Our Husband (a humorous romantic mystery) (28 page)

Chapter 26

"Which do you prefer?" Tony read a morning newspaper at the kitchen table. " 'Femme Fatales,' 'Vengeful Vixens,' or

'Homicidal Housewives'?"

Natalie winced into her yogurt. "Is that the best they could come up with?"

"Personally, I give Mrs. Ratchet ten points for her headline 'Surplus Spouses.'"

"Has she called this morning?"

"Oh, yeah. Left a message. She still wants to tell your side of the story."

She licked her spoon slowly. "No one wants to hear my side of the story—the truth is much too anticlimactic."

He folded the paper across his empty plate. "So now that you've had a few days to think about it, which of them do you

think did it?"

The sixty-four-thousand-dollar question—literally. When Tony last checked, a bookie in St. Louis reported the odds were

running 4-1, 3-1, and 3-1 on the guilt of Beatrix, herself, and Ruby, respectively, and even money that they would all be

convicted. She idly wondered if Raymond were alive, which bet he'd put her money on.

"I go back and forth," she said. "It's hard to think that either one of them is capable of killing Raymond."

"Well, according to what you said, Ruby is definitely capable of killing."

"That's different." Despite the charges, she felt sorry for the young woman whose childhood must have been wretched. "Of

the three of us, I suppose Beatrix would feel the most betrayed, and the most vengeful."

Tony narrowed his eyes. "Aren't you afraid that Ruby or Beatrix will make up something about you to save their own

skin?"

Terrified. "I can't worry about that."

"Are you still supposed to take the polygraph tomorrow?"

She nodded.

"Have the other women taken one?"

"I don't know. Keane wants to observe the test, so I'm hoping Masterson and I will get an update."

"Butler had to fax copies of the loan papers Raymond signed to the D.A.'s office."

Natalie scraped the fruit-on-the-bottom from the crevices of the yogurt cup. "I'm sure they had to twist his arm." She was

aggravated at the man for invading her dreams. Dreams that, by all rights, should be dark and anguished instead of... arousing

and anguished.

"As a matter of fact, they did threaten to send a state trooper to 'help' him before he finally gave in."

"Now he knows how it feels to be intimidated."

"He asks about you every day."

"Gee, business must be slow."

"Nope. Business is great."

"It's a good thing—he has two kids to provide for."

"I know." Tony grinned. "Jeanie and Ally spent the afternoon at the store yesterday. They're regular little dolls."

Natalie frowned. "Why weren't they in school?"

He shrugged. "Teacher in-service day or something."

"A pawnshop hardly seems like a safe place for little girls."

"Butler keeps all the dangerous goods locked up. The kids love it there. Entertained themselves for hours."

"So he ignored them?"

"No." Tony scratched his head. "Why are you determined to dislike this guy?"

"You're mistaken—I don't care enough to dislike him." She turned to put away the carton of orange juice.

"Since when do you keep the orange juice in the freezer?" Tony asked.

Dismayed by her distraction, she jammed her hands on her hips. "Maybe I'll have a frozen juice shake later, okay?"

"Okay."

"Aren't you going to be late?"

He hesitated, then checked his watch and grabbed his coffee mug. "You're sure it's okay that I take the Cherokee?"

She nodded. "I'm just going to straighten up around here today." The police had left things in such disarray.

"How about I bring you home a salad for lunch?"

"That would be nice."

"Okay, later. Be sure to lock the door behind me."

"Bye."

As promised, she locked the door, thankful that in the swirl of this staggering scandal, she and Tony had reclaimed some of

the camaraderie they'd enjoyed when they were eight and ten. After pouring herself a half-cup of coffee, she cleared the

breakfast clutter and climbed the stairs, her feet and legs moving automatically. She'd decided that the danger of shutting down,

especially while she was alone, was rooted in thinking. If she took the time to ponder her circumstances, she would come up

with too many reasons to wallow. Or cry. Or sleep. Or succumb.

For now she would concentrate on things she could control, like taking a shower. At least the bruises she'd sustained from

falling off the loveseat had faded, she noted when she shed her clothing. She turned on the shower and while the hot water

traveled at a snail's pace from the basement water heater, she gave her body a critical once-over.

Always thin, she had a few more bones protruding than even she was used to. She should start drinking whole milk again,

and real cola. Exercise, not to mention fresh air, might improve the color of her skin. Perhaps she should skip the housework

today in favor of working in the garden, reporters be damned. A chill brought her modest breasts to a point, triggering

unwanted comparisons that she squashed in favor of stepping beneath the warm water.

They'd always taken showers together, she and Raymond. In Jamaica they had stumbled upon a private waterfall within

walking distance of their resort and slipped out every night to make it their own. Water had been his favorite venue for

lovemaking, both of them slick with suds and body oils. Just the scent of musky soap resurrected memories that made her ache

for him. Splendidly handsome with water streaming from his toned body and his lion's mane of salt-and-pepper hair. He would

massage shampoo into her hair, rub her neck and shoulders, wrap her legs around his waist and rock her until...

A sluice of icy spray jarred her back to reality. A reminder from the temperamental hot water heater that Raymond's

lovemaking, and his love, had been a twisted joke. What to her had been the essence of life, to him had been part of an intricate

game he'd played to amuse himself. Shivering violently, she escaped the glass stall and rubbed her skin with a rough towel

until she felt halfway warm.

Driven to cover up the body that couldn't satisfy her husband, she dressed quickly in a long-sleeve T-shirt and faded jeans.

Then she gave her overgrown hair a hasty blast with a weak blow-dryer and pulled it back into a ponytail. A glance in the

mirror confirmed that she looked almost as plain as she felt.

Yes, Brian Butler, with all his promising smiles and playful words, was simply toying with her. He'd already admitted that

he felt guilty for his role in her dilemma. And she conceded that he probably felt sorry for her. But, she thought as she laced up

her work boots, she wasn't about to let Butler convince her that he acted out of anything close to affection.
Burn me once,

shame on you; burn me twice, shame on me
.

At the sight of her desolate garden, she entertained second thoughts about spending her day outdoors. But on the heels of

her hesitancy came the thought that she was tired of being powerless in every facet of her life. The investigation into

Raymond's murder had taken on a life of its own and while the media's tendency to inflate every detail gave the appearance of

momentum, in truth the police had exerted little effort into looking into Raymond's business dealings and associations outside

of his marriages. Her status as a suspect ensured the swift dismissal of her suggestions by investigators. Masterson urged her to

be patient with the grinding wheels of justice, but this was her life.

Or rather, the remnants of her life.

So, today she couldn't control the media, she couldn't control the investigation, and she couldn't control the weather, but

she
could
control the state of her garden. From the hall closet she retrieved the old wooden toolbox that held trowels and

gloves and stakes. On the way out the door, the phone rang, but she ignored it. Natalie grabbed her hat—the day promised to be

sunny and clear—just as if everything were right with the world. And she could pretend.

With the first breath of moss-fragrant air, she knew she'd made the right decision to pass the day in the neglected garden.

Perhaps Rose Marie would be close by, imparting silent words of wisdom. From the old cabinet her aunt had turned into a

miniature tool shed, she withdrew a rake, shovel, pick, and several other tools of what purpose she wasn't entirely certain, and

picked up where Butler had left off.

The man really had made quite a bit of progress, she conceded. A new concrete sidewalk leading from the wrought-iron

gate, which no longer hung crooked. The stepping stones had been leveled, and mounds of black, pungent compost lay at the

roots of surviving plants. She tackled the Dropmore Scarlet honeysuckle first because its burgeoning blooms were in danger of

being choked out by last year's growth. One project led to another, and she found the act of pruning and trimming therapeutic.

After whacking a particularly stubborn outgrowth from a lavender shrub rose, she stopped to wipe her brow.

"Yoo-hoo!"

Natalie cringed at the sound of Mrs. Ratchet's voice.

"Yoo-hoo, Dr. Carmichael!"

There was little use in ignoring the woman, and if she grew louder, she might tip off any reporters lingering at the front of

the house. "Hello, Mrs. Ratchet." But she kept working in a flimsy attempt to dissuade further conversation.

"I just made a pot of tea, dear. Why don't I bring it over?"

Sneaky old bird. "No, thank you. It's such a pretty day, I want to get as much done here as I can."

"But it's almost lunchtime, dear. You'll have to stop for a bite to eat. I'll make sandwiches."

She hadn't realized so much time had slipped away. "Thanks anyway. My brother is bringing me a salad. Now if you don't

mind—"

"One of my articles about your case was picked up by the Associated Press."

She sighed.

"They said it was 'folksy and fair.' And that's how I would treat an exclusive interview with you, my dear—fair. Fair, fair,

fair."

Frustration tightened her chest. "Mrs. Ratchet, my lawyer advised me not to speak to the press."

"But I'm your
neighbor
, a family friend."

She amputated an offending rose branch with pent-up energy. "Good
day
, Mrs. Ratchet."

From the twist of the woman's beak, Natalie had just made another enemy. Probably a mistake, since her neighbor could

very well invite the cameras onto her property for the best view of Natalie's comings and goings.

The telltale sound of the Cherokee pulling under the carport was a welcome distraction. She was thirsty, and immensely

satisfied that she'd managed to while away the morning with few thoughts of the ugly predicament she had been thrust into. She

gave Mrs. Ratchet a conciliatory wave as she pulled off her gloves and headed to the back door.

Tony was knocking on the side door as she entered the kitchen. She stepped out of her boots and left them on a mat, then

unlocked the door. "Am I glad to see you," she said, then stopped.

Brian Butler smiled. "Likewise."

She looked past him to the parked Cherokee. "Where is Tony?"

"He took my van for a pickup in Riley. When he said he promised you lunch, I offered to fill in." He held up a white paper

bag transparent with grease.

"That doesn't look like a salad."

"That's because it's a hot dog."

"A turkey hot dog?" she asked hopefully.

"Chili and cheese."

She wrinkled her nose.

His eyes danced. "You really should try something coarse once in a while. You might be surprised."

Natalie plucked the bag from his hand. "Thank you. Good-bye."

"Oh, didn't I tell you? My lunch is in there, too. I was hoping we could eat together."

"Why?"

"Because when that hot dog gives me indigestion, I'll have a doctor nearby."

She contemplated the unnerving meddler. His earthiness reminded her of the baseness of men, but his proportions gave her

an odd sense of protection. Her fingers tingled. Good or bad, the man made her feel seriously female.

And that, at least, was no crime.

He flashed a tempting smile. "What do you say, Doc?"

She managed not to frown. "Wipe your feet before you come in."

He did. "I see you've been working in the garden."

"I'm making headway." She set the bag on the table then walked to the sink to wash her hands, glad to have her back to him

when she added, "Thanks to your contribution."

His footsteps vibrated across the wood floor and traveled through her sock feet as he came up to stand beside her. "That

wasn't so difficult, was it?"

She turned to find his eyes dancing and pumped more soap into her hands. "What do you mean?"

"Acknowledging that it's nice to have a little help once in a while."

She narrowed her eyes. "I told you—"

"I know—you don't need my help. Or anyone's. But you don't have to be a martyr, Natalie."

A retort sat ready on her tongue—until he said her name. Deliberate. Gentle. Possessive. She squeezed her sudsy hands

together so hard, her wedding ring popped off to ricochet around the porcelain sink, heading in slow motion for the gaping

drain. Natalie's heart lodged in her throat. They both lunged forward, and after an eternity, Butler came up with it in the palm of

his large hand.