by Nancy Martin
“Used.”
“Do I want to know anything about that?”
“It’s perfectly legal,” he said. “Tell me about the woman we’re going to see.”
“Pinky Pinkerton. She used to play doubles with my grandparents.”
“Doubles?”
“Tennis,” I said. I checked on Spike in my handbag and found him snoozing peacefully. “She had a serve that looked as if it had been fired from a bazooka. Pinky could play just about any sport, as a matter of fact. If she’d been born in another era, she’d probably have become a professional athlete. Her granddaughter is an up-and-coming pro golfer. Kerry Pinkerton. Have you heard of her?”
“Uh, we didn’t follow golf at the correctional institution.”
“Did you follow Cindie Rae’s career instead?”
He smiled at the road. “Probably. I don’t remember her.”
“You didn’t look at their faces?”
“She’s had a lot of work done on her face, hasn’t she?”
“And a few other places. She hardly looks human to me. Did you find her attractive?”
“Is there any way I’m going to come out good in this conversation?”
“Probably not.”
He patted my knee. “You’re the one who makes my temperature rise, sweetheart. Besides, she could be one of your suspects, right?”
“Technically, yes,” I said. “Pinky made threats against Popo, but not as vicious as the ones Cindie Rae made.”
“Would Cindie Rae have a motive to kill the shopping lady?”
“Only to get her hands on more merchandise, which seems a little flimsy. And why would she come to me for help if she was the one who murdered Popo? Or was she fishing for information?”
“I don’t think she’s on the short list for any Nobel prizes. Anyway, I still like the assistant.”
“We’ll find Darwin next. But first— Oh, turn here.”
“Here?” Michael peered up through the windshield at a set of iron gates pinned open to reveal a long, meandering driveway paved with cobblestones. “What is this? A monastery or something?”
“It’s the Pinkerton house. Careful. Pinky has a gazillion little dogs. If you hit one, you’ll have to move out of the country.”
Michael turned the car into the shady lane. “Is that a golf course?”
“Just three holes. It’s very pretty in the springtime.” I pointed. “See the barn? They used to keep Shetland ponies there. My cousin Brophy and Pinky’s son Kelpy were best friends, and Brophy brought me here a few times.”
“Why can’t you people have normal names?”
“Like Big Frankie and Monty Python? Or Johnny the Cap and—”
“Okay, okay. Which way?”
We had come to a fork in the driveway. I indicated a left turn, and we arrived a moment later at a wide curve of cobblestones in front of a tall house fashioned after a Norman abbey. A stone statue of a medieval pilgrim stood by the front door, his hands outstretched to accept a tithe or to hold the reins of a visitor’s horse.
I rang the bell and heard it echo inside the vast house.
A chorus of barking convinced us the doorbell had been heard. A minute later the door was opened by a wizened man wearing an apron printed with KISS THE COOK. Half a dozen little pug dogs swarmed around the dusty bedroom slippers on his feet, panting and barking in hoarse hysteria. Their agitation whipped up a distinctly doggie smell. Bunton, the Pinkertons’ aged butler, bore the pandemonium with Zen-like calm. I always suspected he was partially deaf.
“Hello, Bunton,” I shouted over the ruckus. “I’m Nora Blackbird, here to see Pinky. Is she at home?”
Bunton gave Michael a slow blink, then stepped aside and waved us indoors.
As we stepped across the threshold, Spike heard the call of his brethren and poked his head out of my Balenciaga bag. Michael prevented bloodshed by scooping Spike out of the bag and pinning the puppy in the crook of his elbow.
Making no effort to make himself heard over the yelping pugs, Bunton turned and scuffed down a long, black-and-white checkerboard marble corridor lined with faded tapestries and some very ugly Victorian furniture. As Michael and I followed, I noticed the ball-and-claw feet of the chairs and tables had been chewed almost to oblivion.
We passed a faded dining room with a crusty chandelier and a library with few books and dozens of sporting trophies, until we finally arrived in a large solarium at the back of the house. Bunton opened the beveled glass doors.
Lined with tall windows and packed with too many yellow sofas, the solarium had obviously been decorated by an interior designer who planned the whole room around the vivid yellow dress on the woman depicted in a life-size portrait over the mantel. She was a leggy brunette swinging a golf club—Pinky in her youth. The painter had captured the tensile strength in her lean yellow-clad body, and the decorator drew attention to it by his color choices in the room. Now the furniture was faded, but the yellow dress in the portrait shone as brightly as the day it was painted.
It had been a lovely room at one time, but today the place looked worn and smelled strongly of dogs.
Bunton paused in the doorway. “Miss Nora Blackbird, ma’am, and friend.”
The pugs pushed past Bunton and raced into the solarium. They leaped onto the lemon-yellow furniture, snarling and yapping at each other for the best seats in the house.
Pinky Pinkerton sat in state in the middle of one of the yellow sofas with a lap desk across her knees. Two more ancient pugs flanked her, snuggled up to her legs and snoring wheezily. As we stepped into the room, Pinky dropped an ice pack down into the cushions of the sofa.
“Good God.” She waved us off. “Bunton, show them out immediately. I’m not to be disturbed this afternoon.”
Perhaps the cacophony of barking prevented him from hearing correctly, because Bunton muttered something inaudible and departed back the way we’d come.
I took my cue from Bunton and walked across the solarium, pretending I didn’t hear her command. “Hello, Pinky,” I said cheerily. “Sorry to bother you today!”
“I’m busy.” She indicated the piles of paperwork.
“My goodness, what a mess.” I knelt on the carpet and picked up some of the paper scattered there. Bills, I noted with a quick glance. From a hotel chain, a sporting-goods store, and a suburban boutique. On the lap desk lay a pair of scissors, and I realized Pinky was cutting coupons from the newspaper.
I put the bills back onto her little desk. “Here you go, Pinky. You’ve got quite a project going here. Can I help in any way?”
“Of course not. I can manage quite well.” To prove her mettle, Pinky picked up her scissors and brandished them. But her grip faltered, and she bobbled the scissors.
Still on the floor, I picked them up for her. “You’ve hurt your wrist, Pinky.”
“It’s nothing,” she snapped, covering her bruised hand and wrist with the sheaf of bills. “I’ve had worse injuries. It’s just a bump.”
“Here’s your ice pack.” I passed her the pack, then sat on the plush sofa opposite her.
Brusquely, Pinky accepted the cold bundle. “Young man, what are you doing over there?”
Michael had strolled to a library table that displayed three golf trophies—all of them deep silver bowls etched with a woman driving a golf ball into the distance. Absently, he stroked Spike’s head to keep him quiet. “This is a lot of hardware.”
“Yes, it is. Don’t get any fingerprints on them.”
“Did you win all these?”
“Of course not. Can’t you read the dates? Those belong to my granddaughter. This year she’ll start winning the big tournaments. You mark my words.”
“She must take after you.” Michael tipped his head toward the portrait above the mantel. “Can she beat you yet?”
“Certainly she can. Kerry’s much better than I ever was. Of course, I taught her a few things.”
He sauntered back to us. “I bet you still teach her things.”
Pinky bit back a small smile. “Maybe I do,” she said. “Come over here.”
Michael obeyed, standing above her and rocking back on his heels as he held Spike captive in one arm. “Close enough?”
She put on her glasses and gave him a long appraisal that ended with his face. “Maybe too close,” she said at last. “You’re nothing to write home about, are you?”
“You’re not so hot yourself anymore.”
She took off her glasses again. “You look as if you could swing a club, though. Do you play?”
“Golf?” He shook his head. “The closest I get to a country club is . . . well, nothing you want to hear about.”
She snorted. “You think I don’t know what men do outside the gates when they have to cover their side bets? Is that what you do? Finance weakness?”
With a shrug, he said, “I do a little of this, a little of that.”
“Hmph. Well, I can see you’ve got good red blood in your veins, none of this thin blue stuff.” She pointed her scissors in my direction. “What are you doing here, may I ask?”
He nodded at me. “I go where she says.”
Pinky seemed to relax. She shifted her fierce gaze to me. “All right, Miss Blackbird. If he isn’t here to collect a debt, I can guess what brings you to my doorstep. But I’ll tell you right up front—I’m not going to spill anything to the police that didn’t really happen.”
“I wouldn’t dream of asking you to do that, Pinky. Have you spoken with the police?”
“Of course. They were here first thing this morning. Woke up Kerry, in fact.” Pinky’s fingertips slipped to the bruise on her wrist. “She’s in training and needs her sleep. So I told them what happened, and they left in good order.”
“I wonder if you’d mind telling me what happened last night?” I asked. “After you left Popo’s salon, I mean. Did you see her in the store?”
Pinky eyed me with suspicion. “Why do you want to know? Are you helping that milquetoast, Alan Rutledge? I hear he got himself arrested.”
“I don’t think he killed Popo. Do you?”
“I doubt it. That boy was under his mama’s thumb too long to have enough gumption to hurt a fly. He’s not much of a man, is he?” She couldn’t help glancing up at Michael as he sauntered over to the tall windows with Spike.
I said, “If Alan didn’t kill Popo, the real killer is still on the loose. And from what happened in Popo’s salon last night, I’m guessing she was murdered by someone who was there. I heard some very ugly talk.”
Pinky’s fierce gaze sharpened. “Are you accusing me?”
“No. But I wonder if you know something about Darwin, something that maybe you didn’t tell the police.”
“Popo’s assistant? That little mole with the pointy nose?” Pinky bristled. “I only know him as Popo’s gatekeeper.”
“I couldn’t help noticing that you . . . well, you tried to give him some cash.”
“A Christmas gratuity,” she said quickly. “I’m as generous as possible during the holidays, especially to service people.”
“But he reacted as if you were trying to bribe him.”
“I did no such thing!” Pinky moved with such agitation that her lap desk overturned and landed on top of one of the sleeping pugs. He snarled, but subsided when Pinky put her hand soothingly on his back. More calmly, she said, “It was a tip, that’s all. Can I help it if he refused? He’s been in trouble at that store, so he’s probably playing it safe.”
“Do you know about his trouble?”
“Only gossip, which you don’t expect me to repeat, I’m sure.”
“Of course not.”
“He nearly lost his job before,” Pinky said promptly. “He was in hot water over some missing merchandise. Even Popo suspected he was the culprit.”
“Did you hear that from Popo herself?”
She looked uneasy. “I don’t remember. But Popo disliked her assistant. I believe she was trying to get him fired.”
“How do you know that?”
Before Pinky had time to respond, we were interrupted by the arrival of Kerry Pinkerton, a tall, powerfully built young woman with none of her grandmother’s natural physical grace, but plenty of brute strength showing in her shoulders.
She strode into the room without noticing me. “Where the hell is Bunton?” she demanded. “He was supposed to have my towels ready when—”
“Hello.” I stood up. “You must be Kerry. I’m Nora Blackbird. What a pleasure to meet you.”
I moved to shake her hand, but Kerry skidded to a stop several yards away. Dressed in damp running clothes, she had pulled her dark hair back into a no-nonsense ponytail to exercise. Her face, suntanned and shining with perspiration, had a stormy set to the jaw and brow, but I saw her throw a mental switch that engaged her professional expression instantly—a bland smile, a superior tilt to her nose, no light in her hazel-eyed gaze.
“Hello,” she said coolly, keeping her distance. “I hope you don’t mind if I skip the handshake. I have to keep my grip healthy for the tour.”
“Of course. Congratulations on your success. Your grandmother tells me you’re going to be a big winner this year.”
Kerry walked closer, hands on hips, her athletic stride long-legged and loose. Her running shoes were caked with wet crumbs of dirt, as if she’d been jogging on the grounds of the estate. Ignoring the carpet, she came close enough to loom over her grandmother. “Really?” Her voice had an edge. “What else have you been saying about me, Gramma?”
Pinky’s upright posture seemed to shrink before my eyes. Instinctively, her left hand moved to cover the bruise on her wrist again.
I said, “Your grandmother is very proud of you. Justifiably so. Are you going to any tournaments soon?”
“Not soon enough.” Belatedly, Kerry tried to make the words into a joke by smiling coldly. “I’m supposed to leave day after tomorrow to start training. Last night my coach gave me a farewell party. What are you doing here, if you don’t mind my asking? I’m a little protective of Gramma, you see. She’s getting old, and people take advantage of her sometimes.”
“I came to talk about last night. I was at the store with Pinky, too, and—”
“Oh, were you the one who got my handbag?”
“No, I—”
“Because the cops say it disappeared.”
“Disappeared?” I frowned. “Darwin was going to take it to the store safe last night. He told me—”
“Obviously he didn’t make it,” Kerry snapped. “Because I phoned this morning. He said the bag disappeared. Maybe he was lying, though. Everybody’s conspiring to keep that bag away from me.”
“Kerry, honey—”
“Quiet, Gramma. If you had gotten the bag for me last night like you were supposed to, maybe that shopping lady would still be alive. Did you think of that?”
Pinky looked down at her lap. “No, I—”
“So shut up.” Irritated, Kerry lifted her hand to adjust her ponytail.
Pinky flinched, as if ready to dodge a blow.
In Michael’s arm, Spike snarled. Michael came out of the shadow cast by the curtains at last. He’d stood so still that Kerry hadn’t noticed him before, but when he stepped into the light, she moved away from her grandmother instinctively.
“This is Michael Abruzzo,” I said.
Kerry opened her mouth to speak, then reconsidered. Michael said nothing.
Pinky broke the short silence. “What kind of dog is that?” she asked. “He’s not very attractive, is he? I prefer a pug to any other kind of dog. They have such human expressions, don’t you think?” She gathered up one of the sleeping dogs beside her and lifted the animal to her own face. She made kissing sounds before chattering on. “My wonderful little pugs—sometimes I think they’re my old friends, reincarnated. This one, doesn’t he look like my own father?”
Kerry sighed. “I never knew your father, Gramma. You’re losing your marbles. Am I going to have to hire someone
to look after you? So you don’t keep making stupid mistakes? I’d hate to see you lose all your money because you can’t take care of yourself.”
Pinky didn’t answer. She petted her dog and didn’t look at Kerry.
Chapter 6
In the car, Michael said, “That little bitch deserves a spanking.”
I hugged myself to stop shivering. “She abuses her grandmother.”
Michael nodded. “I think she beats the shit out of the old lady on a regular basis.”
He let the engine idle while we looked at the Pinkerton house and imagined what might be happening inside at that very minute.
I said, “Pinky pays Kerry’s bills. I saw the receipts. Last month somebody spent over three thousand dollars at a boutique I know. I’m sure Pinky doesn’t wear shoes from that particular store, so it must be Kerry. And the hotel bills are near golf courses in Florida.”
“Yet Gramma cuts grocery coupons to keep herself in food.”
“And the house hasn’t been updated in years. I wonder what it costs to finance a career in professional golf?”
“I’ll bet it’s not pocket change.” Michael’s white-knuckled fist rested on the steering wheel.
“Pinky isn’t as helpless as Kerry pretends she is.”
“She’s a tough old bird,” Michael agreed. “But the kid has her spooked.”
“Besides forcing her to pay bills, I wonder what else Kerry might be pushing Pinky to do. Pinky was obviously more desperate to acquire the handbag for Kerry than I’d first thought. If she returned home empty-handed, maybe she risked a beating from her granddaughter.”
Michael tapped his fist lightly on the wheel. “I’m going back inside.”
I reached for his arm to keep him in the car. “They’ll have you arrested,” I said. “And that doesn’t help anyone.”
“It’ll help me feel better.”
“A confrontation may escalate things at this point. There’s a better way. I’ll call a friend of Pinky’s right now and have her come over immediately. And when Kerry leaves day after tomorrow, I’ll come back and talk to Pinky alone. She needs an ally before she goes to the authorities.”
Michael glared out the windshield at the house.