“The man was a federal judge.”
“Poor Winnie.”
Anarchy shook his head as if I’d missed his point. “Do you have any idea the pressure there will be to find his killer?”
“A lot?” I didn’t have an exact answer.
“So much pressure it will make your mother, on her pushiest day, look like a pussycat.”
Oh dear. “What can I do?”
Anarchy looked back toward the kitchen and his lips thinned. He rubbed his palm against the back of his neck. “If you find anything poking through those old cases, let me know.” He brushed a kiss across my lips, strode across the room, but stopped in the doorway. “Ellison?”
“Yes?”
“The information about Bilardo stays between us.” He disappeared through the door.
I lingered for a moment—being in the kitchen with both Anarchy and Hunter wasn’t my idea of a fun morning—then headed back for more coffee.
Seeing me, Aggie lifted the pot and raised her eyebrows.
I nodded gratefully.
Max yawned, and his stomach grumbled.
“Oh no.” How could I have forgotten?
“What?” Aggie paused with the coffeepot above my mug.
“I forgot to feed the cat.”
“What cat?” asked Hunter.
“Beezie.”
Max growled deep in his throat.
Aggie, God bless her, poured.
Hunter tilted his head and waited for me to elaborate.
“Winnie’s cat.” Dread made me sigh. Guilt made me elaborate. “The last few times I’ve been at the Flournoys’ something awful has happened. Maybe I forgot on purpose.”
“What awful things?” he asked.
“The murder, and, when Libba and I went to feed Beezie, there was an intruder.” I closed my eyes. “And as if that’s not bad enough, the cat is possessed by a demon.”
“A burglar?” Hunter skipped right over the demon part.
I nodded. “And a demon-cat. He landed on Libba’s head, dug his claws into her scalp, and wouldn’t let go.” The image of Libba careening around Winnie’s foyer with a cat affixed to her head would stay with me forever.
“I’m going with you.”
“You don’t need to do that.” My objection was half-hearted at best. Truth was, I didn’t want to go alone. And I had to go, the demon-cat was probably hungry.
“It sounds as if I do.”
“It can’t hurt,” said Aggie.
“I suppose. But I hate to put you out.”
“I insist.” Hunter nodded once. The matter was closed. “Before we go, wasn’t there something you wanted to show me?”
Right. Henry’s file. “It’s in the study.”
We topped off our coffee mugs and walked down the hallway. “I didn’t see much in the file,” I told him. “It’s more about a payment from John Wilson to Lark.”
“Was there a year?”
“Honestly, I don’t remember.” Looking at Henry’s files made me feel dirty. I’d washed everything but the broadest details from my mind.
Hunter sat in one of the club chairs across from Henry’s desk and waited while I opened the safe.
“Here.” I handed him the Flournoy file.
After a few minutes, Hunter looked up. “It looks as if Henry blackmailed Lark for years. We can get rid of the recent cases.”
I should have thought of that—given Aggie better parameters, assuming we weren’t wasting our time. If Anarchy was right about Bilardo, we were digging in the wrong place. If Anarchy was right, there was no point in digging at all.
Hunter returned his gaze to the file. “I don’t find any mention of—wait a minute.” He tapped his finger on the papers in his lap. “Wilson paid Lark $20,000 in June 1965.”
“For what?”
Hunter’s lips narrowed. “It doesn’t say.”
But Lark had done something worthy of blackmail. The more I thought about it, the more certain I was it was the reason he’d been killed.
“How did Henry know about the money? Did Lark deposit it?” My late husband owned a bank. It was possible he’d monitored large deposits.
Hunter looked up. “Nothing in here addresses an actual case—just that Wilson paid Flournoy. Maybe it was for something else. Maybe they didn’t fix a case.”
Henry—dead nearly a year—still making my life difficult.
Hunter tapped the papers against the chair’s arm until the bottom edges were perfectly aligned, returned the pages to the envelope, and pushed the file across the desk toward me.
I simply stared at the envelope. “Why? We had more than enough.” I knew the answer. For Henry, blackmail had been about control not money.
“I can’t pretend to understand Henry. He had you and—” Hunter shook his head and a scowl darkened his features. He stood. Abruptly. “I have an appointment downtown in an hour. Shall I follow you to the Flournoys’?”
“Sure.”
Beezie (half-cat, half-demon) hid from us, which was fine by me. I rinsed the empty bowl, put it in the dishwasher, found a clean bowl, and served up another can of cat food—chicken this time. Then I made sure Beezie had plenty of water.
I found Hunter in Lark’s messy office. Being a crime scene (twice) hadn’t done Winnie’s house any favors—and Lark’s office seemed to have taken the brunt of the chaos. Leather-bound books that should have lined shelves sat in heaps on the floor. Desk drawers hung open. Cushions leaned at drunken angles. Even the oak-paneled walls looked dusty.
Hunter stood next to the front window and looked out at the street. He turned when I entered. “What happened the morning the yoga teacher was killed?”
“Winnie converted the third-floor ballroom into a yoga studio. We were there for a class. Marigold locked us in.”
“Why?”
“When it happened, I assumed she was robbing Winnie blind.”
“But she wasn’t.”
“No. She was being murdered.” I shuddered.
“I assume she let her killer into the house.”
It was a safe assumption. “Libba and I arrived last. And I’m pretty sure Winnie locked the door behind us. But Gertie, the neighbor who found Marigold, entered through the front door. Marigold must have opened the door after she locked us upstairs. Maybe she and the killer were in cahoots.”
Hunter’s lips twitched. “Cahoots?”
“Maybe they planned on robbing the house together but disagreed. Then he killed her.”
“And he just happened to have a rope?” Hunter destroyed my theory with a single question.
“If the goal was to kill Marigold, why do it here? Do you think it has something to do with the reason Henry was blackmailing Lark?”
Hunter shrugged. “It’s possible.” His tone gave my suggestion a million-to-one odds. “What do you know about Marigold?”
“She was young. She was pretty. And word at the bridge table is she was having an affair with Lark.”
That caught Hunter’s attention. “What else?”
Hunter knew what I knew.
Yeoooow.
“What was that?” Hunter asked.
“The demon cat.” I leaned against the doorframe as Beezie’s cry lingered.
“Is it injured?”
“He probably discovered I fed him chicken instead of tuna. Thank you for coming here with me.”
“My pleasure.”
My gaze traveled the topsy-turvy room. “I doubt that.”
“I’m here whenever you need me.” A pained look flashed across Hunter’s face. “And, if you ever change your mind about Jones—”
Oh dear. “Don’t wait for me, Hunter.”
He chuckled. “Your telling me that means you’re the type of woman who’s worth waiting for.”
> Eleven
I drove to the hospital on autopilot. If anyone had asked me how I traveled from the Flournoys’ to just north of the Plaza, I wouldn’t have been able to tell them. Luckily, the car knew the way.
I’d thought Hunter understood. I was with Anarchy. That he still held out hope was troublesome. The last thing I wanted to do was cause him pain.
I walked the hospital’s corridors in a fog, paused outside Winnie’s door, and gathered my thoughts. Winnie had lost her husband. She needed a friend focused on her and not the specter of an almost relationship. I drew breath deep into my lungs and stepped into her room.
A young woman clad in a wrinkled dress sat at Winnie’s bedside, her head was bent as if in prayer. She looked up and I recognized her—she had her mother’s bone structure. Lois Flournoy rose from the Naugahyde recliner slowly—as if the effort required was almost too much for her—and nodded toward the hallway.
Winnie didn’t move. Her eyes remained closed and her lips slightly parted.
Lois and I stepped out of Winnie’s room, and she sized me up with red-rimmed eyes.
“I am sorry for your loss.” I held out my hand. “You probably don’t remember me. I’m Ellison Russell.”
Lois’ ice-cold fingers surrounded my hand. “Of course I remember you, Mrs. Russell. You’re the painter.”
“Please, call me Ellison.” I glanced back at Winnie’s room. “How’s your mother?”
Her shoulders slumped. “They had to give her a sedative.”
Poor Winnie. “When did you get in?”
“Early this morning. I drove to Washington and caught the first flight out.” Lois was enrolled in law school at the University of Virginia. “I haven’t even been to the house yet.” She raked her fingers through hair that had definitely seen better days. “My brother can’t get here until tomorrow. He’s flying in from London.”
“Did you get any sleep?” I knew the answer. Dark half-moons hung beneath Lois’s eyes and her skin looked wan.
“No.”
“I’m happy to sit with your mother if you’d like to go home and rest.”
“Thank you, but I couldn’t leave her.”
“At least go and get yourself something to eat.”
“You mean in the coffee shop where Mom was poisoned?”
“Or the cafeteria.” I kept my tone mild.
“I’m sorry. That wasn’t fair of me.” She rubbed her palms over her cheeks. “Maybe I should get something to eat. I might be nicer. You’re sure you don’t mind sitting with Mom?”
“Not at all. Take your time.”
“Thank you.” Lois shuffled down the hall.
I stepped into Winnie’s room. An array of spring flowers filled the window ledge—two bunches of daffodils, a potted hyacinth that smelled like heaven, and a mixed bouquet that probably came from the hospital gift shop downstairs. Three books waited for someone to crack their spines. The morning paper was folded to the crossword. Winnie snored softly.
I picked up the book on the top of the stack—Helter Skelter—I had quite enough death in my life without reading that. Winnie did, too. Who on earth had brought her a story about the Manson killings? I stuck the book on the bottom of the stack and picked up The Moneychangers. The inside cover promised a riveting tale of ambition and greed. I wasn’t in the mood. I let the book fall to my lap.
“Ellison.” Winnie’s voice was barely a croak. She regarded me with tired eyes.
I reached out for her hand. “How are you?”
“Where’s Lois?”
“I sent her to get something to eat.”
Worry lines creased Winnie’s forehead. “How’s Beezie?”
“Beezie’s fine. I stopped by your house this morning. Plenty of food. Plenty of water.” That I hadn’t actually seen the cat wasn’t worth mentioning.
“Thank you.” Winnie’s eyes fluttered closed.
I tightened my grip on her hand. “I’m very sorry about Lark.”
Winnie opened her eyes and stared at something over my right shoulder. “I worry. Beezie’s not used to being alone. I begged Lois to check on him, but she won’t leave me.”
“Beezie’s fine,” I promised. Did Winnie not understand her husband was dead? “How are you?”
“Tired. I don’t know why I’m so sleepy.” The fingers of her free hand plucked at the blanket covering the bed.
“What can I do to help you?”
She opened her eyes. “Take care of Beezie. The kids don’t like him. LJ says he’s possessed.”
LJ—Lark, Jr—was right. “Lois told me he’ll arrive tomorrow.”
Winnie’s chin moved slightly—barely a nod. “London. So far away.” LJ worked for some bank in England. “Lark was proud of him.” Her eyes drifted shut. “The children will have to plan the funeral. I’m too tired.”
“Winnie—”
“What?” She sounded far away. The sedative might reclaim her at any second.
“The other day, when you were poisoned, did anyone come up to the table after I left you?”
Her eyes opened, and there was a sharpness in their depths that had been missing when I talked about Lark. “They must have, but I don’t remember.”
“Did anyone get near your soup?”
“My soup?” Now she seemed confused.
“Yes.”
“I didn’t touch my soup.”
“You didn’t?”
Her face crinkled with distaste. “I should have asked the waitress whether it was broth or cream-based. I don’t like cream-based soups.” She shook her head. “The waitress should have mentioned the cream before she brought it.”
If Winnie hadn’t touched her soup, how had she been poisoned? We’d both drank the coffee.
“I wasn’t hungry anyway.” She was drifting again.
“Did you put anything in your coffee?”
“My usual. Cream and Sweet’N Low.”
I thought back to our table in the coffee shop. I remembered a paper napkins dispenser, salt and pepper shakers, a spouted glass jar with a metal lid for sugar, and a ramekin filled with melting ice and individual creamers. “There wasn’t any Sweet’N Low on the table.”
“There wasn’t? Then I must have taken some from my purse. I always carry a few packets just in case.” Winnie’s eyes shut, and she sighed as if the effort of talking had wrung her out.
“Winnie?” I spoke softly.
She didn’t respond.
“Winnie?”
She was asleep, and I couldn’t exactly wake her up—no matter how badly I wanted to—the woman had lost her husband. Sleeping was probably her only escape from grief.
Except Winnie hadn’t seemed remotely sad. I sat back in the chair and thought. Had someone poisoned Winnie’s sweetener? Had anyone checked the other packets of Sweet’N Low in her purse? I glanced at the woman in the bed—the one more concerned with her cat than her dead husband, the dead husband who just happened to be having an affair with the woman murdered in the foyer. There was another possibility. Had Winnie made herself sick? And if so, why?
I knew exactly where to find Winnie’s purse. I could have other packets of Sweet’N Low tested.
Thunk.
The sound came from outside Winnie’s door.
“Lois?”
No one answered.
I rose from the recliner and crossed to the doorway.
Someone had dropped a near empty cup of coffee. I glanced down the hallway and spotted a man walking away.
He’d created a falling hazard and hadn’t even tried to clean it up.
“Excuse me,” I called.
He kept walking.
“Excuse me!”
He had to have heard me—the nurses manning the station turned their heads and looked at me—but he didn’t stop.
Had he been lurking outside Winnie’s door? Who was he?
I stepped all the way into the hallway but stopped. I’d promised to stay with Winnie.
“Is there a problem, Mrs. Russell?” One of the nurses from the station stood in front of me.
“Someone dropped their coffee.”
“The man who was waiting to see you?”
“Waiting to see me?”
“He didn’t want to disturb your visit with Mrs. Flournoy, so he waited in the hall.”
“What did he look like?”
“Tall with brown hair and brown eyes.”
That description applied to about half the men I knew. “Old or young?”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t pay close enough attention to be able to tell you.”
“Well, whoever he was, he’s gone now.”
She nodded and glanced down at the puddle of coffee. “We called the janitor. He’s on his way.”
When Lois returned, she hugged me. “Thank you, I feel much better.”
“I’m glad. She woke up for a few minutes.”
Lois frowned. “What did she say?”
“She’s worried about Beezie.”
“That cat.” She shook her head. “I think she cares more about that cat than she did about Dad.”
Given my conversation with Winnie, Lois had a point.
“The cat is named after the devil. Beelzebub. If you ask me, the name fits.”
I wasn’t about to argue that. “Will you call me if I can do anything to help?”
“I will. I promise. Thank you.”
I drove to the club with my mind on pink packets and one eye focused on the rearview mirror. Who was the man outside Winnie’s door? Was he following me?
If he was, I didn’t see him.
No surprise, Libba wasn’t there yet. In the history of our friendship, she’d never been early. I sat at a table by the window and looked out at the sodden golf course. I couldn’t remember such a rainy April.
“What’s the latest?” Libba, who wore a new Thea Porter dress, slid into the chair across from mine.
“I called you here for a working lunch. We are not going to gossip.”
Libba frowned. “A working lunch?”
“Yes. For the gala.”
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