I grabbed for his arm. “Daddy, don’t. It’s not worth it.”
My father pulled against my hold.
“Harrington,” Mother’s voice cut through Daddy’s rage. “Don’t. We’ll punish him in court.”
Henry’s mouth hung open and deep furrows marked his forehead. If anything, he looked more shocked by the slap than the onlookers. “I...I didn’t mean to do that, Ellison. I’m sorry. You shouldn’t have made me so angry.”
I stared at him. I shouldn’t have made him so angry? I shook my head and wished that my eyes would stop leaking. “Go to hell.”
Mother dipped her hand into her water goblet, caught some ice and deposited it in her napkin. Then she rose from her chair and brought it to me. I held it against my cheek.
“You will not see my daughter again.” Mother’s voice was emotionless, implacable. “If you come near her, we will file assault charges.” She offered everyone around us an expansive wave. “I’d say we have at least sixty or seventy witnesses.”
Henry opened his mouth to speak but Mother held up a finger for silence.
“You are a disgrace. You don’t deserve a woman like Ellison or a daughter like Grace.” Mother scanned the terrace until her glance lit upon Kitty Ballew and then her lip curled. Did she know? How could she know? “I am going to make sure they’re protected from you. Forever.”
Henry scowled. Deeply. Then he turned on his heel and stalked off. Shocked silence followed him.
Daddy pulled me into a one-armed hug. “Are you all right?”
I nodded, afraid that if I spoke tears would turn into sobs.
“Well, sugar, at least it can’t get any worse.”
I hate it when my father is wrong.
Eighteen
I drove home from the club and parked behind Aggie’s ailing Beetle, Bessie. An hour hadn’t been enough rest for the car to start again. A whole day hadn’t been enough.
Max met me at the front door with his usual crotch sniff and a doggy smile, and I led him to the backyard where he took care of his doggy business. Then I peeked into Henry’s study. Aggie had accomplished more in a day than I would have in a week. Most of the dust was gone, many of the books had been returned to their shelves and the broken furniture had been moved to the corner of the room. Next I checked to see if Grace was back from babysitting. I tapped softly on her door then opened it just in case she was wearing headphones and didn’t hear me.
Her empty room was plastered with posters of Davy Jones and Paul McCartney, discarded clothes covered the floor, and a stack of books wobbled precariously next to her unmade bed. If my childhood bedroom had ever approached that level of messiness, I would have been treated to a three-hour lecture on the importance of neatness then grounded for a month. I ought to say something about her room to Grace when she got home, but the energy for that particular battle simply wasn’t there.
I traded the Missoni dress for a soft t-shirt and a pair of shorts then climbed the stairs to my studio. I needed the comfort that painting offered.
For the first time ever a blank canvas failed to welcome me.
I’ve always been able to express my feelings with paint, but now my feelings didn’t want to be expressed. Perhaps they were too jumbled or too ugly. Perhaps they too were wishing I could step back in time and kick Henry in the nuts instead of tearing up like a pathetic doormat.
I sat in the shabby, comfortable easy chair I kept in the corner and stared at the walls.
Tomorrow, I’d call the divorce attorney Hunter had recommended.
Tomorrow, I’d find a way to destroy Daddy’s file and maybe all the others too.
Tomorrow, I’d begin a new life.
I heard paws and feet climbing the stairs and tried to at least sit up straight. I managed to wedge myself into the corner of the chair in an approximation of having a spine.
Grace paused in the doorway to look at the blank canvas then me. The skin around her eyes looked tight and she was pale beneath her tan.
“How was babysitting?” I asked.
“I got a couple of phone calls. Are you okay?” Of course she’d heard. What passed between Henry and me was way too interesting to stay on the terrace. The story had probably scorched the phone lines.
“Fine,” I lied.
“I heard you were making out with Mr. Tafft on the dance floor.”
“Mr. Tafft and I danced on the dance floor.”
“I heard Daddy punched you in the stomach.”
I touched my cheek. “He slapped me.”
“Are you okay?” she repeated.
“No. But I will be. Do you want to sit?” I nodded toward a beanbag.
Grace dragged it across the floor, stopped directly in front of me, then dropped into it and crossed her legs.
“I’m filing for divorce.”
“About time,” she mumbled. She sounded like she didn’t care, but I searched her face, looking for signs she was upset.
There weren’t any.
“Your father and I both love you very much. That will never change.”
“I know, Mom.” Teenagers know everything.
“Your father is coming over tomorrow to pick up his things. Please don’t give him a new key to the house.”
She stared at me for a moment as if I’d insulted her intelligence. “No problem.”
So far so good. “You’re taking this really well.”
“Well, duh.” She rolled her eyes. “The writing’s pretty much been on the wall, even before Dad disappeared. Did he tell you where he went?”
“Not really.”
Grace cocked her head so her ear almost touched her shoulder then raised a brow in a close approximation of Mother’s you-don’t-have-the-sense-God-gave-a-goose look. “Did you ask?”
I took a deep breath and reminded myself that all teenagers have attitude problems. Poor Grace had had a lot thrown at her. I ought to cut her a bit of slack. “Of course I asked.”
“He didn’t tell you?”
“First he said he’d gone to Duluth, then Toledo, and then Provo.”
She snorted. “Yeah, right. I bet he doesn’t even know that Provo’s in Idaho.”
“Utah,” I corrected.
“Whatever. It looked bad, him being gone like that after Mrs. Harper’s murder.”
I couldn’t argue that. “The police are going to want to talk to him.”
She shrugged. “They have to know he’s back first.”
“They know.”
“How?”
“I told them.” Well, actually, Hunter told them but he did it on my behalf.
“How could you do that?” Grace’s voice rose an octave with each word. “What if he gets arrested?” Here was the breakdown I’d been anticipating.
“Gracie, calm down. Your dad didn’t kill Mrs. Harper but the police have to talk to him to clear him.” God, I hoped Henry hadn’t murdered Madeline.
My daughter crossed her arms and glared at me.
“You were there when I told Detective Jones I’d let him know when I heard from your father.”
“I didn’t think you’d actually do it.”
We stared at each other for a moment. I huddled in a chair, pretending to be strong and resolute. Grace, sitting Indian-style with a straight back and teardrops on her lashes.
She spoke first. It was barely a whisper. “What if he did it?”
“He didn’t.”
“Yeah, but what if he did?”
Then Grace’s father would go to prison for murder and we’d muddle through. I dredged up an authoritarian voice I didn’t know I had. “He didn’t.”
“But...”
The doorbell saved me from having to repeat what I hoped wasn’t a lie for a third time. I glanced
at my watch. Eleven o’clock. Way too late for social calls. “I probably ought to answer that.”
She shrugged. “Whatever.”
“Are you okay?”
She burrowed into the beanbag. “Yeah.”
This was all Henry’s fault. If he could only keep his dick in his pants...If he hadn’t decided to blackmail everyone we knew...I paused on the steps. Why had Henry decided to blackmail our friends? It wasn’t as if we needed the money. Did he enjoy the power? The control?
The doorbell rang again and Max and I descended the remaining stairs, went to the front door and peeked through one of the panels of glass running vertically next to it. Powers stood on the other side.
I opened the door and he swallowed me in an encompassing hug. Then his hands closed on my shoulders and he pushed me away so he could search my face. “I was worried you might be in the hospital again. I heard that Henry beat you bloody when he caught you sneaking off onto the golf course with Hunter Tafft.”
He loosed one of my shoulders and clasped my chin, turning my face from side to side. “You don’t look bloody.”
“He just slapped me.”
“The beast. Why?”
“I made him mad.”
Power’s eyes lit with interest. “So you were sneaking off with Hunter.”
“Of course not.” I took a quick breath. “I’m going to file for divorce.”
“It’s about time.” Powers glanced around the foyer as if he worried that Henry might be listening. “Where is he?”
“I don’t know.”
He pursed his lips. “Guess.”
“With Prudence Davies?” I doubted if he’d go to the Ballew’s. I couldn’t see John welcoming him.
“No!”
“I’m afraid so.”
“So he replaced Madeline already.”
I shut my eyes on the image of Henry’s foursome. “Not exactly.”
“He was cheating on Madeline?”
The damn picture still played on my closed lids. I opened my eyes. “Not exactly.”
His face lit with interest. “How delicious. Do tell.” Powers has a tendency to forget that Henry’s actions can affect Grace.
“Can we talk about something else?” I really didn’t want my daughter to overhear a discussion of her father’s...depravities.
Powers extended his lower lip in a pout.
I crossed my arms.
Powers huffed. “Fine. Did you find out where he’s been?”
“He wouldn’t really say.”
“Did he say what was in the safe?”
I tried out the you-don’t-have-the-sense-God-gave-a-goose look.
“Stop trying to look like your Mother. It doesn’t work for you.” He brushed past me and stuck his head in the study then flipped on a light. “Did you lure Harriet back? It looks almost like an office again.”
“No. Aggie did that.”
“Aggie? I assume that explains the jalopy in the driveway. Does she live in?”
“No. Her car wouldn’t start.”
“Well, she’s a miracle worker.”
He stepped into the study and parked himself in front of the painting that hid the safe. “I always liked this series.”
“The critics didn’t.”
“To hell with the critics. What do the critics know? Half of them can’t tell the difference between Roy Lichenstein and Stan Lee.”
It wasn’t remotely true—art critics can definitely distinguish pop art from comic books—but it was nice of him to say.
“Did you find the combination? I’d love to know what Henry is hiding.”
“Cash and a gun.”
“Really?” His spring green eyes searched my face “That’s all?”
“That’s all.” I didn’t scratch my nose. I didn’t shift my weight from foot to foot. I didn’t do anything to let Powers know I was lying by omission.
He shrugged. “I expected something more interesting.”
“Like what?”
“Dirty pictures or cooked books or a signed confession. Who knows? It’s Henry we’re talking about.”
Quite possibly all of those things were in the safe. I manufactured a yawn.
He glanced at his watch. “You’re tired?”
I yawned again. “It’s late.”
He wrinkled his nose and stuck out his tongue. “Be that way.”
What way? Tired and cranky with a headache, still needing to deal with a teenage girl whose parents were murder suspects? Fine, I would be. “Good night, Powers. You were a dear to stop by.” I pushed him toward the front hall.
He leaned forward and kissed me on the cheek. “Are you sure you don’t want me to stay? What if Henry shows up here tonight?”
If he did, Powers would be about as useful as an unstrung tennis racket.
“I’ll be fine. See you in the morning.”
Powers ventured outside and I locked the door behind him. Then I checked every other lock on the first floor. Finally, I trudged up the stairs.
Grace had relocated from my studio to my bedroom. She was asleep in my bed. I curled up next to her and didn’t move for five hours.
I woke up in the absolute darkness, at an hour when most people were still clinging to sleep. Not me. I had too much on my mind to sleep. The thoughts trapped in my head circled and buzzed like a swarm of angry bees.
I glanced at the clock. It was only twenty minutes before my usual wake-up time. I dragged myself out of bed, brushed my teeth, then pulled on a swimsuit and a sweatshirt. Grace didn’t move. Then again, she was a teenager. She wouldn’t move until noon without an alarm as loud as a rock concert.
I stepped out onto the front steps, took a deep breath of humid air, climbed into my car and threw it into reverse.
Rather than glide smoothly down the drive it thumped, like I’d run over a bag of lawn clippings or a stack of kickboards.
I stopped the car before I ran over whatever it was with the front wheels too. There’d been nothing in my driveway when I came home. I got out and looked.
The reflection of my front lights off Aggie’s bumper shone brightly enough for me to see a body half beneath my car. Loafers and khakis protruded from under the rear passenger door as if a well-dressed mechanic had decided to take a look at the undercarriage. A mechanic who wore no socks.
Shit. I’d run over a person. Had Roger passed out in front of my house again? Had I killed him?
I bent, grabbed a cold ankle and shook it gently. “I’m so sorry,” I squeaked. “I’m going to get help.”
The glint of the coin in one of the loafers caught my eye and I took a half-second to look more closely. Instead of a penny, the owner had inserted an English pence in his shoe. Only one man I knew did that.
I gasped for air and my heart raced faster than Roger’s Jag.
I’d done it. I’d killed my husband.
Nineteen
My hands were slick with panicked sweat and I fumbled with my house keys. First I couldn’t find the right one. When I did, my hands shook too much to jam it into the lock. Finally, I got the door open, yanked the keys from the lock, and dropped them. They skittered across the floor and slid under the bombé chest.
To hell with the keys. I ran for the closest phone.
I picked up the receiver and called the operator. “Please me connect police,” I jibbered.
“Pardon me, ma’am?”
“I need to speak with the police.”
Seconds later, I was talking to someone who could help me—a woman who sounded like she fielded calls from hysterical wives who’ve just killed their no-good husbands all the time.
“Please, send help. I ran over my husband and,” my voice squeaked as of I’d inhaled helium, “
I think I killed him.”
There was a pause, a long one. “Where are you, ma’am?”
I gave the woman my address.
“What’s your name?”
“Ellison Russell. I know Detective Jones.”
This time the pause was brief. “We have more than one officer named Jones, ma’am. Do you have a first name?”
I didn’t. “He’s a homicide detective. His first initial is ‘A’ and he has nice brown eyes.”
I thought I heard a chuckle. “That Detective Jones...We get lots of calls for him. I’ll let him know you called, Mrs. Russell. Help is on the way.”
“An ambulance?”
I pictured her rolling her eyes or maybe she was waving to one of her co-workers to refill her coffee. She might even be making spirals near her temple with her index finger indicating another crazy lady had called for Detective A. Jones. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Please hurry,” I begged.
“Yes, ma’am.”
I went back outside. From the front door, I couldn’t see the body, just my car. The driver’s side door hung open and the engine was still running. If Henry wasn’t dead because I’d run over him, I was probably killing him with carbon monoxide from the tailpipe.
I hurried down the steps and turned off the car, turned off Carly Simon singing about a vain, cheating man she’d once thought cared for her. Then I threw up in the yard.
I was wiping my mouth on my sleeve when the first police car arrived.
Seconds later a fire truck arrived.
“Are you all right, ma’am?” a policeman asked.
I shook my head and pointed to my car.
“How did this happen?”
“He was behind my car. I didn’t see him.”
The police and the firemen conferred and then each one grabbed a fender. They bent their knees then lifted my TR6 off the body. Unfortunately, they deposited the car on my hostas.
Not that I cared. Much.
Another police car pulled up. Then another. I knew because I heard them. I couldn’t see anything but Henry’s body. Apparently, I’d held out hope there were actually two men in Kansas City pretentious enough to wear pence in their penny loafers. With my car gone, there was no doubt. My husband lay in a pool of blood on the driveway and he wasn’t moving or groaning or demanding that the police arrest me for running him down. He had to be dead.
THE DEEP END Page 14
