No Way to Kill a Lady by Nancy Martin Page A

taking over most of the illegal activities from Philadelphia all the way to Sicily. Once again, the Intelligencer demonstrated it was a journalistic class act.
    I glanced up at Joe and saw his smirk. “I guess I should be thankful you didn’t show his mug shot,” I said.
    â€œYou have a statement about your boyfriend? Something we can print?”
    I handed him the photo. “No thanks.”
    With a glare, I watched Joe shamble away. I thought about the kind of retorts I could make if I weren’t a lady.
    When he disappeared, I considered my delicate position. What was my obligation to my employer when my personal life crossed into the news? I wasn’t sure. And there wasn’t anyone in the newsroom I could ask. Once again, I longed for Lexie’s opinion. She could help me with my dilemma.
    Joe’s insinuations about Aunt Madeleine really irritated me.
    What suspicious circumstances?
    On impulse, I picked up my phone and called the obituary department.
    Annette Downey picked up, and we chatted for a moment about her cat, Cleo, who needed insulin shots, last I’d heard. Annette sounded a lot less stressed about her pet now that she’d learned how to inject the medication.
    Then I cut to the chase. “Annette, can you tell me who wrote Madeleine Blackbird’s obituary for the Intelligencer ?”
    â€œSure,” she said. “It was Mark. Except he didn’t really write it, because all the information came in pretty much the way we used it.”
    â€œWhere did it come from?” I asked. “Who sent it?”
    â€œLet me check.” I could hear her clicking her computer keys for a moment before her voice came back on the line. “Here it is. Yeah, it came by e-­mail. From one of your relatives, I guess. Sutherland Blackbird.”
    â€œThat’s my cousin,” I said, keeping my voice steady. “You mean the news of her death didn’t come from Indonesia?”
    â€œWhat do you mean? Sometimes we get bulletins from the wire services if a famous person died, but we don’t get information from countries. A person has to send it to us.”
    â€œHmm,” I said. “I wonder if the other newspapers received the information from anyone else?”
    â€œSays right here,” Annette said. “I can see the same e-­mail went to a bunch of papers, not just ours. From the same guy. Why do you ask?”
    My thoughts had strayed in various directions, but I pulled myself together. “No special reason. Just curious. Thanks, Annette. And good luck with Cleo. Don’t get scratched.”
    â€œToo late!” She laughed, and we hung up.
    Sutherland had sent the obituary to the newspaper.
    But how had he learned of Madeleine’s death?
    I would ask him as soon as I saw him again.
    Out of habit, I checked my watch. Nearly five o’clock. No time to stew about Aunt Madeleine or crime lords. I had other problems. Fleetingly, I wondered if Michael was on his way to mass. Or using it for a ruse to go somewhere else.
    The real reporters were putting on their coats to go home, so I rode the elevator down with them and thought about what it would be like to be stuck in one alone. On the street, I walked briskly a couple of blocks south to start my workday.
    I shared the sidewalk with a bustle of pedestrians. Not long ago, I had lived just a short distance away, in a luxury condominium in Rittenhouse Square with my husband, Todd. A doctor who never practiced medicine, Todd had done research in organ transplants, while I tended mainly to our social life. That was before he became hooked on coke, and our hellish journey began. Those dark days seemed like a lifetime ago. Today I could almost enjoy a stroll through my old neighborhood. It finally felt as if the most painful memories of the past were easing. But Rittenhouse Square didn’t feel like home anymore. Now I felt the tug of Blackbird Farm.
    Within a few minutes, I pushed