Murder Melts in Your Mouth (10 page)

“That little detail seems unimportant. You know how Mama gets when she's party planning.”

“Don't worry,” Libby said. “There's not a caterer in the whole state they haven't stiffed already. Nobody will work for them.”

“That's comforting. Except that probably means they'll want me to prepare the buffet. How are you?” I asked. “Feeling better?”

“Marvelous! Er, actually, that's why I'm calling. It seems I may have some residual side effects from my accident.”

Max threw his binky onto the floor and I bent to pick it up. “Side effects? Are you okay, Lib?”

“Nothing to worry about. But I might need a couple more days of recuperation.”

“Who is he?” I asked. “The man you're staying with?”

“My condition has nothing whatever to do with a—no, really, Nora, I simply need a little more time to refresh—” She laughed and gave up trying to outfox me. “To tell the truth, I haven't felt this rejuvenated in ages, but I'd be a fool to stop now, don't you think? I believe I can be fully charged again, if I just make a little more effort. Considering I just suffered a head injury, isn't that kind of optimism astonishing?”

“Astonishing,” I agreed. “But you're still coming home on Friday, right? To take the kids off my hands?”

“Yes, of course. Certainly. No doubt about it. Without fail, I'll be there. Do you think Mama and Daddy will be gone by then?”

Max tossed his binky again and watched me, grinning, as I picked it up. I counted to ten before saying, “I'm under a little pressure here, Lib. I need you to take the kids by Friday.”

“Pressure?” she exclaimed. “You think you have pressures? Oh, of course, I read the headline about Hoyt Cavendish's death. At Lexie's office, no less! I was just saying to—well, I knew you'd have insider information! What do you know? Was it suicide? Or did somebody push him off a ledge? The newspaper made it sound as if Lexie had something to do with Hoyt's demise.”

“Of course she didn't. Dozens of people were milling around up there.”

“Like who?”

“As a matter of fact,” I said, “Daddy.”

Long silence.

“Oh, my,” Libby said at last.

I heard something in her tone that was more than simply surprise. “What does that mean?”

“Just—well, you know, of course, about Daddy and Muriel Cavendish.”

“Yes, you were the one who told me about the affair, remember? While we were at summer camp. I thought you were explaining how to braid a lanyard because you were using all those ridiculous euphemisms.”

“I wanted to break it to you gently.” Libby mused, “What became of that summer camp, I wonder? It might be a delightful getaway for Lucy, don't you think? Anyway, that affair was over years ago.”

“Right. And if there were still any hard feelings, it would have been Daddy on the sidewalk, not Hoyt, don't you think?”

“Well,” Libby said.

“After all this time, I hardly think either of them would still be…Lib?”

“Yes,” she said, sounding distant.

“Yes, what?” As usual, she was driving me crazy.

“Well…you know about Hoyt, of course.”

“What about him?” There was something strange about the man. I couldn't put my finger on it.

Darkly, Libby said, “The wings of a sparrow, you know.”

“No, I don't know.”

“Consequences. He lived with terrible consequences. And poor Muriel!” Libby gave a wistful sigh. “That's the tragic part that goes with the ecstasy, the fleeting pleasures, darling. No quenched desire goes unpunished. The yin that goes with the yang. Even the text of the Kama Sutra says—”

“Are you talking to me? Or is there someone with you right now?”

Libby went on, “The tiniest sparrow can displace air that spins and whirls and eventually causes a hurricane that can devastate an entire city in one horrible—”

“Libby!”

“Oh, sorry. I was free-associating. Maybe you should talk to Daddy about this.”

“About what?”

“The consequences of his affair with Muriel Cavendish. I'm sorry, Nora, but my chocolate-hazelnut crepes are getting cold.”

“Lib—”

“I'll be in touch over the weekend, all right?”

“Before Friday,” I snapped. “You'll call before Friday.”

“Bye!”

I hung up the phone. She hadn't given me time to tell her about Emma's condition. I was willing to bet Libby's reaction to the news was going to be ten times more vocal than mine.

Putting both of my sisters firmly out of my mind, I fed Maximus his cereal.

Then somebody knocked on the back door.

To Max, I said, “This better be a plumber.”

It wasn't. The man standing on the back porch was my height and slightly pudgy with a corona of curly hair and wire-rimmed glasses perched crookedly on a cute nose. I guessed he'd slept in his khaki shorts and faded button-down shirt. He wore sturdy hiking sandals and carried a well-used canvas messenger bag with the strap across his chest.

“M-Miss Blackbird?”

“Yes?”

An expression of shy but acute intelligence shone behind his glasses. He stuck out his hand. “M-Mick Abruzzo sent me.”

He gave my hand a firm shake, and then we stood there blinking at each other. I had enough experience with various Abruzzo family thugs to know that this one wasn't breaking kneecaps to collect gambling debts for Big Frankie. He looked more like a hitchhiking college student who maybe cataloged butterflies in his spare time. I looked beyond him to see a dusty Jeep parked in my driveway.

He adjusted the glasses, but failed to square them properly. He said, “You're M-Miss Nora Blackbird, right?”

“What? Yes, I'm Nora.”

“I'm Henry Fineman. M-Mick sent m-me to fix your computer.”

I
f he'd announced he'd come to tell me I'd won the lottery, I couldn't have been happier. I pulled the door wide and nearly kissed him. “Please come in, Henry. I'll make coffee. I'll make pancakes. I'll make whatever it takes to keep you here until my computer works again.”

He entered the house and looked around my kitchen with the expression of a time-warped wanderer who'd stumbled out of the forest and into a medieval castle. Blackbird Farm had that effect on many people. The crooked chandelier, the ancient slate floor and the antique farm table looked like props from a fairy-tale movie, whereas the Aga stove, the Sub-Zero fridge and the microwave indicated real people actually cooked in the cavernous space.

From his high chair, Maximus waved his binky and greeted Henry Fineman with enthusiasm. “Da!”

I closed the door to make sure the computer repairman couldn't easily escape. “Coffee?”

Henry blinked at Maximus, who had liberally smeared himself with oatmeal and banana. “Herbal tea, if you have it.”

“I'll find some.” I went into the pantry and found a tin of tea Libby had brought during the throes of one of her dubious health kicks. “How does Green Zest sound?”

“Is it organic?”

I tried to read the fine print and discovered the package was printed in Sanskrit. A naked man in a yoga pose looked ecstatic. “I don't know. But I'm guessing it promotes happy dreams or an active sex life—maybe both. You can't go wrong, can you?”

Henry Fineman was transfixed by the baby and didn't absorb my attempt at humor. “M-Miss Blackbird, I've done a few jobs for M-Mick, and I thought I knew him fairly well. If you don't m-mind m-me asking, is this infant, is he…?”

I interpreted his blush. “No, this one's not Michael's child. This is my sister Libby's youngest. He's Maximus.”

“I'm not very familiar with children. How old is this specimen?”

“Eight months. Do you think you could recite the periodic table to him?”

Henry looked startled. “What for?”

I sighed. “He's studying for the SAT exam. The tea is coming right up. There's the computer on the table.”

Henry sat down at the table and opened his bag. Judging by his constant fiddling with his eyeglasses, he was uncomfortable being watched, so I got busy at the stove. By the time I filled the kettle and put it on to boil, he had unpacked his own computer and a variety of discs, cables and small tools. Maximus watched his every move, fascinated. Occasionally, Henry gave the baby an uneasy glance.

“So, Henry,” I said. “Do you work on computers for Michael?”

“A little, yes.”

“I didn't realize he used computers.”

Henry peered over his glasses at me. “Everyone uses computers, M-Miss Blackbird. M-Mick simply has different needs than m-most.”

“Oh?”

“Databases for the m-muscle car business, accounting programs for Gas N Grub, some inventory software for the fly-fishing store. I'm really not at liberty to say m-more, of course.”

“Right. The code of silence, is that it?”

“I'm told I should think of it as professional discretion.”

“Especially when it comes to family business?”

Henry studied me for a long moment, perhaps trying to decide if I was giving him a quiz. Slowly, he said, “Correct.”

“Makes sense. I mean, it's best if the right hand never knows what the left hand is doing, right?”

Henry looked solemn. “That's one way of putting it, I suppose.”

I couldn't help noticing that Henry's social skills—although better than those of most of the characters who hung around Michael's various businesses—weren't exactly going to land him a job in any legitimate company. He frowned intently at the screen of my laptop. His concentration was broken only when Maximus yelled the occasional, “Da!”

Within a few minutes, Henry began swapping discs in and out of the hard drive. He certainly looked as if he knew what he was doing.

When I placed a cup of tea at his elbow, he asked, “Do you have your cell phone handy, M-Miss Blackbird?”

“What does my cell phone have to do with my computer?”

He blinked. “Aren't you fully synced?”

“I don't even know what that means. Do you really need my phone?”

“It would help.”

I surrendered my cell phone, hoping I was putting my trust in the right person. His hands were so quick on the keyboard that I couldn't keep up with what he was doing. Was he playing a version of three-card monte? He picked up his mug of tea and sipped it while intently watching the computer screen.

The house phone rang, so I picked it up.

“Nora?” Crewe's voice sounded tense when I answered. “Have you heard from Lexie yet today?”

“I was hoping you had, Crewe.”

“She's still with the police, dammit.”

“She's not alone. Michael sent his lawyers.”

“Well, that's good news. I've tried to see her, but the police have stalled me. I'll try again in an hour or so. I want to be the one to take her home.”

I took the phone into the scullery so I wouldn't be overheard. “Crewe,” I said, “I've been thinking about who could have killed Hoyt Cavendish.”

“Me, too. Especially the gnome.”

“Elf,” I corrected. “Chad Zanzibar.”

“Right, him. Remember how he came barging into the restaurant yesterday? Before we knew Cavendish was dead?”

“He behaved very oddly,” I said.

“And I don't think he was acting.”

“Behaving suspiciously might be a family trait. I saw his grandmother yesterday, too, after Hoyt died. She was hysterical one minute, then giving me makeup tips the next. She disappeared before the police could question her.”

“Interesting.”

“And something else is bothering me, Crewe.”

“Let me guess. Tierney Cavendish.”

“Exactly. He must have gone directly from the restaurant to Lexie's office. But why was he running down the staircase after his father died? I assumed he was rushing to help, but now I wonder if he was trying to escape the police.”

“Did the cops even know he was there?”

“Surely someone saw him and said so.”

The two of us were silent, considering our own thoughts.

Crewe spoke first. “Nora, did you know Hoyt very well?”

“Not at all, really.”

“Me neither. He kept to himself most of his life. Until he started donating to various causes.”

“Yes, then suddenly he was everywhere. Giving money away as if he couldn't do it fast enough.”

“There was always something…strange about him, too. Do you feel that way?”

“He couldn't help the way he looked.” Hoyt's small size, his penguinlike gait, his weak voice.

“No, I guess not,” Crewe said, sounding as if he wanted to say more, but wasn't sure how to put his thoughts into words.

I said, “I have to come into the city, Crewe. There's a charity event I need to cover this afternoon. Afterwards I was thinking of paying a call on someone who might be able to give me some information about the Cavendish family. Can we get together to talk about this?”

“Unless Lexie needs me, absolutely. I have to be at the Chocolate Festival at six to try catching Jacque Petite for an interview. Why don't you meet me there?”

Having a plan made my spirits rise. “Information about a murder, plus chocolate. My kind of party.”

He laughed shortly. “Okay, good. At the convention center, six o'clock.”

I hung up the phone just as my father came into the kitchen. He wore a pink and lime green flowered sarong and a pair of beaded moccasins. Bare-chested, he had tied another ascot around his neck.

“Good morning, Muffin!” he sang. “It's a beautiful morning for tai chi on the grass, don't you think? Will you join me? Your mother and Oscar are busy creating a guest list for a little soiree, so I—good heavens, who's this?”

Henry Fineman looked up from the computer and adjusted his eyeglasses. “I'm Henry Fineman, sir.”

“Harry!” My father shook his hand with enthusiasm.

“That's Henry, Daddy. This is my father—”

“A pleasure to meet you!” Daddy cried. “Are you a tai chi man, I wonder?”

“No, sir, I'm not. I have a bad back.”

“Never mind, I'm delighted to meet you anyway! Nora hasn't breathed a word about you yet, but I was sure it was only a matter of time before she landed a responsible man to support her.”

“Daddy—”

“Her mother and I are very pleased to welcome you in the family, young man. And I'm sure we'd love to toss a small celebration in your honor.”

“Uh—”

“Oh, don't worry about legal details. We Blackbirds are very open-minded. If you choose not to formalize your relationship, that's all right by me. As long as you both communicate your expectations honestly.”

“Actually, sir—”

“I'm sure you make Nora very happy. All our girls can be tempestuous, of course, but it's my experience that if you keep your lady contented happy in her boudoir, if you catch my drift—”

“Daddy, Henry is not my boyfriend.”

“No?”

“No,” Henry said firmly.

My father frowned. “Why not?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Isn't my daughter attractive to you?”

“No—I m-mean, yes, she's perfectly attractive, but I—”

“You don't like girls?”

“I—”

“Not that your sexual orientation matters to me,” my father said. “In fact, I'd welcome an honest discussion of the homosexual experience. I believe in seeking knowledge, young man.”

Henry flushed a startling shade of red. “I am not a homosexual. Not that there's anything wrong with homosexuals. I'm just not one.”

“You're sure?”

“Yes,” Henry said.

My father looked unconvinced.

“Daddy, would you like some tea?”

“Yes, please. As long as it's organic.”

The phone rang again. An interruption was almost a relief. I picked up and took the receiver into the scullery so I couldn't hear my father further embarrass Henry Fineman.

“Hello?”

“Nora?”

I couldn't place the male voice on the other end of the line. “Yes?”

“It's me. Chad Zanzibar. I hope you don't mind me phoning so early. Listen, I've got another call waiting for me—a director—but I need a favor.”

“From me?”

“Yeah, I hear you are connected.”

“Connected?”

Chad's voice sounded muffled, as if he was cupping one hand against the receiver. “Connected with the mob. I'm doing research for the role I told you about. I'm playing an underworld mook. I'm hoping you can hook me up.”

“With a mook? What is that, exactly?”

“I need to shadow a mobster. You know, absorb his mannerisms, get a feel for the character, maybe come up with some stage business. Can you introduce me? To Big Frankie's son. I hear he's the real thing and you're his squeeze.”

I resisted the urge to scream. Even Hollywood elves knew about my love life. “I don't think that would be a good idea, Scooter.”

“Chad. Hey, I can handle myself. It'll be cool, I swear.”

“I'm sure you're always—uhm—cool, but—”

“How about setting up a meet with Abruzzo? Tell him it's me. He'll want to see a movie star.”

I remembered Michael's blank look when I'd mentioned Chad Zanzibar. I felt positive he wouldn't take a “meet” with an elf. “Actually, he's not much of a movie patron.”

Chad laughed as if I had made a hilarious joke. “Yeah, right. Listen, just give me his number, and I'll call him myself.”

In the kitchen, Maximus let out a wail, so I said hastily, “Sorry, Chad, but I've got to run.”

“But—”

I hung up the phone and hurried into the kitchen, where my father was determinedly disengaging the binky from the baby's clenched fist. Maximus had a stubborn set to his jaw and murderous rage in his steely gaze.

“Daddy?”

“A child should be allowed to explore his creativity early, Muffin. By providing him with commonplace toys, you will lull his mind into monotony—you limit the many ways he can expand his horizons.”

Maximus angrily pounded his tray with both hands, splashing mashed banana in all directions.