Guaranteed to Bleed

by Mulhern, Julie

  Kizzi dropped out of her chair and began daubing at her white carpet with a cocktail napkin. She needn’t have bothered—straight gin doesn’t stain.

  Alice stared at her shaking father, her daubing mother, then at me. “You’re a bitch.”

  Her parents gasped.

  Alice and I stared at each other. She’d thrown a gauntlet and now she waited to see what I would do. I borrowed one of Mother’s insincere smiles and said, “He didn’t love you.”

  She winced. My barb had hit close to home. Then she shrugged as if she didn’t care that Bobby Lowell had loved another girl. “I guess we’ll never know.”

  Damn. While she’d removed all doubt as to who’d woven and painted the word “slut,” I’d removed any possibility she’d ever tell me who Bobby loved.

  I opened my front door and called, “I’m home.”

  No one answered except for Max. He trotted down the stairs, rubbed his face against my leg and wagged his stub of a tail.

  I scratched behind his ears. “Nice to see you too, fella.”

  He followed me up the stairs, sat beside me when I tapped on Grace’s door and tilted his head when I cracked the door and yelled over ear-splitting decibels of a very apropos Elton John song, “I’m home.”

  The girls sat cross-legged on Grace’s bed. My daughter ignored me—didn’t even turn her head to acknowledge me. Donna offered me a tremulous smile.

  At least our guest was behaving like a human and not a teenager. I closed the door and continued down the hallway with Max at my heels.

  When I reached the sanctuary of my bedroom, I took off and hung up my clothes and donned a soft blue caftan. Maybe Aggie was rubbing off on me. Then again, maybe not. Aggie’s caftans are usually brightly colored and embellished with embroidery or beads or spangles. Mine was just…soft.

  I curled up in the armchair near the window to think. Alice had woven ribbon into the fence and painted my door. I was sure of it. But had she killed Bobby? I shook my head. Finding Bobby’s killer was Anarchy’s job. Mine was to find the girl Bobby loved and share his last words with her. Alice knew who I was looking for. Fat lot of good that did me. I had a better chance of getting Elton John to serenade Grace and Donna in person than I did of getting a name out of Alice Standish.

  I abandoned the chair and wandered through the room. I pulled the loose hairs out of my brush and threw them away. I positioned the crystal jars on my dresser just so.

  I picked up my copy of Watership Down, stared at the rabbit on the cover, then put the book back on the nightstand. The wandering rabbits would have to solve their problems without me. I couldn’t solve my own.

  Finally I jammed my feet into a pair of slippers and climbed the stairs to the attic. If my bedroom couldn’t calm my thoughts, maybe my studio could.

  Donna’s sketchbooks sat on the worktable where they’d languished since she’d dropped them off. The girl hadn’t mentioned painting or lessons since she’d arrived. Remarkable patience for a teenager. I picked them up, settled onto the chaise in the corner and opened the first one.

  Donna’s drawings weren’t exactly hearts and unicorns, but they came close—flowers and small, furry animals frolicked across her pages. They were good, but they were bunnies. I closed the book and looked at the date on the front. It was almost four years old. I put it down and searched for the sketchbook with the most recent date.

  I found one that was eighteen months old and opened it. No frolicking in this book. The drawings—again, very good—were somber, filled with sadness.

  I counted back in what I knew of Donna’s history. Her father had died—that explained the numerous portraits of the man with her nose and the kind eyes. It explained the sketch of India crying. It explained the drawings of graveyards. It explained the self-portrait of a girl ravaged by grief. Looking at the sketches was like looking into her soul.

  Did Grace feel such grief over her father’s death? She’d been in shock at first. We’d whisked her away to my parents’ place in the country. Then I’d whisked her away to Europe. We’d traveled to sunny, happy places—Italy and Greece and Turkey. I’d avoided the gray skies of London and our trip to rainy Paris had been brief, just long enough to shop and see the Louvre.

  Since I hadn’t felt a whit of grief when Henry died, I hadn’t considered Grace’s feelings. Did she feel the same soul-deep grief that Donna did? What kind of a mother was I?

  Duh. Henry had been an unmitigated ass but he’d also been her father. I hadn’t given her time to grieve. No wonder she was angry and resentful and…awful.

  I rested my forehead in my hands. First thing in the morning, I’d find her a psychologist or a grief counselor or someone who could help her. Help us. I’d talk to her about Henry. If she asked, I’d even tell her part of the truth.

  I flipped through Donna’s drawings until the lines blurred from fatigue. Then I padded downstairs and went to bed.

  Max’s whine awakened me.

  I pried my eyelids open and asked, “What time is it?”

  He scratched on the door.

  “Seriously?”

  Max whined again.

  Seriously.

  I dragged myself out of bed, grabbed my robe and followed Max down the stairs.

  The hallway that led to the back of the house should have been dark. It wasn’t. Light spilled out of the kitchen. I tiptoed forward and peeked through the door.

  Donna stood at the counter with a jar of Sanka and a coffee filter in her hand. The girl was about to violate poor Mr. Coffee.

  I cleared my throat.

  She startled as if I’d caught her with her hand in the drawer where I kept the sterling.

  I stepped into the brightly lit kitchen. “That’s instant coffee.”

  “I hope you don’t mind,” she said. “I wanted a cup of decaf.” She tugged at the opening where Mr. Coffee accepts offerings of coffee grounds.

  “Donna, put down the filter and step away from the coffee machine.” Mr. Coffee had endured enough abuse in his short life—too many filters, too many coffee grounds, no filter—he didn’t need Sanka running through his innards.

  She blinked, then did as I asked.

  “For instant coffee, you use hot water, not a coffeemaker.”

  “Really?”

  “Really.” I picked up the kettle from the stove, went to the sink and filled it with water. “What are you doing up?”

  “I couldn’t sleep.”

  I replaced the kettle, lit a burner, and asked, “Why not?”

  “Tomorrow—” She glanced at the clock on the oven. “Today is Bobby Lowell’s funeral.”

  Guilt tightened my neck and shoulders. Bobby was being buried and I still hadn’t found the girl. “Did you know him well?”

  She ducked her head. “A bit. Our houses are nearby and, of course, in school.”

  “You might not have met him at his best. And now—”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean Bobby had a rough time after his parents split, but deep down he was a good kid.”

  A single fat tear ran unchecked down Donna’s cheek. “It’s so sad when good people die.”

  The sketches of her father and the kindness in his eyes came to mind.

  “It is.” I patted her back.

  When she didn’t flinch, I draped my arm around her shaking shoulders and squeezed.

  A tear plopped onto the kitchen counter.

  Donna parted her lips and drew a ragged breath. “I’m sorry. It’s just that since Daddy died…” She stepped out of my half-embrace then raised her chin. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be all teary.”

  “It doesn’t bother me a bit.” I scratched the end of my nose—just a little.

  Donna pulled a paper towel off the roll and wiped her face. She gulped for breath. “Do you remember what it’s like to
be sixteen?”

  “I’m not that old.”

  She shook her head, apparently annoyed with my flip reply. “Do you remember?”

  Why would I remember that? It was a time best forgotten. The emotions, the hormones, the way every little thing mattered so much. “I remember parts of it.”

  “Which parts?” she demanded.

  “Wanting to be grown up. I wanted lipstick and high heels and dates. But when Mother gave my stuffed animals to charity, I cried for a week.” Mother had not been sympathetic.

  “I don’t want to grow up. When you’re sixteen you know things. I liked not knowing a lot better.”

  “What things?”

  The kettle whistled. Of course it did—right when I was about to get real insight into how a teenage girl thought. I lifted the kettle off the heat and set it on a cold burner. I spooned Sanka into a cup for Donna, found myself a bag of chamomile tea, and poured hot water over both. Max lifted his head and grumbled so I tossed him a dog biscuit.

  I dropped the spoon into Donna’s mug then pushed it across the counter toward her. She wrapped her hands around its sides as if she was cold, caught her lower lip in her teeth, and chewed. “Have you had time to look at my sketchbooks?”

  Thank God I had. “You’re very talented. If you’re still interested, I’d be happy to work with you.”

  “That would be great,” said the girl who’d begged me for lessons. Her voice was flat. Then she picked up her mug, a white one with Wile E. Coyote on the side—Lord only knows how the hideous thing found its way into my cupboard. “I think I’ll go upstairs now. Thank you for the coffee.”

  Somehow, I’d expected more enthusiasm.

  If I live to be a thousand years old, I’ll never understand teenagers.

  Fourteen

  Mr. Coffee was full and hot and he looked happy, almost jaunty. It could only mean that Aggie was around somewhere. I’d overslept—completely forgotten to get up and fix breakfast for two teenage girls. I probably wasn’t going to be nominated for the world’s greatest hostess.

  Or mother.

  I poured myself a cup of heaven, topped it with a splash of cream, settled onto one of the stools that surrounded the kitchen island and planned my day. Find a psychologist for Grace, go to a funeral and cook something decent for Donna’s last night at our house. I boiled a mean noodle. Spaghetti? I reached for a pad of paper and wrote out a quick grocery list—pasta, pasta sauce, parmesan. Did we need a salad? I added romaine and croutons to the list. Max nudged my leg as if reminding me to add treats. Dutifully I wrote down dog bones.

  Aggie bustled in with a basket of laundry in her arms. “You slept in.”

  “I did. Donna got up in the middle of the night and woke me. I had trouble going back to sleep.” An understatement of epic proportions.

  “What’s that?” She jerked her chin toward my grocery list.

  “I thought I’d make dinner.”

  Aggie’s eyebrows rose.

  “I can make pasta,” I insisted.

  She muttered something about mushy noodles.

  “I can!”

  Her lips primmed. “Let me get this in the washer, then I’ll see what I can come up with.” She pushed through the swinging door that led to the butler’s pantry and the small room that housed the washer and dryer.

  I sipped my coffee and waited to be upstaged—or at least out-cooked. Aggie can whip up better meals than spaghetti with her eyes closed.

  The door swung again. “I could make veal piccata.”

  “I can make spaghetti.”

  We stared at each other. Both stubborn, both determined, both ignoring the cartoon bubble above Aggie’s head that said, “Can and should are not the same thing.”

  “Fine,” I ceded.

  She had the good grace not to gloat when I tore my list in half.

  Max grinned. Traitor. He’d rather eat leftover veal than leftover spaghetti.

  I took another sip of coffee. “I’ve been thinking maybe Grace and I should see a psychologist or a counselor.”

  “You think?”

  I don’t usually associate Aggie with dead-pan sarcasm—something to do with her purple muumuus and red hair seems straightforward, incapable of wryness. With Aggie, appearances are deceiving. She dresses as if she just escaped a commune for crazies but she’s the wisest person I know. Grace and I are blessed she took us on.

  “Do you know anyone?” Everyone I knew sent their kids to Stan Sheridan. In my humble opinion, he didn’t seem to be helping much.

  “Mary Stevens. I can call for you if you’d like.”

  I suspected Grace wasn’t going to be pleased. I nodded anyway.

  “I’ll take care of it. Are you painting today?”

  If only. “I’ve got Bobby Lowell’s funeral.”

  “Such a tragedy.”

  I nodded. “I just wish I had been able to find the girl he loved.”

  She stared at me. Goggled, really. “You’re kidding.”

  “What?”

  “You haven’t noticed the girl moping around here like the world has ended?”

  “Grace?”

  Aggie shook her red head so hard her curls sproinged. “Donna.”

  “Donna?” Aggie was way off-base. “I asked her if she knew Bobby and she said a bit.”

  “And teenagers never, ever lie.”

  Oh good gravy. Donna? It would explain why Alice had painted “SLUT” on my door while Donna was in residence. It would explain her nightmares the night Bobby died. I put my coffee down, planted my elbows on the counter, and let my head fall into my hands.

  Aggie patted my shoulder. “I wouldn’t have known for certain if I hadn’t found her sketchbook when I was picking up Grace’s room.”

  “Her sketchbook?” I had her sketchbooks.

  “I found it under Grace’s bed. There are lots of pictures of a boy named Bobby.”

  Head still in hands, I groaned.

  “You should take a look at it. There are some…interesting drawings.”

  I lifted my head. “Is it still under Grace’s bed?”

  Aggie flushed. “No. I…I put it away.”

  “Away where?”

  “The linen closet.” She smoothed a neatly folded tea towel.

  “Why?”

  “I really think you should look at the drawings.”

  Max rose from the floor, his too-long nails clicking against the hardwood. He started toward the foyer, pausing only to see if someone was following him.

  The doorbell rang. I swear that dog is psychic.

  “I’ll get it,” Aggie offered.

  A moment later her voice floated down the hallway. “Mrs. Russell, you’d better come.”

  Libba, a wrapped gift clutched in her hands, stood next to Aggie. Neither was looking toward me. They both stared outside, and something about their postures—a certain tightness in the shoulders, a tautness near their necks—suggested disaster.

  “What?” I demanded.

  As one, they stood aside and I saw my car in the driveway. Red letters augmented its British racing green paint. BITCH. I stumbled outside and touched one of the letters. The paint had dried.

  Holy Mary and the ass she rode in on.

  I drew a deep breath and counted to ten. It didn’t calm me. Fire had replaced blood in my veins and marching over to the Standish house and throttling Alice seemed a reasonable, desirable, plan of action. I counted again. “Aggie, would you please get Howard Standish on the phone? If you can’t get him, call his mother.”

  She scurried inside.

  Libba stood alone on the front stoop with her damn package. Her mouth opened then closed. Repeatedly. “Alice Standish did this?”

  “She did.”

  She descended the stairs and shoved the package into my arms.
“It’s for you. I…um…I’m sorry about Sunday night. I shouldn’t have left you.”

  The package weighed more than I expected and it sloshed. Liquor. Libba was trying to earn my forgiveness with a bottle. Then again, compared to the violation of my car, being abandoned at The Jewel Box was nothing. “Don’t worry about it.”

  “You know Charlie likes to dress up as a woman? So does Upson.”

  “I gathered that.”

  “I can’t date a man who might borrow my clothes.” She shook her head. “I have the worst taste in men. I swear I’m going to become a nun.”

  “You’re not Catholic.”

  “Is that a requirement?”

  I nodded.

  “Well, maybe I just won’t date. Worst. Taste. Ever.”

  I could have argued. And won. After all, I married a philandering blackmailer who enjoyed acts so kinky my mind shied away from thinking of them. But Libba had just apologized and there was no need for another argument.

  “What are you going to do about your car?”

  I tightened my grip on the bottle she’d given me. “Howard Standish is going to have it repainted for me.”

  My poor, poor car. I couldn’t zip around town with “BITCH” painted across the passenger side—people might believe it was true. I traced my fingertips along the defaced racing stripe. “I’ll drive Henry’s car until it’s painted.”

  Aggie appeared in the front door. “I have Mrs. Standish on the phone.”

  “Kizzi or Alice Anne?”

  She grimaced. “Alice Anne.”

  I straightened my shoulders, drew my robe tighter around me and prepared for battle.

  Bobby Lowell’s funeral promised to be packed so I arrived early. No sooner had I stepped foot in the church’s nave than Mother grabbed me. She reviewed my black Chanel suit, Ferragamo pumps and pearls and silently deemed me acceptable.

  “Go sit with your father. I’m making sure there are enough cookies for the reception.” Mother takes her altar guild duties seriously.

  Daddy stood when I reached his pew. He kissed my cheek then shifted to his right so I could sit on the aisle.