Our Husband (a humorous romantic mystery) (39 page)

pencil, she came up with a short list: owner of an exclusive clothing boutique, personal assistant to the governor, or chef in a

four-star restaurant.

She smiled. A chef... it was meant to be. For years she'd been gathering cookware and appliances, unwittingly leading up

to the day when she would need them. Driven by her sudden enthusiasm, she abandoned her gin and headed to the kitchen to

unpack some of her goodies. Two hours later, she was surrounded by grills, steamers, skillets, roasters, toasters, basters,

broilers, cookers, pots, and pans. At first she tried to keep up with the instruction booklets, but after a while, they all ran

together so she figured she'd just learn by trial and error.

Her first mistake, however, was microwaving a cup of coffee so hot that it burned her tongue when she tasted it, burned

her hand when she jerked it away, then burned her foot when she dropped it. She tossed a roll of paper towels on the floor to

soak up the worst of the mess, then limped upstairs to run a bath.

In lieu of Fiske's call, tonight's gala was more than a venue to show everyone she was alive and thriving. She would make

discreet job inquiries of longtime acquaintances, make up something about her trust fund being frozen or whatnot. In fact, one of

the owners of the famous Fenneck's restaurant had worked with her on a fundraiser last year. And hadn't Sasha Cummings'

father just opened a French restaurant?

Warming up to the idea of actually working, she bathed and dressed with care, glad she'd had her hair and nails done

yesterday, before Fiske's call. The black and red Denali gown had been a coup on her last shopping trip to Atlanta. It would be

the talk of the ladies' lounge, she was sure.

The worst moment of her lengthy preparation was the realization that she would have to drive herself. Gaylord and Fiske

both had plans, and there was no money for a limo. Her arrival would be compromised, but on the other hand, she might garner

even more attention and sympathy for not making a spectacle.

Yes, she decided. Driving herself in the Mercedes would be... demure.

So, duly preened and polished, she pinned on her own corsage, then tucked her skirt inside the car and drove herself to the

Northbend Country Club.

Situated strategically on a rolling hill, the lights of the clubhouse welcomed members and teased outsiders for miles. A

line of limos and luxury cars crawled up the winding driveway that rivaled Lombard Street in San Francisco.

At the bottom of the hill, Beatrix was waved down by the guardhouse attendant, smartly outfitted for the formal occasion.

"Evening, ma'am. I'm collecting invitations."

She laughed merrily. "I forgot mine, but my name is Beatrix Richardson Carmichael. If you'll check the program, you'll see

I'm presenting an award named for my father, Dr. Neil Richardson."

The young man dutifully checked the program. "I'm sorry, ma'am, but the program says Mrs. Robert Crenshaw is giving out

the award."

Big-breasted Mrs. Crenshaw—the woman she watched grapple with her father years ago from her hiding place in the

silver cabinet. How despicable.

She conjured up a sweet smile. "That's because I wasn't going to be here due to a death in the family, but I changed my

mind."

The youth scratched his head. "I don't know, ma' am."

Beatrix narrowed her eyes. "If you don't get out of the way, I'll put a tire motif on those rental shoes, got it?"

He jumped back and she rolled through the gate, fuming. How dare they not send her an invitation! But when she pulled up

to the valet, she alighted elegantly, holding her head high and bestowing gracious smiles all around. Couples stacked up outside

the door, waiting their turn to be announced. She was prepared for stares and whispers, and she got them.

"Can't believe she's here, with all the trouble she's in.

"Husband barely cold in the ground."

"She put him there, you know."

Delia Piccoli and her husband stepped down to meet her, but instead of a greeting, their expressions were cold.

"Hello, Delia, Monty."

"Beatrix," Delia whispered, "you shouldn't be here."

"But I'm feeling fine. And I wouldn't miss presenting the service award named after my own father."

"No, I mean you shouldn't
be
here." the woman said with harshly outlined lips. "Your membership was suspended."

"Oh, and I suppose you had nothing to do with that." Beatrix drew her red silk wrap tighter around her shoulders and

stared at Delia. "Step. Aside."

Murmurs zipped through the crowd standing behind Delia, all of them having been guests in her home at one time or

another. Monty walked toward a security guard with purpose in his stride.

"Don't make a scene," Delia said quietly.

"Don't make a scene?" Beatrix shouted, gesturing to the crowd. "You hypocrites, hiding behind your drug habits and your

wife-swapping. You would pass judgment on
me
before I'm even convicted?"

Delia pulled back and touched her diamond necklace with her black-gloved hand. "God, you were always so crude."

"And according to Eve's husband, Delia, you were always so
limber
."

Shocked gasps filled the entryway.

Eve Lombardi stepped up with a swish of black skirts. "Go home, Beatrix. You're not wanted here. Go home to your

empty house."

Beatrix's head jerked back as if she'd been slapped. The notion that these people, any of them, had ever been her friends

was laughable. Of course, she couldn't fault them totally—she'd not given as good as she'd not gotten. She stared at them, turned

out in designer finery for a good cause to cover their black hearts.

Monty Piccoli returned with a security guard who said, "Mrs. Carmichael, I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to come

with me."

Still gaping at the crowd, Beatrix threw off his hand, then stumbled backward to escape the ugly truth. She wasn't as bad as

they were. She was worse.

She couldn't get away fast enough, screeching tires and driving like a madwoman down the zigzag driveway. Her mind

screamed with all the mistakes she'd made in her life, all the people she'd slighted, all the good deeds she'd turned her back on.

When she was gone, would a single person say she had made a difference in their life? Tears of disappointment in herself

streamed down her cheeks. She headed for the country, hoping a peaceful night drive would restore her sanity before she had to

return home.

Go home to your empty house.

She rolled down the windows and pulled the skirt of her obscenely expensive gown to her knees, then lit a cigarette. She

found an oldies station on the radio, and leaned her head back, her eyes open just enough to see the road. When had she made

such a mess out of her life? When she'd cast her eyes in the direction of Raymond Carmichael? When she'd caved to her

parents' request to move back home? When she'd drawn her first breath?

No, it would be too easy to blame her catastrophic existence on Raymond. In truth, she probably would have been just as

miserable being married to any number of men. What she got was exactly what she deserved for relying on people around her

to make her happy.

She wanted another chance. The priest in Paducah had absolved her for plotting to kill Raymond, and Gaylord remained

optimistic that she would be acquitted. The D.A. had offered her a plea bargain, but she refused to spend one day in jail if there

was a chance she would be exonerated.

A sour odor wafted up to wrinkle her nose. Gawd. Was it coming from under her seat? She held the steering wheel with

her smoking hand while she bent and searched with the other hand. Her fingers met a moist, soggy ball of something. "Ugh."

She yanked it out, the stared at the rotted yellow apple, stem and leaf still intact, but shriveled and oozing. Cursing, she tossed

the mess out the window, then rummaged in the console for something to wipe her hand. When she came up empty, she

shrugged and wiped the sticky decay on her gown. What the hell.

A car zoomed up behind her and turned on its bright lights. She winced, then slowed down to let it pass. It didn't. Beatrix

sped up, and so did the car. Her first instinct was irritation, but then she realized the rotten apple had probably bounced onto

the car's windshield. The driver probably thought she'd done it on purpose.

She slowed, knowing the driver would eventually tire and go around her. Sure enough, after a mile or so of tailing her with

the brights on, the car made a move to pass her. When the car pulled abreast of hers, she decided to offer a wave of apology,

else she might never have seen the gun.

Funny how the brain can register so many details in a split second. The flash of gunfire, the black mask of the shooter, the

color and make of a car: red Ford Taurus, probably a rental.

Chapter 37

Ruby squinted, concentrating hard on keeping the bright red fingernail polish off the cuticle of the big square hand she was

working on. Finished at last, she exhaled.

Laverne pulled back her hand, studied her nails, then smiled. "You're hired."

"Really?"

"Really, doll."

"Oh, thank you!" She hugged the Amazon woman, then tilted her head, taking in the big-boned features, the heavy makeup,

the elaborate hair. "Are you a man?"

Laverne laughed heartily. "Not for much longer, if I can help it. I'm scheduled to have all the plumbing rearranged this fall,

but I'm still going through debriefing."

"Debriefing?"

"You can't just up and decide you want to change your sex and then go do it—you move toward transsexuality one step at a

time. The clothes and the hair were easy. Then came the hormones,
ay-ay-ay
. Then I had to change my name legally to a

feminine form. Like it? And now I'm in the last stage—living and working as a woman."

"Wow. I don't think I'd go to all that trouble just to be a woman."

Laverne gave her a once-over. "Looks like it comes pretty easy for you, doll."

"I'm pregnant."

Her new boss smiled. "Congratulations."

"Do you think the fumes of the polish and the remover will hurt the baby?"

"No problem." Laverne snapped her fingers. "We'll get you a surgical mask to wear. You'll be working the tanning booth,

too, but it'll be in the next room. Your résumé says you have experience running one?"

"Yeah, I had one in my guest room for a while, but it got repossessed the other day."

"When can you start?"

"Right now. I really need the money."

"Wish I could offer you permanent work, but I just need a fill-in until Janeece gets back from her honeymoon."

"That's fine."

Laverne looked at her hard. "You look so familiar."

"I've been in the news some lately."

"Ruby Hicks," she murmured, shaking her head.

"Not as Ruby Hicks, as Ruby Carmichael. My husband died and I found out he was married to two other women."

"Oh, honey, that's
you
?"

She nodded.

"What's going on with that now—weren't you all arrested or something?"

"Yeah. First, I'm supposed to tell you that I killed a man when I was sixteen, and I'm on probation."

"Did he deserve it?"

"Did he ever."

Laverne shrugged. "Works for me."

"They dropped the conspiracy charges against me and the second wife for killing our husband, but I still might have to

testify against the first wife when the trial starts."

"You don't look too happy about it."

"I'm not. Beatrix is... okay. My Shih Tzu likes her."

"But the woman killed the father of your baby—he is the father, yes?"

She nodded. "I can't explain it. It's like me and her are attached somehow, and I don't want to see anything bad happen to

Beatrix."

"You're a real sweet person, Ruby. What happened to the second wife?"

"Natalie? She called me yesterday to make sure I kept my doctor's appointment. She's a doctor, too, and said she was

thinking about moving to Florida to start her life over. I hope not, because then I'd never see her."

"Sounds like the three of you turned out to be friends."

Ruby bit into her lip. "Not at first, but I guess we sort of grew on each other."

"You all should go on
Oprah
or something."

She sighed, thinking about Beatrix. "Except we don't know how it's all going to turn out yet."