TELEPHONE LINE

by Julie Mulhern

  “They’re saying we’re bad mothers because our girls went to that awful bar.”

  “What bar?”

  “Dirty Sally’s.”

  Oh dear Lord. “When?”

  “Saturday night.”

  I exhaled. “Grace didn’t go to a bar on Saturday night.”

  “Yes, she did.”

  “Grace was with me.”

  “That can’t be right.”

  It most certainly could. “Grace and I had dinner with my parents (a command performance) then we came home, made popcorn, and watched the late movie.”

  “But Debbie said Grace was with her.”

  “Debbie stretched the truth.” Debbie had lied through her just-out-of-braces teeth. “What happened at this bar?”

  “You’re sure Grace was with you?”

  “Positive.”

  Marsha’s cheeks paled, and she stood so abruptly she nearly knocked over the couch.

  “Marsha, what happened?”

  “Debbie—” she pressed her hand against her mouth “—came home drunk.”

  “Making mistakes is how teenagers learn.”

  A half-gasp half-sob rose from deep in Marsha’s lungs. “I’m deeply disappointed in her. She swore to me that Dirty Sally’s was Grace’s idea.”

  “Grace was with me.”

  “Don’t worry about what people say. Ignore everything. It’s one weekend. It’ll be forgotten as soon as a major scandal hits.” Like Marigold Applebottom swinging from Winnie and Lark Flournoy’s banister.

  A tear ran down Marsha’s cheek. “I’m not like you. I’m not strong. I care when people say I’m a bad wife or mother.”

  Much of my sympathy for Marsha dried up. “What do other people’s opinions matter? Debbie matters.”

  She sniffed. A wet sniff. “I could kill them both. Debbie and the—” she held a fist against her mouth “—Debbie and whoever convinced her to go to that bar.” Marsha lifted her gaze and stared into my eyes. “I really could kill them.”

  “I understand.” I didn’t. Not unless there was something—something major—Marsha had neglected to tell me.

  “And Bill.” Again her teeth gnawed at her lower lip. A fresh veil of tears dampened her cheeks.

  Bill was Marsha’s husband. “What about him?”

  “He’s just destroyed. It’s as if something inside him has collapsed.”

  Something very major.

  “Marsha, what happened?”

  She waved me off. “I’m sorry to have disturbed you with this. I’ll see myself out.”

  When Marsha left, I leaned against the front door. What in the world had that been about? Grace would know.

  With a sigh, I tiptoed into my late husband’s study and closed the door. Tiptoed because I didn’t want anyone—not even me—to realize what I was about to do.

  My late husband had done things I didn’t like to think about.

  True, he’d been an upstanding member of the community. True, he’d been a good provider. True, he’d adored our daughter. But Henry’s faults as a husband outweighed the good.

  He’d cheated on me with friends. He’d cheated on me with strangers. He’d cheated on me with women who carried handcuffs and whips.

  To say our marriage wasn’t in the greatest shape before I did the unforgivable was an understatement.

  My unforgivable sin?

  I earned more money than he did.

  The first year was a fluke.

  The second year was a problem. A big problem.

  Money was the yardstick by which Henry measured his manhood. And all of a sudden, his wife’s stick was longer than his. Proving he was still in charge, in control, the master of the universe, became his number one priority. Proof could be found dominating me in the bedroom. When I declined to play with his toys (handcuffs and whips), he’d turned first to other women then to ferreting out our friends’ secrets.

  He extorted money from a surprisingly long list of people.

  It wasn’t about the money (we had plenty). For Henry, it was about control. When he had someone’s secret, he controlled them. He had the power. He was the master of the universe (at least in his own mind).

  I didn’t know about Henry’s blackmail hobby until he died, until I found his files.

  That discovery had been a shock.

  Unsure of what to do, I’d left the files where I found them, locked in the safe in his study. The extortion had stopped.

  I spent sleepless nights wondering what to do. Return the files? But how? Burn them? Did his victims think their blackmailer had just disappeared? Died? Run away to Bali? Ended up in prison?

  One thing was certain. I could never reveal what Henry had done. Our daughter didn’t need to carry the weight of her father’s sins.

  I should have fed the files into the living room fire over the winter, but I’d put them out of my mind. I’d shoved them into a tiny closet in my brain and thrown away the key. I’d forgotten about them on purpose. Until today.

  Until a murder happened in one of Henry’s victim’s houses.

  I sat on the edge of my late husband’s desk and stared at the safe (Pandora’s box). I racked my brain but failed to recall Lark Flournoy’s secret. I couldn’t remember a single detail—I just remembered he possessed a secret he’d paid to keep quiet.

  I pushed off the desk, wiped my damp palms against my tights, and spun the safe’s dial.

  The door swung open, and I gazed into the safe’s depths. Henry’s files were alphabetized. Flournoy rested near the middle.

  With the file in my shaking hand, I settled into a chair and spread the papers across the massive expanse of Henry’s desk. My husband had made meticulous notes—as if neatness counted in blackmail. My stomach twisted—there was something wrong about peeking at my friends’ deepest secrets. The act felt dirty. Despicable. No wonder Henry had enjoyed it so.

  With the tips of my fingers, I moved the pages and read.

  Ten years ago, Lark had colluded with an attorney named John Wilson. Together they’d thrown a case. Henry was thin on the facts of the case but eloquent on the repercussions. If Henry went public, Lark would be disbarred. Problematic for a district judge.

  At least now I knew Lark wasn’t cheating on Winnie (or he hadn’t been when Henry was gathering information).

  Tap, tap.

  I jumped as if I’d been doing something wrong. “Yes?”

  “It’s me,” said Aggie. “I just wanted to let you know I’m back.”

  “Thank you.” I leaned my head against the back of the chair and rested my hands on my knees until they stopped shaking. “I’ll be out in a minute.”

  “Do you want anything?” Aggie sounded worried—me spending time in Henry’s study was a reason for concern. I avoided the room for multiple reasons: the contents of the safe, the lingering memory of the body I’d found sprawled across the carpet, my inability to find a decent decorator. “How about coffee?” she asked.

  I wanted wine. And a bath. “Not right now.”

  Aggie’s worry (I never turned down coffee) seeped through the door’s eight panels. “I picked up a chicken for dinner tonight. I thought I’d roast it.”

  “Sounds delicious.”

  “What time is she coming?”

  “What time is who coming?”

  “Your new neighbor.”

  I sagged in the chair. “Is that tonight?”

  “Yes.”

  Ugh. Jennifer and Marshall Howe had relocated from California, knew no one, and Marshall traveled. I couldn’t imagine living in a city where I didn’t know a soul, couldn’t imagine spending night after night alone in a big house with no one for company. I’d invited Jennifer to dinner. When I’d asked her, I hadn’t anticipated a murder. But it wasn’t as if I could call and uninvite her. “I
told her five thirty for drinks. We can eat at half-past six.”

  “You’re sure you’re all right?”

  “Positive.” I pictured Aggie leaning her forehead against the door and added, “I’ll be done in here in a minute.”

  I jammed the papers back in the file, put the file in the safe, and locked Henry’s collection of horrible secrets away. Then I went to the guest bathroom and scrubbed my hands with French-milled soap. The suds did nothing to wash away the filthy things my husband had done, but at least my skin smelled like hyacinths.

  Max poked his head into the powder room. A run? Please?

  It didn’t make much sense to shower before a run. “Fine.”

  He wagged his stub of a tail.

  I trudged up the stairs—no way was I wearing tights and a leotard out of the house again.

  Max followed me with an enormous grin on his face.

  At least one of us was happy.

  Three

  “Ellison?”

  “Good evening, Mother.” I glanced at my watch. Uh-oh. Mother never called during cocktail hour. I braced myself against the kitchen counter.

  “I just hung up the phone with Claudia Dillaire.”

  “Who?”

  “Claudia Dillaire. She was Claudia Valmont.”

  Claudia’s maiden name wasn’t helping. “Who?”

  “We went to college together then she married Charles Dillaire and moved to San Francisco.” Mother’s tone said I should know this.

  “You’ve never mentioned her.”

  “Of course I have.”

  She hadn’t. I wrapped the phone cord around my finger and waited for whatever was coming next.

  “Claudia says the San Francisco gala for the Chinese exhibit netted a million dollars.”

  I might not know Claudia Dillaire, but she’d landed me smack in the middle of a bowl of egg-drop soup. The Kansas City gala wouldn’t make anywhere near a million dollars.

  “She says New York and Washington will make similar amounts.”

  I tightened my grip on the edge of the counter; I knew what was coming.

  “Why aren’t you raising that much?”

  “Kansas City isn’t San Francisco or New York or Washington.” The museum had set a goal, and I’d exceeded it.

  “And it never will be with that kind of thinking.”

  San Francisco had stoned hippies sleeping on the streets, New York had sanitation strikes, and Washington had politicians. Kansas City was fine the way it was. “We’re a smaller city.”

  “Ellison—” here it came, the pronouncement from on high that would upend my life “—you need to raise more money.”

  “Mother, the gala is only a few weeks away. All the major sponsorships are sold.”

  “How much money will you raise?”

  “Three-hundred-sixty-thousand dollars.” It was a princely sum.

  “That’s nowhere near a million. We have to get to work.”

  “The museum is happy with the number.”

  “Laurence would be happier with a million.” Undoubtedly true.

  “I am not raising a million dollars. It cannot be done.” Uh-oh. I should have kept my mouth shut. It cannot be done was as good as waving a red cape in front of a raging bull.

  “Of course it can.”

  “Mother, I don’t have any more tables available.”

  “We’ll squeeze them in.”

  “Mother—”

  “What time does the museum open? I’ll call Laurence first thing in the morning.”

  I hoped for Laurence’s sake that he had a morning full of appointments that kept him far from the telephone “The museum opens at ten but—”

  “But nothing. I refuse to be outdone by people who already think Kansas City is a cow town.”

  She would not be outdone?

  “If they thought so little of Kansas City, the exhibit wouldn’t be coming here.” It was a reasonable argument. But reasonable arguments didn’t always work with Mother.

  “This exhibit is Kansas City’s opportunity to shine.”

  The city owed the exhibit to Laurence Sickman. The museum director was a world-renowned expert on Chinese art. It was his reputation and influence that had secured the exhibition. That a limited-time, world-class collection of art was coming to Kansas City was a coup, a feather in the city’s cap, and, as my daughter Grace would say, totally awesome. But none of that mattered to Mother, not unless I matched San Francisco’s fundraising. “Mother, those other cities are much bigger than we are. There’s a larger pool of potential donors.”

  “Pffft.”

  “You’ve chaired countless events. You know the realities.”

  “I know this: we will not be shown up by the coasts.”

  Oh dear Lord. “Where do you propose we find six-hundred-fifty-thousand dollars?”

  “I have a few ideas.” The sudden silkiness in her voice had me worried.

  I scrunched my eyes closed and waited.

  “Call Gregory.”

  “Greg? You want me to call Greg for money?”

  “I’m not calling him.” Of course she wasn’t. Mother didn’t approve of my sister’s husband. But that was partially Marjorie’s fault. Greg was from Ohio. When Marjorie told Mother her fiancé was in the rubber business, Mother assumed tires. It was an assumption Marjorie did not correct.

  It was too bad Mother found out about the King Cobra and the rest of Greg’s product line the weekend of the wedding.

  “Why would Greg support an event three states away from where he lives?”

  “Because you’re family, and because you saved his marriage.”

  True. But Marjorie might (would) have opinions about her husband writing an enormous check. “I’ll call him, but you have to deal with Marjorie when she finds out.”

  “Done. Ask him for a hundred thousand.”

  I gasped. Six figures?

  “Let me know how much he gives you.” The tap of Mother’s nails against the surface of her desk came through the phone line.

  “You want me to ask Greg for a hundred thousand dollars?” Had she lost her mind?

  “He won’t give you that much, but if you start high, you might get fifty. This is your gala, Ellison.”

  “Meeting the museum’s goal is good enough for me.”

  “There is no way I’m letting you lose.”

  “It’s not a contest.”

  “Of course it is.”

  “Mother—” maybe I could reason with her (and maybe Gloria Steinem and Hugh Hefner would run away together) “—this is ridiculous.”

  “Ellison, you will raise more money than anyone else.”

  I glanced at the clock on the kitchen wall. Our new neighbor was due any minute.

  “I have another question for you.”

  Another one? I sank onto the nearest stool. “What?”

  “Who’s escorting you?”

  The question rendered me mute.

  “Did you hear me?”

  “Yes.”

  “He’s taking you, isn’t he?”

  He. Anarchy Jones.

  “I haven’t asked him yet.”

  Mother breathed a relieved sigh. “Ask Hunter to take you. I’m sure he’d be delighted.”

  “I’m asking Anarchy.” Just as soon as I screwed up my nerve. This gala was—well, he’d have to deal with Mother and her friends, subtle and not-so-subtle snubs, and a date who had responsibilities. Would he take off running? If he did, could I blame him?

  “Taking that man is a mistake. He won’t know anyone, and you won’t have time to entertain him.” Mother had put serious thought into her argument. Which meant she’d anticipated my answer.

  “Anarchy can take care of himself.” If only Mother’s argument didn’t mirror my
worries.

  “Would you enjoy a policeman’s ball?”

  Probably not. But if I went with Anarchy, I wouldn’t care. Hopefully he felt the same way about the gala. “Mother, this is really none of your business.”

  “My child is not my business?”

  “I’m not a child.”

  “Semantics.”

  “I’m grown with a daughter of my own. I’ll date who I want.”

  “There’s no reasoning with you.” Pot. Kettle. Black.

  Max scratched at the back door. He wanted out. He cast me a hurry-up-and-do-as-I-demand look.

  I rose from the stool and opened the door, stretching the phone cord.

  Max sauntered onto the patio and surveyed his domain. No rabbits or squirrels challenged his supremacy. But they might. He had to be ready. Constant vigilance—that was his motto.

  “I just think you’d have a better time with Hunter.” Mother wasn’t giving up.

  “And you’re welcome to think that.”

  The put-upon sigh that traveled the phone line let me know what a huge disappointment I was.

  Ding, dong.

  “Mother, our new neighbor is here for dinner. I have to go.”

  “Think about what I said.”

  “I’ll talk to you later.”

  “And call Greg.”

  “Hanging up now.” I returned the receiver to its cradle and hurried down the hall.

  The woman on the front stoop was tall. Five-foot-eight-in-her-stocking-feet tall. And thin. Women-lived-on-grapefruit-and-Dextrin-to-be-that-thin thin. And young. How-could-they-possibly-afford-a-house-in-this-neighborhood young. She wore a peasant skirt, platform boots, and a loose sweater belted with a braided leather sash. She had shaggy hair, blue eyes, and a smattering of freckles on her nose. The tan she’d brought to Kansas City was fading, but she still looked like a sun-kissed gypsy. She held a covered cake plate.

  “Jennifer—” I opened the door wider “—please, come in.”

  My new next-door neighbor stepped into my foyer, gazed at me from underneath a forehead full of bangs, and handed me the plate in her arms. “I brought a salad.”

  A salad? Whatever was hiding beneath the cake plate weighed ten pounds. “How thoughtful. Grace—” Grace had appeared out of nowhere “—would you please run this to the kitchen?”