How to Murder a Millionaire (15 page)

"Tell them I'll take the beer," I said with a smile.

"The competition is playing catch-up in today's issue. Have you seen it?"

"Not yet."

"They had to scramble on Sunday, but they got the
mayor to admit he's studying campaign strategies for himself and his son. But we broke the story first, thanks to you."

"I'm not used to this," I admitted. "I feel sneaky. I hope I didn't ruin his political career."

Stan laughed. "Somebody once said the only two things that can ruin a politician's career are a dead girl in his bed or a live boy. He'll survive this and probably flourish, so don't worry."

I hesitated, then took the plunge. "How did Kitty take it?"

Rosenstatz sighed, and his enthusiasm died. "Just be glad you weren't in the office yesterday."

"I see."

"And don't be surprised if she shows up at the funeral. She won't be able to resist going now that there's a real competition between you."

"But there isn't."

"Kiddo," said Rosenstatz, "you bet there is."

I spent the rest of the day sorting through the dozens of invitations the newspaper received for social events. Arranging my calendar had become a job requiring constant vigilance and delicate negotiations. I returned phone calls to hosts and hostesses, sending regrets to some and a promise to bring my notepad to others.

Periodically, I dialed Libby but did not reach her.

I spent the following morning searching through my closet for something appropriate to wear to Rory Pendergast's funeral. I ended up with a charcoal sheath dress under an old black Calvin Klein jacket.

Emma phoned early and arrived in my kitchen at the appointed hour.

She wore a sedate gray wool jacket over a pair of black leather pants that managed to look both sexy and suitable for a funeral. I suspected she wasn't wearing a bra under the jacket. I decided she looked like a dominatrix dressed for church.

"Have you reached Libby?" I asked, offering her a Diet Coke.

"Nope, sorry." She grabbed the can and drank directly from it.

"When was the last time you actually talked to her?"

"When she gave me the book bag on Saturday morning."

I frowned. "I haven't been able to reach her."

"Maybe she's planning another protest." Emma didn't seem very concerned. She put down the soda can and jiggled her keys. "Shouldn't we be going?"

"Did you know what was in the bag Libby sent to me?"

"No. Did you lose it?"

"Of course not. I just—I'm wondering what she's up to, that's all. She asked me to put something back in the Pendergast house, and I don't know what to do."

"Ask her."

"I would," I replied tartly, "except I can't reach her."

"Well, she'll probably be at the funeral. And we're going to miss the kickoff if we don't haul some ass, Sis."

I followed Emma outside and got into her pickup truck. We headed down the gravel drive at high speed.

"Nice byline in the paper," she said as we hit the road. "I didn't realize you were moving up in the world so fast."

"I'm not," I told her. "I was in the right place at the right time."

"Well, that can't be bad for your career, can it?" "I doubt the mayor will ever speak to me again." "No loss," said Emma. "He pinched my butt once." Like any self-respecting local girl, Emma took a circuitous route of back roads over the countryside and ended up at the mouth of the expressway just before it funneled into Philadelphia. Once on the four lane, she drove very fast, dodging around lumbering trucks with the agility of a gazelle in a herd of wildebeests. One tractor-trailer dared pull in front of her, and she blew her horn hard and long until he pulled back into his own lane. As we whizzed past the cab, my little sister flipped him off. We arrived at the cathedral in plenty of time.

Emma left the car in a parking garage a couple of blocks away, and we rode a slow elevator to the street. We walked up past the Four Seasons to the church. A light rain began to fall, so we hustled.

The cathedral was one of Philadelphia's most stunning landmarks, and I suspected that Rory Pendergast might have financed some part of its restoration. He had been able to afford being generous with all races and creeds. One stained glass window depicted a voluptuous Eve before the fall, and I smiled, wondering if Rory had paid for that particular window.

The steps of the building were crowded with an odd mix of photographers and priests, who parted like the sea when a town car pulled up to the curb and disgorged the monsignor with his entourage. The photographers jostled as if he were Tom Cruise.

We went into the cathedral and found ourselves in a knot of people who had not yet made their way past the temporary metal detectors and into the nave. Most of them seemed to be a security team—men and women with earpieces and cold stares.

"Yo," Emma muttered, taking off her sunglasses and nodding toward a sallow-faced man in a very expensive suit. "The senator."

"Talking to the mayor," I murmured. The mayor happened to look over the senator's shoulder and spotted me in the crowd. He quickly averted his head.

Emma looked bemused. "Looks like you don't have to worry about getting pinched."

We edged around the politicians and their flocks of assistants. I looked for Libby, but she was nowhere to be seen. I saw the Weymount family—all world-famous artists who painted at their old Pennsylvania family estate called Trundle.

Emma saw the Weymounts, too, and whispered to me, "I remember a rumor that Pendergast was their patron. Must be true if they're here today."

Since the Weymounts were all known for their penchant for female nudes, I understood Pendergast's interest in their work. "I went to school with Audrey."

I suddenly thought that Audrey might be able to help me understand if Rory's art collection might have anything to do with his murder. I took Emma by the arm and pulled her with me. "Come on."

The Weymount family wore grief well. They had practiced for years, starting when Jack Weymount ran off with a male lover, with whom he flung himself off a bridge in California. Forever the grieving daughter, Audrey looked like one of those rail-thin and huge-eyed urchins that used to be painted on greeting cards. Her brother, Connor, came off like Heathcliff, exquisite and handsome in a huge black coat and with a stormy expression on his brow. Their mother, Yedita, endeavored to be mistaken for a Jewish Yoko Ono— short-cropped hair, big glasses, grim expression. She was  obviously  dying  for  a  cigarette.  The  tension
showed in her tight mouth, rigid shoulders and the way she toyed with a silver cigarette case.

Emma once said, "I bet Jack jumped off that bridge so he wouldn't have to come home and face Yedita."

I gave Audrey a kiss on her pale cheek. I'd gone to Miss Porter's with her, and she hadn't altered since then. She was still petite and very shy.

"How nice to see you, Nora," Audrey whispered. "I'm sorry it's under these circumstances. How dreadful about Rory, don't you think?"

"Just dreadful," I agreed.

I had stayed with Audrey a few times at Trundle and would always appreciate the glimpse she gave me into the work of an artist. I'd gone through a period of wanting to be a painter like my sister Libby, but even Audrey hadn't been able to overcome my lack of talent.

Audrey was considered the lowest rung on the Weymount family ladder of success, however. And the family worked at keeping her there. She clung to my hand as I turned to her mother.

"Hello, Yedita." Then to Audrey's brother, "Hi, Connor. Have you met my sister Emma?"

Emma and Connor locked glowering stares, and I realized they knew each other well indeed.

Yedita always did the talking for the family, and she didn't fail us.

"I'm desolate," she said, waving the cigarette case. "I can't believe he's gone. Such a dear friend. What will we do without him? Are you coming to our exhibit at the Center City gallery, Nora? Rory underwrote it. I'll be sure you get an invitation to the opening. It's going to be a Weymount retrospective. We're even using some of Jack's pieces. And Connor's stuff is brilliant these days. Just brilliant. I love what
Audrey's doing with collage now, too, of course, but it's not my thing at all. You must come. I'll see that you get an invitation. And you're writing for the newspaper now, aren't you? You'll appreciate the work. You have such a good eye."

"Thank you, Yedita. I'd love to see it. Especially Audrey's things." Audrey gave my hand a conspiratorial squeeze.

"Bring your sister," Yedita urged, watching as Emma and Connor continued to size each other up in heady silence. "I'd love to paint her. So would Connor, I'm sure. Does she pose? What wonderful bone structure. And she has beautiful breasts. Connor, dear, wouldn't you love to paint her breasts?"

"I already have," said Connor without tearing his gaze from Emma.

I heard my name being called then, and we all turned to see Eloise Tackett making her way through the crowd with Harold in tow. Harold looked kingly— tall, with his distinctive white hair under control. Eloise had him by the arm, and her pert face was as lively as ever.

"Oh, I'm so glad we found you, Nora," Eloise cried. "We were afraid we wouldn't know anyone."

"All our friends are dead," Harold announced. "It's good to see some young people. And you, too, Yedita."

Yedita Weymount let that one pass. "Hello, Harold. I have another painting for you to see."

Harold's hearing aid must have given out, because he looked confused. Eloise answered quickly. "Oh, we don't need any more paintings, Yedita. We have far too many already."

Harold caught on. "There's always room for more art, if it's good."

"Well, it's hardly art," Eloise said tartly. "Sorry, Yedita. All those naked women get a little dull. Just once I'd like a pretty picture of a lake or something."

Yedita looked far from offended. "I was just about to deliver my most recent piece to Rory when he passed away. I wonder if you'd like to see it, Harold? It's just your kind of thing."

Harold looked quite interested. "I'd love to see it. But I don't get around very easily anymore. Maybe you'd bring it out to me sometime?"

Yedita must have seen dollar signs dancing like sugarplums, because she took Harold aside and they huddled together.

To me, Eloise said, "He's incorrigible. But I guess it doesn't do him any harm, collecting those pictures. It never affected our sex life, you know. He's still frisky."

Faintly, I said, "How nice."

Eloise changed the subject cheerfully. "Have the Pendergast sisters shown up?"

"I haven't seen them yet."

"I have a bet with Harold," Eloise confided in a conspirator's whisper. "I say they'll surely come to their own brother's funeral. Harold says they're too mean to make the effort."

"Maybe they plan to have a private ceremony."

Emma turned to us, suddenly eager to put some distance between herself and Connor, who had switched from brooding Heathcliff to something more aggressive. "Shall we go inside?"

People had begun to move through the metal detectors into the main body of the cathedral. Our small group flowed with the crowd past the security checkpoint. We accepted printed programs from two young ushers in altar boy robes, then proceeded down the center aisle.

We had barely traveled ten yards before a loud voice echoed in the cathedral behind us.

"Break out the grenades," Emma cautioned. "Miss Kitty has landed."

I glanced back and watched Kitty dress down one of the ushers. I couldn't hear her words, but I gathered she wanted an escort to her seat.

"Down front," she demanded, voice rising. "I need to be close, dammit."

The young usher looked confused, but put his arm out. Kitty latched onto it like a piranha and started down the center aisle with the velocity of a guided missile. Mourners dodged out of her way.

Emma nudged me, and we slid into a pew to avoid being run down. The Weymounts slipped into the row in front of us, with Harold and Eloise beside them. Kitty sailed by.

Emma said, "Somebody throw a net over her."

Right behind Kitty came none other than Detective Bloom with his partner. Bloom saw me and came over to shake my hand.

"Miss Blackbird, you remember my partner, Scotty Wilson?"

I shook Wilson's hand, too, and introduced my sister to them. For an instant they were both struck dumb by the perfect fit of Emma's leather pants.

I said, "I'm surprised to see you here, Detective. Is coming to the funeral part of your job?"

He looked solemn. "We're here to pay our respects to Mr. Pendergast."

The detectives moved off and Emma said, "You've been holding out on me, Sis."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Since when did you make nice with young detectives?"

"Don't start," I warned.

"How old is he?"

"No idea."

"Does he ever crack a smile?"

"I haven't seen one yet."