Little Black Book of Murder (12 page)

He let a silence stretch, and I suddenly wondered if our phones were being tapped again. Was somebody investigating Michael? And he didn't want to say anything incriminating on the phone with me? Or was he more concerned about Rawlins than he let on? If I spoke to the police about the car Rawlins had abandoned, I had to be sure not to implicate him in anything illegal. After a moment, I said, “I will. Michael?”

“Yeah?”

I gathered up my handbag and headed for the door. “The keys?” If Rawlins had left the car somewhere out on a country road, what were his keys doing in Swain Starr's pigpen the morning I had discovered his dead body?

“I dunno,” he said, guessing what I meant. “If the kid's got a problem, we need to get out ahead of it.”

“Yes.”

“Watch your step. Gotta run.”

We hung up without ceremony, and thirty seconds later, my phone rang again. I assumed it was Michael calling back to say good-­bye properly, so I said, “I love you.”

Gus Hardwicke said, “So soon? Usually it takes women at least a month to fall for my charms.”

“Oh, it's you,” I said, embarrassed all over again.

“Don't disappoint me,” he said. “You were expecting someone else?”

“Is there something I can do for you?” I asked tartly.

“What's the latest?”

“The latest? I've been out of your office for only a couple of hours.”

“Plenty of time to dig up something good. What have you learned?”

“I know the name of the hotel where Zephyr stayed the night of her husband's murder.”

“Which hotel was it?”

I told him.

Gus said, “Who was she with?”

“I don't know yet.”

“It was a man?”

“Yes,” I said uneasily. I wasn't sure how much of what Sammy had told me I should divulge. “A young man.”

“How do you know?”

“A hotel employee saw him on video.”

“What did he look like?”

“They couldn't see his face. He was wearing a hat.”

“The piggy kid?” Gus said, making the same mental leap I had. “What did you call him? Porky?”

“I'm not positive it was him.”

“What else have you got?”

I could have told Gus about Swain's vasectomy reversal, but that seemed like unimportant information, not to mention an indelicate subject. “I think—­look, Marybeth was upset about a pig. The pig she mentioned at the party.”

“Forget about her.”

“The police seem to think she's the primary suspect.”

“She's not interesting enough to sell papers. Next?”

Desperate to give him something that would make him happy, I said, “Nearly all of his children were angry with him at the time of his death.”

“What for?”

“Some business thing. I don't know anything specific.”

“With Starr's fashion company? That could mean big bucks. Okay,” Gus said. “Find out what had them so pissed off.”

“But—”

He hung up.

I glared at my phone. “You're welcome.”

With my fears for Rawlins growing, I called Libby.

“Of course I'm available,” she said when I told her about the police finding the abandoned car and how I needed to stop at the impound lot. She didn't seem disturbed by the idea of her son leaving a car in the middle of the night. She said, “Thank heavens you called. You can help me brainstorm for the twins. I need a branding strategy.”

I hoped she didn't mean heating up an iron and burning a symbol into their backsides as if they could be let loose to roam the range. As far as I was concerned, the twins should not be left unsupervised.

An hour later, I stepped off the commuter train and climbed into her minivan.

She had little Max buckled into his car seat, sound asleep. Part of me wished I could be similarly snoozing.

Libby was dressed in one of her jogging outfits with a T-shirt underneath the velour jacket. The T-shirt said
,
IF ONLY MOSQUITOES SUCKED FAT INSTEAD OF BLOOD
. . .

Libby had never jogged a day in her life, but she believed the tracksuits in her colorful collection were slimming and made her look energetic to any male person she might casually encounter during her day. Instead of running shoes, today she wore a cute pair of wedge heels with a peep toe that showed off a somewhat-­chipped pink pedicure. A matching Bakelite bracelet on her wrist clanked against the steering wheel.

“You won't believe what it costs to bring a child up to performance level these days,” she began as soon as I had buckled my seat belt. “There are elocution classes and movement workshops and readings and fittings and—”

“Fittings for what?” I asked. “Have the twins been cast in something already? Libby, that's amazing.”

Amazing because I had never guessed my twin nephews were remotely interested in anything pertaining to show business. I had always assumed Harcourt and Hilton would end up either working as crime scene experts or serving time for some gruesome dismemberment. Even Michael was afraid to be alone in the same room with them.

“No, of course they haven't been cast yet,” Libby said. “We're doing all the prepping, though. Training and whatnot. Their wardrobe is immensely important. Have you ever seen a child performer poorly dressed?”

Yes, as a matter of fact, I had. But I said, “What kind of wardrobe are you buying for them? Something from the Starr Collection?”

“Heavens, no. Porky hates those clothes. Too fuddy-­duddy. I get the distinct impression Porky hated his father's guts, by the way. So I've hired a wardrobe consultant.”

“Wait—­how did you get the idea Porky and his father didn't get along?”

“He gets this look on his face when his father's name comes up. I've been a parent long enough to know what that expression means. It's a long-­standing father-­son feud, probably stemming from a psychological issue regarding the mother figure. Porky always felt unloved, so he left the family and broke out on his own, and now he doesn't even want to think about his father.”

All of Libby's usual mumbo jumbo was based on the late-­afternoon TV shows she watched and the pop psychology books she read so avidly while waiting for after-­school ballet classes or swim practices to be over. She might be a crackpot most of the time, but now and then, she came up with observations that were spot-­on. I remembered how Marybeth had spoken of her children, but Porky had been an afterthought.

“Anyway,” she continued, “I've hired a wardrobe consultant. He's a young man with a shop in Manayunk, just around the corner from the studio where the classes take place. The shop is very vintage Hollywood with a little punk thrown in, cutting-­edge fashion. And he stocks adorable things. I got a Hells Angels skullcap for Maximus.”

I turned around to look at the baby, but Max was hatless. He had something in his hands that might have been a hat once. He had been chewing on it. I turned back around in my seat. “Is that where your bracelet came from?”

Libby took her hand off the wheel to wave her wrist. “This old thing? Why—­well, yes, as a matter of fact. Why shouldn't I buy myself a bauble now and then? And Drake is not so much a salesman as a connoisseur of fine things. He appreciates a person's spirit and finds just the right accessories. His insight is an amazing gift. The twins, though, they're very difficult to brand.”

I decided not to inquire about Drake. If Libby had already pegged him as potential boyfriend material, there was no stopping her. So I asked, “You're branding your children now?”

“It's a vital part of the child performer process. Should they be Michael J. Fox or Honey Boo Boo?”

“My bet is they don't want to be Honey Boo Boo,” I said.

“Just an example. They're going to be their own brand, of course, but we're fine-­tuning the concepts. I thought you and I could stop in a hair salon where I'm told they do great haircuts for boys. All of the Phillies baseball players get their hair done there.”

I had seen the Phillies players, and none of them looked particularly well-­groomed to me. Shaggy, unshaven and tobacco-­spitting seemed to constitute their “brand.”

“Libby,” I said, “how many consultants have you hired? Do you think maybe it's a little early to be going overboard with this child star thing?”

“Child
performer
,” she corrected. “We don't want to get ahead of ourselves. It's bad karma.”

“Good thinking,” I said. “Listen, it's not the twins I wanted to talk to you about. What's going on with Rawlins?”

“That boy!” she cried. “He'll be the death of me. Well, no, the twins will probably be the death of me, and I'll end up pickled in my own refrigerator. But Rawlins—­! I thought we were finished with the problems he used to bring home.”

“What did he used to bring home?”

“He has no sense when it comes to choosing his friends. It's been that way all his life. Even in kindergarten, he'd bring home one three-­legged puppy after another. Do you remember the boy who set fire to my living room rug?”

“I thought that was Harcourt.”

“I mean the first time,” Libby said. “And then there was the kid who gave us lice. And the girl who released the mutated frogs in our bathroom—”

“Wasn't that Hilton?”

“And the boy who started Rawlins on piercing his ears. Not to mention his eyebrow and his nose and that awful rivet he wore in his cheek for a while. That friend ended up with his earlobes stretched down to his shoulders!” Libby frowned. “Although I hear he is playing in a rock band now, and he's very successful. I wonder if it's time Rawlins looked him up again? Maybe they need a drummer.”

I was having trouble keeping up with all the catastrophes in my sister's household. “Rawlins plays the drums?”

“How hard can it be?” she cried. “I'm trying to make a future for my children, Nora. If I'm ever going to have a life of my own, I need to make sure my offspring can function without me. I want them to have all the advantages and not be dependent for the rest of their lives. They need skills and connections and—­and—­only then can I become the fulfilled person I'm destined to be, a woman with a wonderful, full life.”

“Lib, you're already a wonderful person, and you have a very full life. Didn't you just get reelected to be president of the Erotic Yoga Society?”

“Those losers,” she muttered. “Now they want to start a hot yoga class. I thought that sounded very exciting until they told me it just meant turning up the thermostat. I get red in the face when I get hot, and it's very unbecoming. No, Nora, I need more challenges, more adventures, more meaningful relationships with people who can nurture my spirit. Even Drake says so.”

“Uh-­huh.” With caution, I said, “You aren't pinning a lot of hope on this Drake person, are you? Because if he owns an accessory shop in Manayunk that helps young boys find their brand, chances are he's not really your type, Libby.”

“What do you mean?”

“You have many talents,” I said, “but your gaydar is terrible.”

“You think Drake is gay?” Libby cried.

“He has insight into your spirit? Have you ever known a heterosexual man who has anything approaching spiritual insight, let alone Bakelite bracelets?”

“How can I be so
blind
?
Oh—­forget the twins. Let's go shopping.”

L
ibby pulled into a mini-­mall parking lot, and we got out of her van. She unbuckled Maximus from his car seat, and he woke up happy. I took the baby from her arms as we walked into a boutique with a sexy red dress in the window. Inside, I realized all the dresses were red. The shop was decorated with hearts and little cherubs that floated along the ceiling. The expressions on their faces were a little unnerving, though. They reminded me of a horror movie about a demented, revenge-­seeking puppet.

The shop's female owner fluttered over, wearing a red apron that depicted two breasts threatening to burst out of a corset, which set the tone for the establishment. She and Libby hit it off like soul sisters. I found a spot on the window seat with Max. From Libby's diaper bag, I pulled a container of cheddar-­flavored Goldfish. I popped them into Max's eager mouth while Libby rushed over to the display racks and began loading the owner's arms with garments. Within minutes, Libby was trying on outfits in a dressing room.

She came out wearing an extremely tight red dress that made her look as if she were wrapped in bloody bandages. “What do you think?”

“It's definitely your color.”

The shop owner nervously eyed the zipper, which looked as if it might explode any second and put somebody's eye out. “We can order—­uh, other sizes. I'll go check the computer.”

While she went off, Libby frowned at herself in the mirror. “I don't know why stores don't stock larger sizes all the time. The average American woman is a size sixteen, for heaven's sake. Nora, don't you think this would be nice for the right occasion?”

“It's very sexy,” I said, still striving for diplomacy. “Did you get your carpenter ant situation fixed so your date wants another shot?”

She sighed, and her reflection drooped in the mirror. “Perry did a preliminary spray treatment. He's coming back tomorrow for another check. It's going to cost me a fortune, but who wants ants all over the place? Even the twins are grossed out, and that's saying something.”

I remembered Perry Delbert from last winter. He was a local exterminator who looked like a big honey bear, except with smudged eyeglasses that kept sliding down his prominent nose. I had noticed he gazed at my sister with a particularly smitten look in his eyes, but Libby was blind to his infatuation. To her, he would always be the bug man.

My phone pinged in my handbag for the third time since Max and I had sat down, and I glanced at the screen. It was just another text message, this time from the editor of the online version of the
Intelligencer.
He asked which party video I wanted for tomorrow's edition, a question he'd already asked, and I'd answered. I texted him back as politely as I had the first time.

Libby checked the price tag hanging from the armpit of the red dress. “You're so much busier than before, Nora. What's going on? Still having a problem with your boss?”

“It's not just him,” I said, sending the text. “The social season is heating up. The flower show always kicks off spring in a big way, so I've got a lot of big events on my calendar. And the Farm-­to-­Table Restaurant Gala is Friday.”

She perked up. “That sounds like fun. Should I go?”

“I'll get you a ticket. Or tickets if you'd like to bring a date. It's supposed to be very elegant.”

“I could wear this dress!” She perked up. “I'll get back to you about the number of tickets.”

“Maybe I should invite Emma, too.”

“She probably won't come. She's obsessed about Filly Vanilli.”

“She told you about that?”

“Of course. She asked me to send a mass e-mail to my PTO friends to see if anyone had a used one. Filly Vanilli is very popular. I told her she'd probably have to find one on the black market for her friend's nephew.”

“Nephew?” I said. “I thought she was trying to find one for her boss's new baby.”

Libby shook her head. “I'm sure she said it was for a nephew of someone she met in line at the post office. But now she's insanely obsessed. She told me she ransacked a flea market yesterday because somebody said a dealer was hiding a couple of Filly Vanilli horses under the Beanie Babies.”

“That doesn't sound like Em.”

“Her hormones are still out of whack. If I thought it would help, I'd give her my collection of Cabbage Patch dolls. The twins cut most of them apart and burned the heads for a movie they made last Halloween, but I have a couple left.”

“Libby,” I said, trying to reel her back around to the important topic, “it's Rawlins I wanted to talk about.”

Libby groaned and began flipping through red lingerie that was hanging on a rack by the window. “His friends are going to get him into trouble, aren't they?”

“He has perfectly good taste in friends,” I said reasonably. “And that girl he was dating last summer? Shawna? Didn't she go to Harvard in September?”

“And they promptly broke up.” Libby pulled out a silk teddy and gave it a critical scan.

“Who has he been seeing lately?”

“I assume he's been hanging out with his usual friends. Before Christmas, he was writing a science fiction graphic novel with two other boys. They draw the pictures, and he writes the story.”

“And Porky Starr? The talent scout?”

Libby shook her head and put the teddy back. “It's the twins Porky has taken a wonderful interest in.”

“But Rawlins took Porky home when his car was being worked on? And they've been together a couple of times since then?”

“What are you suggesting?”

“I'm not suggesting anything, Lib. I'm just concerned that Rawlins is hanging out with someone who might not be the best influence. For one thing, Porky's four or five years older than Rawlins.”

Libby found a nightgown with spaghetti straps and a see-­through décolletage. She went to the mirror and held it up against herself. “Rawlins has always needed a father figure.”

Porter wasn't nearly old enough to be a father figure. I said, “What do they do together?”

“How should I know? Go to the malt shop? Skip stones on the river, maybe? What do boys do these days?” She hooked the spaghetti straps over her shoulders and squinted at her reflection.

“Well, I'm pretty sure they don't abandon their cars in the middle of the night.”

Libby spotted the owner returning and hastily took off the nightgown. “Rawlins probably had engine trouble or something.”

“Does he let other kids drive his car?”

“He'd better not. He knows my insurance doesn't cover that.”

The owner returned and expressed sorrow that the red dress didn't come in a size sixteen. They retreated to the dressing room, where I could hear Libby lecturing the woman about size discrimination.

Max squawked at me. His language skills hadn't exactly grown over the winter, but I knew what he wanted. I pulled out three more Goldfish and held them out to him on my palm. He made a grab and stuffed his face with a broad, toothless smile of thanks. I ate a few Goldfish, too, with Max pushing them into my mouth. I used my handkerchief to swab some of the orange drool from his chin, and then we played peekaboo with each other. Max giggled with delight at the game. Like all of Libby's children, he had a happy heart. His lack of language skills seemed inconsequential. He'd talk when he needed to. I leaned over and gave him an impulsive kiss on his chubby cheek.

Libby paraded two more red dresses for me. Both were too small and better suited to younger women—­women who didn't wear underwear. I refrained from saying so and hoped Libby saw for herself. She went back into the dressing room to put her clothes back on.

To the boutique owner, I said, “Do you carry any dresses by Swain Starr?”

“Oh, isn't it terrible that he died?”

“Just awful,” I agreed. “Do you have any of his clothes?”

She shook her head. “In the store where I used to work, they carried all of his things. But that was years ago before the problems started.”

“Problems?”

She bit her lip. “I probably shouldn't say more. Maybe the company will recover, right?”

“What do they need to recover from?”

“They used to be a great company to work with. But things have fallen apart in the last five years or so. Supply issues, mostly. They did great advertising, but the good clothes never made it to the retail level, or if they did, the fabrics often shrank, and returns became an issue. I heard Swain lost interest in running things, and his family had to learn everything from the ground up. I hope they get their act together. The Swain brand is very popular.”

Libby came out and bought some panties, and we went outside to the minivan.

“Before we go to the car impound lot,” Libby said, “would you mind if I stopped at the salon to make an appointment? If I'm going out Friday night to the Farm-­to-­Table gala, I might need a facial.”

“Take your time,” I said, barely stifling a yawn.

Libby pulled out of the parking lot and headed for town. “What's the matter? Aren't you getting enough sleep?”

“It was a short night last night,” I admitted.

“Emma says . . .”

I thought it was a good sign that my sisters were speaking again. “What does Emma say?”

Libby shot her eyes sideways at me. “She says That Man of Yours is being rather demanding.”

“He doesn't demand anything,” I said. “He's . . . energetic, that's all.”

“He's bored.”

“A little,” I admitted.

“Has he read the book?”

“Which book?”

“The book everybody's reading. About sex,” Libby said. “Handcuffs and feathers and blindfolds and all the unusual things you can do. Is he—? Are you—?”

“Michael finds nothing playful about handcuffs. We're not doing anything unusual, Libby, so wash out your brain, please.”

“Well, that's disappointing,” she said on a sigh. “I was hoping to get some new ideas.”

“Why don't you just read the book?”

She groaned. “The twins found the last book I bought, and I don't want to go through
that
again.”

When Libby parked and dashed into the salon, I stayed in the minivan with Max. We rolled down all the windows just an inch for fresh air, and I sang silly songs to him. But he fell asleep at once.

My phone jingled, and I checked the screen.
Gus Hardwicke
.

I answered. “Yes?”

“What have you got for me?”

“I heard another rumor that Porter Starr and his father don't get along.”

“Boring.”

“Swain's fashion business has been having management problems for the last five years. Maybe that's why he transferred the company to his children.”

“It's hard to make readers give a toss about rich drones with money problems. What else?”

I thought I'd gotten some good information, but he still wasn't satisfied. “Nothing else yet.”

“Zephyr. I need stuff about Zephyr,” Gus said, and he hung up.

I leaned my head back against the headrest and tried to think of a way to learn more about Zephyr. But I suddenly felt very drowsy. In the backseat, Max gave a little snore, and soon I was dead to the world, too.

I jolted awake when Libby climbed back into the minivan.

“You were sleeping,” she said, extending her foot at me, “so I got a pedicure. What do you think?”

I rubbed the crick in my neck and looked at her toes. Schiaparelli pink. “Nice,” I said. “How long was I asleep?”

“An hour,” she said. “I figured I'd give you an extra hour for ordinary sex tonight. Let's go get that car Rawlins left in the woods.”

The township impound lot was located near the state police barracks. When Libby pulled in and parked, Max woke up and demanded his mother's attention. While she changed his diaper, I went looking for someone to talk to about the car. I could see the vehicle behind a chain-­link fence.

A tall state trooper was coming out of the building. When he saw me at the fence, he came over, wearing his Mountie-­style hat with the chin strap under his lower lip. “You're Nora Blackbird. You were at the Starr farm on Sunday.”

“Yes, hello.” I shook his hand. He had been the first trooper on the scene of Swain Starr's death, and I had answered his questions. His name badge was printed with his last name:
RICCI
.
I said, “I hear you have more questions for me.”

“Just a few. I didn't make the connection when we talked at the farm. You're living with Mick Abruzzo, aren't you? I spent a few shifts in a cruiser sitting in front of your driveway last winter. You brought me coffee.”

Over the winter after Michael was released from prison, the state police had maintained a vigil at the bottom of my lane. We guessed they wanted to be sure he didn't sneak off Blackbird Farm and go on a one-­man crime spree. A few times I worried the police were going to get frostbite while they watched the house.