Have Your Cake and Kill Him Too by Nancy Martin Page B

endured the crunch of General Washington’s boots.
    The telephone had been ringing when I stepped inside, and the answering machine picked up.
    My sister Libby’s voice echoed in the kitchen. I put my handbag on the counter and unbuttoned my coat while she talked. “I thought you’d be home by now,” she said, sounding wounded. “Have you thought about the calendar? Because I’ve made a preliminary appointment with a new photographer. His name is Jean Claude. Doesn’t that sound artistic? No commitment, just a consultation. I’m told he’s a master at disguising those tiny unsightlies. You’ll enjoy it, I promise! Call me!”
    â€œYou’re out of your mind,” I said to the machine.
    I didn’t notice the puddle in the middle of the floor. I slipped on the stone and barely saved myself from a fall by grabbing the edge of the counter.
    â€œDamn!”
    I’d spent the morning crouched under the kitchen sink with a roll of duct tape. Obviously, my first universal solution had failed me this time. The mysterious Blackbird plumbing was erupting again for no reason.
    I peered under the sink to locate the latest problem. No drips had sprung through the hunk of duct tape, but a fresh leak oozed from a new crack farther down the pipe. I sat back on my heels and sighed.
    Time to phone a plumber.
    But the killer nighttime rate wasn’t in my reach.
    â€œWhat the hell.” I’d take the risk and wait until morning. Meanwhile, a well-placed bucket and an armload of towels would have to hold back the tide. I wedged a plastic bucket under the new leak and distributed the towels around the floor.
    Then I opened a can of alphabet soup and poured it into a saucepan. These days, it was the only food I could tolerate besides Jiffy Pop popcorn. While it heated, I frowned at the limp Christmas cactus that stood on the windowsill.
    A diamond ring hung on one prickly leaf. Catching light from the chandelier, the diamond that Emma called the Rock of Gibraltar sparkled deep inside its facets. I’d put it there New Year’s Eve, minutes after Michael gave it to me before he disappeared for two months. And there it had remained.
    While I tried to decide who the father of my child should be, I let the diamond hang there.
    â€œI should sell it,” I said aloud. “I could pay the plumber, at least.”
    My husband, Todd, had died because he couldn’t give up cocaine, shot by his drug dealer on a night when I couldn’t keep him at home. I had failed to protect him from himself, and he was dead.
    And then Michael came along—equally driven by some inner motivation I did not understand. He loved the challenge of crime, the chesslike planning, the bluff and risk of poker for high stakes. And I could not keep him at home, either—not when he heard the call that drew him out at night.
    I turned back to the stove to stir my soup. I flipped on the answering machine and listened to the rest of my messages.
    â€œSweetie!” shouted my friend Lexie Paine. “Can’t wait for the museum party on Saturday! Hope you made contact with the elusive Delilah. We expect a cast of thousands—well, at least two hundred—and I can’t manage without her!”
    The second message was a mumbling female voice. “Miss Blackbird, this is Joyce from the bank, confirming next Tuesday’s appointment. We’re sending our home inspector to see you at two.”
    To the machine, I said, “How could I forget?”
    The bank appraiser who was scheduled to tour the crumbling house had the power to bless my latest attempt at renegotiating my financial position. Or he could nix everything and ruin me. Just when I needed to be fixing a dozen household problems, new leaks, squeaks and broken doorknobs seemed to pop up in other parts of the house.
    With the bowl of soup on the table at my elbow, I opened my laptop. First I sent an e-mail to my boss at