No Way to Kill a Lady by Nancy Martin

with a younger, cheaper model—­but he still had the same nose for news. His faded tweed jacket and brown knit tie looked shapeless and colorless and as if they hadn’t been cleaned in decades. And when he pulled a pencil from his breast pocket, he licked the tip. But I knew the good-­ol’-­boy act was just that—­an act.
    He said, “Who’s the body in the elevator?”
    I gave him the basic information—­that we didn’t know who had died in Quintain’s elevator, that the house had been abandoned for years. The local police would investigate. I didn’t speculate that the body might have been Pippi. He didn’t jot down any notes, but drew circles on his notebook while I talked.
    â€œYeah,” he said, nodding. “The 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 tomorrow’s edition, too. That estate is quite a place. A real old-­money mansion. You spend much time there?”
    â€œNot since I was a child.”
    â€œBut you’ve been inside? When your aunt still lived there?”
    I hesitated. “Aunt Madeleine left the country when I was in my early teens.”
    â€œSo you knew her?”
    I wasn’t sure what Joe was up to, but I had a feeling I should be very careful. I folded my hands on the desk. “Is your story about Madeleine? Or what happened at Quintain this morning?”
    Joe shrugged and closed his notebook. He poked his pencil into his ear and wiggled it around. “I’m just getting the facts straight. A dead body in a big mansion—­that kind of story always interests people. Rich folks misbehaving. Your aunt Madeleine, though. I remember her.”
    I perked up. “You were acquainted with her?”
    â€œNo, but she was always around the edges of big stories when I got started.”
    â€œAround the edges,” I repeated. “What does that mean? What kinds of stories?”
    â€œJust stuff about people, I guess. She knew a lot of bigwigs.”
    â€œHmm.”
    â€œLike a lotta rich ladies, she gave money to museums and good causes. And campaigns. That’s the fast track to rubbing the right elbows.” Joe removed the pencil from his ear and studied the tip with a frown. “She went to a lot of big parties.”
    â€œThat’s all possible, I suppose.”
    â€œShe had her fingers in a lot of pies.”
    I smiled. “I wouldn’t know anything about her pies.”
    Joe put his pencil back into his pocket and looked me square in the eye at last. “I remember one old reporter saying he wouldn’t 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.”
    I said, “What suspicious circumstances?”
    Another shrug. “I thought maybe you’d know.”
    â€œThere’s nothing suspicious about it. She died in a volcano. A natural disaster. The Madeleine I knew was a respected lady—­emphasis on lady . She enjoyed herself. Enjoyed her friends. And, last I heard, there’s nothing wrong with giving money to causes you believe in. I can’t imagine why anyone would spread something insulting about my aunt, who was a lovely, generous person.”
    â€œWell, thanks for the information, Nora.” My testy outburst did the trick. He climbed arthritically to his feet and paused. “Just one more thing.”
    â€œYes?”
    He dropped a tear sheet on my desk. I flipped it over and looked down at a picture of myself in the arms of—­as the headline so tastefully put it—­ THE GANGSTER OF LOVE . Michael and I were photographed running across my lawn and taking cover in the house. The accompanying article breathlessly announced Michael’s release from prison and speculated about how he planned on