Little Black Book of Murder (25 page)

In the end, he ordered a hanger steak, rare. He drank three inches off the top of his beer as if the task of ordering had made him thirsty. When the basket of rolls arrived, Gus pushed them aside.

“Back to the Starr murder,” he said, getting down to business. “I'm still going with Zephyr.”

I tried not to gaze longingly after the bread basket. “She grew up poor. As a teenager, she killed her father at their home in West Virginia. Other than—”

Gus nodded and twirled his finger for me to continue. “Tell me what else your boyfriend learned about her.”

“What makes you think Michael had anything to do with that information?”

“You said you couldn't quote your source. You have a certain protective tone in your voice when you mention him. Ergo, he learned the details about Zephyr. Come on. There must be more.”

I ticked off on my fingers what I knew. “Zephyr got into beauty pageants, then modeling. We know she traveled to Paris and Milan. You say she killed two boyfriends, which brings her victim count to three. You also say she was paying the Saudi police for silence, and I got the impression she had financial problems. Maybe she paid off more people to keep quiet? She wanted a child—­maybe to ensure she'd get some child-­support income if Swain died—­and her husband was doing everything he could, even enduring surgery and an unpleasant recovery period, to give her the baby she wanted. But none of that adds up to a reason for her to kill Swain. So let's forget her for a moment. Let's talk about Tommy.”

“You get a glow when you talk about murder. Did you know that? Maybe that's why you're attracted to your thug. Crime turns you on.”

I ignored him. Since we were sitting in Tommy's restaurant, I kept my voice low. “Tommy had a serious disagreement with Swain Starr over the production of pigs. He thought Swain had betrayed and cheated him when their prototype pig went missing. As a sidebar, I believe things aren't quite on the up-­and-­up in Tommy's kitchen.”

Gus groaned with exasperation. “The man's such a bore, he puts me to sleep. I'm only slightly heartened to think he has something interesting going on. Could he be a shady character underneath the dull facade?”

“Gus, Tommy and Swain thought they could raise a perfect pig from something Marybeth had bred. But instead of obtaining it in a civilized way, they stole it from her. At least, that's what I think happened. Tommy and Swain stood to make a lot of money from what they obtained from her, but also I think they both wanted credit for bringing this miraculously delicious pig to the table. When the lynchpin of the breeding stock disappeared, Tommy blamed Swain. Marybeth blamed Swain. I don't know who Swain blamed.”

Gus had been frowning at me. “I'm with you so far. What's your point?”

“Maybe Tommy killed Swain over the pig disappearance. The pig was his big chance. His means to be famous and save his restaurant.”

“His rescue was coming from a pig?”

“Your father has his newspaper empire, not exactly a pristine one. But I presume you'd be angry if somebody tried to steal it from your family. Or,” I said, “would you rather just forget about working and go spearfishing instead?”

He smiled into my eyes. “I might spear the empire myself someday.”

“Who's the blonde in the bikini?” I asked.

“My ex-­stepmother,” he replied coolly. “My father's third wife. She's great in bed.”

I took another slug of iced tea, and we regarded each other. I wondered under what circumstances Gus had been chased out of Australia. I could probably find out by using my own little black book of contacts.

Meanwhile, he looked very attractive sitting in the restaurant with young hostesses staring dreamily at his broad shoulders. Even seated at a small table, he cut a manly figure. His hair looked burnished from the sun, and his smile had a devilish twist at the edges.

His gaze dropped appreciatively to my suit. “Does the jacket component of that outfit come off?”

“Not in public,” I said.

If he was disappointed, he didn't let it show. He drank more beer and set the glass back on the table. “I notice you're better motivated to work on this case now. Protecting your nephew?”

I made a conscious effort to stop thinking about how attractive my editor was. “He's a good kid with a lot of potential. He doesn't deserve what's happening to him.”

“Where there's smoke, there's fire.”

“If there's smoke, somebody's blowing it in his direction.”

“A conspiracy? To frame your poor, innocent nephew? That seems a little far-­fetched, luv.”

“Rawlins had no reason to kill Swain. At the moment, I think Tommy could be our man. He claimed he was out foraging when the murder happened, but can he prove it? And since he's a Rattigan, we know he can get angry. We need to find out how much of his life depended on the success of the pig.”

“Hmm.” Gus seemed to take my theory seriously. “You mentioned things aren't quite on the up-­and-­up with this restaurant. How well do you know your way around?”

“I've been in the kitchen area, if that's what you're asking.”

Gus leaned forward, elbows on the table. Anyone watching probably thought he was about to share an intimate confidence. “That's exactly what I'm asking. You could find Rattigan back there? This afternoon? Now?”

“I suppose so, yes, if he's here.” Uneasily, I asked, “Why?”

From the pocket of his jacket, Gus pulled a small cardboard box, the size in which a jeweler might package a ring. He popped the box open and upended it. Into his hand fell a small black object—­something electronic, no bigger than a nickel.

“What is that?” I asked.

“A bug.”

“A—?” I looked into his face and found him meeting my gaze directly, suddenly serious.

“It's a sophisticated electronic listening device. I want you to take it back to the kitchen and find Rattigan. I want you to put it in his pocket or somewhere—­anywhere—­so we can listen to what he has to say.”

“Are you kidding?” I demanded after a heartbeat.

“If we can listen in, we may hear what he has to say about Starr's death. If you're right, we might get a full confession.”

“Is this legal?”

“Do you ask Abruzzo questions like that?”

“We can't do this!”

“It's not legal,” he agreed.

“More important, it's wrong. We'll get caught. We'll go to jail.”

“You won't get caught. And nobody goes to jail for this kind of thing anymore. Slap on the wrist, pay a fine, it's done. Besides,” Gus said, “do you want to save your nephew's neck? Or not?”

Before I could speak, our waiter returned. Or, I thought it was our waiter. An instant later, I realized it was Tommy Rattigan who appeared beside us, buttoned into his chef's jacket, sweat on his dark face.

“Hardwicke?” he said.

Gus had palmed the bug before Tommy's shadow quite crossed our table. He glanced up, friendly. “Yes?”

“You son of a bitch. I want you to stay away from my sister!”

Tommy hauled back and slugged Gus across the jaw and sent him sprawling out of his chair. Before Gus could scramble up from the carpet, Tommy bent down and seized him by his lapels. He dragged Gus up to a half-­sitting position and tried punching him again. He had powerful strength in his arms, but Gus's advantage could have been his greater size and quicker reflexes. But Gus couldn't get up off the floor. They struggled, grunting, and then Tommy let fly another blow that glanced off the side of Gus's head. I leaped to my feet and grabbed my iced tea, prepared to fling it on them as if they were a couple of snarling dogs. But Gus fell back on the carpet, no fight left.

Standing over him, Tommy pointed a trembling finger at Gus and snapped, “And get the hell out of my restaurant!”

He stormed off, red-­faced and breathing hard.

I looked down at Gus. “Stay away from his sister?”

Gus stayed where he was, looking up at me and rubbing his jaw. “I guess I should have mentioned this earlier. The man with Marybeth Starr the night her husband was killed? That was me.”

W
e went outside. On the sidewalk, I spun on Gus. “You slept with Marybeth Starr? She's twenty years older than you are!”

“She's an attractive woman. Eager for male companionship. Divorcées and widows often are. Cuts down on tiresome preliminaries. She was a tigress in bed.”

“You are,” I snapped, “a total snake!”

“I blame you,” he said. He had scooped the ice out of my iced tea and wrapped it in one of the restaurant's white linen napkins. He held the makeshift ice pack against his face. “Listening to you and your thug humping in the closet, then seeing you afterward—­the look in your eyes and the well-­shagged wobble in your usually ladylike walk—­it gave me the urge. I left your house and drove down the road a couple of miles and saw the silver Mercedes parked outside a bar. So I went in, and she was having a drink. A big drink. She wasn't you, but she wasn't bad. We had a good time together. She is an experienced lover, just my type.”

Boiling inside, I turned and walked half a block. He matched me stride for stride. I said, “You spent the whole night with her?”

“Why does that matter to you?”

“It doesn't matter one iota to me,” I snapped. “But the police are going to ask about your timetable. You're her alibi!”

“Our timetable wasn't as brief as yours in the closet.”

“It's not a closet,” I said, feeling completely ridiculous and knowing full well that he was goading me again. We were stopped at a traffic light, and two more pedestrians appeared around us. They glanced uneasily at the dripping napkin Gus held against his face. Then their expressions turned suspicious when they looked at me. I was almost sorry I hadn't punched him myself. At least I could have enjoyed the satisfaction. The light changed, and they both walked hastily across the street. I stayed where I was.

So did Gus. Still clasping the ice pack to his jaw, he said, “We didn't spend the whole night together. There's always a scene in the morning, and I'd rather get to work than try to make peace with a weeping woman.”

“Spare me the details of your sex life.”

“Are you jealous?”

“For heaven's sake!”

“Do you and the thug like sex in the morning?”

I almost told him Michael liked sex day and night, often both, but I had just enough presence of mind to hold back.

“Anyway,” Gus said, “she needed a pick-­me-­up. The silly cow was upset about her husband's new farm, and she'd had some kind of career setback, so it was natural for her to turn to—”

“What kind of setback?”

“I wasn't interested enough to ask. It doesn't matter. She's not important. We're in good shape now.”

I turned to look at him at last. “Who's in good shape?”

“You and me.” He showed me the empty box. “You don't really think I'd let a weenie like Tommy Rattigan knock me down, do you? I faked it and slipped the bug into his pocket. If he says anything about the murder, it'll be recorded. We can start listening any minute.”

I stared at him for a second, my mouth open. The ease with which he broke the law shouldn't have shocked me—­I'd had plenty of time to get used to Michael's occasional walks on the wild side—­but I was stunned just the same. In his handsome suit and tie, Gus hardly looked like a criminal, but that was exactly what he was—­a low-­down, dirty criminal who could have done his job by taking the ethical high ground, but didn't bother with that.

I snapped my mouth shut and swallowed the lump of disgust in my throat. “I'm going to walk away now, and I don't want you following me.”

“Oh, enough with the outrage.”

“I have an event to attend,” I said with more calm than I was feeling. “And you need to go back into the restaurant. You need to tell Tommy that you accidentally dropped something into his pocket and you want it back.”

I must have spoken with more ferocity than I thought.

“Okay,” Gus said, nodding, full of contrition.

“You can't pull that kind of cowboy stunt here. This isn't some Third World town where you can make up your own rules. It's Philadelphia, the birthplace of the Constitution!”

“I know,” he said.

“Go get that bug back.”

“Right.”

I left him on the corner holding the ice to his swelling face. I walked across town to my next event.

Since I was within walking distance of a place I'd learned about from Michael, I went a little farther and pushed through the door of a giant pawnshop on the edge of South Philly. A clerk looked up from a computer and nearly knocked over his own chair to get to me fast. When I asked after the proprietor, one of Michael's shady friends, I was told he was off the premises. The clerk stood behind glass cases full of glittering watches and abandoned jewelry, trying to look down the black lace of my cleavage.

It was time to do something about our financial situation, so I pawned the earrings Todd had given me. I walked out with two hundred dollars. I could have taken a cab with that money, but I decided a continued austerity plan was good for me, so I walked the rest of the way to my evening event.

Even though I'd made a detour along the way, I arrived fifteen minutes too early for the party and grabbed the first waiter who walked past. “Are there any appetizers?”

He must have seen I was as ravenous as a wolf, because he provided me with a plate. I took it out to the garden and ate while trying to put Gus out of my head. Maybe he wanted to sell newspapers, but bugging a suspect was way, way out of my comfort zone. I wanted nothing to do with it. I only hoped he was taking my advice at that very moment and returning to the restaurant to retrieve the listening device.

Somehow, I doubted it.

The party was a small cocktail affair in the magnificent home of a friend of mine, Angelica Gump, a pipeline heiress. Angelica championed a scholarship fund for foreign students who wanted to study in the United States. Any student who wanted to study American law could apply for a grant from her foundation. She gave considerable money to the fund every year, and she threw an elegant party on her patio to encourage other contributors.

I sat on a carved marble garden bench and brushed my fingers through the pink peonies that had been massed in twin flower pots on either side of the bench. Where must peonies be shipped from at this time of year? I wondered how many meals Michael could put on a table for the price of those peonies. But extravagances like flowers encouraged big donors to give more money. So I understood the strategy.

My phone rang.

When I answered, Emma said, “Where are you?”

I told her. Then I said, “I'm not feeling very kindly disposed to you at the moment.”

But she had hung up and didn't hear me.

Within a few minutes, Angelica—­six feet two in her towering Louboutin heels and a fire engine red cocktail dress—­came out onto the flagstone patio and made a beeline for me. She was not exactly beautiful—­her family's nose was a spectacular genetic specimen—­but she elaborately made up her dark eyes and always looked exotic.

“Nora, somebody said you were here already. Is everything all right?”

I got up from the marble bench as I tried to swallow my mouthful of bruschetta with heirloom tomato and fresh basil. Apologetically, I said, “I missed lunch. I'm starving. I tackled one of your waiters and wrestled him to the ground to get some food. Is he traumatized?”

Angelica laughed. “He'll survive.” She gave me a hug and steadied the plate in my hand when I bobbled it. “You look like you just walked out of a fashion magazine—­as always. You're a peach to come, Nora. Thanks for plugging our cause in your column.”

“I'm happy to do it. I wish more people saw the value in starting scholarship funds. Especially ones like yours that promote a healthy cultural exchange.”

Angelica had loved education—­we had met in boarding school—­and she had earned her first PhD before she was twenty-­two. She had hiked all over Kazakhstan in search of new oil fields and spent a summer living on an oil rig in the North Sea to study new seismic technologies. She married a Scotsman, a petroleum engineer, and they promptly had two children. But he continued to live in Scotland, and she kept her impressive house in Philadelphia. I'd heard that my friend had recently jumped into an executive position with a blue-­chip company, so travel and a young family hadn't slowed her down.

She linked her arm through mine to pull me down to the raised beds that would soon be overflowing with colorful and fragrant flowers. A large swing set stood on a grassy spot above the rose bushes, and we could see her two beautiful children playing with their nanny.

Angelica waved. The kids—­both under four—­waved back, but they stayed with the nanny, a tall girl who clearly had the children eating out of her hand.

“That's Brooke,” Angelica said. “Our fourth au pair in two years.”

“Wow. Why the turnover? Your kids seem to be angels.”

“Oh, my kids aren't the reason au pairs leave. They get better offers.”

“What do you mean?”

“The competition for truly talented child care is incredible. Can you guess what we're paying Brooke? Almost two hundred thousand a year, plus her own investment account and a car. Not just any car, but the latest Lexus SUV. And I had to outbid three upwardly mobile acquaintances to get her. But she has a master's in early childhood education, speaks French and Italian
and
Arabic, and she makes bath time into a Broadway production, so my children adore her. She's a better mother to them than I could ever be. And she doesn't mind flying with the kids to see their papa every six weeks. So I'll pay the going rate to keep her. What do you think of that?”

“I think I should go back and get a degree in education and learn some languages.”

Angelica laughed. “You're lucky you don't have kids, Nora. You can pursue your career as you please.”

“Hmm,” I said.

With a critical eye she watched her family clambering on the swing set. “I keep thinking I should have waited a little longer. I took almost three years out of my working life at a crucial time. I lost a lot of ground. If I'd waited until I was forty—­well, maybe I'd be farther along the career path. Maybe I'd have reached some important goals by now.”

I found myself at a loss for words. If I could have chosen, I'd have had children years ago—­lots of them—­but fate hadn't exactly worked in my favor. Maybe, I thought, I should focus on my work now. With Gus to push me and a friend like Dilly to act as a mentor, I could get ahead as Angelica said.

Briskly, Angelica turned to me. “Now, what's this I hear about sweet Nora Blackbird jumping the tracks? My mother called. She says you're writing outrageous stuff under a fake name in some ghastly newspaper?”

“The ghastly newspaper is my employer, the
Intelligencer
, but I didn't write the articles.”

“Thank God. I told Mama it couldn't have been you.”

“Well, I provided some of the information. I'm very embarrassed about that, Angie. I'm still learning the ropes. I screwed up this time.”

She patted my arm. “At least nothing exploded. In my line of work, when things go bad, there's major destruction.”

“I feel as though I lit a fuse, though. So I've got some fires to put out.”

“Seeking redemption is good for the soul. You can start by telling your readers how terrific my scholarship fund is. But first, it looks as if you could use a little more food.”

I looked down at my plate and realized I had demolished all the appetizers, including a sprig of parsley intended as a garnish. Blushing, I let Angelica lead me back into her home—­a once-­sedate Federal-­style manse that had been splashed with electric colors of paint and Angelica's collection of tribal art. Even though the catering company had taken over some of the private areas, the rest of the house was open to guests, and I mingled.

But instead of making meaningful conversation, I found myself thinking maybe it was better for Michael and me to remain childless for a while. The financial responsibilities that Angelica had outlined were far beyond our means.

I rounded a corner and nearly ran slap into a couple sipping wine in front of Angelica's latest acquisition—­a surprisingly ugly painting of the St. Andrews golf course.

I introduced myself and discovered they were Jorge Ramirez, a law professor visiting from Texas, and his new wife, Elizabeth Regner. He had a lively face with dark eyes and a fringe of black hair, while she was slender in a long, narrow skirt and a statement necklace that fell nearly to her waist.

“We're enjoying a few days in Philadelphia,” Elizabeth explained, clasping her husband's hand with a smile. “Jorge and I haven't had a honeymoon yet, so we're soaking up the culture here—­art museums and cheesesteaks.”