Guaranteed to Bleed

by Mulhern, Julie

  She treated me to another sigh.

  I promised to call if anything changed, closed an unhappy Max into the laundry room, then filled up Mr. Coffee and let him work his magic.

  A moment later the doorbell rang. I took one last look out the back window. With the exception of those crushed by the body, my hostas had their leaves intact. Not for long.

  I sent the first set of uniformed officers around the side of the house. And the second. And the third. Anarchy Jones I let through my front door.

  “What happened?” he demanded.

  I recounted Max’s growls, the broken glass, the gunshots and the shadow climbing the back fence.

  He pushed past me into the kitchen. His brown eyes scanned the broken glass, the blood on the floor, Mr. Coffee’s full pot.

  “You cut yourself on the glass,” he said, as if it was a given. Idiot Ellison attracts a murderer and hurts herself. Again. “Are you badly hurt?”

  “No.”

  He opened his mouth as if he meant to argue.

  I narrowed my eyes.

  He snapped his lips shut.

  Smart man.

  He inventoried the rest of me. The injured wrist. The messy hair. The gun stuck in the waistband of my jeans. His brows lifted.

  “I didn’t shoot it.”

  “It has to be tested anyway.” He held out his hand.

  I put the gun in his palm.

  Our fingers brushed for an instant.

  My breath caught and I looked up, away from the place where we’d touched.

  Anarchy stared deep into my eyes, as if he could see my secrets—and desires.

  He reached out and brushed a stray hair from my cheek.

  He parted his lips and for a half-second I thought he meant to kiss me.

  Voices from the backyard wafted through the broken window and he stepped away.

  Of course he did. I was once again a person of interest in a murder investigation and it was probably against rules and regulations to kiss suspects. Anarchy always followed the rules.

  He ran his fingers through his short hair. “They probably need me outside.” Rather than open the back door, he pushed open the door to the front hall.

  His disappearing steps rang out against the hardwoods.

  Anarchy Jones nearly kissed me. My fool heart did a samba in my chest and my mouth dried. I poured myself a glass of water and drank deeply. What. Had. Happened?

  There was a dead man in the backyard. I shouldn’t be kissing—almost kissing—anyone. But most especially I shouldn’t be almost kissing the investigating officer.

  I pulled the curtains back on the happenings in the yard, took a seat at the kitchen counter and watched.

  The police flooded my backyard with light. They tromped up and down the driveway, up and down my hostas. They didn’t tell me who they’d found.

  I drummed my fingers on the counter. Didn’t they realize a tired, stressed woman waited to hear what had happened in her backyard? No. They were too busy trampling my perennial border into pulp.

  Was it too much to ask for them to keep me informed?

  Apparently.

  I deserved answers. I finished my coffee, put the mug in the dishwasher, exited my house from the front door and walked around the side yard.

  A uniformed officer stopped me from stepping foot on my own patio.

  I stood in the driveway and waited for Anarchy to see me. If he noticed I was there, he didn’t acknowledge the fact. He focused solely on the body lying in the broken remains of my shrubbery.

  I blew a strand of hair away from my face and waited.

  And waited.

  Nothing. The man had nearly kissed me not thirty minutes ago and now he pretended I didn’t exist?

  I marched back to the front of the house, through the front hall and into the kitchen. I took a deep breath, opened the back door and stepped onto the patio.

  Everyone noticed me then.

  They lifted their heads as one.

  “You just disturbed a crime scene.” Anarchy’s voice was cool and professional.

  “I opened my back door.” I jerked my head toward the body. “Who is it?”

  No one spoke.

  “Who is it?” I asked again.

  Anarchy, his lips thinned to nonexistence, spoke. “Jonathan Hess.”

  I’d been right. I nodded. “Thank you.”

  “What was he doing here?”

  Lord love a duck. I should have stayed inside.

  “Well?”

  “He—”

  “I found a casing!”

  Anarchy turned away from me.

  I snuck a deep breath.

  Would the young officer pointing at the brass casing find it odd if I kissed him? He had saved me.

  Anarchy’s eyes can look as warm and melting as chocolate fondue or as cold and rigid as an oak tree in the depths of winter. My arrival on the patio had brought out the oak tree in him. Now wasn’t the time to explain why Grace and Donna ran away. Nor was it the time to explain how I hid Donna from her parents. Not with Jonathan Hess’ body lying ten feet away.

  What had brought Jonathan to my patio? Had he really thought I’d bring Donna and Grace home? Since he’d never shown any great respect for my intellect, perhaps he’d believed just that.

  I sidled to my right, toward the driveway. From there I could circle to the front of the house and re-enter without attracting any more attention.

  Anarchy pinned me with his gaze.

  “I’ll just get out of your way.”

  “Why was he here, Mrs. Russell?”

  Mrs. Russell? We’d returned to Mrs. Russell?

  I straightened my shoulders. “I have no idea, Detective Jones.”

  He waited for me to scratch my nose.

  I shoved my hands in my pockets and returned his cold stare with one of my own.

  “Someone will be inside shortly to take your official statement.”

  Fine. Perfect. I went into the house the way I came—through the back. I closed the door with enough force to jar loose a piece of glass that had somehow remained in the pane. It shattered against the bricks.

  Ding-dong.

  Holy mother of midnight callers. Which neighbor was here to complain about the police this time? Hopefully not Mrs. Hamilton. The woman who lived just to the east got testy when activities at my house interrupted her nightly broom rides.

  I shuffled toward the front door, mentally composing an artful apology.

  Not that it would do any good. No matter what I said, Margaret Hamilton would delight in throwing an extra eye of newt into her bubbling cauldron, then she’d wait for the next full moon, dance a quick jig around a bonfire and hex me.

  I opened the door to Mrs. Landingham, my neighbor to the west. A nicer woman was never born.

  I breathed a sigh of relief.

  It died on my lips when I saw who stood behind her.

  “Frances called,” said Hunter.

  Of course she had.

  “Are you all right, dear?” Mrs. Landingham asked.

  “Fine,” I assured her. “An intruder was shot breaking into my house. I apologize for the hullaballoo.”

  “You shot him?” Hunter asked.

  “No.”

  “Then who did?”

  I shook my head. “I only saw a shadow.”

  Mrs. Landingham’s wrinkled hands fluttered near her throat. “You mean there’s a murderer roaming the neighborhood?”

  Hunter turned the full force of his mesmerizing gaze on my neighbor. Then he added one of his brilliant smiles. The woman’s hands fluttered faster than a hummingbird’s wings. “I’m sure,” he told her, “that this is an isolated incident. May I see you safely home?” He extended an arm.

  She glanced at me,
her face a study in indecision.

  “Hunter is an old family friend. He’ll see you home and he’ll check to make sure all your doors and windows are securely locked. He’ll even check the closets.” I gazed at her enormous house. Every light burned brightly. “If you like, I bet he’ll check the basement and the attic too.”

  Hunter’s pursed lips, gathered brows and rolled eyes might have meant annoyance. The expression was too fleeting for me to judge.

  “Are you sure it would be no trouble?” she asked Hunter.

  “No trouble at all,” I assured her.

  Hunter coughed but Mrs. Landingham still closed her hand around his arm.

  They turned away.

  “What are you doing here, Tafft?” If Anarchy’s voice had been cold as January on the patio, it was positively arctic now.

  Hunter glanced over his shoulder. Smirked. “Checking on Ellison.”

  “Did you call him?” Anarchy asked.

  “Mother.” Who knew four-letter words sometimes required six letters? I did now.

  “Ellison is not a suspect.” Anarchy crossed his arms over his chest and scowled. “You can leave.”

  Ellison? Anarchy and I were back on a first-name basis?

  “How do you know Ellison didn’t do it?”

  Hunter was supposed to be on my side. Call me old-fashioned, but that included not suggesting me as a suspect.

  Mrs. Landingham loosed her hold on Hunter’s arm and turned back toward my house, presumably to see my reaction.

  I scowled.

  “You didn’t tell him about Hess’ problem back East?” Anarchy raised a brow. He must think that the same people who’d run Jonathan down had tracked him to my hosta beds and shot him.

  I’d promised not to tell anyone about the attempted murder. I shifted my scowl to the detective. “I swore I wouldn’t.”

  Anarchy smiled then—a delectable glimpse of the smile that matched his eyes. Warm. Swirly. Delicious.

  Hunter cleared his throat.

  Anarchy shifted his gaze back to the lawyer in the drive, and the warm smile disappeared, replaced by an expression colder and more biting than a blizzard.

  Hunter’s expression matched Anarchy’s, snowflake for snowflake. “What didn’t you tell me, Ellison?”

  I glanced at Anarchy.

  The detective shook his head.

  “I can’t tell you.”

  Hunter’s eyes narrowed and he extended his arm. “Mrs. Landingham, may I see you home?”

  She tittered and laid her hand on his arm.

  They walked down the driveway. Not once did Hunter look back.

  I turned on Anarchy. “Was that really necessary?”

  “What?”

  “That—that pissing match, or whatever it was.”

  His lips quirked. “I need to get back to work.”

  He disappeared down the hallway.

  I longed for something heavy to throw at him.

  Instead, I stepped outside, sat on the stoop and waited for Hunter.

  And waited.

  Twenty-Four

  Maybe I should have spent a sleepless night, tossing and turning and fretting. A man had died in my hostas. But his death meant that Donna and, by extension, Grace, were safe. I slept like a baby and woke to mid-morning sun. I yawned and stretched and moseyed to the kitchen for coffee.

  Mr. Coffee was full of morning nectar. That meant Aggie’s niece had her baby and Aggie was home. That and the stack of phone messages on the counter. I ignored those.

  Instead, I poured myself a cup. Then, with Max at my heels, I went outside and surveyed the damage.

  Damage suggested something that could be repaired—a dent in the car, a loose grip on a golf club, red paint on my front door. My hostas weren’t damaged. They were destroyed.

  I skirted the crime scene tape, sank into a wrought iron chair and clutched my mug. Max ignored the tape, sniffed at the shrubs, curled his doggy lips then collapsed in a patch of sunshine.

  Libba found us there. She regarded the yellow tape and the remains of my border with one eye squinted. “Your mother said you had a rough night.” She settled in the chair across from mine. “It had to be really awful for her to let you skip a committee meeting.”

  She’d obviously attended. Why else would she wear an Ungaro sweater in shades of red and beige and black, a matching swing skirt and black pumps? Her usual outfit was tennis clothes.

  I sipped my coffee. “Mine was better than Jonathan Hess’.” Somehow I couldn’t work up too much sympathy for him. I stared at the sad remains of my hostas. “Do you think the garden club will kick me out?”

  Libba gazed at the trampled leaves and the broken flowers. “They might.”

  I choked on my coffee.

  “What?” She steepled her fingers and looked down her nose. “It’s not like you spend much time with those women.”

  Those women. Spoken like a woman who didn’t know the difference between a caladium and a zinnia.

  I took a bracing sip of coffee. “I’ll cut down what little is left and mulch the beds.”

  She settled herself in the chair across from mine. “Do you want to talk about it?”

  “Not really. All I need is a pair of shears and some mulch.”

  “I meant having someone else murdered at your home.”

  I knew that. Hadn’t Libba ever heard of avoidance? “Maybe I could put some pansies in. For color. Until the weather turns cold. Purple or yellow?”

  “Ellison—”

  “Maybe both.”

  “Ellison! You can’t pretend this didn’t happen.”

  I tore my gaze away from the shrubs. “It happened. There’s nothing I can do about it…except plant pansies.”

  “This is exactly how you acted when Henry was killed.”

  “There was nothing I could do about that either.”

  “Grieve? You were married to the man for seventeen years.”

  I did my grieving when Henry was still alive. Every time he stood up Grace so he could play slap and tickle with some woman, my heart broke. Every time he publicly humiliated me, I wailed inside. But I couldn’t say that. I shrugged.

  Libba rolled her eyes. “People think you’re cold.”

  “Maybe I am.”

  She blew a loose strand of hair away from her face. “I know better. I know this bothers you.”

  “This?”

  “This.” She waved her hand at my ruined perennials. “Having someone die right outside your door.”

  “The man was a monster. I’m more upset about my hostas.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “Believe it.”

  She shook her head. “Still, it’s so soon after Henry’s death.”

  I snorted.

  “You have to forgive him someday.”

  She couldn’t mean Jonathan Hess. “Henry? Why?”

  “Because holding onto your anger hurts you more than it hurts him. He’s dead.”

  “I know he’s dead. I ran over his body.” Libba must have found a new therapist. Where else would she come up with this psychobabble?

  “What about Grace? What if your anger is hurting Grace?”

  Damn.

  What if it was?

  Aggie poked her red head out the back door. “Phone call for you, Mrs. Russell. It’s Mr. Tafft.”

  “I’m indisposed.”

  She raised a penciled brow.

  “On second thought, please tell Mr. Tafft I have company.”

  “Please?” Her voice held just the right amount of pleading. “I hate to keep him waiting.”

  We couldn’t keep Mr. Tafft waiting. Not for a second. Waiting was the sole province of the fool woman who sat on her front stoop last night thinking Hunter might come back.

&n
bsp; And Aggie. Aggie stood waiting in the doorway. She wouldn’t move until I complied.

  I stood, meandered inside, and picked up the phone from its resting place on the counter. “Hello.”

  “There was an attempt made on Hess’ life earlier this week.” Apparently we weren’t bothering with pleasantries.

  “I know.”

  Whatever answer Hunter was expecting, it wasn’t that. He treated me to a moment’s silence then cleared his throat. “That’s what you promised not to tell me?”

  “Yes.”

  “You gave Jones your word not to tell me?”

  “Not to tell anyone.”

  On the other end of the line, he was probably shaking his head. “I’m your lawyer.”

  “I don’t need a lawyer. I’m not a suspect. And when he told me, Hess was still alive.”

  “You didn’t think it might have any bearing on Donna and Grace’s disappearance?”

  “No. By the time he told me, I already knew why Donna ran away. It had nothing to do with someone back East wanting him dead.”

  “What did Hess do?”

  “No idea.”

  “You didn’t ask?”

  “Anarchy didn’t tell me.”

  “Ridiculous.”

  “Pardon me?”

  “His name. It’s ridiculous. Who names their kid Anarchy?”

  “A professor at Berkeley and his artist wife.”

  Hunter snorted.

  I twisted the phone cord around my fingers. I’d left my sunny patio for this?

  “Ellison, about last night…why don’t I take you to dinner this evening?” It was probably as close as Hunter ever came to an apology.

  “Grace is coming home.”

  “Bring her.”

  “I mean, I think Grace and I need some mother/daughter time. Perhaps another night?”

  I bit my tongue. Hard. What the hell was I thinking? I should have just told him no.

  “When do you expect her?”

  I glanced at the clock. The morning had disappeared. “Soon. I called the Smiths last night—I mean, early this morning.” They’d been incredibly gracious about a two a.m. phone call. “She should be on her way home now.”