No Way to Kill a Lady (14 page)

“And then nothing. Do you think I'd willingly go back to that house, knowing she was rotting there?”

A powerful wave of regret—­or was it nausea?—­swept up from inside me, but I fought it down. “Was it you who pretended she was still alive? You sent the postcards?”

“Me? No, I don't know anything about that.”

I had already thought ahead to Pippi. If Pee Wee was telling the truth—­that she had disappeared about the same time Madeleine planned to leave the country for Indonesia—­perhaps she had been the one sending postcards, pretending Madeleine was alive and well. Which meant Pippi knew Madeleine was dead. Had she killed her? And stolen the treasures of Quintain to finance a new life for herself far away?

“I should phone the police right now,” I said to Sutherland. “I don't know why I haven't done that already. I'm giving you a chance to come clean this minute, Sutherland, and then we'll discuss what you can be prosecuted for. How did Madeleine die?”

“I presume it happened just the way you saw for yourself. The electricity must have gone off, and she was trapped. Look, she was beyond help. Why shouldn't I have helped myself just a little?”

“You're appalling,” I said. “She died of thirst and starvation, alone, trapped in an elevator. And all you thought of was yourself.” I threw the painting at him.

He caught it, bobbled it, then hugged the frame against himself as if it were a kitten he'd saved from drowning.

I had more questions, of course. But I was so angry with Sutherland just then that all the possibilities were jumbled up in my head. And what had Michael said? That eventually the rough interrogation tactics stopped working? It was time to let Sutherland stew. I asked, “When you told the police it was Madeleine in the elevator, what did Foley have to say?”

Sutherland hugged the painting, silent.

“You didn't tell Deputy Foley,” I guessed. “You knew it was Madeleine, but you didn't mention it?”

“I didn't say anything. Not then. Not with all the lawyers gathered around.”

“What do the lawyers have to do with anything? They've been deceived, too, if they were led to believe Madeleine had moved to Indonesia.”

“I'm not worried about all the lawyers,” he said. “Just Groatley.”

“What does that mean?”

“I've been a fool, Nora. I know that now. But I—­I caught Groatley. After Libby found the body in the elevator, before the police came and—­well, everybody wandered around the mansion for a while. Groatley was in Madeleine's little study. I caught him rummaging in her desk. Clearly, he was searching for something. Something important. He was sweating and breathing heavily—­he acted like a guilty man. He turned three shades of red when I came in the door. He pushed past me to get out, blustering something about client privilege.”

“Did he have anything in his hands?”

“No, nothing. I suppose he could have tucked something small into one of his pockets, but my impression was that he didn't find what he was looking for.”

“Well, he was Madeleine's lawyer,” I said. “Unlike you, maybe he really did have her best interests at heart.”

“Or maybe he was covering up something.”

“There's a lot of that going around.”

Sutherland flushed. “I caught him ransacking her desk. He's up to something.”

“What do you think he's doing?”

“Who knows?”

“I'm calling the police,” I said, turning away from him. “Let them sort everything out.”

“Wait, Nora. Please. Another day or two won't hurt the police investigation—­not if the crime happened two decades ago. You and I should think things through.”

I didn't know what to think. Except I could hear Aunt Madeleine's voice in my head. She had said, “You're the one I can trust, aren't you?”

Glaring at my cousin, I could understand why she didn't trust him, why she had cut her own stepson out of her will. Even now, Sutherland was working an angle. I had spent enough time in Michael's company to spot the signs. Sutherland didn't have a plan yet, but he was working on something profitable.

But I'd lost my stomach for torturing the truth out of him. I felt sick—­sick of myself as much as anything else.

I checked my watch. “We're definitely going to talk more about this, Sutherland, but not now. I'm going to be late.”

He tried to look disappointed. “Why don't you stop by again later? We can talk a little longer. And,” he said in a different tone, “we can explore the rest of the boat.”

“Shut up,” I said. “I'm not going to be your accomplice. I want you to come to Blackbird Farm tomorrow. By then I'll be able to think straight. Come for lunch. We'll figure out what happens next.”

“Sounds good.” Sutherland smiled. “I can meet your committed relationship.”

I smiled, too. I figured Sutherland was still lying to me. But tomorrow I just might turn Michael and his thugs loose on him and watch the fun.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

I
wanted to rush home and spill the new developments in the Madeleine story to Michael. He would have a theory about her death. Not to mention insight into the ruse somebody had perpetrated to keep us convinced that Madeleine was living in Indonesia.

But I had another event to attend. In better weather, I'd have walked the distance to the convention center. I could have phoned Reed to pick me up, but I knew he'd gone to visit his mother in Philadelphia and it would take him the better part of half an hour to reach me. So Sutherland called me a cab.

He actually tried to kiss me good-­bye, but I dodged him.

I was a few minutes late arriving at the convention center, where many players from the Flyers hockey team were making good use of their night off the ice by helping a local charity to kick off a big holiday toy drive.

On my way inside, I was air-­kissed by several women I knew. I was also bussed hard on the cheek by three men I did not know in the slightest, and one inebriated man who mistook me for someone else and kissed me full on the mouth. In fact, if I hadn't ducked in time, I was pretty sure I would have gotten some tongue. I grabbed a glass of wine to wash off the taste of him.

Fortunately, the photographer from the
Intelligencer
was already on the job, snapping photos of the hockey players as they posed with some local cherubs.

“Hey, Nora,” Lee Song said, barely looking away from his camera's lens. “Still working the rubber chicken circuit, I see. How've you been?”

“Eating a lot of chicken, Lee
.
You?”

“Busy. The paper laid off all the photographers except me and Josie. So we're doubling our hours to get everything covered. I'll be lucky to see my kids at all between now and Christmas.”

“I'm sorry to hear that.”

“Yeah, well, the extra dough'll help pay for their presents. You want me to shoot some pictures of the hockey wives? They're all babes. A nice change from your usual old broads in pearl necklaces.”

I liked Lee, but I decided not to beat around the bush. “Was it you who took pictures of Quintain? And me at my house? From a helicopter?”

Lee stopped shooting and had the grace to look embarrassed. “If it's any consolation, I got airsick. I snapped a few of the castle. And, yeah, I plead guilty to photographing you with your boyfriend. I tried to hide your face. I hope you noticed that.”

“Thanks for small favors.”

“Sorry, Nora. I do what I'm told. That's why I still have a job.”

“I get it. Do a good job for me tonight, and all is forgiven. I need some great shots for the Web site.”

“Thanks, Nora. And really—­I'm sorry.”

He got busy snapping photos of the players' wives, most of whom looked adorably young and normal compared to the wives of pro football players and basketball superstars, who paid big bucks for hair extensions, lip-­plumping and breast augmentation. The hockey wives, though, were athletic, Canadian girls-­next-­door—­some of whom spoke only French and giggled a lot.

I chatted up one, Chanterelle, who told me she was expecting twins in the spring. She patted her tummy, encased in a big knitted angora sweater. “So we want to give a good Christmas to less-­fortunate children now, see?”

“Yes, I see.” I jotted down her quote, expecting to lead my story with it.

I strolled around, making conversation with a few people I knew and accepting a spicy canapé from the circulating waiters. With a glass of club soda in my hand, I looked like any other guest at the party, but I kept my ears open for good quotes to use in my column.

Several more people kissed me exuberant hellos. I was starting to think I'd wandered into a kissing frenzy.

The charity in charge of the event had arranged for a silent auction of sports memorabilia, so many ticket holders were cruising the display tables and putting in bids on items signed by local sports heroes, past and present. In the crowd, I bumped into an elderly retired baseball player and his Cuban American wife whom I knew from American Heart Association events—­their favorite cause. They were very sweet people, and we chatted for the better part of fifteen minutes. No kissing.

While talking to them, though, I suddenly spotted Simon Groatley across the room. He was glad-­handing some other men, and they all guffawed together as one of the young hockey wives walked past.

Groatley looked over the head of the man in front of him and met my gaze across the room. He winked.

The retired baseball player noticed and reacted with surprise. “Do you know Simon Groatley, Nora?”

“Only very slightly,” I said. “Family business.”

“Hmph. I hope you keep your distance. Nice girl like you shouldn't have to put up with a man like that.”

I smiled. “Are you protecting my honor?”

He frowned. “If I thought it was in danger, I'd go knock his teeth down his throat right this minute. Has that man been hassling you?”

“No,” I said with perfect honesty. “But he gave my sister Emma a hard time.”

The baseball player's wife laughed. “I imagine Emma took care of him double quick.”

Her husband did not see anything humorous. “Seriously,” he growled. “The way he brags about women, it's indecent. And he spends money faster than a river. The man's no good, I can tell.”

“Josh,” his wife reprimanded. “Hush.”

“No need to hush if it's true,” he said. “You stay away from him, you hear, Nora?”

“Thank you, I will.”

The sight of Groatley suddenly sickened me. Whatever he'd been doing in Madeleine's study hadn't been in her best interests. But I wasn't ready to confront him. Not yet. And tonight I sure didn't want any social kisses from him or any of his cronies.

I couldn't get out of the convention center fast enough.

Although I should have stayed a little longer at the party, a different plan took shape in my head as I rode the elevator down to the street level. I had plenty of material for my column, and Lee's photos would take up most of the space anyway. But since I knew where Simon Groatley was tonight, I could do a little poking around myself. I phoned Reed and asked him to pick me up early.

“I'm parked around the corner,” he said.

The wind had died down, but the night air was still chilly. Behind the hotel, Reed was already out of the SUV, setting the milk stool out on the pavement.

“Thanks, Reed,” I said as I climbed up into the warm backseat.

On the way out of the city, I pulled out my phone and dialed Emma's cell number.

She picked up after the first ring. “Yeah?”

“It's me,” I said. “Are you at home?”

“Actually, I'm sitting at a drive-­up window, waiting for a cheeseburger.”

I could have lectured her about all the healthy food I'd bought that morning, but mindful of her earlier outburst, I held my tongue. Instead I said, “Are you okay?”

“Never better,” she replied, clearly intending to put her emotional meltdown behind us.

So I said, “Which drive-­up window, exactly?”

Emma told me she was at Bertie's Burgers, a hamburger joint just a few miles outside New Hope. A place renowned for milk shakes and teen romance.

“Wait there,” I said. “I'll meet you.”

“Hungry, too?”

“No, but I need you to drive me somewhere.”

“Tonight?” She sounded surprised. “Don't you have a romantic rendezvous at home?”

“I'll meet you in half an hour.”

It was more like forty minutes by the time Reed maneuvered out of the city traffic. Eventually, he pulled the SUV into the parking lot of a fast-­food restaurant full of teenagers hanging out on a Friday night. Reed gave the teenagers a long look, reminding me that he was only recently out of high school himself.

“Thanks, Reed.” I reached for the door handle.

He eyed my reflection in the rearview mirror. “The boss doesn't like it when I don't follow the plan.”

“You and I managed just fine while your boss was out of the picture,” I reminded him. “There's no sense getting him involved again, is there?”

Reed sighed. “You be careful.”

“Yes, sir. Good night.”

I clicked across the parking lot in my high heels—­perhaps looking a little incongruous in my McQueen feather jacket. But the hamburger crowd was more interested in Reed's enormous vehicle and respectfully watched him depart.

When I climbed into the truck, Emma was listening to an oldies radio station, leafing through a comic book and wiping her mouth with a paper napkin. She had her window cracked open a couple of inches, and the truck felt like a refrigerator.

I leaned over the dashboard, turned down the radio and cranked up the heat. “Had any proposals lately?”

“Not unless you count the kid who mistook me for a blimp and asked me for a ride. Do you have to blast that thing? I'm roasting.”

“It's your hormones. I just saw Simon Groatley at a party.”

“Oh, yeah? Did he keep his dick in his pants?”

“Yes, but he was definitely ogling anything in a skirt. I saw Sutherland Blackbird tonight, too.”

Emma wadded up her napkin and paused in the act of reaching for the cold drink in the cup holder. “Oh, yeah? What did Cousin Slick have to say? Or did he spend the evening practicing nonverbal communication?”

I told her everything Sutherland had admitted to me while I threatened to destroy his painting.

“He knew all along she was dead?” Emma gave Sutherland a few crude names. “Who the hell sent us postcards?”

“Somebody,” I said, “who wanted to cover up Madeleine's death.”

“Whoa.” Emma had already made the same mental leaps I had. “If somebody pretended she was alive by sending us Christmas cards, that person knew she was dead, too. And maybe killed her?”

“Maybe. I think we need to learn more about the people around Madeleine at the time of her death. But Sutherland seems to think it's a bad idea to ask Simon Groatley.”

Emma feigned astonishment. “He's not suggesting Groatley might be a shady lawyer?”

I told her how our cousin had caught Madeleine's attorney rummaging in her desk while the police were busy examining her remains in the elevator. And then I told her about Madeleine's black book.

When I finished, Emma's straw made a noisy gurgle at the bottom of her plastic cup. She said, “So what do you want to do? Bust into Quintain under dark of night? Search for Madeleine's black book yourself?”

“As a matter of fact,” I said, “that's exactly what I had in mind. At the very least, I need to know if Simon Groatley stole it from her desk.”

“And I get to be your partner in crime?”

“Consider yourself my getaway driver. I'm breaking into Quintain alone.”

“How come you get all the action?”

“Because you're a pregnant lady,” I retorted. “In a delicate condition. I'm the one doing the dirty work this time.”

“Delicate, my ass. Things have been too damn quiet for me lately.” Emma pulled the truck around the side of the fast-­food restaurant, rolled down her window, and dumped her trash into a receptacle. Then she cut the truck sharply around to the drive-­up menu. The loudspeaker crackled with a voice too garbled for me to understand, but Emma leaned out the window. “I want a chocolate milk shake.”

Suddenly ravenous, I said, “Order one for me, too.”

Emma did so, and in a couple of minutes we were driving down the street, guzzling milk shakes and heading north toward Aunt Madeleine's estate.

“About Mick,” Emma said as she drove.

“Yes?”

“I'm sorry about what I said earlier.”

“It's okay. You're under a lot of stress.”

“Yeah, but—­well, I'm sorry. He's a good guy.”

“Yes, he is. Em—­”

“Don't,” she said. “I heard enough from Libby today.”

“Okay.”

“Drink your milk shake.”

“Right.”

After a short silence, she said, “I'll figure out what to do about this baby when the time comes.”

I wanted to scream. But Libby had already done enough damage for one day, so I kept my silence. I'd already made myself clear to Emma—­that Michael and I were happy to take the baby; even eager, if I was willing to be honest with myself, to raise it as our own. Emma was going to have to make her own decision. I just hoped she could do so before her baby's first tooth arrived.

A few spatters of rain hit the windshield, and Emma flipped on the wipers. “How are you going to break into Aunt Madeleine's house?”

“Smash a window? Or is that too loud?”

Emma laughed. “There's not another house within half a mile of Quintain.”

“Except Shirley van Vincent's place. Let's hope she watches television with the sound turned up high.”