How to Murder a Millionaire

by Nancy Martin

  Jill laughed a little. “And she’s always polite.”

  Bloom cleared his throat.

  I sat up unsteadily. “Rory was so frail,” I said, almost talking to myself. “A child could have knocked him down. Anyone could have smothered him.”

  “All right,” said Bloom, putting an end to my speculation before it went any further. He dug into the pocket of his sport coat. He came up with a cheap notebook and a Bic pen. “Let’s start all over again, shall we? Why don’t you tell me the whole story from the beginning? Nice and slow.”

  I recounted my movements as the detective wrote notes in the small ring-bound notebook. He stopped me twice to clarify my information, but as I gathered my composure I found I could detail the things I’d seen and heard very clearly. I remembered the prescription bottle. I described the angle of Rory’s twisted head.

  Bloom kept me calm and focused. His own expression was carefully manufactured, but I could see his powers of observation were sharply at work. He watched my hands, then involuntarily let his gaze slip to my legs.

  Jill stirred beside me. I knew she’d been observing, too. With her bartender’s instincts, I wondered what she noticed. Her reaction to his manner would undoubtedly be different from mine.

  “All right,” he said when I had finished. “This is very helpful. I’m sure you understand how important it is for us to know exactly what happened here. And the sooner we nail down details, the better our chances for closing this matter.”

  A uniformed police officer appeared at that moment. “Bloom,” he said, “there’s a couple of ladies who really want to see you. They’re making a fuss.”

  “I’m coming,” Bloom said. “If you’ll wait here with—”

  He was interrupted by two querulous female voices arguing in the hallway, and a moment later the uniformed officer was pushed into the sitting room by the force of two elderly women, who could not be stopped.

  “See here,” said the first. “Our brother is dead and we are prisoners in his house because you people—”

  “This is our home,” the other voice chimed in. “We have a right to know what’s going on.”

  The Pendergast sisters reportedly lived in Palm Beach, having left Philadelphia over some family squabble decades ago. Rumor had it they rarely spoke to each other, let alone their brother. They must have been invited to the party by someone uninformed about the family rift, I realized, and they had come to celebrate their family’s ownership of the Intelligencer.

  I knew most of the main characters in Philadelphia society. I’d gone to dancing class with some, enjoyed country club picnics with others, attended their christenings and weddings and quite a few funerals. As a little girl, I’d had my cheeks pinched by every grande dame in town. Except Lily and Opal Pendergast.

  The Poison Gas Sisters, I’d heard my father call them. “Stay away,” he’d warned. “They’d probably fry you up with onions for breakfast.”

  Lily’s crusty diamonds matched the hard ice in her gaze. She was tall and ferocious in an expensive black silk dress, and she pointed her ebony cane defiantly at Detective Bloom. “I demand to know what’s going on.”

  Opal had “gone Florida” and her solid, shorter figure was squeezed into a murderous orange track suit with sequins. Her feet overflowed her flat gold shoes with sparkling buckles. Her ear-piercing whine had been perfected by years of complaints. “I don’t understand why we’re being held like cattle. Our brother is dead!”

  Lily said, “We’ve come all the way from Florida to honor our own family and now—”

  “We’re exhausted!”

  Jill and I exchanged a glance.

  Lily’s hawklike nose pointed at me, then at Jill. “And who are you? What are you telling him?”

  I got to my feet and held out my hand. “Hello, Miss Pendergast. I’m Nora Blackbird. I’m very sorry—”

  She narrowed her sharp eyes on me. “Blackbird? One of Charlie Blackbird’s granddaughters, I suppose? One of the widows?”

  “I’m so sorry about Rory,” I said evenly. “We are all—were all—very fond of him.”

  “Some people were fonder of him than others,” she said, but grudgingly accepted my hand. “How do you do, Miss Blackbird?”

  “This is Detective Bloom, Miss Pendergast. He’s gathering information about what happened here this evening.”

  Lily Pendergast allowed herself to be civil to me, but she made no effort to treat Bloom with any such deference. She straightened to her full height and looked at him with disdain. “I want you to stop what you’re doing, young man. Not another word is to be said until my sister and I are told exactly what’s going on.”

  “I’m afraid it doesn’t work that way, ma’am,” said Bloom. “I’m from the homicide division and—”

  “Homicide?” Lily snorted, clearly impervious to Bloom’s good-cop charm. “Don’t be ridiculous. Pendergasts don’t get themselves killed.”

  Opal snapped, “Roderick died of natural causes, I’m perfectly sure.”

  “You’d better sit down, honey,” said Jill. “Because you’re about to get a surprise.”

  “See here, this is very unpleasant,” Lily appealed to Bloom with a gesture to indicate Jill. “Obviously, there’s no control over who goes where and what goes on. Surely we are owed some consideration from the police on this.”

  “Yes, some consideration,” Opal chimed in. “People are walking in and out, gossiping and—mercy, what about the art collection? Is anybody guarding the art?” She began to fan her face with her handkerchief. “With all these strangers loitering around—”

  It was time for someone to take charge, and young Detective Bloom didn’t appear up to the challenge of subduing two elderly dragons. I guessed the Boy Scout manual didn’t cover all emergencies. I interrupted with a careful blend of obsequious gentility and a dash of Blackbird bossiness. “I think we’re all terribly emotional and need time to compose ourselves. Jill, could you get some drinks for everyone? Rory’s sisters need time to sit down and collect themselves. And then I think the detective will explain everything to your satisfaction, Miss Pendergast. Does that sound like a plan?”

  Bloom pulled himself together. “Yes, that’s a good idea. Ladies, let’s make you comfortable and I’ll be right back to clarify the situation for you.”

  Bloom drew me into the hall as Jill and the other police officer set about treating the Pendergast sisters like royalty.

  Keeping his voice down, he said, “That was quick thinking, Miss Blackbird. You know how to handle these people.”

  “A lifetime of experience,” I replied.

  The hall was busy. Most of the Main Events employees had been herded into the kitchen to wait, and I noticed that police officers—both uniformed and in plain clothes—were swarming up the back staircase with cases of equipment.

  Bloom put his shoulder against the wall and pulled me out of the path of a burly cop lumbering past with a video camera. “Do you know many of the guests here tonight?”

  “Probably all of them.”

  “And you seem to understand how they should be treated.”

  “With kid gloves, you mean?”

  A glimmer of light appeared in his brown eyes. “Exactly. Look, I’ll be honest with you, Miss Blackbird. I’m a fish out of water here. All I know is you stick out your pinkie when you drink tea. Would you mind? You could be a valuable asset in this investigation.”

  “Does this mean I’m not a suspect?”

  “Unless you killed Pendergast in a minute or less, I think we can rule you out,” he said. “We’ll go easy on you if you pitch in.”

  “I’ll be happy to help in any way I can.”

  “Great.” He took my elbow and pulled. “First, how about introducing me to Peach Treese? Is that really her name?”

  Chapter 4

  I knew I’d been flattered, but I fell for it anyway. Or maybe I was just trying to find a way to distract myself from the horror of what had happened.

 
“Rory’s sisters are probably right, you know.” We moved down the kitchen hallway. “Have you started checking on the art collection?”

  “What about it?” Detective Bloom asked.

  “The collection is enormous,” I said. “I couldn’t begin to catalog what Rory owns—owned—but the van Gogh was still in his room. I know because I straightened it.”

  “Jeez,” the detective muttered. “A van Gogh?”

  “A small one. But extremely valuable, of course. It was hanging crookedly on the wall. Maybe someone was touching it, and Rory came in.”

  My theory didn’t faze Bloom. He asked, “How do we find out what might be missing? Is there a list or something?”

  “Rory probably had a private curator, or at least an agency who cataloged and took care of things. We could ask his secretary.”

  Bloom shook his head grimly. “The secretary’s on a plane to Los Angeles for a family commitment. He left just after the party got under way. We’ve talked with him by cell phone once already. He’s trying to get back by tomorrow.”

  “Maybe Peach could help. She knows about Rory’s affairs.”

  “Let’s go find her. Scotty,” he called to a passing colleague. “Somebody call Levi, the art guy, okay? And keep an eye on things here for a while, will you?”

  “Sure,” said the other cop. He was snapping his fingers at his side and chewing gum very fast, the only man showing any urgency. A crime had been committed, and all the police moved around us with unhurried purpose. But Scotty betrayed the obvious—the clock was ticking. Around his punished bit of gum, he said to Bloom, “We rounded up all the guests.”

  “Anyone give you trouble?”

  Scotty grinned. “Only the couple fooling around in the bathroom.”

  The party guests had not been allowed to leave yet but were herded into the main salon, the entry hall and dining room where the mood was somber. The bar was closed and the leftover food had been removed, but Main Events coffee urns steamed gently on the buffet. Most of the guests had china cups and saucers in hand. Police officers were taking names and addresses.

  Heads turned as we entered the salon. With a sinking heart, I realized I was a celebrity for all the wrong reasons

  Peach Treese sat in a corner in an upholstered chair. She looked far from composed and had aged ten years since I’d seen her an hour earlier. Another detective, a woman in a too-tight navy pantsuit, sat with her.

  To Bloom, I said, “Here’s Peach. Shall we go speak with her?”

  “I’m right behind you.”

  I led the way through the subdued crowd to Peach’s chair. She saw me, and her face crumpled into tears again. I knelt beside her chair and hugged her. She trembled violently.

  “Oh, Nora,” she said, her cheek pressed to mine.

  “Peach, I’m so sorry,” I murmured.

  “Do you think he suffered?” she asked. “Do you think he was in any pain?” She pulled back to look at my face. “People are saying you found him. Was it his heart? Was he in pain when he—when he—?”

  “I’m sure it happened quickly,” I said, trying to be gentle. I took the handkerchief from her hands and dabbed her tears. “Don’t make yourself ill, all right?”

  “I won’t,” she promised, “if those horrible sisters of his stay away from me. They are so hateful.”

  “They’re in shock.”

  She began to display some of her natural fire again. “They wanted Rory to sell the newspaper—did he tell you that? They’ve been pressuring him for years, even courted that national conglomerate themselves. And they have the gall to show up here tonight to celebrate everything he accomplished. I should have thrown them out hours ago!”

  I soothed her. “Peach, there’s no sense getting upset about them right now.”

  “Oh, Nora, what will I do without him?”

  I hugged her again, and Bloom cleared his throat.

  I held her a little longer before I had the composure to ask whether or not Rory had a curator for his collection.

  “Of course,” she said, wiping her swollen eyes. “It was Boatman’s. They’re in New York. They just began work on the collection. His former curator passed away. Jerry Glickman, remember?”

  “Yes. Thank you, Peach.”

  “Why?” Her face contracted. “The van Gogh? Is there something wrong?”

  “No, no, Peach.”

  Bloom leaned closer. “Mrs. Treese, I know you’ll be interviewed more fully in a few minutes, but Detective Wilson mentioned to me that you heard Pendergast on the phone while you were upstairs.”

  “Yes,” said Peach. “He was laughing, I thought. But then he said something—I didn’t understand it all.”

  “What do you think you heard?”

  “Rory said, ‘Don’t threaten me, young man.’ I think someone was being cruel. How could anyone threaten Rory?”

  “Maybe he was joking,” I soothed.

  Bloom asked, “You’re certain that’s what you heard, Mrs. Treese?”

  “I told you, I’m not exactly—”

  “Please,” I said, “she’s upset.”

  Peach clutched my arm. Her hands were freezing. “Why are they asking me all these questions, Nora?”

  Bloom said, “When you were upstairs, what were you discussing with Pendergast, Mrs. Treese?”

  Her face seemed to flatten out. “It was a private conversation.”

  “Yes, ma’am, but—”

  Peach’s color began to alarm me, and I cut across Bloom’s next inquiry. “It’s all right, Peach. Do you have someone to take you home soon? Can I see you home?”

  “No, no. My granddaughter is here. She’ll walk me across.”

  Bloom tried to interrupt again, but I stood, physically blocking him from Peach. I said, “I’ll find your granddaughter now, Peach. You shouldn’t be alone.”

  We promised to talk again soon by telephone. I turned away just as young Pamela Treese rushed over to console her grandmother.

  As we moved away, I said to Bloom sotto voce, “You don’t suspect Peach, for heaven’s sake?”

  “Why not?”

  “She and Rory were closer than anyone else in his life. Surely it’s ridiculous to suppose she could—Now wait,” I said sharply, seeing his face. “I know the family is always suspected first, but really! It’s completely silly to think Peach could have killed him.”

  “She was the last to see him alive. And she told you herself they argued.”

  “That’s nonsense.”

  “You’d be surprised how simple these things turn out to be, Miss Blackbird.”

  Another cop came over purposefully. “Bloom, they’re ready for you upstairs.”

  “Okay,” he said, then turned to me. “There’s something I need you to do, Miss Blackbird. I’m sorry it has to be tonight, but we don’t have another choice.”

  “You want me to go back upstairs,” I guessed, and my heart began to skitter.

  “It’ll be all right,” he said, somehow charming and solemn at the same time. “And I’ll be with you the whole time. But it’s important for us to know everything about the crime scene. You’re the only one who can help us determine exactly how things looked when you found Pendergast.”

  Inside, I felt a sliver of anger that the detective referred to my friend by his last name. It depersonalized a man who deserved respect and affection.

  Bloom must have seen something change in my expression, because he said quickly, “I won’t kid you. It’ll be hard. But you’ve been wonderful so far. You can do this.”

  I didn’t want to be coached. I would help because it was dear Rory who had died.

  “Let’s go now,” I said, “while I feel this way.”

  The questions came rapid-fire after that. Had I touched the railing? Where was I standing when I spoke with Sam? How long had I paused on the landing? What kind of car had I seen leaving the cobble-stone yard? How fast had it been going? When I arrived on the second floor, had I seen or heard anyone descending the mai
n staircase?

  Carefully, they guided me along my route. Upstairs, I hesitated in the doorway of the study, so Bloom went before me and asked another question to lure me into the room. The books, the unfinished supper, papers, telephone and paintings were just as I had seen them the first time I entered. I showed them how the painting looked—slightly crooked on the wall.

  A knot of cops huddled in Rory’s dressing room, murmuring among themselves and pretending to ignore what Detectives Bloom and Wilson were doing with me.

  “And here?” Bloom asked, pointing his pen towards the open bedroom door. “This is where you stood when you first saw the victim?”

  I stepped into Rory’s bedroom. I assumed the body had been removed, but there he lay, covered with a white plastic sheet. It was as if a cheap drop cloth had been thrown over him to allow painters to refurbish the room.

  A part of my brain closed down then, as if a curtain had dropped between the intellectual side of myself and the emotional side. The police asked me questions; even some of the men who had kept silent up until that time posed queries. I remember a woman, too, who asked me bluntly about the champagne glasses I had dropped. They were still in place, broken crystal and twin pools of wine soaked deep into the carpet.

  I explained what I had seen and done. I explained twice. And after that, they wanted to review their notes. I felt faint only once, but the spell passed when I shoved my emotions behind the curtain again and forced myself to respond to Detective Bloom’s relentless interrogation.

  I heard one officer mutter, “The kid cop has his big chance. Now look at ’im go.”

  Finally Bloom and his partner led me out into the corridor.

  “The pills on the floor,” I said, when we were out of the room. I rubbed my face with one hand and wondered if I would ever think straight again.

  “What about the pills, Miss Blackbird?”

  “The bottle is a standard prescription container. Were they some kind of heart medication?”

  “Were you aware of a heart condition?”

  “I knew he’d had a heart attack a few years ago, not a very serious one. What kind of pills were those on the floor?”

  The partner said, “I don’t think we—”