“Dressed for lunch. You have to come with me.”
“I do?”
“I’m having lunch with Kenneth.”
She’d just been released from the hospital and now she was traipsing off to lunch?
“Don’t go.”
“I have to go. I want the satisfaction of looking in his eyes when I tell him what a turkey he is.”
Turkey? Surely Marjorie could come up with something better than “turkey.” Her vocabulary needed expanding. “You don’t need me for that.”
“I do. Kenneth could sell ice to Eskimos. I need you there for moral support.”
“Let me understand this. He lied to you?”
“Yes.”
“He cheated on you?”
“Yes.”
“And you need me around to make sure he doesn’t talk his way back into your good graces?”
“Exactly.” She leaned toward me. “Please.”
I closed my eyes, counted to ten, and took a deep cleansing breath. “Fine.” If lunch was all it took to keep Marjorie away from Kinky, I’d attend a hundred lunches.
“Where?”
“The Pam-Pam Room.”
Was she kidding? “The Pam-Pam Room at the Alameda?”
“Are there two?”
“The Pam-Pam Room at the hotel where your husband is staying?”
“Oh.” It was more of an exhalation than an actual word.
“Can you change the location?”
She glanced at her watch. “It’s too late. I can’t get in touch with him.”
“Then stand him up.”
“No.” She shook her head. “I want this to be over.”
This had all the makings of a disaster. I marched to my closet with all the enthusiasm of a condemned man walking toward a firing squad, opened the door and pulled out my favorite Diane von Furstenberg wrap dress. “Is this okay?”
“Fine.”
“I’ll be ready in fifteen minutes.”
The police officer in the patrol car followed us to the hotel and into the parking garage.
Marjorie and I climbed out of Henry’s Cadillac, and I approached the officer’s car. “Would you please come inside?” The potential for ugliness was high.
“Yes, ma’am.” He followed us to the lobby then found himself a chair.
Our heels clicked on the restaurant’s parquet floor as the hostess led us to a table with a view of the Plaza.
“You’re sure you want to do this?” I asked. “We can leave.”
“No. We can’t. There he is.” She sounded slightly breathless as if she was talking about Mick Jagger or Warren Beatty and not a philandering putz she’d known since first grade.
Kinky claimed a chair next to Marjorie. “Ellison, this is a surprise.” Then he waved the waitress over. “A martini. Wet. Girls, what do you want to drink?”
I’d passed out of girlhood twenty years ago. “Nothing, thank you.”
He stiffened at the tone of my voice. “What about you, Marji?”
“Tequila sunrise.”
“Marjorie, you’re on pain meds.”
She ignored me. “A tequila sunrise.”
Kinky took my sister’s hand in his. “Marji, how are you feeling?”
He looked solicitous. He sounded as if he cared about her answer. The Eskimos might buy his ice, but I didn’t believe him for a minute. Now was her chance to tell him he’d hurt her and to take his “turkey” ass right out of her sight.
She didn’t. She sat and gazed at him with stars in her eyes.
“She was shot. She’s tired. She’s sore. And she shouldn’t be drinking.” I glared at them both.
“Ellison, don’t scold.”
Any minute now, Greg or David was going to walk through the door and a bad situation would get worse.
“I believe you had something you wanted to tell Kenneth.”
The waitress arrived with their drinks.
Kinky took a sip of his martini. “What is it, doll?”
Marjorie played with the straw in her cocktail. “You’ve been seeing other women.”
“I have not.”
“Kitty Ballew.”
“Kitty? She doesn’t count. That was just to prove to Quin that anyone could have her.”
I tried to follow that logic trail and ran into a brick wall.
Apparently Marjorie did too. “Did you stop and think how I might feel about it?”
“You?” Kinky sounded genuinely confused.
“I thought we had an understanding.” Marjorie’s voice was flimsy. Her chin quivered. She patted under her eyes with the pads of her fingers.
“Lighten up, Marji.”
You’d think with all the women Kinky had slept with he’d have learned a bit about the female psyche.
Marjorie’s chin stopped quivering. She left off fighting tears and narrowed her eyes. “I left my family for you.”
“I said lighten up.” Kinky smoothed his silk tie. “It’s not as if we’re married.”
I refrained—barely—from pointing out that marriage didn’t seem to be a hindrance to his cheating.
“So if we were married, there wouldn’t be anyone else?” Marjorie’s voice held an edge.
“Of course not.” Kinky’s promise fell from his lips, pretty as rose petals thrown at a wedding.
“Isn’t that what you promised Cassie?” It slipped out. Not my fault.
Kinky glared at me. “This isn’t your affair.”
This isn’t your affair—nothing but a slightly more polite way of saying none of your business. Telling Marjorie to lighten up was a gaffe, telling me to mind my own business was an epic blunder.
“Have you filed for divorce, or are you worried about how much Cassie will take you for?”
Again Kinky smoothed his tie—a pretty one, Hermès by the look it. “Cassie gets nothing. We have a prenup. My parents wouldn’t let me marry a hick from Arkansas without protections in place.”
Twenty years of putting up with Kinky and she got nothing? Well, nothing but a job at Harzfeld’s spritzing perfume at women she used to call her friends. “That’s not fair.”
Kinky shrugged and looked deeply into Marjorie’s eyes. “You’re the only woman for me.”
“And aside from Kitty, I’m the only woman you’ve been with?”
He hesitated, stroked her cheek, and ran his thumb over her bottom lip. “You know it, babe.”
Couldn’t Marjorie hear the truth in that hesitation?
She lifted her tequila sunrise, lurid in the afternoon light. “Promise?”
“Cross my heart. I could never lie to you.”
In one fluid motion, Marjorie dashed her drink into Kinky’s smug face. “Liar!”
Every head in the restaurant swiveled.
Marjorie was beyond caring. She grabbed his martini glass off the table and threw that too. “You. Are. A. Liar.”
“Get ahold of yourself.” Kinky wiped his face with a linen napkin then grabbed her arm and shook. He probably didn’t mean to shake her so hard. He probably forgot she was recovering from a gunshot wound. He probably didn’t notice her skin turning a delicate shade of asparagus.
“Let go of my sister!”
He sneered at me.
“Let go of my wife.” Greg’s fist connected with Kinky’s chin. The resulting crash of body into table and china and cutlery would have given Mother a nervous breakdown.
I found the sound musical. Although…it was too bad about the tie.
Greg helped Marjorie from her chair.
She wrapped her arms around him and rested her head on his shoulder. “Oh, Greg, thank you. You saved me.”
It was only then that the policeman appeared. Probably for the best…if a woman is going to depend on a white knight,
he might as well be her husband.
The restaurant manager, a hand-wringing hotel manager, and all manner of waiters and bellhops circled the wreckage.
Kinky dragged himself off the floor. “Bitch.”
Greg raised his fist again and Kinky retreated—retreated all the way out of the restaurant.
“I’ll replace everything that’s broken,” said Greg. “I apologize for the mess and the commotion.” He pulled out his wallet and withdrew a hundred.
The restaurant manager accepted the bill. “Thank you, sir.”
“He insulted my wife.”
The expressions of the men circling us changed from annoyance to respect. They nodded.
Marjorie’s expression—well, she looked at her husband as if he was Superman.
I was definitely no longer needed. “I’m going home. Shall I have Aggie pack your things?”
Marjorie spared me a half second of her starry-eyed gaze—just long enough to nod. The policeman followed me to the garage and watched me slide behind the wheel of the Cadillac. I sat for a moment and breathed a sigh of relief. Finally, something had gone right. Things were looking up. At last.
Twenty-One
I pulled out of the hotel’s garage, circled the fountain some genius had stuck in the middle of the drive, and turned right.
Marjorie was back with Greg. They’d work things out. I actually smiled as I crested the hill. The traffic light was green and I pressed the gas pedal. Henry’s land yacht surged forward and the light turned yellow. I pressed the brakes.
Nothing happened. Well, the pedal met the floorboard but the car didn’t slow. Not one bit.
I whizzed through the red light followed by the blares of multiple horns. There was no time to worry about who I’d upset. The car was now headed downhill and picking up speed.
I white-knuckled the wheel as if holding it tightly might somehow restore the car’s brakes.
Behind me the policeman turned on his siren.
Perfect. I needed another distraction.
Also perfect? What do people do when they hear a police siren? They slow down. I couldn’t slow down. I jammed my foot against the brake pedal. Hard. Harder. There was no resistance. I might as well have pushed my foot into the floorboard.
The road ahead of me was littered with slowing cars—all intent on pulling over to the side. My car was intent on going faster and faster. I was intent on not dying.
Then it happened.
A woman in a Cadillac even bigger than Henry’s stopped right in front of me. I jerked my wheel to the right, popped the curb with a bone-jarring bounce and entered Loose Park.
Branches whipped at the car’s windshield. The tires bumped across uneven terrain. Smart people grabbed their children or pets and got out of the way.
I pressed the horn and held it. At least that worked.
The car was going to cross the walking path. An older gentleman and his basset hound stared at me, matching looks of horror on their faces as the car raced toward them.
I yanked the wheel, narrowly missing them and an oak tree.
The pond on the other side of the path I didn’t miss.
Henry’s car hovered above the water for a split second—long enough for me to pray. Oh. Dear. Lord.
The car dove into the duck pond like a seven-year-old leaping off the high board. The Cadillac made an enormous splash then sank like the tank it was.
Water already covered my ankles…my calves…my knees.
I tried the door. It refused to budge. I cranked the window. My hands, damp with sweat or the water already filling the car, slipped from the handle.
Dammit.
I refused to drown. Especially in Henry’s Caddy.
I grabbed the handle again. Held tight. Circled once. Circled twice…Lower. Lower. Lower.
Ice-cold water poured in on me. My heart beat triple time.
I squeezed out of the opening, my dress catching on something.
I yanked, felt the fabric give, and kicked through the murky water toward the surface.
The policeman who’d followed me stood on the edge of the pond, his hand shading his eyes, his gaze fixed on the water.
If I live to be a hundred, no one will ever look as happy to see me as that man. He didn’t have to tell Anarchy Jones I’d died on his watch.
I swam to the side of the pond, my arms suddenly heavier than lead, my legs so tired that the effort of kicking left me breathless.
The policeman hauled me out of the water. “You scared the hell out of me.” He wiped his forehead. “I don’t swim. Are you hurt?”
I didn’t answer. Instead I gazed at the last bubbles rising from the depths of the pond.
“Are you hurt?” he repeated.
The adrenaline that had replaced the blood in my veins vanished. I swayed on my feet. A few stars mixed with the bubbles.
“You’re shaking. Where are you hurt?”
“She’s in shock,” said the man with the basset hound. His dog regarded me with drooping, red-rimmed eyes and barked in agreement.
I would have agreed with them but my teeth were chattering too wildly to speak.
“I’m going to call an ambulance,” said the policeman.
I really ought to learn his name. He looked like an Alec. A not-so-smart Alec.
I sank onto the grass with the dead leaves and duck droppings and waited.
The sky was a pretty shade of blue. It was easier to look at if I lay down. I did that. What shade of blue? Royal? Indigo? Cerulean? The sky in Kansas City only achieved this saturated shade in October. I christened it October blue. After the darkness of the pond, it was the loveliest color I’d ever seen.
I closed my eyes.
“Ellison.”
Damn it. I wanted to rest.
“Ellison!” I recognized that voice and it didn’t sound happy. “Are you sure she didn’t hit her head? Where the hell is the ambulance? How did this happen?” Nope. Detective Anarchy Jones did not sound happy.
“Don’t y-y-y-yell at Alec. It wasn’t his f-f-f-fault.”
“Who’s Alec?”
I opened my eyes. Anarchy and not-so-smart Alec loomed above me. I hate it when men loom.
How had he arrived so quickly? I’d only closed my eyes for—I glanced at my watch—note to self, Piagets and pond water don’t mix. I squinted at the tiger’s eye and diamond face. The hands didn’t move.
I sat. A mistake. The remains of my breakfast objected. I added vomit to the dead leaves and duck droppings.
Anarchy crouched next to me and rested his hand on my shoulder. “Ellison, what happened?”
“No brakes.”
“Had you been having problems with them?”
“No. The car is less than a year old.”
Anarchy shifted his gaze to the police office who’d been assigned to protect me. “Get a team out here. Get that car out of the pond. Have someone check the brake lines. It sounds as if they were cut.”
Good plan. I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand. “My purse is in the car.” The car was in the pond. My dress was ruined. I was soaking wet. And I smelled like duck droppings, pond scum, and vomit. There are times when a woman’s only recourse is to cry. I did that.
Not delicate tears but great wrenching sobs that shook my body, fat tears that soaked my face and melted my mascara. My nose probably turned a bright shade of crimson.
“I—” my voice quavered “—am t-t-t-tired—” I hiccupped “—of p-people—” I wiped my nose on the sleeve of my ruined dress “—trying to—” I hid my face in my hands “—k-k-kill me.”
Anarchy ignored the dead leaves and duck droppings and vomit, sat on the ground, and pulled me into his lap. “You’re shivering.”
“The water was fr-fr-freezing.” And I was soaking. The October breeze felt like a
January gale. I snuggled closer to Anarchy’s warmth.
His arms tightened around me but he addressed not-so-smart Alec.
“What’s the ETA on that ambulance?”
“Three minutes.”
“Ellison.” His voice softened. “Can you tell me what happened?”
“The b-b-b-brakes didn’t w-w-work.” Talking would be easier if my teeth would stop chattering.
“Where had you been?”
“The Ala-la-lameda.”
Anarchy glared at not-so-smart Alec “Weren’t you watching?” His voice lost all of its softness. It sounded hard-edged and cop-like.
“N-n-n-not his f-f-fault. I asked him to c-c-c-come inside.”
Anarchy’s arms felt heavenly warm. Too bad they stiffened. “So your car was unattended. Did you lock it?”
“No.”
“No?”
“I n-n-n-never do.”
He must have caught a whiff of my pond scum hair because his face contorted. “Ellison, you have to be more careful. Someone is trying to kill you. You finally admitted it just a minute ago.”
As men go, Anarchy is one of the good ones. But telling a drenched woman who’s covered in pond scum and duck droppings—one who’s contemplating the destruction of an expensive watch, the loss of her handbag and the sinking of her husband’s car—I told you so is not smart. It is the equivalent of telling the woman to lighten up when she’s upset about infidelity. Unfortunately, I did not have a tequila sunrise handy. “Or M-M-M-Marjorie. Someone might be trying to k-k-kill Marjorie. She went to the Al-la-la—” I swallowed. “She went to the hotel with me.”
“You left her there?”
I nodded. “With her husband.”
He stroked my wet, stringy, smelly hair. “We’ll talk about it later.”
Maybe he wanted to talk later but the implicit criticism—you didn’t lock your car, you left your sister—set my teeth on edge. “Have you—”
The wail of the ambulance siren reached us, and I remembered where I was—sitting in Anarchy’s lap, borrowing his warmth. He was right. Now was not the time to talk about brakes or Marjorie or murder. I shifted so that my head fit against his shoulder.
“I’m s-s-sorry about your coat.” I’d marred Anarchy’s jacket with damp and bits of leaves and probably some duck droppings.
CLOUDS IN MY COFFEE Page 21
