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

by Julie Mulhern

  “There are hardwoods underneath. I imagine they’re in good shape.”

  She glanced down at Henry’s horrid carpet. “May I?”

  “Of course.”

  She crossed to a corner of the room, withdrew a pocketknife from her handbag, crouched, and pulled back a piece of the rug.

  In my experience, looking under the carpet—granted mine was metaphorical (usually)—led to nothing but trouble. I avoided peeking whenever possible.

  Olivia had no such qualms. “You’re right. They look good.” She stood. “What else did you have in mind?”

  “I have an antique Sarouk in storage.”

  Her eyes widened. “Colors?”

  “The center medallion is light blue and the field is indigo. As I remember there are green and persimmon spandrels.”

  She smiled her approval. “It sounds lovely.”

  “It is. I always thought it would be perfect in here but Henry wanted shag.”

  She pointed to a ten-foot expanse where our last decorator had grouped English hunting prints above a library table. “What about that wall?”

  “What about it?”

  “With the right art it could be a focal point.”

  Our last decorator couldn’t believe I didn’t want my own paintings in every room. I still didn’t. That hadn’t changed.

  “Like what?”

  “I have two Chinese tapestries. Matching, of course.”

  “Of course.”

  “I bought them from a dealer in Chicago.” She paused, probably waiting for me to coo or be impressed with her connections in a larger city.

  I didn’t. I wasn’t.

  “They’re a lovely cream silk,” she continued. “A garden scene. The first is of a woman standing on a balcony overlooking a garden. The second is more of the garden with flowers and birds and wildlife.”

  They sounded beautiful…and familiar. “Are the colors primarily blue and persimmon with sage, emerald, and gold accents?”

  “Exactly. How did you know?”

  “A friend of my grandmother’s has tapestries just like that.”

  “Really?” A furrow appeared between Olivia’s brows. “I was assured these were one-of-a-kind. Perhaps she sold them.”

  “Doubtful. They were a family heirloom.”

  “Well, these are exquisite.”

  “If they’re anything like PeeWa’s, I’m sure they are. When I was a little girl, I would beg to go with my grandmother whenever she went to PeeWa’s house. I’d sit in front of those tapestries for hours and look at the colors and the expression on the woman’s face and the way the birds looked as if they were ready to swoop off the silk.”

  “Shall I bring them by?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “If you like them, we can lay your Sarouk, hang them there.” She waved away Henry’s hunting prints. “Get rid of the desk.” She raised a brow, testing to see if I had any objections to banishing the ponderous piece of furniture.

  I didn’t.

  “Perhaps you could sell it for me.”

  She nodded then her gaze shifted to the leather club chairs, too deep for a woman to sit in comfortably. “What about more feminine chairs? Maybe covered in cream linen?”

  “Perfect.”

  When Olivia Forde left, I called Mother.

  “You talked to your father.” It wasn’t a question. It was an accusation.

  “I did.”

  “You made things worse.”

  I didn’t argue. “I have a question for you.”

  “What?”

  “Do you remember the oriental screens PeeWa Asbury had hanging in her sitting room?” Née Penelope Warren Blake, her first and middle names had been mashed together for a childhood nickname that saw her through her whole life.

  “Of course I remember. Your grandmother used to insist on taking you to see them. I was scared to death you were going to touch them and mar the silk or knock a piece of Lalique off a side table. She had crystal ashtrays everywhere.”

  “The silk was behind glass.”

  “You could have smudged it.”

  A million smart replies came to mind. I uttered none of them. “Remind me. Where did the tapestries come from?”

  “PeeWa’s mother was English. The story is that her father—PeeWa’s grandfather—picked them up when he was stationed in Hong Kong.”

  “Did she sell them?”

  “Sell them?” The incredulous tone of Mother’s voice told me that was about as likely as PeeWa flying to the moon on one wing.

  “My decorator just described something remarkably similar.”

  “What are you decorating?”

  “The study.”

  “Are you sure you’re ready to do that?”

  More than ready. “About the tapestries—”

  “Go visit PeeWa. She’d love to see you. I’m quite sure the tapestries are still hanging in her sitting room.” She paused. “Oh. Wait. She’s not at home. She’s in assisted living. You should still go see her.”

  “At Carlyle Place?”

  “Where else? About you and your father—”

  “Mother, I have to go. Love you. Bye.” I hung up the phone before we could rehash that conversation a third time. Then I sat and stared at the too dark walls of Henry’s study. I was being silly. There were probably hundreds, if not thousands, of tapestries exactly like the ones I’d fallen in love with at PeeWa’s. So why did I feel as if something was wrong?

  Seventeen

  Carlyle Place. A patrician name. It sounded as if it should be nestled in the mountains of Palm Springs or Scottsdale. Or perhaps Carlyle Place should have faced east, stalwart against Atlantic gales but open to ocean breezes from Newport or Palm Beach.

  Carlyle Place sat on a hill not far from the Plaza.

  It got full credit for looking like a fine old home—parquet floors, lovely drapes, fresh flowers in crystal vases on practically every surface. But beneath the scents of lemon furniture polish and stargazer lilies lurked a more clinical odor.

  I followed an attractive young woman to PeeWa’s suite and knocked on the door.

  No one answered.

  “She may not have her hearing aids in.” The woman knocked again. Louder this time.

  There was still no response.

  She opened the door and stuck her head inside. “Mrs. Asbury? It’s Alice. You have a visitor.” Her voice had the sing-song quality I associated with talking to toddlers. She stepped inside. “Mrs. Asbury?”

  I followed her directly into a sitting room.

  Someone had decorated PeeWa’s suite with treasures from her home. I recognized a chair she’d once assured me came to Kansas City on a covered wagon. Framed photographs hung on the walls—PeeWa and her husband Kenneth. PeeWa and her son Kenny who’d died in France fighting Germans. PeeWa and my grandmother, Lillian. The evening newspaper lay on a coffee table. Next to it sat a still steaming cup of coffee.

  “Mrs. Asbury?” Alice raised her voice a decibel or two. She crossed the small living room, walked down a short hallway, and opened the door to what was presumably the bedroom. “Where are you?”

  Flush.

  The sound of running water followed.

  A moment passed then the door in the hallway opened and PeeWa emerged wearing an enormous evening suit and a strand of pearls that seemed to weigh on her neck. Her fluffy white hair looked freshly styled and too big for her head. PeeWa had shrunk. She noticed us and frowned.

  “We have a visitor,” said Alice. “Isn’t that lovely?”

  PeeWa’s frown deepened to a scowl. “I’m quite sure we do not have a visitor. I have a visitor. You may leave.”

  Alice smiled sweetly, apparently immune to sharp tongues. “Call if you need anything.”

  PeeWa’s scowl disappeared with Alice. “What a treat it is to see you, dear. May I offer you coffee?”

  “Thank you.” I never turn down coffee.

  “I still make it the old way. There’s a French press on the co
unter in the kitchen. Do you mind helping yourself?”

  “Of course not.” I entered the tiny kitchen and took a delicate cup and saucer from the cabinet. Meissen? I turned over the cup. Right in one. The pattern was Ming dragon. PeeWa loved all things Chinese. I poured my coffee and joined her on the couch.

  She patted my knee. “I have plans this evening so I can’t talk long. Tell me all your news. How have you been?”

  “How have you been?”

  “Fine. Playing lots of bridge. Kenny is coming soon. He’s going to take me to the opera.”

  I blinked. “Kenny?”

  “Yes, dear. Kenny. My son.” She leaned back against the couch. “He takes such good care of me.”

  I took a sip of my coffee. It wasn’t nearly strong enough. “Which opera?”

  “Bizet’s Carmen.”

  PeeWa was right about the current production, but who was taking her to the opera? Was anyone taking her?

  “I haven’t seen Kenny in years. Remind me what he looks like.”

  “His picture is right there on the wall.” She pointed to a photograph. “Of course, he’s a bit older now. We all are.” She regarded me with faded blue eyes. “Except you. You haven’t aged a day.”

  “Thank you. What time is Kenny picking you up?”

  She opened her mouth then closed it, tilted her head, then regarded a grandfather clock in the corner. “Go ask Alice. She’ll know. Now…enough about me. How’s Frances?”

  “She’s fine, thank you.”

  “And Ellison, how is she?”

  The aide’s name might be Alice, but I was the one who’d fallen down the rabbit hole. “I’m fine.”

  “You already told me that. How’s your granddaughter?”

  I pasted on a bright smile. Did Mother know about this? If so, she should have shared. “Ellison is painting a lot. Her daughter Grace is a sophomore in high school.”

  “Is she still married to that awful man? The one you didn’t like.”

  My grandmother hadn’t liked Henry?

  “He died.”

  “Did he? I forgot. I imagine she’s happier without him.”

  Was I happy? I was glad Henry was out of my life, but was I happy alone? That was a question for later. I glanced around PeeWa’s sitting room. “This is a lovely room.”

  “Isn’t it?” She sat back against the couch and admired.

  “Ellison was always so fond of those Chinese panels.” It felt odd talking about myself in third person. “Do you still have them?”

  “Of course.” She sounded offended that I—or Lillian—had even suggested such a thing. “My grandfather brought them back from China. I’d never part with those.”

  “Are they at the house?”

  PeeWa’s blue eyes clouded and she looked around her little sitting room as if she wasn’t quite sure where she was. “Of course. Go look at them.” She pointed toward the front door.

  Poor PeeWa. My heart contracted and I paused, waiting until I was sure my voice wouldn’t shake. “I will in a bit. Tell me more about Kenny.”

  She sighed, a happy sound. “He insists on taking me out at least once a week. Sometimes we go to Winstead’s. You know how I love chocolate frosties.”

  I did. As a child, PeeWa and my grandmother took me there whenever they needed a chocolate fix—that is to say, often.

  “Tonight he’s taking me to the opera.”

  A band tightened around my chest. Time had worn away the sharp edges of PeeWa’s mind, leaving her a blurred version of the woman she used to be. She might not notice. I hoped she didn’t notice. “What a treat.” Who was Kenny? Was there anyone coming or would she sit alone in her suite and wait?

  “Isn’t it? I haven’t been feeling up to snuff, and it’s so important to have family around when times are tough.”

  My jaw ached with the effort of not crying.

  Knock, knock.

  “That must be him now.” She squeezed my knee. “Come in.” Her voice trilled.

  The door opened and a smile of sheer delight lit her face. “Kenny, you’re here. You remember my friend, Lillian, don’t you?”

  Hunter Tafft stepped inside. He paused when he saw me then approached the couch and dropped a soft kiss on PeeWa’s wrinkled cheek. “You look lovely.” He turned to me. “Lillian, it’s nice to see you.”

  “Likewise.”

  “Kenny,” said PeeWa. “Lillian was just asking about the Chinese tapestries. You’ll show them to her won’t you?”

  “Of course.” He held out his hand. “Lillian?”

  I rose from the couch without his help. “PeeWa, you have tickets. I’ll see the tapestries later. I’m going to run, but I’ll visit you again soon.”

  “Don’t be silly. I can wait. Go look. You know, Ellison adores them.”

  “I know.”

  Hunter held the door for me.

  I paused in the doorway. “It was good to see you, PeeWa. I’ll come again soon.”

  “When you come back, I want a jar of your face cream. You don’t look a day over fifty.”

  Given that I hadn’t yet hit forty, that wasn’t particularly flattering. “I will.”

  Hunter followed me into the hall. “What are you doing here?”

  “I could ask you the same thing.”

  His mouth thinned. “We’re cousins.”

  Of course they were. I’d forgotten. Then again, if I went back a few generations, I could count half the people I knew as cousins.

  “She’s lonely. Her husband and her son are gone. Her sister is in Dallas. If I don’t take her out, she’s here all day, every day.”

  That might be true—probably was true—but Hunter Tafft was, as Mother constantly reminded me, a busy man. That he chose to spend some of his free time treating an old woman to steakburgers and chocolate frosties made my heart melt.

  My heart had no business melting.

  “I want to make sure she’s being taken care of. Why are you here?”

  “It’s probably nothing, but…”

  “But what?”

  I glanced inside PeeWa’s suite. She waited patiently on the couch. Was she really hard of hearing or had she ignored the knock on her door to annoy Alice? “A decorator offered me Chinese panels that sounded exactly like the ones in PeeWa’s sitting room,” I whispered. “I wondered if she had sold them.”

  “She hasn’t. She’d never part with them.”

  I nodded. “When I asked, she said the same thing.”

  “You think someone stole them?”

  “The thought had crossed my mind.”

  “I’ll run by the house tomorrow and make sure everything is all right.”

  “What time are you going?”

  “Why?” He frowned at me.

  “I practically grew up at her house. I can tell you if anything else is missing.”

  “You think the panels are gone.”

  The sick feeling in my stomach said yes. I hoped my stomach was wrong.

  I sat on the top step of PeeWa’s front stoop, glad I’d worn a warm coat. Sharp gusts of wind ripped leaves from the trees and made my eyes water. The kiddos would be wearing jackets over their costumes tonight for sure.

  When she was little, Grace hated that. She wanted everyone in the neighborhood to see her princess costume, not her new winter coat. Henry always volunteered to take the neighborhood kids around. He’d lead a pack of cowboys and ghosts and princesses, waiting on the sidewalk as the kids ran from house to house.

  I stayed home and handed out candy. I also made hot chocolate and kept it warm on the stove. Two things were certain. Grace would come home with enough candy to keep her satisfied till Easter, and she’d be shivering with cold. Somewhere between the Parkersons’ and the Clarendons’, she’d pass her coat to her father.

  He let her. Every time. Henry might not have cared much about my happiness, but he cared desperately about Grace’s. He’d have done almost anything to bring a smile to her face.

  Of course he wasn�
�t the one who took care of her three days later when she came down with a violent cold.

  A Mercedes pulled up the drive, parked behind my Triumph, and brought my thoughts back to the present.

  Hunter got out of the car. “It’s cold out here.”

  “Yes.”

  “Why didn’t you wait in your car?”

  “I needed some air.” I stood.

  Hunter pulled a keychain with but one key from his pocket, slotted the key in the lock, and opened the door.

  I stepped inside. The air was stale and chilly.

  “The furnace man was out at the beginning of the month. I’ll turn on the heat.”

  “Don’t bother. This won’t take long.” I took in PeeWa’s foyer. It hadn’t changed. A Chinese altar table with a carved apron and lion feet still held a Ming vase. An Aubusson rug still covered the floor. “This way.”

  I led Hunter through the living room to the right of the front hall. It opened onto PeeWa’s sitting room.

  Two comfortable chairs flanked a side table which held a good reading lamp. The table also held a stack of books, one with a bookmark emerging from the middle. PeeWa’s chaise lounge sat near the window, more light, more books, and a stunning view of her panels.

  When I was a girl, I stretched out on that chaise and gazed at the garden scene on the wall.

  Except now the garden scene wasn’t there.

  A large still life hung in the panels’ place.

  I glanced at Hunter. His cheeks had gone pale and his face looked as if it had been chiseled from marble.

  “Who has keys to the house?” I asked.

  He made a noise in his throat. It might have been a chuckle. It might have been a growl. “The gardener, the cleaning lady, the trust company, the Coes, the neighbors to the left, and the Helmricks, the backyard neighbors. Plus, PeeWa says there’s a key hidden on the patio. I’ve never been able to find it.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Who offered you the panels?”

  “Olivia Forde. She’s a decorator, and she bought them from a dealer in Chicago. At least that’s what she told me.”

  “How well do you know this house?”

  “I know the downstairs well. The upstairs not at all. Why?”

  “We didn’t inventory when we moved PeeWa to Carlyle Place.”