by Nancy Martin
We went over to the barn, and he put his shoulder to the heavy door. It slid open.
Inside, Libby’s minivan.
With my hands almost too weak to function, I opened the passenger side door. On the floor between the seats sat Libby’s Coach handbag. Hyperventilating, I pulled it out of the van, opened the zipper and found her wallet.
The next thing I knew, I was sitting in the Volvo with Abruzzo hunkered down on the driveway beside the open door, patting my hands.
He said conversationally, “I can see why you don’t drive. You black out like somebody’s thrown a light switch.”
“I’m going to stop fainting,” I said.
He nodded. “Okay.”
“No, really. I’m going to learn not to do this.”
“I’m thinking of learning to ski.”
“If Libby’s purse is here,” I said, “she isn’t shopping in New York.”
“I know.” He pushed my hair away from my face and studied me for signs of panic. Finding only a manageable quantity, he said, “Let’s go find a pay phone.”
“Why?”
“Because I need to make a couple of calls from a phone that’s not necessarily wiretapped.”
“Do I want to know who you’re calling?”
“No,” he said and fastened my seatbelt.
He got in beside me and drove to a car wash that had a public telephone mounted near the change machines. While he spoke to someone who I hoped looked like Mike Tyson and had the counterintelligence smarts of James Bond, I used his cell phone to try Emma’s number again.
He got back into the car two minutes later, his shoulders wet with rain. “Okay, somebody’s going to keep an eye on the farm today. Now what?”
“Emma still doesn’t answer her phone. Let’s go to her place.”
I gave directions, and we arrived in less than ten minutes. Emma lived in an apartment over an antiques shop in New Hope. The shop didn’t open until eleven, so the parking lot in the back was empty. Not even Emma’s truck was there. I ran up the rain-slick wooden steps to the second floor rear balcony. Emma’s door was locked. I knocked and peered through the glass, but her lace curtains obstructed my view.
I leaned over the balcony railing. “It’s locked. Should I break a window?”
Abruzzo came up the stairs. “No key under the mat? Over the door? In a flowerpot?”
We searched, but Emma hadn’t left a spare key.
“Let me break the window,” he said. “I can do it without making too much mess.”
And he did. Rather than smashing the whole window, he flattened a credit card against the glass and used his pocket knife to tap the first crack. The crack grew as he rapped until it made a slightly irregular six-inch line, creating a triangle in the corner of the window. He slid the knife back into his pocket, the credit card into his wallet. Then with a sharp whack of his elbow, he broke in the triangle and slipped one hand carefully inside to unlock the door. The neat job took a quiet two minutes.
I looked up at him. “Sometimes you make me nervous.”
“It’s mutual,” he replied. The door swung wide. I stepped over the glass and went inside alone.
If Libby’s house had been a veritable demolition site, Emma’s apartment was the picture of spare living. She had little furniture, although all good stuff that had probably been begged from various relatives—a John Widdicombe gateleg table with two chairs, a comfortable-looking slipcovered sofa, some reading lamps on mismatched tables, a pair of mahogany bookshelves packed tight with books, a Tabriz rug on the floor. Her queen-sized bed had been neatly made with an Amish quilt, and her closets were tidy except for the jumble of boots and shoes on the floor. She had a sweater drying on a rack in the bathroom. I laid my palm flat on the sweater. It was still slightly damp.
In contrast with the simple furnishings, all the walls of her apartment were covered with horse paintings. She hadn’t hung them with much precision, but there they were in plain view, not safely stowed in some storage facility. I found a stack of other pieces from the family art collection leaning against the bedroom wall, each frame tidily wrapped with padded paper.
From the doorway, Abruzzo called, “Anything?”
I went back out to him. “No. I think we’d better go to the local police.”
I found some duct tape in a kitchen drawer, and we taped a hunk of cardboard over the hole in the door window. It didn’t seem wise to leave the paintings so vulnerable, but I decided even the most imaginative cat burglar wouldn’t peg that modest second floor apartment for the home of a multimillion-dollar art collection.
But I planned to discuss home security with Emma as soon as possible.
As soon as we found her, that is.
Abruzzo drove me to the police station but declined to come inside with me. “I’ll just complicate things,” he said.
He gave me his cell phone and a number to call when I was ready to leave. Then he disappeared.
The New Hope police kept me for the entire afternoon with questions, questions and more questions. I felt as if I had gone to Mars and nobody understood my language. The state troopers were called, and I gave the same information to them. Three times. I was nearly screaming with frustration at their lack of action until a woman poked her head into the room where I’d been quarantined and announced that a patrol car had found Emma’s truck. The cops nearly knocked each other over trying to get out of the room to learn the details.
The woman raised her eyebrows at me. “You want a Coke or something?”
I thanked her and she brought me a soft drink. She sat down in the chair beside me as I popped the top and drank the caffeinated sugar. “I’m Judy Tandy. I’m the rape counselor, but I figure you could use a friendly face. I just want to tell you not to worry. These jerks won’t tell you anything, but the cops out in the cars are doing everything they can.”
“Where was Emma’s truck?”
“At an expired meter on Main Street.”
“Was she—?”
Judy shook her head. “The keys were gone, the doors were locked. Nothing unusual. They’re looking in nearby shops now.”
I thanked her. The chances of finding Emma shopping were slim to none, I knew.
The rape counselor sat with me until the cops came back, then she patted me on the shoulder and left.
I thought they’d never let me go. I finally asked, “Am I under arrest?”
Hastily, they said I could leave, so I phoned the number Abruzzo gave me. I told the gruff male voice on the other end where I was, and he told me to sit tight. Fifteen minutes later, Abruzzo arrived in a vintage Lincoln Continental.
“Where’s the Volvo?”
He shrugged. “Better to keep everybody guessing today. If people think I’m involved, it’s going to get unnecessarily complicated.”
He took me back to the farm where two men were changing a tire on a black SUV near my mailbox. In the house, I checked my answering machine and found two messages from Detective Bloom among assorted unimportant calls. I telephoned Bloom only to get his voice mail. I told him I’d try again later. I phoned Lexie next and packed an overnight bag.
Abruzzo carried my suitcase out to the car. When we left the farm, I noticed the two men were still changing their tire. Abruzzo lifted one hand at them, and they jutted their chins back at him in recognition.
He took me to Lexie Paine’s boathouse in Philadelphia. Two more men were changing a tire on her street.
Lexie came outside in the dark and hugged me hard. “Oh, darling, I’m so glad you called. So glad!”
“You don’t mind a slightly bedraggled houseguest?”
“Of course not. And this must be your . . . friend.”
I introduced them, and for the first time in my life witnessed Lexie Paine completely speechless as she shook Michael Abruzzo’s hand.
He said, “Nora needs some food and some rest.”
Lexie could only nod.
Hiding a grin, Abruzzo said to me, “I’ll
come back in the morning.”
“Thank you,” I said, smiling too.
He kissed the top of my head and departed without further ceremony.
Lexie closed the door behind him and leaned against it, her dark eyes wide. “My God, Nora.”
“I know. He looks like a felon. But he’s been very kind.”
“Are you sure? Does he carry a gun?”
“Of course not. He likes fly-fishing.”
Lexie gathered her breath and took my arm. “Well, you know what you’re doing. I hope! Come in and have a glass of wine. I’ll order some food. I want to hear the whole story about Libby and Emma, and then you can tell me what I can do to help.”
“Did you have time to learn anything about Rory’s van Gogh?”
“I had time to make a few calls after you phoned me earlier. It was legitimately purchased at auction about fifteen years ago. Rory has always said he’s going to leave it to a museum. Heywood Kidd tells me Peach and Rory have argued about it for years. Something about the frame being wrong. Now it’s your turn.”
One glass of wine couldn’t subdue the nervous adrenaline in my system as I filled Lexie in on what was happening. The second glass of wine blunted my nerves, and the spring rolls helped restore me, too, while we hashed out a plan. But the third glass of wine at midnight knocked me for a loop. I fell into Lexie’s guest bed around one and slept for several hours.
I wasn’t the first one awake. I slipped into Lexie’s kitchen at seven in the morning, and there she was spreading cream cheese on a bagel, dressed in a razor-sharp Prada business suit, stiletto heels and marquis diamond earrings the size of small caliber bullets. Across the kitchen counter from her, Abruzzo sat on a stool reading the paper and drinking coffee from a Starbucks cup. He looked even more dangerous than she did.
Lexie saw me and made an instant diagnosis. “You need aspirin.”
“Oh, yes,” I gasped.
“I got her drunk,” Lexie explained. “It was the only way she could sleep.”
“You did what you had to do,” said Abruzzo. To me, he said, “Good morning.”
I kissed him on the mouth. It felt like the natural thing. He tugged my ponytail.
Lexie turned away and got very busy with orange juice and the aspirin bottle. I could see her smiling.
Abruzzo said, “What’s the plan?”
“I hate to say it,” I told them, “but I need to go to a party tonight. The rehearsal dinner for the Treese-Kintswell wedding.”
Lexie came back with pills and juice. “The whole cast of suspects will be there.”
“And Ralph will have to explain one way or another where Libby is.”
Abruzzo said, “The New Hope cops kept him half the night. He still claims Libby is visiting a friend in New York. They’re looking into it.”
I didn’t ask how he came by his information. “With the wedding tomorrow, Libby has to show up. Or Ralph’s story will have to change.”
“And Emma?” Lexie asked.
The question hung in the air. I popped the aspirin and washed them down with juice.
Abruzzo said, “I think we should go talk to the people Emma works with. The cops did that yesterday, but maybe you know better questions to ask.”
“And,” I said, “Lexie, you’ll go see Jonathan Longnecker?”
She nodded. “I’m gonna twist his balls until he screams.”
“Yeow,” said Abruzzo with a grin.
“If he has anything more to tell,” she promised, “I’ll get it.”
Outside, we got into our respective vehicles—today a snub-nosed white Corvette for Abruzzo and me, another new BMW for Lexie. The two guys still changing tires watched Lexie slide into her car. When she drove past them, she tilted down her sunglasses and took a long look, too.
I said to Abruzzo, “You have resources I never imagined.”
He smiled. “People come in handy.”
“Do all these men work for you or something?” I asked without thinking.
“Or something,” he admitted.
We drove out to Paddy Horgan’s barn, just a few miles north of Blackbird Farm. The morning sun shone on his house, three pristine stable buildings, a large indoor ring and an outside exercise yard. White-painted fences surrounded pasture that rolled away from the buildings in undulating hillocks. From a paddock below the stables, a trio of fat mares swished their tails and watched our arrival. When we stopped, a Jack Russell terrier burst out from under a parked horse trailer and attacked the tires of the Corvette.
We got out of the car and could hear voices inside the indoor ring. I made a dash in that direction while Abruzzo sacrificed himself as a decoy for the dog.
Paddy Horgan stood in the center of the ring, breathing dust while riders cantered two enormous chestnut horses around an obstacle course of elaborate hurdles. The riders took turns leaping their lathered mounts over the impossibly tall jumps. The horses snorted with each stride and kicked up clouds of sawdust. The sharp. noise of hooves rapping on the rails occasionally rang out. Leaning on a cane, Paddy bellowed instructions. The riders grimly obeyed.
Paddy, a burly man with little patience and a lot of arrogance, came over and told me exactly what he’d said the day before about Emma. She hadn’t come to work, she hadn’t called. Then he waved his cane and chewed me out for making the police come to cross-examine him yesterday when he had work to do.
I snapped that maybe he could be a little helpful considering all the work Emma had done for him over the years, which sent him into a tirade.
Then Abruzzo loomed in the doorway, cradling the tamed terrier in one arm and rubbing her tummy. Paddy quit shouting and went back to work.
Abruzzo said, “Horgan has a lot of charm.”
“That doesn’t mean you can steal his dog.”
He sighed and put the Jack Russell on the ground. It raced us back to the car, where a motley crew of even more dogs had gathered, all with tongues lolling. A woolly black Newfoundland lay panting in a puddle, her swollen belly evidence that she had a litter of nursing puppies somewhere nearby. Two miscellaneous hounds and a Dalmatian joined the terrier in joyously chasing us down the driveway to the highway.
“Learn anything new?”
“Just that you like dogs.”
“Don’t you?”
“I love dogs. I just don’t want to own one.”
We didn’t get three miles down the road before a police car drew up behind us and flipped on its lights and siren.
Abruzzo glanced into the rearview mirror and cursed.
“What?” I asked, craning around. “Were you speeding?”
“Listen, this happens all the time. Just keep your hands out where they can see, and don’t get upset.”
“But—”
“Here’s my phone. If they take me for questions, call Reed. He’ll drive you where you need to go today.” He pulled over and shut off the car.
“Why would they arrest you?”
“They’re not arresting me. You’ve heard of the usual suspects? Well, I’m number one on their hit parade. The good news is this means they’re looking for Emma and Libby.”
“But you have nothing to do with that. This isn’t fair. Do you have a lawyer?”
He laughed at me, rolled down the window and placed his hands on the steering wheel.
The cop asked for his license, and Abruzzo said it was in his hip pocket before he moved to reach it. Another patrol car pulled in behind the first, and while the first cop spoke with Abruzzo, the second came to my side of the car and asked me to step out of the car. I did, and he asked if I was okay.
“Of course I’m okay. What’s going on here?”
A third patrol car pulled in front of the Corvette and suddenly the incident began to look like a capture on America’s Most Wanted. Red lights flashed. Police radios squawked.
“This is ridiculous,” I said. “You can’t do this!”
“Just step over here, Miss.”
Despite my protests
, they put him into a patrol car and took him away.
I phoned Tom Nelson, the lawyer in Philadelphia. He said he’d look into it, but he imagined Abruzzo had lawyers up the wazoo and didn’t need any further assistance. Besides, unless somebody filed charges, he’d be out by tomorrow.
To me, tomorrow sounded far away.
I made phone calls all afternoon. Lexie reported in, saying she was in touch with the Reese-Goldman museum. The local police wouldn’t discuss Abruzzo, but they finally reported the discovery of Emma’s truck and were officially declaring her missing. At last I got through to Detective Bloom, who said he wanted to see me.
“Why? Am I being arrested?”
“No,” he said patiently, having already endured my diatribe about false arrest, unlawful imprisonment, slipshod police work and the general state of law enforcement. “We just need more information from you. Are you coming into the city today?”
I told him about the rehearsal dinner for the Treese-Kintswell wedding. He said he’d meet me there before the dinner.
I dressed in another of Grandmama’s Saint Laurent masterpieces, an austere ice-blue sateen that balanced on my collarbones. My hands trembled as I fastened the small hooks. My missing sisters had never felt so far away.
Before Reed arrived to drive me, I sat in the quiet kitchen, closed my eyes and tried to arrange all the information that seemed to float inside my head like a hundred goldfish swimming in a too-small bowl. All the thoughts seemed random. I couldn’t make them organize. I could make them slow down if I concentrated. But I couldn’t quite manage to bring all the clues into a pattern.
I just needed a little more information for it all to make sense.
Reed picked me up and drove me to Shively House in Philadelphia.
The Shivelys had been a family who imported munitions during the Civil War, and their restored home was open for daylight tours and nighttime special events. A favorite place for Ralph Kintswell, who served on the board of the foundation, it was just the right size for a small dinner. He had rented the whole house and gardens to celebrate his son’s upcoming wedding, and Main Events was catering.
I arrived early, as agreed with Detective Bloom. He was waiting for me on the steps of the house, eating a hot dog like a kid at a baseball game. He wolfed the last bite and came down to the car, wiping his hand on a paper napkin. His black raincoat blew open in the light breeze.