A Crazy Little Thing Called Death (24 page)

He shook his head. “A guy ran me off the road. When I got out of the car, he took a shot at me.”

I sat down hard on the chair beside his bed. “Oh, my God.”

“The fall in your house, though.” He frowned. “That one has me puzzled. I don’t know how anybody got inside to put a toy truck on the stairs.”

“I can’t believe this is happening. When exactly did my life start including gangland murders?

“It’s not a murder.”

“Not yet!”

“Hey, we’ve got the situation under control.”

“So everywhere you and I go now, we need bodyguards? You call that under control?”

“Yes. And I don’t want to hear arguments, either. Trying to snatch you was outside the rules of engagement. Which means somebody’s not playing fair.”

“Do you hear yourself? This isn’t a game, Michael!”

“Sweetheart, don’t be scared.” He reached for my hand.

“What about the next time?” I got up from the chair and moved out of range.

“There won’t be a next time. We’re taking steps.”

“Taking steps? What does that mean? More retaliation? Somebody tries to—to rub you out, so you’re going to rub him out instead?”

Michael laughed.

“Don’t make fun of me!” I cried. “I’m frightened!”

He sobered fast. “I know. I’m sorry. But look, I wouldn’t be marrying you if I thought you were truly in danger. Everybody knows you’re out of bounds.”

“Obviously not everybody. Those two hulks who grabbed me—”

“That won’t happen again. I’ll make that very clear. Please, Nora, take a deep breath.”

I did. And held it. I looked at the diamond on my left hand.

“What are you thinking?”

I said, “I’m rethinking my options.”

He smiled. “What can I do to make the case for marrying me?”

I went over to the bed again and took his hand. “I’m afraid for your safety.”

“Hey, the worst thing that happened to me this week had nothing to do with the Pescaras and everything to do with walking around in the woods with you.”

I finally took an inventory of the patient and realized he had only one IV tube in his arm. Gone was the heart monitor. Someone must have brought him a clean shirt, because he was wearing a faded T-shirt that advertised the fishing shop he owned. He had propped up his good leg in the bed, which gave him the appearance of more vitality than a man in his condition ought to have. I glanced down the length of his left leg, covered by the sheet.

“How is it?” I asked.

“It looks like I got caught in a steel trap. But it’ll heal. They’re giving me antibiotics by the gallon.”

“And the broken bone?”

He sketched a waffling motion with one hand. “They showed me the before-and-after X-rays. It’s ugly. But I’ll walk. They had me up on crutches this afternoon between the soap operas. You ever watch those things? Man, that’s some sexy television.”

It was my turn to apologize. “I’m sorry you’re hurt. It’s all my fault.”

“It’s my own fault. I should have stayed out of the weeds. Stayed in the car.” He squeezed my hand. “But you could help me feel better.”

I allowed him to pull me until I perched carefully on the side of the bed farthest from his broken leg. “You must be on the road to recovery if you think soap operas are sexy.”

He kissed my forehead. Then my cheek. Then I turned my head and kissed him on the mouth, which turned into something longer and more potent that warmed my cold thoughts.

He smoothed my hair away from my face. “What did Bloom say when you told him about the tigers?”

“Actually, I—I didn’t tell him.”

“Why not?”

“Because he dropped the contract-on-your-life bombshell, and even tigers slipped my mind. I’ll tell him tomorrow.”

“Tell him tonight.”

“Michael, there’s been a development in the Penny Devine murder.”

He nodded. “The autopsy was today, right?”

“They’re not sure about the exact cause of death yet, but there was definitely a gunshot wound. Through the hand.”

“Defensive wound,” Michael said, demonstrating by raising both hands, palms out. “She put her hands up to deflect the bullet. It’s an instinct. Poor old lady.”

“Actually,” I said, “it seems the hand we found didn’t belong to Penny after all.”

That surprised him. “Whose was it?”

“The police don’t know. They’re sending it off to be tested for drugs and whatnot. I suppose DNA, too. But get this. The hand belonged to a man.”

“The guy who disappeared from the estate?” Michael guessed. “The gardener?”

“Kell Huckabee. It makes sense, doesn’t it?”

Michael raised a skeptical brow. “He had a pretty fancy manicure for a gardener. Somebody wanted to disguise him, maybe? Then they planted the hand at the polo match, hoping everyone would assume it belonged to Penny.”

“That’s what I figure, too.”

“So unless a complete stranger came along and dropped the hand on their grass, the Devines have some explaining to do.”

“Yes. And perhaps the most important question…,” I said.

“Is, where the hell is Penny Devine?”

“Exactly. If it’s Kell who’s dead, and Potty and Vivian concocted the suicide note and planted the wristwatch…is Penny actually alive?”

We thought about things together for a moment. I wasn’t sure where Michael’s mind went, but I found myself thinking about Crewe. I didn’t want him to be involved in the whole mess, but I couldn’t help thinking he was connected.

Michael reached for my hand. “You look scared again. The police are going to solve this, Nora. You don’t have to worry about it anymore.”

I tried to wipe my face clean. He needed to get well, and stewing about Crewe or Ben Bloom’s revitalized interest in stopping the Abruzzo family would only keep him agitated. I said, “I’m sorry.”

He pulled until I was folded against his chest. “Hey, be happy. The good news is that there’s no Blackbird curse.”

I smiled, arms around him and my ear tuned to the steady thump of his heart. “You sure about that?”

“Fairly sure.”

In the trash can, his cell phone chirped.

“Let me guess,” I said. “It’s not your stockbroker calling.”

“I doubt it.”

I sat up. “Shall I answer?”

“It can wait.”

“Is it something legal?”

“I’m buying some Super Bowl tickets, that’s all.”

“The Super Bowl is over.”

“Uh, tickets for an upcoming Super Bowl.”

“You don’t even know who’s playing next year.” A thought struck me. “Or do you?”

“They’re not for next year. And no, I don’t know. What do you take me for?” He was smiling.

I pulled the phone out of the trash and handed it over. Within a minute, Michael had negotiated for the purchase of two hundred tickets to a game that was years away. While he concluded the deal, I decided I didn’t want to speculate about what he planned to do with tickets he couldn’t possibly use himself.

I heard a commotion outside the door.

And my sister Libby burst in, laden with shopping bags and trailing a long white scarf from around her neck.

“Darlings!” she cried. “I’m here to help pass the time!”

I put my forefinger to my mouth and indicated Michael on the phone. “Libby,” I said in a lower voice, “you didn’t have to come.”

“Hospital stays can be so dull, Nora, and I knew you’d need a distraction this evening. So I toodled over with a zillion magazines! This is the perfect evening to work on the wedding plans!”

Michael disconnected his call, and I thought I heard him stifle a groan.

Libby dropped two enormous shopping bags on my lap. “Tuxedo choices! Centerpiece ideas! What better time to take care of these details than right now—to take your mind off the pain and suffering?”

I bobbled the bags and Michael made an instinctive grab to prevent them from hitting the floor. He managed to come up with a magazine with a half-naked woman on the cover. She wore tiny threads of virginal white lace, but flaunted enormous, nonvirginal breasts.

Michael blinked. “Whoa.”

“Wedding-night lingerie.” Libby patted the magazine. “It’s a crucial choice. It might very well set the tone for the whole marriage. I thought you might want some input.”

Michael flipped open the magazine approvingly. “Good call.”

“I know some men get squeamish when it comes to planning a wedding,” Libby went on. “It’s natural, I suppose, for the male of the species to second-guess his decision to give up his bachelor rambles and cleave to one woman for the rest of his days—not to mention giving his bride complete creative control of the wedding just to make her happy. But let me tell you, it’s the first step on a slippery slope. First you allow your future wife to choose ‘We’ve Only Just Begun,’ and the next thing you know, you’re agreeing to scatter your ashes together over Graceland.”

“Uh…”

“What I mean,” Libby said firmly, “is that the wedding isn’t as important as the marriage. But if you can’t communicate your needs now, you might as well resign yourself to a sad excuse for a marriage. Assert yourself, however, and I promise you’ll be setting the tone for a long and fruitful partnership that will be the most fulfilling.”

Sometimes my sister managed to blurt out philosophy that made surprisingly good sense.

I said, “Thank you, Libby.”

“Okay,” Michael said. “After the television this afternoon, I feel like I’m getting a whole new—you know, perspective into the female mind, so I’m ready.”

“What television?” Libby plopped prettily into one of the chairs and fluffed her hair. She had come to the hospital in a voluminous dress that made the best of her curves. A silver belt with a gigantic buckle cinched her waist, drawing attention to her cleavage. Her pointy boots had high heels. She rubbed her toes through the leather. “You mean daytime drama?”

“There’s a guy dying in a girl’s ski chalet, but he seems to have enough energy to—”

“Oh, that’s my favorite!” Libby cried. “Isn’t it a poignant story?”

“Uh—”

“He faked his own death to be with her, you know. The police think he drove off a cliff and killed himself. And doesn’t he look fabulous without his shirt? I understand the actors lift weights before those scenes so their muscles are plumped up. Would you like to see some bridesmaid dresses? I’m partial to this one, see?”

While Libby opened magazines and displayed photos of slender teenagers in revealing bridesmaid dresses—all the while filling Michael in on the convoluted backstory of a soap opera—I sat beside him and let myself relax.

A male nurse came in at nine and made polite remarks about letting the patient get some rest. Libby made note of the nurse’s wedding ring and didn’t wheedle for a longer stay.

We left Michael in the nurse’s capable care as well as the protection of his cadre of Abruzzo musclemen, who seemed content to pass their time in various corners of the hospital.

Libby drove me to Blackbird Farm, and when I went into the house, I discovered that my kitchen had been commandeered by Rawlins and three of his high school friends. They sat at the kitchen table frowning at the playing cards they held in their hands. An open book lay in the middle of the table—
Poker for Dummies
. At the head of the table lounged Emma, grinning confidently. They were all drinking Mountain Dew from cans.

Beside Emma, Ignacio still looked shell-shocked from our tiger adventure.

“C’mon, girls,” Emma said to Rawlins and his pals. “Ante up!”

The boys all slurped from their cans of soda and continued to frown at their cards.

“Hello?” Ignacio said to me.

I patted his shoulder. “Michael’s doing fine. Thank you for asking.”

“While these ladies contemplate their losses,” Emma said to me, “you should take a look at what’s in the living room. A couple of movers stopped by this afternoon.”

I had forgotten about my windfall from Penny Devine. I went into the sitting room and saw large wardrobe boxes and a steamer trunk stacked among the furniture.

Cautiously, I opened the steamer trunk and found a mound of garments, each carefully wrapped in acid-free paper. I glimpsed a flicker of sequins, and intricate embroidery on a white linen cuff. I sat back on my heels to look at the row of wardrobe boxes and wondered how many beautiful designs could be inside. Hundreds of thousands of dollars’ worth, no doubt. But if Penny wasn’t dead after all, did these beautiful things still belong to me?

The phone rang.

I assumed it might be Bloom calling, so I went into the butler’s pantry to tell him about the tigers. But when I picked up, I heard the voice of Dilly Farquar. He said, “Nora, dear heart, tell an old gentleman your secrets. Is it true? Did Penny Devine bequeath all her couture to you?”

“How on earth did you find out?”

“Smoke signals.” Dilly sounded very pleased. “So it’s not a wild rumor?”

“I can’t believe it, Dilly.”