Little Black Book of Murder Read online

  Rawlins had his whole future ahead of him, and I dreaded the idea of how a murder investigation could jeopardize that.

  So I walked to get my brain to function. On the crowded Monday morning sidewalks, I walked for blocks among the many people who were rushing to get to work. It was half an hour before I realized I needed a cup of coffee to help my brain function. I went into a coffee shop that was jammed with people who crouched over their laptops, doing whatever solitary business could be conducted while elbow to elbow with similarly occupied workers, each making a paper cup of astronomically expensive coffee last as long as possible. And while I tried to think of where to buy myself a bargain cup, I thought of someone I could talk to about the murder.

  I hurried a few more blocks to Tommy Rattigan’s restaurant. It wasn’t open for breakfast, but the green-­and-­white-­striped awning snapped cheerfully in the morning breeze. I stopped at the front door and peered inside. No lights, no customers. The door was locked. The discreetly painted sign on the door said the restaurant would open at eleven—­hours away.

  I tried using my cell phone first. I punched the numbers painted on the door, but a recorded message came on, instructing me about their reservation policy. I hung up, remembering something Michael had said once about restaurants—­that someone was always around back, maybe stealing from the company refrigerator or helping himself to the cash register. I didn’t believe that—­not ­exactly—­but I hoped someone was already working in the kitchen.

  I walked around the block and into the alley behind the restaurant. The cobblestones underfoot nearly defeated my heels, but I carefully made my way past several trash bins and a couple of homeless people sleeping on a grate. At last, I found the employee entrance to Rattigan’s. Two Mercedes had been left in front of a No Parking sign. One was small and silver, the other an older black station wagon.

  Behind the expensive cars idled a rusted panel truck, a plume of blue smoke rising from its tailpipe. A padlock hung open on the truck’s cargo door, as if the driver had just removed something from the truck and had taken it into the restaurant.

  I tried the restaurant’s door. It was unlocked.

  I let myself into a back corridor. The white tile walls were immaculate, the floor very clean. I could hear a tinny radio playing—­and voices raised in anger.

  Bright lights blazed in the kitchen. On a long stainless steel counter were cases of produce and a large cardboard box stuffed with long baguettes of bread. Already, the fresh ingredients that went into the restaurant’s famously organic menu had been delivered.

  But the shouting voices drew me farther down the hallway.

  I went around a corner and discovered myself in a prep area. I remembered Tommy’s words about becoming part of the artisanal butchering movement, so I expected to walk in on some doomed animal destined for the restaurant’s stove. Instead, I found several men in aprons, all steadily working at cutting open Styrofoam containers marked with the logo of a big-­box store.

  From the packages, they were grabbing hunks of meat. Steaks, chops, chicken parts.

  They froze in their chores to look at me. Nobody said a word.

  It didn’t take Libby’s mothering instincts to know what was happening. The restaurant was purchasing its meat not from local, organic farmers, but from a big national chain that offered cheaper prices.

  “Uh, excuse me,” I said. “Is Tommy around?”

  One of the aproned men pointed silently down the hall.

  I backpedaled into the hallway. Taking a few more steps, I located the office of the owner and executive chef. Tommy’s name was painted on the glass door.

  Through the glass, I was surprised to see him holding a woman who struggled in his arms. Red-­faced, he gripped her tight to his chest, but she hit at his shoulders with her fists. Then I realized the woman was his sister—­Marybeth Starr. On Saturday, she had come to her ex-­husband’s farm with fire in her eyes. Today, she was an emotional mess.

  I gave a little cough to alert them to my presence.

  Tommy had heard me, and he spoke to her urgently. Her struggles ended. More gently, he turned his sister away so he could look over her shoulder at me. He recognized my face and reacted with surprise. “Nora! What are you doing here?”

  Marybeth pulled out of her brother’s embrace and hastily wiped her eyes with a restaurant napkin.

  “Excuse me,” I said, conveying with my tone that I hadn’t seen anything amiss. “Marybeth, I’m so sorry about Swain. It must be an awful shock for you.”

  “And you.” Marybeth managed a teary, sympathetic smile. “I hear you were the one who found him.”

  “I only wish I had gotten to him sooner.”

  “They tell me he died horribly.” She gave a hiccough, and her eyes overflowed again. She pressed the napkin to her face, and her voice sounded strangled. “Probably only hours after we saw him.”

  “I’m so sorry,” I said again.

  She nodded. “I’m very upset. You know better than anyone what it’s like to lose your husband, Nora.”

  Of course I had to stay then. If I understood anything at all, it was the tornado of emotions that hit a woman in the hours after her husband died—­especially a husband with whom she had a conflicted relationship.

  “It was awful when Todd died a violent death,” I admitted. “I’m sure you’re in shock. And overwhelmed by a dozen different feelings.”

  Gratefully, Marybeth grabbed me up in a hug. She whispered, “You do understand.”

  When my husband was shot, I had been horrified as well as grief-­stricken. And angry with him, too. The confusion of emotion had felt like a storm inside me. So I knew why Marybeth was so disjointed.

  Tommy reached up to put a comforting hand on his sister’s shoulder. “Have you had anything breakfast-­wise, Nora? I was just going to ask Marybeth if I could make her some eggs.”

  My first thought was that a celebrity chef ought to be able to come up with something more exotic than scrambled eggs. Tommy’s pedestrian suggestion also caused Marybeth to pull her shoulder out from under his touch. “Eggs are so boring. Anyway, I couldn’t choke down a mouthful this morning.”

  I smiled at Tommy to ease the sting of her criticism. “Frankly, I’m not sure I could keep down any food, either. But coffee sounds wonderful. If you don’t mind my intruding.”

  “You’re not intruding,” Marybeth answered for her brother. “I need my friends now.”

  I wouldn’t have called myself a friend of Marybeth’s, exactly, but if my experience as a grieving widow could help her through the next hour, I was willing to do whatever she wanted.

  In his green kitchen clogs, Tommy led the way into the back of the darkened restaurant. Without food cooking in the kitchen, the rich scent of herbs floated to us from the main wall of the dining room—­a two-­story wall of rocks and tumbling water where the staff had carefully planted a variety of fragrant herbs that suffused the space with subtle but aromatic scents. From the center of the wall of herbs protruded the severed head of an enormous boar, complete with beaded eyes and sharp tusks. The wild pig appeared to survey the restaurant from on high.

  Tommy found us a table near the espresso station. While he poured a generous handful of coffee beans into a handsome machine, Marybeth and I eased into chairs.

  Over the whine of the coffee grinder, Marybeth said, “I don’t know what happens next. I’m no longer Swain’s next of kin, of course, so my role is uncertain.”

  “You’ve spoken with your children?”

  “Yes, I talked to all of them this morning. They went immediately back to New York to attend to company business.” When I looked surprised, she added, “There’s nothing they can do here. Except look after me, and I have Tommy for that.” She sent an unreadable look at her brother. “And the welfare of Starr Industries is, of course, important to preserve. Since Swain left
the business so recently, his death may have an impact on the company. Suzette must fly to China right away to make sure holdings there are under control. It’s going to be so hard on her to be away for the funeral, but Jacob and Eli will handle the arrangements.”

  “And Porter? Did he go to New York with his siblings?”

  Marybeth blinked as if she’d completely forgotten about her youngest child. Then she teared up again and held her handkerchief to her nose as her face crumpled. “Porter’s going to be so upset about his father’s death.”

  “You haven’t seen him yet?”

  “He—­he’s been so busy starting up his Hollywood venture, you see.”

  What Hollywood venture could be more important than sharing comfort with his mother over the death of his father? But that was none of my business, so I said, “Have the police given you any indication of—­well, besides the manner of Swain’s death, did they have any ideas about how—­I mean—”

  She swallowed hard. “If you can believe it, I am—­I was their first suspect. They’re asking a lot of impertinent questions. They even asked Tommy for an alibi!”

  From the coffee station, Tommy said, “I was foraging near the naval shipyard.”

  Marybeth turned pink. “And I had a visitor.”

  Before she could say more, Tommy snapped, “I’m sure Nora doesn’t need to hear all the details of your life.”

  “Of course not,” I murmured. But I guessed Marybeth had had a lover spend the night in her home. Which meant she had an alibi for the stabbing of her ex-­husband. Tommy, however? Had he gone foraging with a companion who could vouch for him?

  I tried to think of the questions a journalist might ask, but everything seemed too tactless. I wondered about Marybeth’s marriage to Swain Starr. At first, he’d been the impoverished one, the artist who dabbled in fashion. A big injection of cash from his wife’s family fortune had sent him on his skyrocketing success. While he globe-­trotted, she had stayed home to raise the family and to pursue her own scientific interests.

  But Gus wouldn’t care about all that. Gus wanted to know how Swain had met and married Zephyr—­questions I couldn’t bring myself to ask Marybeth.

  Tommy set down two cups of fragrant coffee on the table. “As long as you’re here to keep Marybeth calm, Nora, maybe I’ll get back to the kitchen? With Swain gone, I have to make some fast changes, supply-­wise.”

  Marybeth sniffled into her handkerchief. “Tommy was instrumental in getting some attention paid to Starr’s Landing. Interest in his food has been very high. Reservations are almost full for the next six weeks. You should book a table now, Nora.”

  I was too broke to afford a trip to McDonald’s, let alone an evening at Tommy Rattigan’s fine restaurant. I couldn’t help noticing Tommy looked surprised to hear about his full reservations book. I picked up my coffee cup to hide my own expression. “Tommy, you mentioned something about being partners with Swain.”

  Tommy folded his arms over his chest and frowned to himself. “The main thing I needed from Swain was the pork. We were launching a marketing program that was going to catapult the hog into the culinary stratosphere. I was going to use the meat to maybe earn a couple of stars for the restaurant.”

  “Your aspirations will have to wait, Tommy.” Marybeth took a composed sip of steaming coffee. Her voice was steely. “Our hog began as a pet project of our grandfather, Nora. He raised his own stock for Howie’s Hotties. After my divorce, I decided to continue his work. Once I had a prototype, I understood the three of us were going to begin an operation that was mutually beneficial for all—”

  “Nora doesn’t need to hear that, either,” Tommy snapped, sending her a stern glance. “Bottom line–­wise, couldn’t wait to taste the pork.”

  Marybeth took a sip of her coffee and winced at its flavor. “Tommy, do you have a little whiskey?”

  “Isn’t it too early in the morning for that, Mare?”

  “My ex is dead, Tommy.”

  “But—”

  “And your coffee is too strong for me.”

  “How about a little cream?”

  “A little Jim Beam, please.” Her voice was firm, but she didn’t turn to look at him.

  Clenching his teeth, Tommy went to the sideboard and opened a bottle of liquor. He brought it to the table and poured a sizable dollop into his sister’s coffee cup. Replacing the cap, he said with a hint of a whine, “I planned my whole fall menu around that pork. Now my schedule is shot. The restaurant business is very competitive. It won’t be easy working out another seasonal menu.”

  “Surely the piglets we saw on Saturday will be grown by fall?” I asked.

  Tommy shook his head as he put the bottle back on the bar. “Those won’t be nearly enough. And besides, they aren’t the true breeding Marybeth worked on. They’re only half-­bred pigs. Swain promised he could raise a lot more for me.” Pretending not to hear his sister’s barely audible grumble of disagreement, he said, “That highfalutin French restaurant down the street went under because of supply issues like this. I have to move fast to avoid the same problem.”

  “Maybe Zephyr will take over the breeding program,” I suggested.

  Marybeth slugged her coffee and gave an unladylike snort. “Zephyr objected to the animals from the very beginning. She’s into hydroponic tomatoes. And kale. Kale was her specialty. Now, really, who wants to eat kale? She probably thinks it will be a gold mine!” Marybeth didn’t catch her brother’s expression of consternation and kept going. “I still can’t imagine what Swain saw in her. His midlife crisis was worse than I ever imagined.”

  I said, “Swain went ahead with raising animals without her approval? That doesn’t seem like much of a partnership. Or a marriage.”

  “They didn’t agree pig-­wise,” Tommy said. “In fact, they had a serious blowup over that issue. It’s why Zephyr was pouting at the party. She had taken a stand about Swain advertising their meat production.”

  “I didn’t notice her pouting.”

  “Believe me, she was angry. They had a big fight just as the guests were arriving.”

  “Hmm. What about the missing pig?”

  Together, the siblings snapped their mouths shut. Their expressions reminded me of my niece, Lucy, when she was asked if she’d finished her homework before her favorite television show started.

  “The pig you mentioned at the party,” I said to Marybeth.

  “What about it?”

  “Well,” I said, “you seemed to think Swain had done something he shouldn’t have.”

  Marybeth shook her head firmly. “It was all a misunderstanding. There’s no missing pig.”

  “But—”

  Tommy said, “There was a pig, but it was—­we think Swain sold it.”

  “Was it his to sell? I thought you said—”

  “The prototype was definitely not his to sell.” Marybeth sent another glare at her brother. “He shouldn’t have had it in the first place. I think he was keeping it on the farm somewhere out of sight.”

  “I checked,” Tommy said. “It wasn’t there, Marybeth. Before the party, I looked everywhere.”

  “He wanted it too soon,” Marybeth said. “The program wasn’t ready. The two of you jumped the gun.”

  “My restaurant can’t wait any longer.” Tommy was still fuming, lost in his own problem. “I counted on Swain bringing me a finished product—­animals I could use for my menu. Now I’ll have to start all over again. He really left me in a bind, meat-­wise. Finding another pork source will take considerable time that I don’t have.”

  Tartly, Marybeth said to her brother, “I’m sure he didn’t mean to inconvenience you when he died.”

  “Sorry, Mare.” He bent to give her a perfunctory kiss. “I’m not thinking very straight this morning.”

  Neither of them was. They had tried not to argue in
front of me, but they hadn’t pulled it off. I assumed Marybeth was in shock, not to mention a little tipsy already. Tommy’s single-­minded focus on the future of his menu seemed misplaced on the morning after his former brother-­in-­law’s death.

  Michael had said I only saw the good in people. Now I found myself thinking these two were ugly and self-­obsessed. And both of them were intent on helping me forget about the missing pig that Marybeth had gone to the farm to reclaim.

  “Go back to work.” Marybeth patted Tommy’s hand as it rested on her shoulder. Or maybe he was pinching her into silence? “That’s always been the best medicine. Our grandfather said that often, Nora. In fact, I should get moving, too. I’m sorry I broke in on you, Tommy. I just needed a quick cry, I guess.” She took another slug of coffee and set the cup down in the saucer before getting to her feet.

  In the back corridor, Tommy remembered to hug his sister, although without the appearance of affection. Once again, Tommy wasn’t exactly Mr. Personality. He shook my hand to say good-­bye. Marybeth and I went out into the alley together. I wanted to ask who her night visitor had been—­her alibi. But I couldn’t get past my own reticence.

  “Thank you, Nora,” Marybeth said when we were standing in the sunshine beside her silver Mercedes. She pulled a set of keys from her handbag. “You’ve always been a kind person.”

  “I’m happy to help in any way.”

  She studied me. “If the police come calling, I hope you’ll make light of my—­our little incident on Saturday. I don’t know what came over me. Maybe I shouldn’t have had my date with Jim Beam before I went to Starr’s Landing. I thought I had handled the divorce perfectly well, but suddenly I had a gun in my hand and there was that silly Zephyr looking so—­well, it was naughty of me to wave a gun around.” She giggled.

  I didn’t know what to say. She hadn’t been waving the musket. She had nearly killed me with it. And now she was giggling—­a grown woman, giggling. Perhaps the whiskey in her coffee hadn’t been her first of the day.

  I said, “I know what you’re going through, Marybeth. Not just your husband’s death, but feeling angry with him at the time. I wished I had said something nice to my husband before he was shot, but before he left the house, we had a fight instead. That’s always weighed heavily on me.”