Murder Melts in Your Mouth (25 page)

The turban on her head looked like a crown.

She tipped her head for another view of herself. “The diamond earrings are too much for daytime, but they'll make a good impression on video, won't they?”

“Yes, indeed,” I said.

We spent ten minutes arranging the place cards on her tables. Then the videographer arrived. Tremaine wore a photographer's canvas vest over a T-shirt and rumpled khakis, not to mention dreadlocks that needed attention, but Cici welcomed him as if he were royalty.

Tremaine and I had a short conversation, and I was relieved to see that he understood his craft and trusted me that we had an interesting subject to film. He looked stunned by his surroundings, but he quickly got to work filming shots of the closet, the chandeliers and the automatic lights. He hovered over the jewelry drawer for several minutes while I prepared Cici for the tour.

I needn't have worried about her on-camera skills. Cici was a natural. All I did was stay out of her way and lob questions to her while she walked around her closet, identifying certain dresses and reminiscing about the spectacular events she'd worn this or that to. She surprised me by pulling out a suit she'd worn to Ascot, and even found the matching hat in a box on a high shelf, which she modeled, laughing.

At the end of the tour, she pulled a pashmina from a shelf and wrapped herself in its luxurious folds. With a gay laugh, she looked into the camera and said, “It's a wrap!” as she tossed the pashmina over her shoulder.

Tremaine laughed, too. When he put the camera down, he said, “Great stuff, ladies!”

Cici went off to greet her arriving guests, and I had a short conversation with Tremaine.

He said, “I got some good footage here, and I'll go outside to get a few shots of the house, too. Can you come to the office to help edit?”

“When?”

“As soon as possible. This afternoon? In an hour or so?”

I wasn't accustomed to the fast turnaround time other reporters coped with on a daily basis. But I said, “I'll be there.”

“Good. I've been listening to the new managing editor critique the stuff other reporters have brought to the online edition. Just so you know, he'll either love this or hate it.”

I gulped, remembering the new editor had worn a frayed oxford shirt and a well-worn pair of trousers to his meeting with the staff. I doubted he appreciated fashion.

As the guests began to arrive for the luncheon, I chatted with a few of the ladies I knew. They all had come wearing their most elegant summer suits and
ooh
ed over all the details of Cici's closet. I enjoyed the chatter about her clothes. But my schedule was getting more crowded, so I slipped away just as the waiters appeared with glasses of champagne.

Outside, I found an accident.

The Duesenberg sat crookedly at the bottom of the driveway, one tire flat. A police cruiser had rolled in behind the big car, red and blue lights flashing. The young men who had been valet-parking all the guests' cars hung around the porch, watching the drama unfold.

Sigi stood at the rear tail fin of his grand car, talking to a serious-faced cop in mirrored sunglasses.

Michael lounged against the hood, arms folded across his chest. Calmly, he waited for me to hurry over.

“What happened?” I was breathless with worry.

Michael jerked his head toward Sigi. “The old guy wanted to take his car for a spin. Ended up bashing at least six mailboxes before he sideswiped a cruiser.”

“Is anyone hurt?”

“Only his pride. This is going to escalate, though.”

I glanced at the cop, who was already ignoring Sigi's bluster and shooting frowns in Michael's direction.

“Did you drive the car?”

Michael shook his head. “Nope. But this cop called for backup. And he spotted the Rolls.”

“Oh, my God.” I clapped one hand over my mouth.

A second police cruiser slipped through the gate, and the cop got out into the sunlight and walked around Jacque Petite's silver Rolls-Royce.

Michael behaved with complete calm when the questions started. Even when a third cruiser arrived, and the cops forgot about Sigi's bad driving and figured out who Michael was, he answered their questions without getting ruffled. The second cop, though, had a rude manner.

“What?” I demanded, offended by his behavior and quickly infuriated by their obvious suspicion at finding the son of Big Frankie Abruzzo in their bucolic neighborhood. “Do you keep his photograph on your bulletin board?”

The first officer said, “Take it easy, miss.”

“This is entirely my fault,” I told him, turning away from the bad cop. “I suggested we borrow Mr. Petite's car. He lent it to my sister, you see, and I took the keys from her when—”

“Who's your sister?” the rude one asked in a tone that implied she walked the streets with her pimp.

“She's Elizabeth Kintswell. At the moment, she's Jacque Petite's—that is, they spent a few days—I mean—they're friends, you could say.”

“And he gave her a car? That must have been a great few days.”

“No,” I snapped, “he allowed her to borrow it. And I assumed it would be okay if we—good heavens, he hasn't reported it stolen, has he?”

“Nora,” Michael said, “I don't think you're helping the situation.”

“So, Abruzzo,” said the rude cop, “what are you doing here, exactly?”

“He came with me,” I said. “I take full responsibility for—”

The good cop angled his body in front of me, gesturing to the veranda. “Why don't you stand over there, miss? Let Mr. Abruzzo answer the questions for himself.”

“But—”

Within ten minutes after consulting with the radios in their cars, the police put handcuffs on Michael and eased him into the backseat of one of the cruisers.

“This is ridiculous!” I cried. “He didn't steal the car! If anyone did, it's me!”

Even that outburst didn't save Michael from being hauled off.

I hitched a ride into the city with Tremaine Jefferson.

H
e'd been through it before, of course. Michael had been detained dozens of times, I supposed, and he knew his lawyer's phone number by heart. I tried to tell myself he'd be out of jail in time for dinner.

But I was still angry on his behalf.

I tried to concentrate on the video footage of Cici's closet. I didn't know much about camera angles, but I quickly got the hang of telling a story with pictures. I wrote a short introduction and recorded it myself. Then I joined Tremaine and the rest of the video team and helped choose the best shots of Cici's home and clothes. It wasn't a tough decision. We decided to use her small talk as a voice-over as the footage rolled. We all smiled at her “That's a wrap!” sign-off. Cici looked elegant, but also witty and relaxed. The charming piece ran eight minutes, and at five o'clock I watched as the experts loaded the video onto the newspaper's Web site.

I slipped out of the video room just as Skip Malone arrived to edit his sports highlights.

“Did you hear about Jim Hooper?” Skip glanced up and down the hallway to make sure we weren't overheard.

“The guy who writes the car column?”

Skip nodded. “The editor told him he has to go part-time. And his budget's been cut in half, too.”

“How can he do his job in half the time?”

Skip shrugged. “He says he's going to try freelancing for automotive magazines to make ends meet. It's not a bad idea.”

I slipped away, thinking if I were a trained writer, I could try freelancing, too, if I lost my job. But my social expertise didn't exactly translate to magazines.

In a state of anxiety, I tried Michael's cell phone. No answer. I rushed over to a nearby hotel to cover a party called “Shaken and Stirred.” A disease-of-the-week organization had decided to serve a variety of martinis while entertaining their guests with shock poetry and cutting-edge visual art. They asked a hip gallery to supply huge paintings for decoration. I spoke to the artist, who was mostly nervous that his pieces—old family photos arranged like crime-scene pictures and splattered with paint intended to look like blood spatters—would survive the evening. I noticed a few tipsy guests leaning close to the art to see the details in the Polaroids, so I understood his concern.

On the other hand, I didn't like his work much. I thought the shock value outweighed the thematic elements.

An
Intelligencer
photographer showed up and snapped a few pictures of the art, the bar and a cadaverously thin young poet who droned her blank verse into the microphone with her eyes closed and a pained expression on her face. Not exactly photogenic stuff. The newspaper used a number of work-for-hire photographers, and their skills varied considerably. I encouraged him to take some shots of well-dressed guests sipping martinis instead.

Notebook in hand, I interviewed the chair of the organizing committee—who told me with pride how much cash they'd raised for their cause. He was already very drunk. The caterer, I noticed, had run out of food early, while the martinis kept coming. A recipe for social disaster.

I met a friend in the ladies' room—Maybelle Collins, a pert blonde who wore a sequined red, white and blue cocktail dress in honor of the upcoming holiday.

She was pouring her martini down the drain, and she rolled her eyes at me in the mirror. “I'm stuck here until ten. Everyone's going to be drunk as lords by then.”

I laughed. “Maybe someone should order pizza.”

She laughed, too. “Good idea! How've you been, Nora?”

“Busy. But good.”

“I heard a rumor your parents might be back.”

“Did you?”

She pulled the olive out of her glass on a toothpick and watched me in the mirror. “That's the buzz around the racquet club. I must say, that's a brave move. Your dad's been persona non grata for a long time. And your mother!” Smiling, Maybelle shook her head. “Is it true she borrowed Ashland Freeman's sapphire necklace and never returned it?”

I decided to strike Maybelle off my list of friends.

Without waiting for my answer, Maybelle said, “I can't think of anything worse than having that kind of reputation. Which reminds me. I saw your sister Emma last week. I could swear she was with Hart Jones.”

I wiped all expression from my face. “Really?”

“That couldn't be possible, though. Hart is going to marry Penny Haffenpepper. She was my maid of honor, you know. I'm going to be hers.”

“How nice.”

“Her mother has the wedding all planned.”

I put on a smile. “Does Hart know?”

No Rhodes scholar, Maybelle glanced at me, trying to decide if I was having fun at her expense. “A lot of people are going to be upset if anyone tries to interfere with that marriage. They've been unofficially engaged since prep school.”

“That's a long time,” I observed. “How come they haven't gone through with it?”

Maybelle stopped toying with her olive and tried to gather her brows despite the Botox. “Penny's career is important to her. She's learning the family business. But Hart's madly in love, and they're definitely getting married. Her mother tentatively booked Yo-Yo Ma for the music.”

“Sounds lovely.”

Wedding by Eva Braun. Poor Yo-Yo.

Maybe some kind soul ought to save Hart from a Nazi marriage.

Maybelle said, “At least your life has calmed down, right? You're not dating that mobster anymore? I hear he's in trouble again.”

Maybelle's husband was a newly appointed assistant prosecutor with ambitions for higher political office. It wasn't hard to guess where Maybelle got her insider information.

She popped the olive into her mouth and smiled. “Is he rotting in jail yet?”

“No,” I said. “He looked perfectly healthy when he got out of my bed this morning.”

I heard her choking on her damn olive as I left.

Outside, the heat was still as unpleasant as ever. I checked my phone to see if Michael had called me, but the screen was blank.

Passing an ambulance that had been summoned to help a homeless man with heatstroke, I hiked over to a leafy street of old city town houses that had been refurbished by some well-to-do-dogooders who made the commitment to raise big families in the heart of the city. I found the private home of some friends who were entertaining a visiting historian, in town to present a program for Independence Day at one of the museums. The party had been billed as a “reception,” but I knew better. I heard the music almost a block away. I hoped to make a quick stop since I had a very full dance card.

When I knocked, nearly panting from the heat, the door was opened by the host, Barry Castor, wearing a Statue of Liberty spiked hat on his head. He gave me a kiss on the cheek. “Nora, you look fantastic! Come in where it's cool!”

By day, Barry was an avuncular college professor. He knew how to mix academia with good times at night, however. Escorting me past a jumble of photos of his six blond, whirling-dervish children in exotic locations, he shouted over the music, “How's your sister Emma?”

“How in the world do you know Emma?”

“My daughter Trish took a couple of riding lessons from her last fall. Loved every minute of it! Well, except for the dislocated shoulder. I was hoping we could get a few more of the kids on ponies this summer, since we're not taking that trip to Cairo after all. That is, if we can afford Emma's services.”

Barry's wife was a bank executive who pulled down a sizable salary and had inherited part of a scented-candle fortune, so I assumed the family could afford a few riding lessons, if not a whole horse farm, if they chose.

“I'll tell her to call you.”

“Thanks!”

The party included dancing to Motown music on the Castors' postage-stamp-sized patio. I found cold beer and a limbo contest in the kitchen, where the visiting scholar humped his way under a broomstick held by two giggling grad students. I nearly stumbled over the Castor daughters playing poker on the hallway floor with a college dean of admissions. All four of them were gnawing on pretzel sticks dipped in mustard.

At that moment, I found myself wishing more than anything that Michael hadn't been rushed off by the police. This particular party would have been a good one to ease him into meeting some of my friends.

My phone rang, and with my heart lifting, I stepped into a narrow pantry to answer it.

“Nora!” Libby's voice crackled in my ear. “We're coming to pick you up!”

I checked my watch and found it was nearly eight.

“Libby, what are you planning?” I still had to reach the Chocolate Festival Gala.

“Never mind that,” she snapped. “Just tell me where you are.”

“What's wrong?”

“Just tell me where the hell you are!” she shouted. I heard a horn blare.

I told her where we could meet, and half an hour later her red minivan came to a screeching stop in front of Naked Chocolate, my favorite hangout. I gathered up my purchases—a few choice treats—and went out into the muggy night.

The side door of the minivan slid open.

“Get in!” Libby shouted.

I climbed into the backseat. Up front, Emma had her head in a plastic bag.

In the backseat beside me was Tierney Cavendish, white-faced and firmly buckled with the seat belt.

“What are you doing here?” I asked him.

“Praying,” he said. “Your sisters are nuts.”

“Close the door,” Libby commanded. “We don't have much time!”

“Where are we going? Em? Are you okay? Are we taking you to the hospital?”

“To the morgue,” she groaned. “I ran out of ginger ale.”

Libby whipped the van into traffic and through a yellow light. “There's a mini-market!” Libby pointed at a corner store. “Nora, run inside and buy her some Canada Dry!”

I did as I was told. I bailed out, ran across the street and shoved my way to the front of the line of people buying lottery tickets and cigarettes. Despite the heat, everybody was in a good mood and let me pay quickly. When I climbed back into the minivan, I twisted open one of the plastic bottles and passed it to Emma. She grabbed it without thanking me.

Libby turned around in her seat. She was wearing a black T-shirt with white lettering. It said,
YOU'RE ONLY AS STRONG AS

THE TABLE YOU DANCE ON
. “All right,” I said. “What in the world is going on?”

Libby's face was alight with purpose. “We just found out where Hart Jones is tonight.”

“What's a heart jones?” Tierney asked, mystified. He was dressed in one of Michael's shirts—too big by several sizes—and he hung on to the door handle to keep himself from being thrown from his seat by Libby's wild driving.

“He's a person,” I said. “Hartfield Jones. The banker you met with for lunch the other day, remember?”

Tierney looked surprised. “Why are we looking for him?”

“We heard a bulletin,” Libby reported. “Tonight Hart is going to propose to whatsername Haffenpepper.”

“Who?” Tierney asked.

“She's a beer heiress,” I said.

From the front seat, Emma added hoarsely, “Her mother's Eva Braun.”

None of that information helped Tierney. He looked as confused as before—maybe more so.

“Anyway,” Libby said, “tonight he's going to ask her to marry him again.”

“Again?” Tierney asked. “Is that bad or good?”

“Bad,” I said. “Because he's falling in love with Emma.”

Libby said, “Men do that a lot.”

“Then why is he proposing to somebody else?”

“Because all men are fools,” Libby said. “He's making the safe choice, the boring choice, the choice that will perpetuate a Philadelphia stereotype. His life has no meaning.”

Emma stopped gulping ginger ale and sat back in her seat. She tried deep breathing to quell her nausea. “If he marries her, his life will have no sex. She's a dead fish in bed.”

I said, “We need to get to Hart before he proposes, so Emma can tell him she's pregnant.”

“She's pregnant?” Tierney looked aghast.

“I'm not telling him that!”

“You have to, Em,” Libby said sternly. “He has a right to know.”

“And besides,” I added, “Eva Braun has the wedding all planned.”

“My God,” Libby said. “This is a mission of mercy!”

“I'm not telling him. I'm not ready.”

“You'll never be ready,” I said. “But you've got to grow up and take responsibility. For once, Emma, put yourself in someone else's shoes.”

“Whose?”

“Hart's!”
Libby and I cried together.