THE DEEP END (20 page)

Anarchy wouldn’t do that. Anarchy? The man investigating my husband’s murder was no longer just Detective Jones. He was Anarchy, a man who had as many issues with his father as I had with my mother.

“What? What are you thinking about? You look like you sucked a lemon.” Hunter hadn’t let go of my elbow and he gave it a small shake. “Come along. I’ll see you to your parent’s house.”

All things being equal, I wished he would have left me with Anarchy.

Twenty-Three

There were three Mercedes, a BMW, two Volvos, and four Cadillacs parked in front of Mother and Daddy’s house. The Bundt cake brigade had arrived in full force.

I was tempted to drive right on past.

A glance in my rearview mirror at Hunter Tafft’s car made me pull into the drive, throw my car in park, and hurry inside. I didn’t want another lecture on lying to the police nor did I want to know the contents of the envelopes in my safe.

Bitty Sue Foster met me in the foyer. “You poor girl. How are you doin’, sugar?”

I dredged up a weak attempt at a smile. “I’ve had better days.”

“Ain’t that the truth? Your momma has the ladies well in hand. Why don’t you go freshen up?”

It was a nice way of telling me I looked like hell.

I snuck upstairs, powdered my nose, combed my hair and twisted it away from my face, then gave my lips a swipe of sea orchid pink. I was ready. Prisoners on their way to face a firing squad were more eager to face their fates than I was.

I tiptoed down the back stairs, the ones that would deliver me to the kitchen, and earn me another minutes’ respite. Voices stopped me. Not the voices of Penelope, Mother’s long-suffering housekeeper, or Frank, Penelope’s husband who served as additional help when Mother entertained.

Instead, I heard Prudence Davies’ unmistakable bray and Kitty Ballew’s squeaky response. “I don’t know, I just can’t see her doing it.”

“Who then?” Prudence sounded stuffy, almost as if she’d been crying.

“Maybe Roger. Maybe you.” There was a pause then the click of high heels on hard wood and the gush of the tap. Whatever Kitty said next was lost behind the sound of running water.

The tone of Prudence’s answer carried up the stairs although not the words themselves. Anger, sadness, outrage. Then the tap was turned off and I could hear again. “She was a bitch and she deserved what she got. But Henry? Never. I,” Prudence’s voice cracked, “I loved him.” A sniffle followed. “You could have done it. It could have been you.”

Kitty’s laugh was as shrill as a lifeguard’s whistle. “You’ll never pin this on me.”

The snip of a pair of scissors reached me. What the hell were they doing? Why hadn’t Kitty denied killing Henry? Did I have it all wrong? Maybe it wasn’t one of Henry’s blackmail victims who’d killed him. Maybe it was Kitty or Prudence.

“I saw you looking at him last night,” said Prudence. “You were furious.”

“Weren’t you? He disappeared and I worried. I couldn’t sleep for worrying. Then when he finally comes home, he goes to the country club to see the Ice Queen and ignores us.”

They called me the Ice Queen? I swallowed a hysterical giggle and considered sneaking back up the stairs, but I stayed put.

“It’s always been like that.”

Another snip and then Kitty said, “He didn’t ignore Madeline.”

Neither spoke for a moment. Were it not for the occasional sound of scissors cutting through something, I would have thought the kitchen empty.

Prudence broke the silence, her voice, thick with tears, still conveyed disdain. “You thought you’d take Madeline’s place. That was never going to happen. You aren’t kinky enough.”

“And you are?” Kitty’s voice was every bit as disdainful as Prudence’s.

“I did whatever he wanted.” Prudence gasped for breath as if she was struggling not to sob. “I did whatever it took to keep his attention and it wasn’t enough.”

Had Prudence killed Madeline? Had she killed Henry? I was frozen to the steps.

Kitty snorted. “That was Henry’s genius. No matter what we did, it was never going to be enough.”

“I hate her.”

“Who? Madeline?”

“Ellison. She’s the one who’ll accept the sympathy. We’re the ones who loved him.”

“You ought to get yourself cleaned up,” Kitty said. “You can’t go back out there looking like you’ve been crying.”

The freezer door opened and someone dug for ice, presumably for Prudence’s tear-swollen eyes.

“I left my handbag in the living room.” Prudence’s voice was muffled.

“Then sneak upstairs and use Frances’ powder. You’ve got to do something.”

Sneak upstairs? My feet unfroze and I hurried back to the second floor then down the front steps. Better to face a full contingent of country club ladies than Prudence when she’d been crying over my husband. I paused in the doorway to survey the chattering crowd. Navy was the color of the day. Navy dresses, navy skirts paired with demure white blouses, navy pumps and even a navy suit or two. The assembled guests looked like blueberries dotting the lemon chiffon of Mother’s living room. I wore black.

Mother’s friends were there in force. As were mine. Together we played tennis or bridge or golf. Women I’d known since I was old enough to play tea party held delicate Spode cups and saucers in steady hands. They would offer me trite expressions of sympathy and I would feel like a fraud accepting condolences for a grief I did not feel. Any sadness in my heart was there for Grace, for the very real grief she was feeling.

Someone noticed me standing in the arched entry and the quiet conversation stilled.

Mother put her cup on a side table, stood, graceful as a perfect swan dive, then came and put her arm around my shoulders. “Look at all the people who wanted you to know they were thinking of you.”

I offered up the expected sad smile. “Thank you all for coming.”

Mother led me to a delicate fauteuil covered in bargello fabric in the softest shades of rose madder and Winsor lemon. Watercolor instead of acrylic or oil. The perfect frame for the picture of a grieving widow. “Sit,” she instructed. “I’ll get you some coffee.”

Lorna was the first person to take my chair’s twin. She sat, leaned forward and reached for my hand with her scarlet-tipped talon. “I’m so sorry for your loss.”

Lorna’s fingers were cool, dry, and despite their resemblance to a turkey vulture’s, comforting. “Thank you,” I murmured. “This has all been such a shock.”

We chatted for a few moments then she ceded her seat to Bitty Sue. “Honey, I brought you a ham baked in Coca Cola. You won’t have to worry about cooking for a week.”

“Thank you, Bitty Sue.” I didn’t tell her I never worried about cooking. “I know we’ll appreciate that.”

“Powers will be here soon. He’d be here now but he had some deal he needed to close.” She bent so she could whisper in my ear. “I’m not supposed to talk about it but it’s another Picasso. He’s doing real well selling those paintings. He hasn’t asked me for help in months.” She sat back in her chair, unaware she’d shocked me into silence.

Why did Powers need help—country club shorthand for money—from Bitty Sue?

She patted my knee. “Nothing else would keep him away.”

Penelope wandered through the room with a stack of cucumber and watercress sandwiches on a silver tray. I beckoned her over, took a sandwich, and found my voice. “I’m sorry, Bitty Sue, I haven’t eaten today.”

“Oh, honey. Of course you haven’t. I imagine you’ve been too upset to eat a bite. But you’ve got to keep your strength up.”

I hadn’t eaten because I’d lacked the opportunity not the appetite. Turns out they don’t serve canapés at the station house. Still, for Bitty Sue’s sake, I nibbled rather than gorged.

Laura Ballew, John Ballew’s mother, Kitty’s mother-in-law, was sitting next to me when Kitty entered the living room carrying a bouquet. A watery Prudence trailed after her. Laura’s upper lip curled slightly. “Dana Simmons brought you some flowers from her garden and Kitty offered to arrange them.”

I wasn’t sure if the curled lip was for flowers from a garden rather than a florist or for the less than stellar job Kitty had done sticking them in the vase. Either way, the flowers explained the snip of the kitchen scissors. “How thoughtful of both of them,” I said.

Laura’s gaze was as pointed as the tip of an ice pick. “That’s Kitty, always thinking of others.”

Laura knew. Maybe not about the kink or the blackmailing or the orgies—but she knew about Kitty and Henry. Beneath the cool lines of her navy shift, she was seething. If Kitty had killed Henry, if she was caught and brought shame to the Ballew name, Laura might kill her before she ever saw jail.

“Were the police dreadful? Do they have any idea who did this terrible thing?” Laura’s hands were clasped so tightly in her lap I could see the whites of her knuckles.

It was almost as if we were thinking the same thing.

I shook my head. “They were very kind. But—”

“Laura, Annie Bruce was just sharing her secret recipe for lemon squares. I know you’ve wanted it for years. Come write it down.” Mother had Laura out of her chair before she had time to object. Before we had time to sidle up to the idea that Laura’s daughter-in-law had killed my husband.

Barb Evans took her place. I shifted in my chair, clasped my hands in my lap and waited, unsure of how to begin a conversation with someone my husband had been blackmailing.

Who would have thought that perfectly dressed, perfectly coiffed, president of the Junior League Barb would end up as a name scrawled on an envelope in Henry’s safe?

“I’m so sorry for your loss,” she said.

I searched her long, tanned face for hints of irony. She had to be thrilled that the people who’d been blackmailing her were dead. She didn’t look pleased or smug or even relieved. Her forehead was slightly puckered and the expression in her eyes was kind. She looked sympathetic—and sincere. “Thank you,” I murmured.

“Losing a loved one is the worst sort of pain.” She reached forward, clasped one of my hands in hers, gave it a squeeze then released it. “I hope you’ll call me if you need anything.”

Again I searched her face, this time for a hidden agenda. Did she want to get close to me so she could search for whatever proof Henry had of her indiscretions? She didn’t look like a woman with an agenda. She looked like someone who meant what she said.

I crossed my ankles and wondered what she’d done to end up as a name in Henry’s safe. “You’re very kind.”

“I’m not.” She opened her handbag and withdrew a pack of cigarettes. She even withdrew one from the pack. Then she noticed the lack of ashtrays and slid the Virginia Slim back into its package. “I heard you ran over his body. You must feel terribly guilty. You shouldn’t feel that way.”

When I learned he was already dead, any guilt I felt had dissipated like mist in the sunshine. How do you tell someone that you don’t feel the least bit guilty about running over your husband? You don’t. My hands were neatly folded in my lap. The left hand, lying atop the right squeezed.
What do you feel guilty enough about to warrant blackmail
?

Mother might have some idea. She had everyone’s life story committed to memory. She remembered who dated in high school, anniversaries, birthdays, and the names of all her friends’ grandchildren. I didn’t have to open Henry’s envelope to get an idea of what had happened in Barb’s life to make her feel guilty. I just had to ask Mother. Or Hunter.

One thing I could tell without Mother’s input. Barb had no idea who’d been blackmailing her. Did Henry’s other victims? If they didn’t, who had killed Henry? Kitty? Prudence? “Where’s Grace?” Barb asked.

I returned my wandering attention to the woman sitting across from me and loosed my left hand’s death grip on my right. “My father took her out to the house in the country. I thought she could spend a few days up there while I get things...” My voice trailed off.

“Settled?” Barb suggested.

“Settled.” It was as good a word as any for planning a funeral, dealing with the police, and discovering who killed my husband. “Thank you for being so kind.”

“It’s my pleasure. Sometimes we get so caught up with the little things we forget what’s important.” The hint of a smile touched her lips. “If you need someone to talk to when the Bundt cake brigade is gone, call me.”

Three well-meaning ladies and two finger sandwiches later, Powers arrived. He wore a navy suit with a subtle chalk stripe, a positively boring tie and his pocket square was a neatly folded bit of white linen. He looked slightly green beneath his tan. Selfishly, I needed the carefree, funny Powers who could make me smile and forget. Instead, the man who collapsed into the seat next to mine looked like he’d triple bogeyed every hole on the back nine.

“Are you all right?” I asked.

He offered me a half-hearted smile. “I think that’s my line.”

“My husband’s been murdered. I’m not all right. You?”

“I’ve been better.”

“Anything I can do?” I patted his hand.

Powers grimaced. “Ellison, you have to stop stealing my lines.”

“I wouldn’t be stealing anything if you didn’t look like you’d just run over your dog.”

“I don’t have a dog.”

“Well, trust me, if you did, and you ran over it, you’d feel awful.”

He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, an odd expression in his green eyes. “So it’s true? You ran over Henry?”

I might not feel guilty about running over Henry’s body, but it also didn’t count as one of my finest moments. “I’m afraid so.”