SHADOW DANCING

by Julie Mulhern

“Hmph.”

  We followed her to the hospital. In the Mercedes. Not thinking about what had happened in the passenger seat where Grace sat was the best policy. I needed a new car.

  “I’m really sorry, Mom. About the back door.”

  “It’s okay, honey. I’m just glad you’re safe.”

  “Why—” she looked down at her hands. They were clasped together in her lap.

  “Why did Bruce invade our home and point a gun at you?” Just thinking about it made my fingers tighten on the steering wheel.

  She nodded.

  “Either he’s a murderer or he’s having a very bad divorce.”

  “I hope it’s the divorce. It’s too scary to think about a multiple murderer digging a gun into my ribs.”

  It was too scary to think of anyone digging a gun into her ribs.

  I needn’t have worried that the staff at the hospital would forget me. They greeted me like a long-lost family member. “Mrs. Russell, how are you? Mrs. Russell, it’s nice to see you. Mrs. Russell, who did you bring in tonight?”

  “Fine. Nice to see you too. I’m here about Margaret Hamilton.”

  They put her on the fast track. And I didn’t even mention Mother’s name.

  Two hours later, Mrs. Hamilton was in the passenger seat of the Mercedes. “I told you it was just a scratch.”

  “You were right.” I wasn’t about to argue with her.

  “It was nice of you to follow me—and to wait. Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.” I fixed my gaze on the road ahead of us. “Thank you. You saved us.”

  “Hmph.” Mrs. Hamilton turned away, her gaze fixed on the darkness outside the passenger window.

  I drove in silence.

  Grace, who sat in the backseat, had the good sense to stay quiet.

  I pulled into Margaret Hamilton’s drive, stopped under the porte cochere, and hurried around to the passenger’s side to help her out.

  She opened the car door herself. “Thank you.” She regarded me with beady black eyes. “Thank you, Ellison.”

  She’d never called me by my first name. Never invited me to use her first name.

  I took a breath. “It was my pleasure, Margaret.”

  We stared at each other for a moment then she opened the door to her home and sent me on my way with a firm nod of her chin. “Keep that dog out of my yard.”

  “I will.”

  “And buy him a bone from me.”

  “Consider it done.”

  Grace and I pulled up our own drive, parked behind the house, and entered through the back door.

  Grace looked around the empty kitchen. “I want cocoa. Do you want cocoa?”

  “Sure. Give me a minute and I’ll make it for you.” I walked toward the family room.

  “I’ll make it,” she offered.

  “Thanks.”

  I stepped into the family room.

  Bruce was gone.

  Officer Hewn was gone.

  The smear of Margaret’s blood on the wall was gone.

  The pizza was gone.

  Anarchy was there.

  We stared at each other. Lord only knew what I looked like. He looked perfect. Coffee-brown eyes, slightly sardonic grin, his hair mussed as if he’d been running his fingers through it as he waited for me to come home. Be still my heart.

  “How’s your neighbor?”

  “She’ll be fine. How’s Jane?”

  “She’s safe.” A twitch at the corner of his mouth threatened to turn his sardonic grin into a genuine smile. “I’ll need to take statements.”

  “Can it wait till tomorrow?”

  “I’ll be here.”

  He would? “Oh?”

  “I’m spending the night.”

  “The neighbors will talk.”

  “The neighbors are already talking.”

  I couldn’t argue that. “Grace is making cocoa. Would you like some?”

  He gifted me an actual smile. “I would. Thank you.”

  We walked back to the kitchen with his fingertips burning a hole in the back of my sweater.

  Grace looked up from the stove and smirked at us. “I made enough for three.”

  We sat around the island in companionable silence and drank hot cocoa.

  Grace finished first. “I’m tired.” She stood, rinsed her cup, and put it in the dishwasher. “I’m going to bed. See you in the morning.”

  “Wait.” I rose from my stool and hugged her tightly. “I am so, so glad you’re okay. I love you.”

  “Love you too, Mom. And don’t worry, I’m not like traumatized or anything. Mr. Petteway wasn’t nearly as scary as some of the people we’ve faced.”

  Oh dear Lord. How many evil people had we faced? I’d lost count. Apparently, Grace had not.

  Mother was right. My finding bodies had to stop. I could retreat to my studio, paint, and keep my nose far, far away from other people’s problems. Then Grace wouldn’t have to deal with guns and blood and fear. “I am so sorry.”

  “It’s not your fault.” She grinned. “Besides, life at our house is never boring.” With that, she kissed my cheek and disappeared up the backstairs.

  “She’s a great kid.”

  “She is,” I agreed.

  “She’s got a great mother.”

  I shook my head. “There’s nothing wrong with boring. Grace’s biggest worry should be her date for next weekend, not getting shot in the family room.”

  Anarchy stood. Anarchy wrapped an arm around my back, pulling me close. Anarchy traced my cheekbone with the pad of his thumb. “Don’t worry about Grace. That kid has more bounce to her than a rubber ball.”

  My word-forming ability fled.

  He leaned down and brushed his lips across mine.

  Fire.

  “Want to grab those blankets and pillows?”

  “What?” There. I’d formed a word.

  “I’m spending the night on the couch.”

  “You don’t have to do that. We’re fine.”

  “I’m not convinced Bruce killed Ray.” He released me. “I’m not convinced Bruce killed anyone.”

  I wanted to disagree—life could return to normal if Bruce was the killer—but I couldn’t. “I’ll get them.”

  A moment later I stood in the family room handing over a stack of bedding. “What if Rocky was telling the truth? What if the killer is a real estate developer?”

  “Rocky telling the truth?” Anarchy raised his brows. “Not a snowball’s chance. Why don’t you let me worry about killers and—” his voice died.

  Something in my expression killed it. “Let me worry about killers—”

  “That sounded patronizing, didn’t it?”

  Uh, yes. Incredibly so. I nodded.

  “That’s not how I meant it. Catching killers is my job.”

  “And my job is painting pretty pictures.”

  “Ellison—” with his free hand, he raked his fingers through his hair and his brow furrowed “—I’m making a mess of this. I apologize.” He dropped the bedding on the back of the couch and stepped closer to me. “You are a brilliant—” he leaned forward and brushed my cheek with a kiss “—capable—” now a kiss tickled the corner of my mouth “—brave woman.”

  How could I possibly stay annoyed with a man who kissed me like that? Especially when his eyes told me he meant every word he said?

  “I’m just old-fashioned enough to want to protect you.”

  I nodded and took a step away from him. I had to. If I didn’t, I’d melt into his arms like some old-fashioned damsel who needed protecting. I shifted my gaze to the stack of sheets and blankets and pillows. “You’ve got everything you need?”

  “Not by a long shot.”

  I wanted that instant—the sudden joyous leap o
f my heart, the warmth in Anarchy’s gaze, the electricity arcing between us—caught in amber. A precious jewel of a moment to be treasured forever.

  “Good night.” The only words I could manage.

  I climbed the stairs slowly. The weight of my thoughts affecting my feet.

  Anarchy and me? A future?

  I considered the possibility as I washed my face, as I brushed my teeth, as I selected a silk nightgown the shade of midnight instead of flannel pajamas. I considered and reached no conclusions.

  One thing I did know, Anarchy’s antagonism toward Rocky O’Hearne had colored his judgment. The things Rocky had told us—they’d stuck with me—they had the ring of truth. And if Rocky was telling the truth, then I knew who’d killed all those people.

  If. A big if. One I couldn’t hope to prove.

  I pulled back the comforter and climbed into bed.

  Max circled three times then settled onto his bed with a tired sigh. Being a hero was exhausting work.

  “Thank you, Max. I love you.”

  He didn’t reply. He didn’t have to.

  I settled into my pillows and closed my eyes.

  I opened them again five minutes—two hours—later. Something was wrong. I felt the wrongness in my bones.

  I lay in bed and listened—the heat blew through the vents, the wind outside rushed through the trees and flung an occasional leaf or twig against the house.

  Nothing amiss.

  But something didn’t feel right.

  I reached into the drawer of my bedside table, picked up my gun, and slid out of bed.

  Max lifted his head.

  “Am I imagining things?” I whispered.

  He rose to his paws.

  Together we tiptoed down the hall. Together we paused at the top of the stairs.

  Voices.

  I heard voices.

  I tightened my grip on the gun and descended the stairs. Maybe Anarchy was watching television—except there was nothing on past midnight on a Sunday night.

  Maybe Anarchy was talking to Grace—except the timbre of the voices was too deep.

  Maybe—maybe there was a stranger in my house.

  I sidled down the hallway toward the family room.

  “Where is she?” A man’s voice. Not Anarchy’s.

  My mouth was sand-trap dry.

  “You won’t find her. Besides, she can’t identify you.”

  “I guess that means you’re the only one.”

  I was glad of that dark nightgown.

  I hid in the shadows just outside the doorway to the family room.

  Anarchy, sleep-mussed and unarmed, stood with his hands raised.

  And—dammit, I hated being right—Bill had a gun pointed straight at Anarchy’s heart.

  Twenty-Two

  Outside, the March wind shredded clouds and bent tree branches. Their shadows danced—waltzed through the family room—with the furniture, the walls, the men.

  My heart danced in my chest. Not a waltz. More like a quick-step. One that left me breathless.

  I gasped for air. “Put down the gun, Bill.”

  “Dammit, Ellison.” Given that Bill had a gun pointed at his chest, Anarchy ought not curse at me.

  I took a breath. A deep one. “I mean it, Bill. Put down the gun.”

  “Or what?” Bill was not taking me seriously.

  “Or I’ll shoot you.” Somehow, I kept the tremble in my throat out of my voice.

  “I wish you would have stayed in bed, Ellison.” Bill’s voice was tinged with regret.

  Anarchy nodded as if he agreed.

  “It didn’t have to be this way.” Bill shook his head sadly.

  The shadows danced again and for an instant, Bill stood in the light, the expression on his face clear as day. He meant to kill us both. The gun in his hand was still pointed at Anarchy.

  I closed my eyes for an instant. “Please, Bill. I don’t want to shoot you.”

  “You won’t shoot.” He sounded so certain.

  “Last chance,” I warned.

  “If you were going to shoot me, you’d have done it by now.” Another man—this time a dangerous man—underestimating my resolve.

  His mistake.

  Bang!

  Bill went down and his gun skittered across the floor.

  Anarchy lunged for the fallen weapon.

  I lunged for the light switch.

  Bill didn’t lunge at all. Bill didn’t move.

  Oh dear Lord. Why couldn’t I breathe? I’d shot countless targets. Even won medals. Shooting a person was different. My stomach heaved. Thank God I’d never had a chance to eat any pizza. I swallowed bile.

  “Is he—?”

  Anarchy scowled down at the man on the floor and the fast-growing pool of blood. “You shot him in the arm, Ellison. He’ll live.”

  I pressed my hand against my mouth and leaned on the wall. I’d shot someone.

  Bill groaned.

  Anarchy strode across the room, grabbed the receiver from its cradle, and jabbed his finger into the dial.

  Max stood at attention next to me, ready to lunge if Bill so much as moved.

  Anarchy barked into the phone.

  Bill groaned. Again.

  Grace ran into the family room (she wore flannel pajamas). “Mom?”

  “Everything’s all right, honey.”

  She looked at Bill bleeding on the floor. Obviously I was lying.

  “No. It’s not. You’re shaking.”

  I was?

  I held my free hand in front of me. It quivered like an Aspen leaf.

  Grace glanced at Anarchy. “Come on, Mom. Sit down for a minute.” She led me to a chair and asked, “What happened?”

  “Bill broke in—” he must have broken in. Surely Anarchy didn’t open the door for him “—and threatened Anarchy. I shot him. Everything’s all right, now.” And would be until I told Libba I shot her boyfriend.

  “I think you’re in shock. Anarchy? Some help?”

  No. No, no, no. I was not a damsel in distress. “I’m fine, Grace.”

  She regarded me with doubt in her eyes. “Why did Bill threaten Anarchy?”

  “Bill is the killer.”

  “What?” Her brow wrinkled.

  I nodded. “As near as I can tell, Bill had a lot at stake in getting the new convention hotel built on time. The businesses on 12th Street have been slow to move out. Bill thought he could get the strip clubs closed down sooner if there were enough murders associated with them.”

  “He killed Jane’s friend?”

  I nodded.

  Grace stared long and hard at the man on the floor. “And he came here to kill Anarchy?”

  Killing Anarchy hadn’t been his purpose—more of a bi-product. “He came here looking for Jane.”

  Anarchy stopped barking and hung up the phone. He turned, looked at me, and his eyes widened.

  Midnight silk. I should have gone with the flannel pajamas.

  Or not.

  He crossed the space between us in a heartbeat, knelt next to me, and took the gun from my hand. “Are you okay?”

  I thought a moment. “No. But I will be.”

  “There are more officers on their way.”

  I didn’t fancy welcoming a bunch of police officers in my nightgown. “I’ll get dressed.” I pushed myself up and out of the chair and swished down the hall with Max and Grace at my heels.

  Dressed meant jeans, a sweater, and loafers.

  Then I made coffee. I even whispered to Mr. Coffee, “Two shootings in one day. It’s a good thing Mother is in Palm Springs.”

  He offered me a sympathetic gurgle.

  Ding dong.

  I opened the door to Detective Peters. He looked like the call to my house had pulled
him from bed. Stubble, wrinkled clothes, cranky expression. Of course, that was his usual appearance, so maybe he’d been sitting by the phone.

  “What the hell happened here?” he demanded.

  “I shot an intruder.”

  “An armed intruder?”

  “Yes.”

  Detective Peters’ habitual scowl deepened. It would have pleased him greatly to charge me with assault. Since Bill was armed, shooting him was self-defense.

  “Everyone is in the family room,” I said.

  He knew the way.

  I planted myself in the kitchen in close proximity to Mr. Coffee.

  A string of policemen paraded through my kitchen. I offered all of them coffee.

  None of them accepted.

  More for me. I gripped the handle of my mug and waited.

  Grace waited with me. “I have a question.”

  “Shoot.” I winced. “Poor choice of words. What’s your question?”

  “Mr. Petteway wanted to stop you from talking to his wife’s divorce attorney, right?”

  “Right.”

  “What were you going to say?”

  No. No, no, no. No way was I telling Grace about the happenings in the passenger seat of the Mercedes. “I don’t think it matters now.”

  She stared at me. “You’re not going to tell me, are you?”

  “No.” I smiled at her. “I’m not.”

  She didn’t argue. She yawned.

  “You should go to bed, honey.”

  Grace shook her head. “I don’t want to leave you.”

  My heart swelled with love. “I’m fine.”

  She didn’t look convinced.

  “You go on to bed. This is the boring part.” I knew from experience. “They’ll be tromping through here for hours.” I sipped my coffee. “Besides, it’ll be hell getting up for school tomorrow if you don’t get some sleep.”

  “School?”

  “Tomorrow is Monday.” I looked at the wall clock. “Today is Monday.”

  Grace, God love her, rolled her eyes. If ever there was indicator for all being well in a teenager’s life…“Fine.” A huff not a word. She stomped over to the base of the staircase. “Love you, Mom.”

  “Love you, too.” More than anything.

  She disappeared up the stairs and I sipped my coffee.

  I gave my statement to a uniformed officer.

  I drank more coffee.