Send in the Clowns (The Country Club Murders Book 4)

by Julie Mulhern

  “You’re not twenty-five.”

  “But I’m me.” She paused and I could almost see her rubbing her chin, considering. “Maybe she has independent wealth.”

  “And maybe I’m Marie of Romania.”

  “Don’t quote Dorothy Parker at me. I don’t want to laugh.”

  “You’re better off without him.” How many times had those exact words been said about a man? “If ever there was someone unworthy of angst, it’s Jay Fitzhugh.”

  “You’re right.” She didn’t sound convinced. “At least you and Hunter won’t have to go on any more double dates.”

  I didn’t comment.

  My silence was comment enough.

  “You broke up with Hunter Tafft? Have you lost your mind?”

  I hadn’t. Yet. “You sound like my mother.”

  That gave her pause. “I don’t care. How could you?”

  “He didn’t appreciate being hauled out of the club party for questioning.”

  “He can’t possibly blame you.”

  “I forgot to pick him up at the police station.”

  “You what?” Outrage colored her tone.

  “There! You sound exactly like Mother.”

  “Insulting me isn’t going to improve your situation. What are you going to do? He’s practically perfect.”

  Hunter Tafft, practically perfect in every way. It wasn’t just Libba’s tone that sounded like Mother. My parents approved of him as a glorified governess and Libba approved of him as a—Well, it was best not to think about how Libba would have Hunter take care of me.

  “We are not talking about me.” My tone was firm.

  “I forgot.” Libba deadpanned. “It’s much more interesting to talk about my problems.”

  It was. Libba liked sharing and dissecting and emoting.

  Not me.

  Not. At. All.

  “Do you want me to come over?” I’d go if she needed me, armed with a box of tissues, a bottle of wine, and a chocolate cake.

  “So I can cry on your shoulder? No.” She added a dramatic sigh. “I have symphony tickets.”

  “You? The symphony?”

  “Don’t sound so surprised.”

  “You have a date.” There could be no other explanation.

  She didn’t dispute it.

  “No wonder you’re not worked up about Jay.”

  “Oh. I’m worked up. It annoys me immensely that he thought he could lie to me and get away with it.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “I haven’t decided yet.” It was all too easy to imagine Libba peering into the gilt mirror that hung above the couch in her sitting room. Perhaps she tried a disdain-filled glare. More likely she checked her teeth for lipstick or wiped a tiny speck of mascara from under her eye. All the while, hatching an evil plot.

  “Please, don’t TP his house.” Libba’s ideas of revenge could run to the juvenile.

  “Don’t be ridiculous, Ellison. He lives on the top floor of a high rise. Besides, I’ll think of something much better than that.”

  Exactly what I was afraid of. Hopefully whoever was taking her to the concert was interesting enough to distract her from doing something legally actionable. “I have a question.”

  “Yes?”

  “Who did Myrtle Kline use when she redid her lake house?”

  “Her decorator? Olivia Forde. Why? What are you redecorating?”

  “Henry’s study.”

  She mumbled something that sounded suspiciously like about time, cleared her throat, then added, “I must dash. I’ve got makeup repairs to complete before I go.”

  “Let me know if you need me.”

  “I will. And Ellison—”

  “Yes?”

  “Thanks for calling to tell me.”

  “Anytime.” I hung up the phone. Thank heavens Libba hadn’t cared much for Jay; I couldn’t take one more person being mad at me.

  Brngg. Brnng.

  I lifted the receiver from the cradle. “Hello.”

  “Tell me you did not promise your father you’d talk your sister out of that operation.” Mother’s words were smooshed together by the speed at which she said them.

  “I didn’t.”

  “So you have some sense.”

  I had plenty of sense. “I told Dad I’d talk to Marjorie and tell her how he felt. That’s all.”

  “Have you done that?”

  “Not yet. She hasn’t called me back.”

  “He’s not very happy with you right now.”

  An unfamiliar pain pinged inside my heart. I made a habit of disappointing Mother—at least according to her. Disappointing my father was something new. “I’m not very happy with him either.”

  “You need to fix this.”

  Me? Why couldn’t my father fix the problem? He’d created it. “I’m not apologizing, Mother. Listen, I’m going to go ahead and try Marjorie again. Maybe I can catch her at home. Goodbye.”

  I pushed down on the hook, released, then dialed Marjorie’s number.

  Someone answered on the first ring. Not Marjorie. My sister would let a phone ring three times before picking it up even if she was sitting right next to it.

  “Hello,” said a girl’s voice.

  “Thea? This is Aunt Ellison. How are you?”

  “Fine, thank you. How are you?” Good manners by rote, not interest.

  “Fine, dear. May I please speak to your mother?”

  “Just a moment, please.”

  She put the receiver down on a hard surface—the sound echoed in my ear. Seconds later, her distant voice called, “Mom.”

  Wow. It had taken me years of coaching to break Grace of the habit of bellowing “MOM!” into some poor caller’s ear. Sometimes she still forgot.

  “She’ll pick up in just a minute, Aunt Ellison.”

  “Thank you. How’s school?”

  “Fine.”

  “What are you doing for fun?”

  “Nothing much.”

  “Are you enjoying getting to know David and Aunt Sis?”

  “Enjoying?” She sounded puzzled then the manners kicked in. “It’s delightful having them here.”

  Delightful? Thea was a year younger than Grace but she sounded both insincere and world-weary. That or she was bored talking to her aunt.

  “Don’t you have a birthday coming up?” I asked.

  “Next month.”

  “What did you ask for?”

  “They’re buying me a car.” Not one iota of excitement colored her voice. I’d heard more emotion listening to the time and temperature recording.

  “How exciting for you.” At least I tried for emotion.

  “Yes, very exciting.” Her voice was still flat. “Here’s Mom.”

  “Ellison, how are you? I’m so sorry I haven’t called you back.”

  “It’s fine. Is everything okay with Thea?”

  “Of course. Why do you ask?”

  “She just seemed…down.” Thea had sounded like she was stealing her mother’s Valium.

  “Down? Thea? Not at all.”

  Granted I hadn’t seen Thea since Christmas, but the child I remembered was bubbly. A tiny voice in my head whispered not your problem. I listened. “Daddy asked me to call.”

  “Are you going to try and convince me to cancel the surgery?”

  “No. Not at all. But Dad is worried for you. He’d prefer that you keep your kidney.” He’d also prefer that I get married so my husband could take care of me. My track record with husbands suggested I could do a better job taking care of myself. I gazed up at the coffered ceiling (that could stay—so much more attractive than the carpet). “Daddy loves you.”

  “I know he does, but his doubting my decision feels as if he’s patting me on the head and telling me my opinion is worth less than his just because I’m a woman.”

  I couldn’t argue.

  “Things are different now,” she said. “He should catch up with the times.”

  Daddy change? He was m
ore likely to climb Everest.

  “I think you’re doing the right thing,” I said

  “Thank you. Your opinion matters.” She sounded grateful. Maybe she was. But we both knew the truth. Our father’s approval was more important and his disapproval stung.

  “You’re welcome.”

  “Elli, I’ve got a million things to do.”

  “I won’t keep you. Take care of yourself.”

  “I will. You too.”

  We hung up and I scanned the study. My parents were mad at me. My sister and I didn’t know how to talk to each other. My daughter would be leaving for college in a year or two. I felt very alone and Henry’s shag rug was giving me hives. It was definitely time to redecorate.

  Aside from calling Olivia Forde and making an appointment for her to come and see Henry’s study, I spent the next two days in my studio. Paint plus canvas equaled solace.

  I emerged for my standing bridge game—the second and fourth Tuesday of the month. Without fail. I scrubbed the paint off my hands, donned a soft turtleneck sweater, draped a heavy gold chain around my neck, pulled on a pair of gray flannel slacks, and hopped in my Triumph.

  The club gardener had planted pansies in the flowerbeds near the drive and their bright faces bent toward the autumn sun. I slowed the car and admired the colors - imperial purple, soft violet, red-winged yellow, and an orange sorbet with a raspberry throat.

  I breezed into the clubhouse ten minutes early.

  “Good afternoon, Mrs. Russell,” said the receptionist.

  I stopped at her desk and helped myself to a lemon drop. “Good afternoon. Are we in the green room today?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Thank you.” I strolled down the sun-dappled hallway, humming the song I’d last heard on the radio. “Sunshine on my Shoulders.” How apropos.

  I took my seat at the bridge table, glanced out the window at an emerald-hued golf course and mums so golden they didn’t seem real, and sighed. Today was a better day. I’d worked out my issues in the only way I knew how and the new painting was coming along beautifully.

  “You look happy.” Libba stood inside the doorway.

  “I’ve been doing some painting. I feel better. How was the symphony?”

  “Did you know they don’t sing?”

  “Why yes, I believe I did.”

  “Don’t be arch. It doesn’t suit you.” She sank into the chair across from me. “I suppose I knew too. Once. But I’d forgotten.”

  “What did they play?”

  She wrinkled her nose. “Something instrumental.”

  “They do that.”

  She covered a yawn with her fingers. “I fell asleep. I don’t think my date appreciated it.”

  “Who was your—”

  “Don’t.” Libba waved her hands. “I do not want to talk about it.”

  “How about a totally different subject?”

  Libba nodded her approval. Thank God. Libba had a better head for minutiae than I. She remembered who dated whom in eighth grade, why they broke up, and who they dated next. She remembered the small slights and the slight acquaintances.

  “Do we know Charles Dix?”

  “Charles Dix?” She tilted her head to the side.

  “That’s right.”

  Libba closed her eyes—a sure sign she was thinking.

  I didn’t dare interrupt.

  With her eyes still closed, she counted on her fingers.

  I waited.

  “Charles Dix,” she murmured. “Didn’t Annalise Allen marry a man named Charles Dix? He moved here from—” she wrinkled her nose “—Moline. Or was it Peoria?”

  “Where did she find him?”

  “They met at college. I think her father got him a job at a bank.”

  “As a trust officer?”

  “That sounds right. Why?”

  “He was killed.”

  Her eyes flew open. “Please tell me you didn’t find the body.”

  Everyone’s a comedienne. That Libba, she’s a regular Ruth Buzzi.

  I had not found his body. I’d found his business card. In the pocket of my coat, put there by a dying clown. “He was killed in a traffic accident.” My tone might have been a bit arch.

  “My, aren’t we waspy.”

  “We most certainly are not.”

  “Oh please, if you sounded any more like Frances, you’d be her.”

  And here I thought Libba was my friend. I lifted my nose and stared down its length.

  “Why do you want to know about Charles Dix?”

  “I found his business card in my coat pocket.”

  “So?”

  “It was the first time I wore the coat.”

  She arched her left brow.

  “His was one of the cards Brooks slipped in my pocket before he died.”

  “Cards?” Libba rested her elbows on the table and leaned in. “What other cards showed up in that pocket of yours?”

  “Am I late?” Daisy rushed into the card room. Per usual, she looked as if she’d dressed in a wind tunnel. Her shirt threatened untucking, her shoes needed a shine, and I’d have bet a hundred dollars the hem of her skirt was being held up with masking tape. She smiled, pure sweetness, and her clothes didn’t matter.

  “You’re right on time,” I assured her.

  “I beat Jinx?” Daisy scanned the room as if she expected her bridge partner to pop out from under a table. “That never happens.”

  “Well.” Libba sat back in her chair. “I guess even pigs fly sometimes.”

  Daisy stuck out her tongue and sat. “Very funny.”

  Jinx appeared in the doorway. “Daisy, you’re here.” She sounded surprised.

  “I’m not always late,” said Daisy.

  Three sets of brows rose. Mine was one of them.

  Jinx joined us at the table. “So, Ellison, I haven’t seen you since you found Brooks’ body. Tell us about it.”

  “Don’t be such a ghoul,” said Daisy.

  I picked up a deck of cards from the table and shuffled. “There’s not much to tell.”

  Jinx tilted her head to the side, a curious robin of a woman. “I heard you were at a haunted house.”

  “Yes.”

  “What else?”

  “Brooks died.”

  “You’re being very insensitive,” said Daisy. Thank God for Daisy.

  “Oh, please.” Jinx waved away Daisy’s opinion—and mine—with the flip of her wrist. “It’s not as if anyone expected him to live this long. His poor parents have been waiting for a call for years. I’m sorry, Mr. and Mrs. Harney, your son has overdosed.”

  “He didn’t overdose.” I returned the cards to the table with slightly too much force. “He was murdered. Shall we draw for dealer?”

  “Murder. Overdose. What’s the difference?”

  “You can’t mean that,” said Libba.

  “Violent death is different.” I fanned the deck and pulled the ace of spades. No one else bothered to draw. The high card meant the deal was mine. “It’s awful.”

  Jinx donned a suitably chastised expression and turned her attention on Libba. “I hear you’re dating Jay Fitzhugh.”

  “We went out a couple of times.”

  “You’re done with him already?” asked Daisy.

  “Yes.” Libba wrinkled her nose. “Why don’t you cut the cards for Ellison?”

  Daisy cut. “I’m glad to hear that.”

  “Oh? Why?” Jinx leaned forward.

  “That antique dealer I use in Chicago, the one who finds the antique pens, says Jay has been selling antiques. Lots of them.”

  Jinx and Libba pondered and I dealt (I pondered too). Selling through an out-of-town dealer usually meant trouble. Trouble that needed to be hidden.

  “I wondered if perhaps he was having financial difficulties,” said Daisy. “My dealer told me he sold a sugar chest for Jay for nearly five thousand dollars.”

  “A sugar chest?” Libba’s brow wrinkled. “When was this?”
<
br />   “I don’t know. A few days ago. Why?”

  “Because he had a gorgeous sugar chest in his apartment.”

  Two sets of eyebrows rose. Not mine. I already knew—more than I wanted to—about Libba’s trip to Jay’s apartment.

  “When were you in his apartment?” There was a speculative look in Jinx’s eyes.

  “Last week. And you don’t need to leer like that. It was perfectly boring.”

  “But not perfectly innocent?” asked Jinx.

  “Nosy.”

  Jinx pursed her lips. “I don’t understand why anyone would want a sugar chest. They’re not useful anymore.” Jinx had sold off generations of antiques and filled her home with Kjaerhom hammock chairs, Castiglioni lamps, a Verner Paton dining set, and Milo Baughman couches and tables. New, modern, and frighteningly chic.

  “The point of a sugar chest isn’t that it’s useful. The point is that it’s been in a family for generations.” I reviewed my cards. “One no-trump. What else has Jay sold, Daisy?”

  She fixed her gaze on the cards in her hand and her face puckered. “The dealer didn’t say. Just that he had. Pass.”

  “I want to know more about Libba’s trip to Jay’s apartment,” said Jinx.

  “Really, you don’t.” Libba looked up from her cards. “Two clubs. It was b.o.r.i.n.g.”

  Jinx snapped her cards closed. “Pass.”

  I glanced at my cards. “Two spades.”

  Daisy passed.

  “Four spades,” said Libba.

  Jinx passed.

  Given Libba’s propensity to overstate her hand, I erred on the side of caution. “Pass.”

  Jinx played the ace of diamonds. “We live vicariously through you, Libba. Spill.”

  Libba laid down ten lovely points. I could have kissed her. She grinned at me then shifted her gaze to Jinx. “He was boring. Do I need to draw you a picture?”

  Daisy tittered. “No wonder you broke up with him.”

  Jinx pursed her lips. “Do you remember Carrie Phillips?”

  “Who?” Daisy shifted three cards from the right side of her hand to the left.

  “Carrie Phillips. Her maiden name was McGregor.”

  Daisy frowned at her cards. “Not ringing any bells.”

  It wasn’t for me either.

  “She’s older than we are. Her sister Lois is closer to our age.”

  “Lois?” Daisy tilted again.

  “Yes, Lois.” Jinx sounded annoyed.