by Nancy Martin
“Yes, but we have an au pair now, Ingrid. A fortnight before he died, my dear husband insisted we hire her. She’s spookily quiet, not my cuppa, but she keeps them all occupied. I just hope she doesn’t turn out to be a bloomin’ ax murderer. You won’t be in the slightest danger from the children.”
“But from Ingrid?”
“Nora needs me! Must ring off!”
Libby terminated the call. Emma muttered, “Ring off? Since when did you turn into Princess Di? Blimey!”
Emma lit a cigarette and drove north. She passed Blackbird Farm, the family’s ancestral pile, and even in the stretching shadows of coming twilight, she could make out the crooked chimneys and sagging roof. The old place was looking as bad as ever despite Nora’s best efforts to maintain the decaying mansion. Lately she’d had a little more money to spend on upkeep, but she hadn’t been able to tackle the really expensive projects like the roof. And the plumbing. And those chimneys.
Emma didn’t stop, but pressed on toward Starr’s Landing, a farm that had been designed and constructed by fashion royalty who should have stuck to making dresses. The fashion designer had been killed on his farm, which was no less picturesque because of his death. But it was a little creepy knowing the former owner had been stabbed with a pitchfork in Libby’s new front yard.
A police cruiser sat idling by the entrance gate. Emma slowed down and took a look. She recognized the profile of the young cop trying hard not to be noticed.
Emma rolled down her window, and reluctantly he did the same. She blew smoke and called over to him, “Don’t I know you?”
“Hey, Emma,” said the kid behind the wheel. Politely, he took off his hat. “It’s Justin Foley.”
“Deputy Sheriff Foley! Did you ever find your underwear?”
Although it was hard to see him, Foley probably blushed. He did that a lot, if Emma remembered correctly. He’d been a quick conquest last winter when she was feeling an itch she couldn’t scratch. As she suspected, Foley turned out to have impressive equipment—he was hung like Secretariat, if truth be told—but he wasn’t very imaginative when it came to using his gifts. He was willing but endearingly shy. Once she coaxed him out of his boxers, Emma had tried to teach the uncertain stud a thing or two, but he was a slow learner. And a quick trigger. A disappointment, in other words. She’d climbed aboard and enjoyed herself but left him blushing furiously in their room at a no-tell motel out by I-95. His underwear was probably still hanging like a flag of surrender on the tree branch where she’d tossed them near the motel’s balcony when she left him.
The episode had been the first time she questioned her sex habits, that maybe she wasn’t enjoying it as much as she used to. It had left her feeling a little guilty or something.
“No, I never found ‘em,” he said dolefully. “How you doing?”
“I’m great, thanks for asking. What are you doing here?”
“Sorry,” he said. “It’s police business.”
“You keeping an eye on my sister?”
He flushed again, probably remembering an interlude in which Libby had treated him like a potential Prince Charming. Foley had wisely kept his distance from Libby, but he hadn’t been able to resist Emma’s more straightforward approach. Looked like he was still recovering from that incident.
Uneasily, he said, “It’s an official assignment.”
“I didn’t think you were here to serenade anybody. What’s going on? You think Libby bumped off her husband?”
“Now, Emma, I shouldn’t be talking about this with you, so—”
“Oh, don’t get worried. You guys would look pretty stupid if you didn’t take a second look at her husband’s death. But Libby can barely plan a meal, let alone a murder.”
“That may be, but,” Foley said, “at least until the autopsy results come back, I gotta do what I’m told.”
Emma grinned, remembering his stolid efforts to do exactly as he was told. She didn’t want to ruin his night by telling him that Libby had slipped away hours ago. Better to let him think he was a super cop.
So Emma waved and punched the security code before driving through the gate. As tempting as it was to try putting him through his paces again, she knew Detective Foley didn’t need to get laid. What he needed was a nice girl who’d make him bacon and eggs every morning and greet him with a fresh-baked apple pie when he came home at night.
Emma parked and left the pickup running. She trotted up the steps and didn’t bother to ring the bell at the front door of the huge Shaker-style house. Careful not to alert the children of her arrival, Emma let herself inside. Half the floor was littered with shoes—Libby’s kids left piles of footwear wherever they went—and the other half of the foyer was covered with a jumble of pink gift bags. Maybe a dozen, various sizes, each tied with fountains of pink ribbon. Above all the gifts floated two dozen festive Mylar balloons. Libby had gone all-out on baby gifts, as usual.
“What are you doing,” Emma muttered as if speaking to Libby, “giving Nora and Mick enough baby crap to outfit an orphanage?”
Well, Emma reasoned, now that Libby had inherited her husband’s vast fortune, she could afford to give a few gifts. Heaven knew she owed Nora for thousands of hours of babysitting.
“Hello?”
Emma spun around and found herself confronted by a tall, skinny, and very beautiful teenager with a frying pan held aloft. She looked pale and big-eyed, as frightened as a deer.
“Hey, take it easy.” Emma put both hands in the air. “I’m Libby’s sister, here to pick up the gift bags. Who are you?”
“I am Ingrid. The au pair.”
“Well, stand down, Ingrid. I’m harmless. Most of the time.”
Ingrid didn’t have a sense of humor, but she lowered the frying pan and sagged against the staircase. In a soft Swedish accent, she said, “I never know what to expect in this house.”
Emma couldn’t hold back a wry smile. l. “Yeah, it’s a circus in this family sometimes. Minus the elephants.”
Ingrid looked confused. “I do not know what you mean.”
“Yeah, I get that a lot.” Emma waved at the collection of pink bags on the floor. “Libby told me to stop by and pick these up. Our sister Nora is having her baby tonight.”
Ingrid might have paled all over again. “Another child? I’m not going to have that one to look after, too, am I? I …I have trouble keeping up with the ones at this house.”
“I doubt Nora will let this one out of her sight.” And if Emma could guess correctly, Nora certainly wasn’t going to leave her precious infant anywhere near Libby’s feral brood. “Where are the monsters?”
Ingrid needed no translation. “Lucy and Max are making cookies in the kitchen. We must not eat them because Lucy adds dish powder when she thinks I am not looking. The twins are in the basement.” She shuddered. “I don’t know what they do down there.”
“Well, don’t worry too much. There’s a cop stationed by the gate this evening. If you need help, just yell.”
“Why is he here?”
“To …well, to keep an eye on Libby. But he’ll be happy to come protect you.”
Ingrid’s face relaxed. “It is a comfort to know.”
“I’ll just grab these and get out of your hair. Give me a hand?”
“Certainly.”
Emma grabbed balloon strings and as many of the gifts as she could manage, then threaded her way out the door, careful not to pop any of the shiny balloons. Ingrid picked up the rest of the bags and followed. They carried the loot to the truck, and Ingrid proved she was a useful person by efficiently stuffing the gifts into the truck and slamming the door before the balloons could escape.
Job done, Emma prepared to get into the truck.
Ingrid stood for a moment, peering through the growing twilight toward the black and white cruiser still idling by the gate. “Is that the police?”
“Yep. A completely trustworthy guy.” An idea struck Emma. �
��If you’re feeling generous, you ought to take him some cookies. Not the poisoned ones, of course. The bigger the better. Size is important, y’know. He’s nice. You’d like him.”
Ingrid nodded solemnly. “I will make sure not to poison him.”
Match-making done, Emma waved good-bye and climbed back into the pickup. She threw a wave at the unsuspecting Foley. He’d be perfect for a shy Swedish girl. Maybe they’d discover the joys of hot sex together.
With all those damn balloons floating around in the truck’s cab, she started thinking. Not about Foley, but about her sisters.
All these gifts? Libby was alert to more social cues than Emma was. Maybe she had figured out Nora needed more help than she was letting on these days. Nora was on the verge of losing her job. Maybe the other shoe had finally dropped, in which case, she was going to need a lot of help.
Emma wagged her head. Nora’s woes went back to her first husband’s death at the hand of his drug dealer, not to mention all the debt he’d left her with. Then there was the staggering financial burden that their parents had inflicted on Nora when they dumped their problems and fled to South America. Her newspaper job had been a big help getting her back on track.
But the rest of Nora’s troubles began and ended with Mick Abruzzo, the father of her coming baby and the son of New Jersey’s most notorious mobster, “Big Frankie” Abruzzo. Big Frankie was currently incarcerated, which led to a lot of public speculation that the acting head of the Abruzzo family was none other than Mick. Nora sometimes had her head in the sand where Mick was concerned. She claimed he was out of the crime business, but Emma had her doubts. The thing about Mick? He liked being a criminal. And even though a happily-ever-after life with Nora was all he claimed he wanted, there was a part of him that would always be called to the world he grew up in. Illegal gambling, a stolen-car ring, even some petty stuff that could land a dumber thug in jail—it all called to him like liquor called to Emma. He’d recently served a short sentence for racketeering. Sooner or later, though, his inclinations were going to get him into bigger trouble.
And if he went to jail now that they had a kid—that might break Nora’s heart.
A Mylar balloon floated over and threatened to block Emma’s vision.
She shoved it aside and said aloud to herself, “They really need to get married. Making it official would settle Mick down for good.”
But there were complications. By the time she reached the hospital, though, she had an idea.
She called Libby’s cell phone.
“Emma?” Libby said, hard-voiced. “What’s keeping you? You didn’t stop for a drink, did you?”
“I stopped for your damn gift bags,” Emma shot back. “They barely fit in my truck!”
“But you have them?”
“Yes, and I’m pulling into the parking lot now. Come down here and help me lug all this junk up to Nora.”
“I’ll be there in two shakes.”
“How’s Nora doing?”
But Libby had hung up.
Emma got out of the truck. She had parked beside a silver sedan that had its back windows open. On the back seat sat an animal trap. It contained an angry-looking raccoon.
Emma lit a cigarette. “I feel the same way, bub.”
Libby arrived a few minutes later, her red hair looking especially flamboyant under the parking lot lights.
Emma let out a long stream of cigarette smoke. “Are you dyeing your hair or something? It’s practically neon!”
Libby opened the passenger door and began reaching for gift bags. “It’s a new look I’m trying out, that’s all.”
“The only time you change your hair is when you have a new man.”
Libby waved off the suggestion along with blue smoke. “It’s far too soon to even consider another man in my life. Dear Oxie—I can barely say his name without crying—was the love of my life. So don’t be beastly to me. Did you get all the bags?”
“Every single one. You don’t look like you’re crying. You look a little mad. What’s the deal? Trouble with the kids? Or something going on with your love life?”
The anger that had been bubbling not very subtly beneath Libby’s surface suddenly boiled over. “I have no love life! And Perry Delbert can go to hell!”
Emma connected the dots. “Something’s going on with the bug man?”
“My exterminator, yes. Well, he couldn’t get rid of my ant problem, but he certainly exterminated our little affaire de coeur! He’s getting married!”
“Perry, the bug man, finally found a real girlfriend, huh?”
Huffy, Libby said, “I should have known he’d eventually meet someone who matched his dull idea of love. He’s marrying a biology teacher! A woman with a PhD. I thought I might be able to turn to him for comfort with my dear husband gone, but he has moved on. Which finally leaves me free to … to seek affection elsewhere. Affection with a little more pizzazz!”
Emma decided not to point out that Libby seemed both offended that she had been dumped and eager to find the bug man’s replacement, but she said, “So a new hair color is the answer?”
Libby quickly grabbed the last of the gift bags. “I touched up my roots a bit, that’s all.”
“Quite a bit.” Emma blew smoke. “Another shade brighter and you’d look like Ronald McDonald.”
Libby glared. “Must you be offensive all the time? Nora didn’t notice!”
“Nora’s in labor. If her experience is anything like mine was, she wouldn’t notice a nuclear blast. How is she doing, by the way?”
“She’s tickety boo,” Libby reported. “Rather annoyingly serene, in fact. They’re getting her changed out of her clothes and settled into a delivery room. Good heavens, is that a raccoon? It’s going to make a mess of that back seat.”
“Already has. Smell it? How’s Mick?”
“He’s got his hands full with Noah, who’s wide awake and running the halls up there. Are you going to take over?”
“Why do I have to take over?” Emma said, hearing the whine in her own voice.
“Because he’s your son?” Libby suggested with icy sweetness.
“No, he isn’t,” Emma shot back. “Not anymore. He’s better off with Nora and Mick.”
“Not with his own father?”
Emma felt a spurt of anger. “Don’t start, Mary Poppins. What’s with the stupid accent, anyway? You sound like Miss Marple on the Main Line.”
“I’m going to see Rawlins in England. He’s been at Oxford for weeks now, and I’m sure he misses his mother, so I’m planning a—”
“I’m sorry I asked.”
“All right, all right,” Libby said impatiently. “Let’s not change the subject. How can you act as if you never gave birth to that child? My children are chained to my soul. And how Hart can be so cavalier about sending Noah to stay with Nora and That Man of Hers—it’s not good for anyone.”
“Someday, Mick isn’t going to give Noah back,” Emma said without thinking. “And that will be the end of it.”
“What about Hart? Is he back from Europe yet? Have he and his wife come home from Brussels?”
“How should I know?”
Libby skewered Emma with a hard glare. “I’m just wondering if it’s time for the big showdown where Noah is concerned. And which side you’ll take.”
“I’m not part of this discussion. So shut up about it.”
Libby blew a sigh and gave up. “Well, let’s take all these things upstairs. I want to see Nora’s face when she opens this one. It’s an adorable onesie I ordered from Etsy. It says I love my aunt.”
Emma got out of the truck and went around to help. But when Libby turned to go, she hesitated. “Hang on a minute, Lib.”
Libby swung around, surprised. “What is it?”
“Something I thought about while driving over.” Emma’s uneasy manner must have caught Libby’s attention because she stopped fussing with gift bags. When her eyes narr
owed again, Emma gave herself a mental kick and finally spat it out. “I think Nora went into labor a week ahead of time, and it might have screwed up Mick’s plan.”
“What plan?”
Emma hadn’t been sure she wanted to share her theory, but Libby was listening attentively, so she plunged ahead. “You know how he wants to get married, right? And he made sure Nora’s sham marriage to Crocodile Dundee got annulled last week? Gus Hardwicke, her former boss, that is. Anyway, Mick wants tonight’s kid to have his name, be legit, all that good Catholic stuff.”
“Yes, of course.”
“Well, I got to thinking maybe he’d also be better motivated to give up the Abruzzo family business if he was married.”
“I thought he stopped that already. Nora says so.”
“Nora’s blind to his faults. But I think he finally might be making an effort. These days he seems to spend most of his time on his legal businesses. If he got married, though, I think he’d go completely straight. Because his wife and kids might be in danger if he didn’t.”
“But,” Libby said, more astutely than usual, “you’re thinking of the Blackbird curse. That all our husbands die. I’m certainly proof the curse is alive and well—”
“You’re aren’t the only one.”
Libby leaned against the open passenger door. “If they get married, though, he’s going to die. That’s why Nora has resisted a wedding all along. She’s afraid of the curse.”
“Exactly right. Mick’s death is inevitable. We can’t escape the curse.”
Libby’s face softened, and she put a sympathetic hand on Emma’s arm. “Em, dear, I know you’re still grieving …”
Emma shook off her sister’s touch. “Never mind that. Point is, I’m pretty sure Mick planned on getting married this week. They already have the paperwork done, a license and blood tests. All they need is Mick’s nut of a priest to say the words—”
“Don’t be offensive. His priest is not a nut.”
Emma decided not to argue the point, but the ultra-conservative Father Whozit was a stickler with Catholic doctrine. “Okay, okay, but I’m pretty sure Mick planned on getting married before the kid is born.”
