“I’ll put it on my list. Did you see anything else? Anyone going in or out of Mrs. Russell’s house?”
Marian cut her gaze toward Aggie and me. “When I looked up again there was a white Mercedes in the drive.”
“Oh?” Anarchy ought to work harder at keeping enthusiasm out of his voice. That oh was entirely too eager. “What time was that?”
“Around twelve fifteen.”
“Did you see anyone?”
Marian’s gaze, like a compass pointing toward true north, returned to Anarchy. “No, but the car belonged to Hunter Tafft.”
As if Anarchy needed any help arriving at Hunter as a suspect. I glanced out the window. The man with the rumpled coat walked toward us. “Who’s that?”
“Detective Peters, my new partner.”
Since when had Anarchy had a partner? “Partner?”
Despite the afternoon sunshine shafting through the window and glinting off Anarchy’s hair, the temperature in the room dropped by twenty-five degrees. “Partner.”
Ding dong.
Marian didn’t move. She was too engrossed with staring at the detective already in her house. I couldn’t blame her. Caught in a ray of sunshine the way he was, Anarchy dazzled. He looked like a slightly cranky Greek god—if Greek gods wore plaid sport coats.
Aggie, who was completely unaffected by the sight of Anarchy in the sunlight, moved toward the door to the living room. “I’ll get that.” She jerked her sproingy red head toward the front hall. “If you don’t mind, Mrs. Dixon.”
“Mind?” Marian tore her gaze away from Anarchy. “Mind what?”
“Do you mind if I answer the door?”
“What door?”
Ding dong.
Apparently Anarchy’s new partner was not a patient man.
Marian’s hands fluttered near her neck. “The door. Yes, please answer the door. Thank you.” Her gaze reverted to Anarchy.
Aggie rolled her eyes and disappeared into the living room.
“What can you tell me about the white Mercedes?” Anarchy shared a devastating smile with Marian. “Did you see a license plate?”
“No, I didn’t.” Marian shook her head as if disappointing Anarchy was the biggest regret of her life.
“Then why do you think the car was Tafft’s?”
Marian managed to shift her gaze away from Anarchy to me. “His car is in the driveway so often. Who else could it belong to?”
Anarchy scowled.
“I spoke with Hunter after I called you. He was at his office. All the way downtown.”
The scowl deepened.
“Definitely murder.” Detective Peters spoke from the doorway. The man had to have smoked three packs a day for years to have that much gravel in his voice. Aggie stood behind him with her arms crossed over the blue of her muumuu. Something about the tilt of her head and the set of her mouth spoke of immediate dislike.
Peters, unaware that a woman who liked everyone had taken against him, continued, “Between the eyes. Small caliber bullet. I’d guess a .22.”
Oh dear.
Anarchy closed his eyes and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “I don’t suppose—” he opened his eyes “—you checked on your gun before you came over here?” He knew I was the owner of a .22.
“No. It should be in my nightstand.” Please let the damned gun be in my nightstand.
Detective Peters dug a notepad out of his pocket, regarded me with beady eyes, and jotted something down. “You were the last person to see the victim?”
“Obviously not.”
“There was someone else at the house?”
I nodded. “Whoever killed her.”
Detective Peters’ lips thinned. “Aside from the killer?”
“I suppose I was.”
“What did you talk about?”
“Paneling. We discussed removing the paneling in the study. And the rug. Khaki was going to measure for a new rug.”
“How well did you know the victim?” Peters patted his pockets as if he was searching for a pack of cigarettes.
“Not well.”
“But you left her alone in your house?”
“I did.”
“Do you make a habit of leaving strangers alone in your home?”
I glanced at Anarchy. He wore his cop face.
“No,” I said. “I don’t. But she wasn’t a stranger. We knew scads of the same people.” I was dating her ex-husband.
Detective Peters’ beady-eyed stare made me feel like an insect pinned to a child’s science board. “So you left Mrs. White alone and—”
“I went to pick up Aggie. Khaki wanted to take a few measurements, but Aggie needed me.”
“How convenient for you.”
Max, who’d been lounging at my feet, lifted his head and growled.
Peters turned his gaze on Aggie. “What time did Mrs. Russell pick you up?”
“Around twelve fifteen.”
“And you came straight home?”
“Yes. We had groceries.”
“Then what happened?”
“Mrs. White’s car was in the driveway and the front door was ajar. We entered the house. Mrs. Russell called for Mrs. White and we took the groceries to the kitchen.”
“The door was open?” Peters asked.
Why wasn’t Anarchy proclaiming my innocence? He looked as cold and hard as the marble surrounding the fireplace in Marian’s living room.
The chaise called to me. I sat. “The door was cracked not hanging open.”
“Did you fail to close it when you left?”
“No.”
“So you left a stranger in your home for twenty minutes and during that brief window of time—” Detective Peters held up two nearly touching fingers to demonstrate how brief a window twenty minutes was “—a second stranger gained access to your house, killed Mrs. White, and disappeared.”
That was exactly right. But the way Detective Peters said it made the whole thing sound wildly improbable. He made it sound as if the simpler explanation—that I had killed Khaki then gone to pick up Aggie—was more likely.
“I already told you. Khaki wasn’t a stranger. I just didn’t know her well. As for the person who killed her, Khaki had to have opened the door for them. So maybe they weren’t a stranger to her.”
Aggie nodded. So did Max.
Detective Peters narrowed his beady eyes until they looked like raisins stuck in the day-old dough of his face. “Who do you think the second stranger was?” The sneer in his gravelly voice suggested he didn’t believe in the stranger.
“Whoever drove the white Mercedes,” said Marian.
We all looked out the window at my house and the driveway filled with Khaki’s BMW, my Triumph, and a baker’s dozen of police cars.
It was as that exact moment that Hunter Tafft arrived in his white Mercedes.
three
When my daughter, Grace, was little, we invited every child in her class to her birthday parties. I particularly remembered the party the year she was in first grade. The children played party games like pin the tail on donkey and musical chairs and shrieked, swung a pole at a piñata groaning with candy and shrieked. Trip Michaels whacked someone in the head with the pole which caused even more shrieking. Then there was the jostling and shrieking to determine who got to sit next to the birthday girl when she opened her presents. Finally, the little darlings ate cake and ice cream—and shrieked some more. After two exhausting, soul-killing hours, the mothers arrived and took their sugar-filled progeny home. CeCe Lowell told me in advance that she’d be late. Laurie Michaels did not.
I took the children into the den, sat on the couch, and sipped an industrial-size glass of wine.
Grace sat on the f
loor and played with her new set of Easy Curl rollers, also known as giant tear-inducing snarls waiting to happen.
Bobby and Trip plonked themselves down a respectable distance from Grace and her girly curlers and engaged in a heated debate. If Superman and Batman fought each other, who would win?
“There’s no way Batman would win in a fair fight.” The stripes on Bobby’s t-shirt were marked with chocolate syrup and his hair was mussed from a scuffle for a musical chair, but he managed an unexpected level of gravitas. “Superman has super powers.”
Trip wrinkled his freckled nose. “Fair? Batman doesn’t have super powers. What he’s got is a cool car and gadgets. It’s fair if he uses them.”
The argument grew heated. The boys’ cheeks flushed and their eight-year-old hands tightened to fists.
“Boys.” I offered up a smile that hardly had the energy to move my lips. “Does it matter?”
“Yes!” They agreed on something.
I sank farther into the couch and sipped my wine. Boys. They always had to know who ran the playground.
The granite line of Anarchy’s jaw suggested men weren’t much different.
Hunter climbed out of his cool car and glanced first at the hive of activity at my house then at Marian’s home.
I snuck a peek at my watch. It had taken him just over twenty minutes to arrive. Damn.
I glanced at Aggie. Her brows were drawn. Her forehead was furrowed. She looked as worried as I felt. The alibi we’d constructed for Hunter lay in ruins at our feet. He could have killed Khaki then made it back to his office in time to answer the phone.
Marian tittered again. Apparently handsome men had that effect on her.
“Who is that?” Only Detective Peters didn’t know Hunter.
Given the direction of Hunter’s steps, that was about to change.
“The victim’s ex-husband,” said Anarchy.
“Ellison’s boyfriend,” said Marian.
Gah!
Aggie’s lips curled slightly. Hunter was second to Bess in her affections, and now that Bess was gone…
I wasn’t about to correct Marian; it would be like protesting too much.
Hunter, unaware that he was a newly minted murder suspect, strode toward us.
“I’ll answer the door.” Marian hurried out of the sunroom.
“So you and the victim’s ex-husband are involved,” said Detective Peters. It was a statement not a question. One didn’t need much imagination to see the wheels and cogs spinning above his head and reaching conclusions—wrong conclusions.
“Hunter and I are friends.” I turned my gaze back to the street. So much better than looking at Detective Peters’ smirk or the way Anarchy’s jaw moved—almost as if he was grinding his teeth. I cleared my throat. “Um…”
“Will you look at that?” Aggie sounded positively peppy.
A second Mercedes, identical to Hunter’s, parked next to the curb. A man climbed out of the car and stared at my house.
“Who is it?” she asked.
I took a deep breath, held it for five seconds, turned my head, and said in a calm voice that belied my inner cartwheels, “That is Stan White. Khaki’s husband.”
Detective Peters’ nose twitched like a hunting dog’s—one who’d just caught the scent of fresh prey.
Stan, unaware of the scrutiny of two homicide detectives, patted his comb-over, smoothed the lapels of his forest green and gold plaid jacket, and straightened his shoulders. Like Hunter, he looked first at my house then at Marian’s. Unlike Hunter, he walked toward mine.
A uniformed police officer stopped him before he even stepped on the drive.
A lively conversation ensued. Stan talked with his hands, pointing at my house then turning his hands palms up in a plea.
The officer crossed his arms and shook his head.
“Good afternoon.” Hunter spoke from the entrance to the sunroom. His jawline looked every bit as clenched as Anarchy’s. Behind him, Marian wrung her hands. Were one handsome lawyer, one handsome detective, one surly detective, a neighbor, a housekeeper, and one dastardly dog more than she could handle?
“You’re Hunter Tafft?” Detective Peters dragged his gaze away from Stan White’s gesticulations. “Where were you between noon and one today?”
“I grabbed a sandwich and ate at my desk.”
“Anyone who can corroborate that?”
“My secretary.” Hunter glanced at Aggie. “And Mrs. DeLucci. I spoke with her on the phone.”
Across the street, Stan waved his arms.
Detective Peters was missing an important point. How did Stan White know to come to my house?
If Anarchy’s intense scowl was any indication, he hadn’t missed that point.
“That was fast,” said Marian. Murmured, really. I barely heard her.
“Fast?” I tilted my head to the side and shifted my gaze to my hostess.
“I called him—” she nodded toward Stan and his wind-milling arms “—when I got Detective Jones’ coffee.”
There was no doubt as to Mother’s source on my comings and goings. “Did you tell him about Khaki?” My voice might have been a teensy bit chilly.
“Not exactly.”
“What did you tell him?” A jeweler could have used Anarchy’s tone to cut diamonds.
Marian crossed her hands over her chest. “That there was an incident.” She glanced away from the people in the room. Her gaze settled on the owls hanging on her wall. Apparently their beaded eyes (as opposed to Detective Peters’ beady eyes) bothered her. She shifted her gaze again. This time to the happenings in front of my house. “I told him he should get here quickly.”
“He didn’t ask what kind of incident?” asked Anarchy.
“No. He just said he’d come right away.”
“So you didn’t tell him his wife had been murdered?”
Marian’s cheeks turned an unbecoming shade, somewhere between alizarin crimson and quinacridone magenta. “We didn’t talk about his wife.”
“He knew it was you calling?”
“Yes.” The single word sounded like a teenage of course with a side of eye-roll.
“Then why is he trying to talk his way into Mrs. Russell’s house rather than knocking on your door?”
“I’m sure I don’t know.”
“How well did you know Mrs. White?” The gravel in Detective Peters’ voice sounded deeper, heavier, like river stones.
Marian blinked three times then shifted her attention to the rumpled detective. “Just socially. She’s younger than I am, but we’ve sat on a few committees together over the years.”
“You know her husband better?” asked Anarchy.
“Stan and I were grade school sweethearts.”
Detective Peters rubbed his forehead. “What is the nature of your relationship now?”
Marian’s hands flew to her throat. “You’re not suggesting…”
“Just answer the question, ma’am.”
“Eeeeh.” It was the sound a helium balloon makes when you pull the stem tight and let the gas out slowly. Only it was coming from behind Marian’s clenched teeth.
Max covered his ears with his paws. The rest of us looked at her with stunned expressions on our faces. Who knew a human could hit that note?
Then again, who knew a human could sustain such a sound for so long?
Max lifted his nose in the air and howled.
It was at that moment that Marian’s cat padded into the sunroom. Perhaps it was curious about the strange sounds. If that was true, the old adage that curiosity killed the cat looked as if it might hold true.
Max lunged at Marian’s prize-winning Persian.
I lunged for Max. “Bad dog!”
Of course I was too
late—Max, with prey in his sights, was faster than a Lamborghini Countach.
The cat leapt into the air as if springs were attached to its paws.
What went up must come down.
And Max was waiting with the devil in his eyes.
Yeowl.
Leaping into thin air having failed as an escape route, the cat leapt for the wall and sank its claws into an unsuspecting macramé owl. The terrified animal climbed. Climbed then adhered. Like glue. When the cat lifted a paw, the owl lifted as well.
Max stood on his hind legs and rested his front paws against the wall.
“Max!” I sounded like Mother.
He ignored me. After all, the cat’s bushy tail hung less than an inch from his grinning jaws.
Yeowl.
“Percival. Sweetheart.” Baby talking her cat wasn’t working. Percival was too smart for that. Marian planted her hands on her hips and glared at me. “Control your dog.”
I was trying. “Max!”
Aggie clasped the leash onto Max’s collar and hauled him off the wall.
Percival’s tail twitched, but his hold on the owl remained resolute. Given the way his paws had pierced the owl’s macramé heart, Percival probably didn’t have much choice.
“I’ll take him outside,” said Aggie. She pulled on the leash, dragging a reluctant Max into the living room.
They appeared on the other side of the window. Aggie looked grim. Max looked as if he’d just had a grand adventure.
“Marian.” I pressed my hands together as if I was praying for forgiveness. “I’m so sorry.”
Like Max, Marian ignored me. Instead she directed her attention to the cat hanging on the wall. “Poor Percy-wercy. Did that big, nasty dog scare Mommy’s baby?”
Hunter, Anarchy, and Detective Peters gaped at her.
Percival’s enormous eyes tracked Max on the other side of the window.
“Come to Mommy.” Marian held out her arms.
Percy lifted a paw and the owl lifted with him. Yeowl. Never before had I heard such an unhappy animal.
Watching the Detectives Page 3