THE DEEP END (12 page)

A shower helped—at least with the splotchy skin and tangled hair. I checked the mirror again. My eyes seemed marginally less panicked.

Paint clothes or a sundress? Paint clothes beckoned. Escaping to a world where the feel of paint moving on canvas outweighed reality held real appeal. So did changing the locks. I straightened my shoulders and chose the sundress.

I went downstairs, found the yellow pages and flipped through it until I found the number for a locksmith. Yale locks weren’t enough. I wanted deadbolts. I called, agreed to pay a ridiculous premium for same-day, after-hours service then ruffled the pages of the book until the entries for burglar alarms lay open before me.

Henry and Madeline had been blackmailing half the country club roster. Had their victims known who was extorting money from them? If they did, it seemed quite possible that the people whose names appeared on those envelopes would be coming to get them.

Of course, the easiest, safest thing for me to do would be to miraculously find the combination to Henry’s safe and turn the files over to Detective Jones. What about my father’s envelope? Did I give it to Daddy and swear I’d never looked inside? Did I burn it and pretend it never existed? Did I turn it over to Detective Jones? Did I call the alarm company and figure it out later?

I lifted the receiver but the sound of the dial tone was drowned out by four happy feet racing toward the kitchen. Max burst in and I hung up the phone to give him an apologetic scratch behind the ears then a shoulder rub. Poor dog. He’d been drugged, had his stomach pumped, and then I’d forgotten he was at the vet.

My father followed him into the kitchen. Either embarrassment or disappointment somersaulted my stomach. I wasn’t sure which. Daddy looked the same—tall, salt and pepper hair, laugh lines at the corners of his eyes, distinguished. But everything was different. What was I supposed to say?
Did you? How could you? Hello?

He pulled me into an encompassing hug, kissed the top of my head, and stroked my hair. I rested my forehead against his shoulder. Yes, he’d done something terrible but he was my father, the man who’d taught me how to ride a bike, the man who insisted I should go to art school if I wanted, the man I’d lie to protect. Was this how Julie Nixon felt when she crisscrossed the country declaring her father’s innocence even as his guilt was obvious to all?

I searched for words, any words. Unfortunately, my stash of nouns and verbs and adjectives had somehow gotten locked in the upstairs safe with the envelope bearing my father’s name.

Grace saved me. She traipsed into the kitchen as if murder and blackmail and being beaned with a fireplace poker were of no consequence. “Hey, Mom. How are you feeling?”

I extricated myself from my father’s arms and held mine out to my daughter. “Fine.”

Grace let me hug her. Fiercely. Briefly. Then she pulled away. “Just wait ’til Granna gets hold of you.”

My father cleared his throat. “Your mother was counting on your spending another night in the hospital.”

“I didn’t want to,” I said.

They both stared. Even Max stared.

“Granna had a plan.”

I shrugged. “She didn’t consult me before she made it.”

Daddy rubbed the back of his neck. “You’re sure this is the time you want to pick a fight with your mother?”

“I’m not picking a fight. I’m just doing what I want to do.”

“You never do that,” said Grace. “Well, almost never.”

What was I teaching my daughter? I tightened my hold on the kitchen counter. I didn’t want to raise a woman who gave up everything she wanted to please others. I stared at her. She was strong and independent despite my poor example. “I’d say it’s about time I started.”

My father combed his fingers through the silver strands of his hair. He was probably wishing he’d stayed in California. “Have you heard from Henry?” he asked.

I searched his face for some clue that he was concerned about the envelope I’d stolen from Henry’s safe. His brows lowered and a wrinkle appeared at the top of his nose. He looked angry not worried.

“No,” I replied.

“Your mother and Grace tell me you’re thinking about a divorce.”

“I am.”

He covered his mouth with his hand as if hiding his scowl could disguise his dislike of Henry from me...or Grace. “You’ve talked to Hunter Tafft?”

“Not about my divorce.”

“About the murder?”

If only. “Not really.”

“Well then, what did you talk about?” Daddy asked.

“He fired Harriet.”

No one said a word. We all pondered the unlikely possibility that I’d be able to keep a house running without help.

“Why did he do that?”

“Harriet lost her temper over the mess in Henry’s office.”

“It must be a real mess.”

I closed my eyes and visualized the fallen walls of Jericho. Or, given that it was Henry, Sodom and Gomorrah after God did his wrath thing. “Terrible.”

Daddy inched toward the door. “I’ll take a look.”

“I’ll come with you.”

“No, no. Don’t get up. Gracie, get your mom a glass of iced tea. I’ll just go look around.”

Had I been wrong? Did he know Henry was the man who’d been blackmailing him? Could I just ask him? Yeah, right.
Daddy, did you do it with Madeline Harper? Was my son-of-a-bitch husband blackmailing you?
All things being equal I didn’t particularly want an answer to the first question. The answer to the second question, I already knew. I didn’t need to hear it from my father’s lips. Unless Daddy didn’t know Henry was the blackmailer...

Just thinking about it made my head hurt worse.

Daddy disappeared down the hallway and Grace deposited a glass of iced tea on the counter in front of me.

“Have you heard from your father?” I asked.

“No.” She didn’t twitch or scratch her nose or try to look honest and forthright. She was telling the truth.

“I’m sorry he disappeared like this, Grace.”

She rolled her eyes. “It’s not your fault, Mom.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

She served up a second eye roll. “Yeah, I know. Did Mr. Tafft really fire Harriet?”

“Sort of. He fired her. I told her she wasn’t fired. Then she quit.”

“So...um...what are we going to do for food?”

“I can cook.” Boiled eggs. Jell-O. Frozen pizza.

She shuddered. “So we’re going to eat out a lot?”

“Yep. Although, I’d like to try and grill burgers.” Any excuse to light a fire.

Grace shook her head. “I don’t think so, Mom. It’s not like there’s a shortage of hockey pucks.”

Burn a roast or two and your family will never let you forget it. “So what do you want for dinner?”

“Tacos.”

“Tacos?” Daddy stood in the door. “Your mother just got out of the hospital. She needs something better than tacos. I’ll take you girls to the club for dinner. Ellie, go grab your purse.”

“I don’t feel up to the club.”

My father stared at me as if I was a stranger. Maybe I was. I’d never before said no to his plans. “You do look a little pale, sugar. How about I go pick something up for you?”

“That would be nice.”

“I want tacos,” Grace repeated.

“Tacos are fine, Daddy.”

He delivered them thirty minutes later.

Grace and I ate then settled onto the couch in the family room to watch television.

I shifted against the cushions. I was too antsy to sit. There was too much to think about to waste time watching Michael Douglas speed through the
Streets of San Francisco
.

“Go.” Grace knew me well.

“You’re sure?”

“You’re just going to fidget and sigh and drive me nuts. Go.”

I went. I climbed the stairs to what had once been a third floor ballroom. Now it was my studio. I breathed in the comforting smells of paint and gesso and turpentine and felt the coil in my stomach begin to unwind.

The canvas on my easel was an impossibility. Hopeful daubs of paint from a woman who had disappeared. A stranger who’d never dreamed of finding a body. Someone who’d never imagined the depths of her husband’s betrayal or that he might be a blackmailer. A woman who’d never considered tampering with evidence.

That woman was gone.

Fortunately, there was another prepped canvas. With the last rays of daylight, I began to paint.

Fourteen

I woke to the usual early morning sounds of my house—the white noise, the ceiling fan, occasional voices of runners as they passed by on the sidewalk outside. The sounds were the same. Everything else had changed. All things being equal, I preferred life the old way.

Just a few days ago, Madeline was playing kinky games with my husband and I wasn’t under suspicion of murder. I missed being blissfully ignorant of Henry’s other dalliances. I
really
missed not knowing that my husband was blackmailing half the people we knew—including my father.

I clutched a pillow to my chest, stared into the darkness and wished I didn’t know what I did. But, once bitten, Eve’s apple cannot be returned to the tree. It hardly seemed fair. I hadn’t plucked the damn fruit. I’d had it shoved into my hands then down my throat.

What I wanted was a return to my life—a life without sordid revelations or soul-chilling disasters. My life might not have been perfect but it had been comfortable with reliable rhythms and certainties. I wanted a return to those rhythms, to a routine that made sense.

Watching the sun rise made sense. Swimming made sense.

I dragged myself out of bed, downed a quick cup of coffee, and drove to the club.

I didn’t let myself think about Madeline’s water-soaked body when I dove into the water. I just held my breath for the length of the pool. Of course there was no corpse in my lane. I exhaled, and then I swam.

Arms and legs cutting through water shouldn’t be cathartic, but it was. I saw the remains of the night. I smelled chlorine. I heard water and birdsong welcoming the coming dawn. Each lap washed away a layer of pain or fear or anger. By the time the sky over the seventh green began to lighten, I felt graceful, peaceful, even quiet.

Then I saw the man standing at the edge of the pool.

I pretended I didn’t. I even tried to swim more laps. The motions that had been smooth and fluid felt choppy and out of sync. I gave up and swam to where Detective Jones stood waiting for me with his arms crossed and a look of disapproval settled firmly on his face.

“I’m surprised you’re here, Mrs. Russell,” he said.

I rested my arms on the lip of the pool and stared up at him. “I swim every morning.”

He scowled at me. “The last time you swam you found a body.”

“The time before that I didn’t.”

“Still I’d think you’d want to avoid swimming in this pool.”

Where else was I going to swim? We didn’t have a pool in our backyard and even if we did, it wouldn’t be big enough to swim laps. It’s hard to shrug in the water, but I did it anyway.

“Have you forgotten that Madeline Harper was murdered?” he asked. “Swimming alone might not be wise.”

Of course I hadn’t forgotten about Madeline’s death. The thought of her body laid out on the pool deck followed me around like a balloon on a string. “No one wants to murder me.”

“How do you know?”

I wasn’t into kinky sex—or blackmail. I shrugged. “If the murderer wanted me dead, he or she would have finished me off when I was unconscious in my foyer.”

“Do you know for certain the murderer and the burglar are the same person?”

“I don’t believe in coincidences.” Besides, it stretched the bounds of credulity to believe otherwise. A cool breeze ruffled across my wet shoulders and I shivered. “Speaking of coincidences, how is it you’re wandering around the pool deck this morning?”

Detective Jones stared out at the golf course where black trees turned lavender with the sunrise. “We have a car drive by your house every hour or so.”

My heart stuttered in my chest. How was I supposed to barbeque Daddy’s envelope if the police were watching my house? What if I’d tried to do it last night? I swallowed. “Why?”

Stupid question. Madeline had been my husband’s mistress. My husband was missing. Someone had hit me over the head with a fireplace poker and tossed Henry’s office. Clearly someone at the Russell house was involved. It just wasn’t me.

Apparently Detective Jones found my question as stupid as I did. He didn’t answer it. Instead he asked, “Hunter Tafft is your lawyer?”

“He is.” Until I found a better one.

“He’s a corporate attorney.”

It was hardly my fault that Mother couldn’t find any handsome criminal attorneys with impeccable backgrounds on short notice. “He’s still a lawyer.”

“You ought to have a criminal lawyer.”

Was he threatening me? He didn’t sound like it. He sounded almost like he was worried for me. “Am I still a suspect?”

The smile he gave me was wry. It crinkled the skin around his eyes. I was suddenly aware that when he looked down at me he saw wet hair, skin naked of any make-up, and cleavage.

“You haven’t been officially eliminated,” he said.

“I didn’t kill Madeline.” How many murderers declared their innocence?

“Did Roger Harper kill her?”

I shook my head. “I don’t think so.”

“Did your husband kill Ms. Harper?” he asked.

“No!”

His eyebrows rose. “You sound sure.”

Detective Jones was lying. I didn’t sound sure, I sounded desperate.