A Crazy Little Thing Called Death (3 page)

Libby said, “Nora, I’ve had three weddings already, so I know all the pitfalls. It’s important to focus on a theme as soon as possible.”

“Michael and I aren’t exactly the theme-wedding types, Lib.”

“Okay,” Emma said into her phone. “I’ve got an opening at midnight. You want me to pencil you in, big boy?”

Libby and I forgot about weddings and turned our stares onto Emma.

“Sure, baby,” she said to her caller. “A thousand bucks. In cash, of course. See you then.”

She terminated her call, and Libby said, “Lord above, now what are you doing?”

“None of your beeswax.”

I said, “You told me you had a couple of jobs. I thought you meant teaching children to ride ponies!”

“That’s what I do in the daylight hours. But a girl’s got to entertain herself after dark, too, right?”

Our little sister had recently freelanced at a dungeon that specialized in S and M. Heaven only knew what she was doing now. “Em—”

“Hey,” Emma said. “Where’s Luceifer?”

The three of us glanced around.

Sure enough, my niece had disappeared, foil and all.

Looking around, Libby cried, “Nora, you should have kept an eye on her!”

“Do I look like her mother?”

“You were in charge of her today!”

“Why—oh, never mind.” Once again, being with my sisters felt like being strapped to a speeding train headed for an exploded trestle. “Lucy’s not going to be kidnapped in this crowd. Everybody knows she can make Linda Blair look like a Girl Scout.”

Libby’s eyes began to tear up. “That’s my only daughter you’re talking about!”

Emma said, “Oh, for heaven’s sake, let’s split up. We’ll find Lucy faster that way, and the two of you can stop bickering.”

It was a bad day when Emma was the voice of reason.

E
mma headed for the horse vans, and Libby marched unerringly off to the refreshment tent. Perhaps the only one who truly felt Lucy should be found—before she injured an unsuspecting bystander—I steamed in the opposite direction in search of my niece.

Naturally, I was waylaid at every vehicle and entreated to join one tailgate party after another. A twenty-something woman wore a hat that looked like the Flying Nun had swooped through a flower garden. It was Betsy Berkin, daughter of the paper-cup magnate and the city’s most famous “celebutante.”
The
single girl seen at parties all over the city, Betsy had the swanlike grace and burnished glow of a young lady who’d been given every advantage—and expected even more to fall her way.

She waved me over to join her friends from her clique—all young women who reportedly aspired to be wives of professional athletes who could provide glamorous futures. I had heard via the grapevine that they hung around day spas for beauty treatments and spent their evenings in search of prey in bars near the city stadiums.

Betsy made a production of begging me to step into their Ascot-themed party for a glass of champagne. Her young friends were dressed in a flutter of nearly identical chiffon minidresses, all jamming their nearly identical picture hats down over their nearly identical highlighted hair. A king’s ransom in ostrich handbags swung from their toned, tanned arms, and each one of them stood posed to entice any passing jock who might throw her over his shoulder and run for a touchdown. The conversation was rapid-fire fashionspeak, however, with a chorus of
“Eeeeww!”
when someone mentioned ballet flats.

Betsy grabbed my arm and drew me to the table. Her buffet included bangers and mash, which nobody was eating. Betsy obviously didn’t mind—the food was all for show anyway. She had used a Union Jack for a tablecloth.

“Nora, only you could make gum boots look chic!” Betsy cried when I refused a glass of champagne. “You’re the best-dressed person here!”

Her companions turned and didn’t seem pleased. But they all tried to look agreeable because—I knew it from the moment Betsy called to me—they were hoping I’d flag down the
Intelligencer
photographer and feature them in my column. Perhaps they thought my society page was regular reading in local locker rooms. I made a mental note to send the photographer straight over. It didn’t hurt anyone to make them happy.

Besides, they were all beautiful, and even my stodgy editor liked to see beautiful girls in the newspaper. They had flawless skin and astonishing bodies. Betsy’s face was marred by a long, hooked nose that gave her face character, though, and I was proud of her for skipping the nose job each of her friends had opted for. Perhaps she had more depth than her look-alike pals.

“And what do you think of the memorial polo match?” Betsy asked. She dipped her forefinger in champagne and sucked on it. A great way to consume as few calories as possible.

“It’s a lovely memorial for Penny,” I said.

“Such a nice send-off,” Betsy agreed. “That is, if Penny’s really dead this time.” She slid her eyes at me.

“Well, her family seems certain.”

“Do you think they have proof? A suicide note, maybe?”

“I have no idea.”

Perhaps my tone was chilly, because Betsy hastily changed the subject. She blathered about my suit and hat, but her beautiful eyes finally widened when she caught sight of my ring. Not ready to discuss it, I made the excuse I was looking for my wandering niece. As I walked away, Betsy’s friends put their heads together and began to whisper.

I knew it had to start eventually. News of my engagement was going to race through the aristocracy like a wildfire through a matchstick factory.

At the open trunk of a beautiful Jaguar, Porter “Potty” Devine poured mint juleps for a clutch of fragile, elderly Main Line widows who had all dressed in funeral black. They frowned disapprovingly as a younger blonde I didn’t recognize endeavored to perch her unlikely breasts on his arm.

I remembered my mother’s cousin Potty as a silly sort of uncle who kept jelly beans in his pockets. My mother had told stories about Potty as a little boy who banged his head on the floor when he didn’t get what he wanted. But now his cherubic face showed no hint of a bad temper. With his chubby cheeks and jaunty smile, however, he looked anything but the grieving brother.

“Cousin Nora!” bellowed the master of Eagle Glen. “Don’t you look pretty as a picture! Ha-ha!”

“Hello, Potty.”

Hard of hearing from years of quail hunting, he shouted, “Have a drink! Join the party!”

“No, thanks,” I shouted back. “I’m on a mission at the moment. My niece has wandered off, and we’re afraid she might go on a tire-slashing spree.”

The various widows looked startled at my joke. The blonde didn’t blink. She had a determined lock on Potty’s meaty arm.

Potty didn’t hear a word I said, either. He flung his other arm around my shoulders. “Nice wingding, ain’t it? Penny woulda been proud! Ha-ha! Have you met my friend?”

The blonde presented her hand for me to shake, but it felt like a squishy doughnut in mine. “Hi,” she said. “I’m Noreen Winter.”

Her name clicked in my head at once. I didn’t know her as Noreen, but as “Nuclear” Winter—the famous gold digger. For years, I’d heard she was flitting around country clubs in search of wealthy boyfriends. Dotty old duffers with bank accounts were her specialty, and she pawned their expensive gifts to buy herself enticing clothes and regular liposuction as she upgraded from one rich man to the next. And now here she stood at last—at the center of the blue blood set, literally on the arm of one of the richest old coots in the city. Trouble was, at least two of Nuclear’s elderly boyfriends had expired in her arms during what I heard were “intimate encounters.” I wondered if Potty’s cardiologist knew about his dating habits.

Potty disengaged his arm from Nuclear’s grip. He patted the dangerous curve of her rump and said, “Don’t run away, honey. But let me talk to Nora.”

Nuclear frowned. “But—”

“It’ll only take a minute, beautiful.”

The endearment prompted a dazzling smile from Nuclear, showing off a set of budget veneers that should have embarrassed her dentist.

Having appeased her, Potty steered me away from the group. “Now, Nora, I can see what you’re thinking.”

“Not a thing, Potty. I’m not thinking a single thing.”

“Well, the other newspaper’s having a field day with me. Raking me over their coals. Making me look like a fool for all the young ladies I keep company with. Can you give me a nice word in your column?”

Any man who couldn’t see through Nuclear Winter’s transparent attempts to snag his fortune had to be foolish indeed. I had read an item in one of the city’s other newspapers about Potty socializing with younger women, but I’d had no idea he’d slipped into Nuclear’s spiderweb.

He went on. “I’m not opposed to getting a little press for myself, but I sure don’t like all the insinuations that I’ve lost my edge. Ha-ha! I’m still a virile man, you know. I can go for hours.”

“I see.” Talk about too much information! A change of subject was in order. “It’s very charitable of you to allow Eagle Glen to be used for the memorial. Everyone’s having a lovely time, and this is a wonderful way to remember your sister.”

“Yeah, well, it’s a good excuse for a party.”

And Potty could afford it. He had built his father’s corner drugstore into a pharmaceutical conglomerate worth at least the value of a moderately prosperous Caribbean island. Always focused on the family business or having a good time, he’d dismissed his famous sister, Penny, as unimportant. Now, it seemed, he didn’t take her death to heart, either.

I smiled and considered asking him flat out how he knew his sister was really gone this time. I might have tried if we’d been alone. “I’ll catch up with you later, Potty.”

He gave me a clumsy, cousinly hug, beaming. “Let’s catch up later! I want to tell you what my girlfriend said about me last night. I was a tiger! Ha-ha!”

To put some distance between myself and my randy cousin as quickly as possible, I stepped around the open tailgate of an ancient Mercedes station wagon. And found myself abruptly face-to-face with Crewe Dearborne, the restaurant critic for Philadelphia’s finest newspaper. He had a messy sandwich in one hand and was trying to wolf it in private while awkwardly keeping the drips from his tie.

“Crewe,” I said. “Is that a cheesesteak?”

He froze, and his eyes widened as if he’d been caught committing a crime. Around his mouthful, he said, “Nora, I’ll pay a king’s ransom for your silence.”

I laughed and plucked the paper napkin from the breast pocket of his natty blue blazer. “Be careful what you say, Crewe. I owe a fortune in property taxes, you know.”

“But you have a very kind heart.” He swallowed his mouthful. “You won’t give me away, will you?”

I used the napkin to mop the juice from his chin. “I’m tempted to out the city’s most finicky foodie. Who knew you enjoyed a secret cheesesteak now and then?”

“I’m a native son. How could I not love our local cuisine?”

“I read your review of Le Betard last week. Could you have possibly been more insulting?”

“The soup was congealed grease, the fish overcooked, and the custard—well, Nora, I’ve eaten better desserts at McDonald’s.”

“And you despise poor service.”

He sighed. “The waiter poured a perfectly good pinot noir into my water glass.”

Crewe, with a pedigree every bit as aristocratic as my own, was the son of a very rich, famous hypochondriac and her even richer, philandering husband, who was now dead. Both his parents had been snooty types, but Crewe was anything but. He had sandy hair with a high forehead that gave him more of a distinguished air than his not-quite-forty years should allow. His intelligent eyes and rarely bestowed smile had made many women weak in the knees, but he was still single. The fact that he could cut an arrogant restaurateur down to size with very few words made him a fun cocktail-party guest. I’d hate to find him sitting down at my dinner table, though. His culinary standards were dauntingly high.

Today Crewe wore a pair of flannel trousers, and a crisp white shirt with rep tie beneath the standard-issue Brooks Brothers blazer—a uniform for any wellborn Philadelphian. But it was unusual to find him so ordinarily dressed. Better known for the elaborate disguises he donned to prevent wily restaurateurs from recognizing him, Crewe had been spotted in everything from hippie beads and false whiskers to an Arab kaffiyeh meant to confuse an unsuspecting waitstaff.

I, of course, remembered him from our teenage years, when he wore jeans and T-shirts like everyone else, and had a taste for good food even then. He had carefully created a ranked list of the best pizzas, and for Best in the City chose a pie with fresh mozzarella over heirloom tomatoes and fresh basil from a Little Italy kitchen he had sussed out all on his own.

He took another healthy chomp out of the cheesesteak.

I said, “Who dared to serve you something less than caviar and champagne today?”

“My sister’s playing hostess,” he admitted after a swallow. “It’s all the Saks personal shoppers she loves so much. They’re here to show off their clothes, so I knew there wouldn’t be any real food. I picked up a sandwich on my way.”

“Good thinking.”

“You’ll be a big hit with them. You look great, as always. Shall I introduce you?”

“I’ll pass, but thanks.”

“Is that suit some designer I should recognize?”

“Only if you were reading
Vogue
as a baby. This was my grandmother’s. It’s Oleg Cassini, and she bought it in Paris with Penny Devine. Penny bought an identical one. I’m wearing it in Penny’s memory.”

“You look ten times better than your grandma ever did.”

“You never knew her. She was a looker.”

“Speaking of lookers, are your sisters here today?”

I didn’t realize Crewe knew Emma or Libby. “Yes, they are, as a matter of fact.”

“And what about Lexie? Is she around?”

I should have known. Poor Crewe. For years, he’d been carrying a torch for my friend Lexie Paine. And Lexie, who wanted nothing to do with any man on earth, completely ignored Crewe.

“I’m sorry,” I said gently, “but she didn’t come today. If I know Lexie, she’s probably giving advice to the International Monetary Fund, out of the goodness of her heart.”

“Where would our economy be without her?” He made an attempt at good cheer.

“Down the tubes for sure.”

“Did you know Raphael Braga is here?” Crewe asked suddenly. He tried to be nonchalant, but his gray gaze rested on mine for an instant too long. “He’s playing in the match today.”

Just the mention of his name gave me butterflies. Crewe’s cousin Carolina had married the famous polo player. I wondered how much Crewe knew about my strange connection to Raphael.

“Yes, I—I saw the publicity. I thought I’d get a few quotes for my column and scram before he—well, soon.” I managed a smile, but knew I was flubbing the moment. “Meanwhile, I’m looking for my niece, Lucy. Have you seen a little ballerina with a sword?”