“Who’s Max?”
“The dog.”
On cue, Max appeared at the top of the stairs and yawned. He had the look of a dog who’d been asleep in my bed. Evil beastie.
The evil beastie trotted down the stairs and gave Detective Jones’ crotch an exploratory sniff.
Oh dear Lord.
To his credit, Detective Jones chuckled and scratched behind Max’s ears.
Max gave himself over to bliss and leaned against the detective’s legs.
I used to think Max was a good judge of character. But Max likes Henry, so my faith in his doggy judgment has been shaken.
I tossed the mail onto the chest. “If Henry’s home, he’ll be in his study.”
Detective Jones and Max followed me down the front hallway and waited while I tapped on Henry’s door. No answer. When I opened it, the smell of cold, stale air whooshed out at us.
Detective Jones stepped around me and entered. His nice eyes had narrowed. They were taking inventory. He’d had all day to investigate Madeline’s death. All day to learn the details of her relationship with my husband. Maybe he’d even heard of their proclivities.
Proclivities Henry had promised to keep far from Grace. No one would guess those proclivities from Henry’s study—Tabriz rug on the floor, framed diplomas on pecan-paneled walls, a solid, dependable desk suitable for a solid dependable banker, leather club chairs, a picture of Grace in a silver frame, and one of my first paintings hanging above the fireplace. I was surprised he hadn’t replaced it. Probably it had been hanging there so long he didn’t notice it.
The detective crossed to the desk and ran his finger across its surface. It made a track in the dust. Harriet needed to clean in here more often.
“My husband’s not here.” Duh.
“When did you last see him?”
I’d thought of little else on the drive home from the club. “Monday.”
“Today is Thursday.”
Between the two of us, we’d cornered the market on stating the obvious.
“He lives here?”
If we weren’t married, Henry would be the perfect roommate. He puts his dishes in the dishwasher, replaces the milk when he uses it all, and pays the mortgage and utilities without being asked. My offer to pay half had been answered with a resounding no and a quiet bitch. “Yes.”
“Is it unusual for you to go so long without seeing him?”
“No.”
“Has your daughter seen him?”
“I don’t recall telling you I had a daughter.” I wanted to keep Grace out of this. To keep her safe. She didn’t need to know about her father’s sordid relationship with a dead woman.
“I’m investigating a murder. I tend to find out about things like children.” His voice was as dry as the martini I planned on downing as soon as he was gone.
“My husband’s a suspect?” Of course he was. I didn’t need to look into Detective Jones’ brown eyes to know he was calculating the odds that Henry had killed Madeline.
The detective lifted his shoulders for half of a shrug. My question didn’t merit a full one.
“His mistress was murdered.”
“Am I a suspect?”
The skin around his eyes crinkled like I’d said something amusing. “Do you have an alibi?”
“No.” In bed. Asleep. Alone.
“Then you’re a suspect.”
“Would you care for a drink?”
“I’m on duty.”
“It’s five o’clock.”
He glanced at his watch.
“So it is. I’m still on duty.” Detective Jones, follower of rules and procedures. “Any idea where your husband might be?”
“Did you try the bank?”
“They say he hasn’t been in today. He missed all his appointments.”
Henry missed an appointment? Dread slithered down my back then detoured to my stomach where it coiled like a snake. “I really do need that drink. Perhaps you’d like an iced tea?”
Detective Jones and Max followed me to the kitchen. I poured the man a glass of tea, filled the dog’s water bowl then pulled a half-empty bottle of wine out of the fridge. Definitely half-empty. No half-baked, glass half-full optimism for me. Madeline and Henry had been seen together last night at their kinky club. Now Madeline was dead.
Admittedly, I’d fantasized about her death. Those fantasies usually included a falling piano or flash lightning on the golf course while she clutched her nine iron or three bottles of valium and a scrawled note that read I’m sorry. I’d never once imagined her floating in the club pool.
Madeline had been murdered and Henry was missing. I took a large sip of liebfraumilch.
My daughter chose that moment to appear in the kitchen doorway. She did it with a nonchalance that suggested real planning. Grace crossed her arms, leaned against the doorframe and took in Detective Jones’ plaid pants and the shrewd look in his eyes. She would see the shrewdness straight off. She wouldn’t be fooled into thinking his eyes were nice.
I cleared my throat. “Grace, this is Detective Jones. Detective, my daughter, Grace Russell.”
“Nice to meet you, Miss Russell.”
On the surface, Grace seemed unimpressed. She didn’t ask why he was sipping tea in our kitchen. “Nice to meet you too.” She turned her gaze toward me. “What’s up, Mom?”
She knew. Of course, she knew. Everyone knew. Looking at the deliberately bored expression on her face, I hated whoever had killed Madeline. I hated them for bringing a homicide detective into Grace’s home. I hated Madeline for getting herself murdered. My feelings toward Henry went deeper than hate. If he could have kept his willy in his pants, we wouldn’t be murder suspects and Grace’s eyes wouldn’t look haunted and defiant at the same time.
“You know your mother found Madeline Harper’s body this morning?”
“I know.” The teenage girls’ grapevine was every bit as effective as their mothers’ and their grandmothers’. “Are you okay, Mom?”
Of all the people who’d asked me that question today, Grace was the first to care about the answer. Maybe the second—Detective Jones had seemed genuinely sincere when he asked. But that was a lifetime ago. “I’m fine.”
“When is the last time you saw your father?” Detective Jones asked.
“Yesterday.”
Max yawned, bored by questions that didn’t involve a ball or a treat or chasing a squirrel. He curled up in his favorite spot (essentially wherever he was most in the way) and eyed the man who was questioning my daughter.
“At what time?”
“Around five or so.”
“Do you know where he is now?”
She abandoned the doorway and entered the kitchen, crossed to the island and poured herself a glass of tea, took a sip then squeezed in a slice of lemon. “He packed a bag. He said he had a business trip.”
The dread coiled in my stomach lifted its hooded head, ready to strike. I tried to drown it with another swig of wine. Getting wet just annoyed it.
“Do you know where he went?” Detective Jones asked.
Grace raised her eyebrows to the middle of her forehead. Short wrinkles marred her smooth skin. She rubbed her nose. “Los Angeles.”
We all paused to consider the ramifications. Detective Jones probably thought about my husband getting off a plane in Los Angeles and boarding one to Brazil or Argentina or some other country where men were macho and it was easy to disappear. I didn’t think that. I looked at the late afternoon sunshine shafting golden through the window onto Grace and thought appearances could be deceiving. My angelic daughter was lying.
“Did he say why?” Detective Jones asked.
She shook her head. “No.”
“May I use your phone?”
>
“Of course.” I nodded to the wall phone with the stretched out cord.
“The one in the study?”
“Of course.”
The angelic, lying stranger who’d replaced my daughter disappeared when Detective Jones left the kitchen. I leveled my gaze on Grace.
She swallowed. “You won’t tell?”
That she’d just lied to a police officer to protect her father? No. I wouldn’t tell.
“Where did he go?” I asked.
She inspected her cuticles.
“Grace...”
She rolled her eyes. Sighed with more drama than Streisand in The Way We Were, before giving in. “He said he had a lead on a new investment. Maybe he went to New York.”
An investment? In New York? Henry owned a local bank. What the hell was going on? Then again, Henry could be holed up at a local hotel or on his way to Quebec or Paris or Bermuda. Who knew? Unlike Grace, Henry could tell a convincing lie.
“Did he ask you to lie for him?”
“Of course not.” Again with the raised eyebrows and itchy nose. She was so bad at lying she ought to give it up.
I’d deal with her later. I was too angry with Henry to think clearly. My son-of-a-bitch husband had asked his teenage daughter to lie to me. Instead, she’d lied to the police.
Grace went to the refrigerator, opened the door, and surveyed its contents. “I know what you’re thinking.”
I doubted it. I was thinking about using some of Henry’s kinky toys on him. A bullwhip sounded about right. “Oh?”
“You’re thinking Dad lied to me.”
I wasn’t going to argue the point. Not with Detective Jones just down the hall. My gaze turned toward the door.
“You should be nicer to him.”
My gaze returned to Grace’s foraging back. Be nicer to my cheating, lying, on-the-run husband? Not likely. “Pardon me?”
She turned, a container of chutney chicken salad clasped in her hand. “Did you think I meant Dad?”
“Who else?”
“Detective Jones. He could make our lives difficult.” She cracked the lid of the container, sniffed, and wrinkled her nose. “You don’t need to be nicer to Dad. In fact...” she pivoted so I saw only her back, “you should divorce him.”
I closed my eyes for half a second, no more. When I opened them, sunlight still streamed through the windows, the copper pots hanging from the rack still gleamed, and the exposed brick wall still looked the way it always did—just a little wrong—too much scarlet, not enough crimson. My kitchen was the same. It was my world that was off-kilter.
My daughter took a deep breath, one that hunched her shoulders, then she turned to face me. “I love Dad, but I don’t see why you’re still married to him.”
This was not a conversation I wanted to have with a detective in the house. To be fair, it wasn’t a conversation I wanted have without a detective in the house. “It’s complicated.”
My daughter, who was never at a loss for a smart reply, bit her lip. Her chin quivered. She scrubbed at her face with the back of her free hand. “You’re not staying married because of me, are you?”
Yes.
I couldn’t tell her that. Not when her knuckles were white around the chicken salad and unshed tears glimmered against her lashes. I took a sip of wine, swallowed around the lump in my throat, rubbed the tip of my nose, and lied.
“Of course not. It’s complicated.”
“It’s not complicated. You sleep in different rooms. You barely speak to each other. When you do, it’s as if you’re talking to strangers. Unless you’re painting, you look miserable. You never smile.”
“I smile all the time.”
Grace tossed her hair. “Gritting your teeth and pursing your lips isn’t smiling. Dad never smiles either. Why do you want to live like that? You both deserve to be with people who make you happy.”
The wine bottle definitely didn’t look half-empty anymore. Not remotely. Especially not after I poured myself another glass. “I thought most kids wanted their parents to stay together.” That’s what the counselor had said, and the child psychologist, and the shrink.
The sound Grace made was a cross between a sob and a guffaw. “You’re always worried about everyone else. Don’t be.” She dredged up a shaky smile. “Besides, there’s Christmas math.”
“Christmas math?”
“Christmas. Birthdays. Any holiday that involves gifts. Divorced parents mean twice the loot.”
It was my turn to swipe at a tear clinging to my lashes. Grace cared as much about loot as I did about football. Not at all. My arms ached to hug her. To create a circle where nothing could hurt her. I wished we were one of those families that actually expressed emotion. One that yelled and sobbed and laughed and hugged—all over spilled milk. We weren’t. I took a step forward. Brushed a strand of hair away from Grace’s face then dropped a dry kiss on the top of her head. “Don’t worry about your father and me. We’ll figure things out.”
She sniffled. “The cop is cute.”
I laughed. A strangled, choking kind of laugh. The kind of laugh that escapes your lips when you realize your daughter feels responsible for your unhappiness. “I suppose.”
“You should go for it.”
“Go for what?” Detective Jones stood just outside the kitchen door.
I wondered how much he’d heard and felt a flush worthy of a teenager rise to my cheeks. “Take out.” I forced my hand to remain at my side. It wanted to rub my nose. “Grace isn’t in the mood for chicken salad. She wants Chinese.”
“You should stay for dinner.” Grace shot me a watery grin.
I glared at her. If she wasn’t careful, there’d be another murder. I scanned the rack of heavy copper pots that hung above the stove. Surely one of them would do as a weapon.
Detective Jones offered her an amused smile. “Thank you for the invitation, but I can’t stay.”
“Another time?” she asked.
The man flushed.
I took the container from my daughter’s hands and put it back in the fridge. “Detective Jones has a job to do. I’m sure he’s very busy.” I was also sure he didn’t dine with suspects. It was probably against the rules. Besides, he had to go track down my cheating, lying, on-the-run-but-please-God-not-a-murderer husband.
Four
We stood around the kitchen island and wondered what to say next. Grace examined her nails, I examined the level of wine in my glass, and Detective Jones examined the painting hanging above the breakfast table.
What are you supposed to say to a man who thinks you—or your husband—has committed a murder? “Did you talk to Roger?”
“Roger Harper? I did.”
Was I imagining the disapproval in his voice? Surely Roger was a suspect too?
The phone rang and Grace lunged for the receiver. “Hello.”
She listened for a moment then turned to me. “I’m going to take this in your room.” She handed me the phone and disappeared. When I heard her pick up the bedroom extension, I hung up the receiver.
“Ellie, are you here?” a welcome voice called from the front hall.
“In the kitchen,” I replied.
“Your husband?” Detective Jones asked.
“A friend.”
“He has a key?” Disapproval was writ clearly across the detective’s face. Let him disapprove. It was none of his business who did or did not have a key to my house. Powers didn’t. He just didn’t bother with the doorbell.
“He’s like family.”
Powers Foster—all long legs and pointy elbows, effortless charm and affected elegance—exploded into the kitchen. “You poor darling. I just heard. How are you? Are you all right?”
Another person who cared about the answer. Tha
t made three. I glanced at Detective Jones, and the censure that had settled onto his face, and scratched him from the sincere caring list. That made two. I walked into Powers’ open arms for an exuberant hug, pulling away only when my throat began to swell.
“Where’s Harriet?”
I was ridiculously grateful for a question that had nothing to do with murder or my marriage. “She went to visit her mother.”
“Did she leave you anything besides curried chicken salad?” He wrinkled his nose. “I doubt it. I’m taking you and Grace out to dinner. I heard about the most marvelous new place. It’s a créperie. They’re so uppity they only speak French. Jambon et fromage pour moi.”
Only he pronounced it jam bone ate from age pore moi.
Powers’ attempts to amuse me were usually more clever than a bad French accent. I tried for a polite smile but couldn’t quite manage it.
Detective Jones cleared his throat and Powers pretended to notice him. I wasn’t fooled. The last time Powers failed to notice an attractive man within a half-second of entering a room Eisenhower was in office.
Detective Jones repeated Powers’ sentence with an accent worthy of the sixteenth arrondissement. “Je voudrais un crêpe de jambon et fromage s’il vous plait.”
Powers locked his spring green gaze on the detective and assessed. He began with the detective’s polished loafers then moved his gaze slowly up the detective’s plaid clad legs. It lingered on Detective Jones’ broad chest and shoulders until it finally reached his face. Usually when Powers blatantly checked out another man, he was met with squirming or flushing or an angry glare.
Detective Jones responded with an amused smile.
“Powers Foster.” He stuck out his hand. “And you are?”
The policeman shook Powers’ hand. “A homicide detective.”
THE DEEP END Page 3
