THE DEEP END (26 page)

Twenty-Nine

Why any burglar would bother with our family room was beyond me. My grandmother’s sterling tea service was displayed on the buffet in the dining room. Henry’s grandfather’s collection of Fabergé eggs glittered behind the glass of a curio cabinet in the living room. A framed Babe Ruth baseball card, which in better times Henry told me could fund our retirement, hung in the study. Those damned Toby mugs were there too. Some of them were quite valuable.

The family room held nothing but a bunch of comfortable, approaching shabby, furniture, and a television.

An undisturbed television.

By contrast, the area around my desk was destroyed. Drawers were emptied, papers were swept to the floor, and a Lalique paperweight that might have been worth stealing lay shattered near the window.

“Any idea what they were looking for?” Detective Jones asked.

I shook my head. “None.” It made no sense. Why would one of Henry’s blackmail victims think they could find something incriminating in my desk?

“You’re sure?” he asked.

“No idea.”

“There’s some blood over here,” one of the uniformed officers said. “Looks like maybe the dog bit someone.” He pointed to a bit of torn dark fabric on the floor.

Max, who’d settled next to me, grinned his best doggy grin and looked proud. I scratched behind his ear. “You get a steak tomorrow.”

“We’ll have to dust for fingerprints,” said the other officer.

Poor Aggie. She’d finally gotten the study put to rights.

“Tell me again who has a key,” said Detective Jones.

I counted everyone off on my fingers.

Detective Jones put the thumb of his right hand on one temple and his ring finger on the other then he squeezed. Almost like he was fighting a headache...or controlling the need to scold me. “You ought to get your locks changed. That door wasn’t forced.”

Did he actually believe one of the people who had a key to the house had turned to burglary? “I guess I should check under the flower pot.”

“The flower pot?” His voice held a certain
soupcon of incredulity.

“The one by the back door.”

Detective Jones left off squeezing his temples in favor of rubbing his brow with the heel of his hand. The man had a headache. That or he despaired of my intelligence. He jerked his chin toward one of the uniformed officers who promptly disappeared down the short hallway to the kitchen.

He returned a moment later. “No key.”

Detective Jones’ eye twitched. “Three murders and you left a key outside your door?”

When he put it that way, it made me sound reckless. Or stupid. I was neither. I just hadn’t thought about the key being there. “Grace sometimes forgets her key. Besides, we’ve kept a key under that pot for years and never had a problem.”

He snorted. “I think it’s safe to say circumstances have changed.”

I couldn’t argue with that. I could argue with his tone. “No one likes a smart ass, Detective Jones.”

The uniformed policemen, one furiously scribbling notes on a pad, the other poking behind the drapes, froze. Detective Jones glared at me through narrowed eyes. “Kitchen.”

When I didn’t move, he stepped forward, grabbed my elbow, and dragged me out of the family room.

Max growled. The same low, deep-in-his-throat sound he’d used to alert me someone was in the house. It promised blood and violence.

Detective Jones left off glaring at me and glared at the dog. The growl in Max’s throat faded to silence. Unfortunately that meant the detective was free to return his scowl to me. “Two couples. Four people. Three are dead. You do understand you could be next, don’t you?”

I understood it but I didn’t believe it. I shook my head. “I don’t think so.”

He hadn’t released my arm. His grip tightened. “Why? You know something. I know you do. You’ve got to tell me.”

That my husband was a blackmailer? Not likely. If my arm had been free, I would have crossed it over my chest, a not so subtle sign I had no intention of telling him anything. But it wasn’t free. When he used his other hand to catch my chin and force me to look into his brown eyes, my determination slipped.

“You have to tell me,” he insisted. “I can’t keep you safe unless I know what I’m up against.” His eyes were flecked with gold. Honest eyes. Sincere eyes. Keep me safe eyes.

I had so many suspects. Rand Hamilton. The other names on the envelopes. Kitty Ballew. Prudence Davies. I had to tell him something.

“You know Henry went to that sex club...” My voice was barely above a whisper and Detective Jones leaned closer. He smelled faintly of Yardley cologne and strongly of man. Heat rose to my cheeks. With any luck, he’d think it was because I was embarrassed to be talking about a sex club. There was something wrong with me. Had to be. My husband wasn’t even buried and Detective Jones made my heart flutter.

“And?”

“He went with Madeline Harper. When they were there—” I shifted my gaze from his eyes to his shoulder.

“Tell me, Ellison.” Somehow, he managed to be gentle and demanding in the same breath.

I focused on his shoulder. No plaid pants tonight. Instead, a plaid shirt. I followed a blue thread that got lost when it met tan and green stripes. “When they were there, they were also with Kitty Ballew and Prudence Davies. Kathleen O’Malley said Henry played Kitty and Prudence against each other to supplant Madeline.”

“You think one of them killed Madeline?”

I nodded. “It’s possible.”

“Why kill Henry?”

I shrugged. “Maybe she was angry he ignored her at the country club the night he got home. They were both there and he didn’t bother to acknowledge either one of them.”

“What about Roger Harper?”

“The fall guy.”

He released my arm. Not my chin, that he still held between strong fingers. I left off my study of his plaid shoulder and risked a glance at his eyes. His pupils were so large it was hard to see the irises were brown. His expression was intent, as if he was weighing pros and cons and repercussions. My heartbeat skipped.

With his free hand, he pushed a strand of hair away from my face.

My breath, already shallow, caught in my lungs.

He bent his head, drew closer.

My lips parted.

Time stopped.

Then Detective Anarchy Jones took a giant, abrupt step backward and released my chin. He turned his back to me and rested his hands against the kitchen island as if it was holding him up. “We’ll bring them in for questioning.” His voice was as sharp as the broken shards of my Lalique paperweight.

His rejection felt like diving into icy pool water. It stole my breath. It chilled me. It made me wonder what the hell I was doing.

Before I had a chance to figure it out, Hunter Tafft appeared in the doorway from the front hall. “Your mother telephoned. One of your neighbors called to complain that the police were at your house again.” His sharp gaze took in Detective Jones’ stance and me with my back pressed against the kitchen counter. He raised a brow.

“I was just telling Detective Jones who Henry spent his time with at Club K.” Hopefully talking about a sex club would explain away the embarrassed flush warming my cheeks.

Detective Jones straightened his shoulders, gave up the island’s support and turned to face Hunter. I checked to make sure my raincoat was securely fastened.

Hunter looked mildly amused. He also looked like he’d just stepped out of an ad for expensive cologne or champagne—sure of himself, sophisticated, perfectly dressed.

No one spoke for a full minute. I know. I watched the seconds tick by on the oven clock.

Finally, I broke the silence. “I’m going to go change.” Looking like a flasher wasn’t doing me any favors. “Maybe one of you could make coffee?” I brushed past Hunter and marched up the stairs with Max at my heels, the only male I could count on.

When I came back downstairs with brushed hair, brushed teeth, and khaki shorts instead of a khaki raincoat, the smell of coffee met me in the hallway.

One of them had figured out Mr. Coffee. There were grounds all over the counter to prove it.

At least he’d pushed the button then left. I had the kitchen to myself.

I poured myself a cup, brought the cup to my lips, sipped and spit. Whoever had violated Mr. Coffee had made tar laced with tiny bits of coal. The foul concoction now decorated the countertops, part of the wall and my white tee shirt.

“Too strong?” Hunter asked.

I nodded, unable to speak, the coffee having melted my throat. I filled a glass with water then drank. Deeply.

“I wasn’t sure how much to put in.”

So he went with half a can? I emptied the pot into the sink, rinsed it twice, then dared pull the handle to the filter. It was filled to the brim with grounds. Wet globs of them dripped onto the warming burner. There were probably even grounds in the water reservoir.

Grace was the proud owner of a fabulous I-can’t-believe-you’d-do-something-so-stupid look. It involved dropping her chin slightly toward the left collarbone, wrinkling her brow, and looking up through her eyelashes. She used it if I sang with the radio when we drove. It was also employed when I asked her vegetarian friend, Pamela, if she wanted bacon with her pancakes. On one memorable occasion, when I was late picking her up, Grace managed to hold the expression for the length of an entire car ride. I used it now.

“What?” he asked.

I grabbed a paper towel, held it beneath the hole at the bottom of the filter basket until it was over the trash basket, then upended it. Wet grounds plopped into the trash. I shook again, waiting for the filter. Nothing but sodden coffee grounds. The man hadn’t used a filter. Unbelievable.

Then again, my life had become unbelievable. Murders and break-ins and fights with Mother that wouldn’t be easily resolved.

I tossed the coffee grimed filter basket into the sink and turned on hot water, poured some dish soap onto a sponge and began to scrub. I scrubbed the pot too. Hard.

“Out, damned spot.”

I glanced over my shoulder at Hunter. He wasn’t leaning against the coffee spattered counter, he was lounging. His hands were in the pockets of his pressed khakis. His navy blazer was unbuttoned. He needed just a breath of wind in his hair and he’d be on the deck of a yacht. His eyes ruined the illusion, they were serious. Also, a few lines puckered his forehead. And he was quoting Macbeth.

“Pardon me?” I snapped.

“‘Out, damned spot.’ It’s what Lady Macbeth says when she feels guilty over Duncan’s death.”

“If anyone should feel guilty, it’s you. You may have killed Mr. Coffee.” I returned to my scrubbing, this time with a bristled pot scrubber.

“Liar.” He stepped closer. I could sense him right behind me. “You’re wondering if you’d turned over the files if Roger Harper would still be alive.” His voice was so low I could hardly hear him. “You’re wondering if this would all be over.”

I hadn’t been thinking that at all. I’d been debating between Kitty and Prudence as the most likely murderess. Hunter must have been thinking the files held the key. Hunter felt guilty. The lawyer had a conscience. Who knew? I held up my brush and turned to face him. He was inches away. “Would you like to scrub for a while?”

“You seem to be doing an able job.”

“Then maybe you’d like to wipe off the counters.” I jerked my chin toward a roll of paper towels.

He didn’t move. He was close enough for me to feel his warmth, to smell fine fabric and a trace of expensive cologne, to see the flecks of ice melting in his eyes. Oh dear Lord. I’d already had one near encounter in the kitchen. I wasn’t up for a second.

I thrust the dripping brush like a sword, stopping it just short of his immaculate jacket. “Scrub or wipe.”

He retreated and I took a deep breath of air untinged by his scent.

“I’ll wipe.” He tore a paper towel off the roll.

“Thank you.” I nodded toward the hallway that led to the family room where the police poked and prodded and covered my belongings in dust. “We can discuss Macbeth another time.”

“In the morning.”

“It is morning.”

“In the morning when we get up.”

I froze. My heart, my muscles, my lungs, all cast in ice. Just for a moment. Then I waved the scrubber in Hunter’s direction. Who cared if I covered the freshly wiped counters with soapy water? Not me. “
We
are not getting up. I am getting up. You are getting up. There is no
we
.”

“I’m spending the night.” He crossed his arms over his chest.

I should have stabbed him with the scrubber when I had the chance. Too late now. “You’re not.”

Hunter snorted. “Ellison, someone—maybe the murderer—has a key to your house. I’m spending the night here. Or, if you’d prefer, you can come back to my place.”

I didn’t want him here and I sure as hell didn’t want to go home with him. “Max will protect me.”

Hunter tried out Grace’s I-can’t-believe-you’d-do-something-so-stupid expression. He looked like Atticus Finch staring down one of Tom Ewell’s lies. “We both know that dog can be bought off with a bone.”

He wasn’t wrong. I tried a different tack. “You can’t spend the night with a client. Isn’t there a lawyer rule against that?”

“You’re not my client. Your mother is. She’s the one who sent me over here tonight. Remember?”

I ought to have written him a retainer check days ago. Where was my checkbook? The blasted thing had been in my desk, in the family room, with the police. Damn.

Before I could stop, consider or talk myself out of it, I marched into the wreck of the family room, located my checkbook and picked it up off the floor.

Detective Jones and the two uniformed officers stopped wreaking havoc and gawked at me.

I waved it at them. “I need this.” Then I narrowed my focus to Anarchy Jones. “And I want my gun.”