Claws for Alarm (2 page)

“
C
hérie
, I don't think you have a choice. You have to get rid of him.”

I brushed an errant auburn curl out of my eyes and squinted at my friend. “There's always a choice,” I said. “But I guess you're right. He's got to go.”

“
Ow-owrr!
”

We both burst out laughing as the large black-and-white cat rose from his post in front of my refrigerator, stretched his forepaws out in front of him, and then sat back on his haunches, regarding the two of us with catly disdain. He lifted one large paw and waved it imperiously in the air. “
Ow-owrr
,” he said again.

“Relax. Not you, Nick,” I said. I reached out and tapped at the large blackboard that hung just to the left of the store counter. “Brad Pitt. See?” I pointed to the list of specials on the blackboard and the
Brad Pitt All-American Hero
that
was wedged in between the
Jennifer Aniston Garden Salad
and the
Angelina Jolie Tuna Club
. “Chantal's right. Some die-hard Aniston or Jolie fan will be sure to complain.”

My BFF, Chantal Gillard, knelt down beside the stocky cat and petted him on the white streak behind his left ear. “Ah, Nicky, do not worry,” she crooned. I stifled a grin. Chantal loved to speak in an affected French accent, so it came out sounding like,
Ah, Neekey, do naht worree
. “Nora would never get rid of you. Where else would she find such a charming store mascot—and where would I find as handsome a model?”

At the word
model
, Nick's eyes flew open. He got up, turned, and marched, his tail straight up, back to his post in front of the refrigerator where he squatted, his back to us.

“
Mon Dieu
,” Chantal said. “And here I thought he enjoyed modeling my collars.”

Chantal and her brother, Remy Gillard, co-ran Poppies, the local flower store. Chantal had also turned a portion of the store into a combination New Age store slash tearoom, where she also read tarot cards (my friend has psychic abilities), and recently she'd branched out into a new venture: homemade jewelry. This included a line of pet collars, for which she'd drafted Nick as a model—a chore the feline wasn't particularly fond of.

I chuckled as I picked up the eraser. “Nick would probably rather solve mysteries than model collars—after all, his former owner was a PI. It's in his blood.”

Nick's ears perked up and he let out a soft meow.

“It's in yours, too, Nora Charles,” my friend said, waggling her finger. “You can't turn your back on a good mystery, either—as the Grainger case proved.”

“Maybe not,” I admitted. “But Cruz is a quiet little town. How many mysteries can it have?”

“You'd be surprised,” said a deep voice behind us.

We both started. We'd been so deep in our conversation neither one of us had heard the shop door open. The newcomer walked over to my counter and leaned his elbows on it. Lance Reynolds was six-four, built like a sumo wrestler, and the guy who escorted me to my senior prom in high school, even though everyone knows he's always carried a torch for my younger sister, Lacey. After getting a degree in business from UCLA he tried accounting for a while, but it soon became evident that being a nine-to-fiver wearing a suit and tie was most definitely NOT up his alley. His brother, Phil, felt pretty much the same, so the two of them pooled their resources and opened the Poker Face, a quaint tavern about a block away from my shop, Hot Bread. Now he grinned at me and said, “You've got a mystery right here, under your very nose.” He inclined his head toward where Nick squatted. “The mystery of the missing owner.” He paused. “Or have you succeeded in finding him?”

I shook my head. “No—but then again, I haven't tried all that hard.”

My tubby tuxedo formerly belonged to a PI, also named Nick—Nick Atkins. Feline Nick is a cat of many and varied talents, some of which may or may not have been taught to him by his former owner, which also include a flair for detective work. The story of how our association began is a long one (recounted elsewhere, for those who are interested—even for those who are not) that ended with my routing out a hired hit man and preventing two more deaths in the
process—and with Nick saving my hide from the aforementioned murderer.

“Nora couldn't care less if Atkins ever turns up,” Chantal said with feeling. “She's gotten quite attached to Nicky—as have I.” Chantal slipped her oversized tote bag over her shoulder and blew the cat a kiss. “I have to get going for my shift at Poppies, but tomorrow, Nicky, I will bring along those new collars. You will love them.”

Nick put both paws over his face and let out a soft
grr
, then wiggled his portly body underneath the table at the rear of the kitchen. Once Chantal had disappeared out the door Lance turned to me and chuckled. “I swear, sometimes I think that cat's part human.”

“Yeah, well, you're not the only one. So—what can I get you? A nice
Thin Man Tuna Melt
? Or maybe you'd like to try out the
Brad Pitt All-American Hero
? Baloney, ham, American cheddar, tomato, hot peppers, and shredded lettuce with mayo and oil and vinegar on a long roll.”

“Yum.” He made smacking sounds with his tongue. “I'll take two to go. Phil and I have a long evening ahead of us, and we need something to see us through.” He pulled a face. “Annual audit. I'm hoping Phil has all the receipts labeled this time. You have no idea what we went through last year. For an ex-accountant he's horribly disorganized.”

I bit back a chuckle. Neither Lance nor his brother were particularly organized.

Lance leaned across my counter and rested his chin in his hands, watching as I removed two long rolls from the breadbasket, sliced them, then spread them liberally with mayo. “So,” he asked casually, “heard from Lacey lately?”

I shook my head as I pulled the Virginia ham out of the glass case. “Not for a few weeks. This is midterm time at that art school she's attending. Aunt Prudence said that she's been so immersed in her work, she's hardly seen her, either.”

Lance chuckled. “Immersed in work, eh? Now there's a phrase I'd never have associated with your sister.”

“Me, either.” I arranged the ham on the bread, wiped off the slicer, and turned back to the case for the baloney. “She has had her share of jobs over the years. and I, for one, hope this passion of hers continues. I was beginning to wonder if she'd ever find anything she liked to do for more than five seconds.” I finished slicing the baloney, arranged it on top of the ham, then returned to the case for the cheddar. “Mom always used to worry that Lacey would just shuffle aimlessly through life.”

Lance's lips twigged upward. “Your sister never shuffled a day in her life. Barreled right through is more like it. She'd never get caught dead shuffling.”

I spread cheddar over the cold cuts, added lettuce, tomato, salt and pepper, a splash of oil and vinegar, and a generous helping of hot peppers to both sandwiches, then started to wrap them in wax paper. “You're probably right. I've thought about driving out there one afternoon—you know, pay Aunt Prudence a visit and see how she's doing—but if I know my sister, she'd just resent it. She's always accused me of not having faith in her, of always checking up on her. She was particularly vocal about it after Mom died.”

Lance laughed. “Well, she's not wrong, is she?”

I carried the wrapped sandwiches over to the register and returned Lance's grin. “No, I suppose not. This is the first time, though, in years that I can actually say my sister and
I have gotten along—she's actually been civil to me on the last few phone calls. I really don't want to jeopardize it right now. Besides, I have a lot on my own plate.”

“Louis said the article you did on the Grainger case was a big hit.”

“He told me.” Louis Blondell was the editor of
Noir
, an online true crime magazine I'd started writing articles for. Louis had recently offered me my own column, which I was seriously considering. “He'd love it if I did one like that for him every month.”

“Well, you could. That'd be right up your alley.”

“Sure—but to do it right takes careful research, for which one needs time, which I don't have lots of right now, not if I intend to revamp and make a go of Mom's business.” I gave my head a brisk shake, letting the auburn curls fall in ringlets across my cheeks. “Damn—why wasn't I born rich instead of beautiful?”

Lance tamped down a smile. “We all have our crosses to bear.”

I gave Lance his change, walked him out, then locked the door, turned the sign to
CLOSED
, and pulled down the shade. As I turned around, Nick's head popped out from underneath the damask tablecloth. A few seconds later the front paws followed. I caught a glimpse of a square object underneath his paws and frowned.

“Hey, you. What have you got there?”

I made a dive for him; he wiggled back underneath the table. I squatted on the floor and raised the tablecloth up to peer underneath. Nick lay pressed up against the wall, curled in a tight ball, with what looked like a beat-up leather notebook clutched in his claws. The book was open, and he had
one paw thrown possessively over the page, his sharp teeth nibbling at the paper's edge.

“Nick, what are you doing? Give me that? If you're hungry I made lobster salad yesterday.”

Without really thinking I reached out and grasped the edge of the book. Nick could have easily scratched me but good with those talons of his—but he didn't. Instead he rolled rather meekly on his side and allowed me to drag the book out. I picked it up and took it over to the counter, where I smoothed the wrinkled, chewed page.

I glanced over my shoulder. Nick's head had popped out from underneath the table, and he was watching me, head cocked to one side, golden eyes wide. I shook my fist at him. “This is one of your former human's journals, Nick. What are you doing with it? And how did you get this? I thought I had these locked upstairs in my desk.”

The eyes blinked once, twice. His ears flicked forward.

A little sigh escaped my lips. Oh yes, I should know better. Locked drawers, doors—they all meant nothing to this portly tuxedo cat. He could have taught Harry Houdini a few tricks, and for all I knew, he well might have.

“You rascal. You've got your own method of communication, don't you?” I grumbled. I leaned over to inspect the chewed page more closely. It was an account of Nick Atkins's investigation of one Bronson A. Pichard—and a very colorful account, at that. I shot my gaze back to the cat. “So, Nick, tell me: What's the attraction here? Why this particular page? Are you trying to tell me something?”

Nick's ears flicked and he began to purr.

Tucking the notebook under one arm, I hurried up the stairs to my apartment and made a beeline for my desk and
my trusty Rolodex. I found the number I wanted, grabbed my cell, and a few minutes later heard a familiar voice:

“Sampson Atkins Investigations. Oliver Sampson here.”

“Well, I see you haven't dissolved the partnership yet.”

“No—at least not officially, anyway. All in due time, I suppose.” I could feel his smile over the wire. “Well, well, Nora Charles. What a nice surprise. How are you, and how is my missing partner's cat? Little Nick is behaving himself, I hope. Or has he gotten you involved in another murder case?”

“I'm not sure,” I answered truthfully. “He managed to get his paws on one of Nick's journals, and one page in particular—notes on a Bronson A. Pichard.”

“Oh,” Ollie said, and then grew very quiet. “Pichard, eh?” he said at last. “Now there's a blast from the past. That guy was creepy.”

“Creepy? In what way?”

“Nothing I could put my finger on, I only saw him once or twice but – maybe it was those eyes of his. They were two different colors. One blue, one brown. Gave him a sinister appearance. Anyway, that investigation was quite an undertaking. Pichard's wife hired Nick to get some dirt for her for their divorce.”

“And did he?”

Ollie cleared his throat. “Did he ever. Isobel ended up with practically everything. Pichard lost his business, most of his holdings and money, and—he blamed Nick.”

I felt heat sear my cheeks. “I just love guys like that,” I said with feeling. “They cheat, but they're the injured party.”

“There's a bit more to the story,” Ollie said. “Pichard owned an art gallery that specialized in rare paintings and
sculptures. He did well at first among the San Francisco high society, but then his prices started to get out of control. Plus, there were some rumblings that he, ah, misrepresented authenticity on quite a few pieces—real expensive ones. Nothing was ever proven, but his reputation went downhill fast.” I frowned. “He suspected Nick of tipping off the authorities.”