Have Your Cake and Kill Him Too (18 page)

“That's ridiculous,” I said, but without heat. He was right, of course. I knew it. But I couldn't stop myself, could I? Trying to jest, I said, “You're beyond rescue, anyway, aren't you?”

He looked out the windshield at nothing, his face suddenly going blank.

After a moment, he said, “My money's on the politician.”

I sighed and shook my head. “Boykin manages to cover his shortcomings with good looks and charm, but unless he's a fabulous actor, I really don't think he has the brains to plan a murder and get away with it, let alone ask me for help afterwards.”

“There's more to the story.”

“Most certainly,” I agreed.

Michael reached for his coffee and slurped. He grimaced at the taste, then rolled down his window to pour it away. “The politician sounds like an acquaintance of mine, a guy with the same ability to charm people. He could find a way to flatter anyone, get them on his side, you know? Acting stupid, but really watching for his chance. A con man. Easy to get along with, though, as long as you didn't push his buttons.”

“Did you? Push his buttons?”

“There are two ways to stay alive in jail.” Michael rolled up his window again. “One is to be the last man standing. The other is to avoid pushing any buttons whatsoever. After a while, you learn the second option is best.”

Sometimes Michael said things that swamped me with sadness.

“What was his crime? Your con-man friend?”

Michael shrugged. “He killed both of his parents during the Super Bowl. Used a chain saw he'd bought to cut firewood. He put their pieces in the freezer alongside his stash of Klondike bars. Crazy, but he was actually pretty good company once you got to know him. He liked to read dictionaries.”

It was too much. The stench of gladiolas and the talk of Carmine Pescara and his bloody bedspreads had been awful, and the thought of plunging an arrow deep enough into a living creature to kill it was almost as bad. But this tidbit of jailhouse confidence was the end. Michael had spent time with such a person. And liked him. Joking with murderers was more normal for him than a life with me. I dumped the remains of our meal into his lap and made a grab for the door handle.

“Hey—”

“Stay here,” I commanded, bailing out as fast as I could. The cold night air hit me in the face, but didn't stop the tsunami of nausea that surged inside me. I slammed the door shut and groped my way to the rear of the van before I became reacquainted with the baked potato.

Half a minute later Michael got out of the van and came around to the back, where I leaned weakly against the rear bumper. “Are you all right?”

“Keep your distance,” I ordered. “Or you'll regret it.”

“You're sick!”

Any number of sarcastic comebacks occurred to me, but I managed to choke them down along with another rush of nausea.

Michael handed me a wad of unused paper napkins. They smelled distinctly of fried food, so I waved them off.

“I'm sorry,” he said. “I shouldn't have told you about the chain saw.”

I put one hand out to stop him from coming closer. “Keep your distance.”

“I want to hold you,” he said.

“Not at the moment you don't.”

I took a deep breath and turned around to sit on the rear bumper. I sagged there, hands on my knees, waiting for my stomach to settle. When that didn't work, I straightened up and rested the back of my head on the cool metal of the van.

Michael stayed where he was. A shaft of light caught the edge of his cheekbone and melted across his breadth of his shoulders. I couldn't quite see his expression, but I tried.

“Is this working?” he said, genuinely asking. “Being apart like this?”

I knew what he meant.

“I'm with somebody else now,” I said steadily. “And so are you. Let's just—please, Michael, don't do this tonight. I want to go home.”

“I'm sorry. I didn't mean to make you sick.”

“It wasn't—it's a bug, that's all.”

“The flu?” He looked doubtful. “Emma says—”

“Since when did you start phoning Emma all the time, anyway? And do you think that's smart? You're paranoid about making phone calls, but you dial my sister's number at the drop of a hat?”

“Nora—”

“You and your stupid obsession with secrecy goes right out the window when you feel like gossiping with my sister?”

“You're worried about me and Emma?”

“I'm always worried about you and Emma. Not together, but yes, as you so insightfully pointed out, I worry about both of you. Is that so bizarre?”

“Are you okay?” he asked, squinting. “You sound—”

“Tired!” I cried.

“I was going to say
nuts.
”

“I'll tell you what's nuts. You keeping nearly a million dollars in suitcases on my property!”

“Are we back to that?”

“Did we ever leave it?”

“Nora, you've known how I operate for a long time, and—”

“And it makes me crazy, yes,” I snapped. “So how come I can't put you out of my head?”

“What?”

“I can't help it,” I said. “I'm possessed or something. When I'm with you, I don't recognize the person I am.”

“That doesn't sound good.”

“It's terrifying! I like myself! I've been me all my life—until I met you. And now . . .”

“Now?”

For an awful second I realized I was going to cry. I didn't know what I was trying to say.

But then a flash of headlights suddenly swept over us as another vehicle pulled into the parking lot. We both froze until the driver gave a friendly horn toot. I recognized the truck and groaned. The evening was only getting worse.

“Em?” Michael asked.

My sister killed the headlights and got out of her truck. She was wearing a pair of spike-heeled patent leather boots that disappeared up into the folds of a ragged Burberry coat that had been our father's. I recognized the frayed pockets. The coat concealed everything else on her body except a snug black necklace around her throat. She managed to look stunning, while I could still taste vomit in the back of my throat. Great.

Michael wasn't surprised to see her. “Hey, Emma.”

“Hey,” she said.

“Is that your uniform under the coat?”

She strolled over with the gleam of mischief in her eye. “You want to see my Mistress of the Dungeon duds?”

“Of course.” He was smiling. “I bet you look great.”

The necklace wasn't a necklace, I finally realized, but a leather dog collar spiked with pointed silver studs.

Emma flicked it playfully. “You making fun of me?”

“Hell, no. I just want to know if you keep a defibrillator handy in case of heart attacks among the customers.”

She strolled provocatively closer. “How about if I just pound your chest myself?”

He laughed. “Can you make it hurt really good?”

Emma reached through the open zipper of his jacket and gave his flannel shirt a friendly tug. “You like the kinky stuff, big guy? I haven't seen you in the Dungeon yet, but I bet you're quite the lady-killer.”

“No indictments.”

They were both grinning at each other.

I said, “If I wasn't sick already, I'd be throwing up right now.”

Emma said, “She doesn't approve of my new employment.”

“I wonder why.”

Emma let go of his shirt and turned to me. “She likes to pretend she hasn't tiptoed over to the wild side herself now and then. Right, Sis? You spent your formative adolescence with Jill Mascione as your best friend. Tell me you didn't dabble with Sappho, the gay caterer.”

Michael turned to me, intrigued. “Dabbling? How come you haven't told me about dabbling?”

“And you,” Emma said to Michael, “I know the kinds of places you've been and can guess what you've done. It doesn't seem to have caused any harm. Shall we all confess our sins and see who blushes first?”

“Point taken.” Michael put his hands into his pockets and looked contrite. “Your job is your business, Em.”

“Let's not encourage my little sister to play with matches, shall we?” I said, not ready to give up yet. “She's going to get burned.”

“I'm sure she's thought about why she's doing it,” Michael said.

Emma narrowed her eyes on him. “Playing shrink?”

He shrugged.

I said, “You're doing everything possible to keep real relationships at a distance. But at least you're not drinking, so I guess we should count our blessings.”

“Ouch.” Emma laughed shortly. “What's wrong with her?”

Michael said, “I've been trying to find out.”

“Did you two have some kind of fight?”

“I dunno. She's very touchy tonight.”

They both looked at me, and Emma said, “Did you tell him anything interesting yet?”

“Only that I want to go home.”

Michael said, “Rawlins and I figured Emma should take you back to the farm.”

“In case the cops are waiting to nab the Love Machine there.” Emma jerked her head at Michael. “Then I gotta punch the time clock, unless you puritans have further objections, so can we get going?”

“What are we waiting for?” I asked.

“I thought you might have something to tell Mick first.”

“About playing Barbie dolls with Jill?”

Emma snorted. “That wasn't all of it, I'm sure. Jill had a crush on you from the time you put on a training bra. No, I meant—”

“I know what you meant,” I said. “Are you blackmailing me?”

“I'm just thinking you and Mick might want—”

“No, thanks.”

“What's going on?” Michael asked.

“Nothing,” I said.

“Something,” said Emma.

I staggered away from them. Unsteadily, I walked out into the middle of the highway and put out my thumb, fully prepared to hitchhike home rather than reveal anything before I was good and ready, no matter how much pressure from my sister.

“Hey,” Emma called. “Chill. I'll take you home.”

“I'll get there myself.” I backed up the road with my thumb in the wind. “Unless you think I can't handle the federal investigators who are hiding under my porch with their headphones, wondering if I dabble with the kingpin of New Jersey's underworld.”

“Future kingpin,” Michael corrected. “I got a lot of concrete to pour before I move up.”

“That's not funny, dammit!”

“Come back here,” Emma yelled. “You're too hormonal to be out alone.”

“Screw you!”

“See? Insanely hormonal. Wait up!”

“Nora,” Michael called. He started to jog after me.

Fortunately, a large, somewhat rattletrap pickup truck came around the bend and caught me in its headlights. I waved both hands over my head in the universal language of get-me-the-hell-out-of-here. It slowed down. The driver leaned over and rolled down the passenger window.

I was astonished to recognize the man behind the wheel. “Mr. Ledbetter?”

“Miss Blackbird?”

Our family handyman was equally surprised to find me in the middle of a road in the dark of night. Normally, he and I had our conversations in my kitchen, where he delivered bad news about house repairs.

“Nora—” Michael had almost caught up with me.

But I opened the passenger door of Mr. Ledbetter's truck and climbed in without bothering to ask. Mr. Ledbetter grasped the situation with complete clarity and accelerated even before I could wrestle the door closed.

“Nora!” Michael made a grab for the door handle.

But we left him in our dust as I fastened my seat belt and sat back to enjoy the ride home.

I grabbed a key from under a flowerpot to let myself into the house, then went directly upstairs to bed and didn't wake until nine the next morning. If Emma came back to the farm that night after her evening in the Dungeon, I never heard her.

Naturally, I spent the first hour fighting morning sickness, alternately retching or lying on the cool bathroom floor, wondering if it was too late for a sex change operation. Being a man never sounded so good. When I could finally manage it, I took a hot shower to soothe my aching muscles and to decide what to do next. At last, I dressed and staggered downstairs, still feeling wan, but determined to make some changes in my life.

On the kitchen table sat my handbag. Emma must have brought it home from Michael's vehicle.

I pulled my last Jiffy Pop from the pantry and while shaking it over the stove, I noticed Emma's truck sitting in the driveway. After munching a few handfuls of popcorn, I slipped on my jacket and went out onto the back porch. I spotted my sister in the paddock, working Mr. Twinkles on a lunge line. The huge chestnut snorted and bucked with every graceful stride, his high spirits in play. Emma effortlessly commanded him with the smallest twitch of the line. Watching, I thought that if she could handle a wild horse with such ease, she could probably handle just about anything that walked into her Dungeon.

On the top rail of the fence perched our six-year-old niece, Libby's daughter, Lucy. She clutched the fence with both hands, as if to keep herself from leaping off to join Emma in the paddock. Lucy caught sight of me and waved, her face pink with delight, her blond braids teased by the breeze.

I waved back. Then, when Emma turned to look, I stuck my tongue out, put my thumbs in my ears and waggled my fingers at her. She laughed and gave me a one-handed rude gesture behind Lucy's turned head, so all was forgiven.