No Way to Kill a Lady (13 page)

“It's nice to see you,” I replied, careful not to pretend I recalled the specifics of our previous meeting. I had learned not to lie. It was too easy to make an embarrassing faux pas.

“Yeah, I check out your social tidbits almost every day. My twins, Dante and Donora, are here this afternoon. You want to take their picture?”

“Sure.”

She led me to two adorable cherubs who were fighting like rabid hyenas over possession of the same square of paper. They rubbed paint on each other's drawings, and the result was blobs of angry-­looking purple. I tried snapping a photo with my camera phone.

Reggie said, “I saw the article in the paper about Madeleine Blackbird. She was your aunt?”

“Great-­aunt, actually.”

“My dad knew her. He says she introduced him to his first wife.”

I looked away from my camera lens. “Really? His first wife?”

“Yes, their marriage didn't last long. She had worked in an embassy office in Stockholm. I guess that's how she met Madeleine—­from some parties. She didn't like living here and so she went back to her family in Sweden. After their divorce, they kept in touch and were friendly, but my dad met my mom, and they've been married ever since. Look, it's just—­I can't imagine my dad consorting with—­well, with any woman who was—­you know, what the newspaper said. He's very straitlaced.”

“I firmly believe the newspapers are all wrong about Madeleine.”

She looked relieved. “It's good to hear you say that. Because if he thought anybody imagined his first wife was a—­a—­well, he'd have a stroke or something.”

I wanted to ask more questions—­I wasn't sure I'd ever met Reggie's father—­but little Dante chose that moment to splat a fat dollop of purple paint squarely across his sister's face. She burst into wails of outrage.

Reggie told her son he was getting a “time-­out” as soon as they got home, a threat that didn't daunt him in the least. He went back to painting while his mother took his sister off to wash her face.

I snapped Dante's photo just to be on the safe side. It didn't hurt to make a reader happy—­especially one who visited the news­paper's Web site every day.

The woman in charge noticed me and rushed over to demand that I put my camera phone away.

I produced my card. “I'm Nora Blackbird from the
Philadelphia
Intelligencer.
You invited me.”

“Oh, I didn't recognize you. Sorry. We have to be very careful,” she told me after she had relaxed. “You just never know who might turn out to be a creep taking pictures of innocent kids and turning them into Internet porn. At my daughter's gymnastics class, the instructor had to ban cameras completely from the gym.”

I murmured my dismay. There were even more treacherous threats against children than the ones Emma had considered.

“Yes,” said the woman in charge, “being a parent nowadays requires extra vigilance. Have you met Sandra? She's our chief fund-­raiser.”

I shook Sandra's hand, and she gave me the lowdown on the organization. They were making an honest effort to provide a quality program for kids who didn't get much exposure to the arts, and although today's event wasn't going to overflow the bank account, she told me about future events that sounded as if they'd be more successful.

I didn't have time to stick around to ask Reggie Markelson more questions. Over the wails of furious children, I took a few final notes for my column and thanked Sandra before slipping out of the museum.

A sharp wind blew up from the Schuylkill River, so I tucked my nose down into my scarf and hiked back toward city hall. I passed a mailbox and dropped in my latest letter to Lexie.

On the stroke of six, I ducked into my next event, at a revered men's club that was at least a hundred and fifty years old. I hoped to encounter a little more civility under its venerable roof.

The building was a beautiful example of Romanesque architecture, with a wide marble staircase and winged-­footed runners poised on the newel posts, holding bronze lanterns aloft. On the paneled walls, heavy-­framed oil paintings of early Philadelphia landmarks hung next to portraits of stern gentlemen—­some of them wearing the blue uniform of the Army of the Potomac. In an upstairs smoking room, I knew, there was a painting of a splendid horse carrying a rather dyspeptic-­looking General Ambrose Burnside. The painting had been donated by one of his club member friends—­my great-­great-­grandfather Blackbird.

Inside the club, the mood was everything the children's party had not been—­hushed and staid. I might have chosen the word
lifeless
if I hadn't bumped into a friend of my mother's in the gilt-­mirrored ladies' room.

“Nora, you look radiant,” said Mrs. Banks as she kissed my cold cheeks.

“I just walked from the museum,” I told her with a laugh.

“How intrepid! Vigorous exercise must be how you keep your good looks. Myself, I can barely make it through my yoga class every morning. I must be getting old.”

“You look younger than ever,” I said promptly.

“Do you think so?” She checked her reflection in the mirror and adjusted a lock of platinum hair. She wore a heavy silver dress that was perhaps jumping the holiday season by a few weeks, but it suited her figure. “My husband insisted we come out for this party tonight, but of course I'd rather spend a quiet evening at home.”

Judging by the fur coat over her arm, the diamonds on her hands and the towering heels she wore, I had the feeling she was lying through her teeth.

“Are you on the committee?” I asked.

Tonight's event honored an environmental group that championed the cleanup of local waterways. I knew that Mrs. Banks and her husband—­despite their fine clothes and good manners—­had inherited a rough-­and-­tumble river salvage business. They earned their income from big companies that were forced to clean up old industrial sites.

“No, no,” she said. “I'm past committee work. Let the young people have their day. No, we're just very committed to this cause. If we don't take care of our rivers, what will the future be for our children and grandchildren?”

“It's a wonderful mission,” I said, aware that without government regulations that required clean water, her husband's company might have gone out of business years ago for lack of customers. “I have a friend who used to get out on the river every morning for exercise. She told me there's been a huge improvement in the quality of the water in recent years. So you're obviously doing something right.”

Margo Banks gave me a sideways look. “You're talking about Lexie Paine, aren't you? How tragic that she went to jail.”

“Yes.” Mentally I kicked myself for bringing up Lexie. I had vowed not to gossip about my friend, and here I'd opened the subject myself.

“It's a shame about her,” Mrs. Banks said. “I knew her father, of course. He'd be horrified to learn she killed someone.”

“It was a terrible tragedy,” I said faintly.

“Some people say it wasn't her fault. But, of course, she admitted to pushing that man out the window. She pleaded guilty, right? So whatever made her do it doesn't matter much, does it? She committed a horrific crime. So she must pay the appropriate price.”

The moral complexities of Lexie's case had consumed me for months. I didn't want to try breaking it down for the likes of Mrs. Banks.

I pulled a pen from my bag and changed the subject. “Can you introduce me to anyone on the committee? I should try to get an interview before I move on to my next event.”

“I'm so impressed that you have a job now, Nora. Your mother must be proud. Have you heard from her lately?”

“Not this week,” I said brightly, fully aware that Mrs. Banks was itching to hear the latest gossip about my parents, too. “Have you?”

“Unfortunately, no.” Mrs. Banks tucked her lipstick into her evening bag. “I gather they're having a wonderful time. Of course, your parents certainly know how to do that.”

I avoided responding to her remark by opening the door and standing aside so she could precede me out of the ladies' room. She sailed out into the carpeted hallway and was immediately hailed by friends, so I sidestepped her and continued into the party alone.

I had expected the evening's crowd to be younger and more vital than the usual club membership, but I should have guessed by the early hour of the cocktail portion of the evening that the guests would be mostly senior citizens. Around Philadelphia, there were many “rescue the rivers” organizations, and this one was more old-­money than most. The guests were mainly retired folk—­a trend I had begun to notice among many philanthropic causes. Younger working people didn't have time to attend weeknight events anymore. They devoted long daylight hours to their jobs and were anxious to get home to their families at night. I wondered if all charitable organizations might suffer from the lack of young people to energize them.

Once again I reminded myself it was up to the likes of me to find ways to coax my own age group back to good works.

The club might have been a forbidding old place, but it was kept in beautiful condition because it was a popular wedding venue. Income from large society weddings kept the chandeliers polished and the marble in good repair. A beautiful inlaid mosaic marble floor had been added since my last visit. It was a good complement to the already magnificent first impression the decor elicited.

Tonight's cocktail nibbles were mostly frozen quiches that had been feebly reheated, but I assumed the menu had been chosen to please older palates and so I gave the kitchen a pass. Although my stomach rumbled, I decided not to waste the calories.

I made a few notes, but chose not to take any photos. My column wouldn't be brightened by a report from this event, and I doubted the guests were likely to check online for pictures of themselves.

As I headed for the door, I encountered Mrs. Banks again. This time her husband stood with her, holding a drink. He'd inherited his fortune from his blue-­collar father—­a rough man with a boat and name that had more syllables and consonants than “Banks” did. But once his father left this earth, Frederick Banks had changed his name and turned to golf, leaving his office every day at noon to play eighteen holes with cronies. I'd heard he passed on the leadership of his business to a nephew who worked hard and skipped the country club scene.

Mr. Banks proffered his hand. On his square, still suntanned face he had pasted that mild, pleasant look elderly men sometimes assumed at cocktail parties when they couldn't hear a thing.

I shook his hand. “Hello, Mr. Banks. How nice to see you.”

He had good manners—­smiling as he shook my hand, although he obviously had no clue who I was.

Mrs. Banks raised her voice. “This is Nora Blackbird, Freddie. You remember.”

“Hello, hello,” he said vaguely. “How's your dad?”

“Traveling again. Having a ball.”

“Give him my best.”

On a whim, I said, “You've been friends a long time, haven't you?”

“He sponsored my membership at the country club,” Frederick Banks said. “He could have been a helluva golfer, your dad, if he had concentrated. But he'd rather learn a new joke than put in extra practice time, wouldn't he?”

“He loves to laugh.” Then I decided to seize the moment. I said, “Mr. Banks, did you know my great-­aunt Madeleine?”

Mr. Banks looked thunderstruck.

I didn't know what I said wrong, but it must have been my day to endure the behavior of people who lost their civility.

Mrs. Banks made a choking noise in her throat, and her face turned very red. “How dare you bring up that woman to my husband!”

Then she stepped forward, raised her hand and slapped me across the face.

CHAPTER TEN

T
asting blood, I grabbed a cocktail napkin and scooted down the club's steps as quickly as I could. I was lucky to catch a cab outside the hotel next door. Breathless, I gave the driver directions, then subsided in the backseat to regain my composure. I opened the mirror on my compact. The force of the slap had cut the inner side of my cheek against my teeth.

No marks on the outside, thank heavens. I'd have plenty of explaining to do if I developed a fat lip.

I sat back against the seat, stunned. At the mere mention of my aunt, Frederick Banks had looked as if he'd swallowed a frog. I tucked my compact back into my bag and tried to think. What was his relationship to Aunt Madeleine? I knew the newspaper story about her was wrong, but obviously Mrs. Banks knew something I hadn't learned yet.

“Miss?”

The cab had arrived at my destination without my realizing it.

I paid the driver and got out into the darkness. A cold, damp wind whipped across the water and hit me hard. The first hint of coming winter. A few lights illuminated the deserted marina. I glanced down across the boats that were tied side by side along one dock. Some already wore their winter covers. Others bobbed, waiting to be pulled from the water and trailered away to storage. Or perhaps waiting for one more day of good sailing.

My husband, Todd, and I had enjoyed sailing before his addiction took over, so marinas like this one were familiar territory.

At the end of the main dock there was a spectacular yacht, and it didn't take a genius to know this was the one Sutherland had brought up from southern waters.

It was the biggest, most modern yacht in the marina—­a sleek black vessel with beautiful curves, strong steel masts and graceful canopies arching over her decks. A small dingy was lashed upside down to an upper deck and two Jet Skis hung on the stern. By the light of a lantern, I could see someone had painted a Picasso-­like sketch of a bare-­breasted woman on the bow. Her hair streamed back from bare shoulders. Her right arm pointed forward, as if aiming for the high seas. The boat's name and luxurious port of origin danced on her stern:

ARIADNE

MYKONOS

Just to be sure, I stopped at the marina manager's office. I knocked and poked my head into the small shanty—­a building with big windows on three sides, heated by a small space heater that blasted warm air up from the floor. Still, the manager was wrapped in a parka. A football game muttered on a portable television near his foot.

“Hi,” I said. “I'm looking for Sutherland Blackbird's boat?”

The manager didn't get up from his stool. He was an older gentleman, wearing a Flyers cap over a thatch of gray hair. He hadn't shaved in a while, and his eyeglasses were smudgy. He looked up from a crossword puzzle on the table in front of him. “Yeah, sure. Slip number twelve.”

“Thanks.”

Before I could close the door, he added, “It's been a long time since we had a Blackbird around here.”

I stepped in and closed the door to keep the warmth inside. “Oh, yes?”

“Sure,” he said. “When I first started working here, another couple kept a boat in this marina. Nice people. She was a beauty. And he always brought us a nice bottle for the holidays.”

He meant Madeleine, I realized, and her husband—­Sutherland's father.

I said, “You worked here when they sailed?”

“Yep. Helped them out a couple of times, too. They were the real deal, weren't they?”

“Yes, they were.”

A radio crackled on his desk, and he flipped a switch to answer the call.

While he was occupied, I took a quick glance at the clipboard on his wall. I read down the information on the boats until he finished talking to someone on the radio.

When he hung up his microphone, he turned to me. “Yeah, I remember they used to bring us bottles of Russian vodka. That's strong stuff, lemme tell you.”

His radio squawked again, and he waved me on my way. I went outside and hurried along the dock toward the yacht, stepping carefully to avoid catching my heels between the boards.

I spotted Sutherland waiting for me in an open door above the gangway. A glittering light shone behind him, beckoning me into the warmth. He held a thick glass in one hand. His shirt was unbuttoned to the middle of his sternum. The picture of romantic welcome. Except his neck looked a little saggy to carry off the picture perfectly.

He caught my arm and helped me up the gently bobbing gangway. His voice was smooth. “Hello, Cuz. Nice of you to join me.”

Only a quick turn of my head prevented him from planting a kiss on my mouth. He grazed my cheek instead.

“Hello, Sutherland. It's a cold night for sailing.”

“But a perfect night for a cozy drink together,” he countered playfully. “I gave the crew the night off, so I'll do the honors myself. Can I pour you something?”

I slipped past him into the yacht's luxurious salon. But I walked only a few steps across the marble tiles before I stopped, awestruck by the interior design. Sutherland pulled the door closed behind himself then strolled into the cabin and over to me, waiting for my response to the surrounding grandeur.

“Well?” he said, as I glanced appreciatively around the salon. “Did you bring your luggage? We could sail around the world together, you and me.”

“She's gorgeous,” I said when I could speak. “I love the furniture. And that painting—­! Is it a de Kooning?” I recognized the slashing strokes and vivid colors of the artist's abstract expressionism.

“Yes, indeed. The other one's a Motherwell, worth a small fortune. Let me take your coat. Shall we put your bag down here?”

I let him play host and took a more careful look around.

Four tufted sofas upholstered in white sharkskin were gathered around a beveled-­glass table that had been etched with a seascape design of roiling waves, leaping dolphins and the same half-­naked woman depicted on the bow of the yacht. This time, though, she wielded a trident and a come-­hither smile. Around the salon stood deep, comfortable chairs, gilt-­legged tables and cabinets winking with porcelain figures and fine glassware. Lead-­crystal lamps stood under silk shades. Sutherland lived in fabulous luxury.

I said, “It must be easy living this way.”

“I'd be lying if I said it wasn't very easy,” Sutherland agreed.

On the marble floor tile lay an Oriental rug swirling with subtle ocean colors—­unique and probably custom-­woven. I guessed the rug alone was worth more than most luxury cars.

Through a darkened doorway, I could see the lacquered dining table and chairs. “This looks like the boat of a Saudi prince.”

Indulging himself, Sutherland said, “Check this out, Scheher­azade.”

He used a handheld remote control to dim the lights, lower the window shades and cue up music from hidden speakers.

“Electronics,” I said, shaking my head with amusement. “That's a man's fantasy, I'm afraid. All you need is a Bond girl to make the picture complete.”

He thumbed the remote again, and an enormous television rose from inside a cabinet. A football game blazed onto the screen.

“You just spoiled the mood, Sutherland.”

“Give me a break,” he begged, unapologetically insincere. “I've been out of the States for years. I need my football fix.”

“Just turn down the sound, will you?” I plugged my ears. The crowd noise was loud enough to make me believe I was standing in the middle of the stadium alongside the players.

“Oh, have it your way.” He turned off the television and tossed the remote aside. “You act like a woman who knows what a man enjoys, though. Does your current flame watch football?”

I thought of Michael and his various sports obsessions—­all of which only reminded me that his family ran a vast illegal betting operation. But I said, “He's more than a current flame, you know. We're in a committed relationship.”

“A committed relationship,” Sutherland repeated, amused. “Why do I think you're not telling the whole truth?”

“I am, though. You're barking up the wrong tree, Cousin. If you brought me here to talk romance, it's time to change the subject. We have much more serious matters to discuss.”

Sutherland smiled. “How about that drink first?”

“Ice water?”

“I can do better than that,” he said playfully. “Let me show you the wine collection.”

I put my hand on his arm to stop him. “No, just water, please. I hurt my lip earlier.”

His brow clouded. “I'm sorry to hear that. An accident?”

“I hope so,” I said more lightly than I felt.

“That sounds mysterious. What's up?” He went behind a bar that looked as if it had been cut from a block of jade. He prepared a glass of ice water.

“It was something I said. I mentioned Aunt Madeleine's name, and suddenly a lady clobbered me.” I described what had happened at the club.

“She hit you! Good God, who was it?”

“A friend of my parents.”

“Why would she slap you?”

“Clearly she had some kind of beef with Madeleine.”

Sutherland handed me a cut-­crystal glass. “Madeleine's been gone a long while. Time to forgive and forget.”

I accepted the drink. I wanted to talk about how long she'd been gone, but I asked, “Did you see today's newspapers?”

He pulled a face. “Yes. What a pack of lies.”

“So you don't believe the story?”

“That Madeleine was some sort of Mayflower Madam? Of course not.”

I sipped the water gingerly. The cold felt good on the sore spot in my mouth.

Sutherland continued. “Not that she was a prude, of course. Both she and my father had affairs. None of that tiresome American
bourgeois
morality for either of them. They met someone interesting and—­off to bed! In Madeleine's case, to read poetry, I'm sure.” He winked. “Maybe that's what your slapper was annoyed about. Maybe her husband slept with Madeleine? I remember her getting on a private jet with a randy billionaire from Texas. They flew to Norway for dinner. Who knew there was a decent restaurant in Norway?”

“Sutherland,” I said.

He continued to blather.

I sat on the sofa and crossed one leg over the other, but the longer I sat there with his nonsense sailing over my head, the more my mouth hurt and the more I couldn't control the angry sensation that had started boiling in my chest. I felt offended on Madeleine's behalf. I was sick of my cousin's sneaky ways. I was tired of being a good girl. I wished I'd accepted Michael's offer to bring along one of his goons to beat Sutherland senseless. Sometimes it must feel good, I thought, to shove somebody's face in a puddle—­especially somebody who'd done you wrong or hidden the truth or otherwise committed a self-­serving act at the expense of others. My head hurt.

I set my glass down and got up from the sofa. Sutherland stopped babbling. The next thing I knew, I was plucking the electronic remote from the table and heading for the door. On my way, I grabbed the Motherwell painting off the wall.

Sutherland yelped.

With the painting under my arm, I stalked out onto the deck of the yacht. I threw the remote overboard.

Sutherland skidded to a stop at the railing just as the remote control hit the cold water with a splash. “Nora! What's gotten into you? Wait—­no!”

“Stand back,” I snapped. “Or the painting goes, too.”

“Have you gone crazy?”

“Just what the hell have you been up to, Sutherland?”

“Up to?”

I dangled the painting over the water.

“No! Please! It's worth millions!”

“So start talking. Today you told me Madeleine has been dead in an elevator for twenty years. But a week ago, you sent her obituary to the newspapers.”

“I did no such thing!”

I let the painting slip just an inch. He screamed and clapped both hands over his mouth.

“Do I have your attention now, Cuz? I
work
for a newspaper. It took me one phone call to figure out it was you who told the newspapers Madeleine was dead in Indonesia. You made that up! In five minutes, my teenage nephew could have found a way to send an obituary without your name right on it, but you bungled it, you—­you master criminal!”

Sutherland dithered, his eyes as wide as saucers.

“Why on earth did you send an obituary before you knew she was dead?” I demanded. “Because you must have already
known
she'd been in that elevator for years! So talk! Before I lose my grip on your expensive artwork.”

“All right, all right! But, please—­the Motherwell!”

I kept the painting right where it was—­hanging over the water and twisting in the wind.

“Okay, okay, I knew Madeleine died a long time ago. I went to Quintain—­to see the place. I was really very fond of it— No!” When I leaned over the railing, he stopped embellishing his story and went on hastily, “After Madeleine announced she was going to Indonesia, I went to the damn house to see if I could—­if there was anything of value she might have left behind that might—­well, that I could take. She'd never have noticed if a few of her silly baubles went missing, would she? And I was broke. So I went to the house. But I—­well, the electricity was off, so I turned it on, and then the elevator opened, and there she was—­dead as a doornail. Let me tell you, it was a horror. It took me years to recover from the sight of her—­”

“So you stole her things. You stole everything out of the house instead of calling the police?”

“No, of course I didn't steal everything,” Sutherland said. “I took one or two little items, but— Oh! Nora, please! That painting isn't mine. If something happens to the damn thing—­”

“Keep talking! You stole her belongings? Without telling anyone she had died? And then?”