“Great.” I picked up the packet and looked at Hilary. “Tell Wally I really appreciate this. What do I owe him?”
“He’d made a set for one of the out-of-town papers, but they decided they didn’t want ’em. He told me to tell you he’ll just take a Ryan Gosling on rye to go, since he didn’t have to give back the advance.”
“Is he sure? I’m perfectly willing to pay the going rate.”
Hilary laughed. “Hey, don’t look a gift horse in the mouth. All he wants is a Ryan Gosling to go. It’s his favorite sandwich.”
I liked the mortadella, salami, and provolone on a tomato wrap with Dijon mustard myself. As I reached into the case for the cold cuts I said, “Well, tell Wally thanks. And if it should happen the photos lead to a solution of the murder, I’ll front his lunch for a week.”
“Can’t beat that deal. But it might turn out to be pretty expensive for you.” Hilary wrinkled her nose. “Golly, but that boy can eat!”
* * *
Chantal and Mollie left while I was making Hilary’s sandwiches, and when I was done I walked her to the door, closed it, and then sat down at a table with the packet of photos. There had to be several dozen—Wally must have snapped a photo every five seconds. I started to sift through them, and Nick came out from underneath one of the back tables, hopped up, and sat on the far end, watching.
There were lots of group shots, several shots of just the food tables before anyone had gotten at them—those were really good. I’d have to talk to Wally about possibly making some enlargements and hanging them on the walls of the store. There were some good shots of the bar, and Lance posing in his pirate regalia, a bottle of whiskey clutched in one hand, lots of group shots (mostly of young girls in skimpy costumes LOL). There was an excellent shot of Nan and Violet, both of whom looked regal—and one of Nan, Violet, and Daisy all together and smiling. There were a few more shots of Daisy, all clustered together: Daisy standing by the punch bowl, by the bar, near a crowd of laughing girls—and then the last two photos in particular caught my eye. One showed her in a corner, talking to Magda. Both women looked decidedly uncomfortable, but that wasn’t what arrested my attention. Off to one side, partially hidden by the French doors, was a red cape and a red-booted leg—the Red Death, perhaps? And far off to the other side, it looked as if Reynaud were approaching the women, cape swirling around his shoulders. I glanced at the time stamp and saw it was a few minutes after eight.
The last photo featuring Daisy showed her talking to one of the Harry Potters, her head thrown back in a laugh. Standing off in one corner, throwing her dagger looks, was Magda again—and off in the other corner, looking decidedly unhappy, stood Nellie Blanchard.
Nick walked across the table and butted my wrist with his head.
“Yeah, I know. If I knew just exactly what it was I was hoping to find, this would all be a lot easier.”
I flipped through more of the costumed revelers, and then came to the ones Wally’d taken of the exhibit itself. I had to admit: Everything did look impressive. I flipped through them until I came to the ones he’d taken of the grimoire. I looked at the first one. There it sat, on its pedestal, its jeweled cover winking in the overhead light. The timestamp on the photo read 9:35 p.m. I flipped through a few more and then another grimoire photo popped up, slightly out of focus, but depicting the same scene: grimoire on pedestal, jeweled cover winking. This timestamp read 10:15 p.m. Well after the discovery of Daisy’s body. I laid the two photos side by side on the table and pored over them. I couldn’t see any discernible difference, but the graininess of the second photo made an accurate comparison a near impossibility. I shuffled through the rest until I came to the one of the grimoire he’d taken the next day, laid that one beside the other two, and peered at them all intently. Of course I was no gem expert, but it did seem to me that the stones in the last photo weren’t half as bright as the ones in the prior photos. I held them up to the light, squinted. Was it just wishful thinking on my part, or did the blue and green stones seem just a bit smaller in the second photo?
“Yowl!”
Nick’s paw slashed out at the second photo. I drew it back before he could put a claw mark on it.
“I’m not imagining it, am I? They aren’t the same stones. Someone got in there and substituted them.” A mental picture of Reynaud holding those two stones reared itself in my memory. I might have a handle on who—but how? And why?
* * *
I set the grimoire photos on the side and thumbed quickly through the others again. I saw one of Daniel, Samms, and Broncelli, taken early in the evening—the men were all smiles. There was another more candid shot outside the grimoire room, taken after Daisy’s body had been found. No smiles there. Broncelli all but sneered into the lens.
Nick’s paw shot out again, knocking those photos out of my hand and onto the floor.
“Er-ewl.”
“Yes, I don’t particularly care for him, either,” I grumbled as I bent to retrieve the photos. “But Daniel looks nice in these, so we’ll keep them. We can always cut out Broncelli—and Samms.”
I paused, studying Samms standing there in his black pants and shirt. His tight, body-hugging pants and shirt. The guy had muscles; pretty ripping ones, too. He’d kept in good shape over the years; probably had a gym membership . . .
And I cared just why, exactly? “The past is in the past, Nora,” I muttered to myself. “Follow your own advice.”
Nick’s paw lashed out again, the tip of his claw poking a tiny hole right above Broncelli’s tie. “Hey,” I said, holding the pictures out of his reach, “calm down, will you? These pictures might be evidence . . . what the hell?”
One second Nick was sitting on top of the table, the next he was a black blur, jumping off and racing from one end of the kitchen to the other. He stopped by the stairway that went up to my apartment, let out a loud yowl, and resumed his imitation of a feline Flash.
“Nick!” I yelled. “Stop it.”
“Er-OWWWWWL.”
I’d never seen him act like this. I’d heard that sometimes cats took fits but I’d never actually seen one—was this what was happening now?
Or was there more to his strange actions?
The third time he squatted in front of the stair door and yowled, I threw down the pictures and stood up.
“Okay, Nick. Enough’s enough. What will it take to get you to act like a normal cat again?”
He reared up on his hind legs, started clawing at the door. I reached over and opened it, and he shot right up the stairs—no, flew might be a more accurate description. He flew right up those stairs as if someone had doused his tail with benzene and set it aflame.
“Fine, Nick,” I called up the stairs. “I’m coming up and you’d better be nice and calm by the time I get there—or no supper for you tonight, young man. And I had some nice turkey skin I was going to give you, too.”
I heard a plaintive meow and then . . . nothing.
I ran up the rest of the stairs and pushed open the door that led into my apartment. “Nick? Where are you?”
I walked into the den and as soon as I’d crossed the threshold I stopped, the hairs on the back of my neck pricking at attention. I was suddenly overcome by the feeling that I wasn’t alone in my apartment.
I lowered my voice to a half whisper. “Nick? Are you all right?”
No answer. I moved back into the hall and looked around. Everything was quiet, but the feeling I wasn’t alone still gnawed at me.
Nick flew out from nowhere, raced down the hall, and skidded to a stop in front of the closet. He uttered a low growl and then hit the folding door with his paw. The door creaked back, opening a fraction of an inch, just enough for a little orange and white face to peep out.
I stared, stupefied. “That—that’s the cat from the gala. The one who found the body. The cat who belongs—”
“To me
,” said a soft voice from just behind me. “The cat belongs to me. I need your help, Nora.”
TWENTY-FOUR
For a minute all I could do was stare at the dark-haired woman before me. She looked almost exactly as she did in Ollie’s photograph, only better, darn her. Even with pale skin and dark circles beneath worried eyes, she still looked as if she’d stepped right out of the pages of Vogue magazine in the tight black jeans and simple purple turtleneck she wore.
Finally I found my voice. “You’re Angelique Martone,” I said. “Or I guess I should call you Alexa Martin, right? How did you get in here?”
Her lips curved in a wistful expression. “Angelique, Alexa . . . there are days when I am not sure just who I am anymore. As for how I got in here . . . I’m pretty good with locks.”
“A man named Bronson Pichard tells me you’re the person who can shed some light on Nick Atkins’s disappearance.”
Her eyes widened slightly. “Nick is still missing?”
“I think you know he is.”
Nick, who’d been busy sniffing the other cat, turned suddenly to face Alexa. His back arched, his lips peeled back, and he let out the mother of all hisses.
Alexa nodded toward the cats. “He is Nick’s cat, right? Sherlock?”
I nodded. “His name is Nick now.” At her startled look I added, “I named him that before I knew who his owner was.”
She let out a low laugh. “The cat never really warmed up to me, which is a shame, since I’m an animal lover. I think he knew I was lying to his owner, but I had my reasons.”
“He is a very perceptive cat. You lied about your identity, right? Because you knew Nick had been hired by Violet to find you?”
“I lied about my identity, but not because I was trying to hide from my aunt. Had I known she was the least bit interested in finding me . . . who am I kidding? It wouldn’t have changed anything. I had to be thought missing, or better yet, dead, not only for my safety but for anyone connected with me.” She took a step closer to me, Nick hissed again, and she stepped back. “You took the stone from the hotel room, didn’t you?”
I nodded. “That’s what they ran me off the road for, and ransacked my apartment hoping to find, isn’t it? There’s something about this stone that’s very special. Would it have anything to do with the laser writing etched in it?”
Her eyes held a gleam of admiration. “Doris was right about you. You are smart. We can help each other, Nora.”
I folded my arms across my chest. “I’d say right now you need my help more than I need yours.”
Her lips slashed into a thin line. “I did not kill Doris. She was my friend, probably the only true one I’ve ever had.”
I nodded. “I believe you. However, the police will be a different matter. Several people, myself included, heard you arguing with her the night of the gala.”
She let out an exasperated sigh and pushed the back of her hand through her thick, luxuriant black tresses. “That is because she was so stubborn. She insisted she could handle things on her own. She didn’t want me to help her.”
“Because you were supposed to be missing or dead, right?”
“If it was revealed that I was indeed alive, then it would have put us both in a very precarious position.”
“Because you stole that red stone.”
She nodded. “Yes.”
We stood for a moment or two in silence, which I broke with a light cough. “We’re talking in circles here, and not really getting anywhere.”
“This is true.” Her gaze softened as she looked at me. “You wish to learn the truth about Nick Atkins and the reason why he disappeared. Pichard was correct. It is possible I might be able to help.”
I leaned toward her. “You know where he is?”
She shook her head. “I didn’t say that. I can tell you what I know about Nick, and why I think he might have wanted to drop out of sight, but that’s about all I can do.” She paused. “I will need something from you first.”
I should have seen that coming. “What is it you want?”
“I need your detective skills to help me clear my name in Daisy’s murder, and bring a dangerous criminal to justice.”
“Is that all? Would you like me to whip you up a sandwich, too?”
“It’s a very serious matter, Nora. You can ask your friend Daniel. He appreciates the gravity of the situation.”
Even though I’d suspected Daniel was acquainted with Alexa, hearing it confirmed still surprised me. “So the FBI’s involved in all this?” When she didn’t answer I added, “I know Doris was a reporter, working on some sort of story that concerned international espionage.”
Alexa nodded. “That is true. These people are very dangerous, make no mistake.”
“It wouldn’t be the first time I was up against someone dangerous.”
Her lips slashed a thin line. “Not like this. I have nothing to offer you, Nora, except the little I can tell you about Nick. I would ask much more of you in return.”
I managed a small smile. “Let me be the judge of that.”
* * *
I made a strong pot of coffee and then Alexa and I sat down at my kitchen table. I put out two big bowls of Friskies for the cats; Alexa’s cat hunched over her bowl and gobbled hungrily. Nick pecked at his and then he moved off to squat in front of my stove, his sharp golden gaze trained on us. For Nick to abandon his food bowl, he must sense something big in the wind.
Alexa took a sip of coffee and nodded at him. “Your protector.”
I looked at the cat fondly. “You can say that again. He’s saved my life more than once.”
“You are lucky.” Alexa cast a glance at her own cat. “Valentina is a good companion, but at the first hint of danger . . . well, let’s just say she gives new meaning to the phrase scaredy cat.”
I laughed. “Nick’s just the opposite. He runs toward guns, not away from them.” I sobered and cupped my mug in my palms. “Okay, enough small talk. It’s time you had the floor. Why is that stone so valuable that people want to kill over it?”
Alexa set her mug down and leaned back in her chair. “I’m not sure how much you know about my past.”
“I know your father was estranged from his sister, Violet, and he raised you after your mother died.”
She nodded. “My father never married my mother, but it wasn’t because he never asked. She just could never bring herself to marry . . . a thief. That was what my father did best, you know, and it’s true what they say . . . genes will out. I discovered at a very young age that I’d inherited his talent—I have very nimble fingers.” She held out her hand and flexed the digits in front of me. “My mother would have had a stroke if she knew just how much like my father I was. It started out with small things—a pack of gum here, a candy bar there—but as I grew older, I discovered a way to get the pretty things we couldn’t afford. Nice underwear, angora sweaters, pretty dresses . . . it came easily to me. Too easily.
“The worst was when I stole a diamond bracelet from a local jeweler. Just my luck, they’d installed new video cameras that day I wasn’t aware of. They had me on tape, and the only thing that saved my indiscretion from going public was the fact I was still under eighteen. I was living with my father by then, and he was appalled—although I can’t help but feel there was a little part of him that was actually proud I’d inherited some talent of his. Anyway, the records were sealed by the court, I did some community service, and then—my father got sick. In the meantime, I’d decided to turn over a new leaf, and I went to college. I studied Art History, because I also had a talent for drawing and I’d always loved to look at the paintings and sculptures by the masters. I thought I could get my degree, maybe get a museum job as a docent, eventually work my way up, and someday, maybe, my own paintings or sculptures might be on display somewhere. I was a year away from graduation when Dad died—and
then Doris called me.
“I’d met Doris two years ago at a Zeta Tau Alpha fund-raiser. We had a mutual love of art and hit it off right away. Doris was more interested in journalism, though, and she’d received an offer to study abroad and attend school in London while working at the Meecham Foundation. Anyway, two days after my father passed away I got a call from her. She wanted to know if I could come to London. She’d see to it that I got a job at Meecham—if I helped her out with a story she was writing. I asked for details, but she was adamant: I had to go to London first, and she’d fill me in later. Needless to say, I jumped at the chance. I was being given an opportunity for a fresh start, in an entirely new country where no one knew of me or my past. I cleaned out my accounts and was on the next flight out of the USA.
“I took the job with Meecham, and I have to say, at first I was disappointed. It consisted of writing articles and categorizing exhibits—really boring stuff. Doris worked from home on other projects—I later found out she wanted it that way because she was holding down two jobs at the same time. Anyway, I’d just about decided to give up the job and go back to the States and finish college when Sir Rodney brought in the grimoire.
“At first glance, you’d wonder just what was so special about it. I know I did. It looked like any other old book. The silver scrolling on the cover was pretty nice, but the jewels weren’t anything to write home about—and I know a thing or two about jewels. As a matter of fact, it didn’t take me long to realize the jewels on its cover weren’t real. I thought about bringing it to someone’s attention, but that would entail my explaining just how I was so expert in the field of jewelry—so I confided it to Doris. She got so excited, I thought she was going to have a heart attack right on the spot. Then, a few days later, she started asking me for details—how I knew they weren’t real, what looked different about them, yada yada. She made such a fuss I told her that maybe I should mention something to Sir Meecham, and that’s when she took me into her confidence. She admitted that the reason she’d called me to England and gotten me a job with Meecham was the grimoire. She’d wanted my opinion on the jewels, because it bore out what a source of hers had told her weeks before. The grimoire was being used as a tool to smuggle a valuable formula to a foreign power. Or rather, the jewels in its cover were.”
Crime and Catnip Page 19