Little Black Book of Murder (4 page)

“China?”

“A school thing. I took Chinese in college. She ate nothing but oranges the whole time.”

“Crikey, I'm glad I came,” he said. “This afternoon is even more informative than I'd hoped.”

“Would you like to meet the youngest son?”

“Is he anybody important?”

“Actually, Porky—­er, Porter Starr is the only one of Swain's children who managed to strike off on his own and make a career outside the family. He became a child actor with a popular TV show.”

“Porky?”

I felt myself turn pink. “That was a slip of the tongue.”

“I can hardly wait to meet him.”

We came upon the youngest Starr son leaning against a fence, under an oak tree. The short, rather chunky young man wore a small-­brimmed fedora cocked over one eye with more suave panache than he could quite carry off. He held a kitten while talking with a young woman in a pretty dress with a very short skirt. Just as we approached, the young woman threw her drink in Porky's face and snatched the kitten from his grasp.

He laughed, and she stalked away.

Gus handed over his handkerchief. “Looks like you're a mite damp, mate. What did you say to her?”

Porky took the handkerchief with a cocky grin. “I asked her about pussies.”

Without removing his hat, he mopped his face while I made introductions.

I read Gus's mind. Porky Starr didn't look like his father except for his short stature. Instead, he was the spitting image of his mother's family—­the piggy little Rattigan face with a flat, upturned nose, wide cheeks and little porcine eyes. Porky's looks had worked in his favor as a kid—­he was almost cute back then—­and he'd gone off to Hollywood and fame in the sitcom world. He had outgrown his cuteness, though, and I assumed he was still trying to live down the nickname that had probably started when he was still in the cradle.

It wasn't until I was shaking his sweaty hand that I made the connection.

Porter. This was Libby's mentor in the world of child entertainment.

“Right,” Porky said when I brought up my sister. He used one wrist to swipe his nose. “Her boys have a lot of potential. Hollander and Hyatt, right?”

“Harcourt and Hilton,” I said.

“Yeah, yeah. Twins are very hot right now, yo.”

The
yo
almost made me laugh. He was the wrong social class to be talking like a streetwise rapper.

Porky Starr had none of the Starr confidence his siblings naturally exuded. None of their innate friendliness, either. He had dressed for the occasion in stovepipe jeans and a too-­tight T-shirt that advertised a long-­forgotten rock concert I was willing to bet he hadn't attended. His impatient manner said he couldn't wait to be rid of me.

“So you're managing talent?” Gus asked, ignoring Porky's dismissive behavior. “You're an agent?”

“Not an agent,” Porky corrected. “I put the right people together. You know, matching opportunities.”

“Is that lucrative?”

Porky wasn't offended by the blunt question. “I conduct ­seminars—­educational events for young people with big dreams.”

“Seminars. You mean classes? How to behave in front of a camera, that kind of thing? You charge for that?”

“I get finder's fees when dreams come true.”

“Kickbacks, right?”

“People value something more if they pay for it.”

“Nothing in life is free, yo,” Gus agreed cheerfully.

“Right you are.” Porky looked past us again in hopes of spotting more entertaining guests to talk to.

Gus said, “Is your business regulated in any way?”

The question acted like an electric shock on Porky. He jumped, then frowned at Gus as if trying to remember who he was and why he should be tolerated. “Many reputable businesses function on a handshake and a promise.”

“Yes, but—”

“Excuse me.”

“It's been a pleasure,” Gus said to Porky's back as he stalked away.

I said, “Well, I guess we won't be invited to stay for dinner.”

“Unless somebody mistakes him for a pork chop. No wonder you called him Porky!”

“Hush. He'll hear you.”

“I'm sure that name won't come as a surprise. What's his story? I don't think his television show made it to Australia.”

“It was a silly program, anyway. A family comedy that lasted only two seasons. He played the young son who cracked age-­inappropriate sex jokes. He's more memorable for crashing one Maserati into three more parked at a California car dealership—­the most expensive car crash in history. The video was all over the Internet. Rumor has it, Porky lost everything he made in television in that crash. He still doesn't drive much.”

“Did he go by Porky in Hollywood?”

“It's probably impossible to dodge it, don't you think?” Feeling embarrassed that I'd slipped with Porky's name, I said, “Look, I should get back to work.”

“I'll tag along,” Gus said, strolling with me as I pulled out my notebook.

I snapped a few photos for my column, inviting bystanders to pose for the pictures. Everyone was smiling, enjoying the lovely spring afternoon. We bumped into a well-­known wine dealer, and I introduced Gus. The dealer's wife engaged Gus in a laughing conversation while the dealer took me aside and thanked me for hooking him up with the chair of a hospital auxiliary. A mutually beneficial relationship had sprung up between them, and the upshot was that he had been chosen to supply a variety of fine—­and ­expensive—­wine for an upcoming tasting.

“You really do know everybody,” Gus said after we said good-­byes and moved on. He sounded surprised. “What about the farm folk?”

I looked around and saw whom he meant. Many of the guests were dressed more simply than the fashionistas. Jeans and sweaters to ward off the spring chill. A preponderance of rubber barn boots and hiking sandals. They were clustered together near the paddock, seriously discussing the animals. I guessed most of them were the “locavores”—­farmers, restaurant owners, chefs and eager foodies who advocated eating local foods, in season.

“Let's go meet some of them,” I said to Gus.

I was right. We introduced ourselves to a portly, smiling man who turned out to be the manager of the local farmers' market. His enthusiasm showed in his spirited pitch for the farmers' cooperative in New Hope.

But I heard a familiar voice nearby and turned to recognize a popular Philadelphia restaurant owner, Tommy Rattigan. As usual, Tommy wore overalls—­one buckle undone—­over a thermal shirt and with acid green kitchen clogs. He seemed to be trying hard to establish his clothing choices as a kind of trademark look while he worked to make himself into a celebrity chef. He caught my eye and raised a glass to me.

I took that as a positive signal and excused myself to go to him. Gus followed.

“Tommy's sister, Marybeth, was married to Swain Starr,” I explained to Gus while he shook Tommy's thick hand. I decided not to go into Tommy's wealthy upbringing, or ask why he felt compelled to attend today's event, since his sister's divorce from our host was still raw, by all accounts. Wearing his clogs and his overalls, Tommy obviously preferred to play down his moneyed roots—­and probably his connection to Swain's previous marriage. So I said merely, “Tommy's new restaurant is getting a lot of attention.”

“We're all about meat,” Tommy said, leaping to the opportunity to pitch his latest culinary venture. “Charcuterie in the winter, lamb in the spring—­we'll be doing seasonal features. Popularity-­wise, it's going to be big.”

“Wait.” Gus snapped his fingers. “I know about you. You come from the Howie's Hotties family!”

Tommy's expression hardened with resentment. “Uh, yes, Howard Rattigan, my grandfather, built his reputation making hot dogs.”

Tommy was underselling his family's success. His family had, in fact, made millions of hot dogs before selling its name to a giant food consortium that paid the Rattigans a fortune for the right to use their name and the logo of Howie's Hotties—­a dancing sausage that ended his little hopping routine by flinging himself into the waiting arms of a voluptuous bun for a decidedly sensual snuggle.

“Yes!” said Gus with enthusiasm. “Howie even looked like a pig!”

Tommy flushed. The family resemblance was apparent in him, too—­the snoutish nose, the deep-­set eyes that disappeared into his fleshy pink face in little squiggles.

“It was great marketing,” Gus said to me. “Like the chicken bloke who looked like a chicken? Howie looked just like his product! And what a marvelous American success story. He started out as a pig farmer, then pushed a cart around Philadelphia and gradually made a mint selling hot dogs.”

“Hot dogs are a form of charcuterie,” Tommy said seriously. “I've been the beneficiary of my grandfather's financial windfall, but also philosophy-­wise. I've adopted his conviction that the best cuts of meat make the best meals. I'm establishing my own brand, separate from Howie's Hotties. My restaurants will be much more high-­end.”

Gus was grinning with delight. “What do they say about sausage? That nobody wants to watch how it's made?”

To rescue Tommy from embarrassment, I said, “When he opened his new restaurant, Tommy was a huge hit with his winter-­foraging menu.”

Gus looked politely mystified.

“To enhance our meats, I'm becoming an urban forager,” Tommy explained. “Just last week, I found wild fennel in a Burger King parking lot. I used it in a memorable pasta.”

Gus belatedly tried to subdue himself. “I'm sorry I missed it. Fennel's one of my favorites.”

In case Gus was teasing, I said quickly, “Will the Starrs let you go foraging on this farm?”

“Maybe. But my interest here is pigs.”

“Pigs,” I said.

“Yes, Swain and I are spearheading a movement to breed a totally new variety of swine. Very lean, but tender. And fed on whatever grows naturally around here, so flavor-­wise, the meat will be uniquely regional. We think the breed is going to revolutionize pork. It will put us on the food map.”

So that explained Tommy's presence at the party. Despite his sister's divorce, Tommy was a partner of Swain's now. I felt a tug of sympathy for poor Tommy—­trying so hard to become a celebrity chef when perhaps his talents and solemn personality weren't up to the challenge. His food, it was reported, was perfectly nice. But “nice” wasn't enough to revolutionize anything.

Gus looked a little pink from all the champagne as he lifted his glass.
“Vive la
révolution!”

That was all the encouragement Tommy needed. He launched into a discourse on pigs that might have baffled a genetic biologist. Gus endeavored to appear fascinated, but I wondered if he was experiencing one of those moments when foreign visitors marvel at the eccentricities of Americans whose interests reach almost fanatical heights.

When his lecture wound down, Tommy said seriously to Gus, “We're becoming part of the artisanal butchery movement.”

“How on earth does one butcher an animal,” Gus inquired, “in an artisanal way?”

“The same as any other kind of art,” Tommy assured him. “Precision, respect paid to the living creature as well as presenting an excellent final product—­that's what it is. How do you feel about pork?”

“I can hardly face the morning without a bit of bacon.”

Tommy's eyes took on the fevered gleam of a zealot. “Then you should consider attending our artisanal butchering for the Farm-­to-­Table gala on Friday. We'll be demonstrating how to use every part of the pig. Snout to tail. Pig tails are the latest food trend, you know. They're going to be bigger than chicken wings. We fry them, add a dash of sauce—­which will change according to our daily foraging. Yes, we expect our pig tails will blow away gourmands.”

I could sense Gus's growing amusement and decided to sidetrack the conversation to avert a social disaster. “Tommy, I didn't realize you and Swain were in a partnership.”

“That's what it is,” Tommy said sharply. “A partnership. Foundation-­wise, the stock of the swine he's raising here started with my grandfather's work. You can see for yourself—­the results are superior to anything else in the world.”

Tommy pointed ­toward the nearest fence where eight perfectly immaculate young piglets emerged from behind their large mother and made a mad dash for a trough. They looked adorable to me, but I couldn't see any difference between Swain's fancy breeding stock and your average pig at a county fair, except perhaps their unique coloring—­brownish gray with leopardlike spots running down their backs. Seeing the piglets coming near, Tommy hustled over to give them an even closer inspection.

Just as a silver Mercedes zoomed up the driveway and rocked to a stop in front of me.

The party went deathly quiet.

When the driver's-side door of the Mercedes opened, I understood why all the guests were stunned into silence. The petite person who stepped out of the vehicle was none other than Swain Starr's first wife.

Clearly, uninvited.

Marybeth Rattigan Starr launched herself ­toward the first friendly face she spotted—­me. She took purposeful strides, shoulders square and a determined smile frozen in place. She had the Rattigan pinkness, too—­along with the piggy nose she had learned to camouflage with makeup so that she looked more like a sexy cherub than a pig.

She headed straight for me. “Nora! I haven't seen you in ages! Are you enjoying the party, dear?”

“Marybeth,” I managed to say. “What a surprise.”

“No kidding,” she said as she hugged me close and breathed whiskey fumes all over me. “You're not the only one who's surprised.”

In her hand, she carried a short-­barreled antique musket.