No Way to Kill a Lady Read Online Free PDF Page A

looked around us in astonishment.
    â€œWhere is everything?” Libby cried.
    â€œI’ll be damned,” Emma said. “Madcap Maddy was robbed.”
    All the paintings had disappeared. All the objets d’art. Aunt Madeleine’s meticulously gathered collection of wonders had evaporated.
    â€œWhat do you mean?” Groatley demanded hotly. “What’s missing?”
    â€œEverything!” Heartbroken, I spun in a circle to stare at the empty walls. “Where are the paintings? The Fabergé egg? The statuary?”
    â€œThis is the way we found the place,” Groatley blustered. “You mean things have been removed?”
    â€œStolen,” Emma corrected.
    Yes, everything had disappeared. Everything except one very memorable painting.
    Over the immense fireplace hung the same tall portrait I could remember from my childhood. Its colors were a little faded, and the canvas sagged damply in its frame. But Deputy Foley shone his flashlight on the picture, and Aunt Madeleine herself sprang to life. She leaned fetchingly against a marble pillar, dressed in a blue velvet gown that slipped off one shoulder. Her hand rested on her Fabergé egg. Tendrils of her Blackbird auburn hair teased her white skin. But her half smile and knowing gaze elevated the painting to something more than simply a picture of a very pretty young woman.
    Everyone stopped, arrested by the vitality that smoldered on the canvas.
    â€œShe was so beautiful,” Libby said on a sigh. “And how lucky was she to have her portrait done by Charles Maguirre?”
    â€œWho?” Sutherland asked.
    â€œCharles Maguirre, a French portraitist. His works are extremely valuable now. He squandered his youth with romantic carousing, but in his later years, he made a living traveling around painting portraits of society women, most of them in velvet dresses, just like this one. He must have been especially infatuated with Madeleine, don’t you think? He really captured her personality.”
    â€œInfatuated is one word for it,” Groatley harrumphed.
    I admired the portrait. To me, Madeleine vibrated with intelligence—­surely a trait very difficult to capture with mere paint and canvas.
    Sutherland murmured, “I had no idea this painting could be worth anything. It was just another family picture.”
    â€œPainted by a very important artist,” Libby added.
    Emma was the first to turn away from Madeleine’s likeness to cast her glance around the otherwise empty salon. “So where’s all her other stuff?”
    â€œThis is very irregular,” Groatley snapped. “How was I to know she abandoned things of value here? My operatives said this is exactly how they found the place when they set foot in it.”
    His underlings looked uneasy. Heads were going to roll.
    Deputy Foley said, “Sir, we’ll start an investigation right away. Even after all this time, there will be evidence.”
    Emma eyed him. “You get a new fingerprint kit for your birthday, kid?”
    â€œDon’t pick on him,” Libby warned. “You’ll stifle his youthful enthusiasm.”
    â€œSutherland,” I said, “perhaps you’ll be the one to remember everything that used to be here?”
    Sutherland frowned around the salon. “I’ll do my best. But actually, I spent more time with my mother than here at Quintain.”
    I remembered it was his father who’d remained at Quintain with Aunt Madeleine while Sutherland went with his mother to live in Boston among her own family.
    Loftily, he added, “This place was not my idea of fun.”
    â€œHeaven forbid you not have any fun,” Groatley muttered.
    We split up. The lawyers remained in the salon together—­perhaps planning a defense for their shameful neglect of the estate. Libby announced she wanted to look for the paintings she remembered in the dining room. Emma headed for the stairs,