Murder Melts in Your Mouth (22 page)

I touched his face. “You think he's tough enough to give Em some help with the Twelve Steps?”

“Don't underestimate Henry. He's got a lot of hidden talents.”

“Michael,” I said finally, “are you matchmaking?”

He grinned. “Put on some clothes, will you? Or we'll spend the whole day here.”

I slid out of his arms. “Okay, okay.”

Michael swung out of bed and stretched. “Where are you headed today?”

“There's a luncheon in Gladwyne. If I go early, I might be able to talk to someone who works for the hostess—and was once employed by Hoyt Cavendish's wife.”

“A butler, or something?”

“Or something. A closet manager. It's the latest in personal assistants.”

“I don't know what you're talking about,” he said. “But I have a few hours to spare. I'll take you.”

“It's not your kind of crowd.” I darted into the closet and flipped through hangers.

“I'll take you anyway,” he called after me.

Not willing to be apart either, I said, “You won't exactly blend in.”

“I'm going.”

Among my grandmother's clothes, I found a floaty Galanos summer dress—sleeveless and in a color that could politely be called tangerine—with a hemline that would have hit the knee of a smaller woman. On me, it was enough of a minidress to look contemporary. I dug out a pair of YSL wedge sandals to tone it down, and added a vintage straw handbag with a bright Marimekko scarf—geraniums in tangerine and shades of pink—tied around the bone handle. Later, I'd swap the straw bag for an evening clutch, and I'd be suitably dressed for the chocolate gala.

I had another thought and went looking for the phone. I dialed the
Intelligencer
and asked to speak to Tremaine Jefferson, the videographer. I told him my plan and asked if he'd meet me at a party.

He said, “Sure. I got nothing better going on. Nobody else had any ideas of how to use me.”

I thanked him and finished dressing. With myself adequately attired, I heated up the steam iron and found a white shirt of Michael's that he'd left behind last spring. I heard him shut off the shower as I touched up the collar and placket with the iron. I brought the shirt out into the bedroom just as he emerged from the bathroom in his jeans.

“Put this on,” I told him, just as he started to pull a T-shirt over his head.

Amiably, he obeyed, and I rolled the sleeves up over his forearms. While he buttoned up, I went down the hall to the room where my parents were staying and found a braided leather belt of my father's. I brought it back and threaded it through the loops on Michael's jeans. It fit, but barely.

As I combed his still-damp hair back off his forehead and teased one curl alongside his temple, he looked down at me with suspicion. “Am I getting a makeover?”

“Not until we stop at Brooks Brothers or somewhere to buy you a blue sport coat.”

He said, “I'm going to try, you know. To make this thing work out.”

“I know. Trust me to be on your side no matter what.”

He kissed my forehead. I closed my eyes and let the feeling inside me grow warm. It could be like this always, I thought. Having him in my bedroom. In my life. Maybe with a baby to raise. We'd make the kind of family we wanted most.

We lingered there, holding each other.

He said, “I love you. We're going to get it right this time.” With a light kiss on my forehead, he released me. “It's going to be a hundred degrees outside today. Do I really need a coat?”

I laughed, shaky and happy. “A blue blazer will get a man into any occasion. And as long as you're coming along with me, you need to look the part.”

“Of what? A Main Line gigolo?”

On the landing we encountered Rawlins, whose hair stood up in a classic bedhead. He was yawning and peering at the screen of his cell phone.

“Good morning!” I gave him a kiss on the cheek. “What's new with your girlfriend?”

“Aunt Nora! You're okay! And Mick! What are you doing here?”

When he figured out the obvious answer to his own question, Rawlins blushed and stammered. “I mean—uh—”

Michael said easily, “Good to see you, kid. I hear you were the hero last night.”

Rawlins recovered quickly and snapped his phone shut. “I don't know. I felt pretty lame most of the time. What happened, Aunt Nora? How'd you get away from that guy?”

“That guy,” I said, “is actually your uncle.”

Rawlins gaped at me as I filled him in on the new family history. I gave him the short version of my night with Tierney.

“So,” I said, “I think we ought to stand by him, if that's possible.”

“You mean, with the police and stuff?”

I said, “What he did was very wrong, of course. And I think we need to discuss it—as a family. But I hope we won't have to press charges.”

Rawlins sighed. “That's going to be one heck of a family meeting.”

We went downstairs together and found Libby snoring on the sofa with little Max comfortably molded on her chest and sucking contentedly on his binky.

A surprise awaited us in the kitchen.

While Oscar Bland lounged with deceptive nonchalance against the refrigerator, none other than Chad Zanzibar sat at the table, talking a mile a minute to Delmar.

Rawlins stopped dead in the kitchen doorway. He stared at Chad and stammered. “You—you—you're from
Valley of the Lords
! You're king of the elves!”

“I've got other projects going now,” Chad snapped without getting up from the kitchen table. “But, hey—I'm proud of the work I did on
Valley
. Nice to meet you, dude.”

Dazed with delight, Rawlins shook Chad's hand. “This is so cool. Like, mind-blowing. You're right here! Man, can you do the song? To summon the dragon?”

“Sorry, dude. I need backup singers for that.”

“Right, right, the maidens of the forest. Wow, you got to kiss Christina Aguilera! How fantastic was that?”

“The bitch bit me,” Chad replied. “Said I tasted like Tic Tacs.”

“What are you doing here?” Rawlins asked, enthralled to find the star of his favorite movie in the kitchen.

Oscar listened attentively, one hand resting alertly on his hip. Michael eyed him while pouring himself a cup of coffee. I made us some cinnamon toast.

Chad said, “I'm doing research. Talking with my man, Mick Abruzzo, see?” He gestured at Delmar. “We're working on my character for a TV show.”

Rawlins looked mystified. But I sent him a meaningful glare, and he caught on. Uncertainly, he said, “Wow. Cool.”

Chad went on. “Mick was just talking about stool pigeons, y'know? How a wiseguy would talk to the cops, right, Mick?”

Delmar shrugged. “A wiseguy wouldn't talk.”

“You mean, a made man wouldn't say anything? Or just not to the cops?” Chad leaned forward, and his voice slid into an Edward G. Robinson accent—except with a California surfer twist. “Dude, you gotta level with me. I want to get all the details just right. If you hold out on me, I'm gonna be real unhappy.”

I poured coffee for Delmar and slipped it in front of him. “Mr. Abruzzo doesn't talk much, Chad. Maybe you'd be better off asking someone else for help.”

Delmar said, “Hey, I don't mind.”

“See?” Chad looked up at me. Already, he was mimicking Delmar's posture and stolid facial expression. “He doesn't mind. I'm gonna immortalize him.”

Rawlins slipped into the chair next to Chad's. “Hey, I can help with your research, Mr. Zanzibar.”

“Call me Chad, dude.”

“I've been hanging with Mick for a year now.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Sure, I know lots of stuff. I could be a big help.”

Michael and I shared a glance, and Michael shrugged. If Rawlins knew anything, it was relatively harmless. We ate our cinnamon toast while they talked.

I dusted my hands on a kitchen towel. Then, in Libby's handbag, I found the keys to Jacque Petite's Rolls-Royce.

While the boys talked at the table, I handed the car keys to Michael. “Let's go, dude.”

O
utside, we discovered Emma and Henry in conversation. If shouting at each other could be considered a conversation.

“That's what a sponsor is for!” Henry pushed his glasses up on his nose. “To call when you feel like you can't stop yourself from drinking. A sponsor is somebody you talk to.”

“I don't need a sponsor,” Emma snapped, adding a few expletives. She sat in the garden chair with her feet propped up, hugging her knees in the classic body language of a woman who didn't want to hear a word of what was said to her.

Henry sat down opposite her. “The first step is adm-mitting you've got a problem.”

“Oh, I've got p-p-p-p-problems, all right,” she said, mocking his stutter. “Here come two of them right now.”

“You two getting acquainted?” I asked.

Emma glowered at me. “How come you've got this geek hanging around?”

“Computer repairs,” I said.

She laughed. “That makes perfect sense. What a nerd.”

“He does excellent work. Even the jobs I never actually asked him to do.”

Guilty of installing the GPS system on my cell phone, Henry had the grace to look embarrassed. “Sorry, M-Miss Blackbird. I was asked to do that, of course.”

Michael said, “Don't get me into any more trouble, Henry.”

Emma squinted up at Michael. “You've got a belt on. And your shirt is tucked in. What's the occasion? Big date in court?”

“You have a smart mouth for a girl who threw up in my car. Henry, you got a minute?”

Henry obediently got up. “Sure. How'd it go last night?”

“First of all,” Michael said, “we need to discuss keeping your mouth shut in front of the ladies. Last night never happened, got it?”

Chagrined, Henry went across the lawn with Michael, where they had a serious conversation with their backs turned to us.

Emma watched them. “So you kissed and made up? The Love Machine is moving in with you again? With Mama and Daddy down the hall?”

“We haven't gotten around to discussing the particulars yet.” I plunked onto the arm of Henry's vacated chair. “What about you moving back, too?”

“Here?” She laughed shortly. “Are you kidding? I don't need a ringside seat for the family drama.”

“It's not so bad. In fact, it's rather nice getting reacquainted.”

Emma cracked up, but her laughter sounded bitter. “You expect me to believe that?”

“Maybe not,” I admitted. “But we're family, and we stick by each other. We can help you, too, Em.”

Her face stiffened. “I don't need help.”

The back door banged on its hinges, and Libby catapulted down the porch steps in a flutter of apron strings. “Yoo-hoo! I have just the thing for you, Emma!”

Emma groaned and covered her face. “You told her, didn't you?”

“Yep. I brought in the heavy artillery.”

Balancing a tray with a silver teapot, cups and assorted plates with my best linen napkins on top, Libby picked her way across the grass in her sandals. She cried, “The best thing for morning sickness is tea and crackers! And I should know, considering how many times I've been with child. I wish we could celebrate with champagne, but nowadays people frown on the slightest sip of alcohol. Which I find utterly ridiculous. How are you feeling, dear sister?”

“Lib,” Emma said, “I'll give you my entire collection of vibrators if you leave me alone.”

“You have vibrators? No, don't tempt me.” Libby dropped the laden tray onto the wicker table. “I've come to discuss your future.”

Emma put her forehead down on her knees and moaned.

“First things first,” Libby said. “Who's the father?”

“Might as well start with that,” I agreed. “Well, Em? Do you know?”

Emma sat up indignantly. “Yes, of course, I know. I'm not as much of a skeeze as you think.”

“Neither am I,” Libby said. “I do like foreplay, though. But I don't often go all the way.”

“No?” I asked. “Not even with Jacque Petite?”

“A woman should maintain a few mysteries. Not that you would know, Nora. Oh, don't look so innocent! I can imagine what you were doing upstairs this morning. A woman doesn't come down looking so refreshed after napping for two hours.”

I blushed. “I—”

“Don't apologize. A woman needs sex as much as a man—maybe more. We have hormones to quell, urges to satisfy. Or we get wrinkles. I'm convinced there's a correlation. So, Emma?” Libby sat on the grass and arranged herself in a ladylike pose, effectively blocking Emma's escape. “Is it somebody we know?”

We both knew poisoned bamboo slivers shoved under her fingernails would have been more pleasant than the torture Libby could inflict. So Emma caved. “Hart Jones.”

“Hartfield Jones?” I asked. “The banker? The guy you punched at the bar the other day?”

“I didn't punch him. I—oh, never mind. Yes, Hart Jones.”

“Since when did you start dating men who actually graduated from eighth grade? Your last fling was with a car wash attendant.”

“Isn't Hart married?” Libby frowned. “To one of the Haffenpepper girls? The beer heiress? The blond one who looks like a Bavarian princess? Her mother behaved like Eva Braun when she was secretary of the Ladies Auxiliary.”

Emma turned a little green and took a steadying sip of ginger ale. “He's not married. Not yet, anyway.”

“How in the world did you hook up with him?”

“It was an accident. I was in a hotel with—well, never mind, you wouldn't approve of him, either, even if all we did was eat hot wings and watch the fights on HBO—and I met Hart as he was coming out of the other penthouse suite. It was about two in the morning. We talked in the elevator. And he hit the stop button.”

“You had sex in an elevator!” Libby cried. “I'm so jealous!”

“We did not!” Emma squinched her eyes shut as if to block out an embarrassing memory. “Maybe we goofed around a little. And then, okay, I guess we had sex in his car later.”

“Ooh, I haven't had an automotive orgasm in years!” Libby loosened the strings of her apron. “Bucket seats are so constraining. I wonder if—”

“Lib,” I said, “let's focus on Em for the moment, please?”

“Yes, of course. Just—what kind of car was it, Emma?”

“A Porsche. We drove to the Jersey Shore and when the sun came up, we—” She cut herself off and added gruffly, “Anyway, that's how it happened.”

“It sounds romantic! Did he—? I mean, was he an attentive lover? Ladies come first, and all that?”

I said, “Did you see him again? Or was it a one-night thing?”

“Yeah, I saw him the following night and we—it happened again. Next thing I know, he's calling me. And—well, maybe I called him once or twice. It was supposed to be a little fun before his wedding, but it—it snowballed.”

“So it's just sex?” Libby looked disappointed.

I knew Emma's pattern. Focusing on the physical shielded her from the kind of emotional investment she'd given—and lost—in her marriage.

“N-no,” she said slowly. “We talk. We talk a lot, in fact. He's kinda funny. And,” she said, “he listens.”

Libby was shocked. “Listens? You mean he hears you, or he actually comprehends what you're saying and makes an appropriate grunt now and then?”

“He really listens,” Emma insisted.

“Does he know?” I asked. “That you're pregnant?”

“God, no!” Emma was horrified by the suggestion. “What is he supposed to do? Buy me a ring and a house in Bryn Mawr? Can you see me—a suburban housewife? PTA meetings and the garden club? Sunday dinners with Eva Braun? I don't want him to know!” She hugged herself fiercely.

“Why not? Maybe he'd actually do the right thing,” Libby said.

“The right thing?” Emma laughed. “What would that be, exactly?”

“Child support,” Libby said. “Very important. If I had to minister to the emotional and psychological needs of my children and worry about their next meal, too, I'd never be as effective a mother as I am now.”

Deciding not to point out that she was an effective mother only because the rest of us frequently pitched in, I asked, “Do you love him, Em?”

Emma snorted. “Let's not get mushy. Maybe you and the Love Machine get all googly-eyed with each other, but that's not my style.”

But I thought I saw something in her gaze—fleeting, perhaps, but definitely more than total denial.

I said, “Hart's very successful.”

“Good-looking, psychologically stable and tall,” Libby said, nodding. “All important qualities in a partner. What's his astrological sign?”

“Gee, I don't know,” Emma snapped. “Next time I see him, I'll ask. And get his opinion on national health care, too.”

I said, “I saw him at the zoo fund-raiser last year. He had some kids from a group home with him, so he's not a corporate robot. He seemed to actually enjoy children.”

“Shut up,” Emma said. “He's great in the sack. That's all I needed to know.”

“So what's your plan?” Libby asked.

“There is no plan.” Emma swirled the remaining contents of her ginger ale can. “As soon as I stop puking long enough, I'm going to take myself down to—”

“Don't say it,” I said. “I can't stand to hear what you might do to that child.”

Emma caught a glimpse of my face and looked away. She sipped her ginger ale and fell silent.

Libby said, “He has a right to know.”

“Yes,” I said. “You have to tell him, Em.”

Briskly, Libby took charge. “I have an idea.”

Emma sighed. “Oh, no.”

“I propose we meet here tonight, the three of us. And we'll take a little drive together.”

“Where?” I asked with caution.

Libby put up her hands to fend off more questions. “Let me worry about that. Just be here at dusk, okay?”

“Dusk? Does that mean we need cover of darkness?”

Emma said, “Are you going to perform one of your cockamamy magic spells?”

“They're not magic spells! I embrace many spiritual practices, and if you paid attention to the phases of the moon like I do, you wouldn't be in this pickle, young lady. So put on your big-girl panties and get ready for tonight.”

“Wait,” I said. “I have to make an appearance at the Chocolate Festival. Emma probably has to work this evening.”

Our little sister shook her head. “I got fired. Last night, after you took my ginger ale, I yakked in the bathtub. They don't want me back.”

Instantly, I felt guilty for getting her fired. “You could have told me you were drinking ginger ale.”

“You didn't give me a chance,” she shot back. “You were too busy yelling at me.”

“You deserved it. Will we be finished by ten, Libby, so I can attend the festival gala?”

“Certainly.”

Michael and Henry finished their conference, and Michael took a call on his cell phone. Henry returned to the shade under the oaks with us.

Libby gave Henry a once-over and made a snap decision. “Do you know anything about teaching language skills to infants?”

Henry adjusted his glasses. “M-my m-mother read
The Complete Works of Shakespeare
to m-me before I could walk.”

“And look how well that turned out,” Emma remarked.

“Henry,” I said. “Do you know how to find information about people on the Internet?”

An expression of guilt washed over his face. He said, “I paid the fine. No jail time.”

“That's not what she means.” Michael strolled over, pocketing his cell phone. “She wants you to do a job.”

Henry brightened. “Oh. What kind of information do you need?”

“I'm wondering about a woman named Brandi Schmidt. She's a television personality who—”

“I know who she is,” Henry said. “The one who m-mispronounces everything.”

“That's her. Can you find out where she lived before she came to Philadelphia?”

“Is that all you want to know?” Henry glanced at Michael for reassurance.

Michael said, “Don't do anything fancy. Hear me? I hate posting bail when I don't know half the words in the indictment.”

“Okay.” Henry looked at his feet. “Nothing fancy.”

I said, “I appreciate your help, Henry.”

“You want me to start anywhere in particular?”

“She used to work in cable television.” I tried to think of everything I knew about Brandi. “She joined a gay and lesbian group when she moved here. And she uses a wheelchair. Does that help?”