Our Husband (a humorous romantic mystery) (17 page)

garden?

"By the way," Aldrich said. "We already searched the offices of your medical practice."

Her nurse Sara was probably frantic. "And did you find what you were looking for?" Her lawyer answered before Aldrich

could, but from the set of the man's mouth, she presumed he hadn't found anything. Her heart pounded as she told Lowell what

was happening. Cooperate, he said.

A bombshell hit her as she disconnected the call—Tony. He'd been a bit of a pothead when they were growing up; had he

gotten deeper into drugs? Had he stashed anything in his room or elsewhere in the house that would jeopardize his parole, or

make things look worse for her?

"Don't worry," Butler said close to her ear. "Once they realize they're barking up the wrong tree, they'll leave."

She pulled back. "Why are you still here?"

His eyebrows shot up. "I just thought you might need—"

"I don't." At one time his bruised expression would have elicited a response, but hadn't she decided just yesterday that she

was through accommodating interference in her life, especially from male types?

"Aldrich," one of the men in her yard shouted. "Over here!"

Puzzled, she was one step behind Aldrich, vaguely aware of Butler on her heels, like a persistent puppy. One officer was

snapping pictures of a climbing hedge next to the fence, while the other appeared to study the foliage. The name of the plant

escaped her, if indeed she'd ever known, but a memory of orange flowers against the greenery stirred in the recesses of her

mind. Pumpkin posy? She couldn't see the metal name plaque from where she stood.

"Why are you so interested in my garden?"

Aldrich smirked. "You must think we're morons, Dr. Carmichael."

Oh, but it was so much more than a thought. "Okay, Detective, I'll play along—why would I think you were morons?"

He crouched and turned the little sign in her direction. Her aunt's bold hand-lettering was unmistakable: Strophanthus. The

facts unfolded in her head like a flowchart. Strophanthus was an attractive plant whose seeds just happened to be the source for

ouabain. Extracting the drug would be no easy task, especially enough for a lethal dose. But a determined chemist could do it.

Or a determined doctor.

"Got some foxglove over there." One of the officers pointed.

Foxglove. Digitalis. Distant relative of ouabain.

Detective Aldrich pursed his mouth. "You're a regular corner drugstore, aren't you, Doc?"

She wanted to run, but the ground seemed to be crumbling, falling away from her feet. The sheer absurdity of the spiraling

situation left her faint.

"Natalie!" Mrs. Ratchet appeared at the fence, waving an index card. "Here's the recipe you—" She stared at the crowd

assembled. "What's going on here?"

If nothing else, the woman would have her headline for the week.

Chapter 15

From her burgundy leather club chair, Beatrix sipped a powerful gin and tonic, then used the remote control to ease up the

volume of the television. The happy-looking spokeswoman, Julie, leaned closer to the camera. "If you've been looking for a

rewarding pastime to bring out the creativity you know is hiding within, this deluxe cookware set is the perfect start to

becoming a gourmet chef right in your own kitchen."

Her first home-cooked meal for Raymond after they were married had been a plate of spaghetti. No meatballs, no sauce,

just spaghetti. In hindsight, she'd been horribly inept at fulfilling her wifely duties, but Raymond had handled her ignorance

with good humor. They'd poured a quarter pound of butter and a shaker of salt over the spaghetti and he'd taught her how to

twirl it properly, with a spoon as the base for a turning fork until it was thickly loaded with noodles. Raymond was ten years

her junior, yet so much more worldly, so much more exciting than she. She had landed a part-time job in a delightful bookstore,

and they'd made love at every opportunity so she could become pregnant without delay. Their shabby little apartment had been

the center of her world. For a while.

She swallowed another icy mouthful of her drink, reveling in the progressive numbness the alcohol provided.

Then her mother, chronically fragile and possessing a wicked sense of timing, had suffered a nervous breakdown. Her

father had cajoled her to return home to help, offering a suite of rooms in the house to her and Raymond as enticement. Gone

were her "little job" and their quaint apartment and her fledgling cooking skills. Gradually they'd both been swept back into the

elitist lifestyle from which she'd hoped to escape. But Raymond had loved the clout and acceptance her family name afforded

him, and in the end, she was happiest when he was happy. So, at her family homestead they had remained.

"The cookware is sturdy stainless steel," Julie promised, "with a nonstick surface guaranteed for a lifetime."

A nonstick
heart
, now there was a marketing concept. Emotional Teflon. Because as the years passed and babies eluded

and passion eroded and arguments multiplied, she'd never stopped loving him. Faking indifference had simply saved her sanity.

As his interest in their marriage waned, the odometer on his company car ticked higher. Hopes they would become close again

when her parents were gone were dashed when he left her father's wake early to "close a critical sale."

Had he been closing Natalie? The timing seemed right.

"The coils imbedded in the bottom of each pot ensure even heat distribution. The matching lids are vented—don't you just

hate it when you can't find a lid to fit?"

Damn her. Damn him, but damn her, too, dammit. Attractive, intelligent, educated—didn't Natalie have enough going for

her without capturing Raymond's heart? Marrying that idiot Ruby was obviously a poor attempt at gallantry after he got her

with child, but Natalie... he must have loved Natalie.

A wife could overlook a foolish encounter here and there, but falling in love with someone else? Unforgivable.

Beatrix drank until the ice at the bottom of her glass slid down to clink against the porcelain veneers on her teeth.

"Rachel!" If she were out of gin, she'd have to send her housekeeper out for more.

"On the line we have Joann from Oklahoma, who purchased a set of the deluxe stainless steel nonstick gourmet cookware

two months ago. She's calling back to let us know how happy she is with her purchase. Joann, are you there?"

"Yes, Julie, I'm here."

"Joann, how do you like your deluxe stainless steel nonstick gourmet cookware?"

"Julie, these pots and pans have changed my
life
. I used to be so introverted and bored. Now I love to cook and entertain,

and I have more friends than I can shake a stick at."

Beatrix squinted at the TV. What the hell did that mean, shake a stick at? If someone were fortunate enough to have a true

friend, why would they shake a stick at them? And if Joann had so many friends, why the devil was she calling the host of the

home shopping show to chat? Pathetic.

Admittedly, she herself had ordered a few things from the show, but strictly for the convenience of having a VitaMaster

Juicer or a Primo Pasta Maker delivered right to the door. One of these days, when the cooking muse struck her, she would

open the boxes. Meanwhile, the deluxe stainless steel nonstick gourmet cookware set would be a nice addition to her store.

Beatrix picked up the phone, then hit the number seven button ("S" for shopping) to recall a programmed number. As the phone

rang, her arms and hands tingled from a familiar rush of adrenaline. Referring to the item number listed on the bottom of the

screen, she gave her order to the operator.

"Good choice, ma'am."

"Yes, well, I'm a gourmet cook," Beatrix said smoothly. If Raymond could tell a boatload of whoppers, she was entitled to

one uplifting fib.

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Carmichael, but the charge on the card you gave me was declined."

Beatrix frowned into the phone. "That's impossible."

"Probably a computer glitch," the woman assured her. "Do you have another form of payment?"

"Of course," she snapped. But another of her charge cards was turned down before a third was accepted. After confirming

the order, she banged down the phone. Raymond had taken care of their household finances outside of her trust fund. She

supposed she'd have to get her accountant Fiske to pick up the slack since it appeared they were already behind on a payment

or two. She sighed—another detail to take care of. Fiske and Gaylord were still pounding out the monetary ramifications of

Raymond having an illegitimate child. She, on the other hand, didn't even want to think about it.

"Rachel!" She cursed and set her glass down on the leather-topped table at her elbow. Forget it, she'd get the damn gin

herself.

When she stood, she grabbed the back of the chair until the den righted, then made her way across one of her mother's

precious hand-tied Persian rugs. Hers now, she supposed. Funny how she still thought of the house and its contents as

belonging to her parents. She bumped her hip against the cherry desk that had been sitting in the same spot since she was a

child, inadvertently dragging off a stack of mail Rachel had set on the desk for her to read.

Dozens of envelopes tumbled down and fanned out across the rug. Sympathy cards. Notes of condolence. Obligatory well

wishes. Delivered in soothing, pastel hues—woeful white, grieving green, pitiful pink, I'm-sorry ivory.

She scoffed. Politeness dictated that people send a card, just as politeness dictated that a handful of them come to the

funeral home and murmur nice things. But not one of her co-country clubbers was a confidante with whom she could unburden

herself of the weight that her husband had not kept himself solely unto her so long as they both had lived. They could never

know, the vultures, else they would peck her to death. News of the bastard child would act as a rallying cry among the

gossipers, and rumors of a murder would send them into a feeding frenzy.

She walked on top of the envelopes, grinding the heels of her pumps for spite. As she walked toward the kitchen, she

heard the hum of a vacuum cleaner from the dining room—at least Rachel hadn't been ignoring her. In fact, she conceded with a

sigh, her housekeeper had fielded phone calls and otherwise covered for her beautifully the past few days. Even better, the

woman kept her distance, did her job, and rarely spoke unless spoken to.

As she passed through the mouth of the marbled foyer, the stench of live flowers filled her nostrils—cheap carnations and

that dreadful baby's breath florists seemed so fond of. Rachel had situated the arrangements on the sideboard and bench in the

entryway. Beatrix plucked the card from a particularly smelly bouquet.

Raymond will never be replaced in our hearts. Monty and Delia Piccoli.

Raymond had been the beau of the ball, the life of the party. She would spend weeks organizing auctions and golf

tournaments, and he would steal the credit in an hour of emceeing. More than once she'd stood in a dark corner and watched her

husband perform, accepting compliments on his wit and charm, wondering how welcome she'd be at the Northbend Country

Club without Raymond. She would soon find out, she supposed.

She flicked the card to the floor, then nudged the vase with her finger before she turned, immensely gratified by the domino

effect of crashing glass sounding as she walked away. All of them should have saved the lousy hundred bucks they'd spent and

contributed to her father's clinic, as she'd requested, in lieu of flowers.

The ostentatious marble flooring gave way to satiny dark wood in the hallway and in the butler's pantry that flanked the

ornate dining room. Lined with mahogany cabinets, the dark pantry held bittersweet memories. As a child, she had sneaked into

the lower cabinets during her parents' dinner parties to eavesdrop. She'd loved hearing the delicious bits of scandal and the

bawdy jokes, most of which she hadn't understood. The fun had ended one night, however, when through the one-inch opening

from her hiding place, she spied her father giving Mrs. Crenshaw a rather tonguey kiss while clutching one of her mammoth

breasts. Inside the cabinet, she'd accidentally knocked over a box of candles. Thankfully the noise was enough to break up the