Watching the Detectives Read online

  Thank God she didn’t seem to expect me to comment. All those owls rendered me speechless.

  “This way.” Marian led us through an owl infested living room into a sun porch where macramé owls in various colors perched on the wall. “Do you need a phone book?”

  I found my tongue. “No, thank you. I know the number.”

  “I’m going to make some coffee. You look as if you could use a cup.” She might be crazier than a barn owl, but Marian Dixon was a good woman.

  “Thank you.” I picked up the phone and dialed Detective Anarchy Jones’ number. Both Mother and my daughter, Grace, call him “my” detective. They use different tones when they say it. Mother does not approve of my burgeoning relationship with a cop. Grace thinks he’s handsome and slightly dangerous. Grace is right.

  He answered on the third ring. “Jones.”

  “Anarchy—” Why was my mouth suddenly dry? “—it’s Ellison.”

  “Who’s dead?”

  He meant it to be funny. I’m sure he did. But the thought of Khaki staring sightlessly at the ceiling of my late husband’s study was too much. My throat closed. My eyes watered. My ability to speak went the way of the dodo bird. I handed the phone to Aggie.

  “Detective Jones,” she said. “This is Aggie DeLucci, Mrs. Russell’s housekeeper. There’s a dead body in the study.” She listened for a moment, a sour expression settling onto her face. “It’s Mrs. Russell’s decorator and she’s been shot.”

  She fell silent.

  “Across the street at the Dixons’.” More listening then she hung up the phone. “He does not, under any circumstances, want us to go back to the house.”

  I nodded my agreement. “I need to call Mother anyway.” God forbid she heard about another murder from the neighbors. I dialed.

  The phone rang the requisite three rings. “Hello.” Mother answered the phone herself.

  “It’s me.”

  “I’m glad you called. I want you to sponsor a luncheon. You must buy a table.”

  “There’s a problem.”

  “No, there’s not. Donate the table if you can’t come.” Mother would probably prefer that. My recent track record with events wasn’t stellar. “Cora needs all the help she can get.”

  Poor Cora. I could hear the curl in Mother’s lip when she said her name. Disdain was too nice a word for what Mother thought of her cousin’s wife. Why was she helping?

  “Thornton sees a disaster in the making and asked me to step in.”

  It was as if Mother could read my mind. As for Mother’s mind, it remained a mystery. And as to why Mother adored her domineering first cousin—that mystery ranked up there with what happened to DB Cooper.

  “They have a national speaker coming.”

  “Fine. I’ll buy a table. There’s something—”

  “You might enjoy the talk—”

  “Mother!”

  “What?”

  “It’s about Khaki White. She—”

  Mother tsked. Loudly. She probably couldn’t help it. “You told me. She came over to your house this morning. She’s redoing your study.”

  Not much chance of that now. “She was bidding the job.”

  “Was? You decided on someone else?” I could hear Mother’s smile through the phone line. “It’s probably for the best. I realize Hunter recommended her, but I’ve heard a few things about her. Shady things. Do you know the divorce rate among her clients?”

  “No. It doesn’t matter. I’m not married and—”

  “But you could be.” She meant to Hunter. Silver-haired, silver-tongued, successful lawyer—practically perfect in every way.

  “I’ve been widowed for less than six months.” Of course, Henry’s and my marriage was over long before he died, but Mother believed in the niceties. Remarrying within a year of Henry’s death would be unseemly.

  “He won’t wait forever, Ellison. You can’t let the grass grow.” She paused, presumably to give me time to worry that Hunter Tafft might slip through my clumsy fingers. “As far as decorators go, everyone is using Anne Callison and—”

  “Mother!”

  “What, dear? You do realize it’s impolite to interrupt?”

  I pinched the bridge of my nose. “Khaki is dead.”

  “Well, at least you won’t have to fire her. I know firing Priscilla couldn’t have been easy, but after that mess with the Chinese screens, you didn’t have much choice—” Mother was babbling and Mother was not a babbler. She was more of a steamroll-you-with-the-force-of-her-words-er. “—and really, Anne is who you want—”

  Enough. “Khaki is dead in Henry’s study.”

  “You don’t mean…” The babbling brook of her tone froze solid. Walk-without-fear-of-breaking-through-the-ice froze solid.

  “Khaki was murdered.” There. I’d told her. Now I waited…Ten. Nine. Eight. Seven.

  She exploded. “Ellison, this simply must stop. Do you have any idea how—”

  Four seconds to make Khaki’s death my fault. It had to be a new record. “Mother, I have to go. I’ll talk to you later. Goodbye.” I hung up the phone.

  “She’s not happy?” Aggie paired her question with a sympathetic smile.

  Max whined softly.

  “No. She’s not.” An understatement of epic proportions. I picked up the phone and dialed yet another number. “Hunter Tafft, please.”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Tafft is in a meeting.” The voice on the other end of the line was cool and professional.

  “This is an emergency.”

  “I’ll be happy to take a message.” Still cool but bordering on frosty.

  “I need to speak with Mr. Tafft immediately.”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Tafft cannot be disturbed.” Cooler yet. Not quite Mother’s brook-frozen-solid tone, but close.

  “Tell her it’s duck club business,” whispered Aggie.

  “It’s duck club business.”

  The cool, professional voice fell silent for a second. “I’ll slip a note in front of him, ma’am. Who may I say is calling?”

  “Ellison Russell.”

  “Please hold.”

  I stared at Marian’s flock of macramé owls and drummed my fingers on a brass side table.

  After a moment, Hunter said, “Ellison?”

  “Hunter.” My tongue stopped working. How does one tell a man his second ex-wife is dead? I held the phone out to Aggie. Twice now I’d chickened out. At least I’d faced Mother. Sort of.

  Aggie offered me a sympathetic frown and took the receiver from my hands. “Mr. Tafft, it’s Aggie.”

  She fell silent. Listened.

  “No,” she said. “There’s been an incident.”

  Again she listened.

  “Mrs. Russell is fine, but there’s been a murder.”

  “What?” Hunter’s bark positively boomed from the phone. “Who?”

  “Mrs. White in the study with a revolver.”

  two

  One would think, with all the experience I’d had waiting for police, I’d be better at it.

  One would be mistaken.

  There were things that didn’t improve with practice—finding bodies and waiting for homicide detectives being chief among them.

  I paced the length of the Dixons’ sunroom, glared at the owls (they glared back), and smiled at Marian when she appeared with coffee. “Thank you.”

  I accepted the mug (of course it was shaped like an owl) and took a small grateful sip. The coffee was not good. It wasn’t even mediocre. In fact, the coffee (if that’s what it actually was) tasted like tiny bits of burnt dirt against my tongue. My hostess needed an introduction to Mr. Coffee.

  I choked down a second sip (Mother would be pleased with my manners—not that goo
d manners mattered a whit to her now. Not in the face of my finding yet another body). “Marian, did you see anyone going in or out of my house this afternoon?”

  “No. I saw you leave. Around noon I think it was.” Her head settled into her shoulders like an owl’s. “A few minutes later, when I looked out the window, there was a white Mercedes parked in the drive.”

  Now I knew who’d been keeping tabs on me—Mother’s source for all things Ellison. Marian probably sat in this owl-infested room, watched everything that happened across the street, and reported it to Mother. Maybe I wouldn’t introduce her to Mr. Coffee after all. Marian and the percolator-from-hell responsible for the cup of liquid masquerading as coffee could spend eternity together. Mr. Coffee and his magic would remain my secret.

  Marian smoothed the plucked arch of her brow and donned a holier-than-thou expression. “I remember thinking it was odd because I knew you’d gone. I figured he was waiting for you to come home.”

  “Who?” Or, given Marian’s macramé friends, hoo?

  “Hunter Tafft.”

  My stomach plunged to my feet. My heart rose to my throat. Marian was wrong. She had to be wrong. Of course she was wrong.

  “You saw Hunter Tafft across the street?” Aggie’s voice was as sharp as a carving knife.

  “His car was there.” The holiest among holies expression remained fixed on Marian’s face. She was not gossiping. She was merely sharing information.

  Aggie was as protective of Hunter as a mother bear of her cubs. Hunter had helped Aggie’s late husband through his final illness. “There are lots of white Mercedes.”

  My thought exactly.

  “But only one that’s regularly parked in Ellison’s drive.” Marian’s tone suggested she didn’t appreciate arguments from a housekeeper.

  “Did you actually see Hunter?” I put a conciliatory note in my voice.

  “No.” The word was grudging, a reluctant admission. Marian crossed her arms, a study in obstinacy. “But I recognized the car. I’m sure it was his. He had to be there.” She spoke with absolute assurance.

  I sank onto the chaise lounge and let my head settle into the cradle of my hands. There was a dead woman in my study—God rest her soul—and that was not the worst part of this day. Marian Dixon was about to implicate Hunter in a murder based on the color of his car.

  Detective Anarchy Jones had demonstrated his willingness to throw Hunter Tafft in a suspect pool. Now he had a reason. A good one. I knew, with the same certainty that I knew macramé owls would never perch on my walls, that Hunter hadn’t killed his ex-wife. Why would he? She’d remarried. He didn’t even have to pay alimony.

  I lifted my head. “Aggie, what time did you call me?”

  “Around noon.”

  I glanced at my watch. The dial read just shy of one. “If I left the house around five after twelve, and we got back at 12:25, that means Khaki was killed in those twenty minutes.”

  “Yes.” Aggie nodded.

  Marian stared. All eyes. Like an owl.

  I took another sip of God-awful coffee, suppressed a shudder, and put the cup down on a side table. “We just got off the phone with Hunter.” We. Ha! Aggie had spoken with Hunter. “I don’t see how he could be here between 12:05 and 12:25, then in his office when I called.”

  “Probably not.” Why weren’t the worry lines disappearing from Aggie’s forehead?

  “Also, it sounded as if he was in an important meeting.”

  Aggie shook her head. “That’s doubtful. If he’s working at his desk, he doesn’t like being disturbed. Chances are good he was eating a tuna fish sandwich and reading a brief.”

  “But the receptionist handed him a note.”

  “She did. And the office isn’t close.” A few of the lines squinching Aggie’s eyes together smoothed.

  “He couldn’t have done it.”

  “Like that will make a whit of difference to him.” She jerked her chin toward the front window which offered a phenomenal view of Anarchy Jones climbing out of an unmarked police car parked in my driveway.

  Anarchy glanced over his shoulder as if he could feel the weight of our gazes.

  I rose to my feet and lifted my hand in a wave.

  Marian, in an awed voice, asked, “Isn’t that your detective?”

  Aggie scowled.

  Her scowl deepened when Anarchy walked toward the Dixons’ rather than my front door.

  Marian tittered and smoothed her hair.

  I dropped my hand to my side. I was past the smoothing hair stage when it came to Anarchy. Maybe.

  A second man got out of the car. One I didn’t know. One who looked as if he’d borrowed Columbo’s trench coat, rolled it in a ball, used it as a pillow for a week or two, then decided to wear it. He stared up at my house, hunched his shoulders, and shoved his hands in his pockets.

  Anarchy strode across the street and up Marian’s front walk.

  Marian tittered again. “I’ll get the door.” She disappeared into the living room. A few seconds later the sound of voices in the foyer reached us.

  A few seconds after that, Detective Anarchy Jones stood framed in the double doorway to Marian’s sunroom. “Ellison.” He stared at me with eyes the color of perfectly-brewed coffee. His was not an appraising ooh-la-la stare, more of a disaster-strikes-again-and-once-again-Ellison-is-in-the-thick-of-it stare. “Who is dead?”

  I swallowed and refrained from smoothing my hair. “Khaki White.”

  He closed his eyes for an instant. “Who exactly is Khaki White?”

  “The most expensive decorator in town.” Marian sniffed. “She doesn’t like owls.”

  Anarchy’s eyes scanned the owl wall, the chaise, the precarious stack of books at its side, and the coffee mug on the side table. “May I please have a cup of coffee, Marian?”

  Marian? They were on a first-name basis already?

  “Of course.” Marian practically shimmied with the joy of fulfilling his request. She hurried off to the kitchen.

  “Who is Khaki White?” Anarchy repeated.

  “The decorator I asked to give me a bid to redo the study.”

  His brows drew slightly together. “The study?”

  “Henry’s office.” If I wanted to rename the rooms in my house, that was my prerogative.

  “What happened?” Anarchy’s brown eyes held his cop expression, serious and intense.

  “Khaki was taking measurements when Aggie called.”

  “Measurements?”

  “I’m going to replace the carpet.”

  He nodded. “Then what?”

  “I left Khaki alone at the house. Aggie had car trouble and I went to get her. When we got home, Khaki was dead.”

  Anarchy pressed the index and middle finger of each hand against his temples. “You left her alone?”

  “Yes.”

  “How long were you gone?”

  “Twenty minutes. Tops.”

  “So, in twenty minutes, someone gained access to your house, killed Miss White, and left.”

  “It’s Mrs.”

  “Pardon me?”

  “It’s Mrs.” I glanced at Marian’s wall of owls. They regarded me with smirks on their beaks. That Ellison Russell, she’s in a world of trouble. Again. I shifted my gaze to the ceiling. I had to tell him. If I didn’t, he’d find out and wonder why I hadn’t. “Khaki was married to Stan White. Before that she was married to Hunter Tafft.”

  Next to me, Aggie exhaled. A sudden puff of breath that communicated very clearly she wouldn’t have told Anarchy about Hunter and Khaki. At least not yet.

  “You hired Tafft’s ex-wife as a decorator?” He shook his head, unable to wrap his mind around the idea. “Why?”

  “He asked me to. And I hadn’t hired her. Not y
et. I was just getting a bid.”

  “Why?”

  “You’d have to ask him.”

  “No. Why did you ask her for a bid?”

  “She’s good. My last decorator—” I gazed up at the hard planes of his face “—you know what happened.” A near-death run-in with a murderous clown. That’s what.

  There was a serious tilt to his strong chin. “Did Tafft know you’d asked Mrs. White to bid on your study?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did he know she’d be at your house today?”

  “I didn’t tell him.” I suppressed the urge to add, cross my heart and hope to die.

  “Who knew she’d be at your house today?”

  “Just my bridge group.” And, by extension, possibly hundreds of people. That did not need to be explained.

  “I’m sure Mrs. White didn’t tell him.” Aggie sounded confident. “They seldom spoke.”

  “Really?” Anarchy shifted his cop gaze to Aggie. “Then why did he recommend her to Ellison?”

  “I have your coffee.” Marian’s voice was as bright as a new morning. Not this morning. This morning, despite perfect toast and plenty of cream, had given way to an afternoon that included a body. She extended the cup like an offering.

  Anarchy accepted the cup. “Thank you.” He drank and the line of his jaw tightened. Tepid, burnt brown water dotted with coffee grounds will do that to a man.

  “I should have asked.” Marian’s slightly dazed expression hadn’t changed. “Would you care for cream or sugar?”

  As if either could mask the taste of her coffee. Straight scotch couldn’t mask the taste of her coffee.

  “No, thank you.” Anarchy glanced again at the comfortable chaise and the stack of books. “This is a nice room. You must spend a great deal of time in here.” His gaze shifted to the view of my house.

  “I do.” Marian was more eager to please than a Labrador puppy.

  “Were you in here around lunchtime?”

  “I was. I saw Ellison leaving. Then I went back to my book.” She nodded toward the novel on the top of the stack, The Pirate by Harold Robbins. “It’s thrilling. You should read it.” She gazed at Anarchy as if he were a billionaire wrapped in intrigue and not a police detective wrapped in an ugly sport coat.