A Crazy Little Thing Called Death (18 page)

“God, no.”

“This favor you did for him. What’s that all about? Does it mean you’ve got some emotional tie to the man?”

I shook my head. “It’s not like that at all. What else have you learned about Potty? Or Vivian?”

He hesitated, trying to find a way to ask the same questions again. He shot a glance across the marble floor at Aldo, who stood glowering at us.

“All right.” Bloom gave up at last. “The old guy’s coming here tonight.”

Startled, I said, “Potty’s coming out this evening?” That information explained the number of television trucks outside the theater. “So much for being afraid of bad publicity.”

“He cut short my interview this afternoon because he had to go home to get dressed for this damn thing. He seemed pretty anxious to get here in time for the free drinks.”

“The drinks aren’t free. Everybody here has donated at least ten thousand dollars to help fund the ballet’s orchestra. Potty’s been a big donor over the years.”

“Still, I’d like to know why he’d brave more television cameras to come tonight. Why’s it important for him to show up?”

“I have no idea. Many people simply write a check and stay home. Do you want me to find out why he insisted on coming this evening?”

Bloom stopped watching Aldo and turned to give me a long stare. “I can’t help noticing you’re awfully willing to help this time. Except for Braga, you’re almost eager, in fact. I haven’t even threatened to arrest Abruzzo to get you on my side.”

“There’s no need to make a threat we both know is empty.”

Bloom frowned. “But you’re volunteering to help me out. What’s changed?”

“Nothing,” I said. I had my own reasons to want to corner Potty. I still had an envelope full of his cash. “Look, here comes Potty now.”

From the windows, we watched Potty Devine get out of a new Cadillac and hand the keys and a cash tip to the valet-parking attendant. Television lights blazed on, and cameras followed him across the sidewalk. A reporter rushed forward, brandishing a microphone. Potty irritably waved him off and shoved through the door to the theater.

Bloom and I left the window and went to the balustrade to watch Potty labor up the marble stairs. He wore evening clothes with a light overcoat and a black hat tilted at an angle that looked positively jaunty.

At the top of the stairs, a woman squealed and ran down two steps to fling her arms around Potty. She nearly knocked him down the staircase with the force of her affection. I recognized Nuclear Winter. Potty reached around and gave Nuclear’s bottom a squeeze.

Sounding surprised, Bloom said, “He’s a dirty old man!”

“Potty does enjoy young women,” I said on a sigh. “That’s Noreen Winter, better known as ‘Nuclear’ Winter. She’s rather famous around town.”

“For?”

“For pursuing rich men who—uhm—don’t always survive.”

“She kills them?” Bloom sounded startled.

“With love,” I said. “Two of her former partners didn’t have sufficient cardiac stamina to withstand her affections.”

“Devine doesn’t look worried.”

“No, he doesn’t, does he? Shall I go talk to Potty now? What would you like to know?”

Bloom continued to frown. “Ask him about his relationship with his sister Penny. Just see where the conversation leads.”

“Aye, aye, Detective.”

I cut across the lobby to head off Potty at the bar.

T
onight Nuclear Winter looked like an escapee from
Girls Gone Wild
in her slinky strapless dress that barely clung to her breasts. She towered over Potty in shoes high enough to require a strobe light to warn low-flying planes. Potty, standing three inches shorter than his Amazonian companion, handed her a champagne, and they clinked glasses and giggled together.

“Potty,” I said, but he didn’t hear me. I touched his arm.

He turned and shouted, “Nora! Don’t you look pretty tonight! Ha-ha!”

In the crowded party, it was going to be hard to communicate with him without sharing our conversation with a hundred people.

I raised my voice anyway. “Hi, Potty. Are you having a good time?”

“Yes, it’s delicious wine!” he bellowed. “Can I get you a glass?”

“That would be lovely, thank you!”

Beaming, he toddled after the waiter.

Which left me standing with his date. Nuclear had been pretty once, I could tell, but her lips were ballooned out of proportion now, and the implants in her cheeks, her chin and her breasts made her look as generic as any aspiring starlet.

“Get lost, honey,” Nuclear said to me. “I saw him first.”

“Honey,” I said, “I’m not here to stop you from landing the big fish. Just give me ten minutes alone with him first, please?”

“What for?” Nuclear drank a slug of champagne. “You gonna write something nice about Potty in the paper? I keep telling him he needs a press agent, but he says he can do it his way.”

His way, I knew, meant bribing journalists. “Trust me,” I said. “I’ll do everything I can for Potty. How about giving us some time to talk it over?”

She gave my dress a withering look and clearly decided she didn’t have to worry about competition from me. Then she spotted the ring on my hand, and her eyes bugged out. “Okay, ten minutes. I have to go to the little girls’ room, anyway.”

She made an about-face and wiggled off in search of the nearest bathroom.

The string quartet took a break as Potty elbowed his way back to me through the crowd. “Did you meet Darlene?”

I accepted the glass of champagne he offered and tried putting my mouth close to his ear. “I thought her name was Noreen.”

“I’m not sure,” he admitted with a twinkling grin. “Maybe it’s Charlene. Or Marlene. I get them all mixed up after a while.”

He reached into his ear and adjusted the mechanism on his hearing aid.

“You’re very lucky with the ladies, Potty.”

“It’s not luck. It’s money, dear girl. Ha-ha!” He laughed, no illusions.

“Money can’t be the only secret to your success.”

“Oh, I know how to make snappy conversation with the young ones. Get them talking about themselves, that’s what works.”

I smiled. “You’re a lady-killer, Potty.”

“Truth be told?” He slipped his hand past the silk lapel and into his jacket. “I have my little jelly beans to thank.”

But it wasn’t candy that came out of his pocket. Potty held up a small, clear vial and shook it, showing me half a dozen little blue pills.

It was the kind of small bottle Todd had used to bring his cocaine home from the street. I took the vial from Potty and looked more closely at the pills inside. “What are they?”

“MaxiMan.” Potty laughed heartily at my expression. “Oh, don’t be shocked, Cousin Nora. You look like a young lady who enjoys her bedroom. Those little beans changed my life.”

“I thought MaxiMan wasn’t on the market yet.”

“It’s not. It’s in the testing phase. And who better to test them?”

“Potty, are you sure it’s safe for you to—”

“These pills are the safest of their kind. Don’t worry about me. I’ve used them a hundred times, and I am here to tell you that satisfaction is guaranteed.”

“How…nice for you.”

“Nice for you, too,” he promised, folding my hand more firmly around the vial. “Take those home. Find some fella who’ll swallow one, and you’ll end up in paradise.”

“Potty—”

“No, no, I insist. Take ’em. I have plenty more where those came from.”

So Potty was the Devine Pharmaceuticals insider who was passing out MaxiMan so freely.

Rather than argue with him, I tried to change the subject. “Potty, you and I have had a little misunderstanding, and I want to set the record straight. At the polo match, you slipped an envelope into my pocket, and that was very naughty of you.”

He winked. “I’m a naughty man.”

“Thing is, Potty, I can’t accept money from you. And I certainly can’t promise to give you favorable treatment in my column.”

“Nora, that envelope was a gift! You could use a little financial help, right?”

“That’s very kind of you, but we both know it was not a gift.” I had the envelope out of my handbag by that time, and I pressed it into his palm. “I must return the cash, Potty.”

He grinned. “Is it all there?”

“Yes, of course.”

“You sure I can’t convince you to take it?”

“Absolutely not. I know you’re upset about Penny’s death, and no doubt that clouded your judgment. It must be a terrible shock—”

“Oh, not such a shock.” Potty amenably slipped the envelope into his breast pocket. “We’ve known for some time she was dead.”

“Because of the suicide note.”

“What? Oh, yeah, the suicide note. And those runaway trips of hers—eventually one of ’em was going to end badly.”

“Why do you say that?” I asked. “Didn’t she hide out at spas? That seems safe to me.”

“Spas?” Potty scoffed. “Not unless they had hot and cold running men. Hell, Penny didn’t go off to lose weight.”

“What?”

“Younger men, that was her real addiction—ha-ha!”

“Are you sure?”

“Sure, I’m sure! The old girl surrounded herself with young fellas—the younger the better. All bought and paid for. That’s how she spent her money, you know. Buying affection. Those good-looking polo players? That’s who she ran away to.”

“Do you think—I mean, could one of her boyfriends have killed her?”

“During some kinky sex?” Potty asked with a knowing wink.

“No, that’s not what I—”

“You’re blushing again, Cousin Nora. No, my bet is that Penny’s heart gave out. What a way to go, right?”

“But why would she end up—Potty, this is very hard for me to say, but why would anyone—”

“Cut her up into pieces afterwards?” Potty took a swig of champagne and eyed me, his expression turning cold. “Let me ask you this, young lady: Do you think sex is all about hearts and flowers? Lovey-dovey whispers in the dark? Hell, no, it can be angry, too, right? Rage and frustration and anger channeled into the physical act of procreation.”

My throat dried out. “So you believe Penny’s last lover might have been furious enough to…?”

“Divide my sister into manageable chunks? Yes, I do. Penny was an infuriating woman. And I know all about infuriating women. Sometimes?” He leaned closer until I could smell his breath mint. “Those girls I screw? I just want to punch their lights out afterwards.”

I looked into Potty’s face and decided of all the people I’d encountered since Penny died, this was the man who was most capable of killing another human being. He grinned back at me with no soul in his twinkling blue eyes. A cold shiver of revulsion slid down my back.

“Ha-ha,” he said.

We heard the clack of high heels, and turned to see Nuclear Winter had come out of the little girls’ room. She marched straight over to Potty. She towered above him, running her long fingers up and down the stem of her champagne glass. Potty made no bones about looking at her décolletage.

I took the opportunity to excuse myself.

“Enjoy your evening,” I said as I slipped away. I wanted as much distance as possible between me and the couple that seemed to deserve each other.

I mingled in the crowd for a while, making inane conversation to forget my distasteful encounter with Potty. I nearly disposed of the vial he’d given me, but in the act of leaving it on a busboy’s tray, I hesitated. Perhaps the pills were evidence of some kind. I slipped the vial into my bag and got rid of my half-full champagne flute instead.

Looking around for an interview, I happened to catch the moment when a portly matron in a floor-length dress approached Aldo. Her silver helmet of hair was sprayed into a tall sculpture. They spoke for a moment, and then I stared in fascination as Aldo led her to the dance floor. Like a recent graduate of Arthur Murray, he gathered up his partner and began to dance. And he was astonishingly graceful. Aldo guided the woman around the marble floor in precise, yet florid, box steps. Apparently, his daughter’s wedding had required more than just a tuxedo. The woman in his arms seemed to float along with him. She looked familiar to me, but I couldn’t place her.

Gradually other party guests turned to watch, sipping champagne, and they enjoyed the mature couple dancing smoothly to the music. Soon the whole party had stopped to admire their performance. Aldo never faltered, just continued to sweep his partner around the floor with fluid dignity.

When the music came to an end, everyone broke into spontaneous applause. The woman blushed, but Aldo bowed chivalrously to her. She pulled her hand from his and slipped into the crowd. Aldo became himself again and went back to his potted palm.

Members of the theater staff circulated with trays bearing rolls of numbered tickets for the Chinese auction.

The photographer for the
Intelligencer
appeared beside me. Dave was still a teenager, moonlighting during his sophomore year in college. The paper had fired several experienced photographers in a round of budget cuts, and I found myself—not long on the job, either—leading most of the new free-lancers by the nose. Fortunately Dave had grown up in a cultured family in Gladwyne and knew his way around a party scene. Briefly, we conferred on the photos he should snap for the paper. He promised to come back to me, then cruised into the theater, camera ready.

I bought a few Chinese-auction tickets to be polite, but I paused before entering the theater, where the items that had been donated for the cause were on display. I scanned the crowd.

Sure enough, Betsy Berkin came up the staircase in a long, surprisingly juvenile dress the color of cotton candy. She wore a white wrap around her bare, Florida-bronzed shoulders. I had taken a chance she’d come to the ballet fund-raiser.

Holding her arm was the perfect accessory for the girl who had it all, Raphael Braga.

“Betsy,” I said when they walked within speaking distance. “Would you like to have your photo taken for the
Intelligencer
?”

“Nora! How nice of you to ask.” She blushed with pleasure. “I’d be delighted.”

“The photographer’s waiting inside.” I indicated the theater. “You’ll look wonderful in my column this week.”

Betsy slipped her wrap off her shoulders. “Rafe, will you hold this for me?”

I held my breath and hoped I didn’t look as tense as I felt inside.

“Honored,” Raphael murmured. When Betsy had rushed into the theater, he turned to me. His dark eyes glittered with laughter. “That was clumsily done, Nora. If you wanted to speak to me alone, you simply had to ask. Betsy is very young, though. Maybe she would be jealous.”

His smile was amused, but something dark lurked at the back of his gaze.

I said, “Technically, I’m not supposed to speak to you at all.”

“That was Carolina’s foolishness, not mine. She was afraid.”

“I know.”

We looked frankly at each other.

Raphael was even more handsome than he’d been ten years ago. His English was more polished, his manner more sophisticated. He had combed his luxurious black hair away from his temples, and he wore sharply cut evening clothes. His shirt studs were inlaid with pearls. Instead of evening shoes, he wore flamenco boots with heels that did not give him an effeminate air in the least.

“I was wondering when you last saw Penny Devine.”

He laughed attractively, and made a business of winding up Betsy’s wrap and placing it formally over his arm. “And what is your reason for wondering? Are you concerned for Penny’s health?”

“Aren’t you?”

“She has disappeared before.”

“Not for this long. And not when—well, part of her may have been discovered on Saturday.”

“By you, I understand. How unsettling.”

“It was, very. But you don’t seem terribly worried, Raphael, even though you were her friend.”

His smile faded. “Let’s get a drink, shall we? Then I’ll tell you what I think of Penny’s disappearance.”

He took my arm and drew me in the direction of the bar. Except for Aldo, who remained stolidly beside his tree, the rest of the crowd had filtered into the theater. Even Bloom had disappeared. Raphael and I were the last guests to ask for drinks. Raphael ordered a vodka, straight up. He also asked for a glass of champagne and bowed as he gave it to me.

We carried our drinks away from the bar. I sipped the champagne and found it bitter—a cheaper vintage than what I’d enjoyed earlier.