CLOUDS IN MY COFFEE

by Julie Mulhern

  The medics switched from English to a language I didn’t understand—BPs and numbers and vitals.

  I bowed my head and negotiated deals with God. I’m not sure if he cared about my donating paintings to school auctions, but it didn’t hurt to offer.

  We arrived at the hospital and they whisked Marjorie inside. I followed more slowly, allowing myself a moment to adjust to the antiseptic smell and fluorescent lighting. I really had hoped to avoid hospitals for at least a few years.

  I’d managed a few weeks.

  The woman behind the ER intake desk looked at me, waiting. She had a tired look in her eyes, one that said she’d seen every illness and heard every sob story.

  “My sister was just brought in.”

  She picked up this paper and that one, constructing a ream for me to fill out.

  “She was shot.”

  “Do you have her insurance card?” The woman sounded bored.

  “No. But she’s Frances Walford’s daughter.” That at least caught her interest. She picked up papers faster.

  “I need to make a few calls,” I said.

  “There’s a payphone in the waiting room.”

  “My sister was shot. I left my purse at the crime scene.”

  She stared at me, apparently unable to make the connection between no purse and no change for telephone calls.

  “I don’t have any money with me.”

  Mother saved her from the necessity of explaining to me that hospital phones were for hospital use.

  Frances Walford blew through the emergency room doors like a hurricane. “Ellison! Jim Ward called me from the club. What happened?”

  She was in five-star general mode which meant she didn’t want an answer. She wanted action. Within two minutes, everyone from the hospital president to the head of surgery had been contacted. She arranged for a private waiting room and insisted on an update.

  That no update was available—“She’s in surgery, Mrs. Walford”—just annoyed her.

  She turned that annoyance on me. “What were you two doing at the club? It’s disrespectful. Hammie’s hardly cold.”

  “I was hitting golf balls.”

  She sucked in her cheeks. “Why?”

  “Because I like hitting golf balls, Mother.”

  Her lips thinned. “What was Marjorie doing there?”

  I shook my head. I had no idea.

  “Who shot her?”

  “I don’t know.” I recounted finding Marjorie in the parking lot.

  “She was driving your car?”

  “Yes.”

  “And wearing your coat?”

  “Yes.”

  “I bet that bullet was meant for you.”

  My heart, my lungs, my ability to move through time—they all froze.

  Could Mother be right? Much as I hated to admit it, she often was. A tsunami of guilt washed over me.

  “Do you know her number?” Mother regarded me as if she expected an answer, as if she hadn’t just pushed me down a bottomless well of recriminations.

  My brain was numb. “Pardon?”

  “Do you know your sister’s phone number? Someone should call Greg.”

  “He’s in town. He’s staying at the Alameda.” Another wave of guilt hit. I should have called him first thing. “He came to see Marjorie but as far as I can tell—” sneaking out of my house to avoid him being a fairly good indication “—she doesn’t want to talk to him.”

  “Greg is in town?”

  “As of this morning.”

  “Here?”

  “Yes, Mother.”

  “They’re estranged?”

  I nodded.

  “And Marjorie’s been shot. Where’s that police detective you insist on encouraging?”

  “At the crime scene. Why?”

  “I was wrong, dear. That bullet wasn’t meant for you. Everyone knows that the spouse is always guilty.”

  How quickly she forgot. “I did not kill Henry.”

  She patted my knee. “Except for you, dear. No one could think you capable of murder.”

  Was that a compliment or an insult?

  “Why would Greg kill Marjorie?”

  “You said it yourself. They’re estranged.” She squared her shoulders and her neck seemed to lengthen. “If she dies, he gets her money.”

  “He has plenty of money of his own.”

  Mother snorted softly. In her estimation, Greg’s money—being of the newly minted and slightly naughty variety—was worth less than Marjorie’s.

  “Mother, if he planned on killing Marjorie, why would he let me know he was in Kansas City?”

  Mother opened then closed her mouth, apparently unable to argue with such logic.

  That was how Daddy found us. “It took forever to find a parking space. Any news?”

  “No,” said Mother. “But I think Greg shot her.”

  So much for logic.

  “That or someone wanted to kill Ellison and shot Marjorie by mistake.”

  Daddy stared at her as if she’d grown two heads. “That’s enough, Frances.”

  My father doesn’t often make pronouncements, but when he does, he expects them to be respected.

  Mother fell silent.

  I stared at the overcooked oatmeal hue on the walls.

  Daddy settled into one of the chairs.

  A minute ticked by. Then another.

  I stood.

  “I’ll just go call Greg. Someone should let him know his wife is in the hospital.”

  Mother muttered something. It might have been he put her there.

  I took the high road and ignored her. “Daddy, do you have any change?”

  He deposited a pocketful of coins in my palm.

  I escaped the little room and my parents’ worry, took a deep breath of antiseptic air and found a phone. My finger circled the dial, rotating the zero hole.

  An operator answered.

  “Hello, would you please connect me with the Alameda Plaza?”

  A moment later I was talking to someone at the hotel. “Would you connect me to Mr. Blake’s room, please?”

  The phone rang and rang until finally it rolled back to the front desk. “Would you take a message for me?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Ready when you are.”

  “This is Ellison Russell calling for Greg Blake. Please tell him his wife has been hospitalized.”

  I had the hospital’s address and number memorized—that’s what happens when you end up in the same place too often—and gave it to the young woman on the other end of the line. Where was Greg?

  I called home.

  No one answered there either.

  I had no choice. I returned to the private waiting room.

  Daddy stood outside the door. “Someone came by. Your sister’s still in surgery but things are looking good.”

  Thank God. I’d made a bargain with him. The auction would get its painting per the terms of our agreement.

  “Your mother has gone to arrange things.”

  Things meaning a private room with a view.

  I nodded, not trusting my voice.

  He handed me his handkerchief, perfectly folded and slightly warm from being in his pocket.

  I wiped my eyes. The Irish linen came away smudged with wet mascara. I wiped again.

  “What’s happening, Ellie?”

  I handed him back his hankie and straightened my spine. “I don’t know.”

  He took my hand, led me back to the waiting room and sat me in a chair. “Let’s talk this through.”

  Too bad I’d returned the hankie. I used my fingers to wipe the dampness under my eyes. “It started with the bust of R.A. Long.”

  “You didn’t see anyone?”

  “Not a soul. I was wa
tching where I was going.”

  “Which was where?”

  “Marjorie. She was talking to Kink—Kenneth LeCoeur, Quin Marstin, and John Ballew. I was only a few feet away when Kenneth knocked me out of the way.”

  Daddy rubbed his chin. “If you repeat this, I’ll say you’re lying. Your sister has the worst taste in men of any woman I’ve ever met.” Daddy wasn’t much of a Greg fan. Unlike Mother, he didn’t object to the condoms. Daddy just plain didn’t like him. It made for uncomfortable Christmases.

  But the worst taste? I didn’t reply. Not given the man I’d married. People who live in glass houses…

  “What exactly happened at your house?” he asked.

  “Marjorie got home late. We were up in the kitchen chatting. I glanced outside and saw a light in the backyard. Fire. Someone threw a Molotov cocktail at the house. When it hit the bricks, I ran outside and grabbed a hose.”

  “And someone shot at you.”

  I nodded. “It took them a moment but yes. They didn’t come close to hitting me.”

  “Last night?”

  I didn’t reply. There were no words. Hammie’s terrified expression as she clutched her mouth was too fresh in my mind.

  “And now someone has shot your sister.”

  I closed my eyes but the damp snuck past my eyelids.

  Daddy pressed his handkerchief back in my hands.

  “Thank you.” My voice was thick with unshed tears.

  “She had on your coat and was driving your car?”

  “Yes.”

  “I don’t believe in coincidences,” said Daddy. “Someone is trying to kill you. We need to figure out who it is.”

  “There’s no reason for someone to kill me,” I insisted.

  “Maybe they don’t need a reason.”

  They did. In my limited experience, people killed to save their reputations or protect someone they loved. They killed for money or love or jealousy. Try as I might, I couldn’t match any of those motives with wanting me dead.

  Daddy wrapped his arm around my shoulders and pulled me into a side hug. He smelled of Irish Spring soap and a forbidden cigar. “We’ll figure this out, sugar.”

  If we didn’t, someone else—maybe me—might end up like Hammie.

  Twelve

  The hours spent in a hospital waiting room are spent in a twilight world. Time doesn’t move at its customary speed. Instead, every minute drags as if each second is hauling a lifetime’s worth of pain and suffering behind it.

  Time moves even slower when the people in the waiting room include Mother and Daddy, the son-in-law Mother suspected might have shot her daughter, me, and Aunt Sis, who arrived in a flurry and developed a case of nervous hiccups. Who could blame her? The silence was toxic.

  An orderly appeared at the door and cleared his throat. We all half-jumped out of our chairs.

  “You can see your wife now, Mr. Blake.” The young man offered Mother an apologetic smile.

  As if a half-smile could stop Mother.

  She rose from her chair and smoothed her skirt—a soldier adjusting her armor for battle.

  Daddy caught her wrist. “Wait, Frances. We’ll see her shortly.” Daddy jerked his chin at Greg. “Go. Tell her we’ll be in soon.”

  Greg followed the orderly into the hall and the door swung shut behind them.

  George Washington probably looked at Benedict Arnold the way Mother looked at Daddy.

  “Frances. Sit down.” Daddy’s voice brooked no arguments.

  Mother sat, her displeasure evident in the tiny, tight lines around her mouth. The depth and number of those lines suggested there would soon be hell to pay.

  Poor Mother. First a ruined gala and now a daughter in the hospital—add to that her husband embarrassing her in front of her daughter and sister. I steeled myself for something ugly.

  “There’s no need for you to be here, Sis. You should go home.” Having lost one battle, Mother was apparently looking for a fight she could win.

  Hiccup. “So I could wait by the phone?” Aunt Sis settled more deeply into her chair and the Naugahyde squeaked in protest.

  The chairs at my house were more comfortable. And, given Mother’s mood, Max was definitely better company. I’d happily go and wait by the phone. But in her current mood, there was no telling what Mother’s retribution might be if I left.

  “I’ve spent enough time—” hiccup “—in hospital waiting rooms to know it’s better not to be alone.”

  Mother’s lips pinched at the implied criticism. “You could have called.”

  “If I had, would you have come?”

  The color of Mother’s cheeks was answer enough. “Go home, Sis. I have my husband with me.”

  What was I? Chopped liver?

  “If it’s all the same to you, I think I’ll stay.” Did Aunt Sis not see the glint in Mother’s eyes? Mother wouldn’t be happy until she drew blood.

  With a lift of her manicured hand, Mother hid a yawn. “I’d think you’d be tired of hospitals.”

  I glanced at Daddy and tilted my head. What were they talking about?

  He answered me with a miniscule shrug.

  Either he didn’t care or he wasn’t telling. He definitely wasn’t getting involved. He disappeared behind the pages of the sports section.

  “You’d think. But here I am.”

  Mother held herself erect as if she was enjoying high tea at the Ritz instead of sitting in a waiting room filled with Naugahyde chairs and particle board side tables. “We all make choices.”

  Aunt Sis loosed her hold on the chair, folded her hands in her lap, and matched Mother’s perfect posture. She even matched Mother’s sour pickle expression. “Some things are not a choice. Some things just happen.”

  What in the world? What had happened?

  “You think?” Mother sounded almost snide.

  Hiccup. “You think the person who gets cancer chooses it?”

  Mother’s lip curled. “We’re not talking about cancer.” Somehow her shoulders and neck looked even stiffer than they had when she’d been giving Greg the stink eye. “I’d think with all your travels you’d have discovered karma.”

  Aunt Sis paled. “Following that logic, what did you do to get Marjorie shot?”

  Now Mother paled.

  Is there a sister alive who doesn’t know how to push her sister’s buttons?

  “It’s a good sign that they’re allowing Marjorie visitors so soon.” My voice sounded weak, unable to dispel the animosity sparking between my mother and aunt.

  Mother and Aunt Sis ignored me. They were far too busy glaring at each other.

  Daddy’s newspaper rustled.

  “You cannot compare my situation to yours.” Mother had lost her well-modulated cadence.

  “Can’t I?” Aunt Sis drew out can’t. “Who are you to judge?”

  “I’m the one who did everything right. I did everything asked of me and more. You—” Mother crossed her arms across her chest as if the gesture could hold in all her secrets “—didn’t.”

  What had Aunt Sis done or failed to do?

  Aunt Sis leaned slightly forward in her chair. “You think following all the rules gets you some sort of special pass? Grow up. Life is messy. People—” Aunt Sis snorted “—people other than you, color outside the lines. And they’re happier for it. Look at Ellison.”

  I wished they wouldn’t.

  All heads swiveled. Daddy lowered his paper.

  “You forced her into marrying that dreadful man.”

  “Aunt Sis, that’s not fair.”

  “Don’t defend her, Ellison. You’re enormously talented. You could have moved to New York and been the toast of the city. Instead you married that vile Henry Russell.”

  “So, according to you, I forced my daughter into marriage?”
<
br />   “If the shoe fits,” said Aunt Sis.

  “I wouldn’t have Grace if I hadn’t married Henry.” My feeble attempt at peacemaking landed on the linoleum unnoticed.

  Well, the peacemaking part went unnoticed. Aunt Sis favored me with a look worthy of Mother and said, “You don’t have to be married to have a baby.”

  “Something you know all too well.” Mother’s voice was venomous. And loud.

  “Enough!” Daddy rose from his chair. “Frances, they can probably hear you on the pediatric ward. As for you, Sis—” my father’s brows drew together “—it’s a good thing Ellison is the only one in here. Remember, it’s never too late for a scandal. I’m going for coffee. When I get back I expect you two to have worked things out.”

  Daddy used to say the same thing when Marjorie and I fought. It never worked. He strode to the door, cast a last warning glance over his shoulder and disappeared.

  How could he just leave me with them? I like coffee—I love coffee. I could have gone with him.

  Maybe he left me to make sure their hands, all four curled with tension, didn’t end up around each other’s throats.

  “Could we do this later? Please?” I glanced from one furious woman to the other.

  “It’s fine, Ellison. Your mother gets her wish. I’m leaving.” Aunt Sis stood in a swirl of aubergine caftan, wounded feelings and anger that had apparently been festering for decades.

  Mother said nothing. Not until Aunt Sis walked out the door. “I didn’t force you to marry Henry.”

  True, she hadn’t held a shotgun to my back and marched me down the aisle. But her belief—everyone’s belief—that marriage was the only pathway to a happy life had certainly given me a nudge in the kidneys. Add to that a girl’s starry-eyed infatuation and marriage was inevitable. The woman I was now would never have married Henry. The girl I was then didn’t possess the strength of character to stand up to both society’s expectations and Mother.

  “Water under the bridge, Mother. Besides, I have Grace.” She was a fabulous consolation for nearly twenty years spent with the wrong man. I drew on some of that newly developed strength of character and asked, “Did Aunt Sis have a baby out of wedlock?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.” Mother said the words so fast they sounded like one.