Some Like It Lethal (3 page)

"Is Emma riding today?" Hadley asked. "Doing her Sheena, Queen of the Asphalt Jungle imitation? No, I take that back—Emma is everything and more than Sheena."

"Yes, she's here somewhere. I hope to catch her."

Reminded of my secondary purpose for attending the breakfast, I looked for Emma amidst the riders. But the kaleidoscope of people and animals prevented me from catching a glimpse of my wayward younger sister.

Some of the riders dismounted and led their horses off to the barns, while others who didn't stable their animals at the club headed for the cluster of trailers parked near the polo field.

Below us in the yard, a tall, elderly man swung down from his saddle and threw the reins at his private groom, uttering a curse that turned heads.

"Tottie's still working that Boarman charm," Hadley observed.

Thornton
"Tottie" Boarman had been master of the hunt for as long as I could remember, but he'd recently stepped down from that illustrious position, citing business obligations. He didn't look too happy about his first hunt as retired master.

Hadley said, "I hear he's got more trouble than his personality these days."

"I heard that, too," I murmured.

Hadley gave me a raised eyebrow. "His margin was called by the stock exchange. He's lost a bundle of his own money, not to mention oodles of dough belonging to his clients. Where did all that cash go? Pretty serious stuff for a man who wouldn't outlive a prison sentence."

"With half the Main Line losing money on his investment schemes, he's probably lucky to still be alive now," I agreed.

Tottie shoved past his groom and marched up the brick walkway toward us, ripping off his top hat as he strode. He was tall, with a vain man's mane of flowing white hair and a prominent knob of a chin. At that moment, his heavy features were set in a tense scowl, bushy white brows practically concealing his steely blue eyes. His boots rang out on the bricks underfoot as he climbed toward us. He had the stiff gait of someone who'd spent many years spurring horses over fences. ... or kicking his employees around. His reddened fingers ripped at the buttons on his scarlet coat.

"Good morning, Tottie," Hadley sang as the old man approached. "Lovely morning for a ride."

Tottie looked up and frowned deeper. "Pinkham," he rasped in disgust. "The only thing you'd ride shouldn't be seen in the light of day, you pervert. Get out of my way. I've got to take a piss."

Tottie brushed past me as if I were invisible. Thank heavens.

"Don't knock it until you've tried it," Hadley replied mildly. "You okay, Nora?"

I caught my balance on Hadley's arm. "Fine, no thanks to him. You'd think he might make an effort to be likable to the one person in town who definitely didn't lose a fortune on one of his deals."

"Tottie's an equal opportunity bastard. But he'll probably get his comeuppance. Unless he bolts for somewhere sunny that won't extradite him for stealing millions of— Oh, sorry, kitten. Does that cut your heart out?"

"I'm learning to accept that my parents were idiots, Hadley. At least the money they stole came from our trust funds, for the most part, not from anyone else."

"Except for pocket change," Hadley corrected. "I hear they picked a few deep pockets before they— Well, it wasn't your fault. It's just too bad you're a church mouse as a result of their flight to financial freedom. How are you faring in your first job?"

"I'm enjoying it, as a matter of fact. Speaking of which," I said, "I think it's time to get started. Care to join me?"

Chapter 2

We mingled for a bit before my sister Libby chose to make her entrance. I caught sight of her chugging toward us in a monstrous hat bedecked with autumn leaves and, yes, pheasant feathers. Combined with her postpartum bosom, which threatened to jiggle out of her jacket as she steamed up the cobblestones, she made quite a sight.

"Libby!" Hadley looked as affronted by her appearance as an Episcopal preacher who'd accidentally wandered into Hooters. "It's time we had a discussion about birth control."

"Hello, Hadley," she gasped, kissing his proffered cheek. "Thank you for sending the silver spoon for my new baby. You have the most beautiful manners when the mood strikes you."

"I wish I'd sent a diaphragm instead. Is this what childbirth does to you? You look like Dolly Parton just outwrestled a Windsor."

"Up yours," she said, still breathless. "Nora, how can you walk out here in those heels? I'm absolutely crippled by these shoes. Have you seen Emma yet?"

"No, but I'm sure she's here somewhere. She intended to drive her trailer over last night."

"Yes, it's parked right out front. Didn't you see it? And that enormous horse of hers is tied up to the tailgate without his saddle."

"Well, she's probably—"

"I mean, he hasn't been ridden," Libby said with significance. "Obviously Emma didn't go out with the hunt this morning."

Hadley glanced between us. "Unsettling news?"

Nothing should have kept our younger sister from taking her horse, Mr. Twinkles, out onto the field to prove to everyone that, in three counties, they were the boldest, fastest team over fences. I realized Libby wasn't out of breath from walking. She was upset.

"Do you suppose . . . ?" Libby asked.

Our eyes met, and we shared the same thought.

"Tch, tch," said Hadley. "What's Emma done now? Not aiding and abetting an adultery, I hope?"

"Just what the hell do you mean by that?" Libby demanded.

"Or has she been drinking again?"

"Hadley—" I began.

"I saw her at Moonglow last week. She'd had enough vodka to float a Russian submarine."

"Listen to me, you worm," Lilly began.

I stepped between them. I was sure neither one could throw a punch worth ducking, but I wasn't taking chances because I certainly didn't want to get stuck taking care of her children if my sister ended up hospitalized. "It's all right, Hadley. We've been a little concerned about Emma lately, that's all."

"Oh?" he asked. "What's going on?"

"None of your beeswax," Libby said. "Nora, I'm going to look for Em. You can stay with Sir Lance a Little, if you like."

She threw a glare at Hadley and stormed away.

"Well, now," he said.

"Drop it," I advised. "Or you'll be invited to the goddess intervention she has planned."

"How positively obstetrical that sounds. Say no more."

"Good. Shall we get a drink?"

"You read my mind." Before we could stroll into the crowd, however, Hadley's attention was caught by a movement in the shrubbery. He said, "Good heavens, is that a person lurking in the bushes? And what in the world is she doing?"

I followed the inclination of his head and spotted a corduroy-clad figure hiding among yews just a few yards from the walk.

Hadley asked, "Who is it?"

I recognized the woman and sighed. "Gussie Strawcutter."

"What a good example of how money can't buy everything. How much do you suppose she's worth?"

"A few hundred million," I guessed, feeling a rush of sympathy for Augusta Strawcutter. She had been saddled with the unfortunate nickname Gussie at an early age, when she had been precious enough to carry it off. But now she was the most socially inept woman I knew, and was often called "Gloomy Gus" by even her closest acquaintances. Seeing her once again standing wistfully on the edge of a party made my heart twist.

"Well, surely she could buy herself a decent haircut. But maybe she's trying to appeal to her customers."

"Hadley, you are a very naughty man."

Gussie Strawcutter, heiress to the Strawcutter dog food fortune, would eventually become one of the wealthiest women on the East Coast. Although Gussie didn't look capable of managing her own hair, let alone a national conglomerate, she was reportedly assuming more and more of the company's affairs as
her father, locked away in an institution now, slowly succumbed to Alzheimer's disease.

I took a longer look at her crouching behind the tree and decided maybe Hadley was right. She did look a bit like a Chow Chow. A whoosh of reddish-gold hair stood out from her head in a frizzy halo, and her underslung jaw and wide mouth lent a certain canine pugnaciousness to her face. I felt Spike stir in my handbag and clamped it shut, just in case he felt the urge to attack.

"Isn't she our age?" Hadley asked. "I vaguely remember her in an etiquette class my mother forced me to attend."

"I can't imagine you ever needed an etiquette class, Hadley."

"I spilled some wine between courses when I was seven or eight, so it was off to learn how to mind my manners with Monsieur Muumuu, that ghastly fat Frenchman who always wore caftans—remember him? Poor Gussie was hopeless even then. I think she threw up during the lesson on seafood forks."

"Let's go talk to her, Hadley. Put on your good behavior, please."

I thought our footsteps might have warned Gussie of our approach, but she spun around at last and gasped at finding us so close.

"Oh!" She pushed her glasses up on her nose and blushed.

I saw at once that she had been crying. "Gussie, are you hurt?"

She shook her head and dashed the tears from her face. "I'm fine. Nothing's wrong."

"But—"

"Really, I'm fine. Just some dust in my eye, that's
all." Desperate to come up with the correct greeting, she tried them all in a rush. "Hello, good morning, what a nice day, thank you for coming."

Hadley blinked at the denim skirt and bulky corduroy jacket that bunched up on her behind and did no favors for Gussie's square, athletic figure. "Gussie, dear, does that coat actually have a plaid lining?"

"Stuff it, Hadley. Gussie, the club looks unbelievable. Your family must be astonished by the changes."

"What? Oh, the changes, yes."

"How long ago did your family donate this property to the club?"

"My great-grandfather got rid of it. It was a drain on our resources."

Family history was obviously less important to the Strawcutters than to my family.

I tried again to draw her out. "Do you often visit here?"

"Not much."

"But your husband hunts, doesn't he?"

Gussie knew she was failing a social quiz. Nervously, she tried to smile, which revealed poppy seeds in her teeth. "Yes, he loves horses."

Her husband, Rush, was everything Gussie was not—sweet-tempered and attractive in a gangly, geek-grown-up kind of way. He had a shy smile and usually traveled with a motley pack of small dogs he'd adopted. Rushton Strawcutter was also unusual because he had taken the last name of his wife's family upon marriage. Since the Strawcutters were synonymous with dog food nationwide and Rush had enthusiastically plunged into the family business, it seemed logical for him to ditch his own name to join the Strawcutter clan. With all the personality Gussie
lacked, he was probably a welcome addition to the company.

"I haven't seen Rush yet today," I said, still trying to coerce Gussie into a conversation. "Did he enjoy the hunt this morning?"

"I don't know. I—I'll go look for him."

"It's hopeless," Hadley muttered out of the corner of his mouth.

"I didn't mean— Wait, I'll go with you, Gussie."

She blushed again and turned away. "Oh, no, no. I'll go by myself."

With a little gasp that might have been a strangled sob, she rushed away toward the barns.

"How can a woman with so many advantages be such a loser?"

"You're heartless, Hadley. I've never seen her so emotional."

"I know. She actually had some personality for once."

"I'm going after her."

"Then this is where we part ways, because I'm dying for a drink. Bye, kitten. Mention me in the newspaper."

Hadley strolled away. Spike finally succeeded in wrestling his head out of my handbag and gave Hadley a parting snarl. I gripped his collar and held tight.

Gussie Strawcutter had hurried off through the crowd and disappeared, so I took a deep breath and plunged into the party. Time to get to work on my article for the paper. Spike peered out from under my elbow, doing his best impression of a moray eel lurking for unsuspecting prey.

In spite of the cold morning, people seemed to be enjoying themselves. I saw flushed faces and plates of
breakfast treats circulating. Friends called my name, and I joined their group. Jane Frampton and her brother Donald, treasurer of the humane society and avid dalmatian fancier, were full of high spirits and demanded to know what had become of me since I'd last seen them at the autumn zoo fund-raiser. We chatted, and I asked about Donald's involvement in today's event. He filled me in on details. I made notes with pad and pen.

Then Donald guided me through some milling horses to the petite woman who'd organized the breakfast. Thomasina Silk was as cool as a martini in the midst of entertaining nearly two hundred people and scores of horses. A veteran horsewoman who had given up riding after breaking her back in a legendary fall at the Devon Horse Show, a healed but frail Thomasina didn't ride anymore. She bred quality Hanoverian jumpers and was the behind-the-scenes powerhouse at Tri-County. Dressed in a ladylike knee-length tweed skirt and fitted jacket with a discreet show of lace at the collar and cuffs, she finished checking the forelegs of a noble-looking beast and dismissed him with a hearty slap on the rump. Dusting off her hands, she gave me the lowdown on the fund-raiser.