THE DEEP END (25 page)

Twenty-Eight

Before I could even begin to dig my keys out of the depths of my purse, Powers opened my front door. He wore white pants, a navy blazer, and a dotted viridian green ascot. The tie brought out the green in his eyes. He probably knew that. He looked like some minor European royalty who’d decided to go slumming. “Darling,” he drew out the first vowel, “you’re home.”

“I am.” If nothing else, the past week or so had taught me I was aces at stating the obvious.

“Your new housekeeper let me in.” The way Powers said
housekeeper
—twisty and sneering—let me know he disapproved of her. Had it been the muumuu that turned him off or the hair?

I didn’t need his approval. “I think she’s a treasure.”

He sniffed. “She was good enough to take Max into the kitchen.”

My lips quirked. His pants were that white, his jacket that crisp. Powers wasn’t risking even one dog hair marring his perfect ensemble.

“Have you been here long?” I asked.

“No.” He stepped aside and let me into my house.

I led him past the formal living room and into the family room. “I’ll just go get some ice. Make yourself at home.” I picked up the ice bucket.

When I returned with ice and a bottle of wine, Powers was leaning against the edge of my desk sorting through the mail.

“What’s this?” He held up the paper with the addresses.

I’d forgotten all about it. “I have no idea. Someone sent it to Henry. Gin and tonic?” I put the ice bucket down on the drinks cart.

“Do you have lime?” he asked.

“Of course.”

“Then yes, please.”

I mixed his drink and handed it to him. “Marjorie knows who the man in Ohio is. I’ve never heard of any of them.”

Powers took a contemplative sip of his drink. “Odd places to live.”

“I agree. Hunter is going to have his investigator look into them.” That sounded so much more impressive than saying
my housekeeper is going to snoop.
“Just leave it there on the desk. I’ll make sure he gets it tomorrow.”

Powers put the list back. He used his now free fingers to rim the edge of his glass. “How are you holding up? How’s Grace?” 

“She’s with Daddy. The farm is the best place for her.”

He nodded. “The grapevine says you found Roger Harper’s body—that he tried to commit suicide.”

“Roger didn’t try to kill himself.”

“Oh?”

“No one tries to kill themselves by sticking their head in a broken oven.”

Powers choked on his gin. More than choked. He spewed gin. On the desk. On his perfect pants. On the Tabriz that covered the hardwoods.

“Are you all right?”

He patted his chest. “Wrong pipe.” Then he looked at the carpet. “Damn! Ellison, I’m terribly sorry. I don’t know what happened. Do you have a towel?”

I put my wine down on the coffee table and fetched one.

“Really, I’m so sorry.” Powers fell to his knees and daubed at the carpet.

“Don’t worry about the carpet.” I handed him a second tea towel. “Take care of your pants.”

“But—”

“No buts. The great thing about Orientals is that the patterns hide stains. Not that gin is going to stain anything.” I put my foot on top of the towel he’d left on the floor. “Are you all right?”

He didn’t look all right. He looked pale beneath his tan—almost green.

He stared at the floor. “You’re sure your rug won’t be spoiled?”

“Grace has spilled everything from grape juice to Tab on this rug. Libba once dropped a glass of red wine on it. It’ll be fine.” I bent and picked up the damp cloth then held it up to demonstrate its unstained state.

“I am sorry.”

“Stop apologizing. Let me get you another drink. You look like you could use it.” It was rather sweet of him to get so upset about my carpet. He was still pale. He’d even raked his hand through his never-a-hair-out-of-place hair.

I walked over to the drinks cart, mixed another healthy Tanqueray and tonic, and brought it to him. “What were we talking about?”

“Roger.” Powers’ voice was muffled by its proximity to his shin. He was taking daubing his pants quite seriously.

“Right. Someone didn’t know the oven was broken.”

Powers’ shoulders shook again. Was he laughing? “So whoever tried to kill him completely screwed up?”

I nodded.

“Are you sure? Everyone in town is talking about how Roger killed Madeline and Henry then killed himself.”

“Roger knew the oven was broken.”

Powers looked up from his pants long enough to take a gigantic gulp of his new drink. “The neighbors saw him wheeled out.”

“He was taken to the hospital not the morgue.”

Powers daubed more vigorously. “Which hospital? I should send flowers. ”

“You can’t. He died.”

“I thought you said the oven was broken.”

“It was. He died of a drug overdose.” I took a sip of my wine. “Roger once told me that Madeline was the best thing that ever happened to him.” I wiped unexpected wetness from my eyes. “Can you imagine?”

Powers raised his glass in memory. “Poor Roger.” Then he squared his shoulders. “I’m supposed to be cheering you up.”

“I’m not sure that’s possible.”

“Of course it is. You have a show coming up. How’s the painting coming?”

I’d forgotten all about the show. There was no way the light-hearted, happy canvases in my studio would gel with anything I’d paint now. “About that...”

Power’s spring green gaze searched my face. His brow wrinkled. “You’re postponing.”

I shook my head. “I’m cancelling. I’ll bring you what I have and you can sell it without an opening.”

He opened his mouth, presumably to argue, then snapped it shut. We both knew I’d make less money without an opening. He didn’t have to point it out.

“You’ve had a rough time.” Powers Foster, master of understatement. “I know just the thing to take your mind off your troubles.”

Powers proceeded to share with me every scandalous tidbit he could think of. Some of them were even funny. Then we went to the créperie and ate crêpes filled with cheese and ham and bits of mushroom. Frankly, I couldn’t see why Powers was so wild about the place. I begged off going out for more drinks. He had me home in time for me to put on my nightgown and crawl into bed for the ten o’clock news.

At ten-thirty, I called Grace. “Honey, how are you?”

“Okay.” Her voice still sounded flat, like champagne without its sparkle. “Have the police found out anything yet?”

“If so, they’re not telling me.”

“Mom...”

“Yes, honey?”

“Be careful. Do you have Max with you?”

“He’s curled up at the foot of the bed.”

Max raised his head and looked at me. I swear the dog knew we were talking about him.

“I love you, Mom.”

“I love you too.”

We hung up. I punched the pillows a time or two. Max grumbled. I closed my eyes, sure I wouldn’t sleep. I did.

I know because Max’s growl jarred me out of a dream. The sound was deep, low, and menacing. He jumped off the bed and went to stand by the door.

I stayed in bed and strained to hear whatever it was that had disturbed the dog.

Nothing. Well, nothing but the dog’s growl. He looked over his shoulder, a clear why-aren’t-you-getting-up look on his doggy face and then I heard it. A thump as if someone had walked into a piece of furniture in the dark.

My heart, which had been stuttering along, switched into overdrive. It raced. It careened. It slammed into my chest.

I picked up the phone and got a busy signal.

Max growled again.

Someone was in my house. They’d taken the phone off the hook so I couldn’t call for help. I was in my bedroom with nothing but a dog and a .22 for protection.

I opened the drawer to my bedside table, closed my fingers around the gun, and released the safety. Then I eased out of bed and tiptoed to the door.

Max watched as my fingers closed around the knob and turned. I’d opened the door no more than an inch or two when he nosed past me and ran down the stairs at full speed. Someone once told me that a barking dog is offering a warning. Max didn’t bark. Whoever was in the house would meet Max with no more than the sound of his claws on the hardwood as warning.

Downstairs something crashed. Then something else. Then came a muffled voice uttering profanities. A cry of pain. Max barked. Then the back door slammed.

I stood frozen at the top of the stairs, my heart still trying to escape my chest, my fingers sweaty against the gun’s handle.

I didn’t move until Max appeared at the bottom of the stairs and looked up at me.

Then I sat, my legs suddenly too weak to hold me.

I don’t know how long I sat there—long enough for my heart rate to return to a human pace, for my hands to stop shaking, and for the dog to take a position at the bottom of the steps that assured me no one would make it past him.

Finally, I found the courage to creep down the stairs.

The shadows seemed darker, the white noise filled with menace. Despite Max’s obvious swagger, I worried the intruder might still be in the house. The front door was closed. I tiptoed toward it and felt for the security chain. It was still in place. Whoever had entered my house hadn’t done it through the front door.

I inched toward the kitchen. Next to me, Max’s nails clicked on the floor. My fingers grazed the top of his head. The dog had earned his very own t-bone steak.

The kitchen was pitch dark. I should have left lights on. Too late now. I steadied my shaking hand and flipped the light switch. Everything was as it should be except the back door hung open and the phone was off the hook. I put the receiver back in its cradle, counted to three, then picked it up again and wedged it between my ear and my shoulder. One hand clutched the gun, the other dialed the operator.

“I need the police,” I said. “Someone has broken into my house.”

A slightly bored voice asked, “Address?”

I gave it to her then I glanced at the oven clock. Two o’clock. The neighbors weren’t going to like yet another night of having their rest disturbed by flashing lights and sirens. One of them would call Mother. I shuddered. Then I remembered Mother wasn’t speaking to me. I doubted a little thing like an intruder in my house would change that.

I heard the first siren followed almost immediately by the doorbell.

With Max at my side, I peeked through a window before I opened the door to two police officers.

They stared at me, their mouths open, their eyes wide, and I realized I was wearing nothing more than a sheer nightgown accessorized with a gun.

“Are you all right, ma’am?”

How many times over the past week or so had I been asked that very question? How many times had I lied and said I was fine? I was tired of lying. “No.”

Before they could respond, another car, this one without flashing lights or a siren, pulled into the driveway. I knew before I saw so much as a loafer touch my driveway that Anarchy Jones was behind the wheel.

He strode up to the house with a scowl affixed to his lean face. The scowl deepened when he saw me standing in the doorway. “Are you all right?”

“She says ‘no,’” said one of the uniformed officers.

Anarchy looked at me closely and despite the warm night air, goose pimples raised on my arms.

“Are you hurt?” he asked.

I shook my head. My traitorous throat felt tight and quivery and not up to the task of speaking.

Again, I felt his gaze on me. It searched my face then moved lower. The damn nightgown didn’t hide a thing. In fact, it was designed to show off everything. I crossed the arm without the gun over my chest and felt heat rise to my cheeks.

A slow grin spread across his face and the chilly expression in his eyes thawed. Hell, it grew warm. He reached out and gently took the gun from my fingers. “Let’s get you something more to put on.”

I let him take the gun. No way was I letting him take me upstairs to find something more appropriate to wear to a burglary. Instead, I yanked open the front hall closet, grabbed a khaki raincoat and shoved my arms into the sleeves. I might look like a flasher but I wouldn’t be in my bedroom while the police poked around my house.

“You want to tell me what happened?” he asked.

“Max heard something. Then I heard something.” I bent and scratched behind my hero’s floppy gray ear. “When I let him out of my bedroom, he raced downstairs and I heard a crash or two. Then I called the police.”

“Where were the crashes?”

“The family room, I think.”

He raised a brow. “You’re not sure? Haven’t you been in there?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

I wrapped the raincoat around me and tied the belt. “If Max killed the burglar, I didn’t want to be the one who found the body.” I was only half-kidding.

Detective Jones pressed his lips together. Tightly. Like he was trying to hide a smile.

We stared at each other a moment. He’d probably prefer it if I quietly disappeared, went to Mother’s, let him investigate without me around. Wasn’t going to happen.

Finally, he sighed. “Let’s go.”

I turned on my bare heel and led him and the two uniformed officers down the front hall to the kitchen. We all stopped to consider the gaping back door.

“I assume you locked it before you went to bed,” said Detective Jones.

I rolled my eyes.

Such a childish response was beneath his notice. He ignored me to inspect the door and then the lock. “It hasn’t been forced. Who has a key?”

“Me, Grace, the housekeeper, Mrs. Landingham, our next door neighbor to the west—” As opposed to our neighbor to the east, who I was fairly certain donned black and rode a broom. She was probably outside casting an evil spell because I’d disturbed her rest. “My parents each have one.”

“That’s it?” Who knew Detective Jones had a sarcastic streak?

“If I think of anyone else, I’ll let you know.”

Watching Detective Jones examine the door wasn’t exactly scintillating. I moved toward the family room.

He caught my arm and stopped me. “No telling what’s in there. I’ll go first.”

I shrugged and followed him into an unholy mess.