Dead Girls Don't Wear Diamonds

by Nancy Martin

  Flan let the tears roll down his face. Then he dropped his head forward on the steering wheel and wept. Rain spattered on the windshield, and the wipers gave a silent swipe to clean it.

  I pulled up the parking brake and put my arm across his big shoulders. I murmured nonsense to him, but mostly just let him cry. Eventually, I dug a handkerchief out of my jacket pocket. I tried to press it into his hand, but he pushed it away and turned towards me. He gathered me up into a hug and sobbed into my hair. I held him, too, cramped in the front seat of the car but willing to do anything to help my old friend feel better.

  Except he started kissing me. First my hair, then my face. Then his boozy mouth found mine and soon I had to wedge both hands against his chest.

  "Flan—"

  I pushed. He was strong and resisted me. But he was also drunk and didn't have much determination. I shoved harder and he sat back at last.

  The shove seemed to sober him up. Running one hand down his face, he said, "I don't know what I'm doing."

  "It's okay," I said, trying to catch my breath.

  "She wanted to be like you, Nora."

  "Flan, I don't understand that."

  He rubbed his face with the palm of his hand. "It was crazy. I didn't see what was happening at first."

  "When did it start?"

  "I'm not sure. She got this idea in her head that I still had a thing for you. And I do, Nora, but not like she thought. You're a friend. I married her, for godsake, and didn't look back. But she talked about you a lot—especially after your husband died. Wanting me to compare the two of you. Which one was more attractive, which one was better in bed—"

  "You don't need to tell me," I said. "But why did she feel this way?"

  He wagged his head. "I don't know. Her family is some kind of minor royalty down South. They were born on some famous street, and it makes them important. When she came up North, all that didn't matter. People here don't care about anyone else's history. She used to fume about not getting the same treatment she did in Charleston."

  "But she married into your family."

  "That wasn't good enough for her. The Coopers aren't real Old Money, not like your family. Then Laura and I started having money trouble and—and, okay, maybe I mentioned how you were coping with being broke. Wearing the old clothes and watching your pennies. That's when she dyed her hair and started to dress like you. Except she kept buying more clothes that looked like yours. Our credit-card bills are worse than ever. We were really just hanging on until she took control of her trust fund next year."

  I said, "What happened the night she died? After the party?"

  Flan tried to focus. "Most of the guests left before eleven. The Red Barons had planned a dinner that night, so they all went down to the airstrip around midnight. I didn't go, but I thought Laura tagged along."

  With Yale Bailey, I thought to myself.

  Flan continued. "The whole compound quieted down after the planes took off. I went to bed. I drink too much. I know that. I woke up when I had to go to the bathroom. I went across the hall to see her— to apologize, I swear. She wasn't in her room, so I went looking for her." He removed the lid from the empty cup and looked morosely inside. Voice lower, he said, "It's only a matter of time, you know. They're going to come after me."

  "Who?"

  "The FBI. The cops." He laughed uncertainly. "It's always the husband. Don't you know that? Once my dad's nomination goes through, the cops are going to dig into Laura's death. It won't stay a suicide. And then they're going to arrest me."

  "They'd have to prove you hurt her. They'll have to find a motive/and they'll need evidence." I could see arguing with him wasn't going to help. He was depressed and drunk, and in no mood to be reasoned with.

  He shook his head slowly. "I need help, Nora. I thought maybe I could soften you up. Make you think about what we had back in college. A couple of kisses, you know, and maybe you'd help me. You figured out who killed Rory Pendergast. Maybe you can do the same for me."

  Part of me still loved Flan. I didn't need kissing to remind me of the young man who had captured my heart many years ago. My first love. The one who made my breath catch when I caught sight of him, the one who could make me ache with love and newfound sexual longing. The one who helped me grow up.

  I could picture him that night, contritely going across the hall to make peace with his wife. With me, he'd been more sensitive than he'd let on to the world, and I knew he must have loved Laura with all his big heart.

  "You don't need to play games with me, Flan. I'll do everything I can to help. But you have to meet me halfway." I shook his forearm gently. "You have to help yourself."

  "I can do that," he said. "I'll do whatever you tell me to do."

  He trusted me. With that trust came responsibility. "Let's get you sobered up first," I said. "Do you have a phone?"

  He pulled a cell phone off his belt and handed it to me. I flipped it open, but the battery was dead. Typical. It was my observation that cell phones never worked at crucial moments.

  I said, "You'll have to drive us into town. It's just a couple more miles, Flan. Be careful. We'll find a phone and figure out what to do next."

  Obediently, Flan drove his Jaguar along the Delaware to Lambertville. He didn't slog into any more puddles or crash into any cars, trees or postal boxes. The rain had stopped, but the road was still wet. My heart was in my throat the whole trip. I wanted only to get him out from behind the wheel and in front of a large cup of coffee as soon as possible.

  But the car reached the town limit and ran out of gas.

  We had just enough momentum to coast down North Main. We were within fifteen yards of the gas station when the car finally drifted to a stop in the middle of the street.

  Directly in front of Michael Abruzzo's garage.

  "Hell," Flan said, pleased to find himself staring at the gas station. "What better place to run out of gas? My luck is changing already."

  I wasn't so sure.

  Flan blew the car horn.

  At the sound, a tall figure came out of the dark garage, wiping his hands on an oily rag. He squinted into the car. It was Michael, looking like a pirate king or a very tall rock star. He had his hair tied back with a bandanna and some kind of wrench slung through a loop on his stained overalls. He saw me and ambled over to see what the trouble was.

  I got out of the car and intercepted him. "I'm sorry about this."

  Considering we had argued just two days ago, I felt ridiculous coming to him for help. But I had no choice.

  He must have seen the urgency in my face because he said only, "What's up?"

  "I'm with a friend," I said quickly, aware that Flan was fumbling with his seat belt and trying to get out of the car. "He's drunk and shouldn't be driving. The car ran out of gas, thank heaven, but I don't want him to drive again until he's sober."

  "No problem. This is a Jag," Michael pointed out. "I'm sure we can find something wrong with it."

  Flan got out of the car and reeled around the hood. "Hey, buddy," he said with a tone that bespoke a lifetime of being obeyed. "Give us a hand, huh? How about pushing this baby over to the pump?"

  "Sure," said Michael, but he didn't move. Already, a cadre of his employees had wandered out of the garage to see what was going on. One spat on the asphalt. The rest of them carried tools and looked like mercenaries readying to pillage a car dealership. I was startled to see my nephew Rawlins among them. On a school day, no less.

  Michael glanced over his shoulder and communicated some silent code, so the gang came over to push Flan's car out of the middle of the street. Avoiding my eye, Rawlins opened the driver-side door and reached in to steer.

  Flan called, "Hey, kid, watch out for the upholstery."

  Then he put his arm around me and stood back to watch his car. His arm felt like a three-hundred-pound weight on my shoulders.

  Michael went on cleaning his hands. "Not a great day for a drive in the country. Looks like you got into some mud.
Why don't you go get some lunch and we'll clean up the car?"

  "Great idea," I said. "I'm starving. What do you say, Flan?"

  Flan shrugged. "Okay. I gotta take a leak first."

  Michael pointed around the side of the garage.

  Flan let me go and headed for the rest room.

  Michael said, "When he gets back, you going to introduce me to Prince Charming?"

  "It's not what you think. His wife just died."

  "The same woman we talked about on Saturday?"

  "The very one."

  Michael cocked an eyebrow at me. "Looks like he's getting over her pretty fast."

  "He's upset and he's drunk and he's—oh, never mind. I don't have to explain."

  "No, you don't," he agreed. "But you brought the asshole here."

  I didn't get angry, exactly, but I felt a zing in my blood pressure. "He's not an asshole. What is my nephew doing here on a school day, may I ask?"

  He smiled. "Vocational training."

  "You, of all people, should advocate the importance of a good education to a young person like Rawlins."

  "It's Columbus Day, Nora. No school. Give the kid a break. And me some credit."

  My face got hot. "I'm sorry. I don't know why I'm being—well, never mind. Can I use the phone? I'll call his brother."

  Out of his pocket, he handed me his cell phone. Then he sauntered over to the Jag and asked Rawlins to open the hood.

  Of course, Michael's phone worked perfectly. I dialed information, then connected with Chaz Cooper's home telephone line. A woman answered, not his wife, but perhaps a housekeeper. I started to leave a message with her, but she interrupted and suggested I reach Chaz on his cell phone. I dialed quickly, but Flan came out of the rest room just then. Michael called him over to the car.

  I spoke with Chaz Cooper at last, and he sounded relieved that his brother had turned up safe. He agreed to come for Flan as soon as he could humanly get there. I hung up in time to hear Flan shouting at Michael.

  "The car was running perfectly until you got your hands on it, and now it won't start? Who gave you permission to open the hood?"

  "I did, Flan." I hurried across the asphalt. "I'm sorry. I thought I heard a noise."

  "We'll have a look at it." Michael appeared not the least affected by Flan's red face and belligerent tone. "Go get some lunch. It'll be good as new when you get back."

  Flan muttered more abuse, but allowed me to drag him down the street to the Lambertville Station Restaurant where he ordered the alligator chili and a Coke. He ate a few bites, then turned dejected. Oddly enough, his change of mood made me feel better. At last he was starting to act like a man who had lost someone he loved.

  When we walked back to the gas station an hour later, I was relieved to see Chaz Cooper talking with Michael outside the garage, apparently discussing motorcycles.

  Flan was too dulled by his drinking to ask many questions, so Chaz and I bundled him into the other car.

  Chaz was the oldest of the Cooper boys, the one who had stepped up to run Cooper Aviation as their father drifted into the political arena. At a distance, he could pass for Flan—bulky through the chest and shoulders, fair-skinned and blond. But close up, Chaz had unmanicured nails and no dimple. He was the serious version of Flan. I knew he'd married the girl next door, Jennifer, a lawyer who mostly did pro bono work for families. They had three young children. Chaz often flew around the country on aviation business, meeting with shareholders, lawyers and customers but always making time to attend Little League games in the evenings.

  He was the least likely family member to hold Flan's behavior against him.

  "Thanks, Nora." Chaz took my hand and gave me a perfunctory kiss on the cheek. "I appreciate the call."

  "I'm glad to help, Chaz. I'm very fond of Flan."

  Even his smile was serious. "You always had a weakness for people in trouble. Instead of my brother, you ought to have a bunch of kids to look after now. Or are you on a career path these days?"

  Conscious of Michael beside me, I said lightly, "I hear it's possible to do both." Then, "Chaz, I'm so sorry about Laura. Is there anything I can do to help?"

  "You've helped plenty." He jerked his head to indicate Flan safely stowed in the car. "We're all sorry about what happened at the party, Nora. You and Flan, I mean, then Laura getting in on the act. He was paying her back, you know."

  "Paying her back?"

  Chaz glanced uneasily at Michael, not comfortable making a full disclosure without some privacy. "He interrupted her earlier in the evening. Caught her with someone. So he was retaliating, I guess. I'm sorry you got mixed up in it."

  I couldn't ask for more details. Chaz clearly wanted to let the subject drop. "Come on," he said, jerking his head toward his car. "Can we run you home?"

  "That's okay," I said, staying under the overhang of the garage. "I'll get a ride."

  Chaz's gaze flicked from me to Michael and back again with only the slightest twitch of an eyebrow. He nodded. "Okay. See you around." He put his hand out to Michael. "I'm Chaz Cooper. Maybe I'll come back and look at that bike when it's running."

  Michael took his handshake. "Mick Abruzzo. Come any time."

  Chaz had turned away before Michael's notorious name sank in, and I could see his step falter as he absorbed the information. Chaz glanced back at me, but his manners were too good for anything more.

  Flan was already asleep in the passenger seat when Chaz drove off. As we watched them depart, I said humbly, "Thank you, Michael."

  "No problem. We'll take Cooper's Jag down to his place later this afternoon." He put his shoulder against the doorway and leaned there to look down at me. "The brother is nicer than the asshole."

  "Yes, Chaz is very sweet."

  "Sounds like you had a pretty good time at their party."

  "Not really, no." I decided he didn't need to hear any more about the Coopers, so I went on the offensive. "Emma says your father is ill."

  "Yeah, I heard that."

  "You haven't seen him yet?"

  "Nope."

  Closed door.

  Clearly, Michael wasn't going to talk about his relatives. I'd read every scrap of newspaper coverage of the Abruzzo family and even dug into the Intelligencer archives to learn more. "Big Frankie" Abruzzo was a well-documented East Coast criminal who associated with a man commonly referred to as a "kingpin." After the kingpin went to prison for a stretch likely to last into his next few incarnations, Big Frankie branched into gambling and eventually became the focus of several racketeering investigations. Most recently, those investigations had resulted in the arrest of Michael's brother.

  Big Frankie's photos—those not snapped as he held a magazine over his face—made him look like a brawny lounge singer, not a mob boss.

  I said, "I telephoned you last night. I assumed you were at the hospital with—well, it doesn't matter."

  "I got your message," he said, giving no excuses. "You okay?"

  I glared at his buddies, who watched us from inside the garage, grinning as they ostensibly gathered around the pieces of a dismantled motorcycle. Doc, the heavyset bruiser with a greasy ponytail, sported a T-shirt that read drunk chicks think i'm hot.

  With all those men around, Michael didn't look lonely to me. But Emma had dropped a remark that had stuck with me. Was he lonely?

  "I'm fine," I said. "I heard about your father, that's all."

  "Okay." He dismissed that subject. "Reed says you talked with Detective Gloom yesterday."

  "Is that part of Reed's job now? Reporting back to you?"

  He held my gaze steadily. "I thought you didn't want to get mixed up in another murder investigation."

  "If Reed's job description now includes babysitting me, perhaps it's time to—"

  "He mentioned it in passing, that's all. His job description includes making sure you're safe."

  "I'm perfectly safe in the company of a police officer."

  "Depends on the officer," he shot back.

/>   "You would know." At once, I felt like an idiot. "Oh, for godsake, now you've got me talking like I've time warped back to junior high."

  "Maybe that's a good thing."

  "What's that supposed to mean?"

  "You could cut loose once in a while," he said. "Or is that what happened at your boyfriend's party?"

  We glared at each other. Pistols at forty paces sounded like a great idea to me.

  He collected himself first and said, "Do you need a ride home?"

  "Yes," I said shortly. "Please."

  "Okay, then. Rawlins! Take Nora home, will you?"

  He put me into my sister's minivan and slammed the door without another word.

  Chapter 8

  On Tuesday I came up with a plausible reason to telephone Tempeste Juarez.

  Upon hearing my proposal, she immediately invited me for tea that afternoon at the Cassatt Room in the Rittenhouse Hotel where she was staying in Philadelphia.

  I wore Grandmama's Diane von Furstenberg wrap dress and arrived at three, and I encountered a stampede of tourists fleeing the room. Behind them, the air was hazed with blue smoke that didn't smell like tobacco.

  "Miss Blackbird!" Tempeste bellowed, waving a champagne bottle. "We're back here, darling! Do join us!"

  Under normal circumstances, the Cassatt Room was a lovely, dignified oasis. The furniture was plush, the tablecloths immaculate. Tall windows overlooked a charming patio garden. The walls were painted with murals depicting the lush landscape of the Du Pont estate. Tall potted palms enveloped each table in a veil of quiet privacy.

  Today, however, there was no privacy.

  "Pull up a chair!" Tempeste roared.

  I stepped over the heap of shopping bags and empty bottles that littered the floor around her table. A waiter cowered a few yards away.

  Tempeste waved away smoke so she could get a better look at me. Her hair was covered by a sequined turban she must have copied from a Charles Addams cartoon. Embroidered on her flowing Chinese robe was a red dragon with a long orange tongue.