Eleven

I drove to the hospital on autopilot. If anyone had asked me how I traveled from the Flournoys’ to just north of the Plaza, I wouldn’t have been able to tell them. Luckily, the car knew the way.

I’d thought Hunter understood. I was with Anarchy. That he still held out hope was troublesome. The last thing I wanted to do was cause him pain.

I walked the hospital’s corridors in a fog, paused outside Winnie’s door, and gathered my thoughts. Winnie had lost her husband. She needed a friend focused on her and not the specter of an almost relationship. I drew breath deep into my lungs and stepped into her room.

A young woman clad in a wrinkled dress sat at Winnie’s bedside, her head was bent as if in prayer. She looked up and I recognized her—she had her mother’s bone structure. Lois Flournoy rose from the Naugahyde recliner slowly—as if the effort required was almost too much for her—and nodded toward the hallway.

Winnie didn’t move. Her eyes remained closed and her lips slightly parted.

Lois and I stepped out of Winnie’s room, and she sized me up with red-rimmed eyes.

“I am sorry for your loss.” I held out my hand. “You probably don’t remember me. I’m Ellison Russell.”

Lois’ ice-cold fingers surrounded my hand. “Of course I remember you, Mrs. Russell. You’re the painter.”

“Please, call me Ellison.” I glanced back at Winnie’s room. “How’s your mother?”

Her shoulders slumped. “They had to give her a sedative.”

Poor Winnie. “When did you get in?”

“Early this morning. I drove to Washington and caught the first flight out.” Lois was enrolled in law school at the University of Virginia. “I haven’t even been to the house yet.” She raked her fingers through hair that had definitely seen better days. “My brother can’t get here until tomorrow. He’s flying in from London.”

“Did you get any sleep?” I knew the answer. Dark half-moons hung beneath Lois’s eyes and her skin looked wan.

“No.”

“I’m happy to sit with your mother if you’d like to go home and rest.”

“Thank you, but I couldn’t leave her.”

“At least go and get yourself something to eat.”

“You mean in the coffee shop where Mom was poisoned?”

“Or the cafeteria.” I kept my tone mild.

“I’m sorry. That wasn’t fair of me.” She rubbed her palms over her cheeks. “Maybe I should get something to eat. I might be nicer. You’re sure you don’t mind sitting with Mom?”

“Not at all. Take your time.”

“Thank you.” Lois shuffled down the hall.

I stepped into Winnie’s room. An array of spring flowers filled the window ledge—two bunches of daffodils, a potted hyacinth that smelled like heaven, and a mixed bouquet that probably came from the hospital gift shop downstairs. Three books waited for someone to crack their spines. The morning paper was folded to the crossword. Winnie snored softly.

I picked up the book on the top of the stack—Helter Skelter—I had quite enough death in my life without reading that. Winnie did, too. Who on earth had brought her a story about the Manson killings? I stuck the book on the bottom of the stack and picked up The Moneychangers. The inside cover promised a riveting tale of ambition and greed. I wasn’t in the mood. I let the book fall to my lap.

“Ellison.” Winnie’s voice was barely a croak. She regarded me with tired eyes.

I reached out for her hand. “How are you?”

“Where’s Lois?”

“I sent her to get something to eat.”

Worry lines creased Winnie’s forehead. “How’s Beezie?”

“Beezie’s fine. I stopped by your house this morning. Plenty of food. Plenty of water.” That I hadn’t actually seen the cat wasn’t worth mentioning.

“Thank you.” Winnie’s eyes fluttered closed.

I tightened my grip on her hand. “I’m very sorry about Lark.”

Winnie opened her eyes and stared at something over my right shoulder. “I worry. Beezie’s not used to being alone. I begged Lois to check on him, but she won’t leave me.”

“Beezie’s fine,” I promised. Did Winnie not understand her husband was dead? “How are you?”

“Tired. I don’t know why I’m so sleepy.” The fingers of her free hand plucked at the blanket covering the bed.

“What can I do to help you?”

She opened her eyes. “Take care of Beezie. The kids don’t like him. LJ says he’s possessed.”

LJ—Lark, Jr—was right. “Lois told me he’ll arrive tomorrow.”

Winnie’s chin moved slightly—barely a nod. “London. So far away.” LJ worked for some bank in England. “Lark was proud of him.” Her eyes drifted shut. “The children will have to plan the funeral. I’m too tired.”

“Winnie—”

“What?” She sounded far away. The sedative might reclaim her at any second.

“The other day, when you were poisoned, did anyone come up to the table after I left you?”

Her eyes opened, and there was a sharpness in their depths that had been missing when I talked about Lark. “They must have, but I don’t remember.”

“Did anyone get near your soup?”

“My soup?” Now she seemed confused.

“Yes.”

“I didn’t touch my soup.”

“You didn’t?”

Her face crinkled with distaste. “I should have asked the waitress whether it was broth or cream-based. I don’t like cream-based soups.” She shook her head. “The waitress should have mentioned the cream before she brought it.”

If Winnie hadn’t touched her soup, how had she been poisoned? We’d both drank the coffee.

“I wasn’t hungry anyway.” She was drifting again.

“Did you put anything in your coffee?”

“My usual. Cream and Sweet’N Low.”

I thought back to our table in the coffee shop. I remembered a paper napkins dispenser, salt and pepper shakers, a spouted glass jar with a metal lid for sugar, and a ramekin filled with melting ice and individual creamers. “There wasn’t any Sweet’N Low on the table.”

“There wasn’t? Then I must have taken some from my purse. I always carry a few packets just in case.” Winnie’s eyes shut, and she sighed as if the effort of talking had wrung her out.

“Winnie?” I spoke softly.

She didn’t respond.

“Winnie?”

She was asleep, and I couldn’t exactly wake her up—no matter how badly I wanted to—the woman had lost her husband. Sleeping was probably her only escape from grief.

Except Winnie hadn’t seemed remotely sad. I sat back in the chair and thought. Had someone poisoned Winnie’s sweetener? Had anyone checked the other packets of Sweet’N Low in her purse? I glanced at the woman in the bed—the one more concerned with her cat than her dead husband, the dead husband who just happened to be having an affair with the woman murdered in the foyer. There was another possibility. Had Winnie made herself sick? And if so, why?

I knew exactly where to find Winnie’s purse. I could have other packets of Sweet’N Low tested.

Thunk.

The sound came from outside Winnie’s door.

“Lois?”

No one answered.

I rose from the recliner and crossed to the doorway.

Someone had dropped a near empty cup of coffee. I glanced down the hallway and spotted a man walking away.

He’d created a falling hazard and hadn’t even tried to clean it up.

“Excuse me,” I called.

He kept walking.

“Excuse me!”

He had to have heard me—the nurses manning the station turned their heads and looked at me—but he didn’t stop.

Had he been lurking outside Winnie’s door? Who was he?

I stepped all the way into the hallway but stopped. I’d promised to stay with Winnie.

“Is there a problem, Mrs. Russell?” One of the nurses from the station stood in front of me.

“Someone dropped their coffee.”

“The man who was waiting to see you?”

“Waiting to see me?”

“He didn’t want to disturb your visit with Mrs. Flournoy, so he waited in the hall.”

“What did he look like?”

“Tall with brown hair and brown eyes.”

That description applied to about half the men I knew. “Old or young?”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t pay close enough attention to be able to tell you.”

“Well, whoever he was, he’s gone now.”

She nodded and glanced down at the puddle of coffee. “We called the janitor. He’s on his way.”

When Lois returned, she hugged me. “Thank you, I feel much better.”

“I’m glad. She woke up for a few minutes.”

Lois frowned. “What did she say?”

“She’s worried about Beezie.”

“That cat.” She shook her head. “I think she cares more about that cat than she did about Dad.”

Given my conversation with Winnie, Lois had a point.

“The cat is named after the devil. Beelzebub. If you ask me, the name fits.”

I wasn’t about to argue that. “Will you call me if I can do anything to help?”

“I will. I promise. Thank you.”

I drove to the club with my mind on pink packets and one eye focused on the rearview mirror. Who was the man outside Winnie’s door? Was he following me?

If he was, I didn’t see him.

No surprise, Libba wasn’t there yet. In the history of our friendship, she’d never been early. I sat at a table by the window and looked out at the sodden golf course. I couldn’t remember such a rainy April.

“What’s the latest?” Libba, who wore a new Thea Porter dress, slid into the chair across from mine.

“I called you here for a working lunch. We are not going to gossip.”

Libba frowned. “A working lunch?”

“Yes. For the gala.”

Libba was the gala’s food and beverage chairman. A job which she’d completed in a matter of minutes. “There’s no work left.”

“Unfortunately, you’re wrong. Mother insists we make a million dollars. I’m doing my best to raise more money, but I can only raise so much. We need to cut expenses.”

“You’re not serious?” She caught a waiter’s eye and beckoned him over. “I need a martini. Right away.”

He nodded. “Anything for you. Mrs. Russell?”

“Iced tea, please.”

As soon as his back was turned, Libba leaned in. “Have you lost your mind?” A million dollars?”

“That’s what the other cities are raising.”

“Those cities are on the coasts.”

“I pointed that out to Mother. She doesn’t care.”

“We can’t cut corners.”

“I know. I’m not suggesting you replace wine with cheap beer, but I am asking you to look at the cost of the menu and liquor and find a few less expensive options.”

Libba’s mulish expression didn’t bode well for my plan.

“I’m talking to the ambiance committee as well.” The chairman of that committee was going to have to overcome her aversion to carnations. Carnations were cheap. Carnations were colorful. And carnations made great filler for more expensive flowers. I reckoned we could save thousands.

“You could tell Frances no.”

“No one has ever done that and lived to tell. If I tried that, and she didn’t kill me outright, what life I had left wouldn’t be worth living.”

“I like the menu the way it is.”

“What about serving pork dumplings instead of shrimp.” It was a reasonable suggestion.

“The cost is in the labor not the fillings.” How did Libba know that?

“Did you just make that up?”

She flushed. As good as an admission.

I reached across the table and grabbed her hand. “I need your help with this. Please.”

“You’re lucky I like you.” She leaned back in her chair and sighed—a sigh that reached all the way to the tips of her Ferragamos. “And you’re lucky Jimmy has left me in a very good mood.”

“Jimmy? Again?”

She raised her brows. “You sound surprised.”

“He’s so…young.”

“Young is good.” She licked her lips. “Lots of stamina and enthusiasm. And—” her eyes narrowed “—it’s not as if I’m old. How are things with Anarchy?”

“Fine.”

“Fine?” She gave me an appraising look, laced her fingers together, and rested her chin on her hands. “I’d have thought he’d be better than fine.”

Heat warmed my cheeks. She meant sex. Libba always meant sex. “We haven’t.”

“You’re kidding!” Surprise had her sitting ramrod straight. “What are you waiting for?” She sounded absolutely scandalized.

I shifted in my chair. Where was the waiter with that iced tea? “There’s no hurry.”

She stared at me as if she couldn’t believe the words coming out of my mouth. “You really haven’t? Why not?”

“How is this any of your business?”

She ignored my question, and, with her left pointer finger, she ticked off fingers on her right hand. “April, March, February, January, December—”

“What are you doing?”

“Counting the months since Henry died.”

“Why?” And why had I asked? I wasn’t going to like the answer—I could tell from the gleam in her eyes.

“Because I’m going to add that number to the eighteen months you didn’t let Henry near you.” She screwed up her face. “It’s more than two years.” She gripped the edge of the table. “You haven’t had sex in more than two years!”

The red-faced waiter put Libba’s martini on the table. With his gaze locked on the carpet, he served my iced tea, and scurried away.

Libba was unconcerned with his embarrassment—or mine. She shook her head. “Two years. It’s like you’re a virgin all over again.”

“Would you please lower your voice?”

Marilyn Barker and Myrtle Bridewell, who were seated at the table next to ours, were staring at us with matching expressions of horror on their faces.

Libba glanced at Myrtle’s pinched face and leaned forward. “You’ve known him for ten months, what are you waiting for?”

“We’re supposed to be talking about the menu for the gala not my sex life.”

“You don’t have a sex life.”

Marilyn Barker choked on a bite of chicken salad.

Libba rubbed her chin. “Let’s make a deal, if you tell me why you haven’t been to bed with Anarchy, I’ll reduce the cost per person at the gala by fifteen percent.”

“Are you kidding?

“I am not. Seriously, Ellison. The man’s gorgeous and he’s crazy about you. What’s stopping you?”

She’d hector me till I answered. “A twenty-five percent reduction in cost.”

“Twenty.” She held out her hand.

I shook it then leaned close and whispered my deepest fear. “Suppose he thinks I’m boring?”

She leaned back and stared at me. “Are you?”

“Henry thought so.”

“Oh, please.” She rolled her eyes. “Henry was into kink. The man liked whips and handcuffs, of course he grew bored with you. You’re one hundred percent vanilla.”

Libba wasn’t making me feel any better and Myrtle Bridewell looked as if she might faint. Or have a stroke. Maybe both. And I finally understood the expression pursed lips—the fine lines surrounding Myrtle’s lips were as puckered as the mouth of a tightly closed drawstring bag.

Libba reclaimed my attention. “You can’t take Henry’s tastes personally.”

“I was his wife. It felt pretty personal to me.” I stared down at the white linen covering the table and said nothing more. I’d already said far more than I should.

Libba dismissed my concerns with a wave of her hand. “Henry would have grown bored with me—and I can promise you, I’m not boring.”

That I believed.

“Don’t let your past with Henry determine your future.”

“That’s unexpectedly wise.”

“I have my moments.” She took a sip of her martini. “The writing is on the wall. Everyone can see it except for Frances.”

“See what?”

“You and Anarchy were meant to be.” She took another larger sip. “Although, I have to admit. It worries me sometimes.”

“What worries you?”

“Have you ever wondered how a man as handsome as Anarchy is still single at forty? There has to be a story there.”

I stared at her. “Really? That’s what keeps you up at night?”

“I wouldn’t say I lose sleep, but it’s a valid question.”

“I find bodies like most people find change in parking lots—” I glanced at Marilyn and Myrtle (they were both eavesdropping and wore matching appalled expressions) and lowered my voice “—and you’re worried about Anarchy’s past? I don’t know. And I don’t care.”

“Wow.”

I waited for her to say more.

She didn’t.

“What do you mean wow?”

“You’re in love with Anarchy Jones.”

I’d never fallen from a tall building or jumped out of an airplane, so I didn’t know for sure, but I bet the flash of blinding panic followed by acceptance was similar to what I felt. I reached for my tea with a shaking hand and lifted my chin. “What if I am?”

“You’re not the casual-relationship type. You will never have a Jimmy.”

“What are you talking about Libba?” Couldn’t we go back to arguing about dumplings?

“I’m talking about Jimmy. Jimmy and I aren’t going anywhere. We don’t have a future. We’re in it for the here and now. You don’t want Anarchy till next week or next month, you want him for the next fifty years.”

She was right. Where was that waiter? I needed a martini. I reached across the table and took Libba’s.

“What will Frances say?”

I looked at the glass in my hand. “If I had this conversation with Frances, she’d need three martinis.”

“She’d need three pitchers.” Libba wrapped her hand around my wrist. “That worry of mine—”

“Yes?”

“Anarchy’s past may not worry you, but it will concern your parents and Grace. Maybe you should ask him about it.”

“Ask him what?”

“Why he’s single, why he’s in Kansas City, and how long he intends to stay.”