Little Black Book of Murder by Nancy Martin Read Free Book Online

tried to subdue himself. “I’m sorry I missed it. Fennel’s one of my favorites.”
    In case Gus was teasing, I said quickly, “Will the Starrs let you go foraging on this farm?”
    â€œMaybe. But my interest here is pigs.”
    â€œPigs,” I said.
    â€œYes, Swain and I are spearheading a movement to breed a totally new variety of swine. Very lean, but tender. And fed on whatever grows naturally around here, so flavor-­wise, the meat will be uniquely regional. We think the breed is going to revolutionize pork. It will put us on the food map.”
    So that explained Tommy’s presence at the party. Despite his sister’s divorce, Tommy was a partner of Swain’s now. I felt a tug of sympathy for poor Tommy—­trying so hard to become a celebrity chef when perhaps his talents and solemn personality weren’t up to the challenge. His food, it was reported, was perfectly nice. But “nice” wasn’t enough to revolutionize anything.
    Gus looked a little pink from all the champagne as he lifted his glass. “Vive la révolution!”
    That was all the encouragement Tommy needed. He launched into a discourse on pigs that might have baffled a genetic biologist. Gus endeavored to appear fascinated, but I wondered if he was experiencing one of those moments when foreign visitors marvel at the eccentricities of Americans whose interests reach almost fanatical heights.
    When his lecture wound down, Tommy said seriously to Gus, “We’re becoming part of the artisanal butchery movement.”
    â€œHow on earth does one butcher an animal,” Gus inquired, “in an artisanal way?”
    â€œThe same as any other kind of art,” Tommy assured him. “Precision, respect paid to the living creature as well as presenting an excellent final product—­that’s what it is. How do you feel about pork?”
    â€œI can hardly face the morning without a bit of bacon.”
    Tommy’s eyes took on the fevered gleam of a zealot. “Then you should consider attending our artisanal butchering for the Farm-­to-­Table gala on Friday. We’ll be demonstrating how to use every part of the pig. Snout to tail. Pig tails are the latest food trend, you know. They’re going to be bigger than chicken wings. We fry them, add a dash of sauce—­which will change according to our daily foraging. Yes, we expect our pig tails will blow away gourmands.”
    I could sense Gus’s growing amusement and decided to sidetrack the conversation to avert a social disaster. “Tommy, I didn’t realize you and Swain were in a partnership.”
    â€œThat’s what it is,” Tommy said sharply. “A partnership. Foundation-­wise, the stock of the swine he’s raising here started with my grandfather’s work. You can see for yourself—­the results are superior to anything else in the world.”
    Tommy pointed ­toward the nearest fence where eight perfectly immaculate young piglets emerged from behind their large mother and made a mad dash for a trough. They looked adorable to me, but I couldn’t see any difference between Swain’s fancy breeding stock and your average pig at a county fair, except perhaps their unique coloring—­brownish gray with leopardlike spots running down their backs. Seeing the piglets coming near, Tommy hustled over to give them an even closer inspection.
    Just as a silver Mercedes zoomed up the driveway and rocked to a stop in front of me.
    The party went deathly quiet.
    When the driver’s-side door of the Mercedes opened, I understood why all the guests were stunned into silence. The petite person who stepped out of the vehicle was none other than Swain Starr’s first wife.
    Clearly, uninvited.
    Marybeth Rattigan Starr launched herself ­toward the first friendly face she spotted—­me. She took purposeful strides, shoulders square and a determined