Free How to Murder a Millionaire by Nancy Martin Page B

and artist's studios that had sprung up in New Hope and across the river in Lambertville.
    I sat down to relax. But as I took a sip of my latte, I looked up at the painting on the wall above the fireplace and nearly choked. The man in the portrait glared down at me with blue-blooded disdain burning in his gaze. I dropped my coffee cup into its saucer with a clatter and a splash.
    Half afraid I might be killed by a bolt of lightning, I blotted spilled coffee before cautiously raising my gaze to the handsomely framed portrait. It was the face of Colonel Fitzwilliam Blackbird, who had fought in the Revolutionary War with General Washington, purchased a mahogany armchair from Thomas Jefferson and written scathing letters to Ben Franklin on the subject of consorting with Frenchwomen. His portrait had been done by John Hadley Marsh, the acclaimed American artist.
    What in the world was the portrait doing in Angelina's consignment shop?
    The steely blue eyes of my ancestor reflected a distinct  disappointment in the modern generation of Blackbirds. Although the portrait had hung in the center hall at Blackbird Farm for my entire childhood, I had never noticed before how the artist managed to capture the white-knuckled irritation in the Colonel's aristocratic hands. Even the foxhound—his head laid devotedly on his master's knee—managed to gaze remorsefully down at me from on high. "Good grief," I muttered. "Emma must need cash."
    I was ruminating on the demise of a venerable family when a voice startled me back to reality.
    "Hello, big sister."
    I almost lost my cup again as Emma dropped into the chair opposite mine. She looked stunning, damn her.
    "What brings you out?" she asked. Opening her squashy leather bag, she rummaged around for a moment and came up with a battered pack of cigarettes. She ignored Angelina's NO SMOKING sign and lit up. Holly Golightly with an attitude. Her riding boots and breeches were caked with unmentionable debris, as if she'd been tossed over the head of some excitable young horse already this morning.
    "What the hell," I said, "are you doing leaving this portrait in a junk shop?"
    "This isn't a junk shop," she replied. "Angelina gets a lot of good trade in here." As usual, Emma dodged the point by throwing a diversion in my path.
    I was not sidetracked. "You're selling a family portrait! I can't believe this."
    "It's on consignment. I haven't sold it."
    "Yet!"
    "So?" she inquired archly. "You can't believe somebody else is selling stuff? Well, that's the pot calling the kettle ugly."
    "This is very different, Emma. I had to pay the taxes on Blackbird Farm somehow. You don't owe a cent on your share of our dubious inheritance."
    Emma flicked ashes. "My medical insurance is the pits. If you can sell the farm to the gangster, I can look for a buyer for that portrait."
    Almost two years ago, Emma's husband had been killed in a car accident that also broke every bone in her left leg. The damage halted her career in Grand Prix show rings—temporarily, we hoped. I suddenly wondered if her leg was healing slowly because she couldn't afford a good doctor.
    More gently, I said, "The least you could do is take it to a reputable dealer. The portrait is worth a small fortune."
    "I don't think I need a family vote to make a decision about something that's mine now. Wait," she said, feigning surprise. "Where have I heard that line before? Why, I believe it was from you, Sis. And Angelina's a friend of mine. She's keeping the portrait for a few weeks until I find an art dealer to take it. She thinks somebody will come along and think they're going to make a killing by picking it up cheap. It'll create some buzz in the art world." She pointed at my muffin with the two fingers that also held her cigarette. "Are you going to eat that behemoth?"
    I sat back, unable to argue with her. If a trend had started, I had been the first of my generation to besmirch the family honor. I clenched my teeth. "Help yourself."
    She