Little Black Book of Murder (10 page)

Large portions of the paper bore nothing but impatiently scrawled red question marks.

A Polaroid of a battered surfboard had been stuck to the wall with a pushpin. Otherwise, the room was bare. Windows overlooked the city and the Schuylkill River beyond. There was no chair for me to sit on.

Since there was no place to hang my coat, either, I kept it on.

I said, “Has Zephyr been found?”

Gus commenced to pace. He wore gray suit trousers and a white shirt with a silver tie. I didn't necessarily think of Australians as fashion-­forward, but he looked good. He had already rolled up his sleeves to show the muscles of his tanned and freckled forearms. When he glanced my way, his eyes were narrow. “I'll ask the questions. How soon can you finish that profile of Starr?”

“I planned on the Friday deadline, but if you need it sooner, I can probably finish it in a couple of—”

“Hours?” Gus said.

With an effort, I suppressed a squeak of dismay.

“Two hours then,” he said firmly. “We'll run it with the extended obit tomorrow. And I'll need a profile of Zephyr, too. With as much dirt as you can dig up on her between now and sundown. I'll get somebody else to find the usual research—­my assistant can probably stop bitching about the unglamorous nature of her job long enough to assemble a few pages. Then you can add what you have and write it up.”

“Forgive me,” I said, “but printing a lot of dirt about Zephyr while the poor girl is missing, perhaps hurt or even—­God forbid—­dead, seems a little heartless.”

“Excellent,” he snapped. “That's exactly what we want to do around here, Nora. Stir up people, make them want to run out every morning and buy a paper to see what outrageous thing we have to say on every subject.”

“But—”

“Controversy! Excitement! That's what the
Intelligencer
is going to bring to the city of Philadelphia.”

“I just don't think—”

He swung on me. “Have I offended your delicate sensibilities?”

“I'm uncomfortable,” I said, “putting my name on anything salacious.”

“Really?” He stopped pacing to stare at me. “You? The girl who has stand-­up sex with her mobbed-­up boyfriend in a kitchen closet?”

In the silence that stretched, I must have turned white and then six shades of purple, because Gus laughed rudely.

“Do you think I'm deaf?” he asked. “That's what you were doing, am I right? Or did my ears deceive me?”

“I—­I—”

“You have a charming blush, Nora.” He pulled a pair of eyeglasses from the desk, the better to further examine my humiliation. “I can see exactly why your knuckle-­dragger has such a yen for you. You come off like the kind of girl who keeps her knees together. Pure as the driven snow. But you've drifted, haven't you? I bet he buys you sexy undies. If you wear any at all.”

I spun around and faced the window. I tried to focus on the flat, calm surface of the distant river while blocking out the memory of what he must have heard.

He said, “I find this reckless side of you very appealing—­very appealing in an employee, that is. I want you to put it to work in your job.”

“I think,” I finally managed to say in a strained voice that trembled in time with my ker-­thunking heart, “it might be best if I go write my letter of resignation, Mr. Hardwicke.”

He laughed again. “I don't want your resignation. And, honestly, you don't really want to give it. You'd be stupid to abandon a paying job, and I know you're not stupid. Let me sweeten the pot. I am giving you a raise.”

“A—?” At last, I could look at him. Although he sounded amused, he wasn't smiling. If I was uncomfortable before, I was on pins and needles now.

“You're officially on the fast track,” he snapped. “I liked the notes you sent me over the weekend. They were very complete, only need a little sharpening of the poisoned pen. If you don't want your name on the byline, just say so. We'll make up a name, something clever, so people start guessing who you really are. That'll help sell papers, too.”

“I'm uncomfortable,” I began again.

“In case you haven't gotten the point yet, I like making people uncomfortable,” he said. “It makes my pulse race, my heart sing. But to keep you working here, I'll increase your salary by ten percent.”

“I just don't feel—”

“Twenty percent.”

I couldn't respond. Mostly out of shame.

“Thirty percent,” he said. “And not a penny more. I've seen your house, Nora. You can use a raise. Of course, the new cash won't kick in until your next paycheck, so you'll have to keep the haunted mansion standing for another couple of weeks, but maybe you can ask your gorilla to hold up the roof. He looks as if he could lift some deadweight. Must be all that practice burying his enemies late at night.”

“You should be careful about Michael,” I said.

“Is that a threat?” Gus asked on a disbelieving laugh.

“He can't be intimidated. Or manipulated.”

“But you can,” Gus said wisely. “Why do you think I brought you in here this morning instead of discussing it all at your home? I want you working for me, Nora. For a lot of reasons. Foremost among them is that you are connected. On Saturday you proved to me that you know the movers and shakers of this city like nobody else I've met. You're an insider, and I'm not. I need you—­you, who can sneak into any hallowed hall on my behalf.”

“I do not sneak,” I said.

“No, you walk right through the front door. I see exactly what you're doing—­using your friends and your reputation as an Old Money heiress to gain entrance into special places, to see special people. It may not feel like using them, but you are. You belong to the secret society, Nora. You're a long-­standing member, in fact, a card-­carrying Philadelphia aristocrat. For me, that makes you a golden goose.”

“I don't like where this is going.”

“Have you guessed?”

No, I hadn't guessed yet. I felt as if I had been ambushed. My face must have said so.

Gus smiled. “I want to start a little competition.”

“What kind of competition?”

“With the police. Remember Watergate? It was the reporters who broke that case. And they sold a hell of a lot of newspapers while they did it. I think the
Intelligencer
can beat the police in solving the murder of Swain Starr.”

“How?”

“You, Nora Blackbird, can walk into the workrooms of fashion designers and the living rooms of hot dog heiresses all over the city, and people treat you like their best mate. I've seen you do it. So I want you to figure out who murdered Swain Starr.”

He went on. “You practically live in his backyard. And you know all the right things to say. People trust you. That makes you an ideal detective for this case. You will phone all your discoveries to me, and I—­or someone on the staff—­will write up your daily reports.” His gaze glowed with ambition. “We'll stand this city on its ear with the story.”

“What makes you think we could possibly—”

“Here's the latest on Zephyr,” Gus said. “She was found in a very nice hotel suite last night. Not alone.”

“She's alive,” I said with relief.

“Very much so.”

“What hotel?” I asked without thinking. “Who was she with?”

Gus's smile broadened as if I were a star pupil who had just blurted out a correct answer. “The cops won't say, bugger them. When you find the hotel, you'll get more answers. She managed to send her companion out the service entrance before anyone could identify him. But you're going to find out.”

“I have no idea where to begin, and if you want the profile done by tomorrow—”

“I'll give you a break,” he said. “I'll dust the mold off your profile of Swain myself. I'll take out a few commas and add some exclamation points. It'll run tomorrow under a byline other than your own, if that makes you less
uncomfortable
.” He said the word with dripping sarcasm.

I said, “The hotel will have security tapes. They'll know who was in her room.”

“See? You already know where to start.”

Gus's cell phone jingled in his pocket. He took it out and looked at the screen. “Nick off now, Nora. I've got a newspaper to rescue. And you've got legwork to do.”

“But—”

“Go,” he said. “I expect your first results before noon.”

I
fled Gus's office. The roomful of reporters turned to look at me, the latest staffer to get rough treatment from our esteemed editor. Before anyone could flag me down to ask sympathetic questions, I rushed to the elevator and rode it down to the street. The last thing I wanted was anyone else in the building to hear about the particulars of how Gus browbeat me into doing his bidding.

Who had killed Swain Starr? I hadn't a clue.

But I did know one thing nobody else did.

My nephew Rawlins had been at the Starr farm the night Swain was murdered.

I knew in my heart my nephew had not killed the fashion designer. Why would he do such a thing? But he had not phoned me back when I asked, which telegraphed to me that he was over his head in something bad.

Rawlins had his whole future ahead of him, and I dreaded the idea of how a murder investigation could jeopardize that.

So I walked to get my brain to function. On the crowded Monday morning sidewalks, I walked for blocks among the many people who were rushing to get to work. It was half an hour before I realized I needed a cup of coffee to help my brain function. I went into a coffee shop that was jammed with people who crouched over their laptops, doing whatever solitary business could be conducted while elbow to elbow with similarly occupied workers, each making a paper cup of astronomically expensive coffee last as long as possible. And while I tried to think of where to buy myself a bargain cup, I thought of someone I could talk to about the murder.

I hurried a few more blocks to Tommy Rattigan's restaurant. It wasn't open for breakfast, but the green-­and-­white-­striped awning snapped cheerfully in the morning breeze. I stopped at the front door and peered inside. No lights, no customers. The door was locked. The discreetly painted sign on the door said the restaurant would open at eleven—­hours away.

I tried using my cell phone first. I punched the numbers painted on the door, but a recorded message came on, instructing me about their reservation policy. I hung up, remembering something Michael had said once about restaurants—­that someone was always around back, maybe stealing from the company refrigerator or helping himself to the cash register. I didn't believe that—­not ­exactly—­but I hoped someone was already working in the kitchen.

I walked around the block and into the alley behind the restaurant. The cobblestones underfoot nearly defeated my heels, but I carefully made my way past several trash bins and a couple of homeless people sleeping on a grate. At last, I found the employee entrance to Rattigan's. Two Mercedes had been left in front of a No Parking sign. One was small and silver, the other an older black station wagon.

Behind the expensive cars idled a rusted panel truck, a plume of blue smoke rising from its tailpipe. A padlock hung open on the truck's cargo door, as if the driver had just removed something from the truck and had taken it into the restaurant.

I tried the restaurant's door. It was unlocked.

I let myself into a back corridor. The white tile walls were immaculate, the floor very clean. I could hear a tinny radio playing—­and voices raised in anger.

Bright lights blazed in the kitchen. On a long stainless steel counter were cases of produce and a large cardboard box stuffed with long baguettes of bread. Already, the fresh ingredients that went into the restaurant's famously organic menu had been delivered.

But the shouting voices drew me farther down the hallway.

I went around a corner and discovered myself in a prep area. I remembered Tommy's words about becoming part of the artisanal butchering movement, so I expected to walk in on some doomed animal destined for the restaurant's stove. Instead, I found several men in aprons, all steadily working at cutting open Styrofoam containers marked with the logo of a big-­box store.

From the packages, they were grabbing hunks of meat. Steaks, chops, chicken parts.

They froze in their chores to look at me. Nobody said a word.

It didn't take Libby's mothering instincts to know what was happening. The restaurant was purchasing its meat not from local, organic farmers, but from a big national chain that offered cheaper prices.

“Uh, excuse me,” I said. “Is Tommy around?”

One of the aproned men pointed silently down the hall.

I backpedaled into the hallway. Taking a few more steps, I located the office of the owner and executive chef. Tommy's name was painted on the glass door.

Through the glass, I was surprised to see him holding a woman who struggled in his arms. Red-­faced, he gripped her tight to his chest, but she hit at his shoulders with her fists. Then I realized the woman was his sister—­Marybeth Starr. On Saturday, she had come to her ex-­husband's farm with fire in her eyes. Today, she was an emotional mess.

I gave a little cough to alert them to my presence.

Tommy had heard me, and he spoke to her urgently. Her struggles ended. More gently, he turned his sister away so he could look over her shoulder at me. He recognized my face and reacted with surprise. “Nora! What are you doing here?”

Marybeth pulled out of her brother's embrace and hastily wiped her eyes with a restaurant napkin.

“Excuse me,” I said, conveying with my tone that I hadn't seen anything amiss. “Marybeth, I'm so sorry about Swain. It must be an awful shock for you.”

“And you.” Marybeth managed a teary, sympathetic smile. “I hear you were the one who found him.”

“I only wish I had gotten to him sooner.”

“They tell me he died horribly.” She gave a hiccough, and her eyes overflowed again. She pressed the napkin to her face, and her voice sounded strangled. “Probably only hours after we saw him.”

“I'm so sorry,” I said again.

She nodded. “I'm very upset. You know better than anyone what it's like to lose your husband, Nora.”

Of course I had to stay then. If I understood anything at all, it was the tornado of emotions that hit a woman in the hours after her husband died—­especially a husband with whom she had a conflicted relationship.

“It was awful when Todd died a violent death,” I admitted. “I'm sure you're in shock. And overwhelmed by a dozen different feelings.”

Gratefully, Marybeth grabbed me up in a hug. She whispered, “You do understand.”

When my husband was shot, I had been horrified as well as grief-­stricken. And angry with him, too. The confusion of emotion had felt like a storm inside me. So I knew why Marybeth was so disjointed.

Tommy reached up to put a comforting hand on his sister's shoulder. “Have you had anything breakfast-­wise, Nora? I was just going to ask Marybeth if I could make her some eggs.”

My first thought was that a celebrity chef ought to be able to come up with something more exotic than scrambled eggs. Tommy's pedestrian suggestion also caused Marybeth to pull her shoulder out from under his touch. “Eggs are so boring. Anyway, I couldn't choke down a mouthful this morning.”

I smiled at Tommy to ease the sting of her criticism. “Frankly, I'm not sure I could keep down any food, either. But coffee sounds wonderful. If you don't mind my intruding.”

“You're not intruding,” Marybeth answered for her brother. “I need my friends now.”

I wouldn't have called myself a friend of Marybeth's, exactly, but if my experience as a grieving widow could help her through the next hour, I was willing to do whatever she wanted.

In his green kitchen clogs, Tommy led the way into the back of the darkened restaurant. Without food cooking in the kitchen, the rich scent of herbs floated to us from the main wall of the dining room—­a two-­story wall of rocks and tumbling water where the staff had carefully planted a variety of fragrant herbs that suffused the space with subtle but aromatic scents. From the center of the wall of herbs protruded the severed head of an enormous boar, complete with beaded eyes and sharp tusks. The wild pig appeared to survey the restaurant from on high.

Tommy found us a table near the espresso station. While he poured a generous handful of coffee beans into a handsome machine, Marybeth and I eased into chairs.

Over the whine of the coffee grinder, Marybeth said, “I don't know what happens next. I'm no longer Swain's next of kin, of course, so my role is uncertain.”

“You've spoken with your children?”

“Yes, I talked to all of them this morning. They went immediately back to New York to attend to company business.” When I looked surprised, she added, “There's nothing they can do here. Except look after me, and I have Tommy for that.” She sent an unreadable look at her brother. “And the welfare of Starr Industries is, of course, important to preserve. Since Swain left the business so recently, his death may have an impact on the company. Suzette must fly to China right away to make sure holdings there are under control. It's going to be so hard on her to be away for the funeral, but Jacob and Eli will handle the arrangements.”

“And Porter? Did he go to New York with his siblings?”

Marybeth blinked as if she'd completely forgotten about her youngest child. Then she teared up again and held her handkerchief to her nose as her face crumpled. “Porter's going to be so upset about his father's death.”

“You haven't seen him yet?”

“He—­he's been so busy starting up his Hollywood venture, you see.”

What Hollywood venture could be more important than sharing comfort with his mother over the death of his father? But that was none of my business, so I said, “Have the police given you any indication of—­well, besides the manner of Swain's death, did they have any ideas about how—­I mean—”

She swallowed hard. “If you can believe it, I am—­I was their first suspect. They're asking a lot of impertinent questions. They even asked Tommy for an alibi!”

From the coffee station, Tommy said, “I was foraging near the naval shipyard.”

Marybeth turned pink. “And I had a visitor.”

Before she could say more, Tommy snapped, “I'm sure Nora doesn't need to hear all the details of your life.”

“Of course not,” I murmured. But I guessed Marybeth had had a lover spend the night in her home. Which meant she had an alibi for the stabbing of her ex-­husband. Tommy, however? Had he gone foraging with a companion who could vouch for him?

I tried to think of the questions a journalist might ask, but everything seemed too tactless. I wondered about Marybeth's marriage to Swain Starr. At first, he'd been the impoverished one, the artist who dabbled in fashion. A big injection of cash from his wife's family fortune had sent him on his skyrocketing success. While he globe-­trotted, she had stayed home to raise the family and to pursue her own scientific interests.

But Gus wouldn't care about all that. Gus wanted to know how Swain had met and married Zephyr—­questions I couldn't bring myself to ask Marybeth.

Tommy set down two cups of fragrant coffee on the table. “As long as you're here to keep Marybeth calm, Nora, maybe I'll get back to the kitchen? With Swain gone, I have to make some fast changes, supply-­wise.”

Marybeth sniffled into her handkerchief. “Tommy was instrumental in getting some attention paid to Starr's Landing. Interest in his food has been very high. Reservations are almost full for the next six weeks. You should book a table now, Nora.”

I was too broke to afford a trip to McDonald's, let alone an evening at Tommy Rattigan's fine restaurant. I couldn't help noticing Tommy looked surprised to hear about his full reservations book. I picked up my coffee cup to hide my own expression. “Tommy, you mentioned something about being partners with Swain.”

Tommy folded his arms over his chest and frowned to himself. “The main thing I needed from Swain was the pork. We were launching a marketing program that was going to catapult the hog into the culinary stratosphere. I was going to use the meat to maybe earn a couple of stars for the restaurant.”

“Your aspirations will have to wait, Tommy.” Marybeth took a composed sip of steaming coffee. Her voice was steely. “
Our
hog began as a pet project of our grandfather, Nora. He raised his own stock for Howie's Hotties. After my divorce, I decided to continue his work. Once I had a prototype, I understood the three of us were going to begin an operation that was mutually beneficial for all—”

“Nora doesn't need to hear that, either,” Tommy snapped, sending her a stern glance. “Bottom line–­wise, couldn't wait to taste the pork.”

Marybeth took a sip of her coffee and winced at its flavor. “Tommy, do you have a little whiskey?”

“Isn't it too early in the morning for that, Mare?”

“My ex is
dead
,
Tommy.”

“But—”

“And your coffee is too strong for me.”

“How about a little cream?”

“A little Jim Beam, please.” Her voice was firm, but she didn't turn to look at him.