Crime and Catnip

by T. C. LoTempio

  “Excellent.” She crossed over to a large bookcase, plucked an album from it, and returned to her desk. She extracted a picture from the back of the album and passed it across to me. “That was the only picture we could find, so far. Apparently Alexa wasn’t fond of having her picture taken.”

  I looked at the slightly out of focus photo that depicted a tall, gangly girl, slim, high cheekbones, long light hair that curled at the ends, big round eyes, a wide generous mouth. “She was about sixteen there,” Violet said. “She’s most likely changed a bit, but the basics would probably still be the same.” She shook her head as I started to hand back the photo. “It’s a copy, keep it. I’ve got the original. And I’m sure I don’t need to impress upon you the need for discretion where this matter is concerned. There are some people who know I had a brother but as for the rest . . .”

  “I get it.” Violet, being an upstanding pillar of the community, certainly wouldn’t want it getting out that her brother had had a criminal record. Gossip traveled quickly in a small town, and Cruz was no exception.

  “I’ve spent a lifetime disavowing my family and shirking my responsibilities,” she said. “Maybe if I’d intervened sooner, Durwood wouldn’t have returned to his life of crime and his daughter could have gotten a proper education, taken a place in society. I just pray it’s not too late.”

  I rose and smoothed out my skirt. “By the way, Violet, were you aware that there was an attempted theft of the grimoire in London not long ago?”

  She nodded. “Yes. Sir Meecham told me when we were making the arrangements. It was a rather clumsy attempt, too, from what I understand. But don’t you worry, Nora, Sergeant Broncelli is on it. He understands the importance of an efficient security detail.”

  I frowned. Curtis Broncelli was new to the Cruz police force. I’d only met the guy once, at the retirement party for his predecessor. From what I’d heard he’d spent quite a few years in Louisiana building a stellar reputation before his transfer to California. He impressed me as someone good at playing politics, at doing whatever was necessary to climb up the promotional ladder. Lance was buddies with a few of the guys on the force, and the scuttlebutt was none of them were particularly impressed with their new boss, although it wasn’t an unusual reaction when a beloved supervisor was replaced.

  Violet walked with me to the door, where she squeezed my arm. “I knew confiding in you was the right thing to do. I’ve got a feeling you’ll succeed where Atkins failed.”

  I was partway out the door when I thought of something and turned back. “By the way, Violet, I thought I heard someone mention Daisy worked at a museum in London before she came here.”

  “Oh, yes, dear.” Violet smiled. “That’s quite true, except it wasn’t a museum, per se, but the Meecham Foundation. She was hired right after that attempt was made to steal the grimoire. Isn’t that a coincidence?”

  * * *

  I retraced my steps downstairs and asked a girl wearing a tag that read Museum Volunteer the way to the kitchen. She told me to go straight down the main corridor, but midway down it branched out in two directions, so I was faced with a decision, “The Lady, or the Tiger” style, left or right? I closed my eyes, went eeny meeny miny moe, and turned right. A few minutes later I found myself in a large room filled with tables and cases covered with white tarp.

  Definitely not the kitchen. This had to be the main medieval exhibition room.

  I confess there are times when my curiosity rivals that of my cat. I was dying to see this famed grimoire that required the attention of half the Cruz police force. I sidled up to the first table and peeked under the tarp. A collection of swords was laid out underneath the Plexiglas, some with ornate jeweled handles. There were placards in front of each one, but I really wasn’t too interested in them. I lowered the tarp, glanced around, and saw a small, low-lit room off to my left. The door was open a crack, so I walked over and pressed my eye to it. The room appeared empty, save for a single tarp-sheeted case. I pushed on the door and it creaked inward on hinges desperately in need of an oiling. I slipped in, soundless in my kitten-heeled mules, and inched over to the display. Very slowly, I raised the cloth.

  The book that lay on the black-walnut pedestal hardly looked impressive. What it looked was . . . old. It had a well-worn purple leather cover, embossed in a silver scroll design. There were several stones embedded in the cover, a large red stone flanked by a smaller green one and a blue one. In this dim light they hardly looked like the conduits to power Nan had implied they were; rather they more closely resembled cheap crystal knockoffs. Shouldn’t a book rumored to be so enchanted be more . . . well, more exciting? This looked like a prop from a cheap B movie. I started to turn away when a dark shadow suddenly fell across the room and an all-too-familiar voice said, “Nora Charles. Who let you in here?”

  I swallowed over the king-sized lump in my throat and slowly turned on one heel to look into the slightly amused glance of none other than . . . Detective Leroy Samms, St. Leo Homicide.

  For a minute, neither one of us spoke. Leroy Samms is even better looking now than he was in our college days, and he was pretty darn perfect then. He’s six foot three, well-built, broad shouldered, hair the color of ink and eyes to match. He also has a smile that could light up a room, when he chooses to use it, that is. Right now his lips were clamped tightly together, his steely gaze locked with mine. The two of us stared at each other for what seemed an eternity, and at last I gave in and cleared my throat.

  “What am I doing here? I’ve got a perfect right to be here. A better question would be what are you doing here? This is Cruz, not St. Leo. Oh, wait, don’t tell me. You’re lost?”

  He snorted, his fingers brushing at the lock of inky hair falling casually across his forehead. “Sorry, I’m not lost. I’m here at the request of Sergeant Broncelli to help out with the security detail for this exhibit.”

  My jaw dropped. “You’re kidding. How on earth will St. Leo Homicide ever get along without you?”

  “Oh, trust me, they’ll manage.”

  I frowned at the note of bitterness evident in his tone. Samms seemed unaware of it, however, as he reached up to flick an errant curl off his forehead in a careless gesture. He jerked his thumb in the grimoire’s direction. “I’ll grant you that book doesn’t look like a valuable treasure and yet I understand it’s quite in demand.”

  My eyebrow rose. “Then you’re aware an attempt was made to steal it in London?”

  He nodded. “Yep. Whoever the thief was, they knew a lot about the Meecham Foundation’s alarm system. The wires were expertly cut. It seemed like the work of a pro.”

  “I understand both Violet’s assistant and the exhibit manager were employed at the Meecham Foundation at the time of the attempted theft. What are the odds they’d be together again here?”

  Samms scratched at his chin. “Probably about as good as the odds of you and me running into each other again after all this time.”

  I resisted the urge to smack him. “You have to admit though, doing guard duty is a bit out of your bailiwick. You are Homicide, after all, not security.”

  “Lee’s doing this as a favor to me.”

  I turned to see a tall, wiry man with a shining bald head and neatly trimmed goatee step through the doorway and stride toward us. Samms nodded at the newcomer and turned to me. “I don’t believe you two have met. Nora Charles, this is Sergeant Curtis Broncelli.”

  “A pleasure, Ms. Charles.” Broncelli gave a curt nod in my direction.

  Samms smiled politely at the newcomer. “I’m surprised to see you down here, Curt.”

  Broncelli tossed me a frosty smile. “I like to keep a low profile and I trust my men to handle things. However, my approval was needed for that comprehensive alarm system, so . . . here I am.” He spread his hands. “As far as Lee’s being here—well, we go way back to my days working in Monroe Homicide. I wouldn’t
want anyone else on this detail.”

  Samms’s lips twitched upward. “And I can’t think of anyone more qualified to head this. We were lucky to get him, fresh from a stint overseas.”

  I decided it was time to end this mutual admiration society before I puked, and pushed my hand through my hair. “Just what does a comprehensive alarm system entail?”

  “It’s a combination of policies procedures, personnel, and hardware, used by many museums. We’ve just made a few slight improvements.”

  “Such as?”

  “What are you, writing a book?” Samms growled.

  “No,” I responded sweetly. “Just a monthly column for Noir crime magazine. I’m thinking this might be a good topic.”

  Those ink-blue eyes narrowed. “Ever the reporter, aren’t you?” he murmured very softly, but I heard him and flushed.

  Broncelli turned to me. “In layman’s terms, a comprehensive system is one that adds more and tighter security precautions as you get physically closer to a high value object, like the rings on a bull’s-eye. For example”—he pointed upward—“we’ve got concealed cameras recording everything in this room and the main one as well. We’ve also got an infrared alarm on the case that will kick in if someone tries to break in. Try it.”

  I glanced at Samms, who merely sighed and stepped aside. I walked up to the case, balled my hand into a fist, and pounded on its side.

  Nothing.

  I turned and looked questioningly at Broncelli, who smiled. “No loud alarms go off—it’s silent. But we’re notified and our men come immediately!” He pointed to two uniforms who’d suddenly appeared in the doorway, guns drawn. “Sorry, guys. Demonstration.”

  The two officers looked a bit annoyed, but they holstered their guns and backed out of the room. Samms crossed his arms over his chest and glared at me. “Satisfied?”

  “You two are the experts. If you’re satisfied then it’s good enough for me.”

  Broncelli turned to me. “Well, I have a few other matters to attend to. It was nice meeting you, Nora. I hear you’re catering this soiree.”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “That’s good to know. At least the food will be top notch.” He made a little bow. “I’ll have to drop into your shop one day. I’ve heard nothing but raves from all the men about it.”

  “Good to hear, thanks.”

  Broncelli glanced briefly at Samms, then turned on his heel and left. Samms turned to me but before he could say anything, his cell chirped. He pulled it from his pocket, and I was standing close enough to get a good look at the name lit up on the screen. Startled, I angled for a second glance, but Samms had already clicked it into voice mail. As he slid the phone back into his pocket he met my curious stare. “Something the matter?”

  Lots, but I wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction. I hefted my tote bag back onto my shoulder and gave him a brisk wave. “Nothing at all. I can see everything’s under control here. See you at the gala.”

  He started to say something, and then stopped. He gave me a halfhearted wave. “Yeah. See ya.”

  Back in the corridor I leaned against the wall, my thoughts in a whirl. I closed my eyes and the name from Samms’s caller ID popped up, crystal clear.

  None other than my current boyfriend, FBI agent Daniel Corleone.

  What was up with that?

  SEVEN

  I checked out the kitchen and its two freezers and king-sized fridge, which, thank the stars above, had more than enough space for all my entree trays, and then drove back home. I pulled in the driveway just as Mollie was locking up and I beeped my horn. She waved and hurried over to the car as I got out. “No problems. Chantal came over and helped with the lunch crowd, but she had to get back to Poppies by two.”

  “Great. Did Nick behave himself?”

  “Oh, you know,” Mollie said with a grin. “He was Nick. I’ll say this, he’s mastered the art of scarfing up any tidbit that hits the floor.”

  “Yep. That’s Nick, all right.”

  I said goodbye to Mollie and let myself in the back door, and Nick lurched up from his post by the refrigerator door to amble over and rub against my legs. I reached down to pick him up, but paused midway as my cell phone chirped. I glanced at the caller ID and snapped it open. “Hey, Sis. I was just thinking about you.”

  “You were? Me, too. Guess this is what Chantal would call a psychic connection,” my sister said with a laugh. While I had to admit we’d never been particularly close, the events of the last few months had forced both of us, and Lacey in particular, to reassess our relationship. Narrowly avoiding a life sentence in prison will do that to a person. We’d been getting along better the last few months than we had all our lives. “I just thought I’d call to let you know I got accepted into the accelerated program. If I get a B plus or better, I can graduate early.”

  “Hey, that’s wonderful. So, have you given any thought to a job? What about the one Peter recommended you for?” Peter Dobbs, an attorney friend of Daniel’s, had represented my sister. I had a sneaking suspicion he figured in her decision to stay on in Carmel with Aunt Prudence while she finished art school.

  “Hm, it didn’t pan out. Lee got me a part-time job down at the station, though. Their resident sketch artist retired, so I help out when I don’t have class and on weekends. It’s pretty cool.”

  Lee? My left eye started to twitch and my stomach did a flip-flop. “Lee?”

  She let out a snort. “You know, Leroy Samms. My former arresting officer.”

  My eye started to twitch harder. “Well, the two of you certainly have gotten chummy.”

  Lacey laughed. “He’s not so bad, once you get to know him. And I think he was trying to make up for, you know, what happened.” She let out a giant sigh. “Too bad he’s not on the force anymore. Irene heard he went into freelance consulting.”

  Irene, my aunt Prudence’s best friend, was, for want of a better word, a real yenta. She knew what was going on in the neighborhood before the people involved did. I took a deep breath, exhaled slowly, and said, “I know. He’s here.”

  Silence, and then, “He’s there? In Cruz?”

  “Yep. I don’t know about the consulting part, but he’s helping out with guard duty for a valuable exhibit at the museum.”

  “Well now that the two of you are in the same town, I guess he’ll be giving Daniel a run for his money, eh?”

  Ah, my darling sister, tactful as always. “My relationship with Samms isn’t like the one I have with Daniel.”

  “Of course it isn’t. For one thing, you don’t get the same goofy look on your face around Daniel like you do with Lee.”

  “Excuse me,” I snapped, “I do not get a goofy look on my face around Samms. I hadn’t seen the guy in nearly twenty years until you got arrested. And how would you know how I act around Daniel, anyway? You saw us together at the hospital for what? Twenty seconds?”

  “Sometimes that’s all it takes,” she responded. “Tell the truth, Nors. You’d like to get to know Lee again, wouldn’t you?”

  I knew just where this was headed, and I intended to nip it in the bud right now. “Not particularly. You do know I’m dating Daniel.”

  “Mr. Hunky FBI? Yeah, I know, but you’ve had, what, like two dates?”

  “More than that.” I frowned into the receiver. Both Daniel and I had been burned badly by past relationships; as a result, we’d mutually agreed to take ours slowly and see what developed. However, I saw no reason for filling my sister in on that detail. “And just where are you getting this information?”

  A long pause, and then, “Oh, around.”

  I frowned deeper. That, no doubt, meant Chantal.

  “Listen,” my sister continued, “loyalty’s great, but there’s no ring on your finger, is there? That means you should play the field.”

  “Yeah, well, I’ve never bee
n very good at that. What I am good at, though, is leaving the past in the past where it belongs, and concentrating on the here and now.”

  Fortunately, my sister, who usually manages to be obtuse, took the hint and allowed me to steer the conversation away from my love life. We chatted for a few more minutes about her school, and Aunt Prudence’s effort to cure her precious African Gray parrot, Jumanji, of a constant cough, using a method gleaned on the Internet. With promises to see each other soon, I hung up, and my phone chirped again. I looked at the caller ID and flicked it on. “Hank! Hey, thanks for calling back.”

  My longtime buddy and Confidential Informant, Hank Prince, is a private investigator whose endless string of contacts had proven invaluable to me during my time in Chicago. “Nora! Don’t tell me you’ve stumbled on another mystery?”

  “Two,” I said, and immediately launched into the details of my conversation with Ollie, ending with the arrival of the mysterious postcard. “Bottom line: Ollie and I both think there’s a good chance Nick Atkins might still be alive, and that he might be somewhere in New Orleans.”

  “I’ve got a few contacts down in New Orleans. Remember Petey Peppercorn? He’s living down there now, plus one of my frat brothers works in the Department of Records there, so hopefully I’ll have something for you in a few days, maybe sooner if we get lucky.”

  I chuckled. “You belonged to a fraternity? Why does that not surprise me?”

  “Pi Kappa Alpha, I’ll have you know. We stick together like glue, like you sorority gals. You said there were two mysteries?”

  I gave him a brief rundown on Violet’s brother and missing niece. “Her name is Alexa Martin. Apparently after her father died she vanished into thin air. Nick Atkins was trying to track her down around the time he disappeared. Right before that, he called Violet and told her there was a possibility the girl might have died under mysterious circumstances.”