by Nancy Martin
“How is Rawlins?”
Libby avoided my gaze. “We just had a horrible fight, so don’t ask.”
I could see she was ready to blow, so I asked a safer question. “How is the baby?”
Her lower lip began to tremble. “Beautiful. But he still doesn’t have a name.”
“What about your new boyfriend?”
Her nose turned pink and tears began to glisten in her eyes.
“Libby?”
“He—he wants me to—well, restrain him.”
“He what?”
“I’m beginning to think he’s a little peculiar, Nora.”
“What kind of restraining?”
“You know. Tying him up. And Melvin’s always talking about discipline. I thought he meant improving the children’s behavior, which I admit could use a little attention, maybe, but I’m starting to worry he—well, he might not be quite normal.”
“Oh, for God’s sake Libby! You haven’t really had sex with this man, have you? He hasn’t tied you up, has he?”
“No, no, he’s the one who wants to be controlled, you see, and I’m supposed to pretend I’m the prison warden or the angry policewoman or the stagecoach driver.”
“The—?”
“He gave me a pretty little buggy whip. I thought it was an antique, something I could display at Christmas with some nice holly branches and a Currier and Ives print, but—”
“Libby, I think it’s time to break things off with Melvin.”
“But he’s so sweet!”
“Bringing you flowers and candy, that’s sweet. Bringing you a whip is something entirely—”
“You can afford to say that!” she cried. “You have a man coming around, paying attention to you, wanting to sweep you into bed. But I’m this f-f-fat housewife with too many children and no hope of a fulfilling sex life again for the rest of my life! I’ll be that old woman who lives in a shoe! Only my shoe is covered with corn syrup and doesn’t have any curtains!”
She was blubbering then, with huge sobs heaving her Hindenberg bosom. Spike sat up in my lap and stared at her, fascinated.
I put the dog on the floor and gave Libby a hug, and brought her a cup of coffee and made soothing noises. She howled and bawled and wept until she was wrung out. Eventually, she accepted a damp cloth, which she applied to her face to cool down. When she sat up again, she looked as beautiful as Elizabeth Taylor in her most vibrant youth.
I said, “I can’t believe how amazingly gorgeous you are, Libby. And you’re such a sexy, smart woman with a wonderful sense of humor.”
“Do you really think so?”
“Nobody makes me laugh the way you do,” I said honestly.
“Well . . .”
“You don’t need a nut like Melvin to make your life complete. Just wait until your hormones calm down, and things will start to feel good again, I promise.”
“But . . .”
“There’s a man out there with more than buggy whips to give. Take some time for yourself first. Let Placida help you—uhm—find serenity.”
My sister nodded and dabbed her eyes. “You’re right. I should have trusted Placida. I shouldn’t be in a rush. Maybe I’ll go back to watching Dr. Phil for a while.”
I gave her a kiss. “Whatever it takes, Lib.”
She smiled wanly. “Thank you, Nora. You’re a good sister. And you won’t mind moving back to my house to help me, will you? You’ve been such a godsend during my time of need.”
Spike voted for not moving back to Libby’s house by lifting his leg and peeing on her purse.
While I cleaned up the mess, Libby finally caught sight of the collection of Claudine’s photographs spread out on my kitchen table.
“Good heavens, who’s this?” she asked, picking up the photograph of Claudine and Dougie. “It’s that ballet dancer, isn’t it? Surely she could get a pedicure now that she’s retired.”
“I don’t think that would help.”
“Probably not.” Libby turned the photo sideways. “Not a very imaginative position, is it? I always assumed creative people were creative in all aspects of their lives. Where was this taken?”
“At a private party. This is the bedroom where the host put the coats, I assume. See the headboard?”
She nodded. “A brass bed. Very pretty. Stick with the classics, I always say.”
I retrieved the rest of the blackmail photos and spread them in front of her. “Notice anything these pictures have in common?”
A painter herself, Libby devoted a long minute of study to the array of images. “Well, they’re all taken by the same photographer, of course. But . . .”
“Look at the hotel coatroom. And the coats on the bed under Claudine.”
Libby chose two of the pictures that showed the best view of the coats. Her brows lifted. “That silk scarf with the fringe. There’s just a hint of it here. It’s the same scarf in both pictures, right?”
She had made the same discovery I had. “I think so, yes.”
“So the owner of the scarf attended both events.” She looked at me. “Who is it?”
I took a deep breath. “Hadley Pinkham.”
“What does it mean?”
“Just that Hadley was a guest at both parties.”
“But—” Libby’s face slackened with shock. “My God, you don’t think Hadley is your blackmailer? Why, in heaven’s name? He’s surely got more money that the Sultan of Brunei!”
“Maybe not anymore.”
“What do you mean?”
“The Pinkham fortune may have been divided too many times, just like ours.”
“I can’t believe he’d be capable of preying on his friends! Our circle! Not people he’s known since childhood!”
“I’m not jumping to any conclusions yet. But it’s possible, don’t you think?”
“What about the misspelled word on the note? Hadley would never—”
“He wouldn’t misspell anything, but he’s proud of being a klutz with anything mechanical—like a typewriter.”
“Or a camera?”
“I know, I know.” I gathered up the photographs. “He claims he doesn’t know a camera from a hair-dryer. This isn’t enough evidence to prove anything. But I have an instinct.”
“Are you going to speak to him about this?”
“Not yet. There’s someone else I want to talk to first.”
“Who?”
I told her.
“Oh, God,” Libby said. “Be careful, Nora!”
She drove me to the train station. Spike climbed out of my handbag once I’d taken a seat, and he braced his paws on the train window. With a panting smile, he watched the scenery fly by, snarling at the occasional school bus or noisy tractor trailer.
The train deposited us many blocks from the Intelligencer office. With Spike on his leash, we hiked up to the Pendergast building. The day was cold, and although I had dressed for an evening of party-hopping in a little black dress by Dior, I wore a favorite Italian knit sweater over it and was glad to have my wool coat and a pink pashmina to ward off the wind.
Oblivious to the cold, Spike was careful to leave threatening messages all along our route.
I put him back into my handbag while we rode the elevator, and he fell soundly asleep by the time I reached Stan Rosenstatz’s office. The features editor was on the phone, so I waved at Mary Jude—hard at work at her computer and surrounded by boxes of cake mix—and headed over to the desk I was currently sharing with a part-time fashion writer. A stack of party invitations with a pink memo slip from Kitty lay on top of the computer monitor. The memo said only, Reject these.
I was flipping through the invitations while my e-mail program loaded when Andy Mooney suddenly materialized like Rumplestiltskin at my elbow. An enormous camera swung from a thick strap around his neck, and he held a lumpy briefcase in one hand. “Hi, Miss Blackbird! You look really pretty today.”
In my seated position, I was nearly eye to eye with him. His shirttail was coming
untucked, and it looked as if he hadn’t combed his hair since getting out of bed. But he had a vaguely Spike-like look of wide-eyed interest in anything that moved. “Thank you, Andy. You’re here early.”
“Oh, I’m just running a few errands for Miss Keough. But I have some free time. What are you working on? Anything I can do for you?”
“Actually, I was hoping to bump into you today.”
“Really?” Quickly, he grabbed a swivel chair from a nearby desk and wheeled it close to mine. He dropped the briefcase on the floor with a thud and sat down. “What’s up?”
I pulled the white envelopes from my bag without disturbing Spike. “Can I trust you with some sensitive information, Andy?”
He perked up. “What kind of sensitive information?”
“You know that a journalist sometimes has to keep secrets, right?”
He nodded. “Right.”
“Even from your friends and family,” I said darkly. “And sometimes even from your boss.”
“Gee, Miss Blackbird, you’re not in trouble, are you? Everybody’s been saying you’re involved with that Godfather guy, but I never thought—”
“That’s not what I’m talking about, Andy. I’m fine. I have some information here that I can’t show you unless you promise to keep it to yourself. You’re not to tell anyone. Even Kitty.”
He blinked at me from behind his Harry Potter glasses. With less certainty, he said, “Okay.”
“Tell me first what pictures you’ve taken for Kitty.”
“Party pictures,” he said promptly. “You know—important guests, that kind of thing.”
“Any other pictures? Things Kitty wanted personally?”
He began to look squeamish. “Well . . .”
“It’s okay. You haven’t done anything unethical. Right?”
“I did take some shots of Miss Keough and . . . her friend. Just for her to keep.”
“Pictures of Kitty with Tottie Boarman?”
He nodded. Without being asked, he opened the briefcase at his feet. He glanced around the room to make sure we weren’t being observed before he pulled out a sheaf of photos and spread them on my desk. Lousy photographs with bad lighting and the subjects badly centered. I was immediately assured that Andy was incapable of taking the blackmail pictures.
These, however, were indeed pictures of Kitty cuddling up to Tottie Boarman.
I had imagined that their relationship might be like a pair of mating alligators—all claws and teeth and bad tempers. But the expression on Kitty’s face was unlike any I’d ever seen before. She actually looked girlish. And fond of her companion.
Tottie didn’t look displeased, either. His hand looked almost tender as he cupped one of her elbows and appeared to pull her closer to him.
I shuddered and pushed the photos away.
“Is there something wrong?” Andy asked.
“No, Andy.” I looked at him. “You didn’t take pictures of other people at Kitty’s request? Secret pictures, maybe?”
He frowned and gathered up his pictures. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“Okay,” I soothed, confident he wasn’t lying. “Just promise you won’t mention these to anyone.” I tapped the envelope in my lap. “Do I have your word as a journalist?”
“Scout’s honor!”
Reassured, I took out the least damning of the blackmail photographs of Claudine and Dougie, then one of the photos of Tim and me.
Almost unwillingly, Andy leaned forward to look at the pictures. When he finally realized what the image of Claudine and Dougie was, his glasses began to fog.
“Wow,” he said. “Those are really ugly feet.”
“That’s not really my point, Andy.”
“Uh, no, I suppose not.”
“It would take a skilled photographer to take such pictures in the dark, don’t you think?”
He nodded uncertainly.
“You didn’t take these pictures, did you, Andy?”
“Me?” He paled. “Oh, no, Miss Blackbird, not me.”
“Have you seen them before?”
“No! Should I?”
“I suppose not.”
I knew he was telling the truth. His open face lacked the cunning to conceal a lie. He was an innocent, but he wasn’t stupid, so I asked, “Is there anything you can observe about these pictures, Andy?”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m trying to figure out who took them.”
“Oh, the photographer?” He was flattered to be asked and picked up one picture. He flipped it over. “Well, it’s not one of the Intelligencer camera guys. The paper always stamps the back. See? No stamp.”
“Is there any way a picture could be taken by a staff photographer and escape receiving a stamp?”
“I don’t think so.” He looked at Claudine’s feet again. Then he looked at the other photo carefully, too, as if he were taking a crucial examination. He removed his glasses and held the photo close to his face. “Do you have the negatives?”
“No,” I said.
He handed the picture back to me to look at. “See that trophy case in the back of the picture?”
“Behind the coatrack, you mean?”
“Yeah, way back. See? There are trophies lined up on the shelf behind the glass doors.” He pointed a stubby finger at a very small figure, distorted around the Grecian-inspired shape made of silver. “Is that the guy taking the picture? Reflected in the trophy? It looks like somebody holding a camera, doesn’t it?”
I felt a thrill of adrenaline in my heart as I peered at the tiny yet unmistakable figure. It wasn’t clear enough to anyone who didn’t know the man in question, but I was sure. “Yes. Yes, it is! Andy, would you mind if I kissed you?”
Startled he said, “You’re kidding, right?”
“Only a little.” I gathered up the pictures. “You’ve just made my day. I’m not kidding. You’re aces in my book, Andy.”
He began to blush. “Really?”
“Really. Thank you. Thank you very much.” I got to my feet and impulsively smooched the top of his head.
“Where are you going?”
“Out to see somebody.
“Can I come, too?”
I hated to disappoint him, but I said, “Not this time. But you’ll definitely have to come to a party or two with me. That is, if Kitty can spare you.”
“Oh, that sounds fantastic, Miss B. Just let me know when and where, and I’m ready to party!”
I grabbed my bag and heard Spike give a little sleepy sigh as I headed for the elevator, envelopes in hand. I checked my watch in the elevator. I had a couple free hours before I had to go to work. I knew just where I had to go.
But in the lobby, the guard manning the security station spotted me and broke off his conversation with two big men in dark topcoats.
“Oh, Miss Blackbird, these gentlemen are asking for you.”
Me?
I didn’t recognize either of them, but I stepped closer. “Yes?”
“Eleanor Blackbird?” The taller of the two pulled his wallet from his trouser pocket. Except when he opened it and showed me what was inside, it wasn’t a wallet. It was FBI identification.
I faltered to a stop. “Yes, I’m Nora Blackbird.”
“We’d like to talk to you.”
“About?”
He tried to smile winningly. “We hear you might be able to tell us a little bit about Michael Abruzzo.”
Spike popped his head out and told the FBI to get the hell away from me.
Chapter 17
While Spike kept the FBI at bay, I called my own lawyer and old friend, Tom Nelson.
“Bring them up to my office,” he said. “And don’t say anything between now and then.”
I’d known Tom since a ballroom dancing class when his primary goal had been kicking shins, not learning the finer points of the waltz. At age nine, I wore many a pair of white knee socks to cover up bruises he’d inflicted. In his teens and twenties, Tom enjoyed beer
drinking, football and carousing, until an accident sobered him up and landed him in a wheelchair. He settled down after that, gaining a sense of humor and a better concept of how he fit into the world. Miraculously, he married a wonderful young woman and was working on becoming one of the most respected lawyers in the city. As a couple, they championed wheelchair marathons for kids and hosted warm, friendly dinner parties.
He asked the FBI to wait in one of the firm’s plush lounges while conferring with me in his office.
“What’s this about?” He poured me a glass of water from the pitcher on his desk. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine. Just shaken up. Thanks for making time for this, Tom.”
“No problem. Is that a dog or some kind of ferret?”
I pushed Spike back into my handbag. “He’s a rare Mongolian rat chaser.”
“Uh-huh.” He gave me a dubious look with raised eyebrows. “I gather the fellows outside have come to ask you about your friend the mobster?”
“He isn’t—Look, Tom, I know what everyone’s read in the papers and the rumors that have been floating around town. It’s true that Michael Abruzzo and I were seeing each other off and on for a few months. But I don’t know much about his business except when it got mixed up in mine, and he was careful not to tell me anything he didn’t think I should hear.”
“Let’s back up,” Tom interrupted gently. “How does your business mix with his?”
I told him how Michael and his silent partner, Rory Pendergast, had purchased a small corner of Blackbird Farm, which allowed me to pay the original installment on my colossal tax bill and reorganize my finances so I didn’t have to sell the farm. His leasing of farmland from me to grow grass for his Marquis de Sod company also helped me keep my head above water.
Tom whistled. “You owe two million dollars in property taxes? Jesus, Nora.”
“Less than that now. I know, it’s crazy to keep trying, but I can’t—I won’t—sell the farm until all my options are used up.”
