SHADOW DANCING

by Julie Mulhern

  The gala was six weeks away. It wasn’t as if there were spare committee members just sitting around, twiddling their thumbs, waiting for the phone to ring.

  “Listen, Ellison, thanks for understanding and thanks for the call, but I’ve got to go. I need to get ready for an appointment with Sally.”

  “Call me if you need me.” My voice was faint.

  “I will. Thank you.” Joyce hung up the phone.

  I stared at the receiver in my hand. The call had not ended as I hoped. Where was I going to find a committee chairman?

  I dropped the receiver in the cradle and drained my coffee cup.

  Brnng, brnng.

  Maybe Joyce had reconsidered. I grabbed the receiver. “Hello.”

  “Ellison, it’s Mother.”

  I leaned back against my chair and stared at my empty coffee cup. “How are you?”

  “Fine, thank you. Any news on the ashes?”

  “Aggie’s at the library researching as we speak.”

  I took Mother’s answering silence for approval.

  I wrapped the phone cord around my finger. “I’m sure she’ll figure it out.”

  “I suppose. I spoke with Kay Starnes this morning.”

  “Oh?”

  “She says her daughter saw you at Baby Doe’s last night.”

  “I was there.” Be honest but volunteer nothing. It was the best policy.

  “She said you looked as if you were on a date.”

  “I was.”

  “With whom?”

  “Anarchy Jones.”

  There was no mistaking the ensuing silence for approval. Mother’s displeasure washed over me in waves. Finally, she said, “Did you find another body?”

  What? “No. Why?”

  “I’m just wondering what circumstance returned that man to your life.”

  That man. We were on a path that could only lead to acrimony. “Let’s find something else to talk about.”

  “Margaret Hamilton called me.”

  Oh dear Lord.

  “She says your dog destroyed her house.”

  “Not exactly.”

  “She said he was vicious. She said he was mean.”

  Mother and Margaret, they had one thing in common, they disliked Max.

  “He broke a few dishes.”

  Again with the silence.

  “Everyday dishes,” I added. “He didn’t touch her good china.”

  “Given how often there’s trouble at your house, you ought to make a better effort to get along with your neighbors.”

  “First off, I offered to pay for all the damages. Secondly, Margaret Hamilton is a witch.”

  “There’s no need for name calling.”

  “I’m not. She’s a witch. She flies a broomstick when there’s a full moon.”

  “Ellison!”

  Perhaps I was embellishing. A bit. Time for a new topic. Again. “I have a problem, Mother.” Mother loved solving problems.

  “Oh?”

  “Joyce Petteway just resigned from the gala committee.”

  “I heard about what happened to her. She walked into her bedroom and found her husband in bed with—”

  “I just got off the phone with her. She’s terribly upset.”

  “Well, of course she is. Any woman would be.” Mother paused long enough to remind me she was a lucky woman and that my father would never cheat. “Wasn’t she chairing the food and beverage committee?”

  “She was.”

  “Ask Libba to step in.”

  “Libba?”

  “She’ll come up with a signature drink in no time. Perhaps a Singapore Sling?”

  It was my turn to answer with silence.

  “Well. Given the amount that Libba drinks, I’m sure she can create something marvelous without even trying. As for the menu, either one of you could plan that in your sleep.”

  Mother was right. Libba would have the bar and the menu sorted in an hour.

  And I’d be in her debt.

  “Can you think of anyone else?”

  “Not off the top of my head. Why don’t you want to ask Libba?”

  “She’ll ask me to go on a double date.” I regretted the words as soon as they left my lips.

  “Oh? With whom?”

  “A friend of Bill Ledbetter’s.”

  “Bill Ledbetter?”

  “You’ve met him, Mother.” Mother had trouble keeping track of people who weren’t from Kansas City. “He’s from South Carolina. He came to Kansas City and took that job at Bodwin Myer Commercial.”

  “Now I remember. We met him at the club dance. Libba’s dating him?”

  “You sound surprised.”

  “He seems like such a nice man.”

  “Perhaps that’s why Libba is dating him.” My voice was sharper than it should have been.

  “Don’t get on your high horse with me, Ellison Russell. We both know Libba has terrible taste in men.”

  “Perhaps she’s changed.”

  “Oh, please. Leopards don’t change their spots.”

  “You just suggested that I ask her to chair a committee for the gala.”

  “Which has absolutely nothing to do with her execrable taste in men.”

  “If I ask her, I’ll have to go on this double date.”

  Mother muttered…something.

  “Pardon me?”

  “I said, I don’t suppose he can be any worse than that police detective.” This time Mother enunciated clearly.

  The nerves along my spine jumped to attention and I straightened in my chair. “Did you call me with the express purpose of picking a fight?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. I called to find out about progress on identifying the ashes.”

  Mother was lying. She called because she’d heard I’d gone out with Anarchy.

  “Mother, I have a million calls to make this morning. I’m going to let you go. I’ll phone if Aggie comes up with any good possibilities.”

  “Ellison—”

  “I have to go. Good-bye.” Gently, I placed the receiver into the cradle.

  I pushed away from the desk. Grabbing my coffee mug, I headed into the kitchen where Mr. Coffee, strong, silent, and dependable, waited with a nearly full pot of coffee. All for me.

  “I swear,” I told him. “Mother finds my buttons and pushes them just for the fun of it.”

  Wisely, he remained mum on the subject.

  I refilled my cup. “Who should I call first, Libba or Uncle James?”

  Mr. Coffee had no opinion.

  “I think Libba.”

  Rather than return to my desk, I picked up the extension in the kitchen. Grace had long since stretched the phone’s cord to capacity and, if needed, I could pace as I talked.

  Libba answered on the fifth ring. “Hello.” She sounded groggy.

  “Did I wake you? It’s nearly ten o’clock.”

  “Not all of us get up at the crack of dawn to get our progeny off to school.”

  “Ten o’clock, Libba.”

  She groaned.

  “I’ve been thinking.”

  “Oh? About what?”

  “Friday night.”

  “Hold on a moment.” Her voice brightened. “Let me make some coffee.”

  I listened to the sounds of Libba scooping coffee and filling her Mr. Coffee’s reservoir and winked at my own Mr. Coffee, already full of coffee-goodness.

  She came back on the line. “What have you been thinking about Friday night?”

  “That I’ll go on that double date with you.”

  “There’s an if there. I can sense it.” She sounded cautious.

  “I’ll go if you step in for Joyce Petteway and chair the food and beverage committee for the museum gala.”


  “Me? Chairing a committee? Really?” She made it sound like a terrific amount of work.

  “What else do you want?”

  “Go to the club party with me on Saturday night.”

  I considered. “Okay, but we meet there.” Libba had a tendency to stay (and stay) when all I wanted was to go home.

  “We have a deal. You’re going to love Bill’s friend.”

  “Have you met him?” It would be nice to know what I was getting myself into.

  “Not yet. But the whole night will be fabulous. I’m sure of it.”

  There was an example of wishful thinking. In all our many years of friendship, Libba and I had never been on a decent double date much less a fabulous one.

  “I can’t wait to call Bill and let him know.”

  “About the gala.”

  “Yes?”

  “We need a menu by next Tuesday.”

  “No problem. I’m at loose ends this afternoon. I’ll call the caterer and get it worked out.”

  “And a signature drink.”

  “How about a lychee martini?”

  Mother had been right. Libba had all my problems solved in a New York minute.

  “Sounds perfect.”

  “We’ll pick you up at six on Friday.”

  How could I object? “Fine.”

  “And, Ellison…”

  “Yes?”

  “Don’t dress like a middle-aged widow.”

  She and Grace had compared notes. There was no other explanation.

  “Fine.”

  “Now that I think about it, count on me at five. I’ll have Bill pick both of us up at your house.”

  I thought about that lychee martini and kept my mouth shut. Barely.

  “Toodles.” Libba hung up the phone.

  I hung up too. “That went about as well as I expected.”

  Mr. Coffee looked sympathetic.

  “I didn’t count on the club party.”

  Mr. Coffee never got his arm twisted into attending club parties but I swear he offered me an empathetic sigh. Maybe not empathetic. Maybe not a real sigh. But if he could have, he would have. Mr. Coffee is the empathetic type.

  “One call left,” I told him. I returned to my desk and the phone book. There I looked up the number for my Uncle James’s law firm and dialed.

  “Law office.”

  “Good morning,” I said. “May I please speak with James Graham.”

  “Who’s calling, please?”

  “Ellison Russell.”

  “One moment please, Mrs. Russell.”

  It was exactly one moment before Uncle James picked up the phone. “Ellison, how nice to hear from you.” Uncle James’ voice rumbled like a freight train.

  “How are you?”

  “Fine, fine. And, you?”

  “Fine.” We’d established we were fine.

  “How are your parents?”

  “Fine. Aunt Sarah?”

  “Just fine.”

  We’d run out of fines.

  “What can I do for you, Ellison?”

  “I hit a teenage girl a few days ago.”

  “With your car?”

  “Yes.” I told him the whole story—from Leslie’s refusal to get in my car to my giving her my coat to the police showing up at my door. Then I told him that Leslie was Leesa and what she did for a living. Finally, I said, “The police haven’t authorized any overtime to solve her murder.”

  “You know, Ellison, I try not to interfere in police business.”

  Damn. “Of course you don’t. I just wanted to make you aware of this.”

  “I can call and ask for an update on the case. That usually lights a few fires.”

  “Would you? Oh, Uncle James, thank you!”

  “Tell your father to spot me two strokes the next time we play.”

  “Of course.”

  “Consider it done. I’ll make the call right now.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Remember. Two strokes.”

  We hung up and I sat back in my desk chair and stared at the family room. I sipped my coffee. I considered my morning on the phone. Joyce Petteway and her grief. Mother and her determination to run my life. Libba and her planned double date. And finally, Uncle James and his willingness to do me a favor. Moments passed. My cup emptied.

  I heard Aggie in the kitchen. Apparently she’d had enough of the library. She was talking to Max. Slowly I pushed out of my chair.

  Brnng, brnng.

  There was a real possibility it was Mother calling for round two.

  I made my way to the kitchen where Aggie had the receiver pressed against her ear. “One moment, Mr. Graham, I’ll see if she’s available.”

  I nodded.

  Aggie held out the phone.

  I took the receiver from her. “Uncle James?”

  “Ellison, I talked to the police chief and I want you to stay away from this case.”

  “I’m not involved in the case.”

  “You’re involved enough to call me.”

  I couldn’t argue that.

  Uncle James continued, “The chief says that there have been three prostitutes murdered.”

  Three? Three murders. The police couldn’t ignore three murders. I’d wasted a favor from Uncle James.

  “All those women were shot and left in alleys.” He sounded deadly serious. “I want you as far away from this case as you can get.”

  “Of course.”

  “Do I have your promise?” he insisted. “If I don’t get it, I’ll call your mother.”

  What was I, five? “I promise, Uncle James.”

  We hung up and I sat down on a kitchen stool. Three girls dead? Shot? Left in alleys? And I’d promised not to interfere.

  Eight

  I shifted on the kitchen stool and watched Aggie put away groceries. Who ate Life cereal? Besides Mikey. Mikey didn’t live at my house. Had Grace developed a taste for it?

  “I was wondering—” Aggie’s head was still in the refrigerator and her voice was slightly muffled “—if you and Grace could fend for yourselves this evening.”

  “Of course.” I didn’t ask why. I desperately wanted to. Aggie has been dating a new man. One I liked. Immensely. Did she have a date?

  Aggie emerged with flushed cheeks. “There’s soup you can warm up.”

  She’d made a wonderful vegetable noodle just the other day. The leftovers were in the fridge.

  “And I bought that French bread you like.” She tilted her chin toward a baguette.

  “We’ll manage.”

  “I wouldn’t ask but—” the flush on her cheeks deepened “—I have a date.”

  Aha! Just as I suspected. “Where’s Mac taking you?”

  “A basketball game.”

  “Do you like basketball?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve never really watched a game.”

  How had she managed that? We were less than an hour from Lawrence, Kansas where James Naismith who’d invented the game had taught and coached. And then there was Coach Phog Allen, a name that loomed large in my childhood. My father, who adored basketball, had put me in the car and driven me to Lawrence more times than I could count. I’d watched Coach Allen pace the sidelines as his players ran up and down the court. I’d napped on the drive home, laid out on the backseat with a blanket thrown over me. When we arrived at the house, Daddy would carry me upstairs and tuck me in bed. Those warm, sleep-fuzzed moments in my father’s arms made sitting through basketball games worthwhile.

  “Two teams, two hoops, one ball, five team members on the court at a time. And they can’t dribble with two hands.”

  “Dribble?”

  “Bounce the ball up and down. The players have to dribble the ball between the ho
ops. They can’t just carry it.”

  “Why not?”

  I shrugged. “Those are the rules. Oh, some shots are worth three points but most are worth two.”

  “Why?”

  “It depends on how far from the basket the player is when he shoots.”

  Aggie nodded as if my explanation of the game made actual sense. “We’re seeing the Kings.”

  “That’s the professional team.”

  “As opposed to?”

  “College teams.”

  “Are the rules different?”

  “I don’t know. I think dribbling with one hand is universal. I’m sure you’ll have fun.” I wasn’t sure of that at all. The highlight of my basketball game attendance had always been the trip home and snuggling into my father’s arms.

  Aggie nodded. Slowly. “Mac says he loves basketball. He wants to share it with me.”

  “He’s a nice man.”

  Aggie nodded and produced unexpected tears. She looked at the ceiling and patted the skin beneath her eyes. “He is.”

  “Why are you crying?”

  She shook her head and her red curls sproinged this way and that. “Al. Every so often I think of Al.”

  “Al would want you to be happy.”

  “He would. He absolutely would.”

  I’d never met Al, Aggie’s late husband, but everything I’d ever heard about him told me that Al wouldn’t want Aggie to spend the rest of her life alone.

  She’d been lucky.

  If my late husband had given me any thought—and I doubted he did—he wouldn’t have thought about my happiness.

  Al Delucci wasn’t like that. He’d want Aggie to live. And laugh. And be her wonderful self, not a woman diminished by sadness.

  I climbed off my stool and wrapped my arms around her. “You loved Al. You always will. And he loved you. He would want you to grab life.”

  Aggie sniffled. “You’re right. I know you’re right.” She pulled away from my embrace and wiped her eyes.

  I returned to my stool and wrapped my fingers around my coffee mug.

  Aggie bustled. She folded the grocery bags. She emptied a bag of grapes into a colander and washed them. She wiped a pristine counter.

  “Any luck identifying the ashes?” I asked.

  “I spent an hour at the library before I went to the market,” she replied. “More than an hour and the words start to run together.”