Watching the Detectives

by Julie Mulhern

  I went to the refrigerator and paused, my hand on the door. Wine or scotch?

  Scotch. I’d definitely had the kind of day that required a neat scotch, a hot bath, and a good night’s sleep.

  There was scotch in the family room. I let go of the refrigerator handle and joined Max at the entrance.

  The television was on and David Carradine flickered across the screen. Grace must have been gone for a while. There was no way she’d purposefully tune in to Kung Fu.

  I flipped on the light.

  Two teenagers levitated off the couch. If I’d zapped them both with cattle prods the reaction wouldn’t have been any greater. Their flight into the ether was accompanied by a strangled cry, “Moooooom.”

  I stood unmoving, my feet unable to shift so much as an inch. In the brief instant Grace hovered above the couch, I’d noticed her shirt was unbuttoned.

  The other teenager was a boy.

  Merciful God, the day I’d had and now this. “I will give you one minute to get yourselves straightened around.”

  I returned to the kitchen and pressed one burning cheek and then the other against the cool glass of the back door. What was Grace thinking?

  Max gave me an I-tried-to-tell-you look.

  The seconds ticked by on the kitchen clock.

  With heavy feet, I returned to the family room.

  Trip Michaels stood next to the couch where Grace sat with her head in her hands.

  “Trip, how did you get here?” There’d been no car in the drive.

  “A friend dropped me off.”

  “Then I suggest you call someone for a ride.”

  He pulled at the collar of his sweater and swallowed. “I can walk home. It’s only a few blocks.”

  “I’ll see you to the door.” If Henry were alive, he’d threaten Trip with castration. Somehow I doubted the threat would be as credible coming from me. This was one of those rare occasions I missed Henry. I paused with my hand on the door knob. “You know, Trip, your grandmother and Grace’s grandmother play bridge every week.”

  “Oh?” He slipped into his coat and kept his gaze on the floor.

  “Yes. And your father and my sister, Marjorie, graduated from high school together.”

  “Really?”

  “Your mother and I have worked on so many of the same committees together I’ve lost count.”

  He looked up. “What are you saying, Mrs. Russell?”

  “I’m saying that our two families have been friends for generations. Don’t screw it up.”

  “No, ma’am.” He scurried out the front door without a backward glance.

  I returned to the family room and Grace. “You know the rules. No boys without an adult in the house.”

  “I’m an adult.”

  “You are sixteen. Yesterday you got arrested. Today I find you half-naked with a boy on our family room couch.”

  She crossed her arms. “You make me sound like some kind of delinquent.”

  “Not at all. I’m just questioning your choices.”

  “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  That made two of us.

  “Teenage boys are walking hormones.”

  “Oh. Ugh, Mom. No. We are not talking about this.”

  “Yes, we are. Trip isn’t some boy you’ve been dating for months. One who cares about you. He broke up with Dawn what’s-her-name earlier this week.”

  “You just don’t understand. Things are different now.”

  Maybe she was right. I came of age before the sexual revolution. But some things hadn’t changed. “All girls—all women—deserve someone who treats them with respect.”

  “He respects me.”

  That’s why he was feeling you up on a couch? I stopped myself before I said it. Thank God. “Be that as it may—”

  “Are you forbidding me to see him?” A mulish expression settled onto her face.

  That would make him utterly irresistible. “No. I’m asking you to take things slow. Get past his hormones.” And yours.

  She wanted to argue—she stood, planted her hands on her hips, and jutted her chin forward—but I hadn’t given her anything to argue about. She went with an old stand-by and rolled her eyes. “I’m going to bed.”

  It was eight thirty. I didn’t argue.

  Turned out, finding one’s daughter making out in the dark sapped the last bit of energy one possessed. Cora and Thornton and Khaki and Stan would have to wait. I couldn’t deal with one more thing.

  twenty-one

  Brnggg, brnng.

  My hand snaked out from under the covers and grabbed the phone. “Hello.” Somehow I pronounced the word as one syllable. Hell.

  “Mrs. Russell?”

  “Speaking.” Or trying to.

  “This is Sally Broome calling. Did I wake you?”

  Sally Broome. Sally Broome? My sleep-fuddled brain searched for why I knew Sally Broome.

  Lawyer. Cora.

  I cracked an eye and peered at the clock on my bedside table. Eight thirty. On a Sunday morning. “No. Of course I’m up.” I propped myself up and rubbed my eyes with my free hand.

  “It is early.” She sounded apologetic.

  “Not at all.” After the week I’d had, sleeping till nine on a Sunday seemed entirely reasonable. “I’ve been up for hours.”

  “I’m returning your call.”

  Lawyer. Cora. “Right. I’m calling on behalf of my cousin.”

  A few seconds ticked by. I watched each one pass on the clock next to my bed.

  “I prefer for my clients to call me themselves.”

  “My cousin is in the hospital, Ms. Broome.”

  “Oh?” A politely interested oh.

  “She was pushed down a flight of stairs.”

  “Oh.” A call-to-action oh.

  “She would like to retain your services.”

  “I see. Who is your cousin?”

  “Cora Knight.”

  More seconds ticked by on the clock. Fifteen of them. Fifteen seconds that lasted an eternity.

  “Ms. Broome, are you there?”

  “Yes. Sorry. Correct me if I’m wrong, but isn’t it Mr. Knight who’s your cousin?”

  “He is.”

  “And you want to retain me to represent his wife?”

  “I do.”

  “Did Mr. Knight put Mrs. Knight in the hospital?”

  “He did.”

  “I’d like to speak with you in person before I take the case.”

  “Are you free for brunch?” She’d probably had nine o’clock Tuesday morning in mind. But I’d already issued the invitation. I couldn’t retract it now.

  “Fine. Where?”

  She wanted me to make decisions before coffee? “My country club at ten.”

  It was only after I’d given her the address and hung up the phone that I considered what a poor place I’d chosen for our meeting. We’d be the talk of the dining room. After all, what could a widow want with a divorce attorney?

  I threw off the covers and stumbled downstairs for a confab with Mr. Coffee. I needed what only he could give me before I made any more terrible decisions.

  I pushed Mr. Coffee’s button and he went to work. Max scratched on the back door and I let him out in the backyard. The last of the leaves had fallen and hardy mums on the patio weren’t looking so hardy. Winter had arrived.

  Max, who liked the cold as much as I liked herbal tea, took care of his doggy business quickly, then trotted back inside, sat on his haunches, and waited for his treat.

  I handed over a biscuit. “I’m tired of drama, Max.”

  He didn’t care. He took his biscuit to his lair behind the kitchen table and ate it.

 
I sat at the kitchen counter, sipped coffee, and stared into space.

  Had Thornton really killed two people? If so, why? No good reason came to mind. True, Khaki might have tried to help Cora escape her terrible marriage, but was that worth killing over? And why Stan?

  Ugh. I buried my head in my arms.

  Grace breezed past me without speaking.

  I lifted my head. “Good morning.”

  “Hmph.” She poured herself a cup of coffee, took a container of yogurt from the fridge and a spoon from the silverware drawer, and disappeared up the back stairs without saying a word.

  The teenage silent treatment.

  “You love me, don’t you, Max?”

  He stared at me with soulful eyes. He’d love me more if I gave him another biscuit.

  I rubbed my forehead and drank deeply from my coffee cup. I had to tell Anarchy about Thornton. Had to.

  And there was no time like the present. I poured myself another cup of coffee, picked up the phone, and dialed. The line rang and rang. I hung up and called the police department. “Hello, I’d like to speak with Detective Anarchy Jones.”

  “I’ll put you through to the squad room, ma’am.”

  The line rang. Four rings. Five. Six. Seve—

  “Hello.” A man with enough gravel in his voice to pave a driveway spoke.

  Double ugh. “Detective Peters?”

  “Yeah.”

  “This is Ellison Russell calling. May I please speak with Detective Jones?”

  “He’s not here.”

  “May I leave a message?”

  He grunted.

  I took that as a yes. “Would you please have him call me at his earliest convenience?”

  “Why?”

  There was no way I was explaining my suspicions about a family member to Detective Peters. No way. “Please just have him call me.”

  He grunted and hung up the phone.

  I topped off my coffee cup and went upstairs to prepare for brunch at the club. I showered, dried my hair and twisted it into a chignon, applied makeup, and donned one of my new outfits from Swanson’s—a belted wool suit the color of bittersweet.

  Ready, I paused outside Grace’s door and tapped.

  No answer.

  “Grace, I’m going to brunch. I’ll be back in a few hours.”

  No answer.

  I sighed and descended the stairs.

  The mink or the camel hair coat? I tarried, undecided.

  Brnng, brnng.

  Which coat?

  Brnng, brngg.

  I reached for the mink.

  “Phone.” Grace’s voice carried all the way down the stairs. Whoever was on the other end of the phone line was probably now deaf in one ear.

  I glanced at my watch and hurried to the kitchen extension. I was already cutting it close to arrive on time. “Hello.”

  “Hi.”

  Honey, warm and sweet, replaced the blood in my veins. No. No. No. There was no time to moon over the sound of Anarchy’s voice. A woman who’d needed the address to the country club wouldn’t feel comfortable waiting for me alone. Anarchy’s timing was awful. “I’m on my way to brunch, but I think I may have found something.”

  “What?”

  “I’m running terribly late. Can you come over around noon? I’ll tell you everything.”

  “Ellison.” His voice held a warning—his murder investigation was more important than anything I had planned.

  Except in this one case it wasn’t. Cora needed a lawyer. Right away. Before she got sent home with the man who’d put her in the hospital.

  “Please, just come over at noon. I’ve got to go.” I hung up the phone before he could change my mind, raced out the back door, hopped into my car, and sped to the club.

  There were four white Mercedes in the parking lot.

  I parked far away from all of them and hurried inside.

  Sally Broome stood just inside the door. Like me, she wore a suit. Unlike me, hers was serviceable gray.

  “I’m so sorry I’m late. The phone wouldn’t stop ringing.” I held out my hand and we shook.

  “No need to apologize. I just arrived myself.”

  The hostess led us to the dining room and we sat. “A drink, Mrs. Russell?”

  I nodded toward my guest. “Ms. Broome?”

  “Coffee.”

  The idea of a Bloody Mary was alluring. The idea of explaining my theory about Thornton to Anarchy after I’d been drinking was not. “Two coffees, please.”

  “Yes, ma’am. The buffet is open.”

  “Thank you.” I turned to Sally. “Sunday brunch is buffet. I hope you don’t mind.”

  “Not at all. I’d like to ask you—”

  “Ellison!” Jane Addison stood in front of us. She wore a winter white dress and a curious gleam in her sharp eyes.

  “Good morning, Jane.” I made no move to introduce her to Sally.

  Jane was not deterred. She thrust out her hand. “Jane Addison.”

  “Sally Broome.”

  Jane already knew that. She wanted to know why a widow was brunching with a divorce attorney.

  Jane held onto Sally’s hand and pumped. “Pleased to meet you. How do you know Ellison?”

  A waiter saved Sally from answering. He put coffee down in front of both of us.

  Sally extracted her hand.

  “Sally and I are old friends, Jane. We’ve got a lot of catching up to do.” As hints went, it was not subtle. Then again, Jane Addison didn’t respond to subtle.

  “I need to join my husband.” She nodded toward her long-suffering spouse. “But before I go, I must know—is Jinx still in the hospital?”

  My stomach tightened with guilt. “I haven’t spoken with her yet today.”

  I should have called.

  “I’ve never known Jinx to be exhausted.”

  Was that what Preston was telling people? “Yes, well—” I raised my hand and waved at Jane’s stolid spouse. He waved back. “Is your husband waving at you?”

  Jane sighed. “So nice to meet you, Ms. Broome. Ellison, let’s have coffee?”

  “We’ll do it soon,” I lied.

  Jane returned to her table where her food had grown cold.

  “No one will bother us once we’ve filled our plates.” Not exactly true. People were less likely to interrupt if one was eating, but a plate of eggs benedict couldn’t keep the truly curious at bay.

  We joined the buffet line. Mother’s friend, Lorna Michaels, stood in front of us. Not just Mother’s friend but also Trip’s grandmother.

  “Good morning, Lorna.”

  She responded with a regal nod. Lorna might not be so high and mighty if she knew what her grandson was up to. But since he was up to it with my daughter, silence was definitely golden.

  “Good morning.” Lorna eyed Sally over the top of her glasses. “Ellison, I don’t believe I know your friend.”

  “Lorna, may I introduce Sally Broome. Sally, this is Lorna Michaels, a dear friend of the family.”

  The dear friend of the family narrowed her eyes.

  Ellison at brunch with a divorce lawyer? Mother would know within the hour.

  Sally and I returned to our table, smoothed napkins over our laps, and picked up our forks. “So tell me about your cousin,” said Sally.

  “Cora or Thornton?”

  “Both.”

  Easier said than done. “Thornton has always been dismissive of Cora, but I never dreamed he—” I reached for my coffee. How had I been so blind? “—I never dreamed he’d hurt her physically.”

  “Why would you? Most women never dream such a thing could happen to someone they know.”