Blackbird 10 - A Little Night Murder (16 page)

The dining room’s large round tables had been set with white linen and the club’s monogrammed china and silver. The centerpieces were old trophies that had been filled with sprays of fragrant white flowers with lots of ferns for greenery. The all-white decor
would have been uninteresting, except in this case, it was meant to showcase horses. At the front of the room, a large screen spun with a slideshow of equine photographs—all staged like the iconic animal portraits by painter George Stubbs. Each horse stood on the end of a long line held, presumably, by an attentive groom who had been cropped out of the picture.

Most of the crowd had grabbed drinks at the bar. The men wore a range of summer-hued ties and stood admiring the horse photos and talking among themselves. The women were more toned down, fashion-wise, wearing once-fashionable dresses—classics. They buzzed about horses, too. Even Emma’s gaze strayed to the pictures, and when an admiring murmur arose from the crowd, she joined in.

“That’s Whistleblower.” She pointed at the screen, her eyes glowing with appreciation for the beautiful animal. “He was a spectacular jumper, now a great stud.”

Emma had been first boosted into a saddle before most little girls popped Barbie dolls out of their packaging. While I was reading Nancy Drew and the Baby-sitters Club books, my little sister was fearlessly jumping ponies over fences taller than she was.

Watching her now, I realized I sometimes forgot how much she loved the equestrian world. For all her drinking, risk taking, and wildcatting with one unsuitable man after another, she was still the girl who loved nothing more than a good horse.

She caught me looking and winked. “I’m an expert on studs, y’know. What can I get you to drink?”

“Something with no sugar or caffeine.”

“Living large, huh, Sis?” She strolled away to score some cocktails.

In search of photos and quotes—not to mention food—I wandered among the other guests. They were all members of an elite but informal fraternity of wealthy horsemen who bred, traded or
trained thoroughbred racehorses or the fine animals that competed on the Grand Prix circuit. Not the usual scrappy small farmers who raised horses in the tristate area, this unofficial group numbered fewer than a dozen members, but it looked as if each had brought along an entourage.

Eventually I bumped into Paddy Horgan, the gruff stable owner who hired my sister from time to time. I introduced myself to him—he had forgotten we’d ever met—and his friendly expression turned cautious.

“I saw Emma on one of your new horses today,” I told him. “He was a gray—and very beautiful.”

“Right,” said Horgan. “A valuable animal. He has real potential. I’m giving Emma a shot with him.” Glaring at me from under bushy eyebrows, he added, “I don’t want her screwing up.”

“Does she ever screw up?” I asked.

“Frequently,” Horgan said just as sharply. “She’s damn good with horses when she puts her mind to it. But she drinks too much to be reliable. And she should keep her dates off my property. That guy she’s seeing now? I ordered him off my place twice. Next time I’m going to call the cops.”

“I don’t know who you mean, but I’m sure—”

“He’s a crook, I’ll bet you that,” Horgan said. “Shifty eyes and asking all the wrong questions. I don’t want him near my animals—or my employees. You can tell your sister I’ll fire her ass if I catch him around again.”

Before I had time to protest, Paddy Horgan lumbered off to harangue somebody else. I stood for a moment, fuming.

Emma returned with her fingers pinching together three drinks—two for herself and a glass of soda water with an impressive array of fruit on skewers for me.

I bit into an orange slice first, barely holding on to my temper. “Paddy Horgan is his usual charming self.”

“What’s lit his fuse tonight?”

“Your current boyfriend,” I said. “Paddy doesn’t like him, whoever he is.”

Emma shrugged that off. “Paddy is still mad that I didn’t roll him in the hay a couple of years ago.”

“He seems to think your new horse has a bright future. After riding him, what do you think?”

Emma warmed to the subject more easily than usual. “Cookie’s pretty great. A few bad habits we’ll work on. He’s strong, though—really strong, so I need to keep going to the gym. I’m thinking about getting a trainer. Funny, huh? Both the horse and the rider need professional training now. And the gym is a hoot.”

“What kind of gym?”

“A suburban meat market. The women come in cute outfits with their hair and makeup done, hoping Prince Charming will notice them on the StairMaster. The guys watch themselves in the mirror when they lift. It’s hilarious. But annoying that you have to run this gauntlet of hair-gel dweebs to get out of the place. Now I go at five in the morning, when everybody’s serious about exercising. The only drawback was an old coot who doesn’t realize he’s flashing his balls when he pedals the stationary bike. Now I’m in a kickboxing class.” Her grin widened. “Anything to get away from Mr. Sad Sack on the bicycles. Kickboxing is more my style anyway.”

“And it might come in handy when you run the gauntlet of dweebs,” I said, making her laugh. Emma looked very strong herself at the moment.

A young man in a sharp suit who had been strolling around the edges of the party suddenly noticed Emma and headed our way. I noticed that his hair was elaborately gelled. But he caught a gander at me and stopped short. Hastily, he turned around and walked off.

Emma laughed. “Hey, Sis, maybe I need you to fend off the hair-gel dweebs.”

I patted Baby Girl. “I’m the poster girl for what happens when you have sex. And I’m hungry again. I don’t suppose you saw any real food? I might kill for some appetizers.”

“The kitchen’s backed up at the moment.” She sat down with me at the table. “When I was pregnant, I should have invested in Kellogg’s stock. The amount of cereal I ate could have filled a dump truck.”

“Every time I reach for a cereal box, Michael makes me a plate of steamed vegetables from the garden.” I glanced around, feeling increasingly desperate. “They’re not even serving cheese and crackers?”

“Booze. That’s it until dinner.”

“I may not make it that long.” I searched my handbag for an emergency granola bar.

Emma watched me dig. “What’s this I hear about you discovering Jenny Tuttle’s body?”

“I was there, yes.”

“Did you faint?”

“It was a close call,” I admitted.

Emma watched me start another search in all the interior pockets of my handbag. “How did she die?”

“Somebody helped Jenny overdose on caffeine. Or diet pills. Or both.”

“Who would do that? And why?”

“Who? I don’t know yet. Why? Well, the Tuttles were working on a new musical.
Bluebird of Happiness
. And it wasn’t going very smoothly. Dear heaven, I’m starving!”

“Eat the rest of the fruit in your drink.”

“I’m frustrated, too,” I admitted once I had gnawed all the orange slices to their rinds and gobbled the cherries, too. “My editor says the newspaper will fall apart if I don’t contribute some kind of story—either about Lexie Paine or about Jenny Tuttle.”

Emma raised her eyebrows. “What about Lexie?”

“She’s staying out of the public eye. Regrouping. Working on a plan to help her former clients. And something else. Something with Michael.”

“What kind of something?” Emma asked. “You sound worried.”

“Not worried, but—well, you know his tendencies. And Lexie needs a business challenge at the moment, so they—they’re thick as thieves. Thing is, my editor is pressuring me to write something that will sell papers. He either wants a story about Lexie or about Jenny Tuttle. But short of breaking onto the Tuttle property to look for clues about Jenny’s death, I’ve run out of material. I’m feeling frustrated.”

Emma sent me a stern sisterly glare. “You’re not breaking into anything, Miss Marple. Not in your condition.”

I hadn’t been serious. But I remembered Ox saying the show-business people would be rehearsing at the local theater tonight, singing and dancing their way through Jenny Tuttle’s wake. Ox had told me about it. With luck, nobody would be at the Tuttle house this evening. The more I thought about it, the more I realized I had an opportunity.

Emma’s expression went from disapproval to amazement. “I know what that face means. Forget it. You’re not doing anything crazy.”

I grabbed her glass as she lifted it to her mouth. “How many drinks have you had? Is this your first of the night? Can you drive?”

“You can’t be serious.”

But I was. And twenty minutes later, we were pulling out of a Philadelphia parking garage and heading north in my sister’s rattletrap pickup truck. Me with a giant pretzel I had purchased from a cart, and Emma slurping mineral water from a plastic bottle.

“This is a really bad idea,” Emma was saying. “And when I’m the voice of reason, you should know exactly how bad.”

“I only want to take a look into the folly behind the Tuttle house. I have a feeling that’s where Jenny worked. There’s bound to be something interesting there.”

“At least let me do the dirty work. I’ll play detective.”

“Are you kidding? After what you did last spring, setting fire to a neighbor’s farm? I should trust you?”

“It was for a good cause.”

“It was nuts, and you’re lucky the police haven’t come looking for you.”

“They have already,” Emma replied, reaching for her cigarettes. She had second thoughts, though, and tossed down the pack. “They asked me some questions because I was on the Starr property the day before the barn burned. The insurance company is miffed about parting with their money. I’m pretty sure the only reason I’m not in jail already is because the policy owners are either dead or in the slammer. But eventually the cops are going to get serious.”

Emma’s rash behavior when our nephew’s future was at stake hadn’t been her finest hour. But now maybe she was on a path of recovery, and nothing should jeopardize that, to my way of thinking. I said, “All the more reason for me to do the snooping tonight.”

“Yeah, if you get caught, you can plead temporary insanity.”

I
t felt strangely exciting to be the irrational Blackbird sister for once. I kicked off my shoes and rolled down the window to let the warm air blow around me. I told Emma about Boom Boom Tuttle’s blue skin. Emma kept a stash of apples in her truck, and I crunched through two of them during our drive and felt less famished with every mile we covered. Rush-hour traffic had thinned, and the evening sunlight was turning gold. I was feeling rejuvenated.

So I said, “What are you doing next Friday night?”

“Why?”

“I was hoping you’d have the evening free. I need a witness.”

“A witness for what?”

“We need two, actually. Lexie said she’d come, and I was thinking you might be willing to stand up with us for—”

“Holy shit,” Emma said, already leaps ahead of me. She turned and stared. “You’re finally getting married! For real?”

“If you tell Libby, I will positively kill you.”

Emma laughed delightedly. “Hey, this is good news! Does Mick know?”

“Of course he knows. We planned it. We have the license and everything. We’re going to see a judge in her chambers.”

“Hey, this is great. Maybe he’ll be able to stop going to confession every time the two of you make sinful whoopee. Do you have rings?”

“I have one for him. With the price of gold so high, I had to be creative, so when I found Granddad’s gold band in a drawer, I grabbed it. I had it sized. And it’s a beautiful ring. It came from his grandfather, you know, so it has a lot of good marriage mileage on it. I hope Michael is okay with that. Do you think it’s kosher to use it?”

“Recycling a ring makes economic sense, so it’s right up Mick’s alley. And Granddad—he might have actually liked Mick. They have the same kind of entrepreneurial brain, even if Mick’s is a little warped. In a good way.”

“We’d be very happy if you’d join us.”

Emma cackled with pleasure, then got serious. “What about Libby? You’re not inviting her? Sis, she’ll be crushed.”

I still felt guilty about snapping at Libby about her love life. But not guilty enough to tell her what Michael and I had planned. Not yet anyway. “I’m not inviting her until the last instant. You know what will happen if she has even five minutes’ notice.”

“Yeah, you’ll find yourself getting married in the middle of Broad Street with a hundred Mummers playing banjos. If she doesn’t have time to plan anything, you’re safe.”

“That’s my hope. So, will you come?”

Emma stole a glance at me. “Is it okay with Mick?”

“Yes,” I said. “You’re my sister. I want you there. So does he. Just don’t bring a banjo.”

“I won’t,” she promised, still grinning. “But—are you sure? I mean, are you sure this is the smart thing to do?”

“Are you referring to the curse?”

“You know it as well as I do, Sis. The Blackbird curse puts Mick’s life in danger.”

“It’s an old wives’ tale,” I said firmly. “It’s not real.”

“I hope you’re right,” Emma said, but her tone said she had doubts.

By the time we turned into the shared driveway between Lexie’s temporary home and the Tuttle house, I had revealed our whole wedding plan. Dusk had gathered, and the long shadows thrown across the lush grass by the trees on the two properties were fast melting into darkness.

“How do you want to play this?” Emma asked, foot on the brake at the bottom of the driveway, where the single lane split into two. To the left, we could see the glow of lights at Lexie’s place. To the right, the twin mansion looked dark. Out of instinct, Emma killed her headlights.

I pointed. “How about if we leave the truck behind that hedge? You stay here, and I’ll walk up to the house myself.”

Emma pulled her pickup alongside the ragged hedge and shut off the noisy engine. “No way I’m letting you do anything alone.”

I popped open the passenger door and climbed out of the truck. “I’ll be okay. Stay here.”

Emma got out, too, and met me at the hedge. She planted her hand on my chest. “If things were the other way around, would you let me go alone?”

“No,” I admitted.

“Okay, then. Here. I’ve even got a flashlight. It’ll be pitch-dark soon. Let’s go.”

We started up the driveway and soon reached a gate I hadn’t
noticed before. Tonight it was closed and locked, barring our path. Emma clambered over it easily, leaving me on the wrong side. She faced me between the rails, smiling through the gloom. “This looks like the end of the road for you, Sis. Tell me what you want me to do, and I’ll be back in a jiffy.”

“I won’t know until I see what the options are. I have to go, too.”

Determined, I stepped up on the bottom rung of the gate and teetered there, trying to figure out how to get my leg over the top bar without rolling my rotund self into the dust below. I reached for help. “Give me a hand, Em.”

She deliberately misunderstood my meaning and began to clap. “Here’s a round of applause for you, Humpty Dumpty.”

“Come on! You won’t know what to look for. Help me over.”

“Nora, this is the universe’s way of saying you’re not supposed to go breaking into anybody’s house tonight.”

“If you won’t help me now, I’ll do it myself! I’ve been going to yoga class, and the instructor says I’m very supple.” I stepped up on the next couple of rungs and with an involuntary grunt tried to boost myself over. When that didn’t work, I attempted to heave my leg sideways, but my belly got in the way. I tried the other leg. No luck. It soon became apparent that I wasn’t going to manage getting my large self over the top rail. Feeling a bit like Winnie the Pooh stuck in the honey tree, I realized I couldn’t seem to get down, either. Panting, I hugged the top rail. My belly was just too big to budge. I was hanging on for dear life.

Emma smothered her laughter. “Supple doesn’t help if you’re the shape of an eggplant. Wait, let me get my phone out. I want to take a picture. This is prime blackmail stuff.”

“I have plenty of blackmail material on you, too, remember. And I could tell Libby you want the full bridesmaid package. In a
heartbeat, she’ll have you looking like a porn version of Little Bo Peep. Help me, dammit!”

“Okay, okay, just don’t fall. Here, put your other leg over this way.”

I felt her grab my ankle and push. “Wait! I can’t—”

“No, no,
this
way. Forget about being so damn prissy for once, will you? I’ve seen your underwear before.” As I finally managed to push my right leg over the top rail, she added, “I’ve just never seen a pair that big until now. When did you start going in for granny panties?”

I tried giving her a kick but slipped and barely caught my balance. The next thing I knew, Emma had a grip on my shoulders, and she hauled me over the gate. With a yelp, I fell—arms and legs pinwheeling—but fortunately Emma was there to break my fall. I landed softly on top of my sister. Emma somehow landed face-first in the dirt and cursed.

“Shh!” I scrambled to my feet and brushed myself off. “Do you want to wake the whole neighborhood?”

“Me?” She got up and spat dust. “It was you who— Oh, never mind. You okay?”

I gathered my dignity. “Fine.”

“Well, we’re surely over the worst. Let’s go.”

We walked up the long driveway together—both of us in heels and dresses, Emma’s face smeared with dust and me feeling meekly guilty that I had come this far. Not speaking, we listened for any clue that our less-than-clandestine arrival had been heard. I strained to hear a sound that might indicate the house was occupied. I hoped Ox Oxenfeld had been right—that the whole cast of characters had gone to the theater to rehearse for Monday night’s performance
.

For once, no cars were parked in the circular drive in front of the Tuttle house, and no music came from any of the windows.
Someone had turned on the hanging lantern in the portico over the front door—as if to light their way home after the rehearsal.

Reassured, I led Emma quietly across the terrace to the patio out back, where a stone retaining wall separated the improvised rehearsal space from the garden beyond.

“Where are we going?” Emma whispered.

I pointed. “See that roof behind the tall bushes? It’s a folly. Let’s try this way.”

I found an overgrown garden path and pushed past some spindly foxgloves. We stepped over the remains of a peony hedge now slumped with rotting blooms. Emma shoved me aside and went first. Even with the flashlight, it was hard to see where to go. Underfoot, the weeds on the gravel path were worn down as if by recent foot traffic, however.

“This better not be poison ivy,” Emma said over her shoulder. “All I need right now is a rash on my ass. This dress is too damn short.”

“Whose fault is that?”

Together, we pressed through the jungle of the untended garden and finally emerged on the other side. We found ourselves standing on a grassy spot in front of a shabby building.

The folly had been constructed to look like a small Roman temple. It was round with a rotunda-style roof held up by a series of Doric columns that hadn’t been painted in a long time. Between the columns were plinths where statues of nymphs might once have frolicked. Tonight all the plinths were empty but one. On it stood a single marble statue of a robed woman who looked straight at us with blank white eyes. The beam of Emma’s flashlight played from her bare feet up her nearly naked body. She had a lyre in one hand, holding it to her shoulder. At one time the other hand might have been raised to pluck the strings, but the whole right arm was now missing.

“Creepy,” Emma said.

“I think it’s pretty. I’m sure Jenny appreciated it.”

“So this is it? Her secret garden?”

“Let’s look inside.”

With her flashlight, Emma pointed out the path that circled the building. I went first and followed the way to the back. My heart leaped when I saw a door. It was a recent addition to the temple—a modern screen door with an aluminum door on the inside. Miraculously, it was unlocked.

Behind me, Emma said. “Not exactly top security.”

An eerie blue glow greeted us.

In the middle of the round room stood a baby grand piano with a lava lamp sitting on top. Inside the lamp, a blue blob of goop bubbled up, creating a weird glowing circle of light. By that creepy illumination, I could see we were surrounded by file cabinets covered with silly magnets, a messy desk, and a frumpy, rump-sprung upholstered chair with an ottoman, where someone had obviously spent many hours. A collection of old bottles was lined up on the windowsill. A handwritten musical score stood on the piano’s music stand. Near it, a wide-mouthed jar—a lumpy, hand-thrown bit of pottery—bristled with pencils that waited for the composer’s hand to grab one and begin scribbling on the pages again.

Jenny’s hand, I was willing to bet. This was her creative lair. She had come to this place to be alone and to create her own music.

Emma played her flashlight on the far wall. She cursed softly.

Across from the piano, someone had hung a collage of photographs. The collage was studded with darts that had been thrown at the person featured in all the pictures.

“Who’s the broad?” Emma asked, staring at the dozens of defaced photographs.

“Boom Boom.” My voice hardly made its way out of my throat as I stared at the photos. “Jenny’s mother.”

Emma let out a slow whistle. “Looks like Jenny wasn’t too happy with mom.”

Several of the photos had been balled up or torn in pieces, but someone had reassembled them and stuck them back on the wall so the collage could go on serving as a dart board. Some photos had been scrawled with curse words. On others, Boom Boom had been slashed with mustaches or devil horns. One particularly large picture of Boom Boom in her pre-blue prime—posing in tap shoes and a short dress with a top hat—had been scribbled over with two words:

DIE BITCH.

On the central photo, Boom Boom’s head shot, a large, gleaming carving knife had been plunged directly into Boom Boom’s face.

The rage on the wall was so powerful that it blew me down. I caught my balance on the piano and plunked onto the bench. Jenny hadn’t just disliked her mother. Her hate was scrawled and spewed and stabbed onto the collage.

I found myself staring at the wall through a forest of aluminum cans—cans of energy drink that stood around the lava lamp. More empty cans lay in a small trash basket beside the piano’s bench.

Emma sat down on the bench beside me. “You okay?”

I nodded, unable to speak. I may have been exasperated with our mother from time to time, but I had never felt the kind of profound rage that pulsed off the wall before us.

Emma arranged her fingers carefully on the piano keys. She struck a quiet chord. The notes rose around us—a beautiful sound in that small, enclosed space with the open rotunda over our heads.

She said. “Judging by the shooting gallery, Jenny and her mother didn’t get along, huh?”

“Boom Boom bullied her, belittled her. She probably wanted to keep Jenny firmly in a subservient role so Boom Boom could go on being the star. If Jenny wanted to break out, become a person on her own, she had to come here,” I guessed. “This is where she could be herself. Compose her own music.”

“Okay,” Emma said. “What thirteen-year-old doesn’t get mad at her mom once in a while? But hanging all those pictures and throwing darts at ’em—this is bad juju.”

“Yes,” I said. “She wanted Boom Boom dead, didn’t she?”

“Pretty obvious,” Emma agreed. “Did somebody know that? And bump off Jenny first, before she finally worked up the courage to whack her own mother?”

“I don’t know.” I picked up one of the sheets of her music. The paper shivered as my hands began to quake. Maybe the shy, quiet piano player I thought I’d been trying to help had actually been some kind of psychopath.

To learn more, I got up from the piano bench and wobbled over to the desk. I opened the top drawers and found pencils, a pitch pipe and a shallow clutter of blank note cards. But in the last drawer there was a copy of the photo of the boy—the same as the one that had fallen from Jenny’s pocket.

I pulled out the photo and held it up to the light of the lava lamp. No, it wasn’t quite the same photo. I peered closer. It was a different child. Or a different year. Under that picture lay a few more. I pulled them out. Two, three, four, five, six school photographs of little boys. And two girls.