Obviously. I waited. Silence was one of the tools Mother used on me in my youth. In turn, I’ve used it with Grace. People—especially teenage people—didn’t like silence. They felt the need to fill it. And sometimes, they said more than they should.
The silence stretched.
“I skipped school and went to my boyfriend’s house.”
That didn’t explain why she was wandering the streets in nothing but a pair of jeans and a sweater. “And?”
“And we had a fight.” She glanced at the cold pavement and shifted her feet. “I ran away.”
“Did he hurt you?”
Her face shuttered. I’d asked a question she didn’t like. “Of course not.”
I didn’t believe her. I lived with a teenager. I could spot a lie at ten paces. “Get in the car, I’ll take you home.”
“No. I don’t know you.”
I raised a brow.
“My mother told me never to get in the car with a stranger.”
“I’m Ellison Russell. What’s your name?”
“Leslie.” No last name.
“Leslie?”
“Smith.” She’d told me another lie.
“Well, Leslie Smith, we’re not strangers anymore.”
That earned me an eye roll.
“I can’t leave you out here in the cold with no coat. Besides, the car is warm.”
Leslie shivered and glanced longingly at the car. “I live close by. I can walk.”
“Where does your boyfriend live? Let’s get your coat.”
“No!” Dogs started barking at the pitch of her voice. “We had a fight.” She rubbed her cheek. “I’m not going back there.”
She looked away. Her sullen expression told me silence wouldn’t work this time.
“I’ll go with you,” I offered.
“I’m not going back there.”
“Then let me take you home.”
“I’m fine.”
She wasn’t fine. She was freezing. And probably bruised from my bumper. And definitely bruised from whatever had transpired at her boyfriend’s house. “Please, Leslie. Let me take you home.”
“No.” She crossed her arms and shivered.
Too bad I couldn’t force her into the car. “Take my coat.”
Her eyes widened. “What?”
I shrugged out of my pea coat; I’d had it for years and it had seen better days but it was warm. “Put this on.”
“I couldn’t.” Her teeth chattered.
“You can. You’re freezing.” Now that I was without a coat, I understood just how cold she was. The wind cut through my heavy sweater as if I was wearing gauze and not four-ply cashmere. “I’m not leaving you here unless you take it.”
“But—”
I held out the wool jacket and shook it until its sleeves danced. “No buts. Take the coat.”
She took the coat. She slipped her arms in the sleeves and wrapped the front tight across her body. “Thank you.”
“Gloves, too.” I peeled my gloves off my hands and thrust them at her.
“Why are you doing this?”
“I have a daughter a little bit older than you. If she was wandering the streets without a coat, I’d want someone to help her.”
Leslie wiped her eyes with the backs of her hands and accepted the gloves. “I’ll return them. I promise. Where do you live?”
“I’ll give you my address.” I reached into the car, grabbed my purse, found an old Swanson’s receipt, and jotted my name and address on the back.
She took the slip of paper and thrust it deep into the coat pocket. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. You’re sure I can’t take you home?”
An expression—sadness mixed with longing—flitted across her face. “I’m sure.”
“I can take you someplace else.”
“You’re still a stranger.”
True.
“You’re positive you’re not hurt?”
“I’m fine.” She sounded almost exasperated and glanced over her shoulder as if she was still expecting the truant officer.
The wind cut through my sweater and the warmth of the car beckoned.
“Thank you for lending me your coat.”
“Keep it.”
“You’re very kind.” She sounded surprised, as if kindness was foreign to her. “Your daughter is lucky.” Then Leslie turned her back on me and walked away. The opposite direction from which my car was pointed.
I watched her for a few seconds then hurried into the warmth of the car.
I drove three blocks. Was she really okay? Maybe I should follow her home. I reversed directions and backtracked. I drove past the spot where I’d hit her. She was nowhere in sight. I cruised the next few blocks but didn’t spot her. Leslie Smith had disappeared.
Two
I blasted the heat in my car and the vents did their level best but the cold still snuck through the cloth roof and down my neck. I hoped Leslie appreciated that coat because I missed its warmth.
When I pulled into the drive, I parked as close to the front door as possible, and, keys in hand, dashed to the door. It opened before I could even insert the key in the lock.
“Where’s your coat?” Aggie, my housekeeper, asked.
“Long story.”
“Your mother is on the phone.”
“She is?”
“She’s called six times in the past hour.” Aggie eyed my cashmere sweater, which had proved unequal to the weather. “If you’d like to take the call in the study, I’ll bring you hot coffee.”
“Thank you.” Coffee sounded better than heaven.
I shuffled into the study, rubbing my arms as I went. Six calls in an hour? Whatever Mother wanted, I wasn’t going to like it. I picked up the phone. “Hello.”
“Ellison!” Mother’s voice was a mix of relief and exasperation. “Where have you been?”
Tell Mother I’d visited a medium? I’d rather hammer shims under my fingernails or wander around outside without my coat. “Out.”
“I need you.”
Time stopped. Mother never needed me. “What’s wrong?”
“I need you.” Apparently that was the only explanation I was getting. “Can you come over? Please?”
Please? What had happened? “Of course, I’ll come. Are you okay?”
“Hurry.” She hung up.
Aggie appeared in the doorway, a steaming mug of all-things-good in her hand.
“Would you please put that in a travel mug?” I asked.
“Of course. Problem?”
“She won’t tell me what’s wrong.” Mother was not given to crying wolf. Whatever the issue was, it was big. A trickle of dread chilled my blood. “The ambiance committee is meeting here at three. I’ll be back before then.”
“I’ll have everything ready.” Aggie was indispensable. How we’d ever gotten along without her was a mystery. With her sproingy red hair, vivid kaftans, and outspoken ways, Aggie was not Mother’s idea of a perfect housekeeper. Mother’s opinion didn’t matter. I thought Aggie was the best thing since sliced bread.
A moment later I was back in the car, snug in a fox jacket with matching hat. I settled the plastic travel mug filled with coffee between my thighs and wished I hadn’t. The plastic was hot. I turned the key and ELO’s “Can’t Get It Out of My Head” nearly deafened me. I sympathized. Even with hitting a pedestrian and Mother’s crisis, there was a man I couldn’t get out of my head. I turned off the radio and motored down the drive.
Mother’s door opened as soon as I pulled up in front of her house.
I took a quick gulp of coffee then hurried up the front walk. “What’s wrong?”
Mother looked from left to right as if her neighbors were hanging around in the cold, waiting to eavesdrop. “Come i
n.”
With the door safely closed behind me, Mother sighed.
“What? What’s happened?”
The color had leeched from her skin and the perfect helmet of her hair was mussed. “I found a body.”
Mother? A body? It was about time someone in this family besides me found a body. “Where?”
“In the closet.” She lifted her hand and pointed at the hall closet, home to various umbrellas, two pairs of galoshes, the good coats, and two leaves for the dining room table. “It was on the shelf.”
I closed my eyes and imagined a body pretzeled onto the small shelf. “Who?”
“I don’t know.”
I walked toward the closet. “Does Daddy know?”
“Your father is out of town.”
So she’d called me. “You didn’t call the police?”
“Of course not.” She shuddered.
I took a deep breath and closed my hand around the knob. That Mother had closed the body back up in the closet didn’t surprise me. She was an expert at hiding things she didn’t want seen. I opened the door.
Nothing.
Nothing. Not a single coat or umbrella or galosh. The closet was empty. Mother had been joking. I knew it! I scowled at her. “Not funny.”
“You didn’t think I’d leave it in there?”
“That’s precisely what I thought. The police take a dim view of moving bodies.” I glanced again into the empty closet. “And evidence. They don’t like it when you disturb evidence.”
With the wave of her hand Mother brushed away my concerns. “Piffle.”
“Piffle?” My voice might have jumped an octave. Or two.
“This way.” She walked away from me. “I put it in the music room.”
My brain struggled to process this announcement.
Mother looked over her shoulder. “Close your mouth before the flies buzz in.”
“The body is in the music room?”
“That’s what I said.”
Strictly speaking, the music room was a sun porch. It had become the music room because it was the farthest room from Mother’s office. She’d disliked listening to her children practice their scales almost as much as we’d hated practicing them. The room contained an upright piano, my sister Marjorie’s old guitar, a chaise longue that belonged to Daddy’s mother, and one of my early paintings. In short, it was the room where she kept things she wanted to get rid of but couldn’t. Including a body.
I followed Mother into the living room and paused, taking off my coat and hat and folding them over the back of a couch.
“Come along, Ellison.” Impatience laced her tone.
I came.
We entered the music room. There was the piano and the guitar and the chaise. My painting still hung on the wall. No body. “Mother.” My voice had acquired an edge.
“On the chaise.”
The only thing on the chaise was a box. Mahogany. Highly polished.
I stared at that box. “You don’t mean?”
Mother nodded. “I’m afraid so.”
Well at least it wasn’t an actual body. “Who is it?”
“I have no idea.”
I leaned against the door frame. “So someone came to your house with this, stuck it in the front closet, and left?”
Mother nodded.
I ventured into the music room and picked up the box. It was heavier than I expected. Not a single marking marred its shining surface. Carefully, I opened the lid. Inside was a sealed plastic bag.
I closed the lid. Harder than I’d intended.
“Careful,” said Mother. “Don’t break it.”
I did not snap back a quick retort. Wanted to. Didn’t. Instead, I put the box back on the chaise. “I need coffee.”
“I figured you would. There’s fresh in the kitchen.”
Mother had a percolator and the coffee it produced was nowhere near as good as what Mr. Coffee made. I’d offered to buy her a Mr. Coffee. Multiple times. And she’d declined. She’d made coffee the same way for years. Why change now? What did it matter if the percolator could burn liquid? At that moment, I didn’t care if the coffee was burnt. “Lead the way.”
Mother’s kitchen was built as a place for the help to prepare food. Aside from the occasional coat of fresh paint, it remained unchanged and original. There was no place to sit, no place to linger over coffee, no place to stare into space and wonder who sat on the chaise in the music room.
Mother poured two mugs of coffee. I added cream to mine. And together we trudged to the family room.
I settled onto a chintz-covered loveseat. “How long has it been since the closet was cleaned?”
Mother sat across from me. “Before it turned cold.”
“So four months.”
“How often do you clean your hall closet?” She sounded defensive.
Had I ever cleaned my hall closet? Had Aggie ever cleaned my hall closet? “I’m not passing judgment on how often your closet gets cleaned. I’m trying to figure out how long that box was there.”
Mother sniffed.
“Who do we know who’s died recently?”
Mother snorted.
Find a few bodies and Mother never let you forget a single one. I rephrased my question. “Who do we know who’s died who has a relative who might have brought their ashes to a party at your house?”
“I have no idea.
Neither did I. “What are you going to do?”
“You can take the box home.”
“No.”
She raised her brows and looked down her nose. “No?”
“I am not taking home an anonymous box of ashes. Besides, at some point, the person who left them will realize they forgot Great Aunt Sally or whoever it is and come back here to claim them.”
“Well, what am I supposed to do with them?”
“They weren’t hurting anyone in the hall closet.”
Mother glared at me.
“Maybe Daddy knows who it is.”
“Why would your father know that?”
My father and his cronies played cards at the club. Often. If their game lasted longer than the club’s hours, they came here. “One of the men he plays cards with might have brought it.”
“But why bring the box into my house?”
“Maybe he didn’t want to leave it in the car.”
Mother pondered that suggestion.
I sipped my burnt coffee. Mother desperately needed a Mr. Coffee in her life.
“Your father won’t know.” She pursed her lips and glared at the Hassam that hung above the fireplace. “He pays no attention to things like this.”
“I bet if you tell him you found unidentified ashes in the hall closet, he’ll pay attention.”
“And then he’ll tell everyone he knows.”
“That’s probably the best way to identify the ashes.”
“No. Absolutely not. Ours will not be the family that finds bodies.”
If the shoe fit…
Mother must have read something in my face because she drew herself up in righteous indignation. “It’s bad enough that you trip over bodies the way most people trip over shoe laces, now I’m finding them.”
“It’s not as if you’ve become embroiled in a murder investigation. You found a box of ashes.”
Mother’s perfect posture sagged—just for a second. If I hadn’t been looking I would have missed it. She really was bothered by her discovery.
“Aside from taking the box home, which I won’t, what do you want me to do?”
“Ask Aggie to find out who it is. We can return the box quietly. No one need ever know.”
“Of course she’ll look into it.” The “but” that followed remained unspoken. It was one thing to find a box of ashes and ask your friends if they wer
e missing a scion, it was quite another to use a private investigator (Aggie’s former job) to identify a body. Everyone would find out. The story was simply too good.
“I can’t imagine someone caring so little.” She shook her head. “If you cremate me and stick my ashes in a closet, I’ll haunt you.”
If I failed to give Mother the funeral of the decade, she’d haunt me. “You don’t need to worry about that.”
She sniffed and sipped her burnt coffee.
The first committee member arrived at five minutes till three. Beverly Jenkins was an unlikely committee member. She’d married Arnie Jenkins over her parents’ objections—they said he’d never amount to anything—and produced a son who she named after her grandfather.
Sadly, Beverly’s parents were right about Arnie. He’d failed to amount to a hill of beans. But rather than divorce him, she donned a tight smile and resigned herself to the outskirts of the life she expected. The only reason she’d been asked to serve on the committee was because her grandfather (who was old as Methuselah) sat on the museum board.
I liked Beverly. What she lacked in funds she made up for in enthusiasm.
I waved at her through one of the glass panels that flanked the front door and called, “Aggie is Max closed up in the kitchen?” Max, the Weimaraner with plans for world domination, had a habit of burying his nose in crotches. Not everyone enjoyed the sensation.
“Yes.” The answer floated down the hall.
I opened the door. “Welcome. Come in out of the cold.”
“Am I the first one here?” Beverly asked.
“You are but I’m sure everyone else will arrive soon.” I took her wool coat and hung it in the closet. “We’ll be meeting in the living room. Help yourself to coffee and a cookie.”
She lingered in the front hall. “You have such a lovely home.”
“Thank you. How’s Major?”
She smiled brightly. “Loving his first year of high school.”
According to the grapevine, Beverly’s parents were paying for their grandson to attend Suncrest.
“So glad to hear that. And Arnie?”
Her smiled flickered. “Fine. He’s fine. Is that one of yours?” She pointed to a painting hanging above a bombe chest.
“No. It’s a Cassatt.” A gift from my husband on our first anniversary, when he still found the idea of a woman artist charming.
SHADOW DANCING Page 2
