A parking space near the clubhouse was available, and, after a brief hesitation, I pulled into it. Bad things happened in this parking lot. Very bad things. For once, parking close to the clubhouse was worth the risk. The car wouldn’t blow up and no one would shoot at me. At least I hoped not. In this rain, a short dash appealed to me more than a long one.
I dashed.
“Good morning, Mrs. Russell,” said the receptionist, who was warm and dry and wore shoes that didn’t squish when she walked.
“Good morning.” I closed my umbrella.
“May I take your coat?”
“Please.” I handed over my damp trench-coat and the still dripping umbrella.
“It seems like forever since we’ve seen the sun.”
“You’re too right.”
She smiled at me, a polite I-have-work-to-do-move-along-now smile. “Enjoy your cards.”
“Thank you.” I headed down the main hall toward the ladies’ lounge.
Lisa was already at our table. She surveyed my ensemble. “What a fabulous dress.”
“Thank you,” I replied. “You look marvelous.” Her skin was as taut as plastic surgery and whale semen could make it. Her hair was the perfect shade of ash blonde. She was one missed meal away from skeletal.
“I’m thrilled you and Libba could play with us today.”
“I’m glad you thought of us.” Liar, liar.
“You’ve had an exciting week.”
“True.” Was that why they’d invited us to play bridge? Because they wanted the horse’s-mouth story on the latest murder?
“What happened at Winnie’s?”
“You mean what happened to the yoga instructor?”
Lisa nodded.
“She was hanged.”
The hand Amy lifted to her throat trembled. “How awful.”
“It was. Of course, we were locked in the attic while she was being murdered.”
“Still.” She shook her head as if she’d never heard anything so terrible. “The instructor’s name was Marigold?”
“Yes.” I picked up the cards and shuffled. What was Amy after?
“Marigold Applebottom?”
“Yes.”
Lisa slumped against her chair. “I knew her when she was Janice Young.”
Now that was interesting.
“Her older sister and I were childhood friends.”
“What was she like?”
“There was a fifteen-year age difference between Rose and Janice. I didn’t know her well.”
We both contemplated a fifteen-year span between children. I shuddered. “Were there other siblings?”
“No. Janice was a surprise.”
“Do you still see your friend?”
“Not since I married.” The corners of Lisa’s mouth drooped, and her eyes misted. “She lives so far away.” She sounded as if she needed convincing. She sure wasn’t convincing me. Tommy Larson probably didn’t approve of Rose.
“How did Janice become Marigold?”
“The last time I saw Rose, she said Janice had changed her name and run off to Oregon.”
“Oregon?”
Amy shrugged. “Some Bikram.”
Which explained the yoga.
“What’s Rose doing now?”
“She married a plumber.”
“Oh? I can always use the name of a good plumber.”
“Cook.” Lisa wrinkled her nose. “Her husband’s name is Andy Cook.”
Andy Cook advertised on television. I’d seen the ads. He dressed up as a wrench. He had a jingle. He danced a jig.
“You beat me here!” Libba stood in the doorway. “Lisa, if you get any thinner, you won’t cast a shadow.”
Lisa sat a little straighter. “Thank you.”
Libba took the chair opposite mine. “Where’s Amy?”
“She should be along any minute.”
It was more like ten minutes. When Amy did arrive, she wore a pantsuit that looked as if she’d snatched it off a runway model’s back. She air-kissed cheeks and apologized. “Sorry I’m late. It’s the rain. The creek’s out and they’ve closed the bridge to the main entrance. I had to use the back gate.”
“Hopefully the water won’t do too much damage,” said Libba. “I’m not in the mood for an assessment.”
When the creek left its banks, water invariably damaged the golf course. During one particularly expensive flood, a whole green washed away.
“Shall we play?” Amy’s tone suggested we were the ones who’d kept her waiting.
We drew to deal. Libba won and dealt thirteen cards to each of us.
Amy picked up her hand and glanced at her cards. “So, Ellison, how’s the gala coming along?”
I grouped suits together. Spades, hearts, clubs, diamonds—black, red, black, red. “Fine. It’s going to be a marvelous party.”
Amy shifted a few cards. “Paul and I bought benefactor’s tickets.”
“I’m glad you’re coming.”
“One club,” said Libba.
Lisa frowned at her hand. “Pass”
“One heart,” I replied to my partner.
“Pass,” said Amy. “I heard everyone’s a benefactor.”
“It’s true,” I admitted. “The event sold out before we made general admission tickets available.”
“Where will we be seated?” After have you found another body? my least favorite question. “We bought those tickets with the idea we’d have a decent table.”
“We haven’t completed the seating chart yet.”
“So, you’re not making any promises.” Snide—Amy sounded snide.
“I’m afraid not.”
“What will it cost to get a good table?”
“More money,” Libba snapped. “Three hearts.”
“Pass.” Lisa kept her eyes on her cards.
“Four hearts.”
“How much more money?”
“The twenty-five-thousand-dollar tables will be near the front of the room,” I replied.
Amy rolled her eyes and groaned. “Fine. Twenty-five thousand. Lisa, do you and Tommy want to split it?”
Lisa’s looked up from her cards. Her eyes widened, and her lips drew away from her teeth. “I’d need to discuss that with Tommy.”
“I’ll have Paul call him.”
I added the additional donation to the running tally I kept in the under-used math section of my brain. We were closing in on half a million.
Libba drummed her nails on the table. “What’s your bid, Amy?”
“I’m passing.” She turned her gaze my way. “So, tell me what you’re wearing.”
After lunch (salads for Libba and me, clear broth for Lisa and Amy), I braved the rain and drove to the museum.
Laurence Sickman’s office was on the second floor.
As I climbed the stairs, I reviewed the big idea. If Laurence agreed, we might actually make a million dollars.
His secretary was away from her desk, so I rapped my knuckles against his door.
“Come in.”
When he saw me, Laurence rose from his chair and came out from behind his desk. “Ellison, what a pleasure. How are you?”
“Damp.”
He glanced at the window and grimaced. “It does seem as if it’s rained all week. May I get you some coffee?”
I considered his offer. Somewhere nearby, hidden from view, sat a percolator holding sub-par coffee. I’d learned this the hard way. “No, thank you.”
His brows rose. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“I have an idea.”
“Please—” he waved to one of the chairs in front of his desk, waited until I was seated, then took the other one “—tell me about it.”
I settled into the chair, gri
pped its arms, and took one deep breath. “Has my mother said anything to you about how much money the gala is raising?”
“She might have mentioned it.” Dry. So dry. His voice was a virtual drought. She’d definitely mentioned it.
“I think we can do it. I think we can raise a million dollars.”
He leaned forward. “How?”
“I’ll go back to a few key donors and ask for more money.”
“They’ve already given.”
“I know. And I am grateful for their gifts, but what if I asked them for multi-year commitments?”
“Pledges?”
“Yes. Pledges we count toward the gala and exhibition.” I swallowed. “The other host cities are raising millions. There are donors who might increase their commitments based purely on civic pride.”
Laurence steepled his fingers. “There are other exhibits planned in the next few years. I hate using all our chits now.”
“I understand.” Now was the time for trump cards. “I’ll tell Mother we discussed multi-year pledges, and you didn’t think they were a good idea.”
He held up his hands. “Don’t be hasty. I didn’t say no—I said the pledges might represent future challenges. Challenges we need to consider.”
“The gala is weeks away. If I’m to have any hope of raising the extra money, I need every day.”
“You want a decision?” If he thought I’d back down, he was wrong.
I looked him in the eye. “I do.”
“Today?”
“Yes.”
“The board may have an opinion.”
The board would have lots of opinions. All of them different. “I’m guessing the board wants this event and the exhibit to be successful.”
He stared at me, waiting for me to cave.
I stared back.
Long seconds passed.
“Fine, Ellison.” He shrugged. “Go after the money.”
What had I done? I stood. “Thank you.”
He pushed out of his chair and extended his hand. “Good luck. The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.”
“What do you mean?”
“You have quite a bit of your mother in you.”
I chose to take that as a compliment.
When I arrived home, I ignored Aggie’s stack of notes on the corner of my desk and pulled out my address book.
Five calls. I could do this. And if my plan worked, even Mother would have to admit I’d achieved something amazing.
Five calls. But my finger refused to turn the dial.
I hated asking for money.
People did this for a living. I could think of no worse fate than asking for money five days a week. And—this was the insane part—most of those people enjoyed their jobs. They found connecting donors with worthy causes fulfilling.
Maybe it was.
But it was still asking for money.
I gritted my teeth and dialed the first number.
“Woodson residence.”
“May I please speak with Joan?”
“May I say who’s calling?”
“Ellison Russell.”
“One moment, please.”
In a perfect world, I’d ask face to face. It was harder to turn someone down when they sat across a table from you. But there wasn’t time to schedule the appointments.
My spine stiffened until my vertebrae ached.
“Ellison?” Joan sounded pleased to hear from me.
“Joan, how are you?”
“Fine. Looking forward to the gala.”
“Me too. Actually, that’s why I’m calling.”
“Oh?”
I swallowed and gripped the edge of the desk with my free hand. “The other cities that are hosting the exhibit are raising a million dollars. I know how much you care about the museum and the city. Would you please consider pledging an additional hundred thousand dollars, payable over four years?”
She answered me with silence.
My heart slammed against my chest. “This isn’t an annual ball. This is a once-in-a-lifetime event.”
Asking for the money was the worst—worse than running over my husband’s body, worse than listening to Mother after she discovered someone’s ashes in her front closet, worse than the time Max destroyed my witchy neighbor’s everyday china.
“A hundred thousand dollars?”
“Yes.”
“Over four years?”
“Yes.”
“May I pay it over five?”
“Yes.” Yes, yes, yes, yes!
“All right. Have the museum send over the pledge forms.”
“Joan, I cannot thank you enough. You’re really making a difference—to the museum and to the city.”
She laughed softly. “Just wait till I chair something. I know the first person I’m calling for a sponsorship.”
The next three calls went much the same.
I fetched a glass of wine before the fifth call. Four hundred thousand dollars. Spinning in jubilant circles till I collapsed in an ecstatic heap on the carpet seemed entirely reasonable.
I did the responsible thing. I returned to my desk, took a deep breath, and dialed the fifth number.
“Hello.”
“Daddy, it’s Ellison.”
“I’ve been expecting your call.”
“You have?”
“Your mother—” he sounded rueful “—set you a million-dollar goal.”
“She did.”
“I don’t have it, sugar.”
He thought I wanted a million dollars? “Daddy!”
“What?”
“I would never ask you for that much money. I’ve raised nine hundred thousand dollars. If I give another fifty, would you and Mother consider a fifty-thousand-dollar gift payable over four years?”
“You’ve raised nine hundred thousand dollars?” The surprise in his voice was a bit insulting.
“Yes.” I took a celebratory sip of wine.
“Does your mother know?”
“Not yet. I wanted to hit a million before I told her.”
“Well, sugar, you can tell her now.”
“You mean it?”
“I do.”
“Thank you, Daddy.” My voice was thick.
“We don’t always tell you, but we’re very proud of you.”
I wiped away a tear. “I love you, Daddy.”
“Love you too, sugar.” He hung up.
I sat for a moment, stunned. I’d done it. I’d raised a million dollars. This called for a second glass of wine. Or maybe coffee.
Grace stood at the kitchen counter. When she spotted me, the fork in her hand (a fork laden with chocolate cake) froze. “Are you okay?”
“Yes. Why?”
“You look sort of—I don’t know—stunned.”
“I am.”
“Did you find another body?”
“No. I raised a million dollars.”
Sixteen
When I told Mother about the million dollars, she whooped.
Mother.
Whooped.
Her response made me wish I’d told her in person and not over the phone.
“Ellison, that’s fabulous! How did you do it?”
“Pledges, paid over the next few years.”
“Pledges?” An edge snuck into her voice. “You don’t actually have the money?”
I closed my eyes, counted to ten, and remembered the whoop. “Joan Woodson and the other people who committed will pay their pledges, Mother.”
“I know, I know. But—”
“Call your friend Claudia and ask how much they collected this year and how much will come in paid pledges.”
“Don’t be so defensive.”
“Don
’t be so critical. Enjoy this with me.”
“I wasn’t being critical. You’re too sensitive.”
Words—none of them nice ones—elbowed each other on their way to the tip of my tongue. “Mother—”
“What?”
“Stop.”
“Stop?”
“Exactly. Stop. You would have done things differently, found opportunities I missed, raised more money. I get it. But right now, be pleased for me and the museum.”
“I am pleased. And proud. But—”
I gave up. “Mother, I won’t keep you.” I walked toward the telephone’s base. “I just wanted you to know we’d hit the goal.”
“Should we have set the goal higher?”
“No!”
Getting off the phone before she moved the goal to two million dollars became my goal. “I must run. I’ll talk to you later.”
“But—”
“Got to go. Bye.” I hung up.
Grace, who’d listened to the whole conversation, grinned at me. “I’m still blown away, Mom.”
“Thanks, honey.”
“You should eat a slice of cake to celebrate.”
There was no reason I shouldn’t indulge in a piece—except for the fit of my gala dress. The gala was still weeks away. “Fine.”
“Sit down,” she instructed. “I’ll get you a plate.”
“You went to the Howes’?” I climbed onto a kitchen stool. “Jennifer and Debbie talked?”
She nodded.
“Was Jennifer helpful?”
She blew a stray strand of hair away from her face. “I’m not sure.”
“Oh?”
“They talked without me. I hung out in Jennifer’s dining room and did homework.”
“Did Debbie say anything afterwards?”
“Only that Jennifer was super nice and super cool.”
“Sounds promising.”
Grace shrugged and put an enormous piece of cake on the counter in front of me. “I’ll get you a fork.”
“Thanks.”
She opened the cutlery drawer. “One thing Debbie said bothers me.”
“Oh? What’s that?” I accepted the fork she held out to me.
“I’m not sure she’d want me telling you.”
I ate a bite of chocolate cake and moaned. “This is amazing.”
“I know, right?”
“You don’t have to tell me what Debbie said. I don’t want you to betray a confidence.”
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