Dead Girls Don't Wear Diamonds

by Nancy Martin

  Miracle of miracles. It opened.

  I eased inside Laura's bedroom.

  For a long moment, I stood in the doorway and thought about a young woman. She'd come from a respected family in an old Southern city, but she hadn't been able to break the glass ceiling of Philadelphia's social hierarchy. She'd gone about it all wrong. She'd wanted the acceptance of the Old Money crowd, but she hadn't been willing to spend the years doing good works, delivering Meals-on-Wheels or cultivating young musicians or electing good government. It wasn't enough to marry into a loaded family, and Laura hadn't a clue how to make herself part of a bigger picture. Perhaps Laura Cooper was the first person whose cause of death was social climbing.

  I went to the windows and pulled down the shades one by one. Then I snapped on a small lamp. On the dresser stood the large, cheap vase of dying roses. From Yale Bailey, I knew. They smelled like compost.

  The police had been in the room; that was obvious. Laura's neat stacks of boxes and belongings had been ransacked by someone who didn't care how her things were left.

  Where to start?

  I flipped rapidly through her drawers, sure the police would have found obvious clues and removed them. I uncovered clothing—lots of it with expensive labels. Unframed photographs had been jammed under her collection of sleeveless sweaters. I paged through them and saw Laura and Flan in formal dress. The last, faded photo showed a man wearing tennis dress and holding a large trophy. A country-club sign stood behind him. I flipped the photo over. Daddy was written in neat script.

  I put the photos back in the drawer.

  More ideas began to zip around in my head. Like fruit on a slot machine, they kept reappearing and disappearing, not making any sensible pattern.

  On the desk were stacks of glossy catalogs picturing enormous bathtubs, wine racks and even gun vaults. The false trappings of wealth nowadays.

  On the nightstand, under a copy of a book that extolled eight ways to influence powerful people, and one that coached women on dressing for corporate acceptance. I found Southern Names for Southern Babies. I flipped through some of the pages and discovered she had highlighted names already.

  So she had known she was pregnant.

  Who was the father? The man she'd married but didn't trust? Or the animal she'd sought out for a brutal affair? Looking at the book in my hands, I knew Laura intended to keep the baby. She had been planning a name and a life for her child.

  What a desperate woman she had been, I thought. Desperate to fit in, to dress herself so she could become somebody she thought mattered to others. But here had been her answer. A child would have made everything else insignificant.

  Flan was still on this earth, I reminded myself. It was Flan who needed my help now.

  I sat on the edge of her bed. There was no jewelry in the room, I noted. Not Laura's or anyone else's. The fact that she didn't keep even so much as a wrist-watch in the bedroom struck me as odd.

  Time was running out, I knew. I checked my own watch. The security system would be functioning again in twenty minutes. Galvanized, I left Laura's bedroom and retraced my steps.

  Across the hall was another bedroom. A cursory search told me it was the room where Flan was staying. His distinctive aftershave stood on the bathroom counter; his clothes hung in the closet. No signs of Laura here.

  Somewhere down the hall was an entrance to the safe room. The latest in luxury items, a safe room was a place where the paranoid modern homeowner could hide if a home invasion occurred. While psychotic burglars ransacked the rest of the house, the plan-ahead master of his domain could relax in comfort. I went down the hall past bedroom after bedroom and more sumptuous bathrooms. I opened a walk-in linen closet filled with lavender-scented sheets all tied in pairs with satin ribbons. Plush towels were arranged by color. Cotton and wool blankets sat in shrink-wrap. At the back of the closet hung a selection of linen tablecloths on oversized wooden trouser hangers, evenly spaced. Control-freak Doe had clipped a note to each tablecloth, listing the date when it was used and for which event.

  Schrager dinner party, said the rose-colored one.

  I pushed the tablecloths gingerly aside and found the safe-room door. The handle was recessed, and I pushed it. The door swung open like a vault, and a light automatically went on.

  I stepped over the threshold, but kept one hand on the heavy door to prevent it from closing. The safe room was little more than a glorified bathroom equipped with television monitors, a toilet and sink, a case of bottled water and an unopened box of energy bars. No jewelry.

  But sitting on top of the case of water stood a teacup with a dried brownish residue in the bottom of the cup. I sniffed cautiously. A faint fragrance of mint.

  I closed the door and retraced my steps down the hallway.

  I went back into the guest suite and made a beeline for the breakfast kitchen. I flipped on the overhead light and looked around.

  No mint tea in the cupboard.

  In the mini fridge, soft drinks and a jar of low-sugar strawberry preserves. In the freezer, frozen English muffins, a package of designer coffee and ice trays.

  I closed the fridge.

  Then opened it again. I took one of the ice trays out of the freezer.

  My heart began to pound. I went to the sink and began to run hot water over the ice-cube tray. The cubes began to melt, and at once I knew I'd found what I'd come for. Rings in one tray, bracelets crammed in another. The third tray had two necklaces in it, frozen in the ice.

  I recognized the ring Tempeste had described to me—a huge diamond encircled by a golden snake.

  And Lexie Paine's pearl bracelet with the double clasp.

  I didn't recognize the other pieces, but from the weight and quality of the stones, I knew they were all expensive, valuable jewels that had been taken from some of the prominent people in my social circle. Old Money heirlooms. Only the very best. The cheap stuff, Laura hadn't bothered to keep.

  In my mind, the slot-machine clues started to make sense. I began to understand what had happened.

  To a soft, humming sound, I piled the jewels back into the ice trays.

  Too late, I realized the hum that reverberated around me was not the quiet motor of the refrigerator.

  It was an airplane, coming in for a landing.

  I shoved the ice trays back into the freezer and slammed it shut. I hit the light switch on my way out and ran for the staircase. I reached the first floor in time to see the flashing lights on the wings and belly of the incoming plane. It cruised smoothly past one window and I heard it touch down just a hundred yards from the house.

  I couldn't leave the way I'd come. The arriving family would use that door to enter their home. And no doubt the first people through the door would be Jack Priestly and the Secret Service detail.

  I ran for the back of the house, the kitchen wing.

  I skidded to a stop on the tile floor of the kitchen. The security system had come on. I could see a red light beaming from the keypad by the kitchen door.

  Trapped.

  Chapter 18

  I waited two agonizing minutes. Adrenaline zinged in my veins, clearing my head, making me hyper-alert. I waited until I heard the patio doors open farther down the hallway, and the red light on the security keypad flickered. Then I shoved out through the kitchen door and took off into the darkness as if chased by a rabid dog.

  I ran headlong into the kitchen garden and took a flying leap over a privet hedge before tearing out into the only part of the lawn the outdoor lighting didn't illuminate. I slid on the damp grass and cut left in search of shrubbery to hide behind.

  At last I reached a landscaped island of trees and juniper bushes. I slowed and looked over my shoulder, barely breathing hard.

  The lights of the house came on one by one as the Secret Service went through the building. I was on the opposite side of the house from the patio and landing strip, but I imagined Oliver or members of his family waiting there for an okay to enter. I could see figur
es through the windows, men checking all the rooms. In the kitchen, one man lingered, but I couldn't see what he was doing. I decided not to wait to find out.

  I edged around the lawn, keeping myself hidden behind the trees.

  I found myself in the perennial garden at last. I eased past the flowers, heading for the womanly shaped fountain.

  Then I realized I had mistaken a human figure in the grass for the statue.

  Doe Cooper turned to me and blinked. "What are you doing here?"

  She had been taking a walk through her garden while she waited for the all-clear from the house. Dressed in a black suit and pearls and carrying a simple Kate Spade bag, Doe squinted in the darkness at me. "Nora?"

  I stepped into the light so she could see my face. "Hello, Doe."

  "What's happened?"

  I took a deep breath. "I think you'll have to tell me."

  She didn't pretend to misunderstand.

  I said, "You were the one, Doe."

  She mustered some belated indignation. "I don't know what you're talking about."

  "You drowned Laura in your koi pond, didn't you? And then you put her body in the swimming pool, hoping nobody would find her until spring."

  She transferred her handbag from one hand to the crook of her elbow and put one foot slightly forward as if posing for a photograph.

  "I didn't understand why until I saw your linen closet. And the strawberry jam in the guest refrigerator. And this garden. There's nothing more important to you than impressing your guests."

  "So? You, of all people, must understand the importance of good entertaining."

  I shook my head. "You were afraid of her, weren't you?"

  "Afraid of Laura? Don't be silly."

  "You wanted to become a respected hostess in the city. But Laura's reputation for stealing things—that was starting to keep people away, wasn't it?"

  Her face hardened.

  "Even if you went to Washington, Laura would have followed you, wouldn't she? There's no way you could ever start over . . . unless you got rid of her."

  Doe raised her chin. "What are you going to do?"

  I shook my head. "The question is, what are you going to do?"

  For the first time, she looked startled. "You're not going to turn me in?"

  "I don't think I'll need to. Think about it, Doe. Think about Oliver."

  "But . . ."

  "The publicity is going to be brutal for him. He'll probably lose the job in Washington," I said slowly. "If you turn yourself in, though—if you take the blame yourself, you might spare him the worst."

  "But . . ." she said again.

  "You'll get a good lawyer," I suggested. "You'll be able to share Oliver's life eventually. But you've got to take the heat now."

  She considered me thoughtfully. Across the dying flowers, we regarded each other for a long time.

  "I can't do that," she said at last. "I'm going to Washington. I'm going to have a lovely home and give beautiful parties."

  "I don't see that happening, Doe."

  "You're the only one who knows, right?" She began to tremble with the effort of controlling herself. "If I can just make you be quiet, this could all go away."

  "Doe—"

  "What about money? We have enough money to take care of you, Nora. We'll pay you."

  "Hasn't Oliver already paid people to be quiet? Sidney Gutnick, for example?" I stepped back from her. "You can't do it, Doe. There are too many people who know things. Eventually, somebody else is going to figure it all out."

  "But not you," Doe said, coming towards me. "It's not going to be you. I drowned her, yes. I grabbed her and wrapped the twine around her neck to drag her to the pond, and I held her head under until she was dead. Then I hid her in the pool. I didn't have time to replace the pool cover. The Red Barons started to come back and I had to hurry. Tonight, I can be faster."

  I'd thought because she was beautifully dressed and wearing high heels in the garden, she wouldn't try to overpower me. But I had misjudged her determination, and in a second Doe pushed me into a flower bed. I stumbled in the loose mulch, and she made a grab for my arm.

  She was strong. All those days of digging in the garden and keeping fit for her husband had given her muscle I didn't expect. She twisted my arm and sent me down on my knees in the mulch.

  "She was pregnant, Doe," I gasped. "Did you know that? She was going to have a baby."

  "Shut up," she said. "I know that. She told me, the stupid slut. She said it would make her husband happy and save their marriage."

  Telling Doe had been Laura's worst mistake. For Doe, a Cooper grandchild was just one more reason why she'd be stuck with Laura forever.

  Doe hit me over the head with her Kate Spade bag.

  I saw stars, but the blow wasn't enough to stun me. She clubbed me again with the bag, then threw it away and latched on to my throat with both hands.

  I gasped and tried to speak. But she gripped me so hard that it took all my strength to draw in oxygen. I felt her stubby nails dig into my skin. Her face was close to mine, her eyes narrowed to slits and her mouth drawn back in a feral grimace. She forced me backwards. Suddenly I slid down into the pond.

  Knee deep in water, I seized her wrist and tried to pry her off me. No use. I flailed out at her clothing then, black stars dancing before my eyes. Blindly, I grabbed for her pearl necklace. It snapped, and the pearls went splashing into the water around me.

  I couldn't see. I knew I was blacking out.

  I yanked the scarf from my own hair and gathered all my strength to say one word to her.

  "Polyester!"

  Doe's grip lessened for a split second. My vision cleared enough to see her expression—fear and revulsion. I shoved the cheap scarf into her face, aiming for her eyes.

  Doe cried out and staggered backwards. I clambered out of the pond and went after her, brandishing my only weapon.

  "Get it away from me!" she cried. "Get that horrible thing away!"

  She caught her heel as she fell, twisting as she landed on one knee. I whipped the scarf around her neck.

  Doe began to scream with hysteria. Her breath was already wheezing, her eyes wide with panic. Any moment hives were going to break out on her face. I didn't need to keep her long. In seconds, Jack Priestly appeared in the moonlight, followed by the Secret Service.

  "What the hell is going on?" Jack demanded. I could see him make all the right connections and reach the worst conclusion. Murder and politics didn't mix. His face loosened, and he said, "Damn."

  Chapter 19

  Two hours later, Flan was standing in the spotlighted driveway next to Detective Bloom's police car. He'd been weeping, and he looked stunned. But he didn't look drunk.

  I hugged him. "I'm so sorry it turned out this way, Flan."

  He hugged me harder. "I know. Me, too. But it wasn't going to be any good, no matter what, Nora. Thank you. I know you did this for me."

  "You're my friend," I told him, standing back and holding his hand.

  He wagged his head. "I've been a pretty lousy friend. Not to mention a lousy husband. In fact, I'm basically a—"

  "Don't," I said, mustering a smile. "You've always had potential, Flan. You've got a second chance now."

  "Do I? I feel like my life is over."

  I thought of Todd, of course. No matter what, my husband was always going to be present for me. I said, "You're alive. You need some time. Be with your family for a while. We'll get together in a few weeks. We'll have lunch or something, and you can tell me about CanDo Airlines. I'd like to help with that, if 1 have anything to offer."

  "I should be the one offering to help you, Nora. If you ever need anything, you'll come to me, right?"

  He could make a call to the Intelligencer and get my job back for me, but I figured now that Laura Cooper's murderer was caught, I'd be working again in a few days. I smiled. "Thank you, Flan."

  He kissed my cheek and held the car door open for me.

  I hitched a rid
e to the hospital with Detective Bloom.

  "I hope you're happy," I said as we sped through the dawn. "Looks like the FBI wants to get out of Dodge as fast as possible. Thanks to me, you'll get credit for solving another high-profile murder."

  For once, I saw Detective Bloom smile. "Thanks to you," he agreed. "Is Cooper going to be okay? If I'm any judge, I'd have him on suicide watch for a while."

  "He'll be okay. We'll take care of him—his brothers and his friends. What do you think will happen to Oliver and Doe?"

  "She'll go to jail. But if he really didn't know she killed Laura, maybe he'll just get a slap on the wrist for bribing people to keep quiet about their lost jewelry."

  "And Sidney?"

  "By seven o'clock, he'll be PhillyVice's main man." "He was fencing stolen goods?" "And selling it through Tempeste Juarez. She was stopped at the airport trying to blow the country, and she's squawking to the Feds about Gutnick. I guess she's hoping to save herself by turning against him." So Laura had indeed kept the most prestigious people's jewelry for herself. I said, "Tempeste and Sidney must have made a switch at the Cooper party. Sidney waited in the safe room for Tempeste to come upstairs and get the stuff. I saw her on the stairs with a bag from his shop."

  "Does she carry an old derringer? Ballistics said the bullet that hit your driver came from an old two-bullet pistol."

  "She had a little gun at the hotel. I don't know what kind it was, but I would recognize a picture," I said. "She must have seen me outside Sidney's shop and thought I figured out her arrangement with Sidney. She came back to scare me away. That's when she shot Reed. And what about Yale? What was he doing at Sidney's?"

  "I don't know yet. What's your guess?"

  I considered the question. "Something to do with the ring he'd planned to give to my friend Lexie. Or a bracelet he was supposed to give Laura. He just ended up there at the wrong moment. Oliver must have panicked when Yale walked in."

  "What was Cooper doing at Gutnick's place?" .

  "Paying off Sidney, I suppose. Trying to prevent any more information about Laura from spoiling his chances in Washington. But you'll have a hard time getting anyone to tell you that. Speaking of secrets, you didn't tell me that Laura Cooper was pregnant. That information must have been in the autopsy report."