Dead Girls Don't Wear Diamonds

by Nancy Martin

  He tapped his fingers on the table twice. "A lot of condolence messages have come up from Washington. So far, Laura's death hasn't become an issue for us."

  "So far," I repeated. "You don't think suicide is the real story?"

  "I don't know anything about that," he replied, sounding like a politician. "The best we can do is let the experts handle everything. I did notice one thing. Laura's recent change in appearance. She wanted to look like you, Nora. Her husband said she wanted to be like you. Why is that?"

  "I didn't know her well enough to even guess."

  In his sweet Appalachian twang, Jack asked, "Do you have an alibi for the night of her death?"

  I felt my spine stiffen. "Of course I do. My driver took me home. I was in bed before midnight."

  "Well, that's good," he said, in a tone that indicated he might be willing to buy a bridge somewhere. "Were you alone?"

  I could only glare at him.

  He spread his palms innocently. "You could have gone out again. Except you don't drive. At least," he added, "you claim you don't drive."

  A lightning bolt hit me between the eyes. Or maybe it was just the beginning of a monster hangover. Suddenly I knew why the FBI hadn't come knocking on my door yet.

  Because Jack Priestly had already interviewed me.

  I drank the last swallow of coffee and marshaled my thoughts.

  "Can you confirm you were at home all night?"

  I felt a red-hot bolt of anger inside again. "Have you confirmed everyone's alibi? Where was Oliver, for example?"

  "With me—at least, until one in the morning. Then a Secret Service agent remained outside his bedroom for the rest of the night."

  "And you?" I asked. "I suppose you were surrounded by people all night?"

  He smiled. And ignored the question. "I'm sorry I've upset you."

  "I'm not upset by you. A young woman is dead, and somebody is getting away with killing her—that upsets me."

  Jack nodded. "Everyone needs closure. The funeral is being arranged. Maybe that will help. The body will be released soon, so the family has started making plans. It's going to be a private affair, I understand. By invitation. And frankly, Nora," he added, "I'm not sure you'll be on the invitation list."

  I realized my mouth was open, and closed it quickly. Then, "Because of my argument with Laura? Or my relationship with Flan?"

  "Because of your relationship with someone else."

  "Someone else?"

  Jack said, "You associate with a person with whom the Coopers would prefer not to be linked in any way. We must keep Oliver above reproach right now."

  "What person?" I demanded.

  "Big Frankie Abruzzo."

  "I've never met the man!"

  "But you've been seeing his son."

  "I haven't—well, all right, I know Michael, but I never laid eyes on his father."

  "His father is gravely ill, I hear."

  "Yes, I—I heard that."

  "And if he dies?"

  "I don't understand what you're driving at."

  "If Big Frankie Abruzzo dies, who do you suppose will take over his business?"

  "I haven't the slightest—" I stopped myself. "It won't be Michael."

  "No?"

  "Of course not. They don't speak. Michael has no connection to his father's activities."

  "You're sure about that?"

  "Yes, I'm sure."

  I wasn't, of course. Not completely certain. I knew Michael had interests in all kinds of peculiar businesses, and I assumed none of them were more ominous than the Marquis de Sod and a string of gas stations.

  But it occurred to me that maybe I shouldn't be discussing Michael Abruzzo with a government lawyer or FBI agent or any other guise Jack cared to wrap himself in.

  Perhaps Jack saw my thoughts because he shrugged and said benignly, "Well, I'm sure you know what you're talking about."

  I cleared my throat and reached for my handbag. "I'm going home now."

  Jack reached over and restrained my hand. "If you don't mind my saying so, Nora, you're wandering into some dangerous territory. I'd like to help you stay safe, if I can."

  "I can take care of myself."

  "Well, good. Shall I take you home?"

  I gathered up my handbag composedly. "Thank you, but that won't be necessary."

  "Then you'll be allowing the Cooper family to mourn their daughter-in-law?"

  I stood up. "I wouldn't dream of intruding on the Coopers."

  He walked me to the street. I went home with Reed, making only one stop along the way. I ducked into a quick market to buy some Excedrin and load up on local newspapers. As Reed drove, I prepared to read up on Big Frankie Abruzzo's medical condition.

  But first I opened my handbag to stow the Excedrin.

  Inside my handbag lay Tempeste Juarez's snake-skin day planner. I had forgotten to give it to her.

  I couldn't resist. I opened the book.

  And discovered it wasn't Tempeste's at all.

  Instead, I found myself looking at Doe Cooper's detailed entertainment notes. It was Doe who had left the book on the tea room table.

  I flipped through page after page and discovered that Doe had written down every guest she ever invited, every meal she ever planned, every caterer she hired, what she wore and even—I couldn't believe it—what color her lipstick had been. Her tiny, perfect handwriting was compulsively neat. She included Polaroids of flower arrangements so she'd be sure never to repeat herself. Lists included the best invitation engravers, calligraphers and postage services.

  She had a separate section for special notes about specific guests.

  Under my name, for example, she had written Newspaper contact, friend of Lexie Paine, reads books, hates Jamie Scaithe, Flan's lover.

  Being somewhat of an entertaining aficionado myself, I knew many women kept track of their parties so as not to repeat mistakes or pair two people who despised each other at a dinner table. But I had never seen such accuracy in my life.

  Under Laura Cooper's name, Doe had written only Keep away.

  Naturally, a good hostess would have wanted to spare her guests Laura's thievery.

  I had to return the book as soon as possible. I could see Doe having a meltdown if she thought she'd lost her Bible.

  At home, my answering machine was blinking like crazy.

  I returned Libby's call before telephoning Doe.

  I could hear her children in the background making the usual dinnertime hubbub. She said to me, "You have to come with me tomorrow to my OB appointment."

  In all the concern for Laura Cooper, I had forgotten about offering to help Libby through her labor and delivery. I felt as if she'd thrown a bucket of cold water over me. "What's wrong?"

  "Nothing. I just want you to come."

  "Am I officially your Lamaze coach?"

  "No, I found somebody else for that," she said. "I'll pick you up at nine."

  "Okay," I said, ready to ask for more details, but she had already hung up.

  There was no message from Michael, and I decided not to risk my pride by leaving any more messages on his voice mail, either.

  With a splitting headache, I went to bed and vowed to call Doe first thing in the morning.

  I overslept and woke with a humdinger of a hangover. I drank a glass of tomato juice and took a limp carrot out to the barn to feed Mr. Twinkles. While he crunched it, I tried to will my headache into submission. Libby arrived in a spray of gravel and blew her horn, which nearly exploded my eyeballs. I crawled into her minivan, determined not to whimper, and she set off for her doctor's office. She wanted to know all about Big Frankie Abruzzo.

  "Why do you imagine I know anything?" I asked, trying to rally. In my mouth, the taste of moldy mothballs had resisted several toothbrushings and made speaking difficult. "You've read exactly the same newspapers I have."

  "Is he going to live or die?"

  "I don't know!" I snapped, then winced as the invisible knife sliced through my he
ad.

  "Well, what does your friend say about his father?"

  "I haven't spoken to Michael in days."

  "Really?" She shot a surprised look at me. "Still trouble in paradise?"

  "There is no paradise," I snapped. "Keep your eyes on the road, please."

  "Jeez, who bit you on the ass?"

  "Sorry. Really, I'm very sorry. I had a bad night and I'm taking it out on you."

  "You're forgiven." She managed to keep quiet for eight seconds before bursting out, "But aren't you curious? About what's going to happen if his father dies? I heard on the radio there might be a gangland war. They might go to the mattresses."

  I couldn't stop myself. "Do you know how ridiculous that sounds? There isn't going to be a gang war over a few video poker machines."

  "If you say so." Libby sounded doubtful as she shot a wary glance at me "Did you know your friend has a different mother than the rest of his siblings?"

  "Yes."

  "His mother was his father's mistress."

  "I know, Libby. I read the papers, too."

  "What a family! Do you think it's a great idea for my future nieces and nephews to grow up in a criminal culture?"

  "Can I even come close to guessing what you mean by that?"

  "If you decide to have children with that Abruzzo person," Libby said, "you should think about the influences they'll be exposed to."

  "Is that why you wanted me to come along today?" I demanded. "Is this excursion part of your campaign for me to have a baby?"

  "Who said anything about a campaign?"

  "I have no intention of having a baby in the near future."

  "But you will," she predicted. "I can see you're getting the urge."

  The only urge I had was the urge to scream.

  "What was he in jail for, anyway? Do you know?"

  I sighed. There was no use keeping the truth from her. "Stealing motorcycles. He went to a juvenile facility first, but he got into trouble fighting there, and was sent to an adult prison for a couple of years."

  "Oh, dear. Did he have any weird sexual things happen behind bars?"

  "Libby, sometimes I wonder if you were raised by wolves while I wasn't looking."

  "It's a logical curiosity. Don't you watch any daytime talk shows?" She braked for a traffic signal. "Red light!" she cried. "Do your kegels!"

  "What?"

  "Your kegel exercises. Every time you see a red light, you're supposed to strengthen your pelvic muscles by doing your kegels. C'mon!"

  I looked at my sister, who glared very hard at the red light overhead. I said, "Maybe I should have you hospitalized. You've lost your mind."

  "Do your exercises," she commanded. "That Abruzzo person will thank you."

  OB-GYN offices came in two varieties, I decided once we arrived for Libby's appointment. One was the type with fuzzy romantic pictures of sunsets on the walls and a toy box full of mismatched Fisher-Price toys in one corner. The other kind had anatomically correct posters of the uterus tacked up beside the nutritional pyramid.

  Trust Libby to find something out of the norm.

  The receptionist wore a caftan and rushed to give Libby a hug, which was quite a feat since both of them were hugely pregnant. While they gushed over each other, I peered around the waiting room. The lights were dim, scented candles flickered on the table that functioned as the receptionist's desk and the recorded sound of night crickets chirped from hidden speakers. I could smell an earthy scent in the air, like fresh rain. I felt as if I'd walked into a womb.

  The room was filled with huge La-Z-Boy chairs with pastel slipcovers. One expectant mother snored peacefully in the chair nearest me. In a different corner, another young woman had her feet up as she nursed a very small infant.

  Libby introduced me to Tara, the receptionist, who made us each a cup of herbal tea and talked to Libby about her bladder. I wandered over to check the selection of magazines.

  Before I had to choose between New Baby and Cosmo, a nurse opened the opposite door to call for the next patient. I was glad to see she had a stethoscope around her neck and wore standard medical scrubs with sensible shoes.

  "Rebecca?" she said to me.

  "No, I'm just visiting."

  She didn't respond with effusive perkiness, but had a friendly, knowing smile. "Checking us out for the future?"

  "I'm here with my sister, Libby Kintswell."

  She looked past me in Libby's direction and nodded. "Well, we're not as nutty as we look. Come back when you need us. Is Rebecca here?"

  The nursing mother adjusted her clothing and struggled up out of the chair with her baby in her arms. A large purse and bulky diaper bag dragged on the crook of her elbow and banged her knees.

  "Here." The businesslike nurse went to her rescue. "You won't need all that stuff. Maybe Libby's sister can hold the baby while you see the doctor."

  They both looked at me, and Libby and the receptionist did, too.

  "Okay," I said after only a heartbeat.

  All of a sudden the four of them wanted me to learn everything there was to know about holding babies, and I began to suspect Libby's plot had more operatives than the CIA. They settled me into one of the chairs and adjusted the baby's head on my arm with a lot of cooing and fussing. Of course I'd held Libby's children when they were babies. But for some reason, everybody thought I needed a crash course in gentleness.

  "His name is Aaron," the new mother said softly before she departed for her exam. "He's four weeks old today."

  Then they left me with the baby.

  The dim lights and scented air were hokey, and the sound-effects tape seemed ridiculous to me. But that tiny boy blinked and mewed in my arms, and I suddenly shut out all the foolishness. He kicked his little legs until a satisfying burp escaped, and he looked so pleased with himself that I found myself smiling down into his face like a complete sap.

  I touched Aaron's perfect fingers as he closed his eyes.

  In my arms, he turned his head, instinctively seeking his mother's breast as he dozed. His delicate mouth made wistful sucking motions.

  My mind wandered to Laura Cooper. Would she have been happier in general if she'd had children? Would she have been so concerned about her position in society if another human being depended upon her? Would she have been less self-absorbed if she had enriched her life with a family of her own?

  If she'd had a child, would Laura have felt the need to reinvent herself as someone else?

  The baby drifted to sleep as I looked down at him. The tiny blue veins in his eyelids were more fragile than the threads of a dandelion puff. And who wouldn't be affected by that intoxicating baby smell? I trailed my fingertips along the downy tips of his dark hair. It curled against his fragile head in tiny ripples.

  Unmarried, with no children of my own, wasn't exactly the place I had imagined for myself at thirty-one. All right, a part of me wanted exactly what Libby had—lots of kids to hug at night and coach through their homework and cheer from the sidelines of a baseball field. But things hadn't worked out for my marriage, and I'd known for at least two years before Todd died that children weren't going to happen for us. When the drug life finally got him killed, I thought my own future had been blown away, too. Even as little as a few months ago I was still buried deep inside myself, destroyed by what he'd done to himself and to us. But now, looking at the child in my arms, I wondered if maybe I had come up to breathe the air at last.

  Libby stole past me for her appointment, and I barely looked up.

  Chapter 10

  When I got home late that day, I finished sealing the Big Sister/Little Sister envelopes while listening to the messages on my answering machine.

  My boss, Stan Rosenstatz said, "Hi, Nora. Nice job on the zoo story. I'll call you later in the week if we have more assignments for you."

  If? Strange. Usually Stan had a long list of events Kitty refused to attend.

  Lexie Paine's voice came next, shouting, "Sweetie, I've got two seats to La Boh
eme next week. Save me the agony of taking my mother, will you? We'll have a bitchin' dinner somewhere and throw spitballs into the orchestra pit. What do you say?"

  Libby came on next, muttering, "I think I dialed the wrong number."

  I should have called them all back.

  But Doe Cooper's day planner lay on the kitchen table and called to me.

  I knew I should pick up the phone and call Doe to tell her I'd found her book.

  A niggling voice in the back of my head suggested, however, that I keep it a little longer.

  I skipped returning phone calls and instead took Doe's book upstairs to read. In the bathtub, I flipped through a few pages, not sure what I was looking for. Endless details of Doe's life were carefully cataloged on the pages. I kept thinking some useful clue might jump out at me.

  Then Detective Bloom telephoned.

  "Got anything for me?" he asked.

  "Have you noticed we never have any small talk?" I said, putting the day planner on the floor while pinning the portable phone between my ear and bare, wet shoulder. "I don't know anything about you."

  "What's wrong? You okay?"

  I listened for some emotion in his voice, but wasn't sure I heard any. He sounded concerned, but in a professional, practiced, coplike sort of way. I could hear a whirring sound behind him.

  "I'm feeling contemplative," I said. "Probably because I spent the day with my sister, and she's enough to make anyone take stock in life. We even had our faces done at Bloomingdale's, but it didn't seem to fix anything. I'm babbling."

  "A little," he agreed.

  "Never mind. No, I don't really have anything for you."

  "Nothing?" he pressed.

  "Well," I said, and stopped. I ran more hot water into the tub.

  He waited until the water stopped running. "Well?"

  At last, I admitted, "There's a relationship between Tempeste and a jewelry expert I know, but I can't make sense of it yet."

  "Sidney Gutnick?"

  "Yes." I poured more bath oil into my palm. "Did you know I'd seen him?"

  "I know lots of stuff."

  "Well, he wasn't at the Cooper party, so I suppose we can write him off our list of suspects." When he didn't respond, I prompted, "Right?"