Detective Peters tugged on his mustache and his bulging eyes looked as if they might pop clean out of his head. “We’re impounding the car.”
“I figured as much.” Mother would have a conniption. She and Daddy gave me the Mercedes (mainly because she didn’t approve of my TR6) and now a man had died—been murdered (he hadn’t bashed in his own skull)—in the front seat.
Mother might be more upset by the dead body than the bloodied car.
Or not.
One could hope.
“Ellison!”
I turned toward the clubhouse where Penny stood beneath the porte-cochere.
She hurried toward me. “What happened?”
“Mark Roberts has a good reason for missing lunch.”
She paled, and her gaze took in the police. “You don’t mean—”
“Someone murdered him and stashed the body in my car.”
She staggered, and I grabbed her arm.
“You don’t mean it.”
I never lied about corpses. “I’m afraid I do.”
“This sort of thing doesn’t happen out here.” People who lived out south believed they were safe—far from the crime that plagued Kansas City’s more urban neighborhoods. To them, the Plaza was a hotbed of criminal activity. Just running into Swanson’s was an invitation to be mugged, a quick trip to Woolf’s meant a purse snatching, a walk through a parking garage meant an assault.
“It can happen anywhere.” I spoke from experience.
“Ellison.”
Anarchy stood behind me.
Penny’s eyes widened.
“Penny, this is Anarchy Jones. He’s a homicide detective. Anarchy, this is Penny Sylvester, one of my oldest friends.”
“Nice to meet you.” Anarchy sounded distracted—as if he had murder on his mind.
Penny stared. Mute.
I turned and looked at him. Anarchy wore a charcoal gray suit, a crisp white shirt, and a striped tie. He looked like a partner in a law firm or a bank president. “Wow.”
A dull red stained his cheeks. “I’m going to Marigold’s funeral.” His gaze traveled to the Mercedes. “Body in the car?”
“Yes.”
“Isn’t that the car your parents gave you?”
I nodded.
“Your mother won’t like this.” As understatements went, his was huge.
Penny giggled.
“Detective Peters says he’s impounding it.”
“Evidence.” There was nothing he could do.
“Can you take me home?”
He glanced at his watch. “Do you mind going to the funeral first?”
I wore a beige Ultrasuede coat dress and black pumps. Not perfect for a funeral but not disrespectful either. I pulled the colorful Hermès scarf off my neck, folded the silk, and stowed the square in my handbag. “Penny, I’ll call you later.”
Penny merely nodded, too stunned by the murder or Anarchy or the combination of the two to form words.
“Let’s go.” Anarchy escorted me to his car and opened the passenger door for me.
“Thank you,” I murmured.
He slid behind the wheel but didn’t turn on the ignition. “What happened?”
“I really don’t know.”
“You’ve never met Mark Roberts?”
“Never. Penny set up lunch because he was interested in the gala.”
“Why put his body in your car?”
I guessed. “It was the closest?”
Anarchy didn’t look satisfied with my answer, but he turned the key and drove out of the parking lot.
“Where’s the funeral?” I asked.
He mentioned a church I’d never heard of.
“Methodist?”
“Yes. You sound surprised.”
“I figured Marigold’s funeral would be unorthodox.”
“Marigold—Janice—didn’t plan it.”
Which was precisely why Mother had everything written out—from the hymns to the readings to a reminder that the dean was to wear his good shoes (she’d spotted him wearing Hush Puppies under his cassock at a graveside service and had been so appalled she skipped church for three Sundays in a row).
The church was nearby. Only a few minutes away from Brookhaven. Anarchy parked in the half-full lot, and we quietly slipped into one of the back pews.
“Do you always attend victim’s funerals?” I whispered.
“You’d be surprised how often the killer shows up.”
That had me studying the congregation carefully.
Was that Winnie? I blinked. The salt-and-pepper hair sure looked like hers.
The woman glanced over her shoulder as if she could feel the weight of my stare.
It was Winnie. And she didn’t look pleased to see me.
I smiled and shifted my gaze.
Lisa sat a few rows closer to the altar. She’d done such a masterful job of erasing her out-south roots I was surprised to see her.
The organist played the first few notes of a hymn, the family filed into their seats in the front row, and the congregation quieted.
The service was awkward. The minister’s vague remarks made it obvious he’d never met the deceased.
When the last prayer was completed, Anarchy and I watched the family follow Marigold’s coffin up the aisle. The woman in the black print dress with smudged mascara had to be Lisa’s friend, Rose.
“We should pay our respects,” I whispered to Anarchy.
“What?”
“I have a feeling about Rose.”
“Who’s Rose?”
“Janice’s sister.”
Anarchy did not look convinced.
“It won’t take long.” A bald-faced lie. We’d be waiting in line forever and I knew it.
Twenty-five minutes later, I stood in front of Rose Cook. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you—” she couldn’t place me.
“I took Marigold’s class that day.”
Her gaze sharpened. “You were there?”
“Locked in the attic.” I pulled a calling card out of my handbag, one I’d prepared for Mark Roberts—it had my phone number jotted on the back. I handed the card to her. “If you’d like to talk…”
She slid the card into her pocket. “Thank you.”
I moved on, offering condolences to Marigold’s parents and a wizened woman who had to be a grandmother.
Duty complete, I surveyed the cookie selection on the buffet. Store-bought. Mother would not approve.
“Are we done?” Anarchy asked.
I nodded, and he took my arm and guided us through the throng.
We stepped outside and drank in a moment of sunshine.
“What did you give her?”
“My card.”
“She knows nothing about the murder. She was out of town when her sister died, and she hadn’t seen her in months.”
How to explain the feeling that Rose knew something? Something important. “I doubt she calls.” And I had zero interest in intruding on her grief by calling her.
“I’ll take you home.”
Home. Where the phone was probably ringing off the hook. Someone who knew someone who knew someone would have called Mother by now—and told her—her daughter had found another body.
I sighed. “Let’s go.”
Anarchy dropped me off at home.
Max met me at the door. A run? Now? Please?
“We might as well take advantage of the sunshine.”
He wagged his tail in agreement and offered me a doggy grin.
I changed into running clothes then, with Max nudging me, I descended the front stairs. “Aggie?”
No one answered.
I stuck my head into the kitchen and spotted two notes stu
ck to the front of the refrigerator.
Aggie was at the law library.
Grace was next door getting math help.
I left a note of my own and picked up Max’s leash. “Ready?”
Was he ever.
We ran four miles. Until cake for dinner didn’t matter. Until the memory of the body in the Mercedes was pounded into the ground beneath my sneakers. Until even Max looked tired.
The house was still empty when we arrived home.
I leaned against the kitchen counter and chugged a glass of water.
Max, with his tongue lolling out of his mouth, flopped on the floor.
Brnng, brnng.
I stared at the phone.
Brnng, brnng.
Life before telephones must have been peaceful. Mothers had to be in front of their daughters to scold them.
“Hello.”
“Would you care to explain what happened?” Mother’s voice was icy.
“It wasn’t my fault.”
“It never is.”
“Technically, that’s true. I haven’t murdered anyone.”
A strange sound, almost like a growl, carried down the telephone line. “What happened?”
I gave her the condensed version.
“I can’t believe you dragged Penny into this sordid mess.”
“Some might argue Penny dragged me.”
“Don’t be smart, Ellison.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it.” My voice was chocolate cake sweet—chocolate cake with a side of sarcasm.
Grace burst through the back door.
“Mother, Grace is home. I’ll talk to you later. Bye.” I hung up and smiled at my daughter. “How’s Jennifer?”
“She should teach. She explains things much better than the actual teacher.”
“I’m glad you’re learning math.”
Grace’s eyes narrowed. “What’s wrong?”
I told her about Mark Roberts and the car.
“Just now, you were on the phone with Granna?”
“Yes.”
“Did you tell her about the Mercedes?”
“Not exactly.”
“I wouldn’t want to be you when she figures it out.”
Brnng, brnng.
We both stared at the phone.
Neither of us made a single move to pick up the receiver.
Brnng, brnng.
“You’re the adult.”
She had a point.
I reached for the receiver. “Hello.”
“May I please speak with Ellison?”
“This is she.” I didn’t recognize the voice.
“This is Rose Cook calling. I’m Janice’s sister.”
“Of course. How are you?”
“Shaky. Would you meet me for a drink?”
“I’d be happy to.”
“Tonight? The rooftop bar at the Alameda?” The Alameda was a new hotel on the Plaza, not far from my house.
“That’s fine. Eight o’clock?”
“I’ll see you there.” She hung up.
I stared at the dead receiver in my hand. What was so important that Rose had to see me the night she buried her sister?
“What was that all about?” Grace’s eyes narrowed again.
“That was the yoga instructor’s sister. We’re meeting for a drink.”
“The yoga instructor who locked you in an attic then got herself murdered?”
“That’s the one.”
“And you’re meeting her sister? Why?”
“Presumably she has something she wants to tell me.”
“You’re not going alone.”
“We’re meeting at the rooftop bar at the Alameda. It’s always crowded. I’ll be fine.
“Fine? You haven’t had the best luck at the Alameda.”
I waved away the problems. “A few mishaps.”
“Mishaps? I’ll go with you.”
“It’s a bar and you have school tomorrow.”
“Then take Libba with you.”
That wasn’t a bad idea. She and Jimmy could cocktail at a nearby table and if I needed them, help would be nearby. “Okay.”
Grace reached past me and lifted the receiver off its cradle. “Call her now.”
“Now?”
“Why not?”
With Grace watching, I dialed.
Libba answered. “Hello.”
“It’s me.”
“What happened?”
“How do you know something has happened?”
“Your voice?”
“Really?” My best friend could hear disaster in my voice?
“And Jinx called me.”
I clenched my hand into a fist. “What are you doing tonight?”
“Nothing special.”
“I’m meeting Marigold’s sister for a drink at the Alameda at eight. Grace doesn’t want me going by myself.”
“Grace has more sense than her mother.”
“Would you and Jimmy have a drink there? To keep an eye on me?”
“Of course. That’s a wonderful idea. Did Grace think of it?”
“Yes.”
We hung up the phone, and I ran upstairs to shower and change.
I threw on a black dress, black stockings, and black heels, and glanced in the mirror. I looked like I was the one in mourning. I took everything off and started fresh—my favorite DVF dress (the color of persimmons), nude hose, nude heels, and a multitude of gold chains.
I grabbed a Chanel clutch and headed downstairs.
When I entered the kitchen, Aggie and Grace flushed—guilty flushes.
They were up to something. What? One thing was certain, the direct approach wouldn’t work. I pretended I’d missed the incriminating pink on their cheeks. “What’s for dinner?”
“There’s quiche Lorraine in the oven and a salad in the fridge.”
“Sounds delish.” I opened the fridge and took out a bottle of wine. “Did you learn anything at the law library?”
“No.” Aggie tapped the tip of her nose with her fist. “We’re missing something. I’m sure of it.”
“I agree. But the harder I chase, the faster it runs.” I poured a glass of wine and returned the bottle to the fridge.
“Grace tells me you’re going to the Alameda tonight.”
“I am.” Was that what she and Grace were whispering about when I walked in? “Libba and her beau will be there to keep an eye out.”
Aggie did not look impressed. But, given Libba’s track record with men, there was a real possibility Jimmy moonlighted as an axe murderer.
“The oven timer is set,” she said. “Just take the quiche out of the oven when it dings and dress the salad.”
“You’re leaving?”
She glanced at Grace. “Mac and I have a date.”
“Don’t worry, Aggie. I won’t let Mom burn dinner.”
Even I could pull a quiche from an oven. “You two are lucky I don’t take up Jell-O salads as a hobby.”
Grace grimaced.
Aggie chuckled.
“Have fun with Mac,” I told her.
“I will, and you be careful.”
Why was everyone so worried?
Ding dong.
Had Mother come to scold in person? I froze.
Grace sent a put-upon look my way before trudging down the hall.
“I wasn’t kidding.” Aggie’s gaze met mine. “Be careful.”
“I will. I promise.”
Grace and Max reappeared.
“Who was it?”
She held up a textbook. “I forgot this at Jennifer’s. She brought it over.” She dropped the book on the counter. “I told her you were going out tonight, and she invited me over to watch T
V. Can I go?”
“Is your homework done?”
“Yes.”
“Home by ten.”
“I promise.”
Hopefully I’d beat her home.
The rooftop bar at the Alameda overlooked the Country Club Plaza. Lacy towers, Spanish architecture, and dramatic lighting gave the buildings below me an enchanted aura.
I sipped my drink and enjoyed the view.
“Ellison?”
I looked up at Rose Cook. She wore unrelenting black (good thing I’d changed). The smudges beneath her eyes were darker than they’d been after the funeral and her nose was pink. On a good day, she was probably an attractive woman. Today was not a good day.
She pulled out a chair and sat across from me. “Thank you for meeting me.”
“I’m very sorry for your loss.”
She glanced down at her hands. “I keep thinking about how awful her last moments must have been.”
“She’s at peace now.” That sounded infinitely better than at least her neck broke and she didn’t choke to death. I scanned the room for a waiter and spotted Libba and Jimmy at the bar.
They had their backs to me.
Rose could lunge across the table and stab me, and they wouldn’t notice.
“Let’s get you a drink.”
She dug a handkerchief out of her handbag and wiped her nose. “I’ve been drinking a lot this week.”
“When my husband died, I drank more wine than I care to admit. Drinking was part of the grieving process.”
“How did he die?”
“He was murdered.”
Her eyes grew large. “You do understand.”
I’d never, not once, given Henry’s suffering a second thought, but I nodded. “You two were close?”
“No. In a way, that makes it worse. We’ll never fix what was broken.”
I waited.
“Something happened when Janice was in high school. No one handled it well, and she went off the rails. She graduated—barely—then took off. My parents didn’t hear from her for years.” She waved a waiter over to the table. “A vodka martini. Extra dry.”
When he left the table, she continued. “I was furious with her for all she’d put them through, and I told her so.”
“How long was she gone?”
“Ten years. Ten years without a word.”
“Your poor parents.” Their fear and anxiety and sorrow were easy to imagine. If Grace disappeared, I’d lose my mind.
“She came back as Marigold.”
“What happened to her? Why did she run away?”
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