How to Murder a Millionaire

by Nancy Martin

  “Because you think I can’t take care of myself. Maybe I was raised like some kind of hothouse flower, but I’m on my own now, and I’m doing just fine.”

  Which was a lie. My head hurt. My heart felt as if it would never beat normally again. And I had hot tears burning in the back of my throat that I was damned if I was going to release. So I asked, “Do you have any brothers or sisters who act like—like knuckleheads?”

  The question didn’t dumbfound him, but it took some of the heat out of his expression. “Sure. One sister and three brothers. Well, two brothers.”

  “What happened to the third one?”

  He looked away and shook his head. “Nora—”

  “What happened?”

  “Really, you don’t want to know.” He peeled off the yellow slicker and slung it over the back of a kitchen chair.

  My knees gave out and I sat down in the other chair. I put my elbows on the table and put my face into my hands. “My family is making me crazy.”

  “Yeah, I noticed.” He began to unpack the groceries. He’d brought a bag of bagels, along with a box of pasta, some veggies and assorted other staples.

  “I can’t find Libby. I really can’t. And I’m afraid she’s gotten herself into something so huge that I—that nobody can get her out of it.” I looked up again. “On top of that, tonight of all nights, Emma has obviously decided to run off with one of her ten thousand boyfriends, leaving me holding the bag!”

  He came around behind me and used both hands to smooth my hair away from my face, then draw it into a ponytail at the back of my head. He leveraged my head gently backwards so I had to look up at him. He said, “I brought dinner.”

  “Is that your answer to everything? Food?”

  “Call it a cultural stereotype. You can’t help anybody if you’re weak from hunger.”

  “I’m not weak. I’m just stark raving.”

  “Same thing. Go change into whatever you wear when you’re not dressed up in a ball gown and I’ll cook. You’ll feel better. You’ll be able to think straight.”

  I looked up at him and felt my heartbeat start to steady. I hadn’t realized how hard it had been pounding. “If I promise to eat, will you tell me what happened to your brother?”

  He released my hair. “This is the wrong time for that discussion.”

  “He’s in jail?”

  Abruzzo walked over to the stove and examined the selection of pots I kept hanging there. “No, my other brother is in jail. And the youngest one is working in Vegas under a name he won’t even tell his mother. But Little Frankie is probably dead, so my family is hardly the yardstick for you to measure against.”

  “He’s probably dead?”

  “Probably,” said Abruzzo.

  So I burst into tears, naturally, and felt like an idiot all over again.

  Abruzzo came over again and gathered me up in a hug. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean Libby’s dead.”

  “I know.”

  I slid my hands up his back and proceeded to make a big wet spot on his shirt. I babbled for a while, and he wisely didn’t say anything until he’d handed over a clean handkerchief from his pocket and I stopped hiccoughing.

  He told me to go upstairs and change in a tone that allowed me no wiggle room, so I went up to my bedroom and stripped off my grandmother’s clothes and hung them on the padded hangers in my closet. Then I sat on my bed and composed my emotions. I congratulated myself on not fainting and began to feel a little better.

  At last I dug out a pair of cashmere lounging pajamas Todd had given me one Christmas. I put them on and looked at myself in the mirror. They were loose and unrevealing, but comfortable and, okay, I knew the pale blue color made my skin look fabulous.

  Meekly, I returned to the kitchen where pasta boiled on the stove and my guest flipped something aromatic in a saute pan. He did not look like a blacksmith except maybe for the shoulders. And the glance he gave me when I entered in my pajamas made me feel as if the time I’d taken to comb my hair and reapply my lipstick had been well spent.

  The kitchen was warm and smelled spicy. The salad from my refrigerator had been revived and sat on the table in a yellow bowl, the greens supplemented with strips of red pepper and tomato slices. A bottle of wine with a label in Italian stood breathing beside it. Two glasses gleamed in the glow of the old chandelier. The sound of steady rain beat on the roof, reducing the kitchen to a cozy port in the storm.

  “Sit,” he said. “And tell me what’s happened.”

  “Tell me first what went on between you and Detective Bloom. You saw him today?”

  “We didn’t go over anything we haven’t covered many times before. That, and he wanted to know what I discussed with Rory on the phone.”

  “Did you tell him?”

  “Of course. I am a law-abiding citizen.” He turned and offered me a taste from the wooden spoon.

  I met his gaze over the steaming spoon and let his words hang in the air.

  A heartbeat later, I asked, “Are you really law-abiding?”

  His expression held steady—mild and a little amused. But I thought I caught a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes, something I’d never seen before. He said, “What happens if my answer scares you?”

  I took a deep breath. “I’m not afraid of you, Michael.”

  “Damn,” he said softly. “I was hoping to intimidate you into bed pretty soon.”

  “Sorry,” I replied. “You’re out of luck.”

  We smiled at each other.

  I noticed he didn’t answer my question. Instead, he said, “Try the sauce.”

  I tasted the sauce on the spoon and nodded my approval.

  The moment was over.

  He turned back to the stove, saying, “Anyway, I gave Bloom the highlights of what I said to Rory, and he kindly spared me the handcuff routine. Your turn.”

  I sat on the chair and curled my feet up under me. I was surprised to realize how much I had learned since I’d seen him last, which hadn’t been so long ago.

  “In a nutshell,” I said, “it was Grand Central Station upstairs in Rory’s house the night he was murdered. Libby was there, and so was Jonathan Longnecker, who offered her a hundred thousand dollars to give the folio to him and not to Rory.”

  “But she didn’t do it. The folio is here.”

  “Why?” I asked. “Why give it to me?”

  Abruzzo continued to attend to the stove. “Maybe she doesn’t need the money.”

  “As a matter of fact, her husband is paying for part of a very expensive wedding this weekend and could probably use every penny he can find.”

  He put down the saute pan and came over to pour us each a glass of wine. “So how come she gave it to you?”

  I sighed. “I don’t know. Now that Longnecker has dangled such a huge finder’s fee, I’m scared. It’s upped the ante.”

  “Longnecker is the asshole at the restaurant?”

  “Uhm, yes.” I accepted the glass he handed me.

  Abruzzo took a drink of the wine and held it on his tongue for a moment while he considered things. It occurred to me again that he might have a better insight into the criminal mind than I had, and I watched him think. Mostly, though, he seemed to be contemplating whether the wine was good or just passable.

  Then he swallowed and said devastatingly, “What if Libby killed Rory and ditched the folio because it links her to the murder?”

  I took a deep breath. “Oh, God.”

  “It’s possible.”

  “She hasn’t a violent bone in her body.”

  “Maybe she was angry. Maybe she attacked him and didn’t realize he was dead.”

  “But why would Libby kill him?”

  “To get the folio free and clear? If Longnecker was willing to pay a hundred grand for it, maybe somebody else would pay more.”

  “Harold Tackett,” I said unsteadily. Or Eloise.

  “Who?”

  “A collector I know. He wanted the folio and was willing to pay Rory a
lot for it. You don’t suppose Libby tried to sell it to Harold? No, I can’t accept that. She’s not the sharpest knife in the drawer, but she’s not that stupid. Or that desperate.”

  Abruzzo went back to the stove. “Okay, maybe she gave it to you so she wouldn’t be tempted to sell it.”

  “How like Libby to ask me to enforce her moral code.” I drank some wine. It went down like warm embers and cleared my head. “What if the folio isn’t connected to the murder at all? What if I’m just making an assumption?”

  “What do the police think?”

  “Last I knew, they were still focused on Peach Treese.”

  Abruzzo looked over his shoulder at me. “And you still think that’s impossible?”

  “I don’t know anymore,” I admitted. “Peach’s granddaughter said Peach was furious to find Rory with Eloise Tackett. And I can vouch that she was really provoked about something when she came downstairs.”

  “Man, musical beds for Rory. Who’da guessed?”

  “It gets worse,” I said, steeling myself to tell him the rest. “Eloise took a bottle of Viagra to Rory. Either she intended to use it with him, or she hoped it would help convince him to sell the folio to her husband.”

  Abruzzo looked amused. “Which was it?”

  “I don’t know. I’m afraid to ask Eloise.”

  He nodded. “Being Emily Post has its drawbacks.”

  I bristled. “Some questions you just don’t ask point-blank.”

  “In my family we ask and hope the other guy’s right hook is slow.”

  I smiled at the joke. “It’s not in my nature to be rude, even when murder is involved.”

  He tested the pasta, drained the pot with a practiced technique and tossed it with a dash of olive oil. He served portions onto two of Todd’s grandmother’s Limoges and then finished by neatly sliding the contents of the saute pan over the gently steaming pasta. He slipped a plate in front of me and put one for himself on the opposite side of the table.

  I inhaled the fragrance of sweet sausage, tomato, vegetables and basil. I said, “You cope well with hysterical women. And you can cook.”

  “I’m good-looking, too,” he added, sitting down and reaching for the wine bottle. “And I don’t need Viagra. At least, not yet.”

  On the other hand, he could blithely prepare a delicious meal while discussing cold-blooded murder.

  He was correct about some things, though. Todd had been a little boy. And Mama was probably right, too. I had to make my own happiness, and that didn’t have to include another husband. Maybe I should consider the possibilities.

  I said, “Did you bring dessert?”

  On Thursday morning, I tried phoning Emma at her apartment while Abruzzo showered upstairs after carrying his pillow and blanket up from the sofa where he’d spent the night. Emma did not answer. I turned on the Today show until Katie and Matt went outside to talk to the weatherman. I always turn off the sound when the people in Rockefeller Plaza start screaming. For a while it frightened me. Now it’s just annoying.

  Abruzzo came down with his hair still wet from the shower and took over making breakfast. I got out my address book and looked up a friend from Miss Porter’s. Not a friend, exactly, since during her school years Rose Stine had stuck to her books and her one extracurricular club, a particularly hostile feminist group. She had gone back to the school after four years at a repressed southern college and now had a part-time job in the administrative offices. She had no sense of humor and a heightened loyalty to school procedures.

  I asked her if she knew anyone named Sylvia Whiteman or Sylvia Blackman.

  “Nora, I shouldn’t give out that information.” Her voice was as cold as if I’d asked to sell naked pictures of her classmates on the Internet.

  “Rose, it’s not an emergency, but it’s getting there.” I told her about Libby taking a powder and hiding out in New York. I might have fabricated a bit by suggesting Libby could have run away from an abusive husband.

  Immediately, Rose promised to e-mail me a list of women in Libby’s graduating class. I promised not to sell the list to any sexual terrorists.

  While eating scrambled eggs and bagels, I decided to try reaching Emma at Paddy Horgan’s place. Abruzzo poured coffee while I looked in the phone book. Paddy had two phone numbers, one in the house and one in the barn. I phoned the house first, but nobody answered. Paddy answered the barn phone himself, gruff and annoyed.

  “Emma was supposed to be here last night,” he said. “And again this morning.”

  “You mean she didn’t arrive?”

  I heard him spit tobacco before he said, “She didn’t show.”

  “Why—? I mean, do you—?”

  “I know she’s working hurt,” Paddy snapped. “Maybe she’s not physically ready yet.”

  “I’m sure she’s the best judge of that,” I said hastily. “She didn’t call to cancel?”

  “No, she just didn’t show. I can’t have people like that in my barn,” said Paddy. “I need responsible help.”

  I could barely shut off the phone because my hands shook so much.

  “What?” said Abruzzo. He’d been looking through the books on the table while he ate his breakfast, but my conversation with Paddy had drawn his attention. “Where’s Emma?”

  “I don’t know,” I said, suddenly sick. “She didn’t go to work yesterday afternoon or this morning.”

  “She’s with a boyfriend, did you say?”

  “I assumed so, but this doesn’t feel right. Oh, my God. She’d never miss work.”

  Don’t panic, I told myself. Think.

  I turned on my computer and went online. The e-mail from Rose Stine had come in already. She must have gone immediately to the database and sent me the names of Libby’s classmates along with phone numbers, addresses and—heaven be praised—maiden names, too. I skimmed down the list. No Whiteman or Blackman.

  Abruzzo had tipped the screen so he could read along with me. He pointed. “What about Redmond? Sophia Redmond. It’s a New York address.”

  I grabbed the phone and tried to read the number and punch the right keys on the handset. I fumbled and tried a second time.

  Abruzzo took the phone from me. “Let me try. Drink your coffee.”

  I let him dial and prayed Sophia Redmond stayed at home in New York.

  “Hello,” said Abruzzo into the phone, making eye contact with me across the table. “Sophia Redmond? No? Is she at home? Uh, ¿Está en casa, Senora Redmond?”

  He listened to the Spanish on the line for a moment and asked, “¿No? Uh, ¿La conta usted con ella hoy? ¿Se quenda en la casa Senora Kintswell? ¿He llamado Kiritswell?” He waited while more Spanish flowed back at him. “¿No? Gracias, gracias.”

  He disconnected the line and said, “Nobody’s home and the maid has never heard of Mrs. Kintswell. Libby’s not there. I can understand more than I can speak, but from the sound of things, she never was.”

  I got to my feet. “Maybe it’s the wrong person. Maybe my mother got the name wrong. Maybe I should call Ralph to double-check.”

  Abruzzo and I looked at each other, and he did not hand over the phone.

  I said, “You think Ralph is doing something wrong.”

  “I think he knows more than he’s telling you. Either that, or he’s not thinking many moves ahead.”

  Ralph wasn’t stupid. But he was gentle and perhaps he was keeping the truth to himself to protect me from something. It was the kind of thing he might do, I thought. Wasn’t it? I said, “Why would he keep Libby’s whereabouts a secret?”

  “Money. A business deal gone bad.” He didn’t finish his list.

  I clutched my head. “I don’t understand what’s happening.”

  “You want some advice? I think it’s time to call your buddy Gloom.”

  I sat down at the table again. “But if Libby’s in legal trouble . . .” I began.

  “Nora,” he said, “it’s past that.”

  Chapter 19

  Det
ective Bloom told me he didn’t handle missing persons and I should contact my local police. He was so busy—or so uninterested—that he didn’t let me finish my sentences. It wasn’t until I mentioned Libby’s name on the phone that he said, “Your sister is Libby Kintswell?”

  And I realized how long it was going to take the police to get up to speed. My own investigation was light-years ahead of where the police were, and by the time I could prove everything I felt sure I knew, God only knew where Libby would be.

  “I’m scared,” I told Abruzzo when I’d disconnected his cell phone.

  We were in his Volvo and already halfway to Libby’s house.

  “Breathe,” he advised and turned on the windshield wipers.

  I obeyed. “He said to call the local police, but he wants me to come to him to talk, too.”

  “Not a good idea,” advised Abruzzo, driving through puddles of rain. “He’ll hold you for days.”

  While the trails for my sisters got colder and colder.

  I dialed 911 and was transferred to a New Hope policeman who took my information and invited me in for further conversation at my earliest convenience. I said I’d come as soon as I could, but I had things to do first. By then, we’d arrived in Libby’s driveway and had climbed out of the car. I said I’d call back and hung up.

  “What now?” Abruzzo asked when Arlo came over to say hello. He patted the damp dog, and Arlo wagged his tail. “Looks like nobody’s home.”

  “The kids are probably at school. And Ralph’s gone to work already.”

  “Listen,” he said, “I’ll stay out here by the door unless you call me. You can go in, but I’ll be breaking and entering.”

  He was a useful person to know.

  I went into Libby’s house, calling her name. The place was still an appalling mess, perhaps more so. It had begun to smell even worse than before. A stack of pizza boxes had grown to an alarming height in the kitchen. Upstairs, the bedrooms looked like a train wreck.

  Libby’s matching set of tapestry-sided suitcases were still in her closet.

  I went back outside and reported.

  Abruzzo, with Arlo sitting at his feet, stood looking across the driveway. “What’s in the barn?”