“You sound doubtful.”
“They’re very different.”
“You and Libba are very different.”
“Touché.”
“I’m sure you’ll learn plenty from Jill. Now, tell me what’s going on between your aunt and Gordon.”
“They make goo-goo eyes at each other.”
“And?” Mother’s talents included the ability to sum up whole conversations in a single, succinct word. How late did Gordon stay? Was he serious about Sis? Had they—
My mind—my memory—refused to go there. “And what?”
“Is she serious about him?”
“Ask her yourself.”
“She won’t tell me.”
“She might. If you ask nicely.”
“She won’t. You know how competitive sisters can be. She’s always envied what I have with your father.”
My free-spirited aunt traveled to Nepal on a whim. She was on a first-name basis with the bartenders at Harry’s in Venice. When she visited New York, she lunched with Babe Paley and Slim Keith. I was fairly certain Aunt Sis had collected proposals the way Mother collected Steuben crystal. Not once had Aunt Sis displayed the slightest envy over Mother’s marriage. “You really think so?”
“You and your sister are the same way.”
“We were jealous of each other when we were teenagers.”
“You don’t think your success last weekend piqued Marjorie?”
“I do not.”
Mother snorted. “It did. Marjorie was supposed to be the one who chaired major events.”
Marjorie had married the wrong man—the right man with the wrong job. The bitterness of that disappointment still sharpened Mother’s tongue.
“Also, there’s your painting.”
“What about my painting?”
“She doesn’t have an artistic bone in her body. She’s jealous.”
“No, she’s not.”
“Don’t be naïve.”
“The Guggenheim or the Museum of Modern Art could host a showing of my work and Marjorie wouldn’t care a bit.”
Mother’s answering chuckle poked at nerves I didn’t know I had. “Ask her sometime.”
That conversation would be short and derisive. I’m not remotely jealous. So what if a few people buy your paintings? Your marriage was a disaster. You’re Mother’s first call of the morning. And you attract dead bodies like an open bar attracts lushes.
“Let’s agree to disagree.” I cast about for a new topic. “Say, did I mention Prudence Davies was hanging on Ted?”
“I bet she wasn’t the only woman angling for his attention.”
There had been a high number of divorcées offering Ted their sympathy. “True.”
“Picture Ted Ivens,” Mother instructed.
Grateful we’d seamlessly moved away from the sibling rivalry discussion, I imagined a middle-aged man with a soft middle, thinning hair, and hazel eyes. “Okay.”
“Not exactly a lothario.”
“Agreed.”
“But he’ll be beating off women with a stick when he inherits Bobbi’s trust. If she’d divorced him, those same women wouldn’t give him the time of day.”
“Hopefully he can do better than Prudence.”
“If you ask me, he’s fortunate he has an alibi.”
“I suppose so. But Prudence—” I shook my head “—ugh. I heard she’s having difficulties and moved in with her mother.”
“What a shame.”
Neither of us admitted a secret satisfaction with a universe that dealt Prudence Davies a mild reversal. Admittedly, moving in with Muriel was more than a mild reversal.
“A crying shame.” I glanced at my watch and gasped. “Mother, I must hang up.” Time had snuck past me. “I’ll be late to bridge.”
“This afternoon, you’re playing at the club?”
“I am.”
“Do me a favor?” Her voice took on an unfamiliar softness.
“What?”
“Don’t walk to your car alone.”
“Promise.”
Twenty minutes later, I slid into the seat across from Jill Dunlop. “I’m sorry I’m late.”
Jill Dunlop smiled sweetly. “You’re right on time. We’re early.” Her gaze traveled from Kit Sutton to Sarah Sparks to me. “Thank you for subbing.”
“My pleasure.”
“You haven’t played with me yet. My partners tell me I’m too conservative.”
Kit Sutton, who’d been shuffling, fanned the deck. “We appreciate you subbing, Ellison. We know how busy you’ve been.” She drew the eight of diamonds and patted my arm. “Paul and I had a marvelous time at your gala.”
“I’m so glad.” I drew the queen of clubs.
Kit’s partner, Sarah Sparks, drew the nine of hearts.
Jill drew the ace of diamonds. “My deal.”
I made the second deck while Jill dealt.
Sarah dug in her handbag and pulled out a Virginia Slims pack. “You’ve had an eventful week.”
The cards sliding smoothly from Jill’s fingers stuttered.
“Yes.”
Sarah tapped a cigarette from the pack, flicked a lighter, and lit up. “Was it awful?”“Yes.”
“Can we talk about something else?” asked Jill.
Sarah inhaled deeply. “I can’t imagine who’d want to hurt Bobbi.”
Jill’s hands stilled.
“Such a tragedy,” said Kit.
Jill resumed dealing, but the last card landed in Sarah’s stack. “Count your cards.”
“Thirteen,” said Kit.
I quickly counted. “Thirteen.”
Sarah tallied then fanned her cards. “Pick a low one.”
Jill selected her thirteenth card and arranged her hand.
I counted points. Fourteen.
Kit shifted cards in her hand. “Ted’s lucky he has an alibi.”
Sarah looked up from her cards. “Oh?”
“Bobbi was cheating on him.”
“She was not cheating. They had an open marriage.” Jill’s hand flew to her mouth as if hiding her lips might erase the bombshell she’d dropped on the table.
Sarah choked on the smoke in her lungs.
Kit sat back in her chair. “Where did you hear that?”
Jill shook her head. “One spade.”
“Pass,” Kit muttered. “I mean it, Jill. You can’t just drop that on us. How do you know?”
I glanced at my cards. “Four spades.”
Jill rapped her cards shut on the edge of the table. “Bobbi told me.”
“Pass,” said Sarah. “Seriously? Was she seeing someone in particular?”
A flush rose from Jill’s neck to her cheeks. “She never told me. Pass.”
Jill was lying, I was certain of it.
Kit passed and played the ace of hearts.
I laid the dummy hand on the table. “How open? Did they attend key parties?”
Jill paled. “Key parties? Of course not.”
“Have you heard something?” Kit appraised me with a level and curious stare.
“No, but one hears about key parties.”
“There’s a difference between an open marriage and swinging.” Jill scowled and pulled a low heart from the board.
Sarah played the three of hearts. “Ellison, you should sub more often.”
Jill’s hand hovered over the trick she’d won. “Bobbi is dead, and we’re gossiping about her. We are awful people.”
Jill was right. It was shameful. But similar conversations were happening at bridge tables throughout the city—or the parts of the city that made up our circle. I had a reason to gossip—Gordon. Had he lied about the key party? Was he Bobbi’s lover? Had he killed her? And what about Phyllis? Was her sale of the company enough to make Aunt Sis’s boyfriend homicidal? Also, if I learned anything interesting, I’d tell Anarchy.
We played till five, when Sarah said, “We usually have cocktails. Will you please join us?”
“I’
d love to, but my aunt is staying with me. I ought to go home.”
“Another time?” A triumphant gleam lit Sarah’s eyes. She and Kit had beaten Jill and me badly. Neither of us played well—my brain was stuffed too full of questions, and Jill seemed genuinely upset we’d talked about Bobbi.
“Of course. Call me anytime.” I gathered my purse and my jacket and stopped at the dining room where a few of the older members were already sitting down for an early meal. “Vincent,” I said to the nearest waiter. “Is there someone who can walk me to my car?”
“I’ll find someone, Mrs. Russell.”
A nervous busboy escorted me to the car without incident.
Aggie made quiche for dinner, but only Grace and I were there to eat it. Aunt Sis called at the last moment and said she’d dine with Gordon. When she said his name, her voice softened. Aunt Sis was in love.
After dinner, Grace, Max, and I sat in the family room. Grace turned on Tony Orlando and Dawn, Max settled onto his dog bed, and I picked up the Agatha Christie I was supposed to read for book club.
“I wonder whose dog destroyed the annuals,” Grace mused.
“Grrr.” That dog better not come back.
“Everything’s been replaced. At least the neighbors realize Max is innocent.” Despite a few post-tackle aches, more than one shudder-inducing memory, and the need for a new couch, I’d had worse nights.
Max sighed and grumbled. If only I’d let him out, last night’s flowerbed debacle might have been avoided.
I looked up from my book. Tony Orlando wore a white suit, a black bowtie, and a mustache bushy enough to hide small animals. The two women—Dawn—wore white gowns and silver ponchos. The ponchos glittered brighter than a mirror ball, and marabou feathers edged the hems. “I miss Sonny and Cher.”
Grace, who idly flipped through a copy of Vogue with a surprisingly matronly-looking Rene Russo on the cover (the headlines promised fashion, beauty, and health—no surprise), glanced at the television. “Sonny has a better mustache.”
“I never thought about that.”
“And Cher’s clothes were cooler.” Having passed judgment, she turned a page in her magazine.
I yawned. “Would you mind if I head upstairs? I’m exhausted.”
“Course not. See you in the morning.”
I slipped a bookmark in the Agatha Christie, hauled myself off the couch, and dropped a kiss on the top of Grace’s head. “Please let Max out before you go to bed.”
“Sure thing, Mom.”
I climbed the stairs and slipped between the covers.
Grrr.
I glanced at the clock—a few minutes after midnight. I’d been asleep for hours.
Grrr. Max propped himself on the windowsill and his growl deepened.
“Seriously? Again?” I threw off the covers and joined him at the window.
The Labrador had returned and he dug with enthusiasm.
“Stay here.”
Max glanced at me. Are you kidding? Remember last night?
I pulled on a robe and jammed my feet into slippers. “I’ll take a biscuit.”
Max’s amber gaze narrowed. One of my biscuits?
Ignoring Max’s betrayed expression, I slipped into the hallway and closed the bedroom door behind me.
Woof.
I hurried downstairs to the kitchen and put three dog biscuits in my pocket. An idea struck me, and I cut a sliver of Aggie’s quiche before I grabbed Max’s leash.
Outside, the night was soft as indigo velvet, and I paused and breathed in a lungful of mild air before walking down the driveway.
The Labrador pranced when he saw me. Last night was fun. Were we playing again?
“Hi, there,” I cooed. “I have a treat for you.”
The Labrador wagged its tail and focused on the quiche on my palm.
“Aggie made it. It’s delicious. There’s bacon.”
The tail wagged faster.
I ignored the appalled weight of Max’s stare from my bedroom window and stepped closer to the dog.
The Labrador, whose paws were covered with soil and bits of pansy, whined softly.
“Bacon,” I repeated. “Yummy bacon. And eggs. And cheese.”
The Labrador inched closer.
I held out my right hand. I’d grab his collar with my left.
Woof! Woof! Woof!
I glanced quickly over my shoulder. Max was highly displeased. His forgiveness would cost me. Groveling. Bacon. Extended belly rubs.
The Lab danced back a step.
Woof! Woof! Woof!
“Shush, Max.” Not that he could hear me. “I just want to read your tags,” I told the trespasser.
Grrr.
Woof! Woof! Woof!
My head exploded with pain and I pitched forward. My cheek pressed into the fresh-dug earth, and my brain struggled to make sense of what had happened.
Grrr. The lab bared its teeth.
I touched the back of my head, and my hand came away wet.
Someone had hit me. Worse, that someone tugged at my robe’s belt.
Woof! Woof! Woof!
I pushed onto my elbows, but a wave of dizziness made moving impossible.
The belt came free from my robe.
Woof! Woof! Woof! Max’s barking was frenzied. If he’d be quiet, even for a second, I could figure out what to do.
The silk sash whispered over my head and tightened around my neck.
In Dial M for Murder, Grace Kelly stabbed her attacker with handy scissors. I didn’t have handy scissors. I had a pocketful of dog biscuits.
I couldn’t stab my attacker with a Milkbone.
Also, being choked hurt.
My fingers clawed at the violent constriction around my throat, and the pressure on the sash increased.
Panic bounced in its seat and waved its hand wildly in the air. I wouldn’t panic. I couldn’t. I refused to die in the dirt surrounded by shredded pansies and the first delicate shoots of my hostas. My fingers clawed harder.
Grrr. The Lab’s white teeth gleamed in the darkness.
I couldn’t breathe. My fingers found no purchase on the sash. Pinpricks of light danced around my vision’s edge.
Grrr.
Grace.
I couldn’t die. Grace couldn’t lose both her parents.
Woof! Woof! Woof!
Grrr. The Labrador launched itself at whoever held the sash, and the pressure on my throat eased.
I slipped my fingers between the sash and my neck and gasped the night air.
One end of the sash floated to the earth, and I crawled toward the street.
Behind me, a man grunted, and a dog yelped.
I crawled away from my attacker, but the world spun at a crazy angle and my arms and legs gave out.
“Mom!”
No! Grace shouldn’t come outside. The killer was outside. He might hurt her.
Woof! Woof! Woof! Max’s barks were incredibly loud. Grace had freed him from his bedroom prison. Woof! Woof! Woof! Each bark lanced my brain, but I didn’t care. Max wouldn’t let anyone hurt Grace.
I didn’t move. I couldn’t.
Mulch dug into my cheek, and the smell of earth filled my nose.
I didn’t move.
“Ellison! Can you hear me?” Aunt Sis was here. Grace wasn’t alone.
I didn’t move.
“Mom!” Grace shook my shoulder. Hard. “Mom!”
I didn’t move.
“Mom!” Her voice rose to a shriek.
Every maternal instinct I possessed told me to reassure her, but my throat was raw, and the words I needed hid behind a dizzy haze.
Grace collapsed onto the grass next to me and cried. Sobbed.
With the last of my strength, I moved. My hand sought hers.
She grabbed my fingers and squeezed. “Help is on the way. Aunt Sis called the police. Don’t die!”
I’d do my best not to.
A distant siren pierced my brain, sharp as an icepick and twice as painful.
/> A car screeched to a stop, and footsteps pounding on pavement assaulted my head.
Gentle hands gathered me into strong arms. “Ellison?”
Anarchy.
I should tell him I was okay, but I lacked the strength to open my eyes or lips. Instead I let his warmth soak through my robe and into my skin.
Anarchy would take care of Grace. He’d keep her safe. I let the world fade to black.
Chapter Twelve
“When will she wake up?” Mother’s tone was filled to the brim with impatience.
I considered sleeping for another twelve hours.
“The doctors don’t know.” Grace’s voice was thick with tears.
For Grace’s sake, I forced open my eyelids.
“Mom!” She launched herself at the bed and covered me in a half-hug.
I swallowed a groan.
She pulled away. “Did I hurt you?”
“No, honey. Where am I?”
“The hospital.” Grace’s eyes were swollen, and her nose resembled a cherry tomato. Some women could cry beautifully. I’d seen those women in Fellini films with their pale skin and crystalline tears. None of those women belonged to my family. We were ugly criers. I suspected that was why Mother seldom shed a tear.
I reached for Grace’s hand and attempted a smile.
“You gave us a terrible fright,” said Mother.
I’d apologize when my throat didn’t feel like a petri dish filled with broken glass.
“What did you do?” she demanded.
What did I do? Nothing. Rather than argue, I shook my head. A tiny shake, but the small movement sloshed my brain in my skull, and I winced. Who knew headaches could hurt this bad? “Did they catch—”
“Whoever assaulted you disappeared before the police arrived.” Mother’s frown conveyed her low opinion of the police department’s slow response times. “Whatever possessed you to wander the neighborhood in your nightclothes?”
“The dog.” The Labrador. There was something about the Labrador. I searched the corridors of my mind, but the dog eluded me. Also, searching was exhausting. I closed my eyes and slept.
When I opened my eyes, Mother and Grace were gone, and the light from the window had faded to lavender.
“You’re awake.”
I turned my head toward the voice, and a tightness on my chest loosened.
Anarchy brushed a strand of hair away from my face and smiled. “You had me worried.” Unlike Mother, he didn’t sound accusatory.
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