Ding dong.
I opened the door to a bevy of committee members.
They crowded into the foyer, handed over their minks, and kissed the air next to my cheek.
“Living room, girls. There’s fresh coffee and Aggie baked cookies.”
“Is there wine?” asked Martha Coleman.
“No, but there will be as soon as we’re done.” Business meetings and wine didn’t mix. “Who are we missing?”
“Jinx,” said Cyd Higgins.
“We’ll start without her. Living room.” I spread my arms wide as if I could successfully corral a group of chattering women.
To my great surprise, they moved. Probably lured by Aggie’s cookies.
Plates and cups were filled and we took our seats.
Of all the committees for the gala I was chairing, the ambiance committee was the most challenging. I blamed Cyd, the committee chairman.
Even now, she was throwing wrenches into the works. “I still think we should have the servers dress up as geishas.”
“It’s a Chinese exhibit,” I explained. Not for the first time.
“So?”
“Geishas are Japanese.”
“No one will know the difference.”
“The dignitaries from China might,” said Beverly.
Cyd cast a sneer in Beverly’s direction.
In a weak moment, I’d agreed to chair the gala associated with a Chinese exhibit at The Nelson-Atkins Museum. The exhibit was visiting only three cities—Kansas City, Washington, D.C., and San Francisco—and expectations for the grand opening gala were high.
Thus far we’d agreed on the colors in Kirkwood Hall—crimson, gold and oxidized copper. The flowers—roses, peonies, orchids, and lilies. And the tablecloths—red with overlays embroidered with dragons. But final decisions on everything else were due. The time for discussion had ended.
“The service staff will wear black pants and white shirts,” I said.
There were murmurs of agreement.
“I think Foo dogs flanking the entrance would have the biggest impact.” I waited for Cyd to disagree.
She didn’t.
Ding dong.
A moment later, Jinx breezed into the living room and took a seat near the door.
I nodded a welcome.
She mouthed, “Sorry.”
“What about kimonos?” said Cyd. No wonder she hadn’t argued about the lions. She was still on the staff’s attire. “The staff can wear kimonos.”
“Japanese,” said Beverly.
I forced a smile and sent it Cyd’s way. “Black pants. White shirts.”
Cyd crossed her arms. “We’re missing an opportunity.”
We were missing an opportunity to offend Chinese guests.
“Duly noted. Let’s move on. Where are we with logistics?”
Transforming Kirkwood Hall into a room reminiscent of the Forbidden City was no small feat.
Anne Smith, as practical as her name, checked her notebook. “The florist arrives at…”
Anne had everything scheduled to the minute. I had no worries on that front. While she spoke I looked around my living room.
The women who gathered round my coffee table were well-dressed. One or two even had a sense of style. They were well-spoken. They were well-coiffed. Their make-up was applied with restraint. The fashion magazines might proclaim glittery turquoise eye shadow as all the rage but such a shade would never defile their lids.
They spent their days completing good works.
They spent their evenings pouring cocktails and getting dinner on the table.
By all appearances, they had trouble-free lives.
Appearances were deceiving. Jinx was fresh out of rehab. Beverly was dependent on her family. Cyd—who knew what Cyd was hiding? Anne kept chaos at bay through sheer will and world-class organizational skills. And the others, Avery and Martha and Gloria, their bored smiles hid secrets. I was sure of it.
I used to have the appearance of a trouble free life. I was a successful artist, my husband a successful banker. Our daughter was lovely and smart and nearly perfect. We skied in Vail, went to the beach in Biarritz, and paid our club bill on time. Also, we barely spoke. Henry cheated on me far and wide. And my being an artist, which began as a charming hobby, became a thorn—a sharp thorn that pierced the delicate hide of Henry’s pride—when I earned more money than he did.
Appearances fell by the wayside when I found Henry’s current inamorata floating in the club pool. Since then, I’d lost interest in keeping up the façade of perfection.
Life was messy. And sometimes painful. And often chaotic. Nothing—not beautiful clothes, not organizational skills that would make a blue-chip CEO jealous, not Valium, not sex—could keep the chaos at bay.
“What do you think, Ellison?” Anne looked at me as if she expected an answer. Too bad I had no idea of the question.
“What do you think?” I replied.
“I think two hours will be enough.”
“Go with that.” I had complete faith in Anne’s skills.
She gave me a curt nod. Not because she was curt (she was) but because even her movements were deliberate and organized. “That concludes my report.”
All gazes landed on me. I cleared my throat. “Thank you all, for all your hard work. This event is going to be simply fabulous. Just so you know, we have a handful of major sponsor tables remaining. And, of course, there’s still an opportunity to come in as a benefactor.” I avoided looking at Beverly, focusing instead on Avery Gant whose husband, if he’d been so inclined, could have underwritten the whole exhibit. “Invitations will drop later this week. I can’t wait for you to see them. As for entertainment, the evening will begin with Chinese music. After dinner, a troupe will perform a dragon dance.”
“What are we having for dinner?” asked Gloria Kimbrough. Gloria kept chaos at bay with food.
“I am not allowed to say.” The food committee needed to make some decisions. Pronto. “Rest assured it will be delicious mix of Chinese and American flavors.” My gaze traveled the room, pausing on women who’d yet to commit to a ticket level. “The hosts for the benefactors’ party are Millicent and Major Barcroft. They have a fabulous evening planned and I do hope you’ll all be there.” We needed another ten benefactor couples to meet our financial goal. “If no one has anything else?” I crossed my fingers in my lap. “We can open a bottle of—”
“I do,” said Cyd.
Dammit.
“I just want to thank you, Ellison, for stepping in at the last minute.” Was she being sincere or reminding everyone in the room that I had not been the first choice to chair the event? The first choice had been murdered. “You are doing a marvelous job leading us all.”
Were she not still seething over no geishas, I might have believed her.
“That’s so kind of you, Cyd. Thank you. But everyone in this room knows the truth. It’s the committee members and—” I nodded at Cyd “—committee chairmen who bring everything together. This is your event and because of you, it will be a night to remember.”
“Is it time for wine?” asked Martha.
Everyone laughed and whatever petty dislikes or dark currents that had flowed through the meeting were forgotten in full glasses of chilled Blue Nun.
Three
“Bye, Mom.” Grace deposited her dirty cereal bowl in the sink, dropped a kiss on my cheek, and headed for the back door.
“Dishwasher?”
With a dramatic sigh, she returned to the counter and moved the bowl from sink to dishwasher.
“Are you home for dinner?” I asked.
“Yeah.” She buttoned her coat and disappeared into the cold.
“Love you,” I called after her.
Max stood, stretched, yawned, and returned to his bed.
&
nbsp; I sipped coffee and stared at the wall, deep in thought.
Aggie bustled into the kitchen and I shifted my attention from the wall to my housekeeper. She wore a cobalt blue kaftan edged with crimson pom-poms. Her red hair crackled with energy.
“Do you have a minute?” I asked.
“Of course.”
“Mother has a problem.” Those two words. Mother and problem. They were enough to send the bravest woman running.
But not Aggie. Aggie pulled out a stool and sat. “I figured something was wrong. No one calls that often without a big problem.”
“Someone left a box of ashes in her hall closet.”
The air around Aggie stilled. Even the bouncing pom-poms on her sleeves stilled. “You mean remains?”
“She’d like to find out who it is so she can return them to their family. Will you help? Please?” Given how far outside her job description chasing down remains fell, I held my breath.
“Of course.”
Ding dong.
“Are you expecting anyone?” Aggie asked.
“No.”
She stood. “I’ll get it.”
Max growled softly and rose from his favorite spot. Rather than follow Aggie down the hall, he came and sat next to me, leaning his head against my leg.
“What’s wrong, boy?” I scratched behind his ear.
He didn’t answer. Aggie did. From the doorway to the kitchen. “Detective Peters is here.”
“Detective Peters?” The mere name brought on an unpleasant sick feeling in my gut. There it met another unpleasant feeling—one brought on by the sad fact that whatever brought Detective Peters to my house had not brought Detective Anarchy Jones. “What does he want?”
“No idea. He’s waiting in the living room. Should I call Mr. Tafft?”
Mr. Tafft. Hunter Tafft. My lawyer. My friend. The man Mother had selected as my next husband (she was headed for disappointment).
“Let me find out what he wants first. Did you offer him coffee?”
“I did not.”
“He probably wouldn’t accept anyway.” I rose from my stool, took a last sip from my cup, and walked the length of the front hall.
Max followed me.
I entered the living room and found Detective Peters studying a framed picture of me and Grace. He looked the same. Rumpled. Grouchy. Willing to arrest me if I sneezed. “Detective.”
He put down the silver frame and looked at me with his usual expression—dislike tinged with distrust.
“What can I do for you?” I asked.
He patted his pockets, finally finding and removing a Polaroid photo. “Do you know this young woman?” He handed me the photo.
I looked down at a picture. “Her name is Leslie Smith. I met her yesterday. Why?”
“She’s dead.”
I sat. It was a good thing there was a couch behind me. I covered my mouth with my hand. Closed my eyes. Counted to ten. “Dead?”
“How did you know her?”
“I didn’t.” I shook my head. “Not really.”
Detective Peters crossed his arms and tried to look intimidating. It worked.
Max growled and took up a defensive position near my left knee.
“You did know her. You just identified her.”
“I didn’t know her. I only met her yesterday.”
“She had your name and address in her coat pocket.”
“That was my coat. She had my name and address so she could return it.”
“Why did she have your coat?”
“Because she was cold.”
“Because she was cold? Are you in the habit of giving coats to strangers?”
“No.”
“But you gave yours to Miss Smith?”
“I did.”
“What was it about Miss Smith that made you hand over your coat?”
“She seemed…desperate.” I looked down at my lap. “I don’t think Smith was her real last name.”
“You don’t say?” Sarcasm positively dripped from his voice. Giant drips.
“I hit her.”
“You hit her?”
“With my car.”
Detective Peters stared at me with his pale blue eyes.
“It was an accident. She ran out between two parked cars.” I sounded defensive. There was no reason to be defensive. I’d done nothing wrong. “I stopped the car. We talked. She said she was fine.”
“You didn’t report the accident?” Hanging judges sounded friendlier.
“She insisted she was fine. She got up. She danced a jig.”
“And you gave her your coat?”
“I offered to take her home. When she refused to get in the car with me, I gave her my coat.”
“Where was her coat?”
“I assume she forgot it at her boyfriend’s house.”
“Her boyfriend’s?”
“She said she skipped school to spend the day with him but they had a fight and she ran out of the house without her coat.”
“Do you know her boyfriend’s name?”
“No.”
“Do you know where he lives?”
“No.”
“Which school?”
“I assumed a public one.”
His lip curled. “She wasn’t ritzy enough for a private one?”
“No. That’s not it at all.” Although her hair had been a little stringy. “I know all the kids that age at Suncrest and she wasn’t wearing a uniform—” the Catholic high school girls wore plaid “—so I assumed public.” It was my turn to ask a question. “What happened to her?”
“She was shot. Her body was found in an alley downtown.”
“Downtown?” I cocked my head to the side. “I got the impression she was going home. What was she doing downtown?”
Detective Peters ignored my questions. “What time did you hit Miss Smith?”
“Around eleven.”
“Where were you?”
“Prairie Village. Near 68th and Roe.”
“What were you doing there?”
There was no way was I telling Detective Peters that I’d visited a psychic. He might interview said psychic. Madame Reyna might tell him about the One. His partner. Anarchy Jones. I shifted on the couch. “Why is that relevant?”
“I’ll decide what’s relevant.”
And I’d decide what I’d tell him. I gave him my best, most polite smile. “Errands.”
“What kinds of errands?”
None of his damned business errands. “I have nothing more to add.”
“Perhaps you’d like to answer questions down at the station?”
What was it about Detective Peters that put my back up? I was easy to get along with. Ask anyone. Ask almost anyone. But there was something about Peters that put me on edge, that made me argumentative and prickly. “Do you have a warrant?”
Detective Peters scowled at me.
“I thought not. I’m not going to the station.”
“There’s a dead girl.”
An unexpected wave of sadness filled my eyes with tears. “I’m truly sorry about that but I’ve told you everything I know.”
“Where were you last night between six and ten?”
He couldn’t possibly think—of course he could. Detective Peters always thought I was guilty.
“I was here.”
“Can anyone corroborate?”
“Yes.” I’d make him fight for every bit of information. On principle.
“Who?
“My friend Jinx stayed for dinner after a committee meeting. Her husband was out of town and she didn’t want to be alone. He called at around ten to let her know he was home.”
“How did he know she was at your house?”
“I as
sume she left a note.”
“Why didn’t she want to be alone?”
Because she was fresh out of rehab and the demons talked loudest when she was by herself. “How is that relevant to your investigation?”
Detective Peters scowled again. Deeper this time. With more feeling.
“Coffee?” Aggie stood in the doorway to the living room with a tray. Given that I hadn’t heard her approaching, she’d probably been standing in the hallway for a while.
Detective Peters expanded his scowl to include her.
Aggie nodded politely, as if he were offering her a welcoming smile.
“Thank you, Aggie. Please put it on the coffee table.”
Aggie deposited a tray filled with two mugs of coffee, cream, sugar, and some of the cookies left over from yesterday’s committee meeting then retreated (probably not to the kitchen).
I helped myself to a mug of coffee and topped it with cream. “Please, Detective Peters, help yourself.”
He eyed Aggie’s cookies.
“They’re homemade.” Maybe they’d sweeten his disposition.
“I shouldn’t.”
“One won’t hurt.” Except no one could eat just one. They were addictive.
He selected a lemon cookie dusted with powdered sugar and took a small bite. A second later the cookie was gone except for the dusting of powdered sugar on his mustache. He reached for a second cookie—chocolate chip this time.
I thought about Leslie Smith. “I don’t suppose you’d leave the Polaroid?”
His eyes narrowed. “Why?”
“I thought I’d ask Grace if she knew her.”
“You said you figured her for a public school kid.” He spoke around a mouthful of cookie.
“I did. I do. But Grace knows plenty of girls who go to public school.” Desegregation had meant a massive flight from Missouri to Kansas. Yes, the taxes were higher but scads of people had moved across the state line to Kansas so their kids could attend the top-rated Shawnee Mission schools.
Detective Peters patted the pocket where he’d stashed the photo. “I’m not leaving it.”
“I just thought—”
“Jones might tolerate your interfering in his cases. I won’t. You fool with my case, I’ll see you charged with obstruction of justice.”
SHADOW DANCING Page 3