Little Black Book of Murder (23 page)

Lunch was first on my schedule, a small affair called Bow Ties and Bowwows to benefit an animal rescue organization. The men had been asked to wear bow ties, and many of the animals on leashes also sported clever collars and neckerchiefs. The lobby of an important bank was the venue, and the vast marble space was arranged with round luncheon tables, although most guests preferred to take a small plate from the buffet and circulate around the room to pat the dogs on display. For my column, I first snapped photos of the centerpieces—­life-­sized sculptures of dogs crafted out of carnations. But pictures of adorable live animals would do more good.

I remembered attending a much different event in the same bank when I first started attending charity events for the
Intelligencer
. Back in those days, the bank had been lavishly decorated with great, swooping swags of chiffon and twinkle lights. The tables had groaned under centerpieces of fresh flowers six feet tall, elaborate plates of exotic food, an impressive selection of wine, glowing candles and party favors for every guest. Today, though, the decor was austere by comparison. Bank executives had no doubt decided to tone down any hint of extravagance lest they be criticized. I suspected one of the organization's board members either worked for the bank or was married to someone who did.

I cruised around the lobby, greeting friends and patting the rescue dogs that were looking for forever homes.

“Nora,” said English Hubble, a friend whose father owned two of the most popular tourist restaurants in the city. Normally a solemn sort of young woman, she seemed more outgoing today around all the animals. “Don't you need a nice pet?”

“I already have my hands full with a pig,” I told her, ruffling the white fur of a blue-­eyed husky mix. His tail wagged, and I could see he was the source of English's good mood.

“A pig! You mean, a potbellied pig?”

“No, a big pig. A hog, in fact. His name is Ralphie, and I have a terrible time keeping him out of the house.”

She laughed. “You have such a wonderful sense of humor.”

I doubted I could explain Ralphie's pushy personality to her in such a short time, so I said, “Can I take your photo for my column?”

English had an expressive face. She had trained as an actress, but she never hit the big time onstage. I'd heard she'd started working for her father in a business capacity, but she devoted her spare time to good causes like animal rescue and reading books for the blind. Maybe I imagined it, but she seemed to hesitate at my question. But her acting training took over. “Why don't you just take a picture of Chewie? He's much more photogenic.”

“No, the two of you look great together. Do you mind?” I lifted my phone to snap a candid shot.

“Actually, I do.” English raised her hand to protect her face. “I'm sorry, Nora. I know you've done wonderful work for many organizations with your column, but I—­I'd rather not appear in the
Intelligencer.
”

I tried not to lose my smile. “No problem. Smile, Chewie!”

The dog gave me a big lick when I bent to pat him after the photo, and I was glad I could hide my expression from English. This was a first. Somebody didn't want to be seen on the pages of the newspaper because it had become a disgraceful tabloid.

English seemed relieved that I didn't press her to explain her feelings. We parted friends, and I moved farther around the room to talk with the organizing committee. Three young women and a dapper elderly gentleman had no qualms about talking to me and were happy to explain the particulars of the party. They hoped to raise several thousand dollars with their luncheon, and the bank had agreed to match whatever funds were collected. The money would support one no-­kill shelter for a short while.

“It's very difficult to raise money for animals during hard times,” the committee chair told me. “Whatever you can do to help us will be much appreciated, Nora.”

I went snooping among the tables. At last, I came upon the man I hoped to find.

Dilly Farquar sat grandly at a table by himself, one elegant hand balanced on the ebony handle of a handsome walking stick. He wore a natty blue jacket with a crisp white shirt, a sky blue bow tie and a checked pocket square. His gray flannel trousers held a sharp crease. The highly respected fashion columnist for the city's most prestigious newspaper also wore a clunky plaster cast on his left foot.

“Dilly, darling,” I cried, “whatever have you done to yourself?”

He remained seated but pulled me down to give two kisses. “It's so boring, Nora, I can't bear to tell the story again. Would you believe I broke my foot fighting off a mugger? Or should I go with hiking the Andes? How about I was pitched off a pier in Venice by an irate gondolier?”

I slid into the chair beside his. The table was decorated with a poufy poodle made of pink and white carnations. It had jelly beans for eyes. “I'd believe all three stories,” I said. “I know you've been an adventurer all your life.”

“My adventuring days ended ten years ago,” he replied. “To tell the truth, I fell off a ladder while taking down my Christmas tree. I broke eight glass dachshund ornaments and had to crawl out onto my balcony to shout for help. I was rescued by two teenage boys who were skipping school. Damian and Joe-­rell.”

“Lucky for you they were nearby.”

Dilly was one of the city's truest aristocrats—­an elderly gentleman of means who had devoted himself to the study of fashion. Every week in his newspaper column, he wrote beautiful prose in praise of fine tailoring. He kept his white hair combed straight back from a long, elegant face that looked rather French to me, but perhaps it was just his expression—­always composed and slightly aloof, very discerning, not quick to smile—­that gave him the look of a very sophisticated man who could hardly wait to get home to his collection of rare porcelain.

He said, “Damian and Joe-­rell have become my good friends. Almost every day, they come to my house to check on me. Sometimes they walk my dogs, but I have to pay them considerable money because dachshunds, apparently, are unmanly if you're under the age of sixteen. They encouraged me to invest in World of Warcraft—­do you know what that is?”

“Of course. My nephews play it all the time. A fantasy role-­playing game on the computer.”

A certain devilishness lurked around the edges of Dilly's smile. “My avatar is a swordsman. Damian thinks I have a brilliant mind for battle strategy. I'm their commanding officer. We have a wonderful time together.”

“Perfect, since you can't get around very well at the moment.”

He said, “I hate getting old.”

“You're not old,” I said firmly, although I was uneasy to see him looking more pale than usual. His injury must have taken more out of him than he pretended. “But,” I continued, “you've reached the time in life when you should throw a party to undecorate your Christmas tree. It's more fun, among other things. And somebody else can take a tumble off the ladder.”

“Good point.” He smiled at me dotingly for a moment, eyes glimmering with appreciation for my suit with the hint of corset underneath. But he got serious fast. “Nora, dear heart, I've been hearing terrible things.”

I put my hands in my lap and tried not to sigh. “I need your advice, Dilly.”

“I read yesterday's
Intelligencer
. Tell me you didn't write that garbage.”

“I did not. But . . . I supplied some of the information.”

He shook his head in dismay.

“I know, I know. I was wrong, and it didn't take me ten minutes to figure that out. But I—­I feel as if I'm groping through a dark cave, Dilly. The editor has me working on stories that are over my head.”

“Don't complain. It's beneath you.”

I straightened my shoulders. “Right. I have to take responsibility.”

“You do,” he agreed.

“Am I wrong to print the things people tell me?”

“No, of course not. That's your job. But you must be careful what you ask, Nora. And how you ask it. If information is off the record, you can't use it. And when people think they're speaking to you as a friend—­you must be doubly cautious.”

“My source was more candid than he should have been. And, unfortunately, he lost his job because of it. I feel terrible.”

Gently, Dilly said, “You learned a lesson. Move on.”

“But—­my friend? Should I help him find another job?”

“That's up to you, dear heart. It would be a nice gesture, but maybe he would resent you for it, too?”

I blew a sigh. “I never thought this job would be easy for me, but I had started to enjoy it. Now, I feel . . . inadequate.”

“I hear your new boss is a bit of a rogue.”

I shook my head. “I'm not going to blame him. I need to figure out my own ethics.”

“Everybody must carry his own moral compass. Perhaps his doesn't point true north?”

“It doesn't point the same direction I want to travel, that's for sure.”

Dilly tapped the edge of the table with his walking stick. “I can see your newspaper is trying to dig up the story of Swain Starr's death.”

“Yes. In fact, that's the other reason I hoped to find you today.”

He raised an elegant eyebrow. “Are you going to use me in a despicable way?”

“No. I need—­what do you call it? Deep background?”

He laughed a little. “I don't know anything about last night's fire.”

“Deeper than that. Did you know Swain?”

“We were acquainted. Professionally. I must admit, his work did not interest me much. He used clichés. He had pedestrian color sense. His fabrics were often mediocre. His taste was erratic. Oh, I understood his popularity. But it was mimicry, not art.”

“Wow,” I said. “That sums him up very neatly.”

“I wrote a scathing piece about him once. But I never used it. I am aware that I could damage a designer's livelihood with harsh words.”

I reflected that Dilly could do more than damage a designer. He could have mopped the floor with Swain Starr, perhaps destroyed him. But he hadn't.

I said, “Did you know him personally?”

“We met many times. But Swain was not a man to get close to other men. He preferred the company of women.”

“Yes.”

“I know Marybeth a little better. After she raised her family, she developed the kind of drive I didn't see in the man she married. Her grandfather's life was an American success story. Marybeth and her brother had the good sense to be quiet about their money, and they worked hard. There was no New Money stink on the Rattigans.”

Without mentioning to Dilly that I had learned Marybeth had spent all of her inheritance, I said, “You sound like a snob, Dilly.”

“I
am
a snob. I'm a professional snob. I make judgments about people on the basis of their clothes, for heaven's sake. How much more ridiculous does that make me? I have money, too, but I love my work.” The small smile again. “As you love your work, too, deep down.”

Yes, I did love it. Despite the pressure from Gus, I loved getting out, meeting people, communicating their messages to readers with my own spin. Which made making a mistake so much more difficult to bear.

Dilly said, “I don't know who killed Swain. I can imagine the motive, though. Swain Starr loved women—­perhaps too much. But he also alienated men.”

“Why do you say that?”

“He never knew how to get along with his own gender. Not even his sons. He didn't talk sports. He didn't play cards. He didn't follow politics or have any interest in art or business,” Dilly said. “My point is, he had no common language with other men. He was a poor friend, a bad father. He quit fashion, which proves to me he didn't have the fire in his belly anymore.”

“What are you saying, Dilly? That a man killed him?”

Dilly lifted his shoulders eloquently. “I could be entirely wrong. But I wouldn't be surprised.”

Dilly was being far more forthcoming than I had hoped for. I was aware that he was demonstrating how much he trusted I wouldn't make the same mistake I had with Sammy. I said, “My other reason for seeking you out is to ask why Swain left the fashion business. To most of us, he seemed to be at the top of his career. Why did he quit?”

“I thought his new wife asked him to.”

“I know, but . . . is that reason enough to give up a billion-­dollar enterprise? His creative outlet? The work of his whole life?”

Dilly paused, frowning. “I can't be sure. . . .”

“Of what?”

Slowly, Dilly said, “I know some fashion designers. Kaiser Waldman for one. I gathered he had no respect for Swain.”

“Artistic differences?”

Dilly shook his head. “It was more than that. I have a gut feeling. A suspicion Swain Starr didn't design anything more complicated than a T-shirt in his whole life.”

My mouth opened, but I couldn't make my voice obey. At once, though, I remembered that Swain had not recognized the dress I wore to the party at Starr's Landing. It had been his own design—­albeit twenty years old—­but he'd had no recollection of having created it.

Dilly leaned closer to make sure our conversation could not be overheard. “I think Swain had others do all his design work. Oh, he may have had some creative input at the beginning of his career, and he certainly had an appreciation of beauty, but was he capable of complex designs? I have my doubts. He liked being with women, watching them, and fashion was the best place to indulge himself.”

“But—­if Swain didn't design his own clothes, who did?”

“He spent a lot of time in China, didn't he?”

“Yes.” And I remembered how hastily Swain's daughter, Suzette, jetted off to China immediately after her father's death. To take care of business there, her mother had said. Or to ensure the silence of whoever really designed Swain's clothes, perhaps?