A Crazy Little Thing Called Death Read Free Page A

instead of a suitably weepy funeral service for Philadelphia’s most famous kiddie star?”
    “Penny loved parties. Almost as much as she loved polo, so I think this was a good solution. And she would have adored the clothes. Besides, there’s a charitable angle to the whole thing, so I’ll play that up.”
    The newspaper’s owner had insisted I devote serious space to the life and memory of film star and Philadelphia native Sweet Penny Devine. The world-famous actress—best known for her role as Molly, the plucky parlormaid in the Civil War blockbuster Suffer the Storm —was an American film icon. She’d been rushed to Hollywood at an early age to begin her career as a tap-dancing child star. After a short awkward period in her adolescence, she’d grown into a decent character actress—often playing the wholesome best friend or the jilted lover of a cad. But she finally received an Oscar nomination (lost to Meryl Streep the year she played Benazir Bhutto) as the maid who looked after Charlton Heston’s version of Abe Lincoln.
    As her weight grew increasingly out of control, though, Penny had played a few adorably quirky oldsters in romantic comedies. Before her death, she specialized in playing Sandra Bullock’s grandmother, and her popularity soared again.
    So today, a few hundred Philadelphia aristocrats and film lovers had come out to celebrate the life of one of their own—a local girl who made it big in the movies. My job was to make the event sound lovely despite the mud.
    Emma smirked. “Oh, yeah, the charitable angle.”
    “Yes.” I pulled my invitation from my handbag to double-check. “Proceeds from today’s tickets go to—here it is—a foundation that helps treat eating disorders.”
    Emma grinned broadly. “You know what everybody’s calling this thing, right? Chukkers for Chuckers.”
    “Emma!”
    From several yards away, a musical voice hailed us. “Darlings!”
    Out of the crowd burst a vision of excess estrogen in a leopard-print suit cut down to reveal her bountiful bosom as blatantly as imported cantaloupe in a Whole Foods display. Our older sister, Libby, waved a champagne flute overhead as she waded toward us with what were clearly her son’s hiking boots on her feet. On her head she sported a wide-brimmed yellow hat festooned with daffodils—one of which was already trying to curl around her nose.
    Emma said, “What are you doing? Getting ready for a mammogram?”
    Libby ignored her and cried, “Lucy! My stars, what have you done to your tutu? And who in the world let you have that weapon?”
    “Aunt Nora did!” Lucy nearly stabbed her mother through the heart as she flung herself into Libby’s open arms. “She let me have ice cream for breakfast, too!”
    “Blabbermouth,” I said.
    “Nice going,” Emma muttered to me. “What’s next? Showing them how to rob banks?”
    “It was all the food I had in the house! How was I to know I’d have to feed the horde, not to mention store lab specimens in my refrigerator?”
    Libby chose not to hear me. Bending at the waist, an act that nearly spilled her breasts like a truckload of warm marshmallow fluff, she used a lace handkerchief to wipe a smudge from her daughter’s less-than-pristine cheek. “Did you brush your teeth after the ice cream, sweetheart?”
    “Aunt Nora ran out of toothpaste.”
    “Heavens. Well, you won’t have to stay there ever again, Lucy.”
    “You’re welcome,” I said tartly. “No charge for the babysitting.”
    Libby straightened and adjusted her hat to dislodge the pesky flower once and for all. “Don’t apologize, Nora. I’m sure your mind is scattered after such a long vacation. We began to worry you’d run off permanently with That Man.”
    “He has a name, you know.”
    Blandly, Emma said, “You’ll notice she’s wearing the Rock of Gibraltar again.”
    Libby seized my left hand and goggled at the giant, emerald-cut diamond ring that flashed on my finger. “Oh, sweet heaven,