Five

Anarchy and I agreed he’d drive me back to Prairie Village, to the exact spot where I’d hit Leesa.

Max watched me don a fox jacket with disapproval in his amber eyes. In his opinion, Anarchy and I remaining in the kitchen and feeding him treats was the best course of action. Failing that, we could take him for a walk.

“Sorry, buddy,” I told my dog. “I’ll be home soon.”

His ears drooped, the very picture of dejection.

Anarchy, unaccustomed to Max’s tricks, opened the front door.

Max slipped through the opening and stood in the driveway laughing at us. Ha! said his doggy smile. Just try and catch me.

I might—might—have been able to lure him inside with the promise of a dog biscuit, that or a turkey club sandwich with extra bacon, but Max spotted a squirrel.

Sadly, the squirrel did not spot Max.

Max’s jaws missed the squirrel’s tail by less than a quarter of an inch.

The panicked animal ran and Max followed.

“Max!”

Max ignored me.

The squirrel cut across my yard and ran into my neighbor’s lawn. My evil neighbor’s lawn. Margaret Hamilton was a witch of the flew-a-broomstick-at-midnight, stirred-a-cauldron, had-warts-on-her-chin (not really) variety. And she did not like my dog.

“Max!”

Intent on the chase, he didn’t even turn his head.

And the squirrel? Why was it ignoring a perfectly good oak tree?

It was unfortunate (but not surprising) that Margaret chose that moment to step outside. She possessed some kind of witchy internal radar that alerted her when any member of my household so much as touched a blade of her grass.

It was even more unfortunate that, having made the decision to scowl at me from her front steps, she didn’t close her door behind her.

Most unfortunate of all was the squirrel dashing between her legs and into her house.

No. That’s wrong. MOST unfortunate was the fact that my dog followed the squirrel—through Margaret’s legs and into her home.

Margaret was in no position to chase him. Max had knocked her flat. Her heels were above her shoulders, her skirt gathered in folds around her waist, and her black girdle was on display for the whole neighborhood

“Oh dear Lord.” I took off running.

Anarchy easily passed me.

He reached Margaret first and picked her up off her stoop.

From inside the house came the sound of glass shattering.

“Get. Your. Dog.” If looks could kill, I’d have been dead.

I dashed into Margaret’s home. “Max!”

If I’d given Margaret Hamilton’s decorating style any thought, I’d have imagined something dark and foreboding with dried henbane hanging from exposed rafters, a giant iron pot filled with a foul smelling, acid green potion on the hearth, and a scarred table that held twisted roots, chicken bones, and a mortar and pestle ready to grind hemlock or snakeroot. The reality was grass cloth on the walls and a Kelly green shag carpet. The reality in the living room was circular floral couches that matched the rug and a glass coffee table the size of a small swimming pool. The more pressing reality was a squirrel re-enacting Custer’s last stand behind a potted palm.

Potting soil flew across the raked green of Margaret’s carpet and palm fronds fell to the floor like fallen soldiers.

“Max!”

Max turned and looked at me. Why was I interrupting the most fun he’d had in months?

The squirrel, sensing an opportunity for escape, made a break for the kitchen.

Max ran after the squirrel.

I ran after Max.

Margaret’s kitchen had zinnia-red cabinets and foil wallpaper. I blinked, startled by all that shiny crimson, and my steps faltered.

The squirrel’s did not. The damn beast scaled the counter then a cabinet and took shelter behind a stack of plates.

Max rested one front paw on the counter and stood on his hind legs. He swiped at the squirrel with his free paw. Swiped and missed. Missed the squirrel but caught a plate. The plate flew out of the cupboard and crashed to the floor.

I stared at the shards, my mouth hanging open. Franciscan desert rose? Not stoneware decorated with skulls and crossbones?

A second swipe. This one with more effort.

A second plate saucered out of the cabinet like a demented, rose-painted UFO.

Crash!

For the love of Pete, why hadn’t Margaret closed her cabinet doors?

The homeowner stood beside me, presumably too angry to speak. Her lips moved without producing words.

“Max! Stop that!”

A third plate.

A third crash.

I lunged forward, grabbed Max’s collar, and hauled him away from the cabinet.

He stepped on a piece of broken china and yelped.

The squirrel chittered.

Margaret planned the horrific hex she was going to cast upon me.

And Anarchy stood in the doorway looking as if he was trying very hard not to laugh.

Max pulled against my hold. There was still a squirrel to catch.

“Bad dog!”

The bad dog rolled his eyes.

With an enormous yank, I pulled him farther away from the squirrel and the further destruction of Margaret’s everyday china.

Max tugged against me.

Anarchy pulled off his belt, looped it through Max’s collar, and said, “Why don’t I take this guy home?”

“Good idea.” Bad idea! He was going to leave me alone with Margaret Hamilton and the squirrel Max had chased into her house? I’d never make it out alive. “Will you come back and help us deal with the squirrel?”

His lips quirked. “Close all the doors to the kitchen and open the back door.” He nodded toward a Dutch door that opened onto a porte cochère and Margaret’s driveway. “The squirrel will leave on its own.”

He made it sound easy.

“Get that animal—” Margaret pointed at Max “—out of my house.” Margaret had found her voice.

“Right away, ma’am.” Anarchy pulled on the make-shift leash.

Margaret’s expression softened. Anarchy is that hard to resist. Then she looked at me. Up until that moment I thought Mother had the best, most terrifying death glare in the world. In that moment, I discovered I’d been wrong.

Margaret’s face was stark white. So white, her brows looked more like dark slashes than brows. The space between them was scrunched together in seething wrinkles and her lips were pursed, ready to croak the words that would turn me into a frog or make my hair fall out.

I swallowed. “Mrs. Hamilton—” Margaret and I were not on a first-name basis “—I am so sorry about this. I will pay for all the damages.”

“I should have you arrested!”

Anarchy paused in his attempt to drag an unwilling Max out of the kitchen. “On what grounds?”

“Trespassing.” She practically spat the word.

“Arguably, you invited her in when you told her to get her dog.”

Margaret turned her death glare on Anarchy. “I’ll call the pound.”

“They might give her a ticket for allowing her dog out without a leash but I’ll explain that Max’s escape was my fault.”

Margaret vibrated like a tuning fork. If she’d been a cartoon, steam would have blown from her ears.

“Get out.” She lifted her arm and pointed toward the front door. With her black dress, black shoes, black tights, and black hair (too dark for a woman of her age) she looked like the grim reaper. “Get out now. Both of you.”

I’d never seen anyone so angry. She was hexing me for sure.

We dragged Max home, locked him in the laundry room, and collapsed onto the kitchen stools. I collapsed. Anarchy merely sat.

“Are you up for that trip to Prairie Village?”

I’d forgotten all about our trip to the spot where I’d hit Leesa. “Let me check on Max’s paw first.”

I peeked into the laundry room where Max looked as bright-eyed and bushy-tailed as a squirrel. “How’s your paw?”

He grinned at me.

I crouched on the floor next to him and examined his paw. A small cut marred the black pad. “Do you need to go to the vet?”

Max yawned.

“I’ll take that as a no. And, don’t forget, you’re in big trouble, mister.”

He yawned again.

Leaving the hound from hell in the laundry room, Anarchy and I walked back into the cold and climbed into his car.

We drove in silence.

I stared out the window at the sky. It was that pale shade of blue that only occurred in winter. A blue that said the weather was too cold for color and too lazy to snow. “This block.”

Anarchy braked and the car slowed.

Barren oak trees stood as sentinels for the modest, well-tended ranch homes lining the street.

“I was heading the other direction.”

“Oh?”

“We probably ought to turn around.” I tended to see things in terms of where a tree was or the angle of an overhead line.

Anarchy drove to the end of the block, pulled into a driveway, then reversed out of it. “What were you doing over here?”

“Meeting Libba.” That was all the explanation he was getting.

He looked curious but all he said was, “Ah.”

“There.” I pointed to the exact spot. “I remember that oak branch hanging over the street.”

“And Leesa was crossing from the south?”

“Yes.”

“How cold did she seem?”

“Pardon me?”

“How long do you think she’d been outside?”

“Her lips weren’t blue.”

“Do you think she ran out of one of these houses?”

My gaze traveled from house to house. One was painted buttercup yellow with hunter-green shutters, a second was a soft gray with a cheerful red door, a white house sported ornate concrete planters that spilled dark green ivy onto the front walk. They all looked warm and inviting. Homes for young families to start their lives. A neighborhood where kids learned to ride their bikes on the sidewalk on a summer afternoon and the Good Humor man was swamped every time he drove by. A neighborhood where people greeted each other and waved as they fetched the paper. A neighborhood where a man had hired a teenage prostitute then scared her so badly she ran away. Which house? “I have no idea.”

He pulled in next to the curb. “Do you mind if I ask a few questions?”

Here?

He put the car in park. “I’ll leave the heat on for you.”

He didn’t have questions for me. He meant to leave me in the car like some disruptive child? That was not going to happen. “I’m coming with you.”

“Ellison, this is a police investigation.”

“I won’t say a word. I won’t interfere. I’m not staying in the car.”

His gaze traveled from my face to the buttercup house where a wood-paneled Country Squire sat in the drive. The skin near his left eye twitched.

“I promise. Not a word.” I donned my best pleading face.

He sighed—a deep sigh, as if he was doing something he knew he’d regret. “I’m holding you to that.”

We got out of the car and tromped up the front walk.

I glanced through the front window. Baby toys littered the living room carpet.

Anarchy lifted his finger as if he meant to ring the doorbell.

“Don—”

Too late. He’d pressed the button.

Nothing happened.

He pressed the button again and leaned toward the door as if listening for the bell.

“You’ll have to knock,” I said. “Quietly.”

He gave me a questioning glance.

“Whoever lives here had the doorbell disconnected.”

He raised a brow. “How do you know?”

I pointed at the toys on the living room carpet—they were multiplying like rabbits. “The doorbell would wake the children up from their naps.”

When Grace was little, naps were a battleground. If I won, if she slept, I did a little happy dance. Anyone who rang the bell when she was actually asleep got an earful. After visits from everyone from a Girl Scout to the Fuller Brush man, I disengaged the doorbell. It had seemed the easiest answer.

Anarchy knocked.

A moment later, a young woman with a baby on her hip and a toddler wrapped around her leg like a monkey opened the door. She wore faded jeans, a wrinkled peasant top and a shapeless gray cardigan. Her hair was scraped back in a messy ponytail and her face was free of makeup. “Yes?”

Anarchy pulled out his badge. “I’m Detective Jones, I was wondering if we could ask you a few questions.”

“About what?” she asked.

From behind her leg, the toddler peered up at us.

“May we come in?”

The woman stepped away from the door, allowing us entry. She led us into the living room. “I’m sorry it’s such a mess.”

“You’ve got your hands full.” I offered her a sympathetic smile. “I’m glad we didn’t disturb naptime.”

Anarchy shot me a look. I was not supposed to speak.

“Please.” She waved at the sofa. “Have a seat.”

The baby gurgled, the toddler loosened his grip, and their mother collapsed into a chair. “What can I help you with, detectives?” She sounded as tired as her clothes.

Detectives? Plural?

As instructed, I kept my mouth closed.

“What’s your name?” Anarchy twinkled at the woman. The smile. The eyes. The look.

The poor woman was too tired to respond but my heart skipped a beat for her. And the toddler, a little girl, gave Anarchy a shy smile.

“Shannon,” the woman said. “Shannon Cooper. This—” she smoothed the toddler’s hair “—is Avery. And this—” she dropped a small kiss on the baby’s head “—is Simon.”

Avery regarded us with eyes the size of Frisbees.

Simon gurgled.

Anarchy pulled the Polaroid from his jacket pocket. “Have you seen this girl?”

Shannon studied Leesa’s face. “Does she babysit?”

“Not that I’m aware of.”

“Then, no.”

Anarchy crossed his left ankle over his right knee and leaned forward. “Can you tell me a little bit about the neighborhood? Who’s home during the day?”

Shannon sat a bit straighter. “What’s wrong?”

“The girl was involved in accident. We’re looking for witnesses.”

Shannon’s back relaxed. “There are a handful of us who stay home with kids. Abby Harris, who lives just to the left, stays home with twins. Sandra Moore, to the right, is at home with a new baby.”

“What about other people on the block?” Anarchy asked. For some reason, unknown to me, he seemed reluctant to ask about men who were home on weekdays.

Shannon didn’t answer. She was busy extracting a strand of her hair from Simon’s little fist.

“Mommy, I’m hungy,” declared Avery. “I want a sammich.”

We were losing our audience.

“Are their any widows on the block?” I asked.

Anarchy shot me a you-promised-to-keep-your-mouth-shut scowl.

“Mrs. Gillespie. Across the street and down three. She lives in the pistachio colored house with the elm tree in the front yard.

“We won’t take any more of your time.” I stood.

Shannon saw us to the door.

“What was that?” Anarchy asked when the door closed behind us.

“That woman has two children in diapers. She’s barely keeping her head above water.” Surely he’d noticed the gray circles beneath her eyes? “If you want to know what’s happening on this block, talk to someone who has time to look out the window.” I pointed to a light green house with cream trim. “Mrs. Gillespie.”

Anarchy walked toward the car.

“Where are you going?” I asked.

“I’m taking you home.”

“Because I took pity on that poor woman?”

Anarchy pressed his lips together and opened my car door.

“You’re angry.”

“No.” The look on his face said different.

Whatever had happened in my kitchen—that moment when we’d both softened—was too new, too delicate, too easily trampled for me to start an argument.

“Please,” he said. “Get in the car.”

I got in the car.

He closed my door and circled to his own, but rather than get in, he stood in the street and practiced deep breathing techniques.

I waited, pulling my coat more closely around me.

Finally, he opened the door and sat behind the wheel. He put the key in the ignition and turned on the engine but did not shift the car into drive.

We sat there.

Silent.

“I’m sorry. I promised I wouldn’t say a word then I did. I don’t blame you for being angry.”

“I’m not angry.” He sounded angry and his fingers tightened around the steering wheel even though the car remained in park. “You cannot involve yourself in this investigation.”

“I won’t. That poor girl had a terrible death and a worse life but I didn’t know her. It’s not like I’m going to hear gossip over the bridge table. It’s not like some man is going to show up at my house to stop me from asking questions. I don’t know the questions. And if I did, I’d have no idea who to ask.”

Anarchy’s face was like thunder.

“And I wouldn’t ask those questions anyway. Because I’m not getting involved in your investigation.”

He loosened his grip on the wheel and turned toward me. “The world is a brighter place with you in it. I don’t want you hurt.” He still looked angry but his voice held a plaintive note.

“I don’t want me hurt either.”

“Please—” he reached across the distance between us and took my hand.

I wished I hadn’t put my gloves on.

He squeezed. Gently. A slow steady pressure. “I’ve missed you.”

Maybe he wouldn’t notice the tears that pooled on the rims of my eyes. “I missed you, too.” My voice was barely a whisper.

Anarchy leaned over and brushed his lips across my cheek. And I’d thought his touch sent my nerves into a tizzy.

“Dinner?” he whispered into my ear. “Tonight?”

How could I say no?