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

PRAISE FOR
MEOW IF IT’S MURDER

“Nick and Nora are a winning team. The crafty feline manages to stay one paw ahead of his new owner—and the criminals in Cruz, California.”

—Rebecca M. Hale,
New York Times
bestselling author of
How to Paint a Cat

“
Meow If It’s Murder
is an absolute delight and Nick and Nora make a purr-fect mystery-solving team! I couldn’t put it down!”

—Michelle Rowen, national bestselling author of
From Fear to Eternity

“Nick and Nora are the
purrfect
sleuthy duo!”

—Victoria Laurie,
New York Times
bestselling author of the Psychic Eye Mysteries

“If it’s murder, meow for the fabulous new crime-fighting team on the cozy crime scene, Nick and Nora. T. C. LoTempio concocts a triple-decker sandwich of murder, danger, and delight as feisty former big-city crime reporter Nora partners with small-town Nick, a loner with a mysterious past . . . and a tail. Nick so brims with street smarts and feline charisma, you’d almost think he was human, and Nick and Nora pursue suspects aplenty in an action-laced start to an exciting new series.”

—Carole Nelson Douglas,
New York Times
notable author of the Midnight Louie series

“A clever debut featuring a wild and furry sleuthing duo . . . a big ‘paws-up’ for
Meow If It’s Murder
! . . . a fast-paced cozy mystery spiced with a dash of romance and topped with a big slice of ‘cat-itude.’”

—Ali Brandon, author of
Literally Murder

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MEOW IF IT’S MURDER

A Berkley Prime Crime Book / published by arrangement with the author

Copyright © 2014 by Toni LoTempio.

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eBook ISBN: 978-1-101-63850-7

PUBLISHING HISTORY

Berkley Prime Crime mass-market edition / December 2014

Cover illustration by Mary Ann Lasher.

Cover design by George Long.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

PUBLISHER’S NOTE: The recipes contained in this book are to be followed exactly as written. The publisher is not responsible for your specific health or allergy needs that may require medical supervision. The publisher is not responsible for any adverse reactions to the recipes contained in this book.

For Charlotte and Dominick LoTempio
aka Mom and Dad—
the first one’s for you!

They say writing is a solitary journey, but what goes into the preparation in getting a novel ready for publication is anything but. That said, I owe a ton of thanks to my fabulous agent, Josh Getzler, and his marvelous assistants, both present and past, Danielle and Maddie, and my amazing editor, Faith Black, for believing in this series and for taking a chance on me, Nora, and Nick. Kudos also to the entire editorial team at Berkley Prime Crime: especially George Long, cover designer, and Mary Ann Lasher, cover artist—this cover rocks!

I have a host of loyal friends (not enough room to list you all, but you know who you are!) to thank for understanding that writing is indeed a solitary business—if I’ve ignored you guys during the process, please know it wasn’t intentional. There are a few, however, who deserve special mention for support above and beyond: Barbara Quellen and her husband, Danny Corleone, who generously lent his name to a character; Heather Massey, who’s always willing to proofread and share helpful ideas; Vi Kizis, my muse—enough said; Kurt Hanson, a fellow “indie”; Debbie Scassera, owner of Footnotes Bookstore in Clifton; and Garrett Lothe, who jump-started my lagging writing career when he hired me on the staff of
Susabella Passengers
. I’ve got to give a shout out, too, to
all
the authors who have appeared on Rocco’s blog over the years. I wish there was enough room to list each and every one of you! I do have to give special mention to the authors who agreed to read an ARC of this novel (and with no arm-twisting, either!): MaryJanice Davidson, Carole Nelson Douglas, Michelle Rowen, Victoria Laurie, Miranda James, Rebecca M. Hale, Ali Brandon, Rose Pressey—thank you!

Speaking of Rocco’s blog, I would definitely be remiss if I neglected to thank my tubby tuxedo—the inspiration for Nick—and the good folks at the Clifton Animal Shelter, from which I adopted him some years ago. Thanks also to Liz Taranda at CAS for her patience and assistance with the taking of the photo, and also a special mention to Fred!

A special note of thanks also goes to two extraordinary people: my former supervisor at my day job, John Erdos, who looked me in the eye and said, “Forget the vampires . . . why don’t you write a book about your cat?” (always have a backup plan!), and the amazing author and creator of Midnight Louie, Carole Nelson Douglas, who advised me to “do the rewrites and don’t look back.” Wise advice from both of you, and I thank you from the bottom of my heart.

Last but not least, a special shout-out for a dear friend no longer with me: MaryLou Ricciardi. You were always my biggest supporter, and you would have been so proud. RIP, dear friend.

L
ola never knew what hit her.

She was exhausted; Kevin’s “business slash pleasure” cruises always took a toll on her, and she was more than a bit annoyed he’d chosen this particular weekend for one—after all, tomorrow was their fifteenth wedding anniversary. She knew he’d been under a lot of strain lately, though, what with the new laser device KMG was developing for the Army—not only was he under pressure to deliver the product on time, but there had been rumblings of a corporate spy in KMG’s midst. She wondered vaguely if that was the real reason behind this impromptu cruise. Why else would he have dragged his three key people along on a weekend that should have been meant solely for the two of them? And people she didn’t particularly like, to boot?

Not to mention the fact she’d much rather be celebrating on dry land. A shudder rippled through her. She’d always been fearful of lakes, rivers, the ocean in particular. The only water she felt comfortable in was a tub, or a Jacuzzi. Perhaps it was silly, but she could never shake the fear—why, hadn’t a psychic warned her of danger only a few weeks ago?

It almost seemed as if Death were stalking her.

She slipped out of her blue-and-red silk caftan and removed all her jewelry, except for the cherry pearl studs Kevin had given her for Christmas. She donned a pair of sweats to ward off the night chill, and slipped her feet into her well-worn scruffs. After a few moments’ consideration, she crossed to her husband’s closet and pulled one of his down vests out and slipped it on, then rubbed her arms. Damn, what she wouldn’t give for a drink right now! But that would entail returning to the main cabin and rejoining the others—and she had other more important things to do.

She could hear the soft murmur of voices as she tiptoed past the main cabin, and risked taking a quick peek. Marshall Connor and Buck Tabor were huddled in one corner, talking, while her husband and his admin, Patti Simmons, were on the divan. She saw the way Patti’s hand roved possessively across her husband’s arm, and Lola felt the warm color rise to her cheeks—then she steadied herself and moved swiftly down the corridor, past the kitchen, where the captain was seated, enjoying a brandy, and made her way toward the guest staterooms.

If she ever had a shot at finding out the truth, it was now or never.

*   *   *

A
half hour later Lola perched on the edge of her king-size bed. Her hands were clammy, slick with sweat, and her whole body shook with suppressed—what?

Anger? Fear? Rage?

No . . . panic.

Her fingers roved restlessly across the envelope she’d taken from one of the cabins. What was it her dear departed friend Laura Charles used to say?

An eavesdropper rarely hears anything good about themselves
.

Well, she hadn’t been eavesdropping, but she had been snooping. And she’d found just what her source had said she would . . . which certainly explained a lot. Now she knew the reason behind her husband’s recent foul mood swings, his often irrational irritability, the time he’d spent away from home. It was completely understandable, if what she’d found out was indeed true.

Even though Kevin hadn’t been completely honest with her, one thing she knew. No one threatened her family. No one.

She wished she could talk to Laura Charles. Her friend had always been so sensible, so levelheaded. She would have known just what to do—but Laura was dead. There was only one other person she could depend on now.

She reached for her Dooney & Bourke, rummaged inside for her iPhone. She clicked it on, opened up her directory, scrolled down—and yes! She had put it in. She clicked on the number, let out an agitated sigh when it went into voice mail.

“Hi, it’s me. You were right. I found it hidden just where you thought it might be. I can’t believe Kevin kept this from me . . . it’s no small matter. Why, it could put me in danger! I’m so mad at him . . .” Her voice began to shake and she paused to take a deep, calming breath. “Listen—I’m going to have a showdown. Kevin will probably kill me, but—this can’t go on. Thanks for all your support. I won’t forget it.” She rang off, ran her hands through her hair. A showdown might be considered a foolish move, but she didn’t care. All she knew was she no longer wanted either herself or her husband played for fools. She sighed. It would probably be best, though, to confront Kevin and tell him just what she intended to do. Maybe her assertion would awaken some courage in him—she hoped so. She really didn’t fancy facing down the enemy alone.

Thump. Thwack
. She raised her head as the sounds from the side deck got louder. Damn dinghy’s rope had probably come loose again. She thought about calling Kevin or the captain, then decided against it. The dinghy was something she could take care of herself—hadn’t she retied it a million times? She turned her attention to the prize she’d found earlier. Her fingers closed around the manila envelope, and she looked around for a safe place to put it until she could confront Kevin. Her lips curved in a half smile. Oh, yes, she knew just the place! Her little secret hideaway. No one knew about it; her little treasure would be perfectly safe there . . .

A few minutes later she stood on the deck, picking her way carefully toward the dinghy. As she drew nearer, she stopped and cocked her head, puzzled. The thumping sounds had stopped. Now that was odd. She started to turn, and then she saw the shadow, out of the corner of her eye. Lola shoved her hands into the pockets of the down vest and took a bold step forward.

“I know what you’re trying to do,” she yelled. “You coward, come out and face me. I know what you’re doing, and it stops now! I found your little stash, and I’ve taken care of it. I won’t let you hurt—”

Her voice stilled as something heavy crashed into the back of her skull. Everything started spinning, and she lashed out with her arms at her unknown assailant. She whimpered as something struck her across her left side, and then she felt herself being pressed against the side of the boat. Terror rammed through her and she tried to cry out over the pain that was radiating through her side, but her throat was so constricted, she could do no more than whimper. She felt a slight pricking at the base of her skull, and then found herself descending into a pool of blackness, a pool as relentless as the dark waters she’d feared all her life, as she felt herself drift down . . . down . . .