Claws for Alarm

by T. C. LoTempio

  “Take your time. Everything is fine here. And give Little Nicky a kiss for me. I miss him. I thought you would leave him here. I have some new collars ready for him to try on.”

  Since I had her on speaker, Nick’s head jerked up at the word collar. He bared his fangs with a loud hiss.

  We exchanged a few more pleasantries, and then I hung up and pulled my laptop out of my tote. I settled in at the small table near the window and decided now was as good a time as any to start my research on other possible suspects. I plugged Taft Michaels into the search engine, and almost immediately names appeared on the screen. Some were variations on the name: guys with the last or first name of Michaels, a couple of schools with Taft in the title. On the third page I came across Taft Michaels’s Facebook. I clicked on it, and the screen shifted to that particular site.

  Nick hopped up on the table, startling me. “Well, well,” I said. “So, were you dreaming about all those nice collars Chantal’s got for you to try on?”

  I got a hiss and an indifferent stare in return. I chuckled. “Guess not.”

  I turned my attention to Taft Michaels’s photo. He looked like a younger version of Jon Hamm—coal black hair cut stylishly; wide, twinkling blue eyes; a firm chin; thick lips parted to reveal gleaming perfect teeth. He was bare chested in his FB page photo, and his chest was broad, the muscles clearly defined. My gaze moved to the particulars beneath the photo. Occupation was blank, but the Pitt Institute was listed as his school, and his place of residence was San Fran. Under relationship it merely said “Involved,” vague to say the least. Below the page photo was a directory marked “Photos.” I clicked on that. Another page marked “Taft’s Albums” appeared. There were three: one was labeled “Page Photos,” another “Publicity Shots,” and a third “New Year’s Eve.” As I hesitated, Nick’s paw shot out, pressing down on the mouse. He must have moved it to the “New Year’s Eve” page, because the screen suddenly shifted to reveal about twenty photos, all of which featured Taft drinking and carrying on. Two photos showed him talking to two men. One man had his back to the camera, another was bathed in shadow, so it was impossible to discern who they were, but somehow I doubted either of them was Pitt. In some of the photos he had his arm around a beautiful brunette. The last photo, however, showed him in silhouette, in what appeared to be an elegantly appointed den underneath a portrait of a setting sun, kissing another girl who was most definitely not the brunette. This one was blond, and although most of her face was in shadow, the little that was visible seemed extremely attractive. Most of the photos had captions beneath them—the ones with the women, however, did not.

  “Hm,” I mused. “It looks like an amateurish attempt to keep something secret, although if he really wanted to do that he shouldn’t have made his page public. He’s got virtually no controls in place, which means he doesn’t care who views his stuff.”

  Nick let out a loud “Meow” of agreement.

  This time I typed in Julia Canton’s name. When her Facebook page appeared, I sucked in my breath. No doubt about it, Taft’s brunette companion and Julia Canton looked to be one and the same. I took a quick look at her pertinent information, which seemed to mirror Taft’s. Apparently they had vagueness in common.

  “Well, well. Looks as if Taft and Julia are pretty cozy. Maybe that’s the reason for the bad blood between him and Pitt.”

  I opened Julia’s photo page, but there were only two albums: one was her cover photos, of which there were three, each more beautiful than the last. The girl was stunning: long dark brown, almost black hair that fell nearly to her waist, bright blue eyes, dimples at either end of her lips when she smiled. To be honest, it was hard to imagine any guy wanting to be just friends with her, unless he played for the other team, of course. “They both look cut from the same mold. The beautiful people. I see why they’re models. It’s a wonder they don’t do that full-time. I’m sure they’d make much more money than an artist ever could. And why isn’t modeling listed as a profession, hm?”

  Next I keyed in Kurt Wilson, but nothing came up on Facebook for him. Ditto Twitter and LinkedIn. I managed to find an address and phone number in Pacific Grove for the Wilson Galleries, which I promptly dialed, only to get a recorded message: “You’ve reached the Wilson Galleries. No one’s available at the moment, but your call is important to us. Please leave a message at the tone.” I left my name and phone number and hung up.

  “Man of mystery is right,” I said. “He’s got my vote so far. People who like to stay that low-key usually have some deep, dark secret as the reason. Maybe Pitt knew it and was blackmailing him.”

  As fast as the thought entered my head, I rejected that theory. Blackmailers rarely bit the hand that fed them—or killed it. Besides, it would have been the other way around. If that scenario held water, Pitt would have killed him.

  I pushed both hands through my mass of curls and jammed my hands in my pocket. My fingers closed around something long and hard, and I remembered that Prudence had given me the key to Lacey’s room yesterday, in case there was something in there she might want. I turned the key over in my hand and jerked to my feet. I glanced over at Nick.

  “I’m going to check out Lacey’s room. Want to come?”

  I’d barely pushed open the door when I felt a breeze around my ankles. Nick swept past me into the hallway, a blur of black fur, disappearing around the corner faster than a genie out of its bottle.

  “Guess so,” I chuckled.

  * * *

  Lacey’s room was larger than mine but with the same sparse furnishings. Her neatly made bed, adorned with the same type of blue chenille bedspread, stood in the center. A bottle of Charlie perfume, a few books on art, and the latest issue of Entertainment Weekly lay on her dresser. The desk and wooden chair by the window looked like an exact duplicate of the ones in my room. A worn armchair upholstered in a purple floral print was over in the corner, a wooden ottoman in front of it. Right next to the small bathroom was a closet. Instead of a door, the opening was covered with a thick white shower curtain. I walked over and pushed it aside. Lacey’s clothing hung there: several pairs of jeans, a few T-shirts, two long-sleeved pin-striped shirts, her one good George Simonton black dress with the scoop neck and lace sleeves that once upon a time had been mine.

  I moved toward the desk. On the desktop a bouquet of pens and pencils sat in a worn leather cup, and beside it a frame lay facedown. I picked it up and my breath caught in my throat. I felt moisture well up in the corners of my eyes, and before I could stop it, the sting of wetness graced my cheeks.

  The photo showed a smiling, redheaded woman in a checked sundress. Under each arm was tucked a rosy-cheeked child—one with flame red hair and a toothless grin under the right arm; a blond, paler girl with a serious expression under the left. I hadn’t seen that photo in years. I’d wondered where it went, and now, to find it in my sister’s things . . .

  I felt something wet and cold against the back of my hand, and a second later Nick nudged his nose into my palm. I chucked him under the chin, then brushed at my wet cheeks with the back of my hand. “This isn’t helping her,” I murmured.

  I started to slide open the desk drawers. Nothing much was there. The top drawer had a sketch pad in it, and I lifted it out, started leafing through it. The portraits on the pages were good, really good. There was one of Prudence that looked almost as if she were about to speak. On the last page was another familiar face.

  “Wow,” I shook my head. “She must have copied this from my graduation photo.” I slid Nick a glance. “What do you know, Nick. My sister actually has talent.”

  “Your sister?”

  The sudden voice coupled with the creak of the door behind me made me drop the sketch pad. I whirled and caught a glimpse of short platinum blond hair framing a round face. A pair of hazel eyes framed by thick black lashes peered at me, and then the door swung all the way open.

&nb
sp; “Oh goodness. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you. The nice woman downstairs said that I should just go right on up, but she didn’t mention anyone else was here.” She cocked her head to one side, studying me. “Yep, you’ve got to be her sister. I can see the family resemblance right around here.” She made a gesture that encompassed the area around her eyes.

  “Yes, I’m Nora Charles. And you are?”

  “Oh, I’m sorry.” Her laugh tittered out. “Jenna Whitt. I study at the Pitt Institute, too. Lacey and I have worked on some projects together.”

  I took a moment to study her. She was short, maybe five-two, but well built, and she looked as if she spent some time in the gym maintaining that build. She wore a cobalt blue tracksuit unzippered down the front to reveal a bright lime green T-shirt that emphasized her full bosom. She wore thick Nikes on her feet, which explained why I hadn’t heard her sooner. I placed her age as mid to late thirties. If I had to give a truthful assessment, she was probably more on the sunny side.

  “Nice to meet you, Jenna. I’m afraid, though, my sister isn’t here right now.”

  “Oh, I know.” She waved her hand carelessly. I noted the slight nicotine stains on the tips of her finger and thought it a shame she smoked. It took away from her expensive French-tip manicure. “She’s in the slammer. Poor thing. If you ask me they should be giving her a medal, not prosecuting her.”

  I was a bit surprised at her candor with a perfect stranger and struggled to keep my tone even. “She hasn’t been found guilty yet.”

  Jenna shook her bobbed head. “Oh right. I’m sorry. It’s just—now don’t get me wrong—I like your sister, she’s a nice gal. But you’ve got to admit it’d take a miracle to help her, doncha think? I mean, caught with the murder weapon and all? Talk about bad timing.”

  I frowned. “Is there something I can help you with?”

  “Not really.” She waved her hand carelessly. “I was here a few days ago, and I thought I might have left something here I need . . . Oh, hello.” Her eyes widened as she caught sight of Nick at my feet. “Wow. He’s some big cat.”

  Nick regarded her with a cool stare, then minced over to the braided rug in front of Lacey’s vanity and stretched out both forepaws, bottom in the air. He turned around twice and then plopped down, lifted his hind leg, and began grooming his privates.

  Jenna burst out laughing. “He sure ain’t shy.” She dragged her gaze back to me. “Anyway, like I was sayin’, it’ll take a miracle to help your sister, or isn’t it true she’s been charged with first-degree murder?”

  I nodded. “Yes, it’s true. She was arraigned this morning.”

  “They didn’t waste much time.” Jenna pushed past me into the room, walked over to the dresser, and picked up the bottle of perfume. She sprayed it into the air, then leaned forward to catch the droplets on her skin as they fell. “I feel bad for her,” Jenna said. She walked around the room, her eyes darting to and fro, taking in every detail. “Don’t get me wrong—I don’t condone murder—but if anyone had it coming, Pitt did.” Her voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper, even though we were quite alone. “He wasn’t a very nice man.”

  “Really? All the accounts I’ve read paint him as a wonderful humanitarian.”

  Her brow arched. “You believe everything you read? That’s all hype. Publicity.” She waved her hand. “Just ask anyone who took his class. He was a class A creep.”

  “You sound as if you’ve had personal experience with him. Did you take any of his classes?”

  “A few.” She nodded. “But I dropped out to pursue my real interest, sculpture. I’ve got loads of friends who have taken his classes, though, and trust me, none of them had a good word to say. None ever actually threatened him, though, until your sister did. I happened to be waiting for a friend in the hall outside that classroom. The door was partially open, and I heard every word, along with about a dozen other people.” I noted her gaze never met mine but rather focused on Lacey’s open closet, almost as if she were taking a mental inventory. “I took a peek inside. Your sister was all red in the face, and she was screaming at the top of her lungs. I’m surprised they didn’t hear her in China.”

  I moved closer, intrigued by the fact Jenna was apparently a witness to Lacey’s impassioned declaration. “And Pitt? How did he react to all this? It sounds pretty shocking, to say the least.”

  Jenna shrugged. She’d moved over to the desk and stood, absently pulling drawers open, glancing inside, then shutting them. I was just about to point out the rudeness of her actions when she turned to me and said, “It’s not like any student never had a meltdown in one of his classes before. He just stood there with a sour expression until she was done screaming, and then he picked up the rest of the portfolios and started handing ’em out, calm as you please. I don’t know what happened after that. My friend showed up so I left.” She picked up a snow globe from the desk, shook it absently, and then set it down, letting her fingers trail over the other items on the smooth surface. “I happened to be outside Pitt’s office just last week—my professor’s office is on the same floor—and his door was partially open. I don’t know who he was talking to, but was he mad! I was sure glad I wasn’t on the receiving end of that call.”

  “Wow,” I said. “Was it another student?”

  She shrugged. “Could have been. I really couldn’t tell. I didn’t want to be nosy.”

  “Of course,” I murmured. “By the way, do you know Kurt Wilson?”

  Her head snapped up. “Who?”

  “Kurt Wilson. He’s supposed to run a local gallery that showcases students’ works.”

  The puzzled expression cleared somewhat, and she nodded. “Oh yeah, him. Let me think. I might have seen him once or twice at a distance. But I don’t believe I ever actually met him. My sculptures were never considered for display. Although, come to think of it, I’m not sure he ever actually met any of those students, either.”

  “That seems a bit odd. Who did he make the deals through? Pitt?”

  “Probably. Or maybe directly through the office. Like I said, I was never selected, so to be honest, I’ve never even gone near the place.” She shrugged and glanced at her watch, then plucked at the sleeve of her sweatsuit. “Sorry, but I’ve got to go. I have a sculpture class in an hour, and I can’t be late. I’ve got Professor Grant; she’s just as tough as Pitt used to be, and her pet peeve is tardiness.”

  She flounced out with a wave and a smile, and once her footsteps had disappeared down the hall I tapped my chin thoughtfully. “She was lying,” I murmured. “About that argument. I don’t think she overheard anyone else. I think it was her. She just didn’t want to admit it. I think she came here to snoop around.” I nudged Nick with the toe of my shoe. “What do you think?”

  Nick blinked twice.

  I nodded. “Yep, I feel the same way. Well, one good thing. Now we know for certain there were quite a few others who didn’t have Pitt at the top of their hit parade. If I want to clear Lacey, I’m going to have to get into the nitty-gritty of PI work and get some answers on my own.” I reached in my pocket, whipped out my cell, and punched in a number.

  “Hey, Ollie,” I said when the PI answered. “Remember when you said you’d be glad to help me? Well, I could sure use your advice. It’s been a while since I’ve done this.

  “I need to go undercover.”

  SIX

  The naked guy climbed down from the rounded platform, plucked up a fluffy terrycloth robe, and headed for a table in the far corner of the large room on which a large coffee urn and a huge platter of donuts rested.

  “Take ten, everyone,” the tall, gray-haired woman standing in the front of the room said. Her gaze drifted to the doorway where I stood and then back to the ten students now milling around the refreshment table. She thrust her hands into the pocket of the blue smock she wore over her dress and walked over to me. “I am Pr
ofessor Wilhelmina Pace. And you are—”

  “Abigail St. Clair.” I extended my hand to the woman. She stared at it, then removed hers from the smock and gripped mine tightly. I winced as I extracted my hand from her iron grip. “I’m a potential student. I’ve always liked to dabble with drawing and painting, and this school was very highly recommended.”

  “Dabble, eh?” Professor Pace raised one eyebrow. “Being a successful artist requires a bit more than dabbling. It requires concentration, dedication.”

  I swallowed. “Exactly. I’d like to learn, and, as my dear, departed grandmother used to say, ‘Why not learn from the best?’”

  She actually laughed. “Your grandmother sounds very wise. It’s true, and you couldn’t have chosen a finer school. The Pitt Institute is one of the premier art institutes in the state of California.” Her gaze drifted back toward the refreshment table. The handsome model was chatting with several of the female students, a donut clutched in one hand. “Taft,” she called out. “Watch the sweets.” She rubbed at her stomach area with one hand. Taft’s gaze narrowed and he deliberately turned his back.

  Professor Pace turned to me and whispered, “A handsome boy but headstrong! We don’t like our models to be sticks, but we don’t like them too zaftig, either. We like them proportioned.” She made an outline of an hourglass figure with her hands.

  I shifted the brochures and folder the woman in the admissions office had thrust upon me and nodded toward the group. “He looks like a model. He’s so handsome. Is he a student as well?”

  She cast another wary glance his way, and I saw a muscle clench in her jaw. “He has a certain talent. I’m not certain I’d refer to it as art.” Her cell phone rang just then, and she reached into her pocket for it, moving a few steps away from me. She flipped it open, listened for a few minutes, then called out, “Ten more minutes. Then we will begin again.”