Thirteen

Tap, tap.

I opened one eye and snuggled deeper into the covers.

“Mrs. Russell?”

I opened the other eye and looked at the raindrop covered window. “Come in.” I sounded about as sunny as the weather.

Aggie, wearing last night’s kaftan and carrying a cup of Mr. Coffee’s finest, slipped into my room. “I’m sorry to disturb you but—”

I held up a restraining hand. “Coffee first.”

She gave me the mug.

I let the aroma tease my nose for a few seconds before I drank. Three sips and I was ready. “But?”

“Lois Flournoy called. She’s taking her mother home this morning.”

I took another sip.

“She’s hoping you’ll meet them at her parents’ house.”

There went my morning. “Is she still on the phone?”

“She left a message on the machine. She’s hoping to see you at eight. She’d like you to call if you can’t make it.”

“When did she call?”

“Last night.”

I’d been so exhausted, I hadn’t heard the phone ring. Another sip. “How was your date?”

Aggie blushed—blushed—and smoothed the fabric of her kaftan. “It was nice.”

“Nice?” Spending the night with the man who made her eyes light up like the Plaza at Christmas deserved a better adjective. “Finding Tab is on sale is nice.”

The shine in Aggie’s eyes dimmed, and she shifted her gaze to the carpet beneath her feet. “Sometimes it’s hard. I know Al would want me to be happy, but saying last night was magical feels like a betrayal.” She crossed her arms. “What about you?”

“What about me?”

“Three sets of dishes in the dishwasher.”

“Last night was nice.”

“Nope.” She shook her head. “You didn’t let me get away with nice.”

“It’s different, you said nice because being happy feels like a betrayal. I said nice because I was betrayed.” Libba’s insidious question—why was Anarchy still single at forty?—waved at me from the recesses of my brain. “What if Anarchy is another mistake?”

“That man adores you and he’s as straight an arrow as they come.”

“What if the problem wasn’t Henry?” I spoke into my coffee cup. “What if it was me?”

Aggie snorted. “Please. It takes two to make a marriage work, just one to make it fail. Women, and I have no idea why, have a tendency to blame themselves for the sins visited upon them. Look at that friend of Grace’s who was raped.”

I looked up from my coffee. “What do you mean?”

“I bet she’s telling herself that she shouldn’t have gone to that bar, shouldn’t have had those drinks, shouldn’t have trusted a stranger.”

“You’re probably right.”

“The man who committed the crime. Why should she feel guilty? You and the late Mr. Russell, you stayed together for Grace.”

“Yes.”

“You didn’t run around town with a different man every night of the week. You didn’t take up with your husband’s friends.”

“No.”

“But you blame yourself.” She planted her hands on her hips. “What happened in your marriage wasn’t your fault.”

Nice to hear, but I couldn’t get past the idea that if I’d been better, more, Henry and I wouldn’t have imploded. “I’ll think about that. Now, tell me about your date.”

The secret smile returned. “The show was funny and afterwards we went to Mac’s for a night cap—” she blushed again “—and we lost track of time.”

Aggie had a small apartment over her sister’s garage and a room at my house. Sometimes she spent the night at her sister’s, sometimes with Grace and me. “You didn’t have to rush over here.”

“I know but—” her face puckered.

“But what?”

“The other shoe hasn’t dropped.”

“What do you mean?”

“Something else—something bad—is going to happen. I can feel it. I want to review my notes on those cases again.”

“An arrest warrant has been issued.”

“For whom?” Her voice was sharp.

“Nick DiGiovanni.”

Her jaw dropped. “The mobster? Why?”

“Presumably because they think he did it.”

Aggie frowned. “Why would Nick DiGiovanni kill a federal judge?”

“Someone named Tony Bilardo was going to testify against him.”

Aggie shook her head. “That explains why DiGiovanni would kill Bilardo.” She shook her head and her curls sproinged. “But a federal judge? A mobster wouldn’t bring heat like that on himself. Don’t the police read the papers?”

“What do you mean?”

“The local mafia blow each other up. They shoot people in the head. They don’t commit vehicular homicide.”

Aggie had a point. When the strip clubs on Twelfth Street had been moved, it seemed as if there was a murder every day as rival families struggled for control of the new district. Lots of bombings. Lots of shootings. Not a hit-and-run. Not a single garroting.

“Did you notice anything when you looked at the cases?” I asked.

“No,” she replied. “You should review them.”

“Of course.” I handed her the empty coffee mug. “I’ll do it as soon as I get back from the Flournoys’.”

Aggie nodded. “We’d better figure it out quick. I can’t help thinking your friend, Mrs. Flournoy, is still in danger.”

I grabbed a quick shower and readied myself for whatever the day might bring—I was pretty sure the day would call for navy pants, a navy blouse with green piping, and my new floral trench coat.

Dressed to face adversity, I trotted downstairs in search of more coffee.

Grace stood at the counter and jammed books into her backpack and peanut butter slathered toast into her mouth. With callous indifference to Max’s pleading expression (he loved peanut butter), she ate the final bite.

Max huffed his disappointment.

“Good morning.”

She waved, too busy chewing to answer.

“Are you coming home after school?”

She held a hand in front of her lips. “Nope. Jennifer offered to help me with my math homework.”

I swallowed a sigh. It seemed the older Grace became, the less I saw her.

“Will you be home for dinner?” asked Aggie.

Grace nodded and hefted her backpack over her shoulder. “That casserole last night was awesome.”

Aggie beamed at the compliment. “I’m glad you liked it.”

“Gotta go.” Grace was out the door.

Brnng, brnng.

Aggie and I shifted our gazes from the still-vibrating back door to the clock on the wall. 7:20. It was too early for anyone to be calling.

Brnng, brnng.

“It can’t be Mother.” Mother only called early when things were dire—when she’d heard I’d found a body or when someone with newly acquired wealth was put up for membership at the club. But who else could it be? I reached for the phone. “Hello.”

“Ellison Walford Russell, tell me you did not discuss your sex life at the country club where everyone and their sister could hear you?” Righteous indignation made Mother enunciate every word with extra care.

“I did not.”

That stopped her—for half a second. “Myrtle Bridewell has called me three times.”

“Myrtle Bridewell should stop eavesdropping.”

“Did you discuss sex?”

“Libba discussed sex. I listened.”

Was that grinding sound I heard Mother’s teeth?

“Libba didn’t just discuss sex. Libba discussed your having sex.”

“Strictly speaking, Libba discussed me not having sex.”

“Don’t play games with me.”

“Look on the bright side, Mother. I made it through the whole day without finding a body.”

“Don’t jinx yourself. And this is not a joke. If you ever want a decent man to be interested in you, you can’t discuss intimate details in public.”

“I didn’t.” In for a penny, in for a pound. “And Anarchy is a decent man. He’s escorting me to the gala.”

Twenty seconds of silence ensued.

“Mother?”

“I can’t talk to you when you’re like this.” Mother hung up on me.

“That went well.”

Aggie comforted me with a fresh cup of coffee and a half-apologetic smile. Like Mother, she preferred Hunter.

With a few minutes to kill before I was due at Winnie’s, I took my coffee and Aggie’s notes to the family room, settled into my desk chair, and read. John Wilson had represented some horrible people—robbers, murderers, rapists, and con men who’d swindled little old ladies out of their life savings.

Because of Debbie, I read the notes on the rapist first. Despite the victim’s testimony, the defendant had received a judgment of acquittal. “Aggie,” I called. “What’s the difference between an acquittal and a judgment of acquittal?”

She appeared in the doorway. “An acquittal comes from a jury. A judgment of acquittal is a procedural device where the judge takes the case out of the jury’s hands. He decides the prosecutor hasn’t made their case.”

“This defendant—” I tapped my finger on Aggie’s notes “—would be happy with his defense attorney and the judge?”

“Absolutely. Any other questions?”

“Not right now.”

She left me with her notes.

I pushed the rape case aside and reached for the armed robber who’d been sentenced to ten years. Had Aggie heard back from Hunter? Was ten years reasonable?

I finished my coffee and pulled the notes on the murderer to the center of the desk. He’d been charged with murder in the second degree and he too had been sentenced to ten years.

Suddenly the armed robber’s sentence didn’t seem all that reasonable.

“More?” Aggie had returned, and (bless her) she held the coffeepot.

“Please.” I held out my mug.

“Have you found anything?”

“Maybe.”

“The robber and murderer were each sentenced to ten years.”

“That hardly seems fair. Ten years for murder?”

“I know.” I sipped my coffee and thought. Something niggled at the edge of my brain. If I chased the thought, it would hide. I glanced at my watch. “I’d better get going or I’ll be late.” I left the notes on the desk and went to Winnie’s.

  

I parked at the curb and listened to the rain on the Mercedes’ roof. What I wouldn’t give for a sunny, warm spring day—this relentless rain was depressing.

When Lois pulled into the driveway, I unfurled my umbrella and climbed out of the car.

I met her and Winnie at the front door where Lois fumbled with the house keys.

“Hurry,” Winnie snapped. “I’m getting wet.”

“We’re all getting wet, Mom.” Lois’ voice had an about-to-break quality.

“Give me the keys.” Winnie held out her hand.

“Fine.” Lois dropped them into her mother’s open palm.

Winnie had the door open in seconds. She hurried inside. “Beezie, Mommy’s home.”

Lois and I followed her into the house. “Where’s Beezie?” she whispered.

“I haven’t seen him since yesterday.” A small lie—I hadn’t actually seen Beezie, only heard his demon’s cry.

“Beezie!” Winnie called.

Meow! The cat ran down the front stairs and launched itself at Winnie.

She caught him mid-leap and cradled him in her arms like a baby. “Mommy’s home now.”

“I need coffee,” said Lois. “Mom, why don’t you and Ellison sit down in the living room while I make us something warm?”

Winnie nodded and led me to the living room door. “Such a mess. It will take me days to get the house back in order.” She turned on her heel, crossed the hall, and peered into Lark’s study. “This room is even worse.” Her eyes scanned the chaos. “It looks as if someone’s been into my husband’s journals.” She nodded at the emptied bookshelves.

“His journals?”

“He kept notes on every case ever argued in his courtroom. He was a fine judge.” She dropped a kiss on Beezie’s head. “A better judge than husband.”

The bitterness in Winnie’s voice suggested she knew about Lark’s affair, but I asked anyway. “Did you know about Marigold?”

“I suspected. That girl—” she shook her head “—I gave her a chance, and she seduced my husband.”

“How did you find out?”

Winnie’s answering smile held a malicious edge. “I found the condoms. It’s not as if Lark needed King Cobras. Maybe Baronet Cobras, and that was when he was—”

“Mom!” A red-faced Lois stood in the foyer. “Ellison, how do you take your coffee?”

“With cream. Thank you.”

Lois turned away.

“Lois.”

She looked over her shoulder with a questioning look on her face.

“I brought your mother’s purse back here from the hospital. But yesterday, when I was feeding Beezie, I didn’t see it. Did you move it?”

She frowned. “Mom’s purse?”

“Yes.”

“A cognac Coach bucket bag?”

“Yes,” said Winnie.

“It’s sitting on the kitchen counter.”

I was a hundred percent sure I hadn’t taken that purse to the kitchen. I’d wanted my hands free in case Beezie attacked. “I think we should take the Sweet’N Low out of your bag, Winnie.”

“Why?”

I glanced at Lois. “It’s possible your coffee was poisoned with it.”

Winnies forehead creased. “Are you saying I poisoned my own coffee?”

The thought had crossed my mind. “Not on purpose.”

Her eyes searched my face. “You really think it could’ve been the sweetener?”

“You didn’t touch your soup, and we both had coffee with cream. The Sweet’N Low is the only possibility.”

Lois stared at us, her eyebrows so high they kissed her hairline. “How would someone know Mom carried Sweet’N Low in her purse?”

“It’s possible someone saw her take some out of her bag when she was out.”

“Or put it in,” said Winnie.

“What do you mean?” asked Lois.

Winnie flushed slightly. “Sometimes, when I have coffee in a place with Sweet’N Low, I take a few packets.”

“You steal sugar substitute?” Daughters-judging-mothers—the tone was always the same.

“It’s not stealing.” Mothers-telling-daughters-they-had-no-business-judging—that tone was also always the same. “Not all restaurants have it on the table.”

“So—” Lois rubbed her eyes “—if someone wasn’t picky about when you took the poison, putting a packet in your purse would eventually kill you.”

Winnie went pale.

“Let’s get you a chair.” I led Winnie to one of the seats in front of Lark’s desk.

“If I hadn’t been at the hospital when I used that packet…”

“I’ll grab the bag.” Lois dashed out of the room.

Winnie leaned back in her chair. “This whole week has been a nightmare.”

Having your husband murdered was no picnic. “What can you tell me about Marigold?”

“You don’t think she put the poison in my purse?”

“I think it’s a possibility.” Lark was another possibility. One I didn’t mention.

“What do you want to know?”

“Why was she murdered in such a gruesome way?”

“You don’t think I killed her?”

“You were locked in the attic when she died. I was with you. I’m positive you didn’t kill her.”

Winnie relaxed in her chair.

Of course, Winnie could have had an accomplice.

“Marigold wasn’t her real name.”

Imagine that. “Oh?”

“Her real name was Janice Young.”

“And she went by Marigold Applebottom instead?”

Winnie shrugged.

“Here’s the purse.” Lois stood in the doorway and held up Winnie’s handbag. “I checked. There’s no Sweet’N Low in it.” The brick red rising from her neck suggested she’d found the King Cobras.

“You went through my purse?” Winnie sounded outraged.

“Focus, Winnie. Someone tried to kill you. And they’ve removed the evidence.”

My logic stole the remaining color from Winnie’s already wan cheeks.

“We need to hire security,” said Lois.

“Security?” Winnie shook her head. “No.”

“Mom, someone killed Dad. They tried to kill you. We’re hiring security.”

“LJ can look out for us.”

Lois snorted. “LJ? Security? He can’t even handle connecting flights. He’s stuck in Chicago.”

“What do you think, Ellison?” Winnie asked.

“Given the three murders—”

“Three?” Lois’s eyebrows were back up by her hairline.

“Marigold, your father, and John Wilson.”

“John Wilson is dead?” Winnie’s voice shook.

“Yes. The police think it’s related to a case.”

Winnie forgot about the cat in her lap and gripped the arms of the chair. “Which case?”

Meow. Beezie disapproved of anything that stopped Winnie from stroking his fur.

“I don’t know the details, but it involves Tony Bilardo and Nick DiGiovanni.”

“The mobster?” Lois’s voice squeaked.

Winnie ran her hand down Beezie’s back.

“Have the police made an arrest?”

“Not that I know of.”

“That’s it,” said Lois. “We are absolutely hiring security. Right away. Who should I call?” She looked at me.

“We don’t need security.”

“We do. And either we hire some, or we get on a plane for Charlottesville this afternoon.”

“Fine,” Winnie ceded. “Hire security.”

“Who do I call?”

“I have a friend who’s a detective. I can ask him.”

“Would you? Please?” Lois glanced at the phone. “Would you call right away?”

I picked up the receiver and dialed.

“KCPD.”

“May I please speak with Detective Anarchy Jones?”

“One moment, please. I’ll connect you.”

I listened to dreadful canned music until Anarchy picked up. “Anarchy, it’s Ellison calling.”

“Hi.” His tone was warm.

I caught myself smiling in response. “I’m at the Flournoys’ with Winnie and her daughter. Lois thinks Winnie needs security. We were hoping you’d be able to recommend someone.”

“Hold on, there’s a card in my desk.” The sounds of rummaging carried through the phone line. “Found it. Marvin Hancock at Tall Oaks Security. Do you have a pen?”

It was my turn to rummage. I laid hands on a pen and notepad. “Ready.”

He gave me the number, and I jotted it down.

“Any luck locating Nick DiGiovanni?”

“Not yet. He’s disappeared.”

The niggling thought at the edge of my brain stuck out a long, bony finger and poked me. “Why?”

“Why what?”

“Never mind. Thanks for the number. I’ll share it with Lois.”

“Are you free for dinner tonight?”

There it was again. That smile that came from nowhere. “I am. Why don’t you come by the house? We can eat there. I have something to tell you.”

“About the case?”

“Yes.” He needed to know Winnie’s purse had mysteriously reappeared.

“I’ll call you later. Be careful.”

“Always.”

I hung up the phone and handed Lois the information.

“Thank you.” She turned to her mother. “We’re going to do everything possible to keep you safe.”

Winnie mumbled something in response. Something that sounded like all the security in the world won’t do any good.