Клео Коул - On What Grounds

The woman looked absolutely stricken, and I faltered. The way the words came out—they felt so earnest and sincere. Was she telling me the truth? Or was her sincerity just a mother’s gullible belief in her own son’s innocence? Had Junior lied to her so well that she believed him? I didn’t know, but I had to keep going now—it was the only way to know for sure.

“Richard did hurt Anabelle, Mrs. Engstrum. I found the evidence after the Crime Scene Unit left. I haven’t brought it to the police yet, but I plan to—”

This was a lie, of course. A handful of tea leaves in a garbage bag did not prove a damned thing, but Mrs. Engstrum wouldn’t know that and neither would Richard.

“I just wanted you to have a chance to help your son,” I said, continuing the bluff. “I’m a mother, too, and one mother to another, I’m pleading with you to tell your son what I told you—talk some sense into him. If you convince him to give himself up by noon tomorrow, then I’ll destroy the evidence. The authorities will go much easier on him if he turns himself in and you know it.”

Fiona Engstrum looked stricken, stunned, pale as a ghost. Her eyes dampened with unshed tears.

“You’re wrong,” she rasped. “You’re wrong. I called Richard Thursday morning. He was in his fraternity at Dartmouth. He was there the whole night, and I’m sure he can find witnesses to that fact…I’m sure he can…”

Something inside me twisted. How could any mother face hearing this about her child? And what if I was wrong? What if Richard didn’t do a damn thing?

I couldn’t even imagine what I’d do if someone accused my own child of such a thing. But then Joy would never in a million years do what Richard Engstrum, Junior, had done. Even if he hadn’t caused Anabelle’s accident, he’d clearly abandoned her. Maybe a night of tossing and turning was something he deserved even if he wasn’t guilty. Anabelle didn’t have that luxury. She was flat on her back in St. Vincent’s ICU.

My resolve hardened.

“Remember. Noon tomorrow,” I said coldly and walked away.

I could feel the woman’s eyes burning a hole in the back of my Valentino. It took all my self-control not to steal a look at her as I strode back toward the ballroom doors, but to my credit I made it to the bar, where Matteo stood, without once turning around.

“I need a drink,” I announced to my ex-husband, my knees suddenly weak. “Kahlua, I guess.”

The sweet, smooth, and syrupy Mexican liqueur was not that strong, but it had a flavor that comforted me—coffee.

“Here, try this,” Matt said. “It has Kahlua in it.”

I accepted the tall, frosty glass of nutty-brown, creamy liquid and took a big gulp. The concoction was smooth and delicious. It tasted like toasted almonds, coffee, and cream all at once. Then my eyes began to widen as the alcohol punch hit me.

“Ohmygod,” I gasped. “What is that?”

“It’s called a Screaming Orgasm.”

I frowned at Matt. “I’m not in the mood.”

“No, really,” he insisted. “That’s what it’s called. Kahlua, amaretto, vodka, ice, and cream.”

By the time he’d recited the ingredients, the vodka had kicked in and I didn’t care what the hell the drink was called. I just wanted more of the same.

“We hit another wall,” I announced dismally. I swirled the glass in my hand and leaned against the bar.

“I tried the mother-to-mother thing, then I strong-armed the woman.” I sighed and rubbed my arm where Mrs. Engstrum had grabbed it. That’s gonna leave a mark.

“She came back at me like a cornered panther protecting her cub. And then she got pretty emotional. She claims her cub was at his Dartmouth fraternity with witnesses the night Anabelle was hurt.”

Matteo arched his eyebrow. “Too bad I missed the cat fight.”

“You know what,” I said miserably. “Maybe Anabelle had an accident, after all. Maybe she just tripped over her dainty little feet and plunged down those steps all by her clumsy self—”

I took another gulp of Orgasm and brother did I want to scream.

“Maybe we’re ruined,” I said, “because we have no insurance and Darla Hart is about to sic the best ambulance-chasing lawyer in New York City on us.”

My voice must have been embarrassingly loud because at several nearby tables, heads turned. Matt diplomatically took the Screaming Orgasm out of my hand.

“What about your instincts?” Matt said softly. “What about your gut feelings?”

“My guts have been wrong before,” I replied. “I married you, didn’t I.”

Matt didn’t even blink. But he didn’t deserve the remark.

Not tonight anyway.

“I’m sorry,” I told him. “I shouldn’t have said that. After all, we wouldn’t have Joy if we hadn’t…anyway…I’m sorry I’m just so damned upset. Madame bequeaths me part of her legacy, the Village Blend, and I screw it up in record time.”

“You didn’t screw it up,” Matt said. “Flaste did. My mother did. I did. You were in New Jersey, raising our daughter, and I was off buying coffee in every country in the world except the one my wife and daughter were living in.”

My fist struck the bar. Not hard, but a few people noticed.

“I’m sure Anabelle was a victim of foul play,” I said. “It can’t be an accident.”

Matteo smiled. “That’s the spirit.”

I put my elbows on the bar and rested my chin on my hands. “But we’re back to square one.” I sighed. “Mrs. Engstrum is so certain of her son’s innocence that she threatened me with a lawsuit if I told anyone of my suspicions. And it’s quite possible Richard, The Junior Dick, is not guilty of anything more than being a complete shithead cad.”

“Don’t give up yet,” Matt said, resting his hand on my bare shoulder. “You’ve only been an amateur sleuth for a couple of days. I’ll bet Miss Marple took more time than that to learn her trade.”

“You’re right,” I said with another sigh. “Why stop now when I’ve got only two people threatening to sue us.”

“You know, Clare, Dartmouth isn’t that far from New York.”

“What do you mean? It’s way up in New England, isn’t it?”

“New Hampshire. The drive is under six hours.”

“That’s enough time to drive all night and still have people see him at the dorm in the morning, isn’t it?”

“Yes, it is.”

“So he might have done it after all?”

“The Dick’s not clean by a long shot.”

“And you know,” I said, “Anabelle could wake up tomorrow and remember everything.”

Matteo tapped the bar. “Knock on wood.”

“Let’s get back to our table,” I said, pushing away from the bar. “Your mother is probably wondering what the heck happened to us.”

To my relief, I managed to walk a straight line across the huge room. But it wasn’t easy. A lot of guests had risen from their tables, and I had to rely on Captain Matt to take my hand and navigate us through the sea of milling formal wear.

By this time, sequined couture and vintage black ties were packing the dance floor and conductor George Gee (probably the only Chinese-American big band leader in North American) was directing his seventeen-piece swing orchestra to pay tribute to Glenn Miller by intermittently pausing their side-to-side waving of trombones, trumpets, and clarinets to shout, “Pennsylvania Six Five Thousand!”

“Good job, Mother,” Matt told Madame when we arrived back at table five. “You’ve really got the place hopping.”

“Well, now!” Madame exclaimed as he planted a kiss on her cheek. “Look who came back from their short trip upstairs. Matt and Clare, back so soon?”