“I’m sorry. I didn’t hear what you said.” Turning the tables on Anarchy, even for a moment, was delicious.
“I said it gives men long-lasting erections.”
My gaze, quite of its own accord, traveled to Anarchy’s…to the general vicinity of Anarchy’s…(I couldn’t help it; it was at eye level since he stood and I sat). Then, showing heretofore undetected intelligence, my gaze darted away as if it feared getting caught looking. “I see.” My cheeks warmed and I spoke to my knees.
“I’d like to speak with your aunt. Is she here?”
“Why?”
“Last time I checked, Majorca’s in Spain.”
“You just said that Spanish Fly was readily available everywhere.”
“I need to speak with her, Ellison.” Any amusement he might have felt at my general ignorance of aphrodisiacs had disappeared, replaced by a serious expression and cop eyes.
I stood. “This is ridiculous. Why would Sis kill Hammie Walsh? She hadn’t seen her in decades until a few days ago.” I planted my hands on my hips. “Besides, I thought you were convinced someone was trying to kill me.”
“I have to consider every possibility.”
“And one of those possibilities is that my aunt murdered Hammie?” I flexed my fingers then closed them into fists. Every muscle in my shoulders tightened. “She didn’t do it.”
“Let her tell me that.”
“Tell you what?”
Aunt Sis descended the stairs like a queen descending from a carriage—chin up, posture perfect, a gracious smile on her lips. She paused a few steps above us and looked down upon us as if we were her subjects.
“Anarchy wants to ask you some questions about Hammie’s death.”
Still the queen, Aunt Sis granted permission with an elegant wave of her hand.
“Of course.”
“How long have you known Mrs. Walsh?”
Aunt Sis stared into the near-distance. “Since high school, so at least forty odd years.”
“Is that how long you’ve know Mr. Walsh?”
“Longer. We went to grade school together. Ellison, dear, I don’t suppose you’d get me a glass of tea?”
“Of course.”
“And, Anarchy, wouldn’t you be more comfortable sitting? Would you care for some tea?”
“No, thank you.”
“Just the one tea, Ellie. We’ll be in the living room.”
I went to the kitchen, poured tea over ice, then put the glass, a few slices of lemon fanned across a butter plate, and the sugar bowl on a tray. Aunt Sis was up to something; she was behaving like Mother.
People donned masks when they had something to hide. So what was Aunt Sis hiding?
I carried the tray to the living room and put it down on the coffee table in front of the love seat where Aunt Sis perched with her ankles crossed and her hands folded in her lap. She looked nothing like the woman who’d snuck in my backdoor in the wee hours. Her nose wrinkled and she scowled as if she could read my mind, then she reached for the glass and took a sip.
“Hammie and Randolph got married young. Of course, their families had known each other for years. And it didn’t hurt that Hammie’s family was in the lumber business and Randolph’s was in residential development.”
“An arranged marriage?” asked Anarchy.
“Heavens, no. Such an idea is archaic.” Aunt Sis put down her glass with a shade too much force. “Their marriage was a convenient one.”
Randolph had practically keened when Hammie died. No matter what Aunt Sis said, theirs was more than a convenient marriage.
I waited for Anarchy to point that out. Instead he said, “You didn’t come home after college. Why not?”
“I wanted to explore the world.” Aunt Sis swept her arm across the front of her body as if every country and wonder on earth lay scattered across my living room carpet.
It was the story I’d always been told. So why didn’t I believe her now? Perhaps it was her impersonation of Mother or the stiffness of her spine or the way she used the tips of her fingers to smooth the skin near the corner of her left eye. Whatever it was, I sensed she was lying.
Dread circled my feet as if determined to trip me as soon as I took a step.
Damn it. A sudden, very real urge to hit something took hold of me. Not the expensive down pillows that littered the couch. Not even the pillows on my bed. I needed to take out my anger on something hard.
I backed toward the door. Dread (or Max’s pully-rope thing) tripped me. I fell to the carpet.
“Are you all right, dear?” Aunt Sis looked at me in a perfect mirror of Mother’s what-has-Ellison-done-now look.
“I’m fine. I tripped.” I hauled myself off the carpet and walked toward the door.
“Where are you going?” asked Anarchy.
“The club.”
“The club?” Was he mocking me?
“Yes. The club. I want to hit golf balls.”
“I’ll come with you.” He rose from his chair.
At least one of those golf balls would be a stand-in for Anarchy Jones. “They won’t let you on the course.”
“Why not?”
“No denim allowed.”
“I’ll change.”
“Do you have golf clubs?” More golf clubs resided at my house than in most club shops, but there was no reason to share that fact.
“I do. We can stop by my house and get them.”
“I need some time alone.”
“When we catch the killer, you can have it.”
“I can take care of myself.”
His gaze strayed to the dog toy that had sent me thumping onto the carpet. If he said “Oh?” I was going to get my gun and shoot him.
He held up both hands.
As if a simple—meaningless—ceding gesture could placate me.
“I know you can. I just haven’t hit golf balls in a long time.”
“Ellison.” Aunt Sis was still channeling Mother; she looked down the length of her nose. “Don’t be ridiculous. If Anarchy wants to join you, let him.”
“Fine.” A whole bucket of balls with Aunt Sis’s face on them waited for me—called to me.
Which is how I ended up on the practice tee with Anarchy Jones.
Eleven
We had the practice range to ourselves, the sky being heavy with bruised clouds and the air weighted with impeding rain. It was the sort of raw fall afternoon that portends winter—complete with a chilly breeze.
The weather didn’t matter. Only the thwack. When a club face hits a golf ball just right, the result is a soul satisfying thwack.
Thwack. Anarchy’s ball cut through the air like a hot knife through butter before hitting the grass and bouncing along to the very end of the practice fairway.
He could play golf. I hadn’t really believed him.
“Nice shot,” I said.
He grunted, bent, and selected another ball from the bucket that sat near his feet.
I teed up my own ball, firmed my grip on the club, imagined my negative emotions shooting from my fingers along the length of the shaft, and swung.
Thwack. Music to my soul.
My ball had more loft than Anarchy’s. It fell well short of his.
I teed up another, went through the same exercise but added Marjorie’s face to the golf ball.
Thwack.
This shot cut through the air. Still not as far as Anarchy’s, but closer.
“You’re a golfer,” he said.
I wasn’t. I just found hitting golf balls therapeutic. “No short game.” The patience required to line up a shot that didn’t thwack eluded me.
He hit another shot, the ball landing within feet of his first.
We swung in silence, each hitting our way through a bucket of balls. I went b
ack for a second.
“So this is how you deal with stress,” he said when I returned.
I pulled a three-iron from my bag. “One of the ways. Hitting a tennis ball can be pretty satisfying. I also paint.”
He glanced around the empty golf course, the chilly wind carried leaves on its currents and threw them at us. “Why didn’t you paint today?”
“Too much stress.” And anger. “Anything I painted would be muddy.”
I dropped a ball onto the close cut Bermuda grass, imagined it was Greg and firmed my grip on the club.
Thwack.
Greg sailed down the fairway.
“You’re imaging those golf balls are people, aren’t you?” Anarchy can be too observant.
“That was my brother-in-law.”
“Have you hit me?”
“Of course not.” My nose itched so badly it actually twitched.
The wind snatched up Anarchy’s laughter and spun it around me.
“I’m not trying to interfere in your life, Ellison. I’m keeping you safe.”
There it was again—that easy assumption that I needed someone to protect me. That I lacked the skill or intelligence to take care of myself. I dropped another ball onto the turf and imagined it was a police detective.
Thwack. The ball flew a country mile.
“That was me, wasn’t it?” he asked.
I smiled tightly and dropped another ball.
The thwack of the club face meeting the ball got lost in a louder sound. I looked toward the heavens. Thunder?
Anarchy looked toward the clubhouse, dropped his driver on the ground, and took off running. “Stay here!”
Not thunder. A gun shot.
Stay here? Alone on a windswept golf course? I’d worn a red sweater. If someone was shooting, I might as well have worn a target.
I hurried up the hill toward the parking lot.
The pro-shop staff stood outside with their heads cocked to the side as if the wind might whisper in their ears what that loud sound was and where it came from. One of them, a nice young man named Ryan, stepped forward. “Are you sure you want to go up there, Mrs. Russell? That sounded like a gunshot. You should probably stay with us.”
There it was—the easy assumption that I needed male protection.
“No, thank you.” I climbed the rest of the way to the parking lot.
On I trudged.
Fortunately, Henry’s Cadillac was parked near the cart path. I pulled the bags off my aching shoulders and leaned them against the side of the car. Then I stretched, rolling my neck and extending my arms. Better.
The trunk key slid easily into the keyhole. I opened the trunk and lifted the first bag. That’s when it caught my eye.
British racing green with the top down and rain only minutes away.
Damn it. Marjorie had been doing this since we were kids—taking my things then losing them or leaving them in a place they’d be ruined.
I hefted the other bag into the trunk and slammed the lid.
My sister was quite possibly the most self-centered, irresponsible person on the planet. I strode toward my Triumph, rehearsing a whole conversation in my head—all the things I’d say to her and all the things I wanted to say but wouldn’t.
Was she blind to the people she hurt?
Was she so addled by her need to feel wanted that she didn’t see the damage she left in her wake?
Was that my yellow rain slicker tossed on the ground?
Were those her legs?
I ran.
A saturated crimson stained the cadmium yellow of my coat.
“Marjorie!”
She lay face down and unmoving.
“Help!” The wind shredded my yell.
Then I felt it. The prickle on my neck.
I spun around.
The parking lot was empty save for cars—Mercedes and Cadillac and Volvo sedans clustered near the clubhouse entrance. Given the emptiness of the golf course, the men’s grill had to be full of football fans.
The prickle got worse. My skin crawled.
Whoever had shot Marjorie was still nearby. My fingers turned to icicles. My mouth went dry. My blood roared in my ears.
Who knew that we could be so alone only a few hundred feet from the clubhouse?
I crouched on the damp pavement next to my sister and picked up her wrist. My hands shook so badly it took me a moment to find her pulse. Thank God. “Help!” I rose from my knees and yelled again. “Help!”
If I ran to the clubhouse for help, would whoever was lurking out there shoot at me (I was wearing a red target on my back) or would they wait until Marjorie was alone and finish her off?
Now was the time I needed a hero. Where the hell was Anarchy?
“Help!” I yelled louder.
How many steps to the clubhouse doors? If I made it there, stuck my head inside, and screamed, would the prickler kill Marjorie in my absence?
Would she die if I didn’t go for help?
“I need help,” I screamed into the wind.
Ryan, who’d suggested I stay with the gaggle of men at the pro-shop, appeared at the top of the cart path. God bless him.
I waved my arms and he ran toward me.
“Call an ambulance! My sister’s been shot.”
His steps halted, he stared at the bright stain on Marjorie’s back, and his lower jaw dropped.
“Now!”
He moved. Too slowly. Apparently the sight of blood had rendered him stupid.
“Go!”
He went.
A sound—something sharp—carried across the lot. A gun? A car door? My imagination?
I scanned, saw nothing, and knelt on the pavement next to my sister. Marjorie looked as gray as the concrete beneath her. I snatched her hand and held it in mine. “Someone has gone for help,” I told her—or maybe I just told myself. Marjorie was unconscious. Still, I kept talking. “I know it hurts, but you’ll be fine. The ambulance will be here any minute now. You’ll love the hospital. Everyone’s so terrified of Mother that it’s like staying at the Ritz.” I wiped my eyes with my free hand. “Just you wait and see. Another pillow, Mrs. Blake? Warm blanket, Mrs. Blake? More ice for your water, Mrs. Blake?”
Marjorie didn’t respond.
I clasped her hand more tightly and leaned close to her ear. “Don’t you dare leave me, Marjorie. There’s no way I can deal with Mother on my own. I need you.” Tears wet my cheeks and my stomach hitched and knotted and rebelled. “Do you remember that time we were kids and Mother made us wear matching dresses? You were so embarrassed to be dressed like your baby sister that you smeared strawberry jam down the front. I wanted to be just like you so I did the same. Mother was apoplectic.” Furious didn’t begin to cover Mother’s response. Her head had completed a three-hundred-sixty-degree rotation then levitated off her body. She never bought us matching dresses again. I laughed at that memory—a splintered, broken sound. “Don’t leave me. Hold on, Marji.”
Where had the golf pro gone to ask for help? Timbuktu?
I could run for the clubhouse. The prickling had disappeared. Except I couldn’t. What if she died? Alone. I couldn’t leave her. My throat swelled and my jaw ached. She couldn’t leave me. “Marji, you better stay with me.”
The doors to the country club flew open and men spilled into the parking lot like water from a tap opened too wide. First among them was Anarchy Jones.
It took all of five seconds for him to analyze what had happened. “Did you see anyone?”
“No.”
He knelt on the other side of Marjorie and held his fingers against her wrist. “Hear anything?”
“No.”
The men who’d abandoned their football game watched us as if we were tennis players volleying for the championship. Their heads swiveled wi
th each question and answer. Four lawyers, two accountants, one insurance man, six business owners, two trust fund cases, and three ad men. Not a doctor among them.
“I think whoever shot her was in the parking lot when I found her.”
“Why?”
“A prickling on my neck.”
To his credit, Anarchy did not roll his eyes.
The sound of a siren reached us and the gallery’s heads swiveled as one. The vehicle raced up the long drive.
“Whoever shot her was here,” I insisted.
Anarchy glanced around the windy lot and his expression tightened. “Whoever it was, they’re gone now.”
Were they? How easy would it be to shoot Marjorie then slip back inside the clubhouse? I’d been too busy talking to Marjorie to watch all the doors.
I looked more closely at the men who surrounded us. They ranged from middle-aged to old but shared a certain well-heeled air that had little to do with the corduroy pants and cashmere sweaters they wore. Was the prickler among them? No one looked like a murderer. Then again, those Scooby Doo cartoons Grace watched when she was little had it all wrong. In real life, one didn’t pull a mask off a monster and find a man. Nope. In real life, one pulled a mask off a man and found a monster.
The cluster of men made way for the medics who rushed to Marjorie’s side and somehow pried my hand from hers.
Within the time it took to thwack a golf ball, she was on a gurney and loaded into the ambulance.
“I’m going with her.” I fisted my hands, ready for an argument with Anarchy.
He didn’t argue.
“In the ambulance,” I added.
Anarchy flashed his badge at the medic. “Take her with you.”
“But—”
Anarchy cut him off with a look.
“This way, ma’am.”
I followed the medic to the back of the ambulance, climbed in, and tried to stay out of the way.
The door slammed shut behind us and one of the EMTs sliced through my ruined raincoat, pulling it away from my sister body. Beneath she wore a V-neck sweater. That he sliced through that as well. Her bra gave him pause. It was black and lace and racier than anything I’d ever seen.
If Mother saw that bit of lingerie, her head was going to levitate off her shoulders again.
CLOUDS IN MY COFFEE Page 11