THE DEEP END

by Mulhern, Julie

  When had I stopped shooting because I liked it and kept at it because it made my father happy? Who knew?

  I knocked my forehead against the window.

  I’d spent so much of my life, so much time and energy, making other people happy—Mother, Daddy, Henry, even Grace—that I’d overlooked my own unhappiness. I’d ignored their resentment when I disappeared behind a locked door to paint. It had been waiting for me when I came out, caustic and real enough to make me feel guilty about the one thing that was mine.

  None of this was part of the plan all the girls I’d grown up with had been given. Not a written plan, unless the book about Cinderella counted. The plan was in the water we drank, the air we breathed. It was poured into the pavement on the streets we called home. Marry a nice man, one who was a good provider, and live happily, or at least comfortably, ever after.

  Safe to say I’d followed the plan. I’d married a banker. Had a baby. But the plan had failed me. It left me alone huddled in a window seat with every emotion I’d refused to let myself feel seeping through my pores until the air in my bedroom was heavy with sadness and angst and confusion.

  I sat there until the sky began to lighten with soft shades of lavender and gold and pink dotted with bits of fluffy clouds. It reminded me of the sunrise the morning I found Madeline. I missed my morning swim. With that thought, I abandoned my perch, took a shower, and pulled on some clothes. Max raised a sleepy brow then snuggled more deeply into my covers. He was welcome to the bed. I grabbed my purse, pausing just long enough to drop the gun into its depths, then tiptoed down the back stairs, holding my breath with each creak. No way was I waking up Hunter.

  I drove with no destination in mind, until manicured lawns and neat storefronts gave way to smaller houses with crumbling front walks, until warehouses gave way to wheat fields. I drove past neat farms and farms with rusted cars dotting their yards to a little town I’d never heard of. I stopped in front of a diner with a herd of pick-up trucks parked in front.

  Inside men wore overalls and John Deere hats and talked about rain and tornadoes and taxes. I ordered a cup of coffee, eggs, toast, and fried potatoes and listened to them. I was used to men who wore Brooks Brothers suits and talked about the stock market and their golf games and, yes, taxes.

  I pretended I didn’t notice that everyone was staring at me. The stranger. As out of place in their world as they would be in mine.

  I ate my food, stared out the window at the row of dusty Ford trucks, and wondered what the hell I was doing. The waitress poured me more coffee, brought me more cream. The men in overalls filtered out to the trucks like sunlight through a gauzy curtain. One instant they were inside, the next in their trucks and the next the trucks were gone.

  It was just me and the waitress. Her nametag said Flo.

  “You want more coffee?” Flo asked.

  I pushed my cup toward her.

  She filled the cup to the brim.

  What in the world was I doing? Running?

  If I was running, where was I going? Nowhere without Grace.

  I couldn’t run. Not really. Maybe I could hide.

  Grace and I would spend the rest of the summer in Europe, far away from vicious chatter. We might even stay there. I could find a tutor or enroll Grace in school in London. I could paint. We could go to museums and the theatre and the opera. We’d be so cultured, we’d quote Shakespeare in our sleep. When Grace was ready for college, I’d travel the whole world. All the places I’d wanted to go that Henry had refused. A safari in Kenya. Trips to see the Great Wall and the pyramids at Giza. I’d kiss the Blarney Stone, ride a camel in the desert, and snorkel in the Great Barrier Reef. Alone.

  The murders, my battle with Mother, Hunter Tafft, and Anarchy Jones would fade into distant memory.

  Maybe.

  Maybe they’d haunt me. Riddles left unanswered. Problems left unsolved.

  Something deep inside me twisted. No way could I hide from my life.

  I laid a twenty on top of the three dollar check and headed home.

  A police car and Hunter’s Mercedes were parked in my drive. I drove right past them. I needed a different destination, one that didn’t involve where-have-you-been questions or the shadows of death. I might not want to hide, but I wasn’t quite ready to go toe to toe with my issues either.

  Driving to Power’s gallery to pick up my check seemed an attractive alternative. Besides, after seeing the cars in the driveway, Europe was looking more attractive and Powers was sure to tell me my travel plans were genius.

  The bell on the door to Powers’ gallery jingled when I opened it. I took a moment to look at the canvases he had hanging. A Frank Stella, a couple of Jasper Johns prints, several of Philomene Bennett’s paintings, a handful of other regional artists, and me. My paintings were keeping excellent company.

  “Hello,” I called.

  “Sorry, sorry.” A young man emerged from the office. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

  The young man had dark hair, dark wings for eyebrows, and cheekbones that could cut metal. He also had full lips and eyes as brown as Anarchy Jones’. He wore a tight lavender shirt and white pants, and he simpered when he walked. Where had Powers found him? Would it be rude to ask? “You’re new.”

  He smiled, displaying dazzling white teeth. “I am.”

  “I’m Ellison Russell.”

  He blinked.

  I waited.

  Nothing. No sign of recognition. How does one work in an art gallery and not know the names of the artists hanging on the walls? Apparently, Powers hadn’t hired him for his intellect.

  “I’d like to see Powers.”

  “Mr. Foster is coming in late today. May I help you with something?”

  I pointed to a canvas. “I painted that. Powers said I could stop by and pick up a check.”

  The smile grew brighter. “He’s not here.”

  “You already said that.”

  His smile began to look a bit forced. “It’s still true.”

  “I don’t need him to be here to pick up a check.”

  The young man’s hands fluttered like butterflies. “I could call him.”

  Powers might find Madeline’s replacement charming or funny or handsome. I found him distinctly annoying. “I don’t believe I caught your name.”

  “Freddy. Freddy Merlot. Like the wine.”

  “Well, Freddy, where exactly is Powers?”

  “He called and said he’d had a rough night. He’s not coming in until this afternoon.”

  “There’s no need to disturb him.” Where had Powers gone after he left my house? “In the office, there’s a file cabinet. All of Powers’ clients and artists have files. My check will be in the file. Why don’t you go get it?”

  “I couldn’t.”

  A deep breath was in order. “Why not?”

  “I’m not supposed to get into the files.”

  I swallowed my impatience. “Then I’ll get it.”

  “Oh, no.”

  “Oh, yes.”

  I brushed past him and opened the door to Powers’ office. A Calder hung from the ceiling. A Picasso graced one wall. Beneath it sat a huge credenza. I tried to open it. It was locked. Like that could stop me. I picked up a small Henry Moore sculpture off the desk and grabbed the key.

  Freddy Merlot stood in the doorway. His hands were still fluttering, and he’d caught the corner of his bottom lip in his very white teeth. “I don’t think this is a good idea.”

  “That’s because it’s an excellent idea.”

  The jingle of the front door opening underscored my point.

  Freddy didn’t move.

  “Aren’t you going to see who that is?” I asked. “It could be a customer.”

  Still he lingered, clearly unwilling to lea
ve me alone in Powers’ office.

  “Freddy, Powers is a dear friend. He won’t care if I grab my check. I promise. He will care if someone steals something because you weren’t out front.”

  With a telling sniff, Freddy spun on his heel and sashayed off.

  I hadn’t made a friend. I didn’t care.

  I opened the file drawer and flipped through the Rs. Rice. Roper. Runyon. Russell.

  Wait. Runyon? I recognized the name.

  I pulled the Runyon file out of the drawer and opened it. George Runyon lived in Duluth, Minnesota. Powers had sold him a Picasso for an impressive amount of money.

  It had to be a coincidence. Why hadn’t Powers said anything when he was looking at the list?

  I flipped through the files. Jack Gillis, the man in Toledo. He too had purchased a Picasso.

  I knew the next one would be there. Albert Smithers of Provo, Utah. I looked anyway. Sure enough, Smithers was the proud owner of a Picasso.

  Why did Powers have files for the men on Henry’s list? I opened the Smithers’ file with numb fingers.

  The copy of the provenance, a piece of art’s history of ownership, wasn’t there. What the hell?

  Had Powers been selling fakes? Had Henry and Madeline found out?

  I stared at the Picasso over the credenza. Filled with hard edges and stark color it mirrored my thoughts. What if Powers had sold forgeries? What if Henry and Madeline had blackmailed him? What if Powers had killed them?

  I had to be wrong. There had to be some other explanation. There was no way my flamboyant, loving friend was a murderer. Not Powers.

  The door jingled. Freddy Merlot had succeeded in scaring away a customer. I shoved the files back into their places. Slipped my check out of my file and closed the drawer.

  Just in time, too. Especially since it wasn’t Freddy Merlot who appeared in the office doorway, it was Powers.

  For once in his life, Powers didn’t look ready for a photo shoot. There were purple shadows underneath his green eyes. “What are you doing?”

  I held up my check as explanation. “Are you all right? You don’t look yourself.”

  He limped into the room.

  I stood, grabbed his elbow and helped him settle into his chair. “What happened?”

  “A little car accident. Nothing too serious, but I’m sore as hell.” He leaned back in his chair and sighed.

  If I could overlook the fatigue on his face, Powers looked almost like Powers. Mint green shirt, tan blazer, white pants, Italian loafers, no socks. Then he crossed his leg and I saw a bandage that covered most of his calf.

  How did he hurt his calf in a car accident?

  In that second, my doubts disappeared. His injuries weren’t sustained in a car accident. They were the result of a run-in with one very protective Weimaraner.

  He’d killed Madeline and Henry. He’d hit me over the head with a fireplace poker. He’d killed Roger. Last night he’d broken into my house.

  My friend killed people, apparently without remorse.

  “Ellison, you look pale. Are you going to faint?”

  “No. Of course not. I’m just tired.” I attempted an insouciant shrug of my shoulders and forced myself to look at his face, not his leg. Powers had killed three times. I couldn’t let him know I suspected as much. “Someone broke into the house last night. I didn’t get much sleep.”

  “You poor darling. What was taken?”

  “I’m not sure. Whoever it was started in the family room and there’s not much of value in there.” Except I was sure. One piece of paper had been stolen, a list with three names, proud owners of Picassos without provenances.

  “How dreadful.” His voice was filled with ersatz sympathy.

  “Yes.”

  Powers rubbed his chin. “Any idea who did it?”

  “None.” Did I sound too definitive? Like I was protesting too much? “The police are still at the house dusting for fingerprints and making a mess.”

  “Well, maybe the burglar didn’t wear gloves.”

  “Maybe not.” The burglar hadn’t worn gloves. His prints were all over the room anyway. “I suppose I ought to be on my way.”

  “Stay. Have a cup of coffee with me.”

  Powers had drugged Madeline and Roger. There was no way anything he offered was passing my lips. My heart thudded against my chest and my hands slicked with sweat.

  “I can’t,” I squeaked then I lowered my voice, “I mean, I have errands and I have to check on the plans for Henry’s funeral and...” My voice trailed off because Powers’ eyes had narrowed.

  I picked up my purse off the desk, stuffed the check inside, and backed toward the door. “I do have to go. I’ll call you later.”

  Powers struggled out of his chair.

  I took a giant step backward, opened the door, and walked into the lavender clad chest of Freddy Merlot. His hands closed around my upper arms.

  I struggled to get free. “Let me go.”

  His grip tightened.

  I lifted my knee and brought my foot down hard on his instep. He gasped and released me. I swung my purse, heavy with the weight of my gun, at his head. The sound it made when it connected was hollow, as if there was nothing inside his skull but air. Freddy fell to the floor.

  I ran, wresting open the door to the gallery. Then I threw myself into my car. It took three tries to jam the key into the ignition with shaking fingers.

  I turned the ignition just in time to see Freddy help Powers into his car. He planned to follow me.

  Thirty-One

  My Triumph roared to life and with one eye fixed on my rearview mirror, I put the car in gear. I released the clutch too quickly and the engine died. My heart died with it.

  Powers tried to maneuver Bitty Sue’s tank of an Eldorado out of its spot. After about five seconds, he gave up on careful and collapsed the bumper of the car in front of him.

  Almost screaming with frustration, I started my car again and zipped into oncoming traffic. Someone honked and I saw the shadow of a rude gesture as I sped by.

  The closest policemen I knew of were at my home. I pointed the car in that direction.

  They say misfortune comes in threes. They’re right. First, Powers, my dear friend who was also a murderer, followed me. Second, the engine in his car was twice the size of mine. Third, the puffy clouds I’d admired at dawn had coalesced into a grey ceiling that began to spit raindrops, and me with the top down.

  I drove. Fast. Every few seconds I wiped water from my eyes without knowing if it was rain or tears.

  A quick glance in the rearview revealed that Powers had closed the gap between our cars.

  I was already in fifth gear, driving so far over the speed limit as to boggle the mind. Half-blinded by the rain, I could see just enough to know the pavement was dangerously slick. I drove faster. So did Powers.

  The road wound around the edge of the golf course. A spilt rail fence was all that separated me from a deep creek bed and the seventh fairway.

  My hands gripped the wheel.

  My right foot pushed so hard on the accelerator it was a wonder it didn’t break through to the pavement.

  I heard a sob in the rush of wind and speed and realized I was crying. Hard.

  I gulped a damp, ragged breath. No way was I going to lose control. No way was Powers going to kill me the way he had Madeline and Henry and Roger. I took another curve going eighty and felt the wheels leave the pavement. My heart stopped as I fought to control the little car.

  How ironic would it be if I killed myself in an automobile accident while fleeing a murderer?

  The wheels grabbed traction in the strip of grass next to the road and I sped on.

  I risked a second glance in the rearview. Powers was inches from my bumper. T
he Triumph couldn’t go any faster. Powers’ Eldorado could.

  He rammed me.

  Somehow I kept the car on the road. The obscenities I screamed were lost to the wind and rain and speed.

  The Eldorado’s grill met the trunk of my car a second time.

  I spun a dizzying, tilt-a-whirl circle then slammed through the fence, losing a side mirror. The car jolted down the embankment, scraping against rocks and trees before coming to a rest with its nose in the rising creek.

  Thunder clapped as if I’d just provided an amusing show.

  I couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. Couldn’t move.

  I had to.

  Powers wouldn’t be satisfied with knocking me off the road. He had to make sure I was dead. He’d be coming.

  My purse had fallen to the passenger-side floorboards, and I reached for it. Even the slightest movement sent waves of sharp pain careening through my chest. My fingers stretched, strained to grab hold of the handle that was just out of my reach.

  I shifted then whimpered as new pain knifed through me. But I had it. I pulled the purse toward me and dug for my gun. A checkbook, a billfold, the bag that held make-up, house keys, tissue, random bits of paper, a hairbrush—my questing fingers touched it all. Finally, they found the comforting coolness of metal. My hand closed around the gun.

  “Ellison!” Powers’ voice was full of concern and for one hopeful, insane, delusional moment, I let myself believe it was all a mistake. Powers, the man who’d appeared at my door with a bottle of bourbon and a box of donuts the morning after the coatroom incident, wouldn’t hurt me. Powers, with his snippy gossip and wickedly funny one-liners, wasn’t a killer. Except my destroyed car was half-submerged in a creek, each breath I took was a new agony and, when I peered through the falling rain, I could see him using a golf club as a cane to help him down the slope of the hill.

  A silly, petty part of me was glad he was ruining his Gucci loafers in the mud.

  A more sensible part, a part that wanted to stay alive, struggled to get out of the car. I pulled on the door handle and nothing happened. Nothing. I tried again. Still nothing.