Stayin' Alive

by Julie Mulhern

  I closed the front door on Jinx (call me if you need anything and don’t you dare send me a note, just enjoy the ice cream) and covered my eyes with the heels of my hands.

  “Go put your feet up,” said Aggie, who’d emerged from the living room carrying a tray filled with dirty coffee cups and wine glasses.

  I was too tired to lift my feet. “I’m going to bed.”

  “That’s a better idea. I’ll wash these, then bring you supper.”

  Using the rail, I hauled myself up the first steps to the second floor. “Thank you.”

  Ding dong.

  I stopped. “Aggie?”

  “I’ll get it.” She deposited the tray on the bombé chest. “You go on.”

  Hidden by the door, I waited to hear who’d come to my door.

  “Is Ellison home?” a man asked.

  “She’s resting.”

  “I was hoping to talk to her.”

  Aggie glanced my way.

  Who is it? I mouthed.

  She answered with a tiny shrug.

  Curiosity. Cat. I descended the stairs.

  Aggie opened the door wider, and I spotted Stan. He held a plant and wore rumpled khakis, a cotton sweater, and loafers. A uniform of sorts. But Stan looked frayed—one good tug on a thread and he’d unravel.

  Stan spotted me and held out the plant, a Swedish ivy.

  Too late to retreat now. I descended the stairs. “Please—” I cleared my throat “—come in.”

  Aggie stepped aside, and Stan stepped into my home.

  He thrust the ivy into my arms.

  “Thank you.” I handed the plant to Aggie. “May I offer you a drink?”

  “If you’re not too tired.”

  “Of course not,” I lied. “Let’s sit in the living room.”

  Stan, who smelled of stale liquor (another loose thread), followed me into the living room where a coffee service still sat on the coffee table and ice melted in an ice bucket on the bar cart. “I’m glad you’re okay.”

  “That makes two of us. What are you drinking?”

  “Scotch. Neat. Thank you.”

  I poured two fingers of scotch into an old-fashioned glass for Stan and fixed myself a club soda (pain pills and alcohol didn’t mix). “How are you getting along?” I took Stan his drink. “I heard you postponed the funeral.”

  “I should have called you. The funeral is on Monday. I hope that’s not a problem. Phyllis’s parents were vacationing in New Zealand.”

  “No. No problem. You’re sure there’s no one you’d rather ask?” I touched my scarf-covered neck. “I’d hate for what happened to me to distract from Phyllis’s service.”

  “It won’t.”

  Stan was wrong. Unwanted questions from the morbidly curious loomed in my future. As did invasive stares and ugly whispers—what did she do to deserve this? I forced a smile.

  Stan took a large sip of whisky. “How’s the investigation going?”

  “Which one?”

  He blinked. “There’s more than one? Aren’t the murders and the attack on you related?”

  Two women strangled to death, and another—I touched my neck—who wore a necklace of near-death bruises. Yes, there was a connection. But I wasn’t about to tip Anarchy’s hand. “You’d have to ask Detective Jones.”

  Stan drained his glass then stared at it as if the contents had magically disappeared.

  “Another?” I pushed out of the wingback chair and poured Stan a second drink.

  He took the fresh glass from my hand.

  I pretended not to notice his shaking fingers.

  “I’ve heard whispers,” he said.

  “Whispers?”

  He nodded. And drank. Then he placed his glass on the coffee table, rested his elbows on his knees, and sank his head into his hands.

  “Stan?”

  “People say I hired someone to hurt Phyllis.” He raised his head and stared at me with doleful eyes. “I’d never do that.”

  I believed him. When Henry died, there were whispers—outright accusations (another reason to despise Prudence)—that I killed him.

  Stan reclaimed his scotch. “We had our problems, but I would never—” He drank.

  “What was Phyllis’s relationship with Gordon Thayer?”

  “Gordon? He gave her the start-up money for her business.” Bitterness twisted his words into something dark.

  “For a stake in her company?”

  “He didn’t expect her to succeed.” The sneer in Stan’s voice matched the expression on his face.

  “Then why—” A light dawned. Stan believed Gordon gave Phyllis the money because they’d been having an affair. “I’m sorry.”

  “We’d worked things out,” he insisted. “Moved past that.” Not far past. Not if his narrowed eyes and the way his lips pulled back from his teeth indicated his feelings. “Why are you asking about Gordon? Do you think he killed Phyllis?”

  “He had no motive.”

  “He wasn’t happy when Phyllis broke things off.”

  “When was that?”

  “Two years ago.” Stan sat straighter. “Maybe Gordon was upset she was selling the company.”

  Gordon had more money than God. I doubted he cared. “I hear the sale is off.”

  Stan nodded. “Joan never wanted to sell. With Phyllis gone, she’ll hire a new designer and continue.”

  “You’re okay with that?”

  “Why not? Left to her own devices, Phyllis created pretty fabric without commercial appeal. Joan told Phyllis what sold and what languished on the shelves. Joan never got the credit she deserved.”

  He’d dismissed his wife’s talent and business acumen and given Joan a motive for murder with a handful of words.

  “Was there—” I glanced at Stan’s empty glass “—anyone after Gordon?”

  A dull flush darkened Stan’s cheeks and he held up his glass. “Do you mind if I fix myself another?”

  “Please.” A good hostess would rise and pour whisky, but fatigue and the first tendrils of a terrible headache kept me in my chair.

  Scotch splashed into Stan’s glass and he spoke to the painting above the bar cart. “I had suspicions.”

  I stared at his back and waited.

  A single ice cube splashed into his whisky.

  “Jerry Sopkin.”

  “Who?”

  Stan turned to face me and downed half a glass of scotch in one sip. “The man buying her company.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  Stan poured more scotch down his throat. “Life used to be easier. Women stayed home and raised families. They didn’t fiddle with business or pretend they were smarter than their husbands.”

  That was quite the window into Stan’s psyche.

  “But look who I’m talking to.”

  Fury, who’d been napping peacefully, opened an eye. “What do you mean?”

  “Painting destroyed your marriage.”

  Fury threw off the covers.

  “At least you didn’t sleep your way to the top. That I know of.”

  Stan had lost his wife and downed a quarter-bottle of scotch in twenty minutes. I locked fury behind sealed lips. Barely. Did he really believe a woman’s success hinged on her sexuality? “Stan, I know you’re reeling from the loss, but—”

  “It’s the worst thing that ever happened to me.”

  Being strangled hadn’t worked out well for Phyllis either.

  “Now that she’s gone—” he wiped his nose with the back of his hand “—we can’t fix anything.”

  Would Phyllis have invested energy in saving a marriage with a man who thought so little of her? Doubtful.

  Ding dong.

  Stan glanced toward the front hall. “I should get going.”

  I wasn’t about to stop him. Using my forearms for leverage, I rose from the chair. “Thank you for stopping by and for the plant.”

  Together we walked to the foyer where Aggie held the door open for Anarchy.

  Stan stumbled a
nd grabbed my elbow.

  We both fell—an unholy mix of arms and legs and scotch-scented breath. The man smelled worse than a rotgut distillery. Not just his breath, but also his pores.

  Anarchy side-stepped Stan and helped me off the floor. “You okay?”

  “Fine.” The new bruises would blend with the old ones. “Stan, are you hurt?”

  “I tripped on your rug.” He made it sound as if the rug played an active role.

  “I’m so sorry. Are you okay?”

  He flicked his fingers at me. “Give me a minute.”

  Anarchy stiffened.

  If Stan couldn’t walk, he couldn’t drive. “May I call you a cab?”

  “What?” He peered at me with narrowed eyes. “Why?”

  Because he still sat on the floor like a fractious toddler.

  “You’ve had too much to drink,” said Anarchy. “You shouldn’t drive.”

  Stan thrust his chin. “I’m fine.”

  Obviously not.

  “Ellison will call you a cab, or I’ll drive you home.”

  Stan shifted to his hands and knees. He lingered in that unflattering position for long seconds before pushing himself to standing. “I’m fine.”

  “No, you’re not.”

  “Please, Stan, let me call you a cab. You’ve had a wretched week. You don’t need a car accident, too.”

  Stan burped, and the scent of scotch nearly knocked me back to the floor.

  I stepped away, and Stan scowled at me as if I’d affronted him.

  Meanwhile, Anarchy scowled at Stan.

  Aggie cleared her throat. “I’m happy to call a taxi.”

  “No cab,” Stan snapped.

  Anarchy shifted his gaze to me, and the fierce expression on his face gentled as if he saw past my brave face. “You’re exhausted. I’ll get Goddard home. Aggie, please help Ellison upstairs?”

  I wanted to object, to argue. Stan was in my house. Getting him home was my problem. But letting Anarchy take charge was too tempting. And he was right; even my toes ached with fatigue. I nodded, and with Aggie at my elbow, trudged up the stairs.

  She opened my bedroom door and tsked.

  “What?”

  “You’re struggling to put one foot in front of the other. I should have sent that man away.”

  “He just lost his wife.”

  “When I lost my Al, I grieved. I didn’t drink myself stupid.”

  I didn’t have the energy to argue that different people grieved differently. Instead, I pulled off my clothes, fell into bed, and didn’t open my eyes till a familiar growl awakened me.

  For five seconds, I stared at the ceiling and pretended I’d misheard.

  Grrr.

  I turned my head.

  Max’s paws pressed against the windowsill, and his nose pressed against the glass.

  Again? With a sigh, I pushed off the covers.

  Woof! Let’s go.

  I pulled on a robe and slippers. “You stay here.”

  Max’s eyes narrowed.

  “Sorry, buddy.” I slipped into the hallway and knocked on Anarchy’s door. “The dog is back.”

  “Hold on.”

  I waited with my forehead resting against the wall until his door opened.

  Anarchy with sleep-mussed hair, blue jeans, and a half-buttoned shirt was a revelation. My mouth went dry.

  He led me down the back stairs to the kitchen where he grabbed Max’s leash and a fistful of dog biscuits. “You stay inside.”

  I opened my mouth to argue.

  “Please.”

  “Fine.” My late-night dog-catching sorties had ended in disaster. I’d stay inside, but I’d watch for threats.

  Anarchy stepped out the front door and walked the length of the drive.

  I searched the shadows for a strangler.

  “Hi, there,” said Anarchy.

  The dog stopped digging.

  “Treat?”

  The dog raised its head.

  “Come.”

  Incredibly, the dog trotted over to Anarchy, sat, and stared at him with an I’m-in-love tilt to its head. The dog was female. No question.

  Anarchy gave her a biscuit and hooked Max’s leash on her collar.

  Upstairs, locked in my bedroom, Max barked his outrage.

  Anarchy led the Labrador to the house. “No tags.”

  No tags meant no way to call the dog’s owner. “What do we do with her?”

  “How do you know it’s a female?

  Because the dog looked at him with unabashed adoration.

  “Just a guess. I suppose we can put her in the laundry room overnight. I’ll call the area vets in the morning.” I held out my hand to the dog, but she had eyes only for Anarchy.

  He held out his hand, and she licked his fingers. “Ellison will find out who’s letting you roam.”

  The dog’s tail wagged like a tightly wound metronome.

  Upstairs, Max howled.

  Anarchy chuckled. “If you want to soothe Max’s feelings, I’ll take care of this young lady.”

  The dog grinned her approval.

  Max met me at the bedroom door. Grrr. Who’s in my house?

  “The Labrador. She’s pretty.”

  Grrr. Pretty is as pretty does.

  “She’ll go home tomorrow.”

  Grrr. She’d better. Max turned his back on me and returned to his bed, but I could feel his irate stare as I drifted to sleep.

  The next morning I stumbled downstairs to an empty kitchen.

  Mercifully, Mr. Coffee’s pot was full. He greeted me with a cheeky smile, and I poured my first cup. “Where is everyone?”

  Look in the backyard.

  I glanced out the window, and for a perilous second, lost my hold on my coffee. Hot liquid splashed my wrist as I gaped at Max and the Labrador. They sat side by side on the patio, united in their fascination with a squirrel who’d wandered dangerously far from its tree. “That’s a surprise.”

  Mr. Coffee winked his agreement.

  “Maybe there’s hope for world peace. Maybe Ford and Brezhnev will play a round of golf.” I added cream to my coffee and settled onto the nearest stool.

  “You’re up.” A laundry basket rested on Aggie’s right hip, hiding part of her crimson and heliotrope kaftan. “You look as if you feel better.”

  “I do. Where is everyone?”

  “Grace is at school and Detective Jones went to work.”

  The kitchen clock’s minute hand moved to the six. Nine thirty.

  I hadn’t slept this late in years. “Where’s Aunt Sis?”

  “She didn’t come home.” Aggie’s face was a careful blank.

  Worry tightened my stomach. “Did she call?”

  “No.” Aggie headed into the laundry room.

  There was an outside chance Gordon Thayer murdered two women, almost three, and Aunt Sis was missing.

  “Maybe I should call,” I mused.

  She’s a grown woman. Mr. Coffee had a point.

  I looked for the answer—call, don’t call—in the depths of my coffee.

  Do you suspect him?

  “Of course not.” Maybe.

  “Ellison!” Mother’s voice carried from the front hall.

  Oh dear. I steeled myself. “Kitchen.”

  Mother entered the kitchen wearing a fearsome expression. “Must you advertise?”

  I blinked. “Advertise what?”

  “It’s bad enough that man is staying here. But I draw the line at gallivanting across your lawn in the middle of the night.”

  Marian Dixon had a video camera aimed at my house. That or she stayed up all night watching. “He wasn’t gallivanting. He caught the dog.”

  “Max?”

  “No—” I pointed to the backyard where Max and the Lab chased each other “—the digger.”

  “Whose is it?”

  “No license.”

  She scowled as if the dog’s missing license was my fault.

  “I’ll call veterinary offices and find its
owner later this morning.”

  She sniffed and poured herself a cup of coffee. “Where’s Sis?”

  The one question—well, a question—I preferred not to answer. “Out.”

  “Out where?”

  “Out with Gordon.”

  “They went to breakfast?”

  I made a noncommittal sound in the back of my throat.

  “She spent the night with him?”

  Silence was golden.

  “Hasn’t she heard about free milk and the cow?”

  “Am I the cow in that story?” Aunt Sis stood in the doorway wearing yesterday’s clothes and an amused expression. “Gordon isn’t interested in me because I will or won’t have sex with him.”

  Mother gasped as if the word sex was too salacious for a kitchen.

  “Gordon and I are in our sixties. If we want sex, we’ll have it.” Aunt Sis wagged a finger at Mother. “Sex isn’t why Gordon is with me. He’s with me because I’m interesting, and we have fun together. I haven’t laughed so much in years. Believe me, if all Gordon wanted was sex—” I suspected Aunt Sis kept repeating the word because Mother paled more with each utterance “—he has plenty of younger options. Women throw themselves at him.”

  Mother had no response.

  “And who says this cow wants to get married?” Aunt Sis crossed to Mr. Coffee and poured herself a cup. “That cow story assumes a woman’s worth depends on her ability to withhold the goodies. It assumes sex is the payoff in a relationship. Does Harrington stay with you for sex?”

  Mother, who’d taken an ill-timed sip of her coffee, spluttered.

  Aggie, who’d appeared in the hallway, inched backward.

  I scoped the kitchen for the best escape route.

  But Aunt Sis was just warming up. “Look at Ellison.”

  No. Don’t.

  “If Anarchy was only interested in sex, he’d be long gone. The man is crazy for Ellison, and it’s not because she held out, it’s despite that.” Aunt Sis turned her gaze on me. “Why haven’t you gone to bed with him?”

  “Sis!” Mother’s expression could turn a lesser mortal to stone.

  Aunt Sis shrugged. “It’s a legitimate question.”

  One I didn’t want to answer.

  “And none of your business,” said Mother. Bless her.

  “But my sleeping with Gordon is yours?”

  “I want what’s best for you.”

  “I know, Franny. But I have a better idea what’s best for me than you do.”