Powers gave me a second pat. “It’s not like you’re the only suspect. There was a large contingent who thought Roger finally cracked. I can tell you, bringing a date to his wife’s funeral did nothing to change their minds.” Powers stared at the buffed sheen of his nails. “There’s a fair number who think that Henry did it.”
The coffee stopped bubbling and started churning. Poor Grace. Both her parents were murder suspects—at least in the eyes of her friends’ parents. “I have to find out who killed Madeline.”
“Isn’t that a job for the delectable detective?”
It was. If Roger, Henry, and I were the prime suspects, he had a problem. I hadn’t killed Madeline. I was ninety-nine percent sure Roger hadn’t either. I was really, really hoping that Henry had a valid reason for disappearing the morning after his mistress’s body was found floating in a pool. If Prudence or Kitty or any of the other wives at the club had drugged then drowned Madeline, I didn’t like his chances of catching them. Any one of them could disappear behind a wall of waspy silence and expensive lawyers. “I’m going to do it anyway.”
“Ells, is that wise?” Powers shook his blond mane. “Madeline was murdered. I think you should retire to your atelier and paint.”
Nurse Sally walked in before I could tell him what I thought of his idea. She peeled back my eyelids, half-blinded me with a pen light, wrote cryptic notes on my chart then asked how we were feeling.
“Fine.”
She nodded and walked out.
“Who was that?”
“Nurse Sally.”
“Nonsense. That was the Zodiac Killer in disguise. Are you well enough to get out of here?”
“I think so.”
“Then why are you still here?”
An excellent question. The only thing keeping me in a hospital bed and a rear vented gown was Mother’s edict. In the face of another night with Nurse Sally, risking Mother’s wrath by deviating from her plan didn’t seem so terrible. In fact, I didn’t particularly care if she got angry. I wanted out.
I paused. Not caring about Mother’s reaction was totally new.
“Well?” Powers drummed his fingers on his leg.
“I don’t know. Mother wants me to stay.”
He rolled his eyes. “You’re a grown woman, you’re a mother, hell, you’re a murder suspect, decide what you want.”
He was right. About everything. What I wanted was to go home. “Would you please find Nurse Sally and ask her about discharge papers?”
He grinned. “Atta girl.”
“You say that now. Wait ’til Mother has a coronary.”
“I’ll deny everything.”
I raised a brow. “You think she’ll believe you?”
“It doesn’t matter if she believes me or not, she’ll still blame you.”
He wasn’t wrong and I didn’t care.
Besides, her reaction to me leaving the hospital ahead of schedule would be small potatoes compared to what she’d do when she found out I was going to try to find out who’d killed Madeline. Mother’s head would levitate from her shoulders again. It might even spin. Or she could go full on dragon with flames shooting from her eyes and mouth.
I was willing to risk it.
Twelve
Powers drove me home. He even agreed to escort me inside. Although that might have had something to do with Detective Jones’ sedan parked in the drive and not concern for my welfare.
A policeman in a blue uniform blocked my entrance. He even told me I’d have to leave because it was a crime scene.
Not likely. I was done with being bossed around. The insecurities that came with tangled hair, a make-up free face, and the mish-mash of clothes I’d worn home were nothing in the face of my newfound resolve. I said in my best Frances Walford voice, “I live here.”
He actually took a step backward. Maybe I’d achieved a certain gravitas or maybe he thought I was a recently escaped lunatic. Either way, I swept past him.
Detective Jones met me in the foyer. No plaid pants today but the nice brown eyes were the same. The slow-burn smile was new. The combination was tingle inducing. “Mrs. Russell, we weren’t expecting you.”
“Ellison,” I corrected.
Next to me, Powers grinned like a freshman girl in love with the senior quarterback. Then, coyly pretending disinterest, he picked up the mail lying on the bombé chest and perused the light bill, the phone bill, and the latest issue of Architectural Digest.
I scowled, a good dark scowl to make up for all the sweetness emanating from Powers. The expression also hid unwelcome flutters in the general vicinity of my stomach.
I brushed past Detective Jones and peeked into my husband’s study.
Lying in my hospital bed, I’d imagined a shambles. That was too tame a word to describe it. So were havoc, bedlam, and unholy mess. It was a certifiable disaster area. Every book had been pulled from its shelf, the desk drawers—their locks jimmied and broken— had been upended on the floor, most of the chairs were overturned and Henry’s files had been tossed about like confetti on New Year’s Eve. The Toby mugs had survived unscathed. They leered at me from their display case. The damned things were insured. If a burglar was going to destroy Henry’s office, was it too much to ask to shatter a few of the horrible things? Apparently so.
Everything—everything—was dusted with gray powder. I stepped inside for a closer look and my stomach dropped like an elevator with a cut cable. “Has Harriet quit yet?” I didn’t want to think about cleaning it up without her.
“Pardon me?” said Detective Jones,
“My housekeeper. Has she quit yet?”
“I don’t think so. She saw us dusting for fingerprints, mumbled something under her breath and walked out.”
It wasn’t too hard to figure out what she was mumbling. Either she was phrasing her resignation or her case for a large bonus.
The curtain rod had fallen and the curtains were in heaps on the floor. They too were covered with a fine layer of powder. “You tested the drapes for fingerprints?”
Detective Jones eyed the mound of fabric. “No. The dust travels.”
That was an understatement. I gazed at the chaos with the kind of wonder usually reserved for the Grand Canyon, the Great Pyramids, or an octogenarian shooting a hole-in-one.
Despite the utter havoc, my painting still hung on the wall. My adversary, whoever he or she was, wasn’t all that smart. “The burglar didn’t go for the safe.”
“The safe?” Detective Jones and Powers spoke as one.
“You don’t think Henry kept one of my paintings up because he liked it, do you? It’s hinged.” I tiptoed through the wreckage and swung the painting away from the wall.
“Can you open it?” Detective Jones asked.
Damn it. The concussion had obviously affected my mental faculties. I should have kept my mouth shut. I should have lingered in the doorway and sighed over the wreckage, anything but bring their attention to the wall safe. Who knew what secrets it held? “I can’t.” I jammed my hands in my pockets and ignored the itch at the end of my nose. “This is Henry’s safe. I don’t have the combination.”
What in the hell did Henry have in there? His favorite kinky toys or Polaroids of Madeline tied up at Club K or a signed confession? Whatever it was, I didn’t want to share it with Detective Jones.
“We’ll have to have it opened.”
They would? Oh dear Lord. Why? Was that standard procedure for a burglary? Damn. Damn. Damn.
“You’ll need a search warrant for that.” Hunter Tafft lounged in the doorway looking like a movie star version of a lawyer—Gregory Peck as Atticus Finch or Cary Grant as...well...anybody. I’ve never been so glad to see anyone.
He smiled at me, showing off his dimple and brilliant teeth. “I stopped by th
e hospital and they said you’d come home.”
Detective Jones grimaced. Hunter raised an insouciant brow. Powers looked like he wanted a comfortable seat, preferably one that reclined, a tub of popcorn and maybe some Milk Duds.
I just wanted them all out of my house so I could open Henry’s safe. I also wanted aspirin, a blistering hot shower and an extra-large bottle of extra-strength crème rinse for the tangles in my hair.
“Is Mr. Tafft representing you?” Detective Jones asked.
He was if it meant keeping the police out of Henry’s safe. “Yes,” I replied.
Detective Jones scowled, Hunter smirked, Powers’ fingers closed around imagined popcorn, and I sank into the nearest chair.
It was really too bad I picked a chair that had been damaged when the burglar destroyed Henry’s study. When I sank, the chair sank with me.
I hit the floor with a crash that sent my brain waves spiking like...spikes. For a moment, the pain blinded me. When I did see, I didn’t see stars, I saw planets and supernovas and whole galaxies. My eyes welled with tears and the three men who just a moment ago had looked like they were ready to argue to the end of time sprang into action.
Detective Jones extended his hand and hauled me off the floor then Powers daubed a handkerchief under my eyes. Hunter murmured something soothing.
Tears spilled over my lashes and ran down my cheeks. I sniffled and tried to ignore the ache in my jaw. Easier said than done when my head hurt, my house—or at least one room of it—was destroyed, Henry was missing, and I was a murder suspect. I deserved a breakdown. I just didn’t want a cop with nice eyes, the man Mother had selected to be my second husband, or Powers around when it started. As soon as they were gone, I’d let go. I’d cry. Not the delicate tears of which Mother might approve. I was going to bawl, great big gut-wrenching sobs. My nose would run like a fire hydrant being tested and my face would turn a shade just shy of red cinnabar. It was the kind of crying best done in solitude and I could hardly wait. I swallowed the sob that had lodged itself in my throat, snatched the hanky out of Powers’ hand and blew my nose. It sounded like a bullhorn.
Three men began to shift and squirm and gaze longingly at the door. I gazed at it too, hoping they’d get the hint and leave. Detective Jones actually took a step toward the door just as Harriet barged through it.
If she noticed my distress, she gave no indication. Instead, righteous indignation radiated from her pores. In fact, a halo of it surrounded her. She planted her hands on her hips. “I hope you don’t expect me to clean this up.”
I had. She was the housekeeper. Cleaning was part of her job description. I’d even planned to slip an extra hundred into her pay envelope. In the face of her withering anger, I made a noncommittal noise deep in my throat and blew my nose again. Later, without an audience, I’d discuss restoring order to Henry’s study with her. Not now. Not with her anger and my headache and Powers’ avid interest.
Blustering at me wasn’t enough. She rounded on Detective Jones. “If you think I’m going downtown to be fingerprinted like some criminal you’re wrong.”
He offered her a placating smile. “We need your fingerprints strictly to eliminate them. No one thinks you’re a criminal.”
She harrumphed, focused her baleful gaze on Powers and pursed her lips. “Don’t you even think of smoking in this house.” She wagged a finger beneath his nose.
Powers actually retreated, then crossed his hands over his heart. “I wouldn’t dream.”
Harriet harrumphed again. “Someone did. This room reeked when I got home yesterday.” Then she glanced at Hunter. Apparently unable to find fault, she returned her attention to me. “No one ate the chicken salad. There are orphans starving in Africa and all that chicken salad went to waste.”
How in the name of all that is holy had I hired someone whose personality so closely resembled Mother’s? Unreasonable anger? Check. Taking said anger out on whoever was unfortunate enough to be close by? Check. Blaming world hunger on me? Check. Although with Mother, it was the orphans in Bulgaria who were starving.
At the ripe age of six, I offered to send the orphans my Brussels sprouts. Mother was not amused. I sat at the table staring at sodden green lumps until bedtime. I thought I’d won until they were served to me for breakfast. Somehow, I forced the cold, slimy, dirty-sock-tasting pellets down my throat. Then I vomited on Mother’s new pumps. While her feet were in them. She wasn’t amused by that either.
I should have stuffed Harriet’s chicken salad down the disposal. Between finding bodies, escorting Roger Harper to a kinky club, and being hospitalized, I hadn’t gotten around to it.
“This is your housekeeper?” Hunter asked. He sounded appalled.
I nodded.
“And I am your lawyer?”
I nodded again.
“I have the authority to act on your behalf?”
“I suppose.”
“Excellent.” He looked at Harriet standing there with steam rising from her ears. “Mrs. Russell no longer needs your services. You may go.”
Hard to say who was more shocked—Harriet or me. I gasped. She clutched at her heart.
Detective Jones looked uncomfortable. Powers looked like he wanted an imaginary soda to wash down his imaginary popcorn. Hunter, damn him straight to hell, crossed his arms and leaned against the doorframe.
The first thing we do, let’s kill all the lawyers. Shakespeare had the right idea. I scanned the room for a weapon. The fireplace poker was sadly missing. Then I tried to shoot flames from my eyes like Mother. I might have achieved a cinder.
Hunter flicked it from the sleeve of his immaculate navy blazer.
“He can’t fire you, Harriet.” I glared in his direction. I couldn’t manage without Harriet. I didn’t clean. I was a terrible cook. The last time I did laundry, I turned all Henry’s white boxer shorts pink. If Harriet left, my impending breakdown might last longer than the hour or two I’d originally planned. It might last a day or two—or a week or two. Damn Hunter Tafft and the Mercedes he rode in on. What gave him the right to fire my staff?
One of my housekeeper’s hands was still splayed over her heaving left breast. Her other hand raked through her hair. Getting fired had only increased the amount of steam curling from her ears. Her face was an undiluted cadmium red. “You’re right. He can’t fire me.” Her eyes narrowed to slits. “I quit.”
Sweet nine-pound baby Jesus.
She stomped out of the room, a study in righteous indignation and injured pride. All because we called for Gung Pao instead of eating her chicken salad. She put grapes in her chicken salad. I hate grapes in chicken salad. And nuts. I hate nuts in chicken salad. Harriet sometimes added cashews. It was just wrong. I wouldn’t miss her chicken salad.
I would miss her.
Maybe I could offer her more money to stay. I’d make it up to her...
Wait a minute. What was I thinking? Where was the new improved Ellison? The one who walked out of the hospital only an hour ago? Faced with a trashed study and the prospect of dirty laundry the new Ellison caved? Absolutely not. I took a deep breath, sent another glare in Hunter’s direction, then began to write a mental list of requirements for my next housekeeper.
Whoever she might be, she would be a purist. She’d add nothing to her chicken salad but celery. She wouldn’t yell, she wouldn’t complain when she had to clean the bathrooms, and steam wouldn’t rise from her ears when she got mad. All around, she’d be better. Yeah, right. Those kinds of housekeepers were just waiting around for me to hire them. In my dreams.
I rounded on Hunter, lifted a finger and poked him in his very pompous, very interfering, very solid chest. “You are going to conduct all the interviews to replace her.”
His unruffled expression faltered. Good. The man was damn lucky that Detective Jones had presumably taken my entire
fireplace set into evidence. I bet I could do real damage with that miniature shovel. Hunter ran a finger under his collar. “If you gentlemen will excuse us, I need to speak with my client.”
Detective Jones looked from Hunter to me and back again. His lips tightened, almost as if he was trying not to laugh. I swear I heard him mutter, “Your funeral.” Then he headed for the door. “Hope you feel better, Mrs. Russell.”
“Thank you, detective.”
Putting aside his imaginary snacks, Powers followed him into the front hall and I got to glare at Hunter in privacy.
“She’d forgotten who worked for whom,” he said.
“Be that as it may, she cooked, she cleaned, she did the grocery shopping and the laundry and the ironing—”
“We’ll find you a housekeeper who does all that without scolding you.”
I flushed and focused my gaze on him.
Mother was delusional. Chiseled jaw, charming smile, twinkling eyes. Bleh. No way would I ever find Hunter Tafft remotely attractive. No wonder my sister dumped him in high school for Tuck Bancroft.
“I was trying to help,” he said.
“You want to help?” I asked.
He nodded. “I do.”
“Then you,” my voice rose an octave or two, “can clean this mess up.”
Hunter Tafft gave me a not-going-to-happen roll of his eyes then stuck his perfectly coiffed silver head into the hallway. “Are you going to be much longer, Detective Jones? Mrs. Russell wants to start cleaning up.”
“We’re done here,” Detective Jones’ voice carried from the hallway.
“Ellie, I must fly. I’ll call you later,” Powers called. “You still owe me a dinner at the créperie.”
The click of the front door closing echoed through the house.
I opened my mouth to suggest that Hunter join them and he held up his finger for silence.
THE DEEP END Page 9
