Twelve

  

Playing bridge held less appeal than dissecting my life choices with Mother, but I’d promised and it was too late to find a substitute. Besides, when you are a sub, you shouldn’t find another—not according to Hoyle or Mother.

I showed up on time, decked out in a linen camp shirt and a pair of wide-leg trousers I’d bought in Italy. And pearls. For bridge at the country club, pearls are de rigueur. Sally Montgomery had found a sub too. Amy McCreary, wife of John, mother of Jack, sat in Sally’s usual chair.

I smiled at her. A real smile. If I directed the table talk, maybe I could learn something useful—why Jack acted so strangely on Sunday, what drove his sudden interest in Grace and, most importantly, if he’d shared with his mother the name of the girl his best friend loved.

“Ellison, how are you? How’s your wrist?” Amy asked. “John said he saw you at brunch and that you looked a little peaked.”

Who wouldn’t look peaked having lunch with Mother? “Thanks for asking.” I held up my bandaged wrist. “It’s on the mend.”

“You do lead an exciting life.” Peazey Moore occupied her favorite seat. Its view of the hallway meant she could see everyone passing. She manufactured a smile—at least she tried. The corners of her mouth twitched.

The woman was fishing for gossip. She had as much chance of getting gossip from me as she did catching a catfish in a swimming pool. “Europe was exciting,” I said blandly.

“I meant this past weekend.” The corners of her lips forced themselves further toward her nose. Not exactly a smile but as close as she ever got. The expression was catty? Bitchy? Pure Peazey? All of the above?

Amy patted my good hand. “It must have been horrible. Jack is still beside himself. He went to the game with Bobby, you know.” She sipped iced tea garnished with fresh mint. “They sat together until Bobby got the note.”

“What note?” I asked.

“Someone passed him a note right before half-time. Jack said Bobby disappeared after he got it.”

I’d found Bobby shortly after the second half began. Had there been a crumpled note in Bobby’s pocket? Perhaps trapped beneath his body? Did Anarchy know to look for it?

“Jack ought to tell the police.”

Amy shook her head. “His father thinks not. He doesn’t want Jack to get involved.” Amy held out her left hand and inspected the shine on her wedding ring. “I think John is being silly. The only thing Jack did was sit with Bobby in the stands.” She looked me in the eye and shrugged. “What can I do?”

She could tell me, knowing that if Jack wasn’t going to the police about the note, I would. Telling Anarchy might help catch Bobby’s killer. It would definitely assuage my guilt about destroying potential evidence by repainting the front door.

Tibby Davis rushed into the ladies’ lounge. “Sorry I’m late, girls. The school called and Beth forgot some assignment that she simply had to have so I ran it up there. While I was there, Annie Pendleton asked me to work on the carnival committee and insisted on showing me the file. Then I ran my stockings and had to go home. On the way over here, I realized there was no gas in the car so I stopped. Do you realize gas is up to nearly fifty-five cents a gallon? I swear the price goes up every time I drive by the station.” She paused for breath. “But I’m here now.” A triumphant smile lit her face. Having conquered errands, she collapsed into a chair and waved a waiter over. “I believe I’ll have a glass of Blue Nun.”

Peazey glanced at her watch. “A little early in the day, isn’t it?” She turned toward me. “Was it awful? Finding him, I mean.”

Of course it was awful, I’d found a dying boy. “It was. Were any of you there?”

Amy shook her head. “I only go to games where Jack is actually playing. Believe me, I’ll go to plenty of games come basketball season.”

Peazey pursed her lips and looked down her long nose. “You just have a girl, Ellison. You have no idea how boys’ sports can take over your life.”

Tibby, the mother of three daughters, scowled. “Really? Try ballet lessons and art lessons and tap lessons and piano lessons. Missy—took up the violin.” She shuddered. “Besides, they do have sports. My girls all swim and play golf and tennis.”

Amy looked from Tibby to Peazey then offered up a conciliatory smile. “Shall we draw for dealer?” She fanned the cards across the table.

Peazey drew the ace of spades.

Amy handed her a made deck then cut. “Thin to win.”

Tibby shuffled the second deck.

I thought about Bobby. If Jack was telling the truth about the note, the murderer had lured Bobby under the stands. Had Anarchy found the note? I hadn’t noticed one. I’d been too focused on the boy and the blood and his last words to notice much else.

Peazey cleared her throat. Everyone else had picked up their cards. They’d caught me wool-gathering.

“Sorry,” I muttered. I gathered, sorted and counted in record time. Then—to make up for my lapse—I introduced a new topic. “Do any of you remember India Easton—India Hess now? Her daughter is staying with me.”

“How did that happen?” asked Tibby.

I explained.

“India was in my sister’s class,” said Amy.

“No, she wasn’t. She was in mine.” Peazey moved a card from the left side of her hand to the right. “One club.”

Amy passed.

Tibby glanced at her cards. “One heart.”

I studied my hand. “One spade. What did you think of her?”

Peazey caught her upper lip in her teeth and pinched the end of her pointy chin. “Three hearts.” She looked at me then crinkled her nose. “Quiet girl. Kind of a doormat.”

Peazey had managed a zinger? “Quiet” and “doormat” exactly described me for most of my marriage to Henry. I pretended not to notice. “Oh?” The woman who’d foisted a girl I barely knew on me for Lord knew how long hadn’t struck me as a doormat.

Peazey nodded. “She’d do anything to fit in.”

Amy said, “Pass.”

Tibby held her cards in her right hand and counted points with her left. “Four hearts.” She arched a brow. “Anything?”

My hand wasn’t good enough to go to game without help. I passed.

“Not that. It was the fifties. Not like today. You wouldn’t believe the way girls throw themselves at my boys.” Peazey closed her cards with a snap. “Pass.”

Who was she kidding? When Peazey was in high school someone coined the term Easy Peazey just for her. The lemon-squeezy part came later. None of us were foolish enough to remind her.

“Speaking of girls and boys, was Bobby Lowell dating anyone?” I played the ace of spades.

Peazey laid down her cards in neat rows. “Not that I know of.”

Tibby pulled the low spade from the dummy. “I haven’t heard anything.”

“Me either.” Amy threw the nine of spades. “Why?”

Tibby pulled the two of spades from her hand and Amy swept the trick.

“No reason.”

Peazey cut her gaze toward me. “Ellison, you simply must tell us about the picture in the paper.”

I should have known we couldn’t get through an afternoon without discussing my trip to The Jewel Box. “It’s boring, really. I went there with Libba. There was a…kerfuffle and I ripped my stitches.”

She sent one of her almost-smiles my direction. “What about that gorgeous man who carried you out?”

“Detective Jones?” I returned her almost-smile and raised her narrowed eyes. I ignored the way my stomach quivered whenever I thought about Anarchy’s arms around me and played the king of spades.

Tibby pulled the low spade and Amy discarded a club.

I hid a smile. Peazey could ask all the uncomfortable questions she wanted but she—and Tibby—were going down.

  

I arrived home at two to find a lonely Max and a handwritten note on the kitchen counter. An enormous bouquet of Stargazer lilies sat next to the note.

I gave a poor-poor-pitiful-me-eyed Max a dog biscuit. Read the note—Aggie had gone to the supermarket. Then I eyed the lilies, my favorite. Already the kitchen smelled like my version of heaven. A sealed card peeked out from between the petals.

I reached for the tiny envelope with shaky fingers. What if Hunter had sent them? Was I ready for a man who sent me flowers?

I slid my finger under the flap.

Forgive me? Libba

She’d left me in a bar filled with crossdressing men intent on pulling off each other’s wigs and tearing each other’s dresses. She’d left me with a man I barely knew. If she thought that I would forgive all that just because she’d sent me a bunch of flowers, she was as nutty as Alice Standish. Forgiveness would require serious groveling.

I crumbled Libba’s note and tossed it in the trash.

Max, who’d finished his biscuit, tilted his head and raised his doggy brows as if questioning my hard line stance.

“Give her an inch and she’ll take a mile,” I told him. “I’ve known her for almost forty years. She never changes.”

He yawned and directed his amber gaze at the telephone.

“I’m not calling her.” I crossed my arms.

He whined softly.

“I’d rather call Anarchy Jones than Libba.”

Woof.

The dog had a point. I ought to tell Anarchy about the note. I dug his card out of my billfold, picked up the phone and dialed.

“Jones.”

Why had I thought this was a good idea? “It’s Ellison,” I squeaked.

I could almost see him in his office with his long legs stretched out, his feet crossed, maybe propped on his desk, the receiver held carelessly against his ear. “What is it?” His voice held an edge.

I’d never called him without a problem.

I swallowed. “I played bridge today.”

He didn’t respond to this exciting news.

“I talked to Amy McCreary.”

Still no response.

“Her son Jack went to the football game with Bobby Lowell.”

“We talked to him.”

“Did Jack tell you about the note?”

“The note?” A bang carried through the phone lines. Anarchy’s feet hitting the floor? “What note?”

“Bobby got a note just before half-time, then he took off. I just thought you should know.” Anarchy was more than smart enough to count the minutes. I’d found Bobby just a few minutes after the second half started. It seemed likely the note was from the murderer.

“What else did you talk about?”

“Declining morals.”

The police detective snorted. “Thank you, Ellison. We’ll look into this right away. Anything else you want to tell me?”

My thoughts flew to my perfectly white front door. “No. Nothing.” I scratched my nose.

“You’re sure?”

Was I sure I didn’t want to explain why I’d eradicated potential evidence in a murder investigation? “Positive.”

“Any idea where I might find Jack McCreary?” Spoken like a man without children.

“At school.”

Anarchy said goodbye and presumably hurried off to track down Jack and the note. I inhaled lily-scented air then went upstairs to put on paint clothes. Too much time had passed since I picked up a brush. Lord knows I’d tried, but my hands reached for dark colors and my brushes created brooding swirls heavy with pent-up emotions. The exact opposite of the colorful, hopeful canvases my customers demanded.

Perhaps I needed to paint something dark, work the negativity out of my system with a paintbrush, a primed canvas and tubes of carbon black, dioxazine violet and old Delft blue deep. I painted, let my frustration with Grace and Mother and Libba bleed onto the canvas. My confusion with Hunter and Anarchy shaded amorphous shapes. Henry’s betrayals were reduced to dark slashes.

When I looked up, the afternoon was gone and the slam of the front door reverberated through the house.

“Mom!”

There it was again. The outraged Mom call. Loud enough to reach my attic studio. What had I done now?

I wiped off my hands and descended two flights of stairs.

Grace stood in the foyer; she’d dumped her backpack on the floor and her hands were planted on her hips. The dropped pack was pure teenager. The pose was reminiscent of Mother. Grace saw me and narrowed her eyes. “What did you do?”

I drew a deep calming breath. God save me from dramatic teenagers. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Yeah, right.” Grace lifted the corner of her upper lip. Her dismissive tone and her sneering expression made her opinion clear. I was a bitch beyond measure.

Donna, pale as early April, stood behind her looking as horrified as a romantic heroine from a gothic novel who’s just discovered the lonely castle where she cares for children of questionable parentage is haunted.

I shook my head. “No idea what you’re talking about.”

“You sent the police to get Jack.”

“I told the police what Jack told his mother. Someone passed Bobby a note shortly before half-time.”

She crossed her arms over her chest. “Well, they don’t believe him.”

“Why not?”

Again with the narrowed eyes. “They didn’t find a note.”

My jaw dropped—just a little. Had Jack lied? Had the murderer taken the note? More likely Bobby just threw it away before he went under the stands. I snapped my lips closed.

“Just because you don’t like him doesn’t mean you frame him for murder.”

“I’m not trying to frame anyone for murder. Don’t you want Bobby’s killer caught?”

Her fingers bent as if wrapped around someone’s neck. She shook them and growled. “You don’t get it.”

“I get that Bobby’s dead and that if the police are going to catch his killer they need everyone to tell the truth.”

“Like you did last night?”

I’d had the door painted to protect her. Rather than appreciate the gesture, she’d thrown it in my face. “That’s enough out of you, young lady.”

Behind her, Donna dropped her backpack and clutched her stomach as if she was in pain.

“Are you all right?” I asked.

Donna nodded. Weakly.

“I apologize, Donna. Normally Grace and I can control our tempers.” I glared at my daughter.

She glared back.

“We’ll discuss this later. Perhaps you’d like to get Donna a drink?”

Grace flounced off to the kitchen. Just last night she’d run into my arms like a child. Where had that girl gone?

The phone rang. I went into my late husband’s office and answered it. “Hello.”

“Ellison? This is India Hess. I’m so glad I caught you. We’ve had the best news! Jonathan’s injuries aren’t as serious as originally thought. The doctors will release him by the end of the week. We’ll pick Donna up on Friday. Is she there? I’d like to tell her.”

“We’ve loved having Donna, but that is wonderful news.” Poor kid. She’d put up with vandalism, all-night painters and far too much drama. She’d be thrilled to get home even if her stepfather was a jackass. “I’ll get her for you.”

I hurried down the hall to the kitchen. “Donna, your mother is on the line.”

A bit of color had returned to her cheeks. “Thank you, Mrs. Russell.” She picked up the phone.

Grace cast me a dirty look.

I didn’t want sticking my nose in Donna’s business added to my list of sins. I yielded the field—for now—and returned to the study. When Donna went home, Grace and I had a few issues to work out.

I picked up the phone lying on the desk.

“Don’t be silly, darling,” India snapped. “You can’t impose on the Russells forever.”

“I wasn’t planning on it, Mother.” There it was, the teenage tone that encapsulated embarrassment, superiority, attitude, and need. Nice to know it wasn’t just Grace who spoke that way.

“Stop being so dramatic,” India chided.

I was all too familiar with drama. Drama flowed through my house like a river out of its banks. I hung up the phone before Grace rightly accused me of eavesdropping.

It was hardly surprising Donna didn’t like her stepfather. I barely knew him and I didn’t like him. Who could blame her for not wanting him home? Not me.