Madelyn lifted her brow at Harley, then exchanged a glance with her sister Amanda that plainly conveyed her disapproval of their cousin. They reminded Harley of two blonde poodles, one starved-looking, and the other obviously well-fed.
She rolled her eyes and asked, “So where’s Aunt Darcy?”
It was the perfect opening for a discussion of what had to be on all their minds—Harry Gordon’s murder. She waited expectantly.
“Darcy called to say she’ll be a little late,” Grandmother Eaton said after a moment of awkward silence. “All that . . . trouble, you know.”
Trouble. A nice term for an ugly death.
“Yes,” Harley said, “I’m the one who found the trouble.”
Grandmother Eaton regarded her solemnly. “Yes, dear, so I understand. Dreadful thing. Just dreadful. Youth is so resilient. You look remarkably calm, despite what had to be an extreme shock. Perhaps that’s why you chose such an . . . interesting . . . ensemble to wear. Linen would have been so much cooler, but denim and cotton are acceptable under the circumstances, of course.”
Censure oozed from her grandmother, but Harley chose to ignore it. She’d known when she put on a tee shirt and jeans that not dressing up would cause comment. She’d dug through her closet but just hadn’t found a suitable skirt and blouse. Much as she hated it, a shopping trip to the mall loomed in her future. She’d take Tootsie with her. Then it’d be bearable. It was always fun watching sales ladies’ faces when Tootsie tried on silk blouses or evening gowns. Or high heels in the shoe department.
Madelyn and Amanda wore nice skirts and blouses, of course. Suck-ups. Madelyn was tall and skinny, Amanda shorter with curves that bordered on plump. Their clothes came from Macy’s, their personalities from Elvira, Queen of the Night.
“So,” she said to distract from her fashion faux pas and direct the conversation back to the murder, “is Aunt Darcy at the police station giving her statement?”
Amanda made a muffled sound, and Grandmother Eaton nodded. “Yes, I believe she is downtown. She’ll need our support when she arrives, and perhaps it’s best that we not mention the unpleasantness.”
Unpleasantness was another obvious synonym for grisly murder. Harley nodded agreement.
“I imagine Aunt Darcy will be stressed enough. What with having her partner murdered, then being grilled by the cops and all.”
“Grilled?” Madelyn looked startled. Her eyes widened, and she blinked long lashes that reminded Harley of a Daddy-longlegs. False lashes must be in fashion again. “Why would Mama be grilled?”
She pronounced Mama in the French way, with the accent on the last ma, and Harley rolled her eyes again. That college graduation trip to Paris must have left a lasting impression after all.
“Because Harry Gordon was her partner, and besides the murderer, Aunt Darcy was the last person to see him alive,” she pointed out.
Madelyn’s eyes narrowed and her mouth tightened. “Really. You don’t have to be nasty, Harley. Besides—we don’t know at all who the last person to see Harry alive was. And neither do the police.”
“True. But they will. Trust me on that. The MPD is very efficient.”
Madelyn looked rattled, and her mouth went so flat it nearly disappeared. Harley lifted a brow. Maybe Cousin Maddie knew something she wasn’t telling. Could it be . . . ? No, no, Aunt Darcy wasn’t a murderer. Bitchy, uppity, snobbish, yes, but not murderous. Still, the police might very well have another point of view on that subject, so maybe it’d be best not to rule Darcy out completely just in case they found out she’d been investigating Harry for smuggling.
“Don’t worry, Maddie,” she said, “I’m quite sure you can give Aunt Darcy a great alibi since you’re living at home. You saw her come in Thursday night, didn’t you?”
“Why would you assume I’m always home?”
“Because you don’t usually go out until later, after a hard day of getting manicures and pedicures. Unless you’ve actually gotten a job?”
Madelyn glared at her. Amanda, who had finagled a job as a designer in her mother’s shop, put her hands on her less than thin hips and defended her older sister.
“Don’t be mean, Harley. Madelyn is still coping after . . . after everything.”
“You mean her divorce from that idiot? I thought she was still celebrating, not coping.”
“At least I’ve been married before, and am not an old maid like you,” Madelyn snapped.
“Old maid? Who talks like that? It’s the twenty-first century, Maddie, and liberated women even have the vote these days. Of course, living in that ivory tower of yours, you probably think getting married is the only option women have. There are others, I promise.”
“You mean like working for minimum wage baby-sitting tourists? Fine career choice you made, Harley. I’m so impressed. Why don’t you just admit you aren’t capable of doing anything else?”
This wasn’t going at all the way she’d intended, Harley realized, and sucked in a deep breath to keep the familiar irritation from taking control of her brain and tongue. No point in reverting to fourteen again. Now she needed answers, not a squabble.
“Maybe I’m not living up to my potential,” she said, and saw Madelyn’s eyes narrow in suspicion, “but I’m only trying to help Aunt Darcy right now. Believe me when I tell you that the police are going to ask you a lot harder questions. And you better be prepared to tell the truth, because a lie will only make things worse.”
“Worse? For whom?” Madelyn’s eyes darted to her sister, and Harley once more got the feeling there was something going on they weren’t telling.
“For anyone dumb enough to lie to cops,” she said bluntly.
Madelyn immediately fluffed up like an irate chicken. It wasn’t an attractive look for her. She had one of those long, thin patrician noses, and it quivered like a bird’s beak.
“I’m getting tired of you accusing me of lying!”
“Why won’t you answer a simple question? Were you with Aunt Darcy Thursday night? Can you give her an alibi for her whereabouts between six and nine?”
For a moment Harley thought her cousin would refuse to answer, then she blew out an exasperated sigh and said, “No, I wasn’t with Mama Thursday night. She went to a Junior League meeting, however, so she has plenty of people who can give her an alibi.”
Harley didn’t mention seeing Aunt Darcy’s car leave the parking lot of the shop at a time that’d be certain to incriminate her. There had to be a good reason for it. She hoped.
“Girls,” Grandmother Eaton interrupted with a definite edge in her voice, “do hush. I believe Darcy has arrived at last.”
A slight commotion in the entrance hall preceded Aunt Darcy’s arrival, and Harley heard Janet, Grandmother Eaton’s British housekeeper, ask Darcy if she’d meant to leave her car door open like that.
“No,” Darcy said over her shoulder, sounding harried and looking frightful, “go out and close it if you like. Mama, I need a drink. Something strong. Quick!”
Amanda had already started toward the liquor cabinet, and Harley just watched as Darcy staggered across the entrance hall and to a dining room chair, flopping into it. Her hair stuck out at odd angles, and she had dark circles under her eyes. She wore a rumpled blouse and dark slacks, and absolutely no jewelry. Grandmother Eaton looked frozen in place, and Madelyn stared at her mother with something like shock on her face.
Harley blinked. This Aunt Darcy bore only the faintest resemblance to the impeccably garbed woman she usually saw. Her hands shook, her bare lips quivered, and until she’d downed three fingers of bourbon, neat, she didn’t say another word.
Silence sounded loud in the dining room. They all waited like eager beagles, gazing at Darcy Fontaine as she held out her glass for more bourbon. Amanda obliged.
Darcy raised the glass in her hand, shaking only slightly. “Gestapo. That’s what they are down there, Nazi officers! I’ve never been so thoroughly humiliated in my entire life. I’m calling a lawyer.”
Her gaze moved around the dining room and lit on Harley. Then her eyes narrowed. “Your friend Bobby is the first man I intend to sue!”
It was obvious she was expected to say something in return, so Harley asked, “Was he rude to you?”
“Rude? Rude?” Her voice rose shrilly on the last word. “He practically accused me of murder!”
That wasn’t unexpected. Bobby was usually pretty quick on the uptake, and he no doubt asked her if someone could vouch for her whereabouts when her business partner was killed. It wasn’t an unusual question, Harley thought, but of course, Aunt Darcy wouldn’t acknowledge that.
“I’m sure he doesn’t suspect you, Aunt Darcy,” she said in the most reasonable tone she could manage, “he just has to eliminate everyone who didn’t want to kill Harry.”
That reassurance apparently wasn’t as soothing as she’d meant it. Aunt Darcy sat up with a jerk, spilling some of her bourbon.
“Well, I never said I didn’t want to kill Harry!”
Harley stared at her. “Great. I hope that isn’t a confession.”
“Really,” Grandmother Eaton said rather shakily, “you shouldn’t say such things.”
“My thought exactly. Aunt Darcy needs to watch what she says.” Harley glanced at her cousins, who were staring at their mother with something like dread and fascination. Time to find out just where she’d been that night, but not in front of them. She put a hand on Darcy’s arm.
“I think we need to speak privately, Aunt Darcy.”
She half-expected her to refuse, but instead her aunt nodded brusquely. “Yes.”
Harley followed her into the kitchen, then out onto the sun porch. Bright squares of light gleamed on the tile floors, and the air smelled faintly of flowering plants she couldn’t name. But her grandfather no doubt could. His new hobby since retirement gave him far too much free time.
Darcy turned with her back to the light, arms crossed in front of her as if she was cold. “I didn’t kill him, Harley, but I’m glad he’s dead.”
“Well, let’s not bother with small talk. Okay. What did you tell the police?”
Waving an impatient hand, Darcy turned to look out the glass windows into the wooded grounds beyond. “The truth, of course.”
“Uh hunh. All of it?”
“All they need to know.”
“Yeah, well I hate to be the one to tell you this, but if you lied or left out important stuff, it’s not going to look too good for you.”
When her aunt turned back to look at her, Harley was struck by how vulnerable she appeared. There was a panic in her eyes that Harley had never seen there before, not even during her most dramatic tantrum.
“Harley, if I told them everything it’d look so much worse than it is.”
“So letting them find it out on their own is going to be better? Look, Aunt Darcy, they’re not stupid. And they have a way of getting to the truth that can be very unsettling if you’re not expecting it. I can talk to Bobby for you, explain that you were frightened and that’s why you didn’t tell him you were at the shop right after Harry was killed, but that you didn’t have anything at all to do with killing him, and he can—”
“What on earth are you talking about, Harley? I wasn’t at the shop Thursday night.”
“Aunt Darcy, I saw you. Or your car, anyway. You were leaving the back way as I came in the front way.”
Darcy went pale. Her eyes widened, and for a moment she didn’t say anything. Then her words came out in a choked whisper. “You . . . saw my car? Oh dear God. This is—what am I going to do?”
Just as Darcy collapsed in a boneless heap on the tile floor, the British housekeeper Janet appeared in the doorway to announce that lunch was served. Harley looked up at her.
“Better keep hers warm. She’s a bit indisposed at the moment.”
The unflappable Janet nodded. “Shall I ring for the doctor?”
“That might be good.”
There were times, Harley reflected as she took a stuffed pillow from the wicker chair to put under her aunt’s head, that she felt as if she were living in a very bad English play. All she needed now was a fussy Belgian detective to show up and solve the case. It’d certainly be preferable to the reality of her aunt being a possible murderer.
Five
“Stress,” the doctor said, one of the few in Memphis who made house calls, which explained the shiny new red Porsche sitting in Grandmother Eaton’s driveway. “Mrs. Fontaine just needs bed rest and quiet for a few days.”
“So why are you giving her a shot?” Harley wanted to know.
He smiled as he filled a syringe. “It’s a sedative.”
“Got any extra?” She batted her lashes innocently when he gave her a startled glance. “It seems there’s a lot of what she’s got going around.”
The doctor looked like he wasn’t certain if she was serious or joking, and Harley didn’t offer any reassurance either way. Any man who looked like an Abercrombie & Fitch model and drove an eighty-thousand dollar car could figure it out for himself. Where did Aunt Darcy find these guys? She was like a magnet for the Smart and Shallow.
Grandmother Eaton appeared in the doorway of the sitting room where Aunt Darcy had been taken and announced that she’d made arrangements for the girls to escort their mother home, once the doctor had finished. “Unless you think it best for her to remain here?”
She didn’t sound like she considered that a good thing, and the doctor agreed. “No, Mrs. Eaton, I think being in her own bed would greatly improve her frame of mind.”
Harley thought not being a murder suspect would be a better improvement, but no one asked and she didn’t voice her opinion. Grandmother Eaton had things well in hand, it seemed, as usual. A strong woman, usually unflappable, and though none of them would ever admit it, that trait thrived in both her daughters. Even Diva had her own brand of strength, although she called it chi or inner serenity or some other kind of nonsensical term that Harley thought was the same thing when you got right down to it. It just all meant coping with the unexpected.
But now she couldn’t help wondering if Darcy’s way of coping had included removing the source of her problem. She’d never seemed homicidal, but then, maybe the unexpected had happened and she’d seized the moment. It was possible. Unpalatable, but possible.
Harley didn’t say anything while Madelyn and Amanda got their mother loaded up in her own car, just watched from the doorway as Darcy was eased into the back seat with a pillow behind her head and the sedative relaxing her facial muscles so that they sagged. She looked her age.
Right before Madelyn closed the car door, Aunt Darcy glanced up and caught Harley’s gaze. Her features tightened briefly, her eyes glittered with a determined, hard light, and she gave a slight shake of her head that could mean anything. Interesting.
“I’ll call my lawyer,” Grandmother Eaton said when the car pulled away, and Harley turned to look at her.
“Why?”
“It never hurts to be prepared. They’ve questioned her twice now. Well. Since you and I are the only ones left for luncheon, shall we eat in the sitting room? I’ll have Janet bring us in a tray.”
Harley thought of the shredded fish. “I’m not that hungry, Grandmother.”
“Neither am I, but we should eat. Perhaps fresh strawberries and cream cakes?”
Harley smiled.
After the delicious ripe strawberries and English-style cream cakes, Grandmother Eaton asked, “What do you think of all this business?”
“I’m afraid to think. It could get nasty.”
Grandmother nodded. She looked elegant and beautiful in a refined, dignified sort of way, much like a queen, Harley had thought as a child. Most of the time there seemed to be few similarities between her and her two daughters, except that her white hair had once been blond and her eyes were blue. Diva, with her fey, will-o-the-wisp personality, and Darcy with her determined, often brash manner, bore no resemblance to quiet, cultured Isabel Eaton. Of course, Nana M
cMullen was in that gene pool, too. Grandmother’s mother happened to be a tiny forceful woman with no regard for tact. Maybe it was true that family traits often skipped a generation.
Since she was thinking of her great-grandmother, Harley asked, “How is Nana doing?”
Grandmother Eaton did the polite equivalent of an eye-roll, that delicate lift of one eyebrow and slight smile that could mean almost anything. “Mother is doing just fine now that she’s moved into an assisted living facility. It gives her an . . . outlet . . . for her favorite activities.”
Harley figured that meant Nana was still drinking warm beer she hid in the laundry room. Or flirting with other octogenarians who’d suffered through the Great Depression, World War II, and rockabilly music.
“I’ll have to go visit her sometime,” Harley said. “Once all this stuff with Aunt Darcy is resolved.”
After taking a sip of tea from a fragile china cup so thin it looked like it might break at any moment, Grandmother said, “Darcy should be prepared for all contingencies. I do wish she’d listened to me about that man. He seemed a very unpleasant sort. A ruffian. Not at all . . . proper. I offered to advance her the money to expand if she needed it, but she’s so determined to do things her way. Just like Deirdre.” She smiled faintly. “That’s not a criticism of either of them. Over the years I’ve come to understand that just because they’re my children, I don’t always know what’s best for them. People have to go their own way when they’re adults. Make their own mistakes, suffer their own consequences. It’s personal growth. I’ve done my share of it. But it’s much more difficult to watch your children make mistakes that might ruin their entire lives.”
Harley shifted uncomfortably. Was she talking about Diva marrying Yogi? Because that subject was off the table. Yogi might have his flaws, but he was a good person and a wonderful father.
Fortunately, Grandmother didn’t go there. She leaned forward and patted Harley on the knee. “You’re a very bright young lady, and I know you’ll do well when you find your direction.”
Harley Rushes In (Book 2 of the Blue Suede Mysteries) Page 7