Slay Belles
Page 10
The sisterly bond may be the most trying one that a woman can have with another human being. There’s love, of course—the kind that ties you together for eternity and certainly while washing mountains of dishes after Christmas dinner. But if there’s a sister alive who has never suppressed the urge to bash a sibling over the head with a Barbie doll or the Rusty Sabre’s fresh fruit plate—well, she’s not related to me.
Emma looked up from her ricotta-stuffed French toast with sliced peaches and whipped cream. “Your followers? What, are you running a cult now?”
“My followers on PitterPat, that new social media thingie.” Libby put her compact away and dug into the clutter of her enormous handbag to come up with her new cell phone. “My followers are all wonderfully supportive now, in my time of need.”
I refolded the obituary page and put the newspaper on the tablecloth. “Your time of need?”
“Yes, of course. I’m devastated about Aunt Madeleine. She was an inspiration in my formative years.”
“Only because she had a lot of affairs,” Emma said. “Remember that Norwegian man who always had candy in his pockets?”
“Lemon drops, covered with lint,” I recalled.
“Yeah, him. Gave me the creeps.”
“He was Russian, not Norwegian,” Libby said. “But he knew wonderful nuances of Scandinavian massage. Always rub in the direction of the heart. Did you know that? Preferably after a hot sauna. It’s wonderfully sensual.” When we stared at her, she blinked at us. “What? I was mature for my age! Aunt Madeleine’s lovers always intrigued me. Which is why I’m devastated now. I identified with her.”
“If anyone should be devastated by Aunt Madeleine’s demise, it’s Nora,” said Emma.
“Me? I barely knew Aunt Madeleine,” I said. The last thing I wanted that morning was to be dragged into another disjointed argument with my sisters. Those always ended with somebody getting offended and me getting stuck with the check.
“But Aunt Madeleine loved you.”
“She had a funny way of showing it. Despite her Madcap Maddy reputation, she scared the bejesus out of me.” The frustrations of the morning boiled over, and I said, “Really, Em, if you’re going to eat like a lumberjack, the least you could do is share the coffee.”
“Who lit your fuse this morning, Crankypants?”
If I had a fatal flaw, it was probably that I was too polite—too unwilling to rock the lifeboat of social harmony even as the waves of disaster crashed over my head. I longed to push Emma’s face down in her peaches. But I refrained.
“She’s missing That Man of Hers,” Libby guessed. “Not to mention Lexie Paine. Have you heard from dear Lexie, Nora? Has she settled into the pokey, now that she’s sentenced?” Abruptly, Libby jumped, and she dropped her cell phone. “Ow! Emma, stop kicking!”
Emma gave her a meaningful stare. “We’re not going to talk about Nora’s situation, remember? We’re just going to be supportive this morning.”
I’d spent the last week embroiled in the hearing of my dearest friend. Lexie Paine had pled guilty to a horribly publicized charge of voluntary manslaughter. Despite a parade of character witnesses—including me—the judge had sentenced Lexie to four years in prison for pushing a man out a window. If he hadn’t been threatening someone at the time, she’d have been accused of first degree murder, so there was something to be thankful for. I was still reeling for her. And for our lost friendship.
I looked down at the ring on my left hand. The diamond my sisters called the Rock of Gibraltar reminded me that although I was also physically separated from Michael at the moment, at least I knew he still loved me. And he wasn’t going to spend the next several years in prison as Lexie was.
Libby glared back at Emma. “I wasn’t going to bring up anything upsetting. And you’re not helping the least bit. We could die of starvation while you stuff yourself. Why aren’t you as big as a house? I used to swell up like a hippo as soon as I conceived. Aren’t you seven months along now?”
“Seven or eight, depending on which doctor I see at the clinic.” Emma splashed coffee into my cup. “I don’t get it either. I eat like a horse, but never seem to gain any weight—except for Zygote here.” She patted her distended belly that stretched her faded sweatshirt to its limit.
I tried to suppress the twinge of jealousy that sprouted in the back of my mind at the mere mention of Emma’s impending arrival. For ages, I’d been hoping for a family of my own. It was hard enough that Libby already had five children—despite their homicidal tendencies, they were a lovable lot—but Emma’s accidental pregnancy made me feel even more like a failure in the motherhood department. Two miscarriages had shaken my firm belief that I’d soon have a brood of my own. But I pushed those thoughts to the back of my mind to fester with all the other unpleasantness of late. There was no sense wallowing in the swamp of my own maternal shortcomings.
Libby said to Emma, “At least now you’d be able to keep that child in potato chips, if you decide to keep it. Don’t you think it’s terribly exciting we’re the ones to inherit Quintain? I’ve hardly been able to sleep since we heard the news!”
Our great aunt Madeleine Blackbird had been a great beauty who—like most of the Blackbird women—was widowed more than once. She had been luckier than most of us and inherited two fortunes along the way. Her great wealth enabled her to indulge in her pleasures and travel to exotic locales. Madcap Maddy sent lavish gifts and brought home colorful friends from St. Petersburg and various cities that had all but disappeared behind the Iron Curtain. She even rode camels along the dunes of the Sahara before finding her bliss on a faraway mountain. But after word came around the globe that an Indonesian mountain blew its top and took our aunt with it, we were even more stunned when her lawyers announced she had bequeathed her Pennsylvania estate . . . to us.
Specifically, her will read, “To Eleanor Blackbird and her sisters.”
Nothing could have astonished us more.
Mind you, we were no strangers to luxury, my sisters and me. The Blackbird family had come to Philadelphia with William Penn and substantial wealth in their travel trunks. Once in the new world, our ancestors parlayed their small fortune into a large one with smart investments in railroads and safety pins. My sisters and I had grown up going to boarding schools and spending our holidays in places like Paris and Bermuda. Along the way, I learned many gracious skills, including a ladylike calligraphy and the art of arranging a seating chart for a successful dinner party. After a spectacular family downfall, though, those skills enabled me to function in no other paying job but the one I had luckily landed—that of a newspaper society columnist. Libby had been a painter before she started marrying. Emma spent her youth riding horses—the kind that leaped Olympic-sized hurdles and flew first class to international competitions—and she continued to work in horsey circles as an adult. I attended parties.
Good thing we’d found our respective callings, because our parents were good only for throwing lavish galas with orchestras and cases of expensive champagne they couldn’t pay for. Our mother loved jewelry and was known for impulsively taking off her necklaces and clasping them around the throats of surprised friends—long before she’d paid the credit card bill from the jeweler. Our father adored luxury cars, but tended to borrow them from friends and then promptly drive them into ditches. Their share of the family money therefore evaporated in no time, but Mama and Daddy continued to live the high life on “loans” from unsuspecting acquaintances who might as well have thrown their money into the ocean.
Eventually, though, our partying parents were forced to pack up their evening clothes and run off with our trust funds. Now they happily spun around the dance floors of South American resorts built especially for former wheeler-dealers on the run from financial prosecution.
My sisters and I had said reluctant good-byes to our comfortable years in the rarified social world where we grew up. We’d all married, lost husbands, and survived. These days, we struggled a bit to
stay ahead of foreclosure, but we were afloat. I actually enjoyed working for the newspaper that paid me a salary just big enough to keep the wolves from my door.
These days, I didn’t mind the change in our circumstances. Not too much, anyway.
But inheriting Quintain might change everything again.
Other Books in the Blackbird Sisters Mystery Series
How to Murder a Millionaire
Dead Girls Don’t Wear Diamonds
Some Like It Lethal
Cross Your Heart and Hope to Die
Have Your Cake and Kill Him Too
A Crazy Little Thing Called Death
Murder Melts in Your Mouth
No Way to Kill a Lady
Novellas in the Blackbird Sisters Mystery series
“Slay Belles”
“Mick Abruzzo’s Story” (e-book only)
Praise for the Blackbird Sisters Mysteries
No Way to Kill a Lady
“Smart intrigue dressed in cool couture. Martin always delivers!”
—Susan Andersen, New York Times bestselling author of That Thing Called Love
“The Blackbird Sisters are back for another go at regaining their rightful place in society, and I, for one, am absolutely delighted. . . . Nancy Martin knows the inner workings of blue-blooded Philadelphia and she lets us in on the fun with style and panache even while pulling the Persian rug out from under her ditsy characters. Long may this series flourish!”
—Margaret Maron, New York Times bestselling author of the Judge Deborah Knott series
“It’s always a joy to see what those flawed and feisty Blackbird sisters are up to. Their latest highly entertaining adventure involves more dubious relatives, a mobster, and a body or two. What a hoot! What a treat!”
—Rhys Bowen, Agatha and Anthony–award winning author of the Royal Spyness and
Molly Murphy mysteries
Murder Melts in Your Mouth
“Hilarious repartee and zany characters move the story along. . . . Martin is an outstanding mystery author.”
—Library Journal (Starred Review)
“A witty, wonderful offering.”
—Romantic Times (Top Pick)
“The long-awaited reunion between the sisters and their parents will satisfy longtime fans.”
—Publishers Weekly
A Crazy Little Thing Called Death
“A window on a moneyed world that the author skewers and spotlights with equal fun.”
—San Antonio Express-News
“Why can’t the perfect little black dress serve for interviewing benefit hostesses and dodging bullets? Of course [it] can, darling. The proof’s right here.”
—Pittsburgh Magazine
“Martin’s wicked observations about the horsy set enhance another fine-feathered mystery.”
—Publishers Weekly
“A delightful, lighthearted satirical tale that jabs at the pretentiousness of the upper class.”
—The Best Reviews
Have Your Cake and Kill Him Too
“Martin, a master of one-liners and witty repartee, mixes the zany lives of the Blackbird family with posh Main Line Philadelphia society and comes up with another winning mystery.”
—Library Journal (Starred Review)
“Charming and funny.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Sassy, exciting, and impossible to put down.”
—Midwest Book Review
“Martin’s fabulous offering is peppered with witty dialogue, oddball characters, and a clever plot that blends two separate mysteries into one delightful tale of murder and the unusual relationships between sisters.”
—Romantic Times (4 Stars)
Cross Your Heart and Hope to Die
“Nora Blackbird has humor, haute couture, and sexual heat, and Cross Your Heart and Hope to Die has me hooked on the Blackbird sisters.”
—Harley Jane Kozak, author of Dating Dead Men and Dating Is Murder
“A laugh-out-loud comic mystery as outrageous as a pink chinchilla coat.”
—Booklist
“The right mix of humor. . . . But like the best writers in this subgenre, Martin keeps the story grounded in reality.”
—South Florida Sun-Sentinel
“A blend of fashion-forward romance and witty suspense. . . . Martin’s wicked tongue-in-cheek satire will appeal to fans of Jennifer Crusie . . . and Janet Evanovich.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Wide-eyed sleuthing, sisterly antics, and humorous dialog will have readers panting for more.”
—Library Journal
“Vividly drawn and immensely entertaining . . . an absolute delight.”
—Romantic Times
Some Like It Lethal
“What great deadly fun!”
—Kasey Michaels
“Simultaneously clever and funny. A tasty mix of murder, family dynamics, blackmail, and humor.”
—Costa Contra Times
Dead Girls Don’t Wear Diamonds
“A brash, flaming, and sassy amateur sleuth mystery . . . the perfect novel to take to the beach . . . light, breezy, and pure fun.”
—Midwest Book Review
How to Murder a Millionaire
“Will keep readers turning the pages . . . [a] delightful heroine.”
—The Best Reviews
And More Praise for Nancy Martin’s “Smart and Sophisticated Series”*
“A thoroughly entertaining mystery that also provides some red-hot sexual tension.”
––*New York Times bestselling author Jane Heller
“Rich, engaging, and funny. . . . scandalous mystery, hot romance, and the delightful to-the-manor-born Blackbird sisters. You won’t want it to end!”
—Sarah Strohmeyer, author of Bubbles All the Way
“Clever, good-humored, and sharply observed.”
––The Philadelphia Inquirer
“What scandal for high society, but what fun watching Nora figure it out.”
—Pittsburgh Post-Gazette
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Author of fifty popular novels in the mystery, suspense, historical, and romance genres, Nancy created in 2002 the Blackbird Sisters series—mysteries about three impoverished Main Line heiresses who have adventures in couture and crime, as if Agatha Christie had wandered onto the set of Sex and the City. Nominated for the Agatha Award for Best First Mystery of 2002, How to Murder a Millionaire won the Romantic Times Award for Best First Mystery and was a finalist for the Daphne Du Maurier Award. In 2009, Nancy won the Romantic Times Career Achievement award for her mystery writing. She lives in Pittsburgh, serves on the board of Sisters in Crime, and is a founding member of Pennwriters. She blogs at the popular and trendsetting www.thelipstickchronicles.typepad.com. Like the Blackbird sisters, Nancy comes from a distinguished Pennsylvania family whose ancestors include Betsy Ross, a hanging judge, and a signer of the Declaration of Independence.
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