I clutched a pillow to my chest, stared into the darkness and wished I didn’t know what I did. But, once bitten, Eve’s apple cannot be returned to the tree. It hardly seemed fair. I hadn’t plucked the damn fruit. I’d had it shoved into my hands then down my throat.
What I wanted was a return to my life—a life without sordid revelations or soul-chilling disasters. My life might not have been perfect but it had been comfortable with reliable rhythms and certainties. I wanted a return to those rhythms, to a routine that made sense.
Watching the sun rise made sense. Swimming made sense.
I dragged myself out of bed, downed a quick cup of coffee, and drove to the club.
I didn’t let myself think about Madeline’s water-soaked body when I dove into the water. I just held my breath for the length of the pool. Of course there was no corpse in my lane. I exhaled, and then I swam.
Arms and legs cutting through water shouldn’t be cathartic, but it was. I saw the remains of the night. I smelled chlorine. I heard water and birdsong welcoming the coming dawn. Each lap washed away a layer of pain or fear or anger. By the time the sky over the seventh green began to lighten, I felt graceful, peaceful, even quiet.
Then I saw the man standing at the edge of the pool.
I pretended I didn’t. I even tried to swim more laps. The motions that had been smooth and fluid felt choppy and out of sync. I gave up and swam to where Detective Jones stood waiting for me with his arms crossed and a look of disapproval settled firmly on his face.
“I’m surprised you’re here, Mrs. Russell,” he said.
I rested my arms on the lip of the pool and stared up at him. “I swim every morning.”
He scowled at me. “The last time you swam you found a body.”
“The time before that I didn’t.”
“Still I’d think you’d want to avoid swimming in this pool.”
Where else was I going to swim? We didn’t have a pool in our backyard and even if we did, it wouldn’t be big enough to swim laps. It’s hard to shrug in the water, but I did it anyway.
“Have you forgotten that Madeline Harper was murdered?” he asked. “Swimming alone might not be wise.”
Of course I hadn’t forgotten about Madeline’s death. The thought of her body laid out on the pool deck followed me around like a balloon on a string. “No one wants to murder me.”
“How do you know?”
I wasn’t into kinky sex—or blackmail. I shrugged. “If the murderer wanted me dead, he or she would have finished me off when I was unconscious in my foyer.”
“Do you know for certain the murderer and the burglar are the same person?”
“I don’t believe in coincidences.” Besides, it stretched the bounds of credulity to believe otherwise. A cool breeze ruffled across my wet shoulders and I shivered. “Speaking of coincidences, how is it you’re wandering around the pool deck this morning?”
Detective Jones stared out at the golf course where black trees turned lavender with the sunrise. “We have a car drive by your house every hour or so.”
My heart stuttered in my chest. How was I supposed to barbeque Daddy’s envelope if the police were watching my house? What if I’d tried to do it last night? I swallowed. “Why?”
Stupid question. Madeline had been my husband’s mistress. My husband was missing. Someone had hit me over the head with a fireplace poker and tossed Henry’s office. Clearly someone at the Russell house was involved. It just wasn’t me.
Apparently Detective Jones found my question as stupid as I did. He didn’t answer it. Instead he asked, “Hunter Tafft is your lawyer?”
“He is.” Until I found a better one.
“He’s a corporate attorney.”
It was hardly my fault that Mother couldn’t find any handsome criminal attorneys with impeccable backgrounds on short notice. “He’s still a lawyer.”
“You ought to have a criminal lawyer.”
Was he threatening me? He didn’t sound like it. He sounded almost like he was worried for me. “Am I still a suspect?”
The smile he gave me was wry. It crinkled the skin around his eyes. I was suddenly aware that when he looked down at me he saw wet hair, skin naked of any make-up, and cleavage.
“You haven’t been officially eliminated,” he said.
“I didn’t kill Madeline.” How many murderers declared their innocence?
“Did Roger Harper kill her?”
I shook my head. “I don’t think so.”
“Did your husband kill Ms. Harper?” he asked.
“No!”
His eyebrows rose. “You sound sure.”
Detective Jones was lying. I didn’t sound sure, I sounded desperate.
“I am sure.” Somehow, I kept my voice from squeaking. Henry hadn’t killed Madeline. One of their blackmail victims had. I was going to have to go through the safe and make a list of the names on the envelopes. I was going to have to figure out who committed murder.
His lips quirked. “It wasn’t you. It wasn’t Mr. Harper. And it wasn’t Mr. Russell. So, who was it?”
“Someone else.” The water lapping against my skin was icy—or maybe that was the temperature of my blood as it struggled to pump through my veins.
He crossed his arms over his chest. “Why did this mystery assailant kill her?”
My heart, already dealing with frosty blood, beat faster. He could probably see it thudding in my chest. “How would I know?”
He looked down at me with his nice brown eyes and his sandy hair and his movie actor good-looking face and said, “That’s the thing, Mrs. Russell. I think you do know. I think you’re protecting someone.”
I swallowed. Hard. Then I reviewed the neat row of lounge chairs next to the pool. They were fascinating and if I didn’t look Detective Jones in the eye, he wouldn’t be able to read my expression.
“Who are you protecting?” he repeated.
I’d started out protecting Grace. I didn’t want her to suffer for her father’s choices. Now I was protecting my father too. There was no way I was going to tell Detective Jones about Henry and Madeline’s blackmail scheme. “If I knew who killed her, I’d tell you.”
The light around us was a soft lemon yellow, certainly bright enough for me to see the concern in Detective Jones’ eyes. We stared at each other for a moment. That moment stretched and bent and wrapped us in a delicate bubble made up of gentle light and birdsong and the touch of a breeze.
He cleared his throat and shattered the bubble. Then he glanced around the empty pool deck and scowled. “Withholding evidence can get you into trouble with the law. It can also get you killed.”
I shifted my focus from his face to his shoes. Nice conservative shoes. Loafers. They were paired with nice conservative khaki pants and a nice conservative blue blazer. And then I was looking at his face again. He really was handsome. I returned my gaze to his shoes.
“Tell me what you know.” His voice was as soft as the breeze on my shoulders.
I almost did. It was so tempting to tell him everything—about Kitty and Prudence, about Madeline and the money and the pictures. A robin landed on the pool deck—not three feet from us. It tilted its head as if it too wanted to know what I knew. I took a deep breath and shooed it away. I couldn’t saddle Grace with being the daughter of a depraved, kinky blackmailer. That kind of thing tends to follow one through life. The people we knew might forgive her a murderous father—no one had liked Madeline—but they wouldn’t forgive her a father who’d blackmailed his friends. I shook my head. “I don’t know anything.”
Detective Jones took a step backward. Away from the pool...and me. He frowned. “Until I catch the killer, you shouldn’t swim alone...Ellison.”
And then Detective Jones turned on his heel and walked away.
<
br /> I drove home, drank half a pot of coffee, donned clothes already destroyed by paint, and stood in the doorway to Henry’s office.
The doorbell rang at precisely nine o’clock. I know that because I was staring at a miraculously unbroken clock and wondering how one went about cleaning up Armageddon when I heard it.
Max met me at the door. I opened it to a woman with frizzy hennaed hair somehow contained by a barrette Grace would have snubbed as babyish at age five. The orange hair clashed with the fuchsia of her cardigan and the deep purple of her dress—all the colors of a lurid sunset. “Good morning, Mr. Tafft sent me,” she said.
I stared at her. Then I stared at a beat up, emerald green VW Beetle with a light blue driver’s side door. Its engine still knocked like it couldn’t decide if it wanted to start up again and move to a neighborhood where the ladies walking their dogs on the sidewalk didn’t stop and gawk.
She squinted at the piece of paper she held in her right hand then her left hand dove down the front of her dress. It emerged seconds later with a pair of readers. She positioned them on her nose, glanced at the paper, then glanced at me in my ratty clothes and said, “You are Mrs. Russell?”
“I am.” I nodded. “And you are?”
“Agatha DeLucci. You can call me Aggie. Everyone does.”
Why would I call her anything? And why had Hunter sent her to me? “How may I help you?” I asked. It seemed more polite than asking what the hell are you doing here?
She shook her orange haloed head at my slowness. Earrings the size of tennis balls jangled. “Mr. Tafft sent me.”
That part I got. “Why did Mr. Tafft send you?”
“He said you needed a housekeeper.”
Max chose that moment to bury his nose in her crotch and sniff. I grabbed his collar and hauled him backward. “I apologize. Max is...friendly.”
She chuckled. “I don’t mind. Do you?”
Did I mind that Max insisted on sniffing visitors’ bits? I did. “Pardon me?”
“Do you need a housekeeper?”
“I do.”
“Then I’m your gal. Mr. Tafft told me about the job last night and I said I was willing to give it a go. He said you’d had a break-in and I should start by cleaning up Mr. Russell’s study.”
Hunter Tafft had hired a new housekeeper without consulting me? Of all the arrogant, high-handed men I’d ever met, he was the absolute worst. I ought to apologize to Aggie DeLucci for the misunderstanding and send her on her way. Except she’d uttered magical words—I should start by cleaning up Mr. Russell’s study.
“How do you know Mr. Tafft?” I asked.
“My husband used to do some work for him.”
I closed my eyes and tried to imagine what the husband of a woman who wore purple muumuus did for Hunter. My imagination wasn’t that good. “What kind of work?”
“My husband was an investigator.”
“Was?”
She ran a finger under her eyes. “The cancer got him.”
“I’m terribly sorry.”
She sniffled then offered me a lopsided attempt at a smile. “He had a good go.”
“How long has he been gone?”
“Three months.”
Hunter had sent me a recently widowed woman in need of work. How was I supposed to send her away? “Do you cook?” I asked.
She grinned. The expression transformed her. She had the smile of a child who hasn’t yet been knocked on their ass by life. “I’m a great cook.”
“Can you make chicken salad?”
She tilted her head, probably wondering if I’d lost my mind. I hadn’t. I had criteria.
“I make a chicken salad that will bring tears to your eyes,” she said.
“What do you put in it?”
Her head tilted further. “Chicken.”
“And what else?”
Her brow wrinkled. “Celery.”
“And what else?” She was now regarding me as if I was that eccentric woman, the one who wore a period costume to a cocktail party—or a purple muumuu to a job interview. “Mayonnaise.”
“And?”
“Nothing. I suppose if you’re one of those people who like grapes or nuts I could add them.” She sniffed.
“I’m not.”
“Then why are you asking? If I did add them and you didn’t like them, you could tell me not to.”
A novel concept. One that never worked with Harriet. “You’re right. Do you have references?”
She regarded me with washed out blue eyes surrounded by heavy mascara. Her eyelids were coated with fuchsia and purple shadow. The makeup, the sadness, and the determination were at odds with her hopeful smile. Aggie DeLucci had taken plenty of knocks in her life. Her eyes told me she’d gotten up each time and asked for more. Her smile told me she hadn’t given up on people. “Mr. Tafft said he’d be my reference.”
She was totally inappropriate. Her hair. Her attire. Her makeup. Mother would have a coronary, and if I hired her, Hunter might smirk at me. I didn’t care. I liked her. “Well, Aggie, let’s give it a go.”
She gifted me another one of her smiles. “Thank you, Mrs. Russell. You won’t be sorry.”
Her car chose that moment to emit one last knock then shudder into stillness. Mrs. Phipps from across the street had come out on her front stoop to investigate. From fifty yards away, I could see her pinched lips and raised eyebrows. “Why don’t you move your car around back?” I suggested.
“Bessie? Bessie won’t start for at least an hour. I can move her then.” Aggie bent and picked up a carpetbag. “I’ve got my cleaning clothes in here. Wouldn’t want to mess up my good duds.”
Oh dear Lord. When Mother met Aggie, she was going to have a seizure then a stroke and only then would she indulge in a coronary. And when she was done with her histrionics, I was going to be able to tell her that her golden boy, Hunter Tafft, was responsible. I smiled and welcomed Aggie DeLucci into my home.
She followed me into the kitchen and grunted.
“Is there a problem?” I asked.
“Women who don’t cook always have the best kitchens.”
I didn’t spend much time in kitchens. I’d have to take her word for it. “There’s a room where you can change right over there.” I pointed to a closed door.
Aggie nodded and took a step toward the maid’s room. The phone rang. She paused then raised a questioning brow.
If she was going to be the housekeeper, she might as well answer the phone. I nodded.
She picked up the receiver. “Russell residence.”
She listened for a moment then said, “The new housekeeper.”
Again, she fell silent.
“I’ll see if Mrs. Russell is at home.” She pressed the mouthpiece into her ample bosom then whispered, “It’s your mother.”
I shook my head. “Not home.” Harriet had never, not once, helped me duck a call from Mother. As far as I was concerned, Aggie could stay forever.
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Russell isn’t in. May I take a message?” More silence ensued. “Dinner tonight at the Country Club? I’ll tell Mrs. Russell when she gets in...No, I’m not sure when she’ll be home.”
Aggie hung up the phone then offered me a rueful smile. “It looks like you’re going to have to wait to try my chicken salad. Your mother wants you to join her at the club for dinner.”
What fresh hell was this? I rubbed my forehead and wondered if my headache might reappear. Then I sighed and tried to look on the bright side. I might be having dinner with Mother but at least I had a decent housekeeper.
Fifteen
When the doorbell rang, I answered it. After all, Aggie was busy restoring order to Henry’s study.
Libba stood on the front stoop. She wore a print caftan,
Dr. Scholl’s sandals, a floppy straw hat, and an apologetic smile. “Hi. I thought I’d stop by and see if you wanted to go to the pool.”
In all the years Libba and I have been friends she’d never done such a thing. A thing that exactly meshed with Mother’s stated plan for me. I narrowed my eyes and crossed my arms over my chest. “Really?”
“Please?”
“I’ve already been to the pool today.” And it hadn’t gone as planned.
“Please?” She clasped her hands and tried on puppy-dog eyes.
“What did she promise you?”
To her credit, Libba didn’t even try to play dumb. “She’s chairing the benefit for Corinthian Hall this November.”
My arms stayed firmly crossed.
“I’m on the invitation committee but she might have mentioned something about needing a committee chair for ambiance.”
I snorted. “She bought you off with the ambiance committee?” Yes, it was more prestigious than invitations but I thought I was worth more to Libba than the opportunity to select the flowers at a gala.
Libba glanced down at her Dr. Scholl’s. “She also mentioned the clean-up committee.”
I shuddered. Clean-up was the worst committee possible—its members stayed after the party to make sure vases and table cloths and décor made it safely through the night when all anyone wanted to do was go home and take off their shoes.
It was a classic Frances Walford technique. Offer Libba a carrot then threaten her with a stick. Take me to the pool and she chaired ambiance. Fail and she spent a night cleaning up after a huge party.
She looked up from the study of her shoes. “Please?”
Oh sweet God of undeserved guilt. I couldn’t be responsible for Libba staying at Corinthian Hall until three in the morning just to make sure that the pre-sold vases were available for pick-up first thing Sunday morning. “Fine,” I sighed. “Come in while I change.”
The pool was relatively quiet and we secured lounge chairs in the filtered shade of the lanai. Then came the production of positioning towels and applying suntan oil.
THE DEEP END Page 11
