Little Black Book of Murder

Book 9: Blackbird Sisters Mystery

by Nancy Martin

Genres: Amateur Sleuth; Cozy Mystery; Female Sleuths

Synopsis

Nora Blackbird may have been to the manor borne, but these days money is so tight, she can' t afford to lose her job as a society columnist. So when her new boss at the Philadelphia Intelligencer-- Australian tabloid editor Gus Hardwicke-- tells her to work the celebrity gossip beat or start checking the want ads, the choice is easy.

Now Nora' s writing a profile on billionaire fashion designer Swain Starr, who recently retired to build a high-tech organic farm with his new wife, Zephyr, a former supermodel. But before Nora can get the story, the mogul is murdered. And now Gus wants her to snap up an exclusive on who killed Starr before the cops do.

But solving a celebrity murder isn' t easy with a home life as colorful as Nora' s. Her sort-of-husband, Mick, a former mobster, is associating once again with unsavory characters. Her sister Libby is on a mission to get her diabolical twins on stage or screen with the help of an unscrupulous former child star. And the youngest Blackbird sister, Emma, just got kicked out of the house by Mick-- who refuses to explain why.

If anything can bring the blue-blooded Blackbird sisters together, it' s a murder investigation involving high-society events, glamorous people, and the disappearance of a genetically perfect pig that may or may not be basking in the sun at Blackbird Farm. They' ll all have to pull together this time, because if Nora can' t bring home the bacon, she might have to exchange her bucolic estate for a cramped walk-up.

Release date: August 6, 2013

Publisher: Berkley

Print pages: 416

Sample

AUTHOR THANKS

CHAPTER ONE

“The only time a woman is truly helpless,” said my sister Libby as she sailed into the musty lobby of the old theater, “is when her nail polish is wet. Even then, she should be able to pull a trigger. I read that somewhere.”

I had asked her for help regarding my new boss.

“I can’t shoot my editor,” I said as we skulked past the closed refreshment stand and into the back of the dark and empty auditorium. “As satisfying as that might feel, the long-­range consequences would interfere with my social schedule. Which is still my job, and I need to keep it.”

Libby arranged herself in a back-­row seat like a contented hen settling on a nest of warm eggs, an impression heightened when she pulled off a scarf to reveal a T-shirt under her velour tracksuit. In sequins, the shirt said, HAUTE CHIC. She tossed her scarf over the adjacent empty seat. “Why are you asking me, Nora? I’d suffocate in a humdrum work environment! My inner goddess needs freedom to flourish. I get hives just thinking about punching a time clock. Darn it, I wish I’d thought to bring some popcorn.”

Our sister Emma plunked herself down next to me and immediately propped her muddy riding boots on the seat back in front of her. “The sign in the lobby said stage mothers are supposed to stay out of the theater.”

“I am not a stage mother,” Libby snapped. “I am a powerful life force guiding my children to a brighter destiny. I pull them into the turbulent current of life with my own indomitable momentum.”

Emma said, “Just a guess, but have you added to your collection of nutball self-­help books lately?”

Libby blithely ignored that shot. She had dragged her fourteen-­year-­old twins, Harcourt and Hilton, to an audition for something I still wasn’t clear about. Then, instead of lunch, she had insisted the three of us sneak into the back row to watch. Onstage, a couple of shady characters muttered beside the velvet curtains, which had been pulled open to reveal an empty space with a battered piano on one side. The piano player appeared to noodle one-­handed on the keyboard while dozing off from boredom with his chin propped in his other hand. From some distant place, we could also hear the high-­pitched buzz of a preteen mob that had been corralled like a herd of wildebeests eager to break into a stampede.

Libby dug into her handbag in search of a restorative snack. “Those stage mother rules don’t apply to me. I made it clear my sons should be first to audition this afternoon, so we’ll be in and out as soon as the director gets started. Meanwhile, we can solve Nora’s workplace issue.”

If Libby could solve a workplace issue, it certainly wouldn’t be because she had ever held down a formal job in her entire life. Like me, she had grown up on the Old Money accumulated by our entrepreneurial Blackbird relatives who came to America early and amassed an enviable fortune by investing in railroads and safety pins. There were no parcel-­tying shopkeepers in our ancestry, Mama often said. Blackbirds had always allowed their money to do the work, and she made darn sure her daughters had none of the skills that might threaten that dubious family record. We had enjoyed all the luxuries money could buy until our parents went broke and ran off with the meager remains of our trust funds. They now applied themselves to perfecting their samba skills in South American dance halls while my sisters and I learned to navigate the real world.

My younger sister, Emma, had actually worked for a living since she was old enough to put a boot into a stirrup, so I turned to her and said, “How do I handle an obnoxious boss?”

“I suppose you’ve ruled out sexual favors,” Emma said.

“That’s not funny. I need a solution from this century, please.”

“I was only kidding.” Emma slumped down in her seat as if sliding farther into the funk she’d been fighting for months. “Why the hell are we here? I could use some food.”

I had arranged a reconciliation lunch for my squabbling sisters, and it had taken all of my powers of peacemaking persuasion to get Emma to show up at all. At Libby’s last-­minute request, we had changed plans and met in front of a venerable Bucks County theater mostly used for amateur productions of Neil Simon plays and the occasional high school talent show.

Emma had appeared wearing an expression of sisterly resentment. Tall and lean and more perfectly proportioned than Miss Alabama, she might have been mistaken for a beauty queen except for her dirty boots, breeches and the mud-­spattered shirt that said she’d been exercising someone’s expensive horses somewhere nearby. Her short hair was mashed on the sides as if by a helmet and still managed to look chic. But the scowl on her otherwise flawless forehead told me that she and Libby hadn’t forgiven each other for harsh words snapped a few months ago when Emma gave birth and handed over her illegitimate baby to the child’s very married father.

Both of my sisters were still pretending the other was invisible.

Therefore, sitting between them, I was the recipient of their undivided attention.

To me, Emma said, “What’s so wrong about your boss?”

“Maybe the problem isn’t your boss at all,” Libby said as if Emma had not spoken. She focused intently on thumbing a stick of gum out of its packet. “Maybe it’s you.”

“I know it’s me,” I said, unable to hide my exasperation. “Look, I was hired to be a society columnist—­to attend parties and report about charitable giving. That’s where my skills are—­parties! And I’m good at it.”

“So what’s the big deal?” Emma picked a hunk of mud off the side of one boot.

“Newspapers are failing all over the country, and half the staff of the Intelligencer has been laid off. We’re putting out every edition on a shoestring. Because my salary is so low, I’ll be the last to get a pink slip. Meanwhile, the new editor seems to think I’m a real reporter who should be capable of writing real news.”

“That’s a good sign.” Libby handed me one of her two sticks of gum and kept the other for herself. “He must like your work.”

“He likes that I’m cheap,” I clarified, passing my share of the gum to Emma, who took it.

Emma said, “Is this Crocodile Dundee, the Australian guy?”

Libby sat up eagerly. “That man with the cute accent? Oh, I saw him on television, talking about the future of journalism. He’s very handsome, Nora. The ex-­surfer whose father is that bossy media mogul in Australia?”

“That’s him. Thing is, I’m not suited to surfing with the crocodiles. He’s asking me to be something I’m not.”

“You’re a reporter,” Emma said. “So, report. Except instead of noticing flower arrangements, you gotta decide which gangbanger robbed the liquor store. Not much different.”

“I’m not covering any gangs, thank heavens, but I’m floundering. I don’t have the right skills.”

My cell phone gave a jingle to tell me I was getting another text message. The phone had already gone off half a dozen times since I left my house. I glanced at the screen and held it up as Exhibit A. “See? He’s texting me right now. Probably to ask when I’ll be sending my column. Trouble is, I haven’t had time to write the damn thing because he’s also got me working on celebrity profiles!”

“That’s what he considers real reporting?” Emma said. “Celebrity profiles? What, he hasn’t heard of any flying saucer stories he could send you on?”

“Oh!” Libby cried. “Nora, I meant to tell you how much I loved your series on the Real Housewives of the Main Line. That one who owns five hundred pairs of shoes and keeps them organized by color? What an inspiration she is. How do I meet her?”

“Within five minutes of meeting her, Libby, you’d want to stab yourself in the eye with a stiletto.”

“But it was a great article! All the girls down at the Pink Windowbox were talking about it.” Libby set her handbag on the sticky floor, thought better of it, then put it on the seat beside her. “Here’s my suggestion, Nora. Make a list of all your best accomplishments. Write them on slips of colored paper, and keep them in an old jewelry box—­you know, the kind with the pop-­up ballerina and the mirror inside? And every time you start feeling blue or inadequate, open your box and read one. You’ll feel better, trust me.”

“I’m not sure I want to be reminded that my best accomplishment is a story about a woman with five hundred pairs of shoes.”

“It was better than you think,” Libby insisted. “It made me want to buy shoes while also feeling morally superior. That’s an accomplishment.”

“People smarter than you are out of work right now,” Emma pointed out, dropping her gum wrapper on the floor.

I picked up her wrapper and crumpled it in my hand. “Yes, I should be happy I have a job in the first place. It’s just—­I don’t know how much longer I can keep making it up as I go along.”

Libby said, “What other celebrities are you profiling?”

“The big one is Swain Starr, the fashion designer who retired. I started pestering him a few weeks ago, and he finally agreed to give me some interviews.”

Libby lit up. “I love his clothes! And he makes plus sizes, thank heavens, and in colors other than black. Do all designers think fat girls are in mourning for their thin selves?”

“Who she’s writing about is not the point,” Emma snapped. “The point is Nora’s overwhelmed.”

“I’m not dense,” Libby said without turning her head to acknowledge Emma’s presence. “I’m completely sympathetic to your problem, Nora. You’re in crisis. We should all learn to give and accept support in a crisis.”

“I’m plenty supportive.” Emma popped the gum into her mouth and started to chomp with enough force to break a molar. “But it doesn’t do any good for her to wallow in self-­pity.”

“I need to be proactive,” I agreed. “So tell me what to do, Em.”

“Well, you can’t resign. If you give up your salary, you’ll lose your house for sure. After that last ice storm in January, Blackbird Farm looks more dilapidated than ever.”

“Some of the gutters were damaged. I have to save up for the repairs.”

“Go into business for yourself,” Libby said. “Like me.”

We turned to her, surprised to hear her news. I said, “You’re in business?”

Emma snorted. “Are you selling sex toys again?”

“For your information,” Libby said to me, “I am representing my children now. Specifically, the twins.”

In recent years, Libby’s teenage twin sons had developed unspeakable hobbies—­I had the enormous jars of dead snakes and rodents in my cellar to prove it—­and last I heard, they were lobbying to take a summer science course that required the purchase of a human cadaver. They had spent the winter eagerly shoveling sidewalks to earn enough money to buy one. They still spoke in their secret language of twins, and their conversations often sounded like a couple of bloodthirsty assassins planning mayhem in code.

So I assumed the worst and said, “You mean you’re representing them in court? Shouldn’t you hire a real lawyer, Libby?”

“They’re not in trouble, silly. They’ve expressed an interest in the entertainment industry. And you know I leap at indulging their creative process.”

“What kind of entertainment?” Emma asked. “Jumping motorcycles across canyons? Shooting apples off each other’s heads? I presume whatever it is, there are deadly weapons involved?”

“I’ll have you know,” Libby said severely, “that all my children have excellent karma of the soul. Their creativity responds to positive stimulation, that’s all, not mean-­spirited influences.”

I intervened before Emma could throw a wad of chewing gum. “What kind of entertaining do the twins want to do?”

“I think they should start with modeling. Then acting, of course. But I want to keep them open to musical ventures, too. That Justin Bieber is so adorable. I could just eat him with a spoon.”

Muttering a rude word, Emma sank down in her seat.

“The twins might especially thrive in the rock-­and-­roll scene,” Libby said. “Most famous music stars can’t carry a tune in a bucket, you know. There are machines that tweak your voice now. And instruments practically play themselves. Anybody can be a star. It just takes relentless representation to get ahead in the business. That’s where I come in. What better, more determined business partner can a child have than a loving parent? And nobody can outshine me when it comes to determination.”

Emma and I exchanged a look while Libby continued to rhapsodize.

“I was back doing some restoration work for the museums, but painting isn’t very satisfying for me anymore. I’m too spontaneous to spend hours in a hermetically sealed laboratory. I need energy pulsing around me! If my own life has reached the period when things have slowed down a bit—­well, it’s a mother’s job to turn her attention to making her children’s lives as fulfilling as possible, right? Why work myself into a tizzy of disappointment and frustration when I can usefully turn my energies to something positive?”

I said, “Things fell through on your date last week?”

She heaved a wavering sigh. “We had a nice dinner, and I invited him back to my house for cappuccino, but when we got there, I had a zillion carpenter ants swarming all over my living room. Nothing like a huge black swarm of hideous bugs to suck the magic out of a romantic evening. It was horrible. A nightmare. But,” she said, perking up, “I remembered that I have better things on my horizon. A few weeks ago, I went to a free seminar at the Holiday Inn. I didn’t figure out I was in the wrong room until I was thoroughly entranced by the workshop. It was a tutorial for mothers of talented offspring. Immediately, I was inspired! Why should somebody else’s pimply kid get all the attention when mine are perfectly capable?”

“Capable of what?” Emma asked under her breath. “Homicide?”

“The twins have oodles of potential,” Libby said to me. “We just have to tease out the most marketable skills. Porter says every TV producer in the world is on the lookout for twins these days. Twins are very hot in sitcoms.”

“Porter?” I asked cautiously.

“Sitcoms,” Emma repeated. “Don’t you think they’re better suited to the horror genre?”

Steadily ignoring Emma, Libby said, “I’ve turned an important corner, Nora. By facilitating my children’s reaching for the stars, I’ll attain my own fulfillment, see? If the twins make it to Hollywood, I will have done my best as a mother, and that’s reward enough in life.”

“Who’s Porter?”

“The young man who runs the seminars. He’s accepted the twins into his exclusive program.”

“He’s some kind of a talent scout?”

“Well, first he scouts, then he nurtures. He represented that little girl who played a baby vampire on a cable show, and then she was hired for that movie with Meryl Streep. He’s very successful. Of course, he’s far too young for me,” she added in a rush.

“Libby,” I said, putting my arm around her plump shoulders, “there are plenty of nice men in the world, and someday you’re going to meet the right one. A man who’s put off by a few insects isn’t worth your—”

“It wasn’t just a few bugs,” she said, her voice catching on a sniffle. Her eyes pooled with tremulous tears. “It was about two million. That’s what Perry the bug man said this morning when he made an emergency trip to my house. Fortunately, he d-­didn’t charge me the weekend rate, which is d-­double the astronomical fee I actually paid. He says I’m such a good repeat customer that I d-­deserve a d-­discount.”

I handed her my handkerchief in the nick of time. Libby burst into tears and sobbed her heart out. Nobody wept like Libby—­gushing tears, heaving bosom and howling sobs that turned heads up onstage.

The man with the clipboard came to the apron and raised one hand to his forehead to squint out into the dark theater. “Ladies? You’re not supposed to be here.”

Emma called back, “We came to see our nephews.”

“This is a closed audition. And anyway, we don’t start for an hour. You have to leave.”

Libby emerged from my handkerchief looking as radiant as a saint fresh out of Lourdes. “An hour?” She checked her watch. “That gives me enough time for a manicure. I think I saw a nail salon on the corner.”

When we were out in the lobby again, Libby handed over my sodden handkerchief. “A manicure or maybe an herbal body wrap. I want to look my best for the high school graduation in a few weeks. There’s a chance Rawlins will be honored with an award or two, and since I may be asked to pose for posterity with him, I want to look wonderful. I’ve been dieting, too, but it doesn’t seem to be working.”

I asked, “Libby, what happened to your theory that dieting is a weapon of oppression against women?”

“Theories come and go, but photographs are forever,” she replied.

She went off to her body wrap, and Emma and I went out to her truck. While she drove me to the event I had to attend, I checked my phone messages.

“Well?” Emma asked. “Is your boss putting on more pressure?”

“Yes.” I tucked my phone back into my bag without responding to the demanding texts. “He wants everything done yesterday.”

“Fake it till you make it, Nora.”

“I’m trying,” I said. “But maybe I should research some night classes. I don’t want to fail. I want to do a great job. I want to knock my editor’s socks off.”

“Be careful what you wish for,” Emma said. “First it’s his socks; then it’s his pants.”

I turned to look at my sister. Behind the wheel of her truck, she looked as composed as ever. Good humored, even. And sober, which was the important thing. I hoped she hadn’t started drinking again.

But her good humor was deceiving. Just two months earlier, on Christmas Day, Emma had given birth to an eight-­pound baby boy who was immediately whisked off by his new parents—­Emma’s married lover and his new wife. The newlyweds were enjoying their infant son, we heard, while Emma tried hard to pretend she had no memory of delivering a love child. Her body showed no signs of having experienced childbirth except—­if it were ­possible—­even more perk to her already faultless breasts. The condition of her mind, though, might be another story.

Having suffered two still-­painful miscarriages myself, I had some unexplored feelings on the subject, too, but I said, “Have you had your postpartum checkup?”

“Don’t start,” she warned.

“I just want to be sure you’re taking care of yourself.”

“I’m fine,” Emma snapped. “And as far as I know, the baby’s fine, too. We’re both fine, peachy keen, in the pink, perfectly healthy. You can lay off the sisterly concern. I’m back to normal.”

“Of course you’re fine,” I said. “Libby popped out all five of her babies like Life Savers. But the estrogen aftermath was another story. If your hormones are anything like hers, any second you could be making an emergency landing at the Crazytown airport.”

“I’m fine,” Emma insisted. “I’m strength training at a gym. And I’m back to work.”

“Oh, really? At Paddy’s barn? Does he have some promising jumpers this spring?”

“He’s not using me full-­time, so I picked up some hours as an exercise rider to take up the slack. And to build some muscle.”

At once I knew she was disappointed not to be on the big Grand Prix jumpers. Emma needed to prove herself all over again, I guessed, before the owners of valuable animals boosted her into their saddles. “You’re working as an exercise rider? You mean racehorses?”

“Just morning breezes on the less valuable livestock. I know a trainer at the track. He’s the one who gave me the job.”

“How do you know him?”

“Around. Look, I’m supposed to get him a Filly Vanilli for his kid. How do I find one of those?”

Aware that she was changing the subject, I relented and asked, “What’s a Filly Vanilli?”

“A toy. Or a music box. A music box that’s in a toy. It’s a horse thingie you hang on the side of a crib, and the horse sings songs in this goofy voice and puts the kid to sleep.”

“Sounds cute.”

“Yeah, except you can’t find them anywhere. They’re, like, impossible to buy.”

“And you need to find one for this trainer who gave you a job?”

“Right. Where can I get one?”

“I have no idea. This trainer. Are you dating him?”

“Hell, no. He’s old and cranky from lack of sleep with this new kid at home.”

“Are you dating anyone right now?”

“If you must know,” she said, exasperated, “I’m seeing Jay, the kid who washes dishes at the Rusty Sabre.”

“Why him?”

“Why not?”

There was something in her tone that made me suspect she was telling more lies than Pinocchio. Since the death of her husband in a car accident, Emma seemed hell-­bent on sleeping with every man who struck her fancy. And her fancy had gotten quite a workout before she landed in a maternity ward. Men who could ride fast, party hard and climb into bed without any fear of commitment were the ones she preferred. Since her pregnancy, though, I hadn’t heard about any new exploits.

I said, “Em—”

“Don’t worry about me, Sis. The biggest problem I have is finding a damn Filly Vanilli.”

But I did worry. On the chance Emma’s hormones were not as stable as she wanted me to believe, however, I decided not to risk further discussion about her personal life.

The three of us—­Libby and Emma and I—­had all survived the loss of our husbands. We had each coped with widowhood differently. I had to trust that Emma was on a path that would get her somewhere good in the end.

The sun glinted on the Delaware River to our right as we swooped around the curves and over the hills of the two-­lane road that led north from New Hope. We passed my home, Blackbird Farm, and kept going.

I said, “Why don’t you come for dinner tonight?”

“Can’t. I’ve got a date.” Before I could decide if I should ask why she recently had plenty of excuses not to visit us, Emma switched subjects again. “How’s Mick?”

I barely held back a sigh of dismay at the mention of Michael Abruzzo, tickler of my fancy, man of my dreams, the love of my life, who had dodged his prison sentence for racketeering when facility overcrowding had gotten him reassigned to house arrest. For the last few months, he had been trapped at home with an electronic monitor. Which I was happy about. Really.

“He’s frustrated,” I replied. “Most of the time, he paces like a caged animal.”

Emma glanced my way. “How bad is it?”

“The conditions of his parole are that he can’t really run his business the way he wants to. He can’t deal with things in person. So he’s on the phone. A lot.”

“He’s more the hands-­on type than the phone-­it-­in type.”

“Yes,” I said. “He’s definitely hands-­on.”

She heard my change of tone and laughed. “Oh, I get it. His hands are on you, huh? He jumps you every chance he gets? Plenty of funny business going on in your bedroom?”

“Not just the bedroom. We’ve always had a very satisfying—­well, lately it’s been rather more than I can . . .”

“Don’t sugarcoat for my benefit.” Emma was amused. “He’s bored, so he wants a lot of nooky? Anytime, day or night? And you’re—­what? Exhausted? Or out of creative ideas?”

“He’s always had big appetites,” I admitted. “Sometimes I have a little trouble . . . keeping up.”

“Take your vitamins, Sis.” Emma was laughing at me again. “How’s the baby-­making going?”

“No results yet.” I tried to keep my tone upbeat.

She glanced my way. “Time to see a specialist?”

“Not yet.” The subject was a touchy one, and for fear I’d bust into blubbers, I said, “I’ll tell Michael you said hello.”

“Don’t bother,” she replied, pulling to the gates of Starr’s Landing.

An impressive pair of ornamental brick pillars was flanked by white split rail fences on either side and centered with a set of elaborate gates whose wrought-­iron curlicues formed the letter S entwined in the middle. The owners of a Transylvania castle could barricade themselves against peasants attacking with pitchforks and blazing firebrands with less of a barrier.

I dug out my invitation and gave Emma the access code. When the security gate opened, Emma pulled through. Her old truck didn’t quite match the expensive automobiles parked along the curved lane, but Emma didn’t notice.

She whistled as she got her first look at the state-­of-­the-­art farm. “Hey, this place looks like Disneyland.”

“I’ve seen every pristine acre, even behind the scenes,” I said. “The owners showed me the hydroponic tanks and the perfect baby chicks. The whole farm is everything you’d expect from a fashion designer who gets the urge to go back to the land. It’s a work of art.”

Today I had been invited back to Starr’s Landing for the great unveiling. Swain Starr eventually wanted the world to see what he had accomplished, but first he had invited a few important friends and the eager press. Swain had promised he’d donate to a local farmers’ co-­op if other guests pledged, too. It was a nice gesture, but not exactly world-­class philanthropy. His primary reason for throwing the party was to show off. I had to find a way to make it seem otherwise in the newspaper.

“Want to join the party?” I asked my sister.

“For champagne punch and petits fours?” Emma extended her pinky finger and waggled it contemptuously. “You know that’s not my kind of scene.”

No, it certainly wasn’t. Beer and pizza were more her style. So I waved good-­bye to Emma and walked into the party.

Our diminutive host greeted his guests in front of the barn, looking like an absurdly handsome miniature cowboy in perfectly faded jeans and a tailored chambray shirt. By his bronzed face, his signature gray hair, his crinkly blue eyes, anyone who had opened a fashion magazine in several decades would have instantly recognized him and known he was a billionaire fashion baron, not a humble Pennsylvania farmer. In person, though, Swain Starr stood about half as tall as people imagined. Even wearing his red cowboy boots with heels, he barely came up to my chin. He was less hardy than people imagined from his photos, too. He had the tentative walk of a more elderly man not quite