No Way to Kill a Lady (22 page)

Reed wanted to know the whole story, so I told him what I knew as we stood outside the big SUV under the trees in the half-­light.

“She's good-­looking,” he said when I had finished. He glanced over his shoulder as if hoping Carrie might come running out the back door after us.

“Michael hasn't discovered his protective inner father yet,” I warned. “But that's going to happen. So watch your step, Reed.”

“Good point.” He managed to get his aloof facade back into place.

“Since we're early, I'd like to make another stop before we go into the city,” I said.

He groaned. “You're not going to drive again, are you?”

“Not tonight. But I need your expertise.”

With the help of Reed and his magic cell phone, we figured out an address in New Hope.

Pee Wee McBean lived in a modest ranch house outside of town, on a low ridge alongside a group of identical little homes. Each house had a side carport, aluminum siding, bay windows, and front doors located under a porch roof too small to shelter a single trick-­or-­treater on a rainy Halloween night. The houses were not ostentatious in any way, but tidy—­although maybe a little shabby around the edges. The siding was faded, the shrubbery too large. I spotted Pee Wee's white Crown Victoria parked in his driveway. He had a worn Fraternal Order of Police sticker on the back bumper.

“What're you doing here?” Reed asked when he pulled into the driveway.

“I need to speak with the owner. Reed, if I don't come out in fifteen minutes, will you knock on the door?”

He turned around and looked at me over the seat. “That doesn't sound good.”

“I'm sure I'll be fine. The homeowner gets overly excited sometimes, that's all. Will you do it?”

He grimaced and got out of the SUV. He came around to open my door and help me down. As I went up the sidewalk to the front door, Reed waited in the light of a gas lamp to show Pee Wee I hadn't come alone.

Pee Wee answered the door wearing gray boxer shorts, a faded Notre Dame sweatshirt and green socks with a gaping hole in one toe where a long yellow toenail showed through. He carried a can of beer and blinked at me with astonishment.

“Hello,” I said calmly. “May I come in?”

“I was expecting a pizza,” he replied, but he automatically stepped back to allow me to enter his home.

Pee Wee's house was decorated entirely in green plaid. Someone had painstakingly wallpapered the living room with a green tartan design, then added a plaid sofa and two plaid recliners before topping off the decor with assorted accessories bearing shamrocks and the Notre Dame logo. The television was the size of a car, and it blasted a college football game.

From one recliner, an elderly dachshund snarled at me. I'd have snarled, too, if forced to live in that kaleidoscope of the Emerald Isle.

Displayed in a large glassed-­in case were various guns—­a couple of rifles, an old shotgun and some handguns in many shapes and sizes. The case, I noticed, was not locked.

The air smelled of burned meat, and a smoky haze hung in the room. From the kitchen, I could hear the frantic beep of a smoke alarm.

Pee Wee stood holding the front door open and gaping at me as if I were a fairy princess who'd walked into the lair of Rumpelstiltskin.

“I was on my way to a party,” I said, “but I have a few extra minutes, and I thought we could talk.”

Pee Wee had used intimidation and false pretenses on me on the previous day, but I had other weapons at my disposal. I fully intended to intimidate him right back with my good manners and my graceful long skirt that looked as if it cost as much as a year's worth of his mortgage payments.

It worked.

Belatedly, Pee Wee closed the door and realized he was underdressed. He snatched a plaid blanket off one of the recliners and wrapped it around himself like an overgrown kilt. With a remote control, he thumbed the volume down on the television.

“I wasn't expecting no company,” he said with as much dignity as he could muster while wearing green socks with holes in the toes. “Except the pizza man. I burned my dinner.”

“I'm sorry to hear that. I won't stay long. I'd like to ask you a few questions.”

“About what?”

“About Pippi.”

He glowered at me. “I got nothing more to say about her than I already told you.”

“Why don't we go shut off that smoke alarm?”

“But—­”

Following my nose, I led the way to the kitchen, where a frying pan sat smoking in the sink. Two charred hot dogs smoldered in a puddle of greasy water.

The rest of the kitchen wasn't going to win any prizes, either. Dishes sat stacked in a drainer beside the sink, and the counters were cluttered with boxes. Dozens of cereal boxes were lined up beside boxes of Hamburger Helper and instant mashed potatoes. Several plastic jugs of pre-­mixed iced tea stood on the floor. I didn't see a single fresh vegetable or piece of fruit.

I opened a window and flipped on the fan over the stove. Almost immediately, the smoke alarm ceased shrieking. Over the fan's rattling roar, I said, “Let's clear the air, shall we?”

“I got nothing to say to you, lady. Unless you tell me I got something coming from your relative.”

“We're a long way from learning the details of Aunt Madeleine's will. Shall we scrub out this pan while it's still warm?”

He elbowed me out of his way and reached for the frying pan. “Don't touch that stuff. You'll get all covered in grease.”

I stood back and let him fill the sink with soapy water. “Can we talk about Pippi now?”

“What do you want to know about her?”

“How did she come to this country?”

“I told you that. Your aunt brought her here. On a boat.”

“On a boat? A yacht, you mean?”

“I don't know nothing about what kind of boat. It was just a boat, that's all.”

“But Pippi didn't have a green card?”

“Right. She wasn't no ballerina or famous scientist like all the others who got special treatment.”

“Like all the others?” I repeated.

“Yeah, the Blackbird lady always had foreigners staying at her house—­big-­deal people, I guess. Not like the newspapers said. No prostitution. But Pippi was a nobody, see? And a Russian to boot, so it was hard for her.”

I began to arrange the cereal boxes in a neat line at the back of the counter, tidying up. “And Madeleine introduced the two of you?”

“Naw, I saw Pippi shopping at the store a couple of times, so I asked her if she wanted to get a cup of coffee. That first time, she said she had to get back to work, but the next time she said her boss lady told her it was a good idea to meet some people from the community. So we had coffee, and one thing led to another.”

I guessed Madeleine had brought Pippi into the country illegally and had seen Pee Wee as a way for Pippi to acquire citizen status. But I didn't say so. Instead, I asked, “When Madeleine announced she was leaving for Indonesia, did Pippi plan to go with her?”

“She didn't tell me so, no. Not until the last minute when she came to say good-­bye. They were leaving the next day, she said. Getting on an airplane. First I heard of it.”

“Madeleine and Pippi went together?”

“Yeah, right.”

“Do you remember the exact date?”

“Yeah, sure, I got it written down someplace.”

I thought that information might be helpful to the police, but I asked, “Do you remember anything that happened that day? Anything specific? About who Pippi or Madeleine might have seen besides you? Or if anyone else planned to travel with them?”

“I don't remember anything like that, no. Just that Pippi stopped by in the afternoon. To say good-­bye.”

I realized Pee Wee was scrubbing the pan so hard that water splashed in all directions. He clenched his jaw, too. Maybe I'd misjudged him. I thought he'd been solely looking for a piece of Madeleine's estate, but now I realized he was probably worried that Pippi had never loved him. That she'd used him to get a green card.

I touched his shoulder. “I'm sure she was sorry to leave.”

He shook off my touch. “She seemed damn happy to me. They were going around saying good-­bye to everybody that afternoon. Your aunt waited in the car while Pippi was here.”

“They were paying other calls?”

“To people in the neighborhood, yeah. Bragging about their trip.”

I had already calculated that I'd been away at school the year Madeleine left Bucks County. Now I wondered if she'd stopped at Blackbird Farm to see my parents one last time. I'd have to ask my mother when she phoned me from whatever resort she had landed in recently. Maybe Mama remembered something about that afternoon. Knowing Madeleine's state of mind would be helpful. And maybe Mama could guess what Pippi's role in their travel to Indonesia might have been.

I didn't have the heart to ask Pee Wee if he thought his wife was capable of locking Madeleine in an elevator and running off to Indonesia to impersonate her. But it was a theory that was starting to sound possible to me.

I took a dish towel from its hook on the wall. Pee Wee handed me the frying pan, and I dried it while he pretended to wipe perspiration from his brow.

The doorbell rang. In his blanket-­wrapped glory, Pee Wee pushed past me and headed for the door. I replaced the dish towel and followed.

It was the pizza man making his delivery. Behind him, Reed waited anxiously on the sidewalk. When I bade Pee Wee good-­bye and went outside, Reed took my arm protectively. “You okay? That guy looks like a nut.”

“I'm fine, thank you.” I wasn't so sure about Pee Wee. As we walked away, he stood in the doorway of his house, alone and holding his pizza.

In the car on our way into the city, I phoned the state police. I reached the detective who'd come to my house and told him Pee Wee probably knew the exact date of Madeleine's supposed departure for Indonesia. Then I asked about the bones in the woods.

“Yeah, we found 'em just where you said to look.”

“Any idea who it is?” I asked nervously.

“It was a woman,” he told me. “With a hole in her skull, so she didn't die of natural causes.”

I felt sick. “No identification?”

“Nope. Just a funny clue. She had some special metal in her teeth. Nothing like dentists use to fill cavities here in the United States. She was from some other country.”

“What country?” I asked.

“No idea yet. Got any suggestions?”

With a dreadful feeling inside, I said, “Think about Russia.”

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

A
fter I spoke with the detective, I thought about Pippi and Madeleine until my head was spinning. If Pippi was dead, who had been sending postcards pretending to be Madeleine?

Between my visit to Pee Wee and a traffic backup, I missed my first event—­cocktails to raise funds for a rare blood disorder that was found mostly in the African-­American community. I would owe someone a note of apology for skipping.

By the time I arrived at the ritziest of downtown hotels, I had shoved murder out of my mind and bailed out of the SUV, determined to focus on work. Outside, I met my friend Delilah Fairweather, the best professional party planner in the biz. She stood on a red carpet that had been rolled out in front of the hotel. She was working her cell phone like the commander of a battleship in the midst of a storm at sea. But she spotted me emerging from the backseat of Reed's SUV and snapped her phone shut in midsentence. With a big grin on her face, she charged my way.

“Nora! Babycakes, it's been weeks since I've seen you! Give me some sugar.” She enveloped me in strong arms and a cloud of intoxicating perfume. Dressed in the perfect little black dress with a matching coat and a shredded sort of scarf in an African textile via Seventh Avenue, Delilah teetered expertly on a pair of spike-­heeled platform shoes that marked her as the Amazon in charge.

“I should have known you were running this show,” I said. “The advance press has been terrific.”

“I've worked my tail off,” she said happily. “They should name a whole wing of this hospital after me.”

Delilah had risen to the top of her profession through a combination of towering energy, tireless communication skills and a delightfully creative mind when it came to throwing a bash. I had no doubt her phone call had been to deal with a party scheduled weeks away. Her attention to detail exceeded NASA's planning for a space launch.

“I'm ready down to the last napkin ring. Don't you look smashing in this outfit.” She gave me another bear hug, then held me at arm's length and admired my dress. “Ver-­ry sexy! Who are you dressing for these days? You got a hot man you're meeting later?”

I laughed. “You could say that.” To explain further would have required more time than either of us had. Around us, hotel bellmen bustled, and other journalists were beginning to gather.

Delilah popped her eyes wide. “I want details! Your love life is always interesting. We'll meet for a drink, howzabout that?”

I knew Delilah was always too busy to meet for drinks, but her invitations sounded sincere. “That would be great,” I said. “Where do you want me now?”

With a sorrowful shake of her head, she said, “I want you mingling with the crowd when you look this fantastic, but I suppose you should be out here with the rest of the press as guests arrive. We're trying a red carpet theme, see? Make a fuss over the guests as they get out of their cars. Just don't snap any pictures of tacky girls flashing their va-­jay-­jays, okay? We're gonna keep things classy tonight.”

I saluted. “Yes, ma'am.”

She rushed off to check on matters inside the hotel, and I joined the jostling pack of reporters assembled to greet the guests. I recognized a couple of real journalists, but the rest were actors hired to look like paparazzi. One local television reporter was doing a sound check with her microphone.

Her cameraman gave me a wave, which I took to be a greeting until he called, “You're in my shot, honey!”

Chastened, I found a spot near the velvet rope and readied my phone camera. Behind me, a pair of gigantic lights projected twin spinning beacons up into the night sky. The lights generated a lot of heat, and the cooling fans created a low roar of background noise that made even the slightest conversation with my fellow journalists—­real or pretend—­very difficult.

What transpired after that was a long, exhausting half hour of making party guests feel like celebrities. Most of the men eschewed traditional evening clothes in favor of what was currently called “creative black tie.” Personally, I thought it was hard to top a good Armani tuxedo with a perfectly knotted bow tie, but I didn't see a single one. Plenty of open collars with satin lapels, though, and even a T-­shirt under a tux jacket here and there. A few heavy necklaces, too.

I took a number of photos of women in excellent dresses, and I silently composed a few good lines I could use in my column. Ruffles and sequins seemed to have given way to svelte gowns with minimal decoration, just jaw-­dropping jewelry.

Shoes seemed to be of the hobbling variety. I could appreciate a great pair of shoes, of course, but I was ready for the super-­high, straps-­up-­the-­ankle fashion to go the way of the dodo. One young woman took a tumble off her shoes on the red carpet. Someone called an ambulance for her.

When I estimated that three-­quarters of the guests had arrived, I packed up my camera and went into the hotel to rub elbows and gather some quotes.

The hospital fund-­raising drive had been going on for three years, and the gala marked the successful end of the project. I guessed the drive chairpersons planned to announce a triumph, so I cornered one of them before the cocktail hour was over.

“Nora! Darling, what a pleasure to see you. And what a fantastic dress! How have you been?”

My husband, Todd, had gone to medical school with Darcy Hickam's husband, so we'd done a fair bit of socializing before Todd's behavior turned. Darcy was kind but distant to me during Todd's worst years—­perhaps recognizing that there-­but-­for-­the-­Grace-­of-­God-­go-­I—­but tonight she turned on the charm. Her day job was managing partner in a big PR firm that had recently landed a national account for a car rental company, so Darcy was no stranger to hard work under big pressure or to saying the right sound bite when needed. Tonight she looked very lean and fit in a purple dress cut down to her wow, and her hair was swept up and teased into an extravagant whoosh with what surely were extensions cascading down her back.

She gave me two air kisses.

“I'm great, Darcy. You look fantastic. And the fund-­raising drive is a huge success.”

“We worked our buns off,” she said. “But it's the most worthy cause I know. My grandfather donated the whole second floor of the hospital back in the day—­but you knew that, right? So I took it as my personal responsibility to make exactly the same kind of contribution. Listen, could you do me a favor?”

“Just ask.”

“Will you find Jack Lantana and his trophy wife? Maybe take their picture for the paper? He's the guy who won a big defense contract two years ago, and now he's a gazillionaire. We're hoping to talk him into donating a million dollars, and it'd really help, I think, if they got some publicity tonight.”

“Already done,” I said.

She squealed and gave me an exuberant hug. “You're the best. A step ahead of me. Thanks, Nora.”

As I talked to her for a more few minutes about the hospital project, I jotted down the best of her remarks.

“What will you do now that the drive is over?” I asked finally.

She smiled. “Jake and I are having a baby—­just as soon as I can get pregnant, that is. We almost put off having kids too long. Now I can't wait.”

“Wonderful,” I said, trying to put some enthusiasm into the word.

“What's going on with you? I'm sorry to hear your aunt Madeleine died. She was quite the lady.”

“Yes, she was.”

“My mother used to be very close with Madeleine.”

My ears perked up. “Was she? I didn't know that.”

Darcy's mother, a principal ballerina with a big New York company, had come to Philadelphia to marry Dwight Hickam, an investment genius who took his millions and retired early to become a full-­time ballet aficionado. Natasha and Dwight were still very big in the arts community, long after Natasha left the barre.

“Yes,” Darcy said. “Madeleine helped Mom defect. Didn't you know that?”

“You're kidding!”

Darcy nodded. “Mom was started at the Kirov, but was allowed to dance on tour in Europe. She met Madeleine somewhere—­I forget—­and told her she wanted asylum. So Madeleine orchestrated everything. I guess I have her to thank. Otherwise, I'd still be a gleam in Daddy's eye!”

“That's fascinating,” I said. “Madeleine didn't talk about those days. I'd love to chat with your mom sometime.”

“She'd enjoy that. On the other end of the spectrum, how's Lexie?”

I didn't like Darcy's change of tone, but I said, “I hope to hear from her very soon.”

Darcy eyed me. “You're loyal. That's nice.”

I wanted to like Darcy. I respected what she'd done for the hospital, and I was happy for her plan to complete her marriage with children. But her dismissal of Lexie when Lex most needed her friends—­it felt as if a sharp foil had pierced my social armor.

“Write her a note,” I suggested.

“Oh,” Darcy said, “I wouldn't know what to say. And we were never really close.”

“Of course,” I said, trying to keep my voice neutral. “Well, congrats on a wonderful party. You should be proud.”

I roamed the room after that. I found myself thinking about Lexie, though, and had trouble concentrating on my job. She would have enjoyed such a party. I could almost see her holding court near the bar, keeping a flock of men in thrall as she sliced and diced the current economic scene while wearing a killer dress and diamonds to die for. Afterward, we might have strolled down the street for a drink at a popular bar to dissect the evening's gossip.

With my mind elsewhere, I nearly bumped into a pack of old friends surrounding a Philadelphia actor who'd gone off to Hollywood to play a TV doctor. Tonight he had been invited to simply charm the donors. I shook his hand and took his picture with some well-­dressed people—­a perfect shot for the newspaper's Web site coverage of the hospital fund-­raiser. Attractive people having fun often encouraged more donors to give to worthy causes.

Recorded music made it hard to hear any conversation, as movie themes blared from speakers around the ballroom. I almost had to plug my ears when the James Bond theme suddenly blasted from behind me.

Deafened, I moseyed off to circulate among the older party­goers. The gray-­haired crowd was just as beautifully dressed and appeared to be having a delightful evening, too, although more low-­key. Everyone seemed pleased to be a part of a good cause. I took a few more casual shots without really thinking about whom I was photographing.

Suddenly I realized I had framed two people who surprised me.

Simon Groatley and Shirley van Vincent were standing aside, talking intently.

Arguing. Groatley's face was as red as brick, and Shirley seemed to be lecturing him. Considering he was a womanizing old goat, I was surprised to see him taking her scolding like a chastised husband.

I took another picture quickly, then turned away before they caught me staring. I hadn't realized they knew each other.

The lights flickered, indicating the dinner hour, so the crowd moved toward the tables in the ballroom. I found my seat between two couples who had been friends of my parents, and they regaled me with hilarious tales of Mama and Daddy dancing at parties.

I was glad to sit with people from whom my parents had not stolen. Maybe I had Delilah to thank for that. I didn't often get to hear from people who loved Mama and Daddy for what they really were—­fun-­loving, upbeat people without a negative bone between them. Sure, my parents were foolish and profligate. They were imperfect parents, but I loved them. Maybe that was a lesson to remember.

A sumptuous dinner of lobster tails and tender steak came next. Long ago, I had learned that people who have given very large sums of money expect a quality meal for their tens of thousands, so smart event organizers didn't skimp on the food.

After the meal, we heard twenty short minutes of speeches thanking dozens of people for their generosity. Darcy was given a cut-­glass bowl for her devotion to the cause. Then the orchestra burst into toe-­tapping tunes, and the crowd mobbed the dance floor.

I made my way through a knot of people waiting for drinks at the bar and eventually found Shirley van Vincent sitting by herself at a large round table in an alcove. I had spotted her from across the room and waited until she was alone.

I slipped into a chair beside her, surprising Shirley as she took a sip of coffee.

“Hello, Mrs. van Vincent. I want to thank you again for giving my sisters and me a ride into town in your coach the other day.”

She carefully swallowed her coffee—­maybe she was composing herself—­and then she set the cup down firmly in its saucer. “It was the least I could do, considering Emma's shameful condition.”

I refused to take offense. “Emma looks well, though, doesn't she?”

“She's never had a problem with her looks.”

Shirley van Vincent looked pretty good, too. I hadn't expected her to clean up so well, but I reminded myself she had been an ambassador's wife. She had changed her horsey garb for a satin ball gown that was probably as old as the one I was wearing. Its color had faded to a dusty rose that was becoming with her white hair and pale skin tone. There was nothing dusty about her demeanor, though. A gold and ruby necklace gleamed on her neck. The hard stone matched the glitter in her eye. She had placed her evening bag on the table, and I could see a silver cigarette case poking out. As soon as she got the chance, I figured she planned on sneaking a smoke.

I said, “I hear the police discovered another body. This time on your property.”

“Bunch of old bones, that's all. But they've got yellow tape stretched all over my woods. I told them I want it cleaned up before my horse show. They stopped us from finishing setting up while they sniff around my land. I'll have to get up before dawn tomorrow to show the electricians where to place the loudspeakers.”