Blackbird 02 - Dead Girls Don't Wear Diamonds (27 page)

Michael led the way out onto the lawn. He moved as swiftly and as silently as a desert commando, sticking to the dark edges of the landscaping. I followed, with Emma close behind. I assumed Libby brought up the rear, but I didn't wait for her. We skirted an elaborate planting of yew bushes and found ourselves in the middle of a large garden of spent perennial flowers. I heard Emma yelp, then she tripped in the flower bed and landed in a koi pond. Instantly, she was standing in eighteen inches of
water and saying words that would send a pro-football coach to confession. I pulled her out, dragging a few water lilies, too. Her shoes squished as we plunged ahead.

Michael dodged around the swimming pool and reached the edge of the patio first. He dropped on one knee in a shadow, looking up at the house. Moments later, Emma and I reached his side and knelt. I glanced behind us to look for Libby.

She was a long way back, laboring across the lawn like a drunken sailor. She reached the perennial garden and waddled safely around the koi pond.

"So far, so good," Michael reported.

We scanned the house for signs of habitation.

Libby arrived at last. She panted like a locomotive and clutched the small of her back. "Why didn't you wait for me?"

"Sorry," I said. "We're going to leave you here, Lib. Stay with Michael."

"Me?" he said. "Why me?"

"Because you aren't going inside."

"But—"

"If Emma and I get caught, we'll get into trouble, but we won't go to jail."

Emma added, "We'll take it from here, big boy. You can baby-sit."

"Hold on," Michael objected.

"I don't feel very well," Libby reported.

"You're just tired," I said. "Sit down and catch your breath."

"No, really. I don't feel well at all."

I looked at my sister. Despite the cool evening air, she was perspiring. Her face had a pasty shine, and a pinched frown knotted her brows.

"Libby," I said, "don't you dare."

She sank down on the ground. "I can't help it."

"What's wrong?" Michael asked.

"I thought I'd be fine," Libby went on, "but I'm starting to get little tweaks."

"Little tweaks," I repeated. "Are you saying what I think you're saying?"

"Oh, God," said Emma.

"What's she saying?" Michael's voice rose.

The three of us stared at my sister Libby as she lay down on the lawn, put both hands on her belly and let out a definite groan.

"No," Michael said. "Definitely no, no, no."

"We can't call an ambulance," Emma said. "We'll get caught."

"No, no, no, no, no."

"We have
to
get her to the truck."

"She'll never make it."

"And we only have an hour to get in and out of the house."

"We'll have to do this another time," I said.

"There is no other time," Michael said. "My guy at the security company will be history after tonight. This is it."

"Then I'll have to think of something else."

"Ooh," said Libby.

"We've gotten this far," Emma said. "We could split up."

"Oooooooh."

"Cut that out," Michael said, looking positively unnerved.

"I need a focal point!" Libby cried.

"Jesus," said Emma, "I'm breaking and entering with the Three Stooges."

Libby drew a cleansing breath and blew it out again.

"Well?" I asked as the three of us stared at her. "What's the verdict?"

"I
think it's just a random contraction," she reported. "Nothing to worry about. I'll just lie here for a minute. Maybe Mr. Abruzzo would kindly check his watch."

"What for?" he asked.

'To time the contractions," I told him.

Michael looked skyward and began to beg for heavenly intervention.

Chapter 17

Between Libby's contractions, we made hasty preparations. First we rang the doorbell and ran away like junior-high trick-or-treaters to make sure the house was empty. Then we systematically tried all the doors to see if one might have been left unlocked. No luck.

Michael broke out his various tools and sent me to look for an outdoor electrical outlet. "Plug this in." He handed me the end of a long orange extension cord.

I found a plug and unraveled the cord to Michael. He pulled out a soldering iron the size of an electric toothbrush and inserted it into the cord. While we waited for the iron to heat up, we looked at Libby. Another contraction began, and she started to breathe in short bursts.

Michael checked his watch. "Four minutes."

"Libby," I said, "how long were you in labor with Lucy?"

"Oh, not long at all, really," she panted. "It was the easiest delivery of all. Only an hour or so."

"Hurry up," Emma advised us. "The nearest hospital is twenty minutes away."

Michael tested the tip of the iron and looked at me. "You know what to do?"

I nodded. "I think so."

"And you memorized the layout of the house?"

"I was inside before, too. I can do this."

"All right," he said reluctantly. "I'd wish you luck, but I think I'm going to need it more."

Libby tried to get upright on her own, but couldn't manage. Emma grabbed her under one arm, and Michael took the other. Together, they hauled her to a standing position. But Libby immediately doubled over as if she'd been punched.

Emma said, "You'll need a forklift to carry her."

Michael said, "Good idea. Got one?"

"You'll have to go, too, Emma," I said. "Maybe the two of you can manage. Besides, you're too wet to go with me. You'll track pond water through the house."

They both knew I was right, but there ensued a short argument against leaving me on my own. Libby terminated the discussion when she let out a strangled yell.

"That does it," said Emma. "We're outta here."

Michael unbuckled his tool belt and dropped it at my feet. Then he handed me a stick of gum from his pocket and kissed the top of my head. "I can't believe I'm leaving you."

"Take care of Libby."

"We'll do our best. Be careful."

I watched them lug Libby across the dark lawn in the direction from which we'd come. I could hear my sisters squabbling as they went.

I tried to gather my wits. I was on my own, and time was running short. My hands shook as I unwrapped the gum and popped it into my dry mouth.

Dragging the extension cord behind me, I took the soldering iron to the French doors by the patio. From inside, lamplight illuminated the colors in the
stained-glass design. The picture depicted birds and airplanes flying against a blue sky background.

Offering up apologies to the artist, I set to work.

I tested the metal stripping that separated the pieces of colored glass with my fingernail. Yes, it was lead. I chose the largest glass panel near the door handle. Carefully, I applied the hot tip of the soldering iron to the lead and watched a tiny curl of smoke float up. My pulse steadied as the lead began to soften. With an emery board, I peeled it away from the glass in small strips. In a few minutes the glass panel wobbled, so I took the gum out of my mouth and gently stuck it to the upper edge of the glass. A few more seconds with the iron, and the final bits of lead could be pried off.

The glass teetered for a second as the gum shifted, but I dropped the iron and used both hands to delicately lift the glass away from the rest of the window. I set it on the patio and let out an uneven sigh.

Cautiously, I tried to fit my hand in through the space left by the missing piece of glass. It wouldn't go. From my other pocket, I pulled Emma's contribution to the night's bag of tricks. A tube of lubricating gel manufactured by a company called Knights of Love. I squirted a lightly scented blob onto my hand, smeared it around and tried again to squeeze my hand through the hole in the window.

Success. I angled my wrist and felt around for the door lock. My lubricated fingers slipped on the mechanism, and for an instant I thought I was stuck there with my hand inside the house. Then my thumb caught the small lever just right, and the lock clicked. I struggled with the door handle for an instant, then popped the door open smoothly.

I managed to get my hand threaded out through
the hole again; then I paused to listen. No alarm. No sounds.

There wasn't time to repair the window properly. But I pulled a strip of lead we'd purchased that afternoon and prayed I could patch it up enough so my break-in wouldn't be too immediately obvious. 1 picked up the piece of glass I'd removed and stuck it back in place. I balanced it with my right hand and used my left to solder the new lead strip in place. I burned my fingers twice.

It was a hasty job, I decided when I finished and stood back blowing on my smarting fingertips, but it might not be noticed for a while.

I gathered up the mess I'd made and stashed it in the mulch around the patio bushes. I stowed Michael's tool belt under the same bushes and wound up the electrical cord, too. I didn't look at my watch. I knew too much time had passed.

At last, I slipped into the house.

Absolute quiet. I slipped through the corridor, avoided the powder room where Flan had tried to kiss me, and went past the dining-room doorway and into the enormous great room. The house felt cold. Even my quiet footsteps echoed up into the Gothic rafters overhead.

I knew what I had to find: at least one piece of jewelry that could tie Laura's stealing with the person who killed her. If I could trap one suspect in a lie, the whole story would come together, I was sure.

I ran up the stairs and found Laura's room with no trouble.

But the door was locked.

And no Michael to show me how to open it.

Frustrated, I took a walk down the hallway. I remembered from the blueprints that Laura's room had been one of a suite, joined by a shared bathroom. I
took a chance and found the other bedroom door just down the hall. Unlocked. I slipped inside, past an elaborately pillowed bed. The nightstand boasted a water carafe with a crystal drinking glass upside down on top of it.

I went around the bed to a pair of doors. The first turned out to be a large closet. The second opened into a small breakfast kitchen—just a mini fridge, sink, coffeepot and microwave for the guest who didn't want to join the family at breakfast downstairs. Through the kitchen lay a short hallway and then the bathroom.

The bathroom door was ajar. A skylight provided just enough moonlight to see a marble Jacuzzi and a long counter with double sinks. A pair of heavy-framed mirrors reflected the moonlight. I crossed the tile floor and tried the opposite door.

Miracle of miracles. It opened.

I eased inside Laura's bedroom.

For a long moment, I stood in the doorway and thought about a young woman. She'd come from a respected family in an old Southern city, but she hadn't been able to break the glass ceiling of Philadelphia's social hierarchy. She'd gone about it all wrong. She'd wanted the acceptance of the Old Money crowd, but she hadn't been willing to spend the years doing good works, delivering Meals-on-Wheels or cultivating young musicians or electing good government. It wasn't enough to marry into a loaded family, and Laura hadn't a clue how to make herself part of a bigger picture. Perhaps Laura Cooper was the first person whose cause of death was social climbing.

I went to the windows and pulled down the shades one by one. Then I snapped on a small lamp. On the dresser stood the large, cheap vase of dying
roses. From Yale Bailey, I knew. They smelled like compost.

The police had been in the room; that was obvious. Laura's neat stacks of boxes and belongings had been ransacked by someone who didn't care how her things were left.

Where to start?

I flipped rapidly through her drawers, sure the police would have found obvious clues and removed them. I uncovered clothing—lots of it with expensive labels. Unframed photographs had been jammed under her collection of sleeveless sweaters. I paged through them and saw Laura and Flan in formal dress. The last, faded photo showed a man wearing tennis dress and holding a large trophy. A country-club sign stood behind him. I flipped the photo over.
Daddy
was written in neat script.

I put the photos back in the drawer.

More ideas began to zip around in my head. Like fruit on a slot machine, they kept reappearing and disappearing, not making any sensible pattern.

On the desk were stacks of glossy catalogs picturing enormous bathtubs, wine racks and even gun vaults. The false trappings of wealth nowadays.

On the nightstand, under a copy of a book that extolled eight ways to influence powerful people, and one that coached women on dressing for corporate acceptance. I found
Southern Names for Southern Babies.
I flipped through some of the pages and discovered she had highlighted names already.