“Yes.” Who else would I take?
“I’d be honored.” He kissed me again—more than just a brush across my lips. This kiss curled my toes.
He broke away too soon. “I have to go.”
“Anarchy—” my voice stopped him from walking out the door “—you’re already investigating a murder. Why’d you get a second one?”
He grimaced. “I’m now the go-to guy for society murders.”
“Society murders? Who died?”
He brushed a last kiss across my already tingling lips. “A lawyer named John Wilson.”
Four
I poked at the doorbell and steadied the covered cake plate I held in my arms. The cake plate held a Bundt cake—chocolate drizzled with ganache. Winnie Flournoy had a well-known weakness for chocolate.
A chilly wind whistled past my ankles. I shivered and forced a smile.
I did not think about my promise to Mother—stay out of trouble. Trouble found me without my looking for it.
I did not think about how angry Anarchy would be if he caught me fiddling in his investigation. I wasn’t fiddling. Not really.
I did think about Henry’s file on Lark Flournoy, Lark’s collusion with a lawyer named John Wilson, and Anarchy’s latest case. Those thoughts had kept me up half the night. They’d driven me from my bed early in the morning. And they’d placed me on Winnie’s doorstep at the earliest decent hour.
Winnie opened the door and her brows lifted all the way to the mussed helmet of salt and pepper hair on her head. “Ellison.”
I held out the cake. “I thought you might need a pick-me-up.”
She winced and glanced over her shoulder to where Marigold’s body had dangled. “How kind. Please, come in.”
I stepped into the foyer and looked at the Kazak rug on the floor, the Picasso on the wall, and the treads on the stairs. I did not so much as glance at the bannister. Did not. Did not. Did. The body was gone. The rope was gone. Their memory hung in the air.
Winnie took the cake plate from me. “Let’s take this to the kitchen. I’ll make us some coffee to go with it.”
“I never say no to coffee.”
Winnie’s kitchen floor was covered in linoleum that looked like sandstone pavers. The cabinets were painted harvest gold and matched the appliances. A small glass-topped wrought-iron table surrounded by matching chairs sat in the breakfast nook.
Winnie put the cake on the table. “I’ll grab some plates and coffee. Make yourself at home.
I perched on one of Winnie’s wrought-iron chairs (the seats were upholstered in a harvest gold and avocado green plaid that matched the curtains) and looked out the window into the backyard.
Early daffodils in the raised beds along the back fence-line ignored the nip in the spring air and reached toward the weak sunlight. A Bradford pear near the brick patio looked as if it might bloom. In the kitchen, Mr. Coffee made familiar, comforting sounds.
“I wonder if spring will ever arrive.” Winnie put two plates, two dessert forks, and two plaid napkins on the table then crossed her arms over her chest as if she were cold.
“I hope it warms up soon.” I glanced again at the chilly back yard then shifted my gaze to my hostess. “How are you holding up?”
“I’ll be fine.” Her voice was suddenly thick, and she turned her back on me. “We need coffee.”
“I know how distressing something like this can be.”
Winnie stiffened. “I suppose you do.”
“If there’s anything I can do…”
She put two mugs, a creamer, and a bowl of sugar on the table then sat down across from me. The smile she gave me was too bright. “It’s kind of you to offer.”
“Of course.” I reached across the table and squeezed her hand.
She stood, pulling away from my touch. “I forgot a cake knife. We need a cake knife.”
A moment later she resumed her seat and cut us enormous slices of Bundt cake.
I sipped my coffee and watched as she took her first bite.
“Mmmmm. Delicious.”
“Aggie gets all the credit.” I picked up my fork. “How’s Lark handling all this?”
“Lark?” Her chin trembled.
I nodded and lifted the coffee mug to my lips.
“He blames me.” Her eyes filled with tears.
“Blames you?”
“I’m the one who invited Marigold into our home. I’m the one who was locked in the yoga studio while—” her voice broke and she held up a single finger and shook her head.
Taken in the right light, Lark had a tiny point. Winnie had invited Marigold in. But blaming Winnie wasn’t fair. Marigold had seemed like a nice young woman—right up until she locked us in the attic. “It’s not your fault she was murdered.”
“Lark doesn’t care about the murder—aside from the police and the gossip and the inconvenience of it all.” She shifted her gaze to her lap. “But someone ransacked his office.”
“Really?” I took a bite of Aggie’s cake and moaned softly—she had a way with chocolate. “What was taken?”
“Files of some sort. But Lark is beside himself that someone rifled through his papers.”
“I suppose he feels violated.”
“He does. But they’re just papers. He’s missing the bigger picture. Someone died. Violently. In our house. I liked Marigold. And then she—” Winnie crammed a large bite of chocolate cake into her mouth, chewed, and swallowed “—and then she betrayed me and got herself killed. Would you like some milk?”
For an instant, I was too surprised by the shift in her conversation to answer. “No. Coffee is great.”
“I want milk. I’ll be right back.”
Winnie poured milk into a glass and returned to the table.
“Marigold let someone into the house to search Lark’s office?”
Winnie took a giant gulp of milk and used her plaid napkin to wipe away the mustache on her upper lip. “What do you mean?”
“We were locked in the attic. Marigold and the person who killed her could have taken anything—your jewelry, your silver, the Picasso in the front hall—but they took papers from Lark’s office. It’s as if the killer planned to search his office, to take those papers.”
“You know—” Winnie tilted her head “—you’re right. My pearls weren’t in the safe. They were on my dressing table. Untouched. This robbery is Lark’s fault, not mine.”
I wasn’t walking down the blame pathway. Not today.
“What papers did they take?”
“Lark won’t tell me.” She ate the last bite of her cake then looked down at her plate as if all that chocolate had magically disappeared.
Sometimes I looked at my coffee cup the same way. “Any guesses?”
“Not one. I have no idea.”
I did. “Do you know a lawyer named John Wilson?”
“I shouldn’t but—” Winnie picked up the knife and cut herself another slice of cake “—it’s the best cake I’ve had in ages. Would you like some more?”
“No, thank you. John Wilson?”
Her eyes seemed to stare into the past. “What about him?”
He’d been murdered the same day as Marigold and had done something shady enough with Lark for Lark to be willing to pay—and pay—to keep it quiet. “His name came up last night. I can’t place him.”
“I can’t imagine you’ve ever met him. He’s a lawyer, he’s older than you by twenty years, and he and his family belong to Brookhaven.” Brookhaven was a country club considerably south of my normal haunts. I went there only when our club’s swim team swam against theirs.
“What kind of lawyer?” There were all sorts of lawyers—patent lawyers, estate lawyers, tax lawyers, plaintiff’s lawyers, defense lawyers, corporate lawyers, and criminal lawyers.
Winnie glanced
at my coffee cup—magically empty. “Would you like more coffee?”
“Please.”
She rose from the table, taking our coffee mugs with her. “I’m not sure what kind of law John practices. Although—” her brow creased and the stream of coffee flowing from the pot to my cup stopped “—he might be a plaintiff’s attorney.”
A plaintiff’s attorney represented a suing party in a lawsuit. Big-deal plaintiff’s lawyers wore bespoke suits and Rolex watches. Not-big-deal plaintiff’s lawyers chased ambulances. If Max did any further damage to my neighbor Margaret Hamilton’s property, I was fairly certain she’d engage a plaintiff’s attorney (one with an expensive watch)—not for the damage to her lawn (minimal) but for emotional distress and punitive damages (potentially huge).
“Has Lark had any cases with him?”
She resumed pouring. “He must have, or I wouldn’t recognize the name. But it’s been ages since I even thought of him.”
“You’re sure you don’t remember anything?”
She brought me my coffee. “I’m sure. Why?”
“No reason.” It wasn’t as if I could tell her about Henry’s blackmail. That her husband and John Wilson had done something, so long ago she couldn’t remember when, that might have got Wilson killed, wasn’t a tidbit for morning coffee. Especially not when I wasn’t sure.
When I arrived home, I painted. Mixing color and texture on canvas was a far better stress-reducer than yoga—at least for me.
My third-floor ballroom served as my studio—a room filled with shabby, comfortable chairs, a huge table covered with art books, and walls papered with sketches. Large dormers and skylights allowed plenty of natural light.
As my paintbrush, loaded with a cadmium yellow, touched the canvas, the tension fell from my shoulders.
I painted from memory—the brave little daffodils at the back of Winnie’s yard.
And, I pondered. And, I pondered. Should I tell Anarchy about the connection between Lark Flournoy and John Wilson? How could I explain their connection without mentioning Henry’s files?
I couldn’t.
Mentioning those files, revealing the depths of Henry’s vileness…I would never do that. Not to Grace. Not to myself.
My paintbrush slowed, and I stared at the flowers dancing in a chilly wind.
I might have stared for hours but Aggie called up the stairs. “Jennifer Howe’s cake pan and platter are clean.”
“Please tell me you tossed the rest of that salad.”
“Of course.”
“What can we put in the Bundt pan?” I couldn’t return an empty pan.
“How about some of my chocolate chip cookies?”
“Perfect. Thank you.”
“I’ll put it together right now.”
I cleaned my brushes and descended the stairs.
Jennifer’s pan sat next to the backdoor.
“You want that Bundt pan out of your kitchen?”
Aggie’s lips drew back in culinary disdain. “More than you can ever imagine.”
I picked up the pan and the cookies and scratched behind Max’s ears. “No. You can’t come.”
He huffed. I never let him do anything fun.
“I’ll be back soon.” I cut across my front yard with Jennifer’s Bundt pan and knocked.
Jennifer pulled open the door wearing a long, flowing, peasant print dress. She blinked when she saw me. “Ellison, what a lovely surprise!”
“I’m just bringing back your pan.” I held the Bundt pan out to her. Aggie had found a burlap gift sack for the cookies and tied it with a red ribbon.
“What is this?” Jennifer held up the sack.
“You’ll have to open it and see.”
“Please,” she said, “come in. Do you have time for coffee?”
“I always have time for coffee.” I stepped into her foyer.
“This way.” She led me to her kitchen where a Mr. Coffee identical to my own sat on the counter.
I watched as she went through the familiar steps of filling his reservoir, scooping coffee grounds into a filter, and pushing his button. Then came the heavenly sound and smell of Mr. Coffee at work.
I sighed.
“We have a percolator, but Marshall is convinced this machine makes better coffee.”
Marshall was right—except for the machine part. Mr. Coffee was more than that. “There’s a Mr. Coffee on my counter, too.”
“Would you care for cream or sugar?”
“Cream.”
We doctored our coffees then Jennifer asked, “Shall we sit in the sunroom?”
I followed her through her house—the Bohemian furniture at odds with the home’s Tudor bones—and into the room closest to my house. The room was positively bathed in sunshine.
Jennifer, with both hands wrapped around her coffee mug as if her fingers were cold, sank onto a settee draped with a sari. “I miss the sun.”
“You moved here in the winter. Spring will be better. And this summer you’ll get plenty of sun. Promise.” I settled into a wicker chair loaded with colorful pillows and took a sip of coffee.
“I’ll hold you to that.” Now she sipped. “Thank you for dinner last night.”
“You’re welcome to come anytime.”
“That’s kind of you.” She stared down into her coffee cup. “I meant what I said, I’d be happy to help Grace with math.”
“And we’d be grateful.”
Jennifer shifted her gaze to the tile floor. “I’d also be happy to help her friend.”
“Her friend?”
“When you were saying goodnight to Anarchy, Grace told me what happened to her friend, Debbie.”
Grace hadn’t told me. Not yet. What had happened?
Jennifer’s gaze remained fixed on the contents of her mug. “It happened to me when I was fifteen. My parents didn’t understand…anything. But they did understand I needed help. They arranged regular therapy for me. Talking helped.”
What happened to Debbie? “Um…I’m at a disadvantage. I don’t know what happened.”
“You don’t?”
“No.”
Jennifer’s face shuttered. “Grace didn’t tell you?”
“No.”
“I thought you were open and honest with each other.”
I blinked. “We are. We’re also busy. We haven’t had time to talk about Debbie.”
Jennifer’s face cleared.
“What happened to Debbie?” I asked.
“She was assaulted.”
Well, that explained why Marsha showed up at my house looking worse that Jennifer’s Jell-O salad. “That happened to you?”
She nodded. “It’s important for Grace’s friend to know she’s not alone. There are people she can talk to, people who will listen, people who won’t judge.”
“You’ve helped other girls?”
“When I lived in California, I volunteered with an agency that helped victims. Grace’s friend should know she isn’t to blame; the man who hurt her is.”
I didn’t reply. Not for one minute did I believe Debbie was to blame.
“Do you disagree?” There was an edge to Jennifer’s voice.
“I agree.” And my heart bled for Debbie and her family. “We teach our children to look both ways before crossing the street, to wash their hands before eating, not to talk to strangers. All to keep them safe. And then something like this happens.” I shook my head.
“It’s heartbreaking and the scars on her psyche will take years to fade.”
“Are you sure you don’t have a degree in psychology?”
Jennifer laughed. “I’m sure. I did one stupid thing as a teenager.” She held up a single finger. “One. After that, I changed schools. My family struggled. To this day, my father blames me—not for the assault—but for t
he decision that put me at risk.”
“What happened to the boy?”
“He went to college then found a job with a movie studio in Hollywood.”
“So, nothing?”
“Nothing.” A tiny smile flitted across her lips. “Not until a car flattened him like a pancake. It makes me an awful person, but I can’t help thinking his death is karmic justice.”
“Hopefully, the man who hurt Debbie will go to jail.”
“Will the family press charges? Is she the type of girl to testify?”
It seemed unlikely. “I don’t know.”
“Because I can tell you what the man’s lawyer will say—that she wanted it. She went to that bar, she drank too much, and she led him on.”
“Did you testify?”
“I did not.” She clasped her hands in her lap. “My parents’ lawyer told me the kinds of questions I’d be asked.” She glanced down at her hands. “At fifteen, testifying sounded like a second assault. I couldn’t do it.” She looked up. “The decision was the right one for me. The same thing happened to my husband’s sister. But she testified. What happened in the courtroom damaged her as much as the rape.”
“What happened?”
“The defense attorney put her on trial.”
“How awful.”
She nodded and a single tear balanced at the corner of her eye. “The man who raped her was acquitted. Katherine, that was her name, never fully recovered from that. She killed herself.”
Five
Six o’clock found me on the couch in the family room, reading about John Wilson’s death in the evening paper. The police were investigating all leads and urged citizens with information to come forward.
I reached for the glass of wine on the coffee table in front of me and lowered the newspaper to my lap.
I didn’t have information. Not really. I had guesses and suppositions and a creepy-crawly-make-my-spine-tingle feeling.
I sipped my wine and considered turning on the evening news.
Max, who’d stretched out in front of what might be the last fire of the season, chased a rabbit or squirrel in his sleep.
Above me, the barely discernible thump of bass from Grace’s tape deck beat a steady rhythm.
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