A Little Night Murder

by Nancy Martin

  “Will you let me pass, please? I’m late for an engagement.”

  He continued to laugh. “I’ve never seen a girl so fat before. Let me feel that bowling ball.”

  He reached and almost put his hand on Baby Girl. Maybe I had endured one too many touches by strangers, but this was the last straw. I slapped his hand hard.

  He pulled back as if bitten, face shocked.

  If I had worried about how I might settle into motherhood, those doubts evaporated in a heartbeat. I wasn’t afraid anymore. I had my priorities straight. I said, “Keep your dirty hands off my family.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  I took Noah to the garden party at the house of my grandmother’s friend, who greeted me fondly and gushed over the baby in his sailor suit. We chatted for only a minute before she had to move on to other guests, leaving me to wander in the garden. Although compact, her urban oasis was a masterpiece of topiaries and statuary and stone containers that gleamed with the patina of old age and long, loving use. Tiers of immaculately mulched flowers had been expertly chosen in subtle waves of color to please the most discerning of eyes. The intoxicating scent of all those wonderful flowers filled the air, which seemed full of swooping birds, too. The art hanging from overhead wires strung between the shady trees was vibrant and playful, and the strolling guests clutched price lists while they admired everything. If ever I had an opportunity to contemplate beauty, this was it. I found one perfect Peace rose and showed it to Noah, who put his pudgy fingers to the soft petals. After that, I took photos for the newspaper and talked briefly to a few friends.

  I soon bumped into Michael and Gail Rosen, a couple who could always be relied upon to support the local children’s hospital. Michael, a CPA wearing a snappy summer suit, and Gail, a retired teacher in a crisp dress with her triple strands of pearls, were sipping cool drinks and admiring a splashy canvas of bicycles finger-painted in primary colors.

  He turned away from the painting with a shake of his head. “Not that one, Gail. We’ll find another way to donate. Nora!” He gave me a kiss on the cheek and said with concern, “Should you be out in this heat?”

  Gail hugged me. “We’re trying not to melt.”

  “Why aren’t you two out on the golf course on such a beautiful day?” I asked, teasing.

  “Oh, we wouldn’t miss this party for anything. Honey,” she said to her husband, “why don’t you find something cold for Nora to drink?”

  “I’m fine, really—”

  “I’ll be back in a minute,” he promised. “I think my wife is hinting she needs some girl time.”

  When he went off into the crowd, Gail said, “This gives me a minute to ask you about Lexie. Is she all right? I assume you’re in touch with her?”

  Since her husband worked in the financial world, which was still in an uproar about the fall of Lexie’s firm, I said cautiously, “She’s okay.”

  “I don’t approve of what she did,” Gail said. “Nobody could. It was awful that her partner stole from clients, but that doesn’t excuse pushing him off a ledge. She’s going to make restitution to the investors, isn’t she?”

  “I can’t really say, Gail.”

  “No, of course not. You’re being discreet. One of my daughters went to school with her, you may remember, so I think I know Lexie well enough to guess she’s going to do the right thing. I hope you’ll tell her that although many clients are furious about what happened—justifiably so—there are also some of us who still respect her. Her charity work was especially admirable. And you know I’m a big advocate of women in business. I hate seeing a good one go down. So we’re rooting for her to get back on her feet.”

  “Thank you, Gail.”

  “I hope she comes back better than ever.”

  I hoped so, too. I didn’t say I was worried that my friend was dabbling in the dark arts.

  Gail deftly changed the subject to Noah. She crouched down to talk directly to him in the stroller, and he responded with a grin. She was telling me about her granddaughters when her husband returned with a frosty glass of iced tea for me, and while I gratefully sipped it, we chatted pleasantly about the pictures hanging around us. The Rosens were very nice people, the backbone of charitable giving. I left them discussing the attributes of various paintings.

  I wheeled Noah around to look at some of the sculptures and listen to the music of a youth string trio, but my heart wasn’t in it. I was too rocked by Hart’s proposal that Michael and I take Noah. Long before the party got fully under way, and without even bothering to find anyone to say thank you or good-bye to, Noah and I headed home.

  Usually, I used the travel time to write my newspaper pieces, but Noah was too much of a distraction today. He demanded my attention. Juggling him, I finally checked my phone and discovered a text message from Michael.

  Ill pick u up at train station.

  I showed the phone’s screen to Noah. “See? He’ll be home with us tonight.”

  Noah grabbed the phone and sucked on it.

  By the time the train reached Doylestown, Noah was asleep in my arms, and it was a struggle to get the stroller and everything else off the train and into the station. My feet were swollen. Baby Girl was doing a tap dance on my bladder. But I looked around for Michael with happy anticipation.

  Instead, it was Armand Cannoli, Michael’s lawyer, who came striding up from the dark parking lot.

  I must have looked terribly disappointed, because he said, “I’m so sorry. I used Mick’s phone to text you.”

  “Where is he? In jail still?”

  “Not exactly. Here, I brought my car. I have my son’s car seat, too. It might be the wrong size, but— No, don’t lift that yourself. Let me help.”

  When we were finally settled in Cannoli’s big Mercedes and he was driving me home, he explained.

  “The original charges were all bogus,” he said. “Mick wasn’t driving under the influence, of course. The cops just wanted some leverage to find out about his mother. When that didn’t work, I thought they were going to turn him loose this afternoon, but that’s when the feds showed up.”

  “The feds? You mean the FBI?” My voice rose as dread surged up from inside me. “What for? What do they want with him?”

  “I don’t know, and Mick wasn’t talking. They took him away, and now—”

  “The FBI took him away where? Why? He hasn’t done anything wrong.” Federal charges were much more serious than the rest. My head was suddenly full of horrible thoughts of penitentiaries and grimly long sentences that might doom our future, and I felt sick.

  Cannoli tried to soothe me. “I’m working on finding out everything. What’s his relationship with Lexie Paine? He mentioned her name to me, then decided to clam up. I can’t help him if he won’t let me.”

  I felt a pit start to open in my stomach. My worst fears were coming true. Michael and Lexie had concocted something illegal together, and now it was coming apart. “I don’t know what they’re doing. They wouldn’t tell me.” Probably to keep me out of their conspiracy.

  Gently, Armand asked, “Do you know if it’s legal?”

  I had asked Michael the same question. What had his answer been? Legal in some countries. Had he been joking?

  If Michael had chosen to keep secrets from his lawyer, I had to trust there were good reasons for me to do the same. So I didn’t answer.

  Instead, I asked, “Where are they keeping him?”

  “I won’t know until morning.”

  “A jail somewhere? Locked up?’

  “Probably.”

  If my whole chest were being squeezed in a vise, I couldn’t have felt more panicked. “Will they let him go before Friday?”

  “Friday? I don’t know, Nora.”

  “Armand, we have an appointment to get married that evening.”

  “How delightful,” Cannoli said warmly.
“No wonder he’s pacing like a caged lion. Congratulations. Nora, I’ll move mountains to get him to the church on time, I promise. I’ll pull in favors—whatever it takes. He’ll be waiting at the altar. Don’t worry.”

  I was only somewhat comforted. “I met an FBI agent last year. Do you think it would do any good for me to call him and—”

  “Let us handle it.” Cannoli’s voice was gentle. “We’ve never failed Mick before. We’ll save his bacon again.”

  On Wednesday morning, I put on another of Libby’s awful maternity T-shirts. This one read ALL I WANTED WAS A BACK RUB.

  I figured nobody would see me, so I was safe. I read the Intelligencer while feeding Noah his breakfast. There was no story about Michael, thank heaven.

  The story about the Tuttles was splashed above the fold, with pictures of Jenny and David Kaminsky arranged side by side so readers could make their own decisions about family resemblance. A sidebar story outlined the possibility that Boom Boom Tuttle had invented her mystery moneyman to drain as much working capital as possible from other investors. Did I care anymore? Not really. If all the Tuttles ended up in a soup kitchen, that was all right with me. I hated the idea of any of them cashing in on the Blackbird family.

  I flipped the newspaper over, and there was a grainy photo of Lexie, probably taken from a helicopter. She was stretched out in a lounge chair in her bathing suit, sunning herself by the luxurious pool. The headline: LIVING THE GOOD LIFE.

  For the first time in my pregnancy, I felt my belly twinge. I put my hand on Baby Girl and silently cursed Gus. The story would sell a lot of papers that day. And raise the ire of people who had lost their life’s savings to the Paine Investment Group. It made Lexie look like an uncaring criminal who had stolen from her clients to feather her own considerable nest.

  Rubbing the tight muscle in my belly, I phoned the newspaper when I was pretty sure Gus would be in. His assistant transferred me, and Gus picked up on the fourth ring, as if he was deliberately keeping me in suspense.

  Instead of hello, he asked, “Did you get home safely last night?”

  His concern surprised me. “Of course. Why wouldn’t I?”

  “You left here with enough infant paraphernalia to cripple a pack mule.”

  “I managed just fine.”

  In a different tone, he said, “I heard about Abruzzo.”

  I didn’t answer. I had a hard time believing Gus could have heard about Michael’s trouble with federal investigators from a police scanner. He must have informants in higher places.

  Gus said, “Are you okay?”

  “No, of course I’m not okay. I saw your photo of Lexie. I can’t bear to read what you’ve written about her.”

  “Everywhere I go, people badger me about when we’re going to do a full-blown exposé on your friend. I had to toss a little chum into the water to—”

  “Gus,” I said, “I’m going to take a few days off. I have several photos and extra stories we can use until I get back to work. Tremaine and I can make arrangements by phone for the online edition. But I’m not coming in. I can’t handle this anymore.”

  “Handle what?”

  “The way you treat people. The way you conduct business.”

  “Let me come out there to your outpost in the country.” Gus tried hard to sound kind. “We’ll discuss your promotion. Or—”

  “No, Gus.”

  “I’m coming to see you,” he said. “I can be there in an hour.”

  “I’ll call the police if you do.”

  “You left a garment bag here. It’s got a couple of dresses in it, Mary Jude says. I’ll bring it.”

  “I’ll pick it up myself sometime. You’re not welcome here.”

  “I’m trying to help!”

  “Keep working on the Tuttle story. There’s one more angle I should have mentioned. I think it’s possible Boom Boom is missing. Either missing or she’s in danger.”

  His voice changed. “What kind of danger?”

  “She wasn’t at the Tuttle house yesterday, so somebody needs to start looking. Hostetler’s probably the man for the job,” I said bitterly. “And he’s finished with his other assignment, right?” Before Gus could ask more questions, I disconnected and sat for a moment, angry and frightened.

  Noah threw his banana at me and smiled brightly.

  I did my best to wipe the worry from my face. If I felt as if my life was falling apart, I owed it to Noah to pretend otherwise. Surely the primary principle of good parenting was making a child feel protected and loved at all times.

  For the next couple of days, though, I looked after Noah never far from a telephone. I stopped reading the newspapers. I phoned Lexie, but she didn’t answer. I talked to the Cannolis on a regular basis, and they assured me that Michael planned on showing up for our wedding. But they couldn’t tell me exactly how that miracle might happen.

  If not for my sisters, I think I’d have gone crazy. But Libby came every morning and brought Max, who grew more and more intimidated by Noah. Emma arrived at the end of her workday, bringing take-out food. Talking a lot about her progress with Cookie, she helped me in the garden. My sisters did their level best to keep me on an even keel.

  On Friday morning, Libby insisted on taking me out for a bridal breakfast. “It will get your mind off everything.”

  “I’d rather just stay here by the phone, Libby—”

  “I have something to discuss. Something delicate,” she said, “and I’d like to do it in public, if you don’t mind.”

  “Why? I’m warning you, Libby—in my current state of mind, I’m willing to make a scene just about anywhere.”

  She smiled. “A quick breakfast. Who doesn’t need waffles once in a while?”

  We took Noah and Max along in the hope of negotiating a peace treaty between them. The line was too long at the pancake house, so we ended up at the Rusty Sabre. When we were settled at our usual table in the back room by the window overlooking the canal, Libby took a deep breath.

  “I know you’re going to be disappointed,” she said, “but I’ve decided a double wedding is a mistake. For both of us.”

  I tried to rearrange my relieved face and took a moment to compose the best response. Carefully, I said, “Are you sure?”

  She took my hand in both of hers and clasped it on the tablecloth. “Dear Nora. I know you want to share your happiness with me, but I think it’s best if we each have our own day in the sun. What bride doesn’t want to be the star of the show?”

  “Let me guess,” I said. “Ox has decided he doesn’t want to be married.”

  She released my hand. “Well, of course he wants to marry me! He just hasn’t asked yet, that’s all. So no double wedding. Are you very disappointed?”

  With complete honesty, I said, “I’ll only be disappointed if Michael is still in custody at six this evening.”

  “Darling, the FBI will release That Man of Yours today,” Libby assured me. “Don’t give it a moment’s worry.”

  I sighed, feeling very low. Allowing myself a moment to wallow in self-pity, I said, “I haven’t heard from him in days. And the Cannolis have stopped calling me. Which probably means bad news. When we get home, I think I should phone the judge’s office to cancel.”

  “Oh, dear! I’ve already put a down payment on the mime! And the musicians I found—maybe I’d better check on their cancellation policy. Do you mind if I step outside?” Agitated, she already had her cell phone in hand and was getting up from the table.

  When she left, I said to Max and Noah, “When it comes time for you two to get married, be sure to check the bride’s family for mental health issues.”

  I had made the mistake of grabbing a newspaper off the hostess’s desk. I gave the boys each a handful of Cheerios to keep them occupied, and I opened the paper—not the Intelligencer, but the city’s respected news sourc
e. On page three, I found the piece that flatly described the FBI’s interest in Michael, “a known criminal with extensive ties to organized crime and a probable connection to the tarnished Paine Investment Group.”

  I suddenly felt as if my brain were on fire.

  “That’s it!” I threw down the paper and leaped to my feet, practically colliding with my sister as she returned to the table. “Libby, I’m going into the city. I’m going this minute. There’s an FBI agent I met last year. I’m going to talk to him and get some answers.”

  “Nora, your hormones have rendered you incapable of rational thought. Sit down and—”

  “I can’t stand it! I can’t wait around any longer! This is supposed to be my wedding day!” I cried, “I’m going straight to the FBI myself!”

  Libby tried to talk me out of going. But in the end she drove me to the station, and she promised to look after Noah until I got back.

  I took the train into Philadelphia.

  It was only when I climbed the steps out of the station that I realized I was wearing one of Libby’s shirts. This one read CAN YOU TELL ME IF MY SHOES MATCH? I groaned. In sneakers and my yoga capri pants, I wouldn’t have caused a moment’s surprise at the pancake house, but I hardly made the picture of an upstanding citizen the FBI should pay attention to. I almost slapped my forehead. My hormones were definitely on a rampage.

  There was no time to go back home to change. So I figured I’d have to stop to buy something suitable to wear. Through light morning pedestrian traffic, I waddled toward the federal building with the plan of ducking into a department store along the way. My credit card could withstand the hit if there was a maternity section in the store. If there wasn’t—so many retailers had relegated the extraordinary sizes to their online catalogs—I’d have to improvise to avoid appearing to be a crazy woman.

  I crossed the street and headed for the store but found myself passing alongside the theater where I had gone to see the preview of Bluebird of Happiness.

  I paused to catch my breath and glanced down the alley behind the theater.