No Way to Kill a Lady (7 page)

I went to the office twice weekly to gather my mail and respond to invitations. The rest of the week, I was free to attend whatever functions I felt were important. Usually, I dropped in on social and philanthropic events four or five nights a week, and then wrote my column and short pieces at home. Today, I had a full dance card.

Michael let me go and I dashed upstairs, splashed water on my face and redid my makeup.

While at the mirror, I noticed one of the many notes and cards I'd stuck into the frame last Christmas. A postcard from Aunt Madeleine. The photo on the card showed a picturesque beach in Indonesia. I slipped the card out of the frame and flipped it over.

Happy holidays, Madeleine.

Nothing more. No personal note detailing one of her madcap escapades. I peered at the signature and tried to divine something—­anything—­from it, but it was a generic sort of handwriting from an era when everyone was encouraged to use the same penmanship. I sighed at the lack of information and put the postcard back into the mirror's frame. It had been Madeleine's responsibility to maintain the relationship, hadn't it? I'd been a child when she left. Was it my fault for not keeping in better touch with her? Surely now my only job was to remember her fondly.

I was running late. I stripped off my jeans and sweater and dove into my closet for something appropriate to wear to the office and the engagements later in the day.

When I first accepted my job, the biggest quandary had been what clothes I could wear if I attended black tie events every week. My own wardrobe included a few elegant pieces—­during the first flush years of my marriage to Todd, I'd taken weekend trips to Paris to scour the vintage boutiques—­but I'd found the best solution in my grandmother's stash of priceless couture. She'd had a keen eye for fashion and often traveled to shows and the best couturiers, and she had maintained her collection well, so that most of it remained in pristine condition. Later, two of her friends had bequeathed me even more vintage pieces, so my wardrobe was now perhaps quirky, but enviable.

For tonight's events—­a difficult mix of casual and very ­formal—­I chose a black lace Ann Pakradooni pants suit that included a froth of lace down the front. The matching bell-­bottomed pants hugged my hips almost too tightly and flared gracefully wide at the knee. Grandmama Blackbird had worn it to dinner with a young Elton John. In the attic, I'd found a faded photo clipped from
Hello!
magazine to prove it.

I swept my hair up to better show off the cut of the jacket, then slipped on a pair of relatively sensible stilettos.

The whole outfit made me look as if I were wearing lingerie, which would not do at all for my third stop of the evening, so I pulled a black Dior afternoon-­suitable swing coat down from a padded hanger, and selected an extra-­long black pashmina for later.

When I hurried downstairs, I found Reed Shakespeare on the back porch with Michael and the dog. Reed had been hired by the newspaper's owner—­a longtime Blackbird family friend—­to drive me to and from my social engagements. The limousine company for which he worked was one of Michael's side businesses.

Reed had a glass of iced tea from my fridge in one hand and stood with one foot on the bottom step, his hand braced on the railing while Michael lounged on the top step, still enjoying the sunshine. For a young man who rarely cracked a smile, Reed seemed genuinely happy to see Michael.

He sobered up when I pushed out through the back door.

I greeted him. “Hello, Reed. Thanks for coming on time.”

“I'm always on time,” he said defensively. As usual, he avoided looking at me below the neck. Reed rarely approved of my clothes. Vintage couture was not his taste.

“Yes,” I assured Michael, “he is always on time. You should give him a raise.”

“I wish I could.”

Michael cast his gaze appreciatively down my body. He always liked what I wore, but the black lace put an expression on his face that promised a long night when I returned.

Just as I'd intended.

I pulled Michael to his feet, and the three of us strolled down the flagstone walk to the gravel parking area between the house and the barn. The intrusive helicopter was long gone, and Emma's ponies galloped to the fence again. The shaggy beasts snapped and kicked at one another to get the best positions to watch the humans. Ralphie worked his way to the front of the mob and squealed at Michael.

“Damn,” Reed said respectfully. “Those are some ugly animals.”

“Speaking of ugly,” I said.

Parked on the gravel was not the austere black town car that Reed usually drove me around in. Instead, I was confronted by a formidably huge black SUV with darkened windows and tires big enough to negotiate both sand dunes and alligator-­infested swamps.

“What's this?” I stared at the behemoth. “The army doesn't need all its tanks anymore?”

“It's not a tank,” Michael soothed. “But it's safer than the town car.”

“Safer for whom? You could squash a tractor trailer with this thing. Michael, I'm just going to a few parties, not trying to survive a roadside bomb.”

“Humor us,” he said. “It's safer, and Reed won't feel like all those stuffy chauffeurs he has to wait with during your evenings out.”

I stole a glance at Reed and saw his jaw was set. I knew he resented appearing foolish when he drove me around. Perhaps the SUV made him feel more like a man of his own generation. “Okay,” I said reluctantly. “But how do I climb up into the seat?”

Michael boosted me up into the backseat of the SUV with a steady, familiar hand on my butt. When I regained my balance on that perch, I looked down at them. “Is Reed going to perform that service from now on?”

Reed looked uncomfortable. The two of them consulted briefly, then went off to the barn. The pig shouldered his way out from among the ponies and ambled along the fence in Michael's wake.

They returned with an old milking stool that dated back a couple of centuries and could probably send the curators on
Antiques Roadshow
into swoons of delight. While Reed climbed behind the wheel, Michael set the stool on the front passenger seat and closed the door. He came around to my door to kiss me good-­bye.

“See you tonight.” He took my face in his hands. “I love you.”

His smile made my heart turn over. “I love you, too. I'm so glad you're home.”

CHAPTER FIVE

A
s Reed pulled down the long drive, he carefully avoided looking at me in the rearview mirror.

Finally, I said, “Reed, there's no way I'm going to learn to drive this monster.”

“I couldn't come in the town car today, could I?” His voice went up half an octave. “It'll take Mick ten seconds to figure I wasn't the one who messed up the front fender. This was the only way I could keep the secret.”

“Are his guys at the garage going to fix the car? Without telling him?” My little accident could have been easily covered up if not for Michael's early homecoming. I felt guilty about dragging Reed into a collusion.

“Yeah, they're repairing it now,” Reed said. “You and me are just gonna have to put your driving lessons on hold for a while.”

I sighed. “I was doing so well, too.”

Reed said nothing.

“Wasn't I?” I demanded. “I thought I was making real progress.”

“I've never known anybody more dangerous behind the wheel than you. And that includes my grandma.”

“But I'm learning! Cut me a little slack!”

“Just don't go on any public roads yet, okay? You're gonna smash up something worse than a fender.”

Because I'd gone to boarding school, then attended college in New York City, where a car was a liability, I'd never learned to drive. And for a while I'd developed an annoying habit of fainting when things got stressful, which meant getting behind the wheel was forbidden by the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania. But with my husband's murder slowly fading from my consciousness, I was getting better at not fainting, so I had applied for a learner's permit. I had wanted to become a proficient driver while Michael was away. Surprising him with my skills behind the wheel seemed like a great plan. Surely at thirty-­three, I wasn't too old to learn.

But I wasn't very good yet. I had trouble figuring distances and speeds and turning radiuses and—­well, just about everything that came after buckling the seat belt. I had crashed the town car into the side of the barn—­which was a very large target, I admit. For once, Reed had lost his cool with me.

But I was determined to learn. “I just need more practice.”

In the rearview mirror, I thought I saw Reed roll his eyes.

At the end of the driveway, two cars pulled up and parked. Three scary-­looking men got out and stretched as if they planned to stick around for a while. One waved at Reed.

“What's this?” I asked.

“Some of Mick's guys. They're just going to set up a little roadblock. A checkpoint.”

“Why?”

“To make sure nobody gets to the house unannounced.”

Standard operating procedure in the mob. When things got hot in Michael's world, we sometimes had extra protection at Blackbird Farm.

I didn't like the way the tide was turning.

Reed pulled onto the highway and headed south. Most of my neighbors still had pumpkins and scarecrows on their properties. The weather was dry and cool, and colorful leaves blew attractively along the asphalt. In another month, they'd be a sodden, slippery mess on the roads, but for now it was autumn, my favorite season.

I composed myself by opening my bag and spreading my papers on the backseat. The best way to cope with Philadelphia traffic was to work while Reed drove me into the city.

I didn't feel much like working today. Too many distractions. Often when I needed diversion, I used the time to telephone friends while Reed drove. In the late afternoons, I could sometimes catch my best pal, Lexie, just as the stock market closed for the day. She'd put her feet up on her desk and regale me with her financial triumphs. Or I could amuse her with the latest misadventures of my sisters. Today I really wanted to talk to her about Aunt Madeleine. And tell her about Michael's sudden homecoming. But I couldn't call her in jail.

I knew what Lexie's advice would be if I could reach her. Get to work. Immersing herself in work had always been her game plan. I was sure she'd advise me to do the same.

I needed to focus.

So I used my cell phone to RSVP to a couple of parties and to interview the caterer of the van Vincent Carriage Classic next week. The event promised to be very glamorous, but the caterer was worried about the November weather. If snow blew down the refreshment tents, the Classic would be a bust.

Reed was driving opposite the city traffic, so we made it into Center City in less than an hour. I asked him to stop outside a liquor store so I could buy a bottle of wine to share with Michael later. I slid awkwardly out of the SUV and although Reed was there to catch me, he bobbled my hand and I ended up running slap into a parking meter. I shot him a look, and the one he shot back at me was just as annoyed.

When I came out of the liquor store, he was ready with the milk stool. I climbed carefully into the SUV and buckled up. A few minutes later, Reed dropped me in front of the newspaper building. With the milk stool and his steadier hand this time, I managed to get out of the SUV without embarrassing myself. We made a plan to rendezvous after my last event of the day, and I assumed he intended to drive over to the library to do some studying while I was busy. I never asked what he did during his downtime, and he rarely volunteered.

I dropped a letter to Lexie into the mailbox outside my office.

At the Pendergast Building, I passed through lobby security and noticed the staff was putting away Halloween decor and unpacking Christmas decorations. I smiled at the thought of having Michael home for the holidays. I took the elevator up to the floors of the
Philadelphia Intelligencer,
where my colleagues all had their eyes on their computer screens, concentrating on finishing their work for the day.

Skip Malone whistled at me from the sports desk and gave me a thumbs-­up on my outfit. I saw he still sported a black eye from the story he'd done on the Eagles football team. A player hadn't taken kindly to one of Skip's sophomoric jokes.

My desk overflowed with paper invitations. I was one of the few social page writers left in the city, so my name appeared on guest lists for everything from donkey basketball games for good causes to elegant charity balls and even birthday parties for small children whose prominent or social-­climbing families thought their kiddies needed face time in the newspaper. The coming holidays meant that triple the usual number of invitations came my way. Quickly, I sorted through the mail, wrote a couple of return notes and e-­mailed a lot more. Thank heaven for e-­mail. It saved me a fortune in notepaper and stamps, not to mention the time it took to compose and write a gracious paper note.

I made careful notations on my calendar and tossed the bulk of the invitations into the trash.

When my cell phone rang, it took me a few moments to dig it out of my handbag. I answered on the third ring.

Emma's voice said, “The cops are here.”

“Where?”

“At the farm. You were right. We shouldn't have left the crime scene this morning. They asked me a bunch of questions. They want to talk to you.”

“Now?”

“Soon. Mostly, they're peeved we left Quintain without permission. And I think the other reason they're here is to see if the Godfather is behaving himself.”

I sighed. It was subtle harassment, but harassment just the same. “I'll be home tonight. You okay?”

“Sure. Mick's making dinner for me and Rawlins. He says I need more vegetables.”

“Good for him.”

A shadow fell across my desk, and I looked up. “Gotta go,” I said to Em, and hung up.

“Nora? Can I ask you some questions about what happened at your aunt's house today?”

Joe Hogarth—­a reporter who claimed he'd never retire from newspaper work, but die facedown on his keyboard—­pulled a notebook from the hip pocket of his shabby corduroys. He made an effort to smile, but since he did so infrequently, it came across as halfhearted.

He said, “I hear you're related to Madcap Maddy Blackbird. She owned the fancy house in Bucks County, right? Where they found a body in an elevator this morning? Mind if I sit down?” He was already pulling a swivel chair over from another desk. “I thought you could tell me what happened.”

Instantly wary, I said, “Joe, I don't want to be quoted in the paper, okay? The family is already in an uproar without me blabbing to the media.”

“I get that. So let's just talk. Off the record.”

Joe might play the doddering sad sack, but he hadn't won four Pulitzers for nothing. Now, of course, he no longer worked for the city's respected newspaper—­they'd replaced him with a younger, cheaper model—­but he still had the same nose for news. His faded tweed jacket and brown knit tie looked shapeless and colorless and as if they hadn't been cleaned in decades. And when he pulled a pencil from his breast pocket, he licked the tip. But I knew the good-­ol'-­boy act was just that—­an act.

He said, “Who's the body in the elevator?”

I gave him the basic information—­that we didn't know who had died in Quintain's elevator, that the house had been abandoned for years. The local police would investigate. I didn't speculate that the body might have been Pippi. He didn't jot down any notes, but drew circles on his notebook while I talked.

“Yeah,” he said, nodding. “The local TV affiliates sent their trucks out to the house. I saw all the pictures on the noon news. We had a photographer taking some aerial photos for tomorrow's edition, too. That estate is quite a place. A real old-­money mansion. You spend much time there?”

“Not since I was a child.”

“But you've been inside? When your aunt still lived there?”

I hesitated. “Aunt Madeleine left the country when I was in my early teens.”

“So you knew her?”

I wasn't sure what Joe was up to, but I had a feeling I should be very careful. I folded my hands on the desk. “Is your story about Madeleine? Or what happened at Quintain this morning?”

Joe shrugged and closed his notebook. He poked his pencil into his ear and wiggled it around. “I'm just getting the facts straight. A dead body in a big mansion—­that kind of story always interests people. Rich folks misbehaving. Your aunt Madeleine, though. I remember her.”

I perked up. “You were acquainted with her?”

“No, but she was always around the edges of big stories when I got started.”

“Around the edges,” I repeated. “What does that mean? What kinds of stories?”

“Just stuff about people, I guess. She knew a lot of bigwigs.”

“Hmm.”

“Like a lotta rich ladies, she gave money to museums and good causes. And campaigns. That's the fast track to rubbing the right elbows.” Joe removed the pencil from his ear and studied the tip with a frown. “She went to a lot of big parties.”

“That's all possible, I suppose.”

“She had her fingers in a lot of pies.”

I smiled. “I wouldn't know anything about her pies.”

Joe put his pencil back into his pocket and looked me square in the eye at last. “I remember one old reporter saying he wouldn't be surprised if Madcap Maddy Blackbird got herself killed someday. Funny how a line like that sticks in your head. Now here she is, dead under suspicious circumstances.”

I said, “What suspicious circumstances?”

Another shrug. “I thought maybe you'd know.”

“There's nothing suspicious about it. She died in a volcano. A natural disaster. The Madeleine I knew was a respected lady—­emphasis on
lady
. She enjoyed herself. Enjoyed her friends. And, last I heard, there's nothing wrong with giving money to causes you believe in. I can't imagine why anyone would spread something insulting about my aunt, who was a lovely, generous person.”

“Well, thanks for the information, Nora.” My testy outburst did the trick. He climbed arthritically to his feet and paused. “Just one more thing.”

“Yes?”

He dropped a tear sheet on my desk. I flipped it over and looked down at a picture of myself in the arms of—­as the headline so tastefully put it—­
THE GANGSTER OF LOVE
. Michael and I were photographed running across my lawn and taking cover in the house. The accompanying article breathlessly announced Michael's release from prison and speculated about how he planned on taking over most of the illegal activities from Philadelphia all the way to Sicily. Once again, the
Intelligencer
demonstrated it was a journalistic class act.

I glanced up at Joe and saw his smirk. “I guess I should be thankful you didn't show his mug shot,” I said.

“You have a statement about your boyfriend? Something we can print?”

I handed him the photo. “No thanks.”

With a glare, I watched Joe shamble away. I thought about the kind of retorts I could make if I weren't a lady.

When he disappeared, I considered my delicate position. What was my obligation to my employer when my personal life crossed into the news? I wasn't sure. And there wasn't anyone in the newsroom I could ask. Once again, I longed for Lexie's opinion. She could help me with my dilemma.

Joe's insinuations about Aunt Madeleine really irritated me.

What suspicious circumstances?

On impulse, I picked up my phone and called the obituary department.

Annette Downey picked up, and we chatted for a moment about her cat, Cleo, who needed insulin shots, last I'd heard. Annette sounded a lot less stressed about her pet now that she'd learned how to inject the medication.

Then I cut to the chase. “Annette, can you tell me who wrote Madeleine Blackbird's obituary for the
Intelligencer ?”

“Sure,” she said. “It was Mark. Except he didn't really write it, because all the information came in pretty much the way we used it.”

“Where did it come from?” I asked. “Who sent it?”

“Let me check.” I could hear her clicking her computer keys for a moment before her voice came back on the line. “Here it is. Yeah, it came by e-­mail. From one of your relatives, I guess. Sutherland Blackbird.”