No Way to Kill a Lady (27 page)

I could barely hide my relief at hearing Madeleine hadn't been doing something sordid. I remembered how it felt to be slapped by Mrs. Banks. If her husband had given money to Madeleine without her approval, she could still be harboring resentment. But I said, “Madeleine was using her husband's yacht some of the time.”

“Well, that was probably only an occasional transportation choice. I remember the case of a gymnast from Eastern Europe. When I saw the money our government spent to help her defect, I was appalled. We can't ask the taxpayers to foot that kind of bill on a regular basis. And Madeleine would have gone broke financing it herself. She probably rightly assumed it was easier for private citizens to kick in—­and more expedient.” With a slight frown, she tugged her earlobe as if to jog her memory. “Wasn't her husband murdered? The one with the yacht?”

“No, he died by drowning. In a hot tub somewhere.”

“I don't think that was an accident, Nora.”

I must have stared.

She smiled grimly. “Don't be surprised. Considering the work they did, he was probably considered an enemy of many corrupt governments. But he wasn't a professional and probably took few precautions for his own safety. I'm pretty sure his death was mentioned in cables.”

“What about Madeleine? Might she have been murdered by the same people?”

“No, if she had been, I'd have heard about it. Our enemies would have crowed about her death, but I don't remember hearing anything about that. I can check to be sure.” She gave me a kind smile. “Do you have a card? A way I can reach you?”

I reached for my bag, sensing my interview was reaching its final moments. “You're very generous to offer. Thank you. I wonder if I might ask for one more bit of advice?”

“Fire away.”

As succinctly as I could, I told the secretary about Zareen, the young Syrian woman I'd met on the street corner after the Arab-­American dinner. The plight of her sister, stuck in Syria when her mother needed her, had taken root in my heart. I wished I could have helped her when I met her, but at the time I hadn't been able to think of a way to do so. I explained the problem and held my breath.

Madame Secretary shook her head. “I'm sorry. We could try diplomatic channels, but that's going to take time. Maybe years.” Then, “I wonder if you should use your aunt Madeleine as a role model, Nora.”

“What do you mean?”

“Madeleine would have found an unconventional way of helping that family.”

“But Madeleine had connections and resources—­”

“You're a Blackbird. You have connections and resources, too.”

“But . . .”

“Be creative. Take a risk, if you must. Maybe Madeleine didn't always play by the rules, but she got results.” She reached over and patted my knee. “Think about it. I will, too. We'll talk in a few days.”

Our meeting was over. I stood and shook her hand. At that moment, Marcella arrived with the secretary's coffee cup. I knew she'd been half listening from the next room and had taken her cue from the tones of our voices.

I thanked Marcella for her hospitality, then invented an excuse to slip away. Marcella knew I was fibbing, but she played along. We both understood the unspoken social rules when it came to powerful people who were forced to cope with many demands on their time. I gave my friend a grateful hug and we promised to see each other soon.

At the door, Marcella said, “I'm going to the Lupus Foundation fund-­raiser in two weeks. Will you be there?”

“Of course. I'll look for you.”

“I'm going stag. Let's sit together.”

“It's a date.”

Within a minute, I was out on the street waving good-­bye to the Secret Service. Walking the cobblestones, I contemplated the advice I'd been given. Think unconventionally. Use my connections.

Aunt Madeleine didn't always play by the rules.

I knew somebody else like that.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

M
ichael's cell phone line was busy.

“Libby,” I said when we reunited in the minivan, “can you reach Syria by using PitterPat?”

“I haven't tried yet. Why?”

I passed her the card from Zareen Aboudi. “Think there's a way to track down this woman?”

“Let's give it a whirl.” She began thumbing the keyboard on her cell phone.

“Meanwhile, I can tell you absolutely that it wasn't just our dear cousin Sutherland who stripped most of the good stuff out of Quintain and sold it on the black market. You'll never guess who else we saw on many store videos!”

“Who?”

“Simon Groatley! He was stealing from Aunt Madeleine!”

“Why am I not surprised?” I muttered.

“You should let That Man of Yours break his legs. Of course, Sutherland has been financing his jet-­setting lifestyle the same way, but Groatley was her lawyer! He was supposed to protect her interests! But he was dumping Aunt Madeleine's magnificent collection at bargain-­basement prices. The Fabergé egg disappeared into China twelve years ago—­probably for less money than it takes to take a date out for dinner and a movie. Well, maybe a movie premiere, but the price was far, far below market value.”

I noticed my sister's hair had become slightly disheveled. And if I wasn't mistaken, her T-­shirt was now inside out. But she looked wonderfully refreshed and happy.

“Did you get patriotic with the Reverend Uncle Sam?” I said. “Should I be asking if you plan on seeing him again?”

“I think we achieved everything in one visit,” she said cheerfully. “A little foreplay is sometimes just enough to assuage hormonal longings, right? There!” She hit a button on her cell phone and used the rearview mirror to tame her hair into submission. “Let's let my followers see what they can do for us in Syria. What's next?”

“I think we should pay Sutherland a call, don't you?”

Libby tossed her phone into her handbag and drove us over to the harbor. Even before she pulled into a parking space, I saw that Sutherland's yacht had disappeared. Assuming he must have sailed off as soon as he escaped Blackbird Farm in the middle of the night, I ran down to the marina manager to ask. I wanted to kick myself for preventing Michael from inflicting some real damage on my rat fink of a cousin.

The marina manager reported that the yacht's owner had claimed the boat and taken it on the morning tide. As for Sutherland, he had no idea where my cousin had gone.

I climbed back into the minivan and told Libby that Sutherland was on the lam. “Maybe we should figure out how to have an international arrest warrant issued.”

Libby was intent on her cell phone again. “Check with That Man of Yours. I'll bet he knows. Look, I've got twelve Syrian followers already!”

“In ten minutes?”

“Amazing, isn't it? I'm spreading the Libby brand internationally now!”

“The Libby brand?”

“Yes, I'm a freedom fighter in the war against sensual repression. That's totally me, right? With nice pedicures. I am practically a recipe for humanitarian peacekeeping. I could be the Big Bang of peace in the Mid East regions. Anyway”—­she tapped the screen on her phone—­“at this rate, we should be able to contact your Aboudi girl in no time. What do you want to tell her?”

“I'll have to check with Michael first. But I have a plan.”

“I love international intrigue!” Libby cried. “Now what?”

I checked my watch. “I have just enough time to go home and change clothes. The carriage-­driving show starts tomorrow. The van Vincent Classic. But the opening ceremonies are this afternoon. Want to come?”

“Will there be handsome men in attractive horsey clothes? Of course.”

We stopped at Libby's house first so she could gather up something to wear, then we headed to Blackbird Farm. Ralphie stood on my back porch, his snout pointed at the door. He tried to muscle past me to look for more cheesecake when I got the door open.

“Never again,” I said. “If you come into my house, I'm sending you to the butcher. That's my line in the sand.”

Ralphie grunted his disappointment.

By the look of things, Michael had gone to mass with his parole officer. They had come home and were sitting in the kitchen with Bruno, companionably lunching on take-­out sandwiches from Gas N Grub and talking football. Libby and I blew through and headed upstairs.

For fox hunt breakfasts, polo matches and horse shows, I liked breaking with wardrobe tradition. No tweed. No flat-­heeled boots. I pulled out a metallic Thierry Mugler jacket with a cinched waist, futuristic shoulder pads and lapels cut down to show a purple demi bra underneath. A black mini, lace-­covered thigh-­high boots—­I prayed for no rain—­and a pair of gloves to match the bra. I brushed my hair loose and thrust a clip through one side to keep it pinned back behind my ear.

Libby took one look when I came out of the closet and cried, “I'm a
matron
compared to you! Help!”

We peeled off her sweater and slacks and stuffed her into a too-­small Guy Laroche dress from Grandmama's collection. The hunter green color worked for the season, and the square bodice gave her an eye-­popping cleavage, which clinched the outfit as far as Libby was concerned. The seams strained to contain her. But they held.

Libby critically admired herself in the mirror, rumpled her hair and ran her hands down her ample hips. With her own jacket thrown around her shoulders and a pair of my Fendi platform pumps with a provocative peep toe, she nodded and said, “Thank heaven I brought my Spanx.”

We went downstairs and silenced the crew at the kitchen table by simply walking in. Kuzik choked so hard on his sandwich that Bruno had to pound him on the back.

I leaned down and kissed Michael good-­bye. “See you later.”

“Ugh,” was the only word he could manage.

In two minutes, we were back in the minivan and headed for the van Vincent estate. The sun burst through the clouds just as we reached the line of traffic backed up to enter the grounds where the van Vincent Classic was to take place. But my sister and I had spent the drive discussing funeral possibilities.

“I like the idea of a memorial ceremony for Madeleine,” Libby said after we listed the choices. “Do you have a plan?”

“I'm thinking after the holidays,” I said. “Something tasteful. But not boring. With cocktails afterward.”

“Who presides? A minister?”

“No. There's a poet I know—­Jeff Fabian. Maybe he'd provide the right tone? And the right language?”

“And he's so attractive,” Libby said, clearly planning ahead. “Yes, perfect. I wonder if Sutherland will show up.”

“Only if the will is settled by then, I'm sure.”

I handed my invitation to the parking attendant and paid ten dollars for Libby to leave her minivan in a freshly mowed field. Otherwise, there was no formal check-­in point for the van Vincent Classic. With other arriving guests, we hiked up the same road I'd traveled on foot the night I stole Madeleine's ledger out of Quintain. On the road, a young man in a golf cart slowed down to ask if we'd like a lift. Libby, already panting with the pain of wearing high-­heeled shoes, jumped onto the backseat. I climbed in beside the driver, and we toodled up the road, past the van Vincent house to the tents.

I couldn't help noticing how simple a golf cart looked to drive. There was no complicated gearshift to contend with. Just one pedal that said, “Go,” and a second pedal that said, “Stop.”

“Why can't cars be as easy to drive?” I asked our young chauffeur.

“Cars
are
easy to drive,” he said, surprised.

I decided not to disagree with him, but I wondered if driving a golf cart required a license.

All the preparations for the show were complete. Shirley had obviously managed to get the electricians working to her satisfaction, because we heard a steady squawk from the loudspeakers. The whole property looked festive, and Vincente van Vincent's photograph—­one taken during his younger days, and with Shirley smiling proudly at his side—­appeared on all the posters. On the upper lawn, beautifully dressed guests mingled among the spit-­polished carriages on display under the crisp sunlight that streamed through the leafless branches of tall trees. An array of sparkling trophies sat on tables that fluttered with bunting.

A teenage girl drove past us—­her pretty white pony pulling a two-­wheeled gig at a dainty trot through the admiring crowd. A few people burst into applause. The teenager beamed with pleasure.

A few groomsmen had brought horses out to be admired by the guests. The shining coats of the animals were as smooth as those of otters. Their tails were braided and combed to perfection. We could see that the rest of the horses had been stabled in a series of long, temporary enclosures along the fences of a lower pasture—­closer to where I'd found the bones. Down among the trees I could see the flutter of yellow police tape, stretched around to prevent everyone from trampling the crime scene.

We heard passersby remark upon the tape.

“I heard they found the body of a homeless man,” one elderly lady clucked. “That's what Shirley told me. Poor fellow must have frozen to death.”

“Maybe it's one of Shirley's grooms,” responded her equally ancient companion in a less charitable tone. “No matter how cold it gets, she'd kick out anyone who didn't pamper her darlings to perfection.”

Also below the lawn, a wide field had been mowed and manicured for the week's competition. We could see a coach-­and-­four taking a test drive around the course. The team of matched chestnut horses high-­stepped precisely as the driver, wearing traditional livery, sat apparently motionless beside his identically dressed navigator on the box of the handsome replica coach. They might have been delivering Jane Austen characters to a country ball or a prince and princess away from their wedding at a cathedral.

The marathon course began on the field, but orange cones had been set up to indicate the long competition course, which would run beyond our vista, no doubt through the gamut of challenging water obstacles, steep inclines and sharp turns. I knew spectators would gather at various exciting spots along the route to catch the action. Already we could see small groups of competitors setting off to walk the course on foot to check the hazards up close.

The first person I recognized in the crowd was Simon Groatley. Just seeing him gave me the sensation of a punch to the stomach. He wore a ridiculous tweed riding jacket that had probably never seen a hunting field. On his arm walked a pretty middle-­aged woman I didn't know—­his latest girlfriend, I supposed. When I caught his eye, he flushed and turned away. I was glad to see he was embarrassed. But I knew how quickly his rage could flare up. He dragged his companion rapidly in the opposite direction, and I felt sorry for her.

Outside the refreshment tent, we bumped into Emma. She stood beside a trash barrel, wolfing down a drippy sandwich and mopping her chin with a paper napkin. She wore her riding breeches pulled low, topped by a man's polo shirt that covered her pregnant belly, but only just. If anything, she looked rounder than two days ago.

She took one look at Libby in her tight green dress and said, “My God, you look like a busted can of biscuits.”

“Up yours,” Libby said, out of breath. “Are you all right?”

“I've been better.”

Her eyes were hollow, and I didn't like her pallor.

I gave Emma a hug to bolster her spirits. “It's good to see you. Where's Hart?”

Emma swallowed her mouthful of sandwich and wiped her lips. For a second, I thought her food was going to come right back up, but she controlled herself. “He dropped me off an hour ago.” She tried to sound tough. “He went home to his soon-­to-­be wife. Tomorrow's her birthday, I hear. They're very big on birthdays. A little adultery is fine, but you don't dare miss a birthday party with the whole family.”

I wanted to hold her close. “Oh, Em.”

Libby was giving Emma a calculating examination. “Did you sleep with him?”

“Of course I slept with him,” Emma snapped. She pushed away from me. “Why spend time with Hart if not for the sex? We did it three times, once on the floor. You want more details than that?”

“Emma,” I said.

Libby gave me a stern look and said, “I'll go get us some drinks.” And she left me alone with our little sister to talk.

Emma was full of turmoil, I could see. Her night with Hart hadn't eased her conflict in the slightest. She was more wrought up than ever. She threw her napkin into the trash barrel and turned on me, fierce and angry. “Okay, it's do or die time, Nora. Do you want this baby? You and Mick?”

Of course I did. So did Michael. I wanted to shriek
yes, yes, yes!
A child of Emma's was an answer to my prayers, a solution for Michael and me, a miracle I wanted more than anything.

But I had forced myself to think calmly over the last twenty-­four hours. Michael and I had reviewed the many arguments, wrestled with our consciences. And come to a hard conclusion.

The whirl of people around us turned into a miasma of color and noise, but I said quietly, “We want what's best for the baby. And for you, Em.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

I summoned the hardest words I'd ever spoken. “It means we believe it would be hard for you to come to the farm and see us with your child and wonder what might have been.”

Emma turned away toward the horses and fell silent.

She didn't want me to see her expression, because she couldn't make her face obey any longer. I fought down the same kind of agony that undoubtedly welled up in her, too. We'd had hard conversations before, Emma and I. Back when her husband, Jake, was killed. When Todd was shot. But neither of those events compared to the terrible tearing sensation in my chest as I reached to touch her shoulder.