Some Like It Lethal (5 page)

But Libby began acting like Florence Nightingale. "Let me take care of her, Dr. Quartermaine. I know just how to settle her nerves."

The doctor listened attentively and approved of her plan.

Libby insisted on taking me to her favorite spa.

"Don't be ridiculous," I objected when we were alone again. "I'll be fine in five minutes. It's just a stupid fainting spell."

"That handsome doctor says to get you out of here."

"For God's sake, stop acting like you want to play with his stethoscope. I'm not leaving Emma."

"You can't take care of Emma if you're a mess yourself," she argued. "Now, come on."

I was woozy and in no shape to make decisions for myself, and Reed was completely bulldozed by my sister's imperious commands, so the spa is where we ended up. Reed pitied me so much that he took charge of Spike.

At The Pink Windowbox, Libby helped me get undressed and into a plush cotton candy-colored robe. I felt like Camille when she guided me to a table behind a large potted plant in the corner of the spa's serenely pink dining room. In minutes, Libby had the whole staff scurrying to take care of us. A pot of herb tea was rushed to our table. Libby frowned over the lunch menu and ordered me a grapefruit and a piece of broiled fish with lemon. For herself, she requested a chicken quesadilla with extra cheese and a beer. "Because I'm nursing," she announced to the waitress.

"No kidding," said the girl, who from her perspective had a breathtaking view of Libby's cleavage.

"No tip," Libby warned.

When the waitress hurried away, I said, "Libby, this is completely ridiculous. I'm not an invalid."

"You're as pale as paper. Besides, I can't take care of Emma, so I'll take care of you instead. I have a motherly nature. You can't fight instinct."

"We should be with Emma."

Libby poured tea for me. "Dr. Quartermaine said it would be better to come back when Emma's fully conscious."

I planted my elbows on the table and put my head in my hands. I couldn't even fake normalcy. "Oh, God."

Libby softened and gave my elbow a shake. "Let's get you healthy. Then we'll think of a way to help Emma."

The waitress came, and Libby received her beer with pleasure.

When we were alone again, I said, "This is very bad, Lib. Rush Strawcutter is dead, and Emma had blood all over her."

"I know."

Libby took a slug of her beer and glanced around the restaurant to make sure nobody could overhear us. Then she leaned closer and dropped her voice to a whisper. "I spoke to Emma for just a minute in the emergency room. She doesn't remember anything. She'd been drinking last night, and she passed out. She told me that much before the police showed up."

I had just swallowed a sip of tea, and the mention of police made me choke on it. Libby gave me a karate chop between my shoulder blades.

"Yes, the police," she said when I had myself under control again. "What did you expect? Rushton is dead, and it wasn't an accident, either. He'd been hit on the head."

"By whom?"

We looked at each other.

"No," I said. "Even drunk, she'd never."

Libby didn't answer, and I wobbled to my feet. "I need a telephone."

"What for?"

"I'll be right back."

When I returned from the spa lobby, I sat down at the table and pulled the pink robe closer around my shoulders. Shivering, I wrapped both hands around my teacup. I felt as if I'd barely survived an earthquake.

"Well?" Libby asked.

"I called a lawyer." My teeth rattled against the rim of the teacup, so I put it down again. "Emma's in a lot of trouble."

We both sat, thinking about our little sister.

We had tried. Libby and I had both talked to her in recent weeks, to try making her see that drinking wasn't an answer to her pain. But Emma hadn't slowed her headlong downhill plunge long enough to listen to a single word. Mind you, we'd all three lost husbands. Libby had even buried two. It was the curse of Blackbird women. But in the two years since her husband had been killed in a car accident, Emma had tried every way she could think of to forget the man who'd been her soul mate. Lately, she'd taken to alcohol.

The only thing clear in Emma's mind was that she didn't want anyone's help—not from her sisters or the various men who followed her around like fraternity boys on the trail of the campus bad girl.

"Oh, stop," she had ordered me with disdain when I broached the subject. "I'm in control."

She wasn't even close.

And with history having a tendency to repeat itself, I was terrified of losing my sister as well as my own husband.

Drinking tea, I tried to imagine how we were going to get through the next few days. I needed an expert strategist to think it through.

"One of Mr. Abruzzo's lawyers?" Libby asked.

"What?"

"You called one of Mr. Abruzzo's mob lawyers?"

"He's not— Yes, as a matter of fact. He's going to the hospital now. He'll make sure Emma is protected."

The waitress brought our food, the sight of which made my stomach sour.

Libby began tearing apart her quesadilla. "One weird thing."

"Yes?"

"There was a big white envelope in Rush's hand."

I stared at her. "What?"

Libby ravenously bit the corner off a wedge of cheese-packed tortilla. "While the paramedics checked you out, I looked at Rush. He was in the straw, just like Emma, except there was— Well, he was a mess, let me tell you. Normally, I have a tender stomach for gore, but Placida must have been with me. They hadn't moved the body yet, and I saw it—a white envelope. Kinda squished, but I noticed it." She licked melted cheese from her thumb.

I tried to understand what she was telling me. "What kind of envelope? You mean like the invitation? Or a Christmas card? A utility bill?"

She took a more ladylike nibble. "No, more of an oversized envelope, maybe eight-by-ten, like a smallish manila envelope, only it wasn't manila. It was white. I noticed it because it was an unusual thing to see in a horse barn. I mean, there was Rush, dressed for fox hunting, except he had this nice white—"

"Had he gone hunting?" I asked. "Could you tell if he'd been riding?"

Libby frowned. She was an artist, and I trusted her to remember visual details. At last she shook her head. "No. He was wearing his riding clothes, but they were clean. And he was still wearing his street shoes."

Fox hunters, we knew, rarely drove their cars wearing their best riding boots.

Emma, I recalled, hadn't changed into her formal riding habit. She'd been wearing jeans.

I said, "Was it Rush's blood all over Emma? Or was she cut anywhere?"

Libby shook her head. "Just her mouth and a little around her eye—not enough to cause all that blood. That doesn't mean it was Rush's. Don't think negatively, Nora. It's bad karma."

"But it's logical. What about her riding crop? Did you see it in the straw?"

"Yes. Nobody touched it until the police came. They took it immediately."

I didn't want to think about what Emma's riding crop had been used for. "Does Emma even know Rush? Were they friends?"

Libby slid her eyes sideways at me. "Are you asking me if she was sleeping with him?"

"Oh, for God's sake, Lib—"

"Emma has a gazillion boyfriends. It's not out of the question that she and Rush—"

"He's married. She wouldn't date a married man."

"She hasn't been herself lately. In a lot of ways."

I pierced a tiny bite of fish with my fork but didn't raise it to my mouth. In the center of our table, a soft candle flickered. A barely audible strain of Mozart wafted in the air. Around us, The Pink Windowbox oozed comfort and luxury. But I didn't feel remotely relaxed. My brain was humming.

"What do you know about Rush Strawcutter?" I asked.

"Only that he married Gussie, which was odd. Nobody ever thought Gussie could snare a man. Didn't they meet at a big dog show? I remember hearing something like that. She was there as a sponsor and he was ... I forget. They fell in love over basset hounds, didn't they?"

"I don't think Gussie likes any kind of dog."

"Oh, right, that was the joke. Their company makes dog food, but Strawcutters don't have pets."

"Until Rush came long. He always has—had—a few
pound puppies with him. They rode around in his station wagon."

Libby drank more beer. "I bet Gussie dumps them at the humane society before nightfall. She always struck me as the heartless type."

"That's a mean thing to say. Poor Gussie."

"But what an odd couple. She's such a schlub, but I always thought Rush had a winning quality."

"Oh, heavens, you didn't make a pass at him, did you?"

"He wasn't my type. And he was married, after all." A crumb of quesadilla tumbled down the curve of her bosom and disappeared into the bottomless crevasse. Libby glanced down and wisely decided a rescue effort was hopeless.

I tried to recall seeing Gussie and Rush together. Plenty of men had made a run at Gussie over the years, of course. With the Strawcutter fortune behind her, she was an obvious catch. Gussie rejected them all. But Rushton had gone more slowly than the others, I remembered, and somehow he'd won her over.

"They had the longest engagement on record," Libby said. "Four years, maybe. It probably took that long to soften up Gussie. Remember?"

"And at first he was reluctant to take a job with Strawcutter Industries, right?"

"He probably didn't want to look like a gold digger. What's the male equivalent of a gold digger? Well, Rush took the job, after all, so what does it matter?" Libby chowed down on her lunch.

I put my fork on my plate. No matter how he'd started at Strawcutter Industries, Rush had worked hard. He hadn't chafed under working for his wife, either, as Gussie's father gradually let go of the business.

Libby noticed me mulling over what I knew and suddenly looked intrigued. "Is this how you detect a murder, Nora?"

"I'm just thinking. I'm trying to imagine why Rush might have been killed. Somebody's usually upset over a family issue or money, according to Michael."

"Well, he would know."

I snapped my fingers. "Lately, Rush had started up his own company. Do you know anything about it?"

"Yes, it's a chain of pet stores and shampoo parlors."

"Laundro-Mutt," I said, remembering at last. "Has it been a success?"

"I haven't the faintest idea. I wash my dog with a hose in the driveway."

"Does Rushton have any partners? Anybody who might be involved in his business?"

"Just Gussie, I suppose. That is, if she loosened the family purse strings enough to invest in Rush's idea. I hear she's a tightwad like her father."

Family
and
money, I thought. Add passion, and I had a trifecta of murder motives.

Our waitress appeared beside the table then. "Is everything all right, ladies?"

"I'd like another beer," said Libby. "Do you have Guinness?"

The waitress painstakingly wrote down Libby's request. "There's someone who'd like to speak with you. I told him it's against our policy. We try to keep a serene atmosphere in the dining room, but—"

"Who is it?" I asked, but I had already guessed.

A young man in a black trenchcoat approached our table.

I cinched my pink robe tightly around my waist. Libby sat back in her chair, however, allowing her
robe to fall gently open from her bosom. She put one hand to her throat in a classic Marilyn Monroe gesture. Even her hair was lasciviously mussed.

"Detective Bloom," I said. "Somehow I knew you'd turn up."

Libby looked completely relaxed, but I knew every molecule in her body had just vibrated to attention.

Benjamin Bloom stopped beside our table and proceeded to do a plausible imitation of a Little Leaguer accidentally barging into the wrong locker room.

"Hi, there," said Libby.

Bloom glanced between the two of us, scantily wrapped in pink robes, and he fought down a blush. The detective wore a neatly pressed coat over a sweater, wrinkle-free khakis and clean white sneakers. Sometimes I wondered if he still lived with his mother. He had liquid brown eyes in a narrow, trustworthy face. Unfortunately, I'd discovered he wasn't as trustworthy as he appeared, especially when he wanted information that might boost his career out of the sleepy suburbs and into a big-city homicide squad. When he wanted details on a crime, he could be as relentless as a jackhammer.

He had an interesting mouth and a lithe body, however, which Libby noticed right away. Surely she also noticed that he was considerably younger than herself, but that didn't seem to matter. She smiled, transparent as cellophane in her need to be desired by the only man in radar range. Plus, she looked as if she could actually cause a man with a breast fascination to collapse of a heart attack.