by Nancy Martin
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ISBN: 9781483584188
Table of Contents
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Other books
Note from Nancy
1.
After the longest pregnancy ever, my water broke at the Rusty Sabre, where I was supposed to meet my sisters for lunch. My sisters were late, no surprise.
I had taken a phone call that I knew was going to upset my life, so I carried my phone out onto the porch of the restaurant where my thumping heart wasn’t going to disturb the other diners.
“Nora,” said the eccentric co-owner of the Philadelphia Intelligencer, speaking from her opulent home in Palm Beach. “Are you sitting down, dear?”
No, I wasn’t. I was pacing—waddling like a pregnant duck, to be more precise, wearing a pink Roberto Cavalli dress given to me by a plus-sized movie star —and watching the street of New Hope in hopes of catching sight of one of my exasperating sisters, who claimed they wanted to treat me to one last lunch before I gave birth. Where were they? I was about to lose my job and was going to need their support, and they were AWOL, as usual.
But I said, “Yes, Miss Pendergast, I’m prepared to hear anything. Have you decided to sell the newspaper?”
“Who would buy it?” she demanded on a cackling laugh. “Nobody is crazy enough to go into the newspaper business these days. It’s a losing proposition!” Then I heard her say, “Put my lunch down here, Consuela. And don’t forget my martini. Just a small one today. I’m on a diet.”
My heart sank. It was over. My short career as a journalist—if you can call writing a society column journalism—was finished because the Philadelphia Intelligencer had failed. “So you’re going to close?”
While Miss Pendergast discussed what kind of martini should be made for her, I rubbed my aching back with one hand and thought of all my co-workers, real journalists, who would soon be out of jobs. And me, expecting a baby in a week. I needed health insurance more desperately than ever. What was I going to do? Give birth at home with my crazy sister Libby chanting nonsense in one ear and Emma shouting her brand of tough love in the other?
But true to form, Miss Pendergast surprised me when she finished ordering her drink. “No, Nora,” she said, “we’re not closing. The Pendergasts never give up the ship. Our uncle sailed up the Amazon and disappeared ten years ago, you know, but we’re sure he’s still there, hacking his way through the jungle in search of a new variety of man-eating snake. No, The Intelligencer lives on, but we’re going to make a few changes. We’re going totally digital—no printed paper whatsoever. And most of the staff will be let go, I’m sorry to say. Time for a shoe string operation.”
“I see.” I felt my spirits dive so deep I couldn’t make my voice sound anything but terribly disappointed.
“We’re going to embrace social media, maybe have reporters file stories on Twitter and Instagram and whatnot. Someone suggested live-streaming sports events. Apparently that’s cheap to produce. And blogs. Plenty of blogs. But no print.”
“Well, it was nice of you to call me personally, ma’am. I appreciate your kindness. I’ve enjoyed working for the Intelligencer. Your brother saved my life when he hired me just before he died. I don’t know where I’d be now if not for Rory. If not for you for keeping me on.”
“Save your breath,” she said. “It ain’t over till it’s over, Nora.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I hate that I must string you along,” she said over the noise of blowing palm trees and the clank of her fork on fine china. “But I must ask you not to take another position quite yet. I think we might be able to use you.”
“I’d sweep the floors!” Especially if that meant keeping my good health insurance.
She laughed. “Good to know. I like an employee who’s willing to go above and beyond.”
“I’m going on unpaid maternity leave next week, but after that—”
“So I heard. Well, take a couple of weeks off, if you must, but be prepared to return to the salt mine.”
“I’m taking two months, actually, and then—”
I didn’t have a chance to mention I hoped to share a job with another employee so that I could stay at home and be at least a part-time mother. She interrupted me again. “Make it one month. And buy your own broom. I must go. Another call coming in. Bye, Nora!”
That’s when she hung up on me … and my water broke.
I was still standing in a puddle, staring at my phone, when my sister Libby pulled to the curb in her red minivan with a battered tail of pink crepe paper fluttering from her antenna. She rolled down her window and paused in the act of applying mascara while peering into the rearview mirror.
“What’s the matter?” she bellowed. “You look gobsmacked.”
Libby had recently become obsessed with all things British. Her son Rawlins had gone off to college in England, and she was gearing up to visit him by watching old episodes of Downton Abbey and PBS fundraising specials. All a college freshman needs is his high-maintenance mother deciding to bunk in his dorm room during fall fashion week.
“Nora?” Libby called. “Are you all right?”
I gathered my wits. “I think I’m in labor! A week early! And I just ruined a priceless Roberto Cavalli!
Libby had delivered five children of her own, so childbirth was nothing out of the ordinary for her. Calmly, she tucked the mascara wand back into its tube and opened her van door. She stepped out, wearing a velour track suit and a t-shirt that read If you can’t be good, call me.
“Cavalli can be dry-cleaned,” she said .“How far apart are your contractions?”
“I haven’t felt any.”
“No contractions? Good.” Libby checked her watch. “That means we probably have time to get you a pedicure. Trust me, you’ll be glad we seized the opportunity. Can you walk?”
“I’m not sure. Lib. I can’t leave this puddle behind.”
She grasped my elbow and pulled me toward her vehicle, calling over her shoulder at a just-arriving restaurant employee—a young man who had waited on us numerous times and appreciated the big tips we left after family squabbles. “Carlos, darling, will you just sweep that splash of water into the rose bushes, please? Nothing to worry about. It’s perfectly bio-degradable. And definitely good for plants!”
To me, she said, “Call That Man of Yours and tell him to pick up your suitcase. He can meet us at the hospital in two hours. Maybe three. I could use a chocolate mud wrap. And while you enjoy a last splurge at the spa, I can tell you all about what the police had to say this morning. My word, Nora, I think they want to arrest me!”
Libby helped me into the van. “Look, here’s my dry cleaning. Let’s just tear off the bag and put it on the seat for you to sit on. There.�
��
I obeyed her. The twinge of indigestion I’d been having all morning suddenly tightened into something that even a rookie could recognize as a labor pain, and I let out a gasp. Too many things happening at once. But the police questioning my sister?
Libby got in and helped fasten my seatbelt around my huge belly, still talking.
“After all, if I’m going to be charged with murder, it’s partly your fault.”
I found my voice. “Murder? My fault?”
“You introduced us!” Libby cried indignantly. “I’d never have married Oxie if you hadn’t gotten us together during that awful business last summer when Jenny Tuttle was killed. And now my dear husband is dead, and I’m alone all over again, but to make matters worse the police think I’m some kind of … of Agatha Christie black widow who kills her husbands! They counted up my dead spouses and suddenly they’re wondering about me. So it’s your duty to help in my time of need.”
It was feeling like my time of need at that moment, but I also was sympathetic that Libby’s latest husband, Broadway impresario Ox Oxenfeld, producer of many successful musicals, had died very suddenly not long after their sumptuous wedding. The good news was that before Ox went off to produce a heavenly musical, he’d had time to buy her a fabulous house and set up educational funds for all her children, not to mention provide Libby with enough cash to keep her comfortable for years to come. But money isn’t everything—at least not to Libby. Yes, she had settled into Ox’s wealthy lifestyle faster than a Las Vegas gold digger could cash the wedding checks, but Libby had much more relished her months as the adored arm candy of a besotted man who enjoyed lavishing the love of his life with jewelry, champagne and plenty of romantic canoodling.
So I tried to be gentle. “Libby, maybe this isn’t the best time to—”
“He had a simple heart attack! But I’ve had husbands die on me before, so the police seem to think I’m a stone cold killer. You have to convince them I’m innocent!”
Of course she was innocent. But I remembered what she had blurted out at his funeral.
“Believe me,” she had said while mopping tears, “he died happy. We made love half the night before his heart stopped.”
I was thinking if she hadn’t actually murdered him, she very likely contributed to his death.
But I said, “Libby, why don’t you just take me home? A pedicure isn’t high on my priority list, and you’re obviously still grieving and need time for yourself to—”
“And then there’s Perry!” The infuriation in her voice was unmistakable.
“Perry Delbert? Are you back together again?” Her exterminator had been Libby’s on-and-off companion ever since her infestation of carpenter ants.
“We were never together! And now it’s clear we’re never going to be. He’s engaged!”
“Perry? He’s—?”
“Aren’t you listening? Engaged, I tell you! Where is your concentration? Oh, poor darling, you can’t keep a single thought in your head, can you? How will you focus during your labor? A pedicure is just the ticket! And a spa treatment or two might set me right, too. Stress is bad for the libido.”
If anyone knew about libido, it was Libby. And nothing activated hers like rejection. I let her drive me to the spa because I knew she was on the verge of an emotional explosion.
2.
Emma Blackbird checked her cell phone one-handed while tucking her shirt into her riding breeches. A couple of missed calls, but one name on her screen made Emma’s heart stop. Hart Jones.
Her life had been on hold, it seemed, after Hart moved to Europe with his wife. So why was he calling her now? His name glowed on the small screen. She let the call go to voice mail for a chance to think before she actually spoke to the man who’d joined his DNA with hers to create a child neither one of them was raising at the moment. Just thinking about the kid made her temper rise.
Again, the phone rang in her hand, and this time she answered fast, prepared to fight. “Yeah?”
“It’s me.” Her sister Nora’s tense and subdued voice came across the phone line.
Emma let her pulse slow before answering. At least she didn’t have to come up with something to say to Hart before she had decided what to do about him. Then she slapped her forehead. “Oh, shit, Sis. I forgot about lunch, didn’t I?”
“It’s all right. Something’s come up for me, too. I tried to call you earlier, but you didn’t answer. Where are you?”
Emma cast a glance down at the bed where a shaft of late afternoon sunlight cast itself across the splendidly bare-assed form of the young man who lay snoring like a randy bull that had spent his whole day chasing heifers around a pasture. But Nora didn’t need to know the specifics. Emma sat on the edge of the bed and reached for her boots. “Where do you want me to be?”
Nora sounded as if she were cupping her hand around her phone to keep their conversation private. She said, “Libby has kidnapped me.”
“I get it. And I need to rescue you?”
“She has me trapped at the spa, and it was a good distraction for a while. At least it stopped her from talking about her love life. I’m hiding in the changing room.”
“What’s going on with her love life?”
“I’ll tell you everything soon. Right now, I’m in labor. Michael’s meeting us at the hospital, but I was hoping—”
Emma forgot about her boots and cursed. “You’re having the baby? Right now? At Libby’s spa?”
“Well, not this minute, but soon.” Nora’s voice sounded delighted. “Libby insisted I get a pedicure first, and because my contractions have taken their sweet time, I got my hair washed and blown out, too, but now we’re ready to go—as soon as she gets her mud wrap hosed off. Thing is, we need a babysitter for Noah. Libby’s so distracted I hardly trust her with a baby—”
“How far apart are your contractions now?”
“About four minutes.”
“Is the dad-to-be having a meltdown?”
“Michael’s perfectly calm on the phone. Except he says he went out to start the car and somehow left his keys in the refrigerator.” Her tone changed, going tense. “Here comes another contraction. Look, I’d better go. About Noah? Michael’s bringing him to the hospital. Can you take over? Until Libby stops worrying about being arrested for murder?”
“Murder!”
“What else is new, right? See you at the hospital!”
“Wait,” Emma said. “They’re actually going to arrest Libby?”
But Nora was already gone. Emma wasted no time pulling on her boots and heading out the door into the cooling autumn air.
She left her lover without a backward glance. He’d been good fun, and it had been a while since she’d hit the sheets with anyone, but lately Emma had started to feel as if casual sex wasn’t as entertaining as it used to be. She closed the door and headed down the steps. Maybe it was time to re-think the sex thing.
She found her truck where she’d parked alongside the Lambertville condo. She jumped in, barely holding back a grin. It was going to be a great night for welcoming a new member into the family.
Spirits rising, she started the truck and swung out into the street. She drove across the bridge and headed for the hospital.
There were so many possibilities when it came to Libby murdering someone, but Emma narrowed it down to her most recent husband. Was this Libby’s third or fourth? Because there had been so many boyfriends in between, Emma could never keep the count straight. Libby’s first crackpot spouse had died while saving the whales when his speedboat got harpooned. Another one got himself shot at a society wedding. But over the summer Libby had impulsively married a rich old coot with a courtly demeanor and a limitless Viagra prescription. Libby liked the stimulation of the hunt more than the day-to-day mechanics of a marriage, so in no time, she had probably started wishing she hadn’t married one quite so geriatric. When her ancient hubby suddenly kicked the bucket—well, no wonder the
police were curious.
Emma’s phone rang again. She palmed it and answered. “Yeah?”
“It’s me!” Libby cried. The insane one sounded nuttier than ever. If anything, she was putting on a slight British accent. “We’re on our way to hospital!”
“I’m coming, too. Don’t let anything good happen until I get there.”
“First I need you to do me a favor.”
“Uh-oh.”
“Don’t get shirty with me, young lady. Do you have a mo to stop at Starr’s Landing on your way?”
Libby’s new home was the lavish estate of a dead fashion designer. Emma probably should have thanked Libby for making a timely business of buying Starr’s Landing and ending any insurance investigation into the suspicious circumstances in which the whole property was nearly destroyed. But not today.
Emma said, “Do I have a choice?”
“I left all my baby gifts at the house. They’re in the foyer in pink bags. You can’t miss them. Just grab them and come.”
“Why can’t you stop?”
“Nora’s in labor, silly! And I’m avoiding the police. They think I’m going to slip out of the country, which I am, but not for the reason they think. I’m just going to see Rawlins! But they’re staked out in my driveway and want to interview me. I barely sneaked past them this morning.”
“You’re in trouble with the law again, huh?”
“I’ll tell you everything, but not now. Just stop at the house for me?”
“What about asking your boyfriend the bug man to run your errands?”
“Perry is out of the picture,” Libby said with venom. “Permanently.”
The news of another blip in Libby’s long-running affair with her exterminator was no big headline.
With a touch of nervousness, Emma asked, “Are your kids going to be around?” Libby’s offspring included one college-bound teenager who was about to become a parent to an illegitimate child, a pair of twin homicidal maniacs, one little girl with ADHD and an imaginary friend probably destined to become a serial killer, plus a toddler who could best be described as hell on wheels ever since he’d learned how to pedal his tricycle like he was training for a NASCAR track.