Send in the Clowns (The Country Club Murders Book 4) Page 4

“Fine,” she huffed. “Be that way.”

  Truth was, on my summer trip with Grace, I’d found a vintage flapper gown that would make Mia Farrow weep with jealousy. “A flapper. Why do you ask?”

  “No reason.” Now she was lying.

  I didn’t feel up to calling her on it. “What about you? What are you wearing?”

  “I’m going as Cher.”

  “Cher?”

  “I’ll have my hair straightened and wear a tight gown with spangles all over it.”

  “If the party is a dud you can always head down to The Jewel Box.”

  That comment was met with stony silence.

  “Too soon?”

  “I’ve got to go.” Libba hung up on me.

  Great. Now I’d have to apologize. But it wasn’t as if Libba was the one who’d been carried out of the bar. Although it was her secretly-a-cross-dresser date who took us there. I returned the receiver to the cradle and stared at the phone.

  I could call Marjorie. I should call Marjorie.

  The doorbell saved me. I shot up from Henry’s desk chair, hurried into the foyer, and opened the door.

  Margaret Hamilton stood on the front stoop. Her arms were crossed over her chest and a pinched expression made her pointy face even less attractive.

  We stared at each other.

  “My cat is missing.”

  I’d guessed as much.

  “Did that dog do something to him?”

  That dog. Max. Where was he? I hid my hand behind my back and crossed my fingers. “I’m sure he hasn’t been near Lucifer. He doesn’t have much interest in cats.” Max saved his hunting skills for squirrels and rabbits.

  “Well, Lucifer is gone.”

  If I lived with Margaret, I’d leave too.

  “I’ll be sure and keep an eye out for him.”

  She narrowed her beady eyes. “Did you hear that Anne Landingham is moving?”

  I hadn’t. And I hoped it wasn’t true.

  “Her daughter is putting her in a home.”

  Was that a smile flirting with Margaret’s lips?

  I glanced at Mrs. Landingham’s stately home. Surely her daughter could hire a nurse.

  Having imparted her bad news, Margaret turned away.

  Her turn coincided with Grace and Max’s arrival at the bottom of the drive. Thank God Max didn’t have Lucifer treed in the backyard.

  While it’s true that Margaret Hamilton doesn’t like Max, it’s also true that Max doesn’t much care for her. His growl carried all the way up the drive and he pulled loose of Grace’s hold and ran toward us with his leash trailing behind him.

  Margaret shrieked.

  I leapt past her, blocking her from my dog’s muddy paws and bared teeth. “Max!”

  He skidded to a stop.

  A ridge of hair stood high on Max’s back and his lack of barks suggested he meant business.

  I grabbed his collar and pulled with all my might. “Thank you for stopping by. I’ll let you know if we see Lucifer.” If the woman had the sense God gave a slow-witted sheep, she’d hotfoot it off my front stoop.

  Looking very much as if she was planning a new hex, one that made my hair fall out or my eyes bulge from my head, Margaret sidled past me and hurried down the drive.

  “Sorry, Mom.” Grace wore an expression unique to children who’ve been caught doing something they shouldn’t.

  “It wasn’t your fault.” I hauled Max into the house. “Bad dog.”

  Max didn’t believe me—that or he didn’t care. He trotted toward the kitchen as if he expected a biscuit for his efforts.

  “I took him for a run.”

  “Up to the park?”

  Grace nodded and her ponytail swung. “Four times around.” A smile hovered near her lips and her eyes sparkled.

  “What happened at the park?”

  “Nothing.” She spoke too quickly.

  I cocked my head and waited.

  “I saw Robbie Harney.” Were her cheeks pink from her run or from the longstanding crush she’d had on her friend’s older brother?

  “Oh?”

  “Camille will be home for Thanksgiving.”

  “You’ll have to get together.”

  “He asked after you.”

  “Really?” Had Anarchy told the Harneys that Brooks had fallen into me? Surely he wouldn’t have done that. Not until he found a body. It would be nice if he failed to ever mention me.

  I glanced at my watch. It wasn’t yet five o’clock. “It seems early for Robbie to be at the park.”

  Grace replied with a noncommittal grunt.

  “Isn’t he working?”

  “For his dad.”

  “So he gets to leave early?”

  “Lighten up, Mom. I’m gonna go shower.”

  She climbed the stairs with way too much spring in her step for someone who’d just run more than five miles.

  Grace’s crush on Robbie was cute when she was ten. Now that she was sixteen and leggy and lovely, I found it less adorable. I did some quick math. Robbie Harney was twenty-two. Completely inappropriate for my daughter.

  “Grace,” I called.

  She stopped at the top of the stairs and looked over her shoulder.

  “Thanks for getting Max out.”

  She looked…hopeful.

  “You’re still grounded.”

  She stuck out her tongue and disappeared down the hallway.

  I followed Max into the kitchen.

  He lay on the floor and watched Aggie chop something, looking every bit as hopeful as Grace just had. He too was sticking out his tongue. Well, maybe not sticking it out. His long, pink tongue lolled out of the side of his mouth.

  I got an ice cube from the freezer and gave it to him. “Aggie…”

  “You’re going to need a Bundt cake.” She jerked her chin toward the counter. There sat sugar, flour, eggs, butter, buttermilk (we had buttermilk?), a bottle of vanilla, and the Bundt pan. “I’ll get started on it just as soon as I finish chopping the chicken—” Max looked up from his ice cube “—for your Cobb salad.”

  “Thank you.”

  She nodded and wiped her hands on the flowered apron that covered her kaftan.

  Brngg, brngg.

  “I’ll get that.” I picked up the phone. “Hello.”

  “Hello. Mrs. Russell?”

  “Yes.” I suddenly felt queasy.

  “This is Robbie Harney calling for Grace.”

  No wonder I felt queasy.

  “Robbie, what a nice surprise.” It wasn’t. “How are you?”

  “Fine, thanks. And you?”

  “Fine, fine.” Aside from the fact that a college graduate was calling my still-in-high-school daughter, I was peachy.

  “May I please speak to Grace?”

  “I believe she’s busy.” I scratched my nose. “May I take a message?”

  “I got home from the park and learned that Camille is coming in town this weekend. Would you please let her know? I’m sure my sister would love to see her.” The churning in my stomach eased.

  “I will, Robbie, but Grace is grounded.” It didn’t hurt to remind him just how young she was. “Perhaps Camille can come over here.”

  Seconds passed. “Camille would love that.”

  “I’ll tell Grace. Thanks so much for calling.”

  I hung up the phone.

  “Problem?” asked Aggie.

  “I hope not. The boy—the man—who just called is twenty-two.”

  Aggie continued cutting chicken into perfect little cubes. “Too old for Grace.”

  I nodded.

  “But he wasn’t calling to ask her out?”

  I had a suspicious mind. A cheating husband will do that to a woman. “He said his sister Camille is coming in town and wants to see Grace.”

  “Wait.” Aggie’s brow puckered and the even chop of her knife slowed. “That was the brother of the young man whose body you found?”

  “It was. They ran into each other at the park today.” I could
have added that Grace had had a crush on him for going on eight years. I didn’t. Instead I pinched the bridge of my nose.

  “That’s a situation that bears watching.”

  Truer words were never spoken.

  Brngg, brngg.

  “The damn thing’s relentless.” I snatched the receiver from the cradle. “Hello.”

  “Ellison, it’s Anarchy.”

  And just like that the queasiness returned. “Yes?”

  “We found the body.”

  I closed my eyes and propped myself up against the counter. “Where?”

  “A couple of miles downriver. It looks as if whoever killed him tried to get rid of him in the Missouri. His body snagged on a limb.”

  Poor Brooks.

  “I don’t suppose you’d…” He cleared his throat. “It would be a terrific help if you’d take a look. I don’t want to alarm his parents on the off chance it’s not him.”

  He wanted me to identify the body?

  The thought of identifying a dead, water-logged clown who might also be the son of someone I saw socially was not helping with the queasiness. Not one bit.

  Viewing a dead body probably wouldn’t help Robert or Genevieve Harney’s stomachs either. “Of course.”

  “Thanks.” That he sounded grateful didn’t help with the queasiness. “I’ll be there in thirty minutes to take you to the medical examiner’s office.” That really didn’t help my stomach.

  “Fine.” I hung up the phone. I wasn’t answering the blasted thing again anytime soon. “I need a bitters and soda.”

  “What’s wrong?” asked Aggie.

  “The police found a body. They want me to identify it.”

  She put down her knife.

  “I’ll get you that drink. You go change.”

  I looked down at my camel slacks and matching sweater. I was dressed for the golf course, not the morgue.

  I trudged up the stairs to my bedroom and opened my closet door. What did one wear to identify a body? Black? Charcoal gray?

  I changed into gray flannel slacks and a black turtleneck sweater then sat down at the vanity to brush my hair.

  Three business cards sat next to perfume bottles and a brush set.

  Tap, tap, tap.

  “I have your drink.” Aggie opened my bedroom door.

  The cards were speckled with brown.

  “Aggie, what are these?”

  “They were in the pocket of the trench coat you asked me to take to the cleaners.”

  “They were?” I picked up the cards with the tips of my fingers and read the names on them. Charles Dix, a banker. John Phillips, an accountant. And Hunter Tafft. “How did they get there?” Last night was the first time it had been cool enough to wear that coat. The pockets had been empty.

  Aggie put my hopefully-stomach-settling drink down on the vanity and peered over my shoulders. “That looks like blood.”

  She was right. The brown stains looked like blood. Brooks Harney’s blood.

  I knew where they’d come from. Brooks had slipped them into my pocket as he was dying.

  I dropped them. The cards lay on the vanity’s glass top, innocuous, harmless bits of paper.

  Except they weren’t. Those three little cards—well, at least one of them—meant a world of trouble.

  Four

  While it was true my father and Mr. Coffee were the only men I trusted, it was also true that Hunter Tafft was angling to join them.

  Were it not for Anarchy Jones, I might’ve been dating Hunter on a regular basis—as opposed to our current irregular basis.

  Having a dead man slip Hunter’s card in my pocket was not good news.

  The police called such things evidence.

  But Hunter kept my secrets. Deep secrets. Dark secrets. Could I really just hand over his card to Anarchy?

  I tapped the card with the tip of my nail. There was probably a completely reasonable explanation as to why Brooks had slid Hunter’s card into my pocket. Until I knew what that reason was, I couldn’t hand over the card. Could. Not.

  I looked up from my study of blood-spattered business cards.

  Aggie stood behind me, her face creased with worry.

  “Would you please fetch a sandwich baggie?” I asked.

  The lines creasing her forehead deepened, but she headed for the door without a word.

  I sipped the bitters and soda she’d brought me. There’s nothing like bitters for an upset stomach and mine had been churning since I got home. Churn wasn’t a strong enough word. Especially now that I’d decided to conceal evidence.

  Aggie returned and handed me the bag.

  I picked up Charles Dix’s card with the tips of my fingers and slipped it inside. Next John Phillips’ card went into the bag. Hunter’s I left on the vanity. I stared at the thick card stock for a moment then pinched the seal.

  Behind me, Aggie sighed.

  “If anyone asks, there were two cards. Two.” I held up two fingers.

  Aggie nodded and the one earring she still wore bobbed. “He doesn’t have anything to do with that young man’s murder. I know it. You’re doing the right thing.”

  Aggie’s late husband worked for Hunter. When Al DeLucci got sick with cancer, Hunter covered his medical bills. Aggie was fiercely loyal to the man who’d helped her husband. She wasn’t exactly objective. But hopefully she was right. I couldn’t imagine a scenario where Hunter would kill Brooks, especially not dressed as a clown.

  I took a gulp of bitters and soda. It did nothing to quell the rough seas in my stomach.

  “You could do with some lipstick and maybe a little blush.”

  I glanced into the mirror. Aggie was right. Between the pallor of my skin and the black turtleneck I could pass for one of the corpses I was going to identify. I reached for a tube of lipstick, a soft coral shade.

  Ding dong.

  For an instant, both Aggie and I shifted our gazes to the card that still rested next to my perfume bottles. Hunter’s card. Then our gazes met in the mirror.

  “I’ll call him and ask before I do anything.”

  She pursed her lips and nodded. “That’ll be Detective Jones.” She took a step toward the door. “I’ll let him in. You put on some makeup.”

  When I descended the front stairs holding the sandwich baggie containing two business cards instead of three, Anarchy was waiting for me. Stubble darkened his cheeks and his slightly too long hair was mussed, as if he’d been running his fingers through it. “What’s that?” His voice was rough, as if he hadn’t slept since the last time I saw him.

  “They were in the pocket of my coat. I think the clown put them there.”

  “Where’s the coat?”

  “Aggie took it to the cleaners this morning.”

  He scowled at me.

  I scowled back. There was no way in this world or the next that I would have let him take my new coat into evidence. “Do you want the cards or not?”

  He held out his hand. “Who do they belong to?”

  “A banker and an accountant.”

  He frowned as if trying to discern why a clown needed financial advice.

  “Brooks was a few weeks away from coming into a great deal of money.” That explained Charles Dix’s card. That even explained John Phillips’ card. It didn’t explain Hunter’s.

  “How much money?”

  I walked over to the hall closet and pulled out the Burberry trench. “No idea. A great deal.” Libba hadn’t told me. And frankly, she probably didn’t know. In my mind, a great deal ran to eight figures. Who knew what it meant for Libba?

  I could find out exactly how much easily enough. Over cards. There was a wealth of knowledge available at the bridge table.

  “Let me help you with that.” Anarchy tucked the baggie holding the cards inside his jacket then took the trench coat from my hands and moved behind me.

  I slid my arms into the sleeves.

  For an instant his hands rested on my shoulders.

  For an instant, gui
lt over hiding Hunter’s card turned me to stone.

  “Mom, where are you going?” Grace called from the top of the stairs.

  “I’m going to take a look at something for Detective Jones. I’ll be home in time for Gunsmoke.”

  “She’ll be home in time for Maude.”

  Grace and I both gaped. That Anarchy knew when a show about a middle-aged feminist aired boggled the mind—especially when that show ran in the same time-slot as Monday Night Football.

  His coffee brown gaze shifted between the two of us and he shrugged. “It’s my mother’s favorite. I watch it with her when I visit.”

  I had no answer for that.

  “Let’s go.” He ushered me toward the front door.

  “Eat dinner without me.” I stopped and looked back at Grace. “Robbie Harney called. Camille will be in town this weekend. Maybe she’d like to spend Halloween with us.”

  “About that…”

  “You’re grounded, Grace.”

  “You are so unfair.”

  Unfair? Unfair was getting murdered weeks before coming into money. “See you soon, dear.”

  Anarchy and I stepped outside and he helped me into his car.

  “Who found him?” I asked.

  “Harney? Someone on a barge spotted him. He was half out of the water.”

  Too bad I left my bitters and soda at home.

  We drove in silence.

  East. Farther east than I was accustomed to going. “Where exactly are we going?”

  “Twenty-first between Campbell and Harrison.”

  An awful neighborhood. “Do you have your gun?”

  He flashed me a grin. “Always.”

  We parked in a lot surrounded by a chain link fence topped with razor wire, and Anarchy escorted me inside. He signed us in with a bored attendant then led me deep into the building. Walls the color of congealed oatmeal, scuffed linoleum, and an oak chair with a missing spindle decorated the hallway.

  Anarchy opened a door and the strong smell of cold stainless steel smacked me in the face. We stepped inside and the temperature dropped twenty degrees.

  There were tables. On those tables lay bodies. On those bodies, hanging from the toes, were tags. I was sick of death. I blinked back tears and shifted my gaze to a wall.

  The wall didn’t help. It looked like a giant filing cabinet.

  “Are you all right?” asked Anarchy.

  “Let’s just get this over with.”