by Nancy Martin
“Yeah, this morning’s papers say the cops have determined I’m no longer a suspect.”
“Question is,” Libby said, “who did kill Rush? Have you figured it out, Nora?”
Michael looked at me. So did Emma. Libby blinked expectantly.
“No,” I said. “I haven’t.”
“What a disappointment. I guess you’re not much of a detective, after all.”
Emma continued to study me. She said, “The police are sure it wasn’t me. I bet I have you to thank for that.”
The right time would come to tell Emma everything I knew. She would be relieved to hear she had not caused Rush’s death. But she would be devastated to learn Tim had been bent on rescuing her when Rush died. I needed to be alone with her when she learned the truth. For now, I said, “None of it was your fault, Em.”
“Certainly not,” Libby said. “But that means there’s still a criminal on the loose! A woman is hardly safe anywhere anymore, is she?”
“And some criminals aren’t safe from you,” Emma said. “Tell Nora about Doctor Discipline.”
Libby looked very frosty. “Turns out Melvin wasn’t a doctor after all. He was faking! I spoke to the chief of security at the hospital, and he thought Melvin’s behavior was highly unprofessional, not to mention suspicious, but he complimented me on my intuitive good sense—”
“Melvin?” asked Michael.
“It’s a long story,” I said.
“—which I immediately attributed to my recent acceptance of Placida into my life, so the chief of security went to the police.” Energetically, Libby continued. “And he learned that Melvin has been defrauding people all over the state, posing as all kinds of things and using soap opera names to prey on attractive, available women. And Philip said—”
“Who’s Philip?” we asked in chorus.
Libby looked prettily surprised. “Philip is the chief of security at the hospital. Didn’t I say that? And he’s a very sensitive person, I might add. He was shocked to hear what an ordeal I’ve been through, and thought I must be having a very difficult time learning to trust men again after this dreadful experience, so he—”
“Oh, Lord,” said Emma.
“What?”
“Libby,” Emma said, “isn’t it time to nurse the baby? I think you’re leaking again.”
Libby grabbed her breasts and stood up. “You’re right. Let’s step on it.”
“Does the kid have a name yet?” Michael asked. “Or is that another dangerous subject?”
“Well, Philip has a pleasantly royal ring to it, don’t you think? Or maybe Zeke. I knew a very charming Zeke once—”
Emma grabbed her. “C’mon, Lib. Let’s give these three some privacy.”
“Thank you for bringing Spike,” I called as they headed downstairs.
Michael had lulled Spike to sleep, and he put the puppy on the bed. He began to dress like a man who wanted his breakfast. I enjoyed watching.
When he got his pants on, he said, “I’m not crazy about marrying an entire family, you know.”
I smiled. “Who said anything about marrying anyone?”
“I did, just now. I don’t want to marry all three of you.”
“Michael, I can’t marry you.”
He put on his shirt and looked at me. “You don’t still believe in the Blackbird widow’s curse?”
“Of course I do. If you marry a Blackbird, you’ll be dead in no time. It’s been happening for generations. You and I can’t get married.”
He gave up dressing and crawled back into bed. “Nora, sweetheart, let’s review. Last night we definitely made a sibling for Spike. And no child of mine is going out into the world without my name on it.”
“That’s a medieval attitude.”
“I know,” he said. “Despite that, will you marry me?”
I kissed his mouth. “Get dressed and we’ll talk about it over breakfast.”
“Okay.” He got up again.
I climbed out of bed, too, and located my bathrobe. As I slipped it on, I found myself staring out the window at the barn. Emma’s horse was there, nose to the ground and tail swishing. The window was closed, but I felt a sudden draft—a ghostly whisper that stirred the curtains and slid past my skin.
I still didn’t know what to do about Rush’s killer. Let him go, or tell the police everything I knew? Ruin more lives now that one was irretrievably lost?
I turned around quickly, fastening the tie on my bathrobe. My voice was strained. “Should we take Spike downstairs with us?”
Michael had been watching me, I saw, and he knew where my mind had gone. He finished buttoning his shirt and said, “You know what they say about sleeping dogs.”
Looking for more?
Visit Penguin.com for more about this author and a complete list of their books.
Discover your next great read!
