Two

Libba tightened her hands around the steering wheel and stared straight out the windshield. “I’m sorry.”

“Sorry?”

She cut her gaze my way. “This morning wasn’t exactly the stress-reducer you were hoping for.”

“No. But that’s not your fault.”

Libba sighed and pulled into my circle drive, stopping the car near the front door. “Still, yoga was my idea.”

“It’s okay. Really. Do you want to come in? For coffee?”

“No, thanks. I’d rather go home and shower.”

Hot water wouldn’t wash away the stains left by murder. Being locked in a room while a woman was hanged to death downstairs made an indelible mark—one impervious to soap and hot water. I’d brushed against death often enough to know first-hand. Then I remembered Libba hadn’t seen Marigold hanging from the bannister. I sighed, opened the car door, and put my feet on the pavement.

“Call me—” she grabbed my hand and gave it a squeeze “—if you need to talk.”

“I will.”

I watched her drive away then opened the front door.

Max greeted me with a grin and take-me-running nudge of his head.

“You’ll have to wait,” I told him.

His ears drooped, and the dejected expression on his face would have broken a softer woman’s heart.

“I’m sorry, but I need to sit down for a few minutes.”

He followed me to the kitchen where he flopped onto his bed with a put-upon snort.

Aggie, my housekeeper, stood at the counter checking a list. She wore a daffodil-hued kaftan and had the glow of a woman who’d spent the whole weekend with a man who adored her. She smiled and a golden aura settled on her shoulders.

“Good weekend?” The answer was obvious.

She blushed and stuffed the list into her handbag (brown leather painted with smiley faces).

“How’s Mac?” Mac was the new man in Aggie’s life. He had the easy-going, eager-to-please disposition of a Labrador puppy. He sent Aggie flowers just because. He owned a deli that stocked my favorite Finocchiona salami. He made Aggie smile. I liked him.

Aggie’s blush deepened, and she hooked the handbag over her shoulder. “He’s fine.” She took in my current state and her dreamy smile faded away. “What happened?”

“I went to yoga with Libba, and the teacher was murdered.”

Aggie dropped her purse on the counter. “Sit down. I’ll make coffee.”

Aggie was good people.

I collapsed onto a stool, told her everything, and drank some of Mr. Coffee’s magic elixir.

“What can I do?” She topped off our mugs then rinsed the near empty pot.

I shrugged. “Nothing.”

“I was on my way to the market when you came home. I can pick up the ingredients for a Bundt cake—”

“Who would we take it to?”

She ceded my point with a quick nod of her chin.

“Go do your errands,” I told her. “I know you have things to accomplish today.”

She picked up her handbag. “I won’t be gone long.”

Max and I stood at the door as she drove away.

I scratched behind his ears.

He rubbed his head against my leg and looked up at me with liquid can-we-go-running-now eyes.

“Later. I promise.”

Brnng, brnng.

I let the phone ring three times—was tempted to let the answering machine pick up. But some masochistic streak deep within me had me reaching for the receiver. “Hello.”

“Tell me it isn’t true.” No hello. No how are you. Mother was deeply outraged.

I should have let the machine pick up. “Tell you what isn’t true?”

Mother huffed as if she didn’t have time for my foolishness. “Tell me you did not find a body at Winnie Flournoy’s.”

“I did not find a body at Winnie Flournoy’s.” I hadn’t found the body. Gertie Kleinman found the body.

“But you were there?”

“Yes.”

“And someone was murdered?”

“Yes. The yoga instructor.”

Mother’s answering silence spoke volumes.

I wrapped the phone cord around my fingers and waited.

“You were taking her class?”

“I was. She locked us in the attic.”

A moment of silence ensued.

“Maybe this is a good thing.”

I blinked in surprise. A good thing? Being locked in the attic or the murder? I was pretty sure Marigold Applebottom’s loved ones would consider her death a bad thing. “What do you mean?”

“You’ve found your body for the month. You won’t have to worry about someone being murdered at the gala.”

The gala. Against my better judgment, I’d agreed to be the chairman for the museum’s gala unveiling the Chinese exhibit. The exhibit would appear in only four cities—San Francisco, New York, Washington, D.C., and Kansas City—and the opening gala was a big deal. The committee and I had been planning and meeting and discussing flowers and food and table linens for months. Months. Now, the countdown was on. Only a few weeks remained to iron out the final details. The evening promised to be the social happening of the season. Mother lived in fear a murder would spoil the event. Given my track record, her worry was justified.

“I didn’t find Marigold’s body.”

“Marigold?” I could hear the curl of Mother’s lip.

“Yes.”

“What a name.”

I didn’t argue. Nor did I tell her about the Applebottom part of Marigold’s name.

“I didn’t mean that her murder was a good thing. It’s just that—” Mother thought my proximity to Marigold’s murder should count for something with the deity who regularly put dead bodies in my path.

If only I was that lucky.

“There’s been enough upheaval this month already.” Mother was absolutely right. And we’d barely dipped our toes into April. “You should be concentrating on the gala.” She was singing to the choir. “Promise me, Ellison, you won’t go looking for trouble.”

“I never do.”

Mother’s silence was louder than a jackhammer.

“I don’t.” Then, because I sensed she had more to say about my finding bodies, I added, “Listen, Mother, I’m a sweaty mess. I’m going to jump in the shower. May I please call you later?”

“I’m on my way out for bridge.” She exhaled loud enough for me to hear the depth of her worry. “Go. Take your shower. And try, Ellison, to stay out of trouble.”

“I will. Bye.” I hung up the phone.

Max lifted his head from his paws. A run? Now?

“Sorry, buddy. I promise I’ll take you. Later.” I had things to do.

He huffed his displeasure and lowered his head.

Ding, dong.

Seriously? What now?

Max leapt to his feet and took off down the hallway.

I followed at a more sedate pace. I didn’t want people on the front stoop, I wanted a shower. And there was something I needed to do before I stepped into a stream of hot water. Something I needed to check. Something important.

I opened the door.

Marsha Clayton stood on the other side. She took one look at my messy hair and sweat-stained leotard and said, “I’m sorry. I should have called first.”

I might look awful, but Marsha looked worse—like something the cat dragged in. Her face was pinched and pale. Her honey-blonde hair was a fright. Her lipstick had bled into the tiny lines around her mouth.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

“You don’t know?”

“Know what?”

Her red-rimmed eyes filled with tears. “I’ve grounded Debbie for a month.”

“Come in.” I beckoned Marsha inside before my nosy neighbor could pull out her binoculars. Then I hauled Max away from Marsha’s crotch—Marsha didn’t look as if she was in the mood for one of his exploratory sniffs. “What can I get you?”

“Nothing.”

“You’re sure?”

She nodded, and I led her into the living room.

“Please, have a seat.” I waved to the couch then settled into the club chair closest to her. Marsha didn’t say a word.

She glanced down at the hands clasped in her lap.

She bit her lower lip.

She tapped her twined fingers against her forehead.

“Marsha?”

She shook her head.

She wiped beneath her eyes.

She stared up at the ceiling.

“Marsha, what’s happened?”

I waited.

And waited.

She shifted her gaze to a still life hung on the far wall. “You’ve had a hard year.”

“Yes.” My husband had been killed, I’d been a suspect in his murder, then—much to Mother’s horror—I’d begun finding bodies.

“How do you…” she ducked her head.

“How do I what?”

“Find the strength to face the day?” Marsha spoke to her lap.

Oh. That. “I take one day at a time.”

“I never dreamed Debbie would lie to me.”

“She’s a teenager.”

She clasped her hands together—tight enough for her knuckles to whiten. “I know my friends are whispering. How do you deal with that?”

I had no idea what she was talking about—lying or whispering. “With what?”

“How do you handle your friends talking about you behind your back?”

Oh. That. I chose not to hear them. I’d learned long ago no one was perfect and if I expected too much I was destined for disappointment. Cheating husband. Friends who were sometimes less than loyal. A mother who did her best to manage my life. If I let those things bother me, I wouldn’t make it through a day.

“I know what people are saying.”

I resisted the urge to close my fingers around her shoulders and shake her. “About what?”

“They’re saying we’re bad mothers because our girls went to that awful bar.”

“What bar?”

“Dirty Sally’s.”

Oh dear Lord. “When?”

“Saturday night.”

I exhaled. “Grace didn’t go to a bar on Saturday night.”

“Yes, she did.”

“Grace was with me.”

“That can’t be right.”

It most certainly could. “Grace and I had dinner with my parents (a command performance) then we came home, made popcorn, and watched the late movie.”

“But Debbie said Grace was with her.”

“Debbie stretched the truth.” Debbie had lied through her just-out-of-braces teeth. “What happened at this bar?”

“You’re sure Grace was with you?”

“Positive.”

Marsha’s cheeks paled, and she stood so abruptly she nearly knocked over the couch.

“Marsha, what happened?”

“Debbie—” she pressed her hand against her mouth “—came home drunk.”

“Making mistakes is how teenagers learn.”

A half-gasp half-sob rose from deep in Marsha’s lungs. “I’m deeply disappointed in her. She swore to me that Dirty Sally’s was Grace’s idea.”

“Grace was with me.”

“Don’t worry about what people say. Ignore everything. It’s one weekend. It’ll be forgotten as soon as a major scandal hits.” Like Marigold Applebottom swinging from Winnie and Lark Flournoy’s banister.

A tear ran down Marsha’s cheek. “I’m not like you. I’m not strong. I care when people say I’m a bad wife or mother.”

Much of my sympathy for Marsha dried up. “What do other people’s opinions matter? Debbie matters.”

She sniffed. A wet sniff. “I could kill them both. Debbie and the—” she held a fist against her mouth “—Debbie and whoever convinced her to go to that bar.” Marsha lifted her gaze and stared into my eyes. “I really could kill them.”

“I understand.” I didn’t. Not unless there was something—something major—Marsha had neglected to tell me.

“And Bill.” Again her teeth gnawed at her lower lip. A fresh veil of tears dampened her cheeks.

Bill was Marsha’s husband. “What about him?”

“He’s just destroyed. It’s as if something inside him has collapsed.”

Something very major.

“Marsha, what happened?”

She waved me off. “I’m sorry to have disturbed you with this. I’ll see myself out.”

  

When Marsha left, I leaned against the front door. What in the world had that been about? Grace would know.

With a sigh, I tiptoed into my late husband’s study and closed the door. Tiptoed because I didn’t want anyone—not even me—to realize what I was about to do.

My late husband had done things I didn’t like to think about.

True, he’d been an upstanding member of the community. True, he’d been a good provider. True, he’d adored our daughter. But Henry’s faults as a husband outweighed the good.

He’d cheated on me with friends. He’d cheated on me with strangers. He’d cheated on me with women who carried handcuffs and whips.

To say our marriage wasn’t in the greatest shape before I did the unforgivable was an understatement.

My unforgivable sin?

I earned more money than he did.

The first year was a fluke.

The second year was a problem. A big problem.

Money was the yardstick by which Henry measured his manhood. And all of a sudden, his wife’s stick was longer than his. Proving he was still in charge, in control, the master of the universe, became his number one priority. Proof could be found dominating me in the bedroom. When I declined to play with his toys (handcuffs and whips), he’d turned first to other women then to ferreting out our friends’ secrets.

He extorted money from a surprisingly long list of people.

It wasn’t about the money (we had plenty). For Henry, it was about control. When he had someone’s secret, he controlled them. He had the power. He was the master of the universe (at least in his own mind).

I didn’t know about Henry’s blackmail hobby until he died, until I found his files.

That discovery had been a shock.

Unsure of what to do, I’d left the files where I found them, locked in the safe in his study. The extortion had stopped.

I spent sleepless nights wondering what to do. Return the files? But how? Burn them? Did his victims think their blackmailer had just disappeared? Died? Run away to Bali? Ended up in prison?

One thing was certain. I could never reveal what Henry had done. Our daughter didn’t need to carry the weight of her father’s sins.

I should have fed the files into the living room fire over the winter, but I’d put them out of my mind. I’d shoved them into a tiny closet in my brain and thrown away the key. I’d forgotten about them on purpose. Until today.

Until a murder happened in one of Henry’s victim’s houses.

I sat on the edge of my late husband’s desk and stared at the safe (Pandora’s box). I racked my brain but failed to recall Lark Flournoy’s secret. I couldn’t remember a single detail—I just remembered he possessed a secret he’d paid to keep quiet.

I pushed off the desk, wiped my damp palms against my tights, and spun the safe’s dial.

The door swung open, and I gazed into the safe’s depths. Henry’s files were alphabetized. Flournoy rested near the middle.

With the file in my shaking hand, I settled into a chair and spread the papers across the massive expanse of Henry’s desk. My husband had made meticulous notes—as if neatness counted in blackmail. My stomach twisted—there was something wrong about peeking at my friends’ deepest secrets. The act felt dirty. Despicable. No wonder Henry had enjoyed it so.

With the tips of my fingers, I moved the pages and read.

Ten years ago, Lark had colluded with an attorney named John Wilson. Together they’d thrown a case. Henry was thin on the facts of the case but eloquent on the repercussions. If Henry went public, Lark would be disbarred. Problematic for a district judge.

At least now I knew Lark wasn’t cheating on Winnie (or he hadn’t been when Henry was gathering information).

Tap, tap.

I jumped as if I’d been doing something wrong. “Yes?”

“It’s me,” said Aggie. “I just wanted to let you know I’m back.”

“Thank you.” I leaned my head against the back of the chair and rested my hands on my knees until they stopped shaking. “I’ll be out in a minute.”

“Do you want anything?” Aggie sounded worried—me spending time in Henry’s study was a reason for concern. I avoided the room for multiple reasons: the contents of the safe, the lingering memory of the body I’d found sprawled across the carpet, my inability to find a decent decorator. “How about coffee?” she asked.

I wanted wine. And a bath. “Not right now.”

Aggie’s worry (I never turned down coffee) seeped through the door’s eight panels. “I picked up a chicken for dinner tonight. I thought I’d roast it.”

“Sounds delicious.”

“What time is she coming?”

“What time is who coming?”

“Your new neighbor.”

I sagged in the chair. “Is that tonight?”

“Yes.”

Ugh. Jennifer and Marshall Howe had relocated from California, knew no one, and Marshall traveled. I couldn’t imagine living in a city where I didn’t know a soul, couldn’t imagine spending night after night alone in a big house with no one for company. I’d invited Jennifer to dinner. When I’d asked her, I hadn’t anticipated a murder. But it wasn’t as if I could call and uninvite her. “I told her five thirty for drinks. We can eat at half-past six.”

“You’re sure you’re all right?”

“Positive.” I pictured Aggie leaning her forehead against the door and added, “I’ll be done in here in a minute.”

I jammed the papers back in the file, put the file in the safe, and locked Henry’s collection of horrible secrets away. Then I went to the guest bathroom and scrubbed my hands with French-milled soap. The suds did nothing to wash away the filthy things my husband had done, but at least my skin smelled like hyacinths.

Max poked his head into the powder room. A run? Please?

It didn’t make much sense to shower before a run. “Fine.”

He wagged his stub of a tail.

I trudged up the stairs—no way was I wearing tights and a leotard out of the house again.

Max followed me with an enormous grin on his face.

At least one of us was happy.