Little Black Book of Murder (33 page)

“You're lying.”

“She left with one of—­she left, that's all.” I snapped the lamp on and flinched from the light. “Porky, I know you're upset. First your father, and now Zephyr is—­well, not what we thought she was, but—”

“Where did she go? I have to find her! I can help her.” I thought I heard him sniffle. “We can be together.”

The panic in his voice put a terrible thought in my head. “Porky, you didn't—? When your father gave you money, that was to help with your business, right?”

He made a noise that might have been a sob. “He was supposed to give me more. A lot more.”

“He shortchanged you?”

“He promised. Said he'd give me a couple mil if I went away. But he cheated me.” Miserably, he pleaded, “I need to talk to Zephyr and make her understand it's enough for both of us. I'll give her all of it, if that's what it takes.”

“I'm sorry. She's not here.”

He began to rant in a strangled yell, but he snapped off his phone before I could make out his words.

I lay back in the bed, staring up at the ceiling. What did it mean? Swain had given his son a substantial amount of walking money. I had seen the half-­million-­dollar check myself. Porky had hoped to run away with Zephyr, I guessed. But . . . had Porky killed his father when Swain “shortchanged” him?

I got out of bed and went into the bathroom for a drink of water. I stood on the rug, my feet freezing, and looked at my shadowy face in the mirror. My reflection frowned back at me while I tried to imagine the relationship between Porky and Zephyr. She seemed curiously distant with people—­unemotional and bland. Beautifully bland, but still bland. By comparison, Porky had temper in spades. Had one of them killed Swain with a pitchfork?

I thought about LinZee in the drunk tank. What had she said? Don't piss off a pregnant woman? Had Zephyr's pregnancy put her mentally over the edge?

I got a pair of socks from a drawer and went back to bed to put them on. I turned off the light, fervently wishing Michael were at home to talk to. He could imagine what went on in dark hearts much more clearly than I could.

I had slept too long earlier in the evening, so I lay awake for a long time. I found myself picturing Swain Starr lying dead in the pigpen, his chest punctured by someone enraged enough to stab him over and over. Who had been strong enough? Angry enough? Tommy? Marybeth? Zephyr? Porky?

My sleepy mind began to turn over the various combinations of fathers and sons I knew, and Michael's upbringing swam into focus. He had said there was violence in his home, and although I felt safe with him now, I knew he was still capable of it. And what might drive him to kill his own father?

With sudden clarity, I figured it out. He'd do it to protect me. Or his children, when the time came. Had Porky needed to protect someone he loved? Zephyr, maybe?

Finally, I became aware of a weird flickering light outside. I sat up in bed. “What in the world—?”

I grabbed my dressing gown and slippers, then hurried down the stairs. The whole house seemed to glow and throb from a light source outside. With my heart pounding, I ran across the dining room, through the butler's pantry, across the kitchen floor to the back door. My hands fumbled with the locks, my breath coming in gasps. “Please, no,” I begged.

I yanked open the back door and ran out onto the porch. What I saw was the barn. On fire.

I shrieked.

Michael's crew was all there—­some of them running, one using the garden hose, another one, blessedly, holding Mr. Twinkles by his halter. The horse danced around on the grass, throwing his weight against his captor and dragging the man like a rag doll. The fire illuminated the animal, turning him into a magical beast on my lawn. I saw flames licking around the door of the barn, flickering brightly.

A fire truck came around the curve in the drive and blasted its horn. Everyone scattered to make room for the truck.

One of Michael's men—­the one with the gold teeth—­came to me and slung his jacket around my shoulders. “Go back inside, Mrs. Boss. We got this under control.”

“What happened?”

“That kid came back. The kid who was around earlier. Said you were hiding somebody here. We chased him off, but he musta come back somehow.”

“Why would he do this?”

“I dunno, but he was plenty upset.”

Then I was too dizzy to stand. The man with the gold teeth sat me down on the porch steps and brought me a long coat from inside the house. I wrapped myself in it, hugging my arms and watching the firemen work. They had brought a tanker truck, and they sluiced water through the open barn door to fight back the licking flames, then advanced inside to wash all the hay and woodwork.

Ricci arrived in his police cruiser with red lights flashing. He came over to the porch, and I felt my faculties return sufficiently to explain how I'd been awakened by a phone call and that perhaps Porky had come back and set fire to the barn. Ricci radioed for backup, and when his counterpart arrived, they drew their weapons and went inside to search the house.

Road Kill came over and sat with me, awkwardly patting me on the shoulder. Together, we watched the firemen put out the fire.

“N
o,” I told Emma when she arrived the next morning. “The police didn't find Porky in the house.”

Emma kicked the porch railing with frustration. “They checked everywhere, right? Even the cellar? He's not hiding somewhere in this mausoleum?”

“The police made a thorough search,” I said. “Ricci told me he thought he was permanently lost in the attic. He thinks there's a cannon up there. Do you know anything about that?”

She shook her head, and we stood on the porch, looking at the mess left by the firemen. The barn still stood, but the front door was a gaping black hole, and the interior would need shoring up before the structure could be used again. Emma said, “It's lucky the whole barn didn't burn down to the foundation.”

“I know. The original timbers are so old, they could have burned like tinder.” I was still in shock, looking at what remained. The task of repairing it all felt very daunting. I sat down on the top step. “I'm sorry, Em. Mr. Twinkles—”

“He's okay. I checked. He'll be fine in the pasture. The ponies are good, too. They're indestructible. But the barn. Is your insurance paid up?”

“Yes, barely.” My damaged barn felt like some kind of karmic response to Emma setting the fire at Starr's Landing.

Standing on the step below me, she put a steadying hand on my shoulder. “This will turn out okay.”

I hoped she was right. I put my chin in my hands and stared at the rubble of junk the firemen had dragged outside before dousing it with water—­old barrels, an antique travel trunk used for hauling tack, bales of straw. I presumed what was left inside—­hay and feed and more—­had been ruined by smoke and would need to be disposed of. But that work was beyond me at the moment. I said, “The police think Porky came from Sheffield Road and lit a match to the straw. He's crazy to find Zephyr. Maybe he thought a fire would draw her outside.”

“Well, he didn't find her.” Emma shook her head. “Mick's really gonna get worked up when he sees this. Those wiseguys are probably in fear for their lives for letting this happen with you at home.”

“They're all embarrassed that Porky got past them. And worried about what Michael will do when he gets back. The good news is this humiliation has made them doubly determined to find Ralphie. Except for the skeleton crew here, every good fella in three states is in Philadelphia right now, combing the streets for Michael's pig. I should be doing something, too.”

She swung on me, shaking her head firmly. “You're in a delicate condition, Sis. You have a tendency to miscarry, and that would be—­look, just let the police handle the investigation from now on.”

I eyed her. “I certainly can't tell them what I know, can I? Or you'll go to jail for arson, and God knows what will happen to Rawlins.”

“Rawlins is in the clear. There's no evidence that can be used against him. The cops turned him loose.”

But I had reached another conclusion.

“Em,” I said quietly. “What if our nephew is the father of Zephyr's baby?”

My little sister sat down hard on the porch steps. “Holy leaky condom! You think that's possible?”

“I have a bad feeling that it might be.”

“Just a month ago Rawlins was picking his nose and playing that game with the hobbits! Now he's all grown-­up and banging a supermodel?”

I had reviewed every memory of Starr's Landing of the afternoon the party took place. I could still see Rawlins in his blue jacket, holding a drink and trying to look grown-­up. He'd been watching Zephyr, I realized now. It was Zephyr who had invited him to the party. He could have been the one in the car with Zephyr when they abandoned it. She probably took the pregnancy test and showed him the results. Whatever happened after that included leaving the car behind and perhaps the two of them going separate ways—­Zephyr to a hotel in Philadelphia.

But might Rawlins have gone straight back to Starr's Landing to confront Zephyr's husband? Had things gone horribly wrong?

Emma listened to my theory with growing horror. “No. No, that's not possible. The kid wouldn't hurt anybody. He couldn't have killed Swain Starr.”

“I don't want this to be true any more than you do,” I said. “I'm trying to make sense of what we know. There are a lot of missing pieces. But something's not right, Em. That's why we have to keep a few things from the police just a little longer.”

She considered it all and finally blew a gusty sigh. “I get it. I don't like it, but I get it. But if Libby hears she might be a grandmother, she's gonna blow like Vesuvius. I don't want to be around when the molten rock starts flying.”

“That's the best reason to keep her in the dark as long as possible,” I said, trying not to imagine the meltdown Libby was going to have. “So you'll stay here tonight? Until I get back or Michael gets home? Checkpoint Charlie has been doubled. There's a crew watching Sheffield Road now, too. But I'd be relieved to know you were here keeping an eye on things.”

Emma agreed. She pumped more milk while I dressed for the Farm-­to-­Table gala.

I had planned to wear a pink Givenchy from Grandmama's collection, but the waistline didn't fit me anymore. Although I had been dismayed to see how my clothes were looking on me lately, today I felt considerably happier about my thickening figure. I dug into my closet and found a very forgiving Carolina Herrera gown with an empire silhouette of flowing silk. The light fabric was a print of pale blue with streams of darker colors that brought out the new glow in my eyes. And the halter-­style neckline showcased parts of my body in a whole new way. The slit up past my knee gave it youth and a little informality. Open-­toed slingbacks, a sequined clutch and my diamond ring were all the accessories I needed to make a sophisticated appearance.

Besides, if you want to feel feminine, there's nothing like a Herrera dress.

“Va-­va-­voom,” Emma said when I twirled before her in the kitchen where she was making herself some eggs and bacon. “You look sexy in that getup. Hardly like a pregnant lady at all. I hope Mick gets back tonight.”

“He will. Cannoli said they'd have to either arrest him or release him soon. If he gets here before I do, tell him I'll be back before eleven.”

“I'll tell him,” Emma said. “And then I'll be leaving. Just so you know.”

I gave her a kiss. “I know.”

We had both heard my ride arrive in the back of the house. We could also hear Libby's shrieks of horror at the sight of the damaged barn.

But she didn't cry.

“That would ruin my makeup,” she said, pulling herself together with an effort. “How do I look?”

She wore layers of red chiffon, gathered fetchingly under her prodigious bosom and flowing loosely around her hips so that she looked like an escapee from a Renaissance fair. Every curve in her full figure looked luscious. She had swept her dark hair to one side with a flounce over one eye and a tumble of curls on the opposite shoulder.

Meaning every word, I said, “You look completely fabulous.”

“Red always boosts my confidence.” She struck a proud pose that nearly popped her breasts out of their minimal containment. “I got the dress on eBay. It once belonged to Kirstie Alley.”

Emma said, “I hope you have some double-­stick tape in your bag. If you sneeze, you'll get arrested for indecent exposure.”

“Of course I have tape,” Libby replied. “Do you think I'm a rookie when it comes to boobs?”

From the driveway came a tall figure wearing a dark suit and a silk tie. It was Rawlins, looking as if he'd rather be anywhere but in the company of his mother.

Libby said, “I bought a ticket for Rawlins, too. After his ordeal with the police, I decided it was high time he associated with some nice people for one evening.”

Emma said, “I hear he's been doing a lot of associating with his evenings.”

Rawlins gave her a double take and turned pale.

“You look really great, Rawlins. Everybody does,” I said, shooting Emma a look that told her to shut up. “And thanks for giving me a lift, Lib.”

“Well,” she said uncertainly, looking at our ride for the evening.

The rest of us turned to examine the vehicle idling in my driveway. Perry Delbert's exterminator van had been freshly washed and waxed, so the image of the giant dead spider gleamed in the failing sunlight. On top of the cab, a mosquito the size of Ralphie had blinking lights in its eyes.

Perry stood attentively by the passenger door, buttoned into a very snug rented tuxedo like a footman ready to help Cinderella into her magic coach. He had flattened his usually bushy brown hair into damp curls, and his beard looked freshly trimmed. He gazed at Libby as if she were the most beautiful princess in the world.

Libby sighed. “He volunteered to drive. I didn't have the heart to tell him I'd rather take the minivan.”

I patted her arm. “It's okay. The valet parking will only take a moment, and after that, nobody will remember what chariot we arrived in.”

Shortly, we were on our way to the Farm-­to-­Table gala in the bugmobile. Rawlins and I sat in the backseat. He kept his face turned to the window. While Libby chattered in the front seat, I patted his knee.

As we neared Philadelphia, I asked Libby, “How's Noah? Is he eating all right?”

“He's fine,” she assured me, and she deftly changed the subject.

Several Philadelphia restaurants had agreed to share their venues for the gala, and the evening was pleasant enough for guests to wander up and down the street to visit all of the parties. But a grand entrance had been set up in front of one of the city's premier hotels, and we settled into the line of traffic as it inched ­toward the point of disembarkation. Someone took a photo of the bugmobile with a camera phone that flashed, and pretty soon dozens of people were laughing and snapping our picture.

“What's going on?” Libby peered through the windshield at the throng on the sidewalk.

“Guess this is a pretty popular party,” Perry said.

“Why isn't everybody in the restaurants?” she asked.

I spotted Crewe Dearborne in the crowd on the sidewalk. Wearing a sharp dinner jacket, my restaurant critic friend cut an unmistakably aristocratic figure.

With my hand already on the door handle, I said, “Perry, would you mind if I bailed out here?”

“Sure, but—”

“I'll catch up with you later,” I said, halfway out of the van. “Call me on my cell if you decide to leave early!”

Eager to escape his mother and her dubious date, Rawlins hastily unsnapped his seat belt and followed me.

The decorated van had already caused a stir among the people, but it was Crewe who burst out laughing as Rawlins and I scampered ­toward the sidewalk.

He caught my hand and steadied me as I stepped up over the curb. “You always know how to make an entrance, Nora. But this time you've outdone yourself. Is that a tsetse fly on top of that truck?”

“A mosquito. If you want to have your house sprayed for West Nile virus, I can hook you up. This is Rawlins, my nephew. Rawlins, have you met Crewe Dearborne?”

They shook hands, and Crewe said, “I met you at a birthday party for somebody. You had cotton candy stuck in your hair.”

“That was a while ago,” Rawlins said.

I was looking at the crowd. “What's going on here?”

Crewe hooked his thumb past the crowd at the restaurant behind us. “This restaurant was just evacuated. They say a wild boar got loose in the kitchen.”

My heart leaped into my throat. “Just now?”

“Yes. In the dining room we heard a commotion, and suddenly—”

“What kind of commotion?”

“Screaming from the kitchen. And something crashing around—”

Crewe was cut off when a city police squad car pulled to the curb and two officers jumped out. Two more foot patrolmen pushed through the well-­dressed mob, heading for the front door of the restaurant. They drew their guns.

At once, I knew it was Ralphie—­and his life was at stake. I grabbed Rawlins by the hand. “Come with me!”

I hitched up my long skirt with my other hand and ran for the corner, Rawlins and Crewe dodging behind me. Crewe called, “Nora, what has gotten into you?”

We hustled around the block and into the alley behind the restaurant. A large metal structure had been rigged over a drain in the cobblestoned street. Portable lights were aimed at the gleaming metal, and a stainless steel table was laid with glitteringly sharp knives. Chains hung from the crossbar of the structure, heavy enough to hold a large animal for a gruesome butchering demonstration.

At that moment, a motley crew of wiseguys bolted out the kitchen door. They scattered into the night like the Three Stooges, probably flushed out the back door as the policemen barged through the front.

I recognized Road Kill. “Rocco!”