Little Black Book of Murder (29 page)

She was young—­somewhere between sixteen and twenty—­with badly highlighted blond hair whooshed on top of her head and popping out of a plastic clip. She had more eye makeup than a fortune-­teller and bitten-­down fingernails painted bright blue. She was not very tall, slender of limb and pouty of lip, wearing a T-shirt stretched to its limit over a pregnant belly big enough to hold triplets.

She stopped chewing her gum long enough to say, “Who's the serial killer?”

“My houseguest,” I said. “She's trying to kill my fiancé.”

The girl nodded, as if it all made sense. “Anybody got a cigarette?”

Libby said, “How about a Tic Tac instead?”

The girl blinked her crusty black eyelashes as languidly as a cow and said, “Yeah, sure, why not?”

Libby dug into her handbag and handed the plastic container through the bars to the other cell. She said, “I'm Libby, by the way, and this is Nora, my sister.”

“Yeah, hi.” She lazed up from her bunk and took the container without thanks. She snapped open the Tic Tacs with her thumbnail. “I'm LinZee. L-­i-­n, capital z-­e-­e.”

With a bored kind of concentration, she poured Tic Tacs into her palm, then proceeded to line them up on the gigantic curve of her belly. “You're not under arrest, y'know. This is just the drunk tank.”

“We're not drunk,” Libby said firmly.

“Me neither,” LinZee said. “This is where they put girls when we get outta hand. They let you have your purse, see? So you're not arrested. You're supposed to cool off, that's all.”

“You seem to know the drill,” I said.

“Oh, I'm a regular.” She gave her belly a long rub, frowning. “I'm just not sure . . .”

“Are you okay?” I asked.

“Oh yeah. I'm just wondering if maybe, y'know, I'm in labor.”

Libby and I stared at her. Judging by the size of her belly, when her water broke, it was going to gush like a fire hydrant.

But after a moment of contemplation about labor, she shrugged, unfazed. “Nah, I don't think so.”

Libby cleared her throat. “How long have you been here? I'm just wondering if you know anything about my son? Rawlins Kintswell? Is he still being held?”

“The tall, skinny guy with the Mohawk?”

“Uh, no,” Libby said. “No Mohawk.”

“The short, fat guy wearing the Flogging Molly T-shirt?”

“No,” Libby said. “The clean-­cut boy with blue eyes and a sweet face.”

“Sorry,” LinZee said. “Haven't seen that one. Is he cute?”

“Very cute. But he's not looking for a girlfriend right now,” Libby said firmly. “And he's innocent. Whatever anybody said about him, he had nothing to do with anything bad. He was a victim of circumstance.”

“That's a good line,” LinZee said. “Victim of circumstance. In fact, that could be a really good name for our band.” She lay back down on her bunk and massaged her mountainous belly. “I'm the lead singer.”

“Libby,” I whispered, tugging my sister back down on our bunk, “maybe it's time you faced the reality that Rawlins could actually have some connection to—” I caught myself, aware that LinZee was listening to every word. I lowered my voice. “He could have some connection to the unfortunate business on Saturday.”

Libby paused in the act of pulling a lipstick out of her bag. “Why would you say such a thing? You know, Rawlins was a perfectly nice boy before he became associated with That Man of Yours.”

I experienced a sizzle of temper. “He was flunking school and had more piercings than a carnival sideshow before Michael came along. Without Michael's influence he might have a bone in his nose by now.”

Reminded of reality, Libby dropped her lipstick, and her voice wavered. “My poor baby. A fatherless child. He never really had a chance, you know. None of my husbands paid him enough attention.”

LinZee asked, “What color is that lipstick?”

Libby consulted the cap. “Virgin Rose.”

LinZee laughed. “Lemme see it.” She screwed out the lipstick and was studying the color with disappointment. “Do you guys have a lawyer? One that does those
bono
cases? I mean, does he do any cases for free? They have to do that, right?”

Libby said, “What have you been arrested for, dear?”

“I wasn't arrested. I might have been disturbing the peace a little. But it was a mix-­up. My boyfriend got a little out of hand at rehearsal. Like he has perfect pitch?” She snorted.

I eyed LinZee's belly and thought he hadn't been the only one who got out of hand.

“He won't get married,” LinZee said. “Do you know how hard it is being a single mom?”

“Yes, I do,” Libby said. “I'm raising five children by myself.”

“The statistics are against us.” LinZee pointed at her unborn child. “I mean, this is my second. Unmarried mothers have, like, no chance of getting on
The Voice
or
America's Got Talent.
Or finding a decent job. I'll be lucky to get a shift at the dry cleaner.”

“You shouldn't be breathing those fumes anyway,” Libby counseled.

“Yeah, well, Declan doesn't want to get married. He said as much when I blew the lyrics on ‘Another Bag of Bricks.' He pissed me off. You know how dangerous it is to piss off a pregnant girl? So I kicked him. Well, I knocked him down with the mike stand first, but then I kicked him. But it wasn't really my fault, was it? He—­what do you call it? He coerced me. The good news is his brother is a bail bondsman. Here.”

LinZee dug into the pocket of her unsnapped jeans and passed me a grubby business card. On it was printed the slogan of her friend the bail bondsman:
YOU RING, WE SPRING
.

LinZee said, “What time is it?”

Libby consulted her watch. “Almost eleven.”

LinZee handed back the lipstick. “Okay, good, because Declan's gonna bust me out of here. He said he'd wait until I slept it off, and that should be about now.”

“You really shouldn't drink alcohol,” Libby said. “Not if you're expecting.”

LinZee laughed again. Then her expression changed, and her hand went instinctively to her belly. “Hot damn. Maybe I'm in labor after all.”

We heard an alarm go off somewhere in the building. It sounded like an insistent timer on an oven.

LinZee gathered up her belongings. “That'll be Declan. He always finds a way to pull the fire alarm.”

“I'm pretty sure that's illegal,” Libby said.

“Yeah, but it works. Wait and see.”

Several police officers came into the hallway outside the drunk tank, and one of them unlocked our door. She said, “Ladies, we're having an alarm malfunction. As a precaution, we're going to evacuate you.”

By the time Libby and I gathered up the contents of her handbag, LinZee was already smugly leading the way to freedom.

In the lobby, we came upon Rawlins, who looked paper white and exhausted, but otherwise healthy. Most important, he looked free. His mother threw herself at him with a wail, and I had to content myself with putting my arm across his shoulders and giving him a kiss on the cheek.

He gave me a tired smile. “Hi, Aunt Nora. You look pretty wild. Mardi Gras party?”

To the continued beeping of the fire alarm, Cannoli appeared with a sheaf of papers in hand and announced that we were all free to go due to a minor emergency in the building, but the police requested that we all be open for more cordial questioning at a later time. They were currently engaged in arresting someone for tampering with a fire alarm. He ushered us all outside where Libby gave the keys to her minivan to Rawlins, declaring she was too upset to drive.

Outside, Libby said, “Do you need a ride, or can you find your own way home, Nora?”

She had already observed my lawyer holding the door for me. Ever the gentleman, Cannoli immediately offered to take me back to Blackbird Farm, but said, “There's someone else here for you, however, so if you don't mind me running off, I have to check my son's algebra homework before I go to bed.”

“Thank you very much, Armand. For everything, but maybe most of all for your coat.” I gave it back to him.

“Think nothing of it,” he said as politely as a courtier.

And he left me with the man who waited beside his convertible. It felt surreal, seeing him there in the cold.

Gus Hardwicke allowed his gaze to rest on my barely contained nipples for about half a second and said, “If I'd known you had frocks like that, I'd have tried to kiss you sooner.”

I hugged myself. “I'm in no mood for this. Can you drive me home without hassling me? Or shall I hitchhike?”

He opened the passenger door and handed me into the car. When he came around and got in behind the wheel, he said, “I see they released your nephew. For lack of evidence?”

“He wasn't arrested in the first place. He was being questioned. Why are you here? How did you know to come for me?”

He started the car and thumbed the heater on for my benefit. “The police called. Apparently, you decided to tell them what we know about Zephyr. They asked me a few questions on the phone, and I learned you were here, so I toddled along.”

“That was a quick trip from the city,” I observed.

“Actually, I was a little closer. Why did you spill the beans?”

“If Zephyr is dangerous, she shouldn't be roaming around,” I said. “So, yes, I told the police. I'm sorry if that ruined your Watergate plan.”

“We're running the Zephyr story tomorrow. How she's under suspicion for killing three men. If the police are going to blab about her past, why wait? I used some of your notes and a lot of my own and sent it to print. Call it a collaborative effort.”

“Is my name on the story?”

“Not your name or even a phony name. One of the other reporters did some of the research, so I let him have the credit. I thought you'd want it that way.”

“Thank you,” I said.

He pulled out onto the road and headed ­toward Blackbird Farm. “When I heard you were being held here, I thought I might as well come over and see what an aristocrat looks like in handcuffs.”

“There were no handcuffs.”

“Don't spoil my fantasy.”

In no mood for banter, I said, “I think I know why Swain got out of the fashion business. Turns out, he didn't design his own clothes. Maybe never did.”

Gus thought fast. “Swain left his business because someone was going to expose him as a fraud?”

“Makes sense, right? He had to get out before the world heard he'd been taking advantage of other designers.”

“Or he was blackmailed?” Gus suggested.

“Maybe. Or perhaps the family asked him to leave, hoping to cut down on negative publicity if
Vogue
magazine got wind of the fraud story. I bet his daughter, Suzette, feels it's very important to quiet the rumors before they get started.”

“That would explain why Swain retired early, but not why he was murdered.”

I had already reached the same annoying conclusion, so I said, “Exactly what were you doing in my neighborhood?”

“I was out for a run in the car.”

“Liar. You had another assignation with Marybeth, didn't you?”

“I'm a grown man with healthy urges,” he said. “She's willing and not unattractive. She told me all about Starr's vasectomy, as a matter of fact. How he had one back when they were married because he didn't want any more children. How he recently had it reversed, but the outcome was iffy. Not to mention exceedingly painful. The gruesome details were enough to put me off my stride for a few minutes.”

“What is it with you and older women?”

“Shy virgins bore me,” he said, and glanced my way. “That dress is anything but boring, by the way. But hardly in your usual good taste.”

“It's my sister's. Long story.”

“Maybe I should meet your sister.”

I tried to put Gus and Emma into the same mental picture, but my brain rejected the idea as about as safe as a nuclear blast. I said, “What else did you learn from Marybeth about her ex-­husband?”

Promptly, Gus said, “That he resented her having a fourth child after he adamantly informed her he was finished with children. Marybeth has probably run interference between father and Porky all their lives. She rhapsodized about the boy's wonderful qualities to me. Lately Swain and his youngest had some kind of reconciliation. At least, that was her impression.”

I thought of the half-­million-­dollar check sitting on Porky's table—­probably bon voyage money from Swain. They hadn't reconciled. They had agreed to disagree again and parted ways. I was too tired to explain it all. Suddenly I wanted to sleep more than breathe the air.

Gus pulled up to a stop sign and braked. He sat for a moment, looking into the rearview mirror. “Do you recognize the vehicle behind us?”

I craned around in my seat, but all I could see was a pair of headlights and the dark, looming shape of an approaching SUV.

“I didn't mean you should turn around and tip them off,” he said with some impatience. “I just—­well, let's see if they follow us.”

He pulled away from the intersection, and the SUV paused briefly before turning another way.

I watched the SUV disappear. “Still feeling paranoid?”

“About your boyfriend putting a tail on me? Just a little.”

I wouldn't have been surprised to hear Michael had decided to keep a close watch on Gus Hardwicke. But I said, “Well, obviously, they're not following you now.”

“With you in the car, they must know I'm delivering you safely home. Or risking my life by taking you elsewhere for a tryst.”

“Home, please,” I said on a yawn.

“You don't have to sound quite so unenthusiastic. What would your boyfriend do if I made a concentrated effort to seduce you?”