Some Like It Lethal (7 page)

I smiled shakily and was glad he couldn't see how frightened I was. "Michael, Emma's in big trouble."

"Tell me the whole story."

I did so in a low voice, gathering my composure as he listened to the details.

When I was finished, he said, "So who killed the dog food king?"

"He wasn't the king. A prince, maybe. I don't know who killed him. I just know it wasn't Em."

"Think Detective Gloom and his pals are going to bother looking for anyone else?"

"I think they're going to try to prove Emma's guilt first, and when that doesn't work, they'll get around to looking for another suspect."

"When the evidence is cold."

"Yes."

"You've got to get involved again," he guessed. "In another murder investigation."

I knew he didn't like me snooping around in dangerous affairs. I didn't like it, either, but I had been forced to help friends and family before. This time, however, Michael wasn't available to watch my back.

Before he could object to my plan, I said, "I'll be careful this time."

"Who are you going to talk to?"

"I'm not sure yet. Rush Strawcutter was very easygoing. I'm having a hard time imagining who could have been angry enough to kill him."

"Maybe it wasn't anger."

Now and then I was uncomfortably reminded that Michael looked at crime from a different point of view than I did. "What do you think it could be?"

"The usual. Money. Sex. Revenge. Maybe a family thing. Or if he was such a prince, maybe self-defense, but that's rarely it. In my experience, a dead guy usually deserves getting smoked."

I closed my eyes and forced myself not to speculate about how many dead guys Michael had encountered in his life.

"Sorry," he said, guessing what my silence meant. "You can send a Jersey boy to Scotland, but he's not going to wear a kilt."

I laughed unsteadily. "Maybe it's a good thing you're there."

"Why?"

"I hear you're number one on the police hit parade again."

"Oh, that."

I wanted to ask more. Half the time I wanted to know everything about him because I knew firsthand what devastation too many secrets could wreak upon a relationship. I wanted to understand his efforts to remain estranged from his father and assorted ne'er-do-well half-brothers who were heavily involved in the Abruzzo crime family and seemed to take turns serving prison terms. But I counseled myself to trust Michael's judgement when it came to not sharing the parts of his life he believed might shock me. We were still wrestling with how much truth to share.

But I didn't want to address that now. Once again, the tug of needing him felt stronger than my fear that his business affairs might ruin both our lives.

So I said, "How is Scotland?"

"Beautiful. The fishing's like none I've ever done before. And they make some pretty good moonshine. We're staying in a castle—very swanky. You'd fit right in. It's no wonder Braveheart turned blue, though. It's freezing at night." After a pause, he said, "I think of you in bed."

I closed my eyes again and immediately imagined myself skin-to-skin with him under an eiderdown. Our relationship had not slipped into the bedroom yet, though there was plenty of sexual attraction going on. Okay, he wasn't handsome, exactly. In fact, his face sometimes scared people. But he had a quick laugh, an endearingly old-fashioned sense of protectiveness and an intuitive mind that appealed to me.

I might as well also admit he had astonishing shoulders, a supple stroll and a tight behind that any woman in her right mind would give up chocolate to get her hands on. He made me think of long, long nights between sweaty sheets, followed by mornings doing unmentionable things in the tub, against the bathroom sink, on the rug. . . .

And lately, I found myself wondering if being a good girl was overrated.

Emma had said, "Face it. You want to get laid, Sis."

No kidding. Even though I feared Michael Abruzzo wasn't as law-abiding as he could be, I found myself embarrassingly aroused by the man. Just his voice on the phone was aphrodisiac enough to cause impure thoughts and a warm flush that started deep inside me.

I swallowed hard. "I think of you, too."

"In your bed?"

I smiled. "Is this how phone sex starts?"

"Just tell me what you're wearing."

"A bathrobe, as a matter of fact. I think Libby is trying to book me a massage."

He groaned. "This is definitely phone sex now."

I laughed. "I'll get dressed. I'm going back to the hospital to see Emma."

"Am I ever going to get the chance to give you a massage myself? Or are you still living with Libby and the baby?"

"I'm moving out as soon as I can. But it's complicated."

"I'll be back by Friday. We'll uncomplicate it then."

Reluctantly, we said good-bye, and he disconnected. I listened to the overseas static for a moment.

Then, just to hear how it sounded, I said, "I love you."

The police did not arrest Emma, but they put a guard on the door to her hospital room and called it protective custody. They refused to allow Libby or me to see her.

"Why not?" I asked, standing in the hallway outside her hospital room.

"It's for her own safety," an officer assured me with a straight face.

Furious at being denied access to my sister, I asked Libby, "What did you tell Bloom's boss? Something that would incriminate Em?"

"No! Nothing. But I did suggest Captain Tucker try becoming a goddess. She has all the sacred potentials. She just needs to open herself to the cosmic possibilities."

"It's a wonder she didn't arrest you," I said.

"Hm." She was too distracted to be insulted. "Before we leave, I think I should find that nice Dr. Quartermaine to thank him for looking after you. Just wait here a minute."

As crazy as Libby could get, I decided her idea wasn't a bad one. Except I went looking to thank Tim Naftzinger.

Dr. Naftzinger was seeing patients on the pediatric floor, I was told, so I went upstairs to find him. While he consulted with a nurse in the corridor, I waited outside a room where a family of eight crowded around the bed of a pale little girl. The whole family was watching a
Mr. Rogers
rerun on the television, their faces turned up to the set and reflecting the same peaceful expression.

Tim had always been quiet and controlled, and I wasn't surprised to see him just as sedate in his workplace as in his private life. He reminded me of a baseball pitcher—physically lanky, but mentally focused. Perhaps a pediatrician who faced life and death with small children needed to be even-keeled at all times. If he let his emotions roam up and down the scale, he'd be unable to prevent himself from flying off into the stratosphere in the wrong circumstances.

But watching him listen to the nurse, I suddenly remembered a day long ago when his wife had been driving the three of us around to various antique shops in New Hope. Rain pelted the windshield, and Caroline missed a stop sign. A teenager in a Porsche rammed us broadside. The impact wasn't hard—both cars had been traveling barely ten miles an hour—but we were all shaken up. The teenager got out of his car laughing. He was frightened, I know, but his reaction was giddy shock.

Tim had been furious. He leaped out of the car and
slammed the kid up against the Porsche to shout at him. I forced myself between them before fists flew.

Now, standing in the hospital corridor, I realized Caroline had probably been newly pregnant at the time. Tim had been protecting her.

The nurse stopped talking, and Tim began to write an order on the clipboard she held. She seemed respectful yet comfortable with Tim, and I thought he'd probably been nominated for Chief of Pediatrics because he was good at his profession and well-liked by the staff. He finished writing, then noticed me standing there and came over.

I noticed he needed a haircut. More accurately, he needed a wife to tell him he needed a haircut.

I said, "Thank you for looking after Emma this morning."

"I'm glad I was there." He put his pen into the breast pocket of his white lab coat. "I think she's going to be fine. I can't see her officially, but I have a friend in the emergency room and I put a bug in his ear. He's going to try to keep Emma here in the hospital as long as he can."

"Thank you, Tim. I appreciate your help."

"No problem." He hesitated. "Emma's been great to Merrie, you know, helping her with her jumping and . . . letting her talk." Slowly, he said, "Until now I've had a hard time connecting with Merrie. Emma's made it happen somehow. I'll do what I can to keep Emma here."

And out of jail. He didn't need to say the words, but he blanched just the same. I reached up and gave him a grateful kiss on the cheek. If I wasn't mistaken, he blushed.

I found Reed in the parking lot, holding Spike's
leash while the puppy attacked a discarded fast-food cup as if it were a rabid wolverine. He was a black, brown and white snarling blur on the asphalt, and the paper cup was already shredded. When he spotted me, Spike dropped the cup and joyously launched himself into the air. I caught him in my arms, and he lapped puppy kisses all over my face.

Reed's lock on cool was badly shaken. "Mrs. Kintswell was just here."

"Sorry, Reed. Did she hurt you?"

"No." Stung by my smile, he straightened. "She told me to tell you she was on her way home with her new friend."

"What friend?"

Reed shrugged. "A guy with a beard, wearing an earring and a stethoscope."

I sighed. "Did he look single?"

"What?"

"Never mind. Reed, can you take me to Boathouse Row?"

By way of an answer, he opened the car door and took my arm. I knew he was feeling sorry for me when he helped me into the backseat.

Rubbing Spike's tummy, I thought about who could have killed Rush Strawcutter. I couldn't imagine Rush having marital or family problems. He really had been an unthreatening, cheerful guy who made people smile when he turned up with his circus act of little dogs. Everybody seemed to like him. But another item on Michael's motives for murder was financial difficulty, and the best person to help me learn about the Strawcutter money situation was my friend Lexie Paine.

Richer than most of her megabuck clients, Lexie lived in the only privately owned boathouse on Philadelphia's famous Boathouse Row.  The picturesque
Victorian houses stood on a magical curve of the Schuykill River and served as clubhouses for enthusiasts of various water sports, primarily rowing. Through her old family connections, a truckload of money and at least one semi-shady political deal, Lexie had been lucky enough to acquire one of the houses.

With gables, lancet windows and elaborate gingerbread trim, her home looked like a storybook house. The first floor was still a drafty boathouse, but her second-floor living quarters were home to one of the city's most valuable private collections of paintings. Lexie's interest in the art of making money was surpassed only by her appreciation of the fine arts. After her father's death, she became the principle partner in the brokerage house founded by her great-grandfather, and she counseled some of the city's most powerful families about their money matters. Her educated yet daring collection of paintings was the envy of many curators.

As Reed pulled into her driveway, his way was blocked by a parked white sports car, a postal truck and a minivan with the logo of a dressmaker painted on the side.

"Looks like Lexie's in high gear, Reed. This may take a while. I'll call your cell phone when I'm ready to leave. It will be an hour, at least."

"Okay." He sneaked a glance back at Spike, who was snoring on his back on the seat beside me, all four paws twitching in the air as he snarled dreamily. "You taking the animal with you?"

"He looks so peaceful. I hate to wake him. Puppies need their rest."

Reed glowered at me as I got out of the car.

Lexie Paine worked harder than a lumberjack, and I was lucky to find her at home on a weekend. Her
assistant, the diminutive and quietly efficient Samir, let me into the house. He was holding a gigantic vase of lilies, which he'd obviously just arranged. Lexie came out of the bedroom wearing a black velvet ball gown. She was trailed by a stoop-shouldered seamstress with a mouthful of pins.

Lexie yelled, "Sweetie! Here I am dolled up like Cinderella, and you look like you just stepped off a Paris runway. See, Gabrielle, this is how I want to dress. Simply drop-dead gorgeous."

The seamstress eyed me coldly, and I realized I had interrupted a battle of wills between them. Lexie had firm ideas about her clothing, and her dressmaker was equally adamant. I was glad she had the pins in her mouth. She looked ready to scream.

"Thanks, Lex." I sidestepped a stack of shipping cartons in the foyer and kissed my friend. "Let's not use the drop-dead phrase today, all right?"

Lexie held my elbows and saw immediately that I was not myself. But with extra people in her home, she did not ask me to spill it all. Despite the ball gown, she hugged me hard, and the seamstress gave a squeak of panic.