Little Black Book of Murder (13 page)

“Yes, I did. I'm sorry I didn't recognize you on Sunday.” To me, all the troopers looked the same in their hats.

He added, “I followed Mick to church a few times. I guess he found religion in the pokey?”

“He's introspective.”

My response caused Trooper Ricci to laugh.

With a little more snap in my voice than I intended, I asked, “How is the investigation going?” Hastily, I clarified, “Into Swain Starr's death, I mean. Have you located his killer?”

“We're still gathering information.” He glanced into the impound lot. “Maybe you can help us piece together what happened at the party on Saturday. But can I help you with something here first?”

“I came to claim my nephew's car.”

“The Mustang? It's registered to Abruzzo, right?”

“Yes, but—­well, yes. I'm told I need to sign some papers to get the car back?”

“Yeah, go inside and check with the clerk at the desk. I'll catch up with you after that.”

I left him by the fence, but when I opened the door to go into the building, I glanced back and saw him thoughtfully studying the car.

Libby breezed into the building behind me, Max in her arms. By the time she had looked around and counted all the state troopers at their desks, the sparkle was back in her eyes. “Don't you love men in uniform?”

“Control yourself, Libby,” I said to her in an undertone. The clerk had taken the papers and gone into one of the offices to consult with someone. I had hoped to slip in, sign the papers and get the right clearance to reclaim the car. But now I had a bad feeling about getting the vehicle released, and my sister throwing herself at the feet of every police officer in sight was only going to make us look more suspicious.

She handed Max to me and began rearranging her hair. “I need a date for the Farm-­to-­Table gala, don't I?”

“Libby—”

The clerk returned, looking more stern than friendly. But one glance at Max's cherubic face made her smile. “Aren't you a cutie-­pie? I have three grandsons. Is this your little boy?”

“No, he's my nephew.”

She tickled Max's tummy with her pen. “Would you step outside with me, please? We need you to verify the condition of the car.”

We trooped outside where Ricci had the driver's-side door open on the Mustang.

I tried to sound cheerful. “Is everything all right?”

Ricci was sitting behind the wheel, frowning. “Where was this car found?”

The clerk looked at her papers. “On Sheffield Road.”

“Not far from Blackbird Farm,” I said.

Ricci said, “Not far from Starr's Landing, too, right? Sheffield runs through the woods behind both farms, doesn't it?”

“Yes. In the summer, I still ride my bicycle that way.”

My summertime exercise routine didn't interest Ricci. He got out of the car and walked around it, his face studiously blank. He said, “Who was driving this vehicle the night it was abandoned?”

Libby had already noted the wedding ring on Ricci's hand, so her usual laserlike intensity was powered down. She piped up, “My son Rawlins. He bought the car last year.”

Ricci came back to me, his demeanor less casual than before. “He bought the car from Abruzzo?”

“We haven't had time to change the registration,” I said.

“How old is this Rawlins?”

“Seventeen,” Libby said promptly. “He's usually very responsible.”

“He is,” I agreed. “Very responsible.”

“So why did he leave the car?”

I said, “He had engine trouble.”

But at the same time I spoke, Libby said, “He ran out of gas.”

“Engine trouble,” Ricci repeated, “or out of gas? Which is it?”

“We're not sure,” I said with a feeble smile.

He nodded. “You have the keys?”

“I don't have them with me now,” I said. “Michael told me he'd have one of his employees pick up the car later.”

Libby began nattering. “Rawlins came home in the middle of the night all by himself. We really should have some kind of taxi service in this area. He could have called someone for a ride, but instead he walked home. He made himself a sandwich before he went to bed and—”

“Libby,” I said, “why don't you go pay the impoundment fine? And I think Max needs a dry diaper.”

I handed the baby back to her, and she said, “I just changed him!”

Ricci said to me, “Where is the Rawlins kid now?”

“He's in school, of course.” I tried to look pleasant as I gave Libby a gentle shove ­toward her minivan. She went off, grumbling, with Max in her arms. “Why do you ask?”

“If the kid was out in the woods on Saturday night when Swain Starr was killed, maybe he saw something. We're going to want to talk to him.”

“He didn't mention seeing anything,” I said. “And he's usually quite observant.”

“All the more reason to talk to him.”

“Please don't pull him out of school,” I said. “It would be very disruptive.”

“A man's dead, Miss Blackbird. That's about as disruptive as it gets.”

“Surely you have other people who can tell you what happened at Starr's Landing that night. Or at the party. Wouldn't you want to hear about that?”

“It helps to ask as many people as possible.”

I took a chance and said, “Have you spoken with Swain's ex? Marybeth?”

“I didn't talk to her personally, no. The first wife, right? The one who was waving a rifle around earlier in the day?”

“It was a musket, actually.”

“That wasn't the murder weapon, if that's what you're thinking.”

“I know.” Reminded about the condition of Swain's body when I found him, I felt another ripple of nausea.

Perhaps Ricci noticed I had turned pale, because he said, “Look, we want to talk to you about the party, what happened, what you saw. But maybe that can wait another day.” He glanced ­toward the impound lot again. “For the record, the car was out of gas. You'll have to bring a gas can when you come back.”

He was putting me off because he had a new lead, I realized, not because he had any concern for my health. He was hot on the idea that Rawlins had abandoned his car near the murder scene.

“Okay. You know where to find me,” I said, and turned to the clerk, smiling as best I could in an effort not to show my concern for my nephew. “Are we finished? Are there more papers to sign?”

“You just need to make sure the vehicle hasn't been damaged while in impound.”

I glanced into the car and saw nothing amiss. Rawlins kept it very clean. But there was a new scrape on the front bumper. I wasn't sure how long it had been damaged, though. While I walked around to the passenger side, Ricci and the clerk conferred with each other. I opened the passenger door, and something small and plastic fell out on the ground.

Instinctively, I bent to pick it up. A plastic cylinder.

It was a home pregnancy test. When I figured that out, I almost dropped it all over again.

Neither Ricci nor the clerk noticed me. They were busy reading the paperwork together and muttering.

“Everything okay?” Ricci asked.

I straightened up hastily. He was glowering at me with suspicion. Over the roof of the car, I said in a voice that sounded high and strained, “Everything looks fine to me. Uh—­do you have any Filly Vanilli toys?”

“Huh?”

I addressed myself to the clerk. “I was just thinking if you have three grandsons, you might know where I can get a Filly Vanilli.”

Ricci looked blank.

The clerk perked up as if I had mentioned winning lottery tickets. “Oh, they're adorable! I found one online. But I'm not giving it up for any price. My youngest grandson won't go to sleep unless his Filly Vanilli is playing. Check eBay. You might get lucky.”

“Thanks!” I went around the car, hands shoved down in my pockets. “I'm obsessed with Filly Vanilli.”

Humorless again, the clerk handed over the papers, and I signed above Michael's printed name.

When I was finished, Ricci had his notepad out. He said, “The kid Rawlins. What's his full name and address?”

Reluctantly, I gave the trooper all the information he asked for. Then Ricci said in his authoritative voice, “Be sure to get the registration changed on this car.”

“We'll take care of that right away. Can I make arrangements to take the car?”

Ricci said, “We're about to close for the day. Maybe you should come back tomorrow.”

He wanted to go through the vehicle more carefully, I could see. But he probably needed a warrant. He'd take a few hours to acquire one. I decided not to ask any more questions that might raise his suspicions any further.

He added, “Don't forget to bring some gas for the car.”

I returned to Libby's minivan. Before opening the passenger door, I pulled the plastic tube out of my pocket.

Yep, it was a home pregnancy test.

And the results were positive. Which meant Porky and Rawlins weren't the only people who had been in the car lately.

I
asked Libby to drive me over to the high school in hopes of locating Rawlins before the police did. By the time we arrived, though, classes had been dismissed, and Rawlins was not to be found. He didn't answer his cell phone, either. So Libby drove me to her house.

Rawlins was not at home.

I wondered if he was with his girlfriend. Having a difficult discussion, maybe? Had he gotten someone pregnant?

I wanted to be there when Rawlins finally showed up, so I called Michael to tell him I'd stay at Libby's for a little while. He didn't answer, so I left a message. Monday night was my evening off from attending social events, so I helped Lucy with her homework while Libby drove the twins to their movement class, whatever that was. By the time Libby got back with the boys, I had fielded more invitations for work, and then I helped her make a batch of firehouse chili.

Still no Rawlins.

While I did the dishes, the twins tried to lure Lucy into a game in the basement, but she wasn't falling for that. Libby lost her patience with Harcourt and Hilton. “Go play outside in the dark,” Libby told them. “Maybe you'll see a flying saucer.”

They grabbed flashlights and disappeared. Max crawled around at my feet and emptied a drawer of Tupperware containers onto the floor to play with. Lucy came into the kitchen, and I gave her the empty paper towel cylinder, which she proceeded to use as a light saber on invisible space invaders. She played all the roles, including a giant slug who liked to plot the gruesome executions of his enemies. I noticed one of his enemies had the same name as her current teacher.

I had to admit, Libby had her moments as a mother. She might go off on crazy karmic tangents and wild-­goose chases, but she excelled at giving her children everything they needed to be creative. The windowsill was covered with art projects—­snow globes made out of baby-­food jars, Popsicle stick angels and macaroni snowflakes. Maybe the twins decapitated Cabbage Patch dolls, but they used them to make a movie. Even Rawlins was still writing.

I thought of Michael playing with the neighbors who had welcomed him into their home. His imaginary games with them were one of the few positive influences that shaped his life.

Libby took a phone call from Perry, the bug man. I thought she'd carry the phone into another room to speak privately, but she sat at the kitchen table instead. Her voice sounded businesslike as she dealt with him. I felt a tug of sympathy for the teddy-­bearish exterminator.

Around eight, Libby piled Lucy and Max into the car and drove me home.

When we arrived at Blackbird Farm, the night was dark, and the driveway beside the barn was parked full of cars and SUVs.

“What's going on?” Libby asked.

For a second, I feared Michael had issued a summons for his whole posse to stage the penultimate assault on my furnace.

“Oh, it's poker night,” I said with relief. No wonder Michael hadn't answered my earlier phone call. I'd forgotten that his usual once-­a-­month Wednesday night poker game had been switched to Monday this week.

Libby peered through the windshield at the lighted windows of the house. “Is That Man of Yours allowed to gamble? I mean, he's on house arrest. Isn't that kind of behavior forbidden?”

“His parole officer is part of the group.” I got out of her minivan before I had to explain that particular irregularity. “G'night, Lib. Thanks for dinner and the lift.”

I closed the door, then shouldered my bag and walked up the flagstone sidewalk. Ralphie grunted his usual cheerful greeting and came lumbering out of the darkness ­toward me. I gave him a scratch on his head. In the moonlight, I could see the leopardlike spots that ran down his back.

“Did you behave yourself today?”

He tipped his head to look up at me and seemed to smile.

“I didn't think so,” I said.

I smelled a cigarette before I saw a figure on the porch, so I wasn't surprised when I went up the steps and found Jim Kuzik, Michael's parole officer, taking a smoke break. He was a watchful man with a serious face that probably posed a challenge to his poker opponents. I supposed men who dealt with criminals on a daily basis were prone to cynicism.

He said, “Good evening, Miss Blackbird.”

“Hello,” I said coolly. “Are you winning or losing?”

“Losing,” he said with something that was almost a grin. “Good thing we don't play for big money, or I'd be looking for a second mortgage.”

Usually, I avoided conversations with Kuzik, the court-­appointed official assigned to making sure Michael stayed firmly within the restrictions of his parole. I figured that was business between the two of them in which I should not meddle. In addition to Michael's appointments in his office, Kuzik came to the farm at least once a month and sometimes stopped by oh, so casually on other days. Of course, his surprise visits weren't casual at all, but pop quizzes, so to speak. He wanted to make sure Michael didn't violate any rules.

So far, Kuzik hadn't found anything incriminating.

Normally, I would have been working on poker night, so I rarely bumped into him. Tonight, though, I lingered on the porch. I said, “Who's playing this evening?”

Perhaps surprised that I had initiated more conversation for once, he paused and flicked cigarette ash off the porch before speaking. “The usual crew. One of Mick's lawyers, and Ray, the bread-­baking cousin. Ken, the guy from the fishing store. And the new kid, Dolph.”

“Dolph?”

“He's one of Mick's guys. Not much of a player.”

Card games usually bored Michael, and he didn't often win. Poker didn't bring out his competitive nature. I had long ago decided he played cards not for the money, but rather to learn something about his opponents. Sometimes he deliberately lost just to see what character flaw might show itself. His motivations for organizing the monthly poker game made me a little nervous, but I was also glad to see him enjoy the camaraderie of his male friends. He was always in a good mood when I came home after the game. Since Kuzik had joined the group, though, I wondered what Michael's agenda was. I felt pretty sure this kind of fraternizing was against the rules.

Carefully, I said, “Michael has a good time on these evenings.”

“I brought some steaks. He did the cooking. They were great.”

“He likes to cook.”

We heard a roar of laughter from inside the house. Michael's lawyer, and his slippery cousin, along with one of his partners in the fly-­fishing business were not the men from Michael's other life—­the life I feared would suck him out of my arms and back into shady places where he could get into trouble. I felt moderately sure he was in safe company with this group.

Maybe I should have said good night to Kuzik and gone inside without further ado. I took a chance, however, and said, “I think Michael could benefit by having something else to do with himself.”

Carefully, Kuzik extinguished his cigarette on the bottom of his boot, then turned his full attention to me. He possessed an air of professional intimidation that he could turn off and on—­used, no doubt, to threaten his parolees into behaving themselves—­and suddenly he switched it on, full force, aimed at me.

I stood my ground and met his gaze squarely. “I think Michael needs an outlet. Something that engages his mind, but maybe something physical, too. Normally, he'd go fishing or ride his motorcycle. But he can't do those things now, and I—­I wish he had a way to blow off a little steam. He can't be cooped up like this without . . .”

“Without?”

“I don't know,” I said, sure he was thinking of crime. “I just wish he had something else to do.”

Kuzik didn't answer for a long time. Maybe he understood that I was asking for help. That I was worried about Michael's tendency to break the rules, if he could get away with it. That I was nervous about some of the people with whom Michael associated.

Finally, Kuzik said, “What did you have in mind?”

“If I knew, I'd have encouraged it already.”

Kuzik frowned out into the darkness, considering the problem. “Does he like sports? Bowling, maybe?”

“He plays basketball.”

Kuzik nodded. “Prison basketball, a dirty game. He ever get his teeth knocked out?”

“No,” I said, testily.

Soothingly, Kuzik said, “All I'm saying is, I could get him into a game, couple of mornings a week, maybe. But it's with a doctor and a chiropractor and a university professor or two. Guys that don't want their smiles messed up.”

“I can't vouch for his playing style, if that's what you're asking,” I said. “I'm just saying Michael could really use an outlet.”

Kuzik nodded again. “Okay, I get it. I'll see what I can do. And I won't mention we had this little talk.”

“Thank you,” I said, although I wasn't sure how I felt about making a secret pact with Kuzik. I reached for the door handle.

“Oh, there's another poker player here tonight,” Kuzik said, as if it were an afterthought. “I forgot to mention. Your nephew. Is his name Rawlings?”

“Rawlins.” I hoped my voice sounded normal.

I went into the house.

Kuzik followed.

The kitchen was a wreck of dirty dishes, the result of the feast Michael usually prepared for his friends now that the game was permanently at Blackbird Farm. Four empty wine bottles stood on the counter, no doubt a gift from Michael's lawyer friend, Cannoli. Several loaves of rich, crusty bread had come from Ray, Michael's cousin, who ran some kind of underground bakery that sold magnificent artisanal breads to the most discerning restaurants. I spotted a pastry box from a patisserie in New Hope—­probably an offering from Ken, who managed the fly-­fishing company Michael co-­owned. Kuzik had said he'd brought the steaks. I wondered if he brought food to the homes of his other cases.

Was Michael drawing in Kuzik? Studying him the way he studied poker players? And if so, to what purpose? I felt certain their relationship was different from Kuzik's time spent with other parolees. But I wasn't sure how. Or why.

Kuzik followed me as I went through the butler's pantry and the dining room to the library where Michael's posse was gathered around an antique gaming table that had belonged to a long-­dead Blackbird cardsharp. All of the players had just picked up their hands and were studying the cards. They had unlit cigars at the ready for the end-­of-­the-­game ritual that now took place on the back porch since Michael and I had had a discussion concerning cigar smoke. And empty beer bottles were lined up on the floor around the table.

Michael put down his cards and got up to give me a kiss, which caused them all to stand and say hello like perfect gentlemen. Even the somewhat sullen newcomer, Dolph, I presumed, stood when Cannoli the Younger gave him a poke on the shoulder.

Michael introduced Dolph, and I shook his hand, which was the size of an iron skillet. He was a bodybuilder, I guessed, but short in stature. He clearly spent plenty of time in the gym or doing whatever manual labor Michael's family required. Not even as tall as me, he had the shoulders and chest of a much larger man. I recognized him for what he probably was—­the latest in a line of interchangeable bodyguards from the Abruzzo family, albeit smaller than most. I wondered what had changed in the last day that required Michael to have protection in the house again. Dolph had one lone poker chip in front of his chair, while everybody else seemed to be sitting pretty.

“Don't let me interrupt,” I said, feeling as if I were suddenly standing in a forest of big men. “Who's winning?”

“Not me,” Dolph said dolefully.

“Cannoli,” Michael said.

The lawyer smiled. When Michael got into legal trouble, he used the services of a law firm his family had dubbed, “Cannoli and Sons,” because of their appreciation of sweet pastries. One of the sons was Michael's close friend as well as his attorney. He was tall and wore a bespoke dress shirt and a silk tie that had been selected by someone with very discerning taste.

To me, Cannoli said with his usual courtly courtesy, “You're looking lovely this evening, Miss Blackbird.”

“Thank you,” I said with a smile. “For that, I hope you win big tonight.”

While they laughed jovially, I turned to Michael. “I heard Rawlins is here.”

“He's waiting for you in the living room.”

“Can I get anything for anyone?” I asked, feeling as if I should make an effort to play hostess.

“We're fine,” Michael said. “Leave the dishes. The loser cleans up.”

Dolph sighed.

I left them to their poker and went through the entry hall and into the living room. Shoulders hunched, Rawlins had his nose pointed at the screen of his cell phone as he lay on the sofa. His legs looked very long, his feet huge. He clicked off the screen when I bent over him, but he didn't meet my eye.