I took the phone from him, covered the mouthpiece with the palm of my hand, and said, “I should go get her.” I’d feel better knowing Grace was safe in her own house. With me. With Anarchy.
“Let her sleep. Nothing will happen to her at her friend’s house.”
He was right. My head knew it. My heart rebelled. “But—”
“No, buts. We’ll pick her up first thing in the morning.”
Picking up Grace bumped calling the locksmith from the top of the to-do list. Unless—
I brought the receiver to my ear. “India, do you feel safe? Do you want me to come get her?”
“We’re locked up tighter than Fort Knox and your detective is sending a squad car. Grace is fine. Donna and me, too. Don’t worry.”
I still wanted to feel my daughter in my arms, tactile proof that she was unharmed. Proof that the horrific threats were only threats. “I’ll come get her in the morning. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
We hung up and I stared at Anarchy.
“What exactly did the person on the phone say?”
I took a deep breath. “It was a man. He said I should stay out of this or Grace would spend the rest of her days strung out on heroin with her legs spread for a line of johns.” The words and the awful image they conjured were branded on my psyche.
The scowl that settled on Anarchy’s face was fearsome. “What do you know that you’re not telling me?”
“Nothing. I promise.” I might not have the best track record when it came to sharing but this time, right now, Anarchy knew everything I did.
“Why call you?”
“I don’t know. I saw that man—Ray—twice. Three times if you count identifying his body.”
“Who brought the car back? Ray?”
If Ray had Grace’s car, that would mean Jane had returned to him when she ran away. “I don’t know. Maybe. I heard tires squeal right after the shot was fired.”
“Do you think it was Jane in the other car?”
“I have no idea. Maybe. Maybe not. She had to have given him Grace’s keys at some point.”
I lowered my face to my hands. My neck ached with tension and the caffeine Mr. Coffee had shared with me jittered in my veins. “Do you think—” I looked up. Looked into Anarchy’s warm brown eyes “—Do you think Ray’s death is related to the girls who were found shot in the alleys downtown?”
Anarchy shrugged. Sharing information was not a two-way street.
“What about Patrick Conover’s death?” I glanced down at my hands clasped tightly in my lap. “His wife said he was doing business with some unsavory people.”
“Who is Patrick Conover?” Anarchy’s tone was frightening. I looked up at him.
“We came across his obit. He was shot and left in a downtown alley, too.”
Anarchy rubbed the back of his neck as if he too held tension there.
“Who is we?”
“Me. And Aggie.”
“Why were you looking at obits?”
I told him about the ashes in Mother’s closet and our attempts to identify them.
“Aggie and I were looking for possibilities.”
“Where and when did you talk to Conover’s widow?” He made it sound as if I’d been sneaking around, conducting some sort of clandestine investigation.
“At the club party earlier this evening.”
Anarchy gave up rubbing his neck and pinched the bridge of his nose.
I sat and watched him. “Do you want coffee?”
“What? Why?”
“You look as if you could use a cup.”
“No. Thank you.” He shifted his gaze to a point somewhere above my head. “Please tell me how you put all this together.”
“I didn’t put much together. Not really.”
That earned me a scowl. “Ellison.” There was a dangerous edge to his voice.
I gathered up my jumpy nerves and stuffed them into a closet near the back of my brain. “Leesa, who was shot in an alley, knew Jane. I’m assuming Jane knew the other girls who were shot.”
Anarchy’s expression was fierce.
A few nerves snuck out of the closet. “Or maybe she didn’t.” I swallowed and kept going. “She knew Ray. And now Ray’s dead. Shot.” I probably didn’t need to add that part. “As for Patrick Conover—” I bit my lip and stared up at the ceiling “—this sounds awful.”
“What?”
“People like us don’t get shot in alleys.” I spoke in a rush. And a wash of guilt warmed my skin. No one should get shot in an alley. Not Patrick. Not Leesa. Not the other girls. “It’s odd. And suspicious. And I can’t help but wonder if all the murders are related.”
“What unsavory people?”
“Pardon me?” The escaped nerves tap-danced on my spinal cord.
“You talked to Conover’s wife. She said unsavory people. Who?”
“She didn’t say.” I ignored the nerves’ tapping and shifted my gaze from the ceiling to Anarchy’s face. “She was going to tell me but Libba interrupted us.”
Anarchy muttered something about Libba (it didn’t sound complimentary) and went back to rubbing his neck.
I did not take this as a good sign.
Ding dong.
For once, I was glad to hear the doorbell. “I’ll get that.”
“We’ll get that.”
I wasn’t about to argue. Anarchy was in a mood.
Together we walked to the front door.
Together we reached for the handle.
Our fingers brushed.
Fire.
I pulled my hand away.
Anarchy pulled open the front door.
Detective Peters stood on the other side looking more rumpled, disgruntled, and unpleasant than ever. “We’re done here. Let’s go.”
“I’m staying.”
He was?
Peters glared at me like I was someone who kicked puppies as a hobby—or stole partners. He was clearly unhappy about Anarchy spending the night.
Peters was unhappy?
Mother would be apoplectic.
Seventeen
Anarchy insisted I get some sleep (like that could ever happen).
I insisted I couldn’t possibly sleep (no way, no how).
Max yawned.
“Too much has happened,” I explained. “My brain won’t turn off.” Plus, he was in my house. Again.
“Just try.” He coupled his request with a look that could melt steel.
As any woman would, I melted.
I melted, handed over blankets and pillows for the couch, and climbed the stairs to my bedroom. I’d rest my head on a pillow for a few minutes and prove him wrong.
My eyes opened shortly after eight. The light sneaking past the curtains had a gray, translucent quality and the patter of rain was loud enough to breech the window’s glass.
It was a day made for staying in bed. On any other Sunday, I would have done just that—lingered beneath my blankets with the paper or a book (not Michener—not in the morning) and a cup of coffee.
I swung my feet to the floor and stumbled into the bathroom.
Twenty minutes later, I was showered, dressed, and presentable (if one overlooked the dark circles beneath my eyes). I daubed on some concealer, brushed my lashes with mascara, and hurried downstairs for my morning rendezvous with Mr. Coffee.
Anarchy was already in the kitchen. “Did you sleep?”
“I did.”
He smirked. Funny. Up until that moment, I’d found smirking unattractive. Not anymore. I clutched the counter with one hand and accepted the cup of coffee he was offering with the other.
“We’re supposed to pick up Grace at nine,” he said.
I blinked.
“And I called a locksmith. H
e’ll be here at ten.”
I blinked again. And sipped my coffee. Words would kick in after the first cup. Hopefully.
“Do you want eggs?” he asked. “I’m making you breakfast.”
Anarchy Jones was the perfect man.
I gulped my coffee. “I can cook.”
He ignored my suggestion. “Scrambled?”
“I can make them.”
“Just sit down, Ellison.” He took the cup from my hands and refilled it.
I sat.
Anarchy took the egg carton from the fridge and cracked eggs into a bowl.
With one hand.
Show off.
I couldn’t crack eggs into the bowl with two hands. Whenever I tried, half the white slithered down the outside of the bowl and made a sticky mess on the counter.
He opened a drawer and pulled out a whisk.
Ding dong.
“I’ll get that.”
His lips thinned.
“It’s broad daylight and Max will come with me, won’t you Max?”
Max yawned.
Anarchy rested the whisk against the edge of the bowl.
“Seriously, it will be fine.”
Max and I walked down the hallway to the front door. I pretended I couldn’t feel Anarchy’s gaze fixed on my back.
Rather than opening the door, I peeked out the side panel.
My father waited on the stoop and he looked awful. Fifteen years older than before Mother left. Gaunt. There was stubble on his chin. Stubble. Mother leaving had hit him hard. Much as I was dying to know about my mysterious half-sister, now didn’t look like the best time to ask. Besides, I had more immediate problems.
I yanked open the door. “Come in.”
Daddy stepped into the front hall.
I reached up on my tip-toes, kissed his cheek, and, ignoring his wet rain coat, wrapped my arms around his neck. “I’m glad you’re here.”
Daddy’s arms wrapped around me. For half a second I was nine, with a father who could fix anything, and all was right with the world.
There were things not even Daddy could fix. I pulled away. “Let me take your coat.”
I took Daddy’s dripping trench and hung it over the newel post. “Are you hungry?”
“Is Aggie here?” There was note in his voice that said, quite clearly, he was hungry but didn’t want breakfast if I was cooking.
“Aggie is away. Anarchy’s making eggs.”
“The detective? What’s he doing here?”
“He spent the night on the couch.”
Daddy’s eyebrows rose.
“He didn’t want me to be here alone after a man was murdered in the front yard.”
Daddy couldn’t argue with that sentiment—Mother could have. “Where’s Grace?”
“She spent the night with a friend.”
“What happened here last night?” He sounded more like himself, a man accustomed to running things, fixing things.
“Come on back to the kitchen, I’ll get you some coffee and tell you everything.”
I poured Daddy a cup while he and Anarchy exchanged tight nods.
“I understand you looked after my daughter last night.” Daddy accepted his coffee. “Thank you.” He was talking to Anarchy not me.
“My pleasure, Mr. Walford.”
“Harrington.”
Oh. Wow. Harrington.
“Harrington,” said Anarchy.
Ding dong.
“I’ll get that.”
Both men looked at me as if I’d lost my mind.
With Anarchy, Daddy, and Max trailing behind me, I returned to the front door and pulled it open.
Bruce Petteway thrust a bouquet of flowers at me. “I wanted to apologize for last night. My niece is a florist and she says these are apology flowers.” He’d dragged his niece out of bed on a Sunday morning to create a bouquet? He should be apologizing to her.
The bouquet was lovely—blue hyacinths, white roses, and pink carnations.
The hyacinths smelled like they’d been picked from a garden in heaven. I smiled—but I did not forgive. Bruce had ruined a perfectly good Mercedes. “They’re lovely. Thank you.”
Bruce noticed Anarchy and Daddy. I didn’t realize you had guests—” he glanced around my warm, dry foyer and wiped a raindrop from the tip of his nose “—may I come in?”
Behind me, I could sense Anarchy and Daddy exchanging looks.
“I’m really quite busy.”
“It will only take a moment. Please.”
A gust of wind blew water through the doorway.
“Fine.” I stepped aside and allowed him entrance.
“Ellison, give me those flowers.” Daddy took the bouquet from my hands. “Detective Jones, she keeps the vases on the top shelf and I’ve got a touch of vertigo.”
Liar, liar. Daddy was being kind, allowing Bruce a moment alone to say his piece without an audience. Bruce didn’t deserve such kindness.
Daddy, Anarchy, and the hyacinths disappeared down the hallway.
Bruce, Max, and I remained.
Bruce cleared his throat. “About last night—”
“I don’t want to talk about last night.” I didn’t want to think about last night. I longed for a magic wand that would erase the memory of last night.
“So you won’t tell Joyce?” He stood as stiff and straight as a nine iron.
That was what got him up on a Sunday morning, out in wretched weather? He worried I’d tell Joyce I’d caught him grinding gears with Prudence in my Mercedes?
“Telling Joyce would be cruel.”
Bruce’s shoulders relaxed.
“I’m going to tell her lawyer.” Not the nicest thing to say to a man who’d brought me flowers but true.
The color drained from Bruce’s face and his eyes narrowed. “You wouldn’t.”
“I would. I will.”
He stepped closer to me, invading my space. He smelled of damp and last night’s vodka. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”
The hair on the Max’s back stood up in a neat little ridge and he growled.
Bruce’s face scrunched into something mean and nasty. “I mean it, Ellison. If you know what’s good for you, you won’t—”
“Elli, should Jones cook the eggs? Are you almost done?” My father stood in the doorway to the kitchen.
Bruce’s gaze traveled from me to my father. “I’m not kidding, Ellison.”
“Are you threatening me?” Unlike Bruce, I spoke loud enough for my father to hear.
Daddy said something over his shoulder and Anarchy joined him in the doorway.
Faced with two scowling men, Bruce said, “No. Of course not. You misunderstood.”
“I thought as much. Thank you for the flowers.” I opened the front door.
With a final threatening glare, Bruce left.
I closed the door firmly. The house shook.
“What was that all about?” asked Daddy.
“You don’t want to know.” I walked back to the kitchen.
“He threatened you. Why?” Compared to Anarchy’s expression, the weather outside was balmy and pleasant.
I might as well tell them. “I caught him having sex with Prudence Davies in my new car.”
Daddy spit coffee across the counter.
Anarchy covered his mouth. Hiding a smile? Hiding a scowl?
“He doesn’t want me to tell his wife, or her lawyer.” I fiddled with the floral arrangement that was perfuming my kitchen. “Don’t worry about Bruce. It’s an empty threat.”
Daddy wiped his sweater with a tea towel. “Ellison is right. All hat, no cattle. Always has been.”
Anarchy, looking only slightly mollified, poured the eggs into a skillet.
Daddy warmed my coff
ee
I sat.
Ding dong.
Seriously? It was Sunday morning. What was wrong with people?
Anarchy raised his gaze from the skillet of eggs and a look passed between him and my father.
“Come on, Elli. Let’s get the door.”
They’d silently decided I couldn’t open a door by myself? Oh dear Lord.
“Stay. Here.” I stood. “Come on, Max.”
With a sigh (I asked so much of him—there was food in the kitchen), Max trotted down the hallway with me.
I peeked outside.
Wright Halstrom waited on the front stoop. He’d parked an enormous, presumably undefiled, Mercedes in the drive.
I opened the door. “Wright.”
He thrust a bouquet of roses at me.
It was déjà vu all over again.
“Thank you. They’re lovely.”
“I’d like to take you out for brunch.” Wright spoke with the assurance of a man so handsome he’d never had a woman turn him down.
“I’m sorry, I can’t.”
A shadow passed over his features.
Who was I to disappoint Adonis in human form? “I really am sorry, Wright.” Why did I apologize? I wasn’t sorry. He’d appeared at my house without an invitation and expected me to drop everything and go out with him.
“I won’t take no for an answer.” He coupled this pronouncement with a dazzling smile.
I focused my gaze on something other than his white teeth—on the street where a blue Impala was cruising slowly by. “I’m afraid you’ll have to. I can’t go.”
“But we didn’t get much of a chance to chat last night. Libba tells me your art would be perfect for my new hotel in Chicago. We need pieces for the lobby and the rooftop restaurant. We could discuss an acquisition over Eggs Benedict.”
Without so much as seeing a canvas? “As tempting as that sounds, I must pass.”
“Elli, your eggs are ready.” Daddy’s voice carried down the hallway.
“You have company.”
“My father.”
“I’d love to meet him.” Wright pushed past me and headed for the kitchen.
I stood in the foyer, flabbergasted. Who did that? Who barged into someone’s home?
Wright Halstrom. And he’d disappeared into the kitchen.
I closed the front door and followed. Slowly. The combination of Anarchy, Daddy, and Wright struck me as combustive.
SHADOW DANCING Page 18
