Stayin' Alive

by Julie Mulhern

  “If I liked someone you didn’t, you wouldn’t stop talking to me.”

  “Never. And your grandmother doesn’t dislike Anarchy—”

  “She doesn’t think I’m good enough for your mother.”

  “She’s wrong.” Not just wrong, dead wrong.

  Anarchy reached across the seat and squeezed my hand.

  “Let’s talk about something else. Something happier than Mother’s mood.”

  “You haven’t found a body this week,” said Grace.

  Anarchy cut his gaze my way. “Touch wood. I just finished the paperwork from the last one. My desk is clear.”

  “I don’t get why they did it,” said Grace. “What’s wrong with divorce?”

  “As widowers, they were rich. As divorced men, they’d have financial difficulties.”

  Grace huffed. “I get that. But murder?”

  “It was Ivens’ idea,” said Anarchy. “He convinced Goddard.” He turned on the blinker and turned left. “Goddard swears he thought it was a joke until Phyllis’s murder.”

  “But he killed Mrs. Ivens. He didn’t have to do that.”

  “You’re right, Grace.”

  “Then Mr. Ivens attacked Mom. It’s a good thing Pansy protected her.” Grace reminded me of Pansy’s heroism often. When her tail swept a crystal vase off the coffee table, when she snuck into my closet and chewed my favorite loafers, when she dug a crater in the backyard.

  “She’s obedience-training bound, Grace.”

  “Max will miss her.”

  “Max can go with her.”

  Grace sat back with a whoomph. “One thing I don’t get—”

  “Why we kept Pansy?”

  “I get that. Max is in love and you like her, even if you won’t admit it. What I don’t get is why Mr. Ivens strangled you.”

  “He heard me mention Hitchcock when I took him that Bundt cake.”

  “Did you say Strangers on a Train?”

  “I did not.”

  “Ivens was paranoid.” Anarchy’s fingers flexed around the steering wheel. “He was looking for ways he might be caught.”

  “Why did Mr. Goddard tell his girlfriend?”

  “Guilt,” Anarchy replied. “He couldn’t live with what he’d done. If she’d come straight to the police, she’d be alive. Instead, Ivens found out and considered Carol a loose end.”

  “What will happen to them?” Grace asked.

  “They’ll both be tried for murder.”

  Thankfully, I had not killed Ted Ivens. Nor did I feel guilty about his broken leg, sprained ankle, or concussed skull.

  Anarchy pulled into the driveway and parked, and Grace hopped out of the car.

  Anarchy and I lingered.

  “You’re not too upset about your mother?”

  “She’ll get over it.” Eventually. Sure, I could tell her Anarchy didn’t depend on his salary as a police detective, but where was the fun in that?

  “Will she get over this?” He reached into his pocket, and my heart stopped.

  Disappointment and relief arm-wrestled when he pulled out an envelope and gave it to me.

  “What’s this?”

  “Open it.”

  I slit the envelope and found two first-class plane tickets to Italy.

  “Grace told me you need new loafers.”

  I couldn’t speak.

  “Well?” Anarchy sounded nervous. “Will you go with me?”

  No doubts. No fears. “When do we leave?”

  Thank you!

  I hope you enjoyed the latest installment in the Country Club Murders.

  * * *

  Ellison and Anarchy will be back to solve another murder later this year. If you’d like to be notified, sign up for my newsletter!

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  I’d promise to fill your inbox with frequent wit and wisdom, but that would be a lie.

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  Also by Julie Mulhern

  The Country Club Murders

  The Deep End

  Guaranteed to Bleed

  Clouds in My Coffee

  Send in the Clowns

  Watching the Detectives

  Cold as Ice

  Shadow Dancing

  Back Stabbers

  Telephone Line

  Stayin’ Alive

  Killer Queen

  * * *

  The Poppy Fields Adventures

  Fields’ Guide to Abduction

  Fields’ Guide to Assassins

  Fields’ Guide to Voodoo

  Fields’ Guide to Fog

  Fields’ Guide to Pharaohs

  Meet Poppy Fields!

  Chapter One

  * * *

  If Chariss said it once, she said it a thousand times. “It’s a good thing you don’t want to be an actress. The only thing you’re fit for is screwball comedies and they’re dead.” Those words ran through my head.

  Not the actress part. I didn’t want to be an actress. That whole dive into real emotions and share them with the world thing? No, thank you.

  But the screwball comedy part? Chariss had a point. My life was a screwball comedy.

  How else to explain my current dilemma?

  I was naked and locked in a bathroom. A man I’d sworn never to speak to again slept on the other side of the door.

  I closed my eyes and saw myself as Kate Hudson which would make him Matthew McConaughey. He’d like the sexy part of that comparison. Even with my eyes closed I saw his slow grin—felt his slow grin. All the way to my toes.

  Nope. Never again.

  Never.

  Today was the start of a new life.

  No more drinking. No more clubs. No more sexy, dangerous men who were bad for me.

  Especially not the one in the bedroom.

  I crossed my heart, hoped to die (that might actually be happening—my head hurt that badly), and rested my forehead against the locked door.

  What did I drink last night? I had vague recollections of a bar. Dark pulsing lights. Dark pulsing music. Test tubes filled with something sweet. The man.

  The ridiculously sexy man.

  Jake.

  How many times could one woman make the same mistake? Apparently, a zillion.

  Or at least three.

  Why hadn’t I grabbed my phone before my mad dash to the bathroom?

  Screwball comedy. It was the only answer.

  I lurched (Frankenstein, but less graceful) to the sink, turned on the tap, and drank deeply. Straight from the faucet. My mouth wasn’t just dry. Dry would have felt like a spring shower compared to the arid wasteland behind my gums. I drank till my stomach sloshed then I ran my tongue over my teeth.

  Moss.

  Where the hell was the toothpaste? Not on the counter. Not in any obvious place. I rubbed a wet finger against my teeth. Better than nothing. Slightly. Then I held a hand in front of my mouth, exhaled, and sniffed.

  Ugh. If I wanted to get rid of Jake forever, all I had to do was breathe on him. How was it even possible for breath to smell that bad?

  I needed toothpaste and something—anything—for my headache.

  Where?

  The whole damned bathroom was white marble and mirrors (I would not look in those mirrors—would not). No drawers. No medicine cabinets. No razor or hairbrush or deodorant. No Ambien or Xanax or even Excedrin. Just white marble and a single bar of soap.

  I splashed water around my eyes, reached for the soap, and sniffed. Jo Malone. Jake’s favorite.

  The man hadn’t brought a toothbrush but he remembered his precious soap.

  The scents of lime, basil and mandarin did nothing for the roiling in my stomach but I washed my hands and face. After I rinsed, the scents—his scents—lingered.

  The towel I used was über-fluffy. Hotel fluffy.

  A hotel?

  Please, no. I squeezed
my eyes closed and broke out in a tequila-scented sweat.

  A walk of shame through a hotel lobby was more than I could bear. And if anyone took a picture… I rested my palms on the edge of the counter, opened my eyes, and faced the woman in the mirror.

  A celery-hued paleness in my cheeks spoke of a wild night. That and the bags beneath my bloodshot eyes. I could pack for Europe in those bags. And my hair? I poked at it. Gingerly. As if my finger might get stuck. I’d crossed a screwball comedy line—Kate Hudson would never look this awful.

  God help me if there were photographers in the lobby.

  I wrapped myself in a towel, staggered to the door, and pressed my ear against its cool expanse.

  Not a peep on the other side.

  I cracked the door.

  Thank God the room wasn't bright. As it was, I squinted into the lavender glow of early morning sneaking through the gaps in the drapes. The dim light revealed a dresser littered with glasses and a half-empty tequila bottle.

  There. Panties on the floor. Bra, black against the bed’s white sheets. Dress, draped across the chair. Shoes? I’d find them when I wasn’t naked.

  I tiptoed toward the panties. Tiptoed, because talking to

  the man in the bed might be the only thing worse than my headache.

  He didn’t move. Not an inch.

  I hooked the panties with my big toe (bending over wasn’t an option—my brains might leak out of my ears), kicked them into the air, caught them and, using the bedpost for balance, slid them on.

  With one hand still clutching the towel, I tiptoed to my side of the bed and reached for the bra tangled among the pillows. I tugged. And tugged. Dammit. I tugged harder and the wisp of silk and lace came free. I stumbled backward —thunk—right into the bedside table.

  A glass teetering on the table’s edge fell onto the hardwood floor and shattered.

  The crash reverberated through the bedroom—through my skull. Loud. So loud. Loud enough to wake the dead. I didn’t breathe. I didn’t move.

  Jake slept.

  The tequila bottle on the dresser snickered and wagged a judgmental finger at me. You’re so clumsy when you’re hung over.

  I narrowed my eyes and shot Señor Cuervo a death glare. Who was I kidding with the Señor? José and I were on a firstname basis. Go to hell, José.

  What would I say if Jake did wake up? About last night, remember when I said never again? I totally meant it. Now. This moment. This morning. Us. It’s a mistake. It won’t happen again. Ever. He’d just smile that cat-and-canary smile of his and charm me back into bed.

  Why? Why, why, why?

  I knew better.

  He knew better.

  But my life was a screwball comedy so, of course, I’d gone to bed with the man who’d broken my heart. Twice.

  I stood straighter. I was over him. Getting over him had taken more tears, bottles of tequila, and quarts of ice cream than I cared to count. But he’d been out of my system. And now this.

  If I snuck out without talking to him, my heart might not shatter.

  All I needed was my dress.

  A sea of broken glass separated me from the black silk. If I’d felt halfway decent, I could have leapt over the shards.

  I didn’t feel an eighth of the way decent. Every muscle in my body hurt. What exactly had we done to make my calves ache?

  Never mind—lalalalalala—I didn't want to know.

  If I stepped there and there and there, I could reach the dress without shredding my feet.

  One step. Two steps. Thre—

  “Son of a bi—” I clamped one hand over my mouth and hopped on my uninjured foot. Hop. Hop. Hop. Into the dresser.

  Thunk.

  Pain shot through my hip.

  That would leave a mark.

  The tequila bottle snickered again.

  Well. José and I were done. Forever. I meant it this time (unlike those other times—those other times were passing fancies). I shot him another death glare. Done. Adios. Finito.

  Don’t let the door hit you on the way out.

  José smirked.

  I planned my route to the damned dress. Just a few steps. Easy steps without a cut foot and an epic hangover.

  With both…

  I had this.

  Step.

  Step.

  One. More. Step.

  I leaned. I reached. I snatched the dress off the chair.

  Jake didn’t move. Thank God for small favors.

  I shimmied into my dress. Shoes? Where were they?

  I looked down at my feet. A pool of blood had formed beneath my toes.

  No way was I jamming a bloody foot into my new Louboutins. Maybe there was a bandage in that bathroom. At least there was a towel. I limped back to all that whiteness leaving a bloody trail behind me.

  The bathroom really was enormous. The glass shower enclosure was larger than most cars and the damned mirrors went on for miles. And there were towels. Lots of them. They batted their eyelashes at me—a come-hither invitation. God, I wanted a shower.

  As soon as I got home, I’d stand under a piping hot stream of water until last night’s sins (even the forgotten ones) were washed away.

  I crouched and poked on the flat surface of the cabinet below the sink until a door popped open. Inside, I found yet another stack of towels, washcloths, and an industrial size bottle of aspirin. Nothing else.

  First things first.

  Aspirin. I forged a long and valiant battle with the child-proof lid.

  Victory!

  I swallowed three pills, washing them down with more water from the tap. Then I grabbed a washcloth, sat on the toilet, and pressed the cloth against my foot.

  It felt good to sit. Spend-the-day-there good.

  If only he weren’t in the bedroom, liable to wake up at any time.

  I pulled the cloth away from my foot and eyed the cut. A shard of glass glinted in the morning light.

  Hell.

  I gritted my teeth and pulled the sliver out of my skin.

  More blood. An ocean of blood. I should-have-grabbed-two-washcloths blood.

  I pressed the crimson-soaked cloth against the cut. Pressure. That was the ticket.

  And another washcloth. That was the other ticket.

  I limped back to the sink, grabbed two additional cloths, and held them against my foot until the bleeding stopped.

  Then I returned to the bedroom.

  The light had shifted from lavender to lemon. And, God bless him, Jake still slept.

  I spotted my handbag (a black clutch just big enough for my cell, I.D., and credit card) on the dresser next to the tequila. Where were the shoes? I wasn’t leaving without them.

  There. One near the foot of the bed, the other on the floor near his head.

  I tiptoed to the shoe at the bottom of the bed, snagged the sandal, and hung it around my wrist from its strap. Then I crept toward the remaining shoe. Got it!

  Jake still hadn’t moved. At all.

  He was so deeply asleep I could brush one last kiss across his lips before I disappeared. He’d never know.

  Stupid? Totally. What if he woke up?

  But what if I walked away without kissing him one last time? A kiss I’d actually remember.

  My eyes filled with tears. I blamed the tequila-induced headache.

  I inched back the duvet.

  Jake’s head rested on a pillow and I took a few seconds to memorize his face in repose. He was handsome in a chiseled Hollywood movie-star way. His only visible flaw, a small crescent-shaped scar on his chin. The invisible flaws were many. I rubbed my eyes. I would not cry. Would not. My eyes were blood-shot enough already.

  He was more trouble than he was worth.

  He was too good looking. He was not my type. (Liar, liar.) He’d broken my heart. Twice.

  I leaned down and brushed a last kiss against his cheek.

  There. Done. No reason to stay. But I paused.

  His cheek was clammy.

  “Are you
sick?” My voice was hardly louder than the hum of the air conditioner.

  He didn't move.

  Of course he didn’t. He’d slept through my shattering crystal and hopping around the bedroom like a demented kangaroo. A little thing like a whisper would hardly wake him.

  The smart thing would be to sneak out. Disappear.

  But what if he needed help?

  I rested my hand against his forehead.

  His skin was damp and waxy.

  What was wrong with his mouth? Was that foam?

  “Jake!”

  He didn’t move. Not an inch. I poked him. “Jake!” Nothing.

  Oh my God. Oh. My. God.

  I stumbled backward. My heart thudded against my chest. My lungs refused to take in air.

  I collapsed into an armchair and pressed the heels of my palms against my eye sockets. One of my sandals scratched at my neck. I threw the stilettos onto the floor. Their red soles looked like blood.

  With shaking fingers, I reached for the phone on the bedside table and dialed 9-1-1.

  “What's your emergency?” The operator’s voice was cool and professional.

  “I need an ambulance.”

  “What's your emergency, ma'am?”

  “It’s my boyfr—it’s my—he’s cold and clammy and he’s not moving.”

  “Is he breathing?” asked the voice.

  “I can’t tell—” my voice caught “—I think he might have overdosed.”

  “Do you know his name, ma’am?”

  “Of course.” Heat rose from my chest to my cheeks. I wasn't that girl—the girl who woke up with questionable men. Except, this morning, I was. “His name is Jake Smith.”

  A few seconds ticked by. Seconds I spent staring at Jake’s pale face.

  “Are you there, ma’am?”

  “Yes.” Talking required effort, and between the pain in my head and the pain in my heart, I was fresh out of effort.

  “Where are you?”

  I looked around the bedroom for clues. There were none.

  “I don't know.” How pathetic was that?

  "Are you safe?" the operator asked.

  “Yes.”

  “What's your name?”