Little Black Book of Murder (14 page)

“Hi, Aunt Nora.” His voice didn't have much enthusiasm.

I gave him a kiss on the forehead. “Come help me with the dishes.”

I closed the door between the kitchen and the butler's pantry to keep our conversation private. Rawlins followed me and made himself useful without being told what to do. Silent, he carried the wine bottles into the scullery to my recycling bin and scraped plates into the garbage. I wrapped up the leftover loaves of bread and rinsed the dishes before loading them into the dishwasher. Then I ran the sink full of soapy water to wash the glassware and pots. Rawlins pulled a clean dish towel from the drawer.

When I was elbow deep in the water, I said, “So tell me what's going on.”

Rawlins sighed and accepted the first wineglass to dry. But he didn't respond.

“The police called. They towed your car.”

“Mick told me. It was impounded, huh?”

“We took care of it. Your mother paid the fine, so you owe her. But when I showed up, a state trooper got a brainstorm about a connection between you and Michael—­not in a good way. I'm afraid they are keeping the car so they can go through it more carefully.” I put the second dripping glass on the counter. Seriously, I said, “Rawlins, you know you can tell me anything. We're not mad at you. We just want the best for you.”

“I know.” He avoided my gaze, looking miserable. “That's what Mick said.”

I went back to washing dishes. It seemed easier to talk when we weren't looking at each other. “So what happened? You left the car out on Sheffield Road in the middle of the night? Why? Did you run out of gas?”

“That was part of it.”

“Part of it? Were you with someone? A girlfriend? Or Porter Starr?”

My nephew's face turned stony, and he didn't answer.

“Rawlins, it's just me. I'm not the district attorney, but that's who's going to be asking questions next if we don't figure this out.”

“I can't tell anybody. I promised.”

I said, “Did you give Porter the keys to your car?” The boy's face twisted with discomfort, but he didn't answer, so I said, “I ask because I found the keys. Beside Swain Starr's body.”

His eyes widened, but he said nothing.

“Start at the beginning,” I said gently. “Where were you Saturday night?”

“I'd rather not—”

“You know Porter's father was killed, right? He was stabbed, Rawlins. Murdered in cold blood and left to die in a pigpen. I saw everything, and believe me, it was horrible. I haven't felt normal since the moment I found him. But the police are trying to discover who did it, and they're not going to give up until they do, honey. They're going to use sophisticated tests on your car, and they'll probably find DNA from every person who's ever been in it. So you might as well tell me now so we can figure out what to do. We can help you. But only if you tell the truth.”

I thought Rawlins might burst into tears. His face turned dark, and his expression puckered. He didn't look seventeen anymore, but more like he had when he was eleven and I'd caught him playing with matches in the barn.

Michael let himself through the butler's pantry door and stuck his head into the kitchen. He said, “Don't do the dishes, Nora. I mean it. I'll take care of the mess later.”

“It's okay,” I replied. “Rawlins and I are just keeping our hands busy while we talk.”

Michael's appearance stiffened Rawlins's spine. He said, “I can't tell you any more. You can't make me.”

Michael had already turned and was on his way back to the game, but the words Rawlins spoke—­although softly—­made him change course and return to the kitchen, closing the door behind himself.

I glanced at Michael beseechingly, then said to my nephew, “Rawlins, we can help, but you have to tell us what happened.”

Rawlins shook his head stubbornly. “I made a promise.”

“You could get into terrible trouble! Michael, tell him.”

But Michael was silent.

That silence seemed to encourage Rawlins. He said to me, “I can't go back on my word.”

“Honey, are you involved in this murder somehow? How did your keys end up beside a dead man? And your car—­if you didn't use it that night, did Porter? What for?”

“I can't tell you.”

“Michael,” I said, exasperated, “can you make him understand?”

Michael had been watching Rawlins grow more adamant by the moment. He didn't try to convince Rawlins to talk. Instead, he said quietly, “Sometimes your word is more important than the truth.”

Rawlins flashed him a look of relief.

“What is this?” I demanded. “Some kind of misguided code of honor? It's a bad situation, and Rawlins needs to come clean or risk—”

Rawlins said, “I know what I have to do.”

He met Michael's gaze, and the two of them exchanged a look I did not understand.

“So what happens next?” I asked. “Am I supposed to tell the police I found the keys?”

“If they ask,” Rawlins said steadily, “you should tell them the truth.”

“But—”

“Nora,” Michael said.

“This is ridiculous! I don't want to get Rawlins in trouble. We should get everything out in the open so we can help.”

Before I could ask more questions, Michael said, “You ready to go home, kid?”

Rawlins nodded.

Michael pushed open the pantry door and barked, “Dolph!”

The bodyguard appeared as promptly as a summoned dog, and Michael said, “Take Rawlins home. Come straight back.”

Dolph took the order with a nod and went to the door. He opened it and held it wide, waiting.

Rawlins came over and gave me a kiss. “Thanks for understanding, Aunt Nora. I mean it.”

I didn't understand. Not remotely. But I gave him a hug and was surprised to find how tall and substantial my nephew had become. He had a scratchy cheek, too. He had grown up fast, and now the world was getting complicated for him. Maybe he had to become an adult, but this felt like a hard way to do it. Tears stung my eyes as I held him tight and whispered good night. Before he went out the door, Rawlins grabbed a baseball cap off the hook by the door. He put it on, and they went out. Dolph slammed the back door so hard, the windows rattled. The concussion seemed to reverberate in my chest, too. Seeing Rawlins in a hat gave me a terrible thought.

Michael said, “Okay, then.” And he turned to leave.

As steadily as I could manage, I said, “What are you doing? Rawlins needs to come clean.”

“Rawlins has to do what he thinks is right.”

“Do you know what's going on with him?”

“I don't know any more than you do, except he's trying to act in an honorable way.”

“Michael, you should have explained to him that—”

“You don't explain to a guy, Nora. And Rawlins isn't a baby anymore. A messy, emotional, convoluted argument isn't going to work with him.” Michael spoke quietly, but firmly. He set his jaw, too, exactly as Rawlins had done. “He has to think it through for himself.”

“Are you condoning his behavior?”

“You gotta let a kid fall down on the playground once in a while. Maybe he gets his knees scraped, but he gets up by himself.”

“This isn't a playground! We're not talking about scraped knees. He's not being honorable if he's lying!”

“He's not lying. That's the point. You were right with the code of honor crack. He needs to decide what kind of man he is.”

“And if it's a misguided choice?” I asked, struggling with my composure. “If he gets into bad trouble? He could end up in jail.”

Michael had been that boy once—­playing games with the neighbors one day and hurting his brother the next. And paying a dear price. Eventually he moved on to stealing motorcycles and probably other crimes he hadn't told me about—­but crimes that had landed him in big trouble. Nine years in prison had eaten up his young adulthood and set up the house of cards that was the rest of his life now. I ached with the thought that Rawlins might get washed into the same kind of quagmire.

“Jail isn't the worst that can happen,” Michael said, keeping his voice down. “The kid has to figure out who he is.”

I walked away from Michael and found myself splashing into a new puddle on the kitchen floor. Dolph's door slam had somehow triggered another leak, dammit.

Maybe the puddle on the floor was the last straw, I don't know, but like an idiot, I burst into tears.

At once, Michael came over and gathered me up in his arms. “Hey,” he said. “It'll be okay. Take it easy.”

I pushed out of his embrace and choked on my words. “I know who he's protecting, and that person isn't worth the sacrifice. Or maybe it's something totally different. Look at this.”

I pulled the pregnancy test from my pocket. I'd meant to discuss it with Rawlins, but he'd left before I had the chance. I showed Michael.

He went still. “Is that—?”

“A pregnancy test, yes. And it's positive. See the pink lines?”

“Nora,” he said.

“The girlfriend Rawlins was last seeing is away at college, and now he must be dating other girls, so who this belongs to I can't imagine. He's keeping a lot of secrets. If this is his doing, his mother is going to kill him.”

“Oh,” Michael said. “This came from one of Rawlins's girlfriends?”

“It must have! I was working up to talking with him about it, but I didn't get a chance before—­I just can't—­Libby's going to throw a fit.” I could hear myself getting hysterical. “I can't stand it that a man is dead—­a very nice man, who had a family who loved him and—­and—­Rawlins of all people is in the thick of it somehow. But a pregnant teenager, too, is just more than I—­more than I—”

Michael caught me close again. “Calm down. You don't usually lose your head like this. What's the matter tonight?”

“I don't know!” I put my face against his shoulder and tried to steady myself. “Ever since finding Swain, I've been a mess. I'm just—­I'm angry and scared for Rawlins. Plus I don't understand this male posturing.”

“It's not posturing. It's life.”

“Rawlins thinks he's doing the right thing, but I—” Without thinking, I blurted out, “Today my editor—­he gave me an assignment that makes me feel slimy.”

“What assignment? The Starr murder?”

“He wants me to find out everything I can about all the people in Swain's life. Especially Zephyr.”

Michael petted my hair. “That doesn't sound so wrong.”

No, it didn't. Except for the way Gus wanted me to dig out the information—­by exploiting my friends. And there was more, of course. Eventually I would have to tell Michael that Gus had heard us in the scullery. But I couldn't explain all of that now. Not with the poker game several rooms away. Already, it had gone quiet back there, and I guessed they couldn't hear my exact words, but they certainly knew I was having a female meltdown.

So I snuffled up my tears and wiped my eyes. “I need a good night's sleep.”

He held me snug again. “This is a delayed reaction, isn't it? From finding the dead guy. We should have talked it through last night. Want me to take you upstairs? Get you settled?”

“No, that's silly.” I swiped off the last of my tears, feeling foolish. I sucked in a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I'll be okay.”

He kissed me on the forehead. “I'll get rid of these guys and come up with you.”

“No, don't do that. They'll think I'm a ninny.”

“They think you're anything but,” Michael said. “Don't worry. Rawlins will be okay. We'll make sure of it.”

I
gave Michael a kiss and slipped up the stairs. Under the covers twenty minutes later, I conked out as if the Sandman hadn't just dusted my eyes with magic sand, but hit me over the head with his shovel, too.

In the morning, Michael let me sleep late and had the coffee made long before I went downstairs. The kitchen was immaculate, no signs of last night's bacchanal. And I could hear Michael on the telephone in the library, doing business already. He had hit the ground running.

I felt a little queasy after Libby's chili dinner, so I put a thin slice of the fabulous leftover bread into the toaster and poured two cups of coffee. To the noise of morning rain pounding on the roof, I carried them into the library while the bread toasted. Michael had a fire going in the fireplace. I noticed he had pulled on a warm black sweatshirt and jeans—­a sign he wasn't planning on going to Mass this morning. Instead, he paced the floor, his face set while he spoke firmly to someone about the price of gasoline.

Somehow during the last year, Michael had become a self-­taught commodities broker.

He accepted my good-­morning kiss and squeezed my hand, but he didn't interrupt his call. I exchanged his empty coffee cup for a fresh one, and he mouthed, “Thanks.”

Dolph was sitting on the windowsill, absently picking his ear while the rain streamed down the glass behind him.

I went back to the kitchen and ate my toast while opening my laptop. The profile of Zephyr—­I had to come up with something.

Michael had left a note on my laptop.
Zeffer,
it read.
Chicken farm, Mingo County.

He must have gotten in touch with whatever underworld kingpin ran the crime in far-­flung parts of West Virginia. I was intrigued. I tried tapping out a few sentences on my Zephyr story, but all I could manage was how she seemed like a good person—­kind to animals, concerned about the environment and sources of food. She'd been sweet to her husband, who may have gone behind her back to raise animals for slaughter.

On the stroke of nine, Gus Hardwicke called. “Where are you?” he demanded.

“At home,” I said calmly. I had decided to keep my cool with him. “Why do you ask?”

“What have you learned about the murder?”

“Nothing since yesterday.”

“And the profile of Zephyr?”

I looked at the screen of my laptop. I'd written a grand total of three paragraphs. “Do you have the research your assistant was going to gather?”

“I'll e-mail it to you. When do I get the finished profile?”

“Today.”

He hung up.

Trouble was, I wasn't up to the task of writing the profile because I had no new information. All I had were the things I'd observed while interviewing her now-­dead husband. And none of it seemed particularly newsworthy. She liked chai tea. That wasn't the kind of tidbit that would make Gus happy.

A minute later, the e-mail from Gus's researcher came through and I skimmed it—­just the typical press release information about Zephyr's career.

Except there was a tiny piece in a New York gossip column about Zephyr bouncing checks two years ago. The columnist wondered why a model worth millions couldn't hire an accountant to keep her finances straight. I wondered if the columnist had missed the point. Had Zephyr bounced checks because she was broke?

Had she married Swain for his money?

I needed more, and Google was no help. Screwing up my courage, I telephoned Swain's house, hoping Zephyr might pick up. I could offer my condolences, I told myself. I would ask if I could drop in to see her. As a young widow myself, I could at least offer to be a listening ear when she needed it. And maybe face-­to-­face I'd get some ideas for the profile.

I felt like a parasite just entertaining the idea, but . . . my paycheck hung in the balance.

Their phone rang until the voice mail kicked in, and then I heard Swain's voice give the standard “leave a message” line. Spooked by hearing a dead man talk, I hastily hung up and immediately felt relieved. Truth be told, I hadn't really wanted to interview a vulnerable young woman just after her husband had died. Another avenue would surely come along.

I clicked my computer over to the
Intelligencer
Web site and scanned the headlines.

And gasped in horror.

A standard headshot of Porky Starr smirking in his hat was topped by the headline:
STARR HEIR CAUGHT WITH SEXY STEPMOM.

The article detailed how the hotel security cameras had caught Porky sneaking out of the hotel in the middle of the night and how Zephyr had been removed from the same hotel by police a few hours later. The breathless prose hinted that the two had been involved in a tryst on the night of Swain's murder. A slightly fuzzy photo of Zephyr on the sidewalk outside the hotel must have been taken by someone with a cell phone camera. She looked gorgeous and sexy, indeed. Except her bare feet didn't look very clean.

The byline: Gilda Greygoose.

I seized the phone and tried calling Gus. How had he confirmed the information about Porky? Had somebody actually seen him in the hotel? Or had Gus made the assumption that the young man in the hat seen by Fred, the hotel security man, had been Porky, not somebody else?

Somebody like Rawlins in a baseball cap.

Gus's phone rang, but he didn't pick up. I decided not to leave a message.

My problem remained. I needed information. Whom among my acquaintances could I ask about Zephyr?

I had other items on my day's agenda, though. One, in particular, I had been dreading. While rinsing my plate, I had a flash of inspiration. Maybe I could kill two birds. I called my friend Crewe Dearborne, the restaurant critic for Philadelphia's most prestigious newspaper, who picked up on the first ring.

Crewe sounded out of breath. “Nora! It's good to hear your voice. I heard you found Swain Starr's body. Are you all right?”

“I've been better,” I said. My toast hadn't quite settled my stomach, and I wondered if I was even more upset about Swain's death than I first thought. “Why are you panting?”

“I'm on the treadmill in my den,” Crewe reported. “A restaurant critic is either eating or exercising all the food off.”

“Could you take a break this morning?” I asked.

“Are you thinking of going to the art auction?”

“Yes, but I don't want to go alone. I was hoping you could hold my hand.”

“You can hold mine, too,” he said. “This is going to be tough.”

“I need some other information, too. Can I pick your brain?”

“Of course.”

A couple of hours later, I shook out my wet umbrella in the Philadelphia auction house that specialized in liquidating the estates of Old Money families who either died out or went bust. The lobby was decorated with beautifully lighted photographs of past triumphs—­paintings that sold for millions and furniture that had been purchased by museums. In one of the frames, I spotted a silver tea set that had once belonged to my grandmother. She had hocked it to pay for my parents' extravagant honeymoon, and now I saw that it had filled the pockets of its new owners with several hundred thousand dollars.

Crewe Dearborne came into the lobby just a moment later, winding up his umbrella and wiping his brogues on the carpet. He gave me a hug, then held me away from himself to admire my outfit. “Who said the most beautiful thing about a dress is the woman in it?”

“Yves Saint Laurent, I think.”

“He was talking about you.”

I laughed. “Considering who I'm wearing, that's a staggering compliment.”

“Who are you wearing?” he asked indulgently.

“The coat is Valentino.” I flashed open the perfectly cut raincoat with its oversized buttons and mandarin collar to reveal the red-­and-­white-­striped wrap dress beneath—­one item in my closet that hadn't felt too snug this morning. “The dress is TJ Maxx.”

“Whoever the Maxx designer is, he's a genius. Sexy boots, too.”

I frowned down at myself. “There's a fine line between sexy and slutty where boots are concerned.” Especially thigh-­high black leather.

“Those are not slutty. Just enough sexy.” Crewe gave me a kiss on the cheek. “You look pale, though. You've had a bad shock with this murder thing. Really, are you okay?”

“Much better now that I've seen you. We should have gotten together sooner.” I clasped my friend's hand in mine. “Have you heard from Lexie lately?”

My BFF had gone to prison in the fall after a terrible ordeal. At that time, Lexie had just tentatively started seeing Crewe, and he'd been devastated by her guilty plea and incarceration. Even today, I thought his face looked drawn, and perhaps his hairline had receded just another few centimeters. His eyes, turned down at the corners, had a melancholy cast that concerned me. Otherwise, he was his handsome self in a suit and tie, with a damp Burberry raincoat flying around him like a cape.

He continued to hold my hand as we started up the grand marble staircase together. “I got a letter from her yesterday. She sounds upbeat, but that doesn't mean anything. She's only superficial with me. How about you?”

“I'm going to see her on Saturday.” Our first reunion since my dear friend's imprisonment had been a happy one, and I was glad to be seeing her again soon. “But she's upset about today.”

“I'm sure she is. The collection of her lifetime is going on the block, and she can't even say good-­bye.”

I said, “I wish I could buy something—­anything—­and give it back to her. She loves very few things in life, but her paintings are dear to her. I hope the collection makes enough money to solve all the problems with the Paine Investment Group.”

“That,” Crewe said, “would be a miracle. If the economy were better right now, I'd have more hope. But the bidders with the deepest pockets are still running scared. At least, that's what my broker says. How's Mick?”

“Bored,” I said.

Crewe took a closer look at my face. “That makes you nervous.”

“He's allowed to go to Mass. So he goes a lot.”

“Mass? Is that a euphemism for something a little more sinful?”

“I hope not,” I said. “I think he just wants to get in his car and roll down the windows, drive fast and breathe fresh air. But I'm not sure.”

Crewe's brows gathered in a sympathetic frown. “I heard the guys at our news desk talking. They say there's some kind of mob disagreement starting. Over the gambling business.”

A gangland rumble would explain the arrival of Dolph in our house. A dispute within the Abruzzo family usually resulted in extra protection for Michael. I knew there were violent people in Michael's world. Very violent. And the gambling operation—­their primary source of income—­was worth fighting for.

I could trust Crewe with some of what I knew, so I said, “Michael's trying to get out of the gambling business. I think he wants to walk away from the rest of his family and let them fight over it, but . . . it's not that easy. There is pressure from all sides.”

Crewe put his arm around my shoulders and squeezed. “What can I do to help?”

I pasted on a smile. “Come for dinner? Play chess with him? In no time, I think he'd be unbeatable at chess.”

“Not if I'm the teacher. But I'll come. Maybe next week?”

One person from my world who had gotten past Michael's shields was Crewe. Perhaps because Crewe was so easygoing and Michael didn't sense any male bristling from him. So I looked forward to seeing them together. I said, “Sunday or Monday?”

“Monday. It's a date. I'll bring a salmon. There's a guy who's promised to fly me one from Alaska.”

Upstairs, the auction house was mobbed. We made our way through the humming throng before slipping into the back of the main salon—­a large auditorium packed to the rafters with well-­dressed art lovers who clutched numbered paddles in their manicured hands and spoke excitedly with one another. Crewe and I had hoped to arrive just late enough not to be noticed, but no luck. The seats at the back of the auditorium were already full, which forced us to walk down the center aisle to the third row.

We might as well have been in a parade. Several friends called to me, and Crewe was just as busy acknowledging many acquaintances. The majority of the crowd, though, was older—­men over sixty and their fortysomething wives—­well-­dressed “farts and their tarts,” as my father would say. It seemed as if half the city's rich and once powerful had taken the day off to watch Lexie Paine's art collection go under the gavel.

In an aisle seat, halfway back in the auditorium, sat Heywood Kidd, the city's most renowned art collector. Beside him was a new curator in town who had probably been assigned the job of wooing Heywood into donating his collection after his death. Good luck with that, I thought. I suspected Heywood would be buried with his pictures. Dozens of curators had used their wiles with Heywood, and he had resisted them all. But he loved being fawned over.