Claws for Alarm Page 8

  Rats, just my luck. “I can explain,” I said.

  He held up his hand. “You already did. You came here to see if you could help your sister, maybe find a clue we might have missed in our initial sweep.”

  “Exactly.” I pulled back my shoulders, a motion that made my breasts snap to attention, and my chin jutted forward. I noticed Samms’s gaze linger on my chest for a brief moment before he raised his gaze to meet mine.

  He looked at me and then let out a laugh, a deep, rich sound that sent a little tremor racing up and down my spine. It wasn’t exactly an unpleasant feeling. I could equate it to having champagne bubbles stuck in your nose on New Year’s Eve.

  Huh? I gave myself a mental slap. Oh no. I wasn’t going down that road again, no sir.

  Samms’s laughter subsided and he pursed his lips. “I read the accounts of what went down a few weeks ago with the Graingers. So, what, Red, you get lucky once and now you think you’re Nancy Drew?”

  My temper started to rise, more because of his use of his old nickname for me than being compared to America’s favorite girl detective. “No, I do not think I’m Nancy Drew,” I snapped. “I’m just trying to help out my sister. You and I both know once the DA settles on a suspect, further investigation goes out the window. And, believe it or not, I know my way around a crime scene. Just ask anyone at my former paper.” I paused. “And don’t call me Red, Samms.”

  “Still sensitive, I see. Do I get upset because you refuse to use my first name?” His brows drew together, making a deep V crease the center of his forehead. He brushed an inky bang out of his eyes and leaned in a bit closer. “How about if I call you Brenda?”

  “Brenda?”

  “After Brenda Starr.” His voice grew soft. “I called you Brenda, that last night we worked together on the paper . . . or don’t you remember?”

  I was starting to remember things it had taken me years to forget. Fortunately, I was spared answering as two students rounded the corner, their arms overflowing with portfolios. Another figure walked, shoulders hunched, behind them, and I thought for a second I recognized the bare chest and ponytail of Professor Foxworthy, but I blinked, and when I looked again, Foxworthy (if indeed it had been him) was nowhere to be seen. I shook my head, wondering if I might be starting to hallucinate, as the students passed us, casting curious looks our way.

  Samms eyed me. “I think this discussion is best had in quieter quarters.” As soon as they’d gone, he reached out and grasped my elbow. I felt a surge of . . . something . . . shoot through me at his touch, and I abruptly pulled my arm away.

  “I’m capable of walking on my own,” I ground out. “I am an adult, after all.”

  He raised both hands in a gesture of surrender. “Fine. Please act like one.” Without waiting for me to answer, his arm snaked out and in one motion ripped the yellow tape from the doorway. “Now we’re gonna go inside, and you are not going to touch or disturb anything. Got it?”

  I raised my chin another inch. “Like I told you, Detective, I’m familiar with the protocol.”

  His stern expression softened, but not by much. “Okay, okay. Just checking.”

  I followed him inside and stood for a moment to get my bearings. A cherrywood desk stood catty-corner, with two expensive file cabinets made of the same wood off to the right. The left wall was one massive bookcase, filled to overflowing with books, save for the center shelf on which rested what appeared to be several expensive pieces of modern sculpture. One I actually liked. It depicted a hand holding a face, or a mask, supported on its left side by another hand. They were arranged so the mask seemed to be suspended in midair, making the piece just odd enough to be appealing, unlike some of the others in the case. The back wall held several expensive-looking oil paintings in equally expensive-looking frames. I noted a large faded rectangle on the far right, as if something had hung there but been removed. Light filtered in from a wide bay window just in back of the desk, highlighting the large, ugly red stain that marred the thick beige shag carpeting. Aside from the slight fading on the wall and the stained rug, the office was impeccably furnished and oozed wealth, position, comfort.

  It was a shame Pitt had to die there.

  I raised my eyes again to the other paintings. Two depicted ballet scenes, one racehorses in a field. I moved a bit closer to study them.

  “Nice, aren’t they?” Samms said, almost at my elbow. He squinted at them. “Degas, I think. He liked to paint ballet and horses.”

  I ignored his comment and tapped the faded spot on the wall. “Looks as if he might have removed one of these. I wonder why?”

  “Maybe he wanted to switch off. Pitt was a big collector,” Samms went on. “These are only a few of his prized possessions. He’s got some on display in one of the rooms downstairs, and the rest are in his private museum at his home.” His gaze flicked to the bookcase. “Liked sculpture, too. Mostly modern stuff. Personally, I can’t get into it, but to each his own.” He took a step back and folded his arms across his chest. “So, you wanted to see the scene of the crime. Satisfied?”

  My eyes traversed the length of rug and settled on the red blotch by the desk. A shudder ripped through me, and I dragged my gaze upward to meet his. “Hardly. I won’t be satisfied until my sister’s name is cleared.” Against my will, my eyes strayed back to the blotch.

  Samms walked over to the stain and nudged the edge of it with his toe. “There’s about ten to twelve average pints of blood in a male human body, slightly less in a female. That stain looks bad, but actually it only accounts for one, maybe two pints.”

  “Thanks for that information.” I swallowed. “Did the coroner pinpoint the time of death?”

  “Sometime between nine thirty and ten. Probably closer to ten.”

  I suppressed a shudder. Lacey couldn’t have missed the killer by much. “I imagine you’ve gotten the report back on the murder weapon by now?”

  His stern expression sobered, and he sounded almost kindly. “As I informed Mr. Dobbs earlier, the only prints we found on that knife were his client’s—your sister’s.”

  I sucked in my breath. Damn!

  He tapped his finger against his dimpled chin. “Seriously, though, even you have to admit she’s a natural suspect. She had words earlier in the day with Pitt, threatened to end his life, no less, was quoted by several witnesses as saying ‘I’d like to kill that bastard’ and ‘I’d like to put the professor on ice,’ and then she’s found standing over the body clutching a weapon that only her prints are on.” He tossed me a pained look. “Tell the truth, now. If you were in charge of this investigation, you’d have arrested her, too.”

  “Maybe. But I’d try to keep an open mind and do a lot more digging into other possible suspects, too, of which there are plenty, by the way.”

  “Oh really?” His eyes sparked with defiance. “And what makes you think I haven’t been doing just that?” The smile he tossed me bordered on indulgent. “I’d be remiss in my job if I didn’t investigate other possibilities now, wouldn’t I? It’s the DA’s office that’s satisfied. They tend to get a mite overzealous when they get means, motive, and opportunity handed to them on a silver platter.”

  I recalled Irene’s earlier comment and remarked, “I understand the DA’s got a pretty good record with regard to murder convictions.”

  “Yep, she does, and getting better all the time.” His eyes darkened as he added, “I just want you to know, Nora, I haven’t stopped investigating this, not by a long shot. I consider myself a pretty good judge of character, too. Your sister doesn’t seem like the murdering type. She’s a bit of a prima donna, and spoiled, but a murderer?”

  A tiny ray of hope blossomed anew. “So, you say you’re still investigating. I realize most of what you find out has to be confidential, but is there anything else you feel comfortable sharing with me? I wouldn’t ask, except . . . ”

  “E
xcept it’s your sister.” He hesitated and then added, “I checked out the wife—the second one—first thing, because, as I’m sure you know, ninety percent of all murders are committed by the spouse. Giselle signed a pre-nup, so with a divorce she’d get zippo, but with a murder? Well, let’s just say she stands to inherit a TON.”

  I remembered Chantal’s tarot reading and nodded. “Sounds like a prime motive to me.”

  “Did to me, too, at first. But the alibi she gave us for the time in question checks out.”

  I bit down hard on my lip to conceal my disappointment. “Okay, then. What about Pitt’s son? I heard they had a disagreement recently.”

  He pinned me with that navy gaze. “You certainly ask a lot of questions.”

  I shrugged. “Old habits die hard,” I said lightly. “You can take the gal out of reporting, but . . . “

  “Yeah, yeah, I get it,” he said roughly. “Well, I quizzed him, too, and before you ask, his alibi for the TOD checked out.”

  The sigh that tumbled from my lips didn’t even begin to express the frustration that welled inside me. “All right, but even if you eliminate them, there are others to investigate. Take Taft Michaels, for instance. Pitt is supposed to have picked on him a great deal, plus he has knowledge of poisons that seems to me to be way beyond what any art student slash model should possess. Then there’s Kurt Wilson; it’s possible they argued recently, too. And Julia Canton. She and Pitt were supposed to be having an affair. Maybe he broke it off, and she reacted as a woman scorned.”

  He started to say something, then stopped as his cell phone beeped impatiently in his pocket. He flashed me an apologetic look as he fished it out and flipped it open. “Samms here.” He listened for a few minutes, then said, “Fine. I’m on my way.” He snapped the phone shut and dropped it in his pocket. “Sorry, but I’ve got to go. An appointment that I completely forgot about.” He made a sweeping gesture with his arm. “After you.”

  I stepped over the threshold and paused. Out of the corner of my eye I caught a flash of movement. I turned my head just in time to catch a glimpse of a gray-streaked ponytail disappearing through a door far down the hall. I glanced over my shoulder at Samms.

  “It might be a good idea to seal the room up again. You know, to protect it from people curious about the scene of the crime.”

  His blank, unreadable face stared at me pointedly. “Of course I’m keeping it sealed for now. But you’re right, some enterprising individual might take advantage of an opportunity to take a look around and help themselves to a little souvenir to sell on eBay. I think I’ll speak to Ms. Dinwiddie, have her put one of the guards on this floor. Not that I don’t trust anyone, but . . . aw, hell. I don’t.” He snagged my wrist and looked straight into my eyes. “Look, I know you’re concerned about your sister, but you should leave this to the professionals. I’d certainly hate to see anything happen to you because you took it upon yourself to play Brenda Starr, or do you prefer I call you Nancy Drew?”

  I jerked my hand free of his grip. “I prefer it if you don’t call me either. And regardless of what you think, Samms, I know what I’m doing.”

  “I’m sure you think you do, but think about it. If your sister didn’t kill Pitt, then the real killer is out there. And I’m sure he or she won’t take kindly to someone trying to expose them.” His lips twitched at the corners. “Our department is down manpower right now. One murder is about all I can handle at the moment.”

  “Agreed, but—”

  “No buts. I’m sorry to bail on you right now, but please promise me that you’ll leave the detecting to me and my team. I can see it’s hard for you, but—” He shoved his hands into his pants pockets. “Things have a way of working out. So do I have your word you’ll leave the detecting to the professionals?”

  I promised, hoping he couldn’t tell I had my fingers crossed behind my back. He turned and hurried back down the hall, and I leaned against the wall with a heartfelt sigh. Leroy Samms was the last person I’d ever expected to see again, and to top things off, he was the detective in charge of the case. Funny, wasn’t it, how life worked out sometimes? Well, his warning had only served to strengthen my resolve to continue my investigation into Pitt’s murder. I was just about to start walking back to the door marked STAIRS when it suddenly opened and a girl wearing jeans and a flannel shirt emerged. She toted a large sack in one hand, and the manner in which she held it suggested it might be heavy. As she started to cast a furtive look around, I ducked into a small alcove and flattened myself against the wall. Peering cautiously around the corner, I held my breath as I caught a better glimpse of her face. It was the nude model from downstairs, only now that she was clothed, recognition kicked in.

  Julia Canton.

  What the hell was she doing up here, and what on earth could she possibly have in that sack?

  My cell phone chose that moment to start blaring out my new ringtone. Usually I sang along to Katy Perry’s “I Kissed a Girl,” but right now I scrabbled in my purse, desperate to shut it off. I wasn’t fast enough. Julia’s head jerked up; she gave a quick look around and hightailed it in the other direction. I sighed as my fingers closed over the phone, and I pulled it out and looked at the number. It was a local one, not familiar. Thinking it might be Peter, I flipped it open. “Hello?”

  A lilting, feminine voice asked, “Is this Nora Charles?”

  “Yes,” I replied. “Who is this?”

  “I’ve got to see you, Ms. Charles. As soon as possible.”

  I remembered the last time someone had said that to me. I’d ended up finding a dead body. “Who is this?”

  “Mrs. Pitt. We need to meet. I have some information concerning my husband’s murder.”

  A tingle inched its way up my spine. I gripped the phone and glanced around. Why would Giselle Pitt want to share anything with the sister of the woman who supposedly murdered her husband? “What sort of information, Mrs. Pitt?”

  “I can’t go into it over the phone, but let me say this. I do not think your sister killed him. In fact, I’m relatively certain she didn’t.”

  That was surprising. “You are?”

  “Let me just say this. There are others with far better motives than her. For example, I can tell you that the alibi that blond tart married to my husband cooked up needs to be looked at closely. Much more closely than the police did.”

  Wait a minute? Wasn’t I speaking with the blond tart? “Excuse me, I’m sorry, you did say you were Mrs. Pitt?”

  “Yes, and I’m the one who should be sorry. I should have been clearer. I’m Althea Pitt, Thaddeus’s first wife. I live at 4576 Victoria Lane in Pacific Grove. Be here in an hour. Trust me, Ms. Charles, this is a meeting that will be well worth your while.”

  Then the line went dead.

  EIGHT

  Twenty minutes later I parked my SUV in front of the address Althea Pitt had given me, a small bungalow tucked back in a shady corner on a quiet street lined with huge elms and flowering shrubs. I locked the car and walked up the neatly trimmed walkway to a wide enclosed porch. I rang the front doorbell, and a few minutes later the door opened to reveal a demure woman with short medium-brown hair, snapping hazel eyes with flecks of gold in the center of their irises, and a wide, full-lipped mouth. Her dove gray suit looked lightweight and comfy, and a U-necked blouse in black was the perfect foil for the thick braided gold chain around her neck. I judged her age to be somewhere in her middle fifties at least—a very well-kept middle fifties. Our eyes met and her lips parted, revealing teeth so perfect they had to be caps, and she held out a perfectly manicured hand.

  “You have to be Nora Charles. Do come in. I’m Althea Pitt. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

  I stepped over the threshold, and she wiggled her fingers, motioning for me to follow her down the narrow hallway. She led me into a dim room that I assumed was the parlor, and she turned on a table lamp
with a fringed shade. An off-white damask upholstered sofa and love seat were positioned in front of a fireplace, and she motioned for me to take a seat. I settled down on the sofa and scooted to the edge of the seat.

  Mrs. Pitt moved over toward an oak table on which an antique silver tea service rested. She picked up the pitcher and held it aloft. “Tea?”

  I really didn’t want any but didn’t want to seem rude. “Yes, thank you.”

  “Do you take lemon?”

  “No, thanks. Just a bit of cream and sugar.”

  She poured the tea into two fragile-looking china cups, which she placed on the long mission-style table in front of me, along with a sugar bowl and small pitcher of cream. As I prepared my tea I took a moment to study my surroundings. The room had a slightly musty odor to it, and the walls were painted a faded ivory color. I noticed several lighter rectangle shapes on the wall where pictures had obviously been removed. The Oriental carpet covering the hardwood floor was thick but threadbare and fading along the edges. A white grand piano bearing several framed photographs sat off to one side in front of a massive bookcase whose shelves were only partially full. My eyes focused on one photograph positioned off to the side, and a niggling sense of familiarity immediately swept over me. I didn’t have much chance to dwell on it, though, because Althea leaned forward and spoke in her soft voice.

  “I appreciate your coming, and I won’t keep you too long.”

  I gave her a long, slow look. “I confess, I was surprised to hear from you.”

  She chuckled. “Well, your cell phone number isn’t unlisted, my dear.”

  “That’s not what I meant. Why call me at all?”

  “Why not?” Althea returned my look with an equally long, slow one of her own. “Once the police informed us of who they had in custody, I did a thorough Google search on your sister, and on you. You have an impeccable reputation as a true crime reporter, not to mention the excellent job you did on the Lola Grainger case.” She leaned forward. “You and I both know once they have who they feel is the perfect suspect in custody, the police have a tendency to stop looking elsewhere.”