Meow If It's Murder (Nick and Nora Mysteries) (2 page)

“F
rom printer’s ink to pastrami. I guess it’s quite a change for you, eh, Nora?”

I smiled as I sliced the pastrami sandwich in half and arranged it on a paper plate. I’d gone to high school with Lance Reynolds, even dated him while in college, but our romance was just not meant to be—and not just because he dated four girls at one time, either. Whereas he was content to remain in the old hometown and go into business with his brother, I opted for the exact opposite—I got as far away from Cruz, California, as I could get. Armed with my trusty BA (major in journalism, minor in English) I moved to Chicago, where I was lucky enough to land a job on the
Tribune
, working my way up the ranks from small articles to my own column—
Crime Beat—
with my very own byline—
by Nora Charles
. I’d thought I’d spend the rest of my days reporting on big crime bosses and their related activities, until life threw me a curve.

Life’s funny that way. And no, my decision didn’t have anything to do with a broken romance (although I’d had my share) or malicious coworkers (a few, but not too many, thank God). My decision to return to my roots had been dictated by something much more simple: family loyalty.

I added a kosher dill and a side of coleslaw and wrapped it all up, slid it inside a brown paper bag. “Well, you know what they say, Lance. All good things must end.”

I rang up his purchase, and he removed a ten-dollar bill from his wallet, passed it across to me. “I bet your mother’s happy, looking down from heaven. She was proud of you, for sure, but she wasn’t crazy about you trailing criminals and mobsters around.”

Quite true. My mother had counted on the fact that cooking, as much as writing, ran through my veins. “She knew I’d step in,” I agreed. Had I declined ownership, the shop would have passed to my sister—who, no doubt, would have wasted little time in selling it. The last thing Cruz needed was another fast-food eatery—or an empanada stand. We had three now.

I handed Lance his change. He slid it into his jacket pocket and then, almost as if he’d read my mind, asked casually, “So how is Lacey these days? Have you seen much of her since you came back?”

I knew Lance had always harbored a crush on my younger sister, even while we were dating, but I couldn’t help breathing a sigh of relief that things had never worked out between them, mainly because my sister is, first and foremost, a flake. “She’s okay. We spent a few days together after the funeral, but then she took off for Carmel.”

“Carmel?”

“Yeah. She’s gotten it into her head she wants to study art, and there are a lot of artists’ colonies and good instructors out there. Our Aunt Prudence has a spare room, so . . .” I shrugged. “Lacey’s still trying to find her bliss, as they say, and one day she’ll succeed. Art is one of the few professions she hasn’t sampled yet.” At last count my sister had been everything ranging from secretary to short-order cook to gas station attendant—plus a few select jobs we’re better off not mentioning.

“You were always the grounded one,” he agreed. “It must be hard for you, doing something so different from what you’ve been used to.”

I pushed the bag toward his outstretched hand and leaned across the counter. “To be perfectly honest—I haven’t given it up entirely. I started writing some short stories for an online crime magazine last month. Ever hear of
Noir
?”

“Louis Blondell’s magazine? I read the first issue. It wasn’t bad. He mentions it whenever he’s in the Poker Face to anyone who’ll listen, though. Sometimes he even buys rounds of drinks, trying to get folks to order subscriptions.” He chuckled. “He’s definitely an acquired taste. How on earth did you hook up with him?”

I laughed. “The same way I meet most people these days. He came in for lunch, and we got to talking about writing. I got to talking about the articles I wrote in Chicago and that I’d always wanted to try my hand at fiction and—wham! Next thing I knew I had a part-time job.”

Lance nodded. “Louis knows a good thing when he sees one. Not only are you a local girl, but your prior experience will lend an air of credibility to the magazine. I imagine his circulation will jump.”

I thought of Louis—early forties, just a tad older than me, overweight, and balding—and had to agree. He could definitely be overbearing and demanding, but I had a feeling his pompous attitude was an attempt to cover up his basic insecurity. “He just wants to make a success of
Noir
,” I heard myself defending him. “And in this economy, who can blame him?”

“Not me. As a matter of fact, I’m going to make sure I have the next issue sent to my Kindle.” He tapped two fingers on my counter. “Well, it’s been swell catching up, but I’d better get back to work. Stop by Poker Face one night. The drinks are on me.”

“Thanks.”

He left and I turned my attention to Hot Bread’s new menu—my attempt to attract a younger, hipper crowd while still retaining the old, faithful customers. I ran my finger down the listing of over twenty different kinds of specialty sandwiches, named after cities, places, and people: The Parisian Fling. The Siena Sub Sublime. The Lady Gaga Special. The Michael Buble Burger. There were even some homages to literary characters: The Sherlock Holmes Humdinger, Miss Marple’s Magnificent Chef Salad, The Richard Castle Club
—
and my own personal favorite: The Thin Man Tuna Melt.

Hey, with a name like Nora Charles, it was inevitable, right? Plus, lots of people over the years had told me I bore an uncanny resemblance to Myrna Loy. How could I go wrong?

I was immersed in reviewing the listing when a hand dropped on my shoulder. I jumped, the menu falling to the floor. “Good God!”

“Oh, I am sorry,
chérie
. Did I startle you? I didn’t mean to—you always say you can hear me coming a mile away.”

I frowned at my intruder. Chantal Gillard has been my best friend for the past twenty-eight years, ever since we were ten and she’d rescued me from Leonard Goldie, the class bully, attempting to tie my shoelaces to the cafeteria chair in the fourth grade. Such an event can really bond two people, and Chantal and I had been thick as thieves ever since—so thick, in fact, that people usually took us for real sisters, even though we were nothing alike. My friend was somewhat of a dreamer, which she claimed enhanced her latent psychic abilities (which to date, I’ve really seen no concrete evidence of, other than that she is very good with tarot cards). I, on the other hand, prided myself on being levelheaded and practical to the point of being anal. What can I say? At thirty-eight, I’m pretty set in my ways and not likely to change anytime soon.

My gaze dropped to Chantal’s feet and the flat-heeled ankle boots on them. “I can—then again, you’re usually wearing five-inch Manolos.”

Chantal slid onto one of the high-backed stools behind the counter and raised one foot up. “My feet are still recovering from the Psychic Fair. So much walking. Who knew?”

Chantal’s California born and bred, but both her parents hail from Paris, France. Since she grew up thinking English, not French, was her second language, she likes to emphasize her heritage through her mannerisms and speech—although her affected accent can get a little dicey at times. She has a definite flair for fashion, although many would say it borders on the quirky—today her slender figure was enveloped in a voluminous blue caftan that matched her eyes, a scarf of the same color wound through her cap of tight, black curls. The Psychic Fair, an event held in Parsons, a town about five miles south of Cruz right on the coast, was heralded as a “major event”—supposedly renowned psychics from the world over attended. “Ah yes, the big excursion. So how’d it go?”

She shrugged. “Not bad. I got to meet a lot of interesting people there.” Her hand dipped into the pocket of her caftan and she whipped out a small card, which she extended toward me. “I almost forgot—Remy had these made up for me. I gave some out yesterday.”

I looked at the purple-tinted card and read the bold script:

LADY C CREATIONS ONE OF A KIND JEWELRY

CHANTAL GILLARD 504-555-5578

Below the embossed lettering were drawings of a necklace, bracelet, and two rings. I pushed the card back and applauded. “Going public? About time, I must say.”

“It was more Remy’s idea than mine.” She took the card and shoved it back in her pocket. “The flower business is slow, and there aren’t that many people in Cruz interested in a good psychic reading. He thought I might as well turn my little hobby into something profitable.”

Chantal and her brother, Remy, ran Poppies, a flower shop located on Main about three blocks from my store. Chantal had a little cubbyhole set up in the back where she served tea and gave psychic readings, but thanks to the recent economic downturn, both businesses were suffering. Chantal had a degree in art from UCLA, and lately she’d taken to designing and creating necklaces, earrings, and bracelets—more for relaxation than profit. Now it appeared her brother wanted to turn it into something more.

“He’s making up a catalog, can you imagine? And yesterday I heard him on the phone with his buddy Raj. They were talking about signs, website design . . .” Chantal rolled her eyes. “He’s putting more energy into this than the flower arrangements in the window.”

“Remy knows a good thing when he sees it. Your jewelry is beautiful,” I said. “I’ve always said you should sell it.”

She wrinkled her pug nose. “I don’t know—it’s kinda like putting your children out for sale. But Madame Michelau read my cards yesterday, and said my new venture would be profitable, so . . .” She shrugged expressively. “Why not, right?”

Chantal removed a purple velvet pouch emblazoned with silver stars out of the tote and shook it. Her tarot cards slid out and across the black-and-white-checkered tablecloth. She gathered them up, began to shuffle them. “Odd thing—yesterday Madame Michelau said a friend of mine was about to undertake a dangerous mission. I thought of you immediately.”

I shot her a look of mock innocence. “Me? Why?”

“Don’t play dumb with me, Nora Charles. You know exactly what I mean.” When I remained silent, she raised both eyebrows. “I saw what you were looking at on your laptop yesterday. Lola Grainger? You are researching her for some sort of article for Louis, right?”

Lola Grainger had been the wife of one of Cruz’s premier businessmen, and a faithful customer of my mother’s, having her cater events at her palatial mansion at least once a month. About a week after my mother’s death, Lola had gone on a weekend cruise with her husband and a few of the members of his staff. Long story short, there had been some sort of accident and poor Lola had drowned. The story piqued my interest for more than one reason. For one, details on the incident were sketchy at best, and the people on the yacht all seemed very reluctant to talk about it. One could excuse that, perhaps, but the manner of death truly disturbed me, since I distinctly remembered my mother telling me on more than one occasion of Lola’s deathly fear of water. Twice monthly yachting excursions aside, Lola never ventured alone into any sort of water—she’d even confided to my mother the only water she felt comfortable in was bathwater. The case had been ruled a “horrible accident” and closed rather quickly—a little too quickly, I’d thought, but chalked it up to the husband’s standing in the community, as half the population of Cruz were employed by his company, KMG Incorporated. “The thought did cross my mind,” I admitted.

Chantal made a little sound deep in her throat. “For goodness’ sakes, why? The case was so open and shut—what possible story could there be?”

“Open and shut—maybe so, maybe not. Personally, I’d have liked to see our police department put a bit more effort into the case,” I said. “Although I can guess why they didn’t. Mrs. Grainger was one of Mom’s best customers, both on a business and a personal basis. They really liked each other. Mom always said Mrs. Grainger seemed to be a lonely soul.” I shut the refrigerator door and leaned against it. “Call me crazy, but I’d kinda like to give Lola’s soul the peace it deserves.”

Chantal’s hand fluttered in the air. “You know I do not think you are crazy. Oversensitive, perhaps . . .”

“Gee thanks.”

“Anyway, one of the psychics yesterday told me a friend of theirs read Lola Grainger’s fortune at her last fund-raiser. She told Lola she saw a fatal disaster in her future. Can you imagine?”

I stood up, mainly to ward off the chill that was inexplicably making its way along my spine at Chantal’s words. “Honestly—no. How did Lola react, did she say?”

“Not well. She got all pale and left without waiting to hear any more.” Chantal shuddered. “Frankly, if someone had told me that, it would have taken a small miracle to get me to go out of the house, let alone on a boat in the middle of the ocean.”

I nodded in agreement. “It gives me the creeps, and it’s not even my fortune. Who wants to hear they’re walking headlong into disaster?”

“Not I, that’s for sure. I’d much rather let the universe surprise me.”

“Speaking of surprises . . . what else did your psychic friend say about me?”

Chantal looked at me from under lowered lashes. “Ah, so now you are curious. I thought you did not believe in psychic impressions.”