Little Black Book of Murder Read online

  I said, “I’m not so sure about Porky’s unpleasantness anymore.”

  Gus swung on me, tall and very close. “Change of heart where Porky is concerned?”

  “Oh, he’s still an unpleasant person, but yesterday I saw a different side of him.” I tried to remember something specific about Porky’s desperate effort to keep Zephyr. “He was—­well, pathetic, actually. He wants to be loved. And I don’t think he’s had much of that in his life.”

  Gus rolled his eyes. “Do I hear violins?”

  “He was an unwanted child,” I insisted. “His father made no secret of that all his life. Porky came back to Philadelphia—­not to be reunited with his family, but because his TV career died. He’s desperately trying to make a living at what he knows—­performing children. It’s a distasteful career, yes, but he’s doing something, not sitting around waiting to be pampered by his wealthy family. You must see something noble in that.”

  “Noble?” Gus tossed the marker up and down, eyeing me. “Don’t tell me you admire the little pig now?”

  “No,” I admitted. “I don’t admire him. But I do feel sorry for him.”

  “Could he play Oedipus in this family drama? Could he have killed his father?”

  “My instinct says no. I don’t see the rage in him.”

  “Rage,” Gus said thoughtfully. “What would you know about rage?”

  “I assume it takes rage to kill someone, that’s all.” Thinking about finding the keys at the crime scene, I added, “And this killer had to be composed enough after the murder to throw blame, too.”

  His interest sharpened. “What do you mean by that?”

  “The police suspect my nephew. That didn’t come from nowhere.”

  “Do you know something you’re not telling me?”

  “Quite a bit,” I said frankly, and smiled. But I wasn’t going to tell Gus any more just yet. “Another person I’d like to know more about is Tommy Rattigan.”

  Gus threw the red marker on his desk and grabbed his jacket. “Rattigan, the restaurant owner? I haven’t had lunch yet. And I’d like an opportunity to study that outfit of yours in more detail. Let’s go.”

  Which was how I found myself being ushered to a table by a young hostess who seemed charmed by Gus’s Aussie accent.

  “Did you play rugby?” she asked him as he pulled out a chair for me.

  “Of course,” he said, making an effort to be pleasant. “Why do you ask?”

  She hugged the menus and released a besotted sigh. “I think of all Australian men without their shirts, playing with big sticks.”

  He laughed and chucked her under the chin with familiarity. “You mean lacrosse.”

  “Do I?” With a giggle, she presented him with a menu and as an afterthought dropped the other one in my lap. She drifted away with a starry-­eyed smile on her face.

  “Get your big stick under control,” I said when we were seated and alone. “That girl is too young for you.”

  “I like older women anyway. Give me a woman with experience, perhaps one insecure enough to let me have what I want without too much fuss, and I’m a happy man.”

  Instantly, my annoyance with the hostess evaporated. I said, “Do they teach you how to be such a pig in Australia? Or is that an American misconception?”

  “It’s my gift. Speaking of pigs.” He raised his gaze to the boar on the wall over my head. “Did Rattigan kill that one himself?”

  “Worried for your own safety?”

  “Not worried, but,” he said, “now that you mention safety, there’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you.”

  I waited while the server’s assistant came and poured water into our glasses. When he went away, Gus said, “Has your gangster boyfriend got somebody following me?”

  I couldn’t help smiling. “I don’t believe Michael has spent two minutes thinking about you, let alone having you followed. Why?”

  Gus shrugged. “Nothing I can confidently say is evidence of fact. But I have a feeling there are a couple of goons with their eyes on me.”

  I glanced around the nearly empty restaurant. The lunch hour was long past. Only a few diners remained, and they were older ladies, none of whom looked more threatening than those in my grandmother’s bridge club. “This minute?”

  “No, but this morning when I came to the office. And last night, when I went out.”

  “Out?” I asked. “Not home?”

  “Out,” he repeated, then frowned at the menu. “What shall we have?”

  I scanned the menu. I had missed lunch at both my earlier events, and suddenly my stomach gurgled. Everything on the list looked delicious to me. All that mattered was how soon it could appear on a plate and I could be attacking it with a fork.

  The waiter came, and Gus ordered a beer. I requested an iced tea. Gus hummed while studying the menu with interest. The waiter came back a heartbeat later, drinks on a tray, and told us the lunch specials. Thinking of my waistline, I reluctantly ordered a salad of foraged greens with two grilled scallops on top and the lemon vinaigrette on the side.

  Gus proceeded to cross-­examine the waiter until I thought the poor man might cry. From what river had the trout come? How was the duck breast prepared? Where had the tomatoes been picked? Were the mushrooms imported, too? How long ago? And the fennel. Was it local? Gus displayed a gourmand’s expertise by his questions, and I noted he wasn’t a rugged adventurer from the outback who ate his mutton from a stick. He had grown up the son of a rich man. He was a gentleman of more refined taste than I had first assumed. I sipped my tea and listened to him.

  In the end, he ordered a hanger steak, rare. He drank three inches off the top of his beer as if the task of ordering had made him thirsty. When the basket of rolls arrived, Gus pushed them aside.

  “Back to the Starr murder,” he said, getting down to business. “I’m still going with Zephyr.”

  I tried not to gaze longingly after the bread basket. “She grew up poor. As a teenager, she killed her father at their home in West Virginia. Other than—”

  Gus nodded and twirled his finger for me to continue. “Tell me what else your boyfriend learned about her.”

  “What makes you think Michael had anything to do with that information?”

  “You said you couldn’t quote your source. You have a certain protective tone in your voice when you mention him. Ergo, he learned the details about Zephyr. Come on. There must be more.”

  I ticked off on my fingers what I knew. “Zephyr got into beauty pageants, then modeling. We know she traveled to Paris and Milan. You say she killed two boyfriends, which brings her victim count to three. You also say she was paying the Saudi police for silence, and I got the impression she had financial problems. Maybe she paid off more people to keep quiet? She wanted a child—­maybe to ensure she’d get some child-­support income if Swain died—­and her husband was doing everything he could, even enduring surgery and an unpleasant recovery period, to give her the baby she wanted. But none of that adds up to a reason for her to kill Swain. So let’s forget her for a moment. Let’s talk about Tommy.”

  “You get a glow when you talk about murder. Did you know that? Maybe that’s why you’re attracted to your thug. Crime turns you on.”

  I ignored him. Since we were sitting in Tommy’s restaurant, I kept my voice low. “Tommy had a serious disagreement with Swain Starr over the production of pigs. He thought Swain had betrayed and cheated him when their prototype pig went missing. As a sidebar, I believe things aren’t quite on the up-­and-­up in Tommy’s kitchen.”

  Gus groaned with exasperation. “The man’s such a bore, he puts me to sleep. I’m only slightly heartened to think he has something interesting going on. Could he be a shady character underneath the dull facade?”

  “Gus, Tommy and Swain thought they could raise a perfect pig from something Marybeth
had bred. But instead of obtaining it in a civilized way, they stole it from her. At least, that’s what I think happened. Tommy and Swain stood to make a lot of money from what they obtained from her, but also I think they both wanted credit for bringing this miraculously delicious pig to the table. When the lynchpin of the breeding stock disappeared, Tommy blamed Swain. Marybeth blamed Swain. I don’t know who Swain blamed.”

  Gus had been frowning at me. “I’m with you so far. What’s your point?”

  “Maybe Tommy killed Swain over the pig disappearance. The pig was his big chance. His means to be famous and save his restaurant.”

  “His rescue was coming from a pig?”

  “Your father has his newspaper empire, not exactly a pristine one. But I presume you’d be angry if somebody tried to steal it from your family. Or,” I said, “would you rather just forget about working and go spearfishing instead?”

  He smiled into my eyes. “I might spear the empire myself someday.”

  “Who’s the blonde in the bikini?” I asked.

  “My ex-­stepmother,” he replied coolly. “My father’s third wife. She’s great in bed.”

  I took another slug of iced tea, and we regarded each other. I wondered under what circumstances Gus had been chased out of Australia. I could probably find out by using my own little black book of contacts.

  Meanwhile, he looked very attractive sitting in the restaurant with young hostesses staring dreamily at his broad shoulders. Even seated at a small table, he cut a manly figure. His hair looked burnished from the sun, and his smile had a devilish twist at the edges.

  His gaze dropped appreciatively to my suit. “Does the jacket component of that outfit come off?”

  “Not in public,” I said.

  If he was disappointed, he didn’t let it show. He drank more beer and set the glass back on the table. “I notice you’re better motivated to work on this case now. Protecting your nephew?”

  I made a conscious effort to stop thinking about how attractive my editor was. “He’s a good kid with a lot of potential. He doesn’t deserve what’s happening to him.”

  “Where there’s smoke, there’s fire.”

  “If there’s smoke, somebody’s blowing it in his direction.”

  “A conspiracy? To frame your poor, innocent nephew? That seems a little far-­fetched, luv.”

  “Rawlins had no reason to kill Swain. At the moment, I think Tommy could be our man. He claimed he was out foraging when the murder happened, but can he prove it? And since he’s a Rattigan, we know he can get angry. We need to find out how much of his life depended on the success of the pig.”

  “Hmm.” Gus seemed to take my theory seriously. “You mentioned things aren’t quite on the up-­and-­up with this restaurant. How well do you know your way around?”

  “I’ve been in the kitchen area, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  Gus leaned forward, elbows on the table. Anyone watching probably thought he was about to share an intimate confidence. “That’s exactly what I’m asking. You could find Rattigan back there? This afternoon? Now?”

  “I suppose so, yes, if he’s here.” Uneasily, I asked, “Why?”

  From the pocket of his jacket, Gus pulled a small cardboard box, the size in which a jeweler might package a ring. He popped the box open and upended it. Into his hand fell a small black object—­something electronic, no bigger than a nickel.

  “What is that?” I asked.

  “A bug.”

  “A—?” I looked into his face and found him meeting my gaze directly, suddenly serious.

  “It’s a sophisticated electronic listening device. I want you to take it back to the kitchen and find Rattigan. I want you to put it in his pocket or somewhere—­anywhere—­so we can listen to what he has to say.”

  “Are you kidding?” I demanded after a heartbeat.

  “If we can listen in, we may hear what he has to say about Starr’s death. If you’re right, we might get a full confession.”

  “Is this legal?”

  “Do you ask Abruzzo questions like that?”

  “We can’t do this!”

  “It’s not legal,” he agreed.

  “More important, it’s wrong. We’ll get caught. We’ll go to jail.”

  “You won’t get caught. And nobody goes to jail for this kind of thing anymore. Slap on the wrist, pay a fine, it’s done. Besides,” Gus said, “do you want to save your nephew’s neck? Or not?”

  Before I could speak, our waiter returned. Or, I thought it was our waiter. An instant later, I realized it was Tommy Rattigan who appeared beside us, buttoned into his chef’s jacket, sweat on his dark face.

  “Hardwicke?” he said.

  Gus had palmed the bug before Tommy’s shadow quite crossed our table. He glanced up, friendly. “Yes?”

  “You son of a bitch. I want you to stay away from my sister!”

  Tommy hauled back and slugged Gus across the jaw and sent him sprawling out of his chair. Before Gus could scramble up from the carpet, Tommy bent down and seized him by his lapels. He dragged Gus up to a half-­sitting position and tried punching him again. He had powerful strength in his arms, but Gus’s advantage could have been his greater size and quicker reflexes. But Gus couldn’t get up off the floor. They struggled, grunting, and then Tommy let fly another blow that glanced off the side of Gus’s head. I leaped to my feet and grabbed my iced tea, prepared to fling it on them as if they were a couple of snarling dogs. But Gus fell back on the carpet, no fight left.

  Standing over him, Tommy pointed a trembling finger at Gus and snapped, “And get the hell out of my restaurant!”

  He stormed off, red-­faced and breathing hard.

  I looked down at Gus. “Stay away from his sister?”

  Gus stayed where he was, looking up at me and rubbing his jaw. “I guess I should have mentioned this earlier. The man with Marybeth Starr the night her husband was killed? That was me.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  We went outside. On the sidewalk, I spun on Gus. “You slept with Marybeth Starr? She’s twenty years older than you are!”

  “She’s an attractive woman. Eager for male companionship. Divorcées and widows often are. Cuts down on tiresome preliminaries. She was a tigress in bed.”

  “You are,” I snapped, “a total snake!”

  “I blame you,” he said. He had scooped the ice out of my iced tea and wrapped it in one of the restaurant’s white linen napkins. He held the makeshift ice pack against his face. “Listening to you and your thug humping in the closet, then seeing you afterward—­the look in your eyes and the well-­shagged wobble in your usually ladylike walk—­it gave me the urge. I left your house and drove down the road a couple of miles and saw the silver Mercedes parked outside a bar. So I went in, and she was having a drink. A big drink. She wasn’t you, but she wasn’t bad. We had a good time together. She is an experienced lover, just my type.”

  Boiling inside, I turned and walked half a block. He matched me stride for stride. I said, “You spent the whole night with her?”

  “Why does that matter to you?”

  “It doesn’t matter one iota to me,” I snapped. “But the police are going to ask about your timetable. You’re her alibi!”

  “Our timetable wasn’t as brief as yours in the closet.”

  “It’s not a closet,” I said, feeling completely ridiculous and knowing full well that he was goading me again. We were stopped at a traffic light, and two more pedestrians appeared around us. They glanced uneasily at the dripping napkin Gus held against his face. Then their expressions turned suspicious when they looked at me. I was almost sorry I hadn’t punched him myself. At least I could have enjoyed the satisfaction. The light changed, and they both walked hastily across the street. I stayed where I was.

  So did Gus. Still clasping the ice pack to his
jaw, he said, “We didn’t spend the whole night together. There’s always a scene in the morning, and I’d rather get to work than try to make peace with a weeping woman.”

  “Spare me the details of your sex life.”

  “Are you jealous?”

  “For heaven’s sake!”

  “Do you and the thug like sex in the morning?”

  I almost told him Michael liked sex day and night, often both, but I had just enough presence of mind to hold back.

  “Anyway,” Gus said, “she needed a pick-­me-­up. The silly cow was upset about her husband’s new farm, and she’d had some kind of career setback, so it was natural for her to turn to—”

  “What kind of setback?”

  “I wasn’t interested enough to ask. It doesn’t matter. She’s not important. We’re in good shape now.”

  I turned to look at him at last. “Who’s in good shape?”

  “You and me.” He showed me the empty box. “You don’t really think I’d let a weenie like Tommy Rattigan knock me down, do you? I faked it and slipped the bug into his pocket. If he says anything about the murder, it’ll be recorded. We can start listening any minute.”

  I stared at him for a second, my mouth open. The ease with which he broke the law shouldn’t have shocked me—­I’d had plenty of time to get used to Michael’s occasional walks on the wild side—­but I was stunned just the same. In his handsome suit and tie, Gus hardly looked like a criminal, but that was exactly what he was—­a low-­down, dirty criminal who could have done his job by taking the ethical high ground, but didn’t bother with that.

  I snapped my mouth shut and swallowed the lump of disgust in my throat. “I’m going to walk away now, and I don’t want you following me.”

  “Oh, enough with the outrage.”

  “I have an event to attend,” I said with more calm than I was feeling. “And you need to go back into the restaurant. You need to tell Tommy that you accidentally dropped something into his pocket and you want it back.”