A Little Night Murder

by Nancy Martin

  I held back a groan. Not only had the nutty wedding ideas started to fly, but she had been at the Ritz-Carlton at night. Probably with Ox.

  Libby didn’t notice my consternation and busied herself with the coffeemaker. “If you’re having the wedding in a judge’s chamber, we can’t exactly go all out with decorations. But balloons make a big statement for not a lot of bother. Just pick a color and buy several dozen and—presto! Instant party! But I also love a pretty wedding—pink flowers, children in adorable clothes. Me in a flowing dress. What about a theme? How do you feel about a luau? Is that overdone—or on the cusp of wonderful? I would look great in a grass skirt!”

  “Libby—”

  “Right, right. First we should discuss the guest list. How many people are we talking? Two dozen or two hundred? I’m sure there are a few people who will be insulted if they’re not invited. For instance, what about his mother?”

  I groaned for real. “What about his mother?”

  “Do you know she is sleeping in her convertible at the end of your driveway?”

  I handed Noah to Libby and went hastily through the butler’s pantry to the front door. I hauled it open and looked outside. Sure enough, the white convertible was parked beside my mailbox.

  I went upstairs and pulled on a pair of yoga pants. I grabbed a T-shirt from the collection of Libby’s hand-me-downs. I was getting to the bottom of the pile, so the more objectionable slogans were coming up. This one read MY OTHER KIDS HOPE THIS ONE’S A PONY. I didn’t have time to be choosy and yanked it over my head.

  I went down to the kitchen and said to my sister, “Can you look after Noah while I go get Bridget?”

  Libby was already ensconced at my table with a cup of coffee and a stack of magazines she must have retrieved from my recycling bin. “Of course. Nora, dear, what would you think of a double wedding?”

  I congratulated myself on not screaming. Instead, I put up one finger to delay what was coming next. “Hold that thought. I’ll be right back.”

  I went out onto the back porch and was confronted by Libby’s eight-year-old daughter, Lucy. She was barefoot and wearing a bathing suit and had an army surplus gas mask over her face. Nothing new, in other words. Her blond curls stuck out from under the straps of the mask. Her knees were covered with Band-Aids, and she held a sparkly magic wand in her hand, gripping it like a sword.

  She pulled the gas mask up onto her head and said, “Aunt Nora, can I let Ralphie out to play?”

  “When Michael gets back,” I promised. I couldn’t cope with both Lucy and a five-hundred-pound pig.

  “I need a sworn enemy,” she said very seriously. “Ralphie could be my sworn enemy, couldn’t he?”

  “Why do you need a sworn enemy, Luce?”

  “I’m a pirate.”

  “I see.”

  “Is Uncle Mick a pirate? He looks like a pirate.”

  She was right. On the other hand, I sensed she was already on her way to developing an attraction to bad boys, too, so I said, “I’ll be back in a minute, Lucy. We need to talk more about pirates.”

  “Okay.” She sat down on the top step of the porch to wait.

  I plodded my way down to the mailbox. I let myself out the security gate and approached the convertible cautiously. Peeking inside, I saw Bridget sprawled out in the driver’s seat, which was fully reclined. An errant lock of her red hair was curled drunkenly around her nose. She had a snore like a buzz saw.

  An empty beer can had been thrown onto the ground beside the car. A lone shoe lay beside the can. I picked up both items and leaned over her.

  “Bridget?” I touched her shoulder gently. “Bridget?”

  She gave a startled snort and flailed around for a second before grabbing the steering wheel and pulling herself to a sitting position. She wore a white off-the-shoulder sweater that had slipped far enough to show the straps of a lacy purple bra. Her matching purple skirt was hiked up high on her shapely thighs, and her other shoe was where it was supposed to be—on her foot. I noticed her toes were painted hot pink. Her fingernails were freshly done with a coordinating shade. Today she also wore a necklace that featured a very large diamond set inside two leaping dolphins that created the yin-yang symbol.

  I handed her the other shoe and wondered if all her diamonds were gifts from the men with whom she had brief friendships. “Are you okay?” I asked.

  She slipped her shoe back on. “Where’s Harvey?”

  “Who’s Harvey?”

  She yawned. Then, like a sleepy child, she rubbed both her eyes with her fists. When she stopped, she looked like a raccoon with a hangover.

  She blinked as if the sunlight pained her. “I can’t remember who Harvey was, but I think maybe I left him at the Best Western. Is there a Starbucks around here? Or is it just cows and pine trees, Little House on the Prairie?”

  “Pretty much cows and trees,” I agreed. “My sister is making coffee in the kitchen. Would you like to come inside?”

  “The sister who’s stealing Oxy away from me?”

  “I’m not sure if she’s actually—”

  “It’s okay.” Bridget used a button to return her seat to the upright position. “Ox is kind of a snooze. Not my type, except for the audition potential. And he’s the age when a guy starts looking for a nurse who’ll change his diapers when the time comes. I’ve got too much living ahead of me to start down that road. She can have him. You got any Twizzlers?”

  “Twizzlers? You mean, the candy?”

  “Yeah, there’s nothing like a Twizzler first thing in the morning. That, or a quickie. You have any? Twizzlers, I mean?”

  “Sorry, no Twizzlers. But there’s oatmeal. And Libby is threatening to make muffins.”

  Bridget rolled her eyes and adjusted the rearview mirror to get a look at her makeup. With a wince, she reached into another new handbag for her cosmetics. First she wiped away the previous day’s layer of mascara by licking her thumb and smudging it off. Then she began repairing her face with a drugstore lipstick, more mascara and powder.

  While she worked, I said, “Did you have any luck finding the mystery investor? The one who’s financing Bluebird of Happiness?”

  She gave me a measuring glance. “You’ve got your teeth into this Tuttle thing, haven’t you? I kinda like that about you.” She jerked her head in the direction of the passenger seat. “Hop in. Take a load off. I’ll tell you the whole story. What I know so far, that is.”

  I went around the convertible and climbed in. She took the empty beer can from me and tossed it into the backseat.

  “Here’s the thing,” she said, handing me the lipstick to hold while she applied mascara. “I paid calls on every single one of the potential investors that Oxy told me about—all the old-fart guys, plus one real stick-in-the-mud lady who threw in a few dollars to get the production started. And not one of them has met this mystery moneyman.”

  “So it’s somebody only Boom Boom knows?”

  Bridget raised a withering eyebrow. “She’s the only one who claims to be communicating with him.”

  “Claims to—?”

  For a moment, she eyed my shirt. “What does that mean, exactly? The kids are hoping for a pony?”

  I looked down at my borrowed maternity shirt. “It’s—well, it’s a joke.”

  “Funny thing about humor. Not everybody likes the same joke. Me, I like a good dirty story. I once had a boyfriend who was a comedian—did late-night stand-up on cruise ships. Lemme tell you, he was the best in bed—always had me laughing. He loved aromatherapy, too, kinda wacky. But you probably get the vapors if somebody talks about sex around you.”

  “You’ve met my sister Libby, right? You need to get to know her better.”

  Bridget allowed a tiny smile. “I think maybe we should bust in on Boom Boom this morning and find out the truth about this secret investor. Big Franki
e always said surprise is a good weapon. Wanna come?”

  “Bridget, right now, the police are holding Michael—hoping he has information about your whereabouts.”

  “They’re still looking for me? What for?”

  “Because you’re still a suspect in Jenny’s death!”

  “Why?” she demanded.

  “Because you wrote letters to her. Letters that had a—well, an undercurrent of coercion.”

  “I had a boyfriend once who owned a TV network. He said honey was better than a stick, but in the bedroom he really preferred the stick—on his own backside, if you get my drift. Lots of coercion.” She tucked her compact into her handbag and zipped it up. “Hell, you don’t get ahead in show business unless you blow your own horn. Cops ought to know that.”

  “Maybe you should tell the police that yourself. If it’s all a simple misunderstanding, it could be cleared up very easily. I wonder if you’d consider turning yourself in—that is, answering a few questions for the police—so Michael could be released.”

  She waved off that suggestion. “Every once in a while it does him good to get locked up—makes him think about what he has to do to stay out of jail, know what I mean?”

  “But—”

  “Buckle up, babycakes.” Bridget grabbed her white-framed sunglasses off the rearview mirror where they’d been dangling and put them on her nose, then checked her reflection again and tousled her hair into a fluffy style. She started the convertible’s engine. “I got a few things I want to straighten out with Boom Boom.”

  “I can’t leave. Not right now. My sister is—”

  “She won’t miss you for a coupla minutes. Here. Put on some lipstick, will you?” She tossed her makeup bag at me. “And some mascara wouldn’t hurt, either. You look a little pale this morning. Or maybe it’s that shirt. Used to be, you could get real nice maternity clothes at Penney’s. On the other hand, could be you just don’t have good fashion sense. I could help you with that.”

  I buckled my seat belt, fearing the worst about Bridget’s driving. I pegged her for a speed demon, but she drove the car quite sensibly. With the top down, the fresh air seemed to reinvigorate her, too.

  I used the flip-down mirror to obey her makeup demands. Her shade of lipstick actually looked pretty great on me. We stopped at the Starbucks in New Hope to pick up a low-fat latte for Bridget.

  “You sure you don’t want a coffee?”

  “Thank you, but no. I’ve given up caffeine until after the baby is born.”

  Bridget gave me a blank-faced look. “Well, while I was carrying Mickey, I gave up smoking pot, so that’s something. Try some mascara.”

  A touch of mascara is always good for self-confidence. Emboldened, I said, “Do you mind telling me about Michael? When he was a baby?”

  “Oh, I hardly saw him at all until he was five or six, when he could hold a conversation. Playgrounds—what a bore. Baseball games—even worse! But I liked taking him to restaurants. You can thank me for his good table manners. And how to decide on a wine? He could talk to a waiter about wine when he was twelve. He was a whosit—a prodigy.”

  “But when he was an infant. You didn’t even . . . hold him?”

  “Heck no, I had to get back to work right after he was born. In those days I had a boyfriend who ran a club in Atlantic City, sort of a classy place, you know? He wanted me onstage when the fall season started, so I got back to fighting trim as soon as possible. Anyway, Mick was better off with Big Frankie. Frankie, he was a good father to his boys. They did all the sports and outdoor stuff—hunting and fishing. Mick got good at baseball. Or was it basketball? I forget which he told me about.”

  “But when Michael was a baby, did you ever—”

  “What are you so worried about?” She finally tipped down her sunglasses to skewer me with a look. “Let me tell you, I read about this hormone—oxytocin. It’s a whattayacallit—a female hormone that women get. It kicks in right after giving birth, and it makes us so we wake up when we hear a baby cry, and we go pick up the baby and take care of him. It’s natural. So don’t you worry. The hormones will take care of everything.”

  “But his mother. The woman who raised him, I mean, do you think she ever—”

  “Big Frankie’s wife? God, what a bitch. She was all about rules. Still is. Rules, rules, rules! So I figured my job was to give my boy some fun. Okay, my only rule was for myself—I wasn’t going to use him to pick up guys. But for him—we did all kinds of goofy stuff together. Like go-karts. He loved go-karts. And the auto show—that was me who got him interested in cars, y’know. And I bought him Batman underpants every year for his birthday. What kid doesn’t want to feel like Batman sometimes? I just did stuff that felt like fun. But you? The two of you’ll do fine.”

  “I—I know we will.”

  Bridget glanced at me between sips of her latte. “Look, babycakes,” she said, more kindly than before, “don’t fret so much, okay? My Mickey, he’s ten times the man his father is. And you? I can tell you’re gonna be a great mom. You’re the warm-and-fuzzy type. Except you’re also the pit bull that doesn’t give up. Which is a good combo. The two of you love each other like crazy, too. I can see that. Mick gets all mushy when he talks about you. Kids are going to make that kind of crazy love even better. It’s a little late for second thoughts anyway. You can’t stop what’s coming, right?” She poked Baby Girl with one of her long fingernails and laughed.

  “Right,” I said, thinking her laugh sounded a lot like Michael’s when he was really happy.

  As we pulled up to the entrance to both driveways, I spotted several ominous vehicles parked in front of Lexie’s house. Two large black SUVs and a plain blue sedan.

  To Bridget, I said, “Pull up to Lexie’s house, will you, please? Something’s going on.”

  I heaved myself out of the low-slung car and went up the stone steps and between the tall columns to the front door. A moment after the bell chimed, Lexie’s houseman appeared. He peeked through the glass panel on one side of the door before opening it. His face was not welcoming.

  “Is Lexie okay?” I asked Samir.

  He did not invite me in. Dressed in his crispest white shirt and dress slacks that he wore on formal occasions, he said, “Miss Lexie isn’t here, Miss Blackbird.”

  But who was? And if Lexie was off the premises, where was she? I wanted to ask him questions, but cross-examining the help was not acceptable behavior, and we both knew it. I thanked him and returned unwillingly to the convertible.

  Bridget was flicking through her cell phone for messages with one hand and sipping her latte with the other. When I opened the car door, she put her phone away. Pleased, she said, “I just remembered who Harvey is.”

  “Who is he?”

  “Pack Man! He’s the suitcase king—the guy who makes those fancy rolling suitcases in those late-night TV commercials.” Her face sparkled with delight. “You know—the suitcase that the big python squeezes? The python was rented, though, not his pet. I asked. If I’m going to get squeezed, I don’t want it done by a snake. I met him at a sports bar last night. He was kinda cute. Now—what’s up?”

  I could hardly keep up with Bridget. “I’m not sure. My friend isn’t home, but she has visitors.”

  “Federal visitors.” Bridget pointed at the nearest SUV. “Those are government license plates.”

  They were. Not reporters, but federal employees. Which gave me another twist of anxiety.

  “I didn’t hook up with Big Frankie and not learn a few things,” Bridget assured me. “Is your friend in some kind of trouble?”

  “I thought she just got out of trouble. But now . . .”

  Bridget patted my knee. “You shouldn’t worry unless there’s really something to worry about. There’s a worry hormone, too, except I forget what it’s called. But it’s bad for your baby, so chill. Maybe your friend is just h
aving a little party.”

  I doubted it. What concerned me even more than the possibility of Lexie being questioned by some kind of federal agency was that Michael might also be involved in whatever had brought the officers to her door.

  Bridget spun her car around, and a moment later we were heading up the other driveway to the Tuttle house.

  “Now, see here,” Bridget said, shutting off the engine. “You better let me do the talking. I’ve got a way with show-business people. They don’t always respond to please and thank-you and all that good-girl stuff.”

  “What are you planning to do?”

  She gave me a wink and a grin. “We’re gonna muscle these people a little. You’ll see. I learned a lot of things from Big Frankie. We’ll get some answers.”

  Muscling sounded like a good idea to me. Foremost, I had a few things I wanted to make clear about using my family as a plot for a musical.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Bridget dropped her empty latte cup into the planter on the porch. We rang the bell three times before Fred Fusby finally opened the front door. He wore striped pajamas that showed several inches of bare, skinny ankle. Hastily, he had knotted an ascot around his neck. His hair stood up on end, and he could hardly open his eyes.

  “Fred?” I said when Bridget failed to start her muscling. “Remember us?”