Free No Way to Kill a Lady by Nancy Martin Page B

farm and won’t mind. Don’t get attached to this character. He’s going to the butcher in a few days.”
    Michael tossed the last crust of his peanut butter sandwich to the pig, and the scrap disappeared in one gulp. The pig was big and bristling with black hair. The ponies tried to bully him, but he stood fast. Michael leaned down and scratched the animal behind his ears. The pig cast a lively, curious eye upward, and Michael said, “What’s his name?”
    â€œWe don’t name animals we’re going to eat.”
    â€œHe’s kinda lovable, though. And his nose makes him look a little like my uncle Ralphie.”
    â€œMichael, do you like pork chops?”
    â€œOkay, okay. See you at Christmas, Ralphie.” He gave the pig one last pat and turned around to look at the house. “Wow. Is the roof looking weird to you? Over by that set of chimneys?”
    â€œI’m not looking.”
    â€œThat’s one strategy, I suppose. Maybe you better fight hard for Aunt Madeleine’s money.”
    â€œI’d like to. Trouble is, she mostly invested in beautiful things—­art and antiques. And they’ve disappeared.”
    Michael’s interest sharpened. “Poof?”
    â€œLike Houdini pulled his best trick. The house used to be filled with a priceless collection. But we took a look around today, and most of it’s gone. Including a Fabergé egg.” I glanced up at him. “Do you know what that is?”
    He didn’t take offense at my question. “Russian, right?”
    â€œYes. Beautifully enameled and decorated with gold and jewels. It’s gone. All that’s left in the house is either falling apart or ruined.”
    â€œWhere’d the good stuff go?”
    â€œWe don’t know.”
    â€œYou gonna call the cops?” Michael asked. “Looking for pretty stuff makes them happy—­no danger involved.”
    Michael’s opinion of police work was biased, and I didn’t take him seriously. Instead, I put my hand on his arm and squeezed. “We’ll talk to the police once we get a list of missing items worked up. Any other tips?”
    â€œYou’ll need good lawyers where the will is concerned. Not the polite kind who play golf.”
    â€œI can only imagine your kind of lawyer up against the ones Sutherland can surely hire.”
    â€œSutherland?”
    â€œThat’s Aunt Madeleine’s stepson.”
    Indulgently, he said, “How come nobody you know is ever named Joe Smith?”
    We smiled at each other.
    â€œAunt Madeleine’s dying isn’t the big headline today,” I went on. “We went over to her house this morning. Quintain is amazing—­”
    â€œWho?”
    â€œQuintain is the house, not a who. It’s a castle, really. But tumbling into ruin. It’s worse than Blackbird Farm.”
    â€œHard to imagine.”
    I poked him with my elbow. “Maybe with all the time you’ll be spending around here, you could learn a few carpentry skills.”
    â€œYou have a hammer I can borrow?”
    â€œThere are tools in the cellar. Surely some of them were made in this century. Thing is, when we were looking around Madeleine’s estate, we discovered a dead body. It was in the elevator of the house, nothing left but bones.”
    Michael touched his hand to my cheek. No longer teasing, he said, “You okay?”
    â€œIt was a shock,” I admitted.
    â€œAunt Madeleine?”
    â€œWe think it must have been Madeleine’s housekeeper, Pippi.”
    â€œHow’d she die?”
    â€œSutherland suggested the electricity might have gone off while she was in the elevator. She must have been trapped and . . .”
    When my voice trailed off and I struggled with my emotions, he said gently, “It happened a long time ago, Nora.”
    â€œStill, it’s awful to imagine how she suffered. The estate’s been