by Nancy Martin
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Look in the back of this special edition for an
excerpt from the Blackbird Sisters Mystery A
Crazy Little Thing Called Death
Praise for the
Blackbird Sisters Mysteries
Have Your Cake and Kill Him Too
“Martin, a master of one-liners and witty repartee, mixes the zany lives of the Blackbird family with posh Main Line Philadelphia society and comes up with another winning mystery.”
—Library Journal (starred review)
“Charming and funny.”—Publishers Weekly
“Sassy, exciting, and impossible to put down.”
—Midwest Book Review
“Martin’s fabulous offering is peppered with witty dialog, oddball characters, and a clever plot that blends two separate mysteries into one delightful tale of murder and the unusual relationships between sisters.”
—Romantic Times (4 stars)
Cross Your Heart and Hope to Die
“Nora Blackbird has humor, haute couture, and sexual heat, and Cross Your Heart and Hope to Die has me hooked on the Blackbird sisters.”
—Harley Jane Kozak, author of Dating Dead Men and Dating Is Murder
“A laugh-out-loud comic mystery as outrageous as a pink chinchilla coat.”—Booklist
“The right mix of humor ... but like the best writers in this subgenre, Martin keeps the story grounded in reality.”—South Florida Sun-Sentinel
“A blend of fashion-forward romance and witty suspense.... Martin’s wicked tongue-in-cheek satire will appeal to fans of Jennifer Crusie ... and Janet Evanovich.”—Publishers Weekly
“Wide-eyed sleuthing, sisterly antics, and humorous dialog will have readers panting for more.”
—Library Journal
“Vividly drawn and immensely entertaining ... an absolute delight.”—Romantic Times
Some Like It Lethal
“What great deadly fun!”—Kasey Michaels
“Simultaneously clever and funny. A tasty mix of murder, family dynamics, blackmail, and humor.”
—The Contra Costa Times
Dead Girls Don’t Wear Diamonds
“A brash, flaming, and sassy amateur sleuth mystery ... the perfect novel to take to the beach ... light, breezy, and pure fun.”—Midwest Book Review
How to Murder a Millionaire
“Will keep readers turning the pages ... [a] delightful heroine.”—The Best Reviews
SIGNET
Published by New American Library, a division of
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First published by Signet, an imprint of New American Library,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
First Printing, October 2002
Copyright © Nancy Martin, 2002
eISBN : 978-1-440-67326-9
Excerpt from A Crazy Little Thing Called Death copyright © Nancy Martin, 2007
All rights reserved
REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA
Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
PUBLISHER’S NOTE
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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With thanks
Many journalists tried to steeer me in the right direction: Marylynn Uricchio of the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, Robert Long of Delaware’s News Journal, Becky Aikman of Newsday and the anonymous but excellent staff of The Philadelphia Inquirer, The Roanoke Times and Philadelphia magazine.
Thanks also to Dr. Nancy Curry (sometimes known as Aunt Money), Marian Fiscus, Amy Polk, Samir Arora, Kiryn Haslinger, Tamar Myers, Meg Ruley, Ellen Edwards and Victoria Thompson. And to Barbara Aikman, for her formidable mystery expertise, not to mention a few other things. (Thanks, Mom!)
Grateful thanks to Ramona Long, the best friend a writer ever had.
For Jeff, Cassie and Sarah. See, girls? All those battlefield tours paid off!
Other books in the
Blackbird Sisters Mysteries series
Dead Girls Don’t Wear Diamonds
Some Like It Lethal
Cross Your Heart and Hope to Die
Have Your Cake and Kill Him Too
A Crazy Little Thing Called Death
“Slay Belles”
[in the mystery anthology Drop-Dead Blonde]
Chapter 1
To squander the last dollar left in the Blackbird family fortune, my parents threw a lawn party that would have made Jay Gatsby proud. My father wore a moth-eaten dinner jacket and poured champagne while Mama offered marijuana cigarettes to the ne’er-do-wells of Philadelphia high society who’d come to see how far the mighty had fallen.
At the party’s climax, my parents shot off fireworks and presented the Blackbird family art collection to my sister Emma. The Blackbird furniture went to my sister Libby.
Perhaps under the impression that I was the most responsible member of the family—which only means I’m the one who never entered a wet T-shirt contest—Mama and Daddy gave me the Bucks County farm. Then they blew the country
for a sunny resort that catered to American tax evaders, leaving stardust in their wake and me with a delinquent property tax bill for two million dollars.
That winter I gave up my Rittenhouse Square condo and moved back to the decaying splendor of our family homestead. I sold my symphony subscription seats, got a partial refund on a weekend trip to Paris and terminated my charge account at Neiman Marcus, which was probably good for my soul anyway.
I tried to get used to poverty. I really did. But by spring I was down to my last Lean Cuisine, and the tax man had my number on his speed dial.
Which is why I, Nora Blackbird, a former socialite who never really held a job in all my thirty-one years unless you count being secretary of the Junior League, found myself in dire need of a paycheck.
“How’s the job hunt?” my sister Emma asked me over our monthly lunch at the Rusty Sabre, the white tablecloth inn in New Hope. She lit up a cigarette after she’d been served her spinach salad and sat back to consider her next move on the food. “Find anybody who wants to hire an expert at organizing charity balls?”
“I do have other skills, you know.”
“You’re really good at seating charts,” said our older sister, Libby, buttering a roll and showing none of Emma’s reluctance to chow down. Libby wore her excess pounds to sexy perfection. “A successful seating chart is a work of art. In fact, I’m hoping you’ll help us with the wedding, Nora.”
Her stepson was getting married soon. Half of Philadelphia knew the details, thanks to frequent bulletins in the papers that documented the union of two old families—the Treese clan of Main Line and Libby’s new in-laws, the Kintswells of Society Hill.
Bored with the endless wedding discussion, Emma ignored Libby’s gambit to hash it over again. To me, she said, “Maybe the White House needs someone new.”
Libby stopped buttering and said quite seriously, “That’s not a bad idea.”
Emma winked at me. “You do beautiful calligraphy.”
“And I can polish silver.”
“But seating charts are your gift, really,” Libby said.
Emma and I exchanged grins.
The three of us began having our sisterly lunches about eighteen months ago, shortly after Emma and I lost our husbands. Libby had been a widow for several years and remarried, but when Emma’s husband, Jake, died in a car crash that nearly killed her, too, and a few weeks later my Todd was shot in a South Philly parking lot, Libby assembled the sisterhood. We took turns being the designated basket case, and to our collective surprise, our lunches were therapeutic. For the first time since our teenaged years, we were close again. We shared our frustration with Mama and Daddy, and argued about how best to cope with being poor (Libby, the oldest and most free spirited, advocated complete denial and Emma, the youngest and most tightly wired, never spent a nickel anyway) and we howled over the things that only sisters can find hilarious, like Aunt Rosemary’s shoplifting tendencies and our family’s inability to cook a decent meal.
We were not without conflict, of course.
Libby had appeared for our May lunch wearing one of her long, artistic dresses with a plunging neckline. Normally, she sported a beflowered straw hat as if she was ready to fly off to Ascot at a moment’s notice. But today her hair was loose and Bardot feminine. Hardly any splotches of paint marred her manicure. All her outfits included matching canvas bags, in which she carried an ever-changing collection of books to share with anyone who came along. Libby had grown up ahead of Emma and me, during the time when our parents lived like minor royalty, so she had a different approach to life. Lady Bountiful in Birkenstocks, often lugging a sketchbook to document important moments. She was an Artist of Life, she claimed. Things like financial survival were irrelevant to her.
Libby shook her knife and said, “No, they already have somebody at the White House. Remember Divvy Moncreath? Her son works there now. He gets along beautifully with the First Lady. They have the same taste in china.”
“Divvy Moncreath,” I said, “is probably the only woman in America who made a campaign contribution so her son could fold napkins.”
“He’s brilliant with place settings.”
“How do you know that?” Emma asked Libby. She was dressed in riding breeches and boots, as always, and she didn’t give a damn that the other ladies lunching nearby cast cool glances at the mud she’d tracked in.
Of the three of us, Emma was the stone fox. A chic, very short and asymmetrical haircut flattered the narrow shape of her head, her sharp-cut cheekbones and wide-set bedroom eyes. The Blackbird auburn hair and magnolia white skin that made me look like a Victorian bride with the vapors was sexy as hell on Emma. Her riding breeches fit her like a pair of gloves, and her boots gave my younger sister a piratical air that suited the look in her eye. Two inches taller than I and with ten pounds strategically rearranged, she could have gotten work as an exotic dancer anywhere.
Em always looked as if she’d just rolled out of somebody’s bed ... with a whip. Libby looked ready to slide into the next convenient four-poster. And I—well, I wasn’t going to venture under anyone’s down comforter but my own for a long time. My husband’s death had blindsided me, but it didn’t compare to the hell of our last two years together when Todd binged on cocaine, lost his medical research job and showed me what havoc one man’s weakness could inflict on the union of two people who loved each other passionately. No, men were too much trouble.
“I already got a job,” I announced, intervening before the sisterly sniping developed into a full-blown squabble. “I started last week, so the White House will have to muddle through without me.”
“What job?” Libby brightened. “Where?”
“I went to see Rory Pendergast.” I smiled at the memory of dear old “Uncle” Rory, years ago our grandfather Blackbird’s tennis partner, coming to my rescue. “I asked him for a job and he invited me to write for his newspaper.”
“Nora, that’s fabulous!”
“He still owns that rag?” Emma blew smoke. “I guess every billionaire industrialist needs a hobby in his declining years.”
“How is sweet Rory?” Libby asked. “I haven’t seen him in weeks. I should call him, in fact. We have things to discuss.”
“This is about Nora,” Emma said. “So shut up and listen.”
“Rory looked great,” I went on steadily. “A little frail, maybe, but still naughty. He’s eighty-five if he’s a day.”
Libby lifted her wineglass in a toast. “And he recognizes talent when he sees it. Writing all those medical articles for your husband has come in handy, Nora. Kudos! Tell us what you’ll be doing for the Intelligencer. A column for the health section?”
“No—”
“Medical tips?”
“No,” I said, taking a deep breath. “I’m writing for the society page.”
A short, stunned silence. Libby put down her glass.
Then Emma laughed outright. “Good God,” she said. “You’re going to write meaningful prose about debutante balls?”
“It’s a steady job.”
But a job that came with at least one drawback, and Emma immediately hit the bull’s-eye.
She said, “Tell me you’re not working with Kitty Keough.”
I gathered my courage and admitted, “I’m her assistant.”
Libby clapped one hand to her mouth to stop a laugh. “You’re kidding!”
For thirty years, Kitty Keough had been the elephant in the middle of every table at Philadelphia parties. She reported on weddings and funerals, cocktail receptions and tea parties. She detailed what people wore, ate and said. She had printed more pictures of men in tuxedos than People magazine ever will, raised her fork at more sea bass dinners with bulimic girls than a Miss America chaperone and air kissed more wealthy women than a presidential candidate. She wrote clever columns that sent the whole city flipping to The Back Page every Sunday to read how she cut the rich and famous down to size.
But she’d also made enemies along
the way.
Emma said, “Your life’s in danger the minute your name is associated with hers. People hate Kitty Keough’s guts.”
“Readers don’t.”
“But our friends do,” said Libby. “And what she said about Daddy and Mama!”
“Every word was true,” I pointed out.
“So what will you be doing exactly?” Emma asked.
“The job isn’t much different than my life used to be,” I explained. “I’m invited to the same cocktail parties, banquets and balls. Except afterwards I write up what I’ve seen and heard. I’ll attend parties for a living.”
“And Kitty?” Emma propped her elbows on the table, ready to dish. “I bet she was delighted to see you sashay into her territory.”
“She hasn’t exactly rolled out the red carpet,” I admitted.
“It’s your name,” Libby declared. “The Blackbirds are everything Kitty Keough is not. She’s going to make your life miserable.”
“And the fact that Rory hired you himself,” Emma added with a grin. “That ticked her off big time, didn’t it? She hates anybody being more connected than she is.”
To be accepted in New York, goes the saying, all you need is money. Lots of money. But here in Philadelphia, it’s who you are that counts.
The Blackbirds, a family as old as the city itself, counted.
Kitty Keough did not.
“She seems a little upset about our relationship with Rory,” I agreed. “She’s sending me to some ... unusual places. Just to teach me the ropes, I’m sure.”
“To teach you a lesson,” Emma said. “She wants you under her thumb from the get-go.”
“Maybe Rory is easing Kitty out.” Libby dropped her voice to keep such speculation a secret from the women at the next table. “Maybe they’re grooming you to take over. She’s been writing the society column for a hundred years.”