by Nancy Martin
“Hey,” he said, slamming the car door behind me as I stepped out. He ignored Reed. “I’m glad you could come early.” He took my elbow and hustled me onto the sidewalk.
I glanced back at Reed and waved before asking Bloom, “Do you have some news about Libby?”
“I’m sorry, no. We talked to Ralph Kintswell, but he still claims his wife is in New York and will come tonight.”
“I hope so,” I said.
“Me, too. Let’s go into the park to talk, okay?”
Other cars were soon to arrive, so he ushered me around the side of Shively House along a brick sidewalk that was shielded from the street by a tightly grown privet hedge, about knee high. Alongside the house, a precise, geometric knot garden had been planted with herbs, pansies and tiny white alyssum. We entered the space through a break in the hedge. I could see the trucks from Main Events parked behind the garden, and waiters moved between the trucks and the back door of Shively House.
Bloom headed for a stone bench in the center of the formal garden.
I said, “Have you learned anything at all?”
He shoved the crumpled paper napkin into the pocket of his raincoat and sat down. I realized how exhausted he looked. Like a boy who’d stayed up too late, he had blue circles under his eyes. I’d been angry with him for not finding Libby for me, but now I could see he’d been plenty busy looking for Rory’s killer.
My heart softened. But I did not sit on the stone bench. I might have been upset, but I wasn’t crazy enough to sit on outdoor furniture in my grandmother’s Saint Laurent. “You’ve been working hard.”
He nodded. “Maybe so, but not hard enough. Listen, the investigation’s gone in a direction I don’t like. But my own leads haven’t panned out. There’s a lot of pressure from upstairs for an arrest.”
“You think the wrong person will be arrested?”
He looked up at me. “It’s very possible.”
“Who?”
“Mrs. Treese.”
“But that’s ridiculous!”
“Maybe to you, but she’s the best we’ve got. At least we’re holding off until this wedding is over tomorrow.” He ran one hand through his hair. “If we’re wrong and arrest the woman on the day of her granddaughter’s wedding, the department will never live it down.”
I saw his point. No amount of spin could undo the damage of a weeping grandmother hauled off to jail on the evening news.
“There’s just not enough physical evidence,” he went on, “tying her to the murder. We know she spent time in Pendergast’s study, but there’s no sign of her in the bedroom.”
“No DNA?”
Bloom shook his head. “Nothing. Which is weird in itself.”
“What do you mean?”
“Pendergast is covered in stuff because he shook hands with nearly a hundred people that night. But the pillow is clean. Nothing but his own and the housekeeper’s. She made the bed.”
“What do you want from me?”
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I shouldn’t be asking you. My ass is in a sling already, but I need somebody’s slant on this. Somebody who knows these people better than I do.”
We heard a shout from the back door of the house—a waiter calling to someone in one of the Main Events trucks.
I said, “What do you need to know?”
“If she and Pendergast were lovers, how come we can’t find even so much as a hair of hers in that bedroom?”
“They were together,” I said, “but that doesn’t necessarily mean they were physically intimate.”
“Get this,” he said. “We found out that the prescription for Viagra was Harold Tackett’s. Does that make sense to you?”
“It does. The thing is—”
Another shout from the caterers. This time we both looked up.
One of the waiters ran from the house to the truck. A chef came hastily out of the kitchen next, and two more young women followed him at a trot. I saw Jill Mascione come outside, too.
I called to her and waved.
She saw me and headed into the garden, jumping over the pansies instead of taking the brick pathway. She shouted, “We’re evacuating! Everybody’s supposed to get out of the building.”
“What’s wrong?” Bloom was on his feet.
Jill shook her head and looked back at the house. “I don’t know. Somebody said it was a bomb threat.”
“A bomb!” Involuntarily, I caught Jill’s arm. “Good Lord, here? At Shively House?”
“I know,” she said. “But it sounds serious.”
Bloom took off at a run.
“I can’t believe it,” said Jill. “This has never happened to us before. What bastard would do this? It’s so sick! For a wedding rehearsal, for godsake!”
She didn’t look frightened. Angry was more like it. She said, “If Ralph thinks he’s going to get out of paying this tab, he’d better think again. We bought all this food!”
I looked toward the street, hoping Reed had stayed behind.
At that moment, I saw Libby’s minivan pull up to the curb.
“Libby!”
I forgot about Jill and ran across the brick sidewalk and through the privet hedge. By the time I reached the street, the minivan doors were open and the kids spilled out into the evening sunlight. I caught Lucy’s hand.
“Aunt Nora!”
“Lucy, is your mom here?” I peered into the van.
But it was Libby’s son Rawlins behind the wheel.
“No,” said Lucy. “But she’s coming back soon.”
“How do you know, sweetheart? Did you talk to her?” I knelt down to be closer to Lucy. “Did she telephone?”
“Nope,” said Lucy. The child’s hair was wild, barely combed, but her face was clean and her smile bright. “But Uncle Ralph said she’d come soon. Do you like my dress? It’s very itchy.”
“I’m sorry it’s itchy, Luce, but it’s very pretty. Don’t go inside just yet, okay? Rawlins, don’t park the van yet. Just wait.”
The Philadelphia police arrived, and quickly cordoned off the block. I crossed the street and stayed with the children. After fifteen minutes, a police officer came out and told us the dinner would have to be postponed.
As we watched, another car drew up and parked behind the police. A white Mercedes. I saw the license plate. MEOW.
What the hell was Kitty doing here? She got out of the car with a notebook in hand, an incongruous figure among the swarming police. Her suit was fuchsia, her high heels electric blue. I saw her sweep her lacquered hair back from her determined face.
Lucy pointed. “Who’s that, Aunt Nora?”
“A lady I know, sweetheart. She’s a reporter.”
“She has a lot of colors.”
Kitty saw me, but immediately pretended she hadn’t. She set off walking unsteadily towards the police line.
With Lucy’s hand grasped firmly in my own, I headed straight after her. We caught up with Kitty within twenty yards.
I said, “You’re too late for the party, Kitty. Or too early for the bomb.”
Kitty spun around and wobbled on her too-high shoes. “What are you talking about?”
I held my ground. “I thought you weren’t invited to the party.”
“I wasn’t,” she snapped. “But we heard something on the police scanner. I just happened to be available to cover whatever’s going on here.”
“This is hardly your beat.”
“I’m a journalist,” she said harshly. “I can cover any story if I have to.”
She swept off, looking more ridiculous when her heel caught on the pavement and sent her stumbling. But she pulled herself together and kept going. I watched, wondering if she was determined or desperate. For one crazy moment I wondered if Kitty had phoned in a bomb threat just to get a story. Was she planning a new era in her newspaper career?
Lucy tugged my hand. “Is that lady your friend, Aunt Nora?”
“No, Lucy. She’s not my friend.”
When a K-9
car arrived with the bomb-sniffing dog, Detective Bloom came out and told me to take the kids away.
“They have to shut this place down for the night,” he said. “The party’s cancelled.”
I treated the kids to McDonald’s and tried not to think about my sisters.
Chapter 20
The bomb-sniffing dogs were the first thing I saw again when I arrived at Peach Treese’s Main Line home on Saturday morning for the wedding.
“They’ve thoroughly searched the house,” Peach told me herself, amazingly composed, but distracted as she greeted guests in the gazebo at the top of her garden. “And they looked all over the tent and the garden. The police assure me there are no bombs. Can you believe what happened last night? What times we live in!”
“It still seems unreal,” I said. “Is Pamela upset?”
“No, actually. She says she didn’t feel like eating, so maybe things worked out for the best.”
We were standing at the corner of her house, looking down on the peach orchard. An enormous white tent had been erected for the day in front of the rose arbor. The tent seemed unnecessary, however, because the sunshine was brilliant and the cloudless sky was perfect. Other guests had begun to arrive, and they filtered down across the lawn in beautifully dressed groups of two and three.
Ushers in dove-gray tails passed a silver flask. A slight breeze wafted through the flowers. I could hear the string quartet tuning up among the roses. The violinist played a few droll bars of “Jailhouse Rock.”
I said, “It’s an ideal day for a wedding. Let’s enjoy it.”
“Nora, you’re such a tower of strength.” Peach hugged me again. “I do appreciate the note you sent about Rory. And with your own troubles. Everyone is whispering. Has Libby truly run away from Ralph?”
“We’re still trying to sort that out. I hope she’ll come today and put our minds at ease.”
“Oh, yes, I hope so, too. But men can be such animals, can’t they? Even dear Rory. I suppose underneath it all, Ralph could be a rat, too.”
“Peach,” I said, “about Rory.”
She looked at me from beneath the brim of her hat. Like me, she had chosen to wear black despite the early hour of the wedding, to recognize Rory’s passing. I had revived my grandmother’s favorite Mainboucher for the wedding. Peach had brightened her trim suit with a spray of peach-colored roses and the matching picture hat, along with pearls, white gloves and a brave smile. “Yes?”
I took a breath. “I know about the Viagra.”
She colored at once and raised her fingertips to her mouth. “Oh, dear.”
I decided to put away Emily Post and try the Abruzzo-approved technique of asking the tough questions. “I can’t imagine Rory intended to use the Viagra with Eloise Tackett. It doesn’t make sense, Peach. She’s over the moon for her husband, and Rory was obviously devoted you. They never had a real affair, did they? She only wanted pieces of his art collection for Harold and was willing to try anything to tip the scales for Harold. But I need to know. Did Rory ever—did the two of you—?”
Peach’s expression crumpled and she groped in her pocket for a handkerchief. “I was afraid of this. Oh, Nora.”
“Peach, this is important.” I slipped my arm around her to guide her behind a Japanese maple tree for some privacy. “I know it’s very personal, but believe it or not, it may answer a great many questions. Did you and Rory use Viagra?”
“Of course not!” she burst out, then quickly lowered her voice. “Rory couldn’t.”
“He couldn’t take the drug?”
“No, he’d never been able to”—her color turned even brighter—“to perform.”
“Never?”
“He was more interested in the pictures than the actual activity.”
“The two of you never . . . ?”
She shook her head. “Oh, heavens, no. When Viagra first came on the market, he said he might try it, but then his heart attack came along and the doctor said he shouldn’t.”
“But—”
“And what did it matter? I certainly didn’t care!” Peach cried into her handkerchief, managing to add, “Sex was never what our friendship was about.”
“I’m sorry you’re so distressed, but—”
“I don’t know why the old fool thought he should try it now, after all these years. What was he thinking?” She noticed her makeup had smudged on her white gloves and began to tear them off her hands.
“He probably wanted to make you happy.”
“Oh, hogwash!” she cried, ripping one glove as she yanked. “Men are all the same! He was just trying to be a randy goat! I am so furious with him!”
“That will pass,” I murmured. “It’s a stage, Peach. Soon you’ll—”
She threw her torn glove to the ground. “Bullshit.”
And she stalked towards the house to freshen up before the wedding began.
I looked after her. Automatically, I bent and picked up her glove. Then I stared at it.
And the goldfish in my head suddenly made a perfectly clear pattern.
Main Events had parked their trucks behind Peach’s house, strategically near the tent. I found Jill Mascione behind one of the trucks, chilling bottles of champagne in ice-filled barrels. She was elbow deep in ice water, but her face was hot.
Ralph Kintswell, dressed in his Civil War uniform, stood arguing with her on the opposite side of the barrels. His scabbard gleamed in the sunlight. In his right hand, he held his uniform gloves, jerking them with annoyance. “I don’t see why,” he was saying. “The party was canceled.”
“Don’t be a moron, Ralph. You owe us for the food that went to waste. We can use the wine, and we won’t have to pay the employees for all the hours we scheduled, but you’re definitely going to owe us some bucks. You didn’t buy the insurance, remember?”
“How am I supposed to remember a tiny insurance clause? I didn’t see it on the contract!”
“You scratched it out!” Jill snapped. “Of course you saw it! Oh, why I am bothering? You don’t pay us, you’ll hear from our lawyers!”
And she walked away.
Ralph turned and saw me. His hands went still. “Nora.”
“Ralph,” I said, “let’s talk.”
He backed up a step. “The wedding is starting in a few minutes. They’ll need me.”
“This won’t take long. I want to know what you’ve done with Libby.”
“Done with her?” He manufactured a laugh. “She’s the one who left.”
“Stop it, Ralph.” I put Peach’s white glove down on the caterer’s table. “You saw the folio when Libby worked on it. And when Jonathan Longnecker offered the finder’s fee, you thought it was easy money.”
Ralph’s face had turned magenta. His voice went hoarse. “How do you know?”
“Trouble was, Libby wanted to return the folio to Rory,” I went on. “Didn’t she? And you overheard Eloise Tackett trying to convince Rory to sell the folio to her husband, and you thought your chance was slipping away. So you put on your gloves and you smothered Rory with the pillow while the folio was still in Libby’s possession. It had to be you. Nobody would wear gloves to a cocktail party except you. You thought it would be easy to sell the folio to the highest bidder once he was dead. Only Libby wouldn’t give it to you.”
For an instant I thought Ralph might have a stroke. He grabbed the hilt of his sword as if it could sustain his balance.
I said, “Libby wouldn’t tell you where the folio was, so you took her away or hid her somewhere until she told you where it was. And you broke into my house to look for it. Tell me she’s alive, Ralph. Is she all right?”
I felt the black wave of faintness start to undulate around my knees, but I fought it down. Surely Libby wasn’t murdered. Ralph had smothered Rory, but he couldn’t have killed his own wife.
Ralph pulled out his sword. Sounding resigned, he said, “You Blackbird sisters are gonna kill me yet.”
He lunged and grabbed my arm. The sword
blade flashed up against my face. I was so startled by mild-mannered Ralph’s sudden metamorphosis that I floundered to stay on my feet.
“Ralph!”
The only thing I could seize upon was a bottle of champagne. It came out of the ice water with a whoosh, and Ralph staggered back to avoid the splash. In another moment, he was dragging me away from the tent, away from the wedding guests.
“Ralph, stop,” I choked. “You’ve done too much already.”
“First Libby, then that bitch Emma,” he gasped, hauling me into the peach orchard where we’d be hidden from view. “She was strong! I had to break Emma’s arm. Now you, and today of all days!”
“Ralph, think!”
He was very heavy and surprisingly strong. He wrestled me the length of the orchard with my arm twisted up behind me and the sword pressed to my throat. I prayed the weapon was only for show and dull, but a glimpse of my arm showed spatters of blood. I didn’t feel a thing, but the sight of blood on the Mainboucher gave me a spurt of adrenaline. My heels sank into the turf, but I flailed out with the bottle and hit him across one kneecap. He yelped and punched me in the head with the hilt of the sword. I saw stars, and my head rang.
But he wasn’t going to get away with hurting my sisters. I swung the bottle again and it connected with a crack. He hit me harder, and a pain like fireworks went off in my head. I twisted and kicked with everything I had.
At last we reached the end of the orchard. Panting like a steam engine, Ralph shoved me through the hedge. I staggered ahead of him and found myself in Rory Pendergast’s garden near the polo field.
“Why, Ralph?” I whirled around to face him, furious. “Dammit, why did you do it all? Was it money? Just money?”
“Just money!” he laughed, half weeping. “That’s the way you Blackbirds think of it, don’t you? Only money, nothing important. I’ve given to wonderful causes all my life, but finally I have a chance to do something really important—something of historical value.”
“The Shively House?” I guessed.
“Of course not! Only a family like yours would care about a crumbling old pile of bricks! But the hallowed ground of the battlefields! We should long remember the ground where sacred blood was spilled. Where great men, living and dead, consecrated the—the—” He wailed, “I pledged half a million dollars to save a cornfield near Gettysburg so it wouldn’t be turned into a motel!”