by Nancy Martin
“What? Of course not.”
“You’ve got enough going on right now.”
He was right, of course. I said, “Yes, I know.”
“It’s time to think about yourself for a while.”
Yes, perhaps. But it was easier to think about other people’s problems.
I looked up at Michael and saw his concern. “Look,” I said, “I know we need to talk. I’m just not ready, Michael. I don’t know what’s going on in my head, but I—I need time, I guess.”
Michael put his hand on the back of my neck and squeezed gently. “We’ve got all the time in the world.”
A throng of men on horseback cantered down the slope, in a rush of hoofbeats, friendly shouts and snorting animals. They were headed for the upper field by way of the streambed, to make a grand entrance for the waiting audience. But some of the helmeted riders swarmed toward us, swinging mallets teasingly, warming up for their match while they taunted us for canoodling by the stream.
Michael didn’t see the humor and drew me close. When the ponies jostled even nearer, he spun me behind him to keep his body between the animals and me.
“Hey,” he snapped to one rider who reined closer yet.
But the rider circled us and came back to bump us again aggressively, and this time Michael fended off the pony with a stiff-armed shove and a curse.
“Nora?” The voice of the rider had a thick accent. “Nora Blackbird?”
I looked up, shielding my eyes from the dappled sun with one hand, but I couldn’t make out his face. The pony threatened to step on my toes, and once again Michael pulled me out of harm’s way.
With an impatient phrase, the rider dismounted and held the pony’s bit to steady her. He was long-legged and broad-shouldered with a lithe, athletic horseman’s build accentuated by perfectly tailored breeches and a pair of boots clearly custom-made in Italy. With a flourish, he unsnapped his helmet and took it off, revealing a cascade of beautiful black hair and a very tanned, familiar face.
“Raphael,” I said in a strangled voice.
Raphael Braga seized my hand and bowed to kiss it—his lips warm but featherlight on my skin. When he straightened, his dark eyes swept up my figure to rest appraisingly on my face. “I thought it was you. How beautiful you’ve grown up!”
Of course I knew he’d come to Philadelphia. The prememorial publicity had been crowing his name for weeks. But seeing him like this—so close, so forbidden—threw me for a loop. Again, I could only say his name.
“This man.” Raphael turned to give Michael a haughty stare. “This very big patife—he bothers you?”
“No, of course not. Raphael, this is Michael Abruzzo. Michael, this is Raphael Braga. He—he married a friend of mine many years ago.”
Michael had bent to pick up the foil he’d dropped. He straightened to his full height. Raphael hesitated for only an instant before extending his manicured hand. “How do you do?”
“Yeah.” Michael’s tone was surly.
Handshake exchanged, Raphael zeroed back on me with the intensity of a man who cut to the chase when it came to seducing women. “You have come to watch me play?”
“Actually, no, I—”
“It’s all right,” he said graciously. “I enjoy my fans. Have you heard from Carolina lately?”
“Not for years,” I said, aware that we appeared to be exchanging inanities. “You?”
He threw up his hands, causing the pony to jerk her head away. “Not for years also. We live apart now. But she loves Brazil, so she stays. I hear she raises orchids and hikes in the mountains, the silly bitch.”
Years ago, I had been close friends with Carolina Moreno-Penn, Crewe Dearborne’s Florida cousin who had been my roommate for a year at Barnard. Descended from a noble Spanish family on her mother’s side and fascinated by her own heritage, Carolina enjoyed backpacking in Spain and Portugal during semester breaks. She spent her holidays at their home in Palm Beach, though, where her father played the most expensive amateur sport on earth—polo. It was only natural that pretty Carolina fell in with groups of the international tournament players who often visited their home. Eventually lightning struck.
After our junior year, she met Raphael, son of a wealthy Brazilian industrialist. Raphael was a world-class polo player with a lucrative gentleman’s business in training and selling ponies. He also had a history of sweeping some very sophisticated women off their feet.
That a playboy of Raphael’s reputation might fall for a studious, backpacking American girl like Carolina—no matter how rich her father was—seemed unlikely at first. But they married in a romantic whirlwind and moved to Brazil to live with his family on a ranch that had once been featured in Architectural Digest. When her own father died shortly thereafter, Carolina committed herself to pleasing her in-laws and became a traditional Portuguese wife while her husband continued to play on the world’s most prestigious polo fields. And bedrooms.
Despite our early close relationship, I saw Carolina only a couple of times after their wedding. She preferred to stay in her adopted country, and I was not invited to visit. There were other issues, of course.
But now here was Raphael.
Aware that my voice sounded unnatural, I said, “It’s very nice that you came today to honor Penny Devine’s memory. You knew her, didn’t you?”
“Yes, of course, Penny was a great patrone of polo. She came to many tournaments.” Raphael’s dark brows twitched into a sorrowful frown. “I am sorry to miss her now. She was a great lady. You knew her also, I think?”
“Penny was a friend of my grandmother. They shopped for clothes together.”
“In Paris, yes,” Raphael said. “I see some of the grandmother’s taste is yours, too, Nora.” He cast a glance down my suit and ended at my rubber boots, and he smiled. “But not all. You are a sensible one, too.”
Uncomfortable under his scrutiny, I said, “I’m sure Penny’s friends and family appreciate your coming today.”
“It is for a good cause,” he replied. “One close to Penny’s heart—or stomach. She was a pig, Penny. She loved to eat. Such a pig.”
The rest of the players had ridden up the hill toward the polo field, but one circled back to us. When she came closer, I realized it was Emma, handling her borrowed pony with ease.
“Hey, Mick,” she said, reining near to get a good look at his chin. “What happened to you? Cut yourself shaving?”
Mick shot a sour look at Emma. “Something like that.”
Raphael appeared amused. “So the patife is not so roji after all?”
Emma laughed. “Rafe,” she said, “let’s go. We’ve only got a few minutes to warm up.”
“You are a taskmistress, Emma,” Raphael replied, but he obediently swung up onto his mare again.
On impulse, I caught his stirrup. “And your daughter, Raphael? How is she?”
His black gaze rested on me. His face hardened as he settled into the saddle. “Yes, Mariel. She lives with my mother now. They are devoted to each other.”
“Does Carolina…?”
“No, she stays away.” His voice was suddenly cool. “Mariel lives with my family. It is best that way.” He put on his helmet with a practiced, one-handed maneuver, then spurred his horse across the field.
Michael muttered, “I hope nobody lights a match too close to that guy’s hair. With all the grease he’s got on, it might explode.”
My heart was beating very fast as I watched them ride away.
“Nora? You okay?”
“Hm? What? Sorry.”
“Oh, great,” Michael said. “Tell me he’s somebody you slept with years ago. Am I going to have to whack him?”
“That’s not funny. He married a friend of mine, that’s all.”
“Yeah, I figured out that much. What is he now? Some kind of gigolo?”
“Heavens, no. He’s—well, Raphael. Wealthy, successful.”
I didn’t want to talk about him, certainly not with Michael. The time would come when I woul
d have to explain everything. But not yet.
I said, “I should get back to work. Once the polo match starts, it will be harder to interview anyone.”
“Sure,” he said, watching my face.
“Would you like to come along? I could introduce you to some friends of mine.”
He smiled and shook his head. “I might frighten their horses.”
My heart turned over. “You’ll have to meet them eventually. Why not today?”
“I’ve got things to do at the garage. I wanted to bring your new phone, that’s all.”
I stretched up on tiptoes and kissed his cheek, taking care not to bump his chin. “And I love you for it. We’ll talk, I promise.”
He slipped one hand to my hip and accidentally jostled something out of my pocket.
He bent to pick it up. “What’s this?”
An envelope, we saw.
“I don’t know. I didn’t have it when—” Instinctively, I slit the vellum envelope open and discovered a sheaf of money inside. Several one-hundred-dollar bills. Astonished, I said, “What in the world?”
“Looks like you hit it big at the casino,” Michael said, amused.
I reached for my pocket, half expecting to find more surprises within, but there was nothing else secreted inside. “I can’t imagine where—oh, for heaven’s sake. Potty!”
“Uh—”
“Porter Devine,” I corrected. “He must have slipped it into my pocket while we were talking.”
Michael took the money from my hand and flicked it expertly. “That must have been an interesting conversation. There’s a thousand bucks here.”
“He was telling me about the bad press he’s gotten for having a young girlfriend. Good grief, do you suppose he’s trying to buy space in my column?”
“If he needs some favorable publicity, I’d say that’s exactly what he’s trying to do. Congratulations. Consider yourself bribed.”
“I can’t accept this!” I flushed. “It’s unethical!”
“Surely every newspaper writer in the world has been greased at least once. I’d say it’s a career milestone for you.” He slid the money back into the envelope.
“You aren’t suggesting I keep it!”
“Hell, no. Give it back. Or give it to an orphanage. But don’t get bent out of shape about it. A little graft is no big deal.”
“It is to me.”
“I know,” Michael said fondly. “I think it’s cute.”
“I need to find Potty right now and return this money.”
“Suit yourself.”
I stuffed the envelope into my handbag where it would be safer. Michael walked me back across the grass toward the cars. I reached for his hand, and he guided me around the worst of the mud. I don’t remember what we talked about—something about dinner that evening, I think. But my mind was on Potty’s attempt at bribery.
And, of course, I thought about Raphael.
So I didn’t see it until we nearly stepped on it in the grass.
At first, I was sure it wasn’t real. But we stopped together, halted by the sight of it, and we looked down at the thing lying on the muddy ground.
“Jesus,” Michael said.
A human hand.
Severed above the wrist.
Drained of blood, it was gray. Still fleshy but mottled, with chubby fingers and acrylic nails painted pink. A wristwatch glittered on the wrist.
It was so bizarre and so horrible—there in the mud on such a beautiful day.
I felt the trees start to spin around me. Michael had his cell phone out, and I knew he was calling the police. He pushed me back, but I could only stare at it—a dismembered bit of a human being in the sunshine. A black swirl washed around my ankles, and then it swept upward to engulf me. I passed out cold, into Michael’s arms.
Chapter Three
The police, of course, took Michael away.
“Why would they arrest him?” Libby demanded in an uncharacteristic show of protectiveness. “He didn’t cut off somebody’s arm and then call the cops to report it!”
“The police always react this way.” I hugged the plaid stadium blanket she had produced out of the flotsam in the back of her minivan. “They assume because he’s an Abruzzo that he’s mixed up in any crime committed within ten miles of where he’s standing.”
“That’s hardly fair,” my sister sniffed. “Why didn’t they question me in more detail? That one officer had an intriguing aura. I sensed a potential connection.”
“Libby—”
“I might have been helpful, that’s all. I certainly know as much as That Man of Yours. Maybe more.”
We were sitting in the backseat of her minivan with all the doors open, still parked in the muddy field. Lucy napped in the front passenger seat, contorted in the boneless, tangled way only children could sleep. The other guests had long since walked up to the polo match, and we could hear a muffled voice on a loudspeaker announcing the action. Occasionally, the crowd gave a collective, “Oh!” So far, not many were aware of the police presence in the lower field. Around us were parked several cruisers and a forensics van. The police had strung crime-scene tape, and now the long process of analyzing the ground was under way. If they didn’t finish before the polo match was over, there was going to be one very big, well-bred traffic jam.
A few chauffeurs and some of the catering staff stood behind the crime tape, watching and talking in low voices.
“Michael hasn’t been arrested,” I said. “They’re just asking him routine questions.”
“I hope he has a good lawyer.”
Michael had a dozen good lawyers. I sipped from the cup of tea Libby had procured for me from someone’s tailgate party. The delicate cup was Wedgwood, hand painted with violets. The tea was cold.
“Was it really gross?” Libby asked. “I mean, did you see a lot of blood?”
“No blood.” I had fought down the nausea that came after fainting, but here it came again. I pulled the blanket closer.
“And it was a woman’s hand?”
“Most certainly. Nail polish. A lady’s watch.”
“Do you think…?” Libby asked. “Could it possibly…? Oh, for heaven’s sake! It makes sense, you know.”
“It makes no sense whatsoever, Libby.”
“Things may seem to happen by chance, Nora, but actually, it’s the wings of a butterfly in northern Africa that cause the hurricane in Mexico.”
Even on my best days, I had a hard time comprehending Libby’s latest cockamamy theories. “What are you trying to say?”
“That it’s Penny Devine’s hand, of course! What are the chances Penny disappeared, and a year later someone else’s severed hand turns up on her family’s estate?”
“Libby—”
“And where’s the rest of her, may I ask? Has she been divided up into bite-sized pieces, or—”
“Oh, God.”
“You’re thinking the same thing—admit it!”
A truck with a bad muffler roared up beside us and stopped. It was an old pickup truck with a ragged tarpaulin tied over the cargo bed and a kind of winch attached to the back. The vehicle was beaten with age and coated with dust.
As soon as the engine died, we were overcome by a terrible stench that wafted from the back of the truck. I stared at the large lump covered with the tattered blue plastic tarp. From underneath it thrust the leg and hoof of a dead animal—probably a deer.
“Good heavens,” Libby cried, clapping one hand to her nose and mouth. “What is that smell?”
A light, brisk knock sounded on the side of the minivan, and an instant later, an elderly face appeared in the doorway. “Eleanor Blackbird? Is that you?”
“Vivian! Oh, I’m so sorry about all this.”
“No apologies necessary, you poor lamb. I understand you found the—er—remains? What a terrible shock for you. Here, would you like a cookie? It might revive you.”
She extended a small brown paper bag that bulged with cookies. Automatic
ally accepting her offering, I peeked inside and noticed they were all cut into animal shapes—cats, in fact—and sprinkled with fragrant cinnamon.
“Uh, thank you, Vivian.”
Vivian Devine looked little like her famous sister, Penny. Where the actress had been petite and struggled with her weight, her older sister, Vivian, had given up the fight long ago and now looked as plump, kindly and sweet-tempered as Mrs. Claus. They had the same face—rounded cheeks and a pointed chin with china-doll eyes—but Vivian’s wrinkles and jowls lent her face a cozy sort of expression. Penny had often looked as if she’d been drinking vinegar.
Over her rounded figure, Vivian wore a shapeless green jumper with a Peter Pan collar showing at her neck and long sleeves demurely buttoned at her wrists. On her tiny feet were white socks and red plastic gardening boots in the shape of Dutch wooden shoes. In her arms she cradled a thin, sickly little cat.
From behind Vivian came a nervous Brittany spaniel, white with chestnut-colored ears and filthy legs. The animal put his muddy forepaws into the van by my feet and stretched his speckled pink nose to sniff me.
“Get down, Toby,” Vivian said, and the animal shied from her as if she’d jabbed him with a Taser. “I’m sorry about the behavior of the dog. He belonged to our caretaker and never received any proper training. Are you very shaken up, Nora? Can I bring you some tea to go with the cookies?”
“I have some tea already, thank you, Vivian. Yes, it was me who found—her—it.”
“What a shock, you poor lamb. Have you spoken with the police?”
“Yes. They asked me to wait a little longer.”
Libby said, “It’s so inconvenient. Nora should be at home in bed by now.”
Vivian said, “Of course she should. Oh, this is very distressing. Did the police identify the…?”
“I imagine that process will take weeks.”
“I know what they’re thinking.” Vivian glanced over at the forensics van. She seemed oblivious to the awful smell that hung over her truck. “It’s what everybody’s going to think, isn’t it?”
“That’s what I said,” Libby muttered. She took the bag of cookies from me and peered inside.
“I’m afraid so,” I said. “Is it possible Penny could really be…gone?”
