“I think that ship has sailed.”
She laughed then. A laugh that got caught in her throat and turned into a sob.
Starry Knight, stripper, prostitute, and all-around tough girl stood in the hallway of the Alameda and cried. The kind of cry that melted mascara, swelled eyes, and left skin blotchy for hours. The kind of cry best cried alone.
I took her by the arm. “Come on, let’s go home.”
Twelve
We drove home in silence. To be more accurate, we drove home without talking.
Even the cabby was quiet. His sole comments were, “Where to?” and “Radio’s broken.”
Starry sniffled and hiccupped.
I swallowed trite expressions of sympathy.
No, I didn’t understand what she was feeling.
No, I couldn’t promise her problems would look smaller in the morning.
No, every little thing was not going to be all right.
Poor kid. She’d only left the hotel with me because she had no place else to go.
We pulled into the drive.
Starry looked at the house and shot me a you-didn’t-tell-me-you’re-loaded look. “You live here?”
I glanced at my house. “Yes.”
She crossed her arms and slouched lower in the seat. Why was she upset? The size of the house meant I had the means to help her.
“It’s just a house.” A big house. “Come on.” I handed the cab driver the fare and a tip and opened the car door. “We’ll get you settled.”
I climbed the front steps and slid the key into the lock.
Starry shuffled behind me.
I pushed open the front door and looked over my shoulder. Starry lingered at the bottom of the stoop. The cab’s tail lights glowed red at the bottom of the drive. By the curb, the streetlight illuminated a car I didn’t recognize as it cruised slowly by.
I’d never seen an El Camino within two miles of my neighborhood before. It was as out of place on my street as…as a teenage stripper. My heart skipped a beat. “Come on in. Hurry.” We stepped into the foyer and I closed the door and locked it. “Grace? Are you home?” My voice sounded too loud.
“Family room.”
I exhaled.
Max trotted into the front hall and stopped when he saw a stranger.
“What a pretty dog.” Starry crouched and held out her hands. “What kind is she?”
“He’s a Weimaraner. His name is Max.”
Max trotted up to Starry, stuck his face up her skirt, sniffed, and let her scratch behind his ears.
“You’ve made a friend for life.”
“I love dogs.”
“Mom—” Grace stopped in her tracks and stared at the stranger petting her dog.
“Grace, this is St—Jane. Jane, this is my daughter, Grace.”
“Hi.” Grace wore a who-the-hell-is-this expression. “Nice to meet you.”
Jane stood. “Hi.”
“Jane’s going to be spending the night. Would you please loan her a nightgown?”
“Sure. Of course. No problem.” Grace tore her gaze away from Jane’s outfit. “I’m glad you’re home. Someone’s been calling and hanging up. Like a million times.”
And there was an El Camino cruising my street.
Ice trickled through my veins. “I’ve got to make a call. St—Jane, would you like some hot chocolate?”
“No, thank you.”
“How about you and Grace go watch some TV? I’ll be in shortly.”
Both girls gave me what could be charitably called baleful looks.
Brngg, brngg.
They’d have to figure things out on their own. I had bigger problems.
I hurried into the study and reached for the phone.
What had Ray said? “I know who you are. I’ll find out where you live.”
I picked up the receiver. “Hello.”
Nothing. Not even breathing.
“Hello.”
Still nothing. Well, no sound. Menace traveled the phone line loud and clear. Menace and something darker, something twisted and rotten.
I slammed the receiver into the cradle and jerked my hand away as if the molded plastic had been infected with evil.
My heart raced.
My mouth was suddenly dry.
Deep breaths. One, then another, then a third. Breathe. If only the air could reach my lungs.
The phone couldn’t be blamed for the caller on the other end of the line.
The phone wasn’t actually touched by evil.
Such an idea was ludicrous.
Ludicrous.
But I had to force myself to reach for the receiver.
I dialed. Please let him answer.
Three rings. “Jones.”
“Anarchy.” His name was a plea.
“What is it, Ellison? What’s wrong?”
“I think we’re in trouble.”
“Where are you?”
“At home.”
“I’m on my way.”
And just like that my lungs inflated. “Thank you.” I was talking to a dead line. When Anarchy said he was on his way, he meant it.
I hung up the phone, climbed the front stairs, slipped into my bedroom, and opened the drawer to my night stand. My gun, a .22, waited for me. Looking at the glint of metal calmed my heart beat. Holding the pearl handle in my palm returned saliva to my mouth.
I tucked the gun into my pocket and descended the stairs.
Grace and Jane were in the family room. They sat on opposite ends of the couch and watched the late news as if their lives depended on it.
Grace held a mug of hot chocolate.
Jane held an old-fashioned.
I frowned. “What are you drinking?”
“Vodka and soda.” Her voice was matter-of-fact.
“You’re not old enough to drink.”
She looked at me as if I’d taken leave of my senses. “It’s just a drink.”
“You’re underage.”
Defiance flared in her eyes. “Really?” She packed the soul-killing hopelessness of stripping for a room of drunk men, the skin-crawling horror of prostitution, and the terror of living on the streets into that one word.
“Really. Minors don’t drink in my house.” I took the drink from Jane’s hand and felt like a hypocrite. It wasn’t as if Grace abstained. I was sure she had the occasional drink. But she cared enough about my good opinion to hide it from me. “Besides, Anarchy’s on his way over.”
“Who’s Anarchy?” asked Jane.
“Mom’s detective.” Grace shifted her gaze to the bulge in my pocket and paled.
“Your detective? Jane’s voice rose. “You’re busting me?”
“He’s a homicide detective,” I explained. “You’re not in any trouble.”
Grace’s brows rose but her gaze remained fixed on the way the gun pulled at the fabric of my dress. “Was it the phone calls?” Her gaze shifted to Jane. “Or something else?”
“The phone calls and the El Camino in front of the house. Anarchy’s on his way.”
“The cop’s name is Anarchy? And he’s coming here? Now?” She looked ready to run.
“He looks out for us,” said Grace. “He has a thing for Mom.”
That last comment was totally unnecessary (even if it did warm the cold knot of anxiety in my stomach).
“What time did the calls start?” I asked.
“I don’t know for sure.” Grace glanced at her watch. “An hour ago. Maybe two.”
Brnng, brnng.
Grace shuddered.
Enough was enough. I marched over to the phone and grabbed the receiver. “I don’t know who this is, but I called the police, they’re on their way.” Righteous anger lit my veins.
“Ellison?�
�� Mother’s voice was like a fire hose on the flame of my anger. “What have you done now?”
“Nothing,” I told her. “I’ve done nothing.” Except rescue a teenage stripper. I took a sip of the teenage stripper’s vodka soda which was somehow, fortuitously, still clutched in my hand. “Someone’s been crank calling the house.”
“Hmph.” Which was better than her asking why the police were coming to the house for crank calls.
“What do you need, Mother?” Ten o’clock on a Friday night, she had to have a good reason for calling.
“We need to talk.”
Uh-oh. “About what?”
“Your father.”
“Has something happened to him?” Everything slowed. My heart. My breathing. The spinning of the earth.
“He’s fine. For now. Those ashes in the closet—” she paused and I pictured her propped up in her bed wearing a quilted satin bed jacket in a chilly shade of blue “—they belong to your father’s—”
“What?” His what? Had she lost her mind?
“They. Belong. To. The. Other. Woman.” Compared to her voice, the South Pole sounded like a tropical vacation.
I swallowed. “Mother, have you been drinking?”
Grace’s mouth dropped open.
“Don’t be ridiculous.” Mother’s tone was icy. How-dare-I-suggest-such-a-thing icy. Even-Admiral-Byrd-would-shiver icy.
Ridiculous was thinking the phone might be infected by evil. Thinking Mother might be tippling—especially when she told me my steadfast, loyal father had left another (the other) woman’s ashes in the hall closet—was the opposite of ridiculous. The alternatives—Mother was right or she’d gone round the bend—were too awful to contemplate
“Daddy would never—”
“I should have known you’d take his side.”
“I’m not on anyone’s side. I just can’t imagine Daddy cheating. He’s sixty.” Did men still cheat at sixty?
“I never said his affair was recent.”
Oh dear Lord. I sank onto the nearest chair and lowered my head. Mother had lost her mind.
Ding dong.
I lifted my gaze. “Mother, there’s someone at the front door.” Please let it be Anarchy. Please. “I’ll call you in the morning.” When she was sober. “We’ll sort this out.”
“You don’t believe me.”
“I just find it hard to believe that Daddy would cheat on you. He adores you. And if he did cheat, why in the world would he leave her ashes someplace you might find them?”
“If they’re not hers, then who do the ashes belong to?”
Ding dong.
“I’ll get it,” said Grace.
“No!” I wanted her nowhere near a door without protection and I wasn’t about to give my child a gun. “Listen, Mother, I’ve got a situation here. I’ve got to go. May I call you later tonight or first thing in the morning?”
Click.
She’d hung up on me.
Mother’s ire was a problem for tomorrow. I had bigger, more immediate problems. I reached into my pocket and closed my hand around my gun. “Come on, Max.” I glanced at the two teenagers. “You two stay here.”
“Bu—”
“No buts, Grace. If you hear anything odd, run to a neighbor’s.” I paused in the doorway to the kitchen. “Don’t go to Margaret Hamilton’s. She probably wouldn’t let you in.”
Max and I made our way to the front door, stopping briefly in the kitchen to pour what was left of Jane’s drink down the sink. At the door, I peered through the glass side panels.
Anarchy waited on the stoop.
I yanked open the door and he blew into the foyer like a gust of March wind. His hands circled my arms. His eyes searched my face. “What happened?”
“I—” explaining seemed overwhelming “—let me make some coffee and I’ll tell you everything.”
Grace was lurking in the kitchen. The color returned to her cheeks when she saw Anarchy and she smiled. “You’re here.”
“I’m here.” He rested his hand on the small of my back. His hand was big, and comforting, and warm. Its position on my back said he’d take over now. How easy would it be to lean into him? To let him take over? Too easy.
“Where’s Jane?” I stepped away from Anarchy’s hand and hurried over to Mr. Coffee. I took his pot and held it under the running faucet.
“Watching the news.”
“Who’s Jane?”
Grace rolled her eyes. “Mom brought her home.”
“She’s part of the everything I have to tell you.” I turned off the faucet, poured the water into Mr. Coffee’s reservoir, and settled the pot on the warmer. “I suppose we’d better drink decaf.” Regular at this time of night and I wouldn’t get a wink of sleep. I might not anyway. I inserted a filter and scooped out decaffeinated grounds.
Grace pulled out a stool and sat as if she planned on listening to my story.
Not.
“Grace, I think we’re safe now. Why don’t you and Jane go upstairs and get ready for bed? She can sleep in the blue room.”
Grace crossed her arms and shifted on her stool—settling in.
“I’ll tell you tomorrow. Everything. I promise.”
Mr. Coffee (God love him) gurgled.
“I mean it. Tomorrow.”
Grace’s gaze traveled from me to Anarchy and back again. “Fine.” She stood with grudging slowness, turned, and called, “Jane, are you ready to head upstairs?” Then she turned back to me and whispered, “If I were you, I’d lock up the silver.”
Jane appeared in the kitchen, took one look at Anarchy, and lost her hard edges. She gazed at him like a lovestruck school girl whose middle name was Innocent.
“Anarchy, I’d like you to meet Jane Nichols. Jane, this is Detective Jones.”
“Pleased to meet you, Jane.”
Jane blushed. She didn’t reply. She didn’t extend her hand. She just stared. And blushed.
“Come on.” Grace tugged on Jane’s sleeve. “I’ll show you to your room.”
Jane shook her head as if waking from a trance and followed Grace. She paused at the bottom of the back stairs and cast one last lingering glance at Anarchy. “Nice to meet you, too.” Then, if the clack of her heels was any indication, she ran up the stairs.
“Do you have that effect on every woman you meet?”
“What effect?” Anarchy’s brown eyes twinkled.
“Don’t play dumb with me.”
“No, I don’t. You seem completely immune to my charms.” Boy, was he wrong.
“Coffee?” I squeaked.
“Sure.” I poured us two cups and handed him one. “Cream or sugar?”
“Black.”
I added a jot of cream to my mug, led Anarchy to the family room, and sank into a club chair.
He sat on the corner of the couch nearest to me. If we’d scooched forward just a smidge, our knees would have touched.
He took a sip of his coffee. “What’s happening?”
“It’s a long story,” I warned.
“I’ve got lots of time.”
“Libba took me—dragged me to a medium.” I shifted my gaze to my lap and told him everything.
I told him about seeing Ray at Winstead’s and the way Ray had looked at Grace.
I told him about Madame Reyna and her insistence I save Starry Knight.
I told him about seeing Starry in the Alameda lobby.
I told him about Ray’s threats, the hang-up phone calls, and the El Camino.
I didn’t tell him about the ashes in Mother’s closet, Starry’s lace bra, or Wright Halstrom.
Then I drank the last sip in my mug. “Do you need more coffee?”
Anarchy stared straight ahead and tapped his fist against the thin line of his lips. He was too deep in thought
to be tempted by coffee.
“I need more.” I left him to his thoughts and went to the kitchen where Mr. Coffee, who would never dream of judging my actions, sat on the counter with a pot of not-quite heaven. Heaven was caffeinated, of that I was sure. “That was rough,” I told him.
He looked sympathetic and offered me a refill.
I took him up on his offer, returned to the family room, and sat.
Anarchy’s had crossed his ankle over his knee. He leaned toward me. “I have a few questions.”
I took a too large sip of hot coffee. “Okay.”
“Jane or Starry?”
“Jane.”
“Jane said Ray’s last name was Smith?”
“She did.”
Anarchy’s lips thinned. He believed in Ray Smith as much as I did. Not at all. “Any ideas as to his real name?”
“Not a one.”
“Do you know where she danced?”
“I didn’t think to ask.”
“We can find out in the morning.” He leaned back against the couch. Lines radiated from the corners of his eyes and the weight of the world seemed to push on his shoulders.
“You look tired.”
He smiled. A tired smile. “You look beautiful.”
I did?
“What were you doing at the Alameda tonight?”
“A favor for Libba.”
He chuckled. “Another double date?”
“How—”
“I am a detective and you look particularly beautiful.” A wry smile twisted his lips. “At least you didn’t get injured or arrested.” He closed his eyes. “This couch is comfortable.”
Was he asking me to join him?
“I’ll sleep here.”
“You’ll what?” My voice was so high Max’s ears perked.
Anarchy’s eyes opened and he stared at me with…with intent.
Flutters of nerves tied my stomach into knots. “You’ll what?” This time I managed the question a few octaves lower.
“I’m not leaving you and Grace alone. Not until we know more about Ray Smith. Not until I know you’re safe.”
Lord love a duck! Did he plan on moving in?
Thirteen
Saturday morning dawned cold and crystalline bright.
The light was perfect for painting but instead of my paint clothes, I donned a pair of gray flannel pants and a sweater unmarred by daubs of cadmium yellow or burnt umber. The only brush I touched was dipped in blush and I swiped it across my cheeks, not a canvas.
SHADOW DANCING Page 13