CLOUDS IN MY COFFEE

by Julie Mulhern

  Sis removed her heel from the butter. “Is the mouse gone?”

  “Yes,” I called from the stage.

  She extended her hand toward Anarchy. “I would be grateful for your assistance.” She scooched toward the edge of the table.

  “The mouse?” asked Anarchy.

  Aunt Sis nodded. “That’s what started all this.” She put her hand in his, looked up at him and froze.

  Anarchy Jones ought to be used to the effect he has on women. Tall, lean face, sandy blonde hair and brown eyes that manage—somehow—to be even more attractive than the first cup of coffee in the morning. Who could resist?

  Maybe he didn’t notice Aunt Sis staring at him slack-jawed and dazzled.

  Anarchy doesn’t miss much. He can’t; he investigates homicides.

  He’d investigated me.

  I cleared my throat and pitched my voice to extra-loud. “No one is dead.”

  Anarchy’s lips quirked as if I’d amused him. He led Aunt Sis to a chair. “Where are you from, ma’am?”

  “I’m a citizen of the world. Please call me Sis.” Her lashes fluttered a mile a minute. “All my friends do.”

  Oh dear Lord. Aunt Sis was flirting with Anarchy.

  I tiptoed through the wreckage on the stage, avoiding mashed beans, a minefield of new potatoes and flattened fritters, descended the stairs, and approached my aunt.

  “I told you,” she said. “I told you tonight would be a unique experience.”

  “You were right.”

  “How do you two know each other?”

  She nodded at Anarchy then me.

  “Detective Jones investigated Henry’s murder.”

  “I see.” Aunt Sis rubbed her chin. When Mother did that, she was up to something. Was it a family trait? “So you’re old friends?”

  One of Anarchy’s brows rose. As for me, the ability to form a coherent sentence up and left, departing faster than theatre patrons fleeing a mouse.

  “You could say that,” said Anarchy.

  Around us, the room filled with uniformed police officers. One collected abandoned purses. Another put Vic, the would-be mouse killer, in handcuffs. Killing a mouse might not be illegal, but running through a crowded theater with a nine-inch knife was.

  From her chair, Aunt Sis gazed up at Anarchy, her lips curled in an enigmatic smile. “Seeing as you and Ellison are old friends, would you do me a favor?”

  “I’d be delighted.”

  “My sister is chairing a party on Saturday night. Would you escort me?”

  What happened to fish and bicycles?

  What happened to decorum? Aunt Sis had to be at least twenty years older than Anarchy—maybe more.

  This wasn’t New York; widows and women of a certain age didn’t depend on charming gay men to take them to happenings. We didn’t have walkers in Kansas City. And if we did, no one—NO ONE—would mistake Anarchy for a gay man.

  He sent an absolutely unreadable—inscrutable—glance my way, bowed slightly, then said, “It would be my pleasure.”

  When Mother found out, she was going to have apoplexy. I might join her.

  Three

  Mother held the benefactors’ party at the museum. She’d have liked to hold the gala there, but there simply wasn’t room.

  In 1908, R.A. Long spent a million dollars on its construction. He built Corinthian Hall as a home, not a museum, but his daughters grew up and married, Long and his wife passed away, and, during the thirties in the depths of the depression, no one wanted to take on the upkeep of a seventy-room mansion.

  Long’s daughters gave the empty building to the Kansas City Museum.

  Now instead of European antiques, Corinthian Hall housed stuffed polar bears and a concrete igloo, dioramas, and a trading post. Children loved it, and tonight it served up a very different backdrop for a very familiar party.

  Mother, wearing Chanel in shades of copper, harvest gold and asparagus green, greeted people as they entered. Daddy stood next to her with a neat scotch in his left hand.

  Guests filled the foyer. To the left, the beautiful remnants of a Louis XVI sitting room beckoned; to the right, a living room destroyed in the name of progress held artifacts. Sweeping stairs rose at the back of the foyer, paused at a generous landing, then split and rose to the second floor.

  Aunt Sis and I stood halfway up the lower portion of the stairs.

  “Who’s the most interesting person here?” She surveyed the benefactors—the same benefactors who supported the symphony and the art museum and the hospital. Every face was familiar—at least to me. They might have secrets worthy of blackmail, but interesting? Aunt Sis was by far the most interesting person in the room. She’d sat with a swami in Nepal, lived abroad for more than a semester during college, and she didn’t want to talk about gas prices, interest rates or how Dorothy and John Howland were getting divorced…again.

  “I mean it, Ellison. Who should I talk to?”

  I nodded my head toward the entrance where Mother greeted Hammie and Randolph Walsh. “You know them.”

  Sis brought her drink to her lips. “Indeed, I do.”

  I scanned the crowd below. “There’s Libby Allerton. Didn’t you go to high school with her?”

  Sis focused on Libby. “Oh my. You leave town for forty years and people get older.” She turned toward me. “I know lots of people here, Ellison. You don’t have to babysit me. Go mingle. Your sister is.”

  I searched the crowd and found Marjorie. She wore a cream gown cut almost to her naval. It was a gown designed for a much younger woman to wear in a much more sophisticated city. Marjorie was chatting with Kinky. She looked up into his face. He looked down into her cleavage.

  “Go on,” said Aunt Sis. “Mingle.”

  If only she knew how parties sapped my energy.

  “Go.” She shoved me gently.

  I descended the stairs and Joan Hanes grabbed me—literally. Her fingers circled my wrist. Damn. It would take a jackhammer to remove her.

  “Ellison, I’m so glad I ran into you. Did you get my messages?”

  “No.” I used my free hand to scratch my nose.

  “No matter.” She waved aside the fact that I’d ignored four messages. “I need a painting for the school auction. When would you like to deliver it?”

  Was she joking? I blinked, temporarily unable to connect the thoughts running through my head with my tongue. Probably a blessing.

  Her grip on my arm tightened. “The auction is only a few weeks from now so we’ll need it right away. You can write up a description, can’t you?”

  “Joan, I don’t have a painting to give you.”

  She wobbled slightly and steadied herself on the bannister. “Of course you do.”

  I didn’t. I had a new dealer in New York, and I’d shipped every finished canvas to him. And after the way she’d demanded a painting, I wouldn’t have given her one anyway. Had the woman never heard the word please? “I’m sorry, I can’t help you.”

  “But I told everyone I’d get a painting. If you don’t give me one…” Her voice trailed off, inviting me to imagine her embarrassment and damaged reputation.

  “I don’t have anything to give you.” And I wouldn’t if I did.

  Joan’s wide-eyed innocent look was just a shade too innocent. “You must have something.” She drew out the last word.

  I shook my head.

  “You’re lying.” She spoke loud enough to draw attention. One or two faces registered shock. Prudence Davies looked gleeful. “Just give me a damn painting.” She’d lowered her voice but not enough.

  A murmur of interest swelled loud enough to draw Mother’s attention. She glanced over her shoulder and shot me a look that said more clearly than words, “Do not make a scene at my party.”

  So be it, but it would be a cold day in hell befo
re Joan Hanes got a painting from me. “I’ll make a donation equal to the value of one of my paintings.”

  “I said I’d get a painting.” Her brows drew together and her nostrils flared slightly. Why had she made such a promise? It wasn’t as if we were close friends, and I didn’t owe her any favors. “You have to do thish for me.”

  Thish?

  Just how much had Joan had to drink? Where was her husband? I scanned the room. Alan (smart man) was nowhere in sight and the drink in her hand was empty—no surprise there. “Perhaps we could talk about this another time.”

  Her lip curled. “I need to report to the committee tomorrow.”

  If she wasn’t attached to my arm like some art-sucking leech, I would have walked away. Instead, I lowered my voice. “Then tell them I said no.” I pulled against her hold.

  “Give me a painting, Ellithon.”

  There were easily fifteen people eavesdropping on our conversation. Could not one of them help me? A simple interruption was all I needed. I donned a damsel in distress look.

  Nothing.

  “Joan, my aunt is here alone, and I promised Mother I’d keep an eye on her.” My escape line had the benefit of being true. I even glanced up the stairs where Aunt Sis and I had looked over the crowd. She was gone. I yanked my arm free. “Tell your committee I’ll write a check.” I stepped backward before she could catch me again.

  “But—”

  “It will be a big check.”

  “But—”

  “Lovely to see you.”

  I fled the foyer and disappeared into the crowd in what was once the living room. Not good enough. A drunk Joan Hanes might pursue me. I cut through the stripped down dining room into the back hall, then climbed the dark servants’ stairs to the second floor.

  My hand closed on the doorknob to the landing.

  A woman’s voice, muffled by a door made to stand the test of time, reached me. “I did as you asked. No one found out about our son.”

  Not something I had any business hearing. I let go of the knob and backed up a few steps.

  “Ellithon…” Joan’s voice climbed the stairs.

  Oh. Good. Lord.

  Either I listened to a conversation that was none of my concern or I endured another conversation with a woman who wouldn’t take no for an answer.

  The decision was obvious. I climbed back into the shadows near the door.

  “You must help.” Even through the three-inch wood, I could discern the desperation in the woman’s voice.

  Another mumbled response.

  “At least take the…” The rest of her words faded. Whoever was on the other side was moving away from the door.

  I waited, counted to ten, counted to twenty, and cracked the door. The upstairs hallway stood empty and I ventured forth.

  There it was again, that prickling on the back of my neck. I glanced over my shoulder and found no one. I was alone. The only other faces in the hallway belonged to the marble busts of Martha and Robert Long. They sat on plinths in the upper landing, their stony gazes turned toward the hall rather than the stained glass window. Neither of them looked particularly happy about it—roughly the same level of happy as Mother when Aunt Sis appeared at the party wearing a caftan (never mind that the gold abaya was Thea Porter couture).

  When Aggie saw that caftan, she might wrestle my aunt to the floor for it—if I didn’t beat her to it.

  On the positive side, between Marjorie’s plunging neckline and Aunt Sis’s caftan, Mother hadn’t complained one whit about my dress, a vintage Fortuny Delphos gown I’d purchased in a darling little shop in the Galleria Vittorio Emanuele in Milan.

  I lifted the hem as I descended the stairs, unable to shake the feeling that someone watched me. I stopped and looked. No one. Just the backs of Robert and Martha’s heads.

  I reached the first landing and shifted my gaze to Mother’s guests. Joan Hanes was nowhere in sight. What a relief.

  Marjorie had taken my spot halfway up the lower staircase. Men circled her—John Ballew, recently divorced and looking as if he was enjoying life without Kitty, Quin Marstin, who was probably as interested in selling Marjorie a share in his hookah stores as he was her more obvious assets, and Kinky. Kinky had gone so far as to rest a possessive hand on her arm as if claiming the view of her cleavage for himself.

  That wouldn’t do. If Cassie saw, she might get the wrong idea. I hurried down the next few steps then stopped and called, “Marjorie.” I’d make up some excuse to remove her from her dubious circle of admirers…something.

  They all looked at me—my sister, John, Quin, and Kinky. None of them looked pleased with the interruption.

  Especially Marjorie—the wrinkle across the bridge of her nose coupled with her tilted chin and pursed lips told me we’d be having words later.

  As if I cared. I smiled sweetly.

  Her brows rose, her mouth dropped and she gasped.

  In that same instant, Kinky launched himself at me and knocked me flat.

  Bang!

  It sounded as if someone had shot a cannon in the foyer.

  Kinky lay on top of me, flattening my breasts, the scent of cigarettes and the scotch he’d just drunk filling my nostrils.

  “What happened?” Mother’s voice cut through the murmur of appalled voices. “Get off my daughter immediately.” This she said so sharply, the hairs on Kinky’s head probably split in two.

  Kinky pushed himself off me with alacrity.

  Everyone who’d been in the foyer stood at the bottom stairs, gaping. Everyone who’d been in either of the rooms off the foyer crowded into the foyer and joined in the slack-jawed staring. I lay on the stairs and wondered why the room was suddenly out of focus.

  I extended my hand and encountered a shard of marble.

  “What happened?” Mother demanded in a tone that said loud and clear she’d better not have to ask a third time.

  Daddy pushed past her and joined me on the stairs. His were the arms that helped me to sitting.

  “Are you all right, sugar?”

  Sharp bits of white marble surrounded me.

  “Fine.” Not true. “Shaken,” I amended.

  Mother glowered. “What happ—”

  “Something fell from up above. Kenneth pushed Ellison out of the way. He saved her life.” Marjorie sounded almost as shaken as I felt. Almost. She somehow found it in herself to smile gratefully at Kinky. I probably should have smiled at him too but I just couldn’t. My mouth still felt slack—too shocked to curve upward.

  Mother climbed the stairs, carefully picking her way through shattered marble.

  At the landing she turned and looked upward toward the second floor. “It appears a bust has fallen.” Her gaze now searched the crowd below her. “Mr. Carstairs, how could an accident like this happen? My daughter could have been seriously hurt.”

  Her daughter could’ve been seriously killed. It seemed whiny to point that out, so I kept my mouth shut.

  Mr. Carstairs was with the museum. A nicer, more ineffectual man never breathed. He stood at the bottom of the stairs wringing his hands—over my brush with death or the ruined bust I wasn’t sure.

  “How?” Mother’s brows were drawn. Standing on the landing with that haughty expression on her face, she looked ready to pronounce, in Red Queen fashion, “Off with his head.”

  Mr. Carstairs swallowed loud enough for everyone to hear him. “Perhaps the vibrations from so many in the museum…”

  Vibrations? Doubtful. Martha and Robert were heavy. It would have required an earthquake, or at least a healthy shove to send one of them over the bannister. I stared at the newels above me, someone had pushed the marble statue on purpose.

  My hands shook. I folded them in my lap and stared at Robert Long’s ruined visage. The marble seemed to have impacted several steps below me. If Kinky
hadn’t knocked me down, I might have walked under it.

  I’d seen enough. I raised the heels of my hands to my eyes and held them there. If I rubbed, which I desperately wanted to do, I’d be covered in mascara. “I’d like to go home.”

  I uncovered my eyes and looked up at Mother.

  Aunt Sis had joined her on the landing. Mother in her Chanel and white helmet of hair looked coolly elegant—ice queen elegant. Aunt Sis, wearing a boho caftan and sporting a greying ponytail looked cool. So different—yet they shared a certain set to their mouths, as if they took Robert Long’s shattered head as a personal affront.

  “I’ll take you, sugar.” Daddy stood and extended a hand toward me. “Frances, I’m taking Ellison home.”

  The set of Mother’s mouth firmed to a near invisible line.

  “Don’t be silly, Harrington.” Aunt Sis descended a few steps. “You stay here with Frances. I’ll take Ellison home.”

  Mother’s mouth relaxed. Slightly. At least her lips were visible.

  “Do you think you ought to go to the hospital?” asked Daddy.

  “No!” I’d spent far too much time in hospitals of late. Aside from a dull pain where my head had hit the marble stair, I was fine. I explored the area with my fingers and found a relatively small lump. “I just need an ice pack and an ottoman.”

  Daddy and Aunt Sis loaded me into the car. Aunt Sis drove me home, led me to the kitchen, sat me on a stool by the counter, poured a tumbler full of wine and put it in my hands.

  I gave it back to her. “May I have water instead?”

  She went to the fridge, pulled out a pitcher of water and poured me a glass. “That statue falling wasn’t an accident.”

  “How can you be sure?” Aside from the fact that it was physically impossible for Long to have fallen over the edge.

  “I was on the third floor. I heard the crash and then the sound of someone running. By the time I reached the second floor the hall was empty. I looked over the rail and saw the statue and some man. When he got up, I saw you. She held her right hand over her left breast. “My heart nearly stopped.”