Watching the Detectives

by Julie Mulhern

  I crossed my arms over my chest and paced the sidewalk.

  Had Khaki gotten crossways with an angry husband? What did Jinx know? Where was Preston?

  The last question was answered with a screech of braking wheels. Preston George leapt from his car and raced through the emergency room doors without even seeing me.

  I followed him inside, glad of the sudden burst of warmth.

  Preston was leaning over the admitting desk and making demands.

  Admitting nurses hated that. I knew firsthand.

  I hurried to his side and rested my hand on his arm. “Preston.”

  “Ellison.” He turned my name into a sob. “You brought her in?”

  “With Libba.”

  Libba heard her name, put down whatever fascinating article she was reading in Tiger Beat (both David Cassidy and Donny Osmond were on the cover), and hurried over to us.

  “Thank you.” His voice caught. “So much.”

  “You’re welcome.” I patted his arm.

  “We had a fight this morning and—”

  I held up a finger, silencing him. “Is there any news about Mrs. George?” I asked the nurse.

  “Soon.” How many times could she say that with a straight face?

  I led Preston away from her—to the far reaches of the waiting room. The nurse couldn’t repeat what she couldn’t hear.

  Libba followed us. “You had a fight this morning and…?”

  “Jinx is convinced that Khaki’s murder has something to do with Phoenix House.”

  “You disagree?” I asked.

  He nodded. “I do.” He collapsed into one of the uncomfortable chairs. His head sank into his hands. “Unless—”

  “Unless what?” Libba asked my question for me.

  Preston lifted his head. “Have the doctors been out? Have you heard anything? Anything at all?”

  Unless what? “Preston, please tell me—”

  “Mr. George?” A man in a doctor’s coat stood in front of us.

  Preston shot out of his seat. “How is she?”

  “We pumped her stomach.”

  “And?” Preston sounded desperate. Husband-who-still-loved-his-wife desperate.

  “And she’ll be fine.”

  “Thank God.” Libba and I spoke in unison.

  Preston swiped at his eyes, dashing away the tears that had appeared in the corner of his lids.

  “You can see her,” said the doctor.

  All three of us stepped forward.

  “I’m sorry, ladies.” The doctor held up a hand, stopping Libba and me. “Family only. We’re admitting Mrs. George. I’m sure she’d like to see you later today.”

  Libba planted her hands on her hips. “But—”

  My stomach rumbled. I’d skipped dinner last night and missed breakfast this morning. No wonder the poor thing was louder than a midnight freight train.

  “Go have some lunch,” suggested the doctor. He led Preston toward a set of swinging doors.

  “Sorry about this,” said Preston. “I’ll call you after I’ve talked to her.”

  “Give her our love,” said Libba.

  “Tell her we’ll be by this afternoon,” I added.

  Preston disappeared behind the swinging doors.

  “Are you hungry?” asked Libba.

  “I am, but I think I’d like to go home.” Murder and overdoses were exhausting. Suddenly I didn’t have the strength to put a napkin in my lap much less make conversation over a salad.

  She nodded. “Me too. I’ll take you back to your car.”

  “Thank you.”

  We didn’t talk much on the way back to her building.

  Libba parked and we got out of her car.

  “Shall I pick you up later this afternoon?” I asked. “Around three?”

  “I’ll meet you there.”

  “Perfect.” I walked toward my car.

  “Ellison.” Libba’s voice paused my tired steps. “Thank you for coming.”

  “That’s what friends are for. I’ll see you around three.”

  I sank into the driver’s seat and rested my head against the steering wheel. My mind was as jumbled as Grace’s bedroom. Khaki and Stan and Phoenix House and something Karen had said. Revolvers and candlesticks and white Mercedes.

  I started the ignition and drove home, less than thrilled to be facing a lunch of leftover curry.

  I pulled in the driveway and the front door flew open.

  A coatless Aggie ran down the front steps. “I’ve been trying to find you. Thank God you’re home.”

  My lungs constricted and, despite the cold, sweat dampened my skin. “What’s wrong?”

  “It’s Grace.”

  The sudden furious beating of my heart bruised my chest. “What’s happened? Is she all right?”

  “She’s fine. I promise. She’s fine.”

  “But?”

  “She’s been arrested.”

  fifteen

  “Arrested? Grace?” The wind grabbed my questions and sent them out into the street. “For what?”

  “Protesting.”

  “Protesting what?” It took all I had not to scream the question at her.

  A sudden gust whipped Aggie’s kaftan around her ankles. She crossed one arm over her chest. The other she used to keep her kaftan from flying up. “It’s freezing out here. Why don’t you come inside?”

  “Fine.” I climbed out of the car and we dashed into the warm house. Max, who was not a fan of cold weather, waited for me in the foyer. He leaned his head against my leg. His doggy version of a hug. Arrested? I took deep calming breaths and scratched behind Max’s ear. Breathe in—Grace wasn’t dead. Breathe out—Grace wasn’t hurt. “Protesting what?”

  Aggie swallowed and ran her fingers from her temples deep into her sproingy hair.

  “What? What was she protesting?”

  “Your cousin Cora’s luncheon.”

  Oh. Dear. Lord. I closed my eyes and pinched the bridge of my nose. “Why was Grace protesting a charity luncheon?” My voice was even, calm-before-the-storm even.

  Poor Aggie. Her fingers appeared to be stuck in her hair. “I don’t think it was the luncheon so much as the speaker.”

  Who was the speaker? Mother had never told me. “Who spoke?”

  Aggie looked at the floor, at the ceiling, at me. And with her fingers, or at least a couple of her rings, stuck in her hair, all that looking around looked a lot like the sky was falling. She shifted her gaze back to the ceiling. “Phyllis Schlafly.”

  “Phyllis Schlafly? The woman who led the campaign against the Equal Rights Amendment?” Disbelief colored my voice. I’d given money to a luncheon that brought that woman in as a speaker? No wonder Mother pussyfooted around telling me who was coming. “I’m going to kill her.”

  “Phyllis Schlafly?”

  “No. Mother. Where’s Grace?”

  “She and your aunt—”

  “My aunt?” I should have guessed that Aunt Sis had a hand in this. “Which police station?” My stomach rumbled. Loudly.

  Aggie yanked her hands free. “East.”

  “East?” Oh dear Lord. Grace was in a sketchy part of town, and my tone when I’d asked where she was sounded exactly like Mother’s. Which was worse?

  Given that Aggie took a step away from me, probably the tone. “I’m afraid so.” She took another step backward. “You must be hungry. Should I make you a sandwich while you change?”

  Change? I looked down at my jeans and worn loafers. Aggie was right. I’d be taken more seriously if I showed up at the police station in something other than jeans and a sweater that smelled vaguely of hospital waiting room. The five-minute delay it would cost me to throw on a
dress was worth it. “Please. I’d love a sandwich.”

  Aggie escaped to the kitchen and I hurried up the stairs.

  Brnnng, brnng.

  I eyed the telephone next to my bed. Nope. Not answering. The way my day was going, there was zero possibility the caller had good news. I pulled my sweater over my head, tossed it on the bed, and headed for my closet. A navy dress said responsible, respectable—and I had the perfect one.

  Brnnng, brnng.

  They’d give up eventually. That or Aggie would take a message. I perused the navy section of my closet. A black and white Diane Von Furstenberg print caught my attention and I abandoned my search for blue.

  The print dress said responsible, respectable, and of the means to hire every lawyer in the city.

  Brnnng, brn—

  Aggie had answered the phone.

  I pulled the dress out of the closet, slid out of my loafers, and shucked off my jeans. Running a brush through my hair wouldn’t be amiss.

  “Mrs. Russell?” Aggie stood in the doorway. Her voice was tentative. The voice one might use when disturbing a hibernating bear. A large hibernating bear. A grizzly.

  “What?” I tried for a pleasant tone and got Mother’s icy one instead.

  “There’s a woman on the phone. Diane Barker. She says she’s with the paper.”

  Diane Barker was the society columnist. What was she calling about? The dead man in my dining room, my overdosed friend, or my jailbird daughter?

  “Did you tell her I was busy?”

  Aggie nodded. “She insists on speaking with you.”

  Perfect. “I’ll take the call up here. Would you please bring me a cup of coffee?”

  Aggie stepped into my bedroom and put a steaming mug into my hands. What would I do without her?

  “Aggie, I apologize for being short with you.”

  “No apology necessary. You’re having a rough twenty-four hours.”

  It was nice of her to make allowances. “I am sorry.”

  “No need. Take your call.” She disappeared into the hallway.

  I picked up the receiver. “Hello, Diane. What a pleasure to hear from you.”

  In general, Diane was a very nice woman. We went to the same high school, belonged to the same country club, and attended some of the same parties. Two things kept us from actual friendship. She was fifteen years older than I was, and she worked for a newspaper. I didn’t like seeing my name in the paper.

  “I’m surprised I caught you at home,” she said. “I thought you’d be at Cora’s luncheon.”

  “I have an opening in New York later this month. I have to get some work done.” A half-truth. I did have an opening, but the paintings were already shipped.

  “But you hosted the benefactor party.” It wasn’t a question.

  “I did.”

  “So Stan White was murdered in your home?”

  Ugh. Of course she knew about that. “Yes.”

  “Four days after his wife was murdered in your home.”

  “Where is this going, Diane?” Mother’s tone can be very useful.

  “It doesn’t look good, Ellison.”

  “Half the women in this city hired Khaki as a decorator. I can assure you, her death had nothing to do with her being in my home.”

  “And Mr. White?”

  “I don’t know why Mr. White was here. I was busy with party guests when he arrived and when he died.”

  “The party,” Diane cooed. “Are you a Phyllis Schlafly fan?”

  “No.”

  “Yet—”

  This was going nowhere good, and I had a daughter and an aunt to bail out of jail. “Cora chaired the luncheon. Cora is family. I hosted the party as a favor to my cousin.”

  “So your family ties are stronger than your convictions?”

  The truth was if I’d known the speaker was Phyllis Schlafly I wouldn’t have hosted the party. I certainly wouldn’t have written a large check to support her appearance. That was probably why Mother hadn’t told me. I lowered my head and rubbed my eyes. “No comment.”

  What I wanted to say was that there was something very wrong about a woman with a comfortable life espousing the things Phyllis Schlafly did. A woman in an unhappy marriage didn’t think it was privilege to be dependent on her husband. That woman was trapped by economics. What kind of job could she get when her resume included raising children and having dinner on the table by six? That woman needed equal rights.

  “You’re sure?” asked Diane.

  “No comment.” If I said anything negative about Cora’s speaker, Mother would be furious. And she’d be right. Family stuck together. I glanced at the clock on my bedside table. “Diane, I need to run.”

  “Oh?”

  “I’m afraid so.” I offered no explanation. I’d done enough damage already. No way was I telling the woman who wrote the society page that half the women in my family were sitting in the pokey waiting for me to bail them out. “Goodbye.” I hung up the phone, pulled on the dress, and hurried downstairs.

  The police station smelled of burnt coffee and too many bodies packed into an overheated building. I wrinkled my nose.

  A woman in a short denim skirt, high heeled boots, and a fake fur jacket rested her elbows on the front desk. It was a posture that gave me an up close and personal view of her barely covered hiney.

  “Come on,” she said. “Give a girl a break.”

  A few chairs lined the walls. They made the uncomfortable seats at the hospital seem positively luxurious.

  I stood, waiting my turn, and unbuttoned my coat. Lord, it was hot.

  The door from the outside opened and a welcome gust of cold air rushed past me.

  “Ellison!” Mother’s voice was considerably less welcome.

  I turned and faced her.

  The helmet of her snowy white hair was offset by the deep black of her Persian lamb stroller.

  “What are you doing?” she demanded.

  “Waiting to talk to someone about Grace and Aunt Sis.”

  She looked at the woman who was deep in conversation with the desk sergeant and curled her lip.

  “I cannot believe Sis did this.”

  “I can’t believe you didn’t tell me who the speaker was.”

  She waved her still-gloved hand. “I didn’t think it was important.”

  I closed my eyes on the red haze that filled my vision.

  “I can’t get hold of your father. Call Hunter.”

  Oh dear. “Let’s wait and see if we need a lawyer.”

  Mother snorted. Quietly. “My sister and my granddaughter have been arrested and you want to wait and see if we need a lawyer?” Her voice was low and furious.

  “I broke up with Hunter.”

  “Have. You. Lost. Your. Mind?” The young woman at the desk turned her head and gaped at us. The desk sergeant gaped too. Probably people deep within the bowels of the building were gaping, not sure at what.

  “This is neither the time nor the place.” I jerked my chin at the woman in the boots. Now that she’d turned to look at us, I saw she was wearing a bikini top under her coat. Wow. Also wow, despite her ensemble, she was the one gaping at us.

  Mother, who looked as if she was ready to say much more on the topic, snapped her mouth closed. Maybe it was the shock of the bikini top. Unfortunately, Mother recovered her ability to speak quickly. “I’m calling him anyway.”

  “Don’t.”

  “Pardon me?”

  “Don’t call Hunter.” I kept my voice low. Mother’s and my problems were not meant for sharing. “Let’s see if we can handle this on our own before we call for reinforcements.”

  Mother stared at me as if I was speaking gibberish.

  “Don’t cal
l him, Mother.”

  We stared at each other—scowled really. Two women caught in an epic battle of wills. Or at least two stubborn women unwilling to give an inch.

  The bikini top in November woman turned back to the desk sergeant. “Please?”

  “I can’t do anything for you,” he said.

  “Jerk!” The woman in the boots flounced past us.

  “How can I help you ladies?” The man behind the desk, with his droopy mustache, too full lips, and straining uniform, looked as though he preferred not helping. And if he wouldn’t help a girl in a bikini, Mother and I didn’t have a snowball’s chance in hell of garnering his assistance.

  I stepped forward. Smiled. “Good afternoon. My daughter and my aunt were brought in. I’m here to take them home.”

  He snorted. “The protest, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “The judge hasn’t set bail yet.”

  Oh dear. “What are the charges?”

  “Disturbing the peace.”

  “I told you we needed a lawyer.”

  I didn’t acknowledge Mother’s comment. Instead, I smiled at the sergeant. “My daughter is sixteen, a minor. She’s never been in any kind of trouble before. Can’t you just drop the charges?”

  “Not up to me, lady.”

  I gritted my teeth behind my smile. “May I please speak to the person who can drop the charges?”

  “He’s busy.”

  “I’m calling Hunter.”

  “Mother. Wait.” I peered at the man’s name tag. “I’m sure Sergeant Decker will be able to help us.”

  “Nothing I can do.” Sergeant Decker crossed his arms over the broad expanse of his belly and leaned back in his chair.

  “I’d like to speak with the arresting officer.” I turned to Mother. “Maybe you should call Daddy. I bet he can get the police commissioner on the phone.” Take that, Sergeant Obstructionist Decker.

  Mother inclined her chin to the left and raised her right eyebrow. “No, dear. He can’t call. Today’s their golf day. They’re already together.”

  Thank God, Mother had read my ploy. I manufactured a shiver. “It’s too cold for golf. I bet they’re having drinks at the club. If we call the men’s grill we can get Uncle Jim on the phone ourselves.” I smiled at the sergeant again. “He’s not really my uncle. I’ve just known him so long I call him that.”