Rose didn’t answer.
She watched the waiter put a martini on the table. She picked up said martini. She took an enormous (half-the-glass-gone) sip. She sighed.
I sipped my wine. And waited for the rest of the story.
“Janice asked a friend to spend the night. The two of them snuck out to meet a couple of boys. Boys Janice knew. Katie was raped. Janice blamed herself.”
The bare bones of a tragic story.
But those bones were all it took to flip a light switch in my brain. We’d been looking at everything the wrong way.
Eighteen
Three dry martinis in an hour meant Rose couldn’t drive—she could barely walk. I poured her into a cab and waited for the valet to bring my car.
Libba and Jimmy didn’t notice when I left. Aggie and Mac did—they’d hidden behind menus when I walked by their table. Somehow, I doubted the Alameda was their first choice for an evening out.
Grace had crossed her ts and dotted her is when it came to my safety.
With Rose gone, and me on my way home, I hoped Aggie and Mac enjoyed their evening.
When I arrived, I let Max out and started a pot of coffee.
You’ve been busy. Mr. Coffee made an observation. He didn’t point fingers (or pot handles). He never pointed fingers. One of his attributes I loved most.
“I didn’t mean to neglect you.”
You think better with my help.
“So true. And I have some serious thinking to do.”
Mr. Coffee filled his pot and offered me his sunny grin. I’m here whenever you need me.
I poured a mug. “What would I do without you? Thank you.”
You’re welcome.
Brnng, brnng.
It was after nine o’clock. The caller almost certainly wanted to speak with Grace. “Hello.”
“Ellison.” Anarchy didn’t sound tired, he sounded utterly exhausted.
“What’s wrong? You sound beat.”
The man was investigating four murders. Of course he was bushed.
“Long day.”
“Has something happened?” As a rule Anarchy didn’t call this late.
“Nick DiGiovanni didn’t kill Lark Flournoy or John Wilson.”
I’d never believed he had. “How do you know?”
“We found his body in the trunk of a car. He’s been dead for more than a week.
My brain conjured up that image. Yuck. “Then who killed him?”
“We’re back to square one. Have you found anything looking at those old cases?”
“Not yet. But I had an idea.”
“What’s that?”
“Aggie and I looked at the cases and sentencing from the defendant’s point of view. Were the sentences fair? Would a defendant be furious about the length?”
“And?”
“What if we had it backwards? What if we consider the cases from the victim’s perspective?” I took a sip from my mug and offered Mr. Coffee a grateful smile.
“What do you mean?”
“Here’s an example: somewhere in Aggie’s stack of notes is a murderer who was sentenced to only ten years.”
“The victim is dead.”
“He might have a family.”
Seconds passed before Anarchy spoke. “You might be on to something. You’re looking at the notes again? Tonight?”
“I am. I just made a pot of coffee.” I blew Mr. Coffee a kiss.
“Do you want some company?”
“Sure.” Yes!
“A few things on my desk need wrapping up. When I’m done, I’ll come over.”
“I’ll be here.”
I hung up the phone and carried my mug to the desk in the family room where I’d left Aggie’s notes in a neat stack.
Except the stack had disappeared.
Max ambled in from the kitchen.
“Where are my papers?”
He yawned.
Nothing else was out of place.
Had Aggie reviewed the notes and left them someplace else?
I backtracked and scanned the kitchen counters. No stack of notes.
What’s wrong? Mr. Coffee was concerned.
“The notes are missing.” I stuck my head into the dining room in case Aggie had left the papers on the table. “Where could they be?”
Mr. Coffee had no thoughts on the matter.
Invading the privacy of Aggie’s room wasn’t an option.
Instead, I grabbed a notepad out of the junk drawer and made a list of the cases I remembered. A couple of the robberies. During one of them a jewelry store owner was shot. The second-degree-murder case with the light sentence—what were the details? Who’d died and when? How could my coffee cup be empty?
I refilled.
I’d forgotten cases.
The rape case with the acquittal!
I shook my head. That couldn’t be the one. Why would a victim wait ten years to exact revenge?
Unless—my blood froze in my veins and I dropped the empty coffee mug on the floor.
Oh. Dear. Lord.
I raced out the backdoor.
Max followed me. Had I invented a new game? Woof!
My heels sank deep into the wet earth. I didn’t care—not about the shoes, not about the holes in the yard. I stumbled, fell to my knees, then ran to the gate and pushed it open.
Woof! What was this game? How did he play?
I ran across the lawn and beat against Jennifer and Marshall’s backdoor with the heel of my hand. “Grace!” The certainty my daughter was in danger made my voice high and reedy.
I beat harder. My hand pounding on the door was even louder than my heartbeat in my ears.
Thump, thump, thump!
Jennifer yanked open the door. “Ellison, what’s wrong?” She wore a Mexican peasant dress and a startled expression.
“Where’s Grace?” I peered past her.
“In the den. Has something happened?” Jennifer didn’t look like a revenge-crazed killer. She looked like a woman who’d just discovered her next-door neighbor was a raving lunatic.
I’d been wrong. Blessedly, red-faced-with-embarrassment wrong. My limbs sagged with relief. I slumped against the door frame. “I apologize for disturbing you. I had the strangest feeling Grace needed me.”
Jennifer’s face cleared. “You’re psychic! Or maybe not, because Grace is fine. I get those feelings, too. Not about Grace. About Marshall. And when I do, I must talk to him. Right away. He’s always fine.”
“Ellison!” Anarchy’s voice carried through the night.
I considered and rejected yelling back. If the neighbors told Mother I’d been bellowing like a hot dog vendor, I’d never hear the end of it. The best course of action was to grab Grace and find Anarchy. Quickly.
“It’s time for Grace to come home.”
“Are you sure?” Jennifer’s forehead wrinkled. “There are only a few minutes left in the program.”
I spotted Grace. She’d ventured into the kitchen and stood next to the stove, staring at me as if I’d lost my mind.
“Ellison!” Anarchy’s voice was louder.
“I’d feel better if she was safe at home with me. Come on, Grace.”
Jennifer shook her head. “Are you sure you’re all right? You look—”
“Ellison!”
Woof!
“Hold on.” I turned around.
Anarchy sprinted across the dark backyard. Toward me. Then he closed his hands around my upper arms. “Are you all right?”
“Fine.” I cut my gaze toward Jennifer. “I’ll tell you everything when we get home.”
“Ellison had a feeling,” Jennifer explained. “She gets them about Grace.”
“She does?” Grace’s question was the opposite of helpf
ul.
“I do. Let’s go. Now. Jennifer, thank you for having her.”
“My pleasure.” Jennifer smiled sweetly. “Grace, you’re always welcome. I hope you’ll come again soon.”
“I’d like that.”
The three of us—four counting Max—trudged across the Howes’ backyard, slipped through the gate, and returned to the house.
When the backdoor closed behind us, Grace planted her hands on her denim clad hips. “What’s up with that, Mom?”
“I thought Jennifer might be a murderer.”
“Jennifer?”
“Yes.”
“Girly, Jennifer?”
“Yes.”
“Seriously?” she demanded.
“Yes.”
“Why?” asked Anarchy.
“Because of the cases.”
“Which one?”
“The rape case,” I replied.
“Seriously?” Grace used her you’re-so-lame voice.
“What about them?” asked Grace.
“There’s a case—a rape case—where Lark acquitted the defendant—there’s some fancy legal term for it. I thought Jennifer might—”
“You thought Jennifer was the victim?” Grace rolled her eyes. “She’s from California. She’s never lived here before.”
“You’re right. It wasn’t rational.” How to explain the absolute certainty I’d felt?
“Where are Aggie’s notes?” Anarchy asked.
“I don’t know. I left them on my desk, but Aggie must have moved them.”
“We can look at them tomorrow.” Concern darkened his eyes. “Tonight, we’d both better get some sleep.” He meant me.
Maybe he was right. Maybe I’d flown into a panic because I was overtired.
“I’m going to bed.” With one final eye roll, Grace left us.
The sound of her footsteps on the stairs faded, and Anarchy gathered me into his arms. “What’s up?”
I leaned my forehead against his chest. “I was so sure.”
He rested a finger under my chin, tilted my head, and looked into my eyes. “Your instincts are good.”
I shook my head. “Jennifer’s obviously not a killer.”
“You were protecting Grace.”
“Maybe it’s the second-degree-murder case.”
“But you thought it was the rape case. Why?”
“The defendant was acquitted. I know what I’d want to do to anyone who hurt Grace that way. If a judge and a lawyer colluded to let him walk, I’d want to hurt them just as bad.” Were my feelings clouding my judgment?
“We’ll review the notes tomorrow. In the meantime, you should rest.”
All things being equal, I preferred standing in the shelter of his arms. Instead, I said, “You look as if you could use a few hours of sleep too.”
He winced and loosened his hold on me. “Fortunately, the Feds are taking the DiGiovanni murder. But that still leaves me with four.”
“Busy week.”
“I look on the bright side.”
“Oh?”
“You only found two of them.”
I didn’t sleep. How could I? I paced. And I thought. And I paced some more.
Marigold was the first to die. She’d locked us in an attic and opened the door for her killer.
Why would she do that?
Had she imagined only a burglary?
Had she meant to open the door before we ever realized she’d locked it?
That made sense. Marigold had left us near dozing on the floor and opened Winnie’s house to someone who’d rifled through Lark’s papers. They’d been in it—whatever it was—together.
Had something gone wrong? Or had the killer always planned to murder Marigold?
He’d brought a rope. Her murder was planned.
I paused at the window and peered into the darkness.
Whatever the killer had found in Lark’s office, within a handful of hours John Wilson was dead, and Lark not long after.
Why poison Winnie? It didn’t fit.
I flopped into a club chair, tucked my feet beneath me, and covered my lap with a blanket.
Those Sweet’N Low packets—how long had the poison been in Winnie’s purse? A week? A month? Since yoga class?
Could the murders and the attempt on her life be unrelated? Had Lark poisoned his wife? Who else could have done it?
So many questions. I tilted my head back and stared at the ceiling.
Anyone with access to Winnie’s purse might have slipped the poison inside.
I tossed off the blanket, resumed pacing, and considered when I left my handbag unattended. Not that often. Possibly at a committee meeting. If I played tennis, my bag sat on a bench next to the court. If I went to a party, my handbag might be tossed on a bed with the coats. Basically, anyone could slip something inside.
Ugh.
The people with opportunity to slip something into Winnie’s purse had been friends, family, and Marigold.
Then there was Mark Roberts.
I pinched the bridge of my nose.
Why kill him? And why stash his body in my car?
A warning? For me?
His murder couldn’t be random. Could it?
All I knew for sure was that country club parking lots were dangerous places.
I climbed into bed and picked up Postern of Fate, a book club read. I skimmed a page, registered zero words, and closed the book.
The rape case. I needed Aggie’s notes on the rape case. And the murder. If someone killed a loved one and their punishment was a mere ten years in prison, I’d be furious.
I turned off the lamp and closed my eyes, certain I’d never sleep.
I slept.
Grrr. Max nudged me.
“What?” I mumbled.
Woof! Something was wrong.
I listened, straining to hear anything out of place, anything that would make Max growl. “What is it?”
Grrr.
I climbed out of bed and crossed to the window.
The street was quiet and empty.
Grrr. Max nudged me toward the door.
“Fine, but I need a robe.”
Woof! We didn’t have time for robes.
“What is wrong?” My heart beat faster. Max was a dedicated sleeper and never awakened me unless something was amiss.
I opened my bedroom door and Max trotted down the hall. He waited for me at the top of the stairs.
Together we looked down into the foyer.
Together we descended the steps.
The smell didn’t hit me till I reached the first floor.
Max’s nose twitched.
I raced to the front door, turned the locks, and yanked it open. “Grace! Grace! Get up!”
That smell. Gas.
“Go get Grace!”
Max flew up the stairs.
I ran into the kitchen.
The odor nearly overpowered me.
So much gas. A single spark would blow the house into the next county.
I held my nightgown over my mouth and nose and ran for the back door. When I had it open, I turned and faced the stove.
The burner knobs were turned to high, but the flames had been extinguished. I turned them. “Grace! Get out of the house.”
The window stuck, but I yanked until it opened.
I coughed and my eyes watered, but I grabbed a tea towel with both hands and waved it toward the open door.
“Mom! What are you doing?”
Wasn’t it obvious? I waved the towel again. “There’s gas. Get out! Now!”
“Not without you.”
If that was her condition, we were both leaving.
We staggered (I staggered, Grace walked) into the backyard.
>
Grace glanced toward the Howes’. “We need to call the gas company and the fire department.”
“And the police,” I added.
“The police?”
“Someone turned on the burners and blew out the pilot lights.”
Her eyes widened. “How did they get in?”
“No idea.”
She took a step toward the Howes’.
I caught her arm. “Wait.”
“Why?”
“I’m going to Margaret’s.”
“Hamilton’s?” Was I nuts?
“We’ve imposed on the Howes enough for one night.”
Grace’s expression said it all—Jennifer was sweet and lovely, Margaret might turn me into a footstool.
Grace was not wrong. “Let’s go.” I trudged toward Margaret’s.
We cut into the front yard and across Margaret’s lawn. The grass was wet and cold on my feet and my skin pebbled in the chilly air.
I rang the bell. “Will you stay outside with Max?”
Max was not welcome in Margaret’s house. He and her cat had a running feud. A feud that, if fought in Margaret’s living room, guaranteed I’d spend the rest of my life as a place for her to rest her feet.
Grace nodded. She wore a flannel gown and slippers. She’d be all right outside for a few minutes.
I poked at the bell a second time and pressed my ear to the door. “She’s coming.”
Margaret, clad in unrelenting black (had she been stirring a cauldron?) opened her front door and gaped at me.
“I’m sorry to disturb you, Margaret.” Please, don’t turn me into a tasseled footstool. “May I use your phone?”
Her gaze shifted from me to our house. “What’s wrong?”
“I smelled gas.”
She offered me a grudging nod. “Come in. Grace, are you staying outside with the beast?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“I’ll get you a coat, dear. Ellison, there’s a phone in the kitchen. You know the way.”
Only because I’d once followed Max’s trail of destruction.
I reached Margaret’s surprisingly colorful kitchen, picked up her phone, and dialed the operator. “Please connect me with the fire department.”
A few seconds later the dispatcher was on the line.
“There’s been a gas leak at my house. We need your help.”
“Was there an explosion? Is anything on fire?”
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