by Nancy Martin
“Oh, she’s dead, all right,” Vivian said, surprisingly blunt. “No sense pussyfooting around that. We have a suicide note.”
“Penny left a note?”
“She sent it by UPS. She said she planned to end it all. We gave it to the police months ago, but they didn’t believe it had come from Penny. Today’s discovery should end their doubts, don’t you think?”
“Well, I—Vivian, I’m terribly sorry.”
Vivian stroked the cat in her arms. “It’s for the best, I suppose. Penny was an unhappy person from a very early age. For years, our mother devoted herself to pleasing Penny, but she was never satisfied.”
A state trooper slogged up to Libby’s side of the minivan and bent to look inside at me. He was very tall, and his chin strap seemed barely large enough to contain his strong jaw. “Miss Blackbird? You’re free to go now. And thank you for your cooperation.”
Libby perked up as if someone had waved smelling salts under her nose.
“Don’t worry about my sister, Captain,” she said, hastily swallowing a mouthful of cookie. “I’ll look after her.”
“I’m perfectly capable of looking after myself—”
“I’m not really a captain, Miss—uh?”
“I’m Libby.” She dusted off some cookie crumbs and put out her hand at an angle that made it hard for the trooper to discern if he was meant to shake it or kiss it. My sister smiled brightly. “You have a very appealing aura. Has anyone ever told you that?”
While Libby made her next conquest, I threw off the blanket and climbed out of the minivan to stand with Vivian. Toby, the spaniel, crouched on the ground, watching us warily.
The smell of Vivian’s truck was even worse close by, and I tried not to look into the cargo bed. But the deer inside was definitely dead, and just a quick glance told me there might be more dead animals under the plastic tarp, too.
Vivian made no explanation, and she seemed impervious to the smell. Instead, she tenderly cradled the little cat.
I said, “I’m very sorry for your loss, Vivian. Penny will be terribly missed.”
“Not by anyone who spent more than five minutes in her presence.” Vivian rubbed the little cat’s head. The animal looked bleary-eyed and weak. “You know as well as I do, Nora, lamb, that my sister was no day at the beach.”
“She had an artist’s personality.”
“Be careful, young lady, or you’ll get yourself nominated for the eulogy.”
I smiled, too. “This memorial polo match was a good way to celebrate her life.”
“Well, it wasn’t my idea,” Vivian said. “My brother thought of it. Potty hates a funeral as much as I do. He’d rather be out shooting defenseless birds, but he insisted we needed to mark Penny’s passing. For her public, of course. Certainly not for ourselves. And I didn’t even plan to come down here today.”
I refrained from glancing at her clothing. Her jumper hardly seemed appropriate for a polo match or a funeral. “No?”
“Goodness, no. I saw the police cars and assumed some poor soul got a car stuck in the mud. I only wanted to make sure no one was hurt. Now that Penny’s dead, it doesn’t make much difference if I watch a polo match, does it? All I can think about is the poor horses. Polo is such an exhausting game for them.”
Vivian’s concern for the animals certainly exceeded her feelings for her sister, I noted.
I tried to remember what I knew about the three Devine siblings. Potty was the oldest, Vivian the middle child, and Penny had been the baby—the pretty one with all the spunk and sparkle her brother and sister lacked. If I remembered correctly, their mother had whisked Penny off to Hollywood, essentially abandoning her other two children to help make Penny’s movie career happen. I wondered if they harbored ill feelings toward their sister for capturing their mother’s attention so completely.
I looked past Vivian’s shoulder and spotted a police detective making his way toward us. He had already seen me, so there was no escape.
“Detective Bloom,” I said. “It’s been a long time.”
“Miss Blackbird. May I have a word? Excuse us,” he said curtly to Vivian, taking my arm.
There was no avoiding him, of course. His touch was familiar, and I knew that tone in his voice. Detective Benjamin Bloom and I had met nearly a year earlier when he investigated the murder of a dear friend of mine. At the time, both of us toyed with creating a more personal relationship, but that had ended abruptly in the fall. We hadn’t spoken for months.
As he propelled me around the back of Libby’s minivan, I said, “You should have let me introduce you. That was Vivian Devine.”
“I’ll get to her,” Bloom said. “But she didn’t find the body. You did.”
“I wasn’t alone at the time.”
“I heard,” he said shortly. “You’re still seeing that criminal?”
“Detective—”
“It’s none of my business, I know.” He stopped short and released my arm. “But I’m sworn to protect the public. That includes you.”
“I assume you were the one who had Michael arrested just now?”
“He’s not under arrest. He’s being questioned in this matter.”
“This matter has nothing to do with him, and you know it.”
Ben Bloom still looked like a teenager in a too-large black trench coat that hung on his lean frame like a crusader’s cape, which I had decided long ago was no accident. He was the kind of cop who liked to think he was a superhero. But his thick brown hair and soft brown eyes combined with a callow kind of awkwardness to give him the air of a kid on a first date rather than that of an experienced cop.
He checked his watch with purpose. “I’m sure Mick Abruzzo knows how to make a few hours fly by in a jail cell. Maybe it’ll give him time to think over his current situation.”
“Situation?” I asked.
“Hasn’t he told you? About the latest Abruzzo family feud?”
I knew things weren’t peaches and cream among the various branches of Michael’s family. But the dynamics of the Abruzzo clan had always been an off-limits topic between us. I relied on the newspapers to keep me upto-date. Lately, I knew the family was at odds over the shooting death of Michael’s uncle, Lou Pescara, by federal agents, not to mention the disappearance of Little Carmine Pescara. Little Carm was presumed dead by just about everyone, but I had seen him with my own eyes, happily ensconced in his own restaurant and Jet Ski rental business in the Caribbean. Thanks to Michael, the boy had been freed from life in a crime family.
Most of the family presumed Michael had killed Little Carm. Apparently, so did the police.
“You’ll get nothing out of me, Detective,” I said blandly. “Until I have a lawyer present.”
He shot me a look at last, exasperated. “You’re not a suspect, Nora. Whoever you found didn’t die of natural causes. This is no time for joking around.”
“I already told the officer what we saw. And I must admit I wasn’t very observant. I fainted, you know.”
“I heard.” He hesitated, then asked, “Are you okay now?”
“Yes, thank you.”
The air between us hummed with unspoken tension, and I found myself thinking of a kiss we’d shared in a moment of temporary insanity. I felt a blush rise to my face. “You look well, Ben.”
He gave me a closer inspection, also. “You look good, too, Nora. Very pretty.” He glanced from my suit to my boots, but refrained from remarking on them. “I know you told Officer Harding what you saw. But I hope you have more useful information to share.”
“Such as?”
“You know these people. Maybe you can help us understand what’s going on here today.”
“It’s a polo match for charity.”
“And some kind of memorial for a movie star,” he prodded. “A movie star who maybe isn’t dead yet.”
“You think the hand is Penny Devine’s?”
“We don’t know yet.” He sighed and rubbed his hair with one hand like a s
leepy kid trying to fix a bed head.. The crime scene’s completely contaminated. It’s going to take a lot of work to figure this one out. We’ll send the hand—the arm—whatever—to the coroner’s lab for testing. But already her brother’s kicking up a fuss. He’s demanding his sister’s remains immediately. He’s yelling at my superior right now.”
“You’re the police. You can do what you like, right?”
“Normally, we’d send the hand for tests and get results in a couple of days. But those egomaniacs in our local morgue are on some kind of a walkout.”
“Oh, heavens, I’d heard about that!” Various employees were on strike in some suburban communities, thanks to a political scandal.
“We don’t know when they’ll be back to work. So we have to count on the family for a preliminary identification.” Bloom swung around and took another look at Vivian, who was talking to Libby.. That’s the sister, you say? Is she as loco as her brother?. Think she’d be capable of making an ID?”
“She seems comfortable with the possibility that the hand is her sister’s.” I decided not to say more.
But Bloom caught a change in my tone, and he looked at me sharply.
“It’s a strange family,” I said. “A little eccentric.”
“No surprise there.” He shoved his hands into the pockets of his raincoat. “I haven’t met one of these Main Line dynasties yet that isn’t full of maniacs.”
“Vivian’s not a maniac.”
“You know that for a fact?”
“She’s—okay, I might as well tell you. They’re my mother’s cousins.”
His eyes widened. “You’re related to these people?”
“We haven’t been close, but I’ve known them all my life.”
“No shit. Did you know Penny?”
“A little. After she left town for the movie business, she returned only a few times. I remember she came to my grandfather Blackbird’s funeral. I know her siblings better.”
“What can you tell me about Vivian?”
“She’s Penny’s older sister. That’s her truck parked over there. The one that smells so awful.” When Bloom turned to look, I said, “Her brother, Potty, is an executive with the family pharmaceutical company. It’s the family trade.”
Bloom continued to squint at the disgusting truck. “What’s Vivian’s story?”
“She’s an animal lover. To be candid, I think she devoted herself to animals, not humans. She hasn’t had many friends, as far as I know, and she never married.”
“Any history of family squabbles?”
“Doesn’t every family squabble?”
“Not to the point of dismemberment.”
“Don’t start thinking one of her siblings killed Penny. That’s ridiculous.. They’re ancient.”
“I’ve got to start somewhere. Look, I’m going to need more info about your wacky relatives. Call me tonight.” He fumbled in his coat pockets and coolly handed over a card printed with various phone numbers. “We have a lot to talk about.”
Chapter Four
Libby drove me to Blackbird Farm, blathering the whole way. She talked about Penny Devine at length, even quoted some famous lines from Suffer the Storm until I stopped listening. I finally tuned in again when she said, “As if we don’t have enough troubles already, now we’ve got Emma to worry about!”
I forgot about the thoughts that tumbled around in my head, and finally tried to focus on Libby’s latest rant. “We have to worry about Em? She hasn’t been drinking. I thought she looked pretty good.”
“Of course she looks good! That’s what an active sex life can do for a woman! She’s walking proof of the benefits of estrogen surges.”
“So what’s the problem?”
“You heard her phone call! What is she doing?”
“Libby, I’m sure what we heard was nothing more than—”
“Than Emma making appointments to see men! Late at night! Alone! For money!”
“Calm down. Emma may have a healthy libido, but she wouldn’t do anything—well, tacky.”
“Oh, no?”
“No. Of course not. Look, don’t blow a simple phone call out of proportion. She was probably just joking.”
We arrived at the farm, and Libby left Lucy dozing in the backseat while she came inside to collect the rest of her family. With a great martyr’s intake of air, she gathered her courage and went down to the basement to tell the twins it was time to pack up their fetal pig and go home.
While Libby negotiated with her mad scientists, I talked to Rawlins for a few minutes in the kitchen. At seventeen, he had finally gotten through the long period of wearing black clothes and facial piercings. Now he could hold an intelligent conversation with an adult, if necessary. And he seemed surprisingly comfortable babysitting his infant brother, Maximus.
Maybe because of losing my own baby, I hadn’t bonded with Maximus as I had with my other nephews. Rawlins seemed uncannily aware of my reluctance to hold the baby, and he managed not to drop his little brother while dealing himself a hand of playing cards.
I fondled the sleeping baby’s hair. “How’s the poker coming?”
“I think I’m ready to play a hand. Want to try me?”
I gave my nephew a kiss on the cheek. “I’ll wait until you have some experience. When I clean out your bank account, I want to do it with a clear conscience. Are the twins under control?”
“I didn’t have to break out the straitjackets. They’re busy playing with their new pet. Only Harcourt and Hilton could love a dead animal, right? You okay? Mom called on her cell to tell me about Thing.”
“Thing?”
“You know, the hand.” He held his own hand up to show me and wiggled all his fingers. “Pretty gross, Aunt Nora.”
“Very gross.” I sat down at the table.
“Oh, and your editor called, too. Mr. Rosencrantz?”
“Stan Rosenstatz. What did he have to say?”
Rawlins screwed up his face to remember. “He wanted to know if you’d call the city desk. Something about contributing to a news story. Does that make sense?”
I nodded. Of course, the story of Penny Devine’s death was going to hit the media very big. The Philadelphia Intelligencer didn’t often have the inside track on breaking stories, but this time the reporters had an eyewitness to the whole thing—me. But I was also connected to the family, which made me hesitate. What were the journalistic rules in this case? Did I have to talk to my fellow reporters?
While Rawlins rocked the baby, I picked up the phone and called Stan to ask him.
“Of course you don’t have to answer their questions,” my editor said. “But I figured maybe you’d want to contribute to the story. You know, to give yourself a little career boost.”
Judging by Stan’s tone, I guessed my career in journalism was once again in need of such a boost. I’d been hired by the previous owner of the paper, and lately I was receiving more and more hints that the industry cutbacks might soon include me, too. Nobody’s job was safe anymore.
I thanked Stan and hung up, still not sure I wanted to talk to the press—even if it meant getting my byline on the front page. After I put the receiver down, I realized I should have asked Stan if there was a company policy about returning bribes. I had Potty’s envelope in my handbag.
Half a minute later, Libby rushed up the basement stairs, looking pale. “Harcourt and Hilton say they’re at a crucial moment in their dissection. They can’t possibly leave the pig right now.” She took a handkerchief from her purse and pressed it to her mouth. Then she said, “Honestly, I wonder if they were switched at birth.”
Rawlins said, “Only if the Dahmer family is missing someone.”
Libby gulped. “Nora, they want to know if your severed hand showed any signs of freezer burn.”
Although I should have been appalled, I found myself seriously contemplating the question. If the hand indeed belonged to Penny Devine, there was a good chance she’d been dead for nearly a year. And where
had the hand been for those months? I frowned, trying to remember some details of our grisly discovery. “I’m not sure. The flesh was wrinkled and—I guess kind of spotted.”
Rawlins grinned. “The twins are gonna love that information. What else? Any claw marks? Signs of werewolf attack? Maybe a few maggots?”
“Rawlins, please!” Libby gasped and dabbed her forehead. “You see what I have to put up with, Nora? Rawlins is bad enough, but the twins can hardly wait until summer. They’re going to forensic camp, you know. They’ve been promised a look at a human cadaver.”
Rawlins began to slide Max into his hooded sweatshirt. “I wonder if every well-meaning guy who donates his body to science really knows what he’s getting into. I wouldn’t want the monsters to get their grubby hands on me—even in death.”
I said, “Should I be worried about what they’re doing in my basement?”
Rawlins laughed. “Wait till you see what they cooked in your frying pan!”
Recovered, Libby stuffed her handkerchief away. “Really, Nora, you should enjoy having your nephews around a little more. They love you so dearly.”
“Forget it, Libby. Drive them home. I refuse to take them off your hands.”
“How about just until tomorrow night?” she wheedled, gathering the baby from Rawlins. “I need to get started on the wedding plans!”
I groaned. “Libby—”
“I have brilliant creative ideas bursting to get out of my head. You’ll thank me! Just keep the boys for the rest of the weekend.”
“Out of the question.”
“Okay, okay! I’ll come back first thing in the morning, I promise.” She fished out her car keys and edged for the door. “Come on, Rawlins. Nora, order a pizza for the twins, will you? They’re starving.”
“Better hurry,” Rawlins advised with a grin. “If the pizza doesn’t come in time, lock yourself someplace safe and call 911.”
I considered dragging Libby back inside by her hair and forcing her to take the twins with her. But she was remarkably quick for a woman who carried a few extra pounds. She beat me to the driveway by a good fifteen yards.