He led us through the lobby and to a small office.
“Please—” Anarchy, who sat behind a desk, stood and waved his hand toward two chairs “—have a seat.”
Mother perched on the edge of her chair and shifted her gaze from the grass cloth covered walls to the neutral carpet to the just-shy-of-nice desk. “Whose office is this?”
“I believe they make it available for guests.”
Mother glanced again. Her gaze pausing on a tiny bit of scuffed veneer and a miniscule bubble in the wallpaper.
I sat back in my chair. It wasn’t remotely comfortable.
“I have a few questions,” said Anarchy.
Mother inclined her head, offering her permission.
“I understand you had a detailed seating chart,” said Anarchy.
“That is not a question.” Mother sat rigid as a two-by-four. The view down the length of her nose must not have pleased her; the corner of her lip curled as if it longed to sneer.
“Did you have a detailed seating chart?”
“I did.” She added a put-upon sigh.
“So every guest was assigned a seat?”
“Every guest was assigned a table,” Mother corrected.
“But there were place cards.”
“Only so the waiters knew what to serve. I assigned ten people to a table and made sure that the correct cards were placed. I don’t know how they were placed.”
“How they were placed?”
Mother pursed her lips. “I didn’t arrange the tables.” She shifted in her seat and her lips curled in a bitter smile. “I let the cards fall where they may.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning I have no idea where the cards were placed on the table.”
Anarchy rubbed his chin “Who was supposed to be seated at table sixty-two?”
“I’d have to consult my chart.” Mother was being deliberately difficult. She knew the table at which every person in the ballroom was seated—or was supposed to be seated.
“Mother…” My voice was low but audible.
She ignored me.
“Yancy Arnot got drunk,” I blurted
Two sets of eyes stared holes right through me.
For a moment no one said a word, then Anarchy asked, “Why is that important?”
“Because he was seated at table sixty-two. Libba and I snuck into the ballroom and asked a man named Hector to remove his place.”
“How did you get in?” Anarchy rested his forearms on the desk and leaned toward me. “The doors were locked.”
“Libba chaired a luncheon here not long ago. She knew how to get in through one of the staff entrances.”
“Were you supposed to be seated at table sixty-two?” Anarchy’s brown eyes were as serious as…well, they were as serious as a heart attack.
“No.” Mother and I answered in unison.
“Then who moved you?”
I glanced at Mother. She still resembled a two-by-four—stiff shoulders, stiff spine, stiff face. I swallowed. A moment passed.
“Ellison, someone is dead. It could very easily have been you. Who moved your place card?”
“I don’t know.” I had my suspicions.
Mother didn’t exhale her next breath, she hissed it. That and she looked at me with a glare that could freeze a water hazard solid in seconds flat.
I held up my hands. They shook. I dropped them back to my lap. “I don’t know.” If I vocalized my theory, Mother would have my head.
“But someone moved your card?”
“Yes.” I wriggled in my uncomfortable seat. The itching of my nose was the real problem
Mother hissed again. She must have shared my thoughts. I was dangerously close to airing dirty laundry in front of a police detective. I could hear her thoughts—not our kind, dear.
I chose my words carefully. “Marjorie and I had that argument at the house. She might have moved my card so…” so that she could flirt with Anarchy.
“Who was supposed to be at table sixty-two?”
“Cassie and Kinky LeCoeur.”
Mother confirmed this with a near imperceptible nod.
“When did Marjorie move the cards?”
“I’m not sure she did.”
He leaned farther across the desk. “Did you see anyone in the ballroom besides Hector?”
“Someone left as we entered.”
“You don’t know who?”
“No.”
“How many people know about the staff entrance?”
“Dozens.”
Anarchy sat back and rubbed the bridge of his nose.
“Any idea who might want to kill you?”
Mother hissed a third time.
“No one,” I insisted. “Isn’t it possible that Hammie was the intended victim? You saw her at the salon. She wasn’t always considerate…”
“What happened at the salon?” Mother’s voice was so cold it was a wonder her words didn’t hang in the air like breath on a winter’s morning.
My stomach clenched. “I’ll tell you later.”
“Tell me now.”
“Hammie asked the receptionist if her husband had died yet.”
Mother nodded as if Hammie had asked a legitimate question. “Then what happened?”
“Lynn called Hammie a rich bitch and kicked her out of the salon…” My voice faded. Lynn had also threatened to kill Hammie. The idea was simply ridiculous. There was no way Lynn would leave her dying husband’s side, sneak into a ballroom, and poison a woman who’d been rude to her. Except…Lynn’s reaction hadn’t been entirely rational. I glanced at Anarchy, tried to read his unreadable expression.
With all the table hopping, that glass could have been meant for anyone.
Anyone.
But it had ended up in front of me.
Nine
Max’s growl awakened me.
I lay in bed, my eyes sealed shut, and groaned. Whoever was lurking around my house at—I squinted at the clock—five in the morning would pay. Enough was enough.
I hauled myself upright and looked out the back window. Anarchy’s car was not parked in the drive and the light he’d left burning in the carriage house still lit the window.
Damn. He was probably off investigating Hammie’s death.
I crossed to the front window and looked outside. I even watched the street for a moment in hopes that a police car would drive by.
Seconds ticked by.
Nothing.
“Shhh.” I laid a quieting hand on Max’s head then picked up the phone and dialed the operator. “I need to speak with the police,” I said softly. “Central Division.”
The operator transferred me.
“This is Ellison Russell calling.”
“How can we help you, Mrs. Russell?”
“My dog is growling.”
The woman with whom I was speaking said nothing. Her silence spoke volumes.
That silence was the reason I usually grabbed my gun instead of the phone. “I believe there may be an intruder at my house.”
“Yes, ma’am.” She used a you’re-the-fifth-crazy-woman-to-call-me-this-shift tone.
“Please notify Detective Anarchy Jones. He’ll want to know.”
I traded the receiver for my .22.
Max, who’d been waiting by the door, made a doggy sound that translated quite clearly to “finally.”
I stepped into the hallway and followed my intrepid pooch down the front stairs.
He led me to the kitchen.
It was déjà vu all over again.
Except this time I heard voices—a man’s and a woman’s.
Marjorie and who? I strained to hear more.
“Don’t ask again…mumble, mumble, mumble…already said no.” The man’
s voice was hardly discernable.
It was still louder than Marjorie’s. Her response sounded a lot like the adults in a Peanuts cartoon. “Wah, wah, wah, wah.”
I flipped on the kitchen light and unlocked the back door.
Silence.
That was easily remedied. I let Max out the back door.
He took off at a run.
Marjorie shrieked.
I pulled a stool away from the island counter, put my gun within easy reach, and sat down to wait.
A moment later the back door cracked and Max trotted inside, sat, and gazed at a jar on top of the refrigerator—the only place high enough to foil his ongoing goal of gorging on dog treats. The dog has hidden opposable thumbs; there is no other explanation for his ability to access things he shouldn’t. One of these days I’m going to walk into the kitchen and see him atop a step-ladder with his paw in the dog treat jar. Today, thank God, was not that day. Max whined softly. Obviously he believed his bravery should be rewarded with a dog biscuit.
He wasn’t wrong.
“Would you get him a treat, please?” I called to Marjorie. “They’re on top of the fridge.”
Except it wasn’t Marjorie who walked through my back door.
Aunt Sis wore her hair loose and a kimono wrapped tight. She also wore an expression that looked guiltier than Tricky Dick’s. “Good morning, Ellison.”
Had the whole world gone mad?
“Who were you talking to?” I asked.
Aunt Sis turned her back on me and reached for Max’s treat jar. “No one.”
“There was a man outside.”
She delivered a biscuit to Max’s waiting mandibles, replaced the jar, and turned to face me. “You’re mistaken.”
“There was a man.”
“There wasn’t.” She favored me with a haughty stare.
I used one of Mother’s ploys. I raised an eyebrow. “I heard him.”
My aunt’s hauteur melted away and she scratched her nose.
As if I needed confirmation that she’d been lying. “Who was it?”
She straightened her now drooping shoulders. “None of your business.”
“If he’s sneaking around my backyard, disturbing my rest, it is my business.”
“Let it go, Ellison.” She yanked Mr. Coffee’s pot off its warmer and turned on the tap.
The back door flew open and Anarchy Jones rushed in. He still wore his tux, but he’d loosened the collar of his shirt and his bow tie hung loose. Stubble darkened his jaw and his coffee brown eyes snapped. “Are you all right?”
“Fine. False alarm.” I was suddenly uncomfortably aware of my sheer silk nightgown and mussed hair. If I’d bothered looking in a mirror before coming downstairs, I’m sure it would have shown me last night’s mascara smudged into raccoon eyes. I wiped under one eye and glanced at my finger. Smudged with black. Perfect. “Aunt Sis went outside to get some air and Max heard her. When he growled, I got spooked.”
“Oh?” It was Anarchy’s turn to raise a brow.
Fortunately, decades of dealing with Mother have inured me to such tactics. True, my nose itched. True, the temptation to tell him about Aunt Sis’ rendezvous was dreadful. But I held strong. My nose remained unscratched; Aunt Sis’ secret remained unshared.
“It’s my fault,” said Aunt Sis. “I couldn’t sleep after last night, so I went outside and sat on the patio.”
Really? That was the best she could do? The patio furniture had been pushed into the grass and the patio itself looked like…well, it looked like a crime scene—a crime scene covered in soot. Aunt Sis was entirely soot free.
As if realizing her mistake, she turned away and poured water into Mr. Coffee. “Ellison, where are the filters?”
“The drawer to your left.”
She pulled one out. “Do you know what happened to Hammie, Detective?”
“Not yet.”
“But you’re sure she was murdered?” Aunt Sis opened the canister that sits next to Mr. Coffee. Her hand shook and some of the grounds fell on the counter. “It’s terribly upsetting.”
“Nothing is confirmed but I assume she was poisoned and—” he favored me with a narrow-eyed stare “—I assume that the poison was meant for Ellison.”
“You know what assuming does?” The words slipped past my filters unchecked.
Anarchy grinned, the kind of grin that could make Gloria Steinem advocate for ceding control to a man—as long as that man looked like Anarchy Jones and delivered on the wickedness promised by those curved lips. “Assuming might just save your life.”
I shifted my gaze to my aunt (who did not possess a melting grin).
“What if Hammie was the target? Or what if whoever was supposed to be in that seat was the target?”
“Who was?” asked Aunt Sis. “I mean, who was supposed to be seated there?”
“Mother didn’t have a traditional seating chart. Just table assignments. The place cards were meant to designate the meal not where someone should sit.”
Anarchy reached inside his tux and withdrew a folded piece of paper. “Your friend Libba and Yancy Arnot, Cassie and Kenneth LeCoeur, Tibby and Martin Davis, Anne and Hedrick Walmer, and Hamilton and Randolph Walsh were all at the table. I assume you know them all?”
Of course. “I do.”
“If you’re not the intended victim, and Mrs. Walsh wasn’t, then who was supposed to die?” Anarchy’s expression dared me to come up with a reasonable alternative, but try as I might I couldn’t think why anyone would want any of those people dead.
The Walshes seemed blameless. As did everyone else at the table. But someone who was supposed to be at table sixty-two knew something or had done something worthy of murder.
Discovering that secret moved straight to the top of my priority list.
“How is Randolph?” The pitch of Aunt Sis’ voice sounded off.
“He’ll be fine. The doctors have diagnosed severe anxiety and not a heart attack. He’ll be released later today.”
Aunt Sis leaned against the counter. “That’s a blessing.”
If it was such a blessing, why was she holding on to the edge of the counter so tightly her knuckles turned white?
“Walsh tells us there is no way someone would want to kill his wife.” He looked at me. “You are in danger.”
“You keep saying that, but the poison could have been meant for anyone.”
“Correct me if I’m wrong, but aren’t you the only person at that table who’d already lived through two attempts on your life in as many days?”
“He’s right, Ellison.”
Aunt Sis was a Judas.
At least Mr. Coffee would never betray me. He made comforting my-pot-is-almost-full sounds.
My aunt opened a cabinet and withdrew three mugs. “Coffee?”
After the three hours of sleep I’d managed, her offer was tempting. So was more sleep.
Anarchy rubbed his stubbled jaw. “Please.”
That decided things for me. “I’m going back to bed.” I rose from my stool and pretended I didn’t feel Anarchy’s gaze tingling on my skin. “I’ll see you in a few hours, Aunt Sis.”
“Sweet dreams.” Anarchy’s voice was just rough enough, just mocking enough. It dared me to dream of him.
“That hardly seems likely.” I grabbed my gun, left them all—Aunt Sis and Anarchy and Max—in the kitchen, returned to my room, and fell into bed.
I didn’t expect to sleep. Hammie was dead. Anarchy believed I was the intended target. My aunt had a secret rendezvous in my backyard. Anarchy was staying in my carriage house. I’d kicked my sister out of my house. Anarchy looked like sin incarnate in a tux. Mother was so angry with me she might never forgive me. Had the auction closed? Was I committed to spending a week in Vail with Hunter Tafft? All those thoughts should have kept me s
taring at the ceiling. I closed my eyes and didn’t open them for five blissful hours.
The smell of bacon lured me from my bed.
God love Aggie; she’d come to work on a Sunday. This called for a huge bonus. Normally on Sundays, Grace and I fended for ourselves. That usually meant take-out pizza in front of the NBC Sunday Mystery Movie or Kojak. Tonight, given that I had a house full of guests, I’d planned on upping my game with Chinese.
I washed my face, brushed my teeth and hair and threw on actual clothes before I headed to the kitchen—after all, there was no telling who’d be clustered around the island.
Just Marjorie.
“You cook?” I asked.
“Don’t you?” My sister wore capris and a sweater. How nice that she possessed clothing capable of covering more than twenty percent of her body. She should wear it more often.
“Not really.”
“Eggs and bacon?” She grabbed a hot pad holder and pulled out a loaf pan that filled the air with the scent of banana bread. “I left this in the oven to keep it warm.”
“Where’s Aggie?” My housekeeper allowed me to make coffee in my kitchen and here was my sister…baking.
“No idea. I thought she was off today. Sit down and I’ll fix you a plate.”
Remaining stiff and standing should have been easy. My sister had switched place cards and put me next to a woman who was murdered (although arguably Marjorie couldn’t be blamed for the murdered part). And, while I didn’t exactly know if I wanted a man in my life, I did know I didn’t want her flirting with the candidates. She’d flirted, but not because she was interested in Hunter or Anarchy. She’d flirted to hurt me.
Try remaining stiff and standing when your stomach is rumbling and someone puts down a plate of bacon, eggs and your favorite quick bread. Then, just to gild the lily, that someone pours you a cup of coffee and adds the exact right amount of cream.
I sat.
“I’m sorry about last night.” Marjorie did her best to look contrite. Her forehead wrinkled. Her brows drew together. And her puppy dog eyes were nearly as melting as Max’s.
“Which part?” Did she think a fabulous breakfast and an apology could make up for everything? I took a bite of banana bread…maybe it did.
“All of it. I shouldn’t have flirted with Hunter or Anarchy. I shouldn’t have switched your seating card. I shouldn’t have come home drunk the other night.”
CLOUDS IN MY COFFEE Page 9