How to Murder a Millionaire (20 page)

Caution won. I said, "Let's go downstairs."

"Just one second," he replied. "What are the chances Libby did this herself? Maybe she was trying to get this thing back."

"No, she'd never make a mess like this." I was thinking of the watercolor paintings torn off the walls on the staircase. "She wouldn't destroy things."

He shrugged. "Just a thought."

He stood aside and let me precede him out of the room.

On the way down the stairs, I picked up the three framed watercolors that Libby had painted. Looking at them, I used the phone in the kitchen and dialed Libby's number.

Ralph answered. Although it was late, I could hear the kids arguing in the background.

"I'm sorry to call so late," I said, "but, Ralph, I really need to talk to Libby."

"She's not here," he said placidly, despite the shouting near him. "She went to New York."

"What?" My voice cracked. "What for?"

"To look for a dress."

"A dress," I said. A huge crash resonated over the phone line.

"Lucy, cut that out, please. Leave your brother alone. You know," Ralph said to me, "for the wedding."

"She's shopping," I said stupidly.

"Yeah, I think she'll be back in a couple of days."

"Listen, Ralph, do you know where's she's staying? What hotel?"

The children's altercation turned into a brawl. I could hear shrieking, but Ralph said calmly, "She's with a friend. At her friend's apartment. Sylvia somebody. I don't have the number, though. She usually calls home to check in."

"Okay," I said steadily. "It's important that she call me, Ralph. I really need to talk to her. As soon as possible."

"Sure," said Ralph. "I'll tell her. Is there anything I can do? Are you okay?"

"I'm okay," I said. The last thing I wanted was anyone else dragged into the quagmire. And it sounded as though Ralph had his hands full with the kids. "Just ask Libby to call me soon—it doesn't matter what time."

"Will do," Ralph promised before signing off to deal with Libby's wild animals.

I phoned Emma next. She listened to my story and promised to arrive in twenty minutes.

While we waited for her, I cleaned the broken glass out of the picture frames and looked at the small watercolors Libby had painted when we were still in school. Even then, her technique had been beautiful, outshone only by her flare for capturing a moment of action and figure with simple brush strokes. She had sketched all three of us one evening when we'd gone skinny-dipping in the river and added paint later. She'd even managed to insert her own, fuller frame between Emma's and my own, the three of us laughing in the half-light—natural girls teasing each other into showing off our teenage bodies. My throat clogged as
I looked down at those three sisters bound by countless such evenings together. We hadn't always gotten along or been happy, but nothing kept me more grounded than my bond with my sisters.

By the time Emma arrived, I was angry. Someone was trying to break that bond.

Chapter 15

Emma stared at me when Abruzzo had fled—apparently not wanting to be in the same house with two women he'd kissed on the same night. Emma said, "Are you nuts?"

"What have I done now?"

"Why did you bother calling me when you had the gangster studmuffin here?" She wagged her head in despair. "Some day, Nora, you're going to explode from all those pent-up hormones."

I looked at her askance. After the funeral she had changed into jeans and a sweatshirt. The shirt was smeared with something that could have been dried horse slobber, yet my sister still managed to look like a sex kitten. I asked, "Did you have a good time with him?"

She grinned. "Can't blame a girl for trying. I jumped him when he walked me to the parking garage. He cooperated, but his heart wasn't in it. Did you have better luck?"

"My house has been vandalized, Em."

"I get it. No time for nooky. Okay, tell me what's going on."

Blase as she pretended to be, Emma actually became solicitous and made us one of her trademark margaritas to share. Then we went upstairs and made
my bed while I spilled the whole story. I showed her the folio along with the note Libby sent me.

"And now she's gone dress shopping in New York," I added, running my finger along the rim of the glass for the salt. "And Ralph doesn't have her phone number."

Emma curled up on the bed with the folio and became as engrossed in the pictures as Abruzzo had been. "So? The wedding is next weekend. She needs a dress."

"But, Emma—"

Emma turned another page. "She's shopping for clothes, for Pete's sake. You know the whole Treese family will look like they've been to Paris. Libby will want to look just as good."

"I'm so sorry Libby has to obsess about her wardrobe! Dammit, Emma, I'm going crazy. She dumped this on me and skipped town! Did she say anything when she gave you the folio?"

Emma looked up from the folio at last and blinked. "I thought it was a bag of books. She didn't say what it was. So I took it and left."

"Back up. Did she call you to come get it?"

"No, I stopped at her house on my way to Paddy's barn. I take doughnuts to the kids on Saturday mornings. A little sugar jazzes them up. Sometimes I think those kids need to cut loose."

"Was Libby okay?"

"Of course. I mean, she was her usual self, if that qualifies as okay. Maybe she was a little upset, I guess. Jill Mascione was there."

"Jill? At Libby's house? What on earth for?"

"She was talking to Ralph about the menu for the rehearsal dinner. Ralph was angry and Libby ran outside to talk to me while he argued with Jill about chicken or something."

"Ralph was angry?"

Emma shrugged and went back to the folio. "As angry as Ralph ever gets. I certainly didn't hear him shouting. The whole wedding has gotten out of hand, I think. It's expensive. Ralph was looking for a way to cut the cost."

"And Libby promptly went to New York to buy a dress?"

"Nobody ever said Libby is sensitive. Remember, she was the one who upstaged you at your own wedding by going into labor."

"Hardly her fault."

"She could have kept the screaming to a minimum until the minister finished."

I sighed. "I want to shake her right now."

"Get in line."

I sank down on the bed and put the empty glass on the nightstand.

"We'll find her." Emma kicked me gently, which was as supportive as my younger sister ever got. "But not tonight. You look like you've been wrung out like a towel. Is this what sex does to you? Because I can see why you avoid it if—"

"I did not have sex with anyone."

"Too bad," said Emma. She lay back on the bed and noticed the horse slobber stain on her shirt. She picked at it. "You should give him a chance."

I flopped back on the bed and looked at the ceiling. Too much adrenaline had exhausted me, but I knew who she was talking about. "Libby says he's a criminal."

"Consider the source." She gave up on the stain and stretched out her stiff leg. Then she looked at the ceiling, too. "I thought he was kinda sweet. An Old
World sort of guy, who'd maybe kill a man for touching his woman, you know? A little macho. But sweet."

"Sweet?" I had not considered him sweet when for an instant I thought he was ready to beat up Jonathan Longnecker on my behalf. The possibility had horrified me. "No, he's not sweet."

"Lighten up. He's trying to be nice. He's trying to take care of you. And from the looks of this place, you could use it."

We continued to gaze at the ceiling. Some water damage was starting to show in the corner. Before winter, I'd have to do something about the roof.

I said, "Why do people feel I need to be taken care of? I'm not a pushover."

"You're—I don't know—feminine. That automatically gives people the impression that you're helpless."

Looking over at my sister in her riding clothes, I decided nobody would ever mistake her for a helpless female. Yet I knew she was as soft on the inside as a woman could get. I made an inner vow to start exuding more self-confidence. Or buy myself a pair of riding boots and a slobber-stained shirt.

Emma said, "I've got to get up early and run over to Paddy Horgan's place. Dibs on the first shower. When I get back, we'll go look for Libby. Meantime, quit worrying. Libby might be a twit, but she's not stupid."

On Wednesday morning, I started putting the house back together and listened for the telephone. I willed Libby to call. She could explain everything, I was sure, and tell me what she wanted me to do. Meanwhile, I swept up glass and filled garbage bags with the broken rubble smashed by the vandals.

My collection had been scattered all over the floors.

It needed a good thinning, I knew, but it was hard for me to part with books of any kind, even to a good cause like a library sale. Some of my shelves had been broken, so I stacked volumes on the kitchen table and in some of the cardboard cartons left over from my move to the farm.

Libby didn't call.

I took a break from cleaning to phone Detective Bloom. I figured he might have learned something about Rory's art collection by now. Surely the police had their hands on an inventory. It was only a matter of time before they discovered the folio was missing. And Jonathan Longnecker would point them straight at Libby.

I planned my questions to pry the most information out of Bloom without arousing his curiosity. But he was away from his desk, and his cell phone didn't answer.

At noon I brewed tea, and worked up my courage to phone Abruzzo. I found his business card with his various phone numbers. I tried them all, but he didn't answer.

Of course, I remembered. Abruzzo had made arrangements to meet with Detective Bloom that morning. I hung up. No wonder I couldn't reach either one of them. They were probably slugging it out at the police station.

Around one, Emma returned with Wawa hoagies, a local delicacy that provided most of Emma's weekly calorie intake.

"I should go out this afternoon," I said. "I have an assignment for work. But I hate to leave the phone. What if Libby calls?"

"I'll stay here," Emma said, eating her sandwich as she poked through the pile of books on the table. "I
can clean up a little. If you want, I'll haul this trash and broken furniture out in my truck. And I'll try phoning some of Libby's PTA pals, too."

"Good idea." It felt good to have an ally at last.

"I wonder," she said, pulling the onions out of her sandwich, "if maybe Libby and Ralph had a spat. Maybe she's just off sulking somewhere. It's her style. And Ralph may be too embarrassed to tell us the truth."

That didn't explain someone breaking into my house. We both looked at the mess again.

I said, "Maybe you shouldn't be here alone this afternoon."

 
"I'll be fine." She dusted the crumbs of her sandwich onto the plate and carried it to the sink. "Paddy Horgan has some puppies right now. You should take one."

"What would I do with a puppy?"

"It would grow up into a dog." She saw my scowl and shrugged. "Just an idea. Where are you going today?"

"I have to cover a tea for the flower show fund-raising committee."

She leaned against the counter, folded her arms and gave me a wry look. "Wow. Take your smelling salts. The excitement may be too much to handle."

"I want to talk to some people about Rory's murder," I said. "And the tea party may be just the right place. It's at Peach Treese's house, and she's first on my list."

"Go for it." Emma came over and shuffled idly through the books on the table again. She fingered Michael Shaara's
The Killer Angels.
"What are you going to wear?"

Her oh so casual tone raised my suspicions. "Why do you ask?"

She grinned wickedly. "I think I can do something about your tendency to look like a nun no matter what you have on."

We raided Grandmama's dress collection, and Emma dragged out a lavender satin skirt with hundreds of tiny flowers that had probably been appliqued by French nuns. "You could probably sell this on eBay for a small fortune."

"On the other hand, I need something to wear this afternoon."

She studied the skirt with a critical eye. "Got any scissors?"

"You're kidding, right?"

"You could use a little sex appeal, Nora. Get me the scissors. It'll be fun."

I couldn't watch. My grandmother had traveled to Paris every spring to buy new clothes for her worldly lifestyle. Her taste wasn't always perfect, but she had shown a certain spunk in her selections that crisscrossed various couture houses. I loved the pink silks, the beautiful bias-cut dresses and the slinky bathing suits meant for Cannes. I even liked her Grace Kelly period of the wasp-waisted dresses with the flouncing skirts. Most of the pieces were still pristine. When I'd first started attending parties for the
Intelligencer,
desperation had driven me to the cedar-lined closets where the exquisite clothing had been packed in delicate paper or hung on padded hangers.