What Goes With Blood Red, Anyway?. Stevi Mittman

chill and glare suspiciously at the cop and at me.

      The gardeners across the street start putting their tools in their trucks, but they are asked to stay put until they are released by the police. They begin to argue—they have other leaves to blow, this is no business of theirs, and the neighbors begin to demand to know what’s going on. The policeman guarding me, if that is what he is doing, goes into the street to calm everyone down, but his presence seems to do the opposite.

      And then, with the exception of a gasp or two, all sound stops abruptly when a car marked Medical Examiner pulls up to the curb.

      I reach into my handbag and fish around for my cell to call Bobbie Lyons, my business partner/neighbor/best friend. When I turn on the phone there are several messages waiting for me. The officer returns to me, probably to tell me I’m only allowed one call, and I show him that two of the messages are from Elise.

      “Do you think it’s okay for me to hear them?” I ask, thinking that I don’t really want to hear Elise’s voice from the other world and realizing that maybe in her moment of need she was calling me for help.

      The officer, I suppose thinking the same thing, tells me to wait and ducks inside the house.

      The crowd, which had turned into one of those living tableaus, comes to life and closes in. Before I can answer any of their questions, a strong arm yanks me back into the house.

      “Whatcha got?” Drew asks me. His partner is nearby, examining some of the sports memorabilia that I’ve creatively placed in the hallway I expanded to accommodate it. A sort of Hall of Fame, if you will, which allowed me to move the stuff out of the living room to please Elise and still keep it in plain sight to please her husband. I hand Drew my phone and tell him which keys to press. He gives me a look that says he didn’t make detective being stupid, and I back away from the phone.

      I am still close enough to hear Elise’s excited voice as she tells me how much she loves the new look. Do I think she should reconsider my suggestion that we do the back wall in deep Chinese Red? She’s thinking that the new, mustard-color upholstered bar stools would look great against the red, just as I told her they would. Look, we hear her say (my head is now inches from The Handsome Detective’s and I notice he smells good, too).

      I press the button that lets us see the picture Elise has sent. I touch the screen lovingly. Yes, Elise, the wall would have looked perfect in a vintage claret wallpaper with a small golden-mustard accent design. And the bar stools, as I can see in the picture, actually looked better where I placed them than where they are now.

      Drew says they’ll need to confiscate the phone and bring it down to the lab to examine the picture for any possible clues—which I totally understand. I mean, Bobbie’s sister Diane is a rookie cop and she’s always reporting that they confiscated this or that.

      On the other hand—and I don’t want to seem petty here—this is my phone, my link to the outside world, my security blanket. I tell him we can just send the photo to the precinct via e-mail. Nelson says he’s already got Elise’s phone and sees that the picture is saved in there. Just as I ask if I can have my phone back, there is a commotion outside and Jack Meyers, Elise’s hot-shot sports agent husband, pushes his way in.

      All my nasty thoughts about how he doesn’t know “jack” about decorating evaporate as his face goes gray and he tries to grasp what the police are telling him.

      He keeps asking what they mean by dead, as if there are different types or degrees. Probably like he thinks there are different degrees of fidelity or marriage. “Hit on the head,” he repeats over and over again. “A blow to the head.”

      “It appears that way,” Nelson tells him. “We won’t know for sure until we see the autopsy report.”

      If there’s a color grayer than gray, Jack turns it. I force myself to forget what I know about him and guide him to the “Martin Crane” chair in the living room, the one he refused to let me recover, never mind replace, and I help him sit. I open the antique armoire I’ve had retrofitted to accommodate a bar and pour him a straight Scotch.

      After a healthy belt, he collects himself and tells us all how he wasn’t home last night because he was out fishing on his boat with a client and they got caught in rough seas and had to spend the night in Connecticut. Now, Jack’s a very successful agent and I know he hooks his share of big fish, but I’m willing to bet he doesn’t do it with a rod and a reel from his boat. Considering that most of his clients are women athletes, I’ll concede a rod, but not a reel.

      At any rate, all of us know it’s a fish tale, but wouldn’t you know that Nelson takes down all his details, which are sketchy at best. He’s so awed by Jack’s circle that he just nods when Jack, with a nervous glance at me, assures him he’ll have the office call with the client’s number later.

      As Drew is walking me out, I hear Jack tell Nelson he won’t consent to an autopsy. He says it’s against his religion. I have the utmost respect for religion and religious traditions, but how religious could he be with no mezuzah on the door frame? I kind of tap the doorjam where the little prayer holder ought to be, but, not being Jewish, Drew probably misses my subtle hint. I don’t believe that Jack doesn’t want that autopsy on religious grounds. I think he’s hiding something, or wants to, and I’m suspicious.

      Oh, hell, let’s face it. I’m suspicious of every husband, and Jack’s no prize. Still, that doesn’t make him a murderer, does it?

      Alone in my car I carefully back out, listening to my own breathing, and I realize that Elise will never breathe again. In my chest I feel my heart lub-dubbing. My blood is pounding relentlessly in my veins. A headache has settled into my left temple and my ankle itches where my jeans tease it. It seems I am taking inventory of everything that makes me alive.

      Halfway down the street I realize I can’t see through my tears and I pull over. The thing that bothers me most about Elise’s murder—beyond the obvious—is that it happened in her own home. I don’t know about you, but if I ever get murdered I want it to be in some dark alley that I should have known better than to go into in the first place. Home is where you are supposed to be safe. And I wouldn’t want to get murdered there.

      I wipe my cheeks with my bare arm but the tears continue to stream down my face. I think about calling Bobbie, but I don’t know what I expect her to do. I don’t want to talk. I just want to crawl under the covers and cry.

      If only I hadn’t used up all my Go Back To Bed Free cards last year….

      CHAPTER 2

      Design Tip of the Day

      Fabric is the self-decorator’s best friend. Done right, a couple of coordinating fabrics can pull a whole house together. Just by covering a pillow in the living room, a bench in the hall and a couple of kitchen bar stools in one fabric and making a dining room tablecloth, a photo mat and a second pillow in the living room in a companion fabric, you can move items from room to room and have them look as though they always belonged there.

      —From TipsfromTeddi.com

      I can’t help crying. I may be woman, I may be strong, but at the moment I’m not roaring. I’m just grateful that no one can see me. I cry until I hiccup, and I hiccup all the way down Jericho Turnpike, where I hang a right into the parking lot of Precious Things because I don’t want to go home. Who wants alone when they can have hot coffee and a sympathetic ear?

      “Did he call you?” Helene, who owns the shop where just yesterday I picked up Elise’s custom-covered bar stools, asks before I’ve got one foot in the door. “I told him to call you last night. If he didn’t, he’s in big trouble.”

      He is her brother, newly single, just squeaking past the Dr. Joy one-year rule. According to Helene, he is my soul mate. In fact, he did call and he does sound nice. And if I was the least bit interested in ever allowing a man into my life again, I would consider him.

      “Elise Meyers was murdered this morning,” I say just as the phone rings. Helene tilts her head slightly, as if she is having trouble