Slay Belles (3 page)

“No,” I said again. I backed away from the bed and bumped into a display shelf. A rack of brilliant yellow towels cascaded around me, and I cried out. I pushed away and rushed for the escalator. I stumbled on the top step, then caught my balance on the railing and clattered downward. I must have shouted, but the panic was deafening.

From below, a rush of darkness swirled up to me. Not an electrical blackout this time, but a different kind of darkness. I had to find help before I passed out.

At the bottom of the escalator, a figure in a uniform appeared. I made out a bald head and a name tag that swam before my eyes. He reached for me, but I couldn’t see his face, only the Haymaker’s logo embroidered on his shirt. A security guard.

“Call the police.” I gasped. “Popo’s been murdered.”

Chapter 3

My best friend, Lexie Paine, greeted me at the front door of her home. “Sweetie, where have you been? I was ready to send a Saint Bernard to go search for you.”

“Sorry I’m late.” I stepped inside and reached for the edge of a table to support myself.

Lexie lived in a converted Victorian-style boathouse along the famous Boathouse Row on the Schuylkill River, a picturesque curve of storybook houses that were maintained by various boating clubs. With her powerful connections and bottomless personal bank account, my friend had managed to score one of the abandoned boathouses and had renovated the second floor into luxurious living quarters.

Behind her, I could hear the buzz and hum of party guests along with soft jazz and the scent of expensive flowers from Neppo.

Summoning some self-control, I said, “You, on the other hand, look stunning. Which rapper did you have to mug to get that necklace?”

Slim and sinewy from beating up bulls and bears on Wall Street, Lexie wore a smoky black cashmere ensemble and double strand of serious bling. She toyed with one of the diamonds at her throat. “I had a good week in the Asia markets. You won’t believe how desperate American manufacturers are to get themselves into pathetic Chinese villages so they can exploit the workers and make billions. I could spend every day playing matchmaker if I didn’t get bored with all the upstanding, two-faced executives from Omaha.”

“Nobody would ever mistake you for two-faced, Lex. You tell it like it is.”

Lexie closed the door and gave me a hug. “Sorry about the rant. Now, sweetie, what’s happened? You look white as Christmas snow. My God, you’re shaking!”

“Careful,” I said. “I don’t want to spoil your party.”

My friend popped her eyes wide and held me away from herself to get a better look at my face. “What’s happened? You didn’t discover another dead body, did you?”

“As a matter of fact—”

She cursed prayerfully. “You’re kidding! Who was it? Anybody I know?”

“Popo Prentiss.”

Aghast, Lexie pulled me over to the staircase and we sat down together on the bottom step. I put my bag gently on the floor, and Spike slept on. Hugging my knees, I told Lexie the whole story, keeping my voice low so as not to disturb her guests.

“And you were locked in the loo while it happened?” Lexie put her arm across my shoulders for comfort. “My God, Nora, it could have been you!”

“I doubt it,” I said.

“What do you mean?”

“I’ve had a couple of hours to think about it. If you were a random killer, would you commit your crime in the middle of a department store shortly after closing? With all those security cameras going?”

“You think someone deliberately murdered Popo? Hell, what am I saying? Of course she was deliberately murdered. Half the people in this town despise her!”

“And the other half suck up to her so she’ll get the dresses they want for the Christmas galas.” I gave a hiccough and realized I was fighting back tears.

Lexie tightened her arm around me. “You’ve had a terrible shock. I’m so sorry, sweetie.”

“I’m okay. The police came right away. They were very nice to me.”

Her expression reflected genuine concern. “Did you faint?”

I blanched. “Yes. Dammit, I wish I could get over that tendency. It makes me feel like such an idiot.”

“You’re just empathic. But there’s nothing to worry about now. Surely the police are looking at videotapes this minute. There must be security cameras all over that store. The killer will be caught in no time.”

“That’s the thing. Somebody tampered with the security system.” I told her about the power outage. “All the cameras went off-line.”

“You mean someone from inside the store shut off the electricity?”

“Not just electricity, but the backup generator for the security systems, too. Someone really knew what they were doing.”

Lexie blew a sigh and shook her head. “This is certainly going to be more bad news for Haymaker’s.”

“More bad news?”

Lexie smiled wryly at my question. “You listen to all the wrong gossip, sweetie. Haymaker’s is performing poorly. It’s the dreaded third-generation syndrome.”

“The what?”

“Alan Rutledge is the third generation to own the store. His granddaddy started by selling pencils on the street and built Haymaker’s from nothing. Then Alan’s father joined the biz and made it into a regional chain. The two of them worked like dogs to build Haymaker’s, but they never showed Alan how to get his hands dirty. Now he’s on his own, and he doesn’t know how to mind the store. He’d rather go see a musical. It’s a classic business story. The third generation bungles the family store.”

“Haymaker’s is going out of business?”

“No, but the vultures are circling. I’ve heard a couple of big retailers are looking to buy out Haymaker’s.”

“Maybe that’s a good thing,” I said. “Alan will be free to enjoy what he really loves.”

Lexie nodded. “He’s a closet song-and-dance man. I heard a wild rumor he got engaged to Cindie Rae Smith. That can’t be true, can it?”

“It can, and is. I saw Cindie Rae at the store tonight. She was acting as if she owned the place already. I think she’s the closest Alan could get to a leading lady.”

Lexie leaned closer. “Did you get a good look at her? I mean, is she as . . . enhanced as everyone says?”

“Put her in the warm sunshine and she’d melt like a Hershey bar.”

“Ugh. I hear her Web site is beyond revolting, too. What is Alan thinking?”

“We both know what he’s thinking.”

Lexie shuddered. “Everybody knows I’d rather make money than love. I have no sex drive whatsoever. It’s so messy, for one thing, and all those dreadful emotions that make people do crazy things like— Oh, sorry, sweetie. I didn’t mean you.”

“No offense taken.”

Lexie wagged her head. “But Alan. . . . What a waste of a solid family fortune.”

I took a deep, steadying breath and let it out slowly. “I can’t believe Popo is dead.”

“Me neither. She may have been universally hated, but she was indispensable to a lot of my friends.”

Just a few minutes with Lexie had made me feel better. But I didn’t want to spoil her party. “Look, I should go. I’m sorry to bring bad tidings. I should have waited until morning to call you. But I thought I’d better stop by to apologize for not picking up your package in case it was something you needed tonight.”

“Oh, forget about that! Heavens, you shouldn’t have bothered. It was only a little evening bag I planned to use next weekend.”

“A little evening bag?”

“Right. Popo called and said it would match a dress I’m wearing to a charity ball on Saturday. A Lettitia McGraw handbag.”

I couldn’t help myself. I laughed.

She cocked her head. “What’s the story?”

“It’s a very popular bag tonight, that’s all. Look, I’d better run along. You have a lovely party to host, and I—”

“Don’t beg off,” she commanded, getting to her feet and extending her hand to help me up. “You have to stick around. If nothing else, you could use a stiff drink, I’m sure. And everybody wants to see you.”

Although I simply wanted to go home to my own bed, I could hardly walk out without saying a few hellos. I picked up my bag with the sleeping puppy inside and shouldered it. “All right. Tell me who’s here.”

“The usual suspects.” Lexie linked her arm with mine to pull me into her home. “That nutty writer, what’s-her-name, with the book about cloning babies or something. And the new curator for the museum.”

“Belinda, the one with the red glasses?”

“Yes. It’s a good blend, although I accidentally invited too many politicians. It seems everybody’s running for mayor except that handsome John Fitch, who’s also here. You’ve met him before, right? I think he has a shot at the Senate. Plus a handful of my best friends for sex appeal.”

“And there must be one of your billionaire clients or two in the mix.”

She grinned. “Of course.”

“Are you raising money for the museum?”

“Always. Tonight I’m targeting Vince Scuddy. Do you know him? He owns a truckload of cable television stock, so he can afford to spend most of his time playing street hockey with underserved kids in South Philly.”

“Sounds like a mensch.”

“Who needs something cultural to balance his résumé, and then I suppose he’ll run for mayor, too.”

We arrived in her living room, which was packed with guests. For a woman of her income and a family history at least as old as my own, Lexie lived in remarkably small quarters. Her boathouse was sparsely and inexpensively furnished, but hung with spectacular art from the collection her mother had inherited and Lexie’s own investment pieces. The president of the art museum board, she had the combination of serious scholarship, instinctive good taste, and the gargantuan disposable income needed to possess paintings and sculpture that were the envy of many longtime collectors.

“You moved your Warhol out of the bedroom.” I observed the pop-art portrait that dominated the living room wall.

“I moved a Vermeer oil study over my bed instead, which is ever so much more restful.”

Two friends approached and gave me air kisses, and someone offered to get me a drink. I tried to make conversation, but I felt as if my body were floating on the ceiling as the party whirled around me. I tried to fake being sociable. The mental image of Popo Prentiss’s body kept popping into my head. Even handsome John Fitch couldn’t distract me with his usual intelligent charm.

Soon one of the hired waiters came over and murmured into Lexie’s ear. She nodded, then leaned close to me and said quietly, “Why don’t you take a few minutes in the kitchen? I understand there’s someone waiting for you there.”

I gave her a grateful squeeze and excused myself from John. With a smile that was more relieved than festive, I slipped through the crowd until I reached the swinging door to Lexie’s kitchen.

There, the catering staff was quietly preparing more canapés, washing up glassware, and efficiently keeping bottles opened and trays filled. I recognized my childhood friend Jill Mascione as she whipped a tray of caviar blintzes out of the oven. I had met her long ago at the parties my parents threw and her parents catered. We had played marbles under the bunted tables while the adults drank champagne above us. Now she ran her family’s business, and I saw her often at social events.

Jill caught my eye and grinned, too busy to do more. Then she shot a pointed glance across the room, and I followed her gaze.

The door to Lexie’s small wine cellar stood open. It was more of a closet than a cellar, of course—just a few square feet of floor space with a small table surrounded by racks of wine bottles. A shaft of kitchen light knifed into the room, illuminating the figure inside.

A man with hulking shoulders ate from a bowl of pasta, both elbows on the table, half in shadow. The kitchen staff respected his presence by tiptoeing about their chores and sending uneasy glances in his direction. He frowned at Lexie’s wine labels as he twirled his fork, the rough planes of his face set in the glower of a man with a mean hangover.

I went to the door and leaned in. “I see you’re out of jail.”

He looked up at me and the hangover expression disappeared. He smiled. His eyes were the same intense blue as an acetylene torch, but reflected more heat. “Hey.”

“You’re making everybody nervous.”

“I haven’t even threatened to break any kneecaps yet.”

“I guess you just look like a man who could hurt a few people before dessert.”

“There’s dessert?”

I kissed his mouth. “What are you doing here?”

Michael “the Mick” Abruzzo, son of the infamous New Jersey mob boss “Big Frankie” Abruzzo, had given up his life of crime for love. So he claimed. Tonight he looked like an unreformed wise guy in faded jeans and a black sweater loose enough to conceal a weapon. He’d slung his leather jacket over the chair back. His blunt, Roman nose had been daunting even before it was broken, and the dent in his chin was courtesy of a long-ago prison-yard brawl. These days I failed to see what was so frightening about his face, but I was in the minority.

He said, “We left things up in the air the other night.”

“So you tracked me down for a rematch?”

Mischief danced in his gaze. “I’m game. Hungry?”

“No, thanks.” The idea of food made my stomach give a little roll. “How did you score dinner for yourself? The rest of the guests are only getting hors d’oeuvres.”

“I dunno. Maybe the cook thought I’d stay out of trouble if my stomach was full.” He looked down at his bowl. “She made this just for me. It’s good stuff. White truffles. Sure you don’t want a taste?”

I touched an unruly curl of his dark hair. “I’m sure.”

In a different tone, he said, “Want to go home?”

“Yes, please.”

He got up, a tall, powerful body that radiated comfort and something much more magnetic. Touching the point of my chin, he said, “Let’s blow this joint.”

“Why don’t you come inside and meet some of Lexie’s guests first?”

“No,” he said.

I slanted a glance up at him. “Are you afraid to meet my friends?”

“Nope.”

“Because they’re dying to meet you.”

“I’m not going to scare the shit out of your aristocratic pals just for the entertainment value. Anyway, you need to get home, I think.”

I carried his plate and silverware to the sink and spoke briefly to my friend Jill. Waiting by the back door, Michael drained the glass of red wine he’d been sipping and left it on the counter. We went out the door into the cold air. The harsh, damp smell of the river washed up to us as we walked around the side of the boathouse and past the long line of vehicles Lexie’s guests had parked in her driveway. There were German cars and Rovers, plus a Hummer and a Jag or two.

Under a no-parking sign, Michael had angled one of his many muscle cars. This battered one looked ready for an Ozark stock-car track, with a low nose and a spoiler on the back. He saw me into the passenger seat before going around and getting in behind the wheel. Then he started the engine and thumbed the heater full blast before turning sideways toward me.