How to Murder a Millionaire

by Nancy Martin

  I found my contact, the law firm’s PR director, who gave me a kiss on the cheek and asked me to dance. As we two-stepped, he filled me in on the particulars.

  “We invited two hundred guests, plus the race entrants and their families,” he shouted over the music. “Carmella’s did the food, and you can talk to Jerry about the beer. Want to meet some of the racers?”

  “Of course! And Tom Nelson, too.”

  Tom had been an acquaintance of mine from a preteen ballroom dance class, and although he was confined to a wheelchair after his accident, he could still dance, I was delighted to see. He spun me around for a few turns, while I clumsily tried to get the hang of dancing with a seated partner. He didn’t seem to mind my stumbling, but we soon quit and I interviewed him in a relatively quiet corner.

  His accident and resulting physical changes had done wonders for Tom Nelson, I decided after we’d talked for a few minutes. In the past, he’d basically been a jerk with no time for anybody but his drinking buddies. Now he seemed more relaxed, more witty, more focused on other people. I was glad to meet his new wife, too, a charming young woman with a glint of pride in her eyes when her husband talked about the upcoming races and the competition the firm had started for teens.

  “Racing has been fabulous for Tom,” she said when I asked her for a quote. “It’s given him back his edge—not just his edge for work, but for his whole life.”

  It was a terrific quote and I could have left the party then with sufficient information for a great story, but I needed to wait around for the photographer who’d been assigned to the event. When Jason arrived, I asked him to take pictures of the Nelsons and some of the racers, who cheerfully posed with the brewmaster and the pretty girl in the wheelchair. Jason wrote down names and left for his next assignment, but I wanted to enjoy the evening a little, so I had some fiery jambalaya and a Dixie longneck with a trio of racers and chatted with a few friends who’d come out for an evening of fun.

  Then Tom came over to talk again.

  “How are your parents?” he asked.

  “I haven’t heard from them in weeks,” I reported. “But I assume they’re alive and well.”

  He grinned up at me. “I’m not trying to track them down, honest. I was just asking. I heard you were at the Pendergast party last night.”

  I nodded. “It was awful. We’re all going to miss him.”

  “Not everyone,” he replied wryly. “First thing this morning I got a preemptive phone call from one of his sisters. What do you know about them?”

  “I only met them last night, actually. They were upset, of course.”

  I could say no more without gossiping, and he couldn’t say anything else without violating attorney-client privilege, so that was the end of it. He changed the subject and left me wondering why the Pendergast sisters were contacting lawyers. Had they started to divide up the estate already?

  The party was still going strong when I left. I congratulated everyone on the success of the bash and wished several racers good luck. Then I went out to find Reed and the car.

  Half an hour later I walked into my second event of the evening, another of Kitty’s rejects. Usually Kitty grabbed the chance to attend parties on Society Hill, but Hollywood’s call was stronger than politics.

  Society Hill was one of the city’s poshest addresses, with leafy streets, beautifully preserved architecture and millionaire neighbors. The townhouses were packed snugly together, and the families were equally tight. It was said that any couple who dated from outside a two-block area were contemplating a mixed marriage.

  Political fundraisers weren’t my cup of tea either, but I knew many of the guests who milled outside the townhouse of Molly Irwin and Jack Hardy. Molly wrote a liberal-minded column for the rival newspaper in the city, and her lawyer husband, Jack, often helped local Democrats load up their war chests. Their house sported a large American flag that waved from a second-floor window.

  Upstairs in the beautifully decorated second-floor living room, the party hummed with excitement. I had arrived just moments after the mayor, I realized, and he was holding court in front of Molly’s Waterford and Wedgwood-laden breakfront.

  The mayor hadn’t been out in public for weeks. The whole city had speculated he’d been contemplating a big career change as a result of an unusual political blunder—a flat denial of bribery in his office just days before subpoenas were delivered. He was a flamboyant man, given to drinking a little more than he should and making statements in public that were better off left to his prudent PR staff. I had overheard reporters in the Intelligencer coffee room wondering if his fondness for alcohol had begun affecting his previously uncanny political instincts.

  I met Molly’s gaze across the room. Her brows shot up; then she immediately frowned. She murmured an apology to the mayor, who kept on talking to the other guests as she slipped away from the group.

  “Hi,” I said as she shook my hand. “I’m Nora Blackbird.”

  “I know. Molly Irwin. We met at the library benefit at Easter.”

  “That’s right. Listen, I’m here for the Intelligencer. Since you work for the other paper, I thought you—”

  “Yes, it’s nice of you to come.” She wasn’t delighted to find her paper’s lowbrow competitor standing in the middle of her party at exactly the wrong moment, but she had the good manners to fake a welcome. “You have a photographer with you?”

  “She’ll be here in ten minutes.”

  “The mayor may be gone by then.” She looked relieved at the prospect. “How about pictures of Jack and some of the big donors instead?”

  “Sure. And you?” I asked with a smile. “Care to have your picture in the Intelligencer?”

  She laughed. “My boss wouldn’t be too happy.”

  “Is he here? Maybe he’d like a photo with us, too.”

  With a forced smile, she guided me towards some other guests, pointedly avoiding a meeting between the mayor and me. “Why don’t I introduce you around?”

  I knew most of them anyway, but Molly did the honors, and someone brought me a glass of wine. Molly was soon called away and within a few minutes, despite our hostess’s best effort, I found myself chatting with the mayor himself.

  In his rumpled seersucker suit and clutching a gin and tonic in one hefty fist, he was the picture of an Old School pol. His ruddy face was already flushed with bonhomie ... and gin.

  “Oh,” said the mayor, recognizing my name when I introduced myself. “Isn’t your family friends with Roderick Pendergast? Damn shame about what happened.”

  “Will you be attending the funeral?” I asked.

  “Of course, wouldn’t miss it,” he said. “Pendergast gave a lot to the city of Philadelphia. I only wish there was something we could give back.”

  He launched into a politician’s nonsense that immediately made his entourage tune out. They must have figured they had a minute of off-duty time and simultaneously edged for the bar, leaving the mayor safe in the hands of a citizen who presumably wanted to talk about Rory Pendergast, nothing important.

  I only had a minute, I knew, so I cut across his speech and asked, “How’s the investigation into his murder going?”

  “Very well.” The mayor looked down at me with some surprise at my interruption. “I get updates every hour direct from the chief of police. I’m told they have some very promising leads.”

  “Any truth to the rumor that his sisters might sell the newspaper?”

  The mayor gathered his brows in an expression that had served him well in front of the evening news cameras while he gathered his political wits. “I can’t comment on that except to say the city is making every effort to keep the Intelligencer locally owned and operated. We must take the long view. A world-class city needs two vital newspapers to keep the lifeblood pumping. We hope we can convince Pendergast’s family.”

  Which told me that indeed the Pendergast sisters were already looking for a buyer. With an encouraging smile, I asked, “Do you p
lan to be around long enough to help do the convincing?”

  He laughed. “What’s a pretty girl like you asking that for?”

  “I’m from the Intelligencer,” I began, wanting to be sure he knew he was talking to a reporter. “And I—”

  But the mayor leaned close enough that I could smell the Beefeater on his breath. “Sweetheart,” he said, “if it ain’t me, it’ll be my own son. Don’t you think he’d make a fine mayor?”

  “Well—”

  “And maybe I’ll run for governor if they don’t hustle me off to dry out first.”

  If he’d planted a big wet kiss on my cheek I couldn’t have been more surprised that he’d chosen me, of all people, to slip that information to.

  “Can I quote you?” I asked, returning his smile.

  “Sweetheart, a girl as easy on the eyes as you can do anything she likes,” he said loudly. “How about a drink?”

  His entourage came scrambling back, but the deed was done.

  Sara Jane, the photographer, showed up just then, and while Molly was still distracted, I asked for a few quick pictures of the mayor as he spoke with one of the evening’s big donors. Sara Jane sensed that I had a big scoop and quickly snapped the photos. Then we hit the street. I snatched my notebook from my handbag and hastily wrote down what the mayor had said to me, making sure I got every word right.

  “This is my last stop tonight,” Sara Jane told me when I finished writing. “I’ll drop off the film right now.”

  “Great. Can I borrow your cell phone?”

  She lent it to me, and I vowed to acquire one as soon as I could manage the financial commitment. I dialed Stan Rosenstatz’s desk at the Intelligencer.

  Bless his heart, he answered. I quickly told him what I’d learned from the mayor.

  “You sure about that?” Rosenstatz barked. “He said his son is considering a run?”

  “I have it in my notes.”

  “And he might run for governor himself?”

  “If he doesn’t go to rehab first.”

  “What a break,” Stan crowed. I had never heard him so excited. “I bet his staff is spitting nails! I’ll tell the news desk right away. They’ll want to use your information for the morning edition.”

  “This feels funny to me,” I said before he could hang up. “I’m not a trained journalist, Stan.”

  “What are you talking about? Did he know you were a reporter?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Did he tell you it was off the record?”

  “No—”

  “Honey, it’s the deal with the devil. Politicians use the press for their own reasons. But they can’t choose when they don’t get coverage. For guys like the mayor, this is their business. He’s looking for PR!”

  “But—”

  “There’s no Pulitzer for party reporting, honey. This is your big chance for fame and glory.”

  “I’m just not sure he knew what he was saying.”

  “Nora,” said Rosenstatz firmly. “We’re the eyes and ears of the city. What the mayor said to you, he said to everybody. Breathe easy, kid. You did the right thing. Besides, we’ve been printing nothing but the Pendergast murder, and this will be a welcome change. Now give it to me again.”

  I dictated what the mayor had said to me, and Rosenstatz wrote down every word, then repeated it back to me for accuracy.

  “Great,” he said. “Thanks, kiddo. You don’t know how big this is, but believe me, it’s gonna do us both some good. Too bad the old man isn’t around to give us our promotions.”

  “I’m glad you’re pleased.” While I still had him on the line, I rushed on, “Stan, did you get my e-mail? About the guest list for the Pendergast party?”

  “Yeah,” he said, distracted by the story. “Check your e-mail.”

  “Thanks.”

  “You’re gonna be a star, kiddo!”

  Chapter 9

  After midnight, I plugged my laptop computer into the phone jack in the kitchen and chewed a Turns while I typed up my notes and sent the party stories by modem. After the pieces were filed, I checked my e-mail and received a message from Rosenstatz with the Pendergast party guest list as an attachment.

  I opened a Diet Coke and read through the list. It was a very highbrow crowd, I noted. The city’s most prominent citizens hardly ever gathered in one place for an occasion, but they had definitely been invited to fete Rory. Since the Intelligencer had thrown the party, lots of the names on the list were employees, board members, top advertisers and business connections. I recognized many names, of course, and noted how many I had not actually seen. Of course, I’d arrived late, and the party had begun to wind down as guests went off to dinner engagements in the city.

  The Tacketts were on the list. So were many of my old friends and new colleagues from the newspaper.

  Halfway down the list were the names Ralph and Elizabeth Kintswell. I remembered seeing Ralph’s car parked in front of Rory’s house, but I hadn’t seen them later, when the police were taking names. They must have left with the other early birds. I felt a pang of longing for the opportunity to hash over the murder with my sister.

  I paused, puzzled. Why had Libby and her husband been invited? Oh, yes, Ralph served on one of the newspaper’s advisory boards. They must have driven directly from Mick’s Muscle Cars to the party. Ralph had been dressed in his uniform as if prepared to attend a big event, and Libby must have exchanged her bandanna for jewelry.

  Until that moment, I’d forgotten about the bag from Libby. With the laptop screen still shining at me, I kicked off my shoes and pulled the canvas bag towards me across the kitchen table. Usually I looked forward to Libby’s offerings. She made a production out of selling each book with gushing reviews. Opening the bag without her there to tell me what she’d brought made me feel oddly frustrated.

  Inside was not a book.

  I unwrapped the pillowcase that enfolded the object. Then I sat staring at it.

  It was an ancient leather folio with heavy metal hinges and a decorated clasp. It weighed as much as a five-pound bag of sugar and the leather was crumbling.

  A folded note fluttered out and fell to the floor. I put down the folio and picked up the note. Unfolding it, I saw my sister Libby’s handwriting.

  “This came from Rory,” she had written. “Can you return it without letting anyone know? It’s important, please. Libby.”

  What the hell? I stared at the note. That’s all she had to say to me?

  I opened the folio and stared at the work of art painted on the first page of thick, dry paper. It was Asian, no doubt, with human figures contorted in a sexual act. The eroticism hit me in the stomach.

  Erotic art. Part of Rory’s collection.

  What was Libby doing with it?

  Hands suddenly unsteady, I put the first page on the kitchen table and began to look through the other drawings. The pictures were luminous, expertly drawn and lovingly enhanced with the lightest touches of paint. They were profoundly beautiful. Naughty, yes, but so exquisitely rendered that I knew I was looking at the work of a gifted artist. Candlelight glowed on the upturned buttocks of a laughing young girl. Her pigtailed companion glistened with the perspiration and exhilaration of a heightened sexual moment. The threesome in the next drawing seemed to shout with breathless abandon. Yet there was wit, too, in details like the little pug-faced dog that peeped laughingly from behind a curtain at a pair who coupled like animals on a silk cushion. Their skin gleamed with the sheen of pearls and their expressions were voracious, but the dog wore the most lascivious of grins.

  “My goodness,” I said, transfixed.

  I was struck by the blending of eroticism—both playful and dark—and the artist’s amazing command of technique in depicting the details of each encounter. As I lifted one page after another, I counted dozens of drawings, yet each picture seemed to discover some small nuance not manifested in the ones that came before. The artist conveyed an unashamed fascination with all things sexual, a sens
e of adventure and sport. Of fun. It was impossible to look at them without smiling.

  Each of the drawings was accompanied by a paragraph of faded, feathered script in traditional Chinese characters. I bent closer to read them. I had suffered through a long and difficult year of modern Chinese in college in which we’d skimmed over the basics of the ancient version of the language. I recognized some of the old radicals. I would need some review and further study before I could accurately decipher the text. I knew the folio was centuries old.

  It was a masterpiece.

  My hands shook harder then ever.

  I couldn’t imagine why in the world Libby would send such a thing around New Hope in Emma’s truck, wrapped in a canvas bag. What was she thinking? And why did she want me to return it?

  I checked my watch. It was after midnight—too late to phone Libby’s house.

  How in the world did Libby imagine I was going to return something to Rory’s house, which was now completely sealed off as a crime scene? And why the big secret?

  I looked at the pictures again. I could understand why Rory enjoyed the blend of delicate beauty and witty sexuality. He’d led a secret life. Viagra and now this.

  I smiled. Then started to laugh.

  I found myself carrying the folio to bed with me. Maybe there were parts of my life I wanted to keep to myself, too. But just because other people didn’t see them didn’t mean they didn’t exist. In bed, I spent another hour looking at the drawings on those enticing pages.

  I didn’t often miss my husband anymore. Nearly two years had passed since I’d become a widow. Kind friends, including Rory, had pulled me out of the long slough of depression that followed Todd’s death. But looking at those pictures in my bed that night, I felt more alone than I had in a long time.