Watching the Detectives

by Julie Mulhern

  I opened the door to the study. It was all there. The dark paneling, the heavy furniture, the hideous carpet. The only thing missing was Khaki.

  I shuddered, an involuntary reaction that shook my teeth. Then I shook my shoulders. On purpose. As if I could shake off the brutality of Khaki’s death.

  I glanced again into the dust-covered study. There was no way we could clean it up and get the house ready for a party. We’d have to keep it closed off on Thursday night—not that anyone was ghoulish enough to want to drink cocktails where Khaki died. I hoped they weren’t. They were. We’d have to keep the study locked.

  I pulled the door closed a shade too hard, trudged up the front steps, threw on a wrap dress and a pair of pumps, ran a comb through my hair, and powdered my nose.

  Ready. Except I had no idea what to say to Preston. Were you sleeping with Khaki? That seemed a bit blunt as an opening. Did you kill her? More so. Also dangerous if he actually had. Did Jinx kill her? That was downright rude.

  I descended the stairs.

  Max ambled into the foyer to check up on me.

  “Behave.”

  He yawned.

  “Aggie will be here soon.”

  He rubbed his grey head against my leg and I scratched behind his ear. “How did a killer get past you?”

  Max kept his own counsel.

  I bent, dropped a kiss on the top of his head, grabbed my Gucci trench coat out of the hall closet, put it on, and slipped out the front door.

  November had taken hold. Leaden skies, cold wind, and a raw quality to the air that promised early, heavy snow. The weather matched my mood.

  I slipped into the driver’s seat and pointed the car toward the industrial district where Preston kept his office.

  The grey of the concrete, the chain link fence, and the ugly building were every bit as depressing as the sky. Surely Preston could afford a nicer office?

  I parked and walked across the gritty pavement.

  My coat wasn’t near enough protection against the wind. I pulled the collar up and longed for a hat.

  The scents of steel and oil welcomed me to Preston’s building. That was all that did. I stood in a dingy front office—pea soup carpet, a lone desk, and faded paint. A woman held a phone to her ear. She nodded at me and held up a single finger.

  I waited. Standing. Unwilling to subject my new coat to whatever stained the chairs pushed against the wall.

  She hung up the phone and clipped an earring on her lobe. “May I help you?”

  “I’m not sure I’m in the right place. I have an appointment with Preston. Mr. George. Is this his business?”

  “It is.” She raised a brow that had been plucked to near extinction. “You don’t seem the type.”

  The type? “Be that as it may, would you please tell him that Ellison Russell is here?”

  She pulled off her earring, picked up the phone, and pushed one of the buttons at the bottom of the device. “Ellison Russell here to see Mr. George.” She hung up the phone and waved toward the questionable chairs. “You can have a seat. His secretary will be right out.”

  “If you don’t mind, I’ll stand.”

  “Suit yourself.” She replaced her earring and turned her attention to a typewriter. Although, how she hoped to type with the frosted pink talons at the end of her fingers was beyond me.

  Hunt-and-peck.

  Hunt-and-peck.

  As chilly as it was outside, it was stuffy inside. I unbuttoned my coat and loosened the belt.

  The receptionist completed a word and looked up. “You want some coffee?”

  “Thank you, that would be lovely.”

  “You ain’t tasted it yet.”

  Oh dear. It couldn’t be any worse than Marian’s, could it? I glanced again at the ugly carpet and decided the coffee could be worse. I’d expected something…nicer. Did Preston actually make any money from this place?

  The receptionist grabbed the edge of her desk and pushed herself out of her chair. She limped to a coffeemaker in the corner and poured what looked like motor oil into a Styrofoam cup.

  She limped back to me. “Here you go.”

  I took the cup from her hands and she returned to her desk, sitting with a grunt.

  “Are you all right?”

  “Me? Old injury. I had a mishap with a flight of stairs. Twice.”

  “Twice?”

  She squinted at the paper in her typewriter, swore softly, then looked up at me. “I was lucky it wasn’t three times.”

  A woman with a crooked nose, pursed lips, and a sweater set the color of Pepto-Bismol opened a door to the front office. “Mr. George will see you now.”

  Clutching my cup of motor oil, I followed her down a long hallway to an elevator. She pressed the up button and glanced at the cup in my hand. “I wouldn’t drink that if I were you. Sheri can’t make coffee to save her life. We have decent stuff upstairs.”

  “Thank you.” I followed her onto a paneled elevator.

  The doors slid closed, the car lurched, and we rose.

  When the elevator doors opened, she stepped into another hallway and turned right. “This way.”

  She led me through a small office. “Let me take that for you.” She held out her hand.

  I relinquished Sheri’s coffee without regret.

  She tapped on an oak door, waited a few seconds, then opened it. “Mr. George, here’s Mrs. Russell for you.”

  Preston rose from his desk chair.

  I stepped inside.

  “I’ll be back with fresh coffee.” Preston’s secretary closed the door behind her, leaving me to take stock of Preston’s office. Three walls were lined waist-high with manuals that probably required an engineering degree to decipher. The fourth wall was glass with a view of the factory floor. And then there was the Stella. The painting hung above the manuals on the west wall.

  “Good morning, Preston.” I crossed the room, studied. “From his Protractor Series.”

  “Yes.” He stepped out from behind his desk. “Thank you for coming.” He waved at a chair that didn’t look…sticky. “Please have a seat.”

  I slipped off my coat.

  “I’ll take that.” He took the trench from my hands and hung it on a coat tree.

  Henry used to say you could tell a lot about a man from his office. What did Preston’s office say? There were manuals, there was a view of the factory floor, there was the Stella, and there were pictures of Jinx on the credenza. Lots of them. The office said Preston was a hard-working engineer who appreciated good art and loved his wife.

  Appearances could be deceiving.

  I sat, crossed my hands in my lap, and waited.

  Preston resumed his seat behind the desk, arranged a few pens in perfect alignment, and cleared his throat.

  Tap, tap.

  “Yes.” He sounded grateful for the interruption, as if we’d been having an uncomfortable conversation rather than sitting in awkward silence.

  The office door opened. “I have Mrs. Russell’s coffee.” Preston’s secretary brought a porcelain mug instead of a Styrofoam cup.

  “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.” She departed, leaving Preston to stare at his pens and me to stare at his Stella.

  I sipped.

  He shifted in his chair.

  I sat back and studied the flow of lines across the canvas. Preston had brought me here. He could tell me what he wanted. Much as I’d dearly love to ask him about Khaki, I wasn’t about to help him by starting a conversation.

  He cleared his throat and ringed the inside of his collar as if his shirt was suddenly too tight. Since his collar was open, that was an impossibility.

  I crossed my ankles.

  He steepled his fingers an
d held them in front of his face, covering his mouth and nose. “This is difficult.”

  “I think it’s like ripping off a Band-Aid, better if you do it quickly.” Better for me.

  He lowered his head until I saw the crown, barely covered by thinning hair. “Jinx believes I was having an affair with Khaki. She’s carrying on with the tennis pro to get back at me.”

  So he knew. “Were you?”

  He looked up. “Was I what?”

  “Having an affair with Khaki.”

  “No.” His answer was immediate and forceful—totally believable—but my extensive experience with a cheating spouse had taught me that men were excellent liars.

  “Then tell Jinx.”

  “She won’t believe me.”

  “Why not?”

  “Khaki and I were working on a project together. It required some late nights.”

  Preston manufactured a highly engineered part for air conditioners. I glanced at the technical manuals and was less certain about the parts part. Maybe he made air conditioners. Khaki had carried around fabric swatches. “What project?”

  “I can’t tell you.”

  Why was I here if he couldn’t tell me anything? “Can you tell Jinx?”

  He deflated like a pricked balloon. “My wife is the best thing that ever happened to me. She’s my lodestone.” He clasped his hands and rested them on the desk. “And she can’t keep a secret.”

  He was not wrong. Jinx loved a good story. Especially if she was one of the first people to tell it. “Tell her that. The lodestone part.” Surely he was smart enough not to tell Jinx he thought she gossiped too much.

  “I’ve told her that a million times. She wants to know what Khaki and I were doing, and I can’t tell her.” The poor man sounded miserable. The corners of his mouth drooped. Furrows cut into his forehead.

  So it was Khaki’s secret? “Khaki doesn’t care if you tell anyone.” It was a harsh thing to say. Harsh but true. Khaki stopped caring when someone shot her.

  “It wasn’t Khaki’s secret either.”

  I took a sip of coffee. Not up to Mr. Coffee’s standards but not motor oil. Khaki and Preston had kept a secret. What was it? Whose was it? “You know, Preston, Khaki was killed for a reason. Maybe you should tell the police.”

  He paled. “I can’t.” He shook his head. “I could go to jai—” He rubbed his eyes and fell silent.

  People backed themselves into corners all the time. Preston seemed to have wedged himself in tightly. He had a secret he couldn’t share with his wife or the police. Now Jinx was having an affair and Khaki had been murdered. And his solution was me?

  “What do you want me to do, Preston?”

  “You’ve got to tell Jinx that Khaki and I weren’t having an affair.”

  “Won’t do a whit of good.” Did he really think Jinx would be placated with that? “You’ve got to tell her this secret. Tell her what’s going on.”

  “I can’t.” He dropped his head to his hands. “Please. Just tell Jinx.” His voice cracked as he said his wife’s name.

  I had a terrible, awful feeling that Preston might sob. “All right. I’ll tell her.” What else could I say? The last thing in the world I wanted was to watch a grown man cry. “But Preston, I think you’re faced with a choice. Keep your secret or keep your marriage.” I leaned forward and put the coffee mug on the edge of his crowded desk. “Do you know why Khaki was murdered?”

  “No!” Too forceful. Too quick.

  I raised a brow and waited.

  He stood, jack-in-the-box quick. “Thank you for coming.” If ever there was a hint to leave…

  “If you want me to talk to Jinx, tell me what’s going on. I can keep a secret.”

  Preston opened and closed his mouth. Twice. He fiddled with his collar again. He glanced down at the desk and straightened an already straight pen. “I’m sorry I wasted your time.” He emerged from behind his desk, took my coat off the tree, and held it for me.

  I stood but made no move to slide my arms into the coat’s sleeves. “She was murdered. She deserves justice.”

  “Goodbye, Ellison.”

  “Do you know who killed her?”

  His eyes widened and his cheeks paled. “No.”

  Maybe he was telling the truth. Maybe he didn’t know for certain. But I’d bet my Gucci trench he had a pretty good guess. “Preston—”

  He handed me my coat.

  “I have another appointment, Ellison. Thank you again.” He turned his back on me.

  “Preston.” He paused on his walk back to his desk. Paused but didn’t turn. I spoke to the muted plaid of his sport coat. “Be careful. Someone shot Khaki in cold blood. If you know something, you could be next.”

  nine

  If I’d known I’d find Mother at my house, I’d have taken a detour via St. Louis. Or, more apropos, Omaha.

  After all, Mother would make a wonderful Marlin Perkins…go fight that lion, Jim—

  I mean, Ellison.

  I opened the front door and found her directing Penelope, her housekeeper, and Frank, her houseman. Under Mother’s watchful eye, Penelope perched atop a stepladder like some long-suffering bird and ran a feather duster over the chandelier. Frank was on his hands and knees hunting nonexistent dust bunnies. Max, his head tilted slightly to the side, watched.

  “What are you doing?” My voice was as chilly and unwelcoming as the weather outside.

  “Helping you.” Mother held up a legal pad filled with her elegant script.

  “I didn’t ask for help.” I grabbed and held the wobbly ladder. “Penelope, get down from there.”

  Penelope looked at Mother who shook her head.

  The housekeeper continued dusting.

  Dammit.

  I shifted my gaze to the houseman with his cheek pressed to the floor. “There’s not a speck of dust under that chest. Get up, Frank.”

  Frank stood—slowly, the man was sixty-five if he was a day, not to mention the arthritis in his knees. He had no business crawling around on the floor. He glanced at Mother’s aggrieved expression and manufactured an apology. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Walford, but’s she’s right. No dust. It’s as clean as your house.”

  Mother snorted.

  “Where is Aggie?” I demanded. Did Mother have her cleaning light sockets with a screwdriver?

  “She is polishing silver in the kitchen.” Mother added some starch to her tone.

  The silver? Since it was polished just last week, that task had figured rather low on the to-do list Aggie and I had written.

  I clenched my jaw and forced a smile for Penelope and Frank’s benefit. “May I speak with you in the living room?”

  Mother didn’t move.

  “Please?” I let go of the ladder (Penelope had made her choice, she could live with the consequences) and marched toward my spotlessly clean living room. Mother damned well better follow me, or I’d tell her just what I thought of her unannounced arrival in front of the help. Perhaps she sensed that. After a few seconds, her heels clicked behind me.

  She stepped inside and I closed the door.

  Ten, nine, eight, seven…

  She tapped her list with the tip of her fingernail. I was wasting time.

  “How dare you?” The words came out in a rush. So much for calming breaths and counting down from ten. “How. Dare. You?”

  Her eyes widened as if she had no earthly clue what I meant. “What are you talking about, dear?”

  “Your staff in my foyer.”

  “Oh. That.” She waved an elegant wrist toward the closed door. “They’re helping.”

  She was interfering and she knew it. I wasn’t buying her wide-eyed innocent act for a second. “No, Mother. You’re interfering.”

  She narro
wed her eyes.

  I practically shook with emotion I didn’t care to name. “Helping would be calling and asking if I needed help. Helping would be offering to call the caterer, and the florist, and the bartender. Helping would be asking if you could run errands. That—” I pointed at the door “—is not helping. That is your way of telling me my house isn’t clean enough for your friends.”

  “Are you quite finished?” With her narrowed eyes, pale cheeks, and helmet of white hair, she looked like a general ready to decimate her enemies. Namely me.

  Scratch.

  I opened the door.

  Max walked inside and stood beside me, his shoulder pressed against my leg. At least I had one ally in this battle I couldn’t hope to win. I scratched behind his ear and closed the door.

  “You’re being unreasonable, Ellison.”

  “Really? If Aggie and I showed up at your house with a to-do list longer than the fairway on the seventeenth hole, you’d be delighted?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.” Her tone frosted the windows.

  “I’m not.”

  We glared at each other. Mother waiting for me to cede, to apologize, to do as she asked.

  That wasn’t happening.

  Max whined softly. Was I okay?

  Without interrupting our staring match, I stroked the top of his head.

  “There’s an order to things,” she said.

  I glanced around my immaculate living room and raised a brow.

  “Order is all we have.”

  “Pardon me?”

  “Chaos is out there. Waiting.” She pointed at the window. “Drugs and sex and ugly divorce. We need order to keep chaos at bay.”

  What this had to do with asking an arthritic man to crawl around on the floor looking for dust bunnies, I did not know.

  “Don’t roll your eyes at me, young lady.”

  “I’m not fifteen anymore, and you are in the wrong.”