“Good morning.” I forced a smile. “Coffee?”
“Please.”
I finished filling my cup, took a mug from the cupboard, and filled it to the rim. “Here you go.”
Anarchy accepted the coffee. “Thank you.”
With that, we ran out of conversation.
I added cream to my coffee, wrapped my hands around the mug’s warmth, and stared at Aggie’s clean countertops.
Seconds passed—seconds that lasted longer than minutes.
Aggie’s gaze shifted between us. “It’s a lovely morning.”
Anarchy grunted.
I sighed.
“The weatherman said we might hit seventy today.”
Another grunt.
Another sigh.
“What happened in the living room? The furniture’s out of place.”
Carefully, I put my mug on the counter and sank my head into my hands. “We need a new couch.” After what I’d seen, I’d never sit on the existing one again.
“Did you say a new couch?” Aggie asked.
I nodded.
“I see.”
She was lucky she hadn’t.
“I have cleaning upstairs.” The tension in the kitchen was palpable and Aggie was leaving? “Would you mind taking the cake out when the oven beeps?”
“I never get it right.” And I didn’t want to be alone with the surly stranger masquerading as Anarchy.
“It’s easy. Take the cake from the oven and put it on the cooling rack.” She escaped up the back stairs before I could argue. Max followed her.
I stared into my mug.
“About last night—” Anarchy began.
I waited for more.
When he didn’t continue, I raised my gaze from my coffee.
Anarchy leaned against the counter and scowled at the blameless pitcher sitting on the island.
“What about last night?”
“I was a jerk.”
I didn’t argue.
“I’m sorry.” He shifted his scowl to the ceiling “I don’t get along with my family. Taking you to San Francisco…the notion didn’t sit well.”
“I didn’t suggest we go to California.”
“You haven’t suggested we go anywhere.”
That was true.
“I want this to work, but you’re holding back.”
He was right, but I wasn’t holding back on purpose. “Henry betrayed my trust.” An epic understatement.
“I’m nothing like Henry.”
“I know that.” But knowing it in my head and accepting it in my soul were very different.
“You need more time.” It wasn’t a question. It was a discouraged statement.
“Henry and I fell apart. And it was awful, and humiliating—” so humiliating “—and I spent nights staring at the ceiling wondering what I might have done differently. I worried about Grace. She could sense the tension between Henry and me. I mourned my marriage, but my heart—it didn’t break.”
Anarchy’s gaze sought mine. “I won’t break your heart, Ellison.”
“It’s easy to say that now. We still have that new-car smell. But what about a year from now? Five years from now?”
“You’re thinking long-term?”
“Aren’t you?”
He paused before he answered. “Yes.”
Panic bubbled in my chest. Had I made another epic mistake? I closed my eyes.
“There are things you don’t know. Things I should have told you. I—”
“Ellison Walford Russell!” Mother’s voice boomed from the front hall. Mother had the worst timing ever.
“Kitchen,” I called.
She blew in with hurricane force. She paused long enough to nod at Anarchy, then launched her attack. “Is it true you were rolling around your front lawn with Gordon Thayer in the middle of the night?”
“Yes.”
Her mouth opened, but no words came out. Clearly she’d been expecting a denial.
“Coffee?” I asked.
“No. What did Sis say about your roll in the grass?”
“She didn’t say a word. She saw it happen. Whatever you heard is wrong.”
Mother wore a silk blouse topped with a kelly green cardigan, navy pants, and navy kilties with green piping. Her hair formed a perfect silver helmet. Her lipstick was a soft pink. If I didn’t know better, I’d mistake her for an elegant woman of a certain age. I knew better. Mother was Atilla the Hun reincarnated. “Enlighten me.”
“A dog was digging up my pansies, and Gordon helped me chase it.”
“At one in the morning?”
“He was here with Sis.”
“Did you catch the dog?”
“No. Why?”
“It would be nice if it could corroborate your story.”
“The dog got away. Besides, it wouldn’t make a reliable witness.”
Mother eyed me suspiciously. “Why was Gordon here so late?
Heat rose from my chest, to my neck, to my face. “I have no idea.”
Mother’s eyes narrowed. “You’re a terrible liar.”
Nothing I didn’t already know. I scratched the end of my nose and changed the subject. “Not to speak ill of the dead—” I had her full attention “—but what do we know about Bobbi Ivens?”
She effortlessly ignored my attempt at a new subject. “Did Gordon spend the night?”
“You’d have to ask Sis.”
“I’m asking you.”
“No. Gordon did not spend the night.”
“Too bad.”
I glanced at Anarchy. His expression gave nothing away.
“Sis needs a man and Gordon is perfect for her.”
“Why?” I had my doubts. Gordon attended key parties. Gordon desecrated my couch.
“Why what?”
“Why does Aunt Sis need a man, and why Gordon?”
“No one should grow old alone. Gordon is perfect because he and Sis have similar backgrounds and fit into each other’s worlds.” Mother glanced pointedly at Anarchy.
The exhaustion that had nipped at my heels since the gala rose on its hind legs and demanded attention. “Mother, I’m too tired for this.”
“For what?” She tried for wide-eyed innocence. Tried and failed. Attila the Hun couldn’t pull off doe eyes.
Ding.
I got up and pulled the cake from the oven.
“Is the cake for Ted Ivens?” asked Mother.
“Yes.”
“How’s Daisy?”
My conscience poked me—a you-haven’t-checked-on-your-sweet-friend poke. “I don’t know.”
“Not everyone is accustomed to finding bodies.”
I couldn’t find a positive reply.
Mother turned to Anarchy. “How close are you to catching the killer?”
“The investigation is ongoing.”
“Is some stranger preying on the women in our set?”
“Unlikely.”
“But possible,” she insisted.
“Anything’s possible,” Anarchy ceded. “People are murdered for a reason.”
“Mother, what do you know about Bobbi Ivens?” My forgotten question was worth repeating.
Mother sniffed. “I don’t indulge in gossip.”
I swallowed a swell of laughter. “If you had to guess, why would someone want her dead?”
Mother considered. “You’re sure Ted was on the golf course?”
“Positive.”
“Then it’s a mystery to me.”
“Did Ted Ivens have a reason to want his wife dead?”
“I don’t gossip.”
Like hell she didn’t. She might not gossip in front of Anarchy, but I’d get it out of her.
Brnng, brnng.
I scowled at the phone.
Brnng, brnng.
“Where’s Aggie?”
“Cleaning Karma’s bedroom.”
Brnng, brnng.
Three rings. I answered the phone. “Hello.”
“It’s me,�
�� said Libba. “I’m stopping by the Ivens’ this afternoon. Do you want to come with me?”
“Absolutely.”
“Pick you up around one.”
Across the kitchen, Mother poured herself coffee and sniffed the cream in the pitcher.
I closed my eyes. “Can you come any earlier?”
“What’s wrong?”
“I’ll tell you when you get here.”
Libba pulled to a stop behind a Mercedes. The Benz wasn’t the only car parked on the Ivens’ quiet street. “Looks as if we’ll have company.”
“Fine by me.” Carrying a conversation with Ted Ivens wasn’t easy. Time would move faster in a house full of people. I opened the car door and stepped out into the spring afternoon.
“Thirty minutes,” said Libba.
“Agreed.”
Libba, who carried a bag of chocolates from André’s, rang the doorbell.
I held the cake plate level.
Prudence Davies answered the door. Her lip curled when she saw us. “You?”
“Yes.” I smiled sweetly and held up Aggie’s Bundt. “We brought cake.”
“And chocolate.” Libba swung the André’s bag.
“You found the body.” Prudence blocked our entrance.
“Get over yourself, Prudence.” Libba’s voice married ennui and disdain. “It’s not as if Ellison killed her.”
“Ted doesn’t want to see you.”
Ted Ivens appeared behind Prudence and made a face. “Ellison, Libba, how nice of you to come.”
I brushed past Prudence and held out the cake to Ted. “We’re so sorry for your loss.”
While I appreciated the ugly red flush on Prudence’s cheeks, I worried for Ted. He looked gaunt. Deep bags hung beneath his eyes, and his skin carried a sickly hue. “Thank you.” He accepted the cake and Libba’s chocolates. “I’ll put these in the kitchen.” He waved toward the dining room. “Some of Bobbi’s friends put out lunch.”
There would be cold cuts and sliced cheese, thin-sliced pumpernickel bread, crudité and dill dip, a Watergate salad, possibly a Jell-O mold, probably potato or egg salad. There might be a ham, dotted with cloves, slathered in brown sugar and mustard glaze, and baked in cola. With a ham, there’d be egg rolls and a crystal dish filled with mayonnaise. I’d seen far too many tables like that. I ignored the dining room and ventured into the living room.
Bobbi had used Phyllis’s fabrics well. A pair of plaid couches faced each other across a glass and brass coffee table. Pillows, drapes, the chairs—they all went together beautifully.
Jinx sat on one of those couches. She grinned when she spotted us. “Prudence let you in?”
“Ted let us in,” said Libba. “Prudence was ready to slam the door in our faces.”
“George is in the butler’s pantry mixing drinks. Let him know if you want something.”
“Thanks,” said Libba. “Wine?”
“Tab,” I replied. “Two limes.”
“Prudence is here. That calls for alcohol.”
“Tab.” I sat on the couch next to Jinx.
Libba shrugged and left us.
Jinx bent her head toward mine. “Prudence has been glued to Ted’s side.”
“Poor Ted.”
“I don’t think he minds.”
I contemplated that horror. “I’m surprised she’s here. I’d have thought Ted was too strait-laced for her.”
“Haven’t you heard? Prudence has financial troubles. She moved back in with her mother. A husband—any husband—is better than a harpy mother. Any day.”
“When did Prudence move in with Muriel?”
“I’m not sure. I heard about it yesterday.”
Libba breezed back into the living room, took the third seat on the couch, and handed me and Jinx glasses of Tab. “George is visiting with the men, and they don’t have limes.”
“I’ll live.”
“Have you been here long?” she asked Jinx.
“Thirty minutes or so. We feel awful for Ted.” She lit a cigarette and shuddered. “It’s like that movie with Grace Kelly.”
“What movie?”
“The one with Ray Milland.”
“Jinx! Not here. You should keep that to yourself.”
“Why?”
“Don’t you remember? The husband blackmails someone into killing his wife.”
“I hadn’t thought of that. Just the strangling part. What was that other movie about strangling? Frenzy?”
“We shouldn’t talk about Hitchcock.” I glanced over my shoulder and spotted Ted standing in the doorway to the sunroom. He’d definitely heard us; pain creased his face.
I rose from the couch and went to him. “I’m sorry. Jinx didn’t mean it.”
“People think I did it.”
“You have an alibi.”
“That doesn’t matter.”
“It matters to the police.” I rested my hand on his sleeve. “I know what you’re going through. It gets better. I promise.”
“That’s right. You were a suspect in Henry’s murder.” His face clouded. “But the police caught the killer. They cleared you.”
“Anarchy will find out who did this to Bobbi. I’m sure of it.”
Ted nodded, but doubt played across his features.
Daisy and her husband poked their heads into the living room. Daisy smiled at Jinx and Libba, but her husband headed for Ted. “Sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you.”
“Ellison.” Daisy’s husband was one of those men who couldn’t converse with women. “How are you?”
“Fine, thank you. And you?”
“Sad day. How’s Grace?”
“Never better. Your kids?”
“Monsters.”
“New shenanigans?”
“You’d have to ask Daisy.” He turned back to Ted. “When you’re up to it, let’s schedule a round and dinner.”
Daisy beckoned to me.
“Excuse me.” I left the men to their golf talk and returned to my friends.
“Was he talking about his new driver?”
“What?”
“My husband. He bought a new driver. He says it adds twenty yards to his tee shots. He’s talked about nothing else since he bought it.”
“You’ve been talking about drivers?” Surely Daisy needed moral support, needed to talk. Finding her first body tended to shake a woman. “Have you talked to him about finding Bobbi?”
Daisy’s brave smile trembled. “New driver.”
“Are you okay?”
“No,” said Daisy. “I’m not. I don’t know how you do it.”
“Do what?” asked Libba.
“I don’t how Ellison stays sane.”
Libba wrinkled her nose. “She has Anarchy.”
Libba was right. I had Anarchy, and no matter how shaken I was, he offered solid support. How awful would it be if Anarchy weren’t there? I imagined calling Detective Peters for help, and a shudder ran from the crown of my head to my toes. “All things being equal, I hope I never find another body.”
“You and me both,” said Daisy. “It’s especially awful since we knew Bobbi.”
“Did we?”
My friends stared at me.
“We knew her on the surface, but what did we really know about her?”
“What do we know about anyone?” Libba responded.
I knew how dry Libba drank her martinis, why she ran through men like Kleenex, why she only had a few weeks left with Jimmy, the fireman. I knew Libba, and Libba knew everything—almost everything—about me. My favorite color, my favorite wine, how badly Henry’s betrayal had wrecked my self-confidence. “My point is, none of us knew Bobbi well.” Not her secrets, her desires, her sorrows. Not who might want her dead.
Chapter Eleven
I went home, settled into the comfortable desk chair in the family room, and called Mother.
“Who was at the Ivens’?”
I told her and added, “Ted looked dreadful.”
“A killer strangled his wife and left her on the pavement.”
“About her…” My voice trailed in hopes Mother might pick up the thread.
“What about her?”
“You know something.”
She sniffed. “Just a tidbit or two. One hears things over the bridge table.”
“Please, tell me.”
“If I do, you’ll just share it with Detective Jones.”
Because he was investigating her murder. I closed my eyes and prayed for patience.
“He’s not the man for you, Ellison.”
“What do you know about Bobbi?”
Mother steamrolled on. “Your backgrounds are too dissimilar. How do you think a man living on a police detective’s salary would feel about his wife’s money? Everyone will assume he’s a gigolo. And you already know how poorly men react to successful women.”
The hand in my lap clenched into a tight fist. “Mother, I called about Bobbi.”
“If you must be with him, wait until Grace leaves for college. You don’t want her friends whispering.”
I closed my eyes. This call was a mistake. “I’ll consider your points, if you tell me what you know about Bobbi.” I’d already considered Mother’s points—before she made them—and decided they were valid. But my heart didn’t care.
“You promise?”
“Promise.”
“Bobbi was having an affair.”
“With whom?”
“An older man.”
Gordon? Had he lied? “Who?”
“I don’t know. All I heard was older. Also, she was spotted at a divorce attorney’s office.”
“Oh?” Please, let it not be Gordon.
“Yes! Ted’s hopeless in business. They lived off disbursements from her trust. If she’d divorced him, he’d have been destitute.”
“Mother, Ted is a man in his forties who’s perfectly capable of getting a job.”
“Ellison, he’s failed at everything he ever tried.”
“Maybe he hasn’t tried the right thing yet.”
Mother tutted her disagreement.
Arguing with her was wasted breath. “The divorce—that’s why you asked Anarchy about Ted’s alibi?”
“Ted has a motive. You know who you should ask about Bobbi?”
“Who?”
“Jill Dunlop.”
“I’m playing bridge with her later this afternoon.”
“I heard. That’s why I’m suggesting her.”
“They were close?”
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