Guaranteed to Bleed

by Mulhern, Julie

  Were the police at my door?

  Had something happened to Grace?

  My stomach completed not one, not two, but three flips—all high, all worthy of Olga Korbut—then sank somewhere lower than my knees. Breathing was an impossibility.

  The pad slipped through my fingers. With the last bit of air in my lungs, I called, “Coming!” I shoved through the door and rushed down the hall through a cloud of oxygen-deprived stars.

  Mother stood at the front door. She glanced over her shoulder and I searched her expression. No horror. No grief. Nothing but disapproval. Deep disapproval.

  This one time Mother’s disapproval was a comfort. If something awful had happened Mother would look appalled or horrified. She didn’t.

  My stomach returned to its customary position in my midsection. Air whooshed into my lungs. The stars disappeared.

  Mother moved aside and I saw who stood on the other side of the door.

  India and Jonathan Hess waited on the front stoop. Chances were good they were waiting for their daughter.

  My heart didn’t quit beating. Instead, it raced. My feet slowed to a stop. Holy Mother of disappearing daughters, what was I going to tell them?

  “You’re here,” I croaked. Nothing like stating the obvious. “Won’t you please come in?”

  They stepped into the foyer and I searched my feeble brain for some sort of explanation. How had I overlooked explaining their daughter’s whereabouts in my planning?

  Because I’d hoped she’d be safely tucked in the guest room bed before her parents returned.

  “You’re home early.” My voice still sounded as if it belonged to an ailing frog. I cleared my throat. “I wasn’t expecting you until the end of the week.”

  India smiled brighter than a hundred watt bulb. “Jonathan was desperate to come home.”

  Jonathan looked pale and clammy and ill. “Where’s Donna?”

  The wattage on India’s smile flickered and she patted his arm as if he was a fractious child and not a man.

  He swatted her hand away. “Where is she?”

  “Um…” I glanced at Mother, half-hoping she’d interfere and say something—anything. She crossed her arms over her chest and watched me struggle for words.

  “Won’t you sit down?” I said. “You look…” Like hell didn’t seem terribly polite. “Tired from traveling.” I waved an arm in the general direction of the living room.

  Mother was at least willing to help me insofar as she led the way into the living room. Bless her. I pretended not to see her run a finger across a table to check for dust.

  India brushed past me and the scent of Shalimar assaulted my nose. Shalimar with a hint of nervous sweat. Nerves I understood. My frayed nerves were bumping hips with panic.

  But what about India? She didn’t know Donna was missing—yet. Did traveling make her nervous? Maybe it was Mother. That too I understood.

  Mother possessed an expression that said she knew every bad thing you’d ever done or thought of doing and she didn’t approve. She wore it now. Then again, maybe it was India’s bully of a husband who made her nervous. Who could blame her if that was true?

  I smiled at her. “Would you care for coffee? Maybe tea?”

  She glanced at the bully as if waiting for his approval.

  He shook his head.

  “No, thank you.” India’s voice was soft, regretful.

  “It’s no trouble,” I insisted.

  “I find a cup of tea restorative.” Was Mother helping India or hinting that I should fetch her a cup of darjeeling? She inclined her perfectly coiffed head toward India and smiled. Helping. If Mother wanted tea herself, the hint would be underscored by a stare that bored straight through me.

  Jonathan’s chin jutted forward and he leveled his gaze at me. “She said no. We’ll just collect Donna and be on our way.”

  No wonder India was nervous. I tugged at the collar of my suit and repeated, “Won’t you sit?”

  Rather than ease his frame onto the couch, Jonathan Hess stepped toward me. “What’s going on here? Where. Is. My. Daughter?” Not a subtle man, India’s husband. He also wasn’t Donna’s father. I decided not to point that out.

  A few seconds ticked by. India’s hands fluttered like butterflies. Jonathan drew closer to me. “Well?”

  “Donna and Grace are missing.” I spoke too loud, too fast, the verbal equivalent of a running cannonball jump into an icy pool.

  India staggered, raised a shaking hand to her throat, then sank onto the settee.

  Her husband paled to a heretofore unimagined shade of white.

  Mother tsked, over the news or my delivery, I wasn’t sure.

  “What do you mean missing?” India’s voice was as brittle as the little melba toast rounds they serve before dinner at the club. Exert any pressure and you’re left with nothing but crumbs.

  Perhaps I should have found a way to break the news more gently. “I mean—”

  “She means they ran away.” Jonathan narrowed his eyes and color climbed up his neck, painting his face in ruddy shades. “We trusted you with our daughter.”

  I searched for something to say and found only trite and meaningless words. I said them anyway. “I’m sorry.”

  “What’s being done to find them?” India asked.

  “They haven’t been gone long enough for the police to take a report, but we’ve reported Grace’s car as stolen.”

  “When did they leave?” Jonathan demanded.

  “They didn’t go to school today.” Just thinking about it made my stomach renew its efforts to flip like an Olympic gymnast.

  He glanced at his watch. “When did you discover they were gone?”

  “This afternoon.”

  “And all you’ve done is report a stolen car?”

  “I…um…” I glanced at my black pumps.

  “Flyers!” India clasped her hands together. “We’ll put up flyers. All around the neighborhood. All over the city. And maybe we can call the newspaper and the television stations.”

  Mother raised a brow. “There’s no reason to panic.”

  India and I gaped at her. There was every reason to panic.

  “They’re two bright girls.” Mother smoothed a strand of hair that had dared stray. “They’re in a vehicle. Presumably they have cash. Ellison did the right thing asking the police to look for the car.”

  My jaw dropped. Frances Walford had ceded a point. Somewhere in hell, the damned were having a snowball fight. Heck, they were probably building a fort. Maybe even sledding.

  Mother lowered herself into an armchair and leaned back as if it was a throne. Ensconced, she crossed her ankles and surveyed the three of us as if we were less than desirable subjects. “I hardly see the need to advertise their lapse in judgment with…flyers or newspaper or television.” She sniffed and allowed her shoulders a delicate shudder.

  With the exception of the society page, Mother believed the people written about in papers were crooks or politicians. Lately she’d been hard-pressed to tell the difference. As for television, newscasts covered nothing but the same crooks and politicians, that and the weather—and everyone knew the weatherman was a liar.

  A moment passed before India found her voice. “You haven’t talked to their friends?”

  “I talked to Jack McCreary. He knew they were running away but doesn’t know where they were headed.”

  India’s hand still hovered near her throat. “What about their girl—”

  “Who’s Jack McCreary?” Jonathan Hess’ face mottled carmine red and stark white.

  “Won’t you please sit down?” I’d already been through one heart attack, I didn’t need a second.

  He ignored my question. “Who is he?”

  The man might look flushed and sick, but his tone was as bossy as ever.


  “A friend.”

  His upper lip curled. “What kind of friend?”

  “A friend who’s a boy.”

  Somehow the bigger picture had passed Jonathan by.

  The girls were missing and all he cared about was whether or not one of them had been interested in Jack McCreary. I shifted my gaze to India and lied without so much as a scratch near my nose. “I was just getting ready to call Grace’s girlfriends when you arrived.”

  “Why didn’t you call them first?” Jonathan glowered at me with what appeared to be barely contained fury.

  What an ass. A heart attack would serve him right.

  Just not in my house. “Grace and Donna have been spending a lot of time with Jack this week. I started with him.”

  “You let my daughter spend unsupervised time with a boy?”

  An unmitigated ass.

  He turned to his wife, raised his brows, crossed his arms. “I cannot believe your poor judgment. You left our daughter with this…woman?”

  Her poor judgment reached its apex when she married him. India paled and her hands resumed their fluttering. Fool woman.

  The asinine man returned his gaze to me. “You’ll be hearing from my lawyer.”

  Mother snorted—a soft, exquisite snort, worthy of a queen. The snort said, Bring on your lawyer. Ours will eat him for breakfast.

  She was right. Hunter would dispatch the Hess’ lawyer faster than a plate of blueberry pancakes. Then he’d wipe his lips with a linen napkin, take a sip of his coffee and ask for seconds.

  Jonathan ignored the snort and all that it meant. He jabbed a finger at me. “You are responsible for this.”

  I should have seen his accusation coming. Then again, I should have worked things out with Grace so that when she had a problem she ran to me instead of away from me. I should have paid more attention to the pain in Donna’s eyes. I should have kept better tabs on both of them.

  I opened my mouth to respond then closed it. Jonathan Hess was right. The girls had disappeared on my watch.

  But Jack’s words still echoed in my brain—Grace only ran away to help Donna.

  Those words burned my throat. They singed my tongue.

  If I said them aloud Jonathan would ask what they meant. I’d be forced to guess. My guess? Donna preferred the streets to living with him. I might even express my agreement with her decision.

  Poor India looked miserable enough. Her shoulders hunched. Her hands fluttered. Her lips had disappeared. I couldn’t add to her misery. I had to figure out what Jack meant before I started tossing accusations like hand grenades.

  I went to the couch, sat, caught one of India’s fluttering hands in mine and said, “I’m doing everything I can to find them. Like Mother said, they’re bright girls. We’ll get them home safely.”

  She stared at her lap, nodded slowly, then raised her watery gaze to her husband. “Are lawyers really necessary?”

  Hunter chose that moment to enter the living room. “Problem?” His tone was polite but his eyes narrowed to chips of mica-flecked granite when he saw Hess looming over India and me on the couch.

  Of course Hunter entered without knocking. He’d kissed me without asking. A little thing like barging into a private conversation was hardly a speed bump on the fast track of his life.

  Mother didn’t see his entrance as barging. She bestowed a smile upon her favorite subject then glanced toward Jonathan Hess. Her expression hardened to imperious disdain. “Hunter, we were just telling the Hesses that the police are looking for the car. Ellison will call Grace’s friends…” She looked at me expectantly.

  “Kim, Debbie and Peggy,” I supplied.

  She acknowledged my contribution with a small wave of her fingers. “Yes. Kim, Debbie and Peggy and ask if they know where Donna and Grace might have gone.”

  “That sounds like an excellent plan, Frances. If I may, a question?”

  Mother inclined her head, giving him permission to continue. It wasn’t as if he needed it. Didn’t she remember the barging—or the kissing?

  “I don’t suppose either of you have any idea why Donna ran away?”

  “None.” India gave my hand a small squeeze.

  I squeezed back.

  Hunter is charming. Hunter is urbane. Hunter is a man who keeps his emotions well-hidden. But when he turned his gaze on Jonathan, I would have sworn Hunter was a man about to throw a punch.

  Maybe Jonathan sensed it too. He puffed up his ailing chest and asked, “Who exactly are you?”

  “Friend of the family.”

  “What makes you think it was Donna’s idea to run away?”

  Hunter raised an eyebrow. “Call it intuition. I look at things and draw—” He made the word draw last longer than the previous eight. “Conclusions.”

  Intuition, my fanny. Mother’s golden—well, silver-haired—favorite had looked at Donna’s drawings without me.

  A few seconds passed, the only sound the ticking of the grandfather clock. Hunter stepped further into the room, closer to Jonathan. “You didn’t answer my question.”

  Jonathan shrugged. “I have no idea why Donna left. I wasn’t even here.”

  “No idea?” Hunter’s eyebrows were drawn, his lips pulled back from his teeth. It was an expression I never thought to see on his face—taut, angry, almost feral.

  “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Jonathan fisted his hands and stepped toward Hunter.

  Hunter squared his shoulders and stepped further onto my Oriental rug.

  Perfect. They were going to brawl in my living room. I glanced at a side table where pieces of my great-grandmother’s collection of crystal hand coolers rested. If anything happened to them, if they were broken or chipped, I’d be eating at the kids’ table at holidays for the rest of Mother’s life.

  I had to do something. I gave India’s hand another quick squeeze. “Both you and Jonathan look exhausted. Maybe you should go home and rest. We’ll call if we hear anything.”

  Mother cleared her throat and shifted on her throne. “Ellison’s right. You do look tired. We can continue this in the morning.”

  Jonathan shifted his gaze from Hunter to Mother.

  “You ought to go home.” Like an actual queen, she expected her suggestion to be taken as writ. She stared at Jonathan and India as if waiting for them to bow and curtsy before taking their leave.

  They didn’t disappoint. While they didn’t bow or curtsy, India did stand and Jonathan loosed his fists.

  I stood too. “I’ll see you out.”

  “I’ll do it.” Hunter’s expression was grim.

  At least there weren’t any heirlooms in the foyer.

  India gave me one last desperate look then followed Mother’s silver-haired courtier out of the living room.

  When the unmistakable sound of the front door closing reached us, Mother lowered her head and squeezed the bridge of her nose. “That awful man is going to be a problem.”

  I hate it when she’s right.

  Nineteen

  The grandfather clock gonged nine o’clock.

  Mother folded her hands in her lap. “Are you going to call them?”

  I blinked. “Call who?”

  “Kim and Debbie and Peggy.” She counted the girls’ names off on her fingers.

  “Later.” I stood, ready to send Mother on her way. After all, I had a sketchbook to review.

  Mother settled in her chair and narrowed her eyes. The corners of her mouth drooped as if she despaired of me ever amounting to anything. “How could you let Grace spend time with their daughter? Welcome that girl into your home?”

  More criticism in the form of questions.

  Hunter stuck his silver head into the living room, caught sight of Mother’s expression and mine—deeply disapproving and plotting matricide, respectively—and withd
rew, muttering something about checking on Aggie in the kitchen.

  “Ellison,” Mother enunciated carefully, “those people are simply not our kind.”

  Oh merciful Lord. I set my tone to spun sugar on the sweetness dial. “What kind is that?”

  Mother pursed her lips and wrinkled her nose as if she’d bit into a particularly sour lemon. “There’s no need for sarcasm.”

  So said she. “Mother, I have better things to do than argue with you.” I had to look through Donna’s sketchbook. I had to drive aimlessly down dark, graffiti-marked streets, peering past dented trashcans and wind-borne bits of flotsam for the sight of two desperate girls, huddled and freezing despite Indian summer weather. I had to call Debbie and Kim and Peggy. And when I hung up the phone, I had to pray.

  Ding-dong.

  We both glanced at our watches. It was far too late for unannounced arrivals. I left Mother in her chair with her back ruler straight, her ankles properly crossed and her expression more dire than a hanging judge’s.

  Ding-dong.

  I hurried through the foyer and pulled on the door’s brass handle. The light from the sconces that flanked my once-again-pristine door revealed Alice. What in the name of painted porticos had brought her back to my house at this hour?

  She glanced up through the fringe of her bangs then thrust an envelope at me. “It’s a check for the damages.”

  I raised a brow.

  She mumbled…something.

  “I didn’t hear you. What did you say?”

  “I said I’m sorry,” she snapped.

  She didn’t look sorry. She looked more annoyed than Mother when I left her in the living room.

  “Who made you apologize?”

  “My grandmother.”

  Alice Anne. Alice’s grandmother and my mother were of the old-school, iron-willed women whom others dared not cross. I reached for the envelope in Alice’s outstretched hand. “Since you don’t mean it, should I accept it?”

  For a half-second something like amusement flashed across Alice’s face. “The check or the apology?”