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

by Julie Mulhern

  “So you don’t know exactly what was here.”

  “No.” His voice was bleak. “Will you look around while I call the police?”

  I determined that PeeWa’s hand cooler collection was gone as was a Qing box made of Zitan wood with inlaid mother of pearl depicting a bird on a cherry tree branch. That box had been second in my affections after the panels.

  We met in the kitchen. Like the rest of the house, it was chilly. I told Hunter what was missing then opened the cabinet closest to the sink and peered inside, then I opened another, and another. I wanted coffee like Brooks had once wanted a shot of heroine.

  “What are you doing?” asked Hunter.

  “Looking for coffee.” Silly and I knew it. Any coffee I found would be stale.

  “There isn’t any.”

  “You’re sure? I’d settle for instant.”

  “There’s nothing. We emptied all the cupboards when we moved her.” His handsome face looked ten years older, like he was a man actually old enough to have a head of silver hair.

  I wasn’t the only one who needed coffee.

  Hunter pulled a small leather-bound notebook from inside his suit coat and picked up the phone.

  “Who are you calling?”

  “The bank.”

  “Why?”

  His finger circled the dial. “Because they’re co-executors.” He finished dialing, waited a few seconds, then said, “Trust department, please.” Seconds passed then he added, “Hunter Tafft calling, I need to speak with the officer responsible for PeeWa Asbury’s trust.”

  His expression darkened. “Try Penelope Asbury.” His gaze traveled the kitchen, from the coffee-free cabinets to the refrigerator to the stove to me.

  I swallowed.

  “I’ll leave a message,” he said to the person on the phone. “You’re ready? This is Hunter Tafft. Mrs. Asbury’s home has been burglarized.” A pause. “Yes, I’m sure. I have her family friend Ellison Russell with me now, and she’s identified several missing antiques.”

  He listened, an intent expression settling upon his face.

  “I’ve called the police. They’re on their way. Tell him I’ll wait for him here.” He hung up.

  I glanced around PeeWa’s empty kitchen and swallowed. “I played bridge.”

  “Oh?” Unlike Anarchy, Hunter didn’t sound bored. He’d been married often enough to understand that table talk meant useful information.

  “John Phillips was hit by a car. A hit and run, the same as Charles Dix.”

  He nodded, waiting.

  “I’m telling you because theirs were the other cards Brooks slipped in my pocket.”

  “You’re worried about me.” His voice was velvet.

  I was. “I just thought you should know. So you could look both ways when you cross the street.”

  Hunter’s usually sharp gaze softened.

  Ding dong.

  Thank God. “I’ll get it.” I left Hunter in the kitchen and hurried to the front door.

  Blessedly neither of the detectives on the other side was Anarchy Jones. They were paunchy and they sported unlikely mustaches and pouches beneath their eyes. Nothing like Anarchy—although one did wear plaid pants. He spoke first. “We got a call about a burglary.”

  “Won’t you come in?”

  “Who are you?” asked the detective with tan pants.

  “Ellison Russell. And you are?”

  “Detective Gilbert.” He jerked his head toward his plaid-pants-wearing partner. “That’s Detective Sullivan.”

  Seriously? “May I please see some identification?”

  With long-suffering expressions, they stuck their badges in front of my nose. It was true. The police department had dispatched Gilbert and Sullivan to a crime scene. Who says cops don’t have a sense of humor?

  “If you start singing from the Mikado, we’ll be forced to arrest you,” said Detective Gilbert. He looked deadly serious.

  “No singing.” I opened the door wider and moved out of their way.

  “What was taken?” Detective Sullivan pulled a pen and a steno pad from his jacket. He looked ridiculously out of place in PeeWa’s foyer.

  “Two Chinese screens, a box, and some hand coolers.”

  “Hand coolers?” asked Detective Gilbert.

  “Yes. Hand coolers.”

  “What exactly is a hand cooler?”

  “During the Victoria era, ladies’ hands were expected to be cool and dry. They carried bits of porcelain or crystal to make sure they didn’t have sweaty palms.”

  “Why would someone steal those?” asked Detective Sullivan.

  “They’re highly collectible.”

  Both detectives looked doubtful.

  “PeeWa had a significant collection.”

  “PeeWa?” Gilbert cocked his head to the side.

  “Penelope Asbury, the lady who owns the house.”

  “So, who are you?” Sullivan now wore a suspicious expression.

  “A family friend.”

  Hunter chose that moment to enter the foyer. “I’m Hunter Tafft. I called.”

  “These are Detectives Gilbert and Sullivan,” I said.

  “Right.”

  The tone of Hunter’s voice let me know what he thought of my joking around.

  “Seriously.”

  “Are you also a family friend?” asked Detective Gilbert.

  Detective Sullivan said nothing. There was a pinched look around his mouth that his mustache couldn’t hide.

  “I’m Mrs. Asbury’s lawyer.”

  “Does anyone live here?”

  “Not right now,” said Hunter.

  “But you came here today.” Gilbert, unencumbered by a notepad, crossed his arms. He also raised a single brow.

  There was no way a police detective was going to intimidate Hunter. “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “Someone offered to sell Mrs. Russell a pair of Chinese panels. She knew Mrs. Asbury owned a similar pair, knew they were rare, and alerted me to the possible theft.”

  “Who offered them to you, Mrs. Russell? A fence?”

  Did I look like the kind of woman who went to pawn shops? I smoothed my hair and wished I’d taken time to don something dressier than jeans. “My decorator.”

  “His name?”

  “Olivia Forde.”

  “How did Miss Forde come to have them?”

  “A dealer in Chicago. You’d have to ask her.”

  Detective Sullivan looked at his notepad. “What about the box?”

  “It was an antique. Museum quality.”

  “A box?” asked Gilbert.

  I told them all about the box, described the inlay, the lining, the patina of the wood.

  Sullivan looked up from his note taking. “Anything else missing?”

  “I’m not sure. I haven’t been here in years.”

  “Really?” Sullivan’s eyes narrowed. Somehow, I’d earned his suspicion. “The way you described that box, I’d think you saw it just yesterday.”

  I rubbed my suddenly stiff neck. “It was a favorite of mine as a child.”

  “If Mrs. Russell hadn’t pointed out the box was missing, no one would have noticed it was gone.” Hunter used one of his courtroom glares on the detectives. “She didn’t take it.”

  Sullivan grunted.

  That was it. I needed coffee. And after coffee, I needed to exercise. A run with Max would set me right.

  “If you’ll excuse me.” I walked toward the living room.

  “Where are you going?” asked Gilbert.

  “To get my purse. I’m going home.” I hummed “Three Little Maids.” Loudly.

  “You can’t hold her,” said Hunter.

  “We’ll need your fingerprints,” said Sullivan.

  I snatched my bag off the couch. “I’m sure they’re on file. If you can’t find them, just ask Anarchy Jones.” With that, I sailed out the front door.

  It’s so seldom I get the last word, I relished it all the way home. I should have
known all that relish would give me indigestion.

  Eighteen

  There are three things a woman can depend upon—death, taxes, and Mr. Coffee. And of the three, Mr. Coffee is the only one I wanted to think about on a regular basis.

  He served up a pot of coffee. Perfect. Fast. Replenishing.

  I drank two cups.

  I might have drunk three, but Max was weaving around my ankles like a ninety-pound cat.

  I ceded. “Fine. We’ll go for a run.”

  He wagged his stubby tail.

  Ten minutes later, I laced up my Adidas and we walked down the drive at a quick pace.

  Max tugged on the leash.

  “Give me a minute to warm up.”

  He looked over his shoulder, his doggy expression reflecting what he thought of that idea.

  I wasn’t going to let one more disapproving male faze me. We walked for three blocks then broke into a slow jog.

  Again Max shot a disgusted look over his shoulder. He wanted a sprint.

  Not today.

  We reached Loose Park and I increased my speed. Still not fast enough for Max—he had the energy to spot squirrels, eye other dogs, and stick his nose in the air to check for odd scents, all at the same time.

  My thoughts fell into rhythm with my steps. Hopeless snarls smoothed to mere tangles. Who had stolen from PeeWa?

  Most everyone I knew was aware that she was living at Carlyle Place. Anyone could have found the key hidden on her patio and helped themselves to her treasures. An ordinary thief would have taken the silver service or the television. This thief had cherry-picked her antiques, taking the most valuable among them. Who was it?

  I’d look at the panels Olivia had. If they were PeeWa’s, the police would be able to trace the thief through Olivia’s dealer.

  That thread reasonably straightened, my mind shifted to poor Brooks Harney. Who had killed him?

  It was obviously over money. With so much involved, it had to be.

  Had Earl stabbed him or had it been his brother?

  That thought chilled my blood so much it matched the wind temperature.

  I was missing something. I felt it in the tension in my shoulders and neck. Somewhere in the morass of thoughts in my brain lay the answer. If I chased it, it would run away. If I ignored it, there was a chance it would percolate to the surface.

  Max tugged again.

  The temptation to let him off his leash was terrible and the park was almost empty. But all I needed was for him to barrel into some little old lady out for her daily constitutional—rather like the one a few hundred feet in front of us. A dark coat covered her bent back and a nylon scarf covered her hair—more to protect it from the wind than to keep her warm. Her legs, covered with stockings, were stick thin and disappeared into those boots that every old lady of my acquaintance owned. The boots looked more like galoshes than actual boots, but they were fur-lined and very much au courant for the over-seventy set.

  She looked like just the sort of lady Max might accidentally upend.

  I tightened my hold on his leash.

  Given that we were running and she was shuffling, we closed the distance quickly.

  Too quickly.

  There was the pond. I used to like the pond. When the weather was warm, ducks swam in the pond. Children gathered and fed them. There was picturesque bridge and a small island, both of which looked lovely in paintings.

  I stopped liking the pond when I drove into it.

  Even now I scowled at its placid waters.

  Max tugged again.

  That’s when I saw it. The older lady was not alone. A Yorkie walked next to her.

  Most of the time Max was too smart for his own good. Not when it came to Yorkies. He was under the mistaken impression they were squirrels and in desperate need of being chased.

  Max lunged.

  He pulled the leash from my hand.

  “Watch out!” I cried.

  The wind took my words and sent them in the opposite direction.

  Max ran toward the old lady at full speed.

  Her dog, seeing a behemoth bearing down upon them, yipped.

  The old lady turned and saw Max. Or perhaps she saw me sprinting after him. Either way, her face contorted into an Edvard Munch painting. She screamed. She also let go of her little dog’s leash.

  The Yorkie did the only sensible thing. It ran.

  “Max!” I screamed.

  My dog ignored me.

  Fortunately, he ran right past the old lady with her bent back and probably brittle hips. Max focused on the little dog who ran in circles, darting and weaving and yipping madly.

  “Catch that awful beast.” The older lady didn’t sound brittle. She sounded mad as hell.

  I ran past her. “Max!”

  If he heard me, he gave no indication. He was too busy trying to land one of his paws on the yipping squirrel.

  “Max!”

  One of his paws came within a hair’s breadth of pinning the dog to the ground.

  “Get that hellhound away from my dog!” Her voice squeaked, especially on the last words. Apparently her pitch mimicked a dog whistle because both dogs turned and looked at her.

  Then the Yorkie ran again. This time in a straight line. Toward the pond.

  Max gave chase.

  Oh dear Lord. “No!”

  My words came too late—that or they weren’t emphatic enough. The little dog sailed over the water, a silky brown bit of fluff caught in a gust of wind. Then he hit the surface.

  Who knew such a little dog could make such a big splash?

  “Elmer.” The woman sounded distraught.

  Max, who’d slid to a stop at the water’s edge, looked disappointed.

  I gripped my side where my ribs felt as if they were impaling my lungs

  “He can’t swim.” The woman wrung her hands.

  She was wrong. Elmer was swimming—dog paddling valiantly—toward the island.

  I grabbed Max’s leash. “Wrong way, Elmer!”

  Elmer ignored me. Instead, he scrambled up the bank of the island, soaking wet and shivering with cold. Poor Elmer, he looked more like an alien than a dog.

  “Bad dog.” I shook my finger in Max’s face.

  Tell a Labrador he’s done something naughty and his eyes and ears will droop. He might even hang his head. Max is not a Labrador. He didn’t look remotely repentant.

  “How are you going to get him off the island?” asked the woman.

  Me?

  “It’s your dog’s fault he’s out there.”

  Be that as it may, Elmer was going to have to swim back.

  “Elmer.” The woman tottered toward the pond, leaned out over the water, and called again.

  If she fell into the pond. I’d have to go in after her.

  I reached for the back of her coat, ready to grab the fabric and haul her backward if her weight shifted forward.

  Elmer sat down and looked at us. He showed no inclination to return to the water. Smart dog.

  “Elmer!” Her voice quavered. She turned and glared at me. “It can’t be good for him to be so cold. You’ve got to rescue him.”

  The pond wasn’t big enough for boats. There was no way to get to the island without getting in the water. I’d been in that water. I wasn’t getting in it again.

  “Elmer’s all I have and this—” the woman wiped her eyes “—is your fault.”

  She could play the guilt card all day long. No way, no how was I getting in that pond.

  “Is there a problem, ladies?”

  I turned.

  The first thought that popped into my head was Robbie Harney followed me here.

  The second was why?

  The third was who cares? Thank God he’s here.

  “That beast—” the old lady pointed at Max who wagged his tail and offered up a doggy grin “—chased Elmer into the pond.”

  “Where is Elmer now?”

  Elmer yipped.

  There were so many things I wante
d to say to Robbie Harney. None of them particularly nice. None of them particularly helpful since offending our only offer of aid seemed a bad plan.

  He stood at the edge of the pond looking like Oliver Barrett in Love Story and rubbed his chin.

  “I doubt Elmer will return to shore when the Weimaraner is waiting for him.”

  So Robbie did have a modicum of sense. I’d doubted that after he offered Stormy money to go away.

  “Perhaps you and your dog should move away, Mrs. Russell.” He pointed to a hilltop on the other side of the pond.

  The old woman regarded me with beady brown eyes—eyes that were almost lost beneath drooping lids. “You know her?”

  “I do,” said Robbie.

  “She dropped her dog’s leash.”

  Robbie’s mouth twisted as if he were trying not to smile. “It appears you dropped your dog’s leash as well.”

  Now the woman’s mouth twisted. She did not look as if she was fighting a smile. More a snarl. At me. And Max.

  “My name is Ellison Russell, and I’m terribly sorry this happened.” I extended my hand. “I’d be happy to pay for Elmer’s next trip to the groomer’s.” I knew from experience that Elmer would not be smelling like roses when he came out of the water.

  The old woman looked at my hand as if she might catch something if she touched it—even through her gloves. An awkward few seconds passed then she too extended a hand. “Bernice Billings. What if Elmer is hurt?”

  I scowled down at Max. “I’ll pay the vet bills too.”

  “He’s traumatized.”

  I shifted my gaze from Max back to Bernice. Did she expect me to pay for a doggie shrink?

  Out on the island, Elmer yipped.

  “He sounds just fine to me. Again, I’m very sorry this happened. Now, I’ll get out of the way so you and Mr. Harney can convince Elmer to come back.” Max and I continued on the path around the pond. We reached the opposite side and ventured into the grass, climbing a gently sloping hill. The park had begun life as a golf course—all the hills sloped gently.

  At the top, we stopped and turned.

  Below us, Bernice and Robbie were still trying to entice Elmer back into the water.

  The little dog no longer hid behind the tree. He sat on his tiny haunches at the pond’s edge, showing not the slightest inclination to re-enter the cold water.

  Bits of the woman’s pleas reached me. “Elmer…treat…come.”