How to Murder a Millionaire (26 page)

Abruzzo and I looked at each other, and he did not hand over the phone.

I said, "You think Ralph is doing something wrong."

"I think he knows more than he's telling you. Either that, or he's not thinking many moves ahead."

Ralph wasn't stupid. But he was gentle and perhaps he was keeping the truth to himself to protect me from something. It was the kind of thing he might do, I thought. Wasn't it? I said, "Why would he keep Libby's whereabouts a secret?"

"Money. A business deal gone bad." He didn't finish his list.

I clutched my head. "I don't understand what's happening."

"You want some advice? I think it's time to call your buddy Gloom."

I sat down at the table again. "But if Libby's in legal trouble ..." I began.

"Nora," he said, "it's past that."

Chapter 19

Detective Bloom told me he didn't handle missing persons and I should contact my local police. He was so busy—or so uninterested—that he didn't let me finish my sentences. It wasn't until I mentioned Libby's name on the phone that he said, "Your sister is Libby Kintswell?"

And I realized how long it was going to take the police to get up to speed. My own investigation was light-years ahead of where the police were, and by the time I could prove everything I felt sure I knew, God only knew where Libby would be.

"I'm scared," I told Abruzzo when I'd disconnected his cell phone.

We were in his Volvo and already halfway to Libby's house.

"Breathe," he advised and turned on the windshield wipers.

I obeyed. "He said to call the local police, but he wants me to come to him to talk, too."

"Not a good idea," advised Abruzzo, driving through puddles of rain. "He'll hold you for days."

While the trails for my sisters got colder and colder.

I dialed 911 and was transferred to a New Hope policeman who took my information and invited me in for further conversation at my earliest convenience. I said I'd come as soon as I could, but I had things
to do first. By then, we'd arrived in Libby's driveway and had climbed out of the car. I said I'd call back and hung up.

"What now?" Abruzzo asked when Arlo came over to say hello. He patted the damp dog, and Arlo wagged his tail. "Looks like nobody's home."

"The kids are probably at school. And Ralph's gone to work already."

"Listen," he said, "I'll stay out here by the door unless you call me. You can go in, but I'll be breaking and entering."

He was a useful person to know.

I went into Libby's house, calling her name. The place was still an appalling mess, perhaps more so. It had begun to smell even worse than before. A stack of pizza boxes had grown to an alarming height in the kitchen. Upstairs, the bedrooms looked like a train wreck.

Libby's matching set of tapestry-sided suitcases were still in her closet.

I went back outside and reported.

Abruzzo, with Arlo sitting at his feet, stood looking across the driveway. "What's in the barn?"

We went over to the barn, and he put his shoulder to the heavy door. It slid open.

Inside, Libby's minivan.

With my hands almost too weak to function, I opened the passenger side door. On the floor between the seats sat Libby's Coach handbag. Hyperventilating, I pulled it out of the van, opened the zipper and found her wallet.

The next thing I knew, I was sitting in the Volvo with Abruzzo hunkered down on the driveway beside the open door, patting my hands.

He said conversationally, "I can see why you don't
drive. You black out like somebody's thrown a light switch."

"I'm going to stop fainting," I said.

He nodded. "Okay."

"No, really. I'm going to learn not to do this."

"I'm thinking of learning to ski."

"If Libby's purse is here," I said, "she isn't shopping in New York."

"I know." He pushed my hair away from my face and studied me for signs of panic. Finding only a manageable quantity, he said, "Let's go find a pay phone."

"Why?"

"Because I need to make a couple of calls from a phone that's not necessarily wiretapped."

"Do I want to know who you're calling?"

"No," he said and fastened my seatbelt.

He got in beside me and drove to a car wash that had a public telephone mounted near the change machines. While he spoke to someone who I hoped looked like Mike Tyson and had the counterintelligence smarts of James Bond, I used his cell phone to try Emma's number again.

He got back into the car two minutes later, his shoulders wet with rain. "Okay, somebody's going to keep an eye on the farm today. Now what?"

"Emma still doesn't answer her phone. Let's go to her place."

I gave directions, and we arrived in less than ten minutes. Emma lived in an apartment over an antiques shop in New Hope. The shop didn't open until eleven, so the parking lot in the back was empty. Not even Emma's truck was there. I ran up the rain-slick wooden steps to the second floor rear balcony. Emma's door was locked.  I knocked and peered
through the glass, but her lace curtains obstructed my view.

I leaned over the balcony railing. "It's locked. Should I break a window?"

Abruzzo came up the stairs. "No key under the mat? Over the door? In a flowerpot?"

We searched, but Emma hadn't left a spare key.

"Let me break the window," he said. "I can do it without making too much mess."

And he did. Rather than smashing the whole window, he flattened a credit card against the glass and used his pocket knife to tap the first crack. The crack grew as he rapped until it made a slightly irregular six-inch line, creating a triangle in the corner of the window. He slid the knife back into his pocket, the credit card into his wallet. Then with a sharp whack of his elbow, he broke in the triangle and slipped one hand carefully inside to unlock the door. The neat job took a quiet two minutes.

I looked up at him. "Sometimes you make me nervous."

"It's mutual," he replied. The door swung wide. I stepped over the glass and went inside alone.

If Libby's house had been a veritable demolition site, Emma's apartment was the picture of spare living. She had little furniture, although all good stuff that had probably been begged from various relatives— a John Widdicombe gateleg table with two chairs, a comfortable-looking slipcovered sofa, some reading lamps on mismatched tables, a pair of mahogany bookshelves packed tight with books, a Tabriz rug on the floor. Her queen-sized bed had been neatly made with an Amish quilt, and her closets were tidy except for the jumble of boots and shoes on the floor. She
had a sweater drying on a rack in the bathroom. I laid my palm flat on the sweater. It was still slightly damp.

In contrast with the simple furnishings, all the walls of her apartment were covered with horse paintings. She hadn't hung them with much precision, but there they were in plain view, not safely stowed in some storage facility. I found a stack of other pieces from the family art collection leaning against the bedroom wall, each frame tidily wrapped with padded paper.

From the doorway, Abruzzo called, "Anything?"

I went back out to him. "No. I think we'd better go to the local police."

I found some duct tape in a kitchen drawer, and we taped a hunk of cardboard over the hole in the door window. It didn't seem wise to leave the paintings so vulnerable, but I decided even the most imaginative cat burglar wouldn't peg that modest second floor apartment for the home of a multimillion-dollar art collection.

But I planned to discuss home security with Emma as soon as possible.

As soon as we found her, that is.

Abruzzo drove me to the police station but declined to come inside with me. "I'll just complicate things," he said.

He gave me his cell phone and a number to call when I was ready to leave. Then he disappeared.

The New Hope police kept me for the entire afternoon with questions, questions and more questions. I felt as if I had gone to Mars and nobody understood my language. The state troopers were called, and I gave the same information to them. Three times. I was nearly screaming with frustration at their lack of action until a woman poked her head into the room where I'd been quarantined and announced that a patrol car had found Emma's truck. The cops nearly knocked each other over trying to get out of the room to learn the details.

The woman raised her eyebrows at me. "You want a Coke or something?"

I thanked her and she brought me a soft drink.

She sat down in the chair beside me as I popped the top and drank the caffeinated sugar. "I'm Judy Tandy. I'm the rape counselor, but I figure you could use a friendly face. I just want to tell you not to worry. These jerks won't tell you anything, but the cops out in the cars are doing everything they can."

"Where was Emma's truck?"

"At an expired meter on Main Street."

"Was she—?"

Judy shook her head. "The keys were gone, the doors were locked. Nothing unusual. They're looking in nearby shops now."

I thanked her. The chances of finding Emma shopping were slim to none, I knew.

The rape counselor sat with me until the cops came back, then she patted me on the shoulder and left.

I thought they'd never let me go. I finally asked, "Am I under arrest?"

Hastily, they said I could leave, so I phoned the number Abruzzo gave me. I told the gruff male voice on the other end where I was, and he told me to sit tight. Fifteen minutes later, Abruzzo arrived in a vintage Lincoln Continental.

"Where's the Volvo?"

He shrugged. "Better to keep everybody guessing today. If people think I'm involved, it's going to get unnecessarily complicated."

He took me back to the farm where two men were changing a tire on a black SUV near my mailbox. In
the house, I checked my answering machine and found two messages from Detective Bloom among assorted unimportant calls. I telephoned Bloom only to get his voice mail. I told him I'd try again later. I phoned Lexie next and packed an overnight bag.

Abruzzo carried my suitcase out to the car. When we left the farm, I noticed the two men were still changing their tire. Abruzzo lifted one hand at them, and they jutted their chins back at him in recognition.

He took me to Lexie Paine's boathouse in Philadelphia. Two more men were changing a tire on her street.

Lexie came outside in the dark and hugged me hard. "Oh, darling, I'm so glad you called. So glad!"

"You don't mind a slightly bedraggled houseguest?"

"Of course not. And this must be your . . . friend."

I introduced them, and for the first time in my life witnessed Lexie Paine completely speechless as she shook Michael Abruzzo's hand.

He said, "Nora needs some food and some rest."

Lexie could only nod.

Hiding a grin, Abruzzo said to me, "I'll come back in the morning."

"Thank you," I said, smiling too.

He kissed the top of my head and departed without further ceremony.

Lexie closed the door behind him and leaned against it, her dark eyes wide. "My God, Nora."

"I know. He looks like a felon. But he's been very kind."

"Are you sure? Does he carry a gun?"

"Of course not. He likes fly-fishing."

Lexie gathered her breath and took my arm. "Well, you know what you're doing. I hope! Come in and have a glass of wine. I'll order some food. I want to
hear the whole story about Libby and Emma, and then you can tell me what I can do to help."

"Did you have time to learn anything about Rory's van Gogh?"

"I had time to make a few calls after you phoned me earlier. It was legitimately purchased at auction about fifteen years ago. Rory has always said he's going to leave it to a museum. Heywood Kidd tells me Peach and Rory have argued about it for years. Something about the frame being wrong. Now it's your turn."

One glass of wine couldn't subdue the nervous adrenaline in my system as I filled Lexie in on what was happening. The second glass of wine blunted my nerves, and the spring rolls helped restore me, too, while we hashed out a plan. But the third glass of wine at midnight knocked me for a loop. I fell into Lexie's guest bed around one and slept for several hours.

I wasn't the first one awake. I slipped into Lexie's kitchen at seven in the morning, and there she was spreading cream cheese on a bagel, dressed in a razor-sharp Prada business suit, stiletto heels and marquis diamond earrings the size of small caliber bullets. Across the kitchen counter from her, Abruzzo sat on a stool reading the paper and drinking coffee from a Starbucks cup. He looked even more dangerous than she did.

Lexie saw me and made an instant diagnosis. "You need aspirin."

"Oh, yes," I gasped.

"I got her drunk," Lexie explained. "It was the only way she could sleep."

"You did what you had to do," said Abruzzo. To me, he said, "Good morning."