Meow If It's Murder (Nick and Nora Mysteries) (3 page)

“I don’t—but I do believe in intuition. I guess it’s pretty much the same thing, when you get right down to it.”

My friend cut me an eye roll, a sure indication she thought I was full of, as the French would say,
merde
. “The only other thing she saw was that this mission had to do with something that was switched.”

I wrinkled my nose. “Something switched? Like what? That’s not much of a clue.”

Chantal shrugged. “What can I say? Sometimes the images come over a bit . . . clouded, shall we say? We have to interpret them the best we can.” She hunkered over the pile of cards before her and flipped over the one closest to her. “Well, well,” she murmured. “On a much better note, it looks like there is love in your future,
chérie
.”

I let out a squeal and gave her arm a playful punch. “So now you’re reading my cards? Please don’t. I do so hate when you do that.”

“That is because you do not open yourself up to the universe.”

“I wouldn’t say that. I’m very open. Just not to portents and omens.”

She shook her curls. “You are practical to a fault. Just once I’d like to see you let yourself go—believe in the unbelievable. The world is a wondrous place, if you only open yourself up to all the possibilities.”

“Tempting, but I can’t afford the luxury. I’m a businesswoman now. I’ve got to keep my feet planted firmly on the ground and a level head.”

“You know, if I didn’t know you, I’d think you had no adventure in your soul at all. Now, are you certain you don’t want to hear it?” She tapped the cards. “Trust me—it’s good.”

I hesitated, and then shrugged. “Oh, what the hell. Hit me.”

She plucked a second card from the pile. “The King of Swords crosses your card,” she said. “That means a dark, handsome stranger will shortly enter your life and sweep you off your feet.”

I rolled my eyes. “You can tell that from one card?”

“Not just from the card—the vibe. And this is a strong vibe, very strong indeed.”

Uh-huh. I’d heard all this before from my friend, in many ways, shapes, and forms, and a handsome stranger, dark or otherwise, had yet to make an appearance in my life. “Well, when he shows up, you’ll be the first to know. I’m not holding my breath.”

Chantal glanced at the clock on the wall and jumped up. “
Oh, zut
—I am late for my shift at the flower shop. Remy will kill me.” She swept her tarot cards into their velvet pouch, tucked them inside her tote, and ambled toward the front door. Her French accent slipped a bit as she said, “Try not to work too hard, willya? You’ve been looking a little peaked lately.” She opened the front door and stopped still. “Well, well,” she murmured, accent back in full force as she shot a swift glance over one shoulder. “Come quickly,
chérie
. This will teach you to have more faith in my predictions. There is a dark, handsome stranger out here who wants to see you.”

“You’re kidding.” I moved forward and looked over Chantal’s shoulder. The street outside was deserted. I cocked a brow at my friend. “There’s no one here.”

Her tongue clucked against the roof of her mouth. “You are not looking in the right place.”

Chantal pointed down. I followed her finger and beheld her dark, handsome stranger.

A stocky, black-and-white cat.

T
he cat squatted square in front of my door. He lifted his head, and large, unblinking golden eyes bored into mine. The stare was so intense that for a moment all I could do was gape. The portly fellow chose that moment to rise and walk inside, his black plume of a tail swishing regally behind him.

“Hey, wait a minute, you can’t—” I stopped, bit my lip, and whirled to Chantal. “He can’t come in here.”

“Too late. He is already in.” Chantal snickered. “After all, what’s stopping him? You do not have a sign that says
NO PETS
on the door,
chérie
. He might not be a paying customer, but there are other ways he can earn his keep. Take that storeroom of yours, for instance. I am positive I saw mouse droppings in the far corner the other day.”

“Mouse droppings—there better not be,” I grumbled. “I just paid two hundred for an exterminator—you’re kidding, right?”

She didn’t answer, merely inclined her head toward my kitchen. The cat had leapt up onto one of the counters and was calmly washing himself. I sighed and whirled back to Chantal. “Come clean. Are you behind this? Did you go to the animal shelter and—”

She placed one fist on a slender hip, made an exaggerated sign of the cross over her heart with the other. “Cross my heart and hope to die—I’ve never seen this cat before today.”

I eyed the animal, who’d finished his bath and now lay sprawled across the counter next to the sink. “Well . . . I like his coloring.”

“I do, too.” Chantal gestured toward the cat’s plump belly. “I think they call that type of black-and-white cat a tuxedo. With their white bib and paws, they look as if they are ready for an evening on the town. And he does look ready to step out to a black-tie event, doesn’t he?”

I had to admit the cat did cut an elegant picture. And then he flopped over on one side and started licking his privates.

Chantal’s voice rumbled with suppressed laughter. “Nothing shy about him, is there? I think you’ve finally met your match.”

I shrugged. “He must have wandered off. He looks too well cared for to be a mere stray. He’s got to belong to someone.”

“True,” Chantal agreed. “Or perhaps his owner died, and he is now all alone in the world. He could use a friend.” She gave me a sidelong glance. “Admit it—you’ve always had a soft spot for cats.”

Well, I couldn’t deny it. Out of all types of animals, cats did appeal to me the most—probably because I identified with their independent spirits. Caring-wise, though, my track record stank.

The cat stretched out full length, paws dangling over the side of the counter. His wide, golden eyes were fixed directly on me. He looked almost pleading—appealing even.

Dammit.

I shook my head. “Oh no, you don’t. I like cats, but you know I’m not good with pets. Just ask my sister about the goldfish I let starve to death, and the chameleon I got when I was in fourth grade. Poor thing lasted a week.”

“What happened to him?”

“I—ah—accidentally flushed him down the toilet.” I saw my friend’s lips start to twitch, and I added defensively, “Well, he was really small . . . what do you want from a ten-year-old?”

“You cannot compare a reptile to a cat. I doubt you
could
flush him down a toilet.”

I studied the cat’s girth. “That’s for sure. He’d probably break the plumbing on the way down.”

Chantal pressed her finger to her lips. “Ssh—you will insult him. Why not keep him? If nothing else, you can use him as a mouser.”

I gave the cat another once-over. “I don’t know how good of a mouser he’d be. He doesn’t seem to be the athletic type. The mice would probably outrun him.”

Chantal clapped her hand over my mouth. “Ssh,
chérie
. Animals are very smart. And look at him. He’s listening to us.”

I glanced over at the cat. Damned if his head wasn’t cocked to one side. He did look as if he was very interested in our conversation, which, of course, was impossible.

Chantal squeezed my arm. “Take a chance on him, Nora, who knows? Give him a week. And then, if the two of you aren’t
sympathique
 . . . well, then ask me again. He seems far too fine an animal to end up in a shelter, trapped in a cage.”

A loud purr emanated from the cat’s throat. Dammit, could he understand us? I found that thought particularly unsettling, to say the least. Still, there was something about him that touched me. I couldn’t explain it and I wasn’t sure I would if I could. “Why don’t you take him now?” I suggested. “I know how you love animals, and you really seem to like him.”

Her finger wagged under my nose. “Nice try, but you know Remy would have a fit. My brother thinks he’s allergic to every animal on the planet, and cats top his list.”

“We both know it’s all in his head. You could convince him to adopt the cat, Chantal. I know you could.”

Chantal tapped her chin with one long nail. “Probably,” she conceded at last. “But I think you should at least make an attempt with him, Nora. He would be good company for you and who knows? Perhaps you can discuss the Lola Grainger case with him. Who knows, he might have some good ideas.”

The cat’s head lifted, bobbed up and down. “
Meowwwwww.
”

I started, then shook my head. “Come on Chantal, I haven’t got time for this. Admit it—this is one of your practical jokes, right?”

Her chin lifted. “Do not insult me,
chérie
. I would have selected a purebred. A Siamese or a Persian.”

“
Grrr.
”

We both turned. The cat was up on his haunches, upper lip peeled back displaying a good amount of fang, wide golden eyes trained straight on Chantal.

I slid my friend a glance. “Now
you’ve
insulted him.” I slapped my forehead with my palm. “Good God, what am I saying?”

Chantal moved over to the cat, bent down, and scratched him under the chin. “Ah, handsome, do not take any of this personally. I did not mean to insult you. You are obviously a stray of great quality. Play your cards right, and I shall make you a beautiful jeweled collar for your neck.” She snapped her fingers. “Say, you know, that’s not a half-bad idea. Collars for cats and dogs. People love to pamper their pets, right, handsome?”

The cat’s growling turned into a satisfied purr as Chantal continued to stroke his chin. I shook my head.

“Chalk up another male who’s succumbed to your charms.” Guys had always found her appealing, and apparently the cat was no exception.

“What can I say? Men of all types adore me.” She rubbed her fingers across the cat’s head. “Oh, come on, Nora. Look at him. He’s so adorable—how can you possibly turn him out?”

The cat flopped on his side and lay looking up at me, his golden eyes wide. I sighed and threw both hands in the air. If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s not to fight city hall. Or a cute kitty.

“Fine. I’ll keep him until I can locate his owner. I’ll make some inquiries tomorrow.”

“Good.” Her eyes twinkled. “You could name him Nick, you know, after those movies you love so much?” She cocked her head to one side. “He even looks like a Nick, don’t you think?”

The cat purred louder, as if in agreement. I felt definitely tempted, but shook my head.

“Hmm. I’m not sure about naming him. That’s too much of a commitment.”

“So you say—now,” Chantal chuckled. “But I have a feeling this could be the beginning of a beautiful friendship.”

I cut her an eye roll. “I do so hate it when you quote
Casablanca—
or any classic movie, for that matter.”

Chantal blew me a kiss, and then she was gone, leaving us alone. The cat jumped from the front counter to the rear one, and it only took me a minute to figure out why—he’d smelled the leftover tuna from today’s special. I could hear slurping sounds as he pushed his face hungrily into the bowl.

In spite of myself, I had to admit he was cute—but cute enough for me to abandon my resolve of “no pets”? Well, maybe, especially if he earned his keep. Even though I greatly doubted there were mice in the storeroom now, it was a well-known fact that the scent of a cat often kept the rodents at bay. “You’d be cheaper than the exterminator,” I murmured, and I moved closer to him, reached out my hand, and stroked his black fur. It felt soft and . . . nice. The cat raised his head, leaned back, and bumped it against my hand. I scratched him behind his ears and he purred, his whiskers streaked with flecks of tuna.

“I’d like to help you out and give you a home, Ni—cat,” I corrected, my hand absently stroking up and down his back, “but to be perfectly honest, I’m terrible with pets. Aside from the whole chameleon incident, I just don’t have the patience. I’m not even good around other people sometimes.” I paused, and then added, “But you can finish the tuna. You must be hungry.”

He stopped purring and stared at me, gold eyes unblinking. At length he turned back and buried his head in the tuna bowl again. I sighed, locked the door, and switched the sign from
OPEN
to
CLOSED
and returned to the kitchen, where I pulled my laptop out from under one of the cabinets. I carried it over to the table near the kitchen entrance, settled myself comfortably, and called up the file I’d started on Lola Grainger. I opened the document labeled
ORIGINAL ACCOUNT
and followed the link to the
Cruz Sun
story:

SOCIETY MATRON FOUND DROWNED

Cruz, Calif—The body of socialite Lola Grainger was found floating Monday morning in a shallow lagoon off the Cruz coastline. County lifeguards and sheriff’s deputies said Mrs. Grainger, 47, drowned accidentally. The Graingers were on a weekend cruise with friends and members of Mr. Grainger’s staff, celebrating their fifteenth wedding anniversary. According to witnesses, Mrs. Grainger had been drinking rather heavily and was thought to have gone to bed. It is suspected that she got up in the middle of the night, slipped, and fell in. Her body, clad in sweats and a down vest, was found floating in the cove waters around 5 a.m. Her husband identified her body and is unavailable for comment.

I jumped as something soft wound itself around my legs. I looked down. The cat was stretched comfortably out at my feet. I bent over and lifted him onto my lap. God, he was heavy!

“You must weigh twenty pounds at least. Probably more. I guess a lot of people take pity on you and feed you, eh? If you did live here, I’d have to put you on a diet. If you’re too fat, you won’t be able to catch any mice.”

The cat opened his mouth in a wide, unlovely yawn. I caught a whiff of his breath and set him back on the floor. He pinned me with another golden gaze and jumped back on my lap in one fluid motion. Rearing up, he raised one white paw, placed it on my shoulder, and swatted at a stray curl. I tucked the strand behind my ear and ran my hand along his soft fur.

“Okay, okay,” I murmured, letting my fingers tangle in the cat’s ruff. “You win. We’ll do as Chantal suggested, a trial thing—test each other out, see how we get along. And if things work out . . . but I’m not making any promises, okay, Ni—ah, cat?”

His mouth opened, almost as if he were going to answer me. And at that moment the phone rang. I reached over, shut off my laptop, and then got up, unceremoniously dumping him from my lap, and went over to the phone.

“Hot Bread.”

“Hey,” the voice of Louis, the owner of
Noir
and my online editor, boomed out. “I just thought I’d let you know I got the story you sent in. It’s great, Nora. I’m going to feature it on the cover.”

“You’re kidding,” I cried. “Louis, that’s . . . that’s wonderful.”

“You’ve done a remarkable job in the short while you’ve been with
Noir
,” he continued. “So much so that I wondered if perhaps you’d like to move on from the fiction end, maybe try your hand at something more realistic.”

“You must be reading my mind,” I said. “As it happens, I had an idea for a series of articles on cold cases.”

A loud laugh. “That sounds terrific, Nora.”

“I’m glad you think so. I’ve been doing a bit of research, and I thought I might start out with Lola Grainger.”

I heard a sharp intake of breath, then a moment of silence during which you could hear a pin drop all the way back in Chicago. Finally he cleared his throat. “Lola Grainger? That’s not an unsolved crime—that was ruled an accident.”

I twined a stray auburn curl around my finger. “I know it was, but
—
I’ve been going over every newspaper account I can find—which isn’t much—and something just doesn’t hit me right. I thought maybe—”

“I can sense your frustration,” Louis cut me off mid-sentence. “As a former true crime reporter, I can see where this type of story might appeal to you, but to be frank, I think it’d be better if you concentrated on less sketchy topics.”

I bit down hard on my lip. “What if I could prove there was some substance to it—that it wasn’t just a ‘sketchy topic’? What would you say then?”

His sigh was audible. “I’d probably say run with it, but you’re not going to find anything, so it’s a moot point.”

Hah. He had no idea whom he was talking to. If there was anything I loved in this world, it was a challenge. “Don’t bet on it.”