“It is.”
“And is that a Warhol?” I nodded toward a pen and ink drawing of a cat with a Napoleonic hat.
“Yes.”
My gaze traveled the walls and stopped on a lithograph of a bride and groom trailed by exuberant flowers. “A Chagall?”
“A wedding gift from my parents.”
The art on Jennifer’s walls was worth as much as her house.
“You’re a collector?” Marshall and Jennifer weren’t yet thirty.
“I love art.”
It was official, Jennifer was the perfect next-door neighbor.
I returned home and found the house strangely quiet. Aggie had left for her date. Grace was babysitting. And, after our sprint through the pouring rain, Max slept.
Per Aggie’s instructions, I preheated the oven to three-fifty.
While the oven warmed, I picked up the phone and called Marsha Clayton.
The phone rang three times. “Hello.”
“Marsha, it’s Ellison calling. How are you?”
“Surviving.” Her voice was tired, and I pictured her slumped in a chair with the receiver pressed against her ear.
“How’s Debbie?”
She offered me silence as an answer.
“My next-door neighbor went through a similar experience. She’s young and pretty, and Debbie might relate to her. Jennifer asked me to tell you she’d be happy to talk to Debbie.”
“I don’t know.”
“Is she getting any counseling?”
“We all are. I know—” Marsha was silent for long seconds “—I know this awful thing happened to Debbie, but it feels as if it happened to me, too. I’m angry. All the time.”
“I would be, too.”
“You’d be angry with the man, not Grace. I’m furious—furious—with Debbie for putting herself in a situation where this could happen.”
I knew precisely how I’d feel if something similar happened to Grace. I’d question every parenting decision I’d ever made. “You’re angry at yourself.”
“You get it.”
“I’d be feeling the same things.”
Again, Marsha was quiet for long seconds. “Do you like your neighbor?”
“I do. A lot.”
“I’ll mention her to Debbie.”
And I’d have Grace mention her. Debbie had been through a hellish experience—she needed all the help and support she could get.
“Ellison, the timer on my oven just dinged. I have to go. Thank you for calling. And for understanding.” All things considered, Marsha was coping remarkably well.
“Please call me if you need anything.”
“I will,” she promised. “Thank you.”
I returned the receiver to its cradle and fingered the stretched-out cord. If some man hurt Grace the way Debbie had been hurt, my anger would set the whole city ablaze.
I glanced at the oven. Three-fifty. I put the casserole in and set the timer.
Ding dong.
Max raised a single eyelid but didn’t get up.
“Lazy.” I walked to the front door without him.
Anarchy stood on my front stoop. “Hi.”
I opened the door wider. “Hi.”
He stepped into the foyer and gathered me into his arms.
I relaxed into the warmth of his chest.
“How was your day?” His breath was a whisper through my hair.
“Long.” I pulled away and looked up into his lean face. “How was yours?”
“Long is as good a word as any. Where is everybody?”
“Aggie’s on a date. Max is napping. And Grace should be home any minute.” For a few seconds I wished Grace wasn’t coming home—that Anarchy and I had the house to ourselves. “Aggie left a casserole. Why don’t you stay for dinner?”
His eyes smiled at me. “I’d like that.”
My heart hiccupped—just a little. “How about a drink?” I led him toward the kitchen.
“I’d better not. An arrest warrant has been issued for Nick DiGiovanni. If he’s located, I have to go in.”
“He’s behind the murders?”
“That’s the working theory.”
I poured myself a glass of wine. “I have something to tell you.”
“Oh?” He sounded wary.
“I visited Winnie today.”
“And?” Now he sounded relieved.
“She put her own Sweet’N Low in her coffee at the coffee shop.”
“She carries sweetener with her?”
He was missing the point. “Plenty of women have a few packets in their handbags. Not every restaurant keeps Sweet’N Low on the table. What if one of those packets held the poison?”
He closed his eyes. “The last time I saw Winnie Flournoy’s purse, you had it.”
“I took it back to her house.” I took in the disappointment that flashed across his face. “I still have her house keys.”
His brows rose.
“I’m taking care of her demon-cat. We could go over there after dinner.”
Anarchy glanced at the oven timer.
I shook my head. “We can’t go now. If we were held up, and I burned Aggie’s casserole, I’d never hear the end of it.”
Grace blew through the backdoor, carrying the scent of rain with her. She stopped when she saw us, and her eyes widened.
“How was babysitting?”
“Fine. Where’s Aggie?”
“On a date with Mac.”
Worry creased her brow. “Did you cook?”
“Aggie left us a casserole.”
Grace relaxed. Visibly. Everyone’s a critic.
We ate Aggie’s casserole with a salad she’d left in the fridge and crusty rolls.
After dinner, Grace disappeared upstairs with a one-word explanation. “Homework.”
Anarchy and I rinsed the dishes and loaded the dishwasher.
When we’d finished, I dried my hands on an embroidered tea towel. “Shall we head over to the Flournoys’?”
“In a minute.” Anarchy snaked his arms around my waist and pulled me close. “Thanks for dinner.”
“You’re always welcome.”
He lowered his head and kissed me—the type of kiss that warmed me all the way to my toenails. The kind of kiss that made me forget every single question Libba urged me to ask.
Max nudged us with his nose. If there was affection being doled out, he wanted his share.
“Go away, Max.”
He nudged again. Harder.
Somehow, I separated my lips from Anarchy’s. “We should go.”
“Go?”
“Winnie’s house. Purse. Sweet’N Low. Poison.”
“That purse isn’t going anywhere.” He kissed me again.
My toes curled.
Nudge.
Maybe if I ignored him, Max would go away.
Woof.
“Go away, Max.”
Woof!
Again I pulled away from Anarchy. I scowled down at my dog.
He wore a particularly obdurate expression.
“We might as well go.” If nothing else, we could kiss in the car without a nosy audience. “Winnie’s keys are in my purse.” I frowned at Max. “You behave yourself.”
Max cocked his ears. Fat chance.
The rain beat against the roof of the car with such force that talking was impossible. We drove in silence, parked in Winnie’s drive, and dashed for the front door.
I fitted the key into the lock, and we stepped inside. Winnie’s house felt cold and empty and dark.
“Where did you leave the purse?”
“The living room.”
I stepped inside and flipped the light switch on the wall. Several table lamps came on.
; “Where is it?”
“I don’t know. I’m sure I left it in here.”
There was no handbag.
“Maybe Lois put it in the bedroom.”
“Lois?”
“Winnie’s daughter,” I explained.
Neither of us mentioned the other possibility—that Winnie’s handbag had been stolen.
Anarchy took my hand and together we climbed the stairs.
We walked down the hallway, opening doors as we went.
I peered into a guest room. “Interesting.”
“What?”
“Winnie and Lark weren’t sleeping together.” I waved a hand at the stack of law books on the bedside table, the slippers by the bed, and a plaid bathrobe hung over the corner of the closet door. “Looks like Daisy might be right.”
“Daisy?”
I nodded. “She told me Lark was having an affair with Marigold.”
“You didn’t tell me before now?”
“I haven’t known for very long and it’s not as if Winnie could have killed Marigold. She was locked in the attic with the rest of us.”
“But—”
“Daisy told me, not Jinx.”
“What does that mean?”
“If Jinx passes something on, you can take it to the bank. Daisy’s information can be iffy. Besides, you know who killed Lark.”
“Promise me something.”
“What?”
“If you hear gossip that pertains to one of my cases, you’ll tell me.”
“When I can.”
His lips thinned.
“You can’t expect me to betray my friends’ confidences.”
“If it means catching a killer, I can.”
“Trust me, if I ever know something that might lead you to a killer, I’ll tell you.” Guilt nudged me—as insistent as Max. Even now, I was hiding the contents of Henry’s file on John Wilson and Lark.
It was easy to ignore guilt when I knew someone named DiGiovanni was about to be arrested.
“That’s your final word?” From Anarchy’s tone, I assumed we were done kissing for the night.
“Yes.” I opened another door. “Winnie sleeps here.” The master bedroom was papered with a cheery floral print. That same print repeated in the curtains, bedding, and upholstery. The carpet was a grass green shag. Standing in Winnie’s room was like standing in a bower. “I don’t see her purse.”
“How can you see anything in here?”
“It’s just a few flowers.”
“It’s busier than 435 at rush hour.”
“Be that as it may—” I liked all the flowers “—Winnie’s purse isn’t here. Someone must have taken it.”
Thirteen
Tap, tap.
I opened one eye and snuggled deeper into the covers.
“Mrs. Russell?”
I opened the other eye and looked at the raindrop covered window. “Come in.” I sounded about as sunny as the weather.
Aggie, wearing last night’s kaftan and carrying a cup of Mr. Coffee’s finest, slipped into my room. “I’m sorry to disturb you but—”
I held up a restraining hand. “Coffee first.”
She gave me the mug.
I let the aroma tease my nose for a few seconds before I drank. Three sips and I was ready. “But?”
“Lois Flournoy called. She’s taking her mother home this morning.”
I took another sip.
“She’s hoping you’ll meet them at her parents’ house.”
There went my morning. “Is she still on the phone?”
“She left a message on the machine. She’s hoping to see you at eight. She’d like you to call if you can’t make it.”
“When did she call?”
“Last night.”
I’d been so exhausted, I hadn’t heard the phone ring. Another sip. “How was your date?”
Aggie blushed—blushed—and smoothed the fabric of her kaftan. “It was nice.”
“Nice?” Spending the night with the man who made her eyes light up like the Plaza at Christmas deserved a better adjective. “Finding Tab is on sale is nice.”
The shine in Aggie’s eyes dimmed, and she shifted her gaze to the carpet beneath her feet. “Sometimes it’s hard. I know Al would want me to be happy, but saying last night was magical feels like a betrayal.” She crossed her arms. “What about you?”
“What about me?”
“Three sets of dishes in the dishwasher.”
“Last night was nice.”
“Nope.” She shook her head. “You didn’t let me get away with nice.”
“It’s different, you said nice because being happy feels like a betrayal. I said nice because I was betrayed.” Libba’s insidious question—why was Anarchy still single at forty?—waved at me from the recesses of my brain. “What if Anarchy is another mistake?”
“That man adores you and he’s as straight an arrow as they come.”
“What if the problem wasn’t Henry?” I spoke into my coffee cup. “What if it was me?”
Aggie snorted. “Please. It takes two to make a marriage work, just one to make it fail. Women, and I have no idea why, have a tendency to blame themselves for the sins visited upon them. Look at that friend of Grace’s who was raped.”
I looked up from my coffee. “What do you mean?”
“I bet she’s telling herself that she shouldn’t have gone to that bar, shouldn’t have had those drinks, shouldn’t have trusted a stranger.”
“You’re probably right.”
“The man who committed the crime. Why should she feel guilty? You and the late Mr. Russell, you stayed together for Grace.”
“Yes.”
“You didn’t run around town with a different man every night of the week. You didn’t take up with your husband’s friends.”
“No.”
“But you blame yourself.” She planted her hands on her hips. “What happened in your marriage wasn’t your fault.”
Nice to hear, but I couldn’t get past the idea that if I’d been better, more, Henry and I wouldn’t have imploded. “I’ll think about that. Now, tell me about your date.”
The secret smile returned. “The show was funny and afterwards we went to Mac’s for a night cap—” she blushed again “—and we lost track of time.”
Aggie had a small apartment over her sister’s garage and a room at my house. Sometimes she spent the night at her sister’s, sometimes with Grace and me. “You didn’t have to rush over here.”
“I know but—” her face puckered.
“But what?”
“The other shoe hasn’t dropped.”
“What do you mean?”
“Something else—something bad—is going to happen. I can feel it. I want to review my notes on those cases again.”
“An arrest warrant has been issued.”
“For whom?” Her voice was sharp.
“Nick DiGiovanni.”
Her jaw dropped. “The mobster? Why?”
“Presumably because they think he did it.”
Aggie frowned. “Why would Nick DiGiovanni kill a federal judge?”
“Someone named Tony Bilardo was going to testify against him.”
Aggie shook her head. “That explains why DiGiovanni would kill Bilardo.” She shook her head and her curls sproinged. “But a federal judge? A mobster wouldn’t bring heat like that on himself. Don’t the police read the papers?”
“What do you mean?”
“The local mafia blow each other up. They shoot people in the head. They don’t commit vehicular homicide.”
Aggie had a point. When the strip clubs on Twelfth Street had been moved, it seemed as if there was a murder every day as rival families struggled for control of the new district. Lots
of bombings. Lots of shootings. Not a hit-and-run. Not a single garroting.
“Did you notice anything when you looked at the cases?” I asked.
“No,” she replied. “You should review them.”
“Of course.” I handed her the empty coffee mug. “I’ll do it as soon as I get back from the Flournoys’.”
Aggie nodded. “We’d better figure it out quick. I can’t help thinking your friend, Mrs. Flournoy, is still in danger.”
I grabbed a quick shower and readied myself for whatever the day might bring—I was pretty sure the day would call for navy pants, a navy blouse with green piping, and my new floral trench coat.
Dressed to face adversity, I trotted downstairs in search of more coffee.
Grace stood at the counter and jammed books into her backpack and peanut butter slathered toast into her mouth. With callous indifference to Max’s pleading expression (he loved peanut butter), she ate the final bite.
Max huffed his disappointment.
“Good morning.”
She waved, too busy chewing to answer.
“Are you coming home after school?”
She held a hand in front of her lips. “Nope. Jennifer offered to help me with my math homework.”
I swallowed a sigh. It seemed the older Grace became, the less I saw her.
“Will you be home for dinner?” asked Aggie.
Grace nodded and hefted her backpack over her shoulder. “That casserole last night was awesome.”
Aggie beamed at the compliment. “I’m glad you liked it.”
“Gotta go.” Grace was out the door.
Brnng, brnng.
Aggie and I shifted our gazes from the still-vibrating back door to the clock on the wall. 7:20. It was too early for anyone to be calling.
Brnng, brnng.
“It can’t be Mother.” Mother only called early when things were dire—when she’d heard I’d found a body or when someone with newly acquired wealth was put up for membership at the club. But who else could it be? I reached for the phone. “Hello.”
“Ellison Walford Russell, tell me you did not discuss your sex life at the country club where everyone and their sister could hear you?” Righteous indignation made Mother enunciate every word with extra care.
“I did not.”
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