I parked my Triumph and got out.
Detective Peters and Anarchy climbed out of the other car.
Joy. Would it look suspicious if I hopped back in my car and drove away? Undoubtedly. Plus, they’d probably follow me.
I nodded at them, then a cold gust sent me scuttling for the front door. The wind probably seemed even colder because I was wet. Brrr. If the detectives wanted to talk to me, they could do it inside.
I pushed open the door and stepped into the warmth of my home and my dog’s curious nose.
The police detectives followed me.
“What happened to you?” Anarchy’s brows were drawn as if his concern was genuine.
I scratched Max’s ears. “A ceiling mishap.”
Detective Peters grunted. “We have a few more questions.”
“No.” The misery of damp clothes and an impending party gave me gumption I usually lacked.
“No?”
“No,” I repeated. “I am wet. I am busy. And you did not call before you came. Now is not a convenient time for me to answer questions.”
“This is a murder investigation.” Peters leaned toward me and the scent of cheap cigars swirled under my nose.
Max growled softly. I patted his head. I could hold my own. Peters only thought he was intimidating. He wasn’t. The rumpled detective wasn’t in the same intimidation ballpark as Mother. With a well-chosen word (not even in person, she could be on the phone), Mother could terrorize a poor (relative term) young woman in the Junior League ghetto (cute young wives, cute starter homes, cute first children, and the cute first step on a path that led to being a social doyenne) into hosting a luncheon or chairing a fashion show. It didn’t matter if the woman Mother was intimidating was eight months pregnant with triplets, she said yes. Mother never had to lean.
Achoo. “Pardon me.”
Anarchy dug in a coat pocket, pulled out a handkerchief, and offered the folded bit of linen to me.
Peters scowled. “We need to verify timing.”
I took Anarchy’s hanky and wiped my nose. “The timing hasn’t changed since the last time I told you. Now—” achoo “—if you gentlemen will excuse me, I’m going to go get out of these wet clothes.”
Peters’ wrinkled trench rustled when he crossed his arms. “We’ll wait.”
With that a quick shower became a leisurely bubble bath. “Suit yourself.”
I climbed the steps with Max by my side.
“Ellison.” Anarchy stopped me halfway to the second floor.
I looked over my shoulder.
Anarchy stared up at me, ignoring Detective Peters’ black look. If the detective’s thunderous demeanor was any indication, Anarchy was not supposed to call suspects by their first names.
“What?”
“You left when?” Anarchy asked.
“Five minutes after twelve. It’s in my statement.”
“And you returned?”
I climbed another step. “By twelve thirty.”
“It doesn’t take that long to drive to and from the grocery store,” said Peters.
“It does if Aggie has car trouble and I run into someone I know in the parking lot.”
“Who did you run into?” asked Anarchy. His voice sounded somehow brighter. “You didn’t mention anyone earlier.”
I hadn’t?
“Mary Beth Brewer. She waited with Aggie until I got there.”
“You know the Brewer woman well?” Something about the way Peters stood made me wary. Was he leaning on his toes? Leaning appeared to be a thing with him.
“Not well. But I’ve known her for years. What’s the point in all this? You can’t imagine Mary Beth had anything to do with the murder. She was at the store when Khaki was killed.”
“She can corroborate your alibi,” said Anarchy.
“I didn’t know I needed corroboration.”
“Everyone’s alibi needs corroboration,” said Detective Peters.
“Silly me.” I searched Anarchy’s face for some clue as to what was going on. Of course, he wore his cop face. The inscrutable one. The one that, unlike Detective Peters’ leaning, could intimidate a suspect in half a heartbeat. But I wasn’t really a suspect. Was I? “I thought Aggie and I provided alibis for each other.”
Detective Peters grunted.
Anarchy said nothing.
Ugh. I resumed my climb. After all, I had a date with a long, luxurious bubble bath.
Ding dong.
The second floor was just steps away.
“I’ll get that,” said Peters.
I wished he wouldn’t. “Really, you don’t need to—”
He opened the door. “What?”
Unwelcome or not, that was not how guests were treated in my home. I descended the damned stairs.
Peters opened the door wider, allowing a chilly wind to sneak into the foyer. A chilly wind and Preston George. “Ellison,” he said. “May I have a word?”
I stared at the latest addition to my foyer. My jaw might have dropped an inch or two. Over the course of my whole life, nothing like this had happened before. My friends’ husbands didn’t pop over for a chat.
“Is Jinx all right?”
He jerked his chin. “She’s fine.” Preston took in my ensemble—wet sweater, wet slacks, wet hair, and a sprinkling of plaster. “Are you?”
“I’m fine.” I glanced at the detectives, both of whom seemed content to let Preston and me continue our scintillating conversation uninterrupted. “Now’s not the most convenient time.”
“This is important.”
Detective Peters grumbled. Apparently nothing Preston might say was as important as a murder investigation.
“I can come by your office in the morning.” Dammit. I’d been raised to keep men happy, not placating an unhappy one was harder than expected. I didn’t actually want to talk to Preston. There were rules. No white after Labor Day. Never arrive early for a dinner party. Don’t get involved in your friends’ marriages. The man your friend couldn’t wait to divorce today was tomorrow’s version of forever, and the friend who’d been picking up crumpled tissue and commiserating about what a louse he was finds herself in the role of villain. “Actually, now that I think about it, the next two days are crazy for me. Maybe next week?”
“Tomorrow. Nine o’clock.”
“I’m really very busy.”
“Please?”
How did he fill one word with so much pain?
“I—”
Ding dong.
I glanced at my watch. Was that the time?
Again, Detective Peters opened the door.
Hunter Tafft stood on the other side. His gaze traveled from Preston (he nodded) to Anarchy and Detective Peters (his lips thinned) to me (his eyes widened). “I’ll call and change our reservation.”
An hour later I sat across from Hunter at a small table covered in crisp white linen. “I don’t see how I can get out of it.” I lifted the wine glass to my lips and drank. Deeply.
Across from me, Hunter rubbed his chin. “Tell her it’s unseemly to have a party on Thursday when someone was murdered in the house on Monday.”
“I tried that. Mother has no ceiling in her front entry. She’s willing to overlook the niceties.”
Around us, the small restaurant was filled with people who weren’t being forced to host a cocktail party in two days.
I took another sip. “She needs help and she’s my mother. What else can I do?”
A waiter appeared next to our table.
“Have we decided?”
“Lemon chicken with capers.” I handed him the menu.
“The same,” said Hunter.
“Would we like to start with a salad?”
&n
bsp; Was he joining us? Nurses and waiters and the royal we. I looked up from my wine glass, a rude retort primed on my lips.
“The house salad for both of us.”
The waiter nodded and left us.
I glared at Hunter.
He pursed his lips as if he was battling a smile. “I realize you’ve had a long day, but lambasting a waiter won’t help. And he might spit in our food before he brings it to us.”
He was right. As usual. Most annoying.
I looked away.
Across the restaurant, Mary Beth Brewer was dining with another woman, one whose back was to me. Odd. Mary Beth’s husband always struck me as the dinner-on-the-table-at-six-thirty type, not the my-wife-can-go-out-for-dinner-with-friends-on-a-Tuesday type.
Mary Beth said something to her dinner companion, rose, and approached our table.
Hunter stood.
“Please don’t get up.” Mary Beth smiled at Hunter.
He ignored her request. “How nice to see you, Mary Beth.”
The dim mood-lighting did nothing to hide the sudden flush on her cheeks. “Please sit.” She shifted her attention to me. “I just can’t believe what happened after I saw you yesterday. You’re all right?”
“Fine.”
“Poor Khaki.” The color of her cheeks deepened. Dollars to donuts she’d just remembered poor Khaki was once married to the man standing next to her. “She did some work for me.”
“Oh?”
“She was very good.” Mary Beth added an earnest nod. “Very good.”
“So many people hired her. She must have been.” Although, I couldn’t name one home, or even one room, that said designed by Khaki White. She might have been good, but she wasn’t distinctive.
“Your housekeeper? Did you get her car working?”
“We bought her a new one.”
Hunter, who’d been looking mildly bored, focused his gaze on me. My cheeks, traitorous bits of flesh, warmed.
“How nice.” Mary Beth glanced over her shoulder at her waiting friend. “I won’t keep you from your dinner.”
“Lovely to see you, Mary Beth,” said Hunter.
I murmured something similar.
Mary Beth returned to her table.
Hunter sat. “You bought Aggie a car?”
“I did.”
He blinked.
“You could have called me.”
“So you could buy the car? She works for me.”
“But—”
“But what? Women can buy cars. The salesman only asked twice if I needed to check with my husband.” The man had worried the knot of his tie, smoothed his hair, and even mumbled something about calling his manager. “I think he felt better when I told him I was a widow.”
“I’ll pay for half.”
“No. Aggie is the best thing that has ever happened to Grace and me. If I want to buy her a car, I will.”
We might have argued more, but the waiter arrived with our salads. Amidst the placing of plates and offering of fresh ground pepper, it occurred to me that I’d liked buying Aggie her car. Not just because it made her happy but because I could. A major purchase and I didn’t have to consult anyone. It was…empowering.
The waiter departed with a promise to return and top off our water glasses.
I stabbed a blameless bit of romaine. “This isn’t working.”
“What’s not working?”
“This.” The man sitting across from me could make middle-aged women blush with just a glance (including me), but I wasn’t ready for another man to tell me what to do, or how to spend my money. “Us.”
Hunter put his salad fork down on the edge of his plate.
I put my fork down too. “There are plenty of women who’d trade their eye-teeth for your attention. You should date one of them.”
“I don’t want one of them. I want you.” His voice was velvet.
Precisely the kind of words said in precisely the kind of tone that could leave a woman breathless. I dragged air into my lungs and straightened my spine. “I’m nearly forty and I’ve only been alive for a few months.”
He tilted his head slightly. Amused or annoyed? “So being with me would be akin to death.”
Annoyed.
I reclaimed my fork. I needed something to hold onto. “I don’t mean you per say. I mean any man. I need to find out what it’s like to be on my own before I can be with anyone.” Not that I’d be alive to find out. As soon as Mother found out I’d given Hunter Tafft walking papers, she’d kill me.
“You’ve said this before. I told you, I’d wait.”
Hunter’s idea of waiting was dinners and dances and (God help me) kisses. Did he not see the problem? “I just can’t. I—” Why was Pete Brewer shoving the maître d’?
“Get the hell out of my way.”
Every head in the restaurant turned. Including Mary Beth’s. Her eyes widened. Her cheeks paled.
The woman she was dining with stood. Turned. Sally Broome. The only female divorce attorney in town. Not a friendly dinner. Business.
Pete pushed past the maître d’, leaned over Mary Beth’s table, and said, “You’re coming home. Now.”
“I take it you got the papers?” Sally sounded cool and unflustered. Remarkably so given that Pete had clenched his hands into fists, his cheeks were the color of old brick, and fire seemed to be shooting from his eyes.
“Bitch.”
Sally brushed a bit of lint off the sleeve of her blouse. “She’s not going home with you.”
Mary Beth gripped the edge of the table. “I’m not. We’re done, Pete.”
“I’m sorry. It won’t happen again. I swear.”
A tear trickled down Mary Beth’s cheek. “But it does. You promise and then—I just can’t do this anymore.”
Pete’s head swiveled, casting equal glares upon his wife and her lawyer. “You won’t get a dime.” His gaze landed on Sally. “She doesn’t have two cents. She can’t pay you.”
Sally glanced around the restaurant and realized she had a rapt audience. “Your marriage is over.”
“Bitch.” Pete needed some new material.
Hunter and I glanced at each other. This was awful. Poor Mary Beth. And Pete, when he regained control of his temper, would be mortified.
Hunter leaned toward me. “I’ll get him out of here. I take it you can cover dinner?” Was there a touch of acerbity in Hunter’s tone?
I nodded.
Hunter stood and strode across the restaurant. “Pete!” He pounded Brewer on the back. “This isn’t the time or the place. Let’s you and me go get a drink.”
Pete stopped trying to kill Sally Broome with his gaze and looked at Hunter.
Hunter said something too quiet for me to hear and Pete nodded. Slowly. His ruddy cheeks paled. Maybe he’d noticed the rapt faces around him. Or maybe Hunter told him his little outburst was going to cost him big in divorce court.
Either way, he took a step away from the table. “Yeah. Sure.”
With Hunter at his side, he turned and left.
No one spoke. The stunned hush was deafening.
With a shaking hand, Mary Beth reached for her wine, knocked over her water glass, and burst into tears.
Sally Broome went to her, draped her arm around Mary Beth’s shoulders, and whispered something, presumably comforting, in her ear.
Someone at another table spoke.
A woman I didn’t know approached Mary Beth’s table and offered a handkerchief.
I threw a few bills on the table, went to Mary Beth, and knelt beside her. “If you need anything—anything—call.”
She nodded and mopped her eyes with the borrowed hanky.
Sally Broome settled her gaze on m
e. “Mrs. Russell, please give Mr. Tafft my thanks. Without him, this scene could have been much worse.”
“I will.” Dammit. I couldn’t even break up with Hunter without him being chivalrous.
eight
I sent Grace off to school and sat down for some serious one-on-one time with Mr. Coffee.
“What a mess,” I said.
Mr. Coffee was the strong, silent type. He didn’t answer. Nor did he disagree.
He couldn’t disagree. When I woke up on Monday morning, finding a body and hosting a benefactors’ party had not figured in my calculations for the week. Nor had a visit to Preston George’s office.
Preston manufactured something—air filters or heating coils or casings for furnaces. I never could remember what. It was a nice solid company with nice solid returns. Respectable. Dependable. Not sexy. Rather like Preston. There are things one can manufacture that are not so respectable, that are slightly—or not so slightly—embarrassing. Just look at my brother-in-law, the rubber king of Ohio. And no, not tires or galoshes or pencil erasers. Preston had taken the slightly less profitable but far more socially acceptable route and made—I scrunched my face and thought hard—a component for air conditioners.
“I ought to get dressed. I have to leave soon.”
Mr. Coffee didn’t reply but his half-full pot glistened in the morning sun.
“You’re right. One more cup.” I poured.
My thoughts crept down the hall and peeked into Henry’s study. Who had murdered Khaki? Who wanted her dead? Everyone I’d talked to, with the exception of Jinx, liked Khaki. Granted that might be because she was dead and people tended to turn dead people into saints, but…
I pushed away from the kitchen counter and followed my thoughts down the hall.
Max lifted his sleepy head off his paws but opted not to come with me.
Khaki had let someone into the house. Someone who drove a white Mercedes? She’d walked back to Henry’s study, turned to face the door, and they’d shot her. It seemed a cold-blooded, almost clinical way to kill someone. No anger, no passion, just pressure on a trigger. Why hadn’t they killed her by the front door? Had they followed her and taken something from her enormous tote bag? Did she have a chance to plead for her life before the killer put a bullet in her brain?
Watching the Detectives Page 7