Murder Faux Paws

By Toni LoTempio

When a local PI’s untimely death is ruled a suicide by the police, budding sleuth Nora Charles has no intention of letting sleeping dogs lie—or sleeping cats, for that matter. Certain it was a case of foul play, Nora rouses her trusty sidekick Nick and launches an investigation of her own. Then a second PI is murdered, and Nora knows the two men were on to something—and that she’s on to something too.

Following the enigmatic clues left by her late predecessors, Nora soon uncovers a plot that involves a local politician, missing campaign funds, and what could be a bogus real estate deal. But when hints of treason surface, what started as small-time thievery soon balloons into a matter of national security. With the uncanny Nick sniffing out—and spelling out—leads, Nora follows a trail that will take her to the heart of a shadowy conspiracy, and into a trap set by a conniving culprit that will have her wishing she had Nick’s nine lives . . .

Praise for the Nick and Nora Mysteries:

“Hiss H for Homicide packs all the trimmings into its classic cozy structure in smooth, silky fashion. William Powell and Myrna Loy played the original Nick and Nora Charles in the classic Thin Man films, and LoTempio does them great justice in this masterpiece of the genre that leaves no stone, or cat treat, unturned.” —Jon Land, Providence Journal

“If you like hard-boiled old crime fiction, you will find parts here to scratch your itch. If you are looking for a cozy mystery with elements of romance (whose team will you be on?), get comfy and prepare to be intrigued.” —Laura’s Interests

“Ms. LoTempio has crafted a superior mystery for this series return.” —Escape With Dollycas

“With its wonderful characters, perfectly paced plot, and perplexing mystery, Hiss H for Homicide is a must-read for cozy mystery lovers.” —Christy’s Cozy Corners

“Excellently plotted and executed—five paws and a tail up for this tale.” —Open Book Society

About the Author:

T. C. LoTempio is the national bestselling author of the Nick and Nora mystery series. Her cat, Rocco, provides the inspiration for the character of Nick the cat. She also writes the Urban Tails Pet Shop Mystery Series, as well as the Cat Rescue series.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Beyond the Page Publishing
• Release date: Feb 22, 2022
• ISBN: 9781954717664

Book preview

Prologue

Someone’s watching me.

The thought flitted like a bee seeking pollen through Whip Jennings’s mind and he paused, flicking a surreptitious glance over one shoulder. The weather so far was typical of Northern California in mid-December: pleasant, with just a slight nip in the air. Now, however, it seemed the weatherman’s dire predictions of an evening storm were coming true. Above, swords of lightning slashed the early evening sky, and a rumble of thunder could be heard in the distance. A light breeze sprang up and he turned up the collar of his coat as he glanced first right, then left. He was alone on the darkened street. His grip tightened on the scarred leather briefcase clutched tightly in his hand.

He’d barely taken ten steps when the sensation of angry eyes boring into his back washed over him again. Another quick glance produced the same result: save for a pigeon resting on a nearby telephone pole, he was quite alone. A sudden explosion of thunder spurred him to move on, but before he’d taken two steps droplets of rain caressed his face. He ducked into the first available doorway, squinting at the sign in the window: Neilson’s Used Books

The door burst open and two women emerged, chatting away, large shopping bags clutched in their hands. As the door swung shut he caught a glimpse of shelves stacked to overflowing with books, and a large table in the center of the room with a sign: All Books $1.99.

A vivid streak of lightning split the sky and a sheet of rain descended just as Whip pushed open the door. He walked slowly over to the sale table, noted the books all seemed to be in fairly good shape. One in particular caught his eye, a volume bound in red leather. He picked it up and ran his finger over the gold embossed title—Complete Works of William Shakespeare—then jumped as someone touched his arm. It was a girl, no more than nineteen. The blue name tag pinned to her white blouse said her name was Juliet.

Aha—a definite sign, one he could not ignore.

That’s a nice book, Juliet said and smiled at him. Do you like Shakespeare?

He smiled back. I do, actually. My girlfriend can’t believe I enjoy reading the Bard, but I can’t think of any modern author who can get a point across better. He closed the book with a snap. I’ll take it.

Great, she said, plucking the book from his outstretched hand. Come right over here.

He followed her to the counter, where she rang up the sale, and he was just about to pull out his wallet when his gaze wandered to a small alcove off to one side. The sign above it read Stationery Supplies. Wait a second, he said. He hurried over to the alcove, returned a few minutes later with a large padded envelope. I don’t suppose you sell stamps here too, he said jokingly.

We’re a full-service store. Juliet’s hand dipped beneath the counter, and she pulled out a roll of stamps. How many would you like?

When Whip emerged from the store a half hour later, he was pleasantly surprised to find the rain had stopped. He cast a wary eye at the ominous black clouds still overhead and pushed forward, making only one brief stop at the corner mailbox. He reached his office building just as more jagged streaks of lightning stabbed murderously across the sky and another clap of thunder sounded. His fingers hesitated over the alarm pad as a slight movement in the deep shrubbery across the street caught his eye, and then a small bird emerged, flew straight up into the spreading oak.

Nerves. Get over it.

He punched in the code, walked swiftly in, then took the stairs, two at a time, up to his corner office on the third floor. Once inside, he flicked on the lights and bit back an expletive at the sight that met his startled gaze. His office looked as if a tornado had ripped through it. The drawers of his two scarred file cabinets had been pulled out, the contents scattered across his threadbare rug. Every single book had been ripped from the shelves of the tall bookcase that stood next to the window, and the top of his desk had been wiped clean. The neat stack of file folders Ruby had arranged for him only that morning lay tossed in a pile near the washroom door.

He stepped gingerly over the pile of papers and made his way to the desk. He opened the bottom drawer, pulled the book of Shakespeare out of his briefcase and tossed it inside, then slammed the drawer shut and pulled the phone in front of him, punched in a number. When the answering machine kicked on, he said, Hey, Dollface, it’s me. I need you to do me a big favor. Check your mail, okay. Real careful. If anything should happen to me, I need you to read what’s in there about Bill, okay? It’s important that when you do, you remember what I told you that afternoon we went to Malibu—damn! He swore softly as her answering machine cut him off. He disconnected, punched in another number and swore softly when this one went to voicemail too before leaving another brief message. That done, he pushed his chair back, and suddenly his whole body went rigid. His head whipped around to the door. He was positive he’d closed it, but now it stood slightly ajar. Sweat broke out on his forehead, and he swiped at it with the back of his hand.

Cool. Keep cool.

His fingers reached toward the drawer where he kept his gun and then he felt something, like the prick of a bumblebee, on his neck. His hand shot up, closed over something cold and hard. He gave a swift yank and stared at the object in his palm.

A small dart.

The dizziness washed over him like a tidal wave, so intense his knees buckled out from under him. His vision blurred, everything was hazy, wavy . . . but he could make out the shadowy outline of a figure, standing in the doorway. He jerked open the drawer, reached inside, and then recoiled as his fingers touched . . . nothing. His .45 was gone.

Looking for this? hissed a voice. Whip cringed slightly as he felt the barrel of a gun press against his temple. I’ll ask you once. Where is it? I know you have it.

Have what? His mouth felt like it was filled with cotton, and little pinpricks of light danced in front of his eyes. I don’t know what you’re talking about.

Don’t try my patience, the intruder snarled. It’s wearing very thin. Now, tell me where it is.

Whip tried to focus. And if I do, you’ll let me live? He barked out a dry laugh. We both know that’s not true. His fingers closed around the arms of the chair. I guess you’d better kill me now, because you’re not getting anything out of me. And with that, Whip let go of the chair arms and sprang upward.

Bang.

Whip’s whole body jerked and then went still. He dropped back into the chair, arm dangling to one side, eyes staring straight ahead as a lone trickle of blood oozed from his temple. A gloved hand wrapped Whip’s cold fingers around the butt of the gun, placed a neatly typed slip of paper on the desk. Then the intruder walked out the door, letting it swing shut with a click as lifeless as the man slumped sideways in the chair.

One

Ya gotta watch out for those females, am I right? The ones who come to you for help, claiming some guy screwed up their life. They want you to be Bogie to their Bacall, but believe me, it doesn’t work that way. Do you agree, Ms. Charles?

The man in the front of the classroom fixed his gaze on me and rubbed his hands together, while I slouched down just a bit lower in the uncomfortable metal chair. I was seven weeks into my twelve-week private investigation course, and up until this moment I’d really enjoyed it. Our regular instructor was out, and the substitute, a PI named Claymore Jarvis, was a real character, to say the least. He reminded me of a taller version of Columbo. He didn’t have a trench coat, but his suit jacket and shirt were rumpled, as if he’d slept in his clothes, and his pants rode low on his hips, a bit of a belly protruding over the waistband. His eyes were a stormy gray, an exact match for the thick mass of hair on his head. He leaned one hip into the desk and crossed his arms over his chest, and closed one eye in a broad wink. Come on, now, don’t be shy. Tell us what you really think.

I was afraid if I did that I’d be arrested, so instead I drummed my nails against the dented Formica table and smiled sweetly. What I think is, it’d be a little difficult for me to play Bogie to anyone’s Bacall. I might be able to pull off a Vivian Rutledge, or a Slim Browning, though.

Jarvis’s expression didn’t change an iota, so there was no way to tell if he were impressed by my knowledge of the characters Bacall played in films she’d done with Bogie. His gaze darted around the room as he rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet. You’d be surprised how often a woman will seek out a female PI. Solidarity and all that, right? The important thing is to be true to yourself. Never, never, ever let the client try and tell you how to run your investigation. He shook his head. Been there, done that, and let me tell you . . . it never works out well.

He moved over to the desk, riffled through a pile of papers, then straightened and jabbed his finger in the air. So? Who takes a PI class anyway? Most people who go into this line of work are either ex-cops or retired military. Or—he chuckled with a sideways glance in my direction—an ex-reporter who just likes to solve mysteries, or write about them for magazines. Maybe you were injured on the job, or you had a problem with a supervisor . . . it happens. But no matter what your reason is for being here, you can take this to the bank. Being a PI is no cakewalk. No siree. If you’re just here for a lark, or because you have nothing better to do, or you just want a place to wear out your old clothes, then get out now. He pointed dramatically toward the door. "PI work isn’t for you. It’s hard, challenging, and often unrewarding work.

Investigative strengths aren’t something you’re born with, even though the detectives and PI’s in movies and on television make it seem easy. Sam Spade, Jim Rockford, even Sherlock Holmes—none of ’em had investigative ability in their DNA. One of the first things a PI learns to do is hone his, or her, he added, with a half smile in my direction, powers of observation and concentration. It’s not like on television. Evidence rarely falls into an investigator’s hands. A real investigator works to obtain evidence using his powers of observation. What is observation? A product of concentration. For example. He glanced at the sheet on the desk again, then looked up. Mr. Redmond.

A chair scraped back with a loud squeak. Yes, sir.

Turn around and face the wall. Once Redmond had complied, Jarvis said, The man seated next to you, Alvin Lang, right? Describe him.

Six foot, broad-shouldered, dark almost ink-colored hair, light complexion. He’s got on a white and blue striped sweater, washed denim jeans and very scruffy boots.

Stand up, Mr. Lang, Jarvis instructed. Lang did so, and it was evident Redmond had noticed him. He’d gotten everything right, even down to the well-worn boots. Lang resumed his seat and Jarvis said, Very good, although that was an easy one. After all, you’ve been sitting next to him for well over an hour. Let’s try another. Jarvis’s gaze fell right on me. Describe Ms. Charles. What does she look like, what is she wearing?

There was some very loud clearing of the throat, and then he mumbled, Well, she’s about average height, dark brown hair and eyes. She’s got on black slacks, and a crew-neck sweater that’s some kind of pinky color, I think.

A few snickers arose, but died quickly as Jarvis cast his icy stare around the room. You can turn around now, Mr. Redmond. He wiggled his chubby fingers in my direction. Ms. Charles, would you step up here to the front of the room?

I could feel my cheeks start to flame, but I did as requested. I paused in front of the first row of desks and Jarvis walked over to stand next to me.

As you can see, Ms. Charles has red hair— At my sharp intake of breath, he shot me a mischievous grin. Sorry. I’ll bet you like to call it auburn, right? Her eyes are green, and she’s certainly much taller than average. His gaze ran the entire length of my body, finally resting on my leggings. While they’re not exactly traditional slacks, I’ll give you the black part. Her sweater, though, is V-necked and I’d call it violet, not pink. He waved his hand at me. Face the blackboard, he barked. I complied and he said, Your turn. Ms. Charles, describe Mr. Redmond for me.

I closed my eyes to visualize him. Nearly six foot, good build, might have played sports at one time. Sandy hair, light blue eyes, slight stubble on his chin, as if he’s either started to grow a beard or forgot to shave. His slacks are khaki-colored. They fit him a bit loosely around the waist and he’s wearing a shirt of the same color, unbuttoned at the collar.

For a few brief minutes there was complete and total silence. Then a smattering of applause broke out. I could feel heat sear my cheeks as Jarvis bowed at me. You may be seated, thank you. Now, class, what have we learned from this little exercise?

There was dead silence, and then a tall, thin Asian man in the back piped up, That Mr. Redmond needs glasses?

There was a smattering of light laughter, which quickly stopped as Jarvis spoke again. Possibly, but I think it’s simpler than that. From a few comments he’s made tonight, I got the impression Mr. Redmond believes PI work is a man’s world and women should not be in this class. He was able to describe the man sitting next to him in detail, while it was pitifully obvious he’d paid scant attention to the only woman here. Ms. Charles, on the other hand, obviously paid attention to him. All of which proves my point! Jarvis raised a finger in the air. "A good PI cannot let personal feelings get in the way, especially when he’s paid to do a job. You might have to sit on surveillance for long periods of time, so you must be able to stay alert and focused on what you are looking for.

Observation and concentration are also related to motivation. Observant people can be motivated by many things: curiosity, desire, pride, security, the desire to succeed. He paused, and for a second his icy stare bored into me. Even fear can be a motivator, and I’m not talking about paralyzing fear, the kind you’d feel facing down the barrel of a .45. It’s the fear that you might not get the job done, that you might miss your chance to follow your suspect, or you might not get that shot Mrs. Peabody needs for her divorce.

He glanced up at the clock and let out a low whistle. Wow, time does fly when you’re having fun, right? Unfortunately, Ira Phillips won’t be able to be here next week either, so . . . He opened his briefcase and pulled out a stack of papers, which he set on the edge of the desk. You’re all stuck with me, for another week anyway. Here’s your reading material for our next class. We’ll be discussing PPC. Perseverance, patience and courage. We’ll also discuss keeping secrets. A good PI’s best friend is his, or her, tame tongue. He paused and let his gaze rest briefly on me before flicking it forward. And perhaps we’ll do another little exercise on observation. No groaning, now, he said, raising his hand traffic-cop style.

Jarvis settled into the leather chair, and almost immediately the chairs scraped back and the students crowded around the desk. I waited until the line thinned out before I slipped on my light fleece jacket and slung my trusty tote bag over my shoulder. Out of the corner of my eye I noticed Jarvis watching me like a hawk as I bent to pick up the sheaf of assigned reading. He cleared his throat and leaned forward. "You are the same Nora Charles who used to write for the Chicago Tribune, aren’t you? The ‘Dark Streets’ column, right? At my nod he rubbed his hands together. I read about your part in the Lola Grainger case, and about how you cleared your sister of murder. If you ask me, you could have saved your money. You’re already a pretty good investigator."

It was on the tip of my tongue to say the course had been a gift, but I thought better of it. Thanks, but I’m sure there’s still a great deal I could learn.

He cocked his head to one side. "PI work isn’t the same as being a homicide detective. Now, that’s a field I could see you going into."

"Thanks, but I have no plans to change my career. I’m really just doing this to write a series of articles on private investigation for Noir. At his puzzled look I added, It’s a true crime online magazine. I do freelancing for them."

Ah. He clucked his tongue. That’s a shame, because it seems you have a certain knack for this sort of thing. It would be a pity not to put it into actual practice. He looked at me for a long moment and then grabbed the stack of papers, shoved them into his briefcase. Stay sharp, Ms. Charles. You never know, I might need your help someday soon.

I looked at him. My help? Whatever for?

His phone rang and he whipped the cell out of his pocket and snapped it on, turning away from me as he did so. Jarvis. Yeah, yeah, I’m listening. What have you got for me?

I was all the way down to the ground floor when I realized I’d left my notebook on the desk. I glanced at the winding staircase and sighed. I wasn’t exactly thrilled about making another trek up three flights of stairs, but I was afraid if I waited to retrieve the book until the next class, there was a good chance it would most likely be relegated to the nearest garbage pail, since I kept forgetting to write my name on the cover.

I took the stairs up a lot slower than I had going down, so it was a good ten minutes before I reached the third floor, which now appeared deserted. As I approached the classroom I saw the light was still on, and as I drew nearer I heard the murmur of voices. One sounded distinctly feminine.

I paused right outside the door. I could hear the words more clearly now. I peeped around the edge of the door. Jarvis was sitting in the leather chair, hands laced behind his neck. He was looking at a woman whose back was to me, so I couldn’t see her features at all. She had good legs, a trim-fitting red coat and nice suede boots to match. Her curly blonde hair was cut in a chin-length bob that bounced as she shook her head emphatically.

You know you’re playing with fire, she said. Her voice was high-pitched and slightly nasal. Do you want to take that chance?

Jarvis leaned over and mumbled something too low for me to catch any words. The blonde straightened up, then her hand shot out and her finger jabbed at Jarvis’s nose.

Go ahead, put yourself in danger. Just leave me out of it, I’m warning you. I frowned, and even though her words piqued my curiosity, my common sense told me that it probably wasn’t a good idea to interrupt just then. I moved away from the doorway and started back toward the stairs, mentally debating whether I should wait around for a bit or just leave, when I heard an angry female voice shout out, Don’t bother me with this again, or I might do something we’ll both regret. I saw an empty classroom and ducked into it seconds before the blonde barreled past. I got a good look at her face as she made a beeline for the stairway. If it weren’t for the grim expression, I’d almost have called her beautiful. As I watched her race down the stairs, I was gripped by a niggling feeling of familiarity.

I’d seen that girl somewhere before. But where?

Two

It was a little after nine p.m. when I walked through the front door of my favorite watering hole. Cruz’s only watering hole, in fact. The Poker Face is owned and operated by my former high school flame, Lance Reynolds, and his brother Phil. The focal point is, of course, the long, dark wood bar, where Lance mixes up both simple and complex concoctions that have earned him a well-deserved reputation as Cruz’s Master of Mixology. There are a few tables scattered about the interior, but the main seating area is the row of booths that occupy the wall opposite the bar. As I entered, I noticed two of my favorite people enjoying frosty mugs.

Louis Blondell, the owner and chief editor of Noir digital crime magazine, is in his early forties, overweight and balding while Ollie (short for Oliver J. Sampson, I kid you not), with his six-three, two-hundred-ten-pound frame, resembles a bouncer more than a PI. His mocha skin is a bit on the leathery side, from years of alcohol abuse. I met Ollie when his partner, Nick Atkins, had gone MIA and his cat had decided to adopt me as his new owner. It was mainly at Ollie’s insistence that I’d agreed to accept Violet Crenshaw’s gift of a PI course as a reward for my part in reuniting her with her missing niece, Alexa Martin (who, coincidentally, just happens to be Nick Atkins’s ex-girlfriend, but that’s a whole other kettle of fish). Ollie remains ever hopeful that I might one day consent to join him in the PI business, at least on a part-time basis.

They both glanced up and saw me at the same time and waved me over. I paused long enough to order a cold one at the bar before

Reviews for Murder Faux Paws

[jetangen4571 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

family, family-business, family-dynamics, private-investigators, law-enforcement, murder, murder-investigation, situational-humor, verbal-humor, romantic, friction, friendship, cat, former-journalist, small-business, small-town, cozy-mystery, scrabble-game, sandwich-shop*****Nick is a pudgy Tuxedo cat who spells out clues with scrabble tiles. Nora is a former journalist who returned home to take over the family sandwich shop, is currently working to get her Private Investigator's license, and STILL can't decide which law enforcement agent she prefers. The first PI seemed to have committed suicide, the second was no accident, and the sleuthing needs to get serious now! No spoilers and the publisher's blurb is a great hook! Great read!I requested and received a free e-book copy from Beyond the Page Publishing via NetGalley. Thank you!