A Mollie Parnis pantsuit that would make Mother’s head spin like the little girl in The Exorcist. “That’s Sis’s problem.”
Mother stared at her hands in her lap. “It’s too fast.”
My heart stuttered. “Do you have reservations about Gordon?”
“There have been whispers.”
Oh, dear. “About?”
“The women in his life. So many. I wonder, can he be monogamous?”
“What women?”
“Bobbi Ivens and that woman who died.”
“Phyllis?”
Mother scowled at me. “Not Phyllis. We’re at Phyllis’s funeral. I’m not likely to forget her name.” She glanced at the flower-covered coffin. “Although I heard they had a fling a few years ago. The other woman.”
“I need more to go on.”
“She worked at Halls.”
Oh, dear Lord. “Gordon had an affair with Carol Schneider?”
“That’s her.”
“Gordon and Carol?” My mind refused to wrap around the idea. “No!”
“That’s what I said.”
I slumped.
“What’s wrong with you? Sit up.” Mother’s posture was yardstick-down-her-back perfect.
I ignored her and lowered my head to my hands.
“Good morning, Ellison, Mrs. Walford.” I lifted my gaze to Ted Ivens’ sympathetic face. “You okay?”
“Fine.” Not fine. Sickened. Worried. On the verge of tears. “How are you?”
“I’m taking one day at a time. Phyllis’s funeral today, Bobbi’s tomorrow. The next day, I’ll begin the business of grieving.”
Mother nodded her approval.
The business of grieving? The idea rubbed the wrong way. Grieving wasn’t a business, it was a raw wound.
“We’re so sorry about Bobbi.” Mother donned a sympathetic expression and patted the silver helmet that passed for hair. “What a terrible loss.”
“I can’t believe she’s gone.”
“Such a tragedy. But Ellison’s friend is good at catching killers. Does he have any leads, dear?”
“If he does, he hasn’t shared them with me.”
“You’re sure?” said Mother.
Ted stared at me as if I held the answer to his wife’s murder.
“Positive. Anarchy hasn’t told me a thing.” I crossed my fingers beneath the folds of my skirt and said a silent prayer—please, not Gordon.
Ted took a seat across the aisle.
I stared straight ahead—please, not Gordon.
“Are you nervous?” Mother asked.
“No, why?”
“You’re quiet.”
“We’re in church.”
The organist played the first notes of a hymn and the hushed voices behind us fell silent.
Stan shuffled up the aisle with Christopher grasping one elbow and Laura the other. A St. John-clad woman with a kind face and curly brown hair followed them—presumably the relation for whom they’d postponed the service.
“He looks awful,” Mother whispered. “Poor man.”
We sang. Reverend North said a few words. And it was my turn.
I rose and took my spot behind the lectern.
“The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want.” I gazed at the congregation.
Libba sat with Jinx and George. Joan and Bill Mardike sat three rows behind them. Joan was pale and dry-eyed. Bill looked bored.
“He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: he leadeth me beside the still waters.”
Anarchy stood at the nave’s rear wall and studied the people who filled the pews.
“He restoreth my soul: he leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name's sake.”
Stan lowered his head to his hands and cried.
“Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff, they comfort me.”
Mother glanced at her watch.
“Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies: thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over.”
Ted Ivens picked at his cuticles.
“Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life—” I spotted Gordon seated near the back with his face set in a scowl “—and I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever.”
Done. I released my grip on the edge of the lectern and tottered to my seat.
“Not terrible.” Mother damned with faint praise.
I tugged at the scarf which had seemed too tight when I read and repeated my silent prayer. Please, not Gordon.
“What’s wrong?” Mother demanded.
“Remind me never to do that again.” I closed my eyes and let the rest of the service wash over me unheard.
“Get up.” Mother poked me in the ribs. Hard.
I flinched and lurched to my feet.
Stan and his family filed past, and Mother and I followed them.
“Did you hear a word of that service?”
“No,” I admitted.
“You didn’t miss much. Reverend North hardly knew Phyllis.” She tsked her disapproval. “Mark my words, this is what happens when you don’t attend church—you get a generic funeral.”
As threats went, that one was weak.
“I’m needed.” Mother left me standing in line to see the family. Laura, Christopher, and Stan stood inside the door of the basement reception room. The line to see them would soon double back on itself then snake up the stairs.
Being among the first to exit the service held advantages. I didn’t wait in line.
“Ellison—” Laura took my hands in hers and kissed the air next to my cheek “—thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” I glanced at Stan. “How is he?”
“Not good,” she whispered. “Christopher convinced him to take a Valium, but he’s a mess.”
“He’s lucky to have you and Christopher.”
“We do what we can.” She gave a quick squeeze then released my hands.
The woman next to Laura extended her hand. “I’m Ellen Byron, Phyllis’s first cousin.”
“I’m so sorry for your loss.”
“You did a nice job with the reading.”
“Thank you.”
“You date a homicide detective.”
“I do.”
A dull flush rose to her cheeks. “Can we talk when this is over?”
“Of course.”
She nodded. “I’ll find you.”
“I’ll be here.” I moved on to Christopher.
“Ellison, thank you.” He skipped the handshake and wrapped me in a hug.
“Whatever I can do.” I shifted my gaze to Stan. He stared over Janet Black’s head as if she weren’t there.
Janet could talk for an hour without saying anything. She yammered on—and on—happily unaware she’d impeded the line’s flow.
Christopher shifted his weight and wrung his hands.
“Janet,” I said. “How lovely to see you. Stan, you’re in my thoughts.” I tucked my hand into Janet’s arm and pulled her away from the widower.
Christopher rewarded me with a grateful smile.
“Shall we grab a cookie?” I asked the chatterbox.
“I couldn’t,” said Janet. “I’m on a diet. I’ve lost five pounds but still have ten more to go. So nice of you to read. But you found her, didn’t you? Just the most awful thing. Can you imagine? And it happened to Bobbi, too. I heard there’s a woman on the Plaza who was strangled. What’s this world coming to?” Her gaze settled on my neck. “Oh my stars, I forgot. Someone attacked you. It’s like that Hitchcock movie. Psycho? No that’s not it. What are the names of his films?”
“Frenzy,” I suggested.
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
“Positive.”
“Rope?”
Her hands rose to her throat, and she shivered. “Nope. The one with Fred McMurray?”
“Do you mean Double Indemnity?” Not
Hitchcock.
“No. It’ll come to me.” Her face puckered with effort.
“I think I’ll grab a cookie. So nice to see you, Janet.” I slipped away before we ran through every film Hitchcock ever made.
Libba found me next to the lemon coolers. “Nice job.”
“Thanks.”
“Are you ready?” She nodded toward the exit.
“Mother asked me to take her home.”
“You’ll be here for hours.”
“I know.” I scanned the room.
“Anarchy’s not down yet.”
“Am I that obvious?”
“To me.”
“How’s Jimmy?”
“As young and energetic as ever. What’s wrong?”
“Why do you think something’s wrong?”
“You look constipated or like you have a migraine or both.”
“Thank you.” My voice was dry.
Libba held up her hands and spread her fingers. “Don’t shoot the messenger.”
A new, not-yet-formed thought had joined the cacophony in my brain—I glanced toward Laura, Ellen, Christopher, and Stan—something related to Hitchcock.
Libba waited till Mother looked away then snatched three lemon coolers.
“She has eyes in the back of her head.”
“True.” Libba’s and my friendship stretched back to toddlerhood—she was familiar with Mother’s see-all abilities. “But those eyes need glasses.”
“I wouldn’t bet on it.”
Libba popped a cookie in her mouth and disappeared into the crowd.
I faded to the edges of the reception.
The line of people ready to offer trite condolences snaked halfway to St. Louis. Stan faltered with seventy-five people still waiting.
Someone brought him a chair.
Now the people who shook his hand and offered their sympathies loomed above him.
Was Janet Black in line a second time?
Could Stan survive it?
Stan stared at Ted Ivens and his body tensed. His jaw worked. An emotion broke through the haze of pharmaceuticals and flashed in his eyes. Grief? Regret? Anger?
In that instant I knew. Knew.
Wishful thinking?
Quite possibly.
I put facts and impressions together like jigsaw pieces. I managed the border, but the center eluded me.
Where was Anarchy? I scanned the remaining mourners. Not in the basement.
I crossed the room and climbed the stairs.
“Ellison.” A hand on my arm stopped me before I reached the landing.
I held my free hand to my heart. “Ted, you startled me.”
“Where are you going?”
“I need some air.”
“Me too. Mind if I join you?”
“Actually, I should tell Mother where I’m going. I’m her ride home and if she thinks I’ve left without her, she’ll be furious.”
Ted’s grip on my arm remained firm. “She’s so busy policing cookies, she won’t notice you’re gone.”
“Ted—” I stared at the spot where his fingers circled my forearm “—you’re hurting me. Please let go.”
“You have a terrible poker face.”
“I’ll work on that.”
“You don’t have time.” He climbed two steps till we were even.
I grabbed the railing.
“I’ll break your wrist.” His chilly smile said he’d enjoy doing it.
“I’m not going anywhere with you.”
He released my wrist and shoved me. Hard.
I wobbled on too-high heels. Only my grip on the railing saved me from a catastrophic fall.
He reclaimed my wrist, climbed a step, and yanked.
I held onto the railing with everything I had. “You killed Phyllis.”
“And Stan killed Bobbi. The perfect crimes.”
“You attacked me.”
“You suspected. You came to my house and talked about Hitchcock.”
I hadn’t had a clue. Strangers on a Train. Two men exchange murders. The answer had been right in front of me. I glanced at the bottom of the stairs. Would anyone hear me if I yelled? Why wasn’t anyone leaving the reception? I stalled. “Why kill Carol Schneider?”
“Goddard told her everything.”
So poor Carol had died. No wonder Stan spent the week breaking into tiny pieces.
“There you are.” Ellen Byron stared at us from the bottom of the stairs. “Do you have time to chat?”
I tugged against the hold on my arm.
“She’s busy,” Ted growled.
“I’d love to.” If released the handrail, would Ted push me down the stairs?
Ellen lifted a Ferragamo-shod foot to the first step.
“I’ll kill her, too.” The heat from Ted’s vicious whisper burned my ear. He meant it. He’d already killed two women.
I swallowed. “I’ll be back in a few minutes, Ellen.”
A single brow rose. “I need to talk with you. About Phyllis.”
Phyllis’s killer stood fifteen feet above her and his grip on my arm brought tears to my eyes.
“Give me five minutes. I’ll be back.”
Her brow wrinkled as if she couldn’t imagine what might be more important than our conversation. “I’ll hold you to that.” She disappeared back into the reception.
Ted yanked on my arm and dragged me up another step. If—when—we left the staircase, he’d wrap his hands around my throat.
Another step.
We were nearing the top.
I had to do something. I kicked, and the pointy toe of the black pumps I bought in Italy last summer met his shin.
“Son of a—”
I kicked him again. Harder. And I pulled him toward me. My knee had ideas about his groin.
He bent over, his face painted in pain and fury.
I flexed my fingers around the handrail and shoved.
He fell.
And he dragged me with him.
For a terrible second, my fingers lost their hold on the railing and my hand slid.
I tightened my grip and felt my shoulder jar, but I stopped my fall.
Ted wasn’t so lucky.
He somersaulted down the concrete-covered-in-Linoleum stairs and lay unmoving at the bottom of the stairs. His leg extended at a funny angle, and a pool of blood spread beneath his head.
“Oh my stars!” Janet Black stood in the doorway. “Help! We need help!”
A crowd formed around Ted, blocking my view of his body.
A crowd which included Mother. “Ellison, what are you doing up there?”
Shaking. Swallowing nausea. Fighting tears. Lying on the stairs with my skirt hiked, giving every man at the bottom a view of my lingerie. “Barely hanging on.”
She pursed her lips, ready to lambast me, but a presence drew my attention.
“Are you okay?” Anarchy crouched next to me.
“No.” I glanced toward the bottom of the stairs.
“What happened?”
“Ted Ivens killed Phyllis, and Stan killed Bobbi.”
“What happened to you? Are you hurt?” Anarchy’s gaze searched my face.
“Not really.” I managed a smile. “I’ve seen worse.”
“Let me.” He wrapped an arm around my waist and helped me stand.
I wobbled (I couldn’t blame my heels) and he pulled me into his arms.
“I could kill that guy.” His gaze shifted to the crowd at the bottom of the steps.
“I may have saved you the trouble.” My voice quivered.
“Thank God you’re okay.” His fingers brushed across my cheek.
I stared into Anarchy’s eyes and nothing else mattered. Not my forgotten fears. Not the man at the bottom of the steps. Not Mother.
He brushed a kiss across my lips, and I wrapped my arms around his neck, pressed my body against his, and kissed him back.
“Ellison Walford Russell!” In my nearly forty years, I’d never heard Mother sound more horrifi
ed, more scandalized.
I ignored her.
“Your mother’s not happy.” Anarchy’s whisper tickled my lips.
“I don’t care.” I kissed him again.
Chapter Twenty
“I now pronounce you man and wife. You may kiss the bride.” Mayor Wheeler, a dapper man with both medical and law degrees, beamed at Aunt Sis and Gordon.
“I’ve waited forty years for this.” Gordon bent his head and kissed my aunt.
“Mr. and Mrs. Gordon Thayer,” said the mayor.
We clapped—me and Grace, Mother and Daddy, Marjorie and Greg, Aunt Sis’s son David, Aggie and Mac, and Anarchy.
Gordon’s son, Gordie, who traded currency in Hong Kong, had sent a telegram that said About time.
I claimed Aunt Sis for a hug. “I’m so happy for you.”
Grace nudged me out of the way and wrapped her arms around her aunt. “You make a beautiful bride.”
The gold sandals, the chalcedony earrings, and the Mollie Parnis pantsuit weren’t what I’d associate with bride, but Aunt Sis transformed them. She glowed with happiness.
Mother was less impressed. “You look like you’re ready for a cocktail party, Sis.”
Aunt Sis laughed. “I am. Shall we go to Ellison’s?”
I’d hired a caterer. Aggie hadn’t liked that decision, but I prevailed. “Aggie, Aunt Sis wants you to be a guest.”
“I hope Pansy hasn’t devoured the beef tenderloin.” Aggie didn’t have much faith in the caterer’s abilities or Pansy’s manners.
Grace laughed.
“Not funny, Grace.” Not funny because it was a viable disaster.
She grinned. “It’s kinda funny.”
“I left strict instructions for them to leave the dogs outside.”
Aggie snorted.
Anarchy’s hand claimed mine. Our fingers slotted together, and a smile rose from my toes.
Mother hissed, which was as close as she’d come to speaking to me since that kiss on the stairs after Phyllis’s funeral.
Daddy’s response was more reasoned. I saw this coming, sugar. And I can’t complain. I reckon you need a full-time police detective to keep you safe.
Mother wasn’t speaking to Daddy either.
Grace, Anarchy, and I rode to the house in Anarchy’s car.
“When do you think Granna will get over this?” Grace asked from the backseat.
I glanced at Anarchy, and my lips curled in yet another smile. “Not having veto power in my life is hard for her.”
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