Dead Girls Don't Wear Diamonds

by Nancy Martin

  "But . . ." Emma prompted.

  "I could," I argued. "I could squeal on him."

  "But you'd rather cooperate and avoid opening a scandal, which makes perfect sense, knowing you."

  "Why does that sound insulting?"

  Emma shrugged and had another sip of her beer. "What does the boy detective think you can find out?"

  "Who else Laura stole from."

  "It'll be a long list."

  "It will be shorter if I can narrow it down to just the people who attended the Cooper party Friday night. Would it surprise you to hear Oliver might have paid people to keep quiet about Laura's stealing?"

  "Oliver's not exactly driven snow."

  "Firsthand experience?"

  She shook her head. "I don't do the Viagra set. But he cheated on Annabelle for years. I saw him with one of Mama's friends at the Devon Horse Show one year, in somebody's horse trailer."

  I pushed aside the mental picture before it sharpened in my mind. "Do you know anything about Sidney Gutnick?"

  "That pawn broker?"

  "He's not a pawnbroker. He buys and sells jewelry and silver."

  Emma shrugged. "Sounds like a pawnshop to me. I never met him. Why do you want to know?"

  "I figured he was a good place to start. People have bought and sold valuables through him for decades, and he's a gossip. But I left his place with more questions than I went in with. What about Tempeste Juarez? Do you know her?"

  Emma frowned. "She used to sashay around the polo fields when I played a few years back. She paid attention to the men, not to a kid like me. She had tons of jewelry, though. She a pal of Gutnick's?"

  "To hear him tell it, they're mortal enemies. But I'm not sure that's the truth."

  Emma finished her beer and put the empty can on top of a fence post. She didn't look drunk, but I had begun to worry about her need to have a six-pack within easy reach all the time. Her recent broken arm—and the leg she'd broken more than a year earlier in the car accident that had killed her husband, Jake—were still stiff, I knew. Her injuries caused her to lose the job she'd had with the top-notch professional Grand Prix trainer since she was sixteen. I wondered if she was using beer to deaden her pain. Not just her physical pain.

  "Listen," Emma said. "I'm not crazy about you helping your detective friend. If somebody got furious enough to kill Laura for stealing jewelry, they might get peeved if you start making accusations."

  "I won't accuse anyone."

  Our quiet voices must have calmed Mr. Twinkles because suddenly he gave a snort and came bolting out of the trailer as if fired from a howitzer. Emma dropped her end of the rope, and he went galloping past us and off into the unmowed paddock, kicking up dirt and hunks of weed in his wake. We turned and watched him rocket away from us in the falling darkness. He pivoted at the end of the enclosure and came cantering back, head up and nose to the wind. He looked magnificent.

  I said, "He's really something."

  "He's awfully stupid," Emma replied. "But I like 'em that way."

  "Think you can get him into the barn tonight?"

  "Hell, no," she said with a grin.

  "Want to stick around and order a pizza?"

  Emma's grin deepened into something more lascivious. "Can't. As soon as I figure a way to get my rope off that bad boy, I'm going home to take a shower."

  "With anyone I know?"

  As usual, Emma didn't divulge anything but the most basic details. "A rodeo guy I met at the horse auction. What about you? Mick stopping by later?"

  I avoided her eye. "Not that I know of."

  She let a loaded silence go by before suggesting, "Why don't you pick up the phone, Sis?"

  "No. I don't think that would be wise."

  "I don't get it," she said. "I was here the night he made risotto for you, remember? All that stirring and wine and butter and—hell, I left because the two of you were clearly headed for a three-day orgy. Next thing I know, you're alone again. What's the matter, for crying out loud?"

  "There is more to life than sex, Em."

  "Yeah, but sex is a good place to start. Plus, you care about him. It's so obvious."

  "Yes," I admitted.

  "And he cares about you."

  "I know."

  "So what's the problem? You waiting for a nice Amway salesman to come along, or you want the real deal? You're both lonely people who actually have the capacity to be happy if you'd just pick up the damn phone."

  "We scored low on the compatibility test, okay?"

  "Baloney," she said. "You don't want to give up on your marriage yet."

  "Sound familiar?" I asked, more nastily than I intended.

  Emma's face tightened. "I'm getting on with my life."

  "Picking up every man you meet on the street is not getting on with your life."

  "It puts me in charge. It's my way of controlling things."

  "Well, this is mine."

  She said, "I hear his father's in the hospital."

  I snapped to attention, and all the fight drained out of me. "What? When? How did you hear that?"

  "I stopped for gas in town. One of the guys who works there mentioned it."

  "What happened?"

  "Don't worry. He wasn't gunned down in a gangland shoot-out. I think it was a heart attack."

  "Is he—? Will he recover?"

  Emma shrugged again. "I don't know. You could call Mick and find out."

  I hurried inside and dialed Michael's various phone numbers. He didn't answer any of them, so I left a message on his cell voice mail. Then I went outside again. Emma had managed to corner her new horse long enough to get the rope back. We talked as she locked up the trailer. Then she waved and drove away.

  Back inside, I decided I had to get my mind off Michael's father, so I dialed the phone number of Annabelle Cooper.

  Annabelle picked up at once. Her voice, a smoker's deep rasp, sounded frightened. "Hello?"

  "Annabelle, it's Nora Blackbird."

  "Nora!" Relief flooded across the phone line. "I was afraid it was more bad news. How nice to hear from you. Are you checking up on Flan?"

  "Yes," I said, glad she knew me so well. "I figured you would know how he's doing. I don't want to bother him."

  "He's just awful," Annabelle said succinctly. "I went over to that ghastly house yesterday and again today, despite that dreadful Doe hinting I wasn't wanted. I needed to be with my son. He's a wreck, Nora. So upset."

  I could imagine Annabelle at that moment. She paced while on the phone, her slim, rangy figure probably dressed in sharply cut trousers and one of the boat-necked cashmere sweaters she favored. In black, to set off the silky white cap of her fine white hair. No doubt she was smoking, too, perhaps even lifting a cigarette from one of the packs she shared with her longtime cook, Margery. The two of them were closer than most sisters, bonded forever by their addiction, since it was ludicrous for a woman who was entirely uninterested in food to employ a cook.

  I said, "Is there anything I can do, Annabelle?"

  "Oh, you're so kind. You always felt the same way about Flan as I do. That he's special and needs protecting. But his brothers are standing by him right now, thank heaven, and so is Oliver, in his way. In a few weeks, though, Flan will need all his friends. When things quiet down."

  When things quieted down, Flan would be left alone with his own guilt and regret, I knew. Yes, he'd need people then. I'd never been so grateful for my family and friends as I was during the few months after Todd was killed. Now it was my turn to make a difference for someone I cared about.

  "And how are you?" I asked, knowing how Annabelle would throw herself into Flan's turmoil.

  "You're such a sweetheart. I'm bearing up." I could hear her sucking tobacco smoke as she trapped the telephone receiver against her shoulder and chin. "I wish I could shoulder some of Flan's pain. I'm going to bail him out of debt, for starters, no matter what Oliver says."

  I always had a hard time keeping up with Annabelle's fast and of
ten fuddled way of talking. "I'm sorry?"

  "Oh, you know Oliver. He gives those boys all the toys they can possibly want, then pulls the rug out from under them. Flan's never been cut out to help with the business the way Oliver wants him to. So naturally things went bad. Only now Oliver refuses to help. No wonder Flan's been so upset lately. He's going broke! That's one thing I can fix, isn't it?"

  Softly, I murmured, "I had no idea Flan was in trouble."

  Annabelle was in full mother mode. "Well, he'd never complain, would he? I only found out about it recently myself."

  Too curious to stop myself, I asked, "Was Laura upset about their financial situation?"

  "I haven't asked Flan that," Annabelle replied. "But she seemed clueless to me. Spending money recklessly. They've been limping along on his pittance of a salary and what little monthly interest her trust fund allows but then she started those silly house renovations. On a practically new home! Flan tried to put his foot down, but—well, I don't want Flan thinking Laura killed herself because he couldn't make ends meet until she takes control of her money next year."

  "Oh, God."

  "Exactly," Annabelle said. "Do you suppose your friend Lexie could help? Flan's such a fool with money, and he needs a good adviser."

  Lexie Paine was the best in the business, but I doubted she'd be interested in holding Flan's hand. She had bigger financial fish to fry. Noncommittal, I said, "You could mention her name to Flan."

  "I could just scream," Annabelle swept on. "Oliver can take full credit for Flan's money trouble, the son of a bitch."

  Her divorce wasn't fresh, but Annabelle was clearly still angry with the way her marriage had ended. Now her son's marriage was over even more tragically. I said, "Oh, Annabelle, you must be so distressed."

  "I am," she said, suddenly sounding weary. "My poor Flan."

  "Poor Laura," I said.

  "Oh, the hell with her," Annabelle snapped. "I hate what she's done to my son."

  I was surprised by her sentiment. But I recognized that Annabelle, blind to Flan's faults, would take his side in any situation. Was I doing the same thing?

  I heard the unmistakable click of call-waiting, and Annabelle did, too. She got rid of me quickly, but politely. "We get our strength from friends like you, though, Nora, dear. Thank you for calling."

  "If you think of something I can do, please phone."

  "I will, dear. Bye-bye."

  I spent the rest of the evening doing my laundry and licking stamps for the Big Sister/Little Sister invitations. But while my hands were busy, my heart ached for Flan. His life was a mess, and I knew he was suffering. I vowed to watch my feelings where he was concerned, though. I didn't want Annabelle's reflexive defense system to become mine, too. Flan did have faults. Maybe more than I wanted to acknowledge.

  My mind wandered back to Laura.

  She had been angry that she wasn't respected the way her family had been in Charleston. She had been badly utilized at work where her architectural skills had been ignored and her salesmanship of expensive "extras" caused her clients to belittle her. Her marriage was in trouble. Now I'd learned their financial circumstances were bad, too. And last but not least, she'd been seeing Yale Bailey, village tomcat.

  There was still the disturbing detail of her appearance, too. Why had she made herself look like me?

  My social calendar for Monday was completely empty, so I put on my hiking boots, grabbed an old ski jacket and set off walking to Frenchtown, the community across the river where I bought my groceries. If I cut across fields and hopped a fence, the trip was only a couple of miles. But on a soggy day, I chose to walk the longer route along the side of the road and hope passing motorists didn't turn me into roadkill. I felt I was safe enough from reckless drivers, wearing my bright pink jacket. I made the trip twice weekly and usually enjoyed the exercise. Even on a drizzly day, I figured I'd be back in time for lunch.

  Head down against the light rain and with my hands thrust into my jacket pockets, I thought about the Coopers again. I wondered if Laura's funeral would take place here or in Charleston.

  I reached the intersection, glanced up and down the highway and started to cross to the bridge. Suddenly a low black car whipped around the curve and blew past me—too close for comfort. I stepped back, startled that I hadn't heard it coming. The driver blew his horn before accelerating away.

  After I crossed the road and started across the bridge, the black car returned. I heard it come from behind me and saw it slow down. I braced myself for a confrontation when the driver lowered his window.

  "Hey, Nora," he said. "You got a death wish?"

  It was Flan Cooper. Smiling.

  I stared at him. "What are you doing here?"

  "Out for a drive. C'mon." He looked and sounded remarkably amiable. "Let me give you a lift."

  Hardly the grieving husband. I hurried around the back of his Jaguar and got into the passenger seat. It was the largest Jag built, very luxurious with leather seats and a cozy, cockpit feeling. But I smelled booze immediately.

  He leaned over and kissed my cheek. "Hey."

  I saw an oversized plastic coffee cup nestled between his legs and my heart skipped. "What are you doing?" I asked. "It's still morning."

  He sat back, smiling blearily at me. "That's the first thing on your mind?"

  "Of course it isn't." I was contrite. "Flan, I'm so shocked about Laura. Are you all right?"

  "I'm plastered."

  Another vehicle came up behind us and tooted. He glanced into the rearview mirror and put his foot on the accelerator. We crossed the bridge into Frenchtown, New Jersey. Driving left-handed, Flan reached for the plastic cup with his right hand and drank from it without taking his eyes off the road. Was he too drunk to drive? At the moment he seemed to be taking extra care.

  I said, "Flan, you should go home. Be with your family."

  He sent me another half grin. "I got in the car to get away from them."

  "Why?"

  "I just needed to get away. And I ended up coming here. Subconsciously, I must have come looking for you." He sent me another loose smile. "You were always good for me, Nora. How come we broke up?"

  The liquor had made him woozy. Or was he faking it? Pretending he was drunker than he truly was? I wondered how long he'd been driving. Since breakfast? I steeled myself to see past his act. "We broke up for lots of reasons, Flan, and you know it. Let's go back to my house. We can call someone—"

  "You're living at the old farm now, right?"

  "Yes, and it's only—"

  "How does that work?" he asked. "With you not driving? I always thought you'd live in the city."

  "It's a challenge." I glanced nervously ahead as Flan guided the car around a sharp turn and headed out of town, going south. "Fortunately, I can walk to Frenchtown, and my sisters don't mind taking me places. And the newspaper hired a driver for me for work. Why don't we go back to Blackbird Farm? I'll make you some coffee."

  He shook his head. "I don't need coffee. I'll be okay. It's just—it's been a hell of a couple of days." In a different voice, he said, "I can't believe she's gone."

  "I'm so sorry, Flan."

  "They won't even—we can't have the funeral yet. They're keeping her somewhere."

  For an autopsy, I assumed.

  "They say maybe they'll release her this afternoon. Meanwhile, we have the FBI crawling up our asses twenty-four, seven." He slurped from his cup again, and the car wobbled on the rain-slick road. "You know what? A package came for her this morning. She ordered a dress from a catalog on Friday.

  I saw the pain contract in Flan's face. He didn't try to hide it, and I felt a flood of nearly forgotten emotion for him. Flan rarely let the world see behind the laughing mask he usually wore, the mask his father had doubtless helped him create in the misguided WASP male belief that strong men kept their true feelings hidden. I'd seen behind the mask, though. I remembered an afternoon long ago when a bunch of noisy and yes, perhaps arrogant college s
tudents played softball in a park. Flan had been the one who saw we'd commandeered a field the local kids used when the disappointed youngsters discovered us on their turf. He drafted them onto his team and rejoiced when they hit hobbling ground balls that eluded outfielders. I'd fallen hard for him that afternoon. A sensitive man lurked behind the loudmouth, I decided. And today I could see that sensitive man needed my compassion.

  "Ordering a dress. Does that sound like the act of a suicidal woman?"

  "No, it doesn't," I said softly.

  "And her quarterly trust fund payment came today, too. But she's not here to sign the check. It's pocket change, but it would sure help with . . ."

  I touched him. "I heard you found her, Flan. I'm so sorry."

  "Yeah," he said. "At the bottom of the goddamn pool."

  "Wasn't the pool closed for the winter?"

  He nodded. "I put the cover on it myself two weeks ago. When I went down there, I saw right away somebody had unfastened the cover. That's why I turned on the lights. And there she was, in the deep end with that thing tied around her feet. I dove in to get her out, but she was dead by then."

  "Watch the road. Flan."

  "Listen," he said, suddenly intense. He looked at me with bloodshot eyes. "Everybody says she killed herself, but that's just nuts."

  "What happened after the party?"

  He worked to gather his thoughts. "We had another fight."

  "Did you—? Did it get physical between you and Laura?"

  "No," he said at once. Then, "Well, maybe I grabbed her too hard. She could really push my buttons. I never hit her, though. I know what everybody thought. The black eye—she got that on a construction site, she said. But I wondered. I was really mad at her that night." His voice cracked. "You were there. You remember. I was mad. But not— I didn't want her dead!"

  I put my hand on his arm, and he began to cry. The car meandered into the opposite lane into the path of an oncoming car, but Flan had enough wits to pull the wheel back. The other driver blew his horn long and loud. At last Flan pulled off the road. We hit a rock, then a huge puddle. The car slowed to a crawl and finally stopped in a sea of roadside mud.