Cross Your Heart and Hope to Die

by Nancy Martin

  “Ah,” said Richard. He took a cookie from the rack. “I think we might just have the man for the job.”

  “We do?”

  Chapter 12

  Mary Margaret looked hopefully at Richard. “Somebody who can protect Orlando?”

  I said, “Wait a minute.”

  From inside my handbag, Spike looked at Richard’s cookie and moaned a soft request.

  Unaware of Spike’s attempt at good manners, Richard bit into the cookie and looked at me. “It’s only for a day or so. Why not take the kid yourself? You’ve got the best protection in the country, don’t you? Who would dare cross the Abruzzo family?”

  “That is—”

  Mary Margaret said, “It’s not a bad idea, is it?”

  Spike growled.

  To Richard, I said, “You’re just creating a better story for yourself. Vulnerable young heir under the protection of the mob? What a headline.”

  “Great cookies,” he said to Mary Margaret. “My grandmother used to make an oatmeal cookie with currants, too.”

  “And where did your grandmother come from, dear?”

  “Somewhere in Wales, I think.”

  Richard let his guard down for an instant. Quick as a lizard snapping a fly, Spike snatched the remaining cookie from him. Richard yanked his hand back and examined it to be sure he still had all his fingers. Spike swallowed the treat in one ravenous gulp.

  “Look,” I said, “maybe Michael could provide the kind of protection Orlando needs, but not if the whole world knows.”

  Richard shrugged. “My deadline is tonight, but the story won’t be published until tomorrow. By that time, the kid will be halfway to New Zealand.”

  The oven timer began to peep, and Mary Margaret went to retrieve another batch of cookies.

  I put my handbag on the floor, and Spike scrambled out. He looked up at Richard with an intense glare, daring him to pick up another cookie and not share.

  “I suppose I could ask,” I said.

  “Admit it,” Richard said. “You don’t trust anybody to do a job as well as you can. You think you’re the one who can best protect Orlando right now.”

  I glared at Richard. “I know who to keep him away from.”

  I used the kitchen phone to try Michael’s cell number again.

  This time he answered.

  I was so glad to hear his voice that I had to sit down.

  “Hey,” he said. “A guy at the convenience store just asked if he should bring a date for New Year’s Eve. What’s that about?”

  With Richard crunching cookies just a yard away, I couldn’t do justice to the party subject anyway, so instead I told Michael about Orlando.

  Michael figured out what I needed before I finished telling the tale.

  He said, “We’ll make sure the kid is safe. I’ll make some calls and meet you at the farm.”

  Orlando was not as easy to convince. He came down to the kitchen sulking like any kid told he had to travel with strangers.

  But Spike snarled at him, and Orlando perked up.

  He said, “Can I ride with the dog?”

  “Sure,” Richard said amiably. “Why not?”

  Mary Margaret packed up more cookies, then checked Orlando’s backpack for his toothbrush and a change of clothing. She added a notebook and a fresh box of crayons. She fussed over him until he shoved out of her arms.

  Subdued, Orlando followed Richard to the car. I picked up Spike so he couldn’t dirty himself in the snow.

  At the car, Richard said, “Which one of you wants shotgun?”

  “What?” I said.

  “What?” Orlando said.

  Richard looked at us with pity. “Have the both of you always had chauffeurs? Shotgun is the front seat.”

  “I want the shotgun,” Orlando said swiftly. “Gallagher lets me have the shotgun.”

  “It’s not a real gun,” Richard said. “It only means you get to sit up front like in the old stagecoaches.” At our blank expressions, he sighed. “Never mind. Sit up front, kid.”

  Orlando was already grabbing the handle of the front passenger seat. “I want the dog in the front, too.”

  “No way,” said Richard. “Either the dog is in her purse or he’s in the backseat. I don’t trust him.”

  “But I want to play with the computer.”

  “This car doesn’t have a computer.”

  Orlando finally got a good look at the vehicle. “What a piece of junk.”

  “Yeah, but it’s all we’ve got.”

  I turned Spike loose in the backseat. He immediately found a dribble of something edible on the upholstery. He licked it, then began to chew.

  “Stop,” I said.

  Spike gave me a look that communicated my complete lack of understanding of canine desires and went back to chewing.

  “Okay,” said Orlando, sizing up the situation. “I’ll sit in the back with the dog.”

  We got into the car and Richard told Orlando to buckle up.

  “I can’t find the seat belt.”

  “It’s probably wedged down inside the seat. Feel around for it.”

  “I can’t find it.”

  I got out of the car, opened the back door and helped Orlando find and fasten his seat belt. Spike panted while he watched me wrestle with the buckle; then he attacked Orlando’s backpack. Orlando opened the backpack and found his package of cookies.

  “Don’t make crumbs back there,” Richard warned. “And don’t give the dog any cookies. He’ll probably throw up.”

  I got back into the front seat and muttered, “You were the one feeding him cookies in the kitchen.”

  “Well, now we’re in the car. The rules are different.”

  Orlando ate a cookie and fed another one to Spike. I could hear them both spreading crumbs all over the backseat.

  Two minutes after we hit traffic, Orlando said, “May I have a Perrier, please?”

  “I don’t have any Perrier,” said Richard, glancing at Orlando in the rearview mirror. “Is that all you drink? Fancy water?”

  “Sometimes at school they let us have a Pepsi. But Uncle Hem says it’s bad for me.”

  “I thought all kids drank Pepsi.”

  “I’d like a Pepsi,” Orlando ventured. “I’d like one now.”

  I could hear Spike panting and looked back to see Orlando wrestling with the dog. They were feeding off each other’s energy.

  “Spike wants a Pepsi, too,” Orlando said.

  “He’s out of luck,” Richard replied.

  “We need something to drink,” Orlando insisted, still tussling with Spike. “Can we stop for a Pepsi? Please, please, can we stop? I’m dying of thirst. I need a Pepsi. I need a drink so bad I can hardly swallow. I want a Pepsi. My throat’s going to crack open. You can die from dehydration. I want a Pepsi, I want a Pepsi, I want a Pepsi, I want—”

  “You might as well stop,” I said finally. “He’s not going to give up.”

  Richard pulled into a fast-food drive-up.

  Orlando said, “They only have Coke here. I want a Pepsi.”

  Richard drove to the next fast-food restaurant.

  By the minute, Orlando seemed to transform from a perfectly mild-mannered child into a kid-shaped, Spike-like monster. “I want some French fries, too,” he said when we arrived at the drive-up window. Feverishly, he read the outdoor menu. “If you buy me a whole meal I can have an action figure. I want the guy with the sword. Can you tell them I want the guy with the sword? This isn’t the right guy. I want the guy with the sword.”

  “This kid is becoming a pain in my ass.”

  I said, “I’ll go inside and ask for the guy with the sword.”

  “No,” Richard said. “I’ll go inside. If I stay in the car, I might kill him myself.”

  He went into the restaurant and came out with the action figure with a sword. He gave the toy to Orlando, who was already asking for another Pepsi.

  “Spike drank all my Pepsi. I need another Pepsi. This one was too sm
all. Spike is really thirsty. I want another Pepsi.”

  “You’re not letting the dog drink out of your cup, are you?”

  “He’s thirsty.”

  Richard went back into the restaurant for another soft drink.

  On the road again a few minutes later, a car zoomed past us. Richard said, “Hey! The driver of that car just gave me the finger.”

  Orlando giggled in the backseat.

  Richard glared at him in the mirror. “Are you flipping off other drivers?”

  Within ten miles, we were pulled over by a police officer.

  “What’s the problem, Officer?”

  “Sir, may I see your license and registration?”

  Richard complied.

  “Sir, are you aware that your son has put a sign in the back window of the car?”

  “He’s not—What sign?”

  I climbed halfway over the seat and dislodged the hand-lettered paper sign Orlando had made while waiting for his second soft drink. I could hear Orlando’s strangled laughter. The sign said, HELP! KIDNAPPED!

  I handed the sign to Richard. He crumpled it in his hands.

  Several minutes later we were back on the road with the cop following us at a safe distance.

  Orlando said, “Spike is puffing. I think the dog is going to throw up. He’s making funny noises. Yep, Spike is definitely going to throw up. I think he must have the flu. I think he’s—”

  Richard pulled over. I got Spike out of the car in time for him to vomit his banquet of fast food onto the gravel. When he finished being sick, Spike looked dazed. I got back into the car and put him on my lap. For an instant, I thought I heard him whimper.

  Five miles later, Orlando said, “I have to go to the bathroom. Can we stop the car? I bet that store has a bathroom. Can we ask that gas station if they have a bathroom? I need a bathroom.”

  I said, “Richard . . .”

  His teeth were clenched. “I’m stopping, I’m stopping.”

  Richard accompanied Orlando into a convenience market, where they remained far longer than a simple bathroom stop. I had time to walk Spike in the grassy area beside the highway. The fresh air seemed to perk him up again.

  By the time Richard and Orlando came out of the convenience store with several plastic bags of goodies, Spike was his nasty self again. He happily began to shred one of the bags.

  Getting into the backseat, Orlando upended a bag of Skittles directly into his own open mouth. Richard said, “Go easy on the junk food, kid. If you’re not used to that stuff, it can do some damage.”

  “Okay,” Orlando said around a mouthful of candy. “Can I have my crossword puzzle book now? Does anybody have a pencil? Does anybody know another word for ‘ghost’?”

  “Demon,” said Richard.

  “I feel sick,” said Orlando after five minutes. “I think the dog gave me the flu. I think I’m going to throw up. Maybe I have food poisoning. I’m going to throw up.”

  Richard pulled over.

  Later, I said, “At least he didn’t vomit on you.”

  “Do you mind rolling down your window?” he asked.

  When we arrived at Blackbird Farm, two vehicles were parked on either side of my mailbox. One of Michael’s acquaintances got out and without expression motioned Richard to stop his car.

  It was Aldo, three hundred pounds of pasta-fed bulldog dressed in a maroon track suit with a black parka zipped over it. The parka was open at the neck just enough to see Aldo’s gold chains. His face, as always, looked as if it had been run over by a beer truck.

  “Hello, Aldo,” I said when Richard had rolled down his window. “It’s me.”

  Aldo gave Richard a once-over that was part inquisition, part intimidation. “Pop the trunk, buddy.”

  “What?”

  “He wants to see if you’re hiding Mr. Hoffa in the trunk,” I said.

  When Aldo waddled back to have a look, Richard said, “He’s kidding, right?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Nobody really looks like that in the mob, do they?”

  We heard Aldo rummaging in the trunk. After a minute, he slammed it shut, stepped away from the car and waved us on.

  Michael met us on the back porch. He leaned one shoulder against the pillar, a relaxed posture that did not give away the leaps his nimble mind made as we all got out of Richard’s car.

  Orlando went up the sidewalk, dragging his backpack and looking suspicious. Michael returned his expression.

  Richard said, “I hope you have a large supply of Pepsi.”

  When Michael raised his brows, I said, “Don’t ask. It was an ugly situation.”

  Orlando looked as if he might burst into tears. Softly, he said, “I’ll be good. I won’t do anything wrong again.”

  “Damn,” Michael said. “Spike and I were looking forward to raising a little hell with you tonight.”

  Orlando squinted up at him, trying to decide if Michael was serious.

  “Go inside,” Michael said to Orlando. “Take the dog with you.”

  The boy obediently went into the house. Spike followed, tail down.

  Richard said, “How did you do that?”

  Michael said, “You ever been in a prison yard?”

  “Michael,” I said.

  He grinned. “I’ll be inside protecting your furniture.”

  Michael left us alone, and Richard lingered on the steps.

  Chapter 13

  Richard said, “I can see why Gallagher went to Ireland. He had to get away from the kid.”

  “Thank you for bringing me home,” I said.

  Richard glanced up at the crumbling walls of my house and took note of the sagging porch roof and drooping eaves. “This place is a museum. When does Benjamin Franklin show up?”

  “Actually,” I said, feeling rejuvenated by the fresh air and the knowledge that Michael was back on the radar screen, “Ben Franklin paid a few calls on my great-great-something-grandmother. She was quite the beauty, judging by her portrait. Story goes, she gave him a hickey.”

  “Looks like you haven’t done any home repairs since she lived here.”

  “I’ve got a few bills to pay before I can afford fix-up projects. Anyway, I’ve come to like the shabby-chic look.”

  He looked at me. “How come your boyfriend doesn’t kick in a few dollars? I hear he’s loaded.”

  “It’s my house, not his.”

  “He doesn’t live here?”

  I didn’t answer.

  Richard shrugged. “I’ve always wondered. What does a guy like Abruzzo put on his tax return in the little box marked ‘occupation’?”

  To terminate that discussion before it went any further, I said, “Thanks for being so patient with Orlando. It was a long ride this afternoon.”

  “I wasn’t patient.” He allowed a rueful smile. “But you owe me big anyway.”

  “Okay,” I said steadily. “How about if I give you some information?”

  “Such as?”

  “I think Gallagher was paid to leave town because he designed the Brinker Bra.”

  “The chauffeur?” Richard couldn’t hide his surprise. “How do you figure?”

  “He’s an inventor. My bet is he sold his idea for a bra to Brinker Holt, and Brinker wants him to be quiet about it. If nothing else, Brinker knows how to intimidate people into doing what he wants.”

  “So who killed Kitty Keough?”

  “Kitty knew Gallagher. She probably figured out he invented the bra.”

  “So Brinker had her killed? Or did he intend to get rid of Gallagher instead, and Kitty wandered into Pescara’s sights at the wrong time?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Does the boy know anything?”

  “It’s possible. When the time is right, I’ll ask.”

  “If he does know something, he becomes a target, too.” Richard glanced at the door through which Michael had vanished with Orlando.

  “He’ll be safe here. That is,” I said, “until the news
papers are published tomorrow morning.”

  “About that.” Richard put his hands into his coat pockets. “Believe me, I’m the first to write a story when it’s something worth writing about. If this turns out to be a case of Brinker Holt killing Kitty to keep his secret, I’ll write it. But there’s not enough evidence yet. Not today, anyway. Maybe by tomorrow I’ll know more, but until I do—”

  “Thank you, Richard.”

  He observed my smile for a long moment. Then he said, “I’ll find a way to talk to Brinker tonight.”

  “How?”

  “Let me worry about that. Look, I’ll find out what he’s doing. You stick around here and help Abruzzo protect the kid. Not that he needs any more help besides the teamsters.” He jerked his head to indicate Aldo’s makeshift checkpoint at the head of my driveway.

  “I’ll tell Michael he has your vote of confidence.”

  “Your safety, that’s something else.”

  I started to turn away. “Good-bye, Richard. Thank you, but—”

  He stopped me with a hand on my wrist. His touch dropped away immediately. “Nora, you haven’t known this man very long. But I’ve studied guys like him for years now. He’s a terrorist, you know.”

  “You’re being melodramatic.”

  “Am I? You saw how he was with the kid just now. He was born into a life that’s based on intimidation and violence. And it’s a life he can’t exactly resign from.”

  “You don’t know him.”

  Michael was a man of honor and integrity. His own brand of honor, perhaps, but he had thought long and hard about the kind of code he should be living by. He did the right thing when he had a choice. But saying so out loud to Richard was going to sound as if I’d been brainwashed.

  So instead I said, “He has a sense of humor.”

  Richard said, “I have a sense of humor.”

  “I wasn’t questioning your—”

  “I can be funny,” he said with more insistence.

  “Richard—” I said, and stopped.

  We were standing close together on the porch. The wind stirred his fair hair, and I noticed his two-toned eyes again. One blue, one hazel. In them, I suddenly saw his impulse to kiss me.