“I had an argument with my father. We haven’t had a disagreement since I was a teenager and—”
“Have you reported that Earl assaulted you?”
“No. Not yet.”
He stood, lifted the phone off the hook, and held it out to me. “Call.”
My spine stiffened and my heels dug into the floor. “Don’t tell me what to do.” I sounded like a petulant five-year-old, but I’d had it up to my eyeballs with men expecting me to do what they said just because they said it.
“Call.”
“I will.” On my own time and not because he’d told me to. I ignored the phone in his hand. “Later.”
Ding dong.
“I’ll get it.” Grace’s voice carried down the stairs and interrupted the deep scowl Hunter was sending my way.
I turned to Mr. Coffee—the one man who never tried to manage my life—and refilled my cup. Without offering a single opinion or directive, he provided me with the fuel to face Hunter. I sipped, sighed, took the receiver from Hunter’s hand, and, with a flourish, dropped it back on the cradle.
Hunter crossed his arms and shook his head as if I’d disappointed him. Again.
My father strode into the kitchen and the temperature dropped twenty degrees. Obviously he was still in high dudgeon.
Grace followed him in, took the room’s measure, grimaced, and turned on her heel, leaving me to face two angry men alone.
I stood next to Mr. Coffee, my one ally. Well, except for Max. He sat at my feet and regarded with doggy distrust the two men he’d heretofore considered friends.
My father opened his mouth then closed it. Whatever dressing down he had planned for me was stymied by Hunter’s presence. Daddy could hardly point out that I was an idiot in front of the man he wanted me to marry.
A small blessing. Tiny. Miniscule.
“Good afternoon.”
My father grunted.
“Coffee?”
Another grunt.
“What about you, Hunter? Are you sure you don’t want coffee?”
“No, thank you.”
They stood in silence. And in this case, silence definitely wasn’t golden. It was as prickly and uncomfortable as a hair shirt. I sipped my coffee and pretended to be sanguine. I wasn’t. I wasn’t raised to displease the men in my life and their mute ire had my insides squirming like a bucket of worms.
Brnng brnng.
I lunged for the phone, sloshing my coffee over the rim of my cup and onto the floor. What a waste. At least I could count on Mr. Coffee to make me more. “Hello.”
“Ellison?”
Oh dear Lord. I had nothing to say to the man who’d escorted my date out of the club party. I let silence speak for me.
“Are you there?” he asked. “You’re angry.”
“You are a detective.” Sometimes sarcasm is called for. “We both know Hunter didn’t kill Brooks.” Or Charles Dix—but I wasn’t about to bring him up.
Hunter and my father regarded me with interest.
“I had questions.”
“They couldn’t wait?”
Now it was Anarchy’s turn to be silent.
“When I got home—alone, I might add—Earl Mack was hiding in my bushes. He attacked me.”
Something on the other end of the phone crashed—the front legs of a chair slamming back to the floor, a coffee mug meeting an untimely end, a load of guilt falling on Anarchy’s broad shoulders?
“You’re all right?”
“Fine.”
“You didn’t call it in?”
“I had other things to think about.” I scowled at my father.
“We’ll need your statement.”
“Fine.”
“We’ll put an extra patrol on your street until he’s caught.”
“Fine.”
“Can you come down to the station?”
His voice tiptoed around my bad mood as if he was afraid the wrong combination of words—the wrong tone—might set me off. If he only knew.
I squinted at the two men standing in my kitchen. “I’m on my way.”
It didn’t take long to file a police report. I sat in a dingy interview room and explained what had happened, confirmed that when Earl Mack was caught I did want to press charges, and shared my parents’ names as corroborating witnesses. Brief. Dry. Emotionless.
“My parents’ phone number is three-six-one—”
“Ellison.”
I ignored Anarchy’s interruption.
“Zero-eight-nine—”
“Ellison, we have your parents’ phone number.”
“Oh. Well, then.” I stood and glanced at my watch. “If there will be nothing further, I’m meeting someone for coffee.” Almost two hours remained until I was due to meet Priscilla, but Anarchy did not need to know that. I turned toward the door of the sad little room where I’d recounted my tale. Surely the city budget could stretch for fresh paint and chairs that didn’t creak when one moved?
“Wait. Please.”
I paused.
“About last night…” His voice trailed away.
I glanced over my shoulder. Gravity seemed to be exerting extra pull on Anarchy. His mouth drooped. The skin around his eyes drooped. Even his shoulders drooped.
“You’re right. I shouldn’t have picked up Tafft at the club.” He pulled at the collar of his denim shirt—apparently he came to work in casual clothes on Saturdays. “I was jealous.”
People getting tetanus shots with ten-inch needles wore happier expressions than the one on Anarchy’s face. Telling me he’d been jealous had cost him.
“So you broke the rules.”
“No.” His response was lightning fast. Decisive. “He needed to be questioned.”
“But not last night.”
“Not last night.”
“When Henry died, I swore I was done with men.” My late husband had left a sucking wound in my soul, a wound that hadn’t yet healed. “But you and Hunter.” I bit my lip and searched for words. “I’m not ready. I don’t know if I’ll ever be ready. You should move on. Both of you.” With that, I made my escape.
I drove to the Country Club Plaza and parked in Swanson’s garage. I needed retail therapy in the worst way.
An hour later, I stashed three pairs of slacks, two pairs of shoes, four sweaters, and a new coat in my trunk, locked it, and descended to the sidewalk.
La Bonne Bouchée, where I was meeting Priscilla, was several blocks away and I took my time walking, enjoying the mild afternoon. I paused and admired a coat in Halls’ window then glanced at my watch. There was just enough time to pop inside.
I popped.
“The coat in the window,” I said to a saleswoman. “How much is it?”
She named a number that made my eyes widen.
“Who’s the designer?”
“Bill Blass.”
That explained why it cost nearly as much as a new mink. I’d just bought a coat at Swanson’s, I didn’t need a second one. Strictly speaking, I hadn’t needed the first one.
I sighed and checked the time. “I have to go, but I’ll think about it. Thank you.”
At precisely three o’clock, I pushed open the door to the little French bakery and took a deep breath of sugar-and-butter-laden air. Somehow I walked past the siren song of a display case filled with French pastries without stopping. A minor miracle. Instead, I scanned the small dining area.
Priscilla waited for me at a table in the corner. If the large number of crumbs on the table were any indication, she had not made it past the pastries unscathed. She saw me and waved.
I weaved my way through the tables and claimed the seat across from her.
“Thank you for meeting me,” she said.
“My pleasure.” I scratched my nose.
“I’m afraid I started without you. This is breakfast time for me.”
“I’m glad you did. Palmier?”
She nodded. “It was delicious.”
A waiter appeared and I ordere
d café au lait.
Priscilla watched him walk away then shifted in her seat. “What you must think of me.”
“Pardon me?”
“Middle-aged woman. Younger man. Mrs. Robinson and Benjamin Braddock.”
“In truth, I hadn’t given it much thought.”
Priscilla’s mouth thinned.
Did she really imagine I sat at home passing judgment on her? There were scads of more interesting things to do—watch television, paint, walk the dog, refill Mr. Coffee.
“I didn’t plan for it. It just happened.”
Cats are attracted to people who don’t like them. Put a cat-hater in a room with a tabby and that darned cat’s guaranteed to rub up against their shins or jump on their lap, ignoring cat-lovers hither and yon.
That’s how it is with me and personal revelations. There are people who like listening to others’ problems. Shrinks. Psychologists. Counselors. Me, I’d rather face murderous clowns. Yet everyone I met seemed bound and determined to share their innermost thoughts and emotions.
“Brooks and I cared about each other.” Her voice caught. Seemingly Priscilla had cared a lot. Fair enough. But why was she telling me? And, if she cared so much, why had she needed to look up his name in a file?
“Was Brooks the clown every night?”
“No. He had several nights off each week. I never could remember which ones they were.” She rubbed her eyes, smearing her mascara. “That’s why I opened his file.”
“What did he do the nights he wasn’t working for you?”
Priscilla’s lips pinched together and her eyes narrowed. Seconds passed.
“I’m sure I don’t know.”
Those must have been the nights he worked for Mistress K. There was no getting around it. I was going to have to call her.
What to say to Priscilla? Brooks Harney had possessed the morals of a tomcat. He’d been married, carried on an affair, and made himself available to female members of Club K. He’d also shown the strength to get himself—and keep himself—off drugs. I made one of those soft humming noises in my throat, a sympathetic sound which was incredibly useful when words abandoned me in the face of another’s raw emotion.
“I didn’t have dreams of the future.” She glared at me as if she expected me to argue. “I didn’t.” Priscilla was lying. She had dreamed of the future. The tears glimmering at the corners of her eyes were a dead giveaway. “We had fun together.”
Really, what could be more fun than an affair with a man half your age? Influenza came to mind.
“We agreed it was just for the season.”
“The season?”
“Until the haunted houses closed down.”
“Did you know Brooks was married?”
She scowled. “He’d filed for divorce.”
That was news. “When?”
“I don’t know the exact date, but he filed before he left California.” She brushed her crumbs to the floor. “Did you see his wife at the funeral?”
I said nothing. Everyone had seen Stormy Harney at the funeral. The question had to be rhetorical.
“How could he have married her?” She rubbed the back of her hand across her lips as if wiping away the taint of lips that had touched both Stormy’s and hers. “She’s nothing but a two-bit floosy. And tacky. You’d have thought Brooks would pick a girl with some taste—some class—and not one who was out for his money.” Her mouth, now entirely free of lipstick, twisted into a sucking-lemons sneer.
That darned cat. Priscilla’s jealousy was not something I wanted rubbing against my shins. “You knew about his inheritance?”
“It’s one of the reasons he came back here. He’d already met with the trust officer. He planned on calling the lawyer. Brooks was going to establish new accounts, separate from his family.” She wiped under her eyes. “He was going to go to college and get a degree in social work. He wanted to help other addicts.”
Oh good Lord. Brooks was one of those people? One who wanted to listen to other people’s problems.
Being a social worker was a far cry from the life Genevieve and Robert had probably planned for their son, but even they would have had to admit that such a career was infinitely preferable to Brooks dying with a needle in his arm. Or a knife in his chest.
“What do the police know about his murder?” Priscilla wiped under her eyes. Her fingers came away dry.
“They don’t share their investigation with me.”
“Really? I thought you and that detective…” She didn’t finish her sentence, daring me to finish it for her.
“No. There’s nothing between us. I can only tell you what I saw. Someone dressed in a clown suit stabbed Brooks.”
“And you have no idea who it was?” Why was she so interested? Was I too suspicious? She had had a murderer running around her haunted house. In her Gucci boots, I’d be concerned too.
“Absolutely none,” I told her.
The waiter arrived with my coffee and I took a grateful sip. “You know what happened next. I found a security guard.” The guard hadn’t believed me and Brooks’ body had gone missing. “He brought me to you.”
I closed my eyes and pictured that night. Scary clowns with knives. If the group of teenage girls who’d followed me into the circus room had seen Brooks’ murder, they would have squealed in horrified delight then shuffled forward to the next terrifying scene.
They weren’t alone. Almost anyone else would have thought the stabbing was part of the experience—another vignette designed to terrify.
But Brooks had stumbled toward me and I knew dead when I saw it. What’s more, he’d slipped business cards in my pocket. Why?
Priscilla and the guard had tried to convince me I was imagining things.
If I hadn’t called Anarchy, no one would have ever known Brooks had been murdered in the haunted house.
Was that why the body had been moved? To hide where the actual murder took place?
If that was true, did the woman sitting across from me have something to do with his death?
I stared at the phone. Sure, it looked innocuous, but…
I shifted my gaze. I was surrounded by Henry’s prize possessions.
Really, I ought to go upstairs and call from my bedroom. No—the thought of speaking with Kathleen O’Malley was distasteful enough, I didn’t want her voice anywhere near the place I lay my head. Here, Henry’s study, was the place to make the call.
I snatched up the receiver and dialed.
The phone rang. Once. Twice. Three times.
“Hello.” A male voice.
“May I please speak with Miss O’Malley?”
“Who?”
Dammit. “May I please speak with Mistress K?”
“One moment.”
I drummed my fingers on the edge of Henry’s desk and waited.
“Hello.”
“This is Ellison Russell calling.” This call to a dominatrix suddenly seemed like an epically bad idea.
“Yes?” Somehow Mistress K infused the one word with amusement.
“You said something at the funeral.”
“Oh?” More amusement.
“You asked me to tell Detective Jones that Brooks had—” I gritted my teeth and glared at my husband’s Toby mugs “—played with women at your club.”
“That.” She sounded less amused. “I talked to all of them. None of them had anything to do with Brooks’ death.”
“How can you be sure?”
I heard her smile.
“They all miss him. Badly. It’s hard to find a man who’ll drop to his knees on command and—”
“Enough!” I believed her. Hearing more would just scar my ears.
“Are you sure? If you come down to the club, I can tell you who I spoke with. We open at nine.”
“I’m sure.” I borrowed Mother’s best arctic voice.
“Your loss.”
“So be it. Goodbye.” I hung up the phone. Quickly. There was no point in talking to Mistress K furt
her. I believed her. I couldn’t see a dominatrix hiring a man to knife Brooks.
Thirteen
I lifted the kitchen phone from its cradle and stared at it. All things being equal, I’d rather find another body or listen to Mistress K’s litany of shocking sexual acts than call Anarchy.
I dialed his office number anyway.
A woman answered. “Hello.”
“This is Ellison Russell calling with a message for Detective Jones. Please tell him that Priscilla Owens told me Brooks Harney had filed for divorce.”
She repeated the message back to me then added, “Is that all?”
“Yes. Thank you.” I hung up. Anarchy was smart enough to realize Stormy had a strong motive for murder without my pointing it out. But what about Priscilla? Was jealousy a motive for murder?
“I still can’t believe he got married and didn’t tell us.”
Really, I needed to hang a bell on the door to the backstairs. Camille, having silently descended the stairs, stood just inside the kitchen with her eyes wide and her hands clasped.
Apparently Grace had taken me at my word and invited her friend to stay indefinitely.
“According to Stormy, it was a spur of the moment wedding.” I smiled. Why was I smiling as if an unplanned wedding excused all? My cheeks relaxed and the smile fled. “They didn’t invite anyone.”
Camille’s expression reminiscent of her mother’s usual demeanor—a combination scrunch of the nose and curl of the lip that suggested the sudden introduction of a foul odor. “What was he thinking?”
Marrying Stormy or not inviting his family? “I don’t know, dear.”
We stared at each other for a moment then Camille said, “Thank you for letting me stay. Things are awful at home right now.”
I used the soft sound in my throat. “You’re most welcome. Things will get better. I promise”
She stepped into the kitchen. “I doubt it. My father acts like nothing happened. My mother has taken so many Valium I don’t even know if she realizes who died. And Robbie says it’s just as well Brooks is dead.”
Her parents were morons and Robbie was an uncaring idiot. But they were her family. Camille needed them. I made another soft sound. “May I get you anything? A drink? Are you hungry?” Not that I planned on cooking, but Aggie kept us well stocked with snacks and Tupperware containers filled with good things to eat.
Send in the Clowns (The Country Club Murders Book 4) Page 13