Grace and I teed off at three o’clock. The course looked like an emerald carpet dotted with citrines instead of sandtraps. Despite the approaching line of fluffy white clouds, the sun warmed my shoulders. My tee shot landed in the center of the fairway.
Grace’s did too.
She climbed into the golf cart and stared straight ahead at the lovely expanse of verdant grass. “Are you mad at me?”
I drove down the cart path towards our balls. “No.”
“You look angry.”
I did? I’d been trying hard not to. “We need to talk.”
She got out of the cart, pulled a seven iron from her bag and knocked her ball onto the green. It landed within feet of the cup.
I too hit a seven iron but my ball landed in the fringe. I swallowed a lump as big as my golf ball and said, “I think you’re angry too. Angry at me. Why?”
Grace rolled her eyes.
“I mean it, Grace. We need to talk about this.”
She shoved her club back in its bag and completed a second roll of her eyes. “You don’t get it, Mom.”
“Explain it to me.”
“Dad’s dead.”
I nodded. I was with her so far.
“And you’re not even sad.”
Oh. Damn. I drove us to the putting green. “I mourned your father long before he died. I’ve already spent my grief.”
She considered that for a moment then got out of the cart. “I’m sad.”
“You should be. He was your father and he loved you.”
“What happened? Between you?”
There was a question I didn’t want to answer. “We grew apart.”
That earned me another eyeroll. Rightly so.
“What did he do to make you stop loving him?”
I wasn’t about to tell Henry’s daughter, a girl who still loved him, about the women or the whips or the foul things he’d done for money. “Your father didn’t like my painting. He asked me to give it up.”
“But that’s part of who you are!” She nodded to my ball caught in the fringe. “You’re away.”
I putted. The ball stopped on the lip of the hole, poised but unwilling to drop. “I know. I couldn’t stop just because he wanted me to. After that, things just fell apart.” I tapped in for a bogey.
Grace lined up her putt, her upper lip caught in her teeth. “He was a bad husband.”
“He was a good father,” I replied.
Grace putted in for a par then bent to pick up our balls. “I’m sorry, Mom.” She stood and handed me my ball. Tears stood in her eyes. “I love you.”
No tears in my eyes. They were too busy running down my face. “I love you too.”
Twenty-Six
Grace and I finished our round accompanied by the first few drops of a soaking rain. We hurried inside the club for dinner—to the grill since we wore golf clothes. With its pecan paneling, tartan upholstered chairs and sideboard boasting an enormous arrangement of yellow and red spider mums, it felt familiar, comfortable, just what we needed to reestablish normalcy.
We ordered familiar, comfortable dinners from a familiar, comfortable waiter.
Buoyed by my eagle on the fifteenth hole, I’d somehow forgotten morbid curiosity. That too was familiar, but it wasn’t comfortable. Members circled us like vultures, picking at the still warm bones of Jonathan Hess’ murder. Then they picked at the cold bones of Henry’s demise.
I couldn’t really blame them.
Two men killed at my house in less than four months. That had to be some kind of record.
I beckoned the waiter, ordered a scotch and soda, and scared away Audrey Miles with a look I borrowed from Mother.
Prudence Davies wasn’t as easily cowed. “I hear you had some trouble.” Her smile might look sympathetic but it didn’t reach her eyes. Those held all the warmth of an early morning in late mid-winter.
I shrugged.
Grace looked pained.
“If you’re not careful, you’ll get a reputation as a black widow.”
I lifted the scotch to my lips and drank. “There are worse reputations to have.”
Prudence flushed.
Prudence and my late husband had something of a…relationship. When I was feeling petty—and even when I wasn’t feeling petty—I dreamed of sharing the details of that relationship. But, lucky for Prudence, shielding Grace from Henry’s misdeeds was more important than dragging Prudence through the muck. Besides, given Prudence’s predilections, she might enjoy the muck—or at least being dragged.
“Amy McCreary is talking about you as if you’re some kind of heroine.” Prudence lifted the corner of her too-thin upper lip. “Florence Nightingale reincarnated.”
“I called an ambulance.”
Prudence wrinkled her nose. “She’d be better off without him.”
Grace choked on her Tab.
Prudence gifted us another unpleasant smile, displaying her horsey teeth. “Everyone will know by tomorrow. The man who died in your backyard was some kind of con artist. John invested heavily. Lost everything.” She rubbed her hands together. Some clever German coined the word Schadenfreude with Prudence Davies in mind. She looked positively gleeful at the McCrearys’ misfortune. “Amy would be better off if he’d died. At least she’d have his life insurance.”
Henry once called Prudence a horse-faced, bony-assed harpy. That description was far too kind.
The waiter put a Cobb salad in front of me and a hamburger in front of Grace.
It’s a rule, if you’re table talking and food is served, you leave. Prudence didn’t budge.
I offered her a smile as warm as the one she’d given me. “Please give my regards to Kitty.”
She sucked in her cheeks, but stood firm. Why, when Mother offered her regards, did people disappear? When I offered the same, they seemed to linger longer.
“What do you want, Prudence?”
Her eyes widened at the direct question.
She wanted gossip, the coin of the realm. Prudence wasn’t the sharpest pencil in the bag. That I knew. She’d taken up with Henry. Admittedly, I married him—but at least I can blame the starry-eyed ignorance of youth. In ten million light years, why would Prudence think I’d tell her anything?
I swirled the ice cubes in my glass and waited for an answer.
“I’m keeping you from your dinners.” She said it as if she’d just noticed the plates sitting in front of us. “Toodles.”
She toodled, taking her bony ass into the hallway.
“She’s a real bitch,” said Grace.
Good parenting demanded I respond with outrage. Children were supposed to respect their elders. I lifted my gaze to the ceiling. “You got that right.”
Grace squeezed a second slice of lime into her Tab. “Did you really save Jack’s dad?”
“Not really. I called for help then I drove Jack and Betty to the hospital.”
“Jack didn’t tell me that.”
There was probably a lot Jack didn’t tell her. “It sounds as if he’s got a lot on his mind.”
“Yeah.” Grace bit into her burger. Chewed. “His mom left last night.”
“Left?”
Grace squirted ketchup onto her plate. “She and his dad had a big argument. She was gone for hours and hours. Jack was worried she might not come home.”
“How do you know?”
“He didn’t go to school today. We talked.”
My fork speared avocado, chicken and blue cheese, the trifecta of a perfect bite.
“You don’t think—” Grace’s brow furrowed.
“What?”
“You don’t think Mrs. McCreary killed Mr. Hess?”
Oh. Dear. Lord.
I put down my loaded fork.
“I mean, she has a reason and no alibi.”
>
This called for another sip of scotch. I caught the waiter’s eye and pointed at my glass. “She could have been at her sister’s.”
“Nope.” Grace shook her head. “Jack called there. What I think is…” Her face paled.
I glanced over my shoulder. The Standish family. All of them glared at us.
Alice Anne stepped forward—steamed forward—like some turn of the century ocean liner. Lord knows she had the same heft. She cut through the grill like a steamship cut through waves, unconcerned with wind or water or gossip. She even looked the part. Her prow, a proud nose. Her top deck, the perfectly shaped, perfectly white bouffant that sat atop her head.
“Mother, wait.” Howard followed in her wake for a step or two.
She paid him as much attention as a ship’s captain pays a gull. She docked at our table.
There are scads of rules. Don’t wear white shoes—or madras—after Labor Day. Do wear black to a funeral. And, when a grande dame—or old battle axe—deigns approach your table, stand.
I stood. So did Grace.
Alice Anne could have stopped us with a murmured please don’t get up. She could have sent us back to our chairs with a pleasant please, sit down. I insist. She didn’t.
“How nice to see you, Mrs. Standish.” A polite, expected lie. My nose didn’t bother itching.
“You got the check?” Alice Anne murmured; her lips barely moved.
I’d half-expected the stentorian tones of a foghorn. Alice Anne’s whispered question surprised me. I blinked, thought about checks then remembered the one Alice gave me. “I did. Thank you.”
From her vantage point in the entry, Alice looked furious. Howard looked green. Kizzi looked for a waiter, probably to order a gin martini.
“My family has had a difficult week.”
As had mine.
“I appreciate your discretion, Ellison.” She cast a warning glance at Grace. “And yours, young lady.”
If Alice Anne was so blasted grateful, why didn’t she let us sit down and eat? Grace’s hamburger would be stone cold by the time she ate it.
“The man…” She bit her lips so tightly it looked as if she didn’t have any. “The man in your yard, why was he there?”
“I don’t know.” Coming up with a better answer probably ought to top my priority list. People might think that Jonathan and I were having an affair. An occurrence even less likely than me scoring an eagle on all eighteen holes. Plus—yuck.
“Awful man.”
I didn’t argue. Instead my gaze lingered on Grace’s cooling dinner. Not exactly a subtle hint.
A hint Alice Anne ignored. She lowered her voice further. “He and Howard had some business dealings.”
So I’d heard. “Oh? Grace, sit down and eat your dinner while it’s hot.”
Grace hesitated.
Alice Anne offered the slightest of nods. A grande dame’s version of permission. Me, she kept standing.
Grace sat.
Alice Anne twisted the enormous diamond on her left hand. Nerves? From Alice Anne Standish?
I waited.
“You knew him well.”
“I knew him slightly,” I corrected.
“I saw his wife last evening.”
“Oh?”
“I stopped by their home.”
At this rate, I’d be standing next to our table ’til breakfast. At least Grace got to eat. She dragged a fry through a pool of ketchup. My daughter might look as if her sole focus was the food in front of her. I knew better. She was as impatient for Alice Anne to make her point as I was.
“I believe you know her from school.”
“To be honest, I didn’t remember her until a friend reminded me.”
“Well,” another twist of her ring, “she categorically denied that her husband would steal.”
“Steal?” I raised my brows.
She drew a deep breath. One that expanded her substantial chest. “Howard’s investment is gone.”
“What a shame.” Not exactly empathetic, but given the words painted on my door and car, I didn’t much care about the Standish fortunes.
Howard, Alice and Kizzi followed Elaine, the hostess, to a table as far as humanly possible from mine. Alice still looked furious. Howard still looked green. Kizzi looked happier. She carried a glass of clear liquid with ice cubes and a lime floating in it.
“It was a large investment.”
What in the name of sweet Jesus did the woman want? Was she telling me the check for repainting my door would bounce? “What a pity.”
She scowled. With her broad forehead, assertive nose and strong chin, the expression was fearsome. “Since his wife refused to tell me where he’d stashed the money, I thought you could.”
“I could what?”
She offered up a still more fearsome expression. “Tell me where Jonathan Hess hid Howard’s money.”
Grace froze with her Tab on her lips.
“Why would I know?”
“He was seen leaving your house early one morning.”
I swallowed.
“You had a public argument with his wife.”
My jaw dropped.
“He was murdered at your house in the middle of the night.”
Grace, God love her to little pieces, laughed. Unfortunately, the laugh was coupled with a sip of her drink. Tab erupted from her nose and sprayed the table.
Rules be damned—I sat. And I picked up my drink. “Just so I’m clear, you think I was having an affair with Jonathan Hess and that I know where he stashed Howard’s investment.”
Alice Anne looked down her considerable nose and nodded.
Next she’d be accusing me of causing John McCreary’s heart attack. This rumor had to be stopped. Now. There is no one more unwelcome or unpopular than a woman who sleeps with other women’s husbands. “No.”
She drew her shoulders straight. “Pardon me?”
I took a bracing sip of scotch. “I barely know the Hesses. The only reason he was at my house in the morning was to pick up his stepdaughter, Donna. India and I argued over art lessons for Donna. I suggested them, and since India wants Donna to concentrate on her studies, she told me it was none of my concern.”
“He died at your house.”
“I have no idea what he was doing there.” I tightened my grip on the old-fashioned glass to keep my fingers away from the end of my itchy nose.
Alice Anne stared at me with narrowed eyes, taking my measure, waiting for me to break. “I don’t believe you. Where there’s smoke there’s fire.”
I glanced at Grace. She looked from me to Alice Anne and back again. “Mom’s dating Hunter Tafft.”
Also not true. But as rumors went, it was infinitely preferable to my carrying on a torrid affair with Jonathan Hess.
I smiled at the waiter who put a fresh drink in front of me, waited until he walked away, then said, “I don’t know anything about Howard’s investment. But if I were you, I’d be a bit more discreet. Someone murdered Jonathan Hess and money is a powerful motive.”
Alice Anne’s ruddy complexion turned as white as her hair.
“How dare you suggest such a thing!”
She’d suggested I was an adulteress. Tit for tat.
“My Howard would never—”
“Your Howard does all sorts of things.”
She gasped, and her face turned the exact same shade of green as Howard’s, a saturated celadon hue—maybe with a slight touch of moss.
Across the room Howard pushed away from his table.
Around us, other diners stared.
Howard strode.
Alice Anne opened and shut her mouth. Repeatedly.
“What’s going on here?” Howard pitched his voice low enough for privacy.
I waited for Alice Anne to explain.<
br />
Her lips were too busy with calisthenics.
“Your mother accused me of adultery.”
“She didn’t.”
“She did,” said Grace.
Helpful, but I shot her a not-another-word look. There would be fallout from this dinner and I didn’t want any of it landing on my daughter.
Alice Anne pointed at me. “She accused you of murder.”
Howard looked as if he might throw up.
“I didn’t.” I hadn’t. Suggesting motive wasn’t the same thing as an accusation. Besides, Alice Anne should be more concerned with Howard’s other secret. The one I’d never tell. If Howard wanted to borrow Kizzi’s mink stole and parade around in an evening gown, it was no one’s concern but Howard’s. And Kizzi’s. And Alice’s.
And I thought Grace and I had problems.
Alice Anne scowled at me. “You did.”
“Technically, she…” Grace’s voice died. I guess when I really need to, I can channel Mother. Lord knows the look I gave Grace was straight out of Mother’s repertoire, a classic shut-the-hell-up-or-else expression.
I looked up at the green-faced Standishes. “This is hardly the time or the place…” My gaze encompassed five or six tables of rapt diners who’d abandoned watching us discreetly. They all gawked.
“I hardly knew the man,” said Howard.
“That’s not what your mother says.”
His skin tone transitioned from celadon to split-pea.
“I didn’t kill him.” Howard spoke too loudly. Jaws at nearby tables dropped.
I might have believed him, but he scratched his nose.
Twenty-Seven
Grace and I drove home. Slowly. The slick streets glistened with reflected light. The darkness outside pushed against the car’s rain-streaked windows.
So much darkness, so many secrets—abuse and murder and deep water running through shallow families.
“Why didn’t you tell me Bobby and Donna were together?” I asked.
“When you first asked I didn’t know. Then…”
She’d stopped talking to me. Stopped trusting me.
“Did you tell Donna what Bobby said? That he loved her?”
“I did, but I think she appreciated hearing it from you. I mean…you were there.”
Guaranteed to Bleed Page 24
