THE DEEP END (2 page)

I shifted and focused on a robin perched on the edge of a deck chair farther down the row. It watched the activity near the pool with unabashed interest. Someone in a uniform was zipping Madeline into a black bag.

“What did she do?” Detective Jones sounded annoyed.

“When she wasn’t playing tennis or golf or bridge, she worked part-time for an art gallery.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

I forced myself to look into Detective Jones’ narrowed eyes. “She slept with other women’s husbands, she spread malicious gossip, and she wasn’t above a spot of blackmail.”

“Blackmail?”

“To get invitations to the right parties. That sort of thing.”

He tilted his head slightly to the side. “I’m going to need a list.”

He wasn’t asking for a list, he was asking me to commit social suicide. I had about as much chance of surviving as a kamikaze pilot. If the ladies who lunch didn’t kill me, Mother would. “I can’t help you.”

Again with the narrowed eyes. I liked Detective Jones much better when he was being solicitous and pouring me coffee.

I lifted my shoulders and let them fall. My path was clear. I couldn’t help him. A glowering police detective was nowhere near as intimidating as Mother when she was on the warpath. If I sold out any of her friends or their daughters...Well, Custer’s Last Stand would look like a day in the park. She’d massacre me.

Detective Jones nodded. Slowly. “I’ll have to ask you to come down to the station to make a statement.”

Which is how the worst morning ever got worse.

Two

I got home and glanced at the clock on the wall—a quarter ’til ten, a full fifteen minutes before Frances Walford ever got up.

Par for the course of my morning—not only was Mother up, she’d driven to my house and taken up a strategic position in my kitchen, ready for battle with a helmet of teased white hair and her everyday armor—diamonds on her knuckles and a serviceable navy dress. Someone must have called and told her that her odd, artistic daughter had found a body.

I’d wanted nothing more than a quiet moment to reflect, a shower, and a decent cup of coffee. Instead, I got my mother demanding to hear about my morning. At least she’d made coffee.

“Are you all right?” she asked.

I stared at her in disbelief. Was I all right? “I found Madeline Harper floating in the pool, spent two hours at the police station dressed in a damp swimsuit and a shirt with frayed cuffs, and I’m a murder suspect.”

Mother drew in a sharp breath then her eyes narrowed. “No need to get testy. I’m just trying to help.”

Of course she was. Just like the Romans were trying to help the Christians when they introduced them to the lions.

“You look like hell,” she added. So much for being solicitous. Mother reached into the refrigerator and pushed things around until she found the cream, then opened the container and sniffed.

“I bought it yesterday.”

She sniffed it again. “Why did they take you to the station?”

“I told them about Henry and Madeline.”

My mother froze. The cream spilling from the carton into her coffee cup froze. Max, who’d padded into the kitchen in hopes someone would leave food unattended, froze. I’d broken the cardinal rule of the Walfords.
Thou shall not air dirty laundry in public
.

“Why would you tell them that?” Her voice was arctic.

“It was hardly a secret. They were going to find out anyway.”

She arched a brow.

“Madeline was murdered.”

She wanted to tell me I was being fanciful. Her mouth opened, her lips even formed the words—but she couldn’t do it. The morning’s events supported me. Madeline was dead, and I’d been hauled to the police station in my swimsuit.

In a classic Frances Walford maneuver, she changed tactics. “I simply can’t believe you wore that to talk to the police.”

I took a very deep breath and reached for the coffee pot. “I didn’t have much choice.” All things being equal I would have preferred to wear actual clothes to a testosterone-filled squad room.

“I blame that woman.”

Yes. It was all Madeline’s fault. How inconsiderate of her to get murdered.

“Although, now that she’s dead, you and Henry can work things out.”

I took a bracing sip of coffee. “I don’t want to work things out.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Of course you do.”

Henry and I had agreed to stay married until Grace went to college. I’d thought that meant we would comport ourselves with discretion until we dropped her at her dorm room. Henry had different ideas. Ideas that included other women and whips and handcuffs and things I didn’t want to know.

“You can’t just give up on your marriage.”

I gave up eighteen months ago, but I didn’t have the energy to argue with her. “I need a shower.” She hadn’t followed me into a bathroom. Yet.

“Where’s Grace?” she asked.

“Working.” Babysitting for toddlers. Cheap birth control.

“Where’s Henry?”

“I imagine he’s at the bank. I haven’t seen him today.” Not only had I not seen him, I didn’t know if he’d been home last night. My coffee cup stalled halfway to my lips. If I was a suspect, Henry might be as well. Although there was no reason for him to murder Madeline—that I knew of.

“Ending a marriage is no small thing. You’re sure you want to divorce him?”

“Positive.”

Mother patted her hair and donned her contemplative expression, the one that always boded ill.

I tried to ignore it. I wiped down a clean counter top then I got the broom and swept up a few dog hairs. I finished my coffee, rinsed the mug, and put it in the dishwasher. Mother sat at my kitchen island, lost in thought, coming to terms with her daughter’s crumbling marriage to a philandering husband.

She could sit there until the cows came home. I needed a shower. I opened the door to the back stairs and took a step.

“Hunter Tafft!”

I blinked. “What about him?”

She patted her lips with a napkin. “He’s single again.”

Only Mother could travel from a failed marriage to a divorce to a new marriage in the time it took to wipe the coffee out of the corners of her mouth. “No.” I tried to sound strong and decisive.

Mother gave me her best don’t-be-dense look and waited for me to change my mind. She could wait for a month of Sundays. The answer would still be no.

“I am not going to date Hunter Tafft.” I wanted to be perfectly clear.

“Why not? You just told me your marriage was over.”

“No.”

“You’d make a lovely couple. He’s so distinguished.”

If I banged my head against the wall, would she even notice? Probably not, and I’d get a bruise on my forehead. “No.”

It would be crass to point out he was filthy rich. She did it anyway. “You’d never have to worry about the future.” I didn’t now. Mother was under the impression that my career as an artist would be as fleeting as summer lightning—blinding, bright, and gone in an instant.

“No.”

“Don’t be silly, Ellison. You need a man to look out for you. I’ll call him for you.”

Oh good Lord. “Please don’t.”

“You’ll thank me later.”

I wouldn’t. What’s more, I wouldn’t be able to look Hunter Tafft in the face ever again. “I’m going to go lie down.”

“I don’t think you should be alone.”

It was all I wanted, and I wanted it like an alcoholic wants a drink.

“We need a fourth for bridge. Why don’t you get cleaned up and join us?”

I wanted the comfort of taking up my brushes and moving the swirling fear and anger from my stomach to a canvas. “I don’t feel up to it.”

“Of course you do.” Mother locked her gaze on me. Caught in her sights, I did what I always do. I squirmed and hemmed and hawed and wished somewhere along the line I’d developed enough backbone to stand up to her.

“It will do you good. We’ll see you at two.”

Things I would rather have done than play bridge included triple bogeying the eighth hole, listening to Mother’s exhaustive explanation of the principles of defensive bidding, and playing doubles with Stephie Marks. Stephie established herself on the court, created a mental circle of approximately two feet, then didn’t move beyond it. Playing doubles with her was like playing singles on an extra large court with an obstacle in the center. Unfortunately, it’s easier to cheat fate than disappoint Mother. At precisely two o’clock, I walked into the card room at the country club. From her seat at the table, Mother gave me her best what’s-Ellison-wearing look. The expression includes narrowed eyes, pursed lips, a tilted chin, and the expectation of disappointment. I wore a sunny yellow Lilly shift printed with orange baboons and green squirrels, a matching lime sweater around my shoulders, and green sandals with a sedate heel.

She couldn’t complain. I was on time, appropriately dressed with my hair combed into the French twist she preferred. I offered her a pinched expression that might pass for a smile.

“Darling girl, I heard y’all had the most appalling morning.” Bitty Sue Foster beamed up at me. With her deep tan, surfeit of teeth and cotton ball hair, Bitty Sue’s smile could be rather blinding. I blinked. “Your momma said y’all didn’t want to be alone.” Bitty Sue was from Savannah and forty years of living in Kansas City had done nothing to erase her accent. “I’m so glad we had an open seat.”

Lorna Michaels reached out and trapped my wrist in her roped hand. With its pointy nails, it looked like a turkey vulture’s talon. “You must tell us all about it. You’ll feel better.”

She’d feel better dining out on a firsthand account of how I found a murdered Madeline Harper floating in the swimming pool. In that moment, murder seemed like a completely reasonable way to handle problems. I could slip cyanide into Mother’s five o’clock gin and tonic or maybe I could toss a toaster into her bubble bath or...I didn’t know. Never having contemplated murder before, I wasn’t terribly creative.

I offered a bare bones description of my morning while Mother fanned the cards in the center of the table. We all picked one. I drew the two of clubs. The lowest card possible. My luck continued.

Mother’s ace of diamonds won the deal. I shuffled the second deck—white with the country club’s crest in red (like blood on fresh fallen snow)—and wished I was somewhere else. Death Valley in July. Northern Canada in January. The police station in my swimsuit.

Bitty Sue offered me another blinding smile. “Powers tells me he sold another passel of your paintings to collectors on the coasts.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Isn’t that fine? He says you’re in high demand.”

Mother snorted. She blamed painting for the death of my marriage.

She wasn’t wrong.

The trouble between Henry and me started when my art became more than just a profitable hobby. The first tax return was a fluke. Women don’t make more money than their banker husbands. When it happened two years in a row, Henry developed an interest in handcuffs and floggers. I didn’t. Mother told me to give up painting and save my marriage. It was the one and only time I’ve stood my ground.

I paint. I am obscenely well paid for my paintings. Powers says the real money will be in lithographs. What neither Powers nor Henry understands is that I don’t paint for money. I never have. I paint because if I didn’t have a way to channel all my feelings, I’d go mad.

Bitty Sue took in Mother’s narrowed eyes and changed the subject. “My son sold another Picasso. Powers doesn’t like me bragging on him but he’s a mighty fine art dealer, isn’t he Ellison?”

“The best.” Powers Foster was better than a good art dealer. He was a prescient one. He could identify new talent long before his competition saw their promise. He belonged in New York clubbing with Andy Warhol and Bianca Jagger. With his effete manners, erupting pocket squares, and tendency to call everyone darling, he’d be a huge hit. Instead, he lived in Kansas City. Bitty Sue demanded it. Powers wasn’t any better at standing up to his mother than I was to mine.

It was amazing we got any bridge in. We were the most popular people at the club. Audrey Miles was the first to interrupt us. She simpered over and asked in that breathless way of hers if I was all right.

“I heard...” She covered her mouth with her hand as if she didn’t want anyone to see her say the words. “I heard she was murdered.” She sounded as insipid and vague as Mia Farrow in
Gatsby
. No wonder Gibson cheated on her with Madeline. Too bad he couldn’t hold Madeline’s interest. She moved on to greener pastures—namely Henry—and Gib filed for divorce. Why couldn’t Audrey have been the one to find Madeline? She had as much reason to want her dead as I did.

After Audrey came Tippy, then Buffy, then Georgina. Even Myra Feathers stopped by. She’d spoken to me just once since the club Christmas party, a terse demand that we replace her mink coat. All of them had the same questions, the same sympathetic frowns, the same avid gleams in their eyes. All of them made me long to be hacking my way out of a sand trap.

Women kept coming until Mother pulled out her dragon scowl, an expression so fearsome it could keep the Huns at bay. It worked a peach with country club women.

Thank God for Mother. If one more woman came sniffing around for gossip or to see how I was holding up—
you poor dear, you look a bit pale, but I suppose that’s to be expected. This must be doubly upsetting for you—
I’d have asked Mother for a refresher lesson on bidding.

My friend Libba would say I’m being too hard on them. Libba has never walked into a crowded room and had every woman in it fall silent.

It’s the law of the jungle. Only the strong survive and Henry’s affair made me look weak. They hardly bothered to hide their satisfaction at the collapse of my marriage—
Ellison Russell might be able to paint, but she can’t keep her husband happy.
They sharpened their claws
.
The most I could muster for any of them was a too bright smile—all teeth, no sincerity.