Little Black Book of Murder (20 page)

“Dubai?” I said, trying to grasp what he was telling me.

“A member of the Saudi royal family mysteriously drowned in a hotel bathtub. He was last seen in her company.”

“She got away with drowning him?”

“Word is, she paid the police to forget she was there.”

That might explain the “expenses” Zephyr mentioned. I asked, “How big was the Saudi?”

“Why are you so interested in his size?”

“I just—­how many women have the strength to drown a man?”

“Something to check,” he acknowledged. “I can't help wondering if maybe there are more she might have finished off.”

“There are,” I said, and took a deep breath. “She killed her own father.”

“Crikey!” Gus sounded truly surprised. “How did you find that out?”

“Sources I can't quote. She shot him back in West Virginia, before she got into modeling.”

Gus let out a few Aussie curses of astonishment.

“Check your little black book for contacts in West Virginia. Maybe she's paying people to be quiet there, too. For me, though, the awkward thing is,” I said, “right now she's here in my house.”

“How did that happen?”

“I bumped into her today, and she ended up coming home with me. I think she wants to stay for a while.”

“Make sure you lock your bedroom door.”

We both fell silent, thinking. My mind raced through everything I knew about the hillbilly supermodel, trying to decide if perhaps killing three men before she married Swain made her the most likely suspect in his murder. If she had killed two boyfriends and convinced the police she was the victim, not a cold-­blooded killer, had the sob story about her sexually abusive meth-­cooking father been a cover-­up, too?

But most of all, I was starting to develop a gut feeling that Zephyr wasn't exactly the lovely, thoughtful person she'd first led me to believe. The act she'd put on—­waiting on her husband hand and foot, weeping as she spoke about the inhumane treatment of animals—­it was starting to feel like an act, all right. In Emma's truck, she had been quite blunt about her relationship with Swain. And here at the house, we'd learned even more about the fairy-­tale marriage of the fashion designer and his beautiful model. It hadn't been as “happily ever after” as everyone thought.

I said, “Zephyr said something peculiar about learning the score about her husband. Something happened when they were in China. Does your little black book reach that far?”

“You want somebody in the fashion business in China? That could be about a million people. Thin the herd for me.”

“I'll see what I can find out.”

Gus said, “We need to nail all this down before I print the story. I'll work on confirming what we've got on Zephyr's past. And you—”

“I have another angle I want to pursue,” I said, thinking of the check Swain had written to his son. Zephyr said the money was paid to make Porky go away. Was that true? What exactly had Swain's relationship with Porky been? Had Porky harbored enough hostility against his so-­called father to murder him?

Gus said, “A promising angle?”

“I'll tell you when I know more. Is my deadline extended?”

Gus let a frustrated moment of silence pass. We didn't have enough solid information to print yet. We had a lot of rumors to confirm first. He said, “Let's have a natter early tomorrow, see what else comes up between now and then.”

“Here's one more idea. I heard Marybeth Starr was broke at the time of her divorce.”

“Last I checked, that's not a motive for murder.”

“Still, it keeps her on the list of suspects. We already know she was upset about the divorce and Swain's new marriage. And she wanted the missing pig back—­probably to continue her genetic research. She has a temper. And she was, if you recall, drunkenly waving a gun in Swain's direction when they were last together.”

“I don't think she's the one to focus on. She hasn't already killed three people.”

I was surprised to hear him give up so easily on the person who might have had the most reason to kill Swain Starr. “So what should I do? Get Zephyr drunk and hope she confesses?”

“She might try to kill you first.”

I pushed my hair off my forehead and tried to think. “We'll be all right. We have extra help at the moment.”

“What kind of extra help?”

I hesitated, sorry I had let this detail about my personal life slip. I admitted, “Michael has people here.”

“People, huh? You mean guys who put bullets into skulls and dump bodies in swamps? I've seen all the movies, you know. Everything from
Al Capone
to
The Godfather
.”

“We'll be fine,” I said again. “Meanwhile, there's a lunch event I must attend tomorrow, and I just thought of somebody who will be there and could be helpful. I'll see what I can find out.”

“All right,” he said. “Just watch your step. I'd be sorry to lose you.”

A moment stretched while I considered the best response to that sentiment. I decided to ignore it. Briskly, I said, “I'll call in the morning if I have anything new to tell you.”

“Call me anyway,” he replied. “I want to know if you survive the night. And, Nora?”

“Yes?”

“It wasn't a bad kiss, was it?”

I took a deep breath. And hung up.

I sat for a moment, stewing. I had left Gus's office thinking I had the upper hand with him. But now I was feeling at a disadvantage again.

I toyed with my phone and tried to put Gus Hardwicke out of my mind. I needed to think about Zephyr now. Specifically how to draw more information from her. Without driving her to murder. I heard sharp voices from the kitchen, so I hurried back.

I found Zephyr pointing a knife at Michael's chest.

“I
can cut a sandwich,” she snapped. “You don't have to treat me like a child.”

With his hands in the universal I-­surrender position, Michael said, “It's just that Lucy likes her grilled cheese cut on the diagonal. It's the only way she'll eat it.”

“With catsup,” Lucy piped up from the table where she sat wearing a milk mustache. “Lots of catsup, Uncle Mick.”

With a shrug, Zephyr relinquished the knife, and Michael cut Lucy's sandwich to my niece's specifications and set the plate in front of her. Max protested her special treatment, so Michael scooped up the baby and held him in one arm while preparing his sandwich, too.

Libby looked up at me from her seat at the table. “Zephyr says you were talking to Porky at his studio. Did he say anything about the twins? About their prospects?”

“Maybe we should be concentrating on Rawlins right now, Lib.”

Busy at the stove, Michael said over his shoulder, “Cannoli and Sons should be calling me soon. We'll get an update.”

“What could the police be doing to my son?” Libby cried. “Are they torturing him?”

“Only if he drank the soda they offered,” Michael said. “It's the first trick in the book. If he drinks it and has to take a leak, he'll be miserable, and that's what they want.”

“Rawlins wouldn't fall for that.” I patted Libby's shoulder. “He watches plenty of
Law and Order
. He'll be fine. They're just asking him questions.”

“For all this time?”

Unaware that I was trying to ease my sister's mind, Michael said, “They'll make him sweat first. Standard procedure. When he's tired and cranky, they'll start. But Cannoli will handle it. Nothing to worry about.”

Libby got up and snatched Max from Michael's arm. “Except the damage to my family's reputation. I've always been grateful my children don't bear the Blackbird name. They don't need that kind of bad publicity. But this is too much.”

Zephyr had been standing at the counter, picking a grilled cheese sandwich apart with her fingers to nibble the cheese inside. She dropped bits of bread into the sink. “What kind of bad publicity?”

Libby said, “Our parents borrowed money they couldn't repay, then fled the country two steps ahead of the police. It was very embarrassing. Thank heavens our grandparents didn't live to see the destruction of the family name. Then Nora took up with—”

“Libby,” I said.

“Well,” Libby said, “then there's the Blackbird curse.”

Zephyr ate more cheese, but looked intrigued. “What curse?”

“All Blackbird women are unlucky in love. We marry in haste, and our husbands die.”

“How do they die?” Zephyr asked. “You mean you kill them?”

Libby let out a trilling laugh. “Of course not, darling. They just die. Accidents, mostly. My first husband died in the pursuit of whale hunters. He was harpooned and drowned. Of course, Nora's husband was shot. My second husband was, too. Or was Ralph my third? Emma's husband was killed in a car wreck. Our aunt Dorothy's third—”

Zephyr said to me, “Did you shoot your husband?”

“No,” I replied. “He was shot in a drug deal.”

“Bummer,” she said. She jerked her head at Michael. “What about him?”

“I'm fine,” Michael said. “I take my vitamins and stay out of trouble.”

“He goes to church a lot, too,” I said. “And prays.”

He sent me a grin and slid a plate in front of me. Suddenly starved, I ate my grilled cheese in no time.

Zephyr said, “Maybe I'm cursed, too.”

Libby's cell phone played a version of “It's Raining Men,” and she grabbed it. A minute later, she seized her coat and headed for the door. “It's the lawyers! They need me now! I get to see Rawlins! I'll be back in the morning, Nora. Take care of my children overnight, will you?”

“Doesn't Lucy have school tomorrow?”

“She can be a little late.”

“Why don't you take the twins with you?” I asked, trying not to beg too desperately. “Think how much they'd enjoy seeing the inside of a police station.”

“They'll be happier here,” she said, shouldering her handbag and reaching for the door. “They have a project going in the barn.”

“What project?” I asked, my blood pressure spiking.

“Maybe they need to do some research,” Michael suggested, sounding casual. “You know, in case they have to create a character for a whattayacallit, an audition.”

Libby's face went through several contortions—­consideration, rejection, rethinking, the dawn of hope for television stardom, then finally a decision. “You've got a point. I'll take the twins. See you in the morning!”

Michael and I barely held back our sighs of relief.

Then Michael said, “Nora, what happened to your sandwich?”

I couldn't remember what I'd done with my grilled cheese, although I seemed to be licking my fingers. I peeked up at him. “Uhm, do you mind making me another one?”

Later, when we'd found places for everybody to sleep and I had showed Zephyr the guest bedroom with its antique bed and extra blankets in case the furnace quit for good, I locked the door of our bedroom and slid under the heap of covers with Michael.

He gathered me up to warm me. “What's the matter with you? Lucy always sleeps on the couch downstairs so her imaginary friend can play the piano.”

“Shh. She's perfectly happy with a sleeping bag in my closet.”

He dropped his voice to a whisper, too. “We could put Max's crib across the hall.”

“He'll be safer in here with us.”

“Safer? What's got into you? I told Dolph he had to spend the night on the staircase because you asked. What's going on?”

Alone at last, I told him the information Gus had given to me about Zephyr and her various dead boyfriends. “We think she killed them all,” I said as quietly as I could manage. “Starting with her father.”

Michael rolled over onto his back and stared at the ceiling to absorb what I had told him. “Your editor thinks Zephyr is a serial killer? What do they drink down there in Australia? She's a perfectly nice girl. Not too smart, maybe, but she's kinda sweet.”

“Are you listening to me? She probably killed at least three men. And you could be next!”

Michael rolled up on one elbow again and tried to subdue me with a kiss. “Nora, sweetheart, you've had a bad couple of days.”

“You were the one who said she shot her father!”

“Maybe I was wrong.” Michael gave up trying to comfort me. The bedroom was dark, but I could see him forming an opinion. Finally, he shook his head. “She seems really nice.”

“As soon as she flashes her chest and gives you the smoldering glance, you're suddenly an expert judge of character?”

“You're a little nuts tonight. Why don't I try calming you down?”

I settled into the bedclothes and pulled the sheet up to my chin. “Not with Max and Lucy right here.”

“They're asleep.” He slid his hand under the covers to touch me. “We could be really quiet.”

I gave him a chaste kiss. “Good night.”

It was the first time I had been alone with him to talk since my horrible scene with Gus. There was so much to tell him. How Gus had heard us in the scullery, how he'd manipulated me, how I'd caused Sammy to lose his job. How I'd quit, then gone back and asked for my job back. And that damned kiss. Eventually, I was going to have to tell Michael about all of that. But I was too tired to relate it all just then. In fact, I heard him say something more about Zephyr, but I was already half asleep. Before he finished, I heard myself exhale a little snore.

Michael tucked me against his frame and let me drift off to dreamland.

But in the middle of the night, something woke me. I lay still, aware that Michael was awake, too.

“Did you hear that?” I asked softly, still not sure what I had heard. A noise in the house? Or something outside?

“Yeah.” Michael was already half out of bed and reaching for his cell phone.

I sat up, too. “What is it?”

“Sirens,” he said, already dialing. As he punched the keypad, we heard a large vehicle pass by the farm, whooping. A red light flashed across the bedroom walls.

While Michael spoke to one of his men at the bottom of the driveway, I slipped out of bed and hurried into the closet to check on Lucy. She was snug in her sleeping bag, sound asleep. I slid my dressing gown off its hanger and put it on. When I came out of the closet, Michael was already zipping his jeans.

He spoke quietly, so as not to wake Max. “The guys think something's on fire up the road. Something big.”

A fire at Blackbird Farm was my worst nightmare. Involuntarily, I put both hands over my mouth.

Michael touched my face. “There's nothing you can do. Stay here with the kids.”

“Where are you going?” I whispered.

“Outside. I'll be back in a few minutes.”

He let himself out of the bedroom, and of course I followed, fastening the satin belt on my elaborate vintage robe. Dolph was sitting on the top step, slurping from a coffee cup and leafing through a bodybuilder magazine. He barely looked up when Michael went down the staircase. But he stared up at me as if I had just walked off the set of a British costume drama on the arm of Prince William.

I said to him, “Stay here. Make sure nobody goes into the bedroom.”

“Nobody, like who?” he asked.

I didn't respond but followed Michael down the stairs and through the dark house. I slid my bare feet into my gardening boots. The kitchen door was open, and I caught up with Michael on the back porch. In the moonlight, he stood still, looking north.

The sky glowed orange, and an eerie light flickered through the trees.

“What's up there?” Michael asked when I arrived at his side.

“That's Starr's Landing. Oh, Michael.”

He put his arm around me, and we stood together, watching the fire light up the horizon. The night air was cold around us. He said, “Is anybody still staying in the house?”

“No, nobody. With Zephyr here, the house is empty. And they moved all the livestock off the property on Sunday. Emma helped.” The first whiffs of smoke began to drift down. I felt an ache in my chest at the thought of the destruction of the beautiful landscape Swain Starr had created—­his last masterpiece. I said, “I hope the firemen are safe.”

In a cryptic tone, Michael said, “I hope the insurance was paid up.”

“I should wake up Zephyr and tell her.”

Michael caught my elbow as I turned. “What's she going to do? Help put out the fire? Let her sleep and tell her in the morning.”

“Maybe you're right. She's not as attached to the place as I thought she'd be.” Not the way I felt about Blackbird Farm, anyway. “She didn't want to go home to it.”

“Y'know,” Michael said, still thoughtfully watching the glow on the horizon, “it's a convenient night for the place to burn, isn't it?”

“What are you saying?”

But I knew. A modern house and that beautiful barn? I had seen the sprinklers myself, and I knew Swain had taken pains to make sure the place would survive a stray cigarette butt. The fire was no accident.

Michael's cell phone rang in his pocket, and he went back into the kitchen to take the call.

I stood for a while longer on the porch, watching the molten glow in the sky.

But I had already sensed something moving around in my barn. I waited until I knew Michael was engaged in his phone call. Then, in darkness, I slipped down the steps and went across the wet grass. A sliver of moon shone down through the still leafless oaks overhead, dappling the ground with meager light.

I caught my balance on the open door of the barn.

“Em?” I said.

Mr. Twinkles threw up his head and snorted. Emma turned from the act of pulling a saddle from his back.

I said, “What are you doing? It's three in the morning.”

She had changed back into boots and jeans with a dark pullover buttoned up to her throat. Her face was white in the half-­light.

Startled, she cursed. “How come you're awake?”

In the barn, I made my way around Michael's fix-­up car parked beside a stack of hay bales. “I asked first. I thought you had a date.”

“His water bed sprang a leak.”

She had tied Toby to the stall door, and the spaniel lay quietly, listening to our voices. Mr. Twinkles was sweating, his eyes luminous, his nostrils distended. When she pulled the saddle off him, I could see his coat matted down from the saddle pad.

I said, “You've been out riding. In the dark.”

“I took Sheffield Road.” She threw the saddle over the stall bars and set about unfastening the cheek buckles on the horse's bridle.

“Em, what have you done?” I said, and my voice sounded hollow.