by Nancy Martin
“I’ll find some.” I went into the pantry and found a tin of tea Libby had brought during the throes of one of her dubious health kicks. “How does Green Zest sound?”
“Is it organic?”
I tried to read the fine print and discovered the package was printed in Sanskrit. A naked man in a yoga pose looked ecstatic. “I don’t know. But I’m guessing it promotes happy dreams or an active sex life—maybe both. You can’t go wrong, can you?”
Henry Fineman was transfixed by the baby and didn’t absorb my attempt at humor. “M-Miss Blackbird, I’ve done a few jobs for M-Mick, and I thought I knew him fairly well. If you don’t m-mind m-me asking, is this infant, is he…?”
I interpreted his blush. “No, this one’s not Michael’s child. This is my sister Libby’s youngest. He’s Maximus.”
“I’m not very familiar with children. How old is this specimen?”
“Eight months. Do you think you could recite the periodic table to him?”
Henry looked startled. “What for?”
I sighed. “He’s studying for the SAT exam. The tea is coming right up. There’s the computer on the table.”
Henry sat down at the table and opened his bag. Judging by his constant fiddling with his eyeglasses, he was uncomfortable being watched, so I got busy at the stove. By the time I filled the kettle and put it on to boil, he had unpacked his own computer and a variety of discs, cables and small tools. Maximus watched his every move, fascinated. Occasionally, Henry gave the baby an uneasy glance.
“So, Henry,” I said. “Do you work on computers for Michael?”
“A little, yes.”
“I didn’t realize he used computers.”
Henry peered over his glasses at me. “Everyone uses computers, M-Miss Blackbird. M-Mick simply has different needs than m-most.”
“Oh?”
“Databases for the m-muscle car business, accounting programs for Gas N Grub, some inventory software for the fly-fishing store. I’m really not at liberty to say m-more, of course.”
“Right. The code of silence, is that it?”
“I’m told I should think of it as professional discretion.”
“Especially when it comes to family business?”
Henry studied me for a long moment, perhaps trying to decide if I was giving him a quiz. Slowly, he said, “Correct.”
“Makes sense. I mean, it’s best if the right hand never knows what the left hand is doing, right?”
Henry looked solemn. “That’s one way of putting it, I suppose.”
I couldn’t help noticing that Henry’s social skills—although better than those of most of the characters who hung around Michael’s various businesses—weren’t exactly going to land him a job in any legitimate company. He frowned intently at the screen of my laptop. His concentration was broken only when Maximus yelled the occasional, “Da!”
Within a few minutes, Henry began swapping discs in and out of the hard drive. He certainly looked as if he knew what he was doing.
When I placed a cup of tea at his elbow, he asked, “Do you have your cell phone handy, M-Miss Blackbird?”
“What does my cell phone have to do with my computer?”
He blinked. “Aren’t you fully synced?”
“I don’t even know what that means. Do you really need my phone?”
“It would help.”
I surrendered my cell phone, hoping I was putting my trust in the right person. His hands were so quick on the keyboard that I couldn’t keep up with what he was doing. Was he playing a version of three-card monte? He picked up his mug of tea and sipped it while intently watching the computer screen.
The house phone rang, so I picked it up.
“Nora?” Crewe’s voice sounded tense when I answered. “Have you heard from Lexie yet today?”
“I was hoping you had, Crewe.”
“She’s still with the police, dammit.”
“She’s not alone. Michael sent his lawyers.”
“Well, that’s good news. I’ve tried to see her, but the police have stalled me. I’ll try again in an hour or so. I want to be the one to take her home.”
I took the phone into the scullery so I wouldn’t be overheard. “Crewe,” I said, “I’ve been thinking about who could have killed Hoyt Cavendish.”
“Me, too. Especially the gnome.”
“Elf,” I corrected. “Chad Zanzibar.”
“Right, him. Remember how he came barging into the restaurant yesterday? Before we knew Cavendish was dead?”
“He behaved very oddly,” I said.
“And I don’t think he was acting.”
“Behaving suspiciously might be a family trait. I saw his grandmother yesterday, too, after Hoyt died. She was hysterical one minute, then giving me makeup tips the next. She disappeared before the police could question her.”
“Interesting.”
“And something else is bothering me, Crewe.”
“Let me guess. Tierney Cavendish.”
“Exactly. He must have gone directly from the restaurant to Lexie’s office. But why was he running down the staircase after his father died? I assumed he was rushing to help, but now I wonder if he was trying to escape the police.”
“Did the cops even know he was there?”
“Surely someone saw him and said so.”
The two of us were silent, considering our own thoughts.
Crewe spoke first. “Nora, did you know Hoyt very well?”
“Not at all, really.”
“Me neither. He kept to himself most of his life. Until he started donating to various causes.”
“Yes, then suddenly he was everywhere. Giving money away as if he couldn’t do it fast enough.”
“There was always something…strange about him, too. Do you feel that way?”
“He couldn’t help the way he looked.” Hoyt’s small size, his penguinlike gait, his weak voice.
“No, I guess not,” Crewe said, sounding as if he wanted to say more, but wasn’t sure how to put his thoughts into words.
I said, “I have to come into the city, Crewe. There’s a charity event I need to cover this afternoon. Afterwards I was thinking of paying a call on someone who might be able to give me some information about the Cavendish family. Can we get together to talk about this?”
“Unless Lexie needs me, absolutely. I have to be at the Chocolate Festival at six to try catching Jacque Petite for an interview. Why don’t you meet me there?”
Having a plan made my spirits rise. “Information about a murder, plus chocolate. My kind of party.”
He laughed shortly. “Okay, good. At the convention center, six o’clock.”
I hung up the phone just as my father came into the kitchen. He wore a pink and lime green flowered sarong and a pair of beaded moccasins. Bare-chested, he had tied another ascot around his neck.
“Good morning, Muffin!” he sang. “It’s a beautiful morning for tai chi on the grass, don’t you think? Will you join me? Your mother and Oscar are busy creating a guest list for a little soiree, so I—good heavens, who’s this?”
Henry Fineman looked up from the computer and adjusted his eyeglasses. “I’m Henry Fineman, sir.”
“Harry!” My father shook his hand with enthusiasm.
“That’s Henry, Daddy. This is my father—”
“A pleasure to meet you!” Daddy cried. “Are you a tai chi man, I wonder?”
“No, sir, I’m not. I have a bad back.”
“Never mind, I’m delighted to meet you anyway! Nora hasn’t breathed a word about you yet, but I was sure it was only a matter of time before she landed a responsible man to support her.”
“Daddy—”
“Her mother and I are very pleased to welcome you in the family, young man. And I’m sure we’d love to toss a small celebration in your honor.”
“Uh—”
“Oh, don’t worry about legal details. We Blackbirds are very open-minded. If you choose not to formalize your
relationship, that’s all right by me. As long as you both communicate your expectations honestly.”
“Actually, sir—”
“I’m sure you make Nora very happy. All our girls can be tempestuous, of course, but it’s my experience that if you keep your lady contented happy in her boudoir, if you catch my drift—”
“Daddy, Henry is not my boyfriend.”
“No?”
“No,” Henry said firmly.
My father frowned. “Why not?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Isn’t my daughter attractive to you?”
“No—I m-mean, yes, she’s perfectly attractive, but I—”
“You don’t like girls?”
“I—”
“Not that your sexual orientation matters to me,” my father said. “In fact, I’d welcome an honest discussion of the homosexual experience. I believe in seeking knowledge, young man.”
Henry flushed a startling shade of red. “I am not a homosexual. Not that there’s anything wrong with homosexuals. I’m just not one.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes,” Henry said.
My father looked unconvinced.
“Daddy, would you like some tea?”
“Yes, please. As long as it’s organic.”
The phone rang again. An interruption was almost a relief. I picked up and took the receiver into the scullery so I couldn’t hear my father further embarrass Henry Fineman.
“Hello?”
“Nora?”
I couldn’t place the male voice on the other end of the line. “Yes?”
“It’s me. Chad Zanzibar. I hope you don’t mind me phoning so early. Listen, I’ve got another call waiting for me—a director—but I need a favor.”
“From me?”
“Yeah, I hear you are connected.”
“Connected?”
Chad’s voice sounded muffled, as if he was cupping one hand against the receiver. “Connected with the mob. I’m doing research for the role I told you about. I’m playing an underworld mook. I’m hoping you can hook me up.”
“With a mook? What is that, exactly?”
“I need to shadow a mobster. You know, absorb his mannerisms, get a feel for the character, maybe come up with some stage business. Can you introduce me? To Big Frankie’s son. I hear he’s the real thing and you’re his squeeze.”
I resisted the urge to scream. Even Hollywood elves knew about my love life. “I don’t think that would be a good idea, Scooter.”
“Chad. Hey, I can handle myself. It’ll be cool, I swear.”
“I’m sure you’re always—uhm—cool, but—”
“How about setting up a meet with Abruzzo? Tell him it’s me. He’ll want to see a movie star.”
I remembered Michael’s blank look when I’d mentioned Chad Zanzibar. I felt positive he wouldn’t take a “meet” with an elf. “Actually, he’s not much of a movie patron.”
Chad laughed as if I had made a hilarious joke. “Yeah, right. Listen, just give me his number, and I’ll call him myself.”
In the kitchen, Maximus let out a wail, so I said hastily, “Sorry, Chad, but I’ve got to run.”
“But—”
I hung up the phone and hurried into the kitchen, where my father was determinedly disengaging the binky from the baby’s clenched fist. Maximus had a stubborn set to his jaw and murderous rage in his steely gaze.
“Daddy?”
“A child should be allowed to explore his creativity early, Muffin. By providing him with commonplace toys, you will lull his mind into monotony—you limit the many ways he can expand his horizons.”
Maximus angrily pounded his tray with both hands, splashing mashed banana in all directions.
Daddy smiled broadly, even as a squishy hunk of banana hit him square in the ascot. “See? Already he’s expanding.”
Henry shielded my computer screen from flying banana. “I have to agree, M-Miss Blackbird. I’ve read studies. M-many innovative thinkers have sprung from children raised in primitive circumstances where the necessity to survive triggered very creative thinking.”
“Okay, I surrender.” I could see Max’s temper tantrum losing momentum as he discovered the pleasures of his first food fight. The gleam in his eye grew demonic. “Daddy, would you mind stepping into the garden with me? We can pick some berries for your breakfast.”
“Muffin, you know I’m allergic to strawberries.”
“A little father-daughter bonding time, then?”
“Do we need to bond?”
Henry said, “Sir, I think she’d like to discuss something with you in private.”
“Exactly,” I said. “Henry, you don’t mind keeping an eye on the baby for a few minutes, do you?”
“Uh—well—”
I grabbed my father by his ascot and dragged him outdoors.
Chapter Nine
We went down the porch steps and across the lawn with Toby in hot pursuit, barking. Around us, the garden looked more glorious than it ever had since I had taken possession of Blackbird Farm. Peonies bowed their thick heads of fragrant flowers, and a blue jay swooped around the bird feeder that Michael had helped me put into place in the spring. My bachelor’s buttons were blooming, and the bank of white loosestrife looked ready to burst into flower any minute.
But I wanted to knock my exasperating father down into the flower bed and pack his ears with potting soil.
Dragging Daddy, I shoved through the newly repaired garden gate to the strawberry patch, which I had lovingly spread with straw a few weeks back. A flock of blackbirds flapped up from between the strawberry plants as we approached. But even after their thievery, there were still plenty of berries to pick.
Daddy recoiled from the plants. “You don’t expect me to work, do you?”
I spun around and cocked my fists on my hips. “I expect you to tell me the truth, that’s all.”
“Truth?”
“Yes, about why you’re here and what happened yesterday at Lexie’s office.”
“Muffin, I already told you, didn’t I? The government has promised to release your mother and me from our tax problems if we cooperate in the investigation of Hoyt Cavendish.”
“What investigation?”
As if I hadn’t been paying attention all along, he said patiently, “Into his misconduct with client investments, of course.”
“You mean Hoyt mismanaged your money?”
“Muffin, why do you imagine your mother and I went broke so fast? We certainly wouldn’t have run through all the Blackbird money without a little help, could we?”
“You mean—?” An absurd bubble of hope rose in my chest. “Hoyt stole from us?”
“Yes, Muffin, he did.” Daddy took my hand and patted it. “I’m sorry if that shocks you, but it’s the God’s honest truth. And I’m doing my level best to restore some of our lost fortune.”
“You—? You think you might be able to get your money back?”
“I’m doing my level best, Muffin, yes.”
“How? If he’s dead—”
“We’re exploring all the possibilities.”
Far from being shocked, I found myself suddenly, enormously, gloriously elated. After two years of struggling to make ends meet, could there be the merest flicker of light at the end of my very dark tunnel? All I needed was a measly two million dollars to pay off the back taxes and maybe a few extra hundred thousand to prevent the house from falling into a heap of rubble.
But immediately, I tried to squelch the relief dawning inside me.
I said, “Can you prove it? That Hoyt embezzled your money?”
Daddy’s face glowed. “Are you kidding? I have documents out the wazoo! Statements that show all the detail anyone needs to put Cavendish behind bars. If he were alive, that is.”
I withdrew my hand from my father’s earnest grip. “Now that he’s dead, though?”
“Well, yes, there’s that complication,” Daddy admitted. “Not to mention I might
have misspoken when I was in the presence of some law enforcement officials.”
“What do you mean? What did you say? To whom?”
“It was an emotional moment.” He turned to admire the flower garden. “I might have been feeling a tad melodramatic at the Treasury Department. Surely nobody took me seriously. What lovely perennials! What variety is that flower?”
“It’s called bleeding heart. See? The flowers are shaped like hearts and they—wait a minute. Don’t try to distract me. What exactly did you say to the Treasury Department?”
He tugged uneasily at the knot on his sarong. “I might have mentioned that I—well, that your mother and I were upset that Hoyt mishandled our investments.”
“How upset?”
My father looked pained. “I might have been annoyed enough to—well, to wish him harm.”
“You threatened Hoyt? In front of federal officials?”
He blew a deep, regretful breath. “Oh, all right, I might have said I’d like to kill him for putting your dear mother through so much unnecessary misery.”
“You threatened to kill him. And now he’s dead. And you’ve run away from the police during his murder investigation.”
“It seemed prudent. You don’t think they’ll come looking for us here, do you? I hate spoiling your mother’s pleasure at being in the loving arms of her adoring family again.”
For an instant, I wondered if my head might explode. “I don’t know, Daddy. They might.”
As a child, I had adored my father and his ability to generate excitement wherever he went. He had a gift for conjuring fun out of nothing. At home, we played endless pretend games, trying on new identities and playacting for hours. He was our director, our incorrigible playmate, the captain of our pirate ship. His flights of fancy sparked our imaginations. At the beach, he presided over midnight treasure hunts that culminated in bonfires. We roasted marshmallows and gobbled them while he regaled us with stories of adventure and romance.
One warm afternoon at Blackbird Farm, we lay on our backs in the grass and named passing clouds after Greek gods and Hanna-Barbera cartoon characters. For years, I watched the skies for the return of Poseidon and Fred Flintstone, clouds my father declared were my very own possessions. I still scanned the skies for familiar shapes—perhaps to remind myself of those carefree afternoons with my imaginative and loving father.