SHADOW DANCING

by Julie Mulhern

  “It’s not,” agreed Jinx.

  Libba, who’d inherited every penny she ever spent and had never been married said not a word.

  “We do plenty,” added Jinx. “You’re chairing that gala for the gallery, Daisy practically lives at her kids’ schools, and Libba contributes generously to the economy.”

  Libba wrinkled her nose and stuck out her tongue. “And Jinx keeps tennis pros employed.”

  “Someone has to.”

  “What makes you ask about guilt?” Libba’s hands moved evenly, dealing cards to each of us.

  “Nothing.” My nose itched. My nose always itched when I lied.

  My best friend stared at me from across the table, sensing the lie, inviting me to say more.

  I sealed me lips.

  Libba picked up her cards. “This is way too serious a topic. Guess who I took to see the psychic.”

  “The psychic in Prairie Village?” asked Daisy. “I went to see her but I can’t go back.”

  “Why not?” Not going back did not sound like a hardship.

  “I was wearing that charm bracelet the kids gave me and one of the charms snagged on the table cloth. When I stood up, I accidently yanked the cloth and the crystal ball went crashing to the floor.”

  Jinx lit a fresh cigarette. “The woman’s a psychic. You’d think she’d see that coming.”

  “She didn’t and she was mad.” Daisy looked up from her cards. “She said I’d have another baby.” Daisy was nearly forty and already had more children than the old woman who lived in the shoe. “Can you imagine?”

  “So are you?” asked Jinx.

  “Am I what?” Daisy pretended not to understand.

  “Pregnant?”

  “Of course not.”

  I couldn’t help but notice Daisy scratched her nose.

  * * *

  “What about this?” I emerged from my closet holding a perfectly lovely silk Yves Saint Laurent blouse.

  Grace, who sat cross-legged in the center of my bed, rolled her eyes. “You’re going on a date not to a committee meeting.”

  “What’s wrong with it?” The silk was a fabulous shade of jade green.

  “Um, the bow at the neck. It’s a date, Mom.”

  Maybe she had a point. Maybe she sounded too much like Libba.

  “What about that cream Saint Laurent?” she asked.

  “The charmeuse blouse? I haven’t had time to add a snap.” The neck-line was too low-cut.

  “I know.” Definitely she sounded too much like Libba.

  I returned the conservative jade blouse to the closet and grabbed the one Grace suggested. The fabric was rich, the cut was flattering, if only—

  “Wear it.” Grace’s voice carried into the closet. “That and jeans and those Gucci boots.”

  I’d been thinking camel slacks and loafers.

  “You’ve been moping around here for months,” she continued. “Now you have a chance to make things right. Don’t blow it by dressing like a middle-aged widow.”

  “I am a middle-aged widow.”

  “But you don’t have to dress like one.” She sounded exactly like Libba. At sixteen, Grace could transition from child to angst-ridden teenager to too-worldly woman in minutes. In seconds. I blamed Libba for the too-worldly part. “Trust me. Wear the cream blouse.”

  I emerged from the closet wearing the blouse.

  “See? It’s perfect.” And just like that, she transitioned to a smug too-worldly woman.

  “Hmph.” I reached into a chest of drawers and my fingers closed around a square of silk twill. Hermes’ official name for the pattern was Eperon d’Or. Grace called it bits and spurs.

  She regarded the scarf in my hand with tangible distaste. “No! No, no, no. No bits and spurs tonight. You look foxy without it.”

  Foxy? Was she too old for me to restrict her television and radio? And what did she and Libba talk about when I wasn’t around? Foxy?

  I returned the scarf to the drawer but fiddled with the deep V of the blouse’s collar.

  Ding dong.

  “Would you get that?” Maybe I could pin the collar.

  “Not on your life.” She sat unmoving, surrounded by pillows like some omniscient teenage sultan. “Leave that blouse alone. It’s perfect the way it is. Now go.”

  My nerves jittered wildly and I gripped the railing as I descended the stairs.

  Max, the evil beast, stood by the front door just waiting to make a break for it.

  I closed my fingers around his collar, drew breath deep into my lungs, and opened the door.

  Anarchy stood on the other side.

  My mouth went dry. “Come in,” I croaked. Somehow I refrained from adjusting the neckline of my blouse. Probably because I could feel Grace’s judgmental stare boring through my back.

  He stepped into my home and fixed his gaze upon me. His coffee-brown eyes didn’t warm. They glowed. “You look amazing.”

  I didn’t have to glance up at the landing to know Grace was smirking. “Thank you.”

  “I have reservations at Baby Doe’s.”

  This did not come as a surprise. The last time Anarchy had taken me to dinner, he’d chosen a steakhouse. “I’ve never been.”

  “You’ll love it.” He sounded hopeful rather than certain.

  “I’m sure I will. Let me grab a coat.”

  I stepped away from him—away from the scent of good leather and cold air, away from temptation in human form—and reached into the front hall closet.

  I pulled out the first coat I touched—my second-best mink.

  “Let me help you with that.” He took the coat from my shaking hands and held it open.

  The silk of my blouse slid seamlessly through the coat’s satin-lined sleeves.

  With a final don’t-you-dare-get-into-trouble glare at Max (one for Grace, too—the last time I went out with Anarchy, she hosted a party), I walked out into the cold.

  Anarchy opened the car door for me and my jangly nerves then circled round to the driver’s side.

  I searched for something to say. “I’m surprised you could get away for dinner during an investigation.”

  He inserted the ignition key and turned on the car. “No one authorized overtime.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He zipped down the driveway. “When someone you know dies, there’s pressure to catch the killer quickly.”

  “And there’s not for Leesa?”

  “She was a prostitute. No one is calling the mayor, or—” his lips twisted into a sardonic smile “—your ‘Uncle’ James.”

  Uncle James wasn’t really my uncle. He was one of Daddy’s golf cronies. He was also a police commissioner. I’d invoked his name a time or two.

  “So what does that mean? You’re not trying to catch her killer?”

  “No. We’ll catch the killer. But we’ll do it during regular business hours.”

  I thought about that for a mile or two. “Aren’t the people you need to question more accessible at night?”

  “We do the best with the system we’ve got.” The answer was pure Anarchy. He didn’t like the rules, but he’d follow them. He didn’t like the rules, but wouldn’t criticize them in front of a civilian.

  “I could call Uncle James.”

  His lips twitched.

  “I could tell him I met the girl and that I’m simply traumatized.” I slid my gaze toward Anarchy’s eyes, toward the set of his mouth and got my answer. “I’ll call in the morning.”

  “Thank you.” His voice was so soft it was almost as if I’d imagined it.

  “You’re welcome.”

  We drove the rest of the way in silence and pulled into a nearly full parking lot.

  Anarchy led me to a doorway that looked like the entrance to a mine shaft. “Normall
y, there’s a mule out front. Her name is Clementine.”

  The air was frigid and the sky dark. Hopefully Clementine was tucked safely into a warm stable eating oats rather than scrubby grass.

  He led me inside to tunnels—one leading up, the other down. “Our reservations are for eight. Shall we get a drink before dinner?”

  “Sure.”

  He chose the tunnel that headed down to a crowded bar. Floor to ceiling windows offered a spectacular view of downtown. At a distance, with lights twinkling in the skyscrapers, it looked magical. A place where exciting, wonderful things happened.

  The truth was ugly. Downtown was a dirty, dying group of buildings where bums shuffled along the sidewalks, women danced topless, and teenage girls died in filthy alleys.

  I knew all that but I didn’t look away. The magic entranced, promising glittering, seductive moments wrapped in a golden hue. It was so much nicer to believe in magic, to forget the ugliness.

  “What would you like?” asked Anarchy as he angled us spots at the bar.

  I tore my gaze away from the view. “White wine.”

  “Anarchy!” The bartender had spotted us.

  She was pretty. Very pretty.

  He grinned. “Fancy Nancy!”

  She ignored a man waving a twenty at her, walked over to us, and sent a thousand-watt smile in Anarchy’s direction. “What’ll it be?”

  “The usual and a white wine.” He turned his gaze my direction. “Ellison, this is Fancy Nancy, the best bartender in town. Fancy Nancy, this is my friend, Ellison.”

  Fancy Nancy and I regarded each other across the bar. Very, very pretty.

  “Nice to meet you,” I murmured through stiff lips.

  “Same. What kind of white wine?”

  Everyone drank Liebfraumilch. I drank Liebfraumilch. And suddenly, inexplicably, I needed to be different. “Chardonnay.”

  “You got it.” She turned her back on me and reached for a bottle of Old Forester.

  Bourbon. Anarchy drank bourbon. Fancy Nancy knew Anarchy drank bourbon. I hadn’t. That bothered me. Immensely.

  “What’s good to eat here?” It was a better question than what have you been doing the past two months?

  “Prime rib. And save room for dessert.”

  “Dessert?” Did women eat desserts on dates? I doubted it.

  He nodded. “Upside down apple walnut pie with ice cream.”

  “It sounds decadent.” It sounded like five extra laps around the park.

  “It is.” His lips twitched as if he was fighting a smile. “You won’t regret it for a moment.”

  Were we still talking about dessert? A flush warmed my cheeks.

  Fancy Nancy cleared her throat and put our drinks on the bar.

  Anarchy turned his smile (the one meant for me) toward her and paid the tab.

  We picked up our glasses and clinked the rims.

  “Cheers,” I said.

  “To us.”

  To us? The heat returned to my cheeks.

  A frown wrinkled his brow and he glanced down. A second later, he had a pager in his hand. “I’ve got to take this.”

  “I thought you were off tonight.”

  “I thought so too.” He used his cop tone but when he stood he brushed a kiss across my cheek. Then disappeared in search of the payphone.

  I nursed my wine and watched Fancy Nancy mix grasshoppers and Manhattans and—I shuddered—scotch and milk.

  Anarchy returned wearing his cop expression. “I’m sorry, Ellison, we’re going to have to call this short.” He looked down at his shoes—or maybe my boots—and added, “May I put you in a cab?”

  “What’s happened?”

  “There’s been another murder.”

  There were murders all the time. That was why there was a homicide squad. Why call Anarchy? The answer dawned on me. “Another murder like Leesa’s?”

  He nodded grimly.

  “Another girl shot in an alley.” I glanced out the windows at that magical view of downtown. “What can I do?”

  “Go home. Stay safe. Have dinner with me after we’ve caught this guy.”

  How could I argue?

  Seven

  Grace went to school.

  Aggie went to the library to do more research for Mother.

  Max circled three times and plunked onto his favorite sunny spot in the family room.

  I, with a cup of coffee near at hand, sat at my desk and stared at the phone.

  There were women of my acquaintance who could spend their whole morning on the phone. I was not one of them. On the phone, I couldn’t read faces or body language, couldn’t judge reactions, couldn’t determine if I was hearing truth or lies.

  Nonetheless, I pulled the telephone closer to me, took a bracing sip of coffee, and called Joyce Petteway.

  She answered after three rings. “Hello.”

  “Joyce, it’s Ellison Russell calling.”

  “Ellison—” my name came out in a rush of air “—I am the worst committee member in the history of committee members. I apologize.”

  “Don’t apologize. We have plenty of time.” We didn’t. “Besides, I hear you’ve been facing some challenges.”

  “Did you call to ask me to resign?”

  “Of course not!” No matter how far behind she was, I wouldn’t kick a woman when she was down.

  “I wouldn’t blame you.” As if I could find a replacement at this late date.

  “Don’t be silly. I heard you and Bruce were having some problems and I just wanted you to know I was thinking of you.”

  This was answered with silence.

  Oh dear. I took a sip of coffee and waited.

  “Thank you,” Joyce’s voice was small. “So it’s out. Everyone knows?”

  “I don’t know about everyone.”

  “It’s just so…”

  Humiliating. The word she wanted was humiliating.

  “Humiliating.” She found the word, naming the stomach-churning sensation.

  “I know. Believe me, I know. I’m here for you if you need me.”

  “That’s right. I forgot Henry cheated.”

  “He did.” Henry cheated was an understatement of epic proportions. Sort of. When Henry and I decided our marriage was over, we also decided to stay together until Grace finished high school. To me, that meant polite cohabitation. To Henry, that meant he was free to sleep with every woman who struck his not-terribly-discriminating fancy. Because our marriage was over, he didn’t see his exploits as cheating.

  He didn’t face the pitying looks in the mirror of the ladies’ lounge or the sudden silences when I walked into a room.

  “I never thought Bruce would cheat. He promised to love and cherish me and I thought he meant it.”

  I made a soft, comforting sound in my throat.

  “At first I couldn’t believe it.”

  “And now you’re angry.”

  “How did you know?”

  “Been there. Done that.”

  “Ellison—” she lowered her voice to a whisper “—I want to punch him in the face.”

  “He deserves it.”

  “And after I punch him, I want to kick him so hard he’s a soprano till Christmas.”

  “I understand completely.”

  “Last night I dreamed I took an axe and whacked it off.”

  No need to ask what it was. “I wouldn’t do that.”

  Joyce laughed—a short, brittle sound. “Of course not. But it was fun to think about.”

  I took another sip of coffee.

  Max lifted his head and stared at me.

  “I could kill him. I really could.”

  A sense of foreboding chilled me and I took another quick sip of coffee. “Don’t say that out loud, Joyce.”

&nbs
p; “It would be easier to tell the children their father was dead than explain he has the morals of a tomcat.”

  “For you. Not for them. No matter what he’s done, he’s their father and they love him.” I spoke from experience. “Besides, your youngest is in college. They’ll be able to handle this.”

  “What am I going to tell them?”

  I didn’t know. That was a conversation I never had. “Tell them you love them and that everything will be okay.”

  “Will it?”

  “Eventually.”

  “I can’t do this.”

  She didn’t have much choice. “Of course, you can,” I told her.

  “He took his clothes. He moved out. He’s staying in a suite at the Alameda until he finds an apartment.”

  “What does he say?”

  “He says he never meant to hurt me.” The bitterness in her voice told me how badly Bruce had wounded her. “If he didn’t want to hurt me, he shouldn’t have—” her voice broke.

  “Have you hired a lawyer?”

  “Sally Broome.”

  Sally was the only female divorce attorney in town and she was tough as nails. She had to be. “Good choice.”

  “She seems to think, given the circumstances, I can get a huge settlement. I told her I wanted to take him for every penny.”

  “Good for you.” Dreams of leaving Bruce broke were healthier than dreams of whacking his thing off.

  “You were so nice to call. To listen. Not everyone understands what I’m going through.”

  We both paused and considered lucky women whose husbands didn’t roam, less lucky women who remained blissfully ignorant of their husband’s roaming, and women like us—women who’d caught their husbands cheating.

  “It’s my pleasure.” Not really. But what else was I going to say? Calm down? If someone had suggested I let go of my early anger and calm down, I would have told them to go straight where the sun didn’t shine.

  “About the gala…”

  “Yes?” That chilling sense of foreboding was back.

  “I think I’d better resign.”

  Dammit. “Are you sure? Don’t you want something to keep you occupied?”

  “I’m sure. And I’m sorry. I just can’t think right now. You’ll find someone who can do a much better job.”