Stayin' Alive

by Julie Mulhern

“Thank you.” Armed with a bagel and coffee, I climbed the stairs to my studio.

  A half-finished canvas waited for me.

  I wasn’t in the mood for a riotous bouquet of flowers or acrylic paints. Instead I dug out a large sheet of watercolor paper and clipped it to a board.

  The paints chose themselves. Misty lavender. Gauzy gray. Jots of gold. Pops of charcoal. I painted mist-shrouded memories. Happy moments slipping away as Grace had slipped from my arms. The brushes moved color. I wadded a paper towel, blotted, and added more lavender. More gold.

  Aesthetically, the painting was nothing like my usual work.

  Emotionally, it was exactly like everything I’d ever painted.

  I propped it on an easel and regarded it with a critical eye. I saw sadness and loss, fear and hope. Where had that pink come from?

  I glanced at my pallet. Somehow a daub of soft pink had snuck onto its surface.

  The whole thing was too abstract. Although—I narrowed my eyes and tilted my head—it might make a gorgeous fabric. I imagined a silk chiffon. My commitment to Jerry was complete.

  “Knock, knock.” Aggie’s voice climbed the steps before she did. “Do you need more coffee?”

  “Please,” I replied.

  She arrived in my attic studio carrying a tray with coffee and a small pitcher filled with cream.

  “Thank you.”

  She frowned. “Did you get a bagel?”

  “I did. Why?”

  “Max’s friend.”

  “She couldn’t have reached them.”

  “She figured out how to climb onto the island. What are we going to do about that dog?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Aggie scowled and glanced at the painting. “That’s pretty. Different.”

  “Maybe a fabric?”

  “Maybe.” She kept her voice neutral.

  I took her lack of enthusiasm with a grain of salt. The painting’s muted tones weren’t Aggie’s thing. She’d greeted Saturday wearing a turquoise kaftan dotted with orange daisies and bright red cherries.

  “You’ve had a few calls.”

  I took comfort in the fresh coffee. “Prudence?”

  “No.”

  “That’s a surprise. I assumed she’d demand Pansy’s immediate return.”

  “You told her if Pansy came back, you’d keep her.”

  “True.”

  “If you ask me, Ms. Davies let that dog loose on purpose.” Aggie made an excellent point.

  “Who called?”

  “An upholsterer. He’d like to come on Monday and measure.”

  “If I leave instructions, will you deal with him? I have Phyllis’s funeral.”

  “Of course.”

  “Who else?”

  “Libba and Jinx.”

  “Libba? What time is it?” Libba didn’t do Saturday mornings.

  “Almost noon.”

  I sighed. The morning’s foul mood had given way to melancholy. “Is Anarchy here?”

  “No.”

  I suppressed a second sigh.

  “It’s none of my business, but—” Aggie bit her lip.

  “What am I doing?”

  She nodded.

  “I don’t know.”

  “You should figure it out.”

  No kidding.

  Perhaps Aggie sensed my mood—she let the question drop, picked up the morning’s empty coffee cup, and said, “I’ll let you get back to work.”

  She left me, but rather than pick up my paintbrushes, I plugged in the phone and dialed Jinx’s number.

  “Hello.”

  “Jinx, it’s Ellison calling.”

  “Is it true?”

  “Is what true?”

  “Did you steal Prudence Davies’s dog?”

  “Prudence’s dog, whose name is Pansy, runs away. And when she runs, she runs to my house.”

  “I figured as much.”

  “I have a question for you.”

  “Oh?”

  “Stan Goddard and Joan Mardike?”

  “Nope. Can you imagine? Joan’s an attractive woman and Stan is—Stan is Stan.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “I’d have heard. Who told you that?”

  “Jane Addison.”

  Jinx sniffed. “Consider the source. Since we’re playing twenty questions…”

  “Yes?”

  “Your aunt and Gordon Thayer?”

  “That’s not a question.”

  “What’s going on between them?”

  Sex on my living room couch wasn’t something I’d share. “They seem enamored.”

  “Gordon was spotted at Tivol’s.”

  “Doesn’t mean he bought a ring. They’ve been together for less than a week.”

  “They’ve been in love for forty years.”

  Decades when they could’ve been together. Did Aunt Sis regret those years?

  “What does Frances say?”

  “What do you think?”

  “My guess? She’s thrilled.”

  “Good guess.” I finished the last of the coffee Aggie brought me. “Back to Joan and Stan.”

  “There is no Joan and Stan.”

  “Did Stan—”

  “Like I said, Stan is Stan.”

  “Stan is a man.”

  “They don’t all cheat, Ellison. And Stan’s not exactly a catch.”

  “What about Joan?”

  Silence traveled the telephone line, and I could hear Jinx thinking.

  “I don’t think so. Why?”

  “There was another murder last night.”

  “No! Who?”

  “Carol Schneider.”

  “The girl from Halls fine china?”

  “How do you know that?”

  “I talk to her whenever I order a wedding present. Where did it happen?”

  “In the employee lot. I wondered if someone mistook her for Joan.”

  “It’s possible,” Jinx mused. “Look on the bright side.”

  “What bright side?”

  “You didn’t find the body.”

  That counted as a blessing—but not for poor Carol Schneider.

  We hung up, and I cleaned my brushes and descended the stairs with my empty coffee mug and the board holding my fabric design.

  Aunt Sis perched on a stool at the kitchen island and watched Aggie assemble sandwiches.

  “Good morning.” I put the mug in the dishwasher.

  “It’s afternoon,” said Aunt Sis. “Aggie says you designed a fabric.”

  “Not on purpose, and Jerry may not like it.”

  “You did what you said you’d do. That’s what counts. Is that it?”

  I nodded.

  “He’ll like it.”

  Ding dong.

  “Aggie, would you?” I glanced at the dogs. “I can’t face Prudence right now.”

  She nodded, shot Pansy a dour look, and said, “Please watch the food.”

  When she disappeared into the hallway, I turned to Aunt Sis. “May I ask you a personal question?”

  “Of course.”

  “It seems as if you and Gordon adore each other.”

  Aunt Sis glowed from within. “We always have.”

  “Then why have you spent the past forty years apart?”

  “It’s complicated.”

  I settled onto a stool. “I have time.”

  “When we were young, I wasn’t ready for a commitment. Gordon was. He gave me an ultimatum and I left. I wanted a bigger life.”

  She’d achieved her goal.

  “Gordon married. I traveled.”

  “And now?”

  “He’s been alone for a decade, and I’m ready to come home.”

  “Do you regret the years you missed?”

  She considered my question. “I don’t regret the life I’ve lived, but I do wish I hadn’t missed out on forty years.” Aunt Sis took my hand in hers. “Is this about me or you?”

  “A little bit of both.”

  “My advice? Don’t let
your mother’s outdated opinions derail your chance at happiness.”

  “I don’t care what Mother thinks.” I did, but not enough to alter the course of my life.

  “Well then, don’t let that poor excuse for a man with whom you wasted nearly twenty years determine the next twenty years.”

  The swelling in my throat made speech impossible.

  “I know you’re gun shy, Ellison. But don’t miss this chance. They don’t come often.”

  Aggie pushed through the kitchen door, scowled at Pansy, and returned to her sandwich making.

  “Who was it?” Please not Prudence.

  “A florist. I put the arrangement in the living room. Hold on.” She dug a small envelope from her kaftan’s pocket.

  I unsealed the flap and read. Thank you for a memorable evening. Gordon.

  “He’s a nice man.” I handed the card to Aunt Sis.

  “The nicest. What are you doing this afternoon?”

  “I considered going to the Plaza.”

  “Joan Mardike’s shop?” Aunt Sis caught on quick.

  “Yes.”

  “I’m coming with you.”

  “Oh?”

  “And a quick visit to Swanson’s.”

  Aggie slid plates in front of us. Turkey sandwiches and crisp green salads.

  Aunt Sis took a bite and moaned. “Aggie, Ellison is lucky to have you.”

  “And I know it.”

  A pleased smile lit Aggie’s face. “Thank you.”

  I bit into my sandwich.

  Aggie wiped her hands on a dish towel, then twisted the cloth into a tight coil.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked.

  “I’ve heard you talking. Joan Mardike is linked to both of the dead women?”

  “She is.”

  “She has a motive?”

  “For Phyllis’s murder.”

  “And opportunity?”

  “I suppose. But why would Joan kill Carol Schneider?”

  “Who?” Aggie and Aunt Sis spoke in unison.

  I told them about Anarchy’s latest case.

  Aggie pursed her lips. “Do me a favor?”

  “Of course.”

  “When you go to the Plaza, be careful. There are three dead women. I don’t want you to be the fourth.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Grace breezed into the kitchen before Aunt Sis and I left for the Plaza.

  “How was your game?” I asked.

  She grinned. “I won. Where are you going?”

  Aunt Sis, remarkably conservative in a pair of palazzo pants and a Thea Porter tunic, looked up from searching her handbag. “Swanson’s.”

  “May I come? Please?”

  “We’d love it.” What strange magic brewed that Grace chose to spend a Saturday afternoon with her mother and great aunt? “Do you need something?”

  Pink touched Grace’s cheeks. “Maybe we could look at dresses.”

  That blush spoke volumes. “What kind of dresses?”

  “Prom dresses.”

  “Did he ask you before or after you beat him?”

  “After.”

  Aunt Sis fished her lipstick from her purse. “The three of us shopping together? This will be a red-letter day.”

  “Go shower,” I told Grace. “We’ll wait.”

  “I’ll be fast.” She raced up the back stairs.

  “Do you like this boy?” asked Aunt Sis.

  He’d lost to Grace then asked her to a dance. “I do. More importantly, Grace likes him.”

  Thirty minutes later, I parked in the garage next to Swanson’s. “What are you shopping for, Aunt Sis?”

  “I’ll know it when I see it.” She spoke to the windshield, not me.

  This might be a long afternoon.

  We worked our way through Swanson’s. Beautiful fabrics. Beautiful clothes.

  Aunt Sis paused and lifted a hanger. “This.”

  “That? What’s the occasion?”

  Her eyes twinkled. “I’ll tell you later.”

  She appeared a few minutes later wearing the Nehru-inspired ensemble. A long tunic covered cigarette pants. Both pieces used a robin’s egg blue brocade with copper and metallic gold accents. Aunt Sis looked chic and funky and ridiculously happy.

  “That’s fabulous,” I said.

  “It’s a Mollie Parnis,” said Esme, my favorite saleswoman.

  Aunt Sis smoothed the tunic over her hips. “Really? She’s usually too conservative, but this is perfect.”

  “You look super cool, Aunt Sis,” said Grace. “What will you do for shoes?”

  “Gold sandals.”

  “Where are you wearing this cool outfit?” I had an inkling. If I was right, Mother might have a coronary.

  Aunt Sis turned up the twinkle in her eyes to crystal-chandelier brightness. “Let me hold onto my secret, Ellison.”

  That was all the confirmation I needed. Mother might dance a jig—until she spotted the Mollie Parnis. Aunt Sis’s outfit might cause Mother an aneurysm or at least a major heart event.

  “I promise, you’ll be the first—the second—to know.”

  Grace glanced at me, a question in her eyes.

  I merely shrugged. “Do you see anything you like, honey?”

  “Not yet. Can we look at Halls?”

  “Have I ever said no to Halls?” Never.

  Esme called for the alteration girl who pinched the pants’ waist and shortened the tunic’s cuffs.

  “When can you have it ready?” asked Aunt Sis.

  “Next Monday.”

  Aunt Sis frowned.

  “Can we expedite alterations, Esme?” I asked.

  “It won’t take long.” The woman who’d marked Aunt Sis’s cuffs spoke around the pins still in her mouth. “Friday?”

  “Much better,” said Aunt Sis. “Thank you. In the morning?”

  “If that suits you.”

  Aunt Sis bought the suit, and we rode the escalator to the first floor then crossed the street.

  Halls’ pink quartz walls glittered in the afternoon sun. The pet project of Joyce Hall, who’d turned peddling postcards into a greeting card empire, Halls Plaza was among my favorite stores.

  We entered Halls through the men’s department, cut through fine china (where sales associates gazed at us with red-rimmed eyes), and made our way to women’s clothes.

  Grace gravitated toward an organza peasant gown.

  “May I help you, Mrs. Russell?” Estelle, the saleswoman who’d offered us her assistance, was young and pretty and gave honest opinions (honesty mattered in saleswomen), but today she looked teary.

  “This must be a difficult day for everyone here.”

  She blinked, and her lips trembled. “It is.”

  “Were you close?”

  Estelle nodded.

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “It’s so—” she pressed her fingers to her lips and shook her head “—evil.”

  “I heard she was divorced?”

  Estelle nodded. “The nicest divorce anyone’s ever encountered. They met for lunch once a month.”

  So not the ex-husband. “Did she have any enemies?”

  “Not one. Everyone liked her.”

  “Was she seeing anyone?”

  Estelle paused. “No.”

  “Are you sure?”

  She nodded with too much enthusiasm.

  “Mom?” Grace held three gowns.

  “Prom?” Estelle managed a watery smile. “I’ll put those in a dressing room for you, Miss Russell.” She took the gowns from Grace and disappeared behind a three-way mirror.

  I glanced around the department. “Where’s Sis?”

  “She mentioned needing earrings.”

  “See anything else?”

  Grace shook her head.

  “Are you ready to try them?”

  “I am.”

  Estelle led us to the largest fitting room where she’d hung Grace’s choices in a neat row.

  I waited in the hall while Grace changed. />
  “Ready,” she called.

  I opened the door.

  Grace wore an off-the-shoulder ruffled gown in Swiss dot. She wrinkled her nose. “Too sweet.”

  I disagreed. “If you say so.” I backed out of the dressing room.

  Estelle joined me in the hall. “How’s she doing?”

  “The Swiss dot is a no.”

  “Too young? Girls her age want to look older. They’re in a rush to grow up.”

  Estelle didn’t need to tell me. Grace slipped away a bit more each day.

  “Okay,” Grace called.

  This time she opened the door wearing a form-fitting red satin gown.

  “Absolutely not.”

  “Mooom.”

  “No.” The dress highlighted every curve. In it, she was sixteen going on twenty-five.

  She stared at me for long seconds as if time might change my mind. It wouldn’t.

  “Fine,” she huffed.

  “She saved the best for last,” said Estelle.

  I hoped so.

  “Is there anything I can pull for you, Mrs. Russell?”

  I quickly reviewed my plan for Phyllis’s funeral. A simple black dress with a scarf tied around my bruised neck. For Bobbi’s? Granted I wouldn’t be standing at a lectern, but people would still stare. “Maybe a dark dress? One I can wear with a scarf at my neck.”

  Estelle’s gaze shifted to my neck, and tears filled her eyes. “I have just the thing.” She hurried onto the sales floor.

  Grace opened the door. She wore the peasant gown and an enormous smile.

  “That’s the one?”

  “I think so. I really like it.” She twirled, and the skirt bloomed. “Can we look at Woolf’s before I decide?”

  “Of course. I’ll have Estelle hold this one for us.”

  “Thanks, Mom.”

  Estelle returned bearing a charcoal gray tunic.

  “That’s perfect. I’ll try it. Grace loves the peasant gown but wants to run by Woolf’s. Please hold it for us?”

  “Of course, Mrs. Russell.”

  Grace changed into her jeans and vacated the fitting room, and I took her place.

  The gray dress didn’t need a thing. Not a hem, not a tuck, nothing.

  I emerged from the fitting room and handed my new dress to Estelle. “I’ll take it.”

  “On your account?”

  “Please.” I pulled my billfold from my handbag, found my charge plate, and handed the card to her.

  Estelle wrote the sales receipt.

  “I can’t get poor Carol out of my mind.”

  Estelle’s pen jerked.

  “You can’t think of anyone who’d want to harm her?”