by Nancy Martin
"Keep your distance," I ordered. "Or you'll regret it."
"You're sick!"
Any number of sarcastic comebacks occurred to me, but I managed to choke them down along with another rush of nausea.
Michael handed me a wad of unused paper napkins. They smelled distinctly of fried food, so I waved them off.
"I'm sorry," he said. "I shouldn't have told you about the chain saw."
I put one hand out to stop him from coming closer. "Keep your distance."
"I want to hold you," he said.
"Not at the moment you don't."
I took a deep breath and turned around to sit on the rear bumper. I sagged there, hands on my knees, waiting for my stomach to settle. When that didn't work, I straightened up and rested the back of my head on the cool metal of the van.
Michael stayed where he was. A shaft of light caught the edge of his cheekbone and melted across his breadth of his shoulders. I couldn't quite see his expression, but I tried.
"Is this working?" he said, genuinely asking. "Being apart like this?"
I knew what he meant.
"I'm with somebody else now," I said steadily. "And so are you. Let's just-—please, Michael, don't do this tonight. I want to go home."
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to make you sick."
"It wasn't—it's a bug, that's all."
"The flu?" He looked doubtful. "Emma says—"
"Since when did you start phoning Emma all the time, anyway? And do you think that's smart? You're paranoid about making phone calls, but you dial my sister's number at the drop of a hat?"
"Nora—"
"You and your stupid obsession with secrecy goes right out the window when you feel like gossiping with my sister?"
"You're worried about me and Emma?"
"I'm always worried about you and Emma. Not together, but yes, as you so insightfully pointed out, I worry about both of you. Is that so bizarre?"
"Are you okay?" he asked, squinting. "You sound—"
"Tired!" I cried.
"I was going to say nuts."
"I'll tell you what's nuts. You keeping nearly a million dollars in suitcases on my property!"
"Are we back to that?"
"Did we ever leave it?"
"Nora, you've known how I operate for a long time, and—"
"And it makes me crazy, yes," I snapped. "So how come I can't put you out of my head?"
"What?"
"I can't help it," I said. "I'm possessed or something. When I'm with you, I don't recognize the person I am."
"That doesn't sound good."
"It's terrifying! I like myself! I've been me all my life—until I met you. And now . . ."
"Now?"
For an awful second I realized I was going to cry. I didn't know what I was trying to say.
But then a flash of headlights suddenly swept over us as another vehicle pulled into the parking lot. We both froze until the driver gave a friendly horn toot. I recognized the truck and groaned. The evening was only getting worse.
"Em?" Michael asked.
My sister killed the headlights and got out of her truck. She was wearing a pair of spike-heeled patent leather boots that disappeared up into the folds of a ragged Burberry coat that had been our father's. I recognized the frayed pockets. The coat concealed everything else on her body except a snug black necklace around her throat. She managed to look stunning, while I could still taste vomit in the back of my throat. Great.
Michael wasn't surprised to see her. "Hey, Emma."
"Hey," she said.
"Is that your uniform under the coat?"
She strolled over with the gleam of mischief in her eye. "You want to see my Mistress of the Dungeon duds?"
"Of course." He was smiling. "I bet you look great."
The necklace wasn't a necklace, I finally realized, but a leather dog collar spiked with pointed silver studs.
Emma flicked it playfully. "You making fun of me?"
"Hell, no. I just want to know if you keep a defibrillator handy in case of heart attacks among the customers."
She strolled provocatively closer. "How about if I just pound your chest myself?"
He laughed. "Can you make it hurt really good?"
Emma reached through the open zipper of his jacket and gave his flannel shirt a friendly tug. "You like the kinky stuff, big guy? I haven't seen you in the Dungeon yet, but I bet you're quite the lady-killer."
"No indictments."
They were both grinning at each other.
I said, "If I wasn't sick already, I'd be throwing up right now."
Emma said, "She doesn't approve of my new employment."
"I wonder why."
Emma let go of his shirt and turned to me. "She likes to pretend she hasn't tiptoed over to the wild side herself now and then. Right, Sis? You spent your formative adolescence with Jill Mascione as your best friend. Tell me you didn't dabble with Sappho, the gay caterer."
Michael turned to me, intrigued. "Dabbling? How come you haven't told me about dabbling?"
"And you," Emma said to Michael, "I know the kinds of places you've been and can guess what you've done. It doesn't seem to have caused any harm. Shall we all confess our sins and see who blushes first?"
"Point taken." Michael put his hands into his pockets and looked contrite. "Your job is your business, Em."
"Let's not encourage my little sister to play with matches, shall we?" I said, not ready to give up yet. "She's going to get burned."
"I'm sure she's thought about why she's doing it," Michael said.
Emma narrowed her eyes on him. "Playing shrink?"
He shrugged.
I said, "You're doing everything possible to keep real relationships at a distance. But at least you're not drinking, so I guess we should count our blessings."
"Ouch." Emma laughed shortly. "What's wrong with her?"
Michael said, "I've been trying to find out."
"Did you two have some kind of fight?"
"I dunno. She's very touchy tonight."
They both looked at me, and Emma said, "Did you tell him anything interesting yet?"
"Only that I want to go home."
Michael said, "Rawlins and I figured Emma should take you back to the farm."
"In case the cops are waiting to nab the Love Machine there." Emma jerked her head at Michael. "Then I gotta punch the time clock, unless you puritans have further objections, so can we get going?"
"What are we waiting for?" I asked.
"I thought you might have something to tell Mick first."
"About playing Barbie dolls with Jill?"
Emma snorted. "That wasn't all of it, I'm sure. Jill had a crush on you from the time you put on a training bra. No, I meant—"
"I know what you meant," I said. "Are you blackmailing me?"
"I'm just thinking you and Mick might want—"
"No, thanks."
"What's going on?" Michael asked.
"Nothing," I said.
"Something," said Emma.
I staggered away from them. Unsteadily, I walked out into the middle of the highway and put out my thumb, fully prepared to hitchhike home rather than reveal anything before I was good and ready, no matter how much pressure from my sister.
"Hey," Emma called. "Chill. I'll take you home."
"I'll get there myself." I backed up the road with my thumb in the wind. "Unless you think I can't handle the federal investigators who are hiding under my porch with their headphones, wondering if I dabble with the kingpin of New Jersey's underworld."
"Future kingpin," Michael corrected. "I got a lot of concrete to pour before I move up."
"That's not funny, dammit!"
"Come back here," Emma yelled. "You're too hormonal to be out alone."
"Screw you!"
"See? Insanely hormonal. Wait up!"
"Nora," Michael called. He started to jog after me.
Fortunately, a large, somewhat rattletrap pickup truck came
around the bend and caught me in its headlights. I waved both hands over my head in the universal language of get-me-the-hell-out-of-here. It slowed down. The driver leaned over and rolled down the passenger window.
I was astonished to recognize the man behind the wheel. "Mr. Ledbetter?"
"Miss Blackbird?"
Our family handyman was equally surprised to find me in the middle of a road in the dark of night. Normally, he and I had our conversations in my kitchen, where he delivered bad news about house repairs.
"Nora—" Michael had almost caught up with me.
But I opened the passenger door of Mr. Ledbetter's truck and climbed in without bothering to ask. Mr. Ledbetter grasped the situation with complete clarity and accelerated even before I could wrestle the door closed.
"Nora!" Michael made a grab for the door handle.
But we left him in our dust as I fastened my seat belt and sat back to enjoy the ride home.
Chapter Ten
I grabbed a key from under a flowerpot to let myself into the house, then went directly upstairs to bed and didn't wake until nine the next morning. If Emma came back to the farm that night after her evening in the Dungeon, I never heard her.
Naturally, I spent the first hour fighting morning sickness, alternately retching or lying on the cool bathroom floor, wondering if it was too late for a sex change operation. Being a man never sounded so good. When I could finally manage it, I took a hot shower to soothe my aching muscles and to decide what to do next. At last, I dressed and staggered downstairs, still feeling wan, but determined to make some changes in my life.
On the kitchen table sat my handbag. Emma must have brought it home from Michael's vehicle.
I pulled my last Jiffy Pop from the pantry and while shaking it over the stove, I noticed Emma's truck sitting in the driveway. After munching a few handfuls of popcorn, I slipped on my jacket and went out onto the back porch. I spotted my sister in the paddock, working Mr. Twinkles on a lunge line. The huge chestnut snorted and bucked with every graceful stride, his high spirits in play. Emma effortlessly commanded him with the smallest twitch of the line. Watching, I thought that if she could handle a wild horse with such ease, she could probably handle just about anything that walked into her Dungeon.
On the top rail of the fence perched our six-year-old niece, Libby's daughter, Lucy. She clutched the fence with both hands, as if to keep herself from leaping off to join Emma in the paddock. Lucy caught sight of me and waved, her face pink with delight, her blond braids teased by the breeze.
I waved back. Then, when Emma turned to look, I stuck my tongue out, put my thumbs in my ears and waggled my fingers at her. She laughed and gave me a one-handed rude gesture behind Lucy's turned head, so all was forgiven.
The breeze smelled like spring—and a little bit of horse—and the sun felt warm and uplifting. In a few weeks I could start putting in bedding plants and thinning out my perennials. Next spring I'd have my own child. The thought made me throw my head back and laugh at the sky.
But celebratory digging in the garden would have to wait. With the bank's home inspector coming in just a matter of days, there were dozens of household projects that required my attention.
I had turned to go back into the house when a car arrived in my driveway, a snazzy station wagon with another little girl waving from the passenger window.
The driver got out first.
"Delilah!"
My friend went around to help her passenger unbuckle her seat belt and get out.
Then little Keesa Fairweather bounded across the lawn in her red rubber boots. "Nora! Hi!"
I gave Keesa a hug. She was leggy for a ten-year-old, with a curvy face that somehow emphasized her toothy smile as well as the shy shadow in her dark eyes.
"Delilah says I can pet the horse if he's not dangerous."
"He's not dangerous, but he's big, so be careful. That's my niece, Lucy. Go introduce yourself."
Keesa ran off.
After her, I called, "Don't let Lucy boss you around!"
Keesa laughed and kept running.
I turned to Delilah. Her hair, usually neatly crimped and tied up with ribbon, had nappy edges this morning, and she had neglected to put on lipstick or mascara. Her face looked washed-out and drawn. I gave her a hug.
"Thanks," she said, lacking her usual fire. "I hope you don't mind a visit from Keesa."
"You know I love Keesa. She's welcome anytime."
"You mean that?"
"Delilah, what's wrong?"
She shoved her hands into the pockets of her jacket and watched Keesa climb the paddock fence. "She's a nice kid. She's smart. She only deserves the best. And I haven't given her the best life, have I?"
Delilah had grown up in a tough section of the city until her mother and half a dozen aunts moved the family to a suburb, where they focused on education and church and music to keep Delilah and her siblings out of trouble. But despite their best efforts to protect Delilah, my friend had given birth to Keesa while still in high school. Instead of raising the child as her own, though, Delilah had qualified for scholarships that took her to college and launched a busy career that had her rubbing elbows with the top social echelons of the city. She left her baby behind to be raised by her own mother. Even now, I wasn't sure if Keesa knew who had given birth to her. Keesa and Delilah treated each other like sisters.
I said, "Keesa's wonderful, Delilah. You should be very proud of her."
"We are," Delilah agreed, but her lower lip quivered.
"Are you okay? I'm sorry we didn't get a chance to talk yesterday, but—"
She shook her head to stem my concern. "Don't worry about it. What are you doing? Am I interrupting?"
"I was just going to take an inventory of various household problems. An appraiser for the bank is coming, and I have lots of things to fix or disguise. There's a crack in my foundation, for instance. See? I need to find a way to hide it."
"Why don't you just fill the crack?"
"It's a big crack." I led her around the side of the house and pointed. "The Grand Canyon of cracks. I need a stonemason, and I can't afford one."
"Get a couple of mules, and you could lead tourists down that canyon." Delilah mustered a grin. "Honey, where I started out, we'd just pile up some old newspapers and junk."
I touched her arm. "Tell me what's wrong, Delilah."
We returned to the porch and sat on the steps, where we could see the children petting Mr. Twinkles's head and chattering together while Emma kept a firm grip on the horse's halter.
Delilah said, "My mama's sick, Nora. She's been feeling bad for a couple of months, but she was afraid to go to the doctor."
"Oh, no."
"She fought the breast cancer off a few years ago, remember? But now it's back."
"I'm so sorry, Delilah. Can I help?"
"Thing is," said my friend, "if she's sick, and I'm in trouble with the police, things are going to get bad."
Although I couldn't imagine anything worse, I reached for Delilah's hand. "What's wrong?"
"You know my sister Jasmine? You met her once a couple of years ago. The one with—well, the drug problem and a few other things."
I knew all about the trouble a drug-addicted family member could bring into a household. My husband, Todd, had nearly ruined more lives than his own before he was shot over a cocaine deal that went awry.
Delilah continued. "Because of Jasmine, Social Services visits Mama from time to time. And I'm afraid, Nora. If I'm in trouble and can't support my family, they could take Keesa. Social Services may take away my little girl."
"No! That's impossible!"
Delilah squeezed back tears. "Nora, I'm feeling like one of the brothers from my old neighborhood. Like the police aren't my friends anymore. Like I could be in a hell of a lot of trouble."
I put my arm around her shoulders. "Tell me what happened."
"Yesterday, the cops came to my office. They wanted to know all about my—my relationship with
Zell Orcutt."
"Relationship?" I asked. "Delilah, don't tell me you and Zell—"
She tried to laugh. "Girl, you better have more respect for me than that! I was way too old for that pervert anyway. He only liked teenyboppers."
"Sorry. You meant your business relationship with Zell."
"Right. The cops came to talk to me, and they spent the whole day asking questions. I had to send my assistant out for coffee and sandwiches. At my expense, by the way."
"What did the police want to know?"
"Where I was the day he was killed, what I was wearing, who I saw."
"Why do they suspect you? Because you argued with Zell the day he died?"
"That, yes, and—look, when I started my business, I didn't have a lot of assets."
Delilah had always been closemouthed about her business affairs, so her explanation came slowly. "I borrowed from a bank to get off the ground, but I needed more money. I met Zell at one of my parties, and we got to talking. He seemed normal—a jerk with a big mouth, maybe, but he was rich, and I figured I could trust him."
"So he became your partner?"
"He was supposed to be a silent partner. But a couple of months ago he started pushing for a cut of my business. I said I'd repay him the original loan, but he didn't want that. He wanted a percentage. Nora, I get by on a low percentage anyway, and I couldn't pay him what he wanted."
"So you argued with him."
She nodded. "It was nasty, I admit. But I didn't kill him."
"I know you didn't. And the police will figure it out, too. For one thing, you've never used a bow and arrow, have you?"
Her expression told me something different. "That's part of my problem. I was camp champ at Kittanaway Lake three years running. Which the police somehow found out."
"Sheesh," I said. "Those detectives sure walk the mean streets, huh?"
"I know," she said glumly. "Somebody drove all the way up to a nursing home in the Poconos to talk to my old summer-camp director. Thing is, Nora, I don't think the cops are looking at anybody else. You won't believe it, but they got a tip about me. Some nut phoned saying I was the one who shot that old man!"