“No. Ellison might need help with the cat.”
“You’re sure? Because I’m happy to give you a ride.”
“I’m sure. Thanks for the offer.” Libba hurried toward the front door, leaving me, Mother, and Johnnie on the lawn.
“She makes it almost too easy,” said Mother.
I hadn’t imagined that small smile. It graced Mother’s face now.
“She hates being told what her mother—God rest her soul—would have to say about her behavior.”
“You didn’t mention her mother.”
“But I would have mentioned her on the drive back. Libba knew it.” Mother looked at the scotch. “No more drinking straight from the bottle, Ellison. And, if you must drink, please refrain from doing so in public.”
“Of course.”
“No more bodies.”
“I’ll do my best.”
“You and Grace will join us for Sunday dinner?” It wasn’t a question.
I nodded. “Okay.”
Mother turned on the sensible heel of her sensible pump and returned to her car.
I followed Libba up to the house.
The front door was still unlocked, and we opened it slowly.
“Beezie?”
The cat didn’t answer me.
“The coast is clear,” I whispered.
We tiptoed through the foyer and into the kitchen where Beezie ate from his bowl full of smelly tuna. The cat stood between me and my purse.
He hissed at us.
We backed up.
“What now?” Libba demanded.
“We wait until he’s done eating. When he leaves the kitchen, we’ll grab my purse.”
“What do we do in the meantime?” she whined.
“Retreat.”
After Peters’ passage, the living room was even more of a shamble. I returned the seriously dented bottle of Johnnie Walker to the liquor cabinet.
Libba bent, picked up a handful of papers, and put them on the writing desk in the corner. Then she collapsed on the couch. “How long does it take a cat to eat?”
“No idea. I’m a dog person. Max doesn’t eat his food, he inhales it.”
Libba lifted her feet onto the coffee table and leaned her head against the sofa cushions. “What was that man looking for?”
We both considered the living room. Herend cats covered every surface. Cats arching. Cats wearing that slit-eyed expression they wear so well. Cats batting at imaginary bits of twine. A cat playing the fiddle. Cats stretching. Cats balancing on balls. Cats.
“I have no idea.”
“Well—” Libba tilted her head until the tip of her chin pointed to the ceiling “—either Winnie or Lark has a deep, dark secret.”
“You’re probably right.” Lark. It was Lark. And it probably had something to do with an old case.
“Whatever it is, it’s big enough and bad enough to commit murder.”
I made a noncommittal sound.
“We’re stuck in here,” said Libba.
“So?”
She lifted her head from the cushion. “We should look for it.”
Obviously. “It?”
“The burglar was going through papers. Where would you hide papers?”
“In a safe.”
We both eyed the paintings on the walls. Did their frames hide a safe?
“You look,” said Libba. “I’m too tired.”
“Yes, flirting with firemen is terribly draining.”
She wrinkled her nose and stuck out her tongue. “It is.”
I peeked behind every painting in the room and found nothing. “Any other ideas?”
Libba stretched her arms over her head and yawned. “Not a one.” She swung her feet to the floor. “Let’s check on that darned cat.”
We tiptoed back to the kitchen where Beezie’s empty bowl was the only sign of his presence.
I put Beezie’s bowl in the dishwasher, grabbed my purse from the counter, and paused. Somewhere in this house there was a secret worth killing for. What was it? Could I find it?
Libba looked at me expectantly. “We’re not going to find it. Let’s go.”
“Fine.” I could always come back later.
Eight
I peeked into the small card room at the club—the one overlooking the golf course.
My friend Jinx, the queen of gossip, was already at the table playing solitaire. She looked up, spotted me, and an avid smile touched her lips. “Oh, good. You’re here! How are you? I was going to call but—”
But she knew she’d see me at our weekly bridge game and hearing Winnie’s story in person trumped hearing it sooner, but over the phone.
“—I knew your phone had to be ringing off the hook.”
I took my seat at the table. The one facing the doorway.
“Were you really locked in the attic while Winnie’s yoga instructor was murdered?”
“Yes.”
“And did someone really run down Lark?”
“Yes. He’s still hospitalized.” I really ought to call and check on him.
“And someone poisoned Winnie?”
“Yes.”
One-word answers would never satisfy Jinx. She’d dig and dig and dig. That I obviously didn’t want to talk about Winnie made no never-mind. Where were Libba and Daisy? Late. As usual. The real question was why hadn’t I had the foresight to be even later?
Jinx rested her arms on the table and leaned toward me. “Who slipped Winnie poison?”
“Why are you asking me?” How someone slipped Winnie poison remained a mystery. That a waitress who’d worked at the coffee shop for years would suddenly start poisoning her customers’ soup stretched credulity. But doctors confirmed poor Winnie had definitely been poisoned. Who and how were questions I hadn’t answered.
She leaned even closer. “Everyone says you find bodies, but I know the truth.”
“The truth?” My voice was faint.
“You solve murders.”
Not on purpose. I said as much.
“That just makes it more impressive.”
“I hope you don’t share that observation with anyone.” Ever.
She reached across the table, caught my hand, and squeezed. “Of course not. I’ll never forget what you did for me and George.”
“It’s not as if I investigate.”
“Of course not. But if you were investigating—”
I glanced at the door. “If I were investigating—and I’m not—I’d ask you what you know about John Wilson.”
“The name’s not familiar.”
“Brookhaven.”
She wrinkled her nose. “So far away.” Code for not-our-kind. Jinx and I lived in the Country Club District, where three golfing clubs and two tennis clubs ate up a healthy amount of prime real estate. Except for a downtown dining club with a breath-taking view of the river, those Country Club District clubs were where we held large committee meetings, teas, showers, annual meetings, cards, parties, and dinners. The clubs outside the district, while undoubtedly lovely, weren’t ours. “But I’ll let you know if I hear anything.”
I squeezed her hand—a warning squeeze. “Jinx, be discreet.”
“I always am.”
That didn’t deserve a response. Well, it did. Jinx was discreet like Cher was modest. But arguing with her wouldn’t be helpful. Also, one of my least favorite people in the world stood in the doorway looking down the length of her exceedingly long nose. Prudence Davies’ eyes glittered with malice. “I heard Grace got into trouble on Saturday night.”
“You heard wrong.”
“I heard she went to some bar named Skanky Sally’s.”
“Grace was with me on Saturday night.”
“Sure she was.” Prudence obviously didn’t believe
me.
I’d about had it with Prudence. And her long, nosy nose. And her long, horsey teeth. And her long, unspeakable history with my late husband—Prudence was one of the many women with whom Henry cheated. “As someone who claims to have loved Henry, I’d think you’d understand why Grace wanted to be with her family on her father’s birthday.”
Prudence’s cheeks flushed—a deep scarlet and her lower jaw dropped. “Henry’s birthday?”
Jinx tittered.
“Isn’t this cozy?” Libba elbowed past Prudence, stopped, and stared. “What’s wrong, Prudence? You’re as red as a brick. Did Ellison one-up you? Again?”
Prudence snapped her mouth closed and glared at Libba with raw hatred in her eyes.
I searched for something to say—something to diffuse the situation—something to dissuade Prudence from ripping our eyes out with the tips of her manicured nails.
“Am I late?” Now Daisy slipped past Prudence. “What am I saying? Of course I’m late. I’m always late.” She glanced back at the doorway. “That’s a pretty skirt, Prudence.”
Prudence wore a green wrap skirt embroidered with blue and yellow umbrellas.
“Perfect for April,” Daisy continued.
With one last, hate-filled glare, Prudence turned on her heel and left.
“What?” Daisy, whose character included actual kindness, looked distressed. “What did I say?”
“It wasn’t you,” Libba assured her.
Daisy sat. “It must be awful to go through life feeling bitter and miserable.”
“Not everyone can be Pollyanna,” Jinx replied.
Daisy, who was more Pollyanna than Pollyanna, smiled as if she’d missed Jinx’s barb, and spread the deck. “Shall we draw for the deal?”
Jinx drew the ace of spades.
“I guess we know who’s dealing.” Daisy picked up the second deck and shuffled.
Libba cut the cards for Jinx.
Jinx dealt. “Ellison, what was Prudence talking about? What’s Skanky Sal’s?”
“The name of the bar is Dirty Sally’s—”
“Tomato. Tomahto,” Jinx replied.
I wasn’t about to quibble. “A couple of Grace’s friends went there on Saturday night and listened to a band.”
“Why was Prudence so—” Jinx searched for a word.
“So Prudence?” Which was to say bitter, miserable, and mean. “She’s stirring up trouble because the girls aren’t old enough to go to a bar.” There was no way I was mentioning a single word about what happened to Debbie.
Libba yawned—her interest in teenage drama being nonexistent. “Are you recovered from this morning?”
“Are you?” I replied.
Libba touched her scalp.
“What happened this morning?” Jinx picked up her cards.
“Ellison is feeding Winnie’s cat while she’s in the hospital.”
“That’s kind of you.” Daisy arranged her hand.
“This cat—” Libba touched her hair “—it’s possessed by the devil.”
“Well then it’s doubly nice of you, Ellison.” Daisy’s smile was warm.
“I thought you didn’t like cats.” Jinx squinted at the cards fanned in her hand. “One club.”
“I prefer dogs. Pass.”
“One heart,” said Daisy.
“I went with her. That cat is a menace.” Libba ran the tip of her finger over the top edge of her cards. “One spade.”
“Two hearts,” said Jinx.
I held four spades and nine points. “Two spades.”
“Beezie,” said Libba. “That’s the cat’s name. I bet that’s short for Beelzebub.”
Daisy passed.
“Four spades.” Libba snapped her cards closed and glanced across the table at me. “What kind of band plays at a place called Salty Sally’s?”
“Dirty Sally’s,” I corrected.
“Pfft.”
Jinx leaned back in her chair. “Pass.” She played the ace of hearts.
“I have no idea about the band.” I laid down the dummy hand. “I don’t even know where Dirty Sally’s is.”
“Just be glad Grace wasn’t there,” said Jinx. “I wonder what kind of trouble the girls got into.”
That I knew.
“What are you all talking about?” Daisy had missed Prudence’s opening salvo. She pitched the two of hearts.
“Grace’s friends snuck into a bar.” Libba played the nine of hearts.
Daisy swept the trick. “And that’s news? I figured you’d be talking about what happened to Winnie.”
“Which part?” asked Libba. “The yoga instructor who was killed in her foyer, Lark being hit by a car, or the poisoning?”
Poor Winnie—she’d had a bad few days by any standards.
“I can’t imagine Winnie’s too upset about the yoga teacher,” said Daisy.
We all stared at her.
“She was hanged off Winnie’s banister.” Libba’s voice was unexpectedly gentle.
“I heard. So sad.” A frown flitted across Daisy’s pretty face. “But she was sleeping with Lark.”
Libba and Jinx gaped above the fan of cards in their hands.
I merely gaped. “What?”
Daisy nodded. “Lark was having an affair with that woman.”
“How do you know?” Jinx demanded.
Daisy, who was looking less like Pollyanna with each passing second, glanced at the empty doorway then leaned forward. “Remember last month when Charlie sheared the hair off Annie’s Barbies?” Daisy’s many children were constantly at each other’s throats.
“What does that have to do with Winnie?” asked Jinx.
“Annie was absolutely furious. She flushed about a hundred of Charlie’s Hot Wheels down the toilet—one after the other.”
“Sounds reasonable,” said Libba.
“It was awful. Those cars backed up our plumbing all the way to the street. We had to spend two days in a hotel while the plumbers snaked all the pipes. We found a hotel with an indoor pool.”
Jinx’s nose twitched. She scented juicy gossip. “And while you were there, you saw Lark with Marigold?”
“How do you know it was Marigold?” I asked. To my knowledge, Daisy had never met Marigold.
“How many women named Marigold do you meet sitting poolside at a Holidome?”
None of us had an answer.
“She checked in early and came down to the pool.” Daisy shook her head. “You should have seen the look on Lark’s face when he recognized me.”
“You never mentioned this before.” Jinx sounded put out.
“I didn’t think of it.”
“You’re kidding?” Jinx’s tone said we should have heard this story weeks ago.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t remember till now. The kids have been sick, and Ellison found a body—”
“Ellison is always finding bodies.” Libba dispensed with that excuse.
“Well, she found a sister, too. We’ve had lots to talk about. Stuff far more interesting than Lark cheating on Winnie. And—” her chin rose and her slightly defiant gaze traveled the table “—I didn’t realize she was Winnie’s yoga instructor till I heard about her being found dead. If I’d known that part, I would have said something sooner.”
Her disapproval of Daisy’s failure to pass on gossip evident in the purse of her lips, Jinx slapped the three of hearts on the table.
A silent Libba played the high heart from the board—the ten.
With a quick, apologetic glance at her partner, Daisy played her king.
Libba trumped from her hand.
Daisy sighed. “I should have known.”
“We all should have known,” replied Jinx. She was not talking about Libba’s singleton heart.
“Do you
think Winnie knew?” I asked.
“She couldn’t have.” Libba sounded positive. “There’s no way Winnie would continue to have Marigold teach yoga if she knew.” She played the ace of spades.
I wasn’t so sure. I’d known about Henry’s other women, but I’d looked the other way. Confrontations and tears and divorce attorneys had held no appeal—not while Grace lived under our roof.
Jinx played the four of spades. “If you ask me, Winnie’s lucky she was locked in the attic.”
“Lucky?” Libba pulled the three of spades from the board. “Why would you say that?”
“Because she has the perfect alibi,” Jinx replied.
Daisy played the six of spades. “It’s all so sordid.”
Murder often was.
Back at home, I glanced at the clock on the kitchen wall. Three o’clock. I shouldn’t put off calling any longer—except, Max needed exercise.
“Want to go for a walk?” I asked him.
He lifted his head off his paws, stared out the window at the afternoon rain, huffed his displeasure, then returned his face to the cradle of his paws.
“Some help you are.”
He opened one eye—and judged me harshly.
“Fine.” I gathered my courage and a fresh cup of coffee, went to my desk in the family room, and dialed. “May I please speak to Mr. Blake?”
“May I say who’s calling?”
“This is Ellison Russell. I’m his sister-in-law.”
“Please hold, Mrs. Russell.”
I listened to Marvin Gaye sing, “Let’s Get It On.” All in all, the perfect song for a condom manufacturer.
“Ellison!” Greg sounded happy to hear from me. “How are you? Found any bodies lately?” He was joking. Sort of.
“Yes.”
“Who? Lawyer? Doctor? Crooked politician?” He thought I was joking.
“Yoga instructor.”
He chuckled. “Seriously?”
“Seriously.” I actually sounded serious. This call was not going as planned.
“You found your yoga instructor dead?”
“I didn’t find her, but I did identify her.”
“You’re serious.” Now he sounded contrite. “I’m sorry.”
Everyone—especially me—would love it if I could go for a while (a long while) without tripping over dead people. “Thanks.”
TELEPHONE LINE Page 9
