How to Murder a Millionaire (13 page)

"Hi," I said as she shook my hand. "I'm Nora Blackbird."

"I know. Molly Irwin. We met at the library benefit at Easter."

"That's right. Listen, I'm here for the
Intelligencer.
Since you work for the other paper, I thought you—"

"Yes, it's nice of you to come." She wasn't delighted to find her paper's lowbrow competitor standing in the middle of her party at exactly the wrong moment, but she had the good manners to fake a welcome. "You have a photographer with you?"

"She'll be here in ten minutes."

"The mayor may be gone by then." She looked relieved at the prospect. "How about pictures of Jack and some of the big donors instead?"

"Sure. And you?" I asked with a smile. "Care to have your picture in the
Intelligencer?"

She laughed. "My boss wouldn't be too happy."

"Is he here? Maybe he'd like a photo with us, too."

With a forced smile, she guided me towards some other guests, pointedly avoiding a meeting between the mayor and me. "Why don't I introduce you around?"

I knew most of them anyway, but Molly did the honors, and someone brought me a glass of wine.

Molly was soon called away and within a few minutes, despite our hostess's best effort, I found myself chatting with the mayor himself.

In his rumpled seersucker suit and clutching a gin and tonic in one hefty fist, he was the picture of an Old School pol. His ruddy face was already flushed with bonhomie . . . and gin.

"Oh," said the mayor, recognizing my name when I introduced myself. "Isn't your family friends with Roderick Pendergast? Damn shame about what happened."

"Will you be attending the funeral?" I asked.

"Of course, wouldn't miss it," he said. "Pendergast gave a lot to the city of Philadelphia. I only wish there was something we could give back."

He launched into a politician's nonsense that immediately made his entourage tune out. They must have figured they had a minute of off-duty time and simultaneously edged for the bar, leaving the mayor safe in the hands of a citizen who presumably wanted to talk about Rory Pendergast, nothing important.

I only had a minute, I knew, so I cut across his speech and asked, "How's the investigation into his murder going?"

"Very well." The mayor looked down at me with some surprise at my interruption. "I get updates every hour direct from the chief of police. I'm told they have some very promising leads."

"Any truth to the rumor that his sisters might sell the newspaper?"

The mayor gathered his brows in an expression that had served him well in front of the evening news cameras while he gathered his political wits. "I can't comment on that except to say the city is making every effort to keep the
Intelligencer
locally owned and operated. We must take the long view. A world-class city needs two vital newspapers to keep the lifeblood pumping. We hope we can convince Pendergast's family."

Which told me that indeed the Pendergast sisters were already looking for a buyer. With an encouraging smile, I asked, "Do you plan to be around long enough to help do the convincing?"

He laughed. "What's a pretty girl like you asking that for?"

"I'm from the
Intelligencer"
I began, wanting to be sure he knew he was talking to a reporter. "And I—"

But the mayor leaned close enough that I could smell the Beefeater on his breath. "Sweetheart," he said, "if it ain't me, it'll be my own son. Don't you think he'd make a fine mayor?"

"Well—"

"And maybe I'll run for governor if they don't hustle me off to dry out first."

If he'd planted a big wet kiss on my cheek I couldn't have been more surprised that he'd chosen me, of all people, to slip that information to.

"Can I quote you?" I asked, returning his smile.

"Sweetheart, a girl as easy on the eyes as you can do anything she likes," he said loudly. "How about a drink?"

His entourage came scrambling back, but the deed was done.

Sara Jane, the photographer, showed up just then, and while Molly was still distracted, I asked for a few quick pictures of the mayor as he spoke with one of the evening's big donors. Sara Jane sensed that I had a big scoop and quickly snapped the photos. Then we hit the street. I snatched my notebook from my handbag and hastily wrote down what the mayor had said to me, making sure I got every word right.

"This is my last stop tonight," Sara Jane told me when I finished writing. "I'll drop off the film right now."

"Great. Can I borrow your cell phone?"

She lent it to me, and I vowed to acquire one as soon as I could manage the financial commitment. I dialed Stan Rosenstatz's desk at the
Intelligencer.

Bless his heart, he answered. I quickly told him what I'd learned from the mayor.

"You sure about that?" Rosenstatz barked. "He said his son is considering a run?"

"I have it in my notes."

"And he might run for governor himself?"

"If he doesn't go to rehab first."

"What a break," Stan crowed. I had never heard him so excited. "I bet his staff is spitting nails! I'll tell the news desk right away. They'll want to use your information for the morning edition."

"This feels funny to me," I said before he could hang up. "I'm not a trained journalist, Stan."

"What are you talking about? Did he know you were a reporter?"

"Yes, but—"

"Did he tell you it was off the record?"

"No—"

"Honey, it's the deal with the devil. Politicians use the press for their own reasons. But they can't choose when they
don't
get coverage. For guys like the mayor, this is their business. He's looking for PR!"

"But—"

"There's no Pulitzer for party reporting, honey. This is your big chance for fame and glory."

"I'm just not sure he knew what he was saying."

"Nora," said Rosenstatz firmly. "We're the eyes and ears of the city. What the mayor said to you, he said
to everybody. Breathe easy, kid. You did the right thing. Besides, we've been printing nothing but the Pendergast murder, and this will be a welcome change. Now give it to me again."

I dictated what the mayor had said to me, and Rosenstatz wrote down every word, then repeated it back to me for accuracy.

"Great," he said. "Thanks, kiddo. You don't know how big this is, but believe me, it's gonna do us both some good. Too bad the old man isn't around to give us our promotions."

"I'm glad you're pleased." While I still had him on the line, I rushed on, "Stan, did you get my e-mail? About the guest list for the Pendergast party?"

"Yeah," he said, distracted by the story. "Check your e-mail."

"Thanks."

"You're gonna be a star, kiddo!"

Chapter 9

After midnight, I plugged my laptop computer into the phone jack in the kitchen and chewed a Turns while I typed up my notes and sent the party stories by modem. After the pieces were filed, I checked my e-mail and received a message from Rosenstatz with the Pendergast party guest list as an attachment.

I opened a Diet Coke and read through the list. It was a very highbrow crowd, I noted. The city's most prominent citizens hardly ever gathered in one place for an occasion, but they had definitely been invited to fete Rory. Since the
Intelligencer
had thrown the party, lots of the names on the list were employees, board members, top advertisers and business connections. I recognized many names, of course, and noted how many I had not actually seen. Of course, I'd arrived late, and the party had begun to wind down as guests went off to dinner engagements in the city.

The Tacketts were on the list. So were many of my old friends and new colleagues from the newspaper.

Halfway down the list were the names Ralph and Elizabeth Kintswell. I remembered seeing Ralph's car parked in front of Rory's house, but I hadn't seen them later, when the police were taking names. They must have left with the other early birds. I felt a pang of longing for the opportunity to hash over the murder with my sister.

I paused, puzzled. Why had Libby and her husband been invited? Oh, yes, Ralph served on one of the newspaper's advisory boards. They must have driven directly from Mick's Muscle Cars to the party. Ralph had been dressed in his uniform as if prepared to attend a big event, and Libby must have exchanged her bandanna for jewelry.

Until that moment, I'd forgotten about the bag from Libby. With the laptop screen still shining at me, I kicked off my shoes and pulled the canvas bag towards me across the kitchen table. Usually I looked forward to Libby's offerings. She made a production out of selling each book with gushing reviews. Opening the bag without her there to tell me what she'd brought made me feel oddly frustrated.

Inside was not a book.

I unwrapped the pillowcase that enfolded the object. Then I sat staring at it.

It was an ancient leather folio with heavy metal hinges and a decorated clasp. It weighed as much as a five-pound bag of sugar and the leather was crumbling.

A folded note fluttered out and fell to the floor. I put down the folio and picked up the note. Unfolding it, I saw my sister Libby's handwriting.

"This came from Rory," she had written. "Can you return it without letting anyone know? It's important, please. Libby."

What the hell? I stared at the note. That's all she had to say to me?

I opened the folio and stared at the work of art painted on the first page of thick, dry paper. It was Asian, no doubt, with human figures contorted in a sexual act. The eroticism hit me in the stomach.

Erotic art. Part of Rory's collection.

What was Libby doing with it?

Hands suddenly unsteady, I put the first page on the kitchen table and began to look through the other drawings. The pictures were luminous, expertly drawn and lovingly enhanced with the lightest touches of paint. They were profoundly beautiful. Naughty, yes, but so exquisitely rendered that I knew I was looking at the work of a gifted artist. Candlelight glowed on the upturned buttocks of a laughing young girl. Her pigtailed companion glistened with the perspiration and exhilaration of a heightened sexual moment. The threesome in the next drawing seemed to shout with breathless abandon. Yet there was wit, too, in details like the little pug-faced dog that peeped laughingly from behind a curtain at a pair who coupled like animals on a silk cushion. Their skin gleamed with the sheen of pearls and their expressions were voracious, but the dog wore the most lascivious of grins.

"My goodness," I said, transfixed.

I was struck by the blending of eroticism—both playful and dark—and the artist's amazing command of technique in depicting the details of each encounter. As I lifted one page after another, I counted dozens of drawings, yet each picture seemed to discover some small nuance not manifested in the ones that came before. The artist conveyed an unashamed fascination with all things sexual, a sense of adventure and sport. Of fun. It was impossible to look at them without smiling.

Each of the drawings was accompanied by a paragraph of faded, feathered script in traditional Chinese characters. I bent closer to read them. I had suffered through a long and difficult year of modern Chinese in college in which we'd skimmed over the basics of the ancient version of the language. I recognized some
of the old radicals. I would need some review and further study before I could accurately decipher the text. I knew the folio was centuries old.

It was a masterpiece.

My hands shook harder then ever.

I couldn't imagine why in the world Libby would send such a thing around New Hope in Emma's truck, wrapped in a canvas bag. What was she thinking? And why did she want me to return it?

I checked my watch. It was after midnight—too late to phone Libby's house.

How in the world did Libby imagine I was going to return something to Rory's house, which was now completely sealed off as a crime scene? And why the big secret?

I looked at the pictures again. I could understand why Rory enjoyed the blend of delicate beauty and witty sexuality. He'd led a secret life. Viagra and now this.

I smiled. Then started to laugh.

I found myself carrying the folio to bed with me. Maybe there were parts of my life I wanted to keep to myself, too. But just because other people didn't see them didn't mean they didn't exist. In bed, I spent another hour looking at the drawings on those enticing pages.

I didn't often miss my husband anymore. Nearly two years had passed since I'd become a widow. Kind friends, including Rory, had pulled me out of the long slough of depression that followed Todd's death. But looking at those pictures in my bed that night, I felt more alone than I had in a long time.

Maybe Todd hadn't been much of a husband, and maybe his murder at the hands of his cocaine dealer
was his just desserts according to certain moralists. But I had loved him despite his weaknesses. For better or for worse, we'd said. I'd meant it.