No Way to Kill a Lady (25 page)

I blew a sigh of exasperation and turned to Michael. “If I call the police, they're going to assume that stupid gun is yours. They'll cross-­examine all of us, then drag you off just for the fun of it, and I just don't have the energy for that tonight.”

“Me neither.” He looked hopeful again. “So I get to beat the crap out of this guy, after all?”

“We need to find you a hobby. Stamp collecting, maybe.” I eyed my cousin with distaste. “Do we have to let Sutherland go?”

“We could tie him up in the barn for the rest of the night. Give him time to think about his transgressions.”

“That won't help solve the problem.”

“Which problem?” Sutherland asked.

I sat down again and glared at him. “Who killed Madeleine!”

Michael sat down at the table, too. “To figure that out, it's time to follow the money, sweetheart.”

Confused, I said, “Her estate, you mean?”

“You need to find out where all her stuff went.”

“Sutherland took it.”

My cousin managed some outrage. “Not everything! Honestly, Nora, I only made a few small trips to the well.”

“I thought you said you went to Quintain once or twice, but now it's a few small trips?” In disgust, I demanded, “Did you steal the Fabergé egg?”

“Heavens, no! That would have been too traceable.”

Michael grinned coldly. “So you're a cut above the usual stupid felon?”

At something he saw in Michael's eye, Sutherland subsided into his chair.

“All right,” I said to Michael, “what should I do?”

He considered the situation for a moment, letting his own felonious side comb through the possibilities. “In the morning,” he said finally, “you should go see a guy I know. If he's not inside, that is.”

Inside meant jail. I gave Michael a long look. “Is this going to be another Foxy Galore excursion?”

“A different part of the social spectrum,” Michael said with a smile. “But Libby's going to love him.”

CHAPTER TWENTY

T
he following morning, I found myself in a disreputable part of South Philly.

Beside me, behind the wheel of her minivan, Libby nibbled on her second orange scone of the day. “So you let Sutherland go?”

“If I hadn't sent him on his way, Michael might have hurt him.”

“Do you think our cousin was telling the truth?”

“About much of anything? Not really. He helped himself from Madeleine's house whenever he needed money, and he pretended to send the postcards from her so he could have continued access to Quintain. He says he discovered somebody else was stealing from the house, so that's when he announced her death to the newspapers. But maybe he took everything himself. I wouldn't put it past him. He's hardly got the right constitution for murder, however. He looked positively sick when I accused him.”

Libby took another bite of her scone and looked out the windshield. “This neighborhood looks like it belongs in an episode of
The Wire
. Do you see that man on the corner? I think he's selling drugs.”

“Look again. He's selling bunches of flowers, Lib.”

The two of us peered at the suspicious-­looking character on the litter-­strewn corner. His flowers did look a little wilted, I had to admit. Up the street was a famous cheesesteak eatery, but in the other direction stretched a warren of alleys that I had never explored.

“Just the same, I'm going to take his picture and send it to my PitterPat followers.” Libby handed me her scone on a wadded-­up napkin and rolled down her window. She snapped a photo with her cell phone's camera. “My followers will have an opinion about what's really going on here.”

“So, your PitterPat followers are definitely—­uh—­incarcerated?”

“Yes, they're all coming out to me now.” Libby used her thumbs to type a speedy message on her phone's tiny keyboard. “I'm a sympathetic ear. You'd be amazed by how many men are unjustly imprisoned, Nora. Our justice system is a disgrace. Once Maximus is enrolled in sports camp, I might start volunteering. Prisoners Aid is a very worthwhile cause, and they need my help.”

“Uh-­uh.” I gave her back her scone and brushed crumbs from my lap. “Libby, you know it's possible your followers might be scamming you.”

“How crazy do you think I am? I'll screen anyone before I get really serious. That Man of Yours said he'd help identify the undesirable ones.” Before I could object to her plan, she pointed out the window. “Is that the address we're looking for?”

She had parked along the curb across from a busy Italian deli and a Japanese grocery. Both businesses were booming with customers. The bagel shop down the street looked even busier. But in the other direction sat a squat building that took up a full city block.

The neon sign over the door read:
UNCLE SAM'S PAWNSHOP
and alternately blinked red, white and blue. Dozens of American flags fluttered along the roof. The shop's dirty windows had been papered over with signs so it was impossible to see inside. The signs read:
WE PAY BIG CASH FOR GOLD!

“Without a doubt,” I said. “That's the place.”

“It's very patriotic.”

“It is. We have to go around the back. Sam is officially closed on Sundays.”

“And That Man of Yours made an appointment for us?” Libby wrapped her napkin around the remains of her breakfast to save it for later.

“Yes. Let's go.”

We climbed out of the minivan and buttoned up our coats against the brisk November wind. Libby had chosen a vibrant purple ensemble. Only the top of her T-­shirt showed beneath her coat. This morning, it read:
SUNDAY IS FOR LOVERS
. I suspected she had a similar shirt for every day of the week.

The street was lined with vehicles and bustled with shoppers picking up whatever delicacies they preferred for Sunday dinner. But around the corner, the traffic dwindled to nothing, and it was with trepidation that Libby and I approached the back alley.

We peeked around the back of Uncle Sam's building. The alley was crowded with a Dumpster, a heap of mashed cardboard boxes and a couple of late-­model vehicles coated with rust. One had a front tire encased by a parking authority boot.

Libby snapped another photo for her followers.

The back door was unmarked except for a hand-­painted
No Parking
sign and a rusted lock.

I knocked tentatively.

We waited.

Libby said, “Either nobody's home, or they didn't hear you.”

She used her fist to bang on the door as if leading the vice squad on a raid.

The door swung open almost immediately, and a large, broad-­shouldered man stuck his head out. He had a used-­car-­salesman grin and wore a red bandanna around his unruly dark hair. Otherwise, he was attractive in a South Philly way—­all expansive
bonhomie
with a twinkle in his eyes and a missing eyetooth. He gave us a delighted once-­over. “You must be Mick's girls—­am I right? I'm Uncle Sam.”

“Girl.” Libby pointed at me. “I,” she said with a distinct flutter of her lashes, “am available.”

He pushed the door wide and boomed, “Come in, ladies! Can I offer you a morning beverage? Coffee? Beer? Maybe a mimosa?”

“I'd love a mimosa!” Libby cried. “So festive.”

He gave her a more appreciative glance, his large nose hovering over her cleavage with the air of a connoisseur. “Are you feeling festive, pretty lady?”

“We don't need mimosas,” I said firmly. “We're on a bit of a tight schedule today.”

“That's too bad,” he said, his grin undimmed. “On a weekend, I'm allergic to tight schedules. Weekends are for taking your time, smelling the flowers, enjoying the view, am I right?”

“So right,” Libby breathed.

“I especially love Sundays. I used to be a preacher, you know. Had my own church and my own flock. There was a little misunderstanding about the collection plate, or I'd still be standing at the pulpit.”

“I'm a freethinker when it comes to organized religion,” Libby said. “I want to explore as many spiritual experiences as I possibly can.”

“Why,” he said with pleasure, “we're practically soul mates!”

He ushered us past what must have been the pawnshop showroom. I caught a glimpse of lighted cases full of wristwatches and other merchandise. The walls were hung with musical instruments, several sets of golf clubs and at least one lawn mower. Along another wall sat the big stuff—­a pinball machine, a jukebox and two tanning beds.

“Come into my inner sanctum,” Uncle Sam said, leading us along a narrow hallway with fluorescent lights buzzing overhead and well-­worn vinyl flooring underfoot. “We'll have a little sit-­down, just the three of us. Mick said you were looking to find out about some stolen goods. Damn shame. Who'd want to steal stuff from a coupla nice girls like you two?”

If I had to guess Uncle Sam's age, I'd have put it somewhere between forty and fifty, but for a former man of the cloth he had a youthful swagger. He had pushed the sleeves of his Eagles sweatshirt up to his elbows, and we could see the twin tattoos on his forearms—­George Washington sitting astride his horse on one arm, Abraham Lincoln delivering the Gettysburg Address on the other. Both men seemed to have facial features suspiciously similar to Uncle Sam's.

“Actually,” I said, “it's our aunt who was the victim. Her art collection has disappeared, as have many other valuable items from her home.”

“Damn shame,” Uncle Sam said again. “Good that you're making a move, though. Doesn't pay to play the victim. Take action, that's always the best way. Keep your enemies on their toes. I'm paraphrasing here, but that's Sun Tzu, the Chinese general. Smart guy. Have a seat. I'll whip us up those mimosas. Only takes a second.”

His inner sanctum was half office, half seraglio. Metal desk, metal filing cabinets, overhead lighting. A thick Persian rug lay on the floor, though, and twin fainting couches sat in front of the desk. Both couches were upholstered in pink velvet and featured multiple pillows with tassels—­as if a harem might suddenly need extra seating. Swagged lanterns hung from the ceiling and cast romantic lighting on the luxurious cushions.

“How beautiful!” Libby sang out.

“You have good taste, pretty lady.”

“I love my comforts.” Libby sighed and flung herself down on the nearest couch. “Wonderful! Nora, you must try one of these!”

There was no other place to sit, so I took the other fainting couch, while Uncle Sam bustled behind his desk. He opened a small dorm-­sized fridge and extracted a plastic jug of orange juice and a bottle of cheap champagne. Before I could decline again, he had popped the cork and was sloshing champagne and juice into disposable cups.

“Mick would have my head if I didn't take good care of you two. How is he doing, by the way? Happy to be sprung?”

“Very happy.” I accepted a cup. “But if we could talk about—­”

“I bet he couldn't wait to get home to you.” Uncle Sam gave me an appreciative leer. “I heard he'd found himself a real classy girlfriend, but I didn't believe it. You're a knockout. Mick's had a checkered history with the ladies, you know.”

“No,” I said, suddenly intrigued. “I didn't know. What kind of history?”

But Libby was unfolding a sheaf of papers from her handbag. “I've made some drawings of the things I best remember from our aunt's collection. There are paintings, of course, but I don't suppose that's your kind of merchandise? So let's look at some of the smaller items.”

“Hey, you're a darn good artist.” Uncle Sam shuffled approvingly through the first few papers. “Darn good.”

“Why, thank you.” A modest blush appeared on Libby's cheeks. “These are just rough sketches.”

“Very impressive.”

“About Michael,” I said. “And his history—­?”

Uncle Sam took all of Libby's sketches and flipped through them, nodding. “Yeah, I can see this is real expensive stuff. Is this one of them Nanette Fabray eggs? I used to love her. Great dancer. The egg's not my thing, but I have resources. Let's take a look, okay?”

He spun his computer monitor around so Libby could see the screen. He used two large fingers to type on his keyboard and brought up some photographs. Libby leaned closer, and the two of them began to talk Greek statuary.

“This one's probably inspired by Pompeii.” Libby pointed at one of her sketches. “My theory is that if it was stolen twenty years ago, it might have turned up in a museum by now. I love carnal subjects for art, don't you?”

“What's not to love? It coulda gone to a collector in the Middle East, though, or maybe China. Those guys are already snapping up a lot of good stuff. Then they hide it for a decade or two before they sell it in the open market. I betcha that's where your egg ended up, too. Let's do a little snooping.”

“Good heavens.” Libby planted her forefinger on the computer screen. “That's my cousin Sutherland!”

“Oh, yeah? You know that guy? Well, this here's a surveillance tape from a pawn—­I mean, a place of business that maybe sometimes overlooks the provenance of their inventory. Looks like your cousin is selling stuff that maybe don't belong to him.”

“That's a Russian icon!” Libby cried. “It used to hang in Madeleine's library!”

Uncle Sam leaned closer to watch the action on the screen. “Looks like he's getting about two thousand bucks for it.”

“It's worth a hundred times that amount! Nora, do you see this?”

“Why am I not surprised?” I said. Sutherland had lied to me nearly from the first moment he'd blown into town. Now it was clear he'd been stealing from Quintain for years.

“Well, I'm surprised!” Libby said, affronted. “Where is this pawnshop?”

Sam said, “It's belongs to a guy I know in Rome. Good place to unload stuff you don't want seen by the authorities.”

“Let's keep looking,” Libby said, reaching for the computer mouse. Uncle Sam's hand was already there, but hers stayed on top of his.

I sat back and let the experts take over. But even the confirmation that Sutherland was passing off Madeleine's art collection couldn't keep me from letting my attention roam around Uncle Sam's office. I speculated about the role he played in the Abruzzo crime empire, but Michael hadn't mentioned anything about fencing stolen goods—­unless cars came under that heading.

Even though Michael had broken his code of silence and told me a little about his business
,
I still didn't know him. I had decided to sail into the future with him, but there were still secrets to learn. Or I could turn a blind eye.

My life had started out so simply, I thought. I had been expected to take the path of least resistance—­marry a nice doctor, raise a family, maybe get myself elected president of the Junior League before devoting myself to weeding a garden and making sure the next generation of blue bloods did exactly what was expected of them, too. With a little extra effort, I might have gotten a hospital wing named after myself.

Michael, on the other hand, had been born into a different world entirely. Maybe he could be forgiven some of his choices. They came with his birthright. At least now he was trying to make the changes he thought possible.

What had Madeleine said about choices? I couldn't remember just then.

Ironic that Sutherland was the one selling off family valuables in a faraway pawnshops.

“Libby?” I interrupted her intense conversation with Uncle Sam. “Would you mind taking care of this yourself? I just thought of somebody I could ask a few questions.”

The two spots of color glowed brighter than ever on my sister's cheekbones, and she barely looked in my direction. “Of course, Nora. Sam and I can handle this.”