TELEPHONE LINE

by Julie Mulhern

  Libba was the gala’s food and beverage chairman. A job which she’d completed in a matter of minutes. “There’s no work left.”

  “Unfortunately, you’re wrong. Mother insists we make a million dollars. I’m doing my best to raise more money, but I can only raise so much. We need to cut expenses.”

  “You’re not serious?” She caught a waiter’s eye and beckoned him over. “I need a martini. Right away.”

  He nodded. “Anything for you. Mrs. Russell?”

  “Iced tea, please.”

  As soon as his back was turned, Libba leaned in. “Have you lost your mind?” A million dollars?”

  “That’s what the other cities are raising.”

  “Those cities are on the coasts.”

  “I pointed that out to Mother. She doesn’t care.”

  “We can’t cut corners.”

  “I know. I’m not suggesting you replace wine with cheap beer, but I am asking you to look at the cost of the menu and liquor and find a few less expensive options.”

  Libba’s mulish expression didn’t bode well for my plan.

  “I’m talking to the ambiance committee as well.” The chairman of that committee was going to have to overcome her aversion to carnations. Carnations were cheap. Carnations were colorful. And carnations made great filler for more expensive flowers. I reckoned we could save thousands.

  “You could tell Frances no.”

  “No one has ever done that and lived to tell. If I tried that, and she didn’t kill me outright, what life I had left wouldn’t be worth living.”

  “I like the menu the way it is.”

  “What about serving pork dumplings instead of shrimp.” It was a reasonable suggestion.

  “The cost is in the labor not the fillings.” How did Libba know that?

  “Did you just make that up?”

  She flushed. As good as an admission.

  I reached across the table and grabbed her hand. “I need your help with this. Please.”

  “You’re lucky I like you.” She leaned back in her chair and sighed—a sigh that reached all the way to the tips of her Ferragamos. “And you’re lucky Jimmy has left me in a very good mood.”

  “Jimmy? Again?”

  She raised her brows. “You sound surprised.”

  “He’s so…young.”

  “Young is good.” She licked her lips. “Lots of stamina and enthusiasm. And—” her eyes narrowed “—it’s not as if I’m old. How are things with Anarchy?”

  “Fine.”

  “Fine?” She gave me an appraising look, laced her fingers together, and rested her chin on her hands. “I’d have thought he’d be better than fine.”

  Heat warmed my cheeks. She meant sex. Libba always meant sex. “We haven’t.”

  “You’re kidding!” Surprise had her sitting ramrod straight. “What are you waiting for?” She sounded absolutely scandalized.

  I shifted in my chair. Where was the waiter with that iced tea? “There’s no hurry.”

  She stared at me as if she couldn’t believe the words coming out of my mouth. “You really haven’t? Why not?”

  “How is this any of your business?”

  She ignored my question, and, with her left pointer finger, she ticked off fingers on her right hand. “April, March, February, January, December—”

  “What are you doing?”

  “Counting the months since Henry died.”

  “Why?” And why had I asked? I wasn’t going to like the answer—I could tell from the gleam in her eyes.

  “Because I’m going to add that number to the eighteen months you didn’t let Henry near you.” She screwed up her face. “It’s more than two years.” She gripped the edge of the table. “You haven’t had sex in more than two years!”

  The red-faced waiter put Libba’s martini on the table. With his gaze locked on the carpet, he served my iced tea, and scurried away.

  Libba was unconcerned with his embarrassment—or mine. She shook her head. “Two years. It’s like you’re a virgin all over again.”

  “Would you please lower your voice?”

  Marilyn Barker and Myrtle Bridewell, who were seated at the table next to ours, were staring at us with matching expressions of horror on their faces.

  Libba glanced at Myrtle’s pinched face and leaned forward. “You’ve known him for ten months, what are you waiting for?”

  “We’re supposed to be talking about the menu for the gala not my sex life.”

  “You don’t have a sex life.”

  Marilyn Barker choked on a bite of chicken salad.

  Libba rubbed her chin. “Let’s make a deal, if you tell me why you haven’t been to bed with Anarchy, I’ll reduce the cost per person at the gala by fifteen percent.”

  “Are you kidding?

  “I am not. Seriously, Ellison. The man’s gorgeous and he’s crazy about you. What’s stopping you?”

  She’d hector me till I answered. “A twenty-five percent reduction in cost.”

  “Twenty.” She held out her hand.

  I shook it then leaned close and whispered my deepest fear. “Suppose he thinks I’m boring?”

  She leaned back and stared at me. “Are you?”

  “Henry thought so.”

  “Oh, please.” She rolled her eyes. “Henry was into kink. The man liked whips and handcuffs, of course he grew bored with you. You’re one hundred percent vanilla.”

  Libba wasn’t making me feel any better and Myrtle Bridewell looked as if she might faint. Or have a stroke. Maybe both. And I finally understood the expression pursed lips—the fine lines surrounding Myrtle’s lips were as puckered as the mouth of a tightly closed drawstring bag.

  Libba reclaimed my attention. “You can’t take Henry’s tastes personally.”

  “I was his wife. It felt pretty personal to me.” I stared down at the white linen covering the table and said nothing more. I’d already said far more than I should.

  Libba dismissed my concerns with a wave of her hand. “Henry would have grown bored with me—and I can promise you, I’m not boring.”

  That I believed.

  “Don’t let your past with Henry determine your future.”

  “That’s unexpectedly wise.”

  “I have my moments.” She took a sip of her martini. “The writing is on the wall. Everyone can see it except for Frances.”

  “See what?”

  “You and Anarchy were meant to be.” She took another larger sip. “Although, I have to admit. It worries me sometimes.”

  “What worries you?”

  “Have you ever wondered how a man as handsome as Anarchy is still single at forty? There has to be a story there.”

  I stared at her. “Really? That’s what keeps you up at night?”

  “I wouldn’t say I lose sleep, but it’s a valid question.”

  “I find bodies like most people find change in parking lots—” I glanced at Marilyn and Myrtle (they were both eavesdropping and wore matching appalled expressions) and lowered my voice “—and you’re worried about Anarchy’s past? I don’t know. And I don’t care.”

  “Wow.”

  I waited for her to say more.

  She didn’t.

  “What do you mean wow?”

  “You’re in love with Anarchy Jones.”

  I’d never fallen from a tall building or jumped out of an airplane, so I didn’t know for sure, but I bet the flash of blinding panic followed by acceptance was similar to what I felt. I reached for my tea with a shaking hand and lifted my chin. “What if I am?”

  “You’re not the casual-relationship type. You will never have a Jimmy.”

  “What are you talking about Libba?” Couldn’t we go back to arguing about dumplings?

  “I’m talking about J
immy. Jimmy and I aren’t going anywhere. We don’t have a future. We’re in it for the here and now. You don’t want Anarchy till next week or next month, you want him for the next fifty years.”

  She was right. Where was that waiter? I needed a martini. I reached across the table and took Libba’s.

  “What will Frances say?”

  I looked at the glass in my hand. “If I had this conversation with Frances, she’d need three martinis.”

  “She’d need three pitchers.” Libba wrapped her hand around my wrist. “That worry of mine—”

  “Yes?”

  “Anarchy’s past may not worry you, but it will concern your parents and Grace. Maybe you should ask him about it.”

  “Ask him what?”

  “Why he’s single, why he’s in Kansas City, and how long he intends to stay.”

  Twelve

  The smell of something mouth-wateringly delicious hung in the air and I followed my nose to the kitchen.

  Max watched Aggie with rapt attention.

  She ignored him and settled a casserole on a hot-pan holder she’d put on the counter.

  “What is that?” I asked. “It smells divine.”

  “Chicken and broccoli casserole. I’m making two. I thought you could take this one to your new neighbor. Her husband might be hungry.”

  Woof! Max was hungry.

  “You’re always hungry,” I replied. “What a lovely idea, thank you. I’ll take the casserole as a thank you for helping Grace with her math.

  Aggie slipped off her oven mitts. “It should cool for a while. I can write out the heating instructions for both of you.”

  “Is tonight the night you’re going to the theater with Mac?”

  She nodded, and the secret smile she reserved for thoughts of the new man in her life lightened her features. “I’m trying to decide what to wear. I have a new teal green kaftan.”

  “I bet that looks nice with your hair.” Aggie possessed a head full of sproingy red curls.

  “Or I could wear one of the outfits you picked out for me.” In February, Aggie needed to pass for a lady-who-lunched. I’d taken her to Swanson’s, my favorite store, and bought her all the right clothes.

  “My advice is to wear what’s most comfortable.”

  “Then I’ll wear the kaftan.” No surprise there. Aggie loved her kaftans, and she wore them well. The one she had on now—navy with a fringe of lime green pom-poms—was also new. The trip to Swanson’s hadn’t changed her signature style one bit.

  “How long till that cools?” I nodded toward the casserole.

  “An hour.”

  “I might take advantage of the break in the rain and take Max running.

  Max, hearing his name and “run” in the same sentence, shifted his gaze away from the chicken-filled Pyrex.

  “Do you want to go for a run?”

  He grinned his answer and wagged his stubby tail.

  Ten minutes later, we jogged down the sidewalk.

  “Loose Park?” I asked.

  His pace increased.

  “Okay but behave around the pond.”

  He made no promises.

  It didn’t take long for the even rhythm of our footsteps on the pavement to clear my mind. There were three people dead. Had the same person killed all three? A hanging, a hit-and-run, and a garroting. Didn’t killers choose one method and stick with it? It was beyond the realm of credulity to imagine three different killers; I was left with one killer and three methods.

  Why those people?

  There were obvious connections between John Wilson and Lark—their past and the Bilardo case. And Lark and Marigold had been having an affair. But was there a connection between John and Marigold?

  We approached the pond, and I tightened my grip on Max’s leash.

  Max ignored the ducks on the water. He ignored the squirrel primed to jump into the redbud tree. He even ignored the rabbit frozen next to a forsythia bush. We jogged past the pond without incident.

  I breathed easier. The park, on a wet weekday afternoon, was almost deserted. Just me, Max, and a man running about a hundred feet behind us.

  Ugh. Men who wore hooded sweatshirts made me nervous. Who or what were they hiding from?

  Max and I picked up the pace, rounded the northern edge of the park, and turned west.

  I glanced behind us. The man had sped up, too.

  Worry gave me wings. We ran faster.

  One would think a near-hundred-pound dog would be a deterrent. Not the man behind us. He kept pace with us.

  The first raindrop hit me square on the nose.

  Despite his fascination with the pond, Max had an aversion to getting wet. He ran still faster.

  I let him.

  We flew.

  The last I saw of the man, he was bent over with his arms clutched across his belly. He gasped for air. He hadn’t been following me. He’d been setting his pace. Now he was spent.

  By the time Max and I burst through the back door, we were both soaked. We shivered with cold.

  Aggie waited for us with a stack of towels and a stern look for Max. “Don’t you even think about shaking water all over my kitchen.”

  Max, who’d probably intended to do just that, donned a put-upon expression and allowed me to towel him dry.

  When I was done, Aggie collected the wet towels and deposited them in the washing machine. “I’ll wait to run it until you’re done with your shower.” A nice way of telling me I looked like a drowned rat.

  Drowned rat or no, the thought of being doused with hot water was heaven. “I’ll be quick. If I don’t see you before you leave, have a wonderful time.”

  She gave me another glimpse of the secret smile.

  Thirty minutes later, I was washed, dried, dressed, and ready to take the casserole to Jennifer’s. The rain had even stopped.

  I grabbed the Pyrex and the instructions and headed across the lawn to Jennifer and Marshall’s.

  Jennifer opened the door wearing a pair of faded jeans and one of Marshall’s shirts. “Ellison, what a surprise.” She smiled at me as if pleasant surprises were rare. “Come in.”

  “I can’t stay.” I stepped into the foyer. “But Aggie made this for you as a thank you for helping Grace.”

  “A thank you?”

  “Grace did well on her math test.”

  Jennifer accepted the casserole. “She’s a bright girl.”

  “Math trips her up.”

  “Sometimes it’s not the material, it’s how the material is presented.”

  “Whatever it is, we’re grateful.”

  “Are you sure you can’t stay for a few minutes? With Marshall working so much, I feel as if I spend most of my time alone.”

  “I don’t want to bother you.”

  “Bother me?” She shook her head. “Are you kidding? I’d be grateful for your company.”

  “In that case, I’d love to stay for a few minutes.”

  “I’ll put this in the fridge.” She balanced the casserole on one arm and waved me toward the living room. “I’ll be right back.”

  Jennifer’s Bohemian living room with its squashy couches covered in deep purple velvet, Flokati rugs, silk pillows in shades of sienna and crimson, and turquoise-hued Chinese garden stools was a near overwhelming mixture of color and texture. I liked it. I wandered over to the sofa table and looked at the display of framed photographs. Jennifer and Marshall on their wedding day—she was barefoot with daisies braided in her hair. Jennifer and a woman, who looked just like her only twenty-five years older, with the Golden Gate Bridge in the background. And, in a mother-of-pearl frame, a very young Marshall and a cluster of people who had to be his family—a sister, a brother, and parents. I picked up the frame and looked at them closely. They were on the Plaza.

  Jennifer e
ntered holding a wine bottle and two glasses.

  I held up the photograph. “I was looking at your pictures. Where was this one of Marshall taken?”

  “The Plaza.”

  “I thought he was from California.”

  “His family lives there now, but when he was younger, his family lived here. Marshall always liked Kansas City. It’s one of the reasons he agreed to a job here.”

  “What is it Marshall does?”

  “He works for a pharmaceutical company.”

  “Is he a chemist?”

  “A salesman. He visits with doctors and gets them to write prescriptions for his company’s drugs.”

  A prosaic job for a man who burned love letters at three in the morning. “Really?”

  Apparently, she heard the surprise in my voice because she nodded. “When we first met, I told him he didn’t strike me as the salesman type. He’s too quiet.”

  “How did you meet?”

  “His sister introduced us.” A shadow passed over her face.

  “It must be hard to live so far from family.” Or it might be heaven. Mother couldn’t drop in whenever she felt like it, gossip from the club—after today’s lunch there would be gossip—would never reach her ears, and there would be no command-performance Sunday dinners.

  Jennifer poured the wine. “Marshall’s sister passed away recently. I think he wanted a fresh start.”

  “She was so young.”

  Jennifer handed me a glass. “She struggled.”

  Struggled? What did that mean? “Oh?”

  “Drugs.” Jennifer sipped. “We all have our demons.”

  Did that mean Marshall’s sister overdosed? On purpose? “How terrible for her family.”

  “Marshall may never recover from the loss.” She glanced around the colorful living room. “This conversation has taken a turn for the dark.” She sipped again. “How’s Grace’s friend?”

  “This is awful, but I don’t know. I have a friend who lost her husband. She’s in the hospital and between visiting her, taking care of her cat, and a gala I’m planning, I haven’t called Debbie’s mother.”

  “I’m sure you’ll talk to her soon. When you do, please let her know if Debbie needs anyone to talk to, I’m available.”

  “I’ll tell her.” I scanned the room, looking for another topic. “Is that a Stella?” I pointed to a painting filled with bright colors and geometric lines.