A Crazy Little Thing Called Death

by Nancy Martin

  “Nora, only you could make gum boots look chic!” Betsy cried when I refused a glass of champagne. “You’re the best-dressed person here!”

  Her companions turned and didn’t seem pleased. But they all tried to look agreeable because—I knew it from the moment Betsy called to me—they were hoping I’d flag down the Intelligencer photographer and feature them in my column. Perhaps they thought my society page was regular reading in local locker rooms. I made a mental note to send the photographer straight over. It didn’t hurt anyone to make them happy.

  Besides, they were all beautiful, and even my stodgy editor liked to see beautiful girls in the newspaper. They had flawless skin and astonishing bodies. Betsy’s face was marred by a long, hooked nose that gave her face character, though, and I was proud of her for skipping the nose job each of her friends had opted for. Perhaps she had more depth than her look-alike pals.

  “And what do you think of the memorial polo match?” Betsy asked. She dipped her forefinger in champagne and sucked on it. A great way to consume as few calories as possible.

  “It’s a lovely memorial for Penny,” I said.

  “Such a nice send-off,” Betsy agreed. “That is, if Penny’s really dead this time.” She slid her eyes at me.

  “Well, her family seems certain.”

  “Do you think they have proof? A suicide note, maybe?”

  “I have no idea.”

  Perhaps my tone was chilly, because Betsy hastily changed the subject. She blathered about my suit and hat, but her beautiful eyes finally widened when she caught sight of my ring. Not ready to discuss it, I made the excuse I was looking for my wandering niece. As I walked away, Betsy’s friends put their heads together and began to whisper.

  I knew it had to start eventually. News of my engagement was going to race through the aristocracy like a wildfire through a matchstick factory.

  At the open trunk of a beautiful Jaguar, Porter “Potty” Devine poured mint juleps for a clutch of fragile, elderly Main Line widows who had all dressed in funeral black. They frowned disapprovingly as a younger blonde I didn’t recognize endeavored to perch her unlikely breasts on his arm.

  I remembered my mother’s cousin Potty as a silly sort of uncle who kept jelly beans in his pockets. My mother had told stories about Potty as a little boy who banged his head on the floor when he didn’t get what he wanted. But now his cherubic face showed no hint of a bad temper. With his chubby cheeks and jaunty smile, however, he looked anything but the grieving brother.

  “Cousin Nora!” bellowed the master of Eagle Glen. “Don’t you look pretty as a picture! Ha-ha!”

  “Hello, Potty.”

  Hard of hearing from years of quail hunting, he shouted, “Have a drink! Join the party!”

  “No, thanks,” I shouted back. “I’m on a mission at the moment. My niece has wandered off, and we’re afraid she might go on a tire-slashing spree.”

  The various widows looked startled at my joke. The blonde didn’t blink. She had a determined lock on Potty’s meaty arm.

  Potty didn’t hear a word I said, either. He flung his other arm around my shoulders. “Nice wingding, ain’t it? Penny woulda been proud! Ha-ha! Have you met my friend?”

  The blonde presented her hand for me to shake, but it felt like a squishy doughnut in mine. “Hi,” she said. “I’m Noreen Winter.”

  Her name clicked in my head at once. I didn’t know her as Noreen, but as “Nuclear” Winter—the famous gold digger. For years, I’d heard she was flitting around country clubs in search of wealthy boyfriends. Dotty old duffers with bank accounts were her specialty, and she pawned their expensive gifts to buy herself enticing clothes and regular liposuction as she upgraded from one rich man to the next. And now here she stood at last—at the center of the blue blood set, literally on the arm of one of the richest old coots in the city. Trouble was, at least two of Nuclear’s elderly boyfriends had expired in her arms during what I heard were “intimate encounters.” I wondered if Potty’s cardiologist knew about his dating habits.

  Potty disengaged his arm from Nuclear’s grip. He patted the dangerous curve of her rump and said, “Don’t run away, honey. But let me talk to Nora.”

  Nuclear frowned. “But—”

  “It’ll only take a minute, beautiful.”

  The endearment prompted a dazzling smile from Nuclear, showing off a set of budget veneers that should have embarrassed her dentist.

  Having appeased her, Potty steered me away from the group. “Now, Nora, I can see what you’re thinking.”

  “Not a thing, Potty. I’m not thinking a single thing.”

  “Well, the other newspaper’s having a field day with me. Raking me over their coals. Making me look like a fool for all the young ladies I keep company with. Can you give me a nice word in your column?”

  Any man who couldn’t see through Nuclear Winter’s transparent attempts to snag his fortune had to be foolish indeed. I had read an item in one of the city’s other newspapers about Potty socializing with younger women, but I’d had no idea he’d slipped into Nuclear’s spiderweb.

  He went on. “I’m not opposed to getting a little press for myself, but I sure don’t like all the insinuations that I’ve lost my edge. Ha-ha! I’m still a virile man, you know. I can go for hours.”

  “I see.” Talk about too much information! A change of subject was in order. “It’s very charitable of you to allow Eagle Glen to be used for the memorial. Everyone’s having a lovely time, and this is a wonderful way to remember your sister.”

  “Yeah, well, it’s a good excuse for a party.”

  And Potty could afford it. He had built his father’s corner drugstore into a pharmaceutical conglomerate worth at least the value of a moderately prosperous Caribbean island. Always focused on the family business or having a good time, he’d dismissed his famous sister, Penny, as unimportant. Now, it seemed, he didn’t take her death to heart, either.

  I smiled and considered asking him flat out how he knew his sister was really gone this time. I might have tried if we’d been alone. “I’ll catch up with you later, Potty.”

  He gave me a clumsy, cousinly hug, beaming. “Let’s catch up later! I want to tell you what my girlfriend said about me last night. I was a tiger! Ha-ha!”

  To put some distance between myself and my randy cousin as quickly as possible, I stepped around the open tailgate of an ancient Mercedes station wagon. And found myself abruptly face-to-face with Crewe Dearborne, the restaurant critic for Philadelphia’s finest newspaper. He had a messy sandwich in one hand and was trying to wolf it in private while awkwardly keeping the drips from his tie.

  “Crewe,” I said. “Is that a cheesesteak?”

  He froze, and his eyes widened as if he’d been caught committing a crime. Around his mouthful, he said, “Nora, I’ll pay a king’s ransom for your silence.”

  I laughed and plucked the paper napkin from the breast pocket of his natty blue blazer. “Be careful what you say, Crewe. I owe a fortune in property taxes, you know.”

  “But you have a very kind heart.” He swallowed his mouthful. “You won’t give me away, will you?”

  I used the napkin to mop the juice from his chin. “I’m tempted to out the city’s most finicky foodie. Who knew you enjoyed a secret cheesesteak now and then?”

  “I’m a native son. How could I not love our local cuisine?”

  “I read your review of Le Betard last week. Could you have possibly been more insulting?”

  “The soup was congealed grease, the fish overcooked, and the custard—well, Nora, I’ve eaten better desserts at McDonald’s.”

  “And you despise poor service.”

  He sighed. “The waiter poured a perfectly good pinot noir into my water glass.”

  Crewe, with a pedigree every bit as aristocratic as my own, was the son of a very rich, famous hypochondriac and her even richer, philandering husband, who was now dead. Both his parents had been snooty types, but Crewe was anything but. He had
sandy hair with a high forehead that gave him more of a distinguished air than his not-quite-forty years should allow. His intelligent eyes and rarely bestowed smile had made many women weak in the knees, but he was still single. The fact that he could cut an arrogant restaurateur down to size with very few words made him a fun cocktail-party guest. I’d hate to find him sitting down at my dinner table, though. His culinary standards were dauntingly high.

  Today Crewe wore a pair of flannel trousers, and a crisp white shirt with rep tie beneath the standard-issue Brooks Brothers blazer—a uniform for any wellborn Philadelphian. But it was unusual to find him so ordinarily dressed. Better known for the elaborate disguises he donned to prevent wily restaurateurs from recognizing him, Crewe had been spotted in everything from hippie beads and false whiskers to an Arab kaffiyeh meant to confuse an unsuspecting waitstaff.

  I, of course, remembered him from our teenage years, when he wore jeans and T-shirts like everyone else, and had a taste for good food even then. He had carefully created a ranked list of the best pizzas, and for Best in the City chose a pie with fresh mozzarella over heirloom tomatoes and fresh basil from a Little Italy kitchen he had sussed out all on his own.

  He took another healthy chomp out of the cheesesteak.

  I said, “Who dared to serve you something less than caviar and champagne today?”

  “My sister’s playing hostess,” he admitted after a swallow. “It’s all the Saks personal shoppers she loves so much. They’re here to show off their clothes, so I knew there wouldn’t be any real food. I picked up a sandwich on my way.”

  “Good thinking.”

  “You’ll be a big hit with them. You look great, as always. Shall I introduce you?”

  “I’ll pass, but thanks.”

  “Is that suit some designer I should recognize?”

  “Only if you were reading Vogue as a baby. This was my grandmother’s. It’s Oleg Cassini, and she bought it in Paris with Penny Devine. Penny bought an identical one. I’m wearing it in Penny’s memory.”

  “You look ten times better than your grandma ever did.”

  “You never knew her. She was a looker.”

  “Speaking of lookers, are your sisters here today?”

  I didn’t realize Crewe knew Emma or Libby. “Yes, they are, as a matter of fact.”

  “And what about Lexie? Is she around?”

  I should have known. Poor Crewe. For years, he’d been carrying a torch for my friend Lexie Paine. And Lexie, who wanted nothing to do with any man on earth, completely ignored Crewe.

  “I’m sorry,” I said gently, “but she didn’t come today. If I know Lexie, she’s probably giving advice to the International Monetary Fund, out of the goodness of her heart.”

  “Where would our economy be without her?” He made an attempt at good cheer.

  “Down the tubes for sure.”

  “Did you know Raphael Braga is here?” Crewe asked suddenly. He tried to be nonchalant, but his gray gaze rested on mine for an instant too long. “He’s playing in the match today.”

  Just the mention of his name gave me butterflies. Crewe’s cousin Carolina had married the famous polo player. I wondered how much Crewe knew about my strange connection to Raphael.

  “Yes, I—I saw the publicity. I thought I’d get a few quotes for my column and scram before he—well, soon.” I managed a smile, but knew I was flubbing the moment. “Meanwhile, I’m looking for my niece, Lucy. Have you seen a little ballerina with a sword?”

  Crewe laughed again as he wrapped up the remains of his sandwich in the soiled napkin. “Sounds like a Blackbird, all right! No, sorry, haven’t seen her. Do you need help?”

  “No, but I better keep looking before she commits a crime.”

  As I turned away, Crewe put a hand on my arm. “Nora, why don’t you come to dinner with me sometime? As long as you don’t mind my usual routine, it could be fun. When I review, I try to take a foursome so I get to taste as much of the menu as possible. Want to tag along? We could get caught up, too. You could bring a date.”

  And maybe Lexie. He didn’t say it, but we both knew what he was hoping for. I didn’t detect any sly hints about my love life in his invitation, so maybe he was one of the hermits who hadn’t yet heard of my entanglement with the Mafia prince. But I doubted it. Crewe was better at faking nonchalance than I.

  I smiled. “Must I order braised eel or polar-bear brains?”

  Apologetic, he said, “Actually, I do all the ordering. It’s the only way I can do my job. But for you, I promise no eels.”

  “Sounds like fun. Call me.”

  His smile brightened. “I will. And good luck with the niece search.”

  I thanked him and left Crewe to dispose of his sandwich without further discovery.

  Thinking like a six-year-old, I made an about-face and walked back along the line of parked cars until I reached the area where all the horse trailers were parked.

  Here, the fancy parties and beautiful clothes morphed into a very different world. A variety of working trucks and trailers mingled in the mud with polished wooden horse vans as beautiful as yachts. The people who bustled here weren’t sipping champagne, but slinging saddles and talking strategy.

  A string of polo ponies, saddled and with their tails tightly braided into bobs, had been tied along a makeshift fence beside the most spectacular of the vans. I saw men in riding gear moving among the horses, so I didn’t linger. The last person I wanted to see was Raphael Braga.

  A Jack Russell terrier, the dog of choice among the horsey set, barked at me from the open window of a truck. Nearby, a couple of female grooms—two sweaty, twentyish girls—sat in camp chairs swigging from plastic water bottles, their work finished for the moment. They wore their breeches and boots and dirty sweatshirts comfortably, without affectation.

  Behind another trailer, a heavyset older woman in a saggy turtleneck sweater, breeches and Hermès riding boots might have been a billionaire, but today she looked happy to be among her horses. Despite her years, she wielded a shovel full of manure with ease.

  At the last vehicle—Emma’s rattletrap pickup and her rusty trailer—the crowd of her young students clustered around a placid Welsh pony. They were combing his tail, brushing his buckskin coat and braiding his mane while one child held his bridle and petted his nose. I didn’t see Lucy among them.

  But Emma poked her head out of the trailer, caught my eye and pointed.

  At the bottom of the field, the estate’s landscape disintegrated into a woodsy wilderness that was even muddier than the grass above. I slogged through it, glad to have my boots, but already feeling the cold through the rubber.

  I came to the stream that splashed over a jumble of rocks. Sure enough, Lucy was there, poking her foil into the water.

  Standing over her, holding one of Lucy’s hands to prevent her from falling, was Michael.

  As I approached, I heard Lucy say to him, “I don’t like toads. The twins keep them in jars, and I hate the way they look. All dead and yucky.”

  Michael murmured something that made Lucy laugh. Then she turned and saw me.

  “I’m okay,” she called. “I’m with Mick.”

  “She’s with me,” Michael said.

  The playful child with blond curls and the pink tutu made a picture standing beside him—a tall and hulking man with a face better suited for a dockyard than a polo match. Neither one of them belonged at today’s posh event. Lucy was a kindergarten delinquent, and Michael had probably been one, too. Now he had more sex appeal than six Main Line lacrosse players. His shoulders were delicious, and he had a walk that was both tight and slouchy and often made me think I should wash out my brain with a bar of soap.

  His eyes were very blue and discerning beneath their lazy lids, and he saw something in my face that made his interest sharpen.

  Then I saw the stitches in his chin, and my heart gave a thump.

  “Michael, what happened? You’re hurt!”

  “Stupid accident,�
�� he said, still preventing Lucy from falling as she tilted insistently into the stream. He leaned my way with amusement in his eyes. “Be gentle with me.”

  I wrapped one arm around him and instinctively lifted my other hand to touch the wound. It was already swollen and looked angry. “What kind of accident? When?”

  Michael avoided my fingertips with a twist of his head. “This morning, driving into town. A tire blew, and I went into a ditch.” He shrugged. “No big deal.”

  “I think he hit a porcupine,” Lucy volunteered. She pointed her weapon at his chin. “A doctor sewed his skin with a needle. I bet it hurt.”

  “It hurt like hell, in fact. And it’s not going to do my pretty face any favors.”

  “Is the rest of you okay? No broken bones?”

  “I only hit my head, which didn’t damage anything important.” He smiled. “Forget about it. Lucy wants to see the horses.”

  Michael had never come to any of the parties I covered. That he had chosen today made me suddenly uneasy. “Did you come to see the horses, too? Or is something wrong?”

  “I came to see you. To bring you your new cell phone.”

  He handed the tiny telephone over, and I blushed. “I forgot it again. I’m sorry.”

  “You don’t really want to carry it, do you?”

  “Yes, of course. Well, I know you think it’s important.”

  “Think of it as the quickest way to call 911 when your sisters get into trouble.”

  “I just can’t get the hang of getting a new one every few days. Are you sure it’s necessary to switch phones so often?”

  “The police want to listen in to everything I say. I don’t think they need to hear what you and I talk about, do you?”

  “You have a point. But—all right, mostly I feel as if having a cell phone just makes it okay for people to be late.”

  He gave a disbelieving laugh. “What?”

  “If people make arrangements to meet me and they have cell phones, they always call to say they’ll be late. But when I don’t have a phone, everyone makes an effort to be on time.”

  “Nora, that’s—”