Stayin' Alive
Stayin’ Alive
Julie Mulhern
J & M Press
Copyright © 2020 by Julie Mulhern
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
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Print Edition - February 2020
ISBN-13: 978-1-7327559-1-8
Katie - this one’s for you.
Happy Birthday
Acknowledgments
Books take a village. So grateful my village includes Rachel Jackson, Stephanie Savage, Sally Berneathy, and Gretchen Archer.
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Books - at least my books - also take a patient husband. Thank you, honey!
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Thank you!
Also by Julie Mulhern
Meet Poppy Fields!
Chapter One
April, 1975
Kansas City, Missouri
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“I thought it would be bigger.”
My best friend Libba sighed. “That’s the story of my life.”
Unlike me, she wasn’t referring to the bronze horse displayed in front of us—not if her naughty smile was any indication.
I was definitely referring to the horse. “The catalog makes it look life size.”
“Why do you care?”
“I don’t want anyone to be disappointed, to expect something large and be confronted with a smaller reality.”
“Again, the story of my life.” Libba had a zest for living that allowed her to compare sizes. Regularly. Although, to be fair, she seemed devoted to the latest man—Jimmy, a totally-inappropriate-in-every-way-that-shouldn’t-count-but-did fireman. She patted my arm. “The exhibition is amazing. Everyone will love it. Don’t worry.”
The size of the horses and the quality of the exhibition weren’t my concern; my job as the gala chairman was to worry over food, décor, liquor, entertainment, and the seating chart. Worrying about horses’ sizes made for a nice change—I’d worried the gala almost to death. Worrying about the exhibit made for a nice change.
Libba closed her fingers around my arm and pulled me away from the horse. “I want a closer look at that.” She pointed to a jade burial suit sewn with gold thread.
I let myself be pulled. That we’d been allowed in before the exhibition opened was a special treat, and this was our chance to see the Chinese treasures without a crowd.
Libba opened the exhibition’s accompanying booklet and read, “Made for Tou Wan, the wife of Prince Ching of Chungsan.” She studied the fortune in jade in the glass case. “He must have adored her.”
The amount of jade and gold was impressive, but I suspected other motives. “Or he wanted to show up his friends.”
“Since when are you a cynic?”
I’d spent the past year of my life tripping over bodies—murdered bodies. Murder shattered rose-colored glasses. The pair I’d worn most of my marriage and adult life had been ground to a pile of pink dust. “I’m not a cynic, I’m a realist.”
“Potato, potahto. And you didn’t answer my question.”
“Since Henry.” Before his murder, my late husband cheated on me with reckless abandon. “The glasses came off when Henry slept with Madeline.”
“That’s ridiculous. You’ve been ridiculously optimistic scads of times since then.” She offered me a stern glance. “I count on you to be Pollyanna.”
“Try me on a day when my whole family isn’t in town.”
“Aha!” Libba pointed at me as if she’d discovered an important clue. “That explains the glass-half-empty mood. Who’s staying at your house?”
“Aunt Sis and Karma are with me. Marjorie and Greg are staying at the Alameda.” After her last visit, my sister decided Mother was best taken in small doses. Marjorie refused to stay with my parents (not that I blamed her). Nor did she want to share a roof with our half-sister, Karma. Instead, she’d reserved a suite at a hotel on the Country Club Plaza.
“That saves you a bit of drama.”
I held up crossed fingers. Both hands. With Marjorie, drama was always a risk.
We moved on to Prince Ching’s burial suit, which was bigger, more ornate, and more impressive than his wife’s. “Are you sure you won’t bring Jimmy? We can squeeze another chair at the table.”
“Uh, no.”
“Why not?”
“Are you kidding? Imagine the grief I’d get for bringing a younger man. Also—” she wrinkled her nose “—Jimmy has zero interest in this part of my world. Anarchy’s escorting you?”
“Yes.”
“Does Frances know?”
Mother did not approve of my relationship with a homicide detective. To her mind, the only way of thinking, he was totally-inappropriate-in-every-way-that-counted bad for me. Her exact words upon learning Anarchy was my escort to the gala—have you lost your ever-loving mind?
The ensuing conversation had not been positive.
“She knows.”
“Did you tell her you’re going away with him?”
“That hasn’t been decided.”
Libba crossed her arms and stared at me. “You told him you’d discuss it after the gala.”
“Yes.”
“The gala is tonight.”
“Yes.”
Her eyes narrowed. “What is there to discuss?”
“It’s a commitment.”
“You like commitments.”
“The last one didn’t work out so well.”
“Pooh!” Libba waved the tips of her fingers at me as if I were a bothersome fly. “That was Henry’s fault. You’re the marrying kind.”
“Anarchy asked me for a weekend, not a lifetime.”
“Exactly!” Now she sounded triumphant. “What’s the problem?”
“Relationships change people.” Relationships changed women. A thousand tiny compromises. Air conditioning set at frigid instead of a ceiling fan. The TV on while falling asleep. Beach vacations rather than trips to the mountains. Too many concessions and a woman might find herself eating grapes in her chicken salad or raisins in her oatmeal cookies. She might wake up one morning, glance in the mirror, and not recognize the woman staring back at her.
“That’s a poor excuse. Henry was an ass. He hurt you. Now you’re gun shy. Trust me, Anarchy’s nothing like Henry. And he’s crazy for you.”
I didn’t have an answer, so I stared at the prince’s burial suit.
“Don’t mess this up.”
“I’m trying not to.”
Curiosity flickered in her eyes. Would I? Wouldn’t I? “What are you going to tell him?”
I hadn’t decided. Not yet. “He’ll be the first to know.”
Libba glanced at her watch. “What time is your hair appointment?”
“Two o’clock.” It was ba
rely eleven. “There’s plenty of time to take in the exhibition.”
Libba pouted. “I’m hungry. We can grab lunch at Winstead’s.”
Much as I loved steakburgers and fries, my jittery stomach had zero interest in food. “I can’t eat.”
“The dress?”
The dress fit like a dream. “Nerves.”
“You covered every detail, raised more money than anyone ever imagined, and bought the perfect dress. Tonight will be a triumph.”
“I hope so.” Mother and her cohorts foisted this gala on me at the last moment, and I’d worked hard to make it a success. A tiny, best-left-silent part of me wanted the evening to be more successful, more fabulous, and more memorable than anything Mother ever chaired. One thing was certain: anything less than perfection would be revisited at every holiday gathering for the rest of my life. Remember when Ellison chaired the Chinese Exhibition gala, and they ran out of wine. Remember when Ellison chaired the gala, and the food was undercooked. Remember when Ellison could have made local history, but a mass murderer slaughtered half the guests.
I took a deep, needed breath, and we moved to a case holding bronze leopards inlaid with gold.
“Pretty.” Libba nodded her approval. “Who’s at your table?”
“Me, Anarchy, you, Aunt Sis, Karma, Marjorie and Greg, and some people from the Chinese embassy.”
“I hope they’re men.”
“In the market?” Poor Jimmy.
“Don’t be silly. I’m perfectly happy with my current beau. We need men to even out the table.”
God forbid women should outnumber men at a table. “Fair point.”
“What else should we see?” She searched the exhibition for more gold or jade.
“All of it. This is a big deal.”
“It’s a bunch of stuff they buried with corpses.”
“This stuff spans thousands and thousands of years. It’s culturally significant and a window onto human history.”
“I prefer the Kama Sutra.”
“That’s Indian, not Chinese.”
“Well, I’m sure the Chinese wrote something similar.”
I made a mental note—Libba could not, under any circumstances, sit next to the Chinese guests.
“What’s Grace doing tonight?”
“She and Peggy have dates. They’re going to the movies, then the girls are spending the night at our house.”
“Oh?” Libba was familiar with the times Grace had strayed—one wild party and a couple of bad boys. Bad enough to give her mother a white hair (carefully plucked).
“Aggie is staying at the house tonight.”
“Sounds as if you’ve thought of everything. Let’s hope there are no murderers on the guest list.”
“Bite your tongue.” Behind my back, I crossed my fingers. Tightly.
“You look really pretty, Mom.”
Compliments from teenage daughters were rare. I hesitated to put in the second earring and turned to where Grace sat on my bed. “Thank you, sweetie.”
“I’m glad you chose that dress.”
I’d bought two (a woman needed options)—the first a vibrant red, the second a jadeite green, a shade Empress Cixi might have worn. Not that I’d ever mention her to the Communists who’d be sitting at my table.
I put in the earring, a simple diamond stud, and smoothed the crimson fabric over my hips.
Max, the Weimaraner who plotted world domination, grinned at me—a grin filled with brewing trouble.
“Don’t you rub your head against me.” I shook a finger at him.
His grin widened, and he stood, stretched, and walked toward me.
I knew his tricks (till he found new ones). “Grace, grab him before he spoils my dress.”
Grace hopped off the bed and closed her fingers around Max’s collar. “I’ll put him in the back yard till you leave.”
“Thank you.”
Grace and Max scampered out the door, and I took a final peek in the mirror. I’d do. Not even Mother could find fault with the strapless silk dress or the diamond necklace draped around my neck.
Ding dong.
Butterflies sprang a sneak attack on my stomach. He was here.
Grace’s footsteps raced across the front hall, and voices followed.
“Mom!” My daughter’s voice bull-horned up the stairs. “Anarchy is here. Are you ready?”
“Be right down,” I called, my voice inexplicably high and breathless.
I paused at the top of the stairs. I had no choice. Anarchy leaned against the baluster. He looked impossibly handsome in a tux. And he was staring at me as if he thought he was the lucky one. The soft but possessive expression in his coffee brown eyes stole my breath.
I descended. Slowly. My lungs couldn’t quite fill, and my hand shook on the railing.
“Hello, beautiful.”
My heart skipped a beat. “Hello, handsome.”
He took my hand, leaned forward, and brushed a gentle kiss across my lips.
“Let me get a picture.” Grace held up a Polaroid camera, and its flash blinded me before I could manufacture a polite smile.
I blinked away the camera’s halo. “You behave yourself, young lady. Aggie will be here, and she knows when you’re supposed to be home.”
Grace rolled her eyes. “I’ll behave. I promise. You have fun.”
Fun? When I thought about this gala, the last thing I thought was fun. There were so many things that could go wrong, and I so desperately wanted everything to go right. “Thanks, honey.” I pointed to the bombé chest. “When Sis and Karma get back from the salon, make sure they find the car keys.” My aunt and half-sister were borrowing my car for the evening.
“Will do.” Grace kissed my cheek. “Seriously, Mom, have fun.”
I nodded, and Anarchy escorted me out to the drive.
A shiny new Lincoln waited in the spot where he usually parked.
“Where’s your car?”
“I figured we could do better than that for the gala chairman.”
“You didn’t need to—”
“I know, Ellison.” His voice was velvet. “I wanted to.”
My throat tightened. I’d be an idiot if I didn’t go away with this man. If only my doubts would disappear. My doubts. They had nothing to do with Anarchy. “Thank you.”
He brushed the back of his fingers against my cheek and opened the passenger door.
I gathered my skirts and slipped inside.
We drove the short distance to the Nelson without saying much. I went over mental lists, and Anarchy seemed to sense my mind was on the gala. Desperately on the gala. If I stopped thinking about the gala, I’d start thinking about me and Anarchy Jones in a hotel room far from Kansas City. A blush would darken my cheeks, and he’d notice. I kept my mind firmly on last-minute changes to the seating arrangement.
Anarchy pulled into the drive on the gallery’s north side, and I took a moment to stare at the Beaux Arts façade. This was it. Tonight. All that work. All that planning. I glanced at the gold watch on my wrist. I had one hour to check Kirkwood Hall, tonight’s ballroom.
When the guests arrived, they’d view the exhibition rooms. From there, they’d proceed to Kirkwood for cocktails, dinner, and entertainment (Chinese artists would perform a Lantern Dance). After dinner, the performance, and a few speeches, a seven-piece orchestra would play so the guests might dance as well.
A valet opened our doors, and we swept inside.
Bamboo screens and four red-silk banners painted with Chinese characters (peace, prosperity, friendship, and love) hid Kirkwood Hall and the party’s décor.
“What now?” Anarchy stood next to me.
“I check Kirkwood.”
“Would you like help?”
In nearly twenty years of marriage, Henry had never offered to help me with anything resembling volunteer work. I smiled at the man who’d taken a gentle hold of my elbow. “I’d love your help. Thank you.”
We snuck behind a banner emblazoned
with Chinese characters (friendship or love?), and Anarchy scanned the room. “This looks amazing.”
Kenneth, the florist, had worked miracles. Peonies, lotus flowers, and orchids rioted. Chinese silks covered tables surrounded by gold Chiavari chairs. The stage, set at the south end of the hall, had a backdrop I’d commissioned from a student at the Art Institute. The enormous Chinese landscape complete with craggy mountains, a waterfall, and mist was the finishing touch.
I nodded my approval.
“What are we doing?”
“There are changes at these tables.” I pulled the list from my evening bag. “We need to make sure they’re set for the right number of guests.”
We spent twenty minutes double-checking tables and found only two tables with mistakes.
I waved over a catering manager. “Table seventeen is now a ten top, and please set table twenty-six for eight.”
“We’ll fix those right away. Anything else, Mrs. Russell?”
“No. Kirkwood looks spectacular. Thank you for all your hard work.”
“My pleasure.” His attention wandered to a table where a server straightened forks. “People will remember this party for years.”
A shiver ran down my spine, but I smiled. “I hope so.”
He nodded and left us, and I glanced at my watch. “We’re due in the exhibition.”
“I thought this didn’t begin till six.”
“We invited the largest supporters to arrive early.”
“How many?”
“About twenty. Marjorie and Greg will be there.”
“How is Marjorie?”
“In a mood.”
“Why?”
“It’s a sister thing.” Marjorie was jealous. Not of the work I’d done—she’d happily leave that part to me. But she’d be gritting her teeth each time someone congratulated me on a job well done. She’d mellowed recently, but the edge of competition between us never changed.