TWO

I finally found enough of my voice to squeak out, “A murder? Really?” But Violet had already sashayed out the door and into Nan’s waiting car, and I didn’t think it appropriate to chase after her. Warm fur caressed my ankles and I glanced downward. “Did you hear that?” I whispered to Nick.

He rubbed his head against my knee. “Merow.”

She’d spoken so low there was a possibility I might have misunderstood, and Violet did have a dry sense of humor, but somehow I didn’t think so. I resolved to quiz her at the first opportunity, certain that a story involving a murder would appeal to Louis more than an ancient grimoire. I stole a quick peek at my watch and looked at Nick. “How would you like to take a ride?”

He detached himself from my body and went immediately to the back door, tail flicking impatiently. I opened the door and Nick padded out and right over to my SUV, and started rubbing against the passenger door. I took that for a yes.

Twenty minutes later Nick and I were driving toward the middle of town and Poppies, the flower shop run by my BFF, Chantal Gillard, and her brother, Remy. Chantal had been away at a psychic convention in Los Angeles until last night, and I needed to fill her in on recent events; besides, I’d missed her company.

Nick chirped his approval when I indicated our destination. He’d always been fond of Chantal, and why not? She was good looking, she was psychic (my friend did possess a certain amount of ESP, which was a good bonding point with Nick, since cats are supposed to possess similar psychic abilities, doncha know?), and she had a delightful French accent (even if it was affected), plus she always made a dreadful fuss over Nick, even to the point of having him model cat collars for her line of homemade jewelry, Lady C Creations. (Okay, maybe that part Nick could do without.)

There was an empty parking spot right in front of the shop, so I pulled the SUV right in. Poppies is divided into three stores. The left side is the flower shop, which is usually brimming with customers and the fragrant smell of whatever buds Remy’s decided to have adorn the window for the display he changes on a weekly basis; the right side of the shop is Chantal’s, and divided two more ways: One side of the shop is set up like a tearoom slash New Age store. Chantal has a display of crystals, tarot cards, and the like, which she sells, and she also gives psychic readings via whichever method of divination the customer prefers. Another corner of the shop is devoted to her line of homemade jewelry and its newest addition: homemade pet collars. To that end, a large fifteen by thirty photograph of Nick himself wearing Chantal’s latest creation, a pale blue stretch collar with the pet name embroidered in colored beads, practically slapped us in the face when we entered the store. Nick let out a yowl of approval upon seeing his handsome puss so prominently displayed on the shop’s far wall.

The beaded curtain at the rear of the shop parted and my friend emerged. Today she was dressed in what I called her “gypsy motif.” She wore a multicolored maxi skirt with ankle boots and a white off-the-shoulder peasant blouse. A cheerful print scarf was wound through her short, curly black bob. Her wide blue eyes started to sparkle as soon as she spotted us.

“Chérie! And Nicky! Mon Dieu! Come here and give me some sugar. I have missed the two of you.”

I ran forward and let myself be enveloped in a bear hug to end all bear hugs. Chantal might be tiny—five two and ninety-eight pounds soaking wet—but thanks to her gym membership she’s pretty much all muscle. She released me and we both looked down at the source of the plaintive “meow.”

“Ach, I could not forget about my favorite cat or model! Have you been behaving yourself?” Chantal hefted all twenty-plus pounds of Nick into her arms and snuggled her nose into his soft black fur.

“I think he enjoyed seeing his image on the wall. When did that go up?” I asked.

“Remy put it up while I was away. Do you like it?” Chantal leaned over to coo in the cat’s ear. “Nicky is my good luck charm. We sold a dozen collars in the last week!”

I wondered how many sales could be attributed to Nick’s poster versus Chantal’s sheer determination and salesmanship, but Nick’s lips peeled back and he rubbed his head against Chantal’s arm. She scratched him in his favorite spot, the white streak behind his ear, before turning to me. “So, how are you, chérie? You look—excuse the expression—like the proverbial cat who ate the canary.”

“That’s because I just landed a fabulous catering job, and, drum roll please, I may have another mystery to solve.”

Chantal grinned broadly. “Well, I can guess which of those two is responsible for your Cheshire Cat expression. As far as the catering goes, you know I will help you in any way I can, chérie, just as long as I do not have to do any actual cooking.”

I laughed at that. My friend is probably one of the only people on the planet who can’t boil water.

“No cooking. I just need a crash course in the Arthurian legends. I’m catering the Cruz Museum Gala. They’re—”

“Hosting that medieval exhibit,” Chantal finished. “I know. There was much discussion of this upcoming exhibit and the grimoire at the fair. Everyone was surprised Sir Meecham agreed to show the grimoire over here after what happened in London.”

I eased my hip against a glass case. “Let me guess. Someone tried to steal it.”

Chantal’s head bobbed up and down, her eyes wide. “Yes. They did not succeed, but a guard was badly injured and several artifacts were damaged. The guard got off a shot that he thought might have injured the thief, and it was touch and go with his own injuries for a while, but he recovered. After that the security was increased tenfold.” Her finger shot out, stopping scant inches from my nose. “This could be a very dangerous undertaking.”

“Well,” I sighed, “at least now I understand why the Cruz police force has been placed on retainer.”

“Hm. Nothing against our erstwhile police force, but it might not be a bad idea to call in the big guns, too—like, say, a certain FBI agent?” Chantal remarked innocently.

I shot my friend a sharp grimace. I’d first met FBI Special Agent Daniel Corleone when I was investigating the death of Lola Grainger, and even though we’d gotten off to a rocky start professionally, personally sparks had flown. Getting together wasn’t easy, due mostly to Daniel’s heavy caseload schedule, but we’d managed to eke out a few dates, albeit they’d been mostly lunch. “I don’t think guarding an ancient sorceress’s book of spells is high on the FBI priority list. Besides, Daniel’s busy with a case right now,” I said.

“It is not just any book of spells. It is considered a valuable historical relic. And Daniel apparently is not too busy to skip meals.” Her smirk was firmly in place, and I had to resist the urge to slap it right off her. “Don’t think I don’t know the two of you had dinner together at Le Bistro two nights ago.”

I stared at her. “How in the world do you know that? You were out of town.”

She tapped her temple. “Psychic, remember? I see all, know all.”

I snorted. “Psychic my petunias. Remy told you. I thought I saw him at the counter getting takeout.”

Chantal grinned even more smugly, if such a thing were possible. “It doesn’t matter how I know. What matters is how it went. After all, it was your first official date, no?”

“Well, it was the first time we didn’t get interrupted by an emergency call from the field office, if that’s what you mean. We had dinner, and, yes, it was fun.”

“Excellent,” she squealed, clapping her hands. “And how did dessert go?”

“I had frozen yogurt. Daniel had chocolate cake.”

“Not that kind of dessert,” Chantal said, bouncing her eyebrows. “I meant dessert.”

“We kissed.” I smiled reminiscently. Daniel was an excellent kisser. “And that’s all. We’re taking things slow.” At her look I added, “It was a mutual agreement. We’ve both had less than stellar relationships, and we’re cautious. There’s nothing wrong with that.”

“Hmm?” Chantal cocked her brow at me. “So this desire to take it slow has nothing at all to do with your recent reconnection with a certain homicide detective in St. Leo?”

I bit back the grr that rumbled deep in my throat. A few weeks ago, while trying to clear my sister of a murder charge, I’d become reacquainted with a blast from my past in the form of insufferable homicide detective Leroy Samms. Samms and I do share a history, and I’d be lying if I said our recent encounter hadn’t stirred up old feelings, but I’m totally over it. I’ve moved on.

At least that’s what I keep telling myself.

“I wouldn’t jump to conclusions if I were you.”

“It’s hard not to,” my friend replied with a curl of her lip, “since I, whom you claim am your best friend in the whole wide world, know virtually nothing about your relationship with this mystery man.”

I wagged my finger at her. “Nice try, but I’m not falling for the guilt trip act. Besides, there’s nothing to tell. It was a long time ago.”

Chantal’s eyes narrowed. “Uh-huh.”

“Suffice it to say Samms is a part of my past and leave it at that. Or you could just ask your tarot cards,” I said lightly.

“I have done that. They hint at a relationship much deeper than you profess.”

I should have known, I thought, giving myself a mental slap. “Okay, fine. Samms and I met when we worked on the college paper during our senior year. I admit I was attracted to him.”

“Ah, now we are getting somewhere. Was the feeling mutual?”

“Honest? To this day, I’m not sure. He had a lot, and I do mean a lot, of girls after him. We were like oil and water from the first day. He knew then and still knows now how to push my buttons, particularly with his nicknames for me.” I made a face. “Right before graduation, we were working late. We’d finished up a really rough story, and Samms had some wine, said we deserved a celebration.” I pushed my hand through my hair. “We celebrated all right—straight through to the next day actually.”

Chantal’s eyes widened. “Ooh, chérie! Do you mean—”

“No,” I said quickly. “There was some kissing involved—okay, a lot of kissing—but nothing else happened. Or at least I don’t think it did.” I grimaced. “We both got pretty toasted.”

“And Samms didn’t remember, either?”

“I don’t know. I left while he was still asleep, and I avoided him like the plague after that, which was pretty easy, considering we were graduating the next day. I got my diploma, got on the train for Chicago, and that was that.”

Chantal’s brow lifted. “So the first time you saw him in, what, eighteen years was when your sister was arrested?”

I nodded. “That’s right. I threw myself into my career, and as far as I know, Samms never made any attempt to find me. Which only goes to prove we’re all wrong for each other.”

Chantal frowned. “That’s not necessarily true. And you don’t know for certain he never tried to find you. Did you ask him?”

“I’m certainly not going to ask him something like that,” I huffed. “Not after all these years. Anyway, he never brought the subject up while I was in St. Leo, so it’s a moot point.”

“You don’t know that,” my friend protested. “He might have felt just as awkward as you, broaching it.”

“I doubt that. One thing Samms is not is awkward. Anyway, I never gave it a second thought in all these years.” Liar, my brain screamed. I pointed at Nick. “Right now, he’s the only serious male in my future. He’s handsome, attentive, and doesn’t talk back. Who could ask for more?” Before my friend could answer my rhetorical question I went on, “So, back to the present. What do you know about Violet Crenshaw?”

“Violet? She is richer than King Midas, and a crusty old broad I wouldn’t want to tangle with. Why do you ask? Is she part of the mystery you hinted at?”

“You could say that. She and Nan were at Hot Bread discussing the gala. On her way out, she said she had something to discuss with me that she thought I might be interested in. A disappearance and a possible murder.”

Chantal’s eyes almost popped out of her head. “That is certainly strange, chérie. Do you think she was serious?”

“With Violet it’s hard to tell, but oddly, yes.”

“I wonder who she meant?” My friend started to tick off possibilities on her fingers. “A friend? She doesn’t have too many. A relative? She’s a widow with no immediate family to speak of. Her husband died of natural causes so . . . who could it be?”

“Don’t know, but rest assured I’ll find out. I’d have grilled her more but she waltzed out while I was reeling from her little bombshell—which, I think, is just what she wanted.” I sighed. “Right now, though, I need a crash course in the Arthurian legends.”

Chantal crossed over to the counter, reached below, and pulled up a deck of cards, which she held aloft. “The Arthurian Tarot. The quickest way I know of to get a crash course in the Arthurian legends. Stick with me, mon cher, and soon you’ll know all of ’em like a pro.” She shuffled the cards, laid them down, and turned over the top one. “Let’s start with Guinevere, shall we?”

*   *   *

An hour later Nick and I said our good-byes and left. My mind was swimming with character names, descriptions, and possible recipes I could put to each one. Of course I only had three days to do all this but hey, not to sound like a broken record, but we Charles women do love a challenge.

“And speaking of challenges, I think we should research those attempted thefts involving that grimoire when we get home, especially the one Chantal told us about. If thieves tried to steal it once, they might try again. We certainly don’t need anything like that spoiling our party, do we, boy?”

Nick, curled up in a ball in the passenger seat, opened his mouth, yawned, and then hunkered back down, his chin resting on his forepaws.

“I suppose you’re right. I shouldn’t worry about it. I should leave it in the hands of the pros. Sorry to bore you.” I had to admit, though, I was a bit concerned. A masked ball seemed the perfect backdrop for a theft to take place. I snapped my seat belt into place and jumped as my cell phone chimed. I glanced at the caller ID and then flipped it open.

“Oliver J. Sampson. You must be psychic. I was thinking of giving you a call.”

“Psychic, eh? I’ve been called worse.” Oliver J. Sampson—Ollie to his friends, which include me—is a big man of color, about six three at least, and well over two hundred twenty pounds, but when he snickers, he sounds like a little girl. “Got some time for me? I need to see you.”

I sucked in a breath. “You heard back from the lab.”

Slight hesitation and then, “I’d rather not talk about it over the phone. Tell you what. I’m free after ten a.m. tomorrow. Can you get away from the shop and stop by?”

“Mollie’s working a full day tomorrow so I sure can. See you then.”

I hung up and twisted the key in the ignition, sliding a glance toward Nick as I did so. Nick shifted his position on the seat, and I frowned as I noticed a pale brown square wedged under his tummy. “What have you got there, fella?” I poked at his tummy and he shifted slightly, affording me a better look at his prize.

It was a Scrabble tile, the letter A.

I shook my head. I’d long given up on trying to figure out how Nick got his paws on things, especially Scrabble tiles—the only thing to surpass catnip mice as his favorite plaything in the whole wide world. I reached out and picked up the tile, turned it over in my hand.

“A,” I murmured. “A is Bronson Pichard’s middle initial. It’s also the first initial of Nick Atkins’s girlfriend—Angelique. The one Pichard thought might know something about what happened to him.” I’d meant to quiz Ollie about her when I’d first found out, but our schedules had both been pretty out of sync.

“Er-ewl,” bleated Nick. He scraped his paw against my seat cover.

“Right. I’ve been dreadfully remiss in my sleuthing. That’s why I have you, right, bud? To keep me on track.” I slipped the tile into my jacket pocket and eased away from the curb. “So once we hear Ollie’s news, we’ll grill him about Angelique, and maybe even Violet Crenshaw, too. Maybe we might finally get closer to uncovering the truth about what happened to your former master.”

He just stared straight ahead. Either Nick hadn’t understood what I’d said, or he simply didn’t care.

I’m not ashamed to say that honestly . . . I hoped for the latter.