Murder Faux Paws, page 1
Murder Faux Paws
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 . . .
Title Page

Copyright
Murder Faux Paws
T. C. LoTempio
Beyond the Page Books
are published by
Beyond the Page Publishing
www.beyondthepagepub.com
Copyright © 2022 by T. C. LoTempio
Cover design and illustration by Dar Albert, Wicked Smart Designs
ISBN: 978-1-954717-66-4
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this book. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented without the express written permission of both the copyright holder and the publisher.
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. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.
Acknowledgments
As always, many thanks to my editor, Bill Harris, for his enthusiasm for this series and his excellent editing skills! You make Nick and Nora so much better! I will always be grateful that Beyond the Page has made it possible for this series to continue!
Thanks also to my agent, Josh Getzler, and his assistant, Jon Cobb, for the hand-holding! A special thanks to Dar Albert, our cover artist, who has certainly made Nick shine (and be the most authentic Nick ever)!
A special thanks to all the followers of Rocco’s blog, and to my many author friends who have appeared on it—Laura Childs, Diane A.S. Stuckart, and E. J. Copperman, among others. Special thanks to Laura for the nice cover blurb!
Last but not least . . . thanks to all the Nick and Nora fans out there! Without you, there would be no Nick and Nora, and I am grateful for your loyalty. Your support means the world to me, and I look forward to sharing more of Nick and Nora’s adventures with you.
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Epilogue
Recipes
Excerpt from A Purr Before Dying
Books by T. C. LoTempio
About the Author
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.
