“It’s not exactly a confidence.” Grace looked down at her nail polish—something frosty and pale pink. “She hates what this is doing to her family. She says her father can’t look at her, and her mother seems angry all the time.”
Oh, dear. “Their problem isn’t with Debbie. Their issue is what happened to Debbie. Very different things. I bet they’re ready to kill the man who did this to her, and they’re furious with themselves for not keeping her safe.”
“I get that.” Grace picked at a chip in the frostiness on her nails. “But Debbie sees things differently. Her parents wouldn’t be going through all this if she hadn’t been raped. She blames herself.”
Eating more cake bought me time to craft a response.
Grace looked up from destroying her manicure and watched me chew.
“If Debbie feels guilty about lying to her parents and sneaking into a bar when she’s underage, more power to her. But the rape?” I shook my head. “Not her fault.”
“What would you do if I was raped?”
My knee-jerk reaction was castration—I kept that to myself. “I’d get you all the counseling you needed and support any decision you made about prosecution.” I lifted another bite of cake to my lips. “And we’d run away to Italy.”
“Then I’d feel guilty.”
“Boots, Grace. Think of the boots.”
“But I’d be responsible for taking you away from Anarchy.”
“Handbags, too.” Like boots, they sang a siren’s song.
“I’m serious.”
I was too. “Grace—” I reached for and caught her hand in mine “—you’re the most important person in the world to me. Never feel guilty about something someone does for you out of love.”
“If I was raped, and you murdered the rapist, it would totally be my fault.” She’d followed my reasoning down the wrong path.
“Nope. The decision to commit murder would be on me, not you. But death—even a violent death—would be too easy.” I narrowed my eyes. “I’d rather let the guy live and make his life miserable.”
“Whoa.”
“What?”
“For a minute there, you looked and sounded exactly like Granna.”
“Your grandmother has her good points.”
“True. But she can be scary.” Grace shuddered, and her gaze traveled to the clock on the wall. “Where’s Aggie?”
“No idea.”
“It’s almost dinner time.”
“Are you hungry?” The chocolate cake had taken care of my appetite.
“Nope. Not hungry at all.”
“Cake for dinner. We could start a trend.”
She grinned at me. “Thanks, Mom.”
“For what?”
“For being you.” She looked at me—really looked (as if she saw a woman and not the mom whose sole purpose on earth was embarrassing her). “I love you, and I’m super proud of you.”
How to capture that moment, preserve it, and hold it close to my heart forever? I memorized the tilt of her chin, the stripes on her sweater, the way my throat swelled, and my jaw ached with the effort of holding back tears. “Thanks, honey.”
Ding, dong.
“I bet that’s Anarchy.”
Again? The secret, crazy, romantic part of me—the part only allowed to express itself on canvas whirled in a delighted circle. The visible part of me grinned—for about a half-second, till reality intruded. “I have nothing to feed him for dinner.” Well, nothing but chocolate cake.
Grace’s eye roll revealed the whites of her eyes. “He doesn’t come for the food, Mom.”
With that thought warming me, I walked to the front door.
“Hi.” I smiled up at the detective on my front stoop. “Come in out of the rain.”
“Thanks.” He stepped inside.
Rainwater dripped from his broad shoulders onto the Oriental rug beneath our feet.
“May I take your coat?” I held out my hand.
He shook off his jacket and gave it to me. “I can’t stay long but I was wondering about your friend, Winnie.”
“What about her?”
“Can we sit down for a minute?”
That didn’t sound good. “Do you want a drink?”
“Working.”
“Family room?”
“Sure.”
He followed me through the kitchen where I draped his wet coat on a stool.
When we reached the den, he collapsed on the couch.
“You look tired. Would you like some coffee?”
“No, thank you.”
I sat down next to him. “What about Winnie?”
His lips thinned. “These murders, they don’t make sense.”
“Isn’t there an arrest warrant for Nick DiGiovanni?”
“DiGiovanni is the easy answer.” He rubbed his palms against the planes of his cheeks. “The lawyer’s dead. The judge is dead.” He pressed his fingers together. “But not the witness?”
“Bilardo is next?”
Anarchy shook his head. “Maybe. There’s the other unanswered question.”
“Why kill Marigold?”
“Exactly.”
“Her real name was Janice Young.”
His stared at me—a how-do-you-know-that stare. “Let me guess. You heard over the bridge table?”
“Yes.”
“Did you hear anything about insurance policies?”
“No. But that could be arranged.”
“How?”
“If I call Diane Blake, she might tell me. If I play cards with her, she will.”
“Diane Blake’s husband is in the insurance business?”
I nodded. “Yes.”
“And his wife gossips?”
“That sounds harsh.” Diane Blake shared interesting information with her friends.
“Will she tell you about the policies?”
“Not if I ask.”
Anarchy stared at me. “I swear, sometimes we’re speaking different languages.”
“For the direct approach, ask her husband, Martin.”
“I could do that but—” Anarchy rubbed his hand across his chin.
“Yes?”
“But sometimes you learn more than I do.”
“I’ll call her. She’s on the seating committee for the gala and we’ve had a few changes.”
“Changes?”
A smile teased my lips. “I raised more money.”
“You’d already reached your goal.”
“Mother moved my goal.”
“How much did you raise?”
I grinned. Wide. I couldn’t help it. “A million dollars.”
“That’s amazing. You’re amazing!” He hugged me. Tight. “I wish there was time to celebrate, but I’m needed back at the station.”
“We’ll celebrate another time.”
When he left, I curled up on the couch with a hideous crocheted afghan (a years-ago Christmas gift from Henry’s aunt) and thought.
Had Winnie killed Lark for the insurance money? The idea seemed laughable. But the man had cheated on her. Maybe Winnie preferred being a rich widow to a divorcée—a woman set aside for someone half her age.
After all, she’d seemed more concerned about her cat than Lark’s murder.
If she had done it, she’d put a terrific amount of faith in her accomplice.
I pulled the ugly blanket all the way to my chin. If Winnie was responsible for Marigold and Lark’s murders, who’d killed John Wilson?
Brnng, brnng.
I glared at the phone.
Brnng, brnng.
Where was Grace? She usually grabbed the phone by the second ring. “I’m coming.” I tossed off the afghan.
Brnng, brnng.
“Hello
.”
“May I please speak with Ellison?”
“This is she.”
“Ellison, it’s Penny calling. I was wondering if you could join me for lunch tomorrow. I’d like to introduce you to a friend who’s interested in supporting your gala.”
Exceeding the million-dollar mark might silence Mother. “I’d love to. Where?”
“Do you mind coming out south? We could have lunch at Brookhaven.”
“Sounds lovely. What time?”
“Noon?”
“I’ll see you there.”
The swish of the Mercedes’ wipers kept me company on my drive out to Brookhaven. I missed the sun, missed driving my convertible.
Unlike the golf clubs in the Country Club district, Brookhaven didn’t have a long driveway—its golf course lay behind the clubhouse.
I parked in the near-empty lot and dashed for the porte-cochere.
Penny waited for me inside the clubhouse doors. “You made it. Can you believe this rain?”
We kissed the air next to each other’s cheeks.
“I heard a rumor the sun might shine this afternoon.”
“Those weathermen don’t know a thing. I swear, all they do is call Denver, ask what the weather is there, and give us their best guess on when that weather will arrive here.”
“In this case, I hope they’re right. I’d love to see the sun.”
“You and me both. Beth—” she nodded to the woman at the reception desk “—can take your coat and umbrella.”
I handed over my damp rain gear then followed Penny to the dining room. “Who are we meeting?”
“Mark Roberts.”
“Tell me more.”
“Mark and his wife have been members here forever—he’s the board member I told you about, the one who got Arlene and John Wilson in.” She glanced around the near empty dining room. “He manufactures transformers.”
“Transformers?”
“Those big barrel things the electrical lines run through. He’s done well. Shall we sit?” She smiled at the hostess. “There will be three of us.”
We sat at a table overlooking the golf course. The grass still wore hints of winter’s brown, the sky dripped, and I wished Penny had opted for a table near the fireplace instead.
“What may I get you to drink?” asked the hostess.
“White wine,” said Penny.
“Coffee, please.”
Penny’s forehead puckered. “Are you sure you won’t have a drink?”
“Maybe later. Right now I want to warm up.”
“Do you take your coffee black, ma’am?”
“With cream, please.”
The hostess left us.
“This is actually a pretty room when the course isn’t dormant.”
I glanced up at the vaulted ceiling and the brass chandeliers. “I’m sure it is.”
We chatted about horses. About kids. About dogs.
“I can’t imagine what’s keeping Mark.” Penny glanced at her watch. “It’s nearly half-past.”
“A problem at the office?”
“You’d think he’d call and ask the receptionist to let us know he’d be late.”
“I’m in no hurry.” My stomach rumbled. Loudly.
“I have plans this afternoon. Let’s order.”
Brookhaven built its reputation on the quality of its golf course, not its food. I glanced at the menu and chose something simple. Then my gaze wandered to the outdoors where a break in the clouds revealed a patch of blue sky. “Looks like the weatherman was right. The sun might actually shine this afternoon.”
Penny frowned at her watch as if the timepiece was responsible for Mark’s tardiness. She cared more about our missing lunch date than the weather. “I hope so.”
We ordered. Tomato soup and grilled cheese for both of us.
When the waiter served our lunches, Penny winced. “Ellison, I’m sorry about this.”
“Don’t give it another thought. It’s not your fault he’s not here. And I’m glad we get to spend more time together.” As for Mark Roberts, it was a good thing I didn’t need his money because now, given the distress on Penny’s face, I didn’t want it.
“It’s a long way to drive for a cup of soup.” The apology in her voice was unnecessary.
I patted her hand and offered a bright smile. “I’m more interested in the company than the food.”
At one fifteen, we rose from the table and walked to the reception desk.
The young woman who sat there returned my coat and umbrella (thankfully I didn’t need the umbrella).
“Thank you for lunch,” I told Penny.
“I really am sorry.”
“We’ve all been stood up before.” My late husband had been notorious for asking me to meet him at such-and-such restaurant then failing to show. “Let’s get together again soon.”
“I’d like that.”
“Are you headed home?” I nodded toward the door leading to the parking lot.
“Actually, I have a bridge game at one thirty.”
“Well—” I gave her a quick hug “—I hope you have marvelous cards.”
Walking to the parking lot by myself, I looked up at the sky, now dotted with blue patches, and smiled. With any luck, the sun would peek out soon.
I swung my umbrella, danced around a puddle, and whistled the first few bars of “Here Comes the Sun” (in case the sun needed encouragement).
I closed my fingers around the car door’s handle, noticed the man inside, and stepped back. “I’m sorry. I thought—” I thought it was my car. I glanced around the sparsely populated parking lot. It was my car.
Why was someone napping in the front seat?
An all-too-familiar sinking feeling dragged my stomach to my ankles.
The man in my car wasn’t moving.
I swallowed, opened the car’s door, and peered inside.
I smelled the blood before I saw it.
The man, whoever he was, was definitely dead. I didn’t need to check for a pulse. Not when blood darkened the headrest. Something (I did not want a closer look) was seriously wrong with the back of his head.
I turned on my heel, ran back to the clubhouse, and burst through the front door.
“There’s a dead man in my car.”
The receptionist gasped (if I’d found a dead body at my club, the receptionist would have rolled her eyes—familiarity doesn’t breed contempt, it breeds ennui).
“Please call the police.”
She picked up the phone
“And ask for Anarchy Jones.”
Her brows rose.
“What are you waiting for?”
“Anarchy?”
“Yes.”
“That’s his name?”
“Yes.” Frustration sharpened my voice. “Detective Anarchy Jones.”
“Detective?”
“Yes. The man in my car was murdered.”
Her hand trembled. “And your name?”
“Ellison Russell.”
She dialed. “This is Mary Beth Donovan calling. I’m the receptionist at Brookhaven Country Club. We have a guest here who says there’s a dead body in her car.”
I clenched my teeth. And my hands.
“She said to ask for Detective Anarchy Jones.”
Mary Beth’s eyebrows lifted, and her eyes widened. “How did you know?”
Whoever was on the other end of the telephone line was loquacious because Mary Beth remained silent for at least a minute.
“Thank you.” She hung up and looked at me as if I were a particularly nasty communicable disease. “They knew your name. They asked if you’d found the body—as if they expected it.” Her lips drew back from her teeth. “Patrol will arrive in a few minutes. Homicide detectives are
on their way.” She picked up the receiver.
“Who are you calling?”
“The club manager. He’ll want to know.”
I considered searching for Penny. But why ruin her afternoon? Instead, I walked out into the weak sunshine and waited for the police.
Seventeen
The police identified the dead man as Mark Roberts, which meant he’d had a good excuse for standing Penny and me up.
“Have you ever seen him before?” Detective Peters’ mustache twitched as if he’d caught the scent of a lie. He held a pen poised above a small notepad.
“Never.”
“Why was he in your car?”
“No idea.”
“Did you lock it?”
“I’m not sure,” I admitted. “It was raining when I arrived, and I was in a hurry. It’s possible I forgot to lock the door.”
Detective Peters smoothed his trench coat’s lapel. The coat was so rumpled and dirty, it hardly mattered that his fingers left a smudge of ink. “You never heard of this guy—”
“I didn’t say that. I said I’d never seen him. We were scheduled to have lunch today.”
Detective Peters’ eyes bulged like Marty Feldman’s. “You didn’t know him, but you were having lunch with him?”
“He was considering making a donation to the gala.”
“The gala? You don’t say?” Detective Peters laced his voice with la-di-da.
“It’s a worthy cause.”
“I don’t doubt it.”
Detective Peters’ out-of-control sarcasm stiffened my spine. “A friend arranged the luncheon, but Mr. Roberts didn’t show up.”
“No one called to find out why he was late?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“I didn’t know Mr. Roberts. As for Penny, the man had already embarrassed her. Why put herself through the further embarrassment of tracking him down?”
“Penny?”
Keeping her out of the story was impossible. “Penny Sylvester.”
“Where is she?” His eyes scanned the parking lot, now filled with police officers and a hand-wringing club manager.
“Playing bridge.”
“There’s a dead man in your car and your friend is playing bridge?”
“I hated to disturb her.” I glanced at the Mercedes, which was crawling with police personnel. “It wasn’t as if she could do anything.”
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