A Little Night Murder

by Nancy Martin

  Gus flushed and shook her hand while I explained, “This isn’t my husband, Elle. This is Gus Hardwicke, my editor.”

  Her face lit up. “Oh, right! I saw you on TV a few weeks back. You look much handsomer in person. Say something in Austrian.”

  “I’m from Australia.”

  Elle didn’t hear him. “Has Nora told you about the Pelvic Fund?”

  “The—?” Gus squinted as if he hadn’t heard correctly.

  “We’re raising awareness—and money, of course—for the Center for Women’s Pelvic Health. Maybe your newspaper could do an article? I bet Nora could write it. She’s a big supporter.”

  I thoroughly enjoyed Gus’s revolted reaction to what he heard from perky Elle. I said, “There’s nothing I won’t do for good pelvic health.”

  For once, Gus was speechless. Abruptly, he got up from the bar, threw some bills at the bartender and departed without another word, striding past the dancing uterus with a determined air. By the time he reached the sidewalk, he had regained his Aussie swagger and kept going without a backward glance.

  Elle was startled but soon laughed with me, and I left her party with the promise of giving her plenty of space in my online column. I’d do my best with the print edition, but I had a feeling Gus would veto any coverage of pelvic health.

  Feeling high-spirited, I walked a few short blocks to one of the city’s most prestigious private clubs for the final event of my night. I climbed the marble steps and thanked the uniformed attendant, who took a formal look at my invitation and made a production about unlocking the bronze doors for me to enter. He swung them wide, and I passed into the hallowed halls.

  I made a beeline across the checkerboard floor for the ladies’ room. The club was so old that it had only recently added its first ladies’ room. Fortunately, it had spent a lot of money to make up for its antiquated membership policy. The bathroom featured marble and beveled mirrors, and heavy lamps swagged on bronze chains. A towel warmer contained a dozen small linen squares for drying ladylike hands.

  Alone, I dug into my bag and came up with everything I needed to transform myself from a casually dressed reporter to a woman who’d been permitted to enter one of the most revered dining rooms in the city. I put on dressier shoes to upgrade my Pucci dress. I redid my hair and makeup, adding a little more lipstick and mascara for evening.

  As I was tucking my makeup back into my bag, the door opened and a long-legged woman in a short black dress and a punk haircut barged in. Emma.

  My sister stopped dead in her tracks at the sight of me, then grinned. “I should have known you’d be here.”

  “What a pleasant surprise. We can troll for appetizers together. Or do you have other duties?”

  “My duties are to look good for an hour.” She went into the first stall and talked to me over the door. “I’m here at the orders of Paddy Horgan. He wants to look like a wheeler-dealer to everybody else. I was hoping to duck out before the stupid dinner starts. I can only stand so much good behavior. Think you could stage some labor pains and give me a good excuse to leave?”

  She flushed and came out of the stall.

  “Sorry, I haven’t felt one twinge,” I said with complete honesty. “Em, you really look fantastic.”

  As she washed her hands, she eyed herself critically in the mirror. “Yeah, I’ve been working out. Two hours in the gym, plus a lot of riding. And a whole bunch of nutritional stuff. Why does healthy food taste so boring?”

  “The taste will grow on you.” The best thing about her physical transformation might be the clearness of her eyes, I thought, but I said, “I like your dress, too. Where do you shop?”

  “Target. I cut off the cap sleeves. I look like a linebacker in cap sleeves.”

  The sleeves had been hacked out of her dress with a pair of shears probably used to cut unruly horsetails. I noticed she had inflicted the same damage to the hem. The shorter length was perfect—midway up her lean, muscled thighs—and the dress looked surprisingly chic. She was wearing a pair of earrings that might also have come from Target. Or from Tiffany, for all I knew. She looked like a dangerous woman who’d mugged an unsuspecting fashion designer.

  While she dried her hands on one of the linen squares, I handed over my lipstick. “Nobody looks good in cap sleeves.”

  She finished drying her hands, then applied lipstick in broad strokes. “You got that right.” She eyed her reflection and tossed me the lipstick. “C’mon, if we’re stuck here for the night, let’s get some drinks.”

  I went out into the lobby with my sister, and we followed a meandering crowd down the corridor to a ballroom with a high, wedding-cake ceiling and three matching chandeliers that would have looked right at home in a Vienna palace. A large portrait of William Penn frowned down from one paneled wall. A more convivial painting of Queen Charlotte, beloved wife of George III, gazed from the opposite wall. If I recalled correctly, she and her husband had fifteen children, so I felt a certain kinship with her this evening.

  The dining room’s large round tables had been set with white linen and the club’s monogrammed china and silver. The centerpieces were old trophies that had been filled with sprays of fragrant white flowers with lots of ferns for greenery. The all-white decor would have been uninteresting, except in this case, it was meant to showcase horses. At the front of the room, a large screen spun with a slideshow of equine photographs—all staged like the iconic animal portraits by painter George Stubbs. Each horse stood on the end of a long line held, presumably, by an attentive groom who had been cropped out of the picture.

  Most of the crowd had grabbed drinks at the bar. The men wore a range of summer-hued ties and stood admiring the horse photos and talking among themselves. The women were more toned down, fashion-wise, wearing once-fashionable dresses—classics. They buzzed about horses, too. Even Emma’s gaze strayed to the pictures, and when an admiring murmur arose from the crowd, she joined in.

  “That’s Whistleblower.” She pointed at the screen, her eyes glowing with appreciation for the beautiful animal. “He was a spectacular jumper, now a great stud.”

  Emma had been first boosted into a saddle before most little girls popped Barbie dolls out of their packaging. While I was reading Nancy Drew and the Baby-sitters Club books, my little sister was fearlessly jumping ponies over fences taller than she was.

  Watching her now, I realized I sometimes forgot how much she loved the equestrian world. For all her drinking, risk taking, and wildcatting with one unsuitable man after another, she was still the girl who loved nothing more than a good horse.

  She caught me looking and winked. “I’m an expert on studs, y’know. What can I get you to drink?”

  “Something with no sugar or caffeine.”

  “Living large, huh, Sis?” She strolled away to score some cocktails.

  In search of photos and quotes—not to mention food—I wandered among the other guests. They were all members of an elite but informal fraternity of wealthy horsemen who bred, traded or trained thoroughbred racehorses or the fine animals that competed on the Grand Prix circuit. Not the usual scrappy small farmers who raised horses in the tristate area, this unofficial group numbered fewer than a dozen members, but it looked as if each had brought along an entourage.

  Eventually I bumped into Paddy Horgan, the gruff stable owner who hired my sister from time to time. I introduced myself to him—he had forgotten we’d ever met—and his friendly expression turned cautious.

  “I saw Emma on one of your new horses today,” I told him. “He was a gray—and very beautiful.”

  “Right,” said Horgan. “A valuable animal. He has real potential. I’m giving Emma a shot with him.” Glaring at me from under bushy eyebrows, he added, “I don’t want her screwing up.”

  “Does she ever screw up?” I asked.

  “Frequently,” Horgan said just as sharply. “She’s d
amn good with horses when she puts her mind to it. But she drinks too much to be reliable. And she should keep her dates off my property. That guy she’s seeing now? I ordered him off my place twice. Next time I’m going to call the cops.”

  “I don’t know who you mean, but I’m sure—”

  “He’s a crook, I’ll bet you that,” Horgan said. “Shifty eyes and asking all the wrong questions. I don’t want him near my animals—or my employees. You can tell your sister I’ll fire her ass if I catch him around again.”

  Before I had time to protest, Paddy Horgan lumbered off to harangue somebody else. I stood for a moment, fuming.

  Emma returned with her fingers pinching together three drinks—two for herself and a glass of soda water with an impressive array of fruit on skewers for me.

  I bit into an orange slice first, barely holding on to my temper. “Paddy Horgan is his usual charming self.”

  “What’s lit his fuse tonight?”

  “Your current boyfriend,” I said. “Paddy doesn’t like him, whoever he is.”

  Emma shrugged that off. “Paddy is still mad that I didn’t roll him in the hay a couple of years ago.”

  “He seems to think your new horse has a bright future. After riding him, what do you think?”

  Emma warmed to the subject more easily than usual. “Cookie’s pretty great. A few bad habits we’ll work on. He’s strong, though—really strong, so I need to keep going to the gym. I’m thinking about getting a trainer. Funny, huh? Both the horse and the rider need professional training now. And the gym is a hoot.”

  “What kind of gym?”

  “A suburban meat market. The women come in cute outfits with their hair and makeup done, hoping Prince Charming will notice them on the StairMaster. The guys watch themselves in the mirror when they lift. It’s hilarious. But annoying that you have to run this gauntlet of hair-gel dweebs to get out of the place. Now I go at five in the morning, when everybody’s serious about exercising. The only drawback was an old coot who doesn’t realize he’s flashing his balls when he pedals the stationary bike. Now I’m in a kickboxing class.” Her grin widened. “Anything to get away from Mr. Sad Sack on the bicycles. Kickboxing is more my style anyway.”

  “And it might come in handy when you run the gauntlet of dweebs,” I said, making her laugh. Emma looked very strong herself at the moment.

  A young man in a sharp suit who had been strolling around the edges of the party suddenly noticed Emma and headed our way. I noticed that his hair was elaborately gelled. But he caught a gander at me and stopped short. Hastily, he turned around and walked off.

  Emma laughed. “Hey, Sis, maybe I need you to fend off the hair-gel dweebs.”

  I patted Baby Girl. “I’m the poster girl for what happens when you have sex. And I’m hungry again. I don’t suppose you saw any real food? I might kill for some appetizers.”

  “The kitchen’s backed up at the moment.” She sat down with me at the table. “When I was pregnant, I should have invested in Kellogg’s stock. The amount of cereal I ate could have filled a dump truck.”

  “Every time I reach for a cereal box, Michael makes me a plate of steamed vegetables from the garden.” I glanced around, feeling increasingly desperate. “They’re not even serving cheese and crackers?”

  “Booze. That’s it until dinner.”

  “I may not make it that long.” I searched my handbag for an emergency granola bar.

  Emma watched me dig. “What’s this I hear about you discovering Jenny Tuttle’s body?”

  “I was there, yes.”

  “Did you faint?”

  “It was a close call,” I admitted.

  Emma watched me start another search in all the interior pockets of my handbag. “How did she die?”

  “Somebody helped Jenny overdose on caffeine. Or diet pills. Or both.”

  “Who would do that? And why?”

  “Who? I don’t know yet. Why? Well, the Tuttles were working on a new musical. Bluebird of Happiness. And it wasn’t going very smoothly. Dear heaven, I’m starving!”

  “Eat the rest of the fruit in your drink.”

  “I’m frustrated, too,” I admitted once I had gnawed all the orange slices to their rinds and gobbled the cherries, too. “My editor says the newspaper will fall apart if I don’t contribute some kind of story—either about Lexie Paine or about Jenny Tuttle.”

  Emma raised her eyebrows. “What about Lexie?”

  “She’s staying out of the public eye. Regrouping. Working on a plan to help her former clients. And something else. Something with Michael.”

  “What kind of something?” Emma asked. “You sound worried.”

  “Not worried, but—well, you know his tendencies. And Lexie needs a business challenge at the moment, so they—they’re thick as thieves. Thing is, my editor is pressuring me to write something that will sell papers. He either wants a story about Lexie or about Jenny Tuttle. But short of breaking onto the Tuttle property to look for clues about Jenny’s death, I’ve run out of material. I’m feeling frustrated.”

  Emma sent me a stern sisterly glare. “You’re not breaking into anything, Miss Marple. Not in your condition.”

  I hadn’t been serious. But I remembered Ox saying the show-business people would be rehearsing at the local theater tonight, singing and dancing their way through Jenny Tuttle’s wake. Ox had told me about it. With luck, nobody would be at the Tuttle house this evening. The more I thought about it, the more I realized I had an opportunity.

  Emma’s expression went from disapproval to amazement. “I know what that face means. Forget it. You’re not doing anything crazy.”

  I grabbed her glass as she lifted it to her mouth. “How many drinks have you had? Is this your first of the night? Can you drive?”

  “You can’t be serious.”

  But I was. And twenty minutes later, we were pulling out of a Philadelphia parking garage and heading north in my sister’s rattletrap pickup truck. Me with a giant pretzel I had purchased from a cart, and Emma slurping mineral water from a plastic bottle.

  “This is a really bad idea,” Emma was saying. “And when I’m the voice of reason, you should know exactly how bad.”

  “I only want to take a look into the folly behind the Tuttle house. I have a feeling that’s where Jenny worked. There’s bound to be something interesting there.”

  “At least let me do the dirty work. I’ll play detective.”

  “Are you kidding? After what you did last spring, setting fire to a neighbor’s farm? I should trust you?”

  “It was for a good cause.”

  “It was nuts, and you’re lucky the police haven’t come looking for you.”

  “They have already,” Emma replied, reaching for her cigarettes. She had second thoughts, though, and tossed down the pack. “They asked me some questions because I was on the Starr property the day before the barn burned. The insurance company is miffed about parting with their money. I’m pretty sure the only reason I’m not in jail already is because the policy owners are either dead or in the slammer. But eventually the cops are going to get serious.”

  Emma’s rash behavior when our nephew’s future was at stake hadn’t been her finest hour. But now maybe she was on a path of recovery, and nothing should jeopardize that, to my way of thinking. I said, “All the more reason for me to do the snooping tonight.”

  “Yeah, if you get caught, you can plead temporary insanity.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  It felt strangely exciting to be the irrational Blackbird sister for once. I kicked off my shoes and rolled down the window to let the warm air blow around me. I told Emma about Boom Boom Tuttle’s blue skin. Emma kept a stash of apples in her truck, and I crunched through two of them during our drive and felt less famished with every mile we covered. Rush-hour traffic had thinned, and the evening sunlight was t
urning gold. I was feeling rejuvenated.

  So I said, “What are you doing next Friday night?”

  “Why?”

  “I was hoping you’d have the evening free. I need a witness.”

  “A witness for what?”

  “We need two, actually. Lexie said she’d come, and I was thinking you might be willing to stand up with us for—”

  “Holy shit,” Emma said, already leaps ahead of me. She turned and stared. “You’re finally getting married! For real?”

  “If you tell Libby, I will positively kill you.”

  Emma laughed delightedly. “Hey, this is good news! Does Mick know?”

  “Of course he knows. We planned it. We have the license and everything. We’re going to see a judge in her chambers.”

  “Hey, this is great. Maybe he’ll be able to stop going to confession every time the two of you make sinful whoopee. Do you have rings?”

  “I have one for him. With the price of gold so high, I had to be creative, so when I found Granddad’s gold band in a drawer, I grabbed it. I had it sized. And it’s a beautiful ring. It came from his grandfather, you know, so it has a lot of good marriage mileage on it. I hope Michael is okay with that. Do you think it’s kosher to use it?”

  “Recycling a ring makes economic sense, so it’s right up Mick’s alley. And Granddad—he might have actually liked Mick. They have the same kind of entrepreneurial brain, even if Mick’s is a little warped. In a good way.”

  “We’d be very happy if you’d join us.”

  Emma cackled with pleasure, then got serious. “What about Libby? You’re not inviting her? Sis, she’ll be crushed.”

  I still felt guilty about snapping at Libby about her love life. But not guilty enough to tell her what Michael and I had planned. Not yet anyway. “I’m not inviting her until the last instant. You know what will happen if she has even five minutes’ notice.”

  “Yeah, you’ll find yourself getting married in the middle of Broad Street with a hundred Mummers playing banjos. If she doesn’t have time to plan anything, you’re safe.”