A Crazy Little Thing Called Death (19 page)

“Ten years have agreed with you, Nora,” Raphael said as we strolled along the balustrade. “I like a woman with a little experience in her eyes.”

“Is that a polite way of saying I’m getting old?”

“Only in the way a good wine ages.”

“Speaking of clumsily done,” I said lightly. “Why don’t you tell me about Penny and skip the Latin-lover routine?”

“I have not seen her since last summer. Which I told the police. If you must know, she phoned to say she had visited a farm and seen some quality polo ponies. She wanted to show them to me.”

“Did you go?”

“To California, yes.”

“And?”

“When I arrived, there were no ponies. I discovered she had lured me there.”

“What for?”

“She wanted me to fuck her.” Raphael smiled into my eyes to gauge how shocked I might be. “I declined. Shortly thereafter, she went on one of her trips. She disappeared.”

“Because you wouldn’t sleep with her?”

He laughed again. “Penny could pay for lovers as seasoned as myself, and even at her age, men would have lined up to take her money. I doubt my rejection set her off.”

“Had you slept with her before?” I asked.

“She was very old, Nora.”

He didn’t answer my question, I noted.

He had not sipped his drink while we spoke, but suddenly knocked back the vodka with a swift tilt of his head. He savored it, looking into the empty glass. “I have not seen her in nearly a year. Nor have I seen my wife in that time.”

I drank another swallow of champagne, then said cautiously, “I’m sorry to hear you and Carolina are not together anymore, Raphael.”

“We are not together, but I have not divorced her,” he corrected. “I will not do so while my father is alive. He’s old-fashioned.”

“Do you plan on divorcing Carolina someday?”

“Why do you ask?” he said.

“I’d be sad for my friend. For you.”

He used the rim of his empty glass to trace the line of my cheek. “Don’t be sad, Nora. Not for me. I have many things to keep me happy. My daughter, for instance.”

Why I allowed him to touch me—even with the glass, not his hand—I’m not sure. But I held still and waited until he slipped the cold surface down my throat before I turned my head away. I felt a little tipsy, I realized. As if my drink was stronger than champagne.

Quietly, Raphael said, “We should go somewhere and talk, you and I. We have things to discuss, and I don’t like crowds.”

He liked crowds very much, I thought. He enjoyed the cheering and the adoration he received on the back of a horse, swinging a mallet, running down his opponent and trampling him, if he could. As he leaned closer, I felt my head lighten. His cologne was suddenly very strong.

“The man you were with on Saturday. The tall one. He is your bodyguard?”

“No,” I said.

Raphael allowed a derisive smile. “I see. Your lover, then.”

I sent a glance across the marble floor to Aldo. He hadn’t taken his attention off me since the moment Raphael walked up the staircase.

Raphael said, “Does he give you children?”

“No.”

My heart had begun to beat very fast. I wanted to ask Raphael a direct question, but I couldn’t form the words.

“Are you all right, Nora?” he asked.

I put my hand to my forehead and was surprised to find it damp.

“You don’t look well,” he said. “Shall I take you out for some fresh air?”

Fresh air sounded wonderful. Raphael put his arm around me. I stumbled. My ears had begun to ring. Then I discovered I could not put one foot in front of the other without wobbling.

“Come along,” Raphael said. “We haven’t much time. I must have the truth.”

I wasn’t sure I could think, let alone talk. I hadn’t felt so drunk in years. The buzz in my ears heightened to a clang, and I couldn’t see straight.

But then Aldo arrived, not the least out of breath despite coming across the lobby faster than I expected he could move.

“Shove off, bub,” he said to Raphael. His voice sounded distorted. Distant.

Raphael stepped back to get a better look at the picture Aldo made—a heavyset old boxer dolled up in a tuxedo with wide lapels. It was a hard decision to conclude whether or not Aldo should be taken seriously.

“Hey, puppy dog,” I said to Aldo. “Dance with me.”

I fell into his arms, which felt all wrong, but somehow the right thing to do at the time. My head spun, and I began to laugh.

I remember that Raphael chose to smile at me. He said, “She doesn’t need your help, Nora. So stop your questions before you get hurt.”

I danced with Aldo. Or else we left the Merriam, I wasn’t sure. I vaguely remember Aldo taking me down the stairs. “You okay?” he asked. “You drunk? Or did that bastard slip you something?”

I
don’t remember anything about the rest of the night. Maybe Emma was around. And there was coffee, I think.

In the morning, Michael was in bed with me, sleeping with a Sudoku book on his chest, as if he’d stayed awake as long as possible. I tried to dig into my brain to recall some detail of the night, but all I found was darkness—a frightening blank. I pulled the covers closer and trembled. What had happened? What had I done? Said?

Then my stomach erupted, and I bolted out of bed and ran for the bathroom, whacking my head on the doorjamb and the edge of the toilet before upchucking whatever poison was in my stomach.

Michael came into the bathroom and mopped my forehead and held me there on the floor while I forced my mind to function.

“What happened to me?” I finally blurted out.

“Emma thinks you were doped,” Michael said. “The polo player slipped you a roofie.”

“I’d never fall for that!”

But I had. I pieced together the few snippets of memory that I could dredge up. The ballet event. Bloom. Aldo dancing.

“Michael?”

“Hm?”

“Did I do anything to embarrass Aldo?”

“He’ll get over it.”

I groaned and put my cheek against the cool tile floor. “Did I make a fool of myself?”

“You were pretty out of it.”

“What did I—did I do anything awful? Say anything?”

He patted my bottom. “Don’t worry. We took care of you.”

I spent the whole day sicker than I could ever remember. Emma came back late in the morning to take over looking after me, and Michael went off to do whatever he was doing. Libby came for her shift later in the afternoon.

“What was it like?” she asked, sitting cross-legged on the bed while I languished in agony under the blankets.

“A complete blank.” A terrifying blank.

While trying to unscramble my brain, I remembered the vial Potty had given me before I encountered Raphael at the party. “Lib, would you look in my handbag for me, please?”

She brought the bag to my bed, and when I opened it I found the vial of MaxiMan, but also the damned envelope I’d given back to Potty. I held it up to show her. “Look at this! Dammit, Potty gave me back all the money!”

Libby looked sympathetic. “Darling, you’re still delirious, aren’t you?”

“No, listen.” I explained to my sister how Potty had tried to bribe me once and didn’t appear to be taking no for an answer. I wasn’t sure Libby believed me, either.

She heated up some chicken soup for me, the first food I could choke down, and afterward I felt a little better. She gave me a get-well card that Lucy had drawn. It featured me in a huge bed with a thermometer in my mouth. My eyes appeared to be crossed, too. Which felt surprisingly accurate.

By evening, I was capable of making a phone call, so I telephoned Detective Bloom from my bed.

“Okay,” he said when I’d told him what I’d learned about Potty. “We already know the old codger has a yen for younger women. But not that he had such a mean streak, too.”

I sipped the last of the soup from a mug Libby had brought to me before she left for home. “That doesn’t mean he killed his sister, but he certainly gave me the willies. And I don’t believe the suicide-note story anymore.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know. He looked confused when I mentioned it. Or maybe I’m the one who’s confused.”

“You okay, Nora?”

I had debated about whether or not to tell Bloom about Raphael drugging me with Rohypnol. But I didn’t want to reveal anything to him about my relationship to Raphael. So I said, “I’m fine. What’s next on our agenda?”

There was a pause in my ear before he spoke. “You’re red-hot to do this, aren’t you? You want a deputy badge?”

“I was thinking I should call on Nuclear Winter.”

“Okay. What are you going to talk to her about?”

“Maybe she knows when Potty last saw Penny.”

“Good plan.”

“Did you find out anything about Kell Huckabee’s disappearance?”

“His daughter tells us he took off last fall. He was some kind of interim caretaker of the estate, but Potty fired him for running some other businesses for himself and neglecting the place. Now the guy seems to have disappeared. We’re trying to find him, but—well, do you know anything about him?”

“I can ask Julie. Maybe she’ll tell me more than she told you.”

“That kid is scared to death of everything.”

“What did Vivian say?”

“She doesn’t know where Huckabee is either. She seems glad he’s gone. I get the impression nobody liked the guy.”

I asked, “Did you see that mobile home where Vivian keeps her cats?”

“God, yes, what a mess inside.”

“Really?”

“The stench just about knocked me over. I took one look inside from the doorway and called Animal Services. They’re busy with a case involving a puppy mill right now. It may take them a couple of days to get over there to clean out Vivian’s kitties so we can search the place for evidence.”

“You didn’t go inside?”

“Nope. And I’m not going to until some of the cat mess is cleaned up. I hate those cat ladies—the ones who hoard animals. They always talk like they’re saving the world, but who can stand the smell?”

I remembered Michael’s first impression of the Devine estate and asked, “Ben, did you find a big fence on the property?”

“Yeah, around the back. A big enclosure of some kind.”

“Nothing’s there? No animals?” I thought of Libby’s recollection of a lion cub.

“Looks like they raised livestock there once. Cows or something. The old lady said something about the caretaker raising calves, but I got the impression the work was overwhelming. Why do you ask about the fence? What are you thinking?”

“I don’t know.” I could feel my headache returning, and I fumbled on the nightstand for more aspirin.

Bloom said, “There’s a break in the morgue situation, by the way. We might get a prelim tomorrow.”

My pulse quickened. Who knew what kind of secrets might be revealed once various tests were conducted? “Let me know what you learn.”

“Sure thing. Are you really okay? You sound—I don’t know—not so good.”

“I’m just a little hungover.” I tried to make it a joke.

He didn’t believe me. “Everything okay at home? I mean—with him?”

“We don’t need to talk about this,” I said.

In a different tone, he muttered, “I hate what he’s done to you.”

I said nothing.

Bloom let the silence grow, and then said, “You used to be happy. And now—look, it’s none of my business, but he’s made you miserable, Nora.”

“I’m not miserable. And it’s not his fault.”

“If I can stop him, I’m going to do it,” Bloom said.

I didn’t want to hear more. For a while, I had sensed Ben Bloom’s frustration, but now he sounded truly angry.

I heard footsteps on the staircase. Not wanting to be caught talking to Bloom, I turned off the phone just as the bedroom door opened.

It was Emma, not Michael, and she had her polo player in tow. Also a bottle of wine in one hand.

She laughed at me. “Don’t start playing poker with Rawlins, Sis. You have guilt written all over your face. Who were you talking to?”

I put the phone back on its cradle. “Ben Bloom, as a matter of fact. Hello, Ignacio.”

“Hello!”

“You were talking to the boy detective, huh?” She pulled Ignacio into the bedroom. “What did he want? A date for the prom?”

“He wanted some information.”

Emma plopped onto the bed beside me. “Does Mick know you’re having phone sex with Bloom?”

“I’m not having—look, it was police business. But just the same, I’d appreciate it if you didn’t go blabbing.”

“Oho,” said my little sister. “Keeping secrets from your fiancé doesn’t sound like the right way to start a marriage.”

“I’m not keeping any more secrets than you are. Ignacio, would you like to sit down?”

He truly was a beautiful specimen of a man. He could have been a model. That perfect tan, those delectable shoulders, that angelic face. The melting brown eyes.

“Hello,” he said cheerfully, standing at the foot of the bed and admiring Emma beside me. He carried two wineglasses in one hand.

Emma’s half-empty wine bottle had a cork stuck in it, and she used her teeth to pull it out. She spit the cork on the floor. Ignacio held out the glasses, and she poured generously. “Feeling better?”

“Not much. What are you doing?”

“What does it look like?”

“Like you’re drinking again.”

“A glass of wine before bed doesn’t constitute drinking. I can handle it.”

“Em—”

“Hey, do I look out of control? I’m having a social drink, that’s all. Iggy likes to relax with a glass of wine. I don’t need you playing cop, okay?”

But she hesitated, her nose poised at the rim of the glass to inhale the bouquet of the wine. She didn’t drink, though. Instead, she gave the glass to me. I didn’t smell alcohol on her breath. I wondered what brought on her sudden urge to have a drink.

“Okay,” I said, relieved that she’d stopped herself. “Did you buy another pony?”

“Two. And I’m going to start a beginners’ class in June. I’ve got three students signed up.”

“Wonderful.” I noted that Emma seemed pleased despite her offhand manner. I said, “Thank you, by the way, for looking after me last night.”

My little sister grinned and leaned back into the pillow. She patted the bed, and Ignacio sat beside her. He rubbed her thigh. “Hey, you were in no shape to be left alone. Aldo couldn’t wait to unload you. Good thing I was here to take over. You don’t remember any of it, do you?”

“Zilch,” I admitted.

“Well, you were ready to party, Sis. None of your usual inhibitions. I didn’t think you had it in you.”

I looked into the wine in my glass. “It’s a terrifying drug, isn’t it?”

“The real question is why a guy like Raphael Braga feels he needs to drug a woman to get laid.”

I didn’t answer. But I felt sure Raphael hadn’t drugged me for sex. He had wanted information.

Emma said, “Do you think you were Raphael’s original target? I heard he went to the party with Betsy Berkin, the twenty-two-year-old virgin. Maybe he planned to party with her. Thanks to you, she can still wear white on her wedding day.”

“Em, have you heard anything about Raphael using roofies on women before?”

“Not Raphael. But I heard some of his teammates talking about it. It’s all over the place. In fact, I know some women who’ve used roofies on men.”

“You’re kidding.”

“It’s one way of waking up with the man of your dreams, I guess.”

“Before it happened, I talked to him about Penny Devine. He told me his relationship with Penny was more than business. He as much as admitted they slept together.”

That news startled Em. “Wow, that must have been some performance on his part.”

“I should ask Bloom to test the hand I found for drugs. If there are traces of Rohypnol in her remains, maybe we’ll know if Raphael had something to do with Penny’s death.”

“That won’t prove he’s a murderer.”

Ignacio moved his massage higher up on Emma’s thighs. He set his wineglass on the nightstand, then put his other hand on my leg.

Emma and I looked at each other. I said, “Is this one of those situations where the language barrier might be a problem?”

She reached down and removed Ignacio’s hand from me. She patted him to show all was forgiven, and he smiled. No harm, no foul.

“I love the language barrier,” she said. “This way we don’t have to know a thing about each other. Just take off our clothes and have wild monkey sex. But you and the Love Machine, Sis? Is there a language barrier there, too?”

I folded down the top of the sheet and smoothed it flat in my lap. “Of course not. I was just talking to Ben on the phone for a minute, that’s all—”

“Forget the kid cop,” Emma said. “I’m not blind, you know. Or deaf. You and Mick—there’s something going on. Is it the whole baby thing? Your miscarriage? You’re not trying to sweep it under the rug, are you?”

“No, we talk about it.”

“Because you could get some counseling, you know.”

I laughed. “Can you imagine Michael in counseling?”

“Yeah.” Emma was serious. “I can imagine him doing just about anything to make you happy. Look, Sis, I don’t want to tell you how to run your life—”

“Good.”

“—but since you have no qualms about giving me advice all the time, let me just give you my two cents on the Love Machine subject: Don’t blow it, okay?”

“I’m not. I’m marrying him!”

“Don’t do that, either,” Emma said.

“What?”

She lay back and stared at the cracks in my bedroom ceiling. “I know it’s stupid! But how can we not believe in the curse? Hell, Mick’s already been in a car accident, plus the fall down the stairs, and then the whole house almost burns down around his ears—”