No Way to Kill a Lady (29 page)

“And Pippi,” I cried. “You killed Pippi, too?”

“She was going to tell,” Shirley said stubbornly. “She saw me turn off the electricity, and she was running for the police.”

“So you chased her,” I said. “You chased her and killed her! And left her body in the woods?”

“I gave her a decent burial.”

“Hardly.”

I thought I'd hit her hard enough, but Shirley was tough. She launched herself at me with the whip raised, but I met her halfway. I had to drop the rake to seize her wrist. We grappled. I had a sense of Emma crawling free, but I wasn't sure. The horse swung his hindquarters at us, and I barely avoided a kick. Shirley thrust at the horse, trying to push him toward me, but I had the snapping end of the whip in my hand, and I used my leverage to yank her forward. She collided with the animal, and he knocked her down. This time she stayed there.

I'm not sure how long it took for me to regain my wits, but eventually Emma pried the whip out of my hands and pushed me to sit on a bale of hay. Libby showed up, dragging Deputy Foley. Emma sat with me, our arms tight around each other. There was a lot of shouting, including some from Shirley, who was more angry than hurt.

In a while, only slightly hampered by Libby's interference, Foley put handcuffs on Shirley.

Emma had one hand on her belly, as if holding her baby steady after a trauma, comforting and suddenly motherly.

“You okay?” I asked, fearing something was wrong. “Are you hurt?”

“We're okay. Wow,” she said with wonder in her voice. “You were like an avenging angel, Sis. Aunt Madeleine would be proud of you.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

A
t Thanksgiving, Emma burned the cranberry sauce, and she ended up popping a can-­shaped slab of cranberry-­flavored goo onto one of Aunt Madeleine's Meissen serving dishes and plunking it onto the table. “There.” She stood back to admire her handiwork. “I like the canned stuff better anyway.”

Above us on the fireplace mantel hung the portrait of Aunt Madeleine. It hadn't been restored yet, but I had wanted the painting to be with us for the holiday. I thought Madeleine's smile looked a little less secretive these days. Or maybe I simply understood her better now. I gave her a wink.

Libby fluttered into the dining room wearing a ruffled apron with the words
EAT DESSERT FIRST
embroidered on the front. “Didn't we have Thanksgiving dinner at Quintain one year? With a Lady Baltimore cake at the end?”

I got busy putting candles into Grandmama's last remaining set of silver candelabra. “I can't imagine Aunt Madeleine actually cooking anything. Did Pippi bake the cake?”

“Probably.” Libby began laying silverware at each place setting. “Pippi did all the hard work while Madeleine went to parties and had affairs and got all the glory.”

Emma sat heavily on one of the chairs at the big table and rubbed her back as if it ached. She was due to deliver her baby in just a few more weeks and had finally started to slow down. “I don't know. In the end, Pippi died fast, while Madeleine lingered a long time in that elevator. I might have picked Pippi's final moment.”

“Maybe we could save this discussion until after dinner,” I suggested. I pointed at Libby's daughter, Lucy, who was carefully folding napkins into fans. “When there aren't so many big ears around.”

“My children have heard everything,” Libby said. “Let me warn you now, Nora. There are going to be lots of uncomfortable questions during dinner. Like why you clobbered Shirley van Vincent. And how come their cousin Sutherland has his picture on CNN. And they're dying to know if we're all going to be millionaires.”

We hadn't received anything yet, except that my sisters and I were each wearing one of Madeleine's beautiful diamond rings. After several heated discussions, Libby and Emma had decided to sell theirs. Libby wanted to invest in gym sessions for her baby son, and Emma—­although she'd agreed to have her coming medical expenses paid by Hart Jones and his soon-­to-­be wife—­wanted to sock away some money for future rainy days.

I wasn't sure I wanted to part with a final keepsake from Aunt Madeleine. Of course, I'd packed up some of the dishes and photographs and brought them to Blackbird Farm to remember her by. In one of her desk drawers, I had been delighted to find her set of Russian nesting dolls. For our Thanksgiving table, I had managed to incorporate them into a centerpiece that brought back memories. I found myself smiling at them.

But I said, “I doubt we'll be millionaires. Yesterday I met with the partners at Simon Groatley's law firm. Although he embezzled most of her investments over the last twenty years, he made it appear to his partners as if he was acting under Madeleine's orders. It'll take a while to sort that out. But there's very little cash left. We'll have to sue the firm, I suppose, but just thinking about that makes me weary. And there's not much left but Quintain itself.”

“That's all we need in this family,” Emma groaned. “Another old house to keep standing.”

I sighed at the seemingly insurmountable trouble of maintaining Quintain. “The only people who might have been interested in buying the old place were the van Vincents. But with Vincente so ill and Shirley going to stand trial for Madeleine's murder—­once they figure out the statute of limitations, that is—­we don't have many other buyers lining up.”

“What about the dog club?” Libby suggested. “All those fellows who train spaniels. Wouldn't they like to own a piece of property like Quintain?”

“I'm sure they'd like the land,” Emma said. “But who'd want that horrible ruin of a house?”

“Who indeed?” I said, unable to hide my dismay.

Libby gave me a pat as she brushed past me to continue setting the table.

“Why did Simon Groatley want Aunt Madeleine's ledger?” Emma idly picked up a soup spoon and looked at her upside-­down reflection in it. “I must have missed that detail.”

“Groatley thought the book had something to do with Madeleine's investments. Since he was stealing those, he didn't want any evidence around that might incriminate him.”

“How did he know you had it, Nora?”

“At the hospital gala, he asked Shirley if she'd seen anyone try to break into Quintain. She told him she'd seen police lights the night I went into the house, and since Emma was found on the property, he put two and two together.”

“And he asked Foley to get it for him?”

“Yes. Deputy Foley thought he was acting on some kind of court order, so he complied with Groatley's request and took the ledger out of my kitchen. He was shocked and very apologetic to learn he'd contributed to a crime.”

Libby said, “He's so sweet! Isn't he sweet? He'd like to make it up to us, did I tell you that? Repaying us for any inconvenience he might have caused. I think that's really sweet.”

“Yeah,” Emma said. “How's he going to repay us? By bringing you ice cream sundaes for the next few months? Until you get enough of his sweetness?”

“Em,” I said, still conscious of Lucy sitting nearby. Even though she frowned with concentration as she folded the napkins, I feared she was absorbing every detail. “Let Libby enjoy her fling.”

At that moment, my teenage nephew Rawlins bounded into the dining room, flushed and breathless but smiling. “Aunt Nora! Mick says the pheasant is almost fried!”

Libby groaned. “When did we stoop to deep-­frying our Thanksgiving dinner? That's what I want to know. What becomes of long-­standing family traditions if we let this kind of thing slip past us? It's as if we suddenly moved to a trailer park.”

“A trailer park might be a nice upgrade,” I said. “Besides, I have two other pheasants in the oven, and Michael's doing something with a duck, too. It's a fun change of pace, that's all. Something new to try. Go check your green bean casserole. Emma, you're in charge of mashing the potatoes, so get started. Come on, Rawlins. Show me to the fryer.”

Rawlins wrapped one long arm around my neck and led me through the deliciously fragrant kitchen to the back door. We stepped out into the crisp, chilly air together. On the driveway, Michael had set up his dubious culinary experiment, and the deep fryer was cheerfully burbling a richly scented steam all over the backyard. Nearby, vigilant Ralphie sat hopefully sniffing the air. Once again, he had escaped his new quarters.

“Michael,” I called, “did you let your pig out again?”

Michael turned from the basketball hoop where he'd been trying to outmaneuver Carrie. While he was distracted, she stole the ball from him, whirled gracefully and sank a two-­pointer. Libby's twins cheered and high-­fived Carrie. Since the twins had discovered she was actually trained to carry firearms and knew about all kinds of weaponry, she had become the new object of their morbid fascination.

“Way to go, Carrie!” the twins shouted.

Michael grinned and shook his head, then said something over his shoulder to his daughter before ambling in my direction. “Ralphie's not doing any harm, is he?”

“What if he knocks over that fryer?” I asked. “He'll get burned. Or maybe that's one way to get some bacon for breakfast?”

Michael wound his arm around my waist and pulled me close. “You don't really want anything bad to happen to Ralphie. Admit it. You're getting fond of him, too, aren't you?”

“I have a thing for bad boys.”

Laughing, Michael swooped in to kiss me. In a moment, I was kissing him back, feeling very happy to have his full concentration again. Over the last couple of weeks, he'd made progress with Abruzzo family business, and he'd reached an uneasy but satisfying understanding with Carrie, too.

The noise of an arriving car pulled us apart, and together we looked around to see Deputy Foley pull up in front of the deep fryer. He climbed out of his cruiser and met us halfway across the lawn.

“Hello,” I said. “You're just in time for dinner. The whole family's here, and we certainly have room for one more.”

Deputy Foley shot a frightened glance at the house, which I interpreted to mean he hadn't expected to encounter my sister Libby while making this call. He took off his hat. “Actually, I'm on duty. And I'm sorry to bother you on a holiday. I'm especially sorry to have bad news.”

“Bad news?” I reached for Michael's hand, and he took it.

With a pained expression, Foley said, “Yes, Miss Blackbird, we've had a bad fire this afternoon. Your aunt's house—­the big castle? It burned up. Down to the ground.”

I gave a cry of dismay. “No! I can't believe it! What happened?”

Foley shook his head. “We can't explain it yet. But the fire chief has called the arson squad. He said it looked to him as if somebody set a sophisticated kind of fuse. The interior rooms burned for a long time before anyone saw any smoke. I'm afraid the place is a total loss.”

“Wow,” Michael said. “Good thing you got out all the things you really wanted. And the insurance bill got paid.”

Foley shot him a look. “Good timing.”

“Arson!” I said. “Who on earth would want to burn down Quintain?”

Foley said, “Somebody who wanted to do you a favor, I guess. The place was only going to be a headache for you, right?”

“Well, it wasn't going to be easy to take care of the old place, but— Look, you're not suggesting we had anything to do with the fire?”

“No, no. Chief said it had to have been set by a real expert. Somebody who really knew what he was doing.”

At that moment, I realized I hadn't seen Michael's bodyguard Bruno in a long time.

But Michael was saying in a friendly voice, “Thanks for bringing us the news, Deputy. Sure we can't convince you to stick around? Dinner's about ready.”

Foley looked torn. The fragrance of pheasant had tantalized his nose. “Well . . .”

Libby chose that moment to come out onto the porch in all her glory. “Deputy Foley!” she sang merrily. “How nice to see you!”

Emma stepped out on the porch, too. Her huge belly looked like a cautionary tale.

Foley put his hat back on. “Gotta go.”

He bolted for the cruiser, and I could feel Michael holding back laughter.

“I don't want to know,” I said to him. “Do I?”

“No,” he said. His phone rang in his pocket at that moment, and he pulled it out. He glanced at the ID, then gave me a knowing look before he answered. “Yeah?”

The call was a long-­distance one, I guessed, because he plugged his other ear to hear better. To his caller, he said in his most authoritative voice, “She's safe? In Turkey?”

I clasped Michael's arm, my hopes lifting. For days, he had been talking to one of his conspirators in the car transportation business, and I knew there had been a shipment of American SUVs going into Syria.

“Okay,” Michael said, sounding very much like the boss of all bosses. “Put her on a plane.”

He didn't say thank you, but clicked the phone shut.

“Oh, Michael. You did it? Got Zareen Aboudi's sister out of Syria?”

“I cashed in a few favors. Maybe made a deal I'll regret later,” Michael admitted. “Looks like we might have to ship some Mustangs to Eastern Europe in January. But, yeah. She's on her way.”

I threw my arms around his neck. “You're wonderful! Thank you!”

“I never thought you'd actually be happy about stuff like this,” he said, taking full advantage of my exuberant reaction.

I hugged him with delight. I'd decided to take a lesson from Aunt Madeleine's life and break a few rules to get important things done. “I'm overjoyed. And maybe your contacts will be satisfied that they've done a good deed. I should send them a nice note.”

He laughed. “You don't know those guys. Even a nice thank-­you card from you isn't going to cut it. But I'll think of something.”

“Michael, this feels wonderful.” I looked up into his face. “I'm so glad we were able to do this. I love you.”

“I love you. And I'm happy you're happy,” he said, and kissed me.

Rawlins had gone to the fryer and was tentatively poking the bird. Carrie and the twins stood nearby, making gagging noises—­an indication that it was time for Michael to quit with the mushy stuff and get back to his culinary duties.

He took my hand, and we started to walk across the lawn together. He said, “I had a chance to read the letter Lexie sent to you. She sounds pretty good, don't you think?”

“No, but it could be worse.” I had been thrilled to finally receive a communication from my friend. My daily notes to her had broken the dam, and she had responded with a short but heartfelt letter to me. “At least she has agreed I can come visit on Wednesdays. I'll be glad to see her face-­to-­face.”

“It's good to hear she fired her lawyers and hired mine for her appeal. Things are looking up for her, Nora.”

“I hope so,” I said. “I miss her.”

“I know,” Michael said. He stopped on the driveway, and Ralphie trotted up to his side. As Michael pulled on his heavy oven mitts in preparation for taking our Thanksgiving dinner out of the fryer, he said, “Y'know, we've got a lot to be thankful for.”

And maybe more to come.

Ralphie looked up and gave me a wink.