How to Murder a Millionaire (7 page)

I didn't want to be coached. I would help because it was dear Rory who had died.

"Let's go now," I said, "while I feel this way."

The questions came rapid-fire after that. Had I touched the railing? Where was I standing when I
spoke with Sam? How long had I paused on the landing? What kind of car had I seen leaving the cobblestone yard? How fast had it been going? When I arrived on the second floor, had I seen or heard anyone descending the main staircase?

Carefully, they guided me along my route. Upstairs, I hesitated in the doorway of the study, so Bloom went before me and asked another question to lure me into the room. The books, the unfinished supper, papers, telephone and paintings were just as I had seen them the first time I entered. I showed them how the painting looked—slightly crooked on the wall.

A knot of cops huddled in Rory's dressing room, murmuring among themselves and pretending to ignore what Detectives Bloom and Wilson were doing with me.

"And here?" Bloom asked, pointing his pen towards the open bedroom door. "This is where you stood when you first saw the victim?"

I stepped into Rory's bedroom. I assumed the body had been removed, but there he lay, covered with a white plastic sheet. It was as if a cheap drop cloth had been thrown over him to allow painters to refurbish the room.

A part of my brain closed down then, as if a curtain had dropped between the intellectual side of myself and the emotional side. The police asked me questions; even some of the men who had kept silent up until that time posed queries. I remember a woman, too, who asked me bluntly about the champagne glasses I had dropped. They were still in place, broken crystal and twin pools of wine soaked deep into the carpet.

I explained what I had seen and done. I explained twice. And after that, they wanted to review their
notes. I felt faint only once, but the spell passed when I shoved my emotions behind the curtain again and forced myself to respond to Detective Bloom's relentless interrogation.

I heard one officer mutter, "The kid cop has his big chance. Now look at 'im go."

Finally Bloom and his partner led me out into the corridor.

"The pills on the floor," I said, when we were out of the room. I rubbed my face with one hand and wondered if I would ever think straight again.

"What about the pills, Miss Blackbird?"

"The bottle is a standard prescription container. Were they some kind of heart medication?"

"Were you aware of a heart condition?"

"I knew he'd had a heart attack a few years ago, not a very serious one. What kind of pills were those on the floor?"

The partner said, "I don't think we—"

Bloom interrupted. "Maybe she can help, Scotty."

"You've broken enough rules already," said Wilson. "You want your promotion this bad?"

"For godsake," Bloom said, "the old guy won't mind now."

The two of them sounded like bickering teenagers. "I'm sure it doesn't matter," I said, suddenly snappish, too. "I helped you. Surely you can share this small bit of information? Maybe I can give Peach some comfort if I know what happened."

Wilson
turned away.

Bloom took a deep breath. "They were Viagra tablets, Miss Blackbird."

I heard a cop laugh in the bedroom.

"I see."

"It's obvious what he planned to do," said Wilson.

"Only he had a fight with the Treese lady instead, so she turned around and—"

Bloom cut him off. "I think we'd better let Miss Blackbird go home now."

"You don't really think Peach could have hurt Rory?" I asked. "Is that what you're trying to do? Convince yourselves she did it, so you can all go home?"

"Miss Blackbird—"

"It's impossible. And you're wasting valuable time."

"We're following procedure," Bloom began.

"She's a kind and caring person. You don't know her. She loves Rory." I felt tears start. "We're very good friends."

The short silence that greeted my last declaration made me realize I had just discounted all my defense of Peach. Naturally I would protect her if we were friends.

I wasn't helping at all. I tried to rub the headache out of my temples. The impact of the night suddenly hit me like a baseball bat to the skull. "I'd like to go home now. Could we find my driver, please, Detective Bloom?"

"Sure thing," he said.

He took me downstairs past the thinning crowd of guests. Even Peach had disappeared. I walked unsteadily beside the detective to the portico entrance, silent and distressed. I tried to formulate another speech to defend Peach's honor, but the police weren't going to listen. They were looking for proof of guilt. Guilt, not innocence.

"Why don't you sit down?" Bloom suggested when we reached the side foyer. "You've had a long night. I'll go look for your driver."

I felt like a senior citizen, but I accepted his offer. "Thank you."

Bloom turned to leave me and stopped short.

Michael Abruzzo took a step out of the shadowy doorway and into the lighted foyer. He wore a brown leather jacket, a black T-shirt and jeans. Over my head, his gaze clashed with Bloom's, and the two of them positively bristled like a couple of dogs defending their territory.

"Abruzzo," said Bloom in a tone quite different from the one he'd used with me all evening. "How long have you been here?

"If it isn't Detective Gloom," said Abruzzo. "I've been around for a couple of hours. I'm here to take Miss Blackbird home."

"Oh," I said, turning pink for no reason I could imagine. "But Reed's waiting for me."

"I sent him home. It's late."

"What time is . . . ? Good heavens. I had no idea. I forgot all about Reed until just a minute ago."

The two men faced each other and didn't notice me. Abruzzo was bigger and more watchful. Bloom was younger and leaner, but angrier. Somehow they looked evenly matched.

"You know this man, Miss Blackbird?"

"Why, yes. This is—"

"I know who he is," said Bloom. "I'm surprised you do."

Abruzzo laughed.

Bloom said, "Maybe we'd better find an officer to drive you home."

"Don't be silly. Mr. Abruzzo's services have been bought and paid for." I swallowed hard as I absorbed the situation. "By Rory, as a matter of fact."

Bloom raised an eyebrow at Abruzzo. "No kidding? You had a business arrangement with Pendergast?"

"Occasionally I do business with upstanding citizens, yes," said Abruzzo.

"He's dead," said Bloom.

"I heard," Abruzzo replied calmly.

"We'll want to talk to you."

Abruzzo shrugged. "You know how to reach me."

"Is the car ready?" I asked. Any minute the situation was going to become a full-blown pissing contest, and I didn't intend to get caught in the middle. "Can we go now?"

Abruzzo made a sweep with one hand. "Right this way, Cinderella."

I turned to Bloom. "You've been kind tonight, Detective." I put out my hand to shake his. "I only wish I could convince you that you're completely wrong about Peach."

"I'll call you," he said, accepting my handshake.

Abruzzo moved aside to let me pass. As the detective watched, Abruzzo slipped one hand under my elbow as I started down the stone stairs in my heels. We descended in silence.

Chapter 5

When we were out of the detective's earshot at the bottom of the steps, I pulled out of his grasp and said under my breath, "You can put away your six-shooter now."

"What?"

"You and Detective Bloom doing your Wild West routine."

"Yeah, I'm his favorite gunslinger."

"Are you?" I asked, perhaps too sharply. There was plenty of room under the leather jacket to conceal a weapon.

"Tonight I'm just your chauffeur, Miss Blackbird." He looked down at me. "You okay?"

We were the only people under the portico. He pulled car keys from his hip pocket and waited for my response. I wasn't okay. But I nodded.

"Rough night," Abruzzo said. "I'm sorry about Rory."

I looked away, nodded again and felt my throat close tight.

With one hand under my elbow again, he helped me into the front passenger seat of a perfectly sedate Volvo sedan and closed the car door. I used the next few seconds to pull myself together. By the time he slid behind the wheel beside me, I had given myself a strong mental lecture and regained my self-control.

I said the first thing that came into my head. "Why aren't you driving one of those parade floats you sell at Mick's Muscle Cars?"

"I like this one. Just don't tell anyone I drive a foreign make, okay?"

I needn't have worried that Abruzzo was going to force conversation after that. He started the car, fastened his seat belt and drove slowly down Rory's curving driveway and through the gates. The car was comfortable, almost cozy. He paid attention to driving and allowed me to think.

I pushed the image of Rory's small, crumpled body out of my mind for fear I might start crying again. The idea of blubbering in front of Michael Abruzzo mortified me into calm. Instead, I leaned back against the headrest and closed my eyes, simply letting impressions float up in my mind.

The Pendergast sisters anxious to keep as many family secrets as possible. Peach weeping quietly for her longtime lover. Kitty Keough making a scene under the portico. Rory's ties hanging neatly in his closet. Stan Rosenstatz mopping his face with a graying handkerchief. Jill Mascione bristling as Detective Bloom examined my legs as if they were important evidence in a murder case.

Abruzzo drove the Volvo over a bridge, and I opened my eyes. "Rory had fishing rods in his room. Hanging on the wall."

Abruzzo didn't seem surprised that this particular remark came out of nowhere. "Trout."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Rory liked to fish for trout."

I turned in the seat and looked at Abruzzo. "Did you know Rory well?"

"Sure."

"Sure? What does that mean?"

He shrugged. "I took him fishing."

"When?" I demanded, surprised.

"Lots of times."

"Lots?"

"I'm not the usual Pendergast crony, huh?"

"I just—I'm surprised you associated with him."

"I didn't think he'd be safe going fishing by himself these last few years. I was afraid he'd fall in and drown. So I went with him. He showed me all his favorite places on the Delaware."

"Have you known him long?"

He didn't answer for a moment. In the light of the dashboard, I looked at Abruzzo's profile. His blunt nose, heavy-lidded eyes—kept that way, perhaps, to reveal nothing. I wondered fleetingly if he had cared for Rory. What was he feeling now?

At last, he said, "I've known Rory a lot of years. He gave me a start when I needed it, and we were— he was a good guy. I'm sorry he's gone."

"He was murdered," I said.

The news did not startle Abruzzo. "With the homicide cops there, I figured. Who did it?"

"We don't know yet."

He shot a look at me. "We?"

I didn't answer. I wasn't sure why I'd lumped myself in the same category as the police. I looked at the road again. I knew Peach Treese hadn't murdered Rory, that was all. Bloom's automatic assumption that she had made me angry. Peach didn't need to be prosecuted. She needed to be protected.

Abruzzo said, "Looks like I've given your buddy Bloom a new suspect."

"You mean you? Don't be silly." Gathering my
courage, I said, "I gather you're acquainted with the detective, too?"

"We spent some time together."

"Oh?"

He shrugged again. "In the juvenile system."

"The juvenile system," I repeated, uncomprehending. "Oh."

"I wasn't an especially well-behaved teenager."

"Neither was Detective Bloom, I gather."

"He wasn't bad. I think his family sent him into the program to—what do they call it now? To get scared straight."

"Is that why you were there, too?"

He smiled, watching the road. "I was a couple of years older, a little more experienced. A judge seemed to think some additional time away from my—from negative influences might be rehabilitating."

"Was it?"

"I don't steal motorcycles anymore," he answered. "I met Rory around that time, as a matter of fact."

"Really? How?"

"When I was ushered out of the state's accommodations, he had just started a mentoring program. I ended up getting paired with him."

"You met Rory when you were a teenager?"

"Yeah. He made me go back to school, get my GED, take some college classes. And he helped me start my first business."

I sat back in the seat, floored. If Abruzzo had told me Rory raised Siamese cats and gave them to Eskimos I couldn't have been more surprised. I had spent the whole evening showing the police how well I knew Rory Pendergast, and here was information I'd had no clue about. "For heaven's sake. I knew he had
strong feelings about teens from troubled—I'm sorry, I mean—"