THE DEEP END (29 page)

Thirty-Two

Everyone said the service for Henry was lovely. Unless a pallbearer trips and drops the casket, that’s what people always say. One of those polite lies that gets us through our lives.
All brides are beautiful. No, darling, you can’t tell at all—you just look younger. Lovely service.

Except, since Mother made all the plans, the service really was lovely. Lovely despite Kitty and Prudence’s sobbing near the back of the church.

I sat numb in the first pew. Grace clutched my hand. The minister, faced with eulogizing a philandering blackmailer who flogged women in his spare time, made Henry sound like a pillar of the community.

After the service, it seemed like the whole congregation came over to the house. There were pitchers of martinis and Tom Collinses. Endless bottles of wine. Canapés. Crudités with fresh dill dip. Tiny little ham sandwiches. Not made with the ham Bitty Sue gave me. Somehow, I couldn’t bear to serve that after killing her son.

Not that she would have known.

She didn’t come.

I didn’t blame her.

Daddy hovered.

Grace withdrew to the comfort of her girl friends. They curled up in the corner of the family room to drink Tab, dip bits of French bread in cheese fondue, and talk.

Mother, looking very much as if she was sucking lemons, offered me an olive branch. “Your new housekeeper is doing a nice job.”

If she could extend the branch, the least I could do was reach out and take it. “Thank you. The service was lovely. I appreciate your planning it.”

We stood, caught in an awkward pause, neither willing to reach any further. Mother opened her mouth as if she meant to say something then snapped it shut, a sure sign she was trying to find some way to criticize without sounding critical.

Hunter’s approach saved us. His smile was enough to make her forget any unsolicited advice she might have thought to share about my attire, my hair, or the strength of the martinis. She beamed up at him. “Hunter, I don’t know what we would have done without you. Isn’t that right, Ellison?” Only the lack of a foot-covering table kept her from kicking me to make sure I came up with the right response.

“Absolutely.” It was nothing less than the truth. Hunter and Aggie had opened all Henry’s envelopes—except one. He’d advised me as to what I should say to the police. He’d even put up with Mother’s transparent attempts at matchmaking. I smiled at him.

He smiled back. “May I have a word?”

“Look!” Mother pointed at someone across the room. “There’s Lorna. I must speak with her. Hunter, why don’t you keep Ellison company?” She was about as subtle as a fireplace poker to the skull. Undoubtedly she was rubbing her hands together with glee, under the mistaken impression that something was developing between Hunter and me.

Hunter had enough sensitivity not to comment on Mother’s machinations. “What do you want to do about the files?”

“I don’t know. Well, I don’t know except for Rand Hamilton. Can we send that one to the police? Anonymously?”

“If that’s what you want.”

“We can’t let a killer go free.”

“Of course not.” Hunter cleared his throat. He stared across the room to where Mother was deep in conversation with Lorna. His tanned cheeks looked almost flushed. “Ellison, now that this is over…” He straightened his tie, a nice, conservative yellow and blue stripe. “Would you have dinner with me?”

“A date?”

My voice might have squeaked. A date? With Hunter? Mother would be giddy. Me? I wasn’t so sure. Not that Hunter wasn’t handsome. He was. He was also charming and sophisticated and a fabulous lawyer. I just wasn’t sure I wanted to get involved again. Ever.

He shifted his weight from foot to foot and jammed his hands in his pockets. “A date.”

“I...um...I...That is to say...” I brushed a strand of hair away from my cheek. “I don’t think I’m ready to date.”

“When you are?”

I nodded. No need to tell him I’d never be ready. Men couldn’t be trusted. I had all the proof I needed. My husband had cheated and blackmailed and lied. My father did something bad enough to end up with his name on one of Henry’s damned envelopes. Powers murdered three people before trying to kill me. I was done with men. End of story.

“I won’t rush you, Ellison. But I do want to know you better.”

My skin tingled with the thought of knowing Hunter Tafft better.

Barb Evans chose that moment to approach us, and Hunter, with a look that said quite clearly that we weren’t done talking, excused himself and melted into the crowd.

“Are you holding up?” she asked.

“When this is all over...” I waved a hand at the crowd of people. “I’m putting Grace on a plane and we’re going to Europe until school starts.”

“Can’t say I blame—” Her hand closed on my arm. “Who is that?”

I followed her gaze.

“That’s the police officer who investigated the murders.”

Anarchy was wearing a navy suit—wearing it well—and he was attracting attention. More than one woman watched him weave his way through the crowd.

He stopped in front of me. “Mrs. Russell.”

“The investigation is over, please call me Ellison.” Barb seemed to have grown roots. She wasn’t moving nor was she releasing my arm. “This is my friend, Barb Evans. Barb, this is Detective Jones.”

He glanced at her for half a second. “Pleased to meet you.” His gaze returned to me. “I have a question for you, Ellison.”

What questions could he have now? With Hunter’s help, I’d explained that Powers had sold fake Picassos and that Madeline had discovered his crime. Of course she’d told Henry. We’d posited that Powers killed them both to keep them quiet. He’d killed Roger in a botched frame up. There was no mention of blackmail. Grace’s father’s reputation was safe. Had Detective Jones discovered all that we’d omitted? My heart stuttered. “Of course, although I don’t know where we’ll find any privacy.”

He nodded to Barb, grabbed my free arm, and led me through the crowd to the kitchen, past the caterers and onto the back patio.

The late afternoon heat prickled on my skin. The air was almost too humid to breathe. It settled into my lungs like a soggy lump of dread. “What’s your question, Detective?”

“Anarchy,” he corrected.

“What’s your question, Anarchy?”

He leaned forward as if he meant to whisper a secret in my ear. Except, he didn’t. Instead, his lips brushed against mine. My heart, which had been stuttering along, raced faster than the winner of the Kentucky Derby.

“Will you have dinner with me tomorrow night?” He traced the edge of my jaw with the tip of his finger.

I blinked, suddenly unable to remember the pathway by which words traveled from my brain to my mouth.

“Will you?” he asked.

It had to be some kind of record. How many women were asked out at the reception following their husband’s funeral?

How many women were asked out twice?

“I don’t think I’m ready to date.”

His lips curled into a slow smile. “I’ll wait.”

I used my hand to fan the heat. Who knew if all that warmth was a result of the sun beating on my shoulders or the flush of my cheeks?

Anarchy Jones would be waiting a long, long time.

It was hours before everyone was gone, then the caterer had to pack up and Aggie had to clean up.

Grace, who looked positively gray with fatigue, trudged up the stairs.

My daughter had the right idea. I went upstairs, kicked off my shoes, shucked off my dress, and unclasped the heavy rope of pearls at my neck. I tossed them on the bed and opened the safe.

It
was waiting for me. Poison in a manila wrapper.

I stood there in my underwear and stared at it.

Quite of their own volition, my fingers closed on the envelope. My nail slipped under the flap.

I had to know.

I couldn’t go through the rest of my life not knowing. What if it was something inconsequential—a deliberate miscounting on a golf scorecard, a careless mistake on his taxes? I’d have put myself through hell for nothing.

I opened the envelope. Reached inside. Pulled out a picture of a blonde woman. She wore a blindfold, handcuffs, stockings, stilettos, and not much else.

Oh. Dear. Lord.

My stomach turned. Twice.

It was a good thing Henry was dead because if he still breathed I would have had to kill him. How could he? One time, to please him, I’d donned the ridiculous outfit and let him tie me and blindfold me. One time and he’d taken pictures and extorted money from Daddy.

Embarrassment swamped me. It left me drowning in a bottomless pool of shame. My father had seen those pictures. What he must think of me. I was so appalled I could hardly breathe. I sat on the edge of the bed, clutched my stomach and rocked.

I don’t know how long I sat there. Long enough to plan an escape wherein I never had to look him in the eye again. I mapped out an itinerary of Europe and Asia and Australia. I sat long enough to have two tiny thoughts that made the whole thing bearable.

Daddy loved me enough to pretend he hadn’t seen the pictures. Maybe we could keep pretending. We could pretend for the rest of our lives.

More importantly, Daddy hadn’t done anything worthy of blackmail.

Henry really was a worm. I’d been right about that. And I’d been wrong. A girl
could
count on her father after all.

Maybe she could count on another man as well. When I got back from Europe, I’d call him and find out.

About the Author

Julie Mulhern is a Kansas City native who grew up on a steady diet of Agatha Christie. She spends her spare time whipping up gourmet meals for her family, working out at the gym and finding new ways to keep her house spotlessly clean—and she’s got an active imagination. Truth is—she’s an expert at calling for take-out, she grumbles about walking the dog and the dust bunnies under the bed have grown into dust lions. She is a 2014 Golden Heart® Finalist.
The Deep End
is her first mystery and is the winner of The Sheila Award.

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