SHADOW DANCING

by Julie Mulhern

  I’d never seen anyone so angry. She was hexing me for sure.

  We dragged Max home, locked him in the laundry room, and collapsed onto the kitchen stools. I collapsed. Anarchy merely sat.

  “Are you up for that trip to Prairie Village?”

  I’d forgotten all about our trip to the spot where I’d hit Leesa. “Let me check on Max’s paw first.”

  I peeked into the laundry room where Max looked as bright-eyed and bushy-tailed as a squirrel. “How’s your paw?”

  He grinned at me.

  I crouched on the floor next to him and examined his paw. A small cut marred the black pad. “Do you need to go to the vet?”

  Max yawned.

  “I’ll take that as a no. And, don’t forget, you’re in big trouble, mister.”

  He yawned again.

  Leaving the hound from hell in the laundry room, Anarchy and I walked back into the cold and climbed into his car.

  We drove in silence.

  I stared out the window at the sky. It was that pale shade of blue that only occurred in winter. A blue that said the weather was too cold for color and too lazy to snow. “This block.”

  Anarchy braked and the car slowed.

  Barren oak trees stood as sentinels for the modest, well-tended ranch homes lining the street.

  “I was heading the other direction.”

  “Oh?”

  “We probably ought to turn around.” I tended to see things in terms of where a tree was or the angle of an overhead line.

  Anarchy drove to the end of the block, pulled into a driveway, then reversed out of it. “What were you doing over here?”

  “Meeting Libba.” That was all the explanation he was getting.

  He looked curious but all he said was, “Ah.”

  “There.” I pointed to the exact spot. “I remember that oak branch hanging over the street.”

  “And Leesa was crossing from the south?”

  “Yes.”

  “How cold did she seem?”

  “Pardon me?”

  “How long do you think she’d been outside?”

  “Her lips weren’t blue.”

  “Do you think she ran out of one of these houses?”

  My gaze traveled from house to house. One was painted buttercup yellow with hunter-green shutters, a second was a soft gray with a cheerful red door, a white house sported ornate concrete planters that spilled dark green ivy onto the front walk. They all looked warm and inviting. Homes for young families to start their lives. A neighborhood where kids learned to ride their bikes on the sidewalk on a summer afternoon and the Good Humor man was swamped every time he drove by. A neighborhood where people greeted each other and waved as they fetched the paper. A neighborhood where a man had hired a teenage prostitute then scared her so badly she ran away. Which house? “I have no idea.”

  He pulled in next to the curb. “Do you mind if I ask a few questions?”

  Here?

  He put the car in park. “I’ll leave the heat on for you.”

  He didn’t have questions for me. He meant to leave me in the car like some disruptive child? That was not going to happen. “I’m coming with you.”

  “Ellison, this is a police investigation.”

  “I won’t say a word. I won’t interfere. I’m not staying in the car.”

  His gaze traveled from my face to the buttercup house where a wood-paneled Country Squire sat in the drive. The skin near his left eye twitched.

  “I promise. Not a word.” I donned my best pleading face.

  He sighed—a deep sigh, as if he was doing something he knew he’d regret. “I’m holding you to that.”

  We got out of the car and tromped up the front walk.

  I glanced through the front window. Baby toys littered the living room carpet.

  Anarchy lifted his finger as if he meant to ring the doorbell.

  “Don—”

  Too late. He’d pressed the button.

  Nothing happened.

  He pressed the button again and leaned toward the door as if listening for the bell.

  “You’ll have to knock,” I said. “Quietly.”

  He gave me a questioning glance.

  “Whoever lives here had the doorbell disconnected.”

  He raised a brow. “How do you know?”

  I pointed at the toys on the living room carpet—they were multiplying like rabbits. “The doorbell would wake the children up from their naps.”

  When Grace was little, naps were a battleground. If I won, if she slept, I did a little happy dance. Anyone who rang the bell when she was actually asleep got an earful. After visits from everyone from a Girl Scout to the Fuller Brush man, I disengaged the doorbell. It had seemed the easiest answer.

  Anarchy knocked.

  A moment later, a young woman with a baby on her hip and a toddler wrapped around her leg like a monkey opened the door. She wore faded jeans, a wrinkled peasant top and a shapeless gray cardigan. Her hair was scraped back in a messy ponytail and her face was free of makeup. “Yes?”

  Anarchy pulled out his badge. “I’m Detective Jones, I was wondering if we could ask you a few questions.”

  “About what?” she asked.

  From behind her leg, the toddler peered up at us.

  “May we come in?”

  The woman stepped away from the door, allowing us entry. She led us into the living room. “I’m sorry it’s such a mess.”

  “You’ve got your hands full.” I offered her a sympathetic smile. “I’m glad we didn’t disturb naptime.”

  Anarchy shot me a look. I was not supposed to speak.

  “Please.” She waved at the sofa. “Have a seat.”

  The baby gurgled, the toddler loosened his grip, and their mother collapsed into a chair. “What can I help you with, detectives?” She sounded as tired as her clothes.

  Detectives? Plural?

  As instructed, I kept my mouth closed.

  “What’s your name?” Anarchy twinkled at the woman. The smile. The eyes. The look.

  The poor woman was too tired to respond but my heart skipped a beat for her. And the toddler, a little girl, gave Anarchy a shy smile.

  “Shannon,” the woman said. “Shannon Cooper. This—” she smoothed the toddler’s hair “—is Avery. And this—” she dropped a small kiss on the baby’s head “—is Simon.”

  Avery regarded us with eyes the size of Frisbees.

  Simon gurgled.

  Anarchy pulled the Polaroid from his jacket pocket. “Have you seen this girl?”

  Shannon studied Leesa’s face. “Does she babysit?”

  “Not that I’m aware of.”

  “Then, no.”

  Anarchy crossed his left ankle over his right knee and leaned forward. “Can you tell me a little bit about the neighborhood? Who’s home during the day?”

  Shannon sat a bit straighter. “What’s wrong?”

  “The girl was involved in accident. We’re looking for witnesses.”

  Shannon’s back relaxed. “There are a handful of us who stay home with kids. Abby Harris, who lives just to the left, stays home with twins. Sandra Moore, to the right, is at home with a new baby.”

  “What about other people on the block?” Anarchy asked. For some reason, unknown to me, he seemed reluctant to ask about men who were home on weekdays.

  Shannon didn’t answer. She was busy extracting a strand of her hair from Simon’s little fist.

  “Mommy, I’m hungy,” declared Avery. “I want a sammich.”

  We were losing our audience.

  “Are their any widows on the block?” I asked.

  Anarchy shot me a you-promised-to-keep-your-mouth-shut scowl.

  “Mrs. Gillespie. Across the street and down three. She live
s in the pistachio colored house with the elm tree in the front yard.

  “We won’t take any more of your time.” I stood.

  Shannon saw us to the door.

  “What was that?” Anarchy asked when the door closed behind us.

  “That woman has two children in diapers. She’s barely keeping her head above water.” Surely he’d noticed the gray circles beneath her eyes? “If you want to know what’s happening on this block, talk to someone who has time to look out the window.” I pointed to a light green house with cream trim. “Mrs. Gillespie.”

  Anarchy walked toward the car.

  “Where are you going?” I asked.

  “I’m taking you home.”

  “Because I took pity on that poor woman?”

  Anarchy pressed his lips together and opened my car door.

  “You’re angry.”

  “No.” The look on his face said different.

  Whatever had happened in my kitchen—that moment when we’d both softened—was too new, too delicate, too easily trampled for me to start an argument.

  “Please,” he said. “Get in the car.”

  I got in the car.

  He closed my door and circled to his own, but rather than get in, he stood in the street and practiced deep breathing techniques.

  I waited, pulling my coat more closely around me.

  Finally, he opened the door and sat behind the wheel. He put the key in the ignition and turned on the engine but did not shift the car into drive.

  We sat there.

  Silent.

  “I’m sorry. I promised I wouldn’t say a word then I did. I don’t blame you for being angry.”

  “I’m not angry.” He sounded angry and his fingers tightened around the steering wheel even though the car remained in park. “You cannot involve yourself in this investigation.”

  “I won’t. That poor girl had a terrible death and a worse life but I didn’t know her. It’s not like I’m going to hear gossip over the bridge table. It’s not like some man is going to show up at my house to stop me from asking questions. I don’t know the questions. And if I did, I’d have no idea who to ask.”

  Anarchy’s face was like thunder.

  “And I wouldn’t ask those questions anyway. Because I’m not getting involved in your investigation.”

  He loosened his grip on the wheel and turned toward me. “The world is a brighter place with you in it. I don’t want you hurt.” He still looked angry but his voice held a plaintive note.

  “I don’t want me hurt either.”

  “Please—” he reached across the distance between us and took my hand.

  I wished I hadn’t put my gloves on.

  He squeezed. Gently. A slow steady pressure. “I’ve missed you.”

  Maybe he wouldn’t notice the tears that pooled on the rims of my eyes. “I missed you, too.” My voice was barely a whisper.

  Anarchy leaned over and brushed his lips across my cheek. And I’d thought his touch sent my nerves into a tizzy.

  “Dinner?” he whispered into my ear. “Tonight?”

  How could I say no?

  Six

  Anarchy took me home where I shook my finger at a not-remotely-remorseful Max, grabbed a sammich, and changed my clothes. I had to. The club did not allow denim.

  I donned a pantsuit I’d recently bought at Swanson’s. Dove gray and cream houndstooth, the suit came with a matching gray coat also trimmed with houndstooth. Gray heels, gray gloves—I looked pulled together. At least on the outside. What was happening inside was a study in chaos.

  Nerves had set my insides churning. Me? Anarchy? Dinner?

  I put those thoughts out of my mind (stuffed them into the deepest, darkest corner of my brain—a place where Libba wouldn’t spot them). Then I transferred my billfold, lipstick and powder, and keys to a gray handbag that matched my shoes, gave Max one last baleful look, and drove to the club.

  “You’re late.” Libba frowned at me from her seat at the bridge table. “Is everything all right?”

  We were playing in the small card room—the one with the best view of the golf course. Although, the course, dotted as it was with half-melted snow, looked as if it had a bad case of untreated dandruff. Not remotely attractive. I hung my purse over the back of my chair and sat. “I’m sorry. Busy morning.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” said Daisy with an easy smile. “I just got here.”

  That might be true, but we expected Daisy to be late.

  “I am sorry. I lost track of time.”

  “You never lose track of time.” Libba regarded me with narrowed eyes. “Were you painting?” Already she was poking around.

  “No.”

  “Then what?”

  I shifted in my seat, unwilling to talk about spending my morning with Anarchy or about my upcoming date. Definitely unwilling to talk about a dead teenage girl who’d sold her body to strangers.

  “Give her a break, Libba. You’ve been late before.” Jinx took a drag on her cigarette and blew the smoke in Libba’s direction. “Let’s play cards.”

  Jinx had gone to rehab, given up drugs and alcohol, and taken up smoking. None of us complained about her ever-present cigarettes. At least not while she was around. She pushed one of the two decks on the table my way.

  I cut.

  Daisy shuffled the second deck.

  Jinx rested her cigarette on the edge of an ashtray and dealt. “Did you hear Joyce and Bruce Petteway are getting a divorce?”

  No wonder Joyce had dropped the menu ball for the gala.

  The thirteenth card landed and Libba picked up her stack. “What happened? I thought they were happy.”

  “There’s another woman.”

  “Oh?” Libba looked up from arranging her cards. “Who?”

  “No one knows.” Jinx pursed her lips. “Who would sleep with Bruce Petteway?”

  She made an excellent point. Middle age had hit Bruce hard. His hair had thinned, his waist had widened, and he’d taken to calling women of his wife’s acquaintance “kiddo.” What she didn’t say was that Joyce still looked fabulous. The Petteways’ marriage seemed like one where money met beauty. Except—I thought back to our youth—Bruce hadn’t been rich when Joyce married him. Bruce with his thick glasses and scrawny neck had been lucky to land Joyce. And now he’d cheated on her.

  “How did Joyce find out?” I asked.

  Daisy chested her cards and leaned forward. “I heard she came home early from a meeting and he was…” her voice trailed off and her eyebrows waggled wildly.

  “No!” Even Libba sounded scandalized. “In their bed?”

  Daisy sat back and her brows calmed. “Exactly. Apparently the woman looked all of fifteen.”

  “What an idiot,” I said.

  Libba smiled. “Don’t hold back, Ellison.”

  “I mean it.” I tapped the edge of my cards against the table. “Joyce is a lovely woman.”

  “She’s a scatterbrain,” said Daisy.

  The three of us stared at her.

  “What? You think I’m a scatterbrain?”

  “If the shoe fits, dear.” The new, smoking Jinx sounded kinder saying it than the old, drinking, pill-popping Jinx would have. “Pass.”

  “We love you just the way you are, Daisy.” Libba patted her hand. “One club. And I, for one, think Joyce is better off without him. She’ll be fine.”

  “I’m not so sure,” said Daisy. “By all accounts, she’s devastated. Pass.”

  I glanced at my cards. “One heart.” My late husband had cheated on me with reckless abandon. I knew exactly how betrayed and wounded Joyce felt. “I’m going to call her later.”

  “I’m sure she’d appreciate that.” Jinx wrinkled her nose. “Pass.”

  “One spade,” said Libba.


  “Pass.” Daisy shook her head. “Don’t they still have children at home?”

  “Their youngest is in college back east. In Boston I think.”

  We all stared at Libba. She, who had no children, actively avoided chatting about them.

  “What?” Libba’s glare encompassed all three of us. “Joyce caught me at the grocery store after the holidays and talked about how hard it was to put him on a plane back to school.”

  I looked down at my hand. I held four hearts, three spades, three diamonds, three clubs and fifteen points. “One no trump.”

  “Pass,” said Jinx.

  Libba regarded the cards fanned in her hand. “Three no trump.”

  Daisy passed.

  So did I.

  Jinx tossed the six of diamonds onto the table (she carefully adhered to the fourth from your longest and strongest rule when defending no trump).

  Starting with four nice spades, Libba laid down her cards.

  Making three no trump was not a problem, not even with Daisy recounting her son’s latest exploits. Apparently he’d worked for a year, cut back on tennis and given up golf, mowed lawns in the summer, shoveled driveways in the winter, and saved up enough money for flying lessons. All he needed was his parents’ permission.

  Jinx dealt the next hand, I shuffled the second deck, and Daisy said, “He just doesn’t appreciate how much I’ll worry.”

  “You don’t want him in a small airplane,” said Jinx, sounding sympathetic.

  Daisy looked at the ceiling. “It just sounds so dangerous.” She closed her eyes. “But he did work so hard.”

  “Let him fly,” said Libba. “He set himself a goal, he gave up things he liked to do, he worked hard, and now the only thing that stands in his way is you. Don’t be that mother.”

  “He’s fifteen,” said Daisy.

  The same age as Leesa. What different lives they’d lived. “Do you ever feel guilty?” The question popped out of my mouth, unconsidered and ill-advised.

  Libba raised a lazy brow. “About what?”

  “We have so much,” I mumbled.

  Three sets of eyes stared at me as if I’d suddenly grown horns.

  “We worked for it,” said Daisy. “Or our husbands did.” She shook her head. “No, we worked for it too. Running a home, raising kids, it’s not easy.”