by Nancy Martin
“Thanks,” I said, relieved. “Come about eight o’clock.”
“Great! Can I bring my brother and his wife? They want to thank you for writing the letter that got their daughter into Barnard.”
I withheld a sigh. “Bring them.”
When I hung up and leaned back shakily into the sofa, Michael came over and sat on the coffee table. He handed me the ice pack.
I touched it to my cheek and met his gaze. “The police think you slugged me.”
“I know.” He said, “It’s going to get worse.”
“How’s that?”
“Chances are,” he said calmly, “the cops are going to take me in.”
“For hitting me?” I dropped the ice.
“No.”
“Not for Kitty’s death!”
He picked up the ice pack again and held it gently to my face. “When somebody steals a candy bar, the cops assume it’s me. It’s not an arrest, just questions. There’s nothing to worry about. I’ve already called Cannoli and Sons.”
His lawyers, whom he frequently took on his famous fishing trips and paid enormous sums of money, were known lovers of pastry from a bakery in Newark, and Michael had fondly bestowed them with a nickname.
He said, “There’s this other thing.”
I didn’t like the sound of that. “Oh?”
“The way she was tied up.”
“With her panty hose. Libby told me.”
“A few years back, there was another killing,” Michael said slowly. “A baseball fan owed some significant play-off money. He didn’t pay and got himself whacked for it. His body floated up in a toxic retaining pond in Jersey.”
Trying to keep my courage up, I asked, “Is there any other kind of retaining pond in Jersey?”
“He’d been tied with panty hose.”
I started to sense that huge tidal wave of disaster building over my head. “What does this have to do with Kitty?”
“The killer turned out to be a relative of mine.”
I looked into his face and tried to find some emotion. “How can you be so calm about this?”
“It’s the usual drill.” He shrugged. “I’ll go with them and let my lawyers answer their questions.”
“You have no reason to murder Kitty.”
“These particular officers don’t seem to care about that. I’ll be back in time for dinner, I promise. I’ll take you out, someplace nice.”
“No, Michael—”
“Okay, we’ll stay in and cook.” He smiled, but it didn’t last. He kissed the top of my head. “This is what it’s like, being with me.”
The police asked us a lot more questions, but they could not look beyond the man in my house. Motive and opportunity didn’t matter. Michael’s connection to organized crime always set off more alarms than a gun-wielding maniac in a convenience store.
An hour later, as the police folded him into the back of a cruiser, Libby said, “Even I can see how unfair this is.”
On the back porch, the worker bees of the crime scene team were busy with cameras and little plastic bags and lots of Styrofoam cups of coffee from Wawa. They still hadn’t covered Kitty up. Her hair shivered in the winter wind. I could see she needed a pedicure, too. I turned away from the window.
Libby helped herself to a bagel and slathered it with cream cheese. “But the Incredible Hulk didn’t seem too upset about it. His arrest, I mean.”
“It’s not an arrest. And he’s not a hulk.”
“Well, for all his shady dealings, I can’t really see him bumping off Kitty. And leaving her body practically on his own doorstep wasn’t exactly the move of a master criminal. I talked to that handsome guy outside, the one with the blue jacket?”
I glanced out the window. They were all wearing blue jackets. “Are you trying to get a date with a crime scene investigator?”
My sister’s Cheshire-cat smile appeared. “He might be interested in the Potions and Passions catalog. Maybe law enforcement people should be my target customer. Carrying guns is surely a sign of inadequacy elsewhere, right?”
“I’ve always thought so.”
“Anyway, he told me that Kitty probably died between seven and nine last night, depending on how long she was out in the cold.”
“She died during the fashion show,” I said.
With a mouthful of bagel, Libby nodded. “That’s useful information, right?”
“It only means whoever killed her didn’t attend the show.”
The phone rang again, and Libby went to answer it.
I took Michael’s oatmeal back to the pantry, unopened. The thought that he hadn’t had any breakfast suddenly brought a stupid lump to my throat. The police had no evidence against him except that he’d been conveniently on the premises when they arrived and a silly coincidence with panty hose. And now, while they wasted precious hours interrogating him, the real killer could be off enjoying brunch at a picturesque country inn while Michael went hungry. I blinked back tears.
Libby hung up and appeared at the pantry door. “The newspapers have heard about Kitty’s death. I guess it’s true reporters listen to police scanners.”
I leaned against the cupboard. “I can’t stand it, Libby. It’s happening again.”
Libby came over and put her arm around me. Between the two of us, we had coped with a lot of death and loss over the past few years, and we didn’t need words to communicate how we felt anymore. But she said, “Let’s go to my place, Nora. Tons of people will be tracking you down for quotes and interviews.”
“Any reporter worth his salt will find me at your house. Besides, I don’t want to hide.”
Her face clouded. “Nora, honey—”
The phone rang again. Libby winced.
“Go ahead and answer,” I said. “I’ll be okay.”
She went out and picked up the telephone while I tried to steel myself for what was surely to come. A moment later Libby returned, clutching the receiver to her bosom. “It’s your editor. Stan Rosenstatz.”
I took the phone. “Stan?”
My editor at the Intelligencer managed the ragtag misfits of the Features department—me among them—with the air of a man who calculated his pension twice a day and hoped none of us would screw it up for him. But once in a while, like an old hunting dog seeing the shotguns come out, he woke up eager for the chase.
“Nora, we just heard the news about Kitty. We’re all in shock.”
“So am I, Stan.”
“Was she . . . Do you think she suffered?”
“No, I don’t.” I spent a quick moment pondering my predicament. Stan definitely was an old bird dog of a newspaperman who knew how to follow the scent of a story. “Listen, I’m not ready to talk to the press yet, okay? I . . . It’s too soon, and the police are still here.”
“I understand.” He hesitated between human kindness and his journalist’s instincts. “But our crime desk guys are hoping to get the first break on this story. I’m sorry to do this to you, Nora. Can you just confirm if the Abruzzo guy was arrested?”
I caught my breath. Already the story was breaking. And the news desk was using Stan to get to me.
I said, “I can’t talk right now, Stan.”
“Okay, okay, I get it. But you’ll be available later, right? For one thing, I could use your advice about covering Kitty’s stories. Can you take over?”
“You mean, take her job?”
“No, sorry, it’s too soon to talk about replacing Kitty.”
And they’d probably prefer to hire someone with experience or a degree in journalism or at the very least someone who knew how to run spell check.
“But,” Stan continued, “she’s got events on her calendar that need to be covered. We’ve got a photographer scheduled to follow her around today, in fact. Some fashion thing is happening at the train station, and we’ve saved a lot of inches for it.”
“At the train station?”
“It’s a traveling fashion show, I guess. Some guy taking a b
unch of people to New York. Kitty thought it was a big deal.”
Brinker Holt, I thought at once. He was going to New York with the Brinker Bra.
“What time has Kitty noted for today?”
“Two o’clock.”
To take pictures of Brinker waving farewell from the station was another brilliant idea of Kitty’s—the local boy setting off for fame and fortune in the big city. No doubt he’d have half-naked girls in bras ready to pose for pictures. I had to give her credit: Kitty knew what readers would want to see in the paper.
But another thought occurred to me. “Stan, what appointments had Kitty marked down for yesterday?”
A short silence while Stan checked. “Just one name,” he said a moment later. “Brinker Lamb.”
“That’s two names.”
“It is?”
Was something going on between Brinker Holt and Lamb Limited as Lexie had guessed? Kitty must have picked up on that possibility. Immediately, I wondered what in the world her business had been with Brinker.
“Stan,” I said, galvanized by the information, “I’ll go to the train station for Kitty.”
“That’s great. You’ll e-mail me later?”
The world was going to think the worst of Michael, but I didn’t have to contribute to his looking guilty. If I went out in public as if nothing were wrong, surely it would help his cause. And I had a feeling I could learn more about Kitty’s death by following her footsteps.
“You’re sure I look all right?” Libby asked half an hour later. “I’m hardly dressed for another fashion show.”
“It’s not a show. It’s a bon-voyage party.”
We’d managed to get Libby’s hair blown out and we applied makeup from my vanity drawers, but it wouldn’t matter. Nobody was going to look higher than the jiggle in her red sweater.
“You look fabulous,” I said. “Wearing that bra, you’re going to blind anyone who looks at you.”
Libby gave herself a bodily shake and unlocked the minivan door. “It’s getting a little snug. I wish I knew how to get it off.”
“There must be a trick to it.”
The crime scene guys turned to admire her as she got into the driver’s seat. Libby gave them all a beguiling smile and fingertip wave. At least two of them waved back.
As she drove out my driveway, we saw that more state troopers had blocked the entrance to Mick’s Muscle Cars with their cruisers. The cops were methodically searching the automobiles on display, working to build a case against Michael.
Spike crouched on my lap as we drove to Philadelphia. Periodically he hurled himself at the window to threaten all the buses and trucks that passed us. He seemed to have a particular grudge against white Escalades.
Libby careened into town and crossed over the Market Street Bridge and Schuylkill River to the Amtrak station. She parked, and I put Spike into the oversize Balenciaga handbag I used to carry him around. Settling into the soft leather, he seemed content to sleep off his busy morning.
In a freezing wind, we dashed into the palatial 30th Street Station, made familiar to the average American in the movie Witness. When years of grime were washed away to reveal its gilt ceilings and magnificent sculptures, the beautiful neoclassical design surprised us all. It was a beautiful place and a photogenic backdrop for a fashion event.
Music for the farewell party drew Libby and me across the cavernous grand concourse toward a milling crowd. People bounced to the beat and waved signs. It looked like a political campaign rally, only with fewer clothes.
On the outskirts of the party loitered a woman dressed head to toe in a silk sari and holding a clipboard.
Libby recognized her first. “That’s Sabria Chatterjee,” she said to me. “What in the world is she doing here? Sabria!”
Sabria spotted us and immediately looked as if she wished she could teleport herself to the Khyber Pass.
“Sabria,” I said, putting out my hand to her. “How nice to see you.”
“Hello, Nora. Hi, Libby.” She shook my hand with the firm grip of a woman who felt she had a lot to prove.
When I had last seen Sabria, she was an ambitious executive who wore stark business suits and pinned her hair back in a bun to avoid looking anything but seriously career-minded. Now it appeared she had gone to another extreme by embracing her heritage. Her soft figure was swathed in a shimmery silk sari the color of hot curry. Rings glittered on her fingers, and bracelets jangled on her wrists. Even her toes winked with tiny jewels. Put her on an elephant, and she could make a passage to India.
I remembered Sabria as one of Emma’s Bryn Mawr friends. The daughter of immigrants, she had resisted the culture of her parents. Now she seemed to have immersed herself in it. Her lustrous hair gleamed, and she had applied a thick ring of kohl around her velvety dark eyes that still flashed with determination to break through the glass ceiling. She had a death grip on her clipboard, and with her other hand she repeatedly clicked a ballpoint pen.
Libby said, “You look lovely!”
“Thank you,” Sabria said briskly. “We’re currently enjoying an uptick in Indian cultural awareness. It’s not often the general demographic shows an interest, so I figured I’d ride the wave. It worked. Clientec Advertising hired me for their New York office. Look, I even pierced my nose.”
Sure enough, a tasteful diamond winked alongside her left nostril.
“That’s great,” said Libby. “How is your sex life?”
Sabria blinked, unable to translate Libby’s question into corporate-speak, so I said quickly, “I’ve heard of Clientec. Congratulations. Didn’t you do the Super Bowl ads for a soft drink last year? The one with that teenage singer?”
“Our clients included a soft drink–based conglomerate last year, yes.”
“Looks as if you’re on the job right now,” I observed, glancing at her clipboard.
“I’m seeking ideas,” Sabria said, all business. “Creative input from popular culture, you know.” She used her pen to make a quick sketch in the margin of the paper. I noticed it was the only drawing on the page.
“The Brinker Bra is certainly the most creative thing I’ve seen in a long time,” I said. “Is Clientec doing the ad campaign?”
“No, no.” Sabria whipped her clipboard behind her back as if we might forget about it. “Not yet anyway. We hope Brinker will bring us on board, but nothing’s been inked yet. I’m just looking around. Absorbing. Brinker is a very creative person who provides results for the consumer.”
“I’ll say!” Libby pointed at her own breasts. “I haven’t looked this good since I stopped using the Bust Booster!”
Again, Sabria looked at a loss for a response.
“I don’t mean to brag,” Libby went on, “but I fill out a bra better than most women. Trouble is, this one doesn’t want to let go. Do you know if there’s some special technique for releasing it?”
“Uh, no, I don’t. I have nothing to do with the Brinker Bra. Nothing at all.”
While the two of them struggled to communicate like aliens from different planets, I glanced around to see who else had come to send Brinker off to New York and stardom in the fashion world. No doubt Kitty would have noted all the movers and shakers to list in her column. I looked for someone Kitty would have found worthy of mention.
But the first people I spotted were the twin models from the fashion show. Today they were dressed in pink jeans that laced up the sides, sandals better suited for a Miami disco than a Philadelphia winter, and Brinker Bras embedded with sequins. Their too-shiny hair extensions caressed their tanned, naked shoulders and bare backs. It was hard to ignore their breasts, though. The twins looked as pleased with themselves as if they were the inventors of mammary glands.
They must have been on the lookout for Sabria, because they scampered over as soon as they recognized her.
“Sabria! We’ve been looking all over for you!”
Sabria’s face slackened as the twins approached. “Hi,” she said weakly. “Uh, Li
bby, Nora, these are the Finehart twins, Fawn and Fontayne.”
“We’re models?” said Fawn, ending her sentence with a question mark.
“We’re hoping to become the spokesgirls for the Brinker Bra,” Fontayne added cheerfully, flipping her perfect plastic hair over her shoulder to better display her bra. “Get it? Twins for your twins.”
“We thought that up ourselves? How’s it coming, Sabria? Do you think we have a chance?”
“I have nothing to do with that,” Sabria said quickly. “It would be totally the decision of the advertising firm Brinker hires. Which he hasn’t done yet, of course, since it would be ethically wrong to choose one advertising firm before the others had a chance to submit their bids.”
“Brinker seems to be avoiding us.”
“We thought you could help?”
“I—Excuse me,” Sabria said suddenly. “But I have to . . . I must make a phone call.”
Sabria departed so abruptly that Libby and I were left staring at the twins, who looked disappointed by Sabria’s swift exit. They actually pouted. But their breasts remained perky.
Fontayne rallied first with a smile that had more white teeth than should fit into the mouth of a normal human being. “So,” she asked brightly, “are you friends of Brinker?”
Sensing a request for career help, I said, “Not exactly, no.”
“We’re here for the newspaper,” Libby volunteered. “You know, the Philadelphia Intelligencer.”
“Would you like to take our pictures? We’re here to facilitate the media’s understanding of the Brinker Bra.” Fontayne flipped her hair extensions again, but managed to catch her bracelet in the flaxen strands. She yanked, but the hair only wrapped tighter. She tried using her other hand to disengage the tangle, but more hair got snagged in her rings. In seconds, Fontayne was wrapped up in her own hair and panicking.
Her sister helped untangle Fontayne’s hair. “Maybe if we get our pictures in enough newspapers, Brinker will forget about that other girl?”
“What other girl?” Libby asked.
Fawn rolled her eyes. “The one everybody’s talking about? I mean, she’s gorgeous and all, but come on? She’s not really trained? She can’t walk? Which is why they put her on the horse?”