Seconds later, Detective Peters barged into the ladies’ lounge. “Another one?”
I assumed his question was rhetorical.
As usual, Detective Peters, Anarchy’s partner, wore a rumpled trench coat and a deep scowl. I suspected his scowl deepened whenever he was near me. He also wore a mustache. Some men wear mustaches well—Burt Reynolds, Hal Linden, Tony Orlando. Not Detective Peters. He had a caterpillar wedged between his upper lip and his nose. Maybe it helped protect his olfactory senses from the smell of cheap cigars that followed him like a noxious shadow. No “hello,” no “how are you.”
“Good afternoon, detective.”
Detective Peters’s scowl included squinty eyes, tight lips, drawn brows, and a this-is-no-time-for-pleasantries tip to his head. “When did you find her?”
“Half past two.”
“Did you touch her?”
“No.”
“There’s a tablecloth on the body.” His tone made it clear he held me responsible.
I offered him a sad smile. “I told them you wouldn’t like that.”
“Them?”
“The club manager and Taylor.”
“The manager I met. Is Taylor the pompous one or the one who might puke?”
“The pompous one.”
Detective Peters’s mustache bristled. “Did the victim attend your party on Saturday night?” He twisted “party” into something both inconsequential and sinister.
“Yes. Her name is Bobbi Ivens.”
He closed his eyes, and I imagined the cogs in his brain turning. He ran a finger across the caterpillar. “She shared a table with the woman who died.”
“Yes.”
His eyes opened, but only so he could scowl at me. “You found the body?”
“Bobbi? Yes.”
“I was there too.” Daisy’s lower lip trembled. “It was awful.”
“What about you?” Peters glanced at Jinx.
“Nope.”
“I drank too much wine at lunch,” Daisy volunteered. “Ellison offered to take me home.”
No good deed went unpunished.
“How much wine?”
Daisy’s eyes widened as if she’d realized Detective Peters might not be on our side. “Where’s Anarchy?”
Detective Peters’s scowl darkened to black. “Answer the question.”
“Most of a bottle. But it’s my kids, you see. My son shaved the cat, and there was hair everywhere, and my husband will blame me, and—”
“It’s okay, Daisy.” I took her hand in mine and squeezed it. “How much you drank and why are not relevant.”
Peters’s ebony scowl shifted back to me. Exactly as I’d planned. Poor Daisy had enough on her plate without adding Peter’s dyspeptic ire.
“Is anyone fetching Ted?”
Peters’s brows merged into one.
“Bobbi’s husband.” I ignored Peters’s bury-Ellison-in-a-sand-trap glare. “He’s playing golf.”
Peters blinked. He hadn’t known Ted was on the golf course. He’d heard my name and rushed inside to scowl at me. He hadn’t asked important questions. And we both knew it.
Before he could formulate a snide reply, Muriel Jarrett toddled into the lounge. She spotted Detective Peters and gasped. “You can’t be here!”
Peters shifted his scowl to the new arrival.
“Ellison—” Muriel grabbed the back of a chair and pointed her cane at me “—what is the meaning of this?”
Muriel was bird thin, convinced of her own superiority, and Prudence Davies’s mother.
“Well?” She expected an answer. Now.
“There’s been a murder,” I replied.
Mildred curled her lip (not her best look—like her daughter she had a mouthful of long, horsey teeth). “You attract killers like a clearance sale at Swanson’s attracts shoppers.”
She was wrong. A sale at Swanson’s drew hordes. I attracted a slow, steady stream of death.
She thrust the cane like a sword. “Murder does not mean men are welcome in the ladies’ lounge.”
“Who are you?” Peters sounded halfway impressed.
Muriel lifted her shoulders and looked down her nose. “Muriel Jarrett.” She spoke her name as if she expected Peters to recognize it—recognize it and apologize for his rudeness.
He did neither. He dismissed her with a shrug. “Is that supposed to mean something?”
In that instant, I almost liked him.
In the next instant, Anarchy appeared in the doorway, and the tension bunched between my shoulder blades released.
“Everyone okay?”
Muriel glanced over her shoulder and froze.
“Good afternoon, ma’am. I gather my partner is in the wrong room?”
“It’s the ladies’ lounge.” The strident tone Muriel had used when she talked to me and Peters disappeared, replaced by sugar-in-your-tea sweetness.
“I apologize. I’m sure he didn’t realize.”
Was that grinding sound Peters’s teeth?
Anarchy nodded at Peters. “They’re bringing the husband off the course.”
Peters left us with a final glare and the lingering aroma of cheap cigars.
Muriel watched him leave then turned to me. “He shouldn’t have been in here.”
“You’re right, but he was doing his job.” Had I just defended Peters?
“His job is not in the ladies’ lounge.”
“His job is catching killers. That’s a sight more important than your sensibilities.” Oops. Nothing good came of my thoughts sneaking past the filter in my brain.
Muriel drew herself up, ready to whack me with her cane or deliver a well-deserved diatribe on my lack of manners and respect.
“Ellison, a word?” Amusement lightened Anarchy’s features.
“Of course.”
We left Muriel spluttering in the man-free ladies’ lounge, and Anarchy followed me to a room that allowed both sexes. The small room had a view of the practice tee, comfortable chairs, and, best of all, stood empty. “I should feel guilty for leaving Jinx and Daisy with that harpy.”
“They can handle her.”
Jinx could. Muriel Jarrett might prove to be Daisy’s last straw.
Anarchy led me to a pair of chairs. “Tell me.”
I sat (plonked).
He sat with the loose-limbed elegance of a man comfortable in his own skin and waited.
“Daisy drank too much wine at bridge, and I decided I’d drive her home. When we walked to her car, Bobbi’s body was on the curb.” I ignored the golf-course view, tilted my head, and stared at the ceiling. “How long has she been dead?”
“The medical examiner says less than an hour.”
“So Ted didn’t do it.”
“The husband? As long as he didn’t excuse himself from his golf game, he’s in the clear. Any idea who wanted her dead?”
“No.” Bobbi was the second woman strangled. “Daisy’s worried a stranger is preying on our set. I told her we’d have noticed a stranger at the ball.”
“Do you notice waiters and bartenders and busboys?”
“Not always.” The admission chilled me. People who spent their time making my life more pleasant deserved notice. “Dwayne was our server today.” My voice was a shade too loud. I took a breath. “His daughter is graduating high school and going to college in the fall. She received a full scholarship.” I’d never seen a prouder man.
“Who asked about his daughter?”
“I did.”
“Why did you ask?”
“Dwayne’s been taking care of us for years and talking about Janelle makes him happy.”
“Do your friends know her name?”
I considered his question. “Daisy does, Jinx might, Libba doesn’t. You don’t think Dwayne had—”
Anarchy held up his hands. “No. What I think is, you’re extraordinary.”
Warmth flooded my veins, and the empty practice tee suddenly became fascinating. I stared at it. Stared and wondered
what was wrong with me. I’d dipped my toe in the water. I knew Anarchy was nothing like Henry. But I couldn’t leap.
“Tell me about Bobbi Ivens.” Thank heavens he’d changed the subject.
“She had a big personality.”
“Meaning?”
“She excelled at organizing things…and people. When her kids were young, she was swim chairman. Twice. She was president of the Junior League. She and Mother vied for control of the altar guild. She was the woman who’d hit up every mother in her kids’ classes for cash for a meaningful holiday gift for the teachers so they didn’t receive twenty coffee mugs. She chaired school auctions, the PTA, and that fun little bridge party to benefit people with cancer.”
“What are you telling me?”
“Bobbi ran things.”
“And?”
“If she’d been a man, she’d probably be the CEO of an enormous company. After her kids went to college, she seemed—” I searched for a word “—lost.”
“Surely she still volunteered.”
“The Junior League and PTA are a young—” I wasn’t ready to consign Bobbi, who’d been only a few years older than me, to middle age “—younger woman’s game.”
“What did she do?”
“She played tennis and golf and lots of bridge.” I wrinkled my nose.
“What?”
“She wasn’t a very good bridge player.”
“I doubt that got her killed.”
“It might have. Lots of women take their bridge seriously. I played with her once, and she responded two hearts to my one-heart opening bid. She had thirteen points and three hearts in her hand.”
Anarchy didn’t reply. Apparently, he didn’t realize how terribly she’d bid her hand.
“Women have killed for less.”
“So I should look at her bridge partners?”
“She was strangled. I don’t know many women who could strangle Bobbi.”
“She played tennis with a woman named Helen Price this morning. Any conflict there?”
“I don’t think so. I’ll ask around.”
“Ask about her husband, too.”
“He was on the golf course.”
“Husbands have hired killers before.”
“How do they find them? It’s not as if there’s a listing in the yellow pages.” Ted Ivens hiring a hitman was as likely as Mother urging Anarchy to get down on one knee and propose.
We stared at the golf course for long seconds.
“I’m sorry about this,” said Anarchy.
“What?”
“This. These murders. I hoped we could finally get away.”
The air leaked out of my lungs.
Anarchy reached for my hand. “You do want to go away?” He searched my face.
Every fear, every worry, every insecurity bubbled to the surface. “I—”
“Detective Jones.” A uniformed officer stood in the doorway. “They need you in the parking lot.”
Anarchy dismissed him with a nod. “Be right there.”
I swallowed, and air snuck back into my lungs. “I’ll ask around about Bobbi.”
“Ellison—”
“Yes?”
“Be careful. Two women are dead and we have no idea why.”
Chapter Eight
“Where’s Aunt Sis?” I collapsed onto the family room couch next to Karma.
“Out. She’s being secretive.”
“Sis?”
A grin spread across Karma’s face. “If you ask me, she met someone at the gala.”
“Met someone?” Sis?”
“A beau.”
I smiled at the old-fashioned word and considered Karma’s theory. Aunt Sis rarely lingered in Kansas City. And her I’ll-help-you-catch-a-killer excuse didn’t hold water—not when she’d been out of the house most every minute. Had she used the murder as an excuse to spend time with a mystery man?
“Definitely a beau.” Karma nodded sagely. “When I asked her what she had planned for the day, she got a dreamy expression on her face.”
A dreamy expression? Aunt Sis? “I wouldn’t have guessed.”
Karma drained her wine glass. “Why not?”
Aunt Sis was a free spirit. I couldn’t imagine her making dinner for her husband or compromising on a vacation locale or listening to a man complain about too much starch in his shirts. “She so complete in herself. She doesn’t seem to need anyone.”
“Maybe it’s a man she likes but doesn’t need.”
I considered Karma’s suggestion. Sis didn’t need anyone, but being an independent woman was lonely—I knew firsthand. Whoever this mystery beau was, I hoped he appreciated my aunt’s independent spirit—that he might be liked but not needed. “Stop being so wise,” I told Karma as I eyed her empty wine glass. A good hostess would fetch more wine, but exhaustion kept me glued to the couch. “How was your day with Daddy?”
“Perfect. What about you? Good cards?”
I leaned my head against the back of the couch and stared at the ceiling. “I found a body.”
Karma jerked forward. “You did not!”
“I did. In the parking lot at the club. Mother will arrive to chastise me soon.” Of that I was certain.
“Who died?”
I closed my eyes and saw the lavender pompoms on Bobbi’s socks and her tennis whites against the black asphalt. “A woman named Bobbi Ivens.”
“What happened?”
“She was murdered.”
“Oh, Ellison.” Sympathy rounded the edges of Karma’s voice. “I’m so sorry. Were you friends?”
I turned my head. “We were friendly.”
“Ah.” Karma didn’t need an explanation of the difference between friends and friendly. “How did she die?”
“She was strangled.”
A full ten seconds passed before Karma spoke. “Like the woman at the gala.”
“Exactly like that.”
“Does Anarchy know?”
“Yes.”
“What does he say?”
“He wants me to ask around.”
Karma’s brows rose to her hairline.
“Discreetly,” I added.
“I bet.” She glanced at the coffee table where her empty wine glass sat next to the latest issue of Architectural Digest. The magazine’s cover was vaguely Asian and featured low couches and plenty of burnt sienna. “Is it safe? To ask around, I mean.”
“He wouldn’t ask if he thought I’d be in danger.”
“Ellison!” Mother’s outraged voice carried from the front hall. She sounded ready for battle, an Amazon queen in search of cannon fodder.
“Family room,” I called.
“Should I stay?” Karma asked.
“Absolutely. But would you mind fetching more wine?” I suspected we’d need it. “There are several bottles in the fridge.”
“Of course.” She rose and hurried toward the kitchen as Mother burst into the room.
“What happened?” Mother demanded.
“Bobbi Ivens’ body was next to Daisy’s station wagon.”
“Who killed her?”
“No idea.”
Mother sank onto the nearest chair. “How did she die?”
“Strangled.”
Her hands rose to her throat. “Have they arrested Ted?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“He was playing golf with three other men when she died. Why do you suspect Ted?”
Mother frowned and—typically—ignored my question. “You found her near Daisy’s car? Not yours?”
“Daisy’s,” I confirmed. “Her children are driving her to drink, and I offered to drive her home.”
“Ellison, this must stop.”
Presumably she meant finding bodies, not ferrying tipsy friends. “I agree.” It wasn’t as if I enjoyed finding bodies. Quite the opposite.
“Also, I heard you sassed Muriel Jarrett.”
I winced. “I’m afraid so. She was so concerned with Peters being i
n the ladies’ lounge that she didn’t care Bobbi was dead in the parking lot.”
Mother shifted as if the chair were uncomfortable and pulled a needlepoint pillow from behind her back. A gift from Libba, the pillow’s message resonated. When the rush is over, I’m having a nervous breakdown. I worked for it. I earned it. And no one will deprive me of it. I loved that pillow, but Mother frowned at its hopeful message. “You pointed out her lack of empathy?”
“I did.”
“She had it coming.”
I blinked. “Who are you, and what have you done with my mother?”
Mother, who was definitely Mother, pursed her lips. “Don’t be cute, Ellison. Muriel Jarrett is a horrible woman.”
Aha! If I’d been rude to someone Mother liked, we’d be having a different conversation.
“Wine?” Karma stood in the doorway with a bottle of wine and two glasses.
“Your guest is fetching drinks?” Mother’s disapproval was tangible.
“I offered, Frances.” Not strictly true, but nice of Karma to say.
Mother sniffed.
Karma settled the bottle and glasses on the coffee table, and I refilled her wine glass.
“Mother? Can I twist your arm?”
“A small one.”
She didn’t mean it. I poured wine till it flirted with the glass’s rim.
She accepted the glass. “If Ted didn’t kill Bobbi, who did?”
“No idea.” Nor did I want to discuss the murder. “Who’s Aunt Sis’s new beau?”
Mother spit wine (thank God Karma chose the white) in a fine spray. “Sis has a beau?”
“I take it you didn’t know?”
“Who—” She sealed her lips, narrowed her eyes, and used a cocktail napkin to blot wine off her blouse.
“You just realized who it is!”
She ignored me and blotted with more vigor.
“Who?” I demanded.
“Gordon Thayer.”
“Seriously?” Tall, with a thatch of white hair, a craggy face, and a year-round tan, Gordon Thayer was a catch.
“I saw them together at the gala,” Mother replied.
“Who’s Gordon Thayer?” Karma asked.
“Sis’s high-school boyfriend,” Mother replied.
I’d had no idea. “He’s a widower who’s somehow evaded every divorcée and widow in Kansas City.”
“Several married women, too.” Mother’s eyes were narrowed as if she were calculating Sis’s odds of landing one of Kansas City’s most eligible men. “I’m not sure he’s interested in marriage.”
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