A Little Night Murder

by Nancy Martin

  But considering her track record, I was also concerned about her personal life. “Where are you staying?”

  Her face closed. “Don’t worry about me, Sis. I’ve got lots of offers.”

  “With anybody I know?”

  She laughed harshly. “Nobody you want to hear about.”

  Between boyfriends, Emma had sometimes lived with me at Blackbird Farm. But now that Michael was making his permanent home there, Emma didn’t come around much anymore. I knew they’d had a disagreement last winter, which resulted in him throwing her out. Since then, I’d worried about my sister.

  Today, though, sitting on a beautiful horse, she looked surprisingly healthy. And happy.

  So I hated to break the mood when I said, “Michael got your message last evening. We have Noah in the car right now.”

  “Good. Hart called me, asking for help. When I couldn’t reach you, I got in touch with Mick.”

  “Want to see Noah?”

  Her gaze traveled past me to the waiting Hummer. It was hard to see through the darkened windows, so she didn’t try to get a glimpse of her son. She shook her head. “Nah. He’s in good hands. You two may not be a match made in the society pages, but together you’re a fortress where that kid is concerned.” With a barely different tone in her voice, she asked, “How did Hart look?”

  “Upset,” I said. “Penny’s going back to rehab.”

  “Yeah, he told me. What else is going on? How’s Lib?”

  Clearly, Emma didn’t want to hear anything more about her son. She was determined to forget she’d ever given birth. So I said, “The usual. The twins are terrifying. Rawlins is going off to college soon. Lucy says her imaginary friend ate one of Libby’s emerald earrings. Mostly, though, Libby is worked up about becoming a grandmother. Consequently, I think she’s looking for a new man in her life.”

  “What happened to the exterminator? The dude with flannel shirts and the giant mosquito on top of his truck?”

  “He’s history. Too many burritos, not enough flowers and champagne. She may be starting something with Ox Oxenfeld.”

  Emma’s eyes popped. “The Broadway guy? You’re kidding! He’s loaded. What does the bug man say about that?”

  “Not enough. She’s looking for someone with more verbal skills. Perry’s not exactly a great conversationalist.”

  Emma wagged her head in lament. “He moons for her, though.”

  “With Mr. Oxenfeld, there’s foot rubbing involved.”

  “Well, foot massage is fleeting. She’s got five kids,” Emma said with a laugh. “And one of them’s heading off to college next month. She’s probably thinking of tuition payments. I don’t blame her.”

  “Em! Since when do you think with your wallet, not your heart?”

  “C’mon, Nora. Romance might make your blood run hot, but sometimes it’s a good idea to think about the bottom line.”

  “I’m astonished to hear you say that.”

  “I can support myself,” she said. “And I’m not feeding any kids. How’s Mick?”

  “Fine. We’re finally getting our heads above water.”

  She jutted her chin in the direction of Michael’s Hummer. “One look at the monster truck tells me that. What’s he doing? Planning on driving that thing into combat?”

  “He’s concerned about safety. Which is understandable.”

  “Yeah, I hear things are hot again in the mob world. But he can handle the heat, right?” She rubbed her shoulder as if to loosen a tight muscle. “He was certainly cool when it came time to drive me to the hospital.”

  “He wasn’t the only cool one,” I said. Emma had delivered her baby without any fuss. I patted her horse’s neck. “Come by the farm when you get a chance. We’d like to see you. Bring your new boyfriend.”

  With another cold laugh, she put her boot back in the stirrup and gathered the reins. “I don’t think you’re going to want him around.”

  “Why not?”

  Instead of answering, Emma waved and nudged the gray horse into a canter. Her nonreply made me nervous. Emma wasn’t known for her good taste in men. If she already knew this one was trouble, things could be worse than usual.

  But I had other problems to contend with. Time to go to work.

  CHAPTER NINE

  I took the train into Philadelphia, and by the time I arrived midafternoon, my lunch at Lexie’s was long forgotten. Hungry again, I grabbed an iced orange juice and a salad and carried them into the Pendergast Building. In the newsroom, every telephone was ringing, and my colleagues looked frantic.

  Skip Malone and Mary Jude Yashurick had been pulled off the Sports desk and out of the Lifestyle department, respectively, and they shared their tales of woe with me.

  “I’ve talked to eight crazy people today.” Skip showed me his notes. “Four of them think they’re Jenny Tuttle’s illegitimate kid, but only if it means they have money coming. Two say they’re her long-lost husband. One claims he’s speaking with her from beyond the grave through the voice of his cat.”

  I said, “I’m just glad there are no penis stories on your list.”

  “Give me time,” he retorted with an eye roll.

  Mary Jude was equally aggrieved. “I can top your list of wackos. I’ve got one guy who says he’s the reincarnated Toodles Tuttle himself.”

  Skip pointed his pen at Mary Jude. “There’s a pool going. Whoever gets the craziest call wins all the money. The pot’s up to a hundred and eighty bucks. I’m going to get a doozy to win it all.”

  His phone rang and he scooted his swivel chair back to his desk, leaving Mary Jude and me alone together in our corner.

  Mary Jude and I had bonded when I’d first arrived at the Intelligencer. She wrote a food and recipe column, and she had helped me learn the newspaper’s computer system. She was still my native guide in a lot of ways. When I’d had a miscarriage last year, she’d been very supportive. In return, I tried to be a good listener when she talked about her travails with her son Trevor.

  For a moment, she watched me wolf my salad while my computer warmed up. “You look good these days, Nora. And that’s a cute dress.”

  “Thanks. My clothing situation is getting dire, though. At home, I’m wearing my sister’s T-shirts—but only when nobody can see me.”

  “I think I wore the same stupid shirt for the last two months.” She scooted her chair closer. “If you don’t mind me asking, what are you going to do about child care once your baby is born?”

  I crunched a cucumber and managed to open some computer files at the same time. “I’m not sure yet. We’ve been looking after Noah again, and Michael and I have taken turns. We’re lucky to have flexible schedules. It must be so much harder for you.”

  Mary Jude opened a package of bagel chips—no doubt one of the many products that food manufacturers sent to her for review. She offered me a chip. “It’s getting worse. When Trevor was little, I could almost manage everything. But now that he’s older and needs more physical therapy sessions, I’m seriously thinking about going part-time here at work. Or maybe job sharing with somebody. Except I’m barely making ends meet already. I dread cutting back even more.”

  I bit into the bagel chip. Trevor had a lot of special needs, and although Mary Jude had been quietly courageous about taking care of her son after his father took off, I knew she was stretched thin.

  I waved off her offer of another chip. “I’d share a job with you in a heartbeat. But my idea of cooking is still microwaving a Lean Cuisine.”

  “And my idea of socializing is taking Trevor’s caregiver to McDonald’s.” Mary Jude sent me a sideways glance. “What is Mr. Hardwicke’s policy about job sharing?”

  “Does he have one?”

  “We figured you’d know.”

  “Me?”

  “You’ve obviously got his ear. Can you ask him?”r />
  I knew my relationship with Gus had caught the attention of my coworkers. I understood him better than most people in Philadelphia. He wasn’t a blue-blood Colonial descendent, but he came from a kind of family I recognized. But I was uneasy, knowing my coworkers wondered if we were forging something else.

  On the other hand, maybe I could do some good for somebody. I knew I sometimes took advantage of my relationship with the boss. Was it wrong? Or useful?

  “I’ll give it a shot,” I told Mary Jude.

  She gave me a thumbs-up and reached for her phone, which had begun to chirp. I quickly rearranged my files, sending the articles I had written the night before to the Lifestyle editor. A second later, my cell phone went off, too.

  When I answered, my sister Libby said musically in my ear, “Are you in the city now? I just happened to bump into someone and we’re having a late lunch after a little shoe shopping.”

  I looked at my watch. It was almost teatime. “You’re with Ox?” I asked.

  “Why, yes. He’d like to meet you. Under better circumstances than yesterday.”

  Libby was on the case, all right. She must have called Ox the minute she and I hung up earlier. I got the details from her while closing the lid of my salad. We disconnected, and I headed for the elevator.

  Unfortunately, Gus Hardwicke was just stepping off as I started to get on.

  “Whoa.” He caught my elbow. “Where are you going?”

  “To pursue a hot lead.”

  He pointed at the busy newsroom, where all the phones were ringing again. “We need your help here.”

  “We? Have you been answering calls?”

  He released my elbow and straightened his tie. “I had to represent my father at a meeting this afternoon.”

  “Merger talks going well?”

  “It’s not a merger; it’s a takeover. And if those old farts haven’t figured that out by the time it’s all over, I’m going to bend them over a barrel and take a good look at their shriveled freckles before I—”

  “I get the picture.” I stepped onto the elevator before he could turn coarser. “I’m going to talk to somebody about Jenny Tuttle.”

  Gus got back onto the elevator to ride down with me. “Who’s the somebody?”

  “Ox Oxenfeld, the producer of the Tuttle musical.”

  “Did he poison the dead lady?”

  “Poison?”

  “The preliminary tox screen says Tuttle died from massive amounts of speed and caffeine. Enough to kill a tribe. Did Oxenfeld shove pills down her throat?”

  “I doubt it. But he has been working with Jenny on the show, so he may know her better than most.” I punched the “lobby” button, and the doors closed. “Gus, what is the Intelligencer’s policy on child care?”

  He couldn’t stop a glance of distaste. “My personal policy is to not think about it at all.”

  I ignored his tone. “Why don’t we have an on-site day-care center?”

  “Are you joking? For one, it would be ridiculously expensive at a time when I’m considering canceling our order for paper clips. And two? Why would we want a bunch of squalling nippers around the office?”

  “Workers are more productive if they’re secure in knowing their children are being well taken care of. Google has day care and healthy food options and—”

  “And allows workers to bring their dogs to the office. The big difference is Google makes money. Our employees would be much more productive if they used a dinger when they go to bed with each other.”

  “A dinger?” I asked before I could stop myself. “Isn’t that a wild dog?’

  “That’s a dingo. A dinger is a rubber, a love glove, a condom.”

  The words came out of his mouth just as the doors parted on the eighth floor. A distinguished gentleman with a cane stood outside the elevator with an air of consternation. He was a slender, elegant gent in an expensive suit that hung slightly on his frame, as if life had just begun to drain his flesh away. But his silver eyebrows rose nimbly high on his patrician forehead until he caught sight of me.

  “Nora Blackbird! My dear young lady, how is your lovely mother? She is the original party girl. Always smiling.” He stepped onto the elevator with pleasure.

  “Last I heard, she was taking a cruise to Antarctica to see penguins. Hello, Mr. Dietrich.” I shook the old man’s firm hand. “What happened to you? You’ve added a walking stick since I last saw you.” From the jaunty way he used the cane, I felt the question wouldn’t trouble him.

  “I’m ashamed to say I took a tumble off the dock at our summerhouse. I’m finally too old to water-ski. Who’s this . . . person?”

  Adam Dietrich, one of my father’s fellow boarding school alumni, ran a small but exclusive investment firm that catered to people whose money was older than that of most. He also collected extinct birds’ eggs, and the Smithsonian had already inquired about a donation someday. There wasn’t a way to summarize his whole pedigree during an elevator ride, however, so I said, “Mr. Dietrich, this is Gus Hardwicke, the editor of the Intelligencer. Gus, Mr. Dietrich is an old friend of the family.”

  Gus punched the elevator button again and attempted to regain some courtesy as he shook the old man’s hand. “How do you do, sir? It’s a pleasure to meet any friend of the Blackbirds.”

  “Hm,” said Mr. Dietrich, who was not easily bamboozled.

  I said lightly, “We were just discussing the possibility of opening a day-care center here in the Pendergast Building. If we want talented women in business, we need to remove the barriers that keep them from working, don’t you think?”

  “I absolutely agree,” Mr. Dietrich said without hesitation. “One of our oldest partners just retired, and his former office suite is available. It’s on the floor below the newspaper. It might serve your purpose very well.”

  I concealed my amazement at being taken seriously when—if I was being honest with myself—half my purpose in bringing up the subject was simply to annoy Gus. “Would you be interested in exploring the possibilities? Perhaps sharing a facility with us?”

  “Exploring can’t hurt. Let’s set up a meeting.” He reached for his breast pocket but frowned thoughtfully. “Nora, I have an empty seat on the board of the Dietrich Charitable Foundation.”

  “Would you like me to mention the vacancy in my column?”

  “Heavens, no.” He smiled fondly at me. “I wonder if you might consider taking it?”

  A seat on the board of a major charitable institution? One nearly as old as the city? I barely contained my surprise. After a heartbeat, I managed to say, “I’m very flattered.”

  “Let’s talk about it. My assistant saw your newspaper piece about disreputable charities, and it got us thinking about you for the foundation. Our focus is family matters—education, child services, that kind of thing. We need a young career woman’s perspective.” He pulled a silver case from his pocket and handed over his business card. “Call Lemetria and make arrangements for a lunch with me? We could discuss your day-care plan at the same time.”

  “I’ll call soon,” I promised as we reached the lobby.

  “Excellent.” On impulse and smiling, Mr. Dietrich reached out and patted my baby bump. “Lovely to see you, Nora. Good day, Hardwicke.”

  “G’day, sir,” Gus said to the gentleman’s departing back. To me he said in an undertone, “What was that about?”

  I was still staring at the vellum business card in my hand. “I must be coming up in the world.”

  “You barely have time for your job, let alone some do-gooder project.”

  He was right. And with children on the way, I was going to be even more pressed for time. But I was dazed by the honor Mr. Dietrich had suggested.

  I stepped off the elevator. “Exploring, that’s all we’re going to do.”

  Gus stayed where he was, stubbornly
propping open the elevator doors. “I haven’t agreed to your cockamamie day-care plan. We haven’t got a spare drachma to spend on anything, and besides, I don’t want a mob of children around.”

  “Don’t say no yet.”

  “Nora, there are several things we need to discuss in more detail.”

  “I don’t have time now.”

  Two men in suits had crossed the lobby and boarded the elevator without looking up from their cell phones. One reached past Gus to hit a button. “C’mon, buddy, kiss your wife and make up so we can all get back to work.”

  Gus looked mortified and released the door. I laughed and waddled out to meet my sister.

  Around the corner at one of the city’s most elegant hotels, I ran a gauntlet of bellmen rushing luggage for arriving guests. I used the bronze hand railing to hoist myself up the staircase and went through the open doors to the cool cavern of the lobby. The hotel had once been a bank, and the bones of a grand marble monument to commerce remained.

  “Whoo-hoo!” Libby’s voice echoed from a table in the bar. She waved using her fingers only. Two large shopping bags sat at her feet, and she was wearing a pair of striking purple sandals with laces around her trim ankles.

  I stepped around a champagne bucket and leaned down to give my sister a kiss on her fevered cheek before sitting down at the banquette Libby shared with a pink-faced Ox Oxenfeld.

  “Hello.” I shook his hand. “I’m Libby’s sister Nora.”

  “Yes, I remember.” Ox continued to blush. “We didn’t have much time to talk when—at the Tuttle house.”

  “It was a very upsetting day, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes, very. I hope you’ll excuse my less than cordial behavior. I wasn’t myself.” He poured champagne into a spare glass and passed it my way. He gave me a nervous sidelong glance, and I realized he was probably trying to decide if I planned to embarrass him by bringing up his assignation with Bridget O’Halloran in front of Libby. I sent him a steady, blank-faced gaze in return and kept my mouth shut. Visibly, he relaxed.