Some Like It Lethal (26 page)

"How about Rush Strawcutter?"

She took her hand away. "My turn to be the target now?"

We went outside together. The raw cold cut through my coat, but Emma looked unfazed. I said, "I need you to remember everything you can about that morning, Em. Any little detail might help."

"I already told you everything."

"Then let's back up. Tell me what you knew about Rush before he died."

"Like what, exactly? The color of his socks?"

"Did you learn the color of his socks?"

"No," she said. "The God's-honest truth is I never slept with him. We fooled around a little, but he was— I think he truly cared about Gussie. He didn't want to hurt her. I pushed him, and that was wrong, I know, but he— We only played around a little. Mostly, I liked being with him."

We started walking.

She began to talk then. It was aimless, but she told me about her friendship with Rush and I could sense she had longed for a real relationship with him. Even before her husband's death, Emma had been on a wild ride. Now I listened and wondered if we had both managed somehow to struggle our way out of the center of the storm. Maybe we were both on the edge of peace and  quiet. Emma had found something in
Rush—something that cut some of the pain in her heart. Except now he was gone, and she looked worse than ever.

After we'd walked several blocks and she quit talking, I said, "I'm sure Rush wished things could have been different with you, Em."

She shook her head. "I don't know. He was always on the lookout for a stray puppy to rescue. Maybe I was just one of a long line of salvage projects for him."

"He felt that way about Gussie, didn't he?"

"Yeah, she was his ultimate project."

"Do you know how she felt about him?"

"She must have loved him once, but she couldn't trust him. She was always worried about the money. Is that nuts, or what?"

"Do you think Rush married her because he wanted to rescue her, or because he also wanted her fortune?"

"He was concerned about cash," Emma admitted. "He had to scramble to raise the capital to start Laundro-Mutt when Gussie refused to invest. He went to banks all over town, but nobody wanted to give him anything if he didn't have the Strawcutter guarantee standing behind him."

"If Gussie had just volunteered to do that much, he would have had an easier time."

"I don't think Gussie wanted to make anything easy for Rush. That was part of their relationship. She needed to test him all the time. He had to constantly prove he wanted to stay married to her."

"So he went the venture capital route to raise money for Laundro-Mutt. Why did he choose Tottie, of all people?"

"Well," said Emma. She stopped at the traffic light and didn't look at me.

"Well?" I asked.

"Because."

The light changed, and Emma hustled into the street. I followed her hastily.

"Em?"

"Do you know anything about Rush's family?" she asked.

"Not really."

"He grew up in foster homes around here. Never far from Philadelphia. I suppose that's why he was always adopting those dogs of his, because he was a foster kid."

"I had no idea."

"His mother couldn't support him, so he bounced around from family to family most of his childhood. I think it was hard on him, but he managed to survive. That's a testament to his real personality, isn't it?"

"Yes, it is."

I started to feel what was coming. It was a tidal wave, building in size far off shore.

"Em, if Rush's mother couldn't support him, where was his father?"

"Rush didn't know who his father was until just a couple of years ago when he married Gussie. He wanted to find his mother to invite her for the wedding, if you can imagine that. But she was dead, and he could only locate a sister of hers. The sister told Rush who his father was."

"Oh, my God. Tottie."

"Tottie Boarman," Emma confirmed.

"Did Rush go to see Tottie?"

"Not at first. Rush had already experienced the Strawcutters' reaction to a poor, unconnected young man in their midst. He figured Tottie would see him as a greedy opportunist. So he stayed away. But when
he needed money for Laundro-Mutt, Gussie pushed him to go to Tottie."

"So Gussie knew of the connection?"

"Yes. It was only fair, according to Gussie. Rush was due some of Tottie's fortune—at least, to her way of thinking."

"Oh, God," I said again. I stopped walking.

Emma pulled me out of the pedestrian traffic and under the awning of a corner market. A display of fall apples stood beside us.

"What was Tottie's reaction? Did he know Rush was his son?"

"It's pretty obvious, when you think about it. They might be opposites in character, but they look alike. How could Tottie deny it?"

Of course they looked alike. How could I have missed it before? Tottie's rude personality had blinded me, of course. Rush might have had Tottie's odd walk and similar features, but they were so different in manner that no one could have guessed they were father and son.

I said, "Tottie didn't welcome Rush with open arms, did he? It wasn't in his nature."

"No, Tottie acted like a son of a bitch, of course. He told Rush not to expect any prodigal-son treatment. I think Rush was pleased, though. Something must have given him hope. The eternal optimist, he probably figured he'd eventually win Tottie's affections."

"And Tottie did give Rush the money to start Laundro-Mutt."

"Yes, and plenty of it. Maybe he wanted to prove to Rush that he wasn't a complete jerk. Money was Tottie's way of doing that."

"But lately Tottie needed some of his cash back to save himself."

Emma nodded. "Tottie's own business was falling apart. He needed help, so he started pressuring Rush. Of course, Rush had already invested the money into Laundro-Mutt, and he didn't have any cash left to give back to Tottie."

What had Tottie done? I wondered.

Emma had been watching my face. "What are you thinking?"

"I need to know what the terms of Rush's life insurance policy were. Does Gussie receive the death benefits, or does the money go to paying off Laundro-Mutt's investors?"

"Hang on," Emma said. "You don't think Tottie murdered his own son? For a few dollars?"

"Tens of millions of dollars."

"Oh, hell," Emma said. "This is starting to sound very dangerous."

Chapter 15

Reed picked up both of us and dropped Emma at a parking garage from where I presumed she would be whisked back into captivity.

"Where will you go?" I asked her.

"My home away from home is now a lovely student apartment near Penn," she said grimly. "It smells like pot and has a stolen stop sign on the wall."

I blanched. "I hope it won't be much longer."

"Who knows. Maybe the ever-charming Mr. Pescara will move me into a flop house for a change of pace. Let me tell you, the life of the modern gangster has no glamour. Their primary food group is beef jerky, and they mostly sit around in disgusting places watching the Home Shopping Network and popping anabolic steroids. Oh, and talking to their mothers on cell phones."

"Emma, about Danny—"

She waved off my concern. "Don't worry about him. He'll end up in the slammer someday soon and have lots of time to think about his shortcomings."

"No," I said, not sure I should tell her there might have been a connection between Danny and her husband, Jake. "I mean—"

"Listen," she said, "I appreciate what you're doing. I'd be going nuts if you weren't asking questions for
me. I mean it. I can put up with Mick's crew of hoodlums for as long as it takes."

"I'm glad I can help," I said. "But about Danny—"

She closed the car door on my protest and walked away with a wave over her shoulder that dismissed the subject.

I checked my watch and discovered it was nearly the cocktail hour. As much as I wanted to learn more about Tottie, I had a party to attend for the
Intelligencer.

The holiday entertaining season had gotten off to a fast start after Thanksgiving, and I knew it would build to a crescendo on Christmas Eve. We'd have a few days off before the New Year's Eve festivities started, then the long January lull. For the next couple of weeks, I was going to be very busy. Every night of the week I had at least two events to attend, including the ballet's annual fund-raising gala on Friday night. I hoped to put my questions about Rush on hold—at least during my work hours. My miserable paycheck depended on it.

Tonight, however, the parties were much less exalted.

Reed drove me to a private home on Delancy Street where two doctors were hosting a cocktail party for a visiting colleague who had come to town to help raise money for a scholarship fund. Their home was a narrow town house on a picturesque street, with the main living quarters on the second floor. The rooms were sparsely decorated with primitive American furniture. As I walked into the living room, it was impossible to miss the Grandma Moses painting, colorful and beautifully lighted, hanging over the mantel.

The deceptively simple decor hinted subtly at the alliance of two of the city's most powerful medical
families. The living room was already very hot, crowded and loud with laughter—sure signs of a successful party.

"We should have waited until January," confided my host, Tomas "Tack" Estrada, when he greeted me. In a turtleneck with a medallion around his neck, he looked like an elegant Spanish grandee. "We could have avoided all the holiday conflicts, but what can you do? Dr. Powell was in town, so we're going for it. It's a good cause."

"Thanks for letting me crash the party, Tack," I said. "As soon as the photographer gets here, we'll snap a few pictures of Dr. Powell with the scholarship candidates, and we'll be out of your hair in no time." "Stay as long as you like, Nora. I wish we could see more of you. Olivia often says she's sorry you don't still live close enough to have your brunches anymore."

He pointed out his wife across the crowded room, and Olivia Estrada, still blond and very pale-skinned thanks to her dermatologist husband's insistence on sunscreen, waved at me over the heads of the guests. She had been chatting with a tall male guest.

I waved back. "Is that Tim Naftzinger?"

"Where?" Tack craned to see. "Tim said he'd try to stop in after seeing patients to schmooze for his promotion, but yes, that's Tim."

"Think he'll get the Chief of Pediatrics job?"

"I hope so. He's good at administration and it will mean more time for his daughter. He has my vote, but it's a political scrum, and he's not the best good ol' boy."

I tried to make my way toward Tim through the guests, who were hungrily digging into the caviar blinis Olivia was known for. I didn't recognize many of the
contributors who had turned out on short notice for the Estrada's fund-raiser, but mostly they seemed to be physicians from the various city hospitals. A few smiling faces appeared to recognize me, but turned away before they had to remember my name. Or before they had to remember that one of their own kind had slid down the slippery slope of drug abuse. Obviously, the two years that had passed since my husband's death caused the medical set to gladly forget who I was.

At last, I reached Olivia Estrada and hugged her.

"Nora, it's been too long! How nice to see you."

"Livvie, I've missed you, too. I have a stack of books I've been saving for you. When can we have lunch?"

"After Christmas," she said promptly. "Right now, I'm up to my elbows in women who want their Botox injections in time for New Year's Eve."

"Maybe I'd better make an appointment for myself."

"You? Don't be silly." Smiling, she gave my face a professional once-over. Olivia conducted the cosmetic side of the family practice, while Tack dealt with the surgical patients. "I'm glad to see those laugh lines again. I'll call you the first of January, I promise, and we'll go some place decadent for lunch."

"Sounds great. Did I just see Tim Naftzinger talking to you?"

"Tim?" Olivia glanced around. "Yes, he was here a minute ago."

"He probably had to run home to his daughter."

"He said he suddenly wasn't feeling well."

I spotted the
Intelligencer
photographer then, and we put our heads together to plan a photogenic moment in front of Grandma Moses with the guest of
honor and some slightly tipsy scholarship candidates from the nearby medical school. Afterward, I wished my hosts a merry Christmas and ducked out. The
Intelligencer
photographer, Lee Song, came with me and reloaded his camera in the car.

"Lee, have you met Kitty Keough's new intern yet?"

"Andy Mooney?" Lee grinned. "Yeah, I tripped over him in the elevator."

"Have you ever seen any of his photographs?"

"Nope. You?"

"Not yet, but I'm going to catch a glimpse."