Murder with a Twist (2 page)

four

That evening, the three
of us (Nigel having declared that Skippy was now a member of the family) braved the cold and walked to Nigel’s Aunt Olive’s for dinner. When we were first married, Nigel argued that I shouldn’t refer to her as
his
aunt, insisting that she was as much my aunt now as his. However, I insisted just as vehemently that “for better and for worse, and in sickness and in health” did not include his Aunt Olive.

Walking wasn’t our preferred method of travel, but New York cabbies, while generally tolerant souls, apparently draw the line at transporting animals resembling small ponies. Undeterred, Skippy led us with a purposeful stride for the first four blocks until Nigel was forced to concede that perhaps Skippy’s calling in life was something other than a Seeing Eye dog. We dutifully backtracked our steps and set out on the correct route.

Nigel’s Aunt Olive lives in the Ritz Tower with her husband, Max Beasley. Most consider Max to be the perfect counterpart for Olive as he is a large, jovial man, and she is not. The Martini family initially resisted their relationship, as Max was an attorney with the firm that handled the family’s financial affairs. However, in the end, their love overcame all obstacles. Well, their love and a healthy desire by Olive to finally rid herself of her maiden name.

At the Ritz, the uniformed doorman waved us through the entrance with a respectful flourish, his professional countenance slipping only momentarily at the sight of Skippy. Inside, Nigel and I chatted politely with Frances, the residential concierge, who also pretended that two-hundred-pound monstrosities eagerly trying to climb atop her wooden desk were an everyday occurrence. I tried to imagine an instance in which similar leeway would be given to members of the less fortunate class. Then I tried to imagine Santa Claus.

After polite conversation was duly exchanged on both sides, Frances buzzed us into the elevators. The gilded doors slid quietly together, slowly compressing a vision of her gamely waving a polite goodbye to us.

“So, why are we having dinner with your aunt and uncle again?” I asked, as I simultaneously punched the button for the thirty-fourth floor and tried to block Skippy from punching additional floor buttons with his nose. I failed on the latter. Skippy: 8; Me: 0.

“For the good company, of course.”

“Is that a new catering service?”

“No.”

“Then try again.”

The elevator eased to a stop at the first of Skippy’s requested floors (eleven through seventeen). At floor sixteen, Skippy barked happily, startling a bony, anemic woman who promptly yelped and skittered away.

“Don’t you find my family endearing?” Nigel asked. “I’m beginning to think that you married me just for my assets.”

“I find
you
endearing,” I offered. “But you can’t expect your assets
not
to play a role in our relationship.” I playfully swatted his rear. “Especially when you wear those pants.”

“Now I feel faintly dirty.”

“You’re welcome.”

We alighted at the thirty-fourth floor and made our way down the thickly carpeted hallway to Aunt Olive’s door. “Whenever your Aunt Olive calls us to her house, I always feel as if I’ve been summoned to my execution,” I said.

Nigel scoffed. “Don’t be silly. If she really wanted you dead, she’d hire a hit man. Much neater that way.”

“Thank you, dear. That’s most reassuring.”

We were at their door. Nigel leaned over and kissed me lightly on my mouth. “Don’t worry, darling. You’re perfectly safe. Besides, I’m pretty sure if she’s going to kill anyone, it’s going to be Leo.”

Nigel gave the door a sharp knock. Within seconds a large, fleshy-faced man wearing an ill-fitting black suit opened it.

Upon seeing me, his expression morphed from one of professional coolness to that of mild distress. It was an expression I’d grown accustomed to seeing on the various faces of the snobbier members of Nigel’s family in the years since we’d married. However, the reason I was seeing it now had nothing to do with my family’s undistinguished pedigree.

“Dear God,” I said. “Joe? Joe Abrams? When did you get out of prison?”

Joe shifted his massive weight uncomfortably, his small eyes darting over his shoulder to where I assumed his new employers sat in happy oblivion regarding their new butler’s sordid past.

“I got out for good behavior six months ago,” Joe said, his voice low. “I’m rehabilitated now. The court said so.”

“Well, that’s good enough for me,” said Nigel, putting out his hand. “I’m Nigel, by the way. Nic’s husband.” The two shook hands. “And this is Skippy,” Nigel said proudly. Skippy wagged his tail and sniffed Joe’s knees.

Joe awkwardly patted Skippy’s head. “Nice, Skippy,” he finally said.

“So, what were you in for?” Nigel asked in a conspiratorial tone.

“Trafficking stolen property,” Joe mumbled after another backward glance.

“Among other lofty pursuits, Joe stole and sold flat-screen TVs,” I explained.

Nigel adopted an impressed expression. “And my brilliant wife tracked you down and caught you?”

“It wasn’t too hard,” I demurred. “Joe’s get-a-way vehicle that day was—unfortunately for him—a bicycle.”

Joe’s face darkened. “Goddamn brother-in-law stole my car. Can
you believe that?”

Nigel nodded sympathetically. “As the Bard said, it’s a shame when there is no honor among thieves.”

Joe eyed Nigel suspiciously. “I don’t know who this Bard is, but it sure sounds like he knows my brother-in-law.”

A tight, nasal-sounding voice came from the other room. “Joseph? Who is at the door?”

“It’s Nic and Nigel, Aunt Olive,” Nigel called out. “And we have a little surprise for you. We’ve got an addition to the family now!”

Joe took our coats and then left, muttering something about “seeing if there were any carrots for our horse.” Nigel led Skippy down a hallway into a large, expensively furnished room. It boasted a lofty, panoramic view of New York’s skyline, which allowed Olive to survey the city without actually having to hear it or smell it. In deference to the season, a perfectly shaped Christmas tree stood to the right of the windows, its branches covered with delicate silver ornaments from Tiffany’s. Several festive and professionally wrapped presents were artfully strewn on the floor underneath.

I rounded the corner just in time to see Olive’s pinched face bunched in an expression of horror. Olive’s feelings about me were no secret. Mostly she regarded me as she would a sour cherry in her nightly Manhattan. She still harbored hope that Nigel would come to his senses and leave me for a woman of “class.” A baby would definitely throw a wrench into that hope. While Nigel and I had no immediate plans to start a family, seeing Olive’s reaction made me suddenly long for the day when we would. Until then, Skippy would have to do.

“Hello, Aunt Olive!” said Nigel. “This is Skippy. Isn’t he magnificent?”

Olive was perched in her favorite spot, an oversized wingback chair. The gold and cream toile upholstery depicted various scenes of impoverished peasants either killing fowl or aimlessly wandering about the French countryside. When set against this backdrop, I thought that Olive’s petite frame, perfectly coiffed blonde hair, and immobile forehead all conveyed a sense of displeased royalty. Nigel disagreed. He thought it suggested irregularity.

At the sight of Skippy eagerly advancing on her, Olive jumped up and darted behind the chair. Skippy climbed onto the now-vacant seat, leaned his head over the back, and proceeded to lick Olive’s face with unprecedented enthusiasm. Olive responded with a muted whimper. Skippy: 1; Olive: 0.

“I believe he likes you, Aunt Olive,” said Nigel. Skippy barked in apparent agreement.

“Wherever did you find him?” Olive asked, her voice small.

“At the rescue shelter,” answered Nigel. “Can you believe it? Just because he has no control over his bladder and a
teensy
case of rabies, his owners were going to put him down. Granted, there was that rather unfortunate incident at the Children’s Aquarium, but if you ask me, the seahorses are overrated anyway.”

Olive squared her narrow shoulders and fixed Nigel with a tolerant smile. “I have known you far too long to believe that anything you say is serious, Nigel. Now please get that dog off my chair.”

Nigel obliged, pulling Skippy down from the chair. “Skippy, go read your book, and let us adults talk a bit.” Skippy obligingly redistributed himself on the couch. “Good boy,” Nigel said.

Olive gave up on Nigel and turned her attention to me. “Hello, Nicole,” she said. “How nice to see you again.” Olive called everyone by his or her given name, regardless of personal preference. She considers monikers to be common and therefore refuses to use them. The only exception to this rule was her husband; she called him “Max.” For Olive, this was tantamount to a daily proclamation of love.

Olive regarded me with a critical eye. “You’ve let your hair grow, I see. It looks much better shoulder-length. The other cut was too masculine. Besides, red hair never looks good when worn short.”

“Yes, I believe you mentioned that. How are you? You look well,” I lied, thinking that she was far too thin.

“I am
not
well, thank you. Who could be well during this atrocious time? I gather Daphne brought you up-to-date about this terrible business with Audrey?”

“Yes, she mentioned something about it. I take it Audrey’s husband Leo is MIA?”

Olive’s thin nose wrinkled, either in distaste at the mention of Leo or my use of what she referred to as “vulgar police jargon.”

“Yes,” she said. “He’s nowhere to be found, and Audrey is desperate. She says she won’t go to her party—which has been planned for months—unless he is with her.”

“Seems rather dramatic,” I said.

Olive paused, appearing to fight her natural instinct to reprimand me for speaking ill of the family. With some effort, she slowly nodded her head in agreement. “Yes. I would tend to agree with you on that. She is very emotional right now and not thinking clearly.”

I raised my eyebrow at Nigel. Olive never agreed with my opinion in matters of the Martini family. Nigel raised his eyebrow right back. “Are you feeling all right, Aunt Olive?” he asked. “Why don’t you sit down? Skippy won’t bother you anymore.” Glancing at Skippy’s recumbent form, he added, “
Probably
.”

With a wary glance at Skippy, Olive slid back into her chair. “Where’s Max?” Nigel asked.

“In his study. He had to take a phone call. Again. There’s some sort of crisis at work. I don’t know what, but he’s been on the phone practically all day with those people at Meyers. They are a nightmare of a client, but we can’t afford to lose them.” Olive rubbed her hand across her forehead. “I need a drink,” she added, before calling, “Joseph!”

Joe appeared immediately, leading me to suspect that, afraid I’d reveal his shady past, he’d been listening from the hallway. “Yes, Ma’am?” he asked with unnatural meekness.

“Please bring out the drinks cart,” said Olive. “And let Mr. Beasley know that our guests are here.”

Joe responded in a maneuver that appeared to be half bow, half neck spasm before disappearing into the kitchen. “When did you hire Joe?” Nigel asked with the bland intonation of one merely making polite conversation.

“Joseph,” Olive corrected. “A few months back. Janet Harris referred him to me.”

Nigel’s brows pulled together as he tried to place the name. “Is this the Janet Harris that you had that blow out with over the chairmanship of the Hurricane Relief charity ball?”

Olive bristled. “I wouldn’t call it a blow out,” she said. “It was a minor disagreement.”

“I don’t know if calling someone an addled, monkey-faced nitwit can be categorized as a disagreement. Especially when those remarks are read into the committee minutes.”

Olive shrugged. “That’s all forgotten now.”

“I’m sure it is,” Nigel agreed with a faint smile.

Olive placed a slender finger against her right temple and gently rubbed. “Oh, why couldn’t Audrey have married Tobias?” she asked. “Everything would have turned out so much differently.”

Tobias “Toby” Addler was a friend of Audrey’s from college. He was a bright, ambitious, and generally affable young man. He was also short, balding, and had the beginnings of a potbelly. Olive had long harbored a hope that the two would marry, but then Leo came along and her plans were ruined. It was unclear if she was more upset at the failure of her carefully laid plans or that Audrey had married a bounder. Audrey’s hypocrisy at marrying a boy toy while crying that he married her for her wealth seemed lost on Olive.

Olive let out a heavy sigh. Turning to me, she said, “I understand that Daphne spoke with you this afternoon. I only have one question. What do you plan to do to find Leopold?”

five

It took me a
second to realize that she was referring to Leo. I shoved Skippy over a few inches, which was no easy task, and sat down next to him on the couch. “I don’t know. How long has he been gone?”

“Three days,” answered Olive.

“Have you called the police?”

“No,” Olive answered with a frown. “This is not a matter for the police. Leopold is off somewhere with some trollop. He’s done it before, and I’m sure he’ll keep on doing it. However, his sense of timing is appalling, which is why we’ve asked you here for dinner tonight.”

“Actually,” said a male voice from the doorway, “we asked you here because we’ve missed you.”

I looked over to see Max, a drink in his hand and a sympathetic smile on his lips. Having come to this family from humble beginnings like myself, Max was a kindred spirit. Tall and solidly built, he had short brown hair that was steadily receding, a ruddy complexion, and wire-rimmed glasses that housed nearsighted, pale blue eyes. He was wearing a rumpled blue pinstripe suit, leading me to believe that he’d only recently returned home from his office. The lines around his eyes had deepened since I’d last seen him. I couldn’t tell if it was due to age or exhaustion.

“Hello, Max,” I said, standing up. “How are you?”

“Better now,” Max said as he gave me a hug. “You are a sight for sore eyes, my dear. But then, you always are.” He turned to Nigel and shook his hand. “Good to see you, too, Nigel.” Then he noticed Skippy. “Forgive me,” he said conversationally, “but what the hell is that on the couch?”

“That’s Skippy,” I said. “Nigel got him today. Apparently, the man at the pet shop said I wouldn’t like the piranhas.”

Max nodded, still staring at Skippy. “I can believe that.”

“Besides, they wouldn’t stay on the leash,” Nigel said. “Actually, they
ate
the leash.”

“Well, God gives us signs, you know,” Max agreed affably.

“Oh, for God’s sake, Max,” snapped Olive. “We are not here to discuss their dog. We are here to discuss what we are going to do about Leopold!”

Max turned to her. “I’ve already told you what I think we should do
about Leo. And that’s nothing. Let’s hope he stays away for good this time. However, one option might be to feed him to those piranhas Nigel found. That would seem to be a win/win solution to me.”

“Be serious, Max,” Olive implored. “You know that Audrey won’t
go to the party unless Leopold is with her. And to go ahead with the gala without the guest of honor would be unthinkable. It would be a disaster! Do you realize how many people—
important people
—are coming? We simply can’t cancel at this late date. It would be lunacy.”

“No,” countered Max, after draining his glass. “Lunacy is throwing a huge birthday party the week of Christmas. Lunacy is trying to bring Leo back into Audrey’s life.” He looked down at his now- empty glass. “Lunacy is having this conversation without a drink. Where’s Joe?”

“
Joseph
is getting the drinks cart now,” replied Olive.

Max raised his eyes to mine. “I see. And what did
you
make of our new hire, Nic?” he asked, a glimmer of suppressed laughter in his blue eyes.

I was saved from an answer by the sound of the front door opening and then, just as quickly, slamming shut. Moments later Daphne strode confidently into the room. She yanked her fur-trimmed hat off her head and threw it onto an empty chair before giving her father a peck on his cheek. “Hello, everyone,” she said briskly to the rest of us.

Trailing in her wake was another woman, this one much less assured. It was Audrey. Pale and delicately boned with fine, almost white blonde hair cut into a pixie, she stared uncertainly at us with mournful brown eyes that appeared red and swollen from recent crying. Unlike her cousin, she stood silently, almost uncertainly at the room’s edge. Catching sight of Skippy, she produced a timid smile and moved toward him, her hand extended. Skippy thumped his tail and presented his mammoth head to be petted.

In a family that was equal parts confidence, charisma, and bullheadedness, Audrey was the odd duck. She had inherited none of her mother’s breezy charm or her father’s steely determination. She was shy and easily swayed. Her only real passion, before Leo that is, was animals. She might struggle to interact with people, but put her in a room with a cat or dog and she suddenly lights up. Most of her time and effort went into her charity organization that worked to find homes for abused and abandoned animals. It was there that traces of her father’s famed hardnosed business attitude could be detected. But then along came Leo and all that changed. Not only did she spend less time working for the charity but she had to get rid of her own cats as Leo was allergic.

Behind her was a third addition to the group: Toby Addler. Although only a year older than Audrey, he seemed at least ten. Granted, he was a little balder and heavier than when I’d last seen him—traits that rarely suggested youthfulness—but it was more than that. Toby was what my mother would call “an old soul.”

Toby quickly said his hellos, politely shaking both Nigel’s and my hand, before stepping back behind Audrey. There, from a respectful distance, he watched her with mournful eyes.

“Hello, Audrey,” I said, as I moved to her. “How are you?”

Audrey squeaked out a faint “fine” just as Nigel enveloped her in an awkward, one-sided hug. “Hey, kiddo. It’s good to see you again,” he said. Audrey murmured something incoherent into his shirt collar.

Shrugging out of her fur-trimmed wool coat and tossing it over her hat, Daphne looked at her mother and then at me. “Well?” she demanded. “Are you going to do it?”

I turned to Nigel. “You know, if I had a nickel for every time I’ve been asked that today
…
” I began.

“You’d have three nickels,” Nigel said.

“Doesn’t seem so impressive when you put it that way,” I conceded.

“It’s this new math. It’s worthless. However, I think the more important question is one that Audrey needs to answer,” said Nigel, looking down her. “Do you really want Leo found? You may discover that life is better without him.”

Audrey’s eyes immediately welled with tears. “No. It won’t be. Don’t you understand? I love him. I know he has his faults, but then so do I.” Her small voice rose to a chipmunk-like pitch, causing Skippy to cock his head at her in confusion. “I
will
make this marriage work. I have to.” She lowered her head and in a soft whisper added, “He’s all I have. He’s my life.”

Toby, still standing out of Audrey’s sight, reacted as if he’d been slapped.

I sat back down on the couch. Leo was an opportunistic louse, and Audrey was a naïve heiress. Earlier I had considered helping Audrey, but now I saw no reason why I should reunite her with someone who would ultimately drain both her savings account and the remaining tatters of her pride. I knew that Olive regarded members of my former profession to be rough, hardened maladroits whose dealings with the uncivilized factions of society rendered them unfit to mingle with the remaining civilized segments. Or to use my vernacular: dirt bags. Most times, I liked to let her think I was such a heartless misfit. I may have even encouraged it from time to time. This was not one of those times. Returning Leo to Audrey would be like returning a cobra to a mouse. Audrey’s blind devotion to Leo was annoying, but I wasn’t without some sympathy. I opened my mouth to tell her a polite version of this, but instead I heard, “But of course we’ll help you find him. Don’t worry. We’ll take care of it.”

I gaped in mute horror at Nigel, who was now smiling confidently at Audrey. Audrey gave a great sniff and produced a smile; a teary, weepy smile. Nigel threw his arm protectively around her shoulders and winked at me. “Won’t we, dear?”

I didn’t answer. At best, it seemed a rhetorical question. At worst,
it seemed something best left unsaid.

“Good. At least that’s settled,” said Daphne, fluffing out her flaxen
hair. “Now, what’s for dinner?”