Arrogant much?
He crossed to the drapeless front windows and watched them drive away.
“Are you going to open the safe or not?” he asked.
I froze for half a second then I swiped at the end of my nose. “I don’t have the combination.”
His smile still charmed, his eyes still twinkled, but his voice sounded as hard as the business end of a nine iron. “It’s a bad idea to lie to your lawyer.”
I rolled my eyes. “It’s a bad idea to fire other people’s staff.”
“What’s in the safe, Ellison?”
It’s hard to pretend disinterest when you’re dying to know something, but I tried. My shoulders lifted then dropped. “No idea.”
“Wouldn’t you like to know before the detective gets himself a warrant?”
Of course I would. “Isn’t that evidence tampering?”
“Only if you actually tamper with the evidence. Nothing wrong with looking at it. I’d like to know what I’m dealing with.”
“I didn’t kill Madeline.”
“There may be something in Henry’s safe that proves that.”
I trusted a charming, handsome man once. I glanced around Henry’s destroyed office. It hadn’t turned out well. “I don’t have the combination.”
He shrugged. “Suit yourself.” He glanced at his watch. “Are you all right to be here alone?”
“Fine.”
His gaze settled on the locked safe. “I guess I should go.”
I didn’t argue.
He left. I watched him drive away then I locked the front door. I went to the kitchen and checked the lock on the back door. Someone had made coffee. I drank a cup, took two aspirins, and watched the minute hand on the oven drag.
When fifteen minutes had passed, I went to the mudroom and dug out a pair of gloves. Then I returned to the study.
I stood in front of the safe and thought about all the reasons I shouldn’t open it. I wasn’t so sure Hunter was right about evidence tampering. It was a huge violation of Henry’s privacy and I wasn’t one hundred percent certain I wanted to know what was hidden within. None of that mattered because I needed to know. My fingers spun the dial and I peered inside.
Pandora’s Box held fewer evils.
Thirteen
I stared into Henry’s safe and contemplated bound stacks of hundred dollar bills. Thirty of them. Three hundred thousand dollars. What in the hell? What was Henry doing with that kind of money? In cash. That much money should be invested—unless it had to remain hidden.
A queasy, oh shit feeling took hold of my stomach.
I closed my eyes, counted to ten, and prayed that my head injury had conjured the obscene number of hundreds into Henry’s safe. When I opened my lids, the cash was still there. Neatly stacked. Uniformly green. Utterly wrong.
I pushed the money aside.
Large, innocuous-looking envelopes rested against the back of the safe. They were held upright by Henry’s gun and a box of bullets.
I pushed the gun aside and my fingers closed on an envelope. I pulled it toward me and read the name scrawled on its face. James Kensington—husband, father, stockbroker, scratch golfer. I loosened the flap and pulled out photographs and a strip of negatives.
James and Madeline would have been bad enough. James and Madeline and another man was infinitely worse. James’ wife Lydia would take everything he had—the kids, the house, the vacation home in Vail, the stock portfolio. I shoved the pictures back into the envelope with clumsy fingers.
Back when Henry and I got along, we’d often played mixed doubles with James and Lydia. James had a strong backhand. Apparently, he liked a strong backhand. Count that among the things I wished never to know. I rubbed my eyes and reached for another envelope.
Evan Platt, the club tennis champion. With shaking fingers, I opened his envelope and withdrew a photograph. A naked Evan was on his hands and knees with a bit in his mouth. Somehow—and the how didn’t bear thinking about—someone had attached a horse’s tail to his hindquarters. I stuffed the photograph back in the envelope.
Next was Arch Archer’s. I didn’t open that one, or Spencer Wilde’s, or any of the others. I saw these people regularly. At the club. At parties. On the golf course. I didn’t want to know what they did in the bedroom. I didn’t want to know about their predilection for fetishes or kinky toys or pain or ménage.
So many envelopes. So many names. The queasiness in my stomach shifted to full on nausea. My husband was a blackmailer. There could be no other explanation for the ridiculous amount of cash or for the retina burning contents of the envelopes. Henry and Madeline had cooked up some kind of scheme using sex.
While the people on the pages of Cosmo might be open about their sexual experiences, the old guard in Kansas City was not, especially not when those experiences included handcuffs or whips or Berkley horses. I had to believe that the men and women whose names appeared on the envelopes had paid small fortunes to keep the pictures hidden from their business associates and more importantly, from their spouses.
Like an alcoholic reaching for another drink, I couldn’t stop myself from reaching for another handful of envelopes. I read the names through a haze of disbelief. Stanford Reemes—a judge. What the hell had he been thinking? Baker Carmichael—the managing partner in the city’s largest law firm. Harrington Walford.
Harrington Walford?
Daddy?
My stomach, already upset, fell faster and harder than a kid doing a cannonball off the high dive. Everything I’d ever known or counted on plummeted with it. Henry’s destroyed study swirled around me in a dizzying whirl of fingerprint dust, emptied drawers and books with bent pages.
My husband was blackmailing my father. I leaned my head against the wall, waited for the world to stop spinning and tried to wrap my brain around the idea.
Hunter’s voice played louder in my head than Grace played her Rolling Stones albums—It’s only evidence tampering if you actually tamper.
I shoved the envelopes that didn’t matter back into the safe and slammed its door shut. The clash of metal on metal echoed through the room and my brain. The envelope with my father’s name remained clutched in my hands and I wished for January’s cold winds and a blazing fire suitable for burning things I never wanted to see. I could have found charcoal and lighter fluid and barbequed the envelope, but the effort to locate even matches seemed overwhelming.
Instead, I dragged myself upstairs to my room and settled onto the edge of my bed. I dropped the envelope to the floor, stripped off my gloves and lowered my aching head into my hands. What in the hell was I supposed to do? Was it really evidence tampering if I knew Daddy had been in California when Madeline was murdered? Did Mother know?
Christ in a Cadillac.
Had Mother killed Madeline? She couldn’t have. If Mother killed someone, she wouldn’t leave the body in the one place her daughter was sure to find it.
I listed to the side until my cheek touched the pillow. The lavender scented linen was smooth and cool and comforting against my skin and I closed my eyes. Just for a minute. Then my eyes started to leak. I let them. I finally allowed myself to cry.
I cried because my head hurt. I cried because everyone I knew was a murder suspect—including me. I cried because my husband was a blackmailer. Most of all, I cried because I’d been wrong—a girl couldn’t count on her Daddy.
I wallowed in misery for a full fifteen minutes before I got up and stashed the envelope with my father’s name on it in my safe. Then I got back into bed and cried myself to sleep.
The ring of the telephone woke me and I lifted one lid and squinted at the clock on my bedside table. Three hours of uninterrupted rest. I pulled a pillow over my head and cursed whoever was calling. When I was asleep, I didn’t have to face the repulsive fact that my h
usband was a blackmailer who made his money by targeting our friends. When I was asleep, I didn’t have to think about what the envelope with my father’s name on it might hold. If I thought about that, I’d convince myself there’d been a mistake. I’d have to look inside just to prove myself right. And if I was wrong, the photos could never be unseen.
I ignored the phone and landed a couple of good hard thumps of my fist against the uncaring mattress then dragged myself into the bathroom and stared at the mirror. The woman looking back at me had puffy, splotchy skin, crazy hair, and a look of desperation usually reserved for the squirrels and rabbits Max chased through the neighborhood. I stuck my tongue out at her.
A shower helped—at least with the splotchy skin and tangled hair. I checked the mirror again. My eyes seemed marginally less panicked.
Paint clothes or a sundress? Paint clothes beckoned. Escaping to a world where the feel of paint moving on canvas outweighed reality held real appeal. So did changing the locks. I straightened my shoulders and chose the sundress.
I went downstairs, found the yellow pages and flipped through it until I found the number for a locksmith. Yale locks weren’t enough. I wanted deadbolts. I called, agreed to pay a ridiculous premium for same-day, after-hours service then ruffled the pages of the book until the entries for burglar alarms lay open before me.
Henry and Madeline had been blackmailing half the country club roster. Had their victims known who was extorting money from them? If they did, it seemed quite possible that the people whose names appeared on those envelopes would be coming to get them.
Of course, the easiest, safest thing for me to do would be to miraculously find the combination to Henry’s safe and turn the files over to Detective Jones. What about my father’s envelope? Did I give it to Daddy and swear I’d never looked inside? Did I burn it and pretend it never existed? Did I turn it over to Detective Jones? Did I call the alarm company and figure it out later?
I lifted the receiver but the sound of the dial tone was drowned out by four happy feet racing toward the kitchen. Max burst in and I hung up the phone to give him an apologetic scratch behind the ears then a shoulder rub. Poor dog. He’d been drugged, had his stomach pumped, and then I’d forgotten he was at the vet.
My father followed him into the kitchen. Either embarrassment or disappointment somersaulted my stomach. I wasn’t sure which. Daddy looked the same—tall, salt and pepper hair, laugh lines at the corners of his eyes, distinguished. But everything was different. What was I supposed to say? Did you? How could you? Hello?
He pulled me into an encompassing hug, kissed the top of my head, and stroked my hair. I rested my forehead against his shoulder. Yes, he’d done something terrible but he was my father, the man who’d taught me how to ride a bike, the man who insisted I should go to art school if I wanted, the man I’d lie to protect. Was this how Julie Nixon felt when she crisscrossed the country declaring her father’s innocence even as his guilt was obvious to all?
I searched for words, any words. Unfortunately, my stash of nouns and verbs and adjectives had somehow gotten locked in the upstairs safe with the envelope bearing my father’s name.
Grace saved me. She traipsed into the kitchen as if murder and blackmail and being beaned with a fireplace poker were of no consequence. “Hey, Mom. How are you feeling?”
I extricated myself from my father’s arms and held mine out to my daughter. “Fine.”
Grace let me hug her. Fiercely. Briefly. Then she pulled away. “Just wait ’til Granna gets hold of you.”
My father cleared his throat. “Your mother was counting on your spending another night in the hospital.”
“I didn’t want to,” I said.
They both stared. Even Max stared.
“Granna had a plan.”
I shrugged. “She didn’t consult me before she made it.”
Daddy rubbed the back of his neck. “You’re sure this is the time you want to pick a fight with your mother?”
“I’m not picking a fight. I’m just doing what I want to do.”
“You never do that,” said Grace. “Well, almost never.”
What was I teaching my daughter? I tightened my hold on the kitchen counter. I didn’t want to raise a woman who gave up everything she wanted to please others. I stared at her. She was strong and independent despite my poor example. “I’d say it’s about time I started.”
My father combed his fingers through the silver strands of his hair. He was probably wishing he’d stayed in California. “Have you heard from Henry?” he asked.
I searched his face for some clue that he was concerned about the envelope I’d stolen from Henry’s safe. His brows lowered and a wrinkle appeared at the top of his nose. He looked angry not worried.
“No,” I replied.
“Your mother and Grace tell me you’re thinking about a divorce.”
“I am.”
He covered his mouth with his hand as if hiding his scowl could disguise his dislike of Henry from me...or Grace. “You’ve talked to Hunter Tafft?”
“Not about my divorce.”
“About the murder?”
If only. “Not really.”
“Well then, what did you talk about?” Daddy asked.
“He fired Harriet.”
No one said a word. We all pondered the unlikely possibility that I’d be able to keep a house running without help.
“Why did he do that?”
“Harriet lost her temper over the mess in Henry’s office.”
“It must be a real mess.”
I closed my eyes and visualized the fallen walls of Jericho. Or, given that it was Henry, Sodom and Gomorrah after God did his wrath thing. “Terrible.”
Daddy inched toward the door. “I’ll take a look.”
“I’ll come with you.”
“No, no. Don’t get up. Gracie, get your mom a glass of iced tea. I’ll just go look around.”
Had I been wrong? Did he know Henry was the man who’d been blackmailing him? Could I just ask him? Yeah, right. Daddy, did you do it with Madeline Harper? Was my son-of-a-bitch husband blackmailing you? All things being equal I didn’t particularly want an answer to the first question. The answer to the second question, I already knew. I didn’t need to hear it from my father’s lips. Unless Daddy didn’t know Henry was the blackmailer...
Just thinking about it made my head hurt worse.
Daddy disappeared down the hallway and Grace deposited a glass of iced tea on the counter in front of me.
“Have you heard from your father?” I asked.
“No.” She didn’t twitch or scratch her nose or try to look honest and forthright. She was telling the truth.
“I’m sorry he disappeared like this, Grace.”
She rolled her eyes. “It’s not your fault, Mom.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
She served up a second eye roll. “Yeah, I know. Did Mr. Tafft really fire Harriet?”
“Sort of. He fired her. I told her she wasn’t fired. Then she quit.”
“So...um...what are we going to do for food?”
“I can cook.” Boiled eggs. Jell-O. Frozen pizza.
She shuddered. “So we’re going to eat out a lot?”
“Yep. Although, I’d like to try and grill burgers.” Any excuse to light a fire.
Grace shook her head. “I don’t think so, Mom. It’s not like there’s a shortage of hockey pucks.”
Burn a roast or two and your family will never let you forget it. “So what do you want for dinner?”
“Tacos.”
“Tacos?” Daddy stood in the door. “Your mother just got out of the hospital. She needs something better than tacos. I’ll take you girls to the club for dinner. Ellie, go grab your purse.”
> “I don’t feel up to the club.”
My father stared at me as if I was a stranger. Maybe I was. I’d never before said no to his plans. “You do look a little pale, sugar. How about I go pick something up for you?”
“That would be nice.”
“I want tacos,” Grace repeated.
“Tacos are fine, Daddy.”
He delivered them thirty minutes later.
Grace and I ate then settled onto the couch in the family room to watch television.
I shifted against the cushions. I was too antsy to sit. There was too much to think about to waste time watching Michael Douglas speed through the Streets of San Francisco.
“Go.” Grace knew me well.
“You’re sure?”
“You’re just going to fidget and sigh and drive me nuts. Go.”
I went. I climbed the stairs to what had once been a third floor ballroom. Now it was my studio. I breathed in the comforting smells of paint and gesso and turpentine and felt the coil in my stomach begin to unwind.
The canvas on my easel was an impossibility. Hopeful daubs of paint from a woman who had disappeared. A stranger who’d never dreamed of finding a body. Someone who’d never imagined the depths of her husband’s betrayal or that he might be a blackmailer. A woman who’d never considered tampering with evidence.
That woman was gone.
Fortunately, there was another prepped canvas. With the last rays of daylight, I began to paint.
Fourteen
I woke to the usual early morning sounds of my house—the white noise, the ceiling fan, occasional voices of runners as they passed by on the sidewalk outside. The sounds were the same. Everything else had changed. All things being equal, I preferred life the old way.
Just a few days ago, Madeline was playing kinky games with my husband and I wasn’t under suspicion of murder. I missed being blissfully ignorant of Henry’s other dalliances. I really missed not knowing that my husband was blackmailing half the people we knew—including my father.
THE DEEP END Page 10
