I gave her a grateful squeeze and excused myself from John. With a smile that was more relieved than festive, I slipped through the crowd until I reached the swinging door to Lexie's kitchen.
There, the catering staff was quietly preparing more can-
� apes, washing up glassware, and efficiently keeping bottles opened and trays filled. I recognized my childhood friend Jill Mascione, as she whipped a tray of caviar blintzes out of the oven. I had met her long ago at the parties my parents threw and her parents catered. We had played mar- bles under the bunted tables while the adults drank cham- pagne above us. Now she ran her family's business, and I saw her often at social events.
Jill caught my eye and grinned, too busy to do more. Then she shot a pointed glance across the room, and I followed her gaze.
The door to Lexie's small wine cellar stood open. It was more of a closet than a cellar, of course--just a few square feet of floor space with a small table surrounded by racks of wine bottles. A shaft of kitchen light knifed into the room, illuminating the figure inside.
A man with hulking shoulders ate from a bowl of pasta, both elbows on the table, half in shadow. The kitchen staff respected his presence by tiptoeing about their chores and sending uneasy glances in his direction. He frowned at Lex- ie's wine labels as he twirled his fork, the rough planes of his face set in the glower of a man with a mean hangover.
I went to the door and leaned in. ``I see you're out of jail.''
He looked up at me and the hangover expression disap- peared. He smiled. His eyes were the same intense blue as an acetylene torch, but reflected more heat. ``Hey.''
``You're making everybody nervous.''
``I haven't even threatened to break any kneecaps yet.''
``I guess you just look like a man who could hurt a few people before dessert.''
``There's dessert?'' SLAY BELLES 29
I kissed his mouth. ``What are you doing here?''
Michael ``the Mick'' Abruzzo, son of the infamous New Jersey mob boss ``Big Frankie'' Abruzzo, had given up his life of crime for love. So he claimed. Tonight he looked like an unreformed wise guy in faded jeans and a black sweater loose enough to conceal a weapon. He'd slung his leather jacket over the chair back. His blunt, Roman nose had been daunting even before it was broken, and the dent in his chin was courtesy of a long-ago prison-yard brawl. These days I failed to see what was so frightening about his face, but I was in the minority.
He said, ``We left things up in the air the other night.''
``So you tracked me down for a rematch?''
Mischief danced in his gaze. ``I'm game. Hungry?''
``No, thanks.'' The idea of food made my stomach give a little roll. ``How did you score dinner for yourself? The rest of the guests are only getting hors d'oeuvres.''
``I dunno. Maybe the cook thought I'd stay out of trouble if my stomach was full.'' He looked down at his bowl. ``She made this just for me. It's good stuff. White truffles. Sure you don't want a taste?''
I touched an unruly curl of his dark hair. ``I'm sure.''
In a different tone, he said, ``Want to go home?''
``Yes, please.''
He got up, a tall, powerful body that radiated comfort and something much more magnetic. Touching the point of my chin, he said, ``Let's blow this joint.''
``Why don't you come inside and meet some of Lexie's guests first?''
``No,'' he said.
I slanted a glance up at him. ``Are you afraid to meet my friends?''
``Nope.''
``Because they're dying to meet you.''
``I'm not going to scare the shit out of your aristocratic pals just for the entertainment value. Anyway, you need to get home, I think.''
I carried his plate and silverware to the sink and spoke briefly to my friend Jill. Waiting by the back door, Michael drained the glass of red wine he'd been sipping and left it on the counter. We went out the door into the cold air. The harsh, damp smell of the river washed up to us as we 30 Nancy Martin walked around the side of the boathouse and past the long line of vehicles Lexie's guests had parked in her driveway. There were German cars and Rovers, plus a Hummer and a Jag or two.
Under a no-parking sign, Michael had angled one of his many muscle cars. This battered one looked ready for an Ozark stock-car track, with a low nose and a spoiler on the back. He saw me into the passenger seat before going around and getting in behind the wheel. Then he started the engine and thumbed the heater full blast before turning sideways toward me.
He said, ``You going to tell me what happened now?''
``Is it that obvious?''
``You look plenty shaken up. Who's dead?'' Chapter 4
Later, at Blackbird Farm, after I'd told him everything and spent a couple of tumultuous hours reaffirming life, I once again heard Michael's unique perspective on crime.
With one shoulder propped against the headboard, he said, ``It's the assistant.''
``You think Darwin killed Popo?'' I filed my broken fin- gernails with an emery board while deciding if we were tired enough to sleep or had just reenergized ourselves for a long night. ``Why?''
``The twerp assistant has the best motive. He wanted her job. And he's probably got access to the security system.''
``But he didn't have enough time. He locked me in the bathroom, and then--Wait, that's why you want to see him arrested, right? Because he locked me
