with a younger, cheaper modelâÂbut he still had the same nose for news. His faded tweed jacket and brown knit tie looked shapeless and colorless and as if they hadnât been cleaned in decades. And when he pulled a pencil from his breast pocket, he licked the tip. But I knew the good-Âolâ-Âboy act was just thatâÂan act.
He said, âWhoâs the body in the elevator?â
I gave him the basic informationâÂthat we didnât know who had died in Quintainâs elevator, that the house had been abandoned for years. The local police would investigate. I didnât speculate that the body might have been Pippi. He didnât jot down any notes, but drew circles on his notebook while I talked.
âYeah,â he said, nodding. âThe local TV affiliates sent their trucks out to the house. I saw all the pictures on the noon news. We had a photographer taking some aerial photos for tomorrowâs edition, too. That estate is quite a place. A real old-Âmoney mansion. You spend much time there?â
âNot since I was a child.â
âBut youâve been inside? When your aunt still lived there?â
I hesitated. âAunt Madeleine left the country when I was in my early teens.â
âSo you knew her?â
I wasnât sure what Joe was up to, but I had a feeling I should be very careful. I folded my hands on the desk. âIs your story about Madeleine? Or what happened at Quintain this morning?â
Joe shrugged and closed his notebook. He poked his pencil into his ear and wiggled it around. âIâm just getting the facts straight. A dead body in a big mansionâÂthat kind of story always interests people. Rich folks misbehaving. Your aunt Madeleine, though. I remember her.â
I perked up. âYou were acquainted with her?â
âNo, but she was always around the edges of big stories when I got started.â
âAround the edges,â I repeated. âWhat does that mean? What kinds of stories?â
âJust stuff about people, I guess. She knew a lot of bigwigs.â
âHmm.â
âLike a lotta rich ladies, she gave money to museums and good causes. And campaigns. Thatâs the fast track to rubbing the right elbows.â Joe removed the pencil from his ear and studied the tip with a frown. âShe went to a lot of big parties.â
âThatâs all possible, I suppose.â
âShe had her fingers in a lot of pies.â
I smiled. âI wouldnât know anything about her pies.â
Joe put his pencil back into his pocket and looked me square in the eye at last. âI remember one old reporter saying he wouldnât be surprised if Madcap Maddy Blackbird got herself killed someday. Funny how a line like that sticks in your head. Now here she is, dead under suspicious circumstances.â
I said, âWhat suspicious circumstances?â
Another shrug. âI thought maybe youâd know.â
âThereâs nothing suspicious about it. She died in a volcano. A natural disaster. The Madeleine I knew was a respected ladyâÂemphasis on lady . She enjoyed herself. Enjoyed her friends. And, last I heard, thereâs nothing wrong with giving money to causes you believe in. I canât imagine why anyone would spread something insulting about my aunt, who was a lovely, generous person.â
âWell, thanks for the information, Nora.â My testy outburst did the trick. He climbed arthritically to his feet and paused. âJust one more thing.â
âYes?â
He dropped a tear sheet on my desk. I flipped it over and looked down at a picture of myself in the arms ofâÂas the headline so tastefully put itâ THE GANGSTER OF LOVE . Michael and I were photographed running across my lawn and taking cover in the house. The accompanying article breathlessly announced Michaelâs release from prison and speculated about how he planned on
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