SHADOW DANCING

by Julie Mulhern

  Anarchy picked up the phone and dialed. “Jones.”

  I paced. Had Grace gone home? Was the message from Daddy? I paused my steps and stared at Anarchy. Surely if I stared hard enough, his expression would tell me something. Nope. His face gave nothing away.

  I paced some more. My skin—well, under my skin—itched. I bit my lip. I stared at the ceiling. I stared at Anarchy. Who was he talking to? What had happened?

  “I understand,” he spoke into the phone but looked at his pager. “Yes, sir.”

  He hung up the phone then picked it up again. Immediately. Without answering a single one of my unanswered questions.

  “What’s happening?” I demanded. Frustration added a sharp edge to my voice.

  “Prairie Village doesn’t want to hold Rocky O’Hearne. Hold on.”

  Hold on?

  He dialed, waited, then spoke into the phone. “It’s Jones.” His gaze shifted from the black telephone to me. “I’ll call him. Thanks.”

  “What?” The sharp edge of my tone was now a razor.

  “Your father called.” He held the receiver out to me.

  I wrapped my fingers around black plastic already warmed by Anarchy’s hand and called home. “Daddy?”

  “Ellison, Grace phoned.”

  “Where is she? Is she all right?”

  “She’s at Peggy’s.”

  “Peggy’s?” Why Peggy’s? Why hadn’t she come home? Was she with Jane? A thousand questions ran through my head.

  “Call her.”

  I had a better idea. “Thanks, Daddy. We’ll be home soon.”

  “Who’s Peggy?” Anarchy asked.

  I dropped the receiver into its cradle. “A friend of Grace’s.”

  He didn’t ask any of the myriad questions floating around my brain. He simply said, “Let’s go.”

  I could have kissed him.

  We hurried back to the car and I gave him directions to Peggy’s house.

  I sat in the passenger seat with my hands clasped in my lap. My arms ached to hug Grace (then shake her till her teeth rattled). “Two blocks then a left.”

  Anarchy drove without comment. Perhaps he could tell I was composing a rant in my head.

  “There.” I pointed to a red brick colonial.

  Anarchy parked. “Ellison.”

  I paused, my hand on the door handle and one foot already out the door.

  “Grace was trying to help someone.”

  “And?”

  “You would have done the same. You have done the same.”

  True. But I was an adult. Presumably, I was better equipped to understand and deal with threats. My lips thinned.

  “You’ve put yourself at risk for people who were in trouble. And, if anything happens to you, Grace will be an orphan. She’s never yelled at you for that.” He reached out and his fingers grazed my arm. “The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.”

  I clenched my jaw and said not one word.

  “Would you rather she not step in when she’s needed?”

  I’d rather she not put herself in harm’s way. Apple. Tree. I saw the irony.

  “Just think about it,” Anarchy’s voice was gentle.

  I nodded and got out of the car.

  Anarchy did not.

  “Aren’t you coming?”

  “You’re sure?”

  “We’re in this together.”

  Anarchy’s smile chased every cloud out of the sky.

  Together, we hurried up the front walk.

  The door opened before we had a chance to knock. Dee, Peggy’s mother, stepped outside. She wore corduroy pants, a barn jacket, and a fearsome expression. “Ellison, do you know who Grace brought into my house?”

  Oh dear Lord.

  “I’m here to take them home.”

  That wasn’t good enough. “She brought a stripper into my house!” Dee’s outrage echoed down the block.

  I held up my hands in a gesture meant to be calming. “Dee—”

  “Maybe you think that girl is a suitable companion for Grace, but I won’t have it! Not for Peggy.”

  That girl? “That girl is sixteen and life has already beat her up.”

  “She wouldn’t be in trouble if she hadn’t made bad decisions.”

  “You’re saying a sixteen-year-old child deserves to be a stripper?”

  “I’m saying she’s seen things and done things I don’t want Peggy exposed to.”

  I opened my mouth, ready with a scathing (in my dreams) retort, and stopped. Dee was protecting her daughter the best way she knew how. I might not agree with her, but I wouldn’t argue with her. “We’ll take them home. Now.”

  “Has your daughter ever gone out on a date with a boy you don’t know?”

  Both Dee and I turned and stared at Anarchy.

  “Maybe she met him on the Plaza, or one of her friends introduced her, or maybe she was sitting in a booth at Winstead’s and he asked for her number.”

  “Peggy would never do that.” Peggy’s mother crossed her arms and donned a stubborn expression (a head-in-the-sand expression). Life was easier if she pretended it wasn’t there. I pretended the same for years. But I felt it when I first touched a corpse. I heard it when a dominatrix gave me a safe-word I neither wanted nor needed. I saw it in the soulless depths of Rocky O’Hearne’s eyes. What Dee refused to acknowledge was a morass of murk and chaos and uncertainty. Dee could hide behind a manicured lawn and manicured nails and a man who took care of her but it was waiting for her. It was waiting for all of us.

  “Are you sure that she wouldn’t?” asked Anarchy. “Let’s say the boy is really handsome and she knows you won’t approve of him. It’s just one date. What could it hurt?”

  “Stop it.” Dee’s voice was strident and she positively glared at Anarchy. Finally, a woman who didn’t melt at the sight of him. “Who are you?”

  “Dee, this is Detective Jones.”

  She did not extend her hand.

  Neither did Anarchy. Instead, he said, “The girl agrees to go out with the boy. She lies to her parents—tells them she’s spending the night with a friend. But the boy works for unpleasant men. One bad decision and she’s gone.”

  “That doesn’t happen.” Dee shook her head. “It doesn’t.”

  “It does,” said Anarchy. “It happens every day. The girl gets trapped.”

  “She could leave.” Dee sounded so certain.

  “No, she can’t.” Anarchy’s tone brooked no arguments, no doubt. “If she’s not addicted to drugs—”

  Dee curled her lip.

  “If she’s not addicted to drugs,” Anarchy continued, “she’s too scared to leave.”

  “Scared?” Dee didn’t believe him. I did. I’d seen Rocky’s dead eyes.

  “The people who control the girl—they tell her they’ll hurt her family if she runs.”

  Dee’s lips thinned to nothing and she fisted her hand and tapped it against her forehead. “I want that girl out of my house.”

  “That’s what we’re here for,” I reminded her.

  Dee yanked opened the front door and bellowed, “Grace, your mother is here.”

  I waited, my breath fogging the air in front of me. Hug her? Shake her? Both?

  Grace appeared and my decision was made. I folded her into a never-let-you-go hug. “I was so worried.”

  “I’m sorry. We didn’t know where to go. And we weren’t near a phone. Mostly we just drove around.”

  I shifted my gaze to Jane. She stood on the front steps with a hand on her hip and a jaunty jut to her chin that looked too confident. I wasn’t fooled. “I’m so glad you’re all right.” I opened my arms wider, inviting her into a group hug.

  She blinked. Rapidly. “I’m always all right.”

  Now Grace opened her arms.<
br />
  Jane stood on the stoop looking at us as if we’d taken leave of our senses then—finally—she stepped forward.

  Dee covered her mouth with her hand and returned to the comforts of the indoors. “Good-bye, Ellison.”

  “Bye, Dee.” My words might have lost their way in the Tame-Crème-Rinse scent of Grace’s hair.

  We wrapped Jane into our hug.

  She endured, stiff with an I-don’t-need-anyone attitude.

  We held her anyway.

  And, after a moment, she relaxed. Her eyes misted. She whispered, “I heard what you said. Thank you.”

  “I hate to break this up—”

  All three of us shifted our attention to Anarchy

  “But I have to ask.” He looked at Jane. “Did you witness a murder?”

  Twenty

  Anarchy insisted on taking Jane into custody. Insisted.

  The cold and rain had nothing on the temperature of my digestive organs. “I’m not pressing charges.”

  “Charges?” He tilted his head slightly. “Oh, the stolen car. I didn’t figure you would.”

  “Then why—”

  “Protective custody,” he explained. “She saw a murderer. She’s in danger.”

  “I didn’t really see him.” Jane shook her head. “It was dark and he was in a car, and Leesa was talking to him through the passenger’s window. I wouldn’t recognize him if he was standing right in front of me.”

  The skin at the corner of Anarchy’s left eye twitched.

  “I say we get out of the rain.” No one could argue with my suggestion. A chilly drizzle was slowly soaking us through.

  We left Dee’s house with Anarchy behind the wheel, me in the passenger’s seat, and the girls in the back.

  I turned and asked, “Jane, who is Madame Reyna?”

  Her lips thinned and she turned her head—away from me—and looked out the rain-streaked window. “My grandmother.” The raindrops moving across the glass must have been fascinating because her gaze remained fixed on them. “We thought about going to her house but I didn’t want to put her in danger.”

  Anarchy reached across the seat and squeezed my hand tightly, his meaning clear. I was not to tell Jane about the wreckage at her grandmother’s home. I was not to tell her that her grandmother was missing.

  “I’m just glad you’re safe now.” I turned and stared out the windshield. The wipers swished away the light rain.

  Anarchy drove to my house and the four of us piled out of the car.

  Daddy opened the front door immediately—as if he’d been waiting by the window. He shook his finger at Grace. “You put your mother through hell, young lady.”

  “I know.” Grace actually sounded contrite. “And I’m sorry.”

  That was all it took for him to forgive her. He grinned. “Come on in out of the rain.”

  We tromped inside.

  I took off my coat and folded it over my arm.

  Anarchy did the same.

  “Are you staying? I thought you were taking Jane into custody.”

  “I’m not going anywhere. Not until I can get a patrol car parked in your driveway. Not until I know you’re safe.”

  A warmth that had nothing to do the heat vents in the foyer suffused me. Gulp. “Daddy, is there coffee?”

  “We’ll make some fresh.”

  The kitchen felt homey and comforting. A feeling only enhanced by the heavenly smells of Mr. Coffee brewing ambrosia.

  I wrapped my cold fingers around a mug and settled onto a stool. If Jane was only going to be around for a few minutes, I’d better get my questions in quick. “What happened last night?”

  Jane, who also held a cup of coffee, paled. “He’s dead, isn’t he?”

  I donned a sympathetic face and nodded.

  “Ray wasn’t so bad. He treated me like a human being and not a piece of—” she glanced at my silver-haired father “—and not like a product.” She shifted her gaze to the contents of her mug. “I wanted to return Grace’s car. I felt bad about stealing it.”

  No one said a word. The only sounds were the ticking of the clock and Max’s yawn (we were disturbing his late morning nap).

  “I’m not great at driving a stick, so I asked Ray to drive Grace’s car and I drove his Impala.”

  She looked up from her coffee and stared at the wall. “He parked in the drive. I heard a shot. Then someone ran toward me. I knew it wasn’t Ray. He was too bulky. Too slow. I got scared and took off.”

  “And after that?” I asked.

  “I drove around. I didn’t know where to go.” Now she looked at Grace. “I remembered that Grace had told me she was spending the night with a friend, so I stopped at a gas station, looked the address up in the phone book, and went there this morning.”

  “Why didn’t you stay at Donna’s?” My voice was sharper than strictly necessary.

  “We should have,” said Grace. “I was kinda freaked out and I didn’t know what to do.”

  “I’m glad you’re safely home now.” Glad I could banish that awful threat. Glad Anarchy had been there—not to solve my problem, but to help me solve it. I abandoned my stool and wrapped Grace in another hug.

  Ding dong.

  “I’ll get it.” Anarchy disappeared down the hallway before I could point out that I answered the door in my house.

  He was back in a minute. “The patrol car is here. Are you ready, Jane?”

  Jane put her mug down on the counter and nodded.

  I walked with them to the front door.

  Jane slipped her arms into her coat.

  Anarchy slipped his arms around me. “I’ll be back. Don’t do anything dangerous.”

  Like letting Anarchy Jones into my heart? I looked up at him and said, “I never do.”

  He snorted, dropped a chaste kiss on my forehead, and released me.

  I stood in the doorway and watched the two of them drive away.

  When I returned to the kitchen, Grace was peppering Daddy with questions.

  “What’s up with Granna? When’s she coming home?”

  Daddy peered into his coffee mug as if he was genuinely surprised to find it empty.

  “You know—” I refilled my coffee mug “—it’s been so cold and gloomy here, maybe Granna just needed some warmth and sun.”

  “Piffle.” The word sauntered off Grace’s tongue, as sassy as could be.

  I raised my brows. “Piffle?”

  “She needs to get down off her high horse.”

  Daddy and I stared at her.

  “Unless there’s something you’re not telling us.”

  I shot Daddy a look. “May I get you more coffee, Daddy?” I asked so sweetly he wouldn’t need sugar.

  He pretended not to notice my glare. “Yes. Please.”

  Grace, her grenade thrown, tossed her hair. “I need a shower.”

  My stomach rumbled and I glanced at the ticking wall clock before taking possession of Daddy’s cup. “Are you hungry, Grace? Aggie left some soup. I can warm it up.”

  “Fine.” She tossed her hair a second time. “I won’t be long.” Then she ran up the backstairs.

  “Are you hungry, Daddy?”

  “I could eat,” he allowed. “Aggie made the soup?”

  “Italian wedding.” I added coffee to his cup. “All I have to do is pour it into a saucepan.”

  “Sounds good.”

  I returned Daddy’s coffee mug then fetched a sauce pan from the cabinet and the soup from the fridge. When I heard the water running upstairs, I asked, “Have you heard from her?”

  Mother not talking to him was novel—and unpleasant. The corners of his mouth drooped. “No.”

  I poured the soup in the pan and turned on a burner. “Maybe you should call her.”

  “She’s very an
gry.” He regarded the pan on the stove. “Warm the soup on low, honey.”

  Everyone was a critic. I turned down the heat. “What happened?”

  “This isn’t something a man wants to discuss with his daughter.”

  “Mother left you. I think we’re past that objection.”

  He went back to searching the depths of his coffee mug for answers. “Your mother was not my first love.”

  Oh dear Lord. Be careful what you ask. I abandoned the soup, and settled onto a stool.

  “My senior year at Stanford, I met a girl. She was different from the girls back here. A free spirit.” He shifted his gaze from his coffee to the past. The expression in his eyes was soft and gentle—as if he was looking as his younger self and the girl. “We fell in love and she got pregnant.”

  I swallowed. My mouth suddenly dry. Coffee! I needed more coffee. I got up and poured myself another cup. And, just to prove my cooking prowess, I stirred the soup. “What happened next?”

  “I asked her to marry me, told her we’d come home to Kansas City and have a marvelous life.”

  “She said no?”

  “She said no.” Forty-plus years later, Daddy still looked sad. He even wiped under his eyes with the knuckles of his right hand.

  “She had a daughter.” I wanted to know more about this mysterious half-sister.

  “Karma.”

  I sat down again. I had to. I had a half-sister named Karma? “And you never told us?”

  “I told your mother.”

  There was a conversation I was glad I missed.

  “I told her before we married. A child isn’t something you can keep from your wife. We agreed—” he shifted his gaze to the soup “—we agreed we were starting a new family and we’d keep what was in my past separate from our future.”

  Classic Mother. An undiscussed problem or issue or sister, was a problem or issue or sister that didn’t exist. I, for one, would have appreciated knowing about Karma.

  “All those golf trips to California. That’s where she is, isn’t she?”

  He nodded.

  “Do you see her?”

  “Yes.”

  “Does she know about us?”