Blackbird 02 - Dead Girls Don't Wear Diamonds (2 page)

It surprised me that any man would pass up Emma, who oozed willing sex appeal from every pore, in favor of anyone else. She was thinner, bolder, and more available than I would ever be. I'd been widowed two years ago, and I still hadn't found a way to understand what had happened to my life, let alone trust any member of the male persuasion. But Michael had made his choice, and from the look of things, it was going to be very difficult to steer him off course.

The wobbly sensation in my knees every time I got close to him was pretty hard to ignore, too.

He said, "We need somebody to sit behind the wheel of the tractor while we tinker with the engine. Any takers?"

"Not us," said Emma. "We are about to hear Nora's side of your breakup. Take Rawlins."

"Okay," he said peaceably. Then, to Rawlins, "That hardware in your face help you communicate with aliens or something?"

"No," Rawlins said.

"Can you drive?"

"Yes."

Michael jerked his head towards the barn. "Then hustle."

To his mother's amazement, Rawlins obeyed with alacrity, hitching up his loose jeans and trailing Michael out of the house at a trot, puppy in his arms.

"Okay," said Emma when the three of us were alone. "Tell us everything."

"There's nothing to tell," I said, going back to stacking kaiser rolls with layers of capicola, provolone and other Italian delights, as instructed.

"They're not sleeping together," Libby reported. "I got that much out of her."

Emma grimaced. "How can you resist, Nora? That man is so hot for you!"

"There are other issues," I replied.

"Yeah," Libby chimed in. "In addition to his very tacky businesses, there's his family. And of course the little matter of his jail record." She held up a handful of wet plaster for me to see. "Think this is ready?"

"It's still lumpy. He was a kid at the time. Younger than Rawlins." I was determined to avoid discussing the complexities of the Abruzzo crime family and my almost rock-solid conviction that Michael had no contact with them. "He grew up differently than we did."

"Uh-huh," said Emma, the youngest and therefore the sister who hadn't been raised during the luxury years. "He knows how to make a buck when he needs it."

Libby sighed and went back to mixing. "Filthy lucre. It's too bad we're poor now, isn't it?"

"Get you," I said, glad to change the subject. "How was Disney World?"

She didn't take offense. "The children were having a hard time getting over Ralph's death. For that matter, so was I. And in another month, I'll have this baby to take care of, so we need to be well rested." Typical for Libby, she avoided further discussion of unpleasant business by throwing up a diversion. She said, "You'll understand when you're a mother. Emma, don't you think it's time Nora had a baby, too?"

I dropped my knife. "Now wait a damn minute—"

Emma said, "Does my opinion count?"

Libby said, "Open that jar of Vaseline while I take off my shirt. Nora, you told me just a few months ago how much you regretted not having children with Todd."

"I said that in a weak moment."

"That's usually when instinct kicks in. Hormones cause a chemical reaction in your brain to come up with the idea just in the knick of time, you know." She began rinsing the plaster from her hands under the tap. "You're not getting any younger. Just think, if you got pregnant soon, we could raise the children together. I could baby-sit while you go to your parties. I think I should do this without the bra, don't you?"

Emma said, "God help the next generation."

"We know you, Nora." Libby dried her hands on a tea towel. "You aren't as calm and reasonable as you pretend. You're just as likely to be impetuous as any of us. I'm only afraid you're going to suddenly make up your mind to have a baby, and Mr. Abruzzo will be too convenient to resist."

Emma muttered, "I can't believe she's resisting at all."

"Well, I'm genuinely worried," Libby concluded, and began wrestling out of her shirt. "Do we really want a union with the Abruzzo family?"

"She can't marry him, if that's what you're blathering about." Emma looked into the extra-large jar of Vaseline and warily sniffed the contents. "She's a Blackbird. If she marries him, he'll die."

It was true. Family legend had it that all Blackbird women married rogues who died young. My sisters and I were just the latest in a long line of Blackbird widows who sent regular flower deliveries to gravesides. And although Libby's late husband Ralph appeared to have contributed to his own demise, there were some opinions that he'd still be alive if he hadn't married a Blackbird.

Emma said to Libby, "I like Mick. I don't want him dead. But if she wants a kid, I think he'd be a good choice."

"Well, he's obviously got sturdy genes," Libby agreed, as if I had suddenly disappeared in a puff of smoke. "And I suppose she could give her children nose jobs for their sixteenth birthdays. But if she needs a father, why not consider somebody else? What about that Jamie Scaithe? Or Hadley Pinkham? They'd make darling babies."

"Can I get a word in edgewise?" I asked.

"Hadley Pinkham is gay," Emma said. "And Jamie lives on cocaine."

Libby finally got her T-shirt off and stood in my kitchen wearing nothing more than an enormous brassiere, a pair of drawstring pants and her Birkenstocks. "Hadley's gay? How astonishing. I'm not good at figuring out that sort of thing. But I'll get
better with practice." She peered into the box of chocolates again, letting her last remark float suggestively in the air.

Over her head, Emma and I exchanged glances.

I said, "What do you mean you'll get better with practice?"

"Nothing serious." Libby waved her hand. "Sometimes you need a man, that's all."

"Oh, God. Are you looking for another husband?" Emma demanded.

"I'd rather catch pneumonia than another husband. No, I need a Lamaze coach."

"I told you I'd do it," I said. "I'll be your coach."

Libby shook her head. "A sister isn't right."

"Why not, for crying out loud?"

"It takes a man. I know these things. Can you help me unsnap? I have a lifetime of childbearing knowledge stored up. I know what kind of coach I need." Libby struggled to reach her bra hooks. "I'm determined to do everything right this time. After all, this might be my last child, so—"

"Might be?" Emma repeated.

"—so I want everything to be perfect. The whole family will be there. Well, except for Ralph, of course. And we're videotaping this time. The twins are recording the birth for a class project."

"What class?" Emma demanded. "Who encourages thirteen-year-old boys to videotape their own mother in childbirth?"

"Well, they won't actually see much," Libby went on. "I'll be underwater."

I dropped the wooden spoon.

"Underwater with incense. It's very relaxing. Next week I'm having the incense specially mixed to match my pheromones. And, see? I've already started
wearing my magnets and crystals." From inside the depths of her bra, she pulled a packet filled with colorful stones.

"Where," I demanded, "are you getting these crazy ideas?"

"I've been seeing this wonderful duenna. She's not exactly a midwife yet, but she's hoping to get certification soon. She's got a lovely Jacuzzi in her backyard."

"Oh, my God," Emma said.

"What's wrong with a nice, sterile hospital?" I asked. "And lots of drugs? Remember all those drugs you took when you had Lucy?"

"You don't understand," Libby cried. "Giving birth can be a magical experience wherein the mother bonds not just with the newly born, but with her entire family."

I put my hands on her shoulders and turned her around to face me. "Libby, your hormones have made you certifiable. Let me go with you to Lamaze class. You need somebody sensible by your side."

"No, you should experience childbirth for yourself first." Libby took my hands in hers and peered earnestly into my eyes. "Dear Nora. Trust me on this. Besides, I'd feel peculiar with a woman coaching me. I like panting with a man."

The hot chocolate boiled over.

"Now," said Libby, "who's going to smear me with Vaseline?"

"Speaking of unpleasant," said Emma with admirable self-control, "have you heard about Flan Cooper?"

"What about him?"

"You won't believe it." Emma drank another slug of beer.

I began mopping up the puddles on the stove, and
Emma said, "Last night his wife, Laura, drowned herself in the family pool. He had to pull her out himself. She's dead."

All the sisterly squabbling evaporated in an instant, and some force of nature sucked all the air out of the room. I sat down hard on a kitchen chair.

Death has a way of overcoming me. I'm not physically fragile, or even especially squeamish. But terrible emotion can seize my heart and drain all the blood out of my brain. The doctors tell me it's all psychological, and it wouldn't happen anymore if I'd just start seeing a nice, calm therapist. But therapists cost money, which was in short supply for a person living in a two-hundred-year-old farmhouse with a slate roof and plumbing installed in a previous century. So I faint a lot.

"Laura Cooper is dead?" Libby repeated, sounding far away.

"A shocker, huh?" said Emma. "Suicide. I heard she tied one of those concrete garden gnomes to her ankles and jumped into the pool."

Libby said, "Isn't her hubby an old boyfriend of yours, Nora? I can't believe he'd have a gnome in his garden."

I put my head between my knees. "Yes. Flan."

Emma instantly sounded contrite. "Oh, God, I forgot about that. I'm sorry, Nora. You okay?"

The gushing wave of blackness threatened to swirl up and overwhelm me. I couldn't gather my breath.

"Flanders Cooper." Libby's voice sounded about six miles away. "Now, there's a man with good genes."

"Shut up, Lib." Emma ran cold water into a glass and brought it to me. "Nora?"

I sat up unsteadily, accepted the glass and tried to sip. But I couldn't get my throat to function, and I
choked on the water. Emma patted my back until I stopped coughing. When I finally managed a swallow, she eased the drinking glass out of my shaking hands.

In a moment, I croaked, "I saw them last night. She was fine. Laura was just fine."

"You were at their house?" Libby asked.

Emma remembered. "They were having a party for Oliver, weren't they? To celebrate his nomination for something or other? Were you there?"

I nodded.

Oliver Cooper was a millionaire several times over, thanks to his long ownership of Cooper Aviation, the aircraft-manufacturing company most famous for the Cooper Wolverine fighter jet. Oliver had been nominated by the president to serve as the next secretary of transportation. His family, pleased and proud, had thrown a party in his honor before the confirmation hearings began. It had been a joyous occasion. The hard-drinking, fun-loving Coopers threw open the doors of their family estate and blasted rock-and-roll music loud enough to make William Perm dance atop city hall in Philadelphia.

Emma sat down beside me. "You talked to Laura?"

"Yes, around nine o'clock. She was—she was—"

"It's okay." Emma hugged me around the shoulders.

Libby shoveled around in her handbag and came up with her handkerchief.

When I could speak again, I said, "She can't possibly have killed herself."

Chapter 2

Of course, my boss had not been invited to the Cooper bash. And Kitty Keough had chewed hard on her pride when she phoned me about the assignment that afternoon.

"Have you been asked to the Coopers' tonight?" she had barked in my ear with all the charm of an enraged Pekinese.

Rory Pendergast, billionaire industrialist, international philanthropist and owner of the less-than-respectable daily newspaper the
Intelligencer,
had hired me to write for the society column shortly before his death. Bless him, he found me a job despite my complete lack of employment history. I was better suited to hosting social events than writing about them, but I was learning fast, and some of my best lessons had come from Kitty herself, despite her dislike of me. The ironclad contract he created had so far prevented Kitty from getting me fired after my first fumbling attempts at journalism and encroachment on her territory. But I knew Kitty was still looking for a loophole to get me canned.

"Yes, I've been invited." I had endeavored to sound polite even though Kitty still treated me with less respect than she did the panhandler who hung around outside the newspaper office building. "Oliver Cooper's son Flan is an old friend of mine."

"Spare me the details of your teenage romances," she had snapped. "I just want to know if you're going."

"I am. But I've been invited as a friend, not a representative of the press."

"I'm not asking you to snoop in their bedsheets. Just get a couple of good quotes. If the old man gets rejected at his confirmation hearing, we'll need something juicy. See if you can handle that."