Meow If It's Murder (Nick and Nora Mysteries) (6 page)

Sampson steepled his hands beneath his chin. “So you found little Sherlock.”

“As I said, he found me. He happened to wander by my shop.”

“Your shop?”

“I own a little sandwich shop—Hot Bread—in Cruz.”

“He wandered two towns over, eh? Well, well.” Sampson leaned back in his chair. “Honestly, I’m not surprised. That cat could always smell a good meal—or a free one—a mile away—like his owner.”

“Yes, Nick is very enterprising.” At his swift look of surprise I added, “I’ve been calling the cat Nick—after Nick Charles, the detective in
The Thin Man
. I had no idea his owner’s name was Nick as well.”

Sampson nodded. “Good movie. Nick never cared for Bill Powell, though.” He frowned. “What did you say your name was?”

“Nora. Nora Charles.”

His eyes widened a bit, and he chuckled. “Ah—your renaming Sherlock makes a bit more sense now.”

I cleared my throat. “I stopped by Mr. Atkins’s apartment first—it was the only address I could find for him.”

“Sure, sure.” He drummed his fingers absently on the desktop. “Meet his landlady? She’s a real piece of work.”

“That she is. She’s also rented his apartment and had his stuff shipped off to Goodwill.”

“Really?” He let out a gigantic sigh. “Well, I suppose it was bound to happen, sooner or later. It’s not the first time he’s stiffed her on rent. Not everyone’s as easygoing as me. I know I owe him a lot but—even saints have limits.” He raised his gaze to mine again. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to digress. Now, you are here because . . .”

“I wanted to return Nick—or Sherlock—to his rightful owner,” I said over the lump that had suddenly risen in my throat. “He looked so well cared for, I knew he had to be someone’s pet. Someone in town thought they’d seen your partner with a picture of him in his wallet, so I Googled him and”—I spread my hands—“here I am.”

“Sweet. You’re not a bad detective yourself, little lady.”

“Thanks. They say investigative reporting is the next best thing to being a detective, although I do confess I’ve always had a secret desire to be a female Paul Drake or Sam Spade.”

“For what it’s worth, I think you’ve got what it takes.” He leaned forward, rested both elbows on the desktop. “Want to know why Nick kept the cat’s photo in his wallet? He thought it was a good way to attract chicks—you know, show his sensitive side, caring for animals, all that.”

“Really.” I sighed inwardly. I was almost glad Nick Atkins was missing because, in truth, after hearing all these details from Ollie and the landlady, I’d have been loath to give the cat back to him. The guy sounded like a real jerk.

Oliver leaned forward. “Yep, but to tell the truth, he really didn’t need any gimmicks. My ex-partner had a way with women. It was depressing, really.” He slid me a glance. “He’d have charmed you, too—then again, maybe not. Like I said, you’re far from the type Nick usually went for. I mean, look at you. You’ve got class.” He barked out a short laugh.

I cleared my throat. “Thanks. So—do you want to keep the cat until your partner returns?”

He eyed me. “You mean
if
he returns. And no, I don’t. I like the little fellow but”—he rubbed at his nose with the tip of his finger—“I’m allergic. I took antihistamines when Nick brought the cat around.” He leaned forward. “Why don’t you keep him? You sound like you’ve grown fond of him.”

I fidgeted a bit in the chair. “I thought about it but I’ve never been very good at taking care of animals.”

He waved his hand carelessly. “Oh, if that’s your only concern, I wouldn’t worry. That cat can take pretty darn good care of himself. Took good care of Nick, too. Plus, he’s got personality—grows on you after a while. Smart, too. I mean, he found you, didn’t he?”

I laughed. “That sounds like a compliment, Mr. Sampson.”

“It was, and you can call me Ollie. Anyway, Nick used to say Sherlock was just like a dog—maybe even smarter. He even taught him a few tricks—why, he was even teaching the damn cat to play Scrabble. Cat wasn’t half bad, either.” He croaked out a chuckle. “Anything to impress the ladies, after all.”

“Scrabble? Really? Now that I’ve got to see.” A sudden thought occurred to me. “Do you think he might have taught him to turn a computer on and off?”

He shrugged. “Probably. It’s simple enough. Wouldn’t surprise me, either, if he taught him to surf the Net.”

“Me, either,” I muttered under my breath. Well, at least now I knew I wasn’t losing my mind. “I suppose I could take care of him until Mr. Atkins returns.”

Ollie’s hand dropped back to the desk, his fingers beating a swift tattoo against the wood. “I wouldn’t count on that. As much as I’d like to get my hands on Nick—he owes me half rent for two months, too, and people aren’t exactly beating down my door with investigative jobs—I’d be surprised to ever see him again.”

“Why do you say that?”

He sat silently for a minute, then abruptly raised his gaze to meet mine. “I’m sorry—you said your name is Nora Charles?”

“Yes.”

He half rose out of the chair. “You wouldn’t originally be from Chicago, by any chance?”

I looked at him, surprised. “I was born in Cruz, but I lived in Chicago for twelve years. I moved back here to take over the family business.”

He snapped his fingers. “You were a reporter, right? True crime?” At my nod, he slapped his palm facedown on the desk and laughed loudly. “Yeah, I remember you now. You came up in some articles Nick Googled. He was looking up some info about Chicago crime families. You were quite the reporter.”

“I had some success, yes.”

“Some?” He barked out a laugh. “Two national journalism awards suggest otherwise.”

I waved my hand. “I might have had a bit of luck. I’m curious. Why was your partner looking up mob families in Chicago?”

“To be honest? He didn’t say, and I didn’t ask. Where Nick was concerned, it could have been about anything. He had lots of balls in the air at one time, and he operated mainly on gut and hunches.”

“And you have no idea what might have happened to him? Where he is?”

“Oh, I’ve got an idea, all right,” Ollie said. “I’m pretty sure it might have something to do with this last case he was working on. I wanted no part of it, and I told him he was a damn fool for taking it, but—that was Nick. He was certain he could solve anything. The deuce of it is, he usually always did.” Ollie let out a giant sigh. “This time, though, I’m afraid he might have gotten in a bit over his head.”

“Really? How so?”

Ollie looked all around the room, almost as if he expected someone to come crashing in at any moment, and then he got up, walked around the desk, and leaned over so he could put his lips close to my ear.

“I’ll tell you,” he whispered, “but you can’t breathe a word. Nick took this last case because he was convinced it would make him famous. You see, he was hired by Adrienne Sloane—Lola Grainger’s sister. Right before he disappeared, he told me he suspected Lola’s death was no accident—that it was murder, and he was this close to proving it.

“And now . . . I’m afraid he may be dead, too.”

A
fter a few seconds, I found my voice. “You really think Nick Atkins is dead?”

Ollie cleared his throat. “Of course, I’m not one hundred percent certain, but considering what he was working on, it’s a very good possibility.”

I pursed my lips, my thoughts in a whirl. “I have to admit,” I said slowly, “that I myself read all the accounts of Lola’s . . . accident, and I also feel something just doesn’t add up.”

“Ssh!” Ollie’s eyes went wide, and he put a finger against his lips. “I wouldn’t voice that opinion too loudly if I were you.”

“Okay.” I paused. “It is possible he’s undercover somewhere. Gathering his facts. I witnessed a lot of that in Chicago.”

“I’m sure you did, and of course it’s a possibility, but somehow I don’t think so. Six weeks is a long time not to hear from Nick.”

“Six weeks is a drop in the bucket when you’re undercover.”

“Yes,” Ollie laughed, “but trust me, undercover or not, if Nick were still able to, he’d have communicated with me in some way, I know he would.” He waved his hand. “I know what you’re thinking—I called him a deadbeat and all, but—what can I say? We were best friends as well as partners. I know Nick as well as I know myself. If he were alive, even if he were in deep cover, he’d have gotten word to me somehow. That’s what makes me think I’ve seen the last of him, dammit.”

Ollie’s eyes glistened with sudden moisture and I squeezed his arm. “Have hope, Ollie. It’s never over till the fat lady sings, right? You never know, Nick could walk through that door tomorrow.”

“Yeah, and I could get hired as one of Cher’s backup singers, too. Hey, it’s always been a secret dream of mine.” He grinned. “Or maybe Lady Gaga. I like her style.”

The thought of this two-hundred-something-pound black man in one of Lady Gaga’s outrageous outfits made me want to laugh out loud. I resisted the impulse and asked, “You said that Adrienne Sloane hired him. Have you tried to contact her, see if she possibly knows anything?”

“No, I haven’t.”

“Why not?”

He made a clucking sound, deep in the back of his throat, and mumbled something so low I had to lean over and ask him to repeat it. “Because it’s possible she might be dead, too.”

I half rose out of my chair. “
What?
How can you possibly make a statement like that?”

“I can’t be absolutely certain, any more than I can be certain Nick is dead. But the last time I saw him, he was on his way out that door to meet Adrienne Sloane. He said she had something to tell him that could change the direction of the entire case.”

I frowned. “That’s all? He didn’t tell you any more than that?”

“I was lucky to get that much out of him. Anyway, a few hours later my phone rings. It’s Nick, but we had a real bad connection—static all over the line. He was whispering into the phone, too, so it was hard to make out what he said, but it sounded like he’d seen a body lying under the docks, and he thought it looked like Adrienne.”

I sucked in a breath. “Oh my.”

“Yep,” he continued. “Next thing I knew, the phone went dead. I hightailed it right down to the docks, but I didn’t see hide nor hair of Nick—or any bodies, either.”

My brow lifted. “So then what makes you think they might be dead?”

He licked at his lips. “Right before our connection was broken, I heard something—it could have been a car backfiring—or it could have been a gunshot. I’m still not sure.” He reached out and laid his hand over mine. “Listen, Nora, I don’t want to think the worst, but I knew Nick like a book, I worked with him for years. I knew the types of cases he got involved with, and the Grainger case was a disaster waiting to happen. If it was murder—and I’m not saying it was—then there is more there than meets the eye, much more. There’s something brewing there people will kill to keep secret.”

I nibbled at my lower lip. “I know you’re trying to discourage me, Ollie, but I’m afraid all this is having the opposite effect on me. It’s making me, as the White Rabbit would say, ‘curiouser and curiouser.’”

“Actually,” chuckled Ollie, “it was Alice who said that, not the rabbit. And it’s a trait that makes a great ace reporter, but could ultimately place you in grave danger.” He rose and took my arm. “Listen to me, Nora. Go on home, and give little Sherlock—or Nick—a pat on the head for me. Tell him I’m glad he finally found himself a good home with a good person. If you need anything—you know, like advice on caring for cats or the services of a pretty good investigator?” One eye closed in a broad wink. “Feel free to call. My dance card ain’t exactly full. I’ll be here.”

I gave Ollie a small smile. “I just might take you up on your offer. I told you, I’m not really that good at caring for animals.”

He held up both hands. “Nora, the cat found you, remember? Animals have better instincts about what’s good for them than most humans. Believe me, he knows exactly what he wants, and it happens to be you.”

“Well,” I said, “I suppose I can keep him—at least, until his real owner turns up.”

“Yeah, well, that might be a while. Quite a while.”

That prospect pleased me, although I hated to think how I’d feel if Atkins returned to claim his little roommate. I squared my shoulders, deciding I’d cross that bridge when—or if—I got to it, and then added, “I’d really like to keep calling him Nick, but if he’s used to the other name . . .”

“You should call him whatever you like,” Ollie said. “I doubt it’ll matter much to him, as long as he has somewhere soft to sleep and three squares a day.” His hand shot out to cover mine. “Nick’s your cat now, and you couldn’t ask for a finer companion. The poor thing had to listen to all of Nick’s stories about his women and his investigations. If you decide to go back into investigative reporting or even detective work someday, who knows? That cat might be more of a help to you than you think.”

I laughed. “And just how would he help? Cats can’t talk, after all.”

“He doesn’t have to.” Ollie tapped his forefinger against his chin as he walked me to the door. “Believe me, cats have plenty of tricks to make what they’re thinking known, and Nick has more than most. You just wait and see.”

*   *   *

I
retraced my steps back to the SUV and hopped inside. Nick lay curled up on the backseat, head between his paws. I’d thought he was asleep, but his head jerked up as soon as I shut the door. I twisted around in the seat to look at him.

“Well, Sherlock. I understand that’s your name. It seems your master is MIA—for now.”

He blinked twice.

“If it’s okay with you, I’m going to keep calling you Nick, at least until your master shows up to reclaim you. I think you’re a bit more Nick Charles than Sherlock Holmes, don’t you?”

He sat up, stretched his forepaws out, then jumped over into the front seat. He laid his paw on my arm, rubbed against my shoulder, and began to purr.

I chuckled as I guided the car into the steady stream of rush-hour traffic. “I’m glad we agree.”

“
Meow.
”

“Ollie said you could be a big help to me,” I said thoughtfully. “That you had plenty of tricks up your sleeve—or paw.”

Nick gave me a solemn nod. “
Er-ow!
” he said emphatically, waving his paw in the air.

“Uh-huh,” I said, making the turn on the road back to Cruz. “That’s just what I was afraid of.”