Have Your Cake and Kill Him Too

by Nancy Martin

  "Exactly. But Delilah is innocent. An arrest for murder would do her terrible harm, Lex."

  Lexie nodded. "So unless somebody else managed to be on the scene without being noticed, you're thinking the killer has to be a Fitch, right? Either Verbena or Boykin or Pointy murdered Zell? Boy's got the most to lose, doesn't he, especially if he's running for the Senate seat?"

  "His father suggested there's something Boy needs to hide. Emma's going to try to find out what. Can you get me a few minutes with Boy's political adviser? Mr. Fix-It?"

  "Sure."

  Lexie could arrange an audience with the pope if she put her mind to it.

  "Thanks," I said. "But look, Boykin may not be the only Fitch with a secret he wants to keep undercover."

  "Oh?"

  I told her about finding Clover's birth certificate.

  Lexie's face hardened. "So the son of a bitch raped his stepdaughter?"

  "He had a history of seducing young girls. I've heard lots of similar stories."

  Lexie turned away to glare out the windows, but I knew she wasn't looking at the view.

  Gently, I put my hand on her arm. "Do the math, Lex. Verbena is over forty now. And Clover is sixteen. Verbena was an adult when Clover was conceived."

  Lexie's jaw was tight as I watched her remember her own early teens when a cousin first assaulted her, then a handsome uncle turned into a crafty sexual predator. Her voice was low. "I'll bet the abuse started when she was a kid. Verbena ran away from home when she was still a teenager."

  "But why would she come back?" I asked. "Why would she seek out a sexual relationship with Zell later?"

  Lexie's eyes blurred with tears. "Sex abuse is a weird thing. For a kid, it—the touching, I mean. You get to—I know this is awful— but it's true, you get to like it. Then to learn it's wrong is ... hard. It's confusing. And humiliating, but also terrifying. It can warp everything."

  I wanted to hug her. Lexie had grown into an intelligent and powerful woman. But even now she avoided relationships with men. Her behavior wasn't healthy, I felt sure, but it was a logical response. She had compensated in a way that worked for her.

  "She probably went back to Zell when she was feeling vulnerable. And he took advantage of her again." Quietly, Lexie said, "I wonder what Verbena sees when she looks at her daughter."

  "The joy of her life," I said automatically. "Her own child—"

  "I doubt it. No." Lexie rested her fists on the windowsill and then her forehead against the cool glass of the window. "Nora, you've got stars in your eyes over your own pregnancy. It's not that way for everyone."

  "Lex— "

  "I'm okay, sweetie." She turned to me and pulled the mask over her emotions. "I've had years of head shrinking, so don't worry about me. It's you we've got to coddle, isn't it? Are you really happy about this baby?"

  So she didn't want to talk about it anymore. "Very happy, yes. On my way to being overjoyed."

  She hugged me again. "I'm glad. Just watch your step, sweetie, promise?"

  Chapter Twelve

  Back on the job, I walked over to one of the city's premier hotels to a party for a local young man who'd won a million dollars in a reality television series. For a week, the city had been in a fever of excitement over the local boy who'd made good by ratting out his friends on national TY Cabs darted in and out of the hotel's covered entrance, and a squealing crowd surged inside to meet the new celebrity.

  The television network had festooned the lobby with banners advertising the program. On the marble floor, a throng of animated young people milled around a shiny new car—one of the prizes the winner received in addition to his cool million.

  The hotel's fine restaurant—a favorite dining spot of the financial district—lay on one side of the lobby. In the doorway stood Pico Pinolini, the snooty maitre d'. Pico worked seven days a week and dictated where everyone was placed in the dining room, according to their social standing. Only the rich, the powerful or the marvelously disgraced got good tables from Pico, who had knowledge of scandals sometimes long before the participants did. It was said that he once seated a notable CEO at an undesirable table near the kitchen for a lunch two hours prior to his surprise afternoon firing by his board of directors.

  From his position at the restaurant doorway, Pico caught my eye and bowed slightly from the waist.

  I decided it was only prudent to speak to him and went over to say hello.

  "You look lovely, as always, Miss Blackbird," he said smoothly, giving me an air kiss.

  He liked to seat attractive people at tables near the doorway, but only if their clothing set off the thick velvet draperies that swagged the tall dining room windows. From the gleam in his darting eyes, I gathered he approved of my Armani and ruffles. "Thank you, Pico."

  "Surely you're not here for the party upstairs?" he sniffed.

  "I have to make a living," I said with a smile.

  He glared at the crowd in the lobby and clucked disapprovingly. "I'm certainly glad none of them wants dinner here. I would have to claim we're fully booked."

  "Aren't you?" I asked. "Fully booked?"

  He permitted a smile that showed no teeth, just a thinning of his lips. "Not for you, Miss Blackbird. Would you care for a table?"

  "Some other night," I promised. "Soon, I hope."

  He slipped me a plain business card, printed only with numbers. "My private line," he murmured. "Use it anytime."

  I thanked him and headed across the lobby.

  To my surprise, I saw Richard D'eath come out of the hotel bar. He looked professorial in a sport coat with leather patches on the elbows. Very Clark Kent, I thought at once. He carried his pager in one hand and used the other to manage his cane. He was intent on the pager and didn't notice me until we nearly collided beside a potted palm tree.

  He looked surprised, but happy, to see me. "I should have known you'd be here."

  He didn't kiss me, didn't touch me. Richard was always professional in public during working hours.

  "What about you?" I risked slipping my hand into the crook of his elbow and squeezing. "Here to cover the reality survivor?"

  "Are you kidding?" He laughed as if I'd said something hilarious, and tucked the pager into the inside pocket of his jacket. "I met my editors for a drink."

  "Who bought?"

  "They did." He grinned. "They had a proposition for me."

  "A—? You mean a new job?"

  Richard seemed pleased. "They've given me something to think about. Something challenging as well as lucrative."

  "No wonder you look happy. Can we have dinner later to talk about it?"

  "Sorry, no." He touched his pocket to remind me of the pager. "There's a story breaking. I've got to run."

  "What's the story?"

  He hesitated, smile fading. "A kid has disappeared."

  My heart contracted. "Oh, Richard, how horrible."

  "It's Little Carm. Carmine Pescara Jr."

  The boy I'd seen with Michael at Cupcakes.

  With my chest turning cold inside, I said, "What's happened?"

  Richard watched my face. "I don't know yet. Do you?"

  "What does that mean?" I snapped, pulling away from him.

  He reached for my hand. "Sorry. I—sorry. Look, I've got to go, and I don't know how long this will take. How about if I call you at home tonight? If it's not too late when I finish? I do want to talk to you."

  "All right."

  Richard released me, anxious to get going, I could see. But he hesitated again, as if forming an apology. If so, however, he discarded the idea. "I'll phone later. Have fun at your little party."

  And he was off. His cane clacked on the marble floor as he rushed for the front door, anxious to learn the fate of Little Carm Pescara.

  My little party?

  I stood still, feeling as if he'd slapped my cheek.

  My face stung. And I knew Pico was watching from the restaurant, taking in our exchange and probably making an accurate guess abo
ut what had transpired. I turned away and headed up the staircase to the ballroom.

  There, I needed a crowbar to get through the crowd. It was wall-to-wall people. Drumbeats and pseudo-African chanting throbbed in the air. Set dressers had decorated the room with wooden crates, coils of rope and camouflaged jeeps to suggest a thriving Third World shipping port. Fog machines generated billows of primordial steam from behind a jungle of fake plants. I squeezed into the mob, noting the short skirts and flimsy tops worn by dozens of young women who clearly hoped for an introduction to the new millionaire.

  Two young professionals pushed past me without apology. Someone thrust a colorful bandanna into my hand. It was garishly printed with the title of the television program. Everyone else in the ballroom had fashioned theirs into headbands, necklaces or belts. With my bandanna in hand, I pressed through the crowd.

  The reality show winner stood knee-deep in a lake of balloons also printed with the show's logo. He was tall and charmingly awkward, with an expensive haircut gelled to perfection. Network publicists surrounded him to maintain a makeshift receiving line. Every few minutes they allowed a few gushing fans to approach the winner while they hustled the previous group away. The man of the hour obligingly put his arm around the prettiest ones as cameras flashed. Everyone in the room beamed adoring smiles in his direction.

  I made a slow lap of the room, taking mental notes. In that whole crowd, I didn't know a soul.

  Until Clover Barnstable arrived.

  She made an entrance followed by a camera crew of her very own. One rangy young man hoisted a light over his head and focused it on Clover for the whole room to see. A videographer followed. Clover's friend Jane hovered with her own camera, too, crouching to catch unusual angles.

  Clover paused, hand on outthrust hip, to give the crowd a disdainful stare. Then the seas parted for her, and she catwalked across the ballroom. She wore a skirt short enough to require a bikini wax and a gauzy shirt that showed she was braless.

  Behind me, a young man cursed and said, "That chick's just about naked!"

  A hubbub followed while the publicists cleared a path for Clover to reach their millionaire. The air sparkled with more camera flashes as Clover snuggled the winner's arm.

  "Nora? Long time, no see."

  I turned to recognize the face of an acquaintance, Elizabeth Lammell, primary partner in her own publicity firm. Long ago in her almost forgotten past, Elizabeth had lost a television weather girl job because she had bad hair. Her dark brown mop was prone to lopsided frizz, and if there was one appearance flaw that spelled doom for television talent, it was hair that couldn't be tamed into a sleek, face-flattering shape.

  Since then, however, she'd turned to promoting everything from adulterous baseball players in need of image repair to models, a few singers and at least one very successful painter who required publicity to succeed in their chosen fields. At improving public personas, she was the best in the city.

  Unfortunately, Elizabeth's rough treatment of her own staff and clients had earned her the nickname of Elizabitch, which was universally known. She even used it herself.

  Tonight she wore her hair pulled back in a tiny bun. Her youthful clothes were the latest fashion—French jeans, strappy Manolo sandals, a simple Hanes T-shirt and a real Chanel jacket that bespoke how well her firm was succeeding. But her huge red eyeglass frames made her eyes appear even smaller and meaner than ever, and no amount of good publicity could fix that.

  "Hi, Elizab-beth."

  She checked out my clothes, and gave an "I'm impressed" eyebrow. Then, "What brings you here? It's not exactly your scene." With a jerk of her head, she indicated the noisy party.

  "The Intelligencer is going after a younger audience."

  "It's about time." Elizabeth continued to scan the crowd, noting details for her mental files, perhaps.

  "Also, I thought there was a philanthropic angle to this event."

  She snorted. "Only to put a little lipstick on the pig. No charity is going to benefit from this cattle call except for a few dollars tossed into the pot by the TV network."

  "I was afraid of that. Is the new millionaire your client?"

  She blew a raspberry. "Hell, no, he's going straight to video, if you know what I mean. Until he gets a speaking coach, he's doomed. He can't put two sentences together without saying 'uh' sixteen times."

  "Oh, then you're working for the television network."

  "Nope." Elizabitch pulled me to a corner where we weren't so badly jostled by the people around us, but she could continue to watch the action. "This whole event is a big promo for the reality show. The network plans to come back to Philly to audition people for the next season."

  "Judging by the crowd, I guess they'll have plenty of contestants."

  "Yeah, ninety-nine percent of the people here are dying to compromise their values for fame and fortune. Are you a fan of the show?"

  "I've never seen it."

  "You're not missing much. When did reality shows become more real than reality? I'd like to see if anyone in this room could survive my job." She folded a stick of gum into her mouth.

  "So who are you working for here?"

  "Nobody yet. I'm checking out a potential client. Clover Barnstable. You know her? She comes from your neck of the woods, doesn't she?"

  "You're working for Clover?" I couldn't keep the surprise out of my voice.

  Elizabitch shook her head. "Not yet. But maybe. She hired a stylist I know. And she's asking around about me. So I thought I'd check her out. What do you think?"

  Elizabitch and I watched Clover for another minute as she insinuated her body against the millionaire so that his arm was around her shoulders and his hand dangled provocatively near her huge left breast. The glare of television lights cast them both in dazzling white light.

  "I don't get it," I said. "Why does Clover need you? Is she going to model?"

  "I doubt she can do much of anything. But watch. People can't stop themselves from staring at her. She knows how to stand, how to look into a camera. She's got charisma. If I can get her a record deal, she'll be the American dream!"

  "Can she sing?"

  "Who cares? We'll hire a voice teacher and get her to practice with some of those microphones that automatically correct your sharps and flats."

  "So," I said, still struggling to understand, "that camera crew that came in with Clover? Are they yours?"

  "Are you kidding? Would I hire such doofuses?" She laughed shortly. "No, they're hired actors."

  "Actors?" For an instant, I thought I misunderstood the industry lingo.

  But Elizabitch put me straight. "They're out-of-work actors she hired to pretend to photograph her. Look, that video camera isn't even turned on!"

  "Why would anyone hire actors to—?"

  "It's pretty common, actually. Big celebs do it all the time to draw a crowd or get themselves into columns like yours. Making it by faking it, Nora. That's the name of the game right now."

  I stared at Clover and tried to understand what Elizabitch saw. A pretty face, yes, but that absurdly inflated bosom and her long, long legs hardly added up to stardom. I watched her playfully remove the bandanna from the neck of the millionaire. She used it to pretend to wipe his nose. The crowd laughed. A few people applauded.

  "She has it," Elizabitch said, more to herself than to me. "That magic. And this is her demographic—men and women, ages eighteen to thirty, the advertiser's G-spot. I could make her a fortune."

  I shook my head, disbelieving.

  "Who is she fucking?" Elizabitch asked. "If she's already slept with a few B-listers, I could move her up pretty fast."

  "She's only sixteen!"

  "Good. She won't show any wrinkles for a few more years. Yeah, if we put her in the right clothes, and she takes them off for the right people, she's got it made. Or maybe she could get herself a stalker. Or a kidnapping. That would help a lot."

  A wash of nausea rushed up inside me, and I turned away.
>
  Only to be confronted by two more publicists with eager faces. They were the same two people who had shoved me out of their way to get into the ballroom.

  "You're Nora Blackbird, aren't you?" The male member of the duo shoved a glossy paper brochure into my hand. "I didn't recognize you. I'm Jared from the Rothman Agency. You took over Kitty Keough's column, didn't you?"

  "Hi, I'm Grace," said the young woman, nudging her way closer to me. "Somebody just pointed you out to us. I represent Charlie Allen, the rock singer?"

  Elizabitch snorted again. "Rock singer? That kid is barely out of diapers, Gracie. You can't do anything with him until he passes the third grade."

  Grace frowned and ignored Elizabitch. She handed me an autographed head shot of a child with pudgy cheeks who had struck a pose straight out of Saturday Night Fever. She said, "Maybe you could mention Charlie in your next column? He's doing a benefit concert at his elementary school on Saturday. To raise money for AIDS awareness."

  "And I represent Mia Trotter, the hip-hop sensation. We're giving a party for her next week. She's definitely material for your column, Nora. May I call you Nora?"

  I was spared further soliciting when someone yelled into a microphone for quiet and then made a rambling introduction of the television winner. The young man disengaged himself from Clover and bounded onto the stage to enough thunderous shrieks, whistles and applause to satisfy a major-league record holder.

  When he was finally able to speak, the winner babbled a series of malapropisms. "Dudes. To win, you have to make your alliances and play the game. Uh—I stepped up to my fate and proved my medal when it was do-or-die time, so, uh, you know, take the risk, and— hey, you can win, too."

  Under her breath beside me, Elizabitch said, "Not exactly Winston Churchill. But he has potential. Unless that's a sock he's got stuffed in his pants. Wonder if he does naked pictures yet?"

  I needed fresh air fast.

  "Hey, Nora." Elizabitch caught my elbow as I turned away. "Let's have lunch soon. I could tell you about some of my clients."