She knew me well.
“Until your kids are out the door, their happiness should be more important than yours.”
“How did that work out for you, Ellison?”
We drove the rest of the way home in silence. I pulled into the drive, parked, and got out of the car. I opened the back door and wrapped my arms around a Swedish ivy identical to the one I’d given Randolph. “I’ll send Aggie out to help you.”
Marjorie didn’t reply.
Perfect. Now I wasn’t on speaking terms with my mother, my aunt, or my sister.
Aggie opened the front door before I could fit my key in the lock. “Mr. Tafft called. He’d like to take you to dinner tonight.”
“Does he realize I have guests?” Wait—I had guests who weren’t speaking to me. “Please call him and tell him I’d be delighted.”
Aggie grinned. “I already did.”
I glanced over my shoulder. My injured sister still sat in the car, hidden behind a veritable rosebush. “Would you please help Marjorie?”
“Of course.” Aggie stepped out onto the drive.
I’ve said it before, I’ll say it again—Aggie is worth her weight in gold.
“Aggie, you’re sure you don’t mind?” Between my houseguests and my sister being shot, I’d forgotten all about my bridge game. Thank God I’d looked at my calendar. But leaving Aggie with Marjorie hardly seemed fair. I glanced at my watch. If I wasn’t careful I’d be late, but guilt kept me in the kitchen.
“Go. Have a nice time.” Aggie took a bowl of grapes out of the refrigerator.
“She hasn’t asked you to peel them for her, has she?”
“Of course not. Go.” She put the grapes down on the counter and reached for a can of Tab and a lime.
“I can find a sub.”
“Go,” she repeated. “Your sister and I will be fine.”
I drove to the club with the policeman right behind me.
I parked, got out of my car, and approached him.
He rolled down the window. “Yes, ma’am?”
“I’m going to play bridge. I’ll be three hours.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“I’m telling you this in case you want to use that time to go catch a criminal.”
“I’ll be right here, Mrs. Russell.”
Of course he would. Anarchy had sent him.
I walked into the clubhouse and headed straight for the card room. Libba and Jinx had already claimed our usual table. I hung my purse over the back of a chair. “I’m sorry I’m late.”
Libba glanced at her watch. “Two minutes.”
“Late is late.” Late was inconsiderate. “Where’s Daisy?”
“Taking one of her brood to the doctor’s office. She says they’re coughing up green gunk.” Jinx wrinkled her nose. “Dorothy Howland is subbing for her.”
I sat, claimed a deck of cards, and shuffled. “How’s her divorce going?”
“Well,” said Jinx.
“Marjorie’s back at your house?” asked Libba.
“She is.” My tone did not invite further questions.
“How’s she feeling?”
“She’ll live.”
“Well, I think it’s absolutely terrifying,” said Jinx. “The police finally removed the crime scene tape from the parking lot this morning.”
Dorothy hurried into the card room. “I’m so sorry I’m late. It’s…there’s a police car in the parking lot and I thought something else had happened.”
I had no intention of admitting to a police escort. “I bet he’s just keeping an eye on things after the shooting.”
“Now, that’s a good idea,” said Jinx. “I feel better already. Do you think he might escort us to our cars?”
“Shall we play?” I fanned the deck across the table and drew a ten of diamonds.
Libba won the deal with a king of hearts.
We played a few hands. Part-scores. Nothing exciting.
“Did you hear about Kitty Ballew?” asked Jinx.
“What?” I asked.
“John is selling the house and insisting that Kitty get a job.”
No wonder she’d looked so desperate in Randolph’s hospital room.
“Well, I think that’s awful,” said Dorothy.
Dorothy and I weren’t close. She didn’t know that I considered Kitty public enemy number two (second only to Prudence Davies).
“So unfair,” she continued. “Kitty gave John her youth and now what does she have?” No one said a word. “She has no skills. What kind of job is she going to find?” Dorothy had me confused with someone who cared.
“Are you and Kitty friends?” asked Libba.
“Not at all. I just think it’s shameful that men walk away from a marriage with everything and women are left with nothing.”
Perhaps her divorce wasn’t going well after all.
“I’m sure he’s going to have to pay some kind of alimony,” said Jinx.
“He’s selling her house. Even with alimony, she’ll end up living in one of those tiny little apartments to the west of the Plaza. You know the ones; the bedrooms are the size of our closets. Kitty will get a job selling shoes to women with bunions or spritzing perfume at unsuspecting shoppers at Harzfeld’s.”
Jinx, Libba and I all shifted in our chairs. None of us would be sorry to see Kitty on her knees fitting shoes on strange women. “Whose bid?” I asked.
“Mine,” said Libba. “One spade.”
Dorothy frowned at her cards. “Pass.”
“Three spades,” I replied.
“Pass,” said Jinx.
“Four spades.” Libba went to game.
Dorothy played the ace of diamonds.
I laid down the dummy hand. A hand that included four spades instead of three.
“Poor Kitty.” Dorothy shook her head. “I just hate hearing stories like this one.”
Frankly, I hoped Kitty got the bunion job. That, and I hoped that every pair of feet she helped slide into pumps smelled.
Libba pulled the three of diamonds from the board.
Jinx threw the five of diamonds.
Dorothy stared at Jinx’s five. “It’s not just Kitty. What skills does a woman who’s been married for twenty years have? She can run a house and take care of children and drive from school to piano lessons to football practice. How does that translate to the workplace?”
I didn’t argue. Dorothy brought up excellent points. Points I should bring up with Marjorie in case her Prince Charming turned out to be a frog. Of course, Marjorie was one of the lucky ones; she’d never have to shoe-horn any feet but her own into Ferragamos. The trusts my grandfather had established ensured that.
Libba trumped Dorothy’s ace.
“I saw Kitty the other day. She was visiting Randolph Walsh in the hospital.” There was no need to explain the implications of such a visit.
Libba led back to the board with a low spade. “She didn’t waste any time.”
Dorothy played the ten.
“There were six women there,” I said.
“See!” said Dorothy.
“See what?” said Libba, her tone mild. She played the jack from the board.
“She has no hope of finding another husband. The competition’s too steep.”
“Maybe for Kitty.” Jinx laid down the nine. “Ellison doesn’t have any trouble accumulating beaux.”
The dummy’s jack had won. Libba pulled the five of hearts from the board.
Jinx covered it with the king.
Libba took the trick with the ace.
Dorothy threw the seven of hearts. “Second hand low.”
Libba and I focused on the cards lying on the table. Libba even caught her lower lip between her teeth. It wasn’t the best of ideas to criticize Jinx’s playi
ng skills.
“I’ll keep that in mind.” Sure, Jinx sounded harmless, but I could tell she was annoyed—Dorothy and her sub-par skills would not be subbing for Daisy again. “If you had to get a job, what would you do?” asked Jinx.
“Stewardess,” said Libba.
“Aren’t you too old?” Jinx asked with an evil smile
“Bite your tongue. You might be aging. I’m getting younger. What about you?”
“I don’t know. I’ve always enjoyed baking. Maybe I’d open a bakery. What about you, Dorothy? What would you do?”
Dorothy shook her head. “I have no earthly idea. I do know this; it wouldn’t be selling shoes.” Then she looked my way. “What about your sister? I hear she’s getting divorced. Will she get a job?”
“Marjorie?” Good lord, had the gossip started already? Small wonder—the way Marjorie had been carrying on. “Where did you hear my sister was getting divorced?”
Dorothy rubbed her chin. “One of those parties. Maybe the ball?”
“As far as I know, Marjorie and her husband are not getting divorced.” It wasn’t a lie. Not exactly. Not as long as Greg refused to give her one.
“If she did get divorced, would she get a job?” asked Jinx.
“Lord, no.”
“Does she have a good lawyer?” asked Dorothy. “A good lawyer makes all the difference.”
Libba snorted. “She has a good trustee.”
“Whose deal?” asked Jinx.
“Would you excuse me a moment?” Dorothy pushed away from the table.
I watched her walk away. “Sounds as if Dorothy is worried about spritzing perfume at Harzfeld’s.”
“Agreed.” Libba cocked her head. “About your sister…”
“Yes.”
“I bet there’s another man.”
I knew there was another man.
Quin Marstin?
Kinky LeCouer?
I crossed my fingers for John Ballew.
Nineteen
“Have you heard anything about Hammie Walsh’s funeral?” Jinx stared at her hand. “One no-trump.”
Libba shook her head. “Pass.”
“Don’t let’s talk about Hammie.” Dorothy slid back into her chair and arranged her cards. “Her death upsets me so. Two clubs.”
“Were you friends?” asked Libba.
“No, but I was seated at the table near hers when she died. It was awful.” Dorothy shuddered.
“I was at her table,” said Libba, unimpressed. “Ellison was sitting next to her.”
At least she hadn’t added that I’d shared my glass and poisoned her.
“Pass,” I said. “And I agree with Dorothy on this. Let’s talk about something else.”
“Excuse me, Mrs. Russell.” A waiter stood next to my chair. “There’s a phone call for you.”
I rose from my chair so quickly I saw stars. “Is everything all right?”
“I believe it’s your housekeeper on the line.”
I hurried to one of the oak paneled phone booths.
The waiter, who had followed me, said, “She’s on line two.”
“Thank you.” I pushed the red-lit button. “Aggie?”
“I’m so sorry to disturb you.” Aggie sounded harried.
“What’s wrong?” Had something happened to Grace?
“Your sister is bored and she’d like a needlepoint project.” Aggie kept her voice neutral. Unbelievable. In less than three hours my sister had driven my unflappable housekeeper to distraction.
“Oh, Aggie, I’m so sorry I left you with her.”
“I called The Studio, that needlepoint store in Brookside. They’ll stay open until you get there.”
I glanced at my watch. “I’ll go now.” I’d have to break up the bridge game but somehow I didn’t think Libba or Jinx would mind. “Thank you for calling.”
Poor Aggie.
I hurried back to the card room. “Girls, I have to go. Marjorie is driving Aggie round the bend.”
“Is there anything I can do?” asked Libba.
“Industrial size bottle of valium?” I grabbed my purse. “I’ll talk to you later.”
The policeman followed me to Brookside. He even found a parking space next to mine.
I waved at him then pushed open the door to The Studio and was met by a cheery jingle. Painted needlepoint canvases covered two walls. Yarn covered the third. The window that faced the sidewalk was filled with completed projects—belts and pillows and tote bags with needlepoint monograms.
Jane Prewitt, her hair pulled back in a bun, her readers perched on her nose, was seated at a large table in the center of the room pulling a forest green strand through a tiny canvas hole. She looked up from her project then put it on the table. “Ellison, you’re here.”
“Thank you for staying open. This is so kind of you.”
“It’s no problem at all. Someone is coming in for an interview in a little while. You need something for your sister?”
Would Jane be shocked if I asked for a scarlet “A”? “I do. Maybe a pillow?”
“What colors?”
“She’s been wearing a lot of ice blue lately.”
Jane stood, walked to the far wall, and considered the canvases hanging there.
“What about this one?” Jane pointed to a canvas with bright colors and clean lines that looked as if Frank Stella might have painted it.
“Perfect. I’ll take it.”
“I’ll just collect the yarn.” Jane pulled this skein and that one from the wall.
The bell attached to the door hinge jingled and I turned.
Kitty Ballew stepped inside.
She stopped when she saw me and we barred our teeth at each other in vicious excuses for smiles.
“Kitty—” Jane looked over her shoulder “—you’re early. I’ll be with you in a few minutes.”
Kitty was interviewing for a job? Chalk one up to Jinx’s grapevine.
“What are you doing here?” Kitty asked.
“Shopping. You?” I added an extra dose of saccharine to my voice.
Kitty flushed slightly.
“Ellison picked out a project for her sister,” said Jane.
Kitty stepped closer to me. “I hear she’s been sniffing around John.” Her voice was so low I could barely hear her. There was no way Jane could.
I just smiled. Sweetly.
“John might take her on a test run but, he’d never get serious about someone like that.”
“Like what?” Marjorie on her worst day (today?) was better than Kitty on her best. My sweet smile now required effort.
“An adulteress slut.”
Before he died, my husband developed a predilection for whips and handcuffs and apparatuses that resembled medieval torture devices. I had it on good authority that he’d strapped Kitty to those devices and whipped her. In that moment, I hoped every stroke of Henry’s whip had hurt like hell. “Well,” I said, “after being married to you, anyone John dates can only be an improvement.”
“I need to run into the back for the last skein.” Jane was oblivious to our whispered conversation. “I’ll be back in a jiff.”
With Jane gone, Kitty spoke louder. “I hear you’ve had a couple of near misses lately. You should be careful. Maybe next time whoever is trying to kill you won’t miss.”
“Are you threatening me?”
Kitty curled her lips. It was the kind of smile Genghis Khan smiled before invading China, the kind of smile Julius Caesar smiled before conquering Gaul, the kind of smile Attila the Hun smiled before pillaging the Balkans. It said she’d like to destroy me.
Before Kitty took up with my husband, we never had a problem. We weren’t the best of friends—more like acquaintances who made a point of being pleasant. And then came Henry. Kitty chos
e to cheat on her perfectly nice, very dependable husband with a man who made alley cats look faithful (my husband). Yet it seemed as if she blamed me for her problems. There was no way I going to let Kitty Ballew see that her destructive smile bothered me. I yawned. “So, are you interviewing for a job? I’ll have to put in a good word for you with Jane.”
The smile flickered.
I wouldn’t sabotage her chances of a job—not when she needed one—but she didn’t need to know that.
“Genevieve Harney recently bought the same canvas.” Jane’s voice carried from the back room. She followed it into the shop with a bag in hand. “That won’t be a problem, will it?”
“Of course not.” Hopefully Marjorie and her duplicate needlepoint project would return to Ohio soon. “You keep records of who buys what?”
Jane nodded. “I do.”
She wasn’t the only shopkeeper to do that. Dress shops kept records. Wine sellers kept records. Florists kept records.
I had a call to make. I glanced at my watch. Too late. I’d call in the morning.
“Shall I bill you?” asked Jane.
“That would be lovely.” I took the bag from her, went outside, and threw Marjorie’s new project on the passenger seat. “I’m going home now,” I told the policeman.
I arrived home to a flustered Aggie, an aunt who’d disappeared a few hours ago, a daughter who’d taken refuge in her room, and a sister who somehow managed to terrorize the entire household (even Max was in hiding) from the comfort of my favorite chair.
I walked into the family room and thrust the bag of needlepoint supplies into my sister’s lap. “Have you lost your mind?”
“No.”
“How dare you treat my housekeeper this way? You were raised better than this.”
“I don’t feel good.” When Grace was five and had the flu she sounded more mature saying those words than Marjorie did now.
“I don’t care how you feel.” I glared at her. “Getting shot does not give you leave to treat people poorly.” Especially not Aggie.
Marjorie lifted her nose as if she intended to look down its length—hard to do when she sat and I stood. “I think I liked it better when you weren’t speaking to me.”
“I’m not speaking to you now. This is a special circumstance.”
CLOUDS IN MY COFFEE Page 19