Have Your Cake and Kill Him Too

by Nancy Martin

  I had brought along the box of cupcakes and offered him his choice. "Need something to take your mind off your troubles?"

  "Thanks, kiddo." He accepted a cupcake and waved me into the wobbly chair in front of his desk. "What's on your mind?"

  I sat down and decided to launch directly into the discussion I'd planned. "Stan, since Kitty's death, I know I haven't exactly attracted thousands of new readers with my version of the social page."

  He didn't argue, but gave me an owlish look. "You're not going to quit on me, are you, Nora?"

  He might be relieved if I did. But I said, "You're always saying we need to appeal to younger readers, right?"

  He swiped a finger of icing. "If we don't, we'll soon be out of business."

  "I've got some ideas to improve my column to make it appeal more to a younger audience."

  "Okay, let's have it."

  "First of all, I think it would be smart to send a photographer around to some of the high school proms."

  He licked his finger and began to shake his head. "Marcie, the assistant fashion writer. She does prom clothes."

  "I don't mean just the clothes. Proms are becoming something totally different than they used to be. My nephew's spring dance is a fund-raiser for disaster victims. And there's a high school in the city that's collecting used sporting goods for underserved children. It's a whole new movement to get kids thinking philanthropically, and I think it's a concept worth supporting. Some publicity would help them, and we'd get a feel-good story about young kids doing something worthwhile."

  "Uhmm."

  He hadn't said no, so I went on. "And how many college students live in our circulation area? They're always having parties to benefit good causes. I don't mean the beer blasts that make neighbors angry, but the charitable work college kids do."

  "What are you proposing?"

  "Photos, mostly, a little copy. I won't need to go to the events. I'm plenty busy covering the social season. But if we could send a photographer to a couple of events every week, I could do interviews by phone. The pictures and captions could go in the Thursday edition, the same day the weekend concert schedule goes in. I often don't have enough material for that day, anyway. We could make it a big deal, Stan."

  The buzz around the Intelligencer offices was that the society page took up space that could be better used for sports coverage, which sold papers. I had been trying to figure more ways to keep my job, and I thought I'd finally come up with a good solution. But Stan still looked unimpressed.

  "Here's the next part," I went on, trying to stay enthusiastic. "I think I should start contributing to our online edition. Kids may not read newspapers yet, but they definitely surf the Internet. If I cover some of the school charity events—maybe even send a video camera—we could corner the market on events that young people really want to read about. Once we hook them online, we can reel them over to the print edition."

  "I don't have anything to do with our online stuff, you know."

  "But you could put in a good word. I think this is a great idea, Stan. I think we'd really attract young readers with this."

  He frowned at the cupcake without touching it, as if his mind was elsewhere. For a moment, I thought he was trying to find the words to let me down gently.

  But he said, "How much space are we talking for the high school and college stuff?"

  I took a breath. "Half a page once a week."

  "Quarter page to start." He lifted his head to meet my eye. "In the Thursday edition. When can you get the first one ready?"

  "You think it's a good idea?" I couldn't keep the surprise out of my voice.

  "It's worth a try."

  "Great! I'll need a couple of weeks to lay the groundwork, make some calls, talk to some people."

  "Okay, go for it," he said. "Meanwhile, I'll take the online editor to lunch and see what he thinks about you contributing to that, too."

  "Stan, you're terrific! Thanks so much! You won't regret it, I promise." I leaped to my feet and bounded for the door.

  "Nora?"

  I paused in the doorway.

  He leaned back in his chair and beckoned me closer. "Let's talk another minute."

  How had he figured it out? Was my pregnant stomach already bulging with a job-jeopardizing baby? I gripped the doorjamb for courage, sure I was headed for the unemployment line.

  Then Stan said, "We got a call from a jeweler, said he was a friend of yours."

  "Jeweler?"

  "Martin Jaworski. You know him?"

  Philadelphia's "King of Bling" was an old family friend who had lavished lots of attention on my mother before she maxed out her credit cards. I stepped back into Stan's office. "Yes, of course I know Marty."

  "He's been a big advertiser in the Intelligencer for something like fifty years. Now he wants to make a change. And when a whale of an advertiser like Jaworski says he wants a change, even the publisher gets nervous."

  "What kind of change does he want?"

  "For years, his ads have run in Local News alongside the carpet-cleaning company and some dentist who makes your teeth look like Farrah Fawcett's."

  "You're showing your age, Stan."

  He allowed a grin. "Yeah, well, Jaworski's phone call made everybody in the sales department age about twenty years. He wants to put his ads on your page, right beside the social column."

  "Really? Isn't Marty a sweetheart!"

  Stan did not share my pleasure. "He said his customers all read your page, and that he had friends who felt the same way. He gave us the names of some other businesses to try—some upscale caterer and a furniture store who want to reach your readers. The sales guys are knocking each other over to get to the phones."

  "That sounds good. Isn't it good?"

  "You seem surprised."

  Abruptly feeling as if I were standing on the carpet of the principal's office, I said, "I am."

  "That's good. Nora, we don't want our writers going after advertising. It's a conflict, you see?"

  "I've never spoken with Marty about advertising."

  "I checked just to be sure," Stan acknowledged, "and you haven't. But the editor over in Local News is giving me grief. Which I don't need from outside my own department."

  "Sorry, Stan."

  "Just don't go trading boldfaced type in your column for advertising, okay?"

  "I have a feeling I should be insulted you're even suggesting such a thing."

  "Good. Grief from you, I can live with." Stan smiled a little. "You're a good kid, Nora."

  Which of course made me feel guilty for not admitting I would be needing at least an afternoon off to deliver my child. Torn about giving up my secret on the spot, I said, "Thanks, Stan."

  "Okay, get back to work." He picked up his cupcake. "I'm sure you've got places to go."

  Chapter Eight

  I met Rawlins on the street fifteen minutes later. His expression was not that of a boy with a clear conscience.

  "How was the pizza?" I asked, wondering if my nephew had a tryst with Clover while I was working.

  "Not bad." He handed me into the passenger seat with suspiciously good manners.

  With my guilt radar at work, I gave him the address of my next stop. But Rawlins made conversation while he drove across town in the gathering darkness. He agreed to wait again while I made a quick stop at a party. By now, he seemed comfortable with the knowledge that he had two suitcases full of cash in the trunk of his car. I marveled at the adaptability of teenagers.

  In Rittenhouse Square, I dashed past a man who had been loitering on the sidewalk. He wasn't fooling anybody in his pink miniskirt, slingback heels and fluffy sweater. He opened the bookstore door for me.

  With a polite smile, I went into Barnes & Noble, where a publisher was launching a book by a local author who had written a children's story about the history of the city. The bookstore manager had wisely invited kids from a local day care center and a lot of city dignitaries who would read aloud to them. Fruit punch and
Liberty Bell—shaped cookies were served by a costumed Ben Franklin.

  I wasn't a dozen steps inside the door when I heard an unladylike bellow from across the room.

  "Nora!"

  My best friend, Lexie Paine, vaulted a three-year-old to give me an exuberant hug. She was dagger sharp in a short-skirted Marc Jacobs business suit buttoned to her throat. Tonight her sleek black hair fell from a simple silver clip at the back of her head, and her subtle makeup was nearly invisible on her fair skin. Diamond earrings the size of shark teeth gleamed in her ears.

  She linked her arm through mine and gave me a noisy kiss. "Half the mayor's staff is here, sweetie, and we're going out for a drink later—no doubt so they can pump me for help on their latest fiscal fiasco. Want to join us?"

  "Tempting," I said on a laugh. "But reading a phone book promises more thrills than talking city budgets."

  If an American city could have royalty, Lexie would be Philadelphia's answer to every descendant of Queen Victoria. She came from the oldest of Old Money, ran a brokerage firm with the single-minded devotion of a samurai warrior and, in her spare time, supported dozens of charitable organizations around the city. Plus she remembered birthdays, sent presents for no reason and loved a good party.

  "I must take my thrills where I can get them, sweetie. You look all gussied up for a night on the town. I was hoping we could gossip about the Fitch family afterwards."

  "Has there been a news bulletin I haven't heard?"

  "So I was right!" Her expression glowed with interest. "You are mixed up in the murder."

  "Not mixed up," I said.

  "I can guess what that means." Lexie grasped my elbow and guided me into the bookstore's vacant poetry section for a tete-a-tete. She lowered her voice. "Please don't tell me you're emotionally involved in this thing. Zell Orcutt wasn't worth your time when he was alive."

  "Nobody's weeping for him in the financial district?"

  "Darling, we had dancing on tabletops all over the city today. Zell was universally disliked. What's your interest?"

  I didn't want to suggest Delilah might be involved in Zell's murder, so I said, "I don't think Pointy Fitch killed him, do you?"

  "Seems unlikely," Lexie agreed. "But maybe Pointy got conned just like half the other millionaires in town. You wait—scads of scandals will come to light now that Zell's dead. He had plenty of real enemies."

  "Do you know of anyone in particular?"

  "A dozen," she said. "But I'm supposed to be discreet. Let me make a list and check it twice so I don't give away any state secrets. I'll call you tomorrow, okay?"

  "Not at home," I cautioned. "I'll get in touch with you."

  Lexie looked intrigued. "Someone's bugging your phone again?"

  "I'm not sure."

  "I thought the whole world knew you broke up with the Abruzzo family. It's scary to think the last to learn are the boys in blue."

  I sighed. "They must be hoping I'll spill some beans."

  "Watch what you broadcast," Lexie advised. "Or you'll find yourself testifying someday."

  "So far, the only one who's spoken into the microphone is Boykin Fitch." I told Lexie about Boy's morning visit to my kitchen.

  Her eyebrows lifted. "Boy was trying to cover for his daddy, huh? Seems a little late."

  "What do you mean?"

  Lexie had her ear to the ground most of the time, and she didn't disappoint. "Do you know Kirby Donovan?"

  "The guy who drives around with a Great Dane sticking its head out the sunroof of his car?"

  Lexie nodded. "Kirby, the political fix-it man. Boy's office just hired him, and you know what that means. There's a tempest brewing, and the powers that be hope to keep it safely in Boy's teacup."

  "Boy has a political problem?"

  "He must. Kirby is only hired when there's a mess to clean up. Nobody sweeps dirt under a rug any better."

  "Have you heard anything specific about Boy?"

  "Not yet. It must be something ugly, though, if Kirby's on the case. A guy of his caliber doesn't just fix a few parking tickets."

  "So Boy has something to hide," I murmured, thinking Cupcakes wasn't enough of a scandal to keep him from being elected. Unless there was more to the story. "What do you think it could be, Lex?"

  "Money? Corruption? Sex? Could be anything."

  "Enough to kill for?"

  "People have been killed for much less."

  Zell's murder was getting more and more complicated. The possibilities began to swim in my head. Or maybe I just needed some food to settle my stomach.

  Lexie gave me a closer examination. "You don't look so hot, sweetie. What's up?"

  I hesitated. I wanted to confide in my best friend about the coming addition to the Blackbird family, but tonight was the wrong time and place. "I'm just tired."

  "You need a vacation," Lexie said. "Is the party circuit getting you down?"

  "Things are quiet at the moment, thank heaven. I'll hit the ground running again once the flower show is over."

  Lexie continued to study my face. "In that case, what about a getaway? Isn't there somebody with a Palm Beach house you could borrow for a few days? My mother's place in San Francisco is available at the moment, if you don't mind the plane ride. Or I could check—maybe somebody's taking their own jet to California this weekend, and you could hitch a ride."

  "I can't miss Saturday night's museum bash, can I? No, I'm just a little tired. It's time to go home."

  A frown still puckered my friend's forehead. "Stay at my place tonight. I can have you tucked into my guest room in twenty minutes."

  I managed a smile. "You're a darling. No, Rawlins is waiting outside to drive me home. But, Lex, I really will call you. There's something I'd like to talk about."

  "You mean the museum party? I just heard that Delilah forgot to confirm the band! What's next?"

  I knew Delilah had been busy with the police today, but I didn't say so. "Things will work out," I promised. "The party will be terrific."

  "I hope you're right." My friend gave me a quick hug. "I'll see if I can find out anything juicy about the Fitch clan. See you soon, sweetie."

  For my column, I made a quick circuit of the crowd, making mental notes about who was there. Then I grabbed a press kit from the bookstore manager and complimented her on a job well-done. She thanked me for coming and told Ben Franklin to get more cookies from the back room.

  I was out on the street five minutes later and found Rawlins parked near the bookstore, talking on his cell phone. I climbed into the Mustang, yawning. Rawlins clicked his phone shut, and we headed for home. In the seat beside him, I fell asleep before we passed city hall.

  I might have even started dreaming. But I awoke with a start when the car decelerated and hit a bump in the road. Thinking we had arrived at Blackbird Farm, I sat up, groggy and disoriented. A quick glance out the window told me that Rawlins had pulled over on the side of a dark stretch of empty road. My voice was scratchy with sleep. "What's up?"

  "Sorry, Aunt Nora. We—uh—ran out of gas."

  I straightened up, thoroughly awake then. "What?"

  "I should have filled the tank, I guess."

  "You're joking." I tried to get a look at the gauges on the dashboard.

  But Rawlins blocked my view by leaning forward to set the parking brake. "Honest mistake," he said. "Hey, this is kinda like Night of the Living Dead, huh?"

  We were on a deserted stretch of two-lane road I didn't recognize. At once, I began to imagine worse than marauding zombies. With a trunkload of money, we were sitting ducks.

  "Rawlins, this is—" I stopped myself from lecturing him at the wrong time. "Well, at least we have your cell phone. Who can we call? Triple A?"

  "Uh, yeah, sure."

  In that moment, the headlights of another vehicle flashed through the rear window. Like a bolt of lightning, the glare lit up the interior around us.

  "Let's hope this is a Good Samaritan," I said. "Not a serial killer with a hook f
or a hand."

  Rawlins laughed nervously.

  "Maybe it's a police car?"

  "I'll check." Rawlins popped his door and slid out of the car. "Stay here."

  "Rawlins! Get back inside!" I made a grab for his shirttail, but missed. No longer trying to stay calm for his benefit, I cried, "Get in here and lock your door! Are you crazy?"

  But my nephew disobeyed. As I fumbled to unfasten my seat belt, I craned around to see the tall figure of another man get out of the other vehicle. I gasped. "Rawlins!"

  They met halfway between the cars and exchanged a handshake and low-voiced greetings. A moment later, Rawlins came back to the passenger door just as I managed to thrust it open.

  But it was Michael who leaned down and put his hand out to me. "Need a lift?"

  The pounding of my heart turned into palpitations. "What are you doing here?"

  "Coming to your rescue."

  Although I doubted I was going to be safe, I took his hand and got out of the car. "Why does it feel like kidnapping?"

  "Keep your voice down. Kidnapping's a felony, and I sent my lawyers home for the night."

  He looked tall and dangerous in his leather jacket and jeans, but he was smiling. Beside him, Rawlins scuffed the toe of his shoe in the dirt and didn't meet my eye.

  "Rawlins, did you really run out of gas?"

  Michael went around to the rear of the car and popped the trunk.

  "Rawlins?" I said sharply.

  "Don't blame the kid," Michael said. "I've been tracking down this car all day. Believe me, it was a relief to figure out who had it."

  Rawlins said, "He told me to stop on this road. He said he'll take you home."

  I shivered in the cold. "I'd rather call a taxi."

  "You'll never get one out here," Michael called from behind the car. He hefted one suitcase out of the Mustang's trunk and dropped . it on the ground, then the other. "Have you had dinner yet?"

  "What about the car?" Rawlins asked him. "Should I take it back to the lot?"

  I said, "It belongs to you, Rawlins. Bought and paid for."