Little Black Book of Murder

by Nancy Martin

  “Is my name on the story?”

  “Not your name or even a phony name. One of the other reporters did some of the research, so I let him have the credit. I thought you’d want it that way.”

  “Thank you,” I said.

  He pulled out onto the road and headed ­toward Blackbird Farm. “When I heard you were being held here, I thought I might as well come over and see what an aristocrat looks like in handcuffs.”

  “There were no handcuffs.”

  “Don’t spoil my fantasy.”

  In no mood for banter, I said, “I think I know why Swain got out of the fashion business. Turns out, he didn’t design his own clothes. Maybe never did.”

  Gus thought fast. “Swain left his business because someone was going to expose him as a fraud?”

  “Makes sense, right? He had to get out before the world heard he’d been taking advantage of other designers.”

  “Or he was blackmailed?” Gus suggested.

  “Maybe. Or perhaps the family asked him to leave, hoping to cut down on negative publicity if Vogue magazine got wind of the fraud story. I bet his daughter, Suzette, feels it’s very important to quiet the rumors before they get started.”

  “That would explain why Swain retired early, but not why he was murdered.”

  I had already reached the same annoying conclusion, so I said, “Exactly what were you doing in my neighborhood?”

  “I was out for a run in the car.”

  “Liar. You had another assignation with Marybeth, didn’t you?”

  “I’m a grown man with healthy urges,” he said. “She’s willing and not unattractive. She told me all about Starr’s vasectomy, as a matter of fact. How he had one back when they were married because he didn’t want any more children. How he recently had it reversed, but the outcome was iffy. Not to mention exceedingly painful. The gruesome details were enough to put me off my stride for a few minutes.”

  “What is it with you and older women?”

  “Shy virgins bore me,” he said, and glanced my way. “That dress is anything but boring, by the way. But hardly in your usual good taste.”

  “It’s my sister’s. Long story.”

  “Maybe I should meet your sister.”

  I tried to put Gus and Emma into the same mental picture, but my brain rejected the idea as about as safe as a nuclear blast. I said, “What else did you learn from Marybeth about her ex-­husband?”

  Promptly, Gus said, “That he resented her having a fourth child after he adamantly informed her he was finished with children. Marybeth has probably run interference between father and Porky all their lives. She rhapsodized about the boy’s wonderful qualities to me. Lately Swain and his youngest had some kind of reconciliation. At least, that was her impression.”

  I thought of the half-­million-­dollar check sitting on Porky’s table—­probably bon voyage money from Swain. They hadn’t reconciled. They had agreed to disagree again and parted ways. I was too tired to explain it all. Suddenly I wanted to sleep more than breathe the air.

  Gus pulled up to a stop sign and braked. He sat for a moment, looking into the rearview mirror. “Do you recognize the vehicle behind us?”

  I craned around in my seat, but all I could see was a pair of headlights and the dark, looming shape of an approaching SUV.

  “I didn’t mean you should turn around and tip them off,” he said with some impatience. “I just—­well, let’s see if they follow us.”

  He pulled away from the intersection, and the SUV paused briefly before turning another way.

  I watched the SUV disappear. “Still feeling paranoid?”

  “About your boyfriend putting a tail on me? Just a little.”

  I wouldn’t have been surprised to hear Michael had decided to keep a close watch on Gus Hardwicke. But I said, “Well, obviously, they’re not following you now.”

  “With you in the car, they must know I’m delivering you safely home. Or risking my life by taking you elsewhere for a tryst.”

  “Home, please,” I said on a yawn.

  “You don’t have to sound quite so unenthusiastic. What would your boyfriend do if I made a concentrated effort to seduce you?”

  “I can fend off a seduction attempt all by myself.”

  “But what would he do?”

  I took the question seriously and thought for a minute about the way Michael’s mind worked. Finally I said, “He’d probably have you ambushed when you least expected it. I’m not sure about how much bodily harm would be involved, but it would be a terrifying incident forever seared into your mind. And I’d never hear a single detail about it.”

  “So you keep secrets from each other?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Will you tell him about you and me?”

  “There is no you and me.”

  “Does he tell you everything?”

  “There are no other women, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  “You seem very sure about that. But I meant about his business. Does the pillow talk include mob secrets?”

  “He doesn’t have to tell me about his business if I don’t ask about it.”

  Into a short silence, Gus said, “That’s interesting, isn’t it? A version of don’t ask, don’t tell. And here I thought all you Americans set great store by truth and honesty.”

  “Truth isn’t always in Michael’s repertoire. So I don’t push.”

  “And you can live with that?”

  “Yes,” I replied, having come to terms with the way things were. To have Michael in my life meant reaching an uneasy impasse on many touchy subjects. I understood that now. His fidelity was faultless. But there were issues—­business issues, family issues—­that he would always keep close to the vest. And with a child on the way, it was perhaps even more important than ever that I trust him to make the right choices.

  “What’s this?” Gus said when his headlights lit up the roadblock beside my mailbox. Two gigantic SUVs were parked nose to nose, and a band of dangerous customers hung around in the cool air, smoking cigarettes. When it became apparent that Gus wanted to turn into the lane, they backed off, taking up positions that could best defend the house against invaders.

  I said, “Heightened security measures.”

  “Bloody hell, what for? The zombie apocalypse? Are they armed?”

  They weren’t supposed to be armed—that was all I knew. I rolled down my window. The man who came over to my side of the convertible was one of the part-­time mechanics in Michael’s motorcycle shop. I suspected he was the full-­time leader of a marauding biker gang. He wore a chain for a belt and had a long, crooked scar on his cheek. If the zombie apocalypse was coming, I wanted this one on my team. I leaned out the window and said to him, “It’s just me.”

  He waved us through, giving Gus the evil eye through the windshield.

  Sedately, Gus drove up the lane and around the house. He parked and turned sideways in his seat as I unfastened my seat belt. “Nora,” he said.

  “Thank you for bringing me home. And for behaving yourself. I’m really not up to fighting with you tonight. I’ll be in touch in the morning.” I reached for the door handle.

  He put his hand around the back of my neck. “Nora.”

  I turned my head to look him straight in the eye, one brow raised. “Do you have a death wish?”

  He kept his hand where it was, gentle, with his thumb extending up into my hair. Quietly, he said, “I was only going to say that you’ve held up admirably through all this. You’ve worked hard on the story, and I know you have learned more than you’ve told me so far. I’m trusting you to come clean eventually, though, right?”

  “Don’t ask, don’t tell,” I said. “Try it on for size.”

  He leaned a little closer. “Have you ever been to Australia?”

  “I
get sunburned.”

  “We have beautiful moonlit nights.”

  “Good night, Gus. Don’t walk me to the door.”

  I climbed out of the car and walked to the back porch in the too-­high, loose shoes and the skimpy dress with as much dignity as I could muster. Gus made a spin in the gravel. I wondered if he was heading back to finish what he’d started with Marybeth Starr. I didn’t think he was going home to his own bed.

  I was just about to go into the house, when another vehicle roared up the drive and narrowly missed nailing Gus’s car to the pasture fence. Emma’s truck.

  She braked and climbed out, leaving the engine running. Still wearing my black suit, she ran around to the passenger door and opened it. She was fumbling with something inside, so I went to investigate.

  “Em, what are you doing back here?”

  Over her shoulder, she said, “My conversation with Hart was short.”

  “How short?”

  “Like, he was having a fight with his wife, so we didn’t have much time for pleasantries.”

  “What happened? Did you talk? Did you reach any conclusions about—”

  She turned around to face me. In her arms, she held a baby in a blue blanket.

  “Oh my God.” I could barely remain standing. “Is that—?”

  “His name is Noah.” She had a funny grin on her face—­half giddy, half terrified.

  “Emma!”

  “Quiet, Sis. You’ll wake him up. Although I think he’s a champion sleeper.”

  “What are you doing?”

  “I took him. Why the hell not, right? His parents don’t want him.”

  “They don’t want him?” I realized I was holding my hair with both hands, as if to rip it out of my head if one more disaster showed up on my doorstep. Setting fire to Starr’s barn was bad. But this was the big one—­the colossal explosion at the end of the sizzling fuse that was my little sister.

  “With all the shouting, it was hard to tell. Look. Doesn’t he have a cute nose?” She tilted her bundle ­toward me.

  I looked at the little boy in her arms, and my panic melted into something almost like sanity. I tried to speak calmly. “Em, do they know you have him? Hart and Penny?”

  “I’m not sure,” she said. “Maybe. Kind of. Things were a little dicey. So, look, I need some help.”

  “I just sent our lawyer home.”

  She dug back into the front seat of the truck and came up with a huge bag. She looped the strap over my shoulder. “Here’s the diaper bag. There are diapers and wipes and a change of clothes. And some of my milk, too. It’s frozen, but all you do is thaw it out, and you’re good to go. I don’t know how the bottles work, but I figured you’d know. He’s got stomach trouble, so take it easy when you feed him.”

  “Have you gone completely crazy?”

  “And he needs some special kind of vitamin, but I’ll have to pick those up tomorrow. I think he can go a day without them.”

  “Em,” I cried, not caring if I woke every baby from here to Siberia. “You can’t do this!”

  “Yes, I can. I’m leaving him here with you.”

  She dumped the baby into my arms, and I made an instinctive grab to hold him tight.

  Emma had tears in her eyes, but she was laughing, looking both completely insane and delighted with herself. “I gotta go,” she said. “I’ve got a lead on a Filly Vanilli. Black market. It’ll cost me a bundle, but you’ll see—­he’s gonna love it. I’ll be back in the morning.”

  “You’re going back to see Hart, aren’t you?”

  She started back around the truck, but she turned. Instead of responding to my question, she said, “How are you? Pregnant?”

  “I don’t know yet,” I managed to say. “Maybe.”

  She gave a howl of delight. “Way to go, Sis! See you tomorrow!”

  “Em!” I called before she jumped behind the wheel.

  “Yeah?”

  I had a zillion questions to ask her. I wanted to wrestle her to the ground and ask them all—­or maybe beat her senseless. But I said, “What’s his name again?”

  “Noah!”

  I watched her go tearing out the driveway. Then I stood for a long time in the darkness, cold in the Versace dress, but somehow hot inside, too. I held the sleeping baby and looked down into his moonlit face, wondering if the day could possibly get any more bizarre. But also thinking there was nothing, but nothing more amazing than a perfect child held close to the heart.

  I went into the darkened house and found Michael asleep on the sofa in the dark living room, wrapped in the cashmere throw, his face buried in a throw pillow. The dying embers of the fireplace flickered across his sleeping frame, and nothing had ever looked so comfortable and tempting to me in my life. In that moment, I was overwhelmed by a tsunami of exhaustion, and all I wanted was to be held in his arms and told that everything would work out soon.

  I dropped the diaper bag on the coffee table and put Noah down in the middle of the big armchair across the room where he would be safe. Then I kicked off Emma’s shoes and stripped off the Versace, leaving it on the floor. In my bra and undies, I climbed onto the sofa to wake Michael as gently as I knew how.

  I slid under the throw and wrapped my arms around his neck. I kissed his bristled cheek and snuggled my breasts against his chest. He woke up a little and gathered me closer, murmuring something against my hair. At once I felt him ready to make sweet, hot love with me, and there was nothing I wanted more at that moment.

  But first I whispered, “I brought a surprise home.”

  Over my head in the gloom, Michael said, “I think it’s you who’s gonna get a surprise.”

  I looked up at him standing over me in the dark, but at the same time I felt his arms around me, his legs tangled with mine and his hands on my bare back. My brain couldn’t quite make the jump to understanding why he was both beneath me and standing beside the sofa. It took a second before the right synapses kicked in.

  I gave a shriek and leaped off the sofa in a single bound. I grabbed Michael and spun around to see who was the man on the sofa.

  A complete stranger sat up with a bleary grin. “You must be Nora.”

  Michael eased me behind him and said, “Nora, this is my brother.”

  I peeked out from behind Michael at our newest houseguest. “I—­I—­I thought he was in jail!”

  “Not that brother,” Michael said. “This is Frank. Little Frankie. My dead brother.”

  “Not so dead.” Little Frankie lazed on the sofa, one arm cradling his head as he smiled up at the two of us. He had Michael’s curly dark hair and the same shape to his face. The same lazy-­eyed grin, except his eyes were dark, not blue. He wasn’t quite as substantial as Michael, not quite as broad through the shoulders and chest. Clutching Michael from behind, I couldn’t fathom how I could possibly have mistaken them.

  Michael yanked the cashmere throw off his brother and calmly passed it to me. “He’s not staying. He’d be out of here by now except for a transportation problem. He’ll be gone in the morning.”

  “Probably,” Little Frankie said.

  I wrapped the throw around myself. “Why are you here in the first place?”

  “I made the drop.” Pleased with himself, he stretched like a cat. “I brought the cash, saved the day.”

  I looked up at Michael. “You borrowed money from your dead brother?”

  Grimly, Michael said, “It seemed like a good idea at the time. Stay away from him. He’s trouble.”

  His phone rang in his pocket, and he walked down the dark hallway to answer it.

  While I hugged the throw around my body, his brother continued to smile at me with a lazy-­lidded, secretive Abruzzo attitude. He said, “Mick didn’t tell me you were a babe.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  While Michael muttered to som
eone on the phone, I hastily gathered up my dress and the diaper bag and the sleeping baby and endeavored to make a dignified exit.

  “G’night!” Little Frankie called after me. The throw slipped off me, and he laughed.

  From the beginning of my relationship with Michael, I knew he had two living brothers who rotated in and out of jail. But Little Frankie had disappeared a few years ago and was presumed to have been killed by an enemy of the family. I had tried reading through newspaper archives to learn more because Michael certainly hadn’t welcomed any discussion of the subject. The details of Little Frankie’s disappearance had been hazy.

  I guessed his reappearance was supposed to be equally hazy.

  When I got upstairs and put Noah in the middle of our bed, the baby gave a yawn and a burp, but didn’t wake—­a champion sleeper, Emma had said. He rubbed his nose with his tiny fist and relaxed back into sleep. I put a fresh pillowcase down in the Pack ’n Play where Max sometimes slept. Then I changed Noah’s diaper. He woke up for that but seemed content to take a long, solemn look at me while I dressed him warmly in a pair of Humpty Dumpty socks and a sleep sack from the diaper bag. The room was already cold and would be colder by morning. When I put him down into the portable crib and covered him loosely with his blue blanket, he dozed off again. I turned off the bedroom lamp, and the crib disappeared into the shadows.

  I sat down on the bed, got out my cell phone and called Hart Jones.

  When he answered, I was all business. “Hart, it’s Nora Blackbird. Please don’t worry. I have Noah here with me.”

  “Hi,” he said, sounding rushed. “Can I call you back?”

  “Of course, but—­well, I just want you to know that he’s fine.”

  “Okay, great. I’ll call you.”

  He hung up on me, and I stared at the phone for a long moment.

  “For heaven’s sake.”

  I put the phone down and took a quick shower. I had just pulled my nightie over my head when Michael let himself in the dark bedroom.

  He dropped his cell phone on the bedside table and turned to me. Because he hadn’t shaved in hours, he had a criminal sort of bristle on his face, but his gaze was warm with concern. “Are you okay?”