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

by T. C. LoTempio

  I sucked in a breath. “Oh my.”

  “Yep,” he continued. “Next thing I knew, the phone went dead. I hightailed it right down to the docks, but I didn’t see hide nor hair of Nick—or any bodies, either.”

  My brow lifted. “So then what makes you think they might be dead?”

  He licked at his lips. “Right before our connection was broken, I heard something—it could have been a car backfiring—or it could have been a gunshot. I’m still not sure.” He reached out and laid his hand over mine. “Listen, Nora, I don’t want to think the worst, but I knew Nick like a book, I worked with him for years. I knew the types of cases he got involved with, and the Grainger case was a disaster waiting to happen. If it was murder—and I’m not saying it was—then there is more there than meets the eye, much more. There’s something brewing there people will kill to keep secret.”

  I nibbled at my lower lip. “I know you’re trying to discourage me, Ollie, but I’m afraid all this is having the opposite effect on me. It’s making me, as the White Rabbit would say, ‘curiouser and curiouser.’”

  “Actually,” chuckled Ollie, “it was Alice who said that, not the rabbit. And it’s a trait that makes a great ace reporter, but could ultimately place you in grave danger.” He rose and took my arm. “Listen to me, Nora. Go on home, and give little Sherlock—or Nick—a pat on the head for me. Tell him I’m glad he finally found himself a good home with a good person. If you need anything—you know, like advice on caring for cats or the services of a pretty good investigator?” One eye closed in a broad wink. “Feel free to call. My dance card ain’t exactly full. I’ll be here.”

  I gave Ollie a small smile. “I just might take you up on your offer. I told you, I’m not really that good at caring for animals.”

  He held up both hands. “Nora, the cat found you, remember? Animals have better instincts about what’s good for them than most humans. Believe me, he knows exactly what he wants, and it happens to be you.”

  “Well,” I said, “I suppose I can keep him—at least, until his real owner turns up.”

  “Yeah, well, that might be a while. Quite a while.”

  That prospect pleased me, although I hated to think how I’d feel if Atkins returned to claim his little roommate. I squared my shoulders, deciding I’d cross that bridge when—or if—I got to it, and then added, “I’d really like to keep calling him Nick, but if he’s used to the other name . . .”

  “You should call him whatever you like,” Ollie said. “I doubt it’ll matter much to him, as long as he has somewhere soft to sleep and three squares a day.” His hand shot out to cover mine. “Nick’s your cat now, and you couldn’t ask for a finer companion. The poor thing had to listen to all of Nick’s stories about his women and his investigations. If you decide to go back into investigative reporting or even detective work someday, who knows? That cat might be more of a help to you than you think.”

  I laughed. “And just how would he help? Cats can’t talk, after all.”

  “He doesn’t have to.” Ollie tapped his forefinger against his chin as he walked me to the door. “Believe me, cats have plenty of tricks to make what they’re thinking known, and Nick has more than most. You just wait and see.”

  * * *

  I retraced my steps back to the SUV and hopped inside. Nick lay curled up on the backseat, head between his paws. I’d thought he was asleep, but his head jerked up as soon as I shut the door. I twisted around in the seat to look at him.

  “Well, Sherlock. I understand that’s your name. It seems your master is MIA—for now.”

  He blinked twice.

  “If it’s okay with you, I’m going to keep calling you Nick, at least until your master shows up to reclaim you. I think you’re a bit more Nick Charles than Sherlock Holmes, don’t you?”

  He sat up, stretched his forepaws out, then jumped over into the front seat. He laid his paw on my arm, rubbed against my shoulder, and began to purr.

  I chuckled as I guided the car into the steady stream of rush-hour traffic. “I’m glad we agree.”

  “Meow.”

  “Ollie said you could be a big help to me,” I said thoughtfully. “That you had plenty of tricks up your sleeve—or paw.”

  Nick gave me a solemn nod. “Er-ow!” he said emphatically, waving his paw in the air.

  “Uh-huh,” I said, making the turn on the road back to Cruz. “That’s just what I was afraid of.”

  SIX

  Back home, I dug up some fresh salmon leftover from the salad I’d prepared for tomorrow’s special and put it in a bowl for Nick. As he chowed down, I dragged the box Mrs. Rojas had foisted upon me onto the counter and began unpacking it. There were lots of cat toys—several catnip mice, some socks, a few soft balls—and a warm-looking fleece blanket I assumed had been Nick’s bed. There were a few cans of Fancy Feast as well, although I had an idea that after sampling my leftovers, Nick would turn his nose up at any food of the canned variety. My fingers closed over the well-worn Scrabble board and the vinyl pouch of letter tiles and I chuckled.

  “We’ll have to play one night,” I tossed over my shoulder at Nick, and held up the board. “I’ve been told you’re pretty good.”

  Nick glanced up from his bowl, licked some salmon from his whiskers—and yawned.

  I laughed. “Sorry to bore you, pal.”

  I fished out three rolls of breath mints and chuckled. “Well, well—seems your former master had a breath problem, too. Either that or he had stock in Life Savers.”

  The cat ignored me and continued pushing his face into the bowl.

  In the bottom of the box were three large fat notebooks. I hit my forehead with my palm. Mrs. Rojas had mentioned she’d put Nick’s journals in the box. I’d forgotten all about giving them to Ollie.

  Oh, well, I thought, picking one up. No harm in just looking through them, right? Tomorrow I’d call Ollie and ask him if he wanted me to drop them off. While Nick was still slurping up salmon, I carted the book over to the table, propped my feet up on one of the chairs, and started my perusal.

  The first book was dated several years ago and contained accounts of several different cases—a philandering husband, a kidnapped girl, a guy who’d embezzled funds from a local charity. Nick wrote his accounts in great detail, sometimes belaboring a point, and while his grammar could stand a good going-over, his narrative style was compelling. I was almost finished with the first book when I felt a tug on my skirt. I looked down.

  Nick lay underneath my chair. Tucked under his paws was another of the notebooks.

  “Hey!” I wagged my finger at him. “You are a rascal. How on earth did you get that down from the counter without me hearing you?”

  Nick stretched out his paws and pushed the notebook closer to my chair. “Eeower,” he said, rubbing one paw against the notebook’s cover. When I didn’t react, he gave the book another push. “Eeower,” he beseeched, louder this time.

  “What are you trying to tell me? You don’t agree with my choice of reading material? You think I should read the notebook you’ve selected?”

  I reached down and pulled the journal from underneath his rotund belly. I flipped to the first page and started. Written in a bold hand was:

  Lola Grainger Case

  Details/Interviews

  I looked down at Nick, who lay on his side, one of the socks clamped firmly in his paws, his back feet clawing at the air as he sniffed the catnip contained within. I shook my head and flipped to the first page, where I read with great interest what Nick Atkins had written down:

  When I first read the account of Lola Grainger’s accident, I have to admit, I was immediately suspicious. Something sounded off—at first glance it reeked of a domestic dispute gone badly awry, and I ought to know—I’ve been involved in enough of them. Anyway, I was in my office one evening after Ollie’d gone home, going over some bills,
when the phone rang. It was a woman who identified herself as Adrienne Sloane, Lola Grainger’s sister. She wanted to hire me to investigate her sister’s murder—note she said murder and not accident.

  I checked her out, of course—one can’t be too careful these days—and then I went to the house she was renting and met with her. A very nice woman—not a beauty like her sister, but she had a quiet charm—very soft spoken, ladylike. She and her sister hadn’t spoken in years, she said, and they were just starting to get to know each other again. Lola confided a few things to her that led her to believe things weren’t all so hunky-dory in her marriage—such as the fact Kevin Grainger liked to drink, but couldn’t hold his liquor well. Apparently there were many arguments that resulted in Lola getting the short end of the stick—and considering hiring a divorce lawyer.

  “Hm.” I looked up from the journal. “Now that is interesting. From what my mother used to tell me, Lola and her husband always got along. She never mentioned the d word to Mom.”

  At my feet, Nick let out a resounding “Yowl.” I continued reading:

  Adrienne wasn’t certain her sister would have actually gone through with a divorce. She did think, though, that going through the motions might make him straighten out. The night of the accident, Lola called her sister from the ship. Adrienne didn’t have her cell on her, so she didn’t get the message until she got home. She said Lola seemed very upset. She’d found out something about her husband and needed to talk to her sister—she needed her help figuring out what to do. She ended the conversation with, “Kevin will probably kill me.” And shortly thereafter . . .

  I stroked my chin. “That’s pretty thin. Lots of people say stuff like that in the heat of an argument, but they don’t really mean it. And why would Lola confide marital problems to a sister she hadn’t spoken to in years?” I read further:

  Adrienne supplied me with a lot of information that never made it into the papers, or the original police report, for that matter. For one, Grainger didn’t make the initial ID, like the papers reported. He left that detail to his controller, I believe. There were also a few bruises on the body. Of course, those could be explained as injuries from when she fell, but . . . it just raised more questions in my mind.

  “Mine, too,” I murmured. I kept on reading.

  To my mind, the crime scene was handled all wrong. PI 101—no one should leave the scene, whether it’s in a limo, a plane, or on horseback. Everyone knows the first twenty-four hours investigating a homicide are crucial. Any hopes of fact finding rode away the minute they let Grainger and company walk. Gave him a chance to lawyer up, to get his story straight, and make sure all the others matched.

  I set the journal facedown on the table and leaned back, lacing my hands behind my head. No doubt in my mind that Nick Atkins was correct in this assumption—the lead detective blew it. Although, to be perfectly honest, it might not have been his fault. His superiors had probably told him to go easy on a man of Grainger’s stature. I knew, of course, what should have been done, just as I was certain Atkins had known, too: Even if there was no reason to suspect foul play, Grainger and all the others should have been hauled in for questioning immediately. If nothing else, proper police procedure would have been adhered to. The crime scene should have been protected from possible disturbance, the event reconstructed, a timeline organized.

  Why hadn’t that been done?

  I wondered what the other people on the boat had said. If any of them deliberately covered for Grainger, that would make them just as guilty, make them accessories after the fact. It seemed a large chance to take just to prove loyalty—particularly since that charge carried a hefty prison sentence. The witnesses, in this case, had all claimed to have been in their staterooms and not heard a thing.

  Two years ago I attended a seminar on criminal investigation at the Hilton in Beverly Hills, and Grainger happened to be at the same hotel on business. I was at the bar, and he came in with some of his colleagues and sat near me. I’ve got to tell you, I wasn’t impressed. Even then I got a strange vibe from him—like he was hiding something.

  I went down to the marina shortly after Lola’s death and nosed around. The consensus there was Lola Grainger was a saint, hubby is the second coming, everyone is rallying behind him in his time of need, and of course it was a tragic accident. How could it be otherwise? Bottom line: Everyone I talked to sympathized with the grief-stricken husband. Grainger couldn’t—wouldn’t—didn’t—murder his wife. And that in itself struck me as odd. Out of all those people, not one person had a bad word to say about Kevin Grainger. You expect most people to stick up for him, but there’s at least one or two who will pull you on the side to dish the dirt. Not in this case, though. Frigging weird.

  I chuckled at that and continued.

  At first, I thought it could have been an accident—she was drunk and did slip and—fall in; however, recent events have forced me to reassess. There is something much, much bigger afoot here. The more I dig, the more certain I become.

  I nodded in silent agreement so far with everything Nick Atkins had written down. I flipped the page and bit back a cry of disappointment. There were flecks of paper caught along the spine’s crease, as if other pages had been torn out. One page remained, with only one line written there.

  Tonight I received a text from Adrienne. She wants me to meet her at the docks—she believes the wrong Grainger might have been killed.

  There were no more entries in this journal. I closed the book and leaned back. “The wrong Grainger,” I murmured. I looked down at the cat, who was now sitting next to my chair on his haunches, watching me through slitted eyes. “What in heck does that mean?”

  A sound emanated from deep in Nick’s throat, a cross somewhere between a gurgle and a sigh. “Yurgle!”

  “True. There was only one other person named Grainger on that boat,” I said. I dropped my hand down, rubbed Nick between his ears. He let out a deep purr and flopped to one side. “Did she mean Kevin was supposed to die? But how on earth could she have known that?” I drummed the fingers of my other hand against the journal’s cover. “I wonder—could she possibly have been setting your former master up? Telling him that to deliberately have him meet her at the pier?”

  Nick’s head jerked up and he blinked his golden eyes.

  “But why would she do something like that? I mean, she hired him, right?”

  Nick sat up on his haunches. “Yow,” he said again.

  I pushed my chair back and stood up. “You know what I think, Nick? I think the police did a damn awful job. I think they need to reopen this case.”

  His paw shot straight out and his nails caught in the fabric of my pants. He gave a little tug. I leaned down and gently disengaged his claw. “What, Nick? You think I should investigate? I have to admit, I’m considering it.”

  Chantal’s words rang in my ears: A friend of mine is going to undertake a dangerous mission. I recalled how nervous Oliver Sampson had been, recounting the case to me. While I couldn’t deny I found the whole affair fascinating, I’d put investigative reporting behind me, determined to live a normal life. Did I really need to get involved in something that had the very real possibility of becoming very dangerous?

  I could almost hear my mother’s voice, ringing in my head. Lola got a rotten deal, Nora. You’re good at solving puzzles. You can solve this one.

  “Maybe so,” I muttered. “But there seem to be so many unanswered questions and variables. Finding out if Lola was murdered won’t bring her back, right? And then there’s Adrienne. What happened to her? Not to mention Nick’s former owner. If it should turn out all three of them were murdered—then it must be to cover up something really, really huge.”

  Nick cocked his head and blinked twice. Then he raised a paw, almost as if he were gesturing toward the journal.

  “You think your former master was on to something, I can tell.” I sat bac
k down and pulled my laptop in front of me. I called up the original article I’d read on Lola Grainger’s death and read it slowly. Then I reread what Nick Atkins had written.

  “Critical things were overlooked. Grainger’s status in the community got in the way of the police investigation.”

  Nick hopped up on the chair beside me and sat on his haunches, his paws skimming the tabletop.

  I pointed at the screen. “It says here her blood alcohol level was only point oh-four. That means she was only slightly intoxicated. It doesn’t make sense that she fell in the water in a drunken stupor. The coroner said her down vest weighed her down and her intoxicated state contributed to the fact she couldn’t think clearly in an emergency situation. Yet she should have been able to, at only point oh-four.”

  I drummed my fingers on the tabletop. Something didn’t add up. According to the statement given by Kevin Grainger, Lola had retired ahead of him to their stateroom. When he entered about an hour later, she was gone. He checked outside and found the dinghy missing. The consensus had been she’d slipped and fallen into the water attempting to retie it. The dinghy had been swept into the ocean by the heavy winds, and since she never managed to climb back into it, she eventually contracted hypothermia, sank beneath the waves, and drowned.

  All tied up, neat and tidy. Yet something just wasn’t right.

  “It makes no sense,” I mumbled. I closed my eyes and leaned back, trying to visualize the scene in my mind’s eye. A slightly inebriated and frightened Lola, slipping, falling into the dark waters, clutching at the dinghy, hanging on for dear life as it got swept out into sea, trying to put one foot aboard it, and getting knocked back by the weight of her down vest . . .

  “That’s it!” I cried and sat bolt upright, my eyes wide. Nick, startled at my sudden outburst, slipped off the chair and landed right on his plump bottom on the floor.

  He rose, shook himself in a doglike manner, then hopped back up on the chair, cocking his head at me as if to say, Okay, human. What’s so important you had to scare the crap out of me?