by Liz Wolfe
“According to one of the ICU nurses, the two of you were arguing about your career as an actor.”
“Oh, that. It was nothing. Dad didn’t like the fact that I’d rather be an actor than take his place in the business. It’s an argument we’ve had on several occasions.” Brian sounded tense.
“Did he threaten to cut you out of his will altogether the other times, too?” Scott asked.
“What exactly are you getting at, Detective Madison?”
“What I’m getting at is that your father threatened to change his will less than twenty-four hours before he was murdered. So, is it just a coincidence that he was killed before he could change his will?”
“You son of a bitch! I didn’t kill my father.”
“As I said before, don’t plan on leaving town anytime soon.”
I jumped when Brian stalked through the kitchen and slammed out the back door. Evidently the conversation was over. I walked back to the front room. Scott stood and tucked his little notebook into his pocket.
“You can tell Mrs. Melrose that we’re continuing the investigation.”
“She doesn’t have any plans to leave town, either, in case you’re interested.” I leveled a glare at him, but he seemed impervious to it. I might have closed the door just a little harder than was absolutely necessary when I showed him out.
“Who was that?” Bobbi Jo asked from behind me.
“Detective Madison.” I was concerned at the dark circles under her eyes, the pallor of her skin. “Are you all right?” I followed her into the kitchen.
“I’ll live. I’m just not sure how happy I am about it.” She splashed coffee into a cup, added a liberal amount of cream, and slumped onto the stool across from me.
“Hangover?”
“I hardly drank anything. Ordered a Bloody Mary but it made me sick to my stomach, so I switched to virgin Marys.”
“Maybe you’re coming down with something.”
“Puked when I got home, then puked again this morning. Must be the flu.” She took a sip of coffee, made a face, and set it down. “Even coffee doesn’t taste good.”
“Try some juice,” I suggested.
“Why was Detective Madison here? Did he have any news?”
“Not really.” I told her about his conversation with Brian.
“Gawd, I wish they’d hurry up and find out who really killed Edward. I know Brian is kind of selfish and spoiled, but he wouldn’t murder anyone. Brian might have argued with Edward about him changing his will, but he’d never kill him. Brian loved his father.”
I didn’t know Brian at all, but he struck me as shallow and self-involved. I didn’t think he was capable of really loving anyone but himself. Was it possible that he had killed Edward before the will could be changed?
“Did he say anything else about the investigation?”
“No. Just that it was continuing.” I wasn’t about to tell her that she was still a prime suspect. Or that Scott thought she might have euthanized her husband. “Mind if I use your computer? I need to write a résumé.”
“Knock yourself out, darlin’. I’m going to go stand in a hot shower until I feel better.”
I settled in front of the computer, hoping that Bobbi Jo would take her illness as a sign that her plan to screw her way through the grieving process wasn’t going to work. Half an hour later, all I had on the page was my name and Bobbi Jo’s address.
“How’s it going?” Bobbi Jo curled up in the overstuffed chair next to the computer desk.
“It’s not.” I pushed back from the keyboard. “The only thing I have to put on a résumé is that I was a housewife and mother. Before that, I had a string of part-time jobs while I went to college.”
“You’re just looking at it wrong.” Bobbi Jo leaned over and looked at the résumé template. “Tell them what you can do, what you have done, instead of telling them where you did it.”
“Really?”
“Sure. Who says you have to set it up that way? Let me do it.”
I stood and looked over her shoulder as she typed. She filled the page with my skills and abilities and my practical experience. My eyes skimmed over the words.
Arranged lavish buffets, cocktails, and sit-down dinners for groups often to forty, including menu preparation, food and drink preparation, food service, and cleanup, often under intense deadlines. That was true. Craig had been fond of inviting clients and co-workers to dinner with little advance notice. Once, he’d called me at ten in the morning to advise me that he’d invited a couple dozen co-workers for drinks and hors d’oeuvres at six. It wouldn’t have been such a problem if Sheridan hadn’t been home from school with the flu.
Taught primary education to a small group of children, including preparing lesson plans, selecting materials, and individualizing lessons for each child, and reporting status to parents. I’d homeschooled Sheridan for several years. In the beginning, it was to be a group effort with two other women in the neighborhood who had three children between them. But it had quickly degenerated into a situation in which I did the teaching and the other two women played tennis and went shopping. The following year, I’d homeschooled Sheridan alone.
Residential interior design, including faux painting techniques, wallpaper installation, furniture and accessory selection, and reorganizing rooms for maximum efficiency, beauty, and traffic flow. I’d decorated three different homes while I’d been married to Craig.
Personal shopping for men and women, from executives to children, including selecting seasonal wardrobes and working within tight budgets. That must be about the fact that I’d bought all of the clothes for Craig, Sheridan, and myself for years.
“Now, what about hobbies?” Bobbi Jo asked.
“Hobbies?”
“Yeah, you know. Stuff you do for fun?”
“I know what a hobby is. Let’s see. Well, I like to take pictures. I even had a setup for developing black and whites. And for a while, I was really into the whole scrapbooking thing.” That was something else I’d need to get from the house. All the scrapbooks I’d made while Sheridan was growing up. And the boxes and boxes of photos.
“Perfect!” Bobbi Jo started typing again.
Photography, including developing, framing, and artistic presentation.
“Wow. It looks like I can do anything.”
“Just have to put the right spin on it. Now, what are you going to wear to the interview?”
Ack! I only had two hours until I had to be at the first appointment. The problem was, I’d only brought one suit with me when I’d run from the house I shared with Craig.
“Shit! I don’t have anything to wear to the interview but that awful suit I wore to the lawyer’s office.”
“Darlin’, you have nothing to worry about.” Bobbi Jo rose and waved for me to follow her. I obediently traipsed down the hall after her. “Now, you want to look powerful, but not overwhelming.” Bobbi Jo walked into the enormous master suite and opened French doors to a walk-in closet. Lights came on automatically as soon as she entered.
“Damn. This is as big as my bedroom.” I looked at all the rods holding clothes, the shelves with rows of shoes and purses, the built-in drawers that must have held panties, bras, hosiery, and lingerie.
“It’s bigger than your bedroom,” Bobbi Jo said. “Now, you don’t want a real strict suit look. I think that would be too much. But you want something that says suit without actually being a suit.”
I barely heard her. Bobbi Jo had the equivalent of the Neiman-Marcus Misses Department in her closet. How did she ever decide what to wear? She riffled through a section of her wardrobe and pulled out a plastic hanger bag.
“This will be perfect. The skirt is really short on me so it’ll be just right on you.”
I peeked at the label and grinned. Jean Paul Gaultier. I was about to go from frump to fabulous.
I collapsed on Bobbi Jo’s sofa and took stock of the damage.
The crisp linen skirt and silk blouse had become
a mass of wrinkles and the curls Bobbi Jo had coaxed into my hair were nothing but limp tangles clumped together by Bobbi Jo’s expensive hair spray.
“You look like you been rode hard and put up wet.” Bobbi Jo sauntered into the room patting her hand over a yawn. Her hair and clothes were rumpled, and there was a slight indentation on one cheek.
“Did you take a nap?”
“I just couldn’t keep my eyes open.” She padded into the kitchen and returned with two glasses of grapefruit juice.
“You never nap.”
“I know, but for some reason, I was just so sleepy. Almost fell asleep watching Dr. Phil. But how did the interviews go?”
“Rotten. Worse than rotten. One place offered me some temp work as a receptionist.”
“Oh, no.” Bobbi Jo’s eyes sparkled with tears.
“It’s not that bad, Bobbi Jo. Certainly nothing to cry about.”
“I’m just in the strangest mood today. I started crying when a Kodak commercial came on the TV.”
It seemed to me that the loss of her husband was finally catching up with her. I hoped this meant that her Man-a-Week plan was coming to an end.
“I know you’re disappointed about the interviews, Skye.”
“Oh, I’ll get over it. It was just my first foray into corporate America anyway. All three of them suggested that I improve my computer skills and that’s just for clerical jobs. Evidently a bachelor’s degree in liberal arts doesn’t mean much, especially when it’s a couple of decades old. About the only thing I’m qualified to do is to ask ‘do you want fries with that’ and ‘would you like to go large for thirty-nine cents.’“
“You’ll find something,” Bobbi Jo assured me. “It’s not like you need to have a job immediately. You should take some time and see what you want to do.”
“I know, but I really want to start supporting myself as soon as I can. I don’t like the idea of living off Craig.”
“I don’t know why not. You spent nineteen years keeping his house, raising your daughter, and making his life as easy as possible. You deserve something for that.”
The doorbell rang before I could argue with her. Not that I had much of an argument anyway.
“That’s Lily. I thought we could all have dinner tonight,” Bobbi Jo called over her shoulder as she opened the door. At least she wasn’t going out tonight.
“I could use some wine,” Lily announced.
“Sure thing, darlin’.” Bobbi Jo headed for the kitchen while Lily joined me in the living room.
“You look like hell, Skye.”
“Gee, thanks.” I lifted my head from its resting position on the back of the sofa and glared at her.
“Well, it’s true. And what’s with the dressy outfit?”
“It’s nice, huh? It was better looking before I had three interviews and discovered I’m barely qualified for a temporary receptionist position and just over minimum wage.”
“Ouch. I’m sorry.”
“It’s all right. What’s up with you?”
“Nothing good.” Lily took the wine that Bobbi Jo brought her. “Grant and Kyle are still hesitant to bring Derek into our relationship.”
“You have to respect that. It’s got to be difficult to think about bringing another person into a relationship that has been strong and steady for a long time.”
Lily frowned at me. When Bobbi Jo nodded her agreement, Lily included her in the frown. “Derek has decided that he wants a relationship with just me. He says that he loves me and can’t bear to be without me and won’t even consider a relationship that includes anyone else.”
“Sounds like it’s more of a disappointment than a problem,” Bobbi said. When Lily didn’t reply, I sat up and leaned toward her.
“It’s just that I’ve—well, I’ve fallen in love with Derek. I don’t know if I can just let him go.”
“Now, I need a glass of wine. You want one, Skye?”
“Lily, are you saying that you’d leave Grant and Kyle for Derek?”
“Don’t answer until I get back.” Bobbi Jo hurried to the kitchen.
“I don’t know. He’s all I can think about.”
“I said to wait for me,” Bobbi Jo called.
Lily avoided looking me in the eye.
“So, does he mean that much to you?” Bobbi Jo set our wine glasses on the table.
“I don’t know what to do. I love Derek so much. He’s everything I’ve ever wanted in a partner. I’m not sure I can walk away from that.”
“Not sure? Are you serious? You’re going to leave Grant and Kyle?”
Lily pulled her shoulders back and looked up. “I’m saying I’m considering it. I’ve never felt anything like this for anyone. If I don’t do something about it, I’ll never know what could have been.”
“You have totally lost your mind,” Bobbi Jo said.
“Me? What about your Man-a-Week plan?” Lily shot back.
“That’s different. You’re talking about hurting two men who love you very much just to take a chance on someone you’ve known how long? A month?” Bobbi Jo took a healthy gulp of her wine and made a face. “Gawd, what is wrong with this stuff?”
“Mine tastes fine,” I said. “May be it’s that flu that made you sick last night and this morning.”
“The flu doesn’t make wine taste bad. What do you mean sick?” Lily asked.
“Oh, I went out last night and had a Bloody Mary and it made me sick. I puked last night and then again this morning. It’s probably the flu. Which might not be so bad because evidently I’ve put on some weight.”
“Where?” I asked. Bobbi Jo looked as slender as ever, although she was wearing a loose T-shirt over her shorts.
“The shirt that matches these shorts wouldn’t even button up.”
“Oh. Are they tender, too?” Lily asked. “And do you feel weepy sometimes?”
“How did you know that?” Bobbi Jo asked.
“I had that flu twice.” Lily looked at me and snickered. “Skye had it once, too.”
“It takes a long time to get over it.” I nodded and tried to keep from laughing.
“How long?” Bobbi Jo looked stricken and I snorted.
“Nine months usually. Although I’d guess from your symptoms that you’ve only got another seven months to go,” I said.
“What the hell does that mean?”
“Honey, you’re pregnant.” Lily smiled at her.
“No-o-o-o-o!” Bobbi Jo jumped up from her chair. “That’s not possible. Edward and I tried for years. Besides I haven’t had sex in—” She gasped and clapped her hand over her mouth.
“I guess it was a little parting gift,” I said.
Bobbi Jo sank back down in her chair. “Oh, my gawd!”
“Are you all right?” I asked.
“But it still can’t be true,” Bobbi Jo protested.
“I don’t know of anything else that makes you puke and your breasts swell at the same time. I was just like you with the alcohol, too. Couldn’t stomach it even before I suspected I was pregnant.”
“You need to take a test.” I got up and grabbed my purse. “I’ll go get one at the drugstore.”
It seemed like all our lives were in turmoil. Bobbi Jo might be pregnant, much to her surprise, and right after her husband had been murdered. My soon-to-be-ex-husband was gay. Lily had two husbands that she was considering leaving for a younger man. How had our lives become so complicated? And when? At least the pregnancy test would provide one solid answer. Of course, then Bobbi Jo would have another decision to make. Geez, would it never end?
I shook off the question and viewed the selection of pregnancy tests. Pregnancy must be popular because there were a lot of tests to choose from. Back when I’d gotten pregnant we still went to the doctor for a test. I wasn’t even sure how they worked. I reached for one to read the box but it was wedged in. I pulled and the container of condoms next to it fell to the floor. I quickly put the container back on the shelf and started picking up the co
ndoms. With both hands full of condom packets, I started putting them back in the bin. I fumbled, dropping most of them again and stooped to pick them up thinking perhaps Lily should have run this errand.
“Planning on partying this weekend?”
I turned to see one of the most gorgeous men in the world kneeling beside me, gathering up handfuls of condoms. Sandy blond hair, sparkling green eyes with a couple of laugh lines at the corners. Dimples on either side of a breathtaking smile. Well-formed chest and broad shoulders in a crisp white T-shirt. Beautiful, muscular tanned legs in khaki shorts. Perfectly formed feet in Birkenstock sandals.
“I knocked these over.”
“Ah. Just tidying up, then.” He picked up the last of the condom packets and we both stood.
“Actually, I came in for this.” I threw a handful of condoms back into the container and pulled the pregnancy test off the counter, my other hand still full of condom packets.
He replaced the condoms he’d picked up. “I see. Well, good luck, whichever way it goes.”
I tried to think of an answer but was interrupted by a short, slender man who hurried across the aisle.
“Oh, there you are, Paul.” He laid a possessive hand on Paul’s arm. “We need to run if we’re going to catch the movie.”
Paul smiled and nodded, then turned to walk off with the other man. I stood there with my mouth hanging open. A young woman across the aisle smiled at me, looked at the two men walking away, and then shrugged.
He was gay.
How could I not see that? What the hell was wrong with me? Maybe instead of gaydar, I had some unusual affliction that prevented me from recognizing sexual identity when everyone around me could.
“Can I help you with anything?”
“What?” I turned to look at an elderly gentleman in a white jacket with a blue embroidered patch on the breast pocket.
“What?” He held a hand up to his ear.
“Did you want something?” I raised my voice so he could hear me.
“That’s what I was asking you,” he yelled.
“Oh. I’m just trying to decide on which one.”
“Depends.”
“On what?”
“When was your last period?” he almost shouted. “And how long after that did you have intercourse?”