THE DEEP END by Julie Mulhern Page A

you?”
    “It doesn’t matter if she believes me or not, she’ll still blame you.”
    He wasn’t wrong and I didn’t care.
    Besides, her reaction to me leaving the hospital ahead of schedule would be small potatoes compared to what she’d do when she found out I was going to try to find out who’d killed Madeline. Mother’s head would levitate from her shoulders again. It might even spin. Or she could go full on dragon with flames shooting from her eyes and mouth.
    I was willing to risk it.
    Twelve

      
    Powers drove me home. He even agreed to escort me inside. Although that might have had something to do with Detective Jones’ sedan parked in the drive and not concern for my welfare.
    A policeman in a blue uniform blocked my entrance. He even told me I’d have to leave because it was a crime scene.
    Not likely. I was done with being bossed around. The insecurities that came with tangled hair, a make-up free face, and the mish-mash of clothes I’d worn home were nothing in the face of my newfound resolve. I said in my best Frances Walford voice, “I live here.”
    He actually took a step backward. Maybe I’d achieved a certain gravitas or maybe he thought I was a recently escaped lunatic. Either way, I swept past him.
    Detective Jones met me in the foyer. No plaid pants today but the nice brown eyes were the same. The slow-burn smile was new. The combination was tingle inducing. “Mrs. Russell, we weren’t expecting you.”
    “Ellison,” I corrected.
    Next to me, Powers grinned like a freshman girl in love with the senior quarterback. Then, coyly pretending disinterest, he picked up the mail lying on the bombé chest and perused the light bill, the phone bill, and the latest issue of Architectural Digest .
    I scowled, a good dark scowl to make up for all the sweetness emanating from Powers. The expression also hid unwelcome flutters in the general vicinity of my stomach.
    I brushed past Detective Jones and peeked into my husband’s study.
    Lying in my hospital bed, I’d imagined a shambles. That was too tame a word to describe it. So were havoc, bedlam, and unholy mess. It was a certifiable disaster area. Every book had been pulled from its shelf, the desk drawers—their locks jimmied and broken— had been upended on the floor, most of the chairs were overturned and Henry’s files had been tossed about like confetti on New Year’s Eve. The Toby mugs had survived unscathed. They leered at me from their display case. The damned things were insured. If a burglar was going to destroy Henry’s office, was it too much to ask to shatter a few of the horrible things? Apparently so.
    Everything— everything —was dusted with gray powder. I stepped inside for a closer look and my stomach dropped like an elevator with a cut cable. “Has Harriet quit yet?” I didn’t want to think about cleaning it up without her.
    “Pardon me?” said Detective Jones,
    “My housekeeper. Has she quit yet?”
    “I don’t think so. She saw us dusting for fingerprints, mumbled something under her breath and walked out.”
    It wasn’t too hard to figure out what she was mumbling. Either she was phrasing her resignation or her case for a large bonus.
    The curtain rod had fallen and the curtains were in heaps on the floor. They too were covered with a fine layer of powder. “You tested the drapes for fingerprints?”
    Detective Jones eyed the mound of fabric. “No. The dust travels.”
    That was an understatement. I gazed at the chaos with the kind of wonder usually reserved for the Grand Canyon, the Great Pyramids, or an octogenarian shooting a hole-in-one.
    Despite the utter havoc, my painting still hung on the wall. My adversary, whoever he or she was, wasn’t all that smart. “The burglar didn’t go for the safe.”
    “The safe?” Detective Jones and Powers spoke as one.
    “You don’t think Henry kept one of my paintings up because he liked it, do you? It’s hinged.” I tiptoed through the wreckage and swung