Murder Melts in Your Mouth (21 page)

“The twins?”

“Making fireworks in the barn.”

Michael and I exchanged a look.

“I'll go check,” he said, and went back down the steps. “If I don't come back, send a SWAT team.”

I put my hand on the door handle, and Lucy said, “Be careful. My mom's in there.”

I pushed inside and discovered my sister Libby wearing a frilly apron and making coffee. She had cleaned the kitchen, mopped the floor and rearranged my canisters. Her revived domesticity could mean only one thing.

I said, “Did you marry someone?”

“Nora!” Libby cried musically. “How delightful to see—good heavens, you look like you've been hit by a bus!”

“Thanks.” I was fully aware that my wrinkle-free Furstenberg dress had been challenged to the max. My hair felt like a curly mess under my hand, and I knew I didn't have a shred of makeup left. I suspected I still had the imprint of Tierney's car upholstery on my cheek.

Libby, on the other hand, wore silver sandals and a lavender skort with a T-shirt printed with the words
EVE WAS FRAMED
, written in letters made of cartoon serpents. She had tied the lacy strings of the apron fetchingly over her bottom. On her hip, Maximus drooled happily, delighted to be in his mother's arm again.

He pulled his binky out of his mouth and announced his mother's return triumphantly. “Da!”

I said, “You didn't answer me. What happened during your sojourn at the Ritz-Carlton? Or did you go directly to the honeymoon phase?”

Libby continued to putter around my kitchen, whipping up a batch of pancakes, if I was any judge of batter. She had also picked more strawberries, and the first crop of blueberries had clearly come in, because a small bowl sat beside the sink.

My sister's face lit up as if I'd plugged her into a light socket. “Oh, Nora, I can't wait to tell you everything! Jacque is adorable! So giving! So in touch with his feelings!”

“Jacque?”

“Jacque Petite!”

Stunned, I said, “That's who ran over you with his car? Jacque Petite, the chocolate guy? The star of the Chocolate Festival?”

I had seen his picture at the festival, and of course I knew him from his show on the Food Channel. But imagining my sister with the happy chocolate man was beyond me.

For a moment.

Then it made perfect sense.

Libby dimpled. “He can't very well be the star of the festival if he hasn't left the Ritz-Carlton for days.”

“Is that his Rolls outside?”

“Yes. He let me borrow it!”

“What's the catch?”

“Catch? Whatever do you mean?”

I grabbed a coffee cup from the cupboard. The last thing I wanted to discuss this morning was the quadratic equation that was my sister's love life. “You always find a man who's in touch with his feelings, but he turns out to be even more in touch with scamming you or stealing from you or—”

“How can you say such a thing? He's Jacque Petite!”

“Remember Sam?” I asked. “The fireman?”

Libby flushed as she snatched the coffee cup from my hands. “The coffee's not ready yet. Sam was delightful except for the candle obsession. I can't concentrate on sexual satisfaction if I'm constantly worried the curtains might catch fire. But Jacque is totally different! He adores me. He says we're on the same astral plane. Why are you so cranky this morning?”

“Nobody told you? While you were exploring astral planes with the chocolate king, I was kidnapped last night.”

“Oh, that!” Libby waved off my ordeal with the cup. “I knew that was only a misunderstanding. I explained it all to the police.”

“The police were here?”

“Yes, of course the police were here. Thank heaven Rawlins had the presence of mind to telephone them last night. And then me. I've been here for hours, by the way. I rushed out of the city the instant Rawlins phoned. Otherwise it would have been complete chaos at this house. I hardly think I can trust you to look after my children anymore, Nora. Next time, I'll think twice about asking you.”

“You won't need to ask. I'll be busy.”

She looked wounded. “Even if you were slightly kidnapped, you don't have to be rude. Not when I'm so deliriously happy.”

She bit her lip. With exactly the same expression in his big eyes, Maximus gazed reproachfully at me, too.

I had to admit, Libby looked beautifully rested and much happier than I'd seen her in months. She exhibited no aftereffects of her accident, and in fact seemed to exude an annoying good health. In truth, she appeared to be completely rejuvenated. The pink spots of color on her cheekbones were adorable.

I sighed. “I'm sorry. What did the police say when you got here?”

“That you should give them a phone call when you returned. And they want to talk to Tierney Cavendish. Did you know it's illegal to wave a gun around in the presence of children? It's corruption of minors.”

“Before you have Tierney arrested, I have some information that might influence your decision.”

As if she hadn't heard me, she bounced the baby on her hip and said breezily, “But I could hardly press charges against my own brother, could I?”

I stared at my sister. “How long have you known he's our brother?”

“Good grief, Nora, it's been years! Daddy let it slip ages ago.”

“And you never mentioned that tidbit of information to the rest of us?”

“I've been busy! Anyway, I told the police Tierney was under duress, which should be taken into consideration. After all, the man he assumed was his father just died, and he was trying to make a connection with his natural father. I think I was convincing, but the police still want to talk to him. How did it go, by the way? Was Daddy gracious?”

“You mean, before he had his heart attack?”

“It wasn't a heart attack. Just a little fibrillation. He'll be released from the hospital by noon.”

“Great,” I said, hopes dashed that my parents might be out of my hair for a while. “Emma's outside, by the way. And she's got big news.”

“What kind of news?”

I gave up the idea of breaking the latest family bombshell gently. “She had a contraceptive malfunction, and now there's a little Blackbird on the way. She's pregnant.”

Libby's mouth opened, but no sound came out.

“That was my first reaction, too.”

“Nora,” she breathed.

“Hard to imagine Emma being a mother, huh?”

I expected Libby to go into a tirade about karma and the spinning of stars and whatever hogwash she was currently obsessed with. But Libby put Maximus into his high chair and came over to me with compassion on her face.

Gently, she put her arms around me. “Darling, I'm so sorry. After your miscarriage, too. You must be crushed. Trust Emma to get lucky at the worst possible time.”

My voice nearly failed. “She doesn't think of it as lucky. She wants to make an appointment at the clinic.”

Swiftly, Libby hugged me. “What nonsense. Don't even think about that. It must feel like a knife in your heart. I'll talk to her. We'll figure out something. Are you going to be okay?”

“Yes. Of course. Don't worry about me.”

“You don't get to decide when your family is allowed to worry about you.” She patted my cheek. “We love you, Nora. And sometimes you need to accept that love. Okay, I know we can be exasperating, but the bottom line is that we want you to be happy. And you're certainly due. Why don't you take a shower and relax upstairs? Take a nap for a couple of hours.”

“I have to go to work.”

“Now?”

I checked my watch, but found my vision too blurry to read the numbers. “I guess I could take a nap.”

Another hug. “Go ahead. I'll handle things down here.”

The coffeemaker gave a final burp, and Libby poured a cup and pressed it into my hands. I couldn't prevent the suspicious expression that undoubtedly crossed my face. Her solicitous behavior triggered a red alert in my brain.

“What?” she demanded. “I can't be counted on in a crisis?”

“Okay, okay,” I said, and drank a slug.

Resisting the urge to bust out bawling, I went out through the butler's pantry and up the staircase with the coffee cup in my hand. With every step, I grew more and more tired. A long night of tense melodrama began to ache in all my muscles.

I peeked into the bedroom across the hall from my own. Rawlins lay sprawled on the coverlet, his face squished into an eyelet pillow and both large feet dangling off the edge of the bed. He'd had a long night, too. And when, I wondered, had he grown so tall? He still wore his jeans and ice-cream-shop T-shirt. His cell phone lay on the coverlet near his hand. I could see a red light blinking frantically on it. His chatty new girlfriend, I thought. I closed the door gently and let him sleep.

When I turned around, I let out a squeak of fright.

Oscar stood in the hallway. He had a gun in one hand and a leather identification wallet in the other. He said, “Sorry. I thought you were another intruder. Oscar Bland, U.S. Treasury.”

T
he sight of the second gun in twelve hours blew a fuse in my brain. Furious, I said, “Put that damn thing away! Do you people think this house is some kind of shooting gallery?”

“Sorry,” he said again, stashing the gun in a fold of his sarong. “I heard you come up the stairs, and thought—well, after what happened here yesterday, I don't want any more surprises.”

I sagged against the doorjamb. “You and me both.” His true identity finally sank into my brain, and I squinted at Oscar with new eyes. “You're a Treasury agent? For real?”

“As real as it gets. I've been assigned to keep an eye on your parents during the investigation of the Paine Investment Group. And let me tell you, this is the worst assignment I've ever had. I spent fifteen years in the Marine Corps, but even that didn't prepare me. Your parents are slippery characters.”

“You're not a spiritual adviser?”

“I'm an Episcopalian.”

I had a hard time imagining Oscar as an Episcopalian. Maybe it was the sarong. “My parents are at the hospital, you know.”

“Affirmative. Another operative is at the hospital. I only came back to change my clothes. I had no idea island people had so much trouble with chafing.”

“I see. Os—Mr. Bland, I don't mean to tell you how to do your job, but I wonder if you could stick around here for a few hours. I'm worried we might have another incident like yesterday.”

His bushy eyebrows rose. “Cavendish is still on the loose?”

“Actually, I'm concerned about someone else. Chad Zanzibar. Would you recognize him? He's an actor—”

“Short kid? Wasn't he some kind of gremlin in a movie?”

“He was an elf. But don't let that fool you. He's actually capable of violence. I think he physically abused his own grandmother. And I'm concerned he might try to come here.” I figured I didn't need to explain that Chad was looking to meet a real live mobster.

Oscar's posture seemed to stiffen with renewed Marine Corps vigor. “It would be a pleasure. In fact, after all this nutty yoga and diet stuff, I'm ready for some honest, hand-to-hand combat.”

“If you see him, be my guest.”

He nodded smartly. “Don't worry about a thing. I've got you covered.”

Fending off exhaustion for just a little longer, I headed for my own bathroom. I put the coffee on the edge of the sink, turned on the shower and stripped off my clothes while the water heated up. One look in the mirror told me I hadn't gotten nearly enough sleep in the backseat of Tierney's car. I winced at my reflection and stepped under the warm water.

A minute later Michael came into the bathroom and shut the door. I heard him kick off his shoes and unfasten his belt.

Over the shower curtain, he said, “If anybody asks, I'm fixing your toilet.”

I poured shampoo into the palm of my hand and lathered my hair while he undressed and drank the rest of my coffee. I asked, “Did you try the plumber story on Libby?”

“No, but the guy in the sarong believed me. Is there something wrong with your sister? She was actually polite to me downstairs.”

“Scary, isn't it?” I rinsed my hair. “It always surprises me when she comes through in a crisis. But she does.”

Michael climbed into the shower with me. As naked men go, he was magnificent.

He grabbed me and pulled me under the cascading water. “I don't want to talk about your sister.”

His hands skimmed my body as if relearning the curves. I couldn't help doing the same thing and found all my favorite spots while he nuzzled my neck and planted kisses on my throat.

I asked, “Do you mind talking about my other sister?”

“I don't want to talk about anything,” he murmured, pulling me close enough to feel every inch of him against me.

Around his kisses, I said, “I need to know about Emma.”

“When I came up here, she was drinking ginger ale and talking to Henry. Why?” He wiped the water from his eyes. “You thought I slept with her, didn't you?”

“I couldn't quite let myself believe it. Not really. But you said some things—”

“Jesus, Nora.”

“What was I supposed to think?” I demanded. “The night you came over here, you kept apologizing for—”

“Not for sleeping with your sister!”

“Well, you told me she was with you! And she's always had a thing for you, Michael. Admit it. Did she climb into your bed?”

“Every night,” he said, sliding my wet hair off my shoulder. “But, fortunately, I was on the couch, so my virtue was safe.”

“She tried, though, didn't she? To seduce you?”

“When she was drunk,” he admitted. “But even then, she knew it was wrong, and she stopped it herself. Nora, you can't hold that against her. She hit rock bottom, and I said I'd help her only if she'd quit drinking and go to meetings. She was in bad shape. And now—well, maybe she's even worse off than before.”

I found I was trembling again, but this time with relief. Perhaps I had known Michael couldn't have let himself be wooed into bed with anyone else. But hearing it said aloud was enormously comforting.

I said, “You didn't have to keep it a secret for so long.”

“She didn't want anybody to know. In case she slipped up. I'm sorry you were miserable.”

“Miserable doesn't cover it. But I'm better now.”

“Good. But, wow. Now Emma's going to be a mother? It's hard to imagine that will turn out well.” He reached past me for the soap and smelled it, trying to decide if it was too girlie to use. Or maybe he was thinking over something much more complicated. When his gaze dropped to me, his blue eyes were full of love. “What should we do? Ask her if she wants us to take the baby and raise it ourselves? You and me?”

I started shaking all over again. “Oh, Michael.”

I didn't care anymore if he was America's Most Wanted. I didn't care about his criminal past. Or even if he continued to be tempted by the dark side. My own father was a crook, but I loved him without question. At least with Michael, I knew he'd never steal from me.

He pulled me into his body again until we melted together, slick with water. And probably some tears. He kissed me—gently this time. We played with the soap for a while and eventually turned off the shower, grabbed some towels and went into the bedroom. With the door locked and the sunshine streaming across the bed, we tumbled into the bedclothes and made up for weeks of being apart.

Afterward, Michael fell soundly asleep with his arms around me.

I dozed for a while, too, but eventually I woke and found myself thinking about Emma.

She was a lot like Tierney, I realized suddenly—a bundle of repressed emotions. Too stubborn, maybe, to ask for help figuring out their lives, yet stumbling forward anyway.

Except Emma didn't buy a gun and try to solve her problems by taking hostages.

That thought got me thinking about Tierney again. How troubled he was. How his parents—in their own way—had probably both loved him and yet dreaded when he learned their secret.

I wondered, too, how Hoyt's secret had factored into his murder.

Because surely it had.

Michael murmured in his sleep. When he shifted, perhaps dreaming, I slipped out of his arms and eased myself out of bed, hoping to let him rest longer. I took another, longer shower, dried my hair and eventually tiptoed back into the bedroom to find some lingerie and do my face in the mirror.

Sitting in my bra and panties in front of a tray of cosmetics, I thought about Elena Zanzibar. She had been devastated by the loss of her fortune at the hands of Hoyt Cavendish. Had learning of his embezzlement and her fear of Chad's rage driven the makeup maven to murder? Or had she promised to marry him only to discover his true gender at an inopportune time? And did she have the strength to push diminutive Hoyt off the balcony?

Or—if Michael was correct that Hoyt's murder couldn't have been premeditated—was it Chad who was most capable of the rage it must take to kill another human being?

I flicked on some mascara and sat back to check my reflection. In the mirror, I saw Michael sit up on one elbow.

He said, “You're frowning.”

“Not at you.” I said, “It's nice to see you back here.”

“You mean it?”

“I love you,” I said.

He leaned back against the headboard, cradling the back of his head. “I dare you to come over here and say that.”

“I do have a job. At least for the moment. And I have places to go today.” I turned around, but stayed seated on the slipper chair at my vanity. I crossed one leg over the other and put my hands in my lap. “Tell me what you plan to do about your brother. And don't skip the details. If last night taught you anything, it's how horrible it feels to be in the dark.”

He didn't move, but my direct question prompted an answer. “As of last night, it's in the hands of the lawyers. It's time for Cannoli and Sons to earn their retainer fees.”

“I want to know what happened.”

“I don't think—”

“Michael. Tell me everything. I want the truth so I can understand and not be afraid.”

“Okay.” He thought it over and finally said, “I maneuvered a thing, and my father and my brother are going down. The whole family, in fact. It's tricky, and there's a lot at stake, not to mention a few loose ends to tie up. But I've thought it through, and this is the only way it's going to end without somebody getting whacked.”

“You mean, you?”

“No, I'm not gonna die, Nora. But I don't want anybody else to end up dead, either. So it's taken time to get all the dominoes in order, you know? But now they're starting to fall. I didn't want you to be a part of it, didn't want you to know anything until it's over. Because it's going to get ugly in the papers. Worse than usual. I don't want your name spread around.”

Although he spoke of a much simpler game, sometimes I thought Michael could be a chess champion. “Were there really microwave ovens in that stolen truck?”

He smiled, proud of me for figuring it out. “At first, yes.”

“And you—? What?” The truth dawned. “You switched the cargo?”

“Abracadabra,” he said.

“And last night?”

“Last night I…” He searched for the right word. “I convinced my father it would be smart to give some testimony against my brother.”

“He's snitching? And you're sending your brother to jail?”

“Trust me, the world will be safer. Nobody wants that big idiot running around loose. And my father will do some time, too, but he'll be comfortable. Maybe learn to play golf.”

“Will you have to testify against them?”

“Hell, no. I'm no rat.”

Honor among thieves, I thought. He'd send his family to prison, but wouldn't stand up in court to do it. My bedroom was quiet.

I said, “What about you? Will you be safe?”

“Things will shake out in time.”

“What does that mean?”

Michael's gaze darkened, but held mine steadily. “A lot of people want to see me back inside, Nora.”

“Yes, I know.” When he hesitated again, I said, “Prove that you love me and trust me, Michael. Tell me the truth.”

He shrugged. “There's a fifty-fifty chance I'll do some time, too.”

The window seemed to suck the air from the room. But I got up from the chair and went to the bed. I climbed on top of him, and he let me press both his hands to the headboard with mine. Looking deeply into his eyes, into his heart, I said, “I'll wait, if I must. I will be your wife and the mother of your children, and I will die in your arms. And I won't abandon you if you have to go to jail.”

“Nora,” he said, a catch in his throat.

“I love you forever.”

“It won't take that long,” he murmured. “Six months, tops.”

I let him roll me into the bed, and we nuzzled and wept and murmured to each other and finally laughed a little when it became apparent he was ready to do more than talk.

I said, “I have Emma to worry about now, too, you know.”

“Yeah.” With his thumb, he gently smoothed our mingled tears from my cheek. “To tell the truth, I thought Henry might lend a hand in that department.”

“Henry Fineman?” Surprised, I said, “How?”

“I figured they might hit it off.”

“You're kidding, right? He's not exactly Emma's type.”

“Her type hasn't worked out very well in the past. Maybe it's time for a new model. Besides, Henry has some experience overcoming booze.”

I should have known he'd thought things through. Michael had an ulterior motive when he'd sent Henry to fix my computer.