Watching the Detectives

by Julie Mulhern

  “There you are, Mom.” Grace stood in the doorway to the front hall with half a laundry basket’s worth of clothes draped over her arm “How do I wash these?” While it was true, Grace didn’t have the slightest clue how to do laundry, it was also true she didn’t need to. Aggie handled the laundry. “Warm or cold?” she insisted.

  I couldn’t answer and not because I didn’t know that navy and black tee shirts should be washed on cold. Fear rendered me mute.

  What was she thinking? She could have run straight out the back door. Been safe. Instead, she was making this harebrained attempt to save me. With laundry.

  “Hi, Mr. Brewer.” Did Grace not notice the gun in his hand? “Seriously, Mom. Warm or cold? Will you come help me?”

  Did she really think Pete would let me—us—step out of the room to do a load of laundry?

  “I wish you hadn’t come in here, Grace.” Pete sounded sincere. “I wish you weren’t home.”

  Now Grace’s gaze landed on the gun. “You wanted me to come home and find my mother dead? You wanted to make me an orphan?”

  Her questions hung in the air, too painful, too real.

  “I’m sorry.” Pete lifted the gun.

  Oh my God! Not Grace. “Max!” Something in my voice told the dog that now was the time. He lunged.

  Bang!

  The sound of the gun discharging pushed everything else out of the room. Pushed the air out of my lungs.

  Grace!

  I turned. My daughter stood straight and tall and perfect next to the door.

  It was Pete who dropped to the floor. Pete and his scotch and his gun. He fell too close to the damned gun.

  Pete’s hand scrabbled across the carpet, reaching.

  With a growl worthy of a hellhound, Max’s teeth closed on his wrist.

  Crash! The sound of a door being kicked in carried from the foyer.

  “Ellison!” Anarchy raced into the living room with his gun drawn. His gaze took in Pete and Max on the floor.

  Max yanked on Pete’s wrist.

  Pete yowled. “Get him off me!”

  Grace stumbled then. She leaned against the wall, her eyes as wide as saucers and her lips pulled back from her teeth.

  The poor child looked horrified. And no wonder. The collection of tee shirts draped over her arm had slipped to the floor revealing a gun. My gun. She’d shot Pete.

  With his own gun, a .38, pointed at Pete, Anarchy picked up the dainty but deadly .22 off the floor. “Call off the dog, Ellison.”

  “Max, let go.”

  For once, Max listened to me. He released Pete, stalked over to me, and sat next to my chair. “Good dog.” I scratched behind his ears and tried not to notice Pete’s blood on his jowls.

  Anarchy approached Grace and gently pried my .22 from her shaking hand.

  “What happened?”

  Anarchy leveled his cop gaze on me.

  “Pete killed Khaki. And Stan. And he came here to kill me.” I was grateful to be sitting. My knees weren’t up to the job of holding me upright. I turned and smiled at my daughter (my lips curled up but the expression felt like a grimace). “Grace shot him.”

  “And what’s your version, Grace?”

  “I heard the front door slam and then voices. When I peeked downstairs, I saw Mr. Brewer with a gun.”

  So, rather than escaping the house, she’d fetched my gun? “Gra—”

  Anarchy held up a hand, stopping me. “Let her finish, Ellison.”

  “I called the police, but I was worried they wouldn’t get here in time. I got Mom’s gun out of her bedside table and covered it with some laundry.” She looked down at the pile of darks on the floor and swallowed audibly.

  “You know how to shoot?”

  She nodded. “My dad taught me.”

  “Is this the first time you’ve shot a person?” Anarchy’s voice was as gentle as I’d ever heard it.

  Something between a sob and a laugh broke free of her lips and her whole body shook as if she was having a small seizure.

  “Grace, you need to sit down.” Anarchy led her to the couch. “You saved your mom, Grace. Remember that.”

  Over the objection of my shaky knees, I hauled myself out of the chair, stumbled across the living room, and joined her on the couch. We wrapped our arms around each other. Nothing had ever smelled as sweet as the scent of her apple blossom shampoo. I stroked her hair. “You should have run.”

  “And let him shoot you?” She sniffled and wiped her eyes.

  “Anarchy was on his way.”

  “I didn’t know that.”

  Was this how Mother felt about me? A rush of love coupled with a desire to wring my neck? “You could have been shot.”

  “I wasn’t.”

  “Be that as it may—”

  “Mom.” She made one syllable into three.

  “Don’t do it again.”

  She snorted.

  “And you’re ungrounded.”

  That earned me another squeeze. I squeezed back. The girl in my arms was so precious. If something happened to her…I swallowed a lump in my throat. “I love you, Grace.”

  “I love you, too.”

  Max whined softly. He wanted in on the love-fest.

  Grace let go of me and wrapped her arms around his neck. “You are the bravest, best dog ever.”

  She shouldn’t say things like that. They’d go straight to his head.

  I turned toward Anarchy. He’d been busy while Grace and I talked. He’d hauled Pete, whose right shoulder was now crimson, off the floor. The man who’d come to my house to kill me wore handcuffs and the enraged expression that had transformed his face was gone, replaced by confusion—as if the turn of events was too much for him to process.

  “It wasn’t my fault,” he said. “I had to do it.”

  My fingers stiffened. They curved into claws. My teeth clenched. My tenuous hold on my emotions slipped. “Bullshit.”

  Next to me, Grace’s jaw dropped.

  “You killed two people. Good people. You didn’t have to do that. You planned on killing me—” I reached out and took Grace’s hand “—and Grace. You didn’t have to do that. And why? Because the wife you hit wanted to leave you?” My spine locked into perfect posture mode. “You are pathetic.”

  “Ellison—”

  I held up my free hand. Anarchy would not interrupt me. “There will come a day when society knows exactly what to do with men like you.” I knew now, but society probably wouldn’t approve of forced castration. “You’re going to prison, and I hope to God they throw away the key.”

  “Go, Mom.”

  The rage had returned to Pete’s face.

  “I should have shot you the minute I walked through the door.”

  “Your mistake.”

  “Ellison, would you please call the precinct? I need backup.”

  I recognized a diversion technique when I saw it. If Anarchy thought for one minute that—

  “I’ll do it, Detective Jones.” Grace released my hand and stood.

  No! I wanted her on the couch, next to me—I wasn’t ready to let go.

  She hurried out of the room—a young woman who neither wanted nor needed her mother to worry about her.

  I watched her go with an aching heart.

  “Ahem.”

  I turned and faced Anarchy.

  “What exactly was it you wanted to tell me?”

  twenty-three

  The hospital coffee shop was fast becoming as familiar to me as my own kitchen.

  I sat in a booth next to the window where Monday morning sunshine—weak, but there—gilded my coffee cup.

  Mother sat across the table. She was not happy. “He held you at gunpoint?”


  “We’ve been over this twice.” Three times, but who was counting?

  “Do you realize what this does to my nerves?”

  “Actually, I do.” I understood exactly the horrible knowledge that one couldn’t protect one’s daughter from darkness or evil or pain. I reached across the table and took her hand. “It’s over now.”

  She stared down at our two hands. “For now.”

  “I promise. No more bodies.”

  Mother squeezed my fingers but shook her head. “You can’t make that promise. You find bodies everywhere. It’s as if you’ve been cursed.”

  She spoke from a place of worry. Remembering that—remembering how worried I’d been for Grace—kept me from snatching my hand away. I cleared my throat and sent the conversation in a new direction. “I haven’t been up to see Cora yet. How is she?” My morning thus far had consisted of helping Preston load a cranky Jinx into his car. He’d been infinitely patient and loving and had tucked Jinx into the passenger seat like precious cargo.

  With her safely strapped in, Preston turned and dropped a kiss on my cold cheek. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.” I glanced at Jinx in the car. “You know, you could have told her about what Khaki was doing.” He could have told me.

  “What Khaki was doing was illegal—” he smiled at his wife who was ignoring us and fiddling with the radio “—and Jinx can’t keep a secret.”

  I didn’t argue. Instead, I tapped on the passenger window, waved a last goodbye to Jinx, and re-entered the hospital, where I met Mother for coffee.

  One of Mother’s perfectly manicured fingers tapped the back of my hand. “Cora is divorcing Thornton.” She sounded resigned, not scandalized.

  I raised my brows.

  “Don’t look surprised. It’s about time she stood up to him.”

  I wasn’t surprised Cora was divorcing Thornton. I was surprised Mother wasn’t having a faunching fit over a divorce in the family.

  “People accord you exactly the amount of respect you accord yourself. Cora finally realized that.”

  Mother made it sound so easy.

  Her grip on my hand tightened. “What’s happening with you and Hunter?”

  “Nothing.”

  Her diamond ring dug into my fingers. “Nothing?”

  “I told him I’m not ready for a relationship.”

  Mother sighed. I’d disappointed her again. “Just because you’ve spent the week around bad husbands—”

  “It’s not that.”

  “Then what?”

  Anarchy Jones. But I wasn’t about to tell her that. “I’m not ready. Henry hasn’t been dead six months.”

  Her lips pursed as if she’d bitten into a sour pickle and she tsked.

  I stood. “I’m going to visit Karen Fleming.”

  Mother patted her lips with a paper napkin she pulled from the silver dispenser on the table. “Don’t worry about Hunter, Ellison. I’ll smooth things over.”

  “I don’t want you to—”

  She waved away my objections. “Give Karen my regards.”

  I couldn’t control what Mother did any more than I could control Grace. Then again, Mother couldn’t control me.

  Karen’s hospital bed was cranked somewhere between sitting and reclining. Her face was still swollen, still purple. If anything, she looked worse than she had when I found her. She opened her eyes, saw me, and somehow she managed a smile.

  “How are you feeling?” I asked.

  “Like hell.” The smile remained on her lips. “If hell were at the top of the world.”

  Dan had been arrested and charged with attempted murder.

  That was thanks to Anarchy and a call from Daddy to the police commissioner. Peters had wanted to charge Dan Fleming with breaking and entering.

  “You saved my life.”

  “Mary Beth would have found you.”

  “True, but I don’t know if she would have called for help.”

  “She would have. You’re her friend.”

  “Maybe.” Karen glanced down at the bed. “You don’t know what it’s like to live in fear of your husband. She wasn’t supposed to be there.” Karen smoothed the top sheet. “I heard Pete tried to kill you.”

  “Yes.”

  “And he killed Khaki and Stan.”

  I nodded. “Yes.”

  “Because Khaki was giving hopeless women hope. A way out.”

  “Yes. But he won’t harm anyone else. Ever.”

  We visited for a few more minutes, then I said goodbye.

  I paused outside Karen’s room and leaned against a wall the color of old oatmeal. One of the fluorescent bulbs in the overhead lights needed changing—an annoying buzz mixed with the distant sound of nurses voices.

  Poor Karen. Poor Mary Beth. Poor Cora.

  I shook my head. Had the past week taught me nothing? They weren’t objects of pity. They were survivors.

  The sound of steps on the tile floor brought me out of my reverie. Anarchy Jones walked toward me, purpose evident in every stride.

  He stopped when he saw me. “Ellison.”

  “Anarchy.”

  And just like that, we ran out of things to say.

  All the things I ought to tell him ran through my head. Thank you being chief among them. They were followed quickly by the things I’d never say—dear God, you’re handsome.

  Anarchy smiled—the kind of smile that made me wonder if he could read my mind—leaned forward, and brushed his lips against my cheek—the softest of kisses.

  It set the nerve endings in my cheek on fire.

  “Are you free for dinner tonight?” His voice was velvety and seductive and beguiling.

  I caught my lip in my teeth, looked up at the ceiling, looked down at the floor, and gave him my answer.

  Author’s Note

  In the early 1970s, spousal abuse was deemed a private matter by both the police and the medical community. Authorities were reluctant to intervene in matters between a husband and a wife. As such, I have pushed the envelope by creating Phoenix House. In fact, the first domestic violence shelter did not open in Missouri until 1976.

  About the Author

  Julie Mulhern is the USA Today bestselling author of The Country Club Murders. She is a Kansas City native who grew up on a steady diet of Agatha Christie. She spends her spare time whipping up gourmet meals for her family, working out at the gym and finding new ways to keep her house spotlessly clean—and she’s got an active imagination. Truth is—she’s an expert at calling for take-out, she grumbles about walking the dog and the dust bunnies under the bed have grown into dust lions.

  The Country Club Murders

  by Julie Mulhern

  THE DEEP END (#1)

  GUARANTEED TO BLEED (#2)

  CLOUDS IN MY COFFEE (#3)

  SEND IN THE CLOWNS (#4)

  WATCHING THE DETECTIVES (#5)

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