Have Your Cake and Kill Him Too (11 page)

Emma left, and Libby put the bagel on a plate and carried it to the table. Without thinking, she took a finger swipe of cream cheese from one of the bagels and licked it. “Whose father? What's she talking about?”

There was no sense postponing it any longer.

I retied my belt again and sat down at the table. “Libby, I can't be in your calendar photo. And I can't go on a diet right now.”

She eased her bottom onto the kitchen chair beside mine, instantly sympathetic. “Of course you can, Nora! I'll help you every step of the way. You only need to drop a couple of tiny pounds—”

“I'm not losing weight for your photographer, Libby. I—”

“Two pounds!” she cried. “Five at the most! Just enough to tighten up the jiggle in your derriere.”

“My derriere does not jiggle!”

“It's to be expected once you hit thirty, Nora. I find the best solution is to exercise in the nude. That way, you have no secrets from yourself.” She held up one hand to stop me from speaking. “Now, don't get angry. Getting down on yourself is the worst way to start a diet. Here, I brought you a present.” From the bottom of the Macy's bag, she flourished a tiny slip of pink lace.

“What's this?”

“It's a thong. The Hanky Panky, style 4911. Until you get thin, this is the answer. Honestly, Nora, all my friends swear by it. Even Monica Lewinsky looked good in the 4911!”

I suspended the tiny thong from one finger. “Are you kidding?”

“I'm totally serious. You'll thank me the instant you put this on and look in the mirror. I brought you a week's supply, all the colors. See? I bought them for myself, but they're slightly the wrong size, so I thought of your bottom immediately! They'll do wonders for the jiggle.”

Before I could grab a frying pan to hit her, Emma came back into the kitchen. Followed by Boy Fitch, of all people.

“Nora,” she said, holding back a big laugh. “Boy's come to see you.”

I snatched the thongs off the table and stuffed them back into the Macy's bag.

Boy wore another pin-striped suit with a tie printed with tiny Uncle Sams, and he carried a newspaper under his arm as if setting out for his office. With his other hand, he held up a paper bag. “I figured if I disturbed you this early, I'd better bring breakfast. It's bagels.”

I shoved the Macy's bag under the table. “Good morning, Boy.”

“You'll have to slice them,” he said. “Last time I tried, I cut my thumb and ended up with twelve stitches.”

“Uhm, Boy, you know Emma, of course. And this is my sister Libby.”

“Libby.” Boy put on his politician's smile. “Of course I remember you.”

Beguilingly, Libby shook his hand. “Hello, Boy. I suppose I need to call you Senator Fitch now.”

“Of course not.” Boy gazed down at her, oozing a fondness that looked genuine. “You were the reason I never quite learned my multiplication tables. Somehow, I could never concentrate on my homework when you were around.”

“What a lovely thing to say.” Libby had stars in her eyes, and I could see Boy had another vote.

I could also sense a dangerous flicker of electricity in the air, so I said briskly, “Come sit down, Boy. Have some coffee.”

“I had no idea you lived like this, Nora.” Boy glanced up at the vaulted ceiling of the kitchen as if expecting to see a vampire bat hanging from the dusty rafters.

“If I let the cobwebs get carried away, Vincent Price shows up.”

He frowned. “Your cleaning service?”

“No, Boy, I only meant—well, please have a seat.” I took Boy's arm to guide him into a chair.

Boy hadn't shaved and suddenly I realized he seemed more dazed than usual. I handed him the take-out coffee intended for me. Emma sat across from him, and Libby and I took the other seats so that he was surrounded by expectant Blackbird faces.

He placed his copy of the morning newspaper on the table. “I don't know where to start.”

“Bagel?” Libby asked.

He shook his head and put down his coffee cup. “Emma says you haven't seen today's paper yet. So you haven't heard the police arrested my father for Zell Orcutt's murder.”

We all gasped.

I said, “Boy, we had no idea! I'm so sorry.”

“The police came in the middle of the night. Dad lives in one of the cottages on the Fitch's Fancy property. I stay with him when I'm not in the state capital, and I—I'm sorry.” His train of thought chugged away from him, and he rubbed his face. “I've been up all night. I'm not making much sense.”

The Fitch cottages were more like mansions than their names implied. The four large houses were occupied by various Fitch relatives, although I'd heard they were owned by Zell and grandfathered to the relatives rent-free. Pierpoint lived in one, Verbena another. Some cousins occupied the other two, although they also had homes in warmer climates. All of the family treated the grounds of Fitch's Fancy like a huge park, one so large they rarely saw their relatives.

I said, “What do the police think happened?”

“I don't know. Dad went to reason with Zell about selling the estate, but—well, you saw Dad leave. He was angry, so I guess the discussion went badly.” Boy picked up one of the diet books and frowned at the cover. “Thing is, Dad threatened Zell once before. In front of witnesses. So the police figured they had an ongoing disagreement.”

“Did they?”

“Didn't everyone disagree with Zell?” Boy asked.

Emma had grabbed the newspaper and was skimming the front-page article about the murder. “The cops didn't arrest Pointy. They just call him a ‘person of interest.' That's a big difference. Maybe the geezer didn't knock off Orcutt. Maybe they're just using the rubber hoses to find out what he knows.”

“Em's always joking,” I said, noting how Boy's face went white. “Did the police find the murder weapon?”

“Not yet,” Emma replied.

Boy said, “There's a collection of bows in the billiards room at Fitch's Fancy. Chances are good whoever killed him simply took one.” From his pocket, he fished a small object. “I don't know if it makes any difference, but after the police left, I found this in the garden.”

We leaned forward to look.

“An earring,” Libby said.

A gold hoop earring.

Boy was watching my face. “Nora? Is this yours?”

I swallowed hard. “It's Delilah's. I noticed she only had one earring on last night.”

“That doesn't mean anything,” Emma said. “We all know she was there. So she dropped an earring. So what?”

“The police will want to see this, though,” Libby predicted around a mouthful of cream cheese.

Boy looked dismayed. “I didn't want to give it to them if it belonged to one of you. Why confuse things? You didn't kill Zell.”

“You should give that to the police,” Emma said.

“Uhm, yes, I suppose so.” Boy tucked the earring back in his pocket. “Listen, I probably shouldn't have come. . . .”

“But?” Emma prompted, putting the paper down on the table and folding her arms across her chest.

“Since you were at Fitch's Fancy yesterday,” Boy said, “I wondered if maybe the two of you saw something. Something that might help my father?”

“We didn't see more than you did.”

Boy turned to me. “You're observant, Nora. And I know you've helped people before when things like this have happened.”

Emma said, “Nora's not a private detective you can hire.”

“I know, but—”

“And she's got her own life.”

“Em,” I said.

“I'm desperate,” Boy said directly to me. “My dad probably hated Zell as much as the real killer. But this—this is something he didn't do. He's been ill lately, and sometimes he gets confused, but I know he's innocent.”

Boy opened the newspaper to a photo on the second page. The photographer had snapped a picture as two burly police officers hauled Pointy Fitch off to jail. The face of a frightened old man stared up at us from the table. The wisps of white hair that floated around his balding head gave him the look of a confused homeless person, and his watery wide eyes reflected panic.

“Oh, dear,” said Libby, struck to the heart by the photo.

“Nora,” Boy said, “if you have any information, any impressions—anything at all that might help my dad, I'd be grateful.”

“She's not for hire.” Directly to me, Emma said, “It's time to think of yourself, you know. You have to stop trying to help every hopeless case that comes through your door.”

I looked at the newspaper photo. Pierpoint Fitch. He wasn't a man who would kill anyone. I was sure of that. I didn't want Delilah implicated. And Boy's discovery of her earring didn't bode well. I studied his expression for signs of Machiavellian guile, but all I could see was the face that prompted his own mother to say she was afraid one good sneeze might deprive Boy of what remained of his brains.

“I'll ask around a little,” I told Boy. “I'll see what I can find out.”

“Thank you,” said Boy.

Emma turned away.

Libby wiped her sticky fingers on a napkin. “I'll make sure she does her best, Boy. Sometimes Nora needs a little help. Please know that I'll do everything in my power—”

“Give it a rest,” said Emma.

We were all on our feet by then, and a knock sounded at the back door. I opened it and found Mr. Ledbetter standing on the porch in a blaze orange parka and his patched overalls. The gruff handyman who had come to Blackbird Farm in all weather for hundreds of emergencies acknowledged me with nothing more than a grunt and strode into the kitchen with his clanking toolbox in hand.

“Good morning, Mr. Ledbetter.” I forced the good cheer required to keep the handyman's spirits from plummeting to their normal depth of gloom as he surveyed my latest home disaster. “Would you care for a bagel before—? Oh, hello.”

I hadn't noticed the younger man who had been lurking behind Mr. Ledbetter. But just as I began to close the door, he scooted inside, shyly ducking his head so I couldn't get a glimpse of his face beneath his grimy baseball cap.

Mr. Ledbetter said, “This is my new assistant. Not that I need one. But here he is.”

“Hello,” the younger man mumbled. “I'm the new assistant.”

“How do you do?” I shook his hand. “Why, Mr. Ledbetter, I thought you said you'd never put up with a helper. Even your own sons—”

“Just temporary,” muttered Mr. Ledbetter. He hunkered down on the floor to examine the pipes beneath the sink.

The new sidekick plunked down his own toolbox—much newer and lighter—on the floor.

Boy suddenly said, “Rudy? Is that you?”

Perhaps as a politician he had developed the skill of recognizing faces, because he clearly guessed right. The expression on Mr. Ledbetter's assistant's face was startled. Boy put out his hand to him and said heartily, “Great to see you again. You have a new job, I see.”

“Uh,” said the handyman's assistant. “Hi, Mr. Fitch. Yeah, new job.”

“The hours must be better,” Boy said jovially. “You still in touch with your old partner? Or did Darla quit, too?”

“Uh, no,” said the assistant. “Look, I'd better . . .”

“Don't let me keep you,” said Boy. “You've got to make a good impression on the new boss, I suppose.”

“Yeah,” said Rudy, already getting down on his knees to join Mr. Ledbetter beneath the sink. “Nice seeing you.”

“Nice to see you, too,” Boy replied. “And say hello to Darla for me if you run into her, will you?”

I elbowed Libby aside and escorted Boy to the front door myself. He started to thank me for my help in clearing his father, but I cut him short.

I said, “Boy, how do you know the plumber's assistant? Is he an old friend?”

“Rudy? Oh, no, he did some work for a committee I serve on in the legislature.”

“What committee?”

“He used to be an investigator,” said Boy. “Working in organized crime. I guess the benefits must be better working as a plumber, though, huh?”

I said, “Maybe so.”

But I doubted it.

Boykin left, and Libby—unaware she had cream cheese on her chin—announced we were late for a Yolates class. “You'll love it,” she gushed. “I have your whole day planned. A little exercise, then a salad for lunch followed by an herbal enema.”

“Jesus,” said Emma. “Are you trying to kill her?”

“Thanks, Lib, but I have to work today.”

Emma was in a hurry to pick up some liniment for Mr. Twinkles, so she dragged Libby out. I made a phone call as soon as they disappeared out the driveway.

My nephew Rawlins showed up about twenty minutes later. He came in through the back door, slugging from a plastic bottle of Mountain Dew.

“Hi, Aunt Nora. Hey, you look nice.”

In Grandmama Blackbird's closet, I'd found a slimming black Saint Laurent suit with a pencil skirt that was a little snug. Underneath it, I put on an Old Navy camisole with lace trim for warmth. “Is it too tight?”

“Heck, no. You look really pretty. Kinda sexy.”

I gave him a kiss as I slung my coat around my shoulders. “Rawlins, you're so sweet to help me, but I swear if you breathe a word to either of my sisters, I will recommend you be grounded until you beg for mercy.”

Rawlins grinned. “No breathing, I promise.”

During the last year, Rawlins had gone through a phase of wearing jewelry that required the piercing of various body parts. I was glad to see him down to two earrings and a stud through his left eyebrow. Although still a slouchy teenager with baggy jeans and a set of headphones permanently slung around his neck, he'd grown up a lot in recent months. I thought part of his transformation may have resulted from spending time in the company of Michael Abruzzo. Michael ran a tight ship at the garage where his posse hung out—ostensibly to rebuild cars, although I was pretty sure other activities took place there. To his mother's dismay, Rawlins had almost become a regular in Michael's crew. I thought the association had brought improvement. My nephew could actually look an adult in the eye and hold a comprehensible conversation now.