Little Black Book of Murder Read Online Free PDF

finally agreed to be interviewed, Swain met with me twice this week. He’s been very forthcoming—”
    â€œRelax, luv. I’m not checking up on you. I was invited to this—­what do you call it, a hoedown?—­by Starr himself. Even in Australia we know a fashion designer or two, so how could I refuse? He throws a good bash, doesn’t he? Do you know anything about farms?”
    â€œAs a matter of fact, I grew up on a farm. I still live there. It’s just down the road a few miles.”
    Hardwicke turned and blinked at me. “Well, bugger me. I hardly pictured you spending your off-­hours tending lambs with a crook in your hand.”
    â€œI don’t tend anything. It was a working farm back during the Revolution, and my grandfather raised Hereford cattle—­more as a hobby than anything else. Now that the farm is mine, though, we struggle to keep the grass mowed. But I love it.” Without understanding why I wanted to say it, I added, “I feel rooted there.”
    For two hundred years, Blackbird Farm had stood alongside the Delaware River, not far from where George Washington climbed into a small boat and crossed those icy waters. I had been raised on the property, spent my childhood climbing the trees and looking for pollywogs in the feeder creek. I read Nancy Drew and Wuthering Heights in the loft of the barn. Even when my husband’s drug addiction had been at its worst, I had come to the old place to walk in the woods to clear my head. I still loved it even though these days the farm was looking a little worse for lack of maintenance.
    â€œTo tell the truth,” I went on cautiously, “Swain came calling and offered to buy Blackbird Farm for this project. That’s how I met him in the first place. Maybe I should have taken him up on it.”
    â€œWhy didn’t you?”
    How much does one tell the boss? After a moment, I said, “My family doesn’t have much left these days, unless you count names in history books. Except for Blackbird Farm. So I’d like to hang on to it as long as possible. Maybe someday bring it back to its old glory.” Although that day was looking more and more distant. “So I turned down Swain’s offer. Frankly, he wasn’t as excited to buy the place after he took a closer look. It was more cost effective for him to build new. Looks as if he made the right choice.”
    â€œI hear he built this farm for his wife.”
    â€œSecond wife,” I said. “Zephyr. She was a model.”
    He grinned. “Yes, Zephyr, the supermodel discovered in something you Americans call a . . . hillbilly holler? I have seen her photos. Lovely girl, no offense to present company.”
    â€œNo offense taken. She’s gorgeous. Like the rest of the world, I’m surprised she stopped modeling. She must have years left in her career.”
    â€œTrue love,” Hardwicke said. “It makes people do stupid things. She’s the one who’s the nut for organic farming, I hear. And she made her husband retire to pursue it.”
    â€œI don’t think she had to twist his arm much,” I said.
    â€œYou can lead a horse to water? Well, maybe.” He signaled a passing waiter, who instantly offered him another glass of champagne, which he accepted without a thank-­you. “What have you learned about Zephyr?”
    â€œThe focus of my profile has been her husband.”
    â€œNora, Nora,” Hardwicke chided. “Eye on the ball, please. Readers want to know the dirtiest dirt about Swain, and that means Zephyr. Why did he dump his wife? Did he retire from a billion-­dollar career for Zephyr? What’s her magic? Youth? Sex? That’s a cliché. Check the bottles in the refrigerator and medicine chest. See what they keep in the night table, too. Heroin? Rope so the beautiful supermodel can tie up her old hubby and give him enemas while watching donkey porn?