Little Black Book of Murder

by Nancy Martin

  At last, I told her about the keys I had found near Swain’s body.

  The news made her curse. “You found his keys, and I found his jacket? I was right to guess there might have been more of his stuff at Starr’s Landing. What the hell was Rawlins doing?”

  “I hope he wasn’t there at all. I think Porky was there. I think Rawlins lent him the car—­ there was a new scrape on the bumper, and Rawlins would never have put a tiny scratch on that vehicle. That’s why I think Porky had the car that night. Maybe Porky killed Swain and left the keys and the jacket to implicate Rawlins. And I think Porky was the one who went to the hotel with Zephyr. At least, I hope so. The other option is that Rawlins was with her that night, but that doesn’t seem likely. Does it?”

  “I dunno. Maybe. Back up. Porky doesn’t seem smart enough to throw blame and plant evidence.”

  “I know.” I slumped in the seat and rubbed my forehead. I hoped my hormones hadn’t scrambled my wits. “There’s another possibility.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “Maybe Zephyr killed Swain.”

  I filled in Emma on Zephyr, the serial killer supermodel.

  “Holy shit!” Emma barely kept her truck on the road. “And you left her alone with Mick?”

  “Michael has half his father’s crew stationed at the house, plus a new bodyguard. I don’t know why, but they’re prepared for D-­Day.”

  “Yeah, things are hot in Mob Land. Down at the gas station, all the guys are pissed off about Mick shutting down the gambling. With the March Madness basketball tournament coming up, he’s making a big dent in everybody’s income. There’s a turf war going on. One dude shot another one outside the Dairy Queen.”

  “Oh, Em!” This news horrified me.

  “He’s alive. Took a bullet in the butt, nothing serious, which shows they’re probably amateurs. But there’s something big brewing. If all the bad guys settle their differences and unite to push Mick to do what they want, it could get ugly.” She caught sight of my face. Hastily, she said, “But hey, don’t worry. You and Mick, you’re out on the farm, surrounded by the hired muscle. You’ll be fine.”

  I fervently hoped she was right.

  At Blackbird Farm, there were extra cars parked behind the house. I didn’t recognize most of them, except a state police cruiser. Emma was right. Something big was definitely stirring in the underworld.

  “Another poker night?” Emma asked, pulling up next to a plain black sedan that had to be government owned.

  “I don’t think so.”

  She rolled down her window and lit a cigarette. “About changing tactics,” she began, blowing smoke away from me. “With Hart.”

  “Yes?”

  “You really think that’s . . . worth a try? Tonight?”

  “It depends on what you want from Hart,” I said. “If you’re hoping for something besides sex, maybe leaving the triple X duds at home would be a worthwhile change of pace. For once, you could talk to him instead of getting naked.”

  She eyed my Dolce and Gabbana—­sexy, but more sedate than anything in her closet. I could see her weighing her options.

  I said, “Want to switch?”

  “You serious?”

  “C’mon,” I told her. “I will if you will.”

  In the darkness, we unzipped and undressed. I helped her into the black suit with the pencil skirt, and she looked great. Her shoes were all wrong, so I gave up my kitten heels, too. It was more of a struggle getting me into the hot pink Versace, but we managed.

  Emma gave my décolletage a long look. “Wow. You really must be pregnant.”

  My head spun again, and I laughed. Grabbing my drugstore bag, I said, “I’ll let you know what I find out. Meanwhile, good luck with Hart—­if that’s what you want.”

  I jumped out, and she put the engine in gear. I barely had time to close the passenger door before she pulled away and tooted her horn. I watched her go, wondering if I was aiding and abetting adultery. Or helping her decide one way or the other if Hart was a man worth fighting for.

  I went up the flagstone walk in Emma’s shoes, which, a size too big, were making me a little wobbly. I let myself in the back door. Zephyr and Dolph sat on either side of the kitchen table, staring deeply into each other’s eyes, as if trying to make a psychic connection. He was munching on an apple. She was picking raspberries out of a bowl and eating them one by one. But the thing that hit me was his size—­a good four inches shorter than Zephyr.

  When I closed the door a little too hard, she tore her attention from Dolph and blinked at me, docile as a cat.

  She said, “That’s not your usual look.”

  I wasn’t the only transformation. The kitchen was overflowing with fresh groceries. There were bananas on the counter, fruit in the bowl, a basket full of onions. The canned goods hadn’t been put away yet. Three more paper bags of supplies sat on the counter, as yet unpacked. On the floor sat a fifty-­pound sack of something labeled PREMIUM SWINE FEED. Even Ralphie was going to eat well tonight.

  “Who went shopping?” I asked.

  Dolph dragged his gaze from Zephyr’s, and he finally looked at me. What he saw made his eyes pop. Unable to speak for a second, he jerked his head ­toward the living room. “The boss.”

  Where had Michael gotten the money to splurge like this? Had he gone to a pawnshop, too?

  I didn’t bother asking Dolph. I could hear male voices in the living room. I followed the noise, and when I teetered into the room, I found myself in a crowd of men: Cannoli the Younger, Ricci the cop, Michael’s parole officer and more—­including one stern-­faced person in a state trooper’s uniform who turned out to be a sour-­faced woman. I stopped dead in the doorway.

  Conversation ceased, and all heads swung my way.

  Everybody gaped at me as if I had grown—­well, not two heads, but definitely two ginormous breasts. If anyone in the room had any doubt that I might have married into the mob, my entrance must have convinced him. I was spilling out of the top of the dress, and the slit up my thigh threatened to expose Brazil. I must have looked like an exaggerated Hollywood version of a good fella’s gun moll. All I needed was some chewing gum to crack and a pistol to wave around.

  Michael was the first to regain his wits. He headed ­toward me, an expression on his face I didn’t recognize—­astonishment, but something else, too. There was bad news to hear.

  He tried to sound soothing as he touched my bare shoulders. “Hey.”

  “Is Rawlins okay?”

  “He’s fine.” But there was something very wrong, wrong, wrong, and everybody in the room was waiting for him to tell me. Michael said, “Nora—”

  As long as they all pegged me for some kind of New Jersey floozy, I interrupted him, raising my voice and glaring up at him as if ready to flay him alive. “Then just what the hell is going on between you and my sister?”

  Everybody froze all over again.

  Michael said, “What?”

  “You heard me. I want to know how long you’ve been playing around with my sister.” I braced my fists on my hips and let the pink dress do the rest of the talking.

  Michael cleared his throat and turned to the group of people who were now staring at us with a mixture of trepidation and amusement. Michael said to them all, “Mind if I have a minute alone with Nora?”

  The woman in uniform shook her head. “Sorry. Not now. I’ve got orders to—”

  “Oh, come now, Officer,” Cannoli said. “I could argue a case for spousal immunity, so you might as well give them a few minutes to—­er—­settle a domestic matter.”

  I grabbed Michael by his shirt. “Let’s go.”

  Half a minute later, we were alone in the scullery.

  He took me in his arms. “I think they bought it. Good thinking, sweetheart.” He was distracted by my dress, though, and his hands tra
veled instinctively down my curves. “You look fantastic. But this wasn’t what you were wearing this morning.”

  “It’s Emma’s. We switched.”

  His eyes widened. “You saw her? Talked to her?”

  “Yes, and although we haven’t settled anything where you’re concerned, at least we’re speaking. And I think your virtue is safe for a little while.”

  “Whew.” He pulled me into a quick hug but said with more urgency, “Listen, we don’t have much time. Here.”

  From inside his shirt, he pulled a fat envelope. He pressed it into my hands.

  “What’s this?”

  “Cash. A couple thousand. It should be enough to—”

  “Where did you get this kind of money?” My own recent experience with a pawnshop told me he’d have had to part with something very large to get such a vast sum in return. If he had pawned an item, it was far more than a mere laptop computer.

  “I caught a break today,” he said, trying to smile. “I made payroll, too.”

  “What kind of break?”

  Something hardened in his blue eyes. “Do you want to cross-­examine me?”

  “If it’s none of my business,” I said, just as firmly, “just say so.”

  He relented. “The night when the leak started under the sink again, you cried about it, and I just couldn’t stand—­I borrowed it. From my family.”

  I frowned. I hadn’t been crying about the leak, but I supposed that was the way he saw it. I said, “Your father’s in jail. So are your brothers. Did the money come from your Pescara cousins?”

  “No. C’mon, I had to do something. We couldn’t keep going the way we were. For one thing, we need money to pay lawyers.”

  His talk of lawyers frightened me. I was also unnerved by what borrowing from the Abruzzo family might mean.

  I said, “I took my diamond earrings to Uncle Sam today. There’s two hundred dollars in my handbag.”

  He closed his eyes and cursed. “I don’t want you hocking your stuff.”

  “They weren’t important. Parting with them was easier than—­Michael, what have you done? Tell me.”

  My expression made him gentle his grasp on me. “It’s not that bad. Complicated, that’s all. It killed me to ask people getting minimum wage to wait for their paychecks, but putting everybody out of work by closing the gas stations was worse—­and then you crying over a little more water on the floor. It was the last straw. So I worked it.”

  He “worked it.” I knew the phrase. He used it when he spoke on the phone when he thought I couldn’t hear.

  “Will you have enough to pay everybody again next week?”

  “Yes.”

  So he had borrowed a lot of money—­not just enough to help us through until my paycheck arrived, but enough to keep his business afloat for a while. Holding the envelope, I searched his face and knew he was holding back more.

  “Don’t be upset,” he said quietly, cupping my shoulders. He couldn’t meet my gaze. Or maybe my cleavage was just too astonishing to ignore.

  I laid the envelope against his chest. “There’s talk in town that people are ganging up against you. Emma says one man has already been shot at the Dairy Queen.”

  “He was an idiot, a small-­time punk, nothing to worry about. That won’t happen here, not with the guys out front.” He pushed the envelope back at me. “This is a short-­term solution, but at least we’ve got enough cash to get us through what’s coming. Kiss me. Because it’s going to be a while before we can be together again.”

  He pulled me close. I felt his mouth brush mine, but I turned my head away to avoid a real kiss. The walls of the scullery seemed to press in around us. I said, “Not here.”

  “What? Why not?”

  I tried to laugh. “I may never be able to kiss you in this room again.”

  “What’s wrong with it?”

  I sighed. “There’s so much to tell you. But—­Gus Hardwicke heard us.”

  “What do you mean he heard us?”

  “When we were in here on Saturday. After the party. He knew what we did. He told me about it Monday morning. Held it over my head, actually. Got me off balance and then . . .”

  Michael’s voice sounded hard. “Then what?”

  “He pushed me into investigating this stupid murder. He wants to make it a big publicity thing for the Intelligencer. He thinks it can be his Watergate. And he’s pushing me hard.”

  Michael’s face darkened. “What the hell are you talking about?”

  Someone knocked on the other side of the door and called to Michael.

  I said, “It doesn’t matter. He’s been a jerk for the last couple of days, and I—­I just don’t want to think about it. Not now. When will I see you again?”

  “I don’t know. This may take a couple of days. You just have to keep your head, okay? Don’t get emotional, or they’ll use it against you. If you can, try to make an ally. Use your sense of humor, but don’t be a smart-­ass. And Cannoli will stay with you. Do whatever he says.”

  “Cannoli is staying here? Why? Why won’t he be with you?”

  Another knock—­more insistent this time.

  “They’re not arresting me, Nora,” Michael said. “The cops are here for you.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  The state trooper took me outside to the cruiser, holding my arm in her clammy hand.

  “Don’t I have time to pack an overnight bag?”

  The trooper opened the door of the cruiser and gave me a pitying look. “Honey, you won’t need a suitcase where you’re going.”

  As she eased me into the backseat of the car, I suddenly said, “Where’s Ralphie?”

  “Who?”

  “Our pig. Michael, where’s Ralphie?”

  There was a crowd watching—­more police and Michael’s posse, half of them ogling me in Emma’s weed-­whacked Versace. Michael was trying to muscle his way past Cannoli, who held him back. He called, “Don’t worry. Ralphie’s around here somewhere.”

  Panic started to rise up from inside me. There was too much happening too fast, and I was rushed by humiliation and fear for Ralphie. I said, “I think he’s missing. He wasn’t here this morning. Wait,” I begged the cop. I knew it was my hormones talking—­my panic was misplaced—­but I couldn’t stop myself. “Please let me look in the barn for our pig.”

  “Lady, you’re certifiable.”

  She slammed the back door of the car, and I met Michael’s tortured gaze through the window. He was angry and sorry and worried—­all the emotions that overwhelmed me every time he was arrested. My heart twisted as Cannoli blocked him. Otherwise, he looked as if he might storm the cruiser.

  At the state police barracks, they ushered me into a small room with a table and four battered folding chairs. One wall was mirrors, just like on television. I presumed they were one-­way windows with stone-­faced detectives lurking on the other side. The woman asked me if I’d like a soda.

  “Diet Coke? Maybe a Sprite?”

  “No, thank you.”

  “Sure?”

  The thought that she was setting me up to suffer made me mad. But I told her I’d be fine, and they left me alone for two hours. Probably to wear down my resistance before asking questions. I tried to remember Michael’s advice. What had he said? Stay calm. Find an ally. Was there something else? About being a smart-­ass?

  Problem was, the room was cold, and I was inadequately dressed to say the least. I paced to keep myself warm. I kept hearing doors open and close, and I wondered if the police were taking turns looking at the idiotic woman in the skimpy dress.

  I tried to think, tried to imagine what questions they intended to ask me. I tried to come up with reasonable answers, too—­especially to inquiries that involved Rawlins. I wasn’t going to lie. But I had to be careful.

  Eventu
ally, Cannoli was permitted in the interrogation room with me. The first thing he did was take off his suit coat and sling it around my shoulders. It smelled of sandalwood and felt blissfully warm.

  He avoided looking at my cleavage and said kindly, “Let’s sit down, Miss Blackbird.”

  “I think we’ve reached the stage where you should call me Nora.”

  He put his hand out and smiled. “I’m Armand.”

  Armand? Really?

  His hand was very warm, and I shook it gratefully.

  He said, “Keep in mind you’re only here to answer questions. You’re not in any trouble. And I have lodged appropriate objections to the treatment you’ve endured already.”

  “I’m fine. Just—­cold.”

  “Please sit down. We’ll talk.”

  I perched on a freezing metal chair while he explained things to me, but I will admit I didn’t have the wits to process much of what he said. I had been invited to answer questions regarding Swain Starr’s murder, he told me. The state police claimed they wanted to know more about what I had observed at the crime scene before it burned, but Cannoli felt they were on the hunt for other information. Perhaps something that would incriminate Rawlins.

  Or Emma, I thought.

  “So I’m working it,” he said.

  There was that phrase again. “Working it.” To me, the words had nefarious overtones.

  He said, “They have to charge Rawlins within another hour or let him go. They’re questioning him again in a few minutes, and then they want to talk to you.”

  “Rawlins didn’t do anything wrong. I’m sure of that.”

  “Can you prove it?”

  “No,” I said quietly. “But I know more about other people. People in Swain’s family.”

  “Like who? You can tell me. I’m your lawyer and I’m on your side.”

  “I’ve been researching Zephyr for a story. We have—­my editor and I have uncovered information that Zephyr may have killed three people before. Her father in West Virginia and a boyfriend in Italy and somebody else in Dubai.”