Meow If It's Murder (Nick and Nora Mysteries) by T.C. LoTempio Read Free Book Online

with my nail. “This is where your master lives—or at least, it’s the most recent address Google has for him.” I opened my door and swung my legs out. “Come on, Nick. It’s time for you to go home.”
    Nick sat perfectly still, his back ramrod straight, his tail curled under his forepaws, and blinked twice.
    I fisted my hands on my hips. “What? You don’t want to come in? You’re not anxious to get back to your home, your toys, the nice little fleece bed I’m sure you have?”
    He blinked again and turned his head in the other direction.
    I sighed as I exited the SUV and shut my door. “Okay, fine. Wait here. Play hard to get.” I walked around to the passenger side and tapped my fingertips against the window. “What happened? Did you and your owner have some sort of falling-out?”
    Still no response. I straightened. “Well, no worries. Whatever may have happened, I’m sure once Mr. Atkins knows you’re out here, he’ll rush right out. I’m positive he’s missed you, and I’m sure you’ve missed him.”
    Nick’s black nose twitched, and one ear flicked forward. Other than that, he gave no response, showed no enthusiasm whatsoever at the prospect of going home. I had to admit, I wasn’t exactly thrilled at the idea, either, and no one was more surprised by my reaction than me.
    I walked up to the front door and pushed it open. I found myself in a small, fairly dark vestibule. I glanced upward, noted the overhead light, which had, apparently, burned out, and turned my attention to the bells that lined the wall next to the door. I ran my finger down the list of names—Atkins was nowhere to be found. I found the bell marked SUPER , and pushed it once, twice, three times before the intercom just off to the side of the row of bells blared to life.
    “If you’re a salesman, you can just get your behind back outside. No one here wants any.”
    I leaned forward. “I’m not a salesman. My name is Nora Charles. I’ve come inquiring about one of your tenants.”
    A moment’s hesitation and then, “Which one?”
    “Nick Atkins.”
    There was complete and utter silence for at least a minute—possibly longer—and then the voice said, “Okay. Come on in. I’m downstairs.”
    The buzzer sounded and I found myself in a dark, dingy anteroom with one dimly lit bulb overhead. The stairs were only a few feet away, and I hurried down them into an even darker, cubelike area lit by an even dimmer bulb. A door at the far end of the room opened, and a stout woman wearing a dark blue terrycloth bathrobe, hair in curlers, approached me. I fought back a sudden urge to giggle. All she would have needed was a green mineral mask on her face and a pointy hat, and she could have passed for the Wicked Witch in
The Wizard of Oz
.
    Her snappy black eyes looked me up and down. “I’m Mrs. Rojas. Please tell me you are here to pay the deadbeat’s rent.”
    Deadbeat? That didn’t sound good. “No, actually, I came here because I believe I have something of Mr. Atkins’s I’m sure he’d like back.”
    Beefy arms crossed over her ample chest. “Yeah? And what might that be? Something salable, I hope.”
    “Hardly. I believe I have his cat.”
    “His—aw heck!” She made an impatient gesture with her hand. “I wondered where he’d gone off to. Frankly, I was going to call the shelter or Animal Control, but as long as you’ve got him—” She shrugged. “I won’t bother.”
    Shelter? Animal Control? It was my turn to make an impatient gesture. “I’m sorry, I don’t understand. Doesn’t Nick Atkins live here? The Nick Atkins who is supposed to be a private investigator?”
    “He did live here. But I ain’t seen him for going on six weeks now. He’s three months behind in his rent, and I got responsibilities. My no-good husband ran up gambling debts larger than Texas before he ran off to Costa Rica with my hairdresser, and I’ve got to support myself and three teenagers, so . . . I ain’t making