A Tiger's Tale (A Call of the Wilde Mystery) (21 page)

“Sorry.”

“You can make it up to me by bringing that handsome mutt of yours to see me. How’re Moss and his kitty?”

“Moss is still acting like a mother hen—he likes to carry the kitten around. Poor Voodoo, she’s constantly coated in dog spit.”

“You named the kitten Voodoo?”

I told Sonja the story behind the kitten’s name and the tension between us dissolved like mist in the sunshine. I was lucky to have her as a friend. Lucky to have my sister and . . . I had a sudden flash of Kai’s face.

I thought about how warm his lips had been when he’d kissed me.

Heat flushed into my cheeks when I thought about that kiss, prompting Sonja to ask, “What is it? Why are you looking all dreamy?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I’m talking about that goofy look on your face.”

I changed the subject. “Hey, way to bust out with the scripture earlier. Should I start calling you Sister Sonja?”

She crossed her arms and flicked her gaze over me. “Nice try.”

I gave her a wide-eyed shrug. “What?”

“Please, girl. I can see you blush. Start talkin’.”

I shook my head with a smile. I didn’t want to get into the mugging so I said, “Kai kissed me last night. It was . . . nice.”

“Nice? That’s it? Nice?”

“More than nice.”

“I guess so, judging from that look.”

I waved the subject off as I went to get the last two cats and settle them into cages.

The cats were wary of their new surroundings—all except one. Buddy made it clear he wasn’t interested in where he was as long as food would be provided.

The cat’s hunger reminded me of Felix. I hoped Brooke’s cat was still charming the lady next door, because I certainly couldn’t drive over there and check on him.

My thoughts jumped to Bob Ligner’s murder. Chances were, whoever killed him had something to do with Brooke’s kidnapping.

But why? Was this really all about Sartori? Brooke was only sixteen. It seemed logical that between a mob boss and his daughter, he would be the more likely catalyst. But what about the man who’d followed her at the feed and seed?

I brought Buddy some food, and thought about the mug shot Kai had shown me of Brooke and how different that girl seemed from the fresh-faced, dark-haired beauty of Boris’s memory.

As I absently ran my hand down Buddy’s back, an image popped into my mind.

A girl with dark hair calling to the cat as she poured food on a small tray.

Brooke?

What the . . . ? I stared at the cat, realizing he had shown me a memory. Had Buddy seen Brooke with Josiah?

“Grace? Are you okay? What is it?” Sonja returned from her phone call and was looking at me with concern.

“I’ve got to check on something,” I told her as I headed past her toward the door.

I sped to the farm and fishing supply, skidded around the building, and ground Bluebell to a stop at an angle behind Josiah’s pickup truck.

I sat there for a moment, breathing hard. Josiah had taken up his painting duties and stood on a ladder he’d propped against the side of the building. He’d looked over his shoulder at me, puzzled. I gave him what I hoped was a friendly smile and a wave. He returned both and began to climb down the ladder.

Suddenly, I was both relieved and slightly panicked to discover he was still there. Of all the stupid things to do, I had driven out here alone to confront the man who might have kidnapped Brooke.

I sent Emma a text message on the off chance I disappeared, too.

Talking to a guy named Josiah at the old farm and fishing supply. Heckscher Dr. RE: Brooke. Don’t call me but if I don’t send you another message in ten minutes send the police.

I put the phone on vibrate, knowing Emma would flip when she saw the message and call me anyway.

Climbing out of Bluebell, I stuffed my phone in my back pocket and walked slowly toward Josiah. After my dramatic arrival my cautious approach probably seemed odd. He was regarding me with the curious, confused expression I’d seen before.

“Miss Grace. What are you doing back here?”

“I’m looking for someone. A girl named Brooke.”

He had no discernible reaction to the name.

“Brooke? I don’t know anyone named Brooke.”

“So you haven’t seen anyone else here?”

“No, I sure haven’t.”

My phone vibrated in my pocket. I pulled it out and glanced at the screen. Emma.

I ignored the call and paused, trying to come up with a way to show Josiah a photo of Brooke so I could gauge his reaction.

“Actually,” I said, “I’ve asked around about her and no one seems to know where she is. If I show you a picture of her can you tell me if you’ve seen her anywhere?”

I pulled up the photo I’d gotten of her and held it out to him.

This time, there was a reaction.

“Mercy. She looks a lot like my sister.”

“Your sister?”

“Abigail. Remember? You said we could come pick out a kitten?”

I flinched when he moved to extract his wallet from his back pocket. Must still be jumpy from my mugging
shenanigans.

Josiah flipped the worn wallet open and showed me a school photo of a girl who looked enough like Brooke to be her sister.

The photo on the opposite side was a family portrait showing a younger, grinning Abigail, Josiah, and a woman I presumed was their mother.

A mixture of relief and disappointment settled over me. I didn’t want to believe Josiah, the sweet, simple guy who spent his paycheck on food for needy cats was a kidnapper, but eliminating him as a suspect left me with nothing.

“The girl you’re looking for, is she from around here? ’Cause I know everybody around here, just about. My mama says, a good Christian should be selfless and help others when they can. Maybe I can help you find her.”

“That’s okay, I think I’ve looked as much as I can.” A fact I was going to have to face, whether I liked it or not.

“Well, I’ll keep my eye out, anyway,” he said with a solemn nod.

“Thanks, Josiah.”

My phone buzzed again, vibrating in my hand as I walked to Bluebell.

“Hey, Em. Sorry.”

“Sorry? I was three seconds from calling the police. What’s going on?”

“Nothing.” I climbed into Bluebell and started the engine. “Dead end.”

So far, I’d slogged through the muddy woods, streaked through the mall in pursuit of a juvenile delinquent, struck a deal with the mob, staked out a misogynist, and questioned a cougar, a tiger, a tabby cat, and a donkey.

There was only one thing left to do.

As it was lunchtime, I had a good idea where I would find Detective Jake Nocera.

Casa Dora was popular, so I had to park a couple of blocks away and walk to the little Italian restaurant.

As soon as I pushed the glass door open, the aroma of fresh bread, garlic, and spices wrapped around me, comforting as an old bathrobe.

I paused for a moment to enjoy the homey, cheerful ambience of the place before turning to scan the area for Jake. I spotted him at a table next to the brick archway that led to the other side of the restaurant.

I walked to his table and said, “I have a feeling that’s not on your diet.”

Jake glanced up from his huge plate of lasagna, eyes going cool at the sight of me. He gave the man seated across from him a curt nod, which must have been some unspoken gesture of dismissal because the guy slid out of his chair, leaving the seat empty for me. I took his place and set the oyster shell fragment on the table between us.

“What’s this?” he asked, gesturing at the piece of tabby with his fork.

“It’s a clue.”

“A clue to what?”

“Brooke’s disappearance. I found it close to where she went missing. According to my uncle, it’s a piece of tabby.”

“Of what?”

I gave him a brief explanation, then told him about the man seen following Brooke out of Billy’s Feed and Seed, the connection I’d made to Fort George Island, and the old farm supply store.

“I thought it would pan out, but it was a dead end.”

“You telling me you took evidence from a potential crime scene? What? You like making Kai’s job hard?”

That stung, but not wanting it to show, I met his sarcasm with my own.

“Yes, Jake, I intentionally contaminated a crime scene to make trouble for the cops. I do that in my spare time when I’m not killing people.”

“You think this is a joke?” he asked, eyes hard and narrow.

“No. I know it isn’t a joke, which is why I’m bringing this to you.” I gestured to the tabby.

“What the hell am I supposed to do with a piece of shell given to me by a person of interest in a murder investigation? Ever heard of chain of custody? This ain’t the way it works.”

“First of all, I picked this up because I thought it was pretty. I had no idea it might be significant until I showed it to my uncle. And second, what the hell, Jake? Person of interest? Do you actually believe I had something to do with Ligner’s murder?”

“I believe in the facts, and the fact is your car was at the murder scene earlier the same day Ligner was killed and you won’t explain what you were doin’ there.”

“I told you, Jake, I’ve been trying to find Ligner’s stepdaughter, Brooke.”

“Yeah? Then why did one of the neighbors report hearing Ligner having an argument with a woman around the same time your Suburban was seen in the neighborhood? You trying to find Brooke then, too?”

I pressed my lips together and glared at him.

He took a bite of lasagna, glaring right back as he chewed. Finally, he asked, “Are you a vigilante, Grace?”

“What?”

“See—I’ve been thinking.” He paused to swipe a napkin over his mouth. “I heard Ligner liked to beat his wife.”

“Yeah? I’ve heard the same thing.”

“I also heard you’ve had some personal experience with men like him.”

I felt my jaw clinch but managed to feign surprised interest. “Really?”

“I’m talking about Anthony Ortega.”

“Who is—and you can quote me on this—a world-class asshole.”

“It must’ve made you mad. Knowing he was getting away with putting your sister in the hospital.”

A cold wave of anger swept over me.

Line. Crossed.

“What are you doing, Jake?” I kept my voice low, but the chill it carried was palpable.

“My job.”

“No.” Something occurred to me as I sat there looking at him. “This doesn’t make sense. Why even consider me as a suspect when the victim had connections to a crime ring? You’ve got a guy like Machete Mancini running around and you’re coming down on me? Why?”

“Just because I’m your friend doesn’t mean I won’t do my job.”

“Good. Then take that—” I pointed to the shell, momentarily tempted to tell him where he could shove it, and said, “Find out where it came from. Brooke disappeared a week before her stepfather was murdered. I was targeted because someone wanted her purse.”

The lines in his brow deepened at my words, but he remained silent.

“Find Brooke and you’ll find your answers.”

I got up and left without another word.

Jake thought I was capable of murder. I knew he was a cop and his job was to be suspicious of everyone but still . . .

And why bring up my sister’s scum-ball ex-husband?

Anthony Ortega. Self-made millionaire. Handsome and charming, he was every girl’s dream. But dreams can so easily become nightmares.

Remembering the charm, the ease with which he’d slithered into Emma’s life—and the coldness he’d shown when he almost ended it—made me want to kick something.

Actually, in that moment, what I wanted to do was
shoot
something. More specifically, a target fashioned from a photo of Tony Ortega’s face.

Okay, maybe that would have been taking it a bit too far. But it wouldn’t hurt to put in some time at the firing range.

Oddly enough, shooting had a calming effect on me. Something about the focus and control needed to hit the target—which I only managed to do about half the time.

Before I knew it, I’d turned Bluebell toward the range and called Kai.

“I’m in the mood to shoot something,” I said when he picked up.

“It sounds like you’re in the mood to shoot
someone
.”

“So, you talked to Jake.”

There was a pause. “No. Why?”

“He thinks I had something to do with Bob Ligner’s murder.”

Silence.

“Kai?”

After a moment he said, “Were you serious about shooting?”

“Come on, you don’t think—”

“I mean, at the range.”

“Oh, yeah. I was.”

“Meet me there in thirty minutes.”

• • •

I was only a little late. Kai was already in one of the shooting lanes we usually used. Interesting how people do that. The whole place could have been empty, almost was, actually, and we’d have still picked the same spot.

Kai was loading ammunition into a gun I hadn’t seen him shoot before. Some type of revolver.

“Where’s your Glock?”

“At the JSO.”

“Oh, right.”

A fresh wave of guilt washed through me.

“If you’re going to learn to shoot, you should practice with as many firearms as you can. This is a Smith & Wesson .38 Special.”

I nodded, happy to let the subject of his suspension drop.

He went over the basics of the revolver—some I already knew, just from watching reruns of cop shows and by using deductive reasoning—but I paid close attention, anyway. Not just for the sake of firearms proficiency. I enjoyed listening to Kai. I could even forget about missing girls and monsters and suspicious detectives.

“So,” Kai said as we set up our targets, “what exactly did Jake tell you about Bob Ligner’s murder?”

Or not.

“Just that he knows I was there and suspects I had words with Ligner.”

“Did you?”

Crap.

I hadn’t told Kai about my not-so-friendly chat with Ligner. I lifted a shoulder in what I hoped was a casual gesture.

“Please tell me you didn’t threaten him, Grace.”

“If I did, no one heard me.”

“Jesus.”

Kai shook his head and aimed at his target. Like always, the grouping of shots was tight. Less than an inch between each bullet hole.

Mine, not so much.

I scowled at the target.

“It doesn’t matter if I put an ad in the paper declaring: ‘I hate Bob Ligner!’” I said with frustration as I reloaded the gun. “What are the chances I’m guilty of murder when there are gangsters running around?”

“Not very good. Especially with that aim.”

I gave him a narrow-eyed glare but he just motioned for me to try again. I took a calming breath and managed to hit the target for the rest of the session, mostly, but I never got close to the bull’s-eye. A fact I blame entirely on Kai.

I wasn’t sure if it was the revolver or our Monday night billiards lesson, but something had inspired him to take a more hands-on approach to teaching.

Instead of telling me to correct my stance, he would physically move me into the right position. Sometimes, he’d pause to watch, standing close enough that I could feel the heat from his body along my back.

It was all I could do to remember how to pull the trigger, much less aim.

“Better,” Kai declared when I’d emptied the revolver.

“I like my Glock. I don’t have to worry about a safety, or pull the trigger as hard. But thank you for showing me how to use the Smith & Wesson.”

He nodded and as we started packing up, asked, “Did Jake say anything to you about Anne Ligner?”

“No, why? You think she killed her husband?”

“I think it would be interesting if Jake didn’t. The statistics are clear when it comes to murder and married couples.”

“Here’s to being single.”

“Maybe you just haven’t found the right guy.” He smiled and my heart did the sudden stop, drop, and roll thing it liked to do when he looked at me like that.

Out of nowhere, I remembered his kiss from the night before. The intensity. The heat. He’d tasted
good
.

I licked my lips and his gaze dropped to my mouth.

“Yeah, well . . . I’ve got to run.” I backed out of the booth as my face grew hot. “I have to help out with a hyperactive kitten.”

“Aren’t all kittens hyperactive?” Kai asked, seeming amused.

“Actually, I’ve known some kittens who are pretty chill, but this little girl is bouncing off the walls—literally—and driving her owners crazy. So, I’ll talk to you later.”

I hightailed it out of there before I did something really embarrassing. I was pretty sure Kai had been teasing me with the “right guy” comment, but I wasn’t very astute when it came to people. Especially in the relationship department.

It wasn’t that I never wanted to find the right guy; I just didn’t want to think about it.

It was safer to tune in my thoughts elsewhere, so I moved on to something relevant to my next task. Overactive kittens.

• • •

It didn’t take me long to evaluate the kitty, Molly, who it turned out was not abnormally excitable. The couple who had adopted her had one other pet, an older, very relaxed cat who, by comparison, made Molly look like a whirling dervish.

After leaving the harried kitty parents with a cornucopia of toys, a laser pointer, and some recommendations on burning off kitten energy, I headed home. I had my own kitty to take care of. Not that I had to worry about Voodoo with Moss on duty.

It wasn’t dinnertime yet—maybe Moss and I could take a jog on the beach before dark.

I had turned onto Beach Boulevard, headed home, when Kai’s comment drifted into my mind.

Not the one about finding the right guy. I had decided to forget that remark. But why hadn’t Jake mentioned anything about Anne Ligner? Had something happened to her?

At a stoplight, I snagged my purse, dug out my phone, and called Jake’s number. Instead of answering with his typical, if gruff, “Yo,” Jake snapped, “What?”

“Is Anne Ligner dead?” Two could play the abrupt game.

“Excuse me?”

“I figure she has to be. If I’m your best suspect.”

“Anne Ligner ain’t dead.”

“Well, she must have a rock-solid alibi because—”

“She’s in the hospital.”

“Hospital? You’re saying he . . .” I trailed off, caught by a sudden memory.

Emma. Surrounded by beeping monitors and machines in the hospital. Her beautiful face made unrecognizable from all the bruises and swelling.

My hand tightened on the phone. Jake was saying something about drugs. I forced myself to listen.

“. . . a cocktail of painkillers and sleeping pills. She was unconscious, and had been, according to her doc, for most of the day. So, yeah, she’s got a pretty good alibi. Now, unless you’re calling to tell me something useful, or explain why you were stalking my victim, I gotta go.”

“Jake—” I hesitated, unsure.

A horn blared behind me. The traffic light had changed.

Jake said, “Didn’t think so.” And hung up.

I blew out a sigh and wondered how long Jake was going to be mad at me.

I also wondered about Anne Ligner. She had seemed a bit glazed over the day I’d met her—had she been taking something then, too?

I wondered if, without her controlling husband to stop her, she would be willing to report Brooke missing.

The closest hospital to the Ligners’ house was downtown. I put on my blinker, did a U-turn, and headed to have a talk with Anne Ligner.

• • •

The woman lying in the bed at Baptist Memorial Hospital bore little resemblance to the polished woman I’d met only a few days before.

Anne Ligner’s hair was limp and tangled, her cheeks and eyes hollowed. Though there was a plate of food in front of her and an empty saltine wrapper on the tray beside it, she looked like she hadn’t eaten in a week.