Stayin' Alive

by Julie Mulhern

  “I’m not sure Sis is either.”

  Mother tightened her grip on the wine glass’s stem and stared at the blank television screen. Was she imagining Sis living in sin in Gordon’s Vail house? Or the home he kept in the Keys? Just a few houses away from the Truman Little White House and so charming—that’s what Mother’s friend Gail told her after a visit with her husband. Mother had been wangling for an invitation ever since. She rubbed her chin. A contemplative rub. “Gordon and Sis.”

  Sis needed new beaus more often. Mother had forgotten about my finding a body.

  “Mom?” Grace called from the kitchen.

  “Family room.”

  We heard a backpack thunk to the floor, the fridge open and close, and footsteps.

  Grace appeared holding a Tab. “I heard. Are you okay?”

  “Fine.”

  “Mrs. Ivens?”

  I nodded.

  “Poor Hal.” The Ivens’ youngest, Hal, was just two years older than Grace and a freshman in college. “I hope he heard about it from his dad, that no one else called him.”

  “Me, too.”

  Grace stepped into the family room. Slowly. Carefully. As if she suspected her grandmother of planting landmines. When nothing exploded (Mother was dying to comment on Grace’s jeans—I could tell from the crazy twitch near her left eye), Grace dutifully dropped a kiss on her grandmother’s cheek then joined Max who napped on the floor. “Mrs. Ivens was super nice. I can’t imagine why anyone would hurt her.”

  “Is this what you and Grace talk about? Murder?” Now that she’d expressed an opinion, Mother’s eye twitch disappeared.

  “Better to talk about it than pretend it doesn’t exist.”

  “Living in this house, your daughter doesn’t have that luxury.” We’d returned to murder, and Mother’s bad mood had tagged along.

  Good thing Mother gave me the tools to change her mood. I smiled sweetly. “Grace, did Aunt Sis mention a man?”

  “Mr. Thayer? She said they planned to visit his farm today.”

  Mother put down her now half-empty wine glass and laced her fingers together. “Oh?”

  Grace nodded. “I think she really likes him.”

  Mother reclaimed her wine glass and a satisfied smile teased the corner of her lips. “How can you tell?”

  “She has that same dreamy expression Mom gets when she talks about Anarchy.”

  For the second time in ten minutes, Mother spit wine.

  Karma peered through the shop window. “The fabrics are gorgeous.”

  “Wait till you meet Joan.”

  She tilted her head. “What do you mean?”

  “It’s not enough to design a beautiful fabric, write a compelling novel, or paint a sublime canvas; someone has to sell those things. The way Joan puts disparate fabrics together will have you redoing your whole house.”

  “Oh?” Karma’s tone said she doubted me.

  “Phyllis was incredibly talented, but she owed a measure of her success to Joan.”

  “I wonder if Phyllis saw it that way?”

  “I’m guessing she didn’t.”

  We opened the shop’s door, and Joan smiled a welcome. “Good morning. You have the measurements already?”

  “Not yet. I wanted my sister to see your store.”

  “It’s amazing.” Karma had already answered a bolt’s siren call. “It makes me want new bedding.”

  I didn’t hide my smirk.

  “How would you describe your style?” asked Joan.

  “Conservative.”

  “Let me show you a few things.” Joan pulled on various bolts, unspooling yards of glorious color.

  “That one.” Karma pointed to a muted floral.

  “Wonderful choice,” said Joan. “We have a surfeit of riches when it comes to complementary fabrics. How about this for shams?” She unfurled a subtle plaid.

  “Ellison said you were a genius. She’s right.”

  Joan favored me with a smile.

  I let the two of them talk fabric and wandered the store. They’d used Phyllis’s fabrics for eyeglass cases, handbags, tablecloths, napkins—did I need new napkins?—headbands, clever makeup bags, even umbrellas. Joan had figured out merchandising.

  Those napkins? Wants and needs were not the same. I put the napkin back on the stack and returned to Karma.

  “What do you think?” Karma pointed at the muted floral. “For a bedspread.”

  “Lovely. Will you need new drapes?”

  “I don’t think so. They’re a soft blue and this fabric will be perfect with them.”

  “I can have the bedspread and throw pillows made here and ship them to you,” said Joan.

  “Perfect. Before you ring me up, I’d like to look around.”

  “Of course.”

  Karma headed to the table linens.

  “Thank you for bringing her in.”

  “My pleasure.”

  “I heard Phyllis’s funeral will be on Friday. Are you going?”

  “Stan asked me to do a reading.”

  Joan’s head jerked as if I’d slapped her. “He did?”

  “He was overcome when he asked. I’m sure he’ll reconsider before Friday.”

  “I doubt it. Once Stan makes a decision, it’s set in stone. It drove Phyllis crazy.”

  I searched for a response.

  “I heard you found Bobbi Ivens’ body.”

  News traveled fast. “I did.”

  “You must be the unluckiest woman in the world.”

  Bobbi and Phyllis might disagree. “That’s what Mother says.”

  “I heard Bobbi was strangled. Like Phyllis.”

  “Yes. Were they close?”

  “Bobbi and Phyllis? No.”

  “But Bobbi was at your table on Saturday.”

  “You know how it goes. We had two extra seats. The Ivens had tickets but no table. Two problems solved.”

  Seating a ball or a gala was only slightly less complicated than physics or nuclear engineering. The things people wrote on their seating cards—seat us with friends (which friends?), seat as far from my husband’s ex-wife as possible (which ex-wife?), seat us on the dance floor (usually written by someone who’d bought a general admission ticket). Between assigning tables based on dollars spent and the shifting sands of who was seated with whom, the seating chart for the gala had taken days. “Can you think of anyone who wanted them both dead?”

  “No.” Joan’s fingers stroked a jonquil-hued tweed.

  “How about Bobbi? Who’d want her dead?”

  “Besides Ted?”

  “They had problems?” Mother had thought Ted guilty till she learned he had an alibi.

  “Ted never amounted to much. If it weren’t for Bobbi’s trust, I don’t know how they’d have managed.” She glanced around her shop, saw only Karma, and whispered, “Bobbi was in love with another man.”

  “Who?”

  “Gordon Thayer.”

  Oh, dear Lord.

  “Is something wrong?”

  “No.” Yes! “Why do you ask?”

  “For a second there, you looked exactly like your mother when she’s displeased. I shouldn’t have told you. Bobbi swore me to secrecy.”

  “When did she tell you?”

  “Two or three weeks ago. She was in looking at fabric. She was positively glowing.”

  “He’s so much older.”

  “Bobbi didn’t care.” A blush touched Joan’s cheeks. “She said with age came experience.”

  And now that experience was squiring Aunt Sis around town. “How did he feel about her?”

  “Honestly, I’m not sure. He’s avoided any serious attachments for almost a decade.”

  “But Bobbi thought she’d be the one?”

  “Like I said, she was glowing.” Joan’s gaze traveled to a bolt suitable for a nursery.

  I clasped the edge of the counter. “You’re kidding.”

  “I didn’t say a word.”

  True, but she’d still told me Bo
bbi Ivens was pregnant with my aunt’s new beau’s child. “No wonder everyone’s wondering if Ted killed her.”

  The shop door opened, and two women I didn’t know stepped inside.

  “Excuse me, Ellison.” Joan stepped out from behind the counter and smiled at the new arrivals. “Welcome. What a fabulous coat.” One of the women wore a purple trench coat. “I have an umbrella that will match perfectly.” She led the women to a brass stand and opened a floral umbrella.

  The woman in the coat took the umbrella and glanced at herself in the mirror. “I don’t need a new umbrella.”

  “Don’t be silly,” said her friend. “It matches perfectly. And where will you find another one like it?”

  “You’re right. I’ll take it.” She handed the umbrella back to Joan.

  The consummate saleswoman smiled. “What else may I help you with?”

  Karma, who’d draped a tablecloth and twelve napkins over her arm, left Joan and her new customers to the table linens and returned to my side. “I couldn’t help overhearing. Do you think Sis knows?”

  “I doubt it.”

  “What will you tell her?”

  An uncomfortable weight settled on my shoulders. “Maybe nothing.”

  “You have to tell her!”

  “Why me? It might be better coming from Mother.”

  Karma covered her horrified gasp with a cough. “With all due respect to Frances, who would you rather hear that from?”

  Mother could teach bulls in china shops new tricks. “Fair point.”

  “What if—” I couldn’t utter the words.

  “What?”

  I scanned the bolts of colorful fabric as if I might find an answer woven in the cloth. “What if Gordon didn’t want to be a father?”

  Karma paled.

  “What if he killed Bobbi?”

  “Why would he kill her? It’s not as if he had to hide an illegitimate child from his wife.” We were inching very close to Mother and Daddy territory—the only difference being that Karma was conceived before my parents married.

  The shop door opened again, and Aunt Sis and Gordon Thayer entered.

  Aunt Sis, who looked gloriously happy, blinked when she saw us. She lifted her hand off Gordon’s arm and inched toward a rack of peasant skirts as if she might hide behind their bright colors. “Ellison. Karma. I didn’t realize you’d be here.”

  I stared at the man standing next to her. Tall. Craggy. Tanned. “I wanted Karma to see the shop.” I stepped forward and extended my hand. “Gordon, a pleasure to see you.”

  His hazel eyes twinkled. “The pleasure’s all mine.”

  “Have you met my sister, Karma?”

  Gordon shook Karma’s hand. “Delighted.”

  Aunt Sis fidgeted with her kaftan’s sleeve.

  Joan stared at us with a deep furrow in her brow, as if she worried I might ask Gordon about Bobbi’s pregnancy.

  “Are you looking for fabrics, Sis?” Karma smiled brightly.

  “I wanted Sis to see the shop.” Gordon waved a benevolent hand at the walls of fabric and shelves of goods. “One of my better investments.”

  “Investments?” I asked.

  He nodded. “I traded Phyllis the capital to get this started for a small stake in the company.”

  Across the store, a frozen smile hung on Joan’s face like a lopsided Halloween mask.

  Gordon didn’t seem to notice her horrified expression. “How’s business, Joan?”

  “Booming.”

  “Glad to hear it.” He tucked Sis’s hand into the crook of his arm. “Come with me, I’ll show you my favorites. Excuse us, girls.” He led Aunt Sis to the far wall and pointed to a series of plaids.

  Gordon was an investor in Phyllis and Joan’s company? What had he thought of Phyllis’s plan to sell? I had a thousand questions for Joan. Could Phyllis sell without his approval? What was his reaction to the proposed sale? Why hadn’t Joan told me she had a silent partner?

  Karma said something, but her words didn’t register.

  Aunt Sis was dating a man who might have wanted both Bobbi and Phyllis dead. Did he have an alibi? For either murder? My gaze traveled to Gordon’s large hands. Strong and capable, he had the physical capacity to be a killer. Had he done it? Had he killed them? What should I tell Aunt Sis? What should I tell Anarchy?

  Chapter Nine

  Anarchy arrived after dinner. The sight of him leaning against the kitchen counter while I waited on Mr. Coffee sent my nerves hopping. I’d never seen my aunt (a no-show for dinner) smile the way she smiled at Gordon, and I was serving her new beau up as a murder suspect. It was an unavoidable betrayal, but Aunt Sis might not forgive me.

  You worry too much, whispered Mr. Coffee.

  “Where is everybody?” Anarchy asked.

  “Karma’s on a call with a partner in California. Grace has homework. Aggie and Mac went to a show at Milton’s. And Aunt Sis is out.”

  Mr. Coffee finished his job, and I poured fresh coffee into two mugs. “Did the golfers on the holes near the parking lot see anything?” I crossed my fingers. “The golf course was so crowded.”

  “A golfer named Peter Moore thinks he saw a woman in tennis whites with a man, but he can’t describe the man.”

  “Not at all? Not even his height?”

  Anarchy took a mug from my hand (as usual, Mr. Coffee had done an admirable job), and his eyes (they matched the coffee) searched my face. “Height? What did you find out?”

  Oh, dear. “It’s such a nice evening. Shall we drink our coffee on the patio?”

  “Sounds nice,” he replied as his eyes said your stalling tactics are adorable, but I won’t forget my question.

  Anarchy and Max followed me outside, and we settled into chairs while Max checked the perimeter of his domain. Max allowed no other animals in his yard. That squirrels, rabbits, and my neighbor Margaret Hamilton’s cat ignored his doggy edict was a constant irritation to him.

  Anarchy stretched out his legs and tilted his head toward the dark sky. A breeze ruffled his hair.

  This was…nice. Natural. Easy. If only I could relax, but visions of Gordon and Sis danced in my head.

  I took a bracing sip of coffee. “Karma and I went to Joan and Phyllis’s shop today.”

  “Oh?”

  “Karma ordered a new bedspread and picked out table linens.”

  Shadows hid the lower half of Anarchy’s face, but I sensed his smile. He’d wait patiently for my point. He trusted I had one.

  “The bedspread is a delicate floral.”

  If I’d had this conversation with my late husband, he’d be out of his chair by now—pulling the sports section from the evening paper or turning on the television. Not Anarchy. He sighed—a contented sigh, as if me sidling around a point was the best part of his day.

  I stared out at the backyard. Max was out there somewhere, his gray fur hidden by darkness. “Have they completed the autopsy?”

  “No. Cause of death was obvious. I didn’t request a rush. Why?”

  I felt his gaze but didn’t turn my head. “There’s a possibility Bobbi was pregnant.”

  Five seconds passed. Then ten.

  “I take it her husband wasn’t the father?”

  “Not from what I heard.”

  “Who was?”

  An image of Aunt Sis wearing that glorious happy smile danced through my brain. I tightened my hands around the coffee mug. “It’s possible—”

  “Mom!” Grace’s voice carried from inside the house.

  “Patio,” I called.

  She burst outside, spotted Anarchy, and grinned a welcome. “Hi.”

  Grace and Anarchy liked each other. Grace didn’t indulge in you’re-not-my-father angst, and Anarchy treated her like an adult. He nodded a hello.

  “Mom, can I go to Debbie’s?”

  “School night.”

  “I know.” Her sigh told me how square I was. “But I finished my homework and Debbie’s favorite show is on.”

  Debbi
e had been attacked and she still seemed fragile. Her friends, Grace chief among them, made a point of keeping her company.

  I relented. “Fine, but be home by nine thirty.”

  “Promise! Good night, Anarchy.” She disappeared into the house.

  “She’s growing up so fast.” What would I do when Grace left for college? When it was Max and me and sometimes Aggie?

  “She’s a great kid.”

  “No argument. But I wonder what they’re up to tonight.”

  “Watching television.”

  “Grace and her friends aren’t exactly Jack Lord fans.”

  “Not into police shows?”

  “Not that one.” The Streets of San Francisco was a different story. They had kiss-your-pillow crushes on Michael Douglas. I sipped my coffee and stared into the night. “They’re probably gossiping, whispering about boys, and leafing through fashion magazines.”

  “Then why mention television?”

  “Teenagers are a secretive bunch.” Pot. Kettle. Black. I kept too many secrets. I didn’t need another one. “Gordon Thayer,” I blurted.

  “Pardon?”

  “According to Joan, Gordon Thayer is the father of Bobbi’s baby. But—” time for another fortifying swallow of coffee “—I wonder if Joan told the truth.”

  “Start at the beginning.”

  I recounted everything Joan shared.

  “Why do you doubt her?”

  “Aunt Sis is head over heels for Gordon.”

  “And that makes you doubt Joan?”

  “I keep telling myself Aunt Sis is a good judge of character, but after Joan told me Bobbi’s secret, Aunt Sis and Gordon visited the shop. Gordon mentioned he had a stake in the company.”

  “How did he feel about Phyllis’s plan to sell?”

  “I didn’t ask him.”

  Anarchy put his coffee mug on the table between our chairs and rested his elbows on his knees. “It gives him a connection to both murdered women.”

  “I know.” I added my empty mug to the side table. “But why didn’t Joan mention Gordon from the start? It’s almost as if she wants him to look guilty.”

  “You think Joan’s involved?”

  “I like Joan.”

  “That doesn’t answer my question.”