Little Black Book of Murder Page 13

  Libby shot her eyes sideways at me. “She says That Man of Yours is being rather demanding.”

  “He doesn’t demand anything,” I said. “He’s . . . energetic, that’s all.”

  “He’s bored.”

  “A little,” I admitted.

  “Has he read the book?”

  “Which book?”

  “The book everybody’s reading. About sex,” Libby said. “Handcuffs and feathers and blindfolds and all the unusual things you can do. Is he—? Are you—?”

  “Michael finds nothing playful about handcuffs. We’re not doing anything unusual, Libby, so wash out your brain, please.”

  “Well, that’s disappointing,” she said on a sigh. “I was hoping to get some new ideas.”

  “Why don’t you just read the book?”

  She groaned. “The twins found the last book I bought, and I don’t want to go through that again.”

  When Libby parked and dashed into the salon, I stayed in the minivan with Max. We rolled down all the windows just an inch for fresh air, and I sang silly songs to him. But he fell asleep at once.

  My phone jingled, and I checked the screen. Gus Hardwicke.

  I answered. “Yes?”

  “What have you got for me?”

  “I heard another rumor that Porter Starr and his father don’t get along.”

  “Boring.”

  “Swain’s fashion business has been having management problems for the last five years. Maybe that’s why he transferred the company to his children.”

  “It’s hard to make readers give a toss about rich drones with money problems. What else?”

  I thought I’d gotten some good information, but he still wasn’t satisfied. “Nothing else yet.”

  “Zephyr. I need stuff about Zephyr,” Gus said, and he hung up.

  I leaned my head back against the headrest and tried to think of a way to learn more about Zephyr. But I suddenly felt very drowsy. In the backseat, Max gave a little snore, and soon I was dead to the world, too.

  I jolted awake when Libby climbed back into the minivan.

  “You were sleeping,” she said, extending her foot at me, “so I got a pedicure. What do you think?”

  I rubbed the crick in my neck and looked at her toes. Schiaparelli pink. “Nice,” I said. “How long was I asleep?”

  “An hour,” she said. “I figured I’d give you an extra hour for ordinary sex tonight. Let’s go get that car Rawlins left in the woods.”

  The township impound lot was located near the state police barracks. When Libby pulled in and parked, Max woke up and demanded his mother’s attention. While she changed his diaper, I went looking for someone to talk to about the car. I could see the vehicle behind a chain-­link fence.

  A tall state trooper was coming out of the building. When he saw me at the fence, he came over, wearing his Mountie-­style hat with the chin strap under his lower lip. “You’re Nora Blackbird. You were at the Starr farm on Sunday.”

  “Yes, hello.” I shook his hand. He had been the first trooper on the scene of Swain Starr’s death, and I had answered his questions. His name badge was printed with his last name: RICCI. I said, “I hear you have more questions for me.”

  “Just a few. I didn’t make the connection when we talked at the farm. You’re living with Mick Abruzzo, aren’t you? I spent a few shifts in a cruiser sitting in front of your driveway last winter. You brought me coffee.”

  Over the winter after Michael was released from prison, the state police had maintained a vigil at the bottom of my lane. We guessed they wanted to be sure he didn’t sneak off Blackbird Farm and go on a one-­man crime spree. A few times I worried the police were going to get frostbite while they watched the house.

  “Yes, I did. I’m sorry I didn’t recognize you on Sunday.” To me, all the troopers looked the same in their hats.

  He added, “I followed Mick to church a few times. I guess he found religion in the pokey?”

  “He’s introspective.”

  My response caused Trooper Ricci to laugh.

  With a little more snap in my voice than I intended, I asked, “How is the investigation going?” Hastily, I clarified, “Into Swain Starr’s death, I mean. Have you located his killer?”

  “We’re still gathering information.” He glanced into the impound lot. “Maybe you can help us piece together what happened at the party on Saturday. But can I help you with something here first?”

  “I came to claim my nephew’s car.”

  “The Mustang? It’s registered to Abruzzo, right?”

  “Yes, but—­well, yes. I’m told I need to sign some papers to get the car back?”

  “Yeah, go inside and check with the clerk at the desk. I’ll catch up with you after that.”

  I left him by the fence, but when I opened the door to go into the building, I glanced back and saw him thoughtfully studying the car.

  Libby breezed into the building behind me, Max in her arms. By the time she had looked around and counted all the state troopers at their desks, the sparkle was back in her eyes. “Don’t you love men in uniform?”

  “Control yourself, Libby,” I said to her in an undertone. The clerk had taken the papers and gone into one of the offices to consult with someone. I had hoped to slip in, sign the papers and get the right clearance to reclaim the car. But now I had a bad feeling about getting the vehicle released, and my sister throwing herself at the feet of every police officer in sight was only going to make us look more suspicious.

  She handed Max to me and began rearranging her hair. “I need a date for the Farm-­to-­Table gala, don’t I?”

  “Libby—”

  The clerk returned, looking more stern than friendly. But one glance at Max’s cherubic face made her smile. “Aren’t you a cutie-­pie? I have three grandsons. Is this your little boy?”

  “No, he’s my nephew.”

  She tickled Max’s tummy with her pen. “Would you step outside with me, please? We need you to verify the condition of the car.”

  We trooped outside where Ricci had the driver’s-side door open on the Mustang.

  I tried to sound cheerful. “Is everything all right?”

  Ricci was sitting behind the wheel, frowning. “Where was this car found?”

  The clerk looked at her papers. “On Sheffield Road.”

  “Not far from Blackbird Farm,” I said.

  Ricci said, “Not far from Starr’s Landing, too, right? Sheffield runs through the woods behind both farms, doesn’t it?”

  “Yes. In the summer, I still ride my bicycle that way.”

  My summertime exercise routine didn’t interest Ricci. He got out of the car and walked around it, his face studiously blank. He said, “Who was driving this vehicle the night it was abandoned?”

  Libby had already noted the wedding ring on Ricci’s hand, so her usual laserlike intensity was powered down. She piped up, “My son Rawlins. He bought the car last year.”

  Ricci came back to me, his demeanor less casual than before. “He bought the car from Abruzzo?”

  “We haven’t had time to change the registration,” I said.

  “How old is this Rawlins?”

  “Seventeen,” Libby said promptly. “He’s usually very responsible.”

  “He is,” I agreed. “Very responsible.”

  “So why did he leave the car?”

  I said, “He had engine trouble.”

  But at the same time I spoke, Libby said, “He ran out of gas.”

  “Engine trouble,” Ricci repeated, “or out of gas? Which is it?”

  “We’re not sure,” I said with a feeble smile.

  He nodded. “You have the keys?”

  “I don’t have them with me now,” I said. “Michael told me he’d have one of his employees pick up the car l
ater.”

  Libby began nattering. “Rawlins came home in the middle of the night all by himself. We really should have some kind of taxi service in this area. He could have called someone for a ride, but instead he walked home. He made himself a sandwich before he went to bed and—”

  “Libby,” I said, “why don’t you go pay the impoundment fine? And I think Max needs a dry diaper.”

  I handed the baby back to her, and she said, “I just changed him!”

  Ricci said to me, “Where is the Rawlins kid now?”

  “He’s in school, of course.” I tried to look pleasant as I gave Libby a gentle shove ­toward her minivan. She went off, grumbling, with Max in her arms. “Why do you ask?”

  “If the kid was out in the woods on Saturday night when Swain Starr was killed, maybe he saw something. We’re going to want to talk to him.”

  “He didn’t mention seeing anything,” I said. “And he’s usually quite observant.”

  “All the more reason to talk to him.”

  “Please don’t pull him out of school,” I said. “It would be very disruptive.”

  “A man’s dead, Miss Blackbird. That’s about as disruptive as it gets.”

  “Surely you have other people who can tell you what happened at Starr’s Landing that night. Or at the party. Wouldn’t you want to hear about that?”

  “It helps to ask as many people as possible.”

  I took a chance and said, “Have you spoken with Swain’s ex? Marybeth?”

  “I didn’t talk to her personally, no. The first wife, right? The one who was waving a rifle around earlier in the day?”

  “It was a musket, actually.”

  “That wasn’t the murder weapon, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

  “I know.” Reminded about the condition of Swain’s body when I found him, I felt another ripple of nausea.

  Perhaps Ricci noticed I had turned pale, because he said, “Look, we want to talk to you about the party, what happened, what you saw. But maybe that can wait another day.” He glanced ­toward the impound lot again. “For the record, the car was out of gas. You’ll have to bring a gas can when you come back.”

  He was putting me off because he had a new lead, I realized, not because he had any concern for my health. He was hot on the idea that Rawlins had abandoned his car near the murder scene.

  “Okay. You know where to find me,” I said, and turned to the clerk, smiling as best I could in an effort not to show my concern for my nephew. “Are we finished? Are there more papers to sign?”

  “You just need to make sure the vehicle hasn’t been damaged while in impound.”

  I glanced into the car and saw nothing amiss. Rawlins kept it very clean. But there was a new scrape on the front bumper. I wasn’t sure how long it had been damaged, though. While I walked around to the passenger side, Ricci and the clerk conferred with each other. I opened the passenger door, and something small and plastic fell out on the ground.

  Instinctively, I bent to pick it up. A plastic cylinder.

  It was a home pregnancy test. When I figured that out, I almost dropped it all over again.

  Neither Ricci nor the clerk noticed me. They were busy reading the paperwork together and muttering.

  “Everything okay?” Ricci asked.

  I straightened up hastily. He was glowering at me with suspicion. Over the roof of the car, I said in a voice that sounded high and strained, “Everything looks fine to me. Uh—­do you have any Filly Vanilli toys?”

  “Huh?”

  I addressed myself to the clerk. “I was just thinking if you have three grandsons, you might know where I can get a Filly Vanilli.”

  Ricci looked blank.

  The clerk perked up as if I had mentioned winning lottery tickets. “Oh, they’re adorable! I found one online. But I’m not giving it up for any price. My youngest grandson won’t go to sleep unless his Filly Vanilli is playing. Check eBay. You might get lucky.”

  “Thanks!” I went around the car, hands shoved down in my pockets. “I’m obsessed with Filly Vanilli.”

  Humorless again, the clerk handed over the papers, and I signed above Michael’s printed name.

  When I was finished, Ricci had his notepad out. He said, “The kid Rawlins. What’s his full name and address?”

  Reluctantly, I gave the trooper all the information he asked for. Then Ricci said in his authoritative voice, “Be sure to get the registration changed on this car.”

  “We’ll take care of that right away. Can I make arrangements to take the car?”

  Ricci said, “We’re about to close for the day. Maybe you should come back tomorrow.”

  He wanted to go through the vehicle more carefully, I could see. But he probably needed a warrant. He’d take a few hours to acquire one. I decided not to ask any more questions that might raise his suspicions any further.

  He added, “Don’t forget to bring some gas for the car.”

  I returned to Libby’s minivan. Before opening the passenger door, I pulled the plastic tube out of my pocket.

  Yep, it was a home pregnancy test.

  And the results were positive. Which meant Porky and Rawlins weren’t the only people who had been in the car lately.

  CHAPTER NINE

  I asked Libby to drive me over to the high school in hopes of locating Rawlins before the police did. By the time we arrived, though, classes had been dismissed, and Rawlins was not to be found. He didn’t answer his cell phone, either. So Libby drove me to her house.

  Rawlins was not at home.

  I wondered if he was with his girlfriend. Having a difficult discussion, maybe? Had he gotten someone pregnant?

  I wanted to be there when Rawlins finally showed up, so I called Michael to tell him I’d stay at Libby’s for a little while. He didn’t answer, so I left a message. Monday night was my evening off from attending social events, so I helped Lucy with her homework while Libby drove the twins to their movement class, whatever that was. By the time Libby got back with the boys, I had fielded more invitations for work, and then I helped her make a batch of firehouse chili.

  Still no Rawlins.

  While I did the dishes, the twins tried to lure Lucy into a game in the basement, but she wasn’t falling for that. Libby lost her patience with Harcourt and Hilton. “Go play outside in the dark,” Libby told them. “Maybe you’ll see a flying saucer.”

  They grabbed flashlights and disappeared. Max crawled around at my feet and emptied a drawer of Tupperware containers onto the floor to play with. Lucy came into the kitchen, and I gave her the empty paper towel cylinder, which she proceeded to use as a light saber on invisible space invaders. She played all the roles, including a giant slug who liked to plot the gruesome executions of his enemies. I noticed one of his enemies had the same name as her current teacher.

  I had to admit, Libby had her moments as a mother. She might go off on crazy karmic tangents and wild-­goose chases, but she excelled at giving her children everything they needed to be creative. The windowsill was covered with art projects—­snow globes made out of baby-­food jars, Popsicle stick angels and macaroni snowflakes. Maybe the twins decapitated Cabbage Patch dolls, but they used them to make a movie. Even Rawlins was still writing.

  I thought of Michael playing with the neighbors who had welcomed him into their home. His imaginary games with them were one of the few positive influences that shaped his life.

  Libby took a phone call from Perry, the bug man. I thought she’d carry the phone into another room to speak privately, but she sat at the kitchen table instead. Her voice sounded businesslike as she dealt with him. I felt a tug of sympathy for the teddy-­bearish exterminator.

  Around eight, Libby piled Lucy and Max into the car and drove me home.

  When we arrived at Blackbird Farm, the night was dark, and the driveway beside t
he barn was parked full of cars and SUVs.

  “What’s going on?” Libby asked.

  For a second, I feared Michael had issued a summons for his whole posse to stage the penultimate assault on my furnace.

  “Oh, it’s poker night,” I said with relief. No wonder Michael hadn’t answered my earlier phone call. I’d forgotten that his usual once-­a-­month Wednesday night poker game had been switched to Monday this week.

  Libby peered through the windshield at the lighted windows of the house. “Is That Man of Yours allowed to gamble? I mean, he’s on house arrest. Isn’t that kind of behavior forbidden?”

  “His parole officer is part of the group.” I got out of her minivan before I had to explain that particular irregularity. “G’night, Lib. Thanks for dinner and the lift.”

  I closed the door, then shouldered my bag and walked up the flagstone sidewalk. Ralphie grunted his usual cheerful greeting and came lumbering out of the darkness ­toward me. I gave him a scratch on his head. In the moonlight, I could see the leopardlike spots that ran down his back.

  “Did you behave yourself today?”

  He tipped his head to look up at me and seemed to smile.

  “I didn’t think so,” I said.

  I smelled a cigarette before I saw a figure on the porch, so I wasn’t surprised when I went up the steps and found Jim Kuzik, Michael’s parole officer, taking a smoke break. He was a watchful man with a serious face that probably posed a challenge to his poker opponents. I supposed men who dealt with criminals on a daily basis were prone to cynicism.

  He said, “Good evening, Miss Blackbird.”

  “Hello,” I said coolly. “Are you winning or losing?”

  “Losing,” he said with something that was almost a grin. “Good thing we don’t play for big money, or I’d be looking for a second mortgage.”

  Usually, I avoided conversations with Kuzik, the court-­appointed official assigned to making sure Michael stayed firmly within the restrictions of his parole. I figured that was business between the two of them in which I should not meddle. In addition to Michael’s appointments in his office, Kuzik came to the farm at least once a month and sometimes stopped by oh, so casually on other days. Of course, his surprise visits weren’t casual at all, but pop quizzes, so to speak. He wanted to make sure Michael didn’t violate any rules.