No Way To Kill A Lady

by Nancy Martin

  Libby and I headed for the beauty parlor, got turned the wrong way and ended up at the wrong fish tank and found a shortcut through the dining room—we saw lobster mac and cheese on the menu—before finally locating the powder room nearest another fish tank. If I hadn’t known better, I would’ve said the building was a day-care center, judging from all the cute photos and cardboard decorations festooning the walls and doorways. A nurse’s station had been decked out with a barnyard theme that featured a dozen construction-paper turkeys cut in the shapes of handprints. One of the nurses waved gaily at us.

  The powder room turned out to be more of a ladies’ lounge with a couple of plush sofas and a trickling waterfall on one wall and the toilet stalls discreetly tucked around a corner. To me, it felt like a place where an introspective resident could hide out for a few minutes of peace without being harassed by cheerful staff members.

  Sitting on one of the sofas was a skinny woman in a turban and a pink satin robe belted over purple velour pants and a pair of puffy slippers. She heard us coming and was hastily tamping out a cigarette with one hand and fanning the air with the other as we pushed through the door.

  “Damn!” she said with relief when she saw us. “I figured I was caught in the act again. I get any more smoking demerits around this place, and they’re going to kick me out on the street!”

  I had seen the fond look on Sharyn’s face when she’d spoken of Foxy’s smoking habit, so I doubted there was any real danger of her getting kicked out of Shady Rest. “Miss Galore? Would you mind if we sat down to talk with you for a few minutes?”

  “Yes,” Libby said eagerly. “We’re big fans.”

  “Fans?” Foxy looked from Libby to me and back again. “What kind of fans?”

  “Actually,” I said, “we’re here because Michael Abruzzo suggested we pay a visit. He called you earlier this morning, didn’t he?”

  Foxy Galore had skin like an alligator—suntanned and scaly—and the wrinkles on her face sagged as if she’d been left hanging on a line to dry and forgotten. From underneath the turban pink scalp showed not a single lock of hair. Her eyebrows had been drawn on her face, too. She had graceful hands, though, and an imperiously nearsighted manner of looking down the length of her nose at whoever was speaking to her. Her lipstick was pink and perfect.

  “Ooh, Mickey!” Foxy relaxed into the sofa and smiled dreamily. “Now, there’s a fellow I wouldn’t mind seeing again. What’s he doing these days? He in jail again?”

  “Not at the moment.” I eased down onto the sofa beside her and tried to decide how best to open a discussion with a retired hooker.

  Foxy Galore rearranged her turban. “I suppose he’s raising hell somewhere, riding that motorcycle, chasing girls, stealing cars—no, wait, he’s all grown up now, isn’t he?”

  “He is,” I said. “All grown up and settling down.”

  “That’s darn disappointing. He could put a gleam in a girl’s eye, let me tell you. Take my advice, okay? Don’t pussy-whip that one. Give him a little space to do what comes natural. He’ll always need an outlet, you know what I mean?”

  “I think I do,” I said.

  She pointed a bony finger at me and grinned. “That’s part of what you like about him anyway, am I right?”

  “Well—”

  “I also knew his uncle, come to think of it. Now, that’s a man who ought to be in jail.” Her expression darkened. “Not a kind bone in his body, that one. Mind if I light up?”

  “Go right ahead. Actually, we’re here to ask you about someone else. Michael thought you might know something about Madeleine Blackbird.”

  “Madeleine who?”

  “Blackbird.”

  Libby had plunked herself down on the opposite sofa and now she cut to the chase. “She was our aunt, and we think maybe she became a Mayflower Madam. You know—with call girls, expensive hotels, exclusive clientele? Did you ever hear of her? Professionally, I mean?”

  Foxy Galore snapped a lighter and sucked on her cigarette, then blew a plume of blue smoke over her head. “Nope. Never heard of a Madeleine Bluebird.”

  “That’s Black—”

  “I knew all the madams, clear back to Eisenhower’s day. There was a real firecracker of a girl named Greenbaum who worked a corner in South Philly for a month before she could afford a decent dress and started sitting at the bar in the Stern Hotel. Eventually she had a string of eight girls working for her. Now, she could tell a joke, lemme tell you. And then there was—oh, never mind. Who did you ask about again?”

  “Madeleine Blackbird,” Libby supplied. “Red-haired. She went to Vassar. Lived in Bucks County.”

  “Vassar? I don’t know that corner. Nope, never heard of her.”

  “Are you sure?” Libby pressed.

  Foxy narrowed her eyes against the cigarette smoke and looked hard at Libby. “Why do you think she was tricking?”

  “We don’t really think she was—er—tricking,” I said. “But maybe she was a madam? We have a book she kept—with names and amounts of money.”

  “How much money?”

  “Tens of thousands in each transaction.”

  “And when did you say this took place?”

  “Twenty or thirty years ago.”

  Foxy shook her head. “No, no, honey, back in those days nobody made that kind of money. Not in Philadelphia, that is. Maybe in New York or Paris with Hollywood actresses, but not in our territory. No, I’d say you were barking up the wrong willow tree. And I should know. I had the phone numbers of more men than any other pro in Philly.”

  “I have a few phone numbers myself.” Libby dimpled and brought out her cell phone. “Have you ever heard of PitterPat?”

  Foxy sat up alertly. “You’re on PitterPat? Can you show me how to do that? I was thinking it might be a way for an enterprising woman to make a few bucks.”

  “Well, you can certainly make a lot of friends. I’d love to show you! You’d be a big hit, I just know it! Do you have a cell phone?”

  “Back in my room.” Foxy was already purposefully stubbing out her cigarette.

  “Let’s go.” Libby helped the woman to her feet and dragged her walker closer. “We should talk about erotic yoga, too. This place could use a leader—someone to get a group going.”

  “Could I charge money for that?”

  Foxy led the way back past the fish tank and along the sunny hallways, pushing her walker and chatting with Libby the whole way. Once again, my warmhearted sister had made a fast friend. I trailed behind them, however, thinking we might have struck out in the search for information.

  We passed the hallway marked MEMORY SUPPORT NEIGHBORHOOD, and behind a locked gate I caught a glimpse of a patient walking on the arm of a sweet-faced young man who chatted amiably as they strolled. Since Shady Rest was a well-known local personal care home with a good reputation in the community, I had a sudden idea. As Libby disappeared with her new friend, I stopped at the nursing station and asked to visit Vincente van Vincent.

  “Oh, are you a friend of the van Vincent family?” The no-nonsense nurse gave me a direct look. Her name tag read, JANET. NURSING SUPERVISOR.

  “A little,” I said, instantly feeling guilty for having used a ruse to discover Vincente van Vincent’s whereabouts. “I know his wife, Shirley. I haven’t see Mr. van Vincent in years.”

  “Well, I’m afraid he’s not very receptive to visitors these days. But we could try. His wife called to say she’s busy today—something about police searching for a body on her property!—so he’s probably lonesome, poor dear. Would you like me to escort you to his apartment? He’s accustomed to me. I’m a familiar face.”

  “If I’m not interrupting your work.”

  She got to her feet and pulled a set of keys off a hook. “My best work is with the residents,” she said. “It’s the paperwork I don’t mind interrupting.”

  She took me down the hall and unlocked the gate that opened onto a common area where patients were allowed to roam around. I s
aw the sweet-faced young man and his walking partner make another lap around the room. The elderly man had a slack face and frightened eyes that pierced my heart like an arrow.

  Janet took me through a set of locked French doors and down a painfully merry hallway that was lined with hospital rooms. The floor had lines of symbols laid out in patterns—stars led from one room the whole way around the perimeter of the hall and back again. A cat pawprint marked the path from another room around the hall and back. Each door had a bright photograph or cartoon on it—no doubt so confused residents could find their way back to their own quarters. Janet stopped at a room marked with a large photo of a Percheron horse pulling a farm wagon. Shirley van Vincent sat on the wagon, her hands expertly holding the reins. I wondered if her husband still recognized her.

  Janet knocked on the door and called, “Mr. van Vincent? May we come in?”

  No answer, but she knocked again, then pushed the door open just a couple of inches before asking again, “May we come in?”

  A faint voice responded, and we entered the small apartment.

  Vincente van Vincent had been a dapper gentleman in his prime—not very tall, but elegant and courtly in his manner. He had been a respected college professor before inheriting enough money to travel and donate to political campaigns. I remembered him on the edges of my grandfather Blackbird’s coterie before he was sent to various embassies for his financial contributions to a grateful president. In that president’s eight years of office, van Vincent moved a couple of times and eventually ended as an ambassador to Germany. He’d had an admirable career as a diplomat.

  Now he was a sorry sight—a bony shell of a man slumped in front of a television set playing a recorded travelogue program. Scenes of green pastures and flowing rivers had been filmed from a helicopter while a soothing voice narrated the landscape. His gaze had strayed from the television, though, and he appeared to be staring anxiously at pictures arranged on the wall.

  “This is his favorite show,” Janet told me as she put her hands around van Vincent’s shoulders. She leaned into his face. “Hello, dear. How are you?”

  If Vincente van Vincent responded, it was not anything I could hear. He might have looked into Janet’s face, but no flicker of recognition shone in his gaze. His palsied hands remained in his lap. I recognized the last stages of his illness.

  I sat on the small coffee table in front of him and smiled, but he barely looked at me. “Hello, Mr. van Vincent. I’m Charlie Blackbird’s granddaughter.”

  He avoided my gaze.

  Janet spoke as if nothing was amiss. “Shirley’s busy with her horse show today. This young lady stopped by to say hello. How are you feeling? Did you enjoy your morning cookie?”

  She talked gently with him, and I respected her easy manner. Obviously, there was little I could contribute except to be pleasant and nonthreatening.

  On van Vincent’s windowsill a lineup of framed photos fought for space with a few sentimental knickknacks—small ceramic horses that pranced around a carved wooden bird. In the photos, van Vincent posed with various dignitaries—including presidents and senators. Also several with his wife. And one with Aunt Madeleine—a group shot with other people I didn’t recognize. In the background of the photo was the flag of the Soviet Union.

  Looking at the collection of pictures, I reflected on van Vincent’s career. He’d moved in powerful circles and enjoyed many accolades as well as relationships with international movers and shakers. And yet here he sat—alone in a room. Where were all his friends now?

  Shirley’s picture stood at the front of all the other photographs, but I assumed she had put it there herself. It showed her much younger and very pretty, holding the head of a handsome pony. Judging by the background scenery, I guessed the photo had been taken in her homeland. A mountain chalet with geraniums cascading from a window box showed behind the horse. Maybe it was the way Vincente best remembered his wife—from their early days in Germany.

  “Does Shirley come often?” I asked Janet.

  “Almost every day. Except lately, she’s been busy with her horse show.”

  Vincente suddenly said, “Shirley.”

  His voice was clear, but an instant later, he sank back into himself.

  Within a few minutes, Janet indicated we’d spent enough time with Vincente van Vincent, so I smiled and said good-bye.

  On her way out, Janet snatched a pack of cigarettes off a shelf. “I’ve asked Shirley not to leave these in her husband’s room. I’m afraid he might be confused and try to eat them.”

  She tucked the cigarettes into her pocket, and I followed her out.

  Back at the nursing station, she shook my hand. “Thanks for coming. I thought you were just being nosy, but you were real nice to him. It may not seem as if he appreciated you, but it can’t hurt.”

  I thanked her and said, “You’re making a lovely home for these people here.”

  She said, “We do what we can. Come back. It helps to have visitors around.”

  Libby found me in the lobby a while later. She chattered about Foxy Galore as we went outside to the parking lot. I hardly listened. The good news was that we’d established that Aunt Madeleine hadn’t been involved in prostitution. The bad news was that we still didn’t seem any closer to figuring out what she had been up to.

  We were back in the minivan and heading home when my cell phone rang.

  “Good morning.” Emma’s voice was a little raspy in my ear. Clearly, she hadn’t consulted a clock yet, because it was going on one in the afternoon. She said, “Did you get my note?”

  “I did.”

  “Damn, that means you got out of the bedroom. From the sounds of things last night, I thought the two of you were going to spend the whole weekend pounding the mattress into sawdust.”

  I decided not to take offense. “Where are you? What’s going on?’

  “Get this,” she said. “I’ve been kidnapped.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Five minutes later, Libby cried, “Why can’t I ever get kidnapped?”

  I stashed my phone in my handbag. “I don’t think she was being serious. She’s with Hart.”

  “Have they run off together? Is he leaving Penny? Did they talk about the baby? Oh, heavens, I hope they eloped!”

  “They did not elope. But it doesn’t sound as if she’s coming home anytime soon.”

  “Is that good?”

  I wasn’t sure. Emma didn’t sound happy, that’s all I knew.

  To Libby, I said, “She says Hart got plastered last night and told her some stuff about Simon Groatley.”

  “Hart just volunteered information?”

  “Emma fed him martinis until he broke. Hart says everybody in the city knows Groatley is a crook. He stole money from one client and called it a campaign contribution. Except the client had been comatose for a year. His firm hushed it up, but fired him. Now he’s at a new firm, and he’s living an expensive lifestyle. New cars, fancy penthouse, mistresses. But Hart thinks he’s living off cash he keeps in a safe-deposit box.”

  “Where’d the cash come from? The comatose client?”

  “Hart doesn’t know. He thinks it’s only a matter of time before Groatley is caught.”

  “That’s typical!” Libby burst out. “A man who thinks he’s so wonderful, he’s above the law. It’s the same reason he feels he has the right to bully women into having sex with him. He’s entitled! Nora, I’ll bet you a pound of chocolate he’s been stealing money from Aunt Madeleine, too.”

  “The question is,” I said, “did he have to kill her to do it?”

  Libby exploded into a tirade of outrage. “That’s our inheritance!”

  When she calmed down, she said, “How did Emma sound? Sober?”

  Sober, yes. But devastated.

  We had arrived at the driveway to Blackbird Farm, and there Michael’s crew had stopped a series of minivans and expensive SUVs. Half the vehicles were decorated with stickers proclaiming the names of their da
ughters and their respective sports.

  “Oh, God.” I clapped my hands to my cheeks. “It’s Saturday!”

  “Of course it’s Saturday,” Libby said.

  “It’s Emma’s day to teach her pony classes!”

  Suddenly the purpose of Emma’s phone call became clear. She wasn’t coming home, and I was left with a fresh disaster. All her students needed attention or she’d lose her opportunity to earn a living. The line of vehicles bearing Emma’s students was making slow progress through Michael’s checkpoint. I jumped out of Libby’s minivan and ran to the head of the line that the goodfellas had roadblocked.

  The cause of the clog was my cousin Sutherland, who stood outside the open door of his Porsche. He braced his hands on the roof of his car, and his legs were spread wide as he was frisked by one of Michael’s more enormous hoodlums. Today Sutherland had come decked out in a starched white shirt with a pastel lavender cashmere sweater thrown around his shoulders and tied in front. His trousers were neatly pressed, and his tassel loafers were shined. He looked ready for a stroll around Monaco. But he’d been mugged along the way by one of the Sopranos.

  He caught sight of me as he was being roughed up by the burly thug. “See here, Cuz—isn’t this a bit extreme? I’ve been treated with more dignity in airports!”

  “Shut up, Poindexter,” the thug growled, grabbing Sutherland’s arm.

  “That watch is worth more than your car!” Sutherland wrenched his arm free.

  “Looks like a fake to me. And I oughta know.”

  “Oh, heavens, let him through,” I said as I raced up to them. “Let everyone through!”

  “Hang on a minute,” said another thug. He held a large white pastry box in one hand. “We haven’t checked this out yet. Could be a bomb.”

  “It’s not a bomb,” Sutherland cried with exasperation. “It’s a cheesecake!”

  All the crew perked up. “A cheesecake?”

  “A gentleman always brings something when invited to lunch.”

  I’d completely forgotten I’d invited Sutherland for lunch.