Some Like It Lethal (30 page)

"I believe she did, yes. And a movie star was sitting next to you."

"Vivien Leigh. That was years earlier. She offered me a Benzedrine. God, look at this food! It cost us ten thousand dollars apiece to walk into this room tonight, and all they've got is leftovers from the lunch special downstairs. Christ on a crutch, is that macaroni and cheese?"

"I don't know." I looked at the forlorn display of easily digestible fare. "Do you want me to try some?"

"God, no, why risk being poisoned? They never keep these steam trays hot enough, and someday some old fossil is going to keel over from botulism. Knowing the management of this dump, they'll blame it on a heart attack. Tell me what you're doing these days, dear. My son says you got a newspaper job. Are you using Rosalind Russell as your role model?"

"No, I'm just winging it."

"Well, I'm sure you're good at your work. You're not talking to rapists and pornographers, are you? No? Well, that's disappointing. What do you do, exactly?"

"I'm helping Kitty Keough. Right now, we're trying to cover all the Christmas parties."

"Kitty Keough. Is that bimbo still sucking up to any breathing man with a big portfolio?"

"Well . . ."

Dotty cackled. "Come clean! She always had an eye for the single men with money. Who's she chasing now? I have no pleasure left in life except good gossip. So tell me. Who is Kitty's victim?"

"Tottie Boarman," I admitted. "But you didn't hear it from me."

"Tottie Boarman!" Dottie scoffed. "That old softie! I had a little fling with him myself, you know."

"You? Dotty!"

I was floored and must have looked it, because she laughed. "Help me over to that settee and I'll give you all the gruesome details. I was tarty in my younger days, you know. And he didn't seem to mind that I was a few years' more experienced than he was. He didn't mind a bit, in fact."

"How in the world were you attracted to a man like Tottie?"

"Oh, don't let appearances fool you, Nora. He might act as if he's got a swarm of bees in his boxer shorts, but he's as sweet as pie underneath."

"Are we talking about the same man?"

Dotty flumped down onto the settee. "Oh, he was a randy rascal in his youth. Quite the lady's man. Very handsome, but rather sweet, really. Shy, if you can believe it."

"Sounds as if you know Tottie very well. And I haven't known him at all."

"Oh, ancient history is dull as beans to you young folks. Tottie's known his share of ladies over the years. It's a damn shame that he's only got Kitty Keough to stand by him when he's going through this awful financial mess. He deserves better."

"Not many people would agree with you."

"Well, what do most people know?" Dotty challenged with a fiery look in her eye. "Surely nobody ever thanked him for all his good works. But Tottie hates public displays of generosity."

"I can't imagine Tottie being generous."

"No? Well, you have a limited imagination, then. Tottie's as generous as any of the old coots in this room. Maybe more so. But he never allows his name to be associated with his charitable work."

"Are you serious?"

"Of course I am. Anonymous benevolence is considered old-fashioned these days, but it's still classier than all the self-serving chest-thumping that's taken over. I hate those lists with people's names and a dollar amount beside each one. You know that new section of the children's hospital? The new section they call the Freedom Wing? Tottie gave that."

"That was a hundred million dollars at least! From Tottie? I don't believe it!"

"He wouldn't allow them to name the wing after him. But he gave the money. I know. I was on the board at the time. We were sworn to secrecy."

"Dotty," I said, looking into her keen face, "you're telling me now for a reason, aren't you?"

She smiled sweetly. "I haven't had champagne in months. I would love a glass of champagne right now." She was looking perkier by the minute and sat up straighter. "Do you suppose a little bubbly would interfere too much with my medications? Oh, what the hell. You only live once. Waiter!"

A passing waiter—at least as old as most of the guests—limped to Dotty's side and presented her with a tray full of glasses. I was afraid he'd never be able to straighten up again, but when she chose a tall flute of
gently fizzing champagne, I heard his back give a crackling noise when he straightened and hitched away from us.

When he was out of earshot, I leaned closer to my elderly companion. "Dotty, are you suggesting the
Intelligencer
reveal who donated the Freedom Wing?"

"I'm not suggesting anything." She sipped from her glass and smiled with satisfaction. "I hate to see a man go down in flames, that's all, when he's been more philanthropic than half the bums in this town."

I thought back to the moment I'd seen Tottie storm into the Koats for Kids Christmas party. He'd been furious, and I assumed he didn't like the party. But perhaps he'd simply been angry about being "outed" as the charitable sponsor of the event.

I shook my head. "Dotty, there are some strange things going on right now, but that information is certainly some of the strangest."

She grinned. "Okay, your turn. Doing anything naughty these days? Give me a vicarious thrill, would you?"

"Sorry. I'm behaving myself."

"A lovely young thing like you? Don't waste time, Nora, dear. Take my advice and grab the sexiest man you can lay your hands on and have a fling you can brag about when you're my age. Enjoy life. Before you know it, all your chances will be gone." Dotty suddenly looked her years again. She drank down the last of her champagne. "Grab life while you can, dear."

I left the party soon thereafter and went down to the street again.

"Where to?" Reed asked, holding the end of Spike's leash while the puppy tried to climb up my leg.

I wanted to go home. I wanted to stop thinking about murder and blackmail and self-serving people.

But I had miles to go before I slept, so I told Reed about our next stop and we took off for another party.

In the car, I mused about Tottie Boarman, the secret altruist. What else had I been wrong about?

Chapter 18

At midnight when I got home, there were four blinks on my answering machine. One message was from Hadley— "Call me, kitten! We'll have some eggnog!" Another from the tax man, one hang-up and one from Rawlins.

I phoned Hadley and left a message on his voice mail. He was out partying at someone else's expense, I was sure.

My nephew sounded surprisingly hesitant in his recorded message. "Uh, Aunt Nora? I need to come see you soon. Can you call me?"

It was too late to phone Libby's house, so I went to bed and lay awake for a long time. I tried to plan my next move, but my hand kept drifting to the other pillow and I ended up dreaming fitfully about Michael.

Early in the morning, Thomasina Silk arrived with a horse trailer marked with the hunt club logo, so I left my half-eaten toast, put on my parka and went outside into the wind. Barking madly, Spike ran circles around Thomasina's truck until it rumbled to a stop near the barn. I didn't hear any of the telltale signs that usually accompanied Emma's horse when he was confined to a trailer—enraged neighs, thunderous kicks and cursing human beings.

Diminutive Thomasina, dressed in breeches and a
Polartec vest, climbed down from her truck, all business. "I brought Emma's jumper," she reported, adjusting her gloves. "Have you started training that puppy yet?"

"Oh yes." I snapped my fingers authoritatively. "Spike!"

The dog ran over and discovered that because Thomasina was so small he could almost sniff her crotch. He made a valiant effort.

Humiliated, I grabbed him. "Thanks for bringing Mr. Twinkles, Thomasina. I know Emma will be relieved that he's home."

Thomasina obviously thought I was beneath contempt because she told me to stay out of the way while she set about unloading Mr. Twinkles herself. The usually rambunctious horse came down the ramp as obediently as a child who'd been promised ice cream. In my arms, Spike barked joyously to see his favorite subject of torture. Mr. Twinkles behaved himself, but when Thomasina wasn't looking, he flashed a kick in Spike's direction.

When Mr. Twinkles was safely in his paddock, I approached Thomasina. "I know you've competed against Emma for years. You must have gotten to know her pretty well."

Thomasina shoved her gloves into the pocket of her warm vest. "Sure, we've had our moments."

"She helped at your barn after your accident, if I recall."

I had her full attention then. "Yes. Emma kept my horses in good shape. I'd have sold off most of them if she hadn't continued their training."

"She's in trouble now."

Thomasina eyed me coldly. "I like Emma. And maybe I owe her a favor or two. But her life is over
if she killed Rush Strawcutter, Nora, and I can't do anything about that."

"She didn't kill Rush," I said firmly. "All we need is some proof."

Thomasina flushed, but she didn't bend. "Well, good luck," she said shortly.

Thomasina departed without another word, and I felt bitterly disappointed. "People can be jerks," I said to Spike.

While Spike and Mr. Twinkles took turns chasing each other around the paddock, I got a rake out of the barn and began collecting some of the leaves that had scattered across the lawn. The skiff of snow had melted and the work was cold, but I was glad to have something useful to do with my hands while I thought about what to do next.

Rush Strawcutter had not been murdered because he was blackmailing people. That much I now knew was true.

But a lot of other people had been terrorized by the blackmailer. Claudine Paltron, for one, had assumed her extortionist was Rush Strawcutter. Maybe others had, too. And one of them preferred to kill him than give him money.

Tottie Boarman wasn't the son of a bitch I thought he was. But could he have murdered his own son for an insurance policy that might make him solvent again? Or might Kitty Keough have done the killing on behalf of her wealthy boyfriend?

Could Claudine have whacked her former lover with a polo mallet? Or more likely, could she have sent her doltish boyfriend to do the deed?

And Gussie. Had she been more furious to learn Rush was having an affair with Emma or to suspect
that Rush would need to dip into the Strawcutter fortune to pay his blackmailer?

And I could not ignore Emma's belief that she had heard Tim Naftzinger's voice on the morning of the murder.

I heard a car in the driveway.

I went around the house and saw Hadley Pinkham's classic MG evade the potholes and roll to a stop by the backdoor. He climbed out, looking dapper, and swept his arm wide to indicate the blue tarp, the sagging fences and Spike rolling in fresh horse manure.

"My dear kitten, are you vowing to never go hungry again? This place looks ready for the carpetbaggers!"

I leaned on my rake and waited until he picked his way across the muddy lawn to me. "Is that what you're here for, Hadley? To take my plantation for the back taxes?"

"Of course not, kitten. I have my own derelict shanty to maintain. I got your message and came as soon as humanly possible. Good morning." He bent to kiss my cheek, but his scarf blew between our faces and prevented it. "How lovely you look working al fresco this morning. So this is how you keep your figure."

"Why don't you take a picture?"

He laughed handsomely. "Well, I like to think I'm even more photogenic, but after you comb your hair, perhaps—"

"Did you bring your camera?"

"You know I'm missing the photography gene. My forebears all had the eye, of course, but I am sadly—"

"You can cut the act, Hadley. I know all about your talent behind a lens."

He put his hands into the pockets of his great coat
and regarded me with an oblique sort of smile. "Talent?"

"I expected more, actually, despite your claim you're no good with gadgets. To be truthful, I'm surprised your photographs are so ordinary."

"You're angry."

"I'm more than angry, Hadley. Do you know what you've done?"

"I've survived," he said lightly. He leaned against the fence and gazed at the ruined roof of my house. "Looks as if I'm doing better than you are."

"At least I'm not screwing my friends to do it."

"Screwing? What an indelicate word, especially from you. Kitten, I didn't pick on anyone who couldn't afford my rates."

I suppressed the tremor of anger that shook my whole body. "What about me, Hadley? Does it look as if I have an extra ten grand lying around?"

"I thought you were ready to sell the grange and come back to the city where you belong, suitably enriched by the profits and willing to share a little. If you called a realtor right now, you could be moving your four-poster into a lovely condo by nightfall, and you know it. I even gave you a little extra time to consider the matter."

"I made my own decisions long ago, thank you."