``The usual suspects.'' Lexie linked her arm with mine to pull me into her home. ``That nutty writer, what's-her- SLAY BELLES 27 name, with the book about cloning babies or something. And the new curator for the museum.''
``Belinda, the one with the red glasses?''
``Yes. It's a good blend, although I accidentally invited too many politicians. It seems everybody's running for mayor except that handsome John Fitch, who's also here. You've met him before, right? I think he has a shot at the Senate. Plus a handful of my best friends for sex appeal.''
``And there must be one of your billionaire clients or two in the mix.''
She grinned. ``Of course.''
``Are you raising money for the museum?''
``Always. Tonight I'm targeting Vince Scuddy. Do you know him? He owns a truckload of cable television stock, so he can afford to spend most of his time playing street hockey with underserved kids in South Philly.''
``Sounds like a mensch.''
�
``Who needs something cultural to balance his resume, � and then I suppose he'll run for mayor, too.''
We arrived in her living room, which was packed with guests. For a woman of her income and a family history at least as old as my own, Lexie lived in remarkably small quarters. Her boathouse was sparsely and inexpensively furnished, but hung with spectacular art from the collection her mother had inherited and Lexie's own investment pieces. The president of the art museum board, she had the combination of serious scholarship, instinctive good taste, and the gargantuan disposable income needed to possess paintings and sculpture that were the envy of many long- time collectors.
``You moved your Warhol out of the bedroom.'' I ob- served the pop-art portrait that dominated the living room wall.
``I moved a Vermeer oil study over my bed instead, which is ever so much more restful.''
Two friends approached and gave me air kisses, and someone offered to get me a drink. I tried to make conver- sation, but I felt as if my body were floating on the ceiling as the party whirled around me. I tried to fake being socia- ble. The mental image of Popo Prentiss's body kept pop- ping into my head. Even handsome John Fitch couldn't distract me with his usual intelligent charm. 28 Nancy Martin
Soon one of the hired waiters came over and murmured into Lexie's ear. She nodded, then leaned close to me and said quietly, ``Why don't you take a few minutes in the kitchen? I understand there's someone waiting for you there.''
I gave her a grateful squeeze and excused myself from John. With a smile that was more relieved than festive, I slipped through the crowd until I reached the swinging door to Lexie's kitchen.
There, the catering staff was quietly preparing more can-
� apes, washing up glassware, and efficiently keeping bottles opened and trays filled. I recognized my childhood friend Jill Mascione, as she whipped a tray of caviar blintzes out of the oven. I had met her long ago at the parties my parents threw and her parents catered. We had played mar- bles under the bunted tables while the adults drank cham- pagne above us. Now she ran her family's business, and I saw her often at social events.
Jill caught my eye and grinned, too busy to do more. Then she shot a pointed glance across the room, and I followed her gaze.
The door to Lexie's small wine cellar stood open. It was more of a closet than a cellar, of course--just a few square feet of floor space with a small table surrounded by racks of wine bottles. A shaft of kitchen light knifed into the room, illuminating the figure inside.
A man with hulking shoulders ate from a bowl of pasta, both elbows on the table, half in shadow. The kitchen staff respected his presence by tiptoeing about their chores and sending uneasy glances in his direction. He frowned at Lex- ie's wine labels as he twirled his fork, the rough planes of his face set in the glower of a man with a mean hangover.
I went to the door and leaned in. ``I see you're out of jail.''
He looked up at me and the hangover expression disap- peared. He smiled. His eyes were the same intense blue as an acetylene torch, but reflected more heat. ``Hey.''
``You're making everybody nervous.''
``I haven't even threatened to break any kneecaps yet.''
``I guess you just look like a man who could hurt a few people before dessert.''
``There's dessert?'' SLAY BELLES 29
I kissed his mouth. ``What are you doing here?''
Michael ``the Mick'' Abruzzo, son of the infamous New Jersey mob boss ``Big Frankie'' Abruzzo, had given up his life of crime for love. So he claimed. Tonight he looked like an unreformed wise guy in faded jeans and a black sweater loose enough to conceal a weapon. He'd slung his leather jacket over the chair back. His blunt, Roman nose had been daunting even before it was broken, and the dent in his chin was courtesy of a long-ago prison-yard brawl. These days I failed to see what was so frightening about his face, but I was in the minority.
He said, ``We left things up in the air the other night.''
``So you tracked me down for a rematch?''
Mischief danced in his gaze. ``I'm game. Hungry?''
``No, thanks.'' The idea of food made my stomach give a little roll. ``How did you score dinner for yourself? The rest of the guests are only getting hors d'oeuvres.''
``I dunno. Maybe the cook thought I'd stay out of trouble if my stomach was full.'' He looked down at his bowl. ``She made this just for me. It's good stuff. White truffles. Sure you don't want a taste?''
I touched an unruly curl of his dark hair. ``I'm sure.''
In a different tone, he said, ``Want to go home?''
``Yes, please.''
He got up, a tall, powerful body that radiated comfort and something much more magnetic. Touching the point of my chin, he said, ``Let's blow this joint.''
``Why don't you come inside and meet some of Lexie's guests first?''
``No,'' he said.
I slanted a glance up at him. ``Are you afraid to meet my friends?''
``Nope.''
``Because they're dying to meet you.''
``I'm not going to scare the shit out of your aristocratic pals just for the entertainment value. Anyway, you need to get home, I think.''
I carried his plate and silverware to the sink and spoke briefly to my friend Jill. Waiting by the back door, Michael drained the glass of red wine he'd been sipping and left it on the counter. We went out the door into the cold air. The harsh, damp smell of the river washed up to us as we 30 Nancy Martin walked around the side of the boathouse and past the long line of vehicles Lexie's guests had parked in her driveway. There were German cars and Rovers, plus a Hummer and a Jag or two.
Under a no-parking sign, Michael had angled one of his many muscle cars. This battered one looked ready for an Ozark stock-car track, with a low nose and a spoiler on the back. He saw me into the passenger seat before going around and getting in behind the wheel. Then he started the engine and thumbed the heater full blast before turning sideways toward me.
He said, ``You going to tell me what happened now?''
``Is it that obvious?''
``You look plenty shaken up. Who's dead?'' Chapter 4
Later, at Blackbird Farm, after I'd told him everything and spent a couple of tumultuous hours reaffirming life, I once again heard Michael's unique perspective on crime.
With one shoulder propped against the headboard, he said, ``It's the assistant.''
``You think Darwin killed Popo?'' I filed my broken fin- gernails with an emery board while deciding if we were tired enough to sleep or had just reenergized ourselves for a long night. ``Why?''
``The twerp assistant has the best motive. He wanted her job. And he's probably got access to the security system.''
``But he didn't have enough time. He locked me in the bathroom, and then--Wait, that's why you want to see him arrested, right? Because he locked me up?''
Michael grinned slowly. ``If he'd hurt you, he'd be in a hell of a lot more trouble.''
``From you? Tell me, Tarzan,'' I said, droppi
ng the emery board on the bedside table, ``precisely how does your fam- ily exact revenge on the reckless fools who mess with your women?''
``Is that what you are now? My woman?''
``Let's not get ahead of ourselves,'' I said.
``Nora--''
``Let's just be happy that you're not in police custody at the moment, shall we?''
Reminded of our recent argument, he rubbed his face as if to erase the events of the last several days. ``They didn't arrest me. It was the usual drill, a bunch of questions. The whole thing was blown out of proportion in the papers.''
31 32 Nancy Martin
``Michael,'' I said with mock solemnity, ``please tell me you didn't throw a dwarf.''
``Monty's not a dwarf. He may be altitude challenged, but he's technically not a dwarf. Anyway, he makes up for his size in orneriness. The crazy son of a bitch has been known to bite. And nobody likes a biter.''
``The papers say his nickname is Monty Python.''
``Yeah, well, you don't want to know why. He's liable to show you.''
I had learned not to challenge Michael when it came to matters of taste. ``So Monty once worked for the Ab- ruzzo family?''
``For a couple of years, yeah, he did collecting--you know, debts. He was very good at it. He could crawl through doggie doors when customers refused to let him inside.''
``But now he's going to testify against your father? Over the racketeering thing?''
``He was lined up to testify. But he fell into a Dumpster and got a few bruises.'' Michael shrugged. ``A junkie snitch told a cop that I-- Look, I wasn't even in the same county at the time.''
``Really?''
``I was at a truck auction with a couple of hundred wit- nesses, so the cops let me go. Simple.''
``Even I'm not naive enough to believe it's simple, Mi-
� chael. Intimidating a person from testifying against your father's organization is tampering with a witness. That's a felony.''
He shrugged. ``The police claim he's being coerced, but they can't prove it.''
``The papers say somebody stole property of Monty's and is holding it hostage for his silence. What property might that be?''
For a moment he considered not answering, then said, ``An Elvis suit.''
I blinked. ``He likes Elvis?''
``Monty's very big into Elvis. He puts on a little white suit and jumps out of cakes as Elvis. It's a good line of work when you're a dwarf.''
``You've seen him jump out of a cake dressed like Elvis?''
``Only pictures. It's mostly a girl thing.'' SLAY BELLES 33
``You mean he takes off the suit?''
``Parts of it.''
I debated whether to ask Michael if he knew who was currently in possession of the little Elvis jumpsuit and de- cided I didn't want to know the answer. He watched me think it over and smiled.
I said, ``Just promise me you won't get your picture taken with him, Elvis costume or not. You're nearly two feet taller than Monty. The two of you will look like something in Ripley's Believe It or Not.''
Michael rolled over and pinned me to the pillows. With- out his clothes, his body was lean and hard. He said, ``I promise. You're cold again. What do you have against cen- tral heating?''
``It's expensive.''
I'd returned to my family's drafty homestead when my parents gave me the deed to the family farm. I'd moved into the ramshackle mansion with a firm vow to keep the family legacy out of the hands of land developers, and ever since then I'd fought a hard economic battle. In addition to the estate, my parents handed over to me their delin- quent tax bill, which amounted to an impossible two million dollars. After the shock wore off, I'd sold everything of value to organize a tax repayment plan, then gotten a job and drafted Lexie to help me find creative ways to pay the monthly bill. So far, I was keeping my head above water. But barely.
Michael had been the first creative source of income. We'd met when he and a friend purchased five acres of my prime riverfront farmland. I'd received enough money to hang on to Blackbird Farm a little longer, and Michael had promptly built Mick's Muscle Cars, a used car lot that I could see from my bedroom window. Since our relationship had evolved, however, I didn't feel right about accepting money from him. It felt too much like my old life.
Michael said, ``Why don't you move over to my place for the winter? It's not a palace, but at least we won't be Popsicles by spring.''
I traced the line of his collarbone with my fingertips and didn't answer.
He said, ``Don't be upset about Monty. This thing will blow over.'' 34 Nancy Martin
``And then what?''
``I'm doing my best,'' he said, already nibbling his way down my ribs one by one. ``It takes a while for the tiger to--What did you say before? To change his stripes?''
``Michael . . .''
``Hmm . . . ?''
His mouth felt better and better, and I sighed. ``Never mind.''
Later, we slept tangled up in each other's limbs, breath- ing in sync and perhaps dreaming together, too. Only once, when my subconscious mind began to churn with images of Popo's death, did Michael nudge me awake.
``You're having a nightmare,'' he murmured, half-asleep himself.
I held him tighter and tried to forget about crime.
In the morning, he dressed and went out to buy a news- paper while I showered. In my pajamas and with wet hair, I went downstairs and found coffee made and Michael reading the paper at the kitchen table. He read aloud while I puttered with oatmeal at the stove. Spike trundled his little cart around the kitchen, his front paws propelling him while his hindquarters healed from his accident. When the bell chimed in the front hall, Michael and I exchanged a look.
``Expecting company?'' he asked.
``Not at this hour.''
``Want me to get scarce?''
I ruffled his hair. ``No need.''
Spike dragged his cart to the entry hall. When I hauled open the front door, I found a former Penthouse Pet on the porch.
Cindie Rae Smith glared at the sagging doorjamb and the warped porch floor. ``God, does this museum even have indoor plumbing?''
``Hello, Cindie Rae,'' I said. ``Is it cookie season already?''
Cindie Rae's morning attire did not resemble a Girl Scout uniform. She wore a hilarious attempt at a business suit--pinstripes with a white blouse that actually bow-tied under her chin. But the jacket barely buttoned around her wasp waist, and her breasts threatened to explode from their prison any moment. The pants were tighter than the SLAY BELLES 35 skin of a tomato, and she tottered precariously on very high heels. She had managed to stuff the hugeness of her blond hair into a Monica Lewinsky beret. No amount of Botox or plastic surgery on her face could have hidden the fact that she hadn't slept much since I'd seen her the night before.
``I need to talk to you,'' she said.
``I can guess what this is about, Cindie Rae, and I don't think the police would be pleased to hear we tried to get our stories straight.''
``I don't care what your story is,'' she snapped. ``I need your help.''
She pushed past me into the house. ``Boy, that's an ugly dog. Do I smell coffee?''
She headed for the kitchen, hesitating only when she ar- rived in the butler's pantry and couldn't figure out which door to choose. I led the way into the kitchen. Spike fol- lowed Cindie Rae, ready to bite her if she made a wrong move.
Michael lowered the newspaper and looked at Cindie Rae over the tops of his reading glasses.
She stopped dead at the sight of him, too. ``Oh, wow.''
``Morning.''
``You must be . . .'' She simpered, awaiting a formal introduction.
Briskly, I said, ``Cindie Rae, this is Michael Abruzzo. Cindie Rae Smith.''
Michael appeared not to notice the jiggle in her blouse or the camel toe foot in her pants. He picked up the news- paper and went back to reading. I suspected he was playing it safe.
I could almost see the steam rising from Cindie Rae's overtaxed brai
n as she desperately tried to figure the best way to engage Michael in a conversation that dealt with her area of expertise. Before she reached a decision, I poured her a cup of hot coffee and pushed it into her hands. ``Here you go. Sit down.''
``Thanks.'' She took a tentative sip and eased her bottom into the chair opposite Michael's. She leaned sideways to peer around his newspaper. ``I, uh, hope I'm not interrupting.''
Elaine Viets & Victoria Laurie, Nancy Martin, Denise Swanson - Drop-Dead Blonde (v5.0) (pdf) Page 4
