Stayin' Alive Page 2

  We entered the exhibition space, and, of course, Marjorie and Greg were the first people we saw. Marjorie wore a blue satin gown with a plunging neckline.

  Mother would see that gown, narrow her eyes, and purse her lips.

  Daddy would see that gown and look anywhere but his daughter’s mostly exposed breasts.

  “Let’s do this,” I whispered to Anarchy.

  “Don’t let her get to you.”

  Easier said than done.

  My brother-in-law kissed my cheek and murmured, “You look lovely.”

  My sister kissed the air next to my cheek and said, “I thought the art would be more colorful.”

  I blinked at the unanticipated criticism. “You thought they’d polish the bronze?”

  “It’s all so drab.”

  The corners of Anarchy’s lips twitched as if he hid a smile.

  “Honey.” Greg’s voice was placating. “It’s called patina.”

  “If you ask me—” Marjorie pointed to a squat bronze vessel that was older than time “—it looks old and dirty.”

  Behind my back, I clenched my free hand into a fist. “You’ll enjoy the Tang section. Colorful pottery. Horses. Camels. Warriors stomping on demons.”

  “Camels?” Greg’s expression registered curiosity. “In China?”

  “The Silk Road.”

  “There’s a silk road?” Actual interest lurked in Marjorie’s tone and she scanned the room.

  “It was a trade route,” I explained.

  The flicker of interest extinguished. “I suppose we’d better see everything.” She made viewing the art sound like a chore.

  “There are amazing pieces.”

  Marjorie sniffed and took her husband’s arm. “You look beautiful, Ellison. Have fun tonight.”

  Maybe Marjorie had changed.

  “Thank you. You, too.”

  She shifted her focus to Anarchy, and a smile tinged with rancor touched her lips. “Hopefully no one gets murdered.”

  Nope. Marjorie hadn’t changed. Not at all.

  Chapter Two

  “Ellison—” Phyllis Goddard took my hands in hers “—tonight is a triumph. You must be so proud.”

  “Thank you.” I tugged at my hands, but Phyllis (who’d obviously visited the bar more than once) didn’t release them.

  “Such a fabulous night.” Her slightly bleary gaze traveled around Kirkwood.

  “I’m so glad you’re here, and I adore your dress. Is the fabric yours?” Phyllis and her business partner, Joan Mardike, designed textiles.

  She smiled warmly and released my hands. “It is. I was inspired by China.” The cut of her gown was nothing special, but the fabric, silk embroidered with somehow-modern cranes and plum blossoms, was spectacular.

  “Ellison!”

  Phyllis and I turned, and a silver-haired woman in a silk kaftan enveloped me in her arms and the scent of L’Air du Temps. For a few seconds, a bouquet thick with white flowers and cloves filled my nose. Then Aunt Sis released me. “This—” she waved an expansive hand at Kirkwood Hall “—is exceptional. Congratulations!”

  “Thank you. Aunt Sis, I’d like you to meet Phyllis Goddard. Phyllis, this is my Aunt Sis.”

  Phyllis eyed Aunt Sis’s kaftan. “Thea Porter?”

  Aunt Sis grinned. “How clever of you. And your dress? The fabric is remarkable.”

  Clearly, tonight was a night for hyperbole—or at least big adjectives.

  I left them chatting about fabric and fashion.

  Kirkwood Hall was at capacity. Everywhere I looked, beautifully dressed women chatted with tuxedoed men.

  “Wine?” Anarchy stood at my elbow holding a glass.

  I accepted the drink with gratitude. “Thank you.”

  “It’s going well.” Anarchy was right. Everyone (except Marjorie) had enjoyed the exhibition and now they sipped cocktails and nibbled on passed hors d’oeuvres.

  “I can’t help but worry.” I searched the room for Mother and spotted her in conversation with Governor Bond. She wore a tight, brittle smile. Either she’d seen Marjorie’s dress, or she too expected a corpse to turn up. Maybe two.

  “Is that Senator Eagleton?” Anarchy nodded toward a man not far from us.

  “It is. Senator Symington couldn’t come.” Again I searched Kirkwood. “Mayor Wheeler is over there—” I nodded to the far side of the room “—talking to Laurence Sickman.”

  “Quite a crowd.”

  “Let’s hope nothing goes wrong.” Like a body. A body would be extremely wrong.

  A man in traditional Chinese garb climbed onto the stage and struck the shenbo, a Chinese gong. The sound reverberated through Kirkwood.

  “That’s my cue.” I swallowed rising stage fright and made my way toward the dais.

  The man hit the gong a second time, and conversations stilled.

  He waited till I joined him on stage and wielded his mallet a third time.

  The whole room stared at me.

  I swallowed, smiled, and turned on the microphone. “If I haven’t had the pleasure of meeting you, I’m Ellison Russell.” Did everyone’s heart do backflips when they spoke in public? “Thank you for coming this evening. And thank you for your support of this fabulous exhibition. Did everyone enjoy it?”

  A wave of applause answered me.

  “We have an amazing performance coming up, but for now, please find your tables for dinner.”

  The palms of my hands were slick with sweat and my head swam. I smiled at the man with the mallet, clasped hold of the railing (only three steps, but I didn’t trust myself not to trip), and descended the stage.

  Anarchy waited for me. Without a word, he handed me his handkerchief.

  I wiped my damp hands. “Did I look that nervous?”

  “You didn’t look nervous at all.” He took back his handkerchief and handed me the wine.

  “Then how—”

  His eyes twinkled. “I know you.”

  Why couldn’t I just hop on a plane with him? He was the absolute perfect man.

  He offered me his arm.

  Our table was located near the stage, but it took long minutes to reach our seats. People stopped us, I introduced Anarchy, they congratulated me, and each time I responded, “I had a wonderful committee. They deserve the credit.”

  “You and Libba did ninety percent of the work.” Anarchy’s whisper tickled my ear.

  “No one likes a chairman who hogs the credit.”

  “Even when she deserves it?”

  “Especially then.”

  We were the last to arrive at the table and, as I’d feared, Libba sat next to a Chinese delegate.

  On his other side—Marjorie.

  Given that they were in a horserace for most daring décolleté, the poor man didn’t know where to rest his gaze.

  Karma sat between the other two Chinese gentlemen, then Aunt Sis and Greg.

  The men stood when we stopped at our seats.

  I shook hands with our Chinese guests then pushed my hands against invisible shoulders. “Please, sit.”

  The men ignored my request till Anarchy pulled out my chair and I sank onto the red shantung cushion.

  “It is a splendid party,” said Chenglei Zhào, the man seated between Marjorie and Libba.

  “Thank you.”

  “Your museum is impressive.”

  “Again, thank you.”

  “I am told you are an artist.”

  “A famous artist,” said Aunt Sis.

  Marjorie scowled and reached for her drink—something clear in a highball glass, hopefully not straight vodka.

  Our salads were pre-set and in front of us. I picked up my fork and nodded at the Chinese delegates. “I am honored you could join us.”

  “The honor is ours, Mrs. Russell.”

  Marjorie jabbed at a piece of pickled corn (we had the committee to thank for that). “What’s for dinner?”

  The entire menu (not just the pickled corn) had been the source of serious contention.
“A petit filet and grilled shrimp with sautéed snow peas and roasted potatoes.”

  Unable to find fault, Marjorie sniffed.

  Karma winked at me and asked the man next to her, “Did you attend the exhibition in San Francisco?”

  He smiled and nodded. “I did.”

  “Who throws the better party?”

  “Of course, Kansas City.”

  “I’m from San Francisco. I attended the exhibition opening there, and I have to agree with you. Kansas City is better. Marvelous.”

  Marvelous. Another big, bold adjective. Certain cultures believed that compliments brought the evil eye. A silly superstition, but in my lap, I crossed my fingers. No bodies, no bodies. “Thank you.”

  “What is it you do in China?” asked Aunt Sis, and the table devolved into smaller conversations.

  Beneath the cover of the tablecloth, Anarchy claimed my hand. He leaned close and whispered, “Congratulations.”

  Again with the congratulations. We were tempting fate. I wouldn’t breathe easy till I was in the car on the way home. And that was only if Anarchy didn’t ask me about travel plans.

  “Ellison,” said Greg, who sat to my left. “You look tense. Aren’t you having fun?”

  “Time of my life.”

  “Relax,” he said. “Nothing will go wrong.”

  Famous last words.

  Dinner passed without anyone ingesting poison, getting stabbed, or choking to death.

  That counted as a win.

  Then came the Lantern Dance.

  The guests watched, enchanted by the dancers' graceful movements.

  No one died.

  Next came speeches, and then Laurence Sickman, the museum’s director, invited me to the stage. “Thank you, Ellison, for all your hard work. You made tonight one we’ll always remember.”

  I accepted a gift wrapped in Halls’ signature paper and a gold bow. “Thank you, Laurence. Thank you to all the generous donors who supported this event. Thank you to our friends from China for honoring us with your presence. And, to the amazing committee members who made the gala possible, thank you. This is your night.”

  I stepped off the stage.

  It was almost over.

  And no one had died.

  Anarchy rose from his seat when I returned to the table. He bent, and his lips brushed my ear. “Do you have any idea how badly I’d like to kiss you?”

  My heart stuttered. “That can be arranged.”

  “It can?”

  “Absolutely.” I smiled at the guests still seated at the table. “Would you please excuse us? I need to make the rounds.”

  Rather than speak with the sponsors I’d not yet thanked, I led Anarchy into a dimly lit portion of the gallery, climbed a flight of stairs, and stopped at the landing.

  Anarchy took me in his arms.

  For a brief second, I rested my forehead against his shoulder.

  “Ellison.” His voice was velvet.

  I lifted my head, parted my lips, and—

  The sound of footsteps filtered upward. Someone climbed the steps behind us.

  Security guards?

  No. Security guards didn’t wear heels, and the clack of heel caps meeting granite was unmistakable.

  Another couple seeking a moment’s privacy.

  If I was right, we’d share an embarrassed laugh. But if the wayward couple was married (to each other—unlikely, but possible), they might share the story.

  The gala chairman caught in flagrante was such a phenomenal story the truth wouldn’t matter.

  Mother would kill me.

  Laurence Sickman would want to.

  The image of Laurence’s disappointed face decided me. I tugged on Anarchy’s sleeve and jerked my head toward a darkened room.

  We crossed the hall and paused inside the entrance.

  The footsteps drew near.

  “I’ve wanted you all night.” A man’s voice, harsh with need. “That dress.”

  “I wanted you, too,” a breathy woman replied.

  They didn’t sound married.

  Zzzzip. A zipper? They wouldn’t. Not in the hallway.

  They did.

  Horror and embarrassment combined for a limb-freezing cocktail. I couldn’t move.

  Every sigh, every grunt, every slap of a body against the granite wall made shifting even a finger impossible.

  The heat on my cheeks threatened to melt my hair. What did Anarchy think?

  The darkness hid his reaction.

  “Oooh, baby.” The man’s voice was low and rough, and I was fairly certain I recognized it.

  I squeaked and clapped my hand to my mouth.

  “Did you hear something?” asked the man.

  “Don’t stop,” the woman replied.

  “I heard something,” he insisted. “Didn’t you?”

  “No,” she replied.

  “Let’s get out of this hallway.”

  “Are you kidding?” she asked.

  I agreed with her. Wholeheartedly. They should return to the party.

  “In there.” Did he mean the room where we hid?

  Oh. Dear. Lord.

  “I’ll do that thing you like,” he whispered.

  “You will?” she purred.

  “Promise.”

  “Well, if you promise.” They were so close, it sounded as if she was talking to me.

  Anarchy tugged my arm, pulling me away from the entrance.

  The exhibit spaces flowed so museumgoers could walk from room to room without returning to the hallway.

  Anarchy led me to the next room, where dim lights revealed painted scrolls in glass cases.

  If we remained, they’d spot us.

  We tiptoed onward.

  The next room held Chinese antiques. A tea chest. A pair of Qing Dynasty armchairs. A canopy bed from the Ming Dynasty.

  The bed was the only surviving example of an alcove bed from the period. In addition to the raised platform where the lady of the house slept, the alcove allowed her to serve tea to friends. It was among Laurence’s favorite pieces in the Asian collection, and I’d stood in front of it with him only two days ago.

  I led Anarchy into the alcove’s shadows.

  “Harder.” The woman’s voice came from the next room.

  Then came more sounds.

  “To the left. No, my left. That’s it. Don’t stop.” Whoever she was, she knew what she wanted.

  I shrank farther into the darkness, sure my face glowed red enough to light the room.

  Then came a long grunt followed by a masculine sigh.

  “Wait, I didn’t—” the woman began.

  “We need to return to the party,” said the man. “Before we’re missed.”

  “But I didn’t—”

  “We’re gonna get caught.”

  “You promised.”

  “And I will, but not here. Not now.”

  “You said—”

  “This isn’t an empty office at the country club. Security guards patrol these halls.”

  “You didn’t care about guards a minute ago.” The annoyance in her voice was unmistakable.

  “C’mon, don’t be this way.” His voice was almost a whine. “I’ll take care of you. Later. Promise.”

  “The next time you promise me something, I’m collecting up front.”

  The man mumbled something I didn’t catch.

  After an eternity, the welcome sound of receding steps reached us.

  I slumped against the wall, and my hand brushed the bed’s mattress and touched cold flesh instead of the expected silk.

  “We’ve been gone awhile,” Anarchy whispered. “We should get back to the party.”

  That sounded like heaven. Keep my mouth shut. Return to the party. Maybe even dance with Anarchy.

  He tugged gently on my arm.

  I didn’t move, didn’t respond.

  “Ellison?”

  Maybe I’d made a mistake. I drew a shaky breath and extended my hand.

  I had not made a m
istake. If I told Anarchy, the world would crash around my shoulders. If I didn’t tell him, I might lose him.

  The decision was easy.

  “Anarchy,” I whispered. “There’s a body in the bed.”

  “What?” Any trace of romance fled from his voice.

  “A body,” I repeated. “In the bed.”

  He reached past me and I knew he too was feeling the cooling hand.

  “I have to call this in.”

  “Do you?” The corpse wasn’t going anywhere, and the gala would end in an hour or so. “What if they died from natural causes?”

  Neither of us believed that.

  “Ellison, the guests need to be questioned.”

  “No!” My voice echoed in the granite-walled room. “The governor is at the party. A senator. The mayor. You can’t hold them for questioning. Nor can you let them go and keep everyone else. I’ll get you the complete guest list, a list of every server, every bartender, every member of the museum staff, but you cannot ruin this party.” I took a breath. “Besides, this might not be a murder.” Given my track record, it was definitely murder.

  “You shouldn’t be in here.” A man holding a flashlight spoke from the doorway.

  Oh, dear Lord.

  “KCPD,” Anarchy replied.

  “Makes no difference. This part of the museum is closed.”

  “There’s a body in this bed,” said Anarchy.

  The security guard and his beam of light lumbered toward us.

  I should have known I couldn’t get through an important occasion without finding a body.

  Light filled the alcove, flashing across Anarchy’s face, then blinding me.

  “Point that at the bed,” Anarchy instructed.

  The guard complied and illuminated a face.

  “Do you know her?” asked Anarchy.

  Gorgeous fabric spilled across the thin mattress, and dark bruises circled her neck. Murder. Of course, murder. “That’s Phyllis Goddard. I spoke with her before dinner.”

  Anarchy glanced at his watch—scowled at his watch. “This is what we’re doing.” He rubbed the space between his brows.

  I waited.

  “You—” Anarchy pointed to the guard “—will stay here with the body.”

  “What?” The security guard, who resembled Jim Rockford’s father, backed away from the corpse. “Me?”