Murder Melts in Your Mouth (3 page)

“Bankers, I think. Isn't that Hart Jones?” I was pretty sure I recognized the man Emma had flicked as one of Philadelphia's up-and-coming financiers. I remembered seeing him at a charitable event a few months earlier. I wondered how my sister knew him. “He invests millions in businesses—a kind of hedge fund, I believe.”

“You're right, of course. Think he's going to invest in chocolate?”

“That's the logical assumption. But judging by the look on his face just now, Tierney didn't get the money he was asking for.”

“I think you're right.”

Handsome Tierney's bad mood was unmistakable as he stormed out of the restaurant and disappeared up the street as briskly as a man putting an unpleasant scene behind him.

“Seems strange, doesn't it?” Crewe asked. “That Tierney was asking Hartfield Jones for money? Isn't Tierney's father one of the semiretired partners in Lexie's firm? Why isn't the chocolate hero borrowing capital from his own father?”

We didn't have a chance to discuss his question. The bartender came back to ask if I wanted a refill on my iced tea. I accepted gratefully, and Crewe took a moment to pay his luncheon check. He gallantly paid for my drink, too, and he was just starting to explain more about Jacque Petite and the Chocolate Festival.

I listened, smiling, although my mind buzzed with Emma and her current situation. I felt as shaken as I had the time she threw a cherry bomb into my bedroom when we were kids.

Minutes later, a teenage boy slammed against the restaurant door and pushed inside, gulping cool air as if he'd run a mile across a blazing desert. At that exact moment, a police car went
whoop-whoop
ing down the street, so heads turned to see what the commotion was. The newcomer caught himself as he realized he'd made a show-stopping entrance.

“Who's that?” Crewe asked.

T
he kid wasn't really a kid, but only dressed like one. He wore long shorts and huge sneakers in the latest street fashion. Everything else about him said spoiled suburban white boy. His shirt sported an expensive logo and a Japanese anime drawing. In his ears he wore the latest high-tech earphones. His sideburns had been expertly trimmed, his eyebrows waxed. His immaculate baseball cap was worn sideways, hip-hop-style, but he removed it instinctively. He'd been raised where good manners were taught young.

To me, Crewe said, “Wait. Isn't that—?”

“Chad Zanzibar,” I murmured. “The actor previously known as Scooter.”

“I bet he couldn't wait to get rid of that nickname.”

“I think his agent insisted.”

The other restaurant patrons went back to their drinks and conversation, dismissing the arrival of this very short and badly dressed young man in their midst.

But Chad Zanzibar was no frat boy hoping to score a cold beer on a hot day. I knew he was a Main Line rich kid who rode some family money into show business. He'd started in commercials, then hit the big time wearing a loincloth and elf ears in a made-for-teenagers movie that spawned action figures and posters suitable for the walls of teenybopper bedrooms.

“Scooter,” I said, waving. “Over here.”

He blinked, and for a strange instant I wondered if the flash of confusion on his face meant he was in some kind of trouble. But then he recognized me and came toward us, pulling his earphones out. “Nora, right?”

“Yes, hello.”

“I thought I recognized you. I was your cousin Farley's roommate at Choate. Not for long, of course.” He shook my hand very hard. “I bailed early to jump-start my career. I'm called Chad now, by the way.”

“Of course, sorry.”

But he would always be Scooter to me—a kid who reminded me of Mighty Mouse—all upper body on short legs. He had been a nonstop talker with a lisp. Now, though, his speech was impeccable and his dark hair had been highlighted with white blond tips. His teeth were impossibly bright. With a very broad chest and long, muscular arms, he had the stunted look of a circus strong man.

He gave me a not-so-subtle once-over, then released his crushing grip on my hand and tried to be suave. “How is Farley?”

“Still in college,” I said. My cousin was finishing Harvard in record time, but I didn't say so. Instead, “This is my friend Crewe Dearborne. I think your fathers were good friends.”

Graciously, Crewe shook the boy's hand. “Yes, members of the golf club, I think. Do you play?”

“Hell, no, dude.” Chad twitched as he glanced around the restaurant. “Waste of time. What does it take to get a drink around here?”

Crewe summoned the bartender with a mere glance and raised eyebrows.

“I need a mineral water,” Chad snapped. “No ice. Two slices of lime.”

“Certainly. Do you have ID? You have to be twenty-one to sit in the bar.”

Chad sighed heavily and flipped his driver's license onto the bar with a practiced motion. No doubt with his boyish looks, he was asked to prove his age everywhere.

The bartender picked up the license and gave the face and numbers a long study. At last, he handed the license back politely. “Thank you, sir.”

When the bartender stepped away, I said, “What a miserable day to be in the city, isn't it?”

“Yeah.” Chad climbed onto the stool I had vacated and proceeded to play with a coaster. “Gramma made me come to a meeting with her. But I don't let anybody keep me waiting, especially not the money men. So I walked.”

“Money men?” Crewe said politely, for Chad had clearly wanted to be asked to explain.

He drummed his knuckles impatiently on the bar. “Yeah, Gramma's bankers. She's going to be a producer for another of my flicks, and we need to get some money in the pipeline.”

I had heard that his grandmother, Elena Zanzibar, the cosmetics queen, plunked down a small fortune to get Chad a role in the elf movie. What luck for everyone that the movie became a blockbuster and launched Chad's career.

“What's the new movie about?” I asked.

“I can't really talk about it. It's in early development. But it's going to be very big.” He craned to see what had become of the bartender. “Turns out, the bankers didn't even want to talk about the movie, though. They wanted her to rat on somebody who stole a bunch of money. It's going to be a big stink in the papers tomorrow.”

The bartender returned with Chad's mineral water with lime. Chad said, “What took you so long?”

“Sorry, sir. Consider the drink on the house.”

Chad shrugged, all forgiven. “Peace out, dude.”

Crewe and I exchanged a glance over Chad's head. We shared the same thought: His grandmother, an Old Money aristocrat, undoubtedly kept her riches safely stashed with Lexie Paine's financial firm. All the Main Line grandes dames did.

Suddenly Crewe's concern that Lexie had problems at work seemed real.

But Chad didn't pause in his discourse about his favorite subject. He slugged his mineral water and set the glass on the bar. “Meantime, I got a recurring role on
Law and Punishment.
It's more than a guest shot. Real meaty. Something for me to sink my teeth into. I'm in town to research the part, in fact.”

“How interesting,” I said. “How does an actor conduct research?”

Another shrug. “Just talk to people. Soak up the vibe.”

Crewe couldn't hide a smile. “Whose vibe did you soak for the hobbit role?”

“I wasn't a hobbit, man. I was an elf. Big difference.” He spotted Crewe's dish of berries and pulled it close. “I met some midgets. Wow, this fruit smells funky.”

Crewe steered Chad back to the subject of bankers. “Who wanted to talk to your grandmother about the stolen money?”

“A bunch of people. They're pissed off about some old dude. Cavendish.”

“Hoyt Cavendish?” Crewe couldn't hide his surprise. “Lexie's partner?”

“Yeah, him. You know him?”

“Lexie's former partner,” I corrected. “He's semiretired now.”

And his son, Tierney, had left the restaurant just minutes earlier.

“Yeah, well,” Chad said, “Cavendish is going to get retired to jail from all the yelling at that meeting. That dude is in real hot water.”

Another police car roared past the restaurant, followed by an ambulance with lights flashing. Some people stood up from their tables to peer out the windows.

“What in the world is going on?” Crewe asked, his reporter instincts on alert.

But Chad's story intrigued me more. Of course, I had known Hoyt Cavendish since my childhood. He'd been a longtime partner in the Paine financial empire, a friend of my father, an active member of my social circle.

And just a few months back, I had been in one of the concert halls at the Kimmel Center the night Hoyt had stepped onto the stage carrying a Stradivarius violin. It was a gift he had purchased at great expense for a deserving musician. Hoyt wore a fine tuxedo for the occasion, and his white hair, cut short but brushed up from his face with pomade, gleamed as he stood in the glowing spotlight as the audience rose to applaud. He had bowed his head in a show of humility. A diminutive man made large by the stage lighting and his own act of philanthropy.

The violinist had come onstage in her concert black gown and stood at his elbow until the applause died away. But Hoyt had withheld the violin for an instant—long enough for the whole audience to inhale a deep breath. The violinist began to weep silently, and then Hoyt had slowly extended the instrument to her. The glowing light gleamed on the violin and on the tears on her cheeks. When her hands closed on the Stradivarius, and Hoyt released it at last, the audience went wild. I had never seen a charitable act so dramatic.

“Crewe,” I said, “were you at the Kimmel Center the night Hoyt Cavendish gave the violin?”

Crewe turned to me, the street noise forgotten. “Why, yes. I sat just a few rows behind you, remember?”

“Yes, that's right. This is an odd thing to remember, but did you get the feeling—I don't know—that Hoyt was—oh, never mind. It's ungenerous of me.”

“I know what you're thinking,” Crewe said. “And I got the same impression. That Cavendish was onstage for his own gratification.”

“I can't believe he's in any kind of trouble at the firm,” I said. “But…”

“Judging by all the ticked-off people I saw this afternoon,” Chad said, “he'll be lucky if he walks out of that office alive.”

After the concert, I had met Hoyt Cavendish in the receiving line at the reception.

“Mr. Cavendish,” I'd said, shaking his thin, almost feminine hand, “your gift will mean so much to the community as well as Miss Ling.”

His fine-boned face was pink with pleasure. His voice had an odd, reedy timbre. “I hope my charitable giving will encourage others to be just as generous.”

I had not introduced myself, but the next person in line said, “Nora Blackbird, how nice to see you!”

And Hoyt's expression froze. He remained gracious, but turned away from me quickly. We hadn't spoken since I was a child, so he hadn't recognized me. But he certainly knew my name.

Crewe was frowning out the window again. “I wonder what's going on.”

My own instincts finally kicked in. I said, “Crewe, we should go up to see Lexie.”

“Now?”

“Yes, now.”

Crewe's gaze met mine, and his eyes widened. Without saying good-bye to Chad, we bolted.

The wails of police cruisers echoed against the tall buildings around us. We hurried up Market Street to Lexie's office. As we drew closer, I felt a weight of dread start to build in my chest. In front of the Paine Building, two cars had pulled up on the sidewalk, blocking pedestrians. Several officers milled around, shouting at one another.

“Oh, no,” I whispered.

Beside the hood of the first car, a stern-faced cop unrolled some yellow crime tape.

Crewe asked him, “What's going on?”

“Oh my God,” I said.

The only thing that kept me from falling to my knees was Crewe's arm as he wrapped it around me.

A small man lay crumpled on the sidewalk in front of the Paine Building. His gray suit obscured the tortured position of his body, but it was clear he was dead. A pool of blood widened around his head. One black shoe lay at the curb.

Crewe looked up at the Paine Building above us. “Dear heaven,” he said. “I think he jumped!”

With the afternoon sun ablaze overhead, I could barely make out the penthouse balcony. A gauzy curtain blew outward from the open window.

I heard Crewe's voice, but the whole world tilted around me.

I knew the figure on the sidewalk. Hoyt Cavendish.

A police officer stood over the body. To the crowd of people gathering, he said, “Move along. This isn't a freak show.”

If a partner in her firm had just committed suicide, Lexie might need us. Crewe whisked me past the police. We left the awful scene on the sidewalk, ran across the small terrace and into the building.

We made it through the security checkpoint in the lobby only because one of the guards recognized me. Although he was yelling into a phone and trying to communicate by hand signals with a belligerent police officer at the same time, he saw my stricken face and waved me past. Then I heard him say, “This building is locked down! Nobody gets in or out from now on, understand?”

An instant later, the elevator arrived in the lobby. The door opened, and a gaggle of elderly ladies rushed out. Some were weeping. One was irate.

“How dare you chase us out of there? We might have been helpful! I was a triage nurse once!”

A police officer gripped her elbow. “Fifty years ago, maybe,” he snapped. “Move it, ladies. Over to the desk so I can take your names and addresses.”

Crewe flattened me against the wall as the police officer brushed past us. Then he pulled me into the elevator and punched a button.

But on Lexie's floor, another police officer planted his hand on Crewe's chest as soon as the door opened. “Sorry, buddy. Come back tomorrow.”

“What's going on?”

“You hear what I said? Beat it, bub.”

“Sure, sure. Sorry.”

Crewe pressed the button, and the door began to close.

I said, “Crewe—”

“Don't worry. I'm not giving up.”

He hit the panel of buttons again, and the elevator dropped only one floor before it stopped again. We stepped off and quickly found the emergency staircase.

Crewe turned to me. “You okay, Nora?”

“Yes, let's hurry. I want to be sure Lexie's all right.”