How to Murder a Millionaire

by Nancy Martin

  “And the folio?” I asked. “Did you offer it to both of them? I can ask Harold for the truth, you know.”

  “Then why don’t you?”

  I took a deep breath. “Because I’d rather hear it from you and keep the matter between us.”

  His gaze sharpened on me as he realized I was offering to keep my mouth closed about his business practices. “Okay,” he said slowly. “Maybe I mentioned the folio to Harold. But it turned out to be useless. Pendergast fell hard and wanted to keep it. Once the folio was off the market, there was no sense teasing Tackett. Actually, I felt sorry for the old guy.”

  “You’re all heart. Harold wanted the folio badly?”

  “He practically drooled. It would have been a nice cornerstone for his collection. And I told him so. The folio would have elevated his stuff into a collection that would interest a museum. That got to him.” Longnecker dimpled at the memory. “He started talking about leaving his collection to an institution someday. Even his wife got into the act.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Longnecker looked at his manicure. “She called me herself asking if I could try again with Rory. She upped their offer by another million. But I said it was a lost cause.”

  I saw something smug in his expression. “Do you think she really gave up?”

  “I know she didn’t.”

  “How?”

  Pausing for dramatic effect, Longnecker finally said, “I saw her the night Pendergast died. She went in to talk to him.”

  I caught my breath. “You saw her? Upstairs?”

  Longnecker considered me. “Are you really going to keep your trap shut? I’m on the brink of my dream job right now. I don’t want to screw that up.”

  “Give me more incentive. I gather you didn’t tell the police that Eloise was in the upstairs corridor?”

  “I may have forgotten to mention it.”

  “Did you tell the police anything about the folio? Do they know it exists?”

  “They didn’t hear about it from me. Look, Pendergast was supposed to give the folio to the Reese-Goldman, but he wouldn’t let it go. When I figured out he’d given it to your sister for repair, I had hopes she and I could come to terms about my taking it without getting Rory involved. I mean, I have the letter he wrote promising to give it to us. I need the folio now for an exhibit. It’ll make my career. It’s only fair.”

  “Sounds like you had motive to kill him yourself.”

  “Oh, please.” He shivered. “Who would want to touch that old guy?”

  “So you thought you could convince Libby to hand it over. Just like that?”

  “It was worth a shot. As soon as the Pendergast sisters know about the folio, they’re going to lock it up tight. It’ll take years of litigation to wrestle it out of their claws.”

  I wasn’t so sure. The Pendergast sisters might be very happy to get rid of an item they considered offensive. The faster, the better.

  I said, “Did anyone besides you see Eloise Tackett on the staircase?”

  “She didn’t come up the staircase. Colonel Mustard must have a secret passageway through the conservatory or something because I know she didn’t use the stairs.”

  The elevator. Or the kitchen staircase. Chances were good Eloise had known Rory’s house almost as well as her own. She’d been in his social circle for years, and as his mistress she wouldn’t have needed a Clue game board to know about secret avenues in the Pendergast mansion.

  I asked, “When she talked to him that night, did you hear them together?”

  “I’m no eavesdropper,” Longnecker said virtuously. “I just know she went in to dicker with Pendergast. She’d given up on money. She was going to offer him a trade.”

  “A trade?”

  “She handed me drivel about having something Pendergast would want more than anything, even the folio.”

  Sex, I wondered? If she’d been his mistress, why would he want to trade the folio for something he’d been enjoying all along? Why buy the cow, as my grandmother used to preach, when he could have the milk for free?

  Or was it the Viagra? Had Eloise planned to trade her husband’s prescription for the priceless Zhejiang Folio?

  All the details of various geriatric sexual relationships began to swim in my brain. I leaned against the balcony railing.

  “You okay?” Longnecker asked.

  “Yes.”

  “I know what you’re thinking,” Longnecker said. “Maybe I should have told the police about old lady Tackett being up there. But I have a clear conscience. I wasn’t the only one who saw her.”

  I must have jumped. “Who else did?”

  He smiled, pleased to have startled me. “Lots of people. Mrs. Treese, for one. A waitress, too, but maybe that was earlier. Oh, and that crazy woman from the newspaper, what’s her name? She was up there for a few minutes, but she blasted off like a rocket after yelling at Pendergast for a while. And there was your sister, of course.”

  I felt my head go light, and I clutched the balcony railing.

  “That’s when I first asked her for the folio,” Longnecker went on. “In the corridor outside Pendergast’s room while he talked to Eloise Tackett.”

  “What was Libby doing up there?”

  He shrugged dismissively. “Who knows?”

  “Did you tell the police she was there?”

  “Hell, no. I’m still hoping to get the folio from her.”

  “Did she—Why was she there?”

  “I told you, I dunno. We talked about the folio, and she acted surprised that it was worth as much as it was. And when I offered her the finder’s fee—”

  “The what?”

  “You heard me. I figured the best way to get the folio was to offer a bounty. A finder’s fee. You know, to get the folio back to its rightful home.”

  “How much?” I asked, hardly able to summon my voice.

  “I offered her a hundred thousand dollars.”

  I swallowed hard. “Did she take it?”

  “Not yet,” said Longnecker. “But she can have it the minute I get my hands on the folio.”

  A sudden wind blew it off the dark river, and the rain started to come down hard.

  Chapter 18

  At Blackbird Farm, Reed Shakespeare had insisted on escorting me inside the house. Boss’s orders, he’d told me. He stood looking at the remaining mess that I hadn’t managed to clean up before leaving earlier in the day. I had piled the pieces of broken chairs beside the refrigerator. An open cardboard carton of books sat on the kitchen table. Two black plastic trash bags full of rubbish were still on the floor where Emma had left them. She had not hauled anything away in her truck, as she’d promised.

  Reed didn’t move from the spot where he’d taken a single step inside the kitchen door.

  “Reed,” I said, “would you wait here while I run upstairs for a minute?”

  “Yeah, okay.”

  I took the stairs fast and went straight to my lingerie drawer. The folio was still there. With relief, I wrapped it up in my slip again and put it away.

  Downstairs, Reed had not moved from the doorway. He said, “There’s a note on the table.”

  In all the mess, I hadn’t noticed a note. It was written on one of the Post-it notes I kept for making grocery lists. Emma had stuck the paper square on a book as if she had pulled the book from the carton on the table and used it for support as she wrote.

  She said, “Had to go. Call you sometime. Em.”

  The book was The Killer Angels, the one she’d been looking through over lunch. I considered hurling it against the wall. Of all the times for Emma to choose to run off with one of her boyfriends ...

  Reed stayed in the doorway, but his nonplussed gaze swept around the kitchen and over to the swinging door that led to the dining room. “You don’t mind my saying, this place doesn’t look like I imagined from the outside.”

  “Believe me, living here isn’t what I imagined either.” I leaned against the table. I’d tho
ught a leaky roof was bad enough when I moved in, but I hadn’t counted on vandalism to lower my property values, too. “Someone broke in here yesterday.”

  “Really busted it up,” Reed commented. Starting to show signs of concern, he asked, “You live here alone?”

  “My sister sometimes stays.”

  “She here now?”

  I waved the note. “No.”

  “You got anybody else to come tonight?”

  I’d been filing through my mental Rolodex to come up with someone I could ask to stay in the house with me. I didn’t want to be a wimp, but I wasn’t quite ready to face any returning vandals on my own. “I’m thinking.”

  Reed appeared to be struggling with an inward argument. Although he tried to be an adult all the time, he occasionally looked very young indeed. Slowly, he said, “I’d stay myself, but I got a test in the morning.”

  “This isn’t your problem, Reed.”

  “You got a dog?”

  “No.”

  He frowned. “Dog would be good right now. Big Rottweiler, maybe.”

  “I’ll be fine.”

  I must not have been terribly convincing because after a couple of heartbeats, he said, “I’m not supposed to leave you anywhere that doesn’t look safe. I think I better call the jefe.”

  “This is my house, Reed. It’s perfectly safe. I only—Now, hold it!”

  He must have come from a family where it was necessary to ignore the womenfolk now and then. He crossed the kitchen in three long-legged strides, picked up the phone without asking and dialed.

  I knew who he was calling. “Reed, for Pete’s sake, you can’t just take matters into your own hands like this. I can call a number of people—”

  He talked to Abruzzo anyway, referring to me only as “she.” I steamed while they discussed my situation. Reed even walked to the refrigerator and opened it. He leaned in and reported, “Nothing but diet soda, peanut butter and a bag of something green.”

  “Reed—” I began.

  “Yeah, okay,” he said and hung up.

  I glowered at him. “This is not the best way to endear yourself.”

  He glowered back. “That’s not in my job description.”

  We continued to glare at each other while I tried to decide how best to yell at this young man who didn’t want a boss or a friend or anyone else who required him to open up, admit a mistake or give an opinion. He didn’t want to trust me, and until now he didn’t want me trusting him, either. I hadn’t been able to think of a way to get through to him, and here he was suddenly taking charge of my life.

  Which was progress.

  So I asked, “What about driving lessons?”

  “Say, what?”

  “I need someone to teach me to drive a car,” I said. “My sisters are both maniacs behind the wheel, and we have trouble obeying each other anyway.”

  “So you want me to—?”

  “Teach me to drive.”

  Looking at me sideways, he asked, “Whyn’t you just call one of those driving schools or something?”

  “Because I think you drive very sensibly. And you seem to be a patient sort of person.”

  He shook his head. “I don’t know.”

  “Think it over,” I suggested.

  I offered him a Diet Coke, which he accepted, although reluctantly. It seemed we had reached a new level of understanding in our relationship, if a man under the age of thirty was willing to drink a nonsugared soft drink to mark the occasion. He even straddled a chair at my kitchen table while I picked up the telephone again.

  Sometimes in the face of a crisis, a girl needs to talk to her mother.

  I got out my address book and placed an overseas call.

  “Mama?” I said when the connection finally went through. “Mama, it’s Nora.”

  “Nora! Hey, Butternut, it’s Nora on the phone! Oh, he’s asleep again, poor darling. I must have tired him out on the tennis court today. Sweetheart, how nice to hear your voice!”

  “It’s nice to hear your voice, too,” I said, and it was. My mother sounded happy and carefree. Of course, in the midst of a fatal tax audit, my mother had been cracking wise and offering fashion tips to anyone who would listen. She called my father Butternut, and he called her Gingersnap, and they were happier than any two people had a right to be.

  Sometimes I wished I could be like my parents. Disasters could befall them, and they managed to spring up out of the hot lava smiling. Their skewed view of the world enraged me sometimes. At other times, it sounded heavenly.

  “What’s going on?” she asked brightly, and I could almost see her settling back against lacy bed pillows for a nice chat, fluffing up the satin sleeves of her nightgown and fixing her hair with one hand. “Have you been to any fun parties lately? Libby tells me you have a new job!”

  “Libby told you? Mama, have you seen Libby? Is she there with you?”

  “For heaven’s sake, why would she be here? No, we talked on the phone a month ago. Was it a month? No, not that long. Maybe just last week. Well, anyway, she said you’re going to fabulous parties and having a fabulous time!”

  “Well, it’s not quite that fabulous, Mama.”

  “Oh, you take things too seriously, Nora. Why don’t you just cut loose and enjoy yourself? Be a little more like Libby. You deserve it, sweetheart.”

  “I’ll try to do better,” I promised and felt a smile growing on my face despite my mood. Libby and my mother shared a philosophy of life, and it was hard not to appreciate their naïve high spirits.

  “Are you seeing any men?” she pressed. “I know you have a hard time letting anyone into your life, but it’s high time you found a nice young man who will give me a grandchild.”

  “You have grandchildren, Mama.”

  “I will never have too many! Of course, looking at their pictures is so much easier than dealing with them in person. Until they’re twenty-one, of course, and can have a cocktail with me when I start actually looking like a grandma. So? Are you going on any dates? Seeing anyone I know? A big strong man to snuggle up with?”

  I felt my face turn pink as I realized Reed was listening to every word I said. I prayed he couldn’t hear my mother. His face was impassive, so I hoped for the best. “No, no dates, Mama. I’m just working. And keeping tabs on my sisters.”

  “Why would you do that?” my mother asked, laughing. “They’re perfectly capable of managing their own lives, you know.”

  “I think you’re wrong about that,” I muttered.

  “What? What, dear?”

  “Nothing, Mama. I just wanted to see if Libby was—if she had contacted you lately.”

  “Well, naturally we stay in touch, but it’s just not the same. A mother hen needs to see her chicks once in a while.” Her laughter trilled. “Can you get away this summer, do you think? Would you join us for a few weeks, perhaps?”

  I doubted I could afford cab fare to the airport, let alone a ticket to their sumptuous new digs. But I said, “I’ll try, Mama. Listen, I need some help. Do you remember any of Libby’s college friends? Any school friends? Anyone named Sylvia, maybe?”

  “Why would you—? Oh, there was a Sandy, I think. That girl from Boca. No, Cyndi Lauper, right? Oh, no, that’s a singer!” My mother laughed. “Sylvia, you say?”

  “Yes, a school friend of Libby’s.”

  “No, I don’t think so. But I was never very good at remembering any of the friends you girls brought home. I just—Wait, there was a Sylvia, I think. Sylvia Whiteman. Or Blackman? It was a color. Her name was a color.”

  “From New York?”

  “Heavens, dear, I can’t remember her name, let alone her address! Let me think. It was Sylvia, but I can’t quite recall her last name. Besides, wouldn’t she be married by now?”

  “Do you think Sylvia was at Smith with Libby? Or at Miss Porter’s?” I could try tracking Sylvia through the school alumni records.

  “Well, it seems a very long time ago, so it must have been Miss Porter’
s. But why on earth do you want to know?”

  “Oh, I’m just tracking her down,” I said vaguely. “For the wedding, you know.”

  “Which wedding? Are you invited, dear?”

  “Of course, Mama. Ralph’s son is the groom.”

  “Ralph?” she asked.

  “Libby’s husband.”

  “Oh, of course. I have a mental block when it comes to your husbands. You girls are Blackbirds through and through, and you’ll never have happy marriages. How many men have your aunts been through? Dozens, I swear. I’m so glad I’m just a Blackbird by marriage.” She sailed into one of her patented parental lectures. “You should forget about husbands and be independent. Make your own happiness, all of you. You can rent chairs for a party, and I don’t see why you can’t have a good man the same way. Just when you need him. Would you like to speak with your father, sweetheart? I can try rousing him, if you like.”

  “No, no, that’s all right. Just give him my love.”

  “Of course, Emma.”

  “It’s Nora.”

  “Of course, dear. Well, give hugs and kisses to your sisters, will you?” She made kissing sounds into the phone.

  “I love you, Mama.”

  When I hung up, Reed blew a sigh and said, “My mom’s a pain in the ass, too.”

  Half an hour later, Abruzzo arrived in a wet yellow rain slicker that made me think of elementary school crossing guards. He carried a bag of groceries in one arm and tracked rainwater into the house. Then he tossed his car keys onto the kitchen counter like a man who intended to stay a while. I could see the handle of a toothbrush poking up from his shirt pocket.

  I said, “I do not need a keeper.”

  We faced each other across the width of the kitchen table. We must have both had thunder on our faces because Reed mumbled something and left in a hurry.

  “What happened?” Abruzzo demanded, when we were alone.

  “Nothing happened,” I snapped. “We got home and Emma wasn’t here, so Reed took it upon himself to call the cavalry.”

  “You’re pissed,” he said, eyeing me as if I were going to explode. “Because we won’t let you do something foolish?”