THE DEEP END (4 page)

I wasn’t going to argue the point. Not with Detective Jones just down the hall. My gaze turned toward the door.

“You should be nicer to him.”

My gaze returned to Grace’s foraging back. Be nicer to my cheating, lying, on-the-run husband? Not likely. “Pardon me?”

She turned, a container of chutney chicken salad clasped in her hand. “Did you think I meant Dad?”

“Who else?”

“Detective Jones. He could make our lives difficult.” She cracked the lid of the container, sniffed, and wrinkled her nose. “You don’t need to be nicer to Dad. In fact...” she pivoted so I saw only her back, “you should divorce him.”

I closed my eyes for half a second, no more. When I opened them, sunlight still streamed through the windows, the copper pots hanging from the rack still gleamed, and the exposed brick wall still looked the way it always did—just a little wrong—too much scarlet, not enough crimson. My kitchen was the same. It was my world that was off-kilter.

My daughter took a deep breath, one that hunched her shoulders, then she turned to face me. “I love Dad, but I don’t see why you’re still married to him.”

This was not a conversation I wanted to have with a detective in the house. To be fair, it wasn’t a conversation I wanted have without a detective in the house. “It’s complicated.”

My daughter, who was never at a loss for a smart reply, bit her lip. Her chin quivered. She scrubbed at her face with the back of her free hand. “You’re not staying married because of me, are you?”

Yes.

I couldn’t tell her that. Not when her knuckles were white around the chicken salad and unshed tears glimmered against her lashes. I took a sip of wine, swallowed around the lump in my throat, rubbed the tip of my nose, and lied.

“Of course not. It’s complicated.”

“It’s not complicated. You sleep in different rooms. You barely speak to each other. When you do, it’s as if you’re talking to strangers. Unless you’re painting, you look miserable. You never smile.”

“I smile all the time.”

Grace tossed her hair. “Gritting your teeth and pursing your lips isn’t smiling. Dad never smiles either. Why do you want to live like that? You both deserve to be with people who make you happy.”

The wine bottle definitely didn’t look half-empty anymore. Not remotely. Especially not after I poured myself another glass. “I thought most kids wanted their parents to stay together.” That’s what the counselor had said, and the child psychologist, and the shrink.

The sound Grace made was a cross between a sob and a guffaw. “You’re always worried about everyone else. Don’t be.” She dredged up a shaky smile. “Besides, there’s Christmas math.”

“Christmas math?”

“Christmas. Birthdays. Any holiday that involves gifts. Divorced parents mean twice the loot.”

It was my turn to swipe at a tear clinging to my lashes. Grace cared as much about loot as I did about football. Not at all. My arms ached to hug her. To create a circle where nothing could hurt her. I wished we were one of those families that actually expressed emotion. One that yelled and sobbed and laughed and hugged—all over spilled milk. We weren’t. I took a step forward. Brushed a strand of hair away from Grace’s face then dropped a dry kiss on the top of her head. “Don’t worry about your father and me. We’ll figure things out.”

She sniffled. “The cop is cute.”

I laughed. A strangled, choking kind of laugh. The kind of laugh that escapes your lips when you realize your daughter feels responsible for your unhappiness. “I suppose.”

“You should go for it.”

“Go for what?” Detective Jones stood just outside the kitchen door.

I wondered how much he’d heard and felt a flush worthy of a teenager rise to my cheeks. “Take out.” I forced my hand to remain at my side. It wanted to rub my nose. “Grace isn’t in the mood for chicken salad. She wants Chinese.”

“You should stay for dinner.” Grace shot me a watery grin.

I glared at her. If she wasn’t careful, there’d be another murder. I scanned the rack of heavy copper pots that hung above the stove. Surely one of them would do as a weapon.

Detective Jones offered her an amused smile. “Thank you for the invitation, but I can’t stay.”

“Another time?” she asked.

The man flushed.

I took the container from my daughter’s hands and put it back in the fridge. “Detective Jones has a job to do. I’m sure he’s very busy.” I was also sure he didn’t dine with suspects. It was probably against the rules. Besides, he had to go track down my cheating, lying, on-the-run-but-please-God-not-a-murderer husband.

Four

We stood around the kitchen island and wondered what to say next. Grace examined her nails, I examined the level of wine in my glass, and Detective Jones examined the painting hanging above the breakfast table.

What are you supposed to say to a man who thinks you—or your husband—has committed a murder? “Did you talk to Roger?”

“Roger Harper? I did.”

Was I imagining the disapproval in his voice? Surely Roger was a suspect too?

The phone rang and Grace lunged for the receiver. “Hello.”

She listened for a moment then turned to me. “I’m going to take this in your room.” She handed me the phone and disappeared. When I heard her pick up the bedroom extension, I hung up the receiver.

“Ellie, are you here?” a welcome voice called from the front hall.

“In the kitchen,” I replied.

“Your husband?” Detective Jones asked.

“A friend.”

“He has a key?” Disapproval was writ clearly across the detective’s face. Let him disapprove. It was none of his business who did or did not have a key to my house. Powers didn’t. He just didn’t bother with the doorbell.

“He’s like family.”

Powers Foster—all long legs and pointy elbows, effortless charm and affected elegance—exploded into the kitchen. “You poor darling. I just heard. How are you? Are you all right?”

Another person who cared about the answer. That made three. I glanced at Detective Jones, and the censure that had settled onto his face, and scratched him from the sincere caring list. That made two. I walked into Powers’ open arms for an exuberant hug, pulling away only when my throat began to swell.

“Where’s Harriet?”

I was ridiculously grateful for a question that had nothing to do with murder or my marriage. “She went to visit her mother.”

“Did she leave you anything besides curried chicken salad?” He wrinkled his nose. “I doubt it. I’m taking you and Grace out to dinner. I heard about the most marvelous new place. It’s a créperie. They’re so uppity they only speak French.
Jambon et fromage pour moi
.”

Only he pronounced it
jam bone ate from age pore moi.

Powers’ attempts to amuse me were usually more clever than a bad French accent. I tried for a polite smile but couldn’t quite manage it.

Detective Jones cleared his throat and Powers pretended to notice him. I wasn’t fooled. The last time Powers failed to notice an attractive man within a half-second of entering a room Eisenhower was in office.

Detective Jones repeated Powers’ sentence with an accent worthy of the sixteenth arrondissement. “
Je voudrais un crêpe de jambon et fromage s’il vous plait
.”

Powers locked his spring green gaze on the detective and assessed. He began with the detective’s polished loafers then moved his gaze slowly up the detective’s plaid clad legs. It lingered on Detective Jones’ broad chest and shoulders until it finally reached his face. Usually when Powers blatantly checked out another man, he was met with squirming or flushing or an angry glare.

Detective Jones responded with an amused smile.

“Powers Foster.” He stuck out his hand. “And you are?”

The policeman shook Powers’ hand. “A homicide detective.”

Powers grinned at me. “If I’d known detectives were so delectable I would have told Madeline to get herself knocked off years ago. Where are you from, Homicide Detective?”

“San Francisco.”

“Really?” Powers wet his lips with the tip of his tongue. “Why did you leave?”

“I didn’t fit in.”

Powers fluttered his eyelashes. “Oh?”

Of course Detective Jones, follower of rules, hadn’t fit in with the Haight-Ashbury vibe. He’d come to the Midwest where people were as dependable as the sun rising in the east. “The lifestyle was a little too free and easy for me,” he said.

“What a heartbreaking shame. Free and easy is my motto.” Powers raised an inviting brow. “You might even call it a personal manifesto.”

Detective Jones’ lips quirked. “You knew Mrs. Harper?” Somehow, I liked him better for not being threatened by Powers’ come on.

“She worked for me. Part-time.”

“You must be the art dealer.”

“Guilty as charged.”

Max chose that moment to get up, stretch, and sidle toward Powers. The two shared a love-hate relationship. Max loved Powers. Powers hated Max. It wasn’t personal. Powers hated any animal that might shed on his navy pants.

“When did you last see her?” Detective Jones asked.

Powers shifted, trying to keep the center island between Max and his pants. “Am I a suspect?”

“Please answer the question.”

Powers sidestepped Max. “Ellison, be a darling and call the beast.”

“He just wants you to pet him.” Watching Powers try to avoid my dog was much more entertaining than his bad French accent.

“Max.” Detective Jones’ voice had the ring of authority. “Come.”

My dog trotted to his side.

“Sit.”

Max sat.

Powers sighed. “My hero.”

“When did you last see Mrs. Harper?” Powers’ hero repeated.

Powers waved an insouciant hand. “I don’t know. The whole point of having Madeline in the office was that I didn’t have to be.”

“Was she a good employee? Reliable?”

“Heavens no. Ellison, my darling, vino? Or maybe you’d like to make me a martini?”

If anyone was going to drink a martini, it would be me. I poured him a glass of wine.

“If she wasn’t a good employee why did you keep her?”

Powers sipped. “Madeline wanted a job that didn’t interfere with her life. One that she could use as an excuse when she didn’t want to do something and ditch when she did.”

Detective Jones’ eyes narrowed to slits worthy of Dirty Harry. Better than Dirty Harry. Detective Jones was a real cop and he didn’t need a gun to look menacing. “That doesn’t answer my question.”

Powers’ left eye twitched. I bet he didn’t find Detective Jones quite so attractive now. Or maybe he did. He was looking at the policeman like I look at chocolates. Delicious, delectable, and hard to stop after that first taste.

“She worked for peanuts and gave good phone.”

Detective Jones lifted a brow. “Gave good phone?”

“A hefty portion of my business comes from the coasts. Someone has to answer the phones.”

“The coasts?”

Powers nodded. “A movie tanks and the producer needs to sell his Lichtenstein but he doesn’t want all of L.A. to know, so he calls me. Same thing for New York. The heiress who’s burned through her fortune doesn’t want Park Avenue to know she’s broke so she calls me and her grandmother’s Monet goes to California. I need the right person to answer the phone.”

“Why you?”

Powers’ eyelashes fluttered again. “I’m very discreet.”

“I’m sure. You represent Mrs. Russell?”

“I do.”

“For how long?”

What did my paintings have to do with Madeline’s murder? I opened my mouth to ask but was interrupted by the ring of the doorbell.

“Gracie, would you get that?” I called up the stairs.

The resentful trudge of teenage feet answered me.

A moment later, Hunter Tafft sauntered into my kitchen as if he owned it. He was self-assured. He was prematurely silver-haired. He was more polished than Mother’s sterling. He leaned over and brushed his lips across my cheek. “Ellison, how are you?”

I didn’t answer. Couldn’t. What was he doing here?

“Your mother asked me to come over. She said you needed a lawyer.”

There was going to be another murder. Justifiable homicide. Mother should pick out her casket. Why in the hell hadn’t he called first? If he thought I was a legally challenged damsel in distress just waiting for an attorney in a white Mercedes to ride up and save me, he was wrong.

Hunter greeted Powers with the slightest of nods. Powers’ answering nod was even smaller. Brief jerks of their chins said everything they didn’t say out loud. They were willing to acknowledge each other socially. Barely. I wondered if there was a story there. Did Hunter feel threatened by Powers’ preferences? Did Powers feel threatened by Hunter’s perfect hair? Maybe a bit of both?

Hunter turned his attention on Detective Jones. “I don’t believe we’ve met.”

“I don’t believe we have.” The expression I was fast coming to associate with disapproval settled on Detective Jones’ face. He leaned back against the kitchen counter.

The skin around Hunter’s eyes tightened. “You are?”

“Detective Jones.”

Hunter showed off his gleaming teeth. Blinded by their brightness, I wasn’t sure if his smile was genuine or not.

“I don’t believe I caught your first name,” Hunter said. The smile was definitely manufactured.

“I don’t believe you did.”

They assessed. Not like Powers had assessed. Nope, this assessment had more to do with who could run the playground or the squad room or the boardroom. My kitchen was so filled with testosterone it was hard to breathe.

Powers fanned himself. Sighed. Then he patted his pockets until he found a packet of the colored cigarettes he favored. He withdrew a pink one then began patting again. “Ellison, my darling, may I smoke?”

There was no way Powers was smoking one of those nasty things in my house. The stench would linger for days. I shook my head and pointed to the back door. “Patio.”

Then, ever the good hostess I tried to diffuse the tension. “Hunter is an old friend of the family’s.” Not my lawyer. I didn’t need a lawyer. Henry needed a lawyer.

Hunter mirrored Detective Jones’ lazy pose and leaned against the doorframe. “Do you have a warrant?”

“I invited him.”

Hunter looked like his next question might have something to do with my intelligence—or lack thereof. I crossed my arms.

Powers gave up patting. “Do you have a match?”

“In the drawer.”

He reached into the drawer and pulled out a matchbook, stared at it a moment then tossed it onto the counter. “Something you’re not telling me, Ellie, darling?”

The matchbook was black with the name of a club printed in silver letters. Club K. It was almost innocuous. Almost. On closer inspection, the L in Club looked more like a riding crop than a letter. Something hung from the B’s loop. Not a Q’s lost squiggly or a printing error but a tiny pair of handcuffs.