Little Black Book of Murder (26 page)

“The cheesesteaks may be an acquired taste,” Jorge said with a twinkle in his eye, making me laugh.

I gave them a rave review of the new Barnes collection. I had attended a gala there just a few weeks earlier. “I think you'll love the space as much as the art. It's an astonishing collection, and the ensembles Dr. Barnes created are beautiful. You'll be thinking about it for weeks after visiting.”

“Thanks—­it sounds like just my thing,” Elizabeth said.

“Where are you staying?” I asked.

“The Rittenhouse.”

I suggested they might enjoy afternoon tea in their hotel. “It's one of my favorites. The restaurant is so pretty. That is, if Jorge doesn't mind tea sandwiches instead of cheesesteaks.”

They laughed easily. As a passing waiter offered us appetizers, Elizabeth said to me, “Have one of the figs. They're stuffed with some kind of cheese. Delicious.”

I ate one and immediately asked the waiter for another. “I don't know why I'm so ravenous,” I said to Elizabeth.

Jorge indulgently watched us chat, but his arm was jostled by a burly oil executive who pushed past, saying he'd played the Scottish course recently and wanted to see the painting. Politely, we listened to him brag about his score and the awful weather and which club he'd chosen for an important shot. Inside, I winced at the idea that the visiting Texans were forced to listen to a typical Philadelphia bore—­a very successful businessman who thought his own experiences were far superior to anyone else's. He had obviously forgotten I had already met him, but I introduced Jorge and Elizabeth anyway. He didn't get the hint and proceeded to regale them with more golf.

Which was when I noticed his wife.

I remembered Chen Dan Dan had been a model in Hong Kong before she met her husband. He had whisked her out of the fashion world to become his high-­profile spouse. Tonight she looked bored out of her wits, her beautiful face smooth but barely hiding the frantic darting of her dark, wide-­set eyes. She held a glass of scotch in her slender hand. Thinking nobody watched her, she drained the glass and looked around for a waiter.

Abandoning Jorge and Elizabeth to their unfortunate fate, I approached her and introduced myself. In my nearly forgotten Mandarin, I said, “I traveled in China many years ago. You must miss your beautiful country.”

Her smile bloomed like the sun, and she immediately burst into a flood of language that I barely understood.

I laughed and apologized for my shortcomings, but I had won her over with my attempt to communicate in her native tongue.

She said, “That's okay. It's nice to hear a friendly word. Hardly anyone knows any languages in this country.”

“We're terribly provincial,” I agreed, glad that her English was far better than my Mandarin. “Everyone I met in Beijing knew two languages. I love your dress.”

Dan Dan wore a simple draped frock of black chiffon that swooped around her slim curves, yet managed to flatter her petite height. Somehow, the sharp angles of her short, chin-­cupping haircut seemed to echo the shape of the dress. She plucked at one of the pleats and said with a proud smile, “Valentino. He gave it to me after a shoot a few years ago.”

“It must have been a thrill to work with him.”

“He's a genius,” Dan Dan agreed. “And your suit? Dolce and Gabbana?”

“But very old,” I said. “It belonged to my grandmother.”

“She had style, your
nainai.
Are you in fashion?”

“No, actually, I'm a reporter. I'm taking a few pictures for my newspaper's social column. May I take yours?”

Dan Dan agreed and struck an effortlessly chic pose for my phone camera, one hand on her hip, the other limp at her side, shoulder back. But she projected a lively energy into the lens, and I took the liberty of snapping several photos of her.

Finishing up, I said, “Do you keep in touch with your friends back in China?”

“A few. Most of my family has moved here, though.”

“How nice. It must have been hard to be separated by such a great distance.”

“Very hard,” she agreed. “When growing up, my sisters and I used to fight like—­how do you say it?—­dogs and kittens? But I missed them so much, so we helped them move to the United States.”

“I have sisters, too, and we still fight,” I said again, trying to ease her back into the topic I wanted to ask her about. “You knew a lot of designers in China?”

“Yes, but it's hard for the Chinese to make international reputations in fashion. We must look back into our culture, back to find Chinese ideas that translate to the global market. Not many have found the right path yet.”

“So if they can't create their own designs, what do they do?”

She lifted her elegant shoulders. “Work for other designers, foreign designers, doing piecework, not whole collections. Learning, making contacts, growing as artists.”

I gave up trying to be subtle. “Dan Dan, did you know Swain Starr?”

She blinked at me, dimple gone. “I did not work for Starr. Not that I know of.”

“Not that you—?”

“Starr has studios all over China. Many cities. Sometimes many designers use the same facilities, especially in ready-­to-­wear, so it's a mix-­up.”

“I see.”

She looked around for a waiter. Or maybe for a way to escape our conversation.

Before she fled, I blurted out, “Did he design his own clothes? Or did somebody else do the creative work?”

Dan Dan gave me a cold look. “He's dead now. What does that matter?”

It might matter a lot, I thought. But I decided honesty was the best tactic. “My nephew is in trouble. My sister's son.” In a few sentences, I sketched out Rawlins's problem. “I need to know, Dan Dan.”

Dan Dan glanced cautiously around again, then lowered her voice. “Swain might have designed some of his sportswear. But not all. It was a well-­guarded secret. Many designers work for Starr. He was generous with them, to keep them quiet. Not long ago, though, he stopped paying, and people were resentful.”

That might help explain why Starr Industries had faltered in recent years. And why Swain's daughter felt compelled to rush off to China when he died. Had she gone to rehire the many designers who had created the Starr look?

I thanked Dan Dan. I tried to give her my card and agree to lunch sometime soon, but she was eager to forget she'd ever met me. She walked over to her husband and interrupted his epic golf tale by putting her hand meaningfully on his arm. Jorge and Elizabeth didn't miss a beat but wished him good sport in the future.

To Elizabeth, I said, “Sorry to abandon you.”

She laughed. “I can handle the occasional bore. Thanks for the museum suggestion. We'll go tomorrow.”

I shook both their hands and wished them a happy honeymoon.

Someone grabbed my arm then, and I turned to find myself confronted by one of my father's drinking pals. “How's the old man?” he demanded, breathing fumes of booze in my face.

While Jorge and Elizabeth eased away, I told him my parents were fine, but I soon found myself trapped into listening about a recent change in the rules of croquet, which I was assured my father needed to know about the next time he was in touch. I was relieved when the front door opened and my little sister blew in as if she owned the place.

Emma spotted me and came over. She was wearing a Versace cocktail dress from Grandmama's collection—­a dress I would never wear in a million years, so I'd given it to Em, thinking she might someday have an occasion to zip into it. Like maybe a Halloween party. In typical Versace style, the hot purply pink silk number was cut down to eye-­popping depths and slit from her knee up to show the color of Emma's panties if she wasn't careful. The fabric had been slashed and looked as if it had been attacked with a weed whacker. Emma's long legs were spectacular, her cleavage the envy of any pole dancer within five states. Her buff arms showed the results of her recent return to physical training.

In short, she looked like a dominatrix on her way to the senior prom.

Our father's droning friend dropped his glass, and it smashed to bits on the floor. In the resulting flurry of waiters to clean up the mess, Emma pulled me into the foyer.

I said, “Where are you going in that dress? Is Hooters hiring?”

“Never mind,” she said. “You gotta come outside.”

“Right now I'm not feeling very cooperative, Emma.” Michael's description of how she'd chased him around my house was still fresh in my mind. And burning Starr's barn was a crime I couldn't ignore.

She said, “I've got Porky Starr in my truck.”

I had been prepared to knock her on her gorgeous butt at the first opportunity, but she took me by surprise. “Porky's in your—? What's going on?”

In the gathering dusk, she hauled me down the brick steps and across the street. Our high heels clattered on the pavement. A taxi screeched to a halt at the sight of Emma. The headlights illuminated the two of us in the middle of the street. Emma was a neon vision of hot pink sex. A man hung out the taxi's window and yelled, “C'mon, baby, light my fire!”

She flipped him a universal hand signal and kept going. To me, she said, “Yesterday after I dropped you off, I went out to Starr's Landing to make sure the farm animals were off the property. While I was there in the afternoon, who shows up at the farm but Porky?”

“What was he doing there?”

“He crashed a car through the gate, but I don't think that was intentional. He's a maniac behind the wheel. Anyway, I think his plan was to tamper with the crime scene.”

“Gee, there's a lot of that going around.”

“Shut up.” She yanked open the door of her pickup, and there was Porky Starr, lolling in the passenger seat, sweaty-­faced, half conscious, his bald head shining in the light of the streetlamp. If not for his seat belt, he'd have toppled out onto the pavement at our feet.

I stood in the street, tapping my foot. “What's wrong with him?”

“He's drunk. Loaded. Smashed out of his gourd.”

I faced her. “And you?”

“I'm fine.”

“Have you been drinking?”

She exploded, saying, “I've got the guy who might be able to clear Rawlins, and all you're worried about is if I've had a beer?”

She looked sober. I just couldn't imagine her putting on that Versace unless she'd knocked back a few strong drinks. She even wore a pair of very fashionable strappy heels. I squinted more closely. Yep. Earrings, too. Maybe even lipstick.

“That's not the only thing on my mind at the moment,” I said. “But I'll put everything else aside for the time being. What have you learned from Porky?”

“That he's terrible in the sack.”

“Oh, Em! You didn't!”

“No, I didn't,” she snapped, voice dripping with disgust. “But he tried. This kid has learned all he knows about sex from watching porn. I don't put up with that shit. Shove him over and get in.”

I unbuckled Porky and tried to push him to the center of the seat. Emma went around to the driver's side and pulled him from her angle. Porky groaned. Between the two of us, we got him into position and fastened the belt around him.

I said, “If he upchucks on this suit, I'm going to be furious.”

“He hasn't had anything to eat since yesterday.”

“Where was he last night when you took your midnight ride?”

“Handcuffed to a bed.”

I didn't want to imagine what had transpired between the former child actor and my little sister. I hoped she was kidding. We got into the truck and buckled up. Emma pulled away from the curb.

I said, “Where are we going?”

“Just listen.” While she drove, Emma lit a cigarette. “After I found Porky sneaking onto Starr's Landing, I rode Twinkles back to your place; then I drove up the road and found Porky hiding in some bushes, watching the farm. I took him to a bar and got him liquored up. And we talked. We talked a lot. I know more than any human being should have to know about how to con suburban mothers out of thousands of dollars in the hope of making their kids famous. I mean, what the hell? Would you want your kids earning a living by doing kitty litter commercials? Making asses of themselves on reality TV? Not to mention a whole other world of degradation. Do you have any idea what Porky has in mind for the twins?”

“Advertising chewing gum?”

“No. Twins are the hot new thing in X-­rated movies. First chance he gets, Porky wants to measure their dicks.”

“Oh my God!” Appalled, I said, “They're not even fourteen! I don't want to think about my nephews without their clothes on, let alone—”

“I know, I know. We gotta get Libby off this kick, and fast.”

Porky tried to speak. He managed a couple of disjointed syllables and dozed off to sleep again. His head lolled against my shoulder. I tried not to shudder.

Emma said, “And I found out who invited Rawlins to the party at Starr's Landing.”

“Porky?”

“Nope. Zephyr.”

Again, I was surprised. “Why would she invite Rawlins? Does she even know him?”

“Porky introduced them. He got all squirrelly when he told me about that.”

Emma found her destination, and she pulled into a parking lot. She shut off the engine and pulled her six-­pack cooler out from behind her seat. She said, “Hand me that bag on the floor, will you?”

“Why are we here?” I looked out the windshield at a hotel sign. We had come a little more than a mile out of the city, I guessed. The hotel was nothing fancy, the kind of place where salesmen stayed for a night while on business. Emma had pulled into the only check-­in parking space. Through glass doors, I could see people wheeling suitcases around a brightly lit lobby.

I hefted a backpack off the floor. It felt lumpy inside and gave a clink of metal. But instead of giving it to Emma, I hugged it against me. I said, “I'm not cooperating yet.”