THE DEEP END by Julie Mulhern Page B

the painting away from the wall.
    “Can you open it?” Detective Jones asked.
    Damn it. The concussion had obviously affected my mental faculties. I should have kept my mouth shut. I should have lingered in the doorway and sighed over the wreckage, anything but bring their attention to the wall safe. Who knew what secrets it held? “I can’t.” I jammed my hands in my pockets and ignored the itch at the end of my nose. “This is Henry’s safe. I don’t have the combination.”
    What in the hell did Henry have in there? His favorite kinky toys or Polaroids of Madeline tied up at Club K or a signed confession? Whatever it was, I didn’t want to share it with Detective Jones.
    “We’ll have to have it opened.”
    They would? Oh dear Lord. Why? Was that standard procedure for a burglary? Damn. Damn. Damn.
    “You’ll need a search warrant for that.” Hunter Tafft lounged in the doorway looking like a movie star version of a lawyer—Gregory Peck as Atticus Finch or Cary Grant as...well...anybody. I’ve never been so glad to see anyone.
    He smiled at me, showing off his dimple and brilliant teeth. “I stopped by the hospital and they said you’d come home.”
    Detective Jones grimaced. Hunter raised an insouciant brow. Powers looked like he wanted a comfortable seat, preferably one that reclined, a tub of popcorn and maybe some Milk Duds.
    I just wanted them all out of my house so I could open Henry’s safe. I also wanted aspirin, a blistering hot shower and an extra-large bottle of extra-strength crème rinse for the tangles in my hair.
    “Is Mr. Tafft representing you?” Detective Jones asked.
    He was if it meant keeping the police out of Henry’s safe. “Yes,” I replied.
    Detective Jones scowled, Hunter smirked, Powers’ fingers closed around imagined popcorn, and I sank into the nearest chair.
    It was really too bad I picked a chair that had been damaged when the burglar destroyed Henry’s study. When I sank, the chair sank with me.
    I hit the floor with a crash that sent my brain waves spiking like...spikes. For a moment, the pain blinded me. When I did see, I didn’t see stars, I saw planets and supernovas and whole galaxies. My eyes welled with tears and the three men who just a moment ago had looked like they were ready to argue to the end of time sprang into action.
    Detective Jones extended his hand and hauled me off the floor then Powers daubed a handkerchief under my eyes. Hunter murmured something soothing.
    Tears spilled over my lashes and ran down my cheeks. I sniffled and tried to ignore the ache in my jaw. Easier said than done when my head hurt, my house—or at least one room of it—was destroyed, Henry was missing, and I was a murder suspect. I deserved a breakdown. I just didn’t want a cop with nice eyes, the man Mother had selected to be my second husband, or Powers around when it started. As soon as they were gone, I’d let go. I’d cry. Not the delicate tears of which Mother might approve. I was going to bawl, great big gut-wrenching sobs. My nose would run like a fire hydrant being tested and my face would turn a shade just shy of red cinnabar. It was the kind of crying best done in solitude and I could hardly wait. I swallowed the sob that had lodged itself in my throat, snatched the hanky out of Powers’ hand and blew my nose. It sounded like a bullhorn.
    Three men began to shift and squirm and gaze longingly at the door. I gazed at it too, hoping they’d get the hint and leave. Detective Jones actually took a step toward the door just as Harriet barged through it.
    If she noticed my distress, she gave no indication. Instead, righteous indignation radiated from her pores. In fact, a halo of it surrounded her. She planted her hands on her hips. “I hope you don’t expect me to clean this up.”
    I had.  She was the housekeeper. Cleaning was part of her job description. I’d even planned to slip an extra hundred into her pay envelope. In the face of her withering anger,