How to Murder a Millionaire (18 page)

"Thanks."

"You're the talk of the newsroom."

"Is that good or bad?"

He laughed. "Very good, believe me. See you around, huh?"

"Yes, of course."

He pushed the elevator button and disappeared with a wave, leaving me alone with the cleaning crew. Around me were empty desks and blank computer screens.

My desk was tucked into a corner, wedged between that of a jolly food writer who heaped her desk with samples sent to her by cookie companies and the acerbic restaurant critic who kept her desk scrupulously neat. Getting closer, I saw mine was covered with pink message slips and a vase of cheap carnations. I flipped through the notes and found them all amusing atta-girl messages from my new colleagues. I smiled as I leafed through the memos. Maybe I was going to fit into the camaraderie of the newsroom better than I thought.

No time to really enjoy them, though. I stuffed the papers into my handbag. I needed to talk to Libby before I could gather my thoughts enough to write about the funeral. But I didn't want to make a phone call with the floor buffer roaring nearby.

Stan Rosenstatz's office was a cramped, windowless cubicle located near the cluster of desks where most senior features columnists worked. I figured I could use his telephone.

But Stan wasn't sitting behind his desk.

It was Kitty Keough.

I stopped short in the doorway.

There was no escape.

She looked up from the sheaf of papers she'd been reading on Stan's desk. A red pen was poised in the claw of her right hand. Her face registered my arrival without surprise. In the harsh fluorescent light, her skin had no color. Her black suit glittered with sequins, looking like snakeskin. Her hair spray had begun to lose its grip on the helmet of her hair, but she looked coldly in control otherwise.

"Well, hello, Sweet Knees." She put down her pen. "What brings you here tonight? Need a place to freshen up before a hot date?"

"No—"

"Come to write up the funeral? Yes, Stan told me he asked you to do it."

"I suppose," I began again, "since you were there, you'd prefer to write it yourself."

Her dark eyes radiated dislike. "You think you can do it better?"

"Of course not. I only—"

"Because you can't," she said, and picked up the papers from the desk. I could see red ink slashed through whole sentences. "Stan printed this out before he left. It's your stuff from yesterday's edition. And it sucks."

It was time for a showdown and I wasn't ready. But Kitty didn't frighten me with her nasty brand of bullying. I didn't like school-yard taunts and belittling tactics. They only made me stubborn. Evenly, I said, "I'm sorry you don't like it."

She threw down the pages. "It doesn't matter what I like. Stan says it's fine. I'm just showing him the
error of his ways. I suppose you're invited to the Treese-Kintswell wedding."

So that was it. "Yes. I'm related to the groom."

"Yes, by your sister's marriage. And I suppose you'll write up the wedding afterwards."

"If you'd like me to, of course."

"I'm not invited," she said, almost sneering. "Peach Treese made it very clear she doesn't want me there. But my readers will want to hear about it."

"I'll do the story. But I'll write it my way, Kitty. They're my family, after all."

Her face tightened. The little black feather she had worn like a pin on her lapel looked like a small dagger she could snatch off her bosom and use on an unsuspecting victim. "You don't like me, do you?"

I did not respond.

"You don't have to," she went on. "You only have to respect me. And you will. Right now, you're supposed to do what I tell you to do."

"I know."

"Stan can try making an end run around me, but it's what I say about you that counts. Now that Rory's not here to protect you."

"I'm still learning the protocol," I said. "If you'd like me to send my work to you when it's written, I'll be happy to—"

"Don't be so damn polite! That really pisses me off!"

I took a breath. "Do you want me to write up the funeral, Kitty? Or would you prefer to write it your own way?"

"Go do it," she said abruptly. "Do it now. You can use one of the computers out there." She aimed her pen at the desks outside the office. "You have ten minutes."

"I'll need some time to gather my thoughts."

"You didn't think of what you wanted to say while you were sitting in church?"

"No," I said. "I guess I was thinking about Rory."

Big mistake. Kitty stood up from the desk. "You thought about Rory," she repeated. "What did you think? About happy days gone by? The good old times? Did he bounce you on his knee when you were a little girl?"

"I don't think this discussion does either of us any good."

She cut around the desk and forced me out into the darkened newsroom. The floor buffer roared behind me, and I took comfort in that sound. It meant I wasn't alone with her.

Because the look on her face suddenly worried me. She looked capable of murder, all right.

She said, "You weren't the only one who knew Rory well. Don't go parading around here like you're the widow or the daughter or whatever the hell you were to Rory. You and your sisters—all of you practically his family while the rest of us took all the shit he dished out."

"Kitty—"

"We made this paper what it is, and he fought us every step! But somehow he managed to make us all love him for it. You think he knew anything about journalism? Let me tell you something. This paper is great in spite of Rory Pendergast. And now his stupid relatives are going to sell it out from under us! We worked our butts off while he went out and hired pretty faces with empty heads—as if people like you could learn to write by osmosis!"

Did I see tears in her eyes? From rage? Or grief?

I turned away. "I'll go write the funeral now."

"The hell you will," she shouted after me. "I've changed my mind. I'll do it myself. This is one piece that'll be done right. Now get out of here!"

I left. I tried not to run. When I reached the elevator, I hit the button hard. From across the room, Kitty watched me as the doors slid quietly toward each other. Judging by the look on her face, she wasn't finished with me.

Chapter 13

When I got into the car beside Abruzzo, he held up his newspaper. "You have a more exciting life than I figured. You're even chummy with the mayor."

The headlines were Rory and the mayor, both with photos. "I'd like to forget about my career in journalism right now, if you don't mind."

Agreeably, he folded the paper and started the car. Tuesday rush hour was long over, and we zipped out of town in light traffic while I tried to regain my wits. As the car wove across the streets and then got onto I-95, I tried to replay Kitty's crazy tirade in my mind. Exactly why had she been so furious? Was she mad at me for getting hired behind her back? At Rory for his management of the
Intelligencer!
Or because the newspaper might soon be sold and she'd lose her job? Not to mention her claim to fame?

I must have moved restlessly in my seat because Abruzzo said, "Want to tell me what happened back at the restaurant?"

"Not really, no." I rubbed my forehead.

He glanced over at me. "Indulge me for a minute. You knew that museum guy?"

"I'd just met him. Really, it was nothing."

"He seemed to think you had something that belonged to him."

"We were discussing Rory's art collection."

"That means you're still snooping around for Rory's killer."

"I'm not snooping."

"Okay," he said placidly. "I'm starting to wonder, that's all, if the murder has something to do with your sister Libby disappearing."

I said a word that didn't usually cross my lips. "What do you know about Libby?" I demanded, turning in the car's seat. "How do you know she's missing? Which she isn't, by the way."

"She isn't? Your sister Emma said you've been trying to reach her for a while. 1 call that missing."

"You're wrong," I argued, ridiculously upset all over again. "I just haven't been able to get in touch with her."

"How long have you been trying?"

"Since Saturday."

"You've talked with her husband?"

"Of course. I went over to see her, but he said she had taken the children to Sunday school. Except she didn't call me back. And," I added, more to myself, "she didn't come to the funeral today."

"So what do you think?"

I sighed and gave up trying to keep my business to myself. "I'm starting to think she's missing."

"Check with the husband again," Abruzzo advised, guiding the car off the exit ramp. "It's usually the husband."

I shook my head. "He doesn't have anything to do with it. Ralph has his peculiarities, but he's a rock. Libby, on the other hand, has been known to be an idiot from time to time."

"Un-huh," he said. "What's she done now?"

"I don't— Look, this is my business, really."

"Is she in trouble?"

"Oh, I hope so," I said fervently. "Because she deserves to be drawn and quartered for putting me through this."

"What does Emma think?"

I looked over at him. "You think her opinion counts?"

"Sure. She seems smart."

"Not to mention attractive." Tartly, I asked, "Did she seduce you?"

He smiled at the road. "She didn't have quite enough time."

I'd seen the look on Emma's face when she'd taken Abruzzo off to the Swann. I knew she wanted to find out about him. And what Emma wanted, she usually got.

"Look," he said, "I'm not interested in your sister."

"I'll tell you what I'm interested in," I said, feeling ornery. "What you and Rory argued about Friday night."

"What?"

"You phoned him. And you threatened him."

Sharp, he said, "Did your pal Detective Gloom tell you that?"

"He's not my pal, so don't try changing the subject. You lied to me."

"I didn't lie."

"You lied by omission. That's the same thing. Come clean, Michael."

It may have been my use of his first name that startled him into silence. Or maybe he was trying to figure a way to spin the truth into something he wanted me to hear. He was quiet for a long, tense moment.

At last he said, "All right. We argued about you."

"Dammit, can't you be honest with me?"

"I am being honest. We— He— Oh, hell. You weren't supposed to find out."

"About what?"

"Don't," he said, hearing the fear in my voice. "Don't be frightened. It's not bad, it's just a thing we intended to keep a secret until it all shook out."

"A secret from me?"

"Yes, it's— Well, you're going to think the worst, I suppose, and Rory's gone, so what does it matter?" Explosively, he said, "I didn't buy that ground from you. Rory did."

"Rory?"

"He knew you were in trouble when you asked him for a job. He also knew you'd never get out of the tax hole no matter how much he paid you in salary, so he came up with the idea of buying some of your farm to give you breathing room. He didn't want you to know he was bailing you out, so he put this deal together."

"What deal? I still don't understand."

"I needed a place to put the muscle cars, and you needed cash to make a payment on your taxes. And since I'd already mentioned your name to him, Rory lent me the money to buy as many acres as you'd part with. You know, like a front."

"What do you mean, you already mentioned my name to him?"

"I asked him about you. A few months ago, I was looking for a way to meet you."

"You're kidding, right?"

"Friday night I called him to say I wanted out. I didn't want you believing I had saved you from—"

"You think you saved me?" I started to laugh. "Oh, God, do you know how funny that is?"

"Why?"

"Because two minutes after I sold that land, you immediately destroyed two hundred years of— Oh, why get into that now?"

"How was I supposed to know it's practically a sacred burial ground? This is what I do—I create businesses. This was just supposed to be another one. Except it turned out to be a lousy way to start with you."

"Oh, heavens." I put my forehead against the car window.

"Listen," he said. We'd somehow driven through New Hope and only had a few more miles before reaching Blackbird Farm. "I know I came on too strong at first."

"Don't," I said.

"I'm sorry about that," he went on.

"Please don't."

He said, "Seeing you with those people at the funeral today, well, you fit in with them. Maybe you belong with them. But I get the feeling you've done your time."

"Please, please, don't."