Murder Melts in Your Mouth (14 page)

We wound our way along the crowded aisles until we arrived at a double display with the Amazon Chocolate Company sign hanging from some faux jungle trees. The company mascot, a stuffed black panther, peered down at us from the fake foliage. On a large screen, a video showed the spectacular scenery of a South American cocoa plantation.

Various Amazon employees stood behind the tables dressed in safari-style khakis and chatting up passersby. Although the company provided the raw ingredients for making chocolate, they were distributing small squares of designer chocolate wrapped in foil and stamped with the panther image.

Nowhere among the Amazon people did I see Tierney Cavendish.

“I figured Tierney would be here.” Crewe sounded disappointed. “It's his big night. The first public appearance of his company.”

On the video screen, handsome Tierney appeared, chatting with local farmers. He frowned and nodded with sympathy while one child pointed at bulldozers flattening a swath of trees.

“Tierney's got a great idea,” Crewe said in my ear. “Most of the world's chocolate comes from West Africa, where children and slave labor are often used to harvest the cocoa beans. But Tierney's working near the Amazon River where the cocoa is grown under the jungle canopy by indigenous farmers who don't want to grow drug crops. He's saving the jungle, fighting the war on drugs and making a profit for everyone all at the same time.”

“He really looks like a hero.”

The video screen changed to footage of sacks of cocoa beans clearly marked with the panther illustration. Smiling workers loaded them onto cargo ships.

“But he needs capital to get the company stabilized,” Crewe said. “I talked to one of the business-page reporters today. Tierney's looking for investors to keep Amazon Chocolate going until the next season's crop is produced.”

I remembered the scene in the restaurant where it appeared local bankers hadn't liked Tierney's business proposition.

“But his father's death gives Tierney a reason to stay away tonight. Surely nobody truly expects him to appear.”

“Or,” Crewe said, lowering his voice, “is he guilty of killing his father? Why didn't Hoyt finance Tierney's company? Especially if he was stealing millions from Elena and probably other clients, too?”

Keeping an eye out for Tierney Cavendish, we made a quick circle of the Chocolate Festival. Crewe made cursory notes for his piece on artisan chocolates. He was recognized by a few vendors, who pressed samples on him. By the time we were ready to leave, I was half-nauseated from all the chocolate I'd nibbled—either that, or the confusion of my thoughts concerning Hoyt's death.

As we were descending the escalator, my phone rang again, and Michael said, “I'm outside. Look for Lexie's car.”

Crewe and I hurried out into the warm evening air, and we saw Michael standing at the corner alongside Lexie's black BMW. Dusk had arrived, and the streetlight over his shoulder came on just at that moment. Michael wore a dark business suit with a white shirt underneath—his go-to-court clothes.

He caught sight of us, and I saw a flash of concern cross his face when he realized I was with Crewe. He walked toward us and met us halfway down the block.

I said, “What's going on?”

“It's Lexie,” he said shortly, without greeting. “She asked me to pick up her car and head over to the Roundhouse to take her home.”

Without a word, Crewe started toward the BMW.

Michael caught Crewe's arm and stopped him. “Wait. She's—not in great shape.”

“Is she hurt?”

“No, no, nothing like that. She's on the edge, though. And she wants to go home, but reporters have staked out her house, so I can't take her there.”

No, Lexie Paine seen in the company of Big Frankie Abruzzo's son would not be good publicity.

“That's not a problem,” Crewe said. “I'll take her to my place.”

“Sorry, Crewe,” Michael said, “but she doesn't want to see you right now. Or anybody else, really. But I don't think she ought to be alone. So, Nora—”

“I'll go with her,” I said.

“She's not going to be happy about it,” Michael warned.

“That's okay.” I took a deep breath. “Thank you, Michael.”

He shrugged, taking no credit for doing a good deed. “What about the kids? You want me to go to the farm?”

At the farm, he'd have to meet my parents again.

I smiled grimly. “No, the kids are safe enough. I'll call Rawlins just to be sure, but they seem fine.”

“If you decide they need somebody to go out there, call me. Meanwhile, I'll see if I can't get rid of the reporters long enough for you and Lexie to make a quick entrance.”

“Can you do that?”

“I can try.”

Heaven only knew what ruse he had up his sleeve. Michael had orchestrated more than a few distractions in his lifetime. But he said, “Crewe, what do you say you and me go get a beer?”

Crewe stood on the sidewalk looking shattered. The color had drained from his face, and his hands hung limply at his sides.

I touched his arm. “Give her time, Crewe. This won't last, I promise.”

I gave him a kiss on the cheek. Then, without saying good-bye to Michael, I went down the sidewalk and climbed into the passenger seat of Lexie's car.

Behind the wheel, Lexie snapped, “Are you my new au pair?”

“Consider it payback,” I replied. “Remember the night Todd died? I didn't want anybody with me then, but you insisted. Look, I brought chocolate.”

She glared at the gift bags in my hands and blew a sigh. “Close the door and fasten your seat belt.”

I obeyed. She put the powerful car into gear and we pulled away. I had only a fleeting glimpse of Michael turning Crewe by the shoulder and walking in the opposite direction.

Finally, I noticed that the covering around the steering column of Lexie's car had been broken. “What happened to your car?”

“I didn't feel like hiking across town to pick it up with all the reporters badgering me. So I asked your beau to bring it to me. He has many talents.”

Including how to hot-wire a BMW.

But Michael's proficiency for boosting cars wasn't the only reason Lexie had asked him to come for her. I'd been to the Roundhouse myself a few times, and the grimy police station was no place for a sensitive man like Crewe. Lexie had wanted Michael because he knew the conditions she'd been subjected to. And he wouldn't make a big deal out of her suffering. Crewe, on the other hand, would have been shocked and sympathetic—exactly the kind of empathy Lexie wouldn't want.

Trying to sound nonchalant, I said, “You okay, Lex?”

For two blocks, she didn't answer. But her hands were tight on the steering wheel, and I noticed she paid the strictest attention to the speed limit. She was forcing herself to focus on the job of driving.

At last, she said, “Michael has the most interesting lawyers. They're all smiles and jokes until some invisible switch is thrown, and suddenly they're wolves.”

“Do you trust them?”

“I wouldn't want to be on the other side of the table, that's for sure.”

We passed the museum and headed into the curving avenue that led to Boathouse Row, the stretch of picturesque Victorian houses built along the Schuylkill River and owned by various regional colleges for their rowing teams. Lexie had managed to purchase one of the buildings—by way of payoffs and at least one shady deal, I was certain. Her house stood in the middle of the historic row. On either side of her property, racks of rowing shells threw shadows across her well-tended lawn.

By the time we reached her home, half a dozen cars were roaring away from the curb where they had been waiting. I assumed Michael had pulled off whatever diversion he used to lure the reporters away. He worked fast.

Lexie pressed a button, and the automatic gate opened. She drove between the wrought iron posts, and the gate closed behind us.

She said, “Those damn kids next door have a portable john now. It's like living beside a fraternity house. I should call the police. They're public servants. They ought to be serving me a little, too, don't you think?”

“Do you still have your Ambien prescription?”

She shook her head. “I want to stay mad for a while.”

She drove into the boathouse and closed the garage door behind us, and we got out of the car. Lexie reset the security system, and we went upstairs to her home.

Inside, Lexie's house was a pristine space with simple furniture and a drop-dead art collection that she rotated according to her whim. Lately, she had hung her tall Warhol portrait of Elvis over her fireplace. A vibrant riverscape by a local artist glowed on the opposite wall. The carpet, walls and furniture were white, so the pictures were almost living creatures against the pure backdrop.

She threw her keys into a Waterford crystal bowl and kicked her shoes off onto the thick white rug. The air-conditioning made the house as cold as a Jersey beach in January.

I dropped my things on her dining room table and went into the kitchen to find a bottle of pinot grigio in the fridge. Lexie followed me. While I opened the bottle, she rummaged through the gift bag and free chocolate samples. She found the artisan truffles someone had pressed on Crewe. She opened the box and inhaled their scent.

Then she put the box on the white counter and left the kitchen without a word. I heard her go into her bedroom and close the door.

I puttered. I tidied up her kitchen, put soap into the dishwasher and started the machine. Then I tapped on Lexie's bedroom door. When she didn't answer, I poked my head into the room to check on her. I heard the shower running in her bathroom and figured she was doing as well as anyone could expect.

I closed the door again and went to the living room, where I phoned Blackbird Farm. No answer. Concerned, I called Rawlins on his cell phone.

“Hey, Aunt Nora,” my nephew replied when I identified myself. He sounded just as laid-back as before. “Whassup?”

“Rawlins, I'm held up in town for a while, so I'm calling to check up on you again.”

He laughed. “Will you give it a rest with the mother-hen routine? Mom leaves us alone all the time.”

“Not at my house, she doesn't. Wait, come to think of it, that's exactly what she does. But look, nobody's answering the phone at the farm.”

“They're probably outside saluting the sunset or something.” Rawlins yawned. “I get off work pretty soon. I'll go make sure everything's under control.”

“Thanks. Rawlins, one more thing. If a guy named Chad calls looking for me or for Michael, don't give him the address of the farm, okay? I don't want him showing up there.”

The discovery of Elena's bruises had made me think Chad wasn't as harmless as we'd first thought.

“Whatever you say, Aunt Nora.”

“Okay,” I said. “Thanks for the update. I'll call you later.”

He was laughing. “Anytime.”

“Rawlins? I love you.”

But he had disconnected.

I snapped my phone shut. “I'll never be a parent,” I said.

Although the shower had stopped, Lexie still hadn't come out of her bedroom, so I collected the mail from the front hallway and put it on her desk. I turned on lamps and went outside to listen to the river and to collect my thoughts. Lexie's kayak sat upside down on the deck. Next door, one of the rowing clubs was having a party. I could hear rap music and someone vomiting in the bushes. Not an atmosphere conducive to my quiet reflection.

I went back inside the house and put on a CD of classical music—loud enough only to drown out the rap next door—and I read yesterday's newspaper.

About half an hour later, Lexie came out wearing a demure white nightgown and a light robe thrown around her shoulders. She had showered and washed her hair. But she looked exhausted.

“I'm ready for wine,” she said.

We trooped into the kitchen, and I poured us each a glass. I went looking for some food. As usual, Lexie's refrigerator contained little more than chilled wine, some bottled water and a selection of dried-up condiments. There was a take-out container that might have been sitting in the fridge for a week or six months—I couldn't be sure. A bowl of spoiled pears sat on the countertop.

At last I found peanut butter in the cupboard and a box of cocktail crackers. I opened the package of crackers.

Lexie sat on one of the stools, and as if continuing a bizarre conversation she'd started with herself in the shower, she said, “I love my work. The company was important and successful when my father ran it, but I like to think I've made it something even better. I value the reputation I've built.”

Soothingly, to keep her from bursting into the hysterics that seemed to bubble beneath the surface, I said, “You deserve credit for what the Paine Investment Group is today, Lex.”