My feet in their Italian pumps froze to the pavement.
My heart, already jittery from proximity to Anarchy Jones, thudded so loudly the sound echoed in my ears.
My hand, the one not wrapped in bandages, flew to my mouth and attempted—unsuccessfully—to smother a profanity.
“Who did this?” I asked.
“I was hoping you could tell me.”
Alice Standish. Was she crazy enough to do something like this? From what I’d seen at CeCe’s, the answer was definitive.
If I implicated her granddaughter with solid evidence, Alice Anne Standish would restring her tennis racket with my tendons. I shook my head. “I don’t know.”
“Any theories?”
I’d been more focused on finding the girl Bobby loved than the person who stole his life. “Not one.”
“No one is talking,” Anarchy said. “The kids cross their arms and slouch and roll their eyes and wait for their fathers’ lawyers to show up. Their parents aren’t talking either. I need your help, Ellison.”
Damn.
He took off his glasses, rubbed the bridge of his nose, and gazed into my eyes. “I don’t want more people to die.”
Neither did I, but…“There’s a reason people won’t tell you things.”
“They don’t want to get involved.”
I shook my head, looked away from Anarchy’s warm brown gaze. “They don’t want to rat out their doubles partner. It might make it hard to find another one.”
“Will you help?”
I caught my lower lip between my teeth. There was no reason not to tell him what I’d heard. “The kids are saying Bobby was dealing drugs. Pot.”
“What about the word in the fence?” He jerked his chin toward the ugly word. “Who did that?”
“Let me talk to her.”
“You know who did this?”
“I can guess. If I’m right, I’ll tell you.” I wouldn’t wish a police investigation on my worst enemy—well, maybe on Prudence Davies, but she’s a special case. I wasn’t dragging a sixteen-year-old girl into one if I could help it.
Besides, Alice’s grandmother was a force of nature. If I set the police on Alice and I was wrong...the woman would make my life a misery.
Seven
Who was the slut? The girl Bobby had loved or someone else entirely?
I drove with the top down. The whoosh of the wind and the rumble of my empty stomach were the only sounds until I pulled to a stop sign. I turned on the radio and Elton John sang “The Bitch is Back.”
Had Alice strung the ribbon through the fence? It seemed possible—even probable.
I pulled into the driveway, parked the car, and hurried up the front steps. No breakfast, no brunch, no lunch. I was starving and before I seriously considered who Bobby loved, if Alice had spelled “SLUT” with red ribbon, or who’d murdered a teenage boy, I needed a sandwich.
I opened the door. “Grace, I’m home.”
No answer. Except for Max. He moseyed down the stairs, yawned then rubbed his face against my leg.
I scratched behind his silken ears and headed for the kitchen. Maybe he heard my stomach rumble, maybe doggie ESP told him I’d be opening the refrigerator, but rather than return to his nap, Max followed me. “Where’s Grace?” I asked him.
I knew he was paying attention—especially when I took a cold roast chicken out of the fridge—but Max is the strong silent type. He didn’t answer.
I put a bowl of grapes next to the chicken then grabbed sprouts, a tomato, an avocado and a loaf of whole grain bread. I didn’t just want a sandwich, I needed it. That and a Tab. I popped the top off a can and drank deeply.
“You’re home.” Grace stood in the doorway.
I sprinkled sprouts on a slice of bread. “I am.” The bread knife cut cleanly through the tomato.
“Isn’t it kind of late for lunch?”
I glanced at the clock. Three. No wonder I was starving. “I haven’t eaten yet today.”
She scrunched up her face, an expression that could have meant gosh, that’s awful, Mom or boy, are you an idiot to wait so late in the day. I was too hungry to care if Grace disapproved of my dining choices. I laid the tomato slices on top of the sprouts.
“What did Detective Jones want?”
I gently squeezed the avocado. “He asked me a few more questions.”
She stared at me as if she could somehow discern I wasn’t telling the whole truth.
I stared back. As far as I was concerned, my daughter need never know about the ugly word woven into the fence. She’d probably hear about it—the grapevine was too effective. But it wouldn’t be from me.
After a moment, she shrugged. “Do you mind if I go out for dinner tonight?”
I sliced through the skin of the avocado. “Is your homework done?”
She nodded. “Yeah.”
I cupped the half with the pit in my hand, whacked the knife at it, twisted, and pulled the pit free. “Who are you going with?”
Grace caught the end of her ponytail and twirled strands of honey-colored hair around her fingers. “Friends.”
I added a few slices of avocado to my sandwich then pulled the plate of chicken closer. Next to me, Max sat up straighter. His pupils dilated until his eyes were nothing but liquid need melting into eternal devotion if only I’d give him a bite. I tossed him a bit of chicken. “Which friends?”
Grace mumbled a name.
“Who?”
“Jack McCreary.”
A slice of chicken fell from my fingers onto the floor and Max inhaled it. “No.”
“What do you mean ‘no?’”
I put the knife down on the counter. “I mean no.”
Her arms crossed over her chest. “Why not?”
I held up my hand so I could use my fingers to enumerate. “You came home in tears how many times because he teased you?”
She shrugged. “That was years ago.”
“I don’t like him.” I ticked off another finger.
She crossed her arms. “I do.”
“He may have had something to do with Bobby’s death.” He certainly had been behaving strangely enough at the club. It wasn’t hard to extrapolate guilt.
Grace shook her head, dismissing my concerns. “That’s just silly. Jack and Bobby were best friends.”
I gave up on counting fingers and held my hands out to her. “Grace, there’s been a murder. You yourself said it might have something to do with drugs. Suppose Jack was involved?”
“Why would you think that?”
“I saw him at brunch today and he was acting oddly.”
She rolled her eyes. “Maybe that’s because his best friend died on Friday.”
“Fair enough, but today is Sunday and he wants to go on a date.”
“It’s not a date! It’s two friends hanging out.”
And one of those friends just might be a murderer. “I don’t want you to go.”
“Please. I’m sixteen.” She was making my argument for me.
“Exactly.”
“I’ll be in college soon.” Grace was not helping her case.
“What has that got to do with Jack McCreary?”
“I’m growing up.”
My fingers gripped the edge of the counter. “Please tell me that has nothing to do with Jack.”
She rolled her eyes. This time with more drama. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
Thank God for small favors. Grace’s days of playing with dolls and thinking her mother knew everything might be behind her, but I wasn’t ready for her to grow up too much.
“Are you forbidding me from going?” Something in her eyes dared me to do it.
“If I am?” I tasted other words on the back of my teeth. My lips even parted. I sealed them shut. As long as you live in
my house, you live by my rules. That expression hadn’t turned out too well for Mother. My sister rebelled by marrying a rubber manufacturer from Ohio—and no, not the tire kind. I made a more traditional choice, a banker. Mother was pleased until he got himself murdered.
“I might go anyway, Mother,” she said, lifting her nose.
Mother? I wasn’t Mother. I was Mom or Mommy or MaMa or even Mumsy. Mother was my mother. And we weren’t anything alike. Were we? I hadn’t uttered the rules sentence. Mother would have.
“I don’t want you hurt.”
She crossed her arms. “You don’t trust me.”
“You, I trust. I have my doubts about Jack McCreary.”
She shook her head hard enough to make her ponytail whip back and forth. “You don’t trust me to take care of myself.”
Maybe I didn’t. Then again, what mother trusts her only child with a potential killer? “I don’t want you to go.”
She stared long enough for me to remember all the psychology books I’d ever read. Grace was trying to develop an identity independent from me. The harder I fought, the harder she would.
“I’d prefer you not go.”
She tossed her ponytail. “Well, I am.” She turned her back, marched down the hall, stomped up the stairs and slammed the door to her room.
A second later the house thumped to the sounds of her stereo turned a million decibels high.
Short of locking her up, how was I going to keep her home? Since when was Grace dramatic? Since when did she rebel?
I stared at my sandwich. I wasn’t hungry anymore.
The phone rang and I waited for Grace to answer it. Three rings, a short silence, then her voice tumbled down the stairs. “It’s for you.”
I picked up the receiver. “Hello.”
“Thank God I caught you at home.” Libba’s voice was slightly husky, as if she’d been running (highly unlikely), or playing tennis (slightly more likely), or having sex (highly probable). “You know that favor you owe me?”
“Yes.” Was it a word or a sigh? Hard to tell, even after the lone syllable escaped my lips.
“Well…” Her lone syllable promised the delights of Shangri-La, the endless adventure of jungle exploration and the excitement of a plunge on a rollercoaster. Shangri-La doesn’t exist. Jungles overflow with snake and bugs. I hate rollercoasters.
“What, Libba?”
“You know Charlie, the man I’ve been seeing?”
“No, I don’t. I was out of town all summer.”
“Well, tonight’s your lucky night.” She paused. “He has a friend.”
I dropped my forehead to my hands. It was gentler than beating it against a wall. “Just so we’re clear, you want me to go on a blind date?”
She treated me to a moment’s silence while she searched for an answer that wouldn’t make me hang up the phone.
“Need I remind you I don’t date?” I asked.
“Need I remind you that you owe me?”
“Why are we friends?”
Libba snorted. The sound carried, pin-drop clear, through the telephone wires. “We’re friends because we’ve known each other all our lives and because you need me. Without yours truly, you’d lock yourself in your studio and spend all your time painting.”
“That sounds like heaven.”
“You say that now. Just wait ’til Grace goes to college—you’ll be lonely.”
Why must everyone remind me that Grace would be leaving for college? I still had two years with her. “Libba—”
“It’ll be fun,” she wheedled. “We’ll go to the Magic Pan for crêpes. Charles knows this little club downtown and he wants to take us.”
“I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“Grace wants to go out with Jack McCreary.”
“And?”
“Jack McCreary was Bobby’s best friend.”
“And?”
“What if Bobby was murdered over drugs?”
“Grace is almost grown. You’re going to have to loosen those apron strings.”
I didn’t want to. Those apron strings kept Grace close and safe and protected. She’d already lived through her father’s murder. Proximity to a boy who might be doing—or dealing—drugs wasn’t what I had in mind for her.
“I bet you fought.”
How did a woman who’d never had children, who gave the impression she’d never wanted them, know so much?
“I’d call it a spirited debate.”
“Did it end with a slammed door?”
Silence was my answer.
“And loud music? Is there loud music?”
I couldn’t hear lyrics or melody, just a steady thumping beat, loud enough to shake the house. I didn’t bother to answer.
“You have to let her make her own mistakes. You can’t protect her from everything.”
“I should be able to protect her from murderers.”
“Do you really think Jack McCreary killed Bobby?”
I didn’t think so—but I’d been wrong before. Really wrong. “No.” Another lone syllable lost in the space between a word and a sigh.
“Let her go.”
Easy for Libba to say. Near impossible for me to do. Unless…
“Let her go,” Libba repeated. “She’ll be fine. Besides, you’ll be having such a fabulous time with Charlie and me and his friend, Upson, you won’t have time to worry.”
Upson? “Just dinner, right? Then my debt is paid.”
“Dinner and one club.”
I shook my head. “I don’t want to be out late.”
“Upson is in town on business. He’s got a meeting in the morning so I doubt he wants to stay out late either. We’ll have you home by eleven.”
“Do you have a bridge in Brooklyn you’d like to sell me?”
“I promise. We’ll have you home early.”
“Eleven.”
“Done. We’ll pick you up at six. Wear something fabulous.” She hung up before I could think of any other objections.
I rested the receiver in the cradle. Slowly, I lifted it. More slowly still, I inserted my finger in the three hole and rotated the dial. I’d promised to call. I hadn’t. Not ’til now. Not ’til I wanted something. I dialed six. He had every right to hang up on me. It took only a second to dial the one. I rushed through the rest of the numbers, afraid I’d lose my nerve.
He answered the phone on the third ring. His voice, deep, cultured and ever-so-slightly pompous, made every word he uttered sound important. “Hello.”
I swallowed, tried for a deep breath. “Hunter, it’s Ellison.” The words came out in a rush. I waited for him to say something…and waited.
Finally, he spoke. “Hello.”
I swallowed again. In the history of bad ideas, calling Hunter Tafft won the prize. Worse than the decision to burglarize the Democratic National Committee headquarters at the Watergate. Worse than making tapes of conversations pertaining to the break-in. Worse than keeping those tapes. I should have called him weeks ago when Grace and I first got back from Europe. But what was I supposed to say? I’m grateful for your help, I think you’re insanely attractive and my fingers itch to know if your silver hair is as soft as it looks. Oh, and, even though I want to touch your hair, I don’t want to get involved. Not now. Maybe never. Having your husband betray you with half the women you know creates trust issues. Big ones. I’d work on them. Someday. “How are you?” I croaked.
“Fine, thank you.”
I really ought to have thought this phone call through before I made it. “Um, I don’t know if you heard, but I found a body on Friday night.”
“I heard.”
I nodded then remembered he couldn’t see me. My fingers tightened around the receiver. “It was Bobby Lowell. He was murdered.”
Hunt
er offered me nothing but silence.
“There’s some speculation that Bobby might have been involved in drugs.”
I thought I heard a grunt. At least Hunter was still listening. Maybe.
“His best friend was Jack McCreary. They did everything together.”
Another grunt.
“Grace has informed me she’s going out with Jack McCreary tonight.”
Silence.
“I’m worried and I need your help.” I didn’t give him a chance not to answer. “Please, Hunter.”
To his credit, he didn’t make me wait for an answer. “What do you need?”
“I was wondering if you had someone who could…” My grip tightened on the phone. “Keep an eye on her.”
“You mean follow her.”
“Yes,” I admitted.
“You’re sure about that?”
I stared at my bandaged wrist, remembered the warmth of Bobby’s blood welling between my fingers, and nodded. “I’m sure.”
“Why don’t you do it?”
“She’d notice her mother following her around.” I didn’t add that I had a date. It wasn’t information that would help my cause.
“What about Aggie?”
“I don’t want to put her in that position.” Aggie adored Grace. She wouldn’t feel comfortable invading her privacy. Plus, Aggie was given to wearing toxic muumuus, loud—both in color and jingles—jewelry, and bright makeup. She was about as subtle as a crimson dress at a debutante ball. Not exactly ideal for following a teenage girl—or anyone else—around without being detected.
“I’ll see what I can do.” From Hunter, that meant it was as good as done.
“Thank you.”
“It’ll cost you.”
Everything had a cost. This time the price didn’t matter. “Fine.”
“Dinner with me. Tomorrow night.”
Blackmail. It was my turn to be silent.
“I’ll pick you up at seven.”
“Fine.”
What had I done?
I had a date with Hunter Tafft. If Mother found out, she’d do a very staid version of a happy dance. If Libba found out, she’d smirk. If Grace found out, she’d wonder what in the world had induced me to go out with one of the men I’d spent an entire European vacation refusing to discuss.
Guaranteed to Bleed Page 7
