Cross Your Heart and Hope to Die

by Nancy Martin

  Lexie called the clerk over and requested three more pairs of shoes. The second clerk ventured his opinion about the pumps Lexie had already tried on, and they chatted about toe boxes while I sat and thought about Kitty. Why had she gone to Tall Trees that night? Had she been working on a story about the Brinker Bra?

  While Lexie tried on more shoes, the chime on the door sounded and the clerk permitted the entry of two more customers. Fawn and Fontayne Finehart teetered into the store on their super-high heels. Fawn had dressed herself in a fake-fur stole and an acid-washed micromini short enough to freeze her assets. Fontayne looked more sensible in a black wool coat and trousers.

  I recognized which twin was Fontayne because she caught her toe on the rug and took a header onto the floor. Her briefcase flew in one direction, her cell phone in another. She let loose a string of curses.

  I helped her up and dusted off her knees.

  “I swear to God,” she snapped, “I’m putting in for a transfer. I can’t wear these stupid shoes another day.”

  Her sister picked up Fontayne’s cell phone and handed it over, looking dismayed. “But Fonnie, how can we be the first twin supermodels if you stop wearing shoes? Don’t you want to be Brinker’s muse? Like Kelly was for Calvin?”

  “Fawn, I’m not going to explain it all again. And shut up about Calvin, will you, please? Who needs a muse to sew clothes? He makes sportswear, for crying out loud.” She accepted her briefcase from me. “Thanks.”

  “Fontayne!” Lexie cried from the rear of the boutique. “Tell me what you think of these sandals!”

  Fontayne plopped into the nearest chair. “Burn ’em.”

  “Nora,” Lexie said, “this is Fontayne Finehart, the SEC investigator I was telling you about. Remember how I said she looked familiar at the fashion show? Well, I almost didn’t recognize her with all that extra hair and gunk on her face, but—”

  “Gunk?” Fawn objected. “This is expensive makeup?”

  “Fawn,” said Fontayne, “go shop for something.”

  Fawn brightened. “Your treat?”

  “Why not.” Fontayne took off one stiletto with a groan of relief. “After this, I’m declaring a fashion fatwa. No more high heels.”

  “Let’s hear it for Dr. Scholl’s,” said Lexie.

  Fontayne glanced my way. “Lexie, I’m supposed to be undercover on this case, you know.”

  “We won’t give you away, sweetie, honest. You’ve met Nora Blackbird, haven’t you? I trust Nora with my life.”

  Rubbing her foot, Fontayne bit back a moan of pain. “Sure. You’re Emma Blackbird’s sister.”

  “Yes. And your interest in Emma is . . . ?”

  “Purely business,” Fontayne said. “I can’t speak for my sister, but all I want to know is what Emma is doing with Monte Bogatz.”

  Emma would be relieved to hear the twins weren’t chasing her for romantic reasons. Not both of them, anyway.

  “Lexie said you were interested in Brinker Holt.”

  “Of course. But Emma was our way to Monte. And Monte to Brinker.”

  “I don’t get it. Emma and Monte are friends,” I said. “Well, maybe more than that at the moment, but—”

  Gently, Lexie said, “Monte is a spokesperson for Big Box stores, Nora, but he was hired through Clientec, the advertising firm. And Clientec’s biggest client is . . . well, am I giving too much away, Fontayne?”

  Fontayne said, “It’s public knowledge that Clientec would be little more than a local ad agency selling spots on cable TV if it weren’t for Lamb Limited. They have other clients, of course, but Lamb is their raison d’être.”

  “You mean,” I said slowly, puzzling it out, “Monte Bogatz works for Lamb Limited?”

  “It’s complicated,” Fontayne agreed. “All three companies are in bed together, and we’re trying to sort it out. We know the rodeo clown is for sale, and Clientec pays him to do a lot of things besides sell baby clothes.”

  “What kind of things?”

  “Snooping,” Lexie guessed. “Better known as industrial espionage.”

  “Right. We think Lamb had Clientec hire him to spy on Brinker Holt,” Fontayne tried to clarify. “We thought your sister might be able to tell us for sure.”

  “The only thing my sister knows about Monte right now,” I said, “is the size of his belt buckle. You’re telling me that Emma’s acquaintance with Monte is not one of those happy rehab coincidences?”

  “Probably not. Somebody set it up.”

  Lexie asked, “How did you get this assignment, Fontayne? I thought you were strictly in mergers.”

  Fontayne took off her other shoe and gingerly wiggled all toes to make sure they still functioned. “When the call went out for lingerie models, some asshole at my company water cooler came up with the brilliant idea that my sister and I should audition for Brinker so I could work on the case from the inside. You should have heard the Deep Throat jokes. Fawn does a little modeling back home in Wilkes-Barre, so we gave it a whirl.”

  Fawn hadn’t strayed far and returned to us. “Mostly I do department-store ads and some bridal shows? I look great in Vera Wang? But who doesn’t?”

  “Fawnie,” said her twin, “I think I see a pair of boots over there with your name on them.”

  “Really?” Fawn scampered off.

  “Anyway,” Fontayne continued, “once I was on the inside, I heard Brinker wanted a special model so he could end his fashion show with a horse. He immediately hired Emma, which sounded suspicious to me. Why would he pick her without even seeing her? I mean, he had a hundred models to choose from, and surely at least one of them knows how to sit on a pony.”

  Lexie said, “Emma’s reputation with horses is well-known. She trains jumpers for the Olympics and looks like a Playgirl of the Month. She was a logical choice.”

  “But when she turned up with Monte, we knew something else was going on.”

  “Is Emma in danger?” I asked.

  “From Monte? I doubt he could do anything more damaging than hit her with a handful of beer nuts. But if he’s being used for keeping an eye on Brinker for Clientec—”

  “For Lamb,” said Lexie.

  “Right, then something more devious is under way.”

  My head spun with all the convolutions. “What has your investigation learned so far?”

  She told me essentially what Lexie had already outlined—that Hemorrhoid wanted to buy the Brinker Bra for Lamb Limited. But no doubt Brinker was also pulling strings.

  “Both parties want to walk away with the biggest piece of the pie. And they’re both playing dirty.”

  I remembered what Dilly had said to me at the train station—that Brinker was an unlikely lingerie designer. Musing aloud, I said, “Do you think the bra is Brinker’s to sell in the first place?”

  Fontayne looked more sharply at me. “What do you know?”

  “Brinker’s hardly a design genius.”

  Lexie said, “Did Hemmings design the bra? He’s not exactly the brightest bulb in the chandelier either.”

  “Whatever business sense he has,” Fontayne agreed, “he sucked it out of somebody else’s brain.”

  “Sabria Chatterjee,” I guessed.

  Fontayne nodded. “She’s the Clientec account exec in charge of keeping Lamb Limited happy these days. That means following Hemmings everywhere and wiping his nose, as needed.”

  “She’s in a tough spot,” Lexie said.

  “Yes, do or die. If she fails to please Hemmings, there’s a good chance he’ll choose another advertising agency.”

  “And Clientec will basically go out of business.”

  “Sabria might as well practice her burger-flipping skills.”

  “So what the hell is she doing? Playing double agent? Or go-between?”

  “Mergers like this one are brokered in weirder ways. Often, it takes a third interested party to negotiate a merger. But something’s fishy.”

  “The SEC takes a dim view of murder?”


  Fontayne glanced around the store to make sure her sister hadn’t wandered off. “Yes, we think the Keough lady’s death is connected to the Brinker–Lamb deal, but we haven’t figured out how yet. The police are no help. They think they’ve got some kind of mob hit on their hands, so they’re not listening to us.”

  Lexie shot me a sympathetic glance. “If somebody comes up with more specific information about Kitty’s death, I’m sure the police will start listening.”

  “Okay,” I said, grabbing my bag. “I have an idea who really designed the bra. That information will definitely help. Let me find out for sure and get back to you.”

  Fontayne forgot about her sore feet and perked up. “Can I come along?”

  “Let me find out for sure first. I don’t want to drag any innocent bystanders into this mess. I’ll contact you as soon as I know more. Lex, can I borrow your cell phone?”

  She handed it over without question, then gave me some privacy by engaging the Finehart twins in a footwear discussion.

  I checked my watch and knew Reed would be taking his mother and her friends to their weekly bingo game. I couldn’t disturb him. I tried Michael’s cell phone. No answer. I dialed my own house, then his, but he didn’t pick up. I wanted to shriek at him. Where was he?

  On impulse, I called information and asked for the number of the most respected newspaper in the city.

  A minute later I heard Richard D’eath’s voice on the line.

  “Hi,” I said without preamble. “Do your injuries prevent you from driving a car?”

  “What? No. Nora?”

  “Yes, it’s me. Do you have a car? I need a ride back to the Lamb house in Bryn Mawr.”

  “You going to tell me what this is about?”

  “I thought ace reporters acted on hunches now and then.”

  “My hunch is you’re getting desperate to prove your boyfriend is innocent.”

  “Can I have a ride or not?”

  “What’s in it for me?”

  “The pleasure of my company isn’t enough?”

  Long pause during which my joke fell flat.

  “Where are you?” he asked once I was fully embarrassed.

  I gave him the address.

  He said, “Okay,” and hung up.

  After further consideration, Lexie decided to buy two pairs of shoes for herself. She offered to buy the Manolos for me as a very early birthday gift, but I refused. Although I was sorely tempted.

  To keep her sister quiet, Fontayne Finehart bought her a pair of beflowered sandals with ridiculous heels.

  “Great?” Fawn cried with unabashed delight. “Nobody’s going to make fun of my shoes anymore?”

  “Nobody’s making fun of your shoes now, Fawn.”

  “That awful woman from the newspaper did?” Fawn pouted. “I wanted to, like, punch her in the nose?”

  “What woman?” we asked in chorus.

  Fawn blinked, prettily confused by our interest. “That woman who was killed? She got what’s coming to her, y’know? She was totally rude to me?”

  “Kitty Keough?” I asked. “When did you see her, Fawn?”

  “The day of the fashion show? She went to Brinker’s condo? And they had a fight?”

  Fontayne said, “You didn’t mention this before, Fawn. What were you doing at Brinker’s condo?”

  Fawn flushed. “Oh . . . I . . . I was visiting Brinker, that’s all? To ask if we could be the Brinker Twins?”

  “Oh, my God, you didn’t sleep with him, did you?”

  Fawn got so angry her implants actually began to tremble. “Of course not? What kind of girl do you think I am? I took him some jam, that’s all? In a basket?”

  “Jam,” Fontayne said blankly.

  “It’s a universal gift? But he was busy fighting with that woman, so I left? But before I got on the elevator, she made fun of my shoes? I thought about killing her myself? I’m glad she’s dead?”

  “You could have mentioned this earlier, Fawn.”

  “Like, who cares what I have to say?” Fawn asked.

  “Hm,” said Fontayne.

  “Look,” I said. “This only supports my idea. I’ll call you as soon as I know more.”

  As platinum credit cards flashed, I said my good-byes and dashed out to the street.

  Richard had pulled up in a nondescript sedan—a newspaper pool car.

  “Do I get a hint?” he asked as I climbed into the passenger seat. “Or are you trying to dazzle me with your Lois Lane impression?”

  “Take it easy, Superman. I’ve got an idea, but I need a promise that you won’t use the information yet.”

  He squinted at me. “Do you know anything at all about the profession of journalism?”

  “I just need enough time to—”

  “I know what you’re trying to do,” he said, pulling into traffic. “But you’re supposed to be a reporter, too. Do you understand what that means?”

  “No reporter can write a story that’s short on facts. I think I know who really designed the Brinker Bra. And if I’m right, it’s why Kitty was killed.”

  “Brinker didn’t design it?”

  “Only if the laws of the fashion universe have changed.” I put my handbag on the seat between us and checked on Spike. He gave my hand a groggy lick. “I think Brinker stole it. I also think Kitty figured out who really deserves the millions the bra is going to earn.”

  “And the killer wanted the secret to die with Kitty.”

  “Why, Richard, you almost sound like a tabloid headline. Did you learn that in journalism school, too?”

  He ignored that. “Has it occurred to you that the killer still has the same intent? And you’re walking into a trap?”

  “A lot of people could be in danger.”

  “What people?”

  I just wanted to see Orlando for myself. With everything happening so close to him, I needed to know he was safe.

  We arrived at Tall Trees in the midafternoon, and Meg opened the door to us herself.

  “I’m so glad you’re here,” she said to me, looking strained.

  “Meg, this is Richard D’eath, a friend. He’s a reporter.”

  She shook his hand briskly. “Hello. I’m sorry. I’m not myself at the moment.”

  “Is it Orlando?” I asked.

  “He’s upset, yes. But it’s . . . Mr. Gallagher is gone.”

  “Gone?” Or dead? I wondered.

  I followed Meg into the kitchen, which smelled of fresh baking. A rack of oatmeal cookies cooled on the counter. Spike poked his head out of my handbag to better assess the fragrance.

  “Do you know where Gallagher is? Have you spoken with him?”

  “Yes, of course. He’s gone to Ireland. He called me from one of those expensive telephones on the airplane, didn’t he? First class! Now, tell me, who would spend money on a first-class ticket when he’s going home to look after his poor mum, who hasn’t got two pence to rub together?”

  Somebody who really wanted Gallagher out of the country would buy him a first-class ticket, I thought.

  But I asked, “Where is Orlando?”

  “In his room. Aggie’s keeping an eye on him. The lad is so sad! I was just about to take him a snack to cheer him.”

  “And Hemmings? Is he here?”

  Mary Margaret shook her head. “He left for his manicure appointment this morning before we learned Gallagher was gone. He doesn’t know yet.”

  “Meg, I think we need to talk about Orlando’s safety.”

  Mary Margaret was already ahead of me. She said, “After that woman was killed here, I telephoned Orlando’s guardians in New Zealand. I give them weekly reports, but this murder! And now Gallagher walks out without a word! You can’t tell me all’s right with the world when a trusted employee leaves flat after a lifetime of service, so I called them again.”

  Her cheeks flamed with two pink spots. I patted her hand. “You did the right thing, Meg.”

  She had to bite her lower lip to keep it from trembling
, but she burst out, “That dear boy needs to be protected! The board of guardians is sending someone to take him back early to New Zealand, but it’s a bloody long trip, and I don’t expect anyone to arrive before tomorrow, maybe even the next day. I don’t mind telling you, Nora, I’m worried.”

  “I’m worried, too.”

  “I tried to hire a guard, but the security company sent over a boy who’s barely older than Orlando himself and carrying a big ugly gun on his hip, too! What do people imagine they carry a gun for except to use it on other people? I just despise a weapon! So I sent him packing.”

  “But,” Richard said reasonably, “how can anyone protect the boy if—”

  “I can’t abide a handgun,” Mary Margaret said smartly. “Now, shooting for sport is another kettle of fish altogether, and I’ve enjoyed bagging the occasional partridge myself, haven’t I? But I simply don’t—”

  “Meg, how can we help?”

  Mary Margaret hugged me impulsively. “Oh, Nora, you’re so kind to come. I know you’re thinking of Miss Oriana, aren’t you?”

  No, I was thinking of something Michael had said about Orlando. That the young heir should watch his step. As Orlando’s only living relative, Hemorrhoid stood to inherit Lamb Limited. Now, with Gallagher gone, there was one less line of defense between the boy and someone who wanted control of the company badly enough to murder.

  “I’m afraid for Orlando,” I said. “He could be in danger.”

  “What can we do? If I ask the police for protection, there’s going to be publicity, and that’s a sure way to make things worse. What kinds of crazy people might come out of the woodwork as soon as the television trucks show up?” She sat down abruptly at the table, her anger flagging.

  I glanced at Richard. “I’m afraid publicity is going to be hard to avoid at this point. We just need to figure out how to protect Orlando until his other guardians get here. Can you phone another security firm?”

  “If I trusted them to be sensible, I would, but I don’t. They call themselves professionals, but all they do is practice on a gun range and presto, they’re protectors! Why, if my own father were here . . . He knew how to take care of a nasty business, if you know what I mean. Give me a strong man with his own way of doing things—that’s the ticket.”