Have Your Cake and Kill Him Too (22 page)

“And his current plan started last winter when he broke up with you and moved out.”

“Probably before that.”

“Pretty heartless,” Lexie observed.

Yes, I thought. Heartless or part of a strategy I still didn't understand.

Lexie said firmly, “Nora, I like Michael. You know I do. But, sweetie, I care more about you. If you've got a biscotti in the oven that you want to keep secret, you're going to need help. The kind of help I can give you.”

“I'm not ready to run off to Aspen or Switzerland or wherever you've got houses these days, Lex. I have a job, and I have to stay here. I'll tell Michael when the time is right.”

“If you want me by your side when you do it, just whistle.”

“Thanks. Look, I did come this afternoon for help. Not about this, though.”

Briskly, she nodded. We were both aware of her busy afternoon schedule. “You want info about Zell Orcutt, right?”

I probably had the most explosive information about Zell already—that he was the father of his stepdaughter's child. Distasteful as that was, it wasn't illegal and didn't seem immediate enough to have caused his death. But learning who Clover's father was opened a whole new way of thinking about Zell.

Lexie was already on her feet again and headed for her desk. “I made some notes. I don't know what's relevant or not. For one thing, Zell hadn't been reporting all his income. He was under investigation for nonpayment of taxes.”

“Isn't everyone?” I asked dryly.

Lexie grinned. “Funny girl.”

“Did you learn anything else?”

She waved her papers. “Hold on to your hat. ChaCha's got an interesting past.”

“Besides dancing in Branson, you mean?”

“ChaCha Reynolds has a very bad credit rating. The only way she could possibly start a business is with the help of someone with enough assets to cover for her. Without Zell, she'd be eating in a soup kitchen. But get this. She shot someone.”

“Who? When?”

“A guy who owned the club where she danced. Not a nice joint, either.”

“Oh, dear. A strip club?”

“Yep. Twenty years ago. She went by the name of Baby CooCoo, believe it or not. She had a disagreement with her boss and plugged him.”

“Did he die?”

“Flesh wound only. But some very important flesh. Let's just say he pees sitting down now.”

“Ouch. Did she go to jail?”

“Nope.” Lexie smiled. “Somebody bought her a good lawyer and paid her fine, too.”

“Zell,” I guessed.

“Yep.”

“And now that he's dead? Does she own Cupcakes free and clear? Or will she share with his heirs?”

“In other words, did she have a motive to kill him? The will hasn't been read yet, but my sources in the legal community tell me she gets Cupcakes.”

So Clover wasn't going to inherit the saloon from her grandfather. I wondered if she and Verbena knew that yet. From their conversation at the tea shop, I knew Clover expected Cupcakes to be hers. “Some family members will be very disappointed.”

I considered my options. How could I learn more?

Lexie watched me frown. “Sweetie,” she said finally, “now that you've got someone else to consider, do you really think you should you be chasing a murderer?”

“I'm not chasing anyone,” I said. “Not really. I'll just ask some questions. I'm very worried about Delilah.”

Lexie's perfect brows shot up. “Delilah Fairweather? What's she got to do with this?”

“She had some business with Zell that got ugly. They argued publicly minutes before he died. Boykin Fitch gave the police some evidence that he found—an earring of Delilah's. And somebody phoned in an anonymous tip that implicates her.”

“And,” Lexie said, connecting the same dots Michael had, “she's the only suspect who's not from a fine Philadelphia family.”

“Exactly. But Delilah is innocent. An arrest for murder would do her terrible harm, Lex.”

Lexie nodded. “So unless somebody else managed to be on the scene without being noticed, you're thinking the killer has to be a Fitch, right? Either Verbena or Boykin or Pointy murdered Zell? Boy's got the most to lose, doesn't he, especially if he's running for the Senate seat?”

“His father suggested there's something Boy needs to hide. Emma's going to try to find out what. Can you get me a few minutes with Boy's political adviser? Mr. Fix-It?”

“Sure.”

Lexie could arrange an audience with the pope if she put her mind to it.

“Thanks,” I said. “But look, Boykin may not be the only Fitch with a secret he wants to keep undercover.”

“Oh?”

I told her about finding Clover's birth certificate.

Lexie's face hardened. “So the son of a bitch raped his stepdaughter?”

“He had a history of seducing young girls. I've heard lots of similar stories.”

Lexie turned away to glare out the windows, but I knew she wasn't looking at the view.

Gently, I put my hand on her arm. “Do the math, Lex. Verbena is over forty now. And Clover is sixteen. Verbena was an adult when Clover was conceived.”

Lexie's jaw was tight as I watched her remember her own early teens when a cousin first assaulted her, then a handsome uncle turned into a crafty sexual predator. Her voice was low. “I'll bet the abuse started when she was a kid. Verbena ran away from home when she was still a teenager.”

“But why would she come back?” I asked. “Why would she seek out a sexual relationship with Zell later?”

Lexie's eyes blurred with tears. “Sex abuse is a weird thing. For a kid, it—the touching, I mean. You get to—I know this is awful—but it's true, you get to like it. Then to learn it's wrong is . . . hard. It's confusing. And humiliating, but also terrifying. It can warp everything.”

I wanted to hug her. Lexie had grown into an intelligent and powerful woman. But even now she avoided relationships with men. Her behavior wasn't healthy, I felt sure, but it was a logical response. She had compensated in a way that worked for her.

“She probably went back to Zell when she was feeling vulnerable. And he took advantage of her again.” Quietly, Lexie said, “I wonder what Verbena sees when she looks at her daughter.”

“The joy of her life,” I said automatically. “Her own child—”

“I doubt it. No.” Lexie rested her fists on the windowsill and then her forehead against the cool glass of the window. “Nora, you've got stars in your eyes over your own pregnancy. It's not that way for everyone.”

“Lex—”

“I'm okay, sweetie.” She turned to me and pulled the mask over her emotions. “I've had years of head shrinking, so don't worry about me. It's you we've got to coddle, isn't it? Are you really happy about this baby?”

So she didn't want to talk about it anymore. “Very happy, yes. On my way to being overjoyed.”

She hugged me again. “I'm glad. Just watch your step, sweetie, promise?”

Back on the job, I walked over to one of the city's premier hotels to a party for a local young man who'd won a million dollars in a reality television series. For a week, the city had been in a fever of excitement over the local boy who'd made good by ratting out his friends on national TV. Cabs darted in and out of the hotel's covered entrance, and a squealing crowd surged inside to meet the new celebrity.

The television network had festooned the lobby with banners advertising the program. On the marble floor, a throng of animated young people milled around a shiny new car—one of the prizes the winner received in addition to his cool million.

The hotel's fine restaurant—a favorite dining spot of the financial district—lay on one side of the lobby. In the doorway stood Pico Pinolini, the snooty maître d'. Pico worked seven days a week and dictated where everyone was placed in the dining room, according to their social standing. Only the rich, the powerful or the marvelously disgraced got good tables from Pico, who had knowledge of scandals sometimes long before the participants did. It was said that he once seated a notable CEO at an undesirable table near the kitchen for a lunch two hours prior to his surprise afternoon firing by his board of directors.

From his position at the restaurant doorway, Pico caught my eye and bowed slightly from the waist.

I decided it was only prudent to speak to him and went over to say hello.

“You look lovely, as always, Miss Blackbird,” he said smoothly, giving me an air kiss.

He liked to seat attractive people at tables near the doorway, but only if their clothing set off the thick velvet draperies that swagged the tall dining room windows. From the gleam in his darting eyes, I gathered he approved of my Armani and ruffles. “Thank you, Pico.”

“Surely you're not here for the party upstairs?” he sniffed.

“I have to make a living,” I said with a smile.

He glared at the crowd in the lobby and clucked disapprovingly. “I'm certainly glad none of them wants dinner here. I would have to claim we're fully booked.”

“Aren't you?” I asked. “Fully booked?”

He permitted a smile that showed no teeth, just a thinning of his lips. “Not for you, Miss Blackbird. Would you care for a table?”

“Some other night,” I promised. “Soon, I hope.”

He slipped me a plain business card, printed only with numbers. “My private line,” he murmured. “Use it anytime.”

I thanked him and headed across the lobby.

To my surprise, I saw Richard D'eath come out of the hotel bar. He looked professorial in a sport coat with leather patches on the elbows. Very Clark Kent, I thought at once. He carried his pager in one hand and used the other to manage his cane. He was intent on the pager and didn't notice me until we nearly collided beside a potted palm tree.

He looked surprised, but happy, to see me. “I should have known you'd be here.”

He didn't kiss me, didn't touch me. Richard was always professional in public during working hours.

“What about you?” I risked slipping my hand into the crook of his elbow and squeezing. “Here to cover the reality survivor?”

“Are you kidding?” He laughed as if I'd said something hilarious, and tucked the pager into the inside pocket of his jacket. “I met my editors for a drink.”

“Who bought?”

“They did.” He grinned. “They had a proposition for me.”

“A—? You mean a new job?”

Richard seemed pleased. “They've given me something to think about. Something challenging as well as lucrative.”

“No wonder you look happy. Can we have dinner later to talk about it?”

“Sorry, no.” He touched his pocket to remind me of the pager. “There's a story breaking. I've got to run.”

“What's the story?”

He hesitated, smile fading. “A kid has disappeared.”

My heart contracted. “Oh, Richard, how horrible.”

“It's Little Carm. Carmine Pescara Jr.”

The boy I'd seen with Michael at Cupcakes.

With my chest turning cold inside, I said, “What's happened?”

Richard watched my face. “I don't know yet. Do you?”

“What does that mean?” I snapped, pulling away from him.

He reached for my hand. “Sorry. I—sorry. Look, I've got to go, and I don't know how long this will take. How about if I call you at home tonight? If it's not too late when I finish? I do want to talk to you.”

“All right.”

Richard released me, anxious to get going, I could see. But he hesitated again, as if forming an apology. If so, however, he discarded the idea. “I'll phone later. Have fun at your little party.”

And he was off. His cane clacked on the marble floor as he rushed for the front door, anxious to learn the fate of Little Carm Pescara.

My little party?

I stood still, feeling as if he'd slapped my cheek.

My face stung. And I knew Pico was watching from the restaurant, taking in our exchange and probably making an accurate guess about what had transpired. I turned away and headed up the staircase to the ballroom.

There, I needed a crowbar to get through the crowd. It was wall-to-wall people. Drumbeats and pseudo-African chanting throbbed in the air. Set dressers had decorated the room with wooden crates, coils of rope and camouflaged jeeps to suggest a thriving Third World shipping port. Fog machines generated billows of primordial steam from behind a jungle of fake plants. I squeezed into the mob, noting the short skirts and flimsy tops worn by dozens of young women who clearly hoped for an introduction to the new millionaire.

Two young professionals pushed past me without apology. Someone thrust a colorful bandanna into my hand. It was garishly printed with the title of the television program. Everyone else in the ballroom had fashioned theirs into headbands, necklaces or belts. With my bandanna in hand, I pressed through the crowd.

The reality show winner stood knee-deep in a lake of balloons also printed with the show's logo. He was tall and charmingly awkward, with an expensive haircut gelled to perfection. Network publicists surrounded him to maintain a makeshift receiving line. Every few minutes they allowed a few gushing fans to approach the winner while they hustled the previous group away. The man of the hour obligingly put his arm around the prettiest ones as cameras flashed. Everyone in the room beamed adoring smiles in his direction.

I made a slow lap of the room, taking mental notes. In that whole crowd, I didn't know a soul.