Have Your Cake and Kill Him Too (20 page)

She hauled up her T-shirt to show me the soft flesh of her belly. “Looks great, don't you think?”

“Sit down,” I told her. “I'm going to make you a glass of warm milk.”

“Skim!” she cried.

She plunked into a chair, but leaped up again by the time I reached the refrigerator. I poured milk into a saucepan while she circled the kitchen, babbling about the various potions and products she had acquired. Around her floated the scents of perfumed herbs. My sister talked feverishly nonstop for five frantic minutes while I warmed the milk and poured it into a coffee cup for her.

She drank it in one gulping slug and blinked at me. “Do you think hot milk has fewer calories than cold milk?”

I pulled her into the library and managed to pin her down on the sofa there. With my hands firm on her shoulders, I said, “Libby, this has gone too far. You need to get a grip.”

“But I'm setting an example for you!” she objected. “Together we can conquer anything. A few pounds of stubborn flab are no match for the power of our combined karmic energy! Add a few ginger sea urchins and we're invincible! Besides, the three of us have to do everything possible to get into shape by Friday. We're meeting with Jean Claude! Except for a tiny body odor, he's every bit as yummy as Gérard Depardieu!”

“Good grief, Lib, where did you come up with this one?”

“Larry introduced us! Jean Claude is an artiste! He has brilliant theories about the female body!”

“You didn't show him yours, did you?”

“No, but I told him all about you and Emma. We had a bottle of wine to discuss our photographs. He can hardly wait to get the three of us together in his studio.”

“I'll bet. Look, Libby, I don't know how many times I have to say it. Emma and I aren't doing the photo with you, and no amount of wine will change our minds.”

“But—”

“If you feel strongly about it, you should go ahead and be photographed by Jean Claude. But Emma and I are absolutely not going with you.”

Libby grabbed my hands and forced me to sit beside her on the sofa. “Nora, I know what you're thinking,” she said. “And it's all my fault. I made you feel self-conscious about your body. I'm sorry for that, really I am. But we can compensate!”

“No, Lib.”

“Or I'll try to postpone Jean Claude for two more weeks. You use my cream and just one lime sauna—my treat!—and you'll be perfect!”

I shook my head. “I won't be perfect in two weeks or four weeks or six weeks.”

“Eight weeks?” she whimpered.

“No, Lib. In fact, things will only be worse by then.”

“But—”

“I'm pregnant.”

Libby sat up on the sofa, her pinpoint eyes turning even brighter and more glassy. Her mouth opened into a perfect O as my words penetrated the whirling hurricane of her speeding brain. “You're ... ?”

“Expecting a baby.”

“Now?” Her voice climbed the register of hysteria.

“Yes.”

“
Now,
when I need you to be thin and beautiful for Jean Claude?” She leaped to her feet and stared at me as if I had just ratted out the whole French Resistance to the Nazis.

“That's not exactly the response I was expecting, since you've been pestering me for years to have a baby, but—”

“How can you do this to me?” she shrieked.

“Believe me, I'm not happy about the timing, either, but—”

“Maxine and her fat twin can't be the centerfold
and
the best picture of the whole year!”

“Libby—”

“And what about Jean Claude? He says I have a special quality! A certain je ne sais quoi!”

“Lib, you don't need Emma and me to snag Jean Claude.”

“Of course I do! He wants all three of us! A little ménage, he said! Don't you see? If you and Emma are slim and beautiful, maybe he won't notice me until he's had a chance to see the beauty of my mind and spirit! It's a perfect plan! But now you choose to ruin everything by—by getting knocked up!”

“Libby, you're beautiful just the way you are. I'm sure Jean Claude already—”

“He's a man! Of course he'll see how f-fat I am and never mind my beautiful personality!” She burst into tears and began to fling herself around the room in a snit of melodrama worthy of Bette Davis. “You're so—so inconsiderate, Nora! I need you now! If I can't count on my sisters when I'm facing a crisis, who can I trust?
I can't believe you're doing this to me!
”

“Let's keep your crisis in perspective, shall we? I'm the unwed mother here.”

“What's one little baby? I have
five
!” she screamed. “And they grow up, for heaven's sake! One minute they're small and hardly taking up any space at all, and pretty soon they leave! It's a snap! But a photograph is—is
forever
!”

“Now wait a minute—”

In my situation, I thought I had a lock on sympathy, but Libby burst into tears and trumped me. She had just enough breath to wail, “You've abandoned me in my time of need!”

While she sobbed, I tucked her into the sofa and covered her with a cashmere throw, hoping she might be able to sleep off her vitamins. For Libby, hysterics were an MGM Technicolor production in Dolby Sound and Sensurround. She wept with wild abandon, gushing woe and betrayal. Gradually, though, her drugs seemed to wear off and she sobbed in diminishing tones until she finally hiccoughed and began to doze.

As I tiptoed out of the library, she gave a full-throated snore.

Delilah met me at the back door. Her wide-eyed expression told me she had heard Libby's shrieking. “Ready?”

“Get me out of here fast.” I grabbed my handbag. “Small family emergency.”

“I think you got another one now. Look who just showed up.”

Pierpoint Fitch, out of police custody, stood in the backyard talking earnestly to Emma. He still wore his shapeless shorts and tennis shoes, but today he had completed his fashion statement by sporting a hat with a small umbrella attached to the top. He looked like a mad scientist hoping to hear a few alien transmissions before lunch.

Lucy and Keesa stood in Emma's shadow, staring up at Pointy as if he might sprout a spaceship and fly away.

I charged up the sidewalk, Delilah right behind me.

“I've been thinking,” I heard Pointy say to Emma, “the whole time I was incarcerated, that perhaps you, young lady, are just the person I need.”

Emma lit a cigarette. “Don't you think I'm out of your age bracket?”

“Age has very little to do with anything,” he replied. “It's determination that counts. And hard training.”

“Mister,” said Lucy, “are you going to make animal shapes out of balloons? I saw a clown once who had a hat like yours.”

“Emma?” I called. “Anything wrong?”

My sister squinted her eyes against the cigarette smoke as she gave Pointy a suspicious once-over. “Nothing's wrong,” she said. “Except look who's out of jail.”

“That was an unfortunate misunderstanding,” Pointy said testily. “The gendarmes were most apologetic and released me early this morning. So I'm eager to resume my training.”

Emma blew more smoke. “Training for what? Finding your marbles?”

“I feel ready to take on a real challenge, so I've signed up for a triathlon.”

“A what?” Delilah asked.

Keesa said, “I like animal balloons.”

“A triathlon is a supreme test of athletic skills. Running, biking and swimming. I intend to start competing in October. That gives me eight months to prepare my mind and body.”

“The mind's going to be the tough part,” said Emma.

“Young lady,” he said, “if we're going to work together, we need to address your adder tongue.”

“I knew we'd get to my tongue sooner or later.”

Pointy turned purple. “Now, see here—”

“And who said anything about being together?” Emma demanded. “If you've got some weird fantasy going, Grampa—”

Before the children heard something they shouldn't, I said, “May I ask why the police turned you loose? Not that I'm not pleased to see—well, have they arrested someone else for Zell Orcutt's murder?”

“No,” he said, prim as a schoolmarm. “But I understand they are gathering evidence that implicates someone other than myself. Which was a ridiculous accusation in the first place. Heaven knows, I disliked that insufferable man, but I never lifted a finger against him. I have more important things to do with my physical skills.”

“What kind of evidence?” Delilah asked. “DNA or something?”

“I gather,” Pointy replied decorously, “they have found the murder weapon.”

“Kids,” said Emma, “why don't you go into the kitchen and look for some carrots for Mr. Twinkles?”

“The bow?” I said when the children had scampered out of earshot. “How did they find it? Where was it?”

“In the garden. Hidden under some bushes. The
caprifoliaceae
viburnum, I believe. Whoever put it there, the oaf knew nothing of pruning. Even a rank amateur horticulturist knows better than to cut a woody stalk in spring. The bush was badly damaged.”

“Are the police testing the bow?” I asked. “For fingerprints?”

“Yes,” Pointy said.

“Good,” said Delilah. “Then I'll be off the hook.”

“Where's Boy Wonder?” Emma asked suddenly. “Did your son get you out of jail? Or is he too busy kissing babies somewhere?”

“Certainly not. Boykin's very busy. He's in the legislature, you know.”

“Think he can get reelected?” Emma asked. “I wonder if he's as above reproach as he pretends.”

Pointy flushed. “I don't know what you're suggesting.”

“Nothing at all,” Emma drawled. “Good thing he doesn't have to step out of any closets, that's all.”

“What are you talking about? What closet?”

“It's hard to get yourself elected dogcatcher if you're anything but straight, white and conservative. And if Boy's got something on the side—”

Pointy roared, “My son is not gay!”

“Nobody would care if he is,” Emma said.

“He's not!”

“So what is he?” Emma asked. “A klepto? Wino? Dope dealer? Gun smuggler? There's got to be something wrong with him.”

“Nothing! Nothing's wrong!” Pointy glared at us. “At least, nothing he'll tell me about.”

Emma winked at me, which I took as my cue to leave.

If anyone could suss out useful information from a man, it was Emma. Delilah and I said good-bye to the little girls, checked on Libby one last time and departed for the city.

Delilah drove, most of the time taking cell phone calls from her staff, who seemed relieved to have Delilah back in the game. While she conducted business, I sat quietly in the passenger seat and thought about who could be framing Delilah for Zell's murder.

When we reached Philadelphia, I asked her to drop me at Kingsley's. I walked through the bronze doors in time for the afternoon preview.

Twice monthly, the prestigious auction house conducted sales of the fine-arts and household items they accumulated from small estates or individuals who didn't have enough quality goods to merit a sale of their own. I slipped in with the usual crowd of buyers and perennial looky-lookers to stroll the gymnasium-sized room that was packed with furniture, old books, assorted paintings and tables groaning with housewares.

By the bright light gleaming from three exquisite chandeliers, I could see an acre of goods spread out for the admiration of the hushed crowd. To heighten the suggestion that all the items were extremely valuable, not just dear Aunt Goldie's old kitchen gadgets, the preview room walls were painted the same muted sand color as a museum's. Soft strains of recorded Beethoven played from hidden speakers.

The Kingsley's security guards who kept watch over the merchandise were dressed in uniforms suitable for Buckingham Palace, white gloves and all. A young woman in a black dress and pearls served tea from a silver samovar.

I accepted one of the delicate china cups, which contained a thimbleful of tea. “Are the Fitch estate items on display today?”

“Just a few things, since it only came in yesterday,” the young woman told me. “Furniture mostly. We're still cataloging the smalls.”

I thanked her and wandered into the preview room, sipping tea. I was immediately confronted by an easel displaying an oil painting of a voluptuous odalisque sprawled on a bed of seashells—definitely not the kind of thing any ultraconservative Fitch might have collected.

I prowled down an aisle of dishes and silver, looking for familiar items. A ponytailed young woman with a baby in a knapsack carefully examined a set of monogrammed silverware. Two antiques dealers I recognized were whispering over a pair of Chinese vases, no doubt hoping they'd discovered a steal. Farther along, I came upon a threesome of sixtyish women who clearly patronized the same cosmetic surgeon. They all looked at me with the same Easy Lift and distinctively pointed chin implant. A dense cloud of Chanel No. 5 hung around them.

“Nora!” said one, the woman with the blondest of the blond hair. “You're just the person we need.”

It was Alexis Bliss, the president of her family's charitable foundation, who introduced me to Linda Jane Todbender, whom I had never met, but knew to be an expert bridge player with an oil fortune behind her cards, and Rose Lipkin, the titanium golf club heiress and therefore the newest of money and best known for her need to drop names into the most innocuous conversations. The three very wealthy women looked bizarrely alike, not just because of their faces, but in their expensive black pants suits individualized by the scarves knotted loosely around their shoulders in the French fashion. Rose's scarf was Hermès, Alexis wore very fine cashmere, and Linda Jane's pink one looked familiar to me—vintage Chanel, perhaps.