The two men looked up at me.
Anarchy rubbed his palms across his face.
Detective Peters, who, despite the sunshine, was wrapped in a rumpled overcoat, merely scowled.
“Who’s that?” Sarah rejoined Libba and me at the window. She pointed at Anarchy.
“Ellison’s boyfriend,” Libba replied.
Her eyes widened. “I thought he was a homicide detective.”
I swallowed a sigh. “He is.”
A few moments later, a uniformed officer ushered us down Winnie’s service stairs and into the backyard. All of us were happy to be out of the attic—all of us but Winnie. She expected to stay in her house.
Anarchy, with his cop-face firmly in place, stepped outside and approached us. Detective Peters followed him.
“Who’s the homeowner?” Anarchy asked.
“I am. I’m Winnie Flournoy. What’s going on?”
Anarchy ignored her question. “I take it you all were having some sort of exercise class?”
“The instructor locked us in the attic,” said Sarah.
Betsy glanced at her watch. “I have an appointment in less than an hour. May I leave? Please?”
Sharon merely yawned.
Anarchy waved over a uniformed policeman. “Officer Carson will take your statements. Ellison, Mrs. Flournoy, will you please come with me?”
We followed him to the far reaches of the patio. Libba trailed after us.
“What was your yoga instructor’s name, Mrs. Flournoy?” Anarchy asked.
“Marigold.”
“Do you have her last name?”
“Applebottom.”
Seriously? I glanced at Winnie. “Marigold Applebottom?”
Winnie didn’t look as if she were joking. She looked exhausted—as if answering Anarchy’s question had drained the last of her reserves. “That’s right.”
“How long has she worked for you, Mrs. Flournoy?”
“Since January. It was my New Year’s resolution to practice yoga six days a week. It started out with just me then some of my friends joined the class.”
“Do the same people come every day?”
“Heavens, no. They have bridge games and now that the weather is better, they have golf and tennis games. Sharon has a book club every other Wednesday. Libba is a spotty attendee—” Winnie glanced at Libba and shrugged “—I’m sorry but it’s the truth, dear. We never know when you’ll show up.” She shifted her gaze to me. “This is Ellison’s first time.”
Marigold Applebottom had been coming to Winnie’s house for more than three months but today—the one time I’d come (under duress)—was the day something happened. Lucky, lucky me. “Libba and I saw someone.”
“You what?” Anarchy’s coffee brown eyes widened.
“While we were locked upstairs, someone carrying a duffle bag climbed into a blue car and drove away.”
“What’s the big deal about that?” Detective Peters had snuck up on us. Maybe he couldn’t help his snide tone.
He could. He liked treating me like the village idiot.
“Whoever it was heard us yelling, saw us waving, and drove away.”
Peters snorted. “Maybe they didn’t want to get involved.”
I glanced up at Winnie’s Georgian home. “With towels hanging out the front window, you’d think he or she’d at least call for help.”
“What did he look like?” asked Anarchy.
“Average height. Tan windbreaker with a hood. I was too far away to see features.”
“What about the car?”
“American made and blue.”
Anarchy nodded. Slowly. As if he wished I’d been more observant.
“I’m sorry I’m not more help.”
“That’s okay.” He turned to Winnie and a sympathetic expression settled on his face. “Miss Applebottom is dead. We need someone to identify the body.”
Winnie paled. “Dead?” She swayed as if the spring breeze might knock her down.
“I’ll do it.” One of these days, I’d think before I spoke.
“You’re sure?” Winnie clutched my hand. “You don’t mind?”
Yes, I minded, but I’d seen enough bodies over the past months that one more wouldn’t give me nightmares. “I don’t mind.”
“Thank you, Ellison. You’re a good friend.”
I followed Anarchy into the foyer and stumbled to a halt.
Marigold Applebottom hung from a rope tied to the second-floor bannister.
“She killed herself?” That’s what it looked like. But that couldn’t be right. “What about the person in the street?”
“We were meant to think it was a suicide,” said Anarchy.
“But it was a murder?”
Peters snorted. He didn’t appreciate my stating the obvious.
I looked up at the woman. “That’s definitely Marigold.”
Anarchy nodded at a large man in a KCPD jacket. The man set a ladder under Marigold and lifted her body until the rope hung slack. Another man on the landing untied her.
The first man descended the ladder and gently placed Marigold’s body on the floor.
“Has Winnie been robbed?”
“Nothing seems to be disturbed.”
“When I discovered we were locked in the attic, I thought Marigold was a thief…” I couldn’t look at her another second. I shifted my gaze to one of the paintings hanging in Winnie’s front hall. “I bet she was helping the person with the duffle. She let him in. He stole whatever they were after. Then he killed her.”
Peters rubbed his chin. For the first time ever, he regarded me with something like respect. Then he remembered who I was, and he sneered, his upper lip brushing against his bushy mustache.
“You’re probably right.” Anarchy sounded tired. “Is there someplace Mrs. Flournoy can go?”
“Go?”
“It will take us hours to process this crime scene.”
“She can come to my house.”
We stepped onto the patio where Winnie and Libba waited.
“Is it her? Is she—” Winnie held a shaking hand against her mouth “—dead?”
I nodded. “You should come home with me.”
Winnie covered her eyes with her palms. “I need to call Lark.”
Detective Peters shook his head. “I’m sorry, ma’am, we can’t allow you inside until the scene is processed.”
Winnie was tall and thin, with a shingled haircut and good bones. Imposing. And, right now, she looked like the Angel of Death. If I’d been on the receiving end of the look she gave Detective Peters, I’d have retreated a few paces.
The only sign Peters even noticed was his mustache bristling.
“Come with me, Winnie. We’ll have coffee—” the ultimate enticement “—and I’ll loan you some clothes.”
“You’ve done enough, Ellison. If someone will bring me a jacket, I’ll wait here until I can get into my house.” She coupled this pronouncement with another Angel of Death glare at Detective Peters.
He shrugged. “Where do you keep the coats?”
“You’re sure you don’t want to come home with me?” It felt wrong leaving her alone in her leotard, with a passel of policemen. “I can stay.”
She shook her head. “If you’ll call Lark’s office and ask him to come home, that’s all I need.”
“Detective?” I added a heaping teaspoon of sugar to my voice and called after Peters’ retreating back. “Has anyone called Mr. Flournoy?”
He paused, stiffened, and walked on without replying.
“I’ll call Lark as soon as I get home.”
“Thanks, Ellison. For everything. If you hadn’t kept watch, we’d all still be locked in the attic.”
Our time in the attic—halcyon moments before I’d some
how become embroiled in another murder. Mother would be apoplectic.
Two
Libba tightened her hands around the steering wheel and stared straight out the windshield. “I’m sorry.”
“Sorry?”
She cut her gaze my way. “This morning wasn’t exactly the stress-reducer you were hoping for.”
“No. But that’s not your fault.”
Libba sighed and pulled into my circle drive, stopping the car near the front door. “Still, yoga was my idea.”
“It’s okay. Really. Do you want to come in? For coffee?”
“No, thanks. I’d rather go home and shower.”
Hot water wouldn’t wash away the stains left by murder. Being locked in a room while a woman was hanged to death downstairs made an indelible mark—one impervious to soap and hot water. I’d brushed against death often enough to know first-hand. Then I remembered Libba hadn’t seen Marigold hanging from the bannister. I sighed, opened the car door, and put my feet on the pavement.
“Call me—” she grabbed my hand and gave it a squeeze “—if you need to talk.”
“I will.”
I watched her drive away then opened the front door.
Max greeted me with a grin and take-me-running nudge of his head.
“You’ll have to wait,” I told him.
His ears drooped, and the dejected expression on his face would have broken a softer woman’s heart.
“I’m sorry, but I need to sit down for a few minutes.”
He followed me to the kitchen where he flopped onto his bed with a put-upon snort.
Aggie, my housekeeper, stood at the counter checking a list. She wore a daffodil-hued kaftan and had the glow of a woman who’d spent the whole weekend with a man who adored her. She smiled and a golden aura settled on her shoulders.
“Good weekend?” The answer was obvious.
She blushed and stuffed the list into her handbag (brown leather painted with smiley faces).
“How’s Mac?” Mac was the new man in Aggie’s life. He had the easy-going, eager-to-please disposition of a Labrador puppy. He sent Aggie flowers just because. He owned a deli that stocked my favorite Finocchiona salami. He made Aggie smile. I liked him.
Aggie’s blush deepened, and she hooked the handbag over her shoulder. “He’s fine.” She took in my current state and her dreamy smile faded away. “What happened?”
“I went to yoga with Libba, and the teacher was murdered.”
Aggie dropped her purse on the counter. “Sit down. I’ll make coffee.”
Aggie was good people.
I collapsed onto a stool, told her everything, and drank some of Mr. Coffee’s magic elixir.
“What can I do?” She topped off our mugs then rinsed the near empty pot.
I shrugged. “Nothing.”
“I was on my way to the market when you came home. I can pick up the ingredients for a Bundt cake—”
“Who would we take it to?”
She ceded my point with a quick nod of her chin.
“Go do your errands,” I told her. “I know you have things to accomplish today.”
She picked up her handbag. “I won’t be gone long.”
Max and I stood at the door as she drove away.
I scratched behind his ears.
He rubbed his head against my leg and looked up at me with liquid can-we-go-running-now eyes.
“Later. I promise.”
Brnng, brnng.
I let the phone ring three times—was tempted to let the answering machine pick up. But some masochistic streak deep within me had me reaching for the receiver. “Hello.”
“Tell me it isn’t true.” No hello. No how are you. Mother was deeply outraged.
I should have let the machine pick up. “Tell you what isn’t true?”
Mother huffed as if she didn’t have time for my foolishness. “Tell me you did not find a body at Winnie Flournoy’s.”
“I did not find a body at Winnie Flournoy’s.” I hadn’t found the body. Gertie Kleinman found the body.
“But you were there?”
“Yes.”
“And someone was murdered?”
“Yes. The yoga instructor.”
Mother’s answering silence spoke volumes.
I wrapped the phone cord around my fingers and waited.
“You were taking her class?”
“I was. She locked us in the attic.”
A moment of silence ensued.
“Maybe this is a good thing.”
I blinked in surprise. A good thing? Being locked in the attic or the murder? I was pretty sure Marigold Applebottom’s loved ones would consider her death a bad thing. “What do you mean?”
“You’ve found your body for the month. You won’t have to worry about someone being murdered at the gala.”
The gala. Against my better judgment, I’d agreed to be the chairman for the museum’s gala unveiling the Chinese exhibit. The exhibit would appear in only four cities—San Francisco, New York, Washington, D.C., and Kansas City—and the opening gala was a big deal. The committee and I had been planning and meeting and discussing flowers and food and table linens for months. Months. Now, the countdown was on. Only a few weeks remained to iron out the final details. The evening promised to be the social happening of the season. Mother lived in fear a murder would spoil the event. Given my track record, her worry was justified.
“I didn’t find Marigold’s body.”
“Marigold?” I could hear the curl of Mother’s lip.
“Yes.”
“What a name.”
I didn’t argue. Nor did I tell her about the Applebottom part of Marigold’s name.
“I didn’t mean that her murder was a good thing. It’s just that—” Mother thought my proximity to Marigold’s murder should count for something with the deity who regularly put dead bodies in my path.
If only I was that lucky.
“There’s been enough upheaval this month already.” Mother was absolutely right. And we’d barely dipped our toes into April. “You should be concentrating on the gala.” She was singing to the choir. “Promise me, Ellison, you won’t go looking for trouble.”
“I never do.”
Mother’s silence was louder than a jackhammer.
“I don’t.” Then, because I sensed she had more to say about my finding bodies, I added, “Listen, Mother, I’m a sweaty mess. I’m going to jump in the shower. May I please call you later?”
“I’m on my way out for bridge.” She exhaled loud enough for me to hear the depth of her worry. “Go. Take your shower. And try, Ellison, to stay out of trouble.”
“I will. Bye.” I hung up the phone.
Max lifted his head from his paws. A run? Now?
“Sorry, buddy. I promise I’ll take you. Later.” I had things to do.
He huffed his displeasure and lowered his head.
Ding, dong.
Seriously? What now?
Max leapt to his feet and took off down the hallway.
I followed at a more sedate pace. I didn’t want people on the front stoop, I wanted a shower. And there was something I needed to do before I stepped into a stream of hot water. Something I needed to check. Something important.
I opened the door.
Marsha Clayton stood on the other side. She took one look at my messy hair and sweat-stained leotard and said, “I’m sorry. I should have called first.”
I might look awful, but Marsha looked worse—like something the cat dragged in. Her face was pinched and pale. Her honey-blonde hair was a fright. Her lipstick had bled into the tiny lines around her mouth.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“You don’t know?”
“Know what?”
Her red-rimmed
eyes filled with tears. “I’ve grounded Debbie for a month.”
“Come in.” I beckoned Marsha inside before my nosy neighbor could pull out her binoculars. Then I hauled Max away from Marsha’s crotch—Marsha didn’t look as if she was in the mood for one of his exploratory sniffs. “What can I get you?”
“Nothing.”
“You’re sure?”
She nodded, and I led her into the living room.
“Please, have a seat.” I waved to the couch then settled into the club chair closest to her. Marsha didn’t say a word.
She glanced down at the hands clasped in her lap.
She bit her lower lip.
She tapped her twined fingers against her forehead.
“Marsha?”
She shook her head.
She wiped beneath her eyes.
She stared up at the ceiling.
“Marsha, what’s happened?”
I waited.
And waited.
She shifted her gaze to a still life hung on the far wall. “You’ve had a hard year.”
“Yes.” My husband had been killed, I’d been a suspect in his murder, then—much to Mother’s horror—I’d begun finding bodies.
“How do you…” she ducked her head.
“How do I what?”
“Find the strength to face the day?” Marsha spoke to her lap.
Oh. That. “I take one day at a time.”
“I never dreamed Debbie would lie to me.”
“She’s a teenager.”
She clasped her hands together—tight enough for her knuckles to whiten. “I know my friends are whispering. How do you deal with that?”
I had no idea what she was talking about—lying or whispering. “With what?”
“How do you handle your friends talking about you behind your back?”
Oh. That. I chose not to hear them. I’d learned long ago no one was perfect and if I expected too much I was destined for disappointment. Cheating husband. Friends who were sometimes less than loyal. A mother who did her best to manage my life. If I let those things bother me, I wouldn’t make it through a day.
“I know what people are saying.”
I resisted the urge to close my fingers around her shoulders and shake her. “About what?”
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