A Crazy Little Thing Called Death (26 page)

Confused, Kaiser said, “Only sixty minutes?”

“No, no, the whole weekend!”

“Dilly, you’ve cut yourself!”

He stared at his finger, which was oozing a tiny drop of blood. “So I have.”

Kaiser passed Dilly another handkerchief, which he used first to dab the tear of pain that had squeezed out of his left eye. Then he wrapped it around his bleeding finger. He had turned pale at the sight of his own blood.

“Are you all right?”

“Fine, fine. Don’t let me spoil the festivities. It was a silly accident. Let’s see the dress again. Spin around for us, dear heart?”

I obeyed, but asked, “Was Kell Huckabee gay?” Recalling my hot afternoon with Nuclear Winter, I asked, “Or bisexual?”

“Not that I know of.” Artie stuck a pin between his teeth and spoke around it. “But he obviously knew his most interested customers would be. I mean, does your average hetero really want to admit his problems to the corner pharmacist, let alone a drug dealer? For us, though, it’s just recreation. MaxiMan makes a good time.”

“Where did Kell get his supply?”

“I have no clue.”

But I could make an educated guess. Kell Huckabee got the drug from Potty Devine, who seemed to be passing it out like breath mints.

Dilly squeezed the handkerchief on his finger. “What are you thinking, Nora?”

That Potty Devine suddenly sounded like a man who could have wanted to keep Kell Huckabee quiet. If Devine Pharmaceuticals was trying to buy another company, they’d need everything to be spick-and-span. Which made me think of another Devine scandal avoided.

“Dilly, tell me again about the child Penny had.”

“It was many years ago, dear heart.”

“Did you ever hear what became of the baby?”

“Not a word.”

Kaiser rooted in the pockets of his jacket for a cigarette case. He opened it, then reconsidered smoking in the presence of the beautiful clothes and snapped shut the case again. “In the old days, the bastard children were given away. Adopted by servants.”

“In books,” Artie said, “an inconvenient child went to distant relatives, remember? Very
Jane Eyre
. It was best to send the baby far, far away.”

“Nora,” Dilly said, “you’ll make yourself sick with all this worrying. Why not spend a day concentrating on these beautiful clothes?”

Before I could better explain my thinking, we heard a door slam and voices from the kitchen. I was trapped on the champagne case while Artie fiddled with the hem of the Mackie dress, so I turned awkwardly to see who was arriving.

“Woohoo!” Libby cried, barging into the room with her baby in arms and various scarves flowing from her neck. “Look who I found in the driveway!”

I
t was
The Sopranos
meeting
Project Runway
. Aldo came first, followed more slowly by Michael on crutches, and a couple of his hangers-on, including Delmar. They all stopped dead, staring at me on the champagne case with a flamboyantly gay man at my feet and the purple dress practically pulsing with garishness.

Dilly, Kaiser and Artie stared back at the mob crew, just as speechless.

“My goodness!” Hefting the baby on her hip, Libby was the embodiment of heterosexuality run amok. “Nora, you look like a starlet who picked the wrong stylist.”

“Hi,” I said to Michael, perhaps too cheerfully. “I didn’t expect you until later this afternoon.”

“A bunch of reporters showed up, so we took a back door.” Although stunned by my appearance, Michael pulled himself together and managed to hobble closer, clumsy with the crutches. His left leg was encased in an inflatable cast, and it hardly appeared substantial enough to protect the broken bone. His attention, however, was fully captured by the purple dress. “You,” he said, “look fantastic.”

Kaiser covered his mouth. Dilly managed to keep silent. Artie coughed.

The rest of the wiseguys stared at me as if I’d just strutted off an Atlantic City stage with the rest of the showgirls.

Aldo swung around and clouted Delmar upside the head. “Whadaya think you’re lookin’ at?”

“It’s nothing special,” I said firmly, already aware of Dilly’s amusement at the common man’s taste in women’s fashion. “Should you be in bed?”

“From the looks of things,” Artie muttered, crouched at Michael’s feet and gazing up at his tall figure, “he won’t be much good in bed for a long time. What a waste.”

I remembered my manners and introduced everyone.

Dilly, Kaiser and Artie couldn’t help staring at the notorious man in their midst. They took turns shaking his hand.

Libby said, “Kaiser, do you make bridesmaids’ dresses? Because I’d love to have a consult with you. I’ll nurse the baby and then we’ll discuss, okay?”

Kaiser choked, and I said, “Libby, would you mind making coffee when you’re finished—uh, taking care of little Max? Some of us are going to have blinding headaches soon.”

Dilly insisted Michael sit down and even jumped up to ease him into one of the leather chairs. Artie pulled the footstool close to make him comfortable. Aldo fetched a pillow. In seconds, Michael managed to have half a dozen people doing him services.

Libby went off to nurse her child, and Aldo dragged the two bodyguards into the kitchen.

Kaiser studied Michael with intent interest from the sofa. “You are the mafioso, yes?”

“No,” Michael said. “That’s my father. And you’re—what? Some kind of dressmaker?”

The world-famous fashion designer lifted his hands humbly. “The simple tailor, like my father, that is all. You are wanting to marry this nice young lady?” Kaiser waved at me.

“That’s the plan.”

Kaiser nodded. “It has chemistry, this match.”

Libby returned long enough to deliver a Ziploc bag full of crushed ice cubes to Michael. “For your hand,” she said. “It will stop the swelling. Next I’ll bring you some toast.”

“What happened to your hand?” I asked.

“Bumped it,” Michael said. “Go ahead with the fashion show.”

Artie held up a short black cocktail dress. “This one next!”

With Michael watching, stripping off the Mackie dress brought a stinging blush to my face. But he seemed distracted—probably from more pain than he admitted. In two minutes, I was back on the box, this time decked out in a short cocktail frock with a Chanel label basted discreetly inside.

Dilly sighed. “The quintessential little black dress.”

It was sleeveless with a simple round, topstitched collar, a cunningly nipped waist with a demure grosgrain ribbon, and a gently flared skirt that suggested my hips and skimmed my kneecaps. A good tailor could make it fit properly, but the bones of the dress were perfection.

For the first time, Kaiser got to his feet and made a sedate circle around me, staring at the dress with fixed attention. “Hmm.”

“Exquisite,” Dilly murmured.

“Drop-dead gorgeous,” Artie agreed.

“What do you think, Michael?”

He shrugged, cradling the ice pack in his hand. “It’s good.”

“It
is
good,” Kaiser proclaimed. “I will fit you myself! The garment must not be damaged by imbeciles.”

“Hey,” Artie protested.

Kaiser snatched the pins and set to work, tweaking, tucking, perfecting. He muttered in French and German, frowning, pursing his lips in aggravation. Artie watched closely.

“There’s something scratchy inside,” I said, wriggling.

“Nonsense.”

“No, really. I can feel it.”

At last Kaiser grabbed my bottom with both hands, making me jump. “What is this?”

I craned around. “It’s my—well—”

“It is something inside the dress!”

“I know!”

I turned the hem inside out and reached up inside the dress lining. My fingers struck a hard bit of metal that had snagged on a seam. With a struggle, I worked it free and held it up to the light.

A wristwatch.

A delicate one, made of white gold with
PIAGET
stamped on the tiny face. “Good heavens,” I said. “It must be Penny’s watch.”

Michael leaned forward. “Like the one we found at the polo match?”

“Not quite.” I tossed it to him. “Maybe the other watch was some kind of knockoff. That one is the real thing.”

Dilly said, “She must have lost the watch in this dress the last time she wore it.”

“But,” Michael said, turning the watch over in his hand, “her family said the other watch was hers.”

“They claimed it was,” I agreed, meeting his gaze.

“Time to phone Detective Gloom again?”

“I think so.”

Kaiser objected. “Not yet! The fitting is not complete!”

He attacked the dress again with expert fingers—first snatching pins from Artie’s hand, then slipping them one by one into the seams of the Chanel.

At last, he finally stood back in triumph. “Good!”

A little black dress by Chanel.

Fitted by Kaiser Waldman.

I could die a happy woman. Or at least a well-dressed one.

Libby arrived with more mimosas and toast. “Is that ice helping?” she asked Michael.

He flexed his hand. “Sure, thanks.”

Libby went to the CD player and turned on some music, so the party really began to swing. I used the chance to excuse myself and slip into the butler’s pantry between the kitchen and the dining room to phone Ben Bloom with my discovery of Penny’s watch.

I dialed Bloom’s cell phone, but got his voice mail. I left a message about the watch and told him to call me at home.

When I put the receiver back on the cradle, I found Dilly standing behind me.

He said, “I’m sorry about the broken glass, dear heart.”

“Oh, Dilly, think nothing of it.” I gave him a fond peck on the cheek. “It was nothing special. I’m so glad you came this morning.”

“So am I.” He took my hand and looked down at the gargantuan ring on my finger. “This is my first opportunity to meet your intended. He’s—not quite what I expected.”

“What did you expect?”

Dilly smiled apologetically. “Something brutal. But he makes an effort to be pleasant.”

“He’s not brutal at all. And he’s more than pleasant.”

“I’m sure you’re right.” Dilly touched my gaudy ring. “Nora, I hope you know what you’re getting into. Sometimes we—all of us—experiment in times of stress. We want to see how the other half lives.”

“Dilly, are you warning me off?”

“Just giving you permission to change your mind if you need to. One youthful indiscretion doesn’t have to alter your life.”

I stiffened. “Do you mean
ruin
my life?”

“Don’t be offended. I’m clumsy at this, but—look, I’m trying to tell you that you can make mistakes and learn from them.” Suddenly Dilly had tears in his eyes, and his hand trembled. “I know you suffered a loss recently, so maybe you’re not yourself.” Dilly paused before saying, “But perhaps you lost your child for a reason. Perhaps it was for the best.”

Coldly, I said, “You have no idea how much I wanted that child, Dilly.”

“Maybe you did. But think, Nora. Any child you have with that man will always connect you to his—his family. Are you sure you want that?”

I said nothing.

Dilly went on. “Think about what you’re doing, Nora. Think about who you are. Who he is. Who your children will be.”

At once, I thought of the two thugs who had grabbed me in the street. Men who wanted to hurt me.

“Think of your children, Nora.”

We heard the front doorbell ring. Dilly gave me a kiss on the cheek and left me in the pantry. I heard Aldo go to answer the door. When he came back, he had Crewe Dearborne in his wake.

Crewe arrived in the sitting room, looking downright startled to find such a crowd. I wasn’t sure if Aldo playing the role of my butler shook him up or the presence of the fashionistas in the living room did it. He carried a flat canvas package, tied with string, and a grocery bag.

“Nora,” he said when he’d kissed my cheek. “There is a carload of gangsters checking ID at the gate. What kind of house party do you have going on?”

“They’re not gangsters, they’re—well, how nice to see you, Crewe.” I introduced him to Kaiser and Artie. Michael got up from his chair, precariously balancing himself on one crutch.

“Mick,” Crewe said, “what the hell happened to you? The morning papers all have different reports. What’s going on?”

“Long story,” Michael said. “The short version is, I broke my leg taking a walk in the woods.”

“Jesus.” Crewe looked respectfully down at the cast. “Does it hurt?”

“Like a son of a bitch.”

“Here’s your toast!” Libby sang, coming into the living room with her baby on one shoulder and a plate in the other hand. “Hello, Crewe.”

Crewe glanced at the slice of slightly burned bread improved only by a skim coat of strawberry jam. “That’s all you’re giving him to eat?”

“He’s an invalid!”

Michael mustered his most dangerous scowl. “I am not!”

Libby was unmoved. “A full stomach will only slow the healing process. I also brought a tea that strengthens bone. It tastes a little like mung beans and cabbage, I’m told, but it works.”

“You poor bastard,” Crewe said with feeling. He took off his coat. “I brought you some real food. It’s surely better than mung beans and cabbage. Where’s the kitchen?”

Crewe had never been in the kitchen at Blackbird Farm, and he was taken aback by the huge space with its antiquated stove, the French chandelier and the tile floor where an eighteenth-century scullery maid reportedly had her way with one of George Washington’s lieutenants.

But Crewe got to work and was soon whipping up a meal worthy of Julia Child. Libby gave little Max to Michael and went off to browbeat Kaiser into designing her bridesmaid dress. And I began to wonder why Crewe really had come. For all his expertise in the kitchen, he seemed a little high-strung.

Michael cut to the chase. “How’s Lexie?” he asked, flat out.

Crewe’s hands paused in the act of unrolling his knife kit and selecting a very sharp deboning knife from the collection displayed within the canvas pockets. “She’s fine,” he said. Then, “Well, not so fine, I guess.”

Michael nodded. He had little Max balanced on one shoulder, and the baby hiccoughed drowsily and slept. Crewe opened a package of white butcher paper that had been wrapped around a rack of lamb. “Fact is,” he said, “I’m hopelessly in love with her, and she’s got more passion for the stock market.”

Michael nodded again.

“I don’t know what to do,” Crewe went on. “I think about her all the time. And she wants nothing to do with me.”

More nodding.

“It’s probably time to just give up. I mean, who needs the hassle? I’m doing fine on my own. I’ve got as many dates as I want, although, okay, I admit going out to dinner alone every night gets old fast. Most women just don’t interest me. But I have a challenging career. And my mother needs me. I see her quite a bit. Sure, that sounds ridiculous, but—look, I don’t need Lexie to make my life complete, you know?”

I shot Michael a glance, but he didn’t say a word, just continued to listen.

“But,” Crewe said, “she’s a lot of fun to be with when she’s not all strung out on business. She’s brilliant about art, you know. She blew me away at the Dalí exhibit a few years back. The way she talked about the pictures—she was more insightful than anyone I’d ever heard. And, see, I’ve been wanting to go to the Guggenheim Bilbao, but once I had the idea for that trip, I couldn’t imagine doing it without her. Even a weekend in New York, doing the galleries—how great would that be with Lexie?”