No Way to Kill a Lady (23 page)

Everyone had their priorities, I thought.

She pulled her cigarettes out of her evening bag and snapped the bag shut. “I hear your aunt Madeleine didn't die in a volcano, after all.”

“How did you hear that?”

She toyed with her cigarette case. “News gets around in the neighborhood. So it's true? It was Madeleine in the elevator?”

I sidestepped the question. “You must be as distressed about her death as I am, considering you were friends.”

“We were friends once.” With her own brand of diplomacy, she said, “Must have been bad, the way she died.”

“Yes. And worse yet, I have a feeling it wasn't an accident.”

Shirley fumbled the cigarette case, and it clattered to the floor.

I reached down and retrieved it. Returning it to the table, I saw that Shirley had turned very pale. I said, “I wonder if you have any thoughts about who might have disliked Madeleine enough to want her dead. People in international circles, that is.”

“Not my husband, if that's what you're insinuating.”

“Heavens, why would I think that?”

With a shrewd glare, she said, “Don't pussyfoot with me, young lady. Surely you already know Madeleine worked closely with my husband. But he had a clear mandate to act only within international law. I started out as his secretary, so I saw firsthand what he put up with when it came to her. What Madeleine did, she did without my husband's participation.”

“She helped a lot of people,” I said. “Russian defectors—­”

“She made life very difficult for my husband. She was reckless and didn't care whose reputation she sullied.”

“Did Madeleine sully Mr. van Vincent's?”

“Certainly not. He retired with his integrity intact.”

I sensed there was more to her side of the story. “But—­?”

“He didn't have an affair with that woman,” Shirley spat out. “I'll go to my grave denying that rumor.”

I was about to protest when she said that. It had never entered my head that Madeleine and Vincente van Vincent had been intimate. But I saw her jealousy then, and realized that Shirley—­a lowly secretary before she married the boss—­was still touchy where the smart, beautiful and dynamic Madeleine Blackbird was concerned.

Quietly I said, “I only want to learn more about Madeleine.”

Shirley's demeanor finally cracked. “Young lady, your aunt was no paragon decent young women should be looking to. The faster you bury that woman, the better for all of us.”

“I can't help wondering who killed her.”

“I think you'll discover Madeleine burned a lot of bridges wherever she went. You won't have any shortage of suspects in her murder.”

“Simon Groatley?” I asked.

“Who?”

“Madeleine's lawyer. Simon Groatley. You were speaking with him earlier this evening.”

“You must be mistaken,” she said shortly. “I don't know any Groatley. Now, if you'll excuse me, Eleanor, I'm going to powder my nose.”

She rose from the table, snatched up her bag and left. She didn't head for the restrooms, though. She went straight for the door to the hotel terrace, where she probably intended to smoke a cigarette.

She had lied to me, bald-­faced. Why deny she knew Groatley?

I wished I'd had time to ask her if she'd seen Madeleine and Pippi the day they made their good-­byes to friends in the neighborhood. Shirley might have been one of the last people to see either one of them alive.

I was thinking I could slip out and go home to ruminate a little more on the possibilities when someone tapped my shoulder and asked, “May I have this dance, Miss Blackbird?”

I turned to find Simon Groatley himself looming over me. He extended his hand for mine.

I could hardly say no.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

I
quickly discovered Groatley was the kind of man who insisted on holding his dance partner as if she might wriggle free and run away like a frightened deer. Clamped to his chest, I could barely breathe as he whirled me into the crowd of dancers. He had a commanding ballroom style, too, moving me purposefully around the floor in time to the music, taking long strides. I suppose he thought he was sweeping me off my feet.

When we reached the opposite side of the dance floor from the orchestra, he eased back a few inches—­making enough space to force conversation. And to get a gander down the front of my dress.

He said, “I hear you've been asking questions about Madeleine Blackbird.”

“Can you blame me?”

He laughed. “What do you expect to learn? Some deep, dark secret about her?”

“She had a lot of secrets, I think.”

“None of them very interesting,” Groatley assured me. “What matters now is that we clean up her estate and let the past go.”

“So you're going to handle the estate quickly? Save the family a few billable hours?”

Another deep laugh. “These things take time.”

“Is that what you discussed with Mrs. van Vincent just now? The estate?”

“I thought she might be interested in buying the land once the rest of the details were settled.”

“You weren't discussing Madeleine?”

“Why should we?”

Truly curious, I asked, “Aren't you interested in how she died?”

“My job usually begins when my client dies.”

“Oh? I thought your job began when you first start to help a client plan her estate.”

His face flushed dark red, and he gave me a cold look down his nose. “You've grown up a lot since I first saw you drawing in a coloring book at your grandfather's feet, Nora. May I call you Nora now? I did back when you wore pigtails.”

I had never worn pigtails in my life, but I let that detail pass. “I'm very upset to learn that my aunt died a horrible death. I think she was deliberately murdered, but you seem to have a cavalier attitude about it, Simon. May I call you Simon?”

“I'm not the least bit cavalier. But determining how she passed away is something that should be left to the professionals. Let the police handle the investigation. Right now, our job is to work together to settle her estate and move on. Surely a lovely young woman like yourself has more important things to do with her time.”

“I care about how she died.”

“How can I encourage you to care a little less?”

I missed a step and stumbled. I didn't fall, of course, because of the grip he maintained on my body. “What are you suggesting?”

“There will be plenty of loopholes in Madeleine's estate,” Groatley said. “I'm sure we can find a little something extra for you, Nora.”

I could feel the pressure in my chest start to tighten, and it wasn't because of the lawyer's embrace. “You mean, if I stop asking questions?”

“I think you could redirect your energy, that's all,” he said. “Wouldn't you like a little extra cash? You have problems with your house, I hear. Maybe you'd like me to arrange to have a few things fixed.”

“I can fix my own house.”

He guided me off the floor and behind a pillar that provided us a small amount of seclusion from the rest of the ballroom crowd. The next thing I knew, we were spinning down a corridor reserved for the hotel staff. I bumped into a cart loaded with dirty dishes, and Groatley released me so abruptly that I had to catch my balance with a hand on the wall.

Pinning me against the wall by leaning over me, he said, “Let me give you a word of warning, Nora. You're in over your head.”

I held my ground, although my heart thumped an erratic beat. “What does that mean?”

“Madeleine did have many secrets. I think she wanted to keep them deeply buried—­even after her death. She wouldn't want to cause any pain to her friends or family.”

“Are you referring to all the money Madeleine was taking in?”

“What money?”

“I think you know, Simon. Madeleine was earning tens of thousands of dollars every month before she left town. How, exactly? Do you know?”

“I know nothing about any criminal activities, if that's what you're insinuating.”

“Then why are you so anxious for me to stop digging into Madeleine's past?”

“I merely believe you'll cause yourself more distress by asking questions. Distress not only for yourself, but also for your family.”

“Is that a threat?” I demanded.

“Certainly not,” he shot back, putting a hand next to mine on the wall and pressing even closer. “I merely think it's time for you to stop asking a lot of silly questions about things that might stir up trouble. And I'm willing to make it worth your while. Think of how you can most benefit from all this.”

“The thing I want most right now is the truth.”

Wrong answer. He dropped his hand onto my bare shoulder, fingers biting into my skin. I tried to shake off his grip, but he tightened it. A second later, he pulled me close again—­as if we were dancing. Except there was no music in the back hallway.

“Stop it,” I said. Before he could try to kiss me—­I saw it ­coming—­I stepped hard on his foot, digging my heel into the top of his shoe.

He grunted in pain, but instead of releasing me, he suddenly gripped my shoulders with both hands. The mood changed in a heartbeat. I saw the anger flash across his face. I tried kneeing him in the groin, but he used my instant of being off balance to whirl me around and push my face into the wall. He pinned me there with his full weight so hard he drove all the air out of my lungs. I felt his knee jam between my thighs, forcing them apart. Breathing hard on my neck, he used one hand to gather up the bulk of my long skirt.

I gave up trying to wrestle free and instead flattened both of my hands against the wall. I pushed with all my strength and almost succeeded in shoving him back. I couldn't—­but I finally had enough air to let out a yell. To shut me up, he slammed my head against the wall. Pinning me there again, he said crude things in my ear. Called me names.

I had always thought I could fight off a cruel grope. I'd taken classes, and I wasn't weak. But he was very strong. And practiced. He had his bruising moves down to a science—­he knew exactly how to overpower me.

Except he picked the wrong place.

A waiter suddenly appeared from a doorway, summoned by my shout.

“Hey,” he said. “You can't do that here.”

He must have thought what Groatley was doing was consensual, because he didn't sound very firm. But I let out a gasping cry for help, and suddenly the waiter figured out what was happening. He grabbed Groatley by the arm.

The lawyer broke off immediately. He stepped back, and I felt my skirt slip down to cover my legs again. I was trembling so hard I could barely manage to turn myself around. I leaned against the wall, shaken. And humiliated.

Groatley had a disgusted expression on his face—­as if I were the one who deserved loathing. “You slut,” he said.

He turned on his heel and walked back toward the ballroom, smoothing his hair and the front of his tuxedo.

“You okay?” the waiter asked me, half embarrassed by what he'd seen. He was a youngish man—­younger than me—­with a ponytail neatly tied back. He glanced down at the neckline of my dress. Groatley had managed to drag it down too low, and I used both trembling hands to pull it up again.

“Thank you,” I managed to say. “Thank you very much.”

“No problem,” he said. “But you shouldn't do that stuff back here. Get a room, lady.”

He headed toward the ballroom, too. Even my rescuer assumed I'd been at least partly responsible for what had just happened.

I stayed there, flustered and steadying myself while the meaning of what Groatley had said to me sank in. Had I misunderstood?

No, I was sure he'd threatened me. He wanted me to stop asking questions about Madeleine. He had offered me a bribe first. And when I hadn't responded, he'd attacked me.

Still shaken, I headed back to the ballroom and took a drink from the tray of the first waiter who happened past me. I drank it down without tasting the liquor and felt slightly less nauseated.

Madeleine's own lawyer was a crook and a horrible person, I knew now.

But the question that was searing my brain? Could he have killed Madeleine?

I'd experienced his lightning-­fast metamorphosis from anger to punishing rage. Had Madeleine been his target, too? Only she hadn't been as lucky as I had been?

I found my handbag and phone. I rescued my wrap from the hotel coat check and slipped away from the ball before anyone could remark upon the change in my mood. I even heard Delilah laughing uproariously in the hallway, so I took a detour to avoid seeing her again. I telephoned Reed, and he picked me up in front of the hotel.

If Reed noticed anything different about me, he didn't say so. The evening must have still seemed routine to him, while I felt as weak as a child from the shock of what had happened upstairs.

After Reed helped me into the backseat of the SUV and walked around to get behind the wheel, I saw Shirley van Vincent exit the hotel.

A chauffeured car awaited her, and she walked toward it. I couldn't help noticing that Shirley looked ill—­weak and pale. Much the way I imagined I looked.

“Anywhere else tonight?” Reed asked.

“No, thank you,” I said. “Home, please.”

At Blackbird Farm, finally feeling more outraged than feeble, I let myself in the back door and found Michael sprawled on the kitchen floor, cursing.

“What on earth is wrong?” I asked.

He peered out from under the sink and glowered up at me from his prone position. He had a wrench in one hand and a dark expression on his face. “It was either get roaring drunk or take out my frustrations on the plumbing.”

I knew Michael didn't get roaring drunk, not ever. If he had more than three glasses of wine with dinner, that was a big night. I felt my own problems evaporate. “I gather your evening with Carrie went badly?”

He sat up and threw the wrench onto the floor with a noisy clang. An adorable smear of grease streaked down one cheek.

He said, “That doesn't begin to describe what a crapfest we had around here tonight. After Carrie left, both your sisters stopped by, not to mention the man in Emma's life. What's his name? Heart Stopper?”

“Emma and Hart Jones came back?”

“Yeah, they came to pick up some clothes for her. That guy wants her bad, Nora, and she's hot for him, too. Trouble is, any minute he's getting married to the rich girl who can do his career the most good, and believe me, I know all the wedding details, because while I made dinner for the whole crazy bunch of them, he stormed around here yelling about his wedding and why Emma should go to some island with him this weekend. And what the hell are shrimp shooters?”

“They're an appetizer. It's a cocktail shrimp with sauce, in a shot glass. It's very pretty, actually, but—­why an island?”

Michael's glare intensified. “Because his mother has a beach house there, and Heart Stopper thinks it's a dandy place for Emma to hang out while she waits for the baby to come. He thinks his fiancée won't look for a girlfriend in the Caribbean, I guess. If I'm any judge of character, that guy plans on having both women at his beck and call.”

“Did they talk about the baby?”

“Yeah. He wants the kid, which I guess is a point in his favor. Or maybe he just wants everything.” Barely holding back his temper, Michael said, “The son of a bitch has had his life handed to him on a silver platter from the get-­go.”

After my manhandling by Simon Groately, I found Michael's disapproval of Hart very endearing. “Hart wants to marry Penny and keep Emma on the side?”

“And he's completely up front about that. He's such an asshole he doesn't see what it does to Emma. He wants her available for the booty call, nothing else. His wife, though, plans on being the perfect mother to the baby. They've got lots of plans, all the way to the kid's first year at Harvard.”

“Emma's not the kept-­woman type,” I said, half to myself.

“She's thinking with her hormones right now.” Michael seemed to realize he was upset. “Sorry. It's been a bad night.”

“Where are they now?”

“They have a suite at a hotel.” With a pained expression, he added, “There was a lot of talk about pregnant sex from your sister Libby that I'd like to wash out of my brain with a fire hose, but it gave Emma and Heart Stopper some great ideas they couldn't wait to try.”

“I should probably make an effort to talk some sense into Emma. And make sure she's safe.”

“If you can talk some sense into her, you deserve a medal. As for her being safe? I sent the crew to watch the hotel. And I gave her a number to call if she wanted them to bust down a door.”

Until that moment, I hadn't realized the checkpoint at the end of my driveway wasn't in place. After the evening I'd had, it suddenly felt good to have the house to ourselves.

I put my bag on the kitchen table and stripped off my wrap. I extended my hand to him and helped Michael to his feet. I gave him a kiss on his clean cheek. “What went wrong with Carrie?”

He shook his head as if to dispel a tornado of woes. “What didn't go wrong with Carrie?” He sighed. “You think I should maybe get a pipe and one of those Mr. Rogers sweaters with the buttons up the front, and I'd magically turn into some kind of television dad? I'd like to know all the answers and say the right things. I just don't see another way of getting the father gig right as long as things are going the way they're going right now.”

“I'm sorry you're upset.”

“I am,” he admitted. More seriously, he said, “She's not going to get the promotion she wants, you know. Not after the army figures out who the hell her father is.”