“Double cheese with everything. Hold the pickles. And a side of fries.” Grace ordered the same thing every time we came.
Winstead’s didn’t sell hamburgers; it sold steakburgers. The burgers were cooked to a deep shade of brown and flavored with salt and grease. They arrived at the table wrapped in wax paper sleeves and the first bite could change a life. “A single cheese with grilled onions and a side of rings.”
When the food arrived, Grace and I would negotiate the trade of rings for fries.
Ruby jotted down our orders. “It’ll be right out.”
I sat back and took a sip of water. “How was school?”
“Boring. What did you do today?”
I visited a medium who claimed a dead girl wants me to go to a strip club and rescue her friend. “My day was pretty boring too. Aggie’s still researching the ashes in your grandmother’s closet.”
“Ashes!”
I’d forgotten Grace didn’t know. I glanced around the nearby tables. For once, thank heavens, I didn’t spot anyone we knew. Although those two little old ladies with cotton ball hair, creped necks, and bright lipstick looked vaguely familiar. Not so the man with the long sideburns and a leather coat. He was staring at Grace as if she was a slice of chocolate cake and he was starving. He wasn’t starving. A burger sat in front of him and a fry dripping ketchup was frozen half way to his mouth.
I shifted my expression from polite interest to don’t-you-dare-think-it.
The man caught my gaze (his eyes were icy gray and slightly bloodshot) but his expression didn’t change. A mother’s disapproval meant nothing to him.
Grace tossed her hair over her shoulder.
I wished she wouldn’t. The man two tables away needed no encouragement.
Ruby delivered Grace’s limeade and my frosty. She glanced at me then followed my line of sight. “Oh.” She positioned herself between the man and Grace, blocking his view, and added, “Do you want me to call the manager?”
“No. But, thank you.”
When Ruby moved, the man had looked away.
I watched him for a while longer but his gaze was now fixed on the newspaper folded on his table.
“Tell me about the ashes,” said Grace
I spooned into the frosty and explained.
She tilted her head. “So Granna found these ashes in her front closet and she has no idea who it is?”
“Exactly.”
“She must have had kittens.”
An understatement. “She’ll definitely have kittens if this becomes public knowledge.” I donned a severe expression. “This goes no farther. Get it?”
“Got it.”
“Good.”
“Grace!” A young voice carried across the restaurant.
Three girls paused just inside the entrance then headed our way.
I glanced at the man. He was staring at Grace again and now he knew her name.
I didn’t have time to worry. Grace’s friends swarmed our table.
“We tried to call you but we got your machine,” Peggy said to Grace. “We went to a matinee.”
“I was at the library working on that essay that’s due on Monday.”
Peggy groaned then turned her attention to me. “How are you, Mrs. Russell?”
And just like that the creepy man—Sideburns—knew our last name. I had the sudden urge to bundle my daughter into the car and drive hell for leather. Instead, I smiled at Grace’s friends. “Fine, thank you. Would you like to join us?”
I never expected them to accept.
Peggy and Debbie slid in next to Grace. Kimberly sat next to me.
None of them looked at the menus.
“Have you seen The Stepford Wives, Mrs. Russell?” asked Kimberly.
“I read the book.” At the time, the idea that perfection was a mask hiding terrible, sordid secrets had seemed ludicrous. I knew better now.
“We just saw the movie. It’s super scary,” Kimberly added.
“So is the book,” I replied
“Men aren’t really like that,” declared Peggy. “They can’t be.”
“Like what?” asked Grace.
“Like—” Peggy paused and ordered a single cheese from Ruby. She waited until Kimberly and Debbie had ordered then said, “Like…jerks. More interested in having a perfect woman than a real one. That isn’t true, is it?” She looked at me for an answer.
I glanced at the man—the jerk—with the sideburns. He was now staring with an avid expression at all four girls. For heaven’s sake, they were sixteen. He had to be in his thirties.
I averted my gaze. “There are good guys out there, Peggy.”
The girls were so young, so sure their lives were going to be grand adventures, so untouched by the ugliness best swept under the museum-quality Sarouks in their future living rooms. Except for Grace. Grace’s father had been murdered. Grace had faced men determined to kill us. Grace had seen the ugliness.
And, the ugliness had made her stronger. Grace already knew no one led a charmed life.
Except possibly Mother. True, Mother spent the bulk of her energy beating back anything that remotely resembled chaos. True, something as simple as unidentified ashes wobbled her carefully stacked apple cart. But Frances Walford would prevail. And if she couldn’t prevail, she would ignore. Ultimately, her charmed life would not be affected.
Grace, who never ignored anything, glanced sideways at Sideburns. Could she feel the weight of his stare?
Maybe she could. She rolled her eyes. With one teenage expression, she reduced his obvious desire into something less, something pathetic, not worth the worry. She leaned forward and whispered, “That perv is staring at us.”
Three additional gazes landed on Sideburns then shifted away. The message was clear—he was beneath their consideration. Debbie tittered.
Why were the girls asking me questions about life? They’d just demonstrated that I had plenty to learn from them.
I too should have looked away. But I didn’t. I watched. Sideburns dug inside the pocket of his coat, removed a handful of horribly crumpled bills, and threw them on the table. He stood, glared at the girls who’d dismissed him so easily, then stalked out.
I breathed easier when he was gone. The way he’d looked at Grace might have meant less than an eye roll to her, but the raw desire I’d seen in his gaze—on his face—had unsettled me.
We finished our suppers and drove home but thoughts of Sideburns lingered and I checked my rearview mirror at least ten times.
“Relax, Mom.” Grace had noticed my anxious glances. “We’ll never see him again.”
I hoped she was right.
Grace left for school and I sat at the kitchen counter with the morning paper and an almost full cup of coffee (my cups never stayed full—or almost full—for long). I scanned the editorial page. In Britain, a woman had become the leader of the Conservative party and men—and a few women—wrote letters foretelling the end of the world. On the sports page, President Ford was playing golf. Hardly news. Except he was playing in a PGA tournament. I scanned the article. His foursome also included Jack Nicklaus, Bob Hope, and Jackie Gleason.
Aggie bustled in. “Good morning.”
“Good morning,” I replied.
She pulled Mr. Coffee’s pot off his warmer and poured herself a cup. “Refill?”
A rhetorical question. I pushed my cup across the counter and she topped off the level of coffee.
“Anything interesting in the paper?”
“The Wall Street Journal says the Social Security System is going to go broke.”
“Hmph.”
“There are still plans to raze a block of 12th Street and build a hotel.”
“A whole block?”
I nodded.
“Where will those businesses go?” Unlike t
he city leaders, Aggie was not so foolish as to believe that erasing a building would erase the strip club inside.
“I don’t know.” I took a sip of coffee. “How was the basketball game?”
“Couples don’t have to like the same things.”
“Ah.”
“I told Mac about Starry.” Aggie fixed her gaze on a half-asleep Max and fidgeted with the sleeve of her burnt sienna kaftan. There was more she wasn’t telling me.
“Oh?”
“He said he’d go look for her.” She did not sound happy.
“Go? To the strip clubs?”
What an excuse. I’m sorry, honey, I had to go to the strip clubs. You were looking for that girl and I thought I’d find her for you.
Except Mac was so wild about Aggie that the excuse wasn’t an excuse. It was true.
“Did he locate her?”
Ding dong.
“I guess we’ll find out.”
“Mac?” He’s here? I wore white flannel pajamas, a camel-hued cashmere bathrobe, and slippers that had seen better days. My hair hadn’t been combed. I rubbed my tongue over my teeth. Had I brushed them? I had. Still, I wasn’t anywhere near ready to welcome a guest into my home.
“I’ll get that,” Aggie trilled before she floated down the front hallway.
A moment later, Aggie’s Mac stood in my kitchen with his hand swallowing a mug of fresh coffee.
If Mac noticed I was still in pajamas, he gave no hint. His gaze remained fixed on Aggie. “You look pretty this morning.”
Aggie flushed. “Thank you. Who’s at the shop?”
“Shorty.”
“Shorty?” I asked.
“Mac’s brother,” Aggie explained.
Mac, who ducked when he walked through doorways, had a brother named Shorty?
“He’s an inch shorter than me. Kinda like Tiny Archibald.”
Who was Tiny Archibald? “Tiny is an inch shorter than you, too?”
“Nah, Tiny is eight inches shorter than me.”
“Tiny is Mac’s favorite Kings player,” Aggie explained. She tilted her head back and beamed at the man taking up half of my kitchen. “He’s not tiny, but he’s not as tall as everyone else.”
They smiled at each other. The sort of smile that belongs to people in love. Their features softened. Their eyes sparkled. Their lips parted.
My mind, suddenly nimbler than Olga Korbut, double-flipped away from an unbidden image of Anarchy Jones.
I needed more coffee. Stat. I climbed off my stool, made my way to my One True Love, stroked the side of Mr. Coffee’s reservoir, and refilled my cup. “More coffee?” Where had that bedroom voice come from?
Mac and Aggie tore their gazes away from each other and looked at me.
“No, thank you.” Mac looked bemused. I bet he didn’t usually spend his mornings with women in their nightclothes who were seduced by a mere wink from their coffee makers.
Aggie, who was accustomed to my relationship with Mr. Coffee, simply shook her head and recommenced gazing at Mac.
I resumed my seat and asked, “Did you find Starry Knight?”
“Those places.” He put his cup down on the counter and his features firmed into a deeply disapproving expression. “If you really think there’s a minor working in one of those places, we should call the cops.”
“I don’t disagree. The problem is a medium told us about Starry.” I could just imagine that conversation. No, Officer, I’ve never met Starry. No, I don’t know her family. How do I know she’s working there? A medium told me. She got the information from a dead girl.
“The worst of the worst is Ronny’s Playpen. I gotta wonder who the owner is paying off to keep the place open.”
“What was so awful about it?” asked Aggie.
“The girls looked stoned. My drink cost five dollars and came in a dirty glass. And my shoes stuck to the floor.”
Who knew Mac was so fastidious about cleanliness? An admirable trait in a man who ran a deli.
“What did drinks cost in the places where your feet didn’t stick to the floor?” asked Aggie.
“Seven. Eight.”
“Well, there you have it. Ronny’s is the bargain basement of strip clubs. And—” she shifted her gaze from Mac to me “—they’re all paying someone off. That’s what the mob does.”
The mob? I swallowed past a sudden tightness in my throat. “Did you find her?”
“No,” said Mac. “Are you sure this girl exists?” Exactly what I’d been thinking.
Aggie and I exchanged a glance. Madame Reyna had convinced us. Then. But in my kitchen without the wild pleadings of the medium ringing in our ears, Starry Knight’s existence was easily discounted.
“I’ve got a friend at the police station,” said Aggie. “I’ll see if they have a record for Starry Knight or Jane Nichols.”
I too had a friend at the police station. But, if I asked Anarchy to look into a stripper for me, his head would explode. If he learned Aggie was asking on my behalf, his head might still explode. “Please keep my name out of it.” I turned to Mac. “Thanks for going to those places.” Then, because I was too curious for my own good, I asked, “What’s the inside of a strip club like?”
Mac’s lips pulled back and his jaw tightened as if I’d shown him something disgusting. “Sleazy. Seamy. Seedy.”
Apparently Mac was fond of S-words. Or alliteration. “But what does it look like?” I insisted. “The interior?” I was unlikely to ever see a strip club myself.
His face wrinkled with concern and he stared at me as if divining my reason for asking. “The nicest place has mirrored walls and an island a little bit bigger than this one—” he patted my kitchen island “—right in the middle of the club where the girls dance on poles. The island has a lip where men can set their drinks on it. There’s also a stage with half-naked girls shaking everything they’ve got. It’s dark. It’s smoky. It’s no place for a lady.”
“I won’t ever see it.”
His face remained clouded.
“Aggie won’t ever see it.”
His face cleared. “Like I said, it’s no place for a lady.”
As if I’d ever ask Aggie to go to a strip club.
I wouldn’t have to ask.
Mac glanced at his watch. “I should be getting to the deli.”
“Already?”
Easy for Aggie to say. She was dressed in actual street clothes. I pinched the collar of my robe together. “Thanks for coming, Mac. And thanks for going to those places.”
“Sure thing, Mrs. Russell. It was my—” he stopped. It was my pleasure didn’t sound right when talking about going to strip clubs. Especially not with Aggie hanging on his every word. “I’m glad I could help.”
His gaze returned to Aggie. “If that girl exists, this is a job for the police. You two should stay out of it.”
Was it my imagination or had the smile curving Aggie’s lips tightened?
She stepped closer to him and patted his arm. “I’ll see you to the door.”
Aggie walked down the front hall with Mac and I stared at Mr. Coffee. “You’d never tell a woman what to do, would you?”
He didn’t reply. He didn’t have to. I knew his answer was no.
Aggie blew back into the kitchen like a stiff breeze. “Okay then. I’ll call Sadie and find out if there is such a person as Jane Nichols.”
“And if there is a record? What then? Mac just told you to stay out of this.”
“He did, didn’t he?” Aggie wore an expression usually reserved for watching a baby’s first steps.
“He did.”
“It’s early days. He hasn’t figured it out yet.”
“Figured what out?”
“I don’t respond well to men who tell me what to do.”
I lifted my coffe
e mug and toasted her.
Ten
Click.
I hung up the phone with more force than was strictly necessary. But Mother’s calls about the ashes were growing tiresome. I’d fielded at least five. And poor Aggie—if she answered the phone, Mother harangued her for not being at the library.
Apparently Mother expected Aggie to move in with the pickle-face librarians.
But Aggie, usually so good at finding things, was striking out entirely. No leads on the ashes and her source at the police station hadn’t found any information about Starry Knight or Jane Nichols. If the girl did exist, she didn’t have a police record.
The only thing that had worked the way it was supposed to this week was my call to Uncle James. And that had worked too well. Anarchy was now so busy investigating murders we’d only managed a brief conversation.
Grace wandered into the kitchen, opened the refrigerator door, and peered inside.
“Are you looking for something?” I asked.
“No. I’m hungry.”
She was in the right place.
“I thought you were going out for pizza.”
“I am.” She emerged from the depths of the fridge with a container of yogurt. “Don’t you have a date?”
I did but I’d rather review a week’s worth of microfilm with a disapproving librarian standing over my shoulder than spend the next few hours with Libba, Bill, and Bill’s friend. “Yes.”
“You should probably change.” Grace pulled out a spoon out of the drawer, opened her yogurt, and stirred.
“I’ll be home early.”
The spoon slowed.
“No parties, Grace. No one in this house but you and Max.”
“Okay.” She sounded put upon.
“I mean it. Margaret Hamilton is ready to hex me. If we cross her again she may make my hair fall out.”
“Okay.” Annoyed but not convincing. I needed to be convinced.
“Grace.” My voice was a warning.
“I got it.” The hint of put-upon in her voice gave way to unfairly-accused. “No one comes over. Sheesh!”
“It’s going to take a while for you to win back my trust.”
That got an eye roll. “I’ve been an angel for three months.”
SHADOW DANCING Page 10
