Thus prepared for the day, I descended to the kitchen where Anarchy, stubbled, mussed, and more attractive than ever, stood next to a full pot of coffee.
“Good morning.”
“Morning. Hope you don’t mind that I started coffee?”
“Are you kidding? I’m grateful.” I pulled two mugs out of the cabinet and handed him one. “I hope the couch wasn’t too uncomfortable.”
“It was fine.”
“I have plenty of guest rooms.”
“Which you offered last night. I wanted to be downstairs.”
I took my first sip of coffee. All sips of coffee are good but the first sip of the morning is the best. I sighed. “What now?”
Anarchy took a sip of coffee and seemed unaffected by its perfection. “I’ll talk to Jane and figure out who Ray Smith is.”
I glanced at the clock. Seven thirty. “I didn’t hear anyone stirring when I came down. It may be awhile.”
A slow smile spread across Anarchy’s face, and he pulled out a stool for me. “I’ll make you breakfast.”
“Don’t be silly. You’re the guest. I’ll cook.”
“Ellison.” His voice turned serious. “I’m hungry. I’ll cook.”
“How do you know I can’t cook you a gourmet breakfast?”
“Tales of your exploits have traveled before you.” His eyes twinkled.
Someone was in trouble. Grace? Aggie? Libba? Someone. I sat on the stool and drank my coffee.
Anarchy pulled eggs and butter from the refrigerator, a whisk from a drawer, and bread from the breadbox. “Do you have any bacon?”
“I don’t know,” I admitted.
He went foraging in the fridge and emerged triumphant with a package wrapped in butcher’s paper. “Aggie buys the good stuff.”
She did. The quality of meats and cheeses in our fridge had risen markedly since Aggie started dating Mac.
“Where are your pans?”
I pointed to a cabinet below the counter and was treated to the sight of Anarchy’s hiney as he bent to fetch a skillet.
The view rivaled my first sip of coffee.
“Hey, Mom.”
I nearly leapt off the stool.
“Jumpy much?” Grace grinned at me as if she knew exactly what I’d been looking at.
“Anarchy is cooking breakfast,” I said with as much dignity as I could muster.
“You’re letting a guest cook?”
“Someone told him about my cooking skills.”
She ran a hand through her messy hair and she shifted her gaze to the floor. “You don’t have cooking skills.”
“Which is why he’s cooking.”
“Morning, Grace.” Anarchy was grinning as if Grace and I were part of a skit on The Carol Burnett Show. Any moment now, Harvey Korman would appear.
“Morning,” she replied. “Can I help?”
“Can you cook?”
“Better than Mom.”
They exchanged a look that said Max was a better cook than me. I smiled at them both despite myself.
Brnng, brnng.
Not yet eight o’clock on a Saturday morning.
“I’ll get it,” said Anarchy.
“No!” I held up my hands. “I can’t have a man answer the phone so early in the morning.”
Brnng, brnng.
We stared at each other across the counter.
“Whoever was calling and hanging up stopped once I’d told them I’d called the police.”
A slight jerk of his chin was the only acknowledgment I got for my excellent point.
We had reached an impasse.
Brnng, brnng.
Grace rolled her eyes and answered the phone. “Hello.” She listened for a moment then held the receiver out to me (it would reach anywhere in the kitchen because she’d stretched the cord to its limit).
“Hello.”
“Ellison, it’s your father.”
“Hi, Daddy.” My father never called. Something awful was coming. I sensed its approach. “What’s wrong?”
He answered with silence.
“Daddy?”
“Is your mother at your house?”
“No. Why?” With my free hand, I clutched my coffee mug.
“She left me.”
Crash!
I’d stood and knocked over the stool. How had that happened? Also, there was coffee all over the counter. Coffee dripping onto the floor. How had that happened? “She what?”
“She’s gone.”
“Mother would never leave you.” She wouldn’t. People might talk.
“She left a note.”
“What does it say?”
“Harrington, I’m leaving you.”
I squeezed my eyes closed and pressed a hand against my chest. “It’s the ashes.”
“The ashes?”
“Mother found someone’s ashes in the front hall closet. She’s convinced they belong to another woman.”
“That’s ridiculous.” Finally, sanity.
“Exactly what I told Mother.”
“I would never leave Sylvia’s ashes where your mother might find them.”
Wait, what? “Who is Sylvia?” My voice was calm but my stomach was doing the merengue with my heart beat. I collapsed onto the stool next to the one I’d knocked over. I had to. My knees felt less solid then the eggs Anarchy had broken into a mixing bowl.
“Are you all right?” Grace whispered.
No. I wasn’t. I mimed drinking coffee and my angelic daughter brought me a fresh cup.
“Who is Sylvia?” I was pretty sure Daddy had heard me the first time.
“It happened a long time ago.”
Oh dear Lord. “You cheated on Mother?” My father had an affair. My father.
“It’s ancient history.” His tone told me that history was none of my damned business. “Do you have any idea where Frances might have gone?”
“No. If it’s ancient history, why would Mother think you’d put Sylvia’s ashes in the hall closet?”
Daddy didn’t answer.
“Daddy?”
“There are things you don’t know.”
Apparently.
“You’ve got to help me find your mother.”
I did?
I did. Daddy knew next to nothing about Mother’s haunts. “Maybe she’s driving to Marjorie’s.” My sister lived in Akron.
“By herself?” Now Daddy’s tone told me how far off he thought I was.
Admittedly, Mother barreling down I-70 by herself was unlikely but I couldn’t think of a single friend she’d trust with the knowledge that her perfect marriage was less than perfect.
Ding dong.
“Daddy, there’s someone at the door. Maybe it’s Mother. I’ll call you back.”
I stood, dropped the receiver into its cradle and hurried toward the front of the house.
“Wait, Ellison.” Anarchy edged past me and peered outside.
Satisfied that Ray Smith didn’t stand on the other side, he opened the front door.
All I could see was an enormous flower arrangement.
Big enough for a buffet table. And filled with over-the-top flowers—orchids and lisianthus and Gloriosa lilies.
Definitely not Mother. Where was she?
Anarchy opened the door and the flower arrangement said, “Delivery for Ellison Russell.”
“I’m Ellison Russell.” I stepped out of the way, allowing the delivery man entrance into my home.
“Where do you want ‘em, ma’am?”
“The living room.” I pointed, realized he couldn’t see me, and added, “To the right.”
Anarchy and I followed the delivery man into the living room. “Please put them on the library table.”
“
Whew.” The man, free of his load, planted his hands on his waist and twisted. “Those are heavy.” Hint, hint.
“Just a moment, I’ll grab my purse.”
“I’ve got it.” Anarchy pulled out his wallet and handed the man a few dollars.
The delivery man, hand pressed against his back, left us with the enormous arrangement.
“Is there a card?” I asked.
Anarchy reached, plucking a small white envelope from the center. “Here.”
I took the envelope and opened it.
Ellison, thanks for a wonderful evening. Wright
I rolled my eyes. I couldn’t help it.
Anarchy took the card from my hand. “Who is Wright?”
“The double date.” I spoke through gritted teeth.
“That must have been some date.”
“Not really.” Telling Anarchy everything did not include the embarrassing truth that Wright Halstrom had been so bored with my company that he’d faked a call to Hawaii. “No one got arrested and there were no trips to the ER.”
He stared at me, his eyes almost cop-like in their intensity.
“Seriously. I took Jane out for pie and we were still home in time to catch part of the ten o’clock news.”
His expression didn’t soften.
Was he jealous? Surely not.
Brnng, brnng.
I left him with the flowers (the living room was going to smell like a garden—or a funeral parlor, it was all in one’s perspective) and hurried back to the kitchen.
Brnng, brnng.
I took a deep breath, preparing to tell Daddy that Mother was still missing. “Hello.”
“Ellison,” said Libba. “I hope I’m not calling too early but I’ve got plans today and I wanted to remind you about the club party tonight.”
“About that—” someone was threatening us, Mother was missing, Daddy had a (dead) mistress (really?), and I had a teenage houseguest.
“Oh no you don’t. You promised.”
“Things have come up.”
“You promised.”
“Mom!” Grace stood at the bottom of the backstairs. Five feet away. Strictly speaking, she didn’t need to yell.
“You promised and I’m holding you to it.” Libba sounded adamant.
“Hold on, Libba.”
“Mom!” Grace drew the word out so that it lasted ten seconds. At least.
“What is it, Grace? I’m on the phone.”
Grace’s cheeks were flushed and there was a wild look in her eyes. “Jane’s gone.”
“Gone?” I stared at her unable to process that another person was missing. “You’re sure?”
“Positive.”
“Libba, I’m going to have to call you back. We have—we have a situation here.” I hung up the phone before Libba could argue. “Where did she go?”
Grace shook her head. “I have no idea but my car is gone. She stole it.”
Brnng, brnng.
“Your car?” Sweet nine-pound Baby Jesus. “Are you sure?”
“She’s gone. The car is gone.” Eye roll. “I’m pretty sure.”
Brnng, brnng.
“Hello!” My voice was too sharp. “Hello.”
“Have you heard from your mother?”
This again? “No, Daddy.”
“What are we going to do?” We?
I looked at Mr. Coffee but his only suggestion was more coffee. As suggestions went, it was a good one.
I looked at Grace. She’d crossed her arms and her expression said very clearly that the stolen car was my fault and should be my top priority.
I looked at Max—or where Max was supposed to be. He wasn’t there.
“Daddy, things are—” I rubbed my eyes with the heel of my hand “—things are chaotic here.”
Ding dong.
“I’ll get it,” said Grace.
“Wait!”
She paused in the doorway to the front hall.
“Where’s the bacon?”
Our eyes scanned the counters. No bacon. And worse, no Max.
“Daddy, I have to go. I’ll call you back soon. I promise.” I hung up the phone. “Max!”
My dog did not come.
I raced past Grace into the front hall. “Anarchy, did you leave the bacon out? I think Max—” the words died on my lips. Mother stood in my front hall.
“Ellison Walford Russell, what is going on?” She was talking to me but her gaze was fixed on Anarchy.
What is going on? I could ask her the same question. But, if Max had taken the bacon, all other questions were moot. No one would get any answers because I’d be at the emergency veterinarian all day having the dog’s stomach pumped (been there, done that).
“Anarchy, where’s the bacon?” I asked. The man wasn’t accustomed to a dog that counter-surfed and took what he wanted but there was an outside chance he’d put it back in the fridge.
“Max!” Grace’s voice carried. “Give me that!”
Max raced out of the dining room with the still-wrapped bacon clamped between his jaws. He saw Mother and changed course.
“Max! Bad dog!”
Max was not listening to Grace.
He flew back into the dining room.
I followed him.
The dog took a ready-to-run stance at one end of the dining room table.
Grace stood ready on the other side.
Getting the bacon back required a pincer maneuver. We had to come at him from both sides. Catch him in the middle.
But he had bacon. Our usual maneuver was doomed to failure. He eluded us by dashing under the table.
“Max! Drop it.” The dog rolled his eyes at me and feinted left. Bacon!
Anarchy grabbed his collar.
Max turned his doggy head and looked up at Anarchy with liquid eyes. He had bacon. Surely no one would deprive him of such a treat.
Anarchy clasped the package and pulled the bacon from Max’s teeth.
“I wouldn’t have that dog.” Mother posed in the arched doorway to the dining room, a tragic figure forced to deal with her daughter’s craziness when her own life was falling apart. “Where did those flowers come from? The arrangement is very large.” Translation: very gauche.
“I went on a double date with Libba last night. A friend of Bill’s. He sent them.”
“Bill?”
“No, his friend.” I took the mangled package of bacon from Anarchy’s outstretched hand. “Daddy’s called here twice.”
Mother lifted her nose. “I do not wish to talk to your father.”
For the love of Pete. “Talk to him. Don’t talk to him. I need coffee.”
I turned on my heel and headed toward Mr. Coffee.
Mother followed me. “Your father—”
I held up a hand. “I don’t want to hear it.”
“But—”
“No buts. You and Daddy work this out. Or don’t. It is your problem, not mine.”
“But—”
I shook my head and kept walking, taking care to keep the bacon package out of Max’s reach.
The six of us—me, Grace, Max, Anarchy, Mother, and Mr. Coffee—reconvened in the kitchen.
I returned the bacon package to the fridge.
Grace righted the fallen stool.
Max slunk over to his spot.
Anarchy poured me a fresh cup of coffee.
Mother glared.
And Mr. Coffee shared his sunny face with all of us.
“Grace, we’ll discuss your problem later.” I shifted my gaze to the not-remotely-repentant dog. “You’re in big trouble, mister.”
“I’m sorry about the bacon,” said Anarchy. “I had no idea he’d take something off the counter.”
It was a rookie mistake. As he wa
s around more, he’d learn Max’s tricks. “All’s well that ends well.”
As for Mother, I studied her carefully. Not a hair out of place. Perfectly dressed. A familiar put-upon expression on her face. “You’re being dramatic. You’re never dramatic.”
“Your father—”
“I know. He told me. But he also said it was ancient history.”
Mother snorted. Mother never snorted. Then, like any good general who sees a battle being lost, she changed strategies. “What is Detective Jones doing here so early in the morning?”
“Detective Jones spent the night.”
Mother’s mouth opened and closed. Like a goldfish. Or a woman struck dumb by her daughter’s scandalous revelation.
“Ellison received a credible threat,” said Anarchy. “I spent the night on the couch just to make sure she and Grace and Jane stayed safe.”
Mother’s eyes narrowed “Who is Jane?” She turned on me. “Why is someone threatening you?”
Oh dear. Then it hit me—two could play that change-strategies game. “Why did you leave Daddy?”
“I’d like coffee.”
“Of course.” I’d never deny Mother coffee, no matter how badly she annoyed me. I poured her a cup.
She took it from me, sipped, and said, “Thank you.” Her tone left no doubt she was barely surviving a life-altering tragedy.
“Why leave now, Mother? You’ve obviously known about Sylvia for a while.” I wrapped my hands tightly around my mug.
“He told you her name?”
“He did. Answer the question.”
Mother’s gaze shifted from Grace to Anarchy and her lip curled slightly. “You’re right. I knew about Sylvia for years. Karma, too.”
I swallowed a sigh—and some coffee. “Who is Karma?”
“Your half-sister.”
Which is how I dropped my second cup of coffee in one morning.
I spluttered. I wiped the front of my sweater with the tea towel a pale-faced Grace forced into my hands. I clutched the edge of the counter. “My what?”
“Your half-sister.” Mother’s gaze shifted between Grace and Anarchy as if she regretted dropping this bombshell in front of her granddaughter and a cop.
“How old is Karma?” Grace posed an excellent question.
SHADOW DANCING Page 14
