Dead Girls Don't Wear Diamonds

by Nancy Martin

  "That was India, Mama."

  "Well, it was very unattractive."

  "Hell's bells, where is everybody? Is Oliver in Washington already? And where's my favorite nephew, Flan? Come out, come out wherever you are!"

  Jack and I watched the mother-daughter reunion until the nurse pushed the wheelchair into the house, leaving us alone on the patio.

  Then Jack said casually, "Looks like Alice has some pretty pricey jewelry on tonight, too."

  I sipped my wine and noted Jack's bland expression. "You're intrigued by the family jewels, I notice. Does that interest come from your fashion-editor sister, too?"

  Our eyes met. He said, "You want to know what my background information said about the Blackbird sisters? That you were the brainy one."

  "I'm stunned that we rated a report. But thank you. Are you putting all your cards on the table now?"

  "That depends on how discreet you can be."

  "If something's off the record, it's off the record."

  He sighed like a man who knew his way around the fourth estate. "Word is, you can be trusted, so here goes. My job is to make sure Oliver passes the congressional hearings with flying colors. So far, we don't foresee any problems."

  "Except?"

  "There's the little matter of Oliver's daughter-in-law."

  "Laura," I said, guessing which of the four Cooper daughters-in-law had the White House concerned.

  "There are rumors," Jack said.

  "A family without rumors is a pretty boring family."

  "This rumor says Laura Cooper is a kleptomaniac," Jack said bluntly. "We hear she steals jewelry."

  I took a deep breath and let it out slowly. This, I realized, was the information Jack Priestly had hoped to charm out of me from the moment he'd sought his introduction. I said, "That's a very ugly rumor."

  "Any truth to it?"

  "Surely you have some kind of federal agency that can find out."

  Jack looked uncomfortable. "If Laura becomes the target of an official investigation, we're obliged to reveal the results."

  "Ooh," I said, "what a tangled web."

  "Right." Jack unconsciously lowered his voice. "Look, I can housebreak Oliver Cooper in a few days. We think he's a clean-cut guy, except for his romantic inclinations, which everyone is willing to overlook. He's the best man for a very tough job. But if there's trouble in this henhouse, you can imagine what the media will do. We don't want to be undermined by family problems."

  "Families can be chaotic. Sometimes you can't control the way people behave."

  Jack shook his head. "Failure is not an option in this case."

  For the first time, I sensed the unyielding soldier behind Jack's gentlemanly facade. "Why would it matter? Oliver can't be held responsible for Laura. Unless—no, it can't be possible. Unless he helped cover up her stealing?"

  Jack did not respond.

  A cabinet post was no place for a man with a tainted background, and paying off his daughter-in-law's crimes was damning indeed. The press would have a field day, and Oliver's moment in the sun would turn very black.

  "So?" Jack asked. "What do you know about Laura?"

  I weighed my options. Of course, I could tell Jack Priestly everything I had heard about Laura Cooper over the years. But Laura had never stolen from me, and I couldn't spread rumors about her, no matter how attractively I was asked.

  And I owed something to Laura Cooper.

  She had always seemed a little desperate to me. Desperate to be accepted by a society that didn't care if she came from a good Charleston family, the famous Hayfoots. Desperate to have a career despite the Cooper family's tradition of putting the wives in charge of philanthropic and entertainment matters. I'd heard she'd gotten a part-time job with a prominent construction company, but her architectural degree had been ignored and she'd been reduced to choosing bathroom fixtures for spec houses.

  She'd chosen the wrong Cooper, too. Flan hadn't quite grown out of his college-boy exploits. The other brothers worked hard for the family business while Flan appeared only for the golf games and Christmas bonuses. Flan was least likely to follow his father's footsteps to glory and the financial stratosphere.

  And Laura avoided me. I sensed that she feared my relationship with her husband. Or maybe she figured I was the only person who knew she'd made a mistake.

  I understood Laura's desperation. I knew how difficult it was for wives to truly see into their husband's hearts.

  So I said to Jack Priestly, "I'm not in the best position to know. Laura and I are not exactly friends. Before she married, her husband and I—"

  "Yes, I know. You and Flan Cooper were college sweethearts. Does Laura hold that against you?"

  "I have no idea," I said calmly. "Our paths rarely cross."

  "Has she ever—?"

  "Has she stolen from me? No. I don't wear jewelry."

  His gaze traveled to my grandmother Blackbird's sapphire ring on my right hand.

  I said, "I don't have any jewelry except this."

  If he knew the whole saga of the Blackbird family and my parents' recent fall from grace, Jack had the good manners not to bring it up while our flirtation was going so swimmingly.

  "I see," he said, studying my face for a moment for signs of weakening. Then he smiled. "Well, this dog has obviously barked up the wrong tree."

  I suddenly wondered if I hadn't convinced him of my discretion at all. Maybe I'd just made myself look secretive instead.

  Chapter 3

  But there was no time to correct the impression I might have communicated to Jack Priestly. At that moment we were interrupted by Flan himself.

  I saw him shouldering his way through the French doors like a rampant bull in Pamplona. He headed in our direction with a grin on his wide and friendly face.

  "Nora! You've been hiding from me!"

  He gathered me up in a hug, clumsily bobbling his drink in the process.

  "Flan," I squeaked.

  "Sorry." He cheerfully released me from his powerful embrace and stepped back from the puddle of bourbon he'd left on the flagstone. He laughed at his own ham-handedness.

  "Flan, have you met—?"

  "Jack!" Flan wobbled on his feet and tried to focus. "They're asking for you at the front door. The governor just arrived, and Dad thinks you ought to be there."

  Jack turned to me. "Duty calls. It's been a pleasure, Miss Blackbird. I hope to see you again later."

  "I'll look for you," I promised.

  He departed and left me with Flan.

  Flanders Cooper, the object of my most passionate twenty-year-old affections, had been a handsome devil with an instinct for finding the best parties. The ringleader when it came to playing prep-school pranks, he'd always conned the right student to crib from and allowed his father to pay when he "borrowed" someone's sports car and inflicted some damage. He'd grown up burly like his father, but not as smart as his mother. Now, in his early thirties, he looked like a well-fed aristocrat. His rosy skin had that steam-bath shine to it, and from the strength in his upper body, I guessed he still rowed, although probably in an expensive health club instead of on the Schuylkill.

  He'd been fun to date. But he'd been lousy as a partner in a real relationship, full of games when substance was in order.

  "Pretty in pink." Flan gave me a once-over that made me feel like filet mignon. "But then, you'd look good in any color. How're you doing, Nora? Where've you been keeping yourself?"

  "I don't know how you can miss me. I go to half a dozen parties every week. And you never miss a party, Flan."

  He laughed and slugged back the remains of his drink, then tossed the ice cubes to the flagstones. He ignored the mess. "Yeah, I heard you were working with Kitty Keough. What's with that?"

  "Some of us have to make a living," I said lightly. "Congratulations are in order for more than just your father, I suppose. Which of you Cooper brothers is taking over as keeper of the family store?"

  He grinned sheepishly. "It w
on't be me, that's for sure. Life's too short to work hard. Live fast, die young and leave a good-lookin' corpse, right?" · It was a thoughtless remark, considering what had happened to my life, but I didn't wince. "How's CanDo Airline?"

  Flan might have been a dilettante from the time he could hold a bottle, but he had his noble side, too. The son of an aircraft mogul, he'd found a way to make use of all the planes that his family collected the way old bicycles gathered in other people's garages. Flan had organized his pilot friends into a cadre of volunteers capable of flying cancer patients to treatment hospitals around the nation. They flew youngsters from small towns and rural communities to the finest urban cancer centers, taking no money for their efforts and allowing Cooper Aviation to buy the fuel and pay expenses.

  Of course, I'd always wondered if the whole idea for CanDo Airlines had been Flan's or that of his mother.

  Flan shrugged off his accomplishment. "It's doing okay. We're busy."

  "Your father spoke about CanDo on television the other day. I saw him on the Today Show."

  "I heard about that," said Flan.

  "He's very proud of you, Flan," I began, but there was no use getting past his determination to make light of his charitable side. So I said, "I'm glad your father is getting this wonderful opportunity."

  "Yeah," Flan joked, "we're just hoping he passes the multiple-choice exam."

  I smiled. "Think he'll get through the confirmation process without throwing one of his famous temper tantrums?"

  "Probably. Hey, I need another drink. C'mon."

  Grabbing my already-sore hand, Flan led me off the patio and into the house. He turned left and pulled me past the kitchen and away from the party. I bumped into a waitress in the shadows, but Flan only laughed and didn't release his grip. I tossed an apology over my shoulder.

  Moments later, he shouldered open a door and flicked on a light. Then I found myself being dragged into an unoccupied powder room.

  "Flan, no. Hold on—"

  "I'm tryin'." He pulled me inside and kicked the door closed behind us.

  In another instant, I was wrestling to get out of his embrace and trying not to breathe the bourbon fumes on his breath. "Flan, stop. I'm not going to do this!"

  He was laughing and only halfheartedly trying to kiss me, but I was still angry, and that penetrated his drunken brain. "What's the matter, Nora? Don't you want to see what it's like on memory lane?"

  "We've both moved to other streets." I backed up against a sink that had been fabricated into the shape of a monstrous blue sea shell. "Now, keep your distance." Less severely, I said, "Think of your wife."

  "You're afraid of little Laura?" He leaned against the door to prevent my escape. "What about your new boyfriend? I hear he's the biggest badass in town."

  "I don't have a boyfriend," I said.

  "That's not what everybody's saying."

  "Flan, let's go back to the party. I truly don't want anyone to get the wrong idea."

  He blocked me again, standing very close. "Stop worrying. Laura doesn't care what I do."

  "I'm sure that's not true."

  He glanced away. This was a Flan I knew, too. Mercurial with caring qualities tamped down under the frat-boy persona. I realized he was truly upset about his wife.

  "What's going on?" I asked. "You and Laura having a bad time?"

  He didn't answer, but looked back at me, measuringly. "You ever think about us?" He tried to summon a smile. "About what might have happened if the good times kept rolling?"

  "Are you okay?" I asked. I reached out and put my hand on his forearm. "Forget this pickup patter for a minute. It's me you're talking to."

  He passed one hand down his face as if to wipe away the things he might be revealing there. "It's nothing," he said. "Just weird stuff that's been happening. Hell, sometimes I want to punch her lights out."

  "What's going on, Flan?"

  "Let's just say my marriage probably won't last the weekend."

  The news surprised me. "I'm so sorry."

  "You know, we're living in this house while we have some work done on ours. New wing, bigger kitchen. It's a mess. We're supposed to be sharing a suite here. But Laura moved out on me. Took all her junk across the hall, paraded everything past my father. You know how that makes me look?"

  "It takes work to fix a marriage," I began.

  "Oh, we've done plenty of work. You want to guess how many therapists I've paid? The woman is nuts."

  "You don't really believe that."

  "Oh, yes, I do."

  I took a shot and said, "You must still love her."

  He glared up at the ceiling and admitted, "I used to. But I don't even know who the hell she is anymore."

  "I wish I could help, Flan."

  He shook his head. Then he seemed to brush off the whole subject the way a big dog shook off pond water. He looked at me and pasted his bleary grin back in place. "I thought I'd cuddle up with the real thing for once, that's all. You gonna let me kiss you, or not?"

  "Not," I said just as lightly, wishing I could be helpful to my friend. Obviously, though, he was determined to play the role of the party boy, and I wasn't going to get through to him. I'd call him later in the week, perhaps. I said, "Now, let me out of here."

  He bowed and obeyed, opening the door with a flourish.

  And revealing us both to Laura Cooper, who stood in the passageway.

  It was bad enough to be surprised by his wife.

  But there was something drastically different about Laura Cooper. Something everyone in the world must have seen but me until that very moment.

  I stared at her.

  She'd done something to herself. She looked . . . different.

  Her hair was cut to shoulder length and layered away from her face, the way I wore mine. And she'd colored it. Auburn—exactly my shade. She balanced on a pair of very high heels to stand to nearly my height. Her suit was pink—my color. All the details came together before me like a computerized picture morphing into a portrait ... of myself.

  Laura Cooper had turned herself into a copy of me.

  "Laura," I said.

  Her expression twisted with rage, and then she threw her drink in my face.

  "Screw you," she snapped in her tiny Carolina-accented voice. "Or did he do that already?"

  "Oh, hell," said Flan. "Don't make a scene over nothing, you bitch. Not tonight."

  She spun around and catapulted down the passageway.

  "Laura!" Flan shouted. But he didn't move to go after her. All we saw was her auburn hair swinging as she stormed away.

  "This is ridiculous," I said, dashing the wine from my face and taking off in her direction.

  Laura was as quick as a deer. She headed straight back to the party, elbowed her way through startled guests and headed up the curving staircase as if shot from a circus cannon. She took the steps two at a time, drawing attention from the people gathered below. I didn't have a choice but to match her speed, and I knew heads turned to watch as I followed Flan's wife up the stairs.

  "Laura," I said when I reached the landing. "Wait, please."

  "Shove it," she snapped over her shoulder, clear enough to be heard below. "You're the one he's always wanted. Well, you can have him!"

  I made it up the last run of stairs and nearly caught up with her in the hallway. But she thrust open a bedroom door and disappeared. I managed to reach the doorway in time to prevent the door from slamming in my face.

  "Get out," she said, spinning away from me into the room. "I don't speak to my husband's girlfriends."

  "I'm not anything to your husband, Laura," I said to her stiff back. "We were friends ten years ago. That's it."

  "I'm not an idiot!"

  "Of course you're not. That's why I came up here to explain."

  She faced me, her absurdly made-up features pained beneath the cosmetics she'd used to make herself look like someone she wasn't. Her blue eyes overflowed with tears of anger and sorrow. With less fury than before, she
said with a much more ladylike Southern drawl, "I don't want to hear any lies."

  "I'm not lying. I want you to know the truth. It was stupid for us to go into the bathroom like that. I didn't mean to embarrass you."

  The fire went out of her, and her lower lip began to tremble.

  I said, "I'm very sorry."

  She bit her lip and hooked the loose strands of her dyed hair behind her ears in a gesture I suddenly wondered if she'd copied from me.

  "I hope you can forgive Flan," I said. "He wasn't thinking straight. I should have done the thinking for both of us."

  She blinked her huge eyes at me. She had the voice of a little girl under the best of circumstances, but just then she sounded like an eight-year-old. "He's a lousy excuse for a husband."

  I decided there was no tactful response to that remark and kept quiet.

  Laura went to the bed and sat down. With her head bent, she began to cry with a kittenish noise and no tears.

  I glanced around the bedroom. A large, cheap vase of long-stemmed roses stood in the middle of the dresser, surrounded by the usual detritus of a cluttered female life—rolled-up pantyhose, makeup, handbags. Every inch of floor space around the furniture was packed with boxes, clothing and books. Mostly self-help books, I guessed, noticing the pile on the desk. She had set up a drafting table in one corner, and I could see architectural drawings under a T square. It looked like Flan was right. She'd moved all of her possessions into a room for herself alone.

  Laura continued to weep. Either she knew how to play a role, or she was in genuine pain. I took a deep breath, then went to the bed and sat down beside her. Awkwardly, I patted her hand.

  My touch drew her sleeve back slightly. I couldn't help noticing a huge purple bruise on her wrist. I found myself staring. The imprint of someone's fingers were clearly visible on her slim wrist. I knew Flan could get out of control and throw his weight around, but this bruise was more than accidental. I looked more closely at Laura and realized the thick makeup had been applied to conceal a blue bruise beneath her right eye. Had Flan done this? I felt a wave of revulsion.