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

by T. C. LoTempio

  “I’m not certain I’m clear on what we’re supposed to be looking for,” ventured Ollie.

  “Neither am I,” I replied. “That’s Nick’s department. I’m hoping he’ll let me know when to stop.”

  “Are you sure this is the right place?”

  “It’s situated beside the marina, and it’s the only place I can think of where Nick would have gotten so dirty. Let’s hope I’m right.”

  At last we reached the wooded section of the park that was closest to the pier. Nick pressed his nose against the windowpane. As I rounded a fork in the road, he suddenly let out a loud wail.

  “Uh-oh, I think I may have passed it.” I put the SUV into reverse and slowly backed up. When I got to the fork, Nick tapped his paw against the window and wailed again.

  “Okay, okay.” I turned onto the wide trail that stretched through the thicket of trees and drove at a snail’s pace. “Nick—is anything familiar?” I asked after I’d gone about half a mile.

  He sat up on his hind legs and tapped his paws against the glass, his chubby body shaking. I pulled over to the side. “Okay, okay. Don’t get excited.”

  In the backseat Ollie snickered, then looked a bit chagrined when I shot him a look. I couldn’t actually blame him too much, though—after all, it was like something out of a fantasy novel. I spoke to Nick like he was a person and could answer me, although to be perfectly honest? I wouldn’t have been a bit surprised if he had.

  Nick took off at a brisk canter through the heavily wooded area, so fast, in fact, that Ollie and I had a bit of a struggle keeping up. Nick ducked under the low-slung branch of a large elm and almost vanished; a second later we caught sight of him, cantering down the winding path to a small open circle. I could smell the salt air, and knew the pier wasn’t too far away. When we reached the clearing, we caught sight of Nick, pacing around a mound of freshly packed earth.

  “How on earth did he ever manage to do this?” I muttered. I kicked at the ground with the toe of my sneaker, and Ollie did the same. A few minutes later I saw the edge of an envelope peep out of the brown earth.

  “Bingo!” I cried, and bent to retrieve the thick manila envelope out of the hole. As I thrust my hand in, my fingers also came in contact with something hard. “There’s something else in this hole.” I pulled out the envelope and the other object—a cell phone, covered in leaves and grime. I brushed the leaves off, and saw a tooth mark embedded in its supple leather case.

  I waved the phone under Nick’s nose. “Did you find this, too? Good Lord, Nick—however did you get both of these off the boat? Did you drag them? Those choppers of yours must be superstrong, just like those forepaws. You’re not from this planet, are you? You’re from Krypton, right?”

  Behind me Ollie chuckled. “If he answers you, do let me know, Nora. I’ll be glad to give up the investigation business to act as his agent. It would be no problem to get him into Vegas, maybe even on Letterman’s Stupid Pet Tricks.”

  “If he actually answered me, I assure you—it would be no trick. If there ever was a candidate for the world’s first ever talking cat—it’s him. But no chance of that ever happening. He has his own method of communicating.”

  Nick gave me a look as if to say, Get with the program.

  I ran my hand along the case, and the ridge of my nail fit perfectly into the tooth mark Nick’s canines had left. “Nice case,” I observed. “Good leather.” I slipped the phone into the back pocket of my dark indigo washed jeans, tucked the envelope under one arm, and then started kicking the dirt back into place with my sneaker. Ollie helped, and twenty minutes later we were all back in my SUV. I brushed an errant curl out of my eyes, leaving a streak of mud across one cheek as I turned the envelope over in my hands. I tapped my finger on the tape that sealed it.

  “Whatever is in here must be important enough to kill for,” I said. I lifted the envelope and shook it. “There’s something heavy in here.” I let out a low whistle. “Man, if I wasn’t impressed with Nick’s resourcefulness before, I am now.”

  Ollie inclined his head toward the wood. “Let’s take it back to your house and look at it. This place creeps me out.”

  We exited the park, but instead of turning right and heading back toward Hot Bread, I made a left.

  “Shortcut?” asked Ollie.

  I shook my head.

  “I just want to take one more look at the yacht. I know, I know—it’s crazy, and I’m sure Daniel has men watching it, but—dammit, I just can’t figure out how the darn cat did all this.”

  Ollie laughed. “Haven’t you ever learned that in life there are just certain things you have to accept without question? I believe they call it faith.”

  I drove down the pier, slowing down considerably as we approached slip number nine. We all peered out the window. The yacht looked much as it had when I’d left it, dark and deserted, everything the same save for the yellow crime scene tape stretched across the front entrance. A sudden thought hit me and I glanced over my shoulder at Ollie. “Maybe this envelope wasn’t even Lola’s. What if it was Patti’s?”

  Ollie’s eyes narrowed. “Then what was it doing hidden in Lola’s stateroom?”

  I considered this for a moment. “Maybe Lola found out that whatever’s in here had something to do with this secret her husband is supposed to have. I’ll bet anything Patti found out Lola took it. They fought over it, and that’s how Lola went overboard.” I sat back, quite impressed with my deductive reasoning, hoping Ollie was as well.

  “So if we go along with your theory and accept that Patti is the one who killed Lola, the only people who would possibly want to see her dead would be (A) the grieving husband, provided he didn’t want Patti in his life as the next Mrs. Grainger, or (B) her sister, Adrienne Sloane, who wanted revenge for her sister’s murder, but whose very existence is now questionable.”

  “Oh, I think she definitely exists,” I said. “We just aren’t sure at the moment if she’s dead or alive.”

  “This case has more twists and turns than the Runaway Train at Disneyland.” Ollie sighed. “Nick—human Nick—used to love that ride.”

  “So do I,” I admitted. “Frankly it surprises me Nick Atkins would enjoy something like that. From the little I know.” I bit my tongue and stopped speaking.

  Ollie laughed. “You can say it. From the little you know, Nick Atkins is a jerk, a real piece of work, not the type of guy who’d enjoy an afternoon at Disneyland. You can say it. I have, and so have many, many others.”

  I shot him a sheepish grin. “I admit, at first he sounded like a real jerk. But then . . .” I tugged at a curl. “I don’t know. I think—maybe I might have ended up liking him.”

  In the seat next to me Nick made a rumbling sound.

  “Most women did.” Ollie sighed. “He had a charisma that was difficult to pass up.”

  “I can’t speak to his charisma,” I said. “But I certainly can speak to his taste in pets. After all, he adopted little Nick here, the world’s smartest cat—right?”

  Ollie smiled. “Remember when I told you the cat found you, Nora? Well, it was pretty much the same with Nick. Little Nick found him, not the other way around. Nick was hesitant about having a pet at first, too, but it wasn’t long before he was hooked.”

  I raised one eyebrow. “Really? That sounds like it has all the makings of a very intriguing story.”

  “Oh, it does.” Ollie nodded mysteriously. “Remind me to tell it to you . . . someday.”

  I glanced over at Nick and cocked one eyebrow. “So—you picked out both me and Atkins to be your master, huh? What’s that all about?”

  Nick blinked his golden eyes twice. Then he coughed up another huge hairball.

  * * *

  Back home, I searched in my cabinet and came up with the hairball medicine Chantal had thoughtfully purchased. I put some on a tiny plastic spoon and held it out
toward Nick. He hesitated, sniffed at it, then lapped it off the spoon.

  “Sorry, pal. I know it probably doesn’t taste as good as cherry cough syrup, but this is the best they make for cats. Next time you decide to dig a giant hole, maybe you’ll let me help you clean up afterward, instead of doing it all yourself.”

  He looked at me, squeezed both eyes shut, and stuck his nose up in the air. So much for friendly advice.

  I picked up the envelope and carried it to the kitchen table, where Ollie had fresh mugs of coffee waiting. I pulled the cell phone out of my pocket and laid it next to the envelope. Then I took my letter opener, picked up the envelope, and made a clean slit across the tape. I lifted the flap, turned the envelope on its side.

  Three photographs fell out, and a square of tissue.

  Ollie shot me a puzzled look. “This is it? This is what you think Patti Simmons got herself killed over? This is what tipped Lola off to the big secret about her husband?” He snorted. “Looks like junk to me.”

  I picked up the first photograph, a black-and-white studio shot of a young man with wide eyes, a pug nose, and light hair. His face was split in a wide, carefree smile. There was something about his eyes that struck a chord in me—maybe it was the oddly haunted expression in them, for one so young—he looked barely seventeen. I turned the photo over.

  “Karl Goring,” I read. “Who the hell is Karl Goring?”

  Ollie, meanwhile, was unwrapping the square of tissue. “There’s something hard inside here,” he announced. “Lots of tape, too. Whoever wrapped this up did an excellent job.”

  While Ollie busied himself with the tissue, I turned my attention to the next photograph. It was apparently taken at a dinner honoring the KMG staff, some months before. Seated in a circle around the table were Kevin, Lola, Buck Tabor and his wife, Marshall Connor and a date, and Patti Simmons, obviously alone, seated on Kevin’s left. Patti wore a very low-cut dress, with a large brooch square in the middle of her cleavage. The only other piece of jewelry she wore was a ring on the middle finger of her right hand. Her face was turned slightly toward her boss, and there was no denying the light in her eyes as she looked at him, or the look of rapturous happiness on her face.

  “God, Patti was in love with Kevin.” I shook the photograph in the air. “I mean, it’s so obvious in this photo. And look at Lola’s face—she sees it, too. How could you miss it!”

  Ollie took a quick glance. “Nothing looks out of the ordinary to me.”

  “That figures. You’re a man. Men can’t see it. But it’s very obvious to a woman. Maybe this is the secret—proof Patti was in love with Kevin.”

  The last photo had tumbled out facedown. I turned it over. It was a smaller group shot, three men and two women at a table. The men all looked dapper, in three-piece suits. One was smoking a cigar. I turned my attention to the women and pointed to the one on the left.

  “She’s a redhead in this photo, but I could swear that’s Patti Simmons,” I said. “That’s some dress she’s got on. If it were cut any lower, this would be in Playboy.”

  “I don’t believe it.”

  Ollie’s eyes were round and wide, practically bugging out of his head. I gripped his arm. “What’s wrong?”

  “I—I’m not sure,” he stammered. “But that picture . . . not Patti. The other woman.”

  I leaned in for a closer look. The woman seated next to Patti gave the impression of being slender, with long, red-brown hair curling to her shoulders. Her makeup was skillfully applied and showed off high cheekbones, full lips, sparkling eyes. “She’s pretty. Why, Ollie, what’s wrong about it?”

  His voice trembled. “I could be wrong, but I don’t think so. I saw her once, when she visited Nick, and I’d seen other pictures. I know that woman.” His finger shot out, tapped at the face.

  “She’s the one who hired Nick. That’s Adrienne Sloane.”

  TWENTY-ONE

  “Adrienne Sloane,” I cried and peered more closely at the photo. “Are you sure?”

  “Well, let’s put it this way. It’s the woman who claimed to be Adrienne Sloane. Her real identity is yet to be determined. It’s her, I know it as sure as I know my name is Oliver Jebediah Sampson.” He stopped speaking abruptly, clapped one hand across his mouth. “Oh, dear!”

  Ah, the damage had already been done. I grinned at him. “Jebediah? Really?”

  He sniffed. “Yes, really. It was my mother’s father’s name.”

  “Oliver Jebediah Sampson. Say—O. J. Sampson. Sounds almost like—”

  His hand shot out. “You don’t have to say it. I’ve heard all the jokes a million times since that trial in 1995. Why do you think I never tell people my middle name?” He massaged his forehead lightly with his fingers. “I never told Nick, either. God—he’d never have let me live it down.”

  I stifled a grin, then turned the photo over and pointed to numbers written in ink on the reverse. “See the date? October, four years ago. It can’t be Adrienne. Adrienne would have been in prison then.”

  Ollie blinked. “Maybe, maybe not. After all, we don’t know what she was jailed for, or when. All we know is she supposedly died there two years ago.”

  “I guess.” I traced each of the women’s faces with the edge of my nail. “So, let’s say this is a photo of Adrienne and Patti—where do they know each other from?”

  Ollie leaned in for a closer look. “Well, judging from the attire—one would almost think they were in the world’s oldest profession.”

  I worried my bottom lip as I stared at the photo. “There’s something wrong with that theory, though. Kevin’s company does work for the government. His HR Department has to do extensive background checks on everyone. If Patti had a prison record, would she have been hired as his confidential admin? I doubt it.”

  “Background information can be faked. After all, Adrienne Sloane—or whoever she was—apparently was able to do it. Of course, that begs the question, why did she go to all that trouble?”

  I got up, crossed over to one of the drawers, and returned holding my Ginsu knife. I picked up the tiny square and made one quick, clean incision. The tissue separated, revealing the object buried square in its middle.

  I picked up the ring and turned it over in my hand. It had a thick, gold cigar band, inlaid with a large square cut stone. The cameo in the stone’s center was a knight’s helmet in profile, and it stood out, deep gold against stark black, giving it an almost 3-D effect. I turned the ring over in my hand, then set it back on the tissue.

  “It’s definitely an expensive piece. That black stone looks like pure onyx, and the carving is most likely gold, I’m guessing eighteen karat. But I agree, this just doesn’t seem like the type of jewelry Patti would own.” I studied it, my brow furrowed. I had the distinct feeling I’d seen it—or something similar—somewhere before, but the memory was elusive, like a wisp of smoke.

  “Maybe she bought it as a gift,” suggested Ollie. “In any event, I wonder why it’s in with those pictures.”

  I rewrapped the ring in the tissue. “I’m sure it means something—but as to what, I wouldn’t even attempt to hazard a guess. Onyx is a very energetic stone—the ancient Egyptians used it for protection. Maybe this was her good luck talisman.”

  I set the rewrapped ring down on top of the photo and reached for the cell phone. I slipped it out of the case and held it up. It was an older model, I’d guess a good four years at least. “Well, Lola didn’t go for the newest in phones apparently. This model is several years old. Can’t get Internet access or take pictures with this model,” Ollie observed.

  “My mother always said Lola was a simple, no-nonsense type of woman who didn’t care much for frills or bells and whistles. She probably just wanted a simple phone—you know, one you could just turn on and make a call from. She must have felt she didn’t require all the other adornments.”

  I
pressed the green button and the phone lit up. “I’m not familiar with this model. I want to find the call history.”

  I touched the key in the upper-left-hand corner. A screen appeared that said, Messaging. Number 5 was voice mail, and the number in brackets after that title indicated there were three voice messages waiting retrieval.

  I bit at my lower lip. “We’ll need a password for this, right?”

  “Maybe there’s a way around it. Hit 5.”

  “Here goes nothing,” I said, and pressed the required button. A tinny mechanical voice instructed me to “Please enter your password, then press pound.”

  “Aargh.” I ran both hands through my mass of hair. “Still need a password. Any ideas?”

  “Most people use something simple, like a birthday, or a name, or initials.”

  I had no idea in hell what Lola’s birthday was, so I keyed in her name. The mechanical voice said, “Sorry, your password is incorrect. Please try again.”

  This time I keyed in Kevin’s name. Same response. I tried just Lola’s initials. Same response.

  “We’re probably going to get locked out soon,” I growled. “Something’s gotta work.”

  “Her anniversary,” suggested Ollie. “That’s the day after she died—August fifteenth, right? Try that?”

  I keyed in the date. Same negative mechanical response. This really sucked.

  “Try that date and their combined initials: LKG,” Ollie said at last. “If that doesn’t work I don’t know what to tell you. I’m fresh out of ideas. Nick was the hacker in our partnership.”