A Crazy Little Thing Called Death (15 page)

We nibbled on the antipasto and studied the menu together. The flustered sommelier arrived, and in rapid Italian, he apologized profusely to Michael for keeping us waiting. He provided the wine list, made a few murmured suggestions in Michael’s ear and bowed away. Another waiter arrived with a tray of small bites sent by the chef. There were tiny rolls of succulent prosciutto, shaved truffle, a morel-scented puff pastry and an array of tiny fish delicacies.

Then the chef himself arrived, hastily buttoned into a clean white jacket with his name embroidered on the breast. He conferred with Michael about the menu, suggesting we sample various items from the tray before making our final selections.

“Well, well,” said Crewe when the chef bowed and went away. “So this is how the other half lives.”

He chose our orders for us so that our selection of dishes ranged widely across the menu. The waiter appeared at exactly the right instant, and he memorized our requests—even the special preparation of the scallops Crewe requested to test the chef’s flexibility. The waiter disappeared without taking a single note.

“That always makes me nervous,” Crewe said darkly. “I’m afraid something will be forgotten.”

“I have confidence they’ll get it right.” Lexie gave Michael a bright smile.

He sighed and shook his head. “They think they’re going to sleep with the fishes if they get something wrong, don’t they?”

Crewe and Lexie rushed to assure him that the staff simply wanted to give him the pleasure of a nice evening, and together they started a lively conversation to make Michael feel at ease. I wanted to kiss them all.

We had calamari first, and I remember a squid ink soup that Crewe crowed over. Michael found a bottle of Produttori del Barbaresco 1996 on the menu, a rare bottle at a bargain price that impressed Crewe no end. Then came a parade of dishes I didn’t think were normally served in traditionally Italian restaurants. A swordfish with tomatoes and capers, sardines with the intense flavor of wild fennel, an eggplant rollatini with crisply burnt edges to counterbalance the creamy ricotta inside. Crewe reported the scallops were so-so, but the rest of us loved them.

By the time the cheese tray had come and gone, and our desserts were shared and discussed—a small but delicious crème brûleé, a merely average apple tart, a lemon cake with crunchy, lemon-infused sugar, and a chocolate mousse with raspberries that, in my view, was the perfect end to any meal—we turned down the offer of cognac and settled for a round of espresso.

And finally our conversation diverged from food.

Lexie wanted to know more about the probable murder of Penny Devine.

“What do you think, Nora?” she asked. “Who do you suppose murdered the old girl?”

Aware that Michael watched me, I said, “The police seem to be focused on the family first. Then I suppose anyone who had business dealings with her. You thought her connection to the board of Devine Pharmaceuticals might be important.”

My friend clearly wasn’t prepared to talk about that in public, so she asked, “Have you learned anything else?”

“Well…”

Michael guessed, “You learned something from Dilly Farquar.”

“One interesting tidbit: Penny might have had an illegitimate child.”

Crewe coughed and abruptly set down his cup.

The three of us looked at him while he tried to recover himself.

Lexie said, “Let me guess. Your father had a fling with Penny.”

Crewe flushed.

I knew as well as Lexie that Crewe’s late father had been a serial philanderer. One of the city’s most notorious adulterers, in fact. My mother often told an amusing anecdote of Topper Dearborne trying to seduce her at a Halloween party. The tale included a French maid’s costume and Topper dropping a monocle down her cleavage.

I wouldn’t have dreamed of saying anything about Topper in front of Crewe, but Lexie smiled coolly. “Well, Crewe? Did Daddy ever climb into Sweet Penny’s four-poster?”

“I have no idea.” Crewe stared into his espresso.

Lexie put her elbow on the tablecloth and leaned forward. “Oh, there’s no need for secrets here. Nora’s father is no angel, and we all know how my mother spent her Saturday nights. Michael, you’ve met your share of ne’er-do-wells, right?”

“Lexie,” I began, painfully aware of Crewe’s discomfort.

“Oh, come on. Did Papa poke Penny or not?”

“It’s possible, I suppose.”

“Likely,” she guessed.

“Perhaps. I—my mother—well, she made her objections known behind closed doors. But I may have heard her mention Penny’s name once or twice.”

Lexie sat back in triumph. “See? Doesn’t it feel good to come clean? Did your parents throw china and yell about their assignations?”

“My mother never had assignations,” Crewe snapped.

“Of course not. I know how she hates germs. But she knew all about your tomcat father, right?”

“Yes,” he conceded.

“Did she keep a list?”

“Lex,” I said again, more sharply.

Crewe looked Lexie square in the eye. “She knew about all his affairs. My father kept no secrets.”

“Neither did mine,” Michael said.

All three of us immediately forgot about Crewe’s discomfort and shifted our attention to Michael. He looked surprised at himself.

He surrendered personal information very rarely. I crossed my fingers and hoped he might say more. Here was a chance for him to open up to friends, perhaps encourage a kind of intimacy besides what he’d managed to forge with me.

Michael noted my encouraging expression. Slowly, he added, “I’m his son by his mistress. But his wife—my stepmother—raised me.”

“No kidding.” Lexie looked intrigued. “Did you—forgive me for asking—did you ever know your real mother?”

“Sure. I see her every couple of months. She still keeps in touch with my father, too. But—well, she’s not the motherly type.”

Lexie leaned both elbows on the table this time. “What’s she like? Tall, like you? Pretty?”

Michael shrugged. Once he’d managed to distract Lexie’s attention away from tormenting Crewe, he clearly wasn’t sure he wanted to keep talking. “She’s tall.”

When we waited, obviously interested to hear more, he volunteered, “She likes to gamble. I take her to the track once in a while. Or to Atlantic City.”

“Have you met her, Nora?”

“Not yet. I hear she’s a character. Didn’t you tell me she was a Rockette?”

Michael smiled. “That’s what she claims, but I don’t think her dancing was that high-class. She still looks great in fishnet stockings, though.”

The rest of us picked up our espresso cups and gulped.

“Well, well,” Lexie said finally. She turned to Crewe. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have pushed.”

Crewe shrugged in a passable imitation of Michael’s controlled calm. “No harm done.”

“Look,” Michael said. “Maybe my family is more screwed up than most. Maybe my mother didn’t raise me, but I’d be—you know, upset if she died.”

I said, “You’re thinking of Penny Devine’s child?”

“Yeah. Somewhere out in the world, there’s a kid whose mother’s gone.”

“A forty-year-old kid,” I said.

He shrugged again. “Doesn’t matter. Where is she? Who is she? Does she even know who her mother was? Or his mother?”

Lexie mused, “So somewhere in the world there might be a person who’s sorry mean old Penny is dead?”

We had all leaned close, but the waiter returned one last time and we sat back in our chairs.

Crewe said to him, “A terrific meal. Thank you. I’ll take the check.”

“No,” Michael said. “It’s mine.”

Although most waiters might have paused until the argument was settled, this one didn’t hesitate. He gave the small folder to Michael.

When the waiter went away, Crewe said, “Really, you’ve got to let me pay. It’s newspaper policy.”

Michael shook his head. “It’s my pleasure.”

Lexie drained her espresso. “Oh, let Michael pick up the tab. He owes you, Crewe, after what you did for Nora this afternoon.”

I sat still and held my breath.

Michael glanced up from the bill. “What?”

“It was nothing,” Crewe said jovially. “It’s an honor to come to a lady’s rescue.”

Michael looked mystified.

I pushed my espresso cup away. “Uhm…”

Crewe said, “She was mugged this afternoon.”

Lexie added, “Crewe happened to be there.”

“One of the guys punched me in the stomach.” Crewe rubbed his belly. “It’s still sore.”

Feebly, I added, “Reed was there, too. It was over in the blink of an eye—”

Michael turned to me. “When the hell were you going to tell me?”

“It wasn’t a big deal. They tried to grab my handbag, that’s all.”

“No,” Crewe corrected. He still hadn’t seen the thunder gathering on Michael’s face. “They were trying to kidnap her. They grabbed her and tried to shove her into a car. We fought them off. Nora probably broke one guy’s nose. And the kid was a hero. Hit the other guy over the head with a tire iron.”

“It wasn’t a tire iron. It was an ice scraper. Really, Michael, I was just—”

“Who were they?”

“I don’t know.”

“Did they say anything?”

“Nothing I remember.”

“Did you see their faces?”

“Not really. Please, they drove away, and it was over.”

“Did Reed get the license number? Did you call the cops?”

“Of course. I mean, no, Reed didn’t get the number. He said it had been smeared—”

“Intentionally smeared,” Crewe added. Then Lexie must have kicked him under the table because he winced.

“We did call the police. They came and took a complete report.” I soothed, “Really, Michael, it was nothing to get upset—”

He got up from the table, already pulling his cell phone from his pocket. “I’ll be right back.”

He left the dining room, which was almost deserted by now. On his way past the waiter, he shoved the check and a wad of cash into the startled man’s hand.

Anxiously, the waiter said, “I hope everything was satisfactory, Mr. Abruzzo—”

Michael brushed past him.

The waiter tiptoed over to us.

“Don’t worry,” I said to the disconcerted man. “Our dinner was lovely.”

“If there’s something we can correct,” the waiter began nervously, “I hope you’ll give us a chance to make things right. We want Mr. Abruzzo to be happy.”

“It’s me he’s not happy with right now,” I said. “Don’t worry.”

He went away reluctantly.

“Sorry, Nora.” Lexie reached for my hand. “I should have realized he’d go all Rambo when he heard.”

“I’m so sorry,” Crewe chimed in. He looked as shaken as the waiter. “I didn’t mean to upset him. He’s furious.”

“It’ll pass,” I assured them.

But I wasn’t looking forward to the ride home.

T
his is completely unnecessary,” I said once we were alone. “You’re acting as if I’m in mortal danger.”

“Two guys tried to kidnap you. You don’t call that mortal danger?”

“Honestly, Michael, I think it was simply a purse snatching. I’m carrying a Balenciaga worth at least five thousand dollars. It would be worth ten thousand now if Spike hadn’t peed in it that time—”

“Your average purse snatcher doesn’t know the difference between your whatever and one from Wal-Mart. Besides, kids snatch purses, not guys with cars.” Michael’s hands were tense on the steering wheel. “I don’t want you going anywhere without checking with me first.”

“I have a job! I can’t report my whereabouts every five minutes—”

“Then I’ll go with you.”

“Fine. Tomorrow night is the ballet fund-raiser. You’ll need a tuxedo.”

Michael ground his teeth as he drove. At last, he said, “All right, I’ll admit I can’t be with you all the time. But Reed takes you everywhere from now on, got that? And where’s your cell phone?”

With a guilty swallow, I said, “At home. I left it on the kitchen counter.”

“Nora—”

“Okay, okay, I promise I’ll be more careful. Look, I can’t imagine why anyone would want to hurt me.”

“You’ve been asking questions about Penny Devine’s murder.”

“Only among my close friends.”

“What about Farquar?”

“Oh, heavens, Dilly didn’t even know I was coming today until I tapped him on the shoulder. I’m perfectly safe.”

“Why are you so determined to pretend this didn’t happen?”

My worst fear was that the men were connected somehow to whatever Michael was up to. He was dabbling in his dark arts again, I suspected, and perhaps the attack on me was some repercussion I didn’t understand yet.

Michael said, “It’s like you’re trying to prove something.”

“To myself maybe,” I murmured.

“What does that mean?”

“I don’t know,” I said.

“Nora—”

“I don’t know! I can’t explain how I feel! I’m upset!”

Maybe I’d had too much wine, or maybe all the day’s excitement finally boiled over. I found myself hyperventilating, and my voice rose, quaking with frustration I couldn’t define. “I want my life to be easy, and it’s not! I want a home and a family and you—but I—I can’t have those things, can I? Everything keeps going out of control! But figuring out how Penny died—it keeps my brain from going places I don’t want to go. From making the wrong decisions!”

Michael had listened to my little tirade in silence. At last, he said, “What kind of decisions?”

“I don’t know! I’m just—I’m afraid, Michael. I’m afraid of doing something stupid, of making another bad choice that—that ruins everything again.”

“Are we back to the miscarriage? Because that wasn’t your fault.”

“It’s not that.”

But the miscarriage was part of it, of course. I so wanted a family, and Michael did, too. But my body wasn’t cooperating.

If I brought it up, though, I knew what he’d say. Everyone was saying it to me. That I had lots of time. Plenty of chances to get pregnant again. Women got themselves pregnant all the time, and I shouldn’t worry about it.

I didn’t want to hear the platitudes anymore.

Nor did I want to hear what he was doing late at night when he wasn’t home with me.

“Getting married,” Michael said. “Is that a bad choice?”

“No,” I said.

“You don’t sound convinced.”

“I’m completely convinced. I know it’s what I want. Unless…”

“Unless what?”

“Unless it means you die.”

He drove another mile and then said more quietly, “Nora, I’m not going to die.”

“Already you’ve had one car accident. Plus a fall down the stairs. And now a fire!”

“That was your crazy sister’s fault, not mine.”

“None of it’s your fault! It just happens!”

“Todd’s cocaine addiction didn’t just happen. He did it to himself.”

“I’m not talking about Todd. I’m talking about you. And you’ve been having accidents that—”

“Accidents.” Michael reached for me. “That’s all, just accidents.”

I seized his hand and gripped it hard. “I’m sorry. I’m being crazy.”

“You have reason. You were attacked today. Yesterday you found a severed hand. A few weeks ago—”

“I know.” I didn’t want to hear any more. I forced a laugh, but it sounded hollow. “I’m sorry I’m such a wreck.”

At home, he parked beside Emma’s pickup truck, and we got out to stare at the charred remains of my back porch. It had been more than a small fire, I saw at once. The lawn was gouged by the tires of multiple fire trucks, and the blackened pillars of the porch stood forlornly pointing at the sky. What was left of the roof lay in a crumpled heap on top of my rose-bushes. The floorboards were scorched, but usable.

I slid my arm around Michael and stood with my head against his shoulder, looking at the mess. It was a miracle the whole house hadn’t gone up in flames. I knew whose quick thinking had saved the old derelict.

“Michael,” I said, contrite. “I love you. I know you’re trying to protect me. I’ll be more careful, I promise.”

He kissed the top of my head. “Thank you.”

Upstairs, we paused on the landing. From the bathtub down the hall, we heard Emma’s husky laughter. We went into my room and closed the door.

Michael sat on the bed, gingerly stretching his sore leg. Despite our lovely evening with friends, he suddenly looked exhausted, and I thought with guilt about our searing lovemaking the night before. Quietly, I undressed and hung up my clothes.

We had more to talk about, but neither one of us knew where to start. And neither one of us wanted to initiate another night like last night.

Watching me hang up my clothes, Michael said, “I liked your friend Crewe.”

“Did you? I’m glad.”

“But what’s going on with Lexie? She was a bitch tonight.”

I slid into a wisp of a nightie and sat beside Michael on the bed to help him out of his shirt. His ribs were black-and-blue from his fall down the stairs. Folding his shirt into my lap, I told him about Lexie’s teenage years and the cousin who raped her. It was a long story, and an ugly one. I explained why Lexie didn’t like Crewe or any other man, really. Michael forgot about being sore and listened.

I finished by saying, “After what happened, I don’t know if she’ll ever allow any man in her life.”

“Crewe’s got it pretty bad for her, though.”

“He has for a long time. But I don’t think she’ll ever get over what happened to her.”

“She doesn’t have to get over it,” said Michael, who had survived an awful childhood, too. “She just has to find a way to work around it.”

We went to bed and allowed an evening of too much food and drink to put us to sleep. But I drifted off thinking of Crewe’s father and Penny Devine. Had they had an affair? From the look on Crewe’s face, I was sure they had. Was Topper Dearborne the father of Penny’s child?