How to Murder a Millionaire (9 page)

The Delaware hadn't seen much action since George Washington gathered up his beleaguered army on Christmas day and crossed over to New Jersey, there to march on Trenton where the Hessian army lay. At least two Blackbird men had gone on that adventure, and family lore had it that one spunky daughter had climbed into breeches and tagged along.

As the morning sunshine brightened, I could see the New Jersey side of the Delaware on my left. On my right I soon began to pass hills that concealed vast neighborhoods of newly built tract houses—all as big as palaces, it seemed, but covered in vinyl siding. Every time I ventured south from Blackbird Farm, those serpentine cul-de-sacs seemed to wind deeper into historic farmlands. Suburbia sprawled farther and farther into Bucks County each week.

Libby was on the right track, I thought. A few protests wouldn't hurt.

I pedaled into New Hope some time later, breathing hard but feeling pleasantly revived in spirit. I passed a line of Victorian houses gaily decorated for spring beneath a canopy of leafy trees. Angelina's restaurant appeared, and I noted a good crowd of cars already parked in the side lot. The Saturday brunch patrons spilled out onto the porch. A couple of art galleries
stood alongside an antiques shop. Next came the Delaware Fly-Fishing Company with its tattoo parlor on the second floor. I knew Michael Abruzzo ran the flyfishing business and wondered if the tattoo parlor was his, too. Which got me wondering where, exactly, he might have his own tattoo.

I shoved that thought firmly out of my head and guided my bicycle to the post office to mail my note to Peach.

Then I rode down a side street to the Episcopal church. Too broke to afford the local health club, I'd found a cheap alternative among the Episcopalians. I dug a lock out of my backpack and locked the bike to the rack outside the entrance to the social hall. Moments later, I was inside the stairwell and trotting down to the multipurpose room.

"Nora!" Eli called. "You're back!"

After the yoga class filled up, I had joined the Saturday morning exercise class at the church. Except it had turned out to be a self-defense class on steroids. Our instructor was Eli—no last name ever mentioned—recently discharged from the Israeli army and delighted to find himself instructing New Hope housewives in the techniques of Mideast commandos.

He left the group of women warming up in the middle of the open floor and came over to greet me.

"Of course I'm back," I said with a grin. "You didn't think I'd cake out after two classes, did you?"

"Marcie did not return," Eli said woefully. His English was carefully enunciated. "Do you think it was the body slam I demonstrated with her?"

"Maybe she's just late," I suggested, peeling off my windbreaker.

"I will be more gentle today," he promised. "I think Israeli women are stronger, maybe. Not so delicate."

"Oh, come now, Eli. Do your worst!"

"Not to you, Nora," he said, shocked. "You are the most delicate of all."

"That does it," I said, annoyed at being thought a weakling by too many people in less than twelve hours. "Let's get started."

It felt great to throw punches and kick would-be assassins. I pounded the floor and shouted my lungs out with everyone else. I laughed with my partner, Denise Trebicki, a third-grade teacher with a barbed sense of humor and a wicked left jab. Eli provided us with six-foot bamboo poles that we clashed and parried with, playing Robin Hood with gusto. The exercise felt cleansing and energizing.

When the class was over an hour later, I definitely needed a quick shower in the church's tiny locker room. Half of the class disappeared to the parking lot while the rest of us guzzled from water bottles as we took turns in the shower and freshened up.

"Want to grab some lunch?" I asked Denise when we were both combing our hair in front of the mirror.

"I wish I could," she said. "But my daughter's got a T-ball game. Maybe next week?"

"Great."

"You were red-hot today, Nora," she added, going out the door. "You gave Eli a workout."

I drank the rest of my water and took my bicycle over to Angelina's in search of food. The brunch crowd had thinned, and the lunch patrons hadn't arrived yet. I headed to the casual side of the restaurant with its counter service and Formica-topped tables and surveyed the damage the early birds had done to the pastry case. A sole chocolate pecan muffin stood forlornly on a plate and called my name. Feeling virtuous after my workout, I splurged on a caramel mocha latte, too. Comfort food, I told myself.

I took my snack to the next room, winding through the clutter of antiques on sale. Angelina ran a consignment shop in her casual dining room, and every horizontal surface was lined with Depression glass and enough salt shakers to outfit a chain of pancake restaurants. It was all displayed with lengths of lace and pink satin for a frilly Victorian look.

I chose a table between the parlor fireplace and the window, perfect for admiring the view of the canal. It was still too early in the year for the throngs of New Yorkers who rushed into Bucks County on Friday evenings to stay in bed-and-breakfasts and browse the many shops and artist's studios that had sprung up in New Hope and across the river in Lambertville.

I sat down to relax. But as I took a sip of my latte, I looked up at the painting on the wall above the fireplace and nearly choked. The man in the portrait glared down at me with blue-blooded disdain burning in his gaze. I dropped my coffee cup into its saucer with a clatter and a splash.

Half afraid I might be killed by a bolt of lightning, I blotted spilled coffee before cautiously raising my gaze to the handsomely framed portrait. It was the face of Colonel Fitzwilliam Blackbird, who had fought in the Revolutionary War with General Washington, purchased a mahogany armchair from Thomas Jefferson and written scathing letters to Ben Franklin on the subject of consorting with Frenchwomen. His portrait had been done by John Hadley Marsh, the acclaimed American artist.

What in the world was the portrait doing in Angelina's consignment shop?

The steely blue eyes of my ancestor reflected a distinct  disappointment in the modern generation of
Blackbirds. Although the portrait had hung in the center hall at Blackbird Farm for my entire childhood, I had never noticed before how the artist managed to capture the white-knuckled irritation in the Colonel's aristocratic hands. Even the foxhound—his head laid devotedly on his master's knee—managed to gaze remorsefully down at me from on high. "Good grief," I muttered. "Emma must need cash."

I was ruminating on the demise of a venerable family when a voice startled me back to reality.

"Hello, big sister."

I almost lost my cup again as Emma dropped into the chair opposite mine. She looked stunning, damn her.

"What brings you out?" she asked. Opening her squashy leather bag, she rummaged around for a moment and came up with a battered pack of cigarettes. She ignored Angelina's
NO SMOKING
sign and lit up. Holly Golightly with an attitude. Her riding boots and breeches were caked with unmentionable debris, as if she'd been tossed over the head of some excitable young horse already this morning.

"What the hell," I said, "are you doing leaving this portrait in a junk shop?"

"This isn't a junk shop," she replied. "Angelina gets a lot of good trade in here." As usual, Emma dodged the point by throwing a diversion in my path.

I was not sidetracked. "You're selling a family portrait! I can't believe this."

"It's on consignment. I haven't sold it."

"Yet!"

"So?" she inquired archly.
"You
can't believe somebody else is selling stuff? Well, that's the pot calling the kettle ugly."

"This is very different, Emma. I had to pay the taxes on Blackbird Farm somehow. You don't owe a cent on your share of our dubious inheritance."

Emma flicked ashes. "My medical insurance is the pits. If you can sell the farm to the gangster, I can look for a buyer for that portrait."

Almost two years ago, Emma's husband had been killed in a car accident that also broke every bone in her left leg. The damage halted her career in Grand Prix show rings—temporarily, we hoped. I suddenly wondered if her leg was healing slowly because she couldn't afford a good doctor.

More gently, I said, "The least you could do is take it to a reputable dealer. The portrait is worth a small fortune."

"I don't think I need a family vote to make a decision about something that's mine now. Wait," she said, feigning surprise. "Where have I heard that line before? Why, I believe it was from you, Sis. And Angelina's a friend of mine. She's keeping the portrait for a few weeks until I find an art dealer to take it. She thinks somebody will come along and think they're going to make a killing by picking it up cheap. It'll create some buzz in the art world." She pointed at my muffin with the two fingers that also held her cigarette. "Are you going to eat that behemoth?"

I sat back, unable to argue with her. If a trend had started, I had been the first of my generation to besmirch the family honor. I clenched my teeth. "Help yourself."

She stubbed out her cigarette and tore into the muffin with uncharacteristic enthusiasm.

"Where have you been riding?" I asked at last.

She shrugged. "I was over at Paddy Horgan's this morning. No big deal."

"Has he hired you back?"

"He says he doesn't have room for me, but he lets me help with exercises. I know the bastard's just watching to see if my leg's strong enough."

I felt a rush of sisterly concern and tried to think of a way I could help without pissing off my touchy little sister. "What do you know about the art world?"

"About the same you know about real estate."

"I'm serious," I said. "Do you know anything about art?"

"Just that I've got a bunch of pictures I hate looking at. Except the horse portraits. I'll keep those."

"Is Angelina your only contact?"

She ceased and desisted on the muffin and looked at me. "Why are you asking?"

"Because maybe there's a better way to sell the portrait. And I need some information on an art collection. Not ours. Rory Pendergast's."

Emma put down the muffin and confiscated my napkin to wipe her fingers. "I read the paper this morning. Were you at the party?"

I nodded. "I found him."

"You—!"

"I found his body."

I'd been pretty controlled all morning, and the exercise class had felt good. But suddenly the grief washed over me again, and I saw Rory on the carpeted floor, twisted and dead.

Emma was silent for a long time, letting me pull myself together. Eventually, she said, "I'm sorry. I know you and Libby were pretty tight with him."

Underneath her armored exterior, Emma was just as softhearted as I was. And perhaps more perceptive. Of the three widowed sisters, it was Emma who still wore her wedding ring. Libby's theory was that she
wore it to keep men at a distance, but that wasn't Emma's style. I believed she wanted to keep her husband's memory alive.

She said, "Want to split a club sandwich?"

I laughed unsteadily and said yes, so she went over to the counter and placed the order. A few minutes later she returned with two glasses of iced tea.

"Tell me about it," she said.

I told her all about the party and my interview with the police. "Want to hear the strangest thing?"

"Shoot."

"I saw Rory and I saw what happened. I talked with the police for hours afterwards, and now I— Okay, I know I'm being crazy, but I want to find out who killed him."

Emma looked at me steadily.

"We knew who killed Todd," I went on. "His drug dealer was in jail within hours after shooting him, but this—Em, I don't want to feel the way I did after Todd died. Like I couldn't do anything but bury him. With Rory, it's as if I have a second chance."

She nodded.

"And one person I know I can do something for is Peach. The police seem to be looking for ways to blame her. She was the last person to see him alive and she admits they argued."

Emma gave a snort to indicate how stupid that premise was. "What are you going to do?"

"I thought I'd find out about Rory's art collection first."

"I don't get it."

"Maybe that's why he was killed. His paintings were all over the place. A van Gogh right there in his bedroom! Maybe somebody tried to steal something and killed him in the process."

"Is that what the police think?"

"It's one possibility. And I have to start somewhere."

Emma said, "Like where else?"

"I've been thinking about Harold Tackett. Remember him? A contemporary of Rory's. He lives just up the road from here."

"Isn't he dead?"

"Not even close. He collects all kinds of things, so maybe he can help."

"You want me to drive you up to see the Tacketts? Now?"

"You have something better to do?"

"I want my half of the sandwich first."

I smiled, glad to have one sister who could understand me. She went to the counter and picked up our food.