Have Your Cake and Kill Him Too

by Nancy Martin

  I said, "What do the police think happened?"

  "I don't know. Dad went to reason with Zell about selling the estate, but—well, you saw Dad leave. He was angry, so I guess the discussion went badly." Boy picked up one of the diet books and frowned at the cover. "Thing is, Dad threatened Zell once before. In front of witnesses. So the police figured they had an ongoing disagreement."

  "Did they?"

  "Didn't everyone disagree with Zell?" Boy asked.

  Emma had grabbed the newspaper and was skimming the frontpage article about the murder. "The cops didn't arrest Pointy. They just call him a 'person of interest.' That's a big difference. Maybe the geezer didn't knock off Orcutt. Maybe they're just using the rubber hoses to find out what he knows."

  "Em's always joking," I said, noting how Boy's face went white. "Did the police find the murder weapon?"

  "Not yet," Emma replied.

  Boy said, "There's a collection of bows in the billiards room at Fitch's Fancy. Chances are good whoever killed him simply took one." From his pocket, he fished a small object. "I don't know if it makes any difference, but after the police left, I found this in the garden."

  We leaned forward to look.

  "An earring," Libby said.

  A gold hoop earring.

  Boy was watching my face. "Nora? Is this yours?"

  I swallowed hard. "It's Delilah's. I noticed she only had one earring on last night."

  "That doesn't mean anything," Emma said. "We all know she was there. So she dropped an earring. So what?"

  "The police will want to see this, though," Libby predicted around a mouthful of cream cheese.

  Boy looked dismayed. "I didn't want to give it to them if it belonged to one of you. Why confuse things? You didn't kill Zell."

  "You should give that to the police," Emma said.

  "Uhm, yes, I suppose so." Boy tucked the earring back in his pocket. "Listen, I probably shouldn't have come. . . ."

  "But?" Emma prompted, putting the paper down on the table and folding her arms across her chest.

  "Since you were at Fitch's Fancy yesterday," Boy said, "I wondered if maybe the two of you saw something. Something that might help my father?"

  "We didn't see more than you did."

  Boy turned to me. "You're observant, Nora. And I know you've helped people before when things like this have happened."

  Emma said, "Nora's not a private detective you can hire."

  "I know, but—"

  "And she's got her own life."

  "Em," I said.

  "I'm desperate," Boy said directly to me. "My dad probably hated Zell as much as the real killer. But this—this is something he didn't do. He's been ill lately, and sometimes he gets confused, but I know he's innocent."

  Boy opened the newspaper to a photo on the second page. The photographer had snapped a picture as two burly police officers hauled Pointy Fitch off to jail. The face of a frightened old man stared up at us from the table. The wisps of white hair that floated around his balding head gave him the look of a confused homeless person, and his watery wide eyes reflected panic.

  "Oh, dear," said Libby, struck to the heart by the photo.

  "Nora," Boy said, "if you have any information, any impressions— anything at all that might help my dad, I'd be grateful."

  "She's not for hire." Directly to me, Emma said, "It's time to think of yourself, you know. You have to stop trying to help every hopeless case that comes through your door."

  I looked at the newspaper photo. Pierpoint Fitch. He wasn't a man who would kill anyone. I was sure of that. I didn't want Delilah implicated. And Boy's discovery of her earring didn't bode well. I studied his expression for signs of Machiavellian guile, but all I could see was the face that prompted his own mother to say she was afraid one good sneeze might deprive Boy of what remained of his brains.

  "I'll ask around a little," I told Boy. "I'll see what I can find out."

  "Thank you," said Boy.

  Emma turned away.

  Libby wiped her sticky fingers on a napkin. "I'll make sure she does her best, Boy. Sometimes Nora needs a little help. Please know that I'll do everything in my power—"

  "Give it a rest," said Emma.

  We were all on our feet by then, and a knock sounded at the back door. I opened it and found Mr. Ledbetter standing on the porch in a blaze orange parka and his patched overalls. The gruff handyman who had come to Blackbird Farm in all weather for hundreds of emergencies acknowledged me with nothing more than a grunt and strode into the kitchen with his clanking toolbox in hand.

  "Good morning, Mr. Ledbetter." I forced the good cheer required to keep the handyman's spirits from plummeting to their normal depth of gloom as he surveyed my latest home disaster. "Would you care for a bagel before—? Oh, hello."

  I hadn't noticed the younger man who had been lurking behind Mr. Ledbetter. But just as I began to close the door, he scooted inside, shyly ducking his head so I couldn't get a glimpse of his face beneath his grimy baseball cap.

  Mr. Ledbetter said, "This is my new assistant. Not that I need one. But here he is."

  "Hello," the younger man mumbled. "I'm the new assistant."

  "How do you do?" I shook his hand. "Why, Mr. Ledbetter, I thought you said you'd never put up with a helper. Even your own sons—"

  "Just temporary," muttered Mr. Ledbetter. He hunkered down on the floor to examine the pipes beneath the sink.

  The new sidekick plunked down his own toolbox—much newer and lighter—on the floor.

  Boy suddenly said, "Rudy? Is that you?"

  Perhaps as a politician he had developed the skill of recognizing faces, because he clearly guessed right. The expression on Mr. Ledbetter's assistant's face was startled. Boy put out his hand to him and said heartily, "Great to see you again. You have a new job, I see."

  "Uh," said the handyman's assistant. "Hi, Mr. Fitch. Yeah, new job."

  "The hours must be better," Boy said jovially. "You still in touch with your old partner? Or did Daria quit, too?"

  "Uh, no," said the assistant. "Look, I'd better . . ."

  "Don't let me keep you," said Boy. "You've got to make a good impression on the new boss, I suppose."

  "Yeah," said Rudy, already getting down on his knees to join Mr. Ledbetter beneath the sink. "Nice seeing you."

  "Nice to see you, too," Boy replied. "And say hello to Daria for me if you run into her, will you?"

  I elbowed Libby aside and escorted Boy to the front door myself. He started to thank me for my help in clearing his father, but I cut him short.

  I said, "Boy, how do you know the plumber's assistant? Is he an old friend?"

  "Rudy? Oh, no, he did some work for a committee I serve on in the legislature."

  "What committee?"

  "He used to be an investigator," said Boy. "Working in organized crime. I guess the benefits must be better working as a plumber, though, huh?"

  I said, "Maybe so."

  But I doubted it.

  Chapter Six

  Boykin left, and Libby—unaware she had cream cheese on her chin—announced we were late for a Yolates class. "You'll love it," she gushed. "I have your whole day planned. A little exercise, then a salad for lunch followed by an herbal enema."

  "Jesus," said Emma. "Are you trying to kill her?"

  "Thanks, Lib, but I have to work today."

  Emma was in a hurry to pick up some liniment for Mr. Twinkles, so she dragged Libby out. I made a phone call as soon as they disappeared out the driveway.

  My nephew Rawlins showed up about twenty minutes later. He came in through the back door, slugging from a plastic bottle of Mountain Dew.

  "Hi, Aunt Nora. Hey, you look nice."

  In Grandmama Blackbird's closet, I'd found a slimming black Saint Laurent suit with a pencil skirt that was a little snug. Underneath it, I put on an Old Navy camisole with lace trim for warmth. "Is it too tight?"

  "Heck, no. You look really pretty. Kinda sexy."

 
I gave him a kiss as I slung my coat around my shoulders. "Rawlins, you're so sweet to help me, but I swear if you breathe a word to either of my sisters, I will recommend you be grounded until you beg for mercy."

  Rawlins grinned. "No breathing, I promise."

  During the last year, Rawlins had gone through a phase of wearing jewelry that required the piercing of various body parts. I was glad to see him down to two earrings and a stud through his left eyebrow. Although still a slouchy teenager with baggy jeans and a set of headphones permanently slung around his neck, he'd grown up a lot in recent months. I thought part of his transformation may have resulted from spending time in the company of Michael Abruzzo. Michael ran a tight ship at the garage where his posse hung out— ostensibly to rebuild cars, although I was pretty sure other activities took place there. To his mother's dismay, Rawlins had almost become a regular in Michael's crew. I thought the association had brought improvement. My nephew could actually look an adult in the eye and hold a comprehensible conversation now.

  Rawlins said, "So whassup?"

  Well, almost comprehensible. "I need to go into the city. You don't mind driving?"

  "Nope. Except maybe on the way we could stop to pick up my tux for the Spring Fling."

  "Sure."

  "I'm driving Mom's minivan." He rolled his eyes.

  "So you and I are going to look like a couple of dorks?"

  He teased me right back. "Unless you'll sell me a car from Mick's lot. I could really use a nice set of wheels this weekend."

  We went out onto the porch and stood looking across my driveway at Mick's Muscle Cars, the used-car lot Michael had built on the part of Blackbird Farm I had sold to him during the first wave of my financial crisis. The asphalt parking lot was still full of ridiculous cars with tail fins, racing stripes and high-performance tires, but lately I'd noticed his salesmen had stopped showing up for work. During the winter, someone had mysteriously plowed the snow from my driveway, but once the weather warmed up, nobody came around. A few neon flags fluttered forlornly in the breeze over the deserted sales lot. It appeared that whatever Michael was mixed up in elsewhere, it took all his resources.

  But one of the cars had been hastily parked on the end of the line, with one wheel definitely resting on my property. It was a low blue coupe that I didn't remember seeing until this morning.

  "She's a beauty," Rawlins said on a sigh.

  "She is?"

  "Sure. The 1968 Mustang GT, the California Special. A two-twenty-horsepower engine with a two-barrel carb, see? One of the best ever built."

  "Rawlins, how much money do you have in your pocket?"

  "Huh?"

  "I'm serious. That car is parked on Blackbird Farm. Possession is nine-tenths of the law, right? So I can sell it. How much money do you have?"

  "Maybe ten bucks after I pay for the tux rental. Aunt Nora, are you pissed at Mick or something?"

  "Or something," I said. "Mostly I could really use the ten bucks. Let's go have a look at your new car."

  Together, we walked across the crunchy grass of the still-frozen yard together. Rawlins knew where the secret key was hidden to the salesmen's shack, so within another few minutes he had the ignition key and was sitting behind the wheel of a Mustang with two barrels of carbohydrates, whatever that meant.

  My nephew breathed deeply, as if to inhale a fine automotive fragrance. Which smelled like mildew to me.

  "Sweet," said Rawlins prayerfully.

  "Seems like just another car."

  "You don't appreciate fine American craftsmanship." He turned serious. "The Mustang is a classic, maybe the hottest car ever built. Unless you're a Corvette fan, which I'm not."

  "You sound like Michael. You really want this thing?"

  My nephew's eyes got round. "What will Mick say? This baby's worth real money!"

  I got out of the car and walked around it. I kicked the tires, wiggled the side mirror and bounced the rear bumper for no reason except I'd seen people do it in the movies. "This clunker is ancient."

  I pointed. "There's rust inside the wheel thingies, and the motor probably needs an oil change. But it would make a very nice ride to the dance this weekend. Show me some money, kid. Let's make this official."

  "Sure thing!" He fished a grubby five-dollar bill out of his pocket along with four ones and some change.

  I didn't bother counting the change. "So it's yours. We'll figure out the paperwork later."

  Once the decision was made by somebody who resembled a grown-up, Rawlins became enthusiastic about the plan. He helped me into the passenger side and spent some time fussing with the position of his own seat before pulling out and carefully steering us up to the road. Once on the highway, his confidence grew and we were soon sailing along with the wind whistling into the car through various gaps between the ill-fitting windows. Delighted, Rawlins let his foot rest a little heavier on the accelerator.

  "Who are you taking to the Spring Fling?" I asked. "Anybody I know?"

  "Shawna Greenawalt. Her dad's the director of some historical society around here."

  "Is she nice?"

  Rawlins might have blushed. "Real nice, yeah. She plays first base on the girls' softball team. We're in the Future Farmers club together."

  I laughed. "Rawlins, you want to be a farmer?"

  "Hell, no," he said. "But the club gets to go on really cool field trips. In January we went to the state fair in Harrisburg. That's the sweet thing about going to public school now. We don't have to wear ties and go to boring old Washington all the time. How many times can one kid visit the Capitol?"

  When the family resources did their about-face, Libby had pulled all her children from private institutions and sent them to the local public schools instead. The kids didn't seem to mind. In fact, I thought they were flourishing in their new, more diverse environment. Libby's income from the life insurance polices of various dead husbands was enough to keep them all in necessary clothes and gadgets, but so far they were still enjoying public school.

  "Is Shawna going to be a farmer?"

  He laughed. "No, she just dropped the H-bomb on her parents."

  "The H-bomb?"

  "She got into Harvard. She starts in September. She wants to major in international studies."

  "Good for her." I couldn't help thinking such a girl would have a positive effect on her boyfriend.

  Which made me think of someone else.

  "Rawlins, when you went to prep school, was there a girl named Clover in your class?"

  "You mean Clover Barnstable?" He shuddered. "Don't remind me."

  "Oh?"

  "That chick is scary."

  "Scary how?"

  He focused on the road in front of us—glad, I think, not to have to look at me. "She's pretty and everything. But she's into weird stuff."

  "Drugs?"

  "No. At least, not more than anybody else." Rawlins shrugged, unaware that my heart had contracted. "For her, it's guys. Guys with money especially. And—you know. Sex."

  "She had sex with boys for money, you mean?"

  "Not exactly. But she wanted presents, and she's not shy. She's got those fake—you know—and all the guys wanted a look, so they were all giving her junk, and pretty soon she was doing more than showing, know what I mean? I mean, okay, I get it, but those things of hers are totally bizarre. I stayed away from her as much as I could."

  I thought I heard a hint. "But not completely?"

  His hands suddenly fidgeted on the steering wheel. "Are you going to tell my mom?"

  "No breathing, remember? It goes both ways."

  "You mean it?"

  "Rawlins, you do know all about safe sex, right?"

  He laughed nervously. "I can't believe we're talking like this."

  "You have condoms, don't you?"

  "Are you kidding? My mom started giving me those when I was thirteen. I have this huge collection—all colors, all shapes."

  "But do you use them?"

  "I don't really
have much opportunity. Shawna's not into it. But everybody has sex now. All the high school kids."

  I knew the statistics. I had heard the buzzwords. Friends with benefits. Hooking up. It all seemed so casual now for teenagers, while I was still wrestling with the emotional consequences of my hormonal urges. "But you? With Clover?"

  I tried to imagine my awkward, inarticulate nephew with that sophisticated, sexy girl I'd seen dancing on the bar at Cupcakes.

  Rawlins was chewing on his lower lip. "Look, it was only one time with Clover."

  "Once is enough," I said. I should know.

  "We didn't even take our clothes off. I just—you know, unzipped. And she—"

  "You had oral sex."

  "Yeah, and I gave her a ticket to a concert. I didn't feel like going anyway."

  I tried to remain calm. Surely it wasn't good for kids to shrug off such an intimate act. Surely it dehumanized both of them. "You still need to protect yourself, Rawlins. Especially if your partner is promiscuous. I don't mean just physically. Emotionally, too. And waiting is still the—"

  "Okay, okay, you can skip the abstinence lecture. Shawna and I are holding off. Can we stop talking about this now? I'm really weirded out."

  "Okay. We can stop for now, but this conversation isn't over." My best hope was Shawna, I thought suddenly. I hoped a girl headed to Harvard had a good head on her shoulders and could talk to Rawlins about sex in an adult way.

  I said, "Have you seen Clover lately?"

  "I told you, it was just the one time, and—"

  "I don't mean 'Are you having sex with her?' Just have you seen her around?"

  He shook his head. "No, I go to a different school now, and she dropped out anyway. I think she's being homeschooled."

  "By her mother?" I couldn't imagine Viper teaching algebra to her daughter.