``What's on your mind, Cindie Rae?'' I knocked my 36 Nancy Martin knuckles on the table to get her attention. ``You said you needed my help.''
From behind his paper, Michael shot me a grin.
``Is it safe to have a discussion while . . . we're not alone?''
``Safe?'' I said. ``That depends on your definition, I guess. Why don't you try, and we'll see what happens?''
Cindie Rae sighed. ``I don't have a choice, is that it? Well, surely you know all about last night. Popo dying, I mean.''
``Popo's murder, you mean.''
``Right. Somebody said you locked yourself in the bath- room. I'd like to know what you saw before you ran in there.''
``I didn't run or lock myself anywhere, Cindie Rae. And I've already told the police what I heard and saw. If they want to know more, I'm sure they'll ask.''
``But . . .'' She set down her coffee cup. ``Okay, I'll put my cards on the table. Early this morning, the police ar- rested Alan.''
``Alan!'' I sat down hard. ``You're kidding. For Popo's murder?''
``Yes, they say he's the only one who could have turned off the electricity and the security systems. How silly is that? My little Pookums wasn't in the store at all. There's a tape that shows him leaving. And besides, why would he murder his best sales associate? The store is worthless without Popo.''
``Who told you that?''
``It's what Alan says. Of course, he could have mentioned that teensy detail a little sooner!'' She worked her oversize lower lip into a huge pout. ``How was I supposed to know Popo was so damn valuable?''
Michael put the paper down. ``Exactly how valuable?''
Perhaps annoyed that Michael hadn't sufficiently noticed her yet, Cindie Rae unbuttoned her jacket to reveal her weapons of mass seduction. ``Alan says other retail compa- nies have offered to buy Haymaker's, but only if Popo's employment contract was renewed.''
``And now that Popo is dead?'' I prompted. ``The store is less valuable?'' SLAY BELLES 37
``She sold a lot of shit,'' Cindie Rae said. ``Apparently, she was more important than I thought she was.''
``So why did the police arrest Alan?'' I asked.
``Because there's a tape. The same one that shows when he left the store. Earlier in the evening, Alan and Popo had a big fight. And it was caught on one of the security cameras.''
``What kind of fight?''
``A lot of yelling, that's all I know.'' Cindie Rae directed her answers to Michael, although I had been the one ask- ing questions.
I said, ``I presume Alan has a lawyer?''
``God, yes, the executive suite is crawling with them.''
``Not a corporate lawyer, a criminal lawyer.''
``Why would he want a criminal lawyer?'' She dragged her attention away from Michael to frown at me. ``Oh, I get it! You don't mean a criminal who's a lawyer, you mean--''
``Cindie Rae, what exactly do you want from me?''
Michael got up from the table and ambled over to the stove to stir the oatmeal. Cindie Rae watched him with a carnivorous expression. ``Alan says you can figure out how that Pinkerton woman killed Popo.''
``Pinky? That's ridiculous.''
Sensing I might turn her down, Cindie Rae focused the full force of her personality on me at last. ``Alan says you'll do it because you're old friends. He says you can do a better job than the police. And you heard what she said last night.''
``I'm sure Pinky never meant--''
``She's a menace! She shouldn't be walking around. She killed both her husbands, didn't she? She's as bad as you Blackbirds.''
We heard a clatter as Michael dropped the wooden spoon.
I said, ``Her husbands died of natural causes, Cindie Rae.''
``That's the official story, but she has friends in high places. She probably bought her way out of both of those murder charges. I saw it on Stripperella once. Pamela An- derson figured it out. It shouldn't be too hard for you.''
``Miracles do happen.'' I sighed. ``I don't know, Cindie Rae.'' 38 Nancy Martin
``You should ask around. You're naturally nosy, right? And my Pookums seems to think you're relatively smart.''
``Thanks,'' I said dryly. ``But--''
``He said you'd help. He said you valued friendship very highly, and you'd prove Mrs. Pinkerton did it because you're a nice person.''
I stewed for a moment. I liked Alan, and I was sorry to hear he'd been arrested. Although I was reasonably sure Pinky hadn't laid a finger on Popo, it wouldn't hurt anyone to ask a few questions. And, frankly, I wanted to know who had locked me in the bathroom.
I didn't realize I was frowning.
Michael said, ``I know that expression.''
``Oh,'' said Cindie Rae brightly. ``Have you seen my Web site?'' Chapter 5
While I dressed in a suit that had belonged to my grand- mother--a woman of discerning fashion sense and a pen- chant for trips to Paris to indulge her taste--Michael re- arranged his schedule for the afternoon. When I went downstairs, he told me he liked the Dior skirt.
``I wish I'd had a chance to see the old girl wear these duds.'' Michael touched my skirt, perhaps to better judge the tailoring, but I doubted it. ``She must have been almost as easy on the eyes as you.''
As he drove me over to the Main Line, the winter sun shone bright and warm through the windshield. Michael took the back roads out of Bucks County. Occasionally he interrupted our conversation to speak on his cell phone to various business associates. I couldn't help thinking he had begun to sound like a mogul.
When he disconnected for the last time, I said, ``Are you starting another business?''
Among his many concerns, Michael ran a used-car deal- ership, a motorcycle garage with an attached tattoo parlor, a fly-fishing outfitter, a limousine service, a grass-growing venture called the Marquis de Sod, and, of course, Gas 'n' Grub, a gas station that had blossomed into an enormously successful chain of gasoline and convenience stores. While I scraped every penny that came my way, Michael was sud- denly swimming in money.
He said, ``I'm thinking of investing in automotive parts.''
``Factory authorized?''
``Used.''
``Do I want to know anything about that?''
39 40 Nancy Martin
``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. ``Pinky 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 profes- sional 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?''
``Techincally, 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 monas- tery or something?'' SLAY BELLES 41
``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 down? 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. Bun- ton, 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 tapes- tries and some very ugly Victorian furniture. As Michael 42 Nancy Martin 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 tro- phies, 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 yel- low 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 solar- ium. 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 snor- ing 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 in- audible and departed back the way we'd come.
I took my cue from Bunton and walked across the solar- ium, pretending I didn't hear her command. ``Hello, Pinky,'' I said cheerily. ``Sorry to bother you today!''
``I'm busy.'' She indicted 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 SLAY BELLES 43 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. Ab- sently, 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?'' 44 Nancy Martin
``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 coun- try club is . . . well, nothing you want to hear about.''
She snorted. ``You think I don't know what men do out- side 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.'' SLAY BELLES 45
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