Dead Girls Don't Wear Diamonds

by Nancy Martin

  I woke up in the same position seven hours later, so stiff I could hardly stand. I hobbled into the bathroom, which had a huge tub and a shower with jets. The hot water helped immeasurably. Afterwards, I put on Emma's pants and Michael's big shirt again.

  Downstairs, Rawlins was asleep on the floor in front of the fireplace, tangled in a sleeping bag and snoring like a young lion that had eaten an entire hippopotamus by itself. Michael was making breakfast.

  "How's Reed?" I asked, first thing.

  "Awake and complaining about the liquid diet. They're talking about releasing him in a couple of days. I guess that's a good sign, but I want to see for myself." He leaned across the counter and kissed my mouth. "I'm going to run into town later."

  "I want to go, too."

  "Sure."

  I went around the kitchen counter. Michael had pulled on his jeans, white socks and an obviously beloved, threadbare shirt, still unbuttoned so that the broad contour of his bare chest was visible. He took a saucepan of hot oatmeal off the stove and began portioning it into blue bowls with a wooden spoon and a practiced, wrist-flicking technique.

  He said, "Your nephew ate everything but my oatmeal. Even the bananas."

  "You must have eaten the same way when you were his age." I leaned my hip against the counter.

  "At his age, I was in jail," Michael said, and my heart contracted. He added, "Food was not my primary concern."

  He had not shaved yet, and yesterday's five o'clock shadow had become a rough second-day beard with tiny flecks of gray. Watching him cook made my insides ache. I thought that if he hadn't derailed his life as a teenager, he could be making breakfast for his own children by now.

  "What was your primary concern?" I asked.

  He returned the saucepan to the stove, pulled two spoons from a drawer and laid them beside the bowls. Then he snagged a plastic bear full of honey from a cupboard. He accidentally got some honey on his thumb and sucked it off without thinking. He didn't answer.

  Maybe it was the plastic honey bear that did it.

  Or maybe I couldn't stand being pushed away just when we'd started to get close.

  So I backed Michael onto a sturdy kitchen stool and climbed into his lap. I wrapped my legs around his hips and locked my ankles behind him, bracing my knees against the kitchen counter for added balance. Then I put my arms around him until my bra-less breasts were snuggled against his chest.

  "Hey," he said. "This is interesting."

  I kissed him. His mouth tasted of warm honey, and he smelled like oatmeal and something less wholesome. I slid the soft shirt off his shoulders and let it slip to the floor. Then I smoothed the strong contour of his back and felt the heat of his skin beneath my palms. He said my name against my lips and slid his hands up under my shirt until he cupped my breasts. His kisses traveled down my throat and across my collarbone. His thumbs traced irresistible circles, and I felt all my blood vessels dilate.

  The magic caught me by surprise. I was ready, I knew. Ready for the pleasures of waking up with someone, of making slow love in the golden morning light and laughing over breakfast while still languorous from the exertion. I wanted wet kisses and hot sex. A rekindled life. I was ready to take a chance on someone else, trust that he'd hold up his end of the contract, turn me on, make me happy and sometimes angry, but always alive.

  Against his mouth, I said, "You spent the summer with the wrong girl."

  I could feel his smile. "Whose fault is that?"

  We kissed a little longer, his hands warming parts of me that already felt molten. We didn't dare move for fear of falling off the stool, but managed to explore and tease until our breathing was ragged. I laced my fingers into his curly hair and tightened my thighs around him. With Rawlins so close by, we were very quiet except for the slam of our hearts.

  Finally the kiss melted away. We bumped foreheads and looked into each other's eyes. His were luminous blue. Then I whispered, "Will you tell me sometime? About your family and your life?"

  "Nora—"

  "Because it isn't going to ruin things between us. I just want to know who I'm falling in love with."

  He didn't breathe for a long moment.

  I said, "Let's make a deal. I'll let you slay a dragon for me once in a while if you'll let me inside your armor. I want to know about your father and your jail time and everything else. Think you can talk to me? Let me be your friend as well as your lover?"

  "It's for your own good that—"

  "No," I said. "I want the whole package."

  "Nora," he said patiently, "somebody's shooting at you. Doesn't that make you see how bad things can get?"

  "Somebody shot at me because I'm getting close to the right answers."

  "Getting close," he repeated. "You're not still—"

  "I'm on the right track."

  He eyed me. "You're going to continue playing detective?"

  "You said yourself we can't count on the police. The FBI and the local cops are obviously fighting over territory, putting people at risk and missing the obvious."

  "Which is?"

  I tangled my fingers in his hair again. "Last night I saw Tempeste and Oliver and Yale all going into Sidney's place for whatever reasons. That can't be a coincidence. They're all connected to Laura and to the stolen jewelry."

  "But one of them saw you and realized you are figuring things out."

  "Hence the gunfire."

  "That doesn't scare you?"

  "Of course it does. But I know in my heart that Flan is innocent. I just haven't gone after this with any kind of logic. We need a plan."

  "I like the sound of 'we.' "

  "I thought you might be able to help with a strategy."

  His hand found a soft curve. "Can I take you upstairs first?"

  With Rawlins in the house, we both knew the bedroom was out of bounds for us. "I think strategy comes first. But not on an empty stomach."

  He grinned and kissed me once more before helping me off his lap. Once on my feet, I poured coffee into mismatched mugs. Michael passed me a steaming bowl and a spoon.

  I climbed onto the other stool and pushed the plastic bear towards him. "I thought about Laura Cooper in the shower."

  "Damn. Not me?" He took the bear and proceeded to squirt a thick layer of honey on top of his oatmeal.

  "Well, after you. I think she sold the jewelry she stole to Sidney Gutnick."

  "Gutnick is the pawnshop guy? The one who might have shot Reed?"

  "He's at the top of the hit parade, yes."

  Michael stirred the honey into his oatmeal. "Should I go see him?"

  "He'd turn tail and run at the mere sight of you, and that wouldn't get us anywhere."

  "So, what are you thinking?"

  "Laura and Flan were in financial trouble. Oliver's known for being a cheapskate with his sons unless they devote their lives to the company, and Laura only worked part-time for a contractor. Maybe Laura gave the jewelry to Sidney to sell to raise some cash."

  He licked his spoon. "How do you find out for sure?"

  "While I was in the shower this morning—it's a lovely shower, by the way."

  "This used to be a weekend house for some rich New Yorker."

  "Lucky for you. Well, if Sidney doesn't have the jewelry, it has to be somewhere else. Being in the shower made me think about Laura. She was an expert at tubs and closets—all the extras people put into their luxury houses. And now that we have the blueprints for Oliver's house—where Laura was living—maybe I should look around a little. To see if there's any jewelry hidden somewhere."

  "Haven't the police done that already?"

  "Maybe they didn't know what to look for, or maybe they were looking in the wrong place. After studying these plans, I might have better luck."

  Michael ate a spoonful of oatmeal and gazed at me. "You want to break in."

  "Pay a visit," I corrected. "Flan asked for my help, after all. That's pretty much an open invitation, right?"

  He gave me a wry smi
le. "Well, that's an interpretation a good lawyer could work with. When were you thinking of taking him up on his kind offer?"

  "Laura's funeral is in South Carolina tonight. The whole family's going."

  "Think they'll leave somebody behind to look after the old homestead?"

  "Maybe, maybe not. We'd have to figure out a way to distract that person. And there's a security system to worry about, too."

  Michael pulled the blueprints over and opened them again. He pinned down the corners with the salt and pepper shakers, his coffee cup and one elbow. Then he ate his breakfast while studying the drawings.

  Oatmeal does wonders for cholesterol. And I discovered it was good comfort food for watching Michael plan a felony.

  He finished his breakfast and rolled up the blueprints. "It'll take one person on the inside, one person outside. Wouldn't hurt to have a third."

  "And the security system?"

  He leaned over and kissed my forehead. "Piece of cake."

  Chapter 15

  After breakfast, we went to see Reed. I met his mother, Rozalia Shakespeare, a daunting woman with a strong Christian faith and a booming voice prone to rising in praise of the Lord even in a hospital room.

  She said to me, "I didn't want my son shot on a street corner, but it happened anyway, just in a better neighborhood. Don't you feel bad, Miss Blackbird. God moves in mysterious ways. We can't know what He has planned for us, but we must believe He knows what He's doing."

  "You're very kind."

  "I hear you need a dog," she said. "I think I can help you with that."

  "Oh, I don't really—"

  "No, no. A woman alone needs a dog."

  Reed was embarrassed to be caught in the undignified position of his hospital bed, but his eyes widened when he saw me in Emma's leather pants.

  "See?" I said to him. "I finally changed my clothes, just for you."

  His throat was sore from the ventilator, but he managed to croak, "I like your other clothes just fine."

  Which made me want to cry again, so I patted his arm and went out into the hall.

  While Michael lingered in the room with Reed and his mother, I pulled myself together and went looking for a phone. I called Emma and told her machine not to plan anything for the evening.

  Then Michael took me to The Home Depot, where he purchased a long list of innocent-looking items that seemed to have new, nefarious purposes.

  I had never been inside The Home Depot before. I liked watching Michael banter with the sales guys, debating the virtues of nylon rope and steel clips. He rocked back on his heels to study an array of hardware that all looked the same to me, and the limber motion of his hips was mesmerizing. When he reached for a length of wire, his economy of motion made me think of a really good tennis swing. Or other physically skillful activities.

  Okay, I should have slept with him long ago.

  "That's it," he said, checking his list. "Do you have a ladder?"

  My brain had taken a fantasy tour, and I couldn't comprehend what he meant. "We're going to need a ladder?"

  He looked more closely at me. "You okay? Are you having second thoughts?"

  "No."

  We had lunch at a diner where everyone knew him and stared openly at me. I had a BLT and the best piece of lemon meringue pie I've ever tasted. Then he dropped me at Emma's place and said he had other things to take care of.

  Emma and I debated the best wardrobe for breaking and entering. We settled on the black leather pants for both of us—she had pairs in various styles depending on her mood—and black turtleneck sweaters, no jewelry. She also had some cheap scarves, which we used to tie back our hair. Emma wondered if we should darken our faces just in case, but I voted against it.

  At seven, Michael turned up again. He took one look at the two of us and burst out laughing. "What is this? Lucy and Ethel go to Harley-Davidson?"

  "Admit it," Emma said. "We look good."

  "I don't think I can handle two biker chicks at the same time."

  "Want a drink for courage?" Emma was sipping from a tall glass.

  "I think I'd better keep a clear head. Did you manage to borrow your friend's vehicle?"

  Emma lived in a spare apartment over an antique shop in New Hope. She led us down the back stairs to the rear parking lot as the huge red pickup truck roared into view. Out stepped her rodeo boyfriend, a skinny, bandy-legged young man with a sweet smile and a glint of boyish mischief in his eye. He had a thatch of blond hair and wore tight jeans, pointy-toed boots and a perfectly ironed white shirt with the professional bull rider's logo stitched above the yoke. He took off his Stetson to me and shook Michael's hand, but he couldn't take his eyes off Emma, who didn't kiss him hello or mention his name. She jerked her thumb for him to follow her upstairs to her apartment, and he hurried after her like a little boy who'd been promised Popsicles on a hot day.

  Michael looked after them and said, "That boy is in big trouble."

  Emma returned, carrying a glass newly filled with ice and clear liquid. "Ready?"

  "That was quick," I observed.

  "He'll wait," she said. "I've given him a few things to think about until I get back." She dangled his keys in the air. "Meanwhile, we can go for a ride."

  Michael was looking at the red pickup. "I guess you couldn't find a fire truck?"

  "Is it too ostentatious?"

  "Not for a Fourth of July parade."

  "It's the best I could do on short notice."

  "Maybe I should go look for something a little less showy," Michael said. "Something that doesn't glow in the dark."

  I vetoed that. "I don't want us to be caught riding around in a stolen vehicle."

  "Who said anything about stealing?"

  "This will have to do," I decided. "Let's get it loaded up."

  He checked his watch. "And hurry."

  We loaded the supplies from Michael's car into the truck, debating whether or not to go to the farm for a ladder. We decided against it. Afterwards, I took a sip of Emma's drink to quench my thirst and realized it was vodka.

  "Maybe you ought to drive," I said to Michael.

  But Emma took the glass and climbed into the cab. "I know the way. Let's go."

  It was dark by the time we got to the Cooper estate. We went by the driveway once, all three of us peering down the lane to see if we could catch a glimpse of the house through the trees. Unfortunately, all the autumn leaves hadn't fallen yet, so we couldn't see more than a tiny light winking at us in the distance.

  "Park here?" Emma asked, slowing down.

  "Maybe in the woods," I suggested.

  "If I tear the muffler off this sucker, Nora, it's your bill." Emma aimed the pickup at a heavily foliaged bank.

  I checked my watch again. "We wanted to get transportation from an owner with an alibi. Is he going to get suspicious if we don't come back right away?"

  "It's okay. He can't get out of bed."

  "I have a feeling," said Michael, bracing himself against the dashboard, "that we don't want to know why."

  "Handcuffs," said Emma, focused, on driving. "Hang on!"

  The truck bumped over something big, bouncing us against the restraints of our seat belts. Emma changed gears and rammed the truck up the slope. We narrowly cut between two trees and thumped over a fallen log. The headlights stabbed into a huge pine, and Emma yanked the wheel to avoid slamming straight into it.

  My little sister gunned the engine, threw the truck into yet another gear before charging through the woods at a breathtaking rate of speed. Pine branches swiped past the windows, the tires bounced over rocks, and something loud crunched beneath us. Emma kept her foot hard on the accelerator, and both hands fought the wheel as we roared deeper into the woods.

  Finally she jammed on the brakes, and the truck rocked to a halt inches from a creek bed. The three of us looked over the hood at the rushing water a few feet below.

  "Hold up," Michael said. "Let me check the territory."

  He unfastened
his seat belt, opened the passenger door and slid out.

  "This is fun," Emma said.

  I said, "Handcuffs, for crying out loud." But I was thinking about the vodka.

  Michael returned. "Leave the truck here. The rest of the way we'll go on foot."

  We got out and joined Michael under the trees in the cool night air. Clouds were scudding overhead, occasionally obscuring the moon, but I could see well enough to walk without risk of breaking a leg. I worried about Emma, though, who didn't need another injury. She looked perfectly sober, but I couldn't guess how much she'd had to drink.

  Michael strapped a tool belt around his hips. "Ready?"

  "This way," I said, hoping I could remember the lay of the land as I had observed it on the night of Oliver Cooper's party.

  We hiked about half a mile through the tangled forest—following the flicker of lights ahead. Emma muttered about poison ivy. Michael leaped lightly over a small stream. I jumped after him and landed on dry ground, but Emma stumbled into the water. She climbed out cursing, but unharmed. We reached the perimeter of the landscaped property in less than fifteen minutes. When we hunkered down behind a fragrant pine tree, I reached for the bird-watching binoculars I wore around my neck. They had belonged to Grandmama Blackbird, who used them at the opera. I scanned the house.

  "Stay down," Michael warned quietly. "Don't move more than necessary. The security system is still functioning."

  "How are we going to fix that?" Emma whispered. "They've probably got lasers and a SWAT team that comes by helicopter."

  "Don't worry."

  "If you say so." She sounded doubtful.

  We stayed quiet. The night was cool, very still, very October. Beside me, Michael and Emma squinted at the house for signs of human habitation.

  I swept the property with the binoculars. I could make out the shapes of topiary bushes and Doe's overdone flower beds. At last, I trained the lenses on the airstrip at the far end of the property. "I see a bunch of parked cars. All the planes are gone."