Little Black Book of Murder (6 page)

Michael closed the door.

“Coffee, anyone?” I asked.

“Tea would be better, actually, but I have yet to meet a Yank who can make a decent cuppa.” Gus stopped still and looked around. “This place is a cozy sort of derelict, isn't it?”

My house tended to elicit such reactions. The cavernous kitchen boasted cabinetry with a fine old patina polished by generations of housemaids, more antiques than a junkyard and an Aga stove that hunkered in the corner like a sullen dragon, sometimes even smoking just a little.

I was relieved to see Michael had recently mopped up the puddle that gathered in the middle of the floor at the most mysterious and inconvenient times. Nothing sent me into orbit like that damned puddle.

Gus strolled around the kitchen, glancing up into the rafters where a collection of antique kitchen utensils was hard to separate from a collection of assorted weapons left behind by war-­mongering patriots who visited the farm on their way to nearby battlefields. “Are you expecting an invasion?”

“Only by mice.”

He pointed upward. “Is that a sword?”

“Technically, it's a saber. Rumor goes, Lafayette left it behind when he came to pay a social call. We can't prove the story, of course. I should probably try selling it.”

Gus took a peek into the butler's pantry. “You could, but there goes family loyalty. Of course, you might switch families, couldn't you?”

Gus turned around and smiled, inviting Michael to speak.

Michael leaned against the counter and folded his arms over his chest.

Before Gus could push further into the touchy subject of crime families, I said, “Yes, I'll keep the saber. I'm sentimental.”

Gus's cell phone chirped. He took it out of his pocket and glanced at the screen. “This is a call I've been expecting. Mind if I step outside and take it?”

Without waiting for a response, he went out the back door.

I said to Michael, “You're trying to scare him.”

He looked surprised. “What did I do?”

“I don't know, but you're doing it.”

“Did he really save your life?”

“If not mine, somebody's.” I pulled my wallet out of my handbag and gave him a ten-­dollar bill.

“What's this for?” he asked, his face softening with fondness now that Gus was outside.

“I borrowed it this morning while you were still asleep. I grabbed it off the dresser. I didn't want to leave the house without any cash.” I folded the bill into his hand. “It's our entire fortune at the moment, so hang on to it. Wait—­what's this?”

His left thumb was wrapped up in a makeshift bandage. He said, “I hit it trying to fix the furnace. No big deal.”

I unwrapped his thumb and took a look. His thumb might turn a little blue, but there was no permanent damage. I gave it a kiss. “Thanks for trying. Your friend looked a lot worse.”

“He'll recover.” Michael pocketed the money and reached to rearrange a strand of my windblown hair. “We'll get through this, you know. The bank account won't stay empty much longer.”

Being penniless wasn't much fun, I had to admit. The winter had been one long struggle to make ends meet. It felt as if we were just one household catastrophe away from total fiscal meltdown. And unlike Michael, I didn't see any relief in sight.

At least, not from my end. What he was up to, I couldn't guess. He was keeping secrets again.

With a glance over his shoulder to make sure Gus was still occupied, Michael pulled me out of the kitchen and into the privacy of the scullery. “Who the hell is this guy, anyway?” he asked when we were alone.

“Gus Hardwicke. My new editor.”

“I thought you said your editor was old.”

“I said no such thing.”

“With a name like Gus, I figured he had a beard and arthritis.”

“Well, he's not old at all.”

“I can see that. What'd he do? Leave his kangaroo back at the party?” Michael said. “He wants to do more than edit you.”

“Don't be silly.” I slipped into his arms and gave him a kiss on the mouth.

He pulled me closer and met my lips with more oomph than before, but when we parted, he said, “He called you enchanting. I don't like the way he looks at you, either.”

I touched his cheek. “He's my boss. He doesn't look at me.”

Michael used one hand to tip the scullery door closed and turn the lock. “The hell he doesn't.”

I gave Michael a warmer, lingering kiss to prove my point, then said softly, “I suppose I should like it when you get jealous.”

“I get jealous every time you walk out the door.” Smiling, and with a flickering light in his blue eyes, he backed me against the porcelain sink and pinned me there. With both hands, he began easing the folds of the damask Swain Starr skirt up my thighs. “How well do you know him?”

“Hardly at all. Usually, he ignores me, but today he showed up and—­are you really feeling jealous?” I smiled up at him.

“At the moment, I'm feeling something else.”

I laughed a little, allowing Michael to unfasten the buttons at the back of my dress. In the last couple of months, I'd gotten used to his spontaneous advances. He was frustrated in the house and directed his excess energy into frequent amorous interludes that often left me limp. I had learned that if I indulged in a postcoital nap, though, I was just inviting even more lovemaking. It had become an endless cycle. Nice most of the time—­exhilarating, even—­but exhausting.

In another moment, Michael was easing the bodice down around my waist. He was quick and sure with the clasp on the front of my bra, too. I leaned back and let him get away with it—­watching his eyes and smiling. “Michael—­what do you think you're doing?”

“If you can't figure it out, I'm doing it wrong.”

“You're acting like a caveman. We can't—­no, hang on a minute.” I tried to fend off his roving hands—­not very firmly. “Stop. Gus will see us through the windows.”

“Ralphie will keep him on the porch.” Michael hiked my skirt up higher and started to ease my panties down. His hands were warm, and his voice was barely a whisper in my ear. “I missed you this morning.”

When Michael thrust his way into my world, a refined part of my upbringing blew away like a leaf borne on a hot summer wind. Up until then, I had been a good girl all my life. Right out of college, I married my husband, Todd, who was the kind of man my family expected me to settle down with. He'd been finishing med school, intending to be a researcher who specialized in transplants, and we thought we'd have a peaceful life together. We went sailing and bought antiques and took trips to Paris, holding hands on the airplane. But cocaine came along. Drugs drove Todd to his eventual death and me beyond what I thought was the limit of my strength.

Now? Now I knew life was short. And I didn't want to waste a minute of it.

Michael and I shared stormy emotions and a lot of laughter and physical cravings that sometimes felt wanton, but our relationship had become anchored in the knowledge that we weren't going anywhere without each other. Maybe it was strange that I trusted a convicted criminal over any number of yacht-­hopping potential husbands from my own world. I knew he wasn't going to ruin his life with drugs, though, or take me down with him.

Even though he'd been the one to initiate a lot of sexual congress lately, I was the one who unsnapped his jeans. The afternoon had been long and trying, and I wanted to be wrapped up in the man I loved.

He pulled back, laughter in his gaze. “Are we really doing this?”

“Yes,” I said. “Yes.”

Emily Post, forgive me. Other people didn't understand why we were together. But being with Michael felt like thumbing my nose at all the constraints—­the people of my so-­called social class, the rules, the strangling and antiquated edicts of civility, the tired idea of what a family ought to be. His criminal past worried me sometimes, but he had won my trust. I wrapped my arms around his shoulders and held on tight. He knew exactly how to coax me to the brink of life. Even when he turned me around and I braced both hands against the sink, I was laughing, loving. He made me close my eyes and gasp. Made me forget myself. Made me feel as if I had the power to be something strong and willful and complete. He was hot inside me, a life force too strong to doubt.

It was over in minutes. I came first, barely holding back the cry in my throat as the spasms racked me, and Michael climaxed seconds later. When we could breathe again, he tugged my skirt back down, smoothed it, pulled me around against his chest and kissed me—­gentler this time, one hand in my hair.

“You like it, don't you?” he murmured against my mouth. “On the edge with me.”

“Yes,” I whispered back. “I love you.”

He bumped his forehead against mine and looked into my eyes. “Me, I'm feeling kinda enchanted.”

I laughed. He didn't have the poetry of a more-­educated man, but he knew when to use the right words.

We kissed again, long and gently, murmuring the magic words a few more times.

When he tried to help me put my clothes right again, I pushed his hands away. “Here, let me do that.” I tried to refasten my bra, but it was tight. I rolled my eyes. “I've put on a couple pounds. Too much pasta.”

He smiled. “If there's one good thing that comes out of being broke, this is it.”

I let him cup my breasts for a second, then snapped my bra. “You won't say that if I outgrow all my working clothes. Button me up?”

I turned around so he could fasten my dress.

“We won't be broke forever,” he said, dropping a kiss on my neck. He hugged me from behind, and I leaned against him, eyes closed for another moment to absorb his strength. If all the people at Starr's party had felt false and posturing to me, this was what I needed most—­honest love and something else that calmed my soul.

In a while, Michael opened the door. He went out into the hallway first. I tottered past him into the powder room. In the mirror, my cheeks were glowing.

When I emerged from the powder room, Gus had come back into the house. He pocketed his cell phone.

Michael was reaching for his car keys.

Gus said to him, “I heard you're under house arrest.”

“You heard right.” Michael grabbed his leather jacket off the peg by the door.

“You making a break for it, mate?” Gus asked jovially.

Michael said, “Parole appointment.”

I came up behind Michael and said, “We need milk.”

He turned and gave me a last kiss. He winked. “See you later.”

“Put Ralphie in the barn before you go?”

“He won't stay there.”

I handed Michael another apple. “Give him some incentive.”

Michael tossed the apple up and caught it, then turned to Gus. He surveyed our guest, clearly debating whether or not to encourage his departure. Gus merely smiled at him, holding his ground. At last, Michael gave a grunt and went out the door. When he was gone, Gus turned to me.

“Well, well,” he said. “A cool customer, isn't he? Not what I expected.”

I didn't ask what he expected. “That's why you brought me home, isn't it? To get a look at him.”

“Can you blame me? He's a newsman's Holy Grail. Mick Abruz­zo, Mafia Prince, the stuff of screaming three-­inch headlines. I've heard what he's done, the crimes he's been convicted for. And the things he's apparently gotten away with. He hardly seems your type.”

“My type?”

Gus laughed uneasily. “I didn't expect a good girl like you to go for—­never mind. I'm just going to dig this hole deeper, aren't I? I'm sure the two of you have long, romantic discussions about John Donne and Schopenhauer.”

“He's smarter than you think.”

“I hear he's plenty smart.” Gus stopped smiling. “I just wonder if you are.”

“What does that mean?” I asked.

Gus suddenly wasn't my pushy, egotistical boss anymore. He had puzzled concern written on his face. “Are you safe in this house, Nora?”

“Safer than anywhere in the world.”

Gus mustered another smile and straightened his shoulders. “In that case, I stand corrected. I'd better be going. My phone call came from the office. We're moving up your Starr article to Friday, the day of the Farm-­to-­Table event. You'll have a draft ready for me tonight? Just a draft, a little something I can sink my teeth into. If I see it, I'll be better able to point you in the right direction where Zephyr is concerned. I want our circulation numbers up, and that kind of article will do it.”

“I'll e-mail you this evening,” I said with more confidence than I was feeling.

He gave me a longer look, assessing something. Then he nodded shortly. “Good. Then I'll see you in my office bright and early Monday. Say—­seven?”

“Sunday and Monday are my days off.”

“Not this week.” With a jaunty salute, he took his leave. “Remember, you owe me your life now.”

I wanted Ralphie to run him down and stomp him into the grass, but Gus hot-­footed it to his car unscathed.

Alone, I wobbled over to one of the kitchen chairs and sat. I held very still, thinking.

The new twist in my career wasn't my only worry.

Michael had left almost an hour earlier than usual for his parole appointment, and he'd gone off happily. I hadn't asked him where he was going, because Gus was in the room. If I were honest with myself, I'd admit I might not have asked him even if we'd been alone.

While his father, the infamous Big Frankie Abruzzo, was serving time in prison, Michael had told me he was devoting himself to dismantling the Abruzzo crime family's gambling empire. Two of Michael's three brothers were also incarcerated and temporarily out of the way. The oldest brother, Little Frankie, was presumed dead, and nobody seemed sorry about his disappearance. While they were all safely out of the picture, Michael was dealing with furious former partners who used every technique in the criminal repertoire to get around his edicts. It had gotten bad enough that we sometimes had the protection of an Abruzzo family roadblock at the bottom of the lane, and Michael kept a rotating number of cell phones to ensure that his communications were not overheard by his many enemies . . . or by law enforcement.