Our Husband

by Stephanie Bond

  "Gaylord, I—"

  "Bea, Kentucky has the death penalty." He squeezed her arm just short of pain. "Now. You will go into this interview and tell them the truth—that Raymond was a bad boy who made enemies, but you, his loving wife, was not one of them."

  She was paying him too much money not to listen to him, so she remained silent as they approached a glassed-in window, her heart thumping wildly. Damn Raymond—he couldn't even die without a production. Always the center of attention. Always in control.

  The female officer behind the window directed them down a hallway into a bullpen of activity. Phones rang, mouths moved, pencils scribbled. Detective Aldrich sat at a desk the size of a card table, the phone pinched between his ear and shoulder. When he spotted them, he banged down the phone and pushed himself to his feet.

  "Mrs. Carmichael," he said, his voice just as unfriendly as yesterday. Beatrix introduced the men and exchanged a frown with Gaylord as they were led to a small room.

  "Something to drink?" the detective asked, sweeping his arm toward four plain metal folding chairs arranged around a white table. They declined, but he disappeared anyway, presumably to fetch something for himself.

  Gaylord held out a chair for her, but his Southern manners couldn't take the edge off the stark surroundings: faded indoor-outdoor carpeting, scuffed walls, a single overhead dome light hanging over the table. Two walls were darkly mirrored from waist to ceiling, leaving her to wonder who might be watching her from the other side. She craved a Valium, but she needed to keep her wits about her. Breathe, she told herself. Breathe, and this will all be over soon.

  Aldrich returned, holding three bottles of water. "In case you change your minds," he said, plunking them down.

  "No Evian?" Beatrix asked sweetly, then reached for a bottle to keep from imagining what might have caused the reddish stain on the table top. She opened the bottle with a twist, marveling at the irony—the last time she'd drunk straight from a bottle, she and Raymond had been sequestered in a closet together at a fund-raiser over twenty-one years ago. It was his risqué behavior that had so appealed to her, the naïve white-gloved debutante. Her friend Blanche had forgiven her for capturing Raymond's eye and heart, but the women had never again been close. By the time Beatrix realized she'd sacrificed the better relationship, Blanche had snared an anesthesiologist and moved to West Palm Beach. She herself had been the pretty one, but Blanche had been the smart one.

  Aware the detective was watching her, Beatrix lifted the bottle for a quick drink so he wouldn't notice the tremor in her hands. The water was tepid, but soothing to her dry throat.

  The police officer shrugged out of his jacket and draped it over the back of his chair, then grunted into his seat. From a black bag he removed a tape recorder and set it on the table. Beatrix shot an alarmed look toward Gaylord.

  "No tape recorder," he chirped.

  Aldrich appeared baffled. "We're just going to ask a few questions about Mrs. Carmichael's husband."

  "Mrs. Carmichael has not yet recovered from her husband's passing. Taping her conversation will only add to her stress."

  Aldrich adopted a pleasant smile. "You know it's as much for Mrs. Carmichael's protection as ours, counselor. You can stop the recorder any time you want, and you can take a copy of the tape with you."

  Gaylord looked to her for permission. She swallowed a second mouthful of water and, deciding that Aldrich would only be more difficult if she resisted, nodded.

  The detective grunted approval, then pushed a button and recited the date, the place, the names of those present, and the fact that Beatrix was not under arrest, but had come to the station at his request. "Mrs. Carmichael, do I have your permission to tape this conversation regarding your husband—" he consulted a pad of paper, "—Mr. Raymond A. Carmichael?"

  "Yes," she whispered.

  "Louder, if you please."

  She cleared her throat. "Yes."

  He started by verifying their address, years of marriage, Raymond's last three positions that spanned a decade, and other generic tidbits. Aldrich fidgeted, a warning he was changing tack.

  "Mrs. Carmichael, when did you first uncover the fact that your husband had illegally married two other women, a Dr. Natalie Marie Blankenship and a Ms. Ruby Lynn Hicks?"

  "L-Last Wednesday night."

  "Tell me everything that happened, to the best of your recollection."

  Her left hand looked naked without her wedding band. She twisted the single ring that remained, a diamond cluster. When Raymond had proposed and presented her with the ring, a small solitary stone had graced the slim gold band, and she'd been ecstatic. Her parents, however, had been appalled at the puny diamond. Her father had promptly added stones to either side, both larger than the original, as a "wedding gift." Raymond hadn't objected, but in hindsight, his pride must have been horribly wounded.

  "Mrs. Carmichael?"

  She straightened, curling her hand in her lap. "I... I received a call from a nurse at Dade General around nine P.M. The woman told me that Raymond had been involved in an accident."

  "What kind of an accident?"

  "A car accident. She said his injuries were minor, but he couldn't drive home. I said I'd come right away." A lump formed in her throat when she remembered how giddy she'd felt at the thought of having him home for a few weeks while he recuperated.

  "What was the nurse's name?"

  "I don't... No, wait—Moberly, I think."

  "Are you sure?"

  "Yes, Moberly. I wrote it down on a pad by the phone."

  "Did Nurse Moberly say that Mr. Carmichael asked her to phone you?"

  She frowned, trying to recall. "She didn't say, but she verified our insurance."

  Aldrich lifted an eyebrow. "You didn't talk to Mr. Carmichael yourself?"

  "No."

  "Why not?"

  Because she was afraid he wouldn't want her to come. That he'd call a friend, take a taxi—anything to avoid prolonged contact with her. "I assumed he was still being tended to."

  "What happened when you got to the hospital?"

  "I was told he'd been admitted because of chest pains, and I was given directions to his room."

  "And?"

  She closed her eyes briefly, replaying the scene in her head for the thousandth time. "I walked into his room and found both Natalie and the other one—"

  "Ruby."

  "—standing in his room. It looked as if Natalie had just arrived."

  "Then what happened?"

  "Raymond clutched his chest and slumped over. Natalie called a nurse, then administered CPR."

  "Natalie, she's the doctor?"

  "Yes. They sent me and the other one—"

  "Ruby."

  "—out of the room while they worked on him. Natalie emerged a few minutes later and that's when we discovered what Raymond had done."

  "What had he done?"

  Beatrix frowned. "What you said earlier. The bastard—" She stopped when Gaylord nudged her knee. "Or rather," she continued more mildly, "Raymond had apparently married both of them illegally."

  "You and Raymond were never divorced?"

  "That's correct."

  "Were divorce papers ever drawn up?"

  "Absolutely not."

  "Did he ever bring it up?"

  "No."

  "Because he didn't want to lose his meal ticket?"

  Anger shot through her. "What do you mean, Detective?"

  "Didn't Raymond marry you for your money?"

  Again, Gaylord's knee prodded hers in warning. She pursed her mouth, then said, "You would have to ask Raymond."

  "I would, but someone murdered him."

  Tears were good—after all, this dolt couldn't tell the difference between angry tears and sorrowful tears, so she blinked up a few. "Are you going to tell me why you think my husband was murdered?"

  Aldrich sat back in his chair, playing with the pencil he held. "The medical examiner found something suspicious on a battery of toxico
logy tests."

  "Which raises a good question," Gaylord interjected. "Mr. Carmichael died of natural causes—who ordered an autopsy?"

  A frown pulled at the detective's mouth. "A mistake, really. An autopsy was requested on a body that was next to Mr. Carmichael's in the hospital morgue. Some stupid orderly didn't check the toe tags."

  Beatrix looked away.

  "Show some respect," Gaylord snapped.

  "Sorry—bottom line, someone switched the bodies. The M.E. had already started the autopsy when he realized the error, but said that when he double-checked the records and discovered the body he'd gotten by mistake was supposed to have died of a heart attack, he knew something was wrong."

  "Why?" Gaylord asked.

  Aldrich slid a paper across the table. "This is a copy of the M.E.'s report. There's a lot of medical mumbo-jumbo, but basically, the heart muscles didn't show the type of damage consistent with a heart attack. He ordered a toxicology spec, and came back with 'ouabain poisoning.'"

  "Never heard of the stuff," Gaylord said.

  She had. Beatrix lifted the water bottle to her mouth for another drink.

  "How about you, Mrs. Carmichael?"

  She swallowed and squinted at the ceiling. "I don't think so, although living with Raymond was like living with a medical dictionary—he was always tossing around the name of some drug or treatment." Injecting as much innocence into her voice as was possible at her age, she asked, "What is it?"

  The detective stared at her, stroking his chin. "An old heart medication that's no longer in use in the United States. Did Mr. Carmichael ever mention it?"

  "I honestly couldn't say."

  "So you don't know if he was taking the medicine on his own?"

  "No, I don't. But then, apparently, I didn't know a lot of things about my husband."

  Aldrich had the good grace to cough.

  "This is an outrage!" Gaylord pounded the tabletop. "If the medication is something Mr. Carmichael could have taken on his own, how dare you go off halfcocked and say the man was murdered!"

  "Except," the detective said carefully, "the concentration was too large and, according to the doc, too close to the time of death for him to have given it to himself, considering he was unconscious and all." He turned back to Beatrix. "Did you see Mr. Carmichael from the time he was taken to the ICU until the time he died?"

  She hesitated.

  "Mrs. Carmichael, the hospital keeps records of ICU visitors."

  "Yes, I went in to see Raymond, but we all did."

  "'We' being who?"

  "Me, Natalie, and the other one."

  "Ruby."

  "Yes."

  "Together?"

  "Natalie and I went in together once, and... Natalie went in alone once."

  "Were the three of you in the general vicinity from the time he was taken to the ICU until he was pronounced dead?"

  "Yes, in the waiting room. And I made a couple of trips to the rest room."

  "Did you make any phone calls?"

  "Yes. To my housekeeper, Rachel Shirek, to tell her Raymond was ill."

  "Does she live with you?"

  "No."

  "Does anyone else live with you?"

  "No." Alone in a house big enough for a dozen people.

  "Mrs. Carmichael, can you think of anyone who might want to kill your husband?"

  "No, but as I said, I didn't know that Raymond was leading a double life."

  "A triple life," Gaylord amended.

  "When you found out he'd married two other women, were you angry?"

  Beatrix sighed. "Yes, Detective, I was angry."

  "Angry enough to kill him?"

  "Yes," she said softly, ignoring Gaylord's sputter. "But I didn't."

  "How much insurance did you carry on Mr. Carmichael's life?"

  She wet her lips. "I don't know the exact amount."

  "Ballpark."

  "Maybe... fifty thousand? I'm not sure."

  "How about five hundred thousand?"

  Beatrix shrugged. "I really couldn't say for certain."

  "Mrs. Carmichael, do you think either Dr. Blankenship or Ms. Hicks could have killed him?"

  "I don't know. Anything's possible, I suppose."

  "Did you notice anything suspicious about their behavior?"

  "The young one is a nut, everything she does is suspicious. Did you know she's pregnant?"

  She'd succeeded in surprising him. "Is Mr. Carmichael the father?"

  "Allegedly."

  "How far along?"

  "Two or three months, I think, although I tried to tune her out."

  "How did you feel when you heard about the baby?"

  She gave him a withering glance. "Just peachy."

  "But Beatrix didn't know about the baby until after Mr. Carmichael had expired," Gaylord added. "The woman's condition was revealed when the women met to discuss the burial arrangements. Which, by the way, my client did not have to do."

  Aldrich wasn't bowled over by her generosity. "Was Dr. Blankenship angry when she heard about the baby?"

  "I wouldn't say angry—upset, maybe."

  "As a doctor, she would have the knowledge and the means to administer the ouabain."

  She smiled. "You said it, not me."

  Aldrich squirmed, then recovered. "Did you see anyone else at the hospital acting strange? Anyone going into the ICU who didn't seem to belong?"

  Beatrix shook her head.

  "I need for you to speak for the recorder."

  "No. But the place was busy, and I slept some of the time."

  Aldrich made a clicking sound with his big cheek. "You're familiar with the workings of a hospital, aren't you, Mrs. Carmichael?"

  She blinked.

  "Weren't you a volunteer at Royal Memorial until two years ago?"

  Until the charitable activity she began as a project for club wives thrust her into a position of actually being involved with the patients. "I... volunteered mostly at the hospital clinic." Trauma patients, uninsured old people, neglected children. Unbearable.

  "The clinic that was named for your father, Dr. Neil Richardson?"

  "Yes."

  "Mrs. Carmichael, what kind of doctor was your father?"

  "He was a... a cardiologist."

  The detective nodded—he'd already known. "Your father is deceased now."

  "Yes."

  "Did he travel abroad when he was alive?"

  "Yes, he and my mother traveled often."

  "And have you traveled widely?"

  "I suppose."

  "Europe?"

  She nodded. "All over, really."

  "Where is this going?" Gaylord cut in.

  Aldrich splayed his hands. "Ouabain isn't widely available in the U.S., but my sources tell me you can buy the stuff over the counter in most European countries. I'm just trying to determine if Mrs. Carmichael had access to the drug, either on her own, or through her father."

  "Interview over," Gaylord chirped, standing. "Come on, Bea."

  "I'm not finished," Aldrich protested.

  "We are." Gaylord pressed a button to stop the recorder. "We'll wait outside while you make a copy of the tape."

  The detective sighed, but lumbered to his feet. "Okay. But you have to admit that from where I stand, Mr. Gilliam, your client looks pretty darn suspicious."

  Gaylord drew himself up. "Detective Aldrich, your alleged victim was a bigamist, which is a class-A felony. Dig deeper—I'm sure you'll find the man pissed off his share of people, probably a few in the medical field in which he worked. If you have a case against my client beyond reasonable doubt, arrest her. Otherwise, I suggest you stop picking on Mrs. Carmichael, who has been dealt a double blow in the past few days."

  Beatrix followed Gaylord to the door, her back and neck moist. Breathe, she reminded herself. Breathe, and this will all be over soon. No one will find out.

  "Mrs. Carmichael."

  She glanced back to Aldrich.

  "This isn't over."

>   Chapter 12

  "Ouabain?" Ruby brightened and gave Detective Aldrich her best smile. "Sure, I've heard of it. Some West African tribes use it on the pointy end of their arrows. It can kill a person."

  She had impressed him, she could tell. Billy Wayne pursed his lips and nodded—she'd impressed him, too.

  "And do you have access to ouabain, Ms. Hicks?"

  "Do I have to go back to using my old name?" She hated it. Always had. Those Hicks are such hicks. Ruby Lynn Hicks has a hickey, the hick.

  "Would you prefer 'Mrs. Carmichael'?"

  "I sure would."

  "Okay. Do you have access to ouabain, Mrs. Carmichael?"

  She frowned. "I've been to West Virginia, but not to West Africa."

  The detective smiled. "Since you know so much about ouabain, if you wanted some without going to West Africa, where would you go?"

  Ruby smiled in relief—she knew the answer to that one, too. "The Internet." Whew—between thinking about the funeral and knowing she'd be questioned by the police today, she'd nearly worn a path in the kitchen linoleum last night from pacing. Now she realized she'd been worried for nothing. Detective Aldrich was a real sweetie.

  "And do you have a computer?"

  "Oh, yeah. Ray set one up in the corner of the living room so I could visit chat rooms and shop. I ordered Mame the most adorable little Easter bonnet."

  "Mame?"

  "My Shih Tzu."

  "Ah. Mrs. Carmichael, have you ever purchased ouabain over the Internet?"

  "Wait a minute, Ruby," Billy Wayne cut in, his eyes narrowed. "This guy's saying that's what killed Raymond. If you tell him yes, he's going to lock you up."

  She swallowed her gum. "No, I didn't purchase ouabain over the Internet."

  "Mrs. Carmichael, I just want you to tell the truth," the detective said.

  "I am."

  "Did Mr. Carmichael keep medical supplies at your mobile home?"

  "Like what?"

  "Like samples, medications, things like that."

  "Ray sold arms and legs and elbows and stuff—there was always some spare part laying around." She laughed. "One time I found a hand in the bathtub. Scared the crap out of me, but Ray was just testing its float—said a leg he sold once saved a guy from drowning."