No Way to Kill a Lady (4 page)

I stepped into the butler's pantry, where Aunt Madeleine's fine china and crystal were arranged behind dusty glass doors. The Meissen plates—­decorated with swooping birds, flirtatious shepherdesses and branches laden with springtime blossoms—­looked dusty, but otherwise perfect. The only missing piece was the sugar bowl.

It was Sutherland who sauntered into the kitchen behind me and poked his head into the pantry. He seemed to notice none of the fine objects stored in the small room, but instead checked his own reflection in the glass cabinet doors. I wondered if he was hanging on to his heartbreaker looks with his fingertips.

He ran a finger along his hairline to adjust a fair lock and bestowed a smile on me. “How have you been, Nora? I hear you inherited Blackbird Farm.”

I leaned against the pantry countertop. “Yes, Mama and Daddy entrusted the property to me when they ran off to—­well, when they decided to go abroad.”

“But they came back, right?”

“Only for a couple of months. They're happier in a warmer climate.” I could have added that the climate in Philadelphia had gotten plenty hot for my mother and father before they absconded again.

Finally desperate to be rid of them, I had deliberately left my credit card on the kitchen table in the hope my parents would pilfer one last thing and flee. My sanity was worth a few more dings on my credit score. I didn't have the heart to cancel the card for a couple of days. Once they safely reached Rio, though, I figured they were on their own and I terminated my MasterCard. Now I was relieved to have them out of my hair—­and only felt slightly guilty about using my credit card as a lure.

Sutherland smiled down at me. “So you're living out in farm country by yourself? That doesn't sound like you.”

“Emma's with me at the moment.”

“Just the two of you rattling around in that big old house?”

“It's only the windows that rattle,” I said with a smile.

“I heard a family rumor you'd gotten married again,” Sutherland said. “To an ex-­con, for heaven's sake. The aunts are in a tizzy.”

A tizzy was better than a tornado, which is how I had felt when Michael first blew into my life. He'd swept me off my feet and into a love affair that was challenging and passionate and life-­affirming, and certainly never dull.

But my aunts weren't the only ones who disapproved of our relationship. The universal disapproval of our match was sometimes daunting. I couldn't deny that Michael “the Mick” Abruzzo had served time in prison. For a fact, he was the son of a convicted New Jersey crime boss, and from time to time he had encounters with the law himself. Even now Michael was in jail again, after pleading guilty to a charge of conspiring with his family. I knew he'd done it for good reason, and his sentence was short, so I was clinging to the hope I'd feel his powerful force in my life again by summer.

Sutherland said, “Was I misinformed? You didn't marry him?” Then his gaze fell on the diamond ring Michael had given me. His eyes popped at the size of the sparkling rock. “Or you haven't yet, perhaps? Having second thoughts? Marriage is always a gamble with you Blackbird women, isn't it?”

“You're referring to the curse?”

“Well, there's no denying the female Blackbirds end up widows. Even Madeleine. My father took a chance, and look what happened to him. So, what's the story with your convict? Did you marry him or not?”

Was our marriage official? Well, perhaps the laws of Pennsylvania and most of its churches would say otherwise, but we had committed ourselves to each other, Michael and I, in an unorthodox ceremony conducted in the presence of my unorthodox family on a beach with weekend picnickers looking on. For better or worse, richer or poorer, in sickness and in health—­the works. Except for the license. Frankly, I was afraid to make our union more legal than that for fear of Michael's life. I didn't believe in curses—­not much, at least. But the Blackbird curse of widowhood gave me pause. So we had made our union a marriage in our hearts and in front of witnesses, if not on official paper.

Trouble was, Michael had gone to jail only a few weeks after we made our vows to each other. He'd pleaded guilty to conspiracy and obstruction of justice in a deal that sent other Abruzzos away for longer sentences. He refused to let me visit him in prison, and although I thought we might have outsmarted the Blackbird curse by making our vows in an unconventional non-­ceremony, I couldn't help wondering if the curse had taken him away from me anyway.

When I didn't answer Sutherland's question right away, he said, “I hate the thought of you spending your evenings alone, Nora, that's all. Now that I'm in town, I wonder if I might visit. Or take you out for dinner? I've always been so fond of you. We should catch up—­”

“Sutherland,” I said, “cut the crap. What's on your mind?”

He feigned surprise. Not very convincingly. “Nora, I don't remember this side of you. You used to be so . . .”

“Gullible?”

“Sweet, I was going to say.”

I turned and walked out of the pantry, through the breakfast room, across the loggia to the French doors. I unlocked one and gave it a shove with my shoulder to push the sticky door open. Sutherland followed me outside into the kitchen garden—­now a tangle of fragrant weeds running rampant around the brick wall. A rabbit dashed from the gravel path and into some bushes to hide.

When I was sure we were alone, I turned to Sutherland and said, “Cuz, let's stop playing whatever game you started.”

“Nora, I would never—­”

“Don't insult me any more than you already have,” I said. “Let's be honest. You're wondering why Aunt Madeleine gave this place to my sisters and me instead of to you—­her stepson.”

“Well, it's peculiar, I'll admit.”

“To all of us,” I said.

“I thought she had a few motherly feelings towards me, but perhaps not. It's not that I need the cash,” he said quickly. “I'm hardly in beggar's rags. I have resources.”

“Of course you do.”

“It's just . . .”

“Yes?” I prompted.

“Well, I have fond memories of the old girl. As stepmothers go, Madcap Maddy was colorful. I liked her.”

“So you want the estate?”

“Hell, yes, I want it.” Sutherland smiled. “Half of Madeleine's wealth originated with my father, right? I'll fight you tooth and nail for this house and what's left of its contents. I'm not as young as I used to be. And I just learned a rock star's Caribbean vacation home has come on the market. Maybe it's time I settled down. In style, of course.”

“And the lovey-­dovey routine? You thought you might romance me a little first to see if you can avoid an ugly lawsuit?”

“Well,” he said with another attractive twinkle, “we Blackbirds often marry our cousins. For the right reasons.”

“Money, you mean?”

“Keeping money in the family,” he replied, correcting me.

“So you're proposing an alliance?”

“Let's not use the word
propose
just yet.” He flicked a lock of my hair with one fingertip. “I'm fond of you, Nora. You're not nuts like Libby, and you don't frighten me the way Emma does. Good Lord, now she's going to spawn! But you—­you're delightful. And I'm not entirely revolting, am I? We could settle a family dispute before it gets started, you and I. Think of all the lawyer fees we'd be saving if we shook hands right now.”

“How romantic.”

“What do you say?”

Before I could say anything, we heard a bloodcurdling scream from inside the house.

CHAPTER THREE

W
e found Libby in hysterics in front of the open elevator. She had collapsed to her knees, shaking with terror and weeping.

I knelt, caught her around the shoulders and turned her away from the horror that lay on the elevator floor.

“My God,” Sutherland said above us.

Emma skidded down the staircase and caught her balance on the open door of the elevator car. She cursed.

“It's a person,” Libby cried, sobbing against my shoulder. “A dead person!”

It might have been a person once, but what remained on the floor of the old elevator was little more than a pile of graying bones and mummified skin dressed in gauzy tatters of fabric. If the sight wasn't already awful enough, the feeble light fixture at the top of the elevator flickered unsteadily, and the smell that wafted toward us was one I immediately thought must have greeted every archaeologist who ever set foot in an Egyptian tomb—­a combination of dust and must and a spine-­tingling horror.

Libby babbled, “I went looking for the paintings in the dining room. They were gone, so I decided to go upstairs, to Madeleine's room. I pushed the button. I heard the elevator come down to this floor. When the door opened—­I—­I—­”

“It's okay, Lib,” I soothed.

“Who is it?” She pointed a shaking finger at the bones on the floor of the elevator.

“We'll find out,” I said.

I didn't feel so good myself just then. I was glad to be kneeling on the floor, but my head spun unsteadily. The bones lay in a neat line, but the skull had rolled sideways. The empty eye sockets stared at us, and the jaw hung open as if in a final shriek of agony.

Libby was hyperventilating. “I wasn't expecting—­I never imagined—­”

“Hush,” I said. “You're okay.”

She hiccoughed and tried to steady her heart with a hand pressed to her bosom.

“Well,” Sutherland said, digging a handkerchief from his pocket. “This might explain why nobody was looking after the place.”

“What d'you mean?” Emma asked.

He daubed the handkerchief to his forehead. “Isn't it obvious? This must be the caretaker. The housekeeper.”

“Pippi,” I gasped. “Oh, God, the poor thing.”

“The electricity must have gone out. She was trapped in the elevator.”

“And she died?” Emma sounded as appalled as I felt. “Of starvation?”

Libby burst into tears all over again.

The sheriff's deputy and some of the lawyers arrived then, all of them exclaiming in loud voices.

“Someone call 911,” Sutherland finally barked, which made Emma laugh.

“It's a little late for an ambulance,” she said.

Deputy Foley took charge. With the bluster of youth, he ordered us all to step away from the open elevator. Sutherland, he said, should stick around to provide information.

“The rest of you should go outside. We must preserve the crime scene.”

His official manner was slightly spoiled by the way Libby clung to his arm. He finally seemed to notice how beautiful she looked when distraught, but he hastily handed her off to me. I helped Libby into the next room and eased her onto a dusty sofa. I patted her hands while she tried to pull herself together.

A moment later, Emma joined us in the salon. “I'm famished,” she announced. “And any minute I'll have to pee again. What do you say we blow this joint?”

“We need to stay,” I said. “The police will want to talk to us.”

“What can we tell them that Foley can't? I'm hungry.”

“Aren't you the least bit shocked?” Libby asked, still dabbing at her mascara with a hankie.

“I get hungry all the time. Nothing shocking about it anymore.”

“That's not what I—­oh, never mind.”

I could see Libby was in no shape to make sensible observations for the police. Besides, I was a little worried how she might react to the arrival of even more testosterone when more cops showed up.

“Everyone else saw exactly what we saw,” Emma said. “Let's clear out.”

“Yes, let's go.” Libby tucked her hankie into her cleavage, where it immediately disappeared as if down a bottomless crevasse. “I could use a restorative beverage. It's not too early for a margarita, is it?”

The three of us went outside. That's when we remembered we'd arrived in Deputy Foley's cruiser, so we were stuck for transportation.

“We'll have to walk,” I said.

“In these shoes?” Libby protested. She teetered on a pair of heels probably bought from the back page of a Victoria's Secret catalog.

The three of us were staring at Libby's inappropriate footwear when we heard a rhythmic
clip-­clop
and the merry jingle of harness. Then four perfectly matched black horses burst out of the woods, pulling Cinderella's coach into Quintain's storybook landscape.

“What in the world—­?” I started.

Emma said, “I'll be damned. It's Shirley van Vincent.”

“Who?”

“Vincente van Vincent's wife. The diplomat? The retired diplomat, that is. She's the horse fanatic. She used to be the world champion driver in coach-­and-­four competitions. She's hosting the big international preliminary next week, hoping to make a comeback. The van Vincent Classic.” Emma waved her arm in the air as if flagging a taxicab. “I bet she's training right now. Maybe she'll give us a lift into town. Hey, Shirley!”

The magnificent coach glinted with polish. The wooden wheels, painted with yellow trim, flashed in the sunlight as they spun through the fallen leaves. The horses—­all immaculately groomed and stepping in precise rhythm—­bowed their heads as they approached. A pair of Dalmatians completed the picture by trotting in the wake of the coach.

On the driver's box, a spritely old lady in an emerald green Tyrolean hat commanded the reins and balanced a tall whip in her capable hands. “Whoa!” she called to her team as she caught sight of Emma. “Whoa, there!”

The horses and dogs came to an obedient halt, and Emma stepped out to catch the bridle of the lead horse. “Hey, Shirley,” she said, easily controlling the huge animal. “How's it going?”

“Emma Blackbird,” the woman replied, her accent still slightly tinged by her European roots. Her voice was a deep smoker's rasp, surprising coming from such a diminutive person. She plunked the whip into its holder and rearranged the reins in her gloved hands while eyeing Emma with disapproval. “You've brought shame on your family, I see. Or are you just getting fat?”

“No, it's a baby, all right.” Emma gave her belly a lascivious rub.

“Your grandfather would have disowned you.”

“Good thing he's not around to see me, then. How come you're still alive, you old crone?”

Shirley van Vincent didn't take offense, but rather warmed to Emma's taunting tone. She pulled a pack of cigarettes from one of the many pockets on the fisherman's vest she wore and drew a cigarette into her mouth directly from the pack before tucking it back into her pocket. She thumbed a plastic lighter and lit up—­all without losing control of her team of horses.

Blowing smoke over her head, she said, “I'm too tough to die. Somebody's going to have to kill me if they want rid of me.”

“Careful,” Emma cautioned. “You might have people standing in line for that opportunity.”

“Are you saying I'm not the most popular woman around?”

Emma patted the neck of the horse she held. “You've been known to cross a line now and then, Shirley.”

“Only in the pursuit of excellence,” the old woman retorted. “I have a competitive spirit. So do you. Speaking of which, will we see you at the Classic next week? I could use you.”

“Maybe I'll be helping another team.”

“Doubtful.” Shirley van Vincent grinned. “You like to win as much as I do. And I always win. What are you doing out here today, may I ask?”

“Visiting Aunt Maddy's estate. You heard she died?”

“I read it in the newspaper.” Gruff again, the old woman fiddled with the reins. “I expected that news a lot of years ago, to be honest. I never thought Madeleine would live to such a ripe old age.”

“You knew Madeleine?”

“Of course I knew her. We were neighbors.”

“Close?”

“That's none of your business,” Shirley snapped. “But she could have been more generous with her tilting green. It would have made just the right spot for practicing tight turns.”

“Fair enough,” Emma said. She had a respect for horse training. “How about giving us a lift?”

“Where to?”

“Into New Hope? I'm starving.”

“Animal appetites,” Shirley said with more disapproval. “That's what got you into trouble in the first place. These are your sisters?”

“Yes, Nora and Libby.”

“I can guess which one is which. Elizabeth was the one who pranced around pretending to be a princess all the time.” She gave us a cold inspection. “You hardly look like royalty today, young lady. More like you've been run over by a milk wagon. What's the matter?”

“We've had a shock,” Libby obediently piped up. “There's a dead body in the elevator.”

The cigarette fell from Shirley's lips. “Good Lord, nobody's been in that house for years. Who is it?”

“It's not much of a body.” I stepped on the cigarette before it could set dry leaves alight. “More of a skeleton, actually. It looks as though somebody was trapped in the elevator and died.”

The elderly woman sent me a severe glance. “Trapped in the elevator, eh? That's what happens with modern conveniences. My father was an electrician—­spent his whole life repairing things that had gone wrong. When something newfangled breaks down, you've got a tragedy on your hands. Give me a horse and carriage any day.”

“You always had a big heart, Shirley,” Emma said.

“It's a wonder worse didn't happen in that house, with all the crazy people Madeleine had moving in and out all the time.”

“What people?” I asked. “Her houseguests?”

“If that's what you want to call them.”

Emma had grown impatient. “How about that ride?”

“Climb up,” the old woman said. “I'll take you into town.”

It took Emma two tries to jump up onto the driver's box with Mrs. van Vincent. She wasn't as agile as usual, and I gave her a boost. Libby and I clambered inside the coach and made ourselves comfortable on the plush leather seats. A moment later we were off.

Libby collapsed against the cushions. “I'm in a state of shock,” she said. “I'm partially claustrophobic, you know. Getting trapped in an elevator with no food, nothing to drink, no company—­what a nightmare.”

“It would be awful,” I agreed.

“I'm sure I'd be one of those animals that chewed off its own foot in captivity. I'd probably suffocate in two minutes or less if I were stuck in an elevator. Now, if I had some company, why, that would be a completely different story.”

Libby was on a rant, so I let her babble the whole way into New Hope.

We made quite a spectacle driving into the village in the coach-­and-­four. The horses' hooves clattered on the pavement. Their harness jingled as merrily as Christmas bells. People on the sidewalks turned to wave. A gaggle of small children—­outdoors with their teacher from their day-­care center—­stopped and stared. But we also passed two police cars heading in the opposite direction. They were on their way to Quintain, I guessed, summoned by Deputy Foley to the elevator crime scene.

We arrived at the Rusty Sabre Inn in no time. Shirley van Vincent drew up the horses, and the carriage glided to a stop in front of a parking meter. I climbed out and helped Libby to solid ground. She headed for the sidewalk. Then I reached for Emma's hand to help her hop down from the box.

“Thank you, Mrs. van Vincent,” I said to Shirley when Emma had landed heavily beside me and waddled after Libby.

Shirley effortlessly controlled her snorting team. “No trouble at all.” She leaned down to me and said in a lower voice, “Make sure Emma takes care of herself. Keep her out of the liquor. I know she likes to tipple.”

“Easier said than done.”

“And you.” She pointed her whip at me. “I hear you've been unlucky in love again. Your man is in jail now, is he?”

“He—­”

“Just as well,” she said. “Let him go, young lady. Find yourself a match in your own neighborhood. No sense slumming in the criminal element.”

Without waiting for my retort, the old woman loosened the reins, cracked her whip and sent the team charging down the street.

People were always free with their opinions about my life, and I should probably have gotten used to it. But no, I still didn't like it.

Steaming, I followed my sisters into the Rusty Sabre. Emma made a pit stop, then ordered another breakfast while Libby and I contented ourselves with coffee. We hashed over the morning's events. We had received the news of Madeleine's demise when her lawyer called—­announcing he'd heard from the Indonesian government. It had been a civilized way to learn of a death. But finding these remains in an elevator close to home hit us each differently.

Unaffected by the grisly discovery, Emma dug into her meal as soon as it arrived. “Shirley van Vincent agrees the body in the elevator is probably Pippi, the housekeeper. Do either of you remember her?”

“I do,” I said, feeling the melancholy tug of sadness. “She was a friendly little thing. Always giving us shortbread cookies, remember?”

Emma shook her head. “It's not like me to forget cookies, but I don't. I was too young, I guess.”

I said, “Aunt Madeleine brought Pippi home from one of her trips overseas. She worked in the household for years. She was always trying to teach Madeleine some Swedish words.”

“Russian,” Libby corrected. “She spoke Russian with Madeleine.” She rooted around in her cleavage for her handkerchief. “Dear me, it's just too sad to think of Pippi dying all alone in an elevator. How horrible it must have been.”