Guaranteed to Bleed

by Mulhern, Julie

  “Should we save a seat for Grace?” he asked. The church was already half-full and forty-five minutes remained until the service started.

  “I bet she’d rather sit with her friends.” A very safe bet given her recent anger with me.

  I sat.

  “How are you, sugar?” Daddy asked.

  I was tempted to tell him about my problems with Grace, about Alice Standish’s campaign against my property, about Donna and Bobby. I was tempted, but church pews aren’t the best place to share private problems—too many ears, too much interest. Instead, I said, “Fine. And you?”

  We whispered banalities. Every few minutes I snuck a peek behind me to locate Grace.

  Daddy chuckled. “Don’t let your mother catch you doing that.”

  Mother disapproved of peering in church. It was fine to eyeball those who sat in front, but those seated behind were to remain a sacred mystery until the service ended.

  Of course, Mother caught me with my head swiveled. “What are you doing?” she demanded. “Move over.” She scooched me down the pew.

  “Looking for Grace.”

  She sniffed her disapproval. Tardiness at funerals was even worse than swiveling to stare at rear pews. “I haven’t seen her.”

  A moment later, CeCe and her sisters filed into the first pew and Bobby’s father, looking like a haggard ghost of his former self, claimed his seat in the second.

  As a rule, funerals are either dreadful or lovely. Bobby’s was lovely. The priest had actually known Bobby and filled his eulogy with funny stories from Bobby’s childhood. There were no maudlin remembrances from friends designed to elicit tears. At the end, Reverend Trentham invited the congregation to pay their respects in the Walford Room (my grandparents provided a generous gift during the last capital campaign).

  The ushers dismissed the pews one at a time. Because we were near the front, Mother, Daddy and I were among the first to stand. I walked up the aisle and scanned the packed church.

  Three generations of Standishs sat together. Alice Anne was rigid with disapproval. Next to her, Alice’s eyes were nearly swollen shut with tears. Howard’s brows were drawn, his lips flat—he looked angry enough to commit murder. All three of them glared at me.

  I hoped Alice Anne had given her son, daughter-in-law and granddaughter absolute hell. Maybe that explained Kizzi’s absence. Then again, maybe she’d gotten too cozy with a gin bottle. The woman needed help. They all did.

  My gaze skipped away from the Standish clan and their poorly controlled emotions. Where in the world was Grace?

  Mother, Daddy and I paid our respects to CeCe and Robert. She looked more brittle and delicate than a bit of decades-old newspaper. Robert looked stoned. Mother muttered something under her breath about Robert’s state then disappeared to manage cookie consumption. Daddy spotted a few of his cronies. I was left to my own devices.

  I looked for Grace and Donna but couldn’t spot them in the crowded room. If Donna felt for Bobby what he’d felt for her, she was probably nearly as upset as CeCe. I listened for the sound of teenage sobs.

  Nothing.

  Meanwhile, half the congregation seemed to think that Bobby’s funeral was the appropriate place to ask me about his death.

  It wasn’t.

  The other half asked about my unfortunate trip to The Jewel Box.

  It was none of their damned business.

  I settled into a conversation with Amy McCreary. She already had the answers the rest of the congregation wanted.

  “I thought it was a lovely service.” She patted under her eyes with a lace-edge handkerchief.

  “It was.”

  “I worry about Jack driving. I worry about him doing something stupid like swimming alone.” She cut a quick glance my way, flushed, then hurried on. “Or tipping a canoe on the float trip he takes with his dad every spring. There are so many accidents that take children.” She shook her carefully coiffed head. “I never worried about murder.”

  Since my husband’s murder, I’d given murder a lot of thought. Yes, there were random victims—people who were in the wrong place at the wrong time—but I suspected most murder victims knew something or did something to get themselves killed. “I wonder why Bobby—”

  “I’ve wondered the same thing. Endlessly. The only thing I can come up with is the—”

  John McCreary dropped his hand on his wife’s shoulder hard enough to make her buckle slightly. He bared his teeth and said, “Ellison.”

  “John.”

  “Amy, there’s someone I want you to meet.” His hand closed on his wife’s elbow, then he pulled her away from our fascinating conversation. “Ellison, if you’ll excuse us.”

  What was it John McCreary didn’t want me to know?

  I wandered over to the buffet table where Mother monitored the number of cookies teenagers put on their plates as if their rapacious appetites might singlehandedly cause a worldwide oatmeal-raisin shortage. “Have you seen Grace?” I asked.

  “No.” She narrowed her eyes and glared at Tuck Whitaker, who’d dared reach for a third piece of iced shortbread. His hand shook but he claimed his prize. He scurried away as if he was a hungry ground squirrel and Mother was an eagle swooping out of the skies. “You’ll never find her in this crowd.”

  She was probably right.

  I drove home in Henry’s staid Cadillac and missed my Triumph with every mile.

  Max and a ringing phone met me at the back door. He wove between my legs, making my trip to the phone a veritable obstacle course.

  “Hello.”

  “Mrs. Russell?”

  “Yes.”

  An institutional sort of voice said, “This is Angela Mayer from Suncrest. I’m just calling to verify that Grace stayed home sick today. You’re supposed to call if your child won’t be at school.”

  “I’m afraid there’s been some mistake. Grace went to school today.” She had. I knew it. I’d sent notes with her and Donna excusing them for the funeral.

  “No, ma’am. She did not.”

  My heart skipped so high it bumped into my throat. “I see. Well, thank you for your call.”

  I hung up the phone with a shaking hand. Where the hell was my daughter?

  Fifteen

  “Grace!” I marched up the stairs, down the hall to Grace’s room and flung open the door. If Grace thought, even for a second, that I’d put up with her cutting school, she had another thing coming.

  A Chris Evert poster hung on the wall next to Elton John. Chris clutched a tennis racket and looked determined. Elton wore a white suit, a panama hat and rose-colored glasses. They both stared at me. Their eyes said it all—I was doing a terrible job dealing with this new defiant Grace. I glared at them. Just let them try handling a teenager.

  Tab cans—presumably empty—crowded everything but the lamp and a clock radio off the bedside table. One of Grace’s tennis rackets lay on the unmade bed. Another racket, this one in a case, hung from the closet doorknob. Clothes littered every surface—the bench at the foot of the bed, the chairs, the dresser and even the floor. A stack of dog-eared magazines cascaded under the dust ruffle. No wonder Aggie had declared Grace’s room a disaster area and asked for hazard pay.

  When I found my daughter, we had lots to talk about.

  I turned and faced the hallway. “Grace!” This time I yelled louder.

  Who knew silence echoed?

  Where was she? If she and Donna wanted to skip school to get ready for Bobby’s funeral they need only have asked. Except—I hadn’t seen either one of them at the funeral.

  I crossed the threshold into Grace’s room, bent and looked under the bed. Joining the magazines were a plate, shoes, boots, a bra, several books—the latest Victoria Holt, The Other Side of Midnight by Sidney Sheldon and Fear of Flying by Erica Jong—and an empty space the size of a suitcase. I coul
dn’t catch my breath.

  She’d probably stuck her suitcase in the closet.

  I hauled myself off the floor and looked.

  More clothes. More shoes. No suitcase.

  Where could it be? And where was Ducky, the stuffed bear that lived on her bed? My heart thudded. Huge knocks against the side of my chest that sent blood rushing to my ears. I was being silly. Given the mess in her closet, she’d probably stowed her suitcase in the guest room.

  I stumbled into the hallway, knocked on the door to the guest room and didn’t wait for an answer.

  The guest room was empty.

  No suitcase flowered with bright daisies sat in the middle of the floor waiting to reassure me.

  With the exception of Max, who looked at me with a quizzical expression—has she finally gone round the bend?—I was alone.

  Sandtraps on July afternoons had more moisture than my mouth. I crossed the room and opened the door to a cavernous closet. Where were Donna’s clothes? Her suitcase? Gone.

  My legs, usually such reliable holders of my body, quit working. I collapsed onto the edge of the bed.

  Grace and Donna had run away.

  Because Grace was mad at me? Because Donna was upset over Bobby’s death? I shook my head. The reason didn’t matter. The important thing was getting them safely home—so I could kill them.

  How dare they pull this kind of a stunt? My jaw tightened. My hands fisted. If Grace thought she was getting away with running away to punish me for telling the police about a note or for getting Jack McCreary in trouble, she had a lot to learn. Grounded. No allowance. No phone. School and home. Period.

  I pressed my fist into my thigh.

  No tennis lessons. No television. No car. No radio.

  By the time I was done, Alcatraz would look like a spa.

  I pushed up from the bed and paced.

  No magazines. No stereo. No leaving the house. No…

  What if something happened to her? Grace lived in a shiny bubble of privilege. The closest she ever came to privation was when we ran out of cream for her coffee. No way could she make it out in the real world. She was still a child. Alone—or as good as. My baby had run away.

  I crumpled to the floor and stared up at the ceiling as if God might appear. He didn’t. It was, after all, my guest bedroom, not the Sistine Chapel. Still, I whispered, “Keep her safe. I’ll do anything, just keep her safe.”

  Max nudged me and whined—You’re freaking me out! Get off the floor and track her down.

  I had to find her.

  The doorbell rang and I flew down the stairs. It was all a misunderstanding. Grace and Donna were home.

  I fumbled with the lock and opened the door, ready to encompass both girls in an enormous hug.

  Jane Addison stood on my front stoop. “I just heard!”

  “Heard what?” How could Jane have learned Grace was gone before I did?

  “That Libba and you are at odds. I’m here to tell you to make up. Nothing is worth losing a best friend.”

  I blinked. Once. Twice. Three times. Jane and her best friend had nearly come to blows over the listing for Thelma Harrison’s home. To my knowledge, they hadn’t spoken since. Right now, I didn’t care if they ever did.

  “Libba and I are fine. Really.” My relationship with Libba was nothing compared to my need to find my daughter. “Thank you so much for your concern.” I inched the door toward its frame.

  “You’re sure?”

  I nodded with feigned enthusiasm. “Positive.” Another inch closer to closed.

  “I’m so glad to hear that. What a relief. As long as I’m here, why don’t I take a look around? You should know I’ve got the perfect buyer for this place.” Her foot crossed the threshold.

  Oh dear Lord. I didn’t have time for this. I stood firm, not moving, definitely not letting her into the house. “It’s not for sale.”

  “All this space for just the two of you? Are you sure?”

  “Positive.” I nodded so hard I was in danger of giving myself whiplash. “I love my studio and we’re not moving.”

  “Grace will be going to college in a few years.”

  Not if she got herself murdered and left in a gutter. My stomach twisted. “Jane, it’s dear of you to stop by, but I need to change.” My nose itched as if dive-bombed by a swarm of mosquitoes. “I…um, I’m going out this evening.”

  Jane liked acquiring information almost as much as she liked acquiring listings. Her eyes gleamed. “Really, with whom?”

  I pretended not to hear. “Truly, it’s dear of you, but—” I waved a hand over my dark suit. “I need to start from scratch.” Would the woman never leave?

  “I understand.” Her blue eyes twinkled.

  She might understand, but she wasn’t leaving. According to Mother, it’s easier to get rid of wood rot than a pushy real estate agent. Much as it pained me to admit, Mother was right.

  Jane winked. “I saw you having brunch with Quin Marstin the other day.”

  I lifted my still-bandaged hand and covered my mouth. Oh dear Lord. She couldn’t seriously think—I suppressed a shudder. It didn’t matter what Jane thought. I had far bigger problems than Jane Addison’s propensity for gossip. I swallowed the bile at the back of my throat and said, “Thanks for understanding. Toodles.”

  I closed the door and leaned against it.

  For the millisecond it took me to blink, I missed Henry. Not the cheating, lying barnacle on the ass of humanity who’d been my husband; I missed the man who’d been a doting father. If that man was here, he’d be wild with worry, then decide on a plan.

  I needed a plan. My own plan. I needed to think. Trouble was, I couldn’t. The jumble of random thoughts, feelings and adrenaline swirling through my brain were the opposite of rational. No way could I formulate a plan while in a panic.

  I held a deep breath in my lungs until they ached then exhaled slowly.

  Think! Where would Grace go? I had no idea. When she was six and I made her eat Brussels sprouts she packed a bag and moved to the tree house in the backyard. That didn’t seem likely.

  Where would Donna go?

  Donna.

  Unless I found the girls quickly, I was going to have to tell India Hess that Donna had run away. I gulped. Not just India, I’d have to tell Donna’s bully of a stepfather too.

  The phone rang and my heart ricocheted around my chest like a golf ball driven into a stand of oaks. Could it be Grace?

  A spike of hope sent me running to the phone, desperate to hear my daughter’s voice. “Hello.” The edge of hysteria in my voice lent the single word importance.

  “Mrs. Russell, it’s Jack McCreary calling.”

  Hope is cruel. It allows your lungs to inflate and your heart to race with anticipation before it pulls out a meat cleaver and beats you as if you’re a bit of veal Aggie’s transforming into picatta. “What?” I didn’t even try for politeness.

  “Um…Grace…um…”

  “Grace isn’t here.”

  “I know.”

  He knew? How did he know? What did he know? Hope re-inflated my lungs and started my heart beating again. I squeezed the coil of the phone cord—unstretched since Grace hardly ever used the phone in what had been Henry’s office—and asked, “Do you know where she is?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “What exactly do you know?”

  “She asked me to tell you she’s safe.”

  “When did you talk to her?”

  Jack paused. Was he considering his answer? A lie? The truth?

  “Please, Jack, I need to know.”

  “Last night.”

  “And?”

  Another pause.

  If I could have crawled through the phone lines to shake the boy silly, I would have. “And…” I prompted.

  �
��She’s safe.”

  “Safe where?”

  “I can’t tell you.”

  I thought flies. I thought vinegar. I thought honey.

  I kept my voice pleasant. “Please? I’m worried sick. Where is she?”

  “I’m sorry but I can’t…”

  Jack McCreary, the dope-smoking boy who might or might not have killed Bobby Lowell, was refusing to tell me where my daughter was. I bit my lip hard enough to draw blood. I tasted the salt on my tongue. A voice that wasn’t mine said, “I want to speak with your mother. Now.” How had Frances Walford’s voice of doom ended up in my body?

  The voice must have scared the pants off Jack. He hung up.

  Well, if he thought I was frightening over the phone, he’d be truly terrified when he saw me in person.

  The McCrearys lived ten minutes away. I made it there in five. Henry’s stodgy Cadillac never moved so fast.

  I pulled into the driveway, parked behind a Jeep that was surely Jack’s and clambered out of the car.

  I jabbed at the doorbell with such force I bent my finger backward. When no one answered immediately, I lifted the brass knocker and banged the ring in the lion’s mouth against its base.

  A little girl answered the door. Her curly hair was tied into pigtails with rainbow-striped ribbons. Her face scrunched with what was probably annoyance—I had been trying to dent the door. With her huge brown eyes and frizzy red hair, she looked like a troll doll guarding its toy bridge.

  “Is your mother home?” I asked.

  Those enormous eyes stared up at me and she crossed her arms over her six-year-old chest. “No.”

  “How about your father?”

  She shook her head. “Nope.”

  “Your brother?”

  She turned and bellowed with a voice worthy of a real troll, “Jack, there’s a lady here to see you.”

  When he failed to materialize, she shook her head, rolled her big brown eyes and said, “Boys.”

  Clearly she understood them better than I ever had.

  “I really need to talk to Jack.”

  She stepped away from the door and I stepped into the McCrearys’ foyer.