A Crazy Little Thing Called Death Read Free

down. I stepped back to avoid the mud. If my sister had been the latest teenybopper sensation, they couldn’t have been more adoring. Lucy scrunched herself back into me and stared at them with sudden-onset shyness.
    “Hold on, hold on,” Emma snapped with mock irritation. She towered over the children. “Who let all the elves out of the Keebler factory?”
    “Emma, Emma, we want the pony!”
    “Can we let Brickle out of the van?”
    “You said we could take turns riding him!”
    “Not if you’re all acting like a bunch of ninnies,” she said. “What did I say about staying out of the way of the polo players?”
    “But we have, Emma! We’ve been perfect, just like you said.”
    “Not one person has yelled at us.”
    “Except you,” one brave little girl piped up.
    “We want to ride Brickle!”
    “We’ll keep him away from the other horses, we promise.”
    “We promise!”
    “All right, all right,” Emma said gruffly. “I’ll come down and unload him.”
    “We can do it! We know how!”
    “Forget it.” Emma was firm. “The last thing I need is for one of you princesses to get her front teeth kicked out in a horse trailer. Go get the tack out of my truck. And make sure it’s clean or somebody’s head’s gonna roll!”
    They took off in a pack, running downhill toward the cluster of horse trailers and vans parked below all the tailgaters.
    “I’ll be there in a minute!” she shouted after them.
    “Cute,” I said. “Since when did you go back to teaching pony classes?”
    She shrugged. “Paddy Horgan needed an instructor, so I took him up on it.”
    “Sounds promising. The kids obviously love you.”
    “What little girl doesn’t love the person who lets her ride ponies every day?” Emma shook her head. “I’m a glorified babysitter most of the time. But it pays the bills.”
    “Paddy paid you to bring them here today?”
    “Hell, no, I just let them tag along.” A slight blush of pink colored her cheekbones, but she wasn’t going to admit how much those little girls must have reminded her of herself not too many years ago. She said briskly, “I bought a new pony in case I decide to freelance. Brickle needs some exercise, so I figured I’d take advantage of the free labor. After today, I’ll be boarding him in your barn. Hope you don’t mind.”
    Now and then, Emma brought her various rescue projects to Blackbird Farm, where she cured their ills and nursed them back to usefulness. I hadn’t heard about her latest patient, but I wasn’t surprised. The really good news was that my little sister seemed to be getting her life together since her husband’s death. She’d been on a two-year bender. The thought of her teaching little girls to ride made me smile.
    I said, “I’m glad you have a steady job again.”
    “For the moment.” Emma raised a skeptical eyebrow. “What about you? Did you put on your party hat today to cover the social set for the Intelligencer ? Or have you been fired like half the other reporters in town?”
    “I’m still on the payroll. The publisher used to be a shopping buddy of Penny Devine, so I’m here to make her memorial—well, memorable in my column.”
    A few years ago, I might have come to an event like the polo match as a guest of wealthy friends, or even hosted my own small group of pals for drinks and a picnic. But in the last couple of years I had been reduced—thanks to my parents setting out on a mission to blow every last cent of the Blackbird family fortune on a worldwide spending spree—to attending such festivities in my role as the society reporter for a Philadelphia rag.
    “So it’s officially your column?” Emma asked. “The publisher gave Kitty Keough’s job to you at last?”
    “Not officially,” I conceded. “I still have to prove myself, try not to make mistakes. I’m not a trained journalist, after all.”
    “What are you going to write about today? The whole concept is kinda tacky, don’t you think? A party