What’s more, the neighbors didn’t need any new reasons to talk about me or Grace. I’d already been branded a killer. The neighborhood would positively buzz over this latest title. Just the word “SLUT” emblazoned across our door might convince some of them that Grace or I had done something to deserve it. We’d be modern-day Hester Prynnes for whom a mere A wasn’t good enough. With gossip that juicy, our innocence wouldn’t matter.
On the other hand, if I called the police, they might arrest Alice. The girl had lost her mind entirely if she thought I’d let her get away with terrorizing my daughter or vandalizing my home. Put that in the plus column.
Also, if Anarchy Jones ever found out I’d destroyed evidence...I shuddered. His imagined scowl was fearsome. If he found out I’d had the paint removed, the scowl would be real. He might actually arrest me.
The upstanding, law-abiding, moral thing to do was call the police. I gazed at the mulched beds where my hostas should be. They hadn’t recovered from the last time the police investigated a crime at my home. I rubbed my eyes with my uninjured hand. Grace’s eyes had just recently lost the injured, haunted look they’d acquired when her father was murdered. No way was I welcoming another three-ring circus of police to our front yard. I wouldn’t put Grace through that. Not for a few letters on my front door. “Call the painter.”
I didn’t sleep. A mish-mash of memories kept me staring at the ceiling. The strength of Anarchy’s arms when he carried me out of The Jewel Box mished. The lingering softness of Hunter’s goodnight kiss on my cheek mashed. Plus there was the indelible picture of the word “SLUT” painted in red on my door. It mished. It mashed. It picked up a mallet and pounded on a kettledrum hidden behind my temples.
It had to be Alice who defaced my home.
What if I was wrong?
If not Alice, who?
Max’s pacing didn’t help. Every so often he’d whine softly, presumably begging for permission to go and chase away the men on the front stoop who disturbed his rest.
Since the men were washing my bricks, painting my door and making Tuesday bearable, I ignored his whining.
I thumped my pillow, tossed from side to side, told Max to go lie down, then thumped again.
I must have slept somehow. The alarm woke me. I glared at the clock for a moment as if the balefulness of my stare could somehow turn back time and allow me more than a few hours rest. It didn’t work.
Defeated, I lay there for a moment, gathering the strength of will to separate from the sheets. I swung my feet to the floor and forced myself out of bed.
Max lifted his chin off his paws and tilted his head as if to say, Now? You’re getting up now? I wanted to go out all night long. The men are gone. What’s the point in getting up now?
Max was onto something. Maybe I should stay in bed—maybe all day.
Instead, I pulled on a robe, jammed my feet into slippers and made my way downstairs. I opened the front door, admired its white expanse, and stepped outside. The birds were singing, the sun was shining and the newspaper lay neatly folded on the stoop.
I picked it up then turned and examined the bricks. If anything, they looked too clean. An envelope protruded from under the front mat—the painter’s bill. I opened it and gulped. Was he kidding?
Probably not. He’d spent the night at my house.
His midnight visit was costing me a fortune. In cash, and probably in favors too.
I shrugged, stuffed the bill in my pocket, the paper under my arm, and went inside. I had a steamy rendezvous planned with Mr. Coffee.
I’d just brought a hot, fresh cup of ambrosia to my lips when Grace appeared.
“Did you sleep?” she asked. “You don’t look like you slept.”
I sipped my coffee, ran my fingers through my hair—perhaps I should have brushed it before I came downstairs, seeing as we had a houseguest—then tightened the belt of my robe. “Not much. The door is white again and the paint is off the bricks.”
Grace poured herself a cup of coffee. “Who do you think did it?”
“No idea.” My nose itched. I ignored it. I’d be taking my suspicions and the astronomical bill to Kizzi and Howard as soon as Grace and Donna left for school. In the meantime, Grace didn’t need to know that Alice Standish had targeted our house because I’d challenged her father.
She stared at me a moment. “Maybe it has something to do with that picture in the paper.”
I choked on a sip of coffee. When had Grace become so resentful? We’d gotten along so well in Europe, but now that we were back, things seemed to be going downhill fast. When our houseguest went home, Grace and I were going to have a long talk. “I doubt it. Where’s Donna?”
“Blow-drying her hair. May I take your car today?”
I arched a brow. “What’s wrong with yours?”
“Nothing. It’s just that Donna has never ridden in a convertible and it looks like it’s going to be a gorgeous day.”
There was no reason Grace shouldn’t drive my car. I could take Henry’s. “Fine. The keys are in my purse next to the bed. What do you want for breakfast?”
“Cereal is fine.” She put her foot on the first riser of the back stairs. “We’ll grab some before we go.”
Perfect. Cereal was one of my specialties. I opened the pantry, took out boxes of Life, Cheerios and Shredded Wheat and put them on the counter. Two bowls and two spoons later, breakfast was complete.
I grimaced. We had a guest. I ought to make more of an effort. I sighed and added a banana and a knife.
I was contemplating my third cup of coffee when Grace bellowed, “Mom!”
The Call of the Mom. There are a million variations. The please-take-me-shopping Mom has a pleading quality. The you’re-embarrassing-me Mom requires a drawn out ah sound. The I-need-you Mom turns one vowel into two syllables. There’s outraged Mom. This call of the Mom was definitely outrage. Short. Terse. Loud.
Had Max eaten her favorite shoes? Chewed his way through a belt or a purse strap? Nested in her bed while she was getting coffee?
I hurried up the stairs.
She met me at the top with something crumpled in her hand. “What’s this?” She shook an envelope at me.
“What’s what?”
She shook the envelope again and I recognized her neatly typed name.
Lord love a duck. She’d found Hunter’s report when she searched for keys in my handbag.
“How could you?” she wailed.
“Grace, calm down. We have a guest.”
“Donna should know about this. The whole world should know. My mother hired a spy to follow me around.”
“Grace, if you’ll just calm down and let me explain.”
“How could you, Mother? I thought you trusted me.”
There it was again. Mother. “I do trust you. I do not trust Jack.”
She shook the report at me. “What now? Are you going to turn Jack into the police for smoking pot?”
“Of course not. I don’t care if Jack fries every brain cell he has. Although I wish you had the sense to stay away from him while he does it.”
“It was just pot. It’s not like he was dropping LSD.”
What did Grace know about LSD? Cold seized my spine as if I’d been shoved into an icy swimming pool. “They’re drugs. They’re illegal. And I thought you had better sense than to hang out with boys who do them.”
My daughter rolled her eyes. “Get with it, Mother. Everyone does drugs. Besides, I’m an adult. I should be able to make my own decisions.”
If you live in my house, you live by my rules. The thought bubbled up from some cave hidden deep inside my soul. I pressed my lips together, fisted my hands, counted backward from twenty. Anything to keep the words locked tightly inside my mouth.
Four, three, two, one…I risked parting my lips. “We can discuss this later.”
“That’s right, Mom. Just pretend things you don’t like haven’t happened and they’ll go away.” Her lips curled into a sneer. “How did that work out for you with Dad?”
I was thrown off a horse once. I landed with a thud on rain-parched ground. I lay there, staring at the stars revolving around my head and struggling to fill my empty lungs with air. I couldn’t. All I could manage was one tiny wheeze, enough to keep the stars spinning, not enough to allow me to sit or speak or even move. Grace’s words hit me with the same force.
I used the wall to keep me upright.
She turned on her heel, marched down the hall to her bedroom, and slammed her door with enough force to make the house shudder.
I didn’t move. I couldn’t.
A moment passed, then another and another. Finally, I pushed away from the wall. My legs shook. I forced them to carry me to my room. I needed a shower, two aspirin and a primal scream. Not necessarily in that order.
The house had an empty feeling when I got out of the shower. Grace and Donna were gone and I had thousands of very private square feet to scream or cry or stomp my feet, but I didn’t have the energy.
My limbs felt heavy, as if I’d lost something effervescent and replaced it with lead. Exhausted, I sat on the edge of the bed and stared at my bare feet.
I couldn’t do this. Couldn’t sit and wallow in self-pity just because my daughter didn’t respect me. I pushed myself to standing, stumbled toward my closet and picked out an outfit. I put it on, made a half-hearted attempt at hair and makeup, then went downstairs for another cup of coffee.
The cereal boxes, bowls and banana were untouched. I poured myself another cup of morning magic and put them away.
Max sat and stared at me, his doggy face sympathetic. We might have stared at each other all morning, but the phone rang.
I answered it with a dull Hello.
“How does it look?” Hunter asked.
I blinked, then traced a mental path back to what he meant. SLUT. The door, the bricks, the painter. “It looks like new. Thank you.”
“Are you all right?” he demanded. “You don’t sound like yourself.”
“I didn’t sleep well last night.”
“No. It’s more than that.”
God save me from perceptive lawyers. “No, it’s not.” He wasn’t there to see me scratch my nose.
Maybe he guessed I was lying. He answered me with silence. That wouldn’t work. A full fifteen seconds ticked by before Hunter said, “I called because Lyle said he left his bill at your house.”
“I found it under the mat.”
“I’ll pay it.”
“Why would you do that?” I asked.
More silence. Only Hunter could make silence charming and electric. His silence was an eloquent offer to take care of me.
This time I squirmed before I ceded defeat. “I’ll pay the bill.” I tucked a strand of hair behind my ear. “Or, better yet, I’ll get Howard Standish to pay it.”
“Do you want me to send him a letter? Legal stationery might make him more likely to pay.”
“I can handle this on my own.” God, that sounded bitchy. But my wrist ached and grit from an unsettled night scraped my eyes. Besides, Howard paying for the painter came second to finding the name of the girl Bobby loved. A letter wouldn’t get me that name nor would it give Howard control over his wayward daughter. The man needed a spine for that, and last time I checked that particular body part was made of bone, not paper.
“I’m here if you need me.” More charm. Damn him.
“Thank you. I have to run.” I scratched the tip of my nose. “Goodbye.”
I hung up the phone and looked at the clock. It was early enough that I might yet catch Howard at home. I searched through a stack of directories until I found the Junior League’s, located Kizzi’s number and dialed.
“Hello.” Kizzi sounded slurry already.
“Kizzi, it’s Ellison Russell calling. I need to speak to you and Howard about Alice.”
“Whash she done now?”
“I’d really like to speak to you both in person. Is Howard there?”
“No. You mished him but you can come tonight.”
It wasn’t like Howard would be able to extract a name while Alice was at school. “Fine,” I said. “Seven o’clock?”
“We’ll see you then. We’ll have a drink.”
As if she needed another one. “Seven o’clock,” I repeated. I’d present Howard with the bill, get the name, track down the girl, give her Bobby’s message and move on.
Amazing how wrong I can be.
Twelve
Playing bridge held less appeal than dissecting my life choices with Mother, but I’d promised and it was too late to find a substitute. Besides, when you are a sub, you shouldn’t find another—not according to Hoyle or Mother.
I showed up on time, decked out in a linen camp shirt and a pair of wide-leg trousers I’d bought in Italy. And pearls. For bridge at the country club, pearls are de rigueur. Sally Montgomery had found a sub too. Amy McCreary, wife of John, mother of Jack, sat in Sally’s usual chair.
I smiled at her. A real smile. If I directed the table talk, maybe I could learn something useful—why Jack acted so strangely on Sunday, what drove his sudden interest in Grace and, most importantly, if he’d shared with his mother the name of the girl his best friend loved.
“Ellison, how are you? How’s your wrist?” Amy asked. “John said he saw you at brunch and that you looked a little peaked.”
Who wouldn’t look peaked having lunch with Mother? “Thanks for asking.” I held up my bandaged wrist. “It’s on the mend.”
“You do lead an exciting life.” Peazey Moore occupied her favorite seat. Its view of the hallway meant she could see everyone passing. She manufactured a smile—at least she tried. The corners of her mouth twitched.
The woman was fishing for gossip. She had as much chance of getting gossip from me as she did catching a catfish in a swimming pool. “Europe was exciting,” I said blandly.
“I meant this past weekend.” The corners of her lips forced themselves further toward her nose. Not exactly a smile but as close as she ever got. The expression was catty? Bitchy? Pure Peazey? All of the above?
Amy patted my good hand. “It must have been horrible. Jack is still beside himself. He went to the game with Bobby, you know.” She sipped iced tea garnished with fresh mint. “They sat together until Bobby got the note.”
“What note?” I asked.
“Someone passed him a note right before half-time. Jack said Bobby disappeared after he got it.”
I’d found Bobby shortly after the second half began. Had there been a crumpled note in Bobby’s pocket? Perhaps trapped beneath his body? Did Anarchy know to look for it?
“Jack ought to tell the police.”
Amy shook her head. “His father thinks not. He doesn’t want Jack to get involved.” Amy held out her left hand and inspected the shine on her wedding ring. “I think John is being silly. The only thing Jack did was sit with Bobby in the stands.” She looked me in the eye and shrugged. “What can I do?”
She could tell me, knowing that if Jack wasn’t going to the police about the note, I would. Telling Anarchy might help catch Bobby’s killer. It would definitely assuage my guilt about destroying potential evidence by repainting the front door.
Tibby Davis rushed into the ladies’ lounge. “Sorry I’m late, girls. The school called and Beth forgot some assignment that she simply had to have so I ran it up there. While I was there, Annie Pendleton asked me to work on the carnival committee and insisted on showing me the file. Then I ran my stockings and had to go home. On the way over here, I realized there was no gas in the car so I stopped. Do you realize gas is up to nearly fifty-five cents a gallon? I swear the price goes up every time I drive by the station.”
She paused for breath. “But I’m here now.” A triumphant smile lit her face. Having conquered errands, she collapsed into a chair and waved a waiter over. “I believe I’ll have a glass of Blue Nun.”
Peazey glanced at her watch. “A little early in the day, isn’t it?” She turned toward me. “Was it awful? Finding him, I mean.”
Of course it was awful, I’d found a dying boy. “It was. Were any of you there?”
Amy shook her head. “I only go to games where Jack is actually playing. Believe me, I’ll go to plenty of games come basketball season.”
Peazey pursed her lips and looked down her long nose. “You just have a girl, Ellison. You have no idea how boys’ sports can take over your life.”
Tibby, the mother of three daughters, scowled. “Really? Try ballet lessons and art lessons and tap lessons and piano lessons. Missy—took up the violin.” She shuddered. “Besides, they do have sports. My girls all swim and play golf and tennis.”
Amy looked from Tibby to Peazey then offered up a conciliatory smile. “Shall we draw for dealer?” She fanned the cards across the table.
Peazey drew the ace of spades.
Amy handed her a made deck then cut. “Thin to win.”
Tibby shuffled the second deck.
I thought about Bobby. If Jack was telling the truth about the note, the murderer had lured Bobby under the stands. Had Anarchy found the note? I hadn’t noticed one. I’d been too focused on the boy and the blood and his last words to notice much else.
Peazey cleared her throat. Everyone else had picked up their cards. They’d caught me wool-gathering.
“Sorry,” I muttered. I gathered, sorted and counted in record time. Then—to make up for my lapse—I introduced a new topic. “Do any of you remember India Easton—India Hess now? Her daughter is staying with me.”
“How did that happen?” asked Tibby.
I explained.
“India was in my sister’s class,” said Amy.
“No, she wasn’t. She was in mine.” Peazey moved a card from the left side of her hand to the right. “One club.”
Guaranteed to Bleed Page 11
