Meow If It's Murder (Nick and Nora Mysteries) (21 page)

C
hantal delivered the bicycle just as I was ushering my last lunch patron out the door. She wheeled it into the back room and bestowed a dubious glance my way.

“Here it is,
chérie
. Remy oiled the wheels—he has not used it in years. He said you could keep it, if you want.”

“I don’t think that will be necessary, but thanks.”

She continued to give me her version of the “evil eye” after I locked the door, took off my apron, and loaded all the lunch crowd dishes into the dishwasher. She folded her arms across her chest and leaned against the kitchen doorjamb.

“So—you are tired of driving your SUV around? You feel riding a bike will be better exercise?”

“Sorta kinda.”

“Or,” she said shrewdly, “you are planning on channeling Jessica Fletcher, and thus needed a similar mode of transportation?”

I pulled my hair into a ponytail and shoved it under an
NCIS
cap that I’d gotten on eBay. Gotta love that Mark Harmon. “Sorta kinda.”

I could tell my friend was struggling hard to keep her temper. “This has something to do with this investigation you are involved in, right,
chérie
? The dangerous mission? Do not say ‘sorta kinda’ please or I will be forced to slap you.”

I pulled an old SF Giants jacket over my T-shirt and dark denim jeans. “Could be.”

Chantal rolled her eyes and let out an impatient sigh. “For heaven’s sake, Nora, please tell me you are not doing anything foolish—like confronting a suspected killer.”

I zipped up the jacket and went over, patted my friend’s hand. “You know me better than that. I never did stuff like that when I was paid to do it. Well, maybe only occasionally.”

“Sure.” She snorted. “I know how you can get when you are faced with a puzzle. You have a tendency to take chances.”

“Me? A risk taker? Good old dependable me?” I shot her a look of mock disdain. “You must have me confused with someone else.”

“I was happy when you decided to take over your mama’s store, and do you know why?”

I beamed at her. “Because I moved back to Cruz, and we could see each other regularly again?”

“That, and the fact that you would no longer be out prowling the streets of Chicago, helping to put the bad guys away. You had some pretty close calls you never told anyone about.”

“That I did, but how did you—”

She tapped her temple. “I am not psychic for nothing. I know you laugh at it, but it is nothing to laugh at. My predictions—my visions—have a ninety-seven percent success rate.”

“I do believe in intuition,” I told her. “What I don’t believe in is anyone’s ability to predict the future—the exact future. I’m more than willing to believe that you get intuitive glimpses into certain events. Heck, I might have experienced some of that myself. Plus . . .” My face split into a big grin. “I may be the owner of the world’s first psychic cat.”

Her breath exploded in a long, drawn-out sigh. “Well, it is good you are open-minded in that respect, at least. Please trust what I say to you. That cloud is still around you—if anything, it is thicker. My psy—my intuition—is telling me that you are walking headlong into danger. That you are putting your very life in jeopardy.”

I took both my friend’s hands in mine. “I’ll be careful, and I’m not about to do anything foolish, Chantal. But if something unforeseen should happen—you’d take care of Nick for me, right?”

Nick’s head popped out from underneath the table. “
Oooowwwwrrrr
,” he howled.

Chantal smiled. “See, Nicky will accept no substitutes. He wants you to get
your
tail back here in one piece.”

I picked him up and buried my nose in his ruff. “Nothing’s going to happen,” I whispered. “I’ll be back in one piece before you know it. I wouldn’t leave you to spend the rest of your nine lives as a cat jewelry model.”

I set him down, and Nick turned around twice. “
E-yow!
” he cried.

*   *   *

I
was a bit out of practice, so it took me a good forty-five minutes, but I cycled all the way from Hot Bread to the other end of town and the KMG building, a feat I could have accomplished in fifteen minutes with the SUV—but then I might have had a hard time getting through the gate. I’d remembered the engineer on my previous visit sailing through the entrance without having to flash a badge—I was hoping for the same sort of luck now. I’d worry about how I’d actually get into the building once I’d passed the first hurdle.

It seemed luck was on my side as I made the turn onto KMG property. There was a large delivery truck at the guard shack, and it seemed the guard on duty was occupied checking out the driver’s paperwork. Of course, that didn’t mean they couldn’t look up and see me, or catch me on their video cameras. Squaring my shoulders, I pulled my cap down low over my eyes and pulled my Giants jacket collar up around my neck.

Then I sailed straight through the entrance onto the back parking lot.

One hurdle down—several more to go.

I pedaled all the way to the back of the lot and found a small bicycle rack. Apparently the engineer wasn’t the only one who rode his bike—there were four others chained there. I propped mine in the last slot, and then stood, debating my next move. It was to get inside obviously, but without a badge, that posed a definite problem. I imagined I could have avoided all this subterfuge had I just called for an appointment, but to be honest, with Patti gone, I had no idea who my new contact should be, nor any desire to get shuffled around for a half hour while people attempted to find out. I’ve always found the personal approach infinitely more satisfying—it usually produces immediate, if not effective, results.

The rear door opened and I saw two suited figures emerge. I sucked in my breath as the first one turned and I caught a good view of him full face—Daniel. Swell. His companion was tall—I guessed around six feet, with a good build and reddish hair that seemed in need of a decent haircut. The suit he wore hung on his frame, as if it were two sizes too big. I couldn’t tell much else, because the sunglasses he wore concealed much of his face. They walked over to the far wall, and I recognized Daniel’s Acura, dent and all. The two got into it and then drove off. I heaved a sigh of relief. At least I wouldn’t have to worry about running into him here.

A small Nissan drove up, slid into the space Daniel had just vacated. Two girls exited the car, laughing and talking. I pulled the rubber band out of my hair and fluffed it out, then stuffed the cap into my jacket pocket. Grabbing my purse out of the bicycle basket, I hurried over to join them. They regarded me curiously as I stepped forward.

“Hello, I was wondering if you could help me?” I pointed to the bicycle. “I tried to sign in at the guard shack, but the guard was pretty busy with the deliveryman. I was kind of surprised she waved me in.”

The taller of the two girls looked me up and down. She had on a blue and white dress that showed off her trim figure, and her honey-colored hair was cut in a becoming style. A slight frown creased her skillfully made-up face—I judged her to be in her late twenties. “They do that sometimes with the bicycle riders. You have no idea how we’ve complained about it. I mean, think about it—they could just let anybody in—no offense.”

“Yeah,” agreed the shorter girl. She was plumper, but had a prettier face. Her violet-colored suit wasn’t as expensively cut as the other girl’s, but if those stilettos she wore weren’t Manolos, I’d eat leftover tuna for a week. She brushed a hand through her raven curls, and I noted her nails were French tips, and professionally done. KMG must pay their admins well. “It would be so easy for a terrorist to just ride in here and leave a suitcase with a bomb lying around—you know.”

I nodded, and offered what I hoped was a sympathetic smile. I held my arms out. “I couldn’t agree more. See—no suitcases.” When that was met with blank stares, I decided that either they had no sense of humor, or my stand-up routine needed work. “I came here hoping to see Mr. Grainger, or possibly whoever’s been appointed the new catering manager.” I reached into my cross-body bag and dug out a business card for each of them. “I’m Nora Charles. I own Hot Bread, and I’d been negotiating some catering contracts with Ms. Simmons.”

They took the cards and looked at them, and their attitudes suddenly did a one-eighty degree turn. “Oh, Hot Bread,” the blonde gushed. “Specialty sandwich shop, right? I love that place! You own it?”

I nodded.

“Wow—I’m crazy over those sandwiches. Those names are so catchy! I was in the other day—I had the
Ricky Martin
.” She smacked her lips. “It was great.”

“Me, too,” said the brunette. “I like the tuna melt. And the Ryan Reynolds Reuben. And practically everything on the menu. Can’t you tell?” She ran her hands over her plump hips before she stuffed the card into her jacket pocket. “What events are you catering for us?”

“The Memorial Day event definitely. There were others under negotiation. Ms. Simmons was going to send me a final contract, but . . .” I shrugged and injected a note of sympathy into my voice as it trailed off.

The two exchanged a quick look, and then the blonde nodded. “Yeah, we saw the story in the paper this morning. It’s pretty gross. I mean, Patti wasn’t the nicest person in the world, but no one should die like that. It’s crazy.”

“Well, I thought I’d better come down and see what’s happening with my contracts in person. It’s hard sometimes to get through with a phone call.”

“You’re right. Especially around here.” The blonde wiggled her fingers. “I’m Irene, by the way, and this is Jody. Marshall Connor is handling the catering for now, I think. You can check in with Darla, and then we’ll take you up to his office, if you want.”

I fell into step beside them as they flashed their badges and the door swung open automatically. “Marshall Connor?” I said as we walked into the reception area. “Funny, catering is the type of job you’d think a woman would have—like Alicia Samuels perhaps.”

Both of them turned to stare at me. “Alicia Samuels? Why would you think she’d get that job?” Irene asked.

I shrugged. “No particular reason. I’ve just heard that she’s painstaking with detail and very thorough—although I’d guess one would have to be, dealing with the media, right?”

“She was.” Jody shrugged. “It’s hard to say just what she’s doing now. She doesn’t work here anymore. She quit the week after Mrs. Grainger died.”

I tried to sound neutral and not let my tone convey any of the excitement I felt at that announcement. “She quit? Really?”

“Yeah, it surprised us, too. She was good at what she did, and everyone seemed to like her, especially Mr. Grainger. Patti wasn’t too fond of her, though.” Irene gave a wise nod.

“Yeah.” Jody giggled. “And vice versa. Alicia used to avoid Patti like the plague. If she saw her coming, she’d duck into someone’s office, or bury her nose in a file. She tried to have as little to do with her as possible.”

“Amazing what jealousy will do. Patti was so afraid Alicia’d make a move on Grainger, it was pathetic.” Irene sighed. “Not that Mr. Grainger had eyes for any other woman—at least not when his wife was alive. Patti didn’t waste any time sinking her hooks into him once she was gone, though.”

“Well, I think he only let her because he was still in shock,” put in Jody. “Mark my words, he’d have come to his senses sooner or later—if Patti hadn’t died first.” She flushed and made a quick sign of the cross. “May she rest in peace.”

We were in front of the reception desk now. Irene motioned to me that they’d wait over by the bank of elevators, and I waited my turn behind a FedEx man who seemed infinitely more interested in the cleavage displayed by Darla’s low-cut blouse than in anything she was saying to him. After he panted and drooled for ten minutes, he finally went on his way, and I stepped forward and stated my name. Darla gave me a blank look at first, but when I handed her my card, her eyes lit up like a Christmas tree.

“Oh, yes, Ms. Charles. I am so sorry. Ms. Simmons never did mail out your contract. I’m sure Mr. Connor would be happy to discuss terms with you, though. Everyone here just loves Hot Bread
.
” She smiled and picked up the phone. “Let me just tell him you’re coming up.”

She turned away and spoke briefly into the phone. After a few minutes she replaced the handset and smiled. “Mr. Connor’s out, but his admin says she remembers seeing that contract. Mr. Connor did re-sign it, so if you want to go up to the eighth floor and ask for Betsy, she’ll be happy to give you your copy. Just turn right when you get off the elevator and walk all the way down.” She paused. “You can ask about making another appointment with Mr. Connor. I’m sorry, but everyone’s just been so stressed since—ah—the incident.”

“Understandable. Thanks.”

Irene and Jody must have got tired of waiting for me, because when I reached the bank of elevators, neither girl was in sight. I rode up to the eighth floor by myself and, when the doors opened, made a left instead of the prescribed right. I passed the conference room where I’d sat with Patti only two short days ago and then I found myself back in front of Alicia Samuels’s office. I turned the knob, and the door yielded an inch and then stopped, stuck. I tried the knob again, putting more of my weight behind it this time. The door shook and then groaned inward, its creaking hinges suggesting an oiling might be in order. I closed it carefully and moved swiftly over to the desk, sat down in the leather chair. The sticky pad with Lola’s cell number on it was still in the same spot as when I’d seen it.