If it would get her talking? Absolutely. I pointed to a muted geometric pattern. “May I have a swatch of that? I’m redoing Henry’s study and—” I pictured my late husband’s masculine office “—never mind.” I returned to the bolt that first caught my eye, the cheery floral that went with nothing in my house. The room wasn’t Henry’s anymore. It was mine, and I could decorate as I liked. “This one.”
Joan nodded as if she approved of my choice. “Are you thinking upholstery or drapes?”
“Drapes.”
“Excellent. There are several complementary fabrics you might consider for chairs and sofas.” Joan cut a swatch of the fabric I’d selected then added a stripe, a plaid, and a second floral with a smaller print.
The mix of color and texture and pattern was genius. With the swatches spread in front of me, imagining Henry’s dark study transformed into a room I’d enjoy was easy. “You’re good at this.”
“You sound surprised.”
“Sorry, it’s just that—”
Joan’s answering smile flirted with bitterness. “Everyone thought our success was due to Phyllis, but it’s not enough to create beautiful fabrics; you have to show people how they can live with them.”
“What will happen now? To the shop?”
“Nothing. I own half the rights to Phyllis’s existing designs, and I’ll continue to sell them.”
“But I heard Phyllis sold the company.”
Her smile stopped flirting with bitter and embraced rancor. “The sale to New York? We hadn’t signed the papers. I still own the shop and designs, but now I’m partners with Stan.”
I nodded vaguely, pretending I wasn’t fascinated by everything she said. “Is there an upholsterer you recommend? What about someone who’ll measure windows and sew drapes?”
Joan opened a drawer, took out two business cards, and gave them to me. “The gala was exquisite. I should have told you when you came in.”
“Thank you. In truth, I’m glad it’s over.”
“I bet. What will you do with your spare time?”
“Paint.” Painting was how I expressed emotion. And lately, I’d needed to pick up my brushes. The mix of color and dabs of paint on a snowy white canvas would help me make sense of my feelings for Anarchy. I loved him, but the terror that accompanied that emotion soured my stomach, kept me staring at the ceiling at three in the morning, and rooted me in a place where moving forward was impossible.
“Have you considered throw pillows?”
I blinked. “Pardon?”
“Throw pillows.” Joan smiled pleasantly. “There’s another fabric—not everyone’s brave enough to mix so many patterns, but you…” She turned away, cut another swatch, and added it to the stack.
“I love it.”
“I thought you might.”
“You must be so pleased you can keep the store.”
“We’ve only been open a few years, and I don’t think we’ve hit our stride.”
“You started it with Phyllis and Diane Morris?”
“That’s right.”
“Phyllis designed the fabrics.” I ran my finger across the tweedy texture of the swatch on top of the pile. “You sold them. What did Diane do?”
“Not much.”
“What was she supposed to do?”
“Supposedly she had contacts with interior designers on the coasts—the kind whose work is featured in magazines. For the first six months or so, it seemed as if she tried, but she lost her enthusiasm. Phyllis and I were working too hard to carry her. We bought her out.”
“I heard she wasn’t happy about it.”
“That’s an understatement. Although she blamed Phyllis more than me.” Joan shook her head. “We were such good friends before we started this—” she waved at the fabric-filled store “—but everything changed. Diane hasn’t spoken to me in years, and Phyllis is dead.”
“Was the store worth the friendship?” The question popped out.
“What?”
“The store. Was it worth the loss of the friendship?”
Joan’s answering smile did a poor job masking her thoughts. “Why do you ask?”
Because I was faced with a decision that might change everything. “Just curious.”
“I’d do it again.” She collected my samples and slipped them into a bright paper bag.
I stared. I couldn’t help but stare.
“Is there something wrong?”
“Nope. That’s an attractive bag.”
“Phyllis designed it.”
I wasn’t staring at the bag. Joan had hands like catchers’ mitts.
Behind me, the shop door opened.
Joan smiled, and I turned.
Prudence Davies entered. When she saw me, her lips curled in a sneer.
All the better to show off her horse teeth.
Prudence and my late husband slept together (a euphemism if ever there was one—whatever they did, no sleeping was involved). For reasons known only to Prudence, she acted as if she were the injured party, as if I’d somehow infringed on her relationship with Henry.
If I could ask my late husband three questions, the first one would be why he chose to cheat on me with someone as unattractive as Prudence.
“Good morning,” said Joan.
Prudence glared at me. “I heard you found another body.”
Joan gasped. The body was her business partner.
“Tactful as always, Prudence.” I held up the business cards. “Thank you for your help, Joan. Expect to hear from me next week about the yardage.”
She presented me with the bag. “Thank you for coming in.”
Somehow, I avoided looking at her hands. And Prudence. I avoided looking at Prudence, too. But that was on principle.
Chapter Six
Since 1940, Winstead’s has served steakburgers to hungry Kansas Citians. I opened the door to its art-deco building and floated inside on the salt-laden smell of frying beef. I’d denied myself making sure my gala gown fit—there were onion rings in my future.
“I’m meeting someone,” I told the hostess.
“Him?” Infatuation made her middle-aged voice young again, and I followed her gaze.
Anarchy sat alone. Relaxed. Better looking than a movie star.
“That’s him. Thank you.”
She sighed as I walked away.
I slid into the booth across from him. “Hi.”
“Hi.”
We spent a few seconds staring at each other. I lost my way in his coffee-brown eyes and was happy to be lost. What were his secrets? Did I care?
A waitress cleared her throat.
Reluctantly, with a goofy smile still stretching my cheeks, I turned.
Ruby, Grace’s favorite waitress, regarded us with an amused expression.
Plenty of teenagers making calves’ eyes at each other across Winstead’s tables. As adults, Anarchy and I were a rarity, but a little mooning never hurt anybody.
“What may I get you to drink?”
“A cherry limeade,” I replied.
She noted my order on her pad. “Anything besides water, sir?”
“Cherry limeade.”
Ruby added a tick to her pad and walked away.
I pulled a menu from the stand and handed it to him. “She’ll expect you to know what you want when she returns.”
“Do you know?”
“Yes.” I didn’t need a menu.
He glanced at the simple list. “Guess I’m having a burger.”
“Single or double? What do you want on it? Rings or fries?”
His smile warmed his eyes. “You’ve done this before.”
I allowed myself another gaze into those eyes and nodded.
Ruby put our drinks down and waited with her pen poised above her pad.
“Single cheese with grilled onions and ketchup, and a side of rings.”
She noted my order and turned her attention to Anarchy, who grinned at me.
“Double cheese with everything,
and fries extra crispy.”
“Coming right up.” She left us.
Anarchy’s grin widened. “What did you do this morning?”
“Looked at fabric.”
The grin sputtered and died. “You talked to Joan Mardike.”
I leaned forward and whispered, “She has enormous hands.”
“I noticed, but hands like oven mitts doesn’t mean she killed her partner.”
“Agreed.” I liked Joan and hoped she hadn’t murdered Phyllis—but I’d liked murderers before. “Did Stan’s alibi check out?”
“Every person seated at that table left during dinner except Stan.”
I closed my eyes, picturing the seating chart. “Stan and Phyllis, Joan and Bill, Marlene and Jay Edwards, Kay and Jim Clarkson, and—” I couldn’t remember the last couple.
“Barbara and Ted Ivens.”
I opened my eyes. “How could I forget Bobbi?”
“Bobbi?”
“Barbara Ivens.”
“What’s special about her?”
I searched for a delicate explanation. “She has big appetites.”
“Is that a nice way of saying she cheats on her husband?”
“No, although she might. Bobbi is just full of life.”
“Any reason she’d want Phyllis dead?”
“No. Why?”
“She was away from the table long enough; her husband went looking for her.”
“Did he find her?”
“No. She returned to the table before he did.”
“Where was everyone seated?” I asked.
Anarchy pulled a paper napkin from the chrome dispenser, drew a circle, and noted ten sets of initials. “The entire table was together for no more than five minutes before Phyllis excused herself.”
“Did she say why?”
“She told Kay Clarkson she’d remembered an important detail and needed a phone. They ate the salad course without her, then Kay and Marlene excused themselves to the ladies’ lounge.”
The bathrooms at the Nelson were not lounges, but I didn’t correct him.
“While Kay and Marlene visited the lounge, Jim Clarkson stepped outside for a cigarette. All three returned as dinner was served. Stan seemed annoyed Phyllis hadn’t returned. He insisted everyone eat without her.” Anarchy reached inside his jacket and pulled out a pad, which he opened. “Jay Edwards headed for the bar.”
“Of course he did.”
“Oh?”
“The man may sleep with a bottle.” Only a slight exaggeration.
“Barbara—Bobbi—ate a few bites of dinner then excused herself. She was gone so long everyone noticed. Jay Edwards made a crack about missing wives, and Ted Ivens became visibly upset.”
“What was Stan’s reaction?” I asked.
“Marlene Edwards says that Stan acted as if nothing was wrong. He joked. He laughed. He ordered an extra bottle of wine.”
“And Stan never left the table?”
“Never. He didn’t move until the presentation ended. He apologized for his wife’s absence and explained that she and Joan had a big deal working.”
“He didn’t have time to kill her between the end of the presentation and when we found her body.”
“An airtight alibi from multiple witnesses—not all of whom like him.”
“Oh?”
“Barbara—Bobbi—said he held his wife back, was jealous she’d succeeded, and now that Phyllis was dead, he’d run her company into the ground.”
“That’s quite an indictment.” Bobbi had probably used colorful adjectives.
“It is. But even she admits when she was there, he was too.”
“Then why don’t you sound convinced?”
“Everyone left that table. Multiple times. It’s convenient he stayed.”
“Most people sat at their tables through dinner. Stan’s not the exception for the gala, just for his table.” I sipped the limeade. “Although my whole family suspects he paid someone to kill her.”
“A hitman?”
“Yep.”
“Frances?”
“Not Mother. I don’t discuss murder with Mother.”
“Who came up with the idea?”
“Aunt Sis or Grace. I can’t remember. It’s a silly idea. Everyone in that crowd knew each other. A stranger would have stuck out—” Anarchy had been a stranger in the crowd. “Was it awful?”
“Not remotely. I was with you.”
My heart beat double time and I took another sip of limeade before I tried to speak. “Did anyone beside Stan and Joan benefit from her death?”
“How did Joan benefit?”
“Without Phyllis, the deal is dead.”
“Doesn’t Joan want the deal?”
“No.” I explained why—a combination of Jinx’s gossip and what Joan told me. “Also, there were originally three partners. Phyllis, Joan, and Diane Morris. Phyllis and Joan ousted Diane, and Diane was angry enough to have an affair with Stan.”
“Stan?” Disbelief colored Anarchy’s voice.
“Stan,” I confirmed.
“Is Diane married?”
“No.”
“Was she at the gala?”
“Yes.” This line of questioning led nowhere good.
“Did she have a date?”
“Yes,” I admitted.
“Who?”
My voice was a whisper. “Hunter Tafft.” Mother’s dearest wish was for me to get over my inexplicable fascination with Anarchy and marry Hunter.
“I’ll have questions for him.”
“I know.” And I didn’t like it.
“Anyone else upset with Phyllis?”
“Not that I’ve heard, but I’m playing bridge tomorrow.” Surprising information found its way to bridge tables.
Ruby appeared with plates lining her arm. She slid our lunches onto the table. “Anything else?”
We shook our heads, and she left us.
“Trade you a fry for a ring,” Anarchy suggested.
I turned up my nose at the banana split saucer filled with crispy fries. “The going rate for a ring is three fries.”
He eyed my stack of golden onion rings. “You drive a hard bargain.”
I bit into an onion ring and moaned.
“Deal.”
We made the trade.
“Have you given any more thought to—”
“Ellison!” Jane Addison practically sprinted toward our table. Jane was a real estate agent. Her second job was gossip. She knew almost as much as Jinx. If the story involved buying or selling a house, she knew more.
“Jane, you know Anarchy?”
Anarchy slid out of the booth and stood.
“Nice to see you.” She took in his height, his handsome face, and his ugly plaid jacket. “Please, sit down.”
Anarchy ignored her request.
“Please,” said Jane. “I insist. I’m sorry to interrupt your lunch, but I had to tell Ellison how fabulous everything was on Saturday night.”
Anarchy sat.
“Thank you, Jane.” Not for one second did I believe Jane had dashed across a restaurant to compliment me. She wanted information about Phyllis’s murder. Nosy, nosy. And my onion rings were getting cold. “Let’s grab lunch sometime soon.”
She blinked. “When are you free?”
“Call me at home when we both have our calendars.”
“I’ll do that.” She didn’t move.
I picked up my burger. “I’ll look forward to hearing from you.”
Jane had questions, and they were burning inside her—one need only look at her tensed shoulders and fisted hands to sense the hows and whys and whos—but she waggled her fingers and stepped back. “Talk soon.”
“Can’t wait.” I took a bite.
Anarchy watched her walk away. “You don’t like her.”
“It’s not that. I don’t trust her. She’s a terrible gossip.” Unlike Jinx, Jane had no compunction when it came to gossip about me. Anarchy’s and my lunch would be fo
dder by cocktail hour. Ellison had lunch with that detective and they looked cozy. I wonder if they discussed the murder? Or something else? I ate one of the bartered fries. “Who did Phyllis call?”
“We’re not sure. The assumption is she wanted to discuss some aspect of the deal for the company.”
“On a Saturday night? Did anyone in New York hear from her?”
“We called the company. No one was there Saturday.”
“What if the call was a ruse? Maybe she was meeting someone.” Need I remind him about illicit quickies?
“An affair?”
“I’ll see what I can find out.”
“How?”
“Tomorrow at the club.”
He reached across the table and his hand closed around my wrist. “Don’t take any risks.”
“It’s the bridge table. Zero risk involved.”
Libba sat across from me. Jinx sat to my right. As usual, we waited on Daisy.
Small side tables held bowls filled with bridge mix, my sweating iced tea, Jinx’s Tab with two limes, and Libba’s wine.
“Have you heard anything more about the murder?” Jinx drummed her fingers against the ultra-suede-covered table. She had little patience for her partner’s habitual tardiness.
I popped a pretzel into my mouth and shook my head.
“Sorry I’m late!” Daisy burst into the card room like a whirlwind. Her slip showed. She needed a comb. A lollipop and multiple tufts of hair stuck to her sweater (the candy on the sleeve, the hair everywhere). “I’ve had a morning.”
“Sit.” Libba held out her wine glass.
Daisy sat, took the glass, gulped, and handed it back. “Thank you.”
“Which kid, and what did he do?” asked Jinx.
Daisy closed her eyes.
“How bad can it be?” Libba didn’t have children. She’d never experienced bad.
“David snuck into our bathroom. He knows it’s off limits, ever since the lipstick incident.” The lipstick incident had translated into new wallpaper for most of the house. “He stole my razor from the shower and—” She paused for a shuddering breath.
“And?” I asked. One of Daisy’s offspring running loose with a razor was a terrifying proposition.
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