My chair was suddenly less comfortable. I shifted my weight. “I’m sure that was very distressing.”
“Poor Genevieve was beside herself. I told her you knew a private investigator who could look into the whole mess.” Again Mother’s laser-like gaze landed on Aggie.
If ever there was someone who didn’t look like Sam Spade, it was Aggie. But her late husband had been a private investigator and Aggie had helped him. Now her eyes gleamed with interest.
Was she bored taking care of me and Grace?
“What exactly do you want me to find out?” she asked.
Mother looked down her nose. “We want you to prove Brooks didn’t marry that woman.”
“Does she have a marriage certificate?” Aggie asked.
“She says she does, but those things can be faked.” Mother waved aside a pesky legal document with the flip of her hand.
“Who fakes marriage certificates?” It was the vodka talking. I have no other excuse.
Mother scowled at me. “Gold diggers.” She glanced around the studio again, her gaze lingering on the towel-covered tray. “She also says she’s pregnant. I’m sure she’s lying. She’s the type.”
I spluttered on my coffee. If Brooks Harney was murdered for money, Stormy (who names their child Stormy?) was going to get herself killed and, if she was pregnant, her baby too.
When Aggie agreed to look into Stormy’s claims, I had no idea she was signing me up as well. But Bess, Aggie’s VW, wasn’t always reliable and there was no way on earth I was letting her drive to the address Mother had given her for Stormy without a sure way out.
That’s how I found myself in a part of town I’d never seen before at nine o’clock in the morning. “Remember, Aggie. I have a luncheon engagement at noon.”
“This will be quick,” she promised. Next she’d be selling me beachfront property in Montana.
Pre-fab 1940s houses lined a street where newly planted sweet gum trees spread their naked branches next to the stumps of diseased elms. Unlike my neighborhood where sprinklers kept the grass a vibrant green, the lawns were brown—where there were lawns.
Aggie and I parked in front of a house fronted by dirt, a broken bicycle, and flowerpots that looked as if they’d been empty since the Johnson administration.
We got out of my car and stared. The house boasted a narrow front porch with a broken rail, peeling paint, and shutters with missing slats that hung at drunken angles. And those were the good parts.
“Are you sure about this?” I asked.
“I’ve seen worse. It won’t take long.” Aggie set off down the short front walk.
I steeled myself for filth and followed her.
Aggie rapped her knuckles against a door that sounded as if it might be hollow.
“Just a minute,” called a voice from inside the house.
Stormy opened the door and regarded us with narrowed eyes. “What do you want?”
“To talk,” said Aggie. Well, that’s what Aggie wanted. I wanted to get in my car and drive away. “I’m Aggie DeLucci and this is my associate.” Her associate? “The Harneys sent us. Can we come in?”
Stormy studied us for a moment—Aggie’s printed kaftan, the matching dangly earrings, and the heavy beads around her neck. And me, wearing slacks, a sweater, and no jewelry per Aggie’s instructions.
Apparently we passed muster. Stormy opened the door farther then stepped back.
If the outside of Stormy’s house was chaos the inside was…not. We entered directly into a small living room. It was neat. It was clean. It was pleasant. “Do you want anything to drink?” she asked.
“No, thank you,” I replied.
“Come on in the kitchen. I was just making coffee.”
We followed her into a kitchen populated by old appliances, worn linoleum, a small table covered with a cheery oilcloth, four mismatched chairs, and Mr. Coffee. Like the living room, it was spotlessly clean. “Have a seat.” She waved toward the chairs.
Without makeup and her high-heeled boots, Stormy looked younger. Softer. Except for her eyes. Her eyes retained the wary look of a woman who expects the worst from the world. A woman who could give as good as she got.
“You want to know about me and Brooks.”
Aggie nodded.
“I figured they’d send somebody. I expected a suit.”
“You got me,” said Aggie.
And me. But I wasn’t talking.
Stormy poured herself a cup of coffee and joined us at the table. “Brooks and me, we met in L.A.” She stood, opened a drawer and withdrew a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. She brought them back to the table, looked at its clean surface, and stood again. “Let me grab an ashtray. I’ll be right back.”
Stormy returned with a piece of harvest-gold hued pottery. She put it on the table, shook a cigarette out of the pack, and lit up. Then she sank back into her chair. “Better. Like I said, we met in L.A.”
“What was Brooks doing there?” Aggie asked.
“He was a good-looking man. He thought maybe he could break into movies.” She shook her head. “The junk got in the way.”
The junk? I raised my brows.
Aggie mouthed heroin.
Oh. I folded my hands in my lap.
Aggie leaned her arms on the table. “And you? What were you doing in Los Angeles?”
Stormy breathed smoke deep into her lungs and exhaled plumes through her nose. “Born there. I had no illusions about making it in the movies.” She took a sip of coffee and knocked the ash off her cigarette. “Brooks—Brooks was sure he’d be a star. And he was fun to party with. He told me if we could hang on until he turned twenty-five, we could party wherever we wanted, however we wanted, he could even finance his own film.”
Aggie sat back in her chair. “You got married.”
Stormy nodded. “It was his idea. He was bored one day, so he borrowed a car and we drove to Vegas.”
“When was that?”
“July of 1972. I’ve got a copy of the certificate. I’m not lying.”
“I didn’t think you were,” said Aggie. “What happened after you got married?”
Stormy took another drag on the cigarette. “You know when love makes you believe anything is possible?” Her lip curled at the corner. “We decided to get clean.” She leaned her head back and blew smoke at the ceiling. “We tried hard. Brooks actually made it to a handful of auditions. He even got cast.”
“In a movie?” I asked.
“Yes, in a movie.” She shook her head as if I were hopelessly stupid. “A porno.”
Oh dear Lord.
She shook her head again. This time with a tilt to her chin that suggested regret. “He met someone on set.”
“A woman?”
“Yes, a woman.” The hopelessly stupid headshake returned. “A domme. Brooks found kinky sex and forgot about me.”
“Forgot about you?” asked Aggie.
“He actually got clean. Stayed clean. He told me if I didn’t stop using he’d leave me.” Another drag. “He left.”
“How did you know he’d come back to Kansas City?”
“He’d check in on me from time to time. He told me he was coming back here.”
“When was that?”
“March? April?”
“And you followed him.” Aggie sounded sympathetic.
“There wasn’t anything for me in L.A. I figured after Brooks got his money, he’d give me some.” She crushed her cigarette against the bottom of the ashtray. “I tracked him down and he told me if I didn’t get clean he’d divorce me. He’d left me once. I knew he meant it.”
She glared at me. Why me? Aggie was the one asking the questions.
“Do you have any idea how hard it is to get off junk?” Stormy’s eyes narrowed to slits as if I was personally responsible for the degree of difficulty.
I shook my head.
“It sucks. But I did it. And I told Brooks. Do you know what he did?”
“No.” My voice was barely
a whisper.
“He kissed me on the forehead and told me he was going to divorce me anyway.” She hit the cigarette packet against the table with such force that a cigarette leapt out. She caught it then wiped under her left eye with the back of her hand. “I did it for him and he didn’t care about me at all.”
“He cared enough to want to see you off drugs.”
She sneered. “So he walks away with his dominatrix friend and I’m left with nothing? I am still his wife. His widow. I am entitled to that inheritance.”
“Brooks didn’t have any money. Not yet.” My tone was soothing—at least that was what I was going for. “You can’t inherit what he didn’t own.”
“Of course he owned that money. He just had to wait until he was twenty-five to spend it.”
“No.” It was my turn to stare at the ceiling. “That’s not how it works. The trust owns the money.”
“You’re lying. His family doesn’t want me to have it.”
If Brooks had died after twenty-five, she’d be absolutely right. Genevieve Harney would have moved heaven and earth to keep Stormy’s mitts off family money. But he’d died before twenty-five. “I’m sorry. It’s the truth.”
Aggie and I exchanged a glance. Was she thinking what I was thinking? Believing as she did, that she’d inherit a fortune, Stormy had a motive for murder.
“Where’s your brother” I asked. Could the man at the memorial service have been the second clown?
“Work. He’s got a job at a gas station.” She lit yet another cigarette.
“You’re pregnant?” asked Aggie.
“With Brooks’ baby.” Stormy took a long drag on her cigarette.
“You do know the Harneys will insist on a paternity test?” Aggie sounded as if the Harney family was being completely unreasonable. She sounded as if she was on Stormy’s side.
Stormy wasn’t fooled. The hardness that never left her eyes spread to the rest of her face. “Are you calling me a liar?” She pushed away from the table and pointed her lit cigarette at us. “You should leave.”
We rose from the table.
Stormy waved her cigarette at us. “You tell Brooks’ family I’m not going away. You tell them they owe me. Unless they pay up, I’ll make sure every movie theatre in town screens their precious Brooks’ porno.”
She wanted me to tell Genevieve Harney that her son had appeared in…I shuddered.
“So high and mighty. You tell ’em.”
Despite her colorful kaftan and corkscrew curls, Aggie looked sterner than a hanging judge. “Just so we’re clear, you will release a movie that will embarrass the Harneys unless they pay you?”
“I just said that.”
“You do realize that’s blackmail? And that it’s against the law?”
“Get out.” Stormy pointed toward the door.
“They will prosecute.” Aggie’s voice was cold as death.
“Out!”
Aggie and I left.
My car started without incident and we sped away. “How much will it cost to fix Bess?” I asked.
“Why?”
“Whatever it is, I’ll pay it. I don’t want to drive you to any more interviews.”
“That?” Aggie raised her brows. “That was nothing. Just wait till I find the dominatrix friend.”
As long as I didn’t have to ask Kathleen O’Malley who the friend was…
Nine
I met Libba for lunch at Trader Vic’s. Since she’d discovered the restaurant floated gardenias in the Mai Tais, it was hard to get her to go anyplace else.
Not that I was complaining.
Their crab rangoon was better than sex—at least any sex I’d ever had.
She waited for me at a table beneath several Maori tikis. An outrigger hung above her.
We kissed the air next to each other’s cheeks.
“What a fabulous sweater,” she said. She wasn’t wrong. I wore a Missoni knit I’d bought on my summer trip through Europe. Black and white with gold accents.
“That’s a gorgeous dress.”
Libba twisted her hips and the hem swirled around her knees. “Isn’t it? I picked it up at Swanson’s.”
The pleasantries taken care of, we sat.
“What did you think?” she asked.
She meant what did I think about Jay. I’d known that question was coming and had spent the drive to Crown Center crafting an answer. “Was Jay nervous?”
Libba tilted her head to the side. “No. Why?”
He’d drunk too much and bored us half to tears. “He told lawyer jokes to a lawyer.”
“So?”
“Would he tell Polish jokes to a Pole?”
A waiter saved her from answering. “May I bring you a drink?”
“An Arnold Palmer.” I looked up at him. “Heavy on the tea, easy on the lemonade.”
“And a pupu platter,” added Libba. Yeah! Crab rangoon.
The waiter made a note on his pad. “I’ll have that right out for you.”
“So you didn’t like him?” Libba sounded crestfallen.
“It’s not that I didn’t like him.” I didn’t. “It’s that he’s so different from the men you usually date.” Libba’s previous bad dates had at least been fun.
Libba leaned toward me. “Different is good.”
“It can be.” Not in this case.
“Trust me on this.” A Cheshire cat grin lit her face. “Different is good.”
“You didn’t.” Did I sound as scandalized as I felt?
The continued curl of her lip was an admission.
“You barely know the man.”
“I know him better now.” She twisted her neck, stretching, then added a satisfied sigh. “We weren’t ready to call it a night after you and Hunter went home. So we went back to his place.” Libba took a sip of whatever she was drinking. “He lives in a penthouse on the Plaza. The view is amazing.”
“You didn’t go up there for the view.”
“No.” She looked at the table to the left where a couple held hands. Their fingers met near the salt shaker and the woman had a gardenia tucked in her hair. Then Libba looked at the table to the right where two men in suits ate Asian spareribs and drank martinis. She leaned forward. “He has—” her voice was barely a whisper “—toys.”
“Toys?” I spoke—squeaked—loud enough for the businessmen to look up from their meals. I lowered my voice and repeated, “Toys?”
Libba nodded and a becoming pink colored her cheeks.
What kind of toys? My husband had developed a taste for toys. At least that’s what he called his whips and handcuffs and—I closed my eyes.
“He’s taking me to the club Halloween party tonight. You need to give him another chance. I want you to like him.”
Toys? And I had to see him knowing that? Somehow I kept the corner of my lip from curling. What people did behind closed doors was none of my business. But…toys? “If you like him, I like him.” I clasped my hands and ignored the itch that plagued the end of my nose whenever I lied.
The waiter brought my drink and I glanced around the crowded restaurant. I didn’t know a soul. I was accustomed to dining in places where I knew at least half of those seated. Anonymity was a treat.
Especially when Libba said, “You should think about doing it again.”
I choked on my Arnold Palmer. It? No, thank you. I had crab rangoon to keep me happy. I scowled at her.
“I mean it, Ellison. How long has it been?”
Years. Where was the waiter with that pupu platter? “None of your business.”
“That long?”
“Drop it, Libba.”
My voice must have held an edge because she changed the subject. “That was quite a service yesterday.” She shook her head. “Poor Genevieve. I wouldn’t wish that on anyone.”
“Her son’s death or Stormy?”
“Either.”
I knew Genevieve because our daughters had been in school together. If not for Grace and Camille, the
ten-year difference in our ages would have kept us casual acquaintances. “How did you know her?”
“I sat on a Junior League committee she chaired. Years ago. She had to resign when her daughter died.”
“And you stayed friends?”
“No.”
“Then why were you at the funeral?”
“Jay is their trust officer. He asked me to go with him.”
I took a large sip of Arnold Palmer rather than comment on that.
“We were going to ask you to join us for luncheon afterward but we couldn’t find you.”
A small mercy. For me, Jay was best in small doses. I changed the subject. “Do you remember what happened to Chessie Harney? I didn’t know Genevieve and Robert then, and I can’t remember the details.”
Libba tilted her head and caught her chin between her pointer finger and her thumb. “It was winter. And Genevieve had to run an errand. A quick one. Rather than bundle all three kids into their coats and hats and mittens and boots, she put Brooks in charge.”
“How old was he?”
“Seven? Maybe six. I’m not sure.”
I did the math—not my strong suit. If Brooks was seven, then Robbie had been four and Chessie just a baby, not even one. “She left a seven-year-old in charge?” Judgment crept into my voice.
“She thought she’d be gone for five minutes, but she got stuck in a snow drift.”
“How long was she gone?”
“A lot longer than five minutes. When she got home, Chessie was dead.”
When Grace was a baby, the thought of something happening to her had kept me up at night. On occasion, I still spent hours staring at a dark ceiling, worrying. “What happened?”
“Apparently Chessie woke up from her nap and climbed out of her crib. She fell down the stairs.” Libba stared into her iced tea. “Of course, everyone blamed Genevieve.”
As well they should.
“She blamed Brooks.”
Was that the sin that Brooks spent his life trying to atone for? His sister’s death? He’d been seven. The blame lay squarely on Genevieve’s shoulders for leaving a seven-year-old in charge.
Send in the Clowns (The Country Club Murders Book 4) Page 9
