THE DEEP END (8 page)

“Spill,” Libba demanded.

Jinx held her hand out and tilted it until the light caught the sheen on her nails then her lips curled into a smile. “Sally Watkins asked her to go to Vail in August and she said she couldn’t afford it.”

More likely she couldn’t afford to leave Henry alone with Madeline and Kitty. But now—

Madeleine was dead and Kitty wasn’t real competition for my husband’s undivided attention.

“I love Vail,” said Daisy.

“Focus.” Libba tapped the edge of the table with the tip of her finger. “We’re not talking about vacations we’re talking about—Ouch!”

“Prudence,” Jinx said, her voice was unnaturally loud, “I was just telling the girls how disappointed Sally was that you couldn’t go to Vail with her.” She offered up a polite smile.

Prudence’s smile was less cordial. Narrowed eyes, a curled lip, and a laser beam glare don’t make for polite. “Really? Perhaps you should go. I’m sure Alan wouldn’t miss you.”

It was a weak jab. Alan would miss Jinx like crazy.

“What brings you to the club, Prudence?” I asked. It sounded so much nicer than what I was thinking—
What do you want, you bony-assed harpy?

“Just lunch,” she replied then she caught the tip of her finger between her teeth and tilted her head to the side. “Ellison, I’m trying to get hold of Henry. The bank says he’s not in today.” She removed the finger from her mouth and attempted a smile. “Do you know where I might reach him?” I’d believe vinegar. Honey, especially honey from Prudence, made me nervous.

“What do you want with Ellison’s husband?” Libba asked.

Prudence’s smile disappeared. “I’m buying an apartment in New York. Henry’s handling the loan.”

As lies went, it wasn’t half bad. But Henry’s bank didn’t loan outside its footprint.

“He told Grace he was going to New York. Maybe he’s working on your loan from there.”

“Really?” She looked as if she’d just swallowed a whole bottle of cod liver oil. “New York? If you talk to him, would you have him call me? Please?”

Across the table, Libba choked on a sip of wine.

Prudence really was unbelievable. I shook my head. “Your best bet is to leave a message at the bank.”

She opened her mouth as if she meant to speak but Frank appeared with a large tray of food. “Who has the club sandwich?” he asked.

“Me.” Libba waved at him.

Prudence attempted another smile. Did she honestly think she was fooling any of us? We were more likely to believe she’d shot a twenty-seven on the back nine than that she’d suddenly become pleasant.

“Please, Ellison. If you hear from him?”

I gave her a smile as sincere as the one she’d offered me then nodded.

“Thank you.” She turned and marched out of the dining room.

We waited until luncheon was served and Frank disappeared back into the kitchen before saying a word.

“She did it,” said Jinx. “I feel it in my bones. She killed Madeline. You should tell the police about her and Henry.”

“And Kitty,” Libba offered.

“And Madeline,” Daisy added.

I brought my wine glass to my lips. Telling Detective Jones about Prudence and Kitty meant telling him all about Henry’s preferences—that he preferred a horse-faced woman to his own wife, that he only found me attractive if he could humiliate me, that I was about as desirable as a flat tennis ball. I scratched my nose. “I will.”

Libba crossed her arms and leaned back against the polished cherry of the dining chair. “Don’t try lying to the police. You’re terrible at it.”

“How can you tell I’m lying?”

Slowly, deliberately, she lifted her hand to her face and scratched her nose.

If my friends could determine my tell, chances were good Detective Jones could too. I needed to find something to do with my hands when my nose itched. Especially since I had a sinking feeling I
’d be lying a lot in the coming days.

Nine

When I got home from lunch, I parked Roger’s car on the street, hid his keys under the floor mat and strolled up the drive, stopping to examine my flattened hostas. Mother was sure to notice and when she did, she’d want a full explanation. The thought of telling her about finding Roger Harper drunk on my front stoop or, even worse, about my ill-considered trip to Club K sent me walking past the front door to the garden shed. Perhaps some fertilizer would help.

A sleepy-eyed Max met me in the backyard.

I scratched behind his ear and he leaned into me as if he needed my support to stay upright. “What are you doing out?”

Of course, he didn’t answer. He just yawned, a huge one that afforded me a full view down his doggy throat.

Max wasn’t supposed to be out alone. His relentless pursuit of squirrels and rabbits had led him over and under fences. We’d replaced the Johnson’s hydrangeas and the Smith’s lavender and our own boxwoods more than once. It led to a house rule—
Max shall not be left unattended in the backyard.
Grace was usually pretty good about keeping an eye on him. I wondered where she was.

The back door stood open. I stepped into the kitchen and called her name.

She didn’t answer.

I walked into the front hall and yelled louder, “Grace.”

Nothing.

The door to my husband’s study was ajar. Had he come home? If he had, I had quite a bit I wanted to say to him. “Henry?”

I heard something. The shift of weight on old floorboards? The creak of an old house? What I didn’t hear was the sound of my husband’s voice. A slow shiver traveled the length of my spine.

“Max,” I called the dog to my side. He didn’t come. I glanced over my shoulder. He’d followed me into the kitchen and collapsed on the floor.

The shiver turned into a shudder and my chest felt tight, too small to contain the beating of my heart.

I took a tiny step backward and then a larger one.

Too little, too late. A figure exploded out of the study. Black shirt, black pants, a bit of hosiery covering the face and the dull glint of a brass fireplace poker arcing toward me. 

Love’s Baby Soft and Chanel No. 5 duked it out above my nose. Grace, Mother, and an appalling headache. I groaned.

“Mom!” Grace sounded like she’d been crying.

I forced my eyes open, caught a quick glimpse of her tear-stained face leaning over me then closed them again. “Too much light.”

Love’s Baby Soft released my hand. The sound of curtains being yanked shut and a light switch being flipped followed. Meanwhile, a gentle jasmine and rose scented hand grazed my forehead. Things must be awful if Mother was being gentle.

“Max?” My poor dog.

“At the vet having his stomach pumped. It will take more than a handful of valium to slow that disaster on four legs down.” Mother wasn’t one of his fans. She hadn’t been since he chewed through the handle of her Hermés bag. “May I just say that burglar alarms are unaffected by sleeping pills.”

Mother’s version of I told you so. She’d been after us for years to install an alarm, and I’d blithely promised that Max was better protection.

I slitted my eyes. “Where am I?”

“The hospital,” Grace said. Her voice was thick as if she had a cold or a throat clogged with tears.

I struggled to sit, winced as a screwdriver lanced my brain, then decided that lying back on three or four pillows—even flat hospital pillows—was just fine. “What happened?”

“Someone broke into your house.”

I knew that. I raised my hand to my head and felt a lump the size of a sugar melon. My skull knew that.

“How did I get here?”

“Harriet found you and called an ambulance. Then Grace came home, saw you being loaded in and called me.” Mother’s voice barely masked her outrage. Obviously, she thought Harriet’s first call should have been to her.

“What did they take?”

“They tore up Dad’s office. Detective Jones says they were looking for something.”

My aching brain supplied me with a vision of Henry’s perfectly ordered study in shambles. Books ripped from the shelves, desk drawers emptied onto the carpet, his collection of Toby jugs shattered. That I wouldn’t mind. The faces leer, they’re creepy, and I’ve never understood why he’s so enamored with them. In my imagination, the hinged painting that hid the safe hung open as did the safe itself. “Did they find it?”

“We don’t know.” Grace shook her head. “When you’re better, Detective Jones wants you to look.”

“Gracie, be an angel and run down to the café and get me a coffee with extra cream.” Mother opened her purse and produced a bill. “Do you want anything, Ellison?”

“Water.”

“No need to buy that.” She handed me a plastic cup with a bendy straw and I took a grateful sip.

When the door closed behind Grace, Mother took her chair, settling in next to me.

I gave the cup back to her and closed my eyes. A clear indication I was ready for a nap or painkillers or both. There ought to be some fabulous painkillers in a hospital. Why hadn’t they given me any?

“What’s going on?” Mother asked.

All the sarcastic things I could say limped through my brain but I didn’t feel up to starting an argument. I shrugged. Even that hurt my head.

“I mean it, Ellison, what’s going on?”

“Someone murdered Madeline.”

“Yes, but why are they breaking into your house?”

“I don’t know.” I didn’t.

“This is all so upsetting.”

She didn’t know the half of it...or what was it called when there were three people? She didn’t know the ménage of it. Henry made four. She didn’t know the orgy of it. I giggled. A hysterical, deranged giggle. I swallowed it before she had me moved to the psych ward.

“This isn’t remotely amusing.” A barber could shave ten clients whistle clean with just the tone of her voice.

“Mother, I’m tired and I’m in pain. Do we have to discuss this now?”

“You wouldn’t believe the things people are saying.”

I didn’t want to know.

She told me anyway. “They’re saying you and Roger Harper killed Madeline and Henry. They’re saying you swapped partners. They’re saying he spent the night at your house last night.”

He did. Passed out on the front stoop. I moaned. Not from pain, but from the sick-making thought of me and Roger together. What a nightmare.

“I insist you tell me what is going on.” Again with the razor blade voice.

“There’s nothing between Roger Harper and me.”

“Then why is his car parked in front of your house?”

“It’s a long story.”

“I have time.”

For a half-second, I was tempted to tell her everything. About Henry and Madeline and Prudence and Kitty. About Roger. About Club K. She’d believe me. Then she’d tell everyone she knew. She’d tell them to protect my reputation—and hers. Ultimately
everyone
—including Grace—would know what a twisted, depraved man Henry Russell really was.

“Roger got drunk and passed out on my front steps last night. I found him this morning.”

“Why did he come to your house?”

“I don’t know. Because I found Madeline? Because Madeline and Henry were having an affair?” I shrugged again. Regretted it again. Winced.

“That slut had affairs with half the men at the club. Why did she have to get herself murdered when she was fucking Henry?”

My jaw dropped to my chest. Mother had dropped an f-bomb. I hadn’t realized she knew the word, much less how to use it correctly in a sentence. That and she knew all about Madeline? True, after the coatroom, everyone knew about Madeline and Henry. But Madeline and Carter Ross? Madeline and Miles Porter? Madeline and Gibson Thorne? Those were affairs of the shorter-lived more discreet variety. How did Mother know?

“Close your mouth, Ellison, the flies will buzz in.”

I snapped my lips together.

Mother sat up ramrod straight and her eyes narrowed like a general reviewing his troops. Or her lone soldier. “This is what you are going to do. You are going to spend the night in the hospital. Grace can stay with me.” She wagged her finger in front of my face. “Do not argue. If you’re in the hospital, no one will blame you for missing Madeline’s funeral.”

Mother’s plan had merit.

“When you do leave, you will go see Hunter.”

That part of the plan wasn’t as good.

“You will begin divorce proceedings.”

She gave me a half-second to argue. I didn’t. There was no point in explaining that Hunter didn’t practice that kind of law. Besides, the general idea was good.

“Day after tomorrow, you will go to the pool. Wear that light grey linen caftan. It makes you look sallow.” She raised a finger to halt the objection on my lips. “I’m sorry, dear, but it does. You will accept everyone’s sympathy. You might see if you can manage tears.” She patted my hand. “Don’t worry, we’ll get through this and then we’ll get your life straightened out.”

Except for the part where I sat around the pool and solicited sympathy—and the “we” part of straightening out my life—her plan wasn’t half-bad.