Blackbird 02 - Dead Girls Don't Wear Diamonds (12 page)

I was trying to come up with an acceptable way of asking who Yale's most recent fiancee was when Jean Pierre leaped up onto the table. His hind paws landed squarely on a velvet-wrapped bundle.

"Oh, Jean Pierre, be careful!" Sidney cried. He snatched up the bundle, but the wrapping slipped and out onto the table slid a glittering silver gun.

I gasped.

"Don't be nervous." Sidney picked up the weapon with terrifying clumsiness. "I don't keep it loaded. I must have a gun, you know, for security reasons. But the bullets are in a drawer."

Jean Pierre leaped onto his master's lap and nudged the gun aside. He braced his front paws on Sidney's chest and began to lick the dribbled marmalade from Sidney's chin. "Darling boy," Sidney cooed.

I ruined the moment by exploding with a gigantic, splattering sneeze.

Chapter 7

When I got back to the farm late that afternoon, Emma was there trying to unload a horse trailer by herself. I thanked Reed and sent him on his way, then walked across the lawn to the paddock. My sister was perspiring as she held a thick rope with both hands. The other end of the rope was clipped to the halter of one very annoyed horse that refused to exit the trailer.

"Need some help?" I asked.

"Not from you," she replied, not tearing her gaze from her adversary. "You'll muss your hair. This one bites and kicks."

I looked into the trailer where the wild-eyed animal stood glaring at us and dripping sweat, just like Emma.

"He's pretty," I said.

"He's a son of a bitch," she said. "But he's going to learn to jump tall buildings in a single bound."

"Only if he learns to get out of a trailer first."

"Well, yes."

"What's his name?" I asked, thinking something dramatic and inspiring like Sheik or Apollo might fit.

Emma spoiled my fantasy. "Mr. Twinkles."

I leaned on the fence to watch, careful not to get my St. Laurent coat dirty. "Em, what do you know about Yale Bailey?"

She quit glaring at Mr. Twinkles and came over to the fence. With one hand, she swatted a cloud of dust from her riding breeches. Then she bent down and retrieved a beer can from the grass. She took a thirsty slug and lit a cigarette. "Why do you want to know? God, he didn't ask you out, did he?"

Tartly, I said, "Is that such an impossible idea?"

"He's hardly your type."

"Rumor has it he was seeing Laura Cooper before she died."

"Doesn't surprise me. Yale goes after anything in pink panties."

"Including you?"

She blew smoke. "My panties aren't pink. And I'm not an idiot."

"You think Laura was?"

"You tell me."

"She was unhappy with Flan, I know. But why take up with a social climber like Yale?" I sighed, unable to make sense of it. "Unless it was the sexual thing that drew them together. She was a victim from the word 'go.'"

Emma watched me think. "What's up?"

"I talked with a police detective earlier today."

"That kid?"

"Detective Bloom doesn't act like a kid. He wants enough evidence to make Laura's death a homicide case. And he has some incentive for me to help him."

"Incentive?"

"He found Grandmama's sapphire on Laura. He'll trade it for information I dig up."

Emma whistled. "What are you going to do?"

"I could turn him in for blackmail or coercion or something."

"But . . ." Emma prompted.

"I could," I argued. "I could squeal on him."

"But you'd rather cooperate and avoid opening a scandal, which makes perfect sense, knowing you."

"Why does that sound insulting?"

Emma shrugged and had another sip of her beer. "What does the boy detective think you can find out?"

"Who else Laura stole from."

"It'll be a long list."

"It will be shorter if I can narrow it down to just the people who attended the Cooper party Friday night. Would it surprise you to hear Oliver might have paid people to keep quiet about Laura's stealing?"

"Oliver's not exactly driven snow."

"Firsthand experience?"

She shook her head. "I don't do the Viagra set. But he cheated on Annabelle for years. I saw him with one of Mama's friends at the Devon Horse Show one year, in somebody's horse trailer."

I pushed aside the mental picture before it sharpened in my mind. "Do you know anything about Sidney Gutnick?"

"That pawn broker?"

"He's not a pawnbroker. He buys and sells jewelry and silver."

Emma shrugged. "Sounds like a pawnshop to me. I never met him. Why do you want to know?"

"I figured he was a good place to start. People have bought and sold valuables through him for decades, and he's a gossip. But I left his place with more questions than I went in with. What about Tempeste Juarez? Do you know her?"

Emma frowned. "She used to sashay around the polo fields when I played a few years back. She paid attention to the men, not to a kid like me. She had tons of jewelry, though. She a pal of Gutnick's?"

"To hear him tell it, they're mortal enemies. But I'm not sure that's the truth."

Emma finished her beer and put the empty can on top of a fence post. She didn't look drunk, but I had begun to worry about her need to have a six-pack within easy reach all the time. Her recent broken arm—and the leg she'd broken more than a year earlier in the car accident that had killed her husband, Jake—were still stiff, I knew. Her injuries caused her to lose the job she'd had with the top-notch professional Grand Prix trainer since she was sixteen. I wondered if she was using beer to deaden her pain. Not just her physical pain.

"Listen," Emma said. "I'm not crazy about you helping your detective friend. If somebody got furious enough to kill Laura for stealing jewelry, they might get peeved if you start making accusations."

"I won't accuse anyone."

Our quiet voices must have calmed Mr. Twinkles because suddenly he gave a snort and came bolting out of the trailer as if fired from a howitzer. Emma dropped her end of the rope, and he went galloping past us and off into the unmowed paddock, kicking up dirt and hunks of weed in his wake. We turned and watched him rocket away from us in the falling darkness. He pivoted at the end of the enclosure and came cantering back, head up and nose to the wind. He looked magnificent.

I said, "He's really something."

"He's awfully stupid," Emma replied. "But I like 'em that way."

"Think you can get him into the barn tonight?"

"Hell, no," she said with a grin.

"Want to stick around and order a pizza?"

Emma's grin deepened into something more lascivious. "Can't. As soon as I figure a way to get my rope off that bad boy, I'm going home to take a shower."

"With anyone I know?"

As usual, Emma didn't divulge anything but the most basic details. "A rodeo guy I met at the horse auction. What about you? Mick stopping by later?"

I avoided her eye. "Not that I know of."

She let a loaded silence go by before suggesting, "Why don't you pick up the phone, Sis?"

"No. I don't think that would be wise."

"I don't get it," she said. "I was here the night he made risotto for you, remember? All that stirring and wine and butter and—hell, I left because the two of you were clearly headed for a three-day orgy. Next thing I know, you're alone again. What's the matter, for crying out loud?"

"There is more to life than sex, Em."

"Yeah, but sex is a good place to start. Plus, you care about him. It's so obvious."

"Yes," I admitted.

"And he cares about you."

"I know."

"So what's the problem? You waiting for a nice Amway salesman to come along, or you want the real deal? You're both lonely people who actually have the capacity to be happy if you'd just pick up the damn phone."

"We scored low on the compatibility test, okay?"

"Baloney," she said. "You don't want to give up on your marriage yet."

"Sound familiar?" I asked, more nastily than I intended.

Emma's face tightened. "I'm getting on with my life."

"Picking up every man you meet on the street is not getting on with your life."

"It puts me in charge. It's my way of controlling things."

"Well, this is mine."

She said, "I hear his father's in the hospital."

I snapped to attention, and all the fight drained out of me. "What? When? How did you hear that?"

"I stopped for gas in town. One of the guys who works there mentioned it."

"What happened?"

"Don't worry. He wasn't gunned down in a gangland shoot-out. I think it was a heart attack."

"Is he—? Will he recover?"

Emma shrugged again. "I don't know. You could call Mick and find out."

I hurried inside and dialed Michael's various phone numbers. He didn't answer any of them, so I left a message on his cell voice mail. Then I went outside again. Emma had managed to corner her new horse long enough to get the rope back. We talked as she locked up the trailer. Then she waved and drove away.

Back inside, I decided I had to get my mind off Michael's father, so I dialed the phone number of Annabelle Cooper.

Annabelle picked up at once. Her voice, a smoker's deep rasp, sounded frightened. "Hello?"

"Annabelle, it's Nora Blackbird."

"Nora!" Relief flooded across the phone line. "I was afraid it was more bad news. How nice to hear from you. Are you checking up on Flan?"

"Yes," I said, glad she knew me so well. "I figured you would know how he's doing. I don't want to bother him."

"He's just awful," Annabelle said succinctly. "I went over to that ghastly house yesterday and again
today, despite that dreadful Doe hinting I wasn't wanted. I needed to be with my son. He's a wreck, Nora. So upset."

I could imagine Annabelle at that moment. She paced while on the phone, her slim, rangy figure probably dressed in sharply cut trousers and one of the boat-necked cashmere sweaters she favored. In black, to set off the silky white cap of her fine white hair. No doubt she was smoking, too, perhaps even lifting a cigarette from one of the packs she shared with her longtime cook, Margery. The two of them were closer than most sisters, bonded forever by their addiction, since it was ludicrous for a woman who was entirely uninterested in food to employ a cook.

I said, "Is there anything I can do, Annabelle?"

"Oh, you're so kind. You always felt the same way about Flan as I do. That he's special and needs protecting. But his brothers are standing by him right now, thank heaven, and so is Oliver, in his way. In a few weeks, though, Flan will need all his friends. When things quiet down."

When things quieted down, Flan would be left alone with his own guilt and regret, I knew. Yes, he'd need people then. I'd never been so grateful for my family and friends as I was during the few months after Todd was killed. Now it was my turn to make a difference for someone I cared about.

"And how are you?" I asked, knowing how Annabelle would throw herself into Flan's turmoil.

"You're such a sweetheart. I'm bearing up." I could hear her sucking tobacco smoke as she trapped the telephone receiver against her shoulder and chin. "I wish I could shoulder some of Flan's pain. I'm going to bail him out of debt, for starters, no matter what Oliver says."

I always had a hard time keeping up with Annabelle's fast and often fuddled way of talking. "I'm sorry?"

"Oh, you know Oliver. He gives those boys all the toys they can possibly want, then pulls the rug out from under them. Flan's never been cut out to help with the business the way Oliver wants him to. So naturally things went bad. Only now Oliver refuses to help. No wonder Flan's been so upset lately. He's going broke! That's one thing I can fix, isn't it?"

Softly, I murmured, "I had no idea Flan was in trouble."

Annabelle was in full mother mode. "Well, he'd never complain, would he? I only found out about it recently myself."

Too curious to stop myself, I asked, "Was Laura upset about their financial situation?"

"I haven't asked Flan that," Annabelle replied. "But she seemed clueless to me. Spending money recklessly. They've been limping along on his pittance of a salary and what little monthly interest her trust fund allows but then she started those silly house renovations. On a practically new home! Flan tried to put his foot down, but—well, I don't want Flan thinking Laura killed herself because he couldn't make ends meet until she takes control of her money next year."

"Oh, God."

"Exactly," Annabelle said. "Do you suppose your friend Lexie could help? Flan's such a fool with money, and he needs a good adviser."

Lexie Paine was the best in the business, but I doubted she'd be interested in holding Flan's hand. She had bigger financial fish to fry. Noncommittal, I said, "You could mention her name to Flan."