THE DEEP END (14 page)

“So you do know how Madeline got in the pool?”

“No!”

“But you saw her the night she died?”

“Yes. No. I didn’t dump her in a pool.”

“I have your tea.” Libba breezed across the pool deck, her caftan snapping behind her. In one hand she held a glass of iced tea garnished with mint and lemon. In the other, she grasped something colorful and slushy, garnished with a bendy straw and a little paper umbrella. She wrinkled her nose at Kitty. “Are you looking for Henry, too?”

Kitty barely moved her chin.

Libba sucked on her drink. “Let me guess. An apartment in New York?”

“What?” The hand at the base of Kitty’s neck shook.

“Why are you looking for my husband?”

She opened her mouth, closed it, then repeated the exercise. Really, she should have prepared a story before she traipsed over.

In the pool, the children gave up on Marco Polo and balanced on a lane rope. A lifeguard’s whistle startled us all. Libba and I flinched. Kitty jumped out of her flip-flops.

“Were you with him and Madeline at Club K the night she died?”

The color leeched from Kitty’s skin until she looked like an empty duffle bag, one made with cheap, poorly tanned leather. “What’s Prudence been telling you? It’s all lies. That woman would say anything, do anything, to get what she wants.”

And Kitty wouldn’t?

It seemed likely one of them had killed Madeline.

“What’s Club K?” Libba asked.

Kitty’s shaking hand stilled.

I shifted my gaze to Libba. “It’s—”

“You just better watch out, Ellison. Look what happened to Madeline.”

“Are you threatening me?”

I pushed away from the reclined back of the chaise and sat straight.

“No. Of course not. I’m just saying you swim alone.”

Libba slurped up some more rum. “Sounds like a threat to me.” She shook her glass, swirling the contents of her glass. “Ellison, what’s the name of that police detective? He ought to know if someone’s threatening you.”

Did Kitty think I’d turn to Jell-O because she threatened me? Maybe the old Ellison. The new, improved Ellison said, “Jones.”

Kitty took off her glasses and glared at us. “I am not threatening Ellison, and I didn’t kill Madeline. I just want to know where Henry is.”

Lie. Maybe a lie. Truth.

I shrugged—a new, improved shrug.  Libba raised a brow.

“I didn’t kill Madeline,” Kitty insisted. “She got herself killed looking under rocks.”

Libba took another sip of her drink. “Everyone around here does that.”

Kitty perched her glasses back on her nose, hiding her eyes. “Not for money.”

The conversation was headed in a horrible direction but still I asked, “How much did it take for her not to tell John about you and Henry?”

An unbecoming shade of red darkened Kitty’s cheeks and she glanced at Libba. Now she worried what Libba learned? She should have thought about repercussions before she started an affair with my husband.

“I have no reason to keep Henry’s secrets.” I crossed my ankles. “Or yours.” Maybe she’d think twice about threatening me again.

A whiff of baby oil and sweat floated toward me on the breeze.

Kitty’s hand returned to guarding the base of her throat.

“I didn’t have anything to gain by killing Madeline.”

“No more blackmail.”

“She wasn’t blackmailing me.” Kitty scratched the side of her nose. “Prudence is the one who wanted her dead.”

Libba handed me my iced tea then tilted her head. “Prudence?”

“With Madeline out of the way there was nothing to stop her from being with Henry.”

“Henry’s married to Ellison.”

Kitty’s chin bobbed as if she was laughing, as if Libba had delivered the punch line to a joke.

She had. The joke was my marriage.

“Henry and I are getting divorced.”

Kitty’s brows rose above the frames of her sunglasses. Libba choked on a slurp of her tropical drink.

“He doesn’t know yet.”

Libba sank onto the chaise next to mine. “You’re sure? What about Grace?”

I lifted my iced tea to my lips and took a sip. “Grace is fine with it.”

“I guess that leaves you—” Libba pulled the umbrella out of her glass and pointed it toward Kitty, “—and Prudence to fight over him. I wonder which one of you will get him.”

After one hour, thirty-three minutes and seventeen seconds of talking about my impending divorce, I convinced Libba that I’d stayed at the pool long enough to earn her the ambiance committee chairmanship.

The car doors closed and Libba turned the key in the ignition. “Blackmail?”

“I’m sorry?”

“Madeline blackmailed Kitty. Kitty lied about that.”

Not a topic I wanted to pursue. It was a short jump from Madeline the blackmailer to Henry the blackmailer. “Sometimes people just scratch their noses.”

Libba snorted.

“Besides, Madeline is dead. It doesn’t matter anymore.”

“It matters if Kitty killed her.”

Libba made an excellent point. She turned the wheel and drove down my street. “She threatened you. That matters too.”

Another excellent point.

She pulled the car into the drive and slowed to a stop. “What are you doing tonight?”

“Dinner with Mother and Daddy.”

She nodded. “You’ll be careful?”

I chose to misunderstand. “Mother’s scary but she’s not actually dangerous.”

Libba scrunched her face. “Ha ha.”

I climbed out of her car. “It’s dinner at the country club. What could possibly happen?”

Famous last words.

Sixteen

Henry once accused me of pausing in doorways so I could make a grand entrance. Just goes to show how poorly he understood me. I pause to observe what’s on the other side, to take a last quiet breath, to gather my courage.

I didn’t pause in the door that led from the clubhouse to the terrace. I lingered. It was so tempting to turn around, go home, crawl into my jammies and watch Kojak. I sighed. Appearances must be maintained—for Mother’s sake, for Grace’s sake and I supposed, for mine too.

In Africa, lions cull the herd. In the jungle, jaguars kill the very young or the very old. At the country club, members winnow the weak.

Outside, in the hunting grounds, enormous pots of cadmium red geraniums and black wrought iron furniture created an oh-so-civilized killing field. The combatants wore crisp linen and printed cotton and needlepoint belts through the loops of their khakis. The fabric covered a cache of metaphorical weapons—poison-tipped arrows and swords and razor-edged knives. I wasn’t about to be winnowed. Not by men who wore gingham. Not by women whose most important decision of the day was the color of their nail polish. I straightened my shoulders, and passed through the door.

I walked straight to the table, careful not to stare—or even glance—at the people whose names were on envelopes in Henry’s safe. I might have half-stumbled when I passed Kitty and John Ballew’s table but that wasn’t because of a name on an envelope. It had more to do with the way she glared at me.

Daddy stood as I approached. Of course, Daddy’s envelope wasn’t in Henry’s safe. It was in mine until I could figure out how to destroy it. In the meantime, I had to figure out how to look him in the eye.

I tried. The expression pasted on my face was excruciatingly polite. It rivaled Mother’s. She might be furious with me for leaving the hospital early but no one near us would ever know. “Your father thought it would be fun to dine
al fresco
.”

“Great fun,” I muttered through locked teeth and clenched lips.

Daddy pulled out my chair.

I sat and a waiter appeared like a genie rubbed from a bottle to lay a napkin in my lap. “A Tom Collins for you this evening, Mrs. Russell?”

“Please.”

He shimmied off, a study in white-coated near magical efficiency.

Mother lifted her sunglasses and stared at my dress. “Aren’t you a bit old for a halter dress?”

I gritted my teeth so hard my jaw hurt. “It’s Missoni.”

“Miss who?” Daddy cocked his head to the side and considered the colorful zigs and zags of the fabric. “I think you look very pretty, sugar.”

“Are you wearing a bra?” Mother sounded scandalized.

I wasn’t. Bras were as passé as poodle skirts. I usually wore one anyway, but the Missoni didn’t allow for any extraneous straps. Instead, I’d slapped Band-aids across my nipples and hoped Mother wouldn’t notice. I should have hoped for world peace. It was more likely than Mother missing any detail of my appearance. “No.”

Mother sat back in her chair, raised her martini to her thinned lips and drank deeply.

A ruddy pink stained Daddy’s tanned cheeks. I don’t suppose any father wants to hear his wife and daughter discuss breasts or bras. He looked out at the view of the golf course, not at me, certainly not at my braless chest. “I still think you look pretty.”

Mother shot him
the
look. Poor man. If she ever discovered he’d done something worthy of blackmail her expression would make
the
look seem like the besotted gaze of young love. Where was the waiter with my drink?

Daddy took another sip of his gin and tonic. “Frances, be nice. Ellie has had a rough couple of days.” His voice was so low no one but Mother and me could hear him.

Mother sniffed. “It’s not like she’s a serious suspect.”

I ought to have claimed a headache and stayed home. I might not be a suspect but Henry was. If he ever turned up, Grace might have to live through watching her father tried for murder.

I glanced at the empty place at the table. “I thought Grace called you. She got a babysitting job and she’s not coming.”

“She called.” Mother lifted her wine glass to her lips.

A sinking feeling took hold of my stomach. She wouldn’t.

Daddy shot me a sympathetic look.

She had.

The waiter arrived with my Tom Collins. I thanked him, took a bracing drink then leaned forward and pitched my voice as low as possible. “It’s bad enough you feel the need to throw him at me. Must you do it here?”

Mother’s brows rose. She wasn’t accustomed to me questioning her dictates. “He’s a perfectly charming man and he’s representing you. Why shouldn’t we meet him for dinner?”

Because I was still married. Besides, the sparkle in his eyes was dangerous. What’s more, I wasn’t entirely sure if I trusted him. I scowled at her.

Daddy looked at Mother’s raised eyebrows then at my scowl and shook his head. “It’s a nice night. Why don’t you girls try and get along?”

Mother sniffed. “I’m sure I don’t know what I ever did that my daughters have such taste in men.”

Now my brows rose. Mother had been thrilled, to-the-moon happy, when Henry asked Daddy if he could marry me. Just look how that had turned out. By contrast, she’d been less than pleased when Marjorie brought home Gregory Blake from Akron, Ohio. It helped that his family was in the rubber business. She could put a brave face on a marriage that included a rubber manufacturer from Ohio. At least until she discovered the Blakes made condoms, not tires. She’d never forgiven Marjorie.

My sister was blissfully happy. She didn’t need Mother’s forgiveness.

“There’s a band playing tonight.” Ever the peacemaker, Daddy nodded toward the microphone stand and the speakers set up in the corner of the terrace. “When they start playing, will you dance with me, Ellie?”

I’m only good at a handful of things—painting, swimming, dancing, being polite, and, until a few days ago, pleasing others. Of that handful, I only like painting, swimming, and dancing. Besides, if I concentrated on the music and the steps and what great fun it was to dine
al
fresco
, I bet I could put a certain envelope clean out of my mind. “I’d love to, Daddy.”

Mother snorted.

I glared at her.

She stopped inventorying everyone seated on the terrace and glared back.

By any measure, Mother’s expression was scarier. Of course, she’d had decades to practice turning people to stone with just a look.

Except, the sensations inside me weren’t remotely stony. They felt more like molten lava. Burning, angry feelings that demanded a stand be made. “You liked Henry.”

“I did. But that was before he treated you shabbily. You’ll be well rid of him.”

I couldn’t argue that.

“Hunter would have been a better choice.”

Hunter Tafft went through women like Sherman went through Georgia. He hardly constituted a better choice. Well...maybe if you discounted Henry’s floggers and whips and infidelity and blackmail. Since Mother only knew about the infidelity, I was willing to argue. “Hunter has been married three times.”

Mother shrugged off my point. “Hunter hasn’t met the right woman.”

“He met me twenty-five years ago.”

“When you were a girl. When he gets to know you as a woman, he’ll fall head over heels.”

“I don’t want him to fall head over heels.” Not that he ever would. “I’ve had it with marriage.”

Mother paled then lifted her glass. If she didn’t watch out, she’d get tipsy. Daddy reached across the table and patted my hand. And Hunter Tafft blinded us all with the white of his smile.

Hunter claimed his seat at the table then devoted the salad course to charming us all. He talked tennis. Mother fluttered her eyelashes and gave me an I-told-you-he-was-fabulous kick under the table. When the entrées were served, Hunter discussed politics and managed to agree with both my parents’ differing viewpoints. During dessert, Daddy and Hunter compared notes on the golf courses they’d played. They talked about Gary Player and his win at the Masters. I knew Hunter’s charm had worked on Daddy when he offered to call one of his cronies in Augusta so Hunter could play the course.

Christ in a Cadillac.

I didn’t want Hunter to charm Mother. Or Daddy. Or me. I excused myself to the powder room...the pouter room. Pouting was definitely in order.

Either way, it was blessedly empty. No one was there to watch me freshen my lipstick, fluff my hair, or smooth the seams of my dress. I didn’t have to face Prudence or Kitty or the wives of any of the men that Madeline and Henry had been blackmailing. When I returned to the terrace, a singer was covering
Midnight at the Oasis
and a handful of couples were swaying on the area left clear for dancing.

At the table, Hunter stood, extended a hand and asked, “Dance with me?”

Mother narrowed her eyes, daring me to say no.

Dancing, which I loved, or listening to Mother try to sell me like a handful of magic beans...tough choice.

Common sense told me close proximity to Hunter might not be the best plan. He added a charming smile to his invitation. When he smiled, the skin around his eyes crinkled. Damn him. He was nearly irresistible. He led me to the dance floor before I could think to tell him no.

His hand at my waist felt warm. He used it to pull me closer. “It’s nice to see your parents.”

I made a noncommittal sort of sound.

“It’s nicer to see you.” He drew me closer to the crisp cotton covering his chest.

It was definitely better to talk about Mother and Daddy than me. “You charmed them.”

“I tried.”

“Why?”

“If we’re going to spend time together, it’s easier if they like me.”

“You’re my lawyer, not my boyfriend. It doesn’t matter if they like you or not.”

He opened his mouth, snapped it shut then twirled me in a circle. “What if I want more?” he asked.

I had a husband. I didn’t want a boyfriend. And, if I did, I certainly didn’t want a high-handed man who fired my housekeeper or tried to make decisions for me or smelled like Pierre Cardin cologne and old money. “Isn’t there an ethical problem with dating your client?”

“As you’ve pointed out, I’m neither a criminal nor a family law attorney. I’m going to have to refer your cases to other lawyers. So, there’s no problem.” The skin around his eyes crinkled again. “We can spend as much time together as we want.”

My throat was suddenly dry and any response I might have formed was lost in the depths of his eyes.

We danced for a moment in silence. Close enough for the warmth of his skin to touch me, close enough to shiver when his breath tickled my ear.

Too close. I pulled away, putting precious inches between us. “Tell me about Aggie.”

“Salt of the earth.”

“She said she lost her husband.”

He nodded. “Damn shame.”

“She said he was an investigator.” Someone who pried into others’ affairs.

“Do you think I sent Aggie to spy on you?” The hand on my waist stiffened.

The thought had crossed my mind. “Did you?”

“I work for you. Why would I spy on you?”

Because he wanted to know what was in Henry’s safe or because he thought I’d murdered Madeline? I didn’t quite believe that Hunter Tafft, man about town, was truly interested in the spurned wife of a community banker. He had to have an ulterior motive. Maybe I was being too hard on him. Maybe I wasn’t. “I don’t trust easily.”

If he’d offered me a trite lie—
you can trust me—
I would have left him on the dance floor, even if it meant walking by Kitty and John Ballew’s table and, given the way Kitty was scowling at me, she’d probably stab me in the leg with a fork if I got too close.

Fortunately, Hunter didn’t lie. “Having someone you care about betray you will do that.”

It made me wonder who’d betrayed him. He initiated a series of turns that left me too dizzy to ask. Other dancers made room for us. They stopped to watch then clapped when he slowed us to simple steps.

The band transitioned into
Haven’t Got Time for the Pain.
Hunter didn’t let me go. Instead he smiled at me as if I’d passed some sort of mysterious test. “You dance well.”