Little Black Book of Murder (31 page)

The pig was nowhere to be found. I left a trail of his favorite treat on the ground, hoping to draw him out of the woods, if that was where he'd gone.

I even walked to the back of the pasture. Emma's ponies, curious about where I was going, followed me along the fence, butting one another, and I fed them each a cherry, too. At the back of the property—­where Blackbird Farm's border ran along Sheffield Road—­I came upon a muddy set of tire tracks. A vehicle had parked there, I thought, while people walked around. I could see many footprints in the mud, none of them distinct. The scene worried me.

I walked Noah back to the farm and left the empty cherry jar on a fence post before walking down to the end of the driveway where Michael's crew was making a shift change. The new guys came armed with coffee and bagels. A couple of them wandered over and made goo-­goo sounds at the baby while their less-­social compatriot spat on the road. Noah was fascinated. I asked them if they'd seen Ralphie. They expressed so much concern that I felt reassured they hadn't whisked him off to be barbecued.

As I was starting to walk back to the house, a state police cruiser pulled up next to the mailbox. I went over just as the driver's-side window rolled down. I recognized Ricci.

Almost friendly, he said, “Whattaya got there?”

“My sister's son.”

I showed him Noah, and Ricci took off his sunglasses to get a better look. “He's a cute little bugger. I have three boys. With a daughter on the way.”

The idea that Ricci could have a home and a family—­including a pregnant wife who must worry every time he went to work—­hadn't really been a thought that took root in my head before, but it did now. It was a nice change of pace to think of him as a human being.

“Congratulations,” I said.

“You don't have any kids of your own yet?”

My heart gave a flutter of hope. “Not yet.”

Ricci nodded and resumed his cop face, devoid of animation. “Well, be careful what you wish for.”

Where had I heard that before? The words sounded prophetic.

I said, “Did you solve the problem with the fire alarm?”

He made a grimace but didn't apologize for inconveniencing me. “Yeah. It was a bozo. He's in custody now.”

With a pang in my heart, I thought of a young mother going into labor without the support of the child's father.

Ricci didn't notice my reaction. “Look, I just stopped by to say thanks for the information about Zephyr Starr.”

“Have you found her? Or Michael's stolen car?”

“Not yet. But we did some checking. Her history is certainly interesting. And the arson investigation team has been looking at Starr's Landing. They found a gas can and plenty of accelerant evidence.”

I hadn't decided what to do if directly questioned about the fire. I knew I couldn't protect Emma from what she'd done, but technically, Ricci hadn't posed a question. Feebly, I said, “Everything on a farm burns quickly. Hay, straw.”

“Yeah. But somebody took the time to make sure the animals were all safely somewhere else before splashing around the gasoline and lighting it up. We're thinking that sounds like Zephyr. She's a big animal lover, right?”

Carefully, I said, “I know she's a vegetarian.”

Ricci wagged his head. “Crackpots. You never know what they'll do. Anyway, thanks for your information. The other thing is, we've had complaints about a kid driving erratically in this neighborhood. He was stopped once, so we know who he is. Porter Starr. Has he been harassing you?”

I felt harassed from a lot of sources, but not particularly from Porky. I shook my head. “I know him slightly. He hasn't bothered me.”

“Well, he's around. Neighbors have seen him acting suspicious, but we haven't been able to spot him a second time. I guess your security team will keep him out of your hair, but just in case. Be aware.”

“Thank you.”

We hesitated, neither one of us quite ready to say good-­bye. Ricci was taking a good squint at Michael's crew of misfits, as if trying to match descriptions with known criminals.

“Do you have a minute?” I finally asked.

Ricci switched his attention back to me. “What's up?”

“We're missing a pig. He's a pet, actually, but I—­I can't help remembering that at the Starr's Landing party, Swain Starr and his former brother-­in-­law, Tommy Rattigan, argued about another pig that had disappeared. They were partners in raising hogs for restaurants, and Tommy—­no, it was his sister, Marybeth, who accused Swain of stealing an important animal.”

Ricci considered that tangle of information for a moment. I thought he was going to laugh me off, but at last he said, “So in addition to a stolen car, we now we have two missing pigs? What are you thinking—­bacon rustlers in the neighborhood?”

“I know it sounds silly, but—”

“I'm not really pulling your leg,” Ricci said with kindness. “Got any evidence?”

I pointed. “Back on Sheffield Road, I found some tire tracks and footprints. Maybe—”

He cut me off at the mention of Sheffield Road. “Hop in. We'll take a drive.” He popped the lock on the passenger door.

I got into the front seat with the baby. “I suppose we need a car seat.”

Kind again, Ricci said, “We'll be careful.”

He was true to his word, driving very slowly as I directed him up the lane, past the house. We got out of the cruiser and walked the rest of the way across the pasture. I showed him the muddy mess I had discovered on the back road.

He crouched down to examine the footprints. He pointed. “Is this what a pig footprint looks like? Or is this a deer?”

I bent over his shoulder. “I think that's a pig. A deer's hoofprint is more rounded and doesn't have these little impressions behind the big ones.”

“Lots of boots were here, too. Plus these tire tracks.” Ricci frowned at the scene for a long time. When he finally got to his feet, he nodded. “Well, I think your pig has been stolen, all right. And if I had to guess, I'd say he put up a fight. How much did he weigh?”

“A lot,” I said, dismayed to hear the trooper use the past tense. “He's a pet, but he's big. His name is Ralphie.”

Ricci looked into my face and must have seen the distress I was trying to tamp down. He said, “I'll make a report, start a search. We're busy looking for the model, but I'll check the rendering plants, butchers, meat processors. They don't do much business except during hunting season, so—­hey, look, I didn't mean he's, you know, dead or anything.”

I wiped a big tear from my cheek. “I'm okay. Just a little emotional. I didn't get much sleep last night.”

“That'll happen with kids. Does Porter Starr have any interest in pigs?”

“I doubt he has anything to do with Ralphie's disappearance.”

Ricci opened the door to the cruiser for me and drove us back to the back driveway. As I got out with Noah in my arms, he said, “If you think of anything else that might help us . . .”

“If I do, I'll call you.”

“Take care of that little guy. Maybe he'll grow up to pitch on my Little League team.”

As Ricci drove away, I sat on the back porch steps and balanced Noah on my thighs. I pulled out my cell phone. I showed it to him and let him listen to the beeps as I dialed. I said, “I'm going to call your mama. Both of them, if that's what it takes.”

I telephoned Emma first. No answer. I tried Hart with similar results. For some reason, I hesitated to call Penny. Instead, I sang to Noah, wondering what his various parents thought they were doing.

Michael came outside about fifteen minutes later with a gym bag in hand. He was looking annoyed. But he leaned down and gave me a kiss. “Get enough sleep?”

“Nope. How about you?”

“I'll survive.” He spoke to me, but he was looking down at Noah. The baby looked back, his eyes wide.

I tipped sideways so the two of them could get a clear view of each other, but I said to Michael, “Where are you going? Church?”

He showed me the gym bag. “I've got a date with Kuzik. No idea what he wants, but he said to bring sneakers. I overslept, no thanks to that little guy. So I'm running late. With my car stolen, I gotta get one of my guys to take me into town.”

I guessed the parole officer had found a basketball game for Michael to join, but I decided to let Kuzik do all the explaining. Instead, I said, “I just talked to the state police. We think Ralphie has been stolen.”

Michael gave up being late and sat down beside me. “Stolen? What the hell happened?”

I told him about the crime scene I had discovered at the back of the property, and Ricci's conclusion about what all the tire tracks and footprints meant.

“How the hell did anybody get past my guys?” Michael cursed and said dangerously, “It's time I laid down the law with those mutts. And who would steal Ralphie?”

“Somebody who wants pork chops, I guess.”

He put a gentle arm around me. “Don't cry. The cops will find him. That's the kind of crime they're good at solving.”

Michael's opinion of police and their crime-­busting skills was skewed by personal experience. I wiped my face again and said, “What if it's too late?”

“It's not too late,” he said firmly. “I'm gonna put some of my guys on it right now. The A Team, not these idiots.”

“I hear Porky Starr has been driving around the neighborhood, too. The police think he's behaving suspiciously.”

“You worried about him?”

“He's probably looking for Zephyr.”

“Time for the A Team for sure. I need to put a stop to the coffee klatch anyway. Don't worry. We'll have Ralphie back, I promise.”

“How can you promise?” I asked.

He kissed the top of my head. “Wait and see. Have you reached Emma yet? Or her married boyfriend?”

“They're not answering their phones. And I'm afraid to call his wife.”

“Why?”

“Because last night Penny sounded . . . drugged or something.”

“You woke her up, right?”

“Yes. She was groggy. Not just a little groggy.”

Noah had been watching us intently, and he suddenly gave a yowl for attention. We looked down at him, and his little face split into a grin of pure delight. Michael and I laughed.

Michael sobered first. He said, “Call the mother. Get this kid back where he belongs.”

He got up to leave.

I said, “Is your brother awake?”

Michael jerked his head ­toward the house. “He's coming with me. I don't trust him here with you. Or the kid, for that matter.”

I held Noah close. “What does that mean?”

“Little Frankie's always working something.” He opened the back door and shouted for his brother.

Little Frankie appeared, rubbing his face and carrying a cup of coffee. The cup was one from the perfect Limoges china collection from the glass-­fronted cupboard in the butler's pantry, which meant he'd been snooping in the house. He said, “What's the rush?”

Michael took the cup from him and set it on the porch railing. “You can wait at the diner while I have my meeting.” He gave me another kiss. “See you at lunch.”

“We have some things to discuss.”

He caught something in my eyes. “Good things?”

I smiled. “Maybe so.”

He smiled, too, and touched my chin. “It's a date. Meanwhile, be careful. If Zephyr shows up again, the crew is supposed to defend you with their lives. But call 911.”

Little Frankie tagged along after Michael, but he shot me a grin over his shoulder.

When they had headed down the driveway to talk to the crew, my phone rang. I checked the screen first. Emma. When I answered, she said her ETA was ten minutes. While I waited, I made myself another piece of toast. I was starving again.

So was Noah. But I realized I had allowed all the frozen milk to thaw, and it was probably not fit for his consumption. I had no formula in the house.

When Emma showed up, I said, “Take off your shirt and feed this child. He's hungry.”

E
mma came over and gave her son a cautious inspection. Perhaps involuntarily, she folded her arms over her breasts. “I'll pump, but I'm not gonna feed him directly from the source.”

“Why not?”

She gave me a glower. “Because, that's why.”

“He's hungry, Em.”

“He can wait five minutes.” She went out to her truck and came back with her equipment. She disappeared into the bathroom, leaving me to jiggle a fussy baby on my shoulder while I tried to do the dishes.

When she came out of the bathroom, she had enough milk for two feedings. I gave Noah a bottle while she put the rest of the milk in the fridge. Then she came over and sat beside me at the kitchen table to watch from a safe distance.

I was about to ask if she'd had any luck finding a Filly Vanilli, but she spoke first. She said, “Penny's addicted to prescription painkillers.”

I almost dropped the baby. “She's what?”

Emma shrugged. “She broke her ankle on the golf course last year and started taking some strong stuff. It got out of hand, and now she's hooked pretty bad. Her family didn't know, and neither did Hart until they moved in together. When I gave Noah to them, it became obvious really fast that she couldn't handle herself and a baby, too.”

“Oh no.”

“They've been through a string of nannies, but Penny kept firing them when they found out about her drug problem. So she's out of control in a lot of ways.”

I tried to absorb this new wrinkle in Emma's life. “What's Hart going to do?”

“He's pushing Penny to try rehab. She doesn't want to go, doesn't see the problem. But he can't be a dad day and night, not with his job. He's up for partner at his firm.”

“Which is more important? Becoming a partner or being a father to his son?”

Emma got up and poured herself a tall glass of orange juice from the refrigerator. She drank it down and said, “He told me to take the kid last night. So I did. But after five minutes in the truck, I knew it was a stupid idea.” She began to pace the kitchen. “Hell, Nora, I'm in no position to be this kid's mother. Not even for the short term. I'm less mature than he is!”

“You could stop drinking.”

“I could, sure. Easy as pie.” Barely holding on to her exasperation, she said, “Look, we both know I'm not cut out for this.”

I felt a typhoon building over my head, gathering momentum, growing in size like a storm surge.

“Emma,” I said when I could make my throat work, “you're not asking me to take this baby. Are you?”

She finally looked straight at me. “Until Penny gets through this addiction thing.”

“You know as well as I do that it might never happen. Todd's addiction got him killed.”

“You gotta keep Noah at least until Hart figures out something.”

“Like whether or not he really wants to be a parent?”

Emma had the grace to look unhappy. “Yeah, maybe so.”

I shook my head. “Michael won't do it.”

“What d'you mean? He's a natural!”

“He's upset about this, Em. He wants Noah out of the house before he gets back for lunch.”

Emma checked the clock on the wall. “That's not gonna happen.”

“It's not like Noah is a puppy.” I heard my own exasperation and tried to hold on to my temper. “You can't just pass him around until things settle down at home.”

“It happens all the time in the real world,” she snapped at me. “Maybe it's harsh, Sis, but that's the way a lot of kids live these days. The girl who was in the delivery room next to mine? Remember her? She was seventeen and living in a foster home herself. Social Services took her baby six hours after it was born. I don't know if she's seen it since. Two parents under one roof with three meals a day? That's not the way things work much anymore.”

I thought about LinZee, the pregnant girl in the drunk tank. I held Noah and looked down at his downy head. He was sucking on the bottle blissfully, but his gaze locked on mine, full of trust. I felt a tug under my ribs.

“Please,” Emma said.

We heard a car in the drive, and a minute later Libby blew into the kitchen, Max on her hip. “You won't believe it!” she crowed with delight. “The twins have an audition! They're up for their first modeling job! And I think they're honestly going to get it! My karma hasn't been compromised after all! I just—­oh, look how darling! Who is this?”

Libby bent over the bundle in my arms. Noah spat out the nipple and stared up at her with astonishment that quickly morphed into delight. He gave her his widest grin and began to wiggle all over.

“Oh, you little dear!” she cried. She practically dumped Max into my lap as she snatched Noah from my arms.

Libby wore a lime green velour running suit, and today's T-shirt read,
IRONY, THE OPPOSITE OF WRINKLY.
She danced around the kitchen, swinging the baby over her head. “Is he yours, Emma? What a sweet baby boy! A little charmer! A lady killer! Oh, how I love the way babies smell! And look at all this hair!”

Max struggled down from my lap and followed his mother jealously around the kitchen. “Da! Da!”

Emma introduced Libby to her nephew and explained about Penny's drug problem. Libby sat down at the table with a plunk, appropriately horrified. “What's going to happen?”

“That's up in the air,” I said.

Libby heard my tone. She hugged the baby close and glared at Emma. “You can't leave him here. That would be too cruel.”

“For who?” Em demanded, her second glass of orange juice almost gone.

“For Nora, of course! And That Man of Hers isn't made of stone! Emma, you can't be so obtuse. You're toying with their worst fears and deepest emotions—­at a time when they're just setting the course of their relationship. Do you want to tear them apart?”

“So what the hell am I supposed to do with him?” Emma cried. “
I'm
certainly not going to take the kid home. I don't even have a home at the moment! I'm living in a bunkhouse.”

“Then he must go back with his father,” Libby said firmly. “Hart has to grow up sometime, and this is it.”

“Da!” Max flung himself at his mother and hung on to her legs. His gaze implored Libby to love him. He was full of need and hope. He just wanted one glance of reassurance from his mom. “Da!”

Libby leaned down and smilingly rubbed her nose against Max's. “It's a baby! See, Maximus? Just like you! Only little! You're a big boy now!”

Max smiled uncertainly.

My throat had tightened with excruciating pressure. But I managed to say, “I think we should all go to the farmers' market in New Hope.”

My sisters stared at me as if I'd lost the final smidgen of sanity I had left.

“We need a change of scenery. And I'm starving. I'd like some of that jam those nice Amish ladies make.”

Libby stood up. “Cravings! You're obviously pregnant! Eventually, you'll move on to a big bowl of ice cream with sweet pickles. You see, Emma, this would be the worst possible time to inflict added conflict on Nora's relationship with That Man of Hers. They need time to experience the miracle they've created. Here, hold your son. He won't bite. Do you think the farmers' market will have doughnuts? Last October, they had the most divine spice doughnuts. That's probably a seasonal flavor, darn it.”

Within a few minutes we were speeding into town in Libby's minivan, Max and Noah strapped into their car seats in the middle, Emma in the back. Libby drove, and I asked about Rawlins.

“How is he doing? Is he traumatized by his brush with the law?”

“He tried to shrug it off, but when we got home, he was a little teary. Which is a good thing. I wanted him to be terrified. He says he needs to sleep for three days, and then he wants to figure out how to become a police officer. Which is not exactly the reaction I had in mind. Honestly, Nora, I could strangle that boy with his own jockstrap. He claims he's clueless about why he was taken into custody for so long, but I know he's lying. If he wants to be a good police officer, he should become a parent first. Now that's training for law enforcement!”

I thought of the pregnancy test I'd found in his car and remembered Ricci's words: Be careful what you wish for.

Libby nattered on. “I didn't raise that boy to skip college and go directly to some kind of police boot camp.”

“He'll change his mind,” I said. “He gets a new idea every month. It's probably a good thing to keep reimagining what you want to do with your life.”

“Exactly! I'm still doing it myself!”

“And what's the job the twins might get? You said it was a modeling job?”

“Feet!”

“What?”

“A company that makes a cream for athlete's foot! They want a set of teenage twins who have nice feet. They won't have to dance or sing or do anything except wiggle their toes. Harcourt and Hilton have their quirks, but you must admit they have perfect toes.”

I couldn't remember anything about their toes, but I said, “That sounds very promising. Did Porky set up that audition for them?”

“Porky!” Libby said with scorn. “Do you know how much I paid that young man? More than a thousand dollars! And for what? No, I was the one who saw the ad about feet, so I did it all on my own. Do you know, I have half a mind to turn him in to the Better Business Bureau. Trouble is, he has up and disappeared.”

“He disappeared, huh?” Emma said.

“He doesn't answer his phone.” Libby checked her lipstick in the rearview mirror. “But he's probably going to the Farm-­to-­Table dinner tomorrow—­I advanced him the cash to buy his ticket, if you can imagine—­so I plan on giving him a piece of my mind then.”

“Not to mention getting your money back,” I said.

“Oh, I assume that's long gone,” Libby replied with more savvy than I expected of her.

From the back of the minivan, Emma spoke up. She had obviously been watching her son, because she suddenly said, “How come he's not sleeping? He's wide-­awake. Doesn't every kid fall asleep in a moving vehicle?”

Libby said, “Noah's obviously very bright. He's curious about the world around him. He looks a little like Daddy, doesn't he? Something about his smile. It would serve Hart right if the baby turned out to look just like a Blackbird.”

Slightly disgruntled about my lack of rest, I said, “I was told he was a great sleeper, but he was awake half the night, and he's clearly not sleepy now.” Noah was fascinated by his cousin in the adjoining car seat. The two of them stared at each other with interest.

Emma said, “Every time I've ever seen him, he's been zonked out.”

We arrived at the site of an old flea market, and Libby parked the minivan in the grassy area roped off for vehicles. She pulled a stroller out of the back, and we buckled Max into the seat. We walked up to the farmers' market. Libby carried Noah. I pushed the stroller.

“I didn't think the market opened so early in the year,” Libby said.

“It's a special event,” I told her. “In conjunction with the Farm-­to-­Table gala. This early in the season, I don't suppose there will be much in the way of local produce. But I'd really like to pick up some jam.”

We made our way through the tented tables of the farmers' market. The path was crowded with locals from every walk of life. Some women with expensive jewelry and recyclable bags on their arms purposefully hustled from booth to booth to pick up exactly what they wanted without socializing. But there were also elderly couples, young families and tourists who meandered more slowly from booth to booth, gathering in small knots to exchange pleasantries.

I waved at the young couple who had bought a dilapidated ranch house just down the road from Blackbird Farm. They had spent the winter working on the inside, I'd heard. Lately, I had seen them on ladders outside, trying to repair their own roof. I couldn't help noticing the young wife paying for a loaf of Amish bread with food stamps.

At once, I thought of the small field of Blackbird Farm nearest their house. It hadn't been cultivated in years, but perhaps my neighbors would like to put in a garden. The idea grew in my head. Maybe other neighbors would like a patch of the farm to grow vegetables. I could knock on doors in the next week or so to invite them to join a kind of community garden.

The booths didn't have any local produce except for one table that featured bundles of fresh asparagus. The supply was dwindling fast, so I bought some for dinner, thinking if we were lucky, Michael and I might be alone together this evening. I hoped we'd have celebrating to do.

Other tables featured a kaleidoscope of local offerings. Honey in decorative jars, baked goods sold by shy Amish girls, canned vegetables of every description—­salsas and hot pepper jams along with beautifully jarred tomatoes, green peppers, even potatoes. Platoons of colorful jellies and pie fillings lined a checkered tablecloth beside a booth that sold varieties of homemade bread. One farmer had brought along a live goat for the children to pet while he encouraged parents to try his goat's milk cheeses and fudge. Max was intrigued by the goat.