Our Husband (a humorous romantic mystery) (38 page)

chance at all."

She laughed, and it felt so good just knowing she
could
laugh. "I can't promise you anything," she whispered, leaning

forward.

"I'm not asking for promises—yet." He touched his lips to hers, then captured her in a hard, pent-up kiss and eased her

back into the soft, fragrant grass. He moved against her, slow, but resolute. He communicated his desire for her with his hands,

his mouth, the desperate noises in his throat. She responded in kind, wanting, needing whatever comfort and strength and

pleasure he had to offer. His body hardened against her, then they remembered where they were.

"Come on," he said, pulling her to her feet, then tugging her toward the van.

As giddy as a naughty teenager, she ran with him, her body singing for a thorough release. She was single. She was

aroused. And she was entitled.

He locked them in the back of the van. Amidst cardboard boxes and furniture, Brian dropped to the carpet and pulled

Natalie on top of him. They kissed and rolled around with abandon, bumping knees and elbows, shedding clothes haphazardly.

His physique was a magnificent master plan of rugged muscle and tanned skin, powerful enough to render her weak-kneed,

adept enough to make her cry out. He strummed her pliant body to a fever pitch, then lifted her to straddle him. He ran his hands

over her slight curves with reverence and authority, murmuring words of appreciation and encouragement as she slowly

accommodated his sex.

When at last they were joined, he breathed her name with joy. She'd never felt so thoroughly desirable, and the knowledge

stripped away her inhibitions. With nothing at stake and nothing to prove, she allowed her starved instincts to take over.

Fantasies took wing—she wanted an experience to savor in the dark days ahead. They locked gazes as she rode him to mutual

completion, jarring and noisy and profound.

Depleted, she fell forward onto his chest, drawing the scent of their sex into her lungs. He stroked her hair and moaned as

their bodies recovered. She dared not move, lest she have to leave the immunity from the world that his arms provided. But

even as she reveled in the heat of his skin, the crushing weight of accountability descended on her bare back.

"My father was right," she muttered against his collarbone.

"Hmm?"

"Never trust a man with a van."

He laughed heartily, but her only consolation was that tomorrow she would be less stupid.

Chapter 35

"We checked out the three car rentals in Quincy," Natalie told Detective Aldrich and the rest of the group assembled, "but

none of them could or would give us any information." Still, she felt almost light-headed with relief over the revelation. The

police would rush off to find the mystery woman. The conspiracy charges would be dropped. Her life would return to normal.

Brian's face flashed in her mind, triggering a smile. Maybe better than normal.

But the detective tossed down his pencil and leaned forward. "That's because most people won't divulge confidential

customer information to anyone except
the police
!" He pushed himself up and paced the room. "I ought to have the three of you

arrested for meddling!"

"Now wait just a minute," Masterson said. "Maybe they went about it the wrong way, but you can't dismiss the information

these ladies uncovered. Perhaps you should explain how three women were able to track down information you and your men

weren't."

"Because," Aldrich said, leaning on the table, "they're lying."

She made fists under the table.

"We are not!" Ruby said, then elbowed her lawyer.

Billy Wayne jerked awake. "Yeah. We are not!"

"This from a woman who lied about killing another man?" Aldrich threw back. "You're already facing a murder charge,

missy. You'd better think twice before bringing more trouble on yourself."

Natalie strove for a calm voice. "Detective, you can check out our story. You'll see we were together in Quincy over the

weekend."

"And all that proves," he said, "is that the three of you were together long enough to cook up a good story. Don't you see

how you're damaging your own case?"

"We brought this information to you in good faith," she said through gritted teeth. "We were trying to help."

He scoffed. "Trying to help yourselves by creating this phantom woman."

Frustration drove her to her feet. "What kind of man are you? Why are you so determined to ruin all of our lives? I swear

on everything I hold sacred that we did
not
conspire to kill our husband. If your office could get their act together enough to

schedule a polygraph, you'd know that."

Aldrich didn't even flinch, but at least she had managed to silence him.

District Attorney Keane cleared his throat. "Perhaps you'd better let them in on the new evidence."

"New evidence?" Gaylord asked.

Natalie tensed. What now?

Aldrich hooked his thumbs through his belt loops. "We finished analyzing Mr. Carmichael's car—the brake line had been

cut, which probably contributed to his accident.
And
we found Mr. Carmichael's toiletry kit. One item contained enough

ouabain to trigger those heart pains, a bottle of—" He consulted a sheet of paper. "Sterling For Men cologne."

She sucked in a sharp breath.

Beatrix, what kind of perfume are you wearing?

Sterling. It's a custom blend I've worn for years.

She looked at Beatrix, who sat rigid. A horrible suspicion washed over her. Betrayed again?

"I thought your M.E. said Mr. Carmichael was
injected
with the poison," Masterson said suspiciously.

"Secondarily. The M.E. theorizes that whoever put the ouabain in the cologne probably thought it would kill him."

"But a person can't absorb enough ouabain through their skin to kill them," Natalie murmured, still staring at Beatrix. The

woman swayed.

"Right," Aldrich said. "But it would've been enough to trigger the pains that he complained of after the accident. The

injection finished him off." He looked at them in turn. "Well, what do the three of you have to say for yourselves?"

Her mind raced, tossing out all the little tidbits she should have picked up on.

Beatrix had discovered the watch and convinced her it belonged to a mystery woman.

Beatrix had suggested the road trip and led them straight to Quincy.

Beatrix had deciphered clues from Raymond's schedule book, and supposedly talked to the flower shop owner.

Beatrix had sent her to ply Chub Younger, because she knew the man didn't know the rose lady.

Because
Beatrix
was the rose lady.

She stood, her throat convulsing, and nearly tripped over her chair. "You did it," she whispered. "You set us up as alibis

to support this ridiculous idea of another woman."

"That's not true," Beatrix said, but her voice was small.

"She wears Sterling cologne," Ruby blurted out, standing. "She told us while we were in Quincy."

"Mrs. Carmichael, did you buy the cologne for your husband? We've already contacted the boutique listed on the label for

their sales records, but you can save us some time."

"Yes," Beatrix said, her face pasty. "I bought the cologne for Raymond. But that doesn't mean I poisoned him. And I d-don't

know anything about a b-brake line."

Natalie's heart fell.

"Mrs. Carmichael," District Attorney Keane said, folding his hands. "We have a murder checklist in your handwriting,

listing several ways you could kill your husband, including tampering with his car and poisoning him."

"I was angry," she said. "But I could never kill my husband. My therapist told me to write down things to get them out of

my system."

Natalie ran her hand over her eyes. Not Beatrix.

"Mrs. Carmichael, we confiscated medical books from your home which listed uses and sources for ouabain."

"Th-those were my father's reference books."

Natalie choked on a lump in her throat.

"Tell me, Mrs. Carmichael—do you think we found your fingerprints on the cologne bottle?"

Beatrix fingered a strand of blond hair behind her ear. "I suspect so—I sometimes helped Raymond pack."

Say it isn't so, Beatrix.

"Mrs. Carmichael," Keane said gently. "Is there anything you'd like to tell us?"

Gaylord placed a restraining hand on her arm, but she waved him off and wiped her eyes. "You don't understand," she

said, her voice strained and squeaky with emotion. "I did
plan
to kill my husband. But someone else beat me to the punch."

Her words were miserably unconvincing, evident by the look on everyone's face. Natalie closed her eyes.
Not you,

Beatrix. Not you.

Chapter 36

"It's only temporary," Beatrix lied to Rachel. "As soon as this mess is cleared up, I'll bring you back full-time."

Rachel wiped a tear and bobbed an awkward curtsy. "Yes, ma'am."

She pressed an envelope into her faithful housekeeper's hand. "Good-bye, Rachel."

"Good-bye, Mrs. Carmichael. I will pray for you."

She certainly needed all the help she could get, earthly and otherwise. "Thank you."

Rachel was almost out the door when she turned back. "I almost forgot to tell you, Mrs. Carmichael—your corsage for the

club gala is in the door of the refrigerator, and your dress is on the back of the sitting room door. Have a wonderful time."

She swallowed. "I will."

When the big door closed, the hollow sound reverberated through the two-story entryway. She wasn't sure how long she

stood listening for... something, anything. Any noise to prove that she wasn't completely alone in this monstrosity of a house,

that if she fell and broke her neck right now, she wouldn't lie there until the mailman noticed an odor.

When the phone rang, she practically sprinted to answer it, hoping it was Natalie, but knowing the chance that the woman

would talk to her again was slim to none. "Hello?"

"Beatrix, this is Jim Fiske."

Oh God, more financial problems? "Yes, Jim, what is it?"

"Same as before, except worse. Your debts are skyrocketing, and your cash is nil."

"I let my housekeeper go," she snapped. "What else to you expect me to do?"

"For starters, cut up your credit cards," he said sternly. "And you might consider, um..." He cleared his throat.

"Consider what, Jim? Spit it out."

"You might consider getting a job."

She dropped into the club chair next to the phone. "What?"

"A job. You know, something that brings in money on a regular basis."

"Jim, things couldn't be
that
bad."

"Beatrix, you're going to have to face the facts. Your trust fund is almost gone. Except for the house, most of your assets

are depleted, and your joint accounts are frozen. Meanwhile, there are Raymond's medical bills, his funeral bills. And Gaylord

can't work for free forever. You have eight weeks before the trial starts, so I'd suggest that you look for a job. Besides," he

added, his voice gentled, "if you stay busy, it'll help to keep your mind off things."

She'd never felt this disoriented without the benefit of alcohol. "But who would hire someone about to go on trial for

murder?"

"Use your contacts at the club, call in a few favors."

"But it's been a long time since I worked. I mean, I don't know how to do anything." God, she sounded pathetic.

"Everyone can do something, Bea. Think about it."

So she spent the afternoon sipping gin and thinking about what she'd like to be when she grew up. Armed with pen and