THE DEEP END

by Mulhern, Julie

  At the table, Hunter stood, extended a hand and asked, “Dance with me?”

  Mother narrowed her eyes, daring me to say no.

  Dancing, which I loved, or listening to Mother try to sell me like a handful of magic beans...tough choice.

  Common sense told me close proximity to Hunter might not be the best plan. He added a charming smile to his invitation. When he smiled, the skin around his eyes crinkled. Damn him. He was nearly irresistible. He led me to the dance floor before I could think to tell him no.

  His hand at my waist felt warm. He used it to pull me closer. “It’s nice to see your parents.”

  I made a noncommittal sort of sound.

  “It’s nicer to see you.” He drew me closer to the crisp cotton covering his chest.

  It was definitely better to talk about Mother and Daddy than me. “You charmed them.”

  “I tried.”

  “Why?”

  “If we’re going to spend time together, it’s easier if they like me.”

  “You’re my lawyer, not my boyfriend. It doesn’t matter if they like you or not.”

  He opened his mouth, snapped it shut then twirled me in a circle. “What if I want more?” he asked.

  I had a husband. I didn’t want a boyfriend. And, if I did, I certainly didn’t want a high-handed man who fired my housekeeper or tried to make decisions for me or smelled like Pierre Cardin cologne and old money. “Isn’t there an ethical problem with dating your client?”

  “As you’ve pointed out, I’m neither a criminal nor a family law attorney. I’m going to have to refer your cases to other lawyers. So, there’s no problem.” The skin around his eyes crinkled again. “We can spend as much time together as we want.”

  My throat was suddenly dry and any response I might have formed was lost in the depths of his eyes.

  We danced for a moment in silence. Close enough for the warmth of his skin to touch me, close enough to shiver when his breath tickled my ear.

  Too close. I pulled away, putting precious inches between us. “Tell me about Aggie.”

  “Salt of the earth.”

  “She said she lost her husband.”

  He nodded. “Damn shame.”

  “She said he was an investigator.” Someone who pried into others’ affairs.

  “Do you think I sent Aggie to spy on you?” The hand on my waist stiffened.

  The thought had crossed my mind. “Did you?”

  “I work for you. Why would I spy on you?”

  Because he wanted to know what was in Henry’s safe or because he thought I’d murdered Madeline? I didn’t quite believe that Hunter Tafft, man about town, was truly interested in the spurned wife of a community banker. He had to have an ulterior motive. Maybe I was being too hard on him. Maybe I wasn’t. “I don’t trust easily.”

  If he’d offered me a trite lie—you can trust me—I would have left him on the dance floor, even if it meant walking by Kitty and John Ballew’s table and, given the way Kitty was scowling at me, she’d probably stab me in the leg with a fork if I got too close.

  Fortunately, Hunter didn’t lie. “Having someone you care about betray you will do that.”

  It made me wonder who’d betrayed him. He initiated a series of turns that left me too dizzy to ask. Other dancers made room for us. They stopped to watch then clapped when he slowed us to simple steps.

  The band transitioned into Haven’t Got Time for the Pain. Hunter didn’t let me go. Instead he smiled at me as if I’d passed some sort of mysterious test. “You dance well.”

  I should. Mother stuck me in Mrs. Goodman’s dance classes when I was three and kept me there until I left for college. “You too.”

  At the table, Mother was beaming. Her plan was coming together. At least it appeared that way.

  The poisoned arrows I’d worried about had been returned to their quivers, the swords and knives had been sheathed. Without trying, I’d found a new champion.

  The evening wasn’t the total disaster I’d anticipated. I closed my eyes and let myself enjoy the feeling of Hunter’s hand at my waist, the breeze in my hair, and the way the music thrummed through my body.

  Hunter turned me again and I opened my eyes. His face looked harder than the marble floor in the club’s foyer. It even looked harder than the business end of a fireplace poker. Around us, conversations fell silent. The singer muffed the lyrics.

  I followed the collective gazes of everyone on the terrace, glanced over my shoulder, and tripped. Only Hunter’s hand on my waist kept me upright.

  My husband lounged against the bar.

  Seventeen

  There’s a difference between dawn’s lavender and dusk’s lavender. At dawn, a lavender sky is pure and hopeful. At dusk, the same color makes promises that are far from innocent.

  Henry was positively bathed in lavender light.

  He was a philanderer, a blackmailer, possibly a murderer, and definitely my soon-to-be ex-husband, but for a half-second, I was glad to see him. Glad to know he wasn’t dead and that he hadn’t abandoned Grace entirely. Then his handsome features scrunched up into the smug, superior smirk that was half to blame for the death of our marriage and I wished he’d stayed missing.

  “Do you want to go talk to him?” Hunter asked.

  Oh dear Lord. “No.” It would end in a scene. Free entertainment for everyone on the terrace with scathing reviews appearing on the phone lines first thing in the morning.

  Hunter’s lips quirked. “Another dance?”

  “Another drink. Let’s go back to the table.”

  Henry’s expression turned dark when he realized I wasn’t going to come skipping over because he’d deigned to appear. He could glower all he wanted. I wasn’t one of the women who wanted to please him, and I wasn’t going to go trotting over like a dutiful wife when what I really wanted to do was borrow an Oldsmobile station wagon, the country club version of a Sherman tank, and run him down.

  I also wanted to find out where he’d been. While I was at it, I wanted to tell him he needed to find a new place to live—preferably someplace hot and fiery with demons and pitchforks.

  Hunter escorted me back to Mother and Daddy’s table.

  “I’ll say one thing, sugar, your life isn’t dull.” Daddy scowled in Henry’s direction.

  Unfortunately, Daddy’s scowl did nothing to slow Henry’s progress across the crowded terrace. Then again, given the look of furious determination on my husband’s face, I doubt Mother’s dragon stare would have slowed him down.

  Henry reached the table and his bred-to-the-bone good manners kicked in. My husband might be the scum of the earth, but his mother had taught him to greet his elders and the lesson had stuck. “Frances, Harrington, nice to see you.”

  Neither of my parents responded.

  “Lovely weather for June.”

  My parents stared at him, slightly incredulous looks on their faces.

  “Where have you been?” I asked.

  He lowered his chin, tilted his head and gave me another half-smile that was really a smirk. “Duluth.” Then he offered the smile to my father. “Harrington, I thought you were in Carmel.”

  “I came home when someone attacked my daughter and put her in the hospital with a head injury.” It’s been said that the perfect martini involves filling a glass with gin then waving it in the general direction of Italy. Daddy’s voice was dryer than that.

  A slight flush stained Henry’s cheeks. He didn’t respond well to criticism—even implied criticism. “Obviously there’s no permanent harm done. Ellison was out there dancing like she thinks she’s Ginger Rogers.” His eyes narrowed. “I guess that makes you Fred Astaire, Tafft.”

  Hunter’s hand, which still rested lightly on my lower back, fisted. I stepped away from his touc
h.

  “What do you want, Henry?” I tried to keep my voice low so the Robertsons, who were dining at the table closest to us, wouldn’t hear.

  “I went home and my key didn’t work.” He glared at me some more. “Where’s Harriet?”

  “She quit after your office was burglarized.” No need to tell him that Hunter had fired her first.

  “My office?” Amazing how much worry and concern could be imparted with two little words.

  “Your office.” Let him worry about the contents of the safe. I wasn’t going to say a word unless he asked.

  His lips thinned to nothing. “What was taken?”

  “We’re not sure.”

  “Did they open the safe?”

  I hid a manufactured yawn with the tips of my fingers then waved my hand. Airily I hoped. “No, but the police are getting a subpoena to open that.” Who cared if it wasn’t true? My little lie was nothing compared to all the things he’d done.

  There’s a certain satisfaction in seeing someone you’d like to serve a strychnine cocktail go pale and stumble backward just from the force of your words.

  Unfortunately, he recovered quickly. “Why did you change the locks?”

  Hadn’t he been listening? “The break-in.”

  “I want a key.” He held out his hand as if he actually expected me to hand over my keys.

  “No.”

  A moment of silence ensued. One in which Henry glared at me, my parents glared at Henry, and I glared at everyone on the terrace who was leaning forward trying to listen to our conversation. “I’m filing for a divorce. You can come get your things tomorrow.”

  “We’re not getting divorced.” Henry shifted his stare to Daddy until my father’s gaze dropped.

  If Henry thought he could use whatever dirt he had on Daddy to keep me in our marriage, he was delusional.

  “We are.” I crossed my arms over my chest. “I’ll be asking for primary custody of Grace and the house.”

  “Dream on, Ellison.” The sneer on Henry’s face might have once turned my blood cold. Now I didn’t care if his face froze that way. I knew things now and even if it made me as despicable as Henry, I was willing to use them against him if it meant getting custody of Grace.

  I took a step closer to my husband and lowered my voice to a whisper. No one but Henry would hear what I had to say. “I know about Madeline and Kitty and Prudence and Mistress K. I know you’ve been blackmailing our friends. You will not fight me on this.”

  “Oh, I’ll fight you and I’ll fight dirty.” His eyes cut toward my father. “You will not divorce me.”

  What had Daddy done? Maybe I should have looked in the envelope. Or not. I didn’t want to know. Maybe I could ask Hunter to look for me. I had to find out if what he saw was covered by attorney-client privilege.

  In the meantime, I didn’t want Henry to see me looking the least bit concerned. I wrinkled my nose as if he’d said something funny. “We’ll see. The police want to talk to you about Madeline’s murder. You’re a suspect.”

  “I didn’t do it.”

  “That’s what all guilty people say.”

  He puffed his chest and wagged a finger in my face. “Don’t push me, Ellison.”

  “Or what? You’ll beat Prudence and Kitty extra hard?” I searched the patio until my gaze lit on Kitty. “I hear they like it.”

  “Bitch.” His voice was loud enough to attract the attention of the people on the terrace who weren’t already trying to eavesdrop.

  I straightened my shoulders, stiffened my spine, and tried to look tougher than I felt. “Come get your things tomorrow.”

  “This is all your fault.” He spoke loud enough for everyone on the terrace and maybe even the people on the pool deck to hear.

  My fault? Oh, yes—because I’d dared have a career. If I’d only squelched my one talent and done everything Henry wanted, this never would have happened. He never would have cheated on me or blackmailed half the country club or disappeared when his mistress was murdered.

  Obviously, it was my fault. I didn’t bother to respond. Instead, I borrowed a move from Mother’s playbook and raised my left eyebrow.

  His chest deflated slightly. I wasn’t reacting the way I was supposed to. I didn’t try to appease him. I failed to offer up concessions. I wasn’t being Ellison.

  “You should call Grace,” I said. “She’s worried about you.”

  “And you weren’t?” Faster than the speed of the club tennis champion’s serve, Bullying Henry was replaced by Charming Henry. Charming Henry wouldn’t get his way either.

  “Only so far as it affects Grace.”

  “I told Grace where I was going.” He offered up his best how-can-you-possibly-resist-me smile and held his hands out, fingers splayed, palms up.

  Ah yes, Henry Russell, Father of the Year. He was easy to resist. “You told Grace to lie. Where were you, Henry?”

  “Toledo.” Again with a smirk.

  “You just said Duluth.”

  “Maybe it was Provo.” Henry rocked back on his heels, well pleased to have thought of three cities I knew he’d never visit.

  “Have you ever considered a trip to Leavenworth?” It was nearby and the only prison I knew.

  I glanced at the table. Daddy looked like his veal was doing a rumba in his stomach. Mother regarded me as if I was some new and heretofore undiscovered species. Hunter, well...He was grinning at me. The kind of grin that made half the women in Kansas City jump into bed with him and the other half want to. I grinned back—partly because Hunter’s grin really was irresistible and partly because I knew it would annoy Henry.

  Wow, did it.

  “Don’t you smile at him. Are you fucking my wife?”

  So much for Charming Henry.

  His voice carried, loud enough for the people inside the clubhouse to hear. Around us, forks froze in mid-air, conversations ceased. Even the lightning bugs out on the golf course stopped glowing their little behinds.

  Hunter’s grin disappeared. It was replaced by a stern, lawyerly expression.

  By contrast, I goggled. Henry had been boinking at least three women and he was objecting to me sleeping with one man? “What if he is?”

  Mother sucked in air through her teeth. Daddy reached for his drink.

  “You’re my wife.”

  “You’re my husband and that never stopped you from—” I glanced at my parents and edited out all sorts of things they didn’t need to know “—carrying on with Madeline.” Or Prudence. Or Kitty. Or who knew whom else.

  “Your wife and I have a strictly professional relationship,” Hunter said.

  “It didn’t look too professional when your hand was inching toward her ass on the dance floor.”

  It had been? I hadn’t noticed.

  “Be that as it may, I’m not sleeping with your wife.” He grinned again then added, “Yet.”

  My stomach flip-flopped, Mother choked on her martini, and Daddy looked like he’d prefer to be dining with the Khmer Rouge.

  “This isn’t over, Ellison.”

  We had the attention of the entire terrace. Above us, people in the clubhouse had discreetly gathered around the windows. We’d become a spectacle. The evening’s entertainment. Fodder for gossip. One of them probably murdered Madeline Harper but after what I saw at the club last night, it’s a cinch they didn’t do it together.

  I went to my chair and grabbed the thin strap of my handbag.

  “You’re not walking out on this.” Henry was using his masterful voice. It might work at Club K but I’d had it up to my eyeballs with his...his shit.

  I tried Mother’s raised eyebrow trick again then reached into my bag. There wasn’t much in it—a lipstick, pressed powder, keys, my driver’s license, and a business card—D
etective A. Jones, homicide. I gave the card to Hunter. “Would you mind going inside and calling Detective Jones? I promised to let him know when Henry turned up.”

  “Bitch.” White lines appeared around Henry’s mouth and his eyes narrowed to slits.

  Hunter hesitated.

  “Go,” I said. “We’re on the terrace at the club. What could possibly happen?”

  Hunter went. Everyone on the terrace watched him walk from our table to the clubhouse’s French doors and disappear through them. Then their collective gazes returned to the main event—Henry and me.

  My husband glanced around the terrace, apparently realizing for the first time that we were providing a summer’s worth of gossip in one night. He lowered his voice. “We have things to discuss.”

  We’d had things to discuss for days. Instead he’d been gallivanting across the country doing God knew what. We’d had things to discuss for the past eighteen months. I’d just refused to acknowledge that a terrible marriage was worse than no marriage. I’d kept my mouth shut and put up with infidelity and...and depravity for Grace’s sake. No more. He wanted a discussion? Fine. He’d get a discussion. On my terms. “Call my lawyer.”

  The color drained from Henry’s face. All that was left was the blazing blue of his eyes and the pale slash of his mouth. “Bitch.”

  “You already called me that.”

  Maybe Henry was used to the rules at Club K. Maybe I had too much faith in the rules of polite society. At any rate, I never saw it coming. Henry slapped me so hard my head snapped. Even through the ringing in my ears, I could hear the collective gasp of the peanut gallery. Tears filled my eyes. Anger? Embarrassment? Pain? Who knew?

  My father leapt from his seat, his hands closed into tight fists. If Henry’s face was the color of ice, Daddy’s was like fire—flushed red with brows drawn together and teeth clenched.

  A brawl at the country club? Please, God, no.