Blackbird 10 - A Little Night Murder (25 page)

“Twizzlers? You mean, the candy?”

“Yeah, there’s nothing like a Twizzler first thing in the morning. That, or a quickie. You have any? Twizzlers, I mean?”

“Sorry, no Twizzlers. But there’s oatmeal. And Libby is threatening to make muffins.”

Bridget rolled her eyes and adjusted the rearview mirror to get a look at her makeup. With a wince, she reached into another new handbag for her cosmetics. First she wiped away the previous day’s
layer of mascara by licking her thumb and smudging it off. Then she began repairing her face with a drugstore lipstick, more mascara and powder.

While she worked, I said, “Did you have any luck finding the mystery investor? The one who’s financing
Bluebird of Happiness
?”

She gave me a measuring glance. “You’ve got your teeth into this Tuttle thing, haven’t you? I kinda like that about you.” She jerked her head in the direction of the passenger seat. “Hop in. Take a load off. I’ll tell you the whole story. What I know so far, that is.”

I went around the convertible and climbed in. She took the empty beer can from me and tossed it into the backseat.

“Here’s the thing,” she said, handing me the lipstick to hold while she applied mascara. “I paid calls on every single one of the potential investors that Oxy told me about—all the old-fart guys, plus one real stick-in-the-mud lady who threw in a few dollars to get the production started. And not one of them has met this mystery moneyman.”

“So it’s somebody only Boom Boom knows?”

Bridget raised a withering eyebrow. “She’s the only one who claims to be communicating with him.”

“Claims to—?”

For a moment, she eyed my shirt. “What does that mean, exactly? The kids are hoping for a pony?”

I looked down at my borrowed maternity shirt. “It’s—well, it’s a joke.”

“Funny thing about humor. Not everybody likes the same joke. Me, I like a good dirty story. I once had a boyfriend who was a comedian—did late-night stand-up on cruise ships. Lemme tell you, he was the best in bed—always had me laughing. He loved aromatherapy, too, kinda wacky. But you probably get the vapors if somebody talks about sex around you.”

“You’ve met my sister Libby, right? You need to get to know her better.”

Bridget allowed a tiny smile. “I think maybe we should bust in on Boom Boom this morning and find out the truth about this secret investor. Big Frankie always said surprise is a good weapon. Wanna come?”

“Bridget, right now, the police are holding Michael—hoping he has information about your whereabouts.”

“They’re still looking for me? What for?”

“Because you’re still a suspect in Jenny’s death!”

“Why?” she demanded.

“Because you wrote letters to her. Letters that had a—well, an undercurrent of coercion.”

“I had a boyfriend once who owned a TV network. He said honey was better than a stick, but in the bedroom he really preferred the stick—on his own backside, if you get my drift. Lots of coercion.” She tucked her compact into her handbag and zipped it up. “Hell, you don’t get ahead in show business unless you blow your own horn. Cops ought to know that.”

“Maybe you should tell the police that yourself. If it’s all a simple misunderstanding, it could be cleared up very easily. I wonder if you’d consider turning yourself in—that is, answering a few questions for the police—so Michael could be released.”

She waved off that suggestion. “Every once in a while it does him good to get locked up—makes him think about what he has to do to stay out of jail, know what I mean?”

“But—”

“Buckle up, babycakes.” Bridget grabbed her white-framed sunglasses off the rearview mirror where they’d been dangling and put them on her nose, then checked her reflection again and tousled her hair into a fluffy style. She started the convertible’s engine. “I got a few things I want to straighten out with Boom Boom.”

“I can’t leave. Not right now. My sister is—”

“She won’t miss you for a coupla minutes. Here. Put on some lipstick, will you?” She tossed her makeup bag at me. “And some mascara wouldn’t hurt, either. You look a little pale this morning. Or maybe it’s that shirt. Used to be, you could get real nice maternity clothes at Penney’s. On the other hand, could be you just don’t have good fashion sense. I could help you with that.”

I buckled my seat belt, fearing the worst about Bridget’s driving. I pegged her for a speed demon, but she drove the car quite sensibly. With the top down, the fresh air seemed to reinvigorate her, too.

I used the flip-down mirror to obey her makeup demands. Her shade of lipstick actually looked pretty great on me. We stopped at the Starbucks in New Hope to pick up a low-fat latte for Bridget.

“You sure you don’t want a coffee?”

“Thank you, but no. I’ve given up caffeine until after the baby is born.”

Bridget gave me a blank-faced look. “Well, while I was carrying Mickey, I gave up smoking pot, so that’s something. Try some mascara.”

A touch of mascara is always good for self-confidence. Emboldened, I said, “Do you mind telling me about Michael? When he was a baby?”

“Oh, I hardly saw him at all until he was five or six, when he could hold a conversation. Playgrounds—what a bore. Baseball games—even worse! But I liked taking him to restaurants. You can thank me for his good table manners. And how to decide on a wine? He could talk to a waiter about wine when he was twelve. He was a whosit—a prodigy.”

“But when he was an infant. You didn’t even . . . hold him?”

“Heck no, I had to get back to work right after he was born. In those days I had a boyfriend who ran a club in Atlantic City, sort of
a classy place, you know? He wanted me onstage when the fall season started, so I got back to fighting trim as soon as possible. Anyway, Mick was better off with Big Frankie. Frankie, he was a good father to his boys. They did all the sports and outdoor stuff—hunting and fishing. Mick got good at baseball. Or was it basketball? I forget which he told me about.”

“But when Michael was a baby, did you ever—”

“What are you so worried about?” She finally tipped down her sunglasses to skewer me with a look. “Let me tell you, I read about this hormone—oxytocin. It’s a whattayacallit—a female hormone that women get. It kicks in right after giving birth, and it makes us so we wake up when we hear a baby cry, and we go pick up the baby and take care of him. It’s natural. So don’t you worry. The hormones will take care of everything.”

“But his mother. The woman who raised him, I mean, do you think she ever—”

“Big Frankie’s wife? God, what a bitch. She was all about rules. Still is. Rules, rules, rules! So I figured my job was to give my boy some fun. Okay, my only rule was for myself—I wasn’t going to use him to pick up guys. But for him—we did all kinds of goofy stuff together. Like go-karts. He loved go-karts. And the auto show—that was me who got him interested in cars, y’know. And I bought him Batman underpants every year for his birthday. What kid doesn’t want to feel like Batman sometimes? I just did stuff that felt like fun. But you? The two of you’ll do fine.”

“I—I know we will.”

Bridget glanced at me between sips of her latte. “Look, babycakes,” she said, more kindly than before, “don’t fret so much, okay? My Mickey, he’s ten times the man his father is. And you? I can tell you’re gonna be a great mom. You’re the warm-and-fuzzy type. Except you’re also the pit bull that doesn’t give up. Which is a
good combo. The two of you love each other like crazy, too. I can see that. Mick gets all mushy when he talks about you. Kids are going to make that kind of crazy love even better. It’s a little late for second thoughts anyway. You can’t stop what’s coming, right?” She poked Baby Girl with one of her long fingernails and laughed.

“Right,” I said, thinking her laugh sounded a lot like Michael’s when he was really happy.

As we pulled up to the entrance to both driveways, I spotted several ominous vehicles parked in front of Lexie’s house. Two large black SUVs and a plain blue sedan.

To Bridget, I said, “Pull up to Lexie’s house, will you, please? Something’s going on.”

I heaved myself out of the low-slung car and went up the stone steps and between the tall columns to the front door. A moment after the bell chimed, Lexie’s houseman appeared. He peeked through the glass panel on one side of the door before opening it. His face was not welcoming.

“Is Lexie okay?” I asked Samir.

He did not invite me in. Dressed in his crispest white shirt and dress slacks that he wore on formal occasions, he said, “Miss Lexie isn’t here, Miss Blackbird.”

But who was? And if Lexie was off the premises, where was she? I wanted to ask him questions, but cross-examining the help was not acceptable behavior, and we both knew it. I thanked him and returned unwillingly to the convertible.

Bridget was flicking through her cell phone for messages with one hand and sipping her latte with the other. When I opened the car door, she put her phone away. Pleased, she said, “I just remembered who Harvey is.”

“Who is he?”

“Pack Man! He’s the suitcase king—the guy who makes those
fancy rolling suitcases in those late-night TV commercials.” Her face sparkled with delight. “You know—the suitcase that the big python squeezes? The python was rented, though, not his pet. I asked. If I’m going to get squeezed, I don’t want it done by a snake. I met him at a sports bar last night. He was kinda cute. Now—what’s up?”

I could hardly keep up with Bridget. “I’m not sure. My friend isn’t home, but she has visitors.”

“Federal visitors.” Bridget pointed at the nearest SUV. “Those are government license plates.”

They were. Not reporters, but federal employees. Which gave me another twist of anxiety.

“I didn’t hook up with Big Frankie and not learn a few things,” Bridget assured me. “Is your friend in some kind of trouble?”

“I thought she just got
out
of trouble. But now . . .”

Bridget patted my knee. “You shouldn’t worry unless there’s really something to worry about. There’s a worry hormone, too, except I forget what it’s called. But it’s bad for your baby, so chill. Maybe your friend is just having a little party.”

I doubted it. What concerned me even more than the possibility of Lexie being questioned by some kind of federal agency was that Michael might also be involved in whatever had brought the officers to her door.

Bridget spun her car around, and a moment later we were heading up the other driveway to the Tuttle house.

“Now, see here,” Bridget said, shutting off the engine. “You better let me do the talking. I’ve got a way with show-business people. They don’t always respond to please and thank-you and all that good-girl stuff.”

“What are you planning to do?”

She gave me a wink and a grin. “We’re gonna muscle these
people a little. You’ll see. I learned a lot of things from Big Frankie. We’ll get some answers.”

Muscling sounded like a good idea to me. Foremost, I had a few things I wanted to make clear about using my family as a plot for a musical.

B
ridget dropped her empty latte cup into the planter on the porch. We rang the bell three times before Fred Fusby finally opened the front door. He wore striped pajamas that showed several inches of bare, skinny ankle. Hastily, he had knotted an ascot around his neck. His hair stood up on end, and he could hardly open his eyes.

“Fred?” I said when Bridget failed to start her muscling. “Remember us?”

“Yeah,” he said, scratching his head and squinting at my shirt to make sense of what it said. “Of course. What time is it? The preview ran long last night, and then we had notes.”

“Notes?”

Bridget pushed past Fred and strode into the house. “Notes are when the director tells everybody what they did wrong.” She spun on her heel and tilted up into Fred’s sleepy face. “Isn’t that right, handsome?”

He woke up fast. “Uh, right.”

“How did everybody do? Boom Boom was a big blue bust, wasn’t she?”

Uneasily, Fred said, “There’s room for improvement. But that’s what rehearsals are for.”

“Hm.” Bridget tapped her toe while giving Fred a long once-over. “You got any Twizzlers around the house, Fred?”

“Twizzlers? The candy? Uh, no.”

“There’s nothing like a Twizzler first thing in the morning. Except for one thing.”

She grabbed Fred by the ascot and began pulling him in the direction of the cast’s wing of the house. Obviously, Bridget knew her way around the Tuttle mansion. Fred followed her like a gangly wolfhound on a short leash.

I said to their disappearing backs, “Maybe I’ll go look in on Boom Boom.”

Bridget waved over her shoulder and kept going. I went up the staircase and found Boom Boom’s room. I knocked, didn’t hear a response, but decided to enter anyway.

The bedroom was empty. Boom Boom wasn’t in the bathroom, either. I went to the window and peered down onto the terrace. There, on a lounge chair, Boom Boom lay sunning herself. At least, I assumed it was Boom Boom. I recognized her turban. She was completely wrapped in a bathrobe with a towel on her head, covering her face. A tall glass containing some amber-colored beverage stood on the table beside her. Boom Boom didn’t move. She was probably exhausted after a night of ruining my grandmother’s good name. I considered grabbing the nearest lamp and throwing it down at her.

But I refrained. Instead, I snooped through the collection of prescription bottles on her bedside table. There were so many—all
with names of medications I didn’t recognize—that surely anyone would have a hard time keeping them straight. I wondered how easily anyone living in the house could come into this room and steal a few pills without Boom Boom missing them.

Very easily.

I perched on the edge of the chair at the makeup mirror and pondered. Why had the nurse died? If someone laced her cake with a medication—who might have had a motive to do it? To shut her up, maybe? Or to punish her for killing Jenny? Had the nurse been part of a plan to kill Jenny? And had she died for it?

I heard raised voices from downstairs and went out onto the landing. I peered over the banister and saw Poppy Fontanna. She was wearing a set of striped pajamas that matched those Fred had had on. Poppy had tied a kerchief around her head, and it made her look like Rosie the Riveter in the old propaganda poster. She held a skillet in two hands like a tennis racquet.

“I step out of the bedroom to make him some pancakes, and this is what happens? You stay away from Fred, you crazy maniac!” she cried in her baby voice. “Get out and don’t come back!”

In high heels, Bridget stood almost a foot taller than Poppy. “If you had what it takes to keep your man, he wouldn’t come after me.”

“He wasn’t looking for you! He was minding his own business!” Poppy was panting with exertion. “Now, go away!”

“You’re just scared I can beat you out of your role,” Bridget taunted.

“I am not, you—you
amateur
!” Poppy lunged forward and managed to swat Bridget across her backside with the skillet. “I’m not letting anybody grab that role away from me—not you, not anybody! I’m done playing second banana!”

I headed downstairs to intervene. “Ladies, please!”

“You again,” Poppy snapped at me. “Back to do more damage
with your poison pen? I read the review in this morning’s paper. Thanks for nothing.”

“I didn’t write anything for this morning’s paper.”

“Oh, no? Then who butchered
Bluebird
before we even got the show on its feet? Wait till Boom Boom reads the review. She’ll have you fired.”

I pointed at the French doors. “She’s out on the terrace. Let’s go see what she has to say.”

Everyone trooped out through the French doors. I followed as quickly as I could manage. By the time I got outside, Poppy had ripped the towel and the bathrobe off Boom Boom. Except Boom Boom wasn’t there. What I had assumed was the old woman’s sleeping body turned out to be a carefully constructed human form fashioned out of throw pillows.

“Where’s Boom Boom?” Poppy shrieked with all the drama of a star in the spotlight.

“She’s probably having breakfast,” Fred said, putting his arm around Poppy to calm her.

“Or she’s upstairs sleeping,” Bridget supplied. “Jeez, calm down.”

“Boom Boom’s not upstairs,” I reported. “But she can’t have gone far. Not in the shape she’s in. When was the last time anyone saw her?”

Fred said, “Last night, taking a curtain call. Except the audience had already left the theater. She’s so blind she was bowing and throwing kisses to empty seats while the rest of us tried to figure out how to escape out the back without getting rotten fruit thrown at us.”

Bridget grinned. “The show was a bomb, huh? I coulda told you that.”

I said, “Did Boom Boom come home with the rest of you?”

“I wish she had,” Poppy said bitterly. “We could have tossed the
old blue broad over a bridge in the dark and been rid of her for good.”

“So . . . where is she?” Bridget asked.

“I don’t know, and I don’t care,” Poppy snapped, jutting her chin.

Bridget gave me a stink eye. “I have a bad feeling about this, babycakes.”

I had a bad feeling, too. And not just because of Poppy’s overheated acting.

We went out the front door just ahead of the cast-iron pan Poppy threw after us. It clanged on the sidewalk and bounced down the steps with a sound like church bells. Bridget jumped behind the wheel without opening the car door. I barely made it to the convertible by the time Bridget was revving the engine.

She floored the accelerator, and we shot down the driveway. I got my seat belt fastened just as we hit the road and took off like a bullet.

Bridget turned to me, blue gaze delighted. “How about that Fontanna girl? She’s a piece of work, huh? I
like
her!”

“Eyes on the road, please!”

Bridget obeyed and slowed to the speed limit. “She’s got a killer instinct, doesn’t she? My money’s on her for murdering Jenny. Who else could get mad enough to kill somebody?”

“She’s certainly mad right now.”

“Want to hear what I learned from Fred about the mystery investor? Yesterday Boom Boom announced that he
died
! She claimed he choked on a chicken bone and died.”

“So Boom Boom really made him up. There is no mystery investor.”

“Boom Boom had everybody snowed.”

“She pretended to have a big investor so they could lure others into putting their money into the show. Question is, was it just
Boom Boom’s plan? Or were they all in on the fraud? And,” I said, “maybe they were all in on the murders, too.”

“Jeez,” said Bridget, delighted. “You’ve got quite a criminal mind, haven’t you?”

On the way home, Bridget sang show tunes at the top of her lungs.