Cross Your Heart and Hope to Die

by Nancy Martin

  Of course, the older boys began to pick on him.

  Their leader was Brinker Holt, a cocky prep school lacrosse player and champion bra snapper. Brinker stole the key to his father’s liquor cabinet and supplied his friends with expensive brandy, which they mixed with cola drinks every afternoon. The booze whipped them into high spirits and, eventually, ever-increasing acts of cruelty. At first they stole Hemorrhoid’s sneakers. A few days later they stripped him naked and left him cowering and crying behind some azalea bushes until his sister ran to the rescue with a towel.

  But Hemorrhoid went back for more every time, and soon the hazing escalated. The bigger boys used pocketknives to hack his hair off. By the end of June they regularly stuck his head in a locker room toilet and flushed. Hemorrhoid sometimes wept, but—bizarrely—returned to his tormentors every day for an entire summer.

  His sister and I watched, frightened and intimidated by the intensifying violence. To intervene meant punishment for us, too, of course. And all along Hemorrhoid seemed to want the attention he received from the older boys. We were too young to understand the psychology at work and too scared to stop it.

  Then one August evening, we came upon the boys in the parking lot. Holding Hemorrhoid down in the backseat of someone’s car, they were burning his back with cigarettes, clamping his mouth shut to muffle his screams. When we ran to get help, Hemorrhoid tore loose and shouted through his tears.

  “Leave us alone,” he had shrieked.

  Oriana took her brother home and finally reported everything. Their mother forbade Hemorrhoid to return to the pool and sent him off to a camp to learn to play bridge, a different kind of torture for some people, but probably a relief to Hemorrhoid, who loved numbers. He came back more obsessive about nose hair and drink coasters, but very good at card games. I’d heard he collected playing cards picturing royalty in erotic poses and figured that was almost healthy, for him.

  To Spike, I said, “It was very weird. Hemorrhoid wanted to be hurt so they’d be his friends.”

  Spike cocked his ear, puzzled.

  I rubbed his head and thought about Orlando. What was it like for him, trapped with Hemorrhoid now that his parents were dead?

  I said, “He’s just a kid.”

  With a low snarl, Spike asked if he was edible.

  “No,” I said.

  Trying to put it all out of my mind, I took a bath with a novel—my nightly ritual. Around midnight I slipped between the cool sheets of my bed. I lay awake, trying not to worry. Spike twitched in his sleep, and I rubbed his tummy.

  Eventually, Michael slid into the bed. I hadn’t heard him come in, nor had I been aware of him putting Spike out in the hall, but suddenly he was there, all warm muscle and slow attention.

  “Did you have a good night?” I murmured, barely awake.

  “It’s getting better,” he said against my mouth.

  I did love him. Despite months of my holding back and pushing him away, he hadn’t given up on me. He wanted me with such intensity that I sometimes felt swept into a stormy place that both frightened and excited me. I had delayed living my life almost too long. I wanted a family of my own and had recklessly, perhaps, thrown myself on the winds of chance with Michael. For better or worse, we had come together to create something that I hoped was lasting.

  In the morning, Michael woke first and made love to me again while I was still deliciously half dreaming. He headed for the shower a few minutes later, and after listening to him croon some Elvis I wobbled out of bed and into my bathrobe. Outside the bedroom door Spike looked up indignantly from his basket.

  “Forgive me,” I said to the puppy. “I can only cope with one bad boy at a time.”

  He accepted my apology and permitted me to carry him downstairs. In the kitchen, I scooped him some Puppy Chow and began making coffee in the new contraption Michael had brought over when he decided my once-very-expensive pot made sludge.

  The phone rang, and I picked up, knowing exactly who was calling.

  “Good morning, Libby.” Her kids were still sleeping off their Christmas excesses, and she was no doubt feeding the baby while waiting for LIVE with Regis and Kelly to come on.

  “You didn’t give me a straight answer yesterday,” she said over the wails of her baby. “When can I schedule a Potions and Passions party at your house?”

  “This isn’t a good time, Lib.”

  The baby stopped crying as if he’d just latched onto her breast. “Oh, Lord,” she said, “you mean That Man is there?”

  “I hear you’re calling him the Incredible Hulk now.”

  “How do you know that? Did Rawlins tell you?”

  I decided not to reveal that her sixteen-year-old son was still hanging around one of Michael’s garages after school.

  “Nora,” she said, “I don’t understand. You could have any number of suitors from our social circle. That nice Jamie Scaithe would love to sweep you off your feet, and you treat him like—”

  “Like the cocaine dealer he is.”

  “Okay, bad example. But why not a nice lawyer with a trust fund? The Incredible—I mean, That Man has a certain sex appeal, I agree, but he’s just not your type, Nora. I think it all comes back to you being unable to understand your own needs.” She paused long enough to draw a deep breath. “Which makes you the perfect Potions and Passions customer. As your Potions and Passions representative, I can teach you to discern and quantify your innermost desires and effectively communicate your—”

  “Let’s communicate about your sex life for a change,” I suggested.

  “Oh, all right,” she said happily. “Yesterday you said you didn’t want to hear another word, but if you really—”

  “I’m joking, Lib.”

  She sighed. “You’re no fun.” Then, “Is he really there?”

  I went looking for the oatmeal and decided to be brave and damn the consequences. “Yes, he’s here.”

  “Oh, my God! He spent the whole night?”

  “Yes. In fact, he’s been staying here for a few weeks.”

  Suddenly understanding in a way only sisters can comprehend, she said, “You’re trying to have a baby, aren’t you? With him! Are you crazy?”

  “No. Just afraid to wait any longer.”

  “Oh my God, does he know?”

  “Of course he knows. He wants children, too. We both want a life, Lib. Like you.”

  I knew she was smiling. Libby liked nothing more than being reminded of the joys of family and motherhood. “I’m going to be an aunt? Will you have a girl? I like to spoil little girls. Lucy has discovered baseball, and I’m so disappointed she hates ballet—Oh, heavens, this means I’ll be related to That Man, doesn’t it?”

  “Not if I don’t marry him.”

  “You can’t, of course,” she agreed. “If you do, he’ll die, you know. It’s the Blackbird widow curse.”

  “I know. But I’m afraid to wait much longer. My ovaries aren’t getting any younger.”

  “Blackbirds always have big families. It’s in your genes.” Libby considered the situation, then said, “Well, if he was with you last night, I suppose that’s better than his alternative.”

  “What alternative?” I carried the oatmeal to the stove.

  “Getting arrested,” she said. “There was a big bust. A car theft ring. It’s in today’s paper.”

  My whole circulatory system turned cold. “What happened?”

  “The police chased a bunch of crooks and caught most of them red-handed. In stolen cars—luxury cars they’ve been chopping up and sending overseas. A police officer was shot.”

  “Oh, God!”

  “He’s wounded, not dead yet. The good news is that if That Man was at home stimulating your womb, at least he isn’t mixed up in a ring of car thieves. That’s a blessing.”

  “Yes,” I said faintly. “It is.”

  “So, the sex,” she said. “Is he all Conan the Barbarian? Or is he aware of your need for satisfaction?”

  “Lib
—”

  “Women have been known to fake orgasm, but men fake foreplay. Remember that singer from Dublin I dated once? He told me Irish foreplay means ‘Brace yourself, Bridget,’ and he lived up to that, let me tell you!”

  “I am not going to discuss foreplay with you, Libby.”

  “Why not? Maybe it’s easier to talk with pictures. The two of you should look at one of my catalogs. I know you’re shy, and he’s probably completely inarticulate when it comes to the erotic arts. I’m thinking Italian men might be my target customer, in fact.”

  Spike finished his breakfast and dashed over to scratch at the back door. In my ear, Libby kept talking, but I stopped listening. All I could think about was Michael disappearing with Danny last night. I went to the door to let the puppy outside.

  “Lib, what time was the shooting?”

  “What?”

  “The car thieves. When was the police officer shot?”

  “I don’t know exactly. Let me look in the paper. It was early, I think—No, let’s see. Ten fifteen.”

  Not long after I had walked into the kitchen. So Michael couldn’t have been on the scene when it happened. Could he?

  “I hear you’re having your New Year’s party again this year,” my sister said bluntly. “Am I invited?”

  “Lib—”

  “Lexie says she’s invited. And she’s bringing people. It’s a good opportunity for me to meet potential customers. I’ll even bring my spinach dip.”

  While I struggled with the dead bolt, Spike suddenly stopped capering and glared out through the glass. He barked.

  “Bring anything you want. Bring Masters and Johnson for all I care, except—”

  “I think they’re dead.”

  “I just don’t want you to turn my dinner party into a taste test of edible underwear.”

  “But I can come?”

  “Yes, all right, you can come.”

  “Oh, you won’t regret it! I have my first shipment of products coming tomorrow.”

  “No products! Don’t bring anything!”

  She continued to babble, but I couldn’t hear her.

  At last I got the door open. Spike dashed outside and attacked the heap on the porch. Not another neighborly gift this time.

  It was a coat, I realized. Spike seized a mouthful and began to worry it, snarling and clawing.

  The coat was tied up with some kind of twine.

  And inside was a person.

  A dead person.

  She had blond hair with white roots and too much makeup for a woman of her years. She was barefoot and bare-legged, having lost her shoes somewhere. A ratty feather boa ruffled in the breeze. She had dried blood in her hair, smeared on her face.

  I felt the earth tilt. The morning sunlight darkened. Spike’s bark began to echo in my head, and everything began to blur. My heart slammed in my chest as I stared at the dead woman on my porch.

  In my ear and a thousand miles away, Libby said, “Nora? Did you hear me? Are you there? Nora? What’s wrong?”

  “It’s Kitty,” I gasped. “Kitty Keough. She’s dead.”

  A soundless snowstorm whirled up around me, and I fainted.

  Chapter 4

  I woke up with an ice pack on my face and Michael roughly wrapping me in blankets. His expression frightened me. In the distance, I could hear Spike barking, barking, barking.

  I tried to move, but my hands were tightly captured inside the blanket. “W-what happened?”

  He put me back down on the sofa, more gently than before. But his face remained taut. “It’s okay. The police are here. So’s your sister.”

  “Michael—”

  Libby arrived and shouldered him aside. She had a cup of something steamy in her hands. “Let me handle this. It happens all the time. She really ought to see a doctor.”

  “I have seen doctors,” I said, sounding infuriatingly feeble even to myself.

  “A psychologist, then. Someone who can help you deal with emergencies more appropriately.”

  “Michael,” I said again.

  He said, “She’s got a point. Let her take care of you while I talk to the cops.”

  He went away, and Libby scrunched onto the sofa beside me. Her hair was wet and hastily shoved into a clip, but she’d managed to dress in a provocative red sweater.

  “My goodness, his language goes to Hades when he’s angry. F-bombs all over the place!” She noted where I was looking. “I’m wearing the Brinker Bra. Doesn’t it do wonders? Very Jennifer Lopez.”

  More Anna Nicole Smith, actually. I wrestled one hand out of the blanket and felt my cheek under the ice pack. It throbbed. I was going to have a headache soon, too. “What happened?”

  “You fell and hit your face on the porch railing. It’s just a bump.”

  I squinted at her. “How long did it take you to get here?”

  “Seven minutes from the time you dropped the phone. I left the baby with Rawlins. He’ll babysit his brother if I pay him.”

  “How many of those seven minutes were spent putting on the bra?”

  “None. I slept in it last night.” She sat up straighter to show off her décolletage. “It’s really amazing, Nora. What support! There’s only a teensy problem.”

  “Just one?”

  “I can’t seem to get it off,” she said. “Here. Drink some tea.”

  The smell wafting from the cup made me feel weak all over again. “What is this stuff?”

  “A special tea blended by Potions and Passions. It’s supposed to have reviving properties. Go ahead. Drink.”

  My mind finally cleared enough to suspect the worst. “It’s some kind of aphrodisiac, isn’t it?”

  “It improves blood flow, that’s all. It will help reduce the bruise you’re going to have on your face. Here’s a tissue. Let’s wipe your eyes.”

  I put the stinking cup on the coffee table and sat back against the pillows. “Libby?”

  “Yes?”

  “It’s Kitty Keough, isn’t it?”

  “Yes,” my sister answered, dabbing a tissue to my face. “She’s dead.”

  Once again I felt my head spin and darken. I could not convince myself it had been a sick nightmare. Kitty Keough’s dead body was lying on my porch. The woman we’d jokingly wished might choke on her own poisonous venom was gone.

  “How?” I asked. “Did she have a heart attack?”

  Libby looked at me pityingly. She reapplied the ice to my cheek with a gentle hand. “Honey, with all that blood, I don’t think it was a heart attack. And she was tied up, too. Trussed like a Christmas goose with her own panty hose.”

  “She was . . . ?”

  “Murdered,” Libby said. “That’s what the police think. And Mr. Abruzzo says it didn’t happen here. Somebody shot her two times in the back of the head and dumped the body on your porch. That’s execution style, isn’t it? Twice in the back of the head?”

  “Why was she left on my porch?”

  Libby frowned. “I’m sure we’ll find out soon enough.”

  Two state troopers waited until I could put a coherent sentence together before they asked to talk with me in the dining room. The younger of the two had dimples, and the older one seemed to think direct eye contact could keep me from rambling off into hysterics. Michael sat next to me at the dining room table, looking capable of fending off an invading army of Mongol warriors if I said the word. I answered basic questions about what I had seen and heard over the last twelve hours.

  “And what’s your relationship with the deceased?”

  I clamped my hands between my knees to keep the trembling to a minimum. “She’s my boss. She works with me at the Intelligencer. We’re in the Features department. I spoke with her last night. She called around six to ask if I’d cover an event for her—”

  “Nora,” Michael warned.

  “It’s the truth. Kitty writes the social column, and I’m her—I was her assistant. She said she had somewhere else to go, and I was to cover a fashion show for her.�
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  “Nora,” Michael said again.

  “Sir,” said Dimples, who had not removed his hat, “will you step into the other room, please, while Miss Blackbird answers a few questions?”

  “Do I need a lawyer?” I asked.

  “Why would you need a lawyer?” The older trooper sat across the table, still peering intently into my eyes.

  “I’d like to call a lawyer,” I said.

  “Have you done anything that requires a lawyer?” the trooper asked. “How did you get that bruise, Miss Blackbird?”

  “I told you, I fainted when I found the body. I must have hit my face on the porch. You can’t be insinuating that Kitty might have hit me. She was already dead when I found her.”

  “That’s not what they’re insinuating,” Michael said.

  Still, the beady stare from the older cop. “We want to be sure you’re safe in this house, Miss Blackbird.”

  “Of course I’m safe. Until a dead body showed up on my porch and I keeled over, I was perfectly—Oh, for heaven’s sake! You think . . . ? That’s utterly ridiculous.” The complexity of my situation suddenly made me angry. “Look, I want to call my lawyer.”

  “You’re sure? I mean, we want you to be comfortable, but as soon as lawyers get involved, things slow down. The first few hours of any investigation are critical, so if we could just get a little more information, we’d be grateful.”

  Since I had watched as much television as the next person, I took the phone into the living room and telephoned my friend Tom Nelson, an attorney in the city. The state troopers hovered in the hallway and talked in low voices with Michael.

  Tom had been my dancing partner when we learned the cha-cha from the formidable Miss Markham when we were kids. While determined to avoid learning anything about ballroom dancing, he thoroughly enjoyed scuffing my shoes and telling moronic knock-knock jokes. Now we got along fine. Although his law firm was one of the busiest in the city, he took my call within a few minutes.

  “Am I invited to your New Year’s Eve party?” he asked when I blurted out my predicament. “Because we’d love to come.”

  “Tom—”

  “Okay, okay. Don’t talk to the police. If they want to schedule an interview, I’ll set up something tomorrow when you’re feeling well enough to talk. Meanwhile, don’t say anything else, all right? I mean it.”