“No, thank you.” She pulled out a stool, sat at the counter, and held the tips of her fingers under her eyes, half masking her face. “Robbie’s the worst. He says Brooks would have run through his inheritance then come back for more.”
It was happening again. Cat, cat-hater, and the rub of secrets and emotions that made me squirm.
“There’s no way Robbie could know that.”
She shrugged—a defeated little gesture. “He says our grandfather never dreamed his money would be used to finance a drug habit.”
“Brooks wasn’t taking drugs.” Camille ought to know Brooks wasn’t as awful as Robbie made him out to be. “He was planning on going back to school. He wanted to work with other addicts and help them get clean.”
Camille covered her hand with her mouth as if her fingers could muffle the strangled sound in her throat.
Good Lord. I’d made things worse. I should have kept my mouth shut.
She dropped her head to her hands. “Mother says you can’t trust addicts. They’ll break your heart.” No child should sound so hopeless.
Genevieve should have kept her mouth shut too.
“Brooks was turning his life around,” I insisted. Did that make his death harder or easier to bear?
“It doesn’t matter. He’s dead.” Tears welled in her eyes. She wiped them away with the back of her hand. “I can’t believe I won’t ever talk to him again. He was my brother and I loved him.”
“Of course you did.”
“We never saw him, but there was always the possibility that we might. That he and my parents would make up, that he’d come home.”
Yet another soft soothing noise came from my throat. I was getting good at them.
“I can’t believe—” My witchy next-door neighbor probably heard Camille’s swallow. It was that loud. “It’s just that—” Camille’s nose reddened to cherry tomato and the tears that had been threatening streamed down her drawn cheeks. “I miss him.”
I draped an arm around her shoulders.
She sobbed.
I rubbed circles on her back and made yet another soft soothing noise.
Camille cried harder.
Note to self—the soft soothing noise never made anything better. Quite the opposite. It invited confidences and tears.
“It’s just so awful.” Her shoulders shook beneath my hand.
“Of course it is.”
She lifted her head slowly and stared at me. Something other than sadness swam in the pools of her eyes. Fear.
Fear? What was she afraid of? “Camille—”
Brnng, brnng.
Dammit.
“One minute, Camille.” I held up a single finger to illustrate then picked up the receiver. “Hello.”
“Oh good, I got you.”
“Good afternoon, Mother.”
Camille climbed off her stool, gave me a small, droopy wave, and disappeared up the back steps. What was she afraid of?
“Ellison.” Mother’s sharp tone seemed to reflect the knowledge that she didn’t have my full attention.
“Yes, Mother.”
“You need to apologize to your father.”
Now she had my full attention.
“For what?”
“He’s moping around the house like a man who’s been told he can never play golf again.”
“I’m sorry to hear that, but what has that got to do with me?”
“You know exactly. He expects your love and respect. He only said those things because he loves you. He worries.”
That might be true—probably was true—but it did nothing to remove the sting of manage. And wasn’t respect a two-way street? “What exactly am I supposed to apologize for?”
“Not listening to him.”
“I did listen. I heard him tell me that I need a man to manage me.”
“You’re being ridiculous. He didn’t mean manage. He meant monitor. Someone to keep an eye on you so he doesn’t have to worry so much. And, you have to admit, it would be no hardship to have Hunter Tafft watching over you.”
“I don’t want anyone watching over me. It’s my life, Mother.”
“There’s no need to get snitty.”
Snitty?
I stretched the phone cord and filled Mr. Coffee with grounds. “What would be so bad about being on my own?” Nothing. That’s what.
“You won’t be young and pretty forever.”
Meaning I’d better catch a man now while I still had my looks and figure. Catching a man. It made me sound like a predator hoping to ensnare some unsuspecting fool in my trap. I filled Mr. Coffee with water.
“You’ve got two men on a string now. Do you know how easily that number could shrink to none?”
I pushed Mr. Coffee’s button. “What if it did?”
The question achieved the impossible; it struck Mother dumb.
“I don’t need a man to make me happy.”
“You say that now…”
Mr. Coffee—God love him—dripped coffee into his pot. “Mother. Enough.”
She huffed. A breath of air that traveled through the phone lines and left a layer of frost on the appliances in my kitchen. “You need to apologize.”
“Perhaps Daddy should be the one to apologize.”
There was no response. I’d rendered Mother mute twice in one conversation. Somewhere in hell, the damned were having a snowball fight. “You’ve changed.” Her acid tone made that change sound as appealing as a triple bogey. Or worse. “I don’t know what’s happened to you since Henry died.”
I wasn’t precisely sure what had happened to me either, but I wasn’t going back to being the Ellison I had been. “I’m not going to apologize, Mother. Is there anything else?”
I poured myself a cup of coffee while she thought.
And thought.
“It never occurred to me you’d go with Aggie to see that woman. If it had, I wouldn’t have asked her.”
“So you’re all right with sending Aggie into a potentially dangerous situation but not me?”
“That man didn’t come looking for Aggie.”
I couldn’t argue that point.
“Ellison, we want you safe. Just like you want to keep Grace safe.”
I wanted Grace to be safe, but I didn’t want her to be packed in cotton until she found a man to take care of her. I wanted her to have a life. I wanted a life. On my own terms. “I appreciate the sentiment. I do. But I’m not going to apologize or consign myself to marriage just so I can have a man take care of me.”
“Then who will take care of you?”
“I’ll take care of myself.” With a little help from Mr. Coffee. “Mother, I’ve got to go. I’ll talk to you later. Love you.” I hung up the phone before she could object, then took it off the hook. If—when—she called back, the line would ring busy.
Saturday evening passed in a flurry of Archie Bunker, Mary Tyler Moore, Bob Newhart, and Carol Burnett. I sat on the couch, listened to Archie bully Edith, and thought of the coat I hadn’t bought, patterned raw silk somewhere between persimmon and coral with a fur collar and cuffs. I had no place to wear it. It was too expensive. I had a Gucci trench due to be picked up from the cleaners. I didn’t need another new coat.
Where would I even wear a coat like that? It wouldn’t stand up to daily use. Not like the perfectly lovely coat I’d just bought at Swanson’s. I could wear the Halls’ coat to the opera or the symphony or on dates. Then again, I could wear my mink on all of those occasions. Except the dates. I wasn’t accepting dates.
I drifted to sleep during Carol Burnett. Max nudged me awake with a cold, emphatic nose. It was time for him to go out.
He trotted into the backyard, not a care in the world. It might be nice to be a dog—no coveting coats, no complicated relationships, no worries other than keeping the backyard squirrel-free.
Max finished his business and returned to the back door with every expectation of receiving his nightly dog biscuit.
Of course, I gav
e him one. Then he followed me upstairs and we both went to bed.
I woke the next morning feeling much better about the world. That’s not to say animated blue birds were draping my sweater across my shoulders while tweeting a cheery tune—but I did feel better.
I headed to the kitchen for a confab with Mr. Coffee. He waited there for me. Silent. Dependable. Altogether perfect. One push of his button and he delivered.
Grace opened the door from the backstairs. “Hi, Mom.”
Camille followed her. “Good morning, Mrs. Russell.”
“Mom?”
“Mmmm?” I took my first sip of coffee and sighed.
“Could we go out for breakfast?”
“Sure.”
Now Grace sighed. It might have been a sigh of relief. I make one thing for breakfast. Bisquik pancakes. A recipe that’s impossible to screw up—well, almost impossible.
“Where do you want to go?”
There’s a new place over on the east side,” Grace said.
“Oh?”
“My brother says it sounds like the Moosewood Restaurant.”
“Moosewood?” I gazed at Camille over the rim of my coffee cup.
“It’s a vegan place in Ithaca,” she explained. “I went there when I visited my roommate’s family. Her father is a professor at Cornell.”
“Are you a vegetarian?” I’d ordered the girls pepperoni pizza for dinner and Camille hadn’t said a thing.
“No.”
That was a relief. “This restaurant, do they at least serve eggs?”
Camille shook her head.
“No eggs?” What was brunch without eggs? “We could always run over to the club.”
Grace rolled her eyes. “Come on, Mom. Step outside your comfort zone.”
“Fine. Can you be ready in twenty minutes?”
“Fifteen.”
Twenty minutes later we were on our way. Grace gave me the address, and I didn’t even raise my eyebrows.
The building was purple—a deep violet shade. Bamboo grew out of pots flanking the door. The windows—there were two—had peace symbols painted on them. The sidewalk was cluttered with a mismatched assortment of tables and chairs
“Here?” I asked.
Stepping out of my comfort zone was looking like a gastronomical disaster.
“Here.”
I got out of the car. The cool mom, ready for a culinary adventure. “Lock your doors.” Hopefully the car would still be here when we finished.
We stepped into a dim restaurant—those peace symbols blocked a lot of light. Trailing ivy in macramé hangers hung from the pressed tin ceilings. The walls were covered with art. Good art by local artists. Perhaps it wouldn’t be so bad.
“Three?” asked a hostess with granny glasses and pigtails.
“Yes.”
“This way.” She led us through the maze of tables.
That’s when I saw it.
The coat—the one from Halls’ window. The one that had haunted my dreams.
That coat with its luscious fur collar had no business in a restaurant where people didn’t eat meat. Then again, it had no business being worn on a Sunday morning.
Either the woman whose shoulders it covered didn’t know better, or the man who’d bought it for her was with her and she wanted to please him.
My gaze shifted to Jay Fitzhugh.
He saw me and the color ran from his face like a watercolor left in the rain.
The woman turned and looked at me.
She was definitely not Libba. Not that Libba would be caught dead at a brunch that lacked eggs, bacon—I scanned the room and failed to spot a bar—and Bloody Marys.
“You girls go on and get seated. I see a friend.” I strode toward Jay’s table.
He stood, knocking his chair over backward. “Ellison.”
“Jay. Good morning.” I could have insisted that he sit. I didn’t. Instead, I gazed down at the woman with whom he was eating breakfast.
Very pretty. Very young.
“I’m Ellison Russell.” I extended my hand.
“Alice Steele.” She smiled at me and shook.
“Alice is my secretary,” said Jay. “We’ve been working hard, so I thought as a treat—”
“That’s a lovely coat, Alice.” It draped around her shoulders like a bit of advertising copy. I am a rich man’s mistress. Or possibly I’m sleeping with my boss.
She glanced at Jay then stroked the collar. “Thank you.”
“Didn’t I see one like it in the window at Halls’?”
“I fell in love with it.” She cut her gaze at Jay.
I too looked at Jay. How dare he do this to Libba? She thought he cared for her when in reality he was having some kind of fling with his secretary. “How long have you and Jay—Mr. Fitzhugh—worked together?”
“Since the beginning of the year.”
“Well, I’m sure he’s very lucky to have you helping him. Do you come here often? I’ve never been.” And I’d never be back.
“It’s Jay’s favorite.” Alice’s voice was low and husky and soft as the fur around her neck.
Jay, not Mr. Fitzhugh. And she knew his favorite restaurant. Or thought she did. If I needed any further confirmation of an affair, there it was.
Jay cleared his throat. “This place is a bit off your beaten path, Ellison. What brings you here?” This restaurant was the perfect place to bring someone Jay didn’t care to be seen with. It was his bad luck that Grace and Camille had talked me into coming.
“Teenagers.” I nodded at the table where the girls were sitting. Grace had her back to me but Camille was regarding Jay with a puzzled expression in her eyes. “I won’t keep you from your brunch. Alice, it was so nice to meet you. Jay—” I glared at him “—I imagine I’ll see you soon.”
I made my way through the maze of tables, claimed my seat and waved at the waiter. I needed coffee.
The young man, who wore a tie-dye t-shirt, a ponytail, and holey jeans, meandered over. “I’d like a cup of coffee please. Right away.”
“You drink a lot of coffee, Mom.”
“Mind your own business, Grace.”
She wrinkled her nose at me. “May I have some apple juice, please?”
The waiter jotted down her order.
“Who was that you were talking to?” Grace asked.
“Jay Fitzhugh.”
“Who?”
“He’s a friend of Libba’s.”
Camille looked up at the waiter. “May I please have a glass of carrot juice with wheat grass?”
Ugh.
“I feel as if I’ve seen him before.” Camille handed over her menu and I hadn’t even looked. “May I have the house made granola, please?”
I picked up the menu and scanned.
Dear Lord. Buckwheat groats with bananas and chocolate sauce? What was a groat? A tofu scramble? Butternut squash tacos? At least there were pancakes on the menu. Lord only knew how they made them without eggs or milk.
The pancake recipe was the least of my worries. I put the menu down on the table.
I was going to have to tell Libba I’d seen Jay. I was going to have to tell her about the secretary and the coat. How?
Fourteen
I wrapped the phone cord around my finger and pulled until the tip turned as burgundy red as the tufted leather desk chair behind Henry’s desk.
Brngg. That made three rings. Where was Libba?
I drummed my fingers on the desk and let my gaze wander. The study really did need a redo. I ought to call a decorator. Choosing between paint and fabric swatches would be far more entertaining than dealing with Libba’s cheating boyfriend, my angry parents, a disgruntled lawyer and police detective, and a young man who’d ended up dead.
Brngg.
Maybe I’d replace the carpet.
No.
Definitely I’d replace the carpet. It still held the lingering odor of Henry’s cigars. Worse, my late husband had insisted on beige shag.
The fl
oor looked as if it had mange.
Brngg. I’d give it two more rings.
“Hello.” Libba sounded breathless, as if she’d run for the phone.
“It’s me.”
“Jay said you’d be calling.”
“Did he?” Dryness infected my voice.
“He said you saw him at brunch with his secretary and that you might have misconstrued things.”
Ha! “I didn’t misconstrue anything.”
“So you don’t think he’s having an affair with the girl?”
Stick a toe in the water or dive right in? I dove. “He’s definitely having an affair with that girl. I’m sure of it.”
“Don’t sugar coat things for me.” Now Libba’s voice was dry.
She’d dated cross-dressers, drunks, and married men. One middle-aged cheater was nothing. “You can take it.”
“But I don’t want to. Not anymore.” There was a defeated quality to her voice I didn’t like. “Why can’t I just find some nice man who wants to take me out to dinner and have sex three times a week?”
I had no answer. Especially not to the second part of her question.
“I don’t want a ring or a promise or even a key to his house, just a decent-looking man.” It was still there, an un-Libba like sadness I understood all too well. We’d been raised to depend on men, but men were proving to be entirely undependable. “Oh, and I’d like him to have a clean bill of health and not share his willy with every woman he meets.”
“His willy?”
“You’d prefer I call it a—”
“Never mind. What exactly did Jay say?”
“He said you seemed mightily suspicious of his entirely innocent relationship with his secretary.”
I made a noise in my throat. Not the soft, soothing noise. This sounded more like gagging. “He didn’t say that.”
“I added the adverbs.”
I pinched the bridge of my nose. “Have you seen the coat in the window at Halls’?”
“The glorious one with the fur collar?”
“That’s the one. She had it on.”
“He didn’t give me a coat.” The sadness in her voice was now tinged with annoyance.
Send in the Clowns (The Country Club Murders Book 4) Page 14