Have Your Cake and Kill Him Too (21 page)

They peered carefully at a set of Limoges luncheon plates, checking for flaws.

“We want a gift for Bunny Wellsom,” Alexis explained. “She's such a dear.”

“She drove me to every single one of my hydrotherapy treatments with Dr. Ben Hardy last year,” Rose volunteered.

“And organizes two book clubs,” Linda Jane added. “Plus all her charity work.”

“But now she's had a car accident, poor thing, and broke both arms.”

“The accident wasn't her fault,” Rose interjected. “She's an excellent driver, taught by Salvatore Ricci, who used to compete at Le Mans.”

They spoke rapidly, overlapping one another's sentences like true old friends.

“We thought we'd cheer her up,” Alexis said. “What do you think? Limoges or the Wodehouse first editions?”

Linda Jane pointed to a group of leather-bound volumes sealed in Ziploc bags to prevent anyone from damaging the books.

“I'm biased,” I said. “I always go for books.”

Alexis looked as disappointed as her brow lift would allow. “We're having a little tea for Bunny on Saturday. I thought the cupcakes would look so adorable on the Limoges.”

Rose sighed with irritation. “I told you, Alexis, cupcakes are going out of style. Especially now with that revolting restaurant changing the whole idea of cupcakes. Who wants to eat such things?”

“Nobody actually eats cupcakes,” argued Alexis. “They're just decorative. And the ones Verbena makes are so pretty.”

“Sushi!” Rose cried. “It's just as pretty, plus South Beach friendly.”

“We can't get sushi from Verbena. And I'd feel guilty canceling her at this late date.”

Rose already had her cell phone out of her petite handbag. “Let's call her and ask if she can make something other than cupcakes.”

Alexis smiled at me. “Rose has the private cell phone numbers of all the best caterers.”

Rose's call connected. “Verbena, dear? Rose Lipkin.”

While Rose took care of the catering crisis, Alexis said to me, “Nora, darling, my grandson tells me he's been invited to a party at the museum on Saturday night. What do you know about it?”

“I believe it's meant to attract new members,” I said, sensing ruffled feathers.

“But why wasn't I invited? I always support museum events. My grandson says he heard about it on his computer or something. Not a proper invitation, is it? That hardly seems sensible to me, but what do I know? I've only attended fund-raisers in this city for decades!”

I didn't dare tell her that the party was intended for a younger generation, so I said, “It starts very late at night, Alexis.”

“Oh.” She hesitated. “How late?”

“Midnight. And I imagine the music will be very loud.”

“I hate loud parties,” Linda Jane said.

“Hm.” Alexis eyed me to determine if I was trying to outsmart her. “Late and loud. Well, that kind of event doesn't have success written all over it.”

“It's an experiment,” I acknowledged, wondering what subject might deflect her indignation. Then I realized I could kill two birds. “Alexis, did you associate with Hannah Fitch Orcutt before she died?”

Alexis didn't miss a step. “Not Hannah, but her mother. Who was devastated when Hannah married that awful man, by the way. She'd be delighted to know he's dead now.”

“Her mother confided in you about Zell?”

“Cried on my shoulder,” Alexis corrected.

“My daughter actually dated Zell,” Linda Jane offered. “When he first came to town, before he married Hannah.”

“Your daughter?” Alexis was aghast. “How old was she then?”

“Barely seventeen. Fortunately, she met a nice boy from Princeton in the knick of time, but Zell chased after all her friends. You must have heard the rumors, Alexis. Zell Orcutt was always seducing very young girls.”

She sniffed. “I don't listen to rumors, Linda Jane. Men like Zell Orcutt have been around since the beginning of time. It's up to the girls to fend them off.”

I started to disagree that children could hardly be expected to act like adults in the face of a serial child molester when Rose snapped her phone shut. “What luck! Verbena's on her way here right now. We can discuss the luncheon in person!”

“Why is she coming here?” I asked.

“Oh, something about wanting to see the Fitch furniture one last time. Now, have we decided in favor of the Limoges?”

With Verbena due to arrive soon, I excused myself and went looking for the furniture aisle. Another young woman in the black-dress-and-pearls uniform of Kingsley's came along. She relieved me of my teacup and pointed the way. I found a display of matching silk upholstered chairs that looked like the pieces I remembered from one of the small family rooms at Fitch's Fancy.

Farther along, I recognized a settee from the ballroom and saw several headboards, too. At last I reached a desk—painted white with pink flowers twining down the legs. A little girl's desk. Perhaps the one Verbena had been so determined to find at the house.

I opened the center drawer. Some childish hand had scribbled on the wood inside—squiggles and scratches, nothing more. I crouched beside the desk and proceeded to open all the lower drawers like any prospective buyer. They were empty, of course.

I don't know what made me do it. Perhaps my own teenage habits kicked in. Instinctively, I reached into each drawer and flipped my hand over to feel its underside, then around the interior cabinetry of the desk where Kingsley's employees might not have checked.

And I found it wedged into a place near the dovetailing.

An unsealed, oversized envelope with a cellophane window and a yellowed document inside, folded into threes. Perhaps the very item Verbena had wanted to retrieve so badly from Fitch's Fancy. I unfolded the paper.

It was a document bordered with elaborate, curlicued decoration. A birth certificate. Written in careful penmanship on the top line:
Clover Hannah Barnstable
.

Beneath that:

In my hand, the birth certificate trembled like a leaf in a high wind. No wonder Verbena had wanted to get inside her former home before Kingsley's removed her old desk.

Hastily, I refolded the paper and stuffed it back into the envelope. I dropped it into the open desk drawer.

I don't remember leaving Kingsley's. Or how long it took me to get outside. I just know I found myself on the sidewalk, still reeling from the discovery of the secret Verbena had wanted to keep.

A cab pulled up to the curb, and I tottered forward to claim it. As I climbed into the rear seat, another cab pulled up. The passenger door opened and Verbena herself stepped out onto the sidewalk in front of Kingsley's. As my cab departed, she turned to look and caught sight of me through the window. I'm not sure I controlled my expression.

She watched me leave.

My heart kicked, and I felt the prickle of fear at the back of my neck.

I gave the driver directions to Lexie Paine's office building. There, I passed through security quickly—I was a familiar face—and went up the elevator to Lexie's office suite. Her new assistant brought me a glass of mineral water and said Lexie might be free in a few minutes. I thanked him and sat in a rigid, but comfortable, Danish armchair while trying to steady the pounding of my heart.

Lexie's great-great-something-grandfather had started a bank back before the invention of electricity, and the institution had grown into a giant financial firm that Lexie, well-educated, wise beyond her years and with nerves of steel, took over when her father died and her uncles—whom Lexie referred to as “the silverbacks”—decided it was time to go golfing for good. She had quickly remodeled the firm to reflect her own taste. And not just the mission statement. A cheerful Alexander Calder mobile hung from the skylight thirty feet above her assistant's desk, and a complex Robert Rauschenberg collage commanded the large wall opposite the elevators where portraits of Paine ancestors had once glowered. The faces of the staff now reflected a greater diversity, too, and investments reflected a certain moral and political viewpoint the silverbacks had not shared.

Lexie's office door swung open and a small pack of business-suited people rushed out, clutching assorted electronic devices and scuttling headlong for the elevator. Lexie came to her door and stood there, arms folded across her chest like Cleopatra sending slaves off to do her bidding.

When the elevator closed behind her minions, Lexie said, “I hate losing money.”

“You're losing money?”

“Not yet, but this economy requires vigilance. That crew actually wanted to take the weekend off!”

“Heaven forbid.”

She grinned. “Well, I was going to give them Sunday morning.”

“You old softy.” I gave her a kiss. “I don't want to interrupt if you're separating the bulls from the bears, but do you have five minutes?”

“Ten for you, sweetie.”

She slipped her arm through mine to draw me into her inner sanctum. The view from Lexie's tall windows clearly suggested she owned the city below. Thick Oriental carpets and fine upholstery provided a hush in the air. On her antique desk stood a delicate piece of Roman antiquity on a small pedestal—a sculpted fragment of a human face, no doubt from her extensive private collection, or that of her mother, a double heiress with good taste and a bank account to indulge it.

Alongside the desk, an array of busy computer screens blinked in several languages, the only hint that the room was something more than the luxurious apartment of a very wealthy connoisseur.

Lexie asked, “Did Marcus get you a drink? Oh, good. What about some fruit? Or we could send out for real food, if you like.”

“Nothing for me, thanks.”

Lexie peered more closely at my face. “Are you okay?”

“Yes. And no.”

She closed her office door.

I said, “I've got some big news, Lex.”

My friend stopped smiling. “Should I sit down?”

“You guessed?”

Abruptly, Lexie plunked into one of the ornate chairs that stood around a coffee table artistically fashioned from the lid of a grand piano. “Tell me anyway.”

I perched on the opposite chair. “Okay, I'm pregnant.”

“Nora,” she said on a breath.

“I know. It's bad timing. But I—I'm happy. Really. I want this child, Lex. Very much.”

Lexie leaned forward and grasped both my hands in hers. “I know you do, sweetie. Big families are a Blackbird tradition. And it's all going to turn out great for you, too, I'm sure, but—good Lord.”

Her eyes filled with tears—happy or sad, I couldn't discern. In a moment, we were both crying. We'd been friends since childhood, and nobody knew me the way she did. I'd told her all my secrets, and she'd confided in me the traumas of her young life, too—and there had been a lot. Through Lexie, I learned that even respected families harbored their share of mean drunks and rapists. Life could be messy even if you had money to burn. But she had survived all of it, and if I had half her courage I could surely muddle through my own problems.

“I'll help,” she said after coming back from her desk with a handful of Kleenex. “I'll do whatever you need.”

“I know. Thanks.” I mopped my eyes.

Lexie did, too, and mustered a teary smile. “So let's see. Are you showing yet?”

I pulled my jacket aside and flattened the ruffles to reveal my lost waistline. “Enough so my clothes don't fit very well.”

“How far along are you?”

“A couple of months.”

“Now, look.” Lexie turned decisive again. “I don't want to be called Aunt Lexie, all right? I need a cool name. Lala or Money Belt or something. And we should set up some investments right away. Get this kid some financial security established as soon as possible. That is—I mean—I assume you're going to do this alone?”

“Well, I'm not sure yet.”

Lexie sat back down to absorb that information. “Should I ask? I know you've been seeing Richard D'eath, but—oh, sweetie, I can't stand not knowing. Will you tell me? Who's the father?”

“Richard's been supportive.”

She noted my evasion. “You haven't decided yet, have you?”

“No.”

“You've got two roosters in the barnyard, but you want the best one to be father to your chick.”

I felt the tears start again. “Right. I haven't decided.”

“What does Michael say?”

Carefully, I said, “He doesn't know.”

“Is that wise? Not telling him?” Quickly, she tried to take back her question. “No, of course it's wise. Even if the baby isn't his, you're afraid he'll pull a Corleone, aren't you?”

Lexie knew Michael better than anyone, except perhaps Emma. Michael liked listening to Lexie's lectures on economic theory, and she often lambasted him about his old-fashioned views on money. They had sparred, and the result was good-humored respect, if not exactly affection. It wouldn't surprise her to hear he'd been keeping cash in suitcases.

“What's he doing now?” she asked. “Call me crazy, but I thought he'd given up his life of crime. The papers say he's making a play to take over his father's business. But why would he do that if he's making a fortune with the gas stations?”

“I don't know. He won't tell me. Whatever it is, though, Lex, it's different from what it appears to be. Michael thinks like a chess player. He doesn't use a ruse unless he can use two or three at the same time, and he's always got a plan.”