Little Black Book of Murder Read online

  Marybeth concentrated on sorting through her keys to find the one for the car. “Yes, I know. I was furious with Swain. I still am. We all are, actually. All my children—­well, except for Porter, who was never really—­well, the rest of them are very angry about the condition he left the business in when he turned it over to them. And the old fool just underwent surgery to undo his vasectomy, can you believe it? At his age! To have more children hardly seems in the best interest of anyone, does it? I was delighted to hear he spent two weeks sitting on ice packs. But we’ll all find our own ways to forgive him.”

  What was she telling me? That all of her children were angry enough to have killed their father? That any one of them could have? And what about the vasectomy reversal? What did that mean?

  Suddenly she burst into tears.

  I handed over my handkerchief and put a sheltering arm across her shoulders. “If you want to talk, Marybeth, you have my number, don’t you?”

  “Yes.” She snuffled up her tears. “I’ll definitely call. We have so much in common now.”

  As she drove away, I thought about drinkers and ex-­spouses and wondered what in the world I had learned. The siblings clearly wanted to divert me from asking about the missing pig. When her car squealed around the corner and disappeared, I thought about the moment when I’d come upon her in her brother’s arms. I knew Tommy had wanted me to think that he’d been comforting his sister in her time of need.

  But Marybeth had not been sad. She had been angry—­and so had Tommy. They were still disagreeing about the missing pig. Tommy wanted it back to save his restaurant. And Marybeth? She wanted it back for herself, I guessed, for some other reason.

  She hadn’t been grieving at all for her ex-­husband. Her blood was still boiling.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  I checked my watch. Nearly nine, still very early in the morning. I longed to be at home in my bed, catching a couple more hours of sleep. But Gus wanted an update, and I didn’t have much to report except impressions.

  I thought Marybeth hadn’t been ready to give up her prototype pig. Tommy and Swain had rushed ahead with their plan and taken it from her—­probably because Tommy’s restaurant was in jeopardy. Zephyr objected to her husband’s selling meat for consumption. And Swain Starr’s family was angry about some business issue. Plus Marybeth seemed infuriated by her ex-­husband’s vasectomy ­surgery—­and his apparent plan to have more children. All tidbits I didn’t feel I could ethically reveal to my editor until I had proof—­and perhaps not until I knew what it all meant.

  The only fact I could obtain without jeopardizing my scruples was the identity of the man who had been found with Zephyr. So I hiked over to the Ritz-­Carlton in the hopes of finding a friend of mine who worked behind the scenes in the hotel’s hospitality department. If Zephyr had spent Saturday night at that hotel, I might be able to gossip among the staff to find out who her companion had been.

  Unfortunately, my friend was out.

  I walked down to one of the city’s small, luxury boutique hotels and ran into Sammy Dumpleton, a local actor who supplemented his spotty theatrical income by waiting tables in the hotel’s chic little café.

  Sammy was removing his apron and readjusting his vintage bow tie—­he had been among the first to adopt the “chic geek” style of eyeglasses, plaid vest and high-­top sneakers—­when he caught sight of me in the lobby. He crowed with delight. “Nora, darling! As soon as the stock market opens, this place clears out like somebody pulled a fire alarm in a whorehouse. Come have a cup of coffee with me and tell me all about scarves!”

  “Scarves? Sammy, why on earth do you need a scarf?”

  He gave me two kisses and looped his arm through mine to draw me to the center table. The rest of the café was deserted. Perhaps the opening bell of the stock market was the cause, but the prices on the menu might have scared off customers, too. The café was famous for serving forty-­dollar scrambled eggs—­topped with a dollop of caviar—­which was why Sammy chose to work there. His hours were short, but his tips were enough to pay the rent on his tiny but exquisitely furnished riverside loft.

  He sat me down and brought a carafe of coffee and an elegant basket of pastries—­bite-­sized muffins and croissants arranged on a snowy white napkin. He said, “These are on the house, darling. After nine, we just throw them away.”

  “If I even breathe any more carbs, I’ll have to find a new wardrobe.” Reluctantly, I pushed the basket away.

  “Say no more! I am fighting a little flab myself.” Which was a complete lie. Sammy dashed into the kitchen with the lightness of a woodland nymph and returned carrying a fruit plate and two forks. He slid into the chair opposite mine, handed me a fork and speared a perfect strawberry for himself.

  Happily, he said, “I need to know about scarves because I’m playing Madame Arcati in Blithe Spirit at the Playhouse. She’s a medium or a psychic or some such who brings down the house in the second act—­in a totally arch Noël Coward style, of course. I’m far too young for the role, but it’s going to be a kick. I want to be swishy, but elegant. Therefore, scarves. Share your wisdom, Nora.”

  “I have a collection of vintage Hermès,” I said. “Come to the farm, or I’ll bring them to you later this week. You can choose what you like.”

  “You’re the best!” he cried. “But you’d better bring them, darling, if you don’t mind. I can’t set foot on a farm. Allergies. My nose runs like a faucet, very embarrassing. But speaking of tilling the fields, what’s the lowdown on Swain Starr? The morning newspaper says you stumbled over the corpse!”

  “I didn’t actually stumble,” I said. I told him the whole traumatic story.

  When I finished, Sammy leaned conspiratorially close. “Can I tell you a secret?”

  “Probably not,” I said on a sigh. “I work for the Intelligencer now, you know.”

  He popped his eyes playfully wide. “I haven’t bought an Intelligencer in years, but that exposé on Real Housewives of the Main Line? Too juicy to skip! I may have to break down and subscribe.”

  Good news for Gus, I thought. The sleaze was paying off. “Thanks. You’re keeping me in a job,” I said.

  “Survival of the fittest ain’t pretty,” Sammy said. “Well, I can’t resist telling you my secret. Guess where the police found Zephyr Starr, the soon-­to-­be-­grieving widow, yesterday morn?”

  “She was here?”

  “Yep. Checked in around midnight, from what I hear in the break room.” Sammy used one forefinger to solemnly cross his heart. “I saw the police escort her out about six.”

  “She was under arrest?”

  “I didn’t see any handcuffs.”

  “How did she look?”

  “Not exactly devastated,” he said with a coy smile. “In fact, she looked like she could go back on the runway anytime. She was strutting her stuff with the de rigueur sullen expression on her gorgeous face. I’d kill for those eyelashes of hers, though. Do you think they’re real? But she was barefoot, darling. Barefoot! As if she’d gone back to her hillbilly roots.”

  “I heard she was with someone. Do you know anything about that?”

  He refilled both our cups of coffee, keeping me in suspense. Finally, Sam dropped his voice and said, “I have a special relationship with Fred, the night security dude. He looked at the tapes with the police. And he says she was entertaining a very young gentleman. Very young, was Fred’s impression.”

  “Did Fred mention anything about the man except his age?”

  “He was wearing a hat. Like Frank Sinatra.”

  Porky, I thought at once. “Sammy, you’re a gem.”

  He smiled. “Tell your friends.”

  I laughed. I had known Sammy since we played jacks together on a shuffleboard court at our parents’ racquet club. Years later—­a few months after my husband’s death—­we bumped into each other one nig
ht at a Rittenhouse Square restaurant where I’d gone to pick up some takeout, and he insisted on dragging me to a Sound of Music sing-­along. That night in a packed movie theater turned out to be silly and wonderfully restorative for me, and I owed him a debt of gratitude for helping me when I was very low.

  Like me, Sammy had come from a family that enjoyed a very high tax bracket, but he’d fallen a long way when his stodgy father rejected his flamboyant lifestyle. From the private schools, vacations in Switzerland and golf lessons with professional players of his younger days, he was now making his own way in the world, just as I was. Although perhaps with more panache. Waiting tables was a long way from Gstaad. I felt a rush of comradeship.

  I thanked him for the fruit. “If you need something to go with the scarves, let me know. Take an allergy pill, and we could rummage through my grandmama’s trunks for just the right outfit.”

  He squeezed my hand. “Darling, you’re a treasure.”

  We chatted for a few more minutes. He wanted to know about my job and what charitable events I had attended lately. I asked him for more details about his work for the Playhouse, and he promised to send me a couple of tickets for a performance.

  When he was summoned to deliver some room service orders, I sat at the table and tried to make a few notes to figure out what I had learned, and where I could go next.

  My phone had been pinging at me the whole time I talked with Sammy. I checked the screen to see who had tried to reach me and saw that mostly it was people calling to invite me to parties or to benefits in the near future. I saw the name of one woman—­a nervous Nellie who ran a local nonprofit—­and I remembered she wanted me to drop in on their awards luncheon next week. I quickly texted back to assure her I planned to attend. Otherwise, she’d bug me all day. I’d take care of the other messages later.

  But one missed call was the state police. I listened to that message right away. A deep voice asked me to stop by the barracks to clear up some details about the crime scene at Starr’s Landing.

  The phone rang in my hand, and the screen told me the incoming call was from Michael.

  I answered, and because I was still thinking of Sammy and how he’d been rejected by his family, I said without preamble, “If we ever have children, we’re always going to love them even if they turn out to be people we didn’t expect.”

  “If?” Michael said. “Are you losing hope already?”

  “No,” I said, chastened. “No, not at all.”

  We had stopped talking about having a baby lately, but the subject had never been far from our thoughts. Now, though, it was becoming a painful subject, and we didn’t discuss it much. Or even joke about it. Maybe I was too sensitive about my infertility.

  “Good morning,” Michael said, starting over. “Sounds as if you’ve already had a tough day.”

  “I’ll vent later,” I said, making an effort to sound cheery. “You know a few things about restaurants, right?”

  “Does my sister’s pizza shop count?”

  “Of course,” I said, although I knew the shop had already been busted once for money laundering, so maybe food was not the primary purpose of his sister’s business. “A little while ago I saw something strange in a restaurant kitchen.”

  “A health department violation?”

  “Not exactly. I was in Tommy Rattigan’s place, where the menu claims all the meat comes from local farmers. But I surprised the kitchen staff opening packages—­Styrofoam trays wrapped in plastic like the kind from the supermarket.”

  Michael laughed. “So what else is new? Restaurants cut corners to stay in business. Question is, did the packages legitimately come from a store, or were they stolen?”

  “Stolen?”

  “Little Frankie’s first criminal act—­that is, the first one he got caught for—­was stealing steaks from the meat case at the Red Lion and reselling them out of the trunk of a car. Easy way to raise some beer money.”

  I remembered the padlocked truck in the alley behind the restaurant. It had been unmarked. Maybe Michael was right. He usually was, where crime was concerned. I remembered him telling me that high-­end restaurants rarely laundered money anymore because most customers used credit cards. His sister’s shop was a cash-­only business. His speculation about possible crime going on when we dined out occasionally gave me indigestion.

  He said, “Did they see you?”

  “The men in the kitchen? Yes.”

  “Hmm. Well, let me know if you start to think somebody’s following you around, okay? Could be, the guys in the kitchen are selling drugs, too. That’s another typical restaurant scenario. I don’t want you mixed up in some misunderstanding with idiots who panic and overreact.”

  “Okay,” I said. “I played dumb, though, so I don’t think I’m in any trouble. The good news is that I just got a raise today.”

  “Hey, that’s great!”

  I didn’t want to mention the raise had come with strings attached. I said, “Did you call to wish me a good morning?”

  “Not exactly. The police just stopped by.”

  “They left a message on my phone. They want me to talk to them about the crime scene.”

  “That wasn’t why they were here.”

  I sat up straight, alarmed that Michael was being so closely monitored. “What’s wrong?”

  “They weren’t looking for me this time. You know the car Rawlins has been driving? It’s still registered in my name. And the cops found it abandoned out on a country road.”

  I felt my pulse skip with concern for Rawlins. “Abandoned?”

  “Rawlins is okay. I called your sister already. She said he went off to school as usual this morning. She hadn’t even noticed he came home without his car.”

  “Libby is heavily involved in the twins right now.”

  “Keeping them off the Most Wanted list, I hope.”

  I felt a sinking sensation in my chest. Half to myself, I said, “What in the world is going on with Rawlins?’

  Michael said, “I’m maybe thinking he had a tiff with a girlfriend and walked away. Teen melodrama. Anyway, the cops need one of us to take a look at the car today and sign some papers. Since I’m stuck here, that leaves you. Do you mind?”

  “Of course not. I’ll sit down to answer their questions at the same time.” I could telephone Gus that I’d discovered which hotel Zephyr had been found in. Then maybe I’d be free to go for the day. “I’m not making much headway here. I’ll take the train. Maybe Libby will pick me up at the station.”

  “If she can’t, call me back. I can arrange something else for you. Later on, I’ll have one of my guys pick up the car. Listen,” he said in a different tone, “you need to be careful.”

  He let a silence stretch, and I suddenly wondered if our phones were being tapped again. Was somebody investigating Michael? And he didn’t want to say anything incriminating on the phone with me? Or was he more concerned about Rawlins than he let on? If I spoke to the police about the car Rawlins had abandoned, I had to be sure not to implicate him in anything illegal. After a moment, I said, “I will. Michael?”

  “Yeah?”

  I gathered up my handbag and headed for the door. “The keys?” If Rawlins had left the car somewhere out on a country road, what were his keys doing in Swain Starr’s pigpen the morning I had discovered his dead body?

  “I dunno,” he said, guessing what I meant. “If the kid’s got a problem, we need to get out ahead of it.”

  “Yes.”

  “Watch your step. Gotta run.”

  We hung up without ceremony, and thirty seconds later, my phone rang again. I assumed it was Michael calling back to say good-­bye properly, so I said, “I love you.”

  Gus Hardwicke said, “So soon? Usually it takes women at least a month to fall for my charms.”

  “Oh, it’s you,” I said, embarrassed
all over again.

  “Don’t disappoint me,” he said. “You were expecting someone else?”

  “Is there something I can do for you?” I asked tartly.

  “What’s the latest?”

  “The latest? I’ve been out of your office for only a couple of hours.”

  “Plenty of time to dig up something good. What have you learned?”

  “I know the name of the hotel where Zephyr stayed the night of her husband’s murder.”

  “Which hotel was it?”

  I told him.

  Gus said, “Who was she with?”

  “I don’t know yet.”

  “It was a man?”

  “Yes,” I said uneasily. I wasn’t sure how much of what Sammy had told me I should divulge. “A young man.”

  “How do you know?”

  “A hotel employee saw him on video.”

  “What did he look like?”

  “They couldn’t see his face. He was wearing a hat.”

  “The piggy kid?” Gus said, making the same mental leap I had. “What did you call him? Porky?”

  “I’m not positive it was him.”

  “What else have you got?”

  I could have told Gus about Swain’s vasectomy reversal, but that seemed like unimportant information, not to mention an indelicate subject. “I think—­look, Marybeth was upset about a pig. The pig she mentioned at the party.”

  “Forget about her.”

  “The police seem to think she’s the primary suspect.”

  “She’s not interesting enough to sell papers. Next?”

  Desperate to give him something that would make him happy, I said, “Nearly all of his children were angry with him at the time of his death.”

  “What for?”

  “Some business thing. I don’t know anything specific.”

  “With Starr’s fashion company? That could mean big bucks. Okay,” Gus said. “Find out what had them so pissed off.”