by Nancy Martin
He smoothed my hair away from my face. “What did Bloom say when you told him about the tigers?”
“Actually, I—I didn’t tell him.”
“Why not?”
“Because he dropped the contract-on-your-life bombshell, and even tigers slipped my mind. I’ll tell him tomorrow.”
“Tell him tonight.”
“Michael, there’s been a development in the Penny Devine murder.”
He nodded. “The autopsy was today, right?”
“They’re not sure about the exact cause of death yet, but there was definitely a gunshot wound. Through the hand.”
“Defensive wound,” Michael said, demonstrating by raising both hands, palms out. “She put her hands up to deflect the bullet. It’s an instinct. Poor old lady.”
“Actually,” I said, “it seems the hand we found didn’t belong to Penny after all.”
That surprised him. “Whose was it?”
“The police don’t know. They’re sending it off to be tested for drugs and whatnot. I suppose DNA, too. But get this. The hand belonged to a man.”
“The guy who disappeared from the estate?” Michael guessed. “The gardener?”
“Kell Huckabee. It makes sense, doesn’t it?”
Michael raised a skeptical brow. “He had a pretty fancy manicure for a gardener. Somebody wanted to disguise him, maybe? Then they planted the hand at the polo match, hoping everyone would assume it belonged to Penny.”
“That’s what I figure, too.”
“So unless a complete stranger came along and dropped the hand on their grass, the Devines have some explaining to do.”
“Yes. And perhaps the most important question…,” I said.
“Is, where the hell is Penny Devine?”
“Exactly. If it’s Kell who’s dead, and Potty and Vivian concocted the suicide note and planted the wristwatch…is Penny actually alive?”
We thought about things together for a moment. I wasn’t sure where Michael’s mind went, but I found myself thinking about Crewe. I didn’t want him to be involved in the whole mess, but I couldn’t help thinking he was connected.
Michael reached for my hand. “You look scared again. The police are going to solve this, Nora. You don’t have to worry about it anymore.”
I tried to wipe my face clean. He needed to get well, and stewing about Crewe or Ben Bloom’s revitalized interest in stopping the Abruzzo family would only keep him agitated. I said, “I’m sorry.”
He pulled until I was folded against his chest. “Hey, be happy. The good news is that there’s no Blackbird curse.”
I smiled, arms around him and my ear tuned to the steady thump of his heart. “You sure about that?”
“Fairly sure.”
In the trash can, his cell phone chirped.
“Let me guess,” I said. “It’s not your stockbroker calling.”
“I doubt it.”
I sat up. “Shall I answer?”
“It can wait.”
“Is it something legal?”
“I’m buying some Super Bowl tickets, that’s all.”
“The Super Bowl is over.”
“Uh, tickets for an upcoming Super Bowl.”
“You don’t even know who’s playing next year.” A thought struck me. “Or do you?”
“They’re not for next year. And no, I don’t know. What do you take me for?” He was smiling.
I pulled the phone out of the trash and handed it over. Within a minute, Michael had negotiated for the purchase of two hundred tickets to a game that was years away. While he concluded the deal, I decided I didn’t want to speculate about what he planned to do with tickets he couldn’t possibly use himself.
I heard a commotion outside the door.
And my sister Libby burst in, laden with shopping bags and trailing a long white scarf from around her neck.
“Darlings!” she cried. “I’m here to help pass the time!”
I put my forefinger to my mouth and indicated Michael on the phone. “Libby,” I said in a lower voice, “you didn’t have to come.”
“Hospital stays can be so dull, Nora, and I knew you’d need a distraction this evening. So I toodled over with a zillion magazines! This is the perfect evening to work on the wedding plans!”
Michael disconnected his call, and I thought I heard him stifle a groan.
Libby dropped two enormous shopping bags on my lap. “Tuxedo choices! Centerpiece ideas! What better time to take care of these details than right now—to take your mind off the pain and suffering?”
I bobbled the bags and Michael made an instinctive grab to prevent them from hitting the floor. He managed to come up with a magazine with a half-naked woman on the cover. She wore tiny threads of virginal white lace, but flaunted enormous, nonvirginal breasts.
Michael blinked. “Whoa.”
“Wedding-night lingerie.” Libby patted the magazine. “It’s a crucial choice. It might very well set the tone for the whole marriage. I thought you might want some input.”
Michael flipped open the magazine approvingly. “Good call.”
“I know some men get squeamish when it comes to planning a wedding,” Libby went on. “It’s natural, I suppose, for the male of the species to second-guess his decision to give up his bachelor rambles and cleave to one woman for the rest of his days—not to mention giving his bride complete creative control of the wedding just to make her happy. But let me tell you, it’s the first step on a slippery slope. First you allow your future wife to choose ‘We’ve Only Just Begun,’ and the next thing you know, you’re agreeing to scatter your ashes together over Graceland.”
“Uh…”
“What I mean,” Libby said firmly, “is that the wedding isn’t as important as the marriage. But if you can’t communicate your needs now, you might as well resign yourself to a sad excuse for a marriage. Assert yourself, however, and I promise you’ll be setting the tone for a long and fruitful partnership that will be the most fulfilling.”
Sometimes my sister managed to blurt out philosophy that made surprisingly good sense.
I said, “Thank you, Libby.”
“Okay,” Michael said. “After the television this afternoon, I feel like I’m getting a whole new—you know, perspective into the female mind, so I’m ready.”
“What television?” Libby plopped prettily into one of the chairs and fluffed her hair. She had come to the hospital in a voluminous dress that made the best of her curves. A silver belt with a gigantic buckle cinched her waist, drawing attention to her cleavage. Her pointy boots had high heels. She rubbed her toes through the leather. “You mean daytime drama?”
“There’s a guy dying in a girl’s ski chalet, but he seems to have enough energy to—”
“Oh, that’s my favorite!” Libby cried. “Isn’t it a poignant story?”
“Uh—”
“He faked his own death to be with her, you know. The police think he drove off a cliff and killed himself. And doesn’t he look fabulous without his shirt? I understand the actors lift weights before those scenes so their muscles are plumped up. Would you like to see some bridesmaid dresses? I’m partial to this one, see?”
While Libby opened magazines and displayed photos of slender teenagers in revealing bridesmaid dresses—all the while filling Michael in on the convoluted backstory of a soap opera—I sat beside him and let myself relax.
A male nurse came in at nine and made polite remarks about letting the patient get some rest. Libby made note of the nurse’s wedding ring and didn’t wheedle for a longer stay.
We left Michael in the nurse’s capable care as well as the protection of his cadre of Abruzzo musclemen, who seemed content to pass their time in various corners of the hospital.
Libby drove me to Blackbird Farm, and when I went into the house, I discovered that my kitchen had been commandeered by Rawlins and three of his high school friends. They sat at the kitchen table frowning at the playing cards they held in their hands. An open
book lay in the middle of the table—Poker for Dummies. At the head of the table lounged Emma, grinning confidently. They were all drinking Mountain Dew from cans.
Beside Emma, Ignacio still looked shell-shocked from our tiger adventure.
“C’mon, girls,” Emma said to Rawlins and his pals. “Ante up!”
The boys all slurped from their cans of soda and continued to frown at their cards.
“Hello?” Ignacio said to me.
I patted his shoulder. “Michael’s doing fine. Thank you for asking.”
“While these ladies contemplate their losses,” Emma said to me, “you should take a look at what’s in the living room. A couple of movers stopped by this afternoon.”
I had forgotten about my windfall from Penny Devine. I went into the sitting room and saw large wardrobe boxes and a steamer trunk stacked among the furniture.
Cautiously, I opened the steamer trunk and found a mound of garments, each carefully wrapped in acid-free paper. I glimpsed a flicker of sequins, and intricate embroidery on a white linen cuff. I sat back on my heels to look at the row of wardrobe boxes and wondered how many beautiful designs could be inside. Hundreds of thousands of dollars’ worth, no doubt. But if Penny wasn’t dead after all, did these beautiful things still belong to me?
The phone rang.
I assumed it might be Bloom calling, so I went into the butler’s pantry to tell him about the tigers. But when I picked up, I heard the voice of Dilly Farquar. He said, “Nora, dear heart, tell an old gentleman your secrets. Is it true? Did Penny Devine bequeath all her couture to you?”
“How on earth did you find out?”
“Smoke signals.” Dilly sounded very pleased. “So it’s not a wild rumor?”
“I can’t believe it, Dilly.”
“Obviously, she had a soft spot for you. She was fond of your grandmother.”
“Yes, but—well, I’m flabbergasted. Surely her collection belongs in a museum.”
“Some of it, certainly. Now, listen,” he said. “You know I’m not a man who asks many favors, but this is huge for me, Nora. Penny Devine’s collection must be one of the most comprehensive in the nation. She started buying clothes from Chanel in 1949.”
I found myself laughing dizzily. Exhausted yet relieved about Michael, I allowed myself a moment of pleasure. “What’s the favor you want, Dilly?”
“Dear heart, you must let me help you unpack the collection. If I see those clothes, I can die a happy man.”
“Done,” I said.
“I should warn you. Vogue is going to call. So will the Metropolitan Museum. They’ll all want a peek.”
“You’re the man for me, Dilly. The stuff arrived a little while ago.”
“You have it now?” He was startled. “I’ll bring breakfast tomorrow. I’ll bring champagne!”
Which is how I found myself entertaining the crème of Philadelphia’s fashionistas the following morning.
Chapter Eighteen
But not before telephoning Ben Bloom to tell him that Vivian Devine kept tigers on a piece of rural property in Bucks County. I finally reached him just as I finished brushing my teeth that night.
Bloom said, “Say that again.”
I tapped my toothbrush on the sink and repeated my information.
“Tigers?” He sounded dumbfounded. “You mean, like tigers from a zoo?”
“I don’t know where Vivian got them. Judging by the way she collects abandoned house cats, I assume she thinks she’s rescuing them from abusive circumstances.”
“Wait a minute. Tigers?”
“Yes,” I said patiently. “I can give you the address, and you can look for yourself.”
Bloom spoke to someone with him—I thought I heard the sound of traffic, too—and then he came back on the line. “Okay,” he said. “Anything else?”
“You mean about the murder, or about the attempt on Michael’s life?”
“Listen, Nora, I thought I was doing you a favor when I told you about that.”
“You did. I didn’t like hearing it, but,” I said slowly, “I’m glad you told me.”
“I figure if you know what’s going on, you might take better care of yourself.”
Drily, I said, “Thanks, Detective. I appreciate your concern.”
“Nora?”
I waited.
He said, “How about forgiving me? So I made a mistake today, telling you the way I did. Everybody’s entitled to be forgiven once. And I’m trying to do the right thing.”
“I’ll take that under advisement,” I said.
I hung up. My feelings for Ben Bloom were hard to define most of the time, but tonight I didn’t like him one bit.
I considered phoning Michael’s hospital room to say good night. I missed him. I missed his laugh. I missed his warm body in my bed. I didn’t want to wake him, however, if he was already drugged and asleep.
Peeking out the window curtains, I noted that Michael’s crew remained on alert at the end of my driveway. Nothing short of an army was going to get past them.
I climbed into bed and turned out the light. I knew I’d been taking out a lot of aggressions on Michael lately. Misdirected anger, perhaps. Sometimes we made tender love, but at other times it was something very different. I had a lot of emotions about losing our baby, I knew. And about the complexities of Michael’s life and his unwillingness to put his family business completely aside to make a future with me. I wished he could be good.
I had often wished he could be a clean-cut cop, like Ben Bloom.
Except Bloom didn’t seem all that clean anymore. Once again, I’d let him manipulate me.
In the morning, I phoned the hospital early and spoke with Aldo, who said Michael was talking with his doctor at that moment and couldn’t take my call. I got dressed in jeans and an old white dress shirt that had been my husband’s. I made myself some oatmeal and ate every bite. I observed that Emma had left already. No note in the kitchen, of course, but her truck was long gone.
In the sunshine, I went out to the barn to check on her livestock and discovered four adorable ponies grazing in the paddock. They trotted over to the fence to meet me and poked their inquisitive noses through the rails. Emma’s leggy jumper, Mr. Twinkles, ambled over, too, and he nuzzled my hair.
“You’ll always be my favorite,” I told him as I patted his neck.
At nine thirty, a sumptuous get-well-soon gift basket arrived with a card to Michael from Lexie. The basket was heaped with fruits, exotic vegetables, two bottles of wine and a box of chocolate truffles—all tied up with an elaborate ribbon.
At ten, Dilly showed up carrying a wooden case of cold champagne. Fashion icon Kaiser Waldman gamboled into the house on Dilly’s heels, swinging a walking stick and wearing a tweed jacket in a flamboyant shade of green, riding boots with elaborate buckles and a pair of trousers that bloused at his knees. The designer removed a pair of square and very dark women’s sunglasses to look around the foyer of the house. The gilt mirror that had been a gift from Ben Franklin to my great-great-something grandmother particularly caught his attention. Then his gaze fell to the worn Persian rug on the floor.
Kaiser said, “Mon Dieu. My uncle had the château with the floor that tilted exactly like this one. The whole place fell down four years ago, like the house of cards.”
Following Kaiser bounded a slim younger man I didn’t know. He carried a large folding piece of furniture and had luscious blond hair layered to reveal a pair of diamond earrings. His face was beautifully sculpted, with a generous, full-lipped mouth curled catlike at the edges. He wore Seven jeans that had clearly been purchased in the misses department, and the message printed on his T-shirt said I’M AN OPRAH SHOW WAITING TO HAPPEN.
“Nora, this is Arturo.”
He put down his burden and shook my hand with a flutter of eyelashes. “Call me Artie, doll.”
“How nice to meet you.”
“I look familiar, don’t I? I’m an actor. But today I’m just obliging Kaiser
. I mean, who could say no to the master?”
Over his shoulder, Dilly said, “I don’t know about his acting, but Artie’s the best tailor in Philadelphia.”
Then Dilly found his way into the sitting room, and we heard him cry, “Gentlemen! In here!”
The three of them froze in reverential poses as they gazed at the altar of Penny Devine’s wardrobe boxes. Then they took a synchronized pace forward to peer down into the open steamer trunk and the cascade of lace that tumbled out of it.
“Nora,” Dilly rasped. “Champagne glasses! At once!”
I supplied glassware, and Artie conjured a gallon of orange juice and a bottle of Cointreau. He mixed mimosas in a handy flower vase and poured for everyone. Kaiser reclined grandly on the sofa, unbuttoning his tweed jacket to get comfortable for a long stay. He tucked a pillow under each elbow.
“You may begin,” he announced when he was ensconced.
At which point Dilly and Artie took turns pulling one garment after another from the wardrobe boxes.
Kaiser winced at a yellow silk dress from Dior. “How can the woman look anything but foolish in that shade? You see? Even Dior was fallible!”
“But a turning point in his career, don’t you think?”
“The downturn,” Kaiser said darkly.
Dilly nodded with resignation and draped the yellow dress over a chair. To me, he said, “That one doesn’t belong in your closet, dear heart. Granted, some of these things should probably go to a museum. I know a curator here in the city, definitely the best person to take charge of the clothes and make something lasting out of them. But you should keep a few pieces. You’ll wear them and treat them right. Penny knew that.”
Artie gave a cry of rapture as he found a black number twinkling with rhinestones and beading.
Which sent Kaiser into a fit of headshaking. “No, no, no, no! Too much with the sparkles! Gaultier had no sense of propriety in his early years!”
“Who wants propriety?” Artie demanded.
“What was de la Renta thinking?” Dilly plucked up a dress of orange organza. “For a woman of Penny’s years?”
“During the fat phase,” Kaiser said knowingly. “You see the ploy? Focus on the décolletage, and the eye will not wander elsewhere. Penny was always fighting the fat.”