SHADOW DANCING

by Julie Mulhern

  His brow wrinkled as if the idea of not drinking at a cocktail party was foreign and confusing. “You’re sure? I’m happy to get you whatever you’d like.”

  The four of us strolled back to the ballroom.

  “I’m sure.” And then because I was feeling contrary, I asked, “How did your call go?”

  “We got our wires crossed. The man I needed to speak with was already gone for the day. Annoying because I would have enjoyed spending more time with you.”

  I didn’t believe him. He’d spent the better part of dinner talking to Bill and then come up with a sudden, urgent phone call.

  “Would you care to dance?” he asked.

  A jazz trio with a singer had taken their places on the riser in front of the dance floor.

  “I’d love to.” I missed dancing. One of the few good things about being married to Henry was having a dance partner.

  Wright took my hand and together we stepped onto the dance floor.

  The band played the opening notes of “The Girl from Ipanema.”

  Wright led with a firm hand.

  I followed.

  “How are you enjoying Kansas City?” I asked.

  “More now.”

  “There you go, being charming again.”

  He gave me an aw-shucks smile.

  Wow, he was handsome.

  “Kansas City is a great town.” We completed a spin and he added, “The downtown revitalization is amazing. When the new convention hotel and center are completed there will be no stopping this city.”

  Kansas City had been on a building binge—a new airport, a new football stadium, Kemper Arena where the Republican Convention would be held next year, and the new hotel (if they ever got the strip bars torn down) and convention center. Soon, I’d hardly recognize my own city.

  “I want to be a part of this city’s success.”

  It was a good thing Mother was half a country away. If she met Wright Halstrom, if she listened to him, she’d have him in a jewelry store buying a diamond the size of Texas before he knew what hit him. I might be leery of too handsome, too charming men, but Mother had no such hang up. She would approve of Wright. Whole-heartedly.

  The girl in the song walked to the sea and failed to notice the boy pining for her. The last notes ended to polite applause.

  Wright looked down at me. His eyes sparkled. “You’re a good dancer.”

  “So are you.”

  “I need a drink. You’re sure I can’t tempt you?” With his hand on the small of my back, he walked us to the edge of the dance floor.

  “I’m sure.”

  “Don’t go anywhere. I’ll be right back.” With a last sparkling smile, he headed toward the nearest bar.

  “How do you know Wright Halstrom?” Joan Conover sounded as if she’d had a few drinks since our earlier conversation. Her words were slurry.

  “A blind date.”

  She blinked. Several times. “Listen to me.” She leaned forward and nearly overwhelmed me with the scent of scotch. “Be careful. He’s not a nice man.” She glanced over her shoulder as if she worried he might be listening. “Patrick said—”

  “Ellison!” Jinx’s hand closed around my arm and she pulled me toward her. “Do you mind, Joan? We need Ellison to settle a dispute.”

  When we were twenty feet clear of Joan, Jinx loosened her grip. “You’ve already listened to that woman once tonight. It was my turn to save you.”

  How was Jinx to know I’d wanted to hear what Joan had to say?

  Fifteen

  By the time I convinced Jinx I really did want to talk to Joan, she’d disappeared.

  The crowd of seemingly happy, shiny people circulated, ice clinked in old-fashions, and the spice of curried chicken let me know the buffet was open. A typical party. I’d been to a thousand just like it.

  Exhaustion reached out its arms and hugged me tight

  I could spend more time with Libba, Bill, and Wright. I could explain sponsorship levels for the museum gala to Mark Kittering (who spotted me from across the room and waved). But both of those options required energy I didn’t have. Or, I could slip out, go home, put my feet up, and doze.

  I chose Option C, said a quick good-bye to Libba and company, and slipped away.

  Outside, the night swirled with a heavy, cold mist. March deciding lion or lamb. The mist clung to my hair, and lashes, and coat. The click of my heels echoed on the pavement. The darkness breathed—thick and dangerous. I shivered.

  I should have accepted Wright’s offer to walk me to my car. I should have, but the thought of being alone in the night with a man who might want to kiss me—a man who wasn’t Anarchy Jones—had sent me scurrying for the exit.

  Now with odd night noises and a rising fog I wished for my gun.

  I wished the parking lot lights were brighter.

  I wished—just this once—I’d parked closer.

  I wished for Anarchy.

  Maybe Libba was right. Maybe I needed to reconsider this parking as far away from other cars as possible policy. While no one could hide between cars that weren’t there, being isolated didn’t feel particularly safe either.

  Miraculously, I reached the lonely Mercedes without anyone bashing me on the head, shooting at me, or tackling me from behind.

  I jammed the key in the lock and opened the door.

  “Eeek!” I leapt backward fifteen feet. Ten feet. Maybe five feet. Possibly three feet. My heart careened around my chest like a demented pinball. My lungs emptied and refused to inflate.

  “What the hell are you doing?” My voice sounded far away, as if I was in a mile-long tunnel. What my eyes had seen, my brain refused to process.

  “This is your car?” A woman spoke. Oh dear Lord, was that who I thought it was?

  “Get out!”

  “Now, now. Calm down,” said a man in a reasonable tone.

  “Calm down?” I screeched. “Have you lost your mind?” He’d definitely lost his tie, and his jacket, and most of his shirt, and all of his pants. I rubbed my eyes. There were some things that could never be unseen. “Who does this?” Was having sex in a strange car the latest fad sweeping the nation?

  Strange sounds were coming from the Mercedes’ interior. The sounds of people separating in a small space—an elbow hit against the dash, a leg knocked against the…I covered my ears with my hands.

  I kept them there until Bruce Petteway climbed out of my car.

  “You?”

  He looked only mildly embarrassed. “Good evening, Ellison.”

  No. It was not a good evening. “Wh—” what, why, who—there were so many questions my brain couldn’t decide “—wh—”

  “Listen, sorry about this.”

  “Sorry?” My screech reached new heights. Unimagined heights. “This is my car. What’s wrong with your car?” If one was going to have sex in a parked car, surely it was better to do it in one’s own.

  “I took a cab.”

  Ah. That excused everything. I tapped my clasped hands against my forehead.

  Bruce spread his fingers and mimed pressing down as if patronizing me would somehow make everything better. “You’re overreacting.” He took a step toward me.

  I took a step back. “Get any closer and I’ll press charges. This has to be trespassing.”

  “You don’t want to do that.” Now his voice had an edge.

  “You’re right. I don’t.” It would be far better to call Joyce’s lawyer and tell him (or her) the whole sordid story.

  Bruce was pushing down on the air again. How had Joyce stayed married to him for as long as she did? “We’re all friends.”

  We were?

  A woman emerged from the car. A woman with horse teeth and a horse face. Henry had once called her a bony-assed harpy (but that was before he started sleeping with her
).

  Bruce was very wrong—we were not all friends.

  “Ellison.” Prudence Davies twisted my name into an insult.

  She looked, as Mother would say, like something the cat dragged in. Her hair was a disaster and her clothes were akimbo. And, if the light were better, I knew I’d see smeared makeup.

  “You know, Bruce, I heard you liked younger women.”

  Prudence scowled at me.

  The daggers she shot my way were nothing compared to the fierce look on Bruce’s face. His expression was alarming.

  I took another step backward.

  “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” he demanded. His hands tightened to fists and he advanced on me. “What have you heard?” His tone was alarming too. Lord, I was tired of men who took pleasure in intimidating women.

  I took yet another step away from him.

  “She’s just insulting me,” said Prudence. “Don’t let her get to you.”

  I had heard Bruce liked younger women—girls, even—who had told me that?

  Bruce stopped walking but his expression remained terrifying. “Is that true? Is that what you were doing? Insulting Prudence?”

  I’d been insulting him too but I wasn’t about to point that out. Starting an argument with a man who’d obviously had a few (why else would he be with Prudence?) wasn’t smart. “Prudence is too old to be sleeping with other women’s husbands.” Not that age would stop her.

  Prudence’s scowl darkened to a death glare but Bruce’s expression cleared and he chuckled as if he enjoyed the idea of two women fighting.

  His gaze traveled between Prudence and me. “We’ll all laugh about this some day.”

  Perhaps he believed saying something made it true. Perhaps he thought he might lighten the mood. Perhaps he was dumb as a pile of rocks. I, for one, would never laugh about this. I was going to have to trade in the damned car. Unbidden images of Prudence Davies having sex in the front seat made the vehicle undrivable.

  Mother would have a fit.

  I’d have to explain.

  She’d blame me for not locking the car doors.

  Wait.

  I had locked the car doors.

  “How did you get in the car?”

  “The passenger door was unlocked,” said Bruce.

  I was going to kill Libba.

  “Do you have everything out of the there?” I wanted no reminders of this night. No stray earrings, no neck ties, no—God forbid—condoms.

  “Yeah.” Bruce crossed his arms. The mist was cold and he had no winter coat.

  I tightened my grip on my keys and willed him away from the car.

  He didn’t move.

  “It’s cold out here.” He wanted to complain about the weather? He should have checked the temperature before he snuck out of the club party and had sex in my car. “Would you give us a ride back to the clubhouse?”

  My jaw dropped. The hinge that kept my teeth together just gave up—shocked into laxity by his unadulterated gall.

  Prudence stepped forward. “She’s not going to give us a ride, Bruce.”

  Prudence was right.

  “But I’m cold.”

  Steam may have erupted from my ears. “Get out of my way.”

  I climbed into my irreparably soiled car, slammed the door shut, and locked the doors.

  They had not removed all their belongings.

  A bra remained on the passenger seat. Not a serviceable nude bra. No, Prudence’s brassiere was black and lace and…oh-dear-lord-was-that-leather? Ugh.

  My lips drew away from teeth and my chin receded into my neck. Ick, ick, ick. I picked up the bra by the strap—thank God I wore gloves—rolled down the window, and dropped the offending garment onto the pavement. Then, without another glance at Bruce or Prudence (my head contained too many images of the twosome already), I drove away.

  I might—might—have muttered to myself the whole way home.

  I might—might—have been in the worst mood of my life.

  I might—might—have done a better job checking the locks on the back door.

  I stepped inside and sniffed. The smell of cigarette smoke lingered in the air.

  Max, who could be bribed by strangers carrying meat, lay on his bed in the kitchen. He lifted his head from his paws and stared at me.

  I stared back at him. “Are we alone?” I whispered.

  His answer was a yawn.

  I backed out the door, cut through the side yard, stood in my front lawn, and waited for the patrol car Anarchy had promised would be circling the block. Fortunately, the ground was too cold for my heels to sink. That was about the only thing going right. I scowled at the street.

  There. I waved at the cruiser.

  The policemen pulled into my drive and the driver rolled down his window. “Ma’am?”

  “I’m Ellison Russell. A stranger has been in my house.”

  “I’ll call it in.” He reached for the radio.

  My head ached. Badly. But I held up my hand. “Wait. Will they send multiple patrol cars?”

  “Probably.” His hand closed on the talkie-thingy.

  Margaret Hamilton would be furious. Marian Dixon, my neighbor across the street, would have the news out—police at Ellison’s. Again—to all and sundry before the policemen were even out of their cars. “Please. Wait.”

  The officer looked at me as if his patience was running thin. I could tell him a thing or two about worn out patience.

  “Could you just walk through the house with me? Please?”

  The two officers exchanged keep-the-crazy-lady-happy-or-Detective-Jones-will-have-our-asses looks, then the driver—I squinted through the window and read his name tag—Officer Collins put the car in park.

  The three of us searched every inch of the house. The basement, where the Christmas decorations waited for next year. The ground floor, where we opened every cabinet and looked behind every drape. The second floor, where Officer Collins got down on his hand and knees and peered under beds while his partner, Officer Pearson, searched behind my ball gowns and the unbelievable pile of clothing stuffed into Grace’s closet. Even the third floor, where there was no place to hide. Max, with a mixture of boredom and disdain in his amber eyes, supervised the whole operation.

  “What makes you think someone was in your house?” asked Officer Collins whose keep-the-crazy-lady-happy-or-Detective-Jones-will-have-my-ass look was sliding into one of annoyance.

  “I smelled cigarette smoke,” I explained. “No one smokes in my house.”

  He rubbed his chin. “Well, there’s no one here now.”

  “No. I can see that. Thank you, Officers. It was kind of you to indulge me.”

  “Our pleasure, ma’am.” His tone said something different.

  It was official. I was the woman who cried wolf. I locked the door behind them, checked the windows, turned on a few extra lights, and climbed the stairs.

  I read Centennial until my eyes grew heavy (Michener was a great fall-asleep author). Five minutes later (three hours according to the clock), Max’s growl awakened me.

  Grrrr.

  I fumbled for the phone and pressed the receiver to my ear. No dial tone.

  No phone?

  Any nerve, any fiber of my being that wasn’t fully awake jumped up and took notice.

  I reached into my bedside table and closed my fingers around my gun.

  Armed, I tiptoed to the window and peeked around the edge of the drape.

  Grace’s car sat in the drive. Was Jane back? Was she in trouble?

  Grrrr. Max thought so.

  Together we descended the stairs. Slowly. Max, because he was in stealth mode. Me, because my knees were wobbly.

  I snuck into the living room and pulled aside the curtain for a view of the darkness outside.

>   Two figures were swathed in mist and shadow.

  One crouched next to Grace’s car. The other crept toward the croucher.

  Two villains in cahoots?

  A villain and a hero?

  Impossible to tell.

  Bang!

  Max barked.

  I jumped.

  In the street, rubber squealed.

  I moved the curtain and pressed my nose to the glass.

  The croucher had collapsed on the drive.

  Oh dear, Lord.

  The creeper nudged the body with his toe. It was too dark to see the creeper’s face but I felt his gaze. He was looking at the window where I stood.

  Ice ran in my veins and I tightened my hold on my .22.

  The creeper stepped into the shadows and disappeared into the night.

  The croucher didn’t move.

  Part of me wanted to run to the croucher. Maybe I could help. What if it was Jane laying there on the pavement? The sane part of me, the part that enjoyed seeing the sun rise on Sunday mornings, turned on lights. Every light in the house. Then the sane part of me went to the kitchen, asked Mr. Coffee to work his magic, and waited for the police.

  I knew they’d come. My phone might not work but I bet my last dollar Marian Dixon’s or Margaret Hamilton’s did and there was nothing either one of them enjoyed more than calling the police when there was trouble at my house.

  Three minutes. That’s how long it took for the police to arrive.

  Three of the slowest minutes in history.

  Three minutes I spent agonizing. What if the croucher was bleeding out? What if all the croucher needed was compression? What if the creeper was still out there?

  Three minutes I spent walking between the kitchen, where Mr. Coffee made comforting sounds, and the front of the house, where I’d be able to see patrol lights.

  With the first flash of blue and red, I ran into the driveway.

  Ran to Grace’s car.

  Light poured out of the house and illuminated the body on the ground.

  The creeper had shot the croucher in the back of the head. Even if I’d run outside right away, I couldn’t have helped the man at my feet.

  The man.

  Not Jane.

  Thank heavens.

  Although the man on the cold concrete probably wouldn’t have agreed.