Randolph’s eyes, a shade somewhere between chill grey and ice blue, filled with tears. “Of course not. That’s not how we operate. Tell him, Ellison.”
If by “we” he meant the women with whom Hammie played golf and bridge and tennis, he was dead wrong. The surface might look smooth as glass but underneath lay something sharper—women with long memories and short tempers, women who nursed perceived wrongs and their associated grudges like sick children in need of their mommies, women who traded veiled insults like ten-year-old boys traded baseball cards. For them, Hammie was an anathema.
Hammie, who said what she thought when she thought it, hadn’t really understood that the ripples of a snub could be infinite or that a woman excluded from a cookie exchange might plot revenge. Between the size of Randolph’s checkbook and a handful of loyal friends, she hadn’t needed to.
“Of course it isn’t.” I patted his hand. If Anarchy wanted to talk about sharp edges, he needed to speak with Mother not Randolph.
“Your wife hadn’t received any threats?”
“No!”
Anarchy nodded. “When you got to the table, did you or your wife move the place cards?”
“Of course not.” Randolph sounded offended by the idea.
“I noticed everyone at the table was a bit younger than you and your wife…”
“We bought the table for Katie and Porter. This was months ago. They invited their friends then discovered that Porter had to be in London. We decided to take their places and donate our table.”
“Donate your table?”
“They paid for it but didn’t use it,” I explained.
“I see. When was that decision made?”
“Weeks ago. Hammie hadn’t invited anyone to join us yet, and it just made sense to sit at the table that was missing two and let Frances use the money for our table as a donation.”
“So you knew everyone at the table?”
“Of course. The only surprise was when Ellison and Hunter joined us.”
“Who was supposed to be seated next to your wife?”
“No idea. I believe Libba’s date was indisposed and they had his place removed. That probably shifted everything.”
Could it be that easy? A small gasp escaped my lips.
Anarchy turned his gaze on me. “Something to contribute?”
“Nothing that won’t keep,” I said.
“Does anyone have a grudge against you, Mr. Walsh?”
A few charged seconds ticked by.
“No.” Randolph wadded a bit of blanket in his hand. “No, of course not.”
“You’re sure?”
Randolph glanced my way. “Positive.” He shifted his gaze to Anarchy. “Do you know what killed Hammie?”
“It appears to have been a poison called Cantharidin.”
“Cantha-what?”
“Cantharidin. It’s more commonly known as Spanish Fly.”
Randolph blinked and his eyes filled with tears. “She suffered terribly.” A single teardrop trickled down his cheek. “Do you have any other questions for me, detective? I’d like to rest.”
“Not right now.” Anarchy pushed away from the window sill. “If you think of anything, you’ll call?” He took a business card out of his wallet and laid it on the tray table at the foot of Randolph’s bed.
“Of course.”
“Randolph, I was wondering…”
Both men looked at me.
“I have a question.”
“Yes?” said Randolph
“It’s personal.”
Anarchy gave me a speculative glance. “I’ll wait in the hall.”
I got up and shut the door behind him.
Randolph looked slightly confused, as if he couldn’t imagine a question that required a closed door. How could he not?
“I met David,” I said softly.
“David?”
“David, your son.”
His hands scrabbled at the blanket, grabbing fistfuls of cotton and wadding it into balls. “How? Did Sis? She promised she’d never…it’s part of the agreement…”
“Aunt Sis never said a word. I met David. He has your eyes.”
Randolph turned his head and his eyes away from me.
“What happened?” I asked.
For a moment it seemed as if he wasn’t going to answer me. “It was such a long time ago.”
I waited.
“Hammie was the love—” his voice cracked “—of my life.”
“But you got my aunt pregnant?”
“We didn’t mean for that to happen.”
No one ever does.
Another moment passed.
Randolph loosened his hold on the blanket. He even smoothed out a few wrinkles.
“Hammie and I were engaged.”
Which begged the question—what had Aunt Sis been thinking?
“When Sis told me she was pregnant…” He shook his head, his gaze focused on a scene forty years in the past. “She told your grandparents. She had to. They arranged for her to take a trip to tour Europe…no one would ever need know. The plan was for her to give the baby up for adoption.”
“But she didn’t.”
“She refused.”
“And?”
“Somehow she convinced her father to allow her access to the trust his father had left her. She stayed in Europe.”
“And you got off scot-free.”
“No! It wasn’t like that. For eighteen years, I sent support checks.”
“But you’ve never met your son.”
“No.”
Shame flavored the air around him.
“You should. He seems like a nice man. He’s in investments. Something about medical procedures or devices.”
Randolph snorted.
“What?”
“The only procedure he’s interested in is one where I give up a kidney.”
I walked out of Randolph’s room in a daze.
David had juvenile diabetes and his kidneys were giving out.
Randolph being his father was a potential match.
But, for Randolph, keeping secrets from Hammie had been more important than his son’s life. He’d refused to consider undergoing such a surgery.
If ever anyone had a reason to want Hammie dead, it was my Aunt and cousin.
“Ellison!” Anarchy’s voice was loud as if he’d had to say my name more than once.
“I’m sorry. What?”
“You walked right by me.”
“Did I?”
“What did you talk to Walsh about?”
“It’s personal.” There was no way I was serving up any member of my family as a murder suspect.
“You look pale.”
I felt pale. “I haven’t eaten.” Not if you didn’t count that stack of Aggie’s pancakes. “Pie?”
We rode the elevator to the first floor and found a table in the snack shop.
A waitress with a gravity-defying beehive approached. She put two water glasses on the table. “What’ll it be?”
I didn’t need the plastic covered menu stuffed behind the paper napkin dispenser. “Banana cream pie and coffee.”
“What about you, hon?” She held her pen poised above her pad and looked at Anarchy like men who’ve played eighteen holes on a scorching hot day look at their first cocktails.
“Coffee.”
She sashayed her way to the kitchen. The swing in her hips was wasted on Anarchy. He was too busy glaring at me to notice.
That wasn’t good.
I shook the glass until the crushed ice settled below the rim. “Something Randolph said made me think.”
“Oh?”
“About where people were supposed to be seated the night of the gala.”
; The furrows between his brows relaxed. Slightly.
“When Libba and I went into the ballroom, we asked Hector to remove Yancy’s place.”
“We tracked him down. That’s exactly what he did.”
“Then Libba should have been seated next to a woman.”
He frowned. “What do you mean?”
“Let me show you.” I stood and collected four sets of salt and pepper shakers from the empty tables surrounding us. These I added to the set already at our table and formed a circle where salt and peppers alternated. “The salts are women. The peppers are men. This one here—” I pulled a pepper out of the circle “—is Yancy.” The space between the two salts seemed enormous. I rearranged the salts and peppers and created a smaller circle.
Anarchy rubbed the bridge of his nose. “But Libba was seated between Tafft and Martin Davis.”
“Exactly.”
He stared at me. “What are you saying?”
“When my sister snuck into the ballroom and switched the place cards, she grabbed Cassie and Kinky’s cards and put down Hunter’s and mine.”
“Yes.”
“She saw Libba’s card and put Hunter next to her.”
He favored me with a duh look.
“A woman should have been in that seat. Marjorie put the cards down incorrectly. Kinky LeCoeur—” I tapped a pepper “—should have been in my seat.”
“You’re sure?”
“Reasonably.”
“So either someone came in after the cards were switched and meant to kill you—”
“Or they were trying to kill Kinky,” I finished. There was no point in mentioning that my aunt had a good reason to want Hammie dead.
“Here’s your pie, hon.” The waitress put the plate down in front of me then eyed the salt and pepper shakers. “You need all of those?”
My show-and-tell was completed. “I believe we’re finished with them. Thank you.”
She deposited our coffees and collected the extra shakers.
This time Anarchy watched her walk away. “Who would want to kill LeCoeur?”
“No idea.”
“What do you know about him?”
“He graduated high school with Marjorie, so he’s a year older than I am.”
Anarchy dug in his pocket, pulled out a small notepad and flipped through the pages.
“He owns a paper company.” I glanced at the ceiling. “Quin Marstin says he cheats on his wife.”
“Who is Quin Marstin?”
“Someone who’s impressed by the amount of—” I took a sip of burning hot coffee “—tail that Kinky chases.” I didn’t add that they’d been competing over my sister’s tail.
“He sounds charming.” Anarchy’s tone wasn’t dry. It was desiccated and it contrasted nicely with the sudden sparkle in his eyes.
I stacked the little plastic creamer containers into a pyramid. Mainly because looking into Anarchy’s eyes when they sparkled was a dangerous activity—at least for me. Was there any actual cream in the containers? I removed the top of my pyramid and squinted at the label.
“Ellison?”
“What? Oh. Right. Charming. You have no idea.”
“What else can you tell me about, LeCoeur? How did he get his nickname?”
“Kenneth Keye. Ken Keye. Kinky. Beyond that I am not certain. If you want to know for sure, I’ll have to ask Marjorie.” Oh dear Lord, that made it sound as if—“Not that she would have firsthand knowledge, but they dated…” This wasn’t getting any better. “In high school…” I ceded defeat and sealed my lips
“Do you think there’s a chance they reconnected?”
“Kinky and Marjorie?” God, I hoped not. Kinky was…well, Kinky was Kinky. Not the type of man that women dreamed of. Especially now that middle age had thickened his waist and thinned his hair. Even when he was in high school I found him…icky. My nose wrinkled.
“What can you tell me about his wife?”
Cassie was a nice enough woman but not from Kansas City. “She’s from some little town in Arkansas.” Kinky met her in college and the talk around the bridge table when he first brought her home wasn’t kind—small town pretty with an unfinished degree in home economics. A few ladies, Mother among them, might have speculated that in small town terms, Cassie had hit the mother lode. “She’s pleasant.”
Twenty plus years later and Cassie fit in—sort of. She played golf and tennis and bridge. None of them particularly well. She was a tireless committee member who’d never been asked to chair an event. Her children, twins, were seniors at Grace’s school. And sometimes, if she’d had one too many glasses of wine, you could still hear the small town twang in her voice.
“She’s friends with Randolph’s daughter?”
“No. I mean…they’re friendly, but it’s Katie’s husband and Kinky who are friends. They graduated high school together.” I took a bite of pie, closed my eyes and moaned.
Pie more than made up for having to visit Marjorie in the hospital.
Pie with Anarchy across the table from me? Well...
Sixteen
Lasagna. Pancakes. Banana cream pie. Good for my taste buds, terrible for my waistline. Exercise was required.
In the summer, I’d have swum. In October, the pool was closed. If I was lucky, a jog around the park would burn off the monumental number of empty calories I’d consumed and unsnarl the tangle of my thoughts.
I tied my shoelaces and stretched. Max happy danced around me like a dog who hadn’t gone for a run in days.
It was Monday. It had been days.
“Sorry fella. I didn’t realize.” I rubbed behind his ears, clipped the leash to his collar and we jogged down the drive at a warm-up pace.
Together we ran to Loose Park and did two laps around the perimeter. The leaves were turning—crimson and umber, saffron and gold—and looked impossibly brilliant against the soft gray of a mist-filled day. The park was near empty and I took off Max’s leash. He ran next to me for thirty seconds or so, then raced ahead, chased a squirrel up a tree, and waited for me to catch up, his pink tongue lolling out of his mouth. Four squirrels later, he was ready to head for home.
The steady slap of my sneakers against the damp sidewalk kept tempo with my heartbeat, and for the last mile or so I forgot the problems that beset my family. It was heaven.
And it had to end.
Libba’s car was parked in the driveway when I got back to the house. She’s never let a little thing like my absence get in the way of making herself at home.
“Look, Max, Auntie Libba is here.”
He wagged his stubby tail.
I walked through the front door, let Max off his leash, and followed him to the kitchen. We both needed water.
Libba sat at the island with a can of Tab in front of her, talking on my telephone. She was dressed to the nines in a plummy tweed suit and a silk blouse. She waved her fingers at me and spoke into the phone. “Toodles, dear heart. Gotta go. Ellison’s home.” She handed me the receiver.
I looked at the receiver in my hand then at my so-called best friend.
“What? You’re up. Besides—” Libba directed my attention to a pair of Ferragamo flats that exactly matched the purple of her blazer “—I’m breaking in new shoes and my feet hurt.”
I hung up the phone without even a tinge of sarcasm. There’s no point in wasting smart remarks on those who don’t care when they’ve been zinged.
“You’ve been running.” That Libba, she’s an observant one.
“I have.”
“You smell.” Libba wrinkled her nose. She doesn’t like to sweat unless there’s a tennis racket involved. She’d no more go running than I’d go on a date with…with Quin Marstin.
“It’s hard to smell like L’Air du Temps after a run. Where is everyone?”
“Grace
is upstairs doing homework. Aggie went to the dry cleaners, the post office, the grocery, and the seamstress. She said to tell you that everything you need for tonight’s salad is prepped and in the fridge. All you have to do is mix it together.”
“Where’s Aunt Sis?”
“I don’t know. She said she had an errand and climbed into a cab.”
Max lifted his head from his water bowl, allowing the excess water to drip from the sides of his mouth onto Aggie’s clean floor. “Must you?” I asked.
He grinned at me.
I grinned back. It could have been worse. It could have been toilet water he was dripping all over the kitchen.
I opened the refrigerator door, noted the sealed Tupperware bowls filled with chopped vegetables and grilled chicken, and grabbed the water pitcher. Maybe I could drink without dripping.
Libba watched me gulp a glass of water and pour a second. “We could have played tennis.”
“Not in the mood for the club parking lot.”
“I guess I can’t blame you.”
“Besides, it’s misty outside. What are you doing here? Like that?” I pointed at the suit.
“Lunch with my trustee.” She smoothed her lapel. “And I haven’t seen you since Saturday night. How are you holding up?”
“Fine.”
“You are a terrible liar.”
She wanted the truth? Generally when people asked they wanted platitudes. “Not fine.”
“That I’ll believe. How’s your sister?”
“The doctors say she’ll make a complete recovery.”
“That’s a blessing.” She drummed her fingers on the countertop. “I’ve been thinking about everything that’s happened in the past few days. Have you noticed that whoever is trying to kill you is completely incompetent?”
I choked on a sip of water.
“I mean it.” Libba pointed a manicured finger my way for emphasis. “That bust might have hurt if it landed on someone’s head but…it didn’t. They missed when they shot at you the first time. I went outside and looked at where the soot is and where the bullet hole is. They’re not even close.”
CLOUDS IN MY COFFEE Page 16