Crime and Catnip

by T. C. LoTempio

  I eased my hip against a glass case. “Let me guess. Someone tried to steal it.”

  Chantal’s head bobbed up and down, her eyes wide. “Yes. They did not succeed, but a guard was badly injured and several artifacts were damaged. The guard got off a shot that he thought might have injured the thief, and it was touch and go with his own injuries for a while, but he recovered. After that the security was increased tenfold.” Her finger shot out, stopping scant inches from my nose. “This could be a very dangerous undertaking.”

  “Well,” I sighed, “at least now I understand why the Cruz police force has been placed on retainer.”

  “Hm. Nothing against our erstwhile police force, but it might not be a bad idea to call in the big guns, too—like, say, a certain FBI agent?” Chantal remarked innocently.

  I shot my friend a sharp grimace. I’d first met FBI Special Agent Daniel Corleone when I was investigating the death of Lola Grainger, and even though we’d gotten off to a rocky start professionally, personally sparks had flown. Getting together wasn’t easy, due mostly to Daniel’s heavy caseload schedule, but we’d managed to eke out a few dates, albeit they’d been mostly lunch. “I don’t think guarding an ancient sorceress’s book of spells is high on the FBI priority list. Besides, Daniel’s busy with a case right now,” I said.

  “It is not just any book of spells. It is considered a valuable historical relic. And Daniel apparently is not too busy to skip meals.” Her smirk was firmly in place, and I had to resist the urge to slap it right off her. “Don’t think I don’t know the two of you had dinner together at Le Bistro two nights ago.”

  I stared at her. “How in the world do you know that? You were out of town.”

  She tapped her temple. “Psychic, remember? I see all, know all.”

  I snorted. “Psychic my petunias. Remy told you. I thought I saw him at the counter getting takeout.”

  Chantal grinned even more smugly, if such a thing were possible. “It doesn’t matter how I know. What matters is how it went. After all, it was your first official date, no?”

  “Well, it was the first time we didn’t get interrupted by an emergency call from the field office, if that’s what you mean. We had dinner, and, yes, it was fun.”

  “Excellent,” she squealed, clapping her hands. “And how did dessert go?”

  “I had frozen yogurt. Daniel had chocolate cake.”

  “Not that kind of dessert,” Chantal said, bouncing her eyebrows. “I meant dessert.”

  “We kissed.” I smiled reminiscently. Daniel was an excellent kisser. “And that’s all. We’re taking things slow.” At her look I added, “It was a mutual agreement. We’ve both had less than stellar relationships, and we’re cautious. There’s nothing wrong with that.”

  “Hmm?” Chantal cocked her brow at me. “So this desire to take it slow has nothing at all to do with your recent reconnection with a certain homicide detective in St. Leo?”

  I bit back the grr that rumbled deep in my throat. A few weeks ago, while trying to clear my sister of a murder charge, I’d become reacquainted with a blast from my past in the form of insufferable homicide detective Leroy Samms. Samms and I do share a history, and I’d be lying if I said our recent encounter hadn’t stirred up old feelings, but I’m totally over it. I’ve moved on.

  At least that’s what I keep telling myself.

  “I wouldn’t jump to conclusions if I were you.”

  “It’s hard not to,” my friend replied with a curl of her lip, “since I, whom you claim am your best friend in the whole wide world, know virtually nothing about your relationship with this mystery man.”

  I wagged my finger at her. “Nice try, but I’m not falling for the guilt trip act. Besides, there’s nothing to tell. It was a long time ago.”

  Chantal’s eyes narrowed. “Uh-huh.”

  “Suffice it to say Samms is a part of my past and leave it at that. Or you could just ask your tarot cards,” I said lightly.

  “I have done that. They hint at a relationship much deeper than you profess.”

  I should have known, I thought, giving myself a mental slap. “Okay, fine. Samms and I met when we worked on the college paper during our senior year. I admit I was attracted to him.”

  “Ah, now we are getting somewhere. Was the feeling mutual?”

  “Honest? To this day, I’m not sure. He had a lot, and I do mean a lot, of girls after him. We were like oil and water from the first day. He knew then and still knows now how to push my buttons, particularly with his nicknames for me.” I made a face. “Right before graduation, we were working late. We’d finished up a really rough story, and Samms had some wine, said we deserved a celebration.” I pushed my hand through my hair. “We celebrated all right—straight through to the next day actually.”

  Chantal’s eyes widened. “Ooh, chérie! Do you mean—”

  “No,” I said quickly. “There was some kissing involved—okay, a lot of kissing—but nothing else happened. Or at least I don’t think it did.” I grimaced. “We both got pretty toasted.”

  “And Samms didn’t remember, either?”

  “I don’t know. I left while he was still asleep, and I avoided him like the plague after that, which was pretty easy, considering we were graduating the next day. I got my diploma, got on the train for Chicago, and that was that.”

  Chantal’s brow lifted. “So the first time you saw him in, what, eighteen years was when your sister was arrested?”

  I nodded. “That’s right. I threw myself into my career, and as far as I know, Samms never made any attempt to find me. Which only goes to prove we’re all wrong for each other.”

  Chantal frowned. “That’s not necessarily true. And you don’t know for certain he never tried to find you. Did you ask him?”

  “I’m certainly not going to ask him something like that,” I huffed. “Not after all these years. Anyway, he never brought the subject up while I was in St. Leo, so it’s a moot point.”

  “You don’t know that,” my friend protested. “He might have felt just as awkward as you, broaching it.”

  “I doubt that. One thing Samms is not is awkward. Anyway, I never gave it a second thought in all these years.” Liar, my brain screamed. I pointed at Nick. “Right now, he’s the only serious male in my future. He’s handsome, attentive, and doesn’t talk back. Who could ask for more?” Before my friend could answer my rhetorical question I went on, “So, back to the present. What do you know about Violet Crenshaw?”

  “Violet? She is richer than King Midas, and a crusty old broad I wouldn’t want to tangle with. Why do you ask? Is she part of the mystery you hinted at?”

  “You could say that. She and Nan were at Hot Bread discussing the gala. On her way out, she said she had something to discuss with me that she thought I might be interested in. A disappearance and a possible murder.”

  Chantal’s eyes almost popped out of her head. “That is certainly strange, chérie. Do you think she was serious?”

  “With Violet it’s hard to tell, but oddly, yes.”

  “I wonder who she meant?” My friend started to tick off possibilities on her fingers. “A friend? She doesn’t have too many. A relative? She’s a widow with no immediate family to speak of. Her husband died of natural causes so . . . who could it be?”

  “Don’t know, but rest assured I’ll find out. I’d have grilled her more but she waltzed out while I was reeling from her little bombshell—which, I think, is just what she wanted.” I sighed. “Right now, though, I need a crash course in the Arthurian legends.”

  Chantal crossed over to the counter, reached below, and pulled up a deck of cards, which she held aloft. “The Arthurian Tarot. The quickest way I know of to get a crash course in the Arthurian legends. Stick with me, mon cher, and soon you’ll know all of ’em like a pro.” She shuffled the cards, laid them down, and turned over the top one
. “Let’s start with Guinevere, shall we?”

  * * *

  An hour later Nick and I said our good-byes and left. My mind was swimming with character names, descriptions, and possible recipes I could put to each one. Of course I only had three days to do all this but hey, not to sound like a broken record, but we Charles women do love a challenge.

  “And speaking of challenges, I think we should research those attempted thefts involving that grimoire when we get home, especially the one Chantal told us about. If thieves tried to steal it once, they might try again. We certainly don’t need anything like that spoiling our party, do we, boy?”

  Nick, curled up in a ball in the passenger seat, opened his mouth, yawned, and then hunkered back down, his chin resting on his forepaws.

  “I suppose you’re right. I shouldn’t worry about it. I should leave it in the hands of the pros. Sorry to bore you.” I had to admit, though, I was a bit concerned. A masked ball seemed the perfect backdrop for a theft to take place. I snapped my seat belt into place and jumped as my cell phone chimed. I glanced at the caller ID and then flipped it open.

  “Oliver J. Sampson. You must be psychic. I was thinking of giving you a call.”

  “Psychic, eh? I’ve been called worse.” Oliver J. Sampson—Ollie to his friends, which include me—is a big man of color, about six three at least, and well over two hundred twenty pounds, but when he snickers, he sounds like a little girl. “Got some time for me? I need to see you.”

  I sucked in a breath. “You heard back from the lab.”

  Slight hesitation and then, “I’d rather not talk about it over the phone. Tell you what. I’m free after ten a.m. tomorrow. Can you get away from the shop and stop by?”

  “Mollie’s working a full day tomorrow so I sure can. See you then.”

  I hung up and twisted the key in the ignition, sliding a glance toward Nick as I did so. Nick shifted his position on the seat, and I frowned as I noticed a pale brown square wedged under his tummy. “What have you got there, fella?” I poked at his tummy and he shifted slightly, affording me a better look at his prize.

  It was a Scrabble tile, the letter A.

  I shook my head. I’d long given up on trying to figure out how Nick got his paws on things, especially Scrabble tiles—the only thing to surpass catnip mice as his favorite plaything in the whole wide world. I reached out and picked up the tile, turned it over in my hand.

  “A,” I murmured. “A is Bronson Pichard’s middle initial. It’s also the first initial of Nick Atkins’s girlfriend—Angelique. The one Pichard thought might know something about what happened to him.” I’d meant to quiz Ollie about her when I’d first found out, but our schedules had both been pretty out of sync.

  “Er-ewl,” bleated Nick. He scraped his paw against my seat cover.

  “Right. I’ve been dreadfully remiss in my sleuthing. That’s why I have you, right, bud? To keep me on track.” I slipped the tile into my jacket pocket and eased away from the curb. “So once we hear Ollie’s news, we’ll grill him about Angelique, and maybe even Violet Crenshaw, too. Maybe we might finally get closer to uncovering the truth about what happened to your former master.”

  He just stared straight ahead. Either Nick hadn’t understood what I’d said, or he simply didn’t care.

  I’m not ashamed to say that honestly . . . I hoped for the latter.

  THREE

  Nick and I arrived at Ollie’s office promptly at ten the next morning. He opened the door before I could even raise my hand to knock. “Nora.” He grinned, displaying a row of teeth that looked like bright, shiny Chiclets. “You’re a sight for sore eyes. Come on in.” He smiled down at Nick. “You, too, my friend.”

  Nick led the way, his black tail straight up in the air. I slid into one of the two leather chairs positioned in front of Ollie’s desk while he eased his burly frame into the captain’s chair behind it. Nick hopped up on the desk and arranged himself comfortably on one end, one black and white paw dangling over the edge.

  “Ah, memories.” Ollie smiled reminiscently. “He always used to sprawl across the desk like that when Nick was trying to concentrate. It didn’t bother him, though. He always called Little Sherlock his muse.”

  Nick’s ears flicked forward at the mention of the name he’d been christened with. He swiped at his face with one furry black-and-white paw. A sound suspiciously like a grunt rumbled deep in his throat.

  Ollie laughed. “Sorry, Little Nick. I keep forgetting you like your new name better.”

  I leaned across the desk. “Okay, don’t keep me in suspense any longer. What did the lab say? Was it from Nick Atkins or not?”

  A few weeks ago, Ollie received a postcard from New Orleans that he’d fancied might have been sent by Nick. It had definitely rattled him, because up until then he’d been swearing on stacks of Bibles that Atkins was, in all probability, dead and gone and out of his life—and mine and Nick the cat’s—for good. For both our peace of minds, I advised sending the postcard to an expert in handwriting analysis, and Ollie had jumped right on my suggestion. Although he tried to act indifferent, I knew he was anxious to get the question of Atkins’s status resolved as well, so he could get on with his own life and decide what to do about the PI business they’d built up together. I confess I’m also interested in the fate of Nick Atkins. Not only does his mysterious disappearance gnaw at my reporter’s instincts, but I’m a gal who hates to leave things unsettled—such as the question of my tubby tuxedo’s ownership.

  Ollie opened the middle drawer of his desk, withdrew a sheet of paper, and slid it across to me. I picked it up and scanned the few typed sentences, then tossed it back on the table, the corners of my lips drooping down. “This says the results are inconclusive. The card was too smudged to make any definitive match. No prints, either. Damn.” I pushed the paper back to Ollie. “I take it you haven’t received another postcard?”

  “Nope.” He folded the report and then reached into the drawer again. He withdrew the postcard and set it on the desk in front of us. “Smudged or not, it sure looked like his handwriting to me. If it wasn’t Nick’s penmanship, it was a damn good imitation.” He brushed one hand through his springy mass of gray hair. “I’m no expert on the supernatural, but as far as I know, ghosts can’t write postcards. I just don’t know what to think anymore. Dammit, he could be alive.”

  I picked up the card and looked at its brief message:

  In sunny New Orleans. Must get going. Ollie you’d love it here. Keen swamp tours.

  “N”

  I turned the card over. The scene depicted was that of a New Orleans showboat, gliding across impossibly blue waters. I glanced at Ollie. “It doesn’t say much. His penmanship is horrid. The writing’s so cramped you can hardly read it.”

  “Nick always was a scribbler.”

  “Yes, I’ve looked through his journals.” I squinted at the card. “These sentences make no sense. And what, might I ask, is ‘keen’ about a swamp tour?”

  “Not much, I reckon. The English language wasn’t Nick’s forte. He wasn’t much for small talk, either. He loved his puzzles, though. I keep looking for the hidden meaning.”

  My eyebrow quirked upward. “Hidden meaning? How much can one hide in a dozen words?”

  Nick thumped his tail down hard on the desk four times, then blinked and hopped off the desk, walked over to the far corner of the room, and lay down, head on paws. I stared after him. “Now what was that for?”

  “Isn’t it obvious? The cat agrees with me,” Ollie boomed. “You’d be surprised what Nick could do, although to be honest, I can’t even picture him writing out a postcard. I guess that’s why I have my doubts.” He took the postcard from me and pulled it in front of him. “That’s the funny way he did an ‘o,’ and the way he crossed his ‘t’s. If he didn’t write this, it’s a damn good imitation.”

  “Can you think of anyth
ing he was working on that would have led him to New Orleans?”

  He leaned back in the chair and laced his beefy fingers behind his neck. “Let’s see. What was Nick working on back then? Well, there was the Adrienne Sloane case, of course. Then there was Mickey Parker’s divorce. I handled that one. No New Orleans connection there. Oh, and some rich dame hired him to find her missing niece.”

  My ears perked up at that admission, but I quickly dismissed it. Although Violet Crenshaw would definitely fit the description of a “rich dame,” according to Chantal she didn’t have any nieces or nephews. “Anyone else?”

  He shifted in the massive chair. “Yeah, the girl he was seeing around the same time. She was from New Orleans, I think.” He blew out a sigh. “I knew Angelique Martone was trouble from the moment I laid eyes on her. She was one of those femme fatale types straight out of a James Bond movie. Nick had rose-colored glasses on where she was concerned. They dated for a month, I guess, or maybe a bit longer. Things were going hunky-dory and then one day he got a special delivery letter. He read it, and next thing I knew he stormed out of here. He was gone a long time, and when he came back he was three sheets to the wind. He sat down here”—Ollie patted the desktop—“pulled out the Scotch, and polished off the whole bottle. ‘Ollie’ he said to me—he never slurred his words, not even when he was shit-eyed drunk—‘never trust a beautiful woman. They lie, and not about insignificant stuff, either. She’s put me in a heck of a spot. So now what do I do?’ Then he finished the Scotch and passed out.”

  My fingers found the Scrabble tile in my pocket and I rubbed at it. “A heck of a spot? What do you think he meant by that?”

  Ollie shrugged. “I have no idea. I’m betting the letter explained quite a bit. I hunted for it, but couldn’t find it. I did find some pieces of paper mixed in with ash in the fireplace, though. I’ve got a feeling he burned it. He threw her picture in the trash can, too, but I dug it out, just in case he ever changed his mind.” Ollie opened the middle drawer of his desk, pulled out a white envelope, and passed it across to me. I shook the envelope and a photograph of a man and a woman fell out. I recognized Nick Atkins instantly: the lantern jaw, jet-black hair with the familiar white streak behind one ear. But it was the woman’s image that really floored me. I stared into wide eyes the color of brilliant green grass, hair as black as a raven’s wing, lips as red as ripe apples; in short, perfection. I looked at Ollie. “When I saw Pichard, he said I should ask you about Angelique. That if anyone would know what happened to Nick, it’d be her.”