Two—or three—could play mute. I inspected my cuticles. Ragged as usual. Wiping your hands with turpentine or mineral spirits would do that.
The silence stretched.
Karen broke first. “You found her?”
“I did.”
“Did she suffer? Did her attacker hurt her?”
Khaki’s attacker put a bullet in her brain. “I think it was quick. Why do you ask?”
“No reason.” The words came too quickly. Karen might not have been scratching her nose (my own tell), but she was definitely lying.
I studied the woman on the couch. She looked as if the wrong words might shatter her. I swallowed the obvious question.
Libba, God love her, did not. “Do you know who killed her?”
“No. Of course not. No.” Karen recoiled, plastering her spine against the back of the sofa, a physical retreat from the question.
She did know. Or she thought she did. “You’re sure? “I know the investigating detective. I can call him if you’d like to talk.”
“I shouldn’t have come.” Karen stood, bumping her knee against the corner of the coffee table hard enough to rattle the china. It was the sort of minor injury that hurt like hell. She seemed not to notice. “I have to go.”
She snatched her purse off the couch and dashed toward the foyer.
I rose and followed her, catching her by the front door where she was having difficulties with the lock.
“I’ll do that.”
She lowered her head and stepped aside. “I’m so sorry to have bothered you.”
I jiggled the lock just right and opened the door. “Karen, if you’re in trouble, I know people who can help. I can help.”
“I’m not in trouble.” She lifted her gaze from the carpet. Something desperate and angry and sad burned in her eyes. “I can’t believe you think I am.”
She slipped outside, hurried to her car, and sped away—all without looking back.
Libba joined me in the foyer. “Do you think she knows who killed Khaki?”
I rubbed my suddenly tense neck. “No. I think she’s worried she’ll be next.”
six
I rested my head against the solid oak of the front door. Why did I have to be the one to find bodies, discover murders, and deal with unbridled emotions? Surely there were other women much better suited to drama? Libba, for instance.
Behind us someone cleared her throat.
I lifted my head and turned.
“Mrs. Walford is on the phone,” said Aggie.
Again, why me? Usually Aggie put Mother off. “Tell her I’m—”
“She’s very insistent.” Maybe Aggie didn’t feel up to creating smoke screens today. Lord knew I didn’t feel up to a conversation with Mother.
“I’ll take it in the stu—” Per Officer Donut, the study was off limits. “I’ll take it in the family room.” I turned to Libba. “Excuse me, please.”
I hurried into the living room and grabbed my coffee cup (a morning chat with Mother required coffee).
Libba followed me, sank onto the couch, dug in her oversize purse, pulled out a copy of Vogue, and waved me away. “I’ll wait.”
Joy.
In the family room, Max lifted his head off the arm rest of the couch. His perfect morning included a visit outside where he took care of doggy business and completed a quick squirrel patrol. Next came a biscuit and a long nap.
I’d disturbed the nap part. “Sorry.”
He grunted.
I steeled myself and picked up the receiver. “Hello.”
“I hope you don’t keep everyone waiting on the phone like this.” Mother’s version of hello when she was in a mood.
“Karen Fleming stopped by. I was seeing her out.”
“Karen Fleming? What was she doing there?”
“No idea.” It was God’s truth.
“I want you to bring a check by the house this afternoon. Around four thirty or five.”
“A check?”
Mother’s deep sigh was perfectly crafted to communicate disappointment and evoke guilt. “Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten already. You promised you’d sponsor a table at Cora’s luncheon.”
I had forgotten, safe in the knowledge that she’d never let me forget. “I’ll drop it in the morning mail.”
“No. Come by. Cora will be here. Thornton, too.” She said her cousin’s name as if seeing him was an incentive. Thornton was the closest thing Mother had to a brother and she adored him, which worked out well because Thornton adored being adored.
“Fine.” Agreeing was easier than arguing. I wouldn’t stay.
“Have they caught the killer yet?” she asked.
“Not that I know of.”
Another sigh. This one annoyed. I could imagine her on the other end of the line—brows lowered, mouth a tight line. If she didn’t have the receiver in her hand, she’d cross her arms. “Did you see the news?”
“No. I avoided watching.”
“That neighbor of yours was interviewed.”
“Which one?”
“Margaret Hamilton. She talked about you as if you were the Zodiac Killer. I want you to call Hunter and file a libel suit.”
“What did she say?”
“That Khaki White was the third murder victim found at your house this year.”
Unfortunately, that wasn’t libelous. That was true. “It’s not as if I killed any of them.”
“That doesn’t matter. People say where there’s smoke, there’s fire. I’ve told you, this has to stop.”
“Mother, it’s not as if I’m doing anything to make this happen. Believe me, if I were, I’d stop.”
She tsked.
“I do not go looking for trouble. It finds me.”
“I suppose that police detective is hanging around again.” She made Anarchy sound as welcome as a disease—a really bad one like leprosy or syphilis.
“I haven’t seen him today. Listen, Mother. Libba is here. I’ll see you this afternoon. Bye.” I hung up before she could argue.
What I’d told her was God’s truth. I didn’t look for trouble. This time Hunter was responsible for sending trouble my way.
I reclaimed the receiver and dialed.
Now Max sighed. Deeply.
The same cool, professional voice as yesterday answered the phone. “Law office.”
“May I please speak with Mr. Tafft?”
“Who may I say is calling?”
“Ellison Russell.”
“One moment, please.”
I stared out the window where the wind spun a few unraked leaves in circles.
“Ellison.” Hunter’s voice was warm and welcoming as a cozy fire on a cold November morning.
“Hunter, I have a question.”
“Shoot.”
I cringed. There’d been entirely too much shooting of late. “Um, why did you ask me to call Khaki about redoing the study?”
“She asked me to.”
“Pardon?”
“I told her you’d fired your last decorator. Khaki asked me to recommend her.”
My spine stiffened. My neck stiffened. My scalp stiffened. “You discussed me with your ex-wife?”
“No.” Hunter’s voice was soothing, calming, as if he could sense my annoyance through the phone line. “We discussed the murder. That you’d fired your decorator came up in the course of the conversation.”
Reasonable enough, but still unsettling. “Why did she want the job? Having her here was a bit—” I searched for the right word “—awkward.”
“I wondered that too. I even asked her if working for you might be uncomfortable.”
“What did she say?”
“Sh
e said that there were more important things at stake.”
“What? What important things?”
“She had one of those national decorating magazines interested in doing an article. She was looking for the right project.”
A Masculine Study becomes a Feminine Retreat. The headline scrolled across my brain. The only problem with that story was that national magazines like Architectural Digest and House Beautiful usually did articles on whole houses not individual rooms. Khaki had lied to Hunter. “Did she need the money?”
“No.”
Maybe Hunter was wrong. Maybe Khaki needed the job and hadn’t wanted to tell him. Lord knew we hadn’t talked about important things. “She didn’t come in with big ideas. All we talked about was which shade to stain the paneling.”
“I don’t know what to tell you, Ellison. Khaki thought she could get national exposure if she worked for you.”
Which was patently ridiculous. “Why didn’t you tell me this before?”
“You mean yesterday when Jones’ new partner looked ready to arrest us both?”
“No. I mean before I called her.”
On the couch, Max opened one eye. This conversation was taking entirely too long for his doggy tastes.
“I should have. I meant to. I’m sorry.” Hunter and contrition. Two words that did not go together. Yet he sounded genuinely sorry. “I had a brief due, and I figured you were more than capable of handling anything Khaki came up with.”
That was somewhat flattering. Too bad Khaki had somehow come up with murder.
“Let me make it up to you,” he continued. “Let me take you to dinner tonight.”
Grace was spending the evening with her friend, Donna. If I went, Aggie could skip making dinner. Given her current mood, taking a chore off her to-do list was appealing.
“I’ll take you to Nabil’s.” One of my favorites.
“Um…”
“Just say yes, Ellison. Give Aggie the night off.”
“Okay.” It was a less than exuberant acceptance.
“I’ll pick you up at six.”
“See you then. Goodbye.” I hung up the phone.
“I thought you were done with men.” Libba spoke from the doorway.
“I am.”
“You are? Because I believe I just heard you accept a date. The only question, was it with Hunter or Detective Jones?” She rubbed her chin. “Given that your detective is investigating a murder, I’m betting Hunter.”
“He’s not my detective, and you should mind your own business.” Wasted breath on my part. After a lifetime of sticking her nose in my affairs, why would she stop now?
“Fine. Let’s talk Khaki White.”
“Why?”
Libba blinked. “What do you mean why?”
“Why do you want to talk about Khaki? I am sick—” I edited out to death “—of talking about dead people.”
“This is hard on you, isn’t it?” Libba actually looked sympathetic.
“What do you think?” Oh dear Lord. I sounded pathetic.
“I think if I couldn’t make it through a week without finding a corpse, I’d be cranky too.”
“I’m not cranky.”
“Of course you’re not.” Her voice was pitched to frazzled-mother-negotiating-with-a-fractious-toddler.
“I’m not!” Maybe I was. A little.
“Go upstairs. Take a hot bath. Relax. We can talk later.” She held up her hands and backed down the hallway toward the kitchen.
Soothing hot water. Scented bubbles. A divine prospect. But I knew something that would make me feel even better. “Aggie,” I called. “Grab your poncho. I’m going to buy you a car.”
A plumber’s truck was parked in Mother and Daddy’s driveway, so I parked at the curb. Their street, which was usually as busy as the club on a Monday night (that is to say, empty), was full of cars. A black Jaguar, a red VW Beetle similar to the one I’d just bought Aggie, a blue Cadillac, even a white Mercedes. Another one? I’d never noticed how many white Mercedes there were until one loomed large in my life. Then again, I probably hadn’t notice red Bugs until today either.
I shook off my consideration of cars, glanced at my watch, marched up the front walk with my checkbook at the ready, and rang the bell.
Cora answered Mother’s door. That was new. Mother’s housekeeper usually answered the door, not one of her guests.
“Ellison, how lovely to see you. Come in.” Cora stepped back, making room for me to enter. “May I take your coat?”
“I can’t stay.”
“Of course you can.” Mother spoke from the entrance to the living room.
“No, I can’t. I’m going out to dinner with Hunter.” If ever there was news designed to keep Mother off my back, that was it.
As expected, she smiled brightly. For a half-second. “You’re wearing that?”
There was nothing wrong with the navy slacks and white turtleneck I wore beneath my trench coat. Not one thing. There was also no upside in pointing that out. “I need some time to get ready.”
Thornton appeared behind Mother. He rested his hand on her shoulder. “I think she looks lovely, Frances. Very chic.”
“Don’t be silly, Thornton. What do you know about women’s clothes?”
A shadow crossed over Thornton’s face. “Hear that, Ellison? I’ve been put in my place. Listen to your mother.”
“I always do.” A statement so ridiculous no one bothered refuting it. “I brought my checkbook. How much should I write the check for?”
“A million dollars,” said Thornton.
Mother laughed. Cora and I did not.
“That’s a bit rich for my blood. What’s the top sponsor level?”
“Twenty-five hundred,” Cora replied.
“Done.” I reached into my purse for a pen.
“I’m going to host a benefactors’ party here at the house,” said Mother. “You’ll come?” It wasn’t a question.
“I have an opening to get ready for.”
“I’m sure you can make time for family.”
The Clint Eastwood look—the narrow-eyed squint that said he’d love to shoot someone. I needed that look. I didn’t have that look. I possessed only a polite mask. I put it on. “I’ll do my best.”
Clang.
The sound reverberated through the foyer and we all looked up at the ceiling.
“I saw the van in the drive. Do you have a new plumber?” The name on the side of the van had not been familiar.
Mother’s lips thinned. “No. Of course not. Troy is out of town.” Mother had used the same plumber, electrician, handyman, caterer, bartender, and florist since Methuselah walked the earth. God forbid any of them not be immediately available to her…“I’m not at all sure about this new man.”
Thornton cleared his throat. “So, some excitement at your house, Ellison.”
“That’s one thing to call it.”
“That decorator worked for us too. Cora couldn’t pick out a decent paint color if her life depended on it. I guess now that the White woman is gone the kitchen will stay beige.”
Cora’s chin quivered. “She was very nice.”
“She charged too much.”
“Now, Thornton.” Mother laid her hand on his arm. “You wouldn’t want a bargain basement decorator.”
CLANG.
A pained expression settled on Mother’s face. “I hope he finishes soon. We have reservations.” She adjusted her expression to don’t-you-dare-argue. “The luncheon is Friday, so we’ll be gathering here on Thursday evening. Put it on your calendar, Ellison.”
Something landed on my head. I touched my hair and my fingers came away wet. I looked up at the ceiling. Another drip was forming. Oh dear. I stepped out of
the way.
Mother looked up too. In fact, her gaze was riveted to the spot on the ceiling.
Drip, drip, drip.
“Cora, go get a bucket,” said Thornton.
Too late. The drips swelled to a trickle.
CLANG!
The trickle swelled to a stream.
Mother’s expression belonged in a horror movie.
“Where’s the valve?” Not that I knew which way to turn the valve. “Can we turn off the water?”
“I don’t know where it is.” Unflappable Mother’s voice was shrill.
“Well—” I looked at the only man in the front hall. Weren’t men supposed to know about plumbing? “—someone should figure out the location.” Quickly. The sound of the plumbing was Niagara Falls-esque.
The flow of water from the ceiling to Mother’s Oriental swelled from stream to river.
Thornton, ever the man of action, strode to the bottom of the stairs and yelled, “Turn off the damn water.”
Too little. Too late.
What happened next was inevitable.
The ceiling relocated to the floor, joined on its descent by a wall of water.
Mother, her St. John suit soaked, stood still as Lot’s wife. So still, one might wonder if she had turned to salt. She hadn’t, salt would’ve melted in the lake that was Mother’s foyer. Mother was made of stronger stuff.
Cora wrung her hands.
Thornton picked a chunk of plaster from his wet hair and threw it on the sodden carpet. “This is a disaster, Frances. What are you going to do about Cora’s benefactors’ party?”
Mother shifted her horrified gaze from the ceiling to me. The idea flickered in her eyes then took hold. A conflagration of awful.
Sweet nine-pound baby Jesus. No! I shook my head. I held my hands up to ward off the inevitable. Please, no.
Mother, on fire with genius, ignored my distress. “That’s not a problem. Ellison will host the party.”
seven
I drove home damp with questionable water, sprinkled with bits of ceiling, and covered in a pall of impending disaster. A party? In two days?
A car I didn’t recognize sat in the driveway. An AMC of some kind. An indeterminate shade of dark blue, the car looked fast sitting still. Hopefully whoever owned it would leave fast.
Watching the Detectives Page 6
