Little Black Book of Murder

by Nancy Martin

  Cannoli’s brows rose. “Do you want me to tell the police?”

  “I can’t prove that information, not unless my editor has learned more since I last spoke with him. But I think we should take it seriously.”

  “We should.” He considered it all, then said, “Sharing it with the police would be an act of good faith they might appreciate. I’m sure they would have discovered it eventually, but this particular jurisdiction is hampered by a lack of manpower and resources.”

  “Then you’ll tell them for me?”

  “I’ll give them the basics, but the details will be better coming from you. Right now I need to go listen while they question the boy. I’ll get back here as soon as I can. Meanwhile, can you sit tight?” he asked.

  “How much longer?” I said, still shivering.

  He tried to mask his concern with a neutral expression. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Have you talked to Michael?”

  Cannoli smiled a little. “Only every ten minutes.”

  Of course Michael would be worried. “Tell him I’m fine, please? I don’t want him getting upset enough to leave the farm. Not while he’s wearing his monitor.”

  “Don’t worry about him,” Cannoli assured me. “Taking care of your own mental health is the best thing you can do for the both of you.”

  He knocked on the mirrored window, and a moment later someone opened the door for him. They left me alone again. Another agonizing half hour or more elapsed before I heard more noise out in the hallway. Raised voices this time. Someone shouting with anger. With my heart in my throat, I backed against the wall just as the door burst open.

  Libby launched herself into the room, crying, “They’re torturing you! Police brutality! Your civil rights have been violated!”

  My sister was dressed in one of her running suits. Printed on the T-shirt were the words STAY HUNGRY. She had taken the time to blow-­dry her hair so that it curled seductively around her shoulders. Her lipstick was fresh, her mascara lavish.

  “Libby—”

  “Ma’am,” said the harried female state trooper. “Ma’am, I have to ask you to step outside, please.”

  “Excessive force!” Libby shouted, flinging her hands in the air. “Psychological abuse! Verbal intimidation! It’s un-­American!”

  “Lib, I’m fine.”

  My sister swept me up in a hug and crushed me against her bosom until I couldn’t help but inhale the vapors of her most seductive perfume. “They’ve brainwashed you, poor darling!”

  Two more uniformed troopers crowded into the small space. Libby released me and spun around. She flung herself at the nearest trooper—­a male, I noted—­and cried, “You can’t torture my sister this way! I insist you release her immediately!”

  Their struggle didn’t last long, but there was a lot more shouting, and Libby’s clothing went askew until her maroon lace bra made an appearance. The male state trooper backed up against the wall, hands in the air. I caught a glimpse of Cannoli in the hallway, one hand clapped over his eyes.

  In a few minutes I found myself locked in a cell.

  With Libby.

  “This wasn’t the outcome I intended at all,” she fumed. “I thought we’d sit down with some of those charming policemen for a discussion, but they aren’t charming at all, are they? How am I supposed to find an escort for the Farm-­to-­Table dinner if I’m locked up?”

  “You came here looking for a dinner date?” I demanded.

  “Well, naturally my first goal was to take Rawlins home. And to rescue you, too, Nora. But I—­what on earth are you wearing?” She blinked at the Versace.

  I hugged Cannoli’s jacket closer around me. “It’s Emma’s dress.”

  “Why are you wearing it?”

  I must have been more addled than I thought. The words popped out in a long, shuddering burst before I remembered I wasn’t supposed to tell. “Because Emma’s delivering breast milk to Hart’s house, but I thought she was looking a little trashy, so I suggested she switch dresses with me, and she ran off to talk to Hart.” I knew I wasn’t making any sense. I felt the pressures of the day start to boil up inside me like molten lava. “Now—­now I’m the one looking trashy, and there’s a gangland war starting, so I’ve got rejects from The Sopranos hanging around my door, plus a serial killer in my house, and besides all that I might—­I might be—” Okay, I was on the brink of hysteria, but I blurted out the rest anyway. “I might be pregnant!”

  “Oh, darling!” Libby gathered me up in another comforting hug. “What wonderful news! Not the gangland part or the serial killer thing, either, but a new baby! Nora, you must be overjoyed!”

  “Overwhelmed is more like it.” I sniveled against her bosom.

  She held on tight and patted my back. “You’ve had a hard time ever since losing your baby last spring. You probably gave up hope, didn’t you? And you want a family so very badly. Well, here’s proof that everything turns out right in the end, don’t you think?”

  “I’m in jail!” I cried.

  “Well, yes, that’s a small glitch,” Libby agreed.

  “I haven’t even taken a test yet. And Michael—­Michael might be dead in front of the Dairy Queen before I get out of this hellhole!”

  As if I were talking perfect sense, Libby said soothingly, “It’s not a hellhole, is it? Why, it’s actually quite comfortable. Here, sit down on this bed. It’s kind of like camp, don’t you think? Shall we think of a camp song to sing? What was that one about friends being silver and gold? I always thought it was about jewelry, but it wasn’t exactly, was it? Or the dog named Ringo.”

  “Bingo,” I said with a sniff. “Which reminds me, Ralphie is missing.”

  “Ralphie?”

  “Michael’s pig. Libby, I’m afraid somebody’s going to—­to eat Ralphie!”

  I burst into tears all over again.

  Libby patted my back a while longer. “I don’t think you need to bother taking the test, Nora. You’re definitely pregnant.”

  She settled me on the bunk and sat beside me until I pulled myself together.

  Finally Libby asked with exaggerated calm, “Emma’s pumping her breast milk?”

  I wiped my eyes with a crumpled tissue pulled from Libby’s handbag. “I wasn’t supposed to tell you. Emma’s going to tear me limb from limb for blabbing. But, yes. For her baby.”

  “Well, we should have guessed. I mean, no woman could have her figure without some major hormone imbalance. And what about her situation with Hart?”

  Her steely gaze worked more efficiently than a lie detector. “She doesn’t know where she stands. And I’m not sure we should be encouraging them, Lib. I mean, he’s married.”

  “Happily?”

  “How do we know? He could be deliriously happy, and maybe Emma’s causing a problem by interfering. Besides, I’m not convinced Hart is good for her. He’s been a bit of a rat.”

  Libby wagged her head in dismay. “Emma should never have given up that baby. She needed more time to think it through.”

  “She had nine months!”

  “Well, she needed more than that. She should have given the baby to you and That Man of Yours.”

  I felt another wave of hormonal hysteria rise up. “If she had, the baby would have starved by now. We’re totally broke, and if I’m pregnant, it’s the absolute worst timing. How can we raise a baby if we can’t even afford cheese sandwiches? There will be diapers to buy and vitamins and—­and—­my God, Libby, people are paying nannies these days in stock options!”

  I lost my self-­control again and blubbered.

  Finally, Libby said, “In the first place, you don’t need a nanny. With That Man of Yours stuck in the house all the time, he’ll be the perfect father. You can be the breadwinner.”

  “If I don’t get fired! I’m supposed to be writing a profi
le tonight, and instead I’m incarcerated!”

  It wasn’t like me to fall apart, but a demonic hurricane of estrogen seemed to well up from inside.

  Libby sighed. “Nothing wrecks a woman’s health and mental well-­being like pregnancy.”

  From the next cell, a voice said, “Tell me about it.”

  Libby and I sat up and looked around.

  She was young—­somewhere between sixteen and twenty—­with badly highlighted blond hair whooshed on top of her head and popping out of a plastic clip. She had more eye makeup than a fortune-­teller and bitten-­down fingernails painted bright blue. She was not very tall, slender of limb and pouty of lip, wearing a T-shirt stretched to its limit over a pregnant belly big enough to hold triplets.

  She stopped chewing her gum long enough to say, “Who’s the serial killer?”

  “My houseguest,” I said. “She’s trying to kill my fiancé.”

  The girl nodded, as if it all made sense. “Anybody got a cigarette?”

  Libby said, “How about a Tic Tac instead?”

  The girl blinked her crusty black eyelashes as languidly as a cow and said, “Yeah, sure, why not?”

  Libby dug into her handbag and handed the plastic container through the bars to the other cell. She said, “I’m Libby, by the way, and this is Nora, my sister.”

  “Yeah, hi.” She lazed up from her bunk and took the container without thanks. She snapped open the Tic Tacs with her thumbnail. “I’m LinZee. L-­i-­n, capital z-­e-­e.”

  With a bored kind of concentration, she poured Tic Tacs into her palm, then proceeded to line them up on the gigantic curve of her belly. “You’re not under arrest, y’know. This is just the drunk tank.”

  “We’re not drunk,” Libby said firmly.

  “Me neither,” LinZee said. “This is where they put girls when we get outta hand. They let you have your purse, see? So you’re not arrested. You’re supposed to cool off, that’s all.”

  “You seem to know the drill,” I said.

  “Oh, I’m a regular.” She gave her belly a long rub, frowning. “I’m just not sure . . .”

  “Are you okay?” I asked.

  “Oh yeah. I’m just wondering if maybe, y’know, I’m in labor.”

  Libby and I stared at her. Judging by the size of her belly, when her water broke, it was going to gush like a fire hydrant.

  But after a moment of contemplation about labor, she shrugged, unfazed. “Nah, I don’t think so.”

  Libby cleared her throat. “How long have you been here? I’m just wondering if you know anything about my son? Rawlins Kintswell? Is he still being held?”

  “The tall, skinny guy with the Mohawk?”

  “Uh, no,” Libby said. “No Mohawk.”

  “The short, fat guy wearing the Flogging Molly T-shirt?”

  “No,” Libby said. “The clean-­cut boy with blue eyes and a sweet face.”

  “Sorry,” LinZee said. “Haven’t seen that one. Is he cute?”

  “Very cute. But he’s not looking for a girlfriend right now,” Libby said firmly. “And he’s innocent. Whatever anybody said about him, he had nothing to do with anything bad. He was a victim of circumstance.”

  “That’s a good line,” LinZee said. “Victim of circumstance. In fact, that could be a really good name for our band.” She lay back down on her bunk and massaged her mountainous belly. “I’m the lead singer.”

  “Libby,” I whispered, tugging my sister back down on our bunk, “maybe it’s time you faced the reality that Rawlins could actually have some connection to—” I caught myself, aware that LinZee was listening to every word. I lowered my voice. “He could have some connection to the unfortunate business on Saturday.”

  Libby paused in the act of pulling a lipstick out of her bag. “Why would you say such a thing? You know, Rawlins was a perfectly nice boy before he became associated with That Man of Yours.”

  I experienced a sizzle of temper. “He was flunking school and had more piercings than a carnival sideshow before Michael came along. Without Michael’s influence he might have a bone in his nose by now.”

  Reminded of reality, Libby dropped her lipstick, and her voice wavered. “My poor baby. A fatherless child. He never really had a chance, you know. None of my husbands paid him enough attention.”

  LinZee asked, “What color is that lipstick?”

  Libby consulted the cap. “Virgin Rose.”

  LinZee laughed. “Lemme see it.” She screwed out the lipstick and was studying the color with disappointment. “Do you guys have a lawyer? One that does those bono cases? I mean, does he do any cases for free? They have to do that, right?”

  Libby said, “What have you been arrested for, dear?”

  “I wasn’t arrested. I might have been disturbing the peace a little. But it was a mix-­up. My boyfriend got a little out of hand at rehearsal. Like he has perfect pitch?” She snorted.

  I eyed LinZee’s belly and thought he hadn’t been the only one who got out of hand.

  “He won’t get married,” LinZee said. “Do you know how hard it is being a single mom?”

  “Yes, I do,” Libby said. “I’m raising five children by myself.”

  “The statistics are against us.” LinZee pointed at her unborn child. “I mean, this is my second. Unmarried mothers have, like, no chance of getting on The Voice or America’s Got Talent. Or finding a decent job. I’ll be lucky to get a shift at the dry cleaner.”

  “You shouldn’t be breathing those fumes anyway,” Libby counseled.

  “Yeah, well, Declan doesn’t want to get married. He said as much when I blew the lyrics on ‘Another Bag of Bricks.’ He pissed me off. You know how dangerous it is to piss off a pregnant girl? So I kicked him. Well, I knocked him down with the mike stand first, but then I kicked him. But it wasn’t really my fault, was it? He—­what do you call it? He coerced me. The good news is his brother is a bail bondsman. Here.”

  LinZee dug into the pocket of her unsnapped jeans and passed me a grubby business card. On it was printed the slogan of her friend the bail bondsman: YOU RING, WE SPRING.

  LinZee said, “What time is it?”

  Libby consulted her watch. “Almost eleven.”

  LinZee handed back the lipstick. “Okay, good, because Declan’s gonna bust me out of here. He said he’d wait until I slept it off, and that should be about now.”

  “You really shouldn’t drink alcohol,” Libby said. “Not if you’re expecting.”

  LinZee laughed again. Then her expression changed, and her hand went instinctively to her belly. “Hot damn. Maybe I’m in labor after all.”

  We heard an alarm go off somewhere in the building. It sounded like an insistent timer on an oven.

  LinZee gathered up her belongings. “That’ll be Declan. He always finds a way to pull the fire alarm.”

  “I’m pretty sure that’s illegal,” Libby said.

  “Yeah, but it works. Wait and see.”

  Several police officers came into the hallway outside the drunk tank, and one of them unlocked our door. She said, “Ladies, we’re having an alarm malfunction. As a precaution, we’re going to evacuate you.”

  By the time Libby and I gathered up the contents of her handbag, LinZee was already smugly leading the way to freedom.

  In the lobby, we came upon Rawlins, who looked paper white and exhausted, but otherwise healthy. Most important, he looked free. His mother threw herself at him with a wail, and I had to content myself with putting my arm across his shoulders and giving him a kiss on the cheek.

  He gave me a tired smile. “Hi, Aunt Nora. You look pretty wild. Mardi Gras party?”

  To the continued beeping of the fire alarm, Cannoli appeared with a sheaf of papers in hand and announced that we were all free to go due to a minor emergency in the building, but the police requested th
at we all be open for more cordial questioning at a later time. They were currently engaged in arresting someone for tampering with a fire alarm. He ushered us all outside where Libby gave the keys to her minivan to Rawlins, declaring she was too upset to drive.

  Outside, Libby said, “Do you need a ride, or can you find your own way home, Nora?”

  She had already observed my lawyer holding the door for me. Ever the gentleman, Cannoli immediately offered to take me back to Blackbird Farm, but said, “There’s someone else here for you, however, so if you don’t mind me running off, I have to check my son’s algebra homework before I go to bed.”

  “Thank you very much, Armand. For everything, but maybe most of all for your coat.” I gave it back to him.

  “Think nothing of it,” he said as politely as a courtier.

  And he left me with the man who waited beside his convertible. It felt surreal, seeing him there in the cold.

  Gus Hardwicke allowed his gaze to rest on my barely contained nipples for about half a second and said, “If I’d known you had frocks like that, I’d have tried to kiss you sooner.”

  I hugged myself. “I’m in no mood for this. Can you drive me home without hassling me? Or shall I hitchhike?”

  He opened the passenger door and handed me into the car. When he came around and got in behind the wheel, he said, “I see they released your nephew. For lack of evidence?”

  “He wasn’t arrested in the first place. He was being questioned. Why are you here? How did you know to come for me?”

  He started the car and thumbed the heater on for my benefit. “The police called. Apparently, you decided to tell them what we know about Zephyr. They asked me a few questions on the phone, and I learned you were here, so I toddled along.”

  “That was a quick trip from the city,” I observed.

  “Actually, I was a little closer. Why did you spill the beans?”

  “If Zephyr is dangerous, she shouldn’t be roaming around,” I said. “So, yes, I told the police. I’m sorry if that ruined your Watergate plan.”

  “We’re running the Zephyr story tomorrow. How she’s under suspicion for killing three men. If the police are going to blab about her past, why wait? I used some of your notes and a lot of my own and sent it to print. Call it a collaborative effort.”