Send in the Clowns (The Country Club Murders Book 4) Page 6

  “I’m not afraid.”

  I was.

  We took our time walking down the hallway.

  I pushed open the kitchen door and Mother eyed Libba. “You’re up early.”

  Pot. Kettle. Black. Speaking of which...why was Mother up?

  “Mother, do you have a meeting?” She was dressed for one in a camel skirt and blue twin set with a silk scarf tied around her neck.

  She glanced at her watch and scowled. “I do.” That scowl spoke volumes. She’d much rather remain in my kitchen and explain my faults in excruciating detail. If I knew all my faults, and avoided them, I wouldn’t endanger Hunter Tafft’s interest in me. “Libba, you’ll have to move your car.”

  “I parked on the street, Mrs. Walford.”

  Mother gathered her purse and her gloves off the counter, looked at her coat, and put them down again.

  “Let me help you with that, Frances.” Hunter lifted Mother’s coat off the back of the stool and held it for her.

  She slid her arms in the sleeves. “Thank you.” Her voice redefined the term honeyed-tone. “See me to the door, Ellison.”

  Did I have to?

  “Of course, Mother.”

  Together we walked into the foyer.

  “You simply must stop finding bodies.” She pulled on a glove. “Especially the bodies of people we know. People are going to start avoiding you…or blaming you.”

  “It’s not as if I find bodies on purpose.”

  She sniffed. “Well, I’ve always believed attitude makes all the difference. If you decide not to find bodies, you won’t.”

  If I decided chocolate cake had no calories, it wouldn’t.

  “What time is your meeting?” I glanced over my shoulder. “We left Hunter alone with Libba.”

  That more than anything else got Mother moving. “Go.” She wagged her fingers, sending me back to the kitchen.

  I walked toward the kitchen.

  “Ellison.” Mother’s voice stopped me. “Perhaps we can omit telling anyone you found Brooks Harney.”

  That was fine by me. “Of course.”

  She managed a small, tight smile. “Go.”

  I went.

  Libba and Hunter were waiting for me. So was Mr. Coffee and he had something I needed. I bypassed my friend and the man who might—or might not—be my boyfriend and embraced the dependable fabulousness that is Mr. Coffee. I poured hot coffee into a mug, sipped, and sighed. “That sweater brings out the blue in your eyes.”

  Hunter shrugged.

  “Mother adores you,” I said.

  “I enjoy her.”

  I did not—not today.

  “Why are you up so early?” I asked Libba.

  “I wanted to ask you…and it’s simply wonderful that you’re both here…” She studied the grain in the wood floor.

  “What?”

  “Jay and I had a nice time last night, and he mentioned he had four tickets to the ballet tonight. Would you join us?” She tried her best imploring look on me. I was impervious to that look. I’d seen it too often.

  Unfortunately, Hunter was not as familiar with Libba’s lexicon of expressions. “Of course we’ll go.” He fell for her please-it’ll-be-fun-really-I-promise, hook, line, and sinker.

  The ballet? Really?

  “It sounds like fun,” said Hunter.

  No, it didn’t.

  “Wonderful!” Libba’s smile lit the kitchen “How about dinner at the American before the performance? My treat.”

  As if two men, who’d probably stage an argument over the check, would ever let a woman near it.

  I drove the short distance to the Harneys’ home with the Bundt cake perched in the passenger seat. Aggie said it was lemon with caramel icing. My favorite.

  I parked, carried the cake up the front walk, and rang the bell.

  The October wind came in gusts, whipping leaves around my legs and blowing the last of Mother’s concerns to the east. The Harneys wouldn’t blame me. After all, I came bearing cake, a sympathetic smile, and a genuine regret over the loss of their son.

  Also, Brooks’ death wasn’t my fault.

  Robbie Harney opened the door. “Mrs. Russell, hello.” Like his brother, Robbie had been blessed with golden hair, chiseled cheekbones, and a strong jaw. He also possessed a charming smile. One he used now.

  “Hello, Robbie.” It took effort to balance concern and friendliness while hiding my dislike.

  Robbie Harney had encouraged Grace’s crush. And crushes are crushing.

  He looked at the cake in my hands. “You heard.”

  “I did and I’m so sorry.”

  “Won’t you come in?” He led me to the living room. The walls were painted a muted gold, the wingbacks were covered in a flame stitch fabric of the same gold along with delft blue, pine green, and a soft umber. That same umber covered matching sofas drowning in needlepoint pillows. Everything sat on a museum quality Ushak. The room should have felt warm and inviting. It didn’t. It felt as cold and remote as the morgue.

  “I’ll put this—” he held up the cake “—in the kitchen and tell Mother you’re here. Would you care for coffee?”

  “Please.”

  He left me alone and I wandered over to a collection of four pastel portraits. Smiling babies all. Brooks, Robert, Camille and…

  I’d forgotten about Chessie.

  Brooks was the second child the Harneys had lost.

  I searched my memory for the story and vague recollections surfaced. Genevieve had left the boys with their sister and there’d been an accident. The little girl had died. The details were lost. I’d have to ask Mother.

  “Ellison.”

  I turned away from the portraits.

  Genevieve Harney stood just inside the entrance. Her hair was perfect. Her dress was gray. Her eyes were dry.

  “Genevieve, I’m so very sorry for your loss.”

  She stepped farther into the room. Her face was pale except for the apples of her cheeks. Those were a deep shade of rose. “It’s kind of you to come. Please, have a seat.”

  I chose one of the flame stitched chairs.

  Genevieve sat in the other. “Robbie is putting together some coffee for us.” A grimace flitted across her face.

  “I won’t stay long. I just wanted to offer you my sympathies.”

  She stared at the hands clasped in her lap and nodded. “We hadn’t seen him in years. I’ve been…I’ve been waiting for a call from the police since he left. He had problems.” She looked up at me. The stark white of her skin and the dark material of her dress made her look otherworldly. Poor woman.

  “It couldn’t have been easy. Not knowing.”

  “This is going to sound awful, but at least now I know he’s not suffering or living in some roach-infested hovel with the dregs of humanity doing Lord knows what for his next fix.”

  “Brooks was…never mind.”

  “What?”

  Brooks had a job flirted with my lips, but I doubted knowing her son had turned his life around before he was murdered would ease Genevieve’s pain. And was being a clown at a haunted house a job that would make Genevieve feel better about Brooks’ last days? Doubtful. “Nothing.”

  Robbie appeared with a silver coffee service and saved me from having to explain.

  “I’m so sorry about your brother, Robbie.” I’d already told him once but it bore repeating.

  Robbie grimaced. “I know it sounds harsh, but as far as I’m concerned, Brooks died a long time ago.”

  Genevieve made a sound—a tiny one—like a mouse sighing, and raised her hand to her throat.

  “How did you find out?” Robbie asked. “We haven’t told anyone or put anything in the paper.”

  “I saw him.”

  Genevieve leaned toward me. “Where?”

  Given the circumstances, the Gates of Hell did not seem like a kind answer. “At a haunted house. I believe he was working there.”

  Genevieve sagged like a Raggedy Ann doll. “Working? At a
haunted house?”

  I knew I should have kept that to myself.

  “And you saw him?”

  I nodded, afraid to say anything else.

  “What did he say?” asked Genevieve.

  I should have kept my fool mouth closed.

  “Coffee?” Robbie held out a cup to me.

  I leaned forward and gratefully took the cup from him. The delicate china rattled in its saucer. I used my second hand to steady it. “Thank you.”

  He poured a second cup, stood, took it to his mother, and put it her hands. “You look as if you need this.”

  “Thank you, dear.”

  Genevieve’s cup didn’t shake or rattle. I looked at her more closely. Despite her Raggedy Ann impersonation, her eyes were still dry. Lord knew her hands were steady.

  “We didn’t speak.” Brooks gasping my name right before he died did not count as conversation.

  “What was he doing there?”

  “He was one of the characters. He scared people.”

  Robbie threw his arm across the back of the sofa and crossed his ankle over his knee. The pose of a man at ease. “I bet he was good at that.”

  I wasn’t buying Robbie’s easy attitude. Despite his relaxed posture, he seemed tightly wound.

  “If he was in town, why didn’t he let us know?” Genevieve certainly sounded bereft. She even looked bereft with her gaze cast on the folded hands in her lap. So why did I get the impression she was simply saying the right words, the expected words? She leaned forward and picked up her coffee cup. Rock steady.

  Robbie shifted as if the sofa cushion had grown sharp spikes. “The last time you saw him you threatened to have him arrested.”

  The saucer in Genevieve’s hand rattled then.

  “No one blames you.” An expression I didn’t recognize flitted across Robbie’s handsome young face. “He stole from us.”

  Ugh. I took a small sip of coffee. Burnt coffee. Double ugh. Obviously the Harneys hadn’t met Mr. Coffee. I put the cup down on the coffee table. “I should be going.”

  “No! Please don’t go. How did he look when you saw him?”

  “He was in costume, Genevieve. I don’t know.”

  “Costume?”

  “He was dressed as a clown.”

  From the couch, Robbie coughed.

  “He always loved clowns. Always.” She too put down her coffee. Then she reached into the pocket of her dress, withdrew a linen handkerchief, and daubed her dry eyes. “We’re having a small memorial service on Thursday. I hope you’ll come.”

  How could I say no?

  “I really should be going.”

  Robbie stood with insulting alacrity. “When you saw Brooks, you’re sure he didn’t say anything?”

  My name and a plea for help. “I’m sure. Just hello.”

  “That’s it?” Why did Robbie care so much about what his brother had said?

  “At first, I didn’t realize it was Brooks who was speaking to me. He was wearing a costume and face paint.”

  “That Brooks, what a clown.” Rob’s voice was harsh. With grief?

  A single tear rolled down Genevieve’s pale face.

  I bent and kissed her cheek. “Let me know what time on Thursday.” I turned to Robbie. “I’ll see myself out.”

  I hurried to my car, climbed in, sat for a moment, and breathed air untainted by the Harneys’ unhappy history.

  Six

  That evening Hunter pulled his Mercedes up to the valet station in front of the American Restaurant at precisely six o’clock. The attendant stepped forward, opened the door, and helped me out of the car.

  Libba and Jay Fitzhugh stood waiting inside the glass atrium. Jay glanced at his watch and his brow wrinkled. Oh, dear. If he was one of those on-time-is-late people, he and Libba were doomed before they started.

  Hunter came around the car, took my arm, and escorted me in.

  Libba and I hugged. Hunter and Jay shook hands. Hunter kissed Libba’s cheek. Jay kissed mine. Hunter exclaimed over how lovely Libba looked. Jay did the same for me.

  My friend looked at my dress, a black Diane von Furstenberg with a neckline that was—for me—low, and nodded her approval.

  Libba wore a conservative—for her—dress with simple lines. Interesting. If Libba was willing to change the way she dressed and be on time, there had to be more to Fitzhugh than I originally thought.

  The four of us took the elevator upstairs and the maître d’, Maurice, met us at his desk. Behind him, the restaurant’s ceilings soared in cathedral-like glory. “I have your table ready.”

  He led us down the first flight of stairs to a table that was half banquette seating (the banquette was a lovely rose velvet) and half chairs.

  “I’d prefer a table by the window,” said Jay.

  The north side of the American was a wall of glass. On the other side lay the night and a spectacular view of downtown.

  “That one there.” Jay pointed to the last empty table next to the window.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Fitzhugh. That table is reserved.”

  Jay patted his suit coat as if searching for his wallet, seemingly certain that a twenty would make the maître d’ lose a reservation.

  “I wish I could make the change for you, Mr. Fitzhugh, but it’s not possible.”

  Jay’s brow wrinkled again. Lots of wrinkles. Wrinkles until he looked like a Shar-Pei. He found his wallet and withdrew a fifty.

  A fifty? That seemed rather extravagant.

  Maurice eyed Ulysses S. Grant and swallowed.

  Jay added a smile and held the bill out. “That’s my favorite table.”

  Maurice shoved his hands in his pockets and shook his head. “I wish I could.”

  Libba rested her hand on Jay’s arm. “The food here is so marvelous I never notice the view.”

  “Fitzhugh, this table is one of their best,” said Hunter

  Jay’s gaze traveled from Libba to Hunter to me.

  “This table is perfect,” I said. “Let’s sit.”

  “If you’re sure. Only the best for Libba.” He pulled a chair away from the table. “Dear?”

  Dear? Already?

  Libba sat.

  Hunter and I exchanged a look. Easy endearments were not a good sign. Also not a good sign? Losing a skirmish with a maître d’. Libba could do better.

  I should have told Hunter ahead of time—just so he’d know what to expect. Libba had terrible taste in men. But people who live in glass houses shouldn’t throw stones, and I’d married a man who made Libba’s worst date ever look like a prince.

  Hunter held my chair, I took my seat, then he and Jay joined us.

  “Maurice, send over a bottle of Dom Perignon,” said Jay. “We’re celebrating.”

  “What are we celebrating?” Champagne gave me a headache.

  Jay reached across the table and closed his fingers around Libba’s hand. “We’re celebrating the first of many wonderful evenings together.”

  Oh. That. Not if I could help it. Already there was something about him I didn’t like. Libba’s cross-dressing date who left me at a brawl was a better choice for her than a man who seemed head over heels after one date.

  Maurice unfurled an elaborately folded napkin and allowed it to drift into Libba’s lap. He repeated the operation for me. “I’ll send a bottle right over.”

  A moment later, a waiter poured the Champagne into flutes. When we were all served, Jay raised his glass. “To beginnings.”

  We clinked our glasses and drank. Well, I pretended to drink.

  Around us hummed the murmurs of polite conversations. The linen tablecloth was as white as fresh snow, the silverware gleamed, the bubbly—well, bubbled. The four of us articulate, educated adults looked for something to say.

  Jay cleared his throat. “Did you see that Washington Post article?”

  “Which one?” asked Hunter.

  “The Federal Energy Administration says we’ll never be free of our dependence on foreign oil.” Jay rea
ched over to the silver ice bucket placed next to our table and grabbed the Champagne bottle by the neck. He glanced at our nearly fully flutes then refilled his own. “If I were a chemical engineer, I’d be working on finding a substitute.”

  “Well, I wish you’d hurry. I’m not a fan of conservation, and I hate driving fifty-five on the highway. I think my car does too.” Libba was probably right about her car. That Porsche could fly.

  Jay pet Libba’s hand. “Now, dear, just think of all the gasoline we’ll save.” He didn’t stop there. He had facts about miles per gallon and emissions. He poured himself a third glass of Champagne and told us about safety studies. After a few dull moments, I glanced around the crowded restaurant. The Fergusons sat three tables away. I caught Mary’s eye and we exchanged smiles and nods. There was John Ballew with a woman whose back was to me. Libba would be better off dating him than Jay Fitzhugh—and John, recently divorced from a cheating wife, carried some serious baggage.

  Finally, Jay ran out words.

  The rest of us sat in numbed silence.

  “I believe I’ll have a scotch.” Hunter looked around for a waiter.

  I rested my hand on his arm. “A martini for me?”

  “Not Champagne drinkers? More for Libba and me.” He reached for the empty bottle.

  Libba mouthed Sorry.

  Jay seemed oblivious. “So, Tafft, how’s the law business?”

  “Steady.”

  “I heard a good one the other day.”

  “Oh?”

  “What’s the difference between a lawyer and a leech?”

  Libba and I sat in itchy silence. Hunter merely looked polite.

  “After you die, a leech stops sucking your blood.” Jay laughed at his own joke. It was nice someone did.

  Libba’s streak of bad dates was intact—and enhanced. Jay Fitzhugh wasn’t merely boring; he was a bore. A bore who couldn’t hold his liquor.

  A bore who turned his attention on me. “What about you, Ellison? Anything exciting happening in your world?” Did he have an artist joke he wanted to tell?

  “I have a gallery opening in New York in late November.”

  “That’s it?”

  The polite mask that rested on Hunter’s face slipped and for an instant he glared. “The gallery where Ellison is showing is one of the best in New York. Most artists would give their right arm to open there.”