Blackbird 10 - A Little Night Murder (26 page)

S
he dropped me at Blackbird Farm and resisted all my efforts to get her to stay for breakfast. Or to call the police and turn herself in. She seemed completely unaffected by the idea of Michael languishing in jail while she avoided an interrogation.

“Why won’t she answer a few simple questions?” Libby demanded. “In my experience, talking to the police can sometimes be very pleasant.”

I couldn’t contain my exasperation. “I can only guess she must have something to hide.”

I noticed Libby was packing a selection of my magazines into her handbag while Max whimpered from the safety of the high chair. Noah was on the floor, trying his darnedest to pull himself to an upright position and climb up to Max to torment him. He had a raptorlike gleam in his eyes.

To Libby, I said, “Can’t you stay for lunch?”

Libby shook her head. “I think Max has had enough tension for one day. I’m taking him home before Noah gives him some kind of
inferiority complex. You should try some socialization techniques with that boy, Nora. Before he needs a serious psychological intervention for his aggression.”

I thought Noah looked quite happy. He gave me a big grin while making a grab for Max’s dangling foot. Max shrieked with panic.

“Besides,” Libby said, “I need time to process a few wedding ideas. You know, to formulate a creative plan. You want your wedding to be memorable, right? Well, I’m the girl for that job!”

“Libby, we’re hoping for a quiet wedding, just family and—”

“Nonsense! You’ll regret a quiet wedding—take it from me. My second wedding was a complete disappointment. I have always been sorry I decided against the jugglers.”

I needed time to formulate a better argument if I was going to win this battle. Or I could count on Libby getting distracted by something else. She had the attention span of a hummingbird. There was no telling where she might decide to devote her considerable energies. I plucked up Noah, and we walked outside, where Lucy had occupied herself by climbing a tree to keep a lookout for pirates. Libby coaxed her down and herded both children to her minivan. I waved good-bye.

I bent down and picked up a green pepper from the garden. Noah threw it after Max.

Noah and I had lunch, and I put him down for a nap. While he crooned to himself in the crib, I took a phone call from Armand Cannoli.

“Sorry, Nora,” he said. “The police are keeping Mick a little longer. I’m working on his release, but they can hold him for twenty-four hours without charges.”

“That means he won’t be released until tonight?” I checked my watch and tried not to panic. I needed to get to work in a few hours.

“Looks that way,” Cannoli said. “Unless you know the whereabouts of his mother?”

“She was just here. But she took off. I don’t know where she was headed.”

“Next time you see her, call 911, okay?”

We signed off, and I sat for a moment, trying to stay calm and to think of whom I could ask to babysit Noah while I went to work.

I got on the phone and quickly understood why so many of my women friends went into hysterical rants when talking about the difficulties of finding child care. I scrolled through my address book and made call after call. Libby was busy. Rawlins had taken his girlfriend on a picnic and could not be raised. Assorted neighborhood friends either didn’t answer or had good excuses. As the clock ticked, I found myself feeling more and more desperate. With Michael in jail, I was in big trouble. I realized we were definitely going to need in-house help when the babies arrived.

As a last resort, I called Emma and caught her eating lunch after a long morning of working with Cookie.

She crunched salad in my ear. “In jail, huh?”

“Michael has not been arrested. He’s just being held for questioning.”

“Either way, that’s what he gets for being mean to his brother.”

“Neither one of them was exactly big on brotherly kindness.”

“Whatever. I’m not babysitting.”

“Emma, I’m desperate.”

“I’ll pick you up and take you to work, but that’s all I’m doing.”

“What do I do with Noah?”

“Take him with you. Or call in sick. Lots of people do when their sitters cancel.”

“Not anybody who works for Gus Hardwicke.”

She arrived early at Blackbird Farm, and she checked on her ponies while I struggled to put Noah’s car seat into her pickup truck. A hand-me-down stroller went into the back of the truck, and I
stowed a diaper bag loaded down with all the things I hoped would help me survive any child-related catastrophe. I had thrown on a stretchy maternity dress and ballet flats—purely functional clothes. I added a large garden-party hat—complete with ribbons and a big poof of feathers on one side. Noah was fascinated by the hat.

On the drive into Philadelphia, Emma and I soon reached the conclusion that we could not discuss the Abruzzo brothers without fighting. Noah played with his toes and sang to himself.

“He’s a cute kid,” Emma said. “But I’m not going to take care of him.”

“You looked after Libby’s twins when they were his age.”

“And look how that turned out. Do you know they’re working on a cadaver this summer? They’ve even given it a name—Kanye. They have a cadaver for a friend!”

“Someday, think how good that’s going to look on a medical school application.”

“Or a court order.” Emma shook her head firmly. “I don’t have a good influence on kids.”

“You underestimate yourself.”

“I’ll wait until he can walk and talk. And order from the kids’ menu.”

“That’s almost exactly what Bridget O’Halloran said.”

Emma asked me to describe Michael’s mother, and I told her what I had observed about her—including her penchant for leopard print, her mercurial temper and her habit of pushing people’s buttons just to watch their reaction. But also her sense of humor and her tenacity.

“She’s a handful,” I said when I had listed all her good and bad points.

“Is she a hooker?” Emma asked, as blunt as ever. “Frank says she’s a call girl. At her age, that’s pretty impressive.”

It took me a while to decide how to answer the question. “She
sees a lot of men. And she has expensive taste in cars and clothes and jewelry that somebody indulges. But that doesn’t mean she’s a call girl. Does it?”

My little sister shrugged. “How come you didn’t ask her to babysit?”

“Because I’m not crazy,” I said at once. “There’s no way she’s going to ever look after our children. You should have seen the way she punched Michael the other day.”

“I hear he’s pretty good with a punch when it’s called for, too. That doesn’t make him a bad dad.”

“She’s not babysitter material. Trust me on that.”

Emma pulled up in front of the Fu Manchu restaurant, and I climbed out of the truck. My abandonment sent Noah into a weeping fit. With his cries ringing in my ears, I left my hat on the passenger seat and trundled up the narrow stairs to Krissie Wong’s apartment. She had my dresses ready, and I paid her quickly.

I said, “Would you like me to take Jenny Tuttle’s dresses, too?”

“Oh, I should have told you,” Krissie replied. “I ended up sending them with the
Bluebird of Happiness
costumes. That little lady took them—Poppy was her name. She was much nicer this time. She even brought me a loaf of banana bread. She said she baked it herself.”

“She did?” Last I’d heard, Poppy was saying Fred was the baker. Now she was baking for Krissie? Which was the truth? Thinking the cake might be laced with diet pills, I said, “Just to be on the safe side, maybe you shouldn’t eat that bread.”

“You think I’m crazy?” Krissie asked with a grin. “I never eat anything clients bring to me. I live over a restaurant, remember? I’m real fussy when it comes to sanitation.”

I returned to the truck and gave Noah his binky to calm him down. At the Pendergast Building, Emma helped me get the stroller out and opened up. Noah seemed mildly interested in her, but he
was happy to be in my arms as we waved good-bye and headed inside. He wanted nothing to do with the stroller, so I held him. With a struggle, I dragged the stroller and my dresses and the baby through the security checkpoints. Both guards made a fuss over Noah. He was a big hit with the other passengers in the elevator, too.

When we arrived in the newsroom, Gus looked up from the desk where he was conferring with one of the crime reporters.

“No,” he said as soon as his stormy gaze fell on Noah. “No kids, not ever. This isn’t a nursery school, it’s a place of business.”

Left-handed, Noah pulled out his binky and threw it at Gus. It hit Gus’s tie and left a splotch of drool on the silk.

“This wouldn’t happen,” I said while Gus glared at his tie, “if we had an on-site day-care center.” I hung up my dresses on the edge of the partition between the City desk and the Lifestyle cubicles.

“We have no money for a day-care center. Now, get that troll out of here.”

Mary Jude hotfooted it over to us from her desk. “Ooh, a baby! Nora, he’s beautiful! Can I hold him?”

“Give it to her,” Gus said. “And meet me in my office.” He turned on his heel and walked away.

Noah’s face puckered when I handed him over to Mary Jude, but she was ready with an apple slice. He grabbed it, intrigued. “I was just having my snack,” she said to me. “We’ll share. What’s his name? Whose baby is he?”

I took off my hat and left it on my desk. “His name is Noah. And—well, he’s the baby my sister gave up last winter.”

“So why is he with you?”

“Good question,” I said.

Gus barked my name from his office door, so I left Noah in Mary Jude’s arms and obeyed his summons.

He closed the door, still holding out his tie and glowering at the spot on it. “Have you considered the job offer I extended to you?”

“I’m still considering it.”

“You discussed it with your thug?”

“Michael and I talked, yes. He thinks you have another motive besides my career advancement.”

Gus dropped his tie back into place and smoothed it. “I hear he’s in jail.”

I should have known Gus would have his ear to the ground where Michael was concerned. He had staffers who listened to police scanners all the time. Half the
Intelligencer
’s crime stories came directly from the radio.

“Michael has not been arrested,” I said primly. “He’s answering questions to help the police with an investigation.”

“And his mother’s on the lam. There are BOLOs out in three states. Have you seen her?”

My turn to glare. “Are you asking me in a professional capacity? Or personal? Because I have a few personal questions to ask you, Gus. For one, have you cleared the air with your family yet? Confessed your sins? Told them you fabricated a fiancée?”

He managed a superior expression. “My sister Megan is coming to Philadelphia. She’ll be here Saturday. I’d like you to meet her. She’s a great wit. The two of you will get along fine.”

“Gus! I have not forgiven you for dragging me into your family problem. I want out—completely and cleanly. Why is she coming?”

“She’s the lead dog on my father’s legal team. Negotiations are heating up with the shilly-shallying Americans. She’ll give that mob a gobful.” He smirked at the idea of his assertive sister strong-arming the competition. “While she’s here, though, she’d like to meet you. What about dinner?”

I wanted to shriek. “Didn’t you hear me? I want no part of your
family. I will not be used as a pawn in your business deal. And I’m busy on Saturday.”

“Ah. Honeymooning?”

If he tied me down to pound bamboo slivers under my fingernails, I was not going to tell Gus anything else. I could imagine him bursting in on our wedding with guns blazing—or whatever Aboriginal weapon Australians preferred. So I diverted him. “Wouldn’t you rather hear what I’ve learned about the Tuttle murder?”

“Murders, plural.” Gus folded his arms over his chest and prepared to be unimpressed. “Okay, shoot.”

After deciding that I owed no favors to anyone who was part of a show that embarrassed my family, I intended to share with him everything I had learned. I outlined what I had sussed out since I’d last seen him: how any number of the cast might have wanted Jenny Tuttle dead. How the police were investigating cake laced with drugs. How the mystery investor in Ox Oxenfeld’s production was very likely imaginary—dreamed up to defraud other investors. And the collection of photos I had found in Jenny Tuttle’s desk.

“Photos?” he demanded.

“Lots of them. Lots of kids. I didn’t count.”

“Where are these photos?”

“In the desk where I found them. I’m not stealing evidence out from under the police, Gus. Question is, who are all those children?”

“I’ll be stuffed!” He was delighted. “We have a sex scandal after all! When I came to this city, I was prepared to be bored out of my skull with how provincial it is. But now and then it’s an interesting place, after all.”

I leaned against the door. “The penis stories are beneath you.”

He grinned at me, good humor restored. “By God, Nora, I’ll
make a reporter of you yet. How will we find out about all the children in the photos you found?”

“First someone needs to review the calls that came in to the
Intelligencer
when you ran the original photo of David Kaminsky. The staff assumed they were all crank callers, but some of them might have been on the up-and-up. I talked to one caller myself—he said he was adopted, but we didn’t get any further than that before he hung up. The children in the photos—they’re not Jenny’s children, that’s for sure. I don’t think she could have concealed one pregnancy, let alone a lot.”

“So why was she keeping their pictures around?”

I took a deep breath and said, “I wonder if they aren’t her siblings.”

“Siblings? You mean—Boom Boom’s offspring?”

“No, I think Toodles is their father. He had a notorious access to chorus girls.”

“Toodles? Are you out of your mind? He wrote ooey-gooey musicals that would make Captain von Trapp want to brush his teeth! He can’t have a boatload of illegitimate kids in his closet.”

“Kids weren’t the only surprises in his closet,” I said, thinking of Nico’s story that Toodles had been the life of many parties. “Toodles is the only option that makes sense. But one step at a time. We need to confirm some facts. Have you heard from David Kaminsky?”