How to Murder a Millionaire

by Nancy Martin

  Maybe Todd hadn’t been much of a husband, and maybe his murder at the hands of his cocaine dealer was his just desserts according to certain moralists. But I had loved him despite his weaknesses. For better or for worse, we’d said. I’d meant it.

  He would have gotten a kick out of those pictures.

  I closed the folio and lay back in bed. I didn’t cry, though plenty of tears had flowed over the last couple of years. I had counted on Todd for lots of things. Okay, so maybe he’d been a terrible narcissist and his moral compass had pointed mostly at his own nose, but he’d been spontaneous and clever and loved Venice and sushi and Lalique glassware as much as I did. I thought we’d be borrowing his cousin’s boat to sail on the Chesapeake until we were too old to manage the lines. I thought we’d have children. Lively kids with many interests and lots of laughter.

  The Pendergast folio with its pictures of lusty young lovers made me think of my youth—what was left of it—and my chances for a family of my own going to waste because Todd couldn’t keep up the payments on his drug habit. I had survived a time of being furious with him, but not anymore. The folio portrayed sex as a primal urge, a joyous life force I’d shared with my husband—who hadn’t held up his end of the bargain.

  Chilled, I put the folio aside and pulled the coverlet up to my chin. Then I realized I wasn’t cold, but trembling.

  Okay, sometimes I was scared. No husband. No children. No parents. One sister was a nutcase and the other was my polar opposite. And I was so far in debt that I couldn’t even joke about it. I was thirty-one and still hadn’t found a life for myself.

  Aloud, I said, “Good God, is it time to join the DAR?”

  In the morning I decided to bike over to Libby’s house to talk face-to-face. I needed to know exactly what was going on. I put the Pendergast folio back into Libby’s book bag and stashed it in the basket of my bicycle. It fit neatly into the space. As long as it had survived in Emma’s truck, it would last a few miles in my bike basket.

  I pedaled easily along the river for several miles, took a turn west and spun smoothly along a stretch of two-lane road densely lined with pines on either side until I reached Libby’s barn-shaped mailbox.

  I noticed the box was stuffed with mail, the door even ajar because the protruding envelopes were too much. Libby must have forgotten to pick up her Saturday mail. I’d do her a favor and carry it up to the house.

  In handfuls, I pulled out envelopes, advertising flyers and catalogs. The pile of mail grew on top of the canvas bag and eventually spilled to the gravel driveway. I reached down to retrieve the fallen envelopes and saw return addresses for some of the causes Libby and Ralph supported—everything from Meals on Wheels to a couple of animal rights groups. A Save the Battlefields newsletter landed on top of the heap.

  Libby gave money to every cause on the planet. It was a good thing Ralph had similar altruistic interests.

  My sister had begun looking for a new husband weeks after Bob died. She attended a bookstore signing by an author of Civil War books. Libby had never indicated any interest in the Civil War before, but she must have known what kind of customer hung out at those events. Sure enough, she’d met Ralph at the bookstore and started dating him only a few weeks later.

  Ralph Kintswell was an easygoing older man with grown children who liked Libby’s kids and the idea of raising a second family. Although he never said so, I suspect the real reason Ralph married Libby was the cachet of our family history. In addition to our revolutionary relatives, a Blackbird had accompanied General Grant to Vicksburg, information that sent Ralph diving enthusiastically into family journals and letters. Our Civil War connection sealed the marriage.

  The farmhouse sat on a high meadow with a distant view of the Delaware and an old sheep pasture out front. On three sides, however, modern housing developments had sprung up like mold on an old cantaloupe. Hundreds of huge tract houses dwarfed the small lots landscaped with too-small bushes and no trees. As I walked my bicycle up the steep drive, I could see a boomer neighbor’s swimming pool.

  The gravel driveway looped around the farmhouse, and I went around to the back door rather than the front entrance with its fanlight doorway and quaintly painted porch. Several hundred yards behind the house stood the barn. Ralph’s silver sports car was parked inside, visible through the open barn door. There was no sign of Libby’s distinctive minivan.

  Libby’s Labrador, Arlo, came out from under a shady tree, his tail wagging gently. I patted him, but when I didn’t produce any treats, he ambled back to his napping spot and flopped down again.

  I put the straps of the canvas bag over my forearm and carried the bundle of mail over to the back door of the house. It hung open on its hinges, as if somebody had just breezed inside and forgotten to close it. Life with kids.

  Today they were surprisingly quiet.

  I entered the house. “Hello?”

  No answer. I shouted, “Hello!”

  Libby was not a fussy housekeeper, but I was surprised by the mess around me in the entry hall. A pile of boots, shoes and clothing had been abandoned on the floor at my feet. Several days’ worth of newspapers lay in a heap by the back staircase along with a clarinet case and a baseball glove. Ralph’s Civil War uniform hung on a hanger from the doorjamb as if waiting to go to the dry cleaner.

  I hugged the mail to my chest and looked around in surprise. “Wow.”

  I headed for the living room where Libby worked on her various artistic projects. “Lib? Are you home?”

  Inside the doorway stood her work table where she sometimes drew or painted in the patch of sunlight that streamed through the nearby uncurtained window. Her brushes stood, bristles upright, in a glass frog used for flower arranging. Various tin pots and palettes lay overturned as if to dry. Small jars of premixed paint stood in lines like little soldiers ready for duty. Although her house was a mess, her work space was scrupulously neat.

  Libby also dabbled in other art forms, primarily to encourage her four children to be artistic. Pencils, sketch pads and jars of beads were lined up along the bookshelves. A tub of modeling clay sat under the table.

  With some relief, I noticed that the Blackbird family furniture had not been hauled directly to Libby’s house and left in her less than scrupulous care. Maybe her husband had prevailed and stored the exquisite desks, tables and upholstered pieces in a safe location.

  The silence of the house was almost creepy. Usually kids were everywhere, playing their music, bouncing their basketballs, and shouting for their mother to come check their homework or find a sock. The quiet was unnatural.

  I went back down the hallway to the kitchen. In the doorway, I stopped dead.

  The dishwasher door hung open, and the machine was stacked full of dirty plates. The countertops were cluttered with more dishes, crusty pots, greasy utensils and a couple of used Jiffy Pop pans. Filthy water filled the kitchen sink.

  A large tiger-striped cat sat on the counter, ignoring me and sniffing at two lone Cheerios drying in a bowl. Someone had spilled a sack of cat food, and the contents were scattered across the already well-tracked floor. Bits of squishy kibble had already attached themselves to the bottoms of my sneakers.

  “Nora?”

  The raspy voice behind me sounded like Hannibal Lecter on a killing spree. I gasped and spun around. The mail went flying.

  It was Ralph. He was dressed in sweatpants, scuffed slippers and a T-shirt emblazoned with the logo of a children’s softball league and the word COACH stamped on the chest. His hair stuck out in tufts.

  “Oh, Ralph,” I said on a nervous laugh, “You scared me! I’m sorry. I must have awakened you.”

  “S’okay,” he said with a sleepy smile, running one hand through his mussed hair.

  “I’m so sorry. Really.” I bent down to gather up the mail. “I didn’t realize—I—well, is Libby around?”

  “Libby? No, she isn’t here.” Ralph made an effort to wake up. He helped me gather up the envelopes and put them
on the counter.

  I handed him the last of the mail, and he noted the battlefield newsletter. I thought he blanched before tucking it under the rest of the heap and ambling towards the radio on the kitchen windowsill. He snapped it on. Classical music instantly filled the air, very loud. Over it, he said, “I think she’s—Oh, she’s probably taking the kids to Sunday school.”

  “Oh.” Of course. I should have thought of that.

  “Coffee?”

  While he opened the cupboard, I shifted the canvas bag from one arm to the other. I debated whether or not I should ask Ralph about the folio.

  Ralph rummaged in the cupboard and came out with a can of coffee. “Sorry about the mess,” he said over the music. “We’ve been so busy with the wedding arrangements, plus Harcourt’s got a cold. Nobody’s had time to clean up.”

  The mess didn’t seem to faze easygoing Ralph. I wondered if Libby had become equally accustomed to the war zone created by her family. I asked, “How are the wedding plans going?”

  Ralph managed a rueful smile as he disassembled the coffeemaker. “Sometimes I think the invasion of Normandy must have been easier to organize.” He headed for the sink to rinse out the glass pot. “When Libby and I got married, we went to the magistrate, and it was over in ten minutes. Even my first wedding wasn’t anything like this is going to be.”

  “I’m sure it will be beautiful.” I leaned against the counter, careful to keep my hand off the sticky mess of spilled liquid that had dried there. I raised my voice over the radio noise. “The Treese family loves a good wedding.”

  Ralph sighed. “Yeah, well, they can afford it. I’m taking out a loan just to pay for the rehearsal party.”

  I knew then that I’d awakened Ralph from a very deep sleep indeed. It was unlike him to complain about money matters.

  “How’s Lincoln handling it?” I asked, half tempted to go turn down the blare of music. “Is he ready to kidnap his bride and elope?”

  Ralph began measuring coffee with a spoon and dumping it into the coffeemaker. “I’ve told him he can have cash and a ladder, but he says he’s going through with the wedding.”

  I thought Ralph sounded genuinely unhappy. “A lot of people will be disappointed if he doesn’t. I think half the city is invited. It’s going to be the wedding of the year.”

  “Yeah, thanks to Kitty Keough’s coverage.”

  I didn’t want to talk about Kitty. Casually, I said, “I noticed your name on the guest list for the Pendergast party Friday night.”

  Ralph filled the glass pot with water from the tap. “Yeah, we went. After Libby got finished with her protest thing at the used car lot, we drove over to the party. I’m sorry about that, Nora. Even the kids were embarrassed about the signs and everything.”

  “It’s okay. I know how Libby can get. I didn’t see you at the party.”

  “I’m glad we left before the excitement started. I hear people were kept awfully late while the police talked to everyone. But we wanted to get home to Harcourt.”

  “So you weren’t at the party when Rory was killed.”

  Ralph slid the glass pot into the coffeemaker and flipped a switch. “No, thank heavens. Libby would have been a wreck.”

  “Did you see anyone else leaving when you did?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  I smiled ruefully. “I guess I’m trying to figure out who killed Rory.”

  He smiled, too. “Oh, yeah? Any luck?”

  “Not yet. Can you remember anyone outside the house when you left?”

  Ralph began to go through a cupboard like a bear foraging for honey. “Sure, lots of people. The party had started to fade, so people with dinner plans were taking off. What a terrible tragedy. Rory was a wonderful man. Are you really playing detective?”

  “Not really. I just wish I could do something. For Rory, you see.”

  Ralph came over and put a brotherly arm across my shoulders. “You’re a nice person, Nora. But I’m sure the police will take care of this in no time.”

  “I hope so.” I almost gave Ralph a quick hug. Although Ralph and I rarely exchanged more than pleasantries, his kind words touched me. But I slid out from under his arm, telling myself I wasn’t ready to be demonstrative with any man. “Will you tell Libby I came by? And ask her to call me when she returns?”

  “You don’t want some breakfast?” he asked.

  I suppressed a shudder at the thought of eating anything out of that kitchen, but said a polite no-thanks and good-bye over a blast of Vivaldi.

  Chapter 10

  I should have left the canvas bag and the folio with Ralph, but I absentmindedly carried them back out to my bicycle, deciding to take them home rather than go back into the messy house.

  Back at Blackbird Farm, I hid the folio in my underwear drawer.

  Libby, damn her, did not call me.

  I knew my sister could be stubborn, so on Monday I phoned her first thing. No answer. Kids were in school already, and Ralph at work. I hung up in frustration. Where was she? Sitting there at home and knowing it was me calling and choosing not to answer? I bit back a shriek of sisterly frustration.

  I phoned Stan Rosenstatz next and thanked him for adding my byline to the story about the mayor considering a run for the governorship. The story had run first in the Sunday edition of the Intelligencer, not in our competitor’s paper.

  “You deserve the credit,” Rosenstatz told me. “The guys on the city desk want to buy you a beer. I think you should hold out for a case of champagne.”

  “Tell them I’ll take the beer,” I said with a smile.

  “The competition is playing catch-up in today’s issue. Have you seen it?”

  “Not yet.”

  “They had to scramble on Sunday, but they got the mayor to admit he’s studying campaign strategies for himself and his son. But we broke the story first, thanks to you.”

  “I’m not used to this,” I admitted. “I feel sneaky. I hope I didn’t ruin his political career.”

  Stan laughed. “Somebody once said the only two things that can ruin a politician’s career are a dead girl in his bed or a live boy. He’ll survive this and probably flourish, so don’t worry.”

  I hesitated, then took the plunge. “How did Kitty take it?”

  Rosenstatz sighed, and his enthusiasm died. “Just be glad you weren’t in the office yesterday.”

  “I see.”

  “And don’t be surprised if she shows up at the funeral. She won’t be able to resist going now that there’s a real competition between you.”

  “But there isn’t.”

  “Kiddo,” said Rosenstatz, “you bet there is.”

  I spent the rest of the day sorting through the dozens of invitations the newspaper received for social events. Arranging my calendar had become a job requiring constant vigilance and delicate negotiations. I returned phone calls to hosts and hostesses, sending regrets to some and a promise to bring my notepad to others.

  Periodically, I dialed Libby but did not reach her.

  I spent the following morning searching through my closet for something appropriate to wear to Rory Pendergast’s funeral. I ended up with a charcoal sheath dress under an old black Calvin Klein jacket.

  Emma phoned early and arrived in my kitchen at the appointed hour.

  She wore a sedate gray wool jacket over a pair of black leather pants that managed to look both sexy and suitable for a funeral. I suspected she wasn’t wearing a bra under the jacket. I decided she looked like a dominatrix dressed for church.

  “Have you reached Libby?” I asked, offering her a Diet Coke.

  “Nope, sorry.” She grabbed the can and drank directly from it.

  “When was the last time you actually talked to her?”

  “When she gave me the book bag on Saturday morning.”

  I frowned. “I haven’t been able to reach her.”

  “Maybe she’s planning another protest.” Emma didn’t seem very concerned. She put down the soda can and ji
ggled her keys. “Shouldn’t we be going?”

  “Did you know what was in the bag Libby sent to me?”

  “No. Did you lose it?”

  “Of course not. I just—I’m wondering what she’s up to, that’s all. She asked me to put something back in the Pendergast house, and I don’t know what to do.”

  “Ask her.”

  “I would,” I replied tartly, “except I can’t reach her.”

  “Well, she’ll probably be at the funeral. And we’re going to miss the kickoff if we don’t haul some ass, Sis.”

  I followed Emma outside and got into her pickup truck. We headed down the gravel drive at high speed.

  “Nice byline in the paper,” she said as we hit the road. “I didn’t realize you were moving up in the world so fast.”

  “I’m not,” I told her. “I was in the right place at the right time.”

  “Well, that can’t be bad for your career, can it?”

  “I doubt the mayor will ever speak to me again.”

  “No loss,” said Emma. “He pinched my butt once.”

  Like any self-respecting local girl, Emma took a circuitous route of back roads over the countryside and ended up at the mouth of the expressway just before it funneled into Philadelphia. Once on the four lane, she drove very fast, dodging around lumbering trucks with the agility of a gazelle in a herd of wildebeests. One tractor-trailer dared pull in front of her, and she blew her horn hard and long until he pulled back into his own lane. As we whizzed past the cab, my little sister flipped him off. We arrived at the cathedral in plenty of time.

  Emma left the car in a parking garage a couple of blocks away, and we rode a slow elevator to the street. We walked up past the Four Seasons to the church. A light rain began to fall, so we hustled.

  The cathedral was one of Philadelphia’s most stunning landmarks, and I suspected that Rory Pendergast might have financed some part of its restoration. He had been able to afford being generous with all races and creeds. One stained glass window depicted a voluptuous Eve before the fall, and I smiled, wondering if Rory had paid for that particular window.