Read Have Your Cake and Kill Him Too Online
Authors: Nancy Martin
Have Your Cake and Kill Him Too (16 page)
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In Rittenhouse Square, I dashed past a man who had been loitering on the sidewalk. He wasn't fooling anybody in his pink miniskirt, slingback heels and fluffy sweater. He opened the bookstore door for me.
With a polite smile, I went into Barnes & Noble, where a publisher was launching a book by a local author who had written a children's story about the history of the city. The bookstore manager had wisely invited kids from a local day care center and a lot of city dignitaries who would read aloud to them. Fruit punch and Liberty Bell-shaped cookies were served by a costumed Ben Franklin.
I wasn't a dozen steps inside the door when I heard an unladylike bellow from across the room.
“Nora!”
My best friend, Lexie Paine, vaulted a three-year-old to give me an exuberant hug. She was dagger sharp in a short-skirted Marc Jacobs business suit buttoned to her throat. Tonight her sleek black hair fell from a simple silver clip at the back of her head, and her subtle makeup was nearly invisible on her fair skin. Diamond earrings the size of shark teeth gleamed in her ears.
She linked her arm through mine and gave me a noisy kiss. “Half the mayor's staff is here, sweetie, and we're going out for a drink laterâno doubt so they can pump me for help on their latest fiscal fiasco. Want to join us?”
“Tempting,” I said on a laugh. “But reading a phone book promises more thrills than talking city budgets.”
If an American city could have royalty, Lexie would be Philadelphia's answer to every descendant of Queen Victoria. She came from the oldest of Old Money, ran a brokerage firm with the single-minded devotion of a samurai warrior and, in her spare time, supported dozens of charitable organizations around the city. Plus she remembered birthdays, sent presents for no reason and loved a good party.
“I must take my thrills where I can get them, sweetie. You look all gussied up for a night on the town. I was hoping we could gossip about the Fitch family afterwards.”
“Has there been a news bulletin I haven't heard?”
“So I was right!” Her expression glowed with interest. “You are mixed up in the murder.”
“Not mixed up,” I said.
“I can guess what that means.” Lexie grasped my elbow and guided me into the bookstore's vacant poetry section for a tête-à -tête. She lowered her voice. “Please don't tell me you're emotionally involved in this thing. Zell Orcutt wasn't worth your time when he was alive.”
“Nobody's weeping for him in the financial district?”
“Darling, we had dancing on tabletops all over the city today. Zell was universally disliked. What's your interest?”
I didn't want to suggest Delilah might be involved in Zell's murder, so I said, “I don't think Pointy Fitch killed him, do you?”
“Seems unlikely,” Lexie agreed. “But maybe Pointy got conned just like half the other millionaires in town. You waitâscads of scandals will come to light now that Zell's dead. He had plenty of real enemies.”
“Do you know of anyone in particular?”
“A dozen,” she said. “But I'm supposed to be discreet. Let me make a list and check it twice so I don't give away any state secrets. I'll call you tomorrow, okay?”
“Not at home,” I cautioned. “I'll get in touch with you.”
Lexie looked intrigued. “Someone's bugging your phone again?”
“I'm not sure.”
“I thought the whole world knew you broke up with the Abruzzo family. It's scary to think the last to learn are the boys in blue.”
I sighed. “They must be hoping I'll spill some beans.”
“Watch what you broadcast,” Lexie advised. “Or you'll find yourself testifying someday.”
“So far, the only one who's spoken into the microphone is Boykin Fitch.” I told Lexie about Boy's morning visit to my kitchen.
Her eyebrows lifted. “Boy was trying to cover for his daddy, huh? Seems a little late.”
“What do you mean?”
Lexie had her ear to the ground most of the time, and she didn't disappoint. “Do you know Kirby Donovan?”
“The guy who drives around with a Great Dane sticking its head out the sunroof of his car?”
Lexie nodded. “Kirby, the political fix-it man. Boy's office just hired him, and you know what that means. There's a tempest brewing, and the powers that be hope to keep it safely in Boy's teacup.”
“Boy has a political problem?”
“He must. Kirby is only hired when there's a mess to clean up. Nobody sweeps dirt under a rug any better.”
“Have you heard anything specific about Boy?”
“Not yet. It must be something ugly, though, if Kirby's on the case. A guy of his caliber doesn't just fix a few parking tickets.”
“So Boy has something to hide,” I murmured, thinking Cupcakes wasn't enough of a scandal to keep him from being elected. Unless there was more to the story. “What do you think it could be, Lex?”
“Money? Corruption? Sex? Could be anything.”
“Enough to kill for?”
“People have been killed for much less.”
Zell's murder was getting more and more complicated. The possibilities began to swim in my head. Or maybe I just needed some food to settle my stomach.
Lexie gave me a closer examination. “You don't look so hot, sweetie. What's up?”
I hesitated. I wanted to confide in my best friend about the coming addition to the Blackbird family, but tonight was the wrong time and place. “I'm just tired.”
“You need a vacation,” Lexie said. “Is the party circuit getting you down?”
“Things are quiet at the moment, thank heaven. I'll hit the ground running again once the flower show is over.”
Lexie continued to study my face. “In that case, what about a getaway? Isn't there somebody with a Palm Beach house you could borrow for a few days? My mother's place in San Francisco is available at the moment, if you don't mind the plane ride. Or I could checkâmaybe somebody's taking their own jet to California this weekend, and you could hitch a ride.”
“I can't miss Saturday night's museum bash, can I? No, I'm just a little tired. It's time to go home.”
A frown still puckered my friend's forehead. “Stay at my place tonight. I can have you tucked into my guest room in twenty minutes.”
I managed a smile. “You're a darling. No, Rawlins is waiting outside to drive me home. But, Lex, I really will call you. There's something I'd like to talk about.”
“You mean the museum party? I just heard that Delilah forgot to confirm the band! What's next?”
I knew Delilah had been busy with the police today, but I didn't say so. “Things will work out,” I promised. “The party will be terrific.”
“I hope you're right.” My friend gave me a quick hug. “I'll see if I can find out anything juicy about the Fitch clan. See you soon, sweetie.”
For my column, I made a quick circuit of the crowd, making mental notes about who was there. Then I grabbed a press kit from the bookstore manager and complimented her on a job well-done. She thanked me for coming and told Ben Franklin to get more cookies from the back room.
I was out on the street five minutes later and found Rawlins parked near the bookstore, talking on his cell phone. I climbed into the Mustang, yawning. Rawlins clicked his phone shut, and we headed for home. In the seat beside him, I fell asleep before we passed city hall.
I might have even started dreaming. But I awoke with a start when the car decelerated and hit a bump in the road. Thinking we had arrived at Blackbird Farm, I sat up, groggy and disoriented. A quick glance out the window told me that Rawlins had pulled over on the side of a dark stretch of empty road. My voice was scratchy with sleep. “What's up?”
“Sorry, Aunt Nora. Weâuhâran out of gas.”
I straightened up, thoroughly awake then. “What?”
“I should have filled the tank, I guess.”
“You're joking.” I tried to get a look at the gauges on the dashboard.
But Rawlins blocked my view by leaning forward to set the parking brake. “Honest mistake,” he said. “Hey, this is kinda like
Night of the Living Dead,
huh?”
Night of the Living Dead,
huh?”
We were on a deserted stretch of two-lane road I didn't recognize. At once, I began to imagine worse than marauding zombies. With a trunkload of money, we were sitting ducks.
“Rawlins, this isâ” I stopped myself from lecturing him at the wrong time. “Well, at least we have your cell phone. Who can we call? Triple A?”
“Uh, yeah, sure.”
In that moment, the headlights of another vehicle flashed through the rear window. Like a bolt of lightning, the glare lit up the interior around us.
“Let's hope this is a Good Samaritan,” I said. “Not a serial killer with a hook for a hand.”
Rawlins laughed nervously.
“Maybe it's a police car?”
“I'll check.” Rawlins popped his door and slid out of the car. “Stay here.”
“Rawlins! Get back inside!” I made a grab for his shirttail, but missed. No longer trying to stay calm for his benefit, I cried, “Get in here and lock your door! Are you crazy?”
But my nephew disobeyed. As I fumbled to unfasten my seat belt, I craned around to see the tall figure of another man get out of the other vehicle. I gasped. “Rawlins!”
They met halfway between the cars and exchanged a handshake and low-voiced greetings. A moment later, Rawlins came back to the passenger door just as I managed to thrust it open.
But it was Michael who leaned down and put his hand out to me. “Need a lift?”
The pounding of my heart turned into palpitations. “What are you doing here?”
“Coming to your rescue.”
Although I doubted I was going to be safe, I took his hand and got out of the car. “Why does it feel like kidnapping?”
“Keep your voice down. Kidnapping's a felony, and I sent my lawyers home for the night.”
He looked tall and dangerous in his leather jacket and jeans, but he was smiling. Beside him, Rawlins scuffed the toe of his shoe in the dirt and didn't meet my eye.
“Rawlins, did you really run out of gas?”
Michael went around to the rear of the car and popped the trunk.
“Rawlins?” I said sharply.
“Don't blame the kid,” Michael said. “I've been tracking down this car all day. Believe me, it was a relief to figure out who had it.”
Rawlins said, “He told me to stop on this road. He said he'll take you home.”
I shivered in the cold. “I'd rather call a taxi.”
“You'll never get one out here,” Michael called from behind the car. He hefted one suitcase out of the Mustang's trunk and dropped it on the ground, then the other. “Have you had dinner yet?”
“What about the car?” Rawlins asked him. “Should I take it back to the lot?”
I said, “It belongs to you, Rawlins. Bought and paid for.”
Michael looked amused. “Can I ask how much he paid for it?”
“No.”
“I'll give it back,” said Rawlins.
“No, you won't,” I snapped. “That car was abandoned on my property, so I had the right to sell it.”
Michael said, “Kid, it's yours. Just let me have the cargo.”
“You mean the unmarked bills?” I asked tartly.
To escape the coming storm, Rawlins grabbed the handles of one of the suitcases and dragged it in a series of breathless yanks over to Michael's vehicleâa large van with a crooked front bumper and a cockeyed headlight. Michael carried the other bag and tossed it through the van's open back doors. Then he and Rawlins exchanged low murmurs and I heard Michael laugh.
Rawlins came back to me, still with downcast eyes. “G'night, Aunt Nora.”
“Hmph.” I grabbed his shirt and pulled him close for a rough kiss on his cheek. “You scared the hell out of me.”
“Sorry,” he mumbled. “Really.”
Rawlins got back into his new car. It started without a problem, and he departed with a scatter of gravel and a flash of taillights.
Adrenaline was still seething inside me, but it wasn't enough to make me brave. I was tired. Maybe too tired to cope with Michael alone on a dark night.
“You okay?” he asked.
“No,” I said. “I hate it when you pull this kind of trick.”
“It wasn't a trick. I just figured the less you know, the better for everyone.”
The rusting van featured the faded logo of a flower shop peeling off the side panels. Michael opened the passenger door with a shriek of ungreased hinges. “Your chariot awaits, Cinderella.”
“More of a pumpkin, wouldn't you say? Did you steal it?”
“If I were in a stealing mood, wouldn't I choose something classier?”
Against my better judgment, I let Michael boost me into the front seat, which was tricky in my pencil skirt. I felt Michael's helping hand linger on my behind, and quickly sat down on the seat. The van smelled vaguely of gladiolas. Michael closed the door, went around to get in behind the wheel and started the engine. The van coughed and trembled like a sick rhinoceros.
“Come on,” Michael coaxed, and the engine grudgingly sputtered to life.
While it struggled to find a smooth rhythm, I said, “You've gone to a lot of trouble to find your lost luggage. How much is in those suitcases?”
“Eight hundred thousand dollars.”
For some reason, his prompt and truthful answer only made me angrier. “And you left it parked on my driveway all night?”
“I didn't park it there. And the guy who did isn't working for me anymore.”
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