How to Murder a Millionaire

by Nancy Martin

  “Peach! Are you okay?”

  She caught herself on my outstretched arms and looked at me in shock. “Nora.” Her good manners kicked in. “Nora Blackbird, how nice to see you.”

  I put my glass of wine down on a table and held her hands in mine. They were cold and trembling. “Peach, are you all right?”

  She wasn’t. Although she’d obviously tried to pull herself together upstairs, fresh tears blurred her eyes. Her face was white beneath carefully applied makeup.

  Even in tears, Patricia “Peach” Treese looked every inch her role as one of Philadelphia’s most-respected hostesses. She’d grown up a child of privilege in the home of her grandfather, the city’s mayor back when mayors were dignified and honorable even if social injustice ran rampant. Her handsome husband had died young of a lingering illness, but she’d finished college after his death, raised her children to be community leaders and become a woman of considerable influence in her own right. She had been president of the museum board since forever, and everyone credited her with saving the symphony from its latest financial crunch by her iron-fist-in-the-lace-glove fund-raising efforts.

  It was also common knowledge that Peach had been Rory Pendergast’s intimate companion for thirty years.

  She was the party’s unofficial hostess, but she looked anything but welcoming. Her silver Armani suit was impeccable, and her gold jewelry looked spectacular on the simple clothing. But her face was uncontrolled, her expression rattled. The tremble in her hands did not subside.

  “Peach? You’re really not feeling well. Can I get you a glass of water?”

  “Oh,” she said, making a visible effort to control her emotions. “No, thank you, Nora. You’re very kind. And my goodness, don’t you look smashing tonight? And after everything you’ve been through.”

  Lightly, I joked, “Better smashing than smashed, I guess, which is more than I can say for some of your guests.”

  Peach tried to laugh, but I knew she was operating on automatic pilot.

  “What can I do to help?” I asked.

  She released a broken sigh of exasperation. Or maybe it was genuine anger. “That old buzzard!”

  “You mean Rory? Is he giving you trouble?”

  “He won’t come downstairs again. He says he’s had enough for one night. Can you imagine? They’re all here to be nice to him!”

  “Maybe he’s just tired.”

  “Maybe he’s just stubborn!” Peach drew a long breath to calm down. “Why don’t you go up and reason with him, Nora? He’s so fond of you.”

  “I’ll take him a drink,” I suggested. “Does champagne still make his nose turn pink?”

  “Yes, pink as a bunny’s.” Peach laughed shakily. “Thank you, Nora. You’re a dear. Give him a few minutes to calm down first. Then work your magic.”

  “I’ll do what I can. Now go find somebody to flirt with,” I advised. “You have a big family wedding coming up. You’ll need a date if Rory’s being such a pill.”

  “My granddaughter’s wedding, yes. Oh, Lincoln is your nephew, isn’t he? By marriage? Well, it’s the talk of the whole town, I know, and I wish it were over already. See? Rory’s not the only one being a bore.”

  “You’ll recover,” I said. “Both of you.”

  She smiled, gave me an air kiss and slipped off in the direction of the powder room.

  I pressed through the crush of men in the dining room to where the bar had been set up. I knew most everyone there and exchanged pleasantries with a few people. Some others saw me coming and subtly turned their backs, making me wonder from whom my father had borrowed money to abscond. Jamie Scaithe, looking tan from his latest trip to his family’s Bermuda house, waved. I waved back at the alpha dog of Todd’s pack, but continued to the bar. I didn’t want to hear Jamie ask again with exaggerated concern how I was coping without my husband.

  Just as I reached the bar, a tallish young man with a shaven head grabbed his drink and spun around. We nearly collided.

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” I said automatically.

  He managed to avoid spilling the drink on either one of us and uttered a surly, “No problem.” Then he pushed past me and hastily plunged into the party. I blinked after him. Peach Treese wasn’t the only upset guest.

  Jill Mascione, whose father had built Main Events into the most relied upon catering service in Philadelphia, was mixing drinks with effortless speed. We’d been friends since the days of the lavish parties my parents threw when they were burning through the family fortune. Jill and I used to play together under the bunted tables. Now she wore a tuxedo-style jacket and ran the bar with cool efficiency while I learned to be a reporter.

  “Hey,” she said when she spotted me. “What’s this? Your Audrey Hepburn period?”

  “I raided Grandmama’s closet.”

  “Looks good on you. And I’m not the only one who’s noticed.” Hands busy, she jerked her head in the direction from which I’d come.

  “Jamie Scaithe can take a long swim in the Schuylkill.”

  “You don’t date cokeheads, huh?”

  “I’m learning not to be Peter Pan’s enabler.”

  “Atta girl. It’s time you were the main event in a relationship.”

  “Listen to you,” I said on a laugh, knowing full well her relationship with her volatile partner, Betsy, was on-again, off-again. “How about lunch some day soon?”

  “You’re on. I’ll call you.”

  She reached under the table for a bottle of champagne she’d clearly kept precisely chilled in ice water for someone special. “I saw Libby here a few minutes ago. She okay?”

  “Just crazy, but what else is new?”

  Jill grinned, pouring. “Heard from your folks?”

  “A postcard weeks ago. They’re having a ball.”

  She laughed. “I expect nothing less.”

  “Your dad?”

  With another tip of her head towards the kitchen, she said, “Running the show, as usual. He says we’re always on the edge of bankruptcy, and he’s the only one who can save us.” She handed me the champagne.

  “Are things that tight?”

  “We’re afloat,” Jill said. “He’s too generous with people. If he’d let me take over, we might actually make a profit.”

  I knew all about parents and money trouble. “I need a glass for the guest of honor, too,” I said. “I’m going upstairs to lure him down.”

  “Good luck.” She poured another glass and then wiped her hands on the bar towel. “I took him some supper a little while ago. He’s had one scene after another tonight. First Kitty Keough—man, she is just a few rattles short of a snake—and some other guy I didn’t know. That bald guy who just ran you over. Weird party. I think Rory’s hiding, and I don’t blame him.”

  “I’ll see what I can do. Catch you later.”

  I took two glasses of gently fizzing champagne and left Jill to do her job. I didn’t want to draw any attention to my mission by going up the main staircase, so I went slowly through the throng of acquaintances towards the kitchen, chatting my way along.

  The back staircase of the Pendergast mansion had been a source of great fun for the Blackbird girls when we were kids. It wound upwards from the kitchen in a series of tight turns. The first landing opened out onto the old carriage house yard—a perfect escape to the outdoors for anyone playing tag.

  Standing in the doorway of the landing was Sam, one of Jill Mascione’s lunkhead brothers. He was smoking a cigarette, taking a break from washing dishes. “Hey, Nora.”

  “Hi, Sam. What’s new?”

  “Nuthin’.” He pointed his cigarette at the cobble-stone driveway, where we could see the taillights of a vehicle disappear down the rear drive. “People are starting to get bored and head home. Where you going?”

  “Up to see Rory.”

  I kept going up the staircase and at last stepped into the main corridor on the second floor. The housekeeper’s rooms lay to the left, situated over the kitchen. To the right
and several yards down the corridor, Rory’s study door was open and light spilled out onto the carpet and polished mahogany floor. Music from downstairs floated up the staircase and seemed to fill the space. “Take Five.” I could smell Sam’s cigarette, too.

  “Rory?” I poked my head into the study and raised my voice over the Brubeck tune. “Rory, are you here?”

  No answer.

  I looked across the room at the beautifully lit painting on the wall. A small van Gogh. My breath caught in my throat at its beauty. I could see why Rory chose to live with it in his favorite room. The colors glowed with life, as if warmed by a constant summer Aries sun.

  But it was slightly askew on the wall. I couldn’t help myself. I went over and straightened it with one careful forefinger.

  The dark paneled study had a pair of plush leather chairs pulled up to a sturdy coffee table with books and papers heaped on it. On another wall two fishing rods were crossed like swords over a framed photo of Rory with a sailfish. I could imagine him sitting in the leather chair wrapped in his green cardigan, floor lamp pulled close so he could read and conduct his business in comfort while enjoying his memories and his van Gogh.

  But Rory was nowhere to be seen at the moment.

  A small man’s dress shoe lay in the middle of the floor, as if kicked off and abandoned. I smiled and shook my head. A lifelong bachelor who’d been looked after by a valet since his teens didn’t feel the need to pick up his shoes, I supposed.

  The door to the adjoining dressing room was open, so I tiptoed over, glasses in hand. “Rory?”

  I leaned inside. “Are you here?”

  His suits and trousers hung in neat rows, surrounded by panels of cedar. Rory was a little man—petite, really—and his dressing room seemed like the play-house of a wealthy Edwardian child. Crisp dress shirts lined the opposite wall, each hanger perfectly spaced two inches from its neighbor. A jewel-box-like cabinet stood open to reveal carefully stored silk ties, arranged by color. A tufted chair stood in the middle of the room, the perfect seat for a gentleman pulling on his socks.

  Rory’s bedroom lay through the open double doors to my right. I hesitated in the doorway, not wanting to intrude. “Rory?”

  I don’t know why I took another step. But suddenly I was in his bedroom and looking down at the crumpled figure on the floor. A small man, on his back, head twisted. His legs were splayed, one shoeless foot bent crookedly. A prescription bottle lay inches from his motionless hand—blue tablets scattered.

  “Oh, God.”

  The next seconds whirled. I called his name. A moment later I was stepping over a pillow and went down on the carpet beside him. I must have dropped the champagne glasses because I used both hands to unbutton his shirt, already torn from his neck, to press his chest, to feel his papery throat for a pulse, to hold his head, saying stupid things, I know, but talking, talking, talking.

  A heart attack? A stroke?

  I pulled him into my lap and held him tightly, trying nonsensically to will him back to life. His face was smooth, weirdly young again, all personality dissipated. His boneless body was so light, his face so cool that I knew he was utterly gone.

  As if a strobe light flashed in the room, I remembered the night Todd died. I saw his body, then Rory’s. And I couldn’t help either one of them.

  My head began to swim, and I knew I was blacking out. That much penetrated the blur. I needed help. Anyone. I stumbled out of the bedroom, through the dressing room and study. I slipped on the steps and fell once, clattering downwards with a black swirling space gushing up around me as I went. I had to reach help before the blackness got me.

  On the landing, I ran slap into Sam Mascione. I blundered down the rest of the steps, pulling Sam with me. In the kitchen hallway there was Jill. She was carrying wine bottles and deflected me with her shoulder. “Nora!”

  “It’s Rory,” I babbled. “He’s hurt.”

  “Oh, shit,” she said.

  “I think he’s dead. Call for help.”

  Jill’s voice faded as she said, “You’re fainting.”

  The black swirl engulfed me then and I went down.

  Chapter 3

  I keep smelling salts in my bag, and Jill must have remembered. I snapped back to consciousness with the stench of ammonia burning my nose and throat.

  “Jeez,” she said, dabbing my cheek with an icy dish towel. “You faint at the drop of a hat.”

  “Dammit,” I muttered.

  “Actually,” she said, “it’s nice to know you’re not as together as you pretend. Does your doctor still think it’s psychological?”

  “Half a dozen doctors think so. Damn!”

  With Sam’s help, she half dragged me into the cook’s sitting room off the kitchen, and I sat on the settee, periodically putting my head between my trembling knees. Through the door, I could see the orderly mayhem of Main Events staff packing up the party.

  “We called the paramedics,” Jill said. “And the police are here, too.”

  I tried hard to make sense of the jumbled images in my head. “Oh, Jill, he’s gone.”

  “I know, honey. But he was old. It’s part of life.”

  I cried, taking the cold towel from my friend and pressing it against my face. She hugged me, and we rocked together. I couldn’t breathe, just exhaled all the grief in my heart until I was gasping for air. He’d been a friend. A sweet, gentle man who’d come to my rescue when I needed help. He’d been kinder to me than anyone I’d ever known.

  “Miss Mascione?” said a voice.

  Jill sat up and wiped her face. “That’s me.”

  “And Miss Blackbird?”

  I hiccoughed and nodded.

  He was tallish and young, with wet hair combed back as if he’d been summoned from a shower. Blue sport coat, khaki Dockers and spanking clean sneakers. Boy Scout tidy with calm brown eyes. I knew at once he was a cop. A very young cop.

  He came into the sitting room tentatively. “I’m sorry to disturb you. I’m Detective Ben Bloom.” He pulled a walletlike badge from his breast pocket and showed it to us like an honor student handing over his hall pass.

  Jill stood up and shook his hand. I was afraid to try standing.

  He pocketed the badge and looked down at me. “How are you feeling?”

  “Terrible.”

  “I’m sure. Do you mind if I ask some questions? I know it’s a bad time, but it’s best if we do this right away.”

  “She’s not up to a lot of hassle,” Jill said.

  Bloom ignored her politely and kept his gaze on me. Although I was in shock, I realized why he’d been sent. He was the good cop—the baby-faced one assigned to deal with small children and emotional women in times of trouble.

  He asked, “Feeling able to tell me what you saw?”

  “I think so.”

  “You’re a reporter, I hear.”

  “Not really. I help write Kitty Keough’s society page, that’s all.”

  He sat on the footstool directly in front of me. Jill sat beside me, one hand across my shoulders. I fished a linen handkerchief from my bag to stop my running nose. Then I leaned forward on the settee, elbows on my knees, feet together and hands clasping the handkerchief to keep them from shaking.

  He said, “I’m sorry this has happened. I gather Mr. Pendergast was someone close to you.”

  I nodded and Jill said, “Nora’s family and Rory go back a long way.”

  Formalities over with, Bloom said, “I’m also told you went upstairs to see Mr. Pendergast. I’d like you to go through everything you did. There’s no rush. Do you understand?”

  “Yes. I’m sorry I made a mess. I touched him. I moved things. I know you’re not supposed to do that, but I—I hoped he was still alive. I thought I could help him.”

  “That’s understandable,” he said, stemming my flood of apologies and giving no hint he was dismayed that I’d blundered all over Rory’s bedroom. “We need your help determining what you touched.”

  “Of cou
rse.”

  “And we’ll take your fingerprints.”

  “I understand.”

  “Okay. Would you tell me exactly what happened when you went upstairs?”

  I tried to think straight. Then, slowly, I told him about talking to Peach, the glasses of champagne, of walking up the back stairs, of speaking to Sam.

  “That’s my brother,” Jill added.

  Bloom nodded. “We spoke with him just now. I want to make sure you agree with what he told us. Can you go on?”

  “Wait a minute.” Jill broke across the detective’s next question. “Does Nora need a lawyer?”

  Detective Bloom made an effort to look more official. “That’s your right, of course, but this is just routine. We need to know what evidence Miss Blackbird tampered with—”

  “Evidence?” Jill repeated. “You think he was murdered, don’t you?”

  “We just need—”

  I said, “I think he was.”

  Jill and the detective both looked at me.

  My heart started to pound again as my recollection of the scene upstairs sharpened in my mind. I said, “There was a pillow on the floor beside him. And he had struggled. He’d lost his shoe and—and I think his shirt was torn. It was, wasn’t it?” I looked up at Bloom. “I unbuttoned it,” I said. “To help him breathe, but—”

  “He was breathing when you found him?”

  “No, no.” I shut my eyes to remember all the details. “He was dead, but I thought—it was an automatic reaction. His shirt had been torn, and I have the impression now that he had struggled with someone.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “He looked ... messy. His clothing in disarray. He was a careful dresser, but the collar of his shirt was ripped.”

  Rory murdered. I started to tremble all over again. Detective Bloom reached over and put his slim hand on my arm. His grip was strong, but I pulled away and put my head between my knees.

  “She does this,” Jill explained, rubbing my back. “She faints easily.”

  “This is the last time,” I said to my ankles.

  “She can’t drive,” Jill went on. “We’re all afraid she’ll wreck the car.”

  With my head down, I said, “Shut up, Jill, would you, please?”