Little Black Book of Murder Read online

  “Marybeth is not crazy,” I said firmly. “She might have been angry, but she isn’t crazy. She’s an agricultural geneticist—­a very serious one.”

  “We could have had a news event on our hands if I hadn’t lost my head and wrestled her into the dirt.”

  “Yes, it’s too bad we lost out on a mass shooting.”

  He laughed. “I’m having a bit of fun, and you know it. We were all lucky.”

  I did my best to control my trembling hands. Maybe nobody had been hurt, but it had been a close call. Although it pained me to do it, I said, “Look, I appreciate what you did back there. It wasn’t luck. If you hadn’t stopped Marybeth, she might have missed her target and hit me instead.”

  Gus threw me a grin. “Did I save your pretty neck, Nora?”

  “Yes, I think you did. And I—­well, thank you.”

  He laughed. “I was hoping to see an old-­fashioned American-­girl fight between Marybeth and Zephyr. Some hair pulling, at the very least. She’d been drinking, you know. I smelled it when we were rolling around in the dust together.”

  “Marybeth does have a temper,” I said. I remembered how Gus had lingered on the ground with her—­and how her arms seemed to find purchase on parts of his body that would normally be off-­limits. Maybe her temper wasn’t the only hot part of Mary­beth.

  “And what did she say about Swain walking funny?” Gus asked.

  “I don’t know what she meant.”

  “That story isn’t over,” Gus predicted. “Starr might be starting a new life down on the farm, but he hasn’t dealt with his first family properly yet, has he? What do you think? Money problems?”

  “There’s so much money in the family, it’s hard to imagine they need to fight over it. The Rattigans have hot dog money. And Swain made his own fortune.”

  “Something has them all stirred up,” Gus said with delight.

  “You mean besides Swain dumping his supportive wife after four children? For one of the most beautiful women in the world?”

  Gus groaned. “I’ll be bored to death if this story ends up being about jealous wives.”

  Me, too, I thought.

  I watched the passing scenery, thinking about what we’d just witnessed. “Did you hear the other thing Marybeth said? I get the impression Swain and Marybeth’s brother have gone into a partnership to raise some unusual variety of pig—­a pig that Marybeth bred. But something must have gone wrong.”

  “Too bad she couldn’t breed some of the pig out of her own son. What happened to Porky? He didn’t stick around for the shooting.”

  “Stop calling him Porky,” I said. The pig jokes were an easy habit to fall into where the Rattigans were concerned. I fervently hoped I didn’t slip again and call Porter by his awful nickname to his face. To Gus, I said, “Marybeth said something about wanting the breeding stock back.”

  “But the pig disappeared,” Gus said.

  “That seems to be Swain’s side of the story.”

  “What do you think? Is he telling the truth?”

  “Why would he lie?”

  Gus had a rollicking laugh. “Do you always assume people tell the truth?”

  I sent him a frown.

  “Nothing insulting intended,” he assured me. “You’ll have to see what you can find out, that’s all. Not about pigs. Who cares about livestock? It’s Zephyr who’s going to be the marketable headline in all this, you’ll see.”

  I pointed out the turn, and Gus pulled into the lane of Blackbird Farm. The once-­austere house sat back a considerable distance from the road. If you drove past fast enough, you still got the impression of baronial splendor. But our private lane curved around the grove of oak trees in the front, following the line of the pasture fence, and brought guests around to the back of the house where the truth became clear. The broken windows of the solarium gave the impression of an old man who’d lost half his teeth, and the rest of the house looked like a ramshackle pile of fieldstone and slate.

  Emma’s herd of Shetland ponies chased us along the pasture fence, but I don’t think they were enough of a distraction to hide the condition of my home.

  A couple of cars were parked on the gravel driveway between the house and the barn. One of them was a jacked-­up muscle car with a pastel paint job—­a sure sign the infamous Michael Abruzzo was in residence. The other was a plain sedan.

  Gus Hardwicke got out of his side of the convertible in time to be greeted by Ralphie, the pet pig that was supposed to be our Christmas dinner but had ended up becoming our guard dog instead. He refused to stay penned and happily roamed the farm at will. Michael had devoted a few weeks to teaching him the perimeter of the property, but Ralphie spent most of his time mooning around the back door, waiting for Michael to come out and play.

  Gus said, “What is it with you Yanks and pigs?”

  I said, “He’s just a pet.”

  “A cocker spaniel is a pet,” Gus said as Ralphie snuffled his legs. “Does he bite?”

  I went over and scratched Ralphie’s bristly back. He had gained another fifty pounds over the winter and now stood as tall as one of Emma’s Shetland ponies. Lately I had begun to wonder if he had a hormone imbalance and might grow to the size of a hippopotamus. I said, “He won’t bite. You just have to show him who’s boss.”

  “How?” For the first time, Gus looked as if his ever-­ready confidence was shaken. He backed up against his car.

  For a moment, I almost liked Gus Hardwicke.

  “Move over, Ralphie.” I gave the pig a shove, which had no effect. In fact, Ralphie crowded Gus against the car and determinedly rooted his snout into Gus’s crotch.

  Gus yelped and climbed like a crab onto the hood of his convertible.

  Michael came out onto the back porch and let out a piercing whistle.

  Ralphie quit bullying Gus and gave a happy snort before trotting ­toward the house. Michael had been eating an apple, and he tossed the remains of it to his pig. Ralphie caught it in the air and retreated to the shade of a tree to savor his treat. After maraschino cherries, he loved apples best.

  I hadn’t planned on inviting Gus to stay. But at Michael’s appearance, his newsman’s instincts kicked in, and he headed for the porch almost as fast as Ralphie had.

  One of Michael’s employees, a member of his ever-­changing posse, came out of the kitchen. He stepped off the porch, clutching a bloody towel to his face as if he’d been beaten with a baseball bat. He limped, too. Gus did a double take and probably assumed the worst.

  When the battered wiseguy reached me in the driveway, I asked, “What happened?”

  “We were trying to fix your furnace,” he said through swollen lips, adding some foul words that began with f. “A lever kicked back and hit me in the kisser. You should sell this heap, lady, before somebody gets killed from flushing a toilet!”

  He climbed into his car and made a hasty exit.

  Lately, Michael had been enlisting his mob hoodlums to help him with a few home repairs. So far, the results were mixed. Bracing myself to face one more household disaster, I headed for the porch.

  Usually, Michael took pains to avoid meeting my friends. This time he hadn’t performed his usual vanishing act. By the time I reached them, Michael was impassively shaking Gus’s hand.

  “G’day. Quite a place you’ve got here,” Gus was saying in a cheerful tone, pretending he hadn’t just witnessed the swift retreat of a bloodied man. “I expect a long-­forgotten minor royal to lean out a window any minute. Do you have housemaids and a stuffy butler? Footmen to polish your shoes at night?”

  “It’s just us,” I said when Michael made no effort to respond. “The last butler packed up a century ago.”

  “I can see why Swain Starr passed it up. You could use a handyman.”

  Gus cast a glance ­toward the neglected barn, the overgrown orch
ard and my still-­unplanted vegetable garden. Then he stood back and let his gaze rove up the house, across the drooping gutters to the roof that sagged even lower than it had last fall. The chimneys had lost a few bricks over the winter. The fieldstone walls looked magnificent, though, and the old windows had the gentle ripple of very old glass. The place looked as if Ben Franklin might stroll out the door to fly his kite in the back pasture.

  But instead of historical figures, it was Michael Abruzzo on the porch. Michael, the son of New Jersey’s last remaining crime boss—­and a dangerous-­looking customer all on his own—­didn’t quite fit the picture. No hayseed with a rake, he looked every inch a mobster’s heir apparent. He was very tall—­six foot four—­and had a face that had endured more than a few prison-­yard brawls. His shoulders were powerful enough to suggest he’d emerged from those brawls the undisputed winner. His heavy-­lidded eyes gave the impression he didn’t like strangers.

  While Gus looked him over, Michael kept silent, his face a mask that usually intimidated lesser men.

  I went up the steps and slipped my arm around him. “Hi.”

  “Hey.” He accepted my kiss, conscious that Gus was watching us. “How’d it go?”

  “It was interesting,” I said. “Anything new here?”

  “Rawlins stopped by, looking for you.” Michael was fond of Libby’s oldest son. If anything, his influence had helped ease Rawlins out of his teenage rebellion. I thought we were through that period, but I read something subtle in Michael’s expression.

  I said, “I saw him at the party. He was going to give me a lift home.”

  “He said he looked for you before he left but figured you’d come home already. I told him you’d get a ride with somebody else.”

  I had told Michael I’d find my way home without needing a taxi service. “Was Rawlins okay?”

  “He had a new pal in the car. Funny-­looking kid wearing a stupid hat. Said his name was Porter something.”

  “Porter Starr?” I was surprised. “That’s Swain Starr’s youngest son. I didn’t realize he was Rawlins’s friend.” I frowned. What was my nephew doing with Porky?

  Michael shrugged. We’d discuss it later, in other words—­when we were alone.

  But Gus had a big grin on his face, as if he had no intention of leaving. He said, “You missed some excitement. I saved your enchanting lady friend from certain death.”

  Michael glanced sharply at me.

  “It’s true,” I admitted. “Marybeth Starr got a little excited. She was waving around a musket and it went off. Revolutionary era, I’d guess. I think her father was a collector. It looked authentic.”

  “I don’t care about the gun. What the hell was she doing shooting at you?”

  “She wasn’t aiming for me. She was—­well, it doesn’t matter. It’s over now, and nobody will press any charges, so—”

  “These parties of yours are supposed to be high class.”

  Gus tucked his hands into his pockets and rocked on his heels. “The higher the class, the more exclusive the weaponry. That’s my take on it, mate. Say, I love old houses. Mind if I come inside? Take a look around?”

  Although Michael maintained his menacing silence that said a firm no, I could hardly refuse. If it hadn’t been for Gus, I might have been in an ambulance right now.

  I opened the door and Gus followed me through, saying gregariously, “So, are you two married, or what, precisely? I’ve heard the workplace gossip, and nobody is quite sure of the situation.”

  “Is it anyone’s business?” I asked. I pulled off my sweater and dropped it over a kitchen chair, then tried to tame my hair into something less windblown.

  “Not in the least,” Gus replied cheerfully. “And I’m a vulgar sod to ask. But then, everybody knows vulgarity runs in my family. I’m just curious. No wedding rings, I see, although that diamond on your finger looks as if it belongs in Ripley’s, Nora.”

  “It’s very pretty, isn’t it?” I said.

  I felt married to Michael—­that was the main thing. We had exchanged a quirky set of vows on a beach in front of my family, in a ceremony cribbed from one of my mother’s dubiously mystical texts, and that was enough for me. Michael was still pushing for a trip to a church, just a quiet ceremony before God with his local priest officiating and a license from the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania. But that seemed like overkill to me.

  Besides, the women in my family were afflicted with the Blackbird curse. Our husbands tended to die and leave us widows. I hoped that if I didn’t exactly marry Michael according to law, maybe he’d dodge the curse. Meanwhile, we had committed to each other until death did us part, and we’d both meant it. That was going to have to be enough for now.

  Michael closed the door.

  “Coffee, anyone?” I asked.

  “Tea would be better, actually, but I have yet to meet a Yank who can make a decent cuppa.” Gus stopped still and looked around. “This place is a cozy sort of derelict, isn’t it?”

  My house tended to elicit such reactions. The cavernous kitchen boasted cabinetry with a fine old patina polished by generations of housemaids, more antiques than a junkyard and an Aga stove that hunkered in the corner like a sullen dragon, sometimes even smoking just a little.

  I was relieved to see Michael had recently mopped up the puddle that gathered in the middle of the floor at the most mysterious and inconvenient times. Nothing sent me into orbit like that damned puddle.

  Gus strolled around the kitchen, glancing up into the rafters where a collection of antique kitchen utensils was hard to separate from a collection of assorted weapons left behind by war-­mongering patriots who visited the farm on their way to nearby battlefields. “Are you expecting an invasion?”

  “Only by mice.”

  He pointed upward. “Is that a sword?”

  “Technically, it’s a saber. Rumor goes, Lafayette left it behind when he came to pay a social call. We can’t prove the story, of course. I should probably try selling it.”

  Gus took a peek into the butler’s pantry. “You could, but there goes family loyalty. Of course, you might switch families, couldn’t you?”

  Gus turned around and smiled, inviting Michael to speak.

  Michael leaned against the counter and folded his arms over his chest.

  Before Gus could push further into the touchy subject of crime families, I said, “Yes, I’ll keep the saber. I’m sentimental.”

  Gus’s cell phone chirped. He took it out of his pocket and glanced at the screen. “This is a call I’ve been expecting. Mind if I step outside and take it?”

  Without waiting for a response, he went out the back door.

  I said to Michael, “You’re trying to scare him.”

  He looked surprised. “What did I do?”

  “I don’t know, but you’re doing it.”

  “Did he really save your life?”

  “If not mine, somebody’s.” I pulled my wallet out of my handbag and gave him a ten-­dollar bill.

  “What’s this for?” he asked, his face softening with fondness now that Gus was outside.

  “I borrowed it this morning while you were still asleep. I grabbed it off the dresser. I didn’t want to leave the house without any cash.” I folded the bill into his hand. “It’s our entire fortune at the moment, so hang on to it. Wait—­what’s this?”

  His left thumb was wrapped up in a makeshift bandage. He said, “I hit it trying to fix the furnace. No big deal.”

  I unwrapped his thumb and took a look. His thumb might turn a little blue, but there was no permanent damage. I gave it a kiss. “Thanks for trying. Your friend looked a lot worse.”

  “He’ll recover.” Michael pocketed the money and reached to rearrange a strand of my windblown hair. “We’ll get through this, you know. The bank account won’t stay empty much longer.”

&n
bsp; Being penniless wasn’t much fun, I had to admit. The winter had been one long struggle to make ends meet. It felt as if we were just one household catastrophe away from total fiscal meltdown. And unlike Michael, I didn’t see any relief in sight.

  At least, not from my end. What he was up to, I couldn’t guess. He was keeping secrets again.

  With a glance over his shoulder to make sure Gus was still occupied, Michael pulled me out of the kitchen and into the privacy of the scullery. “Who the hell is this guy, anyway?” he asked when we were alone.

  “Gus Hardwicke. My new editor.”

  “I thought you said your editor was old.”

  “I said no such thing.”

  “With a name like Gus, I figured he had a beard and arthritis.”

  “Well, he’s not old at all.”

  “I can see that. What’d he do? Leave his kangaroo back at the party?” Michael said. “He wants to do more than edit you.”

  “Don’t be silly.” I slipped into his arms and gave him a kiss on the mouth.

  He pulled me closer and met my lips with more oomph than before, but when we parted, he said, “He called you enchanting. I don’t like the way he looks at you, either.”

  I touched his cheek. “He’s my boss. He doesn’t look at me.”

  Michael used one hand to tip the scullery door closed and turn the lock. “The hell he doesn’t.”

  I gave Michael a warmer, lingering kiss to prove my point, then said softly, “I suppose I should like it when you get jealous.”

  “I get jealous every time you walk out the door.” Smiling, and with a flickering light in his blue eyes, he backed me against the porcelain sink and pinned me there. With both hands, he began easing the folds of the damask Swain Starr skirt up my thighs. “How well do you know him?”

  “Hardly at all. Usually, he ignores me, but today he showed up and—­are you really feeling jealous?” I smiled up at him.

  “At the moment, I’m feeling something else.”

  I laughed a little, allowing Michael to unfasten the buttons at the back of my dress. In the last couple of months, I’d gotten used to his spontaneous advances. He was frustrated in the house and directed his excess energy into frequent amorous interludes that often left me limp. I had learned that if I indulged in a postcoital nap, though, I was just inviting even more lovemaking. It had become an endless cycle. Nice most of the time—­exhilarating, even—­but exhausting.