The Red Hat Society's Queens of Woodlawn Avenue (19 page)

“My husband. I mean, my ex-husband.”

“He wants you back?”

“No. Maybe. I’m not sure. He keeps calling.”

“And you would go crawling back to him like a dog?” He sniffed with Gallic disdain.

“No!” I snapped. “I’m not crawling back to anyone. But maybe I’m not ready yet for this.” I waved my hand back and forth between
us. “Maybe it’s too soon.” Although even as I said the words, I was pretty sure that wasn’t the real reason at all.

“Then you will not need me to escort you to your party at the end of the month?” In a moment of post-coital bliss, I had asked
Henri to be my date for the Cannon Ball.

“No, I’d still like you to go with me.”

He set his wineglass down on the coffee table with a snap. “I am not here for your convenience.”

Now that made me angry, because if anything, I had been the one to be there for his convenience over the last month. “I never
said you were.” I was going to have to placate him, because, frankly, the prospect of trying to find another date for the
Cannon Ball was far more wearying than humoring Henri. “Please don’t be angry.”

And now I couldn’t even ask him about the unpaid invoices, at least not right then. I’d thought the divorce had complicated
my life, but that was nothing compared to what I’d done to it myself in the last six weeks.

“You can make it up to me,” he said, and now he was smiling his charming smile once again.

“Oh?” If he tried to lead me toward the bedroom, I was going to develop a splitting headache.

“You can feed me some of that delicious dinner I smell.”

Whew. I felt like I’d dodged a bullet. “Sure. Just give me a minute to finish it up.”

I unfolded myself from the couch and escaped to the kitchen, feeling like I had perhaps won the battle, but the outcome of
the war was definitely in doubt.

H
enri’s cell phone rang in the middle of dinner, and for once I didn’t resent the interruption. In fact, the phone call gave
me the excuse to clean up the kitchen, kiss his cheek good-bye since he was still talking on the phone, and escape to my house
for the remainder of the evening.

Once I arrived home, though, I received a phone call of my own. I had just slid my nightgown over my head when the phone rang.
Hoping it wasn’t Henri, I sat down on the bed and gingerly picked up the receiver.

“Hello?”

“It’s me.” Well, of course it was. With a frustrated “omph,” I punched the pillow next to me and plopped it against the headboard.
Might as well get comfortable for the duration.

“Yes, I remember your voice.” Mine dripped with sarcasm.

“I know, I know. But this is a real thing.”

As opposed to all the unreal—or surreal—things Jim had been calling me about since I’d moved into the house on Woodlawn Avenue?

“What do you need?” I swung my legs onto the bed and leaned back, exhausted.

“It’s about Courtney’s horse.”

When she was six years old, my daughter had developed an undying love for anything with hooves, a mane, and a tail. Jim had
indulged her by buying her a pony which we had paid a fortune to board at a local riding school. The pony had been followed
by a succession of horses, each more expensive than the last. What we spent on feed could have been used to pay my utilities,
phone, and Internet in one fell swoop. Now that Courtney had gone off to college, we’d dithered about what to do with Cupcake,
the aging bay that apparently ate his weight in oats on a weekly basis.

“I can’t keep paying for the horse, Ellie.” This time Jim didn’t sound angry or defiant. Instead, his voice held a note of
despair I hadn’t heard since those exhausting twenty-hour days of his residency.

“I know it’s expensive, but it means a lot to Courtney.” I studied my bare bedroom walls, wondering when I’d ever get around
to hanging pictures.

“Let’s face it, Ellie. Courtney will probably never come back to Nashville to live. We need to sell him. He’d make a good
horse for a little girl just learning to ride.”

“Have you asked Courtney about this?”

He was quiet for a moment.

I sighed. “I can’t do that for you, Jim. If you want to sell the horse, then you need to talk to her about it.”

“Well, there’s one alternative.”

“What’s that?”

“I was telling Greta about your new company.” Greta
Price owned and operated Cumberland Farms & Stables, Cupcake’s official residence.

The hairs on the back of my neck stood up against the pillow. “And?”

“She thought we could work out some sort of barter system.”

“We? Would that be the royal ‘we’, Jim? Or do you mean that
l
could work out a trade with her?”

“Well, she’s not currently in need of any thoracic surgery.”

Okay, I did smile at his joke, but I was still peeved.

“If you want me to take on that responsibility, then just ask me to do it. Don’t try to sneak it by me like I’m too stupid
to notice what you’re doing.” I might be tired, but I wasn’t that tired.

“I’m sorry, Ellie. I know you’re not stupid. I guess I just feel guilty about the whole thing.”

I wanted to tell him that he darn well should feel guilty, but what would that help? I knew that Jim loved Connor and Courtney
and had always worked hard to give them the best of everything. I couldn’t fault him on that score.

I heard a tinkling sound over the phone line, like ice cubes clinking in a glass. Drinking and dialing yet again. That wasn’t
something he’d ever done when we were married.

His voice softened. “Remember when we gave her that first pony?”

“We? That was all your doing.” But I smiled in spite of myself as the image of a tiny Courtney sitting tall in the saddle
sprang into my mind. It had been one of those
few moments in life when I was privileged to see sheer, unadulterated joy on my child’s face. That joy, and not her begging
and pleading, were what had compelled us to continue to underwrite her equine addiction.

“We were toast from that moment on,” I said, relaxing into the memory.

He laughed. “Yeah. Once your child’s discovered her drug of choice, you’re compelled to keep supplying her with her fix.”

Jim and I had spent a lot of time sitting together in the bleachers at horse shows all over the Southeast, proud and anxious
and hopeful and fearful just like all the other parents who watched their children compete in any sport.

“Remember when she fell?” My fingers tightened around the phone cord. That had been one of the most harrowing moments of my
life. At eleven, she’d broken her collarbone when she’d been thrown by her horse when it balked at a water jump. Jim might
be the physician in the family, but he’d turned a ripe shade of green when we saw the paramedics load her onto that stretcher.

“I wanted to shoot that horse,” he said.

“She wouldn’t let you.”

He chuckled. “Always was a tough kid.”

I sighed. “Jim, I’ll work something out with Greta. Courtney’s lost enough this year, with the divorce and everything. I’m
sure we can figure something out.”

“No, Ellie. I won’t let you do it. I was wrong to even call and ask. It’s just that…”

“That what?” My knuckles had gone white. Slowly, I unwrapped the phone cord that bound them.

“I didn’t think it would be like this.”

“What wouldn’t be like this?” But I knew what he meant, even if he couldn’t quite articulate it.

“A new start. Tiffany.”

I winced when he said her name.

“I thought I’d found the way to get out from under all the pressure,” he said, “but instead it’s twice as strong.”

It was a rare but important moment of insight for a man who preferred action to reflection, so I kept my mouth shut, merely
murmuring in agreement. I’d learned a little something about unwanted advice from Jane’s kibitzing sister last Saturday night.

“I’ll talk to Greta,” I said, getting up from the bed to pull back the covers, “and see how much of the slack I can pick up.
Maybe between the two of us we can manage.” For the first time since the divorce, Jim and I were cooperating and it felt much
better than all those months of acrimony.

“That would be great.”

“Okay. I’ll let you know what she says.” I got back in the bed, still tired but somehow less exhausted.

“Ellie?”

“Yeah?”

“Thanks. I appreciate it.”

“You’re welcome, Jim. Good night.”

“Good night.”

This time I didn’t need to slam down the receiver. I slipped it gently into its cradle and slid down in the bed, pulling the
covers up to my chin.

CH
A
PTER FOURTEEN

H
enri was out of town the rest of the week, traveling on business, and I could go about my routine of doing small jobs for
my other clients and working on the flower beds in my backyard. I tried to avoid the section along the back fence where Marvin
Etherington had been found, but some weeds had sprung up among the impatiens and I was forced to deal with them. By now, I
knew the difference between a lot of things—not just plants and weeds. But other things still had me confused. Like Officer
McFarland’s continued pursuit of me. Frankly, I suspected that he wasn’t even assigned to the Etherington case; he was simply
using it as a pretense to keep in touch.

Sure enough, he called and asked me to have dinner on Friday night, and in the interest of security for the Cannon Ball, I
agreed. I was ready to suggest a restaurant in some suburb like Bellevue or Antioch, somewhere I
wasn’t likely to see anyone I knew. But Officer McFar-land was one step ahead of me.

“I thought we’d eat at Green Hills Grille.”

Great. We were sure to run into at least a dozen people I knew, and most of them would be dialing Jim’s number on their cell
phones the moment they left the restaurant.

“Okay. I’ll meet you there. What time?” At least I’d have my own car and could make a quick escape if necessary.

“Is seven okay?”

“That’s great.”

Security officers
…
security officers
…
security officers,
I kept forcing myself to repeat in my head.

“I’ll see you then, Miz Hall.”

“You know, if we’re having dinner, you might as well call me Ellie.”

“And you can call me Will.”

“Okay, Will. See you then.”

Back in college, I’d perfected the fine art of dressing for a date with a boy you never wanted to go out with again. In those
days, I’d favored high-collared blouses and baggy sweaters and they’d done the trick. But at fifty, a blouse like that was
bound to make me look like Granny on the Sylvester and cartoons, and a baggy sweater only emphasized the matching set of luggage
under my eyes.

So I settled for nice slacks and a sweater set with pearls. If Will McFarland had a thing for mothers, then a mother was what
he was going to get.

I purposely arrived at Green Hills Grille just late
enough so I knew he’d be there first but not late enough to be obnoxious. Will was waiting for me in a booth prominently
positioned on a raised dais in the middle of the restaurant. No skulking in corners for Officer McFarland, and no way were
we not going to be noticed. He had laid a long-stemmed red rose at my place.

“Hi.” He stood up as I approached the booth.

“Hi.” Okay, he really was very sweet. Once I sat down, he took his seat. Again, I was reminded of one of the little courtesies
that had evaporated over the course of my marriage.

’Thanks for coming.”

“You’re welcome.”

If our conversation was going to be this stilted throughout the whole meal, we were in big trouble. I unrolled my silverware
from the cloth napkin and placed the square of fabric in my lap. It gave me something to do besides look at Will.

“How was your day?” His cheeks had a slight pink tinge, and he was trying so hard. But I felt like Florence Henderson out
on a date with the kid who had played Greg Brady.

“Good. It was good.” A neutral comment that didn’t invite him any farther into my life than he already was.

“I talked with some of the guys, and you’re all set for security.”

I smiled, and it was genuine. ‘Thank you. I really, really appreciate it.

His hand reached across the table, and his fingers covered mine. “No problem. I was glad to help.”

Thankfully, at that moment our waiter arrived with the
menus. I retrieved my fingers from Will’s and busied myself with looking over the specials.

“Order the lobster if you want,” Will said. He was trying very hard to be mature and suave. It was quite sweet.

“Actually, I’m not that big on lobster. I think I’ll have the tilapia.” I chose an entree on the modest end of the restaurant’s
price range, since I was going to feel guilty enough about letting him pay for dinner. I would try to pay for my share, of
course, but a woman could always tell when a man was bent on picking up the tab.

The waiter took our orders, and we were left alone once more. Rats.

“So,” I said, desperate for a topic of conversation, “how’s the investigation going?”

“I can’t really comment on that,” Will replied. My face must have fallen, because he added, “I haven’t found anyone else yet
besides Mrs. Davenport who could have been Marvin’s mystery woman.”