Watching the Detectives

by Julie Mulhern

“If Preston gets a mid-life crisis, I deserve one too.”

  It takes two. Two to fall in love. Two to get married. Two to rip a marriage to shreds. “Preston?” Cheating? I couldn’t reconcile the Preston George I knew—middle-aged waistline, thick glasses, kind smile—with a cheater. “With whom?”

  “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

  “Try me.” A certain dryness may have colored my tone.

  “Khaki White.”

  I blinked. “Khaki White, the decorator?”

  “Do you know another Khaki White?”

  I couldn’t wrap my head around the idea. Preston and Khaki? I didn’t see it. “Khaki White who was murdered at my house yesterday?”

  Jinx dropped her racket. The wooden frame clattered against the court’s hard surface. “What?” Her face was slack, as if I’d just delivered shocking news.

  “I’m sorry. I assumed everyone between St. Louis and Denver had heard.”

  “No. I—” she rubbed the bridge of her nose with the heel of her palm “—I was busy yesterday. I let the machine get the phone.” Jinx lowered her hand and stared at me with worried eyes. “Murdered. You’re sure?”

  “Positive.”

  “When was she killed?”

  “Around lunchtime yesterday.”

  “Do the police know who did it?”

  “I don’t think so. Last I checked, I was a suspect.”

  She waved my being a suspect aside with a bend of her wrist that did not bode well for her backhand. “Your detective knows better.”

  Maybe Anarchy knew better. Detective Peters remained unconvinced.

  “Lunchtime? You’re sure?” She looked ten years older than when I’d arrived on the court three minutes ago.

  “Between noon and twelve thirty.”

  Jinx crouched and picked up her fallen racket. “I have to go. I’ll call you.”

  Without so much as a glance at Clint of the memorable serve and volley, she walked off the court. Trotted off the court. As if she had a burning question that needed answering.

  “Jinx,” I called after her.

  She paused.

  “Jane Addison sent me back here.”

  That the biggest gossip in town knew Jinx had been carrying on with a tennis pro should have been cause for concern. Major concern.

  Jinx’s racket bounced against the side of her leg. Once. Twice. Three times. “It doesn’t matter now.” She resumed her trot, leaving me alone with Clint.

  What was so important that she could so easily set aside the damage sure to be caused by Jane’s loose talk?

  I glanced at Clint. He looked crestfallen at Jinx’s sudden departure. The man had to be in his late twenties. Surely he’d figured out by now that there were more important things in life than a great serve and volley.

  “I don’t think she’s coming back,” I said.

  He peered at this watch.

  “She paid for an hour and it’s only a quarter after. Do you want the rest of her lesson?”

  Definitely not. I had better things to think about—like why Jinx suspected her husband of Khaki’s murder.

  five

  Clouds heavy with rain chased away the morning sun and the temperature dropped by at least thirty degrees in fifteen minutes. I should have seen this change coming—would have seen this change coming if I weren’t avoiding the television. But who wants to see their home identified as a murder scene on the morning news?

  The fleet of squad cars decorating my drive had been reduced to one. Some kind soul had even removed Khaki’s BMW. A yellow taxi cab idled in its place. Aggie stood next to the driver’s window. She wore a pom-pom-fringed poncho in shades of avocado green and harvest gold over a pumpkin-hued muumuu, and she glared into the bottom of her worn leather purse—the enormous one painted with cheerful daisies. Perhaps she glared because the bag seemed to have swallowed her whole arm.

  I pulled in behind them.

  Aggie abandoned the waiting driver and marched up to my car. “Do you have two dollars?”

  “Of course.” I pulled my billfold out of my much smaller purse (no daisies—not judging—well, not much), withdrew a five, and handed it to her.

  She accepted the bill, stalked back to the driver, shoved the five through the open window, and waited while he counted her change. With a scowl that would have sent me running for the hills, she gave him a single back.

  The man screeched down the drive.

  Max, whose tail wagged with gratitude for being picked up from the doggie boarding house, and I got out of the car and approached her. Slowly. Carefully. Aggie in a bad mood was something new. “Rough morning?”

  “I’m not good at the bus. I got on what I thought was the right number and ended up miles from here.” She handed me two dollars. “I have to buy a car.”

  I stuffed the money in my pocket. “I’ve been thinking about that. You do so much driving for Grace and me. Why don’t I buy a car for you to drive?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  A gust of wind on a fast track from Canada barreled into us. I shivered and wished for a hat—a new one, felt with a floppy brim. “I’m not being ridiculous. Lots of people drive company cars. Let’s go in before we freeze.”

  We almost made it. Almost.

  “You’ve disrupted the neighborhood again.” Margaret Hamilton was a certified witch (well, not really certified. They didn’t have tests for that sort of thing. But, if they did, she’d earn a perfect score). She was also my next-door neighbor. Today, like most days, she wore black. Black pointy shoes. Black coat. Black muffler wrapped around her scrawny neck. Black and an evil scowl on her pinched face.

  Max growled. Thank God I’d put a leash on him. I tightened my hold. “I assure you, I did not kill Khaki White.”

  “You and that dog are nothing but trouble.”

  Max growled again. Deeper this time.

  “I’m sorry if the police disturbed you, but it was hardly my fault.” I didn’t complain when she donned her witch outfit and rode her broomstick. She shouldn’t complain when a body showed up at my house.

  “I want the police out of here.”

  In that, we were in agreement. “They’re almost done.” Surely the reduction in police cars meant they’d nearly finished processing the crime scene.

  Margaret sniffed and turned on her heel.

  Aggie, who’d remained silent, muttered, “I’ll get you, my pretty, and your little dog too.”

  I laughed. I couldn’t help it.

  Margaret spun and glared at me.

  Perfect. Now she’d hex me. Again. “Aggie was just saying we made it four whole days without incident.”

  Now Margaret’s glare included Aggie.

  “I’m sure things will calm down.” I wasn’t sure of that. Not at all. “I apologize for any inconvenience.”

  Margaret sniffed again.

  Neither Aggie nor I said a word until she was off the property. Even Max refrained from growling.

  I opened the front door and we stepped inside.

  A uniformed policeman with a cup of coffee in his right hand sat on the steps to the second floor. A bag from a nearby donut shop sat to his left. Powdered sugar dusted his mustache.

  He stood and the powdered sugar that had missed his mustache and landed in his lap fell like snow.

  “Good morning, officer. I’m Ellison Russell.”

  Max pulled on his leash, his gaze fixed on the bag of donuts.

  “Officer Smith.”

  “Are you almost done?”

  Officer Smith’s glance shifted between the bag of donuts and my hungry dog.

  “In the study,” I added.

  A dull red darkened his cheeks. “Yes, ma’am.”

 
; “Wonderful. If you’ll grab your breakfast, I’ll let Max off his leash. May we look?” I jerked my chin toward the study.

  “Of course.”

  Aggie and I crossed the foyer and peered into the room where Khaki died. My heart sank and Aggie’s sharp intake of breath told me all I needed to know about her opinion. I looked at her anyway.

  Aggie regarded the study, now covered with fingerprint dust, with a look usually reserved for…Well, Mother wore that exact look the night Kitty Ballew got drunk at the club’s summer cocktail party, disappeared for twenty minutes, and reappeared with her dress on inside out. It was a look of total and utter disapproval.

  “Coffee,” I said. “We need coffee before we can even think about this mess.” Mr. Coffee might not be able to solve all the world’s problems or clean the study, but things tended to look brighter after he’d worked his magic.

  I headed for the kitchen.

  Mr. Coffee waved hello. His bright yellow gingham face never failed to bring a smile to mine. This morning was no exception.

  Aggie tsked. Yesterday’s groceries still sat on the counter. “I did put the perishables away.” She pulled a box of Life cereal out of a bag and carried it to the pantry.

  I took Mr. Coffee’s pot, filled it with water, then filled his reservoir. Next I placed a filter in his basket-thingy and scooped coffee. Aggie needed some of his magic. And quickly.

  The light on the answering machine blinked. Lord only knew the number of messages it held.

  I glanced at Mr. Coffee. Go ahead, he said. I’ll have coffee ready for you soon.

  I pushed the button.

  “Ellison?” A voice quavered. “This is Karen Fleming calling.” Then came a pause as if she expected the answering machine to say, how lovely to hear from you. That was just silly. Mr. Coffee was the only talking appliance at my house. “I need to speak with you,” Karen continued. “If I don’t hear from you, I’ll be there at ten tomorrow morning.”

  I glanced at my watch. The time read five minutes to ten. And tomorrow was today. Dammit.

  What could Karen Fleming possibly want? And why? I barely knew the woman. She was older, didn’t play much bridge, and had earned herself a reputation as an unreliable committee member. Good when she showed up—if she showed up—but not someone a woman could trust with an important job. All that meant I seldom saw her.

  Ding dong.

  I sighed. “I’ll get that.”

  My feet may have dragged on the way to the front door. I definitely paused and took a deep breath before I turned the handle and pulled it open.

  My best friend Libba stood on the other side. “I’ve been trying to reach you all night. What the hell happened?”

  I stood aside and she pushed into the foyer, a miffed whirlwind dressed in jeans, to-die-for boots, a ruana, and a felt hat with a floppy brim.

  I closed the door behind her. “Where did you find your hat?”

  She adjusted the brim. “Swanson’s. What happened over here yesterday?”

  “Swanson’s? I was there last night, and I didn’t see a hat like that.”

  “That’s because I’d already bought it. Now, what happened?”

  Officer Donut appeared in the foyer. A second officer followed. “We’re done here, Mrs. Russell. Detective Peters asks that you stay out of the study.”

  “For how long?”

  “Until you hear differently.”

  That meant a reprieve from cleaning. I didn’t argue. “Fine. Thank you, officers.”

  With curious glances at Libba, they exited the front door.

  “What. Happened?” Libba crossed her arms and positively glared at me.

  “Someone murdered Khaki White.”

  “I already know that.” Frustration raised her pitch. “And?”

  “I came home from grocery shopping and found her dead in the study.”

  “That’s it?” Libba twisted her mouth, seemingly unconvinced.

  “That’s it. Now I have a question for you.”

  “What?”

  “Is Jinx’s husband—” Damn. “—was Preston George having an affair with Khaki?”

  “She told you that?”

  “She did.” I refrained from mentioning Jinx’s own dalliances. Besides, chances were that Libba already knew all about Clint’s serve and volley. Probably first hand.

  Libba adjusted the brim of her hat. “Preston and Khaki were on the board of some charity together. Something to do with poor women with bad husbands. But the two of them? Together? I just don’t see it. What I want to know is—”

  “The coffee is ready,” Aggie called from outside the kitchen door.

  “Come on.” I jerked my head toward the kitchen.

  Libba answered with a put-upon sigh.

  Steaming mugs waited for us on the kitchen island. I wrapped my hands around one, enjoying the warmth that seeped through the porcelain. “Thank you, Aggie.”

  “You’re welcome.” She pulled a box of Super Sugar Crisp from the last remaining grocery bag. Super Sugar Crisp? Grace and I were going to have to chat about the foods she added to Aggie’s grocery list.

  Libba picked up the second mug. “Thanks.”

  Aggie, whose mood had not sweetened at all, grumbled.

  Ding dong.

  “That must be Karen Fleming,” I said.

  “Karen Fleming? What’s she doing here?” Libba was in a mood similar to Aggie’s. Sour. Grumpy. Cross. Although, to the best of my knowledge, Libba’s car hadn’t died, nor had she helped find a body, or been interrogated by the police. Aggie deserved my sympathies. Libba did not.

  “I haven’t the slightest.”

  Libba followed me to the front door. She grumbled the whole way.

  I opened the door. Karen stood on the other side.

  “Karen.” I manufactured a smile. “Welcome.”

  She ventured inside. “Good morning.”

  Was her nose red from the cold or had she been crying?

  “It’s very nice of you to see me.” She stared at Libba’s boots. “Nice to see you too, Libba.”

  Libba pasted something on her face that was probably supposed to be a smile but looked more like a grimace. Libba cared about clothes and hair and the way one presented oneself to the world. Karen wasn’t more than ten years older than us, but she looked as if she was one of Mother’s contemporaries. The clothes didn’t help her. At all. A house dress in a zig-zag pattern that tried to look like Missoni and failed worn under a shapeless wool coat. Sensible shoes. And her hair—a bouffant a la 1962.

  Karen’s lips thinned as if she understood all the disapproval in Libba’s expression. A single tear ran down her cheek.

  I rubbed my forehead. I was a terrible hostess. The poor woman was in distress, and I was running a mental inventory of her ensemble. I was as bad as Libba. “Are you all right? Let’s go sit in the living room. I’ll have Aggie bring you some coffee.”

  Actually, I’d get the coffee. Aggie deserved a day of mourning for Bess without my bothering her for little things.

  “Have a seat.” I led Karen to the living room and waved at the seating arrangement nearest the fireplace. “How do you take your coffee?”

  “Cream and sugar.” Another tear. “Actually, black. I ran into Daniel the other day and he said I’d gained a few pounds.”

  Daniel Fleming needed to have his eyesight tested. Karen was the kind of thin most women dreamed of. “Nonsense. And besides, who cares what he thinks? You’re not married to him anymore. I’ll be back in a jiff.”

  When I returned, Karen was seated on the couch with her ankles crossed and her hands neatly folded in her lap. Libba, whose spine could contort into odd shapes, lounged in a wingback. They weren’t talking.

  I set the tr
ay on the coffee table, poured a cup for Karen, topped off Libba’s near-empty mug, reclaimed my own coffee, and chose the wingback that matched Libba’s. Unlike Libba, I actually sat.

  Karen took a sip of her coffee. “I came about Khaki.”

  Libba shifted in her chair.

  “Oh?” My rate of coffee consumption wasn’t high enough to craft a clever reply.

  “She was a good decorator.” Karen daubed at her eyes with a handkerchief. “A good friend.”

  Khaki, in her stacked boots and short skirt, and the frumpy woman on the couch had been good friends? “Oh?” Lack of coffee or not, I needed to step up my game. “I didn’t realize you knew each other.”

  Karen nodded. Emphatically. “We hired her to redo the downstairs.” She glanced down at her lap. “Daniel says I’m hopeless at that sort of thing. At any rate—” she looked up and her expression dared us to argue “—Khaki and I met and became friends.”

  “I’m so sorry for your loss.” It sounded better than oh.

  Karen covered her mouth with her free hand and a new wave of tears wet her cheeks.

  I should have stuck with oh.

  Libba shot me a look—one that said what have you gotten us into?

  I didn’t know Karen well. Perhaps she was given to big emotions. Even so, her response to Khaki’s death seemed outsized. Or maybe not. Maybe a murder required a big response. Maybe my own response—mild regret with a side of concern—wasn’t enough. After all, a woman was dead. I should be mourning her loss, not thinking about removing fingerprint dust from the study or if the fabric designer responsible for Karen’s dress really meant to use that burnt umber shade.

  “Khaki’s death was a terrible tragedy,” I said.

  Karen nodded but said nothing, apparently waiting for more from me. That, or she was too overcome to speak.

  “A terrible crime,” I added.

  She remained mute.

  “A terrible loss.”

  “If you only knew.” Her voice cracked and she fell silent.

  Libba sat up. “What don’t we know?”

  Karen went quiet again. She shook her head sadly rather than answer the question.