Our Husband

by Stephanie Bond

  As she passed through the mouth of the marbled foyer, the stench of live flowers filled her nostrils—cheap carnations and that dreadful baby's breath florists seemed so fond of. Rachel had situated the arrangements on the sideboard and bench in the entryway. Beatrix plucked the card from a particularly smelly bouquet.

  Raymond will never be replaced in our hearts. Monty and Delia Piccoli.

  Raymond had been the beau of the ball, the life of the party. She would spend weeks organizing auctions and golf tournaments, and he would steal the credit in an hour of emceeing. More than once she'd stood in a dark corner and watched her husband perform, accepting compliments on his wit and charm, wondering how welcome she'd be at the Northbend Country Club without Raymond. She would soon find out, she supposed.

  She flicked the card to the floor, then nudged the vase with her finger before she turned, immensely gratified by the domino effect of crashing glass sounding as she walked away. All of them should have saved the lousy hundred bucks they'd spent and contributed to her father's clinic, as she'd requested, in lieu of flowers.

  The ostentatious marble flooring gave way to satiny dark wood in the hallway and in the butler's pantry that flanked the ornate dining room. Lined with mahogany cabinets, the dark pantry held bittersweet memories. As a child, she had sneaked into the lower cabinets during her parents' dinner parties to eavesdrop. She'd loved hearing the delicious bits of scandal and the bawdy jokes, most of which she hadn't understood. The fun had ended one night, however, when through the one-inch opening from her hiding place, she spied her father giving Mrs. Crenshaw a rather tonguey kiss while clutching one of her mammoth breasts. Inside the cabinet, she'd accidentally knocked over a box of candles. Thankfully the noise was enough to break up the grappling couple, but not enough to betray her hiding place. Still, she'd gone to bed with a stomachache.

  The huge cabinets now held extra liquor, the more valuable pieces of silver, and an odd crystal vase or two. During one of her mother's stints of paranoia, she'd had locks installed on the doors to keep the help from stealing. Out of habit, the doors remained locked, although a key hung from a gold tassel around one of the knobs for the convenience of any thief abound.

  Unsure what was where, she unlocked a bottom cabinet, on the lookout for a green bottle with a Tanqueray label. Instead she found an enormous silver platter, one that had graced their holiday table for eons... and nothing else. No matching bowls, coffee urn, chafing dishes, bread baskets, chargers, or water pitchers. No matching candelabra, compote dishes, cake plate, finger bowls, carafes, or tea service. Alarmed, she yanked open the drawers that housed the extensive collection of Richardson silverware—two sixteen-place settings of patterns so old a jeweler in Nashville fashioned replacement pieces when necessary.

  She swallowed. But at the jeweler's fantastic prices, she doubted if she could afford to replace the three hundred and fifty pieces that were absent from the goddamned drawer.

  A quick check of the other shelves revealed the gin she'd come in search of, but no silver. Leaning heavily on the counter, she took a deep, calming breath. Rachel was simply cleaning the silver, that was all. She walked a little unsteadily to the kitchen where her housekeeper was vacuuming in high spirits, her back turned, and her wide hips moving to some lively beat in her head.

  "Rachel... Rachel!"

  Beatrix leaned over and pulled the plug from the outlet at her knee, reducing the vacuum cleaner to a fading whine. Rachel whirled, her eyes wide. "Mrs. Carmichael, I didn't hear you! Do you need something?"

  "Rachel, are you cleaning the silver?"

  "No, ma'am."

  She refused to give in to the panic rolling in her stomach. "When was the last time you did clean the silver?"

  "Um... well, I guess it was in February, when you gave the tea for Mrs. Piccoli's daughter."

  "And have you seen the silver in the three months since?"

  "No, ma'am. Is something wrong?"

  "It's missing."

  "What's missing?"

  Beatrix massaged the bridge of her nose. "The silver, Rachel. It's not in the pantry. Did you move it?"

  The woman's eyes widened. "No, ma'am, of course not."

  "Then call the police because we've been robbed."

  Rachel gasped and was halfway to the telephone before she turned back. "Mrs. Carmichael, I didn't think anything of it before, but I do recall Mr. Carmichael looking in the silver cabinet a few weeks ago. I asked if I could help him, but he said he was checking the patterns to buy a special piece for your birthday. A new picture frame, I think he said, for your wedding portrait."

  Beatrix felt nauseous. He'd sent her a damned bonsai plant for her birthday—said it would give her something to do while he was on the road. When he hadn't even come home to help her blow out the candles, she'd used them to start a bonsai bonfire.

  "Never mind about calling the police," she murmured. "Perhaps Mr. Carmichael moved the pieces to another room, maybe to the library with the other collections."

  "Would you like for me to check, ma'am?"

  "No. I'll look into it."

  "Ma'am?"

  "Yes?"

  "I... would be glad to spend the night for a while... if you'd like."

  At the pitying look on the woman's wrinkled face, Beatrix squared her shoulders. "Whatever for?"

  "I... thought maybe you... might like to have another body in the house."

  "You thought wrong."

  "Yes, ma'am."

  She turned to go, then added over her shoulder, "But thank you, Rachel."

  Ignoring her complaining knees, she climbed the stairs with record speed and threw open the doors to the library, her least favorite room in the house. No matter how many times she'd had the place cleaned, it still stank of her father's cigars. He'd entertained hordes of physicians and hospital board members in this room, requiring only the slightest provocation to pull out his prized coin collection. He and Raymond had bonded in this room, squirreling themselves away until the wee hours of the morning while she waited in their bed, staring at the ceiling, her ears perked for her mother's plaintive call.

  She stalked to the huge cabinets that contained her father's collections, her heart thumping. The heavily carved doors were locked, but she unearthed a thick ring of miscellaneous keys from the depths of a desk drawer. By the time she found the right one, her head ached and she knew perfectly well what lay behind the doors.

  She was right. The cabinets yawned, empty.

  Beatrix backed away, shaking her head. What had Raymond done? And what else would she discover missing?

  Rushing from room to room in the gigantic house, some of which she hadn't entered in months, even years, she mentally catalogued valuables that were absent: a bauble here, a trinket here. A blow—the bronze Umbro sculpture Raymond himself had bought for her when they were in Vienna. And other items small, portable, costly. The earlier credit card refusal now took on a menacing light. Raymond had robbed her of her heart and her dignity. Had he also compromised the single element of life on which she'd always been able to depend—financial security?

  Leaning against the upper level banister, she stared down into the two-and-a-half-story foyer at the heap of flowers, pottery, and water seeping across the marble floor. She might have been tempted to dive over the rail and add herself to the mess, except everyone would say that Raymond's death had done her in, and she wasn't about to give the bastard the satisfaction. And she wasn't yet ready to go to hell.

  The doorbell rang, sending a three-note chime through the house. She inhaled deeply, wondering if Detective Aldrich had come to take her away. Rachel's footsteps echoed in the hallway, as well as her gasp when she saw the debris. Oblivious to Beatrix standing at the top of the stairs, she stepped over and around the glass, then swung open the door.

  "Hello, Mrs. Piccoli," Rachel said, smiling and nodding. "And Mrs. Lombardi."

  Beatrix gripped the smooth, flowing wood beneath her fingers. Let the games begin.


  "I'm not sure if Mrs. Carmichael is up to seeing visitors just yet."

  "Show them in, Rachel," Beatrix called. She descended the stairs, more slowly this time in deference to her knees. By the time she reached the foyer, Delia Piccoli and Eve Lombardi stood staring at the broken mess on the floor.

  "Hello," Beatrix said. "How nice of you to come by."

  The women gave her tentative smiles, then Delia, the braver one, lowered her voice to a conspiratorial level. "When we heard the latest news, Bea, we simply had to check on you."

  "News?" she asked, thinking an aneurysm was imminent. "What news?" The bigamy? The illegitimate child? The thievery?

  "You don't know?" Delia's buggy eyes bugged even further. "A woman doctor in Missouri was just arrested for Raymond's murder."

  Chapter 16

  "...three hundred five, three hundred six—" Ruby smoothed down the last bill with a satisfied smile. "Three hundred seven dollars in tips." She leaned over to press her face against the mug of her Shih Tzu puppy. "And that, Miss Mame, is a four-hour record for your mommy. Yes it is."

  Ruby padded to the refrigerator and in a square on the calendar wrote: 'Black and silver bikini, white boots, four hours, three zero seven.' She tried to track which outfits seemed to prompt the most response from the men who came to watch her take off her clothes. She reviewed the other days of the month and noted that the red stiletto heels were a common denominator for good tip nights, then made a mental note to pair the red heels with the black and silver bikini tonight. Fridays were always hopping, and she didn't have many Friday nights left before her stomach swelled up.

  Wiping a tear for her fatherless baby, she caressed the back of the real wood kitchen chairs. She'd found a red vinyl gingham-checked tablecloth to match the curtains that came with the furnished trailer, and decorated the nooks and crannies with strawberry canisters, strawberry plaques, and the platter from her new six-place setting of Strawberry Fields stoneware that was microwave safe.

  She should have known that things were too good to last. She missed Ray like the dickens. She hated that he was dead, but he'd done a bad thing. Like Ham had done a bad thing. Why did people have to do bad things that made other people do bad things? Billy Wayne told her she'd be in good shape if they nailed Beatrix for the murder, but she couldn't feel anything but sad because she'd still rather have her Ray alive and all to herself than all the money in Beatrix's piggy bank.

  She traced the pattern in the Fresh Taupe Swirl linoleum with the tip of her plush pink house shoes, then gasped in horror at the dozens of black marks left on the floor from the thick soles of her costume boots and shoes. She wet a dishcloth and dropped to her hands and knees to remove the marks just as the Your New Mobile Home Manual suggested—no harsh abrasives. Once the surface had been restored, she removed a chocolate soda pop from the fridge, wiped at a smudge on the faux granite countertop, then headed back to the living room to stretch out on the sectional that still crackled with newness. She didn't have to be at work until six, so she had the entire afternoon to herself. Maybe she'd have a good cry. After Jeopardy.

  Her dog snuggled in beside her as Ruby used the remote control to access the shows recorded on the DVR, then pressed PLAY. When the opening credits for the game show flashed on the screen, she clapped her hands, triggering a spasm of high-pitched barks from Mame. On the big screen TV, Alex Trebek looked as if he were standing in her living room, smack in the middle of her Soft Fawn Stain Resister carpet.

  "Oh, look, Miss Mame, it's the college competition—I bet I'll get some of the questions right."

  At the knock on the door, she paused the recorder and took another swig of pop. She hoped it wasn't that yucky shirtless Dudley Mays who lived two trailers down and always wanted to borrow something that had her reaching or bending.

  She peeked through the simulated lead glass window running alongside the door, squinting because she didn't know the suited man who stood outside, nor the man behind him who held a big honking camera on his shoulder. Hmm.

  When she opened the door a few inches, Mame sniffed at the pair and barked. "Yeah?" Ruby asked.

  "Are you Ruby Lynn Hicks?"

  She was way too smart to fall for that one. "Who wants to know?"

  A red light flashed on the camera and the guy without the camera said, "I'm Mitch Lykins, reporter for Channel Two news. I'd like to talk to you about the man you were married to, Raymond Carmichael."

  Still suspicious, Ruby twirled a lock of hair around her finger. "What do you want to know?"

  "May we come in?"

  She glanced down at her cotton-candy-pink chiffon peekaboo nightie. "Um, I don't think so."

  "Was Raymond Carmichael already married to two other women, one in Tennessee, and one in Missouri, when he married you?"

  She concentrated so her brain would work faster than normal. "Maybe."

  "It's a matter of public record, ma'am."

  "So why are you asking me?"

  "I'd like to hear your side. Did you know about his other wives when you married him?"

  "Yes." Then she winced. "I mean, no. I mean, yes, I knew he had two other wives, but I didn't know he was still married to them."

  "How did you meet Raymond Carmichael?"

  She chewed on her lip, not sure if she should keep talking.

  "At your stripping job?" he prompted.

  Mame bared her little teeth at the man, and that was enough for Ruby. "I don't want to talk anymore." She slammed the door, and Mame jumped back with a yelp.

  "I'm sorry," Ruby murmured, then scooped up the little dog and settled back onto the couch, cross-legged. Her stomach felt like the Tilt-a-Whirl, but she wasn't sure if it was the baby or the bad feelings the men dredged up. All week she'd tried not to think about the look on Detective Aldrich's face when he questioned her. It was like he could read her mind or something. She shivered. Creepy.

  When she hit the PLAY button, Alex reappeared and introduced the players, all of them fresh-faced and smiling, chatting about their college and what they were studying. Cal State, Mathematics; Harrah Women's College, Economics; Notre Dame, Biosomething or other. Wow. Those smart kids didn't know how lucky they were, going to smart colleges, studying smart things, going on a TV show for smart people.

  "Victoria, how old are you?" Alex asked the woman studying economics—and not the home kind either.

  "Twenty-one," Victoria said, then pushed up her smart-looking glasses.

  Ruby's jaw dropped. "I'm twenty-one," she whispered, and Marne yapped her acknowledgment. High school seemed so long ago, she'd never considered the fact that she was now college-aged. She felt old, at least twenty-six. It was the mileage, she guessed. After all, college girls didn't stay out until two in the morning. Or squeeze themselves into too-tight clothes. Or strip for guys who drank too much. Or get knocked up.

  No, Victoria looked too smart to do any of those things. Which was why Victoria was attending Harrah Women's college and she was perfecting her Chinese split. Ruby sighed and leaned her head back on the couch. Ray had promised she wouldn't have to work when she started showing. Not even waitressing? she'd asked. Not even, he'd said. Not even ticket-taking? she'd asked. Not even, he'd said.

  She missed Ray—he'd made her feel happy about getting up in the mornings. Of course, if she didn't get up in the mornings, Mame would pee all over her Spring Meadow double tufted comforter.

  The phone rang, and she considered letting it go. At this rate, she'd never get through Jeopardy. But the caller ID showed it was Billy Wayne on the other end, so she paused the DVR again and picked up the phone.

  "Hey, Billy Wayne."

  "Yo. Big news. They arrested the lady doc yesterday for murdering Raymond."

  Ruby's stomach dropped. "Natalie? But she didn't kill Ray."

  "What makes you so sure?"

  "Well, I... she just didn't strike me as the murdering type, that's all."

  "Yeah, well most murderers don't have a brand on their forehead."


  That was true. Although she herself had a mole on her right boob. "Is she still in jail?"

  "No, she was out on bail real quick like—didn't even spend the night."

  She sighed in relief. Natalie seemed too delicate to survive a night in a cell with big hairy women trying to cop a feel.

  "Anyway, I was calling to let you know now that the media has wind of the story, they might be looking you up."

  "They already did. Channel Two news."

  "No shit? What did they ask? What did you say?"

  "I'm still wearing pj's, so I didn't let them in, and I didn't say anything."

  "Well, get off your cute butt and put on something black. The next time a camera shows up, you got to play the part of a grieving widow. A pregnant grieving widow."

  "Billy Wayne, if Mac at the club finds out I'm pregnant, he'll fire me."

  "It's just a matter of time, sweetheart. Meanwhile, you got to milk the public sympathy. It'll help our case when we sue for half of Raymond's assets."

  "But that could be a long time, and I need money coming in now."

  "Ruby Lynn, which one of us has a law degree?"

  "You do."

  "And which one of us passed the bar exam?"

  "Well, it took you a few times."

  "That don't matter. Which one of us got it?"

  "You did."

  "Aren't you paying me for my good advice?"

  "In Babe Bucks."

  "They spend!"

  "Okay, okay," she relented. "I'll do what you say."

  "Good. I'll call Channel Two and tell them to get back to your place for an interview. Try to work up a few tears, would you?"

  "I'll try, Billy Wayne."

  "Thatta girl. Later."

  Ruby hung up the phone. Alex was frozen on the TV screen with his mouth open. She gave him a wistful look, then trudged to the bedroom and opened the folding doors to her closet.

  The sight of her closet never failed to cheer her up. All those poles and shelves and racks for her hats and jackets and minis and shoes. A far cry from the cardboard box that held the dingy jeans and hand-me-down T-shirts she'd worn as a teenager. Her wardrobe was now dazzling—shiny, sparkly, spangly, shimmery. More clothes than she'd ever dreamed of owning.