Read Online How to Murder a Millionaire by Nancy Martin - Free Book Online Page A

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