Little Black Book of Murder (24 page)

Dilly said, “There's still a lot of unscrupulous business being done in China. For the right price, a talented designer might be happy to have the Starr label go on his work. And people in the Western world might never know. Once he had the right contacts, it would be a simple matter to take credit for the creative work of others. Despicable as that might be.”

Gus had smelled a rat. And Dilly's idea was stinky indeed. If Swain had pretended to do his own designing, someone who knew the truth might have blackmailed him out of the business. Or maybe Swain hastily retired before the truth came to light.

“Who else might have guessed Swain was a fake?”

Dilly lifted his shoulders. “Maybe a lot of people. If I suspected it, many others might have assumed, too. Family, certainly. Or very close confidants.”

Marybeth, I thought. His ex-­wife would have known whether her husband was truly a designer—­or a phony.

I caught Dilly looking at me with concern on his face.

I squeezed his hand. “Thanks, Dilly. Not just for the insight into Swain Starr. I need a mentor. I appreciate your willingness to kick me in the head now and then.”

He took both my hands in his. “No kicking. Call me anytime, dear heart. Are you going to the Farm-­to-­Table gala on Friday night?”

“Yes. I have to think about just the right dress to wear. Will I see you there?”

He laughed with delight at the prospect of seeing me in whatever dress I chose. “Let's have a drink together then. We'll review the week's news.”

I gave him a kiss, very glad to have a father figure so willing to share his wisdom, and I went on my way.

I headed across town to a quick stop I hoped to make before going to my office. In addition to the celebrity profile I was working on, I still needed to fill my Sunday column with social events.

Outside a slightly down-­at-­heel ballroom in a hotel overdue for refurbishment, I dashed up to a registration table and gave my name to the young woman on duty. She checked off my name and found my name tag.

“I'm sorry, ma'am,” she said, “but I think they've already served lunch. You might get some dessert and coffee.”

“That's okay.” I fastened the name tag to my jacket. “I only need to make an appearance and take a couple of photos. Do you know if Delilah Fairweather is here?”

The young woman wore her medium brown hair in a too-­tight ponytail, and her clothes were equally nondescript. But she had a clear-­eyed gaze that met mine directly. Her name tag said
WEINER
. No first name, which was unusual. She spoke with little evidence of social polish. “Yes, ma'am, Miss Fairweather's inside.”

I smiled. “I don't suppose she saved me a seat?”

The event wasn't my usual kind of social scene. It was a solemn, civic lunch honoring soldiers returning from service in Afghanistan. I hadn't had time to pay attention to the information I'd been sent, and I was a little embarrassed about that. Usually, I brushed up diligently on the sponsoring organization so I knew whom to interview and photograph. But my friend Delilah had promised to be my guide.

The young woman came around the table. “I'll see if I can spot her for you, ma'am.”

I hadn't realized Miss Weiner was handicapped in any way, but as she led me ­toward the closed ballroom door, I realized she was wearing two prosthetic legs—­curved metal blades, the “cheetah legs” so many injured veterans used now.

She peeked through the peephole in the door. “I see Miss Fairweather at the back of the room, ma'am. When I open the door, go to your left. You'll see her at the second table.”

“Thanks,” I said. “Are you one of the veterans we're honoring today?”

Miss Weiner kept her expression neutral. “I came back from Afghanistan last year. I said I'd help out today, but I didn't want to get up onstage.”

“Why not?”

She almost shrugged, but remembered her military training. “It's not my way. My dad was a marine. He didn't like being paraded around, either. He'd be happier to see me out here, doing something useful.”

I put out my hand to shake hers. “It sounds as if your family deserves a lot of thanks for your service.”

She accepted my hand and opened the ballroom door for me. “Take a left. Second table.”

“Thank you,” I said, and slid into the ballroom.

The meal was long over, and the after-­lunch speaker was already making his remarks. I eased into the empty chair beside my friend Delilah, perhaps the city's most accomplished party planner. Usually, Delilah organized fancy galas and lavish charitable events. But I knew her aunt had served two tours in Iraq a few years ago, so my friend donated her time and skills to make sure returning veterans were entertained just as professionally as big-­spending donors might be.

I tried to peek through the centerpiece to see the speaker, but the tall flowers blocked my view. I suppressed a smile. I suspected the flowers had been recycled from whatever event Delilah had thrown the night before. They were magnificent—­more lavish than was quite right for a luncheon—­but nobody except me was probably the wiser.

As applause broke out for the speaker, Delilah leaned over and gave me a kiss. “You look like you mugged Madonna for that suit. It's killer.”

“Coming from you, that's high praise.” Delilah always looked great.

“I thought you weren't going to make it.”

“Sorry,” I whispered. “I ran into Dilly Farquar, and we had a heart-­to-­heart.”

“You went to a dog party before this one?” Delilah scolded. “Honey, this is more your style.”

It wasn't really, but I quickly figured out it should be. The tables around us were full of military personnel and their families. They were all intently focused on the speaker, a bluntly eloquent man who had run for president a few elections ago. I remembered his military record had been a big part of his résumé. Today, though, he spoke humbly of his service while the crowd nodded appreciatively.

As I listened, I couldn't help thinking about Carrie Hardaway, the young woman who had recently come into our lives. She had been serving in Afghanistan when her mother died. While Carrie was at home for the funeral, she had decided to find Michael, her long-­lost father. He'd dated Carrie's mother back before he went to jail the first time, and Carrie was the daughter he'd never known. Their relationship was still iffy. From afar, I had watched their tentative efforts to get to know each other.

While listening to the luncheon speaker, I wondered if part of the problem was that Michael and I didn't entirely understand the military culture. I decided we had to start making a greater effort to do that.

After the luncheon broke up, I chatted with Delilah for a few minutes.

“Thanks for inviting me. You were right. This is a special organization.”

Delilah grinned. “I figured you'd get it.”

For once, my friend didn't seem in a hurry to dash to her next event. She probably had a little time to kill before her evening schedule heated up.

“Delilah, you organized a party for Marybeth Starr a couple of years ago, right?”

“Yeah, a dinner for her father before he passed. You were there, weren't you? No, that was before you got your job. At that huge house out in the burbs. We put up a tent in the backyard by their swimming pool. I had a couple of mermaids come and do a water ballet. The old man loved it.”

“This was before Marybeth and Swain divorced?”

“Yeah,” she said cautiously. “Why?”

“I'm looking for insight into Swain's life.”

“To guess who might have killed him, I bet.” Delilah slid her eyes at me. “This is between you and me, right?”

I felt a pang in my chest and knew she had read the
Intelligencer.
“I won't quote you.”

She hesitated a moment longer before saying, “I think they were breaking up at the time. I went into the wine cellar to take a phone call, and they . . . were having a fistfight.”

“A fistfight?”

“She was beating on him pretty bad. From my perspective, it was like a couple of dwarves going at it. They were both so little compared to me. He didn't fight back, just let her punch and kick. Lemme tell you, she was furious. When she started smashing wine bottles, though, I let them know I was there, and they stopped right away.”

“What were they fighting about?”

Delilah shook her head. “Something about one of their kids, I think. The youngest son, the one who had the TV show and then that big car wreck? From what I heard, Marybeth was trying to get Swain to give the kid some money. He didn't want to. Surprising, right? A guy that rich holding out on one of his kids?”

Swain and Porky had a complicated relationship, from what Zephyr had said. And it sounded as if Porky always needed cash.

I wanted to stay longer with Delilah, but I could see she had places to go. She rarely sat still for more than five minutes. It was one of the reasons she was so successful.

“We'll have a drink and get caught up,” Delilah promised, giving me one of her bone-­crushing hugs that said she cared about me no matter what mistakes I had made.

Together, we eased out at the tail end of the luncheon crowd. Outside the ballroom, I saw Miss Weiner cleaning up the registration table, and I went over to her again. I asked if she lived in the city, and she told me the name of her modest neighborhood.

“I wonder if you might have lunch with me sometime?” I asked.

She was suspicious, I could see, but reluctantly she said, “Okay.”

I handed her my card. “My fiancé's daughter is serving in the army. I'm trying to find a way for them to have a closer relationship. I thought maybe you'd have some advice for us? Help us understand her better?”

Her face brightened, and she dug one of her own cards out of her wallet.

“Next week I'll have more free time,” she said, handing it over with a friendly smile. “I'd be happy to help.”

“Thank you very much. I'll be in touch.”

I walked out of the hotel feeling better, but as soon as I hit the sidewalk I remembered where I had to go next.

To see Gus.

T
he guys at the sports desk boosted my confidence by looking up from their computers in unison as I walked by and giving me a round of silent applause. I gave them a smiling salute in return. Maybe men weren't supposed to whistle anymore, but it was nice knowing I could still turn a head now and then. I blew a mental raspberry at Zephyr.

Gus's intern was not at her desk. Maybe she had finally decided working at the
Intelligencer
was not worth the aggravation. I could hear Gus storming around his office, shouting on his cell phone.

I knocked once and let myself in.

He scowled at me but kept shouting.

I left the door open and leaned against the windowsill, crossing my ankles to wait for the shouting to end. On his desk lay assorted mail. One large padded envelope had been torn open. A small framed photo stood on his desk. I peered closer and saw it was a picture of Gus in a brief bathing suit, water streaming off his broad shoulders, goggles perched on top of his head. He held a fishing spear aloft with a bright red fish skewered on it. Behind him, an outdoorsy blonde in a bikini raised a triumphant fist. She seemed to have a lot of very white teeth. A brilliant sun shone down on the transparent blue water around them.

Gus ended his call with a bellowed, “Bring me a story I can print, damn you, or I'll find somebody who will!”

When he shut off the phone, I said, “Have you considered yoga?”

“Are you suggesting I need to calm down?” He tossed his phone onto his desk. “This
is
calm for me, luv. Are you on your way to a funeral for a rock star in that outfit?”

“Is that supposed to be a compliment? Or a wisecrack?”

Gus didn't answer my question. “How's your houseguest? Have you learned anything about her?”

“She likes to exercise.”

“A little target practice before breakfast?”

“I will admit, she seems overly interested in Michael.”

Gus laughed. “That should keep him on his toes. Did you tell him about her record?”

“I warned him, yes. He seems to think he can handle her.”

Gus closed the office door. “He's handled worse, from what I hear. And now he's breaking up the family. Causing a bit of a stir among the hoodlums.”

“Is that your next headline?”

“Precisely how much do you know about the Abruzzo family? Enough to get you indicted?”

I glared in silence.

He said, “Big Frankie is safely tucked in jail, and so are his other sons. But the cousins are the violent ones, right? And what about your thug's missing brother? Little Frankie?”

“He's dead.”

“Presumed dead. That's different from dead.”

“What are you asking, exactly?”

Gus paced the office. “You've been holding out on me, Nora.”

“I have less than nothing to say to you about Michael. Or his family.”

“Not about him. Your nephew's been arrested for Starr's murder.”

Once again, Gus had distracted me before thrusting his sword for the kill. It took me a second to collect myself. “He was not arrested. He's being questioned.”

“When were you going to tell me about him?”

“I wasn't.”

“That's honest. How long do they plan to question the kid? Until he cracks?”

“He's cooperating,” I said. “He's trying to help the police get to the bottom of this terrible crime.”

“Good spin,” Gus commended me. “People might believe it for another day, but soon we're going to think you're covering up for the boy, and that he's guilty as sin.”

“Rawlins is innocent,” I said. “Let's move on.”

“I'm thinking of running him as our headline in the morning. ‘Blue Blood Boy Pitches Pitchfork.' ”

“That would be doing a disservice to your readers,” I snapped. “And you'd just have to retract it in the next edition. Why don't you use last night's fire for your headline?”

“People like to read about other people, not smoldering manure. The only thing that's happened in this damned case is your nephew. So I'm running with him.”

I was on my feet then, too, circling Gus. “Is this your way of pushing me again? Forcing me to give more information before I'm ready to divulge? What about you, the seasoned newsman? Don't you have any new information?”

“Have you learned anything useful or not? Who are the other possible suspects in Swain Starr's death?”

“I've been thinking about Marybeth.”

“The first wife? That's boring.”

“She had motive. She was angry with her ex-­husband about family issues, and the missing pig. Her genetic research was important to her, but Swain stole the pig before she was finished.”

“She has an alibi.”

“We don't know that for sure. She threatened Swain earlier in the day, and the bullet that whistled past my ear was the real thing. She had intent.”

Gus picked up a red marker and went to the wall where the large sheets of newsprint had been haphazardly taped up. He scrawled,
Marybeth: Motive, but no opportunity.

“All right, all right,” I said. “You want to go with Zephyr.”

In large, sweeping letters, he wrote Zephyr's name on the next sheet of paper, then looked at me expectantly.

I snatched the marker from his hand. “She had opportunity, right?”

“Right. The police report I acquired—­without any help from you, by the way—­says she checked into her hotel long after the murder happened, which gave her time to kill Swain before she dialed room service.”

While Gus stood back, I scribbled the time factor on the paper. “Zephyr has a history of violence, too, obviously. But no motive. Why would she kill Swain?”

“Do you know any married couple that doesn't have at least one unresolved problem? Surely she gave you some insight into her marriage while cozily staying in your home?”

“She wanted a child,” I said, throwing caution to the wind. “Swain didn't, but he recently had surgery to reverse a vasectomy.”

“Ouch.”

“His recovery was taking time, though, and she was impatient. If he had refused to reverse the vasectomy, I could see why she might have been angry. But he did it for her, so there goes her motive.”

Gus took the marker from me and wrote,
Disagreed about children
. He said, “Anything else?”

We were standing uncomfortably close, so I stepped back two paces. I wasn't ready to tell him about Swain's paying his son to stay away from Zephyr. That story would make ideal tabloid headlines. Gus would jump on it faster than he could spear a sport fish. Instead, I said, “What about Porky? What information do we have on him?”

Gus wrote Porky's name and spoke as he continued to write. “We know Porky and his father didn't get along. I can vouch for the consequences of disagreeing with your father. Witness my exile in these distant lands. We're also not sure where Porky was at the time of the murder. And he's an unpleasant bloke, isn't he?”

Although I wanted to ask Gus more about his family situation, I tried to force myself to focus on Porky. But the father-­son dynamic buzzed around in my head like a persistent bee. Not just Porky and Swain, but Michael and his violent father. Now Gus and his alienating dad. Rawlins and his lack of a father at all. It had to mean something.

I said, “I'm not so sure about Porky's unpleasantness anymore.”

Gus swung on me, tall and very close. “Change of heart where Porky is concerned?”

“Oh, he's still an unpleasant person, but yesterday I saw a different side of him.” I tried to remember something specific about Porky's desperate effort to keep Zephyr. “He was—­well, pathetic, actually. He wants to be loved. And I don't think he's had much of that in his life.”

Gus rolled his eyes. “Do I hear violins?”

“He was an unwanted child,” I insisted. “His father made no secret of that all his life. Porky came back to Philadelphia—­not to be reunited with his family, but because his TV career died. He's desperately trying to make a living at what he knows—­performing children. It's a distasteful career, yes, but he's doing something, not sitting around waiting to be pampered by his wealthy family. You must see something noble in that.”

“Noble?” Gus tossed the marker up and down, eyeing me. “Don't tell me you admire the little pig now?”

“No,” I admitted. “I don't admire him. But I do feel sorry for him.”

“Could he play Oedipus in this family drama? Could he have killed his father?”

“My instinct says no. I don't see the rage in him.”

“Rage,” Gus said thoughtfully. “What would you know about rage?”

“I assume it takes rage to kill someone, that's all.” Thinking about finding the keys at the crime scene, I added, “And this killer had to be composed enough after the murder to throw blame, too.”

His interest sharpened. “What do you mean by that?”

“The police suspect my nephew. That didn't come from nowhere.”

“Do you know something you're not telling me?”

“Quite a bit,” I said frankly, and smiled. But I wasn't going to tell Gus any more just yet. “Another person I'd like to know more about is Tommy Rattigan.”

Gus threw the red marker on his desk and grabbed his jacket. “Rattigan, the restaurant owner? I haven't had lunch yet. And I'd like an opportunity to study that outfit of yours in more detail. Let's go.”

Which was how I found myself being ushered to a table by a young hostess who seemed charmed by Gus's Aussie accent.

“Did you play rugby?” she asked him as he pulled out a chair for me.

“Of course,” he said, making an effort to be pleasant. “Why do you ask?”

She hugged the menus and released a besotted sigh. “I think of all Australian men without their shirts, playing with big sticks.”

He laughed and chucked her under the chin with familiarity. “You mean lacrosse.”

“Do I?” With a giggle, she presented him with a menu and as an afterthought dropped the other one in my lap. She drifted away with a starry-­eyed smile on her face.

“Get your big stick under control,” I said when we were seated and alone. “That girl is too young for you.”

“I like older women anyway. Give me a woman with experience, perhaps one insecure enough to let me have what I want without too much fuss, and I'm a happy man.”

Instantly, my annoyance with the hostess evaporated. I said, “Do they teach you how to be such a pig in Australia? Or is that an American misconception?”

“It's my gift. Speaking of pigs.” He raised his gaze to the boar on the wall over my head. “Did Rattigan kill that one himself?”

“Worried for your own safety?”

“Not worried, but,” he said, “now that you mention safety, there's something I've been meaning to ask you.”

I waited while the server's assistant came and poured water into our glasses. When he went away, Gus said, “Has your gangster boyfriend got somebody following me?”

I couldn't help smiling. “I don't believe Michael has spent two minutes thinking about you, let alone having you followed. Why?”

Gus shrugged. “Nothing I can confidently say is evidence of fact. But I have a feeling there are a couple of goons with their eyes on me.”

I glanced around the nearly empty restaurant. The lunch hour was long past. Only a few diners remained, and they were older ladies, none of whom looked more threatening than those in my grandmother's bridge club. “This minute?”

“No, but this morning when I came to the office. And last night, when I went out.”

“Out?” I asked. “Not home?”

“Out,” he repeated, then frowned at the menu. “What shall we have?”

I scanned the menu. I had missed lunch at both my earlier events, and suddenly my stomach gurgled. Everything on the list looked delicious to me. All that mattered was how soon it could appear on a plate and I could be attacking it with a fork.

The waiter came, and Gus ordered a beer. I requested an iced tea. Gus hummed while studying the menu with interest. The waiter came back a heartbeat later, drinks on a tray, and told us the lunch specials. Thinking of my waistline, I reluctantly ordered a salad of foraged greens with two grilled scallops on top and the lemon vinaigrette on the side.

Gus proceeded to cross-­examine the waiter until I thought the poor man might cry. From what river had the trout come? How was the duck breast prepared? Where had the tomatoes been picked? Were the mushrooms imported, too? How long ago? And the fennel. Was it local? Gus displayed a gourmand's expertise by his questions, and I noted he wasn't a rugged adventurer from the outback who ate his mutton from a stick. He had grown up the son of a rich man. He was a gentleman of more refined taste than I had first assumed. I sipped my tea and listened to him.