THE DEEP END (9 page)

Ten

Hospitals are terrible places. Especially if you have a concussion. Someone comes and pokes and prods and shines a light in your eyes every two hours all night long. Sleep is as fractured as a broken mirror. When you finally wake up in a room the color of under-cooked oatmeal, you feel raw and gritty as if you never closed your eyes at all.

I wanted to snap at the nurse who asked how “we” were feeling. Wanted to say I didn’t know about her but I felt like shit and I couldn’t wait to get the hell out of her hospital. Instead, I went the polite route and asked for a cup of coffee.

She consulted her chart. “It doesn’t say anything about limitations. I’ll have to ask the doctor.”

About coffee? “Please. I’m quite sure a cup of coffee would make me feel much better.”

“Dr. Simmons saw you at 6:30 this morning.”

I knew that. I was there when he woke me up.

“He’s in clinic now. When’s he’s done, I’ll ask him if you can have some.”

I had to get out of there. Immediately. “How long will that be?”

Her smile was fiendish. “An hour or two.”

An hour? Or two? That was just cruel, especially since I lacked the energy to argue with her. If the blonde woman—I squinted to read her nametag—Nurse Sally decided on a career change, I could introduce her to a dominatrix who’d truly appreciate her ability to torture.

The door behind her opened and Mother breezed in, resplendent in a black Chanel suit, Ferragamo pumps, and the Hermés bag we bought to replace the one Max ate. The most attractive part of her ensemble was the Styrofoam cup with the plastic lid. She glided across the room and put it in my grateful hands.

“We’re not sure Mrs. Russell can have coffee,” Nurse Sally objected.

Mother raised a brow. “We? I’m quite sure my daughter can have all the coffee she wants.”

I loosened the lid and took a sip. Hot and delicious with just the right amount of cream. I sighed. “Thank you, Mother.” Sometimes Frances Walford was rather fabulous.

“Visiting hours don’t begin for—” Nurse Sally checked her watch, “—another thirty minutes.”

Nurse Sally had Mother’s attention. She just didn’t know she didn’t want it.

“I applaud your attention to following picayune rules, Nurse—” Mother squinted “—Sally. I’ll be sure and mention that at the next board meeting.” Mother waved a hand, erasing every rule she ever disliked with one swipe. “Those rules don’t apply to me.”

Nurse Sally opened and closed her mouth like a goldfish deprived of water. Finally, unable to find a suitable response, she huffed and disappeared into the hallway.

Mother settled into the ugly chair next to the bed. “How are you feeling?”

I held up the coffee cup. “Better now.”

Mother’s not much of a talker first thing in the morning. We shared a moment of companionable silence while I sipped.

A short moment. “Grace tells me that Henry has disappeared.”

I took another bracing sip of heaven in a cup then nodded.

“Where is he?”

I heard the questions she wasn’t asking.
Has
he left you? Is it your fault? What did you do?
I heard the silent comments.
This never would have happened if you gave up painting. Your daughter is suffering. You’re a bad wife.

The view outside the window was suddenly captivating. I stared at the cars whizzing by, wished I was in one of them, then admitted, “I don’t know.”

Mother sniffed then looked at her watch.

“You may want to get that nurse to help you with your hair.”

I reached up and felt the snarls. Nurse Sally was a coffee-withholding sadist who, if the expression on her face when she left the room was any indication, had been mortally offended by Mother’s comments. I didn’t want her anywhere near my aching head.

“Is my purse here? There’s a comb in my purse.”

Mother pulled a tortoise shell comb out of her handbag and gave it to me. I put it down on the bed next to me. Coffee first. Life is all about priorities.

“Powers called. Five times. The man is beside himself with worry.”

“How does he even know I’m here?”

“Darling, half the neighborhood gathered ’round to watch the police tramp in and out of your house and see you loaded into the ambulance. I imagine everyone in town knows you’re in the hospital.”

“Why didn’t he just call me?”

“I had them put the phone on do not disturb. Otherwise you’d have been up all night with phone calls.”

Better phone calls than nurses who talked to me as if I was a fractious three-year-old. I took another sip of coffee.

“I’d like to leave this afternoon.”

Mother shook her head. Vehemently.

“We decided. You stay until tomorrow.”

She’d decided. I wanted to go home.

“What if the doctor clears me?”

“David won’t do that. I’ve already spoken with him.” She leaned forward, patted my free hand. “The day will pass quickly. I know Powers is going to come and see you. Grace will be here tonight when she’s done babysitting.” She reached into her purse again, pulled out lipstick and a compact of pressed powder, then laid them on the bed next to the comb. “Hunter might even stop by.”

I opened my mouth to object.

Mother took a second look at her watch then stood. “I must fly. I’ve got an errand or two to run before the funeral.” She paused at the door. “Really, dear, a bit of powder wouldn’t be amiss. The lipstick too.”

She disappeared before I could throw the comb at her.

The door opened again almost immediately and I tightened my hand round my coffee. Nurse Sally would not take it from me.

Except, it wasn’t Nurse Sally. It was a woman whose corkscrew curls had somehow been corralled into an updo. She wore a stylish black linen pantsuit and wouldn’t have looked out of place sitting at a bridge table at the club. I almost didn’t recognize Mistress K without her leather corset and flogger. Where was Nurse Sally when I needed her?

“I stopped by your house and the housekeeper said you were here.”

Mistress K knew where I lived? Where Grace lived? Henry had a lot to answer for. “What do you want?”

“You sent a cop to my club.”

Her expression reminded me of Mrs. Carlson, my fifth grade teacher. She enjoyed rapping knuckles with rulers, delighted in humiliating children who spoke without raising their hands, kept a switch in the corner of her room even though the principal had forbidden her from using it. The one time she caught me out, she made me spread my hands across the desk. The wooden ruler hovered above them, the anticipation of pain more terrible than the pain itself. I swallowed, looked her in the eye and said, “
I wouldn’t
.”

“Oh?” Mrs. Carlson smiled, an evil, sadistic curl of her thin lips, and then she brought the ruler down on my knuckles. The sound, wood and metal connecting with skin and bone, made me cringe. The sharp pain brought tears to my eyes. Blood welled across three or four of my fingers.

I stood, stumbled my way to the principal’s office and demanded that she call my mother. Mrs. Carlson was gone before the end of the day.

The woman standing in my hospital room could be Mrs. Carlson’s daughter. I swallowed, looked her in the eye and said, “I didn’t send anyone.”

She must have heard the challenge in my response. Something dark and angry flashed in her eyes and her fingers twitched as if they were searching for a flogger or a ruler. “Then how did he know to come?”

“Blame Henry.”

“Henry is out of town.”

Yes, I knew that. I’d even gone into her hellhole club to try and find out where he was. “He left one of your matchbooks in our kitchen drawer. We found it while a homicide detective was there.”

She raised a disbelieving brow. “Henry doesn’t smoke. Why would he have a matchbook?”

“I don’t know but there’s no other way a matchbook from your club could make its way into my house.”

We stared at each other. A battle of wills. The seconds ticked by. Finally, she smiled a predator’s smile. I didn’t know if she was ceding a tie or if she thought she’d won. “It’s ironic.”

“What?”

“You were worried I’d hurt Roger and you’re the one who ended up in the hospital.” The menace in her voice was clear. She held her hand out, examined her blood red manicure. “He came back. Last night. He wanted his belt.”

I closed my eyes. I wanted to cover my ears and chant la-la-la at the top of my lungs.

“I gave him the belt. Then I gave him the flogger and then he asked me to go to Madeline’s funeral with him.”

Roger asked a date to his wife’s funeral? Not just a date, but the woman who’d spent last evening...I shuddered. Oh, to be a fly on the wall in church this morning. I couldn’t help it, I laughed.

“I imagine any number of people will be surprised to see me there.”

She might be a sadistic bitch but at least she had a sense of humor. “I imagine you’re right.” I took a swig of coffee. How well had Mistress K known my missing husband? “You told me that Henry played mind games with his...” What was I supposed to call them?

“Submissives,” she provided. The Big, Bad Dominatrix was playing a game of her own.

I pulled a metaphorical red cloak tightly around me and took comfort in the fact that in every version of the story, Red wins. “Has it occurred to you that Prudence or Kitty might have killed Madeline?”

She shrugged. Madeline’s death wasn’t her problem unless it brought Detective Jones to her door. “If so, why did Henry disappear?”

“No idea. You said he played them against each other. With Madeline gone, won’t one of them take her place on that apparatus?”

“It’s called a Berkley horse.”

Who cared what it was called? “Isn’t that motive for murder?”

She tilted her head to the side, regarded me with eyes that looked as if they’d seen every depravity known to man. Old eyes. Tired eyes. Wise eyes. “Henry really was wrong about you.”

Like I needed reminding that my husband had discussed me with a dominatrix. He was so divorced. “Don’t you have a funeral to get to?”

“Roger will save me a seat.” Her lips quirked. “Don’t you want to know what Henry said about you?”

Of course I did. “No.”

“Do you want my advice?”

Life coaching from a dominatrix. It sounded like the title of a
Cosmo
article. Maybe a whole series of articles.

“No.”

“Suit yourself.” She walked to the door and grasped the handle. A welcome indication she was going to leave. She stopped and looked over her shoulder. “The people who come to my club are there because they want to be. Some of them even need to be. I’d prefer not to see the police there again.”

“I didn’t send them.”

“I believe you.” There was another flash in her eyes. “Just make sure you never do.”

She was gone before I could think of a zingy comeback. Then again, I wasn’t as sharp as usual. I had a head injury and a night of no sleep. It was barely nine and I’d already had to deal with a sadistic nurse, a match-making mother, and a dominatrix who tossed veiled threats like children tossed water balloons on a July afternoon.

Did Mistress K have something to do with Madeline’s death? Had I just been conversing with a murderess? Just because she hadn’t knocked me in the head didn’t mean she hadn’t drugged Madeline and dumped her in a pool.

Somehow, I couldn’t see Mistress K dragging Madeline to the country club to drown her. That particular twist seemed more worthy of Prudence or Kitty or any one of the wronged wives who discovered open marriages were less attractive in practice than they were in the pages of a magazine.

Could it be Henry? Lord knows the murder was cold and dispassionate enough. Was Henry a murderer?

Was he a cheating low-life? Definitely.

An arrogant prick? Unquestionably.

A cold-blooded killer? Doubtful. Maybe it was all a tragic accident. Perhaps she’d overdosed and he’d panicked. Except Henry didn’t panic. He was all about control and clear thinking. If Madeline overdosed while she was with him, he’d dump her in an emergency room not a pool. It couldn’t be Henry. It just couldn’t.

My thoughts skated figure eights—endless loops that led nowhere. Right in the center of one of the loops, a horrible thought held up its hand and bounced in its seat like a third-grader who wants his teacher to call on him. I skated past—once, twice, twenty times. I skated until the thought vibrated in my aching brain. I skated until there was no denying it.

I didn’t want Henry to have murdered Madeline so I was ignoring anything—everything—that suggested he did.

Eleven

I’d been reduced to watching game shows.
The Price is Right
,
Let’s Make a Deal
, and
Match Game 74
. That Brett Somers was a funny woman. Charles Nelson Riley was no slouch either.

The phone rang, loud enough for me to miss Gene Rayburn’s Dumb Dora question, loud enough to make me long for a painkiller. Who had made it past the steel curtain of my mother’s no call list?

I answered it.

“Ellie, honey, that you?”

“It’s me, Daddy.”

“Are you okay, sugar?”

My throat swelled with all the things I wanted to say and never would.
Come home. Protect me. I need you.
“I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine. You’re in the hospital and your mother is fit to be tied. She hasn’t been this upset since she found out what your sister’s husband did for a living.”

Wow. That was saying something. Mother’s head had levitated from her shoulders when she found out about Marjorie’s fiancé.
Words
had been exchanged. Mother was that upset and I hadn’t even guessed? Then again, my head hurt like sin and Mother is hard to read.

“How are you really feeling?”

I should have repeated the lie and told him I was fine. Instead my eyes filled and the fears that I’d been keeping at bay snuck past my defenses. What if Grace had come home and interrupted the burglar instead of me? What if I’d died and Henry made Grace’s new mother wear a dog collar around the house? What if Henry murdered Madeline? “I’ve been better.”

“I’m cutting my trip short. I’ll be home tonight.”

The week he spent in Carmel playing golf with his cronies had to be his favorite time of year. After all, one thousand eight hundred and fifty six miles separated him from Mother. He could drink scotch, smoke cigars, and eat bacon—all the things forbidden by his cardiologist. All the things Mother kept out of their house. “You don’t need to do that, Daddy.”

“Of course I do. We’re going to get this mess straightened out and no one is going to lay another finger on you or Grace. I promise.”

What he didn’t say—
if that son-of-a-bitch husband of yours had anything to do with this, I’ll kill him
—made it from California to Missouri loud and clear.

Maybe it’s true. Maybe a girl’s father is the only man she can ever count on. “Thank you,” I said. Two little words to express infinite gratitude.

“Keep your chin up, Ellie. You have any idea where Henry is?” Daddy really was going to kill him, I could hear it in his voice.

“No idea.”

“Well, you let me know if you hear anything. When you get to feeling better, we’ll play a round.”

The only time Daddy asked me to play golf was when he wanted to discuss something serious. Maybe if he didn’t murder Henry, he had the name of a good divorce attorney.

“I’d like that.”

“I’ll be home soon, sugar.”

When I hung up the phone, I felt marginally better. That lasted all of thirty seconds.

Prudence burst into my room with all the subtly of a tsunami. “Where is he?”

“Who?”

“Henry!”

I studied her from my nest of pillows. She wore a dark dress that didn’t suit with an Hermes scarf tied around her neck. Her skin was pale with the exception of two spots of high color on her cheeks. Bad make-up or emotion?

My fingers inched toward the nurse’s call button. “I already told you, I don’t know where he is.”

“I expected him to be back for Madeline’s funeral.”

If I’d thought about it, I would have expected him too. Not that I’d admit that to Prudence. “Why?”

The spots on her cheeks grew brighter. “Don’t play dumb.”

But playing dumb was surprisingly fun. “You seem awfully worried about his whereabouts. Surely there’s a bank in New York that will loan you money.”

“What?” She looked at me as if the bump on my head had loosened my brains. “What are you talking about?”

“The apartment. The one you’re buying in New York.”

“Oh. That.” She ran her fingers through her hair. A mistake. Between the color of her cheeks and the mess atop her head, she looked like an escapee from the psych floor.

I closed my fingers around the call button just in case she actually was psychotic then said, “I know everything.”

She staggered as if I’d just hit her with a fireplace poker and her hand clutched her chest as if she was having a heart attack.

I knew she’d been boinking my husband. I hadn’t expected such a strong reaction when I confronted her. Had she done it? Had she killed Madeline?

Prudence lowered herself into a chair and fumbled with her pocketbook. She withdrew a pack of cigarettes and lit one.

“Please don’t. Put it out.” Already the smell had sent my stomach into a series of somersaults. It wasn’t doing my head any favors either.

She jabbed the cigarette into an ashtray. “I need to talk to Henry.”

Had they killed Madeline together? Had Henry left Prudence holding the proverbial bag? “You were at that club the night Madeline died.”

Her lip curled. “What of it?”