Some Like It Lethal (33 page)

It was not difficult to make the choice for the gala.

"That's the one," said Gabrielle.

"It's superb," Lexie declared when I stood by the windows in the last dress. "You'll look like a bride while the rest of us schlepp around in our gloomy velvets and brocades."

I tugged at the flimsy silk. "But it's—"

"Leave the tailoring to me," Gabrielle said firmly. "It will be an honor."

I telephoned Dotty Dubose immediately. She was full of laughter and glad to hear that part of her collection might go to good use.

"I chose some things I thought would flatter your lovely figure, dear. Now go out and get down!"

"Dotty, you are so very kind."

"Nonsense," she said. "Call it a thank you for planting that hint in today's paper about Tottie's hospital wing. It won't take long for people to figure out the truth, thanks to you."

"I hope it doesn't make Tottie angry."

"Everything makes that old goat angry. This will do him good."

After I gave her more profuse thanks for the vintage dresses, she added, "It's nice to see those wonderful clothes going to parties, like they were meant to. I hate shriveled rags hanging in museums! Play your cards right, dear, and I'll put you in my will. You can have them all someday."

The hairdresser swooped in to finish our hair, and Lexie and I dressed and made up our faces side by side at her bathroom mirror.

When she declared herself ready, Lexie looked gorgeous in simple black velvet with her hair pulled up and enhanced by chandelier diamond earrings.

By contrast, my white dress, hardly more than wisps of silk cut on the bias with infinitesimal upside-down pin tucks beneath my breasts, gave the impression of
clinging to my body by magic. The thin overlay of sheer white fabric over a slightly pink layer beneath created an effect as lustrous as freshly bathed bare skin. Gabrielle's adjustments fine-tuned the fit so that I was very glad I'd skipped dessert for weeks.

Perhaps I should have accepted the pearls Lexie offered me, but I had always shied away from borrowed jewelry. I liked my naked throat better tonight, anyway. To cover the red and swollen effects of Spike's bite, I slipped on a pair of over-the-elbow kid gloves.

When Reed arrived to take us to the gala, he looked at me as if he wasn't sure who I was.

He said, "Is that your nightgown?"

"It's a dress, Reed."

"Where's your coat?"

"I'm using a wrap." I held up the rectangle of perfect white cashmere. "It's warm enough. I won't be out of the car more than a few minutes."

"I wasn't thinking about the cold," he muttered.

Chapter 20

The Christmas gala was usually held in whatever location seemed the most avant-garde, the most luxurious, the place best suited for over-the-top set decoration. In recent years, the ballet's big fund-raiser had been staged at the museum, in a magnificent barn and on the stage of the symphony hall, decorated as if for a full-scale opera.

But this year, an excellent hotel had stepped forward and offered their recently refurbished ballrooms for free, and the ballet board had jumped at the gift.

The music swept up to us as soon as we entered the ornate lobby. A trio of classical Spanish guitars played intricately interwoven melodies. The gala theme was Velasquez, and we were greeted by matadors in red and black with frothy white lace at their throats. I should have guessed Lexie had insider info about the theme. Her black velvet was stunning.

The receiving line began with the executive director of the ballet company, his wife and the Zapper Czar himself, Osgood Paltron, Claudine's husband and the chairman of the ballet's fund-raising committee. In high fund-raising mode, Osgood was Prince Charming. He thanked us for coming and paid homage to Lexie as the museum's unofficial delegate to the night's revels. He pointed us toward the ballroom, where cocktails were being served before dinner.

In contrasting black and white, Lexie and I went down the grand staircase together. Below us, the growing crowd mingled festively, turning to look as each new arrival descended the marble steps. We heard cheers and applause when we started down, so we linked arms and did the royal wave to much laughter.

On the mezzanine level, we paused. The mezzanine ran around the ballroom like a balcony, with dozens of Palladian archways, each featuring a partially clothed Roman statue.

Lexie reached up and pinched the bare bottom of the nearest alabaster figure. "Let's find a drink and hang out here to gawk for a bit. Do you mind? I want to see the clothes as everyone comes down the steps."

A waiter with champagne materialized, and we lightened his load by two glasses.

From our vantage point, we snagged the most entertaining friends for quick chats and watched the parade of arriving guests—elegant women in their finest finery accompanied by affable husbands in cummerbunds and an assortment of festive neckwear. I much preferred black-tie to white-tie, since it gave the men a way to be creative.

"Hot dog," said Lexie. "Check out that babe. Looks like she sprayed herself with glue and rolled around in a pile of sequins."

"I think she's a baseball player's wife."

"And that one? Nobody her age has boobs that shape."

"She's a partner in a law firm, I believe."

"Order in the court!"

Next came a grand dame in brocade with a mink-trimmed hem and her regal husband in long tails. Both of them very chic, arty and ninety years of age.

"Nora!"

I turned and saw my college flame Flan Cooper shouldering his way through the mezzanine throng. "Flan! Merry Christmas!"

"You look like you belong on a wedding cake." He kissed my cheek and held my hand at arm's length to admire my dress. "Or one of those round honeymoon beds. You're beautiful tonight. And very, very sexy. Did you bring your boyfriend? The crime boss? I want to meet him now that he's avoided jail time."

My heart skipped. "He's avoided jail?"

"It's on the evening news. They've dropped the investigation. Guess he dodged another bullet. Is he here?"

"No," I said.

"Damn. Bring him around sometime. I'd like to meet him."

Dougie Forsythe brushed past us then and accidentally knocked shoulders with Flan. He gave Flan a nasty look before sending me a slit-eyed glare meant to intimidate.

When he walked away, Flan said, "Who's the jerk?"

"Claudine Paltron's latest," I reported. "Pay him no mind."

"Whatever. Want another drink?"

"Sure."

"I'll be back." He took my empty glass.

Thomasina Silk appeared beside me next, hardly recognizable out of her horse clothes. She wore a simple pillar of chocolate taffeta that flattered her small size and hid her bowed legs. A diamond necklace lay delicately on her collarbones. I had no idea she was so feminine underneath her barnyard persona.

We complimented each other on our dresses, then she cut to the chase.

"I've been thinking about what you said about Emma. Like you, I know she didn't kill Rush."

"All we need is some proof," I agreed.

"I thought about everything. And here's the thing." Thomasina held my gaze steadily. "I know how much Emma wants to ride the Grand Prix horses again."

"Yes . . . ?"

"So I hesitate to reveal what I know, even to you."

"Thomasina, Emma is the prime suspect in a murder case. If someone doesn't come forward with evidence to clear her name, she'll never ride any kind of horse again."

Thomasina nodded shortly. "All right, here goes. She hasn't recovered from the broken arm she had over the summer."

"What?"

"She tries to conceal the extent of her injury so everybody will think she's fit enough to ride, but I can see it plain as day. She can't lift that arm over her shoulder. There's no way she could swing a polo mallet hard enough to hurt a flea, let alone a tall, able-bodied man like Rush."

"Are you sure? Thomasina, this is important."

"My horses are important, too. And there's no way I'd trust Emma on a single one. Not now, anyway. She's not strong enough to manage them."

"Have you talked to her about it? Can you be certain—"

"I don't have to talk to her, I can see it clearly. Besides, you know how touchy she is."

"Somebody has to tell the police."

Thomasina frowned uncomfortably. "I hate to go behind Emma's back."

"There's a detective I know. I'll have him call you
tomorrow. If you tell him what you told me, Emma can come forward."

She shrugged. "Okay. I'll be in the barn first thing in the morning."

"You're a godsend, Thomasina."

She hesitated again, not ready to leave. "Look, when Emma is ready, I'll let her ride for me. When she's in top form, she's hard to beat. She'll get strong again. But she's got to stop the drinking, too."

"I know she'll appreciate that vote of confidence."

Thomasina went off into the party, and I clutched the marble balustrade to stay on my feet. The first ray of hope. I almost burst into tears right there.

I decided to find the ladies room to compose myself and threaded through the people to the edge of the ballroom. A discreet sign pointed the way, and I soon reached a carpeted hallway. A few yards further, and I entered the lavishly appointed lounge. The attendant and I exchanged smiles, and I went to the mirror to pretend to check my hair.

"Miss Blackbird?"

In the mirror, I saw Merrie Naftzinger's shining face. I turned.

"It is you," she said shyly. "You look really pretty tonight."

She was nicely dressed in a prom gown suitable for her age—a slim, high-necked, sleeveless dress that brushed the tops of her sparkly sandals. A more discerning eye might have put her into something with a bit more shape to it, so I suspected she had either chosen the dress herself or had her father's help. Her hair was wound up in a complicated do, and good drop earrings finished her look.

I said, "Honey, you're lovely tonight! What a pleasure to see you."

She smiled more gamely, and I noticed she had changed the rubber bands on her teeth to green and white for the season. "Dad brought me. It's supposed to be a big Christmas treat."

"Aren't you having a good time?"

"Oh, sure, but—well, I thought it was going to be a real ballet. I take lessons myself, you see, along with the horseback riding, and Dad thought we'd have fun seeing something besides
The Nutcracker
this year. But I guess he didn't understand this is a party, not a performance."

I laughed and hugged her shoulders. "That's a man for you! I'm sorry you're not having fun."

"Oh, it's fun," she said, clearly fibbing. "But I don't know anybody."

"Well, you can't hide in the bathroom all night. Come on, let's go find someone you can talk to."

"Is Emma here?"

I saw the hope in her eyes. "No, she isn't. Fancy parties aren't really her thing."

Merrie nodded and looked away to hide her disappointment. "They're not mine, either. But I thought she might—you know. I really like her. She's not my mom, but she's fun."

I wanted to take Merrie in my arms and hug her hard, but I knew I'd burst into tears if I did.

"My dad likes her, too," she continued. "He doesn't talk about it, but I can see that he does. Not anything lovey-dovey, you know. Friends, maybe."

I thought I had detected more than a friendly interest from Tim for my sister, but I didn't say so. Things were bad enough already.

I said, "Let's go find some young people for you. You can't hang around with the old folks all night."

She smiled again, and we went out to the ballroom.

I found Flan Cooper again almost immediately, and he reported his nephews were in the crowd somewhere. We soon had Merrie talking with some of the naughty Cooper boys—a new generation from the same hard-partying gene pool. Merrie blushed with the pleasure of their attention.

I saw Tim Naftzinger then, standing apart from the crowd, holding a glass of champagne and gazing at his daughter with an unhappy expression. He caught sight of me watching and wiped the emotion from his face.

"Hi," I said, going to him. "Merrie looks lovely tonight."

"Did she tell you what a mistake I made? Bringing her here?"

"Maybe it was serendipitous. Now that she's met some teenagers, she'll have a good time. She's a wonderful girl, Tim. So many great qualities wrapped up in one young lady."

"She's strong, too."

Although we were standing in the middle of a party, I had never seen a man look so shattered. The very essence of him had vanished and left Tim pale and uncertain—a different person from the vibrant young doctor I used to know.

I took a deep breath. "But is Merrie strong enough?" I asked. "To understand what you did?"

"No."

The party whirled around us—noise, laughter, music and the vivid, flesh-and-blood colors of Velasquez— all an incongruous maelstrom with the two us at its silent center.