Some Like It Lethal (23 page)

Horrified, she said, "I can't give it away!"

She couldn't spend it either, I thought. Clearly, she didn't buy clothes or extravagant meals or expensive treatments at spas. She just watched her bank account grow.

Gussie snatched more napkins from the dispenser and blew her nose.

Almost everyone dreamed of winning the lottery someday. But I had friends who inherited vast fortunes, and their reactions to receiving sometimes unimaginable wealth were not as simple as rushing out to buy a new car. People who had enough money to make the wildest dreams come true sometimes didn't have the capacity to dream at all. The emotional legacy that came with inherited wealth could be crippling—a laughable quandary according to the average Joe, perhaps, but very real nonetheless.

Looking at Gussie, I remembered a childhood friend who was given fifty million dollars when he
turned eighteen. He spent a year staring at the numbers on paper, paralyzed by the opportunities for success and failure the money represented. He'd never have to work a day in his life, and he could have spent every penny pleasing himself. But within a year, he shot himself. His younger brother, in his turn, became a profligate playboy who ruined one expensive sailboat after another, ate and drank like Henry VIII and had recently been arrested, I'd heard, for drugging young girls for the purpose of having sex with their unconscious bodies. I'd seen his bloated face plastered on supermarket tabloids for weeks. He was barely twenty-five years old.

Different rules applied to the very rich. But the rules had to be self-created, and that task proved too difficult for many.

For Gussie the rule was that she had to keep the Strawcutter fortune inviolate. It was her way of coping with the guilt of great wealth, the mistrust of people who tried to reach her emotionally and the paralysis of purpose that had come with all her millions. I felt dreadfully sorry for her.

I said, "What will become of Laundro-Mutt now? Will you take over?"

"Oh, no. I'll shut it down as soon as possible."

"Shut it down?"

"The real estate will be worth something. But the sooner I can stop the payroll, the better."

I thought of LaKeeta and Kelly, doing their darnedest to cheerfully sell silly collars and bathe obnoxious pets like Spike. Did they know they'd soon be out of their jobs?

I said, "Will Tottie get his investment back when you close Laundro-Mutt?"

"There's nothing left to share with Mr. Boarman.
Rush used the initial input of cash to build the business, and he over-expanded. This morning, I was on my way to Rush's office to start liquidation procedures."

Just like that. I'd heard of coldhearted CEOs, but Gussie was an iceberg.

The clerk interrupted us by putting the bill on our table. I reached for it automatically.

Around her mouthful, Gussie said, "What's my share?"

I picked up the slip of paper. "I'll buy."

"No, I want to pay my share," she insisted. "How much do I owe?"

I showed her the bill and watched her do the simple math very carefully.

She nodded. "Okay, I'll pay for my coffee and the bagel. We don't need to leave a fifteen percent tip, do you think? After all, he didn't really wait on us. Maybe eight percent is sufficient."

"Whatever you think."

She opened a thin change purse and counted out the exact amount. She placed coins on the table for the tip. Then she wrapped the remaining half bagel in a napkin and put it into her handbag. That done, she stood up and looked at me with those red-rimmed eyes devoid of emotion. She said, "I hope your slutty sister rots in jail for what she did to Rush. People who steal ought to be locked up until they die."

I stood up, too. "Gussie—"

But she cut me off calmly. "If you tell anybody Rush was screwing around, I'll sue you. I'll punch you in the face. I'll run you over with my car. I'll do it, I really will. Nobody can ever know he didn't love me."

Her face was very red, and her hands were shaking as she turned to go.

I reached for her. "Gussie, wait. My husband was
killed, too, you know. I didn't understand right away, but I'm finally figuring out what happened to us. It wasn't at all what I thought it was at the time. Rush did love you. I'm sure he did. I'm a good listener. Call me if you need a friend. Maybe I can help."

She snatched her hand away. "Don't bother."

"One more thing," I said desperately. "Just one. Can you tell me if Rush had a camera? Did he do any photography?"

Gussie looked at me as if I were crazy. "No, of course not. What a waste of money."

She left the shop, and I sat down slowly, shaken by how bizarre Gussie had been. Did she realize how her penurious ways affected her husband and her marriage?

An even more jolting thought hit me. Was Gussie so consumed by jealousy and humiliation that she might have killed Rush herself?

I had to find out if Rush Strawcutter's business affairs were as strange as his marriage had been. I headed for the parking lot.

Chapter 13

Libby was standing beside her minivan, holding the end of Spike's leash while he rolled in a muddy puddle.

I left the bagel shop and crossed the parking lot to them. "You couldn't have kept him clean for five minutes?"

She handed me the leash and a twenty-dollar bill. "Here. They want to pay you to never bring him back again. And they offered me a special deal on one of those electronic shock collars. Poor Kelly was going to quit her job. I had to tell her about Placida to calm her down."

I sent Libby back inside to return the money, and I did my best to clean Spike up with the old towel. He was very pleased with himself. Libby kindly dropped me at the nearest train station and even agreed to take Spike home, although she hoped he could behave himself while she went into her bank to open a checking account for her new goddess support group.

I rode the train into Philadelphia and hiked over to Lexie Paine's office.

Lexie's firm—once her late father's along with several influential partners' but now nearly Lexie's outright—commanded three floors of a downtown landmark. The corner office on the top floor, with
views of the Schuylkill on one side and the spire of Old City Hall on the other, was Lexie's command post. She had decorated it with some family furniture—an exquisitely delicate French desk with ivory and gold inlays, and a collection of armchairs from the pieces her mother left behind when she ran off with a polo player. The coffee table was fashioned from the top of a Steinway that had been destroyed in the fire set by one of her crazy Tuxedo Park cousins. On it stood a rosewood humidor, a jokey gift from a senator Lexie helped finance. Laid diagonally across the floor, a Tibetan rug glowed in light cast by the gas logs in the fireplace, a cozy touch as snow blew outside the tinted windows.

Over the mantel hung a half-complete oil study painted by a Dutch master of a serene girl spinning wool. Because of the painting, a security guard kept a vigil outside Lexie's door.

I looked at the painting and tried to absorb some of the subject's tranquility. When Lexie got off the phone, I said, "Shouldn't that be in a museum?"

"I suppose, but I like having it around." She gave me a kiss. "She makes me think if the stock market crashes, I could have an alternative career in textiles."

"Sorry to bother you this way. I thought I might lure you out to lunch. But looks like you're busy."

"I'd love to have lunch, but I can't get away until the Asian markets open." She returned to her desk to glance at one of her three computer screens. "Prices are insane today, and the museum board is in an uproar, too. We had some unpleasant business over the weekend, and we're not sure how it's going to play in the press. We had to kick somebody off the board."

"Somebody influential?"

"Yes, and the family's been attached to the museum
with grappling hooks for generations, so it's going to look like a crisis of faith when he leaves, but actually he's simply going broke."

"There's a lot of that going around these days."

"Well, it's very ugly, with bad feelings on both sides. Normally, we'd carry him for a while longer, but a cultural board can't afford to keep dead weight hanging around indefinitely, and he just hasn't lived up to his promises, so it's the boot. And it's awful. What can I do for you?"

"I just came from a weird discussion with Gussie Strawcutter."

"No wonder you're so pale."

Lexie looked perfect in very spare Armani, her business attire of choice. Her earrings, double diamonds that seemed small and therefore tasteful on a bad stock market day, flashed blue in the reflected light of her computer screens. Her black hair was pulled back with a simple Gucci leather clip. Even in a financial crisis, Lexie looked as serene as her woolspinning Dutch girl.

I sat on one of the armchairs while my friend grabbed two chilled water bottles from the silver tray on her credenza. She passed one to me and sat behind her desk. She twisted the cap off her bottle. "Tell me about Emma first. Is she all right? Have you heard from her?"

"I believe she's okay," I said carefully. "The police are looking for her."

"So I've heard." She sipped water and watched me. "Dare I ask if Michael is back in the country?"

"He is."

"Are the police hounding him on that money-laundering thing?"

"I don't know. I'm staying out of it."

"Good thinking. Ignorance is bliss—and it will keep you from being indicted."

I wanted to ask Lexie if she thought Michael had gone to Scotland to trade in dirty currency, but I didn't have the courage to hear her answer. For an instant, I was overwhelmed by emotion.

Lexie saw my expression and came out from behind her desk. "I'm so sorry, sweetie. You must be in hell. Forget I brought it up. It was out of line, anyway."

"It wasn't out of line," I said, regaining myself. "You're my friend."

"I am indeed." She perched on her desk in front of me. "As long as Emma's safe for the moment and Michael's not in the pokey, I guess all's right with the world. Now, what did you learn from Gussie?"

I was suddenly relieved not to be discussing Michael. "I learned Gussie has more troubles than a murdered husband. She's bizarre. I watched her count out an eight percent tip for breakfast."

"All that dough and can't spend a nickel?" Lexie folded her arms across her chest and nodded knowingly. "Yeah, remember her mother? Wore the same three dresses for years, and I swear they all came from a thrift shop. Do you think Gussie is one of those who feels guilty for being born rich?"

"Yes, guilty and a few other things. She doesn't trust anyone—including her husband."

"Trust is a tricky animal, isn't it? I remember a rumor about their prenup. Gussie wanted a lock on the sugar bowl. Poor Rush. He was such a mensch, but a babe in the woods, really. Or do you think he hoped to charm Gussie out of her bank account?"

"I didn't know him well enough. But Gussie has strong feelings about her family and their stupid money—the money has become who she is, in a way."

"So you're wondering if Gussie was capable of whacking Rush over the family fortune?"

"To protect it," I guessed. "It would be like self-defense, in her mind." I saw Lexie's skeptical expression and smiled. "Okay, it's far-fetched."

"Did Gussie keep Rush so broke that he might have resorted to other forms of income?" Lexie asked.

"The blackmail? Yes, it's quite possible Rush resorted to extortion. I just don't know where the photos came from."

"But he borrowed a fortune from Tottie Boarman. Why would he need more?"

"Tottie wanted a return on his investment."

"Aha. With all his financial problems, he needed some cash back from Rush, of course."

"Lex, now that Rush is dead, is there any way Tottie can profit?"

Lexie didn't have to think for longer than a second. "Insurance. I'm sure Rush's life was insured to protect Laundro-Mutt in the event of his death. It's common practice with companies owned and managed by one dynamic person. Martha Stewart is a prime example. And yes, investors might receive hefty payouts when the leader dies. Are you thinking Tottie might have— Oh, my God. Tottie? Tottie killed Rush?" She looked as if she'd swallowed her water bottle whole.

The intercom on Lexie's desk interrupted us. "Lex?"

Shaken, she hit the button on her intercom. "Yes, Carly?"

"Claudine Paltron is here to see you."

Lexie and I exchanged surprised glances. Lexie shrugged. "This is turning out to be one crazy day. Send her in, Carly."

"Kiss, kiss!" cried Claudine, already sailing through
the door with long-legged strides. "How unlike me to be anywhere this early in the morning, but here I am. It must really be a crisis, don't you think? Hello, Nora. Good morning, Lexie." She gave Lexie a double kiss without touching.

"What brings you here?" Lexie asked, more bluntly than usual.

"Business, of course, but I don't mind a bit if Nora stays. What a nice jacket.
J'adore!
Where did you get it?"