THE DEEP END (10 page)

I tightened my grip on the call button. “You were one of the last people to see her alive.”

She stood. “I don’t have to listen to this.”

“Where did she go?”

Prudence marched toward the door then stopped and turned to glare at me. “I have no idea.”

I might have believed her but she scratched her nose.

She’d been gone no more than a minute when Powers, bright as a firecracker on the Fourth of July and twice as loud, burst into my hospital room.

“Darling, I’ve been positively fixated on seeing you all morning but I had to go to that dreadful service. Are you all right? Does your head hurt? Did you see the brute that did this to you? You must tell me everything.”

Too many questions. I asked one of my own. “Where does one find a fuchsia tie?”

“At the snootiest boutique in Manhattan, so be careful what you say about it.”

“You wore a fuchsia tie to Madeline’s funeral?”

Powers’ lower lip worked its way forward and his forehead puckered. “It wasn’t
really
a funeral. More of a memorial service.”

“What do you mean?”

“Apparently the police haven’t released her body. No body, no funeral.” He fingered his tie. “No one even noticed this lovely.”

I’d imagine not. Not when Roger took Mistress K as his date.

He threw himself into the chair, stretched out his legs and crossed his ankles. “I don’t want to talk about my tie or the service. I want to talk about you. Are you all right?”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re sure? You don’t look all right. Is there no one here who can help you with your hair?” He sounded way too much like Mother.

I patted the rat’s nest. Turns out, combing through it was remarkably painful. Every tug on every snarl brought tears to my eyes. “My hair is fine. Tell me about the memorial service.”

“It was packed. Standing room only. I bet half the people there just wanted to make sure she was actually dead. The other half wanted to see who showed up.” His brows rose and his eyes sparkled. “You’ll never believe what happened.”

“Roger brought a date.”

He screwed up his face, stuck out his tongue, and his gaze cut to the phone. “Who have you been talking to?”

“No one. Lucky guess. Tell me more.”

“Do you remember the part in
The Wizard of Oz
when the witch is dead and the Munchkins start singing? Think that kind of happiness. I swear every woman there was ready to break into song. Maybe a few of the men too.”

“I thought men liked Madeline.” I knew men liked Madeline.

Ever dramatic, Powers looked over his shoulder then lowered his voice. “Not to speak ill of the dead...”

This was going to be good.

“But she wasn’t above a spot of blackmail.”

That I knew. That everyone knew. She’d tried to blackmail Topper Buckley a couple of years back and it had backfired. Badly. He told everyone he knew, including his wife, that he’d made a terrible mistake with Madeline and that she was a lousy lay...not sure if he told his wife that part. At any rate, Madeline was furious and everyone else quietly cheered and made sure the Buckleys were invited to more parties. “Old news.”

He waved one of his long fingers like a metronome and smiled a smile worthy of Mephistopheles. “The new scuttlebutt is that she was blackmailing Stanton Wilde and Prudence Davies.”

The scuttlebutt was wrong. Whatever nasty bit of information Madeline had on Stanton Wilde was anyone’s guess. Maybe he cheated on his taxes or his wife but he wasn’t cheating with Prudence. Henry was cheating with Prudence. Poor Prudence. If anyone found out Madeline had been going to Club K, she’d toss her hair and invite them to join her there. If anyone found out about Prudence, she’d be ruined—kicked out of the altar guild and the Junior League.

“Did you see her there?” I asked.

“Prudence?” He nodded. “She had on the most God-awful dress you ever saw and she turned positively green when Roger came down the aisle with his date.” He rubbed his chin. “I wonder if Pru has designs on him. Rich widower and all.”

I doubted it. She probably hadn’t expected to see the owner of Club K walking down the aisle with him or that her two lives might intersect beneath the apse of St. Michael’s Episcopal.

“What about Kitty Ballew?”

“She was there with John. She looked pale but then again, when doesn’t she? Dreadful hat.” He tilted his head to the side. “Do you know something? Spill.”

Clever, urbane Powers, who belonged in New York and stayed in Kansas City to keep Bitty Sue happy, loved a scandal. I wasn’t going to provide him with one.

“I don’t know a thing.” I ignored the itch on the tip of my nose.

He stared at me, probably searching for tells. I stared at the truly awful watercolor someone had hung on the wall and thought about the seventh hole at Pebble Beach. The view of the Pacific was awe-inspiring.

After a moment, he ceded defeat. “Everyone was speculating on who killed her.”

“Who’s the lead suspect?”

Powers flushed and his grape green gaze dropped from my face to his lap.

I was the lead suspect. At least among the country club set. My breath whooshed out of my chest and I collapsed against the stack of pillows behind me.

“No one blames you. Everyone thinks she had it coming.”

“I didn’t kill her.”

“Of course you didn’t.” He reached forward and patted my hand then his nose twitched.

Oh dear Lord. If Powers didn’t believe in my innocence, what hope had I that anyone else would? If Detective Jones didn’t catch the murderer, I’d spend the rest of my life under a cloud of suspicion.

Powers gave me a second pat. “It’s not like you’re the only suspect. There was a large contingent who thought Roger finally cracked. I can tell you, bringing a date to his wife’s funeral did nothing to change their minds.” Powers stared at the buffed sheen of his nails. “There’s a fair number who think that Henry did it.”

The coffee stopped bubbling and started churning. Poor Grace. Both her parents were murder suspects—at least in the eyes of her friends’ parents. “I have to find out who killed Madeline.”

“Isn’t that a job for the delectable detective?”

It was. If Roger, Henry, and I were the prime suspects, he had a problem. I hadn’t killed Madeline. I was ninety-nine percent sure Roger hadn’t either. I was really, really hoping that Henry had a valid reason for disappearing the morning after his mistress’s body was found floating in a pool. If Prudence or Kitty or any of the other wives at the club had drugged then drowned Madeline, I didn’t like his chances of catching them. Any one of them could disappear behind a wall of waspy silence and expensive lawyers. “I’m going to do it anyway.”

“Ells, is that wise?” Powers shook his blond mane. “Madeline was murdered. I think you should retire to your atelier and paint.”

Nurse Sally walked in before I could tell him what I thought of his idea. She peeled back my eyelids, half-blinded me with a pen light, wrote cryptic notes on my chart then asked how
we
were feeling.

“Fine.”

She nodded and walked out.

“Who
was
that?”

“Nurse Sally.”

“Nonsense. That was the Zodiac Killer in disguise. Are you well enough to get out of here?”

“I think so.”

“Then why are you still here?”

An excellent question. The only thing keeping me in a hospital bed and a rear vented gown was Mother’s edict. In the face of another night with Nurse Sally, risking Mother’s wrath by deviating from her plan didn’t seem so terrible. In fact, I didn’t particularly care if she got angry. I wanted out.

I paused. Not caring about Mother’s reaction was totally new.

“Well?” Powers drummed his fingers on his leg.

“I don’t know. Mother wants me to stay.”

He rolled his eyes. “You’re a grown woman, you’re a mother, hell, you’re a murder suspect, decide what
you
want.”

He was right. About everything. What I wanted was to go home. “Would you please find Nurse Sally and ask her about discharge papers?”

He grinned. “Atta girl.”

“You say that now. Wait ’til Mother has a coronary.”

“I’ll deny everything.”

I raised a brow. “You think she’ll believe you?”

“It doesn’t matter if she believes me or not, she’ll still blame you.”

He wasn’t wrong and I didn’t care.

Besides, her reaction to me leaving the hospital ahead of schedule would be small potatoes compared to what she’d do when she found out I was going to try to find out who’d killed Madeline. Mother’s head would levitate from her shoulders again. It might even spin. Or she could go full on dragon with flames shooting from her eyes and mouth.

I was willing to risk it.

Twelve

Powers drove me home. He even agreed to escort me inside. Although that might have had something to do with Detective Jones’ sedan parked in the drive and not concern for my welfare.

A policeman in a blue uniform blocked my entrance. He even told me I’d have to leave because it was a crime scene.

Not likely. I was done with being bossed around. The insecurities that came with tangled hair, a make-up free face, and the mish-mash of clothes I’d worn home were nothing in the face of my newfound resolve. I said in my best Frances Walford voice, “I live here.”

He actually took a step backward. Maybe I’d achieved a certain gravitas or maybe he thought I was a recently escaped lunatic. Either way, I swept past him.

Detective Jones met me in the foyer. No plaid pants today but the nice brown eyes were the same. The slow-burn smile was new. The combination was tingle inducing. “Mrs. Russell, we weren’t expecting you.”

“Ellison,” I corrected.

Next to me, Powers grinned like a freshman girl in love with the senior quarterback. Then, coyly pretending disinterest, he picked up the mail lying on the bombé chest and perused the light bill, the phone bill, and the latest issue of
Architectural Digest
.

I scowled, a good dark scowl to make up for all the sweetness emanating from Powers. The expression also hid unwelcome flutters in the general vicinity of my stomach.

I brushed past Detective Jones and peeked into my husband’s study.

Lying in my hospital bed, I’d imagined a shambles. That was too tame a word to describe it. So were havoc, bedlam, and unholy mess. It was a certifiable disaster area. Every book had been pulled from its shelf, the desk drawers—their locks jimmied and broken— had been upended on the floor, most of the chairs were overturned and Henry’s files had been tossed about like confetti on New Year’s Eve. The Toby mugs had survived unscathed. They leered at me from their display case. The damned things were insured. If a burglar was going to destroy Henry’s office, was it too much to ask to shatter a few of the horrible things? Apparently so.

Everything—
everything
—was dusted with gray powder. I stepped inside for a closer look and my stomach dropped like an elevator with a cut cable. “Has Harriet quit yet?” I didn’t want to think about cleaning it up without her.

“Pardon me?” said Detective Jones,

“My housekeeper. Has she quit yet?”

“I don’t think so. She saw us dusting for fingerprints, mumbled something under her breath and walked out.”

It wasn’t too hard to figure out what she was mumbling. Either she was phrasing her resignation or her case for a large bonus.

The curtain rod had fallen and the curtains were in heaps on the floor. They too were covered with a fine layer of powder. “You tested the drapes for fingerprints?”

Detective Jones eyed the mound of fabric. “No. The dust travels.”

That was an understatement. I gazed at the chaos with the kind of wonder usually reserved for the Grand Canyon, the Great Pyramids, or an octogenarian shooting a hole-in-one.

Despite the utter havoc, my painting still hung on the wall. My adversary, whoever he or she was, wasn’t all that smart. “The burglar didn’t go for the safe.”

“The safe?” Detective Jones and Powers spoke as one.

“You don’t think Henry kept one of my paintings up because he liked it, do you? It’s hinged.” I tiptoed through the wreckage and swung the painting away from the wall.

“Can you open it?” Detective Jones asked.

Damn it. The concussion had obviously affected my mental faculties. I should have kept my mouth shut. I should have lingered in the doorway and sighed over the wreckage, anything but bring their attention to the wall safe. Who knew what secrets it held? “I can’t.” I jammed my hands in my pockets and ignored the itch at the end of my nose. “This is Henry’s safe. I don’t have the combination.”

What in the hell did Henry have in there? His favorite kinky toys or Polaroids of Madeline tied up at Club K or a signed confession? Whatever it was, I didn’t want to share it with Detective Jones.

“We’ll have to have it opened.”

They would? Oh dear Lord. Why? Was that standard procedure for a burglary? Damn. Damn. Damn.

“You’ll need a search warrant for that.” Hunter Tafft lounged in the doorway looking like a movie star version of a lawyer—Gregory Peck as Atticus Finch or Cary Grant as...well...anybody. I’ve never been so glad to see anyone.

He smiled at me, showing off his dimple and brilliant teeth. “I stopped by the hospital and they said you’d come home.”

Detective Jones grimaced. Hunter raised an insouciant brow. Powers looked like he wanted a comfortable seat, preferably one that reclined, a tub of popcorn and maybe some Milk Duds.

I just wanted them all out of my house so I could open Henry’s safe. I also wanted aspirin, a blistering hot shower and an extra-large bottle of extra-strength crème rinse for the tangles in my hair.

“Is Mr. Tafft representing you?” Detective Jones asked.

He was if it meant keeping the police out of Henry’s safe. “Yes,” I replied.

Detective Jones scowled, Hunter smirked, Powers’ fingers closed around imagined popcorn, and I sank into the nearest chair.

It was really too bad I picked a chair that had been damaged when the burglar destroyed Henry’s study. When I sank, the chair sank with me.

I hit the floor with a crash that sent my brain waves spiking like...spikes. For a moment, the pain blinded me. When I did see, I didn’t see stars, I saw planets and supernovas and whole galaxies. My eyes welled with tears and the three men who just a moment ago had looked like they were ready to argue to the end of time sprang into action.

Detective Jones extended his hand and hauled me off the floor then Powers daubed a handkerchief under my eyes. Hunter murmured something soothing.

Tears spilled over my lashes and ran down my cheeks. I sniffled and tried to ignore the ache in my jaw. Easier said than done when my head hurt, my house—or at least one room of it—was destroyed, Henry was missing, and I was a murder suspect. I
deserved
a breakdown. I just didn’t want a cop with nice eyes, the man Mother had selected to be my second husband, or Powers around when it started. As soon as they were gone, I’d let go. I’d cry. Not the delicate tears of which Mother might approve. I was going to bawl, great big gut-wrenching sobs. My nose would run like a fire hydrant being tested and my face would turn a shade just shy of red cinnabar. It was the kind of crying best done in solitude and I could hardly wait. I swallowed the sob that had lodged itself in my throat, snatched the hanky out of Powers’ hand and blew my nose. It sounded like a bullhorn.