How to Murder a Millionaire

by Nancy Martin

  “He wants to know when I got to Pendergast’s house on Friday night.”

  “When did you get there?” I asked.

  “Still playing detective?”

  I ignored the question. “Reed was supposed to take me home, but you were there instead.”

  “Reed had studying to do,” Abruzzo said mildly. “I told you that. I took over so he could go home early. I arrived around ten.”

  Or half an hour earlier? In time to have slipped upstairs after the angry phone call? What had he discussed with Rory on the night of the murder? We looked at each other and waited.

  Emma broke first and glanced between the two of us. “We going for dinner?”

  I thought for an instant that we shouldn’t associate with Abruzzo. He was obviously a suspect in Bloom’s investigation.

  But the crowd jostled around us just then, and Eloise Tackett appeared beside me, an energetic elf. “Nora, I found that young man art dealer we talked about. Come on, dear, let me introduce you.”

  “Certainly,” I said to Eloise, glad to escape. Then, to Emma, “You two run along to the Swann. I’ll catch up. Only be careful, Em. He’s sneaky.”

  Abruzzo laughed.

  So did Emma. She took hold of his tie. “C’mon. Let’s get acquainted.”

  I waved them off and plunged into the crowd to follow Eloise Tackett. I wasn’t annoyed with Emma. Not much, at least. And Abruzzo could do whatever the hell he pleased and it wouldn’t affect me at all. Not remotely. But I was furious just the same. Must have been the funeral that put me into such a foul mood.

  Eloise didn’t notice my temper. “Nora, dear, this is Jonathan Longnecker, a young man we’ve known for a long time. Jonathan, this is Nora Blackbird. Nora was a friend of Rory’s.”

  It was the bald man who’d elbowed me out of his way at the bar at Rory’s party. He was in his late thirties, I guessed. Like so many youngish men who found themselves going bald, he’d shaved his entire head and put a tasteful diamond stud in one earlobe. His suit was a two-year-old Hugo Boss; I knew, since my husband had favored that designer. Longnecker had updated it with a steel blue shirt and a dark blue tie beneath the perfectly cut lapels. Arty, yet butch, I decided.

  I shook hands with him and smiled. “I’ve seen you before.”

  “I think I’d remember if we’d met.”

  “Rory’s party,” I reminded him. “We passed at the bar.”

  Longnecker poured on the charm with a practiced smile and good eye contact. “You have a good memory for detail.”

  “I’ve just spent a lot of time thinking about what I saw that night.”

  “That’s understandable.” Longnecker continued to hold my hand after we’d shaken. I recognized the technique—Step One in coaxing rich women to entrust their money to him. “We’re all in shock.”

  I remembered how agitated Longnecker had appeared at Rory’s party. His face had been a mask of anger when he shoved past me. Had Jill said something—what was it?—about his having an argument with Rory?

  “Jonathan used to be a freelancer,” Harold explained, voice raised. “Brought me some pictures for my collection. Pendergast’s, too. Now he’s respectable, though. Just took a job with a museum in California. If you can call that respectable!”

  General laughter.

  I asked, “Are you still freelancing?”

  “It doesn’t hurt to keep my hand in.”

  “That’s interesting,” I said. “I wonder if you could tell me more about how your business works?”

  He kicked his flirting up a notch. “I’d love it.”

  “Now?”

  He laughed, looking pleased. “You mean this minute?”

  Smiling like a matchmaker who’d completed her mission, Eloise said archly, “Come on, Harold. I hate driving in rush hour, but I hate driving in the dark a lot more. We’d better get going.”

  “Lead the way,” said Harold. “See you soon, I hope, Nora?”

  The Tacketts tottered off, and I was left with Jonathan Longnecker.

  “Would you like a drink?’ I asked, determined to see my plan through as long as I didn’t have to be alone with him. “The bar at the Four Seasons is open, I hear.”

  “Perfect. But let’s make it my treat.”

  We dashed across the street in a light, misting rain, dodging the last limousine that departed from Rory’s funeral. As we reached the opposite sidewalk, I glanced back at the cathedral. It looked dark and empty already. Rory Pendergast was gone.

  Jonathan Longnecker held the restaurant door open for me. The diamond in his earlobe winked.

  Subdued and clubby in atmosphere, the Swann was out of the way for most of the downtown crowd, but tonight it bustled. It felt safe. As we stepped inside and made our way into the bar, I saw a lot of people who’d attended the funeral. The men grabbed single malt scotches and were relieved enough to laugh, and the women took off their Saint John suit jackets, revealing bare shoulders underneath. The lights were soft, the upholstery was plush, and candlelight suffused the polished length of the bar. The waiters were all over fifty and quietly efficient.

  We ended up at one of the small marble-topped tables, escorted there by a hostess who managed to find a seat where I couldn’t see the bar. I caught one quick glimpse of Emma lighting a cigarette from a match Abruzzo held. Of course, I didn’t intend to spy on them. It was only sisterly concern that made me glance their way now and then.

  Longnecker put his Palm Pilot on the table beside his cell phone and ordered a Grey Goose martini. “Did you know Rory all your life? Or did you just meet him lately?”

  “He was a friend of my grandfather,” I replied, trying to decide on a plan of attack. “What about you?”

  “I worked with him for about two years. I’m surprised we didn’t bump into each other.”

  “Me, too.”

  He smiled warmly. “Are the Blackbirds as old and powerful as the Pendergasts?”

  “Probably older,” I replied. “But no power whatsoever.”

  He leaned closer across the table, getting chummy as quickly as possible. “Have you met the Pendergast sisters? Can you believe they didn’t come to their own brother’s funeral?”

  “I’m sure they were devastated.”

  Longnecker gave an exaggerated shiver. “What a couple of battle-axes! They act like czarinas. Off with my head! I really am afraid of them.”

  “They can be demanding.”

  “I just hope I can deal with them.”

  “Deal with them?”

  “When it comes time to sell the estate. I’m sure they won’t want to keep Rory’s collection, and I’d love to have some of those pieces for the museum I work for.”

  “Surely they’d be foolish to part with the paintings.”

  “Oh, I don’t mean the paintings.” Longnecker waved his hand dismissively. “They’ll keep the Impressionists forever. No, I mean Rory’s other stuff. Things that are very hip right now. Very collectible. They’re going to go through the roof, and I’m anxious to get in while the museum can still afford good pieces.”

  I waited.

  Longnecker leaned closer. “You know what I mean. The X-rated things.”

  I shook my head. “Frankly, until recently, I didn’t know Rory’s collection leaned in that direction.”

  “And how did you become aware of it?”

  “Harold mentioned it.”

  “Oh? I thought maybe it was your sister.”

  He caught me by surprise.

  Longnecker smiled as though he’d just found a rabbit in his trap. “He gave it to her for refurbishing, didn’t he? He told me it needed some touching up, and I said it had to be done by experts. I know just the firm to do the work properly. But your sister—Rory was determined to throw some work her way. Of course, she wasn’t up to the job. She’s an amateur, really. Just a hobbyist.”

  Faintly, I said, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Okay,” he said, with a positively voracious
grin. “Tell the truth. What did you think of the Zhejiang Folio when you first saw it?”

  Chapter 12

  The effort to keep my face blank caused a spasm in my right cheek. “The what?”

  “The Zhejiang Folio. You’ve seen it, haven’t you?”

  I’ve never been so happy for a waiter interruption in my life. He put our drinks on the table while I regained my composure and madly tried to think how this man knew I had the folio.

  Longnecker ignored his martini while I gulped a fortifying slug of Chardonnay. He said, “It’s beautiful, isn’t it? And sexy as hell. I fell in love with it instantly. I was with him in China when we found it, you know.”

  I knew Rory sometimes traveled, but I’d had no idea he’d been to China in the recent past.

  Longnecker went on enthusiastically. “The color! The condition! The sex! I almost came in my pants when I first saw it. But what did you think? I’d really like to know.”

  His crude enthusiasm made me want to get up and leave. But I had to know more. “Mr. Longnecker—”

  “You must call me Jonathan.” He planted his elbows and linked the fingers of both hands like a schoolboy. “I know Pendergast gave it to your sister for repair. She’s done all his black-market stuff. Half his collection came from disreputable dealers, of course. When paintings are stolen out of museums, who do you suppose buys from the thieves? Not museums. Guys like Pendergast keep the black market thriving. I doubt your sister realized what she was working on.”

  He enjoyed shocking me. He was taking great pleasure in telling me that Rory hadn’t been pure as snow. But most of all, I was suddenly angry that he thought my sister Libby was a fool.

  He went on pleasantly, “He gave her the folio a few weeks ago. That’s when it disappeared.”

  “I don’t know anything about this.”

  “Oh, now, don’t keep up the charade,” he chided playfully. “Your sister has it, but it belongs to the Reese-Goldman Museum.”

  “Really—”

  “I’m here to take it back,” said Longnecker. “It’s not the sort of thing we can ship UPS, is it?”

  “If this folio belongs to your museum, why did Rory have it?”

  “He paid for it.” Longnecker took a drink of his martini and dug out the lemon twist with his fingers. He popped it into his mouth and said around it, “At least he paid for the China trip. He bought the folio for us with the understanding that he could keep it for a little while. I suppose the dirty old bastard wanted to show it off. But then he started talking about repairing it! I knew he occasionally sent hush-hush items to your sister for that sort of thing and God knows I tried to talk him out of using her.”

  “Have you spoken with my sister?”

  “Not yet. I came east to discuss things face-to-face with Pendergast. But then—well, he died, and I’ve been trying to rethink my game plan. I figure it’s going to be hell trying to pry the folio out of the Pendergast biddies, so I was hoping to go directly to your sister to get the folio. When the Tacketts said you were looking for me, I assumed you’d been elected as the go-between. Am I right?”

  Not even close, I thought, sipping my wine.

  He went on, “I’m creating a whole exhibit around the folio, and we’re scheduled to open in July. You can understand my eagerness to get the folio back to California. I’ve been a wreck worrying about it floating around. It’s probably worth six million dollars.”

  The spasm in my cheek tightened into a full-fledged cramp. A six-million-dollar work of art lay under my lingerie in a drawer back at the farm.

  “So,” he said, “what’s the deal?”

  I sighed with as much regret as I could put on. “I wish I could help you, Jonathan, I truly do. But I don’t believe Libby has your folio.”

  He stared at me. “She has to. He gave it to her.”

  “I haven’t heard that from Libby.”

  He loomed forward again. In the background, soft jazz piano music began—a weird counterpoint to his cold expression. “Look, Miss Blackbird, that folio never belonged to Pendergast in the first place. He bought it for the museum, and we want it back. You and your sister can be charged with any number of crimes, you know, including fencing stolen goods, if you don’t give it up.”

  “Mr. Longnecker—”

  His smarmy demeanor totally evaporated. “I’ve heard about the Blackbird family, you know. Your parents are crooks. There’s been one scandal after another. You can barely keep your heads above water. But if you think you can get away with selling the Zhejiang Folio, you’d better think again.”

  “I wasn’t—”

  “No self-respecting institution in the world will buy it from you, and the black market would eat you alive.”

  “I think this discussion is—”

  “You don’t know what you’re mixed up in, lady. You think it’s a game? An easy way to pay off your credit card bill?” His voice rose and I feared the whole restaurant could hear him. “You have no idea what kind of people you’d be doing business with. Know what? I don’t even think you’d live to see the money.”

  I stood up from the table. “We’re finished, Mr. Longnecker.”

  “We haven’t even started,” he snapped. “Think it over, Miss Blackbird. Do you and your sister want to get out of this alive?”

  I stepped backwards and collided with a tall, male body. One of his arms came around my waist, and behind me Michael Abruzzo said, “Everything all right here?”

  “Yes.” I was glad to hear my voice sound steady when all I wanted to do was run screaming into the night.

  “No, it’s not all right. This woman thinks she can swindle the Reese-Goldman.”

  Abruzzo said mildly, “That something you take penicillin for?”

  “Who the hell are you?” The words were out of Longnecker’s mouth before he looked up at Abruzzo and saw something that frightened him.

  “Nobody you want to know,” said Abruzzo. “Ready to leave, Nora?”

  I picked up my handbag. “Yes, please.”

  “This is far from over, Miss Blackbird.”

  Abruzzo steered me out of the bar without a word, and we arrived in the hotel lobby before I could summon speech.

  Even then, I sounded pretty shaky. “Where’s Emma?”

  “She had to go check on a horse. That make sense to you?”

  “I—Yes. Yes. She has a job at a stable.”

  The Swann’s door opened and I jumped, thinking Longnecker had come after me. But it was just the hostess putting out the evening menu board. She glanced from me to Abruzzo and back again as if the picture didn’t quite look right. She edged back inside the bar.

  Abruzzo said, “How about if I take you home?”

  “Are you taking over for Reed again?” I tried to laugh and sneaked a look up at him.

  “Not today.” Quieter, he asked, “You okay?”

  “Fine. Yes, I’m fine.”

  “That character threatened you.”

  “It was nothing.”

  “Are you in some kind of trouble? Maybe we should call the police.”

  “You really want to do that?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t mind. Maybe Detective Gloom should know what just happened with your drinking buddy.”

  “It was nothing.”

  I cleared my throat and tried to think straight. Libby—what was she mixed up in? I needed to get in touch with her right away.

  “You want me to do something about him?”

  “My God, what does that mean?”

  “I could talk to him.” He smiled a little and loosened his tie. “Nothing painful.”

  I gulped. “No, please. I—Listen, I need to stop at my office. I’m supposed to write the story of Rory’s funeral for tomorrow’s edition.” Plus I wanted to get to a phone as soon as possible. “You should go. I’ll call a cab when I’m finished there.”

  “I can wait.”

  “No, really—”

  “I’m not going to slug anybody, if that
’s what’s scaring you. I’m not leaving you alone like this. Let me drive you to your office.”

  There was no arguing with the man. And I was starting to feel foolish. “All right,” I said.

  We left the Four Seasons and walked to the parking garage. I set a brisk pace to prove myself. He had brought his Volvo again. I gave him the address of the Pendergast building. Within ten minutes, I left him at the curb with a warning that I might need half an hour.

  “I’ll wait.” He pulled a newspaper out from under the seat and ignored the No Parking Here to Corner sign.

  I rushed through the revolving door and spoke to the uniformed security guard who examined my Intelligencer ID before allowing me through the lobby. The elevator shot up through the Pendergast building, which housed many offices for Rory’s various business ventures. The top four floors were newspaper offices.

  On the ninth floor, one of the night cleaning crew pushed a roaring floor buffer right outside the elevator.

  I thought the features department would be empty, but a young man I recognized from the style section came toward me, shouldering a leather briefcase. He was the always-spiffy men’s clothing expert, a black man with a ready smile and a penchant for red licorice. A piece of the candy dangled from the corner of his mouth as he dug into his trouser pockets for his car keys. “Hey, Nora,” he said, sidestepping when I nearly crashed into him. “Great job on the mayor’s story. Everybody’s impressed as hell.”

  “Thanks.”

  “You’re the talk of the newsroom.”

  “Is that good or bad?”

  He laughed. “Very good, believe me. See you around, huh?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  He pushed the elevator button and disappeared with a wave, leaving me alone with the cleaning crew. Around me were empty desks and blank computer screens.

  My desk was tucked into a corner, wedged between that of a jolly food writer who heaped her desk with samples sent to her by cookie companies and the acerbic restaurant critic who kept her desk scrupulously neat. Getting closer, I saw mine was covered with pink message slips and a vase of cheap carnations. I flipped through the notes and found them all amusing atta-girl messages from my new colleagues. I smiled as I leafed through the memos. Maybe I was going to fit into the camaraderie of the newsroom better than I thought.