“Khaki White did.”
Sally’s glance was diamond-edged sharp. “What do you know about Khaki White?”
“I know she was on the board at Phoenix House.” And she was murdered in my study.
Sally’s lips thinned to a tight line. “Khaki did everything she could to help women get out of dangerous situations.”
The hand holding my coffee cup froze halfway to my mouth. “What did she do?”
“So many wives have nothing except what their husbands give them. It’s hard for them to leave.”
“And?”
“And Khaki decorated their houses.”
I sipped and thought. And thought.
Sally didn’t interrupt. Instead she picked at her omelet and watched the people watching us.
The fourth cup of coffee kicked my brain into gear. “She overcharged men and gave the money to the wives who left them.”
“I did not say that.” Spoken like a lawyer.
That meant Daniel Fleming had paid for the antiques that bought his wife’s freedom. That meant Thornton had done the same.
“Who else knew?”
“Who else knew what?” Sally wore a politely interested lawyer mask. She wasn’t going to tell me.
“If Khaki was helping women get out of dangerous marriages, were any of the board members at Phoenix House aware of what she was doing?”
“I can neither confirm nor deny.” Sally’s chin nodded the tiniest bit.
That was what Preston George had been up to with Khaki. Were the women working at his company women who’d escaped abuse?
I clinked my coffee cup into its saucer. “That means that—”
“Isn’t that Pete Brewer?”
I looked up. Pete Brewer was staring in our direction. I waved.
Sally shifted in her seat. “About your cousin Cora.”
I’d forgotten all about poor Cora. “What do you require as a retainer? I brought my checkbook.”
Sally suggested an amount.
It seemed very reasonable. “Done. I’ll write you a check before we leave. Now about Khaki—”
“I’ll tell you what I can, Mrs. Russell, but perhaps we could find a more discreet place to talk.”
She was right. Half the people in the dining room were probably trying to listen in.
“The club was a bad idea.”
“On the contrary. My omelet is excellent.”
“I have an appointment at noon. Otherwise I’d ask you back to the house. May I come by your office tomorrow?”
“That would be fine.” She pushed away from the table. “Thank you for brunch.”
I took one last sip of coffee and stood as well. “Thank you for joining me.”
We stepped into the hall that led to the front door and those four cups of coffee came home to roost. “Sally, you’ll have to excuse me. I’m going to visit the powder room before I leave.”
“Of course. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Sally walked out into the cold, and I headed for the ladies’ lounge. In the summertime, its I-wish-I-was-in-Nantucket-themed décor was odd enough. We were, after all, in Missouri, not Cape Cod. When the weather turned cold, all that white made the lounge feel like the inside of a freezer. I shivered when I entered.
I shivered again when Mary Beth appeared immediately after I did. Maybe because her husband’s scowl had lingered.
She offered me a tentative smile. “Good morning.”
“Good morning.” I touched up my lipstick.
“I didn’t know you knew Sally Broome.”
“I don’t really. I had a legal question.”
“You?”
I nodded. “Me.” I wasn’t about to discuss Cora’s problems with anyone at the club. “Say, I have a question for you, Mary Beth.”
She tilted her chin. “What?”
“Khaki White worked for you, didn’t she?”
“She did.”
“Did you feel like her prices were fair?”
“Khaki’s prices?” Her voice rose and she rubbed her throat. “Sorry. With this crazy weather, I’m coming down with a cold. Khaki’s prices were right in line with the other decorators I talked to.” She patted her hair and admired her reflection in the mirror.
“Really?”
“Really.” She turned and faced me. “Why do you ask?”
No way was I going to explain that I suspected my cousin of murder. “No real reason.” I scratched my nose.
She smiled at me in the mirror.
At least one of us was lying.
The drive home from the club was short—a good thing since my attention wasn’t on the road. Already I was mapping a strategy for telling Anarchy that Mother’s favorite cousin was probably a killer.
I parked in the circle drive in front of the house and hurried inside.
“Grace?” I called up the stairs “I’m home.”
No answer. Well, not if I didn’t count the sound of a door slamming. Apparently I was still on the no-talk list.
I hung up my coat and turned my attention to Max. “You’re glad to see me, aren’t you?”
He wagged his stubby tail and rubbed his head against the fabric of my suit.
“Let’s get you a biscuit.”
Max devoured his treat like a dog who hadn’t seen food in a week then scratched on the back door.
I let him out and closed the door against a cold wind forcing its way into the house.
If ever there was a day for a fire in the hearth, this was it.
I hurried into the living room, turned the key on the gas starter in the fireplace, and held a long match under the logs waiting for a flame. The twisted newspaper stuffed in among the logs caught and burned brightly.
Ding dong.
I glanced out the front window. A white Mercedes was parked in the drive. Hunter’s.
Just perfect. I glanced at my watch. The dial stood at 11:50.
Ten minutes till Anarchy arrived.
Hunter and Anarchy were like Champagne and beer. Fine on their own. A disaster together. Could I get rid of Hunter in ten minutes?
I hurried into the front hall and closed my fingers around the door knob.
Three things popped into my head in rapid succession. Hunter had too much pride to just show up at my house unannounced. Neither Cora nor Thornton drove a white Mercedes. And Khaki and Stan’s killer was on the other side of the door. Unfortunately, my hand turned the knob before the last realization hit.
twenty-two
Time slowed to a standstill. I threw my weight against the front door, hoping to close it before the man on the other side gained entry to my home.
I wasn’t fast enough or heavy enough.
The door flew open and I stumbled backward.
Pete Brewer rushed into the foyer and slammed the door behind him.
Pete?
This wasn’t the affable Pete I knew—the one I’d suspected of cheating on his wife. This Pete’s face was suffused with rage. I might not have recognized him were he not wearing the same suit and tie he’d had on at the club.
This Pete pulled a gun from his coat pocket and pointed it at me. “You just couldn’t leave well enough alone, could you?”
I didn’t answer. I couldn’t. I was too terrified. There was a man waving a gun in the foyer and Grace was upstairs.
I held up my hands, fingers spread wide, and found my voice. “Pete, please, calm down. Let’s talk about this.”
“What kind of fool do you think I am?”
Apparently the kind that threatened women with a .22.
“I don’t think you’re a fool. Please, put the gun down.”
Anarchy would be here soon. Please, let him
be on time. Better yet, early.
“Please, Pete. Put the gun down.”
“You had to go sticking your nose where it didn’t belong.”
I hadn’t stuck my nose anywhere near Pete’s business. Not even close. But there was still a gun in my face. “I don’t understand. Why are you doing this?”
“You know what I did. Mary Beth said you were asking about Khaki’s fees.” He waved the gun. “You were at brunch with that bitch lawyer.” The color of his skin went from tomato to brick red. “I hate that bitch.”
I clasped my hands together as if in prayer—please don’t shoot me—and thought. Thought hard. I’d been so wrong. Not Thornton. Pete.
Playing dumb seemed the best plan. “You’re angry because I had brunch with Sally Broome?”
“Don’t. Say Her. Name!” Pete used the gun for emphasis, thrusting the muzzle at me with each syllable.
“Okay, okay. I’m sorry. I won’t.”
“And don’t play stupid. I know you figured it out.”
“Figured what out?” If I could just keep him talking…My voice was patient and sympathetic. Or at least I hoped it was. Hard to tell with all the blood roaring in my ears.
“You know I killed Khaki. You asked my wife about her fees.”
Telling him that he was an idiot, that I hadn’t suspected a thing until he pointed a gun in my face, didn’t seem like much of a plan.
His face resembled one of those Greek masks—comedy, tragedy, mind-bending rage. He fisted his free hand. “I fell for her con. She was the best decorator in town.” His voice pitched higher as if he were imitating Mary Beth. “She had to be. She charged the most. What a load of malarkey.”
My fingers were colder than icicles, but I spread them wide and held them in front of me, pleading. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You do. Stop lying. I hate liars.”
An enraged man with a gun wanted me to admit to knowing he’d killed my decorator? Fine. “How did you find out what Khaki was doing?” Surely at least five minutes had passed. I just had to keep him talking a little longer, until Anarchy arrived.
“Dan Fleming’s accountant wanted to know why he’d paid so much for a china cabinet. I started looking at my bills. I even called an antiques appraiser.” The gun in his hand shook. “Mary Beth is my wife. She doesn’t get to leave, and she sure as hell doesn’t get to steal from me.”
“Mary Beth doesn’t want to leave you.” Soothing, that’s the tone I was going for. “She said you were working things out.”
A bead of sweat trickled from his hairline to his jawline. He grabbed his wrist with his free hand and steadied the gun. Too bad it was pointed at me. “I told Dan what I’d learned on Thursday night.”
And now Dan’s ex-wife was near death in the hospital.
My heart, which was already beating too fast, doubled its rate.
“I told Mary Beth what would happen.”
“What?” My voice was faint. Not so soothing now.
“If she leaves me—if she tries to leave me—I’ll kill her.”
“She’s not leaving.” Was that a sound from the second floor? I didn’t dare glance at the stairs. What if Pete guessed we weren’t alone? “Please, Pete, let’s sit down. You look as if you could use a drink.” He didn’t move. “May I get you a drink?”
Getting him away from the foyer—away from Grace—became my top priority. “I just lit a fire in the fireplace.” Because we needed the right ambiance for him to shoot me. I side-stepped toward the living room with my heart in my throat.
Pete pursed his lips. Trying to figure out what I was up to? “Fine. I could use a scotch.”
I hurried into the living room, the skin between my shoulder blades prickling, waiting for a bang and the tear of a bullet through my body.
I picked up a bottle, but my hands shook too much to pour. I clutched the edge of the drinks cart with my left hand, drew breath deep into my lungs, and steadied the hand holding the bottle. Would he notice if I looked at my watch? Would Anarchy get here in time?
I poured scotch into a glass and held it out to Pete.
He took the glass and drank.
“I’m not a bad guy.”
Call me crazy, but in my book, killing two people made one a bad guy. I edged toward the fireplace where the poker was calling my name.
“Sit.” He used the gun as a pointer. He wanted me in one of the wingback chairs.
I sat. Too far from the fireplace. Whacking him with a poker was not in my future.
“I didn’t plan this. You weren’t supposed to be involved.”
That was patently ridiculous. He’d killed two people in my home. But I wasn’t about to disagree—not when he was talking, not when noon and Anarchy’s arrival grew closer by the second.
“None of this would have happened if Mary Beth had done what I told her.”
Right. It was Mary Beth’s fault. Two murders. Hopefully not three.
“What did you tell her to do?”
“What didn’t I tell her? Dinner served late. The house never clean enough. She kept seeing Karen Fleming behind my back.”
Those were his complaints? His justification for murder?
Pete drained his glass. “I took her to a club I belong to and she embarrassed me.”
“A club?” I squeaked. Club K? It was Pete who had dropped the matchbook into the umbrella stand. I clutched the arm of the chair and lowered my voice to a range that humans could actually hear. “Would you like another scotch?”
“Don’t you move.” He crossed to the drinks cart and filled the old-fashioned glass to the rim.
I snuck a look at my watch. Four minutes till noon. Those four minutes stretched in front of me like a road without end.
“What about Stan?”
Pete looked up from his scotch and for an instant something like regret danced across his face. “I went back for more curry.”
That wasn’t much of an explanation.
Pete swirled the liquid in his glass and we both watched the scotch reflect the fire.
“If he’d controlled his wife, she wouldn’t have been out stealing money from hard-working men. I told him as much.”
“And he accused you of murder?”
Pete drank again. “He said something about Khaki and all the women she helped and I could tell. He knew I’d killed her. If I let him live, he’d have turned me in.”
So he’d thwhacked poor Stan over the head with a candlestick.
Now I was the one who knew Pete was a killer. He’d come here to kill me.
Click-click-click-click.
“What’s that?” Pete demanded.
That was Max’s in-need-of-a-trim nails on the hardwood. “Max.” My lips were numb. Unless Max had grown opposable thumbs (possible, but highly unlikely), Grace had let him in. Oh dear Lord.
Max bounded into the living room and stopped short. Who could blame him? Anger and fear were as real and palpable as the people in the room. The dog cocked his head to the side and stared at Pete.
Max knew Pete. Back when Max was a puppy, Henry deluded himself into believing that Max could be a hunting dog. Max, who was more a do-what-I-want-when-I-want kind of dog, disabused Henry of the idea after one three-day hunting trip at Pete’s hunting lodge.
Now Max growled. Deep in his throat. A ridge of hair rose on his back.
“Max!” I wouldn’t be able to stand it if Pete shot Max. Where was Anarchy?
“Tell him to sit.” The gun tracked between me and my dog.
“Max. Come.”
Max considered my proposition and rejected it. He growled and showed Pete his teeth.
“I don’t want to hurt the dog. Call him off.”
“Max!” A note of hys
teria crept into my voice.
My dog turned and looked at me, his expression clear. He had this handled if I’d just shut up.
Watching the Detectives Page 21
