Blackbird 02 - Dead Girls Don't Wear Diamonds (16 page)

"Tempeste, do you mind me asking some questions off the record?"

"Sure,
cherie.
Anything you want to know." She smiled at me with a glowing gaze. "But you look awfully warm. Wouldn't you like to get comfy? You look so miserably hot."

"The piece that was stolen from you. Did it disappear while you were traveling?"

She sighed. "Nope. In fact, I was never closer to the bosom of my family. The ring was a very pretty little number that came from a dear friend. . . ."

I didn't really care where the ring came from, but I poured the last of the champagne into my glass and listened while she recounted a tale involving Errol Flynn without his pants.

"And what did it look like?" I asked. "The ring, I mean."

. "It had a diamond the size of my big toe. With a gold snake wrapped around the stone. Gorgeous. God, I'd give a lot to have that back! It had sentimental value, which that bitch knew perfectly well, I'm sure, and that's exactly the reason she stole it from me."

"Laura Cooper?"

"You betcha. But now, I carry protection! And I'm not afraid to use it!"

With that, she began rummaging among her belongings. She dislodged a shopping bag, and I caught a glimpse of the mint-green paper sliding to the floor before Tempeste sat up and hauled a small, pearl-handled derringer out of somewhere. At first, I thought it was another trinket from one of her many famous lovers. Then my soggy brain absorbed it was an actual gun.

Julio yelped and disappeared under the bedspread.

"Is that really real?" I demanded.

"Of course it is. I can wing a pigeon at fifty paces. Get it? Wing a pigeon?"

Normally I don't find puns terribly hilarious, but this one struck me as funny, and I burst out laughing.

Then Tempeste was leaning closer. "Want to try on one more necklace?"

"Why not?"

"It's so large, you'll definitely have to take off your dress. See? It's African. Kikuyu, I believe."

She handed over the panel of colorful beads, fashioned to tie around a woman's neck with leather thongs. I stared at the beads as they flashed in my fingers.

"Where did you get this?"

"Oh, nowhere special." She began to untie the wrap on my dress. "People all over the world keep their eyes out for things I might like. Here, let me help. Oh, what a lovely bra. Don't you think so, Julio? And now the necklace. Oh, stunning. You like?"

It could have been a great coincidence. Marian Jefferson had lost a rare Kikuyu necklace. And now Tempeste had one.

I tried to make my brain focus. "Tempeste, did you get this necklace here in Philadelphia?"

"Who knows? It could have been Cairo, I think. Or maybe London. There's a sordid little flea market there—"

I sat up and let my voice get too loud. "It's important, Tempeste. Where did this come from?"

Her eyes widened. "Why do you want to know?"

"Did it come from Sidney Gutnick?"

"Of course not!"

She was a bad liar. Or maybe she'd just had too much marijuana.

Sidney Gutnick got the necklace from Laura Cooper, I was willing
to
bet, who stole it from Marian Jefferson when she took it off to brush her teeth. At least, that's what the carousel in my mind came up with in that hazy moment. Sidney Gutnick had lied to me. No surprise, of course. He was accepting stolen goods from Laura Cooper. And now Tempeste was lying, too.

I was on the brink of demanding more information from Tempeste when I realized that we were no longer alone in the hotel suite.

Someone called out from the front door of the Presidential Suite, and we could hear him getting closer, calling Tempeste's name.

And there I was, standing in front of Tempeste Juarez's X-rated television wearing a pith helmet, an Indian ankle bracelet and an African necklace and little more than my slip, when Jack Priestly walked into the bedroom.

Chapter 9

Jack took me downstairs and ordered two cups of coffee in the farthest recesses of the hotel restaurant where I hoped I became the invisible woman. Cocktail hour was just getting under way, so the dining room was quiet except for two waitresses murmuring near the kitchen door.

"I don't know what I was thinking." I gulped coffee with both elbows planted on the table to stop it from spinning. "I don't usually behave like an idiot."

"You looked very nice, actually." Jack sat with one relaxed leg crossed over the other. "Feeling better?"

I groaned softly. "Only if the floor swallows me up and sends me to China."

"You didn't know about Tempeste's predilection for voyeurism?"

"No." I put my face into my hands. "Can I bribe you to keep this a secret?"

"A bribe would be illegal. Compounding your crime." He laughed. "The smoke was so thick in that suite, I got a little high myself."

I wrapped my hands around my coffee cup again. "Thank you."

"For rescuing you from a fate worse than death?"

"That. And for trying to make me feel less like a fool."

"I don't think you're foolish," he replied. "I'm
wondering why you went to see Tempeste in the first place."

I drank more coffee and attempted to sober up. One more glass of champagne, and I might have danced naked on the nearest tabletop. Who suggested I should cut loose once in a while? I couldn't remember.

I said, "I'm doing an article for the
Intelligencer
about Tempeste's jewelry."

"Really? I thought perhaps you had a different agenda."

I tried to collect my expression, but I wasn't having a whole lot of success controlling anything more than basic motor skills at that moment. "What agenda?"

Jack remained in his relaxed posture, but his voice sounded slightly different. "Listen, Nora. You're a smart and attractive woman, and I'd like to get to know you better. But I work for a man who'd frown on me seeing somebody who planned to undermine my job."

"Undermine your—?"

He passed me the other cup and saucer. "I'm supposed to make sure Oliver Cooper becomes the next secretary of transportation. I can't have a lot of extraneous issues cropping up right now."

I needed time to get sober. "Has there been much political fallout for Oliver?"

He tapped his fingers on the table twice. "A lot of condolence messages have come up from Washington. So far, Laura's death hasn't become an issue for us."

"So far," I repeated. "You don't think suicide is the real story?"

"I don't know anything about that," he replied, sounding like a politician. "The best we can do is let the experts handle everything. I did notice one thing.
Laura's recent change in appearance. She wanted to look like you, Nora. Her husband said she wanted to
be
like you. Why is that?"

"I didn't know her well enough to even guess."

In his sweet Appalachian twang, Jack asked, "Do you have an alibi for the night of her death?"

I felt my spine stiffen. "Of course I do. My driver took me home. I was in bed before midnight."

"Well, that's good," he said, in a tone that indicated he might be willing to buy a bridge somewhere. "Were you alone?"

I could only glare at him.

He spread his palms innocently. "You could have gone out again. Except you don't drive. At least," he added, "you claim you don't drive."

A lightning bolt hit me between the eyes. Or maybe it was just the beginning of a monster hangover. Suddenly I knew why the FBI hadn't come knocking on my door yet.

Because Jack Priestly had already interviewed me.

I drank the last swallow of coffee and marshaled my thoughts.

"Can you confirm you were at home all night?"

I felt a red-hot bolt of anger inside again. "Have you confirmed everyone's alibi? Where was Oliver, for example?"

"With me—at least, until one in the morning. Then a Secret Service agent remained outside his bedroom for the rest of the night."

"And you?" I asked. "I suppose you were surrounded by people all night?"

He smiled. And ignored the question. "I'm sorry I've upset you."

"I'm not upset by you. A young woman is dead, and somebody is getting away with killing her—that upsets me."

Jack nodded. "Everyone needs closure. The funeral is being arranged. Maybe that will help. The body will be released soon, so the family has started making plans. It's going to be a private affair, I understand. By invitation. And frankly, Nora," he added, "I'm not sure you'll be on the invitation list."

I realized my mouth was open, and closed it quickly. Then, "Because of my argument with Laura? Or my relationship with Flan?"

"Because of your relationship with someone else."

"Someone else?"

Jack said, "You associate with a person with whom the Coopers would prefer not to be linked in any way. We must keep Oliver above reproach right now."

"What person?" I demanded.

"Big Frankie Abruzzo."

"I've never met the man!"

"But you've been seeing his son."

"I haven't—well, all right, I know Michael, but I never laid eyes on his father."

"His father is gravely ill, I hear."

"Yes, I—I heard that."

"And if he dies?"

"I don't understand what you're driving at."

"If Big Frankie Abruzzo dies, who do you suppose will take over his business?"

"I haven't the slightest—" I stopped myself. "It won't be Michael."

"No?"

"Of course not. They don't speak. Michael has no connection to his father's activities."

"You're sure about that?"

"Yes, I'm sure."

I wasn't, of course. Not completely certain. I knew Michael had interests in all kinds of peculiar businesses, and I assumed none of them were more ominous than the Marquis de Sod and a string of gas stations.

But it occurred to me that maybe I shouldn't be discussing Michael Abruzzo with a government lawyer or FBI agent or any other guise Jack cared to wrap himself in.

Perhaps Jack saw my thoughts because he shrugged and said benignly, "Well, I'm sure you know what you're talking about."

I cleared my throat and reached for my handbag. "I'm going home now."

Jack reached over and restrained my hand. "If you don't mind my saying so, Nora, you're wandering into some dangerous territory. I'd like to help you stay safe, if I can."

"I can take care of myself."

"Well, good. Shall I take you home?"

I gathered up my handbag composedly. "Thank you, but that won't be necessary."

"Then you'll be allowing the Cooper family to mourn their daughter-in-law?"

I stood up. "I wouldn't dream of intruding on the Coopers."

He walked me to the street. I went home with Reed, making only one stop along the way. I ducked into a quick market to buy some Excedrin and load up on local newspapers. As Reed drove, I prepared to read up on Big Frankie Abruzzo's medical condition.

But first I opened my handbag to stow the Excedrin.

Inside my handbag lay Tempeste Juarez's snake-skin day planner. I had forgotten to give it to her.

I couldn't resist. I opened the book.

And discovered it wasn't Tempeste's at all.

Instead, I found myself looking at Doe Cooper's detailed entertainment notes. It was Doe who had left the book on the tea room table.

I flipped through page after page and discovered that Doe had written down every guest she ever invited, every meal she ever planned, every caterer she hired, what she wore and even—I couldn't believe it—what color her lipstick had been. Her tiny, perfect handwriting was compulsively neat. She included Polaroids of flower arrangements so she'd be sure never to repeat herself. Lists included the best invitation engravers, calligraphers and postage services.

She had a separate section for special notes about specific guests.

Under my name, for example, she had written
Newspaper contact, friend of Lexie Paine, reads books, hates Jamie Scaithe, Flan's lover.

Being somewhat of an entertaining aficionado myself, I knew many women kept track of their parties so as not to repeat mistakes or pair two people who despised each other at a dinner table. But I had never seen such accuracy in my life.

Under Laura Cooper's name, Doe had written only
Keep away.

Naturally, a good hostess would have wanted to spare her guests Laura's thievery.

I had to return the book as soon as possible. I could see Doe having a meltdown if she thought she'd lost her Bible.

At home, my answering machine was blinking like crazy.

I returned Libby's call before telephoning Doe.

I could hear her children in the background making the usual dinnertime hubbub. She said to me, "You have to come with me tomorrow to my OB appointment."