CLOUDS IN MY COFFEE

by Julie Mulhern

  “Tea?”

  “No, thank you. Your housekeeper already offered. Besides, I can’t stay.”

  Why not? Curiosity burned in my stomach like an ulcer.

  I shifted on the sofa. Every single question that popped into my head seemed too personal, but if he was going to leave, I might never get another chance to ask. “I…I didn’t know about you until this weekend.”

  The skin around David’s eyes crinkled and for a half-second he looked like a thinner version of my grandfather as a young man—almost exactly like the photograph that sits on Mother’s desk. Except for his eyes. In the photo, my grandfather’s eyes are dark. David’s eyes were a hue caught somewhere between chill grey and ice blue. I’d only seen one other person with eyes like that. Ever.

  There was that question answered.

  I crossed my ankles and straightened my spine.

  “This is going to sound corny, but where have you been all my life?”

  “Majorca.” He pronounced it like a native-speaker.

  “But you’re here now.”

  “I am,” he agreed.

  “Why?”

  A cloud flitted across his face, the promise of a coming storm. “It’s complicated.”

  I expected nothing less. When are things ever simple or easy? Especially on a Monday? My hands tightened around my mug. “How complicated?”

  “My mother came to ask something of my father.” David crossed his arms low on his rib cage, his fingers splayed. “It’s incredibly important, and if he says yes, I need to be here.”

  Whatever Aunt Sis had planned on asking David’s father, now wasn’t the best of times. Not while he lay in a hospital bed and his wife lay in the morgue. Unless…Had Hammie been an impediment?

  My blood ran cold. Was Aunt Sis the kind of woman who’d commit murder if someone stood between her child and whatever they needed? A moment passed.

  “Are you all right?” David asked. “You look pale.”

  “I’m fine.” I shifted on the couch. A few years ago, in front of a crowd in the clubhouse bar, Connor Penning accused Worth Lawrence of shaving his golf score. The silence that followed was the most awkward I’d ever heard. Until now.

  “Mother tells me you’re a painter.” At least my cousin retained the ability to make polite conversation.

  “I am.” I latched onto that bit of dialogue like a three-year-old who’s afraid of the water latches onto floaties. “I have an opening in New York in late November.”

  “You must be terribly busy.”

  “My work hung in a gallery here. That gallery closed so there are a fair number of canvases available.”

  “Still…it can’t be easy to get ready for an opening and have a house full of guests.”

  Especially not when they got drunk or shot or left their husbands. “What do you do?” I asked.

  “Investments.” He shook his head. “Nothing as creative or exciting as painting.”

  “What kind of investments?” Thank heaven my ability to make polite conversation had returned.

  “I match investors who are interested in medical research with companies that are developing promising devices or drugs.” His voice was flat.

  I blinked. Twice. David was the first investments man I’d ever met who didn’t ask me if I was interested in parting with some cash within a few minutes. He didn’t want to talk about his work. I got it. I searched for another topic. “Where are you staying?”

  “The Alameda.”

  A popular place.

  “Aggie, is there coffee?” Aunt Sis’s voice floated in from the foyer.

  David froze, caught between his Mother’s voice and a sunbeam. For an instant, his skin looked almost yellow in the morning light.

  “Right. I’m not supposed to know about you.” My voice was low, barely more than a whisper, perfect for keeping secrets.

  “No. I only came because I was worried. There’s been a lot going on around here.”

  My cousin was a master of understatement. “Why can’t I know about you?” I asked.

  He opened his mouth but no words came out.

  “Don’t tell me.” I held up my hand. “Let me guess. It’s complicated.”

  He grinned, an expression that transformed his lean face. “It is.”

  Aunt Sis’s footsteps faded.

  “She’s gone to the kitchen. I can let you out the front.”

  “Thank you.” He sounded truly grateful. “It’s just that…” His voice faded. More secrets.

  We hurried to the front door.

  “I’d like to see you again,” I said. Awkward silences aside, the man was family.

  “I’d like that. I’ve been curious about you for so long. I’m staying at—”

  “The Alameda. You told me. I’ll call.”

  “It was nice meeting you, Ellison.” He bent and brushed a kiss against my cheek, slipped through the door, and jogged down the drive to a car parked at the curb.

  I watched him drive away then climbed the stairs to a shower (visions of sitting on the floor in a public restroom still danced in my head) and a change of clothes. Where I was going, a pair of jeans would not pass muster.

  Fortified by Aggie’s pancakes and a third (and fourth) cup of coffee, I stashed an overnight case for Marjorie into the backseat of Henry’s car, drove to my favorite florist, and bought a Swedish ivy and a vase brimming with bronze football mums. Then I drove to the hospital and parked.

  Ivy or mums? I grabbed the ivy first. I had questions.

  Walking the hospital’s sterile corridors with the plant clutched in my arms, I rehearsed those questions in my head. Did David’s father know he had a son? Had Hammie known? Randolph Walsh had some answering to do.

  I heard his hospital room before I saw it.

  Damn. I’d planned my session of questions and answers without taking into account an essential fact. It is a truth universally acknowledged that a widower in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife.

  I peeked through the open doorway. Hammie wasn’t in the ground yet and already there were three widows circling round Randolph like vultures waiting for some poor animal to gasp its last breath.

  Anne Lattimer, Jane Stark and Mary Fienes did not look glad to see me. Neither did the two divorcées, Elizabeth Fielding and Kitty Ballew. They all donned saccharine sweet smiles, as if my arrival was the best thing to happen since Lilly Pulitzer designed her shift dress. What was going on? Animosity from Kitty I understood, but the other women were usually quite friendly.

  Then it occurred to me—a horrible notion. I was a widow too. They thought…they thought…I shuddered so hard I nearly dropped the ivy.

  I’d watched Hammie die and Randolph Walsh was older than my father. Did they really think I was husband hunting in a hospital room?

  Those sugared smiles that didn’t reach their eyes said they did.

  Oh. Dear. Lord.

  “Good morning.” I smiled at Randolph. “It looks as if you have plenty of company. I’ll just leave this.” I put the ivy on his tray table.

  Five sets of tight smiles got even tighter.

  “Mother asked me to check on you. I’ll be sure and tell her that you’re well looked after.”

  Four of the thinly-veiled and slightly desperate expressions softened. Not Kitty’s. I’d expect nothing less of the woman who used to…have relations with my late husband.

  I took a step toward the door.

  “Ellison.” Randolph’s voice sounded old and weak. “Has that police detective discovered anything about…” Tears filled his eyes.

  “I don’t know, Randolph. If I see him, I’ll ask him to call you.”

  The man in the bed nodded. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.” I slipped into the hallway and paused. My heart thumped in my chest
as if I’d just escaped a hungry pack of lionesses. All of whom were trying to cozy up to the lion. None of whom wanted me around.

  No wonder people hated hospitals.

  I returned to my car and grabbed the small suitcase and the mums.

  Those I carried to Marjorie’s room.

  In contrast to the Grand Central Station that was Randolph’s room, Marjorie’s was empty. Not even Marjorie was there. I deposited the flowers on the sill and the case on the bed, picked up her discarded morning paper, and settled into a chair.

  Not a single word about a shooting at the club was printed on the newspaper’s pages. How much had that cost? And who had paid?

  I dug a pencil from the depths of my purse and began the crossword. A twelve-letter word for liar? That was easy. P.R.E.V.A.R.I.—

  “Isn’t this nice?” said the nurse who pushed Marjorie into the room. “We have a visitor.”

  “We do not have a visitor. I have a visitor. You may leave.” Marjorie sounded as if she was in a marvelous mood.

  Oh goody.

  Given her pleasant expression, my sister’s ill humor made not a whit of difference to the nurse. She parked Marjorie’s wheelchair next to my chair. “I’ll check on you in a bit.”

  Marjorie watched her disappear through the door then grabbed my wrist. “You have to get me out of here. I swear to God, there was someone poking me or prodding me, hour on the hour, all night long. I haven’t slept, I hurt, and they won’t bring me a decent cup of coffee.” The last bit brought tears to her eyes. She released her hold on me and wiped them with her sleeve.

  “I’ll bring you some coffee.”

  “You won’t bust me out of here?” She sounded forlorn.

  “I can’t. Mother would kill me.”

  Marjorie tilted her head. “It might be worth it.”

  “For you. I’d be the one who was dead.”

  My sister grinned.

  I patted her hand. “I’m glad you’re not dead.”

  She pushed the hair away from her face. “You know, nearly dying puts all sorts of things into perspective.”

  I was familiar. My brushes with death had reminded me just how precious my daughter was. I treasured every moment I had with her. “You’re going back to Greg and the kids?”

  “Don’t be silly. Carpe diem.”

  Seize the day?

  I’d rather seize her throat and shake some sense into her. Her children needed her. “Perhaps you might do that after your children are grown.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous, Ellison. I could die tomorrow. That bullet at your house nearly hit me and now this. You have to grab life, because you never know when it will end.”

  My lips thinned and I looked away. Marjorie was Marjorie, dramatic, selfish, self-centered, and my sister. I loved her despite it all.

  “Knock, knock.” Two dozen pink roses concealed whoever stood in the door.

  Greg strolled into Marjorie’s room and put the flowers on the window sill. He’d somehow managed to pull himself together. His hair was combed, his eyes twinkled, and his clothes looked freshly pressed. He adjusted the vase so an enormous bow faced the room then bent and kissed his wife’s cheek. “You look better, darling. Are you feeling better?”

  “I thought you were going back to Akron,” said Marjorie.

  “I decided to stay.”

  “Why?” Her voice was harsh.

  “I’m not giving up on us.”

  “I am.”

  “Nope.”

  “Pardon me?” Marjorie’s voice was arctic. I guess I’m not the only daughter who can channel Mother.

  “I’m not giving you a divorce,” Greg said, his tone matter-of-fact. “I made mistakes. You made mistakes. We’re going to put them past us.”

  Marjorie stared at him as if he was a stranger. “I don’t love you anymore.”

  Greg’s eyes sparkled. “But you will. I can be very charming. Now, I left something in the hall. I’ll be right back.”

  She reached toward me as if she meant to grab my wrist again. “Don’t you dare leave me.” Her words came in a desperate rush.

  I jerked my arm away.

  “Here it is.” Greg crossed the threshold again, this time holding a large to-go cup. The scent of good coffee filled the room.

  How could Marjorie resist a man who brought her coffee?

  Her expression hardened. “I don’t want it.”

  “Of course you do,” said Greg. “Hospital coffee is awful.”

  “Take the coffee,” I said. “You know you want to.”

  Her face scrunched as if her thoughts were causing her physical pain. Or maybe that was just the face of a caffeine addict tempted with a fix. “Fine,” she huffed, extending her hand. “But this doesn’t change anything.”

  Greg caught her waiting hand, brought it his lips and pressed a kiss onto her skin. “Everything is going to change for us. Trust me.” Then he put the coffee cup in her hand.

  While this newly confident, charming Greg had a better chance of winning Marji back, I made it a personal policy never to trust a man who says, “Trust me.” I stood and walked toward the door. “I’ll leave you two alone.”

  The evil gaze Marjorie fixed on me rivaled the one I’d received from Kitty Ballew. It was a very good thing looks couldn’t kill.

  I hurried into the hallway and ran smack-dab into a very hard chest. Hands circled my upper arms. I tilted my head and saw Anarchy Jones. “What are you doing here?” I asked.

  “I have questions for your sister.”

  “She’s with her husband and they’re not fighting. Could your questions wait a little while?”

  “Of course, if you’d care to answer a few.”

  An idea popped into my head. A terrible, wonderful, fiendishly good idea. “I’ll answer anything you want. But first, let’s go see Randolph Walsh.” There was no way Anarchy would give Randolph an update in front of a room full of women. And with the lionesses gone, I could ask a few questions of my own.

  Fifteen

  If possible, Randolph’s room seemed even more crowded than before. A nose count revealed six women. Six! The addition of Susan Archer meant the widow/divorcée ratio was even. The zeal they brought to their task was skewed. The widows were casting lines, seeing if Randolph bit. The divorcées looked more determined, their hooks baited with flashes of cleavage and smiles so sweet they made my teeth hurt.

  Elizabeth and Kitty and Susan had married and settled into a life of relative leisure—one where the mortgage was paid along with the country club bill. A life where they asked for cash back when they wrote a check at the grocery store then complained about the price of milk if their husband noticed that they’d spent more than usual. A life with a clothing allowance, a station wagon, and the assurance that someone else was doing the worrying. Then they got divorced, and that life disappeared faster than a golf ball in the drink.

  “May I have a word, Mr. Walsh?” Any surprise Anarchy felt at seeing Randolph’s room packed to the gills with chattering women was hidden behind his “cop” face.

  “Of course, detective.” Randolph sounded eager, as if he realized that questions from the police meant the departure of his visitors.

  “Ladies,” Anarchy addressed the room, “if you’ll excuse us?”

  Several resentful glances landed on me. I donned a bland expression. After all, I was practically blameless.

  Getting a half dozen women to collect purses and wraps and gloves is not the work of a moment—or even five moments. They chattered, they said goodbye to Randolph and promised to return, they said goodbye to each other, and Kitty Ballew dropped her glove.

  Not only did she drop the glove, she used her foot to push it under Randolph’s bed.

  A strategically forgotten item that would require her return.

  “Kitty, you’v
e dropped your glove.” I pointed to the leather fingers just peeking out from beneath the bed.

  “Thank you, Ellison.” The words came from behind gritted teeth and she looked as if she wanted to throttle me.

  She bent, picked up the glove, and faced five icy stares. None of her competition would soon forget or forgive her sneaky maneuver.

  Randolph’s guests filtered into the hallway and Anarchy followed them. Presumably to make sure they didn’t linger outside the door.

  “Thank you, Ellison. They were driving me mad with all that chatter.”

  “Would you like me to have Mother fix this for you?”

  “How?”

  “She’ll put out the word that it’s too soon, and that you think the women who’re visiting are ghouls.”

  “But that’s true.”

  A bonus.

  “It will give you a few days’ peace.”

  “A few days is all I need. Katie and her husband are on their way back from London now. She can run interference as soon as she gets home.”

  Hammie and Randolph’s daughter was well capable of protecting her father. I claimed the room’s sole chair. “In the meantime, just tell anyone who stops by that you’re tired.”

  “They don’t take hints.”

  “Then tell them to leave.”

  “I can’t.” He shook his head. “I can’t be that rude.”

  Anarchy walked through the door.

  “They’re gone.”

  “That’s a blessing,” said Randolph.

  Anarchy’s cop gaze landed on me. “You can go too.” Apparently he had no problem telling a woman to leave.

  “Can she stay?” asked Randolph. “Please?”

  Anarchy leaned against the packed window sill and nodded. “Mr. Walsh, are you sure your wife didn’t have any enemies?”

  “Everyone loved her. Everyone.” Part of dying is being sainted. Already Hammie’s flaws were disappearing into the mists of time while her good points were polished to a high shine—a saintly shine.

  “I understand Mrs. Randolph could be quite direct.”

  “You’re saying she was tactless.”

  “No, sir. I’m saying she spoke her mind and that’s not always appreciated.” Spin it as Anarchy might, Hammie had been tactless. He’d seen it himself. “You’re sure there’s no one she might have offended? No one who would hold a grudge?”