Claws for Alarm

by T. C. LoTempio

  I heard a scraping sound behind me, and out of the corner of my eye I saw Nick push a large lantern forward with his nose. I snatched it up. It worked, although the battery was pretty weak. I hoped there’d be enough juice left to take us where we wanted to go: Pitt’s office. I swept the light over the dirt floor and the curved brick walls, stopping at a large opening in the wall farthest away. A flight of stone steps led upward. I started climbing, Nick at my heels. At last we reached the top step. In front of us stretched a long wall.

  “Hm. Now let’s see,” I mused. “How did Nancy open all those secret panels?”

  I stepped forward and started rapping lightly against it with my knuckles. Nothing. I crossed to the middle, laid both my palms flat, and pressed. Still nothing. I shifted my position to a bit lower down, and then stopped as a faint click reached my ears. I splayed my hands, set my feet apart, and pushed harder. The wall suddenly caved inward, and in my peripheral vision I saw Nick jump backward into the shadows as I spilled forward into Pitt’s office. My purse slid off my arm and tumbled to the floor, its contents spilling out, but that was the least of my worries. Apparently my sudden presence had startled the woman who stood behind his desk, the drawers pulled out, papers strewn all over the thick carpeting. Her hand came up like lightning, and I suddenly found myself looking once again down the barrel of a .45.

  “So, Nora,” Jenna Whitt said calmly. “Mind telling me what the hell you’re doing here?”

  I struggled to my feet and found my voice at the same time. “Me? I could ask you the same thing. This room is still sealed.”

  She looked at me pointedly, the gun still aimed at my midsection. “You’re in here.” She gave a tight little laugh. “So you figured it out. About the secret panel, I mean. Not bad.”

  “That’s not all I’ve figured out,” I said boldly. “Pitt found diamonds in the sculpture; that’s why he was killed, right? To prevent him exposing your scheme?”

  “You just can’t help being snoopy, can you?” Jenna sneered. “Lacey used to talk about you, all the awards you won, and how smart you were, but frankly, I used to think she was exaggerating.” She cocked her head to one side. “Your sister’s nothing like you. She can be a real hothead, acting without thinking. When she blew up at Pitt that morning, I knew she’d be the perfect patsy.”

  “So you’d already planned to kill Pitt.”

  “Pitt was a pompous ass. Trust me, no one shed any tears over his death. He fancied himself a patron of the arts. He hated defacement of art in any form. He called my brother that morning, complaining he’d discovered the ‘dirty little secret’ in the artwork he sold him, and unless he settled the matter to his satisfaction, he’d report him to the authorities.” Her tongue snaked out, licked at her bottom lip. “How in hell were we to know he meant the forged Engeldrumm and not the sculpture?”

  My eyes widened. “Pitt meant the painting? He never found the diamonds?”

  She shook her head. “We assumed he meant the sculpture, because when we checked the records, we discovered that Taft had delivered the wrong one to Pitt. He should have delivered the sculpture with the left hand holding the mask. The right-hand ones have the gems inside.” She tapped her chest proudly. “I do them, and they’re damn good, if I do say so myself. It isn’t easy to get those diamonds down far enough in the plaster so no lumps show. And I use a lead-based paint, to deter detection by X-ray.” A deep sigh escaped her full lips. “Now that the feds are onto us, though, tonight will be our last shipment. Tomorrow, the gallery will be closed and we’ll be gone, back to Europe, with new identities, looking for our next score. Your sister will take the rap for Pitt’s murder, and poor Julia’s death will remain unsolved, unless we can find some way to pin it on Taft. He wasn’t good for much, anyway,” she spat. “Sure, he painted the forgeries, and that was a nice little side venture, but our real cash came from the gems.”

  “That would be difficult,” I said stiffly, “considering he was working at a bar at the time of her murder.”

  “Don’t worry, we’ll find a way. Taft is remarkably stupid. I’m sure we can convince someone at the bar that night to say he left for approximately forty minutes.” She gestured with her gun for me to sit in Pitt’s chair. I lowered myself and, as I did so, cast a quick glance at the entryway.

  Nick was nowhere to be seen.

  I looked at Jenna. “I know you didn’t work alone. You have a partner.”

  She angled her jaw. “Sure do.”

  I turned. Armand Foxworthy was standing in the entryway, also leveling at gun at me. But he looked much different than he had on the two other occasions I’d seen him. Gone were the battered jeans, shirt open to the navel, and greasy gray ponytail. Now he wore a three-piece blue pin-striped suit with a light blue shirt and blue and yellow tie. He still wore the dark sunglasses, but the ponytail was gone. Now he had thick black hair, shot through with gray, cut in a sort of Elvis style. He moved all the way into the room and went behind the desk, slipped an arm around Jenna. He gestured toward the mess on the floor. “Nothing?”

  She shook her head. “Nope. Julia didn’t hide ’em here. I’ve been through everything, Foxy,” Jenna said. “I might have to search her place again.”

  He shook his head. “Julia would never have left them in her apartment. She would think it would be the first place someone would look for them. Besides, the FBI and Miss Charles have already searched there, am I right?”

  As I stared at Foxworthy, something suddenly clicked in my head. “You fled to Europe,” I said in a tight voice. “You went there when your schemes here were exposed, but something must have happened over there, too . . . something really, really bad, for you to need to fake your own death.”

  Jenna looked at Foxworthy, puzzled. “What is she talking about, Foxy?”

  “She doesn’t know?” I asked. “And as for your allergy, that’s bogus, too, right? You’re no more allergic to fluorescent lighting than I am. It’s all catching up to you; you might as well admit it.”

  Jenna stamped her foot. “What’s going on, Foxy? What should you admit?”

  He chuckled. “It would seem, my dear, that my rather inglorious past has caught up with me.”

  He whipped off his glasses in a single motion, and I stared straight into eyes that belonged to a living corpse: one sky blue, one mud brown.

  The eyes of Bronson A. Pichard.

  TWENTY-TWO

  Armand Foxworthy, aka Bronson A. Pichard, made a little bow in my direction. “My dear Ms. Charles, I’m truly impressed. I had no idea my fame extended this far.” He tapped the dark glasses against his wrist. “No one’s ever suspected I wasn’t who I said I was until now.”

  “I should have guessed your real identity,” I muttered. “I saw in the file the university has on you that your middle name was Armand.”

  One eyebrow rose. “File? You saw a file on me?”

  “It was a journal, actually.” I swallowed, my heart thudding double time in my chest. “Very copious notes taken by one Nick Atkins. You remember him, don’t you?”

  He lowered the gun, just a fraction. “Nick Atkins. Now there’s a name I haven’t heard in a long time.” He stepped forward to peer at me more closely. “You and he are friends, you say? That’s surprising? You hardly seem his type.” He flicked his thumb in Jenna’s direction. “He’d more likely be attracted to Jenna. Nick liked ’em rough and slutty. Well, most of his women, anyway.”

  Jenna’s lower lip thrust forward. “Hey!”

  I ignored her and remained focused on Foxworthy. Calling him Pichard would take some getting used to. “He’s the one who got the evidence of you cheating so your ex-wife could divorce you. He’s also the one who tipped off the authorities to your shady dealings at your gallery. You considered him responsible for ruining your life, and you wanted revenge on him.” I paused. “Is that why Nick’s gone MIA? Because of you?”
/>   “Ex-wife?” Jenna’s eyes shot sparks and she glared at Foxworthy. “You were married?”

  Foxworthy ignored Jenna’s remark and continued to stare at me. “Nick’s missing?”

  “For quite a while now. A witness saw a shadowy figure fire a gun at him, and he hasn’t been seen since.” I pointed an accusing finger at him. “Did you kill him? Or have him killed?”

  His bicolored eyes flashed. “I won’t deny I’d have loved to be the one to pull the trigger, but if Nick Atkins is dead, which I seriously doubt, by the way, it was someone other than myself who did it. And make no mistake, there are lots of someone elses who’d also like the pleasure of putting a bullet in his brain.”

  “Fine, let’s say you didn’t kill him. Maybe he’s in hiding. I don’t know. But I think you do.”

  He slipped his dark glasses back on. Lowering his weapon, he leaned forward and jerked me to my feet.

  “Enough playing around. I know nothing about the whereabouts or possible demise of Nick Atkins, but one thing I do know. This is the end of the line for you, Ms. Charles. I can’t take the chance of you blabbing all this to your friends at the FBI and revealing my true identity to Interpol. I know you’d take advantage of the very first opportunity to do just that. We’re taking a little trip.” He poked the gun into my ribs. “And no funny stuff. I promise you, your end will be swift.”

  “Like Nick’s?”

  He ignored my remark but asked, “Just how do you know Nick, may I ask? Did he do PI work for you? Or did he help you with reporting on a case?”

  “Neither. I never met the man, actually. I adopted his cat, or rather, the cat adopted me.”

  He peered at me over the rims of his glasses. “You adopted his cat? And that gives you what? Some sort of karmic connection?”

  I lifted my chin. “You could say Nick is our common bond.” I paused at his blank look. “The cat. I named him Nick, even before I was aware it was his owner’s name.”

  “I have no time to waste with this confusing nonsense,” he growled. “Nick Atkins, Nick Atkins’s cat, it all means less than nothing to me. I do know Nick couldn’t stand any animal when he was alive, especially cats. Dogs and birds he could tolerate, maybe. And only then if he thought it’d earn him points with some chick.”

  “Well, he was fond of this cat. Little Nick is very special. He has amazing deductive powers.”

  Foxworthy’s lips twisted into a sneer. “Now I know you are lying. No animal is that smart.”

  “You’d be surprised. Why, it’s because of Little Nick I figured out the secret panel.”

  “You, my dear, are slightly deranged, I fear. Your years of investigative reporting have caught up with you, I’m afraid. They are affecting your good sense.” He turned to Jenna. “Is the shipment ready to go?”

  She nodded. “Kurt has all the paperwork in order. He’s got the passports, too. All we have to do is meet him at the warehouse.”

  “Good. As much as I regret leaving those missing diamonds behind, we can’t waste precious time searching for them. If Nora Charles managed to figure this out, no doubt that insufferable detective will as well. Let’s go.” He snapped the slide closed on his pistol and held it up to my face. “You know, Ms. Charles, in spite of your babbling about Nick Atkins and cats, I find you quite interesting. Another time, another place, who knows what might have been? Alas, though, now it’s time to go.”

  His arm reached toward me, but Jenna grabbed it in mid-air. She inclined her head toward my purse and its spilled contents. “She should pick all that up, Foxy. What if the police come here again and find it? We don’t want to leave them any hints as to what may or may not have happened to her.”

  “You’re right.” He pushed me down on the floor. “Gather it up, and make it snappy. We’re on a timetable.”

  I gathered up the articles that had fallen out of my purse—all except the Wilson Galleries card. I pushed the card halfway under the desk, slung my bag over my shoulder, and rose shakily to my feet. Foxworthy’s fingers bit cruelly into my forearm.

  “Come along, Ms. Charles. Don’t look so sad. It’ll all be over soon.”

  * * *

  We went back down the passageway, Jenna leading, me in the middle, Foxworthy bringing up the rear, his gun jabbing right into the small of my back. Out in the back courtyard was a black SUV. Jenna opened up the rear door and shoved me unceremoniously in. Then she crawled in the back with me, keeping her gun leveled at my chest, while Foxworthy sped the vehicle out of there.

  “No tricks,” she warned me, waving the gun in front of my face. “I know how to use this, and believe me, I’ve got no qualms about shooting you dead to save our hides.”

  I scooted toward her a bit, but the warning look in her eye made me stop. She definitely wasn’t bluffing. I tried the calm voice of reason. “Jenna, you know, there’s still a chance for you. You haven’t killed anyone yet. The most they can get you on is aiding and abetting.”

  “And forgery and smuggling,” she sniffed. “Do you think I’m stupid? I’d still get fifteen years if I’m lucky.” She waved her free hand up and down her body. “Do you think I want to waste the best years of my life in a prison cell? I’d be an old hag when I got out. No one would find me attractive.”

  I doubted anyone but a psychopath would find her attractive now, but I kept that to myself. “They’ll catch you, you know,” I said. “They always do. And if you help them kill me, then it’ll be worse for you.”

  Her lip curled. “They won’t catch us. That’s just wishful thinking on your part, Nora. By the time they find your body, we’ll be in Europe doing our disappearing act. We’ve spent lots of time planning it.”

  We’d reached the Billings Warehouse. Foxworthy pulled straight into the loading dock. Out the rear window I could see at least a dozen boxes lying there, ready to go. Kurt Wilson was leaning on one of them, a manila envelope clutched in one hand. His beady eyes widened as the rear door opened and I climbed out, Jenna close behind me. I winced as the blued steel of the revolver bit into my ribs.

  “What the—” he said, looking from me to Jenna to Foxworthy and then back to me again. “How—what is Ms. St. Clair doing here?”

  “Ah, let me bring you up to speed, Kurt.” Armand Foxworthy laughed. “This is not Abigail St. Clair; this is Nora Charles, the sister of Lacey, the girl we framed for Pitt’s murder.”

  “Ah.” Kurt appeared to be very uncomfortable. “What are we going to do with her?”

  Foxworthy gave a giant sigh. “What do you think?”

  “Not another murder?” Kurt frowned. “You know, I never really understood why we had to go that far. I didn’t like it when you shot that guard in Paris, and I liked it less when you killed Pitt and Julia. Especially Julia.”

  “Now, now. You know why they had to die.” He jammed the gun into my ribs. “Inside, Ms. Charles. Quickly, now.”

  I moved inside the warehouse. Foxworthy was right behind me, Kurt beside him, still yammering. “Pitt’s death was all a misunderstanding,” Kurt spat. “And as for Julia, I just don’t see why we can’t tie this girl up and leave her in the underground tunnel. We should have done that with Julia. At least if they were dead by the time anyone found them it wouldn’t be as if we actually pulled the trigger.”

  “That’s a good one,” sneered Foxworthy. “You don’t mind deaths as long as you don’t actually kill the person hands on. Well, guess what?” He shoved the gun in Kurt’s face. “Maybe I’ll make you pull the trigger this time. How do you like that?”

  Kurt jumped back as if he’d been stung. “I don’t like it,” he whined. “I don’t want to actually shoot anyone, Armand. It’s just not in me.”

  Foxworthy whirled, fire in his eyes. “Well, you’d better get it in you. This girl’s gonna die, and you’re gonna do it.”

  Armand shoved Kurt. Kurt shoved Armand. Then the two of
them started shoving and shouting at each other. Jenna stepped in to try and pull them apart, and they shoved her back, too. Then Jenna, eyes flashing, lunged at her brother. Soon they were all dancing around the dock in a crazy sort of rhythm. They’d all forgotten about me, just standing there, with no gun pointed at me. They hadn’t even bothered to tie me up or blindfold me.

  I mentally blessed stupid, overconfident criminals, turned on my heel, and started running toward the nearest exit.

  Behind me, I heard a loud whoop: “Holy shit, she’s getting away!” A few more stupids were tossed back and forth, and then in the stillness of the warehouse, I heard the distinct click of a safety being turned back.

  The next instant a bullet whizzed past my cheek.

  I kept running.

  Another bullet narrowly missed my left calf.

  “I’m just toying with you, Ms. Charles,” Foxworthy shouted. “I advise you to stop now, or you’ll meet your end in a much messier fashion than I’d planned.”

  The exit from the loading dock was about three feet from me. I inhaled deeply and kept on running. And then—

  I felt a searing pain in my left shoulder. Glancing over, I saw a dark red stain marring the crisp whiteness of my blouse. Stars danced in front of my eyes, and I felt shock creep through every bone in my body. I sank, panting, to the warehouse floor. My vision was starting to dim—out of the corner of one eye, I saw Foxworthy approach, gun in hand. He raised his arm, the gun pointed straight at my heart. “Say hello to Nick for me—if the two of you end up in the same place, that is.”

  “FFT-FFT. Ma-ROW! Ma-ROW!”

  A black blur came hurtling out of the shadows and hit Foxworthy squarely in the chest. The gun went flying, and Foxworthy went down, Nick’s teeth clamped firmly on his wrist.