Six

Anarchy took me home where I shook my finger at a not-remotely-remorseful Max, grabbed a sammich, and changed my clothes. I had to. The club did not allow denim.

I donned a pantsuit I’d recently bought at Swanson’s. Dove gray and cream houndstooth, the suit came with a matching gray coat also trimmed with houndstooth. Gray heels, gray gloves—I looked pulled together. At least on the outside. What was happening inside was a study in chaos.

Nerves had set my insides churning. Me? Anarchy? Dinner?

I put those thoughts out of my mind (stuffed them into the deepest, darkest corner of my brain—a place where Libba wouldn’t spot them). Then I transferred my billfold, lipstick and powder, and keys to a gray handbag that matched my shoes, gave Max one last baleful look, and drove to the club.

“You’re late.” Libba frowned at me from her seat at the bridge table. “Is everything all right?”

We were playing in the small card room—the one with the best view of the golf course. Although, the course, dotted as it was with half-melted snow, looked as if it had a bad case of untreated dandruff. Not remotely attractive. I hung my purse over the back of my chair and sat. “I’m sorry. Busy morning.”

“Don’t worry about it,” said Daisy with an easy smile. “I just got here.”

That might be true, but we expected Daisy to be late.

“I am sorry. I lost track of time.”

“You never lose track of time.” Libba regarded me with narrowed eyes. “Were you painting?” Already she was poking around.

“No.”

“Then what?”

I shifted in my seat, unwilling to talk about spending my morning with Anarchy or about my upcoming date. Definitely unwilling to talk about a dead teenage girl who’d sold her body to strangers.

“Give her a break, Libba. You’ve been late before.” Jinx took a drag on her cigarette and blew the smoke in Libba’s direction. “Let’s play cards.”

Jinx had gone to rehab, given up drugs and alcohol, and taken up smoking. None of us complained about her ever-present cigarettes. At least not while she was around. She pushed one of the two decks on the table my way.

I cut.

Daisy shuffled the second deck.

Jinx rested her cigarette on the edge of an ashtray and dealt. “Did you hear Joyce and Bruce Petteway are getting a divorce?”

No wonder Joyce had dropped the menu ball for the gala.

The thirteenth card landed and Libba picked up her stack. “What happened? I thought they were happy.”

“There’s another woman.”

“Oh?” Libba looked up from arranging her cards. “Who?”

“No one knows.” Jinx pursed her lips. “Who would sleep with Bruce Petteway?”

She made an excellent point. Middle age had hit Bruce hard. His hair had thinned, his waist had widened, and he’d taken to calling women of his wife’s acquaintance “kiddo.” What she didn’t say was that Joyce still looked fabulous. The Petteways’ marriage seemed like one where money met beauty. Except—I thought back to our youth—Bruce hadn’t been rich when Joyce married him. Bruce with his thick glasses and scrawny neck had been lucky to land Joyce. And now he’d cheated on her.

“How did Joyce find out?” I asked.

Daisy chested her cards and leaned forward. “I heard she came home early from a meeting and he was…” her voice trailed off and her eyebrows waggled wildly.

“No!” Even Libba sounded scandalized. “In their bed?”

Daisy sat back and her brows calmed. “Exactly. Apparently the woman looked all of fifteen.”

“What an idiot,” I said.

Libba smiled. “Don’t hold back, Ellison.”

“I mean it.” I tapped the edge of my cards against the table. “Joyce is a lovely woman.”

“She’s a scatterbrain,” said Daisy.

The three of us stared at her.

“What? You think I’m a scatterbrain?”

“If the shoe fits, dear.” The new, smoking Jinx sounded kinder saying it than the old, drinking, pill-popping Jinx would have. “Pass.”

“We love you just the way you are, Daisy.” Libba patted her hand. “One club. And I, for one, think Joyce is better off without him. She’ll be fine.”

“I’m not so sure,” said Daisy. “By all accounts, she’s devastated. Pass.”

I glanced at my cards. “One heart.” My late husband had cheated on me with reckless abandon. I knew exactly how betrayed and wounded Joyce felt. “I’m going to call her later.”

“I’m sure she’d appreciate that.” Jinx wrinkled her nose. “Pass.”

“One spade,” said Libba.

“Pass.” Daisy shook her head. “Don’t they still have children at home?”

“Their youngest is in college back east. In Boston I think.”

We all stared at Libba. She, who had no children, actively avoided chatting about them.

“What?” Libba’s glare encompassed all three of us. “Joyce caught me at the grocery store after the holidays and talked about how hard it was to put him on a plane back to school.”

I looked down at my hand. I held four hearts, three spades, three diamonds, three clubs and fifteen points. “One no trump.”

“Pass,” said Jinx.

Libba regarded the cards fanned in her hand. “Three no trump.”

Daisy passed.

So did I.

Jinx tossed the six of diamonds onto the table (she carefully adhered to the fourth from your longest and strongest rule when defending no trump).

Starting with four nice spades, Libba laid down her cards.

Making three no trump was not a problem, not even with Daisy recounting her son’s latest exploits. Apparently he’d worked for a year, cut back on tennis and given up golf, mowed lawns in the summer, shoveled driveways in the winter, and saved up enough money for flying lessons. All he needed was his parents’ permission.

Jinx dealt the next hand, I shuffled the second deck, and Daisy said, “He just doesn’t appreciate how much I’ll worry.”

“You don’t want him in a small airplane,” said Jinx, sounding sympathetic.

Daisy looked at the ceiling. “It just sounds so dangerous.” She closed her eyes. “But he did work so hard.”

“Let him fly,” said Libba. “He set himself a goal, he gave up things he liked to do, he worked hard, and now the only thing that stands in his way is you. Don’t be that mother.”

“He’s fifteen,” said Daisy.

The same age as Leesa. What different lives they’d lived. “Do you ever feel guilty?” The question popped out of my mouth, unconsidered and ill-advised.

Libba raised a lazy brow. “About what?”

“We have so much,” I mumbled.

Three sets of eyes stared at me as if I’d suddenly grown horns.

“We worked for it,” said Daisy. “Or our husbands did.” She shook her head. “No, we worked for it too. Running a home, raising kids, it’s not easy.”

“It’s not,” agreed Jinx.

Libba, who’d inherited every penny she ever spent and had never been married said not a word.

“We do plenty,” added Jinx. “You’re chairing that gala for the gallery, Daisy practically lives at her kids’ schools, and Libba contributes generously to the economy.”

Libba wrinkled her nose and stuck out her tongue. “And Jinx keeps tennis pros employed.”

“Someone has to.”

“What makes you ask about guilt?” Libba’s hands moved evenly, dealing cards to each of us.

“Nothing.” My nose itched. My nose always itched when I lied.

My best friend stared at me from across the table, sensing the lie, inviting me to say more.

I sealed me lips.

Libba picked up her cards. “This is way too serious a topic. Guess who I took to see the psychic.”

“The psychic in Prairie Village?” asked Daisy. “I went to see her but I can’t go back.”

“Why not?” Not going back did not sound like a hardship.

“I was wearing that charm bracelet the kids gave me and one of the charms snagged on the table cloth. When I stood up, I accidently yanked the cloth and the crystal ball went crashing to the floor.”

Jinx lit a fresh cigarette. “The woman’s a psychic. You’d think she’d see that coming.”

“She didn’t and she was mad.” Daisy looked up from her cards. “She said I’d have another baby.” Daisy was nearly forty and already had more children than the old woman who lived in the shoe. “Can you imagine?”

“So are you?” asked Jinx.

“Am I what?” Daisy pretended not to understand.

“Pregnant?”

“Of course not.”

I couldn’t help but notice Daisy scratched her nose.

* * *

  

“What about this?” I emerged from my closet holding a perfectly lovely silk Yves Saint Laurent blouse.

Grace, who sat cross-legged in the center of my bed, rolled her eyes. “You’re going on a date not to a committee meeting.”

“What’s wrong with it?” The silk was a fabulous shade of jade green.

“Um, the bow at the neck. It’s a date, Mom.”

Maybe she had a point. Maybe she sounded too much like Libba.

“What about that cream Saint Laurent?” she asked.

“The charmeuse blouse? I haven’t had time to add a snap.” The neck-line was too low-cut.

“I know.” Definitely she sounded too much like Libba.

I returned the conservative jade blouse to the closet and grabbed the one Grace suggested. The fabric was rich, the cut was flattering, if only—

“Wear it.” Grace’s voice carried into the closet. “That and jeans and those Gucci boots.”

I’d been thinking camel slacks and loafers.

“You’ve been moping around here for months,” she continued. “Now you have a chance to make things right. Don’t blow it by dressing like a middle-aged widow.”

“I am a middle-aged widow.”

“But you don’t have to dress like one.” She sounded exactly like Libba. At sixteen, Grace could transition from child to angst-ridden teenager to too-worldly woman in minutes. In seconds. I blamed Libba for the too-worldly part. “Trust me. Wear the cream blouse.”

I emerged from the closet wearing the blouse.

“See? It’s perfect.” And just like that, she transitioned to a smug too-worldly woman.

“Hmph.” I reached into a chest of drawers and my fingers closed around a square of silk twill. Hermes’ official name for the pattern was Eperon d’Or. Grace called it bits and spurs.

She regarded the scarf in my hand with tangible distaste. “No! No, no, no. No bits and spurs tonight. You look foxy without it.”

Foxy? Was she too old for me to restrict her television and radio? And what did she and Libba talk about when I wasn’t around? Foxy?

I returned the scarf to the drawer but fiddled with the deep V of the blouse’s collar.

Ding dong.

“Would you get that?” Maybe I could pin the collar.

“Not on your life.” She sat unmoving, surrounded by pillows like some omniscient teenage sultan. “Leave that blouse alone. It’s perfect the way it is. Now go.”

My nerves jittered wildly and I gripped the railing as I descended the stairs.

Max, the evil beast, stood by the front door just waiting to make a break for it.

I closed my fingers around his collar, drew breath deep into my lungs, and opened the door.

Anarchy stood on the other side.

My mouth went dry. “Come in,” I croaked. Somehow I refrained from adjusting the neckline of my blouse. Probably because I could feel Grace’s judgmental stare boring through my back.

He stepped into my home and fixed his gaze upon me. His coffee-brown eyes didn’t warm. They glowed. “You look amazing.”

I didn’t have to glance up at the landing to know Grace was smirking. “Thank you.”

“I have reservations at Baby Doe’s.”

This did not come as a surprise. The last time Anarchy had taken me to dinner, he’d chosen a steakhouse. “I’ve never been.”

“You’ll love it.” He sounded hopeful rather than certain.

“I’m sure I will. Let me grab a coat.”

I stepped away from him—away from the scent of good leather and cold air, away from temptation in human form—and reached into the front hall closet.

I pulled out the first coat I touched—my second-best mink.

“Let me help you with that.” He took the coat from my shaking hands and held it open.

The silk of my blouse slid seamlessly through the coat’s satin-lined sleeves.

With a final don’t-you-dare-get-into-trouble glare at Max (one for Grace, too—the last time I went out with Anarchy, she hosted a party), I walked out into the cold.

Anarchy opened the car door for me and my jangly nerves then circled round to the driver’s side.

I searched for something to say. “I’m surprised you could get away for dinner during an investigation.”

He inserted the ignition key and turned on the car. “No one authorized overtime.”

“What do you mean?”

He zipped down the driveway. “When someone you know dies, there’s pressure to catch the killer quickly.”

“And there’s not for Leesa?”

“She was a prostitute. No one is calling the mayor, or—” his lips twisted into a sardonic smile “—your ‘Uncle’ James.”

Uncle James wasn’t really my uncle. He was one of Daddy’s golf cronies. He was also a police commissioner. I’d invoked his name a time or two.

“So what does that mean? You’re not trying to catch her killer?”

“No. We’ll catch the killer. But we’ll do it during regular business hours.”

I thought about that for a mile or two. “Aren’t the people you need to question more accessible at night?”

“We do the best with the system we’ve got.” The answer was pure Anarchy. He didn’t like the rules, but he’d follow them. He didn’t like the rules, but wouldn’t criticize them in front of a civilian.

“I could call Uncle James.”

His lips twitched.

“I could tell him I met the girl and that I’m simply traumatized.” I slid my gaze toward Anarchy’s eyes, toward the set of his mouth and got my answer. “I’ll call in the morning.”

“Thank you.” His voice was so soft it was almost as if I’d imagined it.

“You’re welcome.”

We drove the rest of the way in silence and pulled into a nearly full parking lot.

Anarchy led me to a doorway that looked like the entrance to a mine shaft. “Normally, there’s a mule out front. Her name is Clementine.”

The air was frigid and the sky dark. Hopefully Clementine was tucked safely into a warm stable eating oats rather than scrubby grass.

He led me inside to tunnels—one leading up, the other down. “Our reservations are for eight. Shall we get a drink before dinner?”

“Sure.”

He chose the tunnel that headed down to a crowded bar. Floor to ceiling windows offered a spectacular view of downtown. At a distance, with lights twinkling in the skyscrapers, it looked magical. A place where exciting, wonderful things happened.

The truth was ugly. Downtown was a dirty, dying group of buildings where bums shuffled along the sidewalks, women danced topless, and teenage girls died in filthy alleys.

I knew all that but I didn’t look away. The magic entranced, promising glittering, seductive moments wrapped in a golden hue. It was so much nicer to believe in magic, to forget the ugliness.

“What would you like?” asked Anarchy as he angled us spots at the bar.

I tore my gaze away from the view. “White wine.”

“Anarchy!” The bartender had spotted us.

She was pretty. Very pretty.

He grinned. “Fancy Nancy!”

She ignored a man waving a twenty at her, walked over to us, and sent a thousand-watt smile in Anarchy’s direction. “What’ll it be?”

“The usual and a white wine.” He turned his gaze my direction. “Ellison, this is Fancy Nancy, the best bartender in town. Fancy Nancy, this is my friend, Ellison.”

Fancy Nancy and I regarded each other across the bar. Very, very pretty.

“Nice to meet you,” I murmured through stiff lips.

“Same. What kind of white wine?”

Everyone drank Liebfraumilch. I drank Liebfraumilch. And suddenly, inexplicably, I needed to be different. “Chardonnay.”

“You got it.” She turned her back on me and reached for a bottle of Old Forester.

Bourbon. Anarchy drank bourbon. Fancy Nancy knew Anarchy drank bourbon. I hadn’t. That bothered me. Immensely.

“What’s good to eat here?” It was a better question than what have you been doing the past two months?

“Prime rib. And save room for dessert.”

“Dessert?” Did women eat desserts on dates? I doubted it.

He nodded. “Upside down apple walnut pie with ice cream.”

“It sounds decadent.” It sounded like five extra laps around the park.

“It is.” His lips twitched as if he was fighting a smile. “You won’t regret it for a moment.”

Were we still talking about dessert? A flush warmed my cheeks.

Fancy Nancy cleared her throat and put our drinks on the bar.

Anarchy turned his smile (the one meant for me) toward her and paid the tab.

We picked up our glasses and clinked the rims.

“Cheers,” I said.

“To us.”

To us? The heat returned to my cheeks.

A frown wrinkled his brow and he glanced down. A second later, he had a pager in his hand. “I’ve got to take this.”

“I thought you were off tonight.”

“I thought so too.” He used his cop tone but when he stood he brushed a kiss across my cheek. Then disappeared in search of the payphone.

I nursed my wine and watched Fancy Nancy mix grasshoppers and Manhattans and—I shuddered—scotch and milk.

Anarchy returned wearing his cop expression. “I’m sorry, Ellison, we’re going to have to call this short.” He looked down at his shoes—or maybe my boots—and added, “May I put you in a cab?”

“What’s happened?”

“There’s been another murder.”

There were murders all the time. That was why there was a homicide squad. Why call Anarchy? The answer dawned on me. “Another murder like Leesa’s?”

He nodded grimly.

“Another girl shot in an alley.” I glanced out the windows at that magical view of downtown. “What can I do?”

“Go home. Stay safe. Have dinner with me after we’ve caught this guy.”

How could I argue?