Stayin' Alive

by Julie Mulhern

  “You,” Anarchy confirmed. He turned to me. “We will find Sickman and put together a plan.”

  “A plan?” I asked.

  He nodded, and his fierce expression softened. “One that doesn’t include ruining your gala.”

  With the security guard watching, I lifted onto my toes and kissed Anarchy. Not a quick kiss. This was a hand-on-the-nape-of-the-neck, curl-my-toes, catch-me-I’m-drowning kiss. “Thank you.”

  “I’m counting on you for those lists.”

  “Done.”

  “Let’s find Sickman.”

  We left the none-too-happy security guard with Phyliss’s body and returned to Kirkwood Hall.

  “There you are.” Mother had lain in wait. She wrapped her hand around my wrist and pulled me away from Anarchy as soon as we entered Kirkwood. “There’s someone you must meet.”

  “Not now, Mother. I’m busy—”

  “I won’t take no for an answer.”

  “Not now—”

  “Ellison Walford Russell, I don’t ask for much—” what a laugh that was “—and I insist.”

  “Go.” Anarchy was familiar enough with Mother to realize this had the makings of a long battle we might not win. “I’ll find Sickman.”

  “See,” said Mother. “Your escort has someone else to talk to.”

  I suppressed the urge to kick her in the shin and followed her as she cut through the crowd, dispensing regal nods.

  “Who is it you want me to meet?”

  “No one.” She spoke from behind a fixed smile. “Where the hell have you been?”

  In the top three things I preferred not to share with Mother, telling her I’d found a body ranked first. Followed closely by telling her I’d listened to one of Daddy’s closest friends have sex with a woman who was not his wife. Telling her I’d disappeared to kiss Anarchy seemed mild in comparison. Not good, but mild.

  “I needed a breath of air,” I lied.

  She pursed her lips. “I don’t believe you.”

  Since I’d lied, I didn’t argue the point. “Where are you taking me?”

  “My table, where your father and I can keep an eye on you.”

  “I’m not five.” I spotted the museum’s director. “And I must speak with Laurence.” I pulled free of her grasp. “I’ll talk to you later.”

  I left her opening and closing her mouth like a goldfish and hurried across the dance floor.

  “Laurence—”

  “Ah, Ellison. You know James.”

  “Of course.” I kissed the police commissioner’s proffered cheek.

  “You should be proud.” James’s eyes twinkled with good humor and his voice sparkled with delight in my success.

  I wished I could scrub the memory of that voice grunting Ooh, baby. “Thank you, Uncle James. Do you mind if I steal Laurence for a moment?” I wrinkled my nose. “Party stuff.”

  “Of course. I should find my wife.”

  When he left us, I tugged Laurence through the doors to Rozzelle Court. The night was cool, and I shivered.

  “Everything all right?” he asked.

  I glanced around. Smokers dotted the courtyard, but no one paid us the slightest attention. “No.”

  “No?”

  “Phyllis Goddard is in the Ming Dynasty alcove bed.”

  Alarm widened Laurence’s eyes. “In the bed?” He pressed his hands together as if in prayer. “Tell me she didn’t damage it. Please.”

  “She’s dead.”

  Laurence staggered but caught himself on an enormous limestone pillar. “Dead? How did she get there?” He scrunched his face tight. “Is the bed damaged?”

  Poor Phyllis. I was worried about the gala. Laurence was worried about the last-one-in-existence bed. No one worried for her.

  “No idea how she got there, and the bed is fine.”

  “What a relief. What should we do?”

  “My date is a homicide detective.”

  “How convenient.”

  I ignored his hint of sarcasm. “It is convenient. He’s agreed not to disrupt the gala. We need to find him and formulate a plan.”

  “A plan?”

  I suspected Laurence might be in shock. A glaze dimmed his eyes and his mouth hung open.

  I claimed his arm. “Let’s find Anarchy.”

  We stepped into a rapidly emptying Kirkwood, paused, and scanned the remains of the crowd.

  “Ellison?”

  I turned.

  “Great party.” Stan Goddard smiled at me.

  “Thank you.” My voice emerged a few octaves too low, and I cleared my throat. “Thank you.”

  “Have you seen Phyllis?”

  Laurence turned a green only a few shades lighter than Chinese jade.

  What should I do? Stan would be a suspect. Spouses were always suspects. I had firsthand knowledge of that. But I couldn’t lie, not when Phyllis was sprawled across the alcove bed.

  “Laurence, you don’t look well.” That was true. “Stan, would you help me get Laurence to his office?”

  Stan shook his head. “I should look for Phyllis. You haven’t seen her?”

  “If you’ll help me with Laurence, I’ll help you find her.”

  The three of us climbed the same set of stairs I’d descended moments ago but stopped on a different landing.

  Laurence led us to the administrative offices and unlocked the door with shaking fingers.

  Stan helped him to the Saarinen divan in his office, then turned to me. “Phyllis?”

  There was no easy way to tell someone their wife had been murdered. “I’m sorry, Stan. She’s dead.”

  Chapter Three

  The color drained from Stan’s face, and he swayed on his feet.

  “Sit.” I pushed him onto a Barcelona chair (Laurence’s office was an eclectic mix of modern furniture and Chinese art). “May I get you a glass of water?”

  “You’re kidding, right? You must be kidding.” Stan fisted his hands and beat a staccato on his knees. “It’s not funny.”

  Was he bereft? Was he acting? Impossible to tell.

  “I’m not kidding.”

  A stubborn shake of his head bled into a deep scowl. “Then you’re wrong. Phyllis can’t be dead. She can’t.”

  Arguing with him would be cruel. “I’m sorry.” I infused my voice with sympathy.

  “You’re wrong!”

  “Stan—” I gentled my voice even more “—when was the last time you saw her?”

  “She stepped away from the table before dessert.”

  “She didn’t come back?” It wasn’t a real question. Not when the answer sprawled across the alcove bed.

  “I assumed she was waiting till the dance ended, but when the performers left the stage and she didn’t return, I looked for her.” He glanced at his hands on his knees and slowly released his fists. “She never misses a dessert. She’ll run an extra mile or two so she can eat chocolate.”

  “Where did you look?”

  “I asked Joan to check the ladies’ rooms, and I searched the ballroom.” He looked up at me, his eyes pleading. “It can be impossible to find someone in a crowded ballroom.”

  Stan had a point. Ballrooms had their own flow, a rhythm based on chatter, the clink of ice in glasses, and the swish of women’s skirts. Depending on the flow, one might bump elbows with one’s least favorite person five times while searching for and not finding the person one most wanted to see.

  “How did she die?” Stan’s cheeks held less color than copy paper, and his hands shook. “What happened to her?”

  “I should let the police—”

  “The police? What happened?” His voice rose loud enough to startle Laurence from his there’s-a-killer-in-my-museum trance.

  “Ellison brought a detective as a date,” said Laurence.

  Given the whiteness of Stan’s cheeks, it didn’t seem possible for him to pale further. But he did. He also covered his face with his hands and rocked back and forward.

  “I’m so sorry for your
loss.” Such useless little words. I’d made such a mess of this. Stan was in denial and Laurence was in shock.

  Tap, tap.

  “Who is it?” Laurence called.

  “Jones.”

  The tightness in my chest released. “Come in.”

  Annoyance flashed across Laurence’s face—first I’d found a body, now I’d taken over his office.

  I offered him an apologetic smile.

  Anarchy stepped inside and took the room’s measure—Laurence’s still-stunned face, the man with his head in his hands, and me with my hands clasped together.

  “You found us.” Had a woman ever sounded so grateful?

  “Your mother spotted you leaving the ballroom.”

  Oh, dear.

  “She’s not in the best mood.”

  When Mother discovered there’d been a murder at the gala, her head would leave her body and orbit the sun a few times before she settled into blaming me.

  “She asked me what’s going on.”

  I winced, and Stan raised his head. “What is going on? What happened to Phyllis?”

  Laurence cleared his throat and looked at Anarchy.

  Anarchy looked at me.

  I answered with a tiny shake. I had not told the likely-to-be-a-suspect spouse how his wife died.

  “You should be at the party,” muttered Laurence.

  “Pardon?” He couldn’t mean that.

  “Someone needs to keep track of the gala.” He scowled at me. “Have you thanked all the major sponsors?”

  “No,” I admitted. “But—”

  “You should thank them.”

  Anarchy gave a tiny nod. Catching killers was his job. Making the gala a success was mine.

  “Fine.” I shifted my gaze to Stan, who rocked back and forth in the chair like a metronome. “I’m so sorry.”

  He didn’t acknowledge me.

  “I don’t know how long I’ll be,” said Anarchy. “Can you find a ride home?”

  “If I have to.” I left them, pausing at the top of the stairs to collect my thoughts. Who had killed Phyllis? And why? Stan didn’t act like a killer. If anything, he acted like a man in shock. But people, especially murderers, lied. Stan might be a phenomenal liar.

  I returned to a much-thinned Kirkwood where I thanked sponsors, accepted compliments, and avoided Mother.

  “Dance with me, sugar.” My father, elegant in a slightly dated tux (no wide lapels for Harrington Walford, Mother wouldn’t allow it), stood behind me.

  I couldn’t say no to my father.

  He led me to the dance floor and positioned his hand on my waist, and for half a second, time shifted and I danced atop my daddy’s shoes. Life was simple. Men were dependable. And I knew nothing of murder.

  The orchestra played “Someone to Watch Over Me,” and I followed my father’s lead.

  “Sugar,” he whispered in my ear. “What’s happened?”

  “What do you mean?” Talking to his shoulder was easier than looking him in the eye.

  “Your mother is convinced there’s a problem.”

  “She worries.”

  “Sugar?” There was an edge to that sugar, as if he sensed my secret.

  I trusted my father. “A hiccup.” Poor Phyllis. “We’re keeping it quiet.”

  Daddy’s hand tightened on my waist. “There’s a body.” Given how often that happened, he only needed one guess.

  “Yes.”

  “Murdered?”

  “Yes.”

  Daddy missed a step. “Who?”

  “Phyllis Goddard.”

  His body stiffened. “Your mother will have kittens.”

  “I know.”

  “I’ll take her home.”

  I jerked my chin and gaped at my father. “You’d do that for me?”

  “You’ve got enough to handle without your mother.” His face clouded. “When she finds out, she’ll come at you loaded for bear.”

  “I know.” My insides curled with dread. “But that’s tomorrow’s problem. Getting through tonight is what’s important.”

  “I’m your man.”

  Yes, he was. My throat tightened. “Thank you.”

  “Is Jones investigating?”

  I nodded.

  “Don’t tell your mother, but your detective is growing on me.”

  Rough night?

  If anyone else asked me that question, I’d take it as a criticism of my appearance. But Mr. Coffee wasn’t like that. He was nothing but goodness. And we had the kitchen to ourselves.

  I nodded. “Very.” I’d arrived home at two after waving goodnight to the last guest.

  What happened?

  I’d tell him everything, but first I needed coffee. I held up an empty mug. “May I?”

  By all means.

  Some blessed soul (probably Aggie) had already pushed Mr. Coffee’s button, and a full pot called to me. I poured a cup, added cream, sipped, and sighed. “Thank you.”

  “Who are you talking to?” asked Aunt Sis.

  “Mr. Coffee.”

  “Does he reply?”

  I answered her with an enigmatic smile. Mr. Coffee and I had a special relationship, one I wouldn’t share.

  Aunt Sis poured her own cup of heaven and cradled the mug in her hands. “It was a spectacular party.”

  “Thank you.” I took a large sip of coffee. “What did you and Phyllis Goddard talk about?”

  “Who?”

  “The woman who designed textiles.”

  “Designed? Past tense?” No flies on Aunt Sis. “What happened to her?”

  “She died last night.”

  Aunt Sis stared at me over the rim of her mug, then sat on the nearest stool. “How?”

  “She was murdered.”

  “Murdered?” Karma stood in the doorway from the front hall. “Who?”

  “A guest at last night’s party.”

  “Is that why you disappeared?” Karma eyed the mugs on the counter and Mr. Coffee’s half-full pot.

  A question I’d hoped to avoid. I grabbed a cup and lifted the pot. “Coffee?”

  “Please. Wait—” she held up a finger. “—did you find her when you snuck off?”

  Aunt Sis’s eyes widened. “You found her? Where?”

  I poured Karma’s cup. “Cream?”

  “Black. Where was she?”

  “In a Ming Dynasty alcove bed.”

  “Was that part of the exhibition?” Aunt Sis closed her eyes and tilted her head. “I don’t remember seeing it.”

  “The bed is in the permanent collection.” I held out her coffee.

  Karma accepted the mug and sipped. “Wasn’t that part of the museum closed?”

  “Yes.”

  “How did she get there?” Karma’s eyes narrowed slightly. “And what were you doing there?”

  Woof. Good question.

  Max and Aggie now stood in the doorway.

  Aggie unhooked Max’s leash and eyed the level in the coffee pot.

  Max scanned the kitchen for bacon.

  “Good morning,” I said, grateful for the distraction.

  “Good morning,” Aggie replied.

  Max wagged his stubby tail.

  “Good morning, Aggie,” said Karma before turning her attention my way. “You didn’t answer the question.”

  Oh. That. “I left the party for a moment.”

  “To do what?”

  Aunt Sis grinned. “Give her a break, Karma. If he were mine, I’d sneak off with him, too.”

  The heat on my cheeks could warm Detroit in January. I downed what remained in my mug and returned to Mr. Coffee, grateful for the excuse to turn my back.

  “How did she die?” Aunt Sis asked.

  I remembered the necklace of bruises and touched my neck. “She was strangled.”

  Ding dong.

  “I’ll get it,” said Aggie.

  A moment later voices carried down the hall.

  What fresh hell?

  “Ellison—” Marian Dixon, my across-the-
street neighbor, burst into the kitchen and jabbed her finger toward Max “—you must do something about that dog.”

  As one, we turned toward Max.

  Max yawned. Yawned so big that if we tried, we’d see down his throat and into his stomach.

  “What did he do?”

  “He dug up my pansies!” Marian had spent most of Friday edging her front-walk with lavender-hued flowers.

  “Max?” I searched for and found Aggie’s gaze.

  She shook her head. Not guilty.

  “Are you sure it was Max?”

  “Positive. That dog is a menace.”

  When it came to chasing rabbits and squirrels and cats, she was right. Nor was he above trampling flowers to a pulp (in pursuit of rabbits, squirrels, or cats). But he’d never dug up so much as a marigold.

  “I know it was him.”

  I considered Max’s pristine paws and deceptively innocent amber eyes. “How do you know?”

  “I just do.”

  “Did you see him?”

  “No,” she admitted. “But I know he’s guilty.”

  “His paws aren’t muddy, and he hasn’t escaped the house in days. The culprit is a different dog.”

  “It’s him. I’m sure of it.” Marian took a deep breath, obviously readying herself for the demand—a demand sure to include me paying for her destroyed flowers.

  “Ellison Walford Russell.” Mother’s voice pierced the distance from the front door to the kitchen.

  “Kitchen,” I called.

  Marian and her complaints didn’t stand a chance; an apex predator was in the house.

  Mother blasted into the kitchen and eviscerated everyone gathered around the island with a single glance.

  “There was—” Mother was perfectly coiffed, perfectly made up, perfectly dressed, and perfectly terrifying “—a body.”

  “Not my fault.”

  “At the gala.”

  “Not my fault.”

  “How could you?”

  What we had was a failure to communicate.

  “A body?” Marian’s eyes lit with morbid glee. “Where?”

  Mother turned her gorgon’s gaze on my neighbor. “We have family matters to discuss.”

  Marian didn’t move. Perhaps Mother had turned her to stone.

  “Ellison will chat with you later.”

  Marian remained frozen.

  “Aggie will see you to the door.”