A Crazy Little Thing Called Death (13 page)

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.”

S
till 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.

At last she came back. “I’m so sorry, lamb. There’s a lot happening here.”

“Oh, I don’t mean to bother—”

“The truck carrying Penny’s things arrived this morning. They’re unloading now.”

“Penny’s things?”

“Yes, the lease on her house was up last week, and there’s no sense paying rent when we know she’s not going back, is there? So we had all her furniture and clothes and belongings shipped here.”

“I see. Well, I won’t keep you. I was hoping Potty might—”

“It’s a terrible mess. I’m a little overwhelmed.”

“Can I help?”

“As a matter of fact, some of it is supposed to go to you.”

“What?”

“Why not come over and have a look? See if you have enough space for it all?”

“Heavens, I can’t imagine—”

“Come now, if you like.” I heard a crash in the background, then more barking. Vivian said, “Oh, goodness. Someone just dropped Penny’s collection of exercise videos. They’re all over the floor. Must run!”

And she hung up on me.

I phoned Reed, grabbed my handbag and headed for the elevator. An invitation to Eagle Glen meant I’d be able to see Potty and return his envelope.

The afternoon had warmed, although a few gray clouds still skimmed the sky as Reed drove me out to Eagle Glen.

At the estate’s gate, I was surprised to see a cadre of television vans and SUVs marked with the logos of various radio and TV news stations. A paunchy rent-a-cop stood guard at the gate, refusing entry to all of the reporters. When Reed pulled up, however, the rent-a-cop saw a black man behind the wheel of a town car with a white woman in the backseat, and he waved us through.

Reed muttered under his breath, and I didn’t dare say a word.

The driveway split, and we headed for the house by making a wide circle around the polo field. From the high vantage point, we could see down into the lower field, where a team of workmen was disassembling the large party tent. We could also see up the slope to the mansion where Potty lived. I couldn’t help noticing that the grass of the front lawn had grown weedy and long. I wondered who was managing the estate for the Devines now that Juana Huckabee was gone. Whoever it was should be fired.

An enormous moving van blocked the driveway behind the mansion. The truck’s rear door yawned wide, and we could see the shapes of furniture and large boxes inside. A steamer trunk and a rack of fur coats sat in the sunshine, the first things unloaded. Two men backed down the truck’s ramp carrying a pink velvet fainting couch. As if it weighed no more than a table lamp, they briskly carried it into the open door of the carriage house, not into the mansion.

Reed and I got out and stood on the lawn beneath the gently whispering trees, which rained down a fine snow of blossoms.

“I won’t be long,” I promised.

Reed nodded. Normally, he would have gotten back into the car to study, but since the episode after brunch, Reed had clearly decided to be extra vigilant. He put on his sunglasses and leaned against the hood of the town car.

I intended to follow the movers into the carriage house, but I heard Vivian’s quavery voice coming from behind a badly neglected hedge, so I followed the sound and discovered a ragged garden out back. It was surrounded by a corroded chain-link fence. A large, rusted mobile home was parked inside and looked extraordinarily out of place beside the estate’s original Georgian mansion.

The Brittany spaniel that had followed Vivian around the polo grounds lay in the dirt of the garden, watching me. He barked once, warning me not to come closer. But I said his name, and Toby changed his mind. His short, wispy tail began to wiggle as I approached. I rubbed his velvety soft ears, and he rolled over on his back. But a swarm of fleas roamed in the thin white hair of his tummy, and I pulled my hand back hastily.

“Poor puppy,” I said.

He leaped up and followed me to the mobile home, oblivious to the many cats that populated the garden. Some sunned themselves in the grass, while others crept among the bushes. A sign printed with the likeness of a smiling cat and the words
KITTY KROSSING
tilted crookedly in the dirt. Two black toms chased a calico kitten under the mobile home, and I could hear them screeching at one another there.

About ten yards from the door, the dog sat down and waited for me.

The door of the mobile home was closed. On either side of the doorway, however, two brackets were mounted as if the owner sometimes had occasion to bar the door from the outside with the stout piece of wood slightly larger than a baseball bat that lay on the ground beside the step. A cat sat on the step.

I could hear Vivian talking inside—cooing, really, as if speaking to an animal.

Suddenly I realized that the cat on the step was no ordinary house pet. It was a very large cat, and it watched me without blinking its large, oval eyes. My heart gave a thump when I realized it was not a pet at all. It had very long ears with black tips, and its long, graceful limbs were more the length of a medium-sized dog’s.

The cat glared at me.

It was some kind of wild animal, I realized, taking an instinctive step backward. Not as big as a bobcat or a mountain lion. A serval cat, perhaps. Its speckled coat was as distinctive as a leopard’s. The small head swiveled as it looked from me to the spaniel, clearly debating which one of us might make a tasty meal.

“What are you doing in here?” Vivian asked sweetly as she opened the door. The serval cat leaped away and disappeared under the mobile home. Immediately, six other smaller cats bolted out and disappeared into the grass.

“I—I thought I heard your voice, Vivian.”

“Be careful!” she cried. “You’re stepping on Socrates!”

I lifted my foot instinctively and found an ugly striped tom cunningly trying to snatch the heel of my shoe as if it were a mouse.

Vivian came outside and closed the door firmly behind herself, cradling the same listless kitten she’d had at the polo match. By now, however, the little cat’s condition seemed much worse than before. It appeared to be barely conscious. Vivian’s adorable jumper was covered by an apron embla-zoned with the face of Garfield, the cartoon cat. But the fabric was spattered with a brownish substance that might have been blood.

“I was making dinner for all my darlings.” Vivian came down the steps. “These are my rescue cats. People abandon them out here in the country, and what are the poor things to do? They can’t survive on their own. So I take them in. This is a sanctuary.”

“But, Vivian, there are so many!”

“I try to find homes for them.” She glanced sadly at the animals that waited in the grass for their meal. “But people don’t want full-grown cats. They want kittens like this little darling. So I give the rest love and affection. That’s all an animal really wants, you know.”

Just one glance at the desperately thin cat in her arms told me that these animals needed food as well as love. And veterinary care. Yellow mucus ringed its half-closed eyes. I had never seen a more miserable creature.

I said, “How do you manage by yourself?”

“Oh,” she said vaguely, “Julie helps out now and then, but mostly, it’s me.” As one cat jumped out of her path and crouched in the grass, she added, “You’ll have to forgive their manners. They’re not accustomed to strangers.”

“You must really love cats.”

“I do,” she said with a beatific smile. “Any animal in need of affection—that’s my specialty.”

With the kitten in her arms, she led the way out of the garden, through the fence gate and back to the carriage house. The spaniel followed us warily, keeping an eye on Vivian and staying a stealthy few yards behind me. The door to the carriage house stood open to the April air. Once large enough to house horses and several vehicles, it was now crowded with piles of old newspapers and heaps of trash bags. It looked like a dump site. Upstairs, I knew, was the apartment where Julie and her parents had once lived. Perhaps she still lived there with her father.

We arrived inside just as the movers carried the pink couch to a vacant corner.

“No, no, not there! Put it in the other corner!”

The whole garage was full of junk, however, and the movers hesitated in confusion. There wasn’t an open corner to put anything else.

“On top of those boxes,” Vivian directed.

With sighs, the men heaved the fainting couch near a heap of similarly colorful and feminine furniture. I caught a glimpse of a sunny yellow armchair, a tufted footstool, a curvy lavender headboard and a flowered love seat. The movers balanced the couch on top of the other stuff and headed back to the truck for more. If Vivian intended the entire truckload of furniture to fit into the remaining space in the carriage house, they had their work cut out for them.

The spaniel came over and poked his nose against my leg.

I couldn’t bring myself to pat the flea-bitten little fellow, but I gave him a kind word, and his tail shivered.

“People drop off puppies all the time out here, too,” Vivian said, noting my interest in the dog. “But not like the cats. I’m always rescuing cats.”

“Have you always loved animals?”

“Oh, yes. From the time my dear mother gave me my first kitten. I remember it clearly. She had packed her bags to move to California with Penny, but she took the time to give me a darling kitten. I called him Dandelion.” She took a worn lace hankie from one pocket and dabbed the corner of her eye. “Shall we take a look in the truck?”

I followed Penny to the doorway of the carriage house.

“It’s jammed to the ceiling with Penny’s things,” Vivian said. “Really, she had the most ridiculous furniture I’ve ever seen. Look at this—who’d buy a yellow chair? You’d spend all your time cleaning a thing like that, wouldn’t you?”

I said, “It may be impractical, but Penny lived differently than the rest of us. A movie star of her era could hardly be expected to live simply.”

Vivian shook her head and flicked imaginary dust from Penny’s furniture. “The silly fool.”

I finally heard a tinge of sadness in her voice. “I’m sorry for your loss, Vivian.”

Vivian’s face had turned pink. “Well, the only good thing that’s come out of this is that I can sell some of this junk to buy supplies for my darlings. Penny’s gone, and that’s that. No sense wasting time with the dead. Those television people are calling me all the time, wanting details about my sister—what a waste of energy. She didn’t exactly bring world peace, you know.”

“Penny belonged to more than just her family. I suppose many people felt they knew her through her movies. They’re bound to wonder what happened to her.”

“She died, that’s what happened.”

“But how? I wonder. Vivian, you must admit, finding her hand like that was—well, gruesome, but also very troubling. Don’t you wonder what must have happened to her?”

“I don’t wonder at all.” Vivian set her jaw to control her emotions. “How she died doesn’t matter. It’s best just to bury her, and forget about the circumstances.”

The movers returned, this time lugging a large buffet with graceful legs and inlaid ivory. Still flushed, Vivian turned away from me to direct the men where to place it, and I decided that trying to penetrate Vivian’s refusal to discuss Penny’s death would only upset her further.

One of the movers wiped his perspiring face with a bandanna. “Ma’am, we’ve got that big table to come inside next. I don’t know if it ought to be sitting out here in a garage. Is there a room we could put it in? Somewhere it won’t get damaged?”

“What are you talking about? It’s perfectly dry in here.”

“I don’t know much about antiques, ma’am, but the table looks valuable to me. Maybe it belongs someplace a little safer.”

“What nonsense,” she said. “Let me have a look.”

She led the way outside. The movers exchanged a glance, then followed her. I tagged along with Toby hugging my shadow.

Outdoors, Vivian and the movers got into a heated discussion about the table. I eased away, and glanced around for Reed. He had disappeared, although the car hadn’t moved. Down the driveway, three of Vivian’s tom-cats chased the female in heat.

I took a few more steps, and suddenly I could see around the moving van.

Reed was there, roughly wrestling with a slender young girl. To free herself, she hit him across the shoulder and kicked his shins.

I broke into a run. “Reed!”

He managed to push the girl far enough away to avoid her kicks, but he kept a tight hold on her right arm. In it, she gripped a can of spray paint.

“Let me go!” She tried to wrench away. “You’re hurting me!”