Stayin' Alive

by Julie Mulhern

  “Her dog dug up my flowers.” If that was Marian’s best, she might as well wave a white flag.

  “Max?” Mother was not Max’s biggest fan. “Max has never dug up a flower in his life. You are mistaken. End of discussion. Aggie, please see Marian to the door.”

  As Aggie saw Marian to the door, I poured coffee for Mother, emptied the grounds and scooped new ones, filled Mr. Coffee’s reservoir, and pushed his button.

  Stay strong, he whispered.

  Easier said than done.

  I took a deep breath, held it in my lungs, and faced Mother.

  “Explain yourself.”

  Aunt Sis rolled her eyes like a teenager. “Lighten up, Frannie.”

  Mother’s jaw dropped.

  Mine, too.

  “It’s not as if Ellison killed the woman, and she can’t control who’s murdered.”

  Mother glared at her sister. “This is not your concern.”

  “Nor is it yours.” Aunt Sis glared back. “I’d bet Harrington’s bank balance if Ellison had her way, she wouldn’t have found the body.”

  Mother’s eyes widened. “Ellison found the body?”

  Aunt Sis wasn’t helping.

  Max pushed to his paws, shook his head till his ears waggled, and ambled to my side. He was with me against all comers—especially if I made bacon. He blinked. Scratch that. He was with me if Aggie made bacon, and I gave it to him.

  I rubbed the sweet spot behind his silken ears. “I found the body.”

  “Why does this happen to you?” Mother demanded.

  I had no idea. “Unlucky?”

  “Don’t be flip.”

  “You’re looking for an answer that isn’t there, Frannie. You should support your daughter rather than excoriate her for something she can’t control.”

  “When I want your opinion, I’ll ask for it.”

  Wowza.

  Karma and I kept our lips sealed, and Aggie, whose return was visible in the hallway, tiptoed away.

  “A nice woman was murdered, and you’re more upset about Ellison finding her than you are about Phyllis’s death.”

  Mother blinked. “Of course I’m sorry Phyllis is dead.” Frances Walford on the defensive? This was new.

  Mr. Coffee gurgled his disbelief.

  “I met her,” said Aunt Sis. “She told me a big New York company wanted to buy her business. She was thrilled with the idea—national exposure for her designs.”

  No one said a word.

  “The woman had obvious talent,” Aunt Sis continued. “Her dream had come true. Now it’s gone. Someone took everything from her.”

  “I didn’t intend to diminish Phyllis’s death,” said Mother. “Your father tells me Detective Jones is investigating.”

  “Mother, you can call him Anarchy.”

  Mother’s lip quivered as if it desperately wanted to curl. “Ellison—”

  Aunt Sis’s stink eye cut Mother short. “A woman died at the gala. At most parties, the gossip buzzing through the crowd would be unstoppable, but no one knew a thing. I bet we can thank Anarchy for that.” At least Aunt Sis used Anarchy’s name.

  “He did us a favor,” Mother ceded. “But what will he want in return?”

  “Stop it.” My voice, strong and confident and sure, surprised even me. “He’s not like that.”

  “You have feelings for him.” On Mother’s lips, feelings sounded like a crime. “He’s not our kind. How does this work, Ellison? You get married, he leaves his sordid little bachelor pad and moves in here with you and Grace? No real man wants a woman with more money than him. You should know that better than anyone.” She scowled at all of us (especially me). “What next? You take him to the club and he plays golf with judges and business owners and scions of society? Do you honestly think he’ll enjoy that? Or do you give up your life and move to his bachelor pad? Tell me how this works, Ellison. I’m dying to know.”

  Mother had obviously given this some thought.

  I didn’t answer her. I couldn’t.

  I didn’t care about money or social position. But it was easy to discount them when I took them for granted. What if Anarchy cared?

  For long seconds I couldn’t breathe.

  “She’s an adult, Frannie. And those are her problems, not yours. She’ll figure this out.”

  Ding dong.

  Hopefully it wasn’t Marian with a plaster cast of Max’s pawprint.

  This time when voices carried down the hall, a man’s mixed with Aggie’s.

  I smoothed my hair and wished I’d taken the time to add a bit of color to my cheeks. Although, given our discussion and who’d just arrived, there was probably plenty of color there already.

  Seconds later, Anarchy joined us in the kitchen.

  He still wore his tux, but the shirt was open at the neck, and the tie hung loose. Stubble darkened his cheeks, and darkness smudged the skin beneath his eyes.

  If he was surprised to find a room full of women, he hid it well. “Good morning.” He doled out wry smiles.

  “Coffee?” I asked.

  He nodded. “Please.”

  I poured and brought him a cup. “You were at the museum all night?”

  “Sickman had concerns about the bed. Everything took three times longer than normal. I came by to pick up the guest list.”

  “What?” Frost and hauteur fought for supremacy in Mother’s voice. “You’re not interviewing the gala guests.”

  “A woman was murdered, Mrs. Walford. We need to speak with everyone who was there.”

  “Be grateful he didn’t keep everyone at the Nelson,” I said.

  Mother paled.

  “The list is in the den,” I told him. “I’ll fetch it.”

  “I’ll come with you. I’m due at the precinct shortly.”

  We escaped the kitchen unscathed, and Anarchy followed me to the family room where guest lists and seating charts still littered my desk. “Did he kill her?”

  “Stan?”

  I nodded and threw a rejected seating chart into the trashcan.

  “He’s a suspect. He says he never left the ballroom. And he says he can prove it.”

  “Sometimes the spouse is innocent.”

  “There’s something off about his reaction.” Anarchy rubbed his chin. “It’s almost as if he’s frightened.”

  “Frightened?” Was that what I’d sensed last night?

  “Maybe I’m reading him wrong.”

  I shifted a pile of papers and found the final guest list. “Aha! I can’t guarantee everyone on this list was there, but they all had paid tickets.”

  Anarchy eyed the long list and sighed.

  “Is there anything I can do?”

  “Swing by Goddard’s with a Bundt cake. Take his measure.”

  “Me?”

  “You have good instincts, and I trust your judgment.”

  If Anarchy believed Stan had killed Phyllis, he’d never send me to the Goddards’. “What am I looking for?”

  “I’m not sure, but I’d swear the man is scared to death.”

  Chapter Four

  Chocolate and salted caramel were a killer combination—especially in Aggie’s expert hands. She’d baked a chocolate Bundt and drizzled caramel on top. The cake sat next to me in the passenger seat.

  I parked in front of the Goddards’ stately colonial home but wasn’t inclined to move.

  Between the push leading up to the gala, the gala, houseguests (beloved, but still houseguests), and finding a body, I lacked the energy to open the car door.

  Maybe I could come back tomorrow.

  I glanced at the cake. It wouldn’t last an hour if I took it home.

  With a sigh that reached my toes, I opened the car door.

  A bricked walkway led to the Goddards’ door. I wobbled in my heels and held tight to the Tupperware cake plate. I reached the stoop without mishap, took a cleansing breath, and pressed the bell.

  A moment passed, and no one answered. Maybe Stan wasn’t home.

 
; I considered ringing the bell a second time but rejected the idea. If Stan was home and didn’t want company, that was his prerogative. The man’s wife died last night, and here I was on his doorstep with questions. It was almost ghoulish (without cake it would be fully ghoulish).

  I waited another few seconds, gave up, and wobbled toward the car.

  The tip of my heel caught in a crack, and I stepped out of my shoe. My body lurched and spun, but somehow I held onto the cake. Both hands and the cake hovered near the ground. My butt was in the air, and a bare foot dangled an inch above the bricks—it was as if I’d decided to play Twister. By myself. I muttered my thoughts on uneven bricks.

  “Ellison?”

  Of course.

  I lowered my shoeless foot to the cool bricks, straightened, and turned.

  Stan stood on his front steps with a bemused expression on his unshaven face. He wore wrinkled khakis and an old sweater. Comfort clothes. “Let me help you with that.” He stepped onto the walk and took the cake from my hands.

  I retrieved the wayward shoe.

  “Please—” he gestured toward the door “—come in.”

  I followed him inside, paused, and took in my surroundings. Phyllis and I had been friendly without being friends, and I’d never been in her house before. Tasteful. Modern.

  Stan led me to the living room where Phyllis had used her fabrics on the upholstered pieces.

  Stan nodded to a couch. “Have a seat.”

  I sat, folded my hands, and waited for him to offer me coffee.

  He didn’t. If anything, he seemed at a loss, as if he’d forgotten the steps to a dance he once knew well. He deposited the cake on a side table and took a chair. “Thank you for coming.”

  “I’m the advance guard,” I warned him. “Many more will follow.”

  He’d need coffee and food and a box of tissues. He’d need masking tape to mark which casserole dish belonged to whom. He’d need better manners (although women were incredibly forgiving of a newly single, well-to-do man). He’d need—

  “I can’t believe this is real.”

  I abandoned the Stan-isn’t-ready list and remembered my own manners. “I’m so sorry for your loss.”

  “You said that last night.”

  “It’s still true today.” And I’d brought cake. “Who would hurt Phyllis?”

  Something dark and primal flashed in Stan’s eyes, and his cheeks paled. Then he lowered his head and stared at his shaking hands.

  Anarchy had been right. Stan was afraid.

  Of what?

  “I can’t imagine who’d do this, who’d hurt—kill—Phyllis.” A tear splashed onto his clasped hands.

  Imagination wasn’t necessary. Phyllis was dead, and museum galas weren’t exactly hotspots for random murders. Whoever had killed her—and, for now, I seriously doubted it was the shattered man across from me—had killed her for a reason. “You don’t have any ideas?”

  He stiffened. “I didn't sleep wondering. There were two outfits from New York bidding on her company. Maybe the loser?”

  “Do you have a name?”

  “Jerry. Jerry Sopkin.”

  “Anyone else?”

  Stan’s hands stilled. “Joan wasn’t thrilled with her either.”

  Joan, her partner? “Why not?”

  “Joan didn’t want to sell. There’s also Diane Morris.” He lifted his hands to his face, hiding his expression.

  I waited.

  “They hated each other.”

  I was dying to ask why, but there were better sources—namely Jinx. “Is it possible someone did this to get at you?”

  “Me? I work for an insurance company. I don’t have enemies.”

  I made no comment.

  “People will think I killed her.” His hands dropped to his lap, and he regarded me with narrowed, red-rimmed eyes, as if he held me responsible for others’ opinions. “I didn’t murder my wife. I was at the dinner table when she died. Your detective is checking my alibi.”

  “No one’s accusing you, Stan.”

  “Yet.” He flushed. “It’s not a secret Phyllis and I were having problems.”

  Really? I added that to my check-with-Jinx list. “When are the twins getting home?” Phyllis and Stan had two children in college. Yale and Duke, if I remembered correctly.

  “Tomorrow.”

  “Having them home will be a comfort.”

  “I have to plan her funeral.” He stared at me hard enough that I shifted on the couch. “Would you do one of the readings?”

  “Me?” Surprise had me gaping.

  “Please.” Sorrow cracked the word in half.

  “I’m sure there—”

  He leaned forward, beseeching me with his posture and hands and sad eyes. “She admired you.”

  “She did?”

  He nodded. “She watched your career—the way your painting took off and made you famous.”

  “I’m hardly famous.”

  “People have heard of you. You’ve left a lasting mark. That’s what Phyllis wanted.” He laced his fingers together. “The way you succeeded despite your husband—she said you inspired her.” The bitterness in Stan’s voice cut through the sadness. Shredded the sadness.

  I swallowed. “Surely you’d rather ask one of Phyllis’s close friends?”

  “No.” His voice firmed, hardened. “When Phyllis’s business took off, she let everything else fall by the wayside, including her friends. Designing fabric—” he twisted the word “—building her business, that was what mattered to her.”

  Society celebrated men with that much ambition, but Stan’s sour expression said he’d not appreciated his wife’s drive.

  “Please read the passage. You’d be doing me a favor.”

  In essence, he didn’t think he’d find anyone else. “How can I say no?”

  “Thank you, Ellison.” He leaned back against the cushions as if the day’s toughest task was complete.

  “You’re welcome. What else I can do? Your doorbell will be ringing soon. Do you have plenty of coffee? Cream? I can run to the store if you need staples.”

  “No, thank you. Just the reading. I’ll let you know as soon as we’ve scheduled the funeral.”

  “Okay, but Stan—” I waited until he looked me in the eye “—plans change. You won’t hurt my feelings if you decide on someone else for the reading.”

  “I won’t.” For an instant, darkness flashed in his light blue eyes. There and gone, so fast I might have imagined it. I hadn’t.

  I shivered, suddenly eager to be on my way. “I won’t keep you. Enjoy the cake.”

  He flushed. “I forgot to thank you.”

  I stood. “You’re doing it now. And you’re most welcome.”

  I felt Stan’s gaze on my back as I walked to the car. When I was safely inside, I locked the doors and turned on the heat even though the day was mild.

  I stopped at Jinx’s on my way home. Jinx was among my oldest friends. A crack-in-the-wall friend—one who’d been around so long, I no longer noticed her flaws. Until I needed to. Like today. Jinx knew everything about everybody. If she didn’t, if a detail eluded her, she made it her mission to discover the whole story.

  She opened the door wearing a plaid golf skirt and a twinset. “Ellison—” she offered me a welcoming smile “—what a nice surprise.” She regarded my navy-blue dress with interest. Why was I wearing church clothes so late on a Sunday? “I figured you’d have your feet up today.”

  “I ran a Bundt cake by Stan Goddard’s.”

  “I heard. How awful.” She arranged her face into a what-a-tragedy-tell-me-more expression. “How is he? Come in. Would you like coffee?”

  “I don’t want to keep you from your game.”

  “We’ve already played. I won. George is in the study pouting.” She mimed taking a long drink from a highball. “He hates when I win. This way.” She led me into her kitchen. “Coffee? Or something stronger?”

  “Coffee.”

  She wrinkled h
er nose as if she wished I’d pushed the cocktail hour. “The gala was spectacular. But you know that. Sit.” She pointed to a stool. “I’ll make coffee.”

  I did as I was told.

  She filled the coffeemaker’s reservoir, scooped grounds, and pushed the button. “So, what do you want to know?”

  “What do you mean?” I tried for innocence.

  “Oh, please. You must want something. You never drop by.” Her eyes sparkled with speculation. “So, what is it?”

  “What happened between Phyllis Goddard and Diane Morris?”

  “Ooh. That’s a good story. Cookie?”

  “I shouldn’t.”

  “Neither should I, but that never stops me.” Jinx opened a cupboard, grabbed a familiar white bag, and shook a few Pepperidge Farm Milanos onto a plate. “So—” she bit the end off a cookie “—Phyllis and Diane. Where do I begin? Wait. Do you think Diane had something to do with Phyllis’s death?” Jinx had missed her calling. She should have been an interrogator for the CIA.

  I shifted on my stool. “Just curious.”

  “Uh-huh.” She poured our coffee. “Years ago, when Phyllis started the business, she had two partners.”

  “Joan and Diane?”

  She put a mug and a porcelain cow filled with cream in front of me. “Bingo.”

  “What happened?”

  “The official version or the real version?”

  “Both.” I added cream to my coffee and sipped. The chill that invaded my bones at Stan’s house melted away, and I sighed.

  “Long day?”

  “Exactly. And the coffee is perfect.”

  She pursed her lips as if she sensed I hid important information.

  I ticked off excuses. “Gala, murder, houseguests, visit with Stan.”

  Her face relaxed—for now. “Officially, Joan, Diane and Phyllis had a polite disagreement about the business’s direction, and Diane decided to pursue other options.”

  “And unofficially?”

  “Phyllis and Joan kicked Diane to the curb.”

  “Ouch. Why?”

  “Diane considered the business a hobby. Joan and Phyllis did not. She skipped one too many meetings and she was out.”

  “Stan mentioned that Phyllis was ambitious.”

  “An understatement.”

  “How did Diane feel about getting ousted?”