Twelve

The smell of something mouth-wateringly delicious hung in the air and I followed my nose to the kitchen.

Max watched Aggie with rapt attention.

She ignored him and settled a casserole on a hot-pan holder she’d put on the counter.

“What is that?” I asked. “It smells divine.”

“Chicken and broccoli casserole. I’m making two. I thought you could take this one to your new neighbor. Her husband might be hungry.”

Woof! Max was hungry.

“You’re always hungry,” I replied. “What a lovely idea, thank you. I’ll take the casserole as a thank you for helping Grace with her math.

Aggie slipped off her oven mitts. “It should cool for a while. I can write out the heating instructions for both of you.”

“Is tonight the night you’re going to the theater with Mac?”

She nodded, and the secret smile she reserved for thoughts of the new man in her life lightened her features. “I’m trying to decide what to wear. I have a new teal green kaftan.”

“I bet that looks nice with your hair.” Aggie possessed a head full of sproingy red curls.

“Or I could wear one of the outfits you picked out for me.” In February, Aggie needed to pass for a lady-who-lunched. I’d taken her to Swanson’s, my favorite store, and bought her all the right clothes.

“My advice is to wear what’s most comfortable.”

“Then I’ll wear the kaftan.” No surprise there. Aggie loved her kaftans, and she wore them well. The one she had on now—navy with a fringe of lime green pom-poms—was also new. The trip to Swanson’s hadn’t changed her signature style one bit.

“How long till that cools?” I nodded toward the casserole.

“An hour.”

“I might take advantage of the break in the rain and take Max running.

Max, hearing his name and “run” in the same sentence, shifted his gaze away from the chicken-filled Pyrex.

“Do you want to go for a run?”

He grinned his answer and wagged his stubby tail.

Ten minutes later, we jogged down the sidewalk.

“Loose Park?” I asked.

His pace increased.

“Okay but behave around the pond.”

He made no promises.

It didn’t take long for the even rhythm of our footsteps on the pavement to clear my mind. There were three people dead. Had the same person killed all three? A hanging, a hit-and-run, and a garroting. Didn’t killers choose one method and stick with it? It was beyond the realm of credulity to imagine three different killers; I was left with one killer and three methods.

Why those people?

There were obvious connections between John Wilson and Lark—their past and the Bilardo case. And Lark and Marigold had been having an affair. But was there a connection between John and Marigold?

We approached the pond, and I tightened my grip on Max’s leash.

Max ignored the ducks on the water. He ignored the squirrel primed to jump into the redbud tree. He even ignored the rabbit frozen next to a forsythia bush. We jogged past the pond without incident.

I breathed easier. The park, on a wet weekday afternoon, was almost deserted. Just me, Max, and a man running about a hundred feet behind us.

Ugh. Men who wore hooded sweatshirts made me nervous. Who or what were they hiding from?

Max and I picked up the pace, rounded the northern edge of the park, and turned west.

I glanced behind us. The man had sped up, too.

Worry gave me wings. We ran faster.

One would think a near-hundred-pound dog would be a deterrent. Not the man behind us. He kept pace with us.

The first raindrop hit me square on the nose.

Despite his fascination with the pond, Max had an aversion to getting wet. He ran still faster.

I let him.

We flew.

The last I saw of the man, he was bent over with his arms clutched across his belly. He gasped for air. He hadn’t been following me. He’d been setting his pace. Now he was spent.

By the time Max and I burst through the back door, we were both soaked. We shivered with cold.

Aggie waited for us with a stack of towels and a stern look for Max. “Don’t you even think about shaking water all over my kitchen.”

Max, who’d probably intended to do just that, donned a put-upon expression and allowed me to towel him dry.

When I was done, Aggie collected the wet towels and deposited them in the washing machine. “I’ll wait to run it until you’re done with your shower.” A nice way of telling me I looked like a drowned rat.

Drowned rat or no, the thought of being doused with hot water was heaven. “I’ll be quick. If I don’t see you before you leave, have a wonderful time.”

She gave me another glimpse of the secret smile.

Thirty minutes later, I was washed, dried, dressed, and ready to take the casserole to Jennifer’s. The rain had even stopped.

I grabbed the Pyrex and the instructions and headed across the lawn to Jennifer and Marshall’s.

Jennifer opened the door wearing a pair of faded jeans and one of Marshall’s shirts. “Ellison, what a surprise.” She smiled at me as if pleasant surprises were rare. “Come in.”

“I can’t stay.” I stepped into the foyer. “But Aggie made this for you as a thank you for helping Grace.”

“A thank you?”

“Grace did well on her math test.”

Jennifer accepted the casserole. “She’s a bright girl.”

“Math trips her up.”

“Sometimes it’s not the material, it’s how the material is presented.”

“Whatever it is, we’re grateful.”

“Are you sure you can’t stay for a few minutes? With Marshall working so much, I feel as if I spend most of my time alone.”

“I don’t want to bother you.”

“Bother me?” She shook her head. “Are you kidding? I’d be grateful for your company.”

“In that case, I’d love to stay for a few minutes.”

“I’ll put this in the fridge.” She balanced the casserole on one arm and waved me toward the living room. “I’ll be right back.”

Jennifer’s Bohemian living room with its squashy couches covered in deep purple velvet, Flokati rugs, silk pillows in shades of sienna and crimson, and turquoise-hued Chinese garden stools was a near overwhelming mixture of color and texture. I liked it. I wandered over to the sofa table and looked at the display of framed photographs. Jennifer and Marshall on their wedding day—she was barefoot with daisies braided in her hair. Jennifer and a woman, who looked just like her only twenty-five years older, with the Golden Gate Bridge in the background. And, in a mother-of-pearl frame, a very young Marshall and a cluster of people who had to be his family—a sister, a brother, and parents. I picked up the frame and looked at them closely. They were on the Plaza.

Jennifer entered holding a wine bottle and two glasses.

I held up the photograph. “I was looking at your pictures. Where was this one of Marshall taken?”

“The Plaza.”

“I thought he was from California.”

“His family lives there now, but when he was younger, his family lived here. Marshall always liked Kansas City. It’s one of the reasons he agreed to a job here.”

“What is it Marshall does?”

“He works for a pharmaceutical company.”

“Is he a chemist?”

“A salesman. He visits with doctors and gets them to write prescriptions for his company’s drugs.”

A prosaic job for a man who burned love letters at three in the morning. “Really?”

Apparently, she heard the surprise in my voice because she nodded. “When we first met, I told him he didn’t strike me as the salesman type. He’s too quiet.”

“How did you meet?”

“His sister introduced us.” A shadow passed over her face.

“It must be hard to live so far from family.” Or it might be heaven. Mother couldn’t drop in whenever she felt like it, gossip from the club—after today’s lunch there would be gossip—would never reach her ears, and there would be no command-performance Sunday dinners.

Jennifer poured the wine. “Marshall’s sister passed away recently. I think he wanted a fresh start.”

“She was so young.”

Jennifer handed me a glass. “She struggled.”

Struggled? What did that mean? “Oh?”

“Drugs.” Jennifer sipped. “We all have our demons.”

Did that mean Marshall’s sister overdosed? On purpose? “How terrible for her family.”

“Marshall may never recover from the loss.” She glanced around the colorful living room. “This conversation has taken a turn for the dark.” She sipped again. “How’s Grace’s friend?”

“This is awful, but I don’t know. I have a friend who lost her husband. She’s in the hospital and between visiting her, taking care of her cat, and a gala I’m planning, I haven’t called Debbie’s mother.”

“I’m sure you’ll talk to her soon. When you do, please let her know if Debbie needs anyone to talk to, I’m available.”

“I’ll tell her.” I scanned the room, looking for another topic. “Is that a Stella?” I pointed to a painting filled with bright colors and geometric lines.

“It is.”

“And is that a Warhol?” I nodded toward a pen and ink drawing of a cat with a Napoleonic hat.

“Yes.”

My gaze traveled the walls and stopped on a lithograph of a bride and groom trailed by exuberant flowers. “A Chagall?”

“A wedding gift from my parents.”

The art on Jennifer’s walls was worth as much as her house.

“You’re a collector?” Marshall and Jennifer weren’t yet thirty.

“I love art.”

It was official, Jennifer was the perfect next-door neighbor.

  

I returned home and found the house strangely quiet. Aggie had left for her date. Grace was babysitting. And, after our sprint through the pouring rain, Max slept.

Per Aggie’s instructions, I preheated the oven to three-fifty.

While the oven warmed, I picked up the phone and called Marsha Clayton.

The phone rang three times. “Hello.”

“Marsha, it’s Ellison calling. How are you?”

“Surviving.” Her voice was tired, and I pictured her slumped in a chair with the receiver pressed against her ear.

“How’s Debbie?”

She offered me silence as an answer.

“My next-door neighbor went through a similar experience. She’s young and pretty, and Debbie might relate to her. Jennifer asked me to tell you she’d be happy to talk to Debbie.”

“I don’t know.”

“Is she getting any counseling?”

“We all are. I know—” Marsha was silent for long seconds “—I know this awful thing happened to Debbie, but it feels as if it happened to me, too. I’m angry. All the time.”

“I would be, too.”

“You’d be angry with the man, not Grace. I’m furious—furious—with Debbie for putting herself in a situation where this could happen.”

I knew precisely how I’d feel if something similar happened to Grace. I’d question every parenting decision I’d ever made. “You’re angry at yourself.”

“You get it.”

“I’d be feeling the same things.”

Again, Marsha was quiet for long seconds. “Do you like your neighbor?”

“I do. A lot.”

“I’ll mention her to Debbie.”

And I’d have Grace mention her. Debbie had been through a hellish experience—she needed all the help and support she could get.

“Ellison, the timer on my oven just dinged. I have to go. Thank you for calling. And for understanding.” All things considered, Marsha was coping remarkably well.

“Please call me if you need anything.”

“I will,” she promised. “Thank you.”

I returned the receiver to its cradle and fingered the stretched-out cord. If some man hurt Grace the way Debbie had been hurt, my anger would set the whole city ablaze.

I glanced at the oven. Three-fifty. I put the casserole in and set the timer.

Ding dong.

Max raised a single eyelid but didn’t get up.

“Lazy.” I walked to the front door without him.

Anarchy stood on my front stoop. “Hi.”

I opened the door wider. “Hi.”

He stepped into the foyer and gathered me into his arms.

I relaxed into the warmth of his chest.

“How was your day?” His breath was a whisper through my hair.

“Long.” I pulled away and looked up into his lean face. “How was yours?”

“Long is as good a word as any. Where is everybody?”

“Aggie’s on a date. Max is napping. And Grace should be home any minute.” For a few seconds I wished Grace wasn’t coming home—that Anarchy and I had the house to ourselves. “Aggie left a casserole. Why don’t you stay for dinner?”

His eyes smiled at me. “I’d like that.”

My heart hiccupped—just a little. “How about a drink?” I led him toward the kitchen.

“I’d better not. An arrest warrant has been issued for Nick DiGiovanni. If he’s located, I have to go in.”

“He’s behind the murders?”

“That’s the working theory.”

I poured myself a glass of wine. “I have something to tell you.”

“Oh?” He sounded wary.

“I visited Winnie today.”

“And?” Now he sounded relieved.

“She put her own Sweet’N Low in her coffee at the coffee shop.”

“She carries sweetener with her?”

He was missing the point. “Plenty of women have a few packets in their handbags. Not every restaurant keeps Sweet’N Low on the table. What if one of those packets held the poison?”

He closed his eyes. “The last time I saw Winnie Flournoy’s purse, you had it.”

“I took it back to her house.” I took in the disappointment that flashed across his face. “I still have her house keys.”

His brows rose.

“I’m taking care of her demon-cat. We could go over there after dinner.”

Anarchy glanced at the oven timer.

I shook my head. “We can’t go now. If we were held up, and I burned Aggie’s casserole, I’d never hear the end of it.”

Grace blew through the backdoor, carrying the scent of rain with her. She stopped when she saw us, and her eyes widened.

“How was babysitting?”

“Fine. Where’s Aggie?”

“On a date with Mac.”

Worry creased her brow. “Did you cook?”

“Aggie left us a casserole.”

Grace relaxed. Visibly. Everyone’s a critic.

We ate Aggie’s casserole with a salad she’d left in the fridge and crusty rolls.

After dinner, Grace disappeared upstairs with a one-word explanation. “Homework.”

Anarchy and I rinsed the dishes and loaded the dishwasher.

When we’d finished, I dried my hands on an embroidered tea towel. “Shall we head over to the Flournoys’?”

“In a minute.” Anarchy snaked his arms around my waist and pulled me close. “Thanks for dinner.”

“You’re always welcome.”

He lowered his head and kissed me—the type of kiss that warmed me all the way to my toenails. The kind of kiss that made me forget every single question Libba urged me to ask.

Max nudged us with his nose. If there was affection being doled out, he wanted his share.

“Go away, Max.”

He nudged again. Harder.

Somehow, I separated my lips from Anarchy’s. “We should go.”

“Go?”

“Winnie’s house. Purse. Sweet’N Low. Poison.”

“That purse isn’t going anywhere.” He kissed me again.

My toes curled.

Nudge.

Maybe if I ignored him, Max would go away.

Woof.

“Go away, Max.”

Woof!

Again I pulled away from Anarchy. I scowled down at my dog.

He wore a particularly obdurate expression.

“We might as well go.” If nothing else, we could kiss in the car without a nosy audience. “Winnie’s keys are in my purse.” I frowned at Max. “You behave yourself.”

Max cocked his ears. Fat chance.

The rain beat against the roof of the car with such force that talking was impossible. We drove in silence, parked in Winnie’s drive, and dashed for the front door.

I fitted the key into the lock, and we stepped inside. Winnie’s house felt cold and empty and dark.

“Where did you leave the purse?”

“The living room.”

I stepped inside and flipped the light switch on the wall. Several table lamps came on.

“Where is it?”

“I don’t know. I’m sure I left it in here.”

There was no handbag.

“Maybe Lois put it in the bedroom.”

“Lois?”

“Winnie’s daughter,” I explained.

Neither of us mentioned the other possibility—that Winnie’s handbag had been stolen.

Anarchy took my hand and together we climbed the stairs.

We walked down the hallway, opening doors as we went.

I peered into a guest room. “Interesting.”

“What?”

“Winnie and Lark weren’t sleeping together.” I waved a hand at the stack of law books on the bedside table, the slippers by the bed, and a plaid bathrobe hung over the corner of the closet door. “Looks like Daisy might be right.”

“Daisy?”

I nodded. “She told me Lark was having an affair with Marigold.”

“You didn’t tell me before now?”

“I haven’t known for very long and it’s not as if Winnie could have killed Marigold. She was locked in the attic with the rest of us.”

“But—”

“Daisy told me, not Jinx.”

“What does that mean?”

“If Jinx passes something on, you can take it to the bank. Daisy’s information can be iffy. Besides, you know who killed Lark.”

“Promise me something.”

“What?”

“If you hear gossip that pertains to one of my cases, you’ll tell me.”

“When I can.”

His lips thinned.

“You can’t expect me to betray my friends’ confidences.”

“If it means catching a killer, I can.”

“Trust me, if I ever know something that might lead you to a killer, I’ll tell you.” Guilt nudged me—as insistent as Max. Even now, I was hiding the contents of Henry’s file on John Wilson and Lark.

It was easy to ignore guilt when I knew someone named DiGiovanni was about to be arrested.

“That’s your final word?” From Anarchy’s tone, I assumed we were done kissing for the night.

“Yes.” I opened another door. “Winnie sleeps here.” The master bedroom was papered with a cheery floral print. That same print repeated in the curtains, bedding, and upholstery. The carpet was a grass green shag. Standing in Winnie’s room was like standing in a bower. “I don’t see her purse.”

“How can you see anything in here?”

“It’s just a few flowers.”

“It’s busier than 435 at rush hour.”

“Be that as it may—” I liked all the flowers “—Winnie’s purse isn’t here. Someone must have taken it.”