by Nancy Martin
Blane shook her head disdainfully. "It was fun and games, that's all. He's not a psychopath, Ape, just a little twisted. In a good way, of course."
"Hey, Nora, are you okay?"
I said, "I'm sorry. I don't feel very well."
"Shit, were you friends with Laura?"
"Not really, no."
"Oh, okay. Because I thought maybe you were upset for a minute. You knew she was sleeping with Yale Bailey, right?"
"Well, I—"
"That girl was busy," Blane declared. "I haven't seen her in months. I'd like to get a glimpse of her Palm Pilot, though. Working a job, all those Cooper family commitments, plus a guy like Yale three afternoons a week, if I know anything about him."
I said, "Will you excuse me? I need some air."
"Sure." Blane called after me, "Hey, get us a mention in Kitty's column, huh, Nora?"
I fled outside in search of fresh air to clear my head, pushing through the front doors and staggering out onto the museum steps where Rocky did his victory dance. I didn't feel remotely victorious. The roses in Laura's bedroom, I thought. I'd assumed they'd come from her husband.
My head cleared when I saw who was waiting for me outside.
"Hey," said Detective Benjamin Bloom. "Are you all right?"
"Detective Bloom." I stepped into the sunshine and breathed deeply.
"What's wrong?"
"I'm okay. Just light-headed for a second."
He started to touch my arm, but thought better of it and shoved his hands into the deep pockets of his black trench coat instead. "Do you have a few minutes? Can we take a walk?"
Reed wasn't due to return for an hour, so I agreed. I was glad to put some distance between myself and the Botox Babes. A brisk breeze snatched at our coats as we strolled down the museum's back steps towards the stretch of the river where the famous boat-houses stood. A pair of Rollerbladers flew past us, heading for Fairmount Park. A couple with a baby carriage sat on one of the benches, sharing a bagel and a coffee. A happy couple with no bruises, just a beautiful child.
"Take it easy," Bloom said when my strides lengthened. "This isn't a race."
"Sorry."
"You really okay?"
"Yes, fine. I suppose I can figure out why you're here." We slowed to a meander along the sidewalk. "How did you know where to find me?"
"I phoned the newspaper."
"You can call my home, you know."
He hadn't changed since the investigation of Rory Pendergast's murder when I'd first met him in the line of duty. He had a young, elongated face and old, soulful eyes. With a lanky build and a dark shock of Leave it to Beaver hair that fell boyishly across his forehead, his Joe Friday seriousness seemed incongruous. It didn't help that he always wore very large white sneakers and acted like he had never learned how to talk to girls.
Okay, maybe Michael Abruzzo was too much for me. Too big, too demanding, too overtly the sexual animal. Detective Ben Bloom seemed . . . manageable. I sometimes found myself wishing he would come throw pebbles at my bedroom window late at night.
During the investigation of Rory Pendergast's murder, I'd learned that underneath his mild manners. Bloom was actually an ambitious cop who was willing to bend as many rules as necessary to get his career out of a sleepy suburban police department and into the excitement of a big-city homicide division.
"Am I going to be interrogated?" I asked lightly.
"I thought we could have a conversation. You know, just friends."
I sent him a look.
"Okay," he amended. "Let's talk about Laura Cooper."
I said, "I heard about Laura's death yesterday. And I read this morning's papers. I can't believe such a vital woman would kill herself."
"I can't believe it, either," he said.
I glanced at his face. "You're serious, aren't you?"
"I'm always serious about murder."
"The papers say it was suicide."
"It's not open and shut." He walked a few more yards before adding, "Because of Oliver Cooper's connection to the White House, our department's been cut out by the FBI. I'm just asking around a little. You know, to make sure all the bases are covered."
He had learned to put a better spin on his Lone Ranger activities, I noticed. "You're on your own, is that it?"
"Right. Nothing official. We heard you had a little scene at the Cooper party Friday night."
"A little scene was exactly that—little. It was a misunderstanding," I said. "I had been talking with her husband. We're old friends and we were—"
"—in the bathroom together," he finished for me. "Yes, we heard about that, too."
I felt myself flush. "It was perfectly innocent, Detective. Laura and I had a conversation afterwards, and I apologized. She understood that what happened was completely innocent."
"Okay," he said.
I decided that further defense of my honor was going to sound fishy, so I said, "Laura was angry, but she was hardly suicidal that night. I thought she was more in a mood to murder someone else, in fact, not hurt herself."
"Who did she want to murder?"
"It was a figure of speech. I only meant—"
"Who was she angry with? Besides you, that is."
"Her husband," I said before thinking about how I was delivering my friend into the hands of the police. "I mean, she was angry with Flan, but hot furious. Not really."
"Have you been seeing Mr. Cooper socially?"
I met his eye. "Flan and I were not having an affair, if that's what you're asking."
He shrugged. "Okay. Tell me what you know about Laura Cooper's life. What did she do with her time? Who were her friends?"
"I don't know."
Bloom shot me another look. "Did she have a reputation for doing anything in particular?"
"You mean her work? She was a part-time designer for a contractor, but that's all I know." I looked at him suspiciously when he didn't respond. "What are you asking? Which clubs she belonged to? Or something else?"
He shrugged. "There was a rumor."
I stopped walking and waited for him to face me.
He did. His soulful eyes didn't look so soulful anymore. "A rumor about things she did."
I didn't respond. Maybe I was attracted to Bloom because he felt safe. But at that moment, he wasn't feeling safe in the least.
"Dammit, Nora," he said. "Do I have to pull your teeth?"
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"I talked to a friend in Philadelphia Vice. Apparently, there have been suspicions that Laura Cooper stole things. Jewelry. Trouble is, the people who complain suddenly get amnesia when the real investigation starts."
"Well, did you look inside Laura's jewelry box?"
"The FBI did. They didn't find anything. Of course, Laura Cooper probably knew better than to hide stolen goods with her personal jewelry. Look, if I could find somebody whose stuff had been stolen by Laura Cooper, it might prove that her murder doesn't involve Oliver's appointment. The case would become a local matter again."
And Bloom would get another shot at impressing his superiors. "Well, I guess you'll just have to start investigating."
He shook his head. "I can't. We don't have the jurisdiction. The FBI is supertwitchy on this. I need some evidence to get started."
"I don't know how I can help you."
He said, "I think you can."
He reached into the pocket of his raincoat and came up with a Ziplock plastic bag. He opened it and upturned the bag into his palm. Before I saw the glitter and flash of the blue stone, I knew what it was.
Grandmama Blackbird's sapphire ring.
I let out a shaky breath, suddenly feeling as if he'd backed me against a wall in preparation for throwing knives.
He said, "It's yours, isn't it? I recognized it."
"How did you get it?"
"Let's just say I found it in Laura Cooper's possession, only a few hours after you had a public argument with her, hours after she was found drow
ned in a swimming pool. Don't worry. At the moment, nobody else knows I have it."
At the moment. "You don't think I hurt her."
He tossed the sapphire up and down in his hand.
"You can't be serious," I snapped. "You're trying to coerce me. And you're probably interfering with the real investigation by withholding evidence."
"Is this your ring?"
"You know it is, but—"
He was very calm. "How many people do you think will tell the FBI about the scene between you and Laura Cooper? And how many people noticed that Laura Cooper bears an uncanny resemblance to her husband's old girlfriend? Yeah, I noticed. Maybe the FBI won't put the two of you together, but I saw it right away. She was pretty bad coining out of the pool, but she definitely had a familiar look. You're going to be the first suspect, Nora."
I felt breathless, clammy and dizzy, along with a few other flulike symptoms. "I didn't kill Laura Cooper."
"I know that," he said earnestly. "I'm just asking for your help. I want to know who else Laura Cooper stole from. Who's missing jewelry? Who would be angry with her?"
If the police became interested in Laura's career as a jewel thief, they couldn't be looking at Flan for her murder. Suddenly I liked the idea of steering the investigation away from Flan. "All right," I said cautiously. "I can ask around a little."
"Okay. I won't tell the FBI about this ring, and you'll find out what you can about Laura Cooper. Deal?"
Bloom might look like a kid with a stamp collection, but he had killer instincts.
I said, "What should I do first?"
"Find out about stolen jewelry."
Chapter 6
Afterwards, I sat in the back of the car and tried to think like a detective. Except I was trembling so hard my brain wouldn't function. I put my head between my knees.
"My most creative inspirations often come from billboards," my mother used to say. The billboards Mama noticed usually advertised department stores, and her inspiration involved buying new sets of china we didn't need.
But an electronic billboard outside the car window swam into view when I sat up.
"Reed, can you park here?"
Puzzled but obedient, he pulled to the curb across from the Civic Center. Above us, on the marquee outside the Civic Center, large black letters welcomed the Mid-Atlantic Cat Fanciers to Philadelphia.
My sinuses began to swell just looking at the sign. But I had an idea.
"What do you want to do?" Reed asked.
I reached for the door handle. "I'm going inside."
"You like cats?"
It's not that I don't like cats. I think they're lovely, and I have an appreciation for their Greta Garbo kind of temperament.
But I'm allergic. Not the charming little sniffle kind of allergic, either, but the purple eyes, hives and streaming nose kind of allergic.
On the other hand, I was either a prime suspect in Laura Cooper's unofficial murder, or I was being blackmailed into helping the local police grab a high-profile case away from the FBI. Either way, I needed to do something. And suddenly I knew just where to find a certain person on this particular day.
So I pulled a handkerchief out of my handbag, said good-bye to Reed and went into the cat show. The lobby was crowded with people. I followed the enthusiastic throng along a wide concourse to the ticket counter, then rode the escalator up to the exhibition hall, which had been converted into a cat lover's heaven.
I'd visited the Civic Center during the fabulous Philadelphia Flower Show. But that event didn't prepare me for the chaotic extravaganza inside the exhibition hall today. The cavernous space was a maddening mass of cat fanatics, who slowly wound their way up and down the lines of exhibit tables where every breed of cat known to man lolled in splendor for all to see. It was almost human gridlock.
I peeked over shoulders to glimpse a slinky Siamese sleeping on a velvet pillow but failed to see what all the fuss was about. In the judging area, a solemn woman prodded the unmentionable parts of a pug-faced Persian, then stretched the animal's body to examine it before tossing it into the air like a pizza and scrutinizing the way the poor cat landed on the table.
Constantly, people carrying cats brushed past me as amplified voices called various competitors to be judged. I tried not to breathe deeply. I could feel the cat dander making my face blotch.
One frowning gentleman who clearly took his sartorial theme from Prince Philip or Dame Edna wore a tweed jacket and flowered cap as he stood beside a cage and made tch-tch noises. He shook his head and made a note with a pencil in his program. "Mother," he finally said severely to the lavender-haired woman beside him, "you're absolutely right. That Maine coon has a loathsome nose."
On the next aisle over, a large black-and-white cat sat like a sultan on a tufted pink cushion, and I noticed his owner had propped a Cat Fancy magazine beside him. Yes, the same cat was pictured on the magazine cover. The cover boy sat motionless, accepting his due from passersby. When he yawned, the people oohed and applauded.
At last I spotted the man I'd come to see. Considering how much time he'd spent with my grandmother, I could recognize his toupee from any angle.
"Sidney?"
Sidney Gutnick turned. He was a short, portly man with a Hapsburg mouth and no eyelashes. A jeweler by profession, he wore two pendant necklaces over a nubby sweater, matching pajamalike trousers and nubuck clogs. His pudgy hands were decorated with antique rings, each with plenty of diamonds. In his arms he cradled a blue-gray cat with the same expression Sidney wore—as if he smelled something putrid. On the floor lay a cat carrier, a leather satchel and an industrial-sized bag of Doritos.
"Nora Blackbird," Sidney said in a nasal voice that always managed to sound accusatory. "I didn't know you were a cat person."
"I love cats," I said. "At least, I love looking at them. Unfortunately, I'm allergic."
He shook his head fiercely. "It's been proven that cat allergies are all psychological. I can recommend someone to help you."
"That's very kind of you. Who's this?" I indicated the cat in his arms. An enormous blue ribbon in Sidney's hand bespoke a recent victory. Sidney cuddled the cat, and his voice turned childish. "Jean Pierre, say hi to Nora. Say 'I'm Jean Pierre, and I'm the grand champion Chartreux.' "
Belatedly, I realized what the proper response was and said, "Hi, Jean Pierre."
"Jean Pierre says hi, Nora." Sidney planted a kiss on the cat's head. The cat blinked and turned his face away from me.
I noticed Jean Pierre's fur was very woolly and almost iridescent. "I've never seen a cat like that."
"Exquisite, isn't he? Go ahead, touch him."
"Oh, I shouldn't."
"Go on. He doesn't scratch."
I prayed my allergies wouldn't kick in immediately and gave Jean Pierre a small pat. He didn't deign to notice my attention. "Lovely. And so soft."
Sidney looked shocked. "It's not soft. His coat is water-resistant."
"Well, he's very pretty."
"The judge thought he was beautiful," Sidney corrected.
I had forgotten that Sidney disagreed with nearly everything anyone said to him. Jean Pierre opened his mouth and—for all his royal appearance—let out a ridiculously high-pitched meow.
Sidney laughed affectionately. "You see? He likes you! How could you possibly be allergic to such a beautiful boy?"
I smiled, but I felt a telltale tickle building in my sinuses.
"Now that we've won the competition," Sidney announced, "we're finished here. Enjoy the show, Nora."
"You're leaving already?" I held back a sniffle. "I was hoping we could talk for a few minutes."
"Oh?"
Sidney Gutnick never had much time for my sisters or me, but he'd been my Grandmama Blackbird's dearest companion during her declining years. She purchased mountains of silver from him to add to the Blackbird collection, and some of her showiest jewelry had come out of his velvet-lined trays. Her early patronage had certainly started young Sidney on
his way, and now he was a fixture among our social circle.
Sidney Gutnick called himself a dealer in jewelry and silver and kept a shop on Sansom Street, also known as Jeweler's Row. Perhaps he sold a retail necklace or two, but his real business came from families who found themselves in unfortunate circumstances that required the unloading of a few heirlooms to pay their expenses. With equal discretion, Sidney bought silver tea sets, tennis bracelets and even the wedding rings of deceased family members. He sold them quietly, and over the years had created a long list of steady clients on both sides of the equation.
Grandmama bought some Revolutionary War silver from Sidney, for instance, but years later when my mother needed an extended stay at her favorite Arizona spa, Sidney bought the silver back.
He must have had hope for the next generation of Blackbirds because he said, "You have an item for me to look at? Or perhaps you're in the market for something?"
"Nothing in particular, but I'm hoping to learn a little more."
"Ah," he said. "You've come to the right person, of course."
Shamelessly, I said, "Grandmama Blackbird thought the world of you, Sidney."
He nodded as if receiving his due. "Of course she did. And I'm grateful to you, by the way."
"To me?"
"For mentioning in the newspaper the necklace Lexie Paine wore at the polo matches last summer. It was kind of you to print where she bought the necklace. I had several new clients who remarked on the article."
"Well, the necklace was beautiful."
"It was stunning," Sidney corrected. "Nora, I'm dying for some mint tea. Usually I carry a supply, but I used it all today. Would you like to go back to my place to have some? We could discuss other ways you might mention my work in your column."
It hadn't occurred to me that Sidney might actually court the social column, but here he was, undoubtedly sucking up. I decided it might be wiser to conduct our discussion someplace private. "I have a car and driver outside, if you'd like a lift to your place."
"I accept. Would you be so kind as to carry my things? I can't possibly manage them with Jean Pierre, too."
I gathered up the cat carrier, slung the leather satchel over my shoulder and struggled to control the bag of Doritos without spilling any of the chips on the floor. Like an overloaded pack mule dressed in St. Laurent, I struggled through the crowd after Sidney.
