A Little Night Murder

by Nancy Martin

  In the hall, I listened for Bridget again. There was no sound, though, and no light shining under her door. I concluded she was either an early-to-bed person or she was plotting something. I said a quick prayer for the first option.

  I ran a bath, and while the tub filled I carefully hung up my dress on its padded hanger. After I’d climbed over a gate and landed in the dirt, my Pucci needed a trip to the dry cleaners. I dropped my so-called granny panties into the laundry hamper—with a grumble. As I pinned up my hair, I looked down into the backyard. Michael came out of the barn and began pacing around the garden in the dark, cell phone to his ear. I couldn’t hear his voice. I wondered if he was talking with the police. Or with his retaliation-minded cousins.

  I soaked in a tub full of tepid water, breathing the refreshing scent of lemon and restorative herbs from a jar of bath salts Libby had given me. Trying to relax, I leafed through the pages of a novel, but the story couldn’t sidetrack my thoughts. When I heard Michael come inside downstairs, I tossed the book onto the floor and started thinking about Jenny Tuttle and the dead nurse until my brain began to whirl all over again. Cake on the floor. Energy drinks stacked up. The blue bottles of something left behind. The hatred on the wall of photos Jenny had created.

  My thoughts must have spun for a long time, because I finally realized the bathwater had grown cold. I put a wet washcloth to my face and tried to force down the tears that had risen in my throat. Could I have prevented the nurse’s death somehow? Had she been killed by the same someone who killed Jenny?

  And even more puzzling: all those photos of children in Jenny’s drawer. What the heck was that all about?

  I heard Michael on the stairs and hastily composed myself. He didn’t need to see me breaking down again. I pulled the plug and let the water run out of the tub while reaching for a bath sheet. I was shy about showing my enormous naked body these days, so I was out of the tub and wrapped in the towel by the time Michael poked his head into the bathroom.

  “I brought you some dinner,” he said. “You want it in bed?”

  “Thank you. That sounds wonderful.”

  I brushed out my hair and slipped into one of Libby’s maternity nightgowns. It was yellow and low cut, short and frilly, with lace around the thighs and satin ribbons at the shoulders—her style, not mine, but I couldn’t afford to be choosy. At least it didn’t have some ridiculous words plastered on the front. Wearing it reminded me that I owed her an apology. I vowed I’d call her first thing in the morning.

  I slid into the bed, feeling almost myself. Michael had a tray on my lap in no time. A quick stir-fry of shrimp with sugar snap peas, plus a slice of whole wheat toast with butter. A glass of milk, too.

  While I dug in, he went into the bathroom and I heard him brushing his teeth. When he came back, his shirt was unbuttoned and my meal was nearly demolished. He went around the room and turned off all the lights except the lamp on the bedside table.

  Earlier in the day, I had sorted through some of the toys Libby had sent over, and the bed was still covered with little stuffed animals. Michael gathered them all up and dumped them back into their cardboard box. He missed one little duck, and when he picked it up, it gave a surprised quack. With the toy in hand, he climbed onto the bed with me.

  “Did you make some dinner for yourself?” I asked when I belatedly realized he didn’t have a plate.

  Michael kept his voice down so as not to disturb our houseguests. “Rawlins and I had hoagies before Bridget showed up.” He made a hammer of his fist and tapped his chest. “I’ve got heartburn.”

  “Maybe not from just the food.” I asked, “Is your mother moving in with us?”

  “No way. Look, I figured it was easier to let her stay here for a night than convince her to give herself up and talk to the cops. I’ll try talking to her again in the morning.”

  “Are they still looking for her?”

  “Yep. From what I hear, she’s number one on their hit parade.”

  We should have been talking about the incident at the ice cream shop, but neither one of us wanted to do that now—not in our bed, where we had some time ago established a no-stress zone. In the half-light, Michael appeared worn out. The swelling around his eye looked sore. He had been taking good care of me lately, and I wasn’t keeping up my end.

  He said, “Bridget says the cops are putting a real kink in her show-business plans.”

  I said gently, “Michael, I don’t think she’s going to get into a Broadway show.”

  “Why not? She doesn’t have what it takes?”

  “I don’t know about her singing and dancing, but Ox Oxenfeld says they need somebody with star power—the kind that sells tickets, that is.”

  He cocked an eyebrow at me. “Are you going to be the one to tell her that?”

  “I see your point.” I set aside the crust of my toast. I had learned so much during the day, and all the facts were starting to get jumbled. I sighed. “I should call Gus before I fall asleep. He’ll be furious if he learns I was at another crime scene and didn’t tell him all about it.”

  Michael dug into his pocket and handed over one of his disposable cell phones. Then he relaxed back into the pillows, tossing the duck into the air and catching it.

  “I’m sorry,” I said.

  “Hey, it’s your job.”

  I dialed the Intelligencer’s switchboard. It would be easier to be cross-examined by whoever was on the night desk.

  I was relieved when Marty Maron picked up. He was easygoing most of the time, and he took my information calmly, saying, “Yeah, we heard some of this on the scanner. Thanks for the rest, Nora.”

  I hung up. Although I had a nagging feeling I had forgotten something, I decided I had done my duty. I gave Michael his phone back and picked up the glass of milk.

  Michael watched me sip it, turning the duck over in one hand. For once he didn’t make cracks about Gus. Instead, he said, “Maybe we ought to talk about your job.”

  “What about it?”

  “You know. About after you have the baby and the other one gets here. Maybe you should take a break.”

  “I’ve got several weeks of maternity leave.”

  Choosing his words carefully, Michael said, “Nora, I don’t like seeing you so upset like tonight. Maybe staying home for a while would be good for you. For everybody.”

  I swallowed the last of the milk and looked at him more carefully. He was making an effort to be steady, but his hands looked as if they were strangling the little duck’s neck.

  He said, “I’m just floating the idea out there.”

  “You want me to quit my job to stay home and raise our family?”

  “It’s not about what I want. But it’s not a totally crazy suggestion, is it? I’ve got Gas N Grub up and running again. If we keep watching our expenses around here a little longer, we’ll be okay with one income.”

  “So I should give up my career? Which I know isn’t much of a career exactly, but it—well, it has become surprisingly important to me. I didn’t expect that, but I—I feel good about what I’m doing. I can contribute to the city, in my own way.”

  “Which is great. I want you to be happy. But . . .”

  I put my napkin back on the tray. “But?”

  Michael lobbed the duck across the room and it landed accurately in the old armchair by the window. He avoided my gaze. It took him a long time to work up the right words, but finally he said, “I’m on a learning curve here. This is all new to me. Hell, I can break up a prison-yard brawl, if I have to, but living in a real home with you—with a washing machine and a refrigerator with actual food in it and flowers on the table—I’m trying to get my head around how to do it all right.”

  “You’re the one who puts food in the fridge,” I said.

  “Thing is,” he said just as carefully as before, “why are we having kids if we
have to hire people to look after them? Is it supposed to be that way?”

  There it was, out between us. His dream for a real family meant all the traditional things—including a stay-at-home wife. Maybe it was what I had imagined all along, too, after my upbringing in the rarified world of inherited money. But now . . . now my ideas were different. And not.

  I set the tray on the nightstand. “We haven’t talked about child care. Not really. We’ve joked around it a little. But nannies and babysitters and day care—if we don’t go that route, one of us has to make some big sacrifices.”

  “I don’t want you sacrificing anything,” he said at once. “If one of us has to give up something, it should be me.”

  “Why?”

  “Because,” he said stubbornly.

  My heart warmed again. He wanted to hang on to what we’d already created together, no matter what the cost. “If we’re going to fight about this,” I said, “you’re going to need a better argument.”

  “I don’t want to fight. But can you manage three kids on your own? I know you’re good with Libby’s kids, but . . . I don’t think I can. Three little ones is a lot to handle.”

  “We won’t have three children,” I said gently. “Noah isn’t ours, Michael. He’s going back to his parents soon. And this time maybe he’ll stay there.”

  Michael stretched out on his back on the bed. He put his hands behind his head and looked at the ceiling, saying nothing.

  “We can’t take Noah from Hart,” I said with more emphasis.

  He didn’t respond.

  I sighed and touched my forehead, wishing I could massage some easy solution into my brain. “I suppose I should quit my job. It would only be for a few years. After that, I can start over again. Maybe. If the newspaper still exists.” I could hear the doubt in my own voice. Was I ready to make the sacrifice of my own budding career? Another issue was that I still had my parents’ enormous tax debt to pay off. Could I let Michael shoulder that financial responsibility for me? Was it fair for my problem to become a burden for him, too?

  “It could be a lot of years,” Michael said before I could formulate that discussion. “I’m thinking we’re going to have plenty more kids.”

  I smiled and laid my hand on his chest to feel his heartbeat. “Me, too. And we’ll make it all work. Somehow.”

  He sent me a grin. “I’m not kidding. Four, six, eight. More? I’m thinking we could have a football team if we put our minds to it.”

  I figured I might as well say good-bye to my slim self forever, but I indulged him and asked, “What if they’re all girls?”

  “A softball team, then.”

  We smiled at each other, and then Michael rolled over and gathered me into his arms. One hand slid down to my belly, and he fondled Baby Girl. She was sleeping, though, and didn’t kick. As for me, it felt good to be in his arms again.

  His touch changed, and he tugged at the frilly hem of my borrowed nightie. In my ear, he said, “This thing is pretty sexy.”

  “I don’t feel very sexy these days,” I replied, snuggling back into the curve of his lean body. “Mostly, I feel like the winning pumpkin in one of those state fair competitions—you know, the big, lumpy gourd that can only be moved by a forklift. Emma called me Humpty Dumpty tonight. And it’s been weeks since we . . . well.”

  “Emma has a lot of guts to make wisecracks. At the end, she was the size of a hippo, but she looked fine a couple of months later. You’re not a pumpkin. And . . . I didn’t think you were interested.” He kissed my neck with slow attention. “I don’t want to hurt you. Either one of you.”

  I smiled. “I don’t think that’s possible. Wait—what are you doing?”

  With his other hand, he untied the ribbon at my shoulder, and Libby’s nightie began to fall apart around me like a magic trick. He murmured, “You’re really not in the mood?”

  I tried to catch the last remnants of frilly lace before I was completely exposed. “Your mother is right down the hall.”

  “We’ll be quiet.”

  “Michael—”

  “We haven’t been communicating lately. You’ve been worrying about Lexie.” He eased me over onto my back, his touch trailing appreciatively down to my breasts. “And I’ve been thinking too much about— Wow, these are different. I’ve been missing out.”

  When his warm mouth found my breast, I gave in and wound one arm around his shoulders. I slid my other hand to cup the back of his head. If he didn’t mind my size, I didn’t either anymore. We hadn’t reached any conclusions about our coming family, but I didn’t feel like hashing out the conundrum now. Sometimes it felt better to communicate without words. I closed my eyes and sighed.

  An hour later when we were both dozing off, Michael’s cell phone chirped on his side of the bed. He rolled over and grabbed it before the sound woke anyone else. He swung out of bed and took the phone into the bathroom. I heard him muttering to someone as he opened a bottle of Tums and shook out some tablets.

  He came back to bed a minute later, shutting off the phone.

  “Who was calling?” I asked. “The police?”

  “No.” He opened his palm and offered me an antacid as he slid back into bed. “Little Frankie.”

  “Your brother?” I couldn’t keep the startled tone out of my voice and came fully awake. “That’s all we need now.”

  “Go back to sleep.” Michael tucked me against him again. “Maybe everything else is falling apart, but I’ve got Little Frankie under control.”

  I crunched the tablet and went back to sleep eventually, but I was aware that Michael lay awake for a long time. He was restless, and I knew he was thinking. About his bad brother? About our family? The crime wave in Bucks County?

  Or about his mother?

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Noah woke me in the morning with a boisterous yell. Michael was already doing his best Elvis impression in the shower, so I hurriedly slipped into my vintage Parisian bathrobe and went across the hall to attend to the baby. He was standing up in the crib, gripping the rail. When he saw me, his face split into a wide grin and he reached both hands for me.

  I scooped him up and changed his sopping diaper while talking a lot of nonsense. He was happy to listen and kicked his chubby feet to make me laugh. I carried him downstairs and held him on my hip while warming a sippy cup of milk. When I put him in the borrowed high chair to drink it, I noticed a note had been slipped under the back door. It was written in Emma’s scrawling hand.

  “She must have come to feed her ponies before dawn,” I said to Noah.

  Spent half the night talking with the cops. None of them were cute. You okay? Call me.

  I called Emma’s cell phone while mixing Noah’s cereal. I got her voice mail.

  “I’m fine,” I told her. “Thanks for looking after me last night. Next time you come over, you should stick around for breakfast.”

  When Michael came downstairs, dressed in his go-to-Mass shirt, he gave Baby Girl a good-morning caress, then pulled me into his arms, dipped me low and kissed me while I laughed. Noah watched us as if mesmerized.

  “Any sign of my mother?” Michael asked, setting me on my feet.

  “Would things be this quiet if she was awake?”

  “Good point.”

  The three of us ate breakfast together in the cool kitchen. Then we took the baby outside to pick strawberries in the early-morning sunshine—me in my bathrobe, probably looking like a pregnant royal consort. From the crook of Michael’s arm, Noah pointed out the rabbits that were busily decimating the sugar snap peas. I picked a bowl full of berries while the hem of my robe sucked up the dew from the grass.

  Michael gave Noah a green pepper, and the baby threw it. Michael picked it up, and Noah threw it again.

  “We’ve got a left-handed pitcher here,” Michael called to me.

  I watched
them play their game. To my eye, Noah had a pretty good arm.

  From his new enclosure on the other side of the peony border, Ralphie made longing noises. Our pet pig had grown to at least five hundred pounds, and he had broken out of every pen we’d built to keep him from rampaging all over the farm. His rooting had made a terrible mess of the lawn, so we had called a professional to build a sturdy corral out of steel and heavy-gauge wire mesh. We kept him penned up except when Michael took him for daily strolls in the pony pasture.

  “I think this pen might hold him,” Michael said, keeping an eye on Ralphie while the pig inquisitively nosed every bolt and bar for signs of weakness. He wanted his chance to chase the green pepper Noah was throwing.

  “If it doesn’t, we’ll have to seriously consider sending him somewhere else.”

  Michael gave me a shocked stare. “Get rid of Ralphie?”

  “He’s not exactly a safe pet for children. And he’s really starting to smell. Maybe he’d be happier at a zoo.”

  Michael frowned. “Maybe some barbecue restaurant needs a mascot. He’d make a good mascot, don’t you think?”

  Ralphie gave a long, loud pig snort as if to veto the idea. He was happy here with us.

  I heard the phone ring inside the house and carried the bowl of strawberries into the kitchen to answer it. Out the window, I could see Michael and Noah throwing the green pepper over and over.

  In my ear, Gus Hardwicke began to curse a blue streak.

  I gathered he was furious that I hadn’t phoned him personally with my information about discovering the nurse’s body. In no mood to be verbally abused, I hung up. Upstairs, I heard the shower running. Bridget was awake.

  Half a minute later, the phone rang again. But when I answered, it was not Gus, but Lexie’s voice on the line.