Some Like It Lethal (12 page)

"Yes, it all ties together somehow, doesn't it? Call your friend in law enforcement," Michael advised. "Maybe he can make the connection."

I cuddled Spike. "You, of all people, are suggesting I go to the police?"

"This is the kind of crime the police excel at. Blackmail attracts white-collar types, so the work of finding them in suburbia isn't dangerous. And unlike your garden-variety extortionist, blackmailers are emotional. They make mistakes. They're easy to catch because the shakedown requires them—"

"To show up in person to get the money?"

"Smart girl. Extortion, on the other hand, usually involves broken bones and nervous guys with big guns."

I shivered. "You know how I feel about guns."

"And justifiably so." His voice continued to soothe. "Give Detective Gloom a call. Believe me, I'm not happy to suggest he could help you, but he'll probably do something useful." In a different tone, he added, "Since this is an easy way for him to look like a hero, he'll probably jump at the chance."

"I'm afraid to talk to him. For fear he'll find a way to tie all this to Emma."

"Hm. Good point."

A moment passed while we considered the problem. I relaxed deeper into my chair and noted that Michael didn't sound perplexed. On the contrary, he seemed to enjoy the Machiavellian challenge of outsmarting a criminal. It allowed him to open a little-used valve in the back of his mind. For the moment, though, he asked, "How's Spike?"

"Not housebroken yet." I rubbed Spike's tummy, and he blinked innocently up at me before closing his
eyes in bliss. "If I go to the police, I'll expose Tim to everything I'm trying to protect him from."

"Tim? That's the doctor?"

"He's a very nice person. He's— Well, his wife was hurt in a skiing accident. It's so sad. He stuck by her, visits her every day despite a full load at the hospital and being up for an important new job. Plus he's got a daughter to raise himself. She's sweet, too. You'd like them both."

"Think Spike would bite him for me?"

I smiled and reflected that Claudine's remark about jealousy wasn't totally off base. It did add a dash of spice to a relationship.

I flipped the envelope over in my hand to look for further clues. I looked closely at the postage sticker. "Michael, this was mailed a week ago!"

"What?"

Spike sat up in my lap.

"I've been staying at Libby's house! This envelope has been sitting in my mailbox for a week. I was supposed to pay the money last Wednesday! I missed the deadline!"

"Calm down."

"Oh, God, what does this mean?"

"A threat is meaningless unless you follow through immediately. Well," he said reasonably, "this takes the pressure off, doesn't it?"

I got to my feet. "I was supposed to hand over ten thousand dollars by now. Why haven't I heard from him?"

"This blackmailer has a relaxed timetable."

"But—" The thought hit me like a lightning strike. "Good Lord, do you suppose
Rush
was the blackmailer?"

Michael considered the theory. "Somebody decided to kill him instead of pay him?"

I wasn't sure whether to laugh or cry. A minute ago, I needed ten thousand dollars. Now, it seemed, I might be in the clear. "Do you think it's possible?"

"Did he need money?"

"Rush? Desperately."

"And he had an envelope on him when he died?"

"Yes. I wonder if he was trying to blackmail Emma? Wait, I'm making too many leaps."

"It's okay. Let yourself be creative. Theorize for a minute."

"The misspelled word," I said, reading the note again. "I just learned Rush Strawcutter was dyslexic." Suddenly, I wasn't as scared as I was excited. I headed back to the kitchen with Spike trotting behind me. "That's another clue that points to Rush."

"Maybe you don't need police assistance after all."

Behind me, the microwave dinged.

Michael heard it. "You're not eating plastic food again, are you?"

"I don't have time to shop or cook."

"When I get back, you're going to make time for a lot of things."

I tried to smile. "That sounds nice."

"Maybe I'll make you something with truffles."

"Truffles?"

"Yeah. Have you ever eaten them?"

"On special occasions. They're fabulous."

"Expensive as hell," he said. "But you just dig them out of the ground, you know. They're really rare."

"Yes, I know."

"We had such a great dinner last night that I started thinking about truffles."

"Are there truffles in Scotland?"

"Well—"

"You can't bring them into this country, you know."

"Not in your luggage," he agreed. "But they can be shipped. Restaurants pay a fortune for just a couple of ounces, did you know that?"

"Are you up to something?"

"I'm just thinking," he said, endeavoring to sound innocent. "Listen, I have to turn off the phone now. Don't panic about the blackmail, okay? If you haven't heard from the guy yet, you could be in the clear. Give it a few days. Now, tell me quick—how's Emma?"

"Sleeping at the hospital. I'll go see her in the morning."

"Give her a kiss for me."

"Fat chance."

He laughed and signed off.

Spike began to play on the kitchen floor in the puddle of water which had reappeared. In fact, it seemed to be growing larger.

I had found myself suddenly swimming in a lot of deep water. First a murder, and now blackmail. And nobody close enough to lend me a life preserver.

Except one person.

Chapter 7

Libby's minivan screamed up to my back door half an hour later than planned on Sunday morning.

She let herself in, wearing a white parka with a fur hood. The zipper was pulled low enough to challenge J. Lo's latest decolletage.

She said, "Do you think there's anything weird about these boots?"

From the scullery, I looked at her feet, which were encased in a pair of pointy-toed black boots with narrow heels and laces up the front. "Does your goddess enjoy sadomasochism?"

"Very funny."

"Why are you asking?"

"I respect your knowledge of fashion, that's all. You always look nice, and I only— Oh, never mind. What is all this water doing on the floor?"

Overnight, my kitchen puddle had become a pond, and frequent sweeping didn't seem to make any difference in the tide. "Whatever it is, it's going to be expensive. I don't want to know where it's coming from."

"Good thinking."

"But I called Mr. Ledbetter, anyway. He might as well give me an estimate."

"Maybe it's just condensation." Libby ignored my mention of the handyman who'd taken care of the
house when my parents lived there. She had not liked Mr. Ledbetter ever since the day he'd caught her painting his portrait while he scraped paint off the parlor windowsills. Libby had painted him nude, drawing on her own adolescent fantasies to create a more romantic figure than Mr. Ledbetter cut in real life, and he—a good Christian—had not appreciated the results. She asked, "Do I have time for a cup of coffee?"

"I thought you'd given up caffeine while you're nursing. And where is the baby, by the way?"

"Safe with the teenage girl from next door. She's going to give him a bottle if I run late. I'm thinking of hiring someone on a more scheduled basis."

"Sounds sensible," I said cautiously.

"I mean, you seem to be too busy to help us now, so I might as well look for a stranger to share my heavy burden."

"Libby—" But I caught myself before letting her suck me into feeling guilty enough to move back into the zoo that was her household. "What about Rawlins? Isn't he old enough to baby-sit?"

"I haven't the faintest idea where Rawlins is these days." She sighed. "I know, don't lecture me. He went out with some of his high school friends again last night and hasn't come home yet. I'll be glad when he graduates."

If he graduates, I thought.

In motherly denial, she kept talking. "Did I tell you the twins have decided to use their new brother in their movie? He's going to play a defender of Santa Claus against an evil monster. I have a feeling I'm appearing in a cameo role as the monster. I need to be back in time for the baby's noon feeding, that's all, or I'll leak all over myself. Breast feeding is a wonderful experience, but some elements are downright embarrassing. Maybe I ought to stop now and let him discover the joys of the female breast when he's—"

"Coffee?" I asked desperately.

"Sure."

"There's some in the pot." While she found herself a cup, I debated about the best way to revisit the subject of her eldest son's deteriorating behavior.

"I hope this is decaf. What are you doing?"

At the scullery sink—which hadn't been used for dishes in decades and only served to clean garden pots and tools—I was elbow-deep in soapsuds, scrubbing the contents of my kitchen garbage pail out of Spike's rough coat. Spike happily snapped at the bubbles while I worked up a lather. "I assume that's a rhetorical question. Did you phone the hospital this morning? Have you spoken with Emma?"

"I couldn't get past the nurse's station." Libby poured herself a cup and spooned in enough sugar to sweeten a birthday cake. "They kept saying she was unavailable."

"I got the same message."

"Knowing Emma, she's cuddled up with a doctor or two."

I cast her a glance and noticed that Libby's complexion was pinker than usual. "You sound a tiny bit jealous. Or have you enjoyed the company of a doctor yourself in the last twenty-four hours?"

Libby fluffed the fur trim on her coat and sat down at the table. "I may have met a perfectly nice gentleman, yes."

"Did you play spin the bottle with Dr. Quartermaine last night?"

"Don't blow a gasket, please. I'm entitled to a sex life."

"Sex life? My God, you met this man yesterday and immediately took him home to your bed?"

"Of course not! Not with the children in the house. Good grief, what kind of mother do you think I am?"

"One who wants to try Tantric sex before menopause."

Serenely, she stirred her coffee. "I do, as a matter of fact. I'm not made of marble. But that has nothing to do with Melvin."

"Melvin? Why do I have a bad feeling about this?"

"I have no idea. He's interested in my goddess ambitions, and was extremely polite the whole time we were together. Not to mention generous. He bought me these boots when we left the hospital, so I invited him for dinner. Do you need help with that animal?"

From a safe distance, she watched me struggle Spike into a bath towel and wrap him up before he could fight himself out of captivity.

Buffing Spike while he attacked the towel, I said, "You have no willpower, Libby."

"We had a perfectly innocent evening! We discussed medical matters. For example, Melvin says it's important for me to maintain my weight while I'm nursing. He was firm about that, especially when he saw how much milk the baby requires and the quantity I'm donating to the milk bank."

My suspicions were instantly aroused. "Melvin watched you nurse the baby?"

"He's a doctor, for heaven's sake. He had dinner with us. Well, the kids had pizza in front of the television while Melvin and I had the dining room to ourselves. It felt very festive. I even lit candles. Bayberry scented."

"And then?"

"Nothing. Really. He stayed while I took care of
 
the baby, and we had a very pleasant discussion. Do you know how hard it is to find a man you'd actually spend more than half an hour with? Of course you do, if you ended up with— Well, we might see each other again. He was very forthcoming about medical subjects—things I'd never dreamed I should be thinking about."

"Such as?"

"Discipline, for one thing. He thinks I'm too permissive with the children, but he believes I can improve."

Anybody who thought he could inch Libby closer to becoming a more disciplined parent had my vote.

I put Spike on the floor. He headed straight for the pond and began to splash in the shallows. I pulled my envelopes and photos out of a kitchen drawer and put them on the table in front of Libby. "Take a look at these."

With astonishment, Libby stared at the photographs of Tim and me. "What's going on? Are you seeing Tim Naftzinger now? You make a nice couple, but— well, together, you're like the walking wounded or something."

"I'm not seeing Tim," I snapped. "Read this."

She scanned the blackmail letter. "Trooble? What's trooble?"

"Read it again."

Eventually, Libby caught on. After an explosion of
omigods,
I calmed her down by pointing out the past-due date on the letter and explaining my theory.

"I'm not the only person who received a threatening letter like this." Without mentioning Claudine's name, I told my sister about the other blackmail scam I'd heard about, as well as Lexie's suspicion that more blackmail was occurring in our social circle. Then I
asked, "Are these envelopes like the one you saw with Rush's body?"