Blackbird 02 - Dead Girls Don't Wear Diamonds (13 page)

"I could just scream," Annabelle swept on. "Oliver
can take full credit for Flan's money trouble, the son of a bitch."

Her divorce wasn't fresh, but Annabelle was clearly still angry with the way her marriage had ended. Now her son's marriage was over even more tragically. I said, "Oh, Annabelle, you must be so distressed."

"I am," she said, suddenly sounding weary. "My poor Flan."

"Poor Laura," I said.

"Oh, the hell with her," Annabelle snapped. "I hate what she's done to my son."

I was surprised by her sentiment. But I recognized that Annabelle, blind to Flan's faults, would take his side in any situation. Was I doing the same thing?

I heard the unmistakable click of call-waiting, and Annabelle did, too. She got rid of me quickly, but politely. "We get our strength from friends like you, though, Nora, dear. Thank you for calling."

"If you think of something I can do, please phone."

"I will, dear. Bye-bye."

I spent the rest of the evening doing my laundry and licking stamps for the Big Sister/Little Sister invitations. But while my hands were busy, my heart ached for Flan. His life was a mess, and I knew he was suffering. I vowed to watch my feelings where he was concerned, though. I didn't want Annabelle's reflexive defense system to become mine, too. Flan did have faults. Maybe more than I wanted to acknowledge.

My mind wandered back to Laura.

She had been angry that she wasn't respected the way her family had been in Charleston. She had been badly utilized at work where her architectural skills had been ignored and her salesmanship of expensive "extras" caused her clients to belittle her. Her marriage was in trouble. Now I'd learned their financial circumstances were bad, too. And last but not least, she'd been seeing Yale Bailey, village tomcat.

There was still the disturbing detail of her appearance, too. Why had she made herself look like me?

My social calendar for Monday was completely empty, so I put on my hiking boots, grabbed an old ski jacket and set off walking to Frenchtown, the community across the river where I bought my groceries. If I cut across fields and hopped a fence, the trip was only a couple of miles. But on a soggy day, I chose to walk the longer route along the side of the road and hope passing motorists didn't turn me into roadkill. I felt I was safe enough from reckless drivers, wearing my bright pink jacket. I made the trip twice weekly and usually enjoyed the exercise. Even on a drizzly day, I figured I'd be back in time for lunch.

Head down against the light rain and with my hands thrust into my jacket pockets, I thought about the Coopers again. I wondered if Laura's funeral would take place here or in Charleston.

I reached the intersection, glanced up and down the highway and started to cross to the bridge. Suddenly a low black car whipped around the curve and blew past me—too close for comfort. I stepped back, startled that I hadn't heard it coming. The driver blew his horn before accelerating away.

After I crossed the road and started across the bridge, the black car returned. I heard it come from behind me and saw it slow down. I braced myself for a confrontation when the driver lowered his window.

"Hey, Nora," he said. "You got a death wish?"

It was Flan Cooper. Smiling.

I stared at him. "What are you doing here?"

"Out for a drive. C'mon." He looked and sounded remarkably amiable. "Let me give you a lift."

Hardly the grieving husband. I hurried around the back of his Jaguar and got into the passenger seat. It was the largest Jag built, very luxurious with leather seats and a cozy, cockpit feeling. But I smelled booze immediately.

He leaned over and kissed my cheek. "Hey."

I saw an oversized plastic coffee cup nestled between his legs and my heart skipped. "What are you doing?" I asked. "It's still morning."

He sat back, smiling blearily at me. "That's the first thing on your mind?"

"Of course it isn't." I was contrite. "Flan, I'm so shocked about Laura. Are you all right?"

"I'm plastered."

Another vehicle came up behind us and tooted. He glanced into the rearview mirror and put his foot on the accelerator. We crossed the bridge into Frenchtown, New Jersey. Driving left-handed, Flan reached for the plastic cup with his right hand and drank from it without taking his eyes off the road. Was he too drunk to drive? At the moment he seemed to be taking extra care.

I said, "Flan, you should go home. Be with your family."

He sent me another half grin. "I got in the car to get away from them."

"Why?"

"I just needed to get away. And I ended up coming here. Subconsciously, I must have come looking for you." He sent me another loose smile. "You were always good for me, Nora. How come we broke up?"

The liquor had made him woozy. Or was he faking it? Pretending he was drunker than he truly was? I wondered how long he'd been driving. Since breakfast? I steeled myself to see past his act. "We broke up for lots of reasons, Flan, and you know it. Let's go back to my house. We can call someone—"

"You're living at the old farm now, right?"

"Yes, and it's only—"

"How does that work?" he asked. "With you not driving? I always thought you'd live in the city."

"It's a challenge." I glanced nervously ahead as Flan guided the car around a sharp turn and headed out of town, going south. "Fortunately, I can walk to Frenchtown, and my sisters don't mind taking me places. And the newspaper hired a driver for me for work. Why don't we go back to Blackbird Farm? I'll make you some coffee."

He shook his head. "I don't need coffee. I'll be okay. It's just—it's been a hell of a couple of days." In a different voice, he said, "I can't believe she's gone."

"I'm so sorry, Flan."

"They won't even—we can't have the funeral yet. They're keeping her somewhere."

For an autopsy, I assumed.

"They say maybe they'll release her this afternoon. Meanwhile, we have the FBI crawling up our asses twenty-four, seven." He slurped from his cup again, and the car wobbled on the rain-slick road. "You know what? A package came for her this morning. She ordered a dress from a catalog on Friday.

I saw the pain contract in Flan's face. He didn't try to hide it, and I felt a flood of nearly forgotten emotion for him. Flan rarely let the world see behind the laughing mask he usually wore, the mask his father had doubtless helped him create in the misguided WASP male belief that strong men kept their true feelings hidden. I'd seen behind the mask, though. I remembered an afternoon long ago when
a bunch of noisy and yes, perhaps arrogant college students played softball in a park. Flan had been the one who saw we'd commandeered a field the local kids used when the disappointed youngsters discovered us on their turf. He drafted them onto his team and rejoiced when they hit hobbling ground balls that eluded outfielders. I'd fallen hard for him that afternoon. A sensitive man lurked behind the loudmouth, I decided. And today I could see that sensitive man needed my compassion.

"Ordering a dress. Does that sound like the act of a suicidal woman?"

"No, it doesn't," I said softly.

"And her quarterly trust fund payment came today, too. But she's not here to sign the check. It's pocket change, but it would sure help with . . ."

I touched him. "I heard you found her, Flan. I'm so sorry."

"Yeah," he said. "At the bottom of the goddamn pool."

"Wasn't the pool closed for the winter?"

He nodded. "I put the cover on it myself two weeks ago. When I went down there, I saw right away somebody had unfastened the cover. That's why I turned on the lights. And there she was, in the deep end with that thing tied around her feet. I dove in to get her out, but she was dead by then."

"Watch the road. Flan."

"Listen," he said, suddenly intense. He looked at me with bloodshot eyes. "Everybody says she killed herself, but that's just nuts."

"What happened after the party?"

He worked to gather his thoughts. "We had another fight."

"Did you—? Did it get physical between you and Laura?"

"No," he said at once. Then, "Well, maybe I grabbed her too hard. She could really push my buttons. I never hit her, though. I know what everybody thought. The black eye—she got that on a construction site, she said. But I wondered. I was really mad at her that night." His voice cracked. "You were there. You remember. I was mad. But not— I didn't want her dead!"

I put my hand on his arm, and he began to cry. The car meandered into the opposite lane into the path of an oncoming car, but Flan had enough wits to pull the wheel back. The other driver blew his horn long and loud. At last Flan pulled off the road. We hit a rock, then a huge puddle. The car slowed to a crawl and finally stopped in a sea of roadside mud.

Flan let the tears roll down his face. Then he dropped his head forward on the steering wheel and wept. Rain spattered on the windshield, and the wipers gave a silent swipe to clean it.

I pulled up the parking brake and put my arm across his big shoulders. I murmured nonsense to him, but mostly just let him cry. Eventually, I dug a handkerchief out of my jacket pocket. I tried to press it into his hand, but he pushed it away and turned towards me. He gathered me up into a hug and sobbed into my hair. I held him, too, cramped in the front seat of the car but willing to do anything to help my old friend feel better.

Except he started kissing me. First my hair, then my face. Then his boozy mouth found mine and soon I had to wedge both hands against his chest.

"Flan—"

I pushed. He was strong and resisted me. But he was also drunk and didn't have much determination. I shoved harder and he sat back at last.

The shove seemed to sober him up. Running one
hand down his face, he said, "I don't know what I'm doing."

"It's okay," I said, trying to catch my breath.

"She wanted to be like you, Nora."

"Flan, I don't understand that."

He rubbed his face with the palm of his hand. "It was crazy. I didn't see what was happening at first."

"When did it start?"

"I'm not sure. She got this idea in her head that I still had a thing for you. And I do, Nora, but not like she thought. You're a friend. I married her, for godsake, and didn't look back. But she talked about you a lot—especially after your husband died. Wanting me to compare the two of you. Which one was more attractive, which one was better in bed—"

"You don't need to tell me," I said. "But why did she feel this way?"

He wagged his head. "I don't know. Her family is some kind of minor royalty down South. They were born on some famous street, and it makes them important. When she came up North, all that didn't matter. People here don't care about anyone else's history. She used to fume about not getting the same treatment she did in Charleston."

"But she married into your family."

"That wasn't good enough for her. The Coopers aren't real Old Money, not like your family. Then Laura and I started having money trouble and—and, okay, maybe I mentioned how you were coping with being broke. Wearing the old clothes and watching your pennies. That's when she dyed her hair and started to dress like you. Except she kept buying more clothes that looked like yours. Our credit-card bills are worse than ever. We were really just hanging on until she took control of her trust fund next year."

I said, "What happened the night she died? After the party?"

Flan tried to focus. "Most of the guests left before eleven. The Red Barons had planned a dinner that night, so they all went down to the airstrip around midnight. I didn't go, but I thought Laura tagged along."

With Yale Bailey, I thought to myself.

Flan continued. "The whole compound quieted down after the planes took off. I went to bed. I drink too much. I know that. I woke up when I had to go to the bathroom. I went across the hall to see her— to apologize, I swear. She wasn't in her room, so I went looking for her." He removed the lid from the empty cup and looked morosely inside. Voice lower, he said, "It's only a matter of time, you know. They're going to come after me."

"Who?"

"The FBI. The cops." He laughed uncertainly. "It's always the husband. Don't you know that? Once my dad's nomination goes through, the cops are going to dig into Laura's death. It won't stay a suicide. And then they're going to arrest me."

"They'd have to prove you hurt her. They'll have to find a motive/and they'll need evidence." I could see arguing with him wasn't going to help. He was depressed and drunk, and in no mood to be reasoned with.

He shook his head slowly. "I need help, Nora. I thought maybe I could soften you up. Make you think about what we had back in college. A couple of kisses, you know, and maybe you'd help me. You figured out who killed Rory Pendergast. Maybe you can do the same for me."

Part of me still loved Flan. I didn't need kissing to remind me of the young man who had captured my
heart many years ago. My first love. The one who made my breath catch when I caught sight of him, the one who could make me ache with love and newfound sexual longing. The one who helped me grow up.