Hiss H for Homicide

by Toni LoTempio

  “I’ve got to thank you. If not for your quick thinking, Enerelli might have gotten off unscathed. As it is, we’ve got some good stuff on him. Not enough for a conviction yet, but enough to make him sweat.”

  “I’m glad.”

  He reached out and took my hand. “If you’re feeling up to it, that offer of dinner and a movie tomorrow still stands.”

  “Are you kidding! Of course I am.” I looked over at the table, where Samms was engaged in conversation with Peter. “So, what’s the deal with Samms? Is he going to stay on the Cruz force, or is he part of the FBI?”

  “Oh, he’s definitely part of the FBI,” Daniel said. “However, he may stay on the Cruz force a while longer to break in the new head of Homicide, who I understand won’t be arriving until sometime next month.”

  “Oh, goody,” I muttered.

  Samms looked up and caught my eye. He raised two fingers in a salute.

  Daniel went back to the table and Chantal came over with another platter of rolls. “You do know that Samms has been watching you with Daniel, right?” she whispered.

  I shrugged. “He probably knows he was the subject of our conversation. Daniel told me Samms is going to remain as head of Cruz Homicide for at least another month.”

  “Really? Well, isn’t that interesting? Maybe you can get involved in another murder and work closely with him again.”

  I gave her a look of mock horror. “Chantal! Bite your tongue!”

  She tossed her head. “Well, murder seems to be the only way you and Samms can get together.”

  “It’s kind of drastic, don’t you think?”

  “Maybe, but you resist any other opportunity to give him a chance. Mark my words, all Samms needs is one little sign from you and he will waste no time asking you out.”

  I glanced over at the table, at the dark head bent so close to the blonde one in conversation. “Okay, let’s say you’re right, and I give Samms an ‘all clear,’ won’t that make things awkward between him and Daniel?”

  “I doubt it. They are two grown men. Besides, a little competition never hurt anyone. Daniel has not asked you to be exclusive, has he?”

  I shook my head. “No.”

  “Well, then. There is no reason for you to tie yourself down to one man. You owe it not only to yourself but to them, to be sure of your feelings.”

  I laughed. “Okay, I’ll think about it.”

  She gave my arm a quick squeeze. “Do yourself a favor. Don’t think too long.”

  • • •

  Later, after everyone had gone and I’d cleaned up, I went behind the back counter and pulled open the middle drawer where I’d shoved Violet’s envelope and stood for a few minutes, turning it over in my hand, putting my mixed feelings about Daniel and Samms on the back burner, at least for now. Nick had followed me and now he hopped up on the counter and lay down, paws crossed. He inclined his head toward the envelope. “Merow.”

  “Right. What harm could it do to just take a peek? Chantal did say it would be something useful, and if it’s not a smoothie maker . . . .”

  I put a pot of tea on, and when it started to steam, held the envelope over it so the steam would loosen the glue. An old trick, but effective. Inside the envelope were some folded papers. I removed them and spread them on the counter.

  The top was a letter in Violet’s handwriting:

  Dear Nora:

  I know you didn’t want to take money, so I tried to think of something fitting for you, something that you would never get for yourself, something that would adequately express my gratitude.

  Whether you want to admit it or not, you’re a pretty good detective. Such ability should be nurtured, and I think deep down you agree with me.

  Please accept the enclosed in the spirit in which it’s intended. I shall be forever grateful to you for using YOUR gift to reunite me with my Alexa.

  Sincerely,

  Violet

  Underneath was a receipt for a ten-week course given by the Lockwood Agency, entitled Fundamentals of PI Work. It also included taking the exam to become a licensed PI in the state of California.

  Both the course fee and licensing fee had been marked “Paid in Full.”

  I put the papers down and looked at Nick. “Well, what do you think of that? Violet thinks I have what it takes to be a pro investigator. I know Ollie does, too.” I slid Nick a glance. “I don’t even want to think how thrilled Louis will be. Guess I’ll have no more excuses for not writing that series he wants on PI work, right?”

  Nick tipped his head back and let out a sharp yowl.

  I laughed. “Okay, then. I guess we’ll give it a whirl. Who knows, I might learn something useful. It could come in handy if you and I are going to keep on being ‘body magnets,’ as Samms puts it.”

  I gathered up the papers and tucked them under my arm, then walked around to the front to make sure everything was locked securely. As I turned I noticed the pile of mail, neatly placed on the far corner of my counter. I picked the pile up and thumbed through it idly. There were the usual magazines (two issues of Soap Opera Digest, no less!) advertisements, bills (yech!) and . . . a postcard. The picture on the front was of the Queen Mary in Long Beach, about a five-hour-and-change drive from Cruz. Nick hopped up on the counter and reared on his hind legs to paw at the card.

  “Yer-owl!”

  “Yes, I see it. Who could be sending us a postcard from the Queen Mary, Nick?”

  I laid the card on the counter and stroked Nick’s head with one hand while I turned the card over with the other. My heart beat wildly in my chest as I read the three words scrawled beneath the description of the Queen Mary, in a handwriting that had become familiar to me over the months thanks to the journals now in my possession:

  Good Job.

  “N”

  From the Recipe Book of Nora Charles

  Megan Fox (aka Monte Cristo)

  3 slices bread (white preferred, but it can be any type)

  mayonnaise, as needed

  2 slices cheese (Cheddar preferred, but it can be any)

  2 sliced chicken breasts

  3 large eggs, beaten

  1/4 cup milk

  2 tablespoons vegetable oil

  1 tablespoon unsalted butter

  powdered sugar for garnish

  jam (optional)

  On a work surface, lay out 2 slices of bread and spread with mayonnaise. Top each slice with 1 slice of cheese and 1 chicken breast. Put the third slice of bread on top of one stack, and flip the remaining stack on top, cheese-side down, to make a triple-decker sandwich.

  Using a knife, cut the crusts off the sandwich (this helps to pinch and seal the ends). Wrap the sandwich tightly with plastic wrap and refrigerate for at least 30 minutes and up to 6 hours. (Wrapping the sandwich in plastic wrap compacts it and prevents the egg batter from seeping in in the next step.)

  Combine the eggs and milk in a bowl. Heat the oil and butter in a skillet over medium-high heat. Unwrap the sandwich and dip it in the egg batter, to coat evenly. Gently place it in the skillet, and fry, turning once, until golden brown and hot, about 5 minutes total.

  Cut the Monte Cristo in half, transfer it to a plate, and garnish with powdered sugar. If preferred, spoon some jam (any flavor, blackberry is what Nick prefers!) over each half and serve immediately.

  Brian Austin Green Sandwich

  Follow the same directions as above, except substitute sliced ham for the chicken breast.

  Jimmy Fallon Breakfast Sandwich

  1 egg

  2 slices ham

  2 slices yellow American cheese

  2 slices bread or roll

  tomato slice

  bacon bits

  Fry the egg, and right before it’s done, cover with ham slices and American cheese. Put on bread or roll and garnish with tomato slice and bacon bits.

  Howard Stern Breakfast Sandwich

  2 eggs

  Canadian bacon

  bagel

  crumbled cheese<
br />
  Fry the eggs and bacon. Slice the bagel and toast to a golden brown. Place the eggs and bacon on the bagel, crumble cheese on top.

  Excerpt

  Keep reading for a sneak peek

  at the next Nick and Nora Mystery,

  Murder Faux Paws,

  coming soon!

  “Ya gotta watch out for those females, am I right? The ones who come to you for help, claiming some guy screwed up their life. They want you to be Bogie to their Bacall, but, believe me, it doesn’t work that way. Do you agree, Ms. Charles?”

  The man in the front of the classroom fixed his gaze on me and rubbed his hands together, while I slouched down just a bit lower in the uncomfortable metal chair. I was seven weeks into my twelve-week private investigation course, and up until this moment I’d really enjoyed it. Our regular instructor was out, and the substitute, a PI named Claymore Jarvis, was a real character, to say the least. He reminded me of a taller version of Columbo. He didn’t have a trench coat, but his suit jacket and shirt were rumpled, as if he’d slept in them, and his pants rode low on his hips, a bit of a belly protruding over the waistband. His eyes were a stormy gray, an exact match for the thick mass of hair on his head. He leaned one hip into the desk and crossed his arms over his chest, and closed one eye in a broad wink. “Come on, now, don’t be shy. Tell us what you really think.”

  I was afraid if I did that I’d be arrested, so instead I drummed my nails against the dented Formica table and smiled sweetly. “What I think is, it’d be a little difficult for me to play Bogie to anyone’s Bacall. I might be able to pull off a Vivian Rutledge, or a Slim Browning, though.”

  Jarvis’s expression didn’t change an iota, so there was no way to tell if he was impressed by my knowledge of characters Bacall had played in films she’d done with Bogie. His gaze darted around the room as he rocked back and forth on his heels. “You’d be surprised how often a woman will seek out a female PI. Solidarity and all that, right? The important thing is to be true to yourself. Never, never, ever let the client try and tell you how to run your investigation.” He shook his head. “Been there, done that, and let me tell you . . . it never works out well.”

  He moved over to the desk, riffled through a pile of papers, then straightened and jabbed his finger in the air. “So? Who takes a PI class anyway? Most people who go into this line of work are either ex-cops or retired military. Or”—he chuckled with a sideways glance in my direction—“an ex-reporter who just likes to solve mysteries, or write about them for magazines. Maybe you were injured on the job, or you had a problem with a supervisor . . . it happens. But no matter what your reason is for being here, you can take this to the bank: Being a PI is no cakewalk. No siree. If you’re just here for a lark, or because you have nothing better to do, or you just want a place to wear out your old clothes, then get out now.” He pointed dramatically toward the door. “PI work isn’t for you. It’s hard, challenging, and often unrewarding work.

  “Investigative strengths aren’t something you’re born with, even though the detectives and PIs in movies and on television make it seem easy. Sam Spade, Jim Rockford, even Sherlock Holmes—none of ’em had investigative ability in their DNA. One of the first things a PI learns to do is hone his, or her,” he added, with a half smile in my direction, “powers of observation and concentration. It’s not like on television. Evidence rarely falls into an investigator’s hands. A real investigator works to obtain evidence using his powers of observation. What is observation? A product of concentration. For example.” He glanced at the sheet on the desk again, then looked up. “Mr. Redmond.”

  A chair scraped back with a loud squeak. “Yes, sir.”

  “Turn around and face the wall.” Once Redmond had complied, Jarvis said, “The man seated next to you, Alvin Lang, right? Describe him.”

  “Six-foot, broad-shouldered, dark, almost ink-colored hair, light complexion. He’s got on a white-and-blue-striped sweater, washed denim jeans and very scruffy boots.”

  “Stand up, Mr. Lang,” Jarvis instructed. Lang did so, and it was evident Redmond had noticed him. He’d gotten everything right, even down to the well-worn boots. Lang resumed his seat and Jarvis said, “Very good, although that was an easy one. After all, you’ve been sitting next to him for well over an hour. Let’s try another.” Jarvis’s gaze fell right on me. “Describe Ms. Charles. What does she look like, what is she wearing?”

  There was some very loud clearing of the throat, and then he mumbled, “Well, she’s about average height, dark brown hair and eyes. She’s got on black slacks, and a crew-neck sweater that’s some kind of pinky color, I think.”

  A few snickers arose, but died quickly as Jarvis cast his icy stare around the room. “You can turn around now, Mr. Redmond.” He wiggled his chubby fingers in my direction. “Ms. Charles, would you step up here to the front of the room?”

  I could feel my cheeks start to flame, but I did as requested. I paused in front of the first row of desks and Jarvis walked over to stand next to me.

  “As you can see, Ms. Charles has red hair—” At my sharp intake of breath, he shot me a mischievous grin. “Sorry. I’ll bet you like to call it auburn, right? Her eyes are green, and she’s certainly much taller than average.” His gaze ran the entire length of my body, finally resting on my leggings. “While they’re not exactly traditional slacks, I’ll give you the black part. Her sweater, though, is V-necked, and I’d call it violet, not pink.” He waved his hand at me. “Face the blackboard,” he barked. I complied and he said, “Your turn. Ms. Charles, describe Mr. Redmond for me.”

  I closed my eyes to visualize him. “Nearly six-foot, good build, might have played sports at one time. Sandy hair, light blue eyes, slight stubble on his chin, as if he’s either started to grow a beard or forgot to shave. His slacks are khaki-colored. They fit him a bit loosely around the waist and he’s wearing a shirt of the same color, unbuttoned at the collar.”

  For a few brief minutes there was complete and total silence. Then a smattering of applause broke out. I could feel heat sear my cheeks as Jarvis bowed at me. “You may be seated, thank you. Now, class, what have we learned from this little exercise?”

  There was dead silence, and then a tall, thin Asian man in the back piped up, “That Mr. Redmond needs glasses?”

  There was a smattering of light laughter, which quickly stopped as Jarvis spoke again. “Possibly, but I think it’s simpler than that. From a few comments he’s made tonight, I got the impression Mr. Redmond believes PI work is a man’s world and women should not be in this class. He was able to describe the man sitting next to him in detail, while it was pitifully obvious he’d paid scant attention to the only woman here. Ms. Charles, on the other hand, obviously paid attention to him. All of which proves my point!” Jarvis raised a finger in the air. “A good PI cannot let personal feelings get in the way, especially when he’s paid to do a job. You might have to sit on surveillance for long periods of time, so you must be able to stay alert and focused on what you are looking for.

  “Observation and concentration are also related to motivation. Observant people can be motivated by many things: curiosity, desire, pride, security, the desire to succeed.” He paused, and for a second his icy stare bored into me. “Even fear can be a motivator, and I’m not talking about paralyzing fear, the kind you’d feel facing down the barrel of a .45. It’s the fear that you might not get the job done, that you might miss your chance to follow your suspect, or you might not get that shot Mrs. Peabody needs for her divorce.”

  He glanced up at the clock and let out a low whistle. “Wow, time does fly when you’re having fun, right? Unfortunately, Ira Phillips won’t be able to be here next week either, so . . .” He opened his briefcase and pulled out a stack of papers, which he set on the edge of the desk. “You’re all stuck with me, for another week anyway. Here’s your reading material for our next class. We’ll be discussing PPC. Perseverance, patience and courage. We’ll also discuss keeping secrets. A good P
I’s best friend is his, or her, tame tongue.” He paused and let his gaze rest briefly on me before flicking it forward. “And perhaps we’ll do another little exercise on observation. No groaning, now,” he said, raising his hand traffic-cop style.

  Jarvis settled into the leather chair, and almost immediately the chairs scraped back and the students crowded around the desk. I waited until the line thinned out before I slipped on my light fleece jacket and slung my trusty tote bag over my shoulder. Out of the corner of my eye I noticed Jarvis watching me like a hawk as I bent to pick up the sheaf of assigned reading. He cleared his throat and leaned forward. “You are the same Nora Charles who used to write for the Chicago Tribune, aren’t you? The ‘Dark Streets’ column, right?” At my nod he rubbed his hands together. “I read about your part in the Lola Grainger case, and about how you cleared your sister of murder. If you ask me, you could have saved your money. You’re already a pretty good investigator.”

  It was on the tip of my tongue to say the course had been a gift, but I thought better of it. “Thanks, but I’m sure there’s still a great deal I could learn.”

  He cocked his head to one side. “PI work isn’t the same as being a homicide detective. Now that’s a field I could see you going into.”

  “Thanks, but I have no plans to change my career. I’m really just doing this to write a series of articles on private investigation for Noir.”

  He clucked his tongue. “That’s a shame, because it seems you have a certain knack for this sort of thing. It would be a pity not to put it into actual practice.” He looked at me for a long moment and then grabbed the stack of papers, shoved them into his briefcase. “Stay sharp, Ms. Charles. You never know. I might need your help someday soon.”