“I most certainly am not. Whether you choose to recognize it or not, there is an order to our lives. A husband. Children. A nice home. Making a difference in the community. These are the things that give our lives meaning. They keep chaos at bay. Cleaning house for a party keeps chaos at bay.”
“Mother.” My voice was softer than I intended. Did she really believe that cleaning my house would make everything right in the world?
“Do you remember the story of the three little pigs?”
Max and I both tilted our heads. Had Mother been inhaling cleaning fluid?
“The first little pig built his house of straw and the wolf blew it down. The second used twigs and the wolf was able to blow it away. But the third pig—” she pointed a finger at me (a change from pointing her finger at her numbered list) “—the third pig used brick, and no matter how hard he tried, the wolf couldn’t destroy that house.”
In Mother’s mind, a husband, children, a nice—very clean—home, and a place in society were the equivalent of a brick house? They kept the wolf from the door?
She was wrong. So very, very wrong.
The wolf found a way inside. Always. Husbands cheated. So did wives. Children did drugs or dropped out of school. People were murdered in the study. And that nice offer to help a charity turned around and bit you in the ass.
She was clinging to a fairy tale.
“It doesn’t work that way, Mother.”
“It does.” She closed her eyes and her knuckles whitened around the edge of her to-do list. She bit her lip. “It does.”
For one crazy, horrific moment I thought she might cry.
Instead, she opened her eyes (no tears—instead, they blazed like a zealot’s) and shook her list at me. “This party is a reflection on me. You are a reflection on me.”
“I am a reflection on myself, not you.”
“Don’t be naïve.” This from a woman who thought a clean house could keep the wolves at bay?
The sound of a car door closing drew both our gazes to the window. Anarchy and Detective Peters stood in the drive looking up at the house. The aged brick and crisp white trim failed to charm them. They both wore grim expressions.
“Damn. Again?” Mother said what I was thinking. Then she added, “With order in your life, this sort of thing wouldn’t happen.” By order, she meant Hunter Tafft. Perhaps now was not the best time to mention we’d gone our separate ways. At my behest.
The two men walked out of our line of sight.
Ding dong.
“Tell them we’re getting ready for a party and you simply don’t have time to talk to them.”
Because telling a homicide detective that planning a party was more important than the woman murdered in my home would go over so well.
With that bit of horrifically bad advice, Mother opened the door to the foyer and slipped away.
I waited next to the fireplace. Too bad there wasn’t a fire burning. My hands could do with some warmth. Max would have enjoyed it too.
Tap, tap.
“Come in.”
Anarchy stepped into the living room, closing the door behind him. “What’s going on out there?”
“Mother.”
“She decided to clean your house?”
“That pretty much sums it up. The ceiling in her foyer collapsed so she volunteered me to host a cocktail party on Thursday night.”
Anarchy digested that bit of news while Max meandered over to say hello.
“No one will go in the study. I’ll keep the door locked.”
Our gazes met and I saw sympathy in his eyes. He knew standing up to Mother was like standing up to a hurricane. Generally—always—a bad idea. “Be sure that you do.”
“What can I help you with?” I asked.
“We’ve been looking into Mrs. White’s relationships.” He bent and scratched under Max’s chin.
My thoughts raced back to Preston and Jinx.
“There’s some indication that Mrs. White was up to something illicit.”
“You mean an affair?”
His coffee brown gaze returned to me. “No. Was she having an affair?”
Why couldn’t I keep my big mouth closed? “Not that I know of.” Not exactly a lie. I didn’t have to scratch the end of my nose. “What was Khaki up to?”
Anarchy glanced down at the Persian rug that covered the living room floor. “How much would you expect to pay for a Heriz runner?”
“Authentic?”
His upper lip twitched as if I’d amused him. “Of course.”
“Museum quality?”
“Probably not. But close.”
I pondered. “A thousand dollars give or take.”
“And if it was museum quality?”
“I don’t know. Twice that? Why?”
“One of Mrs. White’s clients recently took a rug in for repair. Their dog chewed off the fringe. They had the rug appraised while it was at the shop. It was worth about half of what they paid.”
“Decorators overcharge all the time.” It might’ve been unethical, but it wasn’t illicit.
“When we looked up that rug in Mrs. White’s books, she showed a twenty percent markup.”
I sat down in one of the wingbacks that flanked the fireplace. “Please, sit.” I nodded to the second chair. “Khaki sold a thousand-dollar rug for two thousand but listed the sale as twelve hundred?”
Anarchy sat across from me. “That’s about right.”
“What happened to the eight hundred dollars?”
“That’s what we’d like to know. We’re looking for the money.” He wore his cop expression—serious, focused, hard.
“Why are you telling me this?”
“Did she quote you any prices?”
“No. Monday was the first time she’d come to the house.”
“So you don’t know if she planned on overcharging you?”
“I don’t see how she could. I wasn’t interested in buying a carpet, and even if I was, I know what they cost.”
“Do most women know how much a rug like that costs?”
“I don’t know. The only reason I do is because Max ate half the upstairs runner when he was a puppy.” I scowled at my dog who didn’t act remotely guilty (then again, he never did). “I had to replace it.”
I glanced at my hands. Did Anarchy really think that bilking her clients had gotten Khaki killed? “If someone overcharged me and I found out about it, I’d sue them not kill them.”
“You’d tell everyone you knew, right?”
It was true. If a decorator fleeced me or any of my friends like that, she’d be the talk of every bridge table in town. “Yes.”
“All the women who’ve used Mrs. White speak highly of her.” He glanced again at the rug. “Even when we’ve pointed out that she overcharged.”
“What did their husbands say?”
A shadow crossed over his face. “They were less flattering.”
Of course they were. It was their money.
A few seconds passed in silence.
Anarchy leaned back. “That’s a pretty dress to clean house in.”
Those brown eyes of his didn’t miss much. And right now, those eyes were looking more like melting chocolate and less like forged steel.
I shifted in my chair and pulled at the hem of my dress. Did he mean that as a compliment or was he pointing out that I wasn’t actually doing any work? “I had an appointment this morning.”
“With whom?”
“No one important.” I scrambled for a new topic. One that didn’t include my dress, Jinx, or Preston and Khaki’s secret project. “Where’s Detective Peters?”
“He’s with Aggie. He had some questions about Hunter Tafft.” His voice
flattened when he said Hunter’s name.
I smiled. I couldn’t help it. Aggie was endlessly loyal to the man who paid her late husband’s medical bills. “He expects Aggie to answer them?”
“Hope springs eternal.” Dry as Saharan sand—that was his tone.
“How did you and Detective Peters become partners?”
“It’s been in the works for a while now. Peters’ last partner took early retirement.”
“What about your last partner?” I’d never seen Anarchy with another cop. Had he even had a partner?
“I take some getting used to.”
“How so?”
“Most of the men on the force—their fathers were cops. It’s like a family business.”
“And your father’s a professor.”
“You remember that?” His brown gaze warmed me. Good thing there wasn’t a fire in the hearth. The way Anarchy was looking at me combined with an open flame would have melted me into a puddle.
“I do.” There wasn’t much I forgot about Anarchy Jones.
“Also, I went to college. Most of the men on the force have not.”
“Where did you go? Berkley?” His father was a professor at Berkley.
“No.” For the first time since I’d met him, Anarchy fidgeted. He shifted in his chair. He pinched the pleat in his pants. He glanced out the window. “Stanford.” His voice was so low I almost missed hearing him.
Stanford. If one could look past the ugly plaid of his sport coat, there was more to Anarchy than met the eye. “What did you study?”
Now he glanced at the ceiling. “History and English. I planned on going to law school.”
“Why didn’t you?”
A grin flashed across his face. “To some, the only thing worse than being a lawyer is being a cop.”
I had to ask. “Who is some?”
His face—always lean, always hard—looked downright harsh. “My father.”
“So you’re a cop to annoy your dad?”
He shook his head. “I’m a cop because I like rules.”
You don’t say.
“Rules need to be enforced,” he continued. “And I like to think I’m making a difference. Helping people.”
“What do the other officers on the force think about Stanford?”
“I’ve been on the job for a long time.”
He hadn’t answered my question. Maybe he wouldn’t. Although, I’d learned more about Anarchy in the last five minutes than I had in the previous five months. Sharing personal information wasn’t exactly high on his priority list. If I repeated the question, would he return to his taciturn ways? I waited.
He rubbed his chin. “They thought I was playing and they resented me.”
“And now?” Low, barely there words.
His eyes twinkled. “Now they just resent me.”
“Does Peters resent you?”
“You’d have to ask Peters.”
“Ask me what?”
I’d been so wrapped up in listening to Anarchy, I hadn’t noticed him come in.
My hands fluttered like a debutante’s.
“If you’ve decided on a prime suspect.” Anarchy saved me from a bumbling lie.
Detective Peters scratched his cheek (maybe it wouldn’t itch if he did a better job shaving). “We’ve timed it out. Tafft couldn’t have done it.” He scowled. “I supposed you’ll call him and tell him that.”
“That he didn’t kill Khaki? He already knows.”
Detective Peters’ eyebrows lowered and the skin around his eyes scrunched. He looked like a cross between Dirty Harry and Oscar the Grouch. “You have no alibi.”
“I was picking up Aggie.”
“And we have only your word that Mrs. White was alive when you left.” The man was delusional.
“Peters—” Anarchy crossed his arms and tilted his head as if he was trying to figure out how his partner had come up with me as a suspect. “Mrs. Russell didn’t kill anyone.”
“So says you.” More Dirty Harry less Oscar the Grouch. He squinted at me. “We’re keeping an eye on you, Mrs. Russell.”
“You’ll find me very boring.”
“Hmph.” He shoved his hands in his pockets. Was he fingering his cuffs? “Don’t leave town.”
ten
Somehow I got Mother out of the house. Somehow. My scowl? Doubtful. Not even when paired with crossed arms. The promise to talk about dead bodies at the party if she didn’t leave? Bingo. It was the threat of discussing bodies that got her out of my foyer and returned her to her car.
Aggie and I breathed deep sighs.
Max returned to his favorite spot in the kitchen for a she’s-out-of-the-house-and-I-don’t-have-to-watch-her-anymore nap.
Aggie held up Mr. Coffee’s pot. “Shall I make fresh?”
“Please.”
Aggie poured out the old coffee, rinsed the pot, and refilled Mr. Coffee’s reservoir.
A single pair of silver candlesticks stood on the kitchen island. They’d belonged to my great-grandmother, weighed three tons, and were shiny enough to make me squint.
“That’s the silver you polished?”
Aggie nodded. “I did. Then I went back to our list.”
“What needs to be done?” Guilt niggled at me. I had a bridge game scheduled, and I hadn’t even tried to find a sub. When I departed, Aggie would be left with the entire list.
“Not much. The house is pretty much party-ready all the time. The caterer is bringing the food tomorrow. The rental company will drop off plates and glassware later today.” She glanced at her watch. “In an hour or so. The liquor store delivers around three. The florist is scheduled for two o’clock tomorrow. And the harpist won’t arrive until an hour before the party.”
“The harpist?” Mother hired a harpist?
“Yes.” There was no judgment in Aggie’s voice.
“A harpist.” There was plenty of judgment in mine. “Why not a jazz trio?”
Aggie knew I didn’t expect an answer. “I’ll put these in the dining room.” She picked up the candlesticks and disappeared.
With a charming gurgle followed by a steamy sigh, Mr. Coffee finished filling his pot.
I poured myself a cup, stared into its depths, and thought about bridge. Of my foursome, Jinx always arrived early, I arrived on time, and Libba and Daisy arrived late. If I arrived early, I’d be able to recount my visit with Preston to Jinx. But did I want to? Clichéd cuddling with the tennis pro aside, she was one of my dearest friends. Getting involved in her marriage was a bad idea.
But Preston had begged.
Like Mr. Coffee, I sighed. Unlike Mr. Coffee, my sigh wasn’t filled with promise. The sigh escaping my lips sank to the floor and slinked past Aggie’s ankles on its way out the door.
Aggie stood in the doorway, her forehead puckered with concern. “Are you okay?”
A second sigh joined the first. “Preston George wants me to tell Jinx he hasn’t been cheating on her.”
“Has he?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Then you should tell her.”
Aggie made telling Jinx sound so easy. An hour later, sitting alone in the card room and drumming my fingers against the table, telling Jinx didn’t seem easy. Instead, telling her struck me as difficult. You know that tennis pro you’ve been boffing to get even with your husband? You might want to stop, because your husband wasn’t having an affair. Who wants to hear that?
“You’re here early.” Jinx claimed the chair next to me by hanging her purse on its back. “What’s the occasion?”
“I was in Aggie’s way. She’s getting ready for the party Mother moved to my house.”
“That’s right. My mother is attending. She said something ab
out Frances having a plumbing issue.”
“Her ceiling fell on us.”
“That must have been fun.” Jinx did sarcasm well.
“Almost as much fun as finding a body.” To wit, no fun at all.
We both thought about Khaki’s lifeless body staring sightlessly at the ceiling in the study. At least I did.
“Do the police have any leads as to who killed Khaki?” Jinx had been thinking about her too.
“No.” And since Jinx had mentioned Khaki by name, avoiding telling her about my conversation with Preston would be cowardly. It was also tempting. I picked up a deck of cards and shuffled. “I went by Preston’s office this morning.”
Her brows rose. Her eyes glittered. “Oh?”
“He asked me to come.”
Jinx’s brows rose higher.
“He wants me to convince you he wasn’t having an affair with Khaki.”
She snorted softly. “And you believed him?”
“I did. I do.”
“If they weren’t having an affair, what were they doing all those nights?”
“He said they were working on a project.”
Jinx snorted loudly.
I didn’t blame her. Preston’s explanation was remarkably weak.
She reached over and patted my hand. “I know you’re only trying to help, but this is between Preston and me.” Translation: butt out.
“I really did believe him, Jinx. He loves you.”
“Easy for him to say.”
“I think he meant it.”
The tips of her nails dug into the back of my hand and the expression in her grey eyes was as cold as concrete in January. I shivered.
We said nothing. I was still thinking of Khaki’s sightless eyes. Lord only knew what Jinx was thinking about. How much pressure it would take to break the skin on the back of my hand? Preston? The tennis pro and his killer serve?
“Am I late?” Daisy stood in the entrance to the card room wearing a camel-colored twin set and a smile.
“You’re right on time.” For once. Thank God.
Jinx pulled her hand away.
I slipped my hand into my lap and glanced down. Red crescents marred the skin.
Watching the Detectives Page 9