“If you don’t mind.”
“Of course not. Is the blue room okay for you?”
“Fine, but can we catch the end of the Tonight Show?” She stumbled toward the den.
I swallowed a sigh and trailed after her. The Tonight Show had long since ended, but someone had to tuck a blanket around Libba when she passed out on the couch.
She turned on the television, flipped the dial to NBC, and collapsed onto the sofa. Images flickered across the screen. Mikey spooned Life cereal then Tommy ate Libby’s fruit cocktail. From her corner of the couch, Libba squinted at the television. “Where’s Johnny?”
I glanced at my watch. We’d missed Johnny by a wide margin. “He’s gone to bed.” Exactly where we should be.
The woman on the screen raised her arms to prove that Arrid kept her extra dry, then George Peppard’s face appeared.
Libba leaned forward, scrunched her nose and slitted her eyes until—presumably—she could make out a face on the television. “I like Banacek too.”
Great. I claimed the other corner of the couch and my eyelids drifted shut.
They might have stayed shut all night were it not for the scream.
Three
The scream ripped through my nerve endings and I leapt seven, maybe eight, feet straight into the air. Well, my heart did.
Libba jerked awake. “What the hell?”
Exactly. I left her on the couch, raced up the stairs, ran down the hall toward Grace’s room and threw open the door. Inside, girls with long legs, fading tans and short cotton nightgowns surrounded Donna. She huddled amidst a sea of sleeping bags, pillows and extra blankets. She’d wrapped her arms around her knees, lowered her head, and rocked back and forth.
Grace knelt next to her and stroked her hair.
Peggy sat next to her on the floor and crooned, “It was just a bad dream.”
Donna didn’t respond.
Kim sat across from her with her legs crossed, her arms crossed and her brow slightly wrinkled. “It’s only a dream. It’s not real.”
Next to her, Debbie hid a yawn behind the back of her hand.
Peggy closed her hand around Donna’s arm and shook gently.
The girl flinched and jerked her arm away. Then she raised her head an inch or two from her knees. Her brows were raised, her eyes as big and round as the bowls of my grandmother’s sterling soup spoons, and her lips looked taut and pale.
“It can’t hurt you.” Peggy’s soft tone acquired a bit of an edge.
“Peggy’s right, Donna. It was just a dream.” Who was I kidding? A boy had been murdered. It was a miracle they weren’t all having nightmares.
Donna lowered her head and resumed her rocking.
Debbie snorted softly. “Think about something nice so we can go back to sleep.”
I stepped into the room, knelt and draped my arm around Donna’s slender shoulders. Her muscles tensed beneath my touch, but she didn’t shake me off. She sniffled and made a wet sound deep in her throat.
“I think you could do with some hot chocolate or warm milk.”
Donna stopped rocking and looked at me, taking my measure. A few seconds ticked by before she nodded.
I helped her to her feet, then directed my gaze to the bed where Kim and Debbie sat, their backs against the bed, their arms still crossed. “This has been an upsetting night for all of you and you’re all going to process Bobby’s death differently.”
Neither girl spoke. They would when the door closed. I shifted my gaze to Grace and she offered me a near imperceptible nod. No one would speak ill of Donna for having a nightmare.
I led Donna from the room.
Libba and Max loitered in the hallway. She leaned against a wall with her eyes half-closed. His amber eyes looked somehow sleepy and alert at the same time.
“Go to bed,” I said to both of them. Libba looked fuzzy from too much Blue Nun, in no shape to make hot chocolate, much less comfort a frightened teenager. As for Max, if he went downstairs, he’d want to go out. If he went out, he’d eat all the popcorn I’d thrown for the squirrels. I’d have five teenagers, a drunken friend and a dog with an upset stomach to deal with.
Libba nodded and disappeared into the guest room. Max nodded and disappeared into mine.
“Let’s get you some hot chocolate.” I gave Donna’s shoulder a gentle squeeze and together we descended the stairs.
I flipped on the lights in the kitchen. “You do want hot chocolate, don’t you? I could warm milk if you’d prefer that.”
“Hot chocolate, please.”
Dealing with death was enough to rattle anyone, but Donna seemed about to shatter.
“Good choice. I can’t stand warm milk, but some people seem to like it.”
The girl shuddered. Smart kid.
“Sit down.” I nodded toward a stool not pushed under the lip of the counter, pulled a small pan off the pot rack and poured in some milk. “You’re in luck. Hot chocolate is one of the few things I’m good at making. My secret is a dash of vanilla. Do you cook?”
She didn’t answer. Instead, she stared at the painting hanging on the wall. One of mine, the canvas depicted a tossed salad and was perfect for a kitchen.
The milk bubbled at the edge of the pan. “How chocolaty do you want it?”
Again, she didn’t answer. Instead, she rose from her seat and peered closely at the canvas, almost as if she was studying the brushstrokes. Since they were my brushstrokes, I couldn’t hold her silence against her.
I spooned Swiss Miss into a mug, poured the milk over it, added my signature dash, then stirred. “Marshmallows?”
She looked away from the painting. “I’m sorry?”
“Do you want marshmallows?” I held up the mug. “In your hot chocolate?”
“No, thank you.”
I put the cocoa in her hands. “You know, sometimes talking about a bad dream makes it better.”
Donna shrank. Her shoulders hunched. Her chin lowered to her chest. If she hadn’t been holding a mug, she probably would have crossed her arms over her body again.
“I can call your parents to come get you if you want.”
The mug hit the floor in an explosion of hot chocolate and broken pottery.
“Oh my God, I’m so sorry.” Donna fell to her knees. She picked up a shard of broken mug with one hand and dashed at a tear with the other.
“Don’t touch that, you’ll cut yourself. I’ll get a broom.”
She continued to pick up bits of broken pottery. The white flounce of her nightgown absorbed enough cocoa to turn a soft brown. Her shoulders looked so hunched, so taut, it was a wonder her tendons didn’t snap.
“Donna, stop.”
A tear traced down her cheek and plopped into the mess on the floor.
I bent, closed my hand around her elbow, and forced her to her feet. “Sit.”
“But…” Her gaze remained locked on the mess.
“No buts. Sit.”
She sank onto a kitchen stool.
I grabbed the trashcan from the cabinet beneath the sink and held it out to her. “Throw those away.”
She dropped the pieces of mug into it. Then she clasped her hands in her lap.
I unspooled a length of paper towel and dropped it to the floor. Like Donna’s nightgown, it quickly turned brown.
“We’ll get you a clean nightgown before you go back to bed. Shall we try again?”
“I’m sorry.”
“It’s just a mug. Do you want more cocoa?” I poured milk into the saucepan and put it on the heat.
“Thank you.” Her cheeks were as pale as the unstained white linen of her nightgown. Poor kid. The silence between us stretched, awkward and uncomfortable as new golf shoes.
I cleared my throat and searched for something to say. “When did you and your family
move to Kansas City?”
“June.” Her voice was barely audible. The taut line of her shoulders loosened.
“Just in time for the heat.” No wonder teenagers thought adults were stupid and boring. We said stupid, boring things.
She lifted her head, turned it toward the brick wall. “That painting is amazing. My father had a friend in Connecticut who collected that artist. At least I think it’s the same one. The brushwork is the same.”
“You like art?”
“I do.” She offered me a tremulous smile. “I want to be an artist.”
“The painting’s mine.”
She blinked. A classic, teenage “duh” blink. It was obvious I owned it.
“I mean, I painted it.”
Her brows rose high enough to be insulting.
“I’m surprised the girls didn’t tell you I painted.”
“They did but…”
She’d thought I painted amorphous rainbow-colored horrors, the kind that proliferated at craft shows. Maybe she’d imagined diaphanous women in oversized hats walking through swirls of pastel. That or big-eyed children who reflected a world-weariness usually reserved for adults.
“Thank you for being so nice. I’m sorry about the mug.”
“Don’t give it another thought.”
Her gaze returned to the painting. “Do you teach?” Her voice was small.
“I never have.”
“But you could?”
I could. I could also spend every afternoon playing bridge with Mother. Just because I could do something didn’t mean I wanted to.
“Would you teach me? Please?” With her lashes still spiky from her tears, her blue eyes looked enormous in her face, rather like one of the big-eyed children.
I swallowed. “Teach you?
“To paint. I can draw but I’ve never had painting lessons.” Her enormous eyes, which only minutes before had been haunted by dreams of violent death, implored. “Please?”
I couldn’t tell her no. Not after the night we’d all had. “Let me see your portfolio.”
“I’ll bring it by tomorrow…I mean, later today.” She bit her lips, glanced again at the painting, then picked up a strand of her hair and began to twist it. “My parents don’t really approve of art—as a career, I mean. It might be better if we didn’t tell them.”
An out. “Donna, I can’t go behind your parents’ backs.”
“Maybe we could just tell my mom.”
“Let me think about it.”
Her shoulders fell.
“Bring your portfolio and we’ll see. Are you done with that?” I nodded my chin at her empty mug.
She nodded, and I took it from her hands then put it in the sink. I added the dirty pan, mouthed a silent apology to Aggie, then said, “Shall we go to bed?”
“You’ll look at my sketches?”
“I will.”
Banging on the front door is never a good thing. Banging on the front door at—I turned my head and glared at the clock—seven-thirty on a Saturday morning is a terrible thing.
I got up, grabbed one of the silk peignoirs I bought in Paris, jammed arms into the sleeves and hurried down the front steps with Max at my heels.
I yanked the door open before whoever was on the other side woke the whole house.
The man from under the bleachers, the bossy one who’d held my lipstick hostage, stood on the front stoop holding my newspaper.
He stared at me, perhaps placing where he knew me. His gaze shifted to my bandaged left wrist. “You’re the woman from under the stands.”
“I am.”
“I’m sorry to disturb you so early on a Saturday morning. Your paper.” He handed it to me, then flashed a charming smile.
Henry had a charming smile. I don’t trust charming smiles.
I glanced at my wrist, at the spot where my watch would be if I wore one so early on a Saturday.
His gaze rested on the gauze. “It looks as if you needed stitches. I told you that you needed a doctor.”
Seven-thirty, a charming smile and an I-told-you-so. Whoever he was, I didn’t like him.
“I heard the boy…”
“Yes.” My tone ended further discussion.
Except, it didn’t. The man shook his head. “What a tragedy. You knew him?”
I narrowed my eyes.
“I’m sorry.” He thrust his hand at me. “Jonathan Hess. I’m Donna’s father.”
I offered him a dead-fish handshake—the kind you give a man who’s awakened you after too few hours’ sleep.
“What do you think happened?”
It’s hard to look down your nose when looking up at someone. Mother can do it. Effortlessly. I tried. Probably failed. “No idea.”
“He didn’t say anything?”
“He died.” My voice was flat as the pancakes I’d promised the girls for breakfast. Real ones, not some cardboard facsimile that tasted like the box they’d come in.
He shook his head again. “Pity.” He peered past me into the foyer. “I’d like to take Donna home.”
“She’s asleep.”
Max yawned as if suggesting that was where he’d like to be.
Jonathan Hess reprised his charming smile. “Teenagers would sleep ’til noon if they could. I’d like to take her home.”
I tossed the paper into the front hall then pulled the silk of my robe more tightly around my body. The man in front of me looked like any other man I knew would look on a Saturday morning—except for the madras pants. Didn’t he realize it was September? Pure contrariness straightened my shoulders. “The girls were up late. They’re all still asleep.”
He raised his chin. “Then wake her. Please. I’d like to take her home now.”
That and twenty-five cents would get him a cup of coffee.
“Mr. Hess, there are five girls asleep upstairs. I prefer not to disturb them. I’ll be happy to bring her home when they wake up.”
The charming smile faltered then rebounded. “My wife didn’t okay this slumber party with me. We have plans for this morning and I’d like to take her home now.”
He was a stepfather of recent vintage and he had the right to okay sleepovers? That took controlling to a whole new level. I dug my heels in deeper. “Does Donna have a practice or something? Because if she doesn’t, we should let them sleep. The girls had a rough night. Bobby’s death upset them terribly and sleep is the best thing for them. I’ll bring her home in a few hours. In the meantime, she’s safe and secure.”
He stepped toward me. A step that brought him too close. I had either to retreat or share a space too small for the both of us.
Max growled. He even showed his teeth. Nice, long white ones that gleamed pearly bright and deadly in the morning light.
I used to think Max was a good judge of character. I know better now. Max could easily snuggle up with a serial killer and bite a saint. Jonathan Hess probably wasn’t either. He was just a man used to getting his way.
I dropped my hand to the top of Max’s silken head then lowered my fingers to his collar. If he decided to bite Jonathan Hess, I could stop him. Maybe.
Someone tapped my shoulder and I turned. Donna stood in front of me with her head bowed and her gaze focused on the floor. “I’m ready to go,” she mumbled. “Thank you for having me, Mrs. Russell.”
I swallowed a sigh. Just because her stepfather was one of the bossiest men I’d ever met didn’t mean I could keep her at my house indefinitely to spite him.
Jonathan Hess’s hand circled her thin arm like a shackle.
It was just silly. Why couldn’t she stay and have breakfast with her friends?
Max growled again. I tightened my fingers around his collar. “Thank you for coming, Donna. You’re welcome any time.”
Now that he had what—who—he came
for, Jonathan Hess’ charming smile appeared again. I wasn’t charmed. I’d lived with a man who had to be in control all the time and I didn’t envy India—or Donna—one bit. “Thank you for having her, Mrs. Russell.”
He led Donna to the black Cadillac parked in my driveway.
I stood in the doorway and waved goodbye.
Donna seemed nice enough, but her stepfather was a prized ass.
I decided right then, without even seeing her portfolio, Donna Richardson was getting her painting lessons.
Donna getting up woke the other four girls. They oozed bonelessly into the kitchen, their hair tangled, their cheeks still marked with sleep. Kim asked for orange juice. Peggy wanted grape juice. Debbie and Grace wanted coffee. I did too.
When we were all provided with beverages, I got out a mixing bowl, a box of Bisquick, some eggs, milk and a carton of blueberries. “Pancakes?”
They all nodded. Peggy and Kim added, “Yes, please, Mrs. Russell.”
Pancakes are so easy even I can make them. The girls wolfed them down as if it had been days not hours since their junk food binge. Then they disappeared up the stairs, leaving me with a messy kitchen, a bandaged hand and the unfortunate realization that it was Saturday and Aggie wasn’t coming.
I fetched the paper from the foyer, poured myself another cup of coffee and settled onto one of the stools that surrounded the kitchen island.
Youth Murdered at Elite School
Law enforcement officials are seeking information regarding the shooting of a juvenile male that occurred in Kansas City, Missouri on Friday.
Shortly before nine o’clock, officers responded to an emergency at Suncrest Country Day School. When they arrived at the scene, police discovered a gunshot victim.
The victim, Robert Carsington Lowell, is the scion of a Kansas City family known for its support of the arts. He was transported to St. Benedict’s Hospital where he was pronounced dead on arrival. Sources close to the incident report the body was found by a parent attending a football game between Suncrest Country Day School and its cross-state rival Burroughs School.
Guaranteed to Bleed Page 3
