in some articles Nick Googled. He was looking up some info about Chicago crime families. You were quite the reporter.”

  “I had some success, yes.”

  “Some?” He barked out a laugh. “Two national journalism awards suggest otherwise.”

  I waved my hand. “I might have had a bit of luck. I’m curious. Why was your partner looking up mob families in Chicago?”

  “To be honest? He didn’t say, and I didn’t ask. Where Nick was concerned, it could have been about anything. He had lots of balls in the air at one time, and he operated mainly on gut and hunches.”

  “And you have no idea what might have happened to him? Where he is?”

  “Oh, I’ve got an idea, all right,” Ollie said. “I’m pretty sure it might have something to do with this last case he was working on. I wanted no part of it, and I told him he was a damn fool for taking it, but—that was Nick. He was certain he could solve anything. The deuce of it is, he usually always did.” Ollie let out a giant sigh. “This time, though, I’m afraid he might have gotten in a bit over his head.”

  “Really? How so?”

  Ollie looked all around the room, almost as if he expected someone to come crashing in at any moment, and then he got up, walked around the desk, and leaned over so he could put his lips close to my ear.

  “I’ll tell you,” he whispered, “but you can’t breathe a word. Nick took this last case because he was convinced it would make him famous. You see, he was hired by Adrienne Sloane—Lola Grainger’s sister. Right before he disappeared, he told me he suspected Lola’s death was no accident—that it was murder, and he was this close to proving it.

  “And now . . . I’m afraid he may be dead, too.”

  FIVE

  After a few seconds, I found my voice. “You really think Nick Atkins is dead?”

  Ollie cleared his throat. “Of course, I’m not one hundred percent certain, but considering what he was working on, it’s a very good possibility.”

  I pursed my lips, my thoughts in a whirl. “I have to admit,” I said slowly, “that I myself read all the accounts of Lola’s . . . accident, and I also feel something just doesn’t add up.”

  “Ssh!” Ollie’s eyes went wide, and he put a finger against his lips. “I wouldn’t voice that opinion too loudly if I were you.”

  “Okay.” I paused. “It is possible he’s undercover somewhere. Gathering his facts. I witnessed a lot of that in Chicago.”

  “I’m sure you did, and of course it’s a possibility, but somehow I don’t think so. Six weeks is a long time not to hear from Nick.”

  “Six weeks is a drop in the bucket when you’re undercover.”

  “Yes,” Ollie laughed, “but trust me, undercover or not, if Nick were sti
ll able to, he’d have communicated with me in some way, I know he would.” He waved his hand. “I know what you’re thinking—I called him a deadbeat and all, but—what can I say? We were best friends as well as partners. I know Nick as well as I know myself. If he were alive, even if he were in deep cover, he’d have gotten word to me somehow. That’s what makes me think I’ve seen the last of him, dammit.”

  Ollie’s eyes glistened with sudden moisture and I squeezed his arm. “Have hope, Ollie. It’s never over till the fat lady sings, right? You never know, Nick could walk through that door tomorrow.”

  “Yeah, and I could get hired as one of Cher’s backup singers, too. Hey, it’s always been a secret dream of mine.” He grinned. “Or maybe Lady Gaga. I like her style.”

  The thought of this two-hundred-something-pound black man in one of Lady Gaga’s outrageous outfits made me want to laugh out loud. I resisted the impulse and asked, “You said that Adrienne Sloane hired him. Have you tried to contact her, see if she possibly knows anything?”

  “No, I haven’t.”

  “Why not?”

  He made a clucking sound, deep in the back of his throat, and mumbled something so low I had to lean over and ask him to repeat it. “Because it’s possible she might be dead, too.”

  I half rose out of my chair. “What? How can you possibly make a statement like that?”

  “I can’t be absolutely certain, any more than I can be certain Nick is dead. But the last time I saw him, he was on his way out that door to meet Adrienne Sloane. He said she had something to tell him that could change the direction of the entire case.”

  I frowned. “That’s all? He didn’t tell you any more than that?”

  “I was lucky to get that much out of him. Anyway, a few hours later my phone rings. It’s Nick, but we had a real bad connection—static all over the line. He was whispering into the phone, too, so it was hard to make out what he said, but it sounded like he’d seen a body lying under the docks, and he thought it looked like Adrienne.”