Jay shrugged. “Anything closer to home? What exciting things do you do besides paint?” The way he said exciting made it abundantly clear what he thought of my painting.
Exciting? I’d found Brooks Harney. That was exciting. But I wasn’t about to tell Jay Fitzhugh about that. “Nothing.”
Silence fell again.
Jay picked up his near empty Champagne flute. “What’s the difference between a lawyer and a bucket of manure?”
Oh dear Lord. Another one?
Hunter didn’t react. His polite mask didn’t falter and his gentleman-at-ease posture didn’t tighten.
He probably heard lawyer jokes all the time. I didn’t. Something unexamined and imprudent made me speak. “Do you know Charles Dix?”
The glass in Jay’s hand froze halfway to his lips. “Charlie? Sure. He works in my department.” Jay tipped his head back, put his glass to his lips, and let the last drops of Champagne slide down his throat. “Why do you ask?”
“I came across his name the other day. I thought you were at the same bank.”
Hunter raised a brow but said nothing.
“We are.” Jay nodded. “Charlie’s a good man, a good trust officer.”
“So he’s a trust officer?” It hadn’t said that on his card.
“Has been for years. Are you looking to move your trusts?”
“No.” I glanced at my watch. It couldn’t be right. According to the Piaget on my wrist, only fifteen minutes had passed since we sat down. I forced a cheery tone into my voice. “If we’re going to make the performance, we’d better order.”
I sat at the kitchen counter nursing a cup of coffee and a headache. The headache I blamed on Jay Fitzhugh. He’d insisted we go out for a brief nightcap after the ballet.
I’d ordered a stinger in hopes of anesthetizing myself to his bad jokes and pontificating. One hadn’t worked so I’d had two. Two stingers and we’d still made it home by eleven. Hunter had seen to that.
Now there was an elephant on the backstairs. I winced with each clack of its enormous feet against the hardwood.
The elephant appeared in the kitchen wearing boots we’d bought on our trip to Italy. “Good morning, Mom.”
There was nothing good about it. “Good morning.”
“You were out late.”
“It wasn’t my intent.”
She opened the refrigerator door and stood there, surveying the shelves.
Max, who kept careful inventory of everything that went into and came out of the refrigerator, lifted his head from his paws. His stubby tail ventured a hopeful wag.
Grace reached into the fridge and withdrew yogurt, the butter dish, and a loaf of cinnamon raisin bread.
Raisins had no business defiling an innocent loaf of bread.
Apparently Max agreed; he returned his head to his paws with an aggrieved sigh.
Grace dropped two slices in the toaster and grabbed a spoon for her yogurt. “I heard something last night.”
“Oh?”
She kept her back to me, waiting on her defiled toast. “I heard that Brooks Harney is dead.”
I took an extra large sip of coffee and glanced at Mr. Coffee. He sat on the counter, his pot half-full, just waiting for me to ask him for more. “It’s true.” Then—I blame the lingering effects of brandy and crème de menthe—I added, “I took a Bundt cake yesterday.”
“You did?” Grace cocked her head to one side. “No one knew until last night.”
Damn stingers. “I did.”
She turned and faced me. “How?”
“I found him. His was the body.”
She shook her head and her ponytail swung like a metronome. “He was fished out of the river.”
“I found him before that. In the haunted house.” Me and my big mouth.
Again the ponytail swung from side to side. “I was there and I didn’t see him.”
“He was hard to recognize.” White pancake makeup, fuzzy hair, and a red nose can disguise anyone. “And when you were there, he wasn’t dead.” Ugh. I was supposed to be protecting Grace. She’d been exposed to enough death, enough murder. She didn’t need to know the details, that I’d watched Brooks die.
“Why didn’t you tell me about it?”
“I didn’t want to upset you and—” I peered into my empty coffee cup. How had that happened? “— it’s an active police investigation.”
“How did the body get from the haunted house to the river?”
“That is a mystery for Anarchy to figure out.” Not much of a mystery. The murderer had moved him. Finding out why he’d moved Brooks was the mystery.
Grace’s toast popped, filling the kitchen with the mouth-wateringly delicious scent of warm cinnamon. Such a shame about those raisins. I rose from my stool and poured myself another cup of coffee.
Grace smeared butter across her toast. “I’d heard he came back a while ago.”
“Really? From whom?”
“I don’t know. Peggy?” She tilted her head, “No. Kim? I can’t remember.”
“I don’t suppose it matters.” Maybe it did matter. Maybe something he’d been doing had gotten him killed.
From outside came the unmistakable knocks of Aggie’s VW bug settling in for the day.
“Sarah!” Grace pointed her butter knife at me. “It was Sarah.”
“Who?”
“Sarah.”
“I’ve never heard you mention a Sarah before.” If I was Mother, I’d ask after her people. Her father’s name, her mother’s. “Are you at school together?”
Grace nodded, setting her ponytail swinging in a new direction. “She’s a year younger than me, but she’s super smart. She’s in our math class.”
“How did she know Brooks?”
“I think her dad knew him.”
“What’s Sarah’s last name?”
“Dix.”
Dix? Questions tripped over each other on their way to my lips.
“How—”
Aggie bustled into the kitchen with the newspaper in one hand and a grocery sack in the other. “Good morning.”
“Good morning, Aggie.” Grace and I spoke as one.
Max yawned, rose to his paws, stretched then ambled over to Aggie and rubbed his head against her kaftan. An orange and black one today, presumably another outfit in honor of the coming holiday.
Aggie put the paper down on the counter in front of me and scratched behind his ears with her free hand. “It’s a beautiful morning outside.” She glanced at the clock on the wall. “Grace, shouldn’t you be on your way to school?”
Grace looked at the clock as well. “Yikes!” She jammed half a slice of toast into her mouth.
“How did Sarah know about Brooks?” I asked.
“Ooks ame igh their ouse.”
Oh dear Lord. I’d raised a cretin.
“Chew and swallow.”
She did both. “Sorry, Mom. Brooks came by their house to see Sarah’s dad. She was telling us about this super cute guy who showed up in her living room. She didn’t realize we knew his sister.” Grace jammed the rest of the toast in her mouth. “Otta owe. Igh, Omm. Igh, Akkie.” She hefted her backpack onto her shoulder and disappeared out the back door.
“Have a good day,” I called. The rest of my questions would have to wait until she came home.
Aggie unloaded what looked like the ingredients for stew from her bag.
I drank my coffee.
Brnng, brnng.
We both stared at the phone.
It wasn’t yet eight. It had to be Libba. Or Mother. Or Daddy. I didn’t much want to talk to any of them. Not without a couple of aspirin.
Aggie picked up the receiver. “Hello.” She listened for a moment. “Let me see if she’s up.” She covered the mouthpiece with her hand.
Aggie. Gem. Deserved a raise.
“Who is it?” I whispered.
“Detective Jones. He’d like to speak with you. He says it’s important.” Her voice was barely audible.
&
nbsp; What now? I nodded.
“One moment, detective. I hear her on the stairs.”
She brought the receiver to me. Grace had stretched the cord to such lengths that, despite the distance, it sagged in the middle.
“Hello.”
“Explain how Harney slipped those cards into your pocket.”
No hello. No good morning. Something serious had happened.
My headache, which had been a tight band around my skull, tightened and thwacked me between the eyes. I pinched the bridge of my nose and closed my eyes. “Just a minute. Aggie, would you please get me some aspirin?”
I heard Aggie open a cabinet, shake a bottle of pills, and fill a glass with water.
When she put the glass on the counter in front of me, I opened my eyes and took the bottle from her hand.
I tossed back two aspirin and swallowed a mouthful of water.
“Ellison?” Anarchy didn’t sound happy about waiting for a response.
I imagined myself back in the circus room of the Gates of Hell. “He said my name and I backed up into that popcorn machine with the head inside. The other clown stood just inside the doorway and watched. Then Brooks stumbled into me, and I realized the blood soaking his costume was real. After that, he slid down to the floor.”
“And you didn’t know about the cards?”
Dread mixed with the coffee and water in my stomach. My head pounded. “Not until Aggie found them. Why?”
“Charles Dix has been murdered.”
Seven
Genevieve Harney had said she was planning a small memorial for Brooks. She’d understated things a bit.
The church was two-thirds full twenty minutes before the service.
I took a seat halfway down the nave and glanced around—discreetly.
The vast majority of those sitting in the pews were Genevieve and Robert’s contemporaries. Where were Brooks’ friends? I recognized only Warner West and Edward Dorsey.
“Move over.”
I looked up at Mother. She prefers sitting on the aisle.
“I didn’t know you were coming.”
“Altar guild. Kate Alexander has too many guild members here and she doesn’t need me. I swear that woman couldn’t schedule her way out of a paper bag.”
I didn’t like Kate’s chances for retaining her newfound volunteer position. Mother had an ousting set to her chin. But rather than going home and slipping off her pumps, she’d decided to attend the funeral. If I’d been asked to serve and found they didn’t need me, I’d be gone in a New York minute.
“Are you going to move or not?”
I moved.
Mother surveyed the church. “It’s a bigger crowd than I expected.”
“Maybe Kate will need you after all.” The guild manned the reception after the service, replenishing coffee and making sure the cookie platters remained full.
Mother snorted.
The quiet such-a-tragedy murmur of mourners who weren’t grieving surrounded us and we fell silent. I studied the backs of the heads in front of us.
“Is Grace coming?”
I nodded. My coat and purse rested next to me, saving her a seat. “She should be here any minute.”
“Who is that?”
“Who?”
“Three rows in front of us. Middle of the pew. The woman with the coat.”
Brown hair. A plaid coat in shades of plum and hunter green draped across her shoulders. The coat was envy inducing, but it wasn’t much to go on.
“Why do you ask?”
“She turned her head and I thought I saw tears.”
As if she could sense us talking about her, the woman turned and looked behind her. Our eyes met and I offered up a polite nod.
Mother was right. Priscilla’s eyes were red-rimmed and the tip of her nose was pink and shiny. She’d been crying.
She jerked her head forward.
“Brooks’ employer,” I whispered. “Her name is Priscilla Owens.”
“Why is she crying?”
“Brooks was killed at her haunted house. Maybe she feels guilty.”
Mother sniffed. “I suppose it’s nice of her to come.”
“Is that seat taken?”
I looked up into hooded eyes, sharp cheekbones, and corkscrew curls pulled into a chignon and clenched my jaw to keep it from dropping.
“It’s saved for my granddaughter.”
Thank God Mother spoke. I certainly wasn’t capable.
“What a pity. I would have loved to catch up, Ellison.” The woman tilted her head and shrugged as if she actually regretted not sitting next to me.
The skin on my face stretched taut. This must be how it felt to have one too many facelifts. It took real effort to manufacture a polite smile.
The woman walked farther down the aisle then side-stepped into a pew.
Mother tsked. Probably because Kathleen was wearing a pantsuit. Yes, it was black. Yes, it looked as if it had been purchased from Bergdorf’s. But one did not wear pants to funerals. Ever. “Who was that?” she demanded.
“Kathleen O’Malley.”
“Who?”
Grace’s arrival saved me from having to explain that Kathleen O’Malley was a dominatrix. She owned the club where my late husband and various women had—had done things I didn’t care to imagine.
“Hi, Granna.” Grace kissed Mother’s upturned cheek, slipped past us, and took her seat.
I stared at the back of Kathleen’s head.
What in the world was a dominatrix doing at Brooks’ service?
“Mom, you’re pale. Are you feeling all right?”
“I’m fine.” I tore my gaze away from Kathleen and patted Grace’s knee. “It’s a bit warm in here.”
“Stuffy.” Grace shrugged out of her coat.
“Up there. On the left.” A voice not modulated for mourning carried through the church. Mine was not the only head to turn.
A woman wearing impossibly high boots and an impossibly short skirt strode up the center aisle. Her face had that thin, mean look of a life lived hard. A man with a weak chin and an ill-fitting blazer with a sagging hem followed in her wake.
They passed us. The woman walked with enough determination in her steps for her straggly hair to bounce against her back. The man trailed two steps behind.
She slid into the first pew. The family pew. She claimed the aisle seat. The man stumbled past her.
“Who is that?” Mother used her scandalized voice. The one she usually saved for the discovery of illegitimate children and days when her daughter found a body.
“No idea.”
“Well!” She glanced over her shoulder. “Where are the ushers?”
I too looked behind us. A full church—one that included Libba and Jay— gaped at the woman in the first pew but there wasn’t an usher in sight.
There are people who say things like someone has to do something. Those are the people who look in vain for the ushers. Those are the people who clasp their hands in their laps and sit in disapproving silence as they imagine the Harneys’ consternation at finding strangers in the family pew.
Mother is not one of those people. She stood. “I’ll take care of this.”
Next to me, Grace pulled her coat around her shoulders and sank lower in the pew.
Her teenage capacity for embarrassment was about to be tested.
Mother marched forward, an undefeated general faced with a middling challenge, and tapped the woman on the shoulder.
Straggly hair looked up at her.
Mother, her voice modulated for her surroundings, said something unintelligible.
The woman shook her head.
Annoyance flashed on Mother’s face.
Grace’s spine turned to jelly and she melted lower into the pew. “She’s going to cause a scene.”
Yes, she was. No woman in cheap boots and straggly hair could thwart Mother.
Perhaps Mother felt the weight of every soul in the church’s stares. She whispered again.
“Young woman, are you being deliberately obtuse?” A hush had fallen over the congregation and Mother’s voice was discernable to at least the fifteenth row. Maybe farther. “This is the family pew.”
“I’m family.” Straggly Hair’s voice carried farther than the fifteenth row. It filled the nave like a favorite hymn.
A collective whoosh of air and numerous gasps suggested every person in the church had heard her.
Next to me, Grace whispered, “Oh dear Lord.”
My sentiments exactly.
Mother remained undaunted. She lowered her chin and raised a brow. A disbelieving expression is worth a thousand words.
“I’m Brooks’ wife.”
I glanced behind me. Faces registered shock or disapproval or glee. Libba looked sickened. Jay looked sick. In front of me, someone tittered. I suspected Kathleen O’Malley.
“Be that as it may—” Mother reclaimed my attention. She had not given up her look of disbelief “—do you think forcing yourself on your husband’s family is a good idea?”
“They won’t take my calls.”
While Mother’s intentions were good, she wasn’t exactly saving the Harneys from embarrassment. Or Grace. Only the crown of my daughter’s head was visible over the pew.
One of the missing ushers, Alan Hanes, hurried down the aisle. He stuck one finger inside his collar and pulled as if the cloth of his shirt had grown too tight. The other hand he kept clenched at his side. Poor man. If Mother couldn’t dislodge the woman, no one could.
“I’m afraid you’ll have to move,” said Alan.
“No.” The woman leaned back against the pew. “Brooks was my husband. My brother and I have every right to sit here.”
The woman who’d strode down the aisle with a determined scowl hadn’t looked remotely saddened over Brooks’ death. Clearly she was here to embarrass the Harneys.
Alan looked toward the back of the church and jerked his head.
Two more ushers, Andrew King and Mark Wilbur, hurried toward the front pew.
“I’m not leaving.”
Mother stepped back, ceding the battleground to the men.
As if sensing that her grandmother had left the fray, Grace raised her head just enough to see the front of the church. “This is awful,” she whispered.
Send in the Clowns (The Country Club Murders Book 4) Page 7
