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Chapter One
To squander the last dollar left in the Blackbird family fortune, my parents threw a lawn party that would have made Jay Gatsby proud. My father wore a moth-eaten dinner jacket and poured champagne while Mama offered marijuana cigarettes to the ne'er do wells of Philadelphia high society who'd come to see how far the mighty had fallen.
At the party's climax, my parents shot off fireworks and presented the Blackbird family art collection to my sister Emma. The Blackbird furniture went to my sister Libby.
Perhaps under the impression that I was the most responsible member of the family--which only means I'm the one who never entered a wet T-shirt contest-Mama and Daddy gave me the Bucks County farm. Then they blew the country for a sunny resort that catered to American tax evaders, leaving stardust in their wake and me with a delinquent property tax bill for two million dollars.
That winter I gave up my Rittenhouse Square condo and moved back to the decaying splendor of our family homestead. I sold my symphony subscription seats, got a partial refund on a weekend trip to Paris and terminated my charge account at Neiman Marcus, which was probably good for my soul anyway.
I tried to get used to poverty. I really did. But by spring I was down to my last Lean Cuisine, and the tax man had my number on his speed dial.
Which is why I, Nora Blackbird, former socialite who never really held a job in all my thirty-one years unless you count being secretary of the Junior League, found myself in dire need of a paycheck.
"How's the job hunt?" my sister Emma asked me over our monthly lunch at the Rusty Sabre, the white tablecloth inn in New Hope. She lit up a cigarette after she'd been served her spinach salad and sat back to consider her next move on the food. "Find anybody who wants to hire an expert at organizing charity balls?"
"I do have other skills, you know."
"You're really good at seating charts," said our older sister Libby, buttering a roll and showing none of Emma's reluctance to chow down. Libby wore her excess pounds to sexy perfection. "A successful seating chart is a work of art. In fact, I'm hoping you'll help us with the wedding, Nora."
Her stepson was getting married soon. Half of Philadelphia knew the details thanks to frequent bulletins in the papers that documented the union of two old families---the Treese clan of Main Line and Libby's new in-laws, the Kintswells of Society Hill.
Bored with the endless wedding discussion, Emma ignored Libby's gambit to hash it over again. To me, she said, "Maybe the White House needs someone new."
Libby stopped buttering and said quite seriously, "That's not a bad idea."
Emma winked at me. "You do beautiful calligraphy."
"And I can polish silver."
"But seating charts are your gift, really," Libby said.
Emma and I exchanged grins.
The three of us began having our sisterly lunches about eighteen months ago, shortly after Emma and I lost our husbands. Libby had been a widow for several years and remarried, but when Emma's husband Jake died in a car crash that nearly killed her, too, and a few weeks later my Todd was shot in a South Philly parking lot, Libby assembled the sisterhood. We took turns being the designated basket case, and to our collective surprise, our lunches were therapeutic. For the first time since our teenaged years, we were close again. We shared our frustration with Mama and Daddy, argued over how best to cope with being poor-Libby, the oldest and most free-spirited, advocated complete denial and Emma, the youngest and wired tighter than a piano string, never spent a nickel anyway--and we howled over the things that only sisters can find hilarious, like Aunt Rosemary's shoplifting tendencies and our family inability to cook a decent meal.
We were not without conflict, of course.
Libby had appeared for our May lunch wearing one of her long, engulfing artistic dresses with a plunging neckline. Normally, she sported a beflowered straw hat as if ready to fly to Ascot at a moment's notice. But today her hair was loose and Bardot feminine. Hardly any splotches of paint marred her manicure. All of her outfits included matching canvas bags in which she carried an ever-changing collection of books to share with anyone who came along. Libby had grown up ahead of Emma and me, during the time when our parents lived like minor royalty, so she had a different approach to life. Lady Bountiful in Birkenstocks, often lugging a sketchbook to document important moments in her life. She was an Artist of Life, she claimed. Things like financial survival were irrelevant to her.
Libby shook her knife and said, "No, they already have somebody at the White House. Remember Divvy Moncreath? Her son works there now. He gets along beautifully with the First Lady. They have the same taste in china."
"Divvy Moncreath," I said, "is probably the only woman in America who made a campaign contribution so her son could fold napkins."
"He's brilliant with place settings."
"How do you know that?" Emma asked Libby. She was dressed in riding breeches and boots, as always, and she didn't give a damn that the other ladies lunching nearby cast cool glances at the mud she'd tracked in.
Of the three of us, Emma was the stone fox. A chic, very short and asymmetrical haircut flattered the narrow shape of her head, her sharp-cut cheekbones and wide-set bedroom eyes. The Blackbird auburn hair and magnolia white skin that made me look like a Victorian bride with the vapors, was sexy as hell on Emma. Her riding breeches fit her like a pair of gloves, and her boots gave my younger sister a piratical air that suited the look in her eye. Two inches taller than me and with ten pounds strategically rearranged, she could have gotten work as an exotic dancer anywhere.
Em always looked as if she's just rolled out of somebody's bed . . . with a whip. Libby looked ready to slide into the next convenient four-poster. And I-well, I wasn't going to venture under anyone's down comforter but my own for a long time. My husband's death had blindsided me, but didn't compare to the hell of our last two years together when Todd binged on cocaine, lost his medical research job and showed me what havoc one man's weakness could inflict on the union of two people who loved each other passionately. No, men were too much trouble.
"I already got a job," I announced, intervening before the sisterly sniping developed into a full-blown squabble. "I started last week, so the White House will have to muddle through without me."
"What job?" Libby brightened. "Where?"
"I went to see Rory Pendergast." I smiled at the memory of dear old "uncle" Rory, years ago our grandfather Blackbird's tennis partner, coming to my rescue. "I asked him for a job and he invited me to write for his newspaper."
"Nora, that's fabulous!"
"He still owns that rag?" Emma blew smoke. "I guess every billionaire industrialist needs a hobby in his declining years."
"How is sweet Rory?" Libby asked. "I haven't seen him in weeks. I should call him, in fact. We have things to discuss."
"This is about Nora," Emma said. "So shut up and listen."
"Rory looked great," I went on steadily. "A little frail, maybe, but still naughty. He's eighty-five if he's a day."
Libby lifted her wineglass in a toast. "And he recognizes talent when he sees it. Writing all those medical articles for your husband has come in handy, Nora. Kudos! Tell us what you'll be doing for the Intelligencer. A column for the health section?"
"No-"
"Medical tips?"
"No," I said, taking a deep breath. "I'm writing for the society page."
A short, stunned silence. Libby put down her glass.
Then Emma laughed outright. "Good God," she said. "You're going to write meaningful prose about debutante balls?"
"It's a steady job."
But a job that came with at least one drawback and Emma immediately hit the bullseye.
She said, "Tell me you're not working with Kitty Keough."
I gathered my courage and admitted, "I'm her assistant."
Libby clapped one hand to her mouth to stop a laugh. "You're kidding!"
For thirty years, Kitty Keough had been the elephant in the middle of every table at Philadelphia parties. She reported on weddings and funerals, cocktail receptions and tea parties. She detailed what people wore, ate and said. She had printed more pictures of men in tuxedos than People magazine ever will, picked her fork at more sea bass dinners with bulimic girls than a Miss America chaperone and air kissed more wealthy women than a presidential candidate. She wrote clever columns that sent the whole city flipping to The Back Page every Sunday to read how she cut the rich and famous down to size.
But she'd also made enemies along the way.
Emma said, "You're life's in danger the minute your name is associated with hers. People hate Kitty Keough's guts."
"Readers don't."
"But our friends do," said Libby. "And what she said about Daddy and Mama!"
"Every word was true," I pointed out.
"So what will you be doing exactly?" Emma asked.
"The job isn't much different than my life used to be," I explained. "I'm invited to the same cocktail parties, banquets and balls. Except afterwards I write up what I've seen and heard. I'll attend parties for a living."
"And Kitty?" Emma propped her elbows on the table, ready to dish. "I bet she was delighted to see you sashaying into her territory."
"She hasn't exactly rolled out the red carpet," I admitted.
"It's your name," Libby declared. "The Blackbirds are everything Kitty Keough is not. She's going to make your life miserable."
"And the fact that Rory hired you himself," Emma added with a grin. "That ticked her off big time, didn't it? She hates anybody being more connected than she is."
To be accepted in New York, goes the saying, all you need is money. Lots of money. But here in Philadelphia, it's who you are that counts.
The Blackbirds, a family as old as the city itself, counted.
Kitty Keough did not.
"She seems a little upset about our relationship...
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Most Helpful Customer Reviews
43 of 44 people found the following review helpful:
5.0 out of 5 stars
Smart, Sophisticated, Sexy New Mystery Series!,
By
This review is from: How to Murder a Millionaire (Blackbird Sisters Mysteries, No. 1) (Paperback)
Nora Blackbird's parents left the US for a sunny, tax evaders resort leaving Nora's sister Emma with the art collection and her other sister Libby with the furniture collection. All Nora gets is the property that has been in her family for generations - and a two million dollar tax bill. For the first time in her life, Nora, a former socialite, is forced to *gasp* work. Rory, an old friend of the family who owns a Philadelphia newspaper takes pity on her and hires her as a society page columnist. This is not quite as much fun as it could have been because Kitty, the reigning queen of the society column, believes that Nora is trying to take over her job and gives her all of the bad assignments - like the opening of the monster truck dealership on land that Nora was forced to sell. I mean, its bad enough that Nora sold land that had been in her family for generations, but she sold it to the son of a rumored New Jersey crime boss who sells trucks! To top off her day, Nora discovers the body of her employer and family friend at a party that evening. Nora quickly realizes that the police are out of their depth when it comes to dealing with high society and tries her best to help them out. However, she keeps getting distracted by her flaky sisters and their problems, a slimy art dealer, and the bone-melting come ons she can barely resist from Abruzzo, the suspected crime boss...First of all, in case the synopsis didn't tip you off, this book is not for the hard-core mystery lover. It is kind of a cross between a romance and a mystery novel and fits quite neatly into the "mystery cozy" genre. This is a fun, fast read for those who enjoy their mysteries filled with comments about clothes, food, romance, socialites, art and weird families. Nancy Martin has a nice, smooth writing style and the plot unfolds nicely. I also loved her characters. I mean, where else do you find a reclusive billionaire who collects erotic art, a brother-in-law who dresses up in full Confederate regalia for formal occasions, two flaky, funny sisters, a baby-faced detective who is a lot sharper than he seems, and hosts of other entertaining characters. Sound like fun? This book definitely is!
22 of 22 people found the following review helpful:
5.0 out of 5 stars
Fun new series,
By Moe811 (New York USA) - See all my reviews
This review is from: How to Murder a Millionaire (Blackbird Sisters Mysteries, No. 1) (Paperback)
Nora Blackbird's world has been turned upside down. Her husband was killed during a drug deal and her socialite parents have fled to a tropical tax haven to escape creditors. Her sisters got the furniture and art collection and Nora got the family farm and the two million dollar tax bill. She manages to get a job as a social reporter for a family friend's newspaper, but the friend ends up murdered at a party. Nora's curiosity gets the better of her, especially when a folio of erotic art is given to her by her sister to return to the estate. Nora wants to know who killed Rory and why. She has the help of Mick Abruzzo whether she wants it or not.This is a promising new series. The three Blackbird sisters are very quirky from Emma's horse obsession to Nora's fainting spells. The plot is entertaining without being too far fetched and I look forward to the next installment of the series.
13 of 13 people found the following review helpful:
4.0 out of 5 stars
Meet the Blackbird Widows!,
By
This review is from: How to Murder a Millionaire (Blackbird Sisters Mysteries, No. 1) (Paperback)
The first book in the Blackbird Sisters mystery series introduces us to a sleek, yet unlucky sleuth trying to stay on the top of the social ladder. The narrator, Nora Blackbird, is a widow (her husband died in a drug deal gone bad) with a $2 million tax bill left to her by her free-spirited parents. When her parents left the country to avoid paying back taxes, Nora got the property (with the tax bill as an added bonus) and her two sisters got the furniture and the art collection. Swallowing her pride, Nora takes a job (albeit a swanky one) writing for the gossip/society page at one of Philadelphia's newspapers. She owes this cushy job to family friend and newspaper owner, Rory Penderghast. However, when she attends a party thrown to honor the newspaper and its lengthy history, she has the unfortunate honor of finding Rory dead in his room. Believing that he could have never killed himself, Nora is determined to find a killer and keep her family's good name in the process.Even though the premise of the series is a bit implausible, I loved this book about these hilarious sisters! They were plucky in the face of doom (how could you ever repay $2 million?) and were determined to triumph over the hard times in their lives. I was glad to see that Nora did not have a completely naïve attitude about money (she did wear her grandmother's evening gowns to parties) but there is something odd about a woman who acts nonchalantly about millions owed to the IRS. Nevertheless, I found this book fun and interesting, and would definitely recommend this book for a lighthearted, fun read. Enjoy! A Cozy Lover
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