by Nancy Martin
Lexie said, “Against my will. I wish you’d gone to the police, Claudine.”
“No way. Osgood would have found out for sure.”
Years ago, Claudine had astonished the city by marrying Osgood Paltron, the sinfully wealthy inventor of an insect-repelling device for campers. In his younger days, he made shouting television commercials as the Zapper Czar, but eventually he retired with his millions and devoted himself to becoming a ballet aficionado. For years everyone had assumed he was gay. His marriage proved either he wasn’t or he was prepared to pay Claudine’s legendary credit card bills in exchange for a heterosexual reputation. The jury was still out.
Osgood’s money and Claudine’s fame combined to create pillow power that rivaled the most successful and bizarre husband-and-wife duos in show business or politics. As a team, they were nationally known. Separately, however, they were definitely second tier.
“Osgood still might find out,” Lexie said. “Especially if you continue to see Dougie.”
Claudine sighed. “Oh, I can’t give up Dougie. He’s completely stupid except in bed, and there he’s Einstein and Man o’ War rolled into one. And he’s so jealous, which is always a turn-on.”
Lexie and I dared not look at each other.
Claudine unconsciously stroked her own sinewy arms. “I’m just relieved it’s over now. The blackmail, I mean. It’s been such a trial.”
“Let me try just one more time,” Lexie said quite seriously. “It’s not too late, Claudine. You can still go to the authorities. Who knows if this person will come back to you later for more money? He’s already dipped into your well three times.”
“But I have the photos now. And the negatives.”
“How can you be sure you have them all? You can’t trust a blackmailer. And heaven knows he might try the same with other people—your friends. You’d be doing a public service by bringing him to justice.”
“To hell with the public. I’ve given them enough already.” Claudine stood up and suddenly looked every inch the exquisite, world-class ballerina—a tall willow with a core of steel. She cupped the lilies with one graceful hand and bent to inhale their fragrance in a gesture so feminine and beautiful that she had made grown men weep when she executed it during Giselle. She straightened just as gracefully. “I’m just glad I’m free at last. And I wanted to thank you, Lexie, for your help. You’ve been great. Enjoy the flowers. I’ve got to run now. I’m meeting Dougie this afternoon for a quickie, and then Osgood and I have a cocktail thing tonight. Nice to see you, Nora.”
“If you change your mind,” Lexie said, “I’ll do anything I can to help.”
“Don’t worry. It’s over now. Kiss, kiss. Oh, and can I have one of those Godfather DVDs?”
“Take two,” Lexie urged as Claudine went out of the room.
When we were alone, Lexie said, “I’m so sorry about that, Nora. It’s hell knowing other people’s secrets.”
“I won’t say a word.”
She slugged the rest of her tomato juice and stood with one fist braced on her slim hip. “I’m almost glad you know, actually. Have you heard of anyone else being blackmailed? Anyone among our friends?”
“No, but it’s hardly the kind of trouble a person advertises.”
“I know. It’s trouble that’s contagious, however. I’ve been seeing some very peculiar withdrawals lately, and I’m sure people aren’t buying expensive Christmas gifts with the money.” She glared at the flowers Claudine had brought for her. “God, I hate lilies!”
“They smell like funerals.”
“Damn right.” She carried the flowers outside and left them on her balcony. When she returned and closed the door again, she asked, “Do you suppose Claudine Paltron has read a single book in her life?”
“She’s upset you.”
“I swear, it doesn’t pay to have small clients anymore. From now on, I’m only taking billionaires.” Lexie pulled me to sit beside her on the edge of the bed. “Forget about me now. Tell me what’s wrong, darling. You looked ghastly when you came in. What in the world has happened? Is it Michael? Has he been arrested? The whole money-laundering thing is true, after all?”
I shook my head. “The hunt breakfast.”
I told her about Rush Strawcutter’s death. Lexie was horrified.
“And Emma was in the same stall?” Lexie cried. “Oh, my God, what was she doing?”
“She was unconscious, Lex. She’s been drinking lately, and I—we’ve—tried to talk to her about it, but—”
Lexie shook her head. “You can’t control someone else’s addiction, Nora. You of all people, should know that by now.”
“It’s not the same as Todd,” I said. “It really isn’t. I should have helped her before now.”
Lexie gave my shoulder a shake. “Do you hear yourself? This is exactly the kind of thing you were saying about Todd!”
“So sue me for not wanting to hear myself say the same thing if something happens to Emma!”
“Emma is an adult—”
“With problems and pressures we don’t understand. She lost her husband, for God’s sake, and a very high-profile life. Now she can’t ride the way she wants to, which has to be—”
“You’re making excuses for her.”
“Dammit, Lexie!”
She hugged me hard and didn’t let go. “Go ahead and get angry with me. I’m your friend, and I can take it. But you’re tilting at the same old windmill.”
“It’s not a windmill,” I insisted.
“Let’s be constructive. Do you have a lawyer yet?” She held me away so that she could see my face.
“Yes, one of Michael’s.”
“Well, it doesn’t get any better than that, I’m sure, so—Oh, sorry, sweetie. I didn’t mean—”
“I know. Listen, Lex, I need to find out about Rush Strawcutter. If I can figure out what was going on in his life, maybe I can piece together what happened.”
“Was Emma seeing him? I mean, were they lovers?”
“I don’t know,” I said honestly. “I’m trying not to think that way. I’m hoping to find out about Rush.”
Lexie bit her lip. “Does client-broker privilege exist after death?”
“Is there such a thing?”
“Of course. Look, I can’t give you dollar amounts, but I can tell you that Rush was not given free access to the Strawcutter fortune.”
“What does that mean?”
“He received a small allowance. Very small. I’m not revealing any long-kept secrets if I say all the Strawcutters are Scrooges. They have that huge, ugly house in Bryn Mawr, but it hasn’t been redecorated since 1953, I swear. And Gussie has held the purse strings just as tightly as her forefathers. You know that old station wagon Rush drove?”
“He always said he used it so he could carry his dogs around.”
“That was bullshit. It was all he could afford. I’m surprised he had enough money for gas. I’m telling you, Gussie hardly let the man have five dollars to buy his lunch every day. That’s why he was starting that business of his.”
“Laundro-Mutt.”
Lexie smiled grimly. “Don’t let the name fool you. He had a sound business plan. He thought he was inventing the Starbucks of the pet world.”
“How did he get the start-up money for such a venture? Did Gussie help?”
“Lord, no. Their prenup forbade that kind of thing. He had to go elsewhere.”
“A bank? Lex, please, I don’t want you to betray a professional confidence, but—”
“Emma’s in trouble. I know you’ll be discreet, Nora. And I wouldn’t say a word if Rush were still alive. Anyway, with accusations flying around the world of finance like confetti these last few days, I’m probably the last to start blabbing. Rush borrowed the money from Tottie Boarman.”
Immediately, I remembered the furious expression on Tottie’s face as he’d dismounted his horse and stormed past me at the hunt breakfast.
“I know Tottie’s already in the ha
ndbasket to hell, and the amount of dough he loaned to Rush is substantial—at least seven zeroes.”
More than enough money to kill for, I thought. “But listen, Nora. You can’t just barge into offices all over town and start asking questions. These are very high stakes.”
“My stakes are high, too.”
“I know. I know how you feel about Emma. Just promise you’ll be careful.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll find a backdoor. In fact, I know just which latch to jiggle first.”
Chapter 5
The best place to dig up juicy gossip about anyone was The Philadelphia Intelligencer, the city’s sensational rag that printed equal amounts of news and innuendo. It was a far-from-hallowed institution that employed journalists either too young, too old, too encumbered with young children or too attached to their addiction of choice to work for a real newspaper, and the printed results were not the pinnacle of journalistic excellence.
It was, of course, the only paper that hired such unqualified amateurs as myself.
I’d been signed by the newspaper’s owner to help cover the social beat with the understanding that I work under the experienced battle-ax who’d held most of Philadelphia’s society hostage for years through her column and weekly social page. Using techniques that would make a master extortionist proud, Kitty Keough was the self-appointed high priestess of high society.
Kitty hated my guts for having been to the manor born while she’d grown up in a dilapidated Allentown double-wide that was foreclosed upon when her father ran off with the collected union dues of a steelworkers’ local and later turned up dead on a railroad track. Which, I admit, were the facts I learned the day a chain-smoking coworker showed me how to work the Intelligencer’s computerized archive.
So Kitty hadn’t grown up in a happy household where luxuries came easily. I, on the other hand, had been photographed for the Intelligencer when I was presented to society as a debutante, became engaged, married the son of an equally prominent family and was elected to office by my many pals in the Junior League.
For those events in my life, Kitty didn’t just hate my guts. She wanted to cut them out with a rusty knife, roast them over fiery coals and throw the smoking remains in the Schuykill River to feed the carp.
I swallowed hard when Kitty belittled and abused me in full view of my colleagues. I could not risk being fired. With the tax man planning to acquire my two-hundred-year-old home any day now, I needed my job desperately.
Fortunately, my colleagues found Kitty’s tirades entertaining. Most of the time.
“Oh-oh.” My friend, Mary Jude, the quirky lead writer for the food section, saw me coming into the office late Saturday afternoon and shooed me off with a paperback cookbook. “Go home,” she ordered. “We’re too busy to call an ambulance for Kitty if she has a brain hemorrhage.”
Mary Jude Yashurick wore a crooked set of reindeer antlers over her blond crew cut and a handknit sweater that depicted Rudolph, complete with a red light bulb for his nose, which flashed thanks to a battery pack hidden somewhere on her body. She was a Columbia School of Journalism grad, a single mom who could only work part-time, so she’d been hired by the Intelligencer, where her talents were exploited for a shamefully low salary. She favored short skirts with black tights to show off her lean legs and minimize her hips, which were large enough to give her the silhouette of a cello. Her mincemeat pie was the stuff of Christmas legend, and I looked forward to trying it for the first time at the upcoming office party. I understood I’d need a hockey stick to beat off the competition.
She tapped her computer screen. “I’m serious, Nora. I’m on deadline here so I can get home in time to take Trevor to a birthday party. I can’t be distracted by the Kitty Show right now. I need all my concentration to analyze butter cookie recipes. Good Lord, what’s that?”
“His name is Spike.”
Mary Jude recoiled from my handbag. “Is he a dog, or a muskrat?”
Okay, Spike wasn’t beauty-contest material, but I felt my defenses rise. “He’s a Canadian bristle terrier. Be careful. He’ll take your ear off faster than Mike Tyson.”
“Here, let’s keep him occupied with a cookie.” She offered a tray of assorted treats, arranged and numbered on plastic plates. “See which one he likes best. I can’t decide.”
Spike took the proffered cookie like a shark snapping a minnow. He disappeared into my handbag with it. Only slightly more politely, I accepted a cookie, too.
“Delish,” I said when it melted on my tongue.
“I never met a butter cookie that wasn’t. Here, try another. Have you really come looking for Kitty?”
I nibbled my cookie and sat on the edge of her desk. “I need her permission to get into the archive. I don’t have access.”
Mary Jude grinned. “I do. Give me an opinion on these cookies, and I’ll help you find anything you want.”
“Deal.”
She twisted her computer monitor around so I could see it. While Spike and I shared cookies, Mary Jude typed and clicked until we found half a dozen recent articles about Tottie Boarman’s wheeling and dealing. We started in the business section, and I skimmed through long explanations of venture capitalists and how Tottie had allegedly made himself a bundle while taking his friends to the cleaners. He invested in start-ups, then demanded his money back as the business blossomed, usually forcing the owners to go public to raise money by issuing stock. Once the stock was issued, Tottie also bought the stock and sold it before cash-flow problems started, thanks to his original bail-out. He doubled his investment before the companies went bad.
“Nice guy,” Mary Jude commented.
A basic biography told us that Tottie had never married and had no children. But I remembered hearing my father and his pals chuckling over brandy and cigars one night, making remarks about Tottie’s “tarts.” At the time, I remember wondering if he liked desserts.
We searched through other sections of the paper next. I was surprised to see several of Kitty Keough’s social columns pop up in front of us.
“Look at this.” Mary Jude stabbed the point of a cookie Christmas tree at the screen. “For a man who spends most of his time making money, this Boarman character sure gets a lot of space in Kitty’s columns.”
“He goes to a lot of charitable events.”
“But only lately, see?”
I read the dates on the columns. “You’re right. Now that I think of it, I haven’t seen Tottie at many functions over the years. He must be trying to win back public approval by showing what a philanthropist he is.”
“That’s how it works, huh?”
“Oh, yes. Now and then somebody uses the social scene to score points. Remember Stewart Kane Archer? The canned-pea magnate who built the church in Germantown?”
“He was around in the twenties? Sure. My cousin was married at that church.”
“Well, Archer was one of those few captains of industry who didn’t lose his shirt during the crash of ’29, and he managed to do it by ruining a lot of his friends—including a couple of great-uncles of mine. So he built the church to show what a nice guy he was. Except my grandfather started calling it Archer’s Fire Escape. Archer eventually moved to New York to get away from the ridicule.”
Mary Jude laughed. “Cute. I never heard that.” She spun her chair sideways to look up at me critically. “You’re perfect for this job, Nora. You don’t even know what you know until you need it. Too bad we’re stuck with Kitty. I can see why she’s jealous of you.”
“Kitty is loved by readers. I don’t have the poison pen that sells papers.”
“Hm. I see your point.”
Spike reappeared and growled. Mary Jude tossed him another cookie, and he snapped it out of the air with raptorlike accuracy.
“Anyway, I try to mind my manners around Kitty,” I said. “She’s looking for any way possible to get me fired.”
Mary Jude shrugged. “I think you’re safe. Unless she’s got a plan for her troll.”
“Her troll?”
With a grin, Mary Jude jerked her head toward the row of offices that lined the open area where all the reporters worked. “They’re all in Stan’s lair right now. Why don’t you have a look? Just don’t trip over the little guy.”
Curiosity won over my distaste for Kitty. I gave Spike another cookie to keep him busy, and went across the features department floor to the office of Stan Rosenstatz, the department editor. Stan had stopped popping antacids and was slugging directly from a Maalox bottle when I tapped on his door. Kitty stood in front of him, decked out in a Mae West-style silver lame dress with a boa draped around her shoulders. The feather kind. Her fur coat lay over a chair like a fleabitten bear that had passed out after too many cocktails.
Kitty was saying, “My assistant must come with me tonight, Stan. I need him to take my phone calls.”
Stan put his Maalox in a desk drawer. “Nora is your assistant, Kitty. We’re not paying anyone else to tag along with you.”
“Andrew doesn’t tag,” Kitty said. “He’s a vital cog in the wheel of my working machine. Plus he can take pictures, so I won’t need a staff photographer.”
“Staff photographers are on staff because we pay for their skilled services. We don’t use amateur stuff.”
I stepped into the office and nearly stumbled over a young man built like a tree stump. He didn’t hear me coming because he had a cell phone in each hand, and the respective earpieces were fitted into his right and left ears. A large camera hung on a strap around his neck.
Stan looked startled. “Nora!”
Kitty turned and looked as if she wished she could open a trapdoor beneath my feet. “Sweet Knees,” she said. “What are you doing here tonight?”
“Filing my story about the hunt breakfast.” I put my hand down to the young man I had no trouble identifying as the troll Mary Jude had mentioned. He was wearing a badly fitted rental tuxedo with lapels as wide as duck wings. The pants puddled around his ankles. “Hello, I’m Nora Blackbird.”
