My hands—even the bleeding one—shook. How could I explain away a comatose date, a crossdressing brawl and a bloody wrist?
Anarchy crossed the room in a few strides. He stared at me for a moment, his eyes scrunched as if he was trying to find answers without actually speaking to me. His gaze shifted to Upson. “Is he dead?”
“No.”
“Are you sure? Usually when I see you, someone’s been murdered.”
The man had a point.
“I’m sure.” I folded my hands in my lap. “He’s not dead.”
“What happened to him?”
“He fainted.”
Anarchy’s upper lip curled slightly.
The Jewel Box might well be outside Anarchy’s parameters of acceptable places, but he shouldn’t sneer at Upson. “He protected me.”
“From the combatants?”
The blonde in the dove gray dress wore handcuffs, her makeup was smeared and her hair no longer cascaded in ripples down her back. Instead, her wig was off-kilter. The man in the strapless gown sat in one of the few remaining chairs with his face buried in his hands. They didn’t look as if they’d ever been dangerous.
I didn’t care to explain about the man who offered to fix my makeup. Time for a change of subject. “Why are you here?” I asked. “Is someone dead?”
“I heard Jenkins on the radio talking about a blonde who’d torn stitches in her wrist. I thought I’d make sure it wasn’t you.”
For a moment neither of us said a word. Instead, we listened to one of the handcuffed men sob. The lights from the police cruisers sent flashes of red through the front window’s glass bricks. A turquoise feather floated by and I blew it away from my face.
Anarchy rubbed his hand across his eyes. “Who’s the not-dead guy?”
“Upson Smith.”
He crossed his arms and waited for more.
Let him wait. The ambulance would be here soon, then, no doubt, I’d be loaded in it. A nice doctor with a shot of novocaine would fix my wrist and I’d go home to find out what happened on Grace’s date with Jack.
He shook his head as if amused by my little I-can-be-silent-longer-than-you game. “Does this have anything to do with my investigation?”
“No.”
“Why are you here?”
I might as well tell him. “I went to see CeCe Lowell yesterday.”
His eyebrows rose and his lips thinned.
I swallowed. “Don’t look at me like that. This has nothing to do with your investigation. I went to offer my condolences and there was a girl there—Alice Standish. She wouldn’t leave. CeCe called her mother and the mother arrived but she was soused and the daughter ignored her. I called Mother to track down Howard Standish to come get them both. Mother found him. He came. Alice and her mother left. So I owed Mother a favor.”
“Are you saying your mother set you up with sleeping beauty there?”
“No. Mother set me up with Quin Marstin. Brunch. At the country club. I walked out. Libba called me. Apparently everyone and their brother were talking about my exit so I asked her to tell everyone I felt ill. I owed her a favor.”
Anarchy’s lips quirked. He was definitely amused. “So Libba set you up?”
“Double date. Upson isn’t from here and they needed a fourth.”
He glanced around the bar. “Where’s Libba?”
“She….um. She left.”
“She left you here? Bleeding in a bar?”
“She didn’t know I was bleeding. She probably thought I was right behind her.”
“So where is she now?”
Charlie would have mowed down both his grandmothers not to get caught in The Jewel Box. They weren’t coming back. Libba was probably—right now—sitting in his Mercedes telling him he had to turn the car around. She’d be loud and insistent and persuasive.
That they weren’t here told me just how important it was to Charlie to keep his secret.
Howard Standish probably felt the same way.
I shivered.
“Where is she, Ellison?”
I shrugged. “She’s gone.”
The tone of his voice softened. “Would you like me to take you to the hospital?”
My wrist throbbed and I blinked back a tear. I hated when Anarchy was nice. It made me want to melt into his arms and let him handle all my problems. “No, thank you. I can’t leave Upson.”
“Your hero.” Was that amusement or sarcasm?
“He helped me. I’m not leaving him.”
Anarchy’s lips curved into a delicious half-moon. A dimple formed in his cheek. His eyes twinkled as if he approved of my decision not to abandon Upson. Looking at him, I couldn’t breathe. How embarrassing if I fainted too. At least I could claim blood loss.
A medic pushing a gurney saved me. He parted the sea of cops and crossdressers and enlisted Anarchy’s help in lifting Upson onto the gurney.
“Do you need help to the ambulance?” Anarchy asked.
I gave him what I hoped was a withering stare and pushed myself to my feet. Blood loss? Proximity to Anarchy Jones? That damned smile? Who knows why I staggered? I did. Anarchy caught me, swept me into his arms and carried me outside where camera bulbs flashed and the lights atop the cop cars cast everything in a red hue.
Mondays are dangerous days. Sure, they dawn in fifteen lovely shades of pink. The birds sing. The sun shines. Mr. Coffee works his magic before you even get to the kitchen. And you know, with absolute certainty, that today you will not be injured in a brawl at The Jewel Box.
That’s just Monday lulling you into a false sense of security.
I followed the scent of fresh-brewed heaven to the kitchen where Aggie whisked batter in a creamware bowl. “Good morning,” I said. “You’re here early.” Not that I was complaining. I poured myself a cup of coffee and settled onto one of the stools that surrounded the kitchen island.
“Good morning.” Aggie’s muumuu was nearly as violent an orange as her hair. She put down the bowl, repositioned the coffee pot onto the exact center of Mr. Coffee’s burner, straightened the tea towels that hung from the oven handle then ran a hand through her hair. “You haven’t seen the paper?”
I sipped my coffee. “No.”
Slowly, as if I was a snake and her hand was a mouse, she pushed a folded copy of the morning paper across the counter toward me.
The headline read “Socialite Injured in Brawl at Notorious Nightclub.”
Sweet nine-pound baby Jesus.
Beneath the headline was a picture of a blonde woman whose pearls hung askew. She wore a fabulous black dress but the hem had inched up, revealing entirely too much leg. A handsome man cradled her in his arms. Her mulish expression communicated how very little she wanted to be there. At least I hoped it did. His expression was softer.
One of last night’s camera flashes must have belonged to a reporter.
Oh. Dear. Lord.
The phone rang.
“You want me to get that?” Aggie asked.
I wasn’t going to answer. “I’m unavailable.”
“Even to your mother?”
“Especially to my mother.”
She answered the phone, listened, then said, “I’m sorry, Mrs. Russell is unavailable. May I take a message?”
She picked up a pen and jotted something on a piece of paper. “No, ma’am, I can’t promise she’ll call this morning. I’ll give her the message.” She hung up the phone then pushed the note toward me. One word. Libba. As if a phone call could make everything better. Libba had some serious groveling to do.
The phone rang again almost immediately and Aggie repeated almost verbatim her conversation with Libba—except this time the caller was Howard Standish.
No sooner had Aggie hung up the phone than it rang a third time. Mother’s voice boomed through t
he line.
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Walford, but Mrs. Russell is resting. May I have her call you when she gets up?” Aggie deserved a raise. A large one.
I heard Mother tell Aggie to get me out of bed. Immediately.
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Walford, but I promised Mrs. Russell that I wouldn’t disturb her.”
Mother hung up.
I gulped at my coffee. “She’ll be here in an hour. Maybe sooner.”
Grace chose that moment to walk into the kitchen.
“Good morning, honey.” I manufactured a smile. “How was last night?” Hopefully her evening hadn’t been quite as eventful as mine.
“Fine.”
A one-word answer. She was still angry with me. Just wait. I handed her the paper. Better she see the picture now than hear about it at school.
She looked at it for a minute then tossed the paper onto the counter. “And you didn’t want me going out with Jack?”
“I thought I was going out for dinner and a drink.”
“So how did you end up in Detective Jones’ arms?”
“That’s a long story.”
Grace snorted. “Yeah, right.”
Where had the attitude come from? In Europe, we’d been fine. Now that we’d come home, Grace had started acting like a resentful, rebellious…teenager. I forced a smile. “Where did you go last night?”
“Winstead’s. Then we went for a walk in Loose Park.” She reached past me, picked up the paper and read. With each line, her expression darkened.
Damn Monday straight to hell. I should have stayed in bed.
The telephone jangled.
“Should we unplug the blasted thing?” I asked Aggie.
Grace sneered at me over the top of the paper.
“That’s enough out of you, young lady.” I already dealt with Mother’s regular, deep-seated disapproval. I didn’t need Grace’s too.
“I didn’t say anything.”
She didn’t have to. Grace dropped the paper onto the counter, tossed her hair and headed toward the door.
“Don’t you want breakfast?” Aggie asked.
“I’ve lost my appetite.”
Teenagers.
Aggie picked up the phone, listened for a moment then said, “I’ll see if she’s available.”
She covered the mouthpiece with the palm of her hand. “One of Grace’s friend’s mothers. She says it’s an emergency.”
I nodded and Aggie handed me the phone.
“Hello.”
“Ellison, thank God I caught you. India Hess calling. My daughter, Donna, spent the night at your house on Friday.”
“We enjoyed having her.” Well, except for the nightmare and the stepfather.
“My husband left town on business yesterday. New York. His taxi was in an accident and…” her voice quavered, “he’s in the hospital with serious injuries. I have to fly out there and I was wondering if Donna might be able to stay with you for a few days.”
“Well…” I’d met the girl exactly twice. Didn’t India have anyone else she could call?
“I’d take her to my mother’s but her health hasn’t been good. Donna and Grace seem to be getting on so well that I thought perhaps you’d be willing to take her.”
“Um—”
“Really, they have. Donna had such a grand time last night with Grace and her boyfriend.”
What? “I—”
“I’d be forever in your debt. I don’t want to leave her home alone and I simply have to get on a plane for New York this morning. Please?”
“India, I—”
“She won’t be any bother. I promise.”
Maybe having a friend around would put Grace in a better mood. “Fine.” I didn’t try to say more. Chances were good she’d just interrupt me.
“Thank you! I can’t begin to tell you what a help this is to me. Jonathan would be so angry with me if he thought for a second I’d left Donna unsupervised. He even suggested I bring her with me, but I don’t know how long I’ll be gone and I didn’t want her to miss school.”
Oh dear Lord. What had I done? She didn’t know how long she’d be gone? What if her horse’s ass of a husband couldn’t travel for weeks? I grimaced and gulped at my coffee.
“May I drop her things off this morning? My flight leaves at eleven.”
“Of course. If I’m not here, Aggie will be.”
“Thank you, Ellison. I owe you an enormous favor.”
How novel and delightful to have someone owe me for a change. Although I couldn’t imagine a circumstance in which I’d ever collect. “Not a problem.” I scratched my nose. “We’re delighted to have her.”
A few more gushing thanks, then I hung up the phone and turned to my housekeeper. “We’re going to have a houseguest.”
Aggie nodded. “I guessed as much. Blue room?”
“Fine.”
The phone rang again and I answered. “Hello.”
“Ellison? Hunter Tafft here. I’m calling to confirm tonight. I’ll pick you up at seven. We have a lot to talk about.”
Like I said, Mondays are dangerous days.
Ten
Mother was on her way. India was on her way. I was on my way too—except I was on my way out.
I hurried upstairs, donned pearls—necklace and earrings—a wrap dress and shoes that didn’t pinch my toes, then I climbed into my convertible and pointed the wheels toward downtown.
Manicured lawns gave way to overgrown yards, then the yards gave up entirely, replaced by weed-choked lots. Finally, the dandelions ceded to concrete surface parking manned by bored attendants. A twenty-minute trip from affluence to urban decay.
Downtown was dying. Women’s favorite shops had moved south to the Country Club Plaza. Only a few restaurants remained and those catered to a lunch crowd. Men drove to their offices and then they drove home. The only people who spent any real time downtown were winos, burlesque dancers and beat cops.
I parked, paid and picked my way up a crumbling sidewalk to a skyscraper in need of a shower. A security guard looked up from his paper and beeped me in.
“I’m here to see Howard Standish.”
The guard glanced at the front page of his newspaper then at me. He narrowed his eyes, focused on the paper, tilted his head and opened his mouth as if he intended to ask me a question.
“Howard Standish,” I repeated. Men who’d just triple bogeyed a par three use nicer tones than I did. Those men weren’t on the front page of the paper.
The guard grunted. “Eleventh floor.” He pointed to a pair of elevators then went back to examining the photo of a socialite injured in a brawl at a notorious nightclub.
When I pushed through the doors of Standish & Co., the receptionist’s desk sat empty.
I glanced at my watch and sat. Five minutes later with no receptionist in sight, no offer of coffee and only a folded copy of the Kansas City Times to read, I stood.
A short hallway ran to the left of the receptionist desk, a long one to the right.
I went right. After all, there was no way the short hall led to a corner office. My shoes sank into expensive carpet. Too bad. I’d have preferred the sharp click of my heels against hardwood. A purposeful sound. A sound with a mission. A sound that telegraphed my annoyance to all the people working behind closed doors. Monday might be a dangerous day but this particular Monday, I was dangerous too. I’d find out who Bobby loved, tell the girl, then focus all my attention on keeping Grace out of trouble. Being nice wouldn’t get me an answer. Being dangerous might.
A woman exited an office. She blinked when she saw me. “May I help you?”
“I’m here to see Howard Standish.” I spoke with the triple-bogey tone.
“Do you have an appointment?” she asked with the prim assurance of someone who knew I didn’t.
&nbs
p; “No. But Mr. Standish will see me.”
She lifted her nose—a we’ll-just-see-about-that tilt. “Your name?”
“Ellison Russell.”
“One moment.” She marched down the hall and disappeared through yet another closed door.
She reappeared almost immediately. “Mr. Standish will see you.”
As if there’d ever been any doubt. I offered her a sugary smile.
She led me down the rest of the hallway then opened an oak-paneled door. The office on the other side smelled of leather and cigar smoke and ink. Manly smells. The opposite of blue brocade frock smells.
Howard stood when I entered. He straightened his tie. He cleared his throat. He even offered me a grimace of a smile.
His square jaw worked as if he was chewing. A bitter pill? He glanced at the woman who still lingered in the doorway. “Thank you, Ann.”
Ann cast me a curious look—I guess municipal bond underwriters don’t get a lot of drop-ins—then disappeared.
“Welcome,” Howard croaked. “Coffee?”
“That would be lovely. With cream.”
He picked up the phone on his desk, spoke into the receiver, then realized I was still standing. “Please…” he waved toward one of a pair of wingback chairs, “…sit.”
I sat. I placed my handbag on the rug next to the chair’s ball and claw foot. I crossed my ankles. I directed my attention to the man across the desk.
Howard hung up the phone and stared at me. His skin looked grey, maybe even green, and despite the steady breeze from the air conditioning vent, sweat broke out on his upper lip. He wiped it away. “How may I help you?”
“I have a few questions.” More than a few, and given what I knew about Howard’s predilection for dresses, wigs and frosted eyeshadow, I figured he’d answer them all.
“Questions?” Howard’s skin tone went from green to dead white. “About what?”
Had someone been blackmailing him? Did he think I was after money? Or did he think I had some prurient interest in hearing about his dresses? “About Bobby Lowell.”
His skin tone improved from dead to dying. “What about him?”
Guaranteed to Bleed Page 9
