Murder Melts in Your Mouth

by Nancy Martin

  I waved good-bye and continued down the corridor, tucking the new information about Brandi into the back of my mind. I wasn’t sure how to process it yet.

  At the door leading to the bedroom suite, I called, “Cici? It’s Nora Blackbird!”

  My voice was muffled by the thick leopard-print carpet and the lavish floor-to-ceiling draperies on the windows. In one alcove stood a four-poster bed big enough to sleep a platoon as long as they enjoyed pink bedding. A spray of pink roses lay artfully on the pillow—Eric’s handiwork, no doubt.

  Somebody else had staged the rest of the room just as photogenically. Beside the bed, a pair of chintz chairs sat before a tall bookcase crammed with leather-bound volumes. An open set of double doors led to the second bedroom—obviously Sigi’s, judging by the manly leather furniture and the gray and camel colors of the bedclothes. On the pillows, a creative soul had left a box of cigars.

  Wand thin and leggy as a colt, Cici Scaithe stalked into view in a floor-length chiffon robe with matching mules. With a jeweled turban on her head, she looked ready to step into a Gloria Swanson movie.

  “Nora! I was afraid you were Sigi coming back to pester me. Men who retire definitely need hobbies. You’re just the person to help with these damn place cards. You know exactly how to mix people at a party. Must be your mother’s influence. I heard a rumor she’s back in town. I hope she still has the Peretti bracelets I loaned her.”

  Chapter Twenty

  “Cici, how delightful to see you.” I crossed the carpet and aimed a kiss past her powdered cheek, hoping to derail her first line of questioning. “I thought you might let me have a few party details for my column.”

  She carried a clove cigarette that glowed in the long ebony holder poised between her skeletal fingers. Her voice was froggy from years of smoking. “Of course, darling, anything you like. Don’t you look chic! I love Galanos!”

  Unlike her husband, Cici wore an oversized pair of round, thick-framed black glasses that magnified her eyes and gave her the appearance of a long-limbed insect. A very well-dressed insect, of course. The rhinestones on her glasses matched the clustered diamonds in her earlobes.

  “Coming from you,” I said, “that’s either a great compliment or a bald-faced lie.”

  “I never lie,” she declared. “Did you know Galanos started out here in Philadelphia? I have several dresses he designed. More formal than that one, of course. He worked best in ball gowns, don’t you think? Doesn’t he do draping like nobody else?” She plucked at the pleats around my waist. “And you wear it so well. Why didn’t you marry my nephew, Nora, dear? You’d make such a beautiful couple.”

  If there was one person in the world I hated more than Jamie Scaithe, I couldn’t think who it could be. He’d tortured me by selling drugs to my husband and topped it off by suggesting I should marry him only a few months after Todd’s death.

  But I liked Cici, and so I lied. “I guess the timing wasn’t right.”

  “Hm.” She skewered me with a knowing stare. “Well, it’s a damn shame. You’d bring some class into Jamie’s life. God knows he’s a perfect shit. Will you do the place cards?”

  “Of course.” I took a quick glance through the vellum cards and saw that most of the guests were Philadelphia grandes dames who’d known one another since trading silver rattles in their cradles. The only trick was keeping separate the ones who’d shared husbands or lovers.

  Cici said, “Elena Zanzibar was supposed to come early to help with the seating chart, but she fell down a flight of stairs yesterday.”

  “She fell?” I remembered seeing Elena’s bruises. They hadn’t looked like injuries from a fall. Nor did she try to explain them away by concocting a story. But I assumed she didn’t want her friends to guess the truth.

  “Yes, it sounded awful. Look through those cards while I choose something to wear, will you? And find a way to keep Pootsie Burke and Rondanelle Panoline apart, okay? I heard they wore the same dress to a fund-raiser and aren’t speaking at the moment.”

  “Did you speak to Elena yourself?”

  “Yes, poor thing. It’s hell getting old. At her age, she should install one of those chairlifts so she doesn’t go splat some night on her way to the kitchen for a snack. Come into my closet, Nora. Tell me if this is the most outrageous idea for a party you’ve ever heard.”

  She tamped out her clove cigarette in a Baccarat ashtray and pulled me through the double doors into the vast space where she kept her wardrobe.

  Cici’s closet was larger than most living rooms. Twin crystal chandeliers sparkled at the ceiling—the bulbs were soft pink to flatter elderly complexions—and cabbage rose wallpaper glowed on the walls. Racks of clothes ringed the space—organized by color from white to black with the entire spectrum in between. Shelves and drawers for sweaters and sportswear lay beneath a white marble counter that ran twenty feet from end to end.

  Today, six round tables had been set up in the center of the room, each laid with eight place settings, bowls of flowers and short candlesticks. Suitable decor for a ladies’ luncheon. Each upright gilt chair had been festooned with a rose-colored ribbon to match the wallpaper.

  Four slipper chairs stood in a row in front of the clothing, each with a fabulous couture dress artfully displayed on it.

  “The party is a brilliant idea, Cici,” I said. “Who wouldn’t want to see your closet? And raising money for women who need suitable clothes to get started in business—it’s simply genius.”

  “My friends were the first to plunk down a thousand bucks apiece to take a gander at my underguchies. We sold out of tickets in one day. I wish I had room for more tables. We could have raised a fortune.”

  “It’s a good cause,” I insisted. “And a terrific opportunity to show off your collection. Next year you should set up a tent in the garden to accommodate more tables. Then you could give tours in here. I bet Dilly Farquar would kill to play the tour guide.”

  Cici stared at me. “By gum, that’s brilliant. You’re a wonder, Nora.”

  “Well, I’m starting to understand fund-raising in a whole new way.”

  “You have so many talents!” She grinned and waved around the whole closet. “What do you think? Prime stuff, right?”

  I couldn’t resist taking a short tour. On one rack hung a dozen white shirts—all custom-made. On another—skirts by designers who used the finest fabrics. I noted an unmistakable Roberto Cavalli print, another chiffon that screamed Carolina Herrera. One rack held nothing but black trousers—silk, twill, wool and everything in between. A lit, glass-fronted case displayed immaculate cashmere sweaters in every imaginable color. And racks and racks of shoes, of course. There must have been fifty pairs of slingbacks, not to mention sandals, pumps and slides of every description. The Chinese red soles of Christian Louboutin were particularly distinctive.

  But her collection of couture gowns—everything from a Lagerfeld Beaux Arts masterpiece with a dozen layers of carefully shredded lace, to a series of understated Bill Blass dresses that had surely been worn to inaugurations as well as society balls—that’s what took my breath away. Every one was perfectly hung on a padded hanger and stuffed with nonacid paper to maintain its feminine contours. I held on to the handle of my handbag with both hands to stop myself from caressing each of them.

  It was the work of a lifetime. If you could call it work.

  “It’s all so beautiful, Cici.” I turned to her. “What would you think of filming a video tour we could run on the newspaper’s Web site?”

  “A video tour?”

  “Yes, I have a cameraman coming. You could walk me through, and we could talk about the clothes—just five or ten minutes. If we gave people a sense of what you have here, you could sell hundreds of tickets next year.”

  Doubtfully, she said, “And who would watch this video?”

  “People on the Internet.”

  “You mean pornographers?”

  I laughed. “The Internet’s not all about sex, Cici. Alth
ough it seems that way, doesn’t it? No, I think our online readers would love a glimpse of your lifestyle.”

  “I get e-mail, but I don’t understand the Internet completely.” She considered my proposal for a moment, then peeped a smile at me. “It sounds like fun! And you know I love to show off. Why else would I have a party like this one? But you wouldn’t play the video before today’s party, would you, Nora? I’d hate to spoil things for my guests.”

  “It won’t run until the weekend, I’m sure.”

  “Let’s do it! But I’d better get dressed first. Standing next to you, I’ll look like an old frump.” Cici examined me from behind those big eyeglasses. “But you wear that little number better than your grandmama could have. Who does your alterations?”

  I gave her the name of one of Lexie’s finds—a young woman who had studied in Paris and was working on becoming a full-fledged designer on her own. She was a meticulous, yet creative, seamstress.

  Cici nodded approvingly. “Yes, she does some work for me now and then, too. I seem to be losing my ass, and no amount of exercise can get it back.” She put one hand on one buttock and jiggled. “See? Pretty soon I’ll have to jettison half my wardrobe. All the tight pants, at least.”

  “You look terrific,” I said. “So do all the clothes.”

  “Well, I have Jennifer to thank for that, of course. She organized all of this for me. Last year, I couldn’t find half my things—and now it’s all beautifully arranged. She’s an angel.”

  At the mention of her closet manager, I perked up. “Where is Jennifer? I thought she’d be here today for sure.”

  “Yes, she deserves a lot of the credit. I’m always throwing things on the floor, but Jennifer’s like a curator. She had some kind of family emergency and had to cancel. A crying shame, right? That she can’t take a bow today, of all days.”

  “I’m so sorry to hear she’s not here. You got Jennifer from Muriel Cavendish, didn’t you?”

  Cici began to flick through hangers to choose something to wear. “I sure did. When Muriel died, I snapped her up. Doubled her salary to make it worth her while. Then we started on this project. Can you believe it took us over a year to build and organize this closet?”

  “It’s clearly a labor of love. Has Jennifer ever talked about her work for Muriel?”

  Cici’s eyes narrowed behind her round glasses. “Why do you ask?”

  “Hoyt’s death has certainly raised a lot of questions about the Cavendishes.”

  “What’s your particular question?”

  I blushed. “I know I’m being very rude, Cici. I should keep my mouth shut and ignore what’s happened. But I have a—a friend who’s been questioned about Hoyt’s murder.”

  “Lexie Paine.”

  “Yes. The police are totally wrong to suspect Lexie, of course.”

  “Still waters run deep. With you, that is.” Cici continued to study me. “Working for a living seems to have done you a lot of good, Nora. You’ve developed some drive. As for Lexie, well, she comes from a high-strung family. Her mother—you know all about her temper and her love affairs and whatnot. I wouldn’t be surprised if Lexie didn’t have a few genes that—”

  “Lexie’s completely innocent,” I said firmly. “I wondered if Jennifer might know something that might help exonerate her.”

  “You think Jennifer knew something about Muriel?”

  “Muriel and Hoyt. And anyone else who was…intimate with them.”

  If Cici knew the truth about Hoyt’s true gender, her years of good manners enabled her to keep a completely bland face. She said, “Muriel and Hoyt had their problems. We all knew that. Their boy—such a darling child, but he was troubled. They did everything to help him—good schools and whatnot. I’m sure he was a terrible strain.”

  “Yes,” I murmured.

  “Their marriage endured that, and more. You learn to live with your husband’s frailties, don’t you?”

  From the knowing, sidelong glance she sent me, I knew she referred to Todd and his drug addiction as well as my father’s assorted misbehaviors. But I resisted her subtle attempt to draw me out on either subject. “Did Hoyt have frailties?”

  “All men do.” She waved one thin hand to include half the human population. “Most of them, we learn to live with. Mind you, Hoyt never made a pass at me. I’m a foot taller than he was, of course, when I wear my heels. And I wear heels at all times, you know. But Jennifer mentioned…” She hesitated. “I suppose I’m gossiping now.”

  To keep her talking, I prompted, “Hoyt had affairs?”

  “I don’t know how many. But Muriel confided in Jennifer once that Hoyt was being hassled.”

  “Hassled?”

  “To buy a woman’s silence.”

  “I don’t know what you mean, Cici. Was he supporting a mistress? Or paying blackmail?”

  Cici sighed. “That’s such an ugly word, isn’t it? Blackmail? But I got the distinct impression Hoyt needed to pay off a lady to save his marriage. Muriel was crushed, nearly inconsolable. Jennifer stayed with her for a week while Muriel mourned. But she snapped out of it, eventually. Hoyt must have made it up to her. She had beautiful jewelry.”

  “Who was the woman?” I asked. “Do you know who Hoyt was seeing?”

  Cici shook her head. “Someone young, that’s all I know.”

  “Do you really think it was a love affair? Or maybe something else?”

  “What else is there?”

  From a rack of beautiful daytime outfits, Cici selected a chiffon pants suit in a creamy taupe color. To dress, she stripped down to her matching La Perla bra and panties right in front of me. She had no scars that hinted at cosmetic surgery of any kind. Her body was lithe from years of sports, strict dieting and lots of cigarettes. The suit—a column of chiffon that fell straight from her shoulders—emphasized her elegant height and slender build. To conceal the less-than-youthful skin of her throat, the face-framing collar of the suit fitted up under her chin.

  Cici turned a key and slid open a wide drawer full of jewelry. A light automatically came on, and the gold, silver and gems sparkled beneath her fingertips. She selected a long rope of graduated pearls and put them around her neck. They draped to the middle of her sternum.

  At last, she stepped into a pair of white mules with four-inch heels, then walked to the three-paneled mirror. As soon as she arrived at the mirrors, a bank of pinkish lights popped on—triggered by the motion of her walk. She studied her reflection critically and made minor adjustments to her sleeves.

  The turban on her head looked like a crown.

  She tipped her head for another view of herself. “The diamond earrings are too much for daytime, but they’ll make a good impression on video, won’t they?”

  “Yes, indeed,” I said.

  We spent ten minutes arranging the place cards on her tables. Then the videographer arrived. Tremaine wore a photographer’s canvas vest over a T-shirt and rumpled khakis, not to mention dreadlocks that needed attention, but Cici welcomed him as if he were royalty.

  Tremaine and I had a short conversation, and I was relieved to see that he understood his craft and trusted me that we had an interesting subject to film. He looked stunned by his surroundings, but he quickly got to work filming shots of the closet, the chandeliers and the automatic lights. He hovered over the jewelry drawer for several minutes while I prepared Cici for the tour.

  I needn’t have worried about her on-camera skills. Cici was a natural. All I did was stay out of her way and lob questions to her while she walked around her closet, identifying certain dresses and reminiscing about the spectacular events she’d worn this or that to. She surprised me by pulling out a suit she’d worn to Ascot, and even found the matching hat in a box on a high shelf, which she modeled, laughing.

  At the end of the tour, she pulled a pashmina from a shelf and wrapped herself in its luxurious folds. With a gay laugh, she looked into the camera and said, “It’s a wrap!” as she tossed the pashmina over her shoulder.<
br />
  Tremaine laughed, too. When he put the camera down, he said, “Great stuff, ladies!”

  Cici went off to greet her arriving guests, and I had a short conversation with Tremaine.

  He said, “I got some good footage here, and I’ll go outside to get a few shots of the house, too. Can you come to the office to help edit?”

  “When?”

  “As soon as possible. This afternoon? In an hour or so?”

  I wasn’t accustomed to the fast turnaround time other reporters coped with on a daily basis. But I said, “I’ll be there.”

  “Good. I’ve been listening to the new managing editor critique the stuff other reporters have brought to the online edition. Just so you know, he’ll either love this or hate it.”

  I gulped, remembering the new editor had worn a frayed oxford shirt and a well-worn pair of trousers to his meeting with the staff. I doubted he appreciated fashion.

  As the guests began to arrive for the luncheon, I chatted with a few of the ladies I knew. They all had come wearing their most elegant summer suits and oohed over all the details of Cici’s closet. I enjoyed the chatter about her clothes. But my schedule was getting more crowded, so I slipped away just as the waiters appeared with glasses of champagne.

  Outside, I found an accident.

  The Duesenberg sat crookedly at the bottom of the driveway, one tire flat. A police cruiser had rolled in behind the big car, red and blue lights flashing. The young men who had been valet-parking all the guests’ cars hung around the porch, watching the drama unfold.

  Sigi stood at the rear tail fin of his grand car, talking to a serious-faced cop in mirrored sunglasses.

  Michael lounged against the hood, arms folded across his chest. Calmly, he waited for me to hurry over.

  “What happened?” I was breathless with worry.

  Michael jerked his head toward Sigi. “The old guy wanted to take his car for a spin. Ended up bashing at least six mailboxes before he sideswiped a cruiser.”

  “Is anyone hurt?”

  “Only his pride. This is going to escalate, though.”