A Crazy Little Thing Called Death (21 page)

Michael grabbed the tool kit and struggled to open it. While he scrabbled through the pathetically small objects, Emma wedged the tire iron into the trap. But there was nothing to provide leverage.

“Iggy,” she snapped.

Ignacio obeyed her gesture and grabbed the tire just as one of the tigers hooked a fang into it through the fence. They wrestled, and somehow Ignacio won. He fell down next to the trap, and Emma kicked the tire into place. Together, they jammed the iron into the trap, and I heard Michael gasp back another grunt of pain. He dropped the tool kit.

How they did it, I’m not sure. I was still trying to locate the phone when Emma called to me, and I threw myself down beside Michael to help drag him out of the trap. Emma released the tire iron, and we heard the trap bang closed again.

The tigers followed us along the fence—three of them now, snarling and hurling themselves at the chain link—as we struggled to get Michael back to the car.

At last, we heaved him into the backseat, and I scrambled in with him. Emma and Ignacio climbed into the front seat. We locked the doors and sat panting, stunned and shaking with fear.

Ignacio burst into tears.

“Tigers,” Michael said, sounding amazed.

And then he passed out in my arms.

Emma leaned over the back of the seat to look at him. She shook her head in wonder. “Mr. Lucky.”

A
t the hospital, I didn’t faint until the doctors had stopped the bleeding, pumped Michael full of a powerful painkiller and taken him away for an X-ray of his broken leg.

“It’s not a compound fracture,” a very jaunty young doctor told me later when I could sit up and absorb information. “Although that’s what normally happens when a human steps into one of those animal traps. Nasty things, those. I didn’t think they were legal anymore. Where did you say this happened?”

“On a farm,” I said weakly. “We were out walking.”

He looked at my raincoat-and-pajamas ensemble, now a torn, muddy ruin.

“It’s a long story,” I added.

“What about all the other injuries? The bruises? The wound on his chin?”

“He was in a car accident a couple of days ago.”

“Wow. What is he? Cursed or something?”

“It’s a long story,” I said again.

He seemed less interested in my story than in telling me more about leghold-trap injuries. Trauma from leghold traps sometimes caused animals to chew off their own limbs, he told us cheerfully. And he had heard about a dog that sniffed a steel trap that snapped closed around its neck and killed it instantly. In med school, he had watched a surgeon remove the toes of a child who had stepped in a trap set for muskrat.

“Anyway,” the doctor said when the infomercial was over, “there’s no compound fracture here, but it’s a pretty spectacular break that’s going to require surgery. I’ve called about getting him to an OR right away for an open reduction and internal fixation. We’ll install some hardware—a pin and a few screws. Trouble is, we won’t be able to cast it because of the risk of infection to the puncture wounds. So he’ll need to see a wound specialist, who will probably prescribe IV antibiotics for six or eight weeks. And tetanus. He should also have a boost of tetanus just in case—”

I didn’t hear any more. I fainted again.

Emma and Ignacio took me home, and gave me a shot of brandy before seeing me into bed for the second night in a row.

In the morning I felt much less woozy. After a restorative piece of cinnamon toast, I put on jeans and a turtleneck sweater from Target. I packed up Michael’s razor, some clothes and his telescope book. Emma drove me back to the hospital.

We found Michael drugged and sleeping in a private room. Aldo sat on the uncomfortable visitor’s chair reading a newspaper and making a cup of Starbucks coffee last. Instead of his tuxedo, he wore one of his more customary outfits—black sneakers and a red tracksuit, unzipped partway down to show the logo of a weight-lifting gym on a black T-shirt. A gold chain gleamed on his thick neck.

“Hey, little lady,” he said to me as he lumbered to his feet. “Howya doin’? Feeling better?”

Perhaps I was still feeling too emotional. I felt my eyes overflow, and I gave Aldo an impulsive hug.

“Hey! Don’t start that stuff again!” He pulled away, startled, then turned sympathetic when he saw my face. “Hey, the boss is gonna be just fine. Just fine. See? They got him breathing on his own and everything.”

Aldo put a fatherly arm around my shoulders, and we looked down at Michael in the bed. He had electrical leads stuck to his chest and running to a beeping monitor, IV tubes in both arms, and a contraption under his leg that prevented the bedclothes from touching him. He slept soundly. Even with rough stubble and the cut on his chin, he looked young.

“I took the oxygen tube out of his nose,” Aldo confided. “It looked undignified, you know?”

“But if he needs the oxygen—”

“Nah, a doc came in and said it was just a precautionary thing, so it’s all good.” He held up a palm-sized gadget that was attached by a wire to Michael’s IV stand. Aldo poised his thumb over the button. “I been giving him a little jolt of painkiller now and then. Keeps him comfortable. You okay? You had some breakfast?”

“I’m fine, Aldo, thank you. And thank you for coming last night.”

“Hey, you did the right thing, calling me. There was a newspaper guy came by, but I ran him off.”

I hadn’t expected that, but of course reporters would be interested in anything that happened to the son of a known Mafia kingpin. I said, “Thank you. I didn’t want to leave Michael alone, but—”

“But I made her go home,” Emma said. “She was a mess, and Mick wouldn’t have wanted her here like that.”

“Aldo, do you know my sister Emma? Em, this is Aldo.”

“Hey,” said Aldo. “We met last night. Thanks for taking over. You must be the horsey one, not the crazy one.”

“That’s debatable.” Emma grinned. “You must be the knee breaker.”

Aldo looked humble, but pleased. “I help out when I can.”

While they talked, I put my hand on Michael’s forehead, checking for fever, I suppose, or maybe just to reassure myself that he was alive. His skin was dry and warm to my touch. I had an ache in my chest, and I leaned down to kiss him.

He woke up about half an hour later. He shifted in the bed and squinted at me. His voice was hoarse, but strong. “Tigers?”

I patted him, and he went back to sleep. Aldo went out for more coffee. Alone, Emma and I stood at the window and talked in sickroom murmurs.

“So,” she said. “What the hell? Tigers in Vivian Devine’s backyard?”

“I guess Vivian graduated from collecting house cats to big cats.”

“Very big cats.” Emma glanced at me quizzically. “Puts a whole new light on Penny Devine’s death, doesn’t it?”

“Em!”

“Oh, come on. You thought of it, too.”

I hugged myself and looked out the window. “That Penny might have been killed by tigers?”

“And maybe eaten.”

We looked at each other, and she grimaced.

“Tell me again about the hand you found. Was there any sign…?”

“Of teeth marks? No. Actually, it looked as if it had been—well, amputated. The cut was clean.” I laid my hand karate-chop-style across my own forearm to show her where the cut had been. “It was just a hand and a wrist with a small amount of—I can’t believe I’m saying this—a small amount of arm showing. I noticed the wristwatch and the nail polish, but nothing more than that.”

“Have you called Bloom yet? To tell him about Vivian’s backyard zoo?”

“I tried before we left the house this morning. I got his voice mail, but I didn’t leave a message. I figure he might not believe me.”

“Do you have the cell phone Mick gave you?”

“Oh, heaven! It’s at home on the kitchen counter again!”

Em shook her head. “You weren’t meant to live in this century, Sis. I’ll bring it to you tonight after polo practice. Or Libby can bring it earlier, if you want.”

“Let’s not call Libby just yet, all right? She might want to drag the twins along, and I don’t want Michael waking up and finding those two standing at his bedside.”

She laughed. “Suit yourself.”

“Thank you, Em. For last night, too. I can’t thank you enough.”

She gave me an affectionate punch on my arm. “I’ll save your boyfriend’s life anytime. Just tell him I think he ought to call off the wedding before he really gets hurt.”

As Emma gathered up her coat to leave, Michael came around again.

Emma poked him on the shoulder, the only part of his body that wasn’t bruised. “You look pretty good without your shirt, Mick. Purple suits you.”

He frowned at her, but couldn’t gather his thoughts to respond until she was gone. Then he shifted his somewhat bleary gaze to me. “I’m gonna live, right? That look on your face says otherwise.”

“You’re fine.” Gently, I tugged the sheet up higher on his chest and smoothed it gently. “You’ll be home tomorrow.”

“Why don’t you bust me out of here now?”

“Because they have to teach you to use crutches before you can leave.”

He sighed. “How hard can that be?”

I squeezed his arm. “Don’t be in a rush.”

He rubbed his face to try to clear his head. “Was Aldo here?”

“He went out for coffee.”

Michael nodded, glad, I think, to have the protection of his trusted cohort. He dozed again.

I sat in the bedside chair and read Aldo’s newspaper. Reporters rehashed Penny Devine’s murder in the light of Kell Huckabee’s disappearance. There was plenty of overblown prose written about her, too. Several Hollywood actors were quoted saying stupid things about her life and death. One ditzy starlet who played Penny’s granddaughter on a maudlin episode of
ER
blathered about the Tibetan custom of hacking up dead bodies and scattering them for the birds to eat.

“Penny was a spiritual woman,” the starlet said. “She would have wanted to be with the birds.”

I dropped the newspaper in the trash can.

And then I remembered Ben Bloom saying the autopsy might happen today. I checked my watch. I glanced at the phone on the bedside table. I should try to phone him again.

“Go,” Michael said from the bed.

He was conscious again and had been watching me. I got up and went to him with an encouraging smile. “Ready for some Jell-O?”

He shook his head. “You don’t need to play nurse.”

“I’m not playing. I want to be with you.”

“You want to be in the city, too,” he said. “You’re thinking about how a tiger could kill an old lady.”

“Michael—”

“And you probably want to talk to Detective Gloom about it, too. So go. I don’t want you here, anyway. If you start treating me like an invalid, you’ll never look at me the same again.”

“That’s what being together is all about, baby,” I said. “Taking care of each other. Let me do it this time around.”

“See? Already you’re calling me a baby.”

We smiled at each other. I felt the tears coming again, but I fought them down. The last time we’d been in a hospital, I had lost our child. We’d wept together in the dark, and I didn’t want him to remember that just now when he needed to get well.

I said, “You’ll be chasing me around the bedroom again in no time.”

He managed another smile—rueful this time. “Hold that thought. Meanwhile, Aldo will find somebody to watch my back. Take him with you. Go find out what the police policy is about keeping tigers as pets.”

I kissed him with more oomph this time, and an attendant came in. She handed Michael a menu he should fill out to select his meals, and we looked at the choices. Oatmeal seemed the most exciting thing on the list.

Michael said, “It’s hardly Caravaggio, is it?”

A nurse arrived next. She wore a smock with pink teddy bears, but her attitude was one of military precision. She took his vital signs, then ticked off a long list of hospital personnel who’d be arriving soon—a physical therapist, a respiratory therapist, the wound-care nurse and the orthopedic surgeon, all before noon.

“So let’s get you cleaned up,” she said at last. “Make you presentable. I like a man with a clean shave.”

That sounded like my cue to salute or leave, so I said, “I’ll wait outside until Aldo gets back. Then I’ll see you later this afternoon.”

Rolling up her sleeves, the nurse said, “We’ll keep him busy until at least five o’clock.”

When I bent to kiss him good-bye, Michael whispered, “You sure you won’t bust me out? She makes me nervous.”

I called Reed from a phone at the nurses’ station. Then Aldo came strolling back with some magazines under his arm. He had a book in one hand and another cup of coffee in the other.

He said, “They got a nice gift shop downstairs. Good selection of paperbacks, too. You like detective stories?”

“Love them,” I said. Then I told him I was leaving and would return in time to have dinner with Michael.

“Good idea.” Aldo nodded. “Maybe you better not see him like this. You know, before the wedding.”

“Uh—”

“Hang on a minute. I’ll go with you.”

“There’s no need for you to tag along with me, Aldo. I’ll be careful what I drink.”

“I’ll come,” Aldo said, no-nonsense. “I just gotta find Delmar first.”

“Delmar?”

“Guy from Big Frankie’s outfit. He’ll look after the boss while I’m with you.”

“No, Aldo, truly, I’d be so much happier if I knew you were here with Michael.”

My blatant flattery did not deter Aldo. He shook his ponderous head. “Delmar, he does good work. You’ll be real happy.”

I was stunned. Delmar turned out to be half-man, half-triceratops. His narrow hips widened into the biggest shoulders I had ever seen on a human being, topped off by a head shaved and polished to a bulletlike perfection. Except he had a dent in his forehead as if someone had clobbered him with a sledgehammer. He seemed to have most of his wits, though. He accepted Aldo’s assignment with a shrug and a nod, and he went into Michael’s hospital room. I saw a telltale bulge under his tracksuit and knew it was a weapon.

“Let’s go,” Aldo said to me, politely holding open the elevator door.

On the first floor of the hospital, I recognized two of Michael’s regular crew loitering purposefully near the elevators. Outside, another of his posse was slowly smoking a cigarette by the front door. All the men gave Aldo impassive nods as we went by.