TELEPHONE LINE

by Julie Mulhern

  “What can I do for you?”

  My mouth went dry and my heart beat too fast. “I’m calling about the gala.”

  “We have it on our calendar.”

  “I’m glad you’re coming.” I took a deep breath. “I’m calling about sponsorships.”

  “Oh?” He drew the word out.

  “I know it’s last minute, but I’m hoping you and Marjorie will consider—”

  “Yes.”

  “Yes? You don’t know what I’m asking for.”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  “I—” I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t take advantage of my brother-in-law. “Greg that’s very nice of you, but—”

  “How about twenty-five?”

  “Twenty-five?” I squeaked.

  “Fifty.”

  “Greg!”

  “I have the money, Ellison. The sexual revolution has been good for business. Besides, I like the museum, and it will get Frances off your back.”

  “How did you know about that?”

  “She’s always riding you about something. The gala. The length of Grace’s skirts. Bodies. Marjorie and I are aware you take the brunt of her focus. Let us do this.”

  “I’m overwhelmed.”

  “We’re happy to do it.

  “I can’t thank you enough.”

  “I’ll put a check in the mail this afternoon. Payable to the museum?”

  “Yes, please. Thank you.”

  “Like I said, my pleasure. There is one thing—” here it came, a fifty-thousand-dollar favor “—I don’t want to sit with your parents.”

  “That I can do.”

  “Great! I wish I could catch up—hear more about the yoga instructor—but I’m late for a meeting. We’ll talk soon.” He hung up.

  I propped myself up on the edge of the desk and stared at the receiver in my hand. Fifty thousand dollars. I swallowed. It was an incredibly generous donation.

  “Mom!” Grace’s voice carried from the kitchen.

  “In the family room.”

  She appeared in the doorway and stared at me. “What? What happened?”

  “Your uncle just made a generous donation to the gala.”

  She shrugged. “Cool.”

  Very cool. “How was your day?”

  She slung her backpack onto the couch then sat down next to it. “Debbie’s still not at school and her mom won’t put our calls through. I was wondering if you’d call Mrs. Clayton and check on her.”

  “Of course. I’ve been meaning to talk to you about Debbie.”

  Her expression grew guarded.

  “Did you know Debbie’s plan to go to that bar?”

  Grace glanced down at her feet. “Yes. She asked me to go—” she lifted her gaze “—but I said no. I knew you’d kill me. And Dad’s birthday. But I keep thinking if I’d been there, I might have saved her.”

  Oh. Wow.

  “I know you love your friends, but you can’t watch out for them all the time.”

  “I know.” Grace unzipped her bulging backpack and dug for something. “But I still feel guilty.” Her shoulders stiffened. “A strange man raped her.”

  Where was the parenting handbook when I needed it? “Do you want to talk about it?”

  “No.” She dropped her backpack onto the floor. “I think she’d feel better if she could talk to her friends.”

  “Why can’t she?”

  “Her Mom screens her calls.”

  “I’ll phone Marsha.”

  Grace grinned at me. “Maybe you could tell Mrs. Clayton about Jennifer? It might help if Debbie could talk to someone who understands what she’s going through.”

  “I’ll mention the offer.” If Marsha didn’t want Debbie talking to friends, talking to a stranger was probably not an option.

  Grace bent over and pulled a denim-covered three-ring binder and a textbook out of her bag. “I’m going next door.”

  “Next door?”

  She held up the book. “Jennifer said she’d help me study for my algebra test.”

  I nodded. “I think Aggie made some brownies. Take some with you.”

  “Okay.” Grace and her incomprehensible algebra textbook disappeared into the kitchen.

  Brnng, brnng.

  I picked up the phone. “Hello.”

  “You forgot to mention John Wilson was murdered.” Jinx sounded amused rather than annoyed.

  “You’re right. Sorry.” I settled into my desk chair. “What did you find out?”

  “He was a successful criminal defense attorney.”

  “And?”

  “And, nothing. No one has a single harsh word to say about him.”

  “Well, someone didn’t like him.”

  “The consensus is that someone he represented—a convicted criminal—got out of jail and got even.”

  “You’d think anyone getting out of jail would be angry with the prosecuting attorney.”

  “Exactly what I said. But, according to my sources, criminals think the prosecutor is doing his job. The defense attorney’s job is to get them acquitted or, failing that, the best deal possible.”

  I was tempted to ask about John Wilson’s cases—cases he’d had in Lark Flournoy’s courtroom. My thoughts turned to the file in Henry’s safe and I kept my lips sealed. Besides, I had someone else I could ask—someone who’d worked as an investigator for a law firm. “Thanks for asking around, Jinx. I appreciate it.”

  “You’ll keep me posted?”

  “Of course.” Not on a bet.

  “I’ll talk to you later.”

  I hung up the phone and walked into the kitchen. “Aggie, I need your help.”

  Aggie looked up from a skillet on the stove. “Can it wait? I’m browning chicken.” She cut her gaze to Max, who’d be only too happy to clean off the stove for her.

  Max gazed back with wide, innocent eyes. He wasn’t fooling anyone.

  “This is more like a project.”

  Her gaze turned wary. “Oh?”

  My projects had, on occasion, landed us in trouble.

  But this project was different. This project involved nothing more dangerous than reading. “You know how to look up old law cases?”

  She nodded. Slowly.

  “I was hoping you could look up cases where Lark Flournoy was the judge and John Wilson was the attorney.”

  She frowned. “What year?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Her frown deepened. “Why?”

  “John Wilson’s death and the attack on Lark Flournoy might be related to a case.”

  She flipped the chicken breasts—the tops were a lovely golden brown. “Have you told Detective Jones?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “He might wonder why I think that.”

  “Why do you think that?”

  I offered her an apologetic smile. “I can’t tell you.”

  She glanced at the ceiling—not quite an eye roll. But close.

  “Will you look? Please?”

  “What should I look for?”

  “I’m not sure.” I leaned against the counter. “Look for any of Wilson’s clients who received particularly harsh sentences.”

  “Revenge? Should I look for someone who was released from prison? Someone who’d go after the people responsible for locking him up.”

  “That’s a good place to start.”

  Nine

  I curled up on the couch in the family room and watched Happy Days. Sort of. The Cunninghams weren’t holding my attention. My mind wandered. Who wanted Lark dead? Who had tried to kill Winnie?

  Brnng, brnng.

  I glared at the phone as if it were responsible for ringing.

  “I’ll get it!” Grace’s voice c
arried from the second floor. It was probably just as well—most calls in the evening were for her. You’d think spending all day together would give teenage girls ample opportunity to talk. But, no. They spent hours on the phone at night.

  “Mom!” Grace hollered. “It’s for you.”

  With a sigh, I hauled myself off the couch and picked up the extension. “Hello.”

  “Tell your daughter not to yell when someone is on the line.”

  “Good evening, Mother.”

  “Did you talk to Gregory?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well? Is he making a donation?”

  “He is.”

  “How much?”

  “Fifty thousand dollars.”

  There was no response.

  I allowed myself a small smile. It wasn’t often I struck Mother speechless over something positive. I glanced at my reflection in the window and gave myself a thumb up.

  “You should have asked for seventy-five.” There was the mother I knew.

  “Too late now.”

  “I’m calling because I ran into Penny Hawkins on the Plaza today. She’s Penny Sylvester now.”

  I hadn’t seen Penny in years. She’d grown up on acreage in the southern reaches of the city, surrounded by horses and dogs and the sweet scent of fresh-cut hay. Her parents and mine were friends and I’d been a frequent weekend guest at the Hawkins’ enormous stone farmhouse. “How is she?”

  “Getting divorced.” Mother tsked her disapproval. “I told her you’d call her tonight.”

  I hadn’t seen Penny in years. The basis of our friendship had been our near identical ages and a love of horses. “Mother—”

  “She’s going through a rough time. Her husband wasn’t faithful and since you have some experience with—”

  “I’ll call her.”

  “I have her number right here.” Mother rattled off digits while I scrambled for a pen.

  I located a pencil. “Would you repeat that, please?”

  With a sigh—in a properly run house, there were pens and notepads positioned next to the phones—Mother gave me the number a second time.

  I jotted it on an empty envelope.

  “You might ask her about the gala.”

  “The gala?”

  “She’s getting a hefty divorce settlement.”

  “Are you kidding? I’m happy to call her, but I’m not asking her for money.”

  “We’ll never get to a million dollars with that attitude.”

  “Then we won’t get to a million dollars.” I glanced at the TV. Richie and Potsie sat in a booth at Arnold’s. “Mother, I don’t want to argue. Not tonight. I’ll call Penny and I’ll talk to you soon. Good night.” Gently, I hung up the phone.

  Penny Hawkins—she’d been a quiet girl, more comfortable with horses than with people. Together we’d ridden horseback over much of southern Johnson County—an activity our older sisters deemed a colossal waste of time.

  It hadn’t been. We’d talked. And laughed. And had picnics.

  Penny had been sweet and kind and funny.

  I picked up the receiver and dialed.

  “Hello.”

  “May I please speak with Penny?”

  “This is she.”

  “Penny, this is Ellison Russell—Ellison Walford—calling.”

  “Ellison! How nice to hear from you. I saw your mother on the Plaza today.”

  “She told me.”

  “She’s as formidable as ever.”

  No argument there. “How are you?”

  “Fine.” Her voice was bright. “I’m fine.”

  “I’d love to see you. Maybe we could get together for lunch or coffee or even dinner.”

  “I’d like that. I don’t suppose you’re free tomorrow?”

  “Tomorrow?”

  “I have a ten o’clock appointment with my lawyer—I’m sure your mother told you I’m getting divorced. Maybe we could grab a bite of lunch afterwards?”

  “Where would you like to go?”

  “Nabil’s? At noon?”

  “I’ll see you there.”

  We hung up, and I returned to the couch and my program—Richie and Potsie were still in the booth.

  “Mom?” Grace stood in the doorway. “Can we talk?”

  “Of course.” I stood, crossed to the television, and turned the dial to off. “What’s up?”

  “It’s about Debbie.”

  I returned to the couch and patted the cushion next to mine. “What about her?”

  Grace sat (flopped), crossed her arms, and stared at the blank television screen. “What happened to her is bothering me. Things like this aren’t supposed to happen to people we know.”

  “It can happen to anyone.”

  “I know. But—” she shook her head hard enough for her ponytail to whip from side to side. “Everyone’s saying she shouldn’t have gone to that bar.”

  “She shouldn’t have. She’s not twenty-one. But what happened to Debbie isn’t her fault.”

  “I know. In my mind—” Grace tapped her temple “—I know. But if she hadn’t gone to that bar, the rest of this wouldn’t have happened.”

  “That doesn’t mean what happened to Debbie is her fault.”

  Grace looked down at her hands.

  “Blaming the victim isn’t fair, Grace. Being a woman—even a woman who makes a poor choice—isn’t an invitation for rape. The man who did this to Debbie is to blame.”

  “You’re always telling me to be careful.”

  “I am. There are bad people out there. People who commit murder. And rape. Bad things happen. I don’t want them to happen to you. Asking you to be mindful, to be safe, is just my way of protecting you as best I can. If something happened to you, I’d—” I didn’t know what I’d do, but it wouldn’t be good.

  “I wish there was something I could do for Debbie.”

  “Be there for her. And be her voice. Tell anyone who says anything ugly that what happened to Debbie wasn’t her fault.”

  “Is that it?”

  “Debbie needs support from her friends and family right now. Your being there for her will make a huge difference.”

  “Thanks, Mom.” She leaned over and kissed me on the cheek. “I love you.”

  “Love you too, honey.” I gathered her into my arms and held her close.

  I paused just inside the entrance to Nabil’s and closed my umbrella.

  The maître d’ stepped forward. “May I take your coat, Mrs. Russell?”

  “Thank you.” I handed over my damp raincoat and umbrella. “I’m meeting a friend.”

  “She’s already seated.” He handed my belongings off to a passing waiter and led me to our table.

  The years had been kind to Penny. She looked young—too young for such sad eyes.

  She stood as I approached the table, and we hugged.

  “Ellison, you haven’t changed a bit.”

  “I was thinking the same thing about you.”

  She resumed her seat. “Your mother told me you lost your husband.”

  I took the chair across from her. “Last summer.”

  “I’m sorry for your loss.”

  “Thank you. It’s been especially hard on my daughter.”

  “How old is she?”

  “Sixteen.”

  “Mine are twelve and nine.”

  “Girls?”

  She nodded. “The divorce has been rough on them.”

  My favorite waiter appeared next to our table. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Russell. I’ll be taking care of you today. What may I get you ladies to drink?”

  I glanced out the window at the steady rain. “Hot tea with lemon, please.”

  “Oooh! That sounds good. I’ll have the same.”

  �
��Have we decided on lunch?”

  “Why don’t you give us a few minutes?” I picked up the menu and glanced down. No reason why—I always had the grilled chicken breast in lemon-caper sauce, but maybe today would be the day I’d try something different.

  “Of course.” The waiter—Todd—left us.

  I smiled at Penny. “Aside from the divorce, what’s happening in your life?”

  “The usual. I’m busy with the kids’ school.”

  “Where are they?”

  “Barton.” Barton was the smaller, out-south equivalent to Suncrest, where Grace attended.

  “How do they like it?”

  “They love it but they’re already looking forward to summer. After swim team is over, I promised them a month at a dude ranch in Wyoming.”

  “Where do they swim?”

  “Brookhaven.”

  “Really?”

  “It’s close.” She sounded slightly defensive.

  “Did you know John Wilson?”

  She nodded and touched her throat. “What a horrible way to die.”

  “What happened?”

  She leaned forward and whispered, “He was murdered.”

  That I knew. “How?”

  She leaned even closer. Her pearls brushed the tablecloth. “He was garroted.”

  “Oh dear Lord.”

  Penny nodded. “In his car.”

  “His car?”

  “Apparently, he got into the driver’s seat and someone was hiding in the back. They draped a piano wire around his neck and pulled until he was dead.”

  My hand rose to my neck and my stomach completed a somersault. “How awful.”

  Todd appeared with our tea. “Are we ready to order?”

  “The shrimp creole.” Apparently garroting wasn’t affecting Penny’s appetite.

  “The usual, please.”

  “Of course.” Todd made a note on his pad and shimmied off.

  Penny watched him go. “Over the years, John represented some unsavory people. Everyone thinks one of his former clients killed him.”

  “Did he have a family?”

  Penny’s nose wrinkled as if she’d just smelled something rotten. “His current wife’s name is Arlene. His children, from his first marriage, are grown.”

  “You don’t like her?”

  “She’s a bit—” Penny stared at the white linen spread across our table “—brassy. I’m not sure how they got into Brookhaven.”