Watching the Detectives

by Julie Mulhern

  “He’s stuck.” Hunter stepped forward. “His claws are caught in the yarn. I’ll get him down.”

  “No, I’ll do it.” Anarchy elbowed past him.

  Percival scrabbled away from Anarchy’s extended hands. Hiss.

  Hunter reached for Percival.

  Hiss. Louder this time, with more feeling.

  Marian wrung her hands. “Percy, these nice men are trying to help you.”

  Percival didn’t want their help.

  “We have a murder to investigate.” Detective Peters brushed past Anarchy and Hunter. He didn’t reach for Percival. He reached for the owl. He pulled the macramé owl off the wall and the cat came with it, waving in the air like a fluffy, furious flag.

  Yeeeeeowl. If Percival had been unhappy before…the sounds coming from him now pierced eardrums and expressed his extreme displeasure at the way his day was progressing.

  The detective deposited the owl and the pussycat on the floor. Percival attacked the owl, clawing and biting his way free of the macramé trap. No one stepped forward to help. I, for one, did not want my hands shredded.

  It was at that moment that Stan White appeared in the entrance to the sunroom and cleared his throat. “The woman with the dog let me in.” When none of us reacted to this bit of news, he took a gunfighter stance—legs apart, hands hovering near his hips, a scowl darkening his face. “Where. Is. My. Wife?”

  Percy especially paid him no mind. Instead he ripped through the few last stands of yarn and disentangled his traumatized self from the destroyed owl. Trailing bits of yarn and the twig that served as the owl’s perch, the cat dashed through Stan’s legs.

  Again, Stan’s arms rounded like a windmill. But now he tilted. Round and round and back.

  Timber!

  Thunk. He landed on his keister.

  “Stan!” Marian rushed to his side. “Are you hurt?”

  He smoothed his comb-over back into place (except for one stray hank that stood straight up) and pushed himself onto his elbows. “I’m fine.” He didn’t sound fine. He sounded as mad as Marian’s cat.

  Detective Peters, Marian, and Stan glared at me as if Stan’s misfortune was somehow my fault.

  Anarchy’s face was blank, distant—as if he was conjugating Latin verbs in his head.

  Hunter’s lips twitched and his eyes sparkled. The man was trying not to laugh.

  None of them understood. Max wasn’t a dog. He was a force of nature. One that couldn’t be fully controlled by a mere human. Even now, outside on the lawn, he pulled on Aggie, no doubt eager to return to his pursuit of Percival.

  “I should help Aggie with the dog.” I moved toward the door.

  “What are you going to do with him?” asked Detective Peters.

  “Put him in the backyard.”

  “Eeeesh.” The sharp inhalation of breath came from Marian.

  “My backyard.”

  She exhaled.

  “I’ll help you.” Anarchy stepped forward.

  “It doesn’t take three people to put a dog in a backyard.” Detective Peters’ eyes bulged slightly.

  “You don’t know that dog,” Anarchy replied.

  That ended the discussion.

  Together we walked through Marian’s living room and foyer and stepped out into the mild afternoon.

  “You have a partner,” I said.

  “I do.” The tone of his voice suggested he’d rather not talk about the rumpled detective in Marian’s sunroom.

  “Why?”

  “All homicide detectives are assigned partners.”

  “You didn’t have one before.”

  “Things change.”

  “And you really think you can work with that man?” That man suspected I’d killed a woman I barely knew. I didn’t like being a murder suspect. Not. At. All. Of course, Anarchy once suspected I killed my husband, but that was somehow less offensive. There had existed a laundry list of good reasons for me to kill Henry. “He thinks I killed Khaki.”

  “He’s just testing the waters.” Mild. His tone had turned mild.

  “He’s testing the waters with Hunter and Marian and Stan too?” We reached Aggie and Max and I held out my hand for the leash.

  “I’ve got him.” Anarchy took Max’s leash from Aggie.

  “So everyone he meets is a potential suspect?”

  “That about sums it up.” He took a few steps across Marian’s leaf-strewn yard, paused, and looked over his shoulder. “Watch what you say around him. You’re his favorite.”

  four

  When the police showed no signs of leaving, I asked Hunter to take Aggie home. They drove off in his white Mercedes. Out of sight probably didn’t mean out of mind, but surely Detective Peters would realize that Khaki’s current husband was a better suspect than her ex. At least I hoped he would.

  If he came to that conclusion, he didn’t share it with me.

  At half past two, I called Grace’s school and told them she needed to go to her grandparents’ house after cheer practice.

  At half past four, Detective Peters fixed his splenetic gaze on me. “We’ll be here all night. You should find somewhere else to sleep.”

  I called the Alameda Hotel and booked a room. Of course, if Mother knew Grace and I were homeless for the night, she’d sigh and have guest rooms prepared for us. Mother hated last-minute plans. And unexpected houseguests definitely counted as last-minute plans. Any capital I earned by agreeing to buy a table at Cora’s luncheon would be spent—and then some. Worse, I’d be unable to escape a lecture on the perils of finding bodies. Despite Mother’s belief to the contrary, I was already familiar with the perils of finding bodies. She had nothing new to add.

  I climbed into my car, drove to Mother and Daddy’s, and pulled into the drive. Grace pulled in behind me. Perfect timing for once.

  “What’s up?” she asked.

  I didn’t see any gentle way to tell her. “Khaki White was murdered in your father’s study.”

  “Who?”

  “She was a decorator.”

  “That’s awful. Are you okay?”

  “I am.”

  She pushed a few strands that had escaped from her ponytail away from her face and regarded her grandparents’ home with a slight frown on her face. “Why are we here?”

  “The police are still at our house. Unfortunately, it doesn’t look like they’ll finish anytime soon. I booked us a room at the Alameda.”

  Grace cut her gaze toward Mother’s house. “Does Granna know?”

  “About the murder? Yes.”

  She shook her head. Her granna’s omniscience when it came to things in my life going sideways was unquestioned. “No. Does she know that we’re staying in a hotel?”

  “If we stay at the Alameda, we won’t disrupt her household. You leave for school so early, and—” I searched for another reason “—if your grandparents have plans, I’d hate to have them cancel on our account.” And there was that inevitable lecture I wanted to avoid.

  “Are we going in?”

  We were parked in the drive. Conversing in the drive. We could hardly avoid saying hello.

  We marched up the front walk. I might have looked a bit grim, because Grace reached out and squeezed my hand. I smoothed my expression, less Marie Antoinette on her way to the guillotine, more Marie Antoinette on her way to eat cake.

  Mother’s housekeeper, Penelope, opened the front door. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Russell, your parents are out for the evening.

  “Really?” I sounded too perky. “At this hour?” It wasn’t quite five o’clock.

  She nodded. “They’re having dinner with Mr. and Mrs. Knight. Mrs. Walford went early to go over plans for a luncheon.”

  Of course she had. Mother was probably expl
aining everything Cora needed to do to make the event a success. Resign and put Mother in charge.

  If Thornton was there, he was probably wondering aloud why Cora hadn’t asked Mother for help from the start.

  If Daddy was there, he was probably drinking a dry martini and wishing he was home watching Walter Cronkite on the evening news.

  “I didn’t realize they had plans this evening. Please tell them we stopped by.”

  Grace and I retraced our steps to our cars.

  “Meet me at the Alameda?”

  “I don’t have anything to wear to school tomorrow.”

  “Meet me at Swanson’s?”

  That earned a smile.

  I parked in Swanson’s garage and counted three white Mercedes in the lot. Funny how one didn’t notice things like the color of cars until murder made them important.

  Grace and I shopped until the stores closed. Shopped enough that the police could take a week to complete their tasks at the house and Grace wouldn’t have to repeat outfits. Neither would I.

  We drove the few blocks to the hotel, parked (another three white Mercedes), and carried our bags to the room. Hanging up the new clothes took only a few minutes (so many of them were still on hangers). Fresh lipstick and a much needed comb later, we rode the elevator to the lobby and were seated in the Pam-Pam Room with a view of the Plaza.

  “What happened?”

  “I ran up to Milgrim’s to pick up Aggie. When we got back, Khaki was dead.” I took a sip of water. Where was the waiter? I wanted a drink. “Khaki was shot.”

  “People have died at the house before and we haven’t had to leave.”

  True. But things had changed. “Anarchy has a new partner.”

  “He does? What’s he like?”

  “He’s short and rumpled and he suspects I killed Khaki.”

  “That’s ridiculous. Why didn’t Detective Jones set him straight?”

  An excellent question. Where was the waiter? I craned my neck.

  “Who do you think killed her?”

  “No idea.”

  “Why our house?”

  I shook my head. “I don’t know.”

  “Do you think we’ll be able to go home tomorrow?”

  “I hope so.”

  “It’s creepy to think she died in our house.” Grace shuddered. “I mean inside.”

  There’d been more than one body found outside the house. Khaki was the first to die within its walls. “You’re right. It is creepy. We can stay here longer if you feel uncomfortable going home.”

  “I’d just like to know why. You don’t think someone was trying to kill you?”

  “No.”

  A furrow appeared between Grace’s brows. “You’re sure?”

  “I’m sure.”

  “I’d still like to know why.”

  That made two of us.

  “What are your plans for tomorrow?” Grace asked.

  “They’re in flux.”

  “Would you stop by the club, pick up my tennis racket, and bring it to school?”

  “Is it in your locker?”

  “No. I had it restrung. It’s in the pro-shop.”

  “Sure,” I said.

  “I need it by the end of the day. Trip and I are meeting for tennis after school.”

  “Trip?”

  “Trip Michaels.”

  If the kid hit a tennis ball as hard as he hit a piñata, Grace was in for a game.

  I waited at the counter and ignored a saucy wink from a tennis dress I did not need. The dress winked again. It even upped the ante with a come-hither smile.

  No.

  I did not need another tennis dress. Did. Not. Looking at the price tag never hurt anyone. I reached for the tag—

  “Ellison!” Jane Addison stood in front of me in a white tennis dress with a navy blue sweater draped around her shoulders. Jane was to gossip what martinis were to gin. She had an acquisitive gleam in her eye, and I resigned myself to an interrogation.

  The tennis dress pouted. Its flirtation had been going so well.

  “What are you doing here?” Jane demanded.

  “Picking up a racket for Grace.” And almost resisting the lure of another tennis dress.

  “But I heard…”

  Of course everyone knew that Khaki had been found shot at my house. Marian Dixon had probably spent all of last night spreading the word.

  Jane glanced around the shop, spotted the pro emerging from the back room with Grace’s racket, and lowered her voice. “It was definitely murder? I mean she didn’t trip and hit her head or fall down the stairs or—”

  “Definitely murder. I didn’t realize you knew Khaki.”

  “Not well. Of course, I’d heard a few things—”

  “Oh?” On occasion, it was quite handy to know the biggest gossip in town. Maybe Jane knew why someone had shot Khaki.

  “It wouldn’t be right to speak ill of the dead.”

  She was playing coy? Now? There was no midwestern equivalent for the southern bless her heart, the phrase most often used when southern ladies pulled out their knives. If there was an equivalent, Jane would use it every day. Five times a day every day. And after she’d uttered that equivalent, she’d speak ill of the dead, the cheating, the divorcing, the dieting, the sick, the engaged, and the widowed. Jane seldom played coy. Whatever she knew about Khaki had to be salacious. She was building suspense.

  “You’re right.”

  I refused to play her game.

  Her forehead puckered and her gaze fell to the floor. She’d hoped for a breathless you can tell me, and I’d disappointed her. If she didn’t offer up some juicy item, she could hardly ask me insider details about Khaki’s murder. I closed my eyes and imagined the infuriated expression on Detective Peters’ truculent face if he learned I’d shared details of his investigation. Much as I wanted to hear what Jane knew, the wise path was to avoid gossip.

  Jane opened her mouth and closed it. A goldfish out of water and gasping for air. Well, if one replaced air with gossip.

  The door to the pro-shop swung open and Linda Connor stepped inside. “Jane, we’re waiting. Are you coming?” She noticed me and added, “Good morning, Ellison.”

  “Good morning.”

  Jane and Linda were the unlikeliest of doubles partners. Linda shot straight, didn’t gossip, and cared more about being on time than the latest news.

  “Coming,” said Jane. “I’m coming.” She looked at me and her eyes narrowed. “Jinx is taking a lesson on the back court. You should say hello to her before you leave.” With that she walked through the door Linda held open for her.

  Jinx was part of my regular bridge foursome. That Jane thought I should see her tennis lesson was worrisome. I tightened my grip on Grace’s racket. “Thank you.” I held up the racket and waved it at the pro behind the counter. Molly! That was the young woman’s name. “Molly, with whom is Mrs. George taking a lesson?”

  “Clint.” Neither her face nor her tone revealed an ounce of emotion. They were carefully blank. Oh, dear. What was Jinx up to on the back court?

  I stepped outside. Despite the mild weather, most of the courts were empty. Women tended to schedule around what they thought the weather would be, and November meant cold and blustery. That meant bridge in a cozy card room or a book club meeting in a living room warmed by a fire. It did not mean tennis lessons.

  I could have ignored Jane’s broad hint or Molly’s lack of inflection, but together—well, I had to know. I meandered toward the back court.

  Jinx stood on the baseline with her hands wrapped around the handle of a racket. Clint stood behind her with his arms wrapped around her. His hands covered hers. Together they practiced a backhand swing.

  Innocen
t enough, except that they stood far too close, her backside snuggled up against his tennis shorts.

  Jinx had modern ideas. She’d sold several generations’ worth of antiques for a sleeker look. Gone was the Chippendale dining room set her grandmother had cherished. In came a white Eero Saarinen table and tulip chairs. But this—this snuggling—was proof that her modern ideas extended to marriage. Did Preston know?

  I shifted my gaze somewhere safer—the carefully painted lines on the court. The lines that told players if a ball was inbounds. Or, as seemed to be the case, very much out of bounds.

  Ugh.

  Jinx spotted me and pulled away from Clint’s embrace.

  Perhaps not the best idea. Compelling evidence existed that Clint had enjoyed the rub of Jinx’s tennis skirt against his shorts.

  Double ugh.

  I shifted my gaze to their feet. Jinx wore Tretorns and socks with little white pom-poms at the back of her ankles. Someone once told me the pom-poms kept the socks from slipping. If that was true, Jinx needed much bigger pom-poms. What I saw represented major slippage.

  Jinx crossed the court, the expression on her face sheepish. She’d been caught. With a tennis pro. She was a walking cliché.

  I nodded in Clint’s direction. “I credited you with more imagination.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with Clint.”

  I studied the man on the court. He wore short white shorts (thankfully the tent had subsided), a white shirt that clung too closely to his chest muscles, tube socks with blue stripes, and Adidas tennis shoes. A furrow marred the still-tanned expanse of his forehead until he caught me looking. Then he manufactured a grin—all white teeth and doubtful sincerity. To the casual observer, he looked as if he might lose an intelligence battle with an orangutan.

  My face must have reflected my thoughts, because Jinx glanced his way. “I know. I know. But he’s pretty to look at and—” a satisfied smile spread across her face “—he’s got a serve and volley you wouldn’t believe.”

  La la la la. I refrained from covering my ears. Barely. “Have you lost your mind?”