Murder Melts in Your Mouth (8 page)

“I'm not sure I can explain, exactly. Lexie loves art, and she understands it in ways I don't. This Vermeer is a study—a sketch that was only partially painted. Which is probably why it's not in a museum. It's a woman sewing. Dutch paintings always have lots of symbolism. There's a dead swan in the background. And the woman depicted—her expression is almost Madonna-like. At peace. I always felt Lexie wished she could be as serene.”

“Lexie's cool on the outside,” Michael observed, “but she's wired tight.”

“Yes.” I had sometimes wondered if Lexie's affection for that particular painting stemmed more from the mutilated swan than the contented expression of the woman.

Without thinking, I chose a piece of shrimp with my chopsticks and held it out to Michael. Also out of old habit, he opened his mouth and took it. Then our eyes met, and neither of us moved in the tick of that intimate moment.

“Sorry,” I said.

“So the dead guy ruined her picture,” Michael said once he'd swallowed the shrimp. “I guess it's pretty much a lousy investment now?”

“Well, it has certainly lost value in the marketplace. A Picasso was similarly spoiled a few years ago, just as it was being sold for over a hundred million dollars. The seller had to withdraw the painting. But as I said, Lexie would never sell her Vermeer.”

“Never say never,” Michael said.

I frowned. His tone meant he knew more. “How did you really hear about the painting?”

He gave up eating and set his noodles on the nightstand. “Look, I know this is hard on you. And I wish I could make it easier. But to tell the truth, it's going to get worse.”

For the first time since the heat wave started, I felt suddenly cold. “What do you mean?”

“You're going to hear this as soon as you turn on the television, so I figured I'd break the news myself. Lexie called me.”

“You? Why?”

“Because she needed a lawyer.”

Relief swept through me. “Oh, thank heaven she came to her senses! We tried to convince her this afternoon, but she was adamant.”

“That attitude changed. Tonight she was taken in for questioning.”

I nearly dropped the shrimp. “The police think Lexie had something to do with Hoyt's death? No!”

“Take it easy. It's not an arrest. Not yet. The cops started to pressure her, so she decided she wanted somebody on her side. She called me.” He checked the time on my bedside clock. “And I fixed her up with Cannoli and Sons. They should get back to me soon. If anyone can spring Lexie tonight, it's them.”

Michael's lawyers were adept at freeing their clients, even when the evidence against them seemed irrefutable. But Lexie's decision to telephone Michael for help when she had the resources to hire the very best money could buy surprised me. Had she felt she needed someone practiced in protecting the guilty?

I said, “Lexie didn't do it, you know. She would never have pushed anyone over that balcony, not even over a priceless work of art. And Hoyt was a treasured partner in her firm. They've been colleagues for years.”

“What were the treasured colleagues yelling about, then?”

“I don't know. Some business thing. But she wouldn't hurt him. Or anyone, for that matter.”

“Not even in the heat of a big moment?”

I stared at him in surprise. “You know Lexie. Do you honestly imagine she could have killed someone?”

“I can imagine a lot of things, Nora. People do crazy stuff.”

“Not Lexie. It's ridiculous to even suggest she'd hurt a soul!”

“Lots of witnesses heard their argument. Maybe forensics will reveal other evidence from the body, too. Fortunately, that takes a lot more time than most of us think it should from watching TV. But meanwhile, Lexie's not helping herself. She's pissed off, and making no secret about it.”

“Of course she's angry! Somebody murdered her partner, and she's furious!”

Michael shook his head. “If she's furious, she'll make mistakes. She needs to think about the impression she's giving the cops.”

Unsteadily, I handed the container of food to him. “Did you tell her that?”

“She didn't ask me.”

I thought of my friend and how she had behaved that afternoon. She'd been tense, angry, shaken. Perhaps more upset than I'd ever seen her, which said a lot. But the idea that she was in police custody was too much.

I put my face into my hands. “How can this be happening?”

Gently, Michael said, “Nora.”

Tears stung my eyes, but I dashed them away. “I hate to think of Lexie in jail. Not even for an hour. I hate that a good man is dead. It's all so awful!”

Michael put the food on the nightstand and reached for my hand. I turned my face away, but gripped him hard. He hesitated, and then pulled me closer. I tried to resist. For about a tenth of a second, I held firm. We had to take turns being strong. But my resolve crumbled, and I allowed him to draw me into his arms. I let my head rest against the warmth of his shoulder and relaxed against him.

He said, “She's in good hands, I promise. By tomorrow, the situation will be under control.”

“Maybe not,” I said.

I thought of my father, hiding from the police in Lexie's coat closet.

But I shoved the dreadful possibilities out of my head. It felt good lying there in bed. I didn't want to bring up my father's return just then. My mind was jumbled with thoughts of my friend, my family, a terrible death—and yet all the whirling mess seemed to slow down the longer Michael held me.

His hand ruffled through my hair. “Don't worry, okay? The cops will figure it out.”

“Are you sure?”

He laughed shortly. “I have firsthand experience.”

“Let's not talk about that, okay?”

He sighed. “I'm sorry. I never wanted you to know anything about my family's business.”

I said, “It's not like my own family isn't colorful.”

A laugh rumbled in his chest. “What's going on with the Blackbird sisters these days?”

“Libby got herself knocked for a loop by a Rolls-Royce, and now I think she's shacked up with the driver at the Ritz-Carlton. And Emma, of course, is knocked—”

“Wait, back up. Is Libby hurt?”

“Minor injuries, I believe. Otherwise, she's ecstatic. A new man does that to her. And I'm in charge of the zoo until she comes home. Thank heaven for Rawlins. He's been taking care of the baby.” I let my fingers slide between Michael's.

He didn't resist, and we lay together for a long moment, listening to each other breathe on the bed where we'd made sweet, hot love, sometimes losing our heads, sometimes so intensely aware of each other it was magic.

At last, I said, “I miss you.”

“I know.”

“I miss talking to you like this.”

“I do, too. Being with you, my head gets quiet.”

I wondered about the subtext of that statement.

Nearly all my friends had warned me I was playing with fire. When Michael and I had toyed with the idea of getting married, I had phone calls from people I hadn't seen in years—all of them asking if I was making a big mistake. In the next breath they wanted to know what it was like being with a dangerous man.

And an alliance with an impoverished heiress didn't exactly make sense for Michael, either. His enemies had used me against him, and neither of us wanted to be in that position again.

But until now we couldn't help ourselves. Whatever we saw in each other seemed to reflect a need we both felt inside. Perhaps one of Libby's crackpot cosmic forces had brought us together, and as much as fate tried to pull us apart, we weren't quite capable of making a clean break.

I said, “Usually you keep your distance if there's something wrong in your family. I can handle it, you know. Whatever has driven you away this time. Is there something going on with your father? Or is it about your brother stealing a tractor-trailer?”

Another short laugh, this one sounding unamused. “That was in the papers, wasn't it? Yeah, the moron stole a truck full of microwaves. Why would you want a truckload of heavy things you can buy at Wal-Mart for under a hundred bucks? But he doesn't think. Then he drove the truck across a couple of state lines, so now the idiot's in really deep shit.”

“Are you involved?”

“In fixing things, yes. Talking to the lawyers, that kind of thing.”

He slid his thumb under the strap of my tank top. “Let me take care of my own problems, okay? You've got all the kids depending on you right now. And God knows what's going to happen with Lexie. I don't want to add to—”

“Is it dangerous? What you're doing?”

Sounding reluctant, he said, “It's complicated.”

I said, “And Emma? Is she making things complicated, too?”

Michael didn't move, didn't answer.

“I saw her today,” I said. “She was wearing one of your shirts.”

Michael said, “Look, I'm sorry.”

It was better that we weren't looking into each other's faces. I didn't want to read his expression now. I steeled myself and said steadily, “So something's going on with you two?”

Michael was silent for a time. At last, sounding reluctant, he said, “I ran into Em a few weeks back at a bar. She was in bad shape, and coming on to every guy in the place. I figured I'd better do something before she got into trouble.”

“And?”

“I took her back to my place.”

I disentangled myself from his arms and sat up.

Michael said, “She's been staying with me. We should have told you before.”

“Okay,” I said, taking a deep breath. “I see.”

“She was shit-faced, and—look, I'm not saying what I did was right. But she needed help, and the two of us decided—”

“I don't need to hear the rest.”

“Nora,” he said.

If he wanted to break up with me permanently, he'd finally found the way to do it. Emma was the sexy one, the sister who knew how to handle any man she cut out of the herd. And she'd been watching Michael from the first moment I'd brought him home. Perhaps she'd made passes at him all along.

Emma's idea of acceptable behavior in a significant other was totally different from mine, too. Maybe she could handle Michael's clandestine excursions into the night.

And maybe he'd be happier with someone who could accept his life of crime.

I got out of bed. My hands itched to grab the nearest lamp and hurl it at the wall. I wanted to scream. I wanted to smash something—anything—into a million pieces. Preferably my sister's head.

Swiftly, I said, “Thank you for taking care of her. As you say, I've got the kids to look after, plus my computer's on the fritz, so I have to go to the office more often, and the water pipes in the kitchen are making that awful noise again—”

“What's wrong with your computer?”

I couldn't slow my speech. “Nothing that a thousand dollars won't fix, I'm sure. The new plumber quit today, too. So I'm not capable of handling Emma at the moment. Or you. So it's probably for the best, isn't it?”

“Take it easy.”

“I'm fine. Don't worry about me.” I tried not to hyperventilate, but it was hard. I fought down the urge to slam a few doors, break several dozen windows, scream to the high heavens.

The truth—that they were together now—made my heart begin to pound like a hammer.

Except the pounding wasn't in my chest.

It was coming from downstairs.

Michael sat up straighter. “What the—?”

I caught my balance on the bedpost. “Somebody's knocking.”

“Rawlins, maybe?”

“No, I gave him a key.”

“So who the hell comes to your house at this time of night?”

“You, for one,” I said. Then, “Michael, Lucy's downstairs.”

He had already rolled from the bed, quick as a cat. “I'll go.”

The pounding on the door redoubled, and then we could hear someone shouting, too.

Michael went out into the hall. Maximus was already standing in his crib, hanging on to the railing with one hand and using the other to rub his sleepy eyes. I grabbed the baby into my arms, afraid to leave him alone. He gave one cry of protest, then nestled against my shoulder. Carrying Max, I followed Michael to the landing, but he was already downstairs. I leaned over the banister. “Be careful!”

Over his shoulder, he said, “Stay there.”

I disobeyed. The knocking and shouting were starting to sound like an emergency in progress. The noise echoed through the whole house.

In the living room, Lucy sat up groggily from the sofa. “Uncle Mick? Is that you?”