Amy passed.
Tibby glanced at her cards. “One heart.”
I studied my hand. “One spade. What did you think of her?”
Peazey caught her upper lip in her teeth and pinched the end of her pointy chin. “Three hearts.” She looked at me then crinkled her nose. “Quiet girl. Kind of a doormat.”
Peazey had managed a zinger? “Quiet” and “doormat” exactly described me for most of my marriage to Henry. I pretended not to notice. “Oh?” The woman who’d foisted a girl I barely knew on me for Lord knew how long hadn’t struck me as a doormat.
Peazey nodded. “She’d do anything to fit in.”
Amy said, “Pass.”
Tibby held her cards in her right hand and counted points with her left. “Four hearts.” She arched a brow. “Anything?”
My hand wasn’t good enough to go to game without help. I passed.
“Not that. It was the fifties. Not like today. You wouldn’t believe the way girls throw themselves at my boys.” Peazey closed her cards with a snap. “Pass.”
Who was she kidding? When Peazey was in high school someone coined the term Easy Peazey just for her. The lemon-squeezy part came later. None of us were foolish enough to remind her.
“Speaking of girls and boys, was Bobby Lowell dating anyone?” I played the ace of spades.
Peazey laid down her cards in neat rows. “Not that I know of.”
Tibby pulled the low spade from the dummy. “I haven’t heard anything.”
“Me either.” Amy threw the nine of spades. “Why?”
Tibby pulled the two of spades from her hand and Amy swept the trick.
“No reason.”
Peazey cut her gaze toward me. “Ellison, you simply must tell us about the picture in the paper.”
I should have known we couldn’t get through an afternoon without discussing my trip to The Jewel Box. “It’s boring, really. I went there with Libba. There was a…kerfuffle and I ripped my stitches.”
She sent one of her almost-smiles my direction. “What about that gorgeous man who carried you out?”
“Detective Jones?” I returned her almost-smile and raised her narrowed eyes. I ignored the way my stomach quivered whenever I thought about Anarchy’s arms around me and played the king of spades.
Tibby pulled the low spade and Amy discarded a club.
I hid a smile. Peazey could ask all the uncomfortable questions she wanted but she—and Tibby—were going down.
I arrived home at two to find a lonely Max and a handwritten note on the kitchen counter. An enormous bouquet of Stargazer lilies sat next to the note.
I gave a poor-poor-pitiful-me-eyed Max a dog biscuit. Read the note—Aggie had gone to the supermarket. Then I eyed the lilies, my favorite. Already the kitchen smelled like my version of heaven. A sealed card peeked out from between the petals.
I reached for the tiny envelope with shaky fingers. What if Hunter had sent them? Was I ready for a man who sent me flowers?
I slid my finger under the flap.
Forgive me? Libba
She’d left me in a bar filled with crossdressing men intent on pulling off each other’s wigs and tearing each other’s dresses. She’d left me with a man I barely knew. If she thought that I would forgive all that just because she’d sent me a bunch of flowers, she was as nutty as Alice Standish. Forgiveness would require serious groveling.
I crumbled Libba’s note and tossed it in the trash.
Max, who’d finished his biscuit, tilted his head and raised his doggy brows as if questioning my hard line stance.
“Give her an inch and she’ll take a mile,” I told him. “I’ve known her for almost forty years. She never changes.”
He yawned and directed his amber gaze at the telephone.
“I’m not calling her.” I crossed my arms.
He whined softly.
“I’d rather call Anarchy Jones than Libba.”
Woof.
The dog had a point. I ought to tell Anarchy about the note. I dug his card out of my billfold, picked up the phone and dialed.
“Jones.”
Why had I thought this was a good idea? “It’s Ellison,” I squeaked.
I could almost see him in his office with his long legs stretched out, his feet crossed, maybe propped on his desk, the receiver held carelessly against his ear. “What is it?” His voice held an edge.
I’d never called him without a problem.
I swallowed. “I played bridge today.”
He didn’t respond to this exciting news.
“I talked to Amy McCreary.”
Still no response.
“Her son Jack went to the football game with Bobby Lowell.”
“We talked to him.”
“Did Jack tell you about the note?”
“The note?” A bang carried through the phone lines. Anarchy’s feet hitting the floor? “What note?”
“Bobby got a note just before half-time, then he took off. I just thought you should know.” Anarchy was more than smart enough to count the minutes. I’d found Bobby just a few minutes after the second half started. It seemed likely the note was from the murderer.
“What else did you talk about?”
“Declining morals.”
The police detective snorted. “Thank you, Ellison. We’ll look into this right away. Anything else you want to tell me?”
My thoughts flew to my perfectly white front door. “No. Nothing.” I scratched my nose.
“You’re sure?”
Was I sure I didn’t want to explain why I’d eradicated potential evidence in a murder investigation? “Positive.”
“Any idea where I might find Jack McCreary?” Spoken like a man without children.
“At school.”
Anarchy said goodbye and presumably hurried off to track down Jack and the note. I inhaled lily-scented air then went upstairs to put on paint clothes. Too much time had passed since I picked up a brush. Lord knows I’d tried, but my hands reached for dark colors and my brushes created brooding swirls heavy with pent-up emotions. The exact opposite of the colorful, hopeful canvases my customers demanded.
Perhaps I needed to paint something dark, work the negativity out of my system with a paintbrush, a primed canvas and tubes of carbon black, dioxazine violet and old Delft blue deep. I painted, let my frustration with Grace and Mother and Libba bleed onto the canvas. My confusion with Hunter and Anarchy shaded amorphous shapes. Henry’s betrayals were reduced to dark slashes.
When I looked up, the afternoon was gone and the slam of the front door reverberated through the house.
“Mom!”
There it was again. The outraged Mom call. Loud enough to reach my attic studio. What had I done now?
I wiped off my hands and descended two flights of stairs.
Grace stood in the foyer; she’d dumped her backpack on the floor and her hands were planted on her hips. The dropped pack was pure teenager. The pose was reminiscent of Mother. Grace saw me and narrowed her eyes. “What did you do?”
I drew a deep calming breath. God save me from dramatic teenagers. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Yeah, right.” Grace lifted the corner of her upper lip. Her dismissive tone and her sneering expression made her opinion clear. I was a bitch beyond measure.
Donna, pale as early April, stood behind her looking as horrified as a romantic heroine from a gothic novel who’s just discovered the lonely castle where she cares for children of questionable parentage is haunted.
I shook my head. “No idea what you’re talking about.”
“You sent the police to get Jack.”
“I told the police what Jack told his mother. Someone passed Bobby a note shortly before half-time.”
She crossed her arms
over her chest. “Well, they don’t believe him.”
“Why not?”
Again with the narrowed eyes. “They didn’t find a note.”
My jaw dropped—just a little. Had Jack lied? Had the murderer taken the note? More likely Bobby just threw it away before he went under the stands. I snapped my lips closed.
“Just because you don’t like him doesn’t mean you frame him for murder.”
“I’m not trying to frame anyone for murder. Don’t you want Bobby’s killer caught?”
Her fingers bent as if wrapped around someone’s neck. She shook them and growled. “You don’t get it.”
“I get that Bobby’s dead and that if the police are going to catch his killer they need everyone to tell the truth.”
“Like you did last night?”
I’d had the door painted to protect her. Rather than appreciate the gesture, she’d thrown it in my face. “That’s enough out of you, young lady.”
Behind her, Donna dropped her backpack and clutched her stomach as if she was in pain.
“Are you all right?” I asked.
Donna nodded. Weakly.
“I apologize, Donna. Normally Grace and I can control our tempers.” I glared at my daughter.
She glared back.
“We’ll discuss this later. Perhaps you’d like to get Donna a drink?”
Grace flounced off to the kitchen. Just last night she’d run into my arms like a child. Where had that girl gone?
The phone rang. I went into my late husband’s office and answered it. “Hello.”
“Ellison? This is India Hess. I’m so glad I caught you. We’ve had the best news! Jonathan’s injuries aren’t as serious as originally thought. The doctors will release him by the end of the week. We’ll pick Donna up on Friday. Is she there? I’d like to tell her.”
“We’ve loved having Donna, but that is wonderful news.” Poor kid. She’d put up with vandalism, all-night painters and far too much drama. She’d be thrilled to get home even if her stepfather was a jackass. “I’ll get her for you.”
I hurried down the hall to the kitchen. “Donna, your mother is on the line.”
A bit of color had returned to her cheeks. “Thank you, Mrs. Russell.” She picked up the phone.
Grace cast me a dirty look.
I didn’t want sticking my nose in Donna’s business added to my list of sins. I yielded the field—for now—and returned to the study. When Donna went home, Grace and I had a few issues to work out.
I picked up the phone lying on the desk.
“Don’t be silly, darling,” India snapped. “You can’t impose on the Russells forever.”
“I wasn’t planning on it, Mother.” There it was, the teenage tone that encapsulated embarrassment, superiority, attitude, and need. Nice to know it wasn’t just Grace who spoke that way.
“Stop being so dramatic,” India chided.
I was all too familiar with drama. Drama flowed through my house like a river out of its banks. I hung up the phone before Grace rightly accused me of eavesdropping.
It was hardly surprising Donna didn’t like her stepfather. I barely knew him and I didn’t like him. Who could blame her for not wanting him home? Not me.
Thirteen
That evening, I drove to Kizzi and Howard’s with the top down. The wind grabbed strands of my hair and wrapped them around my neck in a blonde noose.
The painter’s exorbitant bill, tucked into my pocketbook, fueled my anger with one Miss Alice Standish.
I parked at the curb, maneuvered the uneven bricks of their front walk—thank God I hadn’t worn heels—and rang the bell.
Kizzi answered the door and stared at me as if she couldn’t place who I was or why I might be standing on her front stoop.
“You told me to come at seven.”
She blinked and wiped at one of her blurry eyes with the back of her hand. “I did?”
“You did.”
“I suppose you’d better come in.” She opened the door wider and stepped aside.
I followed her into a living room with walls paneled in recovered wood and a floor covered in tiles. A long, black, tufted leather sofa ran the length of one wall. In front of it sat a white shag area rug topped by a glass coffee table. It matched the end tables that held brass lamps and crystal ashtrays. Club chairs upholstered in a black and white floral print sat at right angles to the couch.
It was all very trendy, and Kizzi had probably paid her decorator a fortune. I didn’t like it. It felt more like a stage set than a home. The only personal touch in the whole room was the highball on the coffee table. Kizzi had marked the glass with her lipstick, a frosted pink half-moon hanging above a veritable sea of gin.
“Please, Ellison, have a seat.” She’d finally remembered my name. “May I get you a drink?”
“No, thank you.” I didn’t plan on staying long enough to finish it. I sank so low into the couch that my knees were higher than my seat.
Kizzi, better acquainted with the hazards of her furniture, sat in one of the club chairs. “Howard will be right in. He’s just making sure Alice is doing her homework.”
I nodded.
Kizzi patted her hair then glanced around her living room. “What brings you here?”
“Shall we wait for Howard?”
She scrunched her nose. “Everyone always wants to wait for Howard. What’s happened?”
If she wanted the bill, she could have it. I pulled the flimsy piece of paper with the astronomical number written on the bottom from my purse and handed it to her. “I think Alice vandalized my house.”
“Alice?” She held the painter’s invoice at arm’s length and squinted. She saw the total and rubbed her eyes. “Why would you think that?”
“I think it has something to do with Alice’s fascination with Bobby Lowell.”
She stilled, then lifted her drink to her lips. “Poor boy.”
“Bobby was seeing another girl and I don’t think Alice much liked it.”
Kizzi leaned forward and lowered her voice. “I hope you won’t hold this against her.” She fingered the bill. “She went a little crazy over Bobby. When he started seeing someone else, she was distraught.” Kizzi hiccupped. The smell of gin made my eyes water. She lifted her glass, drank, then leaned closer still. “Alice said if she couldn’t have him, no one could.”
“That’s enough!”
Our heads swiveled toward the door. Howard stood at the room’s entrance. His face flushed, his arms crossed, his chin lowered.
Kizzi waved the painter’s bill. “Ellison says Alice vandalized her house.”
Howard stepped into the antiseptic decorator’s delight of a living room and took the bill from Kizzi’s hand. When he saw the total, the flush ran away from his cheeks. “What happened, Ellison?”
“Alice painted on my door.”
He regarded me with an arched brow.
“Someone painted the word ‘slut.’”
The brow rose higher and his mouth formed the beginnings of a smirk.
A smirk? Surely he wasn’t suggesting…I’d been with one man my entire life. And even when Henry cheated on me, I’d kept my vows.
As for Grace, I’d bet her trust fund that she hadn’t done anything to deserve having such an ugly word written about her. I tilted my head slightly, pursed my lips and raised my own brow. “The same word that was woven into the fence at the school. Near where Bobby died.”
Kizzi hiccupped. “We know. A policeman came by to ask us about it.”
I offered her an encouraging smile. “And?”
“Alice said she didn’t have anything to do with it.”
Alice said, not Alice didn’t—it seemed as if Kizzi doubted her daughter. “You didn’t believe her?”
Kizzi glanced at her drink, her husband, the
n me. “Um…”
“That’s enough.” Howard was repeating himself. He crumpled the bill in his hand, stepped outside the door and yelled, “Alice!”
When Alice appeared, she wore enough black for two funerals. Also, she’d taken black eyeliner and circled her eyes. She might have been going for a haunting look. What she got was demented raccoon.
She stared at me with narrowed, kohl-rimmed eyes and I straightened my shoulders to keep them from shaking. Looking at her, it seemed all too possible that she’d killed Bobby.
“What?” she asked.
Howard shook the painter’s bill in her face. “Did you deface Mrs. Russell’s property? Did you paint on her door?”
She shrugged—a classic, world-weary teenage shrug. “What if I did?” She leaned against a wall and crossed her arms.
“And the fence at school?” I asked.
The corner of her upper lip lifted slightly. “I haven’t been painting any fences.”
I sat a little straighter on the uncomfortable couch. “The fence wasn’t painted.”
“There you go. I didn’t do it.” Something flickered in her ebony-ringed eyes. Madness? Murder? Teenage angst?
“Didn’t do what?” Kizzi asked. She clutched her drink as if it was a lifesaver keeping her from drowning in deep waters.
Alice’s sneer became more pronounced. “I didn’t paint the fence.”
“Did you paint the door?” Howard demanded.
“Maybe. Maybe not. What are you going to do about it?” The challenge in her voice was unmistakable. Her mother drank. Her father wore frilly dresses. Alice did whatever she wanted.
I levered myself off Kizzi’s ridiculous couch. “I’m going to call your grandmother.”
The direness of my threat hung in the air like a lobbed tennis ball, and the next few seconds ticked by in slow motion.
The ball landed. Kizzi dropped her drink, Howard clutched his chest and Alice’s rebellious posture collapsed. They all breathed a collective “No!” Tossing a live grenade would have made less of an impression. Interesting. Alice Anne, the Dragon of Drury Lane, terrified her family too.
“I’ll pay the bill.” Howard held the crumpled paper in his left hand. It shook. “I’ll write you a check right now.”
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