by Nancy Martin
“Sure. Mick’s making dinner for me and Rawlins. He says I need more vegetables.”
“Good for him.”
A shadow fell across my desk, and I looked up. “Gotta go,” I said to Em, and hung up.
“Nora? Can I ask you some questions about what happened at your aunt’s house today?”
Joe Hogarth—a reporter who claimed he’d never retire from newspaper work, but die facedown on his keyboard—pulled a notebook from the hip pocket of his shabby corduroys. He made an effort to smile, but since he did so infrequently, it came across as halfhearted.
He said, “I hear you’re related to Madcap Maddy Blackbird. She owned the fancy house in Bucks County, right? Where they found a body in an elevator this morning? Mind if I sit down?” He was already pulling a swivel chair over from another desk. “I thought you could tell me what happened.”
Instantly wary, I said, “Joe, I don’t want to be quoted in the paper, okay? The family is already in an uproar without me blabbing to the media.”
“I get that. So let’s just talk. Off the record.”
Joe might play the doddering sad sack, but he hadn’t won four Pulitzers for nothing. Now, of course, he no longer worked for the city’s respected newspaper—they’d replaced him with a younger, cheaper model—but he still had the same nose for news. His faded tweed jacket and brown knit tie looked shapeless and colorless and as if they hadn’t been cleaned in decades. And when he pulled a pencil from his breast pocket, he licked the tip. But I knew the good-ol’-boy act was just that—an act.
He said, “Who’s the body in the elevator?”
I gave him the basic information—that we didn’t know who had died in Quintain’s elevator, that the house had been abandoned for years. The local police would investigate. I didn’t speculate that the body might have been Pippi. He didn’t jot down any notes, but drew circles on his notebook while I talked.
“Yeah,” he said, nodding. “The local TV affiliates sent their trucks out to the house. I saw all the pictures on the noon news. We had a photographer taking some aerial photos for tomorrow’s edition, too. That estate is quite a place. A real old-money mansion. You spend much time there?”
“Not since I was a child.”
“But you’ve been inside? When your aunt still lived there?”
I hesitated. “Aunt Madeleine left the country when I was in my early teens.”
“So you knew her?”
I wasn’t sure what Joe was up to, but I had a feeling I should be very careful. I folded my hands on the desk. “Is your story about Madeleine? Or what happened at Quintain this morning?”
Joe shrugged and closed his notebook. He poked his pencil into his ear and wiggled it around. “I’m just getting the facts straight. A dead body in a big mansion—that kind of story always interests people. Rich folks misbehaving. Your aunt Madeleine, though. I remember her.”
I perked up. “You were acquainted with her?”
“No, but she was always around the edges of big stories when I got started.”
“Around the edges,” I repeated. “What does that mean? What kinds of stories?”
“Just stuff about people, I guess. She knew a lot of bigwigs.”
“Hmm.”
“Like a lotta rich ladies, she gave money to museums and good causes. And campaigns. That’s the fast track to rubbing the right elbows.” Joe removed the pencil from his ear and studied the tip with a frown. “She went to a lot of big parties.”
“That’s all possible, I suppose.”
“She had her fingers in a lot of pies.”
I smiled. “I wouldn’t know anything about her pies.”
Joe put his pencil back into his pocket and looked me square in the eye at last. “I remember one old reporter saying he wouldn’t be surprised if Madcap Maddy Blackbird got herself killed someday. Funny how a line like that sticks in your head. Now here she is, dead under suspicious circumstances.”
I said, “What suspicious circumstances?”
Another shrug. “I thought maybe you’d know.”
“There’s nothing suspicious about it. She died in a volcano. A natural disaster. The Madeleine I knew was a respected lady—emphasis on lady. She enjoyed herself. Enjoyed her friends. And, last I heard, there’s nothing wrong with giving money to causes you believe in. I can’t imagine why anyone would spread something insulting about my aunt, who was a lovely, generous person.”
“Well, thanks for the information, Nora.” My testy outburst did the trick. He climbed arthritically to his feet and paused. “Just one more thing.”
“Yes?”
He dropped a tear sheet on my desk. I flipped it over and looked down at a picture of myself in the arms of—as the headline so tastefully put it—THE GANGSTER OF LOVE. Michael and I were photographed running across my lawn and taking cover in the house. The accompanying article breathlessly announced Michael’s release from prison and speculated about how he planned on taking over most of the illegal activities from Philadelphia all the way to Sicily. Once again, the Intelligencer demonstrated it was a journalistic class act.
I glanced up at Joe and saw his smirk. “I guess I should be thankful you didn’t show his mug shot,” I said.
“You have a statement about your boyfriend? Something we can print?”
I handed him the photo. “No thanks.”
With a glare, I watched Joe shamble away. I thought about the kind of retorts I could make if I weren’t a lady.
When he disappeared, I considered my delicate position. What was my obligation to my employer when my personal life crossed into the news? I wasn’t sure. And there wasn’t anyone in the newsroom I could ask. Once again, I longed for Lexie’s opinion. She could help me with my dilemma.
Joe’s insinuations about Aunt Madeleine really irritated me.
What suspicious circumstances?
On impulse, I picked up my phone and called the obituary department.
Annette Downey picked up, and we chatted for a moment about her cat, Cleo, who needed insulin shots, last I’d heard. Annette sounded a lot less stressed about her pet now that she’d learned how to inject the medication.
Then I cut to the chase. “Annette, can you tell me who wrote Madeleine Blackbird’s obituary for the Intelligencer ?”
“Sure,” she said. “It was Mark. Except he didn’t really write it, because all the information came in pretty much the way we used it.”
“Where did it come from?” I asked. “Who sent it?”
“Let me check.” I could hear her clicking her computer keys for a moment before her voice came back on the line. “Here it is. Yeah, it came by e-mail. From one of your relatives, I guess. Sutherland Blackbird.”
“That’s my cousin,” I said, keeping my voice steady. “You mean the news of her death didn’t come from Indonesia?”
“What do you mean? Sometimes we get bulletins from the wire services if a famous person died, but we don’t get information from countries. A person has to send it to us.”
“Hmm,” I said. “I wonder if the other newspapers received the information from anyone else?”
“Says right here,” Annette said. “I can see the same e-mail went to a bunch of papers, not just ours. From the same guy. Why do you ask?”
My thoughts had strayed in various directions, but I pulled myself together. “No special reason. Just curious. Thanks, Annette. And good luck with Cleo. Don’t get scratched.”
“Too late!” She laughed, and we hung up.
Sutherland had sent the obituary to the newspaper.
But how had he learned of Madeleine’s death?
I would ask him as soon as I saw him again.
Out of habit, I checked my watch. Nearly five o’clock. No time to stew about Aunt Madeleine or crime lords. I had other problems. Fleetingly, I wondered if Michael was on his way to mass. Or using it for a ruse to go somewhere else.
The real reporters were putting on their coats to go home, so I rode the elevator
down with them and thought about what it would be like to be stuck in one alone. On the street, I walked briskly a couple of blocks south to start my workday.
I shared the sidewalk with a bustle of pedestrians. Not long ago, I had lived just a short distance away, in a luxury condominium in Rittenhouse Square with my husband, Todd. A doctor who never practiced medicine, Todd had done research in organ transplants, while I tended mainly to our social life. That was before he became hooked on coke, and our hellish journey began. Those dark days seemed like a lifetime ago. Today I could almost enjoy a stroll through my old neighborhood. It finally felt as if the most painful memories of the past were easing. But Rittenhouse Square didn’t feel like home anymore. Now I felt the tug of Blackbird Farm.
Within a few minutes, I pushed through the door of a new shop on Walnut Street.
A crowd of mostly young women dressed in autumn colors and expensive high-heeled boots fluttered around lovely displays of very pretty lingerie. Brassieres, panties, corsets, stockings of every color and description. The ceiling was crowded with pink Chinese umbrellas—an attractive decorative touch. For the grand opening, a caterer served tea in small china cups. Nobody took note of the array of scones beautifully arranged on a platter, however—too many calories, considering the scanty merchandise on display. And nobody talked to anybody else. Everybody had her nose pointed down at a cell phone screen. Most of them seemed to be reading text messages, but a few snapped photos of the merchandise with their phones.
I could have chatted with a few acquaintances—I had once socialized with many of the young married women who lived in the nearby posh condos—but everyone was focused on communicating with people by telephone instead. So I picked out a pair of panties made of delicate pink lace—just the thing to tempt someone later.
I met Lynnette Dankenbaugh, the shop’s owner, at the register, where she was playing both clerk and hostess for the opening.
“Oh, Nora, thanks for coming! And you’re so sweet to buy something. Maybe you’ll start the trend. If everyone would stop using their cell phones, that is.” Lynnette gave me two kisses before accepting my debit card. Her forehead looked suspiciously wrinkle-free for a woman just starting her own business. She wore her blond hair in a smooth ponytail, too, and—always a meticulous dresser—she sported a trim black pinafore over a polka-dotted blouse, leggings and a pair of pink Mary Jane shoes. She was going for the youthful couturier look.
Sometimes when I found myself with a couple of hours between social events, I slipped into the symphony’s rehearsal hall to listen to the music or hiked over to the museum to take a docent tour. I had noticed Lynnette on a couple of the tours, and after a look at ancient Greek pottery she invited me to have coffee with her in the museum’s café. I had learned that she’d found herself at loose ends when her wealthy husband encouraged her to quit working and focus on making their home beautiful. Home decorating had gotten old fast, and she started roaming the cultural scene in the afternoons, too. She had jumped at the chance to talk to someone about what we saw in the museum together, so we met every few weeks for coffee.
Her dissatisfaction with her home life had eventually led to a divorce. She spent a few months searching for a way to earn a decent living for herself and ended up choosing to open a lingerie shop. I had listened to her planning process for several months and hoped she could make a go of her new enterprise.
I signed the debit slip. “Everybody thinks the shop is gorgeous, Lynnette.”
“I just hope they buy, buy, buy.”
“Holiday season,” I said as she handed me a decorative bag with my purchase tucked inside. “Husbands will soon be breaking down your door for gifts. And wait until Valentine’s Day. You’ll be swamped.”
“I hope so.” Lynnette managed a bright smile.
“Mind if I snap a few pictures? Just in case we have room on the Intelligencer’s Web site?”
Lynnette had been hoping for a little free advertising in the newspaper, I knew, but I couldn’t justify making print space for a store opening. The online version of the newspaper always needed fresh content, though. Lynnette broadened her smile. “By all means! Everybody else is.”
The newspaper rarely budgeted money for a photographer for me anymore, so I had to muddle through with photos I took myself. I posed Lynnette with some of her would-be customers and tried to crowd some of her wares into the pictures, too. Nothing too racy, though. I snapped a few shots with my phone camera and said good-bye.
After the shop opening, the weather was fair enough to keep walking, so I stowed my new lingerie in my handbag, buttoned up my Dior coat and hiked across town to a gallery on the Delaware, a stone’s throw from some glamorous lofts where young hipsters lived.
Outside the gallery I spotted a familiar electric scooter—a sort of low-powered skateboard with a long handle. It had been fastened to a bike rack with a bicycle lock. With a smile, I pushed through the gallery door with the expectation of meeting an old friend.
“Nora!” Jamison Beech called to me from across the gallery and made his way through the crowd. Around his neck, he carried the camera that was never more than a few inches from his hand. “Don’t you look charming this evening. Open up that coat and let me see.”
I flashed open the Dior to show him my lace suit. “Well?”
“What a minx! You must be planning to get laid later.”
“You’re wicked.”
“I really am, aren’t I?”
He kissed my forehead. When he retired from PR work, Jamison had reinvented himself as a guerrilla photographer who snapped photos depicting street life in Philadelphia. Eventually one local paper made him a deal—a small fee for a city-themed photo collage that would appear weekly in the Sunday edition. The fee hadn’t made a difference to him, but the weekly space had given him a forum at last. From that point, he branched out into taking pictures of just about anything that spoke to his creative aesthetic—from professional models and street kids with quirky clothes sense to shop windows with a point of view and graffiti scrawled on bridges. Now he was a local character—a well-known man-about-town with influence. People often recognized him on the street and asked him to take their pictures.
He made fashion statements himself, too. Tonight, Jamison wore a velvet smoking jacket over a black T-shirt and black jeans—very hip, very rock-and-roll, despite his age, and a long way from the business suits he wore for many years as a public relations agent. His white hair had been expertly fluffed, his gaunt frame honed to meet Rolling Stone magazine’s expectations. On his feet he sported a pair of velvet slippers with a gold embroidered monogram on the toes. Those slippers gave him away as a Philadelphia aristocrat playing at the fashion game.
“Jamie, it’s always good to see you.” I gave him a hug. “What on earth are we doing here?”
“What do you think?” He threw his arms wide. “We’re in a meat market!”
The visiting artist had created a whole installation of objects made from raw meat. Slabs of beef had been fashioned into lamps, vases of flowers, a desk arranged with a stapler, an electronic calculator and a sheaf of papers. Around his displays, he had thrown various knives and cleavers. I suppose it was intended to be avant-garde.
Jamison said, “You don’t even need to look around. The smell will make you sick, and besides, I can give you the lowdown in a printable sentence or two. Instead, we must talk. I heard about your aunt Madeleine. Good God, do you think she murdered her housekeeper before she bolted?”
CHAPTER SIX
“News travels faster than ever, doesn’t it?” I said grimly.
“The smoke signals have been floating all over town. That, and Twitter. Oh, how the blue bloods love their tweets. Is it true? A dead body in Madeleine’s elevator?”
“Yes, in the elevator at Quintain. We don’t know who yet.”
“What a delightful scandal! You must tell all.”
It hadn’t felt delightful when we discovered the body. The memory of it made
me accept a restorative plastic cup of generic Chardonnay. I allowed Jamison to tuck me into a folding chair near the back of the gallery where we could have some privacy to chat.
“What an appalling art installation,” I said when he sat down.
He said, “Meat is an important new medium, darling. Many up-and-coming artists are using it. If you ask me, they’re all imitating Lady Gaga, but years too late. How dull is that? But don’t say I told you so in the newspaper. I’m supposed to be hip enough to appreciate it.”
He clinked plastic glassware with me and leaned close. “I knew Madeleine back in the day, you know.”
“When was that?”
“Her heyday, you could say. She was the belle of the ball. Madcap Maddy always knew the most interesting people—gathered them together for wild parties. Plenty of beautiful women and powerful men. She was never one of those girls who needed to be the only good-looking woman in the room, either. She surrounded herself with beautiful people. Like me, she always thought having children would be a bore, so she had parties all the time. I remember a ‘happening’ at a club not far from here when she was just a slip of a thing. She took off all her clothes except for her go-go boots and let Andy Warhol paint on her tushie, and that was the beginning. I have the photo to prove it.” He sighed for the bygone era.
“I remember her as beautiful, but not a party girl.”
“Well, the tushie painting was just a one-time thing. Madeleine connected with everybody. And, like all you Blackbird girls, she took up with the wrong sort of man, which always makes for delicious scandal du jour.”
Unable to disguise the chill in my voice, I said, “What man did she take up with?”
“Men, darling.” If Jamison noticed my reaction to his opinion, he chose to ignore it. “She went around with one man after another—no drips, let me tell you. Social types, artists. You name it. I hear tell she even had a long-running affair with a very famous Cold War spy. Of course, nobody knew he was a spy until later. We should have guessed she’d wind up in a volcano. That’s Maddy—going out with a bang.”