Slay Belles

by Nancy Martin

  He said, “We left things up in the air the other night.”

  “So you tracked me down for a rematch?”

  Mischief danced in his gaze. “I’m game. Hungry?”

  “No, thanks.” The idea of food made my stomach give a little roll. “How did you score dinner for yourself? The rest of the guests are only getting hors d’oeuvres.”

  “I dunno. Maybe the cook thought I’d stay out of trouble if my stomach was full.” He looked down at his bowl. “She made this just for me. It’s good stuff. White truffles. Sure you don’t want a taste?”

  I touched an unruly curl of his dark hair. “I’m sure.”

  In a different tone, he said, “Want to go home?”

  “Yes, please.”

  He got up, a tall, powerful body that radiated comfort and something much more magnetic. Touching the point of my chin, he said, “Let’s blow this joint.”

  “Why don’t you come inside and meet some of Lexie’s guests first?”

  “No,” he said.

  I slanted a glance up at him. “Are you afraid to meet my friends?”

  “Nope.”

  “Because they’re dying to meet you.”

  “I’m not going to scare the shit out of your aristocratic pals just for the entertainment value. Anyway, you need to get home, I think.”

  I carried his plate and silverware to the sink and spoke briefly to my friend Jill. Waiting by the back door, Michael drained the glass of red wine he’d been sipping and left it on the counter. We went out the door into the cold air. The harsh, damp smell of the river washed up to us as we walked around the side of the boathouse and past the long line of vehicles Lexie’s guests had parked in her driveway. There were German cars and Rovers, plus a Hummer and a Jag or two.

  Under a no-parking sign, Michael had angled one of his many muscle cars. This battered one looked ready for an Ozark stock-car track, with a low nose and a spoiler on the back. He saw me into the passenger seat before going around and getting in behind the wheel. Then he started the engine and thumbed the heater full blast before turning sideways toward me.

  He said, “You going to tell me what happened now?”

  “Is it that obvious?”

  “You look plenty shaken up. Who’s dead?”

  Chapter 4

  Later, at Blackbird Farm, after I’d told him everything and spent a couple of tumultuous hours reaffirming life, I once again heard Michael’s unique perspective on crime.

  With one shoulder propped against the headboard, he said, “It’s the assistant.”

  “You think Darwin killed Popo?” I filed my broken fingernails with an emery board while deciding if we were tired enough to sleep or had just reenergized ourselves for a long night. “Why?”

  “The twerp assistant has the best motive. He wanted her job. And he’s probably got access to the security system.”

  “But he didn’t have enough time. He locked me in the bathroom, and then— Wait, that’s why you want to see him arrested, right? Because he locked me up?”

  Michael grinned slowly. “If he’d hurt you, he’d be in a hell of a lot more trouble.”

  “From you? Tell me, Tarzan,” I said, dropping the emery board on the bedside table, “precisely how does your family exact revenge on the reckless fools who mess with your women?”

  “Is that what you are now? My woman?”

  “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” I said.

  “Nora—”

  “Let’s just be happy that you’re not in police custody at the moment, shall we?”

  Reminded of our recent argument, he rubbed his face as if to erase the events of the last several days. “They didn’t arrest me. It was the usual drill, a bunch of questions. The whole thing was blown out of proportion in the papers.”

  “Michael,” I said with mock solemnity, “please tell me you didn’t throw a dwarf.”

  “Monty’s not a dwarf. He may be altitude-challenged, but he’s technically not a dwarf. Anyway, he makes up for his size in orneriness. The crazy son of a bitch has been known to bite. And nobody likes a biter.”

  “The papers say his nickname is Monty Python.”

  “Yeah, well, you don’t want to know why. He’s liable to show you.”

  I had learned not to challenge Michael when it came to matters of taste. “So Monty once worked for the Abruzzo family?”

  “For a couple of years, yeah, he did collecting—you know, debts. He was very good at it. He could crawl through doggie doors when customers refused to let him inside.”

  “But now he’s going to testify against your father? Over the racketeering thing?”

  “He was lined up to testify. But he fell into a Dumpster and got a few bruises.” Michael shrugged. “A junkie snitch told a cop that I— Look, I wasn’t even in the same county at the time.”

  “Really?”

  “I was at a truck auction with a couple of hundred witnesses, so the cops let me go. Simple.”

  “Even I’m not naïve enough to believe it’s simple, Michael. Intimidating a person from testifying against your father’s organization is tampering with a witness. That’s a felony.”

  He shrugged. “The police claim he’s being coerced, but they can’t prove it.”

  “The papers say somebody stole property of Monty’s and is holding it hostage for his silence. What property might that be?”

  For a moment he considered not answering, then said, “An Elvis suit.”

  I blinked. “He likes Elvis?”

  “Monty’s very big into Elvis. He puts on a little white suit and jumps out of cakes as Elvis. It’s a good line of work when you’re a dwarf.”

  “You’ve seen him jump out of a cake dressed like Elvis?”

  “Only pictures. It’s mostly a girl thing.”

  “You mean he takes off the suit?”

  “Parts of it.”

  I debated whether to ask Michael if he knew who was currently in possession of the little Elvis jumpsuit and decided I didn’t want to know the answer. He watched me think it over and smiled.

  I said, “Just promise me you won’t get your picture taken with him, Elvis costume or not. You’re nearly two feet taller than Monty. The two of you will look like something in Ripley’s Believe It or Not.”

  Michael rolled over and pinned me to the pillows. Without his clothes, his body was lean and hard. He said, “I promise. You’re cold again. What do you have against central heating?”

  “It’s expensive.”

  I’d returned to my family’s drafty homestead when my parents gave me the deed to the family farm. I’d moved into the ramshackle mansion with a firm vow to keep the family legacy out of the hands of land developers, and ever since then I’d fought a hard economic battle. In addition to the estate, my parents handed over to me their delinquent tax bill, which amounted to an impossible two million dollars. After the shock wore off, I’d sold everything of value to organize a tax repayment plan, then gotten a job and drafted Lexie to help me find creative ways to pay the monthly bill. So far, I was keeping my head above water. But barely.

  Michael had been the first creative source of income. We’d met when he and a friend purchased five acres of my prime riverfront farmland. I’d received enough money to hang on to Blackbird Farm a little longer, and Michael had promptly built Mick’s Muscle Cars, a used-car lot that I could see from my bedroom window. Since our relationship had evolved, however, I didn’t feel right about accepting money from him. It felt too much like my old life.

  Michael said, “Why don’t you move over to my place for the winter? It’s not a palace, but at least we won’t be Popsicles by spring.”

  I traced the line of his collarbone with my fingertips and didn’t answer.

  He said, “Don’t be upset about Monty. This thing will blow over.”

  “And then what?”

  “I’m doing my best,” he said, already nibbling his way down my ribs one by one. “It takes a while for the tiger to— What did
you say before? To change his stripes?”

  “Michael . . .”

  “Hmm . . . ?”

  His mouth felt better and better, and I sighed. “Never mind.”

  Later, we slept tangled up in each other’s limbs, breathing in sync and perhaps dreaming together, too. Only once, when my subconscious mind began to churn with images of Popo’s death, did Michael nudge me awake.

  “You’re having a nightmare,” he murmured, half-asleep himself.

  I held him tighter and tried to forget about crime.

  In the morning, he dressed and went out to buy a newspaper while I showered. In my pajamas and with wet hair, I went downstairs and found coffee made and Michael reading the paper at the kitchen table. He read aloud while I puttered with oatmeal at the stove. Spike trundled his little cart around the kitchen, his front paws propelling him while his hindquarters healed from his accident. When the bell chimed in the front hall, Michael and I exchanged a look.

  “Expecting company?” he asked.

  “Not at this hour.”

  “Want me to get scarce?”

  I ruffled his hair. “No need.”

  Spike dragged his cart to the entry hall. When I hauled open the front door, I found a former Penthouse Pet on the porch.

  Cindie Rae Smith glared at the sagging doorjamb and the warped porch floor. “God, does this museum even have indoor plumbing?”

  “Hello, Cindie Rae,” I said. “Is it cookie season already?”

  Cindie Rae’s morning attire did not resemble a Girl Scout uniform. She wore a hilarious attempt at a business suit—pinstripes with a white blouse that actually bow-tied under her chin. But the jacket barely buttoned around her wasp waist, and her breasts threatened to explode from their prison any moment. The pants were tighter than the skin of a tomato, and she tottered precariously on very high heels. She had managed to stuff the hugeness of her blond hair into a Monica Lewinsky beret. No amount of Botox or plastic surgery on her face could have hidden the fact that she hadn’t slept much since I’d seen her the night before.

  “I need to talk to you,” she said.

  “I can guess what this is about, Cindie Rae, and I don’t think the police would be pleased to hear we tried to get our stories straight.”

  “I don’t care what your story is,” she snapped. “I need your help.”

  She pushed past me into the house. “Boy, that’s an ugly dog. Do I smell coffee?”

  She headed for the kitchen, hesitating only when she arrived in the butler’s pantry and couldn’t figure out which door to choose. I led the way into the kitchen. Spike followed Cindie Rae, ready to bite her if she made a wrong move.

  Michael lowered the newspaper and looked at Cindie Rae over the tops of his reading glasses.

  She stopped dead at the sight of him, too. “Oh, wow.”

  “Morning.”

  “You must be . . .” She simpered, awaiting a formal introduction.

  Briskly, I said, “Cindie Rae, this is Michael Abruzzo. Cindie Rae Smith.”

  Michael appeared not to notice the jiggle in her blouse or the camel toe in her pants. He picked up the newspaper and went back to reading. I suspected he was playing it safe.

  I could almost see the steam rising from Cindie Rae’s overtaxed brain as she desperately tried to figure the best way to engage Michael in a conversation that dealt with her area of expertise. Before she reached a decision, I poured her a cup of hot coffee and pushed it into her hands. “Here you go. Sit down.”

  “Thanks.” She took a tentative sip and eased her bottom into the chair opposite Michael’s. She leaned sideways to peer around his newspaper. “I, uh, hope I’m not interrupting.”

  “What’s on your mind, Cindie Rae?” I knocked my knuckles on the table to get her attention. “You said you needed my help.”

  From behind his paper, Michael shot me a grin.

  “Is it safe to have a discussion while . . . we’re not alone?”

  “Safe?” I said. “That depends on your definition, I guess. Why don’t you try, and we’ll see what happens?”

  Cindie Rae sighed. “I don’t have a choice, is that it? Well, surely you know all about last night. Popo dying, I mean.”

  “Popo’s murder, you mean.”

  “Right. Somebody said you locked yourself in the bathroom. I’d like to know what you saw before you ran in there.”

  “I didn’t run or lock myself anywhere, Cindie Rae. And I’ve already told the police what I heard and saw. If they want to know more, I’m sure they’ll ask.”

  “But . . .” She set down her coffee cup. “Okay, I’ll put my cards on the table. Early this morning, the police arrested Alan.”

  “Alan!” I sat down hard. “You’re kidding. For Popo’s murder?”

  “Yes, they say he’s the only one who could have turned off the electricity and the security systems. How silly is that? My little Pookums wasn’t in the store at all. There’s a tape that shows him leaving. And besides, why would he murder his best sales associate? The store is worthless without Popo.”

  “Who told you that?”

  “It’s what Alan says. Of course, he could have mentioned that teensy detail a little sooner!” She worked her oversize lower lip into a huge pout. “How was I supposed to know Popo was so damn valuable?”

  Michael put the paper down. “Exactly how valuable?”

  Perhaps annoyed that Michael hadn’t sufficiently noticed her yet, Cindie Rae unbuttoned her jacket to reveal her weapons of mass seduction. “Alan says other retail companies have offered to buy Haymaker’s, but only if Popo’s employment contract was renewed.”

  “And now that Popo is dead?” I prompted. “The store is less valuable?”

  “She sold a lot of shit,” Cindie Rae said. “Apparently, she was more important than I thought she was.”

  “So why did the police arrest Alan?” I asked.

  “Because there’s a tape. The same one that shows when he left the store. Earlier in the evening, Alan and Popo had a big fight. And it was caught on one of the security cameras.”

  “What kind of fight?”

  “A lot of yelling, that’s all I know.” Cindie Rae directed her answers to Michael, although I had been the one asking questions.

  I said, “I presume Alan has a lawyer?”

  “God, yes, the executive suite is crawling with them.”

  “Not a corporate lawyer, a criminal lawyer.”

  “Why would he want a criminal lawyer?” She dragged her attention away from Michael to frown at me. “Oh, I get it! You don’t mean a criminal who’s a lawyer, you mean—”

  “Cindie Rae, what exactly do you want from me?”

  Michael got up from the table and ambled over to the stove to stir the oatmeal. Cindie Rae watched him with a carnivorous expression. “Alan says you can figure out how that Pinkerton woman killed Popo.”

  “Pinky? That’s ridiculous.”

  Sensing I might turn her down, Cindie Rae focused the full force of her personality on me at last. “Alan says you’ll do it because you’re old friends. He says you can do a better job than the police. And you heard what she said last night.”

  “I’m sure Pinky never meant—”

  “She’s a menace! She shouldn’t be walking around. She killed both her husbands, didn’t she? She’s as bad as you Blackbirds.”

  We heard a clatter as Michael dropped the wooden spoon.

  I said, “Her husbands died of natural causes, Cindie Rae.”

  “That’s the official story, but she has friends in high places. She probably bought her way out of both of those murder charges. I saw it on re-runs of Stripperella once. Pamela Anderson figured it out. It shouldn’t be too hard for you.”

  “Miracles do happen.” I sighed. “I don’t know, Cindie Rae.”

  “You should ask around. You’re naturally nosy, right? And my Pookums seems to think you’re relatively smart.”

  “Thanks,” I said dryly. “But—”

 
“He said you’d help. He said you valued friendship very highly, and you’d prove Mrs. Pinkerton did it because you’re a nice person.”

  I stewed for a moment. I liked Alan, and I was sorry to hear he’d been arrested. Although I was reasonably sure Pinky hadn’t laid a finger on Popo, it wouldn’t hurt anyone to ask a few questions. And, frankly, I wanted to know who had locked me in the bathroom.

  I didn’t realize I was frowning.

  Michael said, “I know that expression.”

  “Oh,” said Cindie Rae brightly. “Have you seen my Web site?”

  Chapter 5

  While I dressed in a suit that had belonged to my grandmother—a woman of discerning fashion sense and a penchant for trips to Paris to indulge her taste—Michael rearranged his schedule for the afternoon. When I went downstairs, he told me he liked the Dior skirt.

  “I wish I’d had a chance to see the old girl wear these duds.” Michael touched my skirt, perhaps to better judge the tailoring, but I doubted it. “She must have been almost as easy on the eyes as you.”

  As he drove me over to the Main Line, the winter sun shone bright and warm through the windshield. Michael took the back roads out of Bucks County. Occasionally he interrupted our conversation to speak on his cell phone to various business associates. I couldn’t help thinking he had begun to sound like a mogul.

  When he disconnected for the last time, I said, “Are you starting another business?”

  Among his many concerns, Michael ran a used-car dealership, a motorcycle garage with an attached tattoo parlor, a fly-fishing outfitter, a limousine service, a grass-growing venture called the Marquis de Sod, and, of course, Gas ‘n’ Grub, a gas station that had blossomed into an enormously successful chain of gasoline and convenience stores. While I scraped every penny that came my way, Michael was suddenly swimming in money.

  He said, “I’m thinking of investing in automotive parts.”

  “Factory authorized?”