Some Like It Lethal (8 page)

"Come in and relax," she commanded, pulling me into a bedroom dominated by a Warhol life-sized portrait of Elvis in his gunslinger regalia. Samir placed the vase of lilies on a Stickley library table below the picture and gave the flowers a fluff before leaving.

Lexie climbed back onto the dressmaker's box and the seamstress grimly went down on her knees to attend to the gown's hem. Lexie looked svelte and gorgeous with her black hair skinned back in a ponytail and the subtle lines of the velvet gown giving her spare body a few gentling curves. "I'm just taking care
of a few details today, but I'll be finished in two shakes."

Standing beside the box was a postal delivery man, complete with uniform and clipboard, looking delighted to find himself in the bedroom of a woman as glamorous as Lexie. He said, "Are you ready now, Miss Paine?"

"Oh, of course, sweetie, let me sign for those packages. I'm so sorry to keep you waiting. You've just done all my Christmas shopping, you know, and I'm very grateful."

The postman smiled as she dashed off her signature. "What did I buy everyone?" he asked.

"The DVD of
The Godfather.
You'd be surprised what a universal gift that is. All my clients get it, and my scads of nephews think I'm very cool. Thank you, sweetie, you've been blessedly patient with me." She shouted for her assistant. "Samir! Will you open one of those cartons and give this charming public servant a copy of
The Godfather,
please? I know he'll enjoy it."

"Hey, thanks, Miss Paine."

"Merry Christmas!"

Samir ushered the postman out, and Lexie said to me, "Nora, you know Claudine Paltron, don't you?"

Of course I did. Sitting on a slipper chair by the window and fingering an unlit cigarette was a tense blonde with lots of eyeliner, a swanlike neck and legs as long as those of a gazelle. Only a hermit wouldn't know Claudine, for ten years the principal dancer of the city ballet. Photos of her extraordinary leaps had graced magazine covers and the entertainment sections of newspapers nationwide. Even now, retired from the stage for a year, she radiated stardom.

"Hi."

I shook her cool hand. "I'm Nora Blackbird."

"Oh, sure," she said. "I remember you. You interviewed me for the paper once."

"I did, yes."

"Thanks. My agent said you didn't make me sound like an idiot."

"I enjoyed many of your performances. I hear the ballet is trying to woo you back to become the new artistic director."

She looked startled. "How do you know about that?"

"I'm sorry," I said at once. "I thought it was common knowledge."

Claudine waved her cigarette dismissively. "Maybe it is. I don't read the papers. Who does your clothes?"

I smiled. Because of my reduced financial circumstances, I had been forced to dive into my grandmother Blackbird's exquisite collection of couture clothing amassed over a lifetime of fashion safaris to Paris and Milan. Thank heaven most of the pieces fit me or I'd have nothing to wear to all the parties I attended. To Claudine, I said, "My grandmother."

"Oh, yeah? I like the boots especially. I wonder if they're my size."

Lexie gave me the eye and said, "Were you out with the gentry at the hunt breakfast this morning, Nora?"

"Yes."

"Oh." Claudine perked up. "Dougie Forsythe was there. Did you see him?"

"I— No, I didn't."

"Tell us who misbehaved, sweetie, that's always the interesting stuff."

The breakfast seemed weeks ago, but I forced myself to sound casual. "I bumped into Hadley Pinkham at first. He hasn't changed."

"Dear Hadley. What a posh sort of scoundrel he is. Did he crash the gate?"

"Of course. He could sneak into the Forbidden City, I think. And he always looks like a matinee idol."

Lexie laughed. "Oh, I hope he has a dark side. He'd be a cliche otherwise. Who else?"

"Tottie Boarman, looking furious."

"Of course he's furious! If you'd lost fifteen million dollars on Friday afternoon alone, you'd be out of sorts. I'm not telling tales—it will be front page of the
Wall Street Journal
on Monday."

"Good Lord."

Lexie waved her hand. "A drop in his bucket, sweetie. A mere drop."

Claudine said, "It's not a drop in my bucket. The bastard lost me a small fortune."

"You're on the path to wellness now," Lexie assured her. As Gabrielle finished pinning and sat back on her heels, Lexie turned on the box, studying herself in the mirror. "What do you think, girls? Will this do for the ballet Christmas gala on Friday? I'm making an appearance on behalf of the museum board as a show of cultural accord."

"It would do for a presentation to the Queen," I said. "It's stunning."

Lexie stepped down and patted Gabrielle's cheek. "Of course it is. Gabrielle is my secret weapon. Would you like a copy of
The Godfather,
my precious?"

"Sure," said Gabrielle, brightening.

"And let's get together soon for a talk about my spring clothes. I need at least two dresses at Easter.

Maybe one of them could look very Dolce, hm?" She put her slender arm around Gabrielle and guided her out of the bedroom. "I'm sure you've found some Merchant-Ivory fabrics. Just nothing with sequins. You know how I feel about sequins. The rest I leave up to you, of course. You're brilliant. A jewel."

Gabrielle was nodding. "I'll do some sketches and call you after the holidays."

"You're definitely my secret weapon, sweetie. Thanks for coming over. Now run along to get your DVD, and I'll have this ready for you in two shakes."

Lexie neatly handed Gabrielle over to Samir, who eased her away. Lexie closed the bedroom door behind them and began to strip off the gown.

"Honestly," she said, "I get so exasperated with divas."

I smiled.

Claudine said, "I don't know why you go through this, Lexie. You could run up to New York and buy whatever you like."

"I refuse to spend fifty thousand dollars on a dress created by an insufferable man who hates women and tells me to lose weight. Besides, I like to support the economy here in Philadelphia. I feel like Rosie the Riveter when I whip out my credit card."

"And Gabrielle is wonderful," I added.

"She is going to be huge some day," Lexie agreed, stripped down to her bra and panties. She threw the gown across her bed and grabbed a pair of jeans. Moments later, she was stepping into Ferragamo loafers and pulling on a sweater that looked like a woolly sheepdog and probably cost more than I was paid for a month's work.

The ever serene Samir came in with a tray of Waterford tumblers and small bottles of V8 juice. He set
it on the hassock and gathered up the gown on his way out.

Lexie gratefully patted his cheek as he went by, then poured us a round of juice and flopped on her bed.

"I can't stay." Claudine sipped from the cut crystal. "This is too cold, anyway. I never drink anything chilled below seventy-eight degrees. I just wanted to thank you, Lexie, for all your help."

"Oh, stick around, sweetie. My chef was here yesterday and left enough food to feed the Sixth Fleet. And it's all very tasty, too, I promise. No wheatgrass. I put my foot down when it comes to wheatgrass."

"No, I have some real celebrating to do, and I want to get started."

"Of course," Lexie said.

Claudine turned to me. Her very long nose, pointed chin and heavy, arching brows made for an imperfect face that stage lighting transformed into beauty so astounding that audiences had been known to gasp when the curtain rose to reveal her. In person, though, she looked as though her features were made of stretched Silly Putty—longer, bigger, thinner than on stage.

She lowered her eyes in a stagey imitation of reticence. "I've just been through a terrible ordeal, and Lexie has been a godsend."

"Well," Lexie began.

"No, it's all right." To me Claudine said, "I was blackmailed."

Lexie sent me an apologetic glance. Now that the cat was out of the bag, I was required to be discreet.

Inadequately, I said, "I'm so sorry."

"Oh, I suppose I deserved it. Having an affair always has a price." She flashed her wedding and engagement rings, one with a diamond as big as a jelly bean and a blaze of smaller stones surrounding it. "My husband is a perfectly nice man who shouldn't have his name ruined because of my behavior. Especially now that he's raising all those millions for the ballet capital fund. It cost me a fortune to get the photos. Lexie had to help me organize the money."

Lexie said, "Against my will. I wish you'd gone to the police, Claudine."

"No way. Osgood would have found out for sure."

Years ago, Claudine had astonished the city by marrying Osgood Paltron, the sinfully wealthy inventor of an insect-repelling device for campers. In his younger days, he made shouting television commercials as the Zapper Czar, but eventually he retired with his millions and devoted himself to becoming a ballet aficionado. For years everyone had assumed he was gay. His marriage proved either he wasn't or he was prepared to pay Claudine's legendary credit card bills in exchange for a heterosexual reputation. The jury was still out.

Osgood's money and Claudine's fame combined to create pillow power that rivaled the most successful and bizarre husband-and-wife duos in show business or politics. As a team, they were nationally known. Separately, however, they were definitely second tier.

"Osgood still might find out," Lexie said. "Especially if you continue to see Dougie."

Claudine sighed. "Oh, I can't give up Dougie. He's completely stupid except in bed, and there he's Einstein and Man o' War rolled into one. And he's so jealous, which is always a turn-on."

Lexie and I dared not look at each other.

Claudine  unconsciously  stroked her  own  sinewy
arms. "I'm just relieved it's over now. The blackmail, I mean. It's been such a trial."

"Let me try just one more time," Lexie said quite seriously. "It's not too late, Claudine. You can still go to the authorities. Who knows if this person will come back to you later for more money? He's already dipped into your well three times."

"But I have the photos now. And the negatives."

"How can you be sure you have them all? You can't trust a blackmailer. And heaven knows he might try the same with other people—your friends. You'd be doing a public service by bringing him to justice."

"To hell with the public. I've given them enough already." Claudine stood up and suddenly looked every inch the exquisite, world-class ballerina—a tall willow with a core of steel. She cupped the lilies with one graceful hand and bent to inhale their fragrance in a gesture so feminine and beautiful that she had made grown men weep when she executed it during
Giselle.
She straightened just as gracefully. "I'm just glad I'm free at last. And I wanted to thank you, Lexie, for your help. You've been great. Enjoy the flowers. I've got to run now. I'm meeting Dougie this afternoon for a quickie, and then Osgood and I have a cocktail thing tonight. Nice to see you, Nora."

"If you change your mind," Lexie said, "I'll do anything I can to help."

"Don't worry. It's over now. Kiss, kiss. Oh, and can I have one of those
Godfather
DVDs?"

"Take two," Lexie urged as Claudine went out of the room.

When we were alone, Lexie said, "I'm so sorry about that, Nora. It's hell knowing other people's secrets."

"I won't say a word."

She slugged the rest of her tomato juice and stood with one fist braced on her slim hip. "I'm almost glad you know, actually. Have you heard of anyone else being blackmailed? Anyone among our friends?"

"No, but it's hardly the kind of trouble a person advertises."

"I know. It's trouble that's contagious, however. I've been seeing some very peculiar withdrawals lately, and I'm sure people aren't buying expensive Christmas gifts with the money." She glared at the flowers Claudine had brought for her. "God, I hate lilies!"

"They smell like funerals."

"Damn right." She carried the flowers outside and left them on her balcony. When she returned and closed the door again, she asked, "Do you suppose Claudine Paltron has read a single book in her life?"

"She's upset you."

"I swear, it doesn't pay to have small clients anymore. From now on, I'm only taking billionaires." Lexie pulled me to sit beside her on the edge of the bed. "Forget about me now. Tell me what's wrong, darling. You looked ghastly when you came in. What in the world has happened? Is it Michael? Has he been arrested? The whole money-laundering thing is true, after all?"

I shook my head. "The hunt breakfast."

I told her about Rush Strawcutter's death. Lexie was horrified.

"And Emma was in the same stall?" Lexie cried. "Oh, my God, what was she doing?"

"She was unconscious, Lex. She's been drinking lately, and I—we've—tried to talk to her about it, but—"