A Crazy Little Thing Called Death (27 page)

Pretty great, I thought.

“And she’s beautiful. You can see that, right? Not to mention altruistic. The amount of time and money she gives to charity? It’s incredible. It goes to show how big her heart is.”

I knew exactly how big Lexie’s heart was.

“But,” Crewe said as he began to neatly slice individual chops from the rack of lamb, “every time I speak to her, she gets this look on her face like I’m spoiled milk. Like I need a bath. And God forbid I bump her hand with mine.”

I opened my mouth, but Michael sent me a quelling look.

Crewe worked efficiently. His knife flashed through the tender meat until he had gone through the whole rack. Then with a quick flick of his wrist, he twisted each chop into a perfect pink lollipop. “She’s touchy. So damn touchy. It’s frustrating. I know I should take my time. Get her to trust me. But I don’t know how to do that.”

He checked the flame and laid a pan onto the burner. “Surely she doesn’t want to be alone the rest of her life, right? So she’s got to learn to trust somebody eventually. I just need to find the way to do that. A creative way. A way she’d respect.”

With Michael and me listening, Crewe frowned and said, “I can’t just hang around the museum hoping she’ll wander past. There’s got to be—you know, I heard she rows on the river. For exercise.”

Every morning,
I wanted to say. Lexie took her kayak out on the Schuylkill around dawn.

“I’ve got a canoe of my own. It’s in storage at the moment, but I could get it out, maybe put it on the river to see if it leaks. That wouldn’t be too obvious, would it?” Crewe dashed some olive oil into the pan and tossed in a sprinkle of herbs he’d quickly diced with another one of his knives. He followed the herbs with the lamb, dropping each chop into the hot oil to sear. The contents of the pan sizzled, and an aromatic cloud swirled up. “Even if I never actually bumped into her, it would give us something to talk about. I could ask her advice about buying a new canoe. Couldn’t hurt. Right?”

Crewe used a set of tongs to flip each of the chops and finally turned around. “What do you think?”

Michael shrugged. “Doesn’t sound so hopeless to me.”

Crewe nodded. “No, it doesn’t. Thanks, man. I appreciate your input.”

I wanted to shriek at them. With any one of my female friends, we could have spent the entire day reaching the same conclusion—after examining every nuance of word and action. I still wasn’t sure they had come to a truly well-considered decision.

Crewe slipped the pan under the broiler and stood wiping the blade of his knife.

Michael said, “You’re pretty good with that thing.”

Crewe looked at the knife in his hand. “This? Oh, I’ve taken a few classes. I wanted to do the whole Cordon Bleu course, but—well, newspapering seemed a little more useful. You cook?”

“Not like you.”

I thought the conversation might continue in that personal vein, but Michael said, “How’d the Phillies game turn out last night?”

“You missed it? It wasn’t bad. Tight score. They pulled it out in the end.”

For the next few minutes we watched Crewe assemble a salad. He took a pear from the gift basket Lexie had sent and sliced it into paper-thin wafers with a few more expert flashes of his knife. He opened a bottle of wine, diced some garlic and mixed it with an apple vinegar from my pantry to make a vinaigrette. Then he smoothly grabbed a plate and, with a graceful motion, slid two perfect lamb chops onto it. He flicked them with pepper, then snapped a sprig of basil from the pot Michael had been growing on the windowsill and tucked it neatly around the lamb. He carried the plate to the table and set it before Michael. “Try this. It’ll be better than burned toast.”

I took the baby so Michael could eat his meal. Crewe went back to the stove and set to work preparing food for the rest of the group and me. After he’d taken plates to the living room, he came back and sat down at the table. He sipped from a glass of wine and watched us eat.

“So,” Michael said when he’d finished the last atom of food and pushed the empty plate away, “I don’t think you came all the way out here to cook my lunch.”

Crewe stared at the table without really seeing it. A rush of color appeared on his cheekbones. “No.”

“What’s up?”

“I don’t—I feel like a heel for coming now.” Crewe looked unhappy. “I shouldn’t have even considered it.”

“What are you talking about?” I asked.

I had seen Michael’s expression—a new one, to me. Watchful, yet emotionally detached. He was several chess moves ahead of Crewe. And even more ahead of me.

He said, “What’s going on?”

Crewe began shaking his head. “I can’t ask. I thought maybe you—but now I know it’s wrong to even talk about it.”

“What do you know?” I asked.

Michael said, “Nora.”

Crewe looked up at me. His face had flushed, and his hand was so tense I thought he might accidentally snap the stem of his wineglass. “I’m in some trouble.”

“We can help,” I said at once. “Crewe, we’re your friends.”

“And I want to keep it that way. I value you, Nora. And Mick—look, we haven’t known each other long, but I get it now—I shouldn’t impose, should I?”

“Impose? Sure,” Michael said with studied ease.

Crewe shook his head.

I reached for his hand. “Crewe, tell us what’s going on. Has something happened?”

“It happened last summer,” he said slowly, still unable to meet Michael’s eye. “I was doing a story for the paper. I reviewed several restaurants that served the same high-end veal from a specialty farmer. It was excellent, so I decided to do a feature piece on the farm. I asked the chefs where the veal came from. The farmer turned out to be Kell Huckabee, using some property owned by Vivian Devine to raise the calves.”

I held my breath.

“So I went out to Eagle Glen,” Crewe went on. “I found Huckabee, and I started to ask him about the veal, but he—well, he went ballistic. He didn’t want to be interviewed, said I’d ambushed him.”

“He didn’t want to advertise his product?”

Crewe shook his head. “He was furious. He had wanted to keep his enterprise a secret from the Devines, I guess. Then Vivian Devine showed up, and she figured out right away that Huckabee had been raising animals on her property against her wishes.”

Vivian hated any cruelty to animals, I thought. Of course she’d object to raising calves for the restaurant market.

“Anyway, she and Huckabee got into an argument with me standing right there. Huckabee was—I’ve never seen a man so angry. He was small, but he looked dangerous to me. So I—look, I’m not proud of what I did. I thought he was going to hurt Vivian, so I took a swing at him. Honest to God, I thought he was going to beat that old woman. I knocked him down.”

Crewe rubbed his face and continued ruefully. “A day later, the police came to my place and arrested me for assault. It was very embarrassing. My mother was there. I hated humiliating her. She’s very—you know, Nora. Very conservative. So when Huckabee telephoned later and made me an offer, I—I accepted.”

“An offer, Crewe?”

Michael said, “Huckabee said he’d drop the charges if you paid him.”

Crewe sighed miserably and nodded. “I should have recognized it for what it truly was. Blackmail. But at the time, all I wanted to do was spare my family the embarrassment. So I paid.”

“And he came back,” Michael said.

“Yes. Twice. Each time he asked for more money.”

Michael didn’t ask how much money. It didn’t matter. The salient point was that Crewe had a connection to Kell. And worse, a motive for murder.

Little Max began to stir in my arms, and he rubbed his eyes with his tiny fists. I stood up to soothe him back to sleep by walking him around the table.

Michael said, “How much do the cops know?”

“I’m not sure. They came to my house this morning, very early. I had just come from the gym and—well, it doesn’t matter. Now that they believe the remains you found aren’t Penny’s, they think it’s probably Huckabee. They asked me a lot of questions about my relationship with him.”

“Did you call a lawyer?”

“I didn’t think I needed one.”

“Did they have a warrant to search your place?”

“I—no, I don’t think so.”

“Did you let them inside?”

“We talked on the stoop.”

“They didn’t ask to see your bank statements? Phone records? Stuff like that?”

“No. But they said they’d come back later. If they had more questions.”

Michael nodded. “They’ll have more questions.”

By that time, little Max had awakened to discover himself in my arms, not his mother’s, and he began to fuss. I put him against my shoulder and tried to quiet him.

Michael shifted his leg, but didn’t speak while the baby cried. He considered the options.

Crewe misunderstood Michael’s silence and continued, “I don’t know what to do. I thought maybe—is there a way to make this go away somehow? I was thinking you might—”

Michael put up one hand. “Don’t say it. If you say anything more, we’re talking obstruction of justice. If you ask for help, it’s solicitation. And we become a conspiracy.”

“Oh, God.”

Michael had intentionally sharpened his tone to make Crewe understand the gravity of the situation. But now he gentled his voice. “There’s a lot going on here. If we knew what the cops know, we’d be in a better position to decide what to do. Nora could talk to Bloom, but then she’d become an accessory.”

Crewe looked horrified. “No, no, I can’t ask anyone else to get involved in this. It’s my mistake. All I want—”

“Don’t say it out loud. You have a problem and you want it to go away.”

My friend’s expression became even more shocked. “But—how?”

Michael shrugged. “You could turn this thing around so Huckabee is the bad guy. Without causing—what do you call it? A social scandal that’ll upset your mom?”

Crewe flushed again. “It’s ridiculous, isn’t it? I’m ridiculous. I should take my punishment like a man and quit whining.”

Michael shook his head. “Nobody said anything about whining. It could be done, that’s all I’m saying. There’s probably a way to put all the heat on Huckabee. And he deserves it, right? Threatening an old lady? Blackmailing you? So he’s not one of the good guys. First priority is to get you in the clear.” Michael checked his watch. “When did the police see you this morning?”

“Around nine, I guess.”

“So they could have a warrant by now, easy. How did you pay Huckabee? Cash?”

“Yes.”

“Withdrawn in a lump sum the day he took the money? Or in smaller withdrawals, at different intervals?”

Miserably, Crewe said, “Lump sums.”

Michael shrugged. “Water under the bridge. Did you save any paperwork? Blackmail letters? Messages on your cell phone? Answering machine?”

“He never left messages, just called me on the phone, and we talked.”

“Okay. Do you own a gun?”

“Michael,” I said, “please—”

“Yes,” Crewe said hoarsely. “I live in the city. When I bought my house, before I renovated, it wasn’t entirely secure, so I bought a—”

“Is it in your house now?”

Crewe nodded, struck dumb. But both his hands were trembling.

“It’s okay,” Michael soothed. “Look, it’s possible to put this whole thing back on Huckabee. Shouldn’t be too hard. And he’s probably dead, right? So who’s going to care? You just have to figure a way.”

Crewe blinked as he absorbed the full meaning of Michael’s words. “You mean change the facts? Make him look guilty?”

“He
was
guilty, right?”

“Yes and no. I don’t know. I mean, I did hit him. I feel…”

It was obvious that Crewe felt rotten about the whole mess.

“Look,” Michael said just as bluntly as before. “Your problem can go away. But I can’t promise you’ll come out of it with a clear conscience. You’re the one who’ll have to live with what happens.”

“With twisting the truth.”

Michael smiled, although he did not appear to be amused. “What do you reporters call it? Spin. We’ll be spinning the truth.”

Crewe swallowed hard and looked down at the table again. Quietly, he said, “I don’t know if I can do that. Huckabee may be dead, but I—it would be wrong, wouldn’t it, to dodge blame? To put it all on him.”

“Depends,” Michael said, “on your definition of wrong.”

I turned from the table and walked Maximus across the kitchen. He let out a more full-throated yowl, a demand for his mother.

I glanced over my shoulder. Crewe ran his hand through his hair and sighed unsteadily. Michael met my gaze from the table.

I had brought my friends and Michael together. I had hoped he could blend in, become a part of my social life. But I hadn’t expected my two worlds to collide like this.

Dilly had warned me. Lexie had tried, too. Even Libby had recognized that things were maybe too different between us.

I just hadn’t expected this.