Claws for Alarm Read online

  She moved out into the hall, speaking earnestly into her phone, and the students began to slowly drift back toward their easels. All, I noted, save Taft, who’d plucked another donut from the tray, this one a Boston crème, and lounged against the back wall, chewing and staring out into space. I shifted my gaze to the window just beyond the table and sucked in my breath. Nick was perched on the outside sill, and his paw moved impatiently back and forth against the glass, as if beckoning me to come closer to where Taft Michaels stood.

  My brainstorm session with Ollie paid off big-time. Since visiting the school as myself was out of the question (I mean, they’d arrested my sister for the founder’s murder. Who would tell me anything?), Ollie suggested I pose as a prospective—and wealthy—student interested in the pursuit of art. It was a plan I wasn’t totally averse to. I’d played out lots of similar scenarios back in the day in Chicago, with not half-bad results, if I had to say so myself, and I’d mentally slapped myself more than once that I hadn’t thought of doing this first. Ollie even went on the Internet and looked up the names of several wealthy heiresses in the California area who might be so inclined to pursue such a project. Abigail St. Clair was the closest to my age, and while upon a close inspection we probably wouldn’t pass for twins, we both had the same build and coloring. I’d picked up a burner phone at Wal-Mart, and I gave that number as my contact information. With any degree of luck, they wouldn’t do any in-depth checking and find out that the real Abigail St. Clair was incommunicado this week, having gone off to some retreat in Switzerland. I had my fingers crossed that they wouldn’t start any sort of thorough background check until I actually agreed to sign up, and that I might actually learn something useful today.

  I moved over to the table and selected a chocolate donut. Taft turned as I approached and gave me the benefit of a full grill smile that revealed a set of perfect white teeth with dimples at either corner of his lips. I decided his Facebook picture didn’t do him justice. He was even more strikingly handsome in person, with or without clothes.

  “Well, hello,” he said, letting his sea blue eyes rove over me in a none-too-subtle once-over. “You’re a new face.”

  I gave him my best rich heiress haughty smile. “Actually, this is the face I’ve always had.”

  He laughed. “Touché. What I meant was, you’re a new face here. Let’s see. You’re a bit too well dressed to be a student, and Pace is falling all over herself with you, which means the front office told her to play nice, so that can mean only one thing . . . You’ve got money, am I right?” He wagged his finger in the air.

  I extended my hand. “Abigail St. Clair. And yes, you could say I’ve got a bit of money. I’m thinking of spending some to study art here.”

  “Abigail St. Clair. Your name oozes wealth,” he chuckled. “So you want to study art, huh? What’s the matter, bored with the society set?”

  I lifted my chin. “Not at all. It’s just something I’ve always wanted to do, so I decided, why not?”

  “Why not indeed?” He looked me up and down once more and then thrust his hand forward. “I’m Taft Michaels. Pleased to meet you.”

  “Likewise.” I returned his smile, certain his renewed interest was more in Abigail’s bank account than anything else. “So, what can you tell me about the school? Besides the obvious fact it’s one of the best in the country.”

  “And one of the toughest. We’ve got an eighty percent dropout rate.”

  “Really?”

  “Oh yeah. The professors are all good—top-of-the-line—but they’re tough, just as tough as the founder of this school. Thaddeus Pitt was a notorious perfectionist.”

  “Was? Has he changed?”

  He stared at me. “You haven’t heard? Wow. You must be one of the few people on the planet who don’t know.” He leaned in closer and dropped his voice. “Pitt was murdered a couple of days ago. Killed right here in the school—in his own office.” He made a jabbing motion with his hand to his chest. “Stabbed right through the heart by one of his own students, no less.”

  I put my hand up against my mouth, gasped, and widened my eyes, hoping I’d conveyed a proper amount of shock. “Really? How awful?”

  “Yeah, well.” He shrugged. “Pitt had a way of pushing people’s buttons, driving them beyond their limits.” He leaned in closer. “Trust me. There aren’t too many shedding tears over his demise, teachers or students.” He cast a furtive glance over his shoulder toward the doorway, then snagged another donut from the tray, this one a cinnamon glaze, and wolfed it down in three bites. He brushed crumbs from the edge of his lip and tossed me an apologetic glance. “Sorry. I skipped breakfast, and with my schedule today, lunch is a remote possibility at best.”

  I poured myself a cup of coffee. “Murder is so—so drastic, though. Are they absolutely certain this girl did it?”

  “Let’s put it this way. She threatened to kill him in class, and a few hours later, he turns up dead. Not only that, they caught her standing over the body with the murder weapon. Not too bright. If it had been me, I’d have chosen a much more subtle method.” He scrunched up his lips in an expression of distaste. “Stabbing’s so messy. I’d have used poison. You’d be surprised how many poisons there are that don’t show up in an autopsy, you know, that make it seem like a heart attack. Take arsenic, for instance. It causes severe gastric distress, vomiting, and diarrhea with blood. If you give the victim a big enough dose, the autopsy will only find an inflamed stomach—maybe a trace of arsenic in the digestive tract, but that’s not the norm. If it’s given out over time you can only find it in the victim’s hair, nails, or urine, if one would think to check. It’s classic, really.

  “Then there’s succinylcholine. That’s one not normally tested for in toxicology screens. It’s a strong muscle relaxant that paralyzes the respiratory muscles. An autopsy would show the victim died of a heart attack.

  “And let’s not forget aconite, the ‘Queen of Poisons.’ It can be detected only by sophisticated toxicology analysis using equipment that’s not always available to local forensic labs. The perfect poison for murder, according to experts.”

  I swallowed. “If you don’t mind me saying so, you seem particularly well versed on the subject.”

  His eyes crinkled at the corners, and he gave me a slow, lazy smile. “What can I say? People talk about different things, and I listen. I’m like a sponge.” He waved his hand dismissively. “Hey, enough of that doom and gloom, right? After the next set I’ve got a pretty long break. If you’d like, I could take you down to the exhibition hall and show you around.”

  “That’s very kind of you, but I’d hate to be a bother.”

  “No bother at all.” He gave me a saucy wink. “It’d be my pleasure.”

  “I’ll think about it,” I said. “By the way, I understand there’s a local gallery that sometimes showcases the works of the students.”

  He nodded. “Yep. The Wilson Galleries. Nice place.”

  “You’ve been there?”

  He chuckled. “Once or twice.”

  “Ever meet the owner?”

  Taft’s eyes narrowed at my question, but he was spared from answering as Professor Pace reentered the studio, her sharp gaze focusing on Taft and me huddled together near the refreshment table. She clapped her hands together and boomed out, “Okay, break’s over. Time to resume.” She tossed a pointed look our way. “That includes you, Taft.”

  He reached out and his fingers closed over mine, gave them a quick squeeze. “The Dragon Lady speaketh. Listen, I’ll be here another hour. Stop back, if you’re interested, and I’ll give you that tour.”

  He ambled back to the platform, doffed his robe, and leaned on the stool, posing in all his naked glory. He did have a ripping bod, but there was just something about him that seemed off, aside from his unnatural fascination with poison. I tamped down a shudder, set my coffee cup on the table, and
hurried out of the studio. As far as I was concerned, Taft Michaels bore a further look, but right now I was more interested in seeing the inside of Pitt’s office.

  As Ollie so succinctly put it, “Nothing can give up a clue like the actual scene of the crime.” I hurried down the corridor and paused, trying to get my bearings. The door to my left was half open, and the placard off to the left read in big, bold letters: PROFESSOR ARMAND FOXWORTHY—PORTRAITS AND SCULPTURE. I glanced casually inside. Six students were grouped around easels, listening to a man I assumed to be said professor speak in the front of the class. Foxworthy was a middle-aged man trying to appear about twenty years younger. He wore his graying hair long and clipped in a ponytail down his back, secured by an expensive-looking black onyx clip. He was bare chested beneath a brown jacket that looked as if it had seen far, far better days. His jeans were well worn and had holes at the knees. A pair of heavily tinted wire-rimmed glasses were pushed up on his beak-shaped nose, masking his eye area. I wondered how he could see, because the lighting in the room wasn’t the best. I glanced over at the far wall, which consisted of two long shelves holding various pieces of sculpture and several paintings hanging next to the shelves: all of naked women, or rather, all of the same naked woman.

  And then, suddenly, she was there, standing right in the room. She’d entered through a door in the back, wearing the same white robe as Taft Michaels had. She lazily ascended the platform to the right and shrugged off the robe. There she stood under the spotlight in nothing but her birthday suit, and there was no hint, no expression, no indication of self-consciousness whatsoever. Although if I’d had a body half as good as hers, I might not be averse to showing it off, either. Her body was firm, her muscles were taut, her breasts high and in proportion to her frame. She was tall—my height, maybe an inch taller—and she had long, coltish legs that seemed to go on forever.

  I raised my eyes to her face and was struck by her classically beautiful features: wide, beautiful blue eyes; lips full and fleshy, arranged in a sexy pout; thick dark hair that cascaded across her slim shoulders and down her back like a waterfall. A niggling sense of familiarity struck me as I stared at her. I was certain I’d seen this girl before, but just where eluded me.

  Possibly if she’d been clothed, I might have remembered.

  I started to turn away when I saw a familiar figure enter the studio through a side door. Jenna Whitt. She marched right over to Foxworthy, whispered something in his ear. His lips tugged downward, as if he weren’t pleased. Then he got up and followed her out the back door. But that wasn’t the only interesting thing. The model onstage had turned her head slightly and was watching their every move. It was curious, but right now I had bigger fish to fry. I turned and started down the long hall. A young girl, portfolio tucked under one arm, passed me, and I reached out, touched her on the arm.

  “Excuse me.” I smiled and held out my hand, clutching all the pamphlets the secretary in the office had given me earlier. “I’m thinking of enrolling here, and I’m a bit lost. I was wondering if you could just tell me where all the offices are? I’m looking for—I’m looking for Professor Grant’s office,” I said, offering the first name that came to mind. “I—ah—want to discuss the possibility of studying sculpting under her. Someone said upstairs, but—I’m kinda lost. I know I saw an elevator somewhere, but—”

  “Yeah? Old Grant’s taking on new students? Wow, you must either be really dedicated or a glutton for punishment. As for the elevator, heck, it’s broken more than it works.” She pointed a bloodred fingernail toward a door marked STAIRS. “That’s the fastest way. Top floor. Her office is all the way at the end of the hall. I’d escort you up, but I’m late myself.”

  “Oh, no problem. I’m sure I can find it.”

  “Great. Well, then, good luck,” she said, and breezed off.

  “Good luck, thanks. I’ll need all the luck I can get,” I murmured, and made my way to the door.

  * * *

  Two steep flights later I found myself in a darkened, empty corridor. Apparently none of the professors were occupying their offices at the moment, which suited me just fine. I made my way down past the sea of closed doors. I passed the one marked PROFESSOR ADELINE GRANT, and the moment I turned the corner felt like shouting, “Bingo.”

  I hurried down the corridor and paused before the entrance. The door was tightly closed, covered top to bottom with yellow and black tape in a crisscross design. I sighed. How many times back in Chicago had I seen this? Ah, memories. The fact the tape was still up indicated to me that the police felt there was still something to be learned, possibly something they’d overlooked. That thought sent a surge of hope pulsing through me. I was relatively certain it was a misdemeanor, at the very least, to break CSI tape, but if it would help Lacey . . .

  I hesitated, hand poised over the tape, and suddenly, my whole body stiffened, assailed by the sudden feeling I wasn’t alone. The next minute a heavy hand clapped down on my shoulder.

  “Before you do something stupid you’ll probably regret, miss, would you like to tell me just what you think you’re doing?”

  I froze. I knew that voice. And it wasn’t good. I turned and came face-to-face with my past.

  SEVEN

  Great didn’t even begin to describe how Leroy Samms looked, but the adjectives yummy and mouthwatering came instantly to mind. Even though it had been fifteen years at least since I’d last seen him, he hadn’t changed a bit. If anything, he’d gotten better looking, and he’d been pretty perfect to start off with. He wore khaki pants and a cream knit sweater that hugged his chest and hinted at the muscular, rangy body beneath. His hair was still the odd shade I remembered, an inky blue-black that exactly matched the deep-set eyes; eyes that were trained right on me. When he said nothing, I thought with a modicum of relief that he hadn’t recognized me, but then a glimmer of recognition lit up his eyes, and the corners of his full lips twitched slightly upward.

  “Nora Charles,” he murmured, touching two fingers to his forehead in a brief salute. “Oh my God, it is you, isn’t it?”

  “Last time I looked,” I said, assuming a casual tone as if I ran into ex-flames every day of the week. “How’ve you been, Samms?”

  Those broad shoulders lifted in a careless shrug. “I can’t complain.” He took a step toward me. “I can’t believe I ran into you, here of all places, after all these years.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “Life’s funny, huh?”

  Those navy eyes raked me up and down. “You haven’t changed a bit.”

  I forced a laugh. “You’re being kind.”

  He shook his head. “No, truthful. So you still with that Chicago paper?”

  I shook my head. “That’s yesterday’s news,” I said lightly. “Now I’m Nora Charles, small business entrepreneur. I inherited my mother’s sandwich shop.”

  The eyebrow lifted even higher. “You gave up reporting? That’s hard to believe. Last time I saw you—” He stopped, ran a hand through his hair.

  “Was our last night on the college paper,” I said softly. “That was . . . quite a night.” And one I’d rather not rehash, thanks very much.

  His gaze was unfathomable. “Yes,” he said softly. “It was.”

  We both stood there awkwardly for a minute, the silence so thick you could cut it with a knife. And then we both said, at exactly the same time: “What are you doing here?”

  I answered first. “I—ah—I’m here trying to help my sister.”

  He frowned. “Your sister? Who’s . . .” He slapped his palm against his forehead. “Oh, wait . . . Lacey Charles, the murder suspect? She’s your sister?”

  My chin jutted out. “She didn’t do it, Samms. My sister’s not a killer.”

  His left eyebrow twitched slightly. “Still calling me by my last name, I see.”

  I shrugged. “Old habits die hard. So I answered first; now it’s your turn. Wha
t are you doing here?”

  “Well, for starters, I heard an Abigail St. Clair was at the school, asking a lot of questions about the curriculum, the students, the teachers.”

  “Oh,” I gave a careless wave, “can you keep a secret?” I leaned in a bit closer to him, so close I got a faint whiff of his aftershave—Brut? “That’s me. This is my sister, after all. I’m just trying to help the police out.”

  “I see. What if the police don’t need any help?”

  I cocked my brow. “Trust me, the police always need help.”

  His lips thinned. “Thanks, but no, thanks. I’m—or should I say the police are—doing just fine.”

  I frowned. “What?”

  He pulled back the side of his jacket, and I saw a shiny badge clipped to his belt. “Let me formally introduce myself. “I’m Detective Leroy Samms of the St. Leo Homicide Division. I’m in charge of this case.”

  OMG, if there was a hole nearby, I would have crawled inside and pulled it in after me. I felt my cheeks grow warm with embarrassment, and for at least a minute, I couldn’t think of a thing to say. Finally, I managed to get out, “You’re a homicide detective? More specifically, you’re the good-looking detective who arrested Lacey? My aunt’s friend’s words,” I added hastily. “Not mine.”

  He rubbed absently at his temple. “I should have made the connection when she mentioned an older sister in Cruz. Although I can’t recall you ever mentioning anything at all about your family, or much else personal, during the time we—ah—worked together.”

  “I’ve always been a private person.” I jammed my hands deep into the pockets of my jacket, determined to keep the conversation far, far away from college and auld lang syne. “You said you came here because you heard Abigail St. Clair was asking questions?”

  His eyes sparkled, but his expression remained impassive. “I’m buddies with the head of the real Abigail St. Clair’s home security. He asked me to check it out, since he knows the real Abigail St. Clair is out of the country.”