How to Murder a Millionaire (24 page)

Reed didn't move from the spot where he'd taken a single step inside the kitchen door.

"Reed," I said, "would you wait here while I run upstairs for a minute?"

"Yeah, okay."

I took the stairs fast and went straight to my lingerie drawer. The folio was still there. With relief, I wrapped it up in my slip again and put it away.

Downstairs, Reed had not moved from the doorway. He said, "There's a note on the table."

In all the mess, I hadn't noticed a note. It was written on one of the Post-it notes I kept for making grocery lists. Emma had stuck the paper square on a book as if she had pulled the book from the carton on the table and used it for support as she wrote.

She said, "Had to go. Call you sometime. Em."

The book was
The Killer Angels,
the one she'd been looking through over lunch. I considered hurling it against the wall. Of all the times for Emma to choose to run off with one of her boyfriends . . .

Reed stayed in the doorway, but his nonplussed gaze swept around the kitchen and over to the swinging door that led to the dining room. "You don't mind my saying, this place doesn't look like I imagined from the outside."

"Believe me, living here isn't what I imagined either." I leaned against the table. I'd thought a leaky roof was bad enough when I moved in, but I hadn't counted on vandalism to lower my property values, too. "Someone broke in here yesterday."

"Really busted it up," Reed commented. Starting to show signs of concern, he asked, "You live here alone?"

"My sister sometimes stays."

"She here now?"

I waved the note. "No."

"You got anybody else to come tonight?"

I'd been filing through my mental Rolodex to come up with someone I could ask to stay in the house with me. I didn't want to be a wimp, but I wasn't quite ready to face any returning vandals on my own. "I'm thinking."

Reed appeared to be struggling with an inward argument. Although he tried to be an adult all the time, he occasionally looked very young indeed. Slowly, he said, "I'd stay myself, but I got a test in the morning."

"This isn't your problem, Reed."

"You got a dog?"

"No."

He frowned. "Dog would be good right now. Big Rottweiler, maybe."

"I'll be fine."

I must not have been terribly convincing because after a couple of heartbeats, he said, "I'm not supposed to leave you anywhere that doesn't look safe. I think I better call the
jefe
."

"This is my house, Reed. It's perfectly safe. I only— Now, hold it!"

He must have come from a family where it was necessary to ignore the womenfolk now and then. He crossed the kitchen in three long-legged strides, picked up the phone without asking and dialed.

I knew who he was calling. "Reed, for Pete's sake, you can't just take matters into your own hands like this. I can call a number of people—"

He talked to Abruzzo anyway, referring to me only as "she." I steamed while they discussed my situation. Reed even walked to the refrigerator and opened it. He leaned in and reported, "Nothing but diet soda, peanut butter and a bag of something green."

"Reed—" I began.

"Yeah, okay," he said and hung up.

I glowered at him. "This is not the best way to endear yourself."

He glowered back. "That's not in my job description."

We continued to glare at each other while I tried to decide how best to yell at this young man who didn't want a boss or a friend or anyone else who required him to open up, admit a mistake or give an opinion. He didn't want to trust me, and until now he didn't want me trusting him, either. I hadn't been able to think of a way to get through to him, and here he was suddenly taking charge of my life.

Which was progress.

So I asked, "What about driving lessons?"

"Say, what?"

"I need someone to teach me to drive a car," I said. "My sisters are both maniacs behind the wheel, and we have trouble obeying each other anyway."

"So you want me to—?"

"Teach me to drive."

Looking at me sideways, he asked, "Whyn't you just call one of those driving schools or something?"

"Because I think you drive very sensibly. And you seem to be a patient sort of person."

He shook his head. "I don't know."

"Think it over," I suggested.

I offered him a Diet Coke, which he accepted, although reluctantly. It seemed we had reached a new level of understanding in our relationship, if a man under the age of thirty was willing to drink a nonsugared soft drink to mark the occasion. He even straddled a chair at my kitchen table while I picked up the telephone again.

Sometimes in the face of a crisis, a girl needs to talk to her mother.

I got out my address book and placed an overseas call.

"Mama?" I said when the connection finally went through. "Mama, it's Nora."

"Nora! Hey, Butternut, it's Nora on the phone! Oh, he's asleep again, poor darling. I must have tired him out on the tennis court today. Sweetheart, how nice to hear your voice!"

"It's nice to hear your voice, too," I said, and it was. My mother sounded happy and carefree. Of course, in the midst of a fatal tax audit, my mother had been cracking wise and offering fashion tips to anyone who
would listen. She called my father Butternut, and he called her Gingersnap, and they were happier than any two people had a right to be.

Sometimes I wished I could be like my parents. Disasters could befall them, and they managed to spring up out of the hot lava smiling. Their skewed view of the world enraged me sometimes. At other times, it sounded heavenly.

"What's going on?" she asked brightly, and I could almost see her settling back against lacy bed pillows for a nice chat, fluffing up the satin sleeves of her nightgown and fixing her hair with one hand. "Have you been to any fun parties lately? Libby tells me you have a new job!"

"Libby
told you? Mama, have you seen Libby? Is she there with you?"

"For heaven's sake, why would she be here? No, we talked on the phone a month ago. Was it a month? No, not that long. Maybe just last week. Well, anyway, she said you're going to fabulous parties and having a fabulous time!"

"Well, it's not quite that fabulous, Mama."

"Oh, you take things too seriously, Nora. Why don't you just cut loose and enjoy yourself? Be a little more like Libby. You deserve it, sweetheart."

"I'll try to do better," I promised and felt a smile growing on my face despite my mood. Libby and my mother shared a philosophy of life, and it was hard not to appreciate their naive high spirits.

"Are you seeing any men?" she pressed. "I know you have a hard time letting anyone into your life, but it's high time you found a nice young man who will give me a grandchild."

"You have grandchildren, Mama."

"I will never have too many! Of course, looking at
their pictures is so much easier than dealing with them in person. Until they're twenty-one, of course, and can have a cocktail with me when I start actually
looking
like a grandma. So? Are you going on any dates? Seeing anyone I know? A big strong man to snuggle up with?"

I felt my face turn pink as I realized Reed was listening to every word I said. I prayed he couldn't hear my mother. His face was impassive, so I hoped for the best. "No, no dates, Mama. I'm just working. And keeping tabs on my sisters."

"Why would you do that?" my mother asked, laughing. "They're perfectly capable of managing their own lives, you know."

"I think you're wrong about that," I muttered.

"What? What, dear?"

"Nothing, Mama. I just wanted to see if Libby was—if she had contacted you lately."

"Well, naturally we stay in touch, but it's just not the same. A mother hen needs to see her chicks once in a while." Her laughter trilled. "Can you get away this summer, do you think? Would you join us for a few weeks, perhaps?"

I doubted I could afford cab fare to the airport, let alone a ticket to their sumptuous new digs. But I said, "I'll try, Mama. Listen, I need some help. Do you remember any of Libby's college friends? Any school friends? Anyone named Sylvia, maybe?"

"Why would you—? Oh, there was a Sandy, I think. That girl from Boca. No, Cyndi Lauper, right? Oh, no, that's a singer!" My mother laughed. "Sylvia, you say?"

"Yes, a school friend of Libby's."

"No, I don't think so. But I was never very good at remembering any of the friends you girls brought
home. I just— Wait, there was a Sylvia, I think. Sylvia Whiteman. Or Blackman? It was a color. Her name was a color."

"From New York?"

"Heavens, dear, I can't remember her name, let alone her address! Let me think. It
was
Sylvia, but I can't quite recall her last name. Besides, wouldn't she be married by now?"

"Do you think Sylvia was at Smith with Libby? Or at Miss Porter's?" I could try tracking Sylvia through the school alumni records.

"Well, it seems a very long time ago, so it must have been Miss Porter's. But why on earth do you want to know?"

"Oh, I'm just tracking her down," I said vaguely. "For the wedding, you know."

"Which wedding? Are you invited, dear?"

"Of course, Mama. Ralph's son is the groom."

"Ralph?" she asked.

"Libby's husband."

"Oh, of course. I have a mental block when it comes to your husbands. You girls are Blackbirds through and through, and you'll never have happy marriages. How many men have your aunts been through? Dozens, I swear. I'm so glad I'm just a Blackbird by marriage." She sailed into one of her patented parental lectures. "You should forget about husbands and be independent. Make your own happiness, all of you. You can rent chairs for a party, and I don't see why you can't have a good man the same way. Just when you need him. Would you like to speak with your father, sweetheart? I can try rousing him, if you like."

"No, no, that's all right. Just give him my love."

"Of course, Emma."

"It's Nora."

"Of course, dear. Well, give hugs and kisses to your sisters, will you?" She made kissing sounds into the phone.

"I love you, Mama."

When I hung up, Reed blew a sigh and said, "My mom's a pain in the ass, too."

Half an hour later, Abruzzo arrived in a wet yellow rain slicker that made me think of elementary school crossing guards. He carried a bag of groceries in one arm and tracked rainwater into the house. Then he tossed his car keys onto the kitchen counter like a man who intended to stay a while. I could see the handle of a toothbrush poking up from his shirt pocket.

I said, "I do not need a keeper."

We faced each other across the width of the kitchen table. We must have both had thunder on our faces because Reed mumbled something and left in a hurry.

"What happened?" Abruzzo demanded, when we were alone.

"Nothing happened," I snapped. "We got home and Emma wasn't here, so Reed took it upon himself to call the cavalry."

"You're pissed," he said, eyeing me as if I were going to explode. "Because we won't let you do something foolish?"

"Because you think I can't take care of myself. Maybe I was raised like some kind of hothouse flower, but I'm on my own now, and I'm doing just fine."

Which was a lie. My head hurt. My heart felt as if it would never beat normally again. And I had hot tears burning in the back of my throat that I was damned if I was going to release. So I asked, "Do you have any brothers or sisters who act like—like knuckleheads?"

The question didn't dumbfound him, but it took some of the heat out of his expression. "Sure. One sister and three brothers. Well, two brothers."

"What happened to the third one?"

He looked away and shook his head. "Nora—"

"What happened?"

"Really, you don't want to know." He peeled off the yellow slicker and slung it over the back of a kitchen chair.

My knees gave out and I sat down in the other chair. I put my elbows on the table and put my face into my hands. "My family is making me crazy."

"Yeah, I noticed." He began to unpack the groceries. He'd brought a bag of bagels, along with a box of pasta, some veggies and assorted other staples.

"I can't find Libby. I really can't. And I'm afraid she's gotten herself into something so huge that I— that nobody can get her out of it." I looked up again. "On top of that, tonight of all nights, Emma has obviously decided to run off with one of her ten thousand boyfriends, leaving me holding the bag!"

He came around behind me and used both hands to smooth my hair away from my face, then draw it into a ponytail at the back of my head. He leveraged my head gently backwards so I had to look up at him. He said, "I brought dinner."

"Is that your answer to everything? Food?"

"Call it a cultural stereotype. You can't help anybody if you're weak from hunger."