CLOUDS IN MY COFFEE

by Julie Mulhern

  “Humph.”

  I lifted a finger and waved it at her. “Aggie is the best thing that has happened to Grace and me all year. If you can’t behave yourself, you can leave.”

  “You’d pick your housekeeper over your own family?”

  “Aggie was around when Henry died. Where were you?”

  “I knew you’d throw that in my face one day.”

  “You went to a swim meet, Marjorie.” Perhaps—just perhaps—I might still be harboring a bit of anger over that.

  “That meet was important to Harper.”

  “Having a mother is important to Harper. Missing a swim meet is not.”

  “Maybe I should leave.” She spoke in a poor-poor-pitiful-me tone that invited argument.

  If she expected me to argue with her she destined for disappointment. “Shall I call Greg?”

  “Greg?”

  “Your husband. You remember him, the father of your children. Maybe he’ll pick you up.”

  “There’s no need to flip.” She seemed to sink farther into the chair—that or she was shrinking.

  She stared at Walter Cronkite’s face on the television and a moment passed. “I’m sorry.”

  She wasn’t. She just didn’t want to leave with Greg.

  Her eyes closed, she chewed on her lower lip, and her shoulders slumped. “I should have come. Greg and I were having problems and the kids had so much going on. It just seemed easier—” She shook her head slowly. “I should have come. And I shouldn’t have said what I did in the car. I’m sorry.”

  What she’d said in the car had angered me because it hit too close. I should have divorced Henry. I’d made a huge error, and I’d made it trying to protect Grace. Now it seemed as if I was urging the same mistake on my sister.

  I half-collapsed onto the corner of an ottoman. “Marjorie, do you remember Bathilda?”

  “The Nazi nanny? How could I forget her? She frightened us half to death.”

  “What about Estancia? Do you remember her?”

  “She was worse.”

  Actually she wasn’t. She was just dramatic. In a family where low-key elegance was a daily goal, big emotions left us confused.

  “And Yvette?” The French girl had mostly ignored us. “Do you remember her?”

  Mother had hired the United Nations of au pairs.

  She nodded.

  “What’s your point?”

  “We had nannies. We wanted Mother. I don’t care if you leave your husband, but don’t leave your kids.”

  Marjorie dropped her head into her hands. “When I think about going back and restarting my marriage…plus, the carpools and the brown bag lunches and the rides to practice and what’s-for-dinner? I just feel so exhausted.”

  “I think all mothers feel that way from time to time. Please, think about your children. They need you.”

  She lifted her head and tears stood in her eyes “I will.”

  “I’m supposed to go out to dinner with Hunter. Do you want me to cancel?”

  “No.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Actually—” she lifted the bag of canvas and yarn from her lap and put it down next to her chair “—I’m very tired. I think I’d like to go to bed.” All that trouble for a canvas that would most likely go untouched. I ought to set up a lunch date with Kitty for her.

  I swallowed my frustration. “Whatever you’d like.” I wasn’t going to argue with her—not when she showed signs of listening to me. “Come on. I’ll help you upstairs. I need to change.”

  Thirty minutes later, Hunter picked me up. “Where would you like to go?”

  “Someplace where I won’t see my family or anyone who knows my family.”

  He reached across the front seat of his Mercedes and took my hand in his. “That bad?”

  “Awful. But we can’t go too far away. Marjorie may decide to terrorize Aggie again.”

  “Aggie can take of herself.”

  I shook my head. “You don’t know Marji when she doesn’t feel well.”

  He drove us to a Chinese restaurant near the Plaza. “This okay?”

  Everyone’s favorite spot for take-out, it was a rare occasion that anyone we knew actually ate there. “Perfect.”

  “Does the policeman want to join us?” There was an edge to Hunter’s voice as if it was Anarchy who’d followed us from my house and not a man in a squad car.

  “No, but he’d probably like some take-out.”

  Hunter grinned at me—all white teeth and raw strength. “We’ll send him some fried rice.”

  The hostess led us to a quiet table without him having to ask.

  “Do you still have that dollar I gave you?” The last time I’d been a murder suspect I’d retained Hunter for the grand sum of one dollar.

  “I do.”

  “So anything I say to you is privileged? Or do you need another dollar?”

  “We’re good.”

  “I’m worried that Greg may have tried to kill Marjorie.”

  “I thought it was your mother who harbored those suspicions.”

  “She told you?”

  He nodded.

  “And you’re telling me?”

  “She didn’t give me a dollar. Besides—” he reached across the table and took my hand, “—I wouldn’t take her money if she offered. There’s a potential conflict of interest.”

  My heart fluttered. Any woman’s would.

  “Anar—Detective Jones thinks someone is trying to kill me. I’m not so sure. I think Marjorie is the target.”

  Hunter kept my hand.

  “Tell me.”

  I told him. How far the bust was from hitting me. How much closer the shot in my backyard came to hitting Marjorie than me. How I’d sensed a killer in the parking lot but no one had shot at me.

  “The only problem with your theory is Hammie’s death. Marjorie was never supposed to be seated at that table.”

  “What if it’s unrelated?”

  He claimed my hand again and his thumb rubbed a gentle circle on the back. “I just don’t see it. Either someone, thank God an incompetent someone, is trying to kill you or there are two killers and two targets and you just happen to be around for each attempt.”

  Well, when he said it that way, my theory did sound far-fetched. But…there was no reason for anyone to want me dead. Not love, not money, not jealousy, not sex.

  “I think Kinky LeCoeur was supposed to be in my seat at the ball.”

  Hunter’s lips thinned.

  “Or maybe the cards got shifted and Hammie was supposed to be there.” I’d thought about those damned place cards so much that in my mind they got up on little place card feet and moved themselves.

  “Who would want Hammie dead?”

  “Privileged?”

  He nodded.

  “My aunt.”

  “Pardon?”

  “It’s true. She and Randolph had an affair years ago and she had a baby.”

  Hunter’s handsome face remained expressionless. Whatever he was thinking, I couldn’t read it there. No wonder he made such a good lawyer.

  “The baby, David, is forty now. He has diabetes and he’s going to need a kidney.”

  “So that’s why your aunt came home.”

  “It is.”

  “Have you been tested yet?”

  “Tested?”

  “To see if you’re compatible.”

  “No. Aunt Sis hasn’t asked.” I hadn’t thought of it, but I’d offer as soon as I got home. “She’s been focused on Randolph.”

  “Randolph’s too old. She’s focused on Katie.”

  “Whatever her focus, Randolph didn’t want Hammie to know about David.”

  “And now Hammie is dead.”

  I nodded.

&nb
sp; “My aunt had a motive.”

  Hunter stroked his chin. “There are lots of people with motives who don’t commit murder. Besides—” he gifted me with an everything-is-going-to-be-all-right smile “—I bet it was Kinky who was supposed to be in that chair. There are no end of people who’d like him dead.”

  I don’t know why that made me feel better, but it did. They say a problem shared is a problem halved. Finally, I understood what they meant.

  We ordered. Kung Pao for me. Moo Shu for Hunter. And combination fried rice for the policeman.

  I might not trust Hunter with my heart, but I did trust him with my secrets.

  Twenty

  There are probably lots of good florists in Kansas City. I know of three. And really, with a list of three florists who can work magic with only a few flowers, why would I ever need to call anyone else? I crossed my fingers that whoever had sent that enormous bouquet to Marjorie thought the same.

  I sat cross-legged on my bed and picked up the phone, my finger frozen above the dial. I wasn’t invading Marjorie’s privacy. I wasn’t. I was calling from my bedroom, as opposed to the kitchen, so no one would interrupt. It had nothing whatsoever to do with not wanting Marjorie to hear me.

  I dialed my favorite florist first. “This is Ellison Russell calling.”

  “Good morning, Mrs. Russell.”

  “I’m hoping you can help me.”

  “Of course, Mrs. Russell.”

  “We moved my sister home from the hospital yesterday and somehow lost the list of who sent what.” I scratched my nose. “She’d like to write thank you notes today and we’re in a pickle. Would you please tell me what you sent to Mrs. Blake and who paid for it?”

  “One moment, please.”

  I stared at my bedroom walls, tapped my pen against my notepad, and examined my cuticles.

  Finally, the voice came back on the line. “I have that list for you, Mrs. Russell.” The woman on the other end of the line proceeded to tell me about Swedish ivy, stargazer lilies, an order called in from Ohio for yellow mums and daisies in a white compote dish, a wooden duck filled with roses, and a fern.

  They’d been responsible for the duck? I might have to reconsider my favorite florist.

  “My sister received a lovely arrangement, a large one, with pink roses and orchids. Did someone send that?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “Thank you,” I said. “You’ve been most helpful.”

  I dialed the second florist. More ivy, more modest floral arrangements, more ferns—no duck, a point in their favor.

  I dialed the third.

  The girl who answered the phone remembered the orders that went to Marjorie. A fern and an enormous arrangement of roses and orchids.

  “Who sent those?” I asked.

  “Let me pull the ticket. Would you hold please?”

  “Of course.”

  Someone in my house picked up an extension.

  “Hello,” I said. “I’m on the phone.”

  “Would you let me know when you’re done?” asked Marjorie.

  Call it bad timing. The flower shop girl came back on the line. “Mrs. Russell, a Mr. Kenneth LeCoeur sent those flowers.”

  Lord love a duck—and not a tacky wooden one with a scooped out back filled with flowers. Kinky? Really? I thought Marjorie had better taste. Maybe she didn’t. Maybe she liked the wooden duck.

  “Thank you.” I hung up the phone and waited.

  Not long.

  My bedroom door flew open. Marjorie stood in the doorway flushed with righteous anger. “How dare you?”

  “I needed to know.”

  “Why?”

  Multiple attempts at murder. One of which was successful. I pursed my lips.

  “Why?” Her high-pitched tone made Max cover his ears.

  “What was your plan, Marjorie? Divorce Greg for Kinky?” Without conscious effort I twisted Kinky’s name into something contemptible. “How did this start?”

  “None of your business,” she snapped.

  I shook my head. “We’re not doing that again.”

  She responded with a mulish expression and crossed her arms

  If she wanted an argument on a five-year-old level, she could have it. I upped the ante. “I’ll tell Mother.”

  “You wouldn’t.”

  “I would.” The threat hung in the air like a cartoon balloon—that or a fresh-hewn hatchet.

  She caved. “Our high school reunion. We reconnected. We’re in love.”

  Oh dear Lord. I didn’t want to know any more. Already my imagination supplied whispered phone calls and stolen weekends. Thanks to Greg’s idiocy, Marjorie wasn’t even cheating.

  But Kinky was. On his wife and on his girlfriend.

  “He’s cheating on you.”

  “What?” She squinted at me.

  I unfolded my legs and stood. “Kinky is cheating on you.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “I’m not. He slept with some woman Quin was seeing.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “It’s true. It was a couple of weeks ago. Why would I make that up?”

  “Because you want me to go back to Greg.”

  True. But it was also true that Kinky was a cheater. “Call him. Ask him. Or call Quin.”

  “It can’t be true.” She sounded less certain.

  “Why can’t it? He’s cheating on Cassie by being with you. It’s not as if you picked someone of strong moral fiber.” Ugh. I sounded exactly like Mother. I softened my tone. “Marji, he’s a cheater.”

  “He loves me.”

  “Maybe he does.” He didn’t. “But according to Libba, he’s been cheating on Cassie for years.”

  “That’s not true. I’m the only one.”

  What else had Libba said? That Kinky could make a woman feel like she was special? My sister had bought that hook, line and sinker.

  “You’re not the only one. There’s Libba, and the woman from a few weeks ago, and God knows who else.”

  “Libba?” Marjorie’s chin quivered.

  “Libba.”

  Marjorie stumbled all the way into my room and sank into a chair. “You’re sure?”

  “I’m sure. Libba told me before I ever dreamed you’d—”

  “I don’t believe it.” The mulish expression settled back onto her face.

  If she wouldn’t take my word, I’d prove it. The phone book lay on the bed. I flipped through its pages. Marstin.

  Calling Quin Marstin wasn’t something I ever dreamed I’d do.

  He answered on the third ring.

  “Quin, it’s Ellison Russell calling.”

  “Ellison. Babe.”

  Two words and already I felt queasy.

  How does one ask a man about the woman who’d cheated on him with his friend? “Quin, I don’t quite know how to say this.”

  “It’s cool, babe. I get it. How about drinks tonight? Then we can come back to my place. Or if you want to cut to the chase, we can have drinks here.”

  He couldn’t think—

  He didn’t think—

  “I’ve been expecting you to call. I knew Tafft was too uptight for a stone fox like you.”

  He could.

  He did.

  Quin thought I was calling him for a date. No—not a date—a rendezvous—for sex. I closed my eyes and ignored the heebie-jeebies crawling on my skin. “I think you have the wrong idea.”

  “I have all sorts of ideas. We can try them out tonight.”

  I shuddered.

  Marjorie tilted her head to the side.

  “What?”

  I waved her off. “I heard a rumor that—”

  “It’s true. Ten inches.”

  What?

  “All fo
r you, babe.”

  Sweet baby Moses in the bulrushes.

  “Quin.” My voice was as sharp as affronted sensibilities could make it—that is to say, razor sharp. “I did not call you for sex.”

  “Then what do you want?”

  “You were seeing a woman.”

  “I see lots of women.”

  “Recently.”

  “You’re not narrowing the field much, Ellison.”

  “This one cheated on you with Kinky.”

  Ten seconds passed. When you’re holding a phone ten seconds seems like an eternity. “Quin, are you there?”

  “How did you hear about that?” That on-the-make teasing quality in his voice had disappeared, replaced by something cold.

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  “It does.”

  “Is it true?”

  “Why do you care?”

  “I’m trying to convince someone that Kinky isn’t worth her time.” Maybe Quin would talk about the woman who’d cheated on him if it meant ruining Kinky’s chances for—I crossed my fingers—“tail.”

  “Marjorie?” he asked.

  Now it was my turn to be quiet.

  “Put her on,” he said.

  I held the phone out to my sister.

  She looked at it as if I was holding out a rat. But she took the receiver and she held it against her ear.

  “When was this?” she asked.

  Whatever Quin said brought tears to her eyes. She sank onto the edge of my bed and lowered her head. “Who?” Her voice was thick with unshed tears.

  I couldn’t hear his answer, but Marjorie’s spine straightened. “You’re kidding?”

  She listened to Quin’s answer.

  “And Kenneth told you about it?”

  Whatever Quin said took a long, long time.

  “That must have been very difficult for you. Thank you, Quin. You’ve been most helpful.” She stood and put the receiver back in its cradle. “You were right.” She shook her head. “I can’t believe he’d cheat on me with her.”

  “Who?”

  “That hatchet-faced witch, Kitty Ballew.”

  Some might argue that Marjorie’s description was kind. I, for one, could think of much more colorful things to call Kitty.

  “You should get dressed,” said Marjorie.

  Last time I checked, jeans and a sweater counted as clothes. “I am dressed.”