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

by T. C. LoTempio

  My gut told me I’d get no answer, and it was correct. Nothing greeted us but utter and complete silence, so thick you could cut it with a knife.

  I shook my leg free of Nick’s clawing grasp and moved slowly forward. I felt along the wall and my fingers found a light switch. I flicked it on and immediately the cabin was lit in a soft glow. Off to my right was what appeared to be the main cabin. It was decorated in soft blue, the furniture fine leather, the rug a thick, plush pile. It looked comfortable—homey, as if a woman’s fine hand had decorated. The breeze off the water wafted through the cabin, eerily quiet except for Nick’s ragged breathing and the sound of the waves lapping against the yacht’s side.

  I shut off my flashlight, stuffed it back in my pocket, and proceeded slowly down the long corridor. There were doors on each side of the walkway—I assumed these led to the individual staterooms. I walked to the first one, turned the knob. The door swung inward at my touch.

  The bedroom was elegantly appointed, a king-size bed commandeered a good portion of the room, its navy quilted comforter drawn back to reveal satin sheets in a soft teal blue. The furniture seemed to be of good quality—oak, if I wasn’t mistaken. There was one end table and a long dresser with an ornate mirror positioned against the far wall. The other boasted a large armoire on which rested a flat-screen television and a Bose sound system.

  I wondered if all the rooms were so lush. Most likely they would be. Apparently nothing was too good for Grainger’s guests.

  Nick’s claws dug into my ankle again, and I let out a little yelp of pain. “Will you stop that?” I pushed at his rotund fanny with the toe of my shoe. “Come on—we’ve lots more to explore. He’s got to be around somewhere.”

  No one was more surprised at my sudden bravado than me. Any fear I felt was overshadowed by my niggling sense of curiosity. Where in hell was Lott? He’d sounded desperate enough on the phone. Had something happened? Had someone else come to the yacht, maybe scared him away?

  Lord, I hoped that was the reason he wasn’t answering and not . . . something else.

  I opened the door to the next room, and my breath caught in my throat. She was lying faceup, spread-eagled across the slick satin sheets, arms flung out in a gesture of helplessness, one perfect bullet hole in the middle of her forehead, and another gone through her chest, judging from the big red stain in the center of her blouse. My feet took me forward, like a somnambulist caught in a dream, overcome by the shock of my discovery. My aforementioned luck had run out.

  In death, Patti Simmons’s eyes didn’t appear as blue as the deep blue sea. Instead they were mere slits, glassy like hardened marbles. Her lips were twisted in a grimace: Shock? Surprise? My gaze went to her forehead and that perfect, round bloodied hole. Long-buried memories forced their way into the forefront of my brain. I’d seen killings like this before, way back when I’d first started writing crime stories in Chicago. They hadn’t been pretty then, either.

  “Execution,” I murmured. “It looks like a murder, execution style.” I continued to stare, my eyes riveted in fascination to the bullet hole. “What in hell is she doing here anyway?” I paused as a sudden thought came to me.

  Had Patti been the person who’d gotten under Lott’s skin—whom he seemed to be afraid of? Had Lott shot her? Was that the reason he’d vanished?

  Or was yet another person responsible?

  Nick’s ears suddenly perked straight up. He cocked his head to one side, as if listening to something, and then began to frantically paw the air in front of him. His claws dipped down, clamped firmly in the hem of my skirt, and he gave a little tug.

  His meaning was obvious—he wanted me to leave, which was, no doubt, the prudent thing to do.

  But I wasn’t quite ready to do that. Call it leftover investigative reporter syndrome, but there was more to be learned from studying the scene here; I’d bet every sandwich in my shop on it. I shook myself free of him, no easy feat—this cat was strong with a capital S. I finally managed to disengage his claw and I looked down at him. His eyes were wide, and if I didn’t know better, I could swear they held a hint of panic. I felt compelled to bend down and give his head a reassuring pat. He meowed plaintively and I could feel a tremor rock his furry body as he pressed himself against my ankles.

  “Okay, Nick. We’ll go. Just give me a minute, buddy, okay?”

  I moved closer to the bed and stared down at Patti. Nick hopped up on the dresser next to the bed, tail bristling, swishing impatiently to and fro. I pointed. “Look at her hand. Doesn’t it seem like she’s pointing to something?”

  “Er-ow!” Nick answered. He twisted his head toward the doorway.

  “Yes, yes, we’ll go. I just need a minute more.”

  I followed the line of her finger. There was a small chest in one corner of the room. I moved over to inspect it. It was medium-size, made of elegant carved wood. There were brass handles on either side. I grasped the handles and pulled. The chest was lighter than I’d expected. As I turned, something caught my eye. I set the chest back down and moved to the spot where it had previously stood.

  “Look at this floorboard,” I said to Nick. “The edge is slightly raised.”

  I bent over, gave it a tug. The floorboard jerked upward, and I caught a flash of yellow inside a small hole in the floor. I bent down and pulled out an eight-by-ten manila envelope.

  “Well, well. Maybe we finally got lucky.” I turned the envelope over in my hand. Could this be what Lott said Lola had hidden? What he thought an intruder had been searching for?

  I sucked in my breath and resisted the impulse to tear it open right then and there. Best to get off the boat and back home first. I’d see what was inside, and then decide whether or not to call Daniel. Maybe not the wisest course of action, considering, but—it was the one I’d decided to take.

  Suddenly Nick let out a “meow” and dived right at me. His teeth bared, he clamped them right into the envelope. Startled, I loosened my grip and he jerked it out of my hand in one movement. He vanished underneath the bed, claws clicking against the polished hardwood floor.

  “Nick,” I muttered. “What the hell—”

  “Meow,” came from the depths underneath the bed. “Ffft.”

  “Nick, dammit. What’s wrong? What do you sense?”

  I leaned over and raised the sheet. Nick cowered in the corner, the envelope clamped securely underneath his paws.

  “Nick,” I said sternly. “Get out here right now. Give me that envelope.”

  He drew back his lips and hissed.

  “Hey! What did I tell you about attitude, mister?”

  My hand snaked underneath the bed toward the envelope. Nick pushed it farther underneath himself, hissed again, and took a swipe at me with one paw. I pulled my hand back just in time to avoid getting a nasty scratch.

  “What is wrong with you?” I cried. Good God, maybe he really was possessed. I could think of no other reason why this formerly docile cat would suddenly turn into a mini-tiger. I stared at him, half-expecting to see horns sprout up on his forehead at any second.

  “I’m going to get that envelope, Nick. Scratch me and you’ll pay for it, I warn you. No steak, no chicken, none of Hot Bread’s lunch leftovers for a week. Just canned Purina, how do you like that, you spoiled little brat?” I lifted the edge of the sheet and had just started to inch my arm toward Nick again when the door to the stateroom was kicked open. I snapped my arm back and turned around, my jaw dropping at what I saw.

  Two police officers stood framed in the doorway, guns drawn—and pointed right at me.

  “Hands up, lady,” one of them said.

  Startled, I raised both arms slowly. “Officers, you’re making a mistake. This isn’t what it looks like . . . I can explain.”

  The taller of the two shot me a look that clearly indicated he wasn’t buying what I was trying to sell. “You can tell you
r story at headquarters,” he barked. “Right now you’re under arrest. You have the right to remain silent . . .”

  EIGHTEEN

  “Well, I certainly didn’t expect to see you tonight, Nora—and certainly not in my interrogation room.”

  After I’d been taken down to Police Headquarters (over loud protests, I might add), I’d been put into this small room with only a table and two chairs. I asked if I was being formally charged, but my question fell on deaf ears. I was tempted to make a scene, demand I be allowed to make my one phone call—the only problem is, I had no idea who I would call. I didn’t want to bother Chantal or Remy, I hadn’t gotten around to hiring a lawyer yet, Louis was out of town—and I certainly couldn’t call Ollie. For one thing, I hadn’t known him that long. For another, I didn’t want to listen to the “told you this case was dynamite” lecture that I had no doubt I’d be subjected to. Plus, I was worried about Nick.

  What had happened to him after I’d been hauled here? The last I’d seen of him, he was hiding beneath the bed—had the police searched the entire room? If they were anything like the Chicago force, they’d have left no stone unturned—and if Daniel Corleone was in charge, no doubt every nook and cranny had been thoroughly examined. I started to replay those last few moments before everything had been turned upside down over in my mind, but I confess all cohesive thought went out the window the minute Detective Corleone entered the room. He carried a thick sheaf of papers in a plain brown file folder and wore no jacket, just a light pink shirt, no tie, and his collar was loosened. I could see a glint of a gold chain around his neck as he eased himself onto the wooden chair across from me.

  “Yeah.” I leaned forward, resting both my elbows on the hardwood table. “Fancy meeting you here. I didn’t expect to see you tonight, either, since you canceled our da—our appointment.”

  If he’d noticed my slip, he paid it no heed, just opened the folder and started to riffle through the papers within. “Your appearance on the Lady L does complicate matters,” he said at last. “Would you mind telling me what you were doing there?”

  My eyes searched his face, but his expression remained impassive. “I was following up on a lead.”

  “A lead?” His fingers hesitated over the stack of papers. “What sort of lead?”

  I shifted, trying to find a comfortable position on the hard wood chair. The furniture wasn’t built for comfort. “I—ah—I don’t really know if I can say. The conversation was confidential between me and one of my sources.”

  “Ah, yes. Your sources. So you have been playing detective?”

  “I don’t know if I’d call it playing exactly.”

  He leaned back in the chair, and a sigh of exasperation escaped his lips. “I don’t think you realize the trouble you are actually in. Two officers caught you standing over the dead body.”

  “Oh, for the love of God,” I burst out, “you know damn well I didn’t kill Patti Simmons. What was my motive, for heaven’s sake? Not to mention the fact no weapon was found on or near my person.”

  His lips twitched slightly, as if he were choking back a laugh. I personally didn’t see what was so damned funny about my situation. He had nothing to hold me here on, and he damn well knew it.

  “That may be true,” he said at last. “But I’d still like to know what you were doing on the Lady L. You didn’t mention any plans to go down to the docks when I called earlier.”

  I grimaced. “Well, my original plans were canceled, as you well know. Besides, I didn’t have those plans when we spoke.”

  “You could have called back.”

  “Why? If I had, would you have blown off work and gone with me?”

  “I might have.”

  I sighed and shifted again in the chair. “I bet you get a lot of confessions in here, just so people can get out of this damned chair,” I muttered.

  “Not as many as you might think.” He crossed his arms over his chest, regarded me with a benign expression. “I’m waiting.”

  “And if I refuse to talk—wait, don’t tell me. You’ve got ways to pull the information out of me, right?”

  He leaned across the table, his nose scant inches from mine. “I have a few.”

  Ooh, did that conjure up images. I could hear my heart pound in my chest as some of those ways flitted through my brain. Champagne, soft lights, music, the two of us dancing cheek to cheek . . .

  “How does spending the night locked in a jail cell appeal to you?”

  My bubble burst and the image of us doing the cha-cha faded, replaced by one of me trying to get comfortable on a metal cot. So much for that. I sucked in a breath. “You wouldn’t! On what charge?”

  “Trespassing, for one. Breaking and entering for another.”

  “I didn’t break into anything,” My temper flared. “The yacht was wide open, and besides, I was invited aboard.” I paused and bit my lower lip.

  I’d have liked to wipe the satisfied smirk off his face as he opened the file folder again and leaned both his elbows on top of it. “Ah, now that’s more like it,” he said. “Who invited you aboard, Nora?”

  I clamped my lips together and glared at him.

  “Well, I know it wasn’t Kevin Grainger,” he said. “So there’s only one other person it could possibly be. What did Shelly Lott want? Why did he want to see you tonight, and why on board the Lady L?”

  I resisted the impulse to sneer. “I don’t know what he wanted. He wasn’t on board.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong.”

  My breath constricted in my throat, and my hand fluttered over my chest. “Oh my God—he was there? You found him?”

  “We did.”

  I swallowed. “Is he—was he—did you find him dead, too?”

  “No. We found him in the galley, unconscious. He’s at Cruz General with a monster headache. They’re keeping him overnight for observation.” He paused. “He admitted calling you, and then he thought he heard noises—scuffling noises, like someone prowling around. Something conked him on the back of the head and that’s the last he remembers.”

  “Did you find the weapon?”

  “We’re still searching the yacht. Maybe the prowler took it with him.”

  He reached across the table and captured one of my hands in his. The feel of his flesh against mine sent my senses skyrocketing, particularly when he started to rub his forefinger against the back of my hand.

  “I’m not the enemy, Nora,” he said softly. “Believe it or not, you were brought in for your own protection.”

  I arched one brow and jerked my hand away. “In handcuffs?”

  “Well, I wanted to be certain you didn’t do something foolish—like try to run off and find the person who killed Patti Simmons.”

  “We wouldn’t be that stupid,” I began and then stopped. I regretted my little slip the minute the words came out of my mouth. Daniel’s eyes lit up like a Christmas tree.

  “We? So you did bring someone with you?”

  I swallowed. I certainly wasn’t about to squeal on Nick—I had a feeling telling Daniel I’d brought a cat along with me for company would only make me appear daffier than he already thought me to be, and I did not want him to think of my name as synonymous with the term crazy cat woman. “Of course not,” I said. “It was just a slip of the tongue. I guess I said it because I had been thinking of bringing you with me.”

  His look of surprise was genuine. “You were? Really?”

  “I told Lott I was supposed to meet you, and I’d bring you along, but he was adamant I come alone. He admitted he’d lied to me the other day about what happened on the yacht the night Lola died. He wanted to talk to me.” I paused. “And he told me he thought someone had been poking around on the yacht. He thought they might have been looking for something Lola might have hidden.”

  “I see.” Daniel’s eyes were dark. “A
nd did he say what that might be?”

  I shook my head. “He just wanted me to come right down, alone. When I arrived, the yacht was dark. I put the lights on, started looking around.”

  Daniel’s lips slashed into a thin line of annoyance. “Rather a foolish move, don’t you think? The killer could have still been on board.”

  “It’s possible. I’m positive I heard a floorboard or a door creak, a few minutes before I found Patti Simmons’s body.”

  His eyes searched my face. “And that’s all you found, correct? Nothing else?”

  I shot him a look of mock innocence. “Of course, Detective. Why do you ask? Don’t you believe me?”

  “In a word—no.”

  “Well, tough.”

  He looked at me for a long moment. Suddenly he reached into his pocket and pulled out his cell phone. He glanced at the screen, shook his head, then murmured, “Excuse me,” and picked up the file folder and went back out the door. I took the opportunity to rise out of the chair and do a few stretches. If they kept me in this room much longer on that chair, I was definitely going to have to visit a chiropractor. Thankfully he returned about ten minutes later, with two file folders tucked under his arm this time. He set them down and motioned for me to take my seat.

  “My men have finished searching the yacht,” he said. “They didn’t find anyone on board.”

  My head snapped up. “No one? No one at all?”

  “That’s what I just said. No one, or anything hidden—including the murder weapon or whatever was used to knock Lott out.”

  “The killer must have taken it with him.” I couldn’t resist a shudder. We’d had a pretty close call, Nick and I, and I couldn’t help but wonder how the heck he’d gotten out of there unseen, and what he’d done with the envelope he’d snatched from me.

  I felt a sudden urge to get home, make sure my feline compadre was all right. “How much longer are you going to hold me here?”

  “Why? Is there somewhere you have to be?”

  “You and I both know you can’t hold me without evidence, and you have none against me,” I returned. “Or is this the part where you’re going to ask me if I want a lawyer?”