Just like Madeline and Prudence and Kitty wanted it.
Mistress K had described what they did with Henry as depraved. What did depravity mean to a woman willing to take a belt to a man who’d just lost his wife?
Madeline was dead. Henry was missing. And Madeline’s grieving husband was currently willingly bound to a torture device. Was that what she meant by manipulation?
Madeline Harper. Prudence Davies—it had to be her. After all, how many women named Prudence could frequent Club K? And Kitty? If Henry had followed his country club pattern, it was Kitty Ballew.
Why had my husband felt the need to screw my bridge group? My former bridge group. I found a new one after that fateful Christmas party.
The trees flashed by, a haze of green lost among grass and shrubs and melting speed. The car purred like a satisfied cat. Roger Harper might have the spinal strength of an earthworm and the mental acuity of a sheep but his Jag was cherry. I blew through my third yellow light.
A siren sounded and I glanced into Roger’s rearview mirror. An unmarked police car followed me.
I swallowed a curse word, pulled over, and dug my driver’s license out of my billfold.
Detective Jones sauntered up to my window. No plaid pants today. Instead, he wore a navy suit. He looked like a banker. Too bad I don’t like bankers—haven’t in a while.
The window rolled down smoothly. Of course it did. Everything about Roger’s car was smooth. “I didn’t know homicide detectives pulled people over for traffic violations.”
“Do you know how fast you were going, Mrs. Russell?” He peered down at me with his nice eyes.
“No idea. I thought I asked you to call me Ellison.”
“You’ve been driving like a bat out of hell since you left that club.”
I frowned. “You’ve been following me?”
“Not exactly. I went down to Club K to talk to the owner and saw you leave. You looked shaky so I wanted to make sure you got home safely.”
That was rather sweet. Almost worth a smile. Unfortunately, I was fresh out of them.
“Is this your husband’s car?”
“Roger’s.”
“Roger as in Roger Harper?”
I nodded.
“Why are you driving his car?”
There was something I didn’t want to explain. Because I left him to the not-so-tender ministrations of a sadistic woman in a leather corset didn’t exactly cast me in the best light. I should have argued with them more. I would have if he hadn’t seemed to want what Mistress K offered.
“Where is Mr. Harper?”
“At Club K.” A vision of Roger tied to the Berkley flashed in front of my eyes. My imagination—damn it to hell—filled in the parts I’d missed. His pants were gone and red welts crisscrossed his milky white buttocks. I rubbed my eyes to erase the picture. “He wanted to stay.”
Detective Jones opened his mouth as if to speak then closed it. Perhaps he too was imagining the things that could happen to a human jellyfish at a place where inflicting pain was a prized skill. He bit his lip and shook his head. “Are you sure you’re all right?”
His eyes really were nice, a deep shade of honest brown.
“I’m sure,” I lied. I was the opposite of all right. I thought I’d been helping Roger when I agreed to go with him to Club K. I thought he needed answers. I had no idea he’d discover a latent need to experience pain. Worse, I’d discovered my husband had been playing slap (literally) and tickle with not one but three women. The whole sordid morning of shameful revelations made my stomach churn. I needed an antacid and my paints and I needed them now. “Am I getting a ticket?”
A tiny furrow formed between his eyebrows and he rubbed it away with the pad of his thumb. “Not from me. Slow down. Be careful. I’d hate to see you get hurt.”
Again rather sweet. Again worthy of a smile. At least a small one. I had none available. I drove the rest of the way home at a sedate pace. My mood, black is the new black, lightened to charcoal grey. I might have glanced in the rearview more than once—more than five times—but didn’t see Detective Jones behind me. I was almost disappointed.
I was driving by the entrance to the club when I remembered. Lunch.
Damn.
It wasn’t that I didn’t want to see my friends. I did. But, I wanted to paint and think and be alone more.
I glanced at my watch. I was already late, but I could hardly cancel now. Swallowing a sigh that seemed to rise from my toes, I turned the car around and drove it up the club’s winding drive.
Eight
The ladies’ dining room at the club was decorated in shades as soft and delicate as watercolors in the rain. Small white-linen topped tables were set for two or four and the scent of roses perfumed the air. Crossing its threshold meant the reminder of simpler times—when ladies lunched, when husbands honored their vows, when Madeline Harper didn’t float in the pool.
Three women had already taken their seats. I knew they waited for me with the barely contained excitement of four year-olds on Christmas morning so I lingered at the door. They’d want to hear all about Madeline and, now that I knew all about Madeline, I didn’t want to talk about her.
I wanted to talk about Kitty and Prudence. Had one of them killed Madeline?
I walked to the table.
Jinx looked up from the menu. “Great dress. I love seersucker.”
“Thank you.” It was a relief to be around women for whom seersucker was a fabric and not a safe word. I sank into my chair.
Libba half rose from her chair to wave at the waiter, a soft-spoken man named Frank who’d worked at the club for years. “A glass of liebfraumilch for Mrs. Russell. Bring a bottle.” Then she directed her attention at me. “You look like you need it. Do you want to tell us about finding Madeline?”
I tried to smile but my mouth felt stiff. I was reminded of Grace’s description—gritted teeth and pursed lips. I gave up the effort. “Surely there’s something more interesting to talk about.”
Daisy choked on a sip of wine. “More interesting than how Madeline Harper came to be floating in our pool?” She looked around the table then frowned. “It’s still not open. I imagine the children are just desperate. And swim team? It’s almost impossible to borrow practice time from another club. Do you have any idea when the police will remove the crime tape?”
Did she think ending up in a police interview room gave me some kind of insider status? “None,” I said.
Jinx rimmed the edge of her wine glass with the tip of her finger. “There’s some talk of draining the water and refilling.” At least she didn’t pretend grief for Madeline.
Then again, Daisy was more worried about swim team than murder. And Libba? Well, she just wanted Frank to bring us a bottle of wine.
Where was he anyway?
My fingers tightened around the imagined stem of a glass. “It’s not like Madeline infected the water.”
Libba nodded. “That’s what I said. Besides, do you have any idea how much it costs to fill the pool?”
“How much?” asked Jinx.
Libba stared at a banal painting of flowers as if it might provide a figure. “A lot.”
Frank put a glass in front of me then poured a tiny amount of wine for Libba. She tasted it, nodded and then, finally, he filled my glass. I took a grateful sip. First a drunken man on my stoop, then a dominatrix and her toys, and finally the thoroughly unpleasant revelation that my husband’s cheating had reached heretofore-unimagined levels. What a morning. I deserved a glass of wine.
“Have you ladies had a chance to look at the menu?” Frank asked.
I didn’t need to look. “A cup of gazpacho and the wedge salad served together.” I handed him the heavy menu printed with elaborate script.
I knew Libba, Jinx, and
Daisy’s orders before they spoke. Frank probably did too. A club sandwich, a house salad with the dressing on the side, and a grilled chicken breast with a side of cottage cheese. Adventurous eaters we were not.
Apparently, Kitty, Prudence, and Madeline had cornered the adventurous market.
I examined my cuticles, gathered my courage and, as soon as Frank disappeared to the kitchen with our order, asked, “Have you heard anything about Prudence Davies seeing anyone?”
Daisy snorted. “Prudence? She’s so desperate, she’d sell her grandmother’s pearls for a man.”
“I think it’s sad.” Libba smoothed the napkin in her lap. “I always say men can smell desperation. Prudence reeks.”
Had she sniffed recently? I took a fortifying sip of wine. “What about Kitty Ballew? Have you heard any whispers about her stepping out on John?”
Daisy carefully placed her glass of wine on the table. So carefully, I couldn’t but wonder how many glasses she had. “Why do you ask?”
Three Lilly-clad women stared at me expectantly.
I stared back.
I hadn’t really considered that my friends would want to know why. I’d just assumed they’d welcome the opportunity to gossip about women we didn’t particularly like. I scratched the end of my nose. “No reason.”
Libba rolled her eyes. “Liar.”
I scratched again and tried to think of a more compelling reason than because. I’d grown accustomed to thinking of Henry cheating on me with Madeline. Any pain associated with that infidelity had long since worn down like the nub of an eraser on a number two pencil. But Prudence Davies? With her long face and long teeth, the woman looked like a horse wearing lipstick. Kitty Ballew had no chin and all the warmth of a pit viper. If Henry was going to cheat, why couldn’t he do it with more attractive women?
My fingers crumpled my napkin. What the hell was I thinking? Would I be any less horrified if Henry chose women who looked like Lauren Hutton or the Charlie girl? I would. How shallow did that make me? I pictured a saucer, a pretty one with pale pink bouquets tied with soft yellow bows but absolutely no depth to it.
Libba cleared her throat. My friends were waiting for the truth.
Something bubbled with the wine in my stomach. I ignored it and lifted an admonishing finger. If I wanted information from them, I was going to have to offer some of my own. “Not a word. Not a whisper.”
Daisy traced an x over her heart.
Jinx leaned forward. “Not a word. Not a whisper.”
Libba nodded.
I swallowed. How could my mouth be so dry? “It seems that Henry has taken up with them.”
Libba’s eyebrows rose to her hairline. “Both of them?”
“Did Madeline know?” asked Jinx. A second later, she yelped then bent to rub her shin. Apparently, Libba or Daisy had kicked her under the table. They shouldn’t have. The assumption that Madeline would care more about Henry’s infidelities than I did was completely reasonable. After all, I’d convinced our little corner of the world—and myself—I didn’t give a damn what my husband did.
I reached past my wine glass, closed my fingers around a sweating water goblet and lifted it to my lips for a long, slow drink. “She knew.” I traded the water for wine. Sipped. “They...” Words failed me.
“You don’t mean?” Daisy’s pretty face was a study in shock. Her jaw hung slack, her eyes were wide and beneath her rouge, her cheeks paled.
I nodded.
“Together?” Jinx squeaked.
“You promised.” My gaze traveled from stunned expression to stunned expression. “Not a word. Not a whisper.” Had I made a mistake? Mother would tell me there’s no such thing as a secret among four. I hoped she was wrong.
“How did you find out?” Libba asked.
“Never mind that.” I tucked a stray lock of hair behind my ear. There was no way I was telling them about Mistress K or Roger on the Berkley horse. “Did you see Prudence or Kitty the night Madeline died?”
My friends froze, one with a glass of wine halfway to her lips, another in the process of smoothing her hair and the third lining up her silverware to her own exacting specifications.
Daisy thawed first. “I saw Kitty and John. The chef fixed that special lobster dinner and you know how Martin is about lobster. Kitty and John were there.” She tilted her head to the side and closed her eyes. “I didn’t see Prudence.”
“What time did they leave?” I asked.
“Let me think.” Daisy caught the tip of her small chin between her thumb and the knuckle of her first finger. “We arrived around seven. We sat with the Strattons. Did you know their oldest son has decided to go to law school?”
Libba drummed her fingers on the table. “Back to the point, Daisy.”
“Oh. Sorry. We had dinner with the Strattons. I swear George Stratton ate five of those little corn biscuits. If I were Marianne, I’d be worried about his health.”
“Daisy!”
“Sorry, Libba. I just have to think it through.”
“Can you think it through without biscuits?”
Daisy narrowed her eyes. “I’ll try.”
“The biscuits are good,” said Jinx.
I gave her a look cold enough to freeze a water hazard.
Her hands fluttered before returning to the stem of her glass. “Well, they are.”
Oh dear Lord. “I think we can all agree the biscuits are delicious. But Daisy was going to tell us about Kitty Ballew. Daisy?”
“Well, we were there with the Strattons...”
Next to me, Libba growled.
Daisy sniffed and turned her pert nose away from Libba’s disapproval. “Kitty and John were having dinner with his parents. Laura Ballew looked like she was sucking lemons.”
“She should have had a biscuit instead,” Jinx muttered.
Libba and I ignored her. Daisy tittered.
“And?” Libba demanded.
“John and his father were doing their best to kill a bottle of scotch.”
“What about Kitty?” I asked.
“She looked so miserable I almost felt sorry for her.”
There was a moment of silence as we considered just how miserable Kitty would have to look before one of us was moved to pity.
“Seriously,” Daisy insisted.
“Did anything happen?”
“We had dinner. The lobster was a little tough.”
“That’s it?” Libba demanded.
“We danced. They had this fabulous little Latin jazz trio.”
“Did the Ballews stay to dance?” I asked.
Daisy grabbed her chin again.
“John did but not with Kitty. He danced with his mother and then he danced with Audrey Miles. I remember because she had on a dress with a twirly skirt and every time he spun her, she flashed the dining room.”
My fingers tightened on the edge of the table. “And then?”
“We left.”
“Were the Ballews still there?”
Daisy closed her eyes. “John senior was at the table with a bottle. John junior was dancing with his mother. I don’t remember where Kitty was.” Her mouth formed a small circle. “You don’t suppose she was murdering Madeline?”
“No.” I shook my head. “Not during a club party.” I hadn’t learned much. If Henry and Madeline had been at Club K with Prudence then Kitty might have arrived late.
We fell silent as Frank put our food in front of us.
“I’m a suspect in Madeline’s murder.”
“How thrilling,” said Jinx. “Quit kicking me!”
Daisy raised a brow and Libba looked guilty.
“It’s not thrilling. It’s terrifying. I need to find out if Kitty or Prudence had anything to do with it.”
We all stared at her. Prudence’s divorce settlement was legendary. Jinx examined her manicure.
“Spill,” Libba demanded.
Jinx held her hand out and tilted it until the light caught the sheen on her nails then her lips curled into a smile. “Sally Watkins asked her to go to Vail in August and she said she couldn’t afford it.”
More likely she couldn’t afford to leave Henry alone with Madeline and Kitty. But now—
Madeleine was dead and Kitty wasn’t real competition for my husband’s undivided attention.
“I love Vail,” said Daisy.
“Focus.” Libba tapped the edge of the table with the tip of her finger. “We’re not talking about vacations we’re talking about—Ouch!”
“Prudence,” Jinx said, her voice was unnaturally loud, “I was just telling the girls how disappointed Sally was that you couldn’t go to Vail with her.” She offered up a polite smile.
Prudence’s smile was less cordial. Narrowed eyes, a curled lip, and a laser beam glare don’t make for polite. “Really? Perhaps you should go. I’m sure Alan wouldn’t miss you.”
It was a weak jab. Alan would miss Jinx like crazy.
“What brings you to the club, Prudence?” I asked. It sounded so much nicer than what I was thinking—What do you want, you bony-assed harpy?
“Just lunch,” she replied then she caught the tip of her finger between her teeth and tilted her head to the side. “Ellison, I’m trying to get hold of Henry. The bank says he’s not in today.” She removed the finger from her mouth and attempted a smile. “Do you know where I might reach him?” I’d believe vinegar. Honey, especially honey from Prudence, made me nervous.
“What do you want with Ellison’s husband?” Libba asked.
Prudence’s smile disappeared. “I’m buying an apartment in New York. Henry’s handling the loan.”
THE DEEP END Page 6
