No Way to Kill a Lady (2 page)

“Who is this trainer?” I asked, suspicions aroused.

“His name is Randolph.” Libby could not hold back her dimples. “And he's a total hottie.”

“Ah,” I said.

Emma nodded. “Now we understand.”

“He's
far
too young for me. But he's wonderful with children.” Libby used her coffee spoon to snitch a smidgen of whipped cream from Emma's plate. “You won't believe how expensive private coaches are, though. Sessions with Randolph can be upwards of a hundred dollars a pop. That's why I need our inheritance money, Nora. Maximus should get started on his path to stardom right away.”

“There's no way we can get Aunt Madeleine's money yet,” I said. “It'll take months before the estate is settled. Maybe years.”

“No, no, I've figured a way around all that.” Libby dropped her spoon to fish her cell phone out again. Her thumbs madly typed a message on the phone's tiny keypad. “You know those places where you can cash your paycheck even before you have it in your hand?”

“You mean a loan shark?” Emma asked around another gargantuan mouthful of breakfast.

“Moneylending has been a misunderstood endeavor since biblical days,” Libby retorted. “Anyway, there are companies that will give you an advance on your inheritance, too! See? Here's one.” She passed her cell phone to me and pointed at the screen. “We could get half of our money right away. No waiting!”

I couldn't make sense of all the words blinking on the phone. To me, the screen looked like a miniature Vegas slot machine in the throes of a neon jackpot.

In an effort to be the voice of reason, I said as kindly as I could manage, “Just this once, Libby, could we try not to get carried away?”

“Oh, don't be a party pooper!” She snatched her phone back. “Soon you'll be able to put in gold-­plated faucets at Blackbird Farm. Emma will have her baby with a real doctor, in a hospital. And Maximus will become famous and rich enough to support us all. We just have to sell Madeleine's little house and enjoy the proceeds. Simple!”

Simple? Hardly. And Quintain could never be described as “little.” Not unless you were accustomed to living in Blenheim Palace.

But the possibility that we might finally regain our financial footing did seem tantalizingly close—­even to me.

A tall shadow appeared over our table just then, and we gaped up at a broad-­shouldered young police officer who pressed his hat one-­handed to an impressively broad chest. He had a crew cut that looked as if it was buzzed every morning before reveille, and he filled out his khaki uniform to seam-­straining perfection that turned heads throughout the restaurant. In fact, at table level, his trousers displayed what I can only delicately describe as the suggestion of a dauntingly prodigious manhood.

His voice was a deep baritone that surely rang the chimes of most women to their reverberating core. “Ladies? Are you the Blackbird sisters?”

Libby's eyes instantly bulged wide, and she touched her fingertips to her own throat as if to contain a cry of awe. At the astonishing specimen standing before her, however, she could only emit a startled squeak.

I saw Emma's mouth twist into a smirk, and I knew she was working on a blunt wisecrack of a greeting, so I said swiftly, “Yes, we are. And you must be Deputy Sheriff Foley.”

I leaped to my feet and stuck my hand out to shake his. “It's a pleasure to meet you. Thank you very much for escorting us to Quintain this morning. I gather you're doing a special favor for us.”

“For Mr. Groatley,” he corrected politely, sketching a vaguely military bow. “Are you ready to go?”

Libby shot up from the table as if electrocuted. She grabbed her handbag, smiled brilliantly and said on a husky breath, “Lead the way, Sheriff Foley.”

“I'm not finished!” Emma protested, her fork still poised over her breakfast.

“You can eat anytime,” Libby snapped, seizing Emma by the arm. “Get your butt out of that chair and into the car this minute!”

“I gotta pee first,” Emma grumbled, dropping her fork and heading for the loo.

Which gave Libby complete freedom to deploy all her feminine wiles. She sent a sideways, lip-­quivering smile up at Foley and came close to spraining a hip socket as she sashayed out to the cruiser and claimed the front seat.

Twenty minutes later we were driven through Quintain's massive iron gates—­as ordered by the court and the lawyers who represented Aunt Madeleine's estate—­in the deputy's car.

Even two decades of neglect couldn't dispel the first impression of grandeur as the familiar turrets of the mansion rose over the early-­morning mist. Quintain looked as if Hogwarts had been magically transported to bucolic Pennsylvania by an impulsive sorceress who waved a magic wand. The narrow lancet windows might have recently reflected cherubic magicians flying by on their broomsticks. The curving pond gave the impression of a moat, perfect for repelling marauding demons. The brick and stone walls looked as if they'd been overrun by enchanted ivy and rampant roses. Only ancient wizards in long, flowing robes would make the picture complete.

But upon closer inspection, Quintain looked sadly faded these days. After twenty years of abandonment, more than a few stones appeared to have tumbled from the walls. And the western wing of the building was obscured by untrimmed yews and dozens of oak trees—­some of them splintered and rotting on the ground. A riot of weeds threatened to overtake everything. What was now thick underbrush had once been a lawn that rolled gracefully down to the tilting green.

“A what?” said the young deputy behind the wheel of the cruiser. His ears had been adorably pink ever since the moment Libby had remarked that she'd like to try painting their perfect shape and had asked whether Foley ever posed for artists.

“A tilting green is for jousting,” Emma said. “For a while, our aunt was an Anglophile.”

“Oh, is that the stone church down by the Burger King?”

Libby laughed trillingly. “You're such a wit, Sheriff Foley. I bet your wife is endlessly entertained.”

“Oh, I'm not married,” he said. “And I'm only the sheriff's deputy.”

“Not married? Really?” Libby began to rearrange her hair. “How did a man as attractive as you avoid getting snatched up long ago?”

Emma and I exchanged a glance. Libby could find an eligible bachelor in a Vatican election.

“There's the drawbridge.” Libby pointed out the window. “Doesn't it look romantic? Remember the year Madcap Maddy hired the bagpipers to stand up on the archway and play for the Grand Parade? The horses went crazy at the noise.”

The young deputy said, “I applied for the equestrian detail a few years ago.”

“How fascinating,” Libby said. “I love horses, too.”

Emma gave an equine snort.

“The whole place is real pretty,” the deputy said.

“Wait until you see what's inside,” Libby promised. “Treasures that will take your breath away.”

The deputy prudently chose to park his cruiser a safe distance from the crumbling facade of Quintain, and we got out into the morning sunshine.

Libby clasped her hands in rapture. “Can't you imagine Prince Charming walking out of those doors, Sheriff Foley? Why—­you look rather charming yourself in this light. I love how the sun glints on your badge.”

“Uh—­”

Before Foley could verbalize a suitable response, the black stretch limousine that had followed us onto the grounds came to a stop behind the deputy's car. Doors opened, and the lawyers climbed out. The young ones all adjusted their cashmere coats against the morning chill and checked their cell phones for messages.

Simon Groatley, though, emerged from the car and strode importantly across the cracked driveway toward us. He had been Aunt Madeleine's retainer for as long as I could remember, and this morning he was in all his masterful glory.

“Now then, ladies,” he said briskly, “let me say once again how grateful I am that you could make the trip so early this morning. It's a busy day for all of us, so let's get started. Deputy, we'll have a quick look around, shall we? I want a cursory inspection by the family before we proceed to cataloging the most valuable items inside the house. You're here to make sure nobody tucks any knickknacks in their pockets. Not that any of these charming ladies would do such a thing. But keep your eyes open.”

Foley almost saluted. “Yes, sir.”

Now in his late sixties, Simon Groatley still appeared to be as powerful as he had been back in the day when he helped my grandfather Blackbird command various family concerns. The two of them met weekly at Blackbird Farm, often clenching glasses of scotch in their fists as they discussed investment strategies, argued politics, and bemoaned current statesmanship. My grandfather had filled a war chest for Groatley's first run for office, and as the lawyer rose to higher and higher political positions, my grandfather benefited in many ways. Then rumors surfaced of Groatley's womanizing, and he lost an election to a younger man with a cleaner reputation. Now his name appeared on the bronze plate outside a prestigious firm that specialized in managing the estates of prominent Philadelphia families. From what I'd heard, Groatley continued to specialize in women, too.

With his Mount Rushmore brow, bulldog jaw, iron gray hair and barrel-­chested frame, Simon Groatley looked better suited to declaiming from a bully pulpit than dallying with the fairer sex.

He buttoned his coat against the autumn air and gazed up at the tall walls of Quintain. “By thunder, the old place was grand in its day, wasn't it? Shame about the condition now.”

“Why on earth has it been so neglected?” I asked. “Surely Aunt Madeleine made some provision for taking care of the house while she traveled?”

“Her staff ran off shortly after her departure, and she was too rich to care what happened to the place.” Seeing my expression, Groatley turned defensive. “When I finally got wind of the situation, we hired a crew to board up the broken windows and fix the drains to keep them. But we couldn't make substantial repairs without Madeleine's direction. We held off the tax sale, you'll be glad to know.”

“Nobody paid the taxes for twenty years?” I couldn't keep the disbelief from my voice.

“She sent checks now and then—­nothing regular. We could have taken care of that easily, with her permission. But she ignored my letters.”

“That sounds like Aunt Madeleine,” Emma said. “Busy globe-­trotting.”

“She was larger than life,” Libby said with a rapturous sigh. “And so beautiful. Men simply fell at her feet. I'd give anything to know her secret.”

Still frowning, I said, “I wish we'd had the slightest idea there was a problem. We assumed our cousin had the situation in hand and never dreamed things had gotten this bad.”

“Ah—­your cousin,” Groatley said. “Speak of the devil.”

A silver Porsche spun through the gates and accelerated smoothly up the drive, dodging fallen tree limbs with the agility of an Indianapolis race car. With a jaunty toot of the horn, the car scattered the young lawyers like a flock of pigeons, then rocked to a halt in front of us. The driver's door popped open, and Sutherland Blackbird leaped out of the car with the panache of a star from silent movies who was greeting adoring fans. He drew off his driving gloves and tossed them onto the seat, then removed his sunglasses and smiled handsomely for the crowd—­almost as if he expected camera flashes to bounce off the blinding whiteness of his perfect teeth.

“What a god-­awful hour for doing business,” he declared in a booming baritone. “Groatley, I hold you completely responsible for rousting my dear cousins out of bed this early in the morning.”

Under his breath, Groatley muttered, “Looks as if you didn't skimp on your own beauty sleep, young man.”

If Sutherland heard, he paid no attention. “Cuz!” he cried, launching himself toward me with enthusiastically outstretched arms. “How marvelous you look!”

Sutherland Blackbird was my second cousin, or maybe third. We shared a great-­great-­grandfather. But he hailed from the branch of the family that my own grandfather would have happily sawed off the family tree. Sutherland's ne'er-­do-­well father had made himself rich in an investment scheme that involved selling American surplus to Third World despots. After divorcing his wealthy but lackluster first wife, he married his glamorous cousin Madeleine, with whom he shared an affinity for travel. But she preferred chic European restaurants with sophisticated company, and he appreciated the heat of the tropics. Eventually, he met his end by drowning in a young lady's hot tub in Hawaii—­circumstances my grandfather hushed up, of course. Blackbirds did not consort in hot tubs.

When his father died, Sutherland sailed into the yachting world, too. Now he was sun-­kissed and broad-­shouldered—­more youthful than his early fifties ought to have allowed. His hair was a little thin on top, though, and maybe the crinkles around his eyes no longer looked as if they'd been created by laughter alone. He still had the suave smile I remembered from when he showed up at family gatherings with the most beautiful girl on his arm and the most glamorous car waiting at the curb. The girl always had the look of a satisfied customer, too.

This morning, he wore a chestnut-­colored leather jacket over a pink shirt, trendy jeans and tassel loafers, no socks. Very much exuding the manner of a yachtsman on dry land for as little time as he could manage.

Usually, men like Sutherland were drawn immediately to Emma, who radiated beauty and sexual availability. Or to Libby, who engaged men with the force of her personality and strategic deployment of her cleavage. But today Sutherland made a beeline for me and swept me into an exuberant hug.

He kissed my cheek. “Dear Nora, how long has it been?”

A little taken aback, I returned his hug and smiled. “Hello, Sutherland. Five years? Or six? I'm not sure.”