Seven

Grace went to school.

Aggie went to the library to do more research for Mother.

Max circled three times and plunked onto his favorite sunny spot in the family room.

I, with a cup of coffee near at hand, sat at my desk and stared at the phone.

There were women of my acquaintance who could spend their whole morning on the phone. I was not one of them. On the phone, I couldn’t read faces or body language, couldn’t judge reactions, couldn’t determine if I was hearing truth or lies.

Nonetheless, I pulled the telephone closer to me, took a bracing sip of coffee, and called Joyce Petteway.

She answered after three rings. “Hello.”

“Joyce, it’s Ellison Russell calling.”

“Ellison—” my name came out in a rush of air “—I am the worst committee member in the history of committee members. I apologize.”

“Don’t apologize. We have plenty of time.” We didn’t. “Besides, I hear you’ve been facing some challenges.”

“Did you call to ask me to resign?”

“Of course not!” No matter how far behind she was, I wouldn’t kick a woman when she was down.

“I wouldn’t blame you.” As if I could find a replacement at this late date.

“Don’t be silly. I heard you and Bruce were having some problems and I just wanted you to know I was thinking of you.”

This was answered with silence.

Oh dear. I took a sip of coffee and waited.

“Thank you,” Joyce’s voice was small. “So it’s out. Everyone knows?”

“I don’t know about everyone.”

“It’s just so…”

Humiliating. The word she wanted was humiliating.

“Humiliating.” She found the word, naming the stomach-churning sensation.

“I know. Believe me, I know. I’m here for you if you need me.”

“That’s right. I forgot Henry cheated.”

“He did.” Henry cheated was an understatement of epic proportions. Sort of. When Henry and I decided our marriage was over, we also decided to stay together until Grace finished high school. To me, that meant polite cohabitation. To Henry, that meant he was free to sleep with every woman who struck his not-terribly-discriminating fancy. Because our marriage was over, he didn’t see his exploits as cheating.

He didn’t face the pitying looks in the mirror of the ladies’ lounge or the sudden silences when I walked into a room.

“I never thought Bruce would cheat. He promised to love and cherish me and I thought he meant it.”

I made a soft, comforting sound in my throat.

“At first I couldn’t believe it.”

“And now you’re angry.”

“How did you know?”

“Been there. Done that.”

“Ellison—” she lowered her voice to a whisper “—I want to punch him in the face.”

“He deserves it.”

“And after I punch him, I want to kick him so hard he’s a soprano till Christmas.”

“I understand completely.”

“Last night I dreamed I took an axe and whacked it off.”

No need to ask what it was. “I wouldn’t do that.”

Joyce laughed—a short, brittle sound. “Of course not. But it was fun to think about.”

I took another sip of coffee.

Max lifted his head and stared at me.

“I could kill him. I really could.”

A sense of foreboding chilled me and I took another quick sip of coffee. “Don’t say that out loud, Joyce.”

“It would be easier to tell the children their father was dead than explain he has the morals of a tomcat.”

“For you. Not for them. No matter what he’s done, he’s their father and they love him.” I spoke from experience. “Besides, your youngest is in college. They’ll be able to handle this.”

“What am I going to tell them?”

I didn’t know. That was a conversation I never had. “Tell them you love them and that everything will be okay.”

“Will it?”

“Eventually.”

“I can’t do this.”

She didn’t have much choice. “Of course, you can,” I told her.

“He took his clothes. He moved out. He’s staying in a suite at the Alameda until he finds an apartment.”

“What does he say?”

“He says he never meant to hurt me.” The bitterness in her voice told me how badly Bruce had wounded her. “If he didn’t want to hurt me, he shouldn’t have—” her voice broke.

“Have you hired a lawyer?”

“Sally Broome.”

Sally was the only female divorce attorney in town and she was tough as nails. She had to be. “Good choice.”

“She seems to think, given the circumstances, I can get a huge settlement. I told her I wanted to take him for every penny.”

“Good for you.” Dreams of leaving Bruce broke were healthier than dreams of whacking his thing off.

“You were so nice to call. To listen. Not everyone understands what I’m going through.”

We both paused and considered lucky women whose husbands didn’t roam, less lucky women who remained blissfully ignorant of their husband’s roaming, and women like us—women who’d caught their husbands cheating.

“It’s my pleasure.” Not really. But what else was I going to say? Calm down? If someone had suggested I let go of my early anger and calm down, I would have told them to go straight where the sun didn’t shine.

“About the gala…”

“Yes?” That chilling sense of foreboding was back.

“I think I’d better resign.”

Dammit. “Are you sure? Don’t you want something to keep you occupied?”

“I’m sure. And I’m sorry. I just can’t think right now. You’ll find someone who can do a much better job.”

The gala was six weeks away. It wasn’t as if there were spare committee members just sitting around, twiddling their thumbs, waiting for the phone to ring.

“Listen, Ellison, thanks for understanding and thanks for the call, but I’ve got to go. I need to get ready for an appointment with Sally.”

“Call me if you need me.” My voice was faint.

“I will. Thank you.” Joyce hung up the phone.

I stared at the receiver in my hand. The call had not ended as I hoped. Where was I going to find a committee chairman?

I dropped the receiver in the cradle and drained my coffee cup.

Brnng, brnng.

Maybe Joyce had reconsidered. I grabbed the receiver. “Hello.”

“Ellison, it’s Mother.”

I leaned back against my chair and stared at my empty coffee cup. “How are you?”

“Fine, thank you. Any news on the ashes?”

“Aggie’s at the library researching as we speak.”

I took Mother’s answering silence for approval.

I wrapped the phone cord around my finger. “I’m sure she’ll figure it out.”

“I suppose. I spoke with Kay Starnes this morning.”

“Oh?”

“She says her daughter saw you at Baby Doe’s last night.”

“I was there.” Be honest but volunteer nothing. It was the best policy.

“She said you looked as if you were on a date.”

“I was.”

“With whom?”

“Anarchy Jones.”

There was no mistaking the ensuing silence for approval. Mother’s displeasure washed over me in waves. Finally, she said, “Did you find another body?”

What? “No. Why?”

“I’m just wondering what circumstance returned that man to your life.”

That man. We were on a path that could only lead to acrimony. “Let’s find something else to talk about.”

“Margaret Hamilton called me.”

Oh dear Lord.

“She says your dog destroyed her house.”

“Not exactly.”

“She said he was vicious. She said he was mean.”

Mother and Margaret, they had one thing in common, they disliked Max.

“He broke a few dishes.”

Again with the silence.

“Everyday dishes,” I added. “He didn’t touch her good china.”

“Given how often there’s trouble at your house, you ought to make a better effort to get along with your neighbors.”

“First off, I offered to pay for all the damages. Secondly, Margaret Hamilton is a witch.”

“There’s no need for name calling.”

“I’m not. She’s a witch. She flies a broomstick when there’s a full moon.”

“Ellison!”

Perhaps I was embellishing. A bit. Time for a new topic. Again. “I have a problem, Mother.” Mother loved solving problems.

“Oh?”

“Joyce Petteway just resigned from the gala committee.”

“I heard about what happened to her. She walked into her bedroom and found her husband in bed with—”

“I just got off the phone with her. She’s terribly upset.”

“Well, of course she is. Any woman would be.” Mother paused long enough to remind me she was a lucky woman and that my father would never cheat. “Wasn’t she chairing the food and beverage committee?”

“She was.”

“Ask Libba to step in.”

“Libba?”

“She’ll come up with a signature drink in no time. Perhaps a Singapore Sling?”

It was my turn to answer with silence.

“Well. Given the amount that Libba drinks, I’m sure she can create something marvelous without even trying. As for the menu, either one of you could plan that in your sleep.”

Mother was right. Libba would have the bar and the menu sorted in an hour.

And I’d be in her debt.

“Can you think of anyone else?”

“Not off the top of my head. Why don’t you want to ask Libba?”

“She’ll ask me to go on a double date.” I regretted the words as soon as they left my lips.

“Oh? With whom?”

“A friend of Bill Ledbetter’s.”

“Bill Ledbetter?”

“You’ve met him, Mother.” Mother had trouble keeping track of people who weren’t from Kansas City. “He’s from South Carolina. He came to Kansas City and took that job at Bodwin Myer Commercial.”

“Now I remember. We met him at the club dance. Libba’s dating him?”

“You sound surprised.”

“He seems like such a nice man.”

“Perhaps that’s why Libba is dating him.” My voice was sharper than it should have been.

“Don’t get on your high horse with me, Ellison Russell. We both know Libba has terrible taste in men.”

“Perhaps she’s changed.”

“Oh, please. Leopards don’t change their spots.”

“You just suggested that I ask her to chair a committee for the gala.”

“Which has absolutely nothing to do with her execrable taste in men.”

“If I ask her, I’ll have to go on this double date.”

Mother muttered…something.

“Pardon me?”

“I said, I don’t suppose he can be any worse than that police detective.” This time Mother enunciated clearly.

The nerves along my spine jumped to attention and I straightened in my chair. “Did you call me with the express purpose of picking a fight?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I called to find out about progress on identifying the ashes.”

Mother was lying. She called because she’d heard I’d gone out with Anarchy.

“Mother, I have a million calls to make this morning. I’m going to let you go. I’ll phone if Aggie comes up with any good possibilities.”

“Ellison—”

“I have to go. Good-bye.” Gently, I placed the receiver into the cradle.

I pushed away from the desk. Grabbing my coffee mug, I headed into the kitchen where Mr. Coffee, strong, silent, and dependable, waited with a nearly full pot of coffee. All for me.

“I swear,” I told him. “Mother finds my buttons and pushes them just for the fun of it.”

Wisely, he remained mum on the subject.

I refilled my cup. “Who should I call first, Libba or Uncle James?”

Mr. Coffee had no opinion.

“I think Libba.”

Rather than return to my desk, I picked up the extension in the kitchen. Grace had long since stretched the phone’s cord to capacity and, if needed, I could pace as I talked.

Libba answered on the fifth ring. “Hello.” She sounded groggy.

“Did I wake you? It’s nearly ten o’clock.”

“Not all of us get up at the crack of dawn to get our progeny off to school.”

“Ten o’clock, Libba.”

She groaned.

“I’ve been thinking.”

“Oh? About what?”

“Friday night.”

“Hold on a moment.” Her voice brightened. “Let me make some coffee.”

I listened to the sounds of Libba scooping coffee and filling her Mr. Coffee’s reservoir and winked at my own Mr. Coffee, already full of coffee-goodness.

She came back on the line. “What have you been thinking about Friday night?”

“That I’ll go on that double date with you.”

“There’s an if there. I can sense it.” She sounded cautious.

“I’ll go if you step in for Joyce Petteway and chair the food and beverage committee for the museum gala.”

“Me? Chairing a committee? Really?” She made it sound like a terrific amount of work.

“What else do you want?”

“Go to the club party with me on Saturday night.”

I considered. “Okay, but we meet there.” Libba had a tendency to stay (and stay) when all I wanted was to go home.

“We have a deal. You’re going to love Bill’s friend.”

“Have you met him?” It would be nice to know what I was getting myself into.

“Not yet. But the whole night will be fabulous. I’m sure of it.”

There was an example of wishful thinking. In all our many years of friendship, Libba and I had never been on a decent double date much less a fabulous one.

“I can’t wait to call Bill and let him know.”

“About the gala.”

“Yes?”

“We need a menu by next Tuesday.”

“No problem. I’m at loose ends this afternoon. I’ll call the caterer and get it worked out.”

“And a signature drink.”

“How about a lychee martini?”

Mother had been right. Libba had all my problems solved in a New York minute.

“Sounds perfect.”

“We’ll pick you up at six on Friday.”

How could I object? “Fine.”

“And, Ellison…”

“Yes?”

“Don’t dress like a middle-aged widow.”

She and Grace had compared notes. There was no other explanation.

“Fine.”

“Now that I think about it, count on me at five. I’ll have Bill pick both of us up at your house.”

I thought about that lychee martini and kept my mouth shut. Barely.

“Toodles.” Libba hung up the phone.

I hung up too. “That went about as well as I expected.”

Mr. Coffee looked sympathetic.

“I didn’t count on the club party.”

Mr. Coffee never got his arm twisted into attending club parties but I swear he offered me an empathetic sigh. Maybe not empathetic. Maybe not a real sigh. But if he could have, he would have. Mr. Coffee is the empathetic type.

“One call left,” I told him. I returned to my desk and the phone book. There I looked up the number for my Uncle James’s law firm and dialed.

“Law office.”

“Good morning,” I said. “May I please speak with James Graham.”

“Who’s calling, please?”

“Ellison Russell.”

“One moment please, Mrs. Russell.”

It was exactly one moment before Uncle James picked up the phone. “Ellison, how nice to hear from you.” Uncle James’ voice rumbled like a freight train.

“How are you?”

“Fine, fine. And, you?”

“Fine.” We’d established we were fine.

“How are your parents?”

“Fine. Aunt Sarah?”

“Just fine.”

We’d run out of fines.

“What can I do for you, Ellison?”

“I hit a teenage girl a few days ago.”

“With your car?”

“Yes.” I told him the whole story—from Leslie’s refusal to get in my car to my giving her my coat to the police showing up at my door. Then I told him that Leslie was Leesa and what she did for a living. Finally, I said, “The police haven’t authorized any overtime to solve her murder.”

“You know, Ellison, I try not to interfere in police business.”

Damn. “Of course you don’t. I just wanted to make you aware of this.”

“I can call and ask for an update on the case. That usually lights a few fires.”

“Would you? Oh, Uncle James, thank you!”

“Tell your father to spot me two strokes the next time we play.”

“Of course.”

“Consider it done. I’ll make the call right now.”

“Thank you.”

“Remember. Two strokes.”

We hung up and I sat back in my desk chair and stared at the family room. I sipped my coffee. I considered my morning on the phone. Joyce Petteway and her grief. Mother and her determination to run my life. Libba and her planned double date. And finally, Uncle James and his willingness to do me a favor. Moments passed. My cup emptied.

I heard Aggie in the kitchen. Apparently she’d had enough of the library. She was talking to Max. Slowly I pushed out of my chair.

Brnng, brnng.

There was a real possibility it was Mother calling for round two.

I made my way to the kitchen where Aggie had the receiver pressed against her ear. “One moment, Mr. Graham, I’ll see if she’s available.”

I nodded.

Aggie held out the phone.

I took the receiver from her. “Uncle James?”

“Ellison, I talked to the police chief and I want you to stay away from this case.”

“I’m not involved in the case.”

“You’re involved enough to call me.”

I couldn’t argue that.

Uncle James continued, “The chief says that there have been three prostitutes murdered.”

Three? Three murders. The police couldn’t ignore three murders. I’d wasted a favor from Uncle James.

“All those women were shot and left in alleys.” He sounded deadly serious. “I want you as far away from this case as you can get.”

“Of course.”

“Do I have your promise?” he insisted. “If I don’t get it, I’ll call your mother.”

What was I, five? “I promise, Uncle James.”

We hung up and I sat down on a kitchen stool. Three girls dead? Shot? Left in alleys? And I’d promised not to interfere.