The Wedding Caper (18 page)

Chapter Eighteen

You hear about
those wives who dig through their husband’s pockets in search of evidence of
wrong-doing
? Well, I’m not one of them. Never have been. The
only thing of value I ever pulled from Warren’s pockets was a stick of gum he’d
left there weeks before. That’s why, when I first saw the little folded note in
his slacks pocket while doing the laundry that same Saturday afternoon, no
alarm bells went off.
Probably just a
don’t-forget-to-pick-up-the-dry-cleaning reminder to himself.

Wrong.

For
whatever reason, I felt compelled to open the silly thing before throwing it
out. Just in case it turned out to be something important, you understand. The
words inside, written on bank stationary, completely floored me.

We pulled
it off without a hitch.
Easy money, my friend.

The tiny
piece of paper slipped out of my hand and floated down to the floor. Pulled it
off? Easy money? And what’s up with this “we” business?

A host of
ideas raced through my imagination. Did Warren and Nikki work together to steal
the money,
then
split the proceeds? Nah. How could she
have paid for the car? Maybe Warren and Richard plotted this whole ugly thing.
Maybe they… Nah. Nothing made any sense, especially the part where Warren
played a role in the burglary—at all.

I picked
up the paper and stared at the handwriting in an attempt to analyze it.
Scribbles and scratches. A child could’ve written it, for all I knew. Didn’t
really look like Warren’s, but how could I be sure?

Ask him.

Just two
simple words, but they terrified me.

I mulled
them over as I worked on Brandi’s silk wedding bouquets. I dissected them as I
cleaned up the mess in the kitchen Devin and his friends had left behind the
night before. I pondered them as I started a second load of laundry.

And I
agonized over the awful truth as it stared me down. My husband, innocent as he
looked, could very well have pulled the wool over my eyes from the get-go.
Maybe that’s why he’d seemed so distant lately. Perhaps that was the real
reason he looked
so.
. .lost. Maybe he was wracked
with guilt, filled with remorse. 

I’d
promised the Lord I wouldn’t entertain these thoughts. And I really tried to
dismiss them and think of something positive, uplifting. But my brain simply
wouldn’t cooperate. I sent a plea for help heavenward.

A
familiar case of nerves kicked in. I let myself get completely wound up inside,
and my stomach turned to knots. Maybe I needed that Internet lesson on handling
stress more than I thought.

While
Warren clipped the hedges outside—safely out of sight—I slipped
into the computer chair and signed online, determined to read the lesson
through, even if it killed me.

It almost
did. On and on it went, about not letting the ups and downs of the
investigation steer you from
dead-center
. “Getting
pulled to the right and left will cause undue stresses,” it read. Well, no
kidding. But what else could I do? According to the lesson, keeping my eyes on
the goal would prove most valuable when it came to de-stressing. Hmm. Sounded
almost.
. .biblical.

I shut
down the Internet and paced the office. Sheila’s cryptic e-mail message flooded
my mind once again. In my distress I called to the Lord; I cried to my God for
help. From his temple he heard my voice; my cry came before him, into his ears.

What was
it she had said? Ah yes. The Lord already saw my situation and had an answer
for me. He could handle all of this, surely. I lit into a heartfelt prayer,
completely assured of the fact that God wasn’t stressing. And I would remain
focused.
More so than ever.
I would ask for the Lord’s
help every step of the way.

At that
point, I went out into the living room and began to vacuum. Mental note:
Vacuuming can be a stress reliever when agitated. After that, I dusted all of
the furniture. Goodness, I didn’t know the coffee table could shine like that,
even with the chewed-up leg. And cleaned all of the windows. Don’t want the
neighbors to think we’re slobs. And washed and waxed the car. Why not? Looks
like good weather, after all.

As I
moved from job to job that afternoon, I sorted through the mess in my mind,
concluding the obvious. Warren is a godly man. Period. There is a logical,
sensible explanation for the note. Ask him.

At this
point, a sense of peace fell over me. I drew in a deep, relaxed breath, and
knew the moment had arrived. I could face Warren and just ask him—point
blank—about the mysterious slip of paper. Surely he would offer up a
logical explanation.

I’d just
worked up the courage to enter his office for a friendly chat when I heard his
voice ring out.

“Annie!”

Something
about his tone worried me. He sounded
almost.
.
.angry?

I eased
my way down the hallway and into the door of his office. “What’s up?”

Warren
turned away from the computer with a dazed look on his face, one I didn’t
recall ever seeing before. “Annie, I went online to pay our credit card bill,
and—”

Oh no, oh
no, oh no.

“What in
the world is this?” He pointed to the screen.

Yep.
There it was, clear as day—my $150.00 charge to
www.investigativeskills.com.

“Oh, I,
um—”

I half
expected the man to pull a
Desi
Arnaz
and say, “Lucy, you’ve got some ‘
splaining
to do,”
but he didn’t. No, his silence spoke far more than words ever could.

I pressed
my body against the doorjamb, in case I had to make a clean getaway. Warren
stayed seated in the swivel chair, a puzzled expression on his face. He drummed
his fingertips on its arm, finally speaking, “Annie, is there something you’d
like to tell me?”

The
sudden rush of blood to my face made me feel a little faint, but there was no
time for drama now. I had to face the inevitable. I’d known this moment would
come all along, of course. I must tell my husband the awful truth—about
the investigation, about my personal suspicions, everything.

No time
like the present. With a prayer on my lips, I dove in,
head-first
.

You know,
a funny thing happens when you finally open up after a long period of silence.
A certain sense of relief floods your soul, and gives you the courage to say
the very things you’ve been terrified to say all along.
And
at great speed, to boot.

Warren
must have sense my need to get it all out, for he kept quiet. I poured out my
heart, gave away every tiny detail. I started with my suspicions of him, using
the note I’d found as my first piece of evidence. The look on Warren’s face
was, well, heartbreaking. At one point, I had to look away. Couldn’t stand the
pain in his eyes. Next, I moved on to Richard Blevins, stating my initial
concerns there, as well. Warren just shook his head in silence. I shifted to
Nikki Rogers, my voice intensifying as I told him about the latest bit of news
I’d garnered at the vet’s office. And, over the lump in my throat, I told him
the whole story about
Janetta
Mullins and her wayward
son, including my questions about the cash deposit.

Warren
heard it all in painful silence. I lost count of how many times I saw him shake
his head in disbelief. And I think I heard him mutter a couple of things under
his breath, though I didn’t ask him to repeat them.

“So
you’re saying—” he finally offered “—that this note you’ve found is
evidence linking me to the stolen money?”

“Well,
I—”

“And you
think I stole the money from the bank to pay for the weddings? Is that what
you’re saying?”

“I’m not
saying I believe that,” I argued. “I’m just saying the thought has crossed my
mind. And you have to see that your phone conversation with the travel agent a
couple of weeks back just added fuel to my fire.”

“Conversation
with the travel agent?” His face paled. “I don’t know what you mean.”

With
frustration mounting, I forged ahead. “Sure you do.
Couple of
weeks back, on a Saturday?
The day you told me about the bed and
breakfast surprise.”

“I–I—”

“See, I
overheard part of your telephone conversation from outside the office door and
drew my own conclusion,” I threw in, “but I was wrong. I misjudged what I heard
and turned it into something else. There was a logical explanation all along.”

He shook
his head once again. “I don’t have a clue what you’re talking about. I never
called the travel agent from the house. Never.”

“What?”
He had to be mistaken. I’d heard his words, plain as day. Can’t believe I got
away with it. Annie doesn’t suspect a thing.
If he wasn’t
talking to the travel agent, then who?
And about what?

I
suddenly felt a bit faint and excused myself to sit on the loveseat. Alone.
Warren continued to stare at me from his spot in front of the computer desk, as
if I’d just landed on planet Earth in a space ship and had antennae sticking
out of my head.

“Annie,
there are a thousand things I don’t understand about women,” he said, “and I
guess I’ll just have to chalk this whole thing up as one of them. How in the
world could you let your imagination run away with you like this? And if you
suspected someone we knew of stealing the money, why didn’t you come to me, ask
for my help?”

“I–I
don’t know.” And I truly didn’t. Fear, maybe?

At this
point, Warren got really specific, asking questions about the Internet courses
I’d signed up for. I told him, with a smile, actually, about all I’d learned. I
didn’t resort to bragging, but I did feel, at least to some extent, I’d gotten
my money’s worth.
Er
, his money’s worth.

Warren’s
brow wrinkled as I tied the pieces of the puzzle together—all of my odd
behaviors over the past few weeks. Joining the gym. Tying the dog to the
flagpole. Acting so discombobulated.
All of it.

Finally,
I ran dry. Couldn’t think of another thing to say. I wanted to distract him,
wanted to ask about the note I’d found in his pocket. Wanted to clarify the
issue of the phone conversation. Wanted, no needed, to know where he came up
with the $25,000 cash he’d pressed into my palms weeks earlier.

But
somehow I never made it that far. My bewildered husband stared at me in
absolute silence for a good sixty seconds,
then
did
something that completely stunned me. He turned back to the computer and,
without saying a word, paid the credit card bill.

Paid it.

That
simple. Never asked another question. Never offered up a response of any kind,
even to my would-be accusations against him. Never so much as breathed a word to
ease my mind. No, he apparently wanted to let me stew awhile. Wanted me to
wallow in the mess I’d made.

I so
desperately needed to turn this thing around, to find out the answers to the
questions that continued to plague me, even now. But Warren didn’t appear to be
in a talking mood, as was evidence by his unwillingness to carry the
conversation one step further.

And
so, with little else to do, I resorted to the unthinkable.
Went into the kitchen, opened the
freezer and pulled out a brand new, never opened half-gallon of Moo-
lenium
Crunch ice cream. I didn’t bother to grab a bowl. No
point. Just a spoon would do. I dove in
head-first
, my
thoughts rolling almost as fast as the spoon as it ping-ponged from the carton
to my lips.

Mental
note: Ice cream eaters are far more susceptible to brain freeze when they
consume large quantities at break-neck speed.

You know,
there are some things you just have to learn the hard way. I rubbed at my
temples, begging the pain to ease. After a minute or two, it started to let up.
I plopped down into a chair at the breakfast table, deep in thought.

I’m
pretty sure I set a new world record that day, consuming nearly half of the
carton in one sitting. Afterwards, I reached for my notebook and crossed the
room to my favorite easy chair. As I eased my way down, tummy now aching, Sasha
leapt up into my lap. I scooted over to make room for her. After pulling the
cap of the pen off with my teeth, I started writing. Or, rather, I tried to
start writing.

For once,
no words would come.

Nothing.

I stared
at the blank page, unable to think of one sensible thing to say. I had made a
mess of things, a complete and utter mess. I’d offended my husband, the very
last person on the planet I’d ever wanted to hurt. Would he ever forgive me?

On the
other hand, he had hidden something from me, too. The note. I couldn’t get it
out of my
mind,
no matter how hard I tried. And that
phone call. I know what I heard. I’m not going crazy. Am I?