Claws for Alarm

by T. C. LoTempio

  “Heck, Nora, if anyone should go to the slammer it should be Louis and me. We’re the ones who hacked the system,” Lance said, scratching his head.

  I blew them a kiss from the doorway. “Probably, but a good reporter never reveals her source, or squeals on her hackers. Wish me luck.”

  “Good luck,” Louis said. “And stay out of jail. You’ve got a column to write.”

  “And delicious sandwiches to feed the hungry public,” Lance added. “Keep me posted.”

  Back on the street, I squared my shoulders. It was pretty obvious Samms was going to know right where that lead had originated, and a good bet he’d be damn mad. It was even more obvious what my next move had to be.

  I had to find Mr. Taft Michaels and grill him about lying to provide Giselle Taft with an alibi. Hopefully I’d be able to find out something that would make Samms forget all about pressing charges on me and focus his concentration in other areas.

  SEVENTEEN

  “I can’t thank you enough for helping me with this, Ollie. Keep an eye out for Pine Street, won’t you?”

  It was the next afternoon. Chantal had agreed to take the last half of the lunch shift, and I’d picked Ollie up at his office at twelve thirty. When I’d outlined my plan to him the afternoon before, he was more than willing to go along. As a matter of fact, he had some very good suggestions. I slid a glance at him as I made the turn onto Clover Road that would take us to the Pitt Institute, and he smiled, his teeth sparkling against his coffee-colored skin.

  “No need to thank me, Nora. I told you, I consider furthering your PI education an investment.”

  “An investment? How do you figure that?”

  He chuckled. “The way I figure it, detective work is in your blood, same as reporting and sandwich making.”

  I slid him a glance. “You’ve been talking to Louis Blondell,” I accused. “He thinks I should get a PI license, although he wants me to get it so I can write a magazine article on it.”

  “You should get it,” Ollie said. “One of these days you’ll realize this is what you really want to do, and I, most likely, will need a new partner.”

  I chuckled. “Giving up on Nick Atkins already? There’s no proof he’s dead, you know. No body’s turned up, that we know of, anyway. For all we know, he could be wandering around California, an amnesia victim.”

  Ollie let out a loud snort. “A more likely scenario is one of his many secrets finally caught up with him, and if it didn’t kill him first, he probably thought it prudent to just . . . disappear.”

  “Well, maybe we’ll get lucky and finally find out the truth. I asked Daniel if he could look into it—into Pichard’s connection to Nick, specifically. I know you disagree, but I still think he might know something.”

  “It’s possible, I suppose. Pichard hung with a pretty shady crowd. For that matter, so did Nick. I always told him his daredevil ways would do him in—oh, damn, Pine was back there, sorry.”

  “No problem.” I turned onto the first side street and made a quick U-turn. I found Pine, made the appropriate turn, and a few minutes later pulled up in front of the Pitt Institute. As I cut the engine I remarked, “Call me crazy, but I just can’t shake the feeling that Little Nick chewed that page out of his master’s journal for some reason.”

  “You think he’s trying to send you some sort of message? Well, it wouldn’t be the first time.”

  “No,” I said, my lips twitching as I remembered Nick’s “Mickey Finn” message. I had yet to hear back from Samms. I’d have to give him another call. “That cat’s blessed with a—a sixth sense. It’s uncanny, the things he does. He’s no ordinary cat.”

  “I believe I told you that the first time we met.” Ollie reached over to pat my hand. “But we’ve got something far more important than Nick Atkins to worry about now, my dear. Clearing your sister must come first.”

  I nodded as I pushed my door open. Ollie was right. The mystery of Nick Atkins’s disappearance would have to remain just that, at least for now.

  * * *

  A few discreet inquiries led us to the admissions office. The woman behind the reception desk appeared none too friendly when I told her we needed to get in touch with Taft Michaels on a matter of the utmost importance. She snorted and peered at me over the rims of the Joan Rivers readers perched on her beak-shaped nose, and she tucked a stray strand of iron gray hair into the bun at the nape of her neck.

  “He quit,” she said bluntly. “Yesterday.”

  “Quit?” I didn’t have to pretend to be surprised. I looked at the bronze nameplate prominently displayed on the desk—Agatha Bowman—and thought the name suited her. “Are you certain, Ms. Bowman? That’s rather sudden, isn’t it? I mean, I saw him here just the other day. He seemed quite happy with working here.”

  “Well, appearances can be deceiving,” she said with a sniff. “He said a golden opportunity had presented itself, and he couldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth. Taft is a selfish man. He didn’t even have the courtesy to give us two weeks’ notice to find another model.” She plucked a pencil from the tin holder on her desk and tapped it against her blotter. “It doesn’t surprise me, though. In addition to being selfish, that boy was also vain. You could see it in his appearance, the way he carried himself. Thought he was a god, too good to be stuck here with the rest of us mere mortals. I always said it was only a matter of time before he went on his merry way.”

  “Yes, he did strike me as arrogant, and I certainly don’t agree with his handling of the situation,” I agreed. “Unfortunately, we really need to speak with him. I don’t suppose you have a home address for him, or a phone number?”

  “I do,” she said, eyes flashing, “but I’m really not permitted to give out that information.”

  “Excuse me.”

  I jumped at the voice so close to my ear and whirled around. Armand Foxworthy, his arms filled with papers, stood so close to me you couldn’t wedge a paper clip between us. I took a step forward, the edge of my hip coming in contact with the desk.

  “Sorry,” he said. He brushed past me and set the pile of papers down in front of Agatha. “These are my students’ final graded exams. They have to be entered into the computer before Thursday.”

  Agatha’s expression softened, and her voice took on a gentler tone. “Certainly, Professor Foxworthy. I’ll get right to it, just as soon as I’ve finished with these people.”

  Foxworthy straightened and flashed Ollie and me a tight smile before he left the office. Agatha sighed audibly as we turned back to her desk.

  “Such a nice man. He hasn’t been on staff long, but he’s a real gentleman. Too bad about his allergy, though.”

  “Allergy?”

  She nodded. “To fluorescent lighting. It’s pretty rare, and if he’s not careful he could also become allergic to sunlight. That’s why he wears the glasses. A pity, though—he’s such a nice-looking man.” She let out a long, drawn-out sigh. “I’ll bet he’s got really beautiful eyes.”

  “I’m sure he does.” I leaned forward, my palms flat on the edge of her desk. “We don’t want to take up much more of your time, Agatha—may I call you Agatha?” At her nod I continued, “We can see you’ve got a lot of work to do here.” I indicated the pile of papers with a flick of my wrist. “I can tell you’re a person with a good work ethic. I bet you’ve got a good sense of justice, too, am I right?”

  A ghost of a smile played across the older woman’s lips. “I believe very strongly in fair play, and the justice system.”

  “Ah, I knew it.” I gave her a big smile. “That’s just what we’re after, Agatha. Justice. We can trust your discretion, I know. It’s very important we track down Taft Michaels. We need to ask him some questions in regard to a recent murder.”

  Agatha pushed her glasses down lower on her nose, and her beady gaze skittered between me and Ollie. “Oh my Lord! Not P
rofessor Pitt’s?”

  Ollie nodded solemnly. “Yes. The very same.”

  I didn’t say anything, just raised one eyebrow.

  She gave us another once-over. “You’re with the police?”

  I hesitated. Oh well, what the heck. I was already in deep doo-doo with Samms for telling a white lie to Giselle Pitt. What was one more at this point, especially if it helped crack this case? I held out my hand. “Abigail St. Clair. This is my partner, Mr. Oliver. We’re associated with the investigation into Professor Pitt’s murder.”

  Her brow puckered. “I don’t recall ever hearing your names, Detective.”

  “Probably because we’ve just arrived from out of town,” Ollie said smoothly. “Special consults. It’s quite a baffling case.”

  More brow puckering. She shook her head. “I was under the impression the murderer had been apprehended . . .”

  “There is a suspect in custody, yes. But our investigation is ongoing. Loose ends, you see,” Ollie supplied.

  I inclined my head toward the phone. “Call Homicide if you’re unsure. Ask for Detective Leroy Samms. He’s in charge of the investigation, and believe me, he’s quite familiar with the name Abigail St. Clair.”

  Agatha Bowman’s lips scrunched up as she thought. Meanwhile, I took a page from Chantal’s book and sent out a mental message of positive programming: oh please don’t call oh please don’t call oh please don’t call.

  “Ah, Detective Samms,” she said at last. “Yes, I remember him. Very nice man. And so good-looking.” She gave me another cursory look and shrugged. “Oh well, in that case . . .”

  I said a silent prayer of thanks my mantra worked as her head swiveled to her computer. She tapped out a few swift strokes on the keyboard, and a minute later I heard the soft hum of her printer. She plucked a sheet of paper from the tray and handed it to me. “Here you go. And do give Detective Samms my regards.”

  “I surely will.”

  Her voice dropped to a whisper. “I never liked that boy, not at all. And if he had something to do with the professor’s death . . . well, I’d just like to know.”

  I gave her a wide smile as I tucked the paper into my purse. “Agatha, we appreciate your cooperation more than I can tell you. I promise you, when we find out who killed the professor, you’ll be one of the first to know. You have no idea how much help this is.”

  “My pleasure.” Her lips tugged downward. “And if you find out Taft had anything to do with it—well, I hope he gets what he deserves.”

  “Believe me, we’ll try our best to make that happen,” I said.

  * * *

  Fifteen minutes later we pulled up in front of the Archstone Grove Apartments. “Well,” Ollie said as he surveyed the complex. “Looks pretty ritzy for an art student slash part-time broker slash former model. I bet the rent’s almost two thousand a month. You can’t tell me he earned that much modeling for Pitt’s school. After all, it’s not like he posed for GQ.”

  “According to this printout he’s only lived here a few months. Before this there’s an address near Chinatown.”

  “Ah. A more modest district but a long drive.”

  “Something paid him enough to afford this. His gallery job, perhaps? Think about it; if he’s involved in fencing forged masters . . . maybe this golden opportunity he can’t pass up has something to do with that. Maybe he’s going into it full-time.”

  We exited the SUV and strolled into the complex. The grounds were large and beautifully maintained. We passed a large kidney-shaped pool, and I paused to dip my hand into the shallow end.

  “Nice. Maybe I should look for a place with a pool one day.”

  “Not a bad idea. Fill it with fish. Little Nick would love it,” Ollie said.

  We continued our perusal of the grounds. There was also a spa with a state-of-the-art fitness center, a large clubhouse, and, behind the two modern-looking buildings, a picnic area with gas barbeque grills. There was also a path that led, according to the brightly painted wooden sign, to a hiking and a biking trail. The buildings themselves were three stories of modern design that appeared to be rather new, and there were about two dozen of them, all without any visible numbers.

  “Grand,” I muttered. “Now how in hell do we find 1675?”

  “Can I help you?”

  I whirled around to face a woman who reminded me vaguely of Joan Collins in the old television series Dynasty. Her artfully coiffed black upsweep didn’t have a hair out of place in spite of the fact the humidity was high. She wore a tailored suit—Dior, unless I missed my guess—in a shade of blue that matched her eyes exactly. The four-inch black Manolos on her feet added enough height so that she came up to just below my shoulder. She extended her hand, her French tips lightly brushing my wrist.

  “I’m Marlene McKay. I’m the Realtor in charge of these apartments. Are you interested in renting one? I’ve got a few vacancies.” She looked me over like an eagle about to pounce on a helpless mouse. I could practically see the dollar signs in the irises of her eyes.

  “We are interested, but not—” Ollie began, but she cut him off with a brisk wave and a smile.

  “Then you’ve come to the right place, all right. We’re one of the best complexes in Pacific Grove. We’re near everything—shopping malls, transportation, major highways. Good schools nearby. Got kids?”

  “No, just a tuxedo cat,” I said, and Marlene let out a little squeal.

  “Ooh, I love tuxedos! My favorite kind! They always look so well-groomed, like they’re ready for a night on the town.” She leaned forward and said in a conspiratorial tone, “I’ve got an apartment I think the two of you will just love. The guy next door has a Chihuahua—Pepe, he’s a scrappy little thing—but don’t worry, his owner never lets him out on his own. What’s your cat’s name?”

  “Nick, but . . .”

  She cut me off again with a brisk wave. “Nick’s a cute name for a cat. I like it when the pets have human names. Personally I hate it when someone has a sheepdog named Fluffy or a cat named Percy—Purrcy, get it?” She laughed at her own very bad joke. “Now, a few things you should know.” She started walking down the graveled path toward one of the buildings, leaving Ollie and me no choice but to follow her. “All the apartments have high ceilings and oversized windows. Ceiling fans in every bedroom; some living rooms have ’em, too. We’ve got spacious closets, a big walk-in one in the bedroom. There’s high-speed Internet and cable TV. First-floor apartments have patios; second and third, balconies. Sorry, right now I have nothing on the first floor, but you probably wouldn’t want that anyway. I might even have a furnished apartment, if that’s what you’re interested in . . .”

  I cut her off before she could segue into another extended description. “It sounds lovely, really, but I’m not interested in renting an apartment. And we’re not a couple.”

  “You’re not together?”

  “We—ah—work together.”

  “Oh.” It was hard to tell if she was relieved or surprised. Her finger came up, jabbed the air scant inches from Ollie’s nose. “She said she’s not interested, but what about you? You in the market for an apartment?”

  “Not really, no. Actually, we’re looking for someone who lives in this complex.”

  Her hands fisted at her hips. “Well, goodness. Why didn’t you say so in the first place? Who’d you want to see?”

  I wanted to scream out, Because you didn’t give me a chance, but instead I bit down hard on my lower lip and held out the piece of paper. “Taft Michaels? Building number 1675?”

  “Oh.” She gave me a cursory once-over. Apparently my deep coral prairie skirt, low-heeled sandals, and black gauze top passed muster, because she gave a little nod of approval. “Hm, you don’t look like one of his usual models. They wear the skimpiest outfits.”

  “One of his usual models? I’m sorry, I was under the
impression Taft is a model himself.”

  Both her perfectly arched brows rose. “He is indeed, but he’s also a struggling artiste! And a rather brilliant one, if you ask me.” She waved her hand dramatically. “He studies at the school and he also paints. Lots of different things—portraits, still life—you name it, he does it. He’s not bad, either. Kinda cagey about his work, though. I brought a potential renter into his apartment one day—I knew he wasn’t home, and I wanted to show off how he’d done his balcony—and my God, I thought he was going to take my head off. I practically had to swear on a stack of Bibles that I hadn’t brought the girl anywhere else but to the balcony and out.” She leaned forward. “He had a painting up on the easel in the living room, though, and it was impossible not to look at it. It was excellent—a half-clothed woman—and so real you thought she’d doff the robe and walk straight off the canvas. Honest, his work is on a par with many I’ve seen hanging in museums.”

  Ollie raised a brow. “He’s that good?”

  She leaned in to us and said in a confidential tone, “That boy’s got serious talent. He’s going to make something of himself someday, mark my words.”

  I looked significantly at Ollie. “That’s very interesting. I didn’t realize he had that much talent. He mentioned to me he’d dropped out of his art class.”

  “Yes, it was too expensive. A real shame, if you ask me. Talent like that should be nurtured, not discouraged.” She leaned in close to me, as if she were afraid someone might overhear. “He was particularly talented when it came to painting people, portraits, nudes. They looked like they could all jump off the canvas. I found it fascinating, since Taft is such an antisocial type of guy. He didn’t seem to have any male friends. I saw one guy come over once—a real arty type, long hair, dark glasses—but he delivered a package, so I assumed he was some sort of business acquaintance. Now the ladies—well, there’s another story entirely. He had two girls who used to come over regularly. One I know he met at the art school.”