How to Murder a Millionaire (3 page)

I gritted my teeth, but decided disobedience wasn't going to get me anywhere. I turned the key, and the engine growled to life. The whole car trembled powerfully beneath me.

"Is it good for you?" he asked with that damned grin.

There was nothing I could do but ignore his remark. "Fortunately, I don't need a car. Mr. Pendergast has hired a driver for me."

Which Abruzzo knew perfectly well, since Rory had contracted with his company to provide the vehicle and a driver.

"You must be the only reporter in the country who has a chauffeur."

"He's not a chauffeur. And I'm going to learn to drive as soon as possible."

"Need a teacher?"

Michael Abruzzo was the last person I intended to call when I needed to learn something.

He must have guessed my thought, because he laughed. "Listen," he said easily, "I was thinking maybe if you were starting to get your head above water you might feel like celebrating a little."

"What do you mean?"

He squinted into the distance. "I'm going up to New York in a few weeks. I got a couple of tickets to
The Lion King
and reservations at my favorite steak house. All I need's a little company to make it a perfect weekend."

He had to be kidding.

I clamped my knees together so hard my muscles quivered. I didn't know which was more humiliating— my sister parading around with placards or the fact that the likes of Michael "The Mick" felt he needed to cheer me up after near financial ruin. I made an effort to control myself and said evenly, "I would hate
The Lion King."

"Classy lady like you doesn't like theater?"

"There's theater and there's
theater."
And going to New York for a weekend with Abruzzo was definitely theater of the absurd.

"I hear the show's really good. My nieces thought it was great."

I took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. "There's no way I would spend a weekend with you, Mr. Abruzzo. Any weekend."

He didn't seem surprised. But he didn't threaten to whack my kneecaps either. "Well, if you change your mind, let me know. Did I give you one of my cards?"

I had thrown it away soon after he'd purchased his five acres, which must have been obvious from my expression.

He laughed again and slid a pack of business cards out of his wallet. They were bound together with a rubber band. He removed one card, and I took it without speaking,
MICHAEL ABRUZZO. MUSCLE CARS, MOTORCYCLES, LIMOUSINE SERVICE.
And in bigger letters,

THE DELAWARE FLY-FISHING COMPANY.

I put the card into my bag without taking note of the various phone numbers. A sick and twisted part of my personality wished he could have acted a teensy bit disappointed.

But he was looking across the used car lot. "Who's the nutcase?"

I looked, too. Libby was arranging people for a photograph.

"That's my sister Libby," I said. "She's protesting your blight on the landscape."

"My what?"

"She objects to suburban sprawl," I explained. "She believes you have defaced open land by paving green space when you promised to put the ground to good use."

"I thought I was giving people jobs, creating economic growth—all that Chamber of Commerce bullshit."

"That's one opinion."

"You agree with her?"

"I'm a journalist now. I'm learning to be objective." Trying not to sound too hopeful, I said, "You can have protesters arrested for trespassing, I think."

He didn't have much enthusiasm for that suggestion. "And who the hell is that?"

The protest grew by one more person when a silver
BMW pulled in behind Libby's minivan, parked, and Ralph Kintswell heaved his bulk from behind the wheel. He left the engine running.

"That's my brother-in-law, Libby's husband, Ralph." "What, is he going to a costume party?" "No," I said. "He's a Civil War buff." Abruzzo laughed again. "The war's over, buddy." Ralph Kintswell, Libby's second husband, was decked out in his usual formal wear—the dress blue uniform of the Army of the Potomac, complete with white gloves tucked into his sash and a sword slapping his thigh. Except the sash had slipped low on his General Grant-style potbelly. Ralph hitched up the sash and launched himself across the used car lot in Libby's direction, his hobnailed   boots   smartly   striking   the   pavement.   The expression on his usually cherubic face was pained.

"He's a very nice guy," I said. "He protects Civil War battlefields." "With the sword?"

"No," I snapped. "He's a banker. He raises money and helps buy battlegrounds before they are developed into—well, into some kind of atrocity."

"Looks like he's losing the battle with his cholesterol, though," Abruzzo observed.

"It's the wool uniform. It gets very bulky." "So what is he doing? Heading for Gettysburg later?" "He wears the uniform to formal occasions. Instead of a dinner jacket. Like some men wear kilts."

Abruzzo looked as entertained as a kid standing along a parade route as the bagpipers marched by. "This is a formal occasion?"

"No, no, there's a party later tonight. He's probably on his way there."

"And people say I have an interesting family. You Blackbirds have us beat in spades."

Usually Libby had my brother-in-law jumping through hoops like a well-trained poodle. He was an amiable, steady guy who obviously loved my sister despite her frivolous temperament and formidable sex drive. But Ralph was the seventh circle of hell at family gatherings. How many times had I endured his incredibly dull retellings of battles fought long ago?

"Hello, Ralph," I called.

He faltered in his march to Libby and waved meekly. "Hi, Nora. Sorry about this."

"Don't worry about it," I called. "Everybody's entitled to an opinion."

He sent me an apologetic smile and continued across the asphalt to his wife.

The
Intelligencer
photographer had been waiting while Libby carefully posed everyone for the picture, but he started to get cranky when Ralph had to be fitted into the tableau and walked over to me. He looked about thirteen years old, wearing a too-large thrift store sport coat over jeans and a Metallica T-shirt.

"Whaddaya want me to shoot?" he asked.

"I don't want you to shoot anything," I replied. "I didn't request a photographer."

"Kitty did. Any way you can speed things up? I gotta be at the Flyers face-off next."

I looked over at my sister's merry band. "Do I get input on this?"

He shrugged. "You're the reporter on the scene."

"Did you take pictures of the cars?"

"Sure. But what about the protesters?"

I considered my predicament. I could ask him not to make fools of my family and myself. Instead, he could take colorful shots of the cars and be on his
way to the hockey game. But at last I said, "I'm new at this. Use your best judgment."

I'd surprised him. The kid grinned, apparently more accustomed to receiving orders than having his judgment trusted. "Yeah, okay."

He snapped a few more pictures of the cars and worked his way back over to Libby and company. With luck, the car photos would have more appeal than the protesters.

Still beside me, Abruzzo said, "You could have saved yourself some grief just now."

I shook my head, summoning up what few journalistic ethics I had learned in just two weeks on the job. "It doesn't matter."

"And who's Kitty?"

"Well, she's not Glenda the Good Witch—let's put it that way."

Pictures over, Ralph and Libby headed for the BMW. As I guessed she might, she began to pull the bandanna out of her hair. They obviously had a social engagement this evening. Their oldest son, Rawlins, newly licensed to drive, herded his siblings and the dog into the minivan.

I was saved from further conversation with Abruzzo by the arrival of a sleek black town car that whispered up behind me as Libby's family departed.

"Here's your ride," said Abruzzo. "Where are you headed?"

"Main Line," I said.

The driver of the car got out and proceeded directly to the right rear passenger door, which he opened for me. He waited, unsmiling.

Reed Shakespeare was twenty-two years old, black, studious and with posture as perfect as a Marine drill
sergeant's. He was working his way through school by driving cars for Abruzzo, but heaven forbid he tell anyone exactly what he was studying. The first day we'd met, he told me he would not wear a chauffeur's cap.

"I'm not driving no Miss Daisy around in a stupid hat," he'd burst out.

"Nobody's asking you to, Reed," I'd replied.

"Just so you know," he'd said stubbornly.

I wanted to tell him he'd seen too many movies, but Reed was touchy. I was still working on a way to make him smile.

"Hey, Reed," Abruzzo said, "car running okay?"

"Yes."

"You know where you're taking Miss Blackbird now?"

"Yes."

"Looked at a map just to be sure?"

With an edge of testiness this time, Reed said, "Yes."

I noted Abruzzo hadn't had any luck getting the young man to loosen up either.

"Okay, then," Abruzzo said. He turned to me with a sudden and unabashed wistfulness. "You'll call if you change your mind about
The Lion King,
right?"

"Don't wait by the phone," I said.

I got into the car and Reed closed the door. Through the window, I saw Reed look at his boss with something akin to pity.

As the evening cooled, Reed drove me to the Main Line. He did not initiate conversation, drive over the speed limit or flip any rude gestures at aggressive drivers. He did make clear that he wasn't my friend.

In the silence, I took out my pad and pen and wrote up the story about the grand opening of Mick's Muscle
Cars. Usually I worked on a laptop, but in the car I found it was easier to write on paper. Later, I'd type my stories into a computer file and e-mail them to my editor.

When the paragraph was finished, I looked out the window.

Philadelphia
's Main Line has long been the address of many old American families. One magnificent mansion after another housed people I'd known all my life. Families of bankers, corporate leaders, a few playboys and a lot of inherited fortunes. As the car eased along, I saw that some of the estates showed their age while others had clearly benefited by the surge in the stock market in the late nineties. Those houses had new gutters or sandblasted facades just as their owners sported tummy tucks and dermabrasion.

Rory Pendergast's home stood on a slight rise, forming the crown of the neighborhood. Pennsylvania fieldstone walls and grounds landscaped by Frederick Law Olmsted surrounded a gracious Georgian home that looked like the set for a Katherine Hepburn movie. The intricate wrought iron gates, originally erected to keep out the riffraff, stood open tonight in welcome.

Reed drove slowly through the gates and up the curving drive to the side portico. Gas lamps flickered golden light through the wisteria. Guests anxious to get to the bar had hastily abandoned several sporty cars on the front lawn. Ralph and Libby's silver BMW stood among them. I could see more vehicles parked on the old polo grounds beyond the boxwood hedge.

A wide stone staircase led from the portico up to the side entrance of the house. Two uniformed valets hired for the evening stood chatting on the steps, oblivious to the grandeur of the home. They wore
baseball caps that read
MAIN EVENTS,
which was the name of a full-service catering company that staffed many social occasions on the Main Line.

I gathered up my notepad and moved to get out of the car. Reed was quicker than the valet and arrived in time to open the door for me.

I got out. "Reed, I've told you it's not necessary to open the door. I'm perfectly capable."

"I heard you," he said.

"Well, thank you. When can you come back?"

Stiffly, he said, "I'll wait. I've got studying to do."

He was taking classes somewhere and used his spare time to catch up on assignments. "All right," I said. "I'll probably stay an hour. How do I look?"

The question caught him off guard. "Uhm. Okay. I guess."

The valet said, "Good evening, miss."

I said hello and started up the steps of the Pendergast house.

Rory Pendergast's family had been relatively late arrivals to Philadelphia—after the revolution—and made their presence known first in get-rich-quick schemes and later through significant charitable work. Rory's father built the house in a wanton spending spree at the turn of the twentieth century. Fortunately, he had the good taste to avoid building a huge, gloomy Victorian pile, and the house turned out to be Jeffersonian in grace and symmetry with rambling interior spaces perfect for entertaining—or playing hide-and-seek.

For the party, the home had been decked out by RickandGabe, Philadelphia florists extraordinaire, in their usual exquisite taste. The double doors at the top of the stairs were pinned open by a pair of Chinese vases containing perfectly trimmed topiary. A
copper tub of fresh flowers six feet high stood on the marble-topped table in the center of the entrance hall. A long expanse of Oriental carpet ran from the table down the hallway, punctuated by early American furniture that would render the Antiques Roadshow twins orgasmic.