SHADOW DANCING

by Julie Mulhern

  Ding dong.

  I managed a breath. “Libba, someone’s at the door. I’ll have to call you back.”

  “Promise me you’ll think about Friday night?”

  “I promise.” Anything to get her off the phone. I waited for the buzzing to subside then made my way to the front door with Max at my heels.

  Ding dong.

  Sheesh. “Coming,” I called.

  I opened the door and found Detective Anarchy Jones on the other side.

  The sudden drop of my stomach made my experience on the Finnish Fling feel like a cakewalk. I stood there, gaping, silent, stunned.

  Max, the traitor, pushed past me and rubbed his head against Anarchy’s corduroy pants.

  I didn’t move.

  “May I come in?” Anarchy asked.

  Still mute, I stepped away from the door, allowing him into my home. I took a deep breath and my stomach returned to the general area of my midriff where it fluttered with nerves. I closed the door behind him.

  We stood in the foyer. Saying nothing. Looking at anything but each other. I cheated a peek and saw his gaze fixed on the painting hung above the bombe chest. I quickly (before-I-was-caught quickly) returned my gaze to the Oriental beneath my feet. Was that medallion a true Wedgwood blue or was there too much cobalt? Careful study was required.

  Anarchy cleared his throat. “I’m here about the girl.” He sounded cop-like. Professional.

  Of course he did. It wasn’t as if the problem between us would simply disappear. Especially when we hadn’t spoken in months.

  “We identified her,” he continued.

  “Oh?” One word—all I could manage.

  “Her name wasn’t Leslie Smith.”

  I looked up from the carpet and sought his face.

  “Her name was Leesa Lisowski.”

  “Lisowski?”

  The corner of his mouth quirked for a half-second—no more—then his lips settled back into that unforgiving hard line. “Lisowski. I’d like to hear exactly what you told Detective Peters.”

  Looking at the distant expression on Anarchy’s lean face—all harsh planes and remote valleys—and the coldness in his eyes cured the flutters in my stomach. Instead of fluttering, the flutters drooped in a dejected, hang-dog manner. “Let’s sit in the kitchen.” At least there, I’d be close to Mr. Coffee.

  Anarchy followed me into the kitchen.

  Max followed Anarchy.

  And Max’s stubby tail wagged ten miles a minute. As if he’d missed Anarchy. As if he was happy to see him. As if now was a chance to set things right.

  “Coffee?” I asked.

  “No, thank you.”

  I poured myself the biggest cup I could find, added cream, sat on one of the stools at the island, and told him everything I’d told Detective Peters.

  “Was Leesa on drugs when you saw her?” he asked.

  Drugs? I closed my eyes and thought. For the life of me, I couldn’t remember if her pupils had been tiny pinpricks or dilated or normal. “I didn’t notice anything off.” I stared into my coffee mug. My problems suddenly seemed much smaller. “Have you found her family?” Her poor parents. What they must be going through.

  “She was a runaway from Chicago.”

  “Chicago? What was she doing in Kansas City?”

  Anarchy glanced at Mr. Coffee. “I’ve changed my mind. May I have a cup?”

  I took a mug out of the cupboard and filled it. “Black?”

  He nodded. “Thanks.”

  I handed him the mug and our fingers brushed against each other. Electricity jolted through me. I know he felt it too because he jerked backward. Away. From me. Sloshed coffee on the counter.

  “I’ll get a towel.” I turned my back on him and wiped away an unexpected and unwelcome tear.

  “Ellison—” his voice sounded less cop-like. More human.

  I couldn’t do this. Could not. If Anarchy, the man not the cop, walked out the door again, I might break. I yanked an unsuspecting tea towel off the oven handle and mopped up the small puddle of coffee without looking at him. “What was she doing in Kansas City?”

  For a moment I didn’t think he’d answer.

  “She worked as a prostitute. We identified her from the prints we have on file.

  A prostitute? My mind rejected the idea. I dared a glance his way. “That can’t be right. She was too young.”

  He was back in cop-mode. The thin line of his lips hardened.

  “How does that happen? How does a child end up working the streets?”

  His gaze shifted away from me. “The usual way.”

  “I’m not familiar with the usual way.”

  “You don’t want to be familiar.” His voice sounded bleak.

  “I do.”

  Somehow, the thin line of his lips thinned even more.

  “I want to know,” I insisted.

  “Think about a girl with an unhappy home-life. For whatever reason, she feels isolated or alone. Along comes a man who says he cares about her. The life he tells her about is happy and filled with love. She goes with him and she’s caught. Or perhaps things are so bad at home, she runs away. She’s alone and she meets a man who says he’ll take care of her.” He glanced down at the floor. “In cities like New York and Los Angeles, men hang out at bus stops, waiting for runaways.”

  I waited for more.

  “The girl has no one but him. He gives her drugs and liquor and the illusion that someone cares. Then he puts her to work.”

  “Why doesn’t she leave? Run away?”

  “Usually, she’s hooked on drugs. And if she’s not, she’s been told her family will be hurt if she runs.”

  “So the girls are prisoners?” I’d never heard anything so awful. “That’s what happened to Leslie—Leesa? Exactly how old was she?”

  “Fifteen.”

  I closed my eyes. The coffee in my stomach churned. Fifteen. A year younger than Grace. That child had been in terrible trouble and I’d failed to guess. Failed to help. I lowered my head to my hands. “Leesa wasn’t visiting her boyfriend.”

  “No.” Anarchy sounded almost sympathetic.

  “A client?”

  “Most likely. He did something that scared her and she ran.”

  “And I hit her.” Hit her and failed her.

  The weight of Anarchy’s hand rested on my shoulder. “You gave her the coat off your back.”

  “I should have insisted on taking her home.”

  “Leesa didn’t have a home. Not in the way you understand the word. She’d been on the streets for two years.”

  Two years. Since she was thirteen. Tears leaked through the trap of my eyelids. “I could have helped.”

  “No.”

  I lifted my head. Opened my eyes. “If I can’t help, who can?”

  “These are dangerous people.”

  I shrugged.

  “The girls—” he looked away from me. Shifted his gaze to Mr. Coffee. “They need more than a warm meal and a cup of coffee.

  In my experience, there are few situations not improved by the addition of a perfectly brewed cup of coffee. “So what happens to them? They’re written off?”

  He removed his hand. “There are programs.”

  I turned and looked at him. “Programs?” The word had a ladies-doing-good sound to it. But in Kansas City, ladies supported the arts and the children’s hospital. They joined the Junior League. They gave tours at the museum. They hosted garden tours and teas and galas to raise money for worthy causes. Programs for child prostitutes never crossed their minds.

  “I can get you some information.”

  “Please do.”

  Max nudged Anarchy with his nose.

  “What does he want?”

  “He wants you to scratch behind his ears.
”

  Max nudged again.

  “He won’t stop till you do what he wants.”

  Anarchy crouched on the floor and used both hands to scratch behind the gray silk of Max’s ears. “Will you take me to exactly where you hit her?”

  “Of course. Now?”

  “Please.”

  Max groaned and leaned his head into Anarchy’s right hand.

  “I’ll get my coat.” The words stopped me. The coat I’d normally wear over jeans I’d given to Leslie—Leesa—and she’d died wearing it.

  Anarchy gave Max a final scratch and stood. “Not everyone would do this.”

  “Do what?”

  “Help with the investigation of a prostitute’s death.”

  “Don’t call her that.” My voice was sharp. “She was a girl. A child. I have no idea what awful choices landed her in the mess she was in, but she didn’t deserve the life she had.” I paused for breath. “Or the death.”

  “I’ve missed you.” Anarchy’s words were so out of context I wasn’t sure I’d heard him right. I stared at him. My jaw might have dropped. Just a little.

  He looked the same. Same coffee-brown eyes—now with a hint of warmth in their depths. Same lips—no longer pressed into a thin line.

  Warmth trickled from my head to my toes. Oh dear Lord. What kind of person was I? Not a good one. No good person could be so easily distracted by a thaw in Anarchy’s chilliness.

  He stepped closer to me. Close enough for the scent of his aftershave to tickle my nose.

  “You care about people.” He brushed my cheek with the back of his hand. Barely. Just enough to send every nerve ending in my body into a tizzy. “I care about right and wrong. The law. You care about people.”

  Max yawned. We were boring him.

  “I—I missed you, too.” There. I’d said it. Admitted it. To him. To myself.

  The air was charged with possibility—with magic. I rested my fingers against his chest. Was his heart thudding as hard as mine?

  Brnng, brnng.

  “You could ignore it,” Anarchy suggested, his voice suddenly rough.

  I could. I wanted to. But there was something extra shrill, extra insistent about the phone’s ring.

  Brnng, brnng.

  Dammit.

  I stepped away from Anarchy and picked up the receiver. “Hello.”

  “Ellison.” Mother did not sound pleased. “What is that detective doing at your house?”

  Five

  Anarchy and I agreed he’d drive me back to Prairie Village, to the exact spot where I’d hit Leesa.

  Max watched me don a fox jacket with disapproval in his amber eyes. In his opinion, Anarchy and I remaining in the kitchen and feeding him treats was the best course of action. Failing that, we could take him for a walk.

  “Sorry, buddy,” I told my dog. “I’ll be home soon.”

  His ears drooped, the very picture of dejection.

  Anarchy, unaccustomed to Max’s tricks, opened the front door.

  Max slipped through the opening and stood in the driveway laughing at us. Ha! said his doggy smile. Just try and catch me.

  I might—might—have been able to lure him inside with the promise of a dog biscuit, that or a turkey club sandwich with extra bacon, but Max spotted a squirrel.

  Sadly, the squirrel did not spot Max.

  Max’s jaws missed the squirrel’s tail by less than a quarter of an inch.

  The panicked animal ran and Max followed.

  “Max!”

  Max ignored me.

  The squirrel cut across my yard and ran into my neighbor’s lawn. My evil neighbor’s lawn. Margaret Hamilton was a witch of the flew-a-broomstick-at-midnight, stirred-a-cauldron, had-warts-on-her-chin (not really) variety. And she did not like my dog.

  “Max!”

  Intent on the chase, he didn’t even turn his head.

  And the squirrel? Why was it ignoring a perfectly good oak tree?

  It was unfortunate (but not surprising) that Margaret chose that moment to step outside. She possessed some kind of witchy internal radar that alerted her when any member of my household so much as touched a blade of her grass.

  It was even more unfortunate that, having made the decision to scowl at me from her front steps, she didn’t close her door behind her.

  Most unfortunate of all was the squirrel dashing between her legs and into her house.

  No. That’s wrong. MOST unfortunate was the fact that my dog followed the squirrel—through Margaret’s legs and into her home.

  Margaret was in no position to chase him. Max had knocked her flat. Her heels were above her shoulders, her skirt gathered in folds around her waist, and her black girdle was on display for the whole neighborhood

  “Oh dear Lord.” I took off running.

  Anarchy easily passed me.

  He reached Margaret first and picked her up off her stoop.

  From inside the house came the sound of glass shattering.

  “Get. Your. Dog.” If looks could kill, I’d have been dead.

  I dashed into Margaret’s home. “Max!”

  If I’d given Margaret Hamilton’s decorating style any thought, I’d have imagined something dark and foreboding with dried henbane hanging from exposed rafters, a giant iron pot filled with a foul smelling, acid green potion on the hearth, and a scarred table that held twisted roots, chicken bones, and a mortar and pestle ready to grind hemlock or snakeroot. The reality was grass cloth on the walls and a Kelly green shag carpet. The reality in the living room was circular floral couches that matched the rug and a glass coffee table the size of a small swimming pool. The more pressing reality was a squirrel re-enacting Custer’s last stand behind a potted palm.

  Potting soil flew across the raked green of Margaret’s carpet and palm fronds fell to the floor like fallen soldiers.

  “Max!”

  Max turned and looked at me. Why was I interrupting the most fun he’d had in months?

  The squirrel, sensing an opportunity for escape, made a break for the kitchen.

  Max ran after the squirrel.

  I ran after Max.

  Margaret’s kitchen had zinnia-red cabinets and foil wallpaper. I blinked, startled by all that shiny crimson, and my steps faltered.

  The squirrel’s did not. The damn beast scaled the counter then a cabinet and took shelter behind a stack of plates.

  Max rested one front paw on the counter and stood on his hind legs. He swiped at the squirrel with his free paw. Swiped and missed. Missed the squirrel but caught a plate. The plate flew out of the cupboard and crashed to the floor.

  I stared at the shards, my mouth hanging open. Franciscan desert rose? Not stoneware decorated with skulls and crossbones?

  A second swipe. This one with more effort.

  A second plate saucered out of the cabinet like a demented, rose-painted UFO.

  Crash!

  For the love of Pete, why hadn’t Margaret closed her cabinet doors?

  The homeowner stood beside me, presumably too angry to speak. Her lips moved without producing words.

  “Max! Stop that!”

  A third plate.

  A third crash.

  I lunged forward, grabbed Max’s collar, and hauled him away from the cabinet.

  He stepped on a piece of broken china and yelped.

  The squirrel chittered.

  Margaret planned the horrific hex she was going to cast upon me.

  And Anarchy stood in the doorway looking as if he was trying very hard not to laugh.

  Max pulled against my hold. There was still a squirrel to catch.

  “Bad dog!”

  The bad dog rolled his eyes.

  With an enormous yank, I pulled him farther away from the squirrel and the further destruction of Marg
aret’s everyday china.

  Max tugged against me.

  Anarchy pulled off his belt, looped it through Max’s collar, and said, “Why don’t I take this guy home?”

  “Good idea.” Bad idea! He was going to leave me alone with Margaret Hamilton and the squirrel Max had chased into her house? I’d never make it out alive. “Will you come back and help us deal with the squirrel?”

  His lips quirked. “Close all the doors to the kitchen and open the back door.” He nodded toward a Dutch door that opened onto a porte cochère and Margaret’s driveway. “The squirrel will leave on its own.”

  He made it sound easy.

  “Get that animal—” Margaret pointed at Max “—out of my house.” Margaret had found her voice.

  “Right away, ma’am.” Anarchy pulled on the make-shift leash.

  Margaret’s expression softened. Anarchy is that hard to resist. Then she looked at me. Up until that moment I thought Mother had the best, most terrifying death glare in the world. In that moment, I discovered I’d been wrong.

  Margaret’s face was stark white. So white, her brows looked more like dark slashes than brows. The space between them was scrunched together in seething wrinkles and her lips were pursed, ready to croak the words that would turn me into a frog or make my hair fall out.

  I swallowed. “Mrs. Hamilton—” Margaret and I were not on a first-name basis “—I am so sorry about this. I will pay for all the damages.”

  “I should have you arrested!”

  Anarchy paused in his attempt to drag an unwilling Max out of the kitchen. “On what grounds?”

  “Trespassing.” She practically spat the word.

  “Arguably, you invited her in when you told her to get her dog.”

  Margaret turned her death glare on Anarchy. “I’ll call the pound.”

  “They might give her a ticket for allowing her dog out without a leash but I’ll explain that Max’s escape was my fault.”

  Margaret vibrated like a tuning fork. If she’d been a cartoon, steam would have blown from her ears.

  “Get out.” She lifted her arm and pointed toward the front door. With her black dress, black shoes, black tights, and black hair (too dark for a woman of her age) she looked like the grim reaper. “Get out now. Both of you.”