TELEPHONE LINE

by Julie Mulhern

  Jennifer ran to the sink and filled a pitcher.

  I turned off the burner, held up my hands, and stepped in front of her. “Wait!”

  “There’s a fire!” She stepped to the left.

  I stepped with her. “What kind of fire?”

  She stepped to the right and annoyance flashed across her face. “The kind that’s going to burn down my house.”

  Again, I stepped with her. “What’s burning?”

  “I was toasting ravioli.”

  “In oil?”

  “Yes.” She took two steps. “Move, please.”

  I took two steps, blocking her access. “No water!”

  She gaped at me. “Then how do I put it out?

  “Flour. Do you have any flour?”

  She hesitated then pulled an unopened five-pound bag of Gold Medal from a cabinet. “What do I do?”

  “Give it to me.”

  She handed over the bag.

  I ripped open the bag and tossed handful after handful of flour onto the flames.

  Jennifer dug her hand into the bag and tossed as well.

  We tossed until the bag was empty. We tossed until the flames were smothered. Fortunately, that happened at the same time.

  Then we surveyed the damage.

  Jennifer’s toasted ravioli had singed the walls and ceiling, filled her kitchen with smoke, and reduced a perfectly good pan to a piece of carbon. Plus, flour dusted every surface.

  Including me. My navy pants were now white.

  She slumped against the counter’s edge. “Oh, dear.”

  Oh, dear was right.

  She pressed her hands to her cheeks. “How did you know to use flour instead of water?”

  “I’ve burned a few things in my day. If you throw water on a grease fire, you make things worse.”

  A hard-won lesson.

  “That was dinner.”

  “Eat at my house.” I crossed to the back door. “May I?” The smoke needed an escape route.

  “Of course.”

  I reached for the handle, but the door opened, and Marshall stepped inside. He scanned the smoke-darkened walls, the flour, and the remains of the pan. “What happened?”

  “A tiny fire.” Jennifer measured a half-inch between her thumb and pointer finger.

  Tiny? There was ample evidence to the contrary.

  “But Ellison—” Jennifer offered me a brilliant smile “—put it out. We should go out to eat.”

  “You’re coming to my house,” I said. “Aggie made a roast.”

  Marshall shifted his gaze from the flour-covered stove to me. “Aggie who made the casserole?”

  “Exactly.”

  “We’d love to come.”

  Marshall carried the remains of the pan to the patio, and we trudged across the wet lawn to my house.

  “Aggie,” I called from the front hall. “I brought friends for dinner.”

  Max appeared in the hallway, sniffed, and drew his lips back from his teeth in a doggy sneer.

  Aggie followed him, a smile of welcome on her face. The smile faltered when she saw me. “What happened?”

  “A kitchen mishap. If you’ll get Jennifer and Marshall a drink, I’ll run upstairs and change.”

  “Of course.”

  As I climbed the stairs, she led Jennifer and Marshall to the living room. “There’s a roast in the oven and homemade apple pie for dessert.”

  “Honey, you should set the kitchen on fire more often.”

  Something Henry never said. Not once.

  Five minutes later, wearing fresh clothes and considerably less flour, I stepped into the living room.

  Jennifer had kicked off her shoes and was curled in a club chair (good thing Mother wasn’t here—she’d sooner die than kick off her shoes in someone else’s living room). Marshall held a drink in both hands. Grace sipped a Tab with two limes.

  “I was just telling Marshall and Grace how lucky we are you came when you did.”

  “Maybe if I hadn’t come, there wouldn’t have been a fire.”

  None of us believed that.

  I poured myself a scotch and soda. “I came over to thank you for the gift to the museum.”

  “Gift to the museum?” Marshall turned in his chair and stared at his wife. If there was one thing I knew about marriage, it was that husbands liked to be consulted before major expenditures.

  “For the Chinese exhibit,” she explained. “Ellison is chairing the gala.”

  “As long as it’s for a good cause.” His voice was bone dry.

  I cast about for another topic. “Marshall, I understand you’re originally from the area.”

  “South of here.”

  Ding dong.

  Grace popped out of her chair. “I’ll get it.”

  Voices carried from the hallway and Grace reappeared with Anarchy behind her.

  I rose from my chair. “You made it.”

  “I did.”

  “You’ve met Jennifer. Marshall, this is my friend Anarchy.

  The usual nice-to-meet-yous ensued.

  “May I get you a drink?”

  “I’d better not.”

  “Are you a doctor?” asked Marshall.

  “No. Why?”

  “My uncle is a doctor, and he never drinks when he’s on call.”

  “Anarchy’s a homicide detective,” said Grace.

  Marshall stared, slack-jawed.

  “A detective?” Marshall croaked.

  “A homicide detective,” Grace corrected.

  “You catch killers?”

  Anarchy nodded. “I try.”

  “Grace, would you please ask Aggie to put on another place for dinner?” I glanced at Anarchy. “You are staying?”

  “Yes.” Anarchy settled into the club chair set at an angle to Jennifer’s. “How are you enjoying the neighborhood?”

  “Everyone’s been super nice,” she replied. “But I miss the sun.”

  “That’s right. West coast.” Anarchy turned his gaze to Marshall. “Are you from California, too?”

  “Overland Park. But my family moved to California when I was a kid.”

  “What brought you back here?”

  “A job. I’m in sales.”

  Anarchy’s brows lifted slightly. A twenty-something salesman shouldn’t be able to afford a house in my neighborhood.

  A twenty-something salesman’s wife shouldn’t be penning checks for ten thousand dollars. I thought about the art on their walls—there had to be family money involved.

  “Do you still have family here?” asked Anarchy.

  “No.” Marshall sounded almost bleak. “What about you? What brought you to Kansas City?”

  “The job.”

  “You can be a cop anywhere.”

  Anarchy blinked, and his lips thinned.

  But Marshall had a point. Anarchy could be a cop anywhere. Why Kansas City? Libba’s question—why was Anarchy still single at forty?—rode my brain waves like a surfer on a board.

  “We know you didn’t come for the weather.” There was a smudge of flour on Jennifer’s forehead. She caught me staring and wiped it away with the back of her hand.

  Grace stepped into the living room carrying a serving platter filled with cheese, meat, and crackers. “Aggie says dinner will be ready in twenty minutes.”

  She passed the hors d’oeuvres. First to Jennifer, then to Marshall, and finally to Anarchy and me.

  I picked up a Ritz topped with a small slice of Swiss cheese and nibbled.

  Grace set Aggie’s last-minute canapés down on the coffee table. “Jennifer’s been helping me with math,” she told Anarchy. “And—” she turned my way “—tomorrow Debbie and I are going to hang out with her.”

  “That’s very ni
ce of you, Jennifer.”

  “I’m happy to do it.”

  “Who’s Debbie?” asked Marshall.

  “A friend of Grace’s who was assaulted,” said Jennifer.

  Marshall’s open, affable face darkened. “That’s awful.”

  “It’s kind of you to listen.” Too bad all my neighbors weren’t as nice as Jennifer.

  Anarchy reached for his belt, glanced at his pager, and stood. “Ellison, may I use the phone?”

  “Of course. The study is open.”

  I rose, picked up the cheese plate, and held it out to Jennifer. “Would you have another?”

  “No, thank you.”

  “Marshall, may I tempt you?”

  Marshall picked up a cracker. “Thank you.” He bit. “This salami is delicious.”

  “Aggie gets it from her boyfriend,” said Grace. “He owns a deli.”

  Anarchy appeared in the doorway. “I’ve changed my mind about that drink.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  He crossed to the bar cart. “Arlene Wilson ran an ad in the evening paper.”

  “She did what?”

  He poured out a finger of scotch over a single ice cube. “Five thousand dollars for a tip leading to the arrest of her husband’s killer. The phone lines at the station are swamped.”

  “But an arrest warrant’s already been issued.”

  “Arlene isn’t convinced we have the right guy.”

  I wasn’t convinced either.

  “Who’s Arlene Wilson?” Jennifer asked.

  “Her husband, John, was murdered,” I replied.

  “John Wilson?” She glanced at Marshall and her forehead wrinkled. “Why do I know that name?”

  “I don’t know, honey. It’s a fairly common name.”

  Her face cleared. “There was a real estate broker in La Jolla named John Wilson.”

  Anarchy took a large sip of his drink. “The number of cranks who’ll call the station is mind-boggling.”

  “You’re the lead detective on Wilson’s murder?” asked Marshall.

  “Yes.”

  “You can get away for dinner?”

  “Like I said, we have a suspect.”

  “Dinner is served.” Aggie looked pleased by the addition of three people to the dinner table. Like most good cooks, she was happiest when people were enjoying her food.

  The meal was, of course, delicious.

  Marshall turned down a second slice of apple pie with obvious regret. “We should get home. We have a lot of cleaning up to do in the kitchen.” He stood. “Thank you for having us.”

  “We should do this more often.” If the poor man was enduring Jennifer’s culinary creations, he needed a decent home-cooked meal from time to time.

  “We’d like that. A lot. Honey?” He held out a hand to his wife.

  She rose from her chair. “Ellison, thank you for a delicious dinner and for saving my kitchen.”

  “Thanks for saving Grace’s math grade and for your support of the gala.”

  Grace and I walked them to the front door.

  “Grace, I’ll see you and your friend tomorrow afternoon.”

  “We’ll be there.”

  Jennifer and Marshall ventured out into the rain, and I closed the door behind them.

  Anarchy stood in the hallway. “How did you save Jennifer’s kitchen?”

  “She started a grease fire. As it happens, I know how to put those out.”

  Grace snorted. “I have homework.” She climbed the front stairs.

  I turned to Anarchy. “Coffee in the family room?”

  “I should go.”

  “You should stay.”

  “Well—” a smile teased his lips “—when you put it that way.”

  Together we walked to the kitchen where Mr. Coffee kept half a pot warm for me.

  I poured two mugs, handed one to Anarchy, and led him to the family room.

  He sank onto the couch and looked at me expectantly.

  I sat next to him. “How was your day?”

  He groaned. “Don’t ask. What about you?”

  “I painted.”

  “That sounds nice.”

  “It was. I needed it.”

  “Needed it?”

  “Painting centers me. Does that sound too woo-woo?”

  “I’m from San Francisco. There’s nothing you could say that would sound too woo-woo.”

  “You’re sure?” I leaned the back of my head against the arm Anarchy had stretched across the couch.

  “Positive.”

  “Why did you come to Kansas City?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You could have gone anywhere. Why here?”

  “I wanted to be someplace far from San Francisco.”

  “Why?”

  “I have a complicated relationship with my father.”

  I understood about complicated relationships. I had several of my own. “I get the far away part. But why here?”

  “The department had an opening. I applied. It seemed like kismet. Or is that too woo-woo for you?”

  Anarchy could easily have ended up in St. Louis or Minneapolis or Chicago. The thought chilled me. “How long were you a cop in San Francisco?”

  “Long enough to make detective and earn my father’s implacable ire.”

  “Sounds as if there’s a story there.”

  “Not a good one. How are you coming with Aggie’s notes?”

  “You identified a suspect.”

  “Until I hear a confession, I’m not convinced. So, what about those notes?”

  “There are two cases that caught my eye. An armed robbery and a murder.”

  “What about them?”

  “Both defendants were found guilty, and they received the same sentence.”

  “It happens.”

  “It doesn’t seem fair.”

  “There are probably a lot of victims who’d agree with you.”

  “I bet there are criminals who are angry about their sentences.”

  “There are lots of them.” He leaned close to me and brushed a feather-light kiss against the shell of my ear.

  I tingled.

  “Ellison.” His voice was low and husky.

  “Yes?”

  “Why is there flour in your ear?”

  Fifteen

  Libba called at nine. “Did you forget?”

  “Forget what?”

  “We’re playing bridge with Lisa and Amy today.”

  Oh dear Lord. “Is that today?” A shot of adrenalin brought me to my feet. “Am I late?”

  “It is today and you’re not late. We play at ten.”

  “When did you get organized?” I was the one who remembered things. Libba was the one who flitted from flower to flower (man to man) like a giddy butterfly.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You. Remembering things. That’s my job.”

  “Oh. That. You forget things when you’ve found a body or two.”

  “I’ve only found one.”

  “The week’s not over.”

  “Don’t jinx me. I’ll see you at the club at ten.”

  I hung up, put Aggie’s notes—dog-eared from handling—in a neat pile on the corner of my desk, and went to the kitchen for more coffee.

  “Anything?” asked Aggie.

  I blinked against the brightness of her kaftan. Wearing that shade of orange, she could stand in for a traffic cone. “Not yet. But, if I look at those pages any longer, my head may explode.” I picked up the coffeepot and gave Mr. Coffee a grateful pat. “I have a bridge game at ten and I’m swinging by the Nelson this afternoon.”

  “Gala business?”

  I nodded. “I’ll be glad when it’s ove
r.” I filled my mug too full and drank a sip of black coffee to make room for cream.

  “I bet.”

  Crossing my fingers, I added, “Hopefully Laurence likes my idea.”

  “For what?”

  “Raising the rest of the money.”

  “If it keeps your moth—” Aggie’s eyes widened, and she pressed her hand against her mouth.

  “Go ahead.” I added cream to my coffee. “Say it.”

  Blushing a shade of pink that did not complement her orange kaftan, Aggie fixed her gaze the counter. “If it keeps your mother out of his office, I’m sure he’ll love it.”

  Aggie had a point.

  “Here’s hoping.” I climbed the stairs, changed into a Diane von Furstenberg wrap dress, draped a handful of gold chains around my neck, and applied my makeup with extra care.

  Lisa and Amy. What had Libba been thinking?

  Some might say Lisa married well. She’d grown up out south and had parleyed a pretty face and good grades into a bid at the right sorority. From there, she’d met and married Tommy Larson. The couple had two handsome sons, lived in a lovely home, and vacationed in all the right spots.

  Perfect on the outside, but I’d overheard Tommy berate his wife for her posture. I’d seen him raise his brows when she took even a tiny bite of dessert. I’d smelled her fear when he reached over and plucked a strand of gray from her head. He demanded glamorous, thin, and young—the passing of years be damned.

  No wonder she snuck off for plastic surgery and, if rumors were true, smoothed whale semen into her skin every night.

  Amy also searched for the fountain of youth, but not because her husband was an ass. The two were poorly matched. Amy liked nothing better than a party. Paul’s idea of a perfect evening was a book—a large, dry book about military history or European politics in the fifteenth century. Certain she’d be able to coax Paul out of his shell if she looked good enough, Amy spent hours at the salon, ate like a bird, and dressed to the absolute nines. Signing up for a library card would have been more effective.

  Living on celery, lemon wedges in hot water, and the occasional bowl of cabbage soup could put the nicest of women on edge. Amy and Lisa weren’t the nicest of women. They were hungry and unhappy. The pair of them made harpies look like Pollyanna. And Libba had agreed to bridge.

  I drove through a downpour. Endless rain. Worse, the weatherman forecasted more precipitation. Floating away seemed like a real possibility.