“There was a corpse in her car yesterday.” Righteous indignation straightened Mother’s spine—made her taller. “One would think—” Mother had switched to “one,” a sure sign of coming zingers “—you’d do a better job keeping her safe.”
“Ellison does a fine job taking care of herself.”
“She shouldn’t have to. She—”
“Enough!” I stared Mother down. “What did you want, Mother?”
“To give you the plumber’s number.”
“Thank you, but I don’t need a plumber.”
“Which I would have known if you hadn’t lied to me.”
“I didn’t lie.” I had.
“You didn’t tell the truth.” She had me there. She shifted her gaze to the backyard and frowned at the sunshine. “I cannot believe you let Grace skip school.”
“I didn’t.”
“Then why is her car still here?”
Anarchy and I exchanged a she-should-be-long-gone-by-now glance and raced toward the door.
“Where are you going?” Mother demanded.
“Grace left for school.”
She followed us into the yard, not stopping till she reached the driveway. “Where is she?”
The question froze my fingers, narrowed my vision to a tunnel (I only saw the car), and dried my mouth.
Grace’s backpack sat next to her car. Her spare keys hung from the driver’s side lock.
“Where is she?” Mother asked again. She looked around as if she expected Grace to pop up from behind the shrubbery—as if this disappearance was a practical joke.
It wasn’t.
I gripped Anarchy’s arm and ignored the way Mother’s stare caught where we touched. “It’s possible—” I took a deep, steadying breath (the steadying part didn’t work) “—my new next-door neighbor is a murderer.”
Mother’s death glare almost reduced me to cinders. “The one who’s been tutoring Grace?”
“Her husband.”
“And you think he has her?”
The question sent my heart plummeting from my chest to my ankles. I looked over at the Howes’, bit my lip, and prayed we were wrong.
“What are we waiting for?” Without pausing to consider if the direct approach was best, Mother strode toward Jennifer and Marshall’s.
“Mother, wait!”
She ignored me.
I ran after her. I grabbed her arm and pulled. “Mother, stop.”
She glanced down at my hand on her arm. “I’ve had enough. Enough of you finding a body every other day. Enough of you consorting with policemen. Enough worry to last a lifetime. Let go.” She shook off my grasp.
“You might be putting Grace in danger.”
“Piffle.”
“Piffle?” Anarchy stood next to me. “Mrs. Walford, please stop.”
Mother kept walking.
We needed a plan. “Mother, please!”
Mother kept walking.
Anarchy’s brow creased. “I could tackle her.”
“You could try.”
Twenty
Deaf to our pleas, Mother marched up to the Howes’ front door and rang the bell.
Anarchy and I stood just behind her.
“Are you ready?” he whispered.
“Ready?” I shifted my gaze from Mother to Anarchy. “Ready for what?”
“When he answers the door, I’ll rush him.”
“You can’t do that.”
He lifted his brows. “Why not?”
Because he might destroy his career. For me. “If I’m wrong, it’s assault. If I’m right, he might have a gun. You or Mother might be shot.” Not that a bullet would stop Mother. A bazooka wouldn’t stop Mother. Not when she was in a mood like this one.
“Then what?”
“We go in. We reason. Mother bulldozes.” Mother could flatten anyone—even a mass killer. “And, if that fails, you have a gun.”
He nodded, but his thinned lips and eyes told me he didn’t approve. “You’re very calm.”
Not remotely. But a nervous breakdown wouldn’t locate Grace. When this was over, a full-blown meltdown was mine. But I wouldn’t panic until Grace was safely home. “Wait till later.”
Mother, who was ignoring us with every fiber of her highly starched being, jabbed the bell a second time.
Anarchy leaned close to my ear. “She’s scary.”
“You ain’t seen nothing yet.”
That earned me a death-glare. Did Mother take issue with the sentiment or the grammar? Probably both.
Mother gave up on the doorbell and rapped her knuckles against the door.
Anarchy stared at her back. “If I were Howe, I wouldn’t answer.”
A rookie mistake. “When she’s like this, it’s best to face her right away. She gets angrier when she stews.”
A second death-glare reduced the damp grass behind me to ash.
She rapped again. “Open this door.”
“What if they don’t answer?” Anarchy whispered.
“She won’t give up.” Marshall Howe had never met a force like Mother. Few men had.
Rap, rap, rap!
Mother’s knuckles against the paneled oak sounded like gunshots.
The door swung open.
Anarchy’s fingers flexed above his gun.
Mother glared.
And Jennifer Howe, dressed in an enormous, ugly, green and brown plaid bathrobe (it had to be Marshall’s) and a sheer shortie nightgown, blinked in the morning sunlight.
“Where is my granddaughter?”
With her left hand, Jennifer rubbed her eyes and pushed her hair away from her face. “What?”
“My granddaughter. Where is she?”
“Not here.”
“You won’t mind my looking.” Mother breezed past her.
Jennifer’s mouth dropped open. “You can’t just barge into my house!”
Mother wasn’t listening. “Grace!”
Jennifer, whose gaze initially followed Mother, now looked at me with a question in her eyes.
“Grace is missing.”
“Missing?”
“Grace!” Mother used her answer-me-this-minute-or-else tone.
Jennifer followed her toward the back of the house. “She’s not here.”
Mother ignored her. “Grace!”
Anarchy and I stepped inside.
Where was Marshall?
“Grace!” Mother’s voice bounced off the walls.
There was no answer.
“Jennifer.” Compared to Mother, I was quiet.
She turned and looked at me.
“Where’s Marshall?”
“At work.” Her left hand fluttered. “I should call him.”
Sounds—clanks and knocks and crinkles—came from the kitchen. It sounded as if Mother was rummaging. In the pantry.
Jennifer hurried toward her kitchen
Anarchy and I exchanged a look.
“Could Marshall have taken her somewhere?” My hands shook just thinking about it.
“He didn’t have much time. And Grace wouldn’t leave with him. Not without telling you. She would struggle, and we didn’t hear a struggle.”
That was true. We hadn’t heard a thing.
I ignored my galloping heart and made myself think. “Grace wouldn’t go anywhere with Marshall.” She wouldn’t. But she had. Under what circumstances would Grace leave her keys and her backpack to go off with a man she didn’t know well? None. Well, almost none. “If he told Grace that Jennifer needed her, she might go with him.”
“Would she get in his car?”
“No.” My answer was definitive and immediate. And I doubted myself the second I said it. “If you’ll stay with Mother, I’ll look in the garage.”
He nodded. “Good idea. Be careful.”
I hurried out the front door and circled the house. Like my home, a converted carriage house served as the garage. The Howes’ held space for three cars and a mud room. I opened the door and peered into the dim interior.
One car was parked. One.
That meant Marshall was gone.
Had Grace been in the garage?
I stepped inside. The Howes’ garage smelled of damp and dripped oil and last year’s grass clippings. Rakes and hoes and a snow shovel hung neatly on the wall. A lawn mower crouched in the corner.
“Grace?”
I walked to the front of the car, stopped, and stared.
An enormous dent dimpled the front fender. What had Jennifer hit?
The light filtering through the in-need-of-a-wash windows told me the car was blue.
Blue.
The sunbeam also revealed a rusty stain.
Not what had Jennifer hit, but who had Jennifer hit? Lark?
Had I been wrong? Marshall wasn’t a killer? Jennifer was?
Every suspicion I’d harbored about Marshall still fit. Was Jennifer strong enough to drag Mark Roberts to my car? Strong enough to hang Marigold? Angry enough to kill four people?
Maybe.
With my heart relocated to my throat, I raced into the backyard.
Mother and the man I lo—the man I cared about—were alone with a killer. And neither of them suspected a thing.
I ran to the backdoor.
Locked.
Doing my best to avoid being seen from the windows, I circled the house.
I glanced at my home. Should I call for help?
There wasn’t time.
I closed my fingers around the unlocked front door’s handle and crept inside.
The house was quiet.
No sounds of Mother pillaging.
No sounds of Anarchy talking sense into a distraught woman—or an angry one.
Quiet.
Or maybe the blood rushing to my ears drowned out everything else.
I tiptoed toward the kitchen.
Empty.
I stopped at the stove and picked up Jennifer’s cast-iron skillet. The remains of scrambled eggs stuck to the bottom and sides. The darned thing weighed more than it should, and I gripped hard to hold it. A bit of egg fell to the floor.
Which way?
I peeked through the space between the door and its frame. The dining room was empty.
Where were they?
Jennifer’s sun porch?
I slipped through the empty living room, glad of the flokati rugs that muffled my steps.
“She’ll be back.” Jennifer’s voice was clear and steady.
“You don’t want to do this,” said Anarchy.
I peeked around the door jamb. I couldn’t see Jennifer, but Mother and Anarchy stood in front of the window facing me.
“She went home to call for help,” said Anarchy. “Backup will be here any minute.”
“No!”
Mother was pale, but her back was ramrod straight. She stared at Jennifer with a slight lift in the corner of her upper lip—almost a sneer. “You won’t get away with this, young woman.”
Well, that was the opposite of helpful.
“Adam Roberts is still alive.” Jennifer’s voice was low and determined.
Adam Roberts, the boy who’d raped Marshall’s sister. Jennifer had killed everyone associated with the case and left Adam for last.
“Mrs. Walford and I didn’t hurt you or your sister-in-law.” Anarchy’s was the voice of reason. “I’ve put countless rapists in jail.”
“Liar,” Jennifer shrieked. The difference between that shriek and the voice she’d used only seconds before chilled my blood.
“I’m not lying, Jennifer.” Anarchy sounded calm and comforting. “Men who hurt women deserve their time in jail.”
“When the courts are on their side? What then?” Jennifer no longer sounded like the sweet girl from California who made atrocious Jell-O salads and tutored my daughter in math. She sounded certifiable.
I lifted the heavy pan.
“I can’t let you stop me, not until he’s paid.”
“Jennifer, don’t do this. We can work something out.” Anarchy still sounded reasonable. “I’ll arrest him.”
“Double jeopardy. He can’t be retried.” She was going to shoot Mother and Anarchy. All because she wanted to kill Adam Roberts.
I stood there—just outside the door—and my heart pounded harder than ever. Sweat slicked my hands, making it difficult to hold the skillet. I tightened my grip. What should I do?
I inched forward.
From the sound of Jennifer’s voice, she stood on the other side of the wall. If I leapt into the sunroom, could I hit her before she shot me?
I wrapped my other hand around the handle, lifted the skillet to shoulder level, took one very deep breath, and jumped.
I swung the pan before my feet hit the ground. The sickening sensation of metal meeting skull reverberated up my arms.
Jennifer collapsed to the floor, and I kicked the gun she’d held in her hands out of her reach.
Anarchy and Mother wore matching shocked expressions.
I dropped the skillet onto the tiles and leaned against the wall. “Are you two all right?”
“Fine.” Anarchy bent and picked up Jennifer’s gun.
Mother stared at the skillet. “That’s what you came up with? A skillet? You own a gun.”
No, thank you for saving me. No, good job, Ellison. “I don’t have the gun with me.”
Jennifer groaned.
Anarchy unplugged the phone cord, wrapped the length of rubber-wrapped wire around Jennifer’s wrists, and tied a knot.
Mother pursed her lips as if she’d just bit into a sour pickle. “Where’s Grace?”
“I don’t know.”
“You haven’t found her?”
“I’ve been busy.” Busy saving one Frances Walford, thank you very little.
Anarchy handed me the gun. “I’m calling for back-up, can you watch her?”
I nodded and pointed the gun at Jennifer.
“I’ll be back.”
Jennifer groaned again.
“Where is my daughter?” I demanded. “Where’s Grace?”
Jennifer’s gaze flickered. “I haven’t seen her.”
A few minutes later, half the Kansas City police force was at Jennifer and Marshall’s house (a slight exaggeration). Anarchy, Detective Peters, countless uniformed officers, and medics from the ambulance performed a chaotic dance.
Forgotten in the hubbub, Mother and I walked back to my house.
“Thank you,” she said as we passed through the gate.
“For?”
“For saving us.” That was unexpected.
“You’re welcome.”
“Then again, we wouldn’t have needed saving if you didn’t involve yourself in that man’s investigations.”
Mother being held at gunpoint was my fault? “Mother, I don’t have the energy for this. I’m worried about—” I stumbled.
And stared.
Grace’s car and backpack were gone.
I left Mother, raced to the house, threw open the backdoor, and called, “Grace!”
She didn’t answer.
“Aggie!”
No answer.
Max lifted his head off his paws and yawned.
“Some help you are.”
He blinked.
A note lay on the counter. I snatched it up. Mom, where are you? Mrs. Hamilton invited me over and gave me this. I figured you wouldn’t mind about me being a few minutes late to school…Congratulations.
A check floated to the floor.
I ben
t, picked up the scrap of paper, and read the amount. Ten thousand dollars made out to the museum.
Dropping the note and the check on the counter, I picked up the receiver and dialed Grace’s school. “This is Ellison Russell calling. Did Grace Russell arrive safely?”
“She was tardy.”
“But she’s there?”
“Yes, Mrs. Russell, I checked her in myself.”
“Thank you.” The two words didn’t come close to expressing my gratitude or relief.
I hung up the phone and propped myself against the counter.
“She’s at school?” Mother stood in the doorway.
“Yes.”
“Thank heavens.”
“Do you want some coffee?”
“You’re kidding.”
“I never kid about coffee.”
“Do you have anything stronger?”
“Of course.” I poured myself a mug and led Mother to the living room and the liquor. “What will you have?”
“Scotch. Neat.”
I poured the scotch into an old-fashioned glass and held it out to her.
Mother wrapped her fingers around the glass. “You were terrified something happened to Grace. Your blood crystalized. Your heart beat in your ears. Your lungs couldn’t fully inflate.”
“Yes.”
“That’s how I feel whenever you get yourself mixed up in an investigation.”
Her revelation froze the coffee cup halfway to my lips. “I didn’t know. I’m sorry.”
Mother eyed me over the rim of her glass. “Sorry means you won’t do it again.”
“I’ll try not to.” I meant what I said. I did. But my best intentions had a way of crumbling to dust.
She sighed as if she’d followed my thoughts’ trail. Then she drank. Deeply. “Drinking in the morning. You and Libba are a bad influence.”
“I offered coffee.”
“I was held at gunpoint. I deserve a scotch.”
“I’m not arguing that.”
Mother sipped again. Her glass was almost empty. “You were—” she searched for a word “—resourceful. That frying pan was a good idea.”
“It was heavy. I should have found a candlestick.” I glanced down at my mug. The level of coffee was alarmingly low. “I was in the garage for five minutes, Mother. What happened?”
“I found one of Lark Flournoy’s journals shoved in a kitchen drawer. Someone had tried to burn it.”
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