Meow If It's Murder (Nick and Nora Mysteries) (4 page)

“I try not to take bets that aren’t sure things, and with you, anything’s possible.” He paused, then said, “How about your own column, you know, like you had in Chicago? People love ’em. It’s kinda natural, too, for an online magazine. Maybe you could do a sort of advice column—you know, for wannabe detectives? We’ve got lots of readers who fancy themselves in that category. They devour every crime show on television and think solving crimes is easy.”

A pang of disappointment arrowed through me. “It’s an interesting concept, but I’m not a detective, Louis.”

“You were a true crime reporter, right? That’s kind of the same thing. Besides, a little birdie told me you once had a secret yen to be a detective for real—did you ever get a PI license?”

I sucked in my breath. I’d confessed that long-ago dream during my first meeting with Louis—but only because I thought he was more than half-drunk and really wasn’t paying attention. “That’s all true, about my wanting to be a PI,” I stammered. “But all it’s ever been is a dream. There’s no way I could do that now, not with running Hot Bread.”

He interrupted, “Just because life’s thrown you a few curves doesn’t mean you should give up, especially if it’s something you really want. Why, if I’d done that,
Noir
would still be a couple of scratched pages in the back of my notebook.” He cleared his throat. “Anyway, I haven’t worked out all the details yet.” He paused. “You know, the bigger the readership we develop, the more money we take in, which would mean a nice raise for you. You can always use more money, right?”

Leave it to Louis. He knew just how to appeal to someone—right in the old wallet. “Of course. I’m just not certain I could devote enough time to it. And as I’ve said, I really don’t have PI experience.”

“I’d be willing to work around your schedule,” Louis assured me. “As for the PI stuff, we could call your column
Notes from an Aspiring PI
, or something like that. How about we get together for lunch, say, one day next week and brainstorm? That idea’s not cast in stone, you know. I’m open to other suggestions you might have.”

I had the feeling he was just paying lip service to my qualms—but I was still intrigued by the idea. “Sure. I’m agreeable to a meeting, but I can’t do lunch. That’s my busy time, Louis.”

“Oh, right. How about a drink at the Poker Face, then?” I could hear him flipping pages over the receiver. “How would next Monday work for you? Around six thirty?”

“That should be okay. It’s a date. And Louis—thanks.”

“No problemo, Nora. Thank you. Don’t worry—I’m confident we can work something out.”

I was hopeful as I hung up the phone. Okay, maybe Louis had all but shot down my unsolved crimes idea, but the alternative he’d proposed signified a huge step forward not only for his magazine, but for me as well. Maybe, just maybe, my luck was changing.

“Sure, why not,” I murmured. “Nora Charles, former investigative reporter turned sandwich shop entrepreneur slash private eye. I could do it.”

I turned back to the table and stopped at the sight of the cat, squatted in front of my laptop, his eyes glued to an article displayed on its screen. I frowned. I’d been certain I’d shut the computer off when I’d gone to answer the phone. I moved closer and peered over the cat’s shoulder. An article from a sister paper, the
California Sun
, rehashing the details of Lola’s unfortunate “accident.” I made a move to shut off the laptop when Nick’s paw lashed out, the tip of his nail grazing the bottom of the screen. I tried to press the power button again—and once more his paw tapped insistently at the monitor.

“What do you want me to see?” I squinted at the screen. At the very bottom of the article, no bigger than a footnote, was one line:
“The deceased’s sister was unavailable for comment, other than to say her sister’s death was a travesty that bears further investigation.”

I frowned. I hadn’t realized Lola Grainger had any relatives. That in itself was interesting, and compounded with the fact it appeared her sister also thought there was something off about Lola’s untimely demise . . .

I leaned over, switched off the laptop, and closed the cover, still wondering just how that article had popped up on a computer I’d have bet my last nickel had been shut off. I shook my head, determined not to obsess. Chantal would have called it Fate, and maybe it was.

Sometimes you just had to believe things just . . . happened. For a reason.

“Hm,” I said. “Two and two make four, right? Lola’s sister—whoever she is—thinks there’s something off about that ‘accident,’ too. I bet my hunch is right. I smell foul play—meow if you agree.”

The cat meowed without hesitation. He sat up on his haunches and cocked his head at me.

“Okay, it’s settled then. Lola’s death might not have been accidental. It could have been . . . murder.”

The cat looked up at me, ears and whiskers back, and I could swear the corners of his mouth tipped up, just a tad, in a sort of half smile.

I took that as a yes.

“S
o, Nora, I see you have a new friend?”

Rita Robilliard smoothed her tight, gray chignon and smiled at me over the rim of her tortoise-framed glasses. She’d managed the local Century 21 office in Cruz for years and had always been one of my mother’s best customers—and now, by extension, one of mine. She tugged at the lapel of her mustard yellow jacket as she leaned across the counter, her gaze fixed firmly on the cat who lay by the back door, head on paws, quiet as a mouse.

I looked up from the hot turkey sandwich I was preparing—hot turkey had always been my mother’s Tuesday special, and I saw no reason to change a best-seller—and gave a quick glance over my shoulder. I hollowed out the thick kaiser roll and spooned a generous amount of turkey gravy into the opening. “Oh, yeah. He wandered in last night, and I just didn’t have the heart to turn him out.”

Rita chuckled. “He’s certainly watching you. Probably hoping you’ll drop some of that turkey on the floor, where it’s fair game. He can smell quality stuff.”

That was for sure. Like my mother, who would have balked at the idea of using processed meat, my hot turkey was real and sliced fresh from the bird; maybe I didn’t bake my own bread, as she did, but the kaiser rolls were from Lassiter’s Bakery, the best in the county, and my mashed potatoes were farm grown—no instant mix for me!

“Well, when one gets up at four a.m. to start preparations, one expects a quality product,” I chuckled. “I imagine the cat is no exception. He ate all the tuna I had in stock.”

“Yes, he looks well cared for. Probably someone’s pet.”

“That’s what I thought.” I sliced the sandwich in half, spooned a generous amount of potato onto the plate, added a pickle, and set it on Rita’s tray. “I’m going to put up flyers later. I took a picture of him with my phone last night—I’ve just got to get it printed out. I was hoping Max down at Staples would help me.”

“I’m sure he would.” Rita reached into her oversized purse for her wallet. “A male, right? He probably just wandered off, you know, looking for love.” She winked.

I took the twenty she offered me and rang up her purchase. “You could be right. I’ve got a feeling he might belong to someone who either lives right here in Cruz, or not very far away. I’m sure whoever owns him must be missing him.”

Rita nodded. “He is a nice-looking animal. If he were mine, I’d be frantic.”

The bell above the shop door tinkled and Chantal breezed in, a large grocery bag clutched in her arms. She nodded at Rita, then slipped behind the counter and set the bag down. “Good afternoon,
chérie
. I got some pet supplies down at the RediMart for you and Nick—well, mostly for him unless you’ve taken a shine to catnip and Fancy Feast.”

Rita took the change I offered her and glanced over at Chantal. “Nick?”

I started to answer, but Chantal cut me off. “That’s what we named him. Nick, after those movies Nora loves so much, you know, the ones about the alcoholic detective and his society wife.”

“Oh, yes, Nick and Nora Charles.
The Thin Man
.” Rita’s thin lips quirked upward slightly. “I loved them, too. They were such a charming pair.” She sighed. “They don’t make movies like that anymore. Well, good luck finding his owner.” She picked up her tray and moved to a table for one in the back.

Chantal strolled over to the cat. She chucked him under his chin. “Hello, Nick. Is Nora treating you well?”

A contented purr escaped his lips, and he wiggled his rotund, furry body closer to Chantal.

I brushed a stray curl out of my eyes and ignored the quick stab of jealousy that pinged at me. “See, he likes you better. You should have taken him.”

“Oh, pish.” Chantal waved one hand. “You’re doing fine.” She moved closer to me and squeezed my arm. “I bet he even slept in the bed with you last night, no?”

“No,” I said firmly. “But it wasn’t for lack of trying, I assure you. He’s got really strong forepaws. He kept nudging the door open, so I finally had to shove my Queen Anne chair up against it. He slept out on the rug in front of the fireplace.”

Chantal shook her head and turned her attention back to the cat. “Don’t worry, Nicky, she’ll come around. She wasn’t always this mean. It comes from working the crime beat in Chicago, reporting on all those murders, mob bosses, and crime—it hardens the heart.” She pounded her fist lightly against her breast. The cat’s head jerked up at mention of the words
murder
and
crime
and his eyes narrowed into golden slits.

“
Ew-erow!
” he growled, lips peeled back revealing his sharp teeth.

I wiped my hands on a dish towel. “I swear he can understand you. It’s spooky.” I gave a mock shudder. “And I haven’t named him, by the way. I told you, naming him made it too much of a commitment—and I intend to find his owner before this week is out.”

Chantal winked at the cat. “She’s such a meanie. But don’t worry—it’s all an act. I bet she does not try as hard as she says she will. She’ll be calling you Nick before the week is out.”

“And you would be wrong,” I sang out.

“We’ll see, won’t we?” She dipped one hand into her tote, pulled out several pieces of paper, and waved them under my nose. “I was inspired last night. What do you think?”

I took the papers and riffled through them. They were rough sketches of collars, different designs, colors, and styles, and not half-bad. I passed the drawings back. “Designer collars. You said you were thinking about it.”

“Well, I thought I might try to make a few this weekend, and I’m hoping Nicky will still be around to model for me. I want to take some pictures to put on the site Remy designed for me.”

We heard a soft
grrr
and turned our heads. The cat’s head shook emphatically from left to right.

I laughed. “I don’t think Nick is thrilled by the possibility of being your cat model, Chantal. Either that or he doesn’t like being called Nicky.”

“Ah—see, I win!” Her finger shot up in the air. “You called him Nick.”

I sighed. “So I did. Okay, fine. His name is Nick—for now. I only hope when we find his real owner, he doesn’t have an identity crisis.”

“Nora, dear. I can’t decide what to order. What’s on that Lady Gaga again?”

I turned my attention from Chantal and Nick to the petite, gray-haired woman standing before the plate glass case. Ramona Hickey was an indecisive soul, but she’d been one of my late mother’s best customers for years. “The Lady Gaga
is Genoa salami and pepperoni on marble with German mustard—very hot, very spicy. Not something you’d like, Ramona.” The woman was always complaining of one stomach ailment or another—most of them imagined, symptoms courtesy of
WebMD
.

She patted her flat stomach with one carefully manicured hand. “I do like spicy foods,” she admitted, “but with all the stomach troubles I’ve been having lately . . . I’d best stick with something bland. Just give me the Father Knows Best.”

“An excellent choice.” The corners of my lips twitched. Ham and Swiss on rye, lightly toasted, a dash of mustard with a pickle on the side. Traditional, bordering on boring and—need I say it—unquestionably the perfect sandwich for Ramona Hickey.

I removed two slices of rye from the bread box and saw Ramona’s gaze swivel over to where Chantal stood cooing over Nick. She raised one brow questioningly and gave a mock shiver as her eyes darted around. “A cat, Nora? You don’t have mice in the shop, do you?”

“None that I’m aware of, Mrs. Hickey.”

“Thank goodness.” She gave me an anxious look. “Is it wise, though, to have him back there—you know, so close to where you prepare the food?”

I opened the glass case, withdrew ham and Swiss, sliced it thinly, and then piled it on the fresh rye bread, smearing one side gently with mustard. I sliced the sandwich in half, transferred it to a paper plate and placed a kosher dill beside it, and then added a small side of coleslaw. I wiped my hands on a towel and handed her the plate. “Nick doesn’t get anywhere near the food, Mrs. Hickey. If he did, I wouldn’t allow him in here.”

She took the plate, passed me a ten-dollar bill. “Well, that’s good to know, dear. I just thought I’d bring it to your attention.”

Her tone irked me and I snapped, “Nick is very clean, Mrs. Hickey. As a matter of fact, I think he’s even cleaner than some of my customers. You can rest assured his being here isn’t against any health violation—if anything, his presence would be a help in keeping rodents at bay. He doesn’t get into anything he’s not supposed to, and his manners so far have been impeccable—for a cat.”

Mrs. Hickey’s eyes widened at my outburst. She shoved her change into her jacket pocket and mumbled, “I didn’t mean to insult you, Nora. I know you treat this shop with as much care and respect as your dear mother did. I was merely making an observation.”

“Thank you for your concern,” I said, teeth clenched, “but it really isn’t necessary. I have things under control.”

“Yes dear,” Ramona said, her lips drawn into a rictus of what was probably supposed to be a pleasant smile. “That’s apparent.”

As she moved away, Chantal squeezed my arm. “Good for you! I’m so glad you defended Nicky. It just proves what I thought originally—the two of you are getting to be fast friends, no?”

I shrugged. “I just didn’t like her attitude, although I should know that’s just the way she is. She’s such a gossip, though. I don’t need her questioning the cleanliness of the store.”

Chantal’s lips curved upward. “That’s what you say. I think you didn’t like her insinuating
Nicky
wasn’t clean.”

I shoved my hands into my apron pockets. “Does it matter if I was defending my store or Nick? He’s not mine to keep, remember? His owner is out there, somewhere, missing him.”

“Maybe,” Chantal grumbled. “Maybe not. Whether you want to admit it or not, Nora Charles, this cat is growing on you. You can’t fool me. Deep down, you’re hoping his owner can’t be found.”

I had no chance to respond because the shop bell tinkled once again and Lance ambled into the shop. “Hello, Nora. Hey, Chantal.” He leaned against the counter and grinned at me. “Got anything for a hungry man? Pedro’s gonna be late, and I’m starved.”

Chantal shot him a wicked grin. “Tell the truth, Lance. You don’t want that finger food you serve up at the Poker Face. You’ve got a hungering for a real meal.”

He wiggled his eyebrows and wagged his finger. “Can’t fool a psychic, can I?” He shot me a wide grin. “So? Since your friend’s predicted I’m after a real meal, how about rustling me up one of those Buble Burgers I’ve heard so much about?”

I grinned back and headed for my freezer. “One extra-thick burger with Black Forest ham coming right up.”

Lance’s gaze settled on Nick and his eyes widened. He looked from the cat to me and back to the cat. “Whoa—who’s this? Since when did you get a cat? I thought you swore off pets after that chameleon episode.”

I made a face at him as I removed a thick slab of ham from the case. “Apparently I’ve been given a second chance. He wandered into the shop last night, and Chantal talked me into keeping him until I can locate his owner.” I set one of the burgers I’d taken out earlier on the grill and listened to it sizzle.

“Yes”—Chantal grinned mischievously—“and don’t believe her when she says she wants to locate the owner. Why, she’s already named him Nick after the detective in
The Thin Man.”

I was about to correct her on just who’d done the naming when I caught sight of the expression on Lance’s face. “What’s the matter?” I asked, waving my spatula. “Is something wrong?”

Lance scratched at his ear. “No, it’s just funny, but I thought he looked familiar, and when Chantal said his name is Nick—I think I might know who owns him.”

I almost dropped the spatula, and tried my best to ignore the sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach. I hesitated, surprised at my own reaction, and then asked, “You do? Who?”

He barked out a short laugh. “That’s what made me laugh. I think his owner’s name is Nick, too. Nick Atkins. He used to come into the Poker Face a lot, but I haven’t seen him in weeks. Now, I could be wrong but I could swear I saw a photo of that cat in his wallet once.”

I cocked a brow. “He had a photo of the cat in his wallet? That’s odd.”

Lance shook his head. “Anybody can tell you’re not a pet person, Nora. Lots of people carry around pictures of their pets. Why, I have one of Brutus on my digital key ring.” Brutus was Lance’s half pit bull/half Lab. He treated the dog as if he were a human—last Christmas he’d bought the dog his own featherbed.

Chantal let out a low whistle. “I think it’s odder that the owner’s name is also Nick. Now that would be quite a coincidence indeed—if it is true.”

I pressed the spatula down on the sizzling burger and then moved back to the counter. “It’s certainly worth looking into. Atkins, you say?”

“Yep.” Lance cleared his throat. “And while we’re on the subject of coincidences, you said you named the cat after a detective? Well, Atkins is a PI, too. The best in all of California, according to him.”

I chuckled. “That’s quite a statement. This Nick Atkins sounds like a bit of a braggart.”