Have Your Cake and Kill Him Too

by Nancy Martin

Michael looked amused. "Can I ask how much he paid for it?"

  "No."

  "I'll give it back," said Rawlins.

  "No, you won't," I snapped. "That car was abandoned on my property, so I had the right to sell it."

  Michael said, "Kid, it's yours. Just let me have the cargo."

  "You mean the unmarked bills?" I asked tartly.

  To escape the coming storm, Rawlins grabbed the handles of one of the suitcases and dragged it in a series of breathless yanks over to Michael's vehicle—a large van with a crooked front bumper and a cockeyed headlight. Michael carried the other bag and tossed it through the van's open back doors. Then he and Rawlins exchanged low murmurs and I heard Michael laugh.

  Rawlins came back to me, still with downcast eyes. "G'night, Aunt Nora."

  "Hmph." I grabbed his shirt and pulled him close for a rough kiss on his cheek. "You scared the hell out of me."

  "Sorry," he mumbled. "Really."

  Rawlins got back into his new car. It started without a problem, and he departed with a scatter of gravel and a flash of taillights.

  Adrenaline was still seething inside me, but it wasn't enough to make me brave. I was tired. Maybe too tired to cope with Michael alone on a dark night.

  "You okay?" he asked.

  "No," I said. "I hate it when you pull this kind of trick."

  "It wasn't a trick. I just figured the less you know, the better for everyone."

  The rusting van featured the faded logo of a flower shop peeling off the side panels. Michael opened the passenger door with a shriek of ungreased hinges. "Your chariot awaits, Cinderella."

  "More of a pumpkin, wouldn't you say? Did you steal it?"

  "If I were in a stealing mood, wouldn't I choose something classier?"

  Against my better judgment, I let Michael boost me into the front seat, which was tricky in my pencil skirt. I felt Michael's helping hand linger on my behind, and quickly sat down on the seat. The van smelled vaguely of gladiolas. Michael closed the door, went around to get in behind the wheel and started the engine. The van coughed and trembled like a sick rhinoceros.

  "Come on," Michael coaxed, and the engine grudgingly sputtered to life.

  While it struggled to find a smooth rhythm, I said, "You've gone to a lot of trouble to find your lost luggage. How much is in those suitcases?"

  "Eight hundred thousand dollars."

  For some reason, his prompt and truthful answer only made me angrier. "And you left it parked on my driveway all night?"

  "I didn't park it there. And the guy who did isn't working for me anymore."

  "Is he at the bottom of a river now?"

  "Nora." Michael reached for my hand.

  "What do you expect me to believe?" I slid across the ripped vinyl upholstery until I was jammed against the door and out of his reach. "The only people who keep that kind of cash handy are drug dealers."

  "You know I don't deal drugs. Hell, I don't even take aspirin."

  "Then what's going on?"

  "My piggy bank broke."

  "I'm not joking, Michael. And what about Rawlins? Do you know what he thinks now?"

  "He's known the score for a long time."

  "We don't want him mixed up with your illegal activities. He's only a boy."

  "You know I'd never intentionally get you or your family in any trouble." Michael's voice rose, too. "Last night was a mistake, and nobody's sorrier than I am. But I can't undo what's happened, can I? So if the car will keep Rawlins quiet, then—"

  "Keep him quiet?" I cried. "Do you hear yourself?"

  Michael sighed. "Can we get some dinner?"

  "I'm not hungry."

  "I'm starving. Is fast food okay? Because I don't want to be seen with you in a restaurant, and going to your place means bumping into Clark Kent."

  Not to mention the plumber's assistant, the undercover organized-crime investigator or whoever it was who had probably installed a microphone under my sink this morning. Tartly, I said, "Are you afraid of seeing Richard?"

  "I figure he doesn't need to know we've been together."

  "I'm not going to lie to him."

  "Oh? So you told him what we did in the phone booth at Cupcakes last night?"

  I swallowed hard and didn't answer.

  "I didn't think so," Michael said. "That's more honesty than any relationship can stand."

  "You prefer a relationship with secrets, don't you? A few lies to keep things exciting?"

  "They keep things safe," he replied and put the van in gear. "Is a burger okay?"

  In a tense silence, he drove a few more miles up the road to the neon-lit parking lot of a chain restaurant I had never patronized except to treat my niece and nephews. At the drive-up window,

  Michael ordered a couple of sandwiches and coffee for himself before turning to me. "What's your pleasure? Now that I've got my money back, I can afford to buy."

  "I'm not hungry."

  "Order something anyway."

  "No, thank you," I insisted.

  "Emma says you've quit eating."

  "She's your spy now?" But another thought popped into my head and suddenly I couldn't breathe. "What else has she told you?"

  "That you're not taking care of yourself. That you're getting mixed up in another murder. That you need somebody to talk some sense into you. Just order dinner, dammit."

  "Maybe a baked potato," I said uneasily, not completely sure I could actually consume anything more complicated than crackers, popcorn and soup. Fortunately, the slightly rotting smell of flowers wasn't as powerful with the window cranked down.

  "A potato," Michael repeated, sounding blank.

  "Yes, a potato."

  "Okay, okay. Coming right up."

  The food came in lots of paper bags and plastic, which I juggled on my lap until Michael drove another half mile and found a place to park the car in the back lot of an abandoned bowling alley. The yellow light of a single streetlamp cast a glow inside the car. Michael had become an expert in pinpointing and avoiding surveillance, so I was sure no security cameras watched us.

  I pried the lid off the coffee cup and handed it to him. "Does the money in the suitcases have anything to do with those men you were with at Cupcakes last night?"

  "You don't want to know."

  "Am I allowed to know who they were?" I handed him a wrapped sandwich.

  "One was my uncle Lou. And Danny Pescara's uncle Carmine and his son, Little Carm. It was a diplomatic mission, that's all. Nothing too exciting."

  Whatever he was up to, he wasn't going to tell me, so I asked, "How old is Little Carm?"

  "I dunno. Eighteen, maybe."

  I decided not to try lecturing him further about corrupting teenagers. "And the women? Who were they?"

  "Scenery."

  I hesitated. Then found myself asking, "How well do you know your friend Daria?"

  He bit into a messy hamburger and spoke around the mouthful. "You mean in the biblical sense? How many times we've done it? What positions?"

  I knew what he was trying to do. I clenched my teeth, steeling myself to press on. "I just wonder who she is. Does she have a job, for example?"

  "Why do you want to know?"

  "Is she the one you slept with last summer? The psychologist friend?"

  "No, that's Kathy. Kathy Sweeney."

  "So Daria is someone totally new? Someone you just met?"

  "I didn't expect this." Michael turned his shoulder against the seat to look at me at last. His gaze was heavy-lidded, but intensely blue. "You're interested in the women I date now? That's some kind of important step, isn't it?"

  "Stop it. That's not why I—"

  "She's sorry, by the way. For throwing the drink. She said she'd pay to have your clothes cleaned."

  "That won't be necessary." I took the lid off my baked potato and took a tentative sniff. I still wasn't sure I could manage to swallow even a bite, and the thought of arguing further made my stomach even more unsteady. Or maybe what made me woozy
was the knowledge that Michael had definitely crossed the line into something illegal. Until now, I'd held out hope that he was only pretending. But the vast amount of money in the suitcases proved to me that his dark side had won at last.

  Softer, I said, "I'm wondering, Michael, if Daria might be someone you should avoid."

  As if his stomach had suddenly turned, too, Michael abruptly wrapped up the remains of his burger in the foil it had come in. "I remember this stuff tasting better when I was a kid. Do you think low-fat ingredients ruined the fast-food industry?"

  "You're ignoring me."

  "No, I'm not. Daria should be the least of your worries. Carmine Pescara, on the other hand, may have killed as many as thirteen people in his long and illustrious career. Daria may throw drinks, but she doesn't collect old bedspreads for the wet work."

  The wave of nausea that rolled up from inside me had nothing to do with food. "You're hanging around with a murderer?"

  "Yeah, well, he tells great jokes. He can be the life of the party when he feels like it."

  "Why are you doing this?" I asked.

  He knew what I meant. He said, "It's who I am, Nora."

  I put the lid back onto my potato.

  Michael noticed and frowned. "Is Emma right? Is there something wrong?"

  I summoned some composure. "Only that she moved in with me. Emma, that is. She wants to live at the farm now."

  Michael found the shrink-wrapped plastic silverware and squeezed the fork out. He handed it to me. "That's good. The two of you can look after each other. Is she drinking again?"

  "I don't think so."

  He shot me a cautious look. "Have you heard about her new job?"

  "The Dungeon of Darkness?"

  "I hear she carries a whip and wears a spiked collar."

  I noticed Michael was smiling. "You think it's funny?"

  "A little. Somehow Emma working as a dominatrix makes sense. It's like her calling." He caught my expression. "Nobody really gets hurt in those places, Nora."

  "Are you speaking from experience?"

  He shrugged. "It's not my thing, and you know it. It's all pretend, at least where she is. More silly than sexy. A bunch of accountants looking for excitement."

  "I should be relieved?"

  "You seem to be handling it all right. I always marvel at your ability to handle Emma. And what's Libby into these days? Not to mention her psychopathic kids. Does the baby have a name yet?"

  "Max. Maximus Charles."

  Michael laughed. "He'll need a name like that to stay alive in your family."

  "You should talk," I cracked.

  He sobered at once. "Okay, I deserve that. Let me see you take a bite."

  "I'm not hungry."

  "One bite."

  "Why are you so concerned about—"

  "Just eat something, will you?"

  To prove I wasn't suffering from an eating disorder Emma must have dreamed up, I took a forkful of baked potato and ate it. Michael waited, so I swallowed two more mouthfuls while he watched from across the seat.

  "Happy now?"

  "It's a start," he said. "Now tell me about the murdered guy."

  Chapter Nine

  Of course, Michael was qualified to discuss all manner of crimes, and he clearly enjoyed doing so. He liked to read the newspaper and dissect the handiwork of his peers—frequently poking fun at their ineptitude. At first I thought it allowed him to indulge his own criminal instincts in a way that didn't result in jail time.

  But I didn't really want to discuss crime with him tonight.

  On the other hand, it kept other subjects from popping up.

  So Michael sipped his coffee while I told him about Zell Orcutt and the Fitch family.

  "You think the politician did it?" he asked when I concluded my list of suspects.

  I shook my head. "Why would Boy want me to investigate if he killed Zell?"

  "News flash: Politicians can be devious."

  "He's not that blight."

  "You sure?"

  "No," I admitted. "Maybe he's smarter than he pretends."

  Michael nodded. "What do you think he was doing in the garden when you arrived?"

  "He said he was looking for his wallet."

  "Think he was contaminating the crime scene?"

  "I thought of that." I told him about Delilah's earring.

  Michael put his coffee cup on the dashboard and got more comfortable in the seat. "So the police will zero in on the black woman now. That was a smart move on the politician's part."

  "You don't really think Delilah will be arrested? Why?"

  "It's the way the world works, Nora. She's the one person who doesn't fit into the picture of rich white lunatics."

  Companionably quiet, Michael let the possibilities roll around in his head for a while. Then he said, "The killer couldn't be the rock-and-roll stepdaughter, could it?"

  "Verbena? She seems to hate Zell with a passion that's more than the standard kid's dislike of the man who married her widowed mother. Did you ever listen to her music?"

  Michael shook his head. "I think I was inside then."

  Inside a prison, he meant. I nodded. "Well, she sang angry songs."

  "About what?"

  I frowned and tried to think. "The usual things, I suppose. Drugs. Lost love. Abusive men. I guess I need to learn more about her."

  "Hm. And her kid? What's she like?"

  I told him, then added, "Clover is apparently the only person who actually liked Zell. At least, she was happy to be working at Cupcakes. I don't see her as his killer. Besides, she's only a child."

  "Is she going to inherit now that's Grandpa's dead?"

  "I'm not sure. She certainly thinks so."

  "Is she strong enough to handle the murder weapon? And have the expertise to use it? A bow is a tricky thing to manage."

  "You've done it?"

  "My uncle Lou likes to hunt. Took my brothers and me out a few times when we were kids. Until I tripped over a root and—well, see?" He ducked his head and ran his thumb along the scar that grazed his hairline.

  I had let my own fingers touch the small scar many times. "You could have put your eye out."

  He gave me a smile. "I wish I had a nickel for every time my stepmother said that. I was eight years old. Anyway, my point is, you have to be strong to pull the arrow back. Especially if you want to get it deep enough to kill something."

  "Archery is a favorite sport among the whole Fitch family. There's a huge collection of bows in the house, and they're all good at using them. That's primarily why I doubt the murderer could have been somebody from outside the family."

  He looked amused. "Do you have any friends with ordinary hobbies?"

  "Your family has unique interests, too."

  "Burying our enemies in landfills?" Michael ruminated a while longer, his coffee getting cold. "What about the woman at Cupcakes, the dead guy's business partner?"

  "You always say to follow the money. In this case, that means ChaCha, who owns half of Cupcakes. I haven't learned much about her yet. I've got to figure out a way." I thought about ChaCha for a minute. What motive could she have had to kill her partner?

  At last, Michael said, "So you're going to help your friend stay out of jail."

  "Delilah didn't murder Zell." I glanced at him. "Why are you smiling?"

  He shook his head. "Just admiring your consistency. You always protect the lost causes."

  He made it sound insulting, so I said automatically, "I do not!"

  "Sure, you do. It's like you'll finally save your husband from cocaine if you can help the rest of us."

  "The rest of you?"

  "Me. Emma. Now Delilah. If you rescue us from self-destruction, you're finally rescuing him, too."

  "That's ridiculous," I said, but without heat. He was right, of course. I knew it. But I couldn't stop myself, could I? Trying to jest, I said, "You're beyond rescue, anyway, aren't you?"

  He looked out the windshield at nothing,
his face suddenly going blank.

  After a moment, he said, "My money's on the politician."

  I sighed and shook my head. "Boykin manages to cover his shortcomings with good looks and charm, but unless he's a fabulous actor, I really don't think he has the brains to plan a murder and get away with it, let alone ask me for help afterwards."

  "There's more to the story."

  "Most certainly," I agreed.

  Michael reached for his coffee and slurped. He grimaced at the taste, then rolled down his window to pour it away. "The politician sounds like an acquaintance of mine, a guy with the same ability to charm people. He could find a way to flatter anyone, get them on his side, you know? Acting stupid, but really watching for his chance. A con man. Easy to get along with, though, as long as you didn't push his buttons."

  "Did you? Push his buttons?"

  "There are two ways to stay alive in jail." Michael rolled up his window again. "One is to be the last man standing. The other is to avoid pushing any buttons whatsoever. After a while, you learn the second option is best.

  Sometimes Michael said things that swamped me with sadness.

  "What was his crime? Your con-man friend?"

  Michael shrugged. "He killed both of his parents during the Super Bowl. Used a chain saw he'd bought to cut firewood. He put their pieces in the freezer alongside his stash of Klondike bars. Crazy, but he was actually pretty good company once you got to know him. He liked to read dictionaries."

  It was too much. The stench of gladiolas and the talk of Carmine Pescara and his bloody bedspreads had been awful, and the thought of plunging an arrow deep enough into a living creature to kill it was almost as bad. But this tidbit of jailhouse confidence was the end. Michael had spent time with such a person. And liked him. Joking with murderers was more normal for him than a life with me. I dumped the remains of our meal into his lap and made a grab for the door handle.

  "Hey—"

  "Stay here," I commanded, bailing out as fast as I could. The cold night air hit me in the face, but didn't stop the tsunami of nausea that surged inside me. I slammed the door shut and groped my way to the rear of the van before I became reacquainted with the baked potato.

  Half a minute later Michael got out of the van and came around to the back, where I leaned weakly against the rear bumper. "Are you all right?"