Hiss H for Homicide Page 6

  Opening the door, Nick and I slid inside the bar. Happy hour had just begun, and the bar was knee-deep with customers. I caught a glimpse of Lance behind the bar, serving a draft to Ed Levey, the local dentist. Ed raised his mug in greeting as I slid onto an empty stool at the far end. I slapped a ten down on the rich mahogany surface and crooked a finger. “Service, please.”

  Lance’s light brown head swiveled in my direction and his eyes lit up as he recognized me. “Well, well.” He grinned, slinging a towel over one broad shoulder as he approached. “Look who’s paying me a visit! I hear you got a TV in your store now.” He flicked a finger toward the one over the bar, tuned to a popular sports channel. “How’s that workin’ out?”

  “News travels fast, huh. It’s too soon to tell, but . . . let’s just say I still have the receipt.”

  Lance chuckled. “I can imagine. So what’ll it be? The usual Michelob Light on tap? Or are you in an adventurous mood to try Jose’s hazelnut caramel coffee?”

  “I could never be that adventurous,” I said, wrinkling my nose. “I’ll pass on both. Right now I could do with a whiskey. After the day I’ve had, I’m in the mood to get a bit tipsy.”

  Lance’s eyebrows rose, but he made no comment. “Tipsy, eh? Okay, what’s your pleasure? Jim Beam? Knob Creek? Old Crow?”

  “You’re the pro bartender. Whichever will give me the best buzz.”

  “Jim Beam it is.” He poured two fingers of the pale liquid into a glass and handed it to me. I downed it in one gulp, and then started to cough. Lance slapped me on the back . . . hard . . . but it didn’t stop. Then my eyes started to tear.

  “Water,” I finally managed to get out.

  He handed me a tall glass filled with ice water, and when I’d downed that, put his hands on his hips and clucked his tongue. “Now do you want that Michelob Light?”

  I brushed a remaining tear from the corner of one eye, clasped my hands in front of me and tried to look humble. “Yes, please.”

  “You should know better. You can’t drink the hard stuff. Neither can your sister. By the way, how is Lacey?”

  “Doing good. The TV was her idea.”

  “Wow, and you listened to her?” He slung the rag over one shoulder. “She still studying at that art school?”

  “Yep. She’ll be graduating soon, and then we’ll see what happens with her career. Right now she’s working part-time for the St. Leo police as a sketch artist, courtesy of Samms. Whether or not she’ll want to continue is anyone’s guess.” I wrapped my hands around the frosty mug and took a sip, then licked the white foam from my upper lip. “I’m surprised you still care.”

  Now his eyebrow shot all the way up. “What does that mean?”

  “Nothing.” I shrugged. “It’s just that a few weeks ago, you were all gaga over Alexa Martin.”

  “Was not.”

  “Was too.”

  He laughed. “Well, okay, but in my defense, Alexa also seemed to be just a little gaga over me too.” He swiped at a ring on the counter with the edge of the towel. “She said she’d give me a call when she and Violet got back from London. She, ah, wants to get together and do something.”

  I arched a brow. “Something? That sounds . . . promising.”

  “It could be.” He stopped wiping down the counter to pin me with his gaze. “Look, I know that my interest in Lacey has never really been reciprocated. Maybe I’m tired of carrying this torch when there are other fish in the sea, and interested fish at that. Besides, you’re a fine one to talk, juggling feelings for two men yourself.”

  Was there anyone in Cruz who didn’t want to weigh in on my love life? I made a face at him and took another sip of beer so I didn’t have to answer. At my feet, Nick let out a plaintive meow.

  Lance peered over the edge of the bar. “Hey, little fellow, I didn’t see you there. Thirsty?”

  Nick let his tongue hang out and panted slightly. Can you say ham?

  “Want a nice bowl of water? Or maybe some milk?”

  The tongue went back in his mouth, and Nick snapped to attention. He looked straight at Lance and reared up on his haunches, his forepaws extended. “Er-ewl. Ar-owl.”

  “You said the magic m-word.” I waggled my finger at Lance. “Now you’ve got to follow through.”

  “Not a problem. Oh, and by the way,” Lance said, pointing toward the rear of the bar, “there’s two friends of yours over there you might want to say hello to.”

  I looked in the direction he’d pointed out and saw Louis Blondell and Ollie Sampson crowded into a back booth. As Nick trotted happily after Lance toward the kitchen, I picked up my beer and wended my way toward their booth. They both looked up as I approached. “Well, well, Nora Charles,” said Louis. “Fancy meeting you here.”

  I grinned. “I might say the same.” I nodded at the empty space next to Louis. “Mind if I join you?”

  “Not at all.” Louis Blondell runs Noir, the online true crime magazine for which I freelance. He was a studious type of guy, a self-proclaimed computer geek (and not a bad hacker, either, as he proved on one occasion). Louis was fortyish, overweight and balding. The little hair he had left was a light blond, as was the stunted growth of hair he was sporting above his upper lip. I rubbed the top of my own lip and grinned at him.

  “New look?”

  “I heard somewhere women go wild for men with mustaches.” Louis had recently started to foray into the world of online dating, and so far each of the dozen or so dates he’d had ended in disaster. He gave me a wry look. “Don’t believe it.”

  I turned my attention to the other occupant of the booth. Oliver J. Sampson, or Ollie, as he prefers to be called, is a hulk of a man in his early fifties. Six-three and well over two hundred twenty pounds, he’s a man of color, with springy gray hair, a slightly crooked nose, a firm jaw and a slight overbite. His skin has a sort of leathery cast, from all his years of alcohol abuse following the attempted suicide of his only son. His eyes are a pale shade of blue, what some would call a washed-out gray. He’s a PI and the former partner of Nick’s former owner, Nick Atkins. Ollie’s made no bones about the fact he’s ripe to take on a new partner: me. However, I’m not quite ready to add professional PI to my résumé just yet. “It’s good to see you, Ollie. What brings you to Cruz?”

  He flashed his perfectly white teeth in a brief smile. “A consult with a potential client. Unfortunately, it didn’t pan out as well as I’d hoped, so I came here for a soda and ran into Louis.” He tapped the large glass of Coke in front of him. “What about you? You look a bit frazzled.”

  I ran my finger around the rim of my mug. “Frazzled is one way of putting it. You might be, too, if you’d had the afternoon Nick and I had.”

  Louis raised an eyebrow. “That sounds rather ominous.”

  “It does, doesn’t it?” Ollie agreed, looking me straight in the eye. “Don’t tell me you and Nick found another body?”

  I bit my lip and glanced quickly around the bar. “As a matter of fact, we did.”

  Both men gasped and then Louis said, “Okay, spill! And don’t forget, Noir has dibs on the story.”

  “If I tell you, you have to swear not to breathe a word. Samms specifically said to keep details under wraps, and if he found out I blabbed, well, let’s just say I don’t feel like listening to one of his lectures.” I sniffed. “I don’t know what he was doing there anyway. The FBI must be slow on crime these days.”

  “You haven’t heard?” Louis began, but Ollie made a slicing motion with his hand at Louis and leaned forward.

  “We’re getting off track,” Ollie said smoothly. “You were going to tell us about the body. Don’t worry, Louis and I won’t breathe a word.”

  I pushed my beer mug back. “Okay, fine. The victim’s name is Marlene McCambridge and it looks like she was murdered.”

  Ollie let out a low whistle, but Louis looked puzzled. “Marlene McCambridge?” he asked. “I don’t believe I know that name.”

  “She’s a romance auth
or,” Ollie supplied. “She’s one half of a duo who writes under the nom de plume of Tiffany Blake.”

  I stared at Ollie. “Don’t tell me you’re a closet romance reader too?”

  Ollie quirked a brow. “Too? Who else reads these books? Not that I’m admitting I do,” he added hastily. “I had a client once who wanted me to track down her husband. He was having an affair with a romance writer.”

  “Not Marlene McCambridge?”

  “No. But I can’t say I’m surprised someone finally did her in, though. Marlene’s a real bee-yatch. She’s made her fair share of enemies over the years.” He drummed his fingertips on the scarred tabletop. “How did she die?”

  I tapped my breastbone. “She was shot at point-blank range.”

  “Hm, so it was quick. Her killer was merciful. That probably eliminates lots of suspects. I imagine most of them would prefer she have died a slow, torturous death.” One corner of his lip drooped downward. “Might I ask how you got involved in all this?”

  “The same way I always do. I poked my nose in where it doesn’t belong. I was doing a favor for an old friend of my mother’s, Desiree Sanders.”

  “Ah, the other, and better, half of Tiffany Blake.” Both of Ollie’s heavy gray eyebrows shot upward. “And she knew your mother. Now that is interesting.”

  “You don’t know the half of it,” I said. “I have the feeling she’s hiding something from me. Any tips on how I can pry more info out of her?”

  “Depends on what it is, and how badly she wants to keep it a secret.”

  At that precise instant the front door opened, and in strode Leroy Samms, his face darker than a thundercloud. He stood in the entryway, his eyes darting around the crowded room and then they settled on . . . me. His lips compressed into a thin line, and eyes blazing, he made a beeline straight for our table.

  “Uh-oh,” muttered Louis. “He’s loaded for bear. Something has pissed off our new head of Homicide, all right.”

  My head rocketed up. “Our new what?”

  Louis didn’t answer, because the next instant a shadow fell across the table. Samms pointed a long finger directly at me and spoke, his words falling like chips of ice.

  “Nora Charles, we have to talk. Now.”

  Seven

  Samms crooked his finger and motioned for me to follow him. Reluctantly, I got up from the booth and trailed him to a table for two across the room, directly in front of the entrance to the men’s room. He pulled out a chair and made a sweeping gesture with his arm. I eased myself into it, and he settled himself across from me, staring me in the eye with that stern, unreadable expression of his. “You left out a little detail when we spoke earlier.”

  I deliberately widened my eyes. “I did?”

  “Yes. Your visit to Desiree Sanders at the Cruz Inn.” He passed his hand along his chin, letting his fingers graze the slight stubble. “Why didn’t you mention you were chummy with the deceased’s writing partner.”

  “I wasn’t aware you were interested in whom I visit. I’ll be sure to let you know in the future, though.” I put a finger to my lips. “Let’s see, after work tomorrow I thought I’d stop over and see Isobel Sharpe, make an appointment for a haircut, then I’ll probably drop in on Chantal . . .”

  “Very funny.”

  “Oh, for pity’s sake.” I waved my hand in the air. “I didn’t mention anything because I didn’t think it was relevant. And FYI, we’re not ‘chummy.’” I drew little air quotes at the last word. “She was my mother’s friend, not mine. Before today, I’d never laid eyes on either her or Marlene.”

  Samms’s eyebrows winged upward. “So you wouldn’t know why she registered at the inn under an alias?”

  “An alias?”

  He whipped out his notebook, flipped a few pages. “Dora Slater.”

  I waved my hand in a careless circle. “That’s not an alias. Dora Slater was her name before she changed it. She probably just wanted a break from reporters and fans and didn’t want to advertise the fact she was in town.”

  He cut me an eye roll and leaned back in the chair. “So, why were you visiting her?”

  “She called me. She said she wanted to connect with the daughter of her old friend.”

  “Suddenly, after all these years?”

  I shrugged. “Maybe she got hit with a bout of nostalgia.”

  We were both silent for a moment, and then Samms said quietly, “I find it interesting. You pay a call on your mother’s childhood friend and next thing you’re off and visiting this McCambridge woman.”

  I shrugged. “Not so very interesting. I told you, I wanted to do an article on them. It was a happy coincidence Desiree got in touch with me.”

  He picked up a napkin, toyed absently with its edge. “So she didn’t mention anything to you, any concerns she might have regarding her partner?”

  “Are you driving at something in particular, or is this just a fishing expedition?” I snapped.

  “What do you think?”

  “I think you’re fishing. I’m not even sure who you’re working for right now!” I burst out, throwing both hands up in the air. “What do I call you, anyway? Detective? Special Agent? Head of Homicide?”

  He leaned forward, a light in his eyes. “You could be adventurous and call me . . . Lee. You know, like you used to.”

  My heart did a flip-flop and I felt little beads of perspiration start to break out on my forehead. I swallowed and leaned back in my chair. “I’ll stick with Samms,” I growled. “And you didn’t answer my question.”

  “I know.”

  I bit back a sharp retort. “You have some sort of theory about the murder?”

  “It’s a bit early.” He laced his hands in front of him. “I do have an idea I’m toying with, though.”

  Aha. “Well?” I demanded as he fell silent. “Care to share it?”

  He shot me a lopsided grin, more of a grimace. “Not at the moment.”

  A bulb suddenly went off above my head and I scooted to the edge of my seat. “Fine. She was upset because of an announcement Marlene was going to make concerning their partnership. But you already knew that, didn’t you?”

  One corner of his lips twitched upward. “Is that your famous gut talking?”

  “I saw Morley Carruthers arrive as I was leaving. You don’t have to be a genius to figure out he told you about Marlene’s plans to dissolve the partnership.”

  “So Desiree did know what Marlene planned to do?”

  I clamped my lips together. “You’ll have to ask her. Anything I’d tell you would only be considered hearsay anyway.”

  “I intend to do just that once I find her.”

  My head jerked upward. “Isn’t she at the inn?”

  He shook his head. “She checked out. Seemed to be in rather a hurry, too, according to the desk clerk.”

  I spread my hands. “Honest, Samms. She said nothing to me about leaving. I got quite the opposite impression. I thought she’d be staying there for a while.”

  He scraped back his chair and stood up. “If you should hear from her, you might tell her to get in touch with me. I’ve a few questions for her.” He paused and then added, “You might also mention that flight is quite often considered evidence of guilt.”

  “Desiree didn’t kill her,” I murmured.

  He stopped dead in his tracks and turned around slowly to glare at me. “And just how do you know that? Got a crystal ball? Female intuition? Chantal pick up on a vibe? Or . . .” He shook his finger in the air. “Did Desiree Sanders tell you that?”

  I looked him square in the eye. “You’re familiar with the Fifth Amendment?” I asked sweetly.

  Samms shook his head and pulled a card from his pocket. “Here’s my number. If you hear from her, well, you know what to do.”

  He turned on his heel and walked out the side door. A second later Louis and Ollie appeared at the table, carrying their drinks and mine. Ollie slid into the chair Samms had just vacated and studied me, a concerned look i
n his eyes.

  “Everything okay?”

  I bit down on my lower lip. “I’m not quite sure. According to Samms, Desiree has flown the coop. He was annoyed I didn’t tell him I’d been to see her before I went to Marlene’s.”

  Ollie shot me a quick glance. “Why did you go to Marlene’s? Did Desiree ask you to?”

  I nodded, running my fingers through my auburn curls. “Marlene was set to dissolve their partnership. She was going to make an announcement tomorrow at two o’clock. Desiree was convinced she had an ulterior motive and she thought I might be able to pry it out of her.”

  “Ah.” Louis raised his mug and took a sip. “Knowing you, you probably would have, too.”

  “Samms learned something that makes Desiree Suspect Numero Uno in his eyes,” I muttered. “Maybe he discovered those bloody clothes she had cleaned.”

  “What!” both men chorused.

  Ollie frowned. “Does that mean what I think it does?”

  I sighed. “Yes. They had an argument, and she went over there and found the body. She claims she was in shock and just couldn’t wrap her mind around the fact Marlene was really dead. When she got back to her hotel, she removed her bloody clothes and tossed them in the bathroom. Later on, she got to thinking about it and realized it would look strange for her to have bloodstained clothing in her suite, so she called the inn cleaning service.”

  Louis let out a snort. “That was a pretty dumb move on her part. They’ve written mysteries as well as romances. She should have known better.”

  Ollie laced his hands in front of him. “Is it possible her naïveté and nervousness could be an act?”

  “I don’t think she’s that good an actress. She does have a heightened sense of drama, though. I do believe she did panic, and panicked people do strange things, things they wouldn’t ordinarily do.”