Murder Melts in Your Mouth (23 page)

“Lesbian wheelchair users on TV,” Emma said. “Now, there's a demographic that's bound to have fans on the Internet.”

“Watch out,” Michael said. “You can't talk like that with a baby around.”

“Bite me.”

Libby said, “My babies all bit me when I nursed them.” She rubbed one breast. “It hurts like the dickens.”

The priceless expression on Emma's face made us all laugh.

Finally I said, “Henry, maybe you could keep an eye on Chad Zanzibar, too. The kid in the kitchen. He could be dangerous.”

Henry seemed pleased that I entrusted him to keep the family safe. After last night's ordeal, he must have been feeling inadequate.

Emma recovered from the idea of breast-feeding and squashed his ego all over again. “Just knowing the geek is in charge makes me feel much safer.”

Michael said, “I think that situation is under control. Between Delmar and that cop in the funny getup, he'd have to be a genius to get away with something.”

“He's no genius.” I grabbed Michael's hand. “Let's get out of here.”

We left my sisters and Henry and walked across the lawn together. Michael tucked me into the cushy front seat of the Rolls, and off we went with Libby's cries about car theft echoing behind us.

From the road, I telephoned Lexie.

She said, “Sweetie, I want to thank you for last night. You were a pal to come home with me. I'm sorry if I said anything unforgivable.”

The evening at Lexie's house felt as if it had happened a month ago. “There's nothing you could do that I wouldn't forgive, Lex. You were amazingly gracious, considering. How are you feeling today?”

“Better, now that Tierney Cavendish is the prime murder suspect. So you can give up your little investigation.”

I decided not to spoil her good humor. “And Crewe?”

“What about him?”

“Is he there?”

“Certainly not. I threw him out of here at ten last night. But,” she added, “since you're so concerned about him, I will admit he's coming over shortly to make lunch. I don't know why he finds food preparation so therapeutic, but he does.”

“Listen, I just wanted to let you know that I have your compact.”

“My what?”

“Your compact. I found it on the floor of your private loo at the firm. Silver? From Tiffany? Probably some kind of heirloom?” I looked at the filigreed container in my hand. “Anyway, it's safe in my possession.”

“I don't own a compact,” Lexie said. “Where did you say you found it?”

“On the floor of your bathroom at the office. I—good heavens.” I swallowed hard. “Do you suppose the murderer dropped it on her way out after pushing Hoyt off the balcony?”

My head swam with the possibilities. Brandi? Elena? Or one of her fan club? Who might have dropped a compact?

“Lex, what can you tell me about Brandi Schmidt? Without violating six different privacy laws?”

“Why?”

“Because she was there at the time of the murder and—”

“Nora, the woman uses a wheelchair.”

“I know, I know. I just want to know more about her. Where did she get the money Hoyt was supposed to invest for her?”

“I have no idea. The usual places, I suppose. Inheritance, smart investments. The lottery, for all I know.”

“Can you find out for sure?”

“Nora—”

“That information is confidential?”

“Sweetie, things are so—so awful right now. I can hardly concentrate. The press is howling at my door. That bitch from channel eight—she called my private line at five a.m.”

“I'm sorry.”

“And some insufferable asshole from the SEC actually threatened me this morning. I don't know how much more I can stand.”

“Forget I asked about Brandi. Relax, Lex. Take your kayak on the river. Clear your mind.”

She was quiet. “Nora?”

“Yes?”

“I—thank you. For believing in me.”

“Don't be silly,” I said. “You're my dearest friend. You know I'll do anything humanly possible for you.”

We ended our call, and I tucked the cell phone into my bag.

Michael said, “You didn't tell Lexie about Cavendish's big secret.”

“That he was a woman? No. She sounded—I'm worried about her.”

“Nora—” Michael caught himself. Slowly, he said, “This one could break your heart, you know.”

“You think Tierney killed Hoyt? Or Daddy?”

He shook his head, eyes on the road. “Everything about this feels wrong. And I'm not talking about the whole transgender thing. That part, I can actually understand.”

“You can?”

“Sure. Everybody's a little twisted. And we're all capable of extremes. In the right circumstance, the potential for crazy stuff is in all of us. Me. You. Lexie. Even little Max. Watch that baby, and you can see him thinking. What would feel good right now? Most of us learn to control it, but some people never do. Or they get pushed too far at the wrong moment, and it's all over. Last night, I was ready to do some serious damage. It's lucky you were there to stop me, because I could have—”

“But you didn't. What are you saying?”

“Just—maybe something just as big triggered a crazy response. And you should let the cops figure out what and who it was.”

I sat quietly in the car, thinking about what kind of human urge might provoke someone to murder.

I
put my speculations aside when we arrived at the men's clothier that my husband and his friends had patronized. Time for shopping. The salesman who had often helped Todd was assisting a boy and his mother choose a suit for his bar mitzvah. We found another accommodating clerk who seemed unintimidated by Michael. He brought three different navy blue jackets to us, and with subtle signals he gave his opinion on which looked the best.

The Brioni was cut perfectly to fit Michael's shoulders and slim hips. The mother stopped fussing over the bar mitzvah boy to peek sideways at Michael's reflection in the mirror.

Michael paid cash, which was the only thing that made the unflappable salesman blink.

Half an hour later, Michael pulled the Rolls into the long governor's driveway that swept gracefully past four weeping willow trees and up to the imposing veranda of White Heather, the family estate of the Scaithe family. In case we needed to tie up a horse or two, a stone, black-faced jockey stood at the bottom of the wide staircase. A charred iron kettle used for cooking apple butter sat in the grass nearby, planted with a cascade of flowers.

Michael took a long look at the place through the windshield. “These people have seen
Mandingo
too many times.”

“The Scaithes are a little eccentric,” I admitted.

“No kidding.”

“But they might have some useful information to share.”

“You going to tell me what kind? Or am I tricked out like one of your society boys for a reason?”

“Nobody would mistake you for a society boy. Except maybe one person. You'll figure it out. Follow my lead.”

We got out of the car into the sunshine and went up the stone steps. Except for his broken nose and the lack of golf clubs, Michael could have passed for a suburban Philadelphia stockbroker on his way to lunch at a club with a million-dollar initiation fee.

Sigismund Scaithe himself flung open the massive front door and peered at us. “You're too early!” roared the elderly gentleman.

“It's Nora Blackbird, Sigi. I thought I could get a few details about the party before everyone arrives. For my column in the
Intelligencer
.”

“Nora? I didn't recognize you. My stars, you got tall, young lady!”

Sigi was glaring at Michael, so I waved my hand. “I'm over here, Sigi. See?”

He squinted myopically in my direction, still refusing to wear glasses after all these years. “Why, there you are! Yes, of course, prettier than ever.”

He took my hand enthusiastically, clasping mine in his two gnarled paws.

Sigi's halo of untrimmed salt-and-pepper hair stood out on his head like the mane of an old lion, which he was, in a sense. Having long ago put aside his dignified gray suits, he now wore a pair of plaid golf pants hitched high above his waist by navy blue suspenders printed with the Harvard seal. His shirt was pea green. His shoes were white patent leather. A former adviser to a president, this morning he looked more like a man who'd been dressed by a circus clown.

Sigi's rheumy eyes were so pouched by wrinkles that he couldn't have seen much even if he could find his glasses.

“I get it,” Michael murmured to me when he realized I was about to introduce him to a blind man.

“Sigi, I'd like you to meet Michael Abruzzo.”

But Sigi Scaithe's gaze had already traveled past Michael to the vague shape of the Rolls-Royce in the driveway. Sigi suddenly quivered like a bird dog pointing at a covey of fat quail. “Is that a Silver Seraph?”

Michael turned around to look at the car. “Yes, it is.”

“That's a quality vehicle.”

I said, “I was thinking maybe you two have a common interest in cars. Sigi, here's an enthusiastic audience, if you'd like to show off your Duesenberg.”

“A Duesenberg?” Michael's amusement vanished.

Sigi's wrinkles deepened into a proud smile. “Commissioned for the Duke of Windsor, as a matter of fact. I pulled a few strings and had it shipped here in 'sixty-eight. Wouldn't you rather take a walk to my garage instead of eating cucumber sandwiches?”

“Yes, sir, I would.”

“Run along,” I said when Michael turned to me. “Have fun, you two. I'll find Cici by myself. She's in her closet, I suppose, Sigi?”

Sigi didn't bother to answer me. He put his arm around Michael and swept him off to the garage. I heard him say, “I have beer in a fridge in the garage. Would you like one?”

Glad to be rid of Sigi, who rarely left his wife alone, I let myself in the front door and walked the length of the marble foyer. A sweeping staircase rose over my head, but I knew the Scaithes no longer used any of the rooms on the second floor. Not since they added on a modern suite for themselves at the back of the grand old house.

I heard the usual preparty noise of kitchen staff in the distance. Delilah Fairweather's distinctive laugh roared over the voices of others, so I knew the party was in the good hands of the city's best event planner. With the caterers, she was undoubtedly making frenetic last-minute preparations for the luncheon. I decided not to interrupt.

The scent of flowers permeated all the rooms as I passed through them. Huge sprays of mixed blooms sat on all the tables and consoles. Outside a set of French doors, I could see some of the wait-staff smoking on the terrace.

I found my way through the maze of rooms—one salon after another connected by doors like in Versailles. Gilt mirrors, lavish Oriental rugs and French furniture upholstered in delicate silks all reflected the cultured taste of their mistress.

Portraits of the master's ancestors stared at me from the walls—many of them in uniform. I turned the corner by a tall secretary desk and found myself confronted by the full-length portrait of James Hilson Scaithe, the ancestor who made a fortune in mysterious ways during the Civil War. His shady business acumen set up each succeeding generation of his family in enough money so they could devote themselves to more rewarding work. Sigi, for instance, had spent many years shuttling between Philadelphia and the Reagan White House.

In a hallway, I came upon Eric Foster, giving a bouquet a final fluff in a Venetian glass vase. It was a surprise to see him two days in a row.

“Nora! What are you doing—? Oh, of course. You're on the job, right, sweetie pie?”

“Right.” I accepted his air kiss. “Want to give me the lowdown on the flowers for my column?”

Eric wore another skimpy tank top, but with a white silk shirt thrown over it, along with chinos and woven loafers. “Nothing special—just expensive. Cici wanted ‘acres and acres' of tulips, but they're out of season, and even I couldn't justify the amount of money she'd have to shell out to import enough. How are you? Yesterday when you visited the town house, you looked—a little peaked.”

“It was the heat. And I've been upset about Hoyt Cavendish's death.”

“Oh, yeah, I heard a bunch of people are under suspicion. Including Lexie Paine.” Eric popped his eyes wide at the idea of such a high-profile suspect. “I mean, she's a ruthless businesswoman, but hardly the homicidal type.”

“She's not ruthless,” I said, surprised to hear my friend characterized negatively.

“You don't think so? My mistake.” He shrugged. “So whodunit, do you think? So many possibilities.”

“I don't know.”

“Daniel said you asked about Brandi Schmidt. What a mixed-up girl, right? Is she, or ain't she?”

“What do you mean?”

“When she first came to town, she hung out with all the kinky girls. She said she was doing research for a story for television. But nothing ever happened.”

“Maybe she was too shy to admit she was gay herself, you think?”

Eric gave his flowers one more critical glance and moved to the next table. “I got the impression she was collecting information for nefarious purposes. Everyone felt very used afterwards.”

“What kind of information?”

“You know—who's gay and pretends not to be—the whole bent, blackmailable gamut.”

“Cross-dressing?”

“Sure—all the naughty stuff that pays so well if you have a money-grabbing soul.”

I wondered. Did Brandi have an inkling about Hoyt's true identity? And if so, what did she do with that information?

Eric said, “Funny you should mention Brandi again. After you left, Daniel and I went out for dinner. We saw her on the street. In fact, we wondered if maybe she was following you.”

Startled, I said, “Why?”

“I don't know. We didn't talk to her. She was driving the TV station's van, and kind of trailing you. It looked ridiculous to us, and we laughed a little, but afterwards, Daniel wondered if maybe it wasn't a little suspicious.”

“I didn't see her.”

“I'm sorry now that we didn't catch up to her and ask some questions.”

“That's okay. Thanks for thinking of me, though.”

“We've thought a lot about you,” Eric said. “Nora, you know we're staying in Spain for a few months, right?”

“Yes, it sounds wonderful.”

“Thanks. We're looking forward to it. But we were wondering if you could help us solve a problem. Do you know anybody who'd like to house-sit for us? Free rent in exchange for taking in the mail and watering the plants? Maybe until Christmas? We hate to put the dog in a kennel that long, and it's never a good idea to leave a house empty.”

“It shouldn't be hard to find someone to stay in that house. It's beautiful, Eric. And who wouldn't love to live in Rittenhouse Square?”

“But the dog,” he warned. “We need somebody who'd walk him and make him feel like we didn't abandon him.”

“I'll think about it,” I promised. “I'm sure I'll think of a dog lover who'll jump at the chance.”

“Thanks, Nora.”

“I'd better get to work. Have you seen a guy from the
Intelligencer
?”

“What kind of guy?”

“One with a video camera.”

“Not yet, sorry.”

“How about Cici?”

He pointed down the hall. “She's in her closet.”

I waved good-bye and continued down the corridor, tucking the new information about Brandi into the back of my mind. I wasn't sure how to process it yet.

At the door leading to the bedroom suite, I called, “Cici? It's Nora Blackbird!”

My voice was muffled by the thick leopard-print carpet and the lavish floor-to-ceiling draperies on the windows. In one alcove stood a four-poster bed big enough to sleep a platoon as long as they enjoyed pink bedding. A spray of pink roses lay artfully on the pillow—Eric's handiwork, no doubt.

Somebody else had staged the rest of the room just as photogenically. Beside the bed, a pair of chintz chairs sat before a tall bookcase crammed with leather-bound volumes. An open set of double doors led to the second bedroom—obviously Sigi's, judging by the manly leather furniture and the gray and camel colors of the bedclothes. On the pillows, a creative soul had left a box of cigars.

Wand thin and leggy as a colt, Cici Scaithe stalked into view in a floor-length chiffon robe with matching mules. With a jeweled turban on her head, she looked ready to step into a Gloria Swanson movie.

“Nora! I was afraid you were Sigi coming back to pester me. Men who retire definitely need hobbies. You're just the person to help with these damn place cards. You know exactly how to mix people at a party. Must be your mother's influence. I heard a rumor she's back in town. I hope she still has the Peretti bracelets I loaned her.”