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

by T. C. LoTempio

  Daniel paused and sighed.

  “You’re not under arrest, Nora. You’re not a suspect. But I’d appreciate your cooperation. Is that all right with you?”

  I was tempted to ask what might happen if it weren’t, but instead smiled sweetly. “Of course. I’m always happy to cooperate with the police in any way I can.”

  “Good. Now, do you recall Lott saying anything about Patti Simmons when you had your first conversation?”

  “He didn’t say much about her at all, just that she’d spilled some wine on the chair cushions and it upset Mrs. Grainger. But I can’t vouch for the veracity of that account, because when he called me tonight, he told me he’d lied before.”

  “Did he say what he’d lied about?”

  I shook my head. “Do you think he called Patti also? Is that why she was on board?”

  “I really couldn’t say at this time.”

  My eyes narrowed. I was getting that odd vibe from him again, the vibe that told me he knew more than he was letting on—a lot more. “You know something,” I said.

  “I’m supposed to know things,” he replied. “I’m the police.”

  Nice wiseass answer. “Perhaps this would be a good time to have that discussion we’ve been putting off—about Lola Grainger’s death not being an accident.”

  His eyes widened. “I don’t recall saying that. I believe I said I agreed with you that certain aspects of the investigation could have been handled better.”

  I half rose out of my chair, palms splayed across the desktop. “Listen, Detective. I may have quit reporting full-time, but my instincts are still with me. And they’re telling me you know a lot more about the Lola Grainger case than you want me to know.”

  He looked at me in much the same way one would look at a maiden aunt afflicted with Alzheimer’s, lips twisted in an expression of pity. “Are they, now.”

  “Yes, they are. Adrienne Sloane thought her sister was murdered, and quite frankly, I’m inclined to agree with her.” I paused. “Honestly, for someone so interested in seeing justice done, I can’t understand why you’re so unwilling to try and track Adrienne down. After all, she might not have gotten on that plane to Bermuda. Maybe she’s holed up somewhere. She might have some important information to share.”

  He picked up the folder, tapped the edge of it against the desk. “I greatly doubt that.”

  “Why? You haven’t even tried—”

  “It’s kind of hard to get information out of a dead woman.”

  My jaw dropped and I stared, stunned at Daniel’s casual confirmation of what Ollie had told me Nick Atkins had thought he’d seen. “Adrienne is dead—that’s terrible,” I stammered. “Are you sure?”

  His blond head inclined in a curt nod. “Quite sure, yes.”

  “Oh. Well, do you know how she died? Where was her body found?”

  He looked me straight in the eye. “I do. Her body was found in the infirmary of the Metropolitan Correctional Center in Chicago.”

  My breath caught, threatened to choke me. “P-prison? She died in prison? But—that’s impossible! How could her body have gotten there?”

  “It was there because she was a resident.”

  I shook my head. “I’m sorry. I’m confused.”

  He removed a sheet of paper from the folder and passed it across to me. “Read for yourself. Adrienne Sloane died in prison, the apparent victim of an asthma attack. She choked on her own vomit.” He paused. “And her sister, Lola Sloane Grainger, claimed her body—two years ago.”

  NINETEEN

  It was close to eleven o’clock when the police cruiser dropped me off at Hot Bread. Daniel had insisted on a police escort for me, over my protests that I could take a cab. For my own protection, he’d said. Personally, I had the notion he thought that, left to my own devices, I’d head right back to the marina, and he’d have been right. I was dying of curiosity—and worry. I needed to know what happened to Nick.

  I let myself in through the store entrance, switched on the lights, and went straight into the kitchen. My rumbling stomach reminded me I hadn’t had anything to eat since lunchtime. I pulled eggs, a slab of bacon, some boiled ham, and a stick of cheddar cheese out of the fridge and set them on the counter. I put some slices of bacon on a plate and slipped it into the microwave, then set a frying pan on the stove on low flame. I sliced some ham and cheddar, then cracked eggs in a small bowl, added a dash of milk, and pulled my whisk out of the drawer. A few minutes later I poured the mixture into the frying pan, added some bits of the bacon slices and chopped-up ham and cheddar. Ten minutes later I was seated at the table nearest the rear entrance, a fluffy omelet and glass of milk in front of me. My fork was halfway to my lips when I paused.

  Was I mistaken, or was that a scratching sound at the rear door?

  I gave the omelet a longing look, set down the fork, crossed over to the door, and opened it. Nick squatted there, golden eyes wide. His fur was matted and he had some leaves and twigs sticking out of his back. His white ruff was slightly soiled, but otherwise, he looked none the worse for wear. As I stared at him, startled, he pushed past me and walked right inside, straight over to where I’d been sitting. He hopped up on my chair, squatted right in front of my plate, and proceeded to eat my omelet.

  I stared at him, and then closed the door and hurried over to where he was busily chowing down on my dinner. I snatched him up and enveloped him in a big hug.

  “Nick! You’re all right.” I held him back a bit and frowned. “How did you get all these leaves in your fur? What happened? Where have you been? And what happened to that envelope?”

  “Er-up!” He blinked at me and then his tongue darted out to graze my cheek.

  “Aw, I’m glad to see you, too. But how in hell—”

  “Meower,” he bleated and squirmed out of my arms, gave me a baleful look, then squatted back in front of the plate. He continued eating.

  “Okay, I get it. First things first.”

  I was damn curious as to what had transpired—maybe even as curious as a cat. I had no idea, though, how I was ever going to find out what exactly had gone down—probably because the one person who could tell me couldn’t talk. He glanced up from the plate and flicked his tail, and I got a good whiff of him.

  “Hoo boy,” I cried, waving my hand in the air. “You smell like you’ve been digging ditches.”

  I paused as a sudden thought occurred to me and I gave Nick a stern look. “Is that what you did with the envelope? Did you bury it somewhere?”

  He glanced over his shoulder at me and I swear he grinned.

  “Like a dog—that’s an understatement.” I shook my head. “Well, fine, be that way. Tomorrow you and I will take a ride back to the ‘scene of the crime,’ so to speak. Maybe we’ll pay Ollie a visit, too. I’ve got a lot I need to talk over with him.”

  My stomach growled again. I gave it a swift pat, crossed back to the fridge, pulled out some more eggs and cheddar. I saw Nick’s head jerk up as I closed the refrigerator door.

  “Oh, no.” I wagged my finger at him. “You’ve had an entire omelet. My entire omelet, to be exact. Now it’s my turn.”

  He tossed me a plaintive look. “Ew-werr,” he said, and then began to purr softly. I set the eggs and cheese on the counter and went over, gave his ears a quick scratch.

  “I really wish you could talk, Nick. Tell me where you’ve been, how you got so dirty—and what you did with that envelope. But not to worry—I’ll figure something out.” I wrinkled my nose. “Would you like me to clean you up a bit? Give you a quick bath?”

  His head snapped up and then he hopped off the table and, tail held high, stalked over to the far corner, where he flopped on one side and proceeded to lick himself.

  “Okay, fine.” I laughed as I started beating up some more eggs. “Do it yourself.”

  “Meower,” he
answered. Then he coughed up one honey of a hairball.

  Yuck.

  * * *

  I’d just finished my omelet and sat down (again) when I heard a soft knock at the back door. I frowned over at Nick, who’d stretched out in front of the back counter and was now fast asleep. I crossed over to the door, opened it a crack, then gave a little cry when I saw who stood outside and swung the door open.

  “Ollie! What on earth!”

  “Hello, Nora. I hope you’re not upset by me dropping by. I know it’s very late.”

  “Are you kidding?” I grinned. “I’m glad to see you. I was planning to call you tomorrow. Come on in. What are you doing here?”

  Ollie took off the light jacket he wore and draped it across one arm. “Like I said, I hope you don’t mind. I have a few friends on the Cruz force, and I happened to be talking to one when you—ah—happened to drop in.”

  I felt my cheeks start to flame. “Oh.”

  “Of course, he didn’t tell me all the details, but it seems to me you were pretty brave.” His tongue clucked against the roof of his mouth. “You know, you could have called me. I’d have accompanied you.”

  “Thanks, but I didn’t want to bother you.”

  There was no mistaking the twinkle in his eyes as he answered, “Are you sure? Or could it be you just didn’t want me to reiterate my earlier warning to you—you know the one about TNT.”

  I grinned. “A little bit of both, I guess.”

  “Fair enough.” His eyes darted around the room, lit up as they rested on Nick, who’d arisen, wakened no doubt by the sounds of voices, and was stretching his front paws out. “Ah, and there’s little Sherlock—sorry, little Nick now. It’ll take me a bit to get used to his new name. He looks splendid, Nora.”

  “Yeah, pretty splendid indeed considering he had to walk at least twenty miles tonight. It’s at least that far from here to the marina, wouldn’t you say?”

  Ollie’s eyes widened. “You took him with you?”

  I shrugged. “I know. I should have left him here, but to tell you the truth, I wanted company. And he was pretty insistent on accompanying me.”

  “Yes, he always did hate to be alone.”

  I moved over to my coffeepot. “How about I make some coffee and fill you in on what happened? There are some new aspects to this case I sure could use a fresh perspective on.”

  He held up his hand. “Say no more. I said I’d help you any way I can, and I meant it.”

  Nick sidled up to Ollie, plopped down right in front of him, and began to purr loudly.

  “Ah, he remembers me, I think. How are you, cat formerly known as Sherlock?” He laughed. His gaze swept Nick up and down and he shot me a puzzled look. “Is that a leaf in his fur?”

  “Yep. Guess I missed this one.” I reached down, plucked it out, and tossed it into the trash. “Say, how would you feel about taking a little ride with us?”

  “A ride?” His eyes narrowed. “Now? Where?”

  “No, not right now. We’ll have some coffee first.” I folded my arms across my chest. “As to where—honestly, I’m not sure. It depends.”

  “Depends on what?”

  “On where Nick might have buried the evidence.”

  Ollie’s jaw dropped. “Evidence? Of what?”

  “Not sure about that, either,” I admitted. I reached for the coffeepot. “Have a seat. It’s a long story.”

  * * *

  A half pot of coffee later, Ollie was pretty much up to speed.

  “It sounds to me as if the killer was specifically after Patti,” he observed.

  I paused, mug halfway to my lips. “Why do you say that?”

  “Because Lott was only knocked out and not killed. Of course, your arrival could have saved the man. We’ll probably never know.”

  I held up my hand. “I’d agree with you, Ollie, if I hadn’t seen her body with my own eyes. Patti was killed with two clean shots—head and heart. Do I have to tell you what that means?”

  He frowned. “But why would a professional hit man be after her?”

  “Maybe he wasn’t. Maybe he was after the envelope I found, and she was in the wrong place at the wrong time.” I leaned forward and cupped my chin in my hand. “What if Adrienne wasn’t off the mark with her suggestion to Nick? Maybe the evidence has something to do with Kevin, and Patti was trying to get it back for him.” I sighed. “I asked a friend of mine to check into a possible connection between Grainger and West Coast mobs, but—what if he’s not a born-and-bred Californian?”

  Ollie considered this, then slowly nodded. “Good point. I can’t ever remember reading much about Kevin Grainger’s early years, now that you mention it. Most articles that touch on his past begin with college.”

  “Then there’s a chance he’s a transplant.” I pulled a pad over to me. “I’ll make a note to call Hank, have him check out some East Coast crime families, see if anything turns up.” I scribbled on the paper, and then met Ollie’s gaze again. “The most significant thing I learned tonight, though, is that Nick Atkins was right in what he told you. Adrienne Sloane is dead.”

  Ollie’s eyes widened. “Really? Her body was found?” His tongue darted out, licked at his bottom lip. “Did they—did they also find . . .”

  I shook my head. “No, your partner is still MIA. As for Adrienne, well, she didn’t die on the docks.”

  “She didn’t?”

  I stretched my legs out in front of me. “She died in prison. Complications from an asthma attack, as I understand it—two years ago.”

  Ollie’s eyes popped wide. “Two years?” He rubbed absently at his temple. “But that can’t be. Nick spoke with her the day he disappeared, and then he got that text—and she was most certainly not in prison.”

  I reached into my tote and pulled out the sheet of paper Corleone had given me. I placed it in front of Ollie. “See for yourself. It’s dated two years ago, and while it’s pretty brief, all the salient facts are there. Including the fact she was survived by her only living relative, her sister, Lola Sloane Grainger.”

  Ollie skimmed the article, then handed it back to me. “This doesn’t make any sense at all. If Adrienne Sloane is dead, then who hired Nick? Her ghost?”

  “I don’t know, but it couldn’t have been the real Adrienne Sloane.” I took the paper back and eyed him. “It is odd, though. There was a note in Nick’s journal—it said he checked her out, and she passed.”

  Ollie pursed his lips. “Nick may not have done as thorough a job as he should have. Oh, I recall she showed him tons of ID, but as for any background checks—he only did the bare minimum. He was so intrigued by the case, and the potential notoriety . . . Besides, who’d ever expect Lola Sloane to have a jailbird sister?”

  “True—let alone one who’s already dead.”

  “What prison did she die in? This article doesn’t say.”

  “Metropolitan Correctional Center in Chicago. Oh!” I stopped speaking as a sudden thought occurred to me. “You said Nick checked out mob families and crime in Chicago. Do you think it could have had anything to do with Adrienne? That perhaps he suspected something wasn’t quite right?”

  “Nick never said what he was looking for,” Ollie said thoughtfully. “If he had suspicions, he never shared them with me.”

  I thought of the missing journal pages. “Might he have written them down somewhere?”

  “He could have.”

  We sat silently for several minutes, sipping our coffee. At length, Ollie turned back to me. “It just doesn’t make sense, Nora. Why would someone masquerade as Lola’s dead sister and hire Nick to prove Lola was murdered?”

  I tapped my chin. “Why indeed? Unless we’re looking at this all wrong. Perhaps there is no masquerade. Maybe the Adrienne Sloane who was in prison isn’t dead. Maybe she faked her death. Maybe the woman who came to Nick is Adr
ienne Sloane.”

  He cocked his head to one side. “O-kay. Why would she fake her own death?”

  I shoved the heel of my hand through my hair. “Damned if I know. Maybe it’s connected to her prison stay. Maybe she made enemies who swore to kill her.”

  Ollie scratched at his left ear. “That seems rather melodramatic to me. What could she have done that would be so life-threatening? We need to know more about what she was in prison for. You were in Chicago during this time frame—you never heard of her at all?”

  “No, but that doesn’t necessarily mean anything.” I pushed back from the table and stood up. “I’ll look into this more thoroughly but right now, it’s time for our field trip.” I raised my voice. “Nick!”

  The cat rose from his position in front of the stove and trotted over to us. Ollie leaned down to rub his ears, and frowned.

  “I never noticed that white streak behind his ear before,” he murmured. “Nick had one, too—behind the same ear, I think.”

  Nick glanced up at us, and his whiskers twitched. “Er-ow!”

  Ollie laughed. “I’m telling you, he understands every word we say. He’s a real smart cat—smarter than some humans.”

  “And we’re about to find out just how smart he is,” I said. I picked up my car keys and dangled them in front of Nick, who blinked back at me. Twice.

  “Come on, Nick. Flex those kitty paws of yours. It’s time for you to dig up some evidence.”

  TWENTY

  Norton Park, located adjacent to the pier, wasn’t exactly a small, kiddie-type park. I imagined it was probably quite busy in the daytime, and quite beautiful, too. Fortunately it wasn’t one of those that were kept closed at night—anyone could walk, or drive, through its spacious grounds, as Ollie, Nick, and I were doing now. Nick rode shotgun in the front, and Ollie sat in the back, his long legs swung off to the side.

  I drove my SUV along its panhandle and wound around its curving roads, past beds of beautiful, multicolored flowers, past the children’s park with an honest-to-goodness antique carousel, past the small petting zoo. I turned down a lane heavy with trees, and felt like Snow White when she’d been trapped in the forest after the Huntsman had spared her life and told her to get the hell out of Dodge. It was spooky being here at night, especially with the moon playing peekaboo from behind the dark clouds, appearing at intervals to bathe us in its silvery glow.