Have Your Cake and Kill Him Too (19 page)

The breeze smelled like spring—and a little bit of horse—and the sun felt warm and uplifting. In a few weeks I could start putting in bedding plants and thinning out my perennials. Next spring I'd have my own child. The thought made me throw my head back and laugh at the sky.

But celebratory digging in the garden would have to wait. With the bank's home inspector coming in just a matter of days, there were dozens of household projects that required my attention.

I had turned to go back into the house when a car arrived in my driveway, a snazzy station wagon with another little girl waving from the passenger window.

The driver got out first.

“Delilah!”

My friend went around to help her passenger unbuckle her seat belt and get out.

Then little Keesa Fairweather bounded across the lawn in her red rubber boots. “Nora! Hi!”

I gave Keesa a hug. She was leggy for a ten-year-old, with a curvy face that somehow emphasized her toothy smile as well as the shy shadow in her dark eyes.

“Delilah says I can pet the horse if he's not dangerous.”

“He's not dangerous, but he's big, so be careful. That's my niece, Lucy. Go introduce yourself.”

Keesa ran off.

After her, I called, “Don't let Lucy boss you around!”

Keesa laughed and kept running.

I turned to Delilah. Her hair, usually neatly crimped and tied up with ribbon, had nappy edges this morning, and she had neglected to put on lipstick or mascara. Her face looked washed-out and drawn. I gave her a hug.

“Thanks,” she said, lacking her usual fire. “I hope you don't mind a visit from Keesa.”

“You know I love Keesa. She's welcome anytime.”

“You mean that?”

“Delilah, what's wrong?”

She shoved her hands into the pockets of her jacket and watched Keesa climb the paddock fence. “She's a nice kid. She's smart. She only deserves the best. And I haven't given her the best life, have I?”

Delilah had grown up in a tough section of the city until her mother and half a dozen aunts moved the family to a suburb, where they focused on education and church and music to keep Delilah and her siblings out of trouble. But despite their best efforts to protect Delilah, my friend had given birth to Keesa while still in high school. Instead of raising the child as her own, though, Delilah had qualified for scholarships that took her to college and launched a busy career that had her rubbing elbows with the top social echelons of the city. She left her baby behind to be raised by her own mother. Even now, I wasn't sure if Keesa knew who had given birth to her. Keesa and Delilah treated each other like sisters.

I said, “Keesa's wonderful, Delilah. You should be very proud of her.”

“We are,” Delilah agreed, but her lower lip quivered.

“Are you okay? I'm sorry we didn't get a chance to talk yesterday, but—”

She shook her head to stem my concern. “Don't worry about it. What are you doing? Am I interrupting?”

“I was just going to take an inventory of various household problems. An appraiser for the bank is coming, and I have lots of things to fix or disguise. There's a crack in my foundation, for instance. See? I need to find a way to hide it.”

“Why don't you just fill the crack?”

“It's a big crack.” I led her around the side of the house and pointed. “The Grand Canyon of cracks. I need a stonemason, and I can't afford one.”

“Get a couple of mules, and you could lead tourists down that canyon.” Delilah mustered a grin. “Honey, where I started out, we'd just pile up some old newspapers and junk.”

I touched her arm. “Tell me what's wrong, Delilah.”

We returned to the porch and sat on the steps, where we could see the children petting Mr. Twinkles's head and chattering together while Emma kept a firm grip on the horse's halter.

Delilah said, “My mama's sick, Nora. She's been feeling bad for a couple of months, but she was afraid to go to the doctor.”

“Oh, no.”

“She fought the breast cancer off a few years ago, remember? But now it's back.”

“I'm so sorry, Delilah. Can I help?”

“Thing is,” said my friend, “if she's sick, and I'm in trouble with the police, things are going to get bad.”

Although I couldn't imagine anything worse, I reached for Delilah's hand. “What's wrong?”

“You know my sister Jasmine? You met her once a couple of years ago. The one with—well, the drug problem and a few other things.”

I knew all about the trouble a drug-addicted family member could bring into a household. My husband, Todd, had nearly ruined more lives than his own before he was shot over a cocaine deal that went awry.

Delilah continued. “Because of Jasmine, Social Services visits Mama from time to time. And I'm afraid, Nora. If I'm in trouble and can't support my family, they could take Keesa. Social Services may take away my little girl.”

“No! That's impossible!”

Delilah squeezed back tears. “Nora, I'm feeling like one of the brothers from my old neighborhood. Like the police aren't my friends anymore. Like I could be in a hell of a lot of trouble.”

I put my arm around her shoulders. “Tell me what happened.”

“Yesterday, the cops came to my office. They wanted to know all about my—my relationship with Zell Orcutt.”

“Relationship?” I asked. “Delilah, don't tell me you and Zell—”

She tried to laugh. “Girl, you better have more respect for me than that! I was way too old for that pervert anyway. He only liked teenyboppers.”

“Sorry. You meant your business relationship with Zell.”

“Right. The cops came to talk to me, and they spent the whole day asking questions. I had to send my assistant out for coffee and sandwiches. At my expense, by the way.”

“What did the police want to know?”

“Where I was the day he was killed, what I was wearing, who I saw.”

“Why do they suspect you? Because you argued with Zell the day he died?”

“That, yes, and—look, when I started my business, I didn't have a lot of assets.”

Delilah had always been closemouthed about her business affairs, so her explanation came slowly. “I borrowed from a bank to get off the ground, but I needed more money. I met Zell at one of my parties, and we got to talking. He seemed normal—a jerk with a big mouth, maybe, but he was rich, and I figured I could trust him.”

“So he became your partner?”

“He was supposed to be a silent partner. But a couple of months ago he started pushing for a cut of my business. I said I'd repay him the original loan, but he didn't want that. He wanted a percentage. Nora, I get by on a low percentage anyway, and I couldn't pay him what he wanted.”

“So you argued with him.”

She nodded. “It was nasty, I admit. But I didn't kill him.”

“I know you didn't. And the police will figure it out, too. For one thing, you've never used a bow and arrow, have you?”

Her expression told me something different. “That's part of my problem. I was camp champ at Kittanaway Lake three years running. Which the police somehow found out.”

“Sheesh,” I said. “Those detectives sure walk the mean streets, huh?”

“I know,” she said glumly. “Somebody drove all the way up to a nursing home in the Poconos to talk to my old summer-camp director. Thing is, Nora, I don't think the cops are looking at anybody else. You won't believe it, but they got a tip about me. Some nut phoned saying I was the one who shot that old man!”

“You mean an anonymous tip? But—Delilah, that's not real evidence.”

“Besides the whole stupid camp thing, the cops also have an earring of mine. I knew I'd lost it, but how it got down by that statue at Fitch's Fancy, I have no idea.”

“An earring?” I said quietly.

Boykin had turned in the evidence he'd found.

“I could have dropped it in the garden,” Delilah said. “But I never went down to the statue. I don't know how it got there.”

Boy had indeed contaminated the crime scene by planting evidence. He had set out to incriminate Delilah from the beginning. Suddenly, his asking me to investigate the murder made sense. He intended for me to help convict Delilah.

I asked, “Was Boy the only one who saw you with Zell? Did Verbena? Anybody else?”

Delilah shrugged. “There was a moving van from the auction house at first. Then the whole Fitch family showed up. Boy, then Verbena. And Pointy, of course. Oh, and the granddaughter with the boob job, and her little friend—”

“Clover was there?”

“Sure. With that mousy little tagalong of hers.”

“Jane.”

“I never heard her name.”

“What about ChaCha? Was she at Fitch's Fancy, too?”

“I didn't see her, but she could have been. The place was crawling with people.”

“What about the anonymous tipster?” I said. “Did the police say if the caller was male or female?”

“They didn't tell me.” Delilah turned to me with her face slack. “Nora, this is a crazy idea, but I think somebody's trying to frame me.”

“It sounds that way,” I agreed.

“I don't know why I came to you.” Delilah hugged herself. “I'm so worried about Mama, and now Keesa—”

“Don't get upset,” I soothed. “Let's try to keep our heads cool.”

“I—I don't know what to do if Social Services takes her. I've seen it happen. If she gets into that system, I might never see her again. Nora, she'll never know who her real mama is.”

“Don't worry,” I said. “I'll help, I promise.”

A huge tear tracked down Delilah's cheek. “Can I leave Keesa here for a little while? I'm supposed to take Mama for her first chemo today.”

“Keesa can stay with us as long as you like,” I said, very glad to have something helpful to do. “I have to go to work soon, but Emma is here, and Lucy would enjoy having a friend around. Look—they're getting along really well. We'll keep her with us as long as you like.”

“Thanks.” Delilah hugged me.

We walked over to the paddock together. Emma had begun to brush Mr. Twinkles, and the little girls sat on the fence, braiding his mane. Except that Lucy appeared to be trying to thread a single hair up her nose.

“Only thing, though,” I warned. “It's possible Keesa might pick up one or two bad habits from Lucy.”

Delilah smiled, clearly under the impression I was kidding. Then she offered to drive me into the city for my afternoon appointments. They all stayed by the paddock while I ran inside to change my clothes.

I rummaged through several outfits before settling on a sensible gray fine-tweed Armani jacket over a ruffled blush pink blouse that concealed my waist. A pair of black peg-legged trousers I had never been able to wear before were now forgivingly comfortable.

Just as I started down the staircase, I heard a “Woohoo!” from the back door.

Libby.

Short of faking my own death or disappearing to Antarctica, there seemed to be no escape.

When I arrived in the kitchen, Libby was speed-walking around the table. In addition to a pink tracksuit and a T-shirt printed with the words I'VE GOT A CUTIE PATOOTIE, she wore leg weights around her ankles and two more bulky wristbands Velcroed to her forearms. Her cheeks were flaming, her eyes unnaturally bright. A pedometer ticked at her belt.

“Look! I brought you a bottle of extra-oxygenated water! Are you ready for a power walk?”

I barely caught the flying bottle in midair. “Libby, aren't you taking this diet too far?”

“No!” With more energy than a hummingbird, she made another lap around the kitchen table. “Not a bit. Not one bit. Not a tiny little bit. I'm fine, just fine! I took a food supplement an hour ago, and I've never felt so rejuvenated!”

“Oh, my God,” I said. “You're taking pills now?”

“They're not pills! They're like vitamins!”

I grabbed her arm to slow her down. “What kind of vitamins? The pupils of your eyes are spinning.”

“They are?” She rushed to the mirror hanging by the back door. “You're right! The vitamins must be working!”

“Libby, you can't take speed to lose weight.”

“I'm not losing weight! I'm reinventing my body! And we'll do the same for you!”

“I think you should slow down the reinvention.”

“Are you kidding? Now that it's going so well? I'm having a lime sauna mud wrap in an hour! It's guaranteed to take three inches off each thigh—can you believe it? They spray you with lime juice and mud and wrap you in plastic sheets and turn up the heat until you're thin! It's only two hundred dollars! Why don't I make an appointment for you?”

“Two—! Libby, as soon as you drink a glass of water, you'll look just the same as before, only pinker—and two hundred dollars poorer!”

“I love pink! It's so flattering! Here!” From her handbag, my sister yanked a jar, one with a label printed in Japanese characters. “I brought you another present!”

I accepted the jar from her and tried to read the label. “What in the world . . . ?”

“It's a ginger, sea urchin, watermelon-seed-based cream that smooths cellulite! Nora, it's the best thing I ever tried! So I've decided to share with you, although it's horribly expensive—even more than the lime thingie. You can pay me back when your next paycheck comes. It's just fabulous! I've been using it on my stomach, see?”