Blackbird 02 - Dead Girls Don't Wear Diamonds (3 page)

She hung up without allowing me to decline. That was Kitty's style. She'd been the poison pen of the
Intelligencer's
society page for more than a decade, and readers loved her switchblade prose.

I couldn't imitate Kitty's style—not when my friends, the oldest and most distinguished families of Philadelphia, were often the targets of her cruel copy. As I saw it, our job was to cover the activities of the so-called high society as they helped and promoted various charities. But Kitty wrote an old-fashioned gossip column full of innuendo and character assassination. She was very popular with readers.

Some of our colleagues assumed I'd been hired to learn the ropes and replace Kitty when the newspaper's ownership finally managed to ease her into retirement. I believed, however, that Kitty was going to die at her keyboard, blood pressure exploding off the chart as she pounded out one last lambasting column. I toiled in her shadow and tried to keep my friends at the same time. I had bills to pay, after all.

So I had gone to the Cooper party with a notebook and pen in my beaded clutch.

More parties were thrown in Philadelphia from September through November than even Kitty could keep up with. The Coopers were lucky to find a night that wasn't already booked with two benefits and a dozen private cocktail parties, not to mention a noisy
political fund-raiser or two. By luck, my calendar was free, so Reed Shakespeare, my driver, took me out to the Cooper estate just as a glorious Indian summer sunset began to blaze in the sky.

"Whoa," said Reed when we hove into view of the house. "You visiting Bill Gates tonight, or what?"

We both stared out the windshield at the new Cooper mansion. When Oliver Cooper divorced his first wife, he gave back her ancestral home on the Main Line and moved his new wife, the former Doe Slansky of Scranton, out into the county where they constructed a replica of the Vanderbilts' Biltmore at astronomical expense, mimicking every detail up to the chimney pots. Except alongside the driveway to the Cooper mansion was, as befitting an aviation king, a private airstrip.

As his four sons finished their MBAs at Wharton and joined the family business, Oliver built nearby homes for each of them in turn, along with more amenities than a luxury resort. The rambling houses were surrounded by pools, tennis and basketball courts, a nine-hole golf course, a stable for the Cooper granddaughters' ponies and lush gardens that Doe reportedly expanded every spring.

I had counted eight private aircraft parked on the grass near the family hangar that evening. One of the planes was a corporate jet with the name of an Atlantic City casino emblazoned on its tail. In addition to big military contracts, Cooper Aviation built custom aircraft for wealthy clients who sometimes stayed at the Cooper compound while perfecting the mechanics of flying their new acquisitions. You never knew who you might bump into if you visited Oliver. Movie stars, professional athletes, even teenybopper boy bands with money to burn all the jet fuel they wanted.

A cluster of security men stopped me on the driveway, asking to see my invitation, and told Reed to take the car about a mile away to a secured location. Obviously, Washington had already made some changes around the Cooper compound.

"Nora!" Oliver Cooper greeted me himself when I'd passed through the security checkpoint. Proud patriarch, he stood in the open doorway of the main house. His voice roared out at me over the thump of rock and roll behind him. "Nora Blackbird, how come you didn't marry one of my sons?"

"Hello, Oliver." I kissed his ruddy cheek and allowed the burly captain of the aviation industry to gather me up in a bone-crushing hug. I gasped, "Congratulations on your nomination."

"Thank you. Thank you." He nuzzled my ear before planting a hearty kiss on my cheek and setting me on my feet. "So nice of you to help me celebrate!"

He looked me up and down with the womanizing gleam that never seemed to leave his gaze. He was dressed casually in khaki trousers and a well-worn leather aviator's jacket, clearly a favorite item from his closet brought out to celebrate his latest career success. It suited his image—still the rough-and-ready pilot despite his stratospheric position in the corporate world.

I smiled, but stepped back to a safe distance. "How does it feel to be the next secretary of transportation?"

"I'm officially honored and humbled, if you're asking as a member of the press," he said with a laugh. "But if it's just you, Nora, I'm also pleased as punch. There's no guarantee I'll make it through the confirmation process, of course, but I'm going to give those bastards in Congress a piece of my mind if
they start hinting I'm unfit for the job. By God, you look ravishing this evening. Your mama was a bombshell in her day, and I must say you're giving her a run for her money."

"Thank you, Oliver." I had the advantage of spotting his young wife coming towards us from inside the house, so I kept my voice light and cool. "Coming from you, that's high praise. Good evening, Doe."

"Nora," she breathed, as she double-kissed the air beside my jaw. She was careful not to touch me, however. Doe rarely made physical contact with another person, except her husband. "How delightful to see you."

She sounded convincing, but I could see her struggle to decide if I were there as a potential rival for her man or as a representative of the
Intelligencer's
society column. She must have decided the latter, because she smiled at last.

As blond and tanned as Malibu Barbie, Doe kept her eye-popping figure taut and her hair perfectly flipped up at her shoulders. Her silk sweater with its deeply cut neckline and the matching snakeskin pants were exactly the color of an Afghan hound. A diamond necklace as tight as a dog collar gleamed on her neck, heightening my impression that she was Oliver's sleek pet. Her toes peeked seductively from very pointed spike-heeled sandals.

The only flaw in her appearance was the condition of her hands. A gardener, Doe proudly wore her stubby nails as merit badges to her prowess with flowers. Otherwise, she was stunningly turned out.

Beautiful, slightly jealous second wives were not necessarily bitches, I reminded myself sternly. Doe did good work on the city's landscape board, and I'd
recently heard she was helping organize a hospital fund drive. Unfortunately, she was as dull as a dial tone in social situations.

I knew Oliver's first wife, Annabelle, very well indeed. It was still jarring not to see tall, elegant Annabelle by Oliver's side—her distinctive white hair cut no-nonsense short around her aristocratic face, and her raspy, smoker's laugh ringing out with ironic amusement. The daughter of a prominent old family and a woman of exquisite taste and impeccable social grace, Annabelle had held her head high through her husband's many dalliances, worked hard for several unglamorous charities and nursed her father through colon cancer. She had been a wonderful mother to four rambunctious sons, too, raising them with a sense of humor as well as a firm hand. She was well read, down to earth and called 'em like she saw 'em. If you sat near smart, vivacious Annabelle at a dinner party, you undoubtedly had a great time. When I dated her son Flan, she'd welcomed me warmly despite rumors that my parents were fiddling while Rome burned. She was a class act. Oliver had earned every penny of his fortune, but he had needed Annabelle's polish to be accepted in the city.

She did not deserve the treatment she got when Oliver finally roamed too far. Because I loved Annabelle, it was hard for me to like Doe, who had all the bad taste her husband's money could buy.

I mustered a smile, though. "Your garden looks fantastic tonight. Doe. I love the cornstalks and Halloween decorations."

"Thank you very much. Gardening is my passion. Well, after Oliver, of course." She picked an invisible bit of lint off her husband's sleeve and tipped her face adoringly up at his. "I wanted the grounds to
look spectacular in case a special occasion came along, and look what happened!"

"She's always ready to throw a party," Oliver said on a laugh.

Doe tried to look modest. "Oh, Nora goes to oodles of parties better than this. Are you here officially, Nora? I thought about inviting Kitty, but—well, Oliver is still angry about what she said the last time we asked her."

I remembered Kitty had chewed up Doe Cooper's party-throwing skills and spat them out for all Philadelphia to despise. Poor Doe had been unprepared for entertaining the people her husband enjoyed, and Kitty spotted every shortcoming.

"Oliver felt that since you were invited, we could safely leave Kitty off our guest list."

I could see her anxiety. "Kitty did ask me to write something about tonight, but I wasn't sure you'd want me to."

"Of course we would!" Doe cried, relieved. "We trust you, Nora. Don't we, Oliver?"

"Well, I hate to look like a publicity hound."

Most of the city's Old Money liked to keep their names out of print, whereas New Money worked hard to get themselves splashed around the newspapers. Oliver's reluctance almost rang true.

Doe pouted. "Darling, don't be silly!"

"I'll take it easy on you," I promised Oliver with a grin. To Doe, I said, "Do you suppose you'll move to Washington?"

"Oh, yes," she said quickly. "As soon as Ollie is confirmed, we'll start house hunting. It's going to be our primary residence."

Doe had never been embraced in certain circles of the city. Starting all over in Washington was probably exactly what she wanted—a fresh start towards becoming a respected member of a community in her own right.

"That sounds exciting," I said. "But you just built this wonderful new home."

"Oh, we might build the same house again. With my allergies, I need a home with absolutely no synthetic materials whatsoever."

"You should see her swell up around polyester," Oliver added. "It's not a pretty sight."

"Ollie!" Doe punched his arm affectionately.

"Well, you certainly did a bang-up job here." I indicated the enormous house.

"It's our dream home," Doe assured me. "I'll build it all over again if we can find enough ground. And I'd want all the same amenities. It's amazing what you can't give up once you have certain things—the home theater, the caterer's kitchen, the safe room, the wine closet—well, all of it! We want everything to be perfect for our friends."

Oliver groaned. "I'm going to have to ask the president for a raise!"

We laughed.

"But what about your family?" I asked Oliver. "They're going to miss having you right next door."

I must have said something wrong, because immediately both Oliver and Doe looked as if I'd just brought up a bodily function.

Oliver recovered first. "Oh, they'll get along fine, I'm sure."

All was not peace and harmony with the Cooper clan, I gathered.

"Oliver?" asked a male voice behind me. "May I beg an introduction?"

If Doe was Barbie, the newcomer was a Ken doll. He was fortyish and L.L. Bean-catalog perfect, with
ex-military posture, wearing a snappy blazer, tailored trousers and a golf shirt. His dark brown hair looked as if it had been shellacked in place. He was Barbie's boyfriend, all right—handsome, but . . . well, plastic. He put out his hand to me. "I'm Jack Priestly."

Oliver said, "Jack, this is Nora Blackbird."

"She's the one I told you about," Doe added.

Both men pretended not to hear her, and Oliver said quickly, "Jack's here to ride herd on me until the confirmation hearings start. He's from the White House. Jack, Nora's an old friend of the family."

"Hello," I said, accepting Jack's handshake.

"I'm delighted, Nora." He had a slightly Appalachian lilt in his voice. Tennessee, maybe. "Any woman who wears Chanel is a woman worth getting to know."

Doe looked confused. "Are you talking about perfume?"

"Clothes," Jack said, continuing to hold my hand. "Am I right? Your suit is vintage Chanel."

In my role as a society reporter, I needed a wardrobe that matched the expensive clothes worn by the people in my social circle. My own closet had a few good pieces left from the flush years, but nothing formal enough for the constant string of posh events I attended. Because of my severely reduced financial situation, I had taken to raiding my grandmother's stored collection of vintage couture dresses. Fortunately, Grandmama's excellent taste managed to transcend the decades . . . and fit me, too. The somewhat shabby-chic style had become my signature "look." For the Cooper party, I had pulled out a favorite pink pencil-skirted Chanel.

I smiled at Jack Priestly. "You have a good eye."

"No, just a sister who works for a fashion magazine. A few things have rubbed off." He indicated his own rather pedestrian attire. "But not too much."

Oliver said, "Nora always looks great."

"Unique," Doe agreed, although halfheartedly.

Behind us, more people had been checked by the security team and were approaching the front door, so it was time for me to move along and allow our host to greet the arriving guests.

I wished Oliver and Doe the best of luck and eased past them as the new arrivals approached. Jack and I went inside.

Jack said, "Nora, can I get you a drink?"

"Thank you. A glass of white wine, please."