by Nancy Martin
I must have spoken with more ferocity than I thought.
“Okay,” Gus said, nodding, full of contrition.
“You can’t pull that kind of cowboy stunt here. This isn’t some Third World town where you can make up your own rules. It’s Philadelphia, the birthplace of the Constitution!”
“I know,” he said.
“Go get that bug back.”
“Right.”
I left him on the corner holding the ice to his swelling face. I walked across town to my next event.
Since I was within walking distance of a place I’d learned about from Michael, I went a little farther and pushed through the door of a giant pawnshop on the edge of South Philly. A clerk looked up from a computer and nearly knocked over his own chair to get to me fast. When I asked after the proprietor, one of Michael’s shady friends, I was told he was off the premises. The clerk stood behind glass cases full of glittering watches and abandoned jewelry, trying to look down the black lace of my cleavage.
It was time to do something about our financial situation, so I pawned the earrings Todd had given me. I walked out with two hundred dollars. I could have taken a cab with that money, but I decided a continued austerity plan was good for me, so I walked the rest of the way to my evening event.
Even though I’d made a detour along the way, I arrived fifteen minutes too early for the party and grabbed the first waiter who walked past. “Are there any appetizers?”
He must have seen I was as ravenous as a wolf, because he provided me with a plate. I took it out to the garden and ate while trying to put Gus out of my head. Maybe he wanted to sell newspapers, but bugging a suspect was way, way out of my comfort zone. I wanted nothing to do with it. I only hoped he was taking my advice at that very moment and returning to the restaurant to retrieve the listening device.
Somehow, I doubted it.
The party was a small cocktail affair in the magnificent home of a friend of mine, Angelica Gump, a pipeline heiress. Angelica championed a scholarship fund for foreign students who wanted to study in the United States. Any student who wanted to study American law could apply for a grant from her foundation. She gave considerable money to the fund every year, and she threw an elegant party on her patio to encourage other contributors.
I sat on a carved marble garden bench and brushed my fingers through the pink peonies that had been massed in twin flower pots on either side of the bench. Where must peonies be shipped from at this time of year? I wondered how many meals Michael could put on a table for the price of those peonies. But extravagances like flowers encouraged big donors to give more money. So I understood the strategy.
My phone rang.
When I answered, Emma said, “Where are you?”
I told her. Then I said, “I’m not feeling very kindly disposed to you at the moment.”
But she had hung up and didn’t hear me.
Within a few minutes, Angelica—six feet two in her towering Louboutin heels and a fire engine red cocktail dress—came out onto the flagstone patio and made a beeline for me. She was not exactly beautiful—her family’s nose was a spectacular genetic specimen—but she elaborately made up her dark eyes and always looked exotic.
“Nora, somebody said you were here already. Is everything all right?”
I got up from the marble bench as I tried to swallow my mouthful of bruschetta with heirloom tomato and fresh basil. Apologetically, I said, “I missed lunch. I’m starving. I tackled one of your waiters and wrestled him to the ground to get some food. Is he traumatized?”
Angelica laughed. “He’ll survive.” She gave me a hug and steadied the plate in my hand when I bobbled it. “You look like you just walked out of a fashion magazine—as always. You’re a peach to come, Nora. Thanks for plugging our cause in your column.”
“I’m happy to do it. I wish more people saw the value in starting scholarship funds. Especially ones like yours that promote a healthy cultural exchange.”
Angelica had loved education—we had met in boarding school—and she had earned her first PhD before she was twenty-two. She had hiked all over Kazakhstan in search of new oil fields and spent a summer living on an oil rig in the North Sea to study new seismic technologies. She married a Scotsman, a petroleum engineer, and they promptly had two children. But he continued to live in Scotland, and she kept her impressive house in Philadelphia. I’d heard that my friend had recently jumped into an executive position with a blue-chip company, so travel and a young family hadn’t slowed her down.
She linked her arm through mine to pull me down to the raised beds that would soon be overflowing with colorful and fragrant flowers. A large swing set stood on a grassy spot above the rose bushes, and we could see her two beautiful children playing with their nanny.
Angelica waved. The kids—both under four—waved back, but they stayed with the nanny, a tall girl who clearly had the children eating out of her hand.
“That’s Brooke,” Angelica said. “Our fourth au pair in two years.”
“Wow. Why the turnover? Your kids seem to be angels.”
“Oh, my kids aren’t the reason au pairs leave. They get better offers.”
“What do you mean?”
“The competition for truly talented child care is incredible. Can you guess what we’re paying Brooke? Almost two hundred thousand a year, plus her own investment account and a car. Not just any car, but the latest Lexus SUV. And I had to outbid three upwardly mobile acquaintances to get her. But she has a master’s in early childhood education, speaks French and Italian and Arabic, and she makes bath time into a Broadway production, so my children adore her. She’s a better mother to them than I could ever be. And she doesn’t mind flying with the kids to see their papa every six weeks. So I’ll pay the going rate to keep her. What do you think of that?”
“I think I should go back and get a degree in education and learn some languages.”
Angelica laughed. “You’re lucky you don’t have kids, Nora. You can pursue your career as you please.”
“Hmm,” I said.
With a critical eye she watched her family clambering on the swing set. “I keep thinking I should have waited a little longer. I took almost three years out of my working life at a crucial time. I lost a lot of ground. If I’d waited until I was forty—well, maybe I’d be farther along the career path. Maybe I’d have reached some important goals by now.”
I found myself at a loss for words. If I could have chosen, I’d have had children years ago—lots of them—but fate hadn’t exactly worked in my favor. Maybe, I thought, I should focus on my work now. With Gus to push me and a friend like Dilly to act as a mentor, I could get ahead as Angelica said.
Briskly, Angelica turned to me. “Now, what’s this I hear about sweet Nora Blackbird jumping the tracks? My mother called. She says you’re writing outrageous stuff under a fake name in some ghastly newspaper?”
“The ghastly newspaper is my employer, the Intelligencer, but I didn’t write the articles.”
“Thank God. I told Mama it couldn’t have been you.”
“Well, I provided some of the information. I’m very embarrassed about that, Angie. I’m still learning the ropes. I screwed up this time.”
She patted my arm. “At least nothing exploded. In my line of work, when things go bad, there’s major destruction.”
“I feel as though I lit a fuse, though. So I’ve got some fires to put out.”
“Seeking redemption is good for the soul. You can start by telling your readers how terrific my scholarship fund is. But first, it looks as if you could use a little more food.”
I looked down at my plate and realized I had demolished all the appetizers, including a sprig of parsley intended as a garnish. Blushing, I let Angelica lead me back into her home—a once-sedate Federal-style manse that had been splashed with e
lectric colors of paint and Angelica’s collection of tribal art. Even though the catering company had taken over some of the private areas, the rest of the house was open to guests, and I mingled.
But instead of making meaningful conversation, I found myself thinking maybe it was better for Michael and me to remain childless for a while. The financial responsibilities that Angelica had outlined were far beyond our means.
I rounded a corner and nearly ran slap into a couple sipping wine in front of Angelica’s latest acquisition—a surprisingly ugly painting of the St. Andrews golf course.
I introduced myself and discovered they were Jorge Ramirez, a law professor visiting from Texas, and his new wife, Elizabeth Regner. He had a lively face with dark eyes and a fringe of black hair, while she was slender in a long, narrow skirt and a statement necklace that fell nearly to her waist.
“We’re enjoying a few days in Philadelphia,” Elizabeth explained, clasping her husband’s hand with a smile. “Jorge and I haven’t had a honeymoon yet, so we’re soaking up the culture here—art museums and cheesesteaks.”
“The cheesesteaks may be an acquired taste,” Jorge said with a twinkle in his eye, making me laugh.
I gave them a rave review of the new Barnes collection. I had attended a gala there just a few weeks earlier. “I think you’ll love the space as much as the art. It’s an astonishing collection, and the ensembles Dr. Barnes created are beautiful. You’ll be thinking about it for weeks after visiting.”
“Thanks—it sounds like just my thing,” Elizabeth said.
“Where are you staying?” I asked.
“The Rittenhouse.”
I suggested they might enjoy afternoon tea in their hotel. “It’s one of my favorites. The restaurant is so pretty. That is, if Jorge doesn’t mind tea sandwiches instead of cheesesteaks.”
They laughed easily. As a passing waiter offered us appetizers, Elizabeth said to me, “Have one of the figs. They’re stuffed with some kind of cheese. Delicious.”
I ate one and immediately asked the waiter for another. “I don’t know why I’m so ravenous,” I said to Elizabeth.
Jorge indulgently watched us chat, but his arm was jostled by a burly oil executive who pushed past, saying he’d played the Scottish course recently and wanted to see the painting. Politely, we listened to him brag about his score and the awful weather and which club he’d chosen for an important shot. Inside, I winced at the idea that the visiting Texans were forced to listen to a typical Philadelphia bore—a very successful businessman who thought his own experiences were far superior to anyone else’s. He had obviously forgotten I had already met him, but I introduced Jorge and Elizabeth anyway. He didn’t get the hint and proceeded to regale them with more golf.
Which was when I noticed his wife.
I remembered Chen Dan Dan had been a model in Hong Kong before she met her husband. He had whisked her out of the fashion world to become his high-profile spouse. Tonight she looked bored out of her wits, her beautiful face smooth but barely hiding the frantic darting of her dark, wide-set eyes. She held a glass of scotch in her slender hand. Thinking nobody watched her, she drained the glass and looked around for a waiter.
Abandoning Jorge and Elizabeth to their unfortunate fate, I approached her and introduced myself. In my nearly forgotten Mandarin, I said, “I traveled in China many years ago. You must miss your beautiful country.”
Her smile bloomed like the sun, and she immediately burst into a flood of language that I barely understood.
I laughed and apologized for my shortcomings, but I had won her over with my attempt to communicate in her native tongue.
She said, “That’s okay. It’s nice to hear a friendly word. Hardly anyone knows any languages in this country.”
“We’re terribly provincial,” I agreed, glad that her English was far better than my Mandarin. “Everyone I met in Beijing knew two languages. I love your dress.”
Dan Dan wore a simple draped frock of black chiffon that swooped around her slim curves, yet managed to flatter her petite height. Somehow, the sharp angles of her short, chin-cupping haircut seemed to echo the shape of the dress. She plucked at one of the pleats and said with a proud smile, “Valentino. He gave it to me after a shoot a few years ago.”
“It must have been a thrill to work with him.”
“He’s a genius,” Dan Dan agreed. “And your suit? Dolce and Gabbana?”
“But very old,” I said. “It belonged to my grandmother.”
“She had style, your nainai. Are you in fashion?”
“No, actually, I’m a reporter. I’m taking a few pictures for my newspaper’s social column. May I take yours?”
Dan Dan agreed and struck an effortlessly chic pose for my phone camera, one hand on her hip, the other limp at her side, shoulder back. But she projected a lively energy into the lens, and I took the liberty of snapping several photos of her.
Finishing up, I said, “Do you keep in touch with your friends back in China?”
“A few. Most of my family has moved here, though.”
“How nice. It must have been hard to be separated by such a great distance.”
“Very hard,” she agreed. “When growing up, my sisters and I used to fight like—how do you say it?—dogs and kittens? But I missed them so much, so we helped them move to the United States.”
“I have sisters, too, and we still fight,” I said again, trying to ease her back into the topic I wanted to ask her about. “You knew a lot of designers in China?”
“Yes, but it’s hard for the Chinese to make international reputations in fashion. We must look back into our culture, back to find Chinese ideas that translate to the global market. Not many have found the right path yet.”
“So if they can’t create their own designs, what do they do?”
She lifted her elegant shoulders. “Work for other designers, foreign designers, doing piecework, not whole collections. Learning, making contacts, growing as artists.”
I gave up trying to be subtle. “Dan Dan, did you know Swain Starr?”
She blinked at me, dimple gone. “I did not work for Starr. Not that I know of.”
“Not that you—?”
“Starr has studios all over China. Many cities. Sometimes many designers use the same facilities, especially in ready-to-wear, so it’s a mix-up.”
“I see.”
She looked around for a waiter. Or maybe for a way to escape our conversation.
Before she fled, I blurted out, “Did he design his own clothes? Or did somebody else do the creative work?”
Dan Dan gave me a cold look. “He’s dead now. What does that matter?”
It might matter a lot, I thought. But I decided honesty was the best tactic. “My nephew is in trouble. My sister’s son.” In a few sentences, I sketched out Rawlins’s problem. “I need to know, Dan Dan.”
Dan Dan glanced cautiously around again, then lowered her voice. “Swain might have designed some of his sportswear. But not all. It was a well-guarded secret. Many designers work for Starr. He was generous with them, to keep them quiet. Not long ago, though, he stopped paying, and people were resentful.”
That might help explain why Starr Industries had faltered in recent years. And why Swain’s daughter felt compelled to rush off to China when he died. Had she gone to rehire the many designers who had created the Starr look?
I thanked Dan Dan. I tried to give her my card and agree to lunch sometime soon, but she was eager to forget she’d ever met me. She walked over to her husband and interrupted his epic golf tale by putting her hand meaningfully on his arm. Jorge and Elizabeth didn’t miss a beat but wished him good sport in the future.
To Elizabeth, I said, “Sorry to abandon you.”
She laughed. “I can handle the occasional bore. Thanks for the museum suggestion. We’ll g
o tomorrow.”
I shook both their hands and wished them a happy honeymoon.
Someone grabbed my arm then, and I turned to find myself confronted by one of my father’s drinking pals. “How’s the old man?” he demanded, breathing fumes of booze in my face.
While Jorge and Elizabeth eased away, I told him my parents were fine, but I soon found myself trapped into listening about a recent change in the rules of croquet, which I was assured my father needed to know about the next time he was in touch. I was relieved when the front door opened and my little sister blew in as if she owned the place.
Emma spotted me and came over. She was wearing a Versace cocktail dress from Grandmama’s collection—a dress I would never wear in a million years, so I’d given it to Em, thinking she might someday have an occasion to zip into it. Like maybe a Halloween party. In typical Versace style, the hot purply pink silk number was cut down to eye-popping depths and slit from her knee up to show the color of Emma’s panties if she wasn’t careful. The fabric had been slashed and looked as if it had been attacked with a weed whacker. Emma’s long legs were spectacular, her cleavage the envy of any pole dancer within five states. Her buff arms showed the results of her recent return to physical training.
In short, she looked like a dominatrix on her way to the senior prom.
Our father’s droning friend dropped his glass, and it smashed to bits on the floor. In the resulting flurry of waiters to clean up the mess, Emma pulled me into the foyer.
I said, “Where are you going in that dress? Is Hooters hiring?”
“Never mind,” she said. “You gotta come outside.”
“Right now I’m not feeling very cooperative, Emma.” Michael’s description of how she’d chased him around my house was still fresh in my mind. And burning Starr’s barn was a crime I couldn’t ignore.
She said, “I’ve got Porky Starr in my truck.”
I had been prepared to knock her on her gorgeous butt at the first opportunity, but she took me by surprise. “Porky’s in your—? What’s going on?”