TELEPHONE LINE

by Julie Mulhern

  “Not yet.” I gave her our address, hung up, repeated the conversation with the gas company, then called the person I’d come to count on more than any other.

  “Hello.” Anarchy’s voice was thick with sleep.

  “It’s me.”

  “What’s happened?” He sounded a thousand percent more alert.

  “Someone broke into the house and turned on the gas.”

  “Are you and Grace safe? Where are you?”

  “We’re safe. We’re at Margaret Hamilton’s.”

  “I’m on my way.”

  Nineteen

  The firetrucks attracted the neighbors.

  The neighbors (probably Marian Dixon) called Mother and Daddy.

  Mother and Daddy arrived, and Mother charged up Margaret’s front walk. “What happened?”

  “Gas leak.” It was almost true.

  “Thank God you’re all right.” Daddy wrapped me in an all-encompassing hug.

  “We’re fine. Thanks to Max.”

  Max heard his name and his ears perked. Surely heroes deserved treats?

  “What are they doing in there?” Mother’s gaze traveled from the house to the wide array of emergency vehicles. “And why so many police cars?”

  Explaining the turned-on burners was beyond me. “I’m not sure.”

  She sniffed her disapproval. “You, Grace, and—” she rubbed a hand across her eyes “—the dog will spend the night at my house. Even if you found a plumber who’d come and fix the leak in the middle of the night, he’d charge you a small fortune.”

  I didn’t argue. Nor did I tell her we didn’t need a plumber. “I’ll just say thank you to Margaret and goodnight to Anarchy.”

  “What’s he doing here?” She made his presence at my house sound like a problem rather than a gift from heaven.

  “I found a body today. He’s making sure the gas leak isn’t related.” It definitely was.

  “Make it snappy.”

  Her gaze weighed on me as I thanked Margaret then approached Anarchy. “We’re spending the night with my parents.”

  The planes of his face were taut, and his brown eyes were narrowed but his voice was gentle. “Tomorrow morning we’ll figure out how someone broke into your house. I’ll leave a patrol unit here for the rest of the night.”

  “Thank you.”

  We gazed into each other’s eyes for long seconds, and my lips tingled with the need to kiss him. With the dense pressure of Mother’s gaze still settled on my shoulders, I merely smiled. “Good night.”

  Grace, Max, and I climbed into the backseat of Mother and Daddy’s sedan. We drove in exhausted silence.

  When we reached their house, Mother pointed to the stairs. “The yellow bedroom is made up.”

  The yellow bedroom was the room where I’d slept as a child. My presence had been eradicated at least three decorators ago, but the ghost of twelve-year-old me perched cross-legged on the end of the bed and regarded me with a slight tilt to her head. Why hadn’t I figured out who killed all those people? I was an adult. Adults were supposed to have all the answers. Mother did.

  Twelve-year-old me was a pain. Surely, by now, that little girl should realize Mother didn’t have all the answers.

  At six, when the light outside the window brightened to dull gray, I abandoned the pretense of sleeping, and padded down to the kitchen.

  Daddy had the newspaper spread across the counter. “Coffee, sugar?”

  “Please.” I sat and watched as he poured coffee into a mug, fetched a carton of cream from the fridge, and put them both in front of me. No pitcher. Mother would have a coronary.

  He resumed his seat and tapped on an article in the paper. “You lead an exciting life.”

  “Is that about Mark Roberts?”

  He nodded. “The paper says he was a successful businessman—” his finger traced the length of the article “—he made transformers.”

  “That’s what Penny told me.”

  Daddy shook his head. “I’m more interested in how Roberts ended up in your car.”

  I poured cream into my mug. “For the record, I’d be perfectly happy leading a less exciting life.”

  “No you wouldn’t.”

  I looked up from studying the color of my coffee—still a shade too dark. “What do you mean?”

  “You picked the homicide detective over Tafft.”

  “Hunter Tafft has been divorced three times. I bet living with him would be plenty exciting.”

  “You know what I mean. You chose the cop. You’re on a different path—one that’s completely foreign to your mother and me.” He reached across the counter, took my hand, and squeezed. “Forgive us if we worry. We don’t doubt your judgment, but we worry where the path will lead.”

  “I just wish it didn’t lead to bodies.”

  He squeezed harder. “You and me both. Do you want some breakfast?”

  “No, thank you. Do you? I can make some eggs.”

  “No!” He turned me down with insulting alacrity.

  We drank our coffee in companionable silence.

  When my mug was empty, I asked, “Would you please give Grace and me a ride home?”

  A smile touched his lips. “You don’t want to wait until your Mother gets up?”

  No. A thousand times, no. “I bet she sleeps till ten. Grace has school.”

  Daddy dropped us off at seven. We let ourselves into the house and sniffed. The scent of rain and wet grass and Aggie’s perfume hung in the air. No gas.

  “Aggie?” I called.

  She opened the kitchen door, took one look at me, and said, “The coffee is on.”

  Grace yawned and stretched and feigned exhaustion. “Do I have to go to school?”

  “Yes.”

  “Moooom. I didn’t get any sleep last night and nothing important is happening—no tests or quizzes, no big assignments due—and the house almost blew up and—”

  “You’re going to school, Grace.”

  She stared at me, gauged my resolve, then rolled her eyes (I was totally unreasonable).

  “Can I at least go late? My first period class is art.”

  “Fine.” I didn’t have the energy for a debate.

  She climbed the stairs.

  I stumbled into the kitchen.

  Aggie put a mug in my hands. “What happened last night?”

  I clutched the mug like a lifeline. “Someone snuck into the house and turned on the gas.”

  Her brows rose. “That’s it?”

  “That’s plenty.”

  “It is,” she agreed. “What I meant was no firebomb, no incendiary device, no—”

  “Enough.” My head ached from lack of sleep, and the dull pain reaching down to my shoulders pinched a few nerves. Thinking about Grace blowing up didn’t help the tension. “The doors were locked, but somehow they got in. Was the gas a warning? Or maybe whoever turned on the burners heard Max and ran before he could set a device.” I drank half the mug in one gulp. “Almost everyone in the neighborhood turned out for the spectacle.” Men wearing plaid robes and leather slippers. Women wearing quilted robes in shades of ice blue and shell pink. Chins that needed shaving. Hair that needed combing. And identical expressions of curiosity and annoyance. Once again, a disaster at my home had roused them from their beds.

  Aggie made a sympathetic sound and her brow creased.

  I pushed the hair away from my face. “What happened last night is related to the murders—it must be. May I look at your notes, please?”

  Aggie tilted her head. “You have them.”

  The world around me slowed. “I left them on the desk in the den. Didn’t you take them?”

  “No.”

  Which meant someone had been in my house twice. They’d stolen Aggie’s notes and found something in them
that made sneaking in a second time worth the risk. The creepy-crawlies running up and down my spine did my tense shoulders no favors.

  I downed the rest of my coffee and went to Mr. Coffee for a refill.

  He offered me an encouraging smile. I needed encouragement.

  I turned to Aggie. “I hate to ask, but would you please go to Hunter’s law library and look up those cases again?”

  “Of course. I’ll call Mr. Tafft and ask him to open early.” Aggie reached for the leather bag with painted smiley faces that sat on the counter.

  Before her fingers closed on the handle, Grace pounded down the back stairs and exploded into the kitchen. “Have either of you seen my keys? They’re not in my backpack.”

  And just like that, I knew.

  Proving it would be another matter.

  I sent Aggie to the law library, where she might find answers. “Call me when you get there. I have questions about a specific case.”

  I sent Max to the backyard where the squirrels barely escaped the snap of his jaws. “Stay out of the shrubs.”

  I sent Grace upstairs. “Too much eyeliner. Wash your face.”

  I sat at the kitchen island and waited for Anarchy.

  Are you sure? asked Mr. Coffee.

  “Pretty sure.” Very sure. “I’ll know for certain once Aggie finds the case.”

  You might be wrong. Mr. Coffee’s voice was gentle.

  “I hope I am.”

  Ding dong.

  I should have changed. I still wore last night’s gown, Mother’s trench coat, and slippers. I wouldn’t be winning any fashion awards.

  But Anarchy didn’t care what I wore.

  Ding dong.

  I plodded to the front door.

  Anarchy stood on the other side.

  I let him in. “There’s fresh coffee in the kitchen. I’ll go change.”

  “Wait.” He took me in his arms. “How are you?”

  “Tired. Scared. Glad you’re here.”

  His eyes scanned my face. “We didn’t find any sign of a break-in.”

  I hadn’t expected any.

  His arms around me tightened. “You know something.”

  “I have a strong suspicion. Let me throw on some clothes then I’ll tell you everything.”

  He dropped a kiss on my forehead and released me.

  I ran upstairs, took a lightning-fast shower, and pulled on a pair of khakis, loafers, and a cashmere sweater the same shade as the blooms on the hydrangeas in the backyard—the ones waiting for spring to arrive, so summer could push it out of the way.

  I dried my hair and slapped on some makeup before I returned to the kitchen.

  Anarchy looked up from the paper. “Feel better?”

  “Much.” I bent and scratched Max’s head.

  “He wanted in.”

  “And he always gets his way.”

  “Tell me about your suspicion.”

  “It’s the rape case.”

  He lifted his brows. “Not the murder?”

  “I don’t think so. In the rape case, there was a judgment of acquittal.”

  He nodded. “That means the judge didn’t think the prosecution had proved its case.”

  “Or it means the defense attorney paid off the judge.” That was the only way Lark could have been vulnerable to Henry’s blackmail.

  His eyes narrowed, and he rubbed his chin. “I’m listening.”

  Brnng, brnng.

  “Hopefully this is Aggie.” I picked up the receiver. “Hello.”

  “Ellison—”

  “Mother, I’m sorry, but I can’t talk now. I’m expecting a call. I’ll phone you later.” I hung up. I’d pay for that. Mother didn’t easily forgive things like hang ups.

  Brnng, brnng.

  Again? Could Mother dial that fast?

  I braced myself for disaster and squeaked, “Hello.”

  “It’s me,” said Aggie.

  I breathed again.

  “What are we searching for?” she asked.

  “I have questions about the rape case.”

  “Let me find it.”

  Wrapping the phone cord around my finger, I waited.

  “Who are you talking to?” asked Anarchy

  “Aggie. She went to a law library.” No need to mention whose. “She’s finding the case.”

  “What makes you sure it’s the rape case.”

  “A feeling.” And a file locked in the safe.

  Grace elephant-walked her way down the stairs, nodded at Anarchy, offered me a wave that somehow said her attendance at school bordered on child abuse, and disappeared out the back door.

  “Problem?”

  “I’m making her go to school.”

  He smiled. “You’re very cruel.”

  “I know. Most likely, she’ll never recover.”

  “I’ve got it.” Aggie was back on the line.

  I motioned to Anarchy, and he leaned his head close to mine. We both listened.

  “John Wilson was the defense attorney. Matthew Farrell was the prosecutor. Lark Flournoy was the judge.”

  “What else does it say?” asked Anarchy. “How did a rape case end up in federal court?”

  “The defendant was charged with transporting the victim across the state line and raping her.”

  For me, State Line was a road, one I crossed multiple times a day, not a reason for a federal case, but Anarchy nodded as if Aggie’s answer made perfect sense.

  “Who was the defendant?” I clenched the receiver and waited for the answer.

  “Adam Roberts.”

  “Roberts?” Anarchy’s tone was surprised. And grim. And serious. He gave me the slightest of nods. Maybe I’d been right.

  I closed my eyes and loosened my death-grip on the phone. “What about the victim?”

  “Katherine Howe.”

  Anarchy’s head jerked away from the receiver and he stared at me. “Isn’t your neighbor’s last name Howe?”

  “Yes.” My voice was a sigh.

  “What else?” asked Aggie.

  “We need all the details,” I replied.

  “I’ll write everything down and be home soon.”

  “Thanks, Aggie.” I hung up the phone and stared at Anarchy.

  He stared back. “You have a theory.”

  I nodded, a reluctant admission.

  “What is it?”

  “Adam Roberts raped Katherine Howe but was acquitted. After the trial, the Howes moved to California. New place. Fresh start. Katherine could move forward.”

  “All right.” He waited for more.

  “But Katherine didn’t move forward. She struggled.”

  Anarchy nodded—still waiting.

  “Jennifer told me Marshall’s sister died. She killed herself. We need to find out when.”

  “Why?”

  I swallowed. “What if her brother decided she deserved justice?”

  “Marshall Howe?”

  “Yes.”

  “Ten years later?”

  “I got the impression Katherine died recently.”

  “Okay, but why kill Marigold? Why poison Winnie?” Anarchy immediately identified the holes in my theory.

  “I don’t know, but—” I stared down at the floor.

  “But what?”

  “Marigold had a childhood friend who was raped.”

  “And you think it was Katherine Howe?”

  I looked up—looked at Anarchy. “I think it’s possible. Marigold’s sister said Marigold felt guilty for the horrible thing that happened to her friend. What if Marshall also thought she was responsible?”

  Anarchy shook his head. “It’s too coincidental. Marigold just happened to be working for the Flournoys?” His gaze searched my face. �
��Why the thefts?”

  I had an answer ready. “Winnie told me Lark kept extensive case notes. Maybe Marshall wanted to prove Adam Roberts’ guilt.”

  “It wouldn’t make any difference. Roberts couldn’t be tried twice for the same crime.”

  “Do you want more coffee? I want more coffee.”

  “I’m good.”

  I poured myself another cup.

  “Also, why kill Winnie?” he asked.

  “No idea.”

  “What can you prove?”

  “Nothing.”

  Anarchy’s gaze settled on the burners. “Howe is responsible for turning on the gas last night?”

  Tossing around accusations without proof made me itch. I rubbed my palm against the back of my neck. “They were the only neighbors who didn’t come outside and watch the excitement.” Suspicious, but definitely not proof.

  “They’re heavy sleepers?”

  Sleeping through last night’s circus seemed impossible. “Also, Grace’s keys are missing.” Not proof but very suspicious.

  “Oh?”

  “Jennifer’s been helping Grace with math. When Grace goes over there, she takes her backpack. She leaves the darned thing everywhere. If she left the bag in their kitchen, and was tutored at the dining room table, she’d never know if Marshall took her keys.”

  Mother burst into the kitchen. “What is going on?” She saw Anarchy and her eyes slitted.

  “I’m sorry, Mother. I was waiting for a call.”

  She ignored me. “What are you doing here?”

  “It’s possible the person who turned on the gas last night—” Anarchy, who was returning Mother’s slitty gaze, didn’t see me draw my finger across my throat “—is related to one of my cases.”

  “Turned on the gas?” Mother shifted her gaze my way (still slitty) “You told me it was a gas leak.”

  Oh, dear Lord.

  “I didn’t want to worry you.”

  “Your house could have blown up.”

  “It didn’t.”

  “You and Grace could have died.”

  “We didn’t.”

  Mother’s fingers closed around the edge of the counter. “How can you be so cavalier about putting Grace in danger?”

  That question rendered me mute.

  “It’s not her fault, Mrs. Walford.”

  “Is it yours?”

  Now Anarchy was mute, too.