Fifteen

Libba called at nine. “Did you forget?”

“Forget what?”

“We’re playing bridge with Lisa and Amy today.”

Oh dear Lord. “Is that today?” A shot of adrenalin brought me to my feet. “Am I late?”

“It is today and you’re not late. We play at ten.”

“When did you get organized?” I was the one who remembered things. Libba was the one who flitted from flower to flower (man to man) like a giddy butterfly.

“What are you talking about?”

“You. Remembering things. That’s my job.”

“Oh. That. You forget things when you’ve found a body or two.”

“I’ve only found one.”

“The week’s not over.”

“Don’t jinx me. I’ll see you at the club at ten.”

I hung up, put Aggie’s notes—dog-eared from handling—in a neat pile on the corner of my desk, and went to the kitchen for more coffee.

“Anything?” asked Aggie.

I blinked against the brightness of her kaftan. Wearing that shade of orange, she could stand in for a traffic cone. “Not yet. But, if I look at those pages any longer, my head may explode.” I picked up the coffeepot and gave Mr. Coffee a grateful pat. “I have a bridge game at ten and I’m swinging by the Nelson this afternoon.”

“Gala business?”

I nodded. “I’ll be glad when it’s over.” I filled my mug too full and drank a sip of black coffee to make room for cream.

“I bet.”

Crossing my fingers, I added, “Hopefully Laurence likes my idea.”

“For what?”

“Raising the rest of the money.”

“If it keeps your moth—” Aggie’s eyes widened, and she pressed her hand against her mouth.

“Go ahead.” I added cream to my coffee. “Say it.”

Blushing a shade of pink that did not complement her orange kaftan, Aggie fixed her gaze the counter. “If it keeps your mother out of his office, I’m sure he’ll love it.”

Aggie had a point.

“Here’s hoping.” I climbed the stairs, changed into a Diane von Furstenberg wrap dress, draped a handful of gold chains around my neck, and applied my makeup with extra care.

Lisa and Amy. What had Libba been thinking?

Some might say Lisa married well. She’d grown up out south and had parleyed a pretty face and good grades into a bid at the right sorority. From there, she’d met and married Tommy Larson. The couple had two handsome sons, lived in a lovely home, and vacationed in all the right spots.

Perfect on the outside, but I’d overheard Tommy berate his wife for her posture. I’d seen him raise his brows when she took even a tiny bite of dessert. I’d smelled her fear when he reached over and plucked a strand of gray from her head. He demanded glamorous, thin, and young—the passing of years be damned.

No wonder she snuck off for plastic surgery and, if rumors were true, smoothed whale semen into her skin every night.

Amy also searched for the fountain of youth, but not because her husband was an ass. The two were poorly matched. Amy liked nothing better than a party. Paul’s idea of a perfect evening was a book—a large, dry book about military history or European politics in the fifteenth century. Certain she’d be able to coax Paul out of his shell if she looked good enough, Amy spent hours at the salon, ate like a bird, and dressed to the absolute nines. Signing up for a library card would have been more effective.

Living on celery, lemon wedges in hot water, and the occasional bowl of cabbage soup could put the nicest of women on edge. Amy and Lisa weren’t the nicest of women. They were hungry and unhappy. The pair of them made harpies look like Pollyanna. And Libba had agreed to bridge.

I drove through a downpour. Endless rain. Worse, the weatherman forecasted more precipitation. Floating away seemed like a real possibility.

A parking space near the clubhouse was available, and, after a brief hesitation, I pulled into it. Bad things happened in this parking lot. Very bad things. For once, parking close to the clubhouse was worth the risk. The car wouldn’t blow up and no one would shoot at me. At least I hoped not. In this rain, a short dash appealed to me more than a long one.

I dashed.

“Good morning, Mrs. Russell,” said the receptionist, who was warm and dry and wore shoes that didn’t squish when she walked.

“Good morning.” I closed my umbrella.

“May I take your coat?”

“Please.” I handed over my damp trench-coat and the still dripping umbrella.

“It seems like forever since we’ve seen the sun.”

“You’re too right.”

She smiled at me, a polite I-have-work-to-do-move-along-now smile. “Enjoy your cards.”

“Thank you.” I headed down the main hall toward the ladies’ lounge.

Lisa was already at our table. She surveyed my ensemble. “What a fabulous dress.”

“Thank you,” I replied. “You look marvelous.” Her skin was as taut as plastic surgery and whale semen could make it. Her hair was the perfect shade of ash blonde. She was one missed meal away from skeletal.

“I’m thrilled you and Libba could play with us today.”

“I’m glad you thought of us.” Liar, liar.

“You’ve had an exciting week.”

“True.” Was that why they’d invited us to play bridge? Because they wanted the horse’s-mouth story on the latest murder?

“What happened at Winnie’s?”

“You mean what happened to the yoga instructor?”

Lisa nodded.

“She was hanged.”

The hand Amy lifted to her throat trembled. “How awful.”

“It was. Of course, we were locked in the attic while she was being murdered.”

“Still.” She shook her head as if she’d never heard anything so terrible. “The instructor’s name was Marigold?”

“Yes.” I picked up the cards and shuffled. What was Amy after?

“Marigold Applebottom?”

“Yes.”

Lisa slumped against her chair. “I knew her when she was Janice Young.”

Now that was interesting.

“Her older sister and I were childhood friends.”

“What was she like?”

“There was a fifteen-year age difference between Rose and Janice. I didn’t know her well.”

We both contemplated a fifteen-year span between children. I shuddered. “Were there other siblings?”

“No. Janice was a surprise.”

“Do you still see your friend?”

“Not since I married.” The corners of Lisa’s mouth drooped, and her eyes misted. “She lives so far away.” She sounded as if she needed convincing. She sure wasn’t convincing me. Tommy Larson probably didn’t approve of Rose.

“How did Janice become Marigold?”

“The last time I saw Rose, she said Janice had changed her name and run off to Oregon.”

“Oregon?”

Amy shrugged. “Some Bikram.”

Which explained the yoga.

“What’s Rose doing now?”

“She married a plumber.”

“Oh? I can always use the name of a good plumber.”

“Cook.” Lisa wrinkled her nose. “Her husband’s name is Andy Cook.”

Andy Cook advertised on television. I’d seen the ads. He dressed up as a wrench. He had a jingle. He danced a jig.

“You beat me here!” Libba stood in the doorway. “Lisa, if you get any thinner, you won’t cast a shadow.”

Lisa sat a little straighter. “Thank you.”

Libba took the chair opposite mine. “Where’s Amy?”

“She should be along any minute.”

It was more like ten minutes. When Amy did arrive, she wore a pantsuit that looked as if she’d snatched it off a runway model’s back. She air-kissed cheeks and apologized. “Sorry I’m late. It’s the rain. The creek’s out and they’ve closed the bridge to the main entrance. I had to use the back gate.”

“Hopefully the water won’t do too much damage,” said Libba. “I’m not in the mood for an assessment.”

When the creek left its banks, water invariably damaged the golf course. During one particularly expensive flood, a whole green washed away.

“Shall we play?” Amy’s tone suggested we were the ones who’d kept her waiting.

We drew to deal. Libba won and dealt thirteen cards to each of us.

Amy picked up her hand and glanced at her cards. “So, Ellison, how’s the gala coming along?”

I grouped suits together. Spades, hearts, clubs, diamonds—black, red, black, red. “Fine. It’s going to be a marvelous party.”

Amy shifted a few cards. “Paul and I bought benefactor’s tickets.”

“I’m glad you’re coming.”

“One club,” said Libba.

Lisa frowned at her hand. “Pass”

“One heart,” I replied to my partner.

“Pass,” said Amy. “I heard everyone’s a benefactor.”

“It’s true,” I admitted. “The event sold out before we made general admission tickets available.”

“Where will we be seated?” After have you found another body? my least favorite question. “We bought those tickets with the idea we’d have a decent table.”

“We haven’t completed the seating chart yet.”

“So, you’re not making any promises.” Snide—Amy sounded snide.

“I’m afraid not.”

“What will it cost to get a good table?”

“More money,” Libba snapped. “Three hearts.”

“Pass.” Lisa kept her eyes on her cards.

“Four hearts.”

“How much more money?”

“The twenty-five-thousand-dollar tables will be near the front of the room,” I replied.

Amy rolled her eyes and groaned. “Fine. Twenty-five thousand. Lisa, do you and Tommy want to split it?”

Lisa’s looked up from her cards. Her eyes widened, and her lips drew away from her teeth. “I’d need to discuss that with Tommy.”

“I’ll have Paul call him.”

I added the additional donation to the running tally I kept in the under-used math section of my brain. We were closing in on half a million.

Libba drummed her nails on the table. “What’s your bid, Amy?”

“I’m passing.” She turned her gaze my way. “So, tell me what you’re wearing.”

After lunch (salads for Libba and me, clear broth for Lisa and Amy), I braved the rain and drove to the museum.

Laurence Sickman’s office was on the second floor.

As I climbed the stairs, I reviewed the big idea. If Laurence agreed, we might actually make a million dollars.

His secretary was away from her desk, so I rapped my knuckles against his door.

“Come in.”

When he saw me, Laurence rose from his chair and came out from behind his desk. “Ellison, what a pleasure. How are you?”

“Damp.”

He glanced at the window and grimaced. “It does seem as if it’s rained all week. May I get you some coffee?”

I considered his offer. Somewhere nearby, hidden from view, sat a percolator holding sub-par coffee. I’d learned this the hard way. “No, thank you.”

His brows rose. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“I have an idea.”

“Please—” he waved to one of the chairs in front of his desk, waited until I was seated, then took the other one “—tell me about it.”

I settled into the chair, gripped its arms, and took one deep breath. “Has my mother said anything to you about how much money the gala is raising?”

“She might have mentioned it.” Dry. So dry. His voice was a virtual drought. She’d definitely mentioned it.

“I think we can do it. I think we can raise a million dollars.”

He leaned forward. “How?”

“I’ll go back to a few key donors and ask for more money.”

“They’ve already given.”

“I know. And I am grateful for their gifts, but what if I asked them for multi-year commitments?”

“Pledges?”

“Yes. Pledges we count toward the gala and exhibition.” I swallowed. “The other host cities are raising millions. There are donors who might increase their commitments based purely on civic pride.”

Laurence steepled his fingers. “There are other exhibits planned in the next few years. I hate using all our chits now.”

“I understand.” Now was the time for trump cards. “I’ll tell Mother we discussed multi-year pledges, and you didn’t think they were a good idea.”

He held up his hands. “Don’t be hasty. I didn’t say no—I said the pledges might represent future challenges. Challenges we need to consider.”

“The gala is weeks away. If I’m to have any hope of raising the extra money, I need every day.”

“You want a decision?” If he thought I’d back down, he was wrong.

I looked him in the eye. “I do.”

“Today?”

“Yes.”

“The board may have an opinion.”

The board would have lots of opinions. All of them different. “I’m guessing the board wants this event and the exhibit to be successful.”

He stared at me, waiting for me to cave.

I stared back.

Long seconds passed.

“Fine, Ellison.” He shrugged. “Go after the money.”

What had I done? I stood. “Thank you.”

He pushed out of his chair and extended his hand. “Good luck. The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.”

“What do you mean?”

“You have quite a bit of your mother in you.”

I chose to take that as a compliment.

When I arrived home, I ignored Aggie’s stack of notes on the corner of my desk and pulled out my address book.

Five calls. I could do this. And if my plan worked, even Mother would have to admit I’d achieved something amazing.

Five calls. But my finger refused to turn the dial.

I hated asking for money.

People did this for a living. I could think of no worse fate than asking for money five days a week. And—this was the insane part—most of those people enjoyed their jobs. They found connecting donors with worthy causes fulfilling.

Maybe it was.

But it was still asking for money.

I gritted my teeth and dialed the first number.

“Woodson residence.”

“May I please speak with Joan?”

“May I say who’s calling?”

“Ellison Russell.”

“One moment, please.”

In a perfect world, I’d ask face to face. It was harder to turn someone down when they sat across a table from you. But there wasn’t time to schedule the appointments.

My spine stiffened until my vertebrae ached.

“Ellison?” Joan sounded pleased to hear from me.

“Joan, how are you?”

“Fine. Looking forward to the gala.”

“Me too. Actually, that’s why I’m calling.”

“Oh?”

I swallowed and gripped the edge of the desk with my free hand. “The other cities that are hosting the exhibit are raising a million dollars. I know how much you care about the museum and the city. Would you please consider pledging an additional hundred thousand dollars, payable over four years?”

She answered me with silence.

My heart slammed against my chest. “This isn’t an annual ball. This is a once-in-a-lifetime event.”

Asking for the money was the worst—worse than running over my husband’s body, worse than listening to Mother after she discovered someone’s ashes in her front closet, worse than the time Max destroyed my witchy neighbor’s everyday china.

“A hundred thousand dollars?”

“Yes.”

“Over four years?”

“Yes.”

“May I pay it over five?”

“Yes.” Yes, yes, yes, yes!

“All right. Have the museum send over the pledge forms.”

“Joan, I cannot thank you enough. You’re really making a difference—to the museum and to the city.”

She laughed softly. “Just wait till I chair something. I know the first person I’m calling for a sponsorship.”

The next three calls went much the same.

I fetched a glass of wine before the fifth call. Four hundred thousand dollars. Spinning in jubilant circles till I collapsed in an ecstatic heap on the carpet seemed entirely reasonable.

I did the responsible thing. I returned to my desk, took a deep breath, and dialed the fifth number.

“Hello.”

“Daddy, it’s Ellison.”

“I’ve been expecting your call.”

“You have?”

“Your mother—” he sounded rueful “—set you a million-dollar goal.”

“She did.”

“I don’t have it, sugar.”

He thought I wanted a million dollars? “Daddy!”

“What?”

“I would never ask you for that much money. I’ve raised nine hundred thousand dollars. If I give another fifty, would you and Mother consider a fifty-thousand-dollar gift payable over four years?”

“You’ve raised nine hundred thousand dollars?” The surprise in his voice was a bit insulting.

“Yes.” I took a celebratory sip of wine.

“Does your mother know?”

“Not yet. I wanted to hit a million before I told her.”

“Well, sugar, you can tell her now.”

“You mean it?”

“I do.”

“Thank you, Daddy.” My voice was thick.

“We don’t always tell you, but we’re very proud of you.”

I wiped away a tear. “I love you, Daddy.”

“Love you too, sugar.” He hung up.

I sat for a moment, stunned. I’d done it. I’d raised a million dollars. This called for a second glass of wine. Or maybe coffee.

Grace stood at the kitchen counter. When she spotted me, the fork in her hand (a fork laden with chocolate cake) froze. “Are you okay?”

“Yes. Why?”

“You look sort of—I don’t know—stunned.”

“I am.”

“Did you find another body?”

“No. I raised a million dollars.”