Elmer did not look convinced.
Robbie’s voice joined Bernice’s. “Elmer…”
Elmer was having none of it. He lay down on the leaf-strewn ground and rested his head on his paws.
Bernice and Robbie gave up calling to the dog and talked to each other.
Whatever Robbie was saying, Bernice did not agree. She shook her head. She pointed to the hill where Max and I waited. She stomped her boot.
Robbie shook his head, pulled off his sweatshirt, and deposited it on a nearby bench. Next he kicked off his shoes and pulled of his socks. His sweatpants were next. He stood in the chill October air in nothing but shorts and a t-shirt.
He fiddled with his wrist and something gold flashed in the late afternoon light. A watch? He handed it to Bernice then approached the edge of the pond.
He wouldn’t…
He couldn’t…
He did.
Robbie Harney, a young man I’d never liked, jumped into the duck pond to rescue Elmer.
Elmer cocked his head at this new development.
Max did too.
It’s possible my head was tilted as well.
After a brief swim, Robbie climbed onto the island and reached for Elmer.
The little dog, faced with a dripping stranger and the prospect of re-entering the cold water, bobbed and weaved like Muhammad Ali. Robbie crouched and held out his hand. He said something—the distance and the wind made it impossible to hear.
Elmer yipped.
Elmer did that a lot.
Robbie remained low to the ground, presumably telling Elmer sweet lies about how nice the water was.
Minutes passed.
On the opposite bank, Bernice clasped her hands in front of her heart.
Finally, Elmer ventured forward.
Robbie grabbed the little dog’s leash. With the leash in hand, picking up Elmer was easy. Holding him looked like more of a problem. The dog wriggled and squirmed.
Robbie wrapped the leash around his hand and eased into the water.
A moment later, Elmer was in his owner’s arms and Robbie was pulling on his sweatshirt and sweatpants over his wet clothes.
Bernice returned his watch and he fastened it on his wrist then patted Elmer on the head.
Even from my distant perch on the hill, I could see that Bernice was looking at Robbie as if he was Steve Austin at the end of a Six Million Dollar Man episode—as if he was a hero.
The hero sat down on the park bench and pulled on his socks and shoes.
When he was fully dressed, he stood.
Both he and Bernice looked up at me.
I tightened my hold on Max’s leash and waved.
Robbie waved back. Bernice did not. She unbuttoned the top buttons of her coat, pressed Elmer against her chest, and shuffled off.
Robbie walked toward me.
I descended the hill to meet him. “Thank you.”
“It was no problem.”
“We both know that’s not true.”
He grinned and for an instant, I understood why Grace found him so appealing. Then I remembered Brooks, cold as marble on a table in the morgue, and shivered.
Robbie pushed up the sleeves to his sweatshirt and the gold watch flashed on his wrist. A Rolex. Henry had owned one just like it. It was an expensive watch for a young man. A very expensive watch.
First ten thousand dollars for Stormy. Now the watch.
He followed my gaze to his wrist. “It belonged to my grandfather.”
“It’s a nice watch.”
“It is,” he agreed. “A family heirloom. I should go. It’s cold out here.”
The clothes next to his skin were wet. He had to be freezing. “Thank you, again.”
“You’re welcome.” He turned and jogged away.
Max and I watched him go. Perhaps I’d been wrong about Robbie Harney. Perhaps he was a nice young man. Perhaps not. I knew a little something about Rolex watches. My late husband collected them and the one on Brooks’ wrist was a newer model. Why had he lied?
Max and I jogged home to the beat of bad dog, bad dog, bad dog.
Max, being Max, wasn’t particularly concerned with my ire. He knew I’d forgive him…eventually.
We entered the kitchen, which smelled of Aggie’s chili. My mouth watered. Max flopped on the floor and fixed his gaze on the pot bubbling on the stove.
“I’m glad you’re home,” said Aggie. “Olivia Forde called. She says if you want the Chinese panels, you need to let her know right away.”
“Did she leave a number?”
Aggie shook her head and her earrings, grinning jack-o-lanterns in honor of the holiday, bobbed. They matched her black muumuu. Someone had gone so far as to embroider spider webs on the fabric. “No. No number.”
“Her card is in the study.” I paused at the kitchen door and looked back. Aggie with her pumpkin colored hair was stirring the chili. Max was lolling. “You look very nice,” I said. “Very festive. Where’s Grace?” She’d lost no time going out as soon as her grounding was over.
“Out with Peggy and Debbie and Donna. She said she’d be home early.”
I nodded then hurried down the front hall to the study. Olivia’s business card still lay in the center of the blotter on Henry’s desk. I picked up the phone and dialed.
Olivia answered on the third ring. “Hello.”
“Olivia, this is Ellison Russell calling. I definitely want the panels.”
“Fabulous,” she cooed. “We’ll decorate the room around them. They’ll become family heirlooms.”
Henry’s study held all sorts of things he’d imagined would become family heirlooms. “Do you know someone who can appraise my husband’s collection of Toby jugs?”
“The ones on the shelves behind the desk?”
The jugs with their ruddy faces and tricorne hats were staring at me now. Glaring as if they knew I intended to sell them to the highest bidder. “Exactly. They’ve never been my favorites.”
“I’ll find someone to look at them.”
We hung up and I considered Henry’s heirlooms. It was remarkably easy to let them go—to sell them. Probably as easy as it had been for the thief to sell PeeWa’s beloved panels. What kind of thief took the things they’d stolen to another city? A smart one…
Nineteen
I picked up the phone and put it down, glared at it for a moment, then picked it up again. I dialed the first three digits of Anarchy’s number and returned the receiver to the cradle. It was too late to catch him at the office. Maybe he was at a Halloween party. One thing was certain, wherever he was, he wasn’t wearing a pink suit. What kind of costume would he wear? Sherlock Holmes? The Waco Kid? Superman?
My suspicions were too amorphous to share. I wouldn’t bother him. Not tonight.
Ding dong.
“I’ll get it,” Aggie called.
I met her in the foyer, pleased with a reason to abandon the telephone. Aggie held a bowl filled with enough candy to give half the children in the city—the city, not the neighborhood—cavities.
We opened to the door to a chorus. “Trick or treat.”
Yes, the children wore coats over their costumes. Yes, they were still adorable.
Raggedy Ann was the first to hold up her plastic pumpkin.
Aggie dropped three pieces of candy into the pumpkin’s depths. Later, in an hour or so, the children at the door would be older. The older kids eschewed pumpkins in favor of pillowcases. For now, a herd of pumpkins jostled forth, eagerly awaiting their candy.
Aggie filled them. Three pieces each.
A second chorus, this time, “Thank you!” The goblins and princesses and ghosts ran off to the next house. Well, not the next house. That house belonged to Margaret Hamilton. It was dark as sin and the children knew better than to disturb a real witch on Halloween. They ran through her yard.
Hopefully she didn’t notice. If she did, they’d all wake up with warts on their noses or their candy transformed to laxatives.
> Aggie closed the door. “This is my favorite holiday. No presents to buy. No fancy meals to prepare. Just fun and candy.”
Ding dong.
A second crew held out their pumpkins and cried, “Trick or treat.”
Aggie repeated the process. Three pieces in each pumpkin.
She closed the door and I asked, “Just how much candy did you buy?”
“Enough.”
“Enough to send every kid in the neighborhood into a sugar coma?”
“Some of the kids who come here won’t be from this neighborhood.”
That was true. Parents from neighborhoods where trick or treating wasn’t safe drove their children to my neighborhood. “Give them four.”
Aggie grinned. “The chili is ready if you’d like to eat.”
“Where’s Max?”
Aggie paled.
Under normal circumstances, the dog would be greeting children and angling for candy. That he was missing at the same time an unattended pot of meat and beans simmered on the stove did not bode well.
Ding dong.
“You take care of the kids. I’ll check on the chili.”
In the kitchen, Max was still flopped on the floor. Snoring. Apparently chasing Yorkies into ponds was grueling work.
I moved the chili pot to the back burner, well out of the reach of his meat hook paws. On the other front burner sat the cast iron skillet Aggie used to brown meat. She was particular about that skillet, rinsing it with warm water, wiping it with a clean cloth, then drying it on the stove on low heat. I turned off the burner and let the pan sit.
The scent of chili hung in the air and my stomach rumbled. I opened the cabinet, took out a bowl, and ladled in a healthy serving.
Ding dong.
Aggie had lots of customers. Well, she had more than enough candy to handle them. Aggie’s chili called for cheese and chopped onions. I put the bowl down on the counter and opened the fridge.
Ding dong.
That was strange.
Ding dong.
“Aggie?” I called.
There was no answer.
I pushed open the door from the kitchen to the front hall. “Aggie? Are you all right?”
Silence was the only answer.
I hurried down the hallway. “Aggie?”
Ding dong.
My housekeeper lay on the floor. Candy surrounded her. Snickers and Milky Ways and Paydays. Funny what you notice when time slows down…
I raced to her. “Aggie!”
She didn’t move.
Blood run down her cheek. I searched for a pulse, found one, and released a ragged breath. “Aggie, what happened?” I asked.
A creepy-crawly-not-alone sensation trickled down my neck and froze my spine.
I didn’t turn. Didn’t dare. Instead I glanced at the mirror that hung above the bombe chest.
My heart leapt from my chest to my throat. From there it ricocheted about, finally landing in the pit of my stomach.
A clown—THE clown—stood behind me and he held a gun.
“Aggie?” My voice shook.
The clown was sneaking up on me like a character in a scary Abbot and Costello movie.
Ding dong.
The clown shifted his gaze to the door.
I struggled to my feet and ran. Down the hallway. Toward the kitchen. Toward the back door.
I didn’t make it. He grabbed the back of my shirt, nearly choking me. The cold muzzle of a gun touched my neck. I was going to die. Killed by a clown.
Crash!
The sound came from the kitchen.
“Who’s here?” he demanded.
“No one,” I squeaked.
“Yeah, right.”
He shoved me through the door.
Max looked up from the broken bowl and mess of chili on the floor and growled.
“Shut the dog up. I don’t want to hurt him.”
Well, there was a blessing. He didn’t want to hurt Max. Me, he’d kill, but the dog would carry on.
“Max,” I said. “It’s all right.”
It wasn’t and Max knew it.
“Please, let me go to him.”
The clown shoved me again. I lunged forward, slipped on a chili bean, and careened into the stove.
The dog scooted out of my way and growled again.
“Max.” I lay my hand on his head. “Hush.” Then I turned and looked at the clown.
He held a gun—something cheap and disposable, a Saturday night special. That I found the costume more terrifying than the gun didn’t speak well of my metal prowess, but the clown’s skin was white, his nose was red, his eyes black as tar. And his mouth—it was stretched in an obscene grin.
“You don’t have to do this.” My voice shook. “I have a daughter. She’s already lost her father.”
“Shut up.”
I shut up. Briefly. If I was going to die, there were things I wanted to know first. “Why?”
“You had to go poking around.”
“I didn’t poke.”
“Stormy Harney?” He spat the name.
Maybe I’d poked a little bit.
“I know you had Tafft call me about the things missing from PeeWa Asbury’s place.”
Not guilty. I hadn’t known who Hunter called.
“He said you discovered the theft.”
I had done that. “Detective Jones knows everything I know.” He didn’t. I hadn’t called. I ignored the itch on the tip of my nose and put one hand behind my back.
The clown shook his head. “If you’d told him, I’d already be in jail.”
Max growled again.
“Shush.” My free hand closed around his collar. He pulled against my hold for a few seconds then relented, whining his displeasure.
“Why kill Brooks?” I asked.
“Brooks shortened the timeline. Who would have thought a heroin addict would make it to twenty-five?” He shook his head and the light reflected off the red ball of his nose.
Shortened the timeline?
Ding dong.
“Popular house for trick or treating.” He might have been making conversation at a cocktail party. Except, he was a clown. A terrifying clown with a gun.
I nodded. “There are lots of people around.” Would he hear what I wasn’t saying? That someone would hear the shot. That help would arrive. That he would be caught.
Of course, I’d be bleeding out on top of a broken porcelain bowl and the chili Max hadn’t managed to snarf down. My fingers closed around the handle of Aggie’s cast iron skillet.
“What timeline?”
“I was going to put the money back. I had a plan, all I needed was a couple more months. I figured Brooks would never see twenty-five.”
“But Brooks didn’t die.”
He shook his head. The painted grin on his face was truly horrifying. “Not only did he not die. He started asking questions.”
“Charles Dix and John Phillips.”
“Together they would have figured out there were funds missing from the trust. Brooks scheduled meetings with both of them. They could have put the pieces together.”
“And Hunter Tafft?”
“Brooks was going to have him request an audit. I couldn’t let that happen.”
“So you killed him.” Poor Brooks. Murdered because his birthday was looming and he’d asked questions about his money.
“He was a waste anyway.”
“He was turning his life around.”
“Working at a haunted house? Yeah, right. I did the Harneys a favor.”
A sound penetrated the backdoor and we both turned our heads.
“What was that?” he demanded.
“No idea.” Please let it not be Grace. Please let it not be Grace. Please let it not be Grace. I tightened my grip on the skillet. “You stole PeeWa’s panels.” My voice rose on the word panels so it sounded as if I was asking a question. I wasn’t.
He scratched his painted on eyebrow. “I had to get the money somewhere.”
“You stole from other clients.”
He shrugged. “They won’t miss it.”
Ding dong.
He pulled a stool away from the counter and sat. “Like I said, popular house. Looks like we might need to wait a while.” He looked around my kitchen. “Do you have anything to drink?”
He wanted a drink? “There’s wine in the refrigerator.”
“Any scotch?”
I shook my head. “No.” My nose itched like hell. There was an ocean of scotch in the living room. Everything from single malts like Bladnoch to blends like Johnnie Walker. What the living room didn’t have was a skillet, and I was loathe to let go of my only weapon.
“Just wine. I’ll get it.” I tried to sound eager, as if there was something I wanted in the refrigerator.
“Don’t—” he thrust the gun in my direction “—move.” He stood, crossed to the fridge and opened the door.
Dammit. He was too far away. If I rushed at him with the skillet and he turned, I’d be as good as dead.
He pulled a bottle of Blue Nun from the bottle rack. “How long has this been open?”
“Since yesterday.”
He pulled the cork from the bottle. “Where do you keep your glasses?”
I jerked my chin toward the cabinet.
He took one down and filled it to the rim.
Great. The only thing worse than an evil clown with a gun was a drunk evil clown with a gun.
Ding dong.
He resumed his seat. “Those kids just keep coming. Lucky for you.”
Funny. I didn’t feel very lucky. A moment passed then I asked. “What did you do with the money?”
“Lost it in the market.” He took a long sip of wine. “I’m going to put it back. The Harneys will never know.”
Ding dong.
Ding dong.
Ding dong.
“Someone wants some candy,” he observed.
I said nothing. I was too busy looking at the back door. Had the shadow I spotted belonged to a person? Please let it not be Grace. I made myself look at the painting on the other side of the room.
Ding dong.
He shifted his gaze to the door to the front hall. “Those kids, they don’t give up. Too bad you can’t reward their perseverance.”
Send in the Clowns (The Country Club Murders Book 4) Page 20