A Little Night Murder Page 4

  Her body lay on a small area rug beside the bed, feet bare, nightgown twisted around her crumpled legs. With one hand, she had seized a handful of the fabric over her heart, and although the muscles of her fingers had loosened in death, the message was unmistakable: A pain in her chest had come on suddenly.

  On the floor beside her pocket lay a small, faded photograph. I looked closer. It was a typical school portrait of a child—maybe six or seven years old, a homely boy with a fringe of dark hair he was clearly trying to hide behind. He had a knobby chin, and his front teeth were missing. Clearly, though, the photo had meant something to Jenny. She had kept it close, and it was in her hand when she died.

  I knew better than to touch the photo—or anything else—but I couldn’t stop myself from closing Jenny’s half-open eyes.

  “Her heart,” the nurse said, standing over me. “She had a weak heart.”

  Boom Boom wrestled a crumpled hankie from a pocket and sniffled into it. “I never thought Jenny would go before me. I only hope God took her gently.”

  Gently? Glancing around, I thought Jenny’s death had been anything but gentle. Her bedclothes were twisted. The jumble of bottles and cans on her bedside table had been knocked awry in the throes of her agony. Her cell phone lay yards away on the carpet. I wondered if she had brushed if off the table and had been trying to reach it to call 911 when she was fatally stricken.

  The only corner of the room that seemed undisturbed held a small shrine to Toodles Tuttle. On an upright piano sat a large framed photo of the famous Broadway composer. He wore a tuxedo and smiled beguilingly at me from across the room. Every day, Jenny Tuttle must have awakened to her father’s smile.

  “Poor Jenny,” sobbed the man behind me. “Poor, poor Jenny!”

  The woman with him had a corona of blond hair with the texture of cotton candy. Her voice was squeaky. “Don’t get hysterical, Fred. You’ll trigger one of your asthma attacks.”

  I looked up at the couple and wracked my brain. They looked familiar to me. He was sixtyish but working to look younger. He wore loose-fitting trousers on extraordinarily long legs with saddle shoes and had tied a scarf jauntily around his neck. His thinning hair was as jet-black as an advertisement for hair dye.

  She was younger—a spritely character from Dr. Seuss with a pink-cheeked face beneath the halo of bright blond hair tied up with a ribbon. Her petite body was encased in a purple leotard with a matching tutu around her hips, tap shoes on her tiny feet. A mad grin seemed stamped permanently on her face.

  The man finally snuffled up his tears and gave me a trembling smile. He put his hand down to me to shake. “How do you do? I’m Fred Fusby. I’m the music director of the show.”

  The baby-voiced woman with him said, “You probably recognize us. We used to be Fusby and Fontanna, the famous dance duo? Fred and I starred in seven Tuttle musicals. I’m Poppy Fontanna.”

  “Hello.”

  Poppy Fontanna almost curtsied as she shook my hand. Out of her mouth spilled what sounded like a string of well-memorized words from an old review. “People say I embody everything Toodles wanted musical theater to be—lively and sophisticated with a touch of sexy panache.”

  “You were on Broadway?” I asked, striving to be polite as we spoke over the dead body of their idol’s daughter.

  “Yes, Sunlight before Rain? Happy Heels? Now Fred and I do road shows—you know, the traveling companies, bus and truck revivals of the old musicals. He has arthritis in his feet, though, so he stopped performing with me and conducts the orchestra instead. Anyway, when Boom Boom called and said she’d found a brand new Toodles Tuttle musical—of course Fred and I were on the first plane here. We’re thrilled to help bring to life Bluebird of Happiness.”

  Fred wiped his eyes. “We were so excited. But now—oh, this is a terrible tragedy. Jenny won’t be here to enjoy the—the—”

  “To enjoy her father’s final work,” Poppy finished for him. As he dissolved into sobs again, she gathered Fred into a comforting hug and patted his back as if he were a child.

  “Oh, I dunno,” Boom Boom said from the ottoman. “Maybe we’ll find some other music Toodles left behind. This old house is chock-full of his stuff.”

  “Miz Tuttle,” the nurse interrupted briskly, “I think it’s time you had a lie-down, don’t you? I’ll make you some tea, and you can pull yourself together.”

  “Okay, okay, Higgie.” To me, Boom Boom said, “This is my nurse, Miss Higginbotham.”

  Just then the paramedics appeared at the doorway with their gear and a wheeled stretcher. The first paramedic took one look at Boom Boom’s blue skin and said, “Wow, I’ve never seen anybody so cyanotic before. And still be conscious, that is.”

  The second paramedic elbowed his partner aside and saw me on the floor. He grinned happily. “Great! I haven’t delivered a baby in months!”

  “There’s no baby. Not yet, anyway.” I moved aside so he could see the body of Jenny Tuttle sprawled out on the floor. He lost his smile and went down on one knee to feel for a pulse, just as I had.

  Michael helped me up off the rug. The scene in the bedroom broke up quickly, but not before I decided that I had witnessed exactly that—a theatrical scene. Fred and Poppy slipped out of the room with the precision of a dance team that did everything smoothly. Lexie gave me a wide-eyed look that indicated we had more to discuss, but she stepped forward to help the nurse assist Boom Boom off the ottoman and out the door. I could hear Boom Boom’s nattering voice as they led her down the hallway.

  The paramedics took over, and Michael bent to help move their equipment. I faded to the back of the bedroom. The drama of the last several minutes suddenly hit me in a wave of nausea. I felt a little woozy. To my left, I saw a half-open door and slipped through it. I found myself in a lady’s dressing room with an adjacent bathroom.

  Unsteadily, I sat down on the slipper chair at the dressing table. In the makeup mirror, my reflection looked pale. I tried to shake the nausea off, but my head continued to spin.

  To compose myself, I focused on the dressing table. It was crowded—not with makeup, but with cans of soda pop and prescription bottles. A lot of prescription bottles. I couldn’t help looking at the labels, and I discovered that the bottles contained an assortment of diet pills—many of them the same prescriptions I had encouraged my sister Libby to dispose of a year ago when she went on a crash diet. No wonder Jenny had appeared smaller than when I saw her last. She’d been trying to lose weight. The rest of the bottles seemed to be vitamins and supplements—some of the labels in Chinese. Others from pharmacies with Canadian addresses. The wastebasket at my feet was filled with more empty soda cans. I recognized the name of an energy drink I had been warned to stay away from during my pregnancy.

  Michael stuck his head around the door, his face full of concern. “You okay?”

  “So-so.”

  He came to my side. “The paramedics are calling the coroner. We can’t get out through the bedroom right now. The door is blocked by their gear. So we’re stuck. You might as well stay here and calm down.”

  “I’m calm. Except—my goodness, have you ever seen anything as bizarre as Boom Boom Tuttle?”

  “You mean Mama Smurf? Was she wearing blue makeup?”

  “She seemed to be blue all over. Do you think her color has anything to do with the show they’re working on? It’s called Bluebird of Happiness.”

  “She’s sure got the blue part down.”

  “Have you found Bridget?”

  “Not yet. But the cops are on their way, and she has a sixth sense about cops. Maybe she beat it already.” His gaze grew concerned. “You’re not going to faint, are you?”

  “I’m not going to faint,” I said. “But I—I knew Jenny Tuttle a little. She used to come to the parties my parents threw. She was very sweet. It was a shock seeing her like that.”

  Michael
looked contrite. “I’m sorry I called you up here.”

  “No, I was glad to help. But perhaps we should give the family some privacy now.” I glanced through the adjacent Jack-and-Jill bathroom to a second door on the other side. “Maybe there’s another way out of here.”

  In Lexie’s house, most of the bedrooms shared a connecting bath. I got up and went to the other door. I tried the knob, and it turned. Michael came behind me as I opened the door.

  We walked through a small bathroom and into another bedroom.

  And found Michael’s mother on the bed with a man.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Bridget sat on the bed, slipping on her shoes. From a standing position, the man was stepping into his loafers.

  Michael stopped dead. “Oh, hell, Bridget. What have you been doing?”

  I thought it was pretty obvious, but his mother smiled up at him from the bed. “Don’t get the wrong idea, Mickey.”

  “Wrong idea?” Michael’s voice went up ten notches. “Is there any other idea?”

  I touched his arm. “Michael—”

  “It isn’t what it looks like.” With the flourish of a magician’s assistant, Bridget indicated the shoeless man. “Meet Mr. Oxenfeld. He’s the producer.”

  Oxenfeld had taken one look at Michael, and all the color had drained from his face. He snatched up his shoes and backed himself against the closet door, hugging his loafers as if for protection.

  Bridget said, “He promised me an audition.”

  “In bed?” Michael demanded.

  “A singing audition,” Bridget insisted. “Dancing, too. We came up here to discuss it in private. There was a lot of shouting going on downstairs. We couldn’t hear ourselves think.”

  Michael said, “You weren’t the least bit curious about the shouting?”

  “Don’t be rude.” Bridget mustered a motherly tone. “I was in labor with you for two days.”

  “Only because you didn’t want to leave the roulette table. A lady was found dead in the next room.”

  “Dead!” Oxenfeld squeaked. “Who? Boom Boom?”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Oxenfeld,” I said as kindly as I could, “but it’s Jenny Tuttle who’s gone. It looks as if she had a heart attack.”

  “Jenny! Oh my God!”

  If Oxenfeld had looked shaken at being discovered in a compromising position, he suddenly appeared to be on the brink of a heart attack of his own. He ran past us into the connecting bath, then had second thoughts and made an abrupt about-face to dash back into the bedroom. Clutching his shoes under one arm, he yanked open the door and fled into the hallway.

  Bridget called, “Hang on, babycakes!”

  But when Oxenfeld didn’t come back, she turned to me and said, “Thanks for nothing. I had a perfectly good audition going, and now you’ve ruined it.”

  Michael grabbed his mother by the elbow and hauled her to her feet. “Forget the audition. We’re getting you out of here now.”

  “But—”

  “The cops are due any minute. Do you really want to get mixed up in a police investigation?”

  After a second’s consideration, Bridget said, “You’ve got a point. I—uh—have a few speeding tickets they might want to discuss.”

  “I thought so.”

  “Have I ever told you about the boyfriend I had with three hundred speeding tickets?”

  Michael said, “You know I don’t like hearing about your boyfriends.”

  The three of us skulked into the hallway. There, Lexie was just letting herself out of another bedroom. From inside, we could hear Boom Boom’s raised voice. Her nurse argued back.

  Lexie shook her head. “Boom Boom’s in there fussing about which wig to wear on opening night. Who’s going to notice her hair if the rest of her is blue?”

  Michael said to her, “Let’s get you off the stage before the curtain goes up.”

  We hurried down the stairs and past the same crowd of weeping dancers still gathered around the piano. We got out the front door in time to see the Bentley make a hasty escape down the driveway—probably Ox Oxenfeld exiting stage left as if pursued by the proverbial theatrical bear. Passing the Bentley on their way up toward the house, though, came two police cars, lights flashing.

  Michael cursed. “It’s going to look worse if we leave now. Let me talk to them, okay? Maybe I can explain we’re just good Samaritans.”

  The first officer out of his cruiser was a state trooper named Ricci, whom Michael and I had gotten to know over the winter during Michael’s house arrest. Today Ricci and Michael shook hands—if not exactly as friends, then as longtime acquaintances.

  I hated handing Michael the job of explaining our presence on the scene. But Lexie was officially an ex-con—an inexperienced ex-con, to boot—so letting him do the talking might save us unnecessary complications.

  To make matters worse, from behind the police cars roared a familiar red minivan. My sister Libby tooted her horn before jumping the sidewalk and pulling to a stop. She bailed out into the sunshine wearing a sky blue skirt with a low-cut T-shirt on top, belted at the waist to enhance her voluptuous figure. In sequins, the T-shirt read BUDGET BUNNY.

  “Nora!” She waved her hand as if to flag down a speeding train. “I haven’t seen you all week! And you’ve grown another size already! Oh, I used to love wearing that shirt. It’s one of my favorites. So cute!”

  “Lib, this is an awkward time for—”

  With a squeal, Libby shot past me and gave Lexie an exuberant hug. “Lexie, my dear, you look marvelous! Being indoors for so long obviously does wonders for the complexion. Did you learn to meditate? Or make friends with terrifying people? We must have lunch someday, so you can tell me everything. I hear all that time alone can be spiritually uplifting. Orange is the new Zen! And who’s this?”

  Libby sized up Bridget O’Halloran and obviously recognized a soul sister. Before I could introduce them, Libby blurted out, “Whoever you are, I love your fashion flair. Leopard is universally stylish. You could wear it with a nun’s habit and be welcomed anywhere. It adds a soupçon of pizzazz to every outfit. Like cinnamon.”

  Bridget took in my sister from the top tufts of her auburn hair, caught up in a fetching bouffant ponytail, to the besparkled peep-toed shoes on her feet, and she instantly warmed to Libby. “I don’t know about soup, but I think leopard says ‘I’m available.’ At least, that’s what all my men friends tell me.”

  “Do you have many men friends?” Libby asked brightly. “A few to spare, maybe?”

  “Libby,” I intervened before the two of them could get down to the business of exchanging dating strategies, “this is Michael’s mother, Bridget O’Halloran.”

  Intrigued and delighted, Libby shook Bridget’s hand. “I have ne’er-do-well sons, too! Sometimes I think they’ll be the death of me, but at other times I realize they add a certain je ne sais quoi to life.”

  “Like cinnamon,” Bridget said.

  “Or vodka,” Libby replied. She finally noticed the hubbub unfolding around us. Her testosterone detector perked up as she realized several handsome policemen were moving purposefully into the Tuttle house. “What in the world is going on here? I have a delivery to make.”

  “A delivery?”

  I had already seen the new decal stuck on the driver’s side door of Libby’s minivan. In bright letters, the decal read BUDGET BUNNY. The accompanying picture showed a smiling rabbit delivering a basket to the front door of a delighted housewife. The same smiling rabbit appeared on Libby’s T-shirt.

  “Have you started another new business?”

  Libby proudly thrust out her bosom to display her T-shirt. “This week, I’m helping a friend who’s a franchise owner for a wonderful company with plenty of upward mobility. I’m giving it a whirl before I decide to invest. Assuming any banker would back a single mother whose only credit re
ference is Costco. The job is not the spiritual experience I usually seek in my enterprising endeavors, but I’ve already met the most charming people. The Tuttles have been especially friendly, even though Boom Boom says Grandmama Blackbird was her sworn enemy. Something about hitting her with a champagne cork. Don’t you think they’re delightful? The Tuttles, I mean?”

  “If you like the color blue,” Lexie said. “Have you laid eyes on Boom Boom?”

  Libby didn’t blink. “You mean her skin cream? Lately I’ve been trying out a night cream that’s green. It may help with wrinkles, but it smells like anchovies. Every night, I dream about pizza. Maybe I should ask Boom Boom about hers.”

  “I don’t think it’s a cream. I think it’s her skin that’s blue.”

  “Libby, what kind of services are you providing?” I asked, cutting through her diversionary baloney. Libby had once tried peddling sex toys without a permit, which had landed her on the Bucks County most wanted list for weeks. I feared she might have found another dubious pursuit.

  “Oh, get that frightened look off your face!” She mustered some irritation. “We run errands, that’s all. So far, I’ve made a few deliveries, done some personal shopping. My friend will even take your car for an oil change, specializing in Lexus models, because—did you know?—the Lexus service department gives massages while you wait. There are lots of hidden perks in this job—”

  Lexie cut the sales pitch short. “What are you doing for the Tuttles?”

  Libby popped open the tailgate of the minivan and stood back to reveal her cargo. Inside, we could see several cases of the same energy drink I had seen in Jenny Tuttle’s bedroom.

  Lexie observed, “Somebody’s very thirsty.”

  “Jenny Tuttle,” Libby reported. “I swear, she’s addicted to the stuff. This is my second trip for her this week. She tips well, though.”

  “About that tip,” I said. “Don’t get your hopes up today, Libby.”

  “Why not?”

  “Jenny died this morning.”

  “Died!” Libby clapped one hand over her bosom. “What happened?”