THE DEEP END (13 page)

“I am sure.” Somehow, I kept my voice from squeaking. Henry hadn’t killed Madeline. One of their blackmail victims had. I was going to have to go through the safe and make a list of the names on the envelopes. I was going to have to figure out who committed murder.

His lips quirked. “It wasn’t you. It wasn’t Mr. Harper. And it wasn’t Mr. Russell. So, who was it?”

“Someone else.” The water lapping against my skin was icy—or maybe that was the temperature of my blood as it struggled to pump through my veins.

He crossed his arms over his chest. “Why did this mystery assailant kill her?”

My heart, already dealing with frosty blood, beat faster. He could probably see it thudding in my chest. “How would I know?”

He looked down at me with his nice brown eyes and his sandy hair and his movie actor good-looking face and said, “That’s the thing, Mrs. Russell. I think you do know. I think you’re protecting someone.”

I swallowed. Hard. Then I reviewed the neat row of lounge chairs next to the pool. They were fascinating and if I didn’t look Detective Jones in the eye, he wouldn’t be able to read my expression.

“Who are you protecting?” he repeated.

I’d started out protecting Grace. I didn’t want her to suffer for her father’s choices. Now I was protecting my father too. There was no way I was going to tell Detective Jones about Henry and Madeline’s blackmail scheme. “If I knew who killed her, I’d tell you.”

The light around us was a soft lemon yellow, certainly bright enough for me to see the concern in Detective Jones’ eyes. We stared at each other for a moment. That moment stretched and bent and wrapped us in a delicate bubble made up of gentle light and birdsong and the touch of a breeze.

He cleared his throat and shattered the bubble. Then he glanced around the empty pool deck and scowled. “Withholding evidence can get you into trouble with the law. It can also get you killed.”

I shifted my focus from his face to his shoes. Nice conservative shoes. Loafers. They were paired with nice conservative khaki pants and a nice conservative blue blazer. And then I was looking at his face again. He really was handsome. I returned my gaze to his shoes.

“Tell me what you know.” His voice was as soft as the breeze on my shoulders.

I almost did. It was so tempting to tell him everything—about Kitty and Prudence, about Madeline and the money and the pictures. A robin landed on the pool deck—not three feet from us. It tilted its head as if it too wanted to know what I knew. I took a deep breath and shooed it away. I couldn’t saddle Grace with being the daughter of a depraved, kinky blackmailer. That kind of thing tends to follow one through life. The people we knew might forgive her a murderous father—no one had liked Madeline—but they wouldn’t forgive her a father who’d blackmailed his friends. I shook my head. “I don’t know anything.”

Detective Jones took a step backward. Away from the pool...and me. He frowned. “Until I catch the killer, you shouldn’t swim alone...Ellison.”

And then Detective Jones turned on his heel and walked away.

I drove home, drank half a pot of coffee, donned clothes already destroyed by paint, and stood in the doorway to Henry’s office.

The doorbell rang at precisely nine o’clock. I know that because I was staring at a miraculously unbroken clock and wondering how one went about cleaning up Armageddon when I heard it.

Max met me at the door. I opened it to a woman with frizzy hennaed hair somehow contained by a barrette Grace would have snubbed as babyish at age five. The orange hair clashed with the fuchsia of her cardigan and the deep purple of her dress—all the colors of a lurid sunset. “Good morning, Mr. Tafft sent me,” she said.

I stared at her. Then I stared at a beat up, emerald green VW Beetle with a light blue driver’s side door. Its engine still knocked like it couldn’t decide if it wanted to start up again and move to a neighborhood where the ladies walking their dogs on the sidewalk didn’t stop and gawk.

She squinted at the piece of paper she held in her right hand then her left hand dove down the front of her dress. It emerged seconds later with a pair of readers. She positioned them on her nose, glanced at the paper, then glanced at me in my ratty clothes and said, “You are Mrs. Russell?”

“I am.” I nodded. “And you are?”

“Agatha DeLucci. You can call me Aggie. Everyone does.”

Why would I call her anything? And why had Hunter sent her to me? “How may I help you?” I asked. It seemed more polite than asking
what the hell are you doing here?

She shook her orange haloed head at my slowness. Earrings the size of tennis balls jangled. “Mr. Tafft sent me.”

That part I got. “Why did Mr. Tafft send you?”

“He said you needed a housekeeper.”

Max chose that moment to bury his nose in her crotch and sniff. I grabbed his collar and hauled him backward. “I apologize. Max is...friendly.”

She chuckled. “I don’t mind. Do you?”

Did I mind that Max insisted on sniffing visitors’ bits? I did. “Pardon me?”

“Do you need a housekeeper?”

“I do.”

“Then I’m your gal. Mr. Tafft told me about the job last night and I said I was willing to give it a go. He said you’d had a break-in and I should start by cleaning up Mr. Russell’s study.”

Hunter Tafft had hired a new housekeeper without consulting me? Of all the arrogant, high-handed men I’d ever met, he was the absolute worst. I ought to apologize to Aggie DeLucci for the misunderstanding and send her on her way. Except she’d uttered magical words—
I should start by cleaning up Mr. Russell’s study.

“How do you know Mr. Tafft?” I asked.

“My husband used to do some work for him.”

I closed my eyes and tried to imagine what the husband of a woman who wore purple muumuus did for Hunter. My imagination wasn’t that good. “What kind of work?”

“My husband was an investigator.”

“Was?”

She ran a finger under her eyes. “The cancer got him.”

“I’m terribly sorry.”

She sniffled then offered me a lopsided attempt at a smile. “He had a good go.”

“How long has he been gone?”

“Three months.”

Hunter had sent me a recently widowed woman in need of work. How was I supposed to send her away? “Do you cook?” I asked.

She grinned. The expression transformed her. She had the smile of a child who hasn’t yet been knocked on their ass by life. “I’m a great cook.”

“Can you make chicken salad?”

She tilted her head, probably wondering if I’d lost my mind. I hadn’t. I had criteria.

“I make a chicken salad that will bring tears to your eyes,” she said.

“What do you put in it?”

Her head tilted further. “Chicken.”

“And what else?”

Her brow wrinkled. “Celery.”

“And what else?” She was now regarding me as if I was
that
eccentric woman, the one who wore a period costume to a cocktail party—or a purple muumuu to a job interview. “Mayonnaise.”

“And?”

“Nothing. I suppose if you’re one of those people who like grapes or nuts I could add them.” She sniffed.

“I’m not.”

“Then why are you asking? If I did add them and you didn’t like them, you could tell me not to.”

A novel concept. One that never worked with Harriet. “You’re right. Do you have references?”

She regarded me with washed out blue eyes surrounded by heavy mascara. Her eyelids were coated with fuchsia and purple shadow. The makeup, the sadness, and the determination were at odds with her hopeful smile. Aggie DeLucci had taken plenty of knocks in her life. Her eyes told me she’d gotten up each time and asked for more. Her smile told me she hadn’t given up on people. “Mr. Tafft said he’d be my reference.”

She was totally inappropriate. Her hair. Her attire. Her makeup. Mother would have a coronary, and if I hired her, Hunter might smirk at me. I didn’t care. I liked her. “Well, Aggie, let’s give it a go.”

She gifted me another one of her smiles. “Thank you, Mrs. Russell. You won’t be sorry.”

Her car chose that moment to emit one last knock then shudder into stillness. Mrs. Phipps from across the street had come out on her front stoop to investigate. From fifty yards away, I could see her pinched lips and raised eyebrows. “Why don’t you move your car around back?” I suggested.

“Bessie? Bessie won’t start for at least an hour. I can move her then.” Aggie bent and picked up a carpetbag. “I’ve got my cleaning clothes in here. Wouldn’t want to mess up my good duds.”

Oh dear Lord. When Mother met Aggie, she was going to have a seizure then a stroke and only then would she indulge in a coronary. And when she was done with her histrionics, I was going to be able to tell her that her golden boy, Hunter Tafft, was responsible. I smiled and welcomed Aggie DeLucci into my home.

She followed me into the kitchen and grunted.

“Is there a problem?” I asked.

“Women who don’t cook always have the best kitchens.”

I didn’t spend much time in kitchens. I’d have to take her word for it. “There’s a room where you can change right over there.” I pointed to a closed door.

Aggie nodded and took a step toward the maid’s room. The phone rang. She paused then raised a questioning brow.

If she was going to be the housekeeper, she might as well answer the phone. I nodded.

She picked up the receiver. “Russell residence.”

She listened for a moment then said, “The new housekeeper.”

Again, she fell silent.

“I’ll see if Mrs. Russell is at home.” She pressed the mouthpiece into her ample bosom then whispered, “It’s your mother.”

I shook my head. “Not home.” Harriet had never, not once, helped me duck a call from Mother. As far as I was concerned, Aggie could stay forever.

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Russell isn’t in. May I take a message?” More silence ensued. “Dinner tonight at the Country Club? I’ll tell Mrs. Russell when she gets in...No, I’m not sure when she’ll be home.”

Aggie hung up the phone then offered me a rueful smile. “It looks like you’re going to have to wait to try my chicken salad. Your mother wants you to join her at the club for dinner.”

What fresh hell was this? I rubbed my forehead and wondered if my headache might reappear. Then I sighed and tried to look on the bright side. I might be having dinner with Mother but at least I had a decent housekeeper.

Fifteen

When the doorbell rang, I answered it. After all, Aggie was busy restoring order to Henry’s study
.

Libba stood on the front stoop. She wore a print caftan, Dr. Scholl’s sandals, a floppy straw hat, and an apologetic smile. “Hi. I thought I’d stop by and see if you wanted to go to the pool.”

In all the years Libba and I have been friends she’d never done such a thing. A thing that exactly meshed with Mother’s stated plan for me. I narrowed my eyes and crossed my arms over my chest. “Really?”

“Please?”

“I’ve already been to the pool today.” And it hadn’t gone as planned.

“Please?” She clasped her hands and tried on puppy-dog eyes.

“What did she promise you?”

To her credit, Libba didn’t even try to play dumb. “She’s chairing the benefit for Corinthian Hall this November.”

My arms stayed firmly crossed.

“I’m on the invitation committee but she might have mentioned something about needing a committee chair for ambiance.”

I snorted. “She bought you off with the ambiance committee?” Yes, it was more prestigious than invitations but I thought I was worth more to Libba than the opportunity to select the flowers at a gala.

Libba glanced down at her Dr. Scholl’s. “She also mentioned the clean-up committee.”

I shuddered. Clean-up was the worst committee possible—its members stayed after the party to make sure vases and table cloths and décor made it safely through the night when all anyone wanted to do was go home and take off their shoes.

It was a classic Frances Walford technique. Offer Libba a carrot then threaten her with a stick. Take me to the pool and she chaired ambiance. Fail and she spent a night cleaning up after a huge party.

She looked up from the study of her shoes. “Please?”

Oh sweet God of undeserved guilt. I couldn’t be responsible for Libba staying at Corinthian Hall until three in the morning just to make sure that the pre-sold vases were available for pick-up first thing Sunday morning. “Fine,” I sighed. “Come in while I change.”

The pool was relatively quiet and we secured lounge chairs in the filtered shade of the lanai. Then came the production of positioning towels and applying suntan oil.

“You’re sure we can’t sit in the sun?” Libba grumbled.

I tapped my head. “Mild concussion. I probably shouldn’t be here at all.”

That shut her up. She probably had to keep me at the pool for at least an hour before Mother made good on her ambiance promise.

“Do you want a drink?” she asked.

I tapped my head again. “I can’t.”

“Iced tea?”

“Thank you.”

“I’ll just go get it.” She headed not toward the snack bar but inside where she could procure my tea and something tall and cool with an umbrella. Poor woman. She probably needed a drink. Mother had that effect on people.

Nearby a contingent of young mothers eagle-eyed their toddlers in the baby pool. A few kids played a half-hearted game of Marco Polo in the big pool. Across the pool deck sat a woman tanned to the exact shade of roasted almonds. She wore a bikini designed for a younger woman, one who lost the top when she went cruising on a Greek shipping magnate’s yacht. She also wore enormous dark glasses that hid half her face. Didn’t matter. I could still feel Kitty Ballew’s stare. Did she know how completely out of place she looked at a pool where women wore Lilly and kids wore Speedos? Did she care?

I glanced at my watch. I gave it two minutes before she found an excuse to come ask me where Henry was.

It took her a minute—and a good thirty seconds of that minute was devoted to tying a towel around her waist just so.

She sidled up to me. “I didn’t expect to see you here.” Whatever happened to
hello?
Or, better yet,
how are you?

At least I knew where I stood. Ours would not be a friendly conversation. I looked up at her from the comfort of my lounge chair. “Libba insisted.” A not so subtle reminder that Libba would be returning soon. If Kitty had a point she should make it quickly.

“Do you know where Henry is?” No dilly-dallying for Kitty. No pretend smile either. Any expression in her eyes was hidden by her glasses.

I faked a sigh. “Everyone’s looking for Henry. Why do you want him?”

Kitty’s lips thinned. “Who else is looking for him?”

I manufactured a yawn, barely covering it with the tips of my fingers. “Simply everyone. Such a shame about Madeline, isn’t it?”

A corner of her kittenish mouth curled. “Yes. About Henry—”

“It was awful finding her in the pool.” I glanced out at the water where I’d found Madeline’s body. True, I’d wished horrible accidents would befall her—snake bites, lightning strikes, pattern baldness—but I never hoped to see her murdered, floating. “Do you have any idea how she got there?”

“What? Me?” She lifted her hand and covered the hollow near the base of her throat, almost as if she could feel a noose tightening. “Of course not. Why would you ask such a thing?”

“Prudence might have said...” my voice trailed to nothing.

“That bitch!” Kitty wasn’t quite as cold blooded as Prudence. It was easier to fluster her.