Little Black Book of Murder by Nancy Martin Page A

and skidded to a stop. When she saw what lay on the ground beside me, she cursed.
    â€œIt’s Swain,” I said, still unable to get up. “He’s been killed.”
    Emma cursed again, prayerfully this time. “Get out of there. Come on. Let’s go. We could be in danger or—”
    â€œHe’s been dead for hours.”
    Emma steadied herself on the fence, reassured that the killer wasn’t still hanging around. “Did you call 911?”
    â€œNot yet.” I turned to look up at my sister. “I’m afraid to look for Zephyr.”
    Emma met my gaze, and her jaw hardened. “You think she’s dead, too?”
    â€œI’m afraid to look,” I said again. “She must be in the house. She might be alive, though, and need help.”
    Emma yanked her phone from her pocket and tossed it to me. “I’ll go in the house.”
    â€œWait for the police.”
    â€œIf somebody comes after me, they’d better be prepared for a fight.”
    â€œBe careful,” I warned.
    Her face grim, Emma ran up the hillside ­toward the house. I heard her calling Zephyr’s name.
    My hands were trembling so hard, I could barely hit the numbers on Emma’s phone. I spoke to the dispatcher, answered her questions, but I must have hung up on her. I don’t remember how, exactly, but I must have communicated that we needed the police.
    One fact was very clear in my head.
    I put the phone in my pocket and crawled over to Rawlins’s keys.
    I picked them up and slid them into the pocket of my jeans.
    I’m not sure how long it took, but Emma came back. “Nobody’s up there. The house is empty.”
    â€œThe police are on their way. They’ll need help getting through the gate.”
    â€œI’ll go. You okay?”
    I managed to nod.
    â€œWait over here,” Emma suggested.
    But I couldn’t leave the body. It felt wrong to abandon him there. I knew Swain had been dead for some time, but it felt disrespectful to leave him alone. I remembered the night Todd was shot, the hours I spent at his side, knowing he could not survive, yet holding him, willing him to live. His last moments would forever be branded in my mind—­along with the dreadful notion that I had failed him. I stayed for hours after his last breath, unable to tear myself away—­perhaps arguing with myself until I reached a hazy conclusion about his life. It had not been wasted. His research had been important. His parents had loved him. His sister, too.
    So I sat with Swain out of respect for his life.
    But I could not stop myself from wondering about Rawlins. Had Rawlins come back after the party? Surely he had not been here at the moment Swain died.
    Surely not.
    Please, I said to a greater power. Please don’t let Rawlins be mixed up in this.

CHAPTER FIVE

    A t Blackbird Farm, Michael was helping another one of his wiseguys into a car. The man was clutching his hand as if it pained him. Another household repair gone awry?
    Michael came over to the truck.
    â€œWhere have you been?” he said, pulling me out of Emma’s pickup almost before she had it stopped. “There’s something going on up the road. Cops and an ambulance and everything. First I thought—­I was afraid there was another shooting.”
    â€œI tried phoning you. We went to Starr’s Landing. What happened here?”
    â€œThe furnace is out again. We tried your kick-­start thing, but—­never mind.” By that time, Michael had seen the mud all over my jeans and recognized something in my face. His hands turned gentler on my shoulders. “What’s wrong?”
    â€œWe’ve been with the police. Swain Starr has been murdered.” I began to tremble again, and I felt myself losing control. “Stabbed with a pitchfork. He’s dead, and I—­we couldn’t leave without answering a lot of questions. I phoned you from