by Nancy Martin
“She had a heart attack.”
“Just my luck!” Libby wailed. “One minute I have a reliably steady customer, and the next minute I’m stuck with a huge hole in my schedule.”
Bridget said, “I know what you mean. Just when I think I’ve caught a break in my career, somebody rudely interrupts my audition.” She glared in my direction.
“Who were you auditioning for?” Libby asked.
“Ox Oxenfeld, the Broadway producer.”
“Oxy is a producer?” Libby’s face lit up. “He never mentioned that to me!”
Bridget blinked. “You know Ox?”
“He’s one of my customers. Actually, he was my very first. I delivered a chilled bottle of champagne to his house for his lunch. Three days later, he invited me to stay for crab salad—I just love crab salad, don’t you?—and I got to telling him about my quest for spiritual vibrancy. He became very interested and said he was on a similar path. We did some breathing exercises together. Some men just need to be taken by the hand, don’t they? They’re so helpless.”
Bridget had begun eyeing Libby with a distinctly cooler expression growing on her face. “Yeah, helpless all right.”
Libby missed the warning and continued to burble. “Oxy sent me home with crab salad leftovers, and I gave him some other exercises to try. At first, he thought I meant push-ups. Well, that just goes to show he has a lot to learn about me!” She laughed liltingly. “My philosophy? Exercise is such a dirty word, I have to wash my mouth out with chocolate!”
While Libby laughed, Bridget folded her arms. “Good philosophy. Do you know how much money Ox Oxenfeld has?”
“Money? Well,” said Libby, dimpling, “he did give me a tour of his house. I saw everything from the fancy cars in the garage to the heated towel racks outside the sauna. There’s nothing like a sauna to bring a glow, is there?”
I decided we’d better change the direction of this conversation before Bridget strangled my sister with the leopard print bra peeping out from beneath her tight sweater.
“Libby, I’m feeling a little exhausted. Why don’t you drive us all over to Lexie’s house?”
“Now?” Libby gave the busy police officers a glance of longing. “Well, we don’t want to endanger your child, I suppose. This way, everyone.”
Bridget called shotgun, and we all piled into the minivan.
In Lexie’s driveway sat a car I didn’t recognize—a little white convertible with red upholstery. With a curt word of thanks to Libby, Bridget threw her expensive handbag into the convertible’s passenger seat and climbed behind the wheel. She slammed the door and revved the engine before tearing out of the driveway. Zooming past us, she raised one dismissive hand as a good-bye.
“Good grief,” said Libby as we watched her abrupt departure, “for a mob boss’s mistress, you’d think she’d have more people skills. We’re lucky she didn’t run over our toes, aren’t we?”
Lexie wound her arm through mine. “Nora, let’s get you in out of this heat. You look pale. Libby, can you join us? Or do you have more deliveries to make?”
Libby shrugged. “If Jenny Tuttle is dead, I’m done for the day. But I’m not ready to face my children yet. Nora, are you going to work? I’ll drive you into the city. I could go for some recreational shopping to raise my endorphins.”
I had to be at the offices of the Philadelphia Intelligencer in an hour and a half, and there was no telling if Michael could get away from the police in time to drive me, so I thanked Libby for her offer. While Lexie made drinks, I hauled myself upstairs to change.
With relief, I stripped off Libby’s maternity T-shirt and took a fast shower to rinse off the pool chlorine. Refreshed, I put on a linen maternity dress—one of the few that didn’t reflect Libby’s preference for low décolletage. Nor did it make me look as if I only needed a Wonder Woman lunchbox to carry to kindergarten. Why did designers of maternity clothes believe pregnant women wanted to regress to their own toddler wardrobes? It was hard to find something that made me look remotely professional. This sleeveless, trapeze-style dress was a cheery shade of pink, though, and I’d had it hemmed to show off my legs—one feature that hadn’t ballooned up. Yet. I had found an antique seashell button that worked as a closure at my neckline and matched the subtle embroidery around my throat. I checked the mirror. With a pair of kitten-heeled slingbacks, I looked pretty good. Almost normal from the back. The side view was an eyepopper, though. Could I spend the next two months backing into rooms?
Trying not to think about my silhouette, I combed out my hair and redid it into another cool updo. My face had a touch of sunshine—a few freckles had bloomed on my nose—so I added lip gloss and mascara and hoped I didn’t look too pale. After seeing Boom Boom’s bizarre complexion, I felt as if I looked pretty normal.
Downstairs, Lexie and Libby were finishing glasses of iced tea in the breakfast room.
“Michael didn’t come back yet?”
“He must still be talking with the police.” Lexie gave me a hug. “Try to put this afternoon out of your mind, Nora. It’s awful, but really, people die every day. It’s natural, the circle of life and all.”
“I know.” But it felt unnatural to me. I remembered Jenny as she had been years ago, her eyes shining with gratitude for my father’s kindness. She had been a real person to me, not a stranger. And her death was not something I could shake off in an hour or two.
Briskly, Lexie said, “Thanks for coming today, sweetie. You’re good medicine for me. And for keeping me out of the public eye—you’re wonderful. For the rest of the day, think about your baby and—the future.” She smiled, careful not to mention next week’s wedding in front of Libby. “See you again tomorrow? The weather’s supposed to be perfect for dipping our toes in the pool.”
“You know I love to dip with you.” I gave her a good-bye hug.
Libby picked up my swimming bag and led the way to her minivan. “Lexie says there were plenty of spiritual opportunities in prison, but they all required sitting on folding chairs, which sounds awful. I mean, why risk hemorrhoids, even for metaphysical nirvana? Give me a therapist’s office with a comfy couch any day. If nothing else, you get a nice nap. That door handle is broken,” she said when I reached to let myself into the vehicle. “I’ll have to open it for you from inside.”
When we were both in the van, I said, “What’s wrong with this door handle?”
“I left the van parked on a side street in New Hope, and somebody tried to break it off with a crow bar. Imagine! In broad daylight! That town just isn’t safe anymore.”
“Really?” Our little village had always seemed perfectly secure to me. The only crime I had ever witnessed was when one of my mother’s friends broke the fashion rule of wearing white to a wedding.
“Rawlins says there’s suddenly more crime in the neighborhood. It’s a good thing That Man of Yours is staying at your house. You must feel safe there now that we’re having a crime wave.”
“I do.” Especially after Michael had gone overboard and spent some money on a security system. We had also argued about getting some large dogs to protect the property. So far, I was winning that battle. We had enough animals to look after already. But hearing Libby’s report of increased crime in our area, I appreciated Michael’s concern.
Libby said, “I hope Lexie’s safe where she is, all by herself.”
“She has Samir. And she’s not afraid to call 911 in an emergency.” A thought struck me. “Libby, you haven’t forgotten we need to keep Lexie’s location a secret.”
“I haven’t breathed a word!”
“Thank you. If the press finds her, they’ll eat her alive.”
“She would be a big story,” Libby agreed. “I love attention as much as the next person, but not the kind where the press makes you sound horrible. Although, technically, Nora, aren’t you the press?”
�
�Well . . . yes.”
“Is it some kind of career no-no that you’re keeping her whereabouts a secret?”
Although I had been taking an online journalism course lately, I was still enough of an amateur not to know for sure. “Let’s hope not.”
Within minutes Libby and I were speeding down I-95 toward Philadelphia. Libby’s phone erupted into the song “Call Me Maybe,” and she answered.
“Oh, thanks,” she said to her caller. “But I won’t be needing any more energy drinks, after all. Bye!” When she hung up, she said, “Poor Jenny. All that work to lose weight, and where did it get her? She’s still fat, but now she’s dead, too. It’s a cautionary tale, isn’t it? I guess I’m lucky I’m just voluptuous, not in a coffin.”
I sighed. “Do you remember Jenny, Lib? She came to Blackbird Farm with her father for a New Year’s Eve party.”
“Well, I remember her father. What a charmer! He came to several parties. But Jenny? She’s hazy in my memory.”
“She played the piano,” I said. Which explained why Libby hadn’t noticed her. At the parties our parents threw, Libby usually thrust her way into the center of the action—sitting on the piano with her chin propped fetchingly in her hands while someone sang to her. Or dancing in front of the crowd. Anything to put herself on display. On the other hand, Jenny rarely did anything to draw attention to herself.
Libby said, “It’s too bad she died. She had a heart attack?”
“Looks that way. She was taking diet pills.”
Libby said, “And drinking all that energy stuff? What a bad combination.”
“Especially if she had a weak heart.”
“Some people will do anything to get thin,” Libby said. “This just goes to show that diets can be deadly.”
While Libby chattered, I thought of Ox Oxenfeld’s reaction when he heard the news that someone had died. Which reminded me of seeing him with Bridget, and then I made the mental leap to my sister spending time in the company of the shoeless Broadway producer.
I turned to Libby. “Tell me more about Ox Oxenfeld. All that crab salad and champagne—are you dating him?”
“Dating?” Libby asked vaguely. “What’s a date? I have five children, Nora. I can’t date. I’m lucky I can break away just for an hour to get an emergency pedicure. Where would I be without Rawlins to babysit Lucy and Max while I try out the errand-running business? I just wish he wasn’t also making a list of the expensive things he wants me to buy for him before he goes off to college in a few weeks. And the twins got themselves summer internships at the medical examiner’s office, which I thought would be fine—you know, doing some office filing, maybe—but of course they talked their way into a lab, which means I have to pay for the disposable suits they wear to wheel bodies around. Those suits cost such a pretty penny, too. Honestly, why can’t they talk their way into a nice job bagging groceries or making coffee? Today they’re learning how to scrape DNA from under the fingernails of a cadaver. I suppose I’ll have to pay for that somehow, too.”
I recognized the signs. She was steering me away from the subject of a potential new boyfriend by throwing conversational bombs in my path. I couldn’t help being distracted. “Lib, the twins are only fourteen. Do you think it’s wise for them to be scraping cadavers?”
“How can I stop them? The twins got away from me a long time ago.” Libby rolled down her window long enough to tousle her hair and freshen up the air in the minivan. Or maybe to give herself time to concoct a story I might swallow. At last she said, “I’m feeling a little overwhelmed these days. Seeing you so happy with That Man of Yours, and your baby coming, too—well, I can’t help feeling a little down.”
“I’m sorry that you’re feeling low,” I said with all sincerity.
“I’m not trying to make you feel guilty,” she replied at once. “I’m being honest, that’s all. Here you are, happy with a new man in your life and children coming, not to mention a glamorous job where you see beautiful, sophisticated people every night, while the only break in the monotony of my life seems to be an exterminator who can’t get rid of my carpenter ants. He brought burritos again last night after the children refused to eat the low-calorie asparagus soup I spent hours making. They acted like he was Zorro, coming to rescue them from the food police—me!”
Suspicions aroused, I asked, “Did the exterminator stay after dinner?”
“I did not invite him to stay,” she reported. “He’s perfectly happy watching television with the children, but where I’m concerned, Perry Delbert lacks a certain . . . spark.”
“The last guy with spark was that fireman who set fire to your bedroom curtains with a scented candle, remember? It was a lucky thing he didn’t burn the house down.” Catching myself, I said more kindly, “I’ve seen the way Perry looks at you, Lib. He has plenty of spark.”
“Well, I wish he’d be a little more demonstrative! Honestly, I have to drag more than two syllables out of him.”
“Surely he says something?”
“He says he likes my size! He says he likes a woman he can hold on to! Now, what kind of compliment is that? So when Oxy pays me genuine compliments and offers to rub my feet—”
“He rubs your feet?” I asked. “I thought you were just delivering champagne!”
“Don’t judge,” Libby snapped. “I work hard for my family. I deserve something nice once in a while. At the end of an excruciating day running silly errands for people who have more money than anybody should, an occasional foot rub is a small reward. I bet That Man of Yours rubs more than your feet.”
“Libby—”
“I’m jealous! There, I said it. I’m in a rut at the moment—a very expensive rut—and you’re deliriously happy, aren’t you?”
“Well, yes. We’re overjoyed about our daughter coming. And we’re delighted to be adopting the baby that Rawlins and Zephyr Starr are giving to us—”
“Oh, let’s not talk about that!” Libby interrupted, even more irritably. “That’s the worst!”
“The worst?”
“For me, it’s awful! I’ll start crying if we discuss my becoming a g-g-grandmother.” With heat, she burst out, “I just can’t face it, Nora! You might be happy about that baby, but she is part of my current state of mind.”
Maybe a big part. I realized I’d been so wrapped up in keeping Lexie out of the limelight that I had missed all the signs. Libby’s eldest son, Rawlins, a good kid with a sensible head on his shoulders most of the time, had made a mistake in judgment last winter during his senior year in high school. He ended up fathering a child with a woman who—there is no other way to say it—deliberately seduced him to get herself pregnant, and then went to prison for murder. Rather than try to raise the baby himself, Rawlins had asked Michael and me to adopt the child, and we had accepted with enthusiasm. The baby was going to be born within a week of my own due date, which was a little daunting, but also exciting.
But for Libby, the coming baby meant she was going to bear the disheartening label of grandmother.
“I’m too young to be a gr-r-r—I can’t even say it! I’m not even forty yet! It’s not fair!”
“All right,” I soothed. “We don’t have to talk about the other baby.”
“We have to talk about her,” Libby cried, exasperation boiling over. “We can’t ignore her for the rest of her life! I just don’t want to hear the G-word anymore, okay?”
“Okay,” I said before Libby could burst into a storm of tears. “From now on, she’ll be your niece—how about that? Nobody needs to be reminded that she’s your—well, that she’s a child that Rawlins brought into the world. She’ll be my daughter. Your niece.”
“Niece.” Libby gradually brightened. “That’s very much nicer. Thank you, Nora.”
“And we’re delighted to adopt her, Libby. Your life will come together soon, too, I’m sure. With Rawlins going to c
ollege, and Max starting nursery school, Lucy growing up, and the twins going to high school—”
“It’s probably best if we ignore the twins. There’s no telling what trouble they can get into in high school.” She snuffled up her tears. “High school means girls and access to dangerous substances in the chemistry lab. I can’t bring myself to think about what they could blow up.”
“Then think about yourself for an afternoon,” I said. “A little shopping might be just what you need. There’s a new lingerie shop on Walnut Street. I think you’d really love it.”
She sighed. “You’re so insightful sometimes, Nora. Yes, it’s time for me to stop wallowing and take charge—get my life back on the right spiritual trajectory. I’ve got a new career and maybe a new man on my horizon. I know! I should study up on Broadway musicals! I think I have a tape of Camelot somewhere. And West Side Story. Remember those cute summer dresses they wore in the movie? If I had enough cash, I’d update my whole summer wardrobe.”
The thought of my sister rechanneling her annoyance with the exterminator and devoting all of her suppressed sexual energy to Mr. Oxenfeld gave me a stab of pity for the poor fellow. And if Bridget O’Halloran had decided to target him, too, he might be in mortal danger.
“Maybe you shouldn’t go overboard with the new man, Libby. Why don’t you let nature take its course gradually?”
“To hell with that,” she said. “At his age, he might die, and I’d have to start all over again with someone else. That’s just poor time management. No, I think I’d better get cracking where Ox Oxenfeld is concerned. Strike while the iron is hot! Off to the lingerie store! Would you like to come along? It would get your mind off Jenny Tuttle.”
“No, thanks. I have work to do. Have fun without me.”
“I wonder what Ox’s favorite color is?” Newly energized, Libby sent the minivan swooping off an exit ramp, and we arrived in Philadelphia.
CHAPTER FOUR
The good news was that if my batty sister was focusing her considerable energies on Ox Oxenfeld, at least she wouldn’t be planning my wedding.
