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

by T. C. LoTempio

“Yes, sir. May I?” I indicated the empty seat with a wave of my hand. He hesitated, so I slid into the seat before he could protest. “I won’t be long. I just wanted to explain about the contract.”

  He hesitated, then nodded. “Go ahead.”

  “I did intend to pick it up, and I actually did speak to Mr. Grainger about making an appointment with you to talk about the possibility of our catering future events.”

  Connor’s brows knit together. “Kevin saw you?” His tone clearly implied he found that to be incredulous—I wasn’t quite sure if I should feel insulted or not.

  “We, ah, kind of ran into each other. I had intentions of stopping by your office but I suddenly remembered another appointment I couldn’t break. I was going to call your admin when I got home, tell her to just mail it on out.” When he didn’t say anything, I went on, “I’m not sure how much Ms. Simmons might have told anyone, but my mother had an exclusive agreement with the late Mrs. Grainger to cater all of KMG’s functions. Naturally, I wouldn’t expect any favors or preferential treatment, but as I indicated to Mr. Grainger, I would like the opportunity going forward to bid on any catering events KMG might be planning.”

  His lips quirked, a half smile. “I’ve never been to your shop, Ms. Charles, but I have sampled some of the food your mother used to prepare. If you’re half the cook your mother was, and your price range is in the ballpark, I don’t see any reason why we couldn’t do business.”

  I tossed him a bright smile. “Thank you. That’s certainly a load off my mind.” I paused for a fraction of a second before adding, “Mr. Grainger mentioned he hadn’t made a decision as yet on his new catering manager.”

  “That’s correct.”

  “I imagine you’ll hold the position for a while, then. I couldn’t help but overhear you say he’d be away indefinitely?” At his nod, I said, “It must be a real emergency—I spoke with him at KMG less than two hours ago.”

  Connor’s gaze narrowed. “Yes. It’s something that came up rather suddenly. It has to do with our new defense contract.” He glanced first right, then left, and said in a whisper, “I’m sorry, Ms. Charles. I really can’t talk about it. I’m sure you understand.”

  “Oh, of course. I didn’t mean to pry. It’s just I mentioned to Mr. Grainger that I thought perhaps he’d give the job to Alicia Samuels, but he intimated she might be away for quite a while.”

  “That’s correct.”

  “He didn’t seem at all certain whether or not she’d be back. Some of the secretaries I spoke to seemed under the impression she wouldn’t be.”

  He leaned back in the chair, his fingers toying with the edge of his napkin. “Office gossip is rarely correct, although it usually holds a grain of truth. Alicia is out on leave—a family emergency, I believe. It’s true, she didn’t specify a return date, but she didn’t hand in an official resignation, either. As a result”—he spread his hands—“we’re in limbo, and I’ve got myself another hat to wear. Does that clarify things for you?”

  “Yes, thanks. Since you’ll be in charge for a while, I do have some catering brochures I’d like to drop off, and—”

  “No problem. You can mail them directly to my attention.” He drummed his fingers on the black-and-white-checked tablecloth. “As for your contract, you should receive it tomorrow. My admin FedEx’d it out this evening.”

  “Great. I’ll be certain to look for it.”

  Connor scraped his chair back, but I wasn’t quite ready to end our conversation just yet. “You’ve been aboard the Lady L a few times, I understand. Not only just on that tragic weekend?”

  He paused and looked at me. “Kevin often treated the men to fishing weekends. We haven’t had one, though, since Lola’s death.”

  “Understandable.” I inclined my head toward his tie clip. “I couldn’t help noticing. That’s a lovely piece. Scrimshaw?”

  Connor’s fingers lightly touched the clip. “Yes. It was a birthday gift from Kevin, as a matter of fact.”

  “I take it you like scrimshaw, then?”

  “I’ve collected some pieces in my time.”

  “Have you ever been to Captain Lott’s office on the marina? He has quite a scrimshaw collection himself.”

  Connor nodded. “I’ve seen it. Very impressive.”

  “Some of those pieces are really unusual. I thought the animals were very unique. And that ring—I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  Connor frowned. “Ring?”

  “Yes, I noticed it in his case when I was there a few days ago. A beautiful scrimshaw of a knight’s helmet, quite large. It’s set off to the side, but it’s such an unusual piece, I think he should give it more prominence.”

  “Really?” His brow puckered in thought. “Odd—I don’t ever recall seeing a ring in that case. It must be a new addition.”

  “When was the last time you were in his office?”

  “Well, let’s see. I dropped off some correspondence from Kevin on my way home a few weeks ago. I didn’t notice a ring. If it’s as unusual as you say, I’d certainly like to have a look at it.” He stared off into space for several seconds, then turned back to me. “It had an etching of a knight’s helmet, you say?”

  “Yes. It was quite . . . unusual.”

  “Not so unusual, if you ask me.” Connor rose, dropped a twenty on the table. “Now that I think of it, Alicia had a ring with a knight’s head on it as well. Used to wear it around her neck on a chain.”

  “Really? Was it scrimshaw, too?”

  He shook his head. “Heck no. One of those bas-relief cameos, gold against black onyx. It was set in a thick gold band, real expensive. Looked more like a men’s ring.”

  TWENTY-SIX

  Pedaling back to Hot Bread, I was reminded of a quote—oddly enough from Nick Atkins’s favorite detective, Sherlock Holmes:

  “When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.”

  Well, my solution was neat, even if there were some gaping holes. And I was certain it would sound very improbable, particularly to Detective Daniel (or was it Agent Daniel?) but . . . I was relatively certain it was the truth—the pieces, however ragged, certainly fit. I just needed to find some bit of evidence to confirm my suspicions.

  * * *

  Chantal greeted me as I walked in the back door. Everything had been quiet, and except for Nick clawing a few of her cat collar drawings to shreds, nothing of any event had occurred. Before she left, she enveloped me in a giant bear hug; I hugged back, a bit restrained. I didn’t need Chantal’s psychic powers picking up on my theory, or on what I planned to do about it—even though I still wasn’t quite sure of the latter myself.

  Nick looked serene, almost angelic, as I filled his bowl with some leftover tuna salad. As he plopped his rotund bottom in front of his dinner, I poured myself a cup of coffee and sat down at the table next to him. I sipped slowly and recounted aloud the afternoon’s events, what I’d found out, my conversation with Connor, and finally my theory on what must have happened.

  For one, I was convinced that Adrienne—or Alicia—had taken that job at KMG to be near her sister, even though she couldn’t reveal her true identity.

  I was also certain that Karl Goring and Kevin Grainger were one and the same. Something in Grainger’s tone had struck a chord with me when he spoke about Chicago, and even before that, I’d gotten a sense something just didn’t add up. Face-to-face with him, I suddenly realized what it was that bothered me—his eyes. Yes, you can change a person’s overall appearance, change their name, even their backstory, their history—but there’s just something about someone’s eyes that defies total change, particularly when it comes to eye shape, or a certain look. When he relaxed, Kevin Grainger had that same haunted look in his eyes that Karl Goring had in that photograph. I double-checked dates while I was at the library—Kevin Grainger made hi
s appearance in California right around the same time Karl Goring met his unfortunate end. Coupling that with the whole initial thing:

  Karl Goring

  Kevin Grainger

  KG

  It fit.

  I took my theory a step further. Somehow—and I hadn’t worked out just how, but no one knew better than me how the mob had its ways—the Gianellis got a tip that Karl and Kevin were one and the same. Naturally, they would want revenge on Karl for putting Giancarlo away—especially since he died in prison. But they couldn’t risk killing an innocent guy and the trail leading back to them—particularly now that they were under FBI surveillance. Enter their mole—Patti. Patti’s job must have been to definitely determine that Kevin was Karl, and notify her contact, who would ultimately finish the job. But she fell in love with Kevin and, even after obtaining the proof, couldn’t bring herself to rat him out. In the meantime, Adrienne slash Alicia recognized her and figured she must be up to no good. Alicia decided to warn Lola that Patti was up to something, and Lola got her hands on the evidence, must have realized what it meant. Either Patti caught her or Lola confronted her—in either scenario, there was an argument and somehow—either accidentally or on purpose—Lola fell overboard. The bruise at the base of Lola’s skull led me to believe her fall wasn’t entirely accidental. And Adrienne, knowing full well her sister’s death was no accident, takes a leave from her job as Alicia Samuels and hires Nick Atkins to help her prove it—which she has to do under her real name, of course, because why would Alicia Samuels give a rat’s ass about how Lola Grainger died?

  Which, of course, also meant she had to fake Adrienne Sloane’s death, just in case it somehow got back to the mob. She must have called Nick Atkins down to the dock that night to witness her “death”—but then what happened? Both Adrienne—and Atkins—seemed to vanish into thin air.

  Not that I expected Nick to listen—it just sometimes made more sense to voice my thoughts out loud. When I’d finished, however, I happened to glance down. I sucked in my breath at what I saw.

  Nick’s bowl was still three-quarters full. He squatted in front of it, his head facing me, and it was cocked to one side, his eyes slitted as if in concentration.

  It almost looked as if he’d deliberately stopped eating to listen to what I had to say.

  I looked at him over the rim of my coffee cup. “I’m flattered you’d stop gobbling down that tuna just for me,” I said. “You’re certainly a much better audience than Daniel would have been.” This elicited a little purr of pleasure. “And I’d be the first one to say my solution makes everything all neat and tidy, and nine times out of ten—well, cases don’t work that way. But honestly, this is the only way I can account for everything that’s happened.”

  Nick sat up on his haunches and pawed at the air.

  “Yes, I realize there are still tons of unanswered questions. Like for example, the rings. How do they figure in all this? Connor described that ring to a T, and he said Alicia used to wear it around her neck. I’ll bet Patti took it from her—why, I have no idea. And how did the ring in that photo that belongs to Carlo Wyatt end up in Lott’s scrimshaw case? Where the heck is Adrienne? Did she kill Patti, or is it someone else? Why hasn’t another attempt been made on Grainger’s life? And maybe the question that’s most important to you—what happened to your owner when he went down to the docks to meet Adrienne?”

  A shrill howl emitted from Nick’s throat. If I didn’t know better, I’d have said it was almost like a warning. I ran my fingers through my hair. “Don’t worry, Nick. Nothing’s going to happen to me like it happened to your former owner.”

  He stopped howling and cocked his head at me, almost as if to say, How can you be sure, puny human?

  I got up, crossed to the stove, and refilled my coffee cup. I added some milk and sugar and carried it back to the table. I took a long sip, then rested my chin in my hands. “Of course, Patti could have also been the hit man. Hit person,” I mused, “but somehow I don’t think so. I think her job was just to be a mole—to make sure that Kevin was Karl. The hit man was someone else—her murderer, most likely. And just what is Mr. Daniel Corleone’s role in all this? Is he a small-town detective, or an FBI special agent?” I made a face. “If he weren’t so dead set against me participating in all this, I could have run these theories by him. Maybe I still should.”

  “Owwwr.” Nick clawed at the air. He bared his fangs and spat. “Ow-ewer.”

  “Okay, you’re right. He’d probably dismiss me with some smart-ass remark about interfering in police business.” I smiled. “The focus right now should be finding Adrienne. WPP or not, if she did murder Patti, she’s got to answer for it. Those shots were definitely not fired in self-defense. It was a professional hit—I’ve seen enough to know.”

  Who was left on my suspect list? Not a whole helluva lot, that was for sure. Connor, Tabor, Lott—or could there be yet someone else? I wondered idly what Carlo might be doing these days—was he even still in prison? I could check it out with Hank and Petey, but to be truthful, I was loath to involve them any more than they already were.

  This case was indeed, to quote Ollie Sampson, dy-na-mite. Even more so than Ollie’d originally suspected.

  I leaned back, closed my eyes. “There’s something I’m missing,” I muttered. “It’s something obvious. In all the crime shows on TV, it’s always something really obvious. Take Murder, She Wrote. It’s usually a chance remark or an observation that enables her to crack the case. Where is Jessica Fletcher when you need her the most? Reruns probably.”

  I picked up my coffee cup, shut the store lights, and headed upstairs to my apartment. Nick followed, close at my heels. I walked into my den and eased myself into my mother’s old Barcalounger recliner. I’d set it in front of my bookcase, right next to an antique brass floor lamp I’d picked up at a flea market for ten bucks and a small card table I’d found at a thrift shop for a song. I usually enjoyed sitting here, feet up, to read one of the classic books I enjoyed collecting, but tonight reading was far from my mind. No, my brain was busy, trying to untangle a real Chinese puzzle—one that seemed to be never ending.

  Nick sat at my feet for a few minutes, then in one movement hurled himself up onto the third shelf of my bookcase, and with considerable ease at that. I stared at him, openmouthed.

  Frankly, I’d thought him a bit porky for high jumping but apparently I was wrong. Apparently vertical flight isn’t an issue for cats, no matter what their size.

  I closed my eyes and rubbed at my temples. “That ring holds the key, I’ll bet anything. Wyatt’s ring matches the one I saw in Lott’s scrimshaw case—how did it get there? The ring in the envelope had a knight’s image as well, but it was a different style.” My eyes suddenly snapped open. “The same, yet different. Of course.”

  Nick remained on my bookcase, his girth filling up most of it, paws folded neatly underneath him. I ran downstairs to the knife drawer to retrieve the envelope, which I carried back to the den. I tipped it, and the ring and photo slid onto the table. Then I grabbed my bag and dumped the two printouts from the library next to them.

  “Gianelli liked to give his henchmen symbols,” I muttered, pushing the objects around. “He used his family crest—the knight’s helmet—in all of them, but he didn’t give everyone the same symbol. Wyatt had the scrimshaw ring, Adrienne the onyx. They each symbolize something different—a level in his organization or—maybe a special skill?”

  I jumped as something landed near my feet with a thud. I turned around and saw Nick had risen, and one claw dipped toward an empty slot on the shelf. I leaned over and picked up the small leather volume he’d decided to knock down.

  It was my first edition copy of The Thin Man, by Dashiell Hammett.

  I turned the book over in my hand and gave Nick a sidelong glance. “You do know this is a first edition? Rare, expensive. Okay, it’s your namesake, but even thou
gh you can’t read, you can still show some respect for the printed word.”

  He arranged his portly body in an imperious posture. His claw dipped forward forcefully to graze the tip of the cover. “Owrrr.”

  “What are you trying to tell me? Geez, I wish I could read what’s going on in that kitty brain of yours.”

  I looked at the book again, then back at the objects spread across my card table. My eyes widened and I leaned forward, poking at the photos with an outstretched finger. I stole a quick glance at Nick over my shoulder.

  “You see it, too, don’t you, you rascal. Ollie was right—you definitely have your own method of communicating.”

  “Awwr.” Nick leapt from the shelf to the arm of my Barcalounger and sat there, head and tail held high.

  “Sure.” I laughed. “I guess I should have seen it sooner. I mean, it’s all right here. Once you think about it, it sticks out like a sore thumb.”

  I was reminded also of two of “The Thirty-Six Stratagems,” a Chinese essay used to illustrate a series of stratagems used in politics, war, as well as in civil interaction, often through unorthodox or deceptive means.

  Prepare too much and you lose sight of the big picture; what you see often you do not doubt.

  Roughly translated: We often tend to take what we see at face value, oftentimes overlooking the obvious, which is right in front of our noses, so to speak.

  Create something from nothing

  Create an illusion of something’s existence, while it does not; conversely, create an illusion that something does not exist, while it does.

  Yep. All right there. Now all I had to do was prove it.

  Nick puffed out his chest and yawned.

  I leaned over, reached for my cell phone. “Guess I do have to give Hank one more call after all. Depending on his answer, I’ll know what my next move should be.”

  Nick gave a wise nod. “E-owl.”

  TWENTY-SEVEN