Some Like it Lethal

by Nancy Martin

  “And Tottie did give Rush the money to start Laundro-Mutt.”

  “Yes, and plenty of it. Maybe he wanted to prove to Rush that he wasn’t a complete jerk. Money was Tottie’s way of doing that.”

  “But lately Tottie needed some of his cash back to save himself.”

  Emma nodded. “Tottie’s own business was falling apart. He needed help, so he started pressuring Rush. Of course, Rush had already invested the money into Laundro-Mutt, and he didn’t have any cash left to give back to Tottie.”

  What had Tottie done? I wondered.

  Emma had been watching my face. “What are you thinking?”

  “I need to know what the terms of Rush’s life insurance policy were. Does Gussie receive the death benefits, or does the money go to paying off Laundro-Mutt’s investors?”

  “Hang on,” Emma said. “You don’t think Tottie murdered his own son? For a few dollars?”

  “Tens of millions of dollars.”

  “Oh, hell,” Emma said. “This is starting to sound very dangerous.”

  Chapter 15

  Reed picked up both of us and dropped Emma at a parking garage from where I presumed she would be whisked back into captivity.

  “Where will you go?” I asked her.

  “My home away from home is now a lovely student apartment near Penn,” she said grimly. “It smells like pot and has a stolen stop sign on the wall.”

  I blanched. “I hope it won’t be much longer.”

  “Who knows. Maybe the ever-charming Mr. Pescara will move me into a flop house for a change of pace. Let me tell you, the life of the modern gangster has no glamour. Their primary food group is beef jerky, and they mostly sit around in disgusting places watching the Home Shopping Network and popping anabolic steroids. Oh, and talking to their mothers on cell phones.”

  “Emma, about Danny—”

  She waved off my concern. “Don’t worry about him. He’ll end up in the slammer someday soon and have lots of time to think about his shortcomings.”

  “No,” I said, not sure I should tell her there might have been a connection between Danny and her husband, Jake. “I mean—”

  “Listen,” she said, “I appreciate what you’re doing. I’d be going nuts if you weren’t asking questions for me. I mean it. I can put up with Mick’s crew of hoodlums for as long as it takes.”

  “I’m glad I can help,” I said. “But about Danny—”

  She closed the car door on my protest and walked away with a wave over her shoulder that dismissed the subject.

  I checked my watch and discovered it was nearly the cocktail hour. As much as I wanted to learn more about Tottie, I had a party to attend for the Intelligencer.

  The holiday entertaining season had gotten off to a fast start after Thanksgiving, and I knew it would build to a crescendo on Christmas Eve. We’d have a few days off before the New Year’s Eve festivities started, then the long January lull. For the next couple of weeks, I was going to be very busy. Every night of the week I had at least two events to attend, including the ballet’s annual fund-raising gala on Friday night. I hoped to put my questions about Rush on hold—at least during my work hours. My miserable paycheck depended on it.

  Tonight, however, the parties were much less exalted.

  Reed drove me to a private home on Delancy Street where two doctors were hosting a cocktail party for a visiting colleague who had come to town to help raise money for a scholarship fund. Their home was a narrow town house on a picturesque street, with the main living quarters on the second floor. The rooms were sparsely decorated with primitive American furniture. As I walked into the living room, it was impossible to miss the Grandma Moses painting, colorful and beautifully lighted, hanging over the mantel.

  The deceptively simple decor hinted subtly at the alliance of two of the city’s most powerful medical families. The living room was already very hot, crowded and loud with laughter—sure signs of a successful party.

  “We should have waited until January,” confided my host, Tomas “Tack” Estrada, when he greeted me. In a turtleneck with a medallion around his neck, he looked like an elegant Spanish grandee. “We could have avoided all the holiday conflicts, but what can you do? Dr. Powell was in town, so we’re going for it. It’s a good cause.”

  “Thanks for letting me crash the party, Tack,” I said. “As soon as the photographer gets here, we’ll snap a few pictures of Dr. Powell with the scholarship candidates, and we’ll be out of your hair in no time.”

  “Stay as long as you like, Nora. I wish we could see more of you. Olivia often says she’s sorry you don’t still live close enough to have your brunches anymore.”

  He pointed out his wife across the crowded room, and Olivia Estrada, still blond and very pale-skinned thanks to her dermatologist husband’s insistence on sunscreen, waved at me over the heads of the guests. She had been chatting with a tall male guest.

  I waved back. “Is that Tim Naftzinger?”

  “Where?” Tack craned to see. “Tim said he’d try to stop in after seeing patients to schmooze for his promotion, but yes, that’s Tim.”

  “Think he’ll get the Chief of Pediatrics job?”

  “I hope so. He’s good at administration and it will mean more time for his daughter. He has my vote, but it’s a political scrum, and he’s not the best good ol’ boy.”

  I tried to make my way toward Tim through the guests, who were hungrily digging into the caviar blinis Olivia was known for. I didn’t recognize many of the contributors who had turned out on short notice for the Estrada’s fund-raiser, but mostly they seemed to be physicians from the various city hospitals. A few smiling faces appeared to recognize me, but turned away before they had to remember my name. Or before they had to remember that one of their own kind had slid down the slippery slope of drug abuse. Obviously, the two years that had passed since my husband’s death caused the medical set to gladly forget who I was.

  At last, I reached Olivia Estrada and hugged her.

  “Nora, it’s been too long! How nice to see you.”

  “Livvie, I’ve missed you, too. I have a stack of books I’ve been saving for you. When can we have lunch?”

  “After Christmas,” she said promptly. “Right now, I’m up to my elbows in women who want their Botox injections in time for New Year’s Eve.”

  “Maybe I’d better make an appointment for myself.”

  “You? Don’t be silly.” Smiling, she gave my face a professional once-over. Olivia conducted the cosmetic side of the family practice, while Tack dealt with the surgical patients. “I’m glad to see those laugh lines again. I’ll call you the first of January, I promise, and we’ll go some place decadent for lunch.”

  “Sounds great. Did I just see Tim Naftzinger talking to you?”

  “Tim?” Olivia glanced around. “Yes, he was here a minute ago.”

  “He probably had to run home to his daughter.”

  “He said he suddenly wasn’t feeling well.”

  I spotted the Intelligencer photographer then, and we put our heads together to plan a photogenic moment in front of Grandma Moses with the guest of honor and some slightly tipsy scholarship candidates from the nearby medical school. Afterward, I wished my hosts a merry Christmas and ducked out. The Intelligencer photographer, Lee Song, came with me and reloaded his camera in the car.

  “Lee, have you met Kitty Keough’s new intern yet?”

  “Andy Mooney?” Lee grinned. “Yeah, I tripped over him in the elevator.”

  “Have you ever seen any of his photographs?”

  “Nope. You?”

  “Not yet, but I’m going to catch a glimpse.”

  Lee laughed. “You think he’s going to put us both out of our jobs? Just in time for Christmas?”

  “I know you don’t have anything to worry about.”

  Lee snapped my picture just for fun and smiled. “Neither do you, Nora.”

  Our next stop was a wine tasting, thrown by a law firm, at a very pricey F
rench restaurant. They had thinly disguised their office party as a benefit for abused spouses. As soon as we stepped through the double doors, I heard the cool bebop of jazz musicians having a great time. The scent of wonderful food wafted with the fragrances of many expensive perfumes.

  Guests had already seized glasses of wine and were flowing in clusters. I recognized a handsome former governor, two Philadelphia television personalities, a wacky artist who built erotic sculptures out of recycled plastic bottles and a Hollywood actor no doubt home to visit his parents and serendipitously making the scene. I gauged the party in an instant, and knew I’d walked into another very successful Delilah Fairweather event.

  Sure enough, the crowd parted in time for me to catch a glimpse of Delilah, cooing sweet nothings into the ear of the only annoyed guest in the restaurant. She patted his arm consolingly and headed in my direction through the crowd.

  “Shoot me now,” Delilah commanded, already pulling a cell phone from the pocket of her red satin suit. “One pissed-off guest can ruin the whole night.”

  “Delilah, isn’t that your dad?”

  “Yes, and he’s fussing that I didn’t order ribs. Barbecued ribs, for crying out loud! I’ve got the city’s foremost French chef busting his balls in the kitchen, and my old man wants soul food. I should send him to the nearest pretzel cart. Give us a kiss, honey.”

  I did. “This party looks great.”

  “I’m redeeming myself after the Boarman fiasco.” She checked her cell phone for messages. “Did you hear we had a rat attack one of the children? I’m never using that hotel again.”

  “Uhm, how awful.”

  “No harm done.” Delilah didn’t notice my embarrassment. “Turns out the kid has a history of bad behavior and the hotel admits it’s had a rodent problem since they opened. Listen, I have your dress. The one from the prom party. It’s in a box at the coat check.”

  “Thanks. I’ll get it on my way out. I’m here for the newspaper. Can we grab a photo and hit the road? I have another stop to make.”

  “Me, too. I’m only staying here long enough to—Damn, I’ve got to take this call. Hysterical caterer. Do you mind?”

  While Delilah plugged one ear and listened to her caterer with the other, I rounded up some of the celebrities and ferreted the chef from the kitchen to pose in front of a display of spectacular food and wine bottles. I jollied everyone into interacting. The actor was especially gracious and even put his arm around Delilah’s grumpy father to coax him out of his very un-holiday spirit. Delilah came over and convinced the former governor to also lend his face for the good cause, and Lee snapped a dozen pictures in no time. Soon Delilah’s father was laughing with a lovely young television news anchor.

  “You’re a godsend,” Delilah told me.

  “Your party is terrific,” I assured her. “You’re still the best in the city. Kitty will be sorry she didn’t stop in.”

  “I’d much rather have you. Where is Kitty tonight?”

  “An A-list shindig, I’m sure. I’m strictly the junior varsity team.”

  “Which one of you will attend Rush Strawcutter’s funeral?”

  “Has it been scheduled yet?”

  Delilah nodded. “I heard it’s going to be Thursday. A friend of mine was asked about doing the food afterward, but get this: the family said she was too expensive. I think they’re going to get takeout from Kentucky Fried Chicken.”

  I knew she was kidding. “I’ll probably attend. But Kitty may decide to go, too.”

  “Are you still going to the ballet gala on Friday?”

  “Wouldn’t miss it.” I smiled. “What are you going to wear?”

  “I bought just the thing in Bermuda last summer, believe it or not, and it only cost me fifty bucks, but don’t tell a soul. Remember how I said somebody wants to buy your dress? Well, she called me again.”

  “Delilah, that dress is so old and fragile, it will fall apart if someone tries to wear it. It’s better suited to a mannequin.”

  “That’s what I told her, but she insists she wants it.”

  “Anybody I know?”

  “Claudine Paltron, the one who wants everything she sees. She thinks it’s just the right dress for her to make a triumphant entrance at the gala. I told her I thought you’d never part with it, but she phoned me again this evening.”

  “I can’t sell that dress. It belonged to my grandmother.”

  “She’s willing to pay big bucks, honey.”

  I was afraid to ask how much.

  Delilah saw the conflict in my face and put her arm around me. “Don’t worry. I won’t give her your number. Unless you want me to?”

  Her cell phone trilled, and she made an always-working shrug before she took the call. I used the moment to grab a plate of savory treats from the buffet, then went to the coat check and picked up the oblong box with my grandmother’s Mainbocher inside. Lee helped me carry everything to the car.

  I shared the food with Reed, who seemed unimpressed by French cuisine. He drove us across town to a hotel where another party was just getting started—a dinner honoring a very solemn feminist author. I was glad I didn’t have to stay for the rubber chicken and suspected Kitty had requested I attend just to punish me. Lee got some photos and I scribbled down some quotes. We parted ways around eight o’clock.

  While Reed drove me home, I wrote my stories and then fell soundly asleep in the backseat.

  I woke up when the car hit the first pothole in my driveway. A bright blue tarp was hanging on the side of the house like a giant shower cap that glowed in the dark.

  “That looks cozy,” Reed said.

  “Let’s just hope it’s watertight.”

  I said good night and staggered inside. The lake in the kitchen was gone, thank heaven, and another foil-covered plate of food from Mrs. Ledbetter awaited me on the table. I peeked and found she’d made stuffed peppers, enough for two. I put half in the fridge for tomorrow.

  I e-mailed my stories to my editor and listened to my answering machine while the microwave worked its magic on my dinner. Libby, Hadley, my mother, my editor, my dentist’s receptionist, two hang-ups, my tax man, who reminded me that my quarterly payment was due by Monday or penalties would be imposed, and Libby again.

  “Don’t call back,” she sang, sounding as happy as a cheerleader who’d just come home from the big game. “I’m going to bed early. Spike’s fine, but you owe me a new kitchen rug and two pairs of sneakers.”

  I ate a stuffed pepper while I looked through the mail. Three Christmas cards, a few bills and a terse letter from the local tax collector’s office just in case I didn’t listen to their daily phone messages.

  I opened my checkbook and discovered that my next paycheck would cover the utility bills, but only if Mrs. Ledbetter continued to feed me.

  My family didn’t come over on the Mayflower, but they caught the next bus, so to speak, and they quickly prospered. By investing in banks and railroads and safety pins, the family fortune expanded. The family expanded, too, however, and eventually so many cousins were dipping into the well that the cash began to thin out. My grandmother had amassed a nationally-renowned collection of silver, but later in life she began to secretly sell it off, teaspoon by teaspoon, to support the family in the style to which we had become accustomed.

  Grandmama’s years of buying couture clothing had resulted in one of the country’s finest collections of exquisite designs, too, which should have gone to a museum, I suppose, but I needed something to wear now that I was employed. I took great care not to ruin any of the many Chanels, Diors and Givenchys, which were each worth tens of thousands.

  I played the message on my answering machine again and listened to the sonorous voice of my tax man.

  Afterward, sick at heart, I looked up Claudine Paltron’s telephone number.

  The Zapper Czar answered rudely and told me that Claudine was out for the evening. He gave me her cell phone number.

  I caught her at a restaurant.

/>   “Nora!” She sounded surprised. Then, “Are you calling to lecture me like Lexie?”

  “If I thought I could convince you to go to the police, Claudine, I would.”

  “Well, you can’t. And I’m switching all of my accounts out of Lexie’s company, so I don’t have to listen to her, either.”

  I considered making another pitch to change her mind, but I could hear noise in the background and knew the time wasn’t right.

  Instead I said, “I hear you’re interested in my grandmother’s Mainbocher.”

  Chapter 16

  The next morning, Claudine sent a messenger to pick up the dress.

  He also dropped off a check for the purchase price.

  And the envelope of photographs I’d requested in addition to the money.

  I opened the envelopes of photos and spread them out on my kitchen table. Mind you, it was not an appetizing sight. The pictures showed Claudine’s unmistakably long legs wrapped around Dougie Forsythe’s bare behind. Her ugly dancer’s feet were instantly recognizable.

  I pushed my morning coffee aside and marveled at the strong stomach of the photographer. How had he or she managed to watch the event, let alone have the presence of mind to snap such telling photographs? These photos were much more graphic than the ones taken of Tim and myself, and the similarly soft-focus pictures of Emma and Rush. Yet they had the same greeting-cardlike quality.

  Libby arrived with Spike.

  “This animal is not a credit to his species,” she announced as he raced into the kitchen and leaped joyfully into my lap. “Do you know what kind of poop comes out when a dog eats a whole bag of marshmallows?”

  “Why in the world would you give him a bag of marshmallows?”

  “I didn’t! They were innocently sitting on the counter, which is nearly four feet over his head, so I assumed they were safe. But he managed to levitate himself somehow and—well, you owe me for more rugs than you can imagine.” She dropped her handbag on the floor and sat down at the table.

  “On the other hand, Lucy wants to come live here so she can be near him. They’re soulmates. Her imaginary friend has decided to cut up all the draperies with scissors. I don’t have a decent window treatment left in my house. And the twins are still filming a horror movie, so they make blood out of corn syrup. It looks as if Charles Manson has been living in my basement, and it’s so sticky we have ants coming out of the woodwork—in December!”