No Way to Kill a Lady (21 page)

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

I
went upstairs and took a long, restorative shower.

When I emerged from the bathroom, Michael had come upstairs. He'd been unaware of all the action that took place while he was handling some kind of gasoline crisis on the telephone. He relaxed on the bed while I dressed to go out for the night and told him what had happened that afternoon.

He said, “I missed my chance to meet your slippery cousin, huh?”

“You didn't miss much,” I said. “He spent most of his time cowering in terror of your pig. If you plan on keeping that animal as some kind of team mascot, by the way, I wonder if there's such a thing as a pig obedience class?”

“Ralphie behaves himself for me.”

“Why is that?” I demanded. “With everyone else, he's a perfect—­”

“Pig?” Michael suggested. “You can't expect a pig to be anything but a pig, Nora. Obedience class is just going to give you indigestion. Him, too.”

“Speaking of pigs,” I said, sitting down at the vanity mirror, “Emma learned some interesting things about Simon Groatley last night.” I told Michael about Hart's information that Groatley had fleeced a comatose client and was likely living on cash he'd stashed in a safe-­deposit box.

“So the list of charges against Groatley gets longer and longer,” Michael said as I applied my makeup. “You think maybe he killed your aunt to get easy access to her dough? Or was it your cousin who did that? It would have been pretty simple to close an elevator door and walk away. No muss, no fuss. You don't have to be a violent person to commit that kind of crime.”

“Thing is, Groatley is probably capable of violence,” I said, tapping my mascara tube thoughtfully on my thigh. “If you tangle with Emma, you have to be sure of yourself. But you're right. Turning off the electricity is a way to kill somebody without getting blood on your hands. Nonviolent is more Sutherland's style.”

“You think he's capable of leaving his stepmother to die?”

“Twenty years ago he might have been.”

Michael had been admiring my bare thigh, but he said, “What did you learn from Foxy Galore? Did she think Madeleine was a madam? Maybe with dissatisfied clients who wanted her dead?”

“No, Foxy had never heard of Madeleine. I'm back to thinking the ledger wasn't a record of prostitution. I shouldn't have doubted Madeleine. It must mean something else. I don't know what, though. And now somebody has stolen the book, so I'll have to come up with another way to figure it out.” I sighed and touched up my eyelashes with care.

“I must have been upstairs changing Max's diaper when it was stolen,” Michael said. He'd already listened to me rant about the missing ledger. “I didn't hear anybody in the house. Sorry.”

“Only two people could have stolen the ledger. Sutherland and Libby's Deputy Foley. And my money's on Sutherland. He's been quite the sneaky customer since he arrived.”

“Want me to send somebody to get the ledger back from him?” Michael grinned. “I've been looking for something to occupy my crew.”

“Although I agree they need a constructive distraction, he'd probably die of fright,” I said. “I don't want that on my conscience.”

Michael shrugged. “Have it your way. Too bad Foxy turned out to be a wild-­goose chase. I figured she might be able to help.”

“Actually, I found someone else at Shady Rest, so it was hardly a wasted trip. Vincente van Vincent lives there now.”

I told Michael about Shirley's husband, ill with Alzheimer's and fading fast.

“He was a respected diplomat back in his prime,” I said. “A friend of Madeleine's. Or a kind of colleague. I saw some old photos that included her, but he wasn't able to tell me anything.” I sat still for a moment, picturing Vincente in his solitary room. “Michael, when we get old, we'll live together no matter what, okay? I can't stand the thought of you as alone as he was.”

He smiled. “Neither one of us is going to be alone.”

I set aside my mascara and put a finishing touch of powder on my nose before brushing out my hair. Michael was amused, but I'd meant every word.

“Where are you going tonight?” He reclined on the bedclothes, long legs crossed comfortably and arms folded behind his head. Only the steady gleam in his otherwise lazy eyes gave away his real mood. I had been sitting at the mirror in my new panties with a towel lightly wrapped around my body, and although he hadn't said a word, I knew he'd been eyeing my new pink underwear. If we'd had enough time, I knew we wouldn't be talking. He said, “Are you headed to a charity ball to save the whales or something?”

“We're saving a hospital this evening.” I gave my hair a little spritz of spray and checked my reflection in the angled mirror of my dressing table. Not bad.

I wanted to forget it all and climb into bed, though, and let him slip off my pink panties. Another night under the covers with Michael was very appealing. But I had work to do.

Reluctantly, I left my towel on the chair and went into the closet. I had thought long and hard about which item to wear this evening, and I'd spent a few hard-­earned dollars to have it altered to fit me just right. I pulled Grandmama's favorite David Roth off the hanger and stepped into it. Wriggling, I drew it up and went out into the bedroom. “Will you zip me, please?”

The dress started with a golden beaded bodice deeply cut into a sweetheart neckline that made a feature of my white shoulders and naked throat. The gracefully curved bodice displayed a coy hint of cleavage—­no bra tonight—­and cinched my waist tight. At the hip, Roth had designed a clever detail of teardrop prisms hanging every two inches on gold threads. The skirt was yards and yards of peach-­hued chiffon, with a tea-­length hem that fell slimly from my hips to curl coquettishly upward at the bottom. Layers of successively paler blond chiffon flashed beneath the upturned hem. I did a pirouette, sending the skirt into a swirl.

“Are you testing my self-­control?” Michael sat up and pulled me onto his lap, careful not to crush the dress. Despite being a tough guy whose closet contained little more than jeans and T-­shirts and black leather, Michael was turned on fast by a touch of lace and lipstick. Add ladylike underwear, and he was like a teenager with his first naughty magazine.

Somehow he managed to slowly zip up my dress while nibbling my neck.

I slipped my arms around his shoulders and began to think seriously about skipping the hospital fund-­raiser. In his ear, I whispered what I wanted most to do just then, and he slid one hand underneath my skirt to trace a long, seductive trail up my thigh.

The doorbell gonged downstairs, and we looked at each other with dismay.

“Now what?” Michael asked, barely holding back his frustration.

“Maybe it's Sutherland,” I said. “Maybe he brought back Aunt Madeleine's book. Maybe he's willing to start telling the truth.”

Michael helped me gently off his lap. “I'll take care of the door. I want to get a look at this guy, anyway.”

“Don't scare him,” I called as Michael went out into the hallway. “At least, don't scare him too much.”

He laughed and went down the staircase.

At the bottom of my meager jewelry box, I found a pair of diamond earrings—­a Valentine's Day gift from Todd back in the good days. I hadn't been emotionally able to wear any of the gifts he'd given me before he started spending money on drugs—­not that many pieces were left that he hadn't stolen out of my jewelry box and sold for coke. Or that I had sold to pay the taxes on Blackbird Farm. Looking at myself in the mirror, I decided the moment in the woods with the bones felt cathartic. Maybe I was finally putting the past behind me. I slipped the earrings on and smiled at my reflection. I thought Todd would have been happy to see me wear them again.

I went back into the closet to find a wrap warm enough to see me through the evening. I pulled out a cashmere stole designed with interlocking loops of tiny glass beads.

I stepped into my tan satin Jimmy Choos and went down the stairs with the wrap over my arm.

In the entry hall, I discovered our visitor wasn't Sutherland at all.

It was Carrie.

She had a sullen set to her jaw, but she couldn't help glancing around the house with open curiosity.

“This place is a wreck,” she was saying as I came down the staircase. “I thought you guys were rich.”

“Not for generations,” I replied. “Hello. It's nice to see you again.”

She gave my outfit a long stare, taking in the flirty skirt and the diamonds in my ears, too, and clearly concluding I was lying to her. She said, “Where are you going? To some kind of prom?”

“Actually, it's my job. I write for the
Philadelphia Intelligencer
. I report on charitable events, so I have to dress up sometimes. To you, I probably look a little silly. Again.”

She had come wearing a hooded gray sweatshirt and jeans with a pair of boots that had probably been all over Afghanistan. Grudgingly, she said, “You look okay.”

Michael had gathered his courage, I could see. He'd been astonished to find Carrie at the door, but now he appeared capable of intelligent thought. He said, “Carrie remembered your name. Found you in the phone book and tracked down the address. Pretty smart, right?”

“Very smart,” I said warmly. “But, after all, she's a grown-­up. Why don't you come inside? I'll get you something to drink. Michael?”

“Sure. Anything. Let's go in here,” he said to Carrie, standing back so she could precede him into my grandfather's library. “This is one room where you won't get frostbite.”

“He's warm-­blooded,” I said lightly. “Me, I've lived here long enough to know to wear extra sweaters. What would you like? A beer? Coffee? I think I have some diet soft drinks.”

Carrie wasn't sure what to make of our banter, so she scooted into the library. Over her shoulder, she said, “I'm not old enough to drink beer yet. And anyway, this isn't really a social visit.”

Michael and I exchanged raised eyebrows and shared the same thought. By law, she was old enough to carry a weapon in defense of her country, but not old enough to drink alcohol. He took a deep breath and followed her into the library. I went off to the kitchen. I took my time making up a tray with a crystal pitcher of water, two glasses with ice and lemon slices. I found a few crackers, too, and sliced up some cheese. They needed a chance to be alone together, so I took my time.

When I got back to the library, Carrie had clearly blurted out her mission.

Michael was sitting in one of the deep leather chairs, looking grave. To me, he said, “Carrie needs me to sign some papers.”

I set the tray on the big coffee table.

Carrie sat opposite Michael in the matching chair, but she perched uncomfortably at attention on the edge of the seat and had wrapped her arms around herself. Between them on the table lay a sheaf of official-­looking documents.

To me, she said, “I have a shot at a promotion. But now that my mom is gone, I need somebody who can sign papers. For the promotion.”

“And somebody to notify if you get hurt,” Michael said.

“Yeah, that, too.”

He reached for the papers and gave them a cursory skim. “What kind of promotion is it?”

“Just a new job. It requires a higher security clearance than I have at the moment. I should warn you, there will probably be some people coming around to ask questions, too.”

He glanced up. “What kind of questions?”

“Just stuff. It's not a big deal.”

“They want to be sure you're not mixed up with Al Qaeda, I guess?”

“That kind of thing, yeah.”

Michael reached for his reading glasses and put them on. While he read the first sheet, Carrie shot another peek at me. There was mistrust in her eyes. I saw I'd made a mistake, bringing the crystal on a tray. That detail combined with my frilly dress and fancy shoes made me alien to her. I began to wish she'd come a few hours earlier when I'd been wearing my jeans and chasing ponies around the property. Tonight, I probably looked like some kind of debutante. No help with a military promotion.

Michael continued to read, and he wasn't making a good impression, either. I knew he was dismayed to imagine this young girl risking her life in the military. But to her, he seemed standoffish.

A door banged far away in the house, and I realized Reed had let himself in the back door. He was early. I went to the library's doorway and called to him. A minute later, he showed up, but he stopped short at the sight of a pretty young woman sitting in the room with Michael.

“Hey, boss,” Reed said.

“Hey, Reed.” Michael didn't look up from his reading.

“Reed, this is Carrie Hardaway. Carrie, Reed Shakespeare.”

“Hey,” he said to her.

“Hey,” she replied.

Once again, I read her mind. Reed had come in his standard outfit—­blue pants, white shirt and a Windbreaker. He dangled the car keys from one hand. All he needed was a chauffeur's cap to look like a chump in her eyes.

The best thing I could do was leave quickly. I gathered up my wrap and said, “Well, good night, you two. Michael, I'll be home before midnight.”

“See you then.” He stopped reading long enough to accept a kiss from me. His gaze darkened when he met mine. “Be careful.”

“Of course. Good-­bye, Carrie. It was nice to see you again.” I shook her hand.

“Yeah,” she said. “Bye.”

Two minutes later, I was outside with Reed and heading for the car.

Reed's usual stone-­cold demeanor thawed considerably. “Who was that?”

“Prepare to be amazed,” I said. “She's Michael's daughter.”

“Get out!” Reed stopped dead on the sidewalk. “You gotta be kidding.”

“I'm not,” I said. “She showed up yesterday. She was . . . a bit of a surprise to all of us.”