How to Murder a Millionaire

by Nancy Martin

  She nodded.

  “And one person I know I can do something for is Peach. The police seem to be looking for ways to blame her. She was the last person to see him alive and she admits they argued.”

  Emma gave a snort to indicate how stupid that premise was. “What are you going to do?”

  “I thought I’d find out about Rory’s art collection first.”

  “I don’t get it.”

  “Maybe that’s why he was killed. His paintings were all over the place. A van Gogh right there in his bedroom! Maybe somebody tried to steal something and killed him in the process.”

  “Is that what the police think?”

  “It’s one possibility. And I have to start somewhere.”

  Emma said, “Like where else?”

  “I’ve been thinking about Harold Tackett. Remember him? A contemporary of Rory’s. He lives just up the road from here.”

  “Isn’t he dead?”

  “Not even close. He collects all kinds of things, so maybe he can help.”

  “You want me to drive you up to see the Tacketts? Now?”

  “You have something better to do?”

  “I want my half of the sandwich first.”

  I smiled, glad to have one sister who could understand me. She went to the counter and picked up our food.

  Twenty minutes later, I heaved my bicycle into the bed of Emma’s rattletrap pickup and climbed into the front seat. A heap of sweatshirts and a tangle of bridles made a mess that Emma gathered up and threw into the space behind my seat.

  Emma drove very fast. Even a fatal accident hadn’t changed her ways. She headed back up the Delaware, whipping past a couple of estates that had been built by signers of the Declaration of Independence. The main houses now functioned as country inns and the grounds of one served as a complex where Olympic-quality equestrian teams trained. Several more large fieldstone houses dotted the high ground that overlooked the river.

  At the next curve in the road, and following my instructions, Emma pulled her truck into a shaded lane that wound upward through carefully planted wood-lands towards one of the oldest houses in the valley. Maybe Rory Pendergast was a billionaire, but his neighbors were true Old Money. They had bank accounts and a pedigree.

  As we passed a stone gatehouse built to resemble a Saxon keep, Emma said, “I haven’t been up here in years.”

  In the driveway, I got out of the truck. “Come on. We’ll go around the side.”

  I led the way around the garden wall and ducked under a hemlock tree that needed trimming. A white-faced gray cat slipped out from under the tree, arching his back and meowing.

  I said, “Hey, Bruno.”

  The cat preceded us around the house to the solarium door, which faced the river. Underfoot, the flagstone walkway was crumbling, and ragged bits of wet grass peeked from between the stones. I knew the lack of upkeep wasn’t for lack of cash. Something was always falling apart on such a vast property.

  The peaceful beauty of the estate enveloped us.

  Then a tremendous blast split the air. I yelped as the explosion echoed against the trees behind the house.

  Emma dodged behind the gate to escape further gunfire.

  But the cat didn’t turn a hair. He sat down and placidly licked a forepaw while below us on the lawn, the diminutive figure of Eloise Tackett expertly hefted a shotgun in her small hands.

  Chapter 7

  “And stay out!” she shouted up at the trees. “Damn crows!”

  Brilliant sunlight now dappled the long expanse of lawn that rolled away from the stone balustrade. From that hillside, our view of the river was breathtaking. Eloise didn’t appear to notice. She glared into the sky at a flock of retreating crows.

  “We surrender!” I called.

  Eloise turned and waved. Grinning, she hiked up the lawn towards us, the double-barreled gun cradled in the crook of her arm. “Did I scare you?” she shouted, still a furlong away.

  “I thought you were conducting maneuvers up here,” I said. “Where’s the rest of the army?”

  “Asleep inside,” Eloise responded cheerfully. “Come in, girls. How delightful to see you both.”

  Still balancing the gun, she gave me a one-armed hug and rough kiss on the cheek, then the same to Emma. Her hug was hardy, and Eloise Tackett’s body looked anything but seventy-two years old. She was dressed in khaki trousers and a man’s white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled back over forearms still tight from years of outdoor sports. I knew she’d been a champion skeet shooter in the fifties, but she’d never describe herself in those words. She was the most unpretentious woman I could think of. Untamed white hair that had never been touched by dyes or rinses was caught up in a pink ribbon and framed her lively face. Elflike in stature, she had a strong, athletic quickness to her gait. She sprang towards the door, treating the gun as if it were no more dangerous than an armload of spring flowers.

  “Let’s go through the porch,” she said. “Harold will be thrilled to see you.”

  The original house was Georgian in design, with flourishes added by later generations. Long ago, the portico had been built, then converted into a solarium, usable year round. Eloise thrust open the door.

  “Look who’s here, Harold!” she shouted. “It’s those nice Blackbird sisters!”

  “Heh?” An elderly man struggled to sit up on the wicker fainting couch where he’d been alternately snorting and mumbling to himself beneath the pages of the Philadelphia Inquirer. Coming out of his post-nap fog of disorientation, he fumbled with a pair of smudged eyeglasses and eventually balanced them on his narrow nose before squinting at Emma and me as we entered. “Oh,” he bellowed. “It’s the Blackbird widows, is it?”

  “Put a cork in it, Harold.”

  He cackled while his much younger wife hauled him to his feet, protesting that he shouldn’t make light of anyone’s misfortune.

  “It’s okay,” I soothed. “Please don’t—”

  “Oh, those Blackbird women,” Harold shouted, waving his newspaper at us, “never had any luck with husbands, did they, Ellie? Remember their grandmama? Or was it their great grandmama? That red-haired one with the yappy dog.”

  “We’re all red-haired, you old coot,” Emma said.

  “That’s the way to give it to him.” Eloise laughed. “Put in your hearing aids, Harold. I’m finished shooting.”

  He obeyed, fitting the two plastic aids into his ears. A belt tight and high on his stomach cinched Harold Tackett’s trousers, and his still-thick white hair stood up as if he’d been electrocuted. Stiff from napping, he hobbled closer. “Both of you lost your husbands, right?” Harold demanded as he finished screwing the aids in place. “Some kind of drunk driving accident? And yours,” he said to me, “was shot in the city, I think? Buying dope? And what about your sisters? What happened to their husbands?”

  “There’s just one other sister,” I shouted back. “And she’s remarried. Her husband’s just fine, thanks. He’s a banker, you know.”

  “Why would he want a tanker?” Harold asked Eloise.

  “Banker!” Eloise yelled up at him, then shook her head. “Oh, you only hear what you want to hear, so why am I losing my vocal cords?”

  “Oh, I know which one he is,” Harold said. “The Civil War nut. He came up here once asking for money for some crackpot idea.”

  “Saving a battlefield,” Eloise supplied. “A noble cause.”

  “He’ll go bad.” Harold looked delighted with his prediction. “All the Blackbird girls marry rascals.”

  Eloise Tackett finished tucking the shotgun into the open case balanced on a chair and turned back to us, rolling her eyes. “Don’t mind this old fool, girls. Take a seat. Don’t listen to a word he says. Bruno, don’t—oh, just shove that cat onto the floor. Sit down, Harold!”

  I said, “We passed the old gatehouse on the drive. I see you’re making some repairs.”

  “Just patching the slate roof,” Eloise replied. “With a place like this, th
ere’s always something expensive happening.”

  The solarium was exceedingly bright with sunlight, so it took a moment for our eyes to become accustomed to the glare. I grinned as Emma finally grasped the scene, for the entire room was cluttered with jigsaw puzzles in various stages of assembly. Card tables, breakfast trays, simple slabs of plywood—any flat surface smooth enough to accommodate a puzzle had been pressed into service by the Tacketts, who clearly spent their waking hours moving from one puzzle to another. A couple of office-style chairs on wheels made it easy for them to slide along the tile floor to the next puzzle when frustration set in.

  The couple didn’t seem to care about the pictures on their puzzles, for I could see Old Masters landscapes, animals, geometric designs and optical illusions. I sat on one of the chairs with wheels and found myself confronted by a picture of a sweaty basketball player going up for a shot while flashbulbs exploded in the stands.

  “Wow,” Emma said, still on her feet and staring down at a half-finished three-dimensional puzzle of the Eiffel Tower. “All these pieces are the same shape.”

  “Oh, we like a challenge,” said Eloise. “It’s even more challenging when Harold starts carrying pieces from one table to the next. He’s a pain in the neck sometimes. Would you girls like some lemonade?”

  “Get these girls some lemonade, Ellie,” Harold shouted, settling onto the other office chair. “Or maybe a piece of that chocolate cream pie you’ve been hiding in the ice box. How about it, girls? Wouldn’t you like some pie?”

  “It’s too early for pie, Harold! I’ve got him on a diet, so all he thinks about is food.”

  “We just had an early lunch,” I said quickly. “Please don’t go to any bother.”

  “What brings you girls up here?” Harold asked, rocking comfortably in his chair. “Selling Girl Scout cookies, are you?”

  “I was hoping you could help me with some information,” I said.

  Emma raised her voice, “She’s asking around about Rory Pendergast.”

  Eloise froze in the doorway on her way for lemonade and turned. Harold stopped rocking. Then Eloise said hastily, “Well, it’s a shame about old Rory, but I’m sure—”

  “It’s not a shame,” Harold interrupted. “He probably had it coming.”

  “Now, Harold, no good comes from speaking ill of the dead.” She stepped back into the room. “What a tragedy. He was a friend of Harold’s once. Well, perhaps not a friend, exactly, but—”

  Harold snorted. “You won’t see my name on the eulogy list, that’s for sure!”

  “He was a philanthropist,” Eloise argued. “I respect him for that.”

  “He was a thief,” Harold snapped. “A damn thief and a liar.”

  “Now, Harold—”

  “You knew Mr. Pendergast well?” I asked.

  Harold grinned at me from under his bushy white eyebrows. “Do I need a lawyer, young lady?”

  I smiled, shaking my head. “I’m just asking around. The police detective asked me some questions I couldn’t answer last night, and they’ve been nagging me ever since.”

  “Well, I’ve always wanted to be grilled by the police. Call it too much television!” Harold chuckled and began to rock again, looking off into the distance as if to make his recollections accurate. “We went to school together. And played a few hands of cards before I was married. We belonged to the same club in Philadelphia until I retired. How long did I have that membership, Ellie?”

  “Forty-two years,” Eloise supplied.

  “But we didn’t associate much.” Harold’s mouth quirked. “Always looking for a way to make a buck, that Rory. All the Pendergasts were that way.”

  “Well, they certainly succeeded,” said Eloise.

  I mused that the Tacketts hadn’t done too badly themselves, both being heirs to large fortunes.

  “We bought a lot of the same stuff,” Harold went on. “We didn’t share much of anything, I suppose, except the same taste in pictures.”

  “Pictures?” I asked. “You mean paintings?”

  Harold laughed. “All kinds of things. And anyone will tell you we often competed against each other for items. I’ve taken to buying by phone now. It’s a lot easier that way. You don’t have to get all dressed up and go to the city. I just look at catalogs and call my agent—the young man who takes care of the details. In fact, he used to work for Pendergast.”

  “Do you mind telling me his name?”

  “Jonathan Longnecker,” Eloise said. “A scamp if there ever was one. Now he works for a museum, though.”

  I smiled. “He’s a scamp?”

  “Oh, a pleasant boy, really. Just foxy. He made it easy for Harold to buy. We hate going up to New York now,” Eloise explained.

  “And you bought the same kind of thing Rory did?”

  “If I lost at auction,” Harold said with diminishing good humor, “it was almost always Pendergast who beat me. Damned annoying.”

  Emma said, “What kind of art are you buying? Portraits, by any chance?”

  “Oh, hell, no,” said Harold, defiantly. “I suppose you’d call ’em dirty pictures.”

  “Erotica,” Eloise corrected.

  “Want to have a look?” Harold asked, sharing a grin with my sister.

  Emma laughed. “Bring it on, baby!”

  “Oh, Harold! You’re corrupting these nice girls.”

  Harold looked far from abashed. “Go get that pen and ink, Ellie. I left it on my desk. The little one.”

  “It’s not necessary,” I said hastily. “Really, it’s not.”

  Emma asked, “Rory had a collection of erotic art, too?”

  “A big one,” Harold replied as Eloise disappeared into the house. “I hope I’ll get a crack at buying some of it now that he’s dead and gone. I don’t suppose those two old Pendergast biddies want to keep it. I’ve never known women as prudish as those two.”

  I remembered how Lily and Opal Pendergast seemed anxious to control access to the art collection. At the time, I assumed they were worried about someone stealing a valuable painting. But maybe they were embarrassed by the subject matter instead. I said, “I’ll bet you’ll stand a good chance of buying from his estate.”

  Harold’s expression was gleefully crafty. “It’ll serve him right if I get my hands on the pieces he tricked me out of.”

  Eloise reappeared with a framed drawing. “Oh, Harold, don’t go on so. These girls will think you really hated Rory.”

  “So I did!”

  Emma took the frame from Eloise and looked down at the ink drawing. My sister’s grin was broad as she turned the frame this way and that to get a different perspective of the tangled arms, legs and other body parts depicted on the paper. “Why, you scoundrel,” she said to Harold. “Can you get yourself into that position?”

  “I like trying,” he replied, then burst out with a roaring laugh.

  “Don’t show Nora,” Eloise warned just as Emma started to hand the drawing to me. “I’m sure she’s too sensitive for that sort of thing.”

  “You’re right,” said Emma. “She’s the dainty type.”

  “Harold,” I said, trying hard to get back to my line of questioning, “did you discuss your collection with Rory?”

  “Never. But I’d sure like a look at his stuff. Ellie, pick up that newspaper again. Who’s the next of kin? Those sisters, I suppose. The old goat never married, although not from lack of ladies. Who do I have to see about getting his collection?”

  Eloise rattled the newspaper as she read down through the front page obituary. “Roderick Buchanan Pendergast, publisher of the Philadelphia Intelligencer, let’s see, la, la, la ... attended Yale, served in the Foreign Service—”

  Harold gave a barking laugh. “Drinking gin with Churchill’s pals, maybe.”

  “Formed the Freedom City Trust in 1956—let’s see—no! Survived by his sisters Lilyanne and Opal Christine, of Philadelphia and Palm Beach.”

  “A Palm Beach nursing home,” Harold guessed. “T
hose girls must be in their eighties by now.”

  “They won’t be suspects in the murder,” said Eloise.

  “Oh, I don’t know.” Harold laughed again. “They still looked like a couple of mean old women last night. And Pendergast was so feeble, why, that cat of yours could have knocked him down.”

  I was startled. “You were there last night? At the party?”

  “Hell, yes,” said Harold. “Once upon a time I wrote a financial column for that newspaper. They invited all of us old fogies.”

  “I didn’t see you there,” I said.

  “We didn’t stay long,” Eloise interjected. “We left before he was—well, before—”

  Emma stopped admiring the drawing and said, “Nora found the body.”

  That information prompted an exclamation from Eloise and a request for further enlightenment from Harold. I kept it brief.

  “You poor dear.” Eloise’s eyes filled with tears. “You must be so distressed.”

  “I was,” I told her, feeling another wave of grief. “And I can’t get it out of my head. I can’t help being curious about who killed him.”

  “Do the police have suspects?”

  “I think they’re trying to narrow the field at this point.”

  Harold shook his head sagely. “I bet half the people at that shindig wanted to bash Pendergast’s head at least once in his life.”

  Chapter 8

  Later at the farm, Emma hoisted my bicycle out of the truck bed before she remembered why she’d come looking for me in the first place. Out of the heap of sweatshirts, she pulled a canvas bag from Libby.

  “I’m supposed to give you this. Libby asked me to drop it off.”

  I accepted the flowered bag, one of the many we frequently exchanged as we shared books. Looking at it with mock trepidation, I asked, “Do you think it’s a bomb?”

  Emma shrugged. “It’s not ticking. I figure it’s a peace offering.”

  “Feels like a Sears catalog.” I turned the bag over in my hands, but didn’t open it. Libby and I exchanged books all the time, usually spending a few minutes to give each other a review of our latest reads. She liked weepy romances, but accepted my collection of expat American women who renovated houses in Provence or Tuscany.