How to Murder a Millionaire (8 page)

"I don't know," I said. "It just is."

Bloom had become a police detective after his sojourn in jail. And what had Michael Abruzzo become? No, not a murderer. If he took an old man to visit his favorite fishing spots, surely he couldn't be capable of killing him.

But I wondered how Abruzzo's perspective on crime might help figure out who had killed Rory Pendergast. Did he look at murder with a different point of view than Detective Bloom?

"Listen," he said after the moment stretched, "I still haven't had any dinner, and I'm starving. What about you?"

I hadn't eaten anything in a long time myself, and I was genuinely hungry. Spending a little more time with Abruzzo didn't seem like a bad idea just then either.

"Okay," I said cautiously.

"A burger?"

A burger sounded heavenly. "Sure."

"No, wait," he said. "I've got a better plan."

He turned off the highway a few miles later just over the Bucks County line and ended up in a neighborhood of dilapidated warehouses surrounded by acres of broken asphalt and scrubby bushes. The Volvo veered around potholes and nosed through a labyrinth of parked trucks. A tractor-trailer rumbled past. Eventually Abruzzo found a nondescript bar, the Blue Note, standing on the edge of the warehouse district. He seemed to know the parking lot well and slid the Volvo into a space between a Dumpster and a big Lincoln Navigator.

Inside, the place was dim, lit by neon beer signs behind the bar and a television turned to hockey highlights. Three patrons in flannel shirts and baseball caps hunched at the bar and stared up at the television. The bartender leaned on his elbow beside them. At a table, a white-haired gentleman with a much younger woman sipped espresso.

The bartender looked up when we came in and reached for the television remote to turn down the roar of hockey fans. "Hey, Mick, you dog. How's it hanging, buddy?"

"Not bad, Del." They shook hands. "Connie still in the kitchen?"

"Yep. With Scallopine." He kissed his fingertips.

The bar smelled of cigar smoke, and Perry Como crooned on the jukebox. With homey camaraderie, the men at the bar razzed Abruzzo as he threaded me towards the last table along the wall. He took it genially. At the table, he shrugged out of his leather jacket, and in his black T-shirt suddenly fit perfectly into the workingman's hangout.

The bartender tossed drink coasters down on the table and lit the candle on the table with a Zippo. "What're you? On your way home from a wedding?" His smile was a little loose around the edges, as if he'd been sampling behind the bar. "This young lady looks like a bridesmaid or something. Real pretty."

I doubted the Blue Note had ever seen a Givenchy before.

"She's always dressed for a party," said Abruzzo. "Del, this is Nora Blackbird. Del DeMartino."

"Hi," he said, shaking my hand and grinning. "What can I get you two? A bottle of champagne?"

Abruzzo said, "If I thought you had any, I'd order it. How about the
Vigneto Asinione,
if there's any left." He turned to me, brows raised. "That okay?"

Lifting both palms, I surrendered to his knowledge of the available wines.

"Do you like veal?" Del asked me.

"Yes, of course."

"You ain't had veal like my Connie makes. Has she, Mick?"

"I doubt it, Del."

With a wink I wasn't supposed to see, Del promised to come right back.

We were alone for half a minute before I spoke. "I've traveled past this area all my life and never imagined a restaurant might be here."

Abruzzo nodded, glancing around the hangout. "Well, the ambience is nothing to write home about. But for good food at any hour, it's the best."

"I gather you're a regular?"

"Yeah, I suppose so."

Of course I wanted to know more. I wanted to ask all kinds of questions, but I refrained. Abruzzo had
already found just the right weak moment to offer me a substantial amount of money for land I shouldn't have sold, so I knew I should be on the alert around him. But I was tired and hungry and emotionally spent.

The bottle of wine arrived along with an antipasto overflowing with olives, artichoke hearts and perfectly sliced vegetables. Abruzzo removed the bottle's cork himself with an attachment on a well-used pocketknife. He poured, and the liquid flashed like rubies in the candlelight. I took a sip and found the wine dry, but intense. A hint of fruit, a suggestion of Tuscan violets and maybe cinnamon, too. It was not the wine selection of an amateur. My companion drank thoughtfully and reached for a black olive. I felt my nerves relax.

A long dinner of silence stretched ahead, so I took the initiative and said, "You went fishing with Rory Pendergast."

"Fly-fishing mostly." He sketched the one-handed motion of casting a rod over a stream. "And some shad. We had a good time together. He could get along with anyone."

I said, "Do you suppose everyone would agree with you?"

"I guess nobody gets where he did without making some enemies."

"Enemies who disliked him enough to commit murder?"

"Somebody obviously did."

I sighed. "I can't imagine why anyone would kill a man like Rory."

"He was rich," Abruzzo observed. "Really rich."

"Someone killed him for money?"

"The simple answer is often the right answer."

"That's what Bloom said." I eyed him. "For what other reasons would someone kill?"

He met my gaze. "Why ask me?"

"It's a rhetorical question. I'm just making conversation."

A skeptical smile may have crossed his mouth. "Okay. If money's not the motive, it could be a family thing. Or blackmail. A business deal gone bad, maybe." He gained momentum. "A power struggle. Angry employee. Former partner, a creditor, a borrower, a—"

"Whoa." His list overwhelmed me. Tentatively I said, "Or some—well, a sex thing, maybe?"

"At his age?" Abruzzo grinned. "Well, then, he died happy."

I thought of the Viagra pills, but shook my head to dispel the mental picture of Rory dying during an ardent interlude. Except for his torn shirt collar, his clothing had been only slightly disturbed.

"Whoever it was, it was certainly somebody who attended tonight's party." I touched the stem of my glass and remembered the wine I'd been carrying to him. If I'd gone sooner, I might have prevented his death. I felt the rush of emotion again. "It's so shocking. I can't grasp it. Maybe for you it's business as usual, but for— Oh, good heavens, I'm sorry. I didn't mean—"

He laughed at me across the candlelight, his eyes as blue as struck matches. At that moment I realized why he was called "The Mick." His eyes were an Irishman's blue, startling in his otherwise very Roman face. He said, "Welcome to my world, Miss Blackbird?"

Abashed, I said, "I'm so sorry. I must be more tired than I thought. I didn't mean to be rude."

"Starting to feel different about teaming up with the police? About poking into the segment of society that doesn't wear tuxedos?"

"I'm not teaming up with anyone. I'm just thinking." Tired as I was, my brain hummed. I crunched meditatively on a stick of celery. "It's a matter of finding the right avenue into Rory's life."

"For example?"

"His social circle. Or his art collector friends. The newspaper people were stirred up, that's for sure."

"Over what?"

"Oh, the usual. The features editor wants a promotion. Kitty—my boss, I guess you could say—is upset because of me."

"Because of you?" He looked amused. "What'd you do? Break all her pencils?"

"She thinks I'm out to get her job."

"Are you?"

"Heavens, no. I'm just getting started." I thought about what Peach had said about Rory's sisters wanting to sell the
Intelligencer.
"But there must be people worried about the future of the newspaper. About their jobs. I'll have to ask around."

"Now wait a minute," said Abruzzo. "Who put you in charge of this investigation?"

Our food arrived at that moment. Del balanced two plates on one arm, with a basket of crusty bread in his free hand and a bottle of olive oil pinched between two fingers. "Wait'll you try it," he said to me.

Thin slices of veal with aromatic mushrooms, fresh asparagus, a small serving of pasta in basil and oil. I inhaled the fragrances and was immediately famished. Del fussed over silverware and napkins.

I realized he was waiting for my reaction, so I picked up my fork and cut a small bite of the veal. It
was tender, sweet, hearty and spicy all at the same time. The flavors were subtle, yet I could distinguish them all. "You're right," I said with a genuine smile. "It's fabulous. I've never tasted anything like it."

Del
grinned down at me. "You'll be back," he predicted before heading to the bar.

I began to eat.

"Look." Abruzzo ignored his meal. "Rory died, and you're upset, I know. But you aren't going off the deep end, are you?"

I swallowed a bite of asparagus. "The deep end?"

"Finding the killer is a job for the police."

I twirled pasta into a bite-size roll. "Detective Bloom thought I could be helpful."

"Detective Bloom is an idiot."

"Your friend was right. The food is delicious." I popped the pasta into my mouth.

"Are you going to let the police take care of this?"

I took my time, avoiding his gaze. I swallowed and sipped the wine. "I think I can help," I said finally.

I knew I could. And what I didn't know yet, I felt sure I could find the right people to ask. I could delve into Rory's life better than anyone. I understood things about Rory's rarefied universe that the police could never grasp. And I wasn't going to start with Peach Treese, for Pete's sake.

Abruzzo leaned forward. "I don't think you get it. This isn't a lightweight newspaper story you can just investigate by dressing up and going to parties. Rory isn't just dead. He was murdered. Killed by somebody who has found it in his heart to shoot a harmless old man—"

"He wasn't shot. He was probably smothered."

He went on, undeterred. "If somebody killed an old
man, they're not going to think twice about roughing you up to keep the secret."

"I'm not helpless."

"That has nothing to do—"

"I was on the fencing team in college."

He saw that I was teasing, and some of the heat went out of his temper. Wryly, he said, "Great. If somebody comes after you with a foil, you're all set."

"I'm not going to do anything foolish."

"What are you going to do?"

"Just talk to some friends. Now eat your supper. It's really very good."

He gave in grudgingly and ate with steady purpose while I went on about something nonsensical. I wanted to get him off the subject of Rory's death. No doubt I wanted to get myself off that subject, too.

But I couldn't help the detours my subconscious mind took as I sat at that small table. I wanted to know who'd killed Rory.

I needed to know.

Chapter 6

I slept badly that night and woke early the next morning, Saturday.

The world had not changed. Rory was dead, and I wished I could do something about it.

I phoned Peach's house early, but her housekeeper informed me that Mrs. Treese was still sleeping and planned to spend the day with her family. I sent her my sympathy, then sat down and wrote her a long note filled with my own fond memories of Rory. It was difficult to read what I'd written through my tears.

I decided I needed to blow off some steam after that. I took my bicycle out of the barn and climbed on. I headed for New Hope, first passing the split rail fences of Blackbird Farm and then the long parking lot of Mick's Muscle Cars. The plastic flags of the car lot snapped a cheeky greeting to me in the morning breeze. One of the salesmen came out of the trailer that served as their office and gave me a neighborly wave. The Delaware River ran smoothly on my left, shining silver in the sunlight. I pedaled easily, glad to have sharply cool air cleaning out my lungs.

The road ran along the river, past landmarks of Pennsylvania's long history. William Penn had taken possession of his stretch of Bucks County land just up the road from Blackbird Farm two hundred years ago. His friends built farms along the river, too, including
the Blackbirds. Our fieldstone house and barn stood on an especially fertile stretch of ground that lay between a curve of the Delaware and the parallel canal. The canal had been used in the eighteenth century to haul Pennsylvania coal south to Philadelphia and Baltimore. More recently, the Park Service had taken over the canal, cleaned it up and promoted it as a tourist attraction. All summer long, mules pulled replica barges full of camera-toting tourists along the tow-path past the small communities that lined the river.