Little Black Book of Murder (28 page)

“Who went shopping?” I asked.

Dolph dragged his gaze from Zephyr's, and he finally looked at me. What he saw made his eyes pop. Unable to speak for a second, he jerked his head ­toward the living room. “The boss.”

Where had Michael gotten the money to splurge like this? Had he gone to a pawnshop, too?

I didn't bother asking Dolph. I could hear male voices in the living room. I followed the noise, and when I teetered into the room, I found myself in a crowd of men: Cannoli the Younger, Ricci the cop, Michael's parole officer and more—­including one stern-­faced person in a state trooper's uniform who turned out to be a sour-­faced woman. I stopped dead in the doorway.

Conversation ceased, and all heads swung my way.

Everybody gaped at me as if I had grown—­well, not two heads, but definitely two ginormous breasts. If anyone in the room had any doubt that I might have married into the mob, my entrance must have convinced him. I was spilling out of the top of the dress, and the slit up my thigh threatened to expose Brazil. I must have looked like an exaggerated Hollywood version of a good fella's gun moll. All I needed was some chewing gum to crack and a pistol to wave around.

Michael was the first to regain his wits. He headed ­toward me, an expression on his face I didn't recognize—­astonishment, but something else, too. There was bad news to hear.

He tried to sound soothing as he touched my bare shoulders. “Hey.”

“Is Rawlins okay?”

“He's fine.” But there was something very wrong, wrong, wrong, and everybody in the room was waiting for him to tell me. Michael said, “Nora—”

As long as they all pegged me for some kind of New Jersey floozy, I interrupted him, raising my voice and glaring up at him as if ready to flay him alive. “Then just what the hell is going on between you and my sister?”

Everybody froze all over again.

Michael said, “What?”

“You heard me. I want to know how long you've been playing around with my sister.” I braced my fists on my hips and let the pink dress do the rest of the talking.

Michael cleared his throat and turned to the group of people who were now staring at us with a mixture of trepidation and amusement. Michael said to them all, “Mind if I have a minute alone with Nora?”

The woman in uniform shook her head. “Sorry. Not now. I've got orders to—”

“Oh, come now, Officer,” Cannoli said. “I could argue a case for spousal immunity, so you might as well give them a few minutes to—­er—­settle a domestic matter.”

I grabbed Michael by his shirt. “Let's go.”

Half a minute later, we were alone in the scullery.

He took me in his arms. “I think they bought it. Good thinking, sweetheart.” He was distracted by my dress, though, and his hands traveled instinctively down my curves. “You look fantastic. But this wasn't what you were wearing this morning.”

“It's Emma's. We switched.”

His eyes widened. “You saw her? Talked to her?”

“Yes, and although we haven't settled anything where you're concerned, at least we're speaking. And I think your virtue is safe for a little while.”

“Whew.” He pulled me into a quick hug but said with more urgency, “Listen, we don't have much time. Here.”

From inside his shirt, he pulled a fat envelope. He pressed it into my hands.

“What's this?”

“Cash. A couple thousand. It should be enough to—”

“Where did you get this kind of money?” My own recent experience with a pawnshop told me he'd have had to part with something very large to get such a vast sum in return. If he had pawned an item, it was far more than a mere laptop computer.

“I caught a break today,” he said, trying to smile. “I made payroll, too.”

“What kind of break?”

Something hardened in his blue eyes. “Do you want to cross-­examine me?”

“If it's none of my business,” I said, just as firmly, “just say so.”

He relented. “The night when the leak started under the sink again, you cried about it, and I just couldn't stand—­I borrowed it. From my family.”

I frowned. I hadn't been crying about the leak, but I supposed that was the way he saw it. I said, “Your father's in jail. So are your brothers. Did the money come from your Pescara cousins?”

“No. C'mon, I had to do something. We couldn't keep going the way we were. For one thing, we need money to pay lawyers.”

His talk of lawyers frightened me. I was also unnerved by what borrowing from the Abruzzo family might mean.

I said, “I took my diamond earrings to Uncle Sam today. There's two hundred dollars in my handbag.”

He closed his eyes and cursed. “I don't want you hocking your stuff.”

“They weren't important. Parting with them was easier than—­Michael, what have you done? Tell me.”

My expression made him gentle his grasp on me. “It's not that bad. Complicated, that's all. It killed me to ask people getting minimum wage to wait for their paychecks, but putting everybody out of work by closing the gas stations was worse—­and then you crying over a little more water on the floor. It was the last straw. So I worked it.”

He “worked it.” I knew the phrase. He used it when he spoke on the phone when he thought I couldn't hear.

“Will you have enough to pay everybody again next week?”

“Yes.”

So he had borrowed a lot of money—­not just enough to help us through until my paycheck arrived, but enough to keep his business afloat for a while. Holding the envelope, I searched his face and knew he was holding back more.

“Don't be upset,” he said quietly, cupping my shoulders. He couldn't meet my gaze. Or maybe my cleavage was just too astonishing to ignore.

I laid the envelope against his chest. “There's talk in town that people are ganging up against you. Emma says one man has already been shot at the Dairy Queen.”

“He was an idiot, a small-­time punk, nothing to worry about. That won't happen here, not with the guys out front.” He pushed the envelope back at me. “This is a short-­term solution, but at least we've got enough cash to get us through what's coming. Kiss me. Because it's going to be a while before we can be together again.”

He pulled me close. I felt his mouth brush mine, but I turned my head away to avoid a real kiss. The walls of the scullery seemed to press in around us. I said, “Not here.”

“What? Why not?”

I tried to laugh. “I may never be able to kiss you in this room again.”

“What's wrong with it?”

I sighed. “There's so much to tell you. But—­Gus Hardwicke heard us.”

“What do you mean he heard us?”

“When we were in here on Saturday. After the party. He knew what we did. He told me about it Monday morning. Held it over my head, actually. Got me off balance and then . . .”

Michael's voice sounded hard. “Then what?”

“He pushed me into investigating this stupid murder. He wants to make it a big publicity thing for the
Intelligencer
. He thinks it can be his Watergate. And he's pushing me hard.”

Michael's face darkened. “What the hell are you talking about?”

Someone knocked on the other side of the door and called to Michael.

I said, “It doesn't matter. He's been a jerk for the last couple of days, and I—­I just don't want to think about it. Not now. When will I see you again?”

“I don't know. This may take a couple of days. You just have to keep your head, okay? Don't get emotional, or they'll use it against you. If you can, try to make an ally. Use your sense of humor, but don't be a smart-­ass. And Cannoli will stay with you. Do whatever he says.”

“Cannoli is staying here? Why? Why won't he be with you?”

Another knock—­more insistent this time.

“They're not arresting me, Nora,” Michael said. “The cops are here for you.”

T
he state trooper took me outside to the cruiser, holding my arm in her clammy hand.

“Don't I have time to pack an overnight bag?”

The trooper opened the door of the cruiser and gave me a pitying look. “Honey, you won't need a suitcase where you're going.”

As she eased me into the backseat of the car, I suddenly said, “Where's Ralphie?”

“Who?”

“Our pig. Michael, where's Ralphie?”

There was a crowd watching—­more police and Michael's posse, half of them ogling me in Emma's weed-­whacked Versace. Michael was trying to muscle his way past Cannoli, who held him back. He called, “Don't worry. Ralphie's around here somewhere.”

Panic started to rise up from inside me. There was too much happening too fast, and I was rushed by humiliation and fear for Ralphie. I said, “I think he's missing. He wasn't here this morning. Wait,” I begged the cop. I knew it was my hormones talking—­my panic was misplaced—­but I couldn't stop myself. “Please let me look in the barn for our pig.”

“Lady, you're certifiable.”

She slammed the back door of the car, and I met Michael's tortured gaze through the window. He was angry and sorry and worried—­all the emotions that overwhelmed me every time he was arrested. My heart twisted as Cannoli blocked him. Otherwise, he looked as if he might storm the cruiser.

At the state police barracks, they ushered me into a small room with a table and four battered folding chairs. One wall was mirrors, just like on television. I presumed they were one-­way windows with stone-­faced detectives lurking on the other side. The woman asked me if I'd like a soda.

“Diet Coke? Maybe a Sprite?”

“No, thank you.”

“Sure?”

The thought that she was setting me up to suffer made me mad. But I told her I'd be fine, and they left me alone for two hours. Probably to wear down my resistance before asking questions. I tried to remember Michael's advice. What had he said? Stay calm. Find an ally. Was there something else? About being a smart-­ass?

Problem was, the room was cold, and I was inadequately dressed to say the least. I paced to keep myself warm. I kept hearing doors open and close, and I wondered if the police were taking turns looking at the idiotic woman in the skimpy dress.

I tried to think, tried to imagine what questions they intended to ask me. I tried to come up with reasonable answers, too—­especially to inquiries that involved Rawlins. I wasn't going to lie. But I had to be careful.

Eventually, Cannoli was permitted in the interrogation room with me. The first thing he did was take off his suit coat and sling it around my shoulders. It smelled of sandalwood and felt blissfully warm.

He avoided looking at my cleavage and said kindly, “Let's sit down, Miss Blackbird.”

“I think we've reached the stage where you should call me Nora.”

He put his hand out and smiled. “I'm Armand.”

Armand? Really?

His hand was very warm, and I shook it gratefully.

He said, “Keep in mind you're only here to answer questions. You're not in any trouble. And I have lodged appropriate objections to the treatment you've endured already.”

“I'm fine. Just—­cold.”

“Please sit down. We'll talk.”

I perched on a freezing metal chair while he explained things to me, but I will admit I didn't have the wits to process much of what he said. I had been invited to answer questions regarding Swain Starr's murder, he told me. The state police claimed they wanted to know more about what I had observed at the crime scene before it burned, but Cannoli felt they were on the hunt for other information. Perhaps something that would incriminate Rawlins.

Or Emma, I thought.

“So I'm working it,” he said.

There was that phrase again. “Working it.” To me, the words had nefarious overtones.

He said, “They have to charge Rawlins within another hour or let him go. They're questioning him again in a few minutes, and then they want to talk to you.”

“Rawlins didn't do anything wrong. I'm sure of that.”

“Can you prove it?”

“No,” I said quietly. “But I know more about other people. People in Swain's family.”

“Like who? You can tell me. I'm your lawyer and I'm on your side.”

“I've been researching Zephyr for a story. We have—­my editor and I have uncovered information that Zephyr may have killed three people before. Her father in West Virginia and a boyfriend in Italy and somebody else in Dubai.”

Cannoli's brows rose. “Do you want me to tell the police?”

“I can't prove that information, not unless my editor has learned more since I last spoke with him. But I think we should take it seriously.”

“We should.” He considered it all, then said, “Sharing it with the police would be an act of good faith they might appreciate. I'm sure they would have discovered it eventually, but this particular jurisdiction is hampered by a lack of manpower and resources.”

“Then you'll tell them for me?”

“I'll give them the basics, but the details will be better coming from you. Right now I need to go listen while they question the boy. I'll get back here as soon as I can. Meanwhile, can you sit tight?” he asked.

“How much longer?” I said, still shivering.

He tried to mask his concern with a neutral expression. “I'll see what I can do.”

“Have you talked to Michael?”

Cannoli smiled a little. “Only every ten minutes.”

Of course Michael would be worried. “Tell him I'm fine, please? I don't want him getting upset enough to leave the farm. Not while he's wearing his monitor.”

“Don't worry about him,” Cannoli assured me. “Taking care of your own mental health is the best thing you can do for the both of you.”

He knocked on the mirrored window, and a moment later someone opened the door for him. They left me alone again. Another agonizing half hour or more elapsed before I heard more noise out in the hallway. Raised voices this time. Someone shouting with anger. With my heart in my throat, I backed against the wall just as the door burst open.

Libby launched herself into the room, crying, “They're torturing you! Police brutality! Your civil rights have been violated!”

My sister was dressed in one of her running suits. Printed on the T-shirt were the words
STAY HUNGRY
. She had taken the time to blow-­dry her hair so that it curled seductively around her shoulders. Her lipstick was fresh, her mascara lavish.

“Libby—”

“Ma'am,” said the harried female state trooper. “Ma'am, I have to ask you to step outside, please.”

“Excessive force!” Libby shouted, flinging her hands in the air. “Psychological abuse! Verbal intimidation! It's un-­American!”

“Lib, I'm fine.”

My sister swept me up in a hug and crushed me against her bosom until I couldn't help but inhale the vapors of her most seductive perfume. “They've brainwashed you, poor darling!”

Two more uniformed troopers crowded into the small space. Libby released me and spun around. She flung herself at the nearest trooper—­a male, I noted—­and cried, “You can't torture my sister this way! I insist you release her immediately!”

Their struggle didn't last long, but there was a lot more shouting, and Libby's clothing went askew until her maroon lace bra made an appearance. The male state trooper backed up against the wall, hands in the air. I caught a glimpse of Cannoli in the hallway, one hand clapped over his eyes.

In a few minutes I found myself locked in a cell.

With Libby.

“This wasn't the outcome I intended at all,” she fumed. “I thought we'd sit down with some of those charming policemen for a discussion, but they aren't charming at all, are they? How am I supposed to find an escort for the Farm-­to-­Table dinner if I'm locked up?”

“You came here looking for a dinner date?” I demanded.

“Well, naturally my first goal was to take Rawlins home. And to rescue you, too, Nora. But I—­what on earth are you wearing?” She blinked at the Versace.

I hugged Cannoli's jacket closer around me. “It's Emma's dress.”

“Why are you wearing it?”

I must have been more addled than I thought. The words popped out in a long, shuddering burst before I remembered I wasn't supposed to tell. “Because Emma's delivering breast milk to Hart's house, but I thought she was looking a little trashy, so I suggested she switch dresses with me, and she ran off to talk to Hart.” I knew I wasn't making any sense. I felt the pressures of the day start to boil up inside me like molten lava. “Now—­now
I'm
the one looking trashy, and there's a gangland war starting, so I've got rejects from
The Sopranos
hanging around my door, plus a serial killer in my house, and besides all that I might—­I might be—” Okay, I was on the brink of hysteria, but I blurted out the rest anyway. “I might be pregnant!”

“Oh, darling!” Libby gathered me up in another comforting hug. “What wonderful news! Not the gangland part or the serial killer thing, either, but a new baby! Nora, you must be overjoyed!”

“Overwhelmed is more like it.” I sniveled against her bosom.

She held on tight and patted my back. “You've had a hard time ever since losing your baby last spring. You probably gave up hope, didn't you? And you want a family so very badly. Well, here's proof that everything turns out right in the end, don't you think?”

“I'm in
jail
!”
I cried.

“Well, yes, that's a small glitch,” Libby agreed.

“I haven't even taken a test yet. And Michael—­Michael might be
dead
in front of the Dairy Queen before I get out of this hellhole!”

As if I were talking perfect sense, Libby said soothingly, “It's not a hellhole, is it? Why, it's actually quite comfortable. Here, sit down on this bed. It's kind of like camp, don't you think? Shall we think of a camp song to sing? What was that one about friends being silver and gold? I always thought it was about jewelry, but it wasn't exactly, was it? Or the dog named Ringo.”

“Bingo,” I said with a sniff. “Which reminds me, Ralphie is missing.”

“Ralphie?”

“Michael's pig. Libby, I'm afraid somebody's going to—­to
eat
Ralphie!”

I burst into tears all over again.

Libby patted my back a while longer. “I don't think you need to bother taking the test, Nora. You're definitely pregnant.”

She settled me on the bunk and sat beside me until I pulled myself together.

Finally Libby asked with exaggerated calm, “Emma's pumping her breast milk?”

I wiped my eyes with a crumpled tissue pulled from Libby's handbag. “I wasn't supposed to tell you. Emma's going to tear me limb from limb for blabbing. But, yes. For her baby.”

“Well, we should have guessed. I mean, no woman could have her figure without some major hormone imbalance. And what about her situation with Hart?”

Her steely gaze worked more efficiently than a lie detector. “She doesn't know where she stands. And I'm not sure we should be encouraging them, Lib. I mean, he's married.”

“Happily?”

“How do we know? He could be deliriously happy, and maybe Emma's causing a problem by interfering. Besides, I'm not convinced Hart is good for her. He's been a bit of a rat.”

Libby wagged her head in dismay. “Emma should never have given up that baby. She needed more time to think it through.”

“She had nine months!”

“Well, she needed more than that. She should have given the baby to you and That Man of Yours.”

I felt another wave of hormonal hysteria rise up. “If she had, the baby would have starved by now. We're totally broke, and if I'm pregnant, it's the absolute worst timing. How can we raise a baby if we can't even afford cheese sandwiches? There will be diapers to buy and vitamins and—­and—­my God, Libby, people are paying nannies these days in
stock options
!”

I lost my self-­control again and blubbered.

Finally, Libby said, “In the first place, you don't need a nanny. With That Man of Yours stuck in the house all the time, he'll be the perfect father. You can be the breadwinner.”

“If I don't get
fired
!
I'm
supposed to be writing a profile tonight, and instead I'm
incarcerated
!”

It wasn't like me to fall apart, but a demonic hurricane of estrogen seemed to well up from inside.

Libby sighed. “Nothing wrecks a woman's health and mental well-­being like pregnancy.”

From the next cell, a voice said, “Tell me about it.”

Libby and I sat up and looked around.