Little Black Book of Murder (2 page)

I said, “Things fell through on your date last week?”

She heaved a wavering sigh. “We had a nice dinner, and I invited him back to my house for cappuccino, but when we got there, I had a zillion carpenter ants swarming all over my living room. Nothing like a huge black swarm of hideous bugs to suck the magic out of a romantic evening. It was horrible. A nightmare. But,” she said, perking up, “I remembered that I have better things on my horizon. A few weeks ago, I went to a free seminar at the Holiday Inn. I didn't figure out I was in the wrong room until I was thoroughly entranced by the workshop. It was a tutorial for mothers of talented offspring. Immediately, I was inspired! Why should somebody else's pimply kid get all the attention when mine are perfectly capable?”

“Capable of what?” Emma asked under her breath. “Homicide?”

“The twins have oodles of potential,” Libby said to me. “We just have to tease out the most marketable skills. Porter says every TV producer in the world is on the lookout for twins these days. Twins are very hot in sitcoms.”

“Porter?” I asked cautiously.

“Sitcoms,” Emma repeated. “Don't you think they're better suited to the horror genre?”

Steadily ignoring Emma, Libby said, “I've turned an important corner, Nora. By facilitating my children's reaching for the stars, I'll attain my own fulfillment, see? If the twins make it to Hollywood, I will have done my best as a mother, and that's reward enough in life.”

“Who's Porter?”

“The young man who runs the seminars. He's accepted the twins into his exclusive program.”

“He's some kind of a talent scout?”

“Well, first he scouts, then he nurtures. He represented that little girl who played a baby vampire on a cable show, and then she was hired for that movie with Meryl Streep. He's very successful. Of course, he's far too young for me,” she added in a rush.

“Libby,” I said, putting my arm around her plump shoulders, “there are plenty of nice men in the world, and someday you're going to meet the right one. A man who's put off by a few insects isn't worth your—”

“It wasn't just a few bugs,” she said, her voice catching on a sniffle. Her eyes pooled with tremulous tears. “It was about two million. That's what Perry the bug man said this morning when he made an emergency trip to my house. Fortunately, he d-­didn't charge me the weekend rate, which is d-­double the astronomical fee I actually paid. He says I'm such a good repeat customer that I d-­deserve a d-­discount.”

I handed her my handkerchief in the nick of time. Libby burst into tears and sobbed her heart out. Nobody wept like Libby—­gushing tears, heaving bosom and howling sobs that turned heads up onstage.

The man with the clipboard came to the apron and raised one hand to his forehead to squint out into the dark theater. “Ladies? You're not supposed to be here.”

Emma called back, “We came to see our nephews.”

“This is a closed audition. And anyway, we don't start for an hour. You have to leave.”

Libby emerged from my handkerchief looking as radiant as a saint fresh out of Lourdes. “An hour?” She checked her watch. “That gives me enough time for a manicure. I think I saw a nail salon on the corner.”

When we were out in the lobby again, Libby handed over my sodden handkerchief. “A manicure or maybe an herbal body wrap. I want to look my best for the high school graduation in a few weeks. There's a chance Rawlins will be honored with an award or two, and since I may be asked to pose for posterity with him, I want to look wonderful. I've been dieting, too, but it doesn't seem to be working.”

I asked, “Libby, what happened to your theory that dieting is a weapon of oppression against women?”

“Theories come and go, but photographs are forever,” she replied.

She went off to her body wrap, and Emma and I went out to her truck. While she drove me to the event I had to attend, I checked my phone messages.

“Well?” Emma asked. “Is your boss putting on more pressure?”

“Yes.” I tucked my phone back into my bag without responding to the demanding texts. “He wants everything done yesterday.”

“Fake it till you make it, Nora.”

“I'm trying,” I said. “But maybe I should research some night classes. I don't want to fail. I want to do a great job. I want to knock my editor's socks off.”

“Be careful what you wish for,” Emma said. “First it's his socks; then it's his pants.”

I turned to look at my sister. Behind the wheel of her truck, she looked as composed as ever. Good humored, even. And sober, which was the important thing. I hoped she hadn't started drinking again.

But her good humor was deceiving. Just two months earlier, on Christmas Day, Emma had given birth to an eight-­pound baby boy who was immediately whisked off by his new parents—­Emma's married lover and his new wife. The newlyweds were enjoying their infant son, we heard, while Emma tried hard to pretend she had no memory of delivering a love child. Her body showed no signs of having experienced childbirth except—­if it were ­possible—­even more perk to her already faultless breasts. The condition of her mind, though, might be another story.

Having suffered two still-­painful miscarriages myself, I had some unexplored feelings on the subject, too, but I said, “Have you had your postpartum checkup?”

“Don't start,” she warned.

“I just want to be sure you're taking care of yourself.”

“I'm fine,” Emma snapped. “And as far as I know, the baby's fine, too. We're both fine, peachy keen, in the pink, perfectly healthy. You can lay off the sisterly concern. I'm back to normal.”

“Of course you're fine,” I said. “Libby popped out all five of her babies like Life Savers. But the estrogen aftermath was another story. If your hormones are anything like hers, any second you could be making an emergency landing at the Crazytown airport.”

“I'm
fine
,” Emma insisted. “I'm strength training at a gym. And I'm back to work.”

“Oh, really? At Paddy's barn? Does he have some promising jumpers this spring?”

“He's not using me full-­time, so I picked up some hours as an exercise rider to take up the slack. And to build some muscle.”

At once I knew she was disappointed not to be on the big Grand Prix jumpers. Emma needed to prove herself all over again, I guessed, before the owners of valuable animals boosted her into their saddles. “You're working as an exercise rider? You mean racehorses?”

“Just morning breezes on the less valuable livestock. I know a trainer at the track. He's the one who gave me the job.”

“How do you know him?”

“Around. Look, I'm supposed to get him a Filly Vanilli for his kid. How do I find one of those?”

Aware that she was changing the subject, I relented and asked, “What's a Filly Vanilli?”

“A toy. Or a music box. A music box that's
in
a toy. It's a horse thingie you hang on the side of a crib, and the horse sings songs in this goofy voice and puts the kid to sleep.”

“Sounds cute.”

“Yeah, except you can't find them anywhere. They're, like, impossible to buy.”

“And you need to find one for this trainer who gave you a job?”

“Right. Where can I get one?”

“I have no idea. This trainer. Are you dating him?”

“Hell, no. He's old and cranky from lack of sleep with this new kid at home.”

“Are you dating anyone right now?”

“If you must know,” she said, exasperated, “I'm seeing Jay, the kid who washes dishes at the Rusty Sabre.”

“Why him?”

“Why not?”

There was something in her tone that made me suspect she was telling more lies than Pinocchio. Since the death of her husband in a car accident, Emma seemed hell-­bent on sleeping with every man who struck her fancy. And her fancy had gotten quite a workout before she landed in a maternity ward. Men who could ride fast, party hard and climb into bed without any fear of commitment were the ones she preferred. Since her pregnancy, though, I hadn't heard about any new exploits.

I said, “Em—”

“Don't worry about me, Sis. The biggest problem I have is finding a damn Filly Vanilli.”

But I did worry. On the chance Emma's hormones were not as stable as she wanted me to believe, however, I decided not to risk further discussion about her personal life.

The three of us—­Libby and Emma and I—­had all survived the loss of our husbands. We had each coped with widowhood differently. I had to trust that Emma was on a path that would get her somewhere good in the end.

The sun glinted on the Delaware River to our right as we swooped around the curves and over the hills of the two-­lane road that led north from New Hope. We passed my home, Blackbird Farm, and kept going.

I said, “Why don't you come for dinner tonight?”

“Can't. I've got a date.” Before I could decide if I should ask why she recently had plenty of excuses not to visit us, Emma switched subjects again. “How's Mick?”

I barely held back a sigh of dismay at the mention of Michael Abruzzo, tickler of my fancy, man of my dreams, the love of my life, who had dodged his prison sentence for racketeering when facility overcrowding had gotten him reassigned to house arrest. For the last few months, he had been trapped at home with an electronic monitor. Which I was happy about. Really.

“He's frustrated,” I replied. “Most of the time, he paces like a caged animal.”

Emma glanced my way. “How bad is it?”

“The conditions of his parole are that he can't really run his business the way he wants to. He can't deal with things in person. So he's on the phone. A lot.”

“He's more the hands-­on type than the phone-­it-­in type.”

“Yes,” I said. “He's definitely hands-­on.”

She heard my change of tone and laughed. “Oh, I get it. His hands are on you, huh? He jumps you every chance he gets? Plenty of funny business going on in your bedroom?”

“Not just the bedroom. We've always had a very satisfying—­well, lately it's been rather more than I can . . .”

“Don't sugarcoat for my benefit.” Emma was amused. “He's bored, so he wants a lot of nooky? Anytime, day or night? And you're—­what? Exhausted? Or out of creative ideas?”

“He's always had big appetites,” I admitted. “Sometimes I have a little trouble . . . keeping up.”

“Take your vitamins, Sis.” Emma was laughing at me again. “How's the baby-­making going?”

“No results yet.” I tried to keep my tone upbeat.

She glanced my way. “Time to see a specialist?”

“Not yet.” The subject was a touchy one, and for fear I'd bust into blubbers, I said, “I'll tell Michael you said hello.”

“Don't bother,” she replied, pulling to the gates of Starr's Landing.

An impressive pair of ornamental brick pillars was flanked by white split rail fences on either side and centered with a set of elaborate gates whose wrought-­iron curlicues formed the letter
S
entwined in the middle. The owners of a Transylvania castle could barricade themselves against peasants attacking with pitchforks and blazing firebrands with less of a barrier.

I dug out my invitation and gave Emma the access code. When the security gate opened, Emma pulled through. Her old truck didn't quite match the expensive automobiles parked along the curved lane, but Emma didn't notice.

She whistled as she got her first look at the state-­of-­the-­art farm. “Hey, this place looks like Disneyland.”

“I've seen every pristine acre, even behind the scenes,” I said. “The owners showed me the hydroponic tanks and the perfect baby chicks. The whole farm is everything you'd expect from a fashion designer who gets the urge to go back to the land. It's a work of art.”

Today I had been invited back to Starr's Landing for the great unveiling. Swain Starr eventually wanted the world to see what he had accomplished, but first he had invited a few important friends and the eager press. Swain had promised he'd donate to a local farmers' co-­op if other guests pledged, too. It was a nice gesture, but not exactly world-­class philanthropy. His primary reason for throwing the party was to show off. I had to find a way to make it seem otherwise in the newspaper.

“Want to join the party?” I asked my sister.

“For champagne punch and petits fours?” Emma extended her pinky finger and waggled it contemptuously. “You know that's not my kind of scene.”

No, it certainly wasn't. Beer and pizza were more her style. So I waved good-­bye to Emma and walked into the party.

Our diminutive host greeted his guests in front of the barn, looking like an absurdly handsome miniature cowboy in perfectly faded jeans and a tailored chambray shirt. By his bronzed face, his signature gray hair, his crinkly blue eyes, anyone who had opened a fashion magazine in several decades would have instantly recognized him and known he was a billionaire fashion baron, not a humble Pennsylvania farmer. In person, though, Swain Starr stood about half as tall as people imagined. Even wearing his red cowboy boots with heels, he barely came up to my chin. He was less hardy than people imagined from his photos, too. He had the tentative walk of a more elderly man not quite confident in his balance.

He gave me three air kisses—­producing runway shows in Paris had left its mark, even though he was retired—­and pulled me by the hand through the paddock gate.

“Nora, you look beautiful.”

“Why, thank you.” I performed a pirouette to show off my dress. “Recognize it?”

“Should I?”

“It's from your collection. Of course, it's from twenty years ago. No wonder you forget. How many dresses have you designed over the years?”

“Thousands.” He smiled, pleased by my gesture of homage. “Surely this wasn't something you wore as a child?”