Little Black Book of Murder

by Nancy Martin

I had planned to wear a pink Givenchy from Grandmama’s collection, but the waistline didn’t fit me anymore. Although I had been dismayed to see how my clothes were looking on me lately, today I felt considerably happier about my thickening figure. I dug into my closet and found a very forgiving Carolina Herrera gown with an empire silhouette of flowing silk. The light fabric was a print of pale blue with streams of darker colors that brought out the new glow in my eyes. And the halter-­style neckline showcased parts of my body in a whole new way. The slit up past my knee gave it youth and a little informality. Open-­toed slingbacks, a sequined clutch and my diamond ring were all the accessories I needed to make a sophisticated appearance.

  Besides, if you want to feel feminine, there’s nothing like a Herrera dress.

  “Va-­va-­voom,” Emma said when I twirled before her in the kitchen where she was making herself some eggs and bacon. “You look sexy in that getup. Hardly like a pregnant lady at all. I hope Mick gets back tonight.”

  “He will. Cannoli said they’d have to either arrest him or release him soon. If he gets here before I do, tell him I’ll be back before eleven.”

  “I’ll tell him,” Emma said. “And then I’ll be leaving. Just so you know.”

  I gave her a kiss. “I know.”

  We had both heard my ride arrive in the back of the house. We could also hear Libby’s shrieks of horror at the sight of the damaged barn.

  But she didn’t cry.

  “That would ruin my makeup,” she said, pulling herself together with an effort. “How do I look?”

  She wore layers of red chiffon, gathered fetchingly under her prodigious bosom and flowing loosely around her hips so that she looked like an escapee from a Renaissance fair. Every curve in her full figure looked luscious. She had swept her dark hair to one side with a flounce over one eye and a tumble of curls on the opposite shoulder.

  Meaning every word, I said, “You look completely fabulous.”

  “Red always boosts my confidence.” She struck a proud pose that nearly popped her breasts out of their minimal containment. “I got the dress on eBay. It once belonged to Kirstie Alley.”

  Emma said, “I hope you have some double-­stick tape in your bag. If you sneeze, you’ll get arrested for indecent exposure.”

  “Of course I have tape,” Libby replied. “Do you think I’m a rookie when it comes to boobs?”

  From the driveway came a tall figure wearing a dark suit and a silk tie. It was Rawlins, looking as if he’d rather be anywhere but in the company of his mother.

  Libby said, “I bought a ticket for Rawlins, too. After his ordeal with the police, I decided it was high time he associated with some nice people for one evening.”

  Emma said, “I hear he’s been doing a lot of associating with his evenings.”

  Rawlins gave her a double take and turned pale.

  “You look really great, Rawlins. Everybody does,” I said, shooting Emma a look that told her to shut up. “And thanks for giving me a lift, Lib.”

  “Well,” she said uncertainly, looking at our ride for the evening.

  The rest of us turned to examine the vehicle idling in my driveway. Perry Delbert’s exterminator van had been freshly washed and waxed, so the image of the giant dead spider gleamed in the failing sunlight. On top of the cab, a mosquito the size of Ralphie had blinking lights in its eyes.

  Perry stood attentively by the passenger door, buttoned into a very snug rented tuxedo like a footman ready to help Cinderella into her magic coach. He had flattened his usually bushy brown hair into damp curls, and his beard looked freshly trimmed. He gazed at Libby as if she were the most beautiful princess in the world.

  Libby sighed. “He volunteered to drive. I didn’t have the heart to tell him I’d rather take the minivan.”

  I patted her arm. “It’s okay. The valet parking will only take a moment, and after that, nobody will remember what chariot we arrived in.”

  Shortly, we were on our way to the Farm-­to-­Table gala in the bugmobile. Rawlins and I sat in the backseat. He kept his face turned to the window. While Libby chattered in the front seat, I patted his knee.

  As we neared Philadelphia, I asked Libby, “How’s Noah? Is he eating all right?”

  “He’s fine,” she assured me, and she deftly changed the subject.

  Several Philadelphia restaurants had agreed to share their venues for the gala, and the evening was pleasant enough for guests to wander up and down the street to visit all of the parties. But a grand entrance had been set up in front of one of the city’s premier hotels, and we settled into the line of traffic as it inched ­toward the point of disembarkation. Someone took a photo of the bugmobile with a camera phone that flashed, and pretty soon dozens of people were laughing and snapping our picture.

  “What’s going on?” Libby peered through the windshield at the throng on the sidewalk.

  “Guess this is a pretty popular party,” Perry said.

  “Why isn’t everybody in the restaurants?” she asked.

  I spotted Crewe Dearborne in the crowd on the sidewalk. Wearing a sharp dinner jacket, my restaurant critic friend cut an unmistakably aristocratic figure.

  With my hand already on the door handle, I said, “Perry, would you mind if I bailed out here?”

  “Sure, but—”

  “I’ll catch up with you later,” I said, halfway out of the van. “Call me on my cell if you decide to leave early!”

  Eager to escape his mother and her dubious date, Rawlins hastily unsnapped his seat belt and followed me.

  The decorated van had already caused a stir among the people, but it was Crewe who burst out laughing as Rawlins and I scampered ­toward the sidewalk.

  He caught my hand and steadied me as I stepped up over the curb. “You always know how to make an entrance, Nora. But this time you’ve outdone yourself. Is that a tsetse fly on top of that truck?”

  “A mosquito. If you want to have your house sprayed for West Nile virus, I can hook you up. This is Rawlins, my nephew. Rawlins, have you met Crewe Dearborne?”

  They shook hands, and Crewe said, “I met you at a birthday party for somebody. You had cotton candy stuck in your hair.”

  “That was a while ago,” Rawlins said.

  I was looking at the crowd. “What’s going on here?”

  Crewe hooked his thumb past the crowd at the restaurant behind us. “This restaurant was just evacuated. They say a wild boar got loose in the kitchen.”

  My heart leaped into my throat. “Just now?”

  “Yes. In the dining room we heard a commotion, and suddenly—”

  “What kind of commotion?”

  “Screaming from the kitchen. And something crashing around—”

  Crewe was cut off when a city police squad car pulled to the curb and two officers jumped out. Two more foot patrolmen pushed through the well-­dressed mob, heading for the front door of the restaurant. They drew their guns.

  At once, I knew it was Ralphie—­and his life was at stake. I grabbed Rawlins by the hand. “Come with me!”

  I hitched up my long skirt with my other hand and ran for the corner, Rawlins and Crewe dodging behind me. Crewe called, “Nora, what has gotten into you?”

  We hustled around the block and into the alley behind the restaurant. A large metal structure had been rigged over a drain in the cobblestoned street. Portable lights were aimed at the gleaming metal, and a stainless steel table was laid with glitteringly sharp knives. Chains hung from the crossbar of the structure, heavy enough to hold a large animal for a gruesome butchering demonstration.

  At that moment, a motley crew of wiseguys bolted out the kitchen door. They scattered into the night like the Three Stooges, probably flushed out the back door as the policemen barged through the front.

  I recognized Road Kill. “Rocco!”

  He headed
my way, out of breath. “Mrs. Boss! What are you doing here?”

  “Have you found Ralphie?”

  “We found the pig,” Rocco panted. “They were trying to get him trussed up here, but a crazy lady cut him loose. Trouble is, he went wild. Instead of running away, he ran straight into the kitchen. Now he’s breaking up the whole restaurant.”

  We heard more shouts and high-­pitched screams from inside.

  “He’s gonna hurt somebody in there,” Rocco said, already heading for freedom. “Unless the cops shoot him first.”

  My pregnant-­lady hormones kicked in, filling me with ­estrogen-­laced purpose. I yanked open the back door and led the way inside. “Rawlins, come with me! Crewe, see if you can find some maraschino cherries!”

  “Some what?” he cried.

  With my heart in my throat, I ran down the hallway ­toward the dining room.

  But I caught my balance on the doorjamb of Tommy’s office in time to see Tommy haul off and slap his sister, Marybeth.

  “You moron,” she shouted at her brother. “I told you not to use that pig! If you serve the meat, you’ll spoil everything our family worked for!”

  “You’re no scientist!” Tommy shot back. “You’re incompetent!”

  “You never understood,” Marybeth said. “You never understood the importance of Grandpa’s work.”

  “He made hot dogs!” Then Tommy cursed. He had seen me, and he pointed a shaking finger in my direction. “It’s her,” he said to his sister. “That Blackbird woman who stole your pig in the first place!”

  I turned to run, but it was too late. Tommy seized me by the wrist. He whirled me around and dragged me into his office.

  “Hey!” Rawlins cried.

  From his desk Tommy grabbed an enormous knife. There was blood on the blade.

  “Tommy!” Marybeth cried. “You can’t!”

  But he hauled me close and put the knife to my throat. I found my voice. “Don’t make this situation worse for yourselves. Maybe you killed Swain, Tommy, but you had good reason if he was going behind your back to—”

  “I didn’t kill him!” Tommy pointed the knife at his sister. “She did!”

  Marybeth recoiled with horror. “I did not! I tried to get the pig back, that’s all. I knew he was going to ruin everything—­all of our reputations.”

  “Why?” I asked. “What’s wrong with Ralphie?”

  “Who?” Marybeth asked.

  “The pig,” Tommy snapped. “He tastes bad flavor-­wise, that’s what’s wrong with him! The almighty superpig that was supposed to be God’s gift to bacon turns out to taste like crap! There’s nothing we can do to fix the flavor of his meat. No sauce, no rub, no process—”

  “He tastes bad?” I asked.

  Marybeth said, “Something went wrong with the breeding. We thought we were getting something special, but there’s a liver problem I can’t breed out of them. The meat is inedible. I was keeping him to study, but Swain and my genius brother stole him from me—”

  “You should have told me he was worthless!” Tommy cried. “You had all that security on him—­I figured he was the right one.”

  “I didn’t want anybody to find out about the liver problem!”

  “Wait,” I said, trying to make sense of it all. “So you tried to steal him back, Marybeth? Before anybody found out he was worthless?”

  “I wanted to get him back last fall,” she said. “But he disappeared. Zephyr set him free! But a few days ago, Porky told us he saw the pig at your place, so Tommy got him back. He wasn’t supposed to butcher the animal!”

  “Thank God we tasted the tail first,” Tommy said. “It was revolting. If I had served the rest of the meat, my reputation would have been ruined for good!”

  As he lamented his career, I felt Tommy’s grip slacken. In that instant, I raised my foot and jammed the heel of my shoe down on his green rubber clog. He yelped and dropped me. Rawlins seized my hand, and together we rushed down the hall.

  A tall person in a white chef’s jacket and toque was the only person left in the kitchen.

  Rawlins said on a gasp, “Zephyr?”

  I blinked and realized the chef wasn’t a man, but Zephyr, who had tried to disguise herself with the kitchen whites.

  She came around the counter, peeling off the toque. She gave Rawlins a kiss on the mouth that lingered long enough to knock him back on his heels.

  Kiss over, she looked him in the eyes and said, “I’m sorry about everything.”

  Rawlins swallowed convulsively and shook his head as if he’d been sucker punched. “Hey, I’m not.”

  She cupped his young face in her hand. “You sure, Rascal?”

  He nodded, turning pink.

  Zephyr swung on me. “We got your pig loose. Take care of him. I have to go.”

  “Zephyr, wait. It was you, wasn’t it? You killed Swain.”

  “I have to run,” she said. “Before the police arrest me.”

  “We can help,” Rawlins said. “We can get you a lawyer.”

  “No lawyer has ever been able to help,” she said. “And this time I don’t have the money to make it all go away. Bye, Rascal.”

  Another crash and more screams. I left Rawlins to say good-­bye to his lover, and I ran down the hall for the dining room. Before I got close, I could hear shouts, thunderous noises and the shattering of glass. I skidded to a stop in the doorway and saw the once-­serene dining room was in shambles. A mob of shrieking diners was still trying to cram through the front door to escape, while the tables and chairs lay overturned as if by a tornado. The floor was littered with dishes, centerpieces, broken glassware. Candles from several tables had ignited tablecloths, giving the otherwise darkened restaurant the look of a tribal ritual in progress. Two waiters knelt on top of the bar, clinging to each other as if bracing for a human sacrifice.

  Below them, Ralphie rampaged around the floor, knocking over a busboy’s stand and sending another load of dishes crashing into a heap of wreckage.

  “Ralphie!” I cried.

  But he didn’t hear me. Grunting in a rage or a panic, he charged the escaping customers and drove half a dozen beautifully dressed people around the hostess stand. Behind the bar, I saw Crewe bobble a jar of maraschino cherries as the mob jostled past him for safety. He leaped for the bar and climbed up just in time to avoid Ralphie’s lethal tusks.

  Ralphie rounded the bar and charged another group of people, snorting maniacally.

  “Ralphie, please!” I shouted.

  The pig swerved from his path of destruction, and for an instant I thought he heard me. But no, he had spied Marybeth as she came into the dining room. Lowering his head, he made a run at her, grunting like a mad beast.

  “Crewe!” I cried. “The cherries!”

  Marybeth screamed. Crewe tossed me the jar of cherries, and I almost caught it in midair. But I was distracted, and the jar barely grazed my fingertips before sailing past me. It hit the wall and shattered, sending pink liquid into a spray that hit Marybeth across her chest. Perhaps mistaking it for blood, she looked down at herself and let out an earsplitting screech.

  Ralphie must have caught the scent of sweet cherries in the last instant before he could gore Marybeth. He jammed his piggy forefeet into the carpet and slid to a stop, wild-­eyed and drooling.

  “Ralphie,” I called.

  At that instant, however, Tommy came running from the kitchen with a huge empty stockpot in one hand and a ladle in the other. He pounded the ladle onto the pot, and it rang like a gong.

  Startled by the noise, Ralphie spun around and headed for the front door just as Tommy intended. Before him, people scattered like pigeons.

  “No!” I cried. “Keep him inside!”

  But of course nobody wanted the pig in the restaurant, so they gave him all the room he needed to escape out the doo
r and into the street.

  I hiked up my skirt and ran after him.

  Outside, the line of traffic had evaporated. Libby and her bug man had just arrived on the sidewalk. To avoid the charging pig, Libby threw herself into Perry’s waiting arms. Ralphie blew past them, heading for the street. He zigged and he zagged through the panicked Farm-­to-­Table guests.

  Two more police cars squealed to a stop in front of the restaurant. Ralphie dashed between them and jumped into the street. I cried out. Any second he was going to be struck down and flattened by a passing bus.

  But a tall figure bailed out of the passenger seat of one of the police cars. He put two fingers between his teeth and blew a piercing whistle. Michael.

  Ralphie’s maddened gallop checked, he turned.

  In that instant, a taxi sped around the corner and headed straight for the pig.

  Michael put out a commanding hand and stepped in front of the cab. I watched it happen, and I couldn’t cry out, couldn’t call his name. Time slowed down, and every detail of what was going to unfold was crystal clear to me in the flashing red strobe of the police lights. The Blackbird curse. I was pregnant at last, poised on the edge of our happy ending, but Michael was going to die.

  In slow motion, he walked out into the street in front of the oncoming vehicle, oblivious to everything but saving a pig.

  As if from miles away came the shriek of brakes. The crowd screamed. My heart stopped. Stars burst in front of my eyes as a life without Michael flashed before me.

  But the taxi rocked to a stop, just inches from him.

  Ralphie trotted over to Michael and leaned lovingly against his leg. My pulse gave a painful thunk, restarting my brain, and I tottered for the street. I made it to Michael’s side and threw myself against him, too. He caught me close and held on.

  “Hey,” he said. “What happened to Ralphie’s tail?”

  The pig had a bloody wound where his tail had been.

  The police officer who climbed out from behind the wheel of the cruiser was Ricci. He came around the hood of the car, shaking his head. He said, “Which one were you so determined to find, Abruzzo? The girl or the pig?”

  To Ricci, I said, “Zephyr is pregnant. It’s not her husband’s baby. She ran away with Dolph, but he’s not the father, either. And Swain wasn’t murdered because of the pig. It was the baby. He didn’t want another man’s baby again. Zephyr killed him over it. But Michael’s alive.”