Not Your Everyday Housewife (11 page)

He never should have looked in her underwear drawer. Snooping wasn’t in his nature. Spying was even worse. He’d done both in the last three days, ever since Alec Rohan called him with the news that his P.I. had spotted Cyn getting awfully cozy with some photographer in Ogunquit.

Sam hadn’t slept that night or the next, but on the third day he’d waited until the girls left for school then torn the house apart looking for indications of a previous deceit.

He found it in her underwear drawer, shoved beneath three stacks of Jockey panties—a tiny envelope taped to the side of the drawer with a scrap of paper tucked inside containing the numbers 198520.

Half of him wanted to call her that very second and demand a reasonable explanation. His wife wasn’t an impulsive person, not like Derry Rohan. Cyn was predictable. Giving. Honest.

The numbers taunted him as he maneuvered through his day at the office. He couldn’t concentrate as 198520 smothered his brain and he found himself making stupid first year errors.
What are you doing, Cyn?
Shortly after lunch, he packed up his briefcase and headed home.

He knew where the answers were. It was just a matter of finding the right file name and plugging in the password.
198520
.

Sam walked in the door, grabbed a Michelob Light, and plunked down in front of the computer. He’d never imagined himself without Cyn. They belonged together. Hadn’t they weathered the death of her father five years ago from stomach cancer, his mother’s descent into Alzheimer’s, Kiki’s appendicitis when she was ten, Janie’s asthma attacks, his job loss?

He and Cyn were like a solid mathematical equation, calculated with assumptions, of course, but fairly strong ones. Sam pictured them together, basking in retirement, maybe traveling the country in a motor home, seeing what they’d missed the first half of their marriage.

But these last few days had taken his assumptions and logic and blown them apart. Sam clicked on a few Word files, searching for something that might be password protected. A grocery list, a letter to Janie’s French teacher asking for an extension regarding some translation project, a report from Kiki entitled, “The Problems with Correctional Systems.”

He opened every document dating back three years. Nothing. Maybe the numbers were a password for something else? A bank account? Cell phone password? Sam took a swig of beer and closed the last Word document, a recipe for Pumpkin Roll.

The only other program he could check was Excel. He double clicked on the icon and the program popped up. Another click took him to a folder with Cyn’s name on it. When had she learned to use Excel? She hated numbers. He couldn’t imagine her involving herself with a whole spreadsheet.

Sam clicked on the folder with Cyn’s name.
Password
, it read next to the white box. He typed in 198520 and hit enter.

***

His name was Steve Miller. When he told Cyn, she’d laughed and asked if he was the Steve Miller from The Steve Miller Band. He’d laughed too and confessed he was tone deaf.

He’d called her at Tula Rae’s and invited her to the viewing of Elijah Trent paintings which were on display at El Sol. He said Trent was a new talent from Idaho who’d been painting since age seven when his grandfather stuck a brush in his hand with instructions to paint a fence. Two hours later, the younger Trent had a herd of palominos outlined on the side of the barn.

Cyn accepted, hesitating only a second when he casually added that they grab a bite on their way to El Sol. And now, here she was, sliding silver hoops through her ears as she stared at herself in the mirror.

She looked somehow younger. Maybe it was the cut and color Marcus had given her. The man had talent. Or was it the tan? Cyn smiled. The tan definitely made her teeth look whiter.

She stepped back from the mirror, which mounted to a dressing bureau, and turned side to side. From this distance, she could see her hips and the tops of both thighs. The black skirt flowed along her body giving her a Stevie Nicks witch-like appearance. The red silk top, a loaner from Derry and a size smaller than Cyn’s usual Large, clung to her flesh, pushing her boobs out and making her cleavage swell.

Cyn smiled again, a slow meandering, seductive smile. She looked pretty damned good right now.

Life was good.

Damned good.

***

“So, wasn’t Trent everything I said he’d be?” Steve asked.

Cyn laughed. “He’s a wonderful artist but I just wish you would’ve told me he preferred blue eye shadow and Coach bags.”

“What, and ruin the mystique?”

“No, it’s called preparation.”

“Sometimes, it’s best to be surprised.” He smiled down at her. “Keeps life interesting.”

They were sitting outside The New England Beanery sipping lattes. The night breeze blew over them, trailing the scent of sweet geraniums and roses with it. They’d dined on lobster and crab cakes at a little hideout on the edge of town and then headed to El Sol.

“This place is so peaceful,” she said, easing back in the wrought iron chair with a sigh of contentment.

“It’s the perfect getaway.”

“So perfect you decided to stay here permanently, huh?”

“Why hassle with the outside world when I can have my own Utopia right here?”

“And make a living, too.” She sipped her latte. “What did you do before you became a full-time photographer?”

“I was an insurance claims adjuster.”

“You’ve got to be kidding.”

He grinned. “I wish. I’m the guy the insurance company sent to check out your car after the accident.”

“How boring.”

“Worse than being an accountant, or an engineer.”

Mention of engineer made Cyn’s smile fade. She glanced at her watch. Almost midnight. Sam would’ve called by now. What had Tula Rae told him?

It didn’t matter. This was just a simple dinner with an acquaintance. She had no reason to feel guilty. So, why did she?

“I’d love to take your picture.”

Steve’s words jerked her back. “
My
picture? No.” She shook her head, flustered and embarrassed. “I’m not very photogenic.”

“You’re a beautiful woman, Cyn.” His words swirled around her. “You shouldn’t be afraid of that.”

“I’m not.” She smoothed the folds of her Stevie Nicks’ skirt. “I just really don’t have much to do with pictures. I always look bad in them, red eyes, shadows.”

“Then you’ve never had the right photographer.” Charm spread over his face, lapped into his voice. “Let me show you, Cyn.”

“I don’t know.”

“I’ve got a studio at my place. All the backdrops, any color you choose, though I’d say black works best with your coloring and that beautiful hair. Best of all, I can guarantee you won’t have red eyes in my photos.”

He caught her glancing at her watch again and said, “It’s not even midnight. Remember being in college and just getting ready to go out at midnight?”

“I remember.”

“Well, I’ll bet that girl’s still in there somewhere.”

Steve grabbed her coffee and stood. “Let’s go. It won’t take long.”

“I shouldn’t.”

He pulled back her chair and held out his hand. “I promise to have you back by 1:00. Okay?”

If she hadn’t had that second Margarita, she would’ve been clear-minded enough to just say no. Instead, when Steve clasped her arm and guided her to her feet, she simply gave him a timid smile and followed.

There was nothing wrong with going to this man’s house, she told herself as they wound their way toward the edge of town. Steve Miller was a professional photographer who was interested in her as a subject. Hadn’t he told her that her hair glowed like the aftermath of a brushfire at night? That he had to capture it on film? Besides, he’d obviously photographed far more alluring women than a middle-aged housewife. It was fine.

Everything was fine.

They drove several winding, dark roads until they reached Steve’s place, a spacious pewter colored condo with long arched windows and clusters of blood-red rose bushes lining a stone path to the front door. He touched her arm gently and said, “Every time I walk down this path, I think of my mother. She planted these rose bushes for me when I bought the house.”

“They’re beautiful.”

“So was she.” His back was to her as he unlocked the front door.

“Was?”

“She died last year. Heart attack.” He held the door open for her and as she passed him, their eyes locked and she saw his pain.

“I’m sorry.”

“Thanks.” He walked through the house flipping on lights. “How about a nightcap?”

“No, thank you.” The inside of the house exuded wealth and good taste in the form of glass, chrome and leather. Definitely, a man’s domain.

If Sam lived alone, would he choose cordovan leather over comfortable brushed corduroy? Glass tables over oak? Flat screen television over a built in Sylvania 36”?

Doubtful.

“You have to try this new liqueur I just got. It has a hint of raspberry and lime in it. A friend sent it from France.”

“Really, I—”

“A thimble full.”

She shrugged and followed him to the chrome liquor cabinet in the dining room. “All right, a thimble full.”

It turned out to be more like ten thimble fulls, or maybe twelve. The liqueur glided down her throat in a warm, steady trickle, and damn, if it didn’t taste just like fresh picked raspberries squirted with lime. Cyn fanned her face, lifted the hair from the back of her collar. “Whew, it’s getting hot in here.”

“Would you like me to open a window?” Steve lounged on the chair next to the couch where she sat, his long legs stretched out in front of him.

She fanned faster. “Would you mind?”

“Sure.” But he made no move to get up. “Just relax, Cyn. Nice easy breaths.”

Her hand slowed and she slumped back against the leather cushion. “I’m…just a minute.” Her eyes drifted shut. “I’ll be fine…” She tried to open her eyes but they were too heavy. And her feet felt like logs.

“It’s okay, Cyn.” Steve’s voice whirled around her, soft and muted. “Everything’s just fine.”

And then his words blurred, faded, and she passed out.

Derry discovered Cyn the next morning at 5:12 a.m. sprawled on the front lawn of The Bird’s Nest beside a hedge of seven sister roses. The gauzy black skirt Derry talked her into wearing, which last night had seemed sexy and sophisticated, now appeared slutty and cheap, bunched at the junction of Cyn’s thighs.

“Cyn!” Derry crouched beside her on the damp lawn and shook her shoulder gently. “Wake up.”

“Hmmmmm.”

“Cyn, wake up.” Derry pushed Cyn’s hair from her face.

“Tired.”

“What happened?”

“Talk later,” Cyn mumbled.

“Talk now. It’s 5:00 in the morning and I just found you sleeping next to Tula Rae’s prized rose bushes. Want to explain that?”

Cyn’s eyes flew open and she half-lurched to a sitting position, yanking the skirt into place. “What happened? How’d I get here?”

“That’s what I want to know. Last night, we waved good-bye and watched you walk toward town to meet Steve Miller. Cyn, who the hell is this guy and what’d he do to you?”

“I …” She rubbed her temples and blinked hard. “We went back to his house after coffee. He said he wanted to take a few pictures …”

“Dear God—”

“He’s a photographer, Derry. I didn’t think anything of it.” She paused, added, “He said my hair glowed and he wanted to—”

“I know what he wanted to do.”

“He poured me a drink and we were talking… “And then…” Her voice drifted into a bewildered silence.

“And then?”

She looked at Derry and said, “I don’t remember any more.”

“He drugged you, Cyn.”

“But why would—oh, God.” She buried her face in her hands. “What have I done?”

“It’s okay,” Derry whispered, putting her arms around her. “It’s okay. We have to take you to the hospital and have you checked out, okay?”

“No.”

“You have to go, Cyn. He might have harmed you.”

“You mean raped?”

“I don’t know, maybe.”

“No.”

“Cyn, if this guy’s out there, you’re probably not the first or the last. Can you live with yourself knowing you could’ve stopped him?”

A single strangled word slid past her lips. “Sam.”

“I know. We won’t say anything until we know what happened, okay? Now, let’s get you to the hospital.”

“Can’t I at least get cleaned up first?”

“I’m no CSI, but I think it’s better to wear exactly what you did last night. Maybe they can get a fiber or some fluid.” She thought of the famous Monica Lewinsky dress and added, “Or something.”

“Okay, just at least let me comb my hair, and”—she took Derry’s arm and hoisted herself up—“oh, my God.”

“What? Are you in pain?”

“My panties,” she choked. “They’re gone.” She yanked the skirt up to reveal part of one buttock. “What the hell is this?”

Scrawled in black marker across her virgin flesh were the words,
You were great, Cyn. Love, Steve.

“Jesus.” Derry pulled her close and said, “Let’s get you to the hospital, honey. Then we’ll figure this whole thing out.”

***

Tula Rae, Derry, and Shea sat lined up in the waiting room, staring at the emergency room hallway. Tula Rae had insisted on driving them in her 1977 Ford LTD wagon and packing a small satchel of bran muffins, raisins, and pecans, because “a body has to eat to keep the energy levels up, especially in times of crisis.”

But no one was hungry, not even Tula Rae, who consumed eight small meals a day religiously.

“All we wanted to do was change our lives a little,” Shea murmured. “Who would’ve ever dreamed something like this would happen?”

“Shea, stop it.” This from Derry. “We have to help Cyn get through this and it doesn’t do any good if you start feeling sorry for yourself.”

“I’m not. I’m only saying this wasn’t part of the plan.”

“Nothing ever is, dearie.” Tula Rae sighed and placed a bony hand over the wooden cross hanging around her neck. “Not the drunk who runs over the young’n on the bicycle, not the woman who visits the good looking neighbor to borrow his newspaper and ends up in bed with him. And certainly, not our Cyn. Human nature’s a funny thing, dangerous breed too, if you think about it.”

Shea rubbed her belly underneath the pink velour. Of the three of them, Cyn had the solid marriage, and now look. Maybe she wouldn’t tell Sam. Could they live with such a dark secret breathing between them for the rest of their lives?

“I’m going to find the bastard.” Derry’s words pierced the hospital buzz of phones, intercoms, and muted voices.

“You don’t even know where to look,” Shea said. “And I’ll bet Steve Miller isn’t even his real name.”

“I’ll find him.”

“Let’s see what the doctor says first.” Tula Rae patted Derry’s hand. “And if that man harmed our Cyn, I’ll load up my shot gun and be the first one out the door.”

“He raped her.” Derry’s words fell out in toneless accusation. “The goddamn bastard drugged her and then he raped her.”

Shea swiped her eyes. “Poor Cyn.”

“Maybe the good Lord will spare our girl,” Tula Rae said. She pulled out a tiny rosary from her jeans pocket and began working the beads.

“You’re Catholic?” Shea asked, staring at the rosary.

“No.” Tula Rae shrugged and said, “But the Lord don’t care, a prayer’s a prayer, anyhow you say it.”

They spent the next hour waiting and Shea did some praying of her own.
Please God, help Cyn, please help her,
and then,
let this baby be a boy.

When Dr. Jessica Sinegal headed toward them forty minutes later, they all jumped up.

“Is she okay?” Tula Rae asked.

“What happened?” This from Shea.

“When can we see her?” Derry took a half-step toward the emergency room.

“Mrs. Cintar is resting,” the doctor said. She was a slight built woman in her mid-fifties with short cropped silver hair and a commanding voice. “Why don’t we go over to the conference room where we’ll have more privacy?”

Conference rooms and privacy spoken in the same sentence were never a good sign. Shea had been on the other end of this kind of conversation too many times. It usually meant bad news and lots of tears.

Shea, Derry, and Tula Rae followed Dr. Sinegal to the small room adjacent to the waiting area and sat down, all except for Derry, who stood near the doorway.

“When can we see her?” Derry asked again.

Dr. Sinegal’s cool blue eyes assessed Derry. “I’ve just given her something to help her rest.”

“Did that maniac hurt our girl?” Tula Rae asked.

“Actually, there’s no sign of sexual assault. No semen, no bruising of the vaginal walls, no marks on her body, with the exception of the note he left.”

“Note?” Shea asked. “What note?”

The doctor met Derry’s gaze and Derry said, “He took a marker and wrote, ‘You were great, Cyn, Love, Steve’, on her ass.”

Shea gasped.

“Mrs. Cintar remembers nothing past the drink he poured and taking several sips. The toxicology reports aren’t back yet, but my guess is he gave her Rohypnol or Gamma hydroxybutyric acid, commonly known as date rape drugs.”

“But if he didn’t rape her, why’d he do it?” Shea asked.

“Could there be another motive, perhaps? Blackmail?”

“He said he was a photographer,” Shea murmured.

“Who could’ve taken pictures of her while she was drugged,” Derry added.

“To blackmail her with, so he don’t send them to her husband,” Tula Rae pounded her bony fist on the table.

“It’s possible,” Dr. Sinegal said. “About two years ago, a woman came in here with an almost identical situation. She met a man who said he was a photographer and ended up drugged and dumped on her front lawn with a note similar to Mrs. Cintar’s inked on her buttocks. And, as in this case, there was no sign of sexual assault. We never got anywhere with the case because the woman refused to file a report.”

“Let me guess, she was married,” Derry said.

“She was.”

“It’s got to be blackmail.”

“So, now what?” Shea stared at Derry.

“We wait.”