How to Murder a Millionaire Read Online Free PDF

her assets. We caught each other's raised eyebrow signal. We'd meet at the bar as soon as she could get away.
    Rory's downstairs rooms looked as if a florist's truck had exploded there. More RickandGabe flowers competed for attention with the art collection, the furniture, the glimmer of crystal and the soft glow of leather-bound   books.   Someone   had   matted   and framed a selection of newspaper relics that celebrated the long and happy Pendergast ownership of the Intelligencer. I avoided the crush in the center of the room and strolled along the display, looking at headlines from long ago when the first Pendergast got bored with selling whale oil and started up a newspaper. In a day when companies were bought and sold within weeks, a single-family ownership of a newspaper— even a slightly tacky one like the Intelligencer —for a hundred and fifty years was impressive indeed.
    Halfway along the display I heard footsteps on the main staircase and turned. Peach Treese came barreling down the steps and rammed straight into me. For a woman of unspoken age, she could move like a locomotive.
    "Peach! Are you okay?"
    She caught herself on my outstretched arms and looked at me in shock. "Nora." Her good manners kicked in. "Nora Blackbird, how nice to see you."
    I put my glass of wine down on a table and held her hands in mine. They were cold and trembling. "Peach, are you all right?"
    She wasn't. Although she'd obviously tried to pull herself together upstairs, fresh tears blurred her eyes. Her face was white beneath carefully applied makeup.
    Even in tears, Patricia "Peach" Treese looked every inch her role as one of Philadelphia's most-respected hostesses. She'd grown up a child of privilege in the home of her grandfather, the city's mayor back when mayors were dignified and honorable even if social injustice ran rampant. Her handsome husband had died young of a lingering illness, but she'd finished college after his death, raised her children to be community leaders and become a woman of considerable influence in her own right. She had been president of the museum board since forever, and everyone credited her with saving the symphony from its latest financial crunch by her iron-fist-in-the-lace-glove fund-raising efforts.
    It was also common knowledge that Peach had been Rory Pendergast's intimate companion for thirty years.
    She was the party's unofficial hostess, but she looked anything but welcoming. Her silver Armani suit was impeccable, and her gold jewelry looked spectacular on the simple clothing. But her face was uncontrolled, her expression rattled. The tremble in her hands did not subside.
    "Peach? You're really not feeling well. Can I get you a glass of water?"
    "Oh," she said, making a visible effort to control her emotions. "No, thank you, Nora. You're very kind. And my goodness, don't you look smashing tonight? And after everything you've been through."
    Lightly, I joked, "Better smashing than smashed, I guess, which is more than I can say for some of your guests."
    Peach tried to laugh, but I knew she was operating on automatic pilot.
    "What can I do to help?" I asked.
    She released a broken sigh of exasperation. Or maybe it was genuine anger. "That old buzzard!"
    "You mean Rory? Is he giving you trouble?"
    "He won't come downstairs again. He says he's had enough for one night. Can you imagine? They're all here to be nice to him!"
    "Maybe he's just tired."
    "Maybe he's just stubborn!" Peach drew a long breath to calm down. "Why don't you go up and reason with him, Nora? He's so fond of you."
    "I'll take him a drink," I suggested. "Does champagne still make his nose turn pink?"
    "Yes, pink as a bunny's." Peach laughed shakily. "Thank you, Nora. You're a dear. Give him a few minutes to calm down first. Then work your magic."
    "I'll do what I can. Now go find somebody to flirt with," I advised. "You have a big family wedding coming up. You'll need a date if Rory's being such a pill."
    "My