Hiss H for Homicide

by Toni LoTempio

  Anxious? That was an understatement. I was on the proverbial pins and needles.

  Ollie followed Bud out the door. I signed the form with a flourish, left it and the cardboard square on the counter, and then walked back into the main showroom. A bored-looking blonde girl was behind the glass counter, idly thumbing through a magazine. I paused to inspect a display of cat figurines and saw one that looked amazingly like Nick. I picked it up and held it in my palm for a moment, debating whether or not to buy it, when I heard the bell above the door tinkle. I didn’t pay much attention, though, until I heard a growly voice ask, “I’d like to see Mr. Stein, please.”

  That voice sounded familiar. Where had I heard it before? I looked up and almost dropped the figurine.

  Morley Carruthers was standing in front of the glass counter, and he did not look happy.

  “He’s busy with a customer. Can I help you?”

  Carruthers drew himself up to his full height of nearly five foot seven, if that. “I need to speak with him. I believe he may have something that belonged to a client of mine.” His hand dipped into his jacket pocket. “I have a letter of authorization . . .”

  Oh, hell. I put the cat figurine down and beat a hasty retreat out the front door, arriving at the curb just as Ollie pulled up. I glanced in the backseat and saw a large brown cardboard box, heavily taped. I whipped open the door and slid into the front seat.

  “Guess who’s inside? Carruthers,” I said. “With a real letter of authorization for the box.”

  Ollie didn’t say a word, but the instant my seat belt was fastened, he gunned it down the street. I glanced in the side mirror just in time to see Carruthers race out of the store. His neck snapped this way and that, and his gaze settled on our car just as Ollie took the corner on two wheels. From the brief glimpse I got, he was definitely not a happy camper.

  Obviously no one had ever told him the early bird catches the worm—or, in this case, the box.

  • • •

  We drove back to Hot Bread and Ollie parked around the corner in front of the side entrance to my apartment. Then he and I lugged the box up the stairs and deposited it in my den, under the watchful eye of Nick, who’d somehow vacated his favorite spot downstairs in front of the refrigerator to supervise. Ollie flopped down in my recliner and I retreated to the kitchen, returning in a few minutes with a bottled Evian for Ollie and a Corona Light for myself. Then I sat down in my overstuffed club chair, leaned over, and we clinked bottles.

  “Here’s to success,” Ollie said, raising his bottle.

  I took a long, deep swig, and then got up and went over to my desk for a pair of scissors. I crossed my fingers, then I made a clean incision down the center of the box and slowly opened it. Nick leapt onto the desk and leaned over so he could get a better look.

  Nestled inside the box was an IBM Selectric typewriter. Seeing it brought back fond memories. I’d learned to type on one of those in high school, long before computers had come into vogue. I’d always felt a bit like Lois Lane when I’d churned out my assignments on the one my parents had bought for me, and a wave of nostalgia hit me like a slap in the face. Wedged in next to the typewriter was a wooden box.

  There was no sign of a manuscript.

  “Let’s take everything out,” Ollie said, and he grasped the wooden box, lifted it up, and set it carefully on the coffee table. I leaned over to examine it. The box was made of teak, in the shape of a bird—maybe a parrot, or a macaw—and intricate in design.

  “It looks like a puzzle box,” I said.

  “What kind of box?”

  “Puzzle. It’s also called a trick box. It can only be opened through some obscure or complicated series of manipulation. My Uncle Phineas had one. I used to love to play with it when I was a kid.”

  Ollie laughed and rubbed at his forehead. “Liked solving puzzles even then, eh?”

  “Oh, yeah.” I smiled, reminiscing. “My uncle loved magic, and anything remotely mysterious. He introduced me to ’em. Some require only a simple squeeze to give up their secret, and others, the more intricate ones, require the subtle movement of several small parts to open the box. Many of them had a good luck charm inside, sort of a reward for breaking the code. It could get a bit sticky. The correct series of movements to open a box can range anywhere from two to fifteen hundred moves.”

  “About fourteen hundred ninety nine too many movements for my taste,” Ollie said. “We may never find out what’s inside.”

  Nick lofted from the desk onto the table with a loud thunk! He sashayed over, round bottom wiggling, to give the box a sniff, then tapped at it with his paw. He leaned down and butted his head against the hard wood, rubbed his whiskers over the edge.

  Ollie chuckled. “Nick seems to like your puzzle box.”

  “Of course he does. He’s a real cool cat. Maybe he can figure out how to open it.”

  Nick stretched out, took one edge between his paws, and started to gnaw at the wood.

  “Hey, what are you? Part beaver?”

  Ollie was getting quite a kick out of Nick’s antics. “Cats love to gnaw at wood and old books. Used to piss his former owner off royally.”

  “I’m not too thrilled right now, either.” I gently disengaged his paws from the box and set it up on a high shelf. Then I jabbed my finger in front of his face. “That could be a valuable clue, Nick, it’s not a snack,” I said, in as stern a tone as I could muster. “And chewing is definitely not the way to open it.”

  Nick gave me an injured look and hopped down to the rug.

  Ollie stretched his arms out. “Well, I guess this was a bust, eh? I know you were pretty certain you’d find the manuscript in here. I have to admit—I’m disappointed too. I was kinda looking forward to seeing what sort of dirt Marlene was preparing to dish out.”

  “Well . . .” I set down the box and turned my attention back to the typewriter. “We still might find it.”

  “What do you mean?”

  I tapped the edge of the machine. “This is an original, non-correcting Selectric II. They used ribbons made of polymer tape rather than the old-style cloth ribbons of manual typewriters. And unlike the cloth ones, the polymer ribbons could only be used once and were then discarded. In fact, it presented a security issue in some environments, since it was possible to read the text that had been typed on the ribbon. You could see the light characters against the darker ribbon background.”

  “In other words, you can lift a copy of the book from the ribbon.”

  “Precisely.”

  Ollie looked at me approvingly and rubbed his hands. “Well, what are we waiting for?”

  My heart pounded as I snapped off the hard-sided cover and laid it aside on the table, then gripped the front portion of the typewriter and raised it up. Both Ollie and I let out a yelp of dismay at the same time, and even Nick saw fit to utter a low growl of annoyance.

  There was no cartridge in the typewriter. It was empty.

  Twenty-two

  “Darn,” I said, after the initial shock had worn off and subsided to a throbbing ebb of crushing disappointment. “I was so certain, too.”

  The corners of Ollie’s lips were drooped down. “She must have destroyed the ribbon, or else hidden it somewhere. Crazy like a fox,” he muttered.

  I pushed the heel of my hand through my ringlets. “Doesn’t make sense. The police found nothing when they searched the house. Gladstone apparently found nothing. Anabel was trying to locate Stein. She was searching for this box, too, so even if she ransacked the house, she couldn’t have found anything, either, so where’s the darn book?” I narrowed my eyes and started to pace. “Marlene put these things in storage for a reason. She wouldn’t have paid five hundred dollars for the privilege if she didn’t have a good reason, right? But what could that reason be? The logical assumption would be she wanted to hide something very important. Something she thought someone might be after.”

  Three pairs of eyes—green, gray and gold—traveled upward to rest on
the shelf where the puzzle box lay.

  I shook my head. “It’s obvious the manuscript can’t be in that box. It’s way too small.”

  “Perhaps not the manuscript itself,” suggested Ollie. “Perhaps she hid a clue to its whereabouts.”

  “Such as?”

  He shrugged. “A map, showing where she did hide it. Or perhaps she put a key inside, to a safe deposit box.”

  “Now that would make sense.” I eyed the box on the shelf. “I know from past experience figuring out the proper sequence of moves to open the box could take awhile. How about I go downstairs and grab us some sandwiches to munch on while we’re trying to figure it out?” I rubbed my stomach, and heard a loud rumble. “I only grabbed a slice of toast this morning. I was too excited to eat.”

  “Me too. Sounds great.” Ollie settled himself in the recliner, and Nick hopped up onto his lap and started to purr loudly. “Food sounds good to Nick, too.”

  “Food always sounds good to Nick,” I said and laughed, “but I’ll fix him something too.”

  I left Nick sprawled across the big man’s lap, purring away as Ollie gently rubbed him on the white streak behind his left ear, his favorite spot. I hurried down the stairs and through the door that led to the back entrance of Hot Bread and peered into the main store. There were a few customers scattered about, some standing in front of the TV, others seated at tables. Chantal was at the counter, ringing up a sandwich for Henrietta Watson, who’d been with Dr. Price since I’d been in knee-highs and pigtails. Chantal glanced over her shoulder, saw me, and hurried over, her arms waving in dramatic fashion.

  “Thank goodness you are back, chérie! It has been crazy today.” She rolled her eyes. “Breakfast was brisk, and the lunch crowd has been steady since eleven a.m. Your regulars, plus it looks as if you’ve gotten some newbies as well.” She gestured toward my double-door refrigerator. “All the specials and salads are gone. You’re low on whole wheat, and the last roast beef is in the case. I think the novelty of the TV has finally worn off. They are actually coming in now and ordering food instead of just congregating by the counter.”

  I put my arms around the slim brunette and gave her a big hug. “You know, I do appreciate all you do for me, and I probably don’t say it often enough, but I do love you, you know that, Chantal.”

  “Ah, chérie, and I love you too! What are friends for, if not to help each other out?” She glanced over at the counter, which was bare of waiting customers, and asked, “How did your morning go? I have the feeling it did not go as well as you’d hoped.”

  “And you would be right, as usual. Ollie and I skipped lunch, so I need to make some sandwiches. Come help me and I’ll fill you in.”

  As we prepared a small tray of ham and cheese, tuna and chicken cutlet sandwiches, I told Chantal about the morning’s events, ending with the empty typewriter and puzzle box. “So Ollie and I are going to see if we can figure out the secret to opening it,” I finished. “Maybe Marlene hid something of some value inside it, or hopefully a clue as to what she did with her book.”

  “Hm.” Chantal spread a ciabatta roll liberally with mayo, then added a thick layer of ham and Swiss. “It does seem odd, to hide a typewriter when you’ve already removed the ribbon. Is the typewriter itself valuable?”

  “Not really. I’ve seen them on eBay for around a hundred, hundred and fifty. I have no idea what her reasoning could have been for putting it in storage. Now, the puzzle box could be a different story.”

  Chantal handed me the platter of sandwiches. “What will you do if the box turns out to be a dead end?”

  “Cry? Throw things? Seriously, though, Anabel was trying to locate that box, so she must have known something valuable was inside. And since it isn’t the typewriter . . .”

  I broke off speaking as the bell above the door tinkled. I glanced into the shop and sucked in a breath as I recognized the man making his way to my counter—Morley Carruthers! His long face wore a pinched expression, and his shoulders drooped more than usual. In short, he didn’t look happy, not at all.

  Chantal shot me a questioning look. “I get the feeling this is someone you’d rather not see.”

  “That’s Marlene’s lawyer, the one who also came for the box. Bud no doubt told him about us taking it.” I motioned to her. “See what he wants.”

  She nodded and moved off. I slipped into the storeroom, leaving the door open just enough so I could see without being seen.

  “Good afternoon,” I heard Chantal say. “Can I help you?”

  “I’m looking for the owner. Ms. Nora Charles.”

  “She is not here right now.” Chantal swept her arm toward the blackboard. “Can I interest you in one of our lunch specials? Today we have a lovely Greek salad . . .”

  Carruthers’s hand waved about like a baton. “No, thank you. It’s very important I speak with Ms. Charles. Will she be back today?”

  “Um, that’s hard to say. She is not here. She left on a business trip today.”

  “Oh. Well, when will she be back? Tomorrow?”

  “I am not sure.”

  I saw Carruthers pick up one of the printed take-out menus from the sidebar that listed the store hours and slide it into his jacket pocket. He withdrew a small card and passed it across to Chantal. “Please give her that when she returns and have her call me, no matter what time.”

  “Certainly. Are you positive you would not like something? A cup of coffee, perhaps?”

  He shook his head. “Some other time. Make sure she gets that, now. And tell her I’ll be waiting for her call.” He turned on his heel and stalked out, letting the door slam behind him. I waited a few extra minutes just to be on the safe side before emerging from my hiding place.

  Chantal handed me the card. “Such a pleasant person.”

  “He’s interested in that box, too. Ollie and I just missed him at the consignment shop.”

  “Well, I can tell you this.” Chantal leaned closer to me. “That man has lots of secrets himself. Lots of them. I felt the vibe loud and clear when he handed me his card. He is not someone to fool with, chérie. I would even venture to say he knows a great deal more about all this than he is letting on.” Her eyes widened.

  “For all we know, Carruthers could be the murderer.”

  • • •

  Ollie and I worked on the puzzle box for a good three hours, took a break, said good night to Chantal, and then worked on it for another two before we admitted defeat. The intricate piece of teak just didn’t seem inclined to give up her secrets to us and we’d tried every position and move imaginable, even some that weren’t. It was close to eight o’clock when we finally decided to call it quits. I walked Ollie downstairs. Nick was God knew where. He’d gotten bored watching us and had taken off hours ago, presumably to work his charm on Chantal for some more leftover tuna, having scoffed up the bowl I’d brought him.

  “Lock your doors and your windows,” Ollie cautioned me. He hadn’t been too thrilled when I mentioned Carruthers’s visit.

  “He’s not going to come and attack me, Ollie. That would be a bit obvious, don’t you think?” I went over, picked up my tote, and dug out a print I’d made of the front and back of the card from Anabel’s purse. “Mind checking this out for me?”

  Ollie took the paper and squinted at it. “Arlene’s Beauty Supply?”

  “It was in Anabel’s wallet. See the number in the second photo, that was on the back of the card? It’s probably nothing, but she had it tucked away for some reason.”

  He folded the paper, slid it into his pocket and gave me a quick peck on the cheek. “Remember, don’t open your door unless you’re absolutely certain you know who it is.”

  I clicked my heels and gave him a mock salute. “Yes, sir.”

  I watched him drive off, then locked the downstairs door and walked back through Hot Bread, making sure the rear entrance, side entrance and front doors were locked securely. Satisfied no one could get in without my knowing about it, I hurried back u
pstairs and into the den . . . where I stopped and stared.

  I’d left the puzzle box right on top of my desk. It wasn’t there.

  “Nick!” I yelled.

  No sign of the cat, either.

  The den phone rang, and I hurried over. Seeing Hank’s number, I scooped it up. “Hey, what’s up?”

  “Got some information for you,” he said without preamble. “You asked me to do a little checking into crime families that might have some connection with Marlene McCambridge, right? Well, she and Nico Enerelli were involved.”

  “Right. They were lovers.”

  “Until about a year ago, when their relationship abruptly ended. And from all accounts, it was Marlene who ended it. Now, this Gladstone fellow . . .”

  “Is really Freddie Bartholomew, and he has worked for the Enerelli family.”

  “You take all the joy out of this job,” Hank said and sighed.

  “Actually, blame Daniel. He decided to be forthcoming.”

  “Yeah? I bet he wasn’t entirely forthcoming. He didn’t tell you the name of his FBI source, by chance.”

  “You found that out?”

  Hank sounded smug as he asked, “You know Morley Carruthers?”

  I wrinkled my nose. “He’s the FBI source? You’re kidding!”

  “Sadly, I’m not. Carruthers has worked off and on for the Enerelli family for years. Apparently his father before him did, and grandfather, you get the picture. That’s how he became Marlene’s lawyer. He took her on as a favor to Enerelli, and when they broke up he kept her on, much to Enerelli’s chagrin, but what he was really doing was spying.”

  I gasped. “Like a double agent! And Marlene didn’t know?”

  “I think she may have suspected, but she couldn’t prove anything. Or maybe she was so confident she just didn’t care. Anyway, in the last few months it appears the grass has been looking greener to Morley. He’s been playing both sides of the fence. This is where it gets good. Apparently Marlene confided to him what she’d written in her tell-all about Nico, and he blabbed it to Enerelli.”