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

by Julie Mulhern

  “Lois McGregor?” Libba straightened the cards she’d laid on the table.

  I repressed the urge to swat Libba’s hand away. I needed to see those cards so I could create a game plan.

  “Exactly,” said Jinx. “Lois and Carrie.”

  “What about Carrie?” asked Daisy.

  “Her husband was hit by a car.”

  Oh. My. I tightened my grip on the cards in my hand. “Carrie Phillips? What’s her husband’s name?”

  “John.”

  Oh God. My ability to draw air into my lungs departed.

  “Why don’t we ever see them?” Daisy shifted cards—the same ones?—from the left side of her hand to the right.

  “Lois got married and moved to Chicago. The man Carrie married is an accountant. I’ve heard he’s tight as a tick. He won’t pay for a country club.”

  “Where was he hit?” Somehow I managed to speak without air.

  “The midsection, I’d imagine. I heard he’s in ICU.”

  “There are terrible drivers out there.” This from Daisy, a woman who’d driven her station wagon off the driveway and into the stream that meandered through the golf course not once but twice.

  “I mean where was he?”

  “Oh.” Jinx wrinkled her nose. “Coming out of his office.”

  “Did the driver stop?” I asked.

  “No,” said Jinx.

  “See! Terrible drivers.” At least Daisy hadn’t hit a person—yet.

  I shifted my gaze to my cards. The hearts and the spades ran together. Both Charles Dix and John Phillips were the victims of hit-and-runs? Not likely. “Is he conscious?”

  “I don’t think so,” said Jinx.

  “Is anyone putting together dinners for Carrie?”

  My friends gaped at me. I didn’t take dinners. I sent flowers or ran errands or delivered store-bought pastries. People seemed to prefer that.

  “What?” I snapped. “Aggie is a fabulous cook.”

  Jinx closed her eyes.

  Libba dug in her purse.

  Daisy reached over and patted my hand.

  I ground my teeth. Since that one incident, my friends didn’t even let me bring side dishes to potluck. Who knew one wasn’t supposed to cook the rice before mixing it with the soup in the casserole? Besides, it wasn’t that mushy…

  “I don’t know if anyone has arranged meals.” Jinx tapped the tips of her nails on the arm of her chair. “We don’t really know her well enough.”

  Jinx was right. We didn’t know Carrie well enough. It wasn’t as if Aggie could whip up a dinner for me to take to the Phillips. What was I going to do? Knock on the door, hand Carrie a casserole, and ask about the attempt on her husband’s life? I wouldn’t recognize Carrie Phillips if she sat down at the bridge table with us.

  Dammit.

  Maybe Aggie could ask around…

  Did Anarchy know?

  “Let go of my arm.” The voice was far too loud. We swiveled our heads and stared at the door to the hallway.

  A man’s voice, lower decibels and quite unintelligible, answered.

  “I know she’s here.” The woman’s voice was louder still.

  It sounded as if a wronged wife was about to confront a mistress. Having been a wronged wife, my heart went out to her. Too bad she didn’t understand she was picking a fight in the worst possible place. I shook my head and returned my gaze to the cards on the table. The kindest thing to do was mind my own business. Besides, I was not interested in anyone else’s drama. I had enough of my own. I pulled the two of diamonds from the board. “Daisy?”

  “What?” She shifted her attention back to the cards. “Oh, sorry. Here.” A three of diamonds joined the ace and the two.

  “Get your hands off me! Rape!”

  Jinx pushed away from the table.

  I folded my hand and put the cards down.

  There would be no playing bridge until Jinx knew who was causing such a scene. She stalked to the entry and stuck her head into the hallway.

  “Where is she?” screeched the woman. “Where is Ellison Russell?”

  Fifteen

  Stormy Harney burst into the card room with all the force of a spring thunderstorm. Her parents had named her well. Well being a relative term.

  She froze when she saw me. “Where is he?”

  Unlike her brother, Stormy didn’t hold a knife.

  With her expression, she didn’t need one.

  If looks could kill, I’d already be dead.

  My fingers turned to ice and I looked around the card room for a weapon. Nothing was available but a pair of brass candlesticks on the mantle and Daisy’s purse—a bag which had the heft associated with a woman whose young children stowed everything from Matchbox cars to Golden Books within. Daisy’s purse was closer and would probably do more damage. “Where is who?”

  “You know who!”

  Behind her, Reginald, one of the club’s assistant managers, plucked at the fuzzy sleeve of her jacket. She ignored him. The man was as useful as a child’s umbrella in a monsoon.

  “No,” I said. “I don’t know of whom you are speaking.”

  “You think you’re better than me. You’re not.” Her gaze took in our bridge game. “You’re all just rich bitches.”

  Jinx, who stood next to the door, drew breath between her teeth. “Friend of yours, Ellison?”

  Stormy might be right about one of the women.

  “Reginald, perhaps you can see Mrs. Harney out?” I borrowed one of Mother’s tones. The phrasing might suggest a question but the meaning was clear. Do it now.

  Reginald blanched, but reached for Stormy’s sleeve with the tips of his fingers as if he was concerned about catching something from the fake fur of her jacket.

  She brushed him off like a weak mosquito. “Where is my brother? He went to see you and he hasn’t come back.”

  “Ma’am, you’re not allowed to wear denim here.”

  Stormy and I both shifted our gazes to Reginald. My gaze registered disbelief. Denim? His problem with Stormy was the dress code?

  “Go to hell.” Presumably, she was speaking to Reginald. Hard to tell since she’d returned her glare to me.

  “Your brother attacked me with a knife. If you want to find him, I suggest you check the jails.”

  “That’s a lie. Earl would never do that unless—”

  Reginald closed his fingers around her arm.

  “Unless he was high? He was. High as a kite.”

  “Bitch.” Her hands curved into talons and she easily escaped Reginald’s useless hold. She stalked forward looking as if she meant to rip my eyes from my head.

  Daisy gasped.

  I reached for the purse. “So much as touch me and you’ll be arrested for assault.”

  She stepped closer. “I just want what’s mine.”

  My fingers closed on the strap and I pulled it off the back of Daisy’s chair. It thudded against the floor. Dear Lord, what did she have in there? Free weights? “I can’t help you. You need to talk to a lawyer.”

  “I did.” She scowled at me but at least she came no closer. “I went to one that Brooks knew. A silver-haired fast-talker. He said he wouldn’t help me.”

  A silver-haired lawyer? Was that why Anarchy had questioned Hunter?

  “You people all stick together.”

  I glanced at Jinx who was edging toward the door. Not all of us.

  I hefted Daisy’s purse into my lap.

  “You’re all working against me to make sure I don’t get what’s mine.”

  “You want Brooks’ inheritance?” Daisy’s brow furrowed and she tilted her head to the side. “But he died before he inherited.”

  “That’s what she—” Stormy pointed an accusatory chipped talon at me “—said. I don’t believe it. Brooks said that money was his.”

  “When he turned twenty-five.” How many times had I explained this? “He hadn’t yet turned twenty-five.”

  “It was his.” Stormy was nothing if not stubborn
.

  “Is there something wrong with you? Are you stupid?” asked Jinx.

  Stormy shifted the die-now glare to her.

  Jinx didn’t seem to notice. “This isn’t difficult. The trust owned the money until Brooks’ twenty-fifth birthday. He didn’t reach his birthday.”

  “If you don’t believe us, talk to the trust officer,” said Libba. “His name is Jay Fitzhugh. I’d be happy to give you his number.”

  Libba had her revenge.

  “I don’t care who she talks to, she won’t get a dime.” Jinx crossed her arms.

  “What about my baby?” Stormy laid her hand across her very flat stomach.

  “You’ll have to prove that it’s his.” Jinx was not being helpful.

  “I’m his wife!”

  “You were separated. His family didn’t even know you existed.”

  “His family?” Stormy’s throat produced a sound that might have been a laugh—that or a creaky sob. “You look down on me for wanting Brooks’ money, but they want it just as much as I do.”

  True, but somewhere along the line a Harney had earned it.

  Two beefy waiters appeared behind Reginald.

  I jerked my head toward Stormy. Silly of me. The waiters were perfectly capable of seeing that the woman in the bell bottom jeans, platform sandals, flowered halter top, and coat that looked as if it could do double duty as shag carpet didn’t belong.

  One said, “Ma’am, you can walk out the door or we’ll escort you out.”

  “Go to hell.” She lunged toward me, knocking Libba out of her chair. Stormy’s hands reached for me. Her body scattered the dummy hand and the cards we’d all laid down.

  Dammit. Libba and I had had that game for sure.

  I stood. “Libba?”

  “I’m still among the living.”

  Thank God. Daisy’s purse pulled on my arm. I’d swing it if I had to. Somehow. “I am not part of this, and I don’t want any more trouble.”

  Stormy spit at me. A glistening globule that hung in the air before splatting against the ultrasuede tablecloth.

  Ick.

  One of the waiters grabbed the back of Stormy’s jacket. The second clasped what looked to be a vice-like grip around her upper arm. “This way, ma’am.”

  “No.” She locked her legs. “I’m not going anywhere. Not till you tell me where Earl is.”

  “I have no idea.”

  The men pulled—dragged—her away from the table.

  She struggled against them. Her face reddened and her eyes narrowed to slits. “This whole mess is your fault.”

  My fault? All I’d done was find Brooks. She’d married him. A clown had killed him. None of this was my fault. “How?” I demanded.

  “You doubted I was married to Brooks.”

  “We all doubted that.” Libba’s voice floated up from the floor.

  Stormy kicked at her and missed. The waiters jerked her toward the door.

  “Libba, are you all right?” I rounded the table with Daisy’s purse pulling my arm out of its socket.

  Libba sat on the floor with her skirt pushed several inches past decency and grinned. “Fine. I’ll be able to dine out on this for months.”

  “This is a joke to you?” Stormy’s face was as crimson as Daisy’s BMW, which is to say garnet red. Spit clung to the corners of her mouth. She yanked uselessly against the waiters’ holds. “You’ll be sorry.”

  The waiters dragged her from the room and into the hallway. The string of expletives that spilled from Stormy’s lips would have made a sailor blush—hell, they would have made Mistress K blush.

  I offered Libba a hand, pulled her off the floor, and we followed Stormy and the waiters into the hall.

  Well-coiffed heads popped out of rooms as Stormy told me to complete anatomically impossible feats. Mother would hear about this. Daddy might, too.

  I let Daisy’s purse fall to the wood floor. It sounded as if I’d dropped an anvil. “What do you have in there?”

  “My youngest has been collecting pennies. We rolled them last night.”

  Thank God I hadn’t swung Daisy’s purse at Stormy. I might have killed her.

  “Okay, here’s the story.” My gaze traveled from Libba to Daisy. They were no problem. I stared at Jinx longer. “I questioned whether or not that woman was actually married to Brooks Harney and she went crazy.”

  “When?” asked Jinx.

  “Just now, didn’t you see her?”

  “No.” Jinx shook her head. “When did you question her?”

  “In the parking lot after the service.” A convenient lie, so much easier than telling her my housekeeper was once a private investigator of sorts. I scratched my nose, caught Libba’s eye, and dropped my hand to my side.

  “Well, the woman is obviously four or five cards short of a full deck,” said Jinx.

  “Exactly.” Libba smoothed her skirt. “I don’t know about you girls, but I could use a drink.”

  “Isn’t it a bit early?” asked Daisy.

  “No.” Three voices spoke in unison.

  A new tablecloth, fresh cards, lunch, a glass of wine, several hours and three rubbers of bridge later, we got up from the card table and walked toward the exit.

  I paused next to the ladies’ lounge. “You girls go ahead. I need to stop.”

  We hugged and air-kissed and waved goodbye.

  Moments later, I stepped into the parking lot. Given the beautiful day, it was nearly full with golfers’ cars—Mercedes, a mid-life-crisis Porsche, Cadillacs, Volvos, three Jaguars, my Triumph, and, five spots away, a late-model, rust-spotted Cutlass with a dented fender and California plates.

  My feet, quite of their own volition, stopped moving.

  Was that Stormy’s car?

  She should have been long gone.

  Was she waiting to attack me? My heart fluttered.

  And what about my car? Had Stormy fiddled with the brakes or the steering?

  Where was she?

  The spaces between the cars morphed into hiding places.

  I took one step forward and then another.

  No one with a knife jumped out at me.

  Emboldened, I took several more steps. Hurried steps. Please-don’t-let-a-crazy-woman-with-a-knife-surprise-me steps.

  A sharp noise cracked the air. The thwack of a well-hit golf ball or the sound of a gun cocking? Dread chilled my spine and fingers and toes. I scanned the parking lot. No one. But the gorgeous day seemed like a mask behind which danger lurked.

  “Ellison!”

  I jumped ten feet straight into the air.

  “What’s wrong? Are you okay?” Bill Humphrey, an old friend of Henry’s, walked toward me.

  I pressed my hand against my racing heart and gulped a lung’s full of air. Yes, Bill was Henry’s friend (definitely a strike against him) but at least he wasn’t Stormy. “Bill, you startled me.”

  “I’m sorry.” He sounded genuinely contrite. “I haven’t seen you in a while. How have you been?”

  He meant without Henry. That really wasn’t a problem. “I’m muddling through.”

  “You look pale.”

  “My car won’t start,” I blurted. That made two lies in three hours but lying was better than barreling into a tree for lack of brakes or steering. “Could I prevail upon you for a ride home?”

  “What’s wrong with your car?” He frowned, presumably measuring the generous distance that still remained between me and the Triumph.

  “I tried earlier and it wouldn’t turn.” Yet another lie. My nose itched like hell.

  “Did you flood the engine? Let me try.” He held out his hand for the keys.

  For all I knew, Stormy had planted a bomb and the car would blow up when started. “No. Don’t worry about it, Bill. I’ll call the auto club.”

  His extended hand didn’t move. “Don’t be silly. Let me try. I insist.”

  “Really, it’s all right. I’ll call.”

  “Ellison, give me the keys.”

  A
nother man who wanted to manage me?

  “No. Thank you. It’s kind of you to offer but no.”

  He shrugged and shook his head, apparently writing me off as a silly female. “Suit yourself.”

  I planned to.

  I hurried back to the clubhouse, slipped into a phone booth, and collapsed on the bench seat. I stared at the phone for a moment then, wishing I could come up with a better plan, I hit the button for an outside line and dialed.

  Maybe he’d be out.

  If he was, I’d call a cab then have a mechanic check the car over before I drove it.

  Maybe I should just do that—

  “Jones.”

  I swallowed. “Anarchy—”

  “What now, Ellison?” He sounded tired. Of me.

  Maybe I shouldn’t bother him—

  “What?”

  “Um...” I swallowed again. When had my mouth gone so dry? “I’m at the club. Stormy Harney tracked me down here and threatened me. I’m worried she did something to my car.”

  “Don’t go near it. I’m on my way.”

  He hung up before I could thank him or say goodbye.

  I returned the receiver to the cradle and pushed myself off the bench. My joints and muscles ached as if I’d run ten miles instead of walked across a parking lot.

  I emerged from the booth and flagged down a waiter. “May I please have glass of water?”

  “Of course, Mrs. Russell. I’ll bring that right out to you.” He disappeared behind a swinging door where only staff ventured.

  I waited, sinking into a flame stitch wingback.

  The waiter returned with the water. “Are you sure you wouldn’t like something stronger?”

  I took the glass from his hands and read his nametag. “No, thank you, Tim.”

  I didn’t sip the water. I gulped. I drained the glass and put it down on a table that held a People Magazine—apparently Burt Reynolds and Dinah Shore had decided not to get married and an Arkansas congressman had been canoodling with a stripper. I didn’t need to read about having cold feet or cheating husbands. I was intimately familiar with both. Funny. The club usually had copies of financial newspapers or Town and Country on the tables. Maybe that People was a sign.