No Way to Kill a Lady (26 page)

The two of them bent their heads close to the computer screen as I slipped out.

I hiked a few blocks north toward Society Hill, a quaint Philadelphia neighborhood of old houses that had been beautifully preserved. The cobblestone streets, the brick homes with glossy black shutters and the handsome streetlamps that punctuated each picturesque block added up to a charming part of town that teemed with some of the city's most influential citizens.

I passed a retired senator walking a pair of Labrador retrievers, and he gave me a friendly nod. A block later, two teenage girls—­daughters of a former colleague of my late husband—­were giggling too intently over a cell phone to notice me.

At last I reached the address of an old friend. Two burly gentlemen stood on the corner beside a large black vehicle containing a police dog. Two more men had taken positions on Marcella's front porch, pretending to look nonchalant. Hard to do with earpieces and little wires going down the backs of their muscled necks. I wasn't surprised to see them. I had prayed I might find someone at the house who could help me now.

I approached them as nonthreateningly as I could manage. “Hello. I wonder if I could see Marcella this morning?”

The two Secret Service agents gave me a brief inspection before one put a finger to his earpiece and turned away to speak. The second came down the stone steps.

When we were eye to eye, he said pleasantly, “Are you expected, miss?”

“No, just dropping in. I'm a friend of Marcella's. My name is Nora Blackbird.”

He patted me down while his colleague relayed my name into the house, and a couple of minutes later I was ushered through the front door.

In the entry hall, I paused beside a grandfather clock that tolled as if announcing my arrival.

Marcella Jaffe came down the staircase, slim and elegant in jeans and a deceptively simple pullover sweater, no jewelry but diamond stud earrings. Her long, mahogany brown hair was expertly cut to emphasize her dark eyes and lush mouth. “Nora! What a nice surprise! Just in time for brunch.”

I gave her a kiss. “You're so sweet to make me feel welcome when I'm barging in on Sunday morning.”

“Nonsense. You never barge.”

Marcella—­who had graduated with me from Barnard and had been my travel buddy the semester I went to China—­was the second wife of Paul Jaffe, the renowned foreign policy wonk who often appeared on Sunday-­morning television programs to make in-­depth pronouncements about current world affairs. Paul had retired from teaching many years ago, but was frequently called upon by various presidents to help shape White House opinions on foreign policy subjects. Marcella kept his house beautifully and had given him a second family of children—­two of whom could be heard banging on a piano and singing in a distant room.

Marcella had other talents, of course. She had written a book about Chinese culture, and was doing research for a second. And Paul needed a savvy, cultured woman to keep his complicated life organized. They made a good team.

Affectionately, Marcella hooked her arm through mine and pulled me toward the back of the house, where I knew the kitchen lay. The house was small, but grand with antiques and good paintings on the walls. A jumble of children's shoes cluttered the floor, though, dispelling any pretense of formality, and I saw finger-­painted pictures stuck to the refrigerator with funny magnets. Most of all, books were everywhere—­on shelves, on tables, even piled on the floor beside a dog's pillow. Just looking at Marcella's imperfect but cozy home, I realized how far my sister Emma was from this level of parenting. For Marcella, mothering came naturally. I doubted Em's instincts were anywhere close.

Marcella said, “I heard about your aunt. What a tragedy, Nora. Paul says she was a gallant old girl.”

“I'm so glad to hear he knew her. Actually, I was hoping I might talk to Paul about Madeleine.”

“Oh, I'm so sorry, Nora.” Marcella gave me a squeeze. “He's doing
Meet the Press
this morning. He took the train bright and early, and I think he's planning on having lunch after the show with some of those shouty people he enjoys so much. He won't be back until late tonight.”

“There was only a fifty-­fifty chance he'd be home. But I'd have called ahead if he was the only person I wanted to see.” I smiled at my friend. “You look great. Life must be good.”

Marcella grinned. “It's great, if you don't mind heaps of dirty laundry and the occasional pizza for dinner. We're just back from a week in the Caribbean. Paul has needed a getaway for months, and I finally insisted. My mom came to stay with the kids, and they had a ball.” Marcella paused in the cluttered, fragrant kitchen. “Maybe there's somebody else here who can help you, Nora. But you've already guessed that, haven't you? The security detail outside is hard to ignore.”

With a secretive smile, she led me to the doorway of a small sunroom, where a fire crackled in the fireplace and the big windows revealed a backyard garden with leafless maple trees and a swingset. The sunroom was crowded with comfy furniture.

On an overstuffed, flowered sofa, with her slippered feet on a hassock and the pages of the
New York Times
scattered around her, sat the former secretary of state. She wore sweats and a zippered velour jacket—­the very kind Libby wore when she wanted to be comfortable. No makeup, hair combed but not styled. Her coiffure was grayer than when she'd served her country, but she looked just as vital as when she'd jetted around the world. She looked up with a smile and took off her reading glasses. The Jaffe family beagle snoozed beside her chair.

Marcella introduced me, saying graciously, “This is one of my dearest friends, Nora Blackbird.”

“I remember you,” she said. “We met at the Arab-­American dinner Thursday evening.”

“Yes, we did, but I'm amazed you remember me.”

She didn't get up when we shook hands, but remained relaxed on the sofa. “We talked about your aunt, Madeleine Blackbird. Did I give you my condolences? Sometimes I get rattled in receiving lines. There's always so much going on. I try to mind my manners, but it's a challenge.”

“Yes, you did. Thank you.”

Marcella gave me a gentle push toward a green-­striped armchair. “Sit down, Nora. Maybe she'll tell you about the project she's working on with Paul. A paper for the UN. Would either of you ladies care for coffee?”

“A refill for me, please.” The illustrious houseguest handed her cup to Marcella.

“No, thank you,” I said. I wasn't sure I could hold a cup and still talk sensibly to a woman I admired so greatly.

Marcella left us alone, and I found myself with a woman who had been one of the most powerful diplomats in the world.

Recognizing that the conversational ball was in my court, I said, “Actually, I read somewhere that you were working with Paul these days. Since you were in town for the dinner two nights ago, I was hoping I might find you here.”

She smiled. “Is this an ambush?”

“Maybe a little one. After the dinner, you said nice things about my aunt.”

She leaned back into the cushions of the sofa, but her gaze remained keen on me. I could see why presidents of rogue nations paid attention when she came to call. She had a manner that was both steely and motherly. “I meant what I said, you know. About someone writing a book about Madeleine. But I realized afterward that such a book might compromise national security. Even now, what Madeleine pulled off might not make everybody happy.”

“You'll have to excuse my ignorance,” I said. “You see, Madeleine didn't talk about her travels. We're left piecing together her life.”

“What kind of pieces did she leave behind?”

“Not much,” I admitted. “She collected art and objects from all over the world, so we can see where she went. But as far as I know, she didn't leave any letters or diaries.”

“That's a shame. But probably wise. In my career, I had to leave a paper trail big enough to fill a library. Madeleine's work was different, though. What she accomplished was behind the scenes, sometimes above the law.”

Surprised, I said, “Above the law?”

“I can't confirm or deny,” she said with a wry smile. “Let me assure you that the Madcap Maddy name was a smokescreen. Madeleine accomplished a lot. But not always with the approval of governments or authorities.”

“I know she helped a ballerina defect from the Soviet Union.”

“Yes, I remember that. Did you know about the time she spent time in Kenya? She found a village where the women had to walk for miles to carry water for drinking and bathing. Along the route, they risked injury from wild animals, but also sexual assault and worse. So Madeleine raised the money and had a well dug right in the center of the village. That's the sort of thing that changes lives in a big way. But she had to fight the local government, bullying officials—­the works.”

“That doesn't sound like a matter of national security though.”

“Not that, no. There were other incidents earlier—­long before I accepted my job.” She rested her head on the sofa, then looked up at the ceiling and sighed. “Things were so much easier during the Cold War. We knew our enemies, and we built walls to keep them contained. But . . . Madeleine was the kind of woman who traveled in sophisticated social circles. Her calling card got her into places my counterpart could never have gone. Parties with powerful people, country weekends with world leaders who would never have agreed to official meetings with our government. She used her social position to get things done. The Berlin Wall didn't fall in a day, you know. It took a lot of people like Madeleine chipping away at it for years.”

“Pippi,” I said, half to myself.

“What's that?”

“Aunt Madeleine helped a woman out of Russia—­the daughter of a scientist who'd come here to the States.”

“Oh, yes, I remember reading something about that when I was first briefed at State.” She made a steeple with her fingers. “As I recall, Madeleine went to a swanky party in St. Petersburg—­Leningrad then—­and sneaked the girl out while the vodka was passed around. While sailing the Gulf of Finland they were detected by Soviet submarines and barely reached Stockholm alive. At least, that's what dispatches said. It would make a great movie. Think Meryl Streep would want to play Madeleine?”

I smiled at the twinkle in her eyes. “You make my aunt sound captivating.”

“She was definitely captivating. Pippi was one of many people Madeleine helped.”

“But now Madeleine is dead,” I said, sobering. “And we'd like to understand why.”

“I thought she was trapped in an elevator and died.”

I couldn't contain my surprise. “How did you know that? The police haven't announced—­”

She winked. “Even an old broad like me is kept in the loop. I hear a lot of things I'm probably not supposed to.”

I had just been thinking she exuded the vitality of a much younger woman. She was a broad, all right—­in the best sense of the term. But old? Hardly. Perhaps it was her engagement with important international matters that kept her going.

Suddenly I was swamped by the thought that Madeleine was going to miss equally exciting golden years.

My companion's self-­deprecating smile faded. “You're thinking Madeleine was murdered, aren't you?”

I took a deep breath to steady my emotions. “There's a chance she could have been accidentally trapped in the elevator, but we don't think so. You see, someone tried to cover up her death. To make us believe she was still alive.”

“The police are investigating?”

“Yes.” Briefly, I told her about the discussion I'd had with the state police who'd come to my kitchen. “They're not publicly divulging information yet.”

She nodded pensively. “It's probably wise to keep things hushed up for a while.”

Deciding to take a chance, I said, “Madeleine may have been taken advantage of by someone she trusted. A lawyer. And maybe he killed her. But—­well, do you think there might be someone else from her past—­her past work in foreign countries, that is—­who might have wished her dead?”

“Her most controversial work was a long time ago, Nora. Let me think.” The secretary pursed her mouth and looked into the distance for a long moment. “I'll have to mull over what people she might have come in contact with. Do you know of anyone from the diplomatic corps? Someone who continued to stay in contact with her?”

“I'm ashamed to admit how clueless I am about Madeleine's life. For certain, I only know about Vincente van Vincent. He retired to an estate adjacent to Madeleine's home.”

“Vinnie? Didn't he have an affair with her, way back when?”

“His wife denies it.”

“Why would he choose to live adjacent to Madeleine's home if there wasn't something else going on? Anyway, he's probably no help. He's dead by now, surely.”

“No, but he lives in a nursing home. Alzheimer's.”

She shook her head in sympathy. “How was his health at the time Madeleine died?”

“I'll have to find out.”

“I'll see what I can learn, too.”

I sat forward in my chair. “There's another thing I can't figure out, and it seems important. Aunt Madeleine kept a ledger—­a book that listed a series of transactions. It looks as if she was taking money from people. Increments of ten thousand dollars, usually. Sometimes more, sometimes a little less. And she wanted the ledger to be destroyed after her death. Can you guess why she accepted money?”

“Transactions?” The secretary frowned and lightly tapped her fingertips against her upper lip as she considered the question. “It could be that she was accepting monetary help from friends to do her work. Moving people around the world—­especially people whose countries want them back—­can be an expensive proposition. Keeping them safe, keeping them out of sight—­that's not easy. It means using extraordinary modes of travel, secure hotels, sometimes private homes, too, of course, but keeping people quiet also comes at a price. In some countries, she'd have spent a lot of money in—­well, bribes. That can get cost-­prohibitive very fast.”