Crime and Catnip

by T. C. LoTempio

  He looked blank. “New Orleans?”

  “Oh, come now. Someone with your connections has got to know about those mysterious postcards Ollie’s been getting.”

  There was a moment of silence on both our ends, and then Pichard asked, “What did the postcards say?”

  “Not much. A lot of nothing, if you ask me. The messages were very short. Ollie thought there might be some hidden meaning, but—”

  Pichard was nodding his head up and down. “I remember Ollie, Nick’s partner. He’s right you know. Nick loved his puzzles and his codes. He used to spend hours on the Internet, looking up different ways to send messages and scribbling in those infernal notebooks he always toted around with him. No doubt some of the answers you seek about Nick are in those postcards. It wouldn’t surprise me a bit.”

  What would surprise me would be getting an answer that made a modicum of sense. I leaned back and signaled to the guard. “Well, this has been swell. I’m sorry I won’t be able to do it again anytime soon.”

  “You’re disappointed. You shouldn’t be. You have the tools to find out what you need to know. Alexa is out there. Find her and ask her about Nick. I guarantee she’ll be able to tell you something, but you must do it quickly. And for goodness’ sakes, get rid of that stone.”

  I hesitated, then asked, “Do you think it’s possible Alexa might be the one who murdered Doris?”

  He shifted the phone from his right ear to his left. “Alexa wouldn’t kill Doris any more than Doris would kill Alexa. No, it’s someone else.”

  “And you know who, don’t you?”

  Out of the corner of my eye I saw the guard approaching. Pichard hissed into the receiver, “I appreciate your visit, Ms. Charles. Sorry I can’t be of more help. I do hope you’ll come again and let me know how it all turns out.”

  “Yeah, you’ll be first on my list.” I started to lower the phone back to its cradle, but he signaled me to pick it back up. “What?”

  “One last piece of advice. When it comes to figuring what Nick’s trying to tell you in those cards, all you need do is one simple thing.”

  “Which is?”

  Those eerie bicolored eyes seemed brighter than ever as he whispered, “Listen to your cat. He and Atkins have more in common than you think.”

  TWENTY-ONE

  “Well, that interview with Pichard was definitely an experience. Very Silence of the Lambs-ish. I could have used an interpreter.”

  I was seated across from Chantal in a cozy back booth at the Poker Face. The bottle of merlot on the table between us was down to its last dregs, and both our glasses were sorely in need of a refill. I picked up an onion ring—Jose made great ones, even better than mine, and that’s saying something—and twirled it around a few times before popping it in my mouth.

  “It does sound as if he enjoys mind games.” Chantal took a bite of onion ring, set it down on her napkin, and eyed her empty glass. “But I also get the sense he was sincerely trying to tell you something.”

  “I’d sure love to know who his sources are,” I said as I popped another onion ring into my mouth. “He knew about Nick’s postcards; he knew Angelique is Alexa. The only time he really seemed fazed was when he deduced I had the red stone Alexa stole from the grimoire. That really upset him.” I chewed at my bottom lip. “I mean it really upset him. He kept telling me to get rid of it.”

  “Well, if Alexa went into hiding over it, and Daisy was killed over it, I would take it seriously. The smart thing to do would be to turn it over to the FBI.”

  “Yes, I realize that. I want to follow up on a few more leads first, get all my ducks in a row. I don’t want to approach Daniel with a half-baked theory; I want to present him undeniable facts.”

  Chantal raised an eyebrow. “Only Daniel?”

  “Okay, okay. I don’t want to approach either Daniel or Samms with a half-baked theory. Happy?”

  Chantal leaned forward, her hand clasping her chin. “Both of them will be upset with you for taking that stone from the room and not telling them right away.”

  I twined an auburn ringlet around my finger. “Oh, ya think? And it’s not only them. I’m sure Broncelli won’t be happy, either.”

  “They could accuse you of tampering with evidence.”

  “Possibly, if one can prove the stone is evidence. Right now, I’m not quite sure just what it is. At least, that’s my story and I’m sticking to it.” I reached out and patted my friend’s hand. “Don’t worry. I’ve got it hidden in a safe place.”

  “I sincerely hope so, for your sake, chérie. Regardless of how you think your theories will sound, I do not think you should delay in telling Daniel and Samms.”

  I could see my friend was really worried about me. I reached out and covered her hand with my own. “Okay, how about a compromise. If nothing turns up within forty-eight hours, I’ll call Daniel and Samms and drop the whole thing in their lap. Happy?”

  A huge sigh escaped her lips. “I guess it will have to do.”

  We polished off the dish of onion rings and then Chantal asked, “What did Pichard have to say about Atkins and the postcards?”

  “In a nutshell . . . he told me I should listen to the cat, that he and Nick Atkins have a lot in common.”

  Her eyes popped. “Why would he say something like that?”

  I threw up both hands. “I have no idea.”

  “Maybe he was being sarcastic.”

  “Nope, I don’t think so. He seemed very serious.”

  Chantal drained the last drop of wine from her glass. “Well, he is probably right, chérie. Besides Ollie, Nicky is probably the only one with whom Atkins spent a great deal of time. He was teaching the cat to play Scrabble, for goodness’ sakes. Nicky probably does know how he thinks.”

  I dropped my chin into my palm. “It’s times like this I wish he could just talk and tell me. It would certainly save a lot of time.”

  “Well, since Nicky cannot talk and tell you what is what, maybe the cards can.” She reached into the voluminous tote at her side and pulled out a purple velvet pouch. She shook it, and a deck of tarot cards spilled out across the tablecloth. She picked the cards up, shuffled them three times, and then passed them to me. “You know the drill,” she said. “Three piles, and cut them with your left hand.”

  I did as she directed. She turned over the top card on the pile nearest me. “Hm.” She frowned, and then turned over the other two. She leaned forward, cupped her chin in her hands. “Hm,” she said again.

  “Enough with the hms, already,” I said. “What do they mean?”

  “Well . . .” She tapped at the first card with one long nail. “The Two of Wands, a very good card for you. It means success is imminent, that you are moving in the right direction, and that your efforts are about to pay off. Then this one.” She tapped at the second one. “The Queen of Cups. Card of the nurturer. Ordinarily I’d say this card refers to me, because she is representative of a psychic or a tarot reader, but that is not the sense I get.” She closed her eyes. “This is a secretive person who might be sincere in her offer of help but beware! If you should cross her, there is a price to be paid. And then . . .”

  “Out with it,” I said, as she lapsed into silence. “What’s wrong with the last card?”

  “Nothing is wrong with it.” She pushed her hand through the flipped-up ends of her hair. “The Moon is one of the more mysterious cards of the tarot. It often signifies illusion and mystery. When this card appears, logic and reason take a backseat. This card encourages you to look to your intuition for the answers you seek.”

  I let out a breath. “That doesn’t seem too bad to me. That’s what I usually rely on. Frankly, I’m more curious about that second card, and who this secretive woman might be.”

  Chantal swept the cards back into one pile. “I think you will find out soon enough, chérie.”

&
nbsp; A shadow fell across the table just then, and I jumped. Lance stood over us, a fresh bottle of merlot clutched in his hands. “Someone call for a refill?”

  I held my glass out. “About time you came over. I’ll forgive you for scaring the beejesus out of me. We’re dying of thirst here.”

  “Well now we can’t have that, can we?” He smiled, opened the bottle, and deftly refilled our glasses, replacing our almost empty bottle with the new one. “Big powwow this afternoon, eh? I can smell the rubber burning from across the room.”

  I stuck my tongue out. “Very funny. Ha ha. No, Chantal was just giving me a tarot reading.”

  He gestured toward the deck. “So I see. What’s the matter? No good?”

  “It is hard to say,” Chantal said. “It all depends on interpretation.”

  “Most things do.” He gestured toward the empty plate of onion rings. “Right now I’m interpreting you need something a bit more substantial to eat, or is this mainly a liquid repast? If so, Bruce is off tonight, so you’ll have to wait here until closing time for chauffeur service.”

  I smiled up at him. “Aw, thanks for the concern, but it isn’t really necessary. We couldn’t look each other in the eye if we couldn’t down a bottle of wine without getting tipsy. Besides, we both live within walking distance.”

  He looked us up and down and gave his head an emphatic shake. “Uh-huh. Sorry, but I wouldn’t be doing my duty as a responsible bartender and owner to let you two loose on an unsuspecting town with too much to drink and nothing to eat. So unless you both want to spend the next seven hours here, what will it be?”

  “We could have coffee,” Chantal began but I silenced her with a look.

  “Trust me, you don’t want Jose’s coffee,” Lance said.

  I made a face at him. “This is a ploy. You just want us to sample some of Jose’s cooking since he’s been taking lessons, right?”

  Lance grinned. “Am I that obvious?”

  “Only to we who know you well.” I looked at Chantal, then at Lance, and heaved a giant sigh. “Fine. What’s the special tonight?”

  “Ah, I’m glad you asked. Jose just learned how to make it this week, and he doesn’t do a half-bad job, if I say so myself. Smothered enchiladas.”

  I made a gesture of sticking two fingers down my throat.

  “Now, now,” Lance chided. “Is that nice? I don’t come into your establishment and make fun of your specials.”

  “That’s because my specials are palatable.”

  “Hey, no one ever said they come here for the food.” Lance grinned. “Usually my customers are too sloshed to care what they’re eating. In this case, I’ve actually sampled some of his recent culinary efforts, and they’re not bad.”

  I wrinkled my nose. “You never could lie.”

  “What, it grew?” He tapped at the tip of his nose with his finger. “Okay, I might be stretching the truth a bit—but I have every confidence he’ll improve with practice. At least, he’d better improve for the money it’s costing me to give him these cooking lessons.”

  “Heck, you should have asked me. I’d teach him, probably for less than you’re paying now.”

  “No, you would boss and badger him and he’d throw down the towel and never pick up a skillet again. I’ve seen how you get in the kitchen. Besides, you’re a crummy teacher.” He shot me a maddening grin. “But if you’re not in an adventurous mood, there is some decent chicken salad in the kitchen.”

  I frowned. “Chicken salad? When did that get on your menu—oh, oh.” I wagged my finger in his face. “Your mother made it, right?”

  “Guilty. I brought a bowl of it in. I was going to make it for my lunch.” He made a sweeping gesture with his arm. “Might I offer you ladies chicken salad on white toast?”

  I looked over at Chantal. “His mother does make good chicken salad. I remember every time he’d tell me she made that, I found some excuse to sneak into his locker and switch it with mine.”

  He wagged his finger at me. “So that’s where my lunches used to disappear to! And here I always blamed Morgan Hyland because his locker was right next to mine. Next you’ll say that’s the main reason you dated me.”

  I winked at him. “Yeah, and we all know why you dated me. To get close to Lacey.”

  His cheeks turned flame red, and he brandished pad and pen. “Enough of memory lane. Now, that’s two chix sal on white toast, right?”

  “Make it three.”

  Daniel’s head bobbed up behind Lance’s shoulder. I spun my neck around, saw he was alone, and breathed an inward sigh of relief. I definitely wasn’t in the proper frame of mind for more of Samms’s wisecracks.

  Daniel slid onto the bench next to me and gave Lance a brief nod. Lance hesitated, then mumbled, “Three Chix Sal on white toast. Got it,” and shuffled over to the kitchen door. Once he’d disappeared, Daniel leaned back and casually drummed his fingers on the table. “I understand you went visiting today, Nora.”

  I gulped. I’d expected Daniel to find out—he was FBI, after all—only not quite this fast. Chantal slid out of the booth so fast she seemed like a blur. “Excuse me,” she squeaked. “I have to check in with Remy. I’ll be back.”

  “Traitor,” I muttered.

  Once she’d moved over to the bar area, I glared at Daniel. “Okay, you’ve chased both of ’em away. You’re pissed because I went to see Pichard, is that it?”

  “I’m pissed because you didn’t tell me that was what you had in mind, yes.”

  Heat seared my cheeks. “Oh, forgive me. I didn’t realize I had to check with you on every little thing I did.”

  “Visiting someone who almost killed you in the place where they’re incarcerated is hardly what I’d consider a little thing.”

  “Pichard doesn’t hold a grudge, so why should we?”

  Daniel’s lips scrunched up into a peculiar expression, as if he were counting to ten inwardly. He let out a slow breath. “Were you always this exasperating?”

  Before I thought, I blurted out, “Yes. Just ask Samms.” I flinched a bit under Daniel’s pointed stare. “We didn’t exactly see eye to eye on things when we worked on the college paper.”

  “Oh.” He leaned back, laced his hands behind his neck. “So was your expedition fruitful? Did you learn anything?”

  “I learned Pichard loves to talk in riddles. But if you mean did I learn anything helpful? No. Not really.”

  He stared deeply into my eyes. “Why do I have this feeling you’re keeping something from me?”

  I widened my own eyes and placed one hand across my heart. “Moi? Keep secrets from the FBI? How could I?”

  “If anyone could, it’s you.”

  I swallowed. I did feel a tad guilty about keeping secrets from Daniel, but I pushed my guilt to the side and batted my eyelashes. “Why, is that a compliment? If so, thanks. Now it’s my turn to ask you, is there anything new with the investigation into Daisy’s murder?”

  “Well, we’ve definitely identified the red scarf as the murder weapon. And we’ve found a few witnesses who remember seeing that woman you mentioned, the one in red. Not only was she engaged in an argument with the deceased but they’ve identified the murder weapon as being worn by her.”

  I frowned. “Do you feel these witnesses are reliable?”

  “As reliable as any. Broncelli seems to like ’em, and he’s the one in charge.”

  Good old Broncelli. “Okay. So what’s the next step?”

  “Well, we’d like to question her, of course, but finding her is going to be another matter entirely. For one, no one saw her without her mask, so there’s really not much of a description to go on, other than general build. They said her hair color was red, but of course she could have been wearing a wig. We’ve got Nan Webb, Violet Crenshaw, and Nellie Blanchard going over the invite list to see if they could possibly pick ou
t any unfamiliar names, and we’ll start there.”

  “The workers were allowed to bring guests, too,” I said. “I had to give Nan Chantal’s name.”

  “We checked that list,” Daniel said. “Everyone was accounted for.”

  Everyone, no doubt, but Daisy’s guest. I was betting dollars to doughnuts she’d never signed anyone in, especially if Alexa were the guest.

  Both Chantal and Lance came up to the booth just then. Chantal slid onto the bench and Lance set three chicken salads on white toast before us. He looked from Daniel to me, back to Daniel again.

  “Did I interrupt something?”

  “Yes.”

  “No.”

  Daniel and I both answered at once. I muttered, “Saved by the sandwich” under my breath and took a bite. I looked up at Lance.

  “Tell your mother anytime she wants to make chicken salad for Hot Bread, she’s more than welcome.”

  He beamed. “I’ll pass the compliment along.”

  Daniel’s phone buzzed. He pulled it from his pocket and glanced at the text message, holding it so I couldn’t see (the rat!), then slid the phone back into his pocket and stood up.

  “Lance, I’m afraid I’m going to have to take this to go. Chantal, always a pleasure. Nora, I’ll talk with you later.”

  “Oh, I’m sure you will,” I sang out, wiping some mayonnaise from the corner of my lip with my napkin. The men shuffled off to the bar and Chantal leaned forward.

  “Was he very mad about your little sojourn to prison?”

  “Not as mad as I expected.”

  I leaned back, lost in thought. Chantal regarded me intently and then said, “You’ve got something else on your mind.”

  “Yep. I think something else happened after Daisy’s body was found, something that concerns the grimoire that they’re trying to keep quiet.”

  “Well, apparently it’s intact. I know several people went today and saw it. One girl even showed me a photo of it that was taken the night of the gala—that nice young girl who works at Flo’s Boutique, Hilary Anderson. Seems her current boyfriend is Wally Behrens—the roving photographer at the gala, remember?”