Meow If It's Murder (Nick and Nora Mysteries) by T.C. LoTempio Page A

“Thanks. So—do you want to keep the cat until your partner returns?”
    He eyed me. “You mean
if
he returns. And no, I don’t. I like the little fellow but”—he rubbed at his nose with the tip of his finger—“I’m allergic. I took antihistamines when Nick brought the cat around.” He leaned forward. “Why don’t you keep him? You sound like you’ve grown fond of him.”
    I fidgeted a bit in the chair. “I thought about it but I’ve never been very good at taking care of animals.”
    He waved his hand carelessly. “Oh, if that’s your only concern, I wouldn’t worry. That cat can take pretty darn good care of himself. Took good care of Nick, too. Plus, he’s got personality—grows on you after a while. Smart, too. I mean, he found you, didn’t he?”
    I laughed. “That sounds like a compliment, Mr. Sampson.”
    “It was, and you can call me Ollie. Anyway, Nick used to say Sherlock was just like a dog—maybe even smarter. He even taught him a few tricks—why, he was even teaching the damn cat to play Scrabble. Cat wasn’t half bad, either.” He croaked out a chuckle. “Anything to impress the ladies, after all.”
    “Scrabble? Really? Now that I’ve got to see.” A sudden thought occurred to me. “Do you think he might have taught him to turn a computer on and off?”
    He shrugged. “Probably. It’s simple enough. Wouldn’t surprise me, either, if he taught him to surf the Net.”
    “Me, either,” I muttered under my breath. Well, at least now I knew I wasn’t losing my mind. “I suppose I could take care of him until Mr. Atkins returns.”
    Ollie’s hand dropped back to the desk, his fingers beating a swift tattoo against the wood. “I wouldn’t count on that. As much as I’d like to get my hands on Nick—he owes me half rent for two months, too, and people aren’t exactly beating down my door with investigative jobs—I’d be surprised to ever see him again.”
    “Why do you say that?”
    He sat silently for a minute, then abruptly raised his gaze to meet mine. “I’m sorry—you said your name is Nora Charles?”
    “Yes.”
    He half rose out of the chair. “You wouldn’t originally be from Chicago, by any chance?”
    I looked at him, surprised. “I was born in Cruz, but I lived in Chicago for twelve years. I moved back here to take over the family business.”
    He snapped his fingers. “You were a reporter, right? True crime?” At my nod, he slapped his palm facedown on the desk and laughed loudly. “Yeah, I remember you now. You came up in some articles Nick Googled. He was looking up some info about Chicago crime families. You were quite the reporter.”
    “I had some success, yes.”
    “Some?” He barked out a laugh. “Two national journalism awards suggest otherwise.”
    I waved my hand. “I might have had a bit of luck. I’m curious. Why was your partner looking up mob families in Chicago?”
    “To be honest? He didn’t say, and I didn’t ask. Where Nick was concerned, it could have been about anything. He had lots of balls in the air at one time, and he operated mainly on gut and hunches.”
    “And you have no idea what might have happened to him? Where he is?”
    “Oh, I’ve got an idea, all right,” Ollie said. “I’m pretty sure it might have something to do with this last case he was working on. I wanted no part of it, and I told him he was a damn fool for taking it, but—that was Nick. He was certain he could solve anything. The deuce of it is, he usually always did.” Ollie let out a giant sigh. “This time, though, I’m afraid he might have gotten in a bit over his head.”
    “Really? How so?”
    Ollie looked all around the room, almost as if he expected someone to come crashing in at any moment, and then he got up, walked around the desk, and leaned over so he could put his lips close to my ear.
    “I’ll tell you,” he whispered, “but you can’t breathe a word. Nick took this last case because he was convinced it would make