THE DEEP END (3 page)

After Mother donned her fire-breathing face, we managed to play an uninterrupted rubber. Bitty Sue, Lorna, and Mother managed two bottles of wine as well.

When Bitty Sue went down two because she trumped her own winner, she sighed deeply. “I told Powers time and again that woman was nothing but trouble. I’ve always wondered why he hired her.”

Mother looked from her cards and rolled her eyes. “Isn’t it obvious?”

Why did they insist on talking about Madeline? I’d rather talk about Watergate. Like everyone else, I was sick to death of hearing about it, but I’d happily discuss tapes or impeachment or even G. Gordon Liddy rather than Madeline.

Besides, if Mother thought Madeline and Powers had ever been together...Well, that was about as likely as Lorna and Powers. Powers didn’t date women. Obviously, Mother’s observational skills had been severely handicapped by years of paying attention to only me.

I suppose I could have asked Powers to fire Madeline. He’d have done it. Keeping an artist happy is more important than keeping a part-time salesperson. But it seemed petty. If Henry hadn’t taken up with Madeline, he would have found someone else. Besides, Madeline was willing to work on straight commission so Powers didn’t have to pay her unless she sold something.

The next time I was dummy I escaped to the powder room. The ladies’ lounge at the club is a study in wishful thinking—white on white, with glass topped lobster traps serving as end tables, Krill baskets to hide the tampons, and etchings of seashells. The white chaise lounge sported a marine blue pillow. Someone wanted to be in Nantucket, wanted to forget that we were perched on the edge of the plains, a place rich in wheat and cattle and poor in ocean vistas. 

I would have stayed at the table squirming while my bladder protested the gallon of iced tea I’d sent its way if I’d known Prudence Davies was going to be there. Henry used to call her a bony-assed harpy—when he was feeling charitable. I tried not to call her anything. I tried to stay out of her way.

“Ellison, you poor dear. How are you?”

I gave her a half-hearted attempt at a smile, the kind that shakes at the corner of your lips because your muscles aren’t quite up to it. “Fine.”

She pulled a tube of lipstick from her purse. “I think it’s so brave of you to be here.”

“Brave?”

Prudence gave me her version of a crocodile smile and I thought I ought to take notes. Her smile managed to communicate actual menace. “I don’t know if I’d be able to show my face if my husband was out last night with a woman who was found dead this morning.”

Bony-assed harpy was far too nice a description. I lowered my lashes so she couldn’t read the expression in my eyes. “How do you know Henry was out with Madeline?”

“I saw them.”

“Really? They only go to the one place.” My husband didn’t take Madeline out for dinner or dancing. He took her to some kinky club downtown. If Prudence had seen them out together, she’d have to have been there too. Prudence in a dog collar...I’d pay to see that.

She blinked. Rapidly. Swallowed. “I mean, I heard it through the grapevine. You know.”

“I do know.” I tried out a crocodile smile. I even admired it in the mirror. I’d discovered the secret to menace. I had to feel it, actually mean it. I let the threat of exposure hang in the air. No more altar guild or debutante selection committee or welcome committee for new club members for dear Prudence. “I do hope you haven’t been sharing that story.”

Her gaze met mine in the mirror. “Of course not.”

She’d told everyone she knew.

Damn it. Henry was a prize jackass, a pimple on the butt of humanity, a middle-aged man clinging to the illusions of youth and power like a capsized sailor with an inflated donut.

He was also Grace’s father, and my daughter didn’t need both of her parents to be murder suspects.

Three

When I got home from bridge, a strange sedan was parked in the circle drive in front of our house. I pulled in behind it.

The driver’s door opened and a familiar plaid-clad leg appeared. Apparently, Detective Jones had more questions.

His chin jerked a greeting. “Mrs. Russell.”

“Detective Jones, if we’re going to see each other more than once a day, you’re going to have to call me Ellison. Mrs. Russell was my mother-in-law.” A queen among battle axes.

He grinned. Nice eyes and a nice smile. “I don’t know if we’ll be seeing each other that often.”

“Call me Ellison anyway.” He wouldn’t. It was probably against regulations.

“I’m looking for Mr. Russell. Is he at home?”

His car wasn’t.

“We can check.” I unlocked the front door. “Be careful. Max ate the basket that catches the mail and I haven’t got around to replacing it. I slipped on a flyer yesterday and nearly broke my neck.” Despite my warning, I was the one who managed to kick an envelope under the bombé chest that stands in the foyer. I stooped and collected the rest of the envelopes that were splattered like paint droplets across the floor.

“Who’s Max?”

“The dog.”

On cue, Max appeared at the top of the stairs and yawned. He had the look of a dog who’d been asleep in my bed. Evil beastie.

The evil beastie trotted down the stairs and gave Detective Jones’ crotch an exploratory sniff.

Oh dear Lord.

To his credit, Detective Jones chuckled and scratched behind Max’s ears.

Max gave himself over to bliss and leaned against the detective’s legs.

I used to think Max was a good judge of character. But Max likes Henry, so my faith in his doggy judgment has been shaken.

I tossed the mail onto the chest. “If Henry’s home, he’ll be in his study.”

Detective Jones and Max followed me down the front hallway and waited while I tapped on Henry’s door. No answer. When I opened it, the smell of cold, stale air whooshed out at us.

Detective Jones stepped around me and entered. His nice eyes had narrowed. They were taking inventory. He’d had all day to investigate Madeline’s death. All day to learn the details of her relationship with my husband. Maybe he’d even heard of their proclivities.

Proclivities Henry had promised to keep far from Grace. No one would guess those proclivities from Henry’s study—Tabriz rug on the floor, framed diplomas on pecan-paneled walls, a solid, dependable desk suitable for a solid dependable banker, leather club chairs, a picture of Grace in a silver frame, and one of my first paintings hanging above the fireplace. I was surprised he hadn’t replaced it. Probably it had been hanging there so long he didn’t notice it.

The detective crossed to the desk and ran his finger across its surface. It made a track in the dust. Harriet needed to clean in here more often.

“My husband’s not here.” Duh.

“When did you last see him?”

I’d thought of little else on the drive home from the club. “Monday.”

“Today is Thursday.”

Between the two of us, we’d cornered the market on stating the obvious.

“He lives here?”

If we weren’t married, Henry would be the perfect roommate. He puts his dishes in the dishwasher, replaces the milk when he uses it all, and pays the mortgage and utilities without being asked. My offer to pay half had been answered with a resounding
no
and a quiet
bitch.
“Yes.”

“Is it unusual for you to go so long without seeing him?”

“No.”

“Has your daughter seen him?”

“I don’t recall telling you I had a daughter.” I wanted to keep Grace out of this. To keep her safe. She didn’t need to know about her father’s sordid relationship with a dead woman.

“I’m investigating a murder. I tend to find out about things like children.” His voice was as dry as the martini I planned on downing as soon as he was gone.

“My husband’s a suspect?” Of course he was. I didn’t need to look into Detective Jones’ brown eyes to know he was calculating the odds that Henry had killed Madeline.

The detective lifted his shoulders for half of a shrug. My question didn’t merit a full one.

“His mistress was murdered.”

“Am I a suspect?”

The skin around his eyes crinkled like I’d said something amusing. “Do you have an alibi?”

“No.” In bed. Asleep. Alone.

“Then you’re a suspect.”

“Would you care for a drink?”

“I’m on duty.”

“It’s five o’clock.”

He glanced at his watch.

“So it is. I’m still on duty.” Detective Jones, follower of rules and procedures. “Any idea where your husband might be?”

“Did you try the bank?”

“They say he hasn’t been in today. He missed all his appointments.”

Henry missed an appointment? Dread slithered down my back then detoured to my stomach where it coiled like a snake. “I really do need that drink. Perhaps you’d like an iced tea?”

Detective Jones and Max followed me to the kitchen. I poured the man a glass of tea, filled the dog’s water bowl then pulled a half-empty bottle of wine out of the fridge. Definitely half-empty. No half-baked, glass half-full optimism for me. Madeline and Henry had been seen together last night at their kinky club. Now Madeline was dead.

Admittedly, I’d fantasized about her death. Those fantasies usually included a falling piano or flash lightning on the golf course while she clutched her nine iron or three bottles of valium and a scrawled note that read
I’m sorry
. I’d never once imagined her floating in the club pool.

Madeline had been murdered and Henry was missing. I took a large sip of liebfraumilch.

My daughter chose that moment to appear in the kitchen doorway. She did it with a nonchalance that suggested real planning. Grace crossed her arms, leaned against the doorframe and took in Detective Jones’ plaid pants and the shrewd look in his eyes. She would see the shrewdness straight off. She wouldn’t be fooled into thinking his eyes were nice.

I cleared my throat. “Grace, this is Detective Jones. Detective, my daughter, Grace Russell.”

“Nice to meet you, Miss Russell.”

On the surface, Grace seemed unimpressed. She didn’t ask why he was sipping tea in our kitchen. “Nice to meet you too.” She turned her gaze toward me. “What’s up, Mom?”

She knew. Of course, she knew. Everyone knew. Looking at the deliberately bored expression on her face, I hated whoever had killed Madeline. I hated them for bringing a homicide detective into Grace’s home. I hated Madeline for getting herself murdered. My feelings toward Henry went deeper than hate. If he could have kept his willy in his pants, we wouldn’t be murder suspects and Grace’s eyes wouldn’t look haunted and defiant at the same time.

“You know your mother found Madeline Harper’s body this morning?”

“I know.” The teenage girls’ grapevine was every bit as effective as their mothers’ and their grandmothers’. “Are you okay, Mom?”

Of all the people who’d asked me that question today, Grace was the first to care about the answer. Maybe the second—Detective Jones had seemed genuinely sincere when he asked. But that was a lifetime ago. “I’m fine.”

“When is the last time you saw your father?” Detective Jones asked.

“Yesterday.”

Max yawned, bored by questions that didn’t involve a ball or a treat or chasing a squirrel. He curled up in his favorite spot (essentially wherever he was most in the way) and eyed the man who was questioning my daughter.

“At what time?”

“Around five or so.”

“Do you know where he is now?”

She abandoned the doorway and entered the kitchen, crossed to the island and poured herself a glass of tea, took a sip then squeezed in a slice of lemon. “He packed a bag. He said he had a business trip.”

The dread coiled in my stomach lifted its hooded head, ready to strike. I tried to drown it with another swig of wine. Getting wet just annoyed it.

“Do you know where he went?” Detective Jones asked.

Grace raised her eyebrows to the middle of her forehead. Short wrinkles marred her smooth skin. She rubbed her nose. “Los Angeles.”

We all paused to consider the ramifications. Detective Jones probably thought about my husband getting off a plane in Los Angeles and boarding one to Brazil or Argentina or some other country where men were macho and it was easy to disappear. I didn’t think that. I looked at the late afternoon sunshine shafting golden through the window onto Grace and thought appearances could be deceiving. My angelic daughter was lying.

“Did he say why?” Detective Jones asked.

She shook her head. “No.”

“May I use your phone?”

“Of course.” I nodded to the wall phone with the stretched out cord.

“The one in the study?”

“Of course.”

The angelic, lying stranger who’d replaced my daughter disappeared when Detective Jones left the kitchen. I leveled my gaze on Grace.

She swallowed. “You won’t tell?”

That she’d just lied to a police officer to protect her father? No. I wouldn’t tell.

“Where did he go?” I asked.

She inspected her cuticles.

“Grace...”

She rolled her eyes. Sighed with more drama than Streisand in
The Way We Were,
before giving in. “He said he had a lead on a new investment. Maybe he went to New York.”

An investment? In New York? Henry owned a local bank. What the hell was going on? Then again, Henry could be holed up at a local hotel or on his way to Quebec or Paris or Bermuda. Who knew? Unlike Grace, Henry could tell a convincing lie.

“Did he ask you to lie for him?”

“Of course not.” Again with the raised eyebrows and itchy nose. She was so bad at lying she ought to give it up.

I’d deal with her later. I was too angry with Henry to think clearly. My son-of-a-bitch husband had asked his teenage daughter to lie to me. Instead, she’d lied to the police.

Grace went to the refrigerator, opened the door, and surveyed its contents. “I know what you’re thinking.”

I doubted it. I was thinking about using some of Henry’s kinky toys on him. A bullwhip sounded about right. “Oh?”

“You’re thinking Dad lied to me.”