by Nancy Martin
I couldn’t get out of the convention center fast enough.
Although I should have stayed a little longer at the party, a different plan took shape in my head as I rode the elevator down to the street level. I had plenty of material for my column, and Lee’s photos would take up most of the space anyway. But since I knew where Simon Groatley was tonight, I could do a little poking around myself. I phoned Reed and asked him to pick me up early.
“I’m parked around the corner,” he said.
The wind had died down, but the night air was still chilly. Behind the hotel, Reed was already out of the SUV, setting the milk stool out on the pavement.
“Thanks, Reed,” I said as I climbed up into the warm backseat.
On the way out of the city, I pulled out my phone and dialed Emma’s cell number.
She picked up after the first ring. “Yeah?”
“It’s me,” I said. “Are you at home?”
“Actually, I’m sitting at a drive-up window, waiting for a cheeseburger.”
I could have lectured her about all the healthy food I’d bought that morning, but mindful of her earlier outburst, I held my tongue. Instead I said, “Are you okay?”
“Never better,” she replied, clearly intending to put her emotional meltdown behind us.
So I said, “Which drive-up window, exactly?”
Emma told me she was at Bertie’s Burgers, a hamburger joint just a few miles outside New Hope. A place renowned for milk shakes and teen romance.
“Wait there,” I said. “I’ll meet you.”
“Hungry, too?”
“No, but I need you to drive me somewhere.”
“Tonight?” She sounded surprised. “Don’t you have a romantic rendezvous at home?”
“I’ll meet you in half an hour.”
It was more like forty minutes by the time Reed maneuvered out of the city traffic. Eventually, he pulled the SUV into the parking lot of a fast-food restaurant full of teenagers hanging out on a Friday night. Reed gave the teenagers a long look, reminding me that he was only recently out of high school himself.
“Thanks, Reed.” I reached for the door handle.
He eyed my reflection in the rearview mirror. “The boss doesn’t like it when I don’t follow the plan.”
“You and I managed just fine while your boss was out of the picture,” I reminded him. “There’s no sense getting him involved again, is there?”
Reed sighed. “You be careful.”
“Yes, sir. Good night.”
I clicked across the parking lot in my high heels—perhaps looking a little incongruous in my McQueen feather jacket. But the hamburger crowd was more interested in Reed’s enormous vehicle and respectfully watched him depart.
When I climbed into the truck, Emma was listening to an oldies radio station, leafing through a comic book and wiping her mouth with a paper napkin. She had her window cracked open a couple of inches, and the truck felt like a refrigerator.
I leaned over the dashboard, turned down the radio and cranked up the heat. “Had any proposals lately?”
“Not unless you count the kid who mistook me for a blimp and asked me for a ride. Do you have to blast that thing? I’m roasting.”
“It’s your hormones. I just saw Simon Groatley at a party.”
“Oh, yeah? Did he keep his dick in his pants?”
“Yes, but he was definitely ogling anything in a skirt. I saw Sutherland Blackbird tonight, too.”
Emma wadded up her napkin and paused in the act of reaching for the cold drink in the cup holder. “Oh, yeah? What did Cousin Slick have to say? Or did he spend the evening practicing nonverbal communication?”
I told her everything Sutherland had admitted to me while I threatened to destroy his painting.
“He knew all along she was dead?” Emma gave Sutherland a few crude names. “Who the hell sent us postcards?”
“Somebody,” I said, “who wanted to cover up Madeleine’s death.”
“Whoa.” Emma had already made the same mental leaps I had. “If somebody pretended she was alive by sending us Christmas cards, that person knew she was dead, too. And maybe killed her?”
“Maybe. I think we need to learn more about the people around Madeleine at the time of her death. But Sutherland seems to think it’s a bad idea to ask Simon Groatley.”
Emma feigned astonishment. “He’s not suggesting Groatley might be a shady lawyer?”
I told her how our cousin had caught Madeleine’s attorney rummaging in her desk while the police were busy examining her remains in the elevator. And then I told her about Madeleine’s black book.
When I finished, Emma’s straw made a noisy gurgle at the bottom of her plastic cup. She said, “So what do you want to do? Bust into Quintain under dark of night? Search for Madeleine’s black book yourself?”
“As a matter of fact,” I said, “that’s exactly what I had in mind. At the very least, I need to know if Simon Groatley stole it from her desk.”
“And I get to be your partner in crime?”
“Consider yourself my getaway driver. I’m breaking into Quintain alone.”
“How come you get all the action?”
“Because you’re a pregnant lady,” I retorted. “In a delicate condition. I’m the one doing the dirty work this time.”
“Delicate, my ass. Things have been too damn quiet for me lately.” Emma pulled the truck around the side of the fast-food restaurant, rolled down her window, and dumped her trash into a receptacle. Then she cut the truck sharply around to the drive-up menu. The loudspeaker crackled with a voice too garbled for me to understand, but Emma leaned out the window. “I want a chocolate milk shake.”
Suddenly ravenous, I said, “Order one for me, too.”
Emma did so, and in a couple of minutes we were driving down the street, guzzling milk shakes and heading north toward Aunt Madeleine’s estate.
“About Mick,” Emma said as she drove.
“Yes?”
“I’m sorry about what I said earlier.”
“It’s okay. You’re under a lot of stress.”
“Yeah, but—well, I’m sorry. He’s a good guy.”
“Yes, he is. Em—”
“Don’t,” she said. “I heard enough from Libby today.”
“Okay.”
“Drink your milk shake.”
“Right.”
After a short silence, she said, “I’ll figure out what to do about this baby when the time comes.”
I wanted to scream. But Libby had already done enough damage for one day, so I kept my silence. I’d already made myself clear to Emma—that Michael and I were happy to take the baby; even eager, if I was willing to be honest with myself, to raise it as our own. Emma was going to have to make her own decision. I just hoped she could do so before her baby’s first tooth arrived.
A few spatters of rain hit the windshield, and Emma flipped on the wipers. “How are you going to break into Aunt Madeleine’s house?”
“Smash a window? Or is that too loud?”
Emma laughed. “There’s not another house within half a mile of Quintain.”
“Except Shirley van Vincent’s place. Let’s hope she watches television with the sound turned up high.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
We passed a few ramshackle houses that faced the Delaware River, then took a right turn at the overgrown pillars and headed up into the woods. Wet branches swiped the sides of the truck as we jounced up the narrow road. Emma’s high beams blazed against the glistening dark trees. Abruptly, her lights hit the locked gate, and she braked. A long swath of yellow crime scene tape had been wound around the gate, clearly warning against trespassing.
I unfastened my seat belt. “You’ll have to wait here. I’ll walk up to the house alone.”
“In those clothes? Don’t be ridiculous. Hang on. I’ve got some wire cutters in the back of the truck. I’ll cut the lock while you change. I’ve got some breeches under the seat. And there’s probabl
y an extra pair of boots in the back. They’ll fit you.”
My capable little sister shut off the headlights and swung out of the truck. I wriggled out of my skirt and into a less than pristine pair of riding breeches. As I exchanged my Chanel boots for her rubber Wellingtons that smelled dubious but were certainly warm and dry, Emma took it upon herself to ignore the yellow police tape and cut the lock on the gate.
She looked at me. “Does that coat have feathers on it?”
“Yes.”
“Trade me, Tweety Bird.” She started to pull her sweatshirt over her head. “You can’t go up there wearing that.”
I stopped her hands. “Yes, I can.”
We squabbled, and I won for once, keeping my fancy jacket. In a few more minutes, we were heading up the narrow lane toward the house.
“Don’t drive off the edge,” I warned, “or we’ll end up in the moat.”
Emma cursed and swerved as a small animal scuttled out of the overgrowth. “What was that?”
“Raccoon, maybe?”
As we rattled over the decorative bridge, I saw Quintain differently than before. It was a fantasy castle—maybe one woman’s idea of a princess’s dream come true. But tonight it looked forbidding and very dark.
“Here’s a flashlight. I hope the battery lasts. And take your cell phone,” Emma said. “If I see trouble coming, I’ll call you.”
“If you see any sign of trouble whatsoever, you should run,” I told her. “Don’t worry about me.”
I let myself out of the truck and headed across the matted weeds toward the house.
Perhaps a swarm of intrepid warriors might have stormed just such a castle. Crossing the moat, dodging boiling oil. Me, I slogged through the mud in the dark, skirted the front entrance—plastered with more yellow police tape—and pushed through the overgrowth around the side of the house. I prayed no creepy crawlies made their home where Emma’s boots sank into the cold muck beneath my feet.
Around back, I climbed over the low stone wall of the kitchen garden and made my way to the terrace. From there, I could see the many dark windows that faced the rear of the property. Some of the second-floor bedrooms had balconies. But Michael always said the most obvious choice is the easiest route, so I felt my way along the downstairs windows. With the flashlight and my bare hands, I checked each one for an unlocked sash—the kitchen, the pantry and on down the line.
The glass of one of the breakfast room windows was cracked. I wiggled it gingerly, and a shard slipped out of the frame with ease. I reached my arm inside and groped around until I found the window lock. It was stiff, and I panted, my face pressed against the cold, dirty glass, while trying to jiggle it open.
The mechanism cracked off in my hand. I said a word I normally didn’t.
I tossed the broken metal down onto the terrace, and it clanged at my feet. I held my breath, half expecting to be caught red-handed.
But only the wind in the trees sounded around me.
I reached back inside the broken window and shoved at the sash. It moved! Then got stuck again. I shoved and muttered and shoved some more until the window slowly budged open far enough for me to get a good grip on it from the outside. I pushed it upward.
A moment later, I climbed into the breakfast room.
The inside of the house was deathly quiet. Underfoot, dust and debris crackled—sounding loud in the empty building. I tried to steady my heart, but the more I flashed the light around the weird shapes of the furniture, the more panicky I felt. I rushed across the breakfast room, bumped into a chair and knocked it over. The crash sent me skittering into the hallway.
Suddenly, my cell phone vibrated in my pocket. I gave an involuntary squeak of fright. Emma calling to warn me? I grabbed the phone and answered.
In my ear, Michael said, “What the hell are you doing?”
“It’s you! Oh, uh, nothing out of the ordinary.” I hoped my voice sounded convincing.
“Cut the act,” he said. “Reed called. He tells me you and Emma went off together, looking anything but innocent. What are you doing?”
“Getting a milk shake.”
“Nora.”
“Okay, okay. I’m just—I let myself into Aunt Madeleine’s house.”
A short silence, and then he said, “Isn’t that place a crime scene?”
“Well, technically . . . yes.”
He said, “I hate it when you do your Jessica Fletcher routine.”
“How do you know who Jessica Fletcher is?”
“Cabot Cove, Angela Lansbury. You’d be amazed what people watch in prison. You okay?”
“I’m fine. Better than fine. Exhilarated, in fact. I’m starting to understand what you see in the underworld.”
He laughed. “Don’t get arrested. I’ll have to find a new girlfriend, and that’s a hassle.”
I told him I loved him and signed off. As we talked, I’d been edging my way through the house with more confidence. It had been encouraging to hear his voice.
I remembered my way around pretty well. Only once did I make a wrong turn in the dark. In a few minutes, I found Aunt Madeleine’s study. Her writing table looked just as it had when I was in the house before. Groatley hadn’t ransacked the room as badly as Sutherland had claimed.
But the filing cabinets were unlocked and open—a sign that somebody had been in the room since I left it. Holding the flashlight clumsily in one hand, I searched the drawers for the black book. No luck.
I cast the light around the room, trying to imagine a good hiding place and hoping someone else hadn’t beaten me to finding it. I shut off the flashlight to save the battery.
As my eyes became accustomed to the dark, I stewed. Where might Madeleine keep her ledger book? Or had Groatley whisked it out of Quintain after all? And what had he hoped to accomplish? To conceal evidence of her murder? Or protect himself somehow?
With a sigh of frustration, I sank down in Madeleine’s tufted chair to look at the desk.
My phone buzzed again, triggering another moment of panic. I answered, expecting to hear Emma warning me of imminent discovery.
But it was Libby who said, “I feel a little guilty about being so pushy with Emma earlier. Do you think she went on a bender?”
“She’s on an eating binge, not a drinking binge.”
“You never know what might set her off, though.” Libby sighed with dismay. “Oh, Nora! What a mess! You do realize Emma needs help making a decision. Otherwise, you’re going to have to make it for her.”
“Me!”
In the background, I could hear the buzz of Libby’s kitchen blender. I pictured my sister whipping up a frothy drink for herself. She said, “You’re the only one of us who can make the tough decisions, Nora. I want you to sit down with Rawlins, too, about his college choices. But first help me decide what to do about Em. I should make a gesture of apology, I think. Do you have time to talk?”
“Right this minute?”
“I was thinking of sending her to a spa for a day—you know, get her a gift certificate—but then I wondered if maybe she might insult those nice girls down at the Pink Windowbox. That’s my favorite spa, and I don’t want to spoil my relationship with them. They help me take photos for my PitterPat followers.” She shut off the blender, and I could hear pouring. “And don’t you think they do wonders with candles? So peaceful, and yet seductive.”
“Your followers?”
“No, the girls at the Pink Windowbox!” She sipped her drink and hummed with pleasure.
I said, “Libby, this isn’t a good time.”
“Why? Are you seducing That Man of Yours?” She blew another gusty sigh. “I’m so desperate for sex I’m thinking of—”
“Don’t tell me,” I said. “I don’t want to hear the lengths you’d go to.”
“Oh, all right. What are you doing? If not slipping into your best lingerie?”
“Actually,” I said, “I’m sitting in Aunt Madeleine’s desk chair.”
“You’re what ?”<
br />
“I broke into Quintain.”
“Why didn’t you call me ? I’d love to break into something!”
“Sorry. It was spur of the moment.”
“I can be there in twenty minutes!”
“No, wait—I’ll be gone by then. Look, Libby, I’m a little busy.”
“What are you looking for?”
“A kind of notebook. She kept it in her study. It was a black—”
“Yes, yes. I used to think it was her diary, so I peeked, but it was mostly numbers—nothing very interesting.”
“Well, I’d like to find it, so if you’ll excuse me—”
“Check under her chair.”
“What?”
“I bet it’s under the seat cushion of her desk chair. At least, that’s where she used to keep it.”
I stood up and lifted the chair cushion. Sure enough, there lay the black ledger.
“Libby,” I said, “you’re a genius.”
“Just snoopy,” she said. “And I have a good memory. Call me later. Dancing with the Stars just came on. I love the men when they have all that lotion on their muscles.”
She hung up on me.
The leather-bound book in my hand looked exactly as I remembered it. Automatically, I flipped it open to look inside, but all I could see was columns of names and numbers. I took a chance on the flashlight’s battery long enough to take a closer look. The handwriting was neat and ladylike. But all the numbers meant I needed more time to study the meaning of Madeleine’s notations. I’d have to take it home.
I sat down in the chair again and paused a moment to absorb the details of Madeleine’s study, her private sanctum, trying to understand the woman who’d selected everything in the room. I felt as if I was teetering on the brink of a big discovery about her. Maybe about myself.
But instead, I said aloud to Libby, “What do you mean, I’m the one who has to make the tough decisions?”
My phone suddenly vibrated in my pocket again.
I answered, prepared to demand that Libby explain herself, but this time it was Emma, low-voiced and urgent. “Hurry up. Somebody’s coming.”
