by Nancy Martin
And lately, I found myself wondering if being a good girl was overrated.
Emma had said, “Face it. You want to get laid, Sis.”
No kidding. Even though I feared Michael Abruzzo wasn’t as law-abiding as he could be, I found myself embarrassingly aroused by the man. Just his voice on the phone was aphrodisiac enough to cause impure thoughts and a warm flush that started deep inside me.
I swallowed hard. “I think of you, too.”
“In your bed?”
I smiled. “Is this how phone sex starts?”
“Just tell me what you’re wearing.”
“A bathrobe, as a matter of fact. I think Libby is trying to book me a massage.”
He groaned. “This is definitely phone sex now.”
I laughed. “I’ll get dressed. I’m going back to the hospital to see Emma.”
“Am I ever going to get the chance to give you a massage myself? Or are you still living with Libby and the baby?”
“I’m moving out as soon as I can. But it’s complicated.”
“I’ll be back by Friday. We’ll uncomplicate it then.”
Reluctantly, we said good-bye, and he disconnected. I listened to the overseas static for a moment.
Then, just to hear how it sounded, I said, “I love you.”
The police did not arrest Emma, but they put a guard on the door to her hospital room and called it protective custody. They refused to allow Libby or me to see her.
“Why not?” I asked, standing in the hallway outside her hospital room.
“It’s for her own safety,” an officer assured me with a straight face.
Furious at being denied access to my sister, I asked Libby, “What did you tell Bloom’s boss? Something that would incriminate Em?”
“No! Nothing. But I did suggest Captain Tucker try becoming a goddess. She has all the sacred potentials. She just needs to open herself to the cosmic possibilities.”
“It’s a wonder she didn’t arrest you,” I said.
“Hm.” She was too distracted to be insulted. “Before we leave, I think I should find that nice Dr. Quartermaine to thank him for looking after you. Just wait here a minute.”
As crazy as Libby could get, I decided her idea wasn’t a bad one. Except I went looking to thank Tim Naftzinger.
Dr. Naftzinger was seeing patients on the pediatric floor, I was told, so I went upstairs to find him. While he consulted with a nurse in the corridor, I waited outside a room where a family of eight crowded around the bed of a pale little girl. The whole family was watching a Mr. Rogers rerun on the television, their faces turned up to the set and reflecting the same peaceful expression.
Tim had always been quiet and controlled, and I wasn’t surprised to see him just as sedate in his workplace as in his private life. He reminded me of a baseball pitcher—physically lanky, but mentally focused. Perhaps a pediatrician who faced life and death with small children needed to be even-keeled at all times. If he let his emotions roam up and down the scale, he’d be unable to prevent himself from flying off into the stratosphere in the wrong circumstances.
But watching him listen to the nurse, I suddenly remembered a day long ago when his wife had been driving the three of us around to various antique shops in New Hope. Rain pelted the windshield, and Caroline missed a stop sign. A teenager in a Porsche rammed us broadside. The impact wasn’t hard—both cars had been traveling barely ten miles an hour—but we were all shaken up. The teenager got out of his car laughing. He was frightened, I know, but his reaction was giddy shock.
Tim had been furious. He leaped out of the car and slammed the kid up against the Porsche to shout at him. I forced myself between them before fists flew.
Now, standing in the hospital corridor, I realized Caroline had probably been newly pregnant at the time. Tim had been protecting her.
The nurse stopped talking, and Tim began to write an order on the clipboard she held. She seemed respectful yet comfortable with Tim, and I thought he’d probably been nominated for Chief of Pediatrics because he was good at his profession and well-liked by the staff. He finished writing, then noticed me standing there and came over.
I noticed he needed a haircut. More accurately, he needed a wife to tell him he needed a haircut.
I said, “Thank you for looking after Emma this morning.”
“I’m glad I was there.” He put his pen into the breast pocket of his white lab coat. “I think she’s going to be fine. I can’t see her officially, but I have a friend in the emergency room and I put a bug in his ear. He’s going to try to keep Emma here in the hospital as long as he can.”
“Thank you, Tim. I appreciate your help.”
“No problem.” He hesitated. “Emma’s been great to Merrie, you know, helping her with her jumping and . . . letting her talk.” Slowly, he said, “Until now I’ve had a hard time connecting with Merrie. Emma’s made it happen somehow. I’ll do what I can to keep Emma here.”
And out of jail. He didn’t need to say the words, but he blanched just the same. I reached up and gave him a grateful kiss on the cheek. If I wasn’t mistaken, he blushed.
I found Reed in the parking lot, holding Spike’s leash while the puppy attacked a discarded fast-food cup as if it were a rabid wolverine. He was a black, brown and white snarling blur on the asphalt, and the paper cup was already shredded. When he spotted me, Spike dropped the cup and joyously launched himself into the air. I caught him in my arms, and he lapped puppy kisses all over my face.
Reed’s lock on cool was badly shaken. “Mrs. Kintswell was just here.”
“Sorry, Reed. Did she hurt you?”
“No.” Stung by my smile, he straightened. “She told me to tell you she was on her way home with her new friend.”
“What friend?”
Reed shrugged. “A guy with a beard, wearing an earring and a stethoscope.”
I sighed. “Did he look single?”
“What?”
“Never mind. Reed, can you take me to Boathouse Row?”
By way of an answer, he opened the car door and took my arm. I knew he was feeling sorry for me when he helped me into the backseat.
Rubbing Spike’s tummy, I thought about who could have killed Rush Strawcutter. I couldn’t imagine Rush having marital or family problems. He really had been an unthreatening, cheerful guy who made people smile when he turned up with his circus act of little dogs. Everybody seemed to like him. But another item on Michael’s motives for murder was financial difficulty, and the best person to help me learn about the Strawcutter money situation was my friend Lexie Paine.
Richer than most of her megabuck clients, Lexie lived in the only privately owned boathouse on Philadelphia’s famous Boathouse Row. The picturesque Victorian houses stood on a magical curve of the Schuykill River and served as clubhouses for enthusiasts of various water sports, primarily rowing. Through her old family connections, a truckload of money and at least one semi-shady political deal, Lexie had been lucky enough to acquire one of the houses.
With gables, lancet windows and elaborate ginger-bread trim, her home looked like a storybook house. The first floor was still a drafty boathouse, but her second-floor living quarters were home to one of the city’s most valuable private collections of paintings. Lexie’s interest in the art of making money was surpassed only by her appreciation of the fine arts. After her father’s death, she became the principle partner in the brokerage house founded by her great-grandfather, and she counseled some of the city’s most powerful families about their money matters. Her educated yet daring collection of paintings was the envy of many curators.
As Reed pulled into her driveway, his way was blocked by a parked white sports car, a postal truck and a minivan with the logo of a dressmaker painted on the side.
“Looks like Lexie’s in high gear, Reed. This may take a while. I’ll call your cell phone when I’m ready to leave. It will be an hour, at least.”
“Okay.” He sneaked a glance back at Spike, who wa
s snoring on his back on the seat beside me, all four paws twitching in the air as he snarled dreamily. “You taking the animal with you?”
“He looks so peaceful. I hate to wake him. Puppies need their rest.”
Reed glowered at me as I got out of the car.
Lexie Paine worked harder than a lumberjack, and I was lucky to find her at home on a weekend. Her assistant, the diminutive and quietly efficient Samir, let me into the house. He was holding a gigantic vase of lilies, which he’d obviously just arranged. Lexie came out of the bedroom wearing a black velvet ball gown. She was trailed by a stoop-shouldered seamstress with a mouthful of pins.
Lexie yelled, “Sweetie! Here I am dolled up like Cinderella, and you look like you just stepped off a Paris runway. See, Gabrielle, this is how I want to dress. Simply drop-dead gorgeous.”
The seamstress eyed me coldly, and I realized I had interrupted a battle of wills between them. Lexie had firm ideas about her clothing, and her dressmaker was equally adamant. I was glad she had the pins in her mouth. She looked ready to scream.
“Thanks, Lex.” I sidestepped a stack of shipping cartons in the foyer and kissed my friend. “Let’s not use the drop-dead phrase today, all right?”
Lexie held my elbows and saw immediately that I was not myself. But with extra people in her home, she did not ask me to spill it all. Despite the ball gown, she hugged me hard, and the seamstress gave a squeak of panic.
“Come in and relax,” she commanded, pulling me into a bedroom dominated by a Warhol life-sized portrait of Elvis in his gunslinger regalia. Samir placed the vase of lilies on a Stickley library table below the picture and gave the flowers a fluff before leaving.
Lexie climbed back onto the dressmaker’s box and the seamstress grimly went down on her knees to attend to the gown’s hem. Lexie looked svelte and gorgeous with her black hair skinned back in a ponytail and the subtle lines of the velvet gown giving her spare body a few gentling curves. “I’m just taking care of a few details today, but I’ll be finished in two shakes.”
Standing beside the box was a postal delivery man, complete with uniform and clipboard, looking delighted to find himself in the bedroom of a woman as glamorous as Lexie. He said, “Are you ready now, Miss Paine?”
“Oh, of course, sweetie, let me sign for those packages. I’m so sorry to keep you waiting. You’ve just done all my Christmas shopping, you know, and I’m very grateful.”
The postman smiled as she dashed off her signature. “What did I buy everyone?” he asked.
“The DVD of The Godfather. You’d be surprised what a universal gift that is. All my clients get it, and my scads of nephews think I’m very cool. Thank you, sweetie, you’ve been blessedly patient with me.” She shouted for her assistant. “Samir! Will you open one of those cartons and give this charming public servant a copy of The Godfather, please? I know he’ll enjoy it.”
“Hey, thanks, Miss Paine.”
“Merry Christmas!”
Samir ushered the postman out, and Lexie said to me, “Nora, you know Claudine Paltron, don’t you?”
Of course I did. Sitting on a slipper chair by the window and fingering an unlit cigarette was a tense blonde with lots of eyeliner, a swanlike neck and legs as long as those of a gazelle. Only a hermit wouldn’t know Claudine, for ten years the principal dancer of the city ballet. Photos of her extraordinary leaps had graced magazine covers and the entertainment sections of newspapers nationwide. Even now, retired from the stage for a year, she radiated stardom.
“Hi.”
I shook her cool hand. “I’m Nora Blackbird.”
“Oh, sure,” she said. “I remember you. You interviewed me for the paper once.”
“I did, yes.”
“Thanks. My agent said you didn’t make me sound like an idiot.”
“I enjoyed many of your performances. I hear the ballet is trying to woo you back to become the new artistic director.”
She looked startled. “How do you know about that?”
“I’m sorry,” I said at once. “I thought it was common knowledge.”
Claudine waved her cigarette dismissively. “Maybe it is. I don’t read the papers. Who does your clothes?”
I smiled. Because of my reduced financial circumstances, I had been forced to dive into my grandmother Blackbird’s exquisite collection of couture clothing amassed over a lifetime of fashion safaris to Paris and Milan. Thank heaven most of the pieces fit me or I’d have nothing to wear to all the parties I attended. To Claudine, I said, “My grandmother.”
“Oh, yeah? I like the boots especially. I wonder if they’re my size.”
Lexie gave me the eye and said, “Were you out with the gentry at the hunt breakfast this morning, Nora?”
“Yes.”
“Oh.” Claudine perked up. “Dougie Forsythe was there. Did you see him?”
“I—No, I didn’t.”
“Tell us who misbehaved, sweetie, that’s always the interesting stuff.”
The breakfast seemed weeks ago, but I forced myself to sound casual. “I bumped into Hadley Pinkham at first. He hasn’t changed.”
“Dear Hadley. What a posh sort of scoundrel he is. Did he crash the gate?”
“Of course. He could sneak into the Forbidden City, I think. And he always looks like a matinee idol.”
Lexie laughed. “Oh, I hope he has a dark side. He’d be a cliché otherwise. Who else?”
“Tottie Boarman, looking furious.”
“Of course he’s furious! If you’d lost fifteen million dollars on Friday afternoon alone, you’d be out of sorts. I’m not telling tales—it will be front page of the Wall Street Journal on Monday.”
“Good Lord.”
Lexie waved her hand. “A drop in his bucket, sweetie. A mere drop.”
Claudine said, “It’s not a drop in my bucket. The bastard lost me a small fortune.”
“You’re on the path to wellness now,” Lexie assured her. As Gabrielle finished pinning and sat back on her heels, Lexie turned on the box, studying herself in the mirror. “What do you think, girls? Will this do for the ballet Christmas gala on Friday? I’m making an appearance on behalf of the museum board as a show of cultural accord.”
“It would do for a presentation to the Queen,” I said. “It’s stunning.”
Lexie stepped down and patted Gabrielle’s cheek. “Of course it is. Gabrielle is my secret weapon. Would you like a copy of The Godfather, my precious?”
“Sure,” said Gabrielle, brightening.
“And let’s get together soon for a talk about my spring clothes. I need at least two dresses at Easter. Maybe one of them could look very Dolce, hm?” She put her slender arm around Gabrielle and guided her out of the bedroom. “I’m sure you’ve found some Merchant-Ivory fabrics. Just nothing with sequins. You know how I feel about sequins. The rest I leave up to you, of course. You’re brilliant. A jewel.”
Gabrielle was nodding. “I’ll do some sketches and call you after the holidays.”
“You’re definitely my secret weapon, sweetie. Thanks for coming over. Now run along to get your DVD, and I’ll have this ready for you in two shakes.”
Lexie neatly handed Gabrielle over to Samir, who eased her away. Lexie closed the bedroom door behind them and began to strip off the gown.
“Honestly,” she said, “I get so exasperated with divas.”
I smiled.
Claudine said, “I don’t know why you go through this, Lexie. You could run up to New York and buy whatever you like.”
“I refuse to spend fifty thousand dollars on a dress created by an insufferable man who hates women and tells me to lose weight. Besides, I like to support the economy here in Philadelphia. I feel like Rosie the Riveter when I whip out my credit card.”
“And Gabrielle is wonderful,” I added.
“She is going to be huge some day,” Lexie agreed, stripped down to her bra and panties. She threw the gown across her bed and grabbed a pair of jeans. Moments later, she was st
epping into Ferragamo loafers and pulling on a sweater that looked like a woolly sheepdog and probably cost more than I was paid for a month’s work.
The ever serene Samir came in with a tray of Water-ford tumblers and small bottles of V8 juice. He set it on the hassock and gathered up the gown on his way out.
Lexie gratefully patted his cheek as he went by, then poured us a round of juice and flopped on her bed.
“I can’t stay.” Claudine sipped from the cut crystal. “This is too cold, anyway. I never drink anything chilled below seventy-eight degrees. I just wanted to thank you, Lexie, for all your help.”
“Oh, stick around, sweetie. My chef was here yesterday and left enough food to feed the Sixth Fleet. And it’s all very tasty, too, I promise. No wheatgrass. I put my foot down when it comes to wheatgrass.”
“No, I have some real celebrating to do, and I want to get started.”
“Of course,” Lexie said.
Claudine turned to me. Her very long nose, pointed chin and heavy, arching brows made for an imperfect face that stage lighting transformed into beauty so astounding that audiences had been known to gasp when the curtain rose to reveal her. In person, though, she looked as though her features were made of stretched Silly Putty—longer, bigger, thinner than on stage.
She lowered her eyes in a stagey imitation of reticence. “I’ve just been through a terrible ordeal, and Lexie has been a godsend.”
“Well,” Lexie began.
“No, it’s all right.” To me Claudine said, “I was blackmailed.”
Lexie sent me an apologetic glance. Now that the cat was out of the bag, I was required to be discreet.
Inadequately, I said, “I’m so sorry.”
“Oh, I suppose I deserved it. Having an affair always has a price.” She flashed her wedding and engagement rings, one with a diamond as big as a jelly bean and a blaze of smaller stones surrounding it. “My husband is a perfectly nice man who shouldn’t have his name ruined because of my behavior. Especially now that he’s raising all those millions for the ballet capital fund. It cost me a fortune to get the photos. Lexie had to help me organize the money.”
