by Nancy Martin
I sat on one of the armchairs while my friend grabbed two chilled water bottles from the silver tray on her credenza. She passed one to me and sat behind her desk. She twisted the cap off her bottle. “Tell me about Emma first. Is she all right? Have you heard from her?”
“I believe she’s okay,” I said carefully. “The police are looking for her.”
“So I’ve heard.” She sipped water and watched me. “Dare I ask if Michael is back in the country?”
“He is.”
“Are the police hounding him on that money-laundering thing?”
“I don’t know. I’m staying out of it.”
“Good thinking. Ignorance is bliss—and it will keep you from being indicted.”
I wanted to ask Lexie if she thought Michael had gone to Scotland to trade in dirty currency, but I didn’t have the courage to hear her answer. For an instant, I was overwhelmed by emotion.
Lexie saw my expression and came out from behind her desk. “I’m so sorry, sweetie. You must be in hell. Forget I brought it up. It was out of line, anyway.”
“It wasn’t out of line,” I said, regaining myself. “You’re my friend.”
“I am indeed.” She perched on her desk in front of me. “As long as Emma’s safe for the moment and Michael’s not in the pokey, I guess all’s right with the world. Now, what did you learn from Gussie?”
I was suddenly relieved not to be discussing Michael. “I learned Gussie has more troubles than a murdered husband. She’s bizarre. I watched her count out an eight percent tip for breakfast.”
“All that dough and can’t spend a nickel?” Lexie folded her arms across her chest and nodded knowingly. “Yeah, remember her mother? Wore the same three dresses for years, and I swear they all came from a thrift shop. Do you think Gussie is one of those who feels guilty for being born rich?”
“Yes, guilty and a few other things. She doesn’t trust anyone—including her husband.”
“Trust is a tricky animal, isn’t it? I remember a rumor about their prenup. Gussie wanted a lock on the sugar bowl. Poor Rush. He was such a mensch, but a babe in the woods, really. Or do you think he hoped to charm Gussie out of her bank account?”
“I didn’t know him well enough. But Gussie has strong feelings about her family and their stupid money—the money has become who she is, in a way.”
“So you’re wondering if Gussie was capable of whacking Rush over the family fortune?”
“To protect it,” I guessed. “It would be like self-defense, in her mind.” I saw Lexie’s skeptical expression and smiled. “Okay, it’s far-fetched.”
“Did Gussie keep Rush so broke that he might have resorted to other forms of income?” Lexie asked.
“The blackmail? Yes, it’s quite possible Rush resorted to extortion. I just don’t know where the photos came from.”
“But he borrowed a fortune from Tottie Boarman. Why would he need more?”
“Tottie wanted a return on his investment.”
“Aha. With all his financial problems, he needed some cash back from Rush, of course.”
“Lex, now that Rush is dead, is there any way Tottie can profit?”
Lexie didn’t have to think for longer than a second. “Insurance. I’m sure Rush’s life was insured to protect Laundro-Mutt in the event of his death. It’s common practice with companies owned and managed by one dynamic person. Martha Stewart is a prime example. And yes, investors might receive hefty payouts when the leader dies. Are you thinking Tottie might have—Oh, my God. Tottie? Tottie killed Rush?” She looked as if she’d swallowed her water bottle whole.
The intercom on Lexie’s desk interrupted us. “Lex?”
Shaken, she hit the button on her intercom. “Yes, Carly?”
“Claudine Paltron is here to see you.”
Lexie and I exchanged surprised glances. Lexie shrugged. “This is turning out to be one crazy day. Send her in, Carly.”
“Kiss, kiss!” cried Claudine, already sailing through the door with long-legged strides. “How unlike me to be anywhere this early in the morning, but here I am. It must really be a crisis, don’t you think? Hello, Nora. Good morning, Lexie.” She gave Lexie a double kiss without touching.
“What brings you here?” Lexie asked, more bluntly than usual.
“Business, of course, but I don’t mind a bit if Nora stays. What a nice jacket. J’adore! Where did you get it?”
“I don’t remember,” I said, startled by Claudine’s manic good cheer.
“I’d like one, so if you remember, let me know. Now, look, the two of you can’t gang up on me. Even together, you can’t talk me out of this.”
For once, Claudine’s stage-friendly good looks seemed to have aged. Her face was tight behind her wide smile. Her eyes were huge pools of turbulent waters, and her famously fluid body seemed to be controlled by an angry puppeteer today. She plopped un-attractively into the armchair I’d just vacated.
“What’s going on?” Lexie asked.
Claudine pulled a cigarette case from her handbag to stall. “Look at me—I’ve taken up smoking again. I found this old case in my bedroom the other day, and now I’m using it again. What a stupid habit, especially if I don’t have to fit into costumes anymore. Oh, hell, I suppose I’d better just come out with it. Another blackmail letter, I’m afraid. It came this morning, slipped to my doorman by a taxi driver, if you can imagine.”
“Again!” Lexie cried.
“Another one?” I asked. “Now?”
“Oh, God.” Lexie sat down behind her desk.
“It’s just too horrible,” Claudine said.
“The taxi company could trace the envelope,” I said at once. “The police could find out where the envelope came from.”
“No police.” Claudine tapped her cigarette on the top of the case, still playing the role of the gallant victim. “Absolutely not. I just need twenty thousand dollars, and this will all go away.”
“Forget it,” Lexie said. “I won’t be a part of this anymore.”
“Claudine,” I began.
“Please don’t give me all those arguments again. I’ve made up my mind. What’s money for, if not for emergencies like this?”
“For your retirement,” Lexie said. “You’re not going to enjoy life on Social Security, Claudine. You’ve already dipped far too deeply into your investments, and there’s no end in sight. This must stop!”
“Of course there’s an end in sight. He promised this time. It’s absolutely the last request.” Claudine broke the cigarette she’d been tapping, and her cool facade began to crack. Tears of frustration trembled in her eyes.
“No bawling,” Lexie snapped. “It unnerves my staff.”
I tried to be gentler and sat down beside her. “Claudine, have you any idea who might be sending these letters? Or who took the pictures?”
She used the backs of her fingertips to wipe the tears away before they ruined her makeup. “No, of course not.”
“What about Dougie?” Lexie asked.
“Dougie?” Claudine blinked in surprise. “Dougie isn’t blackmailing me. He can hardly spell his name, let alone write an entire letter.”
I had to agree. Between Claudine and Dougie it was a toss-up which one ought to be wearing the I’M WITH STUPID T-shirt right now.
“What Lexie means is whether or not Dougie has any idea who the blackmailer might be.”
“Why would he?” Claudine groped for another cigarette.
“Did he know Rush Strawcutter?”
Claudine swallowed convulsively. “Why? What does Rush have to do with this?”
“Until this minute, I was pretty sure Rush was the blackmailer.”
“Rush? Why would he bother to blackmail me? I’d already given him money—long before he married that malamute. He always knew he could just ask and get more. We were friends. He wasn’t much good for anything else after he got married.” She began to quiver. “I miss him.”
“Did Dougie know you were still friendly
with Rush?”
“Of course.”
“Was he jealous?”
“Well, yes. What’s the use of having old boyfriends if you can’t use them to rouse the current one?” Claudine’s mouth dropped open. “You don’t think Dougie—? No, no. That’s impossible. Dougie would never hurt—Oh, just get me the money, will you, Lexie? My head is going to explode!”
“Dougie could have confronted Rush, couldn’t he?” I asked. “At the hunt breakfast.”
“No! Dougie might have been peeved about Rush and me, but he’s too much of a ninny, really, to hurt anybody. Lexie, please!”
Lexie said, “Caludine, I’m sorry, but I won’t help you this time. And if you light that cigarette in here, I’ll have you thrown out.”
“But—”
“If you give me a direct order, of course I’ll arrange your financial matters because it’s my job. But you’re pouring your future down a rat hole, and I’m damned if I’m going to—”
“I need it!”
“You need an FBI agent.”
“I know a cop,” I volunteered. “He’s reliable and smart and very discreet. Let’s go see him now, and I’ll—”
“No, no, no.” Claudine stood up. “I want the money. I need it by Friday.”
Lexie was on her feet, too, looking stony. “From where would you like me to get it?”
“I don’t know!” Claudine wailed. “You’re in charge of all my accounts, Lex. How do I know what to do? I just need—”
“You don’t have that kind of cash sitting in your checking account. What would you like me to transfer?”
Claudine frowned, clueless about her financial situation. “What about some kind of fund?”
“Which one? You’ll have to go home and look at your statements.”
“What statements?”
“They come in your mail every month.”
“All those envelopes? I never open them!”
“It’s time you did,” Lexie snapped. “I’m not going to hold your hand through this again, Claudine.”
“Fine. Fine!” she cried. “Have it your way. I’ll go home and open every one of those stupid envelopes. And when I finish, you’d better do what I say.”
“Of course.” Lexie strode to the door and opened it. “I look forward to your call.”
Claudine grabbed her bag and bolted for the door. At the last second, she turned and swept the office with a disdainful glance surely learned from an overly melodramatic stage director. Then she departed in high dungeon.
“Exeunt, pursued by a bear,” I said, when the door was closed behind her.
Lexie was still angry. “I give the performance average marks. She’s a magnificent dancer, but a mediocre actress.”
I grabbed my coat. “I’m leaving, too.” I gave my friend a fierce hug. “You’ve got your hands full, and I’ve got things to do.”
“Tell me you’re not going gunning for Tottie Boarman.”
“No. But I have just learned that Rush Strawcutter wasn’t killed because he was blackmailing people, so everything changes. Look, I’ll try phoning Claudine later. Convincing her to go to the police is worth another try. I’m sorry I interrupted. Oh, and good luck with the museum thing, too.”
She helped me into my coat. “Oh, God, don’t remind me. Look, you’re pals with Hadley Pinkham. If you see him looking like he’s been coldcocked, give him a little TLC, will you?”
“Hadley?” I repeated, my arm halfway into my sleeve. I turned to stare at Lexie. “Hadley’s the one you’re tossing off the museum board?”
“I shouldn’t have said that, I know. Lord, I’m more upset by Claudine than I should be. Yes, it’s Hadley, but—”
“He’s broke?” I demanded. “He can’t pay off his pledges?”
“The museum depends on the board to raise money, and a big chunk of our operating expenses comes directly from the board. Hadley can’t pull his weight anymore, so we—”
“I thought the Pinkham estate left him rolling in dough.”
Lexie shook her head. “With so many heirs, even a huge estate makes for meager monthly allowances. Hadley’s been living beyond his means for years, and it’s finally caught up with him.”
Chapter 14
Confused and desperate, I found Detective Bloom’s various telephone numbers in my book. He sounded surprised to hear from me and even more astonished that I wanted to see him.
“I’ll pick you up,” he said. “Where are you?”
I gave him the address of Lexie’s office.
He said, “Give me five minutes. Can you wait that long?”
I must have sounded frantic, so I forced myself to calm down. “Yes, of course.”
Five minutes later, he came walking toward me on the sidewalk. Instead of his black trench coat, he was wearing a blue hooded sweatshirt over a blue chambray shirt and jeans. The breeze tousled his hair. He still seemed young, but at least he’d stopped looking as if he were wearing his dad’s raincoat.
He took my elbow in hand. “Are you okay?”
“Why does everybody keep asking me that?”
“You look scared.”
“I’m cold, not scared.”
“That’s good.” He kissed my forehead.
Now I’m scared, I thought.
He put his arm around me as if to warm me up. “I live a couple of blocks from here. Let’s get some coffee.”
We found an Internet café around the corner. Hoping to steady my racing heartbeat, I ordered a cup of decaf. Bloom didn’t need to ask the teenage girl at the counter before she drew him a fat-free caramel macchiatto and handed it over with a shy smile he pretended not to notice.
He took my coat and put it over the extra chair at a table near the Internet bar.
I sat down. “Am I interrupting your workday?”
“It’s my day off. I’m glad you called.”
“Tell me what you’re working on besides Rush Strawcutter’s murder.”
He understood I needed something benign to talk about. He sat opposite me. “Nothing very exciting, really. We’ve got a scam artist running around—a guy who impersonates people for a few weeks before he moves on. We’re double-teaming with the sex crimes department here in the city.”
“How does someone impersonate a sex crime?”
“He poses as a police officer or a lawyer or someone who works with the public, and he lures his victims into—you know. Weird stuff.”
“Is he dangerous?”
“The women don’t think so. They’re mostly annoyed when he leaves. I guess he’s a real charmer. We’ve had a few husbands complain, though. It’s an entertaining case. A good stress buster.”
He didn’t look very stressed, sipping his sweet coffee and looking at me with something new in his soft brown gaze. Something less law-abiding than usual. I tried to decide if I was afraid of that expression.
I said, “Have you learned anything more about Rush Strawcutter’s death?”
“A little, yes. Did you read this morning’s paper?”
“Not yet.”
“We found the murder weapon. A polo mallet.”
“So it wasn’t Emma’s riding crop?”
He had the grace to look embarrassed. “No. The crop wasn’t heavy enough to inflict lethal injury. We think somebody used the mallet on the victim and threw it into a burn barrel near the service buildings around the hunt club. It’s partially destroyed, so no physical evidence.”
“Where did the mallet come from?”
“From a display in a tack room near the stall where Strawcutter was found. There used to be two mallets crossed on a wall with some photos and ribbons and junk. One’s missing, and this one’s a match. We think the killer took it down from the wall, hit Strawcutter with it, then dumped it in the barrel.”
“And nobody saw anyone take it?”
“It was dark. People were busy getting ready for the hunt. We’re still asking around.”
I removed the plastic lid from my cup of co
ffee, and several seconds of unintentional silence slid by. It was enough time for him to absorb more information than I wanted to reveal, so I stupidly said, “I don’t know why I called you.”
He waited, not moving.
“I feel silly. I don’t—I’m not sure what I’m doing here.”
“It’s okay. It’s nice, actually. I’m glad you feel you can call me like this.”
“I’m just—I have a lot of things happening right now. I want to tell you about them, but I can’t.”
Bloom moved into the chair closest to me. He forgot about his coffee and leaned closer. He touched my hand. “Because of your sister? Or are you protecting Abruzzo now?”
I was protecting a lot of people by not speaking, I realized. Emma and Michael and Tim. And now I was keeping secrets for Claudine and Dougie, too. I couldn’t look at Bloom, but I said evenly, “You were right to suspect blackmail. There’s been a lot of it going on, as a matter of fact. I think it affects Rush’s murder, but I can’t figure out how. Several people have been blackmailed.”
He let out a tense breath of air. “Who?”
I looked into his eyes. “I can’t tell you that without violating their confidences.”
“Strawcutter?”
“Actually,” I said, “Until today, I thought Rush was the one doing the blackmailing.”
“What changed your mind?”
“Someone received another demand—after Rush’s death.”
He sat back slightly. Bloom’s gaze took on a keen glitter as he thought about what I’d just told him.
I said, “Remember the white envelope you found with Rush’s body? Have you learned anything more about that?”
“It’s a standard photographer’s envelope. They’re very common. I imagine your newspaper uses them, along with most developing labs in the city. So the blackmailer was sending pictures?”
“Yes.”
“Can you describe them?”
“They were taken by the same photographer as the pictures you have.”
“What kind of money are we talking?”
“Ten thousand dollars to start. But increasing with each demand.”
He grabbed his coffee cup so hard I thought he might crush it. “That’s serious dough.”
