Martin Bye, Bye Blackbird

A Blackbird Sisters Novella
1. Auflage 2016
ISBN: 978-1-4835-8418-8
Verlag: BookBaby
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: Adobe DRM (»Systemvoraussetzungen)

E-Book, Englisch, 153 Seiten

Nora Blackbird has been solving mysteries with her sisters in Philadelphia's High Society since 2002, but those adventures may be at an end. Now Nora's on the brink of a new life, with a new family. What will happen to Blackbird Farm? Will she have a job now that the Philadelphia Intelligencer is failing? And what about the love of her life, Mick Abruzzo? Is he going to stay out of jail? Or will they ride into the sunset together? Learn the outcome of all the Blackbird-related questions in this short novella, written by award-winning, bestselling author Nancy Martin

Autoren/Hrsg.

Martin, Nancy

Leseproben

1.
  After the longest pregnancy ever, my water broke at the Rusty Sabre, where I was supposed to meet my sisters for lunch. My sisters were late, no surprise. I had taken a phone call that I knew was going to upset my life, so I carried my phone out onto the porch of the restaurant where my thumping heart wasn’t going to disturb the other diners. “Nora,” said the eccentric co-owner of the Philadelphia Intelligencer, speaking from her opulent home in Palm Beach. “Are you sitting down, dear?” No, I wasn’t. I was pacing—waddling like a pregnant duck, to be more precise, wearing a pink Roberto Cavalli dress given to me by a plus-sized movie star —and watching the street of New Hope in hopes of catching sight of one of my exasperating sisters, who claimed they wanted to treat me to one last lunch before I gave birth. Where were they? I was about to lose my job and was going to need their support, and they were AWOL, as usual. But I said, “Yes, Miss Pendergast, I’m prepared to hear anything. Have you decided to sell the newspaper?” “Who would buy it?” she demanded on a cackling laugh. “Nobody is crazy enough to go into the newspaper business these days. It’s a losing proposition!” Then I heard her say, “Put my lunch down here, Consuela. And don’t forget my martini. Just a small one today. I’m on a diet.” My heart sank. It was over. My short career as a journalist—if you can call writing a society column journalism—was finished because the Philadelphia Intelligencer had failed. “So you’re going to close?” While Miss Pendergast discussed what kind of martini should be made for her, I rubbed my aching back with one hand and thought of all my co-workers, real journalists, who would soon be out of jobs. And me, expecting a baby in a week. I needed health insurance more desperately than ever. What was I going to do? Give birth at home with my crazy sister Libby chanting nonsense in one ear and Emma shouting her brand of tough love in the other? But true to form, Miss Pendergast surprised me when she finished ordering her drink. “No, Nora,” she said, “we’re not closing. The Pendergasts never give up the ship. Our uncle sailed up the Amazon and disappeared ten years ago, you know, but we’re sure he’s still there, hacking his way through the jungle in search of a new variety of man-eating snake. No, The Intelligencer lives on, but we’re going to make a few changes. We’re going totally digital—no printed paper whatsoever. And most of the staff will be let go, I’m sorry to say. Time for a shoe string operation.” “I see.” I felt my spirits dive so deep I couldn’t make my voice sound anything but terribly disappointed. “We’re going to embrace social media, maybe have reporters file stories on Twitter and Instagram and whatnot. Someone suggested live-streaming sports events. Apparently that’s cheap to produce. And blogs. Plenty of blogs. But no print.” “Well, it was nice of you to call me personally, ma’am. I appreciate your kindness. I’ve enjoyed working for the Intelligencer. Your brother saved my life when he hired me just before he died. I don’t know where I’d be now if not for Rory. If not for you for keeping me on.” “Save your breath,” she said. “It ain’t over till it’s over, Nora.” “I beg your pardon?” “I hate that I must string you along,” she said over the noise of blowing palm trees and the clank of her fork on fine china. “But I must ask you not to take another position quite yet. I think we might be able to use you.” “I’d sweep the floors!” Especially if that meant keeping my good health insurance. She laughed. “Good to know. I like an employee who’s willing to go above and beyond.” “I’m going on unpaid maternity leave next week, but after that—” “So I heard. Well, take a couple of weeks off, if you must, but be prepared to return to the salt mine.” “I’m taking two months, actually, and then—” I didn’t have a chance to mention I hoped to share a job with another employee so that I could stay at home and be at least a part-time mother. She interrupted me again. “Make it one month. And buy your own broom. I must go. Another call coming in. Bye, Nora!” That’s when she hung up on me … and my water broke. I was still standing in a puddle, staring at my phone, when my sister Libby pulled to the curb in her red minivan with a battered tail of pink crepe paper fluttering from her antenna. She rolled down her window and paused in the act of applying mascara while peering into the rearview mirror. “What’s the matter?” she bellowed. “You look gobsmacked.” Libby had recently become obsessed with all things British. Her son Rawlins had gone off to college in England, and she was gearing up to visit him by watching old episodes of Downton Abbey and PBS fundraising specials. All a college freshman needs is his high-maintenance mother deciding to bunk in his dorm room during fall fashion week. “Nora?” Libby called. “Are you all right?” I gathered my wits. “I think I’m in labor! A week early! And I just ruined a priceless Roberto Cavalli! Libby had delivered five children of her own, so childbirth was nothing out of the ordinary for her. Calmly, she tucked the mascara wand back into its tube and opened her van door. She stepped out, wearing a velour track suit and a t-shirt that read If you can’t be good, call me. “Cavalli can be dry-cleaned,” she said .“How far apart are your contractions?” “I haven’t felt any.” “No contractions? Good.” Libby checked her watch. “That means we probably have time to get you a pedicure. Trust me, you’ll be glad we seized the opportunity. Can you walk?” “I’m not sure. Lib. I can’t leave this puddle behind.” She grasped my elbow and pulled me toward her vehicle, calling over her shoulder at a just-arriving restaurant employee—a young man who had waited on us numerous times and appreciated the big tips we left after family squabbles. “Carlos, darling, will you just sweep that splash of water into the rose bushes, please? Nothing to worry about. It’s perfectly bio-degradable. And definitely good for plants!” To me, she said, “Call That Man of Yours and tell him to pick up your suitcase. He can meet us at the hospital in two hours. Maybe three. I could use a chocolate mud wrap. And while you enjoy a last splurge at the spa, I can tell you all about what the police had to say this morning. My word, Nora, I think they want to arrest me!” Libby helped me into the van. “Look, here’s my dry cleaning. Let’s just tear off the bag and put it on the seat for you to sit on. There.” I obeyed her. The twinge of indigestion I’d been having all morning suddenly tightened into something that even a rookie could recognize as a labor pain, and I let out a gasp. Too many things happening at once. But the police questioning my sister? Libby got in and helped fasten my seatbelt around my huge belly, still talking. “After all, if I’m going to be charged with murder, it’s partly your fault.” I found my voice. “Murder? My fault?” “You introduced us!” Libby cried indignantly. “I’d never have married Oxie if you hadn’t gotten us together during that awful business last summer when Jenny Tuttle was killed. And now my dear husband is dead, and I’m alone all over again, but to make matters worse the police think I’m some kind of … of Agatha Christie black widow who kills her husbands! They counted up my dead spouses and suddenly they’re wondering about me. So it’s your duty to help in my time of need.” It was feeling like my time of need at that moment, but I also was sympathetic that Libby’s latest husband, Broadway impresario Ox Oxenfeld, producer of many successful musicals, had died very suddenly not long after their sumptuous wedding. The good news was that before Ox went off to produce a heavenly musical, he’d had time to buy her a fabulous house and set up educational funds for all her children, not to mention provide Libby with enough cash to keep her comfortable for years to come. But money isn’t everything—at least not to Libby. Yes, she had settled into Ox’s wealthy lifestyle faster than a Las Vegas gold digger could cash the wedding checks, but Libby had much more relished her months as the adored arm candy of a besotted man who enjoyed lavishing the love of his life with jewelry, champagne and plenty of romantic canoodling. So I tried to be gentle. “Libby, maybe this isn’t the best time to—” “He had a simple heart attack! But I’ve had husbands die on me before, so the police seem to think I’m a stone cold killer. You have to convince them I’m innocent!” Of course she was innocent. But I remembered what she had blurted out at his funeral. “Believe me,” she had said while mopping tears, “he died happy. We made love half the night before his heart stopped.” I was thinking if she hadn’t actually murdered him, she very likely contributed to his death. But I said, “Libby, why don’t you just take me home? A pedicure isn’t high on my priority list, and you’re obviously still grieving and need time for yourself to—” “And then there’s Perry!” The infuriation in her voice was unmistakable. “Perry Delbert? Are you back together again?” Her exterminator had been Libby’s on-and-off companion ever since her infestation of...