I wasn’t about to argue.
Libba tapped the tip of her nail against the Tab can. “Who leaves poison in a glass that anyone might drink?” She shook her head. “Seriously, who does that? And now they’ve shot the wrong Walford. Incompetent.”
That or I wasn’t the target.
I wasn’t the target.
I wasn’t.
Still, I shuddered to think what Anarchy would say if he learned I’d gone running alone. He did not share my faith in Max’s protective powers.
I drank more water. So did my canine hero. Enough to make small puddles on the floor. I’d somehow managed to forget all about murder when I was running, I didn’t want to talk about it now. I cast about for another topic. “Speaking of incompetent, I saw Quin Marstin at Luigi’s last night.”
“Did he hit on you?”
That was like asking if golf courses were green in springtime. “What do you think?”
Libba shook her head. “Poor guy.”
Not the response I’d been expecting. “What do you mean, ‘poor guy’?” The one thing Quin wasn’t was poor.
Libba adjusted the bow on her blouse—fluffing. “He’s almost forty and he hasn’t done anything meaningful since he graduated from college. Too much money.”
She was right on all counts, but how did that earn him a “poor guy” sobriquet?
“His friends have started families and companies and law firms. He clips the coupons off municipal bonds once a quarter and calls it a job well done.”
“And you feel sorry for him?”
“I do. He’s terrified everyone will see him for what he is so he pretends to be a player.”
Who knew Libba had such observational skills?
“We talked one night.”
“Talked?”
Was “talked” a euphemism for—
“Don’t wear that face. It makes you look like your Mother. All we did was talk—one night at the bar at the club. I think he considers me a kindred spirit.”
“Why?”
“I haven’t exactly accomplished anything either. Then again, I’m a woman so no one expects me to.”
“That’s not true. You’ve accomplished plenty.”
She waved her hands in front of her face as if the movement could wipe away what she’d just said—that or erase my assertion that she wasn’t wasting her life. “It is true. In two years, I’ll be forty and I have three divorces and a great shoe collection to show for it.”
“Libba, that’s simply not true.”
“It is true. I can show you the divorce papers and my shoe collection is fabulous.”
“You started a charity that provides daycare for working mothers who can’t afford childcare.”
“Ferragamos.” She ticked off a finger.
“The luncheon you chaired for the museum raised more money than any before or since.”
“Boots from The Chelsea Cobbler.” She ticked a second finger.
“Your friends adore you.”
“Boots from Hermès.” She tapped a third finger.
“Grace thinks of you as a second mother.”
Libba looked up from her count. “She does?”
“She does.”
“That’s very nice of you to say, Ellison.”
“It’s true.”
Libba didn’t say word. Instead she adjusted her bow a second time, smoothed her hair and sat up straighter on her stool. When she finally spoke, she said, “At any rate, poor Quin was drinking because his latest girlfriend had cheated on him.”
“With whom?”
“Kinky.”
I set my water glass down too hard.
“Really?”
She nodded. “Really. Quin was upset about it.” She tilted her head to the side. “Not so much about the woman. I don’t think she mattered to him. He was furious that Kinky poached on his territory.”
“Was this recent?”
“A few weeks ago.”
Had Quin been upset enough to slip poison into Kinky’s glass? That didn’t feel right. Surely a man with injured pride would call out his rival. Although, Quin seemed to fancy himself a lover not a fighter…
And who was this woman who’d slept with Quin and Kinky? How did one make choices like that? The mere thought of either one of them in bed made me shudder. “What is it about Kinky?” I asked. “I just don’t see it.”
Libba looked down at her Tab and her cheeks flushed nearly as pink as the can.
“You didn’t.” There’s no way my voice could have sounded as scandalized as I felt. “He’s married.” And he was Kinky.
“I know.” She kept her gaze on the suddenly fascinating soda pop. “It was just once.”
“When?”
“A couple of years ago.”
“And?”
“And he lives up to his name.”
“That’s not what I meant. How?”
“It’s really been too long if you don’t remember. You put tab A in slot B and then—”
“Libba! How did you end up in bed with Kinky?”
“He has this way of talking to a woman as if she’s the only one he’ll ever want.”
“But what about Cassie?”
“That’s why it was just once. I blame the martinis.”
My late husband cheated on me with reckless abandon. We weren’t in love. We weren’t even friends. And each incident hurt me. I compared myself to the women he chose. What was it about Kitty Ballew or Madeline Harper or Prudence Davies (the mere thought of her tightened my jaw) that attracted him? “Does Cassie know?”
“About our one night? I doubt it.”
“In general?”
“I think she pretends not to.” Libba looked up from the can of soda. “Stop staring at me as if you disapprove.”
“I do disapprove.”
“It’s not as if they’re still in love.”
What had Quin said? That Cassie was angry with Kinky for flirting with Marjorie? That sounded like a woman who still cared. “I think she is.”
Libba considered this for a moment then whispered, “Damn.” She returned her gaze to the Tab can. “What’s done is done. It’s not as if I can apologize to her.”
“No,” I agreed. I yanked a length of paper towels off the roll and dropped them on the floor near Max’s puddles.
“Are you mad?”
“Not at you.” A small lie. Given a few days to cool off, it wouldn’t be a lie at all.
Per Aggie’s instructions, neatly written and left next to the refrigerator, I made the salad. Grace and I ate it together at the breakfast table.
“Where’s Aunt Sis?” she asked.
“No idea.”
“She’s very cool.”
No arguments from me.
“Why do you think she decided to live in Europe?”
“I’m not exactly sure.” I wasn’t sure—not exactly.
“Is Aunt Marjorie coming home tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow or the next day.”
The back door opened and Aunt Sis breezed in like a spring gale. “Oh good. I didn’t miss dinner.”
I stood. “I’ll fix you a plate.”
“Don’t be silly. Sit down. I’ll get it.” Aunt Sis filled a plate with salad and joined us. “Where were you all day?”
“The hospital. Marjorie needed a bag. I also visited Randolph.”
The fork traveling from Aunt Sis’s plate to her mouth froze briefly. If I hadn’t been watching, I would have missed it.
“Oh?” she said. “How is he?”
“Inundated with lonely widows and desperate divorcées.”
“Already?” Her shoulders slumped slightly—a tiny movement. A tiny movement I would have missed if I weren’t observing her like…like Anarchy obse
rves a suspect.
Grace wrinkled her nose. “He’s old and he smells like cigars.”
“Randolph and I are the same age.” Aunt Sis pronounced the words with a high degree of asperity.
My teenager, who probably thought thirty was ancient, shook her head. “No you’re not.”
“I assure you, we are.”
“Nope.” Grace was having none of it. She speared a bite of chicken and waved her fork at her great-aunt. “You stayed young. He got old.”
“Ellison, you raised an extraordinarily charming daughter.”
“Thank you, I know.”
I also knew that in the weeks before Grace’s birthday her charm increased exponentially.
My daughter raised a last bite of salad to her mouth then put down her fork.
“May I please be excused? I still have homework.”
“Of course.”
She picked up her empty plate and carried it to the sink (Grace hadn’t quite figured out that putting the dirty dishes in the dishwasher part was an integral part of the process). “I’ll talk to you later, Aunt Sis.”
“Of course, dear.”
“Dishwasher,” I insisted.
The sigh of a deeply put-upon teenager echoed through the house, but she opened the dishwasher and put her plate inside.
The sound of her footsteps on the back stairs faded and I stared at my aunt. “We need to talk.”
She laid her fork down on the edge of her plate.
“You and Randolph had a fling.”
The blusher on her cheeks suddenly looked too bright—swathes of orange on pale skin. “A long, long time ago. How did you find out?”
I was the one asking the questions. “He was engaged.”
Aunt Sis shook her head and her lips pursed. “Hammie broke things off.”
That gave me pause. Two sides. One story. “What happened?”
“I’d had the biggest crush on him in high school. I came home from college that summer and he was so wounded. He needed someone. I stepped in.”
“Then Hammie changed her mind.”
Aunt Sis scrunched her face as if the past still hurt her. “He dropped me like a hot potato.”
“Did Hammie ever know?”
“That we dated? I’m sure she did. I’ve often wondered if she changed her mind about Randolph because he found someone else so quickly.” She lifted her water goblet. “It was a long time ago. Water under the bridge.”
It wasn’t.
“I know about Dav—”
“Don’t say another word, Ellison.” My aunt looked every bit as old as Randolph in his hospital bed. Older.
I reached across the table and laid my hand on top of hers. Upsetting my aunt wasn’t part of my plan.
She used her free hand to wipe her cheek. “Water. Under. The. Bridge.”
If in fact the water had passed under the bridge, I would have dropped it. But the water had a room at the Alameda. And it was only a matter of time before Randolph Walsh figured out that my aunt and my cousin had a reason to want Hammie dead. If Anarchy found out about my cousin, he’d make the connection in seconds.
“I met David.”
The hand beneath mine turned ice cold.
Aunt Sis yanked her hand away from my touch. “We will not talk about this.” She stood, knocking her chair over backward.
“But—”
“We will not.”
“Aunt Sis, someone killed Hammie. The police are looking for people with motives. You have one.”
“I had nothing against Hammie. I didn’t kill her.” Too bad she scratched her nose. “Besides, that water glass was at your place not hers. Who wants to kill you?”
“No one.”
“Then who was supposed to be sitting there?”
Life would be much easier if we knew for sure.
Aunt Sis drew herself up and donned a grande dame expression so close to Mother’s that for a moment I was struck speechless.
“The bust, the fire, the poisoning and the shooting. You are the common denominator. Just because you refuse to believe someone is trying to kill you, doesn’t mean it’s not true.” With that she spun away from me in a swirl of caftan and outrage and marched out of the kitchen.
Seventeen
Once upon a time, people hosted balls in their homes—large elegant parties with dancing and punch and the possibility of romance. They needed ballrooms.
I do not.
One of the first things Henry and I did to the house when we moved in was convert the third floor ballroom into a studio (this was when Henry and I fancied ourselves in love and he thought my painting was an amusing hobby).
My studio was the best possible place to spend a Tuesday morning. Bar none.
Besides, I’d made a deal with God. I owed the school auction a painting.
A landscape of Loose Park the way it was yesterday—a study in gray brightened by autumn leaves would have to do. I daubed paint onto my pallet and began sketching out a scene.
“It’s nice to see you safely at home.” Anarchy Jones stood just inside the door.
“What are you doing here?” Not exactly a polite reply but my studio was mine. No one entered but me and Grace (and that was only in the case of fire or blood).
“Your aunt sent me up.” Aunt Sis was still furious with me—had she realized sending someone to my studio was a sure way to get even?
Anarchy took a moment, his sharp gaze taking in the mason jars filled with brushes, the cans of turpentine, the blank canvases stacked between two windows, and the battered pine table covered with art books and trays of acrylics. He stared for a moment at the lone club chair, shabby and comfortable, and the numerous abandoned coffee mugs that needed to be returned to the kitchen. “There’s plenty of light.”
Windows on three sides and multiple skylights insured that on a sunny morning, the studio was positively flooded with light.
He approached my easel and looked at the rough outlines of trees on the canvas it held. “I expected something…neater.”
He stood too close. I could smell soap and the very faint scent of bay rum, as if he’d worn cologne the last time he’d donned his jacket.
I stepped away from the canvas, from him, and straightened an already neat pile of books. “Sorry to disappoint you.”
“I’m not disappointed. I find it enlightening.”
“Oh?”
“It’s like seeing another side of you.”
Exactly what I didn’t want. “What can I do for you?” It sounded better than why the hell are you here?
“We got the ballistics reports back.”
“Ballistics?”
“The bullet we dug out of the back of your house and the bullet they removed from your sister came from the same gun.”
“What does that mean?” It was a stupid question, one I wanted back as soon as it left my lips. “Never mind. I understand what it means.” One gun. One shooter.
It wasn’t as if there’d ever been much doubt.
“We also got this.” He pulled a folded sheet of paper from his inside coat pocket and handed it to me.
“What is this?”
“We took down every license plate in the parking lot when your sister was shot. That’s a list of the owners.”
I scanned—John Ballew, Brooks Foster, Kenneth LeCoeur, Quin Marstin, Harlan Stokes, Wright Thomas…the list went on and on. “Everyone on here is a club member.”
“Look more closely. Someone is trying to kill you.”
“Or Marjorie.” I wanted that comment back too.
“Who would want to kill your sister?”
“No one.” Too bad my voice squeaked. My brother-in-law, idiot though he might be, was the only person in Kansas City I could think of who might want my sister dead. I preferred tha
t Anarchy remain convinced someone was trying to kill me rather than investigate Marji and Greg’s sordid problems.
“Who?” he insisted.
I breathed deep. “No one.” This time my voice sounded as if it belonged to me and not a five-year-old with a helium balloon. “I don’t know why I said that.”
What had Aunt Sis said? I was the common denominator?
Well, Marjorie had been present for three out of four attempts on my life. Maybe she was the target. Maybe Hammie’s death was something entirely random—I’d simply been in the wrong chair at the wrong time. Nothing more.
If that was true, there were two killers.
I scouted the studio for the cup of coffee I’d brought upstairs with me. There. Next to the wooden mannequin. It still retained a bit of warmth. I wrapped my fingers around the mug and held it tightly.
Anarchy stepped closer to me. “What are you hiding?”
I took a sip of tepid coffee. The bitterness coated my throat. “Nothing.”
“I worry about you.” He took the mug out of my hands and returned it to the table.
“I’m fine.”
“There have been multiple attempts on your life.”
“I’m fine.” If you say the same thing too often, it sounds ridiculous. I’m fine. I’m fine. I’m fine. Ridiculous.
“You’re not.” His fingers grazed my cheek.
My cheek tingled. My toes tingled. Everything in between tingled.
Tingling was bad.
Tingling led to tab A in slot B.
Tab A in slot B led to heartache.
I knew this but I didn’t move away. I stood there, hypnotized by coffee brown eyes and a mere touch.
His fingers moved from my cheek to the nape of my neck and his hand warmed my suddenly chilled skin.
He was just inches from me—lean and handsome and nearly impossible to resist.
Thank God for nearly.
I pulled away from him.
“You know, I’m nothing like your husband.”
“I know.” Knowing a thing and believing it were entirely different.
“Do you ever wonder what it would be like to really kiss me? What would happen if we took our time? If no one interrupted?”
CLOUDS IN MY COFFEE Page 17
