by Nancy Martin
Kaiser reached for the plate before us and helped himself to a generous swab of foie gras. “Can you imagine the kind of mother she might have been? Better the child spent no time with such the parent.”
“When did you say this happened, Dilly?”
“Forty years, at least.”
Kaiser said, “And who was the insane person who slept with her? Who was the father?”
We heard a small commotion across the room, and Babe Mallick got up from her table at the urging of people around her. The large woman majestically made her way to the piano. Applause erupted from the patrons, and Babe bowed her head and feigned a falsely modest smile. Then she consulted with Winston in a businesslike fashion, and he obediently trilled a few chords on the piano. Babe launched into an operatic version of “What Is This Thing Called Love?” A few notes wavered.
Kaiser leaned across the table to Dilly. “When I get too old to do my work well, tell me to stop. I hate making such the fool of myself.”
We listened to the performance for a while, all of us stirring our drinks. Kaiser might have pondered the eventual decline of his career, but I found myself thinking about Penny Devine’s love life. It was a little like imagining how Tasmanian devils mated. I wondered how I could find out the identity of her lovers in her younger days.
Babe concluded her song, then launched into a show tune from Rent. Dilly rolled his eyes. The five Ada daughters began poking one another and giggling even louder than before.
Which, thankfully, caused Babe to frown and decline to perform anything else. She sailed back to her table to more applause. Winston mopped his brow with his handkerchief and went to join his partner for a Bellini.
“What about Vivian?” I asked. “Did she know about Penny’s love life?”
“Perhaps, but I doubt it. They despised each other, as far as I could see.”
“I can’t imagine Vivian despising anyone.”
“It must have been hard having a sister so well-known, so lovely, so talented. And you know, their mother took Penny to California and never came back to her other two children. Any sibling would resent such abandonment.”
Still I couldn’t envision Vivian being anything but a kindly old lady who loved animals. “What about Penny’s friends?”
“She hardly had any. She had teachers and coaches. I remember she spent hours every day learning to tap-dance in the dining room at Eagle Glen. It had a marble floor, you see. She worked very hard, especially with her mother so determined that she learn to perform. But friends? None that I recall.”
“Except you.”
Dilly smiled slightly. “Except me, I suppose. But, of course, we lost track of each other eventually.”
We were interrupted as two ladies I didn’t know approached the table to beg an introduction to Kaiser Waldman. Rising to his feet, Dilly did the honors, and Kaiser stood and responded coolly, but graciously, to the gushing.
It was clear that the rest of the people in the dining room had simply been waiting for Kaiser to begin receiving his adoring public, so I murmured my thanks to Dilly and picked up my handbag.
“What’s your interest in this, Nora?” Dilly asked as Kaiser spoke with his fans. “Why so worried about Penny Devine’s death?”
“I don’t know. I can’t explain it.”
He smiled gently. “Well, perhaps it would be best for you to let the police take over.”
I smiled, too. “I will. Thank you for talking with me.”
“I hope we might have a different conversation soon. We were going to discuss your career, weren’t we?”
“I’d like that. I could use a mentor.” I told him about receiving an envelope of money from someone asking for preferential treatment in my column. Without mentioning Potty’s name, I told him I planned to return the money immediately.
Dilly shook his head. “It happens. Even now, people try to bribe me for my good opinion. You’re right to return the money as soon as possible.”
I gave him a kiss on the cheek. “Thanks, Dilly. It’s nice to know you’re in my corner.”
We promised to have lunch together soon, just the two of us, and I left the restaurant. Despite my agreement to forget about the investigation, my mind was still full of Penny Devine. Although she’d been famous and successful, her life sounded very empty. How sad that she had left her only friend behind forty years ago.
Perhaps the news that she’d borne an illegitimate child made her more real to me. What had become of it?
On the street, the rain had stopped, and a brilliant April sunshine glinted off the wet pavement and the tightly parked cars. Chestnut Hill looked beautiful, as always, with its genteel old homes flying patriotic flags and sporting window boxes filled with spring pansies. I paused and put my hand up to shield my eyes so I could see where Reed had parked the car.
I hesitated for only an instant. A man in running shorts jogged past, which might have distracted me for just a heartbeat.
Then suddenly someone jostled me from behind. I hadn’t seen him or heard him coming. Instinctively, I started to turn, then grabbed my handbag closer to my body.
But that wasn’t what he was after. A second person—someone bigger and rougher—collided with me, and together they sandwiched my body between them. I caught a glimpse of the second man’s face. I didn’t know him, but I recognized the intent in his expression and was hit by a lightning bolt of fear.
Without thinking, I jabbed my elbow into the nearest stomach, but the blow wasn’t hard enough to dislodge me from either man. Besides, they were already propelling me toward the curb, toward a car. I knew they were too strong to fight off, so I twisted and doubled over fast, and they lost their momentum. The three of us stumbled.
I shouted. One of them grabbed me around the waist and tried to jam his hand over my mouth. In that instant, I felt the solid object stuck into his belt. A gun. I bit him and lashed out a kick that connected with his knee.
One of them said, “Goddammit.”
The other growled, “Get the door open.”
I wasn’t getting into a car with them. I wasn’t. As he tried to get a grip around me, I dropped my handbag, cocked my right hand into a position I’d practiced so often in self-defense class that it came automatically. I jabbed the first man under his nose as hard as I could. His head snapped back, and his clasp loosened.
I must have yelled as soon as the attack began, because suddenly the jogger was back. He leaped and grabbed one of the men from behind, locking his arm around his throat. They grunted together and struggled.
Then Reed arrived, swinging a long plastic ice scraper. He clonked the second man over the head with it. The ice scraper broke on impact, and my attacker backed off, clutching his bleeding nose.
He snapped, “The hell with it!” and he ran for the driver’s door of the waiting car.
The first man twisted and punched the jogger in the stomach. My rescuer let out a curse on a gasp of air and dropped to his knees.
Then both attackers clambered into their car and pulled out. Tires squealed. A horn blared. We heard a crash and a tinkle of broken glass, but the car didn’t stop. It peeled out and barreled up the street.
On foot, Reed followed the car for half a dozen paces, trying to read the license plate.
The street tilted under me, and my legs felt like seaweed. I had lost one shoe somehow. But I caught my breath and staggered over to the jogger. I put my hand on his shoulder. “Are you all right? Thank you so much! I don’t know how I would—Crewe!”
Crewe Dearborne looked up from clutching his stomach. “Nora—I thought it was you.”
“Crewe, you were wonderful! Thank you!”
Reed came back. He grabbed me under my elbow and pulled me away from Crewe. “You okay?”
“Yes, I’m fine. I just—it happened so fast.”
Crewe was still breathing hard—whether from running or the blow to his stomach, I wasn’t sure. His face was red. He shook his head like a wet dog coming out of a pond
. “I think they tried to kidnap you!”
In my ear, Reed said, “Get in the car. I’m taking you home.”
“I’m okay. This man is a friend.” I pulled loose and together we reached down to help lift Crewe to a standing position.
A small crowd had stopped to watch the whole thing, and a young couple approached us tentatively. The man offered his cell phone. The woman returned my shoe.
“Call the cops,” Reed told them, and they obeyed. The other onlookers dispersed quickly, not wanting to get involved.
Reed went out to the street again to speak with the man whose car had been struck.
I slipped on my shoe. Then Crewe and I helped each other over to the bike rack where the golden retriever had been tied earlier. The dog was gone, so we leaned against the rack, recovering. Crewe was dressed in running shoes and tall socks that emphasized the length of his legs so much that he looked like a racehorse. A cloud of steam rose from his shoulders, too, which were encased in a UPenn T-shirt, soaked in sweat. His running shorts were loose and faded. He looked dazed and nauseated.
Concerned, I said, “Are you badly hurt? We’ll take you to the emergency room.”
He half sat on the bike rack and braced his hands on his knees, shaking his head to refuse my offer. “I’ll be fine as soon as I catch my breath.”
“You got more of a workout than you intended.”
He allowed a rueful smile up at me. “I thought I was in better shape than this. A restaurant critic spends half his time eating and the other half trying to burn off the calories. I figured I was pretty strong. But that guy was like a bull.”
“You were wonderful, Crewe. I can’t thank you enough.”
“Don’t mention it.” He pretended to be offhand. Then he gave up and grinned a little. “Okay, you can mention it once in a while, but not too much. I’m a little embarrassed. He brushed me off like a fly. Who were those guys?”
“I haven’t a clue. Reed, did you get the plate number?”
Reed returned to us, frowning. “It was a Delaware plate, coated with mud. Or some kind of brown paint. Real mud would have washed off in the rain. They were keeping their identity a secret.”
“Why? Who in the world—?”
Reed stopped my questions with a squeeze of my elbow.
Crewe muttered, “I’m not ashamed to say, they scared the hell out of me. This neighborhood is usually very safe.”
The young couple came over and reported that the police were on their way. They asked if we needed anything else, and Reed had the presence of mind to ask them for their names and phone number. They obliged—the woman had a notebook and pen in her shoulder bag. Then they headed off up the sidewalk while Reed tucked the sheet of notebook paper into the pocket of his Windbreaker.
A city patrol car arrived in less than five minutes. The driver of the car that had been bumped in the fender bender was furious and made a scene, which the police gradually quelled before turning to us. Reed gave a succinct report while Crewe and I acted like a couple of shaken teenagers. The senior officer made a radio call while his younger partner took notes on what happened.
“You didn’t know the guys?” he asked me. “Can you describe them?”
“Both late thirties. One had a blue jacket. The other wore a—a sweatshirt, I think.”
“The jacket was green,” Crewe said, then frowned. “At least, I think it was.”
“About the men themselves. Black? White? Tall? Short?”
“Tallish,” I said. “Weight lifters, I think. They had strong upper bodies. I think they were…Mediterranean.”
“What does that mean?”
“Greek or Spanish maybe.”
“Italian?”
“Maybe. I mean, they were Americans. They didn’t have accents.”
We managed to come up with little more than that general description, and eventually the police decided we couldn’t give them any more assistance. They promised someone would be in touch and asked if we needed medical attention. When we refused, they got back into their patrol car and left.
I told Crewe we’d take him home.
“I live right around the corner.” He hugged himself, chilled in the spring air. “Besides, I was on my way over to visit my mother. I put her trash out on the street every Sunday so she doesn’t have to touch it. Her house is just a couple of blocks from here.”
“Let us drop you.”
“No, no, I’ll just get sweat all over your upholstery. Besides, I need to warm up again.” He executed a few leg stretches, regaining his manhood once the incident appeared to be truly over.
“Well, then, thank you again,” I said. “I owe you a huge favor now.”
He grinned. “I might take you up on that.”
“Anytime,” I insisted.
A thought struck him. “Have dinner with me tonight.”
“Tonight?”
“If you’re not too shaken up. I have reservations for eight o’clock. It’s just for two, but why don’t you invite your fiancé? I’d like to meet him.”
“I don’t think he’d—”
“Maybe you could invite Lexie, too. We’ll make it a foursome. It’ll give me a chance to put the reservationist through his paces.”
I smiled, aware that his real motive wasn’t an evening spent in my company. “So you review more than just the food at your restaurants?”
“Of course. Everything from the person who answers the phone to the wallpaper in the lavatories. How about it? If they can’t make an adjustment to my reservation, I scratch a black mark in my little book.”
His light tone gave me the opportunity to politely decline. A last-minute invitation assumed a lot—especially if I was burdened with managing to get two more dining companions to show up in a few hours. And convincing both Michael, who had avoided meeting more than a small handful of my friends, and Lexie, who had more issues than half a dozen neurotics, to come out for dinner with Crewe sounded like Mission Impossible.
But I said, “I can hardly refuse, can I?”
We exchanged the important details of our dinner that evening and parted. Reed bundled me into the backseat of the town car.
He said, “I’ll have you home in half an hour.”
“I’m not going home, Reed.”
He swung around from the steering wheel and put his arm on the back of the seat to glower at me. “You know what just happened, right?”
“I think I was mugged.”
“Damn straight. So let’s get you home and see what the boss says.”
“We’re not telling Michael anything. At least, not yet. Reed, I’m not a delicate flower. See?” I put both hands up. “I’m perfectly fine. Let’s go to my office, okay? I have some phone calls to make.”
Reed argued with me, but eventually he obeyed and drove me to the Pendergast Building, home of the Philadelphia Intelligencer.
The offices of the Lifestyle Section were nearly deserted early on a Sunday afternoon. I waved at Skip Malone, the sportswriter, who was watching a videotaped basketball game with the sound off as he worked at a computer. He tilted his head back in greeting, but didn’t break from typing.
I slid into the swivel chair at my desk and phoned Lexie Paine first.
“Dinner?” she said. “Sounds fabulous, sweetie!”
“I’m glad you’re free,” I said. “Because it’s Crewe Dearborne who invited us.”
“Damn you, Nora. You know how I feel about—”
“I owe him a huge favor, Lex, and I’m afraid you’re his reward.”
“What favor? What’s going on?”
I told her about the mugging, and she was properly horrified. It was a relatively easy matter to convince her that dinner was the only possible way I could recover from the ordeal.
Next I phoned Michael’s latest cell phone number.
“Hey,” he said. “I just called your house. Your sister said she couldn’t find you. I was afraid the twins had you trussed up for dissection.”
“
I went out after all. Brunch with Dilly Farquar.” If I told him more, he’d come roaring into the city to my rescue, so I said, “Michael, listen, I need your help.”
His tone changed. “What’s wrong?”
I took a deep breath. “We owe Lexie an enormous debt for arranging our vacation on the yacht.”
“Whatever she needs, you know I’m there.”
Lexie needed a lot of things, although she’d never admit it. I said, “I’d like for us to have dinner with her tonight.”
Michael was smart, of course, so he said, “What’s the catch?”
“We’ll be going out with Crewe Dearborne, the restaurant critic for the other newspaper. He’s a very nice man, Michael, and I know you’ll like him—”
“Nora—”
“He has a crush on Lexie, and I actually think they’d be good together, but they need a little help.”
“Are you playing matchmaker?”
“No, never that. Well, not much. Please come. It will mean a lot to everyone.”
He groaned.
“I wouldn’t make you do anything you’d really hate. Meet me at Caravaggio at eight.”
“Caravaggio?” He laughed shortly. “You’re kidding! That’s where you want to have dinner?”
“Yes, Crewe is going to review it. He’ll probably be in disguise, so we’ll have to play along. Will you come?”
He sounded pained. “Caravaggio?”
“Yes. Do you know it?”
He sighed. “It’s my father’s favorite spaghetti joint.”
Chapter Seven
Still at my desk, I tried phoning Potty Devine next to explain to him that I could not accept his money. I was surprised when Vivian answered just as I’d decided nobody was at home.
“Hello?” she sang, sounding cheerful but harried. I heard a dog barking behind her.
“Vivian? It’s Nora Blackbird. Am I catching you at a bad time?”
“Nora? No. Yes. Oh, goodness, just a minute.” She covered the receiver. I couldn’t make out her words, but I got the impression she was talking to people as well as animals.
