by Nancy Martin
“So now you’re involved in covering up a murder.”
“I’m not happy about it.”
“Was Kitty in the car while you were with Danny? Or did he put her somewhere and come back later to leave her body on my porch?”
“Damned if I know. Maybe he had some help. He’s too much of a mutt to figure out anything more complicated than a parking meter by himself.” Michael slammed the steering wheel. “He’s a fucking, stupid mutt. Now I’ve got to fix this mess. But no matter what, goddammit, until I do, you are going to keep your nose out of it!”
With the speed of a striking cobra, Spike lunged from my lap and bit Michael.
He cursed, and I pulled the puppy back, but the damage was done. Michael’s hand began to bleed.
In my lap, Spike fell silent and didn’t move a muscle.
Michael got a handkerchief out of his pocket and wrapped it around his hand.
In the quiet, I said, “Does your cell phone keep track of incoming calls?”
“Yes.”
“I need to know where Emma is staying.”
I put Spike on the floor. One-handed, Michael retrieved his cell phone and punched a few buttons. He looked at the tiny screen and passed it to me.
The name of Emma’s hotel appeared in little blue letters.
“Is that where you want to go?” Michael asked.
“Yes, please.”
“All right, I’ll drop you,” he said. “I have something else to take care of.”
He reached across the seat and caught me gently around my neck. Leaning close to kiss me on the mouth, though, he suddenly stopped himself, and we looked at each other.
“I love you,” I said.
“I love you,” he said. But it sounded different this time. I could see his mind was already far away.
An hour later, I was downtown and knocking on the door of my sister’s room in one of the city’s most luxurious hotels. I crossed my fingers that she hadn’t trashed it.
She opened the door herself, wearing a hotel bathrobe and carrying a can of Red Bull. Her hair was wet and standing up on her head. Spike yipped with glee and leaped into her arms.
Emma caught him without spilling a drop. “Hey, Sis.”
Behind her, doing sit-ups on the floor in his underwear and a Stetson that looked as if a herd of cattle had stampeded across it, was Monte Bogatz. “Hello there, little lady,” he yodeled, hands behind his sunburned neck. “Come on in, and welcome to Paradise!”
“Speak for yourself, cowboy,” Emma said, closing the door behind me and giving Spike a roughing-up.
Monte got to his feet and held my hand with a smile that looked overmedicated. “It’s a real pleasure to lay eyes on you again,” he drawled. “Such a pretty gal as yourself must have more important people to talk to than little old Monte, but I’m sure glad you stopped by.”
Emma leaned against the wall by the door and held on to Spike. “Actually, cowboy, we need a little sisterly chat. How about if you go down to the bar and find the jukebox?”
“Oh, sure, I know how you sisters need your chats,” he said. “Why, I bet you talk each other’s pretty little ears off, don’t you?”
Monte picked his jeans up off the floor and went into the bathroom with a cowpoke swagger.
Emma sighed. “He’s talkative, but he gets the job done.”
Their hotel suite had two rooms plus the bath, and through an archway I could see an unmade bed the size of a tropical island. The living room had a big-screen TV tuned to Junkyard Wars with the sound turned off. The minibar door hung open, and various items of clothing had been abandoned on the carpet.
“So it’s Sexcapades with a singing cowboy now?”
“Why not?” Emma said, matching my testy tone. “He’s got stamina. And plenty of enthusiasm.”
I glanced at the television. “I’m sure the postcoital conversation is stimulating, too.”
“I’m not with him for the conversation.”
I did not ask if she was with him for the vodka he could supply. Instead, I glanced around the lavish suite. “And Monte’s paying for all this?”
“Even chocolate-covered strawberries. You want some room service? We’re running a tab.”
“No, thanks.”
“Want to smell my breath?” she asked in a harsher tone.
“No, I don’t, Em. Your breath is your business now, I think.”
“Always has been,” she shot back.
“Look, I can’t help it sometimes. I love you and I care about what happens to you. I go too far, maybe.”
We heard a flush, and Monte came back into the room, buttoning on a yoked western shirt and looking for his boots. The whole time, he talked. I don’t know what about because Emma and I were glaring at each other. Finally Monte found a pair of two-toned rat-stabbers partially hidden under the sofa. He sat on the floor to pull them on.
“Now, are you the sister who has a passel of rugrats?” Monte asked me.
“No, that’s the other sister.”
Monte continued as if I had not spoken. “I know how hard it can be to keep those little buggers in good-quality play clothes. I am the official spokesperson for Big Box, the people’s store, and we carry a fine line of quality duds for the young members of your family.” He wedged one foot into the first boot and didn’t pause to draw a breath. “We carry overalls and cargo pants and T-shirts and even embroidered jumpers for the little cowgirls, not to mention a complete collection of socks and other unmentionables that will suit your budget.”
He reached for the second boot. “You can be sure Big Box makes darn sure their goods are manufactured in safe, well-ventilated factories where the workers are treated just like every member of the Big Box family—with big hearts and big smiles. So you know all the fine products you buy are making the world a better place for all of us.”
With one hand, Emma stuck a cigarette in her mouth, picked up a Zippo lighter and snapped it. She inhaled. “Monte takes his shilling very seriously. He already knows his lines for a commercial he’s shooting in two weeks.”
“Anyhoodle,” Monte continued, getting to his feet to admire his boots. “I believe in Big Box. And you can trust Monte Bogatz to steer you into the right store for the right price for the right family.”
“Hit the road, cowboy,” Emma said.
Monte smiled suddenly, as if stepping out of a trance. “Sure thing, sugar. See you downstairs?”
“I’ll catch up with you,” she replied, putting the sofa between herself and Monte’s farewell kiss.
When he was gone, Emma put Spike down on the floor.
I said, “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t judge you. My own life isn’t exactly letter-perfect these days.”
She stretched out on the sofa and smoked. “I thought yours was going pretty well. The Love Machine moved in with you, right? And he lets you out of bed once in a while?”
“Em—”
“Oh, loosen up. Admit it. The sex is great.”
I sat down on the upholstered chair and kicked off my shoes. “Better than great.”
She grinned. “I knew it. You pregnant yet?”
“Not yet.”
“Not for lack of trying, I’m sure, at least on his part. You surprise me, though. A kid outside the sacred bond of marriage. You’re supposed to be the good girl in the family.”
“Good girls don’t always get what everybody else gets. And none of us can keep a husband alive, so I can’t marry him, can I?”
“You suddenly watching the biological clock?”
“And a few other things.”
“Well, if you’re looking for a lovefest, at least you picked one who doesn’t talk your ear off. And I bet he isn’t hung like a hamster or doesn’t develop carpal tongue syndrome after only two minutes.”
“Em—”
“Best of all—he cooks!” She laughed and threw her arms wide. “The perfect man.”
“Well,” I said.
“Okay, so he may be the next Godfath
er. Small glitch. What else do you want?”
“Someone I can trust not to drive his life off the edge of a cliff.”
“Yes, but think about the exciting ride down.”
I laughed, then hiccoughed and realized I was barely holding back tears. The possibility of losing Michael was so real I almost choked on it.
And if all our baby making had been successful, I was in an even bigger mess.
“On top of everything else,” I said when I could speak, “half the city has invited themselves to my house for New Year’s Eve. And I can’t afford to serve pretzels.”
“Am I invited?”
“Sure, why not?” I laughed drunkenly. “Just bring chips or something, okay?”
“What, no caviar?”
“Libby might bring some tasty massage lotion.”
“Well, then, nobody will starve.”
We smiled at each other.
Then Emma said, “I remember, you know. Brinker grabbed me in the swimming pool and took me out behind somebody’s cabana.” She looked up at the ceiling.
“I should have watched you more carefully.”
She shook her head. “I thought they were going to let me be a part of the gang. But they yanked off my bathing suit. Remember that suit? It was blue and white stripes. I loved that one. They tore it, and I froze. All their slippery, wet hands on me.” She closed her eyes and smoked. “I’d never been so scared before. Next thing I knew, you were hitting Brinker with something.”
“An inflated plastic alligator.”
“Right.” She laughed shortly.
“Not exactly a weapon of mass destruction.”
“They let me go, though. At the time I was mad at you because I didn’t have my nice bathing suit anymore.” Emma opened her eyes and her gaze steadily met mine through a thread of blue smoke. “But now I know what you did for me, Nora.”
“I was afraid of him then, and I’m afraid of him now. He’s a sadist. The things he did to Hemmings . . .”
“Hemorrhoid was nuts long before Brinker got hold of him.” Emma stubbed out her cigarette. “You said you wanted to talk to Hemorrhoid.”
“Yes.”
She sat up. “Funny, I think I know where he’s going to be tonight.”
“Where?”
“Time for a makeover,” she declared, getting up and putting her hand down to me. “You can’t go to a club dressed like a French housewife. You’re classy, Nora, but sometimes you need to show a little leg.” She pulled me upright.
Although Emma spent most of her days training horses and rarely wore anything but breeches and boots, she knew more about makeovers than the Fab Five.
“Let’s do something with your hair.” She dragged me to the bathroom. “And we’ll think about the clothes after.”
“This is my very own Armani,” I protested. “You’re not destroying it.”
“Well, take off the sweater underneath at least, will you? You look ready for a polar expedition.”
“It’s winter, Em.”
Her hotel bathroom was all marble and brilliantly shined chrome, with gilded mirrors that might have been copied from Buckingham Palace. Emma used her brush on my hair, forcing me to bend at the waist so she could produce enough volume to rival any Hollywood starlet. I let her work, barely looking at my reflection in the mirror as she sprayed hunks of my hair into unnatural positions.
Emma’s grin grew as she played. I was so glad to have her on my side that I suddenly remembered climbing a tree at the farm one summer. She was faster than a monkey and clambered up ahead of me in the branches. I slipped and barely caught my sneaker on a foothold, but Emma turned back and put her little hand down to me.
“C’mon,” she had said. “I’ll help.”
After the hair project, she made me strip off my suit and re-dress. No stockings, no sweater, no bra under my jacket. She rolled my skirt at the waist until my knees were naked, then found me a pair of heels from her suitcase.
“You took high-heeled slingbacks to rehab?” I asked, staring at my reflection—suddenly more long-legged and sexier than was possible.
“These are my emergency pair. Red buckles, see?”
I wanted to hug her. And not for the clothes or the new hairstyle.
Emma dressed herself in snug jeans that clung like rain on a roof, boots and her Brinker Bra. Over it, she pulled a sweater—backward—and instantly transformed herself into a goddess.
“Can you get that thing off?” I asked.
“The bra? Sure, why?”
“You should give Libby a call.”
“What’s she done now?”
“It’s a long story. What should we do about Spike?”
“Leave him here,” Emma said. “Monte will pay for the damages.”
We rode down the elevator and walked across the lobby without glancing into the bar. Outside on the sidewalk, a line had already begun to form for the club that was attached to the hotel. Emma strode past the murmuring crowd and went straight to the bouncer, who sat on a stool at the door to prevent suburbanites from storming the gates of urban trendiness.
“Hey,” she said to him.
His face came alive as if she’d waved a tube of ammonia under his nose. He reached for the clasp on the velvet rope before he could summon any words. Then they were, “Hey, doll-face. Come in. And who’s this hot topic with you?”
“Careful with her, sugarplum.” Emma patted his cheek. “She runs with the big dog.”
We slipped into the club.
Chapter 10
The club was called Beddy-Bye, but I didn’t understand the name until we stepped inside and confronted an enormous round bed covered with dozens of satin pillows and draped with overlapping curtains as if to make things private for Scheherazade or a pair of honeymooners who missed the bus to the Poconos.
Two giggling young women sprawled on the coverlet, simultaneously trying to sip their umbrella drinks and keep their skirts pulled down on their thighs. A handful of male patrons hung around the bed, holding their beers and working up the courage to join them.
Emma and I skirted the bed and went into the main room of the club. The place was dark and air-conditioned to the temperature of a meat locker. Despite the frigid air, the dress code was nearly naked for the women, whereas most of the men seemed to send the message that they would grab their skateboards any minute to do some rad grinding. Backward baseball caps, low-slung shorts and T-shirts proclaiming various Caribbean islands was the wardrobe of choice.
“It’s the dead of winter,” I said to Emma as we inched our way through the mob. “Isn’t anybody freezing?”
“Okay,” said my sister, “so this isn’t your usual crowd. Nobody’s drinking Cosmopolitans or talking about their ski trips to Jackson Hole. You want to talk to Hemorrhoid, you gotta get a different mind-set going.”
Monstrously loud music from the dance floor made my solar plexus vibrate. It was turntable music—half rap, half static. Neon tubes glowed at floor level, but otherwise the space was dimly lit. I could make out a hundred people or so, all animated, some dancing. Mostly young. All draped around each other as if sex had just been invented.
Emma knew her way around, and in the doorway that separated one demographic from the next, she slid past a nodding doorman and into a new group of patrons. A tight knot of young men in Zegna suits and Hermès ties all slugged shooters and looked shiny-faced. A couple of women were with them, but they hovered on the edge of the group, holding martini glasses and smiling uncertainly.
The second room was clearly VIP territory.
Luxurious beds lined the entire room, each one occupied by a group too large for the space, so people were reclining against each other and swooning to the music—R & B this time. Waiters in black silk shirts swiftly carried trays of glassware as if making offerings to impatient deities.
Emma headed to the bar, which was tended by a busy man with a crew cut who seemed capable of concocting drinks quicker than a juggler.
“Robin,” she said.
The bartender stopped pouring and shaking long enough to stretch across the bar to kiss her cheek. He had arms like a heavyweight boxer. “If it isn’t the lovely and elusive Emma Blackbird.” His accent was distinctly British, and his well-worn MANCHESTER UNITED T-shirt gave him away, too. “Let me guess. You checked yourself out already?”
She laughed. “A caged bird doesn’t sing, Rob. You know that. This is my sister, Nora.”
Robin reached over the bar to shake my hand. His was wet and slightly sticky. “Sorry, luv,” he said, and handed me a wad of napkins.
“We’re looking for Hemmings Lamb,” Emma said. “Seen him tonight?”
Robin cocked his head. “Not exactly your type, Emma.”
“Who is?”
He laughed. “Hemorrhoid just came in a few minutes ago.” Robin nodded toward a far corner. “I think he’s trying to score some X, but he’s such a horse’s arse, he’ll be lucky if he gets his hands on an aspirin.”
“Thanks.”
We wound our way through the beds and found ourselves at a large, round bed that was covered with a lush spread and heaps of pillows and surrounded by votive candles. Two champagne coolers stood beside the bed. In the center of the bedclothes, Hemorrhoid lolled, holding court with half a dozen Britney wannabes with bare midriffs and lots of blond hair hanging in their eyes. Most of them were sucking on the fingers of one hand while stiffly holding champagne flutes with the other, all preening. Their attention was riveted on their host as if he were about to award a sash and crown.
“What’s this?” Emma asked when we arrived in front of Hemorrhoid. “Cheerleading tryouts?”
Finding himself staring up Emma’s towering lean body, Hemorrhoid looked startled. “Hi.” Then he saw me and blinked at the transformation Emma had supervised. “Nora, hi.”
One of the girls said nastily, “Who are you?”
“Doesn’t matter, Miss Tan-orexia. You never heard of skin cancer?” Emma took the teenybopper’s golden-brown arm and pulled her from her relaxed pose. “C’mon, kiddies. Let me buy a round of diet Sprite, okay?”
