I inched farther. So far, I risked falling off my chair. Maybe Daddy would catch me. Although…he looked frozen in horror. No help there.
“What are you doing now, Quin? For a living, I mean,” I asked.
Clipping coupons off the bonds his grandfather and father had amassed. We all knew it. Then again, cutting along a straight, dotted line is something of a skill.
He sat up straight, grinned, then leaned against the back of his chair. “I’m thinking of investing in a chain of incense stores. Not too late to get in on the action. You interested, Harry?”
This time Daddy choked on his drink. I patted his back and looked for a waiter. With everyone choking, we were going to need more ice water. No waiter—but I did see Jane Addison walking toward the ladies’ lounge.
I gave Daddy one last pat then pushed my chair away from the table. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to powder my nose.”
I followed Jane into the ladies’ lounge, a room filled with nautical prints, lobster traps and—a tiny nod to the Midwest where we actually lived—a vase of sunflowers.
“Ellison,” Jane exclaimed. “I didn’t expect to see you today.”
I held up my wrist. “I wasn’t badly hurt.”
“Still…you found Bobby. I can’t even imagine how awful that was.” Jane glanced at the mirror then patted a wisp of auburn hair back into place. “Although…I suppose you’re used to it.”
From anyone else, such a remark would count as utter bitchiness. Not Jane. She might gossip—endlessly—but she meant no harm.
She shook her head and the wisp fell. She frowned at herself in the mirror. “Poor CeCe. To lose a child…Do you have any hairspray in your handbag?”
“No.”
She wet the tips of her fingers under the faucet then patted the rebellious strand into place.
“Was Bobby seeing anyone?” I asked.
“Bobby?” Jane daubed lipstick on her lips then pressed them together. “Not that I know of. Why?”
I doubted Bobby Lowell would have wanted his last words shared with the biggest gossip in town. “No reason.”
She shrugged, apparently willing to accept my lie. “How are you and Grace doing all alone in that big house? I have a property coming on the market next month that would be perfect for you.”
Such were the perils of talking to a real estate agent. “We’re not moving.”
She raised a brow as if she couldn’t believe I’d want to stay in the house where my husband was murdered. “Well, if you change your mind, you know who to call.”
“I do.”
Jane glanced at her watch and gasped. “Is that the time? I’ve got to run. It’s lovely to see you, Ellison. Call me and we’ll have lunch.” She breezed out the door.
Mother breezed in.
I pulled a compact out of my purse and did what I’d promised. I powdered my nose and glared at Mother in the mirror. She was delusional if she thought I’d ever find Quin Marstin remotely attractive.
“Do you want to tell me what you were thinking?”
“That’s the type of single man who’s available.”
I shuddered.
Mother took out her own compact. “I blame Ford. If he hadn’t divorced Tinsley and married that woman, Quin might not be so…”
“Slimy,” I supplied.
She shrugged. “You could do worse.”
“How?”
“Well, maybe not.” The words Mother didn’t say—you could have Hunter Tafft—echoed through the lounge.
If I ran now, I might make it. If I raced down the front hallway, blew through the entrance, jumped into my convertible and drove away, Mother would never catch me. Or…I could act like an adult. “I don’t want a man in my life and you need to stop meddling.”
She snorted and her cheeks flushed beneath her tan.
“You asked Hunter to brunch, didn’t you?” My stomach twisted. “You asked him and he declined. He doesn’t want you meddling either.” Had he declined because of Mother’s machinations or did Hunter not want to see me?
What little appetite I had, the tiny bit not obliterated by the scent of Aramis, died. “I believe I’ll head home now.”
Mother’s mouth opened then shut. Then it repeated the exercise. Twice. “You wouldn’t dare.”
I would. “Give Daddy my regards.”
One of Mother’s hands settled on her hips, the other wagged in my face. “What am I supposed to tell Quin?”
“Ask him about incense. He won’t even notice I’m gone.” Before Mother found a compelling argument to keep me, I escaped.
Six
I walked into the kitchen with Max at my heels, an empty stomach and a chest swollen with I-am-woman-hear-me-roar pride. Standing up to Mother still held an empowering novelty.
Grace sat at the kitchen counter with the phone plastered to her ear. The cord was stretched to capacity, an avocado green line instead of a coil. She stared at me for a moment then spoke into the phone. “Gotta go.” She stood, made the trek back to the cradle and dropped the receiver onto the hook. “You’re home early.”
“Your grandmother ambushed me.”
“Mr. Tafft?”
If only. “Quin Marstin.”
“Ew.” She wrinkled her nose. “Do you think his hair is real?”
Not in a million years. I shook my head to erase the image of what Quin Marstin might look like without the blonde rug on his head. “Who were you talking to?”
The phone rang.
Grace picked it up and listened for a moment. “I can’t talk right now.”
Whoever was on the line kept talking—and talking.
Finally, they stopped for breath and Grace got a word in edgewise. “I don’t know. I’ll ask her. Gotta go. Bye.” She put the receiver on the hook.
“Who was that?”
“Kim.”
“What did she want?”
Grace left her post by the phone, crossed to the fridge and grabbed a Tab and a bowl of sliced limes. “You want one?”
“Sure.”
She grabbed a second Tab, put the cans on the counter and reached into the cabinet for glasses. “Ice?”
Grace was stalling. “What did Kim want?”
My daughter put down her Tab. Her hands gripped the edge of the counter. “The whole world thinks Bobby got killed because of drugs. Kim wanted to know if you noticed anything.”
Kim wanted juicy gossip.
“Do you think it was drugs?” I asked.
Grace shrugged. “I don’t know. There aren’t too many reasons to be under those stands.”
“Could he have been meeting a girl?”
Grace caught the corner of her lower lip between her teeth. She loosed her grip on the counter and twisted a strand of hair around her index finger. “Why wouldn’t they just meet at his car?”
Excellent question. The area beneath the stands—with its noise, cigarette butts and view of feet—was hardly a spot for a romantic rendezvous. “What kind of drugs?”
“Pot.” She said the word quickly, decisively. Was she positive or was she covering for her old friend? Please God, please not heroin or LSD. The tip of her finger turned purple but she coiled the hair even tighter. “Some people are saying Bobby was dealing.”
Gulp. “Was he?”
Her gaze fell to the countertop and stayed there. “I don’t think so. I don’t know. Maybe.”
I circled the kitchen island and draped my arm across her shoulders. I even stroked her hair. She let me—for a moment—then the teenager emerged. The young woman who didn’t need her mother and was offended I might think she did. She shrugged me off, turned her back on me, returned the limes to the fridge.
The place where she had stood bristled with annoyance; it felt cool, it felt empty. I swallowed the urge to tell her everyt
hing would be all right. For Bobby and his family, nothing was all right. Besides, Grace would think I was being patronizing. When in doubt, change the subject. “I think Kim knows something about Bobby. Was she going out with him?”
With her back still to me, she shook her head. “Nope. She and Sam are still together.”
“You sound surprised.”
She turned. “I am. Before we left for Europe, I wouldn’t have given them two weeks.”
Sam was exactly the kind of boy Mother wanted for her daughters. Smart, handsome and from a fine, old family. She wanted it so much that, just to please her, I convinced myself I was in love with Henry. “Does Kim really like him or is she dating him to please Ginny?”
“Yeah, right. No one would stay with someone just to please their mother.”
If she only knew.
Maybe Aggie would be able to help find the mysterious girl. My muumuu-wearing housekeeper had once worked as an investigator. I made a mental note to ask her.
The phone rang. Again.
Grace was there, with her hand on the receiver before it completed its first brrnngg. She waited until it had completed three before she answered. “Hello, Russell residence.”
She listened then a smile flitted across her face. She held out the receiver and mouthed “You’re in trouble.”
Mother was calling already? I’d counted on at least a few days of the silent treatment. I took the phone. “Hello.”
“I’m at the club.” Libba’s voice was slightly breathless.
“Oh?”
“You’re not.”
“Obviously. You called me at home.”
“Did you really walk out on Quin Marstin?”
I paused. It wasn’t just Quin. It was Mother and ham croquettes and Jack McCreary and not enough Tabasco in my Bloody Mary.
Libba took my silence for a yes. “Oh. My. God. You did. Was it the toupee? Or did he try to sell you on those damned incense shops?”
“Libba,” I snapped. “Don’t embarrass him. Tell everyone I’m ill…still shaky after finding Bobby.”
Libba snorted. Her eyes probably rolled.
“Please?” I begged.
“Fine,” she conceded. “You owe me.”
I was racking up debts faster than a golfer breaks tees. “I owe you.”
The doorbell chimed. Grace disappeared into the front hall.
“Libba, someone’s at the door. I’ll talk to you later.”
“Fine,” she huffed. “But don’t forget, you owe me.”
As if she’d let me. I hung up the phone. Should I take the receiver off the hook and leave it off? Anyone calling would get a busy signal and I’d get some peace. Grace would never stand for that. The telephone was her lifeline.
I let go of the receiver and stepped away from the phone.
Grace led Donna into the kitchen. The girl clutched a black leather portfolio to her chest. When she saw me, she pasted a tremulous smile on her lips. “I brought you a couple of my sketchbooks and a few watercolors.”
I’d forgotten all about my promise to look at Donna’s work. “Would you leave them here? Just for a day or two? I want to take my time with them.”
She nodded then put the bundle on the counter. “I just appreciate you looking at them.” Her gaze slid to the kitchen window, to the back door, to the exposed brick wall. “I…um…that is…um, I’m sorry if my stepfather was rude.”
Her stepfather wasn’t rude. He was beyond rude, he was a bona fide jackass. “He was just worried about you.”
Her eyes narrowed, her nose wrinkled, her upper lip raised. Scorn. The expression flitted across her face so fast that if I hadn’t been looking right at her, I would have missed it. It was replaced by the bland expression everyone I knew wore when they were discussing someone they didn’t particularly like.
The phone rang. Again. Phones are like that. They mock you with silence when you want them to ring. They ring off the hook when all you want is a moment’s peace. I should have left the receiver off the cradle.
“We could let it ring,” I said.
“Yeah, right,” said Grace. Apparently an unanswered phone ran contrary to some unwritten teenage law. She picked up the receiver. “Russell residence.”
She listened for a moment then, without a word, held out the phone to me.
What now? I took it from her. “Hello.”
“Ellison, it’s Anarchy Jones. Would you come up to Suncrest? There’s something I’d like you to see.”
My heart, which had been beating like hearts should—a nice steady lub-dub—plummeted faster than Gerald Ford’s popularity. “Is everything all right?” I asked.
“Fine.”
One word that told me nothing. “I’m on my way.” That was the way words were supposed to work. They were supposed to communicate some useful bit of information. I hung up the phone. “Girls, I have to go.”
“Why?” Grace asked. “What’s going on?”
I shook my head. “I have no idea.”
If someone had asked me the place I’d least like to go in the whole world, the football field at Suncrest would have topped the list. Bobby’s death was too recent, too raw.
I pulled into the parking lot but couldn’t quite get out of my car. Instead, I let the autumn sunshine warm my shoulders. I peered into the rearview mirror and repaired the damage the wind had done to my hair. I dug in my purse for a lipstick and came up with the one I’d lost in the stands. I dropped the cursed thing back into my bag. My lips went untouched.
My hands were long since scrubbed free of Bobby’s blood but I could still see rusty red—under my nails, near my cuticles, in the grooves of my skin. My fingers closed around the steering wheel and tightened until my knuckles turned white.
“Are you getting out?”
I looked up into Anarchy Jones’ handsome face. The dark lenses of a pair of aviator sunglasses hid his eyes. His lips curled into a half-smile, as if my inability to get out of the car somehow amused him.
“Of course.” I reached over to the passenger’s seat and grabbed my handbag.
He opened my door and extended a hand to help me out of the car.
It would have been churlish not to take it.
His fingers, cool, callused and strong, closed around my hand and once again the regular lub-dub of my heart gave way to wild beating. I had to tug to pull my hand free. “What was it you wanted me to see?”
“Why did you park all the way up here?” he asked.
“Walking is good exercise.”
He gazed at my feet—more specifically my shoes. Purchased in Italy, they were decidedly not walking shoes. At least this pair didn’t pinch my toes.
I gazed at the hive of activity near the field—men and cars and yellow tape. “I don’t want my car anywhere near that mess.” I traced part of the length of the narrow black racing stripe on the car’s satiny finish.
“Isn’t this the car you—“
“Yes,” I snapped. No need to relive the past. No need to remind me I’d run over my dead husband. Besides, nothing that happened was the car’s fault.
The skin around his eyes crinkled. “Any luck finding the girl who Bobby loved?”
“How do you know I’m looking?”
He smiled. “You’re you. I figure a kid asks you to do something with his dying breath, you’re gonna do it.”
“I haven’t found her. Whoever Bobby was seeing, he was keeping secret.”
“Maybe it was a message for his mother.”
I shook my head. “CeCe says it’s not.”
“You talked to her?”
“Yesterday.”
“I tried talking with Mrs. Lowell but she’d taken so many Valium I couldn’t make sense of what she said.”
A strand of hair blew in front of my eyes. I smoothed it
back into place. “Maybe the police make her nervous.”
“Maybe she has something to hide.”
I snorted.
“You disagree?” Anarchy asked.
“CeCe’s husband took off with a girl half his age. Except for Bobby, she was alone.”
One of Anarchy’s brows rose above the wire rim of his sunglasses. He didn’t understand. How could he?
“Aside from being able to keep a house, cook a flawless meal and entertain, CeCe has no skills.”
Anarchy’s other brow rose. “I bet she plays tennis or golf or bridge.”
He still didn’t get it. I tucked another strand of hair behind my ear. “She plays all those things, but you can’t make a life out of them. Bobby was her son and she loved him, but he also gave her a purpose.”
“What was she going to do when he went to college?”
Who knew? “Date or do more volunteer work or get a job in a boutique.”
“She can do that now.”
It was my turn to raise an eyebrow. “You think any woman in her forties wants to actually do those things?” Obviously he had no idea what most available middle-aged men were like. An unfortunate vision of Quin Marstin slunk across my brain. “As for volunteer work, you’ve obviously never sat on a women’s committee. None of us want to do it. We feel as if we have to.”
“What about a job?”
“CeCe has no work experience. Like I said, if she was to get a job it would be selling ladies dresses or fine china or cooking gadgets.” I shuddered.
“So, CeCe Lowell had nothing to do with her son’s death?”
“Absolutely not.” I added an emphatic shake of my head.
“Any idea who did?”
“None.” I glanced toward the hive of activity. “What was it you wanted me to see?”
“It’s down by the field.”
We walked across the parking lot and the back of the stands came into view.
The base of the fence was mounded with flowers. Above them, fluttering in the light breeze, was a length of red ribbon threaded through the chain links. In letters three feet tall, the ribbon spelled “SLUT.”
Guaranteed to Bleed Page 6
