A Crazy Little Thing Called Death (17 page)

“Michael,” I began.

He kissed me hard. “I’ll be back tonight.”

“Well!” Libby said when he’d slammed out the door. “He couldn’t get out of here fast enough, could he?”

“Who wouldn’t be scared of the things you were saying?”

“I don’t think That Man is fully accessing his emotions, Nora.”

“Good grief, it’s a wonder he didn’t faint with all that rapture in the rice paddies!”

Libby seized my hand. “I meant what I said, Nora. I’ll be your surrogate mother! After the wedding first, of course. I want to look good in my bridesmaid dress.”

I
tried phoning Detective Bloom that afternoon, but no success.

A skim of the newspapers revealed no developments in the Penny Devine case, and the six o’clock news was nothing but continued media hysteria. I tried to put the murder out of my mind.

On Monday evening, Reed was engaged to drive me to a fund-raiser for the city’s ballet company. What I didn’t expect was Reed’s companion.

One of Michael’s minions, Aldo, a former prizefighter who obliged the Abruzzo family when called upon, stood with Reed beside the car when I went outside. I saw the flash of his pinkie ring as he opened the car door for me. Aldo wore an ill-fitting tuxedo with a white silk scarf around his neck. The ensemble smelled strongly of mothballs.

“Aldo—”

“Yeah. Howya doin’?”

I gave his clothing a cursory inspection. His cummerbund didn’t look up to the task of containing his belly. “Who put you up to this, Aldo?”

His face was impassive. “I’m supposed to keep an eye on you.”

“That’s a very handsome tuxedo you’re wearing.”

“You think so?” He stroked the lapel. “I got it for my daughter’s wedding. Still looks good, don’t it?”

I had never contemplated the possibility that Aldo might have offspring.

“Very nice,” I said.

“You look good, too.”

Although I heard the false note in his voice, I said, “Thank you.”

I had put on a Dior dress of my grandmother’s: a Greek-column evening gown in green silk—not my best color, but not bad, either—that was a series of pin pleats that fell straight from a high bodice trimmed with seed pearls. The dress fit me beautifully now that I had lost a few pounds. It was sleeveless with a demure stand-up collar, which Aldo apparently didn’t seem to care for. I carried a jeweled Dior stole over my arm.

“It wouldn’t hurt to show a little skin,” Aldo said. “On a special occasion like this, I mean.”

Reed shouldered him aside and hustled me into the car.

“What’d I say?” Aldo asked, mystified.

The drive into Philadelphia was long and tortured. Every thirty seconds Aldo adjusted his collar and sighed. Reed shot him uneasy glances.

The ballet fund-raiser was just getting started when we arrived at the Merriam Theater. I had plenty of time to conduct a few early interviews during the cocktail hour. Tonight, money was to be raised for the orchestra that played for the Pennsylvania Ballet, always a good cause. The board of the organization had decided to try a Chinese auction instead of the usual dinner or preview party. Various individuals, local businesses and a few corporations had donated items, and guests were invited to bid on the prizes.

A law firm I knew had donated a trip for four to a Caribbean resort. In addition, my friend special-events coordinator Delilah Fairweather had donated her services for a private party for twenty-five guests in the home of the highest bidder. Other smaller donations included a pricey bottle of wine, some autographed baseballs from the Phillies and a watercolor painting by a famous local artist, plus several restaurant dinners by chefs who volunteered to prepare and serve the meals personally.

A number of television trucks idled outside the theater. I was surprised to see them. The ballet rarely attracted extensive media coverage. I wondered if a celebrity might make a surprise appearance later to add to the festivities.

Reed stayed with the car. It was Aldo who escorted me into the landmark theater, where the ballet often performed. Aldo labored up the staircase, huffing for breath and moaning every time his bad knee creaked. When we reached the marble floor, a throng of perhaps a hundred guests already mingled, while waiters circulated with trays of champagne glasses and canapés. I saw sashimi in delicate white cups, skewers of shrimp that smelled spicy and exotic, as well as long spears of asparagus baked in phyllo and sprinkled with Parmesan cheese.

Members of the ballet company whisked through the crowd decked out in costumes from the recent performance of
Coppelia.
A string quartet played a lively gavotte in one corner. Overhead, thousands of tiny lights had been strung like stars against the darkened ceiling.

“Why don’t you wait here, Aldo?” I snagged two champagne flutes from a passing waiter and urged him into a corner to catch his breath. “You can keep an eye on things from this spot. See? A great vantage point. I have to interview a few people, but I’ll be in plain sight the whole time.”

“Yeah, good.”

He looked relieved to be spared rubbing shoulders with the balletomanes, so I left him gulping champagne and went in search of the party hosts for quotes.

Instead, I found Detective Bloom. Or rather, he found me.

“I figured you’d be here,” he said.

“Hello, Ben. Are you enjoying the party?”

“I’m not here for any damn party.”

Without further explanation, he took my elbow and propelled me across the floor away from the crowd. He glared at a young woman in one of the many mechanical-doll costumes from the
Coppelia
production. She dashed back to her comrades for safety.

As Aldo launched himself across the lobby toward us, Bloom said, “I see you’ve got one of the Abruzzo goons playing babysitter.”

I gave Aldo a don’t-worry-about-me smile, and he stopped in his tracks. Glowering at Bloom, he reluctantly retreated.

“Not by my choice,” I said to Bloom. “Smile so he doesn’t come over and break your kneecaps. What are you doing here?”

Bloom took me seriously and plastered a stiff smile on his face for Aldo’s benefit. “Investigating a murder, and you know it.”

“I tried calling you after the polo match. Several times.”

“I just heard about the attack on your life.”

At once, I said, “Somebody tried to grab my handbag, that’s all.”

“Bullshit. Abruzzo obviously knows it was more than that, or you wouldn’t have his attack dog along tonight.”

Attack dog? To me, Aldo was more of an overweight mutt that slept on furniture and smelled bad.

Bloom said, “I already talked to the cops who took your statement. Now I want the details from you.”

“Why? What possible connection could a purse snatching have to Penny Devine’s murder? It is Penny who’s dead, by the way, isn’t it? Have you made it official yet?”

Bloom sighed shortly. “No, not yet. We’re still having a problem with the morgue. We’re not the city of Philadelphia,” he added with heat, “so we have to play Mickey Mouse games. But today the brother and sister identified the wristwatch as definitely Penny’s. They’re making a fuss to have her body—what’s left of it—returned so they can bury it.”

I heard the bitter note in his voice. More than anything, Bloom wanted a job on the city’s homicide squad, but he’d been stuck in a sleepy suburb for a few years now, and the constant exasperation took its toll. Tonight Bloom seemed more agitated than usual. His modus operandi was to play a Boy Scout in search of points for his next merit badge, but this evening I could see tension vibrating in him.

I softened my tone. “Can you blame the family? The longer it takes, the more publicity there will be. It’s all very ghoulish for them.”

He snorted. “Yeah, wait till you see
Entertainment Tonight
. They had a camera crew all over the Main Line today, shooting footage. A cop brought his lunch in a paper bag, and the cameraman zoomed in like we were smuggling in body parts with the Quiznos sandwiches.”

“Do you have any theories about how she died?”

He surprised me by telling me the truth. “Yeah, maybe. An employee of the Devine estate who disappeared a few months ago. Kelly Huckabee, a gardener or something.”

“Kell disappeared?”

“Yeah, do you know him?”

“A little. I wondered where he was. No wonder the place looks so terrible.”

“He was lousy at his job?”

“He grew up on the estate. His parents were live-in servants of the Devines. And he married a woman who came to the estate when she was hired as the household manager. But she died. If he disappeared, this is a big development, isn’t it? Do you think he—good heavens, did he kill Penny?”

Bloom shrugged. “Nobody knows where he is. The Devines say he took off last fall and didn’t come back.”

“Could he have left around the time Penny died?”

“The autopsy will tell.”

“He killed Penny and left town?”

“That’s the idea.”

I considered Bloom’s theory. Of course, it made sense. Kell Huckabee’s bad temper made him an obvious killer in my imagination. But why a gardener would kill his employer’s famous sister—that question was beyond me.

Bloom shoved his hands into his pockets. “I ran Huckabee’s name through the system and came up with a couple of assault charges against him.”

“I’m not surprised. He was a good candidate for anger management.”

“There was one complaint he filed, too.”

“Against whom?”

“Some newspaper writer.”

“Anyone I know?”

Bloom hesitated, then clearly decided he had nothing to lose by telling me. “Guy named Crewe Dearborne.”

I tried to maintain a neutral expression, but my insides did a flip-flop. I had no idea Crewe even knew Julie’s father. “Kell Huckabee filed a complaint against Crewe Dearborne? For what?”

“A fistfight, from the look of the report. Doesn’t seem like Huckabee was totally innocent in the altercation.” Bloom sighed and rubbed his face. He muttered, “If I could forget about sleeping, I’d get to the bottom of it. I hate looking like Barney Fife on national TV.”

I touched his arm. “I’m sure it’s not as bad as that.”

He glanced at my hand. When things with Michael had been at their worst, spending time with an officer of the law had seemed like a good idea. At least I didn’t have to worry about him going to jail on a regular basis.

And Bloom had been interested in me, too. But eventually I had realized all he really wanted was to get himself noticed by the city police force by nailing Big Frankie Abruzzo’s son. I discovered Bloom’s primary fascination with me had been to get himself an informant.

I pulled my hand away.

He allowed his gaze to skim my dress before saying, “Tell me about the guys who tried to grab you.”

“Neither one of them was Kell Huckabee. I’d have recognized him.”

“So describe them.”

“I already—okay, okay. Two big men, both with strong upper bodies, dark complexions—”

“The report said you used the word ‘Mediterranean.’ You meant Italian?”

“Or Spanish, maybe. Dark hair. Olive skin.”

“Brazilian?”

My interest sharpened. “Why do you ask?”

“Did you hear any accents?”

I shook my head. “They sounded local. New Jersey, maybe. Why do you ask if they might have been Brazilian?”

He shrugged. “I want to cover all the bases.”

“Some of the visiting polo players are from Brazil.”

“I know. I tried to interview a bunch of them. But do you know how hard it is to find a Portuguese interpreter on my budget?”

“Sorry. Did you learn anything?”

“Not much,” he grumbled. “Penny Devine bought a lot of horses for polo players.”

“Like Raphael Braga.”

He heard the change in my voice and shot me a look. “You know Braga?”

“A little, yes. A lot, actually.”

“How? What’s your relationship?”

“He married a college friend of mine. I did them a favor a long time ago.”

“What kind of favor?”

At once, I was sorry I’d mentioned it. I didn’t want to get into it with Detective Bloom, who would get even more wrong ideas than Michael. So I told him the bare minimum. “Nothing to do with Penny Devine’s death. Penny was Raphael’s patron, though. Which means she paid some of his expenses. That might lead you somewhere.”

Bloom studied me, puzzled and intrigued. “She gave Braga a hell of a lot of money over the years, in fact, in the form of horses. I’m trying to figure out how much, but again, my budget doesn’t allow for a simple phone call to Brazil, let alone an international audit. I was thinking…”

I met his gaze and said nothing.

“I was thinking maybe you could help me out,” he finished.

The last thing I wanted was for anyone to start digging around Raphael Braga.

But I heard myself ask, “What do you need to know?”

“Braga’s connection to Penny Devine. Was it purely business? I mean, if he got horses out of it, what did she get?”

“I don’t know. You’re thinking their business arrangement might have gone bad somehow.”

“Maybe. It was a very sweet deal for Braga. But it looks one-sided to me.”

“Maybe they simply enjoyed each other’s company.”

“She was forty years older than he is!”

“They had a common interest in horses.”

Bloom squinted at me. “Are you defending him?”