Free Blackbird 02 - Dead Girls Don't Wear Diamonds by Nancy Martin Page A

had come to take my social engagements very seriously. Sure, I made note of what people wore and what food was served, but I felt my real purpose in covering various philanthropic events was to highlight fund-raising for worthy causes like the arts, social services and other good works—like the zoo— that required private funding to survive. With proper publicity, I knew generous donations begot even more donations. I felt the Intelligencer's society column did a public service in the guise of shallow parties and events.
    But the museum brunch didn't suit my taste. I walked through the lobby and up the stairs past the statue of Diana with her bow—modeled after Evelyn Nesbit, the girl in the red velvet swing, whose husband shot Stanford White—and went into one of the galleries where a light brunch had been set up. As soon as I saw the crowd, I knew the party invitation hadn't been completely truthful.
    The party wasn't a fund-raiser to acquire a painting for the museum gallery. It was an opportunity for the hostess to show off the work of art her ex-husband had been forced—by divorce decree—to give up to. the museum in her name. And even though the first Bloody Marys were just being served, there was a good bit of gloating going on. I made a polite appearance but ignored the buckets of caviar— which might as well have been publicly rubbed in the ex-husband's face. I made my excuses to the hostess and tried to slip out unnoticed.
    "Nora! Hi!"
    I found my route blocked by Blane and April Mae, two of the ex-wife's snide friends. They had just come out of the ladies' room, decked out in nearly identical Manolo Blahniks and Prada outfits. Not for the first time, I thought to myself that Prada often looks like someone's home economics project gone woefully awry.
    "We were just powdering our noses," said April Mae, snapping shut her Chanel compact and pointing to the logo on the lid with one enameled forefinger. "We needed a shot of the Double C."
    "This whole thing is too tawdry," said Blane, tucking her own compact into an expensively ugly handbag. "I mean, how many ways can she stick it to her husband?"
    April Mae snorted. "Maybe you ought to stick it with her husband, Blaney. Now that you're single and sassy yourself."
    Blane, a known sexual predator among the Young Money crowd, laughed breezily. "Oh, I definitely plan to add him to my list."
    "But first you have to finish with Yale."
    I couldn't help myself. "Yale Bailey?"
    Both April Mae and Blane looked at me with blank faces, and it took me a moment to realize they had both been Botoxed into complete facial immobility and couldn't make appropriately surprised expressions.
    "You, too?" Blane sounded startled.
    "No, I only meant—"
    "Listen, I was finished with Yale a couple of months ago, so don't worry about a catfight over him."
    "Did he give you a bracelet, Nora?" April Mae began to giggle. "Or did you just get roses?"
    My confusion must have been obvious, because Blane explained. "You get a dozen roses from Yale if things get a little too rough. He really doesn't like to leave marks. But you get roses and a tennis bracelet if you have to pay a visit to the doctor."
    "The doctor?"
    "You know. If you need the pill." When I still didn't respond, she added helpfully, "RU-486. The do-it-yourself abortion."
    "We don't want any little Baileys running around, do we?" April Mae laughed. "God knows, bracelets are cheaper than child-support payments! You didn't have to get rid of anything, did you, Nora?"
    "Oh, no," I said hastily. "I'm not seeing Yale. I never did."
    "You must be the only woman in Philly who hasn't been to bed with him, then," April Mae said. "What a slut he is."
    "But worth it." Blane let out an appreciative moan. "Once, at least. I am proud to say that I was the one to send him roses, though. I mean, I can kick it up a notch, too, if I feel like it."
    April Mae trained her expressionless gaze on me again. "I thought you were dating somebody else,