Ник Сайнт - Purrfect Heat

“Yes, I’m on the case.”

“And so is Chase, right?” she asked, giving her a saucy wink.

“Yes,” she admitted, staunchly ignoring the wink.

“I like that man. Too bad he’s into you or else I’d have gone after him myself.”

“Yes. You’ve made that abundantly clear, Gran,” she said. “So what’s this about a note in your sweater?”

Gran dumped the sweater on the counter. “This is the sweater,” she said, then plunked down a little piece of paper. “And here is the note. I told Leo and he was so surprised he spoke a complete sentence. First time I’ve heard more coming out of that man’s mouth than grunts and moans. Heh heh heh.”

She held up a hand. “Please, Gran. I don’t need to hear the details.”

“Why not? You might learn a thing or two. Have you and that cop done it already?”

She cast a quick glance at the two women and one man who sat patiently waiting for her dad to call them in. The women were studiously poring over copies of Woman’s Day and Family Circle while the man pretended to read Field and Stream . She knew they were hanging on her and Gran’s every word, though.

She lowered her voice. “That’s none of your business, Gran!”

Gran arched a finely penciled eyebrow. “Oh? You come in here bitching and moaning about Leo’s buttons and I can’t even ask you a simple question?”

“That’s different. I don’t…” She dropped her voice even more. “I don’t do it where the whole town can see us.”

Gran’s lips curled into a knowing smile. “So you didn’t do it, huh? Thought as much. Better get a move on, girlfriend. A man like Chase won’t wait around forever. And you know what they say about women that don’t put out.”

“No, I don’t,” she said between clenched teeth. “And I don’t care.”

“They’re prudes. And you don’t want to be a prude. That’s the curse of death right there. You’ll never date in this town again. Only guys who’ll still want you are idiots, and you don’t want them mucking up the Poole bloodline.”

“Gran! That’s so wrong on so many levels I don’t even… Ugh.”

“Right or wrong, you better take a page out of my book, honey, or else Chase will chase after some other chick. Now, where were we? Oh, right. The note.”

Odelia, shaking her head, picked up the note. Her grandmother was right. It said, ‘WE PRISONERS! PLEASE HELP PLEASE!’ It was a small piece of paper, and the writing was shaky, as if whoever had written it was under great duress.

She turned it over. There was nothing on the other side, and nothing whatsoever to indicate where it had come from. No identification, no clue as to where this person was being held prisoner or when the note was written.

“I think it’s from Russia,” said Gran. “Stalin’s got all those prison camps over there? In Siberia? One of ‘em prisoners must have smuggled out this sweater.”

“So how did the sweater get here? Besides, they don’t have prison camps in Russia anymore, Gran. They went out of fashion when Stalin died, remember? In the nineteen-fifties?”

“So who wrote it then, Little Miss Know-It-All?”

“Lemme see that sweater.” She studied the label. Ziv Riding. “Wow. Pretty expensive.”

Grandma beamed. “I told you. Leo’s into me.”

“Leo must be into you a lot. This is Ziv Riding.”

“Is he famous or something?”

“Only one of the hottest designers working right now. He shot to the top out of nowhere, and he’s been the star of New York Fashion Week three years in a row. Are you sure Leo didn’t steal this from someplace?”

Gran planted her hand on her hip. “Hey. Don’t insult my Leo. I’ll have you know the guy is loaded.”

She gave Gran a crooked smile. “I saw that.”

“Moneywise, smartass. Though you’re right. The guy is packing, if you know what I mean.”

She raised her eyes heavenward. “I don’t think I want to know.”

She studied the sweater some more. Gran had snipped off the wash care label, which had contained the note. So whoever had made this sweater had wanted to cry out for help, and make sure the message went out. But then why hadn’t they also added instructions for whoever found the message? Weird. She decided it wasn’t really worth looking into. She knew that top designers like Ziv Riding had all of their clothes made in countries like Bangladesh or India or the Philippines. So whoever had left this desperate message was way out of reach.

“This is just so horrible,” she said, as she pictured a woman or man or even a child chained down in some sweatshop on the other side of the world, having to make these clothes so they could be bought by rich Westerners, making the designers who exploited these workers even richer.

“Yeah, Ziv Riding is a douche.”

“Well, maybe he doesn’t even know his clothes are made in these sweatshops. A lot of times they just hand over production to a company.”

“Then they should make sure those companies don’t use sweatshops.”

She was right, of course. Then again, there wasn’t much she could do about that from where she stood. So she handed the note back to her grandmother, along with the sweater. “Where did Leo buy this?”

“In one of the boutiques on Main Street. So are you going to expose this Ziv Riding? Are you going to write a tell-all exposé about the guy?”

She shook her head. “I can’t, Gran. I can’t accuse him of anything without more information.”

“So gather more information. You’re a reporter. That’s your job.”

“I’m just a small-town reporter. I don’t write stories like this. I write about a new shop opening on Main Street. Or that traffic lights were out again at the intersection. Or about the council meeting. I don’t expose international scandals.”

“Well, I think you should.” Gran held up the note. “This is an outrage. Those poor people wrote this note hoping someone would find it. Someone with the guts to stand up to people like Riding. Someone who’d save them.”

She held up her hands. “Well, that person isn’t me.”

“Wimp,” Gran muttered, dumping the sweater behind the counter.

“Gee, thanks, Gran. I don’t see you climbing the barricades or picketing outside Ziv Riding’s office.”

“Well, maybe I will,” said Gran. “Maybe me and Leo will do just that.”

Sure. That would make Ziv Riding quake in his designer boots. Gran and Leo picketing his office. When they weren’t too busy smooching.

Chapter 9

Dooley and I passed into the offices of the Hampton Cove Gazette. It wasn’t a difficult feat as the editor kept the door unlocked, in case a member of the public decided to step in and regale him with some fresh story or offer comment on an article he’d written. Dan is a fixture in Hampton Cove, and you can’t miss him. He’s a smallish man with a big, white beard and lots of laugh wrinkles around his eyes. These days he mainly takes care of the business side of running a paper and lets Odelia write the articles.

We passed by Dan’s office, where the editor spent most of his days, and on to Odelia’s, smaller office, right next to his. She was at her desk, pounding away at an article, presumably about the murder. In spite of what you might think, murders rarely happen in Hampton Cove, so when one does happen, it’s a big deal.

“Hey, guys,” she said as we rubbed against her leg. She picked me up and put me on her desk. I proceeded to lie down on her keyboard, easily the best spot in the house as it gets most of Odelia’s attention.

She gently gave me a push, and I reluctantly scooted over, idly playing with her mouse until she took it away from me and placed it out of reach. Humans. Never any fun.