Send in the Clowns (The Country Club Murders Book 4) Page 5

  He rested his hand on the small of my back and propelled me forward until we reached the first table where he nodded at a man in a white coat.

  The man pulled back the sheet.

  I’d expected white makeup and a bulbous red nose.

  I got blue-gray skin and sightless eyes.

  All things being equal, I’d have preferred the nose.

  Yes, I’d found bodies before. But those bodies had been…pink. Their flesh had looked like flesh not marble.

  I clenched the icicles that used to be my fingers and studied the face. Thinner than I remembered. But the chiseled cheekbones, the divot in the center of his chin, the blond hair, somewhere between ripe wheat and spun gold, were all the same. The Harneys might have their problems—the Harneys definitely had their problems—but being unattractive wasn’t one of them. I looked away. “It’s him.”

  The pressure on my back increased. I leaned into it. Leaned into Anarchy.

  “Thanks, Gus. Come on, let’s get you out of here. You look pale.”

  He led me from the room and the reason for the chair in the hallway became apparent. I sank onto it.

  “You’re still pale.”

  Of course I was pale. My stomach was dancing a mambo, and I’d just left a room where bodies were filed in cabinets like last year’s tax documents. “I’m fine.”

  “Let’s get you a cup of coffee.” That Anarchy Jones, he knew the way to a girl’s heart.

  Anarchy got me home in time for Maude.

  I walked into the family room.

  Max lifted his head from his paws, offered up one half-hearted wag of his stubby tail, then returned to his nap.

  Grace gifted me a narrow-eyed stare then crossed her arms over her chest. Honey—running Max, being pleasant—hadn’t worked to get her out of being grounded. Now it seemed as if she meant to try vinegar—being so unpleasant I’d want her out of the house.

  I took a seat on the couch and looked at the television. Maude was insisting that Florida use the front door even though the back door was more convenient.

  “Is your homework done?”

  Grace rolled her eyes. “Humph.”

  “Tomorrow is market day. Is there anything special you’d like Aggie to pick up for dinner?”

  The left corner of her upper lip curled. “Humph.”

  “Is there any chance you’re going to speak to me this evening?”

  The humph was there. Poised on Grace’s lips. Apparent in the slits of her eyes. She wiped the word away with the back of her hand. “What did Detective Jones want?”

  “I saw someone get stabbed last night. Detective Jones asked me to identify a body.”

  “Mom.” The expression in her eyes changed—less Dirty Harry, more Benji. “Are you okay?”

  “Of course I am.”

  “You saw this at the haunted house?”

  I nodded.

  “No wonder you grounded me.”

  “I grounded you because you missed curfew on a school night.”

  “Humph.” This humph lacked the conviction of her earlier hmphs. Grace knew she deserved her punishment.

  “I have calls to make.” I rose from the couch.

  “Humph.”

  Teenagers are such joys.

  I climbed the stairs to my studio. Years ago, we converted the third floor ballroom into a place for me to paint. When we did it, neither Henry nor I ever dreamed my paintings would sell. They sold. Well. So well that I made more money than my husband. One might say the studio destroyed our marriage.

  It was still my favorite room in the house. The place where I felt most centered, most me.

  I plugged the phone into the jack and glanced at my watch. It was 9:20 in Akron. Too late to call? According to Mother it was impolite to call after nine. That belief never stopped her from calling me.

  I dialed.

  “Hello,” said my brother-in-law, Greg.

  We exchanged pleasantries then I asked, “May I please speak with Marjorie?”

  “She’s out, Ellison. Thea had a volleyball game.”

  Whew. That was one unpleasant conversation avoided tonight. “Would you tell her I called and ask her to call me?”

  “Of course.”

  With those words, we ran out of things to say and hung up.

  I stared at the phone for a moment, then my gaze shifted to some colored pencils left on the drawing table. Surely those needed to be put away before I called.

  I returned the pencils to their box then picked up all the empty coffee cups and put them next to the door to be carried down to the kitchen. Next I straightened canvases. The clean brushes that had dried in a mason jar needed to be put away—never mind that they hadn’t seen the inside of a drawer in weeks. They had to be put away now.

  What else?

  I straightened art books, ran a dust cloth over the surface of my drafting table, grabbed a broom, and swept the floor.

  It was 8:57. There was no reason in the world I shouldn’t call.

  Not one.

  Except…

  I forced my index finger into the dial and turned.

  He answered on the second ring. “Hello.”

  “Hunter, it’s Ellison calling.”

  “Ellison.” He made my name sound like warm brandy on a cold night.

  I swallowed. “I’m sorry to call so late.”

  “Don’t be silly. I’m happy to hear from you.” More warm brandy. A woman could get drunk just listening to him.

  “I…that is to say…um, could we have coffee tomorrow morning?”

  “Is there a problem?” Now he sounded concerned.

  “Maybe. I found another body.” The words came so quickly they tripped over each other.

  “Where? Do you need me to come now?”

  “No!” I took a deep breath. “No. Tomorrow’s fine.”

  “When did you find this body?”

  “Last night.”

  “Where were you?”

  “The Gates of Hell.”

  “You? A haunted house?”

  “Yes.” I closed my eyes. “I found Brooks Harney.”

  I waited for Hunter to offer me sympathy or make a soothing noise…and waited. I grabbed a charcoal pencil from a mason jar and a piece of paper and drew a line. A strong line, bold and distinctive. Another joined it. “Are you there?”

  “Sorry. Just thinking. Why are you calling me now? You’re not a suspect?”

  “No.” Thank God. I’ve been a murder suspect before, and I didn’t care to go through that ordeal ever again. But Hunter might be. I had to tell him. “Brooks slipped some business cards in my pocket before he died.”

  “Oh?” His one word sounded wary.

  “One of them was yours.”

  Again I waited for Hunter to speak…and waited. I added more lines to my drawing. It was a face. Hunter’s face.

  “What did you do with it?” Warm brandy had cooled to the temperature of the morgue.

  “It’s sitting on my vanity.”

  “Who else knows?”

  “Aggie.” I added eyes to the face. Eyes that gave nothing away about the man inside.

  “What other cards?”

  “Charles Dix’s and John Phillips’.” I added dark slashes for eyebrows.

  “How early can you meet in the morning?”

  “Eight?”

  “I’ll be there.”

  I’d imagined a quiet conversation over a tiny table at my favorite patisserie, not Hunter in my kitchen. “Okay.” I sounded squeaky. I cleared my throat and repeated, “Okay.” Better. My voice sounded as if it belonged to a woman and not a five-year-old sucking on a helium balloon. “I’ll see you then.”

  “I apologize for sounding curt. It’s just—”

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  “I will worry about it. And I am sorry...” His voice trailed off. “I’ll explain in the morning. Good night, Ellison.” The warm brandy was back.

  My pencil which had been drawing a severe mouth
softened its opinion.

  “Good night, Hunter.”

  I hung up the phone and stared at my drawing. It wasn’t bad. Hunter Tafft. A man who kept other people’s secrets.

  What did it say about me that I could imagine Hunter as a murderer but not as a murderer dressed in a clown suit?

  What did it say about Hunter?

  Five

  The sensible thing was to take a sleeping pill, set the alarm, and go to bed.

  I did none of those things.

  I paced. And fretted. And practically wore a path in the carpet in my bedroom.

  The clock struck midnight before I donned a nightgown and one before I actually crawled into bed, so sure I wouldn’t sleep that I didn’t bother setting an alarm.

  I slept.

  I woke up and cracked a lid. Sunlight streamed into the bedroom. I rolled over and peered at the clock. 7:55.

  Sweet nine-pound baby Jesus. Hunter was due at eight.

  I levitated out of bed. My legs were running for the bathroom before my feet hit the floor. I brushed my teeth, washed my face, and scraped my hair back into a messy bun in record time.

  The last vestige of summer color had faded from my skin, and I looked as wan as the zombies who wandered the Gates of Hell. I swiped bronzer across my cheeks and a soft pink across my lips.

  Next, I pulled on a pair of jeans and a cashmere sweater and jammed my feet into loafers.

  Finally, I strapped a watch that read eight o’clock onto my wrist.

  Ding dong.

  Hunter is nothing if not punctual, and I had to face him without coffee.

  I hurried down the front stairs.

  Max waited for me in the foyer, apparently curious to see who might be ringing the bell so early.

  I opened the door.

  If I was a last-second mess, Hunter was sartorial perfection—a navy suit with a subtle pinstripe, crisp white shirt, striped tie. And then there was his silver hair which shone like a newly minted dime.

  “Good morning,” I croaked. Then I grabbed Max’s collar. Unchecked, my dog would sniff Hunter’s crotch then rub dog hair all over the perfection of his suit.

  Hunter didn’t seem to care that nearing me meant the need for a lint brush. He stepped forward and dropped a kiss on my cheek. “Good morning. You look lovely.” The man was a world-class liar.

  “I—” I ran a suddenly damp palm down the side of my leg. “I overslept. Let’s go start some coffee.” I released Max.

  He gave Hunter a perfunctory crotch sniff, wagged his tail, and trotted down the hall.

  We followed.

  God love Aggie. She was in the kitchen with Mr. Coffee and they were both brimming with good cheer. If she was surprised to see Hunter, she didn’t show it. “Coffee?”

  Aggie. Gem. The woman deserved a raise.

  “Please.” Hunter and I spoke in unison.

  Aggie poured two mugs, put them on the counter, and pushed a white box my way. “I stopped at that French bakery you like and bought crescents.”

  Fresh croissants? The woman definitely deserved a raise.

  She added two plates to the counter. “I’ll be upstairs if you need me.”

  She disappeared in a swirl of celery green kaftan.

  I opened the refrigerator and scanned the shelves. “I think we have marmalade and raspberry jam. Which would you prefer?”

  “I’ve already eaten.”

  I hadn’t. I grabbed the marmalade, turned to face the man in my kitchen, and steeled myself to tell him everything.

  “Drink your coffee first.”

  He knew me well.

  I put the marmalade on the counter next to the croissants, climbed on a stool, and wrapped my fingers around a steaming cup of heaven. I kid you not. The first sip of coffee in the morning is as close as mortals can come to walking with angels.

  Hunter’s lips may have quirked. His eyes may have twinkled. But he said nothing, letting me enjoy my moment.

  It wasn’t until after I’d drained my first cup and gone back for a second that he said, “Tell me what happened.”

  I resumed my perch on the stool, put a croissant on my plate and told him everything. I told him about the clowns, about Priscilla Owens and her great boots, about the empty room with the pool of blood, and about finding the business cards. “I had no idea they were there. Aggie found them.”

  “You gave Dix and Phillips’ cards to Jones, but not mine?” His voice had that warm brandy tone to it again.

  “Yes.”

  He took a step forward, caught a strand of my hair in his fingers, and studied it in the light. His lips thinned. “Don’t take risks for me, Ellison. Don’t lie to the police or hide business cards or—”

  “You’ve done so much for me.”

  He dropped the strand of hair and moved his fingers to my cheek. His thumb ran the length of cheekbone.

  My toes curled.

  “I’d do all those things again in a heartbeat, but I don’t want you to put yourself at risk.”

  Half of me—the half that was reading Gloria Steinem—wanted to argue that if he could keep my secrets I could keep his. That I was capable and strong and didn’t need to be coddled. The other half—the half that Mother raised—wanted to melt into his arms and have him solve my problems.

  He tilted my chin, leaned toward me, brushed his lips against mine.

  Melting was looking pretty darned good.

  Ding dong.

  A look of annoyance flitted across his face and he pulled away. “Expecting someone?”

  “No.”

  I stood, staggered just a bit—apparently my knees had gone weak—then pushed through the swinging door that led to the front hallway.

  I reached the foyer and the bell rang again.

  Someone was impatient.

  I pulled open the door.

  Mother stood on the front stoop.

  I should have drunk my coffee faster. Mother before nine definitely required three cups. I stood gaping at her.

  “Aren’t you going to invite me in?”

  Mother didn’t need an invitation. She went where she wanted with the force of a mile-wide tornado.

  “Of course. Good morning.” I stepped away from the door and waved my hand at the foyer.

  “I noticed Hunter’s car is here.”

  “He stopped by for a cup of coffee on his way to work.”

  She beamed at me. A rarity. Then her eyes narrowed and her smile faded. “And you’re wearing that?”

  “Would you care for a cup of coffee, Mother? Hunter’s in the kitchen.”

  The idea of Hunter in my kitchen returned the smile to her face. She brushed past me.

  “Hunter, what a treat to see you. How have you been?” Mother slipped out of her coat and hung it on the back of one of the stools that surrounded the kitchen island. She meant to stay?

  “Fine, thank you, Frances. How are you?”

  Mother sighed, cut a quick glance my way, and sighed again. “The past several weeks have been difficult.” Her meaning was clear. If only her daughter would stop finding bodies and settle down, everyone’s lives would be much easier.

  Hunter nodded as if he agreed. “I must say, that’s a lovely sweater you’re wearing. It matches your eyes.”

  Oh. Dear. Lord. Blech.

  Mother and Hunter belonged to a mutual admiration society. I was not a member.

  Mother patted her hair—her helmet—and sparkled at him. Then she somehow dragged her gaze away and inventoried my kitchen. Thanks to Aggie, not so much as a spoon was out of place.

  “Who’s the cake for?” Mother’s eagle eye had landed on the Bundt cake covered by a clear Tupperware cake dome with a jaunty red handle.

  “Um...the Harneys.” This was going to get ugly.

  She tilted her head slightly, like a mildly curious robin. “Why are you taking a cake to the Harneys?”

  “Brooks died.”

  “He did? I didn’t see anything in the paper. When?”

 
“Sunday night.”

  “Who told you?” She raised her brows as if she couldn’t believe my gossip network might have scooped hers.

  I should have stayed in bed. I should have insisted on the patisserie. I should have left Mother on the front stoop. I was capable. I was strong. I didn’t need a man to solve my problems. I swallowed. “No one.”

  “No one?”

  I ignored the urge to look at Hunter. Instead, I took a deep calming breath. “I found the body.”

  Mother was not given to swearing—especially not in front of the man she’d decided would be her next son-in-law—but desperate times. “Fudge.”

  Hunter guffawed then covered his mouth as if he could hide his laughter.

  Mother glared at me. “How could you?”

  I glared back. “It’s not as if I went looking for him.”

  Her lips thinned. So did her eyes. The air around her head crackled with an impending storm.

  Ding dong

  “I’ll get that.” Call me a coward, but Mother looked as if she might hurl a lightning bolt at me.

  I hurried out of the kitchen, down the hall, and into the foyer.

  Max followed me.

  He was a very smart dog.

  I opened the door to Libba.

  What was it? Get up unusually early day?

  First Mother now Libba, women who made a habit of sleeping in unless they had a committee meeting, bridge game, tennis game, or, if it happened to be Thursday when women were allowed on the golf course in the morning, an early tee time. “What are you doing here?”

  Libba blinked. “I saw the cars.”

  Hunter’s Mercedes was parked in the circle drive in front of the stoop. Mother had parked her deVille right behind him. Libba’s Porsche sat at the curb.

  “I was just driving by…”

  Liar, liar, pants on fire. Libba wore jeans and a crocheted poncho. She was not dressed for a committee meeting, bridge, tennis, or golf. She’d rolled out of bed and driven to my house.

  “Oh?”

  “I wanted to tell you about my date.” That had the ring of truth.

  “Come in.”

  Libba stepped inside.

  “Mother’s here,” I warned. “And she’s in a mood.” Mood didn’t cover Mother’s current emotional state. There was a very real chance she’d kill me when I reentered the kitchen.