Meow If It's Murder (Nick and Nora Mysteries) Page 8

  I cleared my throat, which felt suddenly dry and scratchy. “That’s correct, Detective.”

  One eyebrow crooked. “As you may or may not know, I wasn’t actively involved in the case, Detective O’Halloran was. I’ll do what I can for you, although I can’t imagine what someone could possibly find interesting. The Lola Grainger case is closed. It was an open-and-shut accident.”

  “As far as paperwork is concerned, maybe,” I said. “But to an investigative reporter, there are plenty of unanswered questions. Details that appear unclear.”

  He shifted position in his chair, steepled his long fingers beneath his chin. “Unclear, you say? How so?”

  I reached into my tote bag and removed a pad and pen, which I balanced on my knee. “Well, for starters, there’s the way the crime scene was handled.”

  Another quirk of his brow. “What about it?”

  “Normally all the witnesses would have been segregated, would they not, and questioned separately back at Police Headquarters? That didn’t seem to happen in this case.”

  Corleone was silent for several seconds, then nodded. “You’re correct, that’s what usually happens when we suspect foul play, but from O’Halloran’s account, there was no reason to suspect wrongdoing. O’Halloran clearly states Grainger was in bad shape, that he could barely pull himself together. The man was near to tears, kept saying that his wife was gone; he wasn’t quite sure just what had happened, but that nothing would bring her back. I expect O’Halloran did the humane thing and left a grieving husband to his sorrow.”

  I shifted my pad on my knee. “It’s one thing to act humanely, Detective, and quite another to be incompetent.”

  One brow rose. “Incompetent? That’s a mighty serious accusation.”

  “Oh, don’t misunderstand me—I’m not making any accusations. But I’ve read the newspaper accounts of how the case was handled, and I’ve got to tell you, there are quite a few things that don’t hit me right.”

  Now the other eyebrow followed suit. “Such as?”

  “Well, for starters, doesn’t it seem strange to you that out of the five other people on board the Lady L, not one of them heard anything? Not even a splash when Lola supposedly fell overboard?”

  “Supposedly?”

  Heat seared my cheeks and I tossed my head. “Lola Grainger had a fear of water—dark water in particular. It just seems odd to me that she’d go out in the middle of the night, get in a dinghy, and take off.”

  He leaned back, ice blue gaze trained on me. “She was upset and she’d been drinking. People acting under those conditions rarely do things that make sense. As for the others not hearing anything, well, Ms. Cummings and Mr. Tabor both admitted to taking a sleeping pill before retiring. And Mr. Connor said he was not only exhausted, he was feeling the effects of alcohol. By his own admission, he’s quite a sound sleeper.”

  “Convenient admission,” I muttered.

  Corleone laced his fingers in front of him and leaned forward. “You sound as if you suspect foul play, Nora.”

  I wiggled around in my seat, hoping he couldn’t hear the way my heart beat double time at the way he’d lingered over my name. “I’m not certain I suspect anything, Detective. But I have to admit, I’ve followed similar cases before and they were all handled much differently. The witnesses were separated, sequestered, questioned . . .”

  “Apparently the officer in charge didn’t see the need.” Corleone picked up a pencil and twirled it between long, tapered fingers. “There were no witnesses—no evidence of foul play—nothing to indicate it was anything other than a terrible accident.” He tapped the pencil against the desk. “With all the liquor that was consumed, I think Detective O’Halloran thought himself fortunate to get as much detail out of them as he did.” His head jerked up and he looked me straight in the eye. “Do you have some reason to question his findings?”

  I hesitated, and then blurted out: “She should have called out for help.”

  Once again, the brows rose. “Pardon?”

  “Contrary to your coroner’s report, I believe her down vest would have kept her afloat, not sucked her under. She should have been in a position to call for help—I know I would have.”

  “Who’s to say she didn’t?”

  “Once again, no one heard any cries.”

  “And once again, she might not have called out because she was either feeling the effects of alcohol impairment or was in shock—or both.”

  Or unconscious or dead. “According to the coroner’s report, her blood alcohol content was very low—point oh-four, to be precise.”

  “Various levels affect people differently. Actually, all it takes to impair someone is point oh-four to point oh-seven. Using those parameters, Lola drank enough—she fell well within the guidelines where her judgment could be questionable.”

  “Questionable enough where she’d just surrender to her fate? Not utter a sound to save herself?” I shook my head. “Lola Grainger was a strong woman, even though she was afraid of deep waters. I doubt she’d have succumbed to dying without putting up some sort of fight.”

  His lips compressed into a thin line. “Once again, alcohol affects people differently. One must take a lot of things into account—the subject’s frame of mind, for instance. Mrs. Grainger was upset that evening—that fact was consistently reported by all involved.”

  I pursed my lips. “I don’t recall reading that in any of the accounts.”

  His broad shoulders lifted in a careless shrug. “Facts get omitted often enough.”

  “There could have been another reason she didn’t call out, you know. She could have been dead when she went into the water.”

  His supercilious smile faded into a frown. “That’s not possible. According to the coroner’s report, he did an analysis of single-celled algae, or diatoms found on the body, against those found in the water. The samples matched, which prove she was alive upon entering the water.”

  “Granted—if the coroner’s report was accurate.”

  The frown deepened, causing a deep V crease in the middle of his forehead. “You have reason to suspect it wasn’t?”

  “Just a hunch.” I didn’t think the time was right to share all my inside information with Daniel Corleone. “Then again, she could have been alive—but unconscious. It would explain why no one heard any cries for help from a terrified woman.”

  “You seem to be very knowledgeable of this case, Nora.”

  I shrugged. “It’s a puzzle. Puzzles interest me.”

  He was silent for a few minutes, fingers steepled beneath his chin. “You mentioned Mrs. Grainger’s fear of water. How did you know that?”

  “She mentioned it to my mother on several occasions. I would have thought Mr. Grainger would have brought it up.”

  “Perhaps he didn’t know.”

  “They were married fifteen years—surely he suspected something.”

  Corleone didn’t even crack a hint of a smile. “Not necessarily. Some women are excellent at keeping secrets.”

  I gave him a look. “Some men are, too.”

  He kept staring at me, almost as if he expected me to crack and reveal some of my secrets under his steely gaze. I tapped my pen against my notebook. “I just find it hard to believe a woman with an almost obsessive fear of deep water would go for a midnight excursion in the ocean. And then there’s the matter of the bruise at the back of her skull. Did she get that from a fall, or could someone have attacked her?”

  He folded his arms across his chest. “And just how do you know about that, Nora? It wasn’t made public.”

  “And I bet I know why,” I burst out, deliberately avoiding his question. “It’s a prime example of how the Cruz police slipped up. They should have examined the others for bruises, and—”

  “What makes you think they didn’t?” He was silent a few more moments, t
hen said, “You seem inordinately passionate about this case, and I can’t help but wonder why. You’re not related to the deceased, are you?”

  “No, I’m not related.”

  “I’m sorry, but I’m not quite making the connection here. If you’re not related—”

  I hesitated, then added, “Mrs. Grainger was a good customer of my mother’s sandwich shop.”

  Those perfectly shaped lips twitched slightly and he clapped his hands. “Ah, so she liked a good bologna on rye. That explains it then.”

  “It’s not as unusual as you make it sound,” I spat. “Besides, I’m not the only one who feels this way. Lola’s sister hired a PI to investigate her death.”

  His expression didn’t change, but a strange light appeared in the depths of those impossibly blue eyes. “Lola’s sister? Did she now? A PI, you say?”

  “Yes. Adrienne Sloane. She was trying to get the case reopened.”

  He leaned forward. “Was trying? She stopped?”

  I shifted uncomfortably in the chair. “I—I’m not sure what happened to her.”

  He tossed me a look that spoke volumes before asking, “What about this PI? Who is he? Have you spoken to him?”

  I swallowed. “I tried to get in touch with him but—apparently no one’s seen him for several weeks.”

  He leaned back, eyes closed, and tapped the pencil against his knee. “I see.” His tone clearly indicated he didn’t. He sat up and fixed me with another piercing stare. “I’d love to know who your pipeline is,” he said at last. “Who’s feeding you this information?”

  I shifted in the chair, crossed my legs at my ankles. “I was an investigative reporter for years,” I replied. “I have my sources.”

  “Chicago, right?”

  I nodded. “Yes, but how—”

  “Google is a wonderful thing, Nora. I looked you up. You wrote a very popular column in Chicago; you won a couple of awards. Makes one wonder why you’d give it up to come back to the old hometown and run a sandwich shop.”

  His tone clearly indicated he thought a man had been behind my decision, and I felt a swift flash of resentment. Why did people constantly assume a failed love affair was the obvious reason for a move and/or a job change? Well, maybe it was, nine times out of ten, but not in my case. I resisted the impulse to set him straight on that score, and just inclined my head. “Some people have family loyalty,” I said, looking him straight in the eye. “Besides, it was time for a change in my life.”

  He matched my stare with a piercing one of his own. “A rather big change.”

  “Maybe.” I shifted a bit in my chair. Something about him made me feel unsettled—and not just the lingering aroma of Old Spice, either. “Now, getting back to our discussion. This is just a suggestion, but—Adrienne Sloane was renting a house on the outskirts of Cruz. She hasn’t been seen in a while. It might not be a bad idea to go out there, ask around, see if you could get a line on her. There must be a reason why she hasn’t come forward.”

  “Are you intimating foul play?”

  “I’m not intimating anything—I’m just trying to be helpful.”

  “I see.” His hunched stance relaxed. “So—anything else you’d care to share with me?”

  “It’s my understanding Lola and her sister were estranged for years. Adrienne came back to try and make things right. And Adrienne didn’t trust Kevin Grainger.”

  He picked up a pencil, tapped it against the desk. “Perhaps he didn’t trust her, either. Do you know what precipitated their estrangement?”

  I shook my head. “No.”

  He gave me a look of mock horror. “You mean your source couldn’t enlighten you? I’m shocked.”

  It was on the tip of my tongue to mention what I’d read in Nick Atkins’s journal—that Lola had found something out, something her husband would “kill her” over—but I knew it would raise even more questions I didn’t want to answer. I bit my tongue, sank back in my chair.

  “I just think the witnesses should have been more rigorously cross-examined,” I said.

  “Ah—and just why is that? Do you think their stories would break down? Differ greatly?”

  “Possibly,” I shot back. “Since I don’t know exactly what their stories were, it’s not a question I can answer.”

  “Their accounts, if you will, were essentially all the same. They all retired long before the incident, and since they’d been drinking a good deal, all fell asleep almost instantly. The only two who remained awake were Mr. Grainger and Shelly Lott, the boat captain. They looked for Mrs. Grainger and placed the call to the Coast Guard. Both their accounts were consistent, down to each detail.”

  “I don’t know about you, but I find that rather odd in itself. I mean, when stories are too consistent, the word rehearsed immediately pops to my mind.”

  “I’m not certain what you mean. There wouldn’t have been enough time between the other occupants waking up and the finding of the body to rehearse too much.”

  I crossed my legs at the ankles and slouched back in my chair. “Believe me, if someone wants something rehearsed, they find the time. I saw plenty of that in Chicago.”

  “I’m sure you did.” He paused in his pencil tapping. The odd look was back in his eyes again. “So it’s your opinion there was some sort of cover-up regarding Mrs. Grainger’s death?”

  I held up my hand. “I wouldn’t presume to make that judgment, not without more facts. All I’m saying is a little more effort could have gone into questioning the sus—the other people on the yacht.”

  The intercom buzzed just then. Corleone murmured, “Excuse me,” and then pressed the button. “Yes, Margaret?”

  “The captain is on line one for you. Shall I transfer him?”

  “Yes. Give me a minute, please.” He disconnected, and glanced at me. “I’m sorry. I have to take this call.”

  “Of course.” I picked up my notepad, stuffed it back in my purse, and rose. “Thank you for your time,” I murmured, hoping my jaw wasn’t clenching too badly. I was having a hard time concealing my disappointment.

  “Wait.” He held up one finger. “I’d like to continue this discussion with you, if I may.”

  That surprised me, since his demeanor had indicated he thought me either incredibly nosy or one step away from a fruitcake. “You would?”

  He nodded. “You make some interesting points. I think they may bear some further investigation.”

  “You mean you’d be willing to recommend the case be reopened?”

  “I don’t know if we can go that far,” he said. “But I agree—certain aspects could have been handled better. I’d like to ask you to postpone publishing anything on this in your magazine until we talk further. Will you agree to that?”

  “Why, of course.” That was pretty easy, considering I’d never really intended to do a story—yet anyway. “That seems only fair.”

  “Good.” His phone rang. “I’ll call you. And remember—don’t discuss this with anyone. Do I have your word?”

  I nodded. “Sure.”

  He picked up the phone, and I felt as if I’d been summarily dismissed. His interest seemed vague at best, and I’ve never held much stock in words without action. I’ll call you sounded pretty indefinite to me—like something you’d say to appease someone you were afraid might turn into a troublemaking pest.

  In the doorway I paused. Something else bothered me about Daniel Corleone—and not just the way his jacket molded to his upper torso like a second skin. Something was off, but I just couldn’t put my finger on it. I gave him one last look from the doorway.

  “I won’t hold my breath for that call,” I muttered, and left.

  NINE

  I drove back to Hot Bread, making one stop along the way. I parked in back of the store and let myself in through the rear entrance. I could hear the murmur of voices comi
ng from the kitchen. Moving quietly, I went over to the door and pushed it ajar, stifling a laugh at the scene before me.

  Chantal hunkered over a squirming Nick, a rhinestone-studded bright fuchsia collar halfway around his neck. The cat’s fat belly shook as he fought to elude her grasp. He flopped over the edge of the counter and tried to run in the opposite direction. In one swift motion she grabbed him and pulled him back up onto the counter.

  I was impressed. I didn’t realize anyone, let alone Chantal, could move that fast in five-inch heels.

  “Goodness, Nicky,” she scolded, her finger slicing the air. “Mon Dieu! How do you expect to model for me when you won’t even try anything on!”

  Nick’s lips peeled back. “Ffft!” he growled.

  I pushed the door all the way open and came into the kitchen. “Hey, I’m back. Everything okay here?”

  Chantal brushed an errant black curl out of her eyes. “We are doing just fine, thanks. Getting acquainted. I finished cleaning up, so I thought I’d work on my new line of pet collars.” She threw Nicky a baleful glance. “He does not seem to like it much. He keeps trying to pull it off with his claws.”

  I looked at Nick, squatting there, the pink collar half on, half off his neck, and couldn’t resist a grin. He bared his fangs and hissed.

  As Chantal bent to remove the collar, I stuck my tongue out at him, then gave my friend’s arm a gentle squeeze. “Oh, I think he’d like it fine—maybe in black, though, with some flat, not so shiny stones?”

  Chantal considered this. She twined the pink collar between her fingers and held it up. “Too girly, huh?” she said at last.

  I turned my head in Nick’s direction and closed one eye. “Well . . . yeah. After all, Nick’s a macho cat.”

  She slapped the side of her head with her palm. “Oh, of course. How could I be so stupid? Of course he is a manly cat. He would not want to wear rhinestones around his neck.”

  “Er-ow,” Nick meowed from his place on the counter. Chantal’s head cocked to one side as she studied the cat. “Black would get lost against his fur,” she said at last. “We need a color that stands out—how about red?”