Cross Your Heart and Hope to Die

by Nancy Martin

  “It came to me in a dream. What man’s dreams aren’t full of women’s breasts?”

  Except he didn’t use the word breasts. Once again, a comedian’s trick—using a crude word to score a crude laugh.

  When the laugh didn’t come, he asked me, “And how do you rate being a fashion expert in this town?”

  “I’m not. I simply wear old clothes because I can’t afford anything new.”

  “But she always manages to look stunning,” Dilly interjected.

  I decided to take the bull by the horns. “I’m working for the Intelligencer. In Kitty Keough’s place. I understand you requested she not come to your show last night.”

  He looked startled. “I did?”

  “Or someone in your organization did.”

  “Well, that old bat deserves a slap in the face now and then.”

  Kitty had once called him “Baldy Brinker” in her column, when Brinker’s receding hairline started to become obvious. Now he shaved his head but I imagined her remark still stung.

  “Nobody likes Kitty much,” Dilly agreed, “but that doesn’t mean—”

  “Let her find somebody new to kick around. Besides, even the Brinker Bra can’t help those sagging udders of hers.” Brinker gave me a sneery, triumphant smile.

  “It doesn’t really matter,” I said, “since Kitty passed away last night. In fact, she was murdered.”

  Dilly’s jaw dropped. “Good Lord!”

  Brinker looked as if he’d swallowed a hand grenade.

  I said, “She was barred from your show earlier in the evening.”

  “We had to limit the guest list.” As if seizing on a good idea, Brinker said quickly, “Fire regulations. You expect us to invite the entire city to these events? We had to cut somebody.”

  “I see. But she had your name written in her appointment book for yesterday.”

  “So?” Brinker began to look belligerent. “That doesn’t mean anything. I didn’t know the bitch.”

  “That’s odd,” Dilly said. “I thought your family knew her quite well. In fact, I clearly remember your father throwing a drink in her face once. Because of something she wrote about your grandmother?”

  If possible, Brinker turned pale. “One old broad writing about another? Who cares?”

  “Care to comment on Kitty’s death?” I asked.

  “No,” he said shortly. “No comment at all.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I know who you are.” He suddenly pretended to recognize me. “I’ve got your little sister working for me, did you know that?”

  Brinker lifted the camera to his eye and turned on his heel. He walked away, already filming other people.

  “Hard to believe a young man can be so pompous,” Dilly said.

  “He’s not my favorite person either. What do you know about his grandmother?”

  “Old Biddy Holt? You never met her? Now there was a barracuda! She was very strict. Used to lock the family butler in his room when he slipped up. She thought she was punishing him, but he read the whole Zane Grey oeuvre several times.”

  “Brinker gets his cheery personality from his grandma?”

  “Very likely. She and Kitty had a feud for years as a matter of fact. Something about an umbrella at a garden party. Biddy claimed Kitty stole hers or visa versa. There was hair pulling and retaliation involving dog shit in somebody’s limousine, as I recall. You must have been away in college at the time. Otherwise you’d remember the sordid details. It was a pitched battle.”

  “Sounds awful.”

  “It was actually quite entertaining. Don’t let Brinker spoil your day, dear heart. He’s beneath you. Now spill the beans.” Dilly pulled me by the elbow until we stood apart from the crowd. “Ding-dong, the witch is dead? And murdered, no less? What does Brinker have to do with it?”

  “Maybe nothing,” I said, relieved that he was gone. I smiled at my old friend. “What do you know about Brinker’s arrival on the fashion scene, Dilly?”

  “It was incredibly sudden,” Dilly observed. “One minute he’s telling jokes in a dive, and now he’s heralding himself as the next Marc Jacobs? You and I both know it doesn’t happen this way. He should have spent years working his way up, designing for some Italian divas or in a Hong Kong sweatshop. It’s very suspicious.”

  “Have you heard anything?”

  “The truth is bound to come out. But,” said Dilly, “if Brinker Holt designed that bra, I’m going to take up brain surgery.”

  I gave his arm a grateful pat. “Don’t buy your scalpel yet, Dilly.”

  “Are you going to assume Kitty’s column, Nora?”

  “They haven’t offered me the job.”

  “Yet,” Dilly predicted. He reached into the pocket of his blazer and came up with a silver case. From it, he delicately removed a business card. “Why don’t you call me sometime? We’ll have lunch. You need a friend in the biz, someone to talk through professional matters with—from the point of view of someone who shares your background.”

  “Thanks, Dilly. I can use all the good advice I can get.”

  He presented his card to me. It was vellum with embossed letters, not a quick card from Kinko’s. “You’ll do fine on your own, Nora. Just don’t let the corporate bastards get you down.”

  I gave him a heartfelt kiss. “I’ll keep in touch.”

  We parted ways, and a minute later I literally bumped into Richard D’eath.

  Richard’s cane clattered to the floor, and I hid my surprise at seeing him there by bending to pick it up. Tartly, I said, “You career journalists sure know a hot story when you see one.”

  “Actually,” he said, accepting the cane without thanks, “I was looking for you. Can we talk?”

  I couldn’t have been more surprised if he suggested we run off to Disney World. “Talk about what?”

  “Kitty Keough’s death.”

  I should have known he was on the job. And he wanted information from me.

  His gaze narrowed. “Is there something wrong with your face?”

  Without thinking, I touched my cheek. “No, nothing.”

  He shrugged. “You disappeared last night. You have some time now?”

  “Not really, no. You see—”

  “It will only take a few minutes.”

  “I’m—”

  “Got something to hide?”

  “I have a lot on my mind today.”

  “Like Kitty Keough’s death? Or your boyfriend’s arrest?”

  He watched my expression as an icy chill washed over me. I should have known Richard was way ahead of me.

  “Don’t try to kid a kidder, Miss Blackbird. We both know you’re not chasing front-page news. I heard your boyfriend got himself arrested this morning.”

  “How do you know who my boyfriend is?”

  “There are some people who make news when they sneeze. Mick Abruzzo is one of those people.”

  “He wasn’t arrested. Michael is being asked some questions. When bad things happen, the police automatically assume he has information.”

  “Especially when the bad things concern you?”

  “Kitty’s death has nothing to do with me.”

  “If the dead body turned up on your doorstep, the murder very much has something to do with you. And, by extension, the man you’re involved with. I hear he’s not exactly the tea-and-crumpets type.”

  “Let me guess,” I said, adding up all the clues. “Your story is organized crime.”

  “Not yet, it isn’t. Talk to me. Maybe there’s an angle I’m missing.”

  The last person I wanted to talk to today was Richard D’eath, especially if he had decided to write about Michael. I felt certain he could twist my words into an unflattering story, and I didn’t have the strength to outwit him today. But ditching him obviously wasn’t going to be graceful.

  “All right,” I said, “but I have to speak with my photographer first. Even the society column has a deadline.”

  “Sure,” he sai
d, suspiciously good-humored. “Do what you have to do. I’ll wait. It’ll be interesting to watch you work.”

  “You might notice other things that are more interesting here.”

  “You mean all these women in Brinker Bras?”

  “They’re hard to ignore, aren’t they? Even for a seasoned reporter like yourself.”

  He remained unflustered. “I like women with a little mystery. I’ll wait for you right here.” Richard leaned against the marble wall by the exit I’d have to use to make my clean getaway.

  I looked for Libby, but didn’t see her in the crowd. So I found Lee Song again.

  “Lee, can I ask you a favor?”

  He still had a grin on his usually impassive face. “If it involves hanging around with these models for a few more hours, I’m your man.”

  “Sorry to disappoint.” I smiled. “Will you find my sister and give her a message for me?”

  “Happy to.”

  Lee listened carefully and agreed to help.

  I glanced over my shoulder and saw that Richard had been approached by Fawn and Fontayne Finehart, who could surely distract even him with their attributes. I had a minute, at least.

  I found a ticket counter blessedly open, and I bought my ticket quickly. In another moment I was headed for the trains. A fully dressed woman hardly rated a glance from the transit cop. But once out of Richard’s sight, I whipped off my Dior coat and turned it inside out to show the other side—small checks instead of big attention-getting blocks of primary colors. Then I plunged downstairs toward the trains.

  As I boarded, Spike poked his head out of my bag and demanded to know where we were going.

  “We’re making our escape,” I told him, sliding into the ladies’ room and closing the door behind me. Safely inside, I used the time to gather my wits and powder my nose.

  At last, the train gave a lurch and began to move. Spike dashed around my feet, panting with excitement. He loved moving vehicles.

  As the train cleared the station, I felt safe enough to let myself out of the loo. With Spike once again stowed in my bag, I found plenty of open seats. I slipped into one in a middle row. As Spike struggled to look out the window, I whispered, “Don’t draw any attention, please. Behave yourself.”

  “Who, me?” asked Richard, taking the adjacent seat.

  Chapter 6

  I blushed like a teenager caught shimmying down a drain spout.

  “Can we have a conversation now?” he asked.

  Spike told Richard to get the hell off the train.

  “Take it easy, pooch,” Richard said. “I’m already a wounded man.” He looked closer at Spike with his plaster cast. “And what the hell happened to him?”

  “It was an accident a few weeks ago,” I said, trying to stuff Spike back into my handbag.

  “How does the other guy look?” Richard relaxed into his seat with a short, pained explosion of breath, then glanced at me. “Do you always dress like you’re in an Audrey Hepburn movie?”

  “Would I look more professional in a safari jacket?”

  “I think you’d look great in just about anything.”

  Before I could completely absorb what he’d said, he added, “From the way you just tried to disappear down a rabbit hole, I figure Audrey has something to hide.”

  I decided to come clean and apologize. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have run away.”

  “I understand. You’re trying to protect somebody.”

  “He doesn’t need my protection. He’s innocent. You’ll have to find yourself another story.”

  Spike chose that moment to chomp his jaws around Richard’s cane and growl.

  Richard wisely allowed Spike to take possession. “I don’t know what my story is yet. That’s what I’m trying to find out. But if the clues point to organized crime, that’s where I’m going.”

  “Why were you at the fashion show last night? To watch the launch of the Brinker Bra? Or to watch me?”

  He met my gaze, and I was surprised to realize he had one blue eye and one hazel. The discovery shook me. I had hoped to keep Richard out of my head completely, and here he was insinuating his way into my conscious mind.

  “Why don’t we make a pact,” he said, noticing the moment that stretched between us, too. “I’ll tell you something useful if you tell me something useful.”

  I hesitated.

  “I’ll go first. Brinker Holt is involved with something besides women’s underwear.”

  Still gripping Richard’s cane in his teeth, Spike cautiously settled down on my lap, keeping one eye cocked on Richard to make sure there were no false moves.

  “Brinker is your story?”

  “If the Brinker Bra catches on like everybody’s saying, Brinker stands to make hundreds of millions of dollars.”

  “As far as I know, that’s not illegal.”

  Richard shrugged. “Where that much money is involved, there’s usually something else going on. Especially when the guy has a track record.”

  “As in his comedy club burning down.”

  “Conveniently,” Richard said. “From the insurance money, Brinker had enough cash to get his fashion venture off the ground. My question is, did he light a match to his own club? Or have some help from a pro who knew how to torch the place without getting caught?”

  “What are you suggesting?”

  He risked bodily harm by reaching out to scratch Spike behind his ears. “I’m not suggesting anything. I’m just asking questions.”

  “You think Michael is an arsonist now?”

  “Abruzzo has a lot of talents,” Richard observed. “One of them is his skill at avoiding convictions.”

  I decided to dislike Richard on a permanent basis. “So you are investigating organized crime. Okay, smart guy, what does the comedy club fire have to do with Kitty Keough’s death?”

  “I don’t know yet. Do you?”

  “They’re totally unrelated events.”

  “You sure?”

  No, I wasn’t. What had Michael said long ago? Something about two crimes happening at the same time tended to be connected.

  Under Richard’s fingertip massage, Spike gave up growling. Traitor that he was, my dog let out a contented gurgle and began to suck on the handle of Richard’s cane.

  “All I know is that Michael has been detained for Kitty’s murder because he happened to be in my house when I discovered her body. He’ll be out of police custody very soon, and then the real investigation can begin.”

  “Why do you think her body ended up at your house?”

  “I don’t know,” I said at once, automatically defensive. But when Richard didn’t react, I said more slowly, “Somebody’s trying to throw blame.”

  “Or send a message?”

  “To me?”

  “Maybe,” Richard said. “Or to Abruzzo.”

  “What if somebody is trying to frame Michael?”

  “Why would anybody do that?”

  I looked out the window. The train had gathered momentum and left the city limits behind. I couldn’t begin to guess how many enemies Michael had. I knew scant few of his friends, and most of those made Tony Soprano’s crew look like a Little League team.

  “Look,” Richard said, “I don’t know what your relationship is with the Abruzzo guy. I’ve heard a few things around the news desk, that’s all. I find it hard to believe a woman like you could be seriously mixed up with a character like him, but—”

  “You don’t know anything about him.”

  “Only what’s in the papers,” he agreed. “Money laundering, illegal gambling, maybe the biggest car theft ring in the nation. It’s not inconceivable that he could be an arsonist, too.”

  “The Abruzzo family might be mixed up in that kind of crime, but not Michael.”

  “Does he know Brinker?”

  “Of course not!”

  I could feel Richard looking at me. Softer, he said, “So you’re really seeing him?”

  “I’m not explaining my
self to you.”

  “Okay, let me try explaining to myself. Tell me if I’m right. Mick Abruzzo is a lying sociopath who says whatever it takes to get a woman into his bed. And right now that woman is you.”

  “He doesn’t lie!”

  “No? What does he do? What happened to your face, Nora?”

  I fought down the urge to kick Richard right in his lame leg.

  Michael told me the truth; that I was sure about. He might occasionally leave out information he knew I didn’t want to hear. There was a small difference between that and lying, perhaps, but I could live with it.

  “We might look like opposites,” I said slowly, “but we’re alike. I know it doesn’t make sense to you, but we’ve both been places we don’t want to go back to.”

  “Meaning jail for him.”

  “Yes. His jail wasn’t much different than where I was.”

  “You’re a rich girl with fancy clothes and powerful friends. How is that life remotely like a prison cell?”

  “My clothes have nothing to do with who I am inside. Michael sees that. We’ve both made some foolish choices in the past, and we paid a price. Now we both need—Oh, never mind.” Suddenly I found I couldn’t swallow and my words dried up. I took a steadying breath. “If you’re on a crusade to put Michael back in jail, you’re asking for help from the wrong person.”

  Richard shrugged. “A smart, beautiful woman like you doesn’t need my advice when it comes to your love life. But I’ve seen some heartbreak in my day. People have been known to turn to the wrong kind of person to help them through tough times.”

  “Is this the part where you warn me not to get hurt? That’s very sweet, Richard, but it’s transparent. Don’t try to befriend me—or my dog—so you can get information.”

  “No need for coddling,” he said, removing his hand from Spike’s ears. “Okay, I like that. Tell me what you know. Last night you were all over that kid. The one with the Game Boy. Who was he?”

  “Are you always this insulting? You already know who he is.”

  He nodded. “Orlando Lamb. Who—speaking of hundreds of millions of dollars—is the nephew of Hemmings, who’s been sniffing around the Brinker Bra for weeks. What’s going on?”

  “I have no idea.”

  He sent me a disbelieving smirk. “You were pretty quick to chase after the kid last night.”