Cross Your Heart and Hope to Die

by Nancy Martin

  Like a nervous prom date, he lingered, torn between desire and caution. Or maybe he suddenly envisioned Michael unpacking his tommy gun from its violin case behind the kitchen door. I took a step backward.

  Richard did, too. “Call me if anything changes with Orlando,” he said. “Let me concentrate on Brinker.”

  “Good luck tonight.”

  “Don’t worry.”

  He departed. Inside, I found Michael and Orlando on the sofa with their shoes off and their sock feet on my coffee table. Spike sprawled manfully between them. Intently, the three watched a television program about a diminutive teenage girl who appeared to be kung-fu-ing vampires without messing up her pretty blond hairdo.

  Orlando looked hopeful, his upset stomach forgotten. “Got any ice cream?”

  Michael grinned. “Or beer?”

  Orlando said, “We’re just gonna hang for a while. Stay out of trouble.”

  “Don’t make any promises you can’t keep,” I said, and Michael laughed. Orlando looked pleased.

  I went upstairs and changed into jeans and a sweater. On my way back downstairs, the phone rang.

  When I answered, Delilah Fairweather’s exuberant shout resounded in my ear. “Girlfriend,” she called, “I hear you’re having a splash on New Year’s, and I just wanted to warn you that I’m coming with friends!”

  “Great,” I said, trying to muster some enthusiasm. “It’ll be wonderful to see you. Uh . . . how many friends?”

  “Half a dozen, maybe a couple more. Everybody’s thrilled you’re having your party again. I told one of my assistants that you are the best, bar none, at mixing people, and she’s dying to come, too.”

  “Well—”

  “And she has a boyfriend who bartends in a thong, so I thought you’d definitely want him, too.”

  “Oh. Thanks.”

  Delilah had given up a computer programming job to live the dream of partying day and night. In a matter of a couple of years, she had become the city’s busiest event planner. She usually called me from a dance floor or caterer’s kitchen. Tonight, however, I could hear the bluesy blare of a saxophone in the background over noisy voices making conversation. A burst of laughter sounded in my ear.

  Besides her talents with music, food, flowers and fun, Delilah knew everybody worth knowing in Philadelphia and half the cities east of the Mississippi.

  So I carried the telephone into the library, where Michael had obviously built a fire earlier. The flames had died down to warm embers, creating a room that was actually cozy. I curled up on the leather sofa between the bookshelves. “Delilah, have you ever done any work for Brinker Holt?”

  “Brinker, give a party? Get real! That guy’s a colossal mooch.”

  “Do you know where he lives?”

  “Those loft condos by the waterfront,” she said promptly. “A couple of weeks ago when he came back to town he bought a place in the old warehouse Val McGinley rehabbed. I hear the units are a million four apiece, if you’re in the market.”

  “Not unless I win the lottery. Those condos were all taken by artistic people, right?”

  “Only the ones with money. The creative class—computer game guys, a few financial whizbangers, a woman who writes screenplays—oh, and the producer of a TV show that films here in the city.”

  “And Brinker.”

  “And Brinker. He paid Jerzy Coleman another quarter mil to improve the kitchen—just so he has a place to eat take-out pizza, I guess. Not exactly a classy guy, if you ask me. But I’d like to get my hands on one of those new gadgets of his. The Brinker Bra—people say it makes even a girl like me look like I’ve got tantalizing ta-tas.”

  “You’re tantalizing just the way you are,” I assured her. Delilah had once worn a dress made of bubble wrap to a gallery opening, and that night she managed to outshine the work of a nationally famous artist. “Know anything useful about Brinker’s private life?”

  “What are you asking for, girl? You aren’t—”

  “No, no. He’s mixed up in something I’m concerned about.”

  She said, “I hope it involves arresting officers. He’s slime, in my book. Which doesn’t mean I’m against men who have shady pasts,” she added hastily. “Just that I knew a girl who dated him back in his comedy period, and when they broke up she left town without saying see-you-later to any of us.”

  “What happened?”

  “I don’t know. Something that made her feel crappy about herself, I’m guessing. A pal-o’-mine has a place in his building—a few floors below the penthouse he bought. She told me . . . Well, I know I’m spreading rumors. . . .”

  “I’ll keep it to myself, Delilah.”

  “Okay, she told me a couple of nights ago there was a woman screaming in the elevator. It was stuck between floors and this girl was really hollering. Like she was being tortured. My friend called the cops, but everything was hunky-dory by the time they got to the scene.”

  “What happened?”

  “Don’t know. They couldn’t find any screaming lady. She was gone.”

  “No clue what happened?”

  “I can ask my friend again if you want. Hey, you knew Brinker back in the day, right? What do you think of the guy?”

  “I think people should stay away from him.”

  “Take your own advice, then, girlfriend. He definitely has some bad mojo.” Delilah’s call waiting beeped, and she said, “I gotta run, Nora. See you New Year’s. And if you hear of a way to get me a Brinker Bra, you’ll let me know, right?”

  “Right.”

  We disconnected.

  When I looked up from the phone, Michael came to the library door and leaned against it. Even in his socks, jeans and untucked shirt, I realized he managed to look like a thug with a hangover. I smiled.

  Outside, the wind had come up again, and I could hear it rattling the windows. Night was gathering. In the library fireplace the embers snapped and glowed. All I needed was someone on the sofa with me to make the evening complete.

  Despite my inviting smile, Michael stayed in the doorway. “The kid tells me that your man Brinker had a deal with the chauffeur.”

  I sat up quickly. “What kind of deal?”

  “Brinker bought something—some invention the chauffeur had lying around.”

  “Does Orlando know that for sure?”

  “He says the chauffeur told him he’d been given a lot of cash and he was going to buy a house in Ireland where the kid could visit.”

  “The Brinker Bra. Gallagher designed it, and he sold it to Brinker.” I smiled at him. “How did you learn all that so fast?”

  “During the commercials.” Michael came to the sofa and nudged my foot with his knee.

  I moved over to make space for him. “Is Orlando okay?”

  “He fell asleep. Spike, too.”

  Michael sat down on the other side of the sofa, a couple of feet away. I reached over and pulled him by the hand. I thought he resisted, but a moment later we met in the middle and toppled over until we were spooning in front of the fire.

  “Is Orlando safe here?” I asked when I had my arms snugly around him and he had relaxed, the back of his head against my chest. He smelled like firewood.

  “Sure. Aldo loves this stuff.”

  “I’ll make some hot chocolate and take it out to them in a little while.”

  “You don’t understand the whole siege mentality. They want to suffer, take turns walking the perimeter, scavenging for rations. It gives them a story to tell later. Like those World War Two movies where William Holden has a hard time.”

  “A little hot chocolate wouldn’t hurt.”

  “If it makes you happy.”

  “Thank you, Michael,” I murmured in his ear. “For everything.”

  He was quiet for a while.

  Then he said, “I had things to do last night.”

  “I missed you.”

  “Nora,” he said.

  “I know. I know you’re not cut out for domestic life. Yo
u shouldn’t have to phone home, to check in with the little woman all the time.”

  “That’s not . . .” He hesitated. Then more slowly, “I’m not the best thing that’s ever happened to you.”

  “I don’t care about that.”

  I put my nose into his hair and we listened to the fire for a little while.

  He said, “Danny Pescara was hired to kill Kitty by somebody he met in a biker bar in New Hope last week. I don’t know who yet. To cut a deal with the cops, he told them it was one of us—the Abruzzo family. He claims we ordered him to do it.” In a mutter, Michael added, “Like murder isn’t bad for business.”

  “Tell me you’re kidding.”

  “I’m kidding. It jerks my chain, though. That’s the dumbest criminal act I ever heard of, and somebody actually believes we’re capable of it.”

  “You’re not upset because the police suspect you, but because they might think you were stupid about it?”

  “I’ve got my pride.”

  I poked him. “Can Danny explain why an Abruzzo would want to kill Kitty?”

  “Somebody at the fashion show overheard your sister say it would be great for you if Kitty was dead. I think the cops planted that idea with Danny, and he went for it. Point is, he has implicated us.”

  “Us?”

  “Me. Or my father,” Michael corrected. “Or one of my brothers, maybe, but they’re not exactly in the picture right now.”

  Michael’s half brothers played revolving door at various prisons. I had stopped keeping track of which Abruzzo was currently incarcerated. “How are the police going to prove it was one of you?”

  “They have Danny’s testimony. It’s his word against ours.”

  I hugged him harder, and he covered my two hands with one of his, over his heart. I could feel it beating against my palms. I asked, “How bad is this?”

  “It’s not good,” he admitted.

  “You need time, don’t you? To finesse your way out of this?”

  Michael didn’t answer.

  I sat up.

  The fire must have consumed all the oxygen in the library, because I suddenly couldn’t draw a breath. Michael sat up, too, but kept his distance.

  “No matter what happens,” he said, “you’ll always be taken care of.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “If something happens to me—”

  “You’re thinking of going away, aren’t you?” My heart lurched. “And there’s some regulation in the Mafia rule book that kicks in? What, like Social Security for mob girlfriends?”

  “Nora—”

  “I can’t believe this!”

  “Don’t.”

  “You, the criminal mastermind—this is the best strategy you can come up with? Making sure I’m taken care of?”

  A door slammed somewhere in the house, but we didn’t tear our gazes apart.

  Michael said, “When you get some distance on this, some perspective, you’re going to change your mind.”

  “About what?” I demanded.

  “Us.”

  “Us?”

  With a shutter coming down across his face, he said, “You’re gonna decide I’m the guy who helped you get over your husband.”

  My mind suddenly became too full of details. The fire’s crackle. Michael’s stillness. My own erratic heartbeat. In a distant room I heard Libby’s voice yell, “Yoo-hoo!” And Spike gave a yip of welcome.

  To Michael, I said, “I thought you understood me. I thought you were with me in this relationship.”

  “Relationship?” He gave a harsh laugh. “Nora, wake up! Your friends can’t wait to get a look at the freak show we’ve got going here. You belong with somebody else. Somebody like D’eath.”

  “What does Richard D’eath have to do with us?”

  “He’s better for you.”

  “So is a low-fat diet and regular exercise. Michael, I want to be with you!”

  “Maybe I don’t want to be with you.”

  I couldn’t speak. Not without screaming.

  “If we stay together, you’re going to get pulled deeper into things you won’t like,” he said. “Already my father is trying to get his hooks in you. First it’s gifts, and then it’s something else. It’ll be better for you if I go away now.”

  Libby burst into the room like a snowstorm and plunked a large cardboard carton on the coffee table. Oblivious to the electricity in the room, she unwound her long, festive scarf from her throat. She cried, “What a night! It’s lovely outside—not a snowflake in sight. It’s the kind of night that fills me with excitement! I feel completely energized!”

  Michael got up and left the room.

  Libby looked after him, blinking. “What’s the matter? He doesn’t want to see my inventory?”

  “He’s . . . not in the mood,” I said.

  “Well, that’s a very bad sign. On the other hand, I know exactly how to help put the thrust back in his—”

  “What have you got here?” I asked, mastering my self-control.

  Orlando had followed Libby into the library and was already trying to open the carton.

  Libby steered Orlando gently aside while using her other hand to fiddle surreptitiously with her bra. “That’s nothing for little boys. Only big boys who are little, actually, and then these little trinkets can be a big help. It’s my Potions and Passions shipment!”

  I used every iota of strength to collect myself. “Orlando, this is my sister.”

  Libby formally shook his hand, smiling. “I have twin boys who are almost your age, but they’re not nearly as handsome. How do you do? And what a wonderful job you’re doing with Spike! He hasn’t peed on the floor since I got here. You must be the dog trainer Nora keeps threatening to hire.”

  “I’m just visiting,” he said.

  Libby’s eldest son, sixteen-year-old Rawlins, slipped through the door with his ragged backpack over his shoulder and a Pop-Tart in one hand. His face was a tackle shop of rings and metal studs. The three earrings in one ear had bits of Christmas tinsel inextricably twisted around them for a bit of holiday flair.

  I gave Rawlins a hug and kiss. If I wasn’t mistaken, he flinched.

  His smile was uncharacteristically wan. “Hi, Aunt Nora.”

  To Orlando, Libby was saying, “Perhaps you’ll visit my boys next. They’re making an Internet Web site. Do you like the Internet? All teenagers seem to love tapping on their keyboards. Well, except Rawlins.”

  Rawlins actually blushed.

  “I’m not a teenager yet,” Orlando volunteered. “I’m only ten.”

  “Well, that’s practically a teenager. This is Rawlins, and don’t let him talk you into piercing any part of your body.”

  “Hey,” grunted Rawlins.

  “What’s that?” Orlando pointed to the snack Rawlins munched.

  “What are you—from Planet Nerd or something? It’s a Pop-Tart.”

  Orlando scrutinized the food. “Is it a cookie?”

  “No, it’s . . . Man, you never had a Pop-Tart?”

  “Got any more?”

  Rawlins shrugged. “Sure.”

  “You boys run along while I discuss a boring subject with my sister.”

  Rawlins slouched into the living room, and Orlando followed with keen interest. Spike was right behind them.

  “All right, tell me everything,” Libby commanded. “Did you have a fight? Did he experience a nonperformance? So the Incredible Hulk isn’t so incredible, after all?”

  I sat down on the sofa unsteadily. “I don’t want to talk about him right now. What’s with Rawlins? He looks shell-shocked. What’s going on?”

  “It’s Harcourt and Hilton,” Libby said on a long-suffering sigh. She put her rump to the fire and rubbed her backside vigorously to warm up. “Honestly, Nora, I think I accidentally suckled wolves. They’re picking on Rawlins.”

  Just as Rawlins was passing from his angry teen years into an almost appealing half-grown-up stage, Libby’s twins Harcourt and Hilton we
re developing into cunning juvenile delinquents.

  “Can’t he stand up for himself?”

  “He’s lost his edge, I think.”

  “What are they doing to him?”

  “They found an old journal Rawlins had hidden. They typed up some of his poetry and posted it on a Web site. Not very good poetry, I’m sorry to say. Perhaps a little too romantic for a young man, if you get my drift. And all his friends have seen it.”

  “I get the picture.”

  “So he’s feeling very vulnerable. Not to mention homicidal. It’s open warfare at my house. I thought I should get him away from the twins for a little while. Do you mind if he stays with you?”

  “I love having him around.”

  “He brought his own supply of junk food. I think he’s hoping to wait out Christmas vacation here. Or at least until his friends stop calling him Emily Dickinson.”

  “Poor Rawlins.”

  “He’ll get over it. Now, what would you like to see first?” she asked with relish. “The contraptions for men? Or the sensual aids for women? I have more ErotaLotion, if you’re feeling frisky.”

  “Libby—”

  She opened the box and pulled out something large and rubbery with prongs and a coiled electrical cord. “Or how about this?”

  “Good Lord.”

  “It’s terrifying, isn’t it?” She looked delighted. “And here’s the massage lotion I was telling you about. Want to taste the flavors?”

  She dug into her Pandora’s box, and I recoiled from one item after another. Reeking candles, bewildering gadgets, lotions, gels—more revolting attractions than a German carnival sideshow.

  “Libby.” I gingerly picked up a set of large pearls on a long string and couldn’t imagine what its purpose might be. “Isn’t it more satisfying just to make it happen all by yourselves?”

  “To everything there is a season,” she said merrily. “I really think I can sell this stuff. I can’t wait to get started! I was hoping you and the Incredible Hulk might help me practice my pitch. That’s what my Potions and Passions supervisor suggests—a test couple.”

  “Libby—”

  “And since Emma isn’t around to help, you’ll have to do. Oh, I nearly forgot! Here. The pictures I took at Christmas. I thought you’d like copies.”

  She dug a sheaf of photos out of her bag and handed them to me.