Meow If It's Murder (Nick and Nora Mysteries) (10 page)

Except in this instance, there were no suspects, obvious or otherwise. It’d been written off as a tragic accident—owing in large part, I was certain, to Grainger’s standing in the community.

“Police tend to gravitate toward the most time-efficient solution. Rather than cast a wide net and see if they can locate who might have committed a crime, they tend to focus on a few likely suspects and build their case against them. It makes sense, of course, but it’s not always the best way,” I muttered, tugging absently at a stray curl. “There’s got to be some sort of connection somewhere. What I’ve got to do is determine the weak link in the chain and snap it.”

Nick clawed at the carpet, another kitty sign of approval. I set down my marker and paused. Something still nagged at me, something I couldn’t quite define. As I started for the kitchen, I suddenly stopped, snapped my fingers.

“He knew an awful lot about this case,” I cried, startling Nick, who’d been trotting right beside me, no doubt anxious for a more substantial afternoon meal. “Danny Corleone. He’s only here filling in, he’s not even from around here, and yet he seemed to know an awful lot of details about the Grainger case. What’s more—he did it all from memory—never even opened a file folder. He knew so much and yet—he didn’t seem to know about Adrienne Sloane. Very, very odd.”

“
Yargle
,” Nick gurgled.

“Glad you agree,” I chuckled. “I think we’ve done a good job today, don’t you?”

Nick looked me right in the eyes and inclined his head in a nod.

I riffled his fur. “Come on—I think there’s some salmon with your name on it. Tomorrow I’ll start narrowing down our pool of suspects.”

We went into the kitchen, where I spooned out a generous portion of salmon for Nick, unable to escape the gnawing feeling that there was more to Detective Corleone than appeared on the surface. It might be wise to keep an eye on him—a task I doubted I’d find
too
hard to take on.

I
had to start somewhere, and I figured my best bet was Captain Shelly Lott. Adding in the fact that Hank had tagged him as “nervous,” he appeared to be the only one so far with ties to both Lola and Kevin. Plus, I had a niggling suspicion Lott might also have been the one feeding Adrienne Sloane information. If so, she’d gotten him to talk—now I just had to figure out what buttons to press to get him to open up to
me
.

Since I had some time in between my breakfast crowd and the lunch rush, I did a quick Internet search and came up with Lott Cruises, located right in the Cruz Marina. Lott himself answered on the third ring. I introduced myself, explained that I was writing an article on the Lola Grainger accident for
Noir
, and was greeted with thirty seconds of complete and utter silence. Finally he rasped out, “That? It’s old news. What on earth do you want to write about that for?”

“Lots of reasons, Captain. This case was closed before the right questions were framed, let alone answered. I think we owe it to the public—and to Lola—to ferret out the truth about what really happened that night.”

“I can save you the trouble. Lola Grainger’s death was an accident. End of story.”

“Is it?”

More silence. Then, “Just what good do you think writing a story about this would do? Authorities don’t like to reopen cases, especially open-and-shut ones involving high-profile figures. Why would you want to embarrass yourself like that, miss? ’Cause asking questions that are none of your business is all that will do.”

“I’m of a different mind. I believe asking questions is the best way to get at the truth.”

He sniffled. “Are you insinuating that we all lied?”

“I believe you weren’t asked the right questions.”

There was a pause and then, surprisingly, Lott let out a gravelly laugh. “Maybe so. But it’s over. Take my advice, little lady, and let it be. Find something else to write about.”

I sensed he was about to hang up so I interjected quickly, “Adrienne Sloane wouldn’t let it be, though, would she?”

The note of surprise in his tone was evident, at least to me. “Adrienne Sloane?”

“Lola’s sister. You’ve spoken with her, haven’t you?”

“Absolutely not. I wasn’t even aware Mrs. Grainger had a sister.”

Somehow I doubted that, but I pressed on. “She did. They’d been estranged for quite some time.” I paused and then added, “She believed her sister was murdered.”

He snorted. “Where’d she get a crackpot idea like that?”

“From an inside source. You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”

“Are you intimating I’m her source?” A moment of stunned silence, and then Lott barked out a nervous laugh. “I don’t know where
you
get your information, lady, but it’s all wet. I never Fed anybody anything, least of all a woman I never met.”

Prying information out of Lott was akin to pulling out a wisdom tooth. No wonder Grainger trusted the man. “Look,” I said in a gentler tone, “all I’m asking for is a half hour of your time. One half hour, and I promise I’ll never bother you again.”

He sighed. “One half hour, and then that’s it? Fine. I’ve got an afternoon cruise leaving in fifteen, but I’ll be back in my marina office at five.”

Perfect.
“I’ll see you then.”

I hung up the phone and caught a swish of black out of the corner of my eye. A second later Nick hopped up onto my lap. I ran my hand along his soft fur.

“It wouldn’t surprise me if he was making a call to Grainger right about now,” I murmured. Nick’s head moved up and down, as if in agreement. I laughed and pushed my chair back. I’d planned to see how I did with Lott before deciding on a plan of attack for the others. Patti Cummings was a possibility—admins usually had a good handle on lots of details others weren’t privy to. I’d run into a few in Chicago who knew where their bosses’ bodies were buried—literally. But if she and Grainger were indeed warming the sheets together, I doubted she’d want to do anything to upset that arrangement. And if all there was between them was the usual employer-employee relationship, well, then I had to hope he’d screwed her out of something big, like a raise or promotion. No one gave up a cushy job like that without incentive. Although here the incentive should be fairly obvious—staying out of jail as an accessory to murder.

Hell, it would work for me.

*   *   *

I
was knee deep in my lunch rush when I glanced up and saw none other than Detective Daniel Corleone standing in Hot Bread’s doorway. Several ladies in line graciously moved out of the way, allowing him a clear view of the large sign listing the various sandwiches, and there was no mistaking the rapturous looks on their faces as he smiled and thanked them ever so graciously.

Must be nice, I thought, to have such charm. And charisma. And sex appeal. And . . .

“Nora!”

I jerked to attention, realized that I held a cup of ketchup in my hand instead of the side of coleslaw Minnie Hopper had asked for. I apologized, made the switch, and rang up her Reuben. As I waited on my next customer, I saw Daniel sit down at a table at the rear of the store. Our gazes met and held for a minute—then he raised one hand in greeting. I nodded, wiggled two fingers in response. The blue shirt he wore under his tan jacket set off his coloring and accentuated the color of his eyes. His hair was slightly mussed, a curl falling down over one eyebrow, and he looked almost as if he’d just gotten out of bed. That thought sent a nice, warm feeling arrowing through me down to my very toes as I thought of the good detective, his muscular body tangled between satin sheets, wearing only a pair of boxer briefs and a smile . . .

“And I’d like it on rye instead of pumpernickel, if you don’t mind.”

“Huh—what?”

Ramona Hickey pinned me with her steely gaze. “Didn’t you hear me? I said, I’ll have the
Joe Piscopo
, but on pumpernickel instead of rye. You might go a bit easy on the mustard, too.”

“Oh, yeah, right. Coming right up.”

I quickly prepared her sandwich, and then two more before the good detective faced me across the counter. “Well, hello again, Ms. Charles—sorry. Nora,” he said.

“Detective.” I could feel heat rise to my cheekbones and self-consciously wished I’d done something nicer with my hair. “How nice of you to visit my shop.”

“I pass it all the time and I’ve been meaning to stop by.” He paused and then added, “And I definitely didn’t mean to brush you aside yesterday. I hope you understand.”

“No problem.” Since Daniel Corleone was the last customer in line, I allowed myself to relax a bit and eased one hip against the counter. “I know what it’s like to have your boss on your back. It’s part of the reason I became my own boss.”

He smiled, showing off those picture-perfect teeth. “I didn’t want you to think I was dismissing you. It’s just your request was unexpected.”

“I realize that. No offense taken.”

“Good.” His eyes searched my face, then met my gaze and held it. “I thought you’d like to know, I went over to the house Adrienne Sloane’s been renting. It’s locked up, and some of the neighbors saw her leaving with suitcases.”

I frowned. “When was this?”

“About seven weeks ago.”

Right around the time Nick Atkins had gone missing. “Do you have any idea where she might have gone?”

He pulled his notebook out of his pocket. “As near as we can tell, she purchased a one-way ticket to Bermuda.”

“Bermuda!”

“I hear it’s lovely this time of year.” He slipped the notebook back in his pocket. “It looks like she abandoned her investigation.”

“Looks can be deceiving,” I mumbled. It made no sense. Why would Adrienne hire a PI, then text him with a cryptic message and disappear?

Daniel’s voice broke into my train of thought. “Listen, I really would like to discuss the case with you in greater detail. You made a lot of good points.”

I raised one eyebrow. “Will that help get the case reopened?”

“I can’t make you any promises. As I said, I’m just here filling in. But if there turns out to be enough evidence that the investigating officers dropped the ball, and there’s new evidence to consider—then yes, there’s a good shot the case would be reopened.” He smiled, and the dimples at either end of his lips deepened. “I don’t mind admitting I’m curious as to your source. Whoever it is, they’re remarkably well informed. Is this person a reporter as well?”

I clucked my tongue, biting back a pang of disappointment. Apparently my source’s identity was the focus of his interest in me, and not my all-American good looks or sparkling wit—or even my culinary expertise. “Now, Detective, surely I don’t have to tell you a good reporter never reveals their sources.”

“Confidentiality is important. It’s nice to see you respect that. Many don’t.” Something in his tone made me glance at him sharply, but his expression was bland. “Well. I don’t have to be on duty tonight till six, so perhaps I could hang around and we could talk after you close?”

I groaned inwardly. He would pick today. The bell above my shop door tinkled, and I cast a quick glance over the detective’s shoulder. Chantal stood there, eyes wide, giving me
that look
.
I turned my attention back to Daniel.

“Ah—I’m sorry, but today’s really not good for me. Perhaps we could make it for tomorrow? Or some other day when you have free time?”

His expression darkened for an instant: Disappointment? Suspicion? I might have imagined it, because the next second his oh-so-handsome face was wreathed in a smile. “No problem,” he said at last. “My bad. I should have called first, and not just assumed you’d drop everything to have that discussion. After all, you were so gung ho yesterday—but that’s neither here nor there, is it?”

Wow, talk about making someone feel guilty. “I
am
sorry,” I assured him. “Trust me, if there was any way I could reschedule my appointment, I would, but unfortunately—”

“Hey, it’s okay, really.” He pulled out his iPad, consulted it for a few moments. “Barring an emergency, I have Thursday afternoon free, if that works for you.”

I gave him my most winning smile. “I’ll make it work. Do you want to meet here, or at the station, or—”

“How about I call you Thursday morning and we can work out something that suits us both. And I promise I
will
call you,” he said.

“Fine.”

“Great.” His gaze strayed to the giant placard listing of sandwiches right above the counter. “Did you think up all these yourself?”

“Most were my mother’s,” I admitted. “But some of the newer ones—like the Lady Gaga and the Michael Buble Burger—were my idea.”

He chuckled. “So you aren’t responsible for the Thin Man Tuna Melt?”

My smile widened as I answered, “I love those movies, but they were a little before my time—sorry. My parents were huge Bill Powell and Myrna Loy fans, though. And I’ve got the entire set on DVD—Blu-ray.”

“Spoken like a true fan.” His eyes roved over me for a long moment before shifting back to the menu. “I’m almost afraid to ask—what’s in the Ricky Gervais?”

“Tongue on rye with extra-hot mustard,” I said, and that elicited a big grin.

He whipped out his wallet. “I’ll take a Thin Man. Extra cheese.”

I pulled out two slices of rye and the container of tuna salad from the refrigerated case. Daniel leaned against the counter and turned to gaze around the shop. “You do a brisk business,” he noted. “Almost every table’s full.”

“I do okay,” I answered as I spread tuna liberally on the bread. “Most of the clientele are my mother’s loyal customers. They like my cooking enough to stick with me.”

“You do everything yourself?”

“I have a high school girl who helps out in the morning before her first class, and occasional afternoons. But if business keeps picking up, I’m going to have to think about hiring more help.”

“Well, in this economy, that’s a good thing. Maybe soon you won’t need that second job. Sandwich making is a lot safer than crime reporting.”

“Maybe not. You should see my knife drawer.”

He laughed, and then suddenly reached inside his jacket pocket. “Excuse me.” He whipped out his phone, said, “Daniel Corleone,” and listened for a few minutes, his eyes slitted. He shook his head a few times, then said, “On my way,” and slipped the phone back into his pocket. He looked at me apologetically and pulled out his wallet. “I’m sorry, I gotta run. Can I get that to go?”

I wrapped the sandwich and placed it in a bag as he slid a ten-dollar bill across the counter. “I’ll call you Thursday.”

He snatched up the sandwich, turned on his heel . . . and was gone.

I frowned. My stomach rumbled, reminding me I hadn’t had anything except a cup of yogurt at 6 a.m. I pulled out some more rye bread, tuna, and cheese, and had just slipped the sandwich into the toaster oven when a hand dropped on my shoulder. I jumped.

“Will you stop doing that,” I cried, turning and gazing into Chantal’s twinkling eyes.

“You have no excuse for not hearing me, other than the look of love.” She laughed, pointing to her impossibly high heels. “So—who is he?”

I thrust my hands into the pockets of my apron. “Who’s who?”