by Nancy Martin
“Why not?”
“Because of our past, I guess. He felt he could have helped my husband when things went haywire. And he failed. We both failed. We don’t want to talk about it, but it’s there between us.”
Michael flipped the photograph over. “Your photographer develops his own pictures, I see.”
“No marks from a developing lab, I know.”
Michael put the photos back into their envelope. Then he read the blackmailer’s typewritten letter. “You still think this came from the dead guy?”
“That theory doesn’t make sense anymore. I jumped to too many conclusions. Except if Rush didn’t send this letter to me, why haven’t I heard about missing the deadline? Nobody contacted me again.”
“Maybe he or she is following through on the threat to make trouble for your doctor friend.”
“Wouldn’t I have heard that by now? You said yourself punishment should be swift or the threat meaningless.”
We had reached a stalemate. I patted his shoulder, and he began to eat again.
I went to sit down at the table with Michael, but his coat lay in my way. I picked it up with the plan of putting it over one of the chairs. As I did so, something heavy in one of the pockets clunked against the table. Immediately, Michael glanced at it. I saw him stiffen.
Of course I looked into the pocket.
And a pistol fell out of his coat into my hand. Heavy, lethal, very ugly.
I dropped it at once. It hit my plate with a crack. The plate broke, and the gun skittered across the table and came to rest against the pepper mill.
Michael was on his feet before it stopped moving. “Nora—”
I backed away until I collided with the stove. A gun. A gun much like the one the police showed me the night my husband died.
“It’s not what you think,” Michael said.
“You brought a gun into my house.”
He caught my arm. “Sit down before you faint.”
I yanked out of his grasp. “How long have you had that thing? Have you always carried it?”
“It’s not mine.”
“If you’re lugging it around, it’s yours! Do you know how much I hate those things?”
“Yes, I do—”
“Get it out of here. Get it out.”
“Will you please—”
“I want it gone now. Right now.”
“Nora—”
I picked up the weapon myself and ran to the back door. I opened it, and Spike dashed happily into the kitchen. I threw the gun out into the darkness, and Spike tried to double back and go after it, as if it were a toy he could retrieve. I stopped him with my foot and slammed the door.
“You can’t do that!” Michael went past me and yanked the door open. “You can’t just throw it out where anybody could pick it up. It’s dangerous.”
He went outside into the cold air.
I slammed the door after him and considered locking it. Instead, I snatched up Spike and hugged him.
Michael came back a minute later, looking angrier than I’d ever seen him. “I put it in the car. You can relax.”
I faced him from across the kitchen and struggled to control the hysteria that churned inside me. “I can relax? I just found out you’re carrying a loaded gun.”
“It isn’t loaded. You think I’m crazy?”
“I don’t know what to think! You’ve got a handgun, Michael. The sole purpose of a handgun is to shoot people.”
“It’s not mine.”
“It’s in your possession!” I felt the room wobble, and I couldn’t catch my breath.
He crossed the kitchen and caught my arms. He eased me into a chair.
“I’m not fainting.”
“Put your head down,” he said from miles away.
“Don’t touch me.”
He crouched beside my chair, one arm behind my back. “Nora—”
I sat up, dizzy and nauseated. “What was in that suitcase tonight?”
“What suitcase?”
“The one you got out of your trunk and took into the restaurant. Was it cash? Are you laundering money, like the papers say? Is that why you need to carry a gun? To protect yourself? Or to threaten people?”
“The suitcase did not have money in it.”
“Was it something legal?”
He didn’t answer.
“It wasn’t,” I said when saw his face. “Michael, I know you’re not an angel, but one thing I thought I could count on was that you didn’t carry a gun.”
“You can count on more than that, and you know it.”
“Can I? You’ve lied to me.”
“Never.”
“About this you have. It was in your pocket!”
He got up. “What is this? Suddenly you believe everything you ever heard about me? Suddenly I’m Tony Soprano? Well, let me make an observation, sweetheart. You like that I’m dangerous. It lets you justify keeping me out of your bed.”
“What?”
He grabbed his coat. “You pretend I’m a bad-ass, a guy you can’t possibly let into your clean, perfect life. Okay, now you can pretend that’s my gun. Use it to throw me out again. But let’s understand what’s really going on, Nora. The bottom line is that you don’t trust me.”
“That’s not true.”
“Bullshit. I’ve looked after your sisters. I’ve kept you safe. But you still don’t trust the decisions I make. You’re still afraid of me.”
“You don’t understand.”
“The hell I don’t. You thought you could trust the guy you married—the guy with the good family and nice manners and the rest of the bullshit, but he still turned out to be a fuckup who got himself killed.”
“How can you call him names after you’ve come in here with—”
“Nora, I want you to love me the way you loved him. No, I want more than that. A lot more. But we have to trust each other first.”
“Leaving your weapon at home would have been a good start.”
He cursed shortly and put on his coat.
“Okay, I don’t trust you!” I cried. “I admit it. I’ve seen what happens to people who think they can play by their own rules.”
“News flash. I’m not your precious Todd.”
“But—”
He reached the door. “When I was a kid, I almost blew my life, Nora. But now I can absolutely guarantee I’m not going to shoot drugs or whack anybody or otherwise jeopardize what’s probably my last chance for something good. When you figure out how I can prove it, let me know.”
“And if I can’t do that?”
His face shut down, smoothed emotionless by years of hard lessons. Coldly, he said, “I’ll get over it.”
He left then. Spike dashed over to the door and scratched it.
I couldn’t stand up. I told myself I was angry. But it felt more like shame. It streamed hot through my veins like an overpowering narcotic, setting me on fire, burning me from the inside.
The phone rang. I couldn’t get up to answer it, but I heard Hadley’s voice on the answering machine.
“Kitten? Hope you made it home without running afoul of Tottie. I followed Kitty, but I’m afraid I lost her in traffic. What a bore, right? Give me a buzz and we’ll plot our next move. Night, night!”
I tried to make my heart stop pounding, but a storm of feelings kept me awake most of the night.
In the morning, I telephoned Libby.
“What’s wrong? You sound awful.”
“Nothing’s wrong. I have an idea that might help Emma.”
“Count me in.”
“Can you pick me up this morning?”
“Sure. Want me to bring some Valium when I come?”
“Just get here as soon as you can.”
When she arrived and I climbed into her minivan, she said, “My God, what’s gotten into you? You sounded terrible on the phone, and you look like hell.”
“Thanks a heap.” I slammed the door and balanced Spike on my lap.
“What’
s wrong?”
“Nothing,” I snapped.
She shot me a cut-the-crap look. “Did you try to make whoopie with the gangster last night? And it was a bust? I knew it! Men who look divine on the outside always turn out to be the pits in bed. I knew a yoga instructor once who—”
“Can we spend ten minutes together without discussing your sex life?”
“Probably not. I’m not driving you anywhere until you tell me. Is it Emma?”
“No.”
“The gangster.”
“Libby—”
“Aha—it is him! What happened? Did you break up again?”
Permanently,” I said, barely holding back tears. “It’s over.”
“You,” said Libby with her clearest diction, “are an idiot.”
I stared at her. “You are the one who keeps telling me he’s all wrong! That he’s dangerous! That he’s—”
“Well, that doesn’t mean you can’t enjoy his company! Look at me. I’ve had a string of bad men. But does that deter me? Certainly not! For heaven’s sake, Nora, nobody needs to get in touch with her inner goddess more than you. Do you ever let yourself have fun anymore? I’ll bet you’ve never even seen him with his clothes off. Now, that’s the kind of missed opportunity you can’t take to your grave, so—”
“You’re insane. Certifiably insane.”
“No, I’m just a sensually adventurous woman who—”
“I’m going to scream.”
“Go ahead. It will do you good. I suppose that means you don’t want to hear about my problems.”
“No, I don’t.”
I had spent the night in an emotional turmoil and had hoped that for once my sister would back me up. No such luck. Here she was extolling the virtues of free love at the moment when what I really needed was some support for my decision to end things with Michael.
Instead, Libby allowed ten seconds to tick by before saying, “Can we talk about my problems now?”
I sighed. “Are there any problems left for you to have, Libby?”
She burst out, “I just don’t think I’ve made any kind of parental impression on my children!”
“I don’t think I have the strength for this discussion right now.”
“Well, I think my offspring are a little more important than your lack of a sex life.” She drove down my driveway and needed no encouragement to continue. “Rawlins is completely out of control, and the twins are right on the edge, Nora. At light speed, they’re traveling beyond my power to contain them. I dote on them when they’re babies, feed them from my tender breasts, and look what happens. They grow up and leave me!”
“Maybe boys aren’t meant to be civilized.”
“Do you think so? Melvin thinks I could be a natural disciplinarian if I’d just try a few simple techniques, but somehow Placida’s goals seem to be taking me in a different direction.”
“You saw Melvin again?”
She swept on. “I can’t get a truthful word out of Rawlins anymore, and he’s always sulking or angry. I have no idea where he went these last two nights. Do you think that’s normal?”
“Emma says he was with Michael yesterday.”
“I’m afraid he goes to see Mr. Abruzzo when he—Wait a minute. When did Emma say that?”
“I saw her last night. Sorry. I should have mentioned that. She’s okay.” Unless she had run off somewhere with Danny Pescara. I decided not to mention Michael’s cousin to Libby, but I told her all about Emma’s escape and current situation.
I had decided to focus my attention on helping Emma. First of all, I needed to figure out why Rush Strawcutter had been murdered. If I could channel all my energy into solving that mystery, I didn’t have to think about the mess the rest of my life had become.
At my request, Libby drove me to the King of Prussia Laundro-Mutt, a massive building located in a park of similar big box stores, all surrounded by asphalt parking lots full of SUV’s. The enormous vehicles looked like a herd of elephants standing with military precision, ready to accept large quantities of paper towels, groceries and home-improvement supplies from the tiny suburban women who seemed to be their predominant drivers. Libby whipped her red minivan into a parking spot beside a Land Rover. Its rear bumper was decorated with stickers proclaiming a love of Pomeranians, pride in an elementary school honor student and the vacationing virtues of the Outer Banks.
I carried Spike, wrapped in a towel, through Laundro-Mutt’s automatic doors. My right hand had a death grip on his collar. I wound his leash around my wrist while my hand simultaneously supported his bottom and clamped his hind legs together to thwart his escape.
Spike looked around Laundro-Mutt and announced he was ready to rip the place to shreds.
Libby followed me inside, stuffing her keys into her shoulder bag. “You think it’s wise to let somebody groom him here? I mean, do they carry enough insurance?”
“You’re hilarious. This way.”
The clerk at the grooming station greeted me with an innocent smile. She looked as if she’d reached voting age, but just barely. “Hi, I’m Kelly. Welcome to Laundro-Mutt, where your pet is our problem.”
Libby muttered, “You don’t know how true that slogan is about to become, Kelly.”
“Hi, Kelly. This is Spike.”
Kelly had pigtails pulled up with orange ribbons to match her Laundro-Mutt smock. The Laundro-Mutt logo depicted profiles of an orange poodle and an orange kitten poised to kiss each other on the backseat of an automobile that was about to enter the yawning maw of a car wash.
Behind the counter, an annoyed Pomeranian stood in surly silence inside a dog crate while a blow dryer fluffed her already very poofy coat.
Kelly looked as sweet as the cartoon animals on her shirt. She picked up an orange pen with a pom-pom on the tip. In a baby voice, she said, “Hey, there, Spikey. How are you doing today, little guy?”
Spike’s growl indicated he did not appreciate being called “little guy.”
“He’s nervous,” I said. “He’s never been here before, and it takes him a while to warm up to new places and new people.”
“Either that,” Libby muttered, “or he’s channeling Satan.”
“Is that so? Well, don’t worry.” Kelly waved her pen tantalizingly in front of Spike’s nose, oblivious to his fierce glare at its pom-pom. “We’ll take good care of him. Today’s special is the deluxe grooming, which includes a bath, nail trim and—What’s that smell?”
I plunked Spike, towel and all, on the counter. “We had a little problem this morning. Spike dug his way into the paddock where my sister keeps her horse. It was only a minute before I got there, but—”
Kelly began to look less perky. “He sure stinks.”
Libby said, “That’s actually his normal smell, just slightly intensified today.”
“If you’d give him a bath, that would be great. Should we wait in the store while you do it?”
Kelly had finally become aware of Spike’s steady snarl, too. “That might be a good idea.”
“Great.” I handed over his leash. “How long will it take?”
“I’ll call you over the PA system when we’re finished.”
“Perfect!” I tried to exude confidence. “I’m sure you two will have fun together.”
I grabbed Libby’s arm and dragged her away from the grooming station.
Libby said, “It’ll be on your conscience if that poor child is maimed.”
“She’s a professional. I’m sure she’ll be able to handle a ten-pound puppy.”
“Ten pounds of dynamite. Okay, now what?”
We stopped beside a display of litter boxes. I said, “This is the store where Rush Strawcutter had his office. See those steps over there? His office is upstairs.”
“You don’t plan on breaking and entering in broad daylight?”
A peek into Rush’s office might answer a lot of questions. I particularly wanted to know if he had a camera or a darkroom on the premises. But reluctantly, I sa
id, “I just thought we could ask around a little.”
“In the store?”
“Right, among the people who worked with him every day. Somebody might have useful information. Get a shopping cart. We’ll browse around and see who turns up.”
“And maybe you’ll have an opportunity to go upstairs? I get it. You brought me here to distract people.”
I tried to ignore the steady, furious barking over in the grooming area, but it sounded as if Spike was disagreeing with the Pomeranian. Libby grabbed a shopping cart and we ambled around the huge store. The only clerk on duty was helping another customer sort through a daunting display of leashes and collars.
Finally, Libby’s impatience got the best of her. She marched up to the leash display and said, “Oh, look at these rhinestone collars, Nora. What do you think?”
The store clerk finished with the other customer and turned to us. She was a large woman, and the color of her hair matched the orange of her store smock. Her badge said, LAKEETA, MANAGER. She said, “I have a large inventory of rhinestone collars. What size do you need, honey?”
“Small,” I said.
“Medium,” Libby corrected. She found a black one she liked. “What do you think?”
“It’s huge,” I said. “It’ll never fit Spike.”
“Never mind Spike How does it look on me?” She held the flashy collar up to her own throat. “See? Wouldn’t Placida approve?”
LaKeeta said, “Placida is your dog?”
I closed my eyes.
“No, Placida is my goddess within,” Libby explained. “The goddess of tranquility, sexual adventure and weight loss. I worship her daily, and she rewards me with her gifts.”
“No kidding.” LaKeeta put one hand on her ample hip. “How’s she doing with the sexual adventure part?”
“Well . . .” Libby slid her eyes at me. “The results have been mixed so far.”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“Yeah, what do you mean?” LaKeeta asked. “Who is this Placida chick? She gonna try leading me into temptation? ’Cause I can usually find that all by myself.”
“Placida is my personal goddess,” Libby assured her. “You might choose someone totally different, depending upon your needs and inner resources. Would you be interested in a goddess support group?”
