Free Claws for Alarm by T.C. LoTempio Page B

murmured. “About that argument. I don’t think she overheard anyone else. I think it was her. She just didn’t want to admit it. I think she came here to snoop around.” I nudged Nick with the toe of my shoe. “What do you think?”
    Nick blinked twice.
    I nodded. “Yep, I feel the same way. Well, one good thing. Now we know for certain there were quite a few others who didn’t have Pitt at the top of their hit parade. If I want to clear Lacey, I’m going to have to get into the nitty-gritty of PI work and get some answers on my own.” I reached in my pocket, whipped out my cell, and punched in a number.
    â€œHey, Ollie,” I said when the PI answered. “Remember when you said you’d be glad to help me? Well, I could sure use your advice. It’s been a while since I’ve done this.
    â€œI need to go undercover.”

SIX

    T he naked guy climbed down from the rounded platform, plucked up a fluffy terrycloth robe, and headed for a table in the far corner of the large room on which a large coffee urn and a huge platter of donuts rested.
    â€œTake ten, everyone,” the tall, gray-haired woman standing in the front of the room said. Her gaze drifted to the doorway where I stood and then back to the ten students now milling around the refreshment table. She thrust her hands into the pocket of the blue smock she wore over her dress and walked over to me. “I am Professor Wilhelmina Pace. And you are—”
    â€œAbigail St. Clair.” I extended my hand to the woman. She stared at it, then removed hers from the smock and gripped mine tightly. I winced as I extracted my hand from her iron grip. “I’m a potential student. I’ve always liked todabble with drawing and painting, and this school was very highly recommended.”
    â€œDabble, eh?” Professor Pace raised one eyebrow. “Being a successful artist requires a bit more than dabbling. It requires concentration, dedication.”
    I swallowed. “Exactly. I’d like to learn, and, as my dear, departed grandmother used to say, ‘Why not learn from the best?’”
    She actually laughed. “Your grandmother sounds very wise. It’s true, and you couldn’t have chosen a finer school. The Pitt Institute is one of the premier art institutes in the state of California.” Her gaze drifted back toward the refreshment table. The handsome model was chatting with several of the female students, a donut clutched in one hand. “Taft,” she called out. “Watch the sweets.” She rubbed at her stomach area with one hand. Taft’s gaze narrowed and he deliberately turned his back.
    Professor Pace turned to me and whispered, “A handsome boy but headstrong! We don’t like our models to be sticks, but we don’t like them too zaftig, either. We like them proportioned.” She made an outline of an hourglass figure with her hands.
    I shifted the brochures and folder the woman in the admissions office had thrust upon me and nodded toward the group. “He looks like a model. He’s so handsome. Is he a student as well?”
    She cast another wary glance his way, and I saw a muscle clench in her jaw. “He has a certain talent. I’m not certain I’d refer to it as art.” Her cell phone rang just then, and she reached into her pocket for it, moving a few steps away fromme. She flipped it open, listened for a few minutes, then called out, “Ten more minutes. Then we will begin again.”
    She moved out into the hall, speaking earnestly into her phone, and the students began to slowly drift back toward their easels. All, I noted, save Taft, who’d plucked another donut from the tray, this one a Boston crème, and lounged against the back wall, chewing and staring out into space. I shifted my gaze to the window just beyond the table and sucked in my breath. Nick was perched on the outside sill, and his paw moved