by Nancy Martin
Sutherland took him seriously, and said hastily, “I came to pick up something that’s rightfully mine.”
“Yours?”
“Yes, my stepmother’s address book.”
“Her—? You mean the black leather book Madeleine kept in her office?”
“It’s mine to begin with—or, it will be after we settle the estate. I came back to retrieve it. What the book was doing here, I have no idea.” He attempted to muster some indignation. “I suppose you took it from Quintain yourself, Nora.”
“No matter how it got here,” I said, “it’s gone now. We thought you stole it.”
“Stole it! It’s really gone?” He blinked up at me, confused. “You’re not kidding.”
“No, I’m not. We thought you took her book while we were busy with the ponies.”
“Who did take it? If not me?” Sutherland frowned. “Libby?”
“Of course not!”
From behind me, Michael said, “I can make this go a whole lot faster.”
“Why don’t you make us some coffee?” I suggested.
“Yes, I could use a drink.” Sutherland continued to massage his throat. “Not coffee, though. It keeps me awake. Whiskey and soda? No ice.”
Michael scooped up the gun from the floor and checked the clip. He emptied the bullets into the palm of his hand. “While I tend the bar, I’ll think about which landfill we can use.”
He slid the bullets into his pocket and went off in the direction of the kitchen.
When we were alone together, Sutherland began trembling so hard he had to trap both hands between his knees. “Good Lord, Nora. What are you doing with that—that person in your house? Is he some kind of night watchman?”
“The night watchman is going to beat you senseless,” I said, “unless you start talking. Why on earth did you think you had to break into my house? You couldn’t just knock? Ask in a civilized way?”
He peered more closely at the picture I made in my vintage satin robe—a Victorian-style masterpiece of lace and light boning that made me look like the BBC’s idea of a woman of ill repute. In my haste to get downstairs, I hadn’t quite managed to tie the belt properly, and he gave my bare leg a long glance before adding up the astonishing facts. “Good heavens, you’re not sleeping with that thug, are you?”
“Sutherland,” I said, barely containing my wrath, “in a minute I’m going to clobber you myself! You brought a gun into my house! What were you thinking?”
“Okay, okay. I came for Madeleine’s book. Groatley thinks it’s vitally important, but he couldn’t find it. He believes you took it the morning we were all at Quintain.”
“What does Simon Groatley know about the book? Why does he want it?”
“He’s covering his ass, Nora. He thinks the book contains all of Madeleine’s financial records. He knows you’re going to sue him for the way he neglected Madeleine’s estate.”
“I’m the one who’s going to sue him? What about you? I thought you wanted Quintain for yourself.”
“I do,” he insisted. “But—well, it seems simpler if—if—”
I remembered my conversation with the lawyer as we danced around the ballroom. “You cut a deal with Simon Groatley, didn’t you?”
My cousin had enough conscience to blush.
I said, “In exchange for you getting Quintain instead of my sisters and me?”
“Groatley’s right, Nora. If we all agree right away, there won’t be a drawn-out settlement of Madeleine’s estate.” He implored, “We’ll all get our money much sooner if we just cooperate and—”
“We?” I said. “You’re including me, after all? Or did you come here to gather evidence against me? Admit it, Sutherland. You teamed up with Groatley so you could shut out the rest of us.”
“That’s not entirely— I mean— See here, there’s no need to talk to me like a common criminal!”
“No? Because I think that’s exactly what you are.”
“But—”
“And I took a look at the marina manager’s paperwork when I went to visit you on your yacht. Except the yacht isn’t yours at all, is it, Sutherland? It’s registered in somebody else’s name.”
“I—I—”
“You lied, Cuz. First you tried to make me believe you’re a hotshot yacht racer, but you’re actually just a hitchhiker, aren’t you? Hitching a ride on a boat owned by somebody who probably has no clue you’re aboard. But more important—”
“They do, too,” he shot back defensively. “Oh, hell, if you must know the truth, I’m a broker. A yacht broker, and I brought the boat here for the new owner. Except they’re spending an extra week hiking mountains in some godforsaken Third World country, so they’re not ready to accept delivery. I might as well skip paying for a hotel room, right? So I’m staying on the yacht.”
“You’re a used-boat dealer! No wonder you’re looking to inherit Madeleine’s money. You’re probably as broke as I am. I can’t believe how low you’ve sunk.” To stop myself from clanging him over the head with the nearest silver teapot, I sat down on the opposite side of the dining room table. “It was you who sent all the postcards from Madeleine, wasn’t it? Don’t lie this time. It had to be you. There’s nobody else who traveled that part of the world.”
“All right,” he said. “Yes, it was me.”
“Why?” I cried.
“Because—well, Madeleine was dead, wasn’t she? And, okay, I went back to Quintain once or twice. When I needed extra cash.”
“You stole more things from the house?”
“Once or twice, that’s all,” he assured me. “She was already dead, right? What was the harm in letting everyone keep thinking she was having a wonderful time?”
“You wanted us to stay away from the house,” I guessed, “so you could help yourself whenever your piggy bank ran low. I can’t believe you’re such a snake.”
Sutherland gave a pretty good impression of looking repentant. But his voice turned sulky. “It wasn’t just me. The last time I went to Quintain, somebody else had cleaned the place out.”
“Who?”
“I don’t know.”
“So you figured the party was over, and you might as well declare Madeleine dead and start collecting whatever you could get from the sale of the property. You took advantage of the volcano, didn’t you? You figured that was the perfect way to end Madeleine’s life.” Fed up, I snapped, “Honestly, Sutherland, I’m calling the police this minute.”
He seized my hand to keep me from leaping to my feet. “Please don’t. It will be too embarrassing. For all of us, Nora.”
I glared at him. “Did you kill her?”
“Kill Madeleine?” He shuddered with revulsion. “Of course not! What an appalling idea.”
“All the evidence points to you.” I wrenched my hand from his grasp and stood up. “You’re due more than a little embarrassment, I think.”
Michael returned with a glass of water and set it on the table in front of Sutherland. With his other hand, Michael handed me the phone. “Call 911. The cops will love this.”
“No!” Sutherland cried. And this time he truly looked pathetic. His thinning hair, his wrinkled neck, his fake wristwatch. He was an aging gigolo, all right. Too old to get by on his charm anymore. He was desperate to find a way to finance his lifestyle. From the way he had surveyed the decay of Blackbird Farm, I knew he feared he’d end up equally impoverished.
I blew a sigh of exasperation and turned to Michael. “If I call the police, they’re going to assume that stupid gun is yours. They’ll cross-examine all of us, then drag you off just for the fun of it, and I just don’t have the energy for that tonight.”
“Me neither.” He looked hopeful again. “So I get to beat the crap out of this guy, after all?”
“We need to find you a hobby. Stamp collecting, maybe.” I eyed my cousin with distaste. “Do we have to let Sutherland go?”
“We could tie him up in the barn for the rest of the night. Give him time t
o think about his transgressions.”
“That won’t help solve the problem.”
“Which problem?” Sutherland asked.
I sat down again and glared at him. “Who killed Madeleine!”
Michael sat down at the table, too. “To figure that out, it’s time to follow the money, sweetheart.”
Confused, I said, “Her estate, you mean?”
“You need to find out where all her stuff went.”
“Sutherland took it.”
My cousin managed some outrage. “Not everything! Honestly, Nora, I only made a few small trips to the well.”
“I thought you said you went to Quintain once or twice, but now it’s a few small trips?” In disgust, I demanded, “Did you steal the Fabergé egg?”
“Heavens, no! That would have been too traceable.”
Michael grinned coldly. “So you’re a cut above the usual stupid felon?”
At something he saw in Michael’s eye, Sutherland subsided into his chair.
“All right,” I said to Michael, “what should I do?”
He considered the situation for a moment, letting his own felonious side comb through the possibilities. “In the morning,” he said finally, “you should go see a guy I know. If he’s not inside, that is.”
Inside meant jail. I gave Michael a long look. “Is this going to be another Foxy Galore excursion?”
“A different part of the social spectrum,” Michael said with a smile. “But Libby’s going to love him.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
The following morning, I found myself in a disreputable part of South Philly.
Beside me, behind the wheel of her minivan, Libby nibbled on her second orange scone of the day. “So you let Sutherland go?”
“If I hadn’t sent him on his way, Michael might have hurt him.”
“Do you think our cousin was telling the truth?”
“About much of anything? Not really. He helped himself from Madeleine’s house whenever he needed money, and he pretended to send the postcards from her so he could have continued access to Quintain. He says he discovered somebody else was stealing from the house, so that’s when he announced her death to the newspapers. But maybe he took everything himself. I wouldn’t put it past him. He’s hardly got the right constitution for murder, however. He looked positively sick when I accused him.”
Libby took another bite of her scone and looked out the windshield. “This neighborhood looks like it belongs in an episode of The Wire. Do you see that man on the corner? I think he’s selling drugs.”
“Look again. He’s selling bunches of flowers, Lib.”
The two of us peered at the suspicious-looking character on the litter-strewn corner. His flowers did look a little wilted, I had to admit. Up the street was a famous cheesesteak eatery, but in the other direction stretched a warren of alleys that I had never explored.
“Just the same, I’m going to take his picture and send it to my PitterPat followers.” Libby handed me her scone on a wadded-up napkin and rolled down her window. She snapped a photo with her cell phone’s camera. “My followers will have an opinion about what’s really going on here.”
“So, your PitterPat followers are definitely—uh—incarcerated?”
“Yes, they’re all coming out to me now.” Libby used her thumbs to type a speedy message on her phone’s tiny keyboard. “I’m a sympathetic ear. You’d be amazed by how many men are unjustly imprisoned, Nora. Our justice system is a disgrace. Once Maximus is enrolled in sports camp, I might start volunteering. Prisoners Aid is a very worthwhile cause, and they need my help.”
“Uh-uh.” I gave her back her scone and brushed crumbs from my lap. “Libby, you know it’s possible your followers might be scamming you.”
“How crazy do you think I am? I’ll screen anyone before I get really serious. That Man of Yours said he’d help identify the undesirable ones.” Before I could object to her plan, she pointed out the window. “Is that the address we’re looking for?”
She had parked along the curb across from a busy Italian deli and a Japanese grocery. Both businesses were booming with customers. The bagel shop down the street looked even busier. But in the other direction sat a squat building that took up a full city block.
The neon sign over the door read: UNCLE SAM’S PAWNSHOP and alternately blinked red, white and blue. Dozens of American flags fluttered along the roof. The shop’s dirty windows had been papered over with signs so it was impossible to see inside. The signs read: WE PAY BIG CASH FOR GOLD!
“Without a doubt,” I said. “That’s the place.”
“It’s very patriotic.”
“It is. We have to go around the back. Sam is officially closed on Sundays.”
“And That Man of Yours made an appointment for us?” Libby wrapped her napkin around the remains of her breakfast to save it for later.
“Yes. Let’s go.”
We climbed out of the minivan and buttoned up our coats against the brisk November wind. Libby had chosen a vibrant purple ensemble. Only the top of her T-shirt showed beneath her coat. This morning, it read: SUNDAY IS FOR LOVERS. I suspected she had a similar shirt for every day of the week.
The street was lined with vehicles and bustled with shoppers picking up whatever delicacies they preferred for Sunday dinner. But around the corner, the traffic dwindled to nothing, and it was with trepidation that Libby and I approached the back alley.
We peeked around the back of Uncle Sam’s building. The alley was crowded with a Dumpster, a heap of mashed cardboard boxes and a couple of late-model vehicles coated with rust. One had a front tire encased by a parking authority boot.
Libby snapped another photo for her followers.
The back door was unmarked except for a hand-painted No Parking sign and a rusted lock.
I knocked tentatively.
We waited.
Libby said, “Either nobody’s home, or they didn’t hear you.”
She used her fist to bang on the door as if leading the vice squad on a raid.
The door swung open almost immediately, and a large, broad-shouldered man stuck his head out. He had a used-car-salesman grin and wore a red bandanna around his unruly dark hair. Otherwise, he was attractive in a South Philly way—all expansive bonhomie with a twinkle in his eyes and a missing eyetooth. He gave us a delighted once-over. “You must be Mick’s girls—am I right? I’m Uncle Sam.”
“Girl.” Libby pointed at me. “I,” she said with a distinct flutter of her lashes, “am available.”
He pushed the door wide and boomed, “Come in, ladies! Can I offer you a morning beverage? Coffee? Beer? Maybe a mimosa?”
“I’d love a mimosa!” Libby cried. “So festive.”
He gave her a more appreciative glance, his large nose hovering over her cleavage with the air of a connoisseur. “Are you feeling festive, pretty lady?”
“We don’t need mimosas,” I said firmly. “We’re on a bit of a tight schedule today.”
“That’s too bad,” he said, his grin undimmed. “On a weekend, I’m allergic to tight schedules. Weekends are for taking your time, smelling the flowers, enjoying the view, am I right?”
“So right,” Libby breathed.
“I especially love Sundays. I used to be a preacher, you know. Had my own church and my own flock. There was a little misunderstanding about the collection plate, or I’d still be standing at the pulpit.”
“I’m a freethinker when it comes to organized religion,” Libby said. “I want to explore as many spiritual experiences as I possibly can.”
“Why,” he said with pleasure, “we’re practically soul mates!”
He ushered us past what must have been the pawnshop showroom. I caught a glimpse of lighted cases full of wristwatches and other merchandise. The walls were hung with musical instruments, several sets of golf clubs and at least one lawn mower. Along another wall sat the big stuff—a pinball machine, a jukebox and two tanning beds.
“Come into my inne
r sanctum,” Uncle Sam said, leading us along a narrow hallway with fluorescent lights buzzing overhead and well-worn vinyl flooring underfoot. “We’ll have a little sit-down, just the three of us. Mick said you were looking to find out about some stolen goods. Damn shame. Who’d want to steal stuff from a coupla nice girls like you two?”
If I had to guess Uncle Sam’s age, I’d have put it somewhere between forty and fifty, but for a former man of the cloth he had a youthful swagger. He had pushed the sleeves of his Eagles sweatshirt up to his elbows, and we could see the twin tattoos on his forearms—George Washington sitting astride his horse on one arm, Abraham Lincoln delivering the Gettysburg Address on the other. Both men seemed to have facial features suspiciously similar to Uncle Sam’s.
“Actually,” I said, “it’s our aunt who was the victim. Her art collection has disappeared, as have many other valuable items from her home.”
“Damn shame,” Uncle Sam said again. “Good that you’re making a move, though. Doesn’t pay to play the victim. Take action, that’s always the best way. Keep your enemies on their toes. I’m paraphrasing here, but that’s Sun Tzu, the Chinese general. Smart guy. Have a seat. I’ll whip us up those mimosas. Only takes a second.”
His inner sanctum was half office, half seraglio. Metal desk, metal filing cabinets, overhead lighting. A thick Persian rug lay on the floor, though, and twin fainting couches sat in front of the desk. Both couches were upholstered in pink velvet and featured multiple pillows with tassels—as if a harem might suddenly need extra seating. Swagged lanterns hung from the ceiling and cast romantic lighting on the luxurious cushions.
“How beautiful!” Libby sang out.
“You have good taste, pretty lady.”
“I love my comforts.” Libby sighed and flung herself down on the nearest couch. “Wonderful! Nora, you must try one of these!”
There was no other place to sit, so I took the other fainting couch, while Uncle Sam bustled behind his desk. He opened a small dorm-sized fridge and extracted a plastic jug of orange juice and a bottle of cheap champagne. Before I could decline again, he had popped the cork and was sloshing champagne and juice into disposable cups.
