CLOUDS IN MY COFFEE

by Julie Mulhern

  I was wondering that right now. “No.” Too bad it was the five-year-old with the helium who answered for me.

  A slow smile cracked his face, he stepped closer to me, and his lips brushed against mine.

  His lips brushed across mine.

  There was no tingling. Tingling is a gentle sensation. The lightning that seared my body was not gentle. It burned everything in its path. Reason. Responsibility. Doubts. Common sense. Every thought or feeling I had that might have protected me from the onslaught of Anarchy’s warm, firm lips turned to ash.

  I kissed him back.

  We took our time. Each touch, each sigh seemed like a seismic shift, breaking apart the hard crust that protected me.

  Our lips parted.

  “Ellison,” he said my name as if it was a prayer and a promise rolled into one.

  Breathless. When a man like Anarchy Jones whispers a woman’s name like that, it leaves her breathless. Or at least that’s what his whisper did to me.

  Maybe it was the lack of oxygen. Maybe it was a shift in light. Maybe it was some small, sensible part of my brain restarting or the realization that while he tasted of mint, I probably tasted like stale coffee. I put my hands on his shoulders and pushed away.

  “We shouldn’t.” The five-year-old with the high voice had run off for a game of hide-and-seek. My voice sounded like a frog with laryngitis.

  “Why not?” His brown eyes were seductive, his voice whiskey rough.

  Because kissing Anarchy Jones made the world spin out of control. I preferred a well-controlled world, a world not fractured by sensation. A world without the kind of risk embodied by Anarchy.

  “Ellison.” This time when he said my name it sounded like a plea.

  “It’s too soon. I’m sorry. I just can’t.” I wiped my palms on my paint shirt as if I could wipe away the way his hair and his skin felt beneath my fingers—as if I could wipe away the memory of that kiss.

  I wasn’t that lucky. The memory of Anarchy’s lips on mine was going to haunt my nights. Exactly the sort of off-kilter thinking I couldn’t handle. “I think you should go.”

  He scowled. “I can’t fight a dead man.”

  “Pardon?”

  “I’d fight Tafft for you, but I can’t fight your husband.” He meant it—he’d tighten his hands into fists and battle Hunter for me like some modern-day knight entering the field with his lady love’s token tucked near his heart.

  “I have to fight my husband.” No one—especially not a man—could vanquish Henry or the wounds he’d left behind. I had to triumph on my own.

  Anarchy rubbed the pad of his thumb across my swollen lips. “Hurry up and win.”

  “I don’t think this is something that can be rushed.” The five-year-old was back from hiding and she’d found a fresh balloon. Oh goody.

  “Where will you be today?”

  I cleared my throat. “Here. Painting.”

  “Stay safe? Promise me.”

  Staying safe would mean staying away from him. I merely nodded.

  “This isn’t over.”

  Exactly what I was afraid of.

  I chose the club for dinner.

  Not the smartest choice I’ve ever made. In my defense, showing David that not all of his family was determined to keep him a secret was my motivation.

  I didn’t think about consequences.

  We followed the hostess to our table, leaving a swell of speculation in our wake. I nodded politely to a few of Mother’s friends and a few of mine.

  Finally, we reached our table. Too bad it sat next to Beverly and Carter Byrd’s.

  Carter stood, forcing me to stop and chat. “Mrs. Byrd.” I smiled at Beverly. “Mr. Byrd. What a treat to see you both. Please sit down.”

  Carter ignored my request.

  “How is your mother holding up?” asked Beverly.

  “It was a very trying weekend and, of course, she’s devastated about Hammie.”

  It was far better that Beverly be curious about Mother than David. I wiped my metaphorical brow.

  “And how is your sister?”

  “She’ll make a full recovery.”

  “That’s a blessing.” Beverly covered her heart with her hand. “It’s absolutely terrifying that something like that could happen here.”

  “Indeed, it is.” My unknown escort was positively dull in comparison to a shooting in the parking lot.

  “And just to steal her purse.” Betty shook her head as if the world was coming to an end and she’d been appointed to watch the destruction. “It was stolen, wasn’t it?”

  Marjorie’s purse had been found, untouched. It was truly amazing the stories the gossip mill could manufacture. “The police have asked me not to talk about their investigation.”

  “Of course they have, but you can tell me.”

  “Really, Beverly, I can’t.” I nodded. “I promised to keep my lips sealed.” A story about a stolen purse was preferable to a story about how someone was trying to kill the Walfords.

  A satisfied smile spread across her face.

  “I’ve kept you from your dinner long enough. Have a lovely evening.”

  Apparently murder and attempted murder trumped any interest the Byrds might have in David. Carter sank back into his seat and David and I moved on.

  We sat.

  The hostess put menus in our hands. “Would you care for a drink?”

  That’s when disaster struck.

  Mother and Daddy walked into the dining room. My stomach plummeted past my ankles and through the carpet. It ricocheted off an I-beam and whizzed past the basement’s stone walls before splatting against the concrete floor.

  “A martini. Dry. Hurry.”

  “Nothing for me, thank you,” said David. If he’d but known what was coming, he would have ordered straight scotch.

  The hostess hurried toward my waiting parents, said something, and Mother’s gaze landed on me then shifted to the man with whom I was dining, a man without silver hair, a man who was not Hunter Tafft.

  I read her lips.

  “We’ll join my daughter.”

  Damn.

  She made her way across the crowded dining room—Tuesday being prime rib night; the club was busier than usual. Mother lifted her nose, set her eyes straight ahead, and pretended not to hear the sudden hush followed by a rush of whispers.

  Nothing and no one could stop her.

  Where was the waiter with my drink?

  “Ellison, what a surprise.”

  David and I stood.

  “Mother, I could say the same thing.”

  “I didn’t feel like cooking.”

  Mother seldom feels like cooking. That is why my father employs a housekeeper who can also roast a chicken.

  I didn’t point that out in front of David. People who live in glass houses…

  “Who is your friend, dear?”

  Mother looked at David more closely and, well—

  Grace has this thing that sits on her desk—almost like an hourglass but flat. And instead of sand, there’s liquid inside. When it’s turned, the colors run and fade and end up at the bottom. That was what Mother’s complexion did. The flesh tones ran and faded until she was ghostly white.

  The dining room at the country club was probably not the best place to introduce her to her father’s doppelganger.

  She swayed and Daddy pulled out a chair.

  Mother sank into it.

  She whispered something to my father and he waved over a waiter. “Scotch. Neat. Two of them.”

  I knew this encounter was going to call for scotch. Hopefully the waiter would bring my martini as well.

  “Mother, Daddy, I’d like you to meet David.” I pitched my voice low, but Mother still glared at me as if I’d just yelled This is my aunt’s bastard
! across the dining room.

  “A pleasure.” My father extended his hand and David shook it.

  Mother looked ill. “Ellison, may I please speak with you in the ladies’ lounge?”

  “No.”

  That got her attention. Daddy’s too.

  “We’d be delighted if you’d join us for dinner.” I extended an olive branch.

  Daddy laid a hand on Mother’s arm as if a simple gesture could keep her from—from making kindling. “We’d love to.” Then my gentlemanly father turned to David and said, “How are you finding Kansas City?”

  “It’s beautiful. I’m staying on the Plaza and it reminds me of Seville.”

  The waiter brought our drinks. Thank God.

  Mother, Daddy and I all reached for our glasses immediately. Drank immediately.

  Somehow small talk carried us through dinner. Daddy’s explanation of the local parks system saw us through the salad course. The rules for football proved enough to get us through our entrées. An explanation of the difference between Spanish and Italian olives kept silence at bay while we drank our coffee. Who knew some olives were treated with lye? I might have to rethink dirty martinis.

  When we stood, Mother sank her talons into my arm. “Ellison, a word.”

  Daddy shrugged. It was beyond his power to save me now.

  “I need to take David back to his hotel. Perhaps another time.”

  “I’m sure David won’t mind if I steal you for a minute.” The smile she gave him was truly terrifying.

  He actually stepped back. “Of course not.”

  Judas.

  Mother, her talons still deep in my arm, dragged me into the ladies’ lounge. She let go of me—but only to ascertain that we had the room to ourselves. “What in the hell were you thinking?”

  “I was thinking that David might enjoy a dinner out with someone besides Aunt Sis.”

  She planted her hands on her St. John clad hips. “Have you no sense of decorum?”

  I didn’t bother answering. Anything I said would feed her anger.

  “Your family has stood by you through gossip and infidelity and murder and now you do this? Invite derision?”

  “David is family too.”

  “It’s not the same.”

  “Tell that to Aunt Sis.”

  Mother crossed her arms and softened her tone. “I’m only trying to protect you.”

  “From what?”

  “Scandal.”

  Oh dear Lord. “I’ve weathered scandal. Trust me, no one cares if Sis had a baby out of wedlock but you.” Not exactly true but…

  “What about Katie Walsh Woods? Do you think she’ll care?”

  “She might be delighted to have a brother. I’m delighted to have a cousin. And if you cared about family half as much as you say you do, you’d be delighted to have a nephew.”

  I might as well have slapped her across the face.

  Her eyes narrowed. Her lips pinched. Her hands curled—the talons were back. She opened her mouth, closed it, then turned on her heel and stalked out of the lounge.

  I exhaled slowly.

  Mother wasn’t talking to Aunt Sis. Aunt Sis wasn’t speaking to Mother. And now neither of them were speaking to me.

  Eighteen

  Marjorie refused to go home with Greg. “Home” being a relative term. She refused to stay at the Alameda with Greg. My home was just fine.

  Her adamant refusal meant I was the one at the hospital loading bouquets and plants into the back of Henry’s car. For someone who didn’t even live in Kansas City, she’d amassed an impressive amount of flora.

  “I’ll take that one.” From the passenger seat, Marjorie pointed to an enormous bouquet of orchids and roses.

  The nurse who was helping me handed the arrangement through the door.

  Marjorie settled the vase between her legs.

  Ostentatious. Expensive. Gorgeous. So many flowers it was nearly impossible to see Marjorie behind them.

  “Who sent those?” I loaded the last bouquet into the back seat and closed the door.

  Marjorie flashed me a smile through the roses. “A friend.”

  Great. Perfect. “Who sent them?” I added an edge to my voice.

  “None of your business.”

  I slammed her door shut, walked around the car, opened the driver’s side door and got in.

  “There’s no need to be testy,” said Marjorie.

  Testy? “Do you see the police car behind us?” My fingers tightened on the wheel.

  She didn’t turn. Apparently being shot in the shoulder makes glancing behind painful. “Yes.”

  “It followed me here. It will follow us home.”

  “What has that got to do with my flowers?”

  “Maybe nothing.” Probably nothing. “But there are too many secrets in this family.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Mind your own business.” Petty? Yes. Childish? Undoubtedly. Incredibly satisfying? Absolutely. I started the car and pulled away from the curb.

  “I think we should talk about something else.” My sister stuck her nose in a full blown rose and inhaled deeply.

  Good idea. “Did you see anyone in the parking lot before you got shot? Notice any strange cars?”

  “I don’t want to talk about that. The police have asked me those questions a thousand times.”

  “Now I’m asking.”

  “No. I did not see anyone. Aren’t you driving a bit fast?” For someone living a fast lane lifestyle, Marjorie was a veritable Granny when it came to speed. “There is a policeman following you.”

  I eased off the gas. “What exactly happened?”

  “I got dropped off.”

  “By whom?”

  She hid her face behind her flowers. “Not telling.”

  “Fine. You got dropped off by the man who sent you those flowers, and…?”

  “He left.”

  “He didn’t wait to see you safely in your car?”

  “Oh, please. It was the country club parking lot, not the ghetto.”

  And she’d been shot. “Did anyone follow you up the drive?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “So whoever shot you was already at the club.”

  “I guess.” She took another whiff of rose.

  Someone had shot her. You’d think she’d be more interested in catching them than inhaling fragrance.

  “And you didn’t see anyone?”

  “Don’t you think I would have said? I wasn’t looking for a lunatic with a gun.”

  “You said you heard a tapping.”

  “Yes.”

  “Like golf spikes on concrete?”

  “Sort of. Not quite. Definitely steps. They stopped, there was a bang and the next thing I knew I was in an ambulance.” She cast me a sideways glance. “You were crying.”

  “The last time I was in an ambulance with someone, they died.”

  “You were worried about me.” She smirked.

  “Of course I was worried about you. You’d been shot.”

  Anarchy had gone running at the sound of that shot.

  Presumably a gunshot at the club had stirred at least a few men to investigate. Had someone opened the door to the parking lot? Was that why the killer hadn’t taken a second shot? Why hadn’t he made sure Marjorie was dead?

  I thought back to the parking lot.

  If I was the target, the killer had had ample time to realize their mistake and shoot me too.

  The thought gave me pause. Why hadn’t they?

  Was Marjorie really the target?

  Where had Greg been? Was he a killer? I had only his word for when he’d arrived in Kansas City. For all I knew he could have been staying at the Alameda for days. Or, if he was clever, he
could have stayed at some anonymous hotel downtown for a few days and then checked into the Alameda when he wanted us to know he was in town. Could Greg have shot his wife?

  I shook my head. Greg loved his wife. I was sure of it. He wouldn’t try to kill her.

  “The light is green.” Marjorie interrupted my musings.

  “Oh.” I pressed the gas pedal. “Sorry.”

  We drove in silence for a moment.

  “You’re going to divorce Greg?”

  “Yes.”

  “And marry the man who sent you the flowers?”

  “Yes.”

  “Has he asked you?”

  “No. But he will.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “I’m sure. I’m the only woman in the world for him.”

  “Really?”

  “You don’t have to sound so doubtful.”

  “I don’t trust men.” Who could blame me?

  “Just because things didn’t work out with Henry, doesn’t mean you can’t find happiness with someone else.”

  I kept my eyes on the road.

  “Maybe Grace would like a new father.”

  “Grace is still mourning the old one.” Death and divorce were hard on kids. “What are you going to tell your children?”

  “That their mother is following her bliss.”

  “What?” Somehow I kept my eyes on the road. I couldn’t keep the incredulity out of my voice.

  “I went to a lecture by this man named Joseph Campbell. He says that if you follow your bliss, you put yourself on a path that has been waiting for you—the life you ought to be living. If you do that you’ll find happiness.”

  “Do children or responsibilities appear on this path of yours?”

  “My children want me to be happy.”

  “Your children want a mother.”

  “I need this. I’ve never done anything on my own.”

  “And you’re not now. You’re trading one husband for another.”

  Marjorie turned her head and looked out the passenger’s window. “You don’t understand.”

  I understood all right. Marjorie was borrowing or twisting a philosophy to justify whatever she wanted to do. I hit the turn signal hard enough that my fingers hurt. “I don’t want to fight with you, Marji.”

  “But…”