I shifted my gaze to the back door. The handle turned.
I looked away, terrified I’d bring attention to whoever was entering. Please let it not be Grace.
Ding dong.
The door flew open and my father leapt into the kitchen. He was armed with a tire iron, which, in the general scheme of things, was about as useful as a cast iron skillet against a gun.
Max barked. I lost my hold on his collar.
The dog launched himself into the air, teeth bared and a ridge of hair the size of the Rockies standing up on his back.
The clown pulled the trigger. Bang! A bullet whizzed by my head. Then the clown turned and took aim at my father.
Bang!
I lifted the heavy skillet off the stove, extended my arms as if I was reaching for a backhand ace, and swung.
Thunk!
There was a sickening sensation of breaking bone. There was blood. So much blood. And there was an unconscious clown on the kitchen floor.
“Are you all right?” I demanded.
My father held his arm and blood welled through his fingers. “Fine. You?”
“He missed.”
Max stood over the clown, looking ready to rip him limb from limb if he moved a single muscle.
I kicked the gun into the far corner of the kitchen, snatched the receiver from the cradle and called for help. “We need the police and an ambulance! Two ambulances.” One for Aggie and my father. The other for the clown. Aggie! I needed to check on Aggie. I gave the operator my name and address and hung up the phone.
My father looked down at the prone clown. “He would have shot me dead.”
“Yes.” There was no point sugarcoating it.
“You saved me.” Daddy sounded bewildered. “I came here to save you.”
I walked toward the door to the hall—shuffled really, I’d never felt so exhausted. “Let’s just say we saved each other and call it a day.”
Ding dong.
“Who is that?”
I didn’t expect an answer but my father grinned and said, “Grace.”
That stopped me in shuffling tracks. “Grace?” My daughter had been ringing the bell over and over and over again?
“She was at Peggy’s house and decided she wanted to come home. I gave her a ride. She looked through the backdoor window, saw the clown with the gun, and flagged me down before I pulled out of the driveway.” Of course she had. Daddy would never pull away until she was safely in the house. “She’s been ringing the bell to distract the clown.”
I closed my eyes on the red haze that took over my vision. Sweet nine-pound baby Jesus, why had they put themselves at risk? What would she have done if the clown answered the door? “Why not call the police?”
“We didn’t think there was time, and both your neighbors have their lights out, so we didn’t have a phone.”
I raised my brows and lowered my chin.
“Grace was in no danger.” If that was true, why did he sound defensive?
“Do you know what you’d say to me if I rushed into a room where a man was holding you at gunpoint?”
“Thank you?”
“Ha.”
“You saved me, Ellison. If you hadn’t hit him with that skillet, I’d be dead. Thank you.” He meant it. He understood, even if it that understanding was fleeting, that I possessed some strength. That I was more than just his little girl.
My throat swelled. “You’re welcome.”
The door from the hallway swung open, revealing my housekeeper and daughter. Aggie was nearly as pale as the clown and she leaned on Grace. Heavily. At least she was up, walking, breathing. A weight lifted from my chest.
She stared at the clown on the floor. “I’m so sorry.” Her voice was faint. “I let him in.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” I said. “This is not your fault.” The adrenalin that had flooded my system had ebbed completely and my legs wobbled. I rested my hip against the counter.
“Who is he?” asked Grace
I stared down at the clown who looked less scary but more horrifying with blood seeping from his head. “It’s Jay Fitzhugh.”
The police arrived. And the paramedics. And the neighbors, a bunch of ghouls gathered at the bottom of the driveway—it was Halloween.
Despite my protests that Aggie and Daddy deserved immediate care, the emergency personnel insisted on loading Jay into an ambulance first—some foolishness about traumatic head injury. Maybe I’d care about Jay’s head tomorrow. Tonight I didn’t have much sympathy.
Of course, someone called Mother. She blew into my kitchen with all the power of a tornado.
“What. Happened?” She glared at me. Whatever had happened, it had to be my fault.
“A man broke into our house,” said Grace.
“Why?” she demanded.
To kill me didn’t seem like an answer that would soothe Mother’s nerves. Unfortunately, no other reason came to mind.
“We’re all fine.” Grace offered up a conciliatory smile.
“You are not. Your grandfather has been shot. He’s outside with a paramedic now.”
“Grazed,” I muttered. The paramedics had assured me neither my father nor Aggie were seriously hurt.
“Do not trivialize this, Ellison.”
“I’m not.”
Cold, hard annoyance settled onto Mother’s face. “You could have been killed.”
She wasn’t wrong. I sympathized with her. I wasn’t exactly pleased that my daughter had decided to take so much initiative.
“Ellison!”
My head swiveled. I should have known Anarchy would turn up. He always did.
“What. Happened?” He sounded like Mother.
Explaining everything in front of Mother was a remarkably poor idea. “It’s a long story.”
Two sets of arms crossed. Ugh.
“Can we sit down in the living room? Please?”
“Fine.” Mother took my arm and marched me down the hallway, directly to the most comfortable chair in the house. I sank into it.
“Do you want a drink?” she asked.
“Scotch.”
She splashed some amber liquid into an old-fashioned, paused, then poured a tot into a second glass. “Detective Jones, would you like a drink?”
He looked as if he wanted to say yes. “No, thank you. I’m on duty.”
Mother sniffed. Then she brought me my drink.
I wrapped my fingers around the glass and took a small sip. The scotch burned the back of my throat and warmed my stomach.
Mother perched on the edge of the couch. “Now, tell me what happened.”
“He killed Brooks Harney.”
Mother paled and worked her jaw. She looked mad enough to spit nails. “What was he doing here?”
“Shouldn’t you be with Daddy?” I asked.
She glanced at the door, clearly torn. On the one hand, she should be with her husband. On the other, reading me the riot act would be deeply satisfying.
“Daddy was shot.”
“Grazed,” she replied.
My own words used against me.
“Grace is with him,” she added.
I recognized defeat when I saw it. I took another sip and began. “Aggie answered the door, he cold-cocked her with his gun and came inside.”
“And held you at gunpoint?”
“Yes.”
“Why?” Mother demanded.
I glanced at Anarchy. Couldn’t he interject? He sat stiff in an easy chair, apparently content to let Mother ask the questions.
“He thought I knew what he’d been up to.”
“Did you?” Why, when Anarchy did ask a question, was it the one I didn’t particularly want to answer?
“I suspected.”
“And you didn’t tell me?” The “cop” expression was evident in his brown eyes. Cold. Hard. All business.
“She’s always been secretive,” said Mother.
“I have not!” Had I? “I didn’t think you’d believe me.”
“I believed you when you reported a murder and there was no body.”
There was that. And that was hard to argue.
Mother put her scotch down on the coffee table. She straightened her spine and crossed her ankles. She donned a grande dame expression—a combination of look-down-her-nose, curl-the-corner-of her-lower-lip, and head tilt—that perfectly communicated her disappointment with me. “When are you going to stop finding bodies? It’s very disruptive.”
Disruptive? “I don’t go looking for them, Mother.” Tired as I was, my back stiffened. If she wanted an argument, I’d give her one.
“Yes, well, perhaps you should try looking the other way.”
“Back to Fitzhugh.”
Anarchy’s comment distracted me. My witty rejoinder flitted away, leaving me with nothing to say.
Mother was never at a loss for words. “Horrible man.”
Anarchy shifted in his chair. “I think you should come down to the station.”
“Tonight?” I squeaked.
“Absolutely not. Just look at her. She’s exhausted.”
Did I look exhausted or did Mother not want me out in public in my running clothes? It didn’t matter. I wasn’t going anywhere. “Tonight, I need to rest. I’ll tell you everything tomorrow.”
Twenty
Grace had questions, so I let her skip school. Telling my daughter what had led to a demented clown taking over our kitchen seemed more important than Algebra II. It also seemed more important than driving to the police station.
If it had been an hour later, I would have put her off until after we visited Aggie in the hospital. But it was early and hopefully Aggie was still asleep.
I poured myself a cup of coffee. “Shoot.”
Maybe not the best thing to say with two bullet holes in our kitchen walls. I needed to keep a handyman on retainer.
“Do you want to put on some lipstick?”
That was her question? “Why?”
“You look wan.”
Wan? “And...”
She squirmed on her stool. “Detective Jones is coming over.”
“Why?”
“I talked to him last night after you went upstairs. He said he’d come here and save you a trip to the station.”
“Did he now?”
“I should have waited until your second cup to tell you.”
Hmph. “No, on the lipstick.”
“Suit yourself.”
I intended to. “When we’re done, we need to go see Aggie.” I took another sip of perfect coffee. “And your grandfather.”
She nodded. “So what happened?”
“I’m not a hundred percent sure on all of this.”
She shrugged. “Just tell me.”
“Jay Fitzhugh embezzled funds from the Harneys’ Trust and invested the money in the stock market.” I paused. “At least that’s what he said.” It could be he’d invested the money in expensive coats for pretty young women. “He expected Brooks would overdose and die. If that happened, Jay had several years before the trust needed to disperse funds.”
“But Brooks didn’t die.”
“Brooks didn’t die, and going to jail for embezzlement didn’t appeal to Jay.”
Tap, tap, tap.
I peered through the glass in the backdoor and my mouth went dry. Since when had Anarchy become a backdoor friend?
Grace leapt off her perch on the edge of the counter and let him in. “Mom was just telling me about Mr. Fitzhugh.”
I wet my mouth with a large gulp of coffee. “How is he?”
“He’s got a concussion but he’ll recover.”
“Good.” On so many levels. First off, he’d have to pay for what he’d done. Second, I hadn’t killed him. “Coffee?”
“I’ll help myself.”
Anarchy was getting entirely too comfortable in my kitchen. He opened a cabinet, selected a mug, and poured.
“He confessed. To everything. Killing Brooks. Killing Charles Dix. The attempt on John Phillips.”
“Wait,” said Grace. “He killed Charles Dix?”
Anarchy nodded. “When Brooks came back to Kansas City, he asked for an accounting of the trust. Dix pulled the paperwork and noticed something was off. Apparently he confronted Fitzhugh after Harney’s murder so Fitzhugh killed him.”
“And the antiques?” I asked.
“He’s been systematically stealing from trusts he manages and selling through out of town dealers.”
“I thought as much.”
“What happens now?” asked Grace.
“He’ll be charged with the murders and aggravated assault if Aggie or your grandfather wish to press charges. The bank will be pursuing grand larceny charges.”
Grace swished the remains of her juice in the bottom of her glass. “So he’s going to jail.”
“For a long time.” Anarchy rubbed his chin. “You know you should have called the police last night.”
“I didn’t think we had time.” Grace’s voice took on the defensive tone that is unique to teenagers—half apologetic, half defiant.
“If anyone scolds Grace it will be me.”
Anarchy looked at me expectantly. He was waiting for me to tell Grace to be safe, to be careful. “Everyone makes choices. Everyone balances risks. What I hope for you, honey, is that you weigh the risks and rewards before you take action. I don’t want you to live your life packed in cotton, but I don’t want you to be reckless either.”
A few seconds passed. Then a few more.
Finally, Grace came over to me, wrapped her arms around my neck, and rested her head on my shoulder. “Thanks, Mom.”
No one sets out to limit their children. It happens by accident. And sometimes, by accident, parents do something right.
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)
CLICK FOR THE DEEP END
GUARANTEED TO BLEED (#2)
CLICK FOR GUARANTEED TO BLEED
CLOUDS IN MY COFFEE (#3)
CLICK FOR CLOUDS IN MY COFFEE
SEND IN THE CLOWNS (#4)
Sign up for Henery Press updates
and we’ll deliver the latest on new books, sale books, and pre-order books, plus all the happenings in the Hen House!
CLICK TO SIGN UP
(Note: we won’t share your email address and you can unsubscribe any time.)
We’d love to hear what you thought about this book. No matter how brief or how long, reader reviews make a difference. Thank you!
Henery Press Mystery Books
And finally, before you go...
Here are a few other mysteries
you might enjoy:
BOARD STIFF
Kendel Lynn
An Elliott Lisbon Mystery (#1)
As director of the Ballantyne Foundation on Sea Pine Island, SC, Elliott Lisbon scratches her detective itch by performing discreet inquiries for Foundation donors. Usually nothing more serious than retrieving a pilfered Pomeranian. Until Jane Hatting, Ballantyne board chair, is accused of murder. The Ballantyne’s reputation tanks, Jane’s headed to a jail cell, and Elliott’s sexy ex is the new lieutenant in town.
Armed with moxie and her Mini Coop, Elliott uncovers a trail of blackmail schemes, gambling debts, illicit affairs, and investment scams. But the deeper she digs to clear Jane’s name, the guiltier Jane looks. The closer she gets to the truth, the more treacherous her investigation becomes. With victims piling up faster than shells at a clambake, Ell
iott realizes she’s next on the killer’s list.
Read all about it and/or grab the book from Amazon
CLICK FOR BOARD STIFF
PRACTICAL SINS FOR COLD CLIMATES
Shelley Costa
A Val Cameron Mystery (#1)
When Val Cameron, a Senior Editor with a New York publishing company, is sent to the Canadian Northwoods to sign a reclusive bestselling author to a contract, she soon discovers she is definitely out of her element. Val is convinced she can persuade the author of that blockbuster, The Nebula Covenant, to sign with her, but first she has to find him.
Aided by a float plane pilot whose wife was murdered two years ago in a case gone cold, Val’s hunt for the recluse takes on new meaning: can she clear him of suspicion in that murder before she links her own professional fortunes to the publication of his new book?
When she finds herself thrown into a wilderness lake community where livelihoods collide, Val wonders whether the prospect of running into a bear might be the least of her problems.
Read all about it and/or grab the book from Amazon
CLICK FOR PRACTICAL SINS FOR COLD CLIMATES
MURDER IN G MAJOR
Alexia Gordon
A Gethsemane Brown Mystery (#1)
With few other options, African-American classical musician Gethsemane Brown accepts a less-than-ideal position turning a group of rowdy schoolboys into an award-winning orchestra. Stranded without luggage or money in the Irish countryside, she figures any job is better than none. The perk? Housesitting a lovely cliffside cottage. The catch? The ghost of the cottage’s murdered owner haunts the place. Falsely accused of killing his wife (and himself), he begs Gethsemane to clear his name so he can rest in peace.
Send in the Clowns (The Country Club Murders Book 4) Page 21