Our Husband

by Stephanie Bond

  Mame squirmed out of her arms and Ruby sighed, already bored to death. Six hours to kill before going to the club. She guessed she might as well take a look at the mail that had piled up since the week Ray had died. There was lots of it. She took her time separating the heap into four categories: catalogs, missing children flyers, bills, and other stuff.

  The catalogs were always neat. Lillian Vernon was her favorite, full of clever monogrammed items like bath mats and pencil holders. And Frederick's of Hollywood was a dancing girl's best friend—great shoes.

  She squinted at the missing children flyers, studying the face of each little person, searching her memory in case she'd seen them on the playground in the trailer park. She couldn't bear the thought of tossing the slips of paper when she might be the one to help find one of them. No luck today, though.

  Bills. Yuck. But she'd developed a system to make the job as fun as possible. First, she used a steak knife to slice open the envelopes, all of them. Then she opened the envelopes, and peeked at the bottom-line figure with one eye closed. Finally, she sorted the bills into three piles: doable, hopeful, and impossible. Since most of the impossible pile was credit cards that Ray had acquired in her name, he always took care of those. At least he was supposed to. Now that she thought about it, she had been getting a lot of calls from people saying she owed them money. Each time, she'd passed the info to Ray and he said he'd take care of it.

  She stared at the ring she'd thought was a real diamond when Ray gave it to her. He'd told her a whole pack of lies. Had he lied when he told her he loved her?

  Of course he lied, Ruby Hicks. Why would a man like Ray be in love with you, a little hick?

  Ruby blinked back tears and added up the bills due with a big-button calculator. The sum was so humongous, she had to add the entire pile again just to be certain. When the same number came up, she covered her mouth with her hand. She made decent money at the club, but it would take her years to pay off this amount. Ray had bought clothes, dinners, concert tickets, golf clubs, so many things.

  Her stomach churned from the pressure—she had to make sure Mac was going to let her waitress when her pregnancy was beyond hiding onstage. She picked up her phone and dialed, repeating to herself that everything would be all right, as long as she could keep working at the club, as long as her baby was healthy, as long as she stayed out of prison, as long as she was allowed to collect Ray's life insurance.

  Jocko answered the phone and went to find Mac. Music played in the background while she studied her nails. The bubble-gum pink polish had been ruined when she'd tried to remove the black fingerprinting ink. She'd have to polish them again before the weekend.

  "What's up, Ruby?"

  Uh-oh. Mac sounded cranky. Maybe she'd better wait and talk to him in person. "Um, I was just checking in."

  "Checking in? You've never checked in be—never mind, I needed to talk to you anyway."

  "Okay."

  "I hate to do this, Ruby, but I gotta let you go."

  Her heart plummeted. "Why?"

  "Oh, come on, Ruby—you're under arrest, for Christ's sake. The police came here and searched your locker. It's bad for business, and it has the other girls shook up. Besides, pregnant strippers aren't as much in demand as they used to be."

  "I can wait on tables, Mac. That's what I called to talk to you about."

  "Forget it, Ruby. You're a swell gal, and I'll give you two weeks' base pay, but that's the best I can do."

  Alarm numbed her, like cough syrup. "Please, Mac, I need the work."

  "Sorry, sweetheart. Put me down as a reference. Gotta run."

  "But—" He'd already hung up.

  Ruby replaced the handset and sat silent while cold fury stirred inside her. Men. They thought they ruled the world. Using her. Telling lies. Discarding her like a piece of trash. Well, she hadn't survived poverty as a child to settle for poverty as an adult. Hugging her tummy, she whispered, "We're going to be all right, princess. We have to be."

  She would think of something, even if she had to sit there for a half-hour. After all, desperate means called for desperate measurements. Or something like that.

  Chapter 29

  "How'd the polygraph test go?" Tony asked before Natalie could clear the back door. He did take the time to lean out and shoot the bird at a couple of reporters who lingered by the street.

  "It didn't," she said, dropping into the first vacant chair. "My luck—the polygraph examiner had a court appearance, so they rescheduled me for next week." She laughed, a bitter sound to her own ears. "I can't believe the lengths a person has to go to in the legal system simply to tell the truth."

  "So, where have you been?"

  She rubbed her temples, thinking it might help the morning's news to sink in. "Want a good laugh? I drove to my office on a misguided mission to offer a hand to Dr. Skinner."

  "And?"

  "And I braved the reporters only to have Skinner hand me a letter from the state medical board." Natalie closed her eyes. "They've suspended my license to practice, pending outcome of the charges."

  "I'm sorry, sis."

  "No matter. Being a doctor was only the center of my existence." She blinked back fresh tears, wondering what kinds of new trades she might learn in prison—woodworking... auto body... flag-making. A fellow med student had once remarked that the worst thing about being a doctor was being able to recognize when you were losing your mind. Sometime during the past several days, she had at the very least misplaced hers, evidenced by her concession to have lunch yesterday with Brian Butler.

  The meal hadn't been wholly unpleasant, but that was, she kept telling herself, because she'd forgotten how good a chili cheese hot dog could be. Which had nothing whatsoever to do with Brian Butler's imposing company, or his unexpected kiss, or even with the hot dog, for that matter—she'd simply worked up an appetite from all that kissing, er, gardening.

  She realized Tony was staring at her, and straightened. "Did you come home for lunch?"

  "Not exactly."

  At his sheepish expression, an alarm sounded in her head. "What is it?"

  "I brought a visitor to see you." He nodded toward the front of the house.

  She scowled—Brian Butler's presumption was absolutely galling. "You can tell your boss that I have enough on my mind without dealing with his inept attempts to win me over."

  "It isn't Butler."

  "Oh." Her scowl deepened.

  "Who then?"

  "Beatrix."

  "Excuse me?"

  "It's Beatrix. She came by the pawnshop about an hour ago, then asked if I would bring her to see you."

  "Why?"

  "She didn't want her car to be spotted in front of the house."

  She sighed. "I meant why does she want to see me?"

  "She wouldn't tell me, except to say it was important."

  "I don't think she and I are supposed to talk."

  Tony shrugged. "Tell her. She's in the library."

  Nothing fazed her anymore, Natalie decided as she pushed herself to her feet. Not even entertaining her husband's wife in the library.

  The bookroom, as Rose Marie had always called it, was on the front of the house, a left turn from the short hallway off the foyer. A black hand-tied wool runner softened her footsteps, and well-oiled hinges silenced her arrival. Beatrix stood with her back to the doorway, a streaming cigarette in one hand, a hardback book from an open moving carton in the other. From behind, she could easily pass for a woman in her thirties, Natalie acknowledged. Black continued to be the mainstay of the woman's wardrobe, probably unrelated to the fact that she was mourning her husband. Her blond hair was a convincing shade, precision-cut just above her collar in a chic pageboy. A woman of power, a woman in control, despite her arrest. Envy knifed through Natalie.

  She must have made a noise because Beatrix turned, her eyebrows raised. A flat smile crossed her lips before she took another drag. "Sorry," she said, then dropped the cigarette into a Styrofoam cup, eliciti
ng a sizzle. "I seem to have taken a liking to these things again."

  "They're bad for you."

  "Yeah, well, everything that feels or tastes good is bad for you." She held up the hardback volume, the green cover hand-worn. "Edgar Allan Poe. Raymond's favorite."

  "I know."

  "Think it should have been a warning sign?"

  "Maybe, in hindsight."

  Beatrix caressed the book with a glassy expression. Natalie tried to imagine her sitting down to plot out Raymond's death, and the image chilled her.

  "Are you moving?" Beatrix asked, gesturing to the boxes.

  "Um, no. I hadn't gotten around to unpacking them all." Ironically, so many of her aunt's gardening books had been confiscated during the search, the shelves were now empty enough to accommodate Raymond's volumes. "We only moved here from St. Louis six months ago. My aunt left the house to me when she died."

  "You and she must have been very close."

  "We were."

  Beatrix returned the book to a carton. "You've had to deal with much loss recently."

  Natalie nodded carefully, spooked by the woman's calm demeanor.

  "My mother used to say that tragedy comes in threes."

  She managed a little smile. "Frankly, over the past several days, I've lost count."

  Beatrix's dry laugh caught her off guard. "True. Natalie, we need to talk."

  "I don't think that's a good idea."

  "Because I was arrested for murdering Raymond?"

  "Yes."

  "Well, you were arrested for murdering Raymond, what's the difference?"

  "The difference is that the cops didn't find a blueprint for murder under my mattress."

  Beatrix dismissed her concern with a wave. "All that proves is that I wanted to kill him, not that I did." She quirked a brow. "And don't tell me the thought never crossed your mind."

  Natalie blinked. It had. When Butler had revealed the extent of Raymond's indebtedness, his betrayal had stirred a passion, an anger she'd never known before. She'd wanted to hurt Raymond, and since he was emotionally aloof—why had she just now realized this truth?—her first thought had been to hurt him physically. The impulse had been short-lived, but had she been in Beatrix's designer shoes...

  She indicated the blue loveseat on which she'd slept during those first hideous nights alone. "Would you like to sit?"

  "No."

  "Okay, I'm listening."

  Beatrix inhaled and exhaled deeply, as if this entire ordeal were extremely bothersome. "Your brother probably told you I went to the pawnshop this morning."

  "Yes."

  "Your Mr. Butler showed me all of the items Raymond pawned recently—"

  "He isn't 'my' Mr. Butler."

  "Whatever. But there was one item I didn't recognize." She pulled a white jeweler's box from her purse, and opened it to reveal a delicate gold watch. "Is it yours?"

  Shaking her head, Natalie couldn't resist picking up the lovely piece. "No."

  "And you don't think it could belong to—that other one?"

  "Ruby? No. Even if she or Raymond could afford it, somehow I don't believe Rolex is quite her style."

  Beatrix smirked. "It could have been a gift to her from a grateful customer."

  Natalie shrugged agreement. "But not likely." The diamonds glittered back at her. "So if the watch doesn't belong to any of us..." Her mouth fell open. "There's... another woman?"

  "Looks like it," Beatrix said.

  "But the police scanned state records for other marriage licenses."

  "Maybe he hadn't gotten a chance to marry her, or maybe he used an alias."

  Her mind reeled—what else could happen? As soon as the thought was completed, she remembered her promise not to tempt fate. "We have to tell the police right away."

  Beatrix scoffed. "We're under arrest for conspiracy—they won't believe that the watch doesn't belong to one of us."

  "But they have to believe us."

  Beatrix's color heightened and a muscle jumped under her left eyebrow. "Natalie, put yourself in their place. What would you think?"

  She sighed. "That we were trying to throw them off."

  "Right. Besides, the police are so content with us as suspects, they haven't even bothered to look into Raymond's business dealings."

  Natalie tried to guess where the conversation was going. She couldn't. "But our lawyers will do their own investigations before any trial."

  "How long will that take? And how much money will it cost?" Beatrix paced behind a table, shaking her head, her hands jerking. "No, I think we'd be better off trying to find this woman ourselves and see if she has information to help our case."

  "Cases, plural. We can hire a private investigator."

  "Oh? And do you have money?"

  Natalie shook her head.

  "Well, neither do I. On the other hand, I do have time. And motivation."

  "And I have Raymond's travel log."

  Beatrix stopped. "Well, it's decided, then. You and I can take a little road trip, retrace Raymond's steps, see what we find. How about it?"

  The idea was simple to the point of absurdity. And absurd to the point of stupidity. Questions poked at her: Could she trust Beatrix? "But all I have are the travel logs—I don't know whom he called upon."

  "He had a black leather organizer. He said he trusted it more than an electronic gadget."

  "I remember it well, but I don't know where it is."

  "Probably in his briefcase in the car. The police haven't yet released the car or its contents to me."

  "What about Raymond's company—they might help us if one of our lawyers called the home office in Louisville."

  Beatrix coughed into her hand. "I think it's best if we don't tell our lawyers what we're doing."

  Natalie gaped. "What? Why not?"

  "The two of us going off to play P.I.—what the hell do you think they're going to say?"

  She was right.

  "Besides," Beatrix continued, "if we don't find anything, no one's the wiser. If we do—we'll present the evidence to the police."

  "But if we don't know the people he talked to, the whole scheme seems moot."

  "Let's think on that angle while we make plans. Can you leave in the morning?"

  Natalie hesitated, then sighed—she had nothing better to do. "I suppose." But she didn't have a warm, fuzzy feeling about being alone with Beatrix for an extended period of time.

  From the travel log, they determined that northern Tennessee would be the best place to start. Feeling like a cross between a Girl Scout and a fugitive, Natalie agreed to meet Beatrix at a bus station an hour outside of Northbend and go from there.

  "Pack for two or three days, just in case," Beatrix said, all business now that a decision had been made.

  "But what if my lawyer calls? And what should I tell my brother?" Why Brian Butler's face entered her mind, she couldn't fathom. She pictured him with a big frown on his big face—but he'd been the one to ask what she planned to do in her own defense.

  "Tell them you want to get away for a couple of days by yourself, away from the reporters."

  She could give them her cell phone number if they needed to contact her. "Okay."

  And with that little word, a pact was made.

  Beatrix returned the watch to its box.

  "Won't we need the watch for identification?"

  "I'll tell your Mr. Butler that I want to check it against my mother's jewelry inventory."

  "I told you, he isn't 'my' Mr. Butler."

  "Whatever. See you in the morning. Don't be late."

  Thoroughly dismissed, Natalie had to catch herself to keep from relinquishing the library to Beatrix. But the woman snapped up her purse and strode to the door.

  "I'll walk you out."

  "Don't bother."

  After the door closed behind her, Natalie stared, wondering what she'd gotten herself into. Two, maybe three days in the company of that woman? She needed a buffer. Maybe they could go in separ
ate vehicles.

  Tony stuck his head into the room to ask if she was all right, and she nodded, feeling somewhat buoyed. Maybe they wouldn't find anything at all, but at least she wouldn't feel so powerless.

  At the sound of a sharp honk, she peeked from the side of a window shade to see Tony clearing a path through the media. Beatrix was nowhere to be seen—lying in the back seat, perhaps? At least the reporters wouldn't suspect a clandestine meeting and start a rumor that would alert the lawyers and the police.

  Just to satisfy the nagging question, however, she picked up the phone and dialed Ruby's number.

  "Hello?"

  The girl was crying. "Ruby, it's Natalie. What's wrong?"

  "Everything! My TV was repossessed, and I just got fired. Oh, Nat, this murder charge is ruining my life."

  Imagine that.

  "I didn't do it, Nat. I didn't kill Ray. You believe me, don't you?"

  The childlike tone tore at her—Ruby was left with a burden neither she nor Beatrix had to contend with, the possibility of giving birth to a child in prison, an illegitimate child. "I want to believe you, Ruby. Tell me, have you ever owned a Rolex watch?"

  "What kind of watch is that?"

  "An expensive one, with gold and diamonds."

  "No. I had a Betty Boop watch, but I lost it."

  From the mouth of a babe.

  "I know this sounds awful, Nat, but sometimes I wish I'd never met Ray."

  She knew the feeling. His life, and death, had been a catalyst in all of their lives, and not for the best, as it turned out. She felt deceitful that she and Beatrix were about to undertake a trip whose outcome could rightly affect Ruby just as much as it affected them. The girl sounded desperate—maybe she needed a distraction. Not to mention supervision. Since the girl had been fired, she wouldn't be missed at work. And frankly, as daft as Ruby could be sometimes, Natalie almost preferred her company to Beatrix's.

  Except Beatrix would never go for it, not unless she could convince her that Ruby could contribute to the search in some way.