Our Husband

by Stephanie Bond

  Beatrix held a mouthful of the drink until her tongue tingled, then swallowed slowly.

  Still, she had to admit that some not-small part of her felt a wicked sense of vindication that the woman who had stolen Raymond's affection, who had so swept him off his feet that she'd driven him to commit bigamy, would be arrested for his murder. Symbolic, really, since Natalie had killed what she and Raymond might have had together.

  It wasn't her own fault that her parents had been ill, that the pressure of dealing with them and their obligations she'd assumed at the club had left her feeling jealous of Raymond's time, that she and he had spent most of the last decade arguing the few waking hours he'd been home.

  She smoothed a hand over his side of the bed. Regardless of the emotional chasm between them, their passion for each other had remained strong until the end. Her mother had once told her at an uncharacteristically uninhibited moment (she'd been soused) that her best chance of keeping Raymond from straying was to keep him sexually sated at home.

  And so she had. She'd donned dark glasses to purchase a couple of naughty how-to books, and initiated marathon lovemaking sessions. When exercise and strict diet was no longer enough to maintain her youthful figure, she'd flown to Brentwood to go under the talented scalpel of a doctor who serviced the country music celebrity crowd. When the threat of her parents interrupting them or hearing them was removed, she'd bought outrageously sexy lingerie and costumes to entice him. A few times, she'd dared to remove her clothing to music. Now she burned with shame at her pathetic attempts to keep a rein on his cock.

  How could she possibly compete with Natalie's natural beauty, or Ruby's spectacular body? She was fifty-two, dammit, and married to him for twenty-one years—she shouldn't have had to compete with other women for his attention when he was alive. And she shouldn't have to endure this kind of scandal upon his death.

  "Bea, tell us the rumors aren't true," Delia Piccoli had gasped in the foyer the day she and Eve Lombardi had stopped by. "Was Raymond married to two other women?"

  "It appears so," she'd said, at the time still too stunned by the revelation that her husband was also a thief to put up a fight against Northbend Country Club's dastardly duo.

  "How perfectly horrific!" Eve had said, her eyes shining with delight.

  They'd murmured a few more shocked and thinly veiled sympathies before Beatrix had grabbed them by the elbows, shepherded them out the door, and slammed it behind them. She was quite sure she was the topic of discussion at this very hour in the little room where the board of directors congregated as necessary to determine if a particular member's conduct or reputation had become a detriment to the club as a whole. She wondered if they would send up a smoke signal once her fate had been decided.

  As for Natalie... well, hell, the woman probably had a cushy support system around her—loving parents, siblings, friends, and neighbors who were probably holding bake sales and raffling off quilts to raise money for her defense. Natalie didn't need her help, and she didn't need the trouble. Besides, if she were seen fraternizing with the woman, people would talk. More.

  The phone next to the bed trilled, spooking her. She reached for the cord to rip it from the back of the phone, then froze when she glanced at the caller I.D. screen.

  RAYMOND CARMICHAEL.

  Her heart vaulted to her throat. Impossible. Before reason could steal the moment, she yanked up the receiver. "Raymond? My God, is that you?"

  First silence, then a female voice asked, "Beatrix?"

  The disappointment was so fierce, she could only choke back a sob.

  "Beatrix, it's Natalie Car—it's Natalie."

  The explanation hit her like a thunderbolt. Natalie's phone was in Raymond's name, of course. Feeling foolish, she tried to recover. "What do you want?" The words came out more violently than she'd intended, although she wasn't so sure a husband-share protocol existed for her to violate.

  "I had a visit today from a local pawnshop owner whom Raymond owes—owed—a great deal of money." Her voice sounded diluted with fatigue.

  Beatrix frowned. "If you're looking for money, forget it." According to her accountant, she had none.

  "I'm not looking for money." Her tone grew stronger, more strident. "The man showed me a list of items that Raymond sold him over the past year. He thought Raymond might have taken them from our—from my home without my knowledge. I didn't recognize any of the items, but if you're interested, I'll send it to you."

  Was Natalie trying to get on her good side in preparation for the trial? "You think that Raymond could have stolen things from this house and I wouldn't have noticed?"

  "He had two other wives and you didn't notice."

  So much for the "good side" theory. She smirked. "Tell me, dear, are you calling from jail?"

  "Sorry to have bothered you."

  "Wait!" Beatrix bit down on the inside of her cheek, the chance to know the truth about her belongings, the chance to retrieve the Umbro bronze sculpture too irresistible. "I'd like to see the list just to know... just to know."

  "Where can I send it?"

  "I'll have to look up the fax number in his office." She stood, swayed, then carried the portable phone toward Raymond's study. They exchanged impatient sighs during the silence. "What happens next?" she finally asked Natalie.

  "The trial—I... shouldn't discuss it."

  Fair enough. Beatrix opened the door to his home office and turned on a floor lamp. The tastefully decorated room was the picture of luxury and efficiency. After he died, she'd ventured past the locked drawers in the wee hours of a desperate morning, looking for more details of his double life. What she'd found was an absence of any documentation, work or otherwise. The drawers were bare, the elaborate desktop filing system filled with empty manila folders, his Rolodex blank. Whatever he'd been doing in this room, it hadn't been work.

  She had frequented the room to use the fax machine when organizing events for the club, but she'd never pried. She'd never felt the need. And this was the thanks she got for trusting Raymond—a phone call from his other wife wanting to fax over a list of items he might have stolen and pawned. Good God.

  "The fax number is 901-555-1302."

  "Shall I send it now?"

  "Now is fine."

  "Then I'll send the list when I hang up. The telephone number for the pawnshop is on the letterhead."

  "All right." Beatrix inhaled deeply. "Thank you."

  "Good-bye."

  "Natalie?"

  "Yes?"

  Would she be this calm if she were in Natalie's shoes? This noble, this generous? Hell no. "Nothing. Good-bye."

  After disconnecting the call, she leaned on the desk by the fax machine until it rang and kicked on. The paper inched out of the machine, revealing a letterhead for Butler Family Pawn in Smiley, Missouri. Smiley? Jesus Christ, it sounded like a village of leprechauns.

  If possible, her heart sank lower and lower as the list printed. The lamp, the silver pieces, the crystal, the bronze statue, the gold coins... her vision blurred. She grabbed the list to her chest and stumbled back to her bedroom. When she bumped into the bed, she threw herself down and screamed. She pounded the covers and kicked her feet and flailed about like a child. It wasn't supposed to be this way. Everyone—her father, her mother, her husband, Natalie, and that other one—had taken a little piece of her life and she was left with nothing. She clawed at the list, then lunged for Raymond's closet door.

  The plaid robe hung there, benign and domestic and mocking. She yanked it from the hook and violently ripped it wherever she could get a handhold. The worn fabric gave easily, issuing gratifying tearing sounds amidst her guttural noises that escalated with each relenting seam. With a final cry, she flung the fabric to the floor, but seeing the robe destroyed and lying in pieces was too graphic. She sank to the floor, sobbing, furious with Raymond for living, more furious with him for dying. Dying before she was through with him.

  She sat there for a long while, crying softly, list
ening to Julie on the television in the next room.

  "Home Shoppers, if you don't have a set of our stainless steel gourmet cutlery, your cookware collection simply is not complete."

  "I have it, Julie," she whispered. "The parer, the boner, the utility, the bread, the cleaver, and the shears."

  She leaned her head back against the wall. Oh, damn it all to hell, Natalie was a nice person. The problem with nice people was that you had to be nice back to them, dammit, no matter how annoying they were. The truth of the matter was, Natalie wouldn't be in this position if her own plan had gone more smoothly.

  "You know, Home Shoppers, the kitchen shears are the single most underrated piece of cutlery, and I don't know why. Try them—I guarantee these shears will cut anything in your kitchen, anything, including metal, or return them for a full refund."

  Instead of trying to be clever, maybe she should have just cut out his black heart with the stainless steel gourmet kitchen shears. If it hadn't worked, she could have gotten a full refund. Beatrix sighed. Only she could botch a murder.

  She dragged herself to her feet, then located the phone and dialed her lawyer's number.

  "Gaylord, this is Beatrix. Set up an appointment with the Paducah D.A. and that loathsome Detective Aldrich for tomorrow morning... Yes, I know tomorrow is Sunday—what better day to get something off my chest?"

  Chapter 20

  Ruby wasn't much of a churchgoer (although she knew the books of the New Testament thanks to a song she'd learned in vacation Bible school), but stripping on Sunday just didn't seem proper. Mac got around the blue laws that prevented him from selling liquor on the Lord's day by hosting "private parties" on Sunday for about a hundred select customers instead of opening to the public.

  As much as pulling the Sunday shift bothered her, she had to admit that the clientele was a bit more upscale than during the rest of the week. Some of the customers came directly from church, still wearing their fancy suits and smelling nice. One nutjob had slipped in a few weeks ago, though, and interrupted her friend Plenty's number with a screeching sermon, so now Mac patted everyone down for Bibles as they came in.

  Taking advantage of the smaller, quieter crowd, she'd worn the most decent costume in her wardrobe—a long white shimmery vest over black leather panties and bra, and thigh-high black boots she'd shined up with Vaseline. If she were lucky, she'd be able to leave on the vest to help cover her tiny tummy bulge. Depending on the crowd though, sometimes, Mac would give a hand signal from the back that meant "take it down to the jewelry," and then you had no choice but to get buck naked. But since he knew about the baby—who could've guessed he watched Channel Two news?—maybe he'd go easy on her.

  The music started, her cue to hit the stage. "You Sexy Thing" by Hot Chocolate—her favorite. She snapped her fingers to get the beat, made a false start, then got her footing right the second time. When she'd first started stripping, the taking off her clothes part had been easy—it was the dancing that gave her problems. Mac said she was completely tone deaf, but Plenty had pulled her aside and told her instead of trying all those tricky moves, just skip around the stage until she got the hang of it.

  Skipping, now there was something she could do. And after a few months she'd worked her way up to some fancy steps—it was sort of like cheerleading, she finally figured out, and she'd always wanted to be a cheerleader. The music would be blaring all around her, and inside she'd be chanting, "We got the spirit, yes we do, we got the spirit, how about you?"

  The men shouted and applauded when Mac announced her name. Her stage name was Ruby Red—or Red Ruby, she could never keep it straight. She grinned and stuck out her chest as she skipped by the guys. It seemed really packed today. The music was loud, but it wasn't too smoky yet, which was good. Even though Plenty said it wouldn't hurt the baby, she still worried. She remembered the concern on Natalie's face when she told her she hadn't seen a doctor yet, and tripped, almost falling into the lap of a big blond-haired guy up front. The crowd thought it was part of her act, so she played along, then forced herself to concentrate on the beat. We got the spirit, yes we do...

  By the second verse, she had to start taking off her clothes. She unhooked the front closure of her bra and shimmied her shoulders. The men went nuts—they were so easy to entertain. For the thousandth time, she thanked her lucky stars. Where else could a girl make so much money with so little talent and so few smarts?

  She tried to take off her bra without taking off the vest, but got it tangled somehow around her armhole, and she had to stop jumping around for a minute to fuss with it. After a while, though, she gave up and shrugged. In the back of the room, Mac looked a little irritated, so she covered by yanking off her Velcroed panties, and the guys forgot all about the bra knot hanging under her arm. She danced around the stage again, swinging her panties back and forth and letting the tippers stick bills in a pink garter around her thigh. She smiled a lot and tossed her head in circles, careful not to make herself too dizzy. Near the end of the song, she counted to three, then wowed them with her signature move—a Chinese split, no easy task in clunky boots. They loved it, and gave her a standing ovation. She skipped backstage, then headed for the dressing room to count her tips and freshen up before hitting the floor for table dances.

  The dressing room was crowded with dancers, some of them rouging their nipples and oiling their bodies, some of them trading clothes and shoes, all of them yakking about their kids and their boyfriends.

  Suddenly sad and missing Ray, she found a vacant spot to sit. She'd met him one night while doing table dances. He'd bounced a guy who was bothering her, then told her she was pretty. She'd offered to strip or to let him drink a test tube shot of whiskey from her cleavage, but he'd just patted the spot on the couch beside him and paid her table dance rates to talk to him all evening long. He made her feel so special, and so smart.

  "Ruby."

  She turned her head and saw her friend Plenty had stuck her head inside the bustling dressing room.

  "Mac wants to see you, pronto."

  "Just counting my tips," she said with a sigh. "He's probably going to fire me."

  "Are you kidding? The place is packed today because of your interview on the news—you gave Mac a great plug."

  That danged interview. They made Natalie out to be some kind of monster, when all she could think of was Natalie wiping her face after she'd tossed her cookies in the limo on the way to Ray's burial.

  Plenty winked. "And you were great out there just now, kiddo. The guys love you."

  Ruby smiled at her friend and handed her a ten. "Here. Add it to your fund." Plenty was saving for a boob job, and Ruby admired people who tried to better themselves.

  "Thanks, Ruby."

  After righting her clothes, she scrunched and sprayed her curly red hair, then touched up her bright pink lipstick. Maybe, she thought on her way out to find Mac, he would let her waitress until the baby was born. The money wasn't nearly as good, but it might help hold her place until she could dance again, and help her meet some of the monthly bills. She had lots of them, she suspected.

  A stab of pain deep inside her brought tears to her eyes. She doubled over until it subsided, then tried to walk again. A few steps later, the same pain stopped her, and it took longer to go away. Her vision dimmed. Something was wrong with the baby. Natalie had been right—she should have gone to the doctor. Now she'd really done it. When she could walk again, she made it to the bar and told Jocko to hand her the phone, quick. Leaning against a stool, she pressed zero, then said, "Operator, can you give me the number for Dr. Natalie Carmichael in Smiley, Missouri?"

  "Her office number?"

  She frowned, breathing hard. Natalie probably wouldn't be working on a Sunday, if she were still working at all. "Is there a home number?"

  "I have a residential listing for a Raymond and Natalie Carmichael on Cobb Street."

  She fought another wave of dizziness. "That's the one I want."

  "Hold, please."<
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  Ruby motioned for Jocko to hand her a pen. She scribbled the number on the back of a napkin and hung up. She used the pen to punch in the number, surprised when a man answered, "Hello?"

  Ruby groaned as another pain hit her. "Is Natalie there?"

  "Can I take a message?"

  "I need to talk to her. Tell her it's Ruby and that I think something's wrong with my baby."

  He put down the phone. Ruby clasped her stomach, afraid to look down, afraid she'd be bleeding. She closed her eyes. "Please God, take care of my baby and I'll set everything right with the police. I promise."

  A scraping noise sounded over the phone. "Ruby? What's wrong?"

  "I don't know. My stomach hurts something awful and I'm real woozy."

  "What were you doing when your stomach started hurting?"

  "Just walking across the bar."

  "You're working today? I mean, have you been... dancing?"

  "Yeah, I just finished my first number." She moaned when the pain struck her again. "Am I going to lose my baby?"

  "Ruby, calm down and have someone call an ambulance, right now."

  "I'm scared, Natalie. Will you come?"

  "To the hospital?"

  "There's no one else." Except Plenty, and she couldn't afford to miss work. Billy Wayne would be of no use whatsoever. And Mac wasn't exactly the comforting type. Into the silence, Ruby added, "Please, Natalie?"

  Chapter 21

  Tony swung into the driver's seat of the Cherokee and closed the door with an inconvenienced exhale.

  Natalie gave him a sideways glance. "I told you, you don't have to go. I can drive myself."

  "All I'm saying is that this is a little weird, you visiting your husband's pregnant wife in the hospital. The same hospital where he died, no less."