How to Murder a Millionaire (29 page)

"But, Ralph—"

"They were going to give me a commemorative plaque! But with the stock market the way it is, I didn't have the cash anymore." He began to cry, his chubby face twisted and blotchy. His whole body drooped, and the sword trailed on the grass.

"But Libby could have helped, surely?"

"Libby!" he cried. "She inherited all that ugly furniture and do you think she would part with one measly stick of it? She had it hauled away to some storage barn and wouldn't even tell me where it was! I've shared my life with her! I've been good to those monster children!"

"Ralph, tell me where she is. Is she alive? And Emma?"

He didn't hear me and sobbed like a baby. "When Libby said Longnecker would give her a hundred
grand for those sex pictures, I figured it was our chance. I thought we could bargain with him, get the price up. But, Libby— Oh, it would have been easy!" he bawled.

"Ralph," I began, taking a step toward him.

"No," he said, lifting the sword. "There's still hope. If I can just shut you up, too, it could still happen."

I had my chance. And I only had one weapon—the bottle of champagne. I braced my thumbs against the cork and took aim just as Ralph lunged with the sword.

I popped the cork.

It exploded off the bottle and hit Ralph square in the eye. Then the champagne came frothing out, and I sloshed it in his face.

My Israeli commando training came back in the next instant. I kicked the sword.

Not hard enough. Ralph staggered down on one knee, clutching his eye with one hand. With the other, he fumbled for the sword in the grass.

I kicked it aside again. "Ralph, stop! It's over!"

He didn't listen. He abandoned the sword, clambered to his feet and set off running blindly down the polo field.

"Ralph!" I shouted.

He did not escape. A second pop exploded nearby. Only it wasn't a champagne cork. Ralph jerked in midstride, missed a step, stumbled and crashed to the grass, spread-eagled flat on his face.

"Oh, my God." I sank down on my knees and the horizon swam. I struggled up again.

Then Eloise Tackett was there, holding me back. "You're okay," she said several times. "You're going to be fine, Nora."

"Eloise—"

"It's all right," she said. "I got him. Damn! My aim
isn't what it used to be. I only meant to wing him. I think he's a goner."

"But Libby. And Emma." I tore free of her grasp. "He can tell us where they are. If they're alive."

"Oh, they're alive, all right," Eloise said. "They've been screaming out the windows of my gatehouse since yesterday."

"Eloise?" I stared at her.

"I know, dear. I should have told you. But they seemed just fine, and Ralph kept saying I could have the folio any minute and then they could go free. It all turned out rather badly, though, didn't it?"

Chapter 21

Four weeks later, my sisters and I formally got together again. Except we didn't go out for spinach salad and white wine at a genteel sort of restaurant where ladies lunch.

"I call to order this meeting of the Blackbird Widows," Libby said as she cut the take-out pizza.

Because Emma's arm was still in a cast, I opened the beer. Summer sunshine splashed the porch of Blackbird Farm, casting leafy shadows over our wicker chairs. The fragrance of pepperoni wafted around us.

"At least I managed to keep most of this out of the newspaper." I passed around the bottles. "The newsroom was very kind because of my help with the mayor's story."

"What do you mean, they were kind?" Libby demanded. "They called me his hysterical wife!"

"You
were
hysterical," Emma said. "You were bonkers, nuts, totally bananas. Let me tell you what a delightful roommate you were for two days in that damn gatehouse. Thank heaven you lost your voice with all the screaming."

"Let's not argue," I said, although I found myself smiling. It felt ridiculously good to be squabbling with my sisters again.

"It's Eloise who went bananas," Libby said, aiming the knife at Emma. "Can you believe they let her out
of jail already? Those lawyers Mr. Abruzzo found must be worth their weight in gold. I mean, she killed my husband in broad daylight. And she walked!"

"Libby," I warned, "everyone decided it was an accident. Anyway, Ralph was probably going back to the gatehouse to kill you and Emma."

"Eloise helped him keep us there!"

Emma lifted her bottle in a call for peace. "Only because he told her some cock-and-bull story and promised her the folio. And she redeemed herself, didn't she? By explaining Ralph's plan to sell the folio to her to pay for his battlefield?"

Libby sighed. "Dear Ralph. He really meant well."

Emma rolled her eyes. "By hitting me over the head and breaking my arm? Not to mention kidnapping me? He held a paring knife to my throat while I wrote that note—and left it on that Civil War book, which was supposed to be your big tip-off, Nora."

"Sorry. I didn't make the connection at the time."

Emma's tirade continued. "Sure, Libby, Ralph slipped you nice, gentle sedatives. You even slept through Nora visiting your house on Sunday morning and him dragging you into the gatehouse. But Ralph had to beat me unconscious!"

"Which surprises me. I thought you could have fought him off."

"He hit me with a chair, Lib. So I wasn't exactly at the top of my game, but thanks for your concern. I think, by the way," she said to me, "Ralph would never have surprised me in the first place if you had a dog."

Libby said, "You're getting a dog?"

I sighed.

Libby shrugged and rearranged the pepperoni on her slice of pizza. "Well, Ralph will be happy, I'm
sure, that we buried him in his uniform. The poor dear. I sometimes feel a terrible tug on my heartstrings for him. But— Never look back, right? Things happen for a reason."

Libby put on a brave front, but I felt sure she wasn't so philosophical when she was alone.

She went on blithely. "The bullet hole in his jacket is an extra bonus as far as he's concerned, don't you think? He'll fit right in with all those dead soldiers he knew so much about. And it was kind of Peach Treese to give us that Civil War flag from her family, too. Ralph must be swooning in heaven."

I refrained from pointing out that Ralph might not be enjoying the pleasures of heaven at the moment. "Peach was relieved that it was all over. She paid Ralph's bill with Main Events just for some closure. I mean, Rory was killed. Her granddaughter's wedding was ruined—"

"Not just ruined," Emma said. "It never happened."

"Well, the elopement happened without any problems," I said. "Peach just wanted it all over with. She couldn't face another disaster."

"I don't know," said Libby. "A van Gogh might ease a lot of disasters."

Emma lit up a cigarette one-handed. "She bought a van Gogh?"

"No, Rory gave it to her," I said. "Apparently, they always argued about whether is was hanging straight, so he left it to her in his will. The Poison Gas Sisters didn't get that, at least. Kitty Keough interviewed them for
The Back Page
and got the whole ugly story. The editors say it received more reader response than anything Kitty's written in years. She's more popular than ever."

Emma snorted. "The Pendergast sisters sure unloaded the porn fast, didn't they? Harold Tackett must feel like a kid on Christmas since he got to buy most of it."

"It isn't porn," I corrected. "It's art."

"Hmm." Libby slid her eyes sideways at me. "I guess you'd know. You had it long enough. Did you practice the positions?"

Unruffled, I said, "I needed time to decide what to do with it. You were busy with Ralph's funeral and the children. And Emma wasn't much help, being in the hospital."

"Sending the folio to the museum was the right choice," Emma said. "Even if that Longnecker guy lost his job for his unethical business practices."

"Well, Rory's sisters certainly didn't want it. And I figured Harold has enough pieces from the auction of Rory's collection. So the Reese-Goldman has the folio now, and they even sent me an invitation to the opening of the exhibit."

Emma grinned. "You're not going, are you? To an exhibit of sexy pictures? You?"

"I just might," I said. "If I have enough frequent flyer miles."

"That's the only way you'll be able to afford the airfare," Emma cracked. "With the roof practically caving in on this house—"

Libby clanged the knife on her beer bottle. "Oh, let's not talk financial matters. That's so boring. Here we are, dear sisters! The Blackbird Widows again. I don't know about you two, but I'm not planning on any more marriages."

"I give you six months," I said with a grin.

"I'll be busy in six months." Libby put her hand on her belly, which had already begun to show. "I'll have
Ralph's child to look after. Do you know, I've been wondering if maybe Ralph went a little off the deep end when I told him we were going to have a baby."

Emma and I chose not to express opinions on that subject.

I said, "Okay, then, I give you a little more time. But you'll have another husband. Mark my words."

"Nope. I'm finished. We're cursed."

Emma drank some beer direct from the bottle and said, "Personally, I don't think I'm cut out for monogamy."

"What about you, Nora?" Libby asked. "Think you'll get married again?"

"I don't know. Right now," I said, "I just want to practice my fly-fishing."

Michael had been dozing in a wicker chair beside me with his feet up on the footstool and a bottle of beer balanced on his chest. I nudged his boot, and he became aware that the three of us were looking at him. He'd spent quite a bit of time at the farm lately and was beginning to look very comfortable there even when my sisters came around. He opened his eyes and looked at me. "You're cursed?"

"It's a thing," I said. "A Blackbird thing. Our husbands die."