Powers grinned at me. “If I’d known detectives were so delectable I would have told Madeline to get herself knocked off years ago. Where are you from, Homicide Detective?”
“San Francisco.”
“Really?” Powers wet his lips with the tip of his tongue. “Why did you leave?”
“I didn’t fit in.”
Powers fluttered his eyelashes. “Oh?”
Of course Detective Jones, follower of rules, hadn’t fit in with the Haight-Ashbury vibe. He’d come to the Midwest where people were as dependable as the sun rising in the east. “The lifestyle was a little too free and easy for me,” he said.
“What a heartbreaking shame. Free and easy is my motto.” Powers raised an inviting brow. “You might even call it a personal manifesto.”
Detective Jones’ lips quirked. “You knew Mrs. Harper?” Somehow, I liked him better for not being threatened by Powers’ come on.
“She worked for me. Part-time.”
“You must be the art dealer.”
“Guilty as charged.”
Max chose that moment to get up, stretch, and sidle toward Powers. The two shared a love-hate relationship. Max loved Powers. Powers hated Max. It wasn’t personal. Powers hated any animal that might shed on his navy pants.
“When did you last see her?” Detective Jones asked.
Powers shifted, trying to keep the center island between Max and his pants. “Am I a suspect?”
“Please answer the question.”
Powers sidestepped Max. “Ellison, be a darling and call the beast.”
“He just wants you to pet him.” Watching Powers try to avoid my dog was much more entertaining than his bad French accent.
“Max.” Detective Jones’ voice had the ring of authority. “Come.”
My dog trotted to his side.
“Sit.”
Max sat.
Powers sighed. “My hero.”
“When did you last see Mrs. Harper?” Powers’ hero repeated.
Powers waved an insouciant hand. “I don’t know. The whole point of having Madeline in the office was that I didn’t have to be.”
“Was she a good employee? Reliable?”
“Heavens no. Ellison, my darling, vino? Or maybe you’d like to make me a martini?”
If anyone was going to drink a martini, it would be me. I poured him a glass of wine.
“If she wasn’t a good employee why did you keep her?”
Powers sipped. “Madeline wanted a job that didn’t interfere with her life. One that she could use as an excuse when she didn’t want to do something and ditch when she did.”
Detective Jones’ eyes narrowed to slits worthy of Dirty Harry. Better than Dirty Harry. Detective Jones was a real cop and he didn’t need a gun to look menacing. “That doesn’t answer my question.”
Powers’ left eye twitched. I bet he didn’t find Detective Jones quite so attractive now. Or maybe he did. He was looking at the policeman like I look at chocolates. Delicious, delectable, and hard to stop after that first taste.
“She worked for peanuts and gave good phone.”
Detective Jones lifted a brow. “Gave good phone?”
“A hefty portion of my business comes from the coasts. Someone has to answer the phones.”
“The coasts?”
Powers nodded. “A movie tanks and the producer needs to sell his Lichtenstein but he doesn’t want all of L.A. to know, so he calls me. Same thing for New York. The heiress who’s burned through her fortune doesn’t want Park Avenue to know she’s broke so she calls me and her grandmother’s Monet goes to California. I need the right person to answer the phone.”
“Why you?”
Powers’ eyelashes fluttered again. “I’m very discreet.”
“I’m sure. You represent Mrs. Russell?”
“I do.”
“For how long?”
What did my paintings have to do with Madeline’s murder? I opened my mouth to ask but was interrupted by the ring of the doorbell.
“Gracie, would you get that?” I called up the stairs.
The resentful trudge of teenage feet answered me.
A moment later, Hunter Tafft sauntered into my kitchen as if he owned it. He was self-assured. He was prematurely silver-haired. He was more polished than Mother’s sterling. He leaned over and brushed his lips across my cheek. “Ellison, how are you?”
I didn’t answer. Couldn’t. What was he doing here?
“Your mother asked me to come over. She said you needed a lawyer.”
There was going to be another murder. Justifiable homicide. Mother should pick out her casket. Why in the hell hadn’t he called first? If he thought I was a legally challenged damsel in distress just waiting for an attorney in a white Mercedes to ride up and save me, he was wrong.
Hunter greeted Powers with the slightest of nods. Powers’ answering nod was even smaller. Brief jerks of their chins said everything they didn’t say out loud. They were willing to acknowledge each other socially. Barely. I wondered if there was a story there. Did Hunter feel threatened by Powers’ preferences? Did Powers feel threatened by Hunter’s perfect hair? Maybe a bit of both?
Hunter turned his attention on Detective Jones. “I don’t believe we’ve met.”
“I don’t believe we have.” The expression I was fast coming to associate with disapproval settled on Detective Jones’ face. He leaned back against the kitchen counter.
The skin around Hunter’s eyes tightened. “You are?”
“Detective Jones.”
Hunter showed off his gleaming teeth. Blinded by their brightness, I wasn’t sure if his smile was genuine or not.
“I don’t believe I caught your first name,” Hunter said. The smile was definitely manufactured.
“I don’t believe you did.”
They assessed. Not like Powers had assessed. Nope, this assessment had more to do with who could run the playground or the squad room or the boardroom. My kitchen was so filled with testosterone it was hard to breathe.
Powers fanned himself. Sighed. Then he patted his pockets until he found a packet of the colored cigarettes he favored. He withdrew a pink one then began patting again. “Ellison, my darling, may I smoke?”
There was no way Powers was smoking one of those nasty things in my house. The stench would linger for days. I shook my head and pointed to the back door. “Patio.”
Then, ever the good hostess I tried to diffuse the tension. “Hunter is an old friend of the family’s.” Not my lawyer. I didn’t need a lawyer. Henry needed a lawyer.
Hunter mirrored Detective Jones’ lazy pose and leaned against the doorframe. “Do you have a warrant?”
“I invited him.”
Hunter looked like his next question might have something to do with my intelligence—or lack thereof. I crossed my arms.
Powers gave up patting. “Do you have a match?”
“In the drawer.”
He reached into the drawer and pulled out a matchbook, stared at it a moment then tossed it onto the counter. “Something you’re not telling me, Ellie, darling?”
The matchbook was black with the name of a club printed in silver letters. Club K. It was almost innocuous. Almost. On closer inspection, the L in Club looked more like a riding crop than a letter. Something hung from the B’s loop. Not a Q’s lost squiggly or a printing error but a tiny pair of handcuffs.
I hate roller coasters. I hate the grinding terror as the cars climb ever higher. I hate the stomach-in-my-throat feeling of the world collapsing as I hurtle toward the earth. I hate worrying that the kid in front of me is going to vomit and that I will be covered in cotton candy-pink sick. Looking at the matchbook, I felt that way—as if the world was disintegrating, as
if I was flying toward an unknown landing that was sure to be painful. Hell, I might even be the one to vomit.
I’d seen a matchbook like it before. Once. That Henry would have brought another one home and left it where Grace might find it...I blinked to clear my vision of a deep shade—perylene red.
“May I see those?” Detective Jones held out his palm.
I nodded.
He waited for me to hand them to him. He could wait forever. I wasn’t touching them. My arms remained firmly crossed.
When he realized I wasn’t moving, he picked them up, raised a brow.
“My husband’s.”
“What are those?” Hunter demanded.
“Matches.” Detective Jones and I spoke in unison.
Hunter tilted his silver head. “From where?”
“Club K,” I admitted.
“Where?” God bless a man who slept with half the women in the city without the aid of a riding crop or cuffs.
“Club Kink.” My voice was so soft I don’t know how he heard me.
Hunter looked properly appalled. “How did they get here?”
I glanced at Detective Jones. His eyes actually looked nice, as if he knew what this conversation was costing me. I straightened my shoulders. “Henry.”
The detective turned them in his fingers, opened them, then dropped them in his pocket.
Madeline was dead. Henry was missing. There was a kinky matchbook in the junk drawer in my kitchen.
What I needed was to paint. I needed to mix colors and feel their weight on my brushes—the lightness of cadmium yellow, the heft of cobalt blue, the almost burdensome ballast of raw umber. I needed to take a blank canvas and transform it with light and dark, sunshine and shadow. There’s no hiding behind a polite smile on canvas. No biting your tongue. No pretending. There’s only color and truth and form.
I wanted them all out of my house. I wanted it more than I wanted chocolate or another glass of wine or the end of the worst day ever. I crossed my arms over my chest and looked at the ceiling.
Hunter got the hint. “Shall I count on seeing you tomorrow?” Somehow he moved both Powers and Detective Jones toward the front hallway by simply shifting that way himself.
The police detective paused mid-step. “You’ll let me know if you hear from Mr. Russell?”
“The créperie, darling. I absolutely insist.” Powers pinned me with his green gaze. “Later this week? Promise?”
“I promise.”
Three unconvinced men stared at me. “I promise all of you.”
How was I to know I’d regret every one of those promises?
Five
The thing about having the worst day ever is that you’re pretty much guaranteed that the next one will be better.
The thing about glass half-full thinking is that it will bite you in the ass every time. Or it will stick out its leg, trip you, then laugh when you land on your aforementioned ass.
I tripped. Then again, who expects to find a body on their front stoop? At least this one wasn’t dead. It moaned when I fell on it. Maybe because my knee landed in the near vicinity of the place men least like to feel knees. The body belonged to Roger Harper, Madeline’s husband.
The smell of gin wafting from Roger’s body was enough to make my eyes water. The sight of his car parked on my hostas was enough to make me cry.
I nudged him with the tip of my shoe, and I wasn’t gentle about it.
He groaned.
I nudged again. “Get up.”
He groaned again.
His wife was dead. Murdered. He was upset. That didn’t give him leave to sleep on my front steps—or crush my hostas.
I stepped over Roger’s gin-soaked carcass and peered through the open window of his Jag. The keys were still in the ignition. The car stank of gin and cigarettes and grief. I got in, backed the car off my flattened shrubbery and parked it at the curb.
When I climbed my front steps, Roger was still groaning and still not moving.
A drunk man was draped across my front stoop. The homes association would disapprove—to put it mildly. My neighbors would have coronaries. They were probably calling to complain even now.
I prodded again then tried a bribe. “If you get up, I’ll make you coffee.” I’d even make him my super-secret hangover cure. Although, if I told Roger what was in it, he might opt to spend the day heaped in front of my door. “Coffee,” I crooned.
Roger muttered something unintelligible then choked on a sob.
He was crying. I considered leaving him there. It would be so easy to get in my car and drive away from Roger’s grief and the drama it promised. I fingered my keys, gazed longingly at my TR6, but opened the front door instead.
Somehow, with a combination of pushing, prodding, begging, and bribing, I got him inside.
Max stared at us from the top of the stairs, his doggy eyebrows raised as if to say, Didn’t you just leave? What in blazes are you doing back so quickly? I was planning on taking a nap on your forbidden but fabulously comfortable bed. Then his lips curled. He must have caught scent of Roger because with a snort of canine disgust he turned and disappeared down the hall.
I led Roger to a stool at my kitchen counter, then made coffee. When Mr. Coffee finished dripping, I poured him a huge mug and began assembling the ingredients for my hangover cure.
Roger took a sip of coffee, grimaced then dropped his head to his arms.
He didn’t move when I started the blender—spinach, carrots, apples, raw ginger, five aspirin, Sprite, and a raw egg—the recipe for relief.
When I put a glass of super-secret down next to him, he ignored it.
“Drink it,” I directed.
Roger lifted the glass to his nose and sniffed. “What is it?”
“A cure.”
A small sip passed his pale lips and he looked like he might vomit.
“It’s better to drink it quickly.”
He glared at me with blood-shot eyes but took another sip. His green-tinged skin transitioned from a delicate celadon to the approximate shade of over-cooked peas.
“Just do it,” I said.
He drank. Drained the glass. Gasped. “Water.”
I was ready with a glass.
He gulped it down.
I took the glass from his shaking hand, refilled it and gave it back to him.
“Thank you,” he croaked. “What was in that?”
“It’s better if you don’t know. More coffee?”
Roger shook his head then looked as if he regretted moving. “No, thank you.”
“You’ll feel better in thirty minutes or so.” Then I could send him on his way. The last thing I needed was Madeline’s husband convalescing in my kitchen.
He rolled his eyes then winced as if even that hurt.
I called and rescheduled my appointment with Hunter, emptied the dishwasher, and wrote the grocery list. Roger still looked like death warmed over, completely incapable of making it to the front door, much less pouring himself into his car and driving away, so I retrieved yesterday’s mail from the front hall and opened it over the trashcan.
Junk. The electric bill. More junk. Henry’s credit card statement. My fingers itched to open it. Instead, I tossed it onto the counter. I didn’t need to see his credit card bill to know my husband spent an unconscionable amount of money on his hobby.
Roger lifted his head. Slowly. As if his skull and the piddling brain inside weighed a hundred pounds. His mouth worked but no words came out.
“More coffee?” I asked.
He nodded and I served him a fresh mug.
He drank, stared at the brick wall, rubbed his temples. “I never thought a woman like Madeline would look at me. Then she married me and I felt like the luckiest man in t
he world.”
Or unluckiest. It’s all about perspective. From my perspective, discussing Madeline with me was a gaff exceeded only by parking on my hostas. I’d rather discuss Roger’s views on Nixon’s impeachment than talk about Madeline.
“I loved her.” His face crumpled. It deflated as if the man inside his body had departed and the remaining husk was in the first stages of collapse.
“I’m sorry.” Never were words more meaningless. I cringed as soon as they left my lips. This was why I should have left him rotting on my front steps. Unfettered grief. If Thou shall not air dirty laundry in public was the Walford family’s first commandment, Thou shall not make a spectacle of thyself by displaying emotion was the second. We didn’t do raw emotion or drama or storms of tears. I had no idea how to handle anguish. Still, I had to offer some comfort. I lifted my hand to pat his shoulder but couldn’t quite bring myself to touch him.
Fortunately, he didn’t notice my hand hovering over his shoulder like a confused UFO. “She’d been acting so strangely lately.”
Lately? In my opinion, the strange behavior dated back to when she started hopping into bed with other women’s husbands. It definitely began when she started letting my husband tie her up and flog her.
He gulped at his coffee. Coughed. Rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand. “Do you know who might have killed her?”
Was he asking if I had? Perhaps he thought Henry had finally gone too far. “No idea.”
“She had a secret. She said things were going to change. I thought maybe she meant to break things off with Henry.”
The poor man. He should have just filed for divorce. It wasn’t like there were children to protect. Perhaps if he’d stood up for himself, Madeline would have respected him. He sniffled and wiped his nose on the back of his hand. Perhaps respect was too strong a word.
“Did she say anything to Henry?”
His assumption that Henry and I spoke was almost funny. Aside from social obligations and the odd comment about needing to buy coffee or laundry detergent, we had nothing to say to each other. “No.”
“I went through her things.”
I swear Henry’s credit card statement fluttered its eyelashes. It winked. It smiled its best come-hither smile.
THE DEEP END Page 4
