Lance’s lips twigged upward. “Your sister never shuffled a day in her life. Barreled right through is more like it. She’d never get caught dead shuffling.”
I spread cheddar over the cold cuts, added lettuce, tomato, salt and pepper, a splash of oil and vinegar, and a generous helping of hot peppers to both sandwiches, then started to wrap them in wax paper. “You’re probably right. I’ve thought about driving out there one afternoon—you know, pay Aunt Prudence a visit and see how she’s doing—but if I know my sister, she’d just resent it. She’s always accused me of not having faith in her, of always checking up on her. She was particularly vocal about it after Mom died.”
Lance laughed. “Well, she’s not wrong, is she?”
I carried the wrapped sandwiches over to the register and returned Lance’s grin. “No, I suppose not. This is the first time, though, in years that I can actually say my sister and I have gotten along—she’s actually been civil to me on the last few phone calls. I really don’t want to jeopardize it right now. Besides, I have a lot on my own plate.”
“Louis said the article you did on the Grainger case was a big hit.”
“He told me.” Louis Blondell was the editor of Noir, an online true crime magazine I’d started writing articles for. Louis had recently offered me my own column, which I was seriously considering. “He’d love it if I did one like that for him every month.”
“Well, you could. That’d be right up your alley.”
“Sure—but to do it right takes careful research, for which one needs time, which I don’t have lots of right now, not if I intend to revamp and make a go of Mom’s business.” I gave my head a brisk shake, letting the auburn curls fall in ringlets across my cheeks. “Damn—why wasn’t I born rich instead of beautiful?”
Lance tamped down a smile. “We all have our crosses to bear.”
I gave Lance his change, walked him out, then locked the door, turned the sign to CLOSED, and pulled down the shade. As I turned around, Nick’s head popped out from underneath the damask tablecloth. A few seconds later the front paws followed. I caught a glimpse of a square object underneath his paws and frowned.
“Hey, you. What have you got there?”
I made a dive for him; he wiggled back underneath the table. I squatted on the floor and raised the tablecloth up to peer underneath. Nick lay pressed up against the wall, curled in a tight ball, with what looked like a beat-up leather notebook clutched in his claws. The book was open, and he had one paw thrown possessively over the page, his sharp teeth nibbling at the paper’s edge.
“Nick, what are you doing? Give me that? If you’re hungry I made lobster salad yesterday.”
Without really thinking I reached out and grasped the edge of the book. Nick could have easily scratched me but good with those talons of his—but he didn’t. Instead he rolled rather meekly on his side and allowed me to drag the book out. I picked it up and took it over to the counter, where I smoothed the wrinkled, chewed page.
I glanced over my shoulder. Nick’s head had popped out from underneath the table, and he was watching me, head cocked to one side, golden eyes wide. I shook my fist at him. “This is one of your former human’s journals, Nick. What are you doing with it? And how did you get this? I thought I had these locked upstairs in my desk.”
The eyes blinked once, twice. His ears flicked forward.
A little sigh escaped my lips. Oh yes, I should know better. Locked drawers, doors—they all meant nothing to this portly tuxedo cat. He could have taught Harry Houdini a few tricks, and for all I knew, he well might have.
“You rascal. You’ve got your own method of communication, don’t you?” I grumbled. I leaned over to inspect the chewed page more closely. It was an account of Nick Atkins’s investigation of one Bronson A. Pichard—and a very colorful account, at that. I shot my gaze back to the cat. “So, Nick, tell me: What’s the attraction here? Why this particular page? Are you trying to tell me something?”
Nick’s ears flicked and he began to purr.
Tucking the notebook under one arm, I hurried up the stairs to my apartment and made a beeline for my desk and my trusty Rolodex. I found the number I wanted, grabbed my cell, and a few minutes later heard a familiar voice:
“Sampson Atkins Investigations. Oliver Sampson here.”
“Well, I see you haven’t dissolved the partnership yet.”
“No—at least not officially, anyway. All in due time, I suppose.” I could feel his smile over the wire. “Well, well, Nora Charles. What a nice surprise. How are you, and how is my missing partner’s cat? Little Nick is behaving himself, I hope. Or has he gotten you involved in another murder case?”
“I’m not sure,” I answered truthfully. “He managed to get his paws on one of Nick’s journals, and one page in particular—notes on a Bronson A. Pichard.”
“Oh,” Ollie said, and then grew very quiet. “Pichard, eh?” he said at last. “Now there’s a blast from the past. That guy was creepy.”
“Creepy? In what way?”
“Nothing I could put my finger on, I only saw him once or twice but – maybe it was those eyes of his. They were two different colors. One blue, one brown. Gave him a sinister appearance. Anyway, that investigation was quite an undertaking. Pichard’s wife hired Nick to get some dirt for her for their divorce.”
“And did he?”
Ollie cleared his throat. “Did he ever. Isobel ended up with practically everything. Pichard lost his business, most of his holdings and money, and—he blamed Nick.”
I felt heat sear my cheeks. “I just love guys like that,” I said with feeling. “They cheat, but they’re the injured party.”
“There’s a bit more to the story,” Ollie said. “Pichard owned an art gallery that specialized in rare paintings and sculptures. He did well at first among the San Francisco high society, but then his prices started to get out of control. Plus, there were some rumblings that he, ah, misrepresented authenticity on quite a few pieces—real expensive ones. Nothing was ever proven, but his reputation went downhill fast.” I frowned. “He suspected Nick of tipping off the authorities.”
“Did he?”
A pause and then, “What do you think?”
I sighed. “I think Pichard sounds like a man with a grudge and a very big axe to wield—or a gun. If he isn’t responsible for Nick’s disappearance himself, he might know something about it.”
“Ordinarily I’d tend to agree, but Pichard’s been off the radar for years. He’s disappeared even more effectively than Nick has. The last address I have on file for him is over five years old. Mandrake the Magician’s got nothing on him.”
“Haven’t you heard?” I couldn’t keep the smile out of my voice. “I’m pretty good at finding people who do just that. Now, what about Pichard’s ex-wife? Got any info on her?”
“Nothing current. Isobel moved to Italy two years ago. She wouldn’t be of any help anyway. Wanted nothing to do with Pichard once the ink was dry on the divorce papers. Listen, Nora,” Ollie sighed. “I’d sure like to know what happened to Nick, but digging around about Pichard—that just seems like asking for trouble. Besides, lately I’ve been thinking . . . maybe Nick wanted to disappear.”
I sat up straighter. “You think he vanished on purpose?”
“Who knows? I’m just saying it’s a possibility. Nick knows many ways to make himself scarce.” Ollie paused and then added, “Sometimes it’s best to let sleeping dogs lie.”
“Maybe so, but I’ve never been one to do what’s best.”
He sighed heavily. “Okay. I can see your mind is made up. But don’t say I didn’t warn you. And if you need help—any help at all—you call me, y’hear?”
“I hear. And thanks.”
I put down the phone and nibbled at my lower lip. Almost as if he knew I’d been thinking about him, Nick appeared, jumping into my lap with sur
prising ease for a cat of his girth. I rubbed the sensitive area behind his ears and whispered into his ruff, “You’d like to know what happened to your former master too, wouldn’t you?”
Nick raised his sleek black head. “Er-ewl,” he mewled as his little (debatable point) kitty claws moved up and down, kneading my lap.
“That’s what I thought.” I picked up the piece of paper on which I’d written the address Ollie’d given me. “St. Leo isn’t far away—as a matter of fact it’s only about two miles from Aunt Prudence’s house. We could conceivably kill two birds with one stone, say, tomorrow afternoon?”
His steady rumble made me smile. I gave his head a quick pat. “I thought you’d agree.” I reached for my cell phone. “Maybe I’d better warn Aunt Prudence we’re going to be stopping by, though. So she can prepare my sister.”
Nick’s eyes popped wide, and he leaned back on his haunches, pawed at the air.
I laughed. “Yes, she might find you charming, and then again . . . with Lacey, you can never tell. We—we’ve never gotten along all that well. I’m sure she’ll like you, though.” I leaned over to stroke his head, and I didn’t imagine the cat smile he gave me. As I reached for my cell with my other hand, it started to ring. I snatched it up, glanced at the number, and then hit the button. “Aunt Prudence. You must be psychic. I was just going to call you.”
“Oh, Nora, I’m so glad I got you.” My aunt’s voice was a high-pitched wail of distress. “The most awful thing has happened.
“Your sister’s been arrested—for murder.”
TWO
I was so startled at my aunt’s declaration that for a minute, I couldn’t speak. Finally, I stammered, “M-murder? What—are you sure?”
“Of course I’m sure,” my aunt sniffed. “I was standing right in my own living room when it happened.”
I tugged at an errant curl, trying to process the information my aunt had just pummeled me with. “But are you sure they arrested her? Maybe they just took her in for questioning.”
“When that detective came in and read Lacey her rights, he said outright he was arresting her for the murder of Thaddeus Pitt.”
“Thaddeus Pitt?” It was my turn to sound incredulous. “The Thaddeus Pitt? The one who owns the art school Lacey’s going to?”
“Yes, yes, he’s the one. That’s what’s going to make this so complicated. I mean, the man is a legend here. Why it’s like—like murdering Santa Claus.” She sucked in a sharp breath. “You know all this is very traumatizing to me, Nora. I realize it must seem old hat to you, what with your background and all, but I’ve never actually seen anyone arrested before, let alone a beloved family member. And for MURDER!”
My temples started to pound, and I pinched the bridge of my nose between my thumb and forefinger. “They’ve got to have some sort of evidence,” I said. “They can’t charge anyone without reasonable cause. Unless there’s some specific reason they feel a murder charge would stick, she should just be considered a person of interest.”
There was a slight hesitation, and then my aunt said slowly, “Would standing over the body holding the murder weapon be enough to make a murder charge—how did you say it—stick?”
“WHAT?” This got worse with each successive sentence. “Are you telling me she fled the scene? That’s not good, Aunt Prudence. Flight is considered evidence of guilt.”
“Fled is such a strong term, Nora. Your sister wasn’t thinking clearly. She’s never been good under pressure—you know she’s not coolheaded and collected like you are, dear. She intended to go down to the police station, once she’d calmed down, but by then that detective came to arrest her.”
I squinched my eyes shut. It was true, my sister had done some pretty outrageous things in the past, but I also doubted her capable of murder, whether it was premeditated or in the heat of passion. However, law enforcement would surely view her being caught with the body and then fleeing the scene in a not-so-favorable light.
My aunt was still moaning into the phone. “Oh, it’s such an awful mess. Irene—that’s Irene MacGillicuddy—you remember her? My childhood friend? Well, maybe not. Anyway, she’s staying here at my house—hers is being fumigated, long story—anyway, I don’t know what I’d have done if Irene hadn’t been here. She told me I should call you right away.”
I bit down on my lower lip so hard I tasted blood. Prudence’s habit of drawing out details hadn’t diminished over the years, that was for sure. “Yes, it’s good you did. Now, did you also call a lawyer?”
“I called Herbie Jenkins—he’s taken care of my affairs for years, but he only does family law, and Monroe Schlessinger only does real estate. They did make some recommendations, but—” She uttered a long, drawn-out sigh. “No one in the family’s ever been accused of murder before. I just don’t know what to do, or who to hire. Oh, it’s such a mess.” The last was another long, drawn-out wail.
I made up my mind. “Okay, Aunt Prudence, you just sit tight. Hot Bread’s closed now, so I’m going to make a few calls, see if I can track down a lawyer.” I glanced at my watch. “It’s not too late—maybe there’s still something that can be done today.”
“Oh, thank you, dear.” My aunt’s tone brightened considerably at my announcement. “I knew we could count on you. You were always the levelheaded one in the family.” Aunt Prudence took a quick breath and then continued, “It’s true, I don’t know many of the details, but I know my niece. Lacey might have panicked and done some foolish things, but she’s not a killer. Why, she has trouble offing a spider. How could she murder a person?”
* * *
Once I’d calmed my aunt down as best I could under the circumstances, I immediately called Daniel Corleone. I got his answering machine, so I left a message, hitting the highlights and asking him to dig up any information he could on Pitt’s murder.
Daniel Corleone is an FBI agent whose acquaintance I’d made during my previous adventure. Our professional relationship had a rocky beginning, for sure, but we’d also both felt a mutual attraction to each other in spite of it. Following the successful completion of that case, he’d accepted a position heading up an FBI satellite office in Carmel. He shared the office with a DOJ (that’s Department of Justice, for those not in the know) agent, Rick Barnes, for whom I suspected Chantal harbored quite a crush. Over the past few weeks Daniel and I had been “getting to know” each other over some casual lunches. As of yet, our relationship hadn’t gotten past the friendly stop-by-for-a-quick-lunch level, but after my last relationship (which had turned very, very sour . . . another long story), taking it slow seemed a good idea to me.
Since I’ve never been a particularly patient person, and since I had no clue how long it would be before Daniel might call back, I dragged out my trusty laptop and proceeded to search for some mention of Pitt’s murder, which proved to be no easy feat. There were loads of articles on Pitt—on his contributions to the town of Carmel, his academic prowess, his school. Likening him to Santa Claus was putting it mildly. A male Mother Teresa would be more apropos. Hardly a mention, though, of his untimely end; apparently the Carmel police were trying to keep the incident on the down low. I finally found one mention in the Carmel Herald:
LOCAL CELEBRITY FOUND STABBED TO DEATH
Professor found dead in office
Professor Thaddeus Pitt, 58, renowned artist and the founder of the Pitt Institute located in nearby St. Leo, was found stabbed to death Wednesday evening in his office at the school on Peachtree Drive.
Pitt’s body was discovered around ten thirty Wednesday evening. Police were called to the scene shortly thereafter. The cause of death appears to be a stab wound directly to the heart. An autopsy will be held to accurately determine the cause and exact time of death.
A California native, Pitt was raised in both California and Texas. He displayed artistic ability at an early age and was admitted into the prestigious Otis Coll
ege of Art and Design at age 16. He gained fame for both his Impressionistic drawings and portraits of famous people such as Marilyn Monroe and Pope John Paul XXIII. His work hangs in museums such as the Guggenheim, the Smithsonian, and the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Although he himself has not painted for the last fifteen years, Pitt’s school, started twelve years ago, has produced many fine artists, all of whom mourn his untimely passing.
Even though a possible suspect has been taken into custody, the police declined further comment at this time, other than to say the incident remains under investigation.
At least, I thought thankfully, Lacey’s name was withheld—for the time being. I drummed my fingers on the edge of my desk. I needed more details, and I also needed to find a good criminal lawyer. I’d known tons in Chicago, but here . . . As I debated the situation my phone rang. I glanced at the number, then immediately picked it up.
“Daniel, hi. Thank you for calling back so quickly.”
“Well, I’m FBI, remember? Speed is our middle name.” His tone sobered. “How are you holding up, Nora? This must have been quite a shock for you.”
“Well, Lacey is the last person I’d ever expect to be accused of murder—then again I haven’t really been in touch with her in a long, long, time. I keep thinking how my mother would have reacted.” I swallowed over the sudden lump in my throat. “So, were you able to find out any details?”
“The way the St. Leo detective explained it, the night guard heard a scream and went to investigate. He found your sister standing over Pitt’s body, knife clutched in her hand. The guard’s a pretty old guy, and when he went to grab your sister’s arm, she pushed him out of the way and got the hell out of there. She kept her face averted, so he couldn’t really see it—but Lacey’s name was in Pitt’s appointment book, and she fit the guard’s general description.”
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