Thirteen

  

That evening, I drove to Kizzi and Howard’s with the top down. The wind grabbed strands of my hair and wrapped them around my neck in a blonde noose.

The painter’s exorbitant bill, tucked into my pocketbook, fueled my anger with one Miss Alice Standish.

I parked at the curb, maneuvered the uneven bricks of their front walk—thank God I hadn’t worn heels—and rang the bell.

Kizzi answered the door and stared at me as if she couldn’t place who I was or why I might be standing on her front stoop.

“You told me to come at seven.”

She blinked and wiped at one of her blurry eyes with the back of her hand. “I did?”

“You did.”

“I suppose you’d better come in.” She opened the door wider and stepped aside.

I followed her into a living room with walls paneled in recovered wood and a floor covered in tiles. A long, black, tufted leather sofa ran the length of one wall. In front of it sat a white shag area rug topped by a glass coffee table. It matched the end tables that held brass lamps and crystal ashtrays. Club chairs upholstered in a black and white floral print sat at right angles to the couch.

It was all very trendy, and Kizzi had probably paid her decorator a fortune. I didn’t like it. It felt more like a stage set than a home. The only personal touch in the whole room was the highball on the coffee table. Kizzi had marked the glass with her lipstick, a frosted pink half-moon hanging above a veritable sea of gin.

“Please, Ellison, have a seat.” She’d finally remembered my name. “May I get you a drink?”

“No, thank you.” I didn’t plan on staying long enough to finish it. I sank so low into the couch that my knees were higher than my seat.

Kizzi, better acquainted with the hazards of her furniture, sat in one of the club chairs. “Howard will be right in. He’s just making sure Alice is doing her homework.”

I nodded.

Kizzi patted her hair then glanced around her living room. “What brings you here?”

“Shall we wait for Howard?”

She scrunched her nose. “Everyone always wants to wait for Howard. What’s happened?”

If she wanted the bill, she could have it. I pulled the flimsy piece of paper with the astronomical number written on the bottom from my purse and handed it to her. “I think Alice vandalized my house.”

“Alice?” She held the painter’s invoice at arm’s length and squinted. She saw the total and rubbed her eyes. “Why would you think that?”

“I think it has something to do with Alice’s fascination with Bobby Lowell.”

She stilled, then lifted her drink to her lips. “Poor boy.”

“Bobby was seeing another girl and I don’t think Alice much liked it.”

Kizzi leaned forward and lowered her voice. “I hope you won’t hold this against her.” She fingered the bill. “She went a little crazy over Bobby. When he started seeing someone else, she was distraught.” Kizzi hiccupped. The smell of gin made my eyes water. She lifted her glass, drank, then leaned closer still. “Alice said if she couldn’t have him, no one could.”

“That’s enough!”

Our heads swiveled toward the door. Howard stood at the room’s entrance. His face flushed, his arms crossed, his chin lowered.

Kizzi waved the painter’s bill. “Ellison says Alice vandalized her house.”

Howard stepped into the antiseptic decorator’s delight of a living room and took the bill from Kizzi’s hand. When he saw the total, the flush ran away from his cheeks. “What happened, Ellison?”

“Alice painted on my door.”

He regarded me with an arched brow.

“Someone painted the word ‘slut.’”

The brow rose higher and his mouth formed the beginnings of a smirk.

A smirk? Surely he wasn’t suggesting…I’d been with one man my entire life. And even when Henry cheated on me, I’d kept my vows.

As for Grace, I’d bet her trust fund that she hadn’t done anything to deserve having such an ugly word written about her. I tilted my head slightly, pursed my lips and raised my own brow. “The same word that was woven into the fence at the school. Near where Bobby died.”

Kizzi hiccupped. “We know. A policeman came by to ask us about it.”

I offered her an encouraging smile. “And?”

“Alice said she didn’t have anything to do with it.”

Alice said, not Alice didn’t—it seemed as if Kizzi doubted her daughter. “You didn’t believe her?”

Kizzi glanced at her drink, her husband, then me. “Um…”

“That’s enough.” Howard was repeating himself. He crumpled the bill in his hand, stepped outside the door and yelled, “Alice!”

When Alice appeared, she wore enough black for two funerals. Also, she’d taken black eyeliner and circled her eyes. She might have been going for a haunting look. What she got was demented raccoon.

She stared at me with narrowed, kohl-rimmed eyes and I straightened my shoulders to keep them from shaking. Looking at her, it seemed all too possible that she’d killed Bobby.

“What?” she asked.

Howard shook the painter’s bill in her face. “Did you deface Mrs. Russell’s property? Did you paint on her door?”

She shrugged—a classic, world-weary teenage shrug. “What if I did?” She leaned against a wall and crossed her arms.

“And the fence at school?” I asked.

The corner of her upper lip lifted slightly. “I haven’t been painting any fences.”

I sat a little straighter on the uncomfortable couch. “The fence wasn’t painted.”

“There you go. I didn’t do it.” Something flickered in her ebony-ringed eyes. Madness? Murder? Teenage angst?

“Didn’t do what?” Kizzi asked. She clutched her drink as if it was a lifesaver keeping her from drowning in deep waters.

Alice’s sneer became more pronounced. “I didn’t paint the fence.”

“Did you paint the door?” Howard demanded.

“Maybe. Maybe not. What are you going to do about it?” The challenge in her voice was unmistakable. Her mother drank. Her father wore frilly dresses. Alice did whatever she wanted.

I levered myself off Kizzi’s ridiculous couch. “I’m going to call your grandmother.”

The direness of my threat hung in the air like a lobbed tennis ball, and the next few seconds ticked by in slow motion.

The ball landed. Kizzi dropped her drink, Howard clutched his chest and Alice’s rebellious posture collapsed. They all breathed a collective “No!” Tossing a live grenade would have made less of an impression. Interesting. Alice Anne, the Dragon of Drury Lane, terrified her family too.

“I’ll pay the bill.” Howard held the crumpled paper in his left hand. It shook. “I’ll write you a check right now.”

Kizzi dropped out of her chair and began daubing at her white carpet with a cocktail napkin. She needn’t have bothered—straight gin doesn’t stain.

Alice stared at her shaking father, her daubing mother, then at me. “You’re a bitch.”

Her parents gasped.

Alice and I stared at each other. She’d thrown a gauntlet and now she waited to see what I would do. I borrowed one of Mother’s insincere smiles and said, “He didn’t love you.”

She winced. My barb had hit close to home. Then she shrugged as if she didn’t care that Bobby Lowell had loved another girl. “I guess we’ll never know.”

Damn. While she’d removed all doubt as to who’d woven and painted the word “slut,” I’d removed any possibility she’d ever tell me who Bobby loved.

  

I opened my front door and called, “I’m home.”

No one answered except for Max. He trotted down the stairs, rubbed his face against my leg and wagged his stub of a tail.

I scratched behind his ears. “Nice to see you too, fella.”

He followed me up the stairs, sat beside me when I tapped on Grace’s door and tilted his head when I cracked the door and yelled over ear-splitting decibels of a very apropos Elton John song, “I’m home.”

The girls sat cross-legged on Grace’s bed. My daughter ignored me—didn’t even turn her head to acknowledge me. Donna offered me a tremulous smile.

At least our guest was behaving like a human and not a teenager. I closed the door and continued down the hallway with Max at my heels.

When I reached the sanctuary of my bedroom, I took off and hung up my clothes and donned a soft blue caftan. Maybe Aggie was rubbing off on me. Then again, maybe not. Aggie’s caftans are usually brightly colored and embellished with embroidery or beads or spangles. Mine was just…soft.

I curled up in the armchair near the window to think. Alice had woven ribbon into the fence and painted my door. I was sure of it. But had she killed Bobby? I shook my head. Finding Bobby’s killer was Anarchy’s job. Mine was to find the girl Bobby loved and share his last words with her. Alice knew who I was looking for. Fat lot of good that did me. I had a better chance of getting Elton John to serenade Grace and Donna in person than I did of getting a name out of Alice Standish.

I abandoned the chair and wandered through the room. I pulled the loose hairs out of my brush and threw them away. I positioned the crystal jars on my dresser just so.

I picked up my copy of Watership Down, stared at the rabbit on the cover, then put the book back on the nightstand. The wandering rabbits would have to solve their problems without me. I couldn’t solve my own.

Finally I jammed my feet into a pair of slippers and climbed the stairs to the attic. If my bedroom couldn’t calm my thoughts, maybe my studio could.

Donna’s sketchbooks sat on the worktable where they’d languished since she’d dropped them off. The girl hadn’t mentioned painting or lessons since she’d arrived. Remarkable patience for a teenager. I picked them up, settled onto the chaise in the corner and opened the first one.

Donna’s drawings weren’t exactly hearts and unicorns, but they came close—flowers and small, furry animals frolicked across her pages. They were good, but they were bunnies. I closed the book and looked at the date on the front. It was almost four years old. I put it down and searched for the sketchbook with the most recent date.

I found one that was eighteen months old and opened it. No frolicking in this book. The drawings—again, very good—were somber, filled with sadness.

I counted back in what I knew of Donna’s history. Her father had died—that explained the numerous portraits of the man with her nose and the kind eyes. It explained the sketch of India crying. It explained the drawings of graveyards. It explained the self-portrait of a girl ravaged by grief. Looking at the sketches was like looking into her soul.

Did Grace feel such grief over her father’s death? She’d been in shock at first. We’d whisked her away to my parents’ place in the country. Then I’d whisked her away to Europe. We’d traveled to sunny, happy places—Italy and Greece and Turkey. I’d avoided the gray skies of London and our trip to rainy Paris had been brief, just long enough to shop and see the Louvre.

Since I hadn’t felt a whit of grief when Henry died, I hadn’t considered Grace’s feelings. Did she feel the same soul-deep grief that Donna did? What kind of a mother was I?

Duh. Henry had been an unmitigated ass but he’d also been her father. I hadn’t given her time to grieve. No wonder she was angry and resentful and…awful.

I rested my forehead in my hands. First thing in the morning, I’d find her a psychologist or a grief counselor or someone who could help her. Help us. I’d talk to her about Henry. If she asked, I’d even tell her part of the truth.

I flipped through Donna’s drawings until the lines blurred from fatigue. Then I padded downstairs and went to bed.

Max’s whine awakened me.

I pried my eyelids open and asked, “What time is it?”

He scratched on the door.

“Seriously?”

Max whined again.

Seriously.

I dragged myself out of bed, grabbed my robe and followed Max down the stairs.

The hallway that led to the back of the house should have been dark. It wasn’t. Light spilled out of the kitchen. I tiptoed forward and peeked through the door.

Donna stood at the counter with a jar of Sanka and a coffee filter in her hand. The girl was about to violate poor Mr. Coffee.

I cleared my throat.

She startled as if I’d caught her with her hand in the drawer where I kept the sterling.

I stepped into the brightly lit kitchen. “That’s instant coffee.”

“I hope you don’t mind,” she said. “I wanted a cup of decaf.” She tugged at the opening where Mr. Coffee accepts offerings of coffee grounds.

“Donna, put down the filter and step away from the coffee machine.” Mr. Coffee had endured enough abuse in his short life—too many filters, too many coffee grounds, no filter—he didn’t need Sanka running through his innards.

She blinked, then did as I asked.

“For instant coffee, you use hot water, not a coffeemaker.”

“Really?”

“Really.” I picked up the kettle from the stove, went to the sink and filled it with water. “What are you doing up?”

“I couldn’t sleep.”

I replaced the kettle, lit a burner, and asked, “Why not?”

“Tomorrow—” She glanced at the clock on the oven. “Today is Bobby Lowell’s funeral.”

Guilt tightened my neck and shoulders. Bobby was being buried and I still hadn’t found the girl. “Did you know him well?”

She ducked her head. “A bit. Our houses are nearby and, of course, in school.”

“You might not have met him at his best. And now—”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean Bobby had a rough time after his parents split, but deep down he was a good kid.”

A single fat tear ran unchecked down Donna’s cheek. “It’s so sad when good people die.”

The sketches of her father and the kindness in his eyes came to mind.

“It is.” I patted her back.

When she didn’t flinch, I draped my arm around her shaking shoulders and squeezed.

A tear plopped onto the kitchen counter.

Donna parted her lips and drew a ragged breath. “I’m sorry. It’s just that since Daddy died…” She stepped out of my half-embrace then raised her chin. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be all teary.”

“It doesn’t bother me a bit.” I scratched the end of my nose—just a little.

Donna pulled a paper towel off the roll and wiped her face. She gulped for breath. “Do you remember what it’s like to be sixteen?”

“I’m not that old.”

She shook her head, apparently annoyed with my flip reply. “Do you remember?”

Why would I remember that? It was a time best forgotten. The emotions, the hormones, the way every little thing mattered so much. “I remember parts of it.”

“Which parts?” she demanded.

“Wanting to be grown up. I wanted lipstick and high heels and dates. But when Mother gave my stuffed animals to charity, I cried for a week.” Mother had not been sympathetic.

“I don’t want to grow up. When you’re sixteen you know things. I liked not knowing a lot better.”

“What things?”

The kettle whistled. Of course it did—right when I was about to get real insight into how a teenage girl thought. I lifted the kettle off the heat and set it on a cold burner. I spooned Sanka into a cup for Donna, found myself a bag of chamomile tea, and poured hot water over both. Max lifted his head and grumbled so I tossed him a dog biscuit.

I dropped the spoon into Donna’s mug then pushed it across the counter toward her. She wrapped her hands around its sides as if she was cold, caught her lower lip in her teeth, and chewed. “Have you had time to look at my sketchbooks?”

Thank God I had. “You’re very talented. If you’re still interested, I’d be happy to work with you.”

“That would be great,” said the girl who’d begged me for lessons. Her voice was flat. Then she picked up her mug, a white one with Wile E. Coyote on the side—Lord only knows how the hideous thing found its way into my cupboard. “I think I’ll go upstairs now. Thank you for the coffee.”

Somehow, I’d expected more enthusiasm.

If I live to be a thousand years old, I’ll never understand teenagers.