Our Husband (a humorous romantic mystery) (22 page)

home. Desperate to prove something to herself, no matter how minute, she'd chosen a few newer, less personal items to

discard. "Toss whatever your family can't use, Rachel."

"Th-thank you. Remember I won't be coming tomorrow, ma'am."

Beatrix frowned. "Remind me."

"My granddaughter Danielle is being christened."

"Oh." She and Rachel were the same age—fifty-two. "A family affair?"

"Yes, ma'am." Rachel's smile faded slightly. "You're welcome to come, too, Mrs. Carmichael. We're having the reception

at the church, nothing fancy, just white cake and ice cream punch."

She vaguely remembered receiving the invitation. Remorse leaked through her buzz. She rose slowly to maintain her

balance, then crossed the room and stopped in front of her devoted housekeeper. Beatrix smiled to hide her jealousy—after all,

the woman deserved the love of a warm, extended family. She lifted her gold cross pendant from around her neck, kissed it,

then pressed it into Rachel's hand. "My gift to your granddaughter."

Rachel's eyes widened at the sight of the elegant chain and the exquisitely carved cross. "No, Mrs. Carmichael, it's too

much."

"Nonsense. It shall be Danielle's first fine piece of jewelry. I want her to have it."

Rachel's eyes were moist. "You are too kind, Mrs. Carmichael."

She cleared her throat lest the moment become too intense. "Have a wonderful day with your new granddaughter."

"Bless you, ma'am. Have a nice weekend."

"I will."

But her smile slipped as soon as the heavy door closed behind Rachel. Saturday night, and everyone had somewhere to be

and something to do and someone who cared about them... well, almost everyone.

Behind her, Julie's voice came from the television. "Hey, Beatrix from Tennessee, if you're still watching, that beautiful

blender I promised you is coming up right after our break."

She tilted her head and smiled. There was always Julie.

On her way to and from the pantry to fetch more gin, she flipped on all the lights the conscientious Rachel had

extinguished. From the street she knew the house probably looked like a luminaria, but she didn't care. She hated sleeping in

the big house alone, and with Raymond gone for good, the rooms seemed exponentially more depressing. She grabbed her glass

and carried the liquor and the tonic water with her to the master bedroom suite on the second floor, illuminating her trail as she

went.

In the jewel-toned bedroom, she set the glass and bottles on the nightstand, kicked off her Vaneely pumps, and crawled

onto the king-sized teakwood bed. After pounding the stiff decorator pillows into submission, she leaned back against the

headboard and used one remote control to retrieve her friend Julie on the forty-inch flat-screen television, another to close the

vertical blinds that led to the verandah, and another to adjust the ceiling fan to medium speed. She and Raymond would never

again argue about the temperature in the room. Or about his snoring. Or about his bizarre nightmares that had kept both of them

awake.

At least now she knew the root of his nightmares—the man had been preoccupied.

She made herself a fresh G&T, going heavy on the G and light on the T.

Now
she
was having the nightmares, and as usual, Raymond wasn't around when she needed him. Of course she knew the

root of her own nightmares: Natalie.

The woman couldn't have killed Raymond. Beatrix had lied when she told the police that Natalie had been alone with

Raymond in the ICU—she'd given Natalie's name to the nurse instead of her own when she'd gone into the ICU by herself.

Perhaps Natalie had had the ability to kill him, perhaps she'd even wanted to kill him, but she hadn't had the opportunity.

Besides, the woman didn't have it in her, she was certain. And if she didn't have it in her to kill a man who so richly deserved

their wrath, she'd never survive incarceration, maybe not even the trial. Not unless the woman was a hell of a lot stronger than

she let on.

Beatrix held a mouthful of the drink until her tongue tingled, then swallowed slowly.

Still, she had to admit that some not-small part of her felt a wicked sense of vindication that the woman who had stolen

Raymond's affection, who had so swept him off his feet that she'd driven him to commit bigamy, would be arrested for his

murder. Symbolic, really, since Natalie had killed what she and Raymond might have had together.

It wasn't her own fault that her parents had been ill, that the pressure of dealing with them and their obligations she'd

assumed at the club had left her feeling jealous of Raymond's time, that she and he had spent most of the last decade arguing the

few waking hours he'd been home.

She smoothed a hand over his side of the bed. Regardless of the emotional chasm between them, their passion for each

other had remained strong until the end. Her mother had once told her at an uncharacteristically uninhibited moment (she'd been

soused) that her best chance of keeping Raymond from straying was to keep him sexually sated at home.

And so she had. She'd donned dark glasses to purchase a couple of naughty how-to books, and initiated marathon

lovemaking sessions. When exercise and strict diet was no longer enough to maintain her youthful figure, she'd flown to

Brentwood to go under the talented scalpel of a doctor who serviced the country music celebrity crowd. When the threat of her

parents interrupting them or hearing them was removed, she'd bought outrageously sexy lingerie and costumes to entice him. A

few times, she'd dared to remove her clothing to music. Now she burned with shame at her pathetic attempts to keep a rein on

his cock.

How could she possibly compete with Natalie's natural beauty, or Ruby's spectacular body? She was fifty-two, dammit,

and married to him for twenty-one years—she shouldn't have
had
to compete with other women for his attention when he was

alive. And she shouldn't have to endure this kind of scandal upon his death.

"Bea,
tell
us the rumors aren't true," Delia Piccoli had gasped in the foyer the day she and Eve Lombardi had stopped by.

"Was Raymond
married
to
two
other
women
?"

"It appears so," she'd said, at the time still too stunned by the revelation that her husband was also a thief to put up a fight

against Northbend Country Club's dastardly duo.

"How perfectly horrific!" Eve had said, her eyes shining with delight.

They'd murmured a few more shocked and thinly veiled sympathies before Beatrix had grabbed them by the elbows,

shepherded them out the door, and slammed it behind them. She was quite sure she was the topic of discussion at this very hour

in the little room where the board of directors congregated as necessary to determine if a particular member's conduct or

reputation had become a detriment to the club as a whole. She wondered if they would send up a smoke signal once her fate

had been decided.

As for Natalie... well, hell, the woman probably had a cushy support system around her—loving parents, siblings, friends,

and neighbors who were probably holding bake sales and raffling off quilts to raise money for her defense. Natalie didn't need

her help, and
she
didn't need the trouble. Besides, if she were seen fraternizing with the woman, people would talk. More.

The phone next to the bed trilled, spooking her. She reached for the cord to rip it from the back of the phone, then froze

when she glanced at the caller I.D. screen.

RAYMOND CARMICHAEL.

Her heart vaulted to her throat. Impossible. Before reason could steal the moment, she yanked up the receiver. "Raymond?

My God, is that you?"

First silence, then a female voice asked, "Beatrix?"

The disappointment was so fierce, she could only choke back a sob.

"Beatrix, it's Natalie Car—it's Natalie."

The explanation hit her like a thunderbolt. Natalie's phone was in Raymond's name, of course. Feeling foolish, she tried to

recover. "What do you want?" The words came out more violently than she'd intended, although she wasn't so sure a husband-

share protocol existed for her to violate.

"I had a visit today from a local pawnshop owner whom Raymond owes—owed—a great deal of money." Her voice

sounded diluted with fatigue.

Beatrix frowned. "If you're looking for money, forget it." According to her accountant, she had none.

"I'm not looking for money." Her tone grew stronger, more strident. "The man showed me a list of items that Raymond sold

him over the past year. He thought Raymond might have taken them from our—from my home without my knowledge. I didn't

recognize any of the items, but if you're interested, I'll send it to you."

Was Natalie trying to get on her good side in preparation for the trial? "You think that Raymond could have stolen things

from this house and I wouldn't have noticed?"

"He had two other wives and you didn't notice."

So much for the "good side" theory. She smirked. "Tell me, dear, are you calling from jail?"

"Sorry to have bothered you."

"Wait!" Beatrix bit down on the inside of her cheek, the chance to know the truth about her belongings, the chance to

retrieve the Umbro bronze sculpture too irresistible. "I'd like to see the list just to know... just to know."

"Where can I send it?"

"I'll have to look up the fax number in his office." She stood, swayed, then carried the portable phone toward Raymond's

study. They exchanged impatient sighs during the silence. "What happens next?" she finally asked Natalie.

"The trial—I... shouldn't discuss it."

Fair enough. Beatrix opened the door to his home office and turned on a floor lamp. The tastefully decorated room was the

picture of luxury and efficiency. After he died, she'd ventured past the locked drawers in the wee hours of a desperate morning,

looking for more details of his double life. What she'd found was an absence of any documentation, work or otherwise. The

drawers were bare, the elaborate desktop filing system filled with empty manila folders, his Rolodex blank. Whatever he'd

been doing in this room, it hadn't been work.

She had frequented the room to use the fax machine when organizing events for the club, but she'd never pried. She'd never

felt the need. And this was the thanks she got for trusting Raymond—a phone call from his other wife wanting to fax over a list

of items he might have stolen and pawned. Good God.

"The fax number is 901-555-1302."

"Shall I send it now?"

"Now is fine."

"Then I'll send the list when I hang up. The telephone number for the pawnshop is on the letterhead."

"All right." Beatrix inhaled deeply. "Thank you."

"Good-bye."

"Natalie?"

"Yes?"

Would she be this calm if she were in Natalie's shoes? This noble, this generous? Hell no. "Nothing. Good-bye."

After disconnecting the call, she leaned on the desk by the fax machine until it rang and kicked on. The paper inched out of

the machine, revealing a letterhead for Butler Family Pawn in Smiley, Missouri. Smiley? Jesus Christ, it sounded like a village

of leprechauns.

If possible, her heart sank lower and lower as the list printed. The lamp, the silver pieces, the crystal, the bronze statue,

the gold coins... her vision blurred. She grabbed the list to her chest and stumbled back to her bedroom. When she bumped into

the bed, she threw herself down and screamed. She pounded the covers and kicked her feet and flailed about like a child. It

wasn't supposed to be this way. Everyone—her father, her mother, her husband, Natalie, and that other one—had taken a little

piece of her life and she was left with nothing. She clawed at the list, then lunged for Raymond's closet door.

The plaid robe hung there, benign and domestic and mocking. She yanked it from the hook and violently ripped it wherever

she could get a handhold. The worn fabric gave easily, issuing gratifying tearing sounds amidst her guttural noises that

escalated with each relenting seam. With a final cry, she flung the fabric to the floor, but seeing the robe destroyed and lying in

pieces was too graphic. She sank to the floor, sobbing, furious with Raymond for living, more furious with him for dying.

Dying before she was through with him.

She sat there for a long while, crying softly, listening to Julie on the television in the next room.

"Home Shoppers, if you
don't
have a set of our stainless steel gourmet cutlery, your cookware collection simply is
not

complete."

"I have it, Julie," she whispered. "The parer, the boner, the utility, the bread, the cleaver, and the shears."

She leaned her head back against the wall. Oh, damn it all to hell, Natalie was a nice person. The problem with nice

people was that you had to be nice back to them, dammit, no matter how annoying they were. The truth of the matter was,

Natalie wouldn't be in this position if her own plan had gone more smoothly.

"You know, Home Shoppers, the kitchen shears are the single
most
underrated piece of cutlery, and I don't know
why
. Try

them—I guarantee these shears will cut anything in your kitchen,
anything
, including metal, or return them for a full refund."