How to Murder a Millionaire

by Nancy Martin

  “Good idea.” It felt good to have an ally at last.

  “I wonder,” she said, pulling the onions out of her sandwich, “if maybe Libby and Ralph had a spat. Maybe she’s just off sulking somewhere. It’s her style. And Ralph may be too embarrassed to tell us the truth.”

  That didn’t explain someone breaking into my house. We both looked at the mess again.

  I said, “Maybe you shouldn’t be here alone this afternoon.”

  “I’ll be fine.” She dusted the crumbs of her sandwich onto the plate and carried it to the sink. “Paddy Horgan has some puppies right now. You should take one.”

  “What would I do with a puppy?”

  “It would grow up into a dog.” She saw my scowl and shrugged. “Just an idea. Where are you going today?”

  “I have to cover a tea for the flower show fund-raising committee.”

  She leaned against the counter, folded her arms and gave me a wry look. “Wow. Take your smelling salts. The excitement may be too much to handle.”

  “I want to talk to some people about Rory’s murder,” I said. “And the tea party may be just the right place. It’s at Peach Treese’s house, and she’s first on my list.”

  “Go for it.” Emma came over and shuffled idly through the books on the table again. She fingered Michael Shaara’s The Killer Angels. “What are you going to wear?”

  Her oh so casual tone raised my suspicions. “Why do you ask?”

  She grinned wickedly. “I think I can do something about your tendency to look like a nun no matter what you have on.”

  We raided Grandmama’s dress collection, and Emma dragged out a lavender satin skirt with hundreds of tiny flowers that had probably been appliquéd by French nuns. “You could probably sell this on eBay for a small fortune.”

  “On the other hand, I need something to wear this afternoon.”

  She studied the skirt with a critical eye. “Got any scissors?”

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  “You could use a little sex appeal, Nora. Get me the scissors. It’ll be fun.”

  I couldn’t watch. My grandmother had traveled to Paris every spring to buy new clothes for her worldly lifestyle. Her taste wasn’t always perfect, but she had shown a certain spunk in her selections that crisscrossed various couture houses. I loved the pink silks, the beautiful bias-cut dresses and the slinky bathing suits meant for Cannes. I even liked her Grace Kelly period of the wasp-waisted dresses with the flouncing skirts. Most of the pieces were still pristine. When I’d first started attending parties for the Intelligencer, desperation had driven me to the cedar-lined closets where the exquisite clothing had been packed in delicate paper or hung on padded hangers.

  But Emma had no reverence. She hacked, studied, hacked again. “Now try it on and let me see how it looks.”

  I did as I was told. The skirt came to my midcalf, but was now slit up to my thigh. I received a fashion thumbs-up from Emma. She selected an eggplant-colored tank top for me to wear with the skirt. The thin straps meant no bra. Usually I wore a sweater over it, but Emma stopped me.

  “But—”

  “Don’t argue,” she ordered. “Put on some Band-Aids if you want to go modest.”

  As I slathered on sunblock, she asked, “Do you have a gardening hat?”

  “Oh, Em, people will think I’m the Queen Mother.”

  “Trust me,” said Emma, working magic with the hat by punching it a few times. “You won’t look like the Queen Mum.”

  She finished me off by hauling a pair of very high heels out of my closet. “There.”

  I looked at my reflection. I wasn’t accustomed to seeing quite so much bare skin. Or my own coloring so heightened by the combination of hues Emma had put together.

  “For a garden party?”

  “You bet.”

  Dressed and made up, I took one last look at myself and decided I needed Emma every time I got dressed. But I could also use some of her chutzpah to carry it off.

  Reed arrived with the car and looked me over more carefully than before. He made no comment, of course, but drove me into the Main Line neighborhood.

  The Philadelphia Flower Show, the biggest event of its kind in the world and still a success thanks to a wonderful mix of creative minds, hard work and big money, attracted some of the city’s most interesting people to its leadership. I enjoyed their company and looked forward to writing about their fund-raiser in the newspaper. I just needed a clever hook for my story.

  The horticultural society had chosen the garden of Peach Treese for the fund-raiser long before Rory Pendergast’s death. Her estate adjoined Rory’s. Peach kept a beautiful rose arbor, but the centerpiece of her magnificent landscape was the peach orchard. The rest of the grounds had been manicured to perfection, I knew, in preparation for the upcoming wedding, but the orchard was her triumph. She had been generous enough to allow the society to use the garden for their event, and I respected her for encouraging it to continue so soon after Rory’s death.

  “Peach couldn’t join us this afternoon,” said one of the ladies who greeted me at the gate, discreetly fending off inappropriate questions. “I’m sure we all understand. Aren’t we lucky to have this wonderful sunshine today?”

  I checked my disappointment. I’d come to see Peach, but she was in hiding.

  In my high heels, I stayed on the stone walkway and strolled around the side of the house to the upper gazebo. From there I could see the full vista of the garden spreading away from the house to the orchard. The rose arbor bisected the lawn, and I knew it provided a covered walkway almost the whole distance between Peach’s back door and Rory’s conservatory. Today, however, long tables of refreshments had been set up beneath the arbor. The roses were just starting to bloom. In a few days, they would be exquisite for the wedding. I took a moment to appreciate the beautiful landscape and the hard work it required.

  “Nora!”

  I turned. Coming towards me up the slope, Eloise Tackett waved her empty champagne glass. The breeze ruffled the tips of her white hair that blew out from beneath the brim of her straw pith helmet. She looked as if she’d walked out of darkest Africa by way of Sissinghurst. I gave her a kiss and a hug.

  “Where’s Harold today?”

  “At home working on a puzzle,” Eloise said, not even slightly out of breath after climbing up the slope. “Don’t you look wonderful today, dear. So artistic.”

  “I have Emma to thank. She’s my new wardrobe consultant.”

  “Put her on the payroll,” Eloise advised.

  I laughed. “Are you on the fund-raising committee?”

  “Not this year.” Eloise leaned closer and whispered, “They kicked me off the team. I didn’t bring in my quota last year. Harold is furious with them, but I thought I’d come today and hold my head up high.”

  “You have every right to. You’ve been a mainstay of this organization for years.”

  “Don’t say how many years,” she cut in, smiling. “But you don’t want to hear about horticultural politics, do you? Some of these old bats are still pouting about your mother and father, aren’t they?”

  “I can’t blame anyone. Mama was an awful leech. I don’t think she picked up a lunch tab for ages. And she didn’t keep her promises, either.”

  Eloise nodded. “I know. She pledged money to the committee and reneged. There’s no faster way to get yourself blackballed than not paying the piper. But you can hold your head up, Nora. Besides, some of these people need to get a life. Who said it? Women ought to raise more hell and fewer dahlias.”

  I laughed. “You go, girl!”

  Eloise linked her arm through mine and we started to stroll down into the garden where other guests mingled.

  I decided to take the bull by the horns and said, “Eloise, have the police questioned you about Rory’s death yet? I know they’re talking to everyone who attended the party.”

  “Why, yes. A nice young man came to see us yesterday. Detective Bloom. He wanted to
know where Harold and I were during the party. And he asked a great many personal questions, which I found highly inappropriate. What a shame such a nice young man has such a tawdry job.”

  “Hmm,” I murmured.

  “I thought it best to profess complete ignorance. That’s the way to stay out of trouble. Especially at my age. People just think I’m dotty if I don’t remember. And poor dear Harold was worried they might confiscate my gun.”

  “Your gun,” I said. “You mean your shotgun?”

  “And this one, too.” Eloise opened her handbag to show me. “I never go anywhere without it. It’s such a comfort to both of us, you know. Once you get to be a certain age, Nora, you become a target for all kinds of crime.”

  Nestled between Eloise’s snowy white handkerchief and her neat Gucci wallet lay a small silver handgun with a pearl handle. I recoiled from the deadly weapon as if it were a snake.

  “Eloise! My God, is it safe to carry such a thing?”

  She snapped her bag shut, pleased to have surprised me. “My dear, I’ve been carrying weapons more lethal than this little peashooter since before you were born. Harold finds it very reassuring. He’d be so upset if the police took it away from me. But I think the detective was more interested in people than weapons.”

  “What people?”

  “Well, that Treese woman, for one.”

  “Bloom asked you about Peach?”

  “Yes, but I didn’t tell him a thing.” Eloise tilted her chin bravely. “I may not like the woman much, but I’m certainly not going to blab to strangers about her. The same for Harold. They asked him about his days at the newspaper, but he didn’t tell them anything. What could events of thirty years ago tell the police about Rory’s plans for the Intelligencer?”

  “I don’t know. But if the paper were being sold, a lot of people would be affected.”

  “Well, what does that have to do with us? Honestly, Nora, we live quietly and don’t interfere with anyone, and we like being treated just the same way.”

  Her tone made me reconsider my plan to ask more questions.

  Instead, I said, “Eloise, thank you for introducing me to Jonathan Longnecker.”

  “Oh, did you enjoy meeting him? Isn’t he charming?”

  “We had a good discussion. He seems to know his business,” I said diplomatically. “And he’s passionate about it.”

  “Oh, yes. He and Harold hit it off from the start for that very reason.” Eloise clapped one hand to her chest in rapture. “Look at those wonderful Iris sibirica! One of my favorite flowers. Look at the color!”

  “They’re lovely. Eloise, did Jonathan Longnecker help Harold build his collection?”

  “Well, he led Harold in the right direction many times.” She waved at an elderly friend across the lawn. The friend squinted, leaning on a cane, but didn’t wave back.

  “I gather Harold and Rory’s relationship hadn’t been friendly for a long time.”

  Eloise walked a few paces in silence. Then, voice lower, she said, “They hated each other.”

  “Do you really think so?”

  “I know it,” she said. “Oh, I’m sure everyone thinks Harold is an easygoing sweetheart, but he has his moments. And Rory was so cruel to him sometimes.”

  “Cruel?”

  “Yes, rubbing Harold’s nose in his failures. Puffing himself up sometimes. Just a year ago they were bidding on the same piece, an exquisite thing, but Rory pulled some strings and got it for himself. He didn’t play fair. And then there was—” She caught herself. “Well, now he’s gone.”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m sorry, Nora. I know you were fond of him.”

  “I’m sure he had his faults. Everyone does.”

  “He was a nasty old man,” Eloise said firmly. “And I should know. I’m glad he’s dead.”

  Distressed, I began, “Oh, Eloise, I know you love Harold very much but—”

  “I’d do anything for my Harold. I should have filled Rory Pendergast full of buckshot when I had the chance, but I didn’t. Now I—well, I only hope Harold can have a few years of peace now that Rory isn’t around to spoil his small pleasures.”

  I wanted to hear more, but there was no way to question Eloise without upsetting her, I could see. Tears sparkled in the corners of her eyes, and she turned abruptly way from me.

  Two women from the committee came up to us then, and Eloise pretended to be examining a brass plate at the base of one of the trees while I engaged the women in a banal conversation about the garden.

  “This is so much better than last year!” cried the first woman.

  “Oh, and remember the year we had the party at the Smythes’? Hundreds came because they’d never seen the inside of that wonderful house? Except on the day of the party, the Smythes locked all the doors and even made everyone use those horrible portopotties and nobody got so much as a peek inside!”

  They laughed.

  “It’s too bad Peach couldn’t be with us today,” said the first woman. “I’m sure we could have lifted her spirits by admiring her beautiful handiwork here.”

  “I hear she’s very upset,” the second woman murmured. “Taken to her bed with grief.”

  I heard Eloise give a huff of derision and said quickly, “It’s probably for the best that they’re planning a wedding. I understand it’s going to be here on the grounds.”

  The ladies brightened. “Yes, and the bride is here today. She’s so pretty. But so thin! I suppose she’s dieting to get into her wedding gown. But won’t the garden be an exquisite setting for a nuptial celebration?”

  I decided I had my story idea. “Eloise, I think I’ll go look for Pamela. Would you like to come along?”

  Eloise straightened briskly and smiled. “Thank you, Nora, no. I’m on my way home to Harold. I promised I’d stop and buy him a Big Mac for his dinner tonight, and I want to have it on the table at five-thirty sharp.”

  I said good-bye and went off in search of Pamela Treese, the bride-to-be.

  Chapter 16

  Instead I found Jill Mascione pouring tea under the arbor. “Good grief,” I said. “No wonder you never have time for lunch with me. You’re always working.”

  She looked up from refilling china teapots from a large tank worn over her shoulder. In her right hand, she held the nozzle of the hose. Her face was damp from steam, and her black hair more flyaway than ever. “This is our second event today, and we still have a cocktail party to do tonight on Boathouse Row.”

  “Who’s having the cocktail thing?”

  “Some museum people. The art crowd. It’s at Lexie Paine’s place.”

  I had received an invitation myself and forgotten about it. Lexie lived in a wonderful little pad on Boathouse Row, and she gave terrific parties. Parties that would be bursting with art connoisseurs. And maybe Jonathan Longnecker.

  “Say, Jill, Emma said she saw you at Libby’s house on Saturday morning.”

  “Saturday?” She replaced the lid of a freshly filled teapot. “I don’t remember.”

  “Did you go to see Ralph Kintswell? Something about the rehearsal dinner?”

  “Oh, right. Yeah, I was there. Dad sent me to go over details with Ralph.”

  “Did you see Libby?”

  Jill frowned. “For a minute, I guess. She was around. Why?”

  “She went away for a couple of days and I can’t reach her. I wondered if she said anything to you, or maybe you heard her speak to Ralph?”

  “About what?”

  “I don’t know. Anything. I’d like to find her.”

  Jill kept moving down the table. “I didn’t pay attention to her, I guess. I was having it out with Ralph.”

  “About the dinner.”

  “Yeah, he wanted some last minute changes. We can’t do that kind of thing, you know. We already bought the food. We’re barely breaking even anyway. Ralph can’t switch on us just because his budget got tight. Listen, I’ve got to fix these trays.”

  “Of course. I’m so
rry to interrupt. I’m looking for Pamela Treese.”

  “The bride? She just went inside. Probably to throw up.”

  I raised my eyebrows. “Something wrong with the food?”

  “Nothing except the calories,” Jill retorted. “No, I think she’s checking on her grandma.”

  “Peach is here?” Automatically, I looked up at the bedroom wing. Curtains had been drawn upstairs, I noticed. “I thought she might be staying at her daughter’s house while everyone was here today.”

  Jill shook her head, moving away. “I took her some tea and scones half an hour ago. She ate like a truck driver.”

  “Think I could sneak inside and see her?”

  Jill shrugged. “Fine by me. Use the kitchen entrance.”

  I followed the flagstone walk around the side porch and slipped past a waiter who emerged from the kitchen bearing a tray of watercress sandwiches. Not an inspired menu, I thought, although Main Events had clearly done a beautiful job of preparing and stylishly serving the boring menu selected by the committee. Kitty Keough would find a way to make that snide observation about the committee in the newspaper column. But who did cutting remarks serve?

  The kitchen was orderly. I ducked past Sam Mascione slinging plates into the dishwasher. I waved. If not for him, I might be a murder suspect myself.

  I had been in Peach’s house twice in my life and knew to push through the swinging kitchen doors, pass through the butler’s pantry to a narrow hallway and finally go through a heavy paneled door to end up under the archway that led to the foyer of the grand house.

  I stopped under the archway. The paneled door swung shut behind me with a sharp noise.

  “Dammit, I won’t have that woman on my property!”

  I froze, recognizing Peach Treese’s voice above me on the staircase. Her words cut across the noise of the door. But I was caught in the age-old eavesdropper’s dilemma. I could either stay and listen now that the door prevented me from making a silent escape, or I could announce myself and risk the embarrassing consequences.

  “Grammy, please. Let’s go upstairs and—”