“Three o’clock? Do you know the little French place on the Plaza? La Bonne Bouchée?”
“I do. I’ll be there. Thank you.”
“I’ll see you then.” I replaced the receiver and glanced around Henry’s study. I really did need to call a decorator. With lighter fabrics and the removal of the heavy leather club chairs it might become a room I’d actually use. I crossed to the windows and fingered the drapes. Heavy and dark and not my taste. Rather like Henry had been.
“What are you doing?” Grace asked from the door.
“Nothing. Why?”
“You are doing something. You’re avoiding Mr. Tafft.”
“I most certainly am not.” I was. Considering drapes when there was a guest in the living room was terribly rude, but…
“What’s with all the kissing?” Grace’s pretty face screwed up into a sucking-lemons expression.
“Adults do kiss, Grace.”
“Well, duh. But two men in one day?”
“That, young lady, is none of your business.”
“Don’t you think you should pick one? They both seem to like you. A lot. And—” a devilish grin lit her face “—you seem to like them too.”
“Therein lies the rub,” I murmured.
“Only English teachers are allowed to quote Shakespeare.”
At least all the tuition I was paying meant she recognized Shakespeare when she heard it. “You can be ungrounded if you tell me which play.”
She froze. I could practically see the cogs turning above her head. “Macbeth.”
“Nope. Hamlet. You’re still grounded.”
The sucking lemons expression returned to her face. She turned on her heel and flounced off.
I gathered my courage and returned to Hunter. “Shall we finish our drinks and go?”
A skeleton lounged on a bench just outside the doors to the country club’s main entrance. A variety of pumpkins and pots of hardy mums kept him company.
With his hand at the small of my back, Hunter and I crossed the threshold and were met by the buzz of conversations, the clink of ice in glasses, and rubber spiders hanging from the ceiling.
We walked down the hall and worked our way into the crowd.
“Drink?” Hunter asked.
“Please. An old fashioned.”
“I’ll be right back.”
He disappeared into the throng near the bar and I nodded to Amy McLiney Hart. She was dressed as a sexy nurse. It’s not every woman who can pull off a costume like that, but she did it admirably.
Jane Addison appeared at my side. Jane can smell gossip like Max can smell steak—from a mile away in the driving rain. “I heard you found Brooks Harney.”
Not even a hello? I did not want to discuss Brooks with Jane. I didn’t want to discuss Brooks with anyone. Already I was regretting agreeing to a meeting with Priscilla Owens. “What are you dressed as, Jane?”
Jane wore orange tights and a yellow dress. Feathers sprouted from her head like grass in springtime.
“Big Bird. Is it true? Did you find him?”
Where was Hunter with my drink?
“Yes,” I admitted.
Her eyes lit like Roman candles and she leaned toward me. “I’d heard he was in town, but I hadn’t seen him.”
I blinked. “You heard he was in town?”
“Kathy Dunn—” she jerked her head toward Kathy who was dressed as Cleopatra and stood among a group of women (vipers all) sipping wine “—saw Brooks and Robbie arguing weeks ago.”
“Really?” That was actually interesting. “Where?”
“Her cleaning lady missed her bus so Kathy took her home. She said she saw them in midtown.”
I’d gotten the impression the Harneys didn’t know Brooks had returned home. “And she’s sure it was Brooks and Robbie?”
“Positive.” Jane took a sip of something nearly as orange as her tights. A tequila sunrise?
“You’re here with Hunter?” Her gaze darted to the man in the pink suit walking toward us.
“I am.”
“Well, you look fabulous together. Remember if either of you needs to sell a house…” Apparently Jane had made the leap from club party to marriage to combining households.
“The listing is yours. I promise.” Any easy promise. I wasn’t ready to proceed past club party and wouldn’t be anytime soon. Maybe never.
Hunter put a drink in my hand and I took a grateful sip. “Nice to see you, Jane,” he said. “You make a gorgeous Big Bird.”
Of course he figured out her costume in seconds flat. How did he even know who Big Bird was?
Jane pushed her shoulders back, stretched her neck, and—God’s truth—wriggled her tail feathers. “Thank you. You and Ellison are wonderful as Gatsby and Daisy. You’re sure to win the couples’ costume contest.” She shifted her gaze to someone over my shoulder. “Is that Linda Edenfield Gadegaard?”
I glanced behind me. It was in fact Linda and she was dressed as Alice in Wonderland.
“Excuse me.” Jane was already walking away. “I hear she’s thinking of selling her house.”
I looked up at Hunter. “Jane just told me something interesting.”
“I would expect nothing less.” His voice was a dry as one of Daddy’s martinis.
“She says Robbie and Brooks were seen arguing.”
“Oh?”
That was it? Oh? Perhaps my dislike of Robbie Harney colored my judgment, but he had more than a million reasons to kill his brother. How easy would it have been for him to follow Brooks to work? He could easily have rented a clown suit…
The clown suit! Was Anarchy calling the costume rental companies to see if a clown suit hadn’t been returned?
“You’ve got that look.”
“What look?”
“The one you get before you land yourself in the hospital. What are you thinking?”
“That the killer might have rented his costume.”
“And you want to call the rental companies?”
I did. The clown had scared me half to death and murdered Brooks. I wanted him caught.
“If I were you—” Hunter reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind my ear “—I’d have Aggie call. She’s good at this sort of thing.”
There. Right there. That was the reason I didn’t end things with Hunter. He didn’t tell me to be careful. He didn’t tell me to let the police handle it. He gave me solid advice and trusted that I’d act responsibly. No other man, not my father, not Anarchy Jones, not even Mr. Coffee, had that kind of faith in me. I raised up on my tiptoes and kissed his cheek. “Hunter?”
He caught my free hand and held it. He even stared into my eyes. “What?”
“Why did Brooks have your card?”
“That’s your question?” He shook his head as if I’d disappointed him. “I honestly don’t know. He never contacted me. The only thing I can think of is that he might have wanted a copy of his grandfather’s trust. My father drafted it when Brooks was born.”
Hunter sometimes bends rules, he might even skirt rules, but he doesn’t actually break them. I was pretty sure the contents of someone else’s legal documents were privileged. If I asked directly about the terms of the trust, he wouldn’t tell me. “I suppose it’s the usual. The corpus divided equally among the siblings.”
He took a sip of his drink and nodded. His eyes sparkled as if he knew what I was doing and was amused.
“So,” I continued, “With Brooks dead, both Robbie and Camille will come into a larger share.”
He gave my hand a squeeze. “I can’t comment.”
He didn’t have to. I knew the answer.
“What about—”
Libba appeared next to us and kissed the air next to my cheek. “Great dress.”
Bob Mackey had nothing on Libba’s costume designer. Cher could only hope to look as glitzy and slinky and toned as Libba did.
“That’s quite a costume,” I said. Hunter said nothing; he couldn’t comment and still remain a gentleman.<
br />
“Lighten up, Daisy,” said Libba. “It’s Halloween, the one time of year I can get away with dressing like this.”
“Are you saying you want to dress like that all the time?” The glitter and the rhinestones and the sequins?
She rolled her eyes. My best friend and my daughter had a lot in common when it came to their expertise in rolling their eyes toward heaven. Libba tugged at the edge of her neckline covering maybe an extra quarter inch of her breast. “What do you think, Hunter?”
Hunter allowed his gaze to rest on Libba for less than a second. “Very fetching.”
“Fetching?” she asked.
“Fetching.” If one says fetching often enough, it sounds ridiculous. At least it did when Hunter said it.
Libba narrowed her eyes. “You and Ellison really are a perfect match.”
Hunter inclined his chin and his grip on my hand tightened. “Thank you.”
“I didn’t mean that as a compliment.”
Hunter grinned. “I know.”
“Hold on to him, Ellison. Not every man has a sense of humor.”
As if on cue, a man without a sense of humor joined us. Jay Fitzhugh kissed my cheek. “Ellison, you look lovely.”
I murmured my thanks.
“Tafft, nice suit. You wear it well, old sport.” Jay, who was dressed as a doctor, draped his arm around Libba’s shoulders. “It’s been a while since I read Gatsby, but wasn’t he some sort of Johnny-come-lately?”
“He transformed himself to get the woman of his dreams,” I said.
“Right, right,” said Jay. “Everything was about Daisy. If I remember correctly, Gatsby was a salesman.”
I held up my bourbon-filled glass and shook it until the ice clinked against the sides. “He was a bootlegger.”
“Gatsby was a criminal.” Somehow Anarchy Jones had snuck up on us. “Tafft, I need to ask you to come down to the station.”
“What?” My voice might—might—have been a bit shrill. Or incredibly shrill. What was Anarchy thinking? There was no way in the world Hunter had anything to do with Brooks’ death.
“We’ve been going through Harney’s apartment and we have some questions for Mr. Tafft.” Anarchy wore his cop face. Hard, unyielding, deadly serious.
“Am I under arrest?” Hunter rubbed his chin and raised a brow as if he found the situation amusing.
Anarchy considered the question. “No. Not yet.”
“This is ridiculous.” I glared at Anarchy.
He merely crossed his arms over his chest and waited.
“I mean it. You can’t possibly suspect Hunter of murder.” Around us people were starting to stare. Especially Jane, whose nose was twitching at the smell of fresh, juicy gossip. I took a deep breath and sealed my lips.
“If Mr. Tafft is innocent, he has nothing to worry about.” Anarchy was using his cop voice, as cold and unyielding as his face.
Jay guffawed. Some help he was.
“Mr. Tafft had nothing to do with Brooks’ death.”
Neither man paid the slightest attention to me. They were caught in some kind of staring match. Hunter in his pink suit versus Anarchy in an ugly plaid jacket. Lawyer versus cop. Bend the rules versus color in the lines.
Was this even about Brooks Harney?
Of course it was. It had to be.
Anarchy didn’t break rules. He wouldn’t use his badge to harass my date. Then again, if he wanted to question Hunter there were plenty of opportunities besides the club party to request that he come to the station.
Hunter reached inside his pink suit and withdrew his wallet. From that, he withdrew a business card. “Call Nick.” He held the card out to me. “You’ll get his answering service. Tell them it’s duck club business. They’ll put you through. Have him meet me at the station.”
I took the card from his fingers. Nick Carruthers, attorney-at-law. Why did Hunter need an attorney?
“Oh.” Hunter thrust his hand into his pocket and pulled out his keys. “You’ll have to drive yourself home.”
I took the keys and glared at Anarchy Jones. He could easily have called Hunter and asked him to come down to the station instead of…instead of accosting him during the club party.
Granted, Hunter seemed more amused than annoyed or worried.
“Call Nick.” Hunter leaned toward me, caught the nape of my neck with the palm of his hand, and kissed my lips. A kiss that lingered.
Somewhere in the crowd of onlookers a woman tittered.
Hunter pulled away, stroked my cheek with the back of his hand, and said, loud enough for Jane Addison to hear, “I’ll miss you tonight.”
My jaw dropped. Everyone would think…
I snapped the hinges closed.
Hunter wore a smug expression—entirely different from the urbane one that usually settled on his face like a sophisticated mask.
Anarchy scowled deeply. At Hunter and at me.
I recovered and scowled too. Deeply. That touch, those words, had nothing to do with me and everything to do with one-upping Anarchy.
Then the two of them walked out, leaving me speechless, dateless, and in need of a telephone.
Eleven
I did as Hunter asked. I called Nick Carruthers’ answering service. I gave the voice on the other end of the line the magic password, my name, and the club’s phone number, then waited for a call back.
It took effort not to drum my fingers against the half-wall that separated me from the receptionist. She wore a light blue blouse with a bow tied at her neck and a frown. Guests at parties weren’t supposed to hover near her desk.
She looked at me over the top of her glasses, shifted in her chair, then arranged some pencils in a leather cup. “If you’d like to wait in one of the booths, I’ll put your call through as soon as it comes in.”
“I believe I’ll wait here.” There was nothing to look at but oak walls in the club’s phone booths. I’d go mad. Although, I’d be able to drum my fingers in peace.
The phone rang—well, a red button flashed.
The receptionist snatched the receiver from the cradle, pushed the button, announced the name of the club, then listened. “Yes, Mr. Carruthers, I’ll put you through right away.” She directed her gaze at me. “First booth, line one.”
I hurried to the phone booth and pushed the flashing button. “Mr. Carruthers?”
“Mrs. Russell? What’s happened?” His voice was clipped. All business.
“Hunter Tafft has been taken to the police station for questioning. He wants you to meet him there.”
“Questioning? Questioning about what?”
“Brooks Harney’s murder.”
The silence on Nick Carruthers’ end of the line was a tangible thing, as solid as the oak that surrounded me. Finally, he asked, “Which station?”
“Um…the one in the bad part of town.”
“None of them are located in nice neighborhoods, Mrs. Russell.”
“Downtown. I think. Is there someone you can call? The detective’s name is Anarchy Jones.”
“Anarchy?”
I nodded, remembered he couldn’t see me, and stopped. “Yes.”
“This just gets better and better.”
“You know him?”
“I’ve got to go.” On that less than reassuring note, my lawyer’s lawyer hung up on me.
I stared at the receiver in my hand. What to do? I cracked the door and scanned the hallway. Empty.
Without so much as a backward glance, I tiptoed down the hallway away from the party. It wasn’t as if I could go have another cocktail. Not when my date had been led away by a police detective.
My plan was simple. Go home. Change out of my flapper frock. Drive to the police station. Convince Anarchy to release Hunter. What could go wrong?
I drove home in Hunter’s enormous Mercedes, only half aware of street signs and stoplights. The night pressed against the car’s windows. My thoughts pressed back.
It was impossible—totally impossible—th
at Hunter was involved in Brooks’ murder.
But the bloodied business card. Why had Brooks had it?
What did Anarchy know? Why had he felt the need to take Hunter in for questioning during a party? Did he want to embarrass Hunter in front of his peers? Or was there a legitimate reason?
My stomach moved in a queasy side-to-side motion and my temples throbbed. I pulled into the drive, parked, got out of the car, locked the door, and took four fateful steps toward the front door.
“Stop there.” The voice came from the darkness
I peered into the shadows cast by the bushes that flanked my front stoop. A better plan might have been to run for the door. That or get back into Hunter’s tank of a car and lock the doors. Hindsight. Twenty-twenty.
Stormy’s brother, the one with the weak chin and sagging jacket, emerged from the darkness.
Thank God he wasn’t a knife-wielding clown. “What do you want?” Relief colored my voice.
“I want our money.” The glow from the sconces that flanked the front door cast just enough light to reveal the size of his pupils. They were enormous.
A breeze stirred the dried leaves on the yard, carrying the scent of autumn and cheap whiskey.
I shook my head. “I have no control over Brooks’ inheritance. I can’t help you.”
“Maybe not, but you know who can.” He reached behind his back and pulled out a knife. “You tell me who or I’ll cut you.”
A knife? Seriously? Maybe I should have been frightened but since June I’d been shot at, nearly poisoned, had my house set fire, and almost drowned. A simple knife didn’t strike fear in my heart.
I glanced down at my delicate high-heeled shoes. Could I run fast enough to get inside before he caught me? Doubtful. I fingered Hunter’s keys, searching for the one that would fit the car door. “Look, Mr.…” I didn’t know his name.
“Mack. Earl Mack.”
Perfect. Mr. Mack with the knife. “Mr. Mack, I have no control over those trusts. Your best course of action is to consult an attorney.”
Mr. Mack with the knife showed his opinion of lawyers by spitting on my driveway.
Ugh.
“I’m sorry. I can’t help you.”
“When I’m done cutting you, I’ll go inside and cut Harney’s sister, then I’ll cut your pretty daughter. I’ve been watching them through the window.” He licked his lips then laughed as if he’d said something funny.
Send in the Clowns (The Country Club Murders Book 4) Page 11
