How to Murder a Millionaire (16 page)

We sat down just in time. Suddenly the aisles seemed crowded with men in nearly identical black suits, all wearing transmitters in their ears. The reason for all the heightened security became clear.

"It's the Vice President," Eloise murmured in front of us. "Can they spare him in Washington today?"

Sure enough, the Vice President of the United States strode out of a side entrance and into the cathedral with an entourage of enough middle-aged white men to constitute the board of General Motors. The security team cleared the way so the Vice President could be seated with the other honored guests. Kitty Keough was unceremoniously bumped to the end of her pew.

Next Peach Treese came in surrounded by her family. As if commanded by a signal, every head in the cathedral turned her way.

Peach wore a small black hat with a veil that came down over her nose, concealing most of her face. Her gait was slow and shaky. Pamela Treese, the soon-to-be bride, held her grandmother's hand.

Peach did not weep. Not in public.

I understood entirely, but I wondered how Detective Bloom would view her lack of public grieving.

I couldn't imagine Peach hurting anyone, let alone Rory.

My brain took a totally inappropriate segue and I wondered guiltily about Peach's sex life with Rory. Had he acquired the Viagra with her in mind? Or was Boom correct in speculating Rory had other women, too?

A Motown diva got up then and joined a large gospel choir in front of the cathedral. As their voices swelled with the lyrics of the gospel favorite "Deep River," the last few dignitaries took their seats.

I noted many of my own family friends in the crowd, too, and received a few nods—mostly from the over-sixty crowd, the people who remembered my grandparents fondly. A few of my parents' contemporaries, on the other hand, pretended Emma and I were invisible.

Kitty Keough sat stiffly upright near the front. Was she thinking of Rory? She'd been angry with him the night of the party. Had she been furious enough at Rory to murder him? Had my arrival at the newspaper caused her to go crazy?

And Libby. Where in the world was my flighty older sister? She would have attended Rory's funeral come hell or high water. Where
was
she?

An Episcopal priest approached the pulpit and began to read from the Book of Common Prayer. I remembered the lines from my grandfather's funeral. I had gone home and looked them up afterwards, in fact, to read the words for myself.

My heart was hot within me

And while I was thus musing

The fire kindled and at the last

I spake with my tongue.

Lord, let me know mine end

And the number of my days;

That I may be certified how long I have to live.

My grandfather's funeral had not been so well attended, perhaps, but he'd been a respected man in his day.

The Blackbird clan had not traveled in such rarefied circles since his death fifteen years ago. Still, there were the Warringtons, my mother's peculiar cousins. Although lunatics when it came to fox terriers, they looked completely respectable lined up together in a pew near the front. Nearby sat the O'Keefes, who partnered with my grandfather in some lumber ventures, then went their own way in building ski resorts in the Poconos. The Largent daughters, hardly as prim and proper as they looked, had invited me to their Maine house over a few summer breaks but were now both taking AA very seriously, or so I'd heard. Several rows over, I recognized the broad shoulders of the Cooper brothers, whom I had dated in my teens. Now they all worked for their family's aircraft manufacturing corporation—even Flan, who had been a great kisser at nineteen. I'd slept in his Penn crew T-shirt for years after he'd left my turbulent waters.

"Hmm," murmured Emma as the priest yielded the service to the choir, yanking me out of a steamy memory. "I wonder if Pendergast knew he had this many high-powered pals when he was alive. Except that maniac woman from the newspaper. I can still hear her yakking up there."

I looked for Kitty, but my gaze skimmed right over her to a side door. Suddenly the rest of the crowd vaporized as 1 clapped eyes on the last person to slip into the cathedral.

It was Michael Abruzzo, almost unrecognizable in a suit and tie.

I saw Detective Bloom's head snap around, and his stare bore into the back of Abruzzo's head like a flaming arrow launched from a crossbow.

Quickly, I faced the front of the cathedral. Of course, Abruzzo had a perfect right to attend Rory's
funeral. They'd been friends. Business associates. It really wasn't the least bit strange that he'd come to pay his respects.

But I knew Bloom had another theory.

Coming out of one of the private chapels, Abruzzo passed through one of the secret service checkpoints and stole up the side aisle behind the row of pillars until he found an empty seat almost opposite us in the cathedral. I watched as he genuflected, crossed himself, then went into the pew. I couldn't quite see him after that. I wondered if he was saying a rosary as the choir sang. A minute passed. At last he sat back.

The monsignor mounted the pulpit, and the service took on a greater solemnity. Hankies came out and muffled weeping began.

Emma leaned over and hissed, "Who's the stud?"

"What stud?"

"The guy over there by the nuns. He's looked at you twice."

"Never mind." I pressed my handkerchief to my cheek.

"Ooh," said Emma. "It's the Abruzzo guy, isn't it?"

"Emma—"

"What's he doing here? Is he stalking you?"

"Of course not."

"Then what the hell's he up to?"

"Whatever it is, it's bound to be trouble."

Chapter 11

Mozart's
Requiem
thundered on the cathedral's massive organ, making conversation thankfully impossible as we inched our way up the aisle after the service. The Vice President had been efficiently whisked away after the removal of the casket, but the rest of us took nearly another half hour to vacate the cathedral. We had been told the family preferred a private interment at Laurel Hill cemetary. I used the time to gather my composure. Life seemed rife with losses. At last I tucked my handkerchief into my bag and fastened the catch, wishing I could lock up my emotions just as neatly.

Finally we made our way outside. Dusk was gathering, and many large cars clogged the street. My ears still rang with the noble words spoken by our eloquent senator, a few industrial magnates and one weepy woman who represented a foundation Rory had funded.

I felt dull, as if beaten into exhaustion by their words. Or maybe I was thinking of Todd again. I had known Rory Pendergast well, loved him like a grandfather, and I respected what he'd done with his life. He'd left the world a better place, whereas Todd— well, he'd left his mark in a different way. In bruises on the people who'd loved him. I let Emma drag me down the cathedral steps into the milling crowd outside.

Michael Abruzzo was waiting for me. The other mourners gave him space, as if he were a Brahman bull in their midst, but he looked unaware of the apprehension rippling through the people who parted around him.

"Hello," he said, hands thrust into the trouser pockets of his dark suit.

I gathered my wits. "You seem to pop up everywhere these days."

He shrugged. "I was going to grab an early dinner. You want to come?"

"Hi, handsome," said Emma, sticking out her hand. "I'm Emma Blackbird, Nora's sister."

"Nice to meet you." As he returned her handshake, he appeared not to notice her leather pants. I gave him points for self-control.

"I'm starved," she declared. "Did I hear something about dinner? The Swann Cafe in the Four Seasons is just across the street."

I didn't know what Emma was up to, but I was sure I didn't like her plan. She skewered Abruzzo with a smoldering look that had surely frightened lesser men.

He didn't panic. "Why not?"

But we were interrupted by the arrival of Detective Bloom and his partner.

"Abruzzo," Bloom said, "I wonder if you'd be kind enough to join us at the station?"

Abruzzo looked down at the detective, amused. "What for?"

"We'd like to ask you some questions. It's an invitation," Bloom added. "Not an arrest."

Emma's interest sharpened as both men eyed each other.

Abruzzo shrugged. "I'm happy to help the police
whenever possible, Detective. Unfortunately, I'm busy at the moment."

"We'll wait," said Bloom. He did not look at me.

"How about this?" Abruzzo proposed when it became clear the police wanted to speak with him at once. "I come when it's more convenient or I call my lawyer right now and turn this into something completely different."

There was no aggression in his voice. But his polite manner defied argument. How did he do that?

Bloom's partner opened his mouth and looked on the verge of making a hasty comment, but Bloom cut him off. "Okay, sounds good. Tonight?"

"Tomorrow morning. That soon enough for you?"

Bloom shrugged. "Sure. See you then. Good night, Miss Blackbird."

When they moved away, Emma said, "My, my, what was that about?"

"He wants to know when I got to Pendergast's house on Friday night."

"When
did
you get there?" I asked.

"Still playing detective?"

I ignored the question. "Reed was supposed to take me home, but you were there instead."

"Reed had studying to do," Abruzzo said mildly. "I told you that. I took over so he could go home early. I arrived around ten."

Or half an hour earlier? In time to have slipped upstairs after the angry phone call? What had he discussed with Rory on the night of the murder? We looked at each other and waited.

Emma broke first and glanced between the two of us. "We going for dinner?"

I thought for an instant that we shouldn't associate
with Abruzzo. He was obviously a suspect in Bloom's investigation.

But the crowd jostled around us just then, and Eloise Tackett appeared beside me, an energetic elf. "Nora, I found that young man art dealer we talked about. Come on, dear, let me introduce you."

"Certainly," I said to Eloise, glad to escape. Then, to Emma, "You two run along to the Swann. I'll catch up. Only be careful, Em. He's sneaky."

Abruzzo laughed.

So did Emma. She took hold of his tie. "C'mon. Let's get acquainted."

I waved them off and plunged into the crowd to follow Eloise Tackett. I wasn't annoyed with Emma. Not much, at least. And Abruzzo could do whatever the hell he pleased and it wouldn't affect me at all. Not remotely. But I was furious just the same. Must have been the funeral that put me into such a foul mood.

Eloise didn't notice my temper. "Nora, dear, this is Jonathan Longnecker, a young man we've known for a long time. Jonathan, this is Nora Blackbird. Nora was a friend of Rory's."

It was the bald man who'd elbowed me out of his way at the bar at Rory's party. He was in his late thirties, I guessed. Like so many youngish men who found themselves going bald, he'd shaved his entire head and put a tasteful diamond stud in one earlobe. His suit was a two-year-old Hugo Boss; I knew, since my husband had favored that designer. Longnecker had updated it with a steel blue shirt and a dark blue tie beneath the perfectly cut lapels. Arty, yet butch, I decided.

I shook hands with him and smiled. "I've seen you before."

"I think I'd remember if we'd met."

"Rory's party," I reminded him. "We passed at the bar."

Longnecker poured on the charm with a practiced smile and good eye contact. "You have a good memory for detail."

"I've just spent a lot of time thinking about what I saw that night."

"That's understandable." Longnecker continued to hold my hand after we'd shaken. I recognized the technique—Step One in coaxing rich women to entrust their money to him. "We're all in shock."

I remembered how agitated Longnecker had appeared at Rory's party. His face had been a mask of anger when he shoved past me. Had Jill said something—what was it?—about his having an argument with Rory?

"Jonathan used to be a freelancer," Harold explained, voice raised. "Brought me some pictures for my collection. Pendergast's, too. Now he's respectable, though. Just took a job with a museum in California. if you can call that respectable!"

General laughter.

I asked, "Are you still freelancing?"

"It doesn't hurt to keep my hand in."

"That's interesting," I said. "I wonder if you could tell me more about how your business works?"

He kicked his flirting up a notch. "I'd love it."

"Now?"

He laughed, looking pleased. "You mean this minute?"

Smiling like a matchmaker who'd completed her mission, Eloise said archly, "Come on, Harold. I hate driving in rush hour, but I hate driving in the dark a lot more. We'd better get going."