Little Black Book of Murder (34 page)

He headed my way, out of breath. “Mrs. Boss! What are you doing here?”

“Have you found Ralphie?”

“We found the pig,” Rocco panted. “They were trying to get him trussed up here, but a crazy lady cut him loose. Trouble is, he went wild. Instead of running away, he ran straight into the kitchen. Now he's breaking up the whole restaurant.”

We heard more shouts and high-­pitched screams from inside.

“He's gonna hurt somebody in there,” Rocco said, already heading for freedom. “Unless the cops shoot him first.”

My pregnant-­lady hormones kicked in, filling me with ­estrogen-­laced purpose. I yanked open the back door and led the way inside. “Rawlins, come with me! Crewe, see if you can find some maraschino cherries!”

“Some
what
?” he cried.

With my heart in my throat, I ran down the hallway ­toward the dining room.

But I caught my balance on the doorjamb of Tommy's office in time to see Tommy haul off and slap his sister, Marybeth.

“You moron,” she shouted at her brother. “I told you not to use that pig! If you serve the meat, you'll spoil everything our family worked for!”

“You're no scientist!” Tommy shot back. “You're incompetent!”

“You never understood,” Marybeth said. “You never understood the importance of Grandpa's work.”

“He made
hot dogs
!” Then Tommy cursed. He had seen me, and he pointed a shaking finger in my direction. “It's her,” he said to his sister. “That Blackbird woman who stole your pig in the first place!”

I turned to run, but it was too late. Tommy seized me by the wrist. He whirled me around and dragged me into his office.

“Hey!” Rawlins cried.

From his desk Tommy grabbed an enormous knife. There was blood on the blade.

“Tommy!” Marybeth cried. “You can't!”

But he hauled me close and put the knife to my throat. I found my voice. “Don't make this situation worse for yourselves. Maybe you killed Swain, Tommy, but you had good reason if he was going behind your back to—”

“I didn't kill him!” Tommy pointed the knife at his sister. “She did!”

Marybeth recoiled with horror. “I did not! I tried to get the pig back, that's all. I knew he was going to ruin everything—­all of our reputations.”

“Why?” I asked. “What's wrong with Ralphie?”

“Who?” Marybeth asked.

“The pig,” Tommy snapped. “He tastes bad flavor-­wise, that's what's wrong with him! The almighty superpig that was supposed to be God's gift to bacon turns out to taste like crap! There's nothing we can do to fix the flavor of his meat. No sauce, no rub, no process—”

“He tastes bad?” I asked.

Marybeth said, “Something went wrong with the breeding. We thought we were getting something special, but there's a liver problem I can't breed out of them. The meat is inedible. I was keeping him to study, but Swain and my genius brother stole him from me—”

“You should have told me he was worthless!” Tommy cried. “You had all that security on him—­I figured he was the right one.”

“I didn't want anybody to find out about the liver problem!”

“Wait,” I said, trying to make sense of it all. “So you tried to steal him back, Marybeth? Before anybody found out he was worthless?”

“I wanted to get him back last fall,” she said. “But he disappeared. Zephyr set him free! But a few days ago, Porky told us he saw the pig at your place, so Tommy got him back. He wasn't supposed to butcher the animal!”

“Thank God we tasted the tail first,” Tommy said. “It was revolting. If I had served the rest of the meat, my reputation would have been ruined for good!”

As he lamented his career, I felt Tommy's grip slacken. In that instant, I raised my foot and jammed the heel of my shoe down on his green rubber clog. He yelped and dropped me. Rawlins seized my hand, and together we rushed down the hall.

A tall person in a white chef's jacket and toque was the only person left in the kitchen.

Rawlins said on a gasp, “Zephyr?”

I blinked and realized the chef wasn't a man, but Zephyr, who had tried to disguise herself with the kitchen whites.

She came around the counter, peeling off the toque. She gave Rawlins a kiss on the mouth that lingered long enough to knock him back on his heels.

Kiss over, she looked him in the eyes and said, “I'm sorry about everything.”

Rawlins swallowed convulsively and shook his head as if he'd been sucker punched. “Hey, I'm not.”

She cupped his young face in her hand. “You sure, Rascal?”

He nodded, turning pink.

Zephyr swung on me. “We got your pig loose. Take care of him. I have to go.”

“Zephyr, wait. It was you, wasn't it? You killed Swain.”

“I have to run,” she said. “Before the police arrest me.”

“We can help,” Rawlins said. “We can get you a lawyer.”

“No lawyer has ever been able to help,” she said. “And this time I don't have the money to make it all go away. Bye, Rascal.”

Another crash and more screams. I left Rawlins to say good-­bye to his lover, and I ran down the hall for the dining room. Before I got close, I could hear shouts, thunderous noises and the shattering of glass. I skidded to a stop in the doorway and saw the once-­serene dining room was in shambles. A mob of shrieking diners was still trying to cram through the front door to escape, while the tables and chairs lay overturned as if by a tornado. The floor was littered with dishes, centerpieces, broken glassware. Candles from several tables had ignited tablecloths, giving the otherwise darkened restaurant the look of a tribal ritual in progress. Two waiters knelt on top of the bar, clinging to each other as if bracing for a human sacrifice.

Below them, Ralphie rampaged around the floor, knocking over a busboy's stand and sending another load of dishes crashing into a heap of wreckage.

“Ralphie!” I cried.

But he didn't hear me. Grunting in a rage or a panic, he charged the escaping customers and drove half a dozen beautifully dressed people around the hostess stand. Behind the bar, I saw Crewe bobble a jar of maraschino cherries as the mob jostled past him for safety. He leaped for the bar and climbed up just in time to avoid Ralphie's lethal tusks.

Ralphie rounded the bar and charged another group of people, snorting maniacally.

“Ralphie, please!” I shouted.

The pig swerved from his path of destruction, and for an instant I thought he heard me. But no, he had spied Marybeth as she came into the dining room. Lowering his head, he made a run at her, grunting like a mad beast.

“Crewe!” I cried. “The cherries!”

Marybeth screamed. Crewe tossed me the jar of cherries, and I almost caught it in midair. But I was distracted, and the jar barely grazed my fingertips before sailing past me. It hit the wall and shattered, sending pink liquid into a spray that hit Marybeth across her chest. Perhaps mistaking it for blood, she looked down at herself and let out an earsplitting screech.

Ralphie must have caught the scent of sweet cherries in the last instant before he could gore Marybeth. He jammed his piggy forefeet into the carpet and slid to a stop, wild-­eyed and drooling.

“Ralphie,” I called.

At that instant, however, Tommy came running from the kitchen with a huge empty stockpot in one hand and a ladle in the other. He pounded the ladle onto the pot, and it rang like a gong.

Startled by the noise, Ralphie spun around and headed for the front door just as Tommy intended. Before him, people scattered like pigeons.

“No!” I cried. “Keep him inside!”

But of course nobody wanted the pig in the restaurant, so they gave him all the room he needed to escape out the door and into the street.

I hiked up my skirt and ran after him.

Outside, the line of traffic had evaporated. Libby and her bug man had just arrived on the sidewalk. To avoid the charging pig, Libby threw herself into Perry's waiting arms. Ralphie blew past them, heading for the street. He zigged and he zagged through the panicked Farm-­to-­Table guests.

Two more police cars squealed to a stop in front of the restaurant. Ralphie dashed between them and jumped into the street. I cried out. Any second he was going to be struck down and flattened by a passing bus.

But a tall figure bailed out of the passenger seat of one of the police cars. He put two fingers between his teeth and blew a piercing whistle. Michael.

Ralphie's maddened gallop checked, he turned.

In that instant, a taxi sped around the corner and headed straight for the pig.

Michael put out a commanding hand and stepped in front of the cab. I watched it happen, and I couldn't cry out, couldn't call his name. Time slowed down, and every detail of what was going to unfold was crystal clear to me in the flashing red strobe of the police lights. The Blackbird curse. I was pregnant at last, poised on the edge of our happy ending, but Michael was going to die.

In slow motion, he walked out into the street in front of the oncoming vehicle, oblivious to everything but saving a pig.

As if from miles away came the shriek of brakes. The crowd screamed. My heart stopped. Stars burst in front of my eyes as a life without Michael flashed before me.

But the taxi rocked to a stop, just inches from him.

Ralphie trotted over to Michael and leaned lovingly against his leg. My pulse gave a painful
thunk
, restarting my brain, and I tottered for the street. I made it to Michael's side and threw myself against him, too. He caught me close and held on.

“Hey,” he said. “What happened to Ralphie's tail?”

The pig had a bloody wound where his tail had been.

The police officer who climbed out from behind the wheel of the cruiser was Ricci. He came around the hood of the car, shaking his head. He said, “Which one were you so determined to find, Abruzzo? The girl or the pig?”

To Ricci, I said, “Zephyr is pregnant. It's not her husband's baby. She ran away with Dolph, but he's not the father, either. And Swain wasn't murdered because of the pig. It was the baby. He didn't want another man's baby again. Zephyr killed him over it. But Michael's alive.”

“Nora,” Michael said, “you're not making any sense.”

Crewe arrived, breathless, his hands cupped to hold a dripping mess. “I brought the cherries.”

Ricci shook his head. “You people are all crazy.”

G
us said, “My point is, Nora, when you're a reporter, you're supposed to tell the story to your editor before you tell the police.”

“I'm sorry.” I tried to appear contrite. “It all happened on the spur of the moment. I had to tell the police what I knew before Zephyr escaped. I'll try to do better in the future. That is, if I still have a job?”

We were standing under the oak trees at Blackbird Farm, a safe distance from Ralphie, who eyed Gus from the shade of one of Michael's muscle cars while he chomped meaningfully on a snack. His backside was decorated with a large white bandage where his tail had been, and his expression made me think he might blame Gus for his recent amputation. So I stayed between Gus and the pig in case Ralphie decided to charge him.

Behind us, the ponies grazed in the pasture, and Mr. Twinkles watched us from the fence, his tail swishing.

Beside his convertible and keeping a wary eye on Ralphie, Gus had his arms folded across his chest, looking stern even though the spring breeze charmingly ruffled his hair.

Frowning, he said, “At least you got a photo of Zephyr's arrest when they dragged her out of the restaurant. It made a great front page, even with the blurry bits.”

“Thank you,” I said.

“We still need to teach you some basic photography,” he said darkly.

“So . . . I still have a job?”

He hesitated. Then finally he said, “Yes.”

“With the raise you promised? Thirty percent?”

“Thirty—­! Get real. I reckon you misunderstood.”

“Plus, you promised to hire my friend Sammy to be your new assistant instead of those interns. He'll do a good job for you, I'm sure of it. And you don't need to tell him I asked you to hire him.”

“Are these demands of yours going to go on forever?”

“I wonder if the police will misunderstand when I tell them about the bug you planted on Tommy Rattigan?”

Gus stared. “Are you blackmailing me?”

I tried to muster some outrage about his illegal methods, but I had to admit it was Gus who'd learned where we could find Ralphie before he was butchered. For better or worse, my time with Michael had taught me that gray areas existed and should be tolerated on occasion. So I said, “Are you going to promise you'll never do such a thing again?”

Gus raised a skeptical eyebrow. “What do you care about the way I do my job?”

“I care about the integrity of the newspaper.”

“Is that all? Would you care if I got myself deported?”

“I don't know what you mean, Mr. Hardwicke,” I said.

We eyed each other from a safe distance, both aware that Michael might very well be watching from one of the windows in the house. I saw Gus's expression soften, and something in his gaze hinted he was resisting the temptation to say more. But he refrained.

Finally, he put out his hand. “A thirty percent raise.”

“With that,” I said, while his hand remained poised to accept mine, “I hope to be treated as the rest of the reporters are. Without having to worry about being chased around the desk. I may have things to learn, but I won't put up with any more unwelcome behavior from you.”

After a moment's hesitation that was suddenly electric with a dozen comebacks, he said with dignity, “Agreed. And to mangle a quote, I hope this is the beginning of an interesting friendship.”

I accepted his handshake, and we stood for a second too long, perhaps, under the trees, steadily meeting each other's gaze.

“Thank you,” I said graciously.

I did not invite him for dinner. Gus drove off, waving at the wiseguys who were helping the fencing company install a large fence that would soon wrap the whole way around Blackbird Farm. Against the house, a security company crew had leaned an assortment of ladders while they tinkered with all the new electronic gadgetry Michael had ordered for all the windows. He had gone overboard, perhaps, but I knew how he felt. Where the money had come from to pay for all the improvements—­that part worried me. There would be more to that story, I was sure.

I went into the kitchen and found my sisters squabbling about feet.

“The twins refuse to get pedicures,” Libby said, “so I need help getting them into the salon. And you're elected, Emma. You owe me for all the babysitting.”

“You enjoyed every minute of babysitting Noah,” Emma snapped. “I'm not risking my life so those boys can get one lousy athlete's foot commercial. Nora, do you have any batteries? I need four C batteries to get Filly Vanilli to work.”

“Check the second drawer,” I said. “But good grief, that's an ugly toy.”

Emma held up the misshapen horse with its googly eyes and shaggy mane. “I think it's kinda cute.” She pulled a string, and the animal began kicking its gangly legs and making squawking noises.

With delight, Max pointed at the singing horse. “Mama!”

“Mama?” Libby cried. “Did you hear him? He said his first word!”

“Yeah,” Emma said. “He's also got you confused with a horse. How much bug spray is he inhaling these days?”

I decided to avoid the coming argument and went through the butler's pantry and the dining room to my grandfather's study, now Michael's office.

But the door was closed. I hesitated in the gloomy hallway, listening. From inside the room, I could hear Rawlins speaking slowly, his words muffled. Michael asked him a question in an equally low voice, and there was a long pause before Rawlins replied. I didn't interrupt. I wondered if my nephew had reached any important decisions yet—­decisions he was ready to share with his mother, that is.

Quietly, I turned to go.

But the door opened from inside, and Rawlins said, “Aunt Nora?”

He'd been crying. I gave him a hug, holding him tight while I looked past him at Michael, who leaned on the edge of the desk, looking solemn, too.

“You both are very serious,” I said, trying to make my voice light. “What's going on?”

Rawlins said, “I guess I have to tell my mom.”

“Yes,” I said. I rubbed his arms to bolster his resolve.

To me, Michael said, “We thought maybe you could soften the blow.”

I shook my head. “Learning that Rawlins is going to be a father is bad enough, but Libby is going to flip out when she realizes she's going to be a grandmother. Nothing I say is going to help.”

Rawlins glanced at Michael and seemed to gather his strength. “I didn't know most of what was going on, Aunt Nora. You know that, right? I mean, I was—­Zephyr and I, we hooked up in January, but I didn't know anything about the pig stuff. I didn't know she killed her husband, either. That night when she told me about—­you know, about being pregnant, we were in my car. We sat and talked until the car ran out of gas. She was all worried about telling her husband.”

“Because she was pregnant with your child, not his?”

Rawlins flushed. “Yeah. She was afraid he'd get mad because he'd already raised one kid that wasn't his. I said I'd stand by her while she told him, but she wanted to do it herself. She took my keys so I couldn't follow her. I gave her my coat because she was cold. That's how come you and Aunt Emma found my stuff at Starr's Landing. Anyway, when she told him about the baby, her husband went apeshit. He said he'd gone through a bad operation just for her, but she went behind his back with me and—­anyway, he said he would divorce her. He wouldn't raise another kid that wasn't his. He was gonna leave her broke, with a kid coming. So . . . she went nuts and killed him.”

“Thinking she'd be better off financially,” Michael guessed, “if she wasn't divorced, but a widow instead.”

“If she was thinking at all,” Rawlins said. “She's really pretty, but kinda impulsive and—­well, a little strange, I guess.”

I took Rawlins's hand and gave it a squeeze, very glad that he was alive. With Zephyr's past history, it might have just as easily been my nephew whom she tried to kill. I said, “I'm sorry you had this experience, Rawlins.”

He nodded. “Yeah, well, it's not over yet. Here's the thing, Aunt Nora. Zephyr's probably going to go to jail for a long time. Killing her husband—­that was crazy bad, and Mick doesn't think she's going to get out any time soon, not with her record. She knows that. So she says the baby doesn't matter now and—­well, it's mine after it's born.”

“Oh, Rawlins,” I said.

“Hey, I know I was stupid,” he went on, unable to drag his gaze up from the floor. “My mom's been talking to me about taking precautions since I was, like, ten years old, so I should have been smarter, even in the, you know, heat of the moment. Mick says that was probably Zephyr's plan. So now I have a—­a kid coming.”

“Or not,” Michael said.

Rawlins nodded. “Talking to Mick got me thinking about college again. About my future. That maybe the best thing for me and for the—­the baby—­is that I decide not to be a dad right now. I mean, Aunt Emma gave up her kid, right? And that's the best thing for him?”

“I hope so,” I said gently.

“So maybe you would take Zephyr's baby. You and Mick.”

I met Michael's gaze. He tried to wipe all expression from his face, letting me make the decision.

Which was impossible, of course. Neither one of us could make a choice of this magnitude alone.

I gave my nephew another hug. “Rawlins, how about if you let Michael and me talk about it?”

“Okay.” He sighed as if his heart were too heavy to budge off the floor. “I guess this is the right time to tell my mom about Zephyr and me.”

“It won't be too bad,” I said. “She's not going to be happy to hear she'll soon be a grandmother. But she'll get used to it. She loves babies, you know.” So much that I already worried she might make a rash decision where Perry Delbert was concerned. “You'll be okay.”

Rawlins didn't look as though he believed me. He turned and said, “Thanks, Mick. I mean it.”

Michael shrugged, making light of his contribution. “Anything you need, kid. I can always listen.”

Rawlins walked over and shook his hand, then gave me a kiss on the cheek before going out the door. He closed it behind him.

I went to Michael, and he gathered me up tight.

Holding him close, feeling his heart beat against mine, I whispered, “This is so not the way I expected things to turn out.”

“Me neither,” he said. “Lemme tell you right now, I'm not buying a minivan. I don't care how many kids we have—­a minivan is out of the question.”

“Any other fatherly demands?”

His embrace turned gentler. “Nora, when you told me we were going to have a baby, I was happier than I've ever thought I could be.” He smiled at the memory of our private interlude when we got home from the evening's excitement in the city. His voice turning husky, he said, “I know a lot of guys whose lives are behind them. But with you, now, I feel like I've got the whole world ahead of me. Ahead of us.”

“We do, Michael.”

He pulled back enough to cup my face and look into my eyes. “This thing with Little Frankie. I'll be honest. It's not over yet. I've got business to take care of. But I'll work it, I promise.”

I tried to quell the anxiety that fluttered inside me. I knew the money Michael had received from his brother had come at a price. I just hoped it wasn't too dear. I took a deep breath and said, “You'll be careful.”

“Sure. I'm not worried about that problem. I gotta admit, though, this development with Rawlins has me a little . . .”

I smiled. “Overwhelmed?”

“Overwhelmed in a good way. This is big, Nora. You're going to have to marry me now for sure. We can't provide a half-­assed life for these kids. They make things forever between you and me.”

Yes, it was forever. I felt as if we were rowing out into the swift and turbulent river of life together, only now our little boat had children in it—­with all the joy and heartbreak, the memories and the future that came with a family of our own. Michael and I each had an oar in our hands, but our course was plotted and steady, together. I needed to find a way to make marriage a part of our journey.

A noise came from the old Blackbird family cradle. Noah gave his usual sigh before he woke up and decided he was starving. Michael and I turned to look down at him—­the little boy who didn't quite have a home yet, but who had come to live with us for the time being. He seemed to become more and more a part of our household with every passing day in our care. With his little fists, he rubbed his nose, then opened his eyes and looked up at us with happy trust.

In recent days I had spent a lot of time thinking about boys—­about sons and fathers and the consequences of wrecked families. I knew it had all weighed on Michael's mind, too. Neither one of us wanted Noah to grow up wondering if he was somebody's consolation prize. Maybe because of that, we already loved him. Perhaps too fiercely for a child who wasn't really ours. Not yet, anyway.