cushion and heard the chair hinges squeak.
“Sorry.” He granted me a small smile. “Redecorating is on my long-term agenda, but it’s not a priority right now. Can I get you some coffee, or water?” He inclined his head and I saw a low-slung cabinet, which apparently also doubled as a mini-fridge. A small black Keurig coffeemaker sat on top of it. I took note, too, of the small pile of Pizza Hut boxes stacked off to the left of the cabinet—apparently it was Sampson’s food of choice. A photograph of a good-looking young man wearing a cap and gown was tucked behind the coffeemaker—I wondered vaguely if this was the son whose attempted suicide had prompted Sampson’s spiral to the bottle. I shook my head and leaned back a bit in the chair, and the springs squeaked. I’d be damn lucky if they didn’t poke me in the ass.
Sampson steepled his hands beneath his chin. “So you found little Sherlock.”
“As I said, he found me. He happened to wander by my shop.”
“Your shop?”
“I own a little sandwich shop—Hot Bread—in Cruz.”
“He wandered two towns over, eh? Well, well.” Sampson leaned back in his chair. “Honestly, I’m not surprised. That cat could always smell a good meal—or a free one—a mile away—like his owner.”
“Yes, Nick is very enterprising.” At his swift look of surprise I added, “I’ve been calling the cat Nick—after Nick Charles, the detective in
The Thin Man
. I had no idea his owner’s name was Nick as well.”
Sampson nodded. “Good movie. Nick never cared for Bill Powell, though.” He frowned. “What did you say your name was?”
“Nora. Nora Charles.”
His eyes widened a bit, and he chuckled. “Ah—your renaming Sherlock makes a bit more sense now.”
I cleared my throat. “I stopped by Mr. Atkins’s apartment first—it was the only address I could find for him.”
“Sure, sure.” He drummed his fingers absently on the desktop. “Meet his landlady? She’s a real piece of work.”
“That she is. She’s also rented his apartment and had his stuff shipped off to Goodwill.”
“Really?” He let out a gigantic sigh. “Well, I suppose it was bound to happen, sooner or later. It’s not the first time he’s stiffed her on rent. Not everyone’s as easygoing as me. I know I owe him a lot but—even saints have limits.” He raised his gaze to mine again. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to digress. Now, you are here because . . .”
“I wanted to return Nick—or Sherlock—to his rightful owner,” I said over the lump that had suddenly risen in my throat. “He looked so well cared for, I knew he had to be someone’s pet. Someone in town thought they’d seen your partner with a picture of him in his wallet, so I Googled him and”—I spread my hands—“here I am.”
“Sweet. You’re not a bad detective yourself, little lady.”
“Thanks. They say investigative reporting is the next best thing to being a detective, although I do confess I’ve always had a secret desire to be a female Paul Drake or Sam Spade.”
“For what it’s worth, I think you’ve got what it takes.” He leaned forward, rested both elbows on the desktop. “Want to know why Nick kept the cat’s photo in his wallet? He thought it was a good way to attract chicks—you know, show his sensitive side, caring for animals, all that.”
“Really.” I sighed inwardly. I was almost glad Nick Atkins was missing because, in truth, after hearing all these details from Ollie and the landlady, I’d have been loath to give the cat back to him. The guy sounded like a real jerk.
Oliver leaned forward. “Yep, but to tell the truth, he really didn’t need any gimmicks. My ex-partner had a way with women. It was depressing, really.” He slid me a glance. “He’d have charmed you, too—then again, maybe not. Like I said, you’re far from the type Nick usually went for. I mean, look at you. You’ve got class.” He barked out a short laugh.
I cleared my throat.
“Sorry.” He granted me a small smile. “Redecorating is on my long-term agenda, but it’s not a priority right now. Can I get you some coffee, or water?” He inclined his head and I saw a low-slung cabinet, which apparently also doubled as a mini-fridge. A small black Keurig coffeemaker sat on top of it. I took note, too, of the small pile of Pizza Hut boxes stacked off to the left of the cabinet—apparently it was Sampson’s food of choice. A photograph of a good-looking young man wearing a cap and gown was tucked behind the coffeemaker—I wondered vaguely if this was the son whose attempted suicide had prompted Sampson’s spiral to the bottle. I shook my head and leaned back a bit in the chair, and the springs squeaked. I’d be damn lucky if they didn’t poke me in the ass.
Sampson steepled his hands beneath his chin. “So you found little Sherlock.”
“As I said, he found me. He happened to wander by my shop.”
“Your shop?”
“I own a little sandwich shop—Hot Bread—in Cruz.”
“He wandered two towns over, eh? Well, well.” Sampson leaned back in his chair. “Honestly, I’m not surprised. That cat could always smell a good meal—or a free one—a mile away—like his owner.”
“Yes, Nick is very enterprising.” At his swift look of surprise I added, “I’ve been calling the cat Nick—after Nick Charles, the detective in
The Thin Man
. I had no idea his owner’s name was Nick as well.”
Sampson nodded. “Good movie. Nick never cared for Bill Powell, though.” He frowned. “What did you say your name was?”
“Nora. Nora Charles.”
His eyes widened a bit, and he chuckled. “Ah—your renaming Sherlock makes a bit more sense now.”
I cleared my throat. “I stopped by Mr. Atkins’s apartment first—it was the only address I could find for him.”
“Sure, sure.” He drummed his fingers absently on the desktop. “Meet his landlady? She’s a real piece of work.”
“That she is. She’s also rented his apartment and had his stuff shipped off to Goodwill.”
“Really?” He let out a gigantic sigh. “Well, I suppose it was bound to happen, sooner or later. It’s not the first time he’s stiffed her on rent. Not everyone’s as easygoing as me. I know I owe him a lot but—even saints have limits.” He raised his gaze to mine again. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to digress. Now, you are here because . . .”
“I wanted to return Nick—or Sherlock—to his rightful owner,” I said over the lump that had suddenly risen in my throat. “He looked so well cared for, I knew he had to be someone’s pet. Someone in town thought they’d seen your partner with a picture of him in his wallet, so I Googled him and”—I spread my hands—“here I am.”
“Sweet. You’re not a bad detective yourself, little lady.”
“Thanks. They say investigative reporting is the next best thing to being a detective, although I do confess I’ve always had a secret desire to be a female Paul Drake or Sam Spade.”
“For what it’s worth, I think you’ve got what it takes.” He leaned forward, rested both elbows on the desktop. “Want to know why Nick kept the cat’s photo in his wallet? He thought it was a good way to attract chicks—you know, show his sensitive side, caring for animals, all that.”
“Really.” I sighed inwardly. I was almost glad Nick Atkins was missing because, in truth, after hearing all these details from Ollie and the landlady, I’d have been loath to give the cat back to him. The guy sounded like a real jerk.
Oliver leaned forward. “Yep, but to tell the truth, he really didn’t need any gimmicks. My ex-partner had a way with women. It was depressing, really.” He slid me a glance. “He’d have charmed you, too—then again, maybe not. Like I said, you’re far from the type Nick usually went for. I mean, look at you. You’ve got class.” He barked out a short laugh.
I cleared my throat.
Similar Books
